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13350	----	Proofreaders The Augustan Reprint Society SAMUEL JOHNSON _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ (1749) and Two _Rambler_ papers (1750) With an Introduction by Bertrand H. Bronson Publication Number 22 (Series VI, No. 2) Los Angeles William Andrews Clark Memorial Library University of California 1950 _GENERAL EDITORS_ H. RICHARD ARCHER, _Clark Memorial Library_ RICHARD C. BOYS, _University of Michigan_ EDWARD NILES HOOKER, _University of California, Los Angeles_ H.T. SWEDENBERG, JR., _University of California, Los Angeles_ _ASSISTANT EDITORS_ W. EARL BRITTON, _University of Michigan_ JOHN LOFTIS, _University of California, Los Angeles_ _ADVISORY EDITORS_ EMMETT L. AVERY, _State College of Washington_ BENJAMIN BOYCE, _University of Nebraska_ LOUIS I. BREDVOLD, _University of Michigan_ CLEANTH BROOKS, _Yale University_ JAMES L. CLIFFORD, _Columbia University_ ARTHUR FRIEDMAN, _University of Chicago_ SAMUEL H. MONK, _University of Minnesota_ ERNEST MOSSNER, _University of Texas_ JAMES SUTHERLAND, _Queen Mary College, London_ INTRODUCTION The pieces reproduced in this little volume are now beginning to bid for notice from their third century of readers. At the time they were written, although Johnson had already done enough miscellaneous literary work to fill several substantial volumes, his name, far from identifying an "Age", was virtually unknown to the general public. _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ was the first of his writings to bear his name on its face. There were some who knew him to be the author of the vigorous satire, _London_, and of the still more remarkable biographical study, _An Account of the Life of Mr. Richard Savage_; and a few interested persons were aware that he was engaged in compiling an English Dictionary, and intended to edit Shakespeare. He was also, at the moment, attracting brief but not over-favorable attention as the author of one of the season's new crop of tragedies at Drury Lane. But _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ and _The Rambler_ were a potent force in establishing Johnson's claim to a permanent place in English letters. _The Vanity_ appeared early in January, 1749; _The Rambler_ ran from March 20, 1749/50 to March 14, 1752. With the exception of five numbers and two quoted letters, the periodical was written entirely by Johnson. As moral essays, the Ramblers deeply stirred some readers and bored others. Young Boswell, not unduly saturnine in temperament, was profoundly impressed by them and determined on their account to seek out the author. Taine, a century later, discovered that he already knew by heart all they had to teach and warned his readers away from them. Generally speaking, they were valued as they deserved by the eighteenth century and undervalued by the nineteenth. The first half of the twentieth has shown a marked impulse to restore them, as a series, to a place of honor second only to the work of Addison and Steele in the same form. Raleigh, in 1907, paid discriminating tribute to their humanity. If read, he observed, against a knowledge of their author's life, "the pages of _The Rambler_ are aglow with the earnestness of dear-bought conviction, and rich in conclusions gathered not from books but from life and suffering." And later: "We come to closer quarters with Johnson in the best pages of _The Rambler_ than in the most brilliant of the conversations recalled by Boswell. The hero of a hundred fights puts off his armour, and becomes a wise and tender confessor." Latterly, the style of Johnson's essays has been subjected to a closer scrutiny than ever before. What Taine found as inflexible and inert as a pudding-mold is now seen to be charged with life and movement, vibrant with light and shadow and color. More particularly, Wimsatt has shown how intimately connected is the vocabulary of _The Rambler_ with Johnson's reading for the Dictionary, and how, having mastered the words of the experimental scientists of the previous century, Johnson proceeded to put them to original uses, generating with them new stylistic overtones in contexts now humorously precise, now philosophically metaphorical, employing them now for purposes of irony and satire, and again for striking directly home to the roots of morality and religion. In a playful mood, he is never more characteristic than when he is his own mimic, propounding with mock seriousness some preposterous theory like that of the intellectual advantages of living in a garret: I have discovered ... that the tenuity of a defecated air at a proper distance from the surface of the earth accelerates the fancy, and sets at liberty those intellectual powers which were before shackled by too strong attraction, and unable to expand themselves under the pressure of a gross atmosphere. I have found dullness to quicken into sentiment in a thin ether, as water, though not very hot, boils in a receiver partly exhausted; and heads, in appearance empty, have teemed with notions upon rising ground, as the flaccid sides of a football would have swelled out into stiffness and extension. This is one side of his genius; but another, and profounder, appears in the eloquent simplicity of such a passage as the following, against our fears of lessening ourselves in the eyes of others: The most useful medicines are often unpleasing to the taste. Those who are oppressed by their own reputation will, perhaps, not be comforted by hearing that their cares are unnecessary. But the truth is that no man is much regarded by the rest of the world. He that considers how little he dwells upon the condition of others, will learn how little the attention of others is attracted to himself. While we see multitudes passing before us, of whom, perhaps, not one appears to deserve our notice, or excite our sympathy, we should remember that we likewise are lost in the same throng; that the eye which happens to glance upon us is turned in a moment on him that follows us, and that the utmost which we can reasonably hope or fear is, to fill a vacant hour with prattle, and be forgotten. When we approach Johnson's poetry, the revolution of taste becomes a more acute consideration. It seems very nearly impossible to compare or contrast eighteenth-century poetry and that of the twentieth without wilfully tipping the scales in one direction or the other, judgment in this area being so much influenced by preference. But let us begin with titles. For a start, let us take, from a recent Pulitzer Prize-winner: "The Day's No Rounder Than Its Angles Are", and "Don't Look Now But Mary Is Everybody"; from another distinguished current volume, these: "The Trance", "Lost", "Meeting"; from another, "After This, Sea", "Lineman Calling", "Meaning Motion"; and from a fourth, "Terror", "Picnic Remembered", "Eidolon", and "Monologue at Midnight". Here are individual assertions, suggestive of individual ways of looking at things; here are headings that signalize particular events in the authors' experience,--moments' monuments. Beside them, Johnson's title, "The Vanity of Human Wishes", looks very dogged and downright. Titles are not poems but they have a barometric function. The modern titles cited above are evocative of a world with which, for the past century and a half, we have been growing increasingly familiar. This air we are accustomed to breathe: it requires no unusual effort of adjustment from us. We readily understand that we are being invited to participate in a private experience and, by sharing it, to help in giving it as much universality as may be. It is by no means easy for readers of to-day to reverse the process, to start with the general and find in it their personal account. We are more likely to feel a resentment, or at least a prejudice, against the writer who solicits our attention to a topic without even the pretense of novelty. Johnson's generation would have found it equally hard to see the matter from our point of view, or to allow that the authors of the poems named above were being less than impudent or at best flippant in thus brazenly obtruding their private experience, undisguised, before the reader. We ought, moreover, to realize that in this judgment they would have the suffrages of all previous generations, including the greatest writers, from classical times down to their own. It is we who are singular, not they. Quite apart from considerations of moral right or wrong, of artistic good or bad, it obviously, therefore, behooves us to try to cultivate a habit of mind free from initial bias against so large a proportion of recorded testimony. Very early in _The Rambler_ Johnson remarks characteristically that "men more frequently require to be reminded than informed." He believed this, and his generation believed it, because they thought that human nature changed little from age to age. The problems of conduct that confront the living individual have been faced countless times by his predecessors, and the accumulated experience of mankind has arrived at conclusions which in the main are just and therefore helpful to-day. The most important truths are those which have been known for a very long time. For that very reason they tend to be ignored or slighted unless they are restated in such a way as to arrest attention while they compel assent. Hence the best writing is that which most successfully resolves the paradox of combining the sharpest surprise with the widest recognition. Such an ideal is so difficult of attainment that, inevitably, many who subscribed to it succeeded only in unleavened platitude and others rejected it for the easier goal of novelty. In this most difficult class _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ has won a respectable place. It is freighted with a double cargo, the wisdom of two great civilizations, pagan and Christian. Although based upon Juvenal's tenth Satire, it is so free a paraphrase as to be an original poem. The English reader who sets it against Dryden's closer version will sense immediately its greater weight. It is informed with Johnson's own sombre and most deeply rooted emotional responses to the meaning of experience. These, although emanating from a devout practising Christian and certainly not inconsistent with Christianity, neither reflect the specific articles of Christian doctrine nor are lightened by the happiness of Christian faith: they are strongly infused with classical resignation. The poem is difficult as well as weighty. At times its expression is so condensed that the meaning must be wrestled for. Statements so packed as, for example, Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, Each gift of nature, and each grace of art, do not yield their full intention to the running reader. One line, indeed,--the eighth from the end (361)--has perhaps never been satisfactorily explained by any commentator. (The eighteenth paragraph of Johnson's first sermon might go far to clarify it.) But such difficulties are worth the effort they demand, because there is always a rational and unesoteric solution to be gained. The work as a whole has form, is shapely, even dramatic; but it is discontinuous and episodic in its conduct, and is most memorable in its separate parts. No one can forget the magnificent "set pieces" of Wolsey and Charles XII; but hardly less noteworthy are the two parallel invocations interspersed, the one addressed to the young scholar, the other to young beauties "of rosy lips and radiant eyes",--superb admonitions both, each containing such felicities of grave, compacted statement as will hardly be surpassed. The assuaging, marmoreal majesty of the concluding lines of the poem are a final demonstration of the virtue of this formal dignity in poetry. If it did not appear invidious, one would like to quote by way of contrast some lines oddly parallel, but on a pitch deliberately subdued to a less rhetorical level, from what is indubitably one of the very greatest poems written in our own century, Mr. Eliot's _Four Quartets_: I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. From _The Vanity of Human Wishes_: Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice, Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r. Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.... Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience sov'reign o'er transmuted ill; For faith, that panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain, These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain; With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ is reproduced from a copy in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library; the _Rambler_ papers from copies in possession of Professor E.N. Hooker. The lines from T.S. Eliot's _Four Quartets_ are quoted with the permission of Harcourt, Brace and Company. _Bertrand H. Bronson University of California Berkeley_ THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. THE Tenth Satire of _Juvenal_, IMITATED By _SAMUEL JOHNSON_. LONDON: Printed for R. DODSLEY at Tully's Head in Pall-Mall, and Sold by M. COOPER in Pater-noster Row. M.DCC.XLIX. THE TENTH SATIRE OF _JUVENAL_. Let[a] Observation with extensive View, Survey Mankind, from _China_ to _Peru_; Remark each anxious Toil, each eager Strife, And watch the busy Scenes of crouded Life; Then say how Hope and Fear, Desire and Hate, O'erspread with Snares the clouded Maze of Fate, Where wav'ring Man, betray'd by venturous Pride, To tread the dreary Paths without a Guide; As treach'rous Phantoms in the Mist delude, Shuns fancied Ills, or chases airy Good. How rarely Reason guides the stubborn Choice, Rules the bold Hand, or prompts the suppliant Voice, How Nations sink, by darling Schemes oppress'd, When Vengeance listens to the Fool's Request. Fate wings with ev'ry Wish th' afflictive Dart, Each Gift of Nature, and each Grace of Art, With fatal Heat impetuous Courage glows, With fatal Sweetness Elocution flows, Impeachment stops the Speaker's pow'rful Breath, And restless Fire precipitates on Death. [Footnote a: Ver. 1-11.] [b]But scarce observ'd the Knowing and the Bold, Fall in the general Massacre of Gold; Wide-wasting Pest! that rages unconfin'd, And crouds with Crimes the Records of Mankind, For Gold his Sword the Hireling Ruffian draws, For Gold the hireling Judge distorts the Laws; Wealth heap'd on Wealth, nor Truth nor Safety buys, The Dangers gather as the Treasures rise. [Footnote b: Ver. 12-22.] Let Hist'ry tell where rival Kings command, And dubious Title shakes the madded Land, When Statutes glean the Refuse of the Sword, How much more safe the Vassal than the Lord, Low sculks the Hind beneath the Rage of Pow'r, And leaves the _bonny Traytor_ in the _Tow'r_, Untouch'd his Cottage, and his Slumbers found, Tho' Confiscation's Vulturs clang around. The needy Traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wild Heath, and sings his Toil away. Does Envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding Joy, Encrease his Riches and his Peace destroy, New Fears in dire Vicissitude invade, The rustling Brake alarms, and quiv'ring Shade, Nor Light nor Darkness bring his Pain Relief, One shews the Plunder, and one hides the Thief. Yet[c] still the gen'ral Cry the Skies assails And Gain and Grandeur load the tainted Gales; Few know the toiling States man's Fear or Care, Th' insidious Rival and the gaping Heir. [Footnote c: Ver. 23-27.] Once[d] more, _Democritus_, arise on Earth, With chearful Wisdom and instructive Mirth, See motley Life in modern Trappings dress'd, And feed with varied Fools th' eternal Jest: Thou who couldst laugh where Want enchain'd Caprice, Toil crush'd Conceit, and Man was of a Piece; Where Wealth unlov'd without a Mourner dy'd; And scarce a Sycophant was fed by Pride; Where ne'er was known the Form of mock Debate, Or seen a new-made Mayor's unwieldy State; Where change of Fav'rites made no Change of Laws, And Senates heard before they judg'd a Cause; How wouldst thou shake at _Britain's_ modish Tribe, Dart the quick Taunt, and edge the piercing Gibe? Attentive Truth and Nature to descry, And pierce each Scene with Philosophic Eye. To thee were solemn Toys or empty Shew, The Robes of Pleasure and the Veils of Woe: All aid the Farce, and all thy Mirth maintain, Whose Joys are causeless, or whose Griefs are vain. [Footnote d: Ver. 28-55.] Such was the Scorn that fill'd the Sage's Mind, Renew'd at ev'ry Glance on Humankind; How just that Scorn ere yet thy Voice declare, Search every State, and canvass ev'ry Pray'r. [e]Unnumber'd Suppliants croud Preferment's Gate, Athirst for Wealth, and burning to be great; Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant Call, They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On ev'ry Stage the Foes of Peace attend, Hate dogs their Flight, and Insult mocks their End. Love ends with Hope, the sinking Statesman's Door Pours in the Morning Worshiper no more; For growing Names the weekly Scribbler lies, To growing Wealth the Dedicator flies, From every Room descends the painted Face, That hung the bright _Palladium_ of the Place, And smoak'd in Kitchens, or in Auctions sold, To better Features yields the Frame of Gold; For now no more we trace in ev'ry Line Heroic Worth, Benevolence Divine: The Form distorted justifies the Fall, And Detestation rids th' indignant Wall. [Footnote e: Ver. 56-107.] But will not _Britain_ hear the last Appeal, Sign her Foes Doom, or guard her Fav'rites Zeal; Through Freedom's Sons no more Remonstrance rings; Degrading Nobles and controuling Kings; Our supple Tribes repress their Patriot Throats, And ask no Questions but the Price of Votes; With Weekly Libels and Septennial Ale, Their Wish is full to riot and to rail. In full-blown Dignity, see _Wolsey_ stand, Law in his Voice, and Fortune in his Hand: To him the Church, the Realm, their Pow'rs consign, Thro' him the Rays of regal Bounty shine, Turned by his Nod the Stream of Honour flows, His Smile alone Security bestows: Still to new Heights his restless Wishes tow'r, Claim leads to Claim, and Pow'r advances Pow'r; Till Conquest unresisted ceas'd to please, And Rights submitted, left him none to seize. At length his Sov'reign frowns--the Train of State Mark the keen Glance, and watch the Sign to hate. Where-e'er he turns he meets a Stranger's Eye, His Suppliants scorn him, and his Followers fly; Now drops at once the Pride of aweful State, The golden Canopy, the glitt'ring Plate, The regal Palace, the luxurious Board, The liv'ried Army and the menial Lord. With Age, with Cares, with Maladies oppress'd, He seeks the Refuge of Monastic Rest. Grief aids Disease, remember'd Folly stings, And his last Sighs reproach the Faith of Kings. Speak thou, whose Thoughts at humble Peace repine, Shall _Wolsey_'s Wealth, with _Wolsey_'s End be thine? Or liv'st thou now, with safer Pride content, The richest Landlord on the Banks of _Trent_? For why did _Wolsey_ by the Steps of Fate, On weak Foundations raise th' enormous Weight? Why but to sink beneath Misfortune's Blow, With louder Ruin to the Gulphs below? What[f] gave great _Villiers_ to th' Assassin's Knife, And fix'd Disease on _Harley_'s closing Life? What murder'd _Wentworth_, and what exil'd _Hyde_, By Kings protected and to Kings ally'd? What but their Wish indulg' in Courts to shine, And Pow'r too great to keep or to resign? [Footnote f: Ver. 108-113.] When[g] first the College Rolls receive his Name, The young Enthusiast quits his Ease for Fame; Resistless burns the Fever of Renown, Caught from the strong Contagion of the Gown; O'er _Bodley_'s Dome his future Labours spread, And _Bacon_'s Mansion trembles o'er his Head; Are these thy Views? proceed, illustrious Youth, And Virtue guard thee to the Throne of Truth, Yet should thy Soul indulge the gen'rous Heat, Till captive Science yields her last Retreat; Should Reason guide thee with her brightest Ray, And pour on misty Doubt resistless Day; Should no false Kindness lure to loose Delight, Nor Praise relax, nor Difficulty fright; Should tempting Novelty thy Cell refrain, And Sloth's bland Opiates shed their Fumes in vain; Should Beauty blunt on Fops her fatal Dart, Nor claim the Triumph of a letter'd Heart; Should no Disease thy torpid Veins invade, Nor Melancholy's Phantoms haunt thy Shade; Yet hope not Life from Grief or Danger free, Nor think the Doom of Man revers'd for thee: Deign on the passing World to turn thine Eyes, And pause awhile from Learning to be wise; There mark what Ills the Scholar's Life assail; Toil, Envy, Want, the Garret, and the Jail. See Nations slowly wise, and meanly just; To buried Merit raise the tardy Bust. If Dreams yet flatter, once again attend, Hear _Lydiat_'s Life, and _Galileo_'s End. [Footnote g: Ver. 114-132.] Nor deem, when Learning her lost Prize bestows The glitt'ring Eminence exempt from Foes; See when the Vulgar 'scap'd, despis'd or aw'd, Rebellion's vengeful Talons seize on _Laud_. From meaner Minds, tho' smaller Fines content The plunder'd Palace or sequester'd Rent; Mark'd out by dangerous Parts he meets the Shock, And fatal Learning leads him to the Block: Around his Tomb let Art and Genius weep, But hear his Death, ye Blockheads, hear and sleep. The[h] festal Blazes, the triumphal Show, The ravish'd Standard, and the captive Foe, The Senate's Thanks, the Gazette's pompous Tale, With Force resistless o'er the Brave prevail. Such Bribes the rapid _Greek_ o'er _Asia_ whirl'd, For such the steady _Romans_ shook the World; For such in distant Lands the _Britons_ shine, And stain with Blood the _Danube_ or the _Rhine_; This Pow'r has Praise, that Virtue scarce can warm, Till Fame supplies the universal Charm. Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal Game, Where wasted Nations raise a single Name, And mortgag'd States their Grandsires Wreaths regret From Age to Age in everlasting Debt; Wreaths which at last the dear-bought Right convey To rust on Medals, or on Stones decay. [Footnote h: Ver. 133-146.] On[i] what Foundation stands the Warrior's Pride? How just his Hopes let _Swedish Charles_ decide; A Frame of Adamant, a Soul of Fire, No Dangers fright him, and no Labours tire; O'er Love, o'er Force, extends his wide Domain, Unconquer'd Lord of Pleasure and of Pain; No Joys to him pacific Scepters yield, War sounds the Trump, he rushes to the Field; Behold surrounding Kings their Pow'r combine, And One capitulate, and One resign; Peace courts his Hand, but spread her Charms in vain; "Think Nothing gain'd, he cries, till nought remain, On _Moscow_'s Walls till _Gothic_ Standards fly, And all is Mine beneath the Polar Sky." The March begins in Military State, And Nations on his Eye suspended wait; Stern Famine guards the solitary Coast, And Winter barricades the Realms of Frost; He comes, nor Want nor Cold his Course delay;-- Hide, blushing Glory, hide _Pultowa_'s Day: The vanquish'd Hero leaves his broken Bands, And shews his Miseries in distant Lands; Condemn'd a needy Supplicant to wait, While Ladies interpose, and Slaves debate. But did not Chance at length her Error mend? Did no subverted Empire mark his End? Did rival Monarchs give the fatal Wound? Or hostile Millions press him to the Ground? His Fall was destin'd to a barren Strand, A petty Fortress, and a dubious Hand; He left the Name, at which the World grew pale, To point a Moral, or adorn a Tale. [Footnote i: Ver. 147-167.] All[k] Times their Scenes of pompous Woes afford, From _Persia_'s Tyrant to _Bavaria_'s Lord. In gay Hostility, and barb'rous Pride, With half Mankind embattled at his Side, Great _Xerxes_ comes to seize the certain Prey, And starves exhausted Regions in his Way; Attendant Flatt'ry counts his Myriads o'er, Till counted Myriads sooth his Pride no more; Fresh Praise is try'd till Madness fires his Mind, The Waves he lashes, and enchains the Wind; New Pow'rs are claim'd, new Pow'rs are still bestow'd, Till rude Resistance lops the spreading God; The daring _Greeks_ deride the Martial Shew, And heap their Vallies with the gaudy Foe; Th' insulted Sea with humbler Thoughts he gains, A single Skiff to speed his Flight remains; Th' incumber'd Oar scarce leaves the dreaded Coast Through purple Billows and a floating Host. [Footnote k: Ver. 168-187.] The bold _Bavarian_, in a luckless Hour, Tries the dread Summits of _Cesarean_ Pow'r, With unexpected Legions bursts away, And sees defenceless Realms receive his Sway; Short Sway! fair _Austria_ spreads her mournful Charms, The Queen, the Beauty, sets the World in Arms; From Hill to Hill the Beacons rousing Blaze Spreads wide the Hope of Plunder and of Praise; The fierce _Croatian_, and the wild _Hussar_, And all the Sons of Ravage croud the War; The baffled Prince in Honour's flatt'ring Bloom Of hasty Greatness finds the fatal Doom, His Foes Derision, and his Subjects Blame, And steals to Death from Anguish and from Shame. Enlarge[l] my Life with Multitude of Days, In Health, in Sickness, thus the Suppliant prays; Hides from himself his State, and shuns to know, That Life protracted is protracted Woe. Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the Passages of Joy: In vain their Gifts the bounteous Seasons pour, The Fruit Autumnal, and the Vernal Flow'r, With listless Eyes the Dotard views the Store, He views, and wonders that they please no more; Now pall the tastless Meats, and joyless Wines, And Luxury with Sighs her Slave resigns. Approach, ye Minstrels, try the soothing Strain, And yield the tuneful Lenitives of Pain: No Sounds alas would touch th' impervious Ear, Though dancing Mountains witness'd _Orpheus_ near; Nor Lute nor Lyre his feeble Pow'rs attend, Nor sweeter Musick of a virtuous Friend, But everlasting Dictates croud his Tongue, Perversely grave, or positively wrong. The still returning Tale, and ling'ring Jest, Perplex the fawning Niece and pamper'd Guest, While growing Hopes scarce awe the gath'ring Sneer, And scarce a Legacy can bribe to hear; The watchful Guests still hint the last Offence, The Daughter's Petulance, the Son's Expence, Improve his heady Rage with treach'rous Skill, And mould his Passions till they make his Will. [Footnote l: Ver. 188.-288.] Unnumber'd Maladies each Joint invade, Lay Siege to Life and press the dire Blockade; But unextinguish'd Av'rice still remains, And dreaded Losses aggravate his Pains; He turns, with anxious Heart and cripled Hands, His Bonds of Debt, and Mortgages of Lands; Or views his Coffers with suspicious Eyes, Unlocks his Gold, and counts it till he dies. But grant, the Virtues of a temp'rate Prime Bless with an Age exempt from Scorn or Crime; An Age that melts in unperceiv'd Decay, And glides in modest Innocence away; Whose peaceful Day Benevolence endears, Whose Night congratulating Conscience cheers; The gen'ral Fav'rite as the gen'ral Friend: Such Age there is, and who could wish its End? Yet ev'n on this her Load Misfortune flings, To press the weary Minutes flagging Wings: New Sorrow rises as the Day returns, A Sister sickens, or a Daughter mourns. Now Kindred Merit fills the fable Bier, Now lacerated Friendship claims a Tear. Year chases Year, Decay pursues Decay, Still drops some Joy from with'ring Life away; New Forms arise, and diff'rent Views engage, Superfluous lags the Vet'ran on the Stage, Till pitying Nature signs the last Release, And bids afflicted Worth retire to Peace. But few there are whom Hours like these await, Who set unclouded in the Gulphs of Fate. From _Lydia_'s Monarch should the Search descend, By _Solon_ caution'd to regard his End, In Life's last Scene what Prodigies surprise, Fears of the Brave, and Follies of the Wise? From _Marlb'rough_'s Eyes the Streams of Dotage flow, And _Swift_ expires a Driv'ler and a Show. The[m] teeming Mother, anxious for her Race, Begs for each Birth the Fortune of a Face: Yet _Vane_ could tell what Ills from Beauty spring; And _Sedley_ curs'd the Form that pleas'd a King. Ye Nymphs of rosy Lips and radiant Eyes, Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise, Whom Joys with soft Varieties invite By Day the Frolick, and the Dance by Night, Who frown with Vanity, who smile with Art, And ask the latest Fashion of the Heart, What Care, what Rules your heedless Charms shall save, Each Nymph your Rival, and each Youth your Slave? An envious Breast with certain Mischief glows, And Slaves, the Maxim tells, are always Foes, Against your Fame with Fondness Hate combines, The Rival batters, and the Lover mines. With distant Voice neglected Virtue calls, Less heard, and less the faint Remonstrance falls; Tir'd with Contempt, she quits the slipp'ry Reign, And Pride and Prudence take her Seat in vain. In croud at once, where none the Pass defend, The harmless Freedom, and the private Friend. The Guardians yield, by Force superior ply'd; By Int'rest, Prudence; and by Flatt'ry, Pride. Here Beauty falls betray'd, despis'd, distress'd, And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest. [Footnote m: Ver. 289-345.] Where[n] then shall Hope and Fear their Objects find? Must dull Suspence corrupt the stagnant Mind? Must helpless Man, in Ignorance sedate, Swim darkling down the Current of his Fate? Must no Dislike alarm, no Wishes rise, No Cries attempt the Mercies of the Skies? Enquirer, cease, Petitions yet remain, Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem Religion vain. Still raise for Good the supplicating Voice, But leave to Heav'n the Measure and the Choice. Safe in his Pow'r, whose Eyes discern afar The secret Ambush of a specious Pray'r. Implore his Aid, in his Decisions rest, Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best. Yet with the Sense of sacred Presence prest, When strong Devotion fills thy glowing Breast, Pour forth thy Fervours for a healthful Mind, Obedient Passions, and a Will resign'd; For Love, which scarce collective Man can fill; For Patience sov'reign o'er transmuted Ill; For Faith, that panting for a happier Seat, Thinks Death kind Nature's Signal of Retreat: These Goods for Man the Laws of Heav'n ordain, These Goods he grants, who grants the Pow'r to gain; With these celestial Wisdom calms the Mind, And makes the Happiness she does not find. [Footnote n: Ver. 346-366.] _FINIS._ THE RAMBLER. NUMB. 5. Price 2 _d._ TUESDAY, _April 3, 1750_. _To be continued on_ TUESDAYS _and_ SATURDAYS. _Et nunc omnis Ager, nunc omnis parturit Arbos, Nunc frondent Silvae, nunc formosissimus Annus_. VIRG. Every Man is sufficiently discontented with some Circumstances of his present State, to suffer his Imagination to range more or less in quest of future Happiness, and to fix upon some Point of Time, in which he shall, by the Removal of the Inconvenience which now perplexes him, or the Acquisition of Advantage which he at present wants, find his Condition of Life very much improved. When this Time, which is too often expected with great Impatience, at last arrives, it generally comes without the Blessing for which it was desired; but we solace ourselves with some new Prospect, and press forward again with equal Eagerness. It is some Advantage to a Man, in whom this Temper prevails in any great Degree, when he turns his Hopes upon Things wholly out of his own Power, since he forbears then to precipitate his Affairs, for the Sake of the great Event that is to complete his Felicity, and waits for the blissful Hour, without neglecting such Measures as are necessary to be taken in the mean Time. I have long known a Person of this Temper, who indulged his Dream of Happiness with less Hurt to himself than such chimerical Wishes commonly produce, and adjusted his Scheme with such Address, that his Hopes were in full bloom three parts of the Year, and in the other part never wholly blasted. Many, perhaps, would be desirous of learning by what Means he procured to himself such a cheap and lasting Satisfaction. It was gained only by a constant Practice of referring the Removal of all his Uneasiness to the Coming of the next Spring. If his Affairs were disordered, he could regulate them in the Spring; if a Regimen was prescribed him, the Spring was the proper Time of pursuing it; if what he wanted was at a high Price, it would fall its Value in the Spring. The Spring, indeed, did often come without any of these Effects; but he was always certain that the next would be more propitious; and was never convinced that the present Spring would fail him until the Middle of Summer; for he always talked of the Spring as coming 'till it was past, and when it was once past, every one agreed with him that it was coming. By long Converse with this Man, I am, perhaps, in some Degree brought to feel the same immoderate Pleasure in the Contemplation of this delightful Season; but I have the Satisfaction of finding many, whom it can be no Shame to resemble, infected with the same Enthusiasm; for there is, I believe, scarce any Poet of Eminence, who has not left some Testimony of his Fondness for the Flowers, the Zephyrs, and the Warblers of the Spring. Nor has the most luxuriant Imagination been able to describe the Serenity and Happiness of the golden Age otherwise than by giving a perpetual Spring, as the highest Reward of uncorrupted Innocence. There is, indeed, something inexpressibly pleasing in the annual Renovation of the World, and the new Display of the Treasures of Nature. The Cold and Darkness of Winter, with the naked Deformity of every Object on which we turn our Eyes, makes us necessarily rejoice at the succeeding Season, as well for what we have escaped, as for what we may enjoy; and every budding Flower, which a warm Situation brings early to our View, is considered by us as a Messenger, to inform us of the Approach of more joyous Days. The Spring affords to a Mind, so free from the Disturbance of Cares or Passions as to be vacant to calm Amusements, almost every Thing that our present State makes us capable of enjoying. The variegated Verdure of the Fields and Woods, the Succession of grateful Odours, the Voice of Pleasure pouring out its Notes on every Side, with the Observation of the Gladness apparently conceived by every Animal, from the Growth of his Food, and the Clemency of the Weather, throw over the whole Earth an Air of Gayety, which is very significantly expressed by the Smile of Nature. There are Men to whom these Scenes are able to give no Delight, and who hurry away from all the Varieties of rural Beauty, to lose their Hours, and divert their Thoughts by Cards, or publick Assemblies, a Tavern Dinner, or the Prattle of the Day. It may be laid down as a Position which will seldom deceive, that when a Man cannot bear his own Company there is something wrong. He must fly from himself, either because he feels a Tediousness in Life from the Equipoise of an empty Mind, which, having no Tendency to one Motion more than another but as it is impelled by some external Power, must always have recourse to foreign Objects; or he must be afraid of the Intrusion of some unpleasing Ideas, and, perhaps, is always struggling to escape from the Remembrance of a Loss, the Fear of a Calamity, or some other Thought of greater Horror. Those, who are incapacitated to enjoy the Pleasures of Contemplation, by their Griefs, may, very properly, apply to such Diversions, provided they are innocent, as lay strong hold on the Attention; and those, whom Fear of any future Calamity chains down to Misery, must endeavour to obviate the Danger. My Considerations shall, on this Occasion, be turned on such as are burthensome to themselves merely because they want Subjects for Reflection, and to whom the Volume of Nature is thrown open without affording them Pleasure or Instruction, because they never learned to read the Characters. A French Author has advanced this seeming Paradox, that _very few Men know how to take a Walk_; and, indeed, it is very true, that few Men know how to take a Walk with a Prospect of any other Pleasure, than the same Company would have afforded them in any other Circumstances. There are Animals that borrow their Colour from the neighbouring Body, and, consequently, vary their Hue as they happen to change their Place. In like manner it ought to be the Endeavour of every Man to derive his Reflexions from the Objects about him; for it is to no purpose that he alters his Position, if his Attention continues fixt to the same Point. The Mind should be kept open to the Access of every new Idea, and so far disengaged from the Predominance of particular Thoughts, as to be able to accommodate itself to emergent Occasions, and remark every Thing that offers itself to present Examination. A Man that has formed this Habit of turning every new Object to his Entertainment, finds in the Productions of Nature an inexhaustible Stock of Materials, upon which he can employ himself, without any Temptations to Envy or Malevolence; Faults, perhaps, seldom totally avoided by those, whose Judgment is much exercised upon the Works of Art. He has always a certain Prospect of discovering new Reasons for adoring the Sovereign Author of the Universe, and probable Hopes of making some Discovery of Benefit to others, or of Profit to himself. There is no doubt but many Vegetables and Animals have Qualities that might be of great Use; to the Knowledge of which there is required no great Sagacity of Penetration, or Fatigue of Study, but only frequent Experiments, and close Attention. What is said by the Chymists of their darling Mercury, is, perhaps, true of every Body through the whole Creation, that, if a thousand Lives should be spent upon it, all its Properties would not be found out. Mankind must necessarily be diversified by various Tastes, since Life affords and requires such multiplicity of Employments; and a Nation of Naturalists is neither to be hoped, or desired, but it is surely not improper to point out a fresh Amusement to those who langush in Health, and repine in Plenty, for want of some Source of Diversion that may be less easily exhausted, and to inform the Multitudes of both Sexes, who are burthened with every new Day, that there are many Shews which they have not seen. He that enlarges his Curiosity after the Works of Nature, demonstrably multiplies the Inlets to Happiness, and, therefore, the younger Part of my Readers, to whom I dedicate this vernal Speculation, must excuse me for calling upon them to make use at once of the Spring of the Year, and the Spring of Life; to acquire, while their Minds may be yet impressed with new Images, a Love of innocent Pleasures, and an ardour for useful Knowledge; and to remember, that a blighted Spring makes a barren Year, and that the vernal Flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended by Nature as Preparatives to Autumnal Fruits. _LONDON_: Printed for J. PAYNE, and J. BOUQUET, in Pater-noster-Row; where Letters for the RAMBLER are received, and the preceding Numbers may be had. THE RAMBLER. NUMB. 60. Price 2 _d._ _To be continued on_ TUESDAYS _and_ SATURDAYS. SATURDAY, _October_ 13, 1750. --_Quid fit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, Plenius et melius_ Chrysippo _et_ Crantore _dicit_. HOR. All Joy or Sorrow for the Happiness or Calamities of others is produced by an Act of the Imagination, that realises the Event however fictitious, or approximates it however remote, by placing us, for a Time, in the Condition of him whose Fortune we contemplate; so that we feel, while the Deception lasts, whatever Motions would be excited by the same Good or Evil happening to ourselves. Our Passions are therefore more strongly moved, in proportion as we can more readily adopt the Pains or Pleasures proposed to our Minds, by recognising them as once our own, or considering them as naturally incident to our State of Life. It is not easy for the most artful Writer to give us an Interest in Happiness or Misery, which we think ourselves never likely to feel, and with which we have never yet been made acquainted. Histories of the Downfall of Kingdoms, and Revolutions of Empires are read with great Tranquillity; the imperial Tragedy pleases common Auditors only by its Pomp of Ornament, and Grandeur of Ideas; and the Man whose Faculties have been engrossed by Business, and whose Heart never fluttered but at the Rise or Fall of Stocks, wonders how the Attention can be seized, or the Affections agitated by a Tale of Love. Those parallel Circumstances, and kindred Images to which we readily conform our Minds, are, above all other Writings, to be found in Narratives of the Lives of particular Persons; and there seems therefore no Species of Writing more worthy of Cultivation than Biography, since none can be more delightful, or more useful, none can more certainly enchain the Heart by irresistible Interest, or more widely diffuse Instruction to every Diversity of Condition. The general and rapid Narratives of History, which involve a thousand Fortunes in the Business of a Day, and complicate innumerable Incidents in one great Transaction, afford few Lessons applicable to private Life, which derives its Comforts and its Wretchedness from the right or wrong Management of Things that nothing but their Frequency makes considerable, _Parva si non fiunt quotidie_, says _Pliny_, and which can have no Place in those Relations which never descend below the Consultation of Senates, the Motions of Armies, and the Schemes of Conspirators. I have often thought that there has rarely passed a Life of which a judicious and faithful Narrative would not be useful. For, not only every Man has in the mighty Mass of the World great Numbers in the same Condition with himself, to whom his Mistakes and Miscarriages, Escapes and Expedients would be of immediate and apparent Use; but there is such an Uniformity in the Life of Man, if it be considered apart from adventitious and separable Decorations and Disguises, that there is scarce any Possibility of Good or Ill, but is common to Humankind. A great Part of the Time of those who are placed at the greatest Distance by Fortune, or by Temper, must unavoidably pass in the same Manner; and though, when the Claims of Nature are satisfied, Caprice, and Vanity, and Accident, begin to produce Discriminations, and Peculiarities, yet the Eye is not very heedful, or quick, which cannot discover the same Causes still terminating their Influence in the same Effects, though sometimes accelerated, sometimes retarded, or perplexed by multiplied Combinations. We are all prompted by the same Motives, all deceived by the same Fallacies, all animated by Hope, obstructed by Danger, entangled by Desire, and seduced by Pleasure. It is frequently objected to Relations of particular Lives, that they are not distinguished by any striking or wonderful Vicissitude. The Scholar who passes his Life among his Books, the Merchant who conducted only his own Affairs, the Priest whose Sphere of Action was not extended beyond that of his Duty, are considered as no proper Objects of publick Regard, however they might have excelled in their several Stations, whatever might have been their Learning, Integrity, and Piety. But this Notion arises from false Measures of Excellence and Dignity, and must be eradicated by considering, that, in the Eye of uncorrupted Reason, what is of most Use is of most Value. It is, indeed, not improper to take honest Advantages of Prejudice, and to gain Attention by a great Name; but the Business of the Biographer is often to pass slightly over those Performances and Incidents, which produce vulgar Greatness, to lead the Thoughts into domestick Privacies, and display the minute Details of daily Life, where exterior Appendages are cast aside, and Men excel each other only by Prudence, and by Virtue. The Life of _Thuanus_ is, with great Propriety, said by its Author to have been written, that it might lay open to Posterity the private and familiar Character of that Man, _cujus Ingenium et Candorem ex ipsius Scriptis sunt olim simper miraturi_, whose Candour and Genius his Writings will to the End of Time preserve in Admiration. There are many invisible Circumstances, which whether we read as Enquirers after natural or moral Knowledge, whether we intend to enlarge our Science, or encrease our Virtue, are more important than publick Occurrences. Thus _Salust_, the great Master, has not forgot, in his Account of _Catiline_, to remark that _his Walk was now quick, and again slow_, as an Indication of a Mind revolving something with violent Commotion. Thus the Story of _Melancthon_ affords a striking Lecture on the Value of Time, by informing us that when he made an Appointment, he expected not only the Hour, but the Minute to be fixed, that Life might not run out in the Idleness of Suspense; and all the Plans and Enterprizes of _De Wit_ are now of less Importance to the World, than that Part of his personal Character which represents him as careful of his Health, and negligent of his Life. But Biography has often been allotted to Writers who seem very little acquainted with the Nature of their Task, or very negligent about the Performance. They rarely afford any other Account than might be collected from publick Papers, and imagine themselves writing a Life when they exhibit a chronological Series of Actions or Preferments; and so little regard the Manners or Behaviour of their Heroes, that more Knowledge may be gained of a Man's real Character, by a short Conversation with one of his Servants, than from a formal and studied Narrative, begun with his Pedigree, and ended with his Funeral. If now and then they condescend to inform the World of particular Facts, they are not always so happy as to select those which are of most Importance. I know not well what Advantage Posterity can receive from the only Circumstance by which _Tickell_ has distinguished _Addison_ from the Rest of Mankind, the Irregularity of his Pulse: nor can I think myself overpaid for the Time spent in reading the Life of _Malherb_, by being enabled to relate, after the learned Biographer, that _Malherb_ had two predominant Opinions; one, that the Looseness of a single Woman might destroy all the Boast of ancient Descent; the other, that the _French_ Beggers made use very improperly and barbarously of the Phrase _noble Gentleman_, because either Word included the Sense of both. There are, indeed, some natural Reasons why these Narratives are often written by such as were not likely to give much Instruction or Delight, and why most Accounts of particular Persons are barren and useless. If a Life be delayed till all Interest and Envy are at an End, and all Motives to Calumny or Flattery are suppressed, we may hope for Impartiality, but must expect little Intelligence; for the Incidents which give Excellence to Biography are of a volatile and evanescent Kind, such as soon escape the Memory, and are rarely transmitted by Tradition. We know how few can portray a living Acquaintance, except by his most prominent and observable Particularities, and the grosser Features of his Mind; and it may be easily imagined how much of this little Knowledge may be lost in imparting it, and how soon a Succession of Copies will lose all Resemblance of the Original. If the Biographer writes from personal Knowledge, and makes haste to gratify the publick Curiosity, there is Danger left his Interest, his Fear, his Gratitude, or his Tenderness, overpower his Fidelity, and tempt him to conceal, if not to invent. There are many who think it an Act of Piety to hide the Faults or Failings of their Friends, even when they can no longer suffer by their Detection; we therefore see whole Ranks of Characters adorned with uniform Panegyrick, and not to be known from one another, but by extrinsick and casual Circumstances. "Let me remember, says _Hale_, when I find myself inclined to pity a Criminal, that there is likewise a Pity due to the Country." If there is a Regard due to the Memory of the Dead, there is yet more Respect to be paid to Knowledge, to Virtue, and to Truth. _LONDON_: Printed for J. PAYNE, and J. BOUQUET, in Pater-noster-Row, where Letters for the RAMBLER are received, and the preceding Numbers may be had. PUBLICATIONS OF THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY First Year (1946-1947) 1. Richard Blackmore's _Essay upon Wit_ (1716), and Addison's _Freeholder_ No. 45 (1716). (I, 1) 2. Samuel Cobb's _Of Poetry_ and _Discourse on Criticism_ (1707). (II, 1) 3. _Letter to A.H. Esq.; concerning the Stage_ (1698), and Richard Willis' _Occasional Paper No. IX_ (1698). (III, 1) 4. _Essay on Wit_ (1748), together with Characters by Flecknoe, and Joseph Warton's _Adventurer_ Nos. 127 and 133. (I, 2) 5. Samuel Wesley's _Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry_ (1700) and _Essay on Heroic Poetry_ (1693). (II, 2) 6. _Representation of the Impiety and Immorality of the Stage_ (1704) and _Some Thoughts Concerning the Stage_ (1704). (III, 2) Second Year (1947-1948) 7. John Gay's _The Present State of Wit_ (1711); and a section on Wit from _The English Theophrastus_ (1702). (I, 3) 8. Rapin's _De Carmine Pastorali_, translated by Creech (1684). (II, 3) 9. T. Hanmer's (?) _Some Remarks on the Tragedy of Hamlet_ (1736). (III, 3) 10. Corbyn Morris' _Essay towards Fixing the True Standards of Wit, etc._ (1744). (I, 4) 11. Thomas Purney's _Discourse on the Pastoral_ (1717). (II, 4) 12. Essays on the Stage, selected, with an Introduction by Joseph Wood Krutch. (III, 4) Third Year (1948-1949) 13. Sir John Falstaff (pseud.), _The Theatre_ (1720). (IV, 1) 14. Edward Moore's _The Gamester_ (1753). (V, 1) 15. John Oldmixon's _Reflections on Dr. Swift's Letter to Harley_ (1712); and Arthur Mainwaring's _The British Academy_ (1712). (VI, 1) 16. Nevil Payne's _Fatal Jealousy_ (1673). (V, 2) 17. Nicholas Rowe's _Some Account of the Life of Mr. William Shakespear_ (1709). (Extra Series, 1) 18. Aaron Hill's Preface to _The Creation_; and Thomas Brereton's Preface to _Esther_. (IV, 2) _The Editors of_ THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY _are pleased to announce that_ THE WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY _of The University of California, Los Angeles_ will become the publisher of the Augustan Reprints in May, 1949. The editorial policy of the Society will continue unchanged. As in the past, the editors will strive to furnish members inexpensive reprints of rare seventeenth and eighteenth century works. All correspondence concerning subscriptions in the United States and Canada should be addressed to the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, 2205 West Adams Blvd., Los Angeles 7, California. Correspondence concerning editorial matters may be addressed to any of the general editors. Membership fee continues $2.50 per year ($2.75 in Great Britain and the continent). British and European subscribers should address B.H. Blackwell, Broad Street, Oxford, England. Publications for the fourth year (1949-1950) (_At least six items will be printed in the main from the following list_) SERIES IV: MEN, MANNERS, AND CRITICS John Dryden, _His Majesties Declaration Defended_ (1681) Daniel Defoe (?), _Vindication of the Press_ (1718) _Critical Remarks on Sir Charles Grandison, Clarissa, and Pamela_ (1754) SERIES V: DRAMA Thomas Southerne, _Oroonoko_ (1696) Mrs. Centlivre, _The Busie Body_ (1709) Charles Johnson, _Caelia_ (1733) Charles Macklin, _Man of the World_ (1781) SERIES VI: POETRY AND LANGUAGE Andre Dacier, _Essay on Lyric Poetry_ _Poems_ by Thomas Sprat _Poems_ by the Earl of Dorset Samuel Johnson, _Vanity of Human Wishes_ (1749), and one of the 1750 _Rambler_ papers. EXTRA SERIES: Lewis Theobald, _Preface to Shakespeare's Works_ (1733) A few copies of the early publications of the Society are still available at the original rate. GENERAL EDITORS H. RICHARD ARCHER, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library R.C. BOYS, University of Michigan E.N. HOOKER, University of California, Los Angeles H.T. SWEDENBERG, JR., University of California, Los Angeles TO THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library 2205 West Adams Blvd., Los Angeles 7, California_ As MEMBERSHIP FEE I enclose for: {The fourth year $ 2.50 {The third and fourth year 5.00 {The second, third and fourth year 7.50 {The first, second, third, and fourth year 10.00 [Add $.25 for each year if ordering from Great Britain or the continent] _Name_ ________________________________ _Address_ _____________________________ Make check or money order payable to THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. _Note: All income of the Society is devoted to defraying cost of printing and mailing._ 
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5430	----	PREFACE TO A DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE By Samuel Johnson It is the fate of those who toil at the lower employments of life, to be rather driven by the fear of evil, than attracted by the prospect of good; to be exposed to censure, without hope of praise; to be disgraced by miscarriage, or punished for neglect, where success would have been without applause, and diligence without reward. Among these unhappy mortals is the writer of dictionaries; whom mankind have considered, not as the pupil, but the slave of science, the pionier of literature, doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths through which Learning and Genius press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress. Every other authour may aspire to praise; the lexicographer can only hope to escape reproach, and even this negative recompense has been yet granted to very few. I have, notwithstanding this discouragement, attempted a dictionary of the English language, which, while it was employed in the cultivation of every species of literature, has itself been hitherto neglected; suffered to spread, under the direction of chance, into wild exuberance; resigned to the tyranny of time and fashion; and exposed to the corruptions of ignorance, and caprices of innovation. When I took the first survey of my undertaking, I found our speech copious without order, and energetick without rules: wherever I turned my view, there was perplexity to be disentangled, and confusion to be regulated; choice was to be made out of boundless variety, without any established principle of selection; adulterations were to be detected, without a settled test of purity; and modes of expression to be rejected or received, without the suffrages of any writers of classical reputation or acknowledged authority. Having therefore no assistance but from general grammar, I applied myself to the perusal of our writers; and noting whatever might be of use to ascertain or illustrate any word or phrase, accumulated in time the materials of a dictionary, which, by degrees, I reduced to method, establishing to myself, in the progress of the work, such rules as experience and analogy suggested to me; experience, which practice and observation were continually increasing; and analogy, which, though in some words obscure, was evident in others. In adjusting the ORTHOGRAPHY, which has been to this time unsettled and fortuitous, I found it necessary to distinguish those irregularities that are inherent in our tongue, and perhaps coeval with it, from others which the ignorance or negligence of later writers has produced. Every language has its anomalies, which, though inconvenient, and in themselves once unnecessary, must be tolerated among the imperfections of human things, and which require only to be registered, that they may not be increased, and ascertained, that they may not be confounded: but every language has likewise its improprieties and absurdities, which it is the duty of the lexicographer to correct or proscribe. As language was at its beginning merely oral, all words of necessary or common use were spoken before they were written; and while they were unfixed by any visible signs, must have been spoken with great diversity, as we now observe those who cannot read catch sounds imperfectly, and utter them negligently. When this wild and barbarous jargon was first reduced to an alphabet, every penman endeavoured to express, as he could, the sounds which he was accustomed to pronounce or to receive, and vitiated in writing such words as were already vitiated in speech. The powers of the letters, when they were applied to a new language, must have been vague and unsettled, and therefore different hands would exhibit the same sound by different combinations. From this uncertain pronunciation arise in a great part the various dialects of the same country, which will always be observed to grow fewer, and less different, as books are multiplied; and from this arbitrary representation of sounds by letters, proceeds that diversity of spelling observable in the Saxon remains, and I suppose in the first books of every nation, which perplexes or destroys analogy, and produces anomalous formations, that, being once incorporated, can never be afterward dismissed or reformed. Of this kind are the derivatives length from long, strength from strong, darling from dear, breadth from broad, from dry, drought, and from high, height, which Milton, in zeal for analogy, writes highth; Quid te exempta juvat spinis de pluribus una [Horace, Epistles, II. ii. 212]; to change all would be too much, and to change one is nothing. This uncertainty is most frequent in the vowels, which are so capriciously pronounced, and so differently modified, by accident or affectation, not only in every province, but in every mouth, that to them, as is well known to etymologists, little regard is to be shewn in the deduction of one language from another. Such defects are not errours in orthography, but spots of barbarity impressed so deep in the English language, that criticism can never wash them away: these, therefore, must be permitted to remain untouched; but many words have likewise been altered by accident, or depraved by ignorance, as the pronunciation of the vulgar has been weakly followed; and some still continue to be variously written, as authours differ in their care or skill: of these it was proper to enquire the true orthography, which I have always considered as depending on their derivation, and have therefore referred them to their original languages: thus I write enchant, enchantment, enchanter, after the French and incantation after the Latin; thus entire is chosen rather than intire, because it passed to us not from the Latin integer, but from the French entier. Of many words it is difficult to say whether they were immediately received from the Latin or the French, since at the time when we had dominions in France, we had Latin service in our churches. It is, however, my opinion, that the French generally supplied us; for we have few Latin words, among the terms of domestick use, which are not French; but many French, which are very remote from Latin. Even in words of which the derivation is apparent, I have been often obliged to sacrifice uniformity to custom; thus I write, in compliance with a numberless majority, convey and inveigh, deceit and receipt, fancy and phantom; sometimes the derivative varies from the primitive, as explain and explanation, repeat and repetition. Some combinations of letters having the same power are used indifferently without any discoverable reason of choice, as in choak, choke; soap, sope; jewel, fuel, and many others; which I have sometimes inserted twice, that those who search for them under either form, may not search in vain. In examining the orthography of any doubtful word, the mode of spelling by which it is inserted in the series of the dictionary, is to be considered as that to which I give, perhaps not often rashly, the preference. I have left, in the examples, to every authour his own practice unmolested, that the reader may balance suffrages, and judge between us: but this question is not always to be determined by reputed or by real learning; some men, intent upon greater things, have thought little on sounds and derivations; some, knowing in the ancient tongues, have neglected those in which our words are commonly to be sought. Thus Hammond writes fecibleness for feasibleness, because I suppose he imagined it derived immediately from the Latin; and some words, such as dependant, dependent, dependance, dependence, vary their final syllable, as one or another language is present to the writer. In this part of the work, where caprice has long wantoned without controul, and vanity sought praise by petty reformation, I have endeavoured to proceed with a scholar's reverence for antiquity, and a grammarian's regard to the genius of our tongue. I have attempted few alterations, and among those few, perhaps the greater part is from the modern to the ancient practice; and I hope I may be allowed to recommend to those, whose thoughts have been perhaps employed too anxiously on verbal singularities, not to disturb, upon narrow views, or for minute propriety, the orthography of their fathers. It has been asserted, that for the law to be KNOWN, is of more importance than to be RIGHT. Change, says Hooker, is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better. There is in constancy and stability a general and lasting advantage, which will always overbalance the slow improvements of gradual correction. Much less ought our written language to comply with the corruptions of oral utterance, or copy that which every variation of time or place makes different from itself, and imitate those changes, which will again be changed, while imitation is employed in observing them. This recommendation of steadiness and uniformity does not proceed from an opinion, that particular combinations of letters have much influence on human happiness; or that truth may not be successfully taught by modes of spelling fanciful And erroneous: I am not yet so lost in lexicography, as to I forget that WORDS ARE THE DAUGHTERS OF EARTH, AND THAT THINGS ARE THE SONS OF HEAVEN. Language is only the instrument of science, and words are but the signs of ideas: I wish, however, that the instrument might be less apt to decay, and that signs might be permanent, like the things which they denote. In settling the orthography, I have not wholly neglected the pronunciation, which I have directed, by printing an accent upon the acute or elevated syllable. It will sometimes be found, that the accent is placed by the authour quoted, on a different syllable from that marked in the alphabetical series; it is then to be understood, that custom has varied, or that the authour has, in my opinion, pronounced wrong. Short directions are sometimes given where the sound of letters is irregular; and if they are sometimes omitted, defect in such minute observations will be more easily excused, than superfluity. In the investigation both of the orthography and signification of words, their ETYMOLOGY was necessarily to be considered, and they were therefore to be divided into primitives and derivatives. A primitive word, is that which can be traced no further to any English root; thus circumspect, circumvent, circumstance, delude, concave and complicate, though compounds in the Latin, are to us primitives. Derivatives are all those that can be referred to any word in English of greater simplicity. The derivatives I have referred to their primitives, with an accuracy sometimes needless; for who does not see that remoteness comes from remote, lovely from love, concavity from concave, and demonstrative from demonstrate? but this grammatical exuberance the scheme of my work did not allow me to repress. It is of great importance in examining the general fabrick of a language, to trace one word from another, by noting the usual modes of derivation and inflection; and uniformity must be preserved in systematical works, though sometimes at the expence of particular propriety. Among other derivatives I have been careful to insert and elucidate the anomalous plurals of nouns and preterites of verbs, which in the Teutonick dialects are very frequent, and though familiar to those who have always used them, interrupt and embarrass the learners of our language. The two languages from which our primitives have been derived are the Roman and Teutonick: under the Roman I comprehend the French and provincial tongues; and under the Teutonick range the Saxon, German, and all their kindred dialects. Most of our polysyllables are Roman, and our words of one syllable are very often Teutonick. In assigning the Roman original, it has perhaps sometimes happened that I have mentioned only the Latin, when the word was borrowed from the French, and considering myself as employed only in the illustration of my own language, I have not been very careful to observe whether the Latin word be pure or barbarous, or the French elegant or obsolete. For the Teutonick etymologies, I am commonly indebted to Junius and Skinner, the only names which I have forborn to quote when I copied their books; not that I might appropriate their labours or usurp their honours, but that I might spare a perpetual repetition by one general acknowledgment. Of these, whom I ought not to mention but with the reverence due to instructors and benefactors, Junius appears to have excelled in extent of learning, and Skinner in rectitude of understanding. Junius was accurately skilled in all the northern languages. Skinner probably examined the ancient and remoter dialects only by occasional inspection into dictionaries; but the learning of Junius is often of no other use than to show him a track by which he may deviate from his purpose, to which Skinner always presses forward by the shortest way. Skinner is often ignorant, but never ridiculous: Junius is always full of knowledge; but his variety distracts his judgment, and his learning is very frequently disgraced by his absurdities. The votaries of the northern muses will not perhaps easily restrain their indignation, when they find the name of Junius thus degraded by a disadvantageous comparison; but whatever reverence is due to his diligence, or his attainments, it can be no criminal degree of censoriousness to charge that etymologist with want of judgment, who can seriously derive dream from drama, because life is a drama, and a drama is a dream? and who declares with a tone of defiance, that no man can fail to derive moan from [in greek], monos, single or solitary, who considers that grief naturally loves to be alone. [Footnote: That I may not appear to have spoken too irreverently of Junius, I have here subjoined a few Specimens of his etymological extravagance. BANISH. religare, ex banno vel territorio exigere, in exilium agere. G. bannir. It. bandire, bandeggiare. H. bandir. B. bannen. AEvi medii s criptores bannire dicebant. V. Spelm. in Bannum & in Banleuga. Quoniam vero regionum urbiumq; limites arduis plerumq; montibus, altis fluminibus, longis deniq; flexuosisq; angustissimarum viarum anfractibus includebantur, fieri potest id genus limites ban did ab eo quod [word in Greek] & [word in Greek] Tarentinis olim, sicuti tradit Hesychius, vocabantur [words in Greek], "obliquae ac minime in rectum tendentes viae." Ac fortasse quoque huc facit quod [word in Greek], eodem Hesychio teste, dicebant [words in greek] montes arduos. EMPTY, emtie, vacuus, inanis. A. S. AEmtiz. Nescio an sint ab [word in Greek] vel [word in Greek]. Vomo, evomo, vomitu evacuo. Videtur interim etymologiam hanc non obscure firmare codex Rush. Mat. xii. 22. ubi antique scriptum invenimus [unknown language]. "Invenit cam vacantem." HILL, mons, collis. A. S. hyll. Quod videri potest abscissum ex [word in Greek] vel [word in Greek]. Collis, tumulus, locus in plano editior. Hom. II. b. v. 811, [words in Greek]. Ubi authori brevium scholiorum [ words in Greek]. NAP, to take a nap. Dormire, condormiscere. Cym. heppian. A. S. hnaeppan. Quod postremum videri potest desumptum ex [word in Greek], obscuritas, tenebrae: nihil enim aeque solet conciliare somnum, quam caliginosa profundae noctis obscuritas. STAMMERER, Balbus, blaesus. Goth. STAMMS. A. S. stamer, stamur. D. stam. B. stameler. Su. stamma. Isl. stamr. Sunt a [word in Greek] vel [word in Greek] nimia loquacitate alios offendere; quod impedite loquentes libentissime garrire soleant; vel quod aliis nimii semper videantur, etiam parcissime loquentes.] Our knowledge of the northern literature is so scanty, that of words undoubtedly Teutonick the original is not always to be found in any ancient language; and I have therefore inserted Dutch or German substitutes, which I consider not as radical but parallel, not as the parents, but sisters of the English. The words which are represented as thus related by descent or cognation, do not always agree in sense; for it is incident to words, as to their authours, to degenerate from their ancestors, and to change their manners when they change their country. It is sufficient, in etymological enquiries, if the senses of kindred words be found such as may easily pass into each other, or such as may both be referred to one general idea. The etymology, so far as it is yet known, was easily found in the volumes where it is particularly and professedly delivered; and, by proper attention to the rules of derivation, the orthography was soon adjusted. But to COLLECT the WORDS of our language was a task of greater difficulty: the deficiency of dictionaries was immediately apparent; and when they were exhausted, what was yet wanting must be sought by fortuitous and unguided excursions into books, and gleaned as industry should find, or chance should offer it, in the boundless chaos of a living speech. My search, however, has been either skilful or lucky; for I have much augmented the vocabulary. As my design was a dictionary, common or appellative, I have omitted all words which have relation to proper names; such as Arian, Socinian, Calvinist, Benedictine, Mahometan; but have retained those of a more general nature, as Heathen, Pagan. Of the terms of art I have received such as could be found either in books of science or technical dictionaries; and have often inserted, from philosophical writers, words which are supported perhaps only by a single authority, and which being not admitted into general use, stand yet as candidates or probationers, and must depend for their adoption on the suffrage of futurity. The words which our authours have introduced by their knowledge of foreign languages, or ignorance of their own, by vanity or wantonness, by compliance with fashion or lust of innovation, I have registred as they occurred, though commonly only to censure them, and warn others against the folly of naturalizing useless foreigners to the injury of the natives. I have not rejected any by design, merely because they were unnecessary or exuberant; but have received those which by different writers have been differently formed, as viscid, and viscidity, viscous, and viscosity. Compounded or double words I have seldom noted, except when they obtain a signification different from that which the components have in their simple state. Thus highwayman, woodman, and horsecourser, require an explanation; but of thieflike or coachdriver no notice was needed, because the primitives contain the meaning of the compounds. Words arbitrarily formed by a constant and settled analogy, like diminutive adjectives in ish, as greenish, bluish, adverbs in ly, as dully, openly, substantives in ness, as vileness, faultiness, were less diligently sought, and sometimes have been omitted, when I had no authority that invited me to insert them; not that they are not genuine and regular offsprings of English roots, but because their relation to the primitive being always the same, their signification cannot be mistaken. The verbal nouns in ing, such as the keeping of the castle, the leading of the army, are always neglected, or placed only to illustrate the sense of the verb, except when they signify things as well as actions, and have therefore a plural number, as dwelling, living; or have an absolute and abstract signification, as colouring, painting, learning. The participles are likewise omitted, unless, by signifying rather habit or quality than action, they take the nature of adjectives; as a thinking man, a man of prudence; a pacing horse, a horse that can pace: these I have ventured to call participial adjectives. But neither are these always inserted, because they are commonly to be understood, without any danger of mistake, by consulting the verb. Obsolete words are admitted, when they are found in authours not obsolete, or when they have any force or beauty that may deserve revival. As composition is one of the chief characteristicks of a language, I have endeavoured to make some reparation for the universal negligence of my predecessors, by inserting great numbers of compounded words, as may be found under after, fore, new, night, fair, and many more. These, numerous as they are, might be multiplied, but that use and curiosity are here satisfied, and the frame of our language and modes of our combination amply discovered. Of some forms of composition, such as that by which re is prefixed to note repetition, and un to signify contrariety or privation, all the examples cannot be accumulated, because the use of these particles, if not wholly arbitrary, is so little limited, that they are hourly affixed to new words as occasion requires, or is imagined to require them. There is another kind of composition more frequent in our language than perhaps in any other, from which arises to foreigners the greatest difficulty. We modify the signification of many verbs by a particle subjoined; as to come off, to escape by a fetch; to fall on, to attack; to fall off, to apostatize; to break off, to stop abruptly; to bear out, to justify; to fall in, to comply; to give over, to cease; to set off, to embellish; to set in, to begin a continual tenour; to set out, to begin a course or journey; to take off, to copy; with innumerable expressions of the same kind, of which some appear wildly irregular, being so far distant from the sense of the simple words, that no sagacity will be able to trace the steps by which they arrived at the present use. These I have noted with great care; and though I cannot flatter myself that the collection is complete, I believe I have so far assisted the students of our language, that this kind of phraseology will be no longer insuperable; and the combinations of verbs and particles, by chance omitted, will be easily explained by comparison with those that may be found. Many words yet stand supported only by the name of Bailey, Ainsworth, Philips, or the contracted Dict. for Dictionaries subjoined; of these I am not always certain that they are read in any book but the works of lexicographers. Of such I have omitted many, because I had never read them; and many I have inserted, because they may perhaps exist, though they have escaped my notice: they are, however, to be yet considered as resting only upon the credit of former dictionaries. Others, which I considered as useful, or know to be proper, though I could not at present support them by authorities, I have suffered to stand upon my own attestation, claiming the same privilege with my predecessors of being sometimes credited without proof. The words, thus selected and disposed, are grammatically considered; they are referred to the different parts of speech; traced, when they are irregularly inflected, through their various terminations; and illustrated by observations, not indeed of great or striking importance, separately considered, but necessary to the elucidation of our language, and hitherto neglected or forgotten by English grammarians. That part of my work on which I expect malignity most frequently to fasten, is the explanation; in which I cannot hope to satisfy those, who are perhaps not inclined to be pleased, since I have not always been able to satisfy myself. To interpret a language by itself is very difficult; many words cannot be explained by synonimes, because the idea signified by them has not more than one appellation; nor by paraphrase, because simple ideas cannot be described. When the nature of things is unknown, or the notion unsettled and indefinite, and various in various minds, the words by which such notions are conveyed, or such things denoted, will be ambiguous and perplexed. And such is the fate of hapless lexicography, that not only darkness, but light, impedes and distresses it; things may be not only too little, but too much known, to be happily illustrated. To explain, requires the use of terms less abstruse than that which is to be explained, and such terms cannot always be found; for as nothing can be proved but by supposing something intuitively known, and evident without proof, so nothing can be defined but by the use of words too plain to admit a definition. Other words there are, of which the sense is too subtle and evanescent to be fixed in a paraphrase; such are all those which are by the grammarians termed expletives, and, in dead languages, are suffered to pass for empty sounds, of no other use than to fill a verse, or to modulate a period, but which are easily perceived in living tongues to have power and emphasis, though it be sometimes such as no other form of expression can convey. My labour has likewise been much increased by a class of verbs too frequent in the English language, of which the signification is so loose and general, the use so vague and indeterminate, and the senses detorted so widely from the first idea, that it is hard to trace them through the maze of variation, to catch them on the brink of utter inanity, to circumscribe them by any limitations, or interpret them by any words of distinct and settled meaning; such are bear, break, come, cast, full, get, give, do, put, set, go, run, make, take, turn, throw. If of these the whole power is not accurately delivered, it must be remembered, that while our language is yet living, and variable by the caprice of every one that speaks it, these words are hourly shifting their relations, and can no more be ascertained in a dictionary, than a grove, in the agitation of a storm, can be accurately delineated from its picture in the water. The particles are among all nations applied with so great latitude, that they are not easily reducible under any regular scheme of explication: this difficulty is not less, nor perhaps greater, in English, than in other languages. I have laboured them with diligence, I hope with success; such at least as can be expected in a task, which no man, however learned or sagacious, has yet been able to perform. Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them; these might have been omitted very often with little inconvenience, but I would not so far indulge my vanity as to decline this confession: for when Tully owns himself ignorant whether lessus, in the twelve tables, means a funeral song, or mourning garment; and Aristotle doubts whether [word in Greek] in the Iliad, signifies a mule, or muleteer, I may surely, without shame, leave some obscurities to happier industry, or future information. The rigour of interpretative lexicography requires that the explanation, and the word explained, should always be reciprocal; this I have always endeavoured, but could not always attain. Words are seldom exactly synonimous; a new term was not introduced, but because the former was thought inadequate: names, therefore, have often many ideas, but few ideas have many names. It was then necessary to use the proximate word, for the deficiency of single terms can very seldom be supplied by circumlocution; nor is the inconvenience great of such mutilated interpretations, because the sense may easily be collected entire from the examples. In every word of extensive use, it was requisite to mark the progress of its meaning, and show by what gradations of intermediate sense it has passed from its primitive to its remote and accidental signification; so that every foregoing explanation should tend to that which follows, and the series be regularly concatenated from the first notion to the last. This is specious, but not always practicable; kindred senses may be so interwoven, that the perplexity cannot be disentangled, nor any reason be assigned why one should be ranged before the other. When the radical idea branches out into parallel ramifications, how can a consecutive series be formed of senses in their nature collateral? The shades of meaning sometimes pass imperceptibly into each other; so that though on one side they apparently differ, yet it is impossible to mark the point of contact. Ideas of the same race, though not exactly alike, are sometimes so little different, that no words can express the dissimilitude, though the mind easily perceives it, when they are exhibited together; and sometimes there is such a confusion of acceptations, that discernment is wearied, and distinction puzzled, and perseverance herself hurries to an end, by crouding together what she cannot separate. These complaints of difficulty will, by those that have never considered words beyond their popular use, be thought only the jargon of a man willing to magnify his labours, and procure veneration to his studies by involution and obscurity. But every art is obscure to those that have not learned it: this uncertainty of terms, and commixture of ideas, is well known to those who have joined philosophy with grammar; and if I have not expressed them very clearly, it must be remembered that I am speaking of that which words are insufficient to explain. The original sense of words is often driven out of use by their metaphorical acceptations, yet must be inserted for the sake of a regular origination. Thus I know not whether ardour is used for material heat, or whether flagrant, in English, ever signifies the same with burning; yet such are the primitive ideas of these words, which are therefore set first, though without examples, that the figurative senses may be commodiously deduced. Such is the exuberance of signification which many words have obtained, that it was scarcely possible to collect all their senses; sometimes the meaning of derivatives must be sought in the mother term, and sometimes deficient explanations of the primitive may be supplied in the train of derivation. In any case of doubt or difficulty, it will be always proper to examine all the words of the same race; for some words are slightly passed over to avoid repetition, some admitted easier and clearer explanation than others, and all will be better understood, as they are considered in greater variety of structures and relations. All the interpretations of words are not written with the same skill, or the same happiness: things equally easy in themselves, are not all equally easy to any single mind. Every writer of a long work commits errours, where there appears neither ambiguity to mislead, nor obscurity to confound him; and in a search like this, many felicities of expression will be casually overlooked, many convenient parallels will be forgotten, and many particulars will admit improvement from a mind utterly unequal to the whole performance. But many seeming faults are to be imputed rather to the nature of the undertaking, than the negligence of the performer. Thus some explanations are unavoidably reciprocal or circular, as hind, the female of the stag; stag, the male of the hind: sometimes easier words are changed into harder, as burial into sepulture or interment, drier into desiccative, dryness into siccity or aridity, fit into paroxysm; for the easiest word, whatever it be, can never be translated into one more easy. But easiness and difficulty are merely relative, and if the present prevalence of our language should invite foreigners to this dictionary, many will be assisted by those words which now seem only to increase or produce obscurity. For this reason I have endeavoured frequently to join a Teutonick and Roman interpretation, as to cheer, to gladden, or exhilarate, that every learner of English may be assisted by his own tongue. The solution of all difficulties, and the supply of all defects, must be sought in the examples, subjoined to the various senses of each word, and ranged according to the time of their authours. When first I collected these authorities, I was desirous that every quotation should be useful to some other end than the illustration of a word; I therefore extracted from philosophers principles of science; from historians remarkable facts; from chymists complete processes; from divines striking exhortations; and from poets beautiful descriptions. Such is design, while it is yet at a distance from execution. When the time called upon me to range this accumulation of elegance and wisdom into an alphabetical series, I soon discovered that the bulk of my volumes would fright away the student, and was forced to depart from my scheme of including all that was pleasing or useful in English literature, and reduce my transcripts very often to clusters of words, in which scarcely any meaning is retained; thus to the weariness of copying, I was condemned to add the vexation of expunging. Some passages I have yet spared, which may relieve the labour of verbal searches, and intersperse with verdure and flowers the dusty desarts of barren philology. The examples, thus mutilated, are no longer to be considered as conveying the sentiments or doctrine of their authours; the word for the sake of which they are inserted, with all its appendant clauses, has been carefully preserved; but it may sometimes happen, by hasty detruncation, that the general tendency of the sentence may be changed: the divine may desert his tenets, or the philosopher his system. Some of the examples have been taken from writers who were never mentioned as masters of elegance or models of stile; but words must be sought where they are used; and in what pages, eminent for purity, can terms of manufacture or agriculture be found? Many quotations serve no other purpose, than that of proving the bare existence of words, and are therefore selected with less scrupulousness than those which are to teach their structures and relations. My purpose was to admit no testimony of living authours, that I might not be misled by partiality, and that none of my cotemporaries might have reason to complain; nor have I departed from this resolution, but when some performance of uncommon excellence excited my veneration, when my memory supplied me, from late books, with an example that was wanting, or when my heart, in the tenderness of friendship, solicited admission for a favourite name. So far have I been from any care to grace my pages with modern decorations, that I have studiously endeavoured to collect examples and authorities from the writers before the restoration, whose works I regard as the wells of English undefiled, as the pure sources of genuine diction. Our language, for almost a century, has, by the concurrence of many causes, been gradually departing from its original Teutonick character, and deviating towards a Gallick structure and phraseology, from which it ought to be our endeavour to recal it, by making our ancient volumes the ground-work of stile, admitting among the additions of later times, only such as may supply real deficiencies, such as are readily adopted by the genius of our tongue, and incorporate easily with our native idioms. But as every language has a time of rudeness antecedent to perfection, as well as of false refinement and declension, I have been cautious lest my zeal for antiquity might drive me into times too remote, and croud my book with words now no longer understood. I have fixed Sidney's work for the boundary, beyond which I make few excursions. From the authours which rose in the time of Elizabeth, a speech might be formed adequate to all the purposes of use and elegance. If the language of theology were extracted from Hooker and the translation of the Bible; the terms of natural knowledge from Bacon; the phrases of policy, war, and navigation from Raleigh; the dialect of poetry and fiction from Spenser and Sidney; and the diction of common life from Shakespeare, few ideas would be lost to mankind, for want of English words, in which they might be expressed. It is not sufficient that a word is found, unless it be so combined as that its meaning is apparently determined by the tract and tenour of the sentence; such passages I have therefore chosen, and when it happened that any authour gave a definition of a term, or such an explanation as is equivalent to a definition, I have placed his authority as a supplement to my own, without regard to the chronological order, that is otherwise observed. Some words, indeed, stand unsupported by any authority, but they are commonly derivative nouns or adverbs, formed from their primitives by regular and constant analogy, or names of things seldom occurring in books, or words of which I have reason to doubt the existence. There is more danger of censure from the multiplicity than paucity of examples; authorities will sometimes seem to have been accumulated without necessity or use, and perhaps some will be found, which might, without loss, have been omitted. But a work of this kind is not hastily to be charged with superfluities: those quotations, which to careless or unskilful perusers appear only to repeat the same sense, will often exhibit, to a more accurate examiner, diversities of signification, or, at least, afford different shades of the same meaning: one will shew the word applied to persons, another to things; one will express an ill, another a good, and a third a neutral sense; one will prove the expression genuine from an ancient authour; another will shew it elegant from a modern: a doubtful authority is corroborated by another of more credit; an ambiguous sentence is ascertained by a passage clear and determinate; the word, how often soever repeated, appears with new associates and in different combinations, and every quotation contributes something to the stability or enlargement of the language. When words are used equivocally, I receive them in either sense; when they are metaphorical, I adopt them in their primitive acceptation. I have sometimes, though rarely, yielded to the temptation of exhibiting a genealogy of sentiments, by shewing how one authour copied the thoughts and diction of another: such quotations are indeed little more than repetitions, which might justly be censured, did they not gratify the mind, by affording a kind of intellectual history. The various syntactical structures occurring in the examples have been carefully noted; the licence or negligence with which many words have been hitherto used, has made our stile capricious and indeterminate; when the different combinations of the same word are exhibited together, the preference is readily given to propriety, and I have often endeavoured to direct the choice. Thus have I laboured by settling the orthography, displaying the analogy, regulating the structures, and ascertaining the signification of English words, to perform all the parts of a faithful lexicographer: but I have not always executed my own scheme, or satisfied my own expectations. The work, whatever proofs of diligence and attention it may exhibit, is yet capable of many improvements: the orthography which I recommend is still controvertible, the etymology which I adopt is uncertain, and perhaps frequently erroneous; the explanations are sometimes too much contracted, and sometimes too much diffused, the significations are distinguished rather with subtilty than skill, and the attention is harrassed with unnecessary minuteness. The examples are too often injudiciously truncated, and perhaps sometimes, I hope very rarely, alleged in a mistaken sense; for in making this collection I trusted more to memory, than, in a state of disquiet and embarrassment, memory can contain, and purposed to supply at the review what was left incomplete in the first transcription. Many terms appropriated to particular occupations, though necessary and significant, are undoubtedly omitted; and of the words most studiously considered and exemplified, many senses have escaped observation. Yet these failures, however frequent, may admit extenuation and apology. To have attempted much is always laudable, even when the enterprize is above the strength that undertakes it: To rest below his own aim is incident to every one whose fancy is active, and whose views are comprehensive; nor is any man satisfied with himself because he has done much, but because he can conceive little. When first I engaged in this work, I resolved to leave neither words nor things unexamined, and pleased myself with a prospect of the hours which I should revel away in feasts of literature, with the obscure recesses of northern learning, which I should enter and ransack; the treasures with which I expected every search into those neglected mines to reward my labour, and the triumph with which I should display my acquisitions to mankind. When I had thus enquired into the original of words, I resolved to show likewise my attention to things; to pierce deep into every science, to enquire the nature of every substance of which I inserted the name, to limit every idea by a definition strictly logical, and exhibit every production of art or nature in an accurate description, that my book might be in place of all other dictionaries whether appellative or technical. But these were the dreams of a poet doomed at last to wake a lexicographer. I soon found that it is too late to look for instruments, when the work calls for execution, and that whatever abilities I had brought to my task, with those I must finally perform it. To deliberate whenever I doubted, to enquire whenever I was ignorant, would have protracted the undertaking without end, and, perhaps, without much improvement; for I did not find by my first experiments, that that I had not of my own was easily to be obtained: I saw that one enquiry only gave occasion to another, that book referred to book, that to search was not always to find, and to find was not always to be informed; and that thus to persue perfection, was, like the first inhabitants of Arcadia, to chace the sun, which, when they had reached the hill where he seemed to rest, was still beheld at the same distance from them. I then contracted my design, determining to confide in myself, and no longer to solicit auxiliaries, which produced more incumbrance than assistance: by this I obtained at least one advantage, that I set limits to my work, which would in time be ended, though not completed. Despondency has never so far prevailed as to depress me to negligence; some faults will at last appear to be the effects of anxious diligence and persevering activity. The nice and subtle ramifications of meaning were not easily avoided by a mind intent upon accuracy, and convinced of the necessity of disentangling combinations, and separating similitudes. Many of the distinctions which to common readers appear useless and idle, will be found real and important by men versed in the school philosophy, without which no dictionary shall ever be accurately compiled, or skilfully examined. Some senses however there are, which, though not the same, are yet so nearly allied, that they are often confounded. Most men think indistinctly, and therefore cannot speak with exactness; and consequently some examples might be indifferently put to either signification: this uncertainty is not to be imputed to me, who do not form, but register the language; who do not teach men how they should think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed their thoughts. The imperfect sense of some examples I lamented, but could not remedy, and hope they will be compensated by innumerable passages selected with propriety, and preserved with exactness; some shining with sparks of imagination, and some replete with treasures of wisdom. The orthography and etymology, though imperfect, are not imperfect for want of care, but because care will not always be successful, and recollection or information come too late for use. That many terms of art and manufacture are omitted, must be frankly acknowledged; but for this defect I may boldly allege that it was unavoidable: I could not visit caverns to learn the miner's language, nor take a voyage to perfect my skill in the dialect of navigation, nor visit the warehouses of merchants, and shops of artificers, to gain the names of wares, tools and operations, of which no mention is found in books; what favourable accident, or easy enquiry brought within my reach, has not been neglected; but it had been a hopeless labour to glean up words, by courting living information, and contesting with the sullenness of one, and the roughness of another. To furnish the academicians della Crusca with words of this kind, a series of comedies called la Fiera, or the Fair, was professedly written by Buonaroti; but I had no such assistant, and therefore was content to want what they must have wanted likewise, had they not luckily been so supplied. Nor are all words which are not found in the vocabulary, to be lamented as omissions. Of the laborious and mercantile part of the people, the diction is in a great measure casual and mutable; many of their terms are formed for some temporary or local convenience, and though current at certain times and places, are in others utterly unknown. This fugitive cant, which is always in a state of increase or decay, cannot be regarded as any part of the durable materials of a language, and therefore must be suffered to perish with other things unworthy of preservation. Care will sometimes betray to the appearance of negligence. He that is catching opportunities which seldom occur, will suffer those to pass by unregarded, which he expects hourly to return; he that is searching for rare and remote things, will neglect those that are obvious and familiar: thus many of the most common and cursory words have been inserted with little illustration, because in gathering the authorities, I forbore to copy those which I thought likely to occur whenever they were wanted. It is remarkable that, in reviewing my collection, I found the word sea unexemplified. Thus it happens, that in things difficult there is danger from ignorance, and in things easy from confidence; the mind, afraid of greatness, and disdainful of littleness, hastily withdraws herself from painful searches, and passes with scornful rapidity over tasks not adequate to her powers, sometimes too secure for caution, and again too anxious for vigorous effort; sometimes idle in a plain path, and sometimes distracted in labyrinths, and dissipated by different intentions. A large work is difficult because it is large, even though all its parts might singly be performed with facility; where there are many things to be done, each must be allowed its share of time and labour, in the proportion only which it bears to the whole; nor can it be expected, that the stones which form the dome of a temple, should be squared and polished like the diamond of a ring. Of the event of this work, for which, having laboured it with so much application, I cannot but have some degree of parental fondness, it is natural to form conjectures. Those who have been persuaded to think well of my design, will require that it should fix our language, and put a stop to those alterations which time and chance have hitherto been suffered to make in it without opposition. With this consequence I will confess that I flattered myself for a while; but now begin to fear that I have indulged expectation which neither reason nor experience can justify. When we see men grow old and die at a certain time one after another, from century to century, we laugh at the elixir that promises to prolong life to a thousand years; and with equal justice may the lexicographer be derided, who being able to produce no example of a nation that has preserved their words and phrases from mutability, shall imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language, and secure it from corruption and decay, that it is in his power to change sublunary nature, and clear the world at once from folly, vanity, and affectation. With this hope, however, academies have been instituted, to guard the avenues of their languages, to retain fugitives, and repulse intruders; but their vigilance and activity have hitherto been vain; sounds are too volatile and subtile for legal restraints; to enchain syllables, and to lash the wind, are equally the undertakings of pride, unwilling to measure its desires by its strength. The French language has visibly changed under the inspection of the academy; the stile of Amelot's translation of Father Paul is observed by Le Courayer to be un peu passe; and no Italian will maintain that the diction of any modern writer is not perceptibly different from that of Boccace, Machiavel, or Caro. Total and sudden transformations of a language seldom happen; conquests and migrations are now very rare: but there are other causes of change, which, though slow in their operation, and invisible in their progress, are perhaps as much superiour to human resistance, as the revolutions of the sky, or intumescence of the tide. Commerce, however necessary, however lucrative, as it depraves the manners, corrupts the language; they that have frequent intercourse with strangers, to whom they endeavour to accommodate themselves, must in time learn a mingled dialect, like the jargon which serves the traffickers on the Mediterranean and Indian coasts. This will not always be confined to the exchange, the warehouse, or the port, but will be communicated by degrees to other ranks of the people, and be at last incorporated with the current speech. There are likewise internal causes equally forcible. The language most likely to continue long without alteration, would be that of a nation raised a little, and but a little above barbarity, secluded from strangers, and totally employed in procuring the conveniencies of life; either without books, or, like some of the Mahometan countries, with very few: men thus busied and unlearned, having only such words as common use requires, would perhaps long continue to express the same notions by the same signs. But no such constancy can be expected in a people polished by arts, and classed by subordination, where one part of the community is sustained and accommodated by the labour of the other. Those who have much leisure to think, will always be enlarging the stock of ideas, and every increase of knowledge, whether real or fancied, will produce new words, or combinations of words. When the mind is unchained from necessity, it will range after convenience; when it is left at large in the fields of speculation, it will shift opinions; as any custom is disused, the words that expressed it must perish with it; as any opinion grows popular, it will innovate speech in the same proportion as it alters practice. As by the cultivation of various sciences, a language is amplified, it will be more furnished with words deflected from original sense; the geometrician will talk of a courtier's zenith, or the excentrick virtue of a wild hero, and the physician of sanguine expectations and phlegmatick delays. Copiousness of speech will give opportunities to capricious choice, by which some words will be preferred, and others degraded; vicissitudes of fashion will enforce the use of new, or extend the signification of known terms. The tropes of poetry will make hourly encroachments, and the metaphorical will become the current sense: pronunciation will be varied by levity or ignorance, and the pen must at length comply with the tongue; illiterate writers will at one time or other, by publick infatuation, rise into renown, who, not knowing the original import of words, will use them with colloquial licentiousness, confound distinction, and forget propriety. As politeness increases, some expressions will be considered as too gross and vulgar for the delicate, others as too formal and ceremonious for the gay and airy; new phrases are therefore adopted, which must, for the same reasons, be in time dismissed. Swift, in his petty treatise on the English language, allows that new words must sometimes be introduced, but proposes that none should be suffered to become obsolete. But what makes a word obsolete, more than general agreement to forbear it? and how shall it be continued, when it conveys an offensive idea, or recalled again into the mouths of mankind, when it has once become unfamiliar by disuse, and unpleasing by unfamiliarity? There is another cause of alteration more prevalent than any other, which yet in the present state of the world cannot be obviated. A mixture of two languages will produce a third distinct from both, and they will always be mixed, where the chief part of education, and the most conspicuous accomplishment, is skill in ancient or in foreign tongues. He that has long cultivated another language, will find its words and combinations croud upon his memory; and haste and negligence, refinement and affectation, will obtrude borrowed terms and exotick expressions. The great pest of speech is frequency of translation. No book was ever turned from one language into another, without imparting something of its native idiom; this is the most mischievous and comprehensive innovation; single words may enter by thousands, and the fabrick of the tongue continue the same, but new phraseology changes much at once; it alters not the single stones of the building, but the order of the columns. If an academy should be established for the cultivation of our stile, which I, who can never wish to see dependance multiplied, hope the spirit of English liberty will hinder or destroy, let them, instead of compiling grammars and dictionaries, endeavour, with all their influence, to stop the licence of translatours, whose idleness and ignorance, if it be suffered to proceed, will reduce us to babble a dialect of France. If the changes that we fear be thus irresistible, what remains but to acquiesce with silence, as in the other insurmountable distresses of humanity? It remains that we retard what we cannot repel, that we palliate what we cannot cure. Life may be lengthened by care, though death cannot be ultimately defeated: tongues, like governments, have a natural tendency to degeneration; we have long preserved our constitution, let us make some struggles for our language. In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of years, to the honour of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of every people arises from its authours: whether I shall add any thing by my own writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left to time: much of my life has been lost under the pressures of disease; much has been trifled away; and much has always been spent in provision for the day that was passing over me; but I shall not think my employment useless or ignoble, if by my assistance foreign nations, and distant ages, gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand the teachers of truth; if my labours afford light to the repositories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and to Boyle. When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that has endeavoured well. That it will immediately become popular I have not promised to myself: a few wild blunders, and risible absurdities, from which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance in contempt; but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there never can be wanting some who distinguish desert; who will consider that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since while it is hastening to publication, some words are budding, and some falling away; that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and that even a whole life would not be sufficient; that he, whose design includes whatever language can express, must often speak of what he does not understand; that a writer will sometimes be hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint with weariness under a task, which Scaliger compares to the labours of the anvil and the mine; that what is obvious is not always known, and what is known is not always present; that sudden fits of inadvertency will surprize vigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, and casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning; and that the writer shall often in vain trace his memory at the moment of need, for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive readiness, and which will come uncalled into his thoughts tomorrow. In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let it not be forgotten that much likewise is performed; and though no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the authour, and the world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of that which it condemns; yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it, that the English Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academick bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow. It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to observe, that if our language is not here fully displayed, I have only failed in an attempt which no human powers have hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive; if the aggregated knowledge, and co-operating diligence of the Italian academicians, did not secure them from the censure of Beni; if the embodied criticks of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their work, were obliged to change its oeconomy, and give their second edition another form, I may surely be contented without the praise of perfection, which, if I could obtain, in this gloom of solitude, what would it avail me? I have protracted my work till most of those whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds: I therefore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from censure or from praise. THE END 
5429	----	PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE Together with selected notes on some of the plays By Samuel Johnson [Johnson published his annotated edition of Shakespeare's Plays in 1765.] PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE Some of the notes to Measure for Measure Henry IV Henry V King Lear Romeo and Juliet Hamlet Othello PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that the honours due only to excellence are paid to antiquity, is a complaint likely to be always continued by those, who, being able to add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the heresies of paradox; or those, who, being forced by disappointment upon consolatory expedients, are willing to hope from posterity what the present age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard which is yet denied by envy, will be at last bestowed by time. Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the notice of mankind, has undoubtedly votaries that reverence it, not from reason, but from prejudice. Some seem to admire indiscriminately whatever has been long preserved, without considering that time has sometimes co-operated with chance; all perhaps are more willing to honour past than present excellence; and the mind contemplates genius through the shades of age, as the eye surveys the sun through artificial opacity. The great contention of criticism is to find the faults of the moderns, and the beauties of the ancients. While an authour is yet living we estimate his powers by his worst performance, and when he is dead we rate them by his best. To works, however, of which the excellence is not absolute and definite, but gradual and comparative; to works not raised upon principles demonstrative and scientifick, but appealing wholly to observation and experience, no other test can be applied than length of duration and continuance of esteem. What mankind have long possessed they have often examined and compared, and if they persist to value the possession, it is because frequent comparisons have confirmed opinion in its favour. As among the works of nature no man can properly call a river deep or a mountain high, without the knowledge of many mountains and many rivers; so in the productions of genius, nothing can be stiled excellent till it has been compared with other works of the same kind. Demonstration immediately displays its power, and has nothing to hope or fear from the flux of years; but works tentative and experimental must be estimated by their proportion to the general and collective ability of man, as it is discovered in a long succession of endeavours. Of the first building that was raised, it might be with certainty determined that it was round or square, but whether it was spacious or lofty must have been referred to time. The Pythagorean scale of numbers was at once discovered to be perfect; but the poems of Homer we yet know not to transcend the common limits of human intelligence, but by remarking, that nation after nation, and century after century, has been able to do little more than transpose his incidents, new name his characters, and paraphrase his sentiments. The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted arises therefore not from any credulous confidence in the superior wisdom of past ages, or gloomy persuasion of the degeneracy of mankind, but is the consequence of acknowledged and indubitable positions, that what has been longest known has been most considered, and what is most considered is best understood. The Poet, of whose works I have undertaken the revision, may now begin to assume the dignity of an ancient, and claim the privilege of established fame and prescriptive veneration. He has long outlived his century, the term commonly fixed as the test of literary merit. Whatever advantages he might once derive from personal allusions, local customs, or temporary opinions, have for many years been lost; and every topick of merriment or motive of sorrow, which the modes of artificial life afforded him, now only obscure the scenes which they once illuminated. The effects of favour and competition are at an end; the tradition of his friendships and his enmities has perished; his works support no opinion with arguments, nor supply any faction with invectives; they can neither indulge vanity nor gratify malignity, but are read without any other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are therefore praised only as pleasure is obtained; yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they have past through variations of taste and changes of manners, and, as they devolved from one generation to another, have received new honours at every transmission. But because human judgment, though it be gradually gaining upon certainty, never becomes infallible; and approbation, though long continued, may yet be only the approbation of prejudice or fashion; it is proper to inquire, by what peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare has gained and kept the favour of his countrymen. Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of general nature. Particular manners can be known to few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful invention may delight a-while, by that novelty of which the common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only repose on the stability of truth. Shakespeare is above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirrour of manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or professions, which can operate but upon small numbers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions: they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply, and observation will always find. His persons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a character is too often an individual; in those of Shakespeare it is commonly a species. It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakespeare with practical axioms and domestick wisdom. It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil and oeconomical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown in the splendour of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable, and the tenour of his dialogue; and he that tries to recommend him by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen. It will not easily be imagined how much Shakespeare excells in accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him with other authours. It was observed of the ancient schools of declamation, that the more diligently they were frequented, the more was the student disqualified for the world, because he found nothing there which he should ever meet in any other place. The same remark may be applied to every stage but that of Shakespeare. The theatre, when it is under any other direction, is peopled by such characters as were never seen, conversing in a language which was never heard, upon topicks which will never arise in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this authour is often so evidently determined by the incident which produces it, and is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned by diligent selection out of common conversation, and common occurrences. Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose power all good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady and a rival into the fable; to entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest, and harrass them with violence of desires inconsistent with each other; to make them meet in rapture and part in agony; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was distressed; to deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered, is the business of a modern dramatist. For this probability is violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love is only one of many passions, and as it has no great influence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the dramas of a poet, who caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited only what he saw before him. He knew, that any other passion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity. Characters thus ample and general were not easily discriminated and preserved, yet perhaps no poet ever kept his personages more distinct from each other. I will not say with Pope, that every speech may be assigned to the proper speaker, because many speeches there are which have nothing characteristical; but, perhaps, though some may be equally adapted to every person, it will be difficult to find, any that can be properly transferred from the present possessor to another claimant. The choice is right, when there is reason for choice. Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical or aggravated characters, by fabulous and unexampled excellence or depravity, as the writers of barbarous romances invigorated the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that should form his expectations of human affairs from the play, or from the tale, would be equally deceived. Shakespeare has no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men, who act and speak as the reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the same occasion: Even where the agency is supernatural the dialogue is level with life. Other writers disguise the most natural passions and most frequent incidents: so that he who contemplates them in the book will not know them in the world: Shakespeare approximates the remote, and familiarizes the wonderful; the event which he represents will not happen, but if it were possible, its effects would be probably such as he has assigned; and it may be said, that he has not only shewn human nature as it acts in real exigences, but as it would be found in trials, to which it cannot be exposed. This therefore is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the mirrour of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of his delirious extasies, by reading human sentiments in human language; by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions. His adherence to general nature has exposed him to the censure of criticks, who form their judgments upon narrower principles. Dennis and Rhymer think his Romans not sufficiently Roman; and Voltaire censures his kings as not completely royal. Dennis is offended, that Menenius, a senator of Rome, should play the buffoon; and Voltaire perhaps thinks decency violated when the Danish Usurper is represented as a drunkard. But Shakespeare always makes nature predominate over accident; and if he preserves the essential character, is not very careful of distinctions superinduced and adventitious. His story requires Romans or kings, but he thinks only on men. He knew that Rome, like every other city, had men of all dispositions; and wanting a buffoon, he went into the senate-house for that which the senate-house would certainly have afforded him. He was inclined to shew an usurper and a murderer not only odious but despicable, he therefore added drunkenness to his other qualities, knowing that kings love wine like other men, and that wine exerts its natural power upon kings. These are the petty cavils of petty minds; a poet overlooks the casual distinction of country and condition, as a painter, satisfied with the figure, neglects the drapery. The censure which he has incurred by mixing comick and tragick scenes, as it extends to all his works, deserves more consideration. Let the fact be first stated, and then examined. Shakespeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind; exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of proportion and innumerable modes of combination; and expressing the course of the world, in which the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at the same time, the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in which the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolick of another; and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without design. Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties the ancient poets, according to the laws which custom had prescribed, selected some the crimes of men, and some their absurdities; some the momentous vicissitudes of life, and some the lighter occurrences; some the terrours of distress, and some the gayeties of prosperity. Thus rose the two modes of imitation, known by the names of tragedy and comedy, compositions intended to promote different ends by contrary means, and considered as so little allied, that I do not recollect among the Greeks or Romans a single writer who attempted both. Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open from criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be denied, because it includes both in its alterations of exhibition, and approaches nearer than either to the appearance of life, by shewing how great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation. It is objected, that by this change of scenes the passions are interrupted in their progression, and that the principal event, being not advanced by a due gradation of preparatory incidents, wants at last the power to move, which constitutes the perfection of dramatick poetry. This reasoning is so specious, that it is received as true even by those who in daily experience feel it to be false. The interchanges of mingled scenes seldom fail to produce the intended vicissitudes of passion. Fiction cannot move so much, but that the attention may be easily transferred; and though it must be allowed that pleasing melancholy be sometimes interrupted by unwelcome levity, yet let it be considered likewise, that melancholy is often not pleasing, and that the disturbance of one man may be the relief of another; that different auditors have different habitudes; and that, upon the whole, all pleasure consists in variety. The players, who in their edition divided our authour's works into comedies, histories, and tragedies, seem not to have distinguished the three kinds, by any very exact or definite ideas. An action which ended happily to the principal persons, however serious or distressful through its intermediate incidents, in their opinion constituted a comedy. This idea of a comedy continued long amongst us, and plays were written, which, by changing the catastrophe, were tragedies to-day and comedies to-morrow. Tragedy was not in those times a poem of more general dignity or elevation than comedy; it required only a calamitous conclusion, with which the common criticism of that age was satisfied, whatever lighter pleasure it afforded in its progress. History was a series of actions, with no other than chronological succession, independent of each other, and without any tendency to introduce or regulate the conclusion. It is not always very nicely distinguished from tragedy. There is not much nearer approach to unity of action in the tragedy of "Antony and Cleopatra", than in the history of "Richard the Second". But a history might be continued through many plays; as it had no plan, it had no limits. Through all these denominations of the drama, Shakespeare's mode of composition is the same; an interchange of seriousness and merriment, by which the mind is softened at one time, and exhilarated at another. But whatever be his purpose, whether to gladden or depress, or to conduct the story, without vehemence or emotion, through tracts of easy and familiar dialogue, he never fails to attain his purpose; as he commands us, we laugh or mourn, or sit silent with quiet expectation, in tranquillity without indifference. When Shakespeare's plan is understood, most of the criticisms of Rhymer and Voltaire vanish away. The play of "Hamlet" is opened, without impropriety, by two sentinels; Iago bellows at Brabantio's window, without injury to the scheme of the play, though in terms which a modern audience would not easily endure; the character of Polonius is seasonable and useful; and the Grave-diggers themselves may be heard with applause. Shakespeare engaged in dramatick poetry with the world open before him; the rules of the ancients were yet known to few; the publick judgment was unformed; he had no example of such fame as might force him upon imitation, nor criticks of such authority as might restrain his extravagance: He therefore indulged his natural disposition, and his disposition, as Rhymer has remarked, led him to comedy. In tragedy he often writes with great appearance of toil and study, what is written at last with little felicity; but in his comick scenes, he seems to produce without labour, what no labour can improve. In tragedy he is always struggling after some occasion to be comick, but in comedy he seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of thinking congenial to his nature. In his tragick scenes there is always something wanting, but his comedy often surpasses expectation or desire. His comedy pleases by the thoughts and the language, and his tragedy for the greater part by incident and action. His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be instinct. The force of his comick scenes has suffered little diminution from the changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in words. As his personages act upon principles arising from genuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all places; they are natural, and therefore durable; the adventitious peculiarities of personal habits, are only superficial dies, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the discriminations of true passion are the colours of nature; they pervade the whole mass, and can only perish with the body that exhibits them. The accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by the chance which combined them; but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another, but the rock always continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabricks of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakespeare. If there be, what I believe there is, in every nation, a stile which never becomes obsolete, a certain mode of phraseology so consonant and congenial to the analogy and principles of its respective language as to remain settled and unaltered; this stile is probably to be sought in the common intercourse of life, among those who speak only to be understood, without ambition of elegance. The polite are always catching modish innovations, and the learned depart from established forms of speech, in hope of finding or making better; those who wish for distinction forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is right; but there is a conversation above grossness and below refinement, where propriety resides, and where this poet seems to have gathered his comick dialogue. He is therefore more agreeable to the ears of the present age than any other authour equally remote, and among his other excellencies deserves to be studied as one of the original masters of our language. These observations are to be considered not as unexceptionably constant, but as containing general and predominant truth. Shakespeare's familiar dialogue is affirmed to be smooth and clear, yet not wholly without ruggedness or difficulty; as a country may be eminently fruitful, though it has spots unfit for cultivation: His characters are praised as natural, though their sentiments are sometimes forced, and their actions improbable; as the earth upon the whole is spherical, though its surface is varied with protuberances and cavities. Shakespeare with his excellencies has likewise faults, and faults sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit. I shall shew them in the proportion in which they appear to me, without envious malignity or superstitious veneration. No question can be more innocently discussed than a dead poet's pretensions to renown; and little regard is due to that bigotry which sets candour higher than truth. His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of the evil in books or in men. He sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much more careful to please than to instruct, that he seems to write without any moral purpose. From his writings indeed a system of social duty may be selected, for he that thinks reasonably must think morally; but his precepts and axioms drop casually from him; he makes no just distribution of good or evil, nor is always careful to shew in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he carries his persons indifferently through right and wrong, and at the close dismisses them without further care, and leaves their examples to operate by chance. This fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always a writer's duty to make the world better, and justice is a virtue independant on time or place. The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight consideration may improve them, and so carelessly pursued, that he seems not always fully to comprehend his own design. He omits opportunities of instructing or delighting which the train of his story seems to force upon him, and apparently rejects those exhibitions which would be more affecting, for the sake of those which are more easy. It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter part is evidently neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and, in view of his reward, he shortened the labour, to snatch the profit. He therefore remits his efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his catastrophe is improbably produced or imperfectly represented. He had no regard to distinction of time or place, but gives to one age or nation, without scruple, the customs, institutions, and opinions of another, at the expence not only of likelihood, but of possibility. These faults Pope has endeavoured, with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to his imagined in interpolators. We need not wonder to find Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see the loves of Theseus and Hippolyta combined with the Gothic mythology of fairies. Shakespeare, indeed, was not the only violator of chronology, for in the same age Sidney, who wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in his "Arcadia", confounded the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of innocence, quiet and security, with those of turbulence, violence and adventure. In his comick scenes he is seldom very successful, when he engages his characters in reciprocations of smartness and contest of sarcasm; their jests are commonly gross, and their pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor his ladies have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished from his clowns by any appearance of refined manners. Whether he represented the real conversation of his time is not easy to determine; the reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed to have been a time of stateliness, formality and reserve, yet perhaps the relaxations of that severity were not very elegant. There must, however, have been always some modes of gayety preferable to others, and a writer ought to chuse the best. In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse, as his labour is more. The effusions of passion which exigence forces out are for the most part striking and energetick; but whenever he solicits his invention, or strains his faculties, the offspring of his throes is tumour, meanness, tediousness, and obscurity. In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction and a wearisome train of circumlocution, and tells the incident imperfectly in many words, which might have been more plainly delivered in few. Narration in dramatick poetry is, naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive, and obstructs the progress of the action; it should therefore always be rapid, and enlivened by frequent interruption. Shakespeare found it an encumbrance, and instead of lightening it by brevity, endeavoured to recommend it by dignity and splendour. His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and weak, for his power was the power of nature; when he endeavoured, like other tragick writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, and instead of inquiring what the occasion demanded, to show how much his stores of knowledge could supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of his reader. It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an unwieldy sentiment, which he cannot well express, and will not reject; he struggles with it a while, and if it continues stubborn, comprises it in words such as occur, and leaves it to be disentangled and evolved by those who have more leisure to bestow upon it. Not that always where the language is intricate the thought is subtle, or the image always great where the line is bulky; the equality of words to things is very often neglected, and trivial sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint the attention, to which they are recommended by sonorous epithets and swelling figures. But the admirers of this great poet have never less reason to indulge their hopes of supreme excellence, than when he seems fully resolved to sink them in dejection, and mollify them with tender emotions by the fall of greatness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of love. He is not long soft and pathetick without some idle conceit, or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to move, than he counteracts himself; and terrour and pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden frigidity. A quibble is to Shakespeare, what luminous vapours are to the traveller; he follows it at all adventures, it is sure to lead him out of his way, and sure to engulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisition, whether he be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be amusing attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense, let but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his work unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content to purchase it, by the sacrifice of reason, propriety and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it. It will be thought strange, that, in enumerating the defects of this writer, I have not yet mentioned his neglect of the unities; his violation of those laws which have been instituted and established by the joint authority of poets and of criticks. For his other deviations from the art of writing, I resign him to critical justice, without making any other demand in his favour, than that which must be indulged to all human excellence; that his virtues be rated with his failings: But, from the censure which this irregularity may bring upon him, I shall, with due reverence to that learning which I must oppose, adventure to try how I can defend him. His histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies, are not subject to any of their laws; nothing more is necessary to all the praise which they expect, than that the changes of action be so prepared as to be understood, that the incidents be various and affecting, and the characters consistent, natural and distinct. No other unity is intended, and therefore none is to be sought. In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity of action. He has not, indeed, an intrigue regularly perplexed and regularly unravelled; he does not endeavour to hide his design only to discover it, for this is seldom the order of real events, and Shakespeare is the poet of nature: But his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end; one event is concatenated with another, and the conclusion follows by easy consequence. There are perhaps some incidents that might be spared, as in other poets there is much talk that only fills up time upon the stage; but the general system makes gradual advances, and the end of the play is the end of expectation. To the unities of time and place he has shewn no regard, and perhaps a nearer view of the principles on which they stand will diminish their value, and withdraw from them the veneration which, from the time of Corneille, they have very generally received by discovering that they have given more trouble to the poet, than pleasure to the auditor. The necessity of observing the unities of time and place arises from the supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The criticks hold it impossible, that an action of months or years can be possibly believed to pass in three hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the theatre, while ambassadors go and return between distant kings, while armies are levied and towns besieged, while an exile wanders and returns, or till he whom they saw courting his mistress, shall lament the untimely fall of his son. The mind revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction loses its force when it departs from the resemblance of reality. From the narrow limitation of time necessarily arises the contraction of place. The spectator, who knows that he saw the first act at Alexandria, cannot suppose that he sees the next at Rome, at a distance to which not the dragons of Medea could, in so short a time, have transported him; he knows with certainty that he has not changed his place; and he knows that place cannot change itself; that what was a house cannot become a plain; that what was Thebes can never be Persepolis. Such is the triumphant language with which a critick exults over the misery of an irregular poet, and exults commonly without resistance or reply. It is time therefore to tell him, by the authority of Shakespeare, that he assumes, as an unquestionable principle, a position, which, while his breath is forming it into words, his understanding pronounces to be false. It is false, that any representation is mistaken for reality; that any dramatick fable in its materiality was ever credible, or, for a single moment, was ever credited. The objection arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes, that when the play opens the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theatre has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this, may imagine more. He that can take the stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium. Delusion, if delusion be admitted, has no certain limitation; if the spectator can be once persuaded, that his old acquaintance are Alexander and Caesar, that a room illuminated with candles is the plain of Pharsalia, or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of elevation above the reach of reason, or of truth, and from the heights of empyrean poetry, may despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial nature. There is no reason why a mind thus wandering in extasy should count the clock, or why an hour should not be a century in that calenture of the brains that can make the stage a field. The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses, and know, from the first act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, and that the players are only players. They come to hear a certain number of lines recited with just gesture and elegant modulation. The lines relate to some action, and an action must be in some place; but the different actions that compleat a story may be in places very remote from each other; and where is the absurdity of allowing that space to represent first Athens, and then Sicily, which was always known to be neither Sicily nor Athens, but a modern theatre? By supposition, as place is introduced, time may be extended; the time required by the fable elapses for the most part between the acts; for, of so much of the action as is represented, the real and poetical duration is the same. If, in the first act, preparations for war against Mithridates are represented to be made in Rome, the event of the war may, without absurdity, be represented, in the catastrophe, as happening in Pontus; we know that there is neither war, nor preparation for war; we know that we are neither in Rome nor Pontus; that neither Mithridates nor Lucullus are before us. The drama exhibits successive imitations of successive actions, and why may not the second imitation represent an action that happened years after the first; if it be so connected with it, that nothing but time can be supposed to intervene? Time is, of all modes of existence, most obsequious to the imagination; a lapse of years is as easily conceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation we easily contract the time of real actions, and therefore willingly permit it to be contracted when we only see their imitation. It will be asked, how the drama moves, if it is not credited. It is credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited, whenever it moves, as a just picture of a real original; as representing to the auditor what he would himself feel, if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflection that strikes the heart is not, that the evils before us are real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed. If there be any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the players, but that we fancy ourselves unhappy for a moment; but we rather lament the possibility than suppose the presence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe, when she remembers that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction; if we thought murders and treasons real, they would please no more. Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to mind. When the imagination is recreated by a painted landscape, the trees are not supposed capable to give us shade, or the fountains coolness; but we consider, how we should be pleased with such fountains playing beside us, and such woods waving over us. We are agitated in reading the history of "Henry the Fifth", yet no man takes his book for the field of Agencourt. A dramatick exhibition is a book recited with concomitants that encrease or diminish its effect. Familiar comedy is often more powerful on the theatre, than in the page; imperial tragedy is always less. The humour of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace; but what voice or what gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the soliloquy of Cato. A play read, affects the mind like a play acted. It is therefore evident, that the action is not supposed to be real, and it follows that between the acts a longer or shorter time may be allowed to pass, and that no more account of space or duration is to be taken by the auditor of a drama, than by the reader of a narrative, before whom may pass in an hour the life of a hero, or the revolutions of an empire. Whether Shakespeare knew the unities, and rejected them by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to decide, and useless to inquire. We may reasonably suppose, that, when he rose to notice, he did not want the counsels and admonitions of scholars and criticks, and that he at last deliberately persisted in a practice, which he might have begun by chance. As nothing is essential to the fable, but unity of action, and as the unities of time and place arise evidently from false assumptions, and, by circumscribing the extent of the drama, lessen its variety, I cannot think it much to be lamented, that they were not known by him, or not observed: Nor, if such another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach him, that his first act passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. Such violations of rules merely positive, become the comprehensive genius of Shakespeare, and such censures are suitable to the minute and slender criticism of Voltaire: Non usque adeo permiscuit imis Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli Serventur leges, malint a Caesare tolli. Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatick rules, I cannot but recollect how much wit and learning may be produced against me; before such authorities I am afraid to stand, not that I think the present question one of those that are to be decided by mere authority, but because it is to be suspected, that these precepts have not been so easily received but for better reasons than I have yet been able to find. The result of my enquiries, in which it would be ludicrous to boast of impartiality, is, that the unities of time and place are not essential to a just drama, that though they may sometimes conduce to pleasure, they are always to be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of variety and instruction; and that a play, written with nice observation of critical rules, is to be contemplated as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of superfluous and ostentatious art, by which is shewn, rather what is possible, than what is necessary. He that, without diminution of any other excellence, shall preserve all the unities unbroken, deserves the like applause with the architect, who shall display all the orders of architecture in a citadel, without any deduction from its strength; but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy; and the greatest graces of a play, are to copy nature and instruct life. Perhaps, what I have here not dogmatically but deliberately written, may recal the principles of the drama to a new examination. I am almost frighted at my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame and the strength of those that maintain the contrary opinion, am ready to sink down in reverential silence; as Aeneas withdrew from the defence of Troy, when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the besiegers. Those whom my arguments cannot persuade to give their approbation to the judgment of Shakespeare, will easily, if they consider the condition of his life, make some allowance for his ignorance. Every man's performances, to be rightly estimated, must be compared with the state of the age in which he lived, and with his own particular opportunities; and though to the reader a book be not worse or better for the circumstances of the authour, yet as there is always a silent reference of human works to human abilities, and as the enquiry, how far man may extend his designs, or how high he may rate his native force, is of far greater dignity than in what rank we shall place any particular performance, curiosity is always busy to discover the instruments, as well as to survey the workmanship, to know how much is to be ascribed to original powers, and how much to casual and adventitious help. The palaces of Peru or Mexico were certainly mean and incommodious habitations, if compared to the houses of European monarchs; yet who could forbear to view them with astonishment, who remembered that they were built without the use of iron? The English nation, in the time of Shakespeare, was yet struggling to emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted hither in the reign of Henry the Eighth; and the learned languages had been successfully cultivated by Lilly and More; by Pole, Cheke, and Gardiner; and afterwards by Smith, Clerk, Haddon, and Ascham. Greek was now taught to boys in the principal schools; and those who united elegance with learning, read, with great diligence, the Italian and Spanish poets. But literature was yet confined to professed scholars, or to men and women of high rank. The publick was gross and dark; and to be able to read and write, was an accomplishment still valued for its rarity. Nations, like individuals, have their infancy. A people newly awakened to literary curiosity, being yet unacquainted with the true state of things, knows not how to judge of that which is proposed as its resemblance. Whatever is remote from common appearances is always welcome to vulgar, as to childish credulity; and of a country unenlightened by learning, the whole people is the vulgar. The study of those who then aspired to plebeian learning was laid out upon adventures, giants, dragons, and enchantments. The Death of Arthur was the favourite volume. The mind, which has feasted on the luxurious wonders of fiction, has no taste of the insipidity of truth. A play which imitated only the common occurrences of the world, would, upon the admirers of Palmerin and Guy of Warwick, have made little impression; he that wrote for such an audience was under the necessity of looking round for strange events and fabulous transactions, and that incredibility, by which maturer knowledge is offended, was the chief recommendation of writings, to unskilful curiosity. Our authour's plots are generally borrowed from novels, and it is reasonable to suppose, that he chose the most popular, such as were read by many, and related by more; for his audience could not have followed him through the intricacies of the drama, had they not held the thread of the story in their hands. The stories, which we now find only in remoter authours, were in his time accessible and familliar. The fable of "As You Like It", which is supposed to be copied from Chaucer's Gamelyn, was a little pamphlet of those times; and old Mr. Cibber remembered the tale of Hamlet in plain English prose, which the criticks have now to seek in Saxo Grammaticus. His English histories he took from English chronicles and English ballads; and as the ancient writers were made known to his countrymen by versions, they supplied him with new subjects; he dilated some of Plutarch's lives into plays, when they had been translated by North. His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are always crouded with incidents, by which the attention of a rude people was more easily caught than by sentiment or argumentation; and such is the power of the marvellous even over those who despise it, that every man finds his mind more strongly seized by the tragedies of Shakespeare than of any other writer; others please us by particular speeches, but he always makes us anxious for the event, and has perhaps excelled all but Homer in securing the first purpose of a writer, by exciting restless and unquenchable curiosity, and compelling him that reads his work to read it through. The shows and bustle with which his plays abound have the same original. As knowledge advances, pleasure passes from the eye to the ear, but returns, as it declines, from the ear to the eye. Those to whom our authour's labours were exhibited had more skill in pomps or processions than in poetical language, and perhaps wanted some visible and discriminated events, as comments on the dialogue. He knew how he should most please; and whether his practice is more agreeable to nature, or whether his example has prejudiced the nation, we still find that on our stage something must be done as well as said, and inactive declamation is very coldly heard, however musical or elegant, passionate or sublime. Voltaire expresses his wonder, that our authour's extravagancies are endured by a nation, which has seen the tragedy of Cato. Let him be answered, that Addison speaks the language of poets, and Shakespeare, of men. We find in Cato innumerable beauties which enamour us of its authour, but we see nothing that acquaints us with human sentiments or human actions; we place it with the fairest and the noblest progeny which judgment propagates by conjunction with learning, but "Othello" is the vigorous and vivacious offspring of observation impregnated by genius. Cato affords a splendid exhibition of artificial and fictitious manners, and delivers just and noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated and harmonious, but its hopes and fears communicate no vibration to the heart; the composition refers us only to the writer; we pronounce the name of Cato, but we think on Addison. The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades, and scented with flowers; the composition of Shakespeare is a forest, in which oaks extend their branches, and pines tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and brambles, and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling the eye with awful pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless diversity. Other poets display cabinets of precious rarities, minutely finished, wrought into shape, and polished unto brightness. Shakespeare opens a mine which contains gold and diamonds in unexhaustible plenty, though clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and mingled with a mass of meaner minerals. It has been much disputed, whether Shakespeare owed his excellence to his own native force, or whether he had the common helps of scholastick education, the precepts of critical science, and the examples of ancient authours. There has always prevailed a tradition, that Shakespeare wanted learning, that he had no regular education, nor much skill in the dead languages. Johnson, his friend, affirms, that "He had small Latin and no Greek."; who, besides that he had no imaginable temptation to falsehood, wrote at a time when the character and acquisitions of Shakespeare were known to multitudes. His evidence ought therefore to decide the controversy, unless some testimony of equal force could be opposed. Some have imagined, that they have discovered deep learning in many imitations of old writers; but the examples which I have known urged, were drawn from books translated in his time; or were such easy coincidencies of thought, as will happen to all who consider the same subjects; or such remarks on life or axioms of morality as float in conversation, and are transmitted through the world in proverbial sentences. I have found it remarked, that, in this important sentence, "Go before, I'll follow," we read a translation of, I prae, sequar. I have been told, that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream, says, "I cry'd to sleep again," the authour imitates Anacreon, who had, like every other man, the same wish on the same occasion. There are a few passages which may pass for imitations, but so few, that the exception only confirms the rule; he obtained them from accidental quotations, or by oral communication, and as he used what he had, would have used more if he had obtained it. The "Comedy of Errors" is confessedly taken from the Menaechmi of Plautus; from the only play of Plautus which was then in English. What can be more probable, than that he who copied that, would have copied more; but that those which were not translated were inaccessible? Whether he knew the modern languages is uncertain. That his plays have some French scenes proves but little; he might easily procure them to be written, and probably, even though he had known the language in the common degree, he could not have written it without assistance. In the story of "Romeo and Juliet" he is observed to have followed the English translation, where it deviates from the Italian; but this on the other part proves nothing against his knowledge of the original. He was to copy, not what he knew himself, but what was known to his audience. It is most likely that he had learned Latin sufficiently to make him acquainted with construction, but that he never advanced to an easy perusal of the Roman authours. Concerning his skill in modern languages, I can find no sufficient ground of determination; but as no imitations of French or Italian authours have been discovered, though the Italian poetry was then high in esteem, I am inclined to believe, that he read little more than English, and chose for his fables only such tales as he found translated. That much knowledge is scattered over his works is very justly observed by Pope, but it is often such knowledge as books did not supply. He that will understand Shakespeare, must not be content to study him in the closet, he must look for his meaning sometimes among the sports of the field, and sometimes among the manufactures of the shop. There is however proof enough that he was a very diligent reader, nor was our language then so indigent of books, but that he might very liberally indulge his curiosity without excursion into foreign literature. Many of the Roman authours were translated, and some of the Greek; the reformation had filled the kingdom with theological learning; most of the topicks of human disquisition had found English writers; and poetry had been cultivated, not only with diligence, but success. This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so capable of appropriating and improving it. But the greater part of his excellence was the product of his own genius. He found the English stage in a state of the utmost rudeness; no essays either in tragedy or comedy had appeared, from which it could be discovered to what degree of delight either one or other might be carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet understood. Shakespeare may be truly said to have introduced them both amongst us, and in some of his happier scenes to have carried them both to the utmost height. By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not easily known; for the chronology of his works is yet unsettled. Rowe is of opinion, that "perhaps we are not to look for his beginning, like those of other writers, in his least perfect works; art had so little, and nature so large a share in what he did, that for ought I know," says he, "the performances of his youth, as they were the most vigorous, were the best." But the power of nature is only the power of using to any certain purpose the materials which diligence procures, or opportunity supplies. Nature gives no man knowledge, and when images are collected by study and experience, can only assist in combining or applying them. Shakespeare, however favoured by nature, could impart only what he had learned; and as he must increase his ideas, like other mortals, by gradual acquisition, he, like them, grew wiser as he grew older, could display life better, as he knew it more, and instruct with more efficacy, as he was himself more amply instructed. There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of distinction which books and precepts cannot confer; from this almost all original and native excellence proceeds. Shakespeare must have looked upon mankind with perspicacity, in the highest degree curious and attentive. Other writers borrow their characters from preceding writers, and diversify them only by the accidental appendages of present manners; the dress is a little varied, but the body is the same. Our authour had both matter and form to provide; for except the characters of Chaucer, to whom I think he is not much indebted, there were no writers in English, and perhaps not many in other modern languages, which shewed life in its native colours. The contest about the original benevolence or malignity of man had not yet commenced. Speculation had not yet attempted to analyse the mind, to trace the passions to their sources, to unfold the seminal principles of vice and virtue, or sound the depths of the heart for the motives of action. All those enquiries, which from that time that human nature became the fashionable study, have been made sometimes with nice discernment, but often with idle subtilty, were yet unattempted. The tales, with which the infancy of learning was satisfied, exhibited only the superficial appearances of action, related the events but omitted the causes, and were formed for such as delighted in wonders rather than in truth. Mankind was not then to be studied in the closet; he that would know the world, was under the necessity of gleaning his own remarks, by mingling as he could in its business and amusements. Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, because it favoured his curiosity, by facilitating his access. Shakespeare had no such advantage; he came to London a needy adventurer, and lived for a time by very mean employments. Many works of genius and learning have been performed in states of life, that appear very little favourable to thought or to enquiry; so many, that he who considers them is inclined to think that he sees enterprise and perseverance predominating over all external agency, and bidding help and hindrance vanish before them. The genius of Shakespeare was not to be depressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited by the narrow conversation to which men in want are inevitably condemned; the incumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his mind, "as dewdrops from a lion's mane." Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and so little assistance to surmount them, he has been able to obtain an exact knowledge of many modes of life, and many casts of native dispositions; to vary them with great multiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions; and to shew them in full view by proper combinations. In this part of his performances He had none to imitate, but has himself been imitated by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted, whether from all his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of practical prudence, can be collected, than he alone has given to his country. Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; he was an exact surveyor of the inanimate world; his descriptions have always some peculiarities, gathered by contemplating things as they really exist. It may be observed, that the oldest poets of many nations preserve their reputation, and that the following generations of wit, after a short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The first, whoever they be, must take their sentiments and descriptions immediately from knowledge; the resemblance is therefore just, their descriptions are verified by every eye, and their sentiments acknowledged by every breast. Those whom their fame invites to the same studies, copy partly them, and partly nature, till the books of one age gain such authority, as to stand in the place of nature to another, and imitation, always deviating a little, becomes at last capricious and casual. Shakespeare, whether life or nature be his subject, shews plainly, that he has seen with his own eyes; he gives the image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel his representations to be just, and the learned see that they are compleat. Perhaps it would not be easy to find any authour, except Homer, who invented so much as Shakespeare, who so much advanced the studies which he cultivated, or effused so much novelty upon his age or country. The form, the characters, the language, and the shows of the English drama are his. "He seems," says Dennis, "to have been the very original of our English tragical harmony, that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified often by dissyllable and trissyllable terminations. For the diversity distinguishes it from heroick harmony, and by bringing it nearer to common use makes it more proper to gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. Such verse we make when we are writing prose; we make such verse in common conversation." I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The dissyllable termination, which the critick rightly appropriates to the drama, is to be found, though, I think, not in Gorboduc which is confessedly before our authour; yet in Hieronnymo, of which the date is not certain, but which there is reason to believe at least as old as his earliest plays. This however is certain, that he is the first who taught either tragedy or comedy to please, there being no theatrical piece of any older writer, of which the name is known, except to antiquaries and collectors of books, which are sought because they are scarce, and would not have been scarce, had they been much esteemed. To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser may divide it with him, of having first discovered to how much smoothness and harmony the English language could be softened. He has speeches, perhaps sometimes scenes, which have all the delicacy of Rowe, without his effeminacy. He endeavours indeed commonly to strike by the force and vigour of his dialogue, but he never executes his purpose better, than when he tries to sooth by softness. Yet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe every thing to him, he owes something to us; that, if much of his praise is paid by perception and judgement, much is likewise given by custom and veneration. We fix our eyes upon his graces, and turn them from his deformities, and endure in him what we should in another loath or despise. If we endured without praising, respect for the father of our drama might excuse us; but I have seen, in the book of some modern critick, a collection of anomalies which shew that he has corrupted language by every mode of depravation, but which his admirer has accumulated as a monument of honour. He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence, but perhaps not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to the conclusion. I am indeed far from thinking, that his works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection; when they were such as would satisfy the audience, they satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authours, though more studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much above the standard of their own age; to add a little of what is best will always be sufficient for present praise, and those who find themselves exalted into fame, are willing to credit their encomiasts, and to spare the labour of contending with themselves. It does not appear, that Shakespeare thought his works worthy of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, or had any further prospect, than of present popularity and present profit. When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an end; he solicited no addition of honour from the reader. He therefore made no scruple to repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to entangle different plots by the same knot of perplexity, which may be at least forgiven him, by those who recollect, that of Congreve's four comedies, two are concluded by a marriage in a mask, by a deception, which perhaps never happened, and which, whether likely or not, he did not invent. So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little "declined into the vale of years," before he could be disgusted with fatigue, or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue those that had been already published from the depravations that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine state. Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in the late editions, the greater part were not published till about seven years after his death, and the few which appeared in his life are apparently thrust into the world without the care of the authour, and therefore probably without his knowledge. Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, their negligence and unskilfulness has by the late revisers been sufficiently shown. The faults of all are indeed numerous and gross, and have not only corrupted many passages perhaps beyond recovery, but have brought others into suspicion, which are only obscured by obsolete phraseology, or by the writer's unskilfulness and affectation. To alter is more easy than to explain, and temerity is a more common quality than diligence. Those who saw that they must employ conjecture to a certain degree, were willing to indulge it a little further. Had the authour published his own works, we should have sat quietly down to disentangle his intricacies, and clear his obscurities; but now we tear what we cannot loose, and eject what we happen not to understand. The faults are more than could have happened without the concurrence of many causes. The stile of Shakespeare was in itself ungrammatical, perplexed and obscure; his works were transcribed for the players by those who may be supposed to have seldom understood them; they were transmitted by copiers equally unskilful, who still multiplied errours; they were perhaps sometimes mutilated by the actors, for the sake of shortening the speeches; and were at last printed without correction of the press. In this state they remained, not as Dr. Warburton supposes, because they were unregarded, but because the editor's art was not yet applied to modern languages, and our ancestors were accustomed to so much negligence of English printers, that they could very patiently endure it. At last an edition was undertaken by Rowe; not because a poet was to be published by a poet, for Rowe seems to have thought very little on correction or explanation, but that our authour's works might appear like those of his fraternity, with the appendages of a life and recommendatory preface. Rowe has been clamorously blamed for not performing what he did not undertake, and it is time that justice be done him, by confessing, that though he seems to have had no thought of corruption beyond the printer's errours, yet he has made many emendations, if they were not made before, which his successors have received without acknowledgment, and which, if they had produced them, would have filled pages and pages with censures of the stupidity by which the faults were committed, with displays of the absurdities which they involved, with ostentatious exposition of the new reading, and self congratulations on the happiness of discovering it. Of Rowe, as of all the editors, I have preserved the preface and have likewise retained the authour's life, though not written with much elegance or spirit; it relates however what is now to be known, and therefore deserves to pass through all succeeding publications. The nation had been for many years content enough with Mr. Rowe's performance, when Mr. Pope made them acquainted with the true state of Shakespeare's text, shewed that it was extremely corrupt, and gave reason to hope that there were means of reforming it. He collated the old copies, which none had thought to examine before, and restored many lines to their integrity; but, by a very compendious criticism, he rejected whatever he disliked, and thought more of amputation than of cure. I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburton for distinguishing the genuine from the spurious plays. In this choice he exerted no judgement of his own; the plays which he received, were given by Hemings and Condel, the first editors; and those which he rejected, though, according to the licentiousness of the press in those times, they were printed during Shakespeare's life, with his name, had been omitted by his friends, and were never added to his works before the edition of 1664, from which they were copied by the later printers. This was a work which Pope seems to have thought unworthy of his abilities, being not able to suppress his contempt of "the dull duty of an editor". He understood but half his undertaking. The duty of a collator is indeed dull, yet, like other tedious tasks, is very necessary; but an emendatory critick would ill discharge his duty, without qualities very different from dulness. In perusing a corrupted piece, he must have before him all possibilities of meaning, with all possibilities of expression. Such must be his comprehension of thought, and such his copiousness of language. Out of many readings possible, he must be able to select that which best suits with the state, opinions, and modes of language prevailing in every age, and with his authour's particular cast of thought, and turn of expression. Such must be his knowledge, and such his taste. Conjectural criticism demands more than humanity possesses, and he that exercises it with most praise has very frequent need of indulgence. Let us now be told no more of the dull duty of an editor. Confidence is the common consequence of success. They whose excellence of any kind has been loudly celebrated, are ready to conclude, that their powers are universal. Pope's edition fell below his own expectations, and he was so much offended, when he was found to have left any thing for others to do, that he past the latter part of his life in a state of hostility with verbal criticism. I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great a writer may be lost; his preface, valuable alike for elegance of composition and justness of remark, and containing a general criticism on his authour, so extensive that little can be added, and so exact, that little can be disputed, every editor has an interest to suppress, but that every reader would demand its insertion. Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow comprehension and small acquisitions, with no native and intrinsick splendour of genius, with little of the artificial light of learning, but zealous for minute accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing it. He collated the ancient copies, and rectified many errors. A man so anxiously scrupulous might have been expected to do more, but what little he did was commonly right. In his report of copies and editions he is not to be trusted, without examination. He speaks sometimes indefinitely of copies, when he has only one. In his enumeration of editions, he mentions the two first folios as of high, and the third folio as of middle authority; but the truth is, that the first is equivalent to all others, and that the rest only deviate from it by the printer's negligence. Whoever has any of the folios has all, excepting those diversities which mere reiteration of editions will produce. I collated them all at the beginning, but afterwards used only the first. Of his notes I have generally retained those which he retained himself in his second edition, except when they were confuted by subsequent annotators, or were too minute to merit preservation. I have sometimes adopted his restoration of a comma, without inserting the panegyrick in which he celebrated himself for his achievement. The exuberant excrescence of diction I have often lopped, his triumphant exultations over Pope and Rowe I have sometimes suppressed, and his contemptible ostentation I have frequently concealed; but I have in some places shewn him, as he would have shewn himself, for the reader's diversion, that the inflated emptiness of some notes may justify or excuse the contraction of the rest. Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faithless, thus petulant and ostentatious, by the good luck of having Pope for his enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with reputation, from this undertaking. So willingly does the world support those who solicite favour, against those who command reverence; and so easily is he praised, whom no man can envy. Our authour fell then into the hands of Sir Thomas Hanmer, the Oxford editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently qualified by nature for such studies. He had, what is the first requisite to emendatory criticism, that intuition by which the poet's intention is immediately discovered, and that dexterity of intellect which dispatches its work by the easiest means. He had undoubtedly read much; his acquaintance with customs, opinions, and traditions, seems to have been large; and he is often learned without shew. He seldom passes what he does not understand, without an attempt to find or to make a meaning, and sometimes hastily makes what a little more attention would have found. He is solicitous to reduce to grammar, what he could not be sure that his authour intended to be grammatical. Shakespeare regarded more the series of ideas, than of words; and his language, not being designed for the reader's desk, was all that he desired it to be, if it conveyed his meaning to the audience. Hanmer's care of the metre has been too violently censured. He found the measures reformed in so many passages, by the silent labours of some editors, with the silent acquiescence of the rest, that he thought himself allowed to extend a little further the license, which had already been carried so far without reprehension; and of his corrections in general, it must be confessed, that they are often just, and made commonly with the least possible violation of the text. But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or borrowed, into the page, without any notice of varying copies, he has appropriated the labour of his predecessors, and made his own edition of little authority. His confidence indeed, both in himself and others, was too great; he supposes all to be right that was done by Pope and Theobald; he seems not to suspect a critick of fallibility, and it was but reasonable that he should claim what he so liberally granted. As he never writes without careful enquiry and diligent consideration, I have received all his notes, and believe that every reader will wish for more. Of the last editor it is more difficult to speak. Respect is due to high place, tenderness to living reputation, and veneration to genius and learning; but he cannot be justly offended at that liberty of which he has himself so frequently given an example, nor very solicitous what is thought of notes, which he ought never to have considered as part of his serious employments, and which, I suppose, since the ardour of composition is remitted, he no longer numbers among his happy effusions. The original and predominant errour of his commentary, is acquiescence in his first thoughts; that precipitation which is produced by consciousness of quick discernment; and that confidence which presumes to do, by surveying the surface, what labour only can perform, by penetrating the bottom. His notes exhibit sometimes perverse interpretations, and sometimes improbable conjectures; he at one time gives the authour more profundity of meaning than the sentence admits, and at another discovers absurdities, where the sense is plain to every other reader. But his emendations are likewise often happy and just; and his interpretation of obscure passages learned and sagacious. Of his notes, I have commonly rejected those, against which the general voice of the publick has exclaimed, or which their own incongruity immediately condemns, and which, I suppose, the authour himself would desire to be forgotten. Of the rest, to part I have given the highest approbation, by inserting the offered reading in the text; part I have left to the judgment of the reader, as doubtful, though specious; and part I have censured without reserve, but I am sure without bitterness of malice, and, I hope, without wantonness of insult. It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observe how much paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever considers the revolutions of learning, and the various questions of greater or less importance, upon which wit and reason have exercised their powers, must lament the unsuccessfulness of enquiry, and the slow advances of truth, when he reflects, that great part of the labour of every writer is only the destruction of those that went before him. The first care of the builder of a new system, is to demolish the fabricks which are standing. The chief desire of him that comments an authour, is to shew how much other commentators have corrupted and obscured him. The opinions prevalent in one age, as truths above the reach of controversy, are confuted and rejected in another, and rise again to reception in remoter times. Thus the human mind is kept in motion without progress. Thus sometimes truth and errour, and sometimes contrarieties of errour, take each other's place by reciprocal invasion. The tide of seeming knowledge which is poured over one generation, retires and leaves another naked and barren; the sudden meteors of intelligence which for a while appear to shoot their beams into the regions of obscurity, on a sudden withdraw their lustre, and leave mortals again to grope their way. These elevations and depressions of renown, and the contradictions to which all improvers of knowledge must for ever be exposed, since they are not escaped by the highest and brightest of mankind, may surely be endured with patience by criticks and annotators, who can rank themselves but as the satellites of their authours. How canst thou beg for life, says Achilles to his captive, when thou knowest that thou art now to suffer only what must another day be suffered by Achilles? Dr. Warburton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity on those who could exalt themselves into antagonists, and his notes have raised a clamour too loud to be distinct. His chief assailants are the authours of the Canons of Criticism and of the Review of Shakespeare's Text; of whom one ridicules his errours with airy petulance, suitable enough to the levity of the controversy; the other attacks them with gloomy malignity, as if he were dragging to justice an assassin or incendiary. The one stings like a fly, sucks a little blood, takes a gay flutter, and returns for more; the other bites like a viper, and would be glad to leave inflammations and gangrene behind him. When I think on one, with his confederates, I remember the danger of Coriolanus, who was afraid that "girls with spits, and boys with stones, should slay him in puny battle;" when the other crosses my imagination, I remember the prodigy in "Macbeth", An eagle tow'ring in his pride of place, was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. Let me however do them justice. One is a wit, and one a scholar. They have both shewn acuteness sufficient in the discovery of faults, and have both advanced some probable interpretations of obscure passages; but when they aspire to conjecture and emendation, it appears how falsely we all estimate our own abilities, and the little which they have been able to perform might have taught them more candour to the endeavours of others. Before Dr. Warburton's edition, "Critical Observations on Shakespeare" had been published by Mr. Upton, a man skilled in languages, and acquainted with books, but who seems to have had no great vigour of genius or nicety of taste. Many of his explanations are curious and useful, but he likewise, though he professed to oppose the licentious confidence of editors, and adhere to the old copies, is unable to restrain the rage of emendation, though his ardour is ill seconded by his skill. Every cold empirick, when his heart is expanded by a successful experiment, swells into a theorist, and the laborious collator some unlucky moment frolicks in conjecture. "Critical, historical and explanatory notes" have been likewise published upon Shakespeare by Dr. Grey, whose diligent perusal of the old English writers has enabled him to make some useful observations. What he undertook he has well enough performed, but as he neither attempts judicial nor emendatory criticism, he employs rather his memory than his sagacity. It were to be wished that all would endeavour to imitate his modesty who have not been able to surpass his knowledge. I can say with great sincerity of all my predecessors, what I hope will hereafter be said of me, that not one has left Shakespeare without improvement, nor is there one to whom I have not been indebted for assistance and information. Whatever I have taken from them it was my intention to refer to its original authour, and it is certain, that what I have not given to another, I believed when I wrote it to be my own. In some perhaps I have been anticipated; but if I am ever found to encroach upon the remarks of any other commentator, I am willing that the honour, be it more or less, should be transferred to the first claimant, for his right, and his alone, stands above dispute; the second can prove his pretensions only to himself, nor can himself always distinguish invention, with sufficient certainty, from recollection. They have all been treated by me with candour, which they have not been careful of observing to one another. It is not easy to discover from what cause the acrimony of a scholiast can naturally proceed. The subjects to be discussed by him are of very small importance; they involve neither property nor liberty; nor favour the interest of sect or party. The various readings of copies, and different interpretations of a passage, seem to be questions that might exercise the wit, without engaging the passions. But, whether it be, that "small things make mean men proud," and vanity catches small occasions; or that all contrariety of opinion, even in those that can defend it no longer, makes proud men angry; there is often found in commentaries a spontaneous strain of invective and contempt, more eager and venomous than is vented by the most furious controvertist in politicks against those whom he is hired to defame. Perhaps the lightness of the matter may conduce to the vehemence of the agency; when the truth to be investigated is so near to inexistence, as to escape attention, its bulk is to be enlarged by rage and exclamation: That to which all would be indifferent in its original state, may attract notice when the fate of a name is appended to it. A commentator has indeed great temptations to supply by turbulence what he wants of dignity, to beat his little gold to a spacious surface, to work that to foam which no art or diligence can exalt to spirit. The notes which I have borrowed or written are either illustrative, by which difficulties are explained; or judicial, by which faults and beauties are remarked; or emendatory, by which depravations are corrected. The explanations transcribed from others, if I do not subjoin any other interpretation, I suppose commonly to be right, at least I intend by acquiescence to confess, that I have nothing better to propose. After the labours of all the editors, I found many passages which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage. It is impossible for an expositor not to write too little for some, and too much for others. He can only judge what is necessary by his own experience; and how long soever he may deliberate, will at last explain many lines which the learned will think impossible to be mistaken, and omit many for which the ignorant will want his help. These are censures merely relative and must be quietly endured. I have endeavoured to be neither superfluously copious, nor scrupulously reserved, and hope that I have made my authour's meaning accessible to many who before were frighted from perusing him, and contributed something to the publick, by diffusing innocent and rational pleasure. The compleat explanation of an authour not systematick and consequential, but desultory and vagrant, abounding in casual allusions and light hints, is not to be expected from any single scholiast. All personal reflections, when names are suppressed, must be in a few years irrecoverably obliterated; and customs, too minute to attract the notice of law, such as mode of dress, formalities of conversation, rules of visits, disposition of furniture, and practices of ceremony, which naturally find places in familiar dialogue, are so fugitive and unsubstantial that they are not easily retained or recovered. What can be known, will be collected by chance, from the recesses of obscure and obsolete papers, perused commonly with some other view. Of this knowledge every man has some, and none has much; but when an authour has engaged the publick attention, those who can add any thing to his illustration, communicate their discoveries, and time produces what had eluded diligence. To time I have been obliged to resign many passages, which, though I did not understand them, will perhaps hereafter be explained, having, I hope, illustrated some, which others have neglected or mistaken, sometimes by short remarks or marginal directions, such as every editor has added at his will, and often by comments more laborious than the matter will seem to deserve; but that which is most difficult is not always most important, and to an editor nothing is a trifle by which his authour is obscured. The poetical beauties or defects I have not been very diligent to observe. Some plays have more, and some fewer judicial observations, not in proportion to their difference of merit, but because I gave this part of my design to chance and to caprice. The reader, I believe, is seldom pleased to find his opinion anticipated; it is natural to delight more in what we find or make, than in what we receive. Judgement, like other faculties, is improved by practice, and its advancement is hindered by submission to dictatorial decisions, as the memory grows torpid by the use of a table book. Some initiation is however necessary; of all skill, part is infused by precept, and part is obtained by habit; I have therefore shewn so much as may enable the candidate of criticism to discover the rest. To the end of most plays, I have added short strictures, containing a general censure of faults, or praise of excellence; in which I know not how much I have concurred with the current opinion; but I have not, by any affectation of singularity, deviated from it. Nothing is minutely and particularly examined, and therefore it is to be supposed, that in the plays which are condemned there is much to be praised, and in these which are praised much to be condemned. The part of criticism in which the whole succession of editors has laboured with the greatest diligence, which has occasioned the most arrogant ostentation, and excited the keenest acrimony, is the emendation of corrupted passages, to which the publick attention having been first drawn by the violence of contention between Pope and Theobald, has been continued by the persecution, which, with a kind of conspiracy, has been since raised against all the publishers of Shakespeare. That many passages have passed in a state of depravation through all the editions is indubitably certain; of these the restoration is only to be attempted by collation of copies or sagacity of conjecture. The collator's province is safe and easy, the conjecturer's perilous and difficult. Yet as the greater part of the plays are extant only in one copy, the peril must not be avoided, nor the difficulty refused. Of the readings which this emulation of amendment has hitherto produced, some from the labours of every publisher have advanced into the text; those are to be considered as in my opinion sufficiently supported; some I have rejected without mention, as evidently erroneous; some I have left in the notes without censure or approbation, as resting in equipoise between objection and defence; and some, which seemed specious but not right, I have inserted with a subsequent animadversion. Having classed the observations of others, I was at last to try what I could substitute for their mistakes, and how I could supply their omissions. I collated such copies as I could procure, and wished for more, but have not found the collectors of these rarities very communicative. Of the editions which chance or kindness put into my hands I have given an enumeration, that I may not be blamed for neglecting what I had not the power to do. By examining the old copies, I soon found that the late publishers, with all their boasts of diligence, suffered many passages; to stand unauthorised, and contented themselves with Rowe's regulation of the text, even where they knew it to be arbitrary, and with a little consideration might have found it to be wrong. Some of these alterations are only the ejection of a word for one that appeared to him more elegant or more intelligible. These corruptions I have often silently rectified; for the history of our language, and the true force of our words, can only be preserved, by keeping the text of authours free from adulteration. Others, and those very frequent, smoothed the cadence, or regulated the measure; on these I have not exercised the same rigour; if only a word was transposed, or a particle inserted or omitted, I have sometimes suffered the line to stand; for the inconstancy of the copies is such, as that some liberties may be easily permitted. But this practice I have not suffered to proceed far, having restored the primitive diction wherever it could for any reason be preferred. The emendations, which comparison of copies supplied, I have inserted in the text; sometimes where the improvement was slight, without notice, and sometimes with an account of the reasons of the change. Conjecture, though it be sometimes unavoidable, I have not wantonly nor licentiously indulged. It has been my settled principle, that the reading of the ancient books is probably true, and therefore is not to be disturbed for the sake of elegance, perspicuity, or mere improvement of the sense. For though much credit is not due to the fidelity, nor any to the judgement of the first publishers, yet they who had the copy before their eyes were more likely to read it right, than we who only read it by imagination. But it is evident that they have often made strange mistakes by ignorance or negligence, and that therefore something may be properly attempted by criticism, keeping the middle way between presumption and timidity. Such criticism I have attempted to practise, and where any passage appeared inextricably perplexed, have endeavoured to discover how it may be recalled to sense, with least violence. But my first labour is, always to turn the old text on every side, and try if there be any interstice, through which light can find its way; nor would Huetius himself condemn me, as refusing the trouble of research, for the ambition of alteration. In this modest industry I have not been unsuccessful. I have rescued many lines from the violations of temerity, and secured many scenes from the inroads of correction. I have adopted the Roman sentiment, that it is more honourable to save a citizen, than to kill an enemy, and have been more careful to protect than to attack. I have preserved the common distribution of the plays into acts, though I believe it to be in almost all the plays void of authority. Some of those which are divided in the later editions have no division in the first folio, and some that are divided in the folio have no division in the preceding copies. The settled mode of the theatre requires four intervals in the play, but few, if any, of our authour's compositions can be properly distributed in that manner. An act is so much of the drama as passes without intervention of time or change of place. A pause makes a new act. In every real, and therefore in every imitative action, the intervals may be more or fewer, the restriction of five acts being accidental and arbitrary. This Shakespeare knew, and this he practised; his plays were written, and at first printed in one unbroken continuity, and ought now to be exhibited with short pauses, interposed as often as the scene is changed, or any considerable time is required to pass. This method would at once quell a thousand absurdities. In restoring the authour's works to their integrity, I have considered the punctuation as wholly in my power; for what could be their care of colons and commas, who corrupted words and sentences. Whatever could be done by adjusting points is therefore silently performed, in some plays with much diligence, in others with less; it is hard to keep a busy eye steadily fixed upon evanescent atoms, or a discursive mind upon evanescent truth. The same liberty has been taken with a few particles, or other words of slight effect. I have sometimes inserted or omitted them without notice. I have done that sometimes, which the other editors have done always, and which indeed the state of the text may sufficiently justify. The greater part of readers, instead of blaming us for passing trifles, will wonder that on mere trifles so much labour is expended, with such importance of debate, and such solemnity of diction. To these I answer with confidence, that they are judging of an art which they do not understand; yet cannot much reproach them with their ignorance, nor promise that they would become in general, by learning criticism, more useful, happier or wiser. As I practised conjecture more, I learned to trust it less; and after I had printed a few plays, resolved to insert none of my own readings in the text. Upon this caution I now congratulate myself, for every day encreases my doubt of my emendations. Since I have confined my imagination to the margin, it must not be considered as very reprehensible, if I have suffered it to play some freaks in its own dominion. There is no danger in conjecture, if it be proposed as conjecture; and while the text remains uninjured, those changes may be safely offered, which are not considered even by him that offers them as necessary or safe. If my readings are of little value, they have not been ostentatiously displayed or importunately obtruded. I could have written longer notes, for the art of writing notes is not of difficult attainment. The work is performed, first by railing at the stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and asinine tastelessness of the former editors, and shewing, from all that goes before and all that follows, the inelegance and absurdity of the old reading; then by proposing something, which to superficial readers would seem specious, but which the editor rejects with indignation; then by producing the true reading, with a long paraphrase, and concluding with loud acclamations on the discovery, and a sober wish for the advancement and prosperity of genuine criticism. All this may be done, and perhaps done sometimes without impropriety. But I have always suspected that the reading is right, which requires many words to prove it wrong; and the emendation wrong, that cannot without so much labour appear to be right. The justness of a happy restoration strikes at once, and the moral precept may be well applied to criticism, quod dubitas ne feceris. To dread the shore which he sees spread with wrecks, is natural to the sailor. I had before my eye, so many critical adventures ended in miscarriage, that caution was forced upon me. I encountered in every page Wit struggling with its own sophistry, and Learning confused by the multiplicity of its views. I was forced to censure those whom I admired, and could not but reflect, while I was dispossessing their emenations, how soon the same fate might happen to my own, and how many of the readings which I have corrected may be some other editor defended and established. Criticks, I saw, that other's names efface, And fix their own, with labour, in the place; Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, Or disappear'd, and left the first behind.--Pope. That a conjectural critick should often be mistaken, cannot be wonderful, either to others or himself, if it be considered that in his art there is no system, no principal and axiomatical truth that regulates subordinate positions. His chance of errour is renewed at every attempt; an oblique view of the passage a slight misapprehension of a phrase, a casual inattention to the parts connected, is sufficient to make him not only fail but fail ridiculously; and when he succeeds best, he produces perhaps but one reading of many probable, and he that suggests another will always be able to dispute his claims. It is an unhappy state, in which danger is hid under pleasure. The allurements of emendation are scarcely resistible. Conjecture has all the joy and all the pride of invention, and he that has once started a happy change, is too much delighted to consider what objections may rise against it. Yet conjectural criticism has been of great use in the learned world; nor is it my intention to depreciate a study, that has exercised so many mighty minds, from the revival of learning to our own age, from the Bishop of Aleria to English Bentley. The criticks on ancient authours have, in the exercise of their sagacity, many assistances, which the editor of Shakespeare is condemned to want. They are employed upon grammatical and settled languages, whose construction contributes so much to perspicuity, that Homer has fewer passages unintelligible than Chaucer. The words have not only a known regimen, but invariable quantities, which direct and confine the choice. There are commonly more manuscripts than one; and they do not often conspire in the same mistakes. Yet Scaliger could confess to Salmasius how little satisfaction his emendations gave him. Illudunt nobis conjecturae nostrae, quarum nos pudet, posteaquam in meliores cofices incidimus. And Lipsius could complain, that criticks were making faults, by trying to remove them, Ut olim vitiis, ita nunc remediis laboratur. And indeed, where mere conjecture is to be used, the emendations of Scaliger and Lipsius, notwithstanding their wonderful sagacity and erudition, are often vague and disputable, like mine or Theobald's. Perhaps I may not be more censured for doing wrong, than for doing little; for raising in the publick expectations, which at last I have not answered. The expectation of ignorance is indefinite, and that of knowledge is often tyrannical. It is hard to satisfy those who know not what to demand, or those who demand by design what they think impossible to be done. I have indeed disappointed no opinion more than my own; yet I have endeavoured to perform my task with no slight solicitude. Not a single passage in the whole work has appeared to me corrupt, which I have not attempted to restore; or obscure, which I have not endeavoured to illustrate. In many I have failed like others; and from many, after all my efforts, I have retreated, and confessed the repulse. I have not passed over, with affected superiority, what is equally difficult to the reader and to myself, but where I could not instruct him, have owned my ignorance. I might easily have accumulated a mass of seeming learning upon easy scenes; but it ought not to be imputed to negligence, that, where nothing was necessary, nothing has been done, or that, where others have said enough, I have said no more. Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils. Let him, that is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shakespeare, and who desires to feel the highest pleasure that the drama can give, read every play from the first scene to the last, with utter negligence of all his commentators. When his fancy is once on the wing, let it not stoop at correction or explanation. When his attention is strongly engaged, let it disdain alike to turn aside to the name of Theobald and Pope. Let him read on through brightness and obscurity, through integrity and corruption; let him preserve his comprehension of the dialogue and his interest in the fable. And when the pleasures of novelty have ceased, let him attempt exactness; and read the commentators. Particular passages are cleared by notes, but the general effect of the work is weakened. The mind is refrigerated by interruption; the thoughts are diverted from the principal subject; the reader is weary, he suspects not why; and at last throws away the book, which he has too diligently studied. Parts are not to be examined till the whole has been surveyed; there is a kind of intellectual remoteness necessary for the comprehension of any great work in its full design and its true proportions; a close approach shews the smaller niceties, but the beauty of the whole is discerned no longer. It is not very grateful to consider how little the succession of editors has added to this authour's power of pleasing. He was read, admired, studied, and imitated, while he was yet deformed with all the improprieties which ignorance and neglect could accumulate upon him; while the reading was yet not rectified, nor his allusions understood; yet then did Dryden pronounce "that Shakespeare was the man, who, of all modern and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: When he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned: he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comick wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occasion is presented to him: No man can say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, "Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi." It is to be lamented, that such a writer should want a commentary; that his language should become obsolete, or his sentiments obscure. But it is vain to carry wishes beyond the condition of human things; that which must happen to all, has happened to Shakespeare, by accident and time; and more than has been suffered by any other writer since the use of types, has been suffered by him through his own negligence of fame, or perhaps by that superiority of mind, which despised its own performances, when it compared them with its powers, and judged those works unworthy to be preserved, which the criticks of following ages were to contend for the fame of restoring and explaining. Among these candidates of inferiour fame, I am now to stand the judgment of the publick; and wish that I could confidently produce my commentary as equal to the encouragement which I have had the honour of receiving. Every work of this kind is by its nature deficient, and I should feel little solicitude about the sentence, were it to be pronounced only by the skilful and the learned. SELECTED NOTES FROM SOME OF THE PLAYS MEASURE FOR MEASURE There is perhaps not one of Shakespeare's plays more darkened than this by the peculiarities of its Authour, and the unskilfulness of its Editors, by distortions of phrase, or negligence of transcription. ACT I. SCENE i. (I. i. 7-9.) Then no more remains: But that to your sufficiency, as your worth is able, And let them work. This is a passage which has exercised the sagacity of the Editors, and is now to employ mine. Sir Tho. Hanmer having caught from Mr. Theobald a hint that a line was lost, endeavours to supply it thus. --Then no more remains, But that to your sufficiency you join A will to serve us, as your worth is able. He has by this bold conjecture undoubtedly obtained a meaning, but, perhaps not, even in his own opinion, the meaning of Shakespeare. That the passage is more or less corrupt, I believe every reader will agree with the Editors. I am not convinced that a line is lost, as Mr. Theobald conjectures, nor that the change of "but" to "put", which Dr. Warburton has admitted after some other Editor, will amend the fault. There was probably some original obscurity in the expression, which gave occasion to mistake in repetition or transcription. I therefore suspect that the Authour wrote thus, --Then no more remains, But that to your sufficiencies your worth is abled, And let them work. THEN NOTHING REMAINS MORE THAN TO TELL YOU THAT YOUR VIRTUE IS NOW INVESTED WITH POWER EQUAL TO YOUR KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM. LET THEREFORE YOUR KNOWLEDGE AND YOUR VIRTUE NOW WORK TOGETHER. It may easily be conceived how "sufficiencies" was, by an inarticulate speaker, or inattentive hearer, confounded with "sufficiency as", and how "abled", a word very unusual, was changed into "able". For "abled", however, an authority is not wanting. Lear uses it in the same sense, or nearly the same, with the Duke. As for "sufficiencies", D. Hamilton, in his dying speech, prays that "Charles II. may exceed both the VIRTUES and SUFFICIENCIES of his father." ACT I. SCENE ii. (I. i. 51.) We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice. "Leaven'd" has no sense in this place: we should read "Level'd choice". The allusion is to archery, when a man has fixed upon his object, after taking good aim.--Warburton. No emendation is necessary. "leaven'd choice" is one of Shakespeare's harsh metaphors. His train of ideas seems to be this. "I have proceeded to you with choice mature, concocted, fermented, leaven'd." When Bread is "leaven'd", it is left to ferment: a "leavn'd" choice is therefore a choice not hasty, but considerate, not declared as soon as it fell into the imagination, but suffered to work long in the mind. Thus explained, it suits better with "prepared" than "levelled". ACT II. SCENE ix. (II. iii. 11-12.) Who falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blister'd her report. Who doth not see that the integrity of the metaphor requires we should read "flames of her own youth."--Warburton. Who does not see that upon such principles there is no end of correction. ACT III. SCENE i. (III. i. 13-15.) Thou art not noble: For all th' accommodations, that thou bear'st Are nurs'd by baseness. Dr. Warburton is undoubtedly mistaken in supposing that by "baseness" is meant "self-love" here assigned as the motive of all human actions. Shakespeare meant only to observe, that a minute analysis of life at once destroys that splendour which dazzles the imagination. Whatever grandeur can display, or luxury enjoy, is procured by "baseness", by offices of which the mind shrinks from the contemplation. All the delicacies of the table may be traced back to the shambles and the dunghill, all magnificence of building was hewn from the quarry, and all the pomp of ornaments, dug from among the damps and darkness of the mine. ACT III. SCENE i. (III. i. 16-17.) The soft and tender fork of a poor worm. "Worm" is put for any creeping thing or "serpent". Shakespeare supposes falsely, but according to the vulgar notion, that a serpent wounds with his tongue, and that his tongue is "forked". He confounds reality and fiction, a serpent's tongue is "soft" but not "forked" nor hurtful. If it could hurt, it could not be soft. In Midsummer-night's Dream he has the same notion. --With doubler tongue Then thine, O serpent, never adder stung. ACT III. SCENE i. (III. i. 32-4.) Thou hast nor youth, nor age: But as it were an after dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both. This is exquisitely imagined. When we are young we busy ourselves in forming schemes for succeeding time, and miss the gratifications that are before us; when we are old we amuse the languour of age with the recollection of youthful pleasures or performances; so that our life, of which no part is filled with the business of the present time, resembles our dreams after dinner, when the events of the morning are mingled with the designs of the evening. ACT III. SCENE i. (III. i. 36-8.) When thou'rt old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty To make thy riches pleasant. But how does beauty make "riches pleasant"? We should read "bounty", which compleats the sense, and is this; Thou hast neither the pleasure of enjoying riches thy self, for thou wantest vigour: nor of seeing it enjoyed by others, for thou wantest "bounty". Where the making the want of "bounty" as inseparable from old age as the want of "health", is extremely satyrical tho' not altogether just. --Warburton. I am inclined to believe that neither man nor woman will have much difficulty to tell how "beauty makes riches pleasant". Surely this emendation, though it is elegant and ingenious, is not such as that an opportunity of inserting it should be purchased by declaring ignorance of what every one knows, by confessing insensibility of what every one feels. ACT III. SCENE ii. (III. i. 137-8.) Is't not a kind of incest, to take life From thine own sister's shame? In Isabella's declamation there is something harsh, and something forced and far-fetched. But her indignation cannot be thought violent when we consider her not only as a virgin but as a nun. ACT IV. SCENE viii. (iv. iii. 4-5.) First here's young Mr. Rash, &c. This enumeration of the inhabitants of the prison affords a very striking view of the practices predominant in Shakespeare's age. Besides those whose follies are common to all times, we have four fighting men and a traveller. It is not unlikely that the originals of these pictures were then known. ACT IV. SCENE xiii. (IV. V. 1.) Duke. These letters at fit time deliver me. Peter never delivers the letters, but tells his story without any credentials. The poet forgot the plot which he had formed. ACT V. SCENE vii. (V. i. 448.) 'Till he did look on me. The Duke has justly observed that Isabel is importuned against all sense to solicit for Angelo, yet here against all sense she solicits for him. Her argument is extraordinary. A due sincerity govern'd his deeds, 'Till he did look on me; since it is so, Let him not die. That Angelo had committed all the crimes charged against him, as far as he could commit them, is evident. The only INTENT which his act did not overtake, was the defilement of Isabel. Of this Angelo was only intentionally guilty. Angelo's crimes were such, as must sufficiently justify punishment, whether its end be to secure the innocent from wrong, or to deter guilt by example; and I believe every reader feels some indignation when he finds him spared. From what extenuation of his crime can Isabel, who yet supposes her brother dead, form any plea in his favour. Since he was good 'till he looked in me, let him not die. I am afraid our Varlet Poet intended to inculcate, that women think ill of nothing that raises the credit of their beauty, and are ready, however virtuous, to pardon any act which they think incited by their own charms. ACT V. SCENE viii. (v. i. 479 foll.) It is somewhat strange, that Isabel is not made to express either gratitude, wonder or joy at the sight of her brother. After the pardon of two murderers Lucio might be treated by the good Duke with less harshness; but perhaps the Poet intended to show, what is too often seen, that men easily forgive wrongs which are not committed against themselves. The novel of Cynthio Giraldi, from which Shakespeare is supposed to have borrowed this fable, may be read in Shakespeare illustrated, elegantly translated, with remarks which will assist the enquirer to discover how much absurdity Shakespeare has admitted or avoided. I cannot but suspect that some other had new modelled the novel of Cynthio, or written a story which in some particulars resembled it, and that Cinthio was not the authour whom Shakespeare immediately followed. The Emperour in Cinthio is named Maximine, the Duke, in Shakespeare's enumeration of the persons of the drama, is called Vincentio. This appears a very slight remark; but since the Duke has no name in the play, nor is ever mentioned but by his title, why should he be called Vincentio among the "Persons", but because the name was copied from the story, and placed superfluously at the head of the list by the mere habit of transcription? It is therefore likely that there was then a story of Vincentio Duke of Vienna, different from that of Maximine Emperour of the Romans. Of this play the light or comick part is very natural and pleasing, but the grave scenes, if a few passages be excepted, have more labour than elegance. The plot is rather intricate than artful. The time of the action is indefinite; some time, we know not how much, must have elapsed between the recess of the Duke and the imprisonment of Claudio; for he must have learned the story of Mariana in his disguise, or he delegated his power to a man already known to be corrupted. The unities of action and place are sufficiently preserved. HENRY IV None of Shakespeare's plays are more read than the first and second parts of Henry the fourth. Perhaps no authour has ever in two plays afforded so much delight. The great events are interesting, for the fate of kingdoms depends upon them; the slighter occurrences are diverting, and, except one or two, sufficiently probable; the incidents are multiplied with wonderful fertility of invention, and the characters diversified with the utmost nicety of discernment, and the profoundest skill in the nature of man. The prince, who is the hero both of the comick and tragick part, is a young man of great abilities and violent passions, whose sentiments are right, though his actions are wrong; whose virtues are obscured by negligence, and whose understanding is dissipated by levity. In his idle hours he is rather loose than wicked, and when the occasion forces out his latent qualities, he is great without effort, and brave without tumult. The trifler is roused into a hero, and the hero again reposes in the trifler. This character is great, original, and just. Piercy is a rugged soldier, cholerick, and quarrelsome, and has only the soldier's virtues, generosity and courage. But Falstaff unimitated, unimitable Falstaff, how shall I describe thee? Thou compound of sense and vice; of sense which may be admired but not esteemed, of vice which may be despised, but hardly detested. Falstaff is a character loaded with faults, and with those faults which naturally produce contempt. He is a thief, and a glutton, a coward, and a boaster, always ready to cheat the weak, and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirises in their absence those whom he lives by flattering. He is familiar with the prince only as an agent of vice, but of this familiarity he is so proud as not only to be supercilious and haughty with common men, but to think his interest of importance to the duke of Lancaster. Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the prince that despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety, by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy escapes and sallies of levity, which make sport but raise no envy. It must be observed that he is stained with no enormous or sanguinary crimes, so that his licentiousness is not so offensive but that it may be borne for his mirth. The moral to be drawn from this representation is, that no man is more dangerous than he that with a will to corrupt, hath the power to please; and that neither wit nor honesty ought to think themselves safe with such a companion when they see Henry seduced by Falstaff. HENRY V ACT. II. SCENE iv. (II. iii. 27-8.) Cold as any stone. Such is the end of Falstaff, from whom Shakespeare had promised us in his epilogue to Henry IV. that we should receive more entertainment. It happened to Shakespeare as to other writers, to have his imagination crowded with a tumultuary confusion of images, which, while they were yet unsorted and unexamined, seemed sufficient to furnish a long train of incidents, and a new variety of merriment, but which, when he was to produce them to view, shrunk suddenly from him, or could not be accommodated to his general design. That he once designed to have brought Falstaff on the scene again, we know from himself; but whether he could contrive no train of adventures suitable to his character, or could match him with no companions likely to quicken his humour, or could open no new vein of pleasantry, and was afraid to continue the same strain lest it should not find the same reception, he has here for ever discarded him, and made haste to dispatch him, perhaps for the same reason for which Addison killed Sir Roger, that no other hand might attempt to exhibit him. Let meaner authours learn from this example, that it is dangerous to sell the bear which is yet not hunted, to promise to the publick what they have not written. KING LEAR The Tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakespeare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions and interests our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking opposition of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no scene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the distress or conduct of the action, and scarce a line which does not conduce to the progress of the scene. So powerful is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind, which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along. On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct it may be observed, that he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly received as true. And perhaps if we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and ignorance of the age to which this story is referred, it will appear not so unlikely as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. Such preference of one daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on such conditions, would be yet credible, if told of a petty prince of Guinea or Madagascar. Shakespeare, indeed, by the mention of his Earls and Dukes, has given us the idea of times more civilised, and of life regulated by softer manners; and the truth that though he so nicely discriminates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he commonly neglects and confounds the characters of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, English and foreign. My learned friend Mr. Warton, who has in the Adventurer very minutely criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too savage and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the simplicity of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a series by dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologise with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Gloucester's eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatick exhibition, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our authour well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote. The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief design and the opportunity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked son with the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that villany is never at a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin. But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Shakespeare has suffered the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause contrary to the natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader, and, what is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by the Spectator, who blames Tate for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares, that, in his opinion, the tragedy has lost half its beauty. Dennis has remarked, whether justly or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of Cato, "the town was poisoned with much false and abominable criticism," and that endeavours had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in which the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless be good, because it is a just representation of the common events of human life: but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or, that if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue. In the present case the publick has decided. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might relate, that I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor. ROMEO AND JULIET ACT I. SCENE ii. (I. i. 181 foll.) Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! &c. Of these lines neither the sense nor occasion is very evident. He is not yet in love with an enemy, and to love one and hate another is no such uncommon state, as can deserve all this toil of antithesis. ACT I. SCENE iii. (I. ii. 25.) Earth-treading stars that make dark HEAVEN's light. This nonsense should be reformed thus, Earth-treading stars that make dark EVEN light. --Warburton. But why nonsense? Is anything more commonly said, than that beauties eclipse the sun? Has not Pope the thought and the word? Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day. Both the old and the new reading are philosophical nonsense, but they are both, and both equally poetical sense. ACT I. SCENE iii. (I. ii. 26-8.) Such comfort as do lusty young men feel, When well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping winter treads. To say, and to say in pompous words, that a "young man shall feel" as much in an assembly of beauties, "as young men feel in the month of April," is surely to waste sound upon a very poor sentiment. I read, Such comfort as do lusty YEOMEN feel. You shall feel from the sight and conversation of these ladies such hopes of happiness and such pleasure, as the farmer receives from the spring, when the plenty of the year begins, and the prospect of the harvest fills him with delight. ACT I. SCENE iv. (l. iii. 92.) That in gold clasps locks in the golden story. The "golden story" is perhaps the "golden legend", a book in the darker ages of popery much read, and doubtless often exquisitely embellished, but of which Canus, one of the popish doctors, proclaims the author to have been homo ferrei oris, plumbei cordis. ACT I. SCENE vi. (1. v. 34.) Good cousin Capulet. This cousin Capulet is "unkle" in the paper of invitation, but as Capulet is described as old, "cousin" is probably the right word in both places. I know not how Capulet and his lady might agree, their ages were very disproportionate; he has been past masking for thirty years, and her age, as she tells Juliet is but eight and twenty. ACT I. CHORUS. (II. PROLOGUE.) The use of this chorus is not easily discovered, it conduces nothing to the progress of the play, but relates what is already known or what the next scenes will shew; and relates it without adding the improvement of any moral sentiment. ACT II. SCENE vi. (ii. vi. 15.) Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. He that travels too fast is as long before he comes to the end of his journey, as he that travels slow. Precipitation produces mishap. ACT III. SCENE i. (III. i. 2.) The day is hot. It is observed that in Italy almost all assassinations are committed during the heat of summer. ACT III. SCENE iii. (III. i. 183.) Affection makes him false. The charge of falshood on Bentivolio, though produced at hazard, is very just. The authour, who seems to intend the character of Bentiolio as good, meant perhaps to shew, how the best minds, in a state of faction and discord, are detorted to criminal partiality. ACT III. SCENE viii. (III. v. 84.) And, yet, no Man like he doth grieve my heart. Juliet's equivocations are rather too artful for a mind disturbed by the loss of a new lover. ACT IV. SCENE iii. (IV. iii. 2-3.) Leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons. Juliet plays most of her pranks under the appearance of religion: perhaps Shakespeare meant to punish her hypocrisy. ACT V. SCENE i. (V. i. 3.) My bosom's Lord sits lightly on this throne, &c. These three lines are very gay and pleasing. But why does Shakespeare give Romeo this involuntary cheerfulness just before the extremity of unhappiness? Perhaps to shew the vanity of trusting to those uncertain and casual exaltations or depressions, which many consider as certain foretokens of good and evil. ACT V. SCENE v. (v. iii. 229.) FRIAR. I will be brief. It is much to be lamented that the Poet did not conclude the dialogue with the action, and avoid a narrative of events which the audience already knew. This play is one of the most pleasing of our Author's performances. The scenes are busy and various, the incidents numerous and important, the catastrophe irresistably affecting and the process of the action carried on with such probability at least with such congruity to popular opinions, as tragedy requires. Here is one of the few attempts of Shakespeare to exhibit the conversation of gentlemen, to represent the airy sprightliness of juvenile elegance. Mr. Dryden mentions a tradition which might easily reach his time, of a declaration made by Shakespeare, that he was obliged to kill Mercutio in the third act, lest he should have been killed by him. Yet he thinks him no such formidable person, but that he might have lived through the play, and died in his bed, without danger to a poet. Dryden well knew, had he been in quest of truth, that, in a pointed sentence, more regard is commonly had to the word than the thought, and that it is very seldom to be rigorously understood. Mercutio's wit, gaiety and courage, will always procure him friends that wish him a longer life; but his death is not precipitated, he has lived out the time allotted him in the construction of the play; nor do I doubt the ability of Shakespeare to have continued his existence, though some of his sallies are perhaps out of the reach of Dryden; whose genius was not very fertile of merriment, nor ductile to humour, but acute, argumentative, comprehensive, and sublime. The Nurse is one of the characters in which the Authour delighted: he has, with great subtility of distinction, drawn her at once loquacious and secret, obsequious and insolent, trusty and dishonest. His comick scenes are happily wrought, but his pathetick strains are always polluted with some unexpected depravations. His persons, however distressed, HAVE A CONCEIT LEFT THEM IN THEIR MISERY, A MISERABLE CONCEIT. HAMLET ACT II. SCENE ii. (II. i. 114-17.) It is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions, As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. This is not the remark of a weak man. The vice of age is too much suspicion. Men long accustomed to the wiles of life "cast" commonly "beyond themselves", let their cunning go further than reason can attend it. This is always the fault of a little mind, made artful by long commerce with the world. ACT II. SCENE iv. (II. ii.) Polonius is a man bred in courts, exercised in business, stored with observation, confident of his knowledge, proud of his eloquence, and declining into dotage. His mode of oratory is truly represented as designed to ridicule the practice of those times, of prefaces that made no introduction, and of method that embarrassed rather than explained. This part of his character is accidental, the rest is natural. Such a man is positive and confident, because he knows that his mind was once strong, and knows not that it is become weak. Such a man excels in general principles, but fails in the particular application. He is knowing in retrospect, and ignorant in foresight. While he depends upon his memory, and can draw from his repositories of knowledge, he utters weighty sentences, and gives useful counsel; but as the mind in its enfeebled state cannot be kept long busy and intent, the old man is subject to sudden dereliction of his faculties, he loses the order of his ideas, and entangles himself in his own thoughts, till he recovers the leading principle, and falls again into his former train. This idea of dotage encroaching upon wisdom, will solve all the phenomena of the character of Polonius. If the dramas of Shakespeare were to be characterised, each by the particular excellence which distinguishes it from the rest, we must allow to the tragedy of HAMLET the praise of variety. The incidents are so numerous, that the argument of the play would make a long tale. The scenes are interchangeably diversified with merriment and solemnity; with merriment that includes judicious and instructive observations, and solemnity, not strained by poetical violence above the natural sentiments of man. New characters appear from time to time in continual succession, exhibiting various forms of life and particular modes of conversation. The pretended madness of HAMLET causes much mirth, the mournful distraction of OPHELIA fills the heart with tenderness, and every personage produces the effect intended, from the apparition that in the first act chills the blood with horror, to the fop in the last that exposes affectation to just contempt. The conduct is perhaps not wholly secure against objections. The action is indeed for the most part in continual progression, but there are some scenes which neither forward nor retard it. Of the feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause, for he does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity. He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty. Hamlet is, through the whole play, rather an instrument than an agent. After he has, by the stratagem of the play, convicted the King, he makes no attempt to punish him, and his death is at last effected by an incident which Hamlet has no part in producing. The catastrophe is not very happily produced; the exchange of weapons is rather an expedient of necessity, than a stroke of art. A scheme might easily have been formed, to kill Hamlet with the dagger, and Laertes with the bowl. The poet is accused of having shewn little regard to poetical justice, and may be charged with equal neglect of poetical probability. The apparition left the regions of the dead to little purpose; the revenge which he demands is not obtained but by the death of him that was required to take it; and the gratification which would arise from the destruction of an usurper and a murderer, is abated by the untimely death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the harmless, and the pious. OTHELLO ACT V. SCENE vi. (v. ii. 63-5.) Oh perjur'd woman! Thou dost stone my heart, And mak'st me call, what I intent to do, A murder, which I thought a sacrifice. This line is difficult. Thou hast harden'd my heart, and makest me kill thee with the rage of a MURDERER, when I thought to have sacraficed thee to justice with the calmness of a priest striking a victim. It must not be omitted, that one of the elder quarto's reads, "Thou dost stone THY heart:" which I suspect to be genuine. The meaning then will be, thou forcest me to dismiss thee from the world in the state of the murdered without preparation for death, when I intended that thy punishment should have been "a sacrifice" atoning for thy crime. I am glad that I have ended my revisal of this dreadful scene. It is not to be endured. The beauties of this play impress themselves so strongly upon the attention of the reader, that they can draw no aid from critical illustration. The fiery openness of Othello, magnanimous, artless, and credulous, boundless in his confidence, ardent in his affection, inflexible in his resolution, and obdurate in his revenge; the cool malignity of Iago, silent in his resentment, subtle in his designs, and studious at once of his interest and his vengeance; the soft simplicity of Desdemona, confident of merit, and conscious of innocence, her artless perseverance in her suit, and her slowness to suspect that she can be suspected, are such proofs of Shakespeare's skill in human nature, as, I suppose, it is vain to seek in any modern writer. The gradual progress which Iago makes in the Moor's conviction, and the circumstances which he employs to inflame him, are so artfully natural, that, though it will perhaps not be said of him as he says of himself, that he is "a man not esily jealous," yet we cannot but pity him when at last we find him "perplexed in the extreme." There is always danger lest wickedness conjoined with abilities should steal upon esteem, though it misses of approbation but the character if Iago is so conducted, that he is from the first scene to the last hated and despised. Event he inferiour characters of this play would be very conspicuous in any other piece, not only for their justness but their strength. Cassio is brave, benevolent, and honest, ruined only by his want of stubbornness to resist an insidious invitation of Rodegigo's suspicious credulity, and impatient submission of the cheats which he sees practised upon him, and which by persuasion he suffers to be repeated, exhibit a strong picture of a weak mind betrayed by unlawful desires, to a false friend and the virtue of AEmilia is such as we often find, worn loosely but not cast off, easy to commit small crimes, but quickend and alarmed at atrocious villanies. The Scenes from the beginning to the end are busy, varied but happy interchanges, and regularly promoting the progression of the story; and the narrative in the end, though it tells but what is known already, yet is necessary to produce the death of Othello. Had the scene opened in Cyprus, and the preceding incidents been occasionally related, there had been little wanting of a drama of the most exact and scrupulous regularity. 
2064	----	SCOTLAND*** Transcribed from the 1775 edition with the corrections noted in the 1785 errata by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk A JOURNEY TO THE WESTERN ISLANDS OF SCOTLAND INCH KEITH I had desired to visit the Hebrides, or Western Islands of Scotland, so long, that I scarcely remember how the wish was originally excited; and was in the Autumn of the year 1773 induced to undertake the journey, by finding in Mr. Boswell a companion, whose acuteness would help my inquiry, and whose gaiety of conversation and civility of manners are sufficient to counteract the inconveniences of travel, in countries less hospitable than we have passed. On the eighteenth of August we left Edinburgh, a city too well known to admit description, and directed our course northward, along the eastern coast of Scotland, accompanied the first day by another gentleman, who could stay with us only long enough to shew us how much we lost at separation. As we crossed the Frith of Forth, our curiosity was attracted by Inch Keith, a small island, which neither of my companions had ever visited, though, lying within their view, it had all their lives solicited their notice. Here, by climbing with some difficulty over shattered crags, we made the first experiment of unfrequented coasts. Inch Keith is nothing more than a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, not wholly bare of grass, and very fertile of thistles. A small herd of cows grazes annually upon it in the summer. It seems never to have afforded to man or beast a permanent habitation. We found only the ruins of a small fort, not so injured by time but that it might be easily restored to its former state. It seems never to have been intended as a place of strength, nor was built to endure a siege, but merely to afford cover to a few soldiers, who perhaps had the charge of a battery, or were stationed to give signals of approaching danger. There is therefore no provision of water within the walls, though the spring is so near, that it might have been easily enclosed. One of the stones had this inscription: 'Maria Reg. 1564.' It has probably been neglected from the time that the whole island had the same king. We left this little island with our thoughts employed awhile on the different appearance that it would have made, if it had been placed at the same distance from London, with the same facility of approach; with what emulation of price a few rocky acres would have been purchased, and with what expensive industry they would have been cultivated and adorned. When we landed, we found our chaise ready, and passed through Kinghorn, Kirkaldy, and Cowpar, places not unlike the small or straggling market- towns in those parts of England where commerce and manufactures have not yet produced opulence. Though we were yet in the most populous part of Scotland, and at so small a distance from the capital, we met few passengers. The roads are neither rough nor dirty; and it affords a southern stranger a new kind of pleasure to travel so commodiously without the interruption of toll-gates. Where the bottom is rocky, as it seems commonly to be in Scotland, a smooth way is made indeed with great labour, but it never wants repairs; and in those parts where adventitious materials are necessary, the ground once consolidated is rarely broken; for the inland commerce is not great, nor are heavy commodities often transported otherwise than by water. The carriages in common use are small carts, drawn each by one little horse; and a man seems to derive some degree of dignity and importance from the reputation of possessing a two-horse cart. ST. ANDREWS At an hour somewhat late we came to St. Andrews, a city once archiepiscopal; where that university still subsists in which philosophy was formerly taught by Buchanan, whose name has as fair a claim to immortality as can be conferred by modern latinity, and perhaps a fairer than the instability of vernacular languages admits. We found, that by the interposition of some invisible friend, lodgings had been provided for us at the house of one of the professors, whose easy civility quickly made us forget that we were strangers; and in the whole time of our stay we were gratified by every mode of kindness, and entertained with all the elegance of lettered hospitality. In the morning we rose to perambulate a city, which only history shews to have once flourished, and surveyed the ruins of ancient magnificence, of which even the ruins cannot long be visible, unless some care be taken to preserve them; and where is the pleasure of preserving such mournful memorials? They have been till very lately so much neglected, that every man carried away the stones who fancied that he wanted them. The cathedral, of which the foundations may be still traced, and a small part of the wall is standing, appears to have been a spacious and majestick building, not unsuitable to the primacy of the kingdom. Of the architecture, the poor remains can hardly exhibit, even to an artist, a sufficient specimen. It was demolished, as is well known, in the tumult and violence of Knox's reformation. Not far from the cathedral, on the margin of the water, stands a fragment of the castle, in which the archbishop anciently resided. It was never very large, and was built with more attention to security than pleasure. Cardinal Beatoun is said to have had workmen employed in improving its fortifications at the time when he was murdered by the ruffians of reformation, in the manner of which Knox has given what he himself calls a merry narrative. The change of religion in Scotland, eager and vehement as it was, raised an epidemical enthusiasm, compounded of sullen scrupulousness and warlike ferocity, which, in a people whom idleness resigned to their own thoughts, and who, conversing only with each other, suffered no dilution of their zeal from the gradual influx of new opinions, was long transmitted in its full strength from the old to the young, but by trade and intercourse with England, is now visibly abating, and giving way too fast to that laxity of practice and indifference of opinion, in which men, not sufficiently instructed to find the middle point, too easily shelter themselves from rigour and constraint. The city of St. Andrews, when it had lost its archiepiscopal pre-eminence, gradually decayed: One of its streets is now lost; and in those that remain, there is silence and solitude of inactive indigence and gloomy depopulation. The university, within a few years, consisted of three colleges, but is now reduced to two; the college of St. Leonard being lately dissolved by the sale of its buildings and the appropriation of its revenues to the professors of the two others. The chapel of the alienated college is yet standing, a fabrick not inelegant of external structure; but I was always, by some civil excuse, hindred from entering it. A decent attempt, as I was since told, has been made to convert it into a kind of green-house, by planting its area with shrubs. This new method of gardening is unsuccessful; the plants do not hitherto prosper. To what use it will next be put I have no pleasure in conjecturing. It is something that its present state is at least not ostentatiously displayed. Where there is yet shame, there may in time be virtue. The dissolution of St. Leonard's college was doubtless necessary; but of that necessity there is reason to complain. It is surely not without just reproach, that a nation, of which the commerce is hourly extending, and the wealth encreasing, denies any participation of its prosperity to its literary societies; and while its merchants or its nobles are raising palaces, suffers its universities to moulder into dust. Of the two colleges yet standing, one is by the institution of its founder appropriated to Divinity. It is said to be capable of containing fifty students; but more than one must occupy a chamber. The library, which is of late erection, is not very spacious, but elegant and luminous. The doctor, by whom it was shewn, hoped to irritate or subdue my English vanity by telling me, that we had no such repository of books in England. Saint Andrews seems to be a place eminently adapted to study and education, being situated in a populous, yet a cheap country, and exposing the minds and manners of young men neither to the levity and dissoluteness of a capital city, nor to the gross luxury of a town of commerce, places naturally unpropitious to learning; in one the desire of knowledge easily gives way to the love of pleasure, and in the other, is in danger of yielding to the love of money. The students however are represented as at this time not exceeding a hundred. Perhaps it may be some obstruction to their increase that there is no episcopal chapel in the place. I saw no reason for imputing their paucity to the present professors; nor can the expence of an academical education be very reasonably objected. A student of the highest class may keep his annual session, or as the English call it, his term, which lasts seven months, for about fifteen pounds, and one of lower rank for less than ten; in which board, lodging, and instruction are all included. The chief magistrate resident in the university, answering to our vice- chancellor, and to the _rector magnificus_ on the continent, had commonly the title of Lord Rector; but being addressed only as Mr. Rector in an inauguratory speech by the present chancellor, he has fallen from his former dignity of style. Lordship was very liberally annexed by our ancestors to any station or character of dignity: They said, the Lord General, and Lord Ambassador; so we still say, my Lord, to the judge upon the circuit, and yet retain in our Liturgy the Lords of the Council. In walking among the ruins of religious buildings, we came to two vaults over which had formerly stood the house of the sub-prior. One of the vaults was inhabited by an old woman, who claimed the right of abode there, as the widow of a man whose ancestors had possessed the same gloomy mansion for no less than four generations. The right, however it began, was considered as established by legal prescription, and the old woman lives undisturbed. She thinks however that she has a claim to something more than sufferance; for as her husband's name was Bruce, she is allied to royalty, and told Mr. Boswell that when there were persons of quality in the place, she was distinguished by some notice; that indeed she is now neglected, but she spins a thread, has the company of her cat, and is troublesome to nobody. Having now seen whatever this ancient city offered to our curiosity, we left it with good wishes, having reason to be highly pleased with the attention that was paid us. But whoever surveys the world must see many things that give him pain. The kindness of the professors did not contribute to abate the uneasy remembrance of an university declining, a college alienated, and a church profaned and hastening to the ground. St. Andrews indeed has formerly suffered more atrocious ravages and more extensive destruction, but recent evils affect with greater force. We were reconciled to the sight of archiepiscopal ruins. The distance of a calamity from the present time seems to preclude the mind from contact or sympathy. Events long past are barely known; they are not considered. We read with as little emotion the violence of Knox and his followers, as the irruptions of Alaric and the Goths. Had the university been destroyed two centuries ago, we should not have regretted it; but to see it pining in decay and struggling for life, fills the mind with mournful images and ineffectual wishes. ABERBROTHICK As we knew sorrow and wishes to be vain, it was now our business to mind our way. The roads of Scotland afford little diversion to the traveller, who seldom sees himself either encountered or overtaken, and who has nothing to contemplate but grounds that have no visible boundaries, or are separated by walls of loose stone. From the bank of the Tweed to St. Andrews I had never seen a single tree, which I did not believe to have grown up far within the present century. Now and then about a gentleman's house stands a small plantation, which in Scotch is called a policy, but of these there are few, and those few all very young. The variety of sun and shade is here utterly unknown. There is no tree for either shelter or timber. The oak and the thorn is equally a stranger, and the whole country is extended in uniform nakedness, except that in the road between Kirkaldy and Cowpar, I passed for a few yards between two hedges. A tree might be a show in Scotland as a horse in Venice. At St. Andrews Mr. Boswell found only one, and recommended it to my notice; I told him that it was rough and low, or looked as if I thought so. This, said he, is nothing to another a few miles off. I was still less delighted to hear that another tree was not to be seen nearer. Nay, said a gentleman that stood by, I know but of this and that tree in the county. The Lowlands of Scotland had once undoubtedly an equal portion of woods with other countries. Forests are every where gradually diminished, as architecture and cultivation prevail by the increase of people and the introduction of arts. But I believe few regions have been denuded like this, where many centuries must have passed in waste without the least thought of future supply. Davies observes in his account of Ireland, that no Irishman had ever planted an orchard. For that negligence some excuse might be drawn from an unsettled state of life, and the instability of property; but in Scotland possession has long been secure, and inheritance regular, yet it may be doubted whether before the Union any man between Edinburgh and England had ever set a tree. Of this improvidence no other account can be given than that it probably began in times of tumult, and continued because it had begun. Established custom is not easily broken, till some great event shakes the whole system of things, and life seems to recommence upon new principles. That before the Union the Scots had little trade and little money, is no valid apology; for plantation is the least expensive of all methods of improvement. To drop a seed into the ground can cost nothing, and the trouble is not great of protecting the young plant, till it is out of danger; though it must be allowed to have some difficulty in places like these, where they have neither wood for palisades, nor thorns for hedges. Our way was over the Firth of Tay, where, though the water was not wide, we paid four shillings for ferrying the chaise. In Scotland the necessaries of life are easily procured, but superfluities and elegancies are of the same price at least as in England, and therefore may be considered as much dearer. We stopped a while at Dundee, where I remember nothing remarkable, and mounting our chaise again, came about the close of the day to Aberbrothick. The monastery of Aberbrothick is of great renown in the history of Scotland. Its ruins afford ample testimony of its ancient magnificence: Its extent might, I suppose, easily be found by following the walls among the grass and weeds, and its height is known by some parts yet standing. The arch of one of the gates is entire, and of another only so far dilapidated as to diversify the appearance. A square apartment of great loftiness is yet standing; its use I could not conjecture, as its elevation was very disproportionate to its area. Two corner towers, particularly attracted our attention. Mr. Boswell, whose inquisitiveness is seconded by great activity, scrambled in at a high window, but found the stairs within broken, and could not reach the top. Of the other tower we were told that the inhabitants sometimes climbed it, but we did not immediately discern the entrance, and as the night was gathering upon us, thought proper to desist. Men skilled in architecture might do what we did not attempt: They might probably form an exact ground-plot of this venerable edifice. They may from some parts yet standing conjecture its general form, and perhaps by comparing it with other buildings of the same kind and the same age, attain an idea very near to truth. I should scarcely have regretted my journey, had it afforded nothing more than the sight of Aberbrothick. MONTROSE Leaving these fragments of magnificence, we travelled on to Montrose, which we surveyed in the morning, and found it well built, airy, and clean. The townhouse is a handsome fabrick with a portico. We then went to view the English chapel, and found a small church, clean to a degree unknown in any other part of Scotland, with commodious galleries, and what was yet less expected, with an organ. At our inn we did not find a reception such as we thought proportionate to the commercial opulence of the place; but Mr. Boswell desired me to observe that the innkeeper was an Englishman, and I then defended him as well as I could. When I had proceeded thus far, I had opportunities of observing what I had never heard, that there are many beggars in Scotland. In Edinburgh the proportion is, I think, not less than in London, and in the smaller places it is far greater than in English towns of the same extent. It must, however, be allowed that they are not importunate, nor clamorous. They solicit silently, or very modestly, and therefore though their behaviour may strike with more force the heart of a stranger, they are certainly in danger of missing the attention of their countrymen. Novelty has always some power, an unaccustomed mode of begging excites an unaccustomed degree of pity. But the force of novelty is by its own nature soon at an end; the efficacy of outcry and perseverance is permanent and certain. The road from Montrose exhibited a continuation of the same appearances. The country is still naked, the hedges are of stone, and the fields so generally plowed that it is hard to imagine where grass is found for the horses that till them. The harvest, which was almost ripe, appeared very plentiful. Early in the afternoon Mr. Boswell observed that we were at no great distance from the house of lord Monboddo. The magnetism of his conversation easily drew us out of our way, and the entertainment which we received would have been a sufficient recompense for a much greater deviation. The roads beyond Edinburgh, as they are less frequented, must be expected to grow gradually rougher; but they were hitherto by no means incommodious. We travelled on with the gentle pace of a Scotch driver, who having no rivals in expedition, neither gives himself nor his horses unnecessary trouble. We did not affect the impatience we did not feel, but were satisfied with the company of each other as well riding in the chaise, as sitting at an inn. The night and the day are equally solitary and equally safe; for where there are so few travellers, why should there be robbers. ABERDEEN We came somewhat late to Aberdeen, and found the inn so full, that we had some difficulty in obtaining admission, till Mr. Boswell made himself known: His name overpowered all objection, and we found a very good house and civil treatment. I received the next day a very kind letter from Sir Alexander Gordon, whom I had formerly known in London, and after a cessation of all intercourse for near twenty years met here professor of physic in the King's College. Such unexpected renewals of acquaintance may be numbered among the most pleasing incidents of life. The knowledge of one professor soon procured me the notice of the rest, and I did not want any token of regard, being conducted wherever there was any thing which I desired to see, and entertained at once with the novelty of the place, and the kindness of communication. To write of the cities of our own island with the solemnity of geographical description, as if we had been cast upon a newly discovered coast, has the appearance of very frivolous ostentation; yet as Scotland is little known to the greater part of those who may read these observations, it is not superfluous to relate, that under the name of Aberdeen are comprised two towns standing about a mile distant from each other, but governed, I think, by the same magistrates. Old Aberdeen is the ancient episcopal city, in which are still to be seen the remains of the cathedral. It has the appearance of a town in decay, having been situated in times when commerce was yet unstudied, with very little attention to the commodities of the harbour. New Aberdeen has all the bustle of prosperous trade, and all the shew of increasing opulence. It is built by the water-side. The houses are large and lofty, and the streets spacious and clean. They build almost wholly with the granite used in the new pavement of the streets of London, which is well known not to want hardness, yet they shape it easily. It is beautiful and must be very lasting. What particular parts of commerce are chiefly exercised by the merchants of Aberdeen, I have not inquired. The manufacture which forces itself upon a stranger's eye is that of knit-stockings, on which the women of the lower class are visibly employed. In each of these towns there is a college, or in stricter language, an university; for in both there are professors of the same parts of learning, and the colleges hold their sessions and confer degrees separately, with total independence of one on the other. In old Aberdeen stands the King's College, of which the first president was Hector Boece, or Boethius, who may be justly reverenced as one of the revivers of elegant learning. When he studied at Paris, he was acquainted with Erasmus, who afterwards gave him a public testimony of his esteem, by inscribing to him a catalogue of his works. The stile of Boethius, though, perhaps, not always rigorously pure, is formed with great diligence upon ancient models, and wholly uninfected with monastic barbarity. His history is written with elegance and vigour, but his fabulousness and credulity are justly blamed. His fabulousness, if he was the author of the fictions, is a fault for which no apology can be made; but his credulity may be excused in an age, when all men were credulous. Learning was then rising on the world; but ages so long accustomed to darkness, were too much dazzled with its light to see any thing distinctly. The first race of scholars, in the fifteenth century, and some time after, were, for the most part, learning to speak, rather than to think, and were therefore more studious of elegance than of truth. The contemporaries of Boethius thought it sufficient to know what the ancients had delivered. The examination of tenets and of facts was reserved for another generation. * * * * * Boethius, as president of the university, enjoyed a revenue of forty Scottish marks, about two pounds four shillings and sixpence of sterling money. In the present age of trade and taxes, it is difficult even for the imagination so to raise the value of money, or so to diminish the demands of life, as to suppose four and forty shillings a year, an honourable stipend; yet it was probably equal, not only to the needs, but to the rank of Boethius. The wealth of England was undoubtedly to that of Scotland more than five to one, and it is known that Henry the eighth, among whose faults avarice was never reckoned, granted to Roger Ascham, as a reward of his learning, a pension of ten pounds a year. The other, called the Marischal College, is in the new town. The hall is large and well lighted. One of its ornaments is the picture of Arthur Johnston, who was principal of the college, and who holds among the Latin poets of Scotland the next place to the elegant Buchanan. In the library I was shewn some curiosities; a Hebrew manuscript of exquisite penmanship, and a Latin translation of Aristotle's Politicks by Leonardus Aretinus, written in the Roman character with nicety and beauty, which, as the art of printing has made them no longer necessary, are not now to be found. This was one of the latest performances of the transcribers, for Aretinus died but about twenty years before typography was invented. This version has been printed, and may be found in libraries, but is little read; for the same books have been since translated both by Victorius and Lambinus, who lived in an age more cultivated, but perhaps owed in part to Aretinus that they were able to excel him. Much is due to those who first broke the way to knowledge, and left only to their successors the task of smoothing it. In both these colleges the methods of instruction are nearly the same; the lectures differing only by the accidental difference of diligence, or ability in the professors. The students wear scarlet gowns and the professors black, which is, I believe, the academical dress in all the Scottish universities, except that of Edinburgh, where the scholars are not distinguished by any particular habit. In the King's College there is kept a public table, but the scholars of the Marischal College are boarded in the town. The expence of living is here, according to the information that I could obtain, somewhat more than at St. Andrews. The course of education is extended to four years, at the end of which those who take a degree, who are not many, become masters of arts, and whoever is a master may, if he pleases, immediately commence doctor. The title of doctor, however, was for a considerable time bestowed only on physicians. The advocates are examined and approved by their own body; the ministers were not ambitious of titles, or were afraid of being censured for ambition; and the doctorate in every faculty was commonly given or sold into other countries. The ministers are now reconciled to distinction, and as it must always happen that some will excel others, have thought graduation a proper testimony of uncommon abilities or acquisitions. The indiscriminate collation of degrees has justly taken away that respect which they originally claimed as stamps, by which the literary value of men so distinguished was authoritatively denoted. That academical honours, or any others should be conferred with exact proportion to merit, is more than human judgment or human integrity have given reason to expect. Perhaps degrees in universities cannot be better adjusted by any general rule than by the length of time passed in the public profession of learning. An English or Irish doctorate cannot be obtained by a very young man, and it is reasonable to suppose, what is likewise by experience commonly found true, that he who is by age qualified to be a doctor, has in so much time gained learning sufficient not to disgrace the title, or wit sufficient not to desire it. The Scotch universities hold but one term or session in the year. That of St. Andrews continues eight months, that of Aberdeen only five, from the first of November to the first of April. In Aberdeen there is an English Chapel, in which the congregation was numerous and splendid. The form of public worship used by the church of England is in Scotland legally practised in licensed chapels served by clergymen of English or Irish ordination, and by tacit connivance quietly permitted in separate congregations supplied with ministers by the successors of the bishops who were deprived at the Revolution. We came to Aberdeen on Saturday August 21. On Monday we were invited into the town-hall, where I had the freedom of the city given me by the Lord Provost. The honour conferred had all the decorations that politeness could add, and what I am afraid I should not have had to say of any city south of the Tweed, I found no petty officer bowing for a fee. The parchment containing the record of admission is, with the seal appending, fastened to a riband and worn for one day by the new citizen in his hat. By a lady who saw us at the chapel, the Earl of Errol was informed of our arrival, and we had the honour of an invitation to his seat, called Slanes Castle, as I am told, improperly, from the castle of that name, which once stood at a place not far distant. The road beyond Aberdeen grew more stony, and continued equally naked of all vegetable decoration. We travelled over a tract of ground near the sea, which, not long ago, suffered a very uncommon, and unexpected calamity. The sand of the shore was raised by a tempest in such quantities, and carried to such a distance, that an estate was overwhelmed and lost. Such and so hopeless was the barrenness superinduced, that the owner, when he was required to pay the usual tax, desired rather to resign the ground. SLANES CASTLE, THE BULLER OF BUCHAN We came in the afternoon to Slanes Castle, built upon the margin of the sea, so that the walls of one of the towers seem only a continuation of a perpendicular rock, the foot of which is beaten by the waves. To walk round the house seemed impracticable. From the windows the eye wanders over the sea that separates Scotland from Norway, and when the winds beat with violence must enjoy all the terrifick grandeur of the tempestuous ocean. I would not for my amusement wish for a storm; but as storms, whether wished or not, will sometimes happen, I may say, without violation of humanity, that I should willingly look out upon them from Slanes Castle. When we were about to take our leave, our departure was prohibited by the countess till we should have seen two places upon the coast, which she rightly considered as worthy of curiosity, Dun Buy, and the Buller of Buchan, to which Mr. Boyd very kindly conducted us. Dun Buy, which in Erse is said to signify the Yellow Rock, is a double protuberance of stone, open to the main sea on one side, and parted from the land by a very narrow channel on the other. It has its name and its colour from the dung of innumerable sea-fowls, which in the Spring chuse this place as convenient for incubation, and have their eggs and their young taken in great abundance. One of the birds that frequent this rock has, as we were told, its body not larger than a duck's, and yet lays eggs as large as those of a goose. This bird is by the inhabitants named a Coot. That which is called Coot in England, is here a Cooter. Upon these rocks there was nothing that could long detain attention, and we soon turned our eyes to the Buller, or Bouilloir of Buchan, which no man can see with indifference, who has either sense of danger or delight in rarity. It is a rock perpendicularly tubulated, united on one side with a high shore, and on the other rising steep to a great height, above the main sea. The top is open, from which may be seen a dark gulf of water which flows into the cavity, through a breach made in the lower part of the inclosing rock. It has the appearance of a vast well bordered with a wall. The edge of the Buller is not wide, and to those that walk round, appears very narrow. He that ventures to look downward sees, that if his foot should slip, he must fall from his dreadful elevation upon stones on one side, or into water on the other. We however went round, and were glad when the circuit was completed. When we came down to the sea, we saw some boats, and rowers, and resolved to explore the Buller at the bottom. We entered the arch, which the water had made, and found ourselves in a place, which, though we could not think ourselves in danger, we could scarcely survey without some recoil of the mind. The bason in which we floated was nearly circular, perhaps thirty yards in diameter. We were inclosed by a natural wall, rising steep on every side to a height which produced the idea of insurmountable confinement. The interception of all lateral light caused a dismal gloom. Round us was a perpendicular rock, above us the distant sky, and below an unknown profundity of water. If I had any malice against a walking spirit, instead of laying him in the Red-sea, I would condemn him to reside in the Buller of Buchan. But terrour without danger is only one of the sports of fancy, a voluntary agitation of the mind that is permitted no longer than it pleases. We were soon at leisure to examine the place with minute inspection, and found many cavities which, as the waterman told us, went backward to a depth which they had never explored. Their extent we had not time to try; they are said to serve different purposes. Ladies come hither sometimes in the summer with collations, and smugglers make them storehouses for clandestine merchandise. It is hardly to be doubted but the pirates of ancient times often used them as magazines of arms, or repositories of plunder. To the little vessels used by the northern rovers, the Buller may have served as a shelter from storms, and perhaps as a retreat from enemies; the entrance might have been stopped, or guarded with little difficulty, and though the vessels that were stationed within would have been battered with stones showered on them from above, yet the crews would have lain safe in the caverns. Next morning we continued our journey, pleased with our reception at Slanes Castle, of which we had now leisure to recount the grandeur and the elegance; for our way afforded us few topics of conversation. The ground was neither uncultivated nor unfruitful; but it was still all arable. Of flocks or herds there was no appearance. I had now travelled two hundred miles in Scotland, and seen only one tree not younger than myself. BAMFF We dined this day at the house of Mr. Frazer of Streichton, who shewed us in his grounds some stones yet standing of a druidical circle, and what I began to think more worthy of notice, some forest trees of full growth. At night we came to Bamff, where I remember nothing that particularly claimed my attention. The ancient towns of Scotland have generally an appearance unusual to Englishmen. The houses, whether great or small, are for the most part built of stones. Their ends are now and then next the streets, and the entrance into them is very often by a flight of steps, which reaches up to the second story, the floor which is level with the ground being entered only by stairs descending within the house. The art of joining squares of glass with lead is little used in Scotland, and in some places is totally forgotten. The frames of their windows are all of wood. They are more frugal of their glass than the English, and will often, in houses not otherwise mean, compose a square of two pieces, not joining like cracked glass, but with one edge laid perhaps half an inch over the other. Their windows do not move upon hinges, but are pushed up and drawn down in grooves, yet they are seldom accommodated with weights and pullies. He that would have his window open must hold it with his hand, unless what may be sometimes found among good contrivers, there be a nail which he may stick into a hole, to keep it from falling. What cannot be done without some uncommon trouble or particular expedient, will not often be done at all. The incommodiousness of the Scotch windows keeps them very closely shut. The necessity of ventilating human habitations has not yet been found by our northern neighbours; and even in houses well built and elegantly furnished, a stranger may be sometimes forgiven, if he allows himself to wish for fresher air. These diminutive observations seem to take away something from the dignity of writing, and therefore are never communicated but with hesitation, and a little fear of abasement and contempt. But it must be remembered, that life consists not of a series of illustrious actions, or elegant enjoyments; the greater part of our time passes in compliance with necessities, in the performance of daily duties, in the removal of small inconveniences, in the procurement of petty pleasures; and we are well or ill at ease, as the main stream of life glides on smoothly, or is ruffled by small obstacles and frequent interruption. The true state of every nation is the state of common life. The manners of a people are not to be found in the schools of learning, or the palaces of greatness, where the national character is obscured or obliterated by travel or instruction, by philosophy or vanity; nor is public happiness to be estimated by the assemblies of the gay, or the banquets of the rich. The great mass of nations is neither rich nor gay: they whose aggregate constitutes the people, are found in the streets, and the villages, in the shops and farms; and from them collectively considered, must the measure of general prosperity be taken. As they approach to delicacy a nation is refined, as their conveniences are multiplied, a nation, at least a commercial nation, must be denominated wealthy. ELGIN Finding nothing to detain us at Bamff, we set out in the morning, and having breakfasted at Cullen, about noon came to Elgin, where in the inn, that we supposed the best, a dinner was set before us, which we could not eat. This was the first time, and except one, the last, that I found any reason to complain of a Scotish table; and such disappointments, I suppose, must be expected in every country, where there is no great frequency of travellers. The ruins of the cathedral of Elgin afforded us another proof of the waste of reformation. There is enough yet remaining to shew, that it was once magnificent. Its whole plot is easily traced. On the north side of the choir, the chapter-house, which is roofed with an arch of stone, remains entire; and on the south side, another mass of building, which we could not enter, is preserved by the care of the family of Gordon; but the body of the church is a mass of fragments. A paper was here put into our hands, which deduced from sufficient authorities the history of this venerable ruin. The church of Elgin had, in the intestine tumults of the barbarous ages, been laid waste by the irruption of a highland chief, whom the bishop had offended; but it was gradually restored to the state, of which the traces may be now discerned, and was at last not destroyed by the tumultuous violence of Knox, but more shamefully suffered to dilapidate by deliberate robbery and frigid indifference. There is still extant, in the books of the council, an order, of which I cannot remember the date, but which was doubtless issued after the Reformation, directing that the lead, which covers the two cathedrals of Elgin and Aberdeen, shall be taken away, and converted into money for the support of the army. A Scotch army was in those times very cheaply kept; yet the lead of two churches must have born so small a proportion to any military expence, that it is hard not to believe the reason alleged to be merely popular, and the money intended for some private purse. The order however was obeyed; the two churches were stripped, and the lead was shipped to be sold in Holland. I hope every reader will rejoice that this cargo of sacrilege was lost at sea. Let us not however make too much haste to despise our neighbours. Our own cathedrals are mouldering by unregarded dilapidation. It seems to be part of the despicable philosophy of the time to despise monuments of sacred magnificence, and we are in danger of doing that deliberately, which the Scots did not do but in the unsettled state of an imperfect constitution. Those who had once uncovered the cathedrals never wished to cover them again; and being thus made useless, they were, first neglected, and perhaps, as the stone was wanted, afterwards demolished. Elgin seems a place of little trade, and thinly inhabited. The episcopal cities of Scotland, I believe, generally fell with their churches, though some of them have since recovered by a situation convenient for commerce. Thus Glasgow, though it has no longer an archbishop, has risen beyond its original state by the opulence of its traders; and Aberdeen, though its ancient stock had decayed, flourishes by a new shoot in another place. In the chief street of Elgin, the houses jut over the lowest story, like the old buildings of timber in London, but with greater prominence; so that there is sometimes a walk for a considerable length under a cloister, or portico, which is now indeed frequently broken, because the new houses have another form, but seems to have been uniformly continued in the old city. FORES. CALDER. FORT GEORGE We went forwards the same day to Fores, the town to which Macbeth was travelling, when he met the weird sisters in his way. This to an Englishman is classic ground. Our imaginations were heated, and our thoughts recalled to their old amusements. We had now a prelude to the Highlands. We began to leave fertility and culture behind us, and saw for a great length of road nothing but heath; yet at Fochabars, a seat belonging to the duke of Gordon, there is an orchard, which in Scotland I had never seen before, with some timber trees, and a plantation of oaks. At Fores we found good accommodation, but nothing worthy of particular remark, and next morning entered upon the road, on which Macbeth heard the fatal prediction; but we travelled on not interrupted by promises of kingdoms, and came to Nairn, a royal burgh, which, if once it flourished, is now in a state of miserable decay; but I know not whether its chief annual magistrate has not still the title of Lord Provost. At Nairn we may fix the verge of the Highlands; for here I first saw peat fires, and first heard the Erse language. We had no motive to stay longer than to breakfast, and went forward to the house of Mr. Macaulay, the minister who published an account of St. Kilda, and by his direction visited Calder Castle, from which Macbeth drew his second title. It has been formerly a place of strength. The drawbridge is still to be seen, but the moat is now dry. The tower is very ancient: Its walls are of great thickness, arched on the top with stone, and surrounded with battlements. The rest of the house is later, though far from modern. We were favoured by a gentleman, who lives in the castle, with a letter to one of the officers at Fort George, which being the most regular fortification in the island, well deserves the notice of a traveller, who has never travelled before. We went thither next day, found a very kind reception, were led round the works by a gentleman, who explained the use of every part, and entertained by Sir Eyre Coote, the governour, with such elegance of conversation as left us no attention to the delicacies of his table. Of Fort George I shall not attempt to give any account. I cannot delineate it scientifically, and a loose and popular description is of use only when the imagination is to be amused. There was every where an appearance of the utmost neatness and regularity. But my suffrage is of little value, because this and Fort Augustus are the only garrisons that I ever saw. We did not regret the time spent at the fort, though in consequence of our delay we came somewhat late to Inverness, the town which may properly be called the capital of the Highlands. Hither the inhabitants of the inland parts come to be supplied with what they cannot make for themselves: Hither the young nymphs of the mountains and valleys are sent for education, and as far as my observation has reached, are not sent in vain. INVERNESS Inverness was the last place which had a regular communication by high roads with the southern counties. All the ways beyond it have, I believe, been made by the soldiers in this century. At Inverness therefore Cromwell, when he subdued Scotland, stationed a garrison, as at the boundary of the Highlands. The soldiers seem to have incorporated afterwards with the inhabitants, and to have peopled the place with an English race; for the language of this town has been long considered as peculiarly elegant. Here is a castle, called the castle of Macbeth, the walls of which are yet standing. It was no very capacious edifice, but stands upon a rock so high and steep, that I think it was once not accessible, but by the help of ladders, or a bridge. Over against it, on another hill, was a fort built by Cromwell, now totally demolished; for no faction of Scotland loved the name of Cromwell, or had any desire to continue his memory. Yet what the Romans did to other nations, was in a great degree done by Cromwell to the Scots; he civilized them by conquest, and introduced by useful violence the arts of peace. I was told at Aberdeen that the people learned from Cromwell's soldiers to make shoes and to plant kail. How they lived without kail, it is not easy to guess: They cultivate hardly any other plant for common tables, and when they had not kail they probably had nothing. The numbers that go barefoot are still sufficient to shew that shoes may be spared: They are not yet considered as necessaries of life; for tall boys, not otherwise meanly dressed, run without them in the streets; and in the islands the sons of gentlemen pass several of their first years with naked feet. I know not whether it be not peculiar to the Scots to have attained the liberal, without the manual arts, to have excelled in ornamental knowledge, and to have wanted not only the elegancies, but the conveniences of common life. Literature soon after its revival found its way to Scotland, and from the middle of the sixteenth century, almost to the middle of the seventeenth, the politer studies were very diligently pursued. The Latin poetry of _Deliciae Poetarum Scotorum_ would have done honour to any nation, at least till the publication of _May's Supplement_ the English had very little to oppose. Yet men thus ingenious and inquisitive were content to live in total ignorance of the trades by which human wants are supplied, and to supply them by the grossest means. Till the Union made them acquainted with English manners, the culture of their lands was unskilful, and their domestick life unformed; their tables were coarse as the feasts of Eskimeaux, and their houses filthy as the cottages of Hottentots. Since they have known that their condition was capable of improvement, their progress in useful knowledge has been rapid and uniform. What remains to be done they will quickly do, and then wonder, like me, why that which was so necessary and so easy was so long delayed. But they must be for ever content to owe to the English that elegance and culture, which, if they had been vigilant and active, perhaps the English might have owed to them. Here the appearance of life began to alter. I had seen a few women with plaids at Aberdeen; but at Inverness the Highland manners are common. There is I think a kirk, in which only the Erse language is used. There is likewise an English chapel, but meanly built, where on Sunday we saw a very decent congregation. We were now to bid farewel to the luxury of travelling, and to enter a country upon which perhaps no wheel has ever rolled. We could indeed have used our post-chaise one day longer, along the military road to Fort Augustus, but we could have hired no horses beyond Inverness, and we were not so sparing of ourselves, as to lead them, merely that we might have one day longer the indulgence of a carriage. At Inverness therefore we procured three horses for ourselves and a servant, and one more for our baggage, which was no very heavy load. We found in the course of our journey the convenience of having disencumbered ourselves, by laying aside whatever we could spare; for it is not to be imagined without experience, how in climbing crags, and treading bogs, and winding through narrow and obstructed passages, a little bulk will hinder, and a little weight will burthen; or how often a man that has pleased himself at home with his own resolution, will, in the hour of darkness and fatigue, be content to leave behind him every thing but himself. LOUGH NESS We took two Highlanders to run beside us, partly to shew us the way, and partly to take back from the sea-side the horses, of which they were the owners. One of them was a man of great liveliness and activity, of whom his companion said, that he would tire any horse in Inverness. Both of them were civil and ready-handed. Civility seems part of the national character of Highlanders. Every chieftain is a monarch, and politeness, the natural product of royal government, is diffused from the laird through the whole clan. But they are not commonly dexterous: their narrowness of life confines them to a few operations, and they are accustomed to endure little wants more than to remove them. We mounted our steeds on the thirtieth of August, and directed our guides to conduct us to Fort Augustus. It is built at the head of Lough Ness, of which Inverness stands at the outlet. The way between them has been cut by the soldiers, and the greater part of it runs along a rock, levelled with great labour and exactness, near the water-side. Most of this day's journey was very pleasant. The day, though bright, was not hot; and the appearance of the country, if I had not seen the Peak, would have been wholly new. We went upon a surface so hard and level, that we had little care to hold the bridle, and were therefore at full leisure for contemplation. On the left were high and steep rocks shaded with birch, the hardy native of the North, and covered with fern or heath. On the right the limpid waters of Lough Ness were beating their bank, and waving their surface by a gentle agitation. Beyond them were rocks sometimes covered with verdure, and sometimes towering in horrid nakedness. Now and then we espied a little cornfield, which served to impress more strongly the general barrenness. Lough Ness is about twenty-four miles long, and from one mile to two miles broad. It is remarkable that Boethius, in his description of Scotland, gives it twelve miles of breadth. When historians or geographers exhibit false accounts of places far distant, they may be forgiven, because they can tell but what they are told; and that their accounts exceed the truth may be justly supposed, because most men exaggerate to others, if not to themselves: but Boethius lived at no great distance; if he never saw the lake, he must have been very incurious, and if he had seen it, his veracity yielded to very slight temptations. Lough Ness, though not twelve miles broad, is a very remarkable diffusion of water without islands. It fills a large hollow between two ridges of high rocks, being supplied partly by the torrents which fall into it on either side, and partly, as is supposed, by springs at the bottom. Its water is remarkably clear and pleasant, and is imagined by the natives to be medicinal. We were told, that it is in some places a hundred and forty fathoms deep, a profundity scarcely credible, and which probably those that relate it have never sounded. Its fish are salmon, trout, and pike. It was said at fort Augustus, that Lough Ness is open in the hardest winters, though a lake not far from it is covered with ice. In discussing these exceptions from the course of nature, the first question is, whether the fact be justly stated. That which is strange is delightful, and a pleasing error is not willingly detected. Accuracy of narration is not very common, and there are few so rigidly philosophical, as not to represent as perpetual, what is only frequent, or as constant, what is really casual. If it be true that Lough Ness never freezes, it is either sheltered by its high banks from the cold blasts, and exposed only to those winds which have more power to agitate than congeal; or it is kept in perpetual motion by the rush of streams from the rocks that inclose it. Its profundity though it should be such as is represented can have little part in this exemption; for though deep wells are not frozen, because their water is secluded from the external air, yet where a wide surface is exposed to the full influence of a freezing atmosphere, I know not why the depth should keep it open. Natural philosophy is now one of the favourite studies of the Scottish nation, and Lough Ness well deserves to be diligently examined. The road on which we travelled, and which was itself a source of entertainment, is made along the rock, in the direction of the lough, sometimes by breaking off protuberances, and sometimes by cutting the great mass of stone to a considerable depth. The fragments are piled in a loose wall on either side, with apertures left at very short spaces, to give a passage to the wintry currents. Part of it is bordered with low trees, from which our guides gathered nuts, and would have had the appearance of an English lane, except that an English lane is almost always dirty. It has been made with great labour, but has this advantage, that it cannot, without equal labour, be broken up. Within our sight there were goats feeding or playing. The mountains have red deer, but they came not within view; and if what is said of their vigilance and subtlety be true, they have some claim to that palm of wisdom, which the eastern philosopher, whom Alexander interrogated, gave to those beasts which live furthest from men. Near the way, by the water side, we espied a cottage. This was the first Highland Hut that I had seen; and as our business was with life and manners, we were willing to visit it. To enter a habitation without leave, seems to be not considered here as rudeness or intrusion. The old laws of hospitality still give this licence to a stranger. A hut is constructed with loose stones, ranged for the most part with some tendency to circularity. It must be placed where the wind cannot act upon it with violence, because it has no cement; and where the water will run easily away, because it has no floor but the naked ground. The wall, which is commonly about six feet high, declines from the perpendicular a little inward. Such rafters as can be procured are then raised for a roof, and covered with heath, which makes a strong and warm thatch, kept from flying off by ropes of twisted heath, of which the ends, reaching from the center of the thatch to the top of the wall, are held firm by the weight of a large stone. No light is admitted but at the entrance, and through a hole in the thatch, which gives vent to the smoke. This hole is not directly over the fire, lest the rain should extinguish it; and the smoke therefore naturally fills the place before it escapes. Such is the general structure of the houses in which one of the nations of this opulent and powerful island has been hitherto content to live. Huts however are not more uniform than palaces; and this which we were inspecting was very far from one of the meanest, for it was divided into several apartments; and its inhabitants possessed such property as a pastoral poet might exalt into riches. When we entered, we found an old woman boiling goats-flesh in a kettle. She spoke little English, but we had interpreters at hand; and she was willing enough to display her whole system of economy. She has five children, of which none are yet gone from her. The eldest, a boy of thirteen, and her husband, who is eighty years old, were at work in the wood. Her two next sons were gone to Inverness to buy meal, by which oatmeal is always meant. Meal she considered as expensive food, and told us, that in Spring, when the goats gave milk, the children could live without it. She is mistress of sixty goats, and I saw many kids in an enclosure at the end of her house. She had also some poultry. By the lake we saw a potatoe-garden, and a small spot of ground on which stood four shucks, containing each twelve sheaves of barley. She has all this from the labour of their own hands, and for what is necessary to be bought, her kids and her chickens are sent to market. With the true pastoral hospitality, she asked us to sit down and drink whisky. She is religious, and though the kirk is four miles off, probably eight English miles, she goes thither every Sunday. We gave her a shilling, and she begged snuff; for snuff is the luxury of a Highland cottage. Soon afterwards we came to the General's Hut, so called because it was the temporary abode of Wade, while he superintended the works upon the road. It is now a house of entertainment for passengers, and we found it not ill stocked with provisions. FALL OF FIERS Towards evening we crossed, by a bridge, the river which makes the celebrated fall of Fiers. The country at the bridge strikes the imagination with all the gloom and grandeur of Siberian solitude. The way makes a flexure, and the mountains, covered with trees, rise at once on the left hand and in the front. We desired our guides to shew us the fall, and dismounting, clambered over very rugged crags, till I began to wish that our curiosity might have been gratified with less trouble and danger. We came at last to a place where we could overlook the river, and saw a channel torn, as it seems, through black piles of stone, by which the stream is obstructed and broken, till it comes to a very steep descent, of such dreadful depth, that we were naturally inclined to turn aside our eyes. But we visited the place at an unseasonable time, and found it divested of its dignity and terror. Nature never gives every thing at once. A long continuance of dry weather, which made the rest of the way easy and delightful, deprived us of the pleasure expected from the fall of Fiers. The river having now no water but what the springs supply, showed us only a swift current, clear and shallow, fretting over the asperities of the rocky bottom, and we were left to exercise our thoughts, by endeavouring to conceive the effect of a thousand streams poured from the mountains into one channel, struggling for expansion in a narrow passage, exasperated by rocks rising in their way, and at last discharging all their violence of waters by a sudden fall through the horrid chasm. The way now grew less easy, descending by an uneven declivity, but without either dirt or danger. We did not arrive at Fort Augustus till it was late. Mr. Boswell, who, between his father's merit and his own, is sure of reception wherever he comes, sent a servant before to beg admission and entertainment for that night. Mr. Trapaud, the governor, treated us with that courtesy which is so closely connected with the military character. He came out to meet us beyond the gates, and apologized that, at so late an hour, the rules of a garrison suffered him to give us entrance only at the postern. FORT AUGUSTUS In the morning we viewed the fort, which is much less than that of St. George, and is said to be commanded by the neighbouring hills. It was not long ago taken by the Highlanders. But its situation seems well chosen for pleasure, if not for strength; it stands at the head of the lake, and, by a sloop of sixty tuns, is supplied from Inverness with great convenience. We were now to cross the Highlands towards the western coast, and to content ourselves with such accommodations, as a way so little frequented could afford. The journey was not formidable, for it was but of two days, very unequally divided, because the only house, where we could be entertained, was not further off than a third of the way. We soon came to a high hill, which we mounted by a military road, cut in traverses, so that as we went upon a higher stage, we saw the baggage following us below in a contrary direction. To make this way, the rock has been hewn to a level with labour that might have broken the perseverance of a Roman legion. The country is totally denuded of its wood, but the stumps both of oaks and firs, which are still found, shew that it has been once a forest of large timber. I do not remember that we saw any animals, but we were told that, in the mountains, there are stags, roebucks, goats and rabbits. We did not perceive that this tract was possessed by human beings, except that once we saw a corn field, in which a lady was walking with some gentlemen. Their house was certainly at no great distance, but so situated that we could not descry it. Passing on through the dreariness of solitude, we found a party of soldiers from the fort, working on the road, under the superintendence of a serjeant. We told them how kindly we had been treated at the garrison, and as we were enjoying the benefit of their labours, begged leave to shew our gratitude by a small present. ANOCH Early in the afternoon we came to Anoch, a village in Glenmollison of three huts, one of which is distinguished by a chimney. Here we were to dine and lodge, and were conducted through the first room, that had the chimney, into another lighted by a small glass window. The landlord attended us with great civility, and told us what he could give us to eat and drink. I found some books on a shelf, among which were a volume or more of Prideaux's Connection. This I mentioned as something unexpected, and perceived that I did not please him. I praised the propriety of his language, and was answered that I need not wonder, for he had learned it by grammar. By subsequent opportunities of observation, I found that my host's diction had nothing peculiar. Those Highlanders that can speak English, commonly speak it well, with few of the words, and little of the tone by which a Scotchman is distinguished. Their language seems to have been learned in the army or the navy, or by some communication with those who could give them good examples of accent and pronunciation. By their Lowland neighbours they would not willingly be taught; for they have long considered them as a mean and degenerate race. These prejudices are wearing fast away; but so much of them still remains, that when I asked a very learned minister in the islands, which they considered as their most savage clans: 'Those,' said he, 'that live next the Lowlands.' As we came hither early in the day, we had time sufficient to survey the place. The house was built like other huts of loose stones, but the part in which we dined and slept was lined with turf and wattled with twigs, which kept the earth from falling. Near it was a garden of turnips and a field of potatoes. It stands in a glen, or valley, pleasantly watered by a winding river. But this country, however it may delight the gazer or amuse the naturalist, is of no great advantage to its owners. Our landlord told us of a gentleman, who possesses lands, eighteen Scotch miles in length, and three in breadth; a space containing at least a hundred square English miles. He has raised his rents, to the danger of depopulating his farms, and he fells his timber, and by exerting every art of augmentation, has obtained an yearly revenue of four hundred pounds, which for a hundred square miles is three halfpence an acre. Some time after dinner we were surprised by the entrance of a young woman, not inelegant either in mien or dress, who asked us whether we would have tea. We found that she was the daughter of our host, and desired her to make it. Her conversation, like her appearance, was gentle and pleasing. We knew that the girls of the Highlands are all gentlewomen, and treated her with great respect, which she received as customary and due, and was neither elated by it, nor confused, but repaid my civilities without embarassment, and told me how much I honoured her country by coming to survey it. She had been at Inverness to gain the common female qualifications, and had, like her father, the English pronunciation. I presented her with a book, which I happened to have about me, and should not be pleased to think that she forgets me. In the evening the soldiers, whom we had passed on the road, came to spend at our inn the little money that we had given them. They had the true military impatience of coin in their pockets, and had marched at least six miles to find the first place where liquor could be bought. Having never been before in a place so wild and unfrequented, I was glad of their arrival, because I knew that we had made them friends, and to gain still more of their good will, we went to them, where they were carousing in the barn, and added something to our former gift. All that we gave was not much, but it detained them in the barn, either merry or quarrelling, the whole night, and in the morning they went back to their work, with great indignation at the bad qualities of whisky. We had gained so much the favour of our host, that, when we left his house in the morning, he walked by us a great way, and entertained us with conversation both on his own condition, and that of the country. His life seemed to be merely pastoral, except that he differed from some of the ancient Nomades in having a settled dwelling. His wealth consists of one hundred sheep, as many goats, twelve milk-cows, and twenty-eight beeves ready for the drover. From him we first heard of the general dissatisfaction, which is now driving the Highlanders into the other hemisphere; and when I asked him whether they would stay at home, if they were well treated, he answered with indignation, that no man willingly left his native country. Of the farm, which he himself occupied, the rent had, in twenty-five years, been advanced from five to twenty pounds, which he found himself so little able to pay, that he would be glad to try his fortune in some other place. Yet he owned the reasonableness of raising the Highland rents in a certain degree, and declared himself willing to pay ten pounds for the ground which he had formerly had for five. Our host having amused us for a time, resigned us to our guides. The journey of this day was long, not that the distance was great, but that the way was difficult. We were now in the bosom of the Highlands, with full leisure to contemplate the appearance and properties of mountainous regions, such as have been, in many countries, the last shelters of national distress, and are every where the scenes of adventures, stratagems, surprises and escapes. Mountainous countries are not passed but with difficulty, not merely from the labour of climbing; for to climb is not always necessary: but because that which is not mountain is commonly bog, through which the way must be picked with caution. Where there are hills, there is much rain, and the torrents pouring down into the intermediate spaces, seldom find so ready an outlet, as not to stagnate, till they have broken the texture of the ground. Of the hills, which our journey offered to the view on either side, we did not take the height, nor did we see any that astonished us with their loftiness. Towards the summit of one, there was a white spot, which I should have called a naked rock, but the guides, who had better eyes, and were acquainted with the phenomena of the country, declared it to be snow. It had already lasted to the end of August, and was likely to maintain its contest with the sun, till it should be reinforced by winter. The height of mountains philosophically considered is properly computed from the surface of the next sea; but as it affects the eye or imagination of the passenger, as it makes either a spectacle or an obstruction, it must be reckoned from the place where the rise begins to make a considerable angle with the plain. In extensive continents the land may, by gradual elevation, attain great height, without any other appearance than that of a plane gently inclined, and if a hill placed upon such raised ground be described, as having its altitude equal to the whole space above the sea, the representation will be fallacious. These mountains may be properly enough measured from the inland base; for it is not much above the sea. As we advanced at evening towards the western coast, I did not observe the declivity to be greater than is necessary for the discharge of the inland waters. We passed many rivers and rivulets, which commonly ran with a clear shallow stream over a hard pebbly bottom. These channels, which seem so much wider than the water that they convey would naturally require, are formed by the violence of wintry floods, produced by the accumulation of innumerable streams that fall in rainy weather from the hills, and bursting away with resistless impetuosity, make themselves a passage proportionate to their mass. Such capricious and temporary waters cannot be expected to produce many fish. The rapidity of the wintry deluge sweeps them away, and the scantiness of the summer stream would hardly sustain them above the ground. This is the reason why in fording the northern rivers, no fishes are seen, as in England, wandering in the water. Of the hills many may be called with Homer's Ida 'abundant in springs', but few can deserve the epithet which he bestows upon Pelion by 'waving their leaves.' They exhibit very little variety; being almost wholly covered with dark heath, and even that seems to be checked in its growth. What is not heath is nakedness, a little diversified by now and then a stream rushing down the steep. An eye accustomed to flowery pastures and waving harvests is astonished and repelled by this wide extent of hopeless sterility. The appearance is that of matter incapable of form or usefulness, dismissed by nature from her care and disinherited of her favours, left in its original elemental state, or quickened only with one sullen power of useless vegetation. It will very readily occur, that this uniformity of barrenness can afford very little amusement to the traveller; that it is easy to sit at home and conceive rocks and heath, and waterfalls; and that these journeys are useless labours, which neither impregnate the imagination, nor enlarge the understanding. It is true that of far the greater part of things, we must content ourselves with such knowledge as description may exhibit, or analogy supply; but it is true likewise, that these ideas are always incomplete, and that at least, till we have compared them with realities, we do not know them to be just. As we see more, we become possessed of more certainties, and consequently gain more principles of reasoning, and found a wider basis of analogy. Regions mountainous and wild, thinly inhabited, and little cultivated, make a great part of the earth, and he that has never seen them, must live unacquainted with much of the face of nature, and with one of the great scenes of human existence. As the day advanced towards noon, we entered a narrow valley not very flowery, but sufficiently verdant. Our guides told us, that the horses could not travel all day without rest or meat, and intreated us to stop here, because no grass would be found in any other place. The request was reasonable and the argument cogent. We therefore willingly dismounted and diverted ourselves as the place gave us opportunity. I sat down on a bank, such as a writer of Romance might have delighted to feign. I had indeed no trees to whisper over my head, but a clear rivulet streamed at my feet. The day was calm, the air soft, and all was rudeness, silence, and solitude. Before me, and on either side, were high hills, which by hindering the eye from ranging, forced the mind to find entertainment for itself. Whether I spent the hour well I know not; for here I first conceived the thought of this narration. We were in this place at ease and by choice, and had no evils to suffer or to fear; yet the imaginations excited by the view of an unknown and untravelled wilderness are not such as arise in the artificial solitude of parks and gardens, a flattering notion of self-sufficiency, a placid indulgence of voluntary delusions, a secure expansion of the fancy, or a cool concentration of the mental powers. The phantoms which haunt a desert are want, and misery, and danger; the evils of dereliction rush upon the thoughts; man is made unwillingly acquainted with his own weakness, and meditation shows him only how little he can sustain, and how little he can perform. There were no traces of inhabitants, except perhaps a rude pile of clods called a summer hut, in which a herdsman had rested in the favourable seasons. Whoever had been in the place where I then sat, unprovided with provisions and ignorant of the country, might, at least before the roads were made, have wandered among the rocks, till he had perished with hardship, before he could have found either food or shelter. Yet what are these hillocks to the ridges of Taurus, or these spots of wildness to the desarts of America? It was not long before we were invited to mount, and continued our journey along the side of a lough, kept full by many streams, which with more or less rapidity and noise, crossed the road from the hills on the other hand. These currents, in their diminished state, after several dry months, afford, to one who has always lived in level countries, an unusual and delightful spectacle; but in the rainy season, such as every winter may be expected to bring, must precipitate an impetuous and tremendous flood. I suppose the way by which we went, is at that time impassable. GLENSHEALS The lough at last ended in a river broad and shallow like the rest, but that it may be passed when it is deeper, there is a bridge over it. Beyond it is a valley called Glensheals, inhabited by the clan of Macrae. Here we found a village called Auknasheals, consisting of many huts, perhaps twenty, built all of dry-stone, that is, stones piled up without mortar. We had, by the direction of the officers at Fort Augustus, taken bread for ourselves, and tobacco for those Highlanders who might show us any kindness. We were now at a place where we could obtain milk, but we must have wanted bread if we had not brought it. The people of this valley did not appear to know any English, and our guides now became doubly necessary as interpreters. A woman, whose hut was distinguished by greater spaciousness and better architecture, brought out some pails of milk. The villagers gathered about us in considerable numbers, I believe without any evil intention, but with a very savage wildness of aspect and manner. When our meal was over, Mr. Boswell sliced the bread, and divided it amongst them, as he supposed them never to have tasted a wheaten loaf before. He then gave them little pieces of twisted tobacco, and among the children we distributed a small handful of halfpence, which they received with great eagerness. Yet I have been since told, that the people of that valley are not indigent; and when we mentioned them afterwards as needy and pitiable, a Highland lady let us know, that we might spare our commiseration; for the dame whose milk we drank had probably more than a dozen milk-cows. She seemed unwilling to take any price, but being pressed to make a demand, at last named a shilling. Honesty is not greater where elegance is less. One of the bystanders, as we were told afterwards, advised her to ask for more, but she said a shilling was enough. We gave her half a crown, and I hope got some credit for our behaviour; for the company said, if our interpreters did not flatter us, that they had not seen such a day since the old laird of Macleod passed through their country. The Macraes, as we heard afterwards in the Hebrides, were originally an indigent and subordinate clan, and having no farms nor stock, were in great numbers servants to the Maclellans, who, in the war of Charles the First, took arms at the call of the heroic Montrose, and were, in one of his battles, almost all destroyed. The women that were left at home, being thus deprived of their husbands, like the Scythian ladies of old, married their servants, and the Macraes became a considerable race. THE HIGHLANDS As we continued our journey, we were at leisure to extend our speculations, and to investigate the reason of those peculiarities by which such rugged regions as these before us are generally distinguished. Mountainous countries commonly contain the original, at least the oldest race of inhabitants, for they are not easily conquered, because they must be entered by narrow ways, exposed to every power of mischief from those that occupy the heights; and every new ridge is a new fortress, where the defendants have again the same advantages. If the assailants either force the strait, or storm the summit, they gain only so much ground; their enemies are fled to take possession of the next rock, and the pursuers stand at gaze, knowing neither where the ways of escape wind among the steeps, nor where the bog has firmness to sustain them: besides that, mountaineers have an agility in climbing and descending distinct from strength or courage, and attainable only by use. If the war be not soon concluded, the invaders are dislodged by hunger; for in those anxious and toilsome marches, provisions cannot easily be carried, and are never to be found. The wealth of mountains is cattle, which, while the men stand in the passes, the women drive away. Such lands at last cannot repay the expence of conquest, and therefore perhaps have not been so often invaded by the mere ambition of dominion; as by resentment of robberies and insults, or the desire of enjoying in security the more fruitful provinces. As mountains are long before they are conquered, they are likewise long before they are civilized. Men are softened by intercourse mutually profitable, and instructed by comparing their own notions with those of others. Thus Caesar found the maritime parts of Britain made less barbarous by their commerce with the Gauls. Into a barren and rough tract no stranger is brought either by the hope of gain or of pleasure. The inhabitants having neither commodities for sale, nor money for purchase, seldom visit more polished places, or if they do visit them, seldom return. It sometimes happens that by conquest, intermixture, or gradual refinement, the cultivated parts of a country change their language. The mountaineers then become a distinct nation, cut off by dissimilitude of speech from conversation with their neighbours. Thus in Biscay, the original Cantabrian, and in Dalecarlia, the old Swedish still subsists. Thus Wales and the Highlands speak the tongue of the first inhabitants of Britain, while the other parts have received first the Saxon, and in some degree afterwards the French, and then formed a third language between them. That the primitive manners are continued where the primitive language is spoken, no nation will desire me to suppose, for the manners of mountaineers are commonly savage, but they are rather produced by their situation than derived from their ancestors. Such seems to be the disposition of man, that whatever makes a distinction produces rivalry. England, before other causes of enmity were found, was disturbed for some centuries by the contests of the northern and southern counties; so that at Oxford, the peace of study could for a long time be preserved only by chusing annually one of the Proctors from each side of the Trent. A tract intersected by many ridges of mountains, naturally divides its inhabitants into petty nations, which are made by a thousand causes enemies to each other. Each will exalt its own chiefs, each will boast the valour of its men, or the beauty of its women, and every claim of superiority irritates competition; injuries will sometimes be done, and be more injuriously defended; retaliation will sometimes be attempted, and the debt exacted with too much interest. In the Highlands it was a law, that if a robber was sheltered from justice, any man of the same clan might be taken in his place. This was a kind of irregular justice, which, though necessary in savage times, could hardly fail to end in a feud, and a feud once kindled among an idle people with no variety of pursuits to divert their thoughts, burnt on for ages either sullenly glowing in secret mischief, or openly blazing into public violence. Of the effects of this violent judicature, there are not wanting memorials. The cave is now to be seen to which one of the Campbells, who had injured the Macdonalds, retired with a body of his own clan. The Macdonalds required the offender, and being refused, made a fire at the mouth of the cave, by which he and his adherents were suffocated together. Mountaineers are warlike, because by their feuds and competitions they consider themselves as surrounded with enemies, and are always prepared to repel incursions, or to make them. Like the Greeks in their unpolished state, described by Thucydides, the Highlanders, till lately, went always armed, and carried their weapons to visits, and to church. Mountaineers are thievish, because they are poor, and having neither manufactures nor commerce, can grow richer only by robbery. They regularly plunder their neighbours, for their neighbours are commonly their enemies; and having lost that reverence for property, by which the order of civil life is preserved, soon consider all as enemies, whom they do not reckon as friends, and think themselves licensed to invade whatever they are not obliged to protect. By a strict administration of the laws, since the laws have been introduced into the Highlands, this disposition to thievery is very much represt. Thirty years ago no herd had ever been conducted through the mountains, without paying tribute in the night, to some of the clans; but cattle are now driven, and passengers travel without danger, fear, or molestation. Among a warlike people, the quality of highest esteem is personal courage, and with the ostentatious display of courage are closely connected promptitude of offence and quickness of resentment. The Highlanders, before they were disarmed, were so addicted to quarrels, that the boys used to follow any publick procession or ceremony, however festive, or however solemn, in expectation of the battle, which was sure to happen before the company dispersed. Mountainous regions are sometimes so remote from the seat of government, and so difficult of access, that they are very little under the influence of the sovereign, or within the reach of national justice. Law is nothing without power; and the sentence of a distant court could not be easily executed, nor perhaps very safely promulgated, among men ignorantly proud and habitually violent, unconnected with the general system, and accustomed to reverence only their own lords. It has therefore been necessary to erect many particular jurisdictions, and commit the punishment of crimes, and the decision of right to the proprietors of the country who could enforce their own decrees. It immediately appears that such judges will be often ignorant, and often partial; but in the immaturity of political establishments no better expedient could be found. As government advances towards perfection, provincial judicature is perhaps in every empire gradually abolished. Those who had thus the dispensation of law, were by consequence themselves lawless. Their vassals had no shelter from outrages and oppressions; but were condemned to endure, without resistance, the caprices of wantonness, and the rage of cruelty. In the Highlands, some great lords had an hereditary jurisdiction over counties; and some chieftains over their own lands; till the final conquest of the Highlands afforded an opportunity of crushing all the local courts, and of extending the general benefits of equal law to the low and the high, in the deepest recesses and obscurest corners. While the chiefs had this resemblance of royalty, they had little inclination to appeal, on any question, to superior judicatures. A claim of lands between two powerful lairds was decided like a contest for dominion between sovereign powers. They drew their forces into the field, and right attended on the strongest. This was, in ruder times, the common practice, which the kings of Scotland could seldom control. Even so lately as in the last years of King William, a battle was fought at Mull Roy, on a plain a few miles to the south of Inverness, between the clans of Mackintosh and Macdonald of Keppoch. Col. Macdonald, the head of a small clan, refused to pay the dues demanded from him by Mackintosh, as his superior lord. They disdained the interposition of judges and laws, and calling each his followers to maintain the dignity of the clan, fought a formal battle, in which several considerable men fell on the side of Mackintosh, without a complete victory to either. This is said to have been the last open war made between the clans by their own authority. The Highland lords made treaties, and formed alliances, of which some traces may still be found, and some consequences still remain as lasting evidences of petty regality. The terms of one of these confederacies were, that each should support the other in the right, or in the wrong, except against the king. The inhabitants of mountains form distinct races, and are careful to preserve their genealogies. Men in a small district necessarily mingle blood by intermarriages, and combine at last into one family, with a common interest in the honour and disgrace of every individual. Then begins that union of affections, and co-operation of endeavours, that constitute a clan. They who consider themselves as ennobled by their family, will think highly of their progenitors, and they who through successive generations live always together in the same place, will preserve local stories and hereditary prejudices. Thus every Highlander can talk of his ancestors, and recount the outrages which they suffered from the wicked inhabitants of the next valley. Such are the effects of habitation among mountains, and such were the qualities of the Highlanders, while their rocks secluded them from the rest of mankind, and kept them an unaltered and discriminated race. They are now losing their distinction, and hastening to mingle with the general community. GLENELG We left Auknasheals and the Macraes its the afternoon, and in the evening came to Ratiken, a high hill on which a road is cut, but so steep and narrow, that it is very difficult. There is now a design of making another way round the bottom. Upon one of the precipices, my horse, weary with the steepness of the rise, staggered a little, and I called in haste to the Highlander to hold him. This was the only moment of my journey, in which I thought myself endangered. Having surmounted the hill at last, we were told that at Glenelg, on the sea-side, we should come to a house of lime and slate and glass. This image of magnificence raised our expectation. At last we came to our inn weary and peevish, and began to inquire for meat and beds. Of the provisions the negative catalogue was very copious. Here was no meat, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no wine. We did not express much satisfaction. Here however we were to stay. Whisky we might have, and I believe at last they caught a fowl and killed it. We had some bread, and with that we prepared ourselves to be contented, when we had a very eminent proof of Highland hospitality. Along some miles of the way, in the evening, a gentleman's servant had kept us company on foot with very little notice on our part. He left us near Glenelg, and we thought on him no more till he came to us again, in about two hours, with a present from his master of rum and sugar. The man had mentioned his company, and the gentleman, whose name, I think, is Gordon, well knowing the penury of the place, had this attention to two men, whose names perhaps he had not heard, by whom his kindness was not likely to be ever repaid, and who could be recommended to him only by their necessities. We were now to examine our lodging. Out of one of the beds, on which we were to repose, started up, at our entrance, a man black as a Cyclops from the forge. Other circumstances of no elegant recital concurred to disgust us. We had been frighted by a lady at Edinburgh, with discouraging representations of Highland lodgings. Sleep, however, was necessary. Our Highlanders had at last found some hay, with which the inn could not supply them. I directed them to bring a bundle into the room, and slept upon it in my riding coat. Mr. Boswell being more delicate, laid himself sheets with hay over and under him, and lay in linen like a gentleman. SKY. ARMIDEL In the morning, September the second, we found ourselves on the edge of the sea. Having procured a boat, we dismissed our Highlanders, whom I would recommend to the service of any future travellers, and were ferried over to the Isle of Sky. We landed at Armidel, where we were met on the sands by Sir Alexander Macdonald, who was at that time there with his lady, preparing to leave the island and reside at Edinburgh. Armidel is a neat house, built where the Macdonalds had once a seat, which was burnt in the commotions that followed the Revolution. The walled orchard, which belonged to the former house, still remains. It is well shaded by tall ash trees, of a species, as Mr. Janes the fossilist informed me, uncommonly valuable. This plantation is very properly mentioned by Dr. Campbell, in his new account of the state of Britain, and deserves attention; because it proves that the present nakedness of the Hebrides is not wholly the fault of Nature. As we sat at Sir Alexander's table, we were entertained, according to the ancient usage of the North, with the melody of the bagpipe. Everything in those countries has its history. As the bagpiper was playing, an elderly Gentleman informed us, that in some remote time, the Macdonalds of Glengary having been injured, or offended by the inhabitants of Culloden, and resolving to have justice or vengeance, came to Culloden on a Sunday, where finding their enemies at worship, they shut them up in the church, which they set on fire; and this, said he, is the tune that the piper played while they were burning. Narrations like this, however uncertain, deserve the notice of the traveller, because they are the only records of a nation that has no historians, and afford the most genuine representation of the life and character of the ancient Highlanders. Under the denomination of Highlander are comprehended in Scotland all that now speak the Erse language, or retain the primitive manners, whether they live among the mountains or in the islands; and in that sense I use the name, when there is not some apparent reason for making a distinction. In Sky I first observed the use of Brogues, a kind of artless shoes, stitched with thongs so loosely, that though they defend the foot from stones, they do not exclude water. Brogues were formerly made of raw hides, with the hair inwards, and such are perhaps still used in rude and remote parts; but they are said not to last above two days. Where life is somewhat improved, they are now made of leather tanned with oak bark, as in other places, or with the bark of birch, or roots of tormentil, a substance recommended in defect of bark, about forty years ago, to the Irish tanners, by one to whom the parliament of that kingdom voted a reward. The leather of Sky is not completely penetrated by vegetable matter, and therefore cannot be very durable. My inquiries about brogues, gave me an early specimen of Highland information. One day I was told, that to make brogues was a domestick art, which every man practised for himself, and that a pair of brogues was the work of an hour. I supposed that the husband made brogues as the wife made an apron, till next day it was told me, that a brogue-maker was a trade, and that a pair would cost half a crown. It will easily occur that these representations may both be true, and that, in some places, men may buy them, and in others, make them for themselves; but I had both the accounts in the same house within two days. Many of my subsequent inquiries upon more interesting topicks ended in the like uncertainty. He that travels in the Highlands may easily saturate his soul with intelligence, if he will acquiesce in the first account. The Highlander gives to every question an answer so prompt and peremptory, that skepticism itself is dared into silence, and the mind sinks before the bold reporter in unresisting credulity; but, if a second question be ventured, it breaks the enchantment; for it is immediately discovered, that what was told so confidently was told at hazard, and that such fearlessness of assertion was either the sport of negligence, or the refuge of ignorance. If individuals are thus at variance with themselves, it can be no wonder that the accounts of different men are contradictory. The traditions of an ignorant and savage people have been for ages negligently heard, and unskilfully related. Distant events must have been mingled together, and the actions of one man given to another. These, however, are deficiencies in story, for which no man is now to be censured. It were enough, if what there is yet opportunity of examining were accurately inspected, and justly represented; but such is the laxity of Highland conversation, that the inquirer is kept in continual suspense, and by a kind of intellectual retrogradation, knows less as he hears more. In the islands the plaid is rarely worn. The law by which the Highlanders have been obliged to change the form of their dress, has, in all the places that we have visited, been universally obeyed. I have seen only one gentleman completely clothed in the ancient habit, and by him it was worn only occasionally and wantonly. The common people do not think themselves under any legal necessity of having coats; for they say that the law against plaids was made by Lord Hardwicke, and was in force only for his life: but the same poverty that made it then difficult for them to change their clothing, hinders them now from changing it again. The fillibeg, or lower garment, is still very common, and the bonnet almost universal; but their attire is such as produces, in a sufficient degree, the effect intended by the law, of abolishing the dissimilitude of appearance between the Highlanders and the other inhabitants of Britain; and, if dress be supposed to have much influence, facilitates their coalition with their fellow-subjects. What we have long used we naturally like, and therefore the Highlanders were unwilling to lay aside their plaid, which yet to an unprejudiced spectator must appear an incommodious and cumbersome dress; for hanging loose upon the body, it must flutter in a quick motion, or require one of the hands to keep it close. The Romans always laid aside the gown when they had anything to do. It was a dress so unsuitable to war, that the same word which signified a gown signified peace. The chief use of a plaid seems to be this, that they could commodiously wrap themselves in it, when they were obliged to sleep without a better cover. In our passage from Scotland to Sky, we were wet for the first time with a shower. This was the beginning of the Highland winter, after which we were told that a succession of three dry days was not to be expected for many months. The winter of the Hebrides consists of little more than rain and wind. As they are surrounded by an ocean never frozen, the blasts that come to them over the water are too much softened to have the power of congelation. The salt loughs, or inlets of the sea, which shoot very far into the island, never have any ice upon them, and the pools of fresh water will never bear the walker. The snow that sometimes falls, is soon dissolved by the air, or the rain. This is not the description of a cruel climate, yet the dark months are here a time of great distress; because the summer can do little more than feed itself, and winter comes with its cold and its scarcity upon families very slenderly provided. CORIATACHAN IN SKY The third or fourth day after our arrival at Armidel, brought us an invitation to the isle of Raasay, which lies east of Sky. It is incredible how soon the account of any event is propagated in these narrow countries by the love of talk, which much leisure produces, and the relief given to the mind in the penury of insular conversation by a new topick. The arrival of strangers at a place so rarely visited, excites rumour, and quickens curiosity. I know not whether we touched at any corner, where Fame had not already prepared us a reception. To gain a commodious passage to Raasay, it was necessary to pass over a large part of Sky. We were furnished therefore with horses and a guide. In the Islands there are no roads, nor any marks by which a stranger may find his way. The horseman has always at his side a native of the place, who, by pursuing game, or tending cattle, or being often employed in messages or conduct, has learned where the ridge of the hill has breadth sufficient to allow a horse and his rider a passage, and where the moss or bog is hard enough to bear them. The bogs are avoided as toilsome at least, if not unsafe, and therefore the journey is made generally from precipice to precipice; from which if the eye ventures to look down, it sees below a gloomy cavity, whence the rush of water is sometimes heard. But there seems to be in all this more alarm than danger. The Highlander walks carefully before, and the horse, accustomed to the ground, follows him with little deviation. Sometimes the hill is too steep for the horseman to keep his seat, and sometimes the moss is too tremulous to bear the double weight of horse and man. The rider then dismounts, and all shift as they can. Journies made in this manner are rather tedious than long. A very few miles require several hours. From Armidel we came at night to Coriatachan, a house very pleasantly situated between two brooks, with one of the highest hills of the island behind it. It is the residence of Mr. Mackinnon, by whom we were treated with very liberal hospitality, among a more numerous and elegant company than it could have been supposed easy to collect. The hill behind the house we did not climb. The weather was rough, and the height and steepness discouraged us. We were told that there is a cairne upon it. A cairne is a heap of stones thrown upon the grave of one eminent for dignity of birth, or splendour of atchievements. It is said that by digging, an urn is always found under these cairnes: they must therefore have been thus piled by a people whose custom was to burn the dead. To pile stones is, I believe, a northern custom, and to burn the body was the Roman practice; nor do I know when it was that these two acts of sepulture were united. The weather was next day too violent for the continuation of our journey; but we had no reason to complain of the interruption. We saw in every place, what we chiefly desired to know, the manners of the people. We had company, and, if we had chosen retirement, we might have had books. I never was in any house of the Islands, where I did not find books in more languages than one, if I staid long enough to want them, except one from which the family was removed. Literature is not neglected by the higher rank of the Hebridians. It need not, I suppose, be mentioned, that in countries so little frequented as the Islands, there are no houses where travellers are entertained for money. He that wanders about these wilds, either procures recommendations to those whose habitations lie near his way, or, when night and weariness come upon him, takes the chance of general hospitality. If he finds only a cottage, he can expect little more than shelter; for the cottagers have little more for themselves: but if his good fortune brings him to the residence of a gentleman, he will be glad of a storm to prolong his stay. There is, however, one inn by the sea- side at Sconsor, in Sky, where the post-office is kept. At the tables where a stranger is received, neither plenty nor delicacy is wanting. A tract of land so thinly inhabited, must have much wild- fowl; and I scarcely remember to have seen a dinner without them. The moorgame is every where to be had. That the sea abounds with fish, needs not be told, for it supplies a great part of Europe. The Isle of Sky has stags and roebucks, but no hares. They sell very numerous droves of oxen yearly to England, and therefore cannot be supposed to want beef at home. Sheep and goats are in great numbers, and they have the common domestick fowls. But as here is nothing to be bought, every family must kill its own meat, and roast part of it somewhat sooner than Apicius would prescribe. Every kind of flesh is undoubtedly excelled by the variety and emulation of English markets; but that which is not best may be yet very far from bad, and he that shall complain of his fare in the Hebrides, has improved his delicacy more than his manhood. Their fowls are not like those plumped for sale by the poulterers of London, but they are as good as other places commonly afford, except that the geese, by feeding in the sea, have universally a fishy rankness. These geese seem to be of a middle race, between the wild and domestick kinds. They are so tame as to own a home, and so wild as sometimes to fly quite away. Their native bread is made of oats, or barley. Of oatmeal they spread very thin cakes, coarse and hard, to which unaccustomed palates are not easily reconciled. The barley cakes are thicker and softer; I began to eat them without unwillingness; the blackness of their colour raises some dislike, but the taste is not disagreeable. In most houses there is wheat flower, with which we were sure to be treated, if we staid long enough to have it kneaded and baked. As neither yeast nor leaven are used among them, their bread of every kind is unfermented. They make only cakes, and never mould a loaf. A man of the Hebrides, for of the women's diet I can give no account, as soon as he appears in the morning, swallows a glass of whisky; yet they are not a drunken race, at least I never was present at much intemperance; but no man is so abstemious as to refuse the morning dram, which they call a skalk. The word whisky signifies water, and is applied by way of eminence to strong water, or distilled liquor. The spirit drunk in the North is drawn from barley. I never tasted it, except once for experiment at the inn in Inverary, when I thought it preferable to any English malt brandy. It was strong, but not pungent, and was free from the empyreumatick taste or smell. What was the process I had no opportunity of inquiring, nor do I wish to improve the art of making poison pleasant. Not long after the dram, may be expected the breakfast, a meal in which the Scots, whether of the lowlands or mountains, must be confessed to excel us. The tea and coffee are accompanied not only with butter, but with honey, conserves, and marmalades. If an epicure could remove by a wish, in quest of sensual gratifications, wherever he had supped he would breakfast in Scotland. In the islands however, they do what I found it not very easy to endure. They pollute the tea-table by plates piled with large slices of cheshire cheese, which mingles its less grateful odours with the fragrance of the tea. Where many questions are to be asked, some will be omitted. I forgot to inquire how they were supplied with so much exotic luxury. Perhaps the French may bring them wine for wool, and the Dutch give them tea and coffee at the fishing season, in exchange for fresh provision. Their trade is unconstrained; they pay no customs, for there is no officer to demand them; whatever therefore is made dear only by impost, is obtained here at an easy rate. A dinner in the Western Islands differs very little from a dinner in England, except that in the place of tarts, there are always set different preparations of milk. This part of their diet will admit some improvement. Though they have milk, and eggs, and sugar, few of them know how to compound them in a custard. Their gardens afford them no great variety, but they have always some vegetables on the table. Potatoes at least are never wanting, which, though they have not known them long, are now one of the principal parts of their food. They are not of the mealy, but the viscous kind. Their more elaborate cookery, or made dishes, an Englishman at the first taste is not likely to approve, but the culinary compositions of every country are often such as become grateful to other nations only by degrees; though I have read a French author, who, in the elation of his heart, says, that French cookery pleases all foreigners, but foreign cookery never satisfies a Frenchman. Their suppers are, like their dinners, various and plentiful. The table is always covered with elegant linen. Their plates for common use are often of that kind of manufacture which is called cream coloured, or queen's ware. They use silver on all occasions where it is common in England, nor did I ever find the spoon of horn, but in one house. The knives are not often either very bright, or very sharp. They are indeed instruments of which the Highlanders have not been long acquainted with the general use. They were not regularly laid on the table, before the prohibition of arms, and the change of dress. Thirty years ago the Highlander wore his knife as a companion to his dirk or dagger, and when the company sat down to meat, the men who had knives, cut the flesh into small pieces for the women, who with their fingers conveyed it to their mouths. There was perhaps never any change of national manners so quick, so great, and so general, as that which has operated in the Highlands, by the last conquest, and the subsequent laws. We came thither too late to see what we expected, a people of peculiar appearance, and a system of antiquated life. The clans retain little now of their original character, their ferocity of temper is softened, their military ardour is extinguished, their dignity of independence is depressed, their contempt of government subdued, and the reverence for their chiefs abated. Of what they had before the late conquest of their country, there remain only their language and their poverty. Their language is attacked on every side. Schools are erected, in which English only is taught, and there were lately some who thought it reasonable to refuse them a version of the holy scriptures, that they might have no monument of their mother- tongue. That their poverty is gradually abated, cannot be mentioned among the unpleasing consequences of subjection. They are now acquainted with money, and the possibility of gain will by degrees make them industrious. Such is the effect of the late regulations, that a longer journey than to the Highlands must be taken by him whose curiosity pants for savage virtues and barbarous grandeur. RAASAY At the first intermission of the stormy weather we were informed, that the boat, which was to convey us to Raasay, attended us on the coast. We had from this time our intelligence facilitated, and our conversation enlarged, by the company of Mr. Macqueen, minister of a parish in Sky, whose knowledge and politeness give him a title equally to kindness and respect, and who, from this time, never forsook us till we were preparing to leave Sky, and the adjacent places. The boat was under the direction of Mr. Malcolm Macleod, a gentleman of Raasay. The water was calm, and the rowers were vigorous; so that our passage was quick and pleasant. When we came near the island, we saw the laird's house, a neat modern fabrick, and found Mr. Macleod, the proprietor of the Island, with many gentlemen, expecting us on the beach. We had, as at all other places, some difficulty in landing. The craggs were irregularly broken, and a false step would have been very mischievous. It seemed that the rocks might, with no great labour, have been hewn almost into a regular flight of steps; and as there are no other landing places, I considered this rugged ascent as the consequence of a form of life inured to hardships, and therefore not studious of nice accommodations. But I know not whether, for many ages, it was not considered as a part of military policy, to keep the country not easily accessible. The rocks are natural fortifications, and an enemy climbing with difficulty, was easily destroyed by those who stood high above him. Our reception exceeded our expectations. We found nothing but civility, elegance, and plenty. After the usual refreshments, and the usual conversation, the evening came upon us. The carpet was then rolled off the floor; the musician was called, and the whole company was invited to dance, nor did ever fairies trip with greater alacrity. The general air of festivity, which predominated in this place, so far remote from all those regions which the mind has been used to contemplate as the mansions of pleasure, struck the imagination with a delightful surprise, analogous to that which is felt at an unexpected emersion from darkness into light. When it was time to sup, the dance ceased, and six and thirty persons sat down to two tables in the same room. After supper the ladies sung Erse songs, to which I listened as an English audience to an Italian opera, delighted with the sound of words which I did not understand. I inquired the subjects of the songs, and was told of one, that it was a love song, and of another, that it was a farewell composed by one of the Islanders that was going, in this epidemical fury of emigration, to seek his fortune in America. What sentiments would arise, on such an occasion, in the heart of one who had not been taught to lament by precedent, I should gladly have known; but the lady, by whom I sat, thought herself not equal to the work of translating. Mr. Macleod is the proprietor of the islands of Raasay, Rona, and Fladda, and possesses an extensive district in Sky. The estate has not, during four hundred years, gained or lost a single acre. He acknowledges Macleod of Dunvegan as his chief, though his ancestors have formerly disputed the pre-eminence. One of the old Highland alliances has continued for two hundred years, and is still subsisting between Macleod of Raasay and Macdonald of Sky, in consequence of which, the survivor always inherits the arms of the deceased; a natural memorial of military friendship. At the death of the late Sir James Macdonald, his sword was delivered to the present laird of Raasay. The family of Raasay consists of the laird, the lady, three sons and ten daughters. For the sons there is a tutor in the house, and the lady is said to be very skilful and diligent in the education of her girls. More gentleness of manners, or a more pleasing appearance of domestick society, is not found in the most polished countries. Raasay is the only inhabited island in Mr. Macleod's possession. Rona and Fladda afford only pasture for cattle, of which one hundred and sixty winter in Rona, under the superintendence of a solitary herdsman. The length of Raasay is, by computation, fifteen miles, and the breadth two. These countries have never been measured, and the computation by miles is negligent and arbitrary. We observed in travelling, that the nominal and real distance of places had very little relation to each other. Raasay probably contains near a hundred square miles. It affords not much ground, notwithstanding its extent, either for tillage, or pasture; for it is rough, rocky, and barren. The cattle often perish by falling from the precipices. It is like the other islands, I think, generally naked of shade, but it is naked by neglect; for the laird has an orchard, and very large forest trees grow about his house. Like other hilly countries it has many rivulets. One of the brooks turns a corn- mill, and at least one produces trouts. In the streams or fresh lakes of the Islands, I have never heard of any other fish than trouts and eels. The trouts, which I have seen, are not large; the colour of their flesh is tinged as in England. Of their eels I can give no account, having never tasted them; for I believe they are not considered as wholesome food. It is not very easy to fix the principles upon which mankind have agreed to eat some animals, and reject others; and as the principle is not evident, it is not uniform. That which is selected as delicate in one country, is by its neighbours abhorred as loathsome. The Neapolitans lately refused to eat potatoes in a famine. An Englishman is not easily persuaded to dine on snails with an Italian, on frogs with a Frenchman, or on horseflesh with a Tartar. The vulgar inhabitants of Sky, I know not whether of the other islands, have not only eels, but pork and bacon in abhorrence, and accordingly I never saw a hog in the Hebrides, except one at Dunvegan. Raasay has wild fowl in abundance, but neither deer, hares, nor rabbits. Why it has them not, might be asked, but that of such questions there is no end. Why does any nation want what it might have? Why are not spices transplanted to America? Why does tea continue to be brought from China? Life improves but by slow degrees, and much in every place is yet to do. Attempts have been made to raise roebucks in Raasay, but without effect. The young ones it is extremely difficult to rear, and the old can very seldom be taken alive. Hares and rabbits might be more easily obtained. That they have few or none of either in Sky, they impute to the ravage of the foxes, and have therefore set, for some years past, a price upon their heads, which, as the number was diminished, has been gradually raised, from three shillings and sixpence to a guinea, a sum so great in this part of the world, that, in a short time, Sky may be as free from foxes, as England from wolves. The fund for these rewards is a tax of sixpence in the pound, imposed by the farmers on themselves, and said to be paid with great willingness. The beasts of prey in the Islands are foxes, otters, and weasels. The foxes are bigger than those of England; but the otters exceed ours in a far greater proportion. I saw one at Armidel, of a size much beyond that which I supposed them ever to attain; and Mr. Maclean, the heir of Col, a man of middle stature, informed me that he once shot an otter, of which the tail reached the ground, when he held up the head to a level with his own. I expected the otter to have a foot particularly formed for the art of swimming; but upon examination, I did not find it differing much from that of a spaniel. As he preys in the sea, he does little visible mischief, and is killed only for his fur. White otters are sometimes seen. In Raasay they might have hares and rabbits, for they have no foxes. Some depredations, such as were never made before, have caused a suspicion that a fox has been lately landed in the Island by spite or wantonness. This imaginary stranger has never yet been seen, and therefore, perhaps, the mischief was done by some other animal. It is not likely that a creature so ungentle, whose head could have been sold in Sky for a guinea, should be kept alive only to gratify the malice of sending him to prey upon a neighbour: and the passage from Sky is wider than a fox would venture to swim, unless he were chased by dogs into the sea, and perhaps than his strength would enable him to cross. How beasts of prey came into any islands is not easy to guess. In cold countries they take advantage of hard winters, and travel over the ice: but this is a very scanty solution; for they are found where they have no discoverable means of coming. The corn of this island is but little. I saw the harvest of a small field. The women reaped the Corn, and the men bound up the sheaves. The strokes of the sickle were timed by the modulation of the harvest song, in which all their voices were united. They accompany in the Highlands every action, which can be done in equal time, with an appropriated strain, which has, they say, not much meaning; but its effects are regularity and cheerfulness. The ancient proceleusmatick song, by which the rowers of gallies were animated, may be supposed to have been of this kind. There is now an oar-song used by the Hebridians. The ground of Raasay seems fitter for cattle than for corn, and of black cattle I suppose the number is very great. The Laird himself keeps a herd of four hundred, one hundred of which are annually sold. Of an extensive domain, which he holds in his own hands, he considers the sale of cattle as repaying him the rent, and supports the plenty of a very liberal table with the remaining product. Raasay is supposed to have been very long inhabited. On one side of it they show caves, into which the rude nations of the first ages retreated from the weather. These dreary vaults might have had other uses. There is still a cavity near the house called the oar-cave, in which the seamen, after one of those piratical expeditions, which in rougher times were very frequent, used, as tradition tells, to hide their oars. This hollow was near the sea, that nothing so necessary might be far to be fetched; and it was secret, that enemies, if they landed, could find nothing. Yet it is not very evident of what use it was to hide their oars from those, who, if they were masters of the coast, could take away their boats. A proof much stronger of the distance at which the first possessors of this island lived from the present time, is afforded by the stone heads of arrows which are very frequently picked up. The people call them Elf- bolts, and believe that the fairies shoot them at the cattle. They nearly resemble those which Mr. Banks has lately brought from the savage countries in the Pacifick Ocean, and must have been made by a nation to which the use of metals was unknown. The number of this little community has never been counted by its ruler, nor have I obtained any positive account, consistent with the result of political computation. Not many years ago, the late Laird led out one hundred men upon a military expedition. The sixth part of a people is supposed capable of bearing arms: Raasay had therefore six hundred inhabitants. But because it is not likely, that every man able to serve in the field would follow the summons, or that the chief would leave his lands totally defenceless, or take away all the hands qualified for labour, let it be supposed, that half as many might be permitted to stay at home. The whole number will then be nine hundred, or nine to a square mile; a degree of populousness greater than those tracts of desolation can often show. They are content with their country, and faithful to their chiefs, and yet uninfected with the fever of migration. Near the house, at Raasay, is a chapel unroofed and ruinous, which has long been used only as a place of burial. About the churches, in the Islands, are small squares inclosed with stone, which belong to particular families, as repositories for the dead. At Raasay there is one, I think, for the proprietor, and one for some collateral house. It is told by Martin, that at the death of the Lady of the Island, it has been here the custom to erect a cross. This we found not to be true. The stones that stand about the chapel at a small distance, some of which perhaps have crosses cut upon them, are believed to have been not funeral monuments, but the ancient boundaries of the sanctuary or consecrated ground. Martin was a man not illiterate: he was an inhabitant of Sky, and therefore was within reach of intelligence, and with no great difficulty might have visited the places which he undertakes to describe; yet with all his opportunities, he has often suffered himself to be deceived. He lived in the last century, when the chiefs of the clans had lost little of their original influence. The mountains were yet unpenetrated, no inlet was opened to foreign novelties, and the feudal institution operated upon life with their full force. He might therefore have displayed a series of subordination and a form of government, which, in more luminous and improved regions, have been long forgotten, and have delighted his readers with many uncouth customs that are now disused, and wild opinions that prevail no longer. But he probably had not knowledge of the world sufficient to qualify him for judging what would deserve or gain the attention of mankind. The mode of life which was familiar to himself, he did not suppose unknown to others, nor imagined that he could give pleasure by telling that of which it was, in his little country, impossible to be ignorant. What he has neglected cannot now be performed. In nations, where there is hardly the use of letters, what is once out of sight is lost for ever. They think but little, and of their few thoughts, none are wasted on the past, in which they are neither interested by fear nor hope. Their only registers are stated observances and practical representations. For this reason an age of ignorance is an age of ceremony. Pageants, and processions, and commemorations, gradually shrink away, as better methods come into use of recording events, and preserving rights. It is not only in Raasay that the chapel is unroofed and useless; through the few islands which we visited, we neither saw nor heard of any house of prayer, except in Sky, that was not in ruins. The malignant influence of Calvinism has blasted ceremony and decency together; and if the remembrance of papal superstition is obliterated, the monuments of papal piety are likewise effaced. It has been, for many years, popular to talk of the lazy devotion of the Romish clergy; over the sleepy laziness of men that erected churches, we may indulge our superiority with a new triumph, by comparing it with the fervid activity of those who suffer them to fall. Of the destruction of churches, the decay of religion must in time be the consequence; for while the publick acts of the ministry are now performed in houses, a very small number can be present; and as the greater part of the Islanders make no use of books, all must necessarily live in total ignorance who want the opportunity of vocal instruction. From these remains of ancient sanctity, which are every where to be found, it has been conjectured, that, for the last two centuries, the inhabitants of the Islands have decreased in number. This argument, which supposes that the churches have been suffered to fall, only because they were no longer necessary, would have some force, if the houses of worship still remaining were sufficient for the people. But since they have now no churches at all, these venerable fragments do not prove the people of former times to have been more numerous, but to have been more devout. If the inhabitants were doubled with their present principles, it appears not that any provision for publick worship would be made. Where the religion of a country enforces consecrated buildings, the number of those buildings may be supposed to afford some indication, however uncertain, of the populousness of the place; but where by a change of manners a nation is contented to live without them, their decay implies no diminution of inhabitants. Some of these dilapidations are said to be found in islands now uninhabited; but I doubt whether we can thence infer that they were ever peopled. The religion of the middle age, is well known to have placed too much hope in lonely austerities. Voluntary solitude was the great act of propitiation, by which crimes were effaced, and conscience was appeased; it is therefore not unlikely, that oratories were often built in places where retirement was sure to have no disturbance. Raasay has little that can detain a traveller, except the Laird and his family; but their power wants no auxiliaries. Such a seat of hospitality, amidst the winds and waters, fills the imagination with a delightful contrariety of images. Without is the rough ocean and the rocky land, the beating billows and the howling storm: within is plenty and elegance, beauty and gaiety, the song and the dance. In Raasay, if I could have found an Ulysses, I had fancied a Phoeacia. DUNVEGAN At Raasay, by good fortune, Macleod, so the chief of the clan is called, was paying a visit, and by him we were invited to his seat at Dunvegan. Raasay has a stout boat, built in Norway, in which, with six oars, he conveyed us back to Sky. We landed at Port Re, so called, because James the Fifth of Scotland, who had curiosity to visit the Islands, came into it. The port is made by an inlet of the sea, deep and narrow, where a ship lay waiting to dispeople Sky, by carrying the natives away to America. In coasting Sky, we passed by the cavern in which it was the custom, as Martin relates, to catch birds in the night, by making a fire at the entrance. This practice is disused; for the birds, as is known often to happen, have changed their haunts. Here we dined at a publick house, I believe the only inn of the island, and having mounted our horses, travelled in the manner already described, till we came to Kingsborough, a place distinguished by that name, because the King lodged here when he landed at Port Re. We were entertained with the usual hospitality by Mr. Macdonald and his lady, Flora Macdonald, a name that will be mentioned in history, and if courage and fidelity be virtues, mentioned with honour. She is a woman of middle stature, soft features, gentle manners, and elegant presence. In the morning we sent our horses round a promontory to meet us, and spared ourselves part of the day's fatigue, by crossing an arm of the sea. We had at last some difficulty in coming to Dunvegan; for our way led over an extensive moor, where every step was to be taken with caution, and we were often obliged to alight, because the ground could not be trusted. In travelling this watery flat, I perceived that it had a visible declivity, and might without much expence or difficulty be drained. But difficulty and expence are relative terms, which have different meanings in different places. To Dunvegan we came, very willing to be at rest, and found our fatigue amply recompensed by our reception. Lady Macleod, who had lived many years in England, was newly come hither with her son and four daughters, who knew all the arts of southern elegance, and all the modes of English economy. Here therefore we settled, and did not spoil the present hour with thoughts of departure. Dunvegan is a rocky prominence, that juts out into a bay, on the west side of Sky. The house, which is the principal seat of Macleod, is partly old and partly modern; it is built upon the rock, and looks upon the water. It forms two sides of a small square: on the third side is the skeleton of a castle of unknown antiquity, supposed to have been a Norwegian fortress, when the Danes were masters of the Islands. It is so nearly entire, that it might have easily been made habitable, were there not an ominous tradition in the family, that the owner shall not long outlive the reparation. The grandfather of the present Laird, in defiance of prediction, began the work, but desisted in a little time, and applied his money to worse uses. As the inhabitants of the Hebrides lived, for many ages, in continual expectation of hostilities, the chief of every clan resided in a fortress. This house was accessible only from the water, till the last possessor opened an entrance by stairs upon the land. They had formerly reason to be afraid, not only of declared wars and authorized invaders, or of roving pirates, which, in the northern seas, must have been very common; but of inroads and insults from rival clans, who, in the plenitude of feudal independence, asked no leave of their Sovereign to make war on one another. Sky has been ravaged by a feud between the two mighty powers of Macdonald and Macleod. Macdonald having married a Macleod upon some discontent dismissed her, perhaps because she had brought him no children. Before the reign of James the Fifth, a Highland Laird made a trial of his wife for a certain time, and if she did not please him, he was then at liberty to send her away. This however must always have offended, and Macleod resenting the injury, whatever were its circumstances, declared, that the wedding had been solemnized without a bonfire, but that the separation should be better illuminated; and raising a little army, set fire to the territories of Macdonald, who returned the visit, and prevailed. Another story may show the disorderly state of insular neighbourhood. The inhabitants of the Isle of Egg, meeting a boat manned by Macleods, tied the crew hand and foot, and set them a-drift. Macleod landed upon Egg, and demanded the offenders; but the inhabitants refusing to surrender them, retreated to a cavern, into which they thought their enemies unlikely to follow them. Macleod choked them with smoke, and left them lying dead by families as they stood. Here the violence of the weather confined us for some time, not at all to our discontent or inconvenience. We would indeed very willingly have visited the Islands, which might be seen from the house scattered in the sea, and I was particularly desirous to have viewed Isay; but the storms did not permit us to launch a boat, and we were condemned to listen in idleness to the wind, except when we were better engaged by listening to the ladies. We had here more wind than waves, and suffered the severity of a tempest, without enjoying its magnificence. The sea being broken by the multitude of islands, does not roar with so much noise, nor beat the shore with such foamy violence, as I have remarked on the coast of Sussex. Though, while I was in the Hebrides, the wind was extremely turbulent, I never saw very high billows. The country about Dunvegan is rough and barren. There are no trees, except in the orchard, which is a low sheltered spot surrounded with a wall. When this house was intended to sustain a siege, a well was made in the court, by boring the rock downwards, till water was found, which though so near to the sea, I have not heard mentioned as brackish, though it has some hardness, or other qualities, which make it less fit for use; and the family is now better supplied from a stream, which runs by the rock, from two pleasing waterfalls. Here we saw some traces of former manners, and heard some standing traditions. In the house is kept an ox's horn, hollowed so as to hold perhaps two quarts, which the heir of Macleod was expected to swallow at one draught, as a test of his manhood, before he was permitted to bear arms, or could claim a seat among the men. It is held that the return of the Laird to Dunvegan, after any considerable absence, produces a plentiful capture of herrings; and that, if any woman crosses the water to the opposite Island, the herrings will desert the coast. Boetius tells the same of some other place. This tradition is not uniform. Some hold that no woman may pass, and others that none may pass but a Macleod. Among other guests, which the hospitality of Dunvegan brought to the table, a visit was paid by the Laird and Lady of a small island south of Sky, of which the proper name is Muack, which signifies swine. It is commonly called Muck, which the proprietor not liking, has endeavoured, without effect, to change to Monk. It is usual to call gentlemen in Scotland by the name of their possessions, as Raasay, Bernera, Loch Buy, a practice necessary in countries inhabited by clans, where all that live in the same territory have one name, and must be therefore discriminated by some addition. This gentleman, whose name, I think, is Maclean, should be regularly called Muck; but the appellation, which he thinks too coarse for his Island, he would like still less for himself, and he is therefore addressed by the title of, Isle of Muck. This little Island, however it be named, is of considerable value. It is two English miles long, and three quarters of a mile broad, and consequently contains only nine hundred and sixty English acres. It is chiefly arable. Half of this little dominion the Laird retains in his own hand, and on the other half, live one hundred and sixty persons, who pay their rent by exported corn. What rent they pay, we were not told, and could not decently inquire. The proportion of the people to the land is such, as the most fertile countries do not commonly maintain. The Laird having all his people under his immediate view, seems to be very attentive to their happiness. The devastation of the small-pox, when it visits places where it comes seldom, is well known. He has disarmed it of its terrour at Muack, by inoculating eighty of his people. The expence was two shillings and sixpence a head. Many trades they cannot have among them, but upon occasion, he fetches a smith from the Isle of Egg, and has a tailor from the main land, six times a year. This island well deserved to be seen, but the Laird's absence left us no opportunity. Every inhabited island has its appendant and subordinate islets. Muck, however small, has yet others smaller about it, one of which has only ground sufficient to afford pasture for three wethers. At Dunvegan I had tasted lotus, and was in danger of forgetting that I was ever to depart, till Mr. Boswell sagely reproached me with my sluggishness and softness. I had no very forcible defence to make; and we agreed to pursue our journey. Macleod accompanied us to Ulinish, where we were entertained by the sheriff of the Island. ULINISH Mr. Macqueen travelled with us, and directed our attention to all that was worthy of observation. With him we went to see an ancient building, called a dun or borough. It was a circular inclosure, about forty-two feet in diameter, walled round with loose stones, perhaps to the height of nine feet. The walls were very thick, diminishing a little toward the top, and though in these countries, stone is not brought far, must have been raised with much labour. Within the great circle were several smaller rounds of wall, which formed distinct apartments. Its date, and its use are unknown. Some suppose it the original seat of the chiefs of the Macleods. Mr. Macqueen thought it a Danish fort. The entrance is covered with flat stones, and is narrow, because it was necessary that the stones which lie over it, should reach from one wall to the other; yet, strait as the passage is, they seem heavier than could have been placed where they now lie, by the naked strength of as many men as might stand about them. They were probably raised by putting long pieces of wood under them, to which the action of a long line of lifters might be applied. Savages, in all countries, have patience proportionate to their unskilfulness, and are content to attain their end by very tedious methods. If it was ever roofed, it might once have been a dwelling, but as there is no provision for water, it could not have been a fortress. In Sky, as in every other place, there is an ambition of exalting whatever has survived memory, to some important use, and referring it to very remote ages. I am inclined to suspect, that in lawless times, when the inhabitants of every mountain stole the cattle of their neighbour, these inclosures were used to secure the herds and flocks in the night. When they were driven within the wall, they might be easily watched, and defended as long as could be needful; for the robbers durst not wait till the injured clan should find them in the morning. The interior inclosures, if the whole building were once a house, were the chambers of the chief inhabitants. If it was a place of security for cattle, they were probably the shelters of the keepers. From the Dun we were conducted to another place of security, a cave carried a great way under ground, which had been discovered by digging after a fox. These caves, of which many have been found, and many probably remain concealed, are formed, I believe, commonly by taking advantage of a hollow, where banks or rocks rise on either side. If no such place can be found, the ground must be cut away. The walls are made by piling stones against the earth, on either side. It is then roofed by larger stones laid across the cavern, which therefore cannot be wide. Over the roof, turfs were placed, and grass was suffered to grow; and the mouth was concealed by bushes, or some other cover. These caves were represented to us as the cabins of the first rude inhabitants, of which, however, I am by no means persuaded. This was so low, that no man could stand upright in it. By their construction they are all so narrow, that two can never pass along them together, and being subterraneous, they must be always damp. They are not the work of an age much ruder than the present; for they are formed with as much art as the construction of a common hut requires. I imagine them to have been places only of occasional use, in which the Islander, upon a sudden alarm, hid his utensils, or his cloaths, and perhaps sometimes his wife and children. This cave we entered, but could not proceed the whole length, and went away without knowing how far it was carried. For this omission we shall be blamed, as we perhaps have blamed other travellers; but the day was rainy, and the ground was damp. We had with us neither spades nor pickaxes, and if love of ease surmounted our desire of knowledge, the offence has not the invidiousness of singularity. Edifices, either standing or ruined, are the chief records of an illiterate nation. In some part of this journey, at no great distance from our way, stood a shattered fortress, of which the learned minister, to whose communication we are much indebted, gave us an account. Those, said he, are the walls of a place of refuge, built in the time of James the Sixth, by Hugh Macdonald, who was next heir to the dignity and fortune of his chief. Hugh, being so near his wish, was impatient of delay; and had art and influence sufficient to engage several gentlemen in a plot against the Laird's life. Something must be stipulated on both sides; for they would not dip their hands in blood merely for Hugh's advancement. The compact was formerly written, signed by the conspirators, and placed in the hands of one Macleod. It happened that Macleod had sold some cattle to a drover, who, not having ready money, gave him a bond for payment. The debt was discharged, and the bond re-demanded; which Macleod, who could not read, intending to put into his hands, gave him the conspiracy. The drover, when he had read the paper, delivered it privately to Macdonald; who, being thus informed of his danger, called his friends together, and provided for his safety. He made a public feast, and inviting Hugh Macdonald and his confederates, placed each of them at the table between two men of known fidelity. The compact of conspiracy was then shewn, and every man confronted with his own name. Macdonald acted with great moderation. He upbraided Hugh, both with disloyalty and ingratitude; but told the rest, that he considered them as men deluded and misinformed. Hugh was sworn to fidelity, and dismissed with his companions; but he was not generous enough to be reclaimed by lenity; and finding no longer any countenance among the gentlemen, endeavoured to execute the same design by meaner hands. In this practice he was detected, taken to Macdonald's castle, and imprisoned in the dungeon. When he was hungry, they let down a plentiful meal of salted meat; and when, after his repast, he called for drink, conveyed to him a covered cup, which, when he lifted the lid, he found empty. From that time they visited him no more, but left him to perish in solitude and darkness. We were then told of a cavern by the sea-side, remarkable for the powerful reverberation of sounds. After dinner we took a boat, to explore this curious cavity. The boatmen, who seemed to be of a rank above that of common drudges, inquired who the strangers were, and being told we came one from Scotland, and the other from England, asked if the Englishman could recount a long genealogy. What answer was given them, the conversation being in Erse, I was not much inclined to examine. They expected no good event of the voyage; for one of them declared that he heard the cry of an English ghost. This omen I was not told till after our return, and therefore cannot claim the dignity of despising it. The sea was smooth. We never left the shore, and came without any disaster to the cavern, which we found rugged and misshapen, about one hundred and eighty feet long, thirty wide in the broadest part, and in the loftiest, as we guessed, about thirty high. It was now dry, but at high water the sea rises in it near six feet. Here I saw what I had never seen before, limpets and mussels in their natural state. But, as a new testimony to the veracity of common fame, here was no echo to be heard. We then walked through a natural arch in the rock, which might have pleased us by its novelty, had the stones, which incumbered our feet, given us leisure to consider it. We were shown the gummy seed of the kelp, that fastens itself to a stone, from which it grows into a strong stalk. In our return, we found a little boy upon the point of rock, catching with his angle, a supper for the family. We rowed up to him, and borrowed his rod, with which Mr. Boswell caught a cuddy. The cuddy is a fish of which I know not the philosophical name. It is not much bigger than a gudgeon, but is of great use in these Islands, as it affords the lower people both food, and oil for their lamps. Cuddies are so abundant, at sometimes of the year, that they are caught like whitebait in the Thames, only by dipping a basket and drawing it back. If it were always practicable to fish, these Islands could never be in much danger from famine; but unhappily in the winter, when other provision fails, the seas are commonly too rough for nets, or boats. TALISKER IN SKY From Ulinish, our next stage was to Talisker, the house of colonel Macleod, an officer in the Dutch service, who, in this time of universal peace, has for several years been permitted to be absent from his regiment. Having been bred to physick, he is consequently a scholar, and his lady, by accompanying him in his different places of residence, is become skilful in several languages. Talisker is the place beyond all that I have seen, from which the gay and the jovial seem utterly excluded; and where the hermit might expect to grow old in meditation, without possibility of disturbance or interruption. It is situated very near the sea, but upon a coast where no vessel lands but when it is driven by a tempest on the rocks. Towards the land are lofty hills streaming with waterfalls. The garden is sheltered by firs or pines, which grow there so prosperously, that some, which the present inhabitant planted, are very high and thick. At this place we very happily met Mr. Donald Maclean, a young gentleman, the eldest son of the Laird of Col, heir to a very great extent of land, and so desirous of improving his inheritance, that he spent a considerable time among the farmers of Hertfordshire, and Hampshire, to learn their practice. He worked with his own hands at the principal operations of agriculture, that he might not deceive himself by a false opinion of skill, which, if he should find it deficient at home, he had no means of completing. If the world has agreed to praise the travels and manual labours of the Czar of Muscovy, let Col have his share of the like applause, in the proportion of his dominions to the empire of Russia. This young gentleman was sporting in the mountains of Sky, and when he was weary with following his game, repaired for lodging to Talisker. At night he missed one of his dogs, and when he went to seek him in the morning, found two eagles feeding on his carcass. Col, for he must be named by his possessions, hearing that our intention was to visit Jona, offered to conduct us to his chief, Sir Allan Maclean, who lived in the isle of Inch Kenneth, and would readily find us a convenient passage. From this time was formed an acquaintance, which being begun by kindness, was accidentally continued by constraint; we derived much pleasure from it, and I hope have given him no reason to repent it. The weather was now almost one continued storm, and we were to snatch some happy intermission to be conveyed to Mull, the third Island of the Hebrides, lying about a degree south of Sky, whence we might easily find our way to Inch Kenneth, where Sir Allan Maclean resided, and afterward to Jona. For this purpose, the most commodious station that we could take was Armidel, which Sir Alexander Macdonald had now left to a gentleman, who lived there as his factor or steward. In our way to Armidel was Coriatachan, where we had already been, and to which therefore we were very willing to return. We staid however so long at Talisker, that a great part of our journey was performed in the gloom of the evening. In travelling even thus almost without light thro' naked solitude, when there is a guide whose conduct may be trusted, a mind not naturally too much disposed to fear, may preserve some degree of cheerfulness; but what must be the solicitude of him who should be wandering, among the craggs and hollows, benighted, ignorant, and alone? The fictions of the Gothick romances were not so remote from credibility as they are now thought. In the full prevalence of the feudal institution, when violence desolated the world, and every baron lived in a fortress, forests and castles were regularly succeeded by each other, and the adventurer might very suddenly pass from the gloom of woods, or the ruggedness of moors, to seats of plenty, gaiety, and magnificence. Whatever is imaged in the wildest tale, if giants, dragons, and enchantment be excepted, would be felt by him, who, wandering in the mountains without a guide, or upon the sea without a pilot, should be carried amidst his terror and uncertainty, to the hospitality and elegance of Raasay or Dunvegan. To Coriatachan at last we came, and found ourselves welcomed as before. Here we staid two days, and made such inquiries as curiosity suggested. The house was filled with company, among whom Mr. Macpherson and his sister distinguished themselves by their politeness and accomplishments. By him we were invited to Ostig, a house not far from Armidel, where we might easily hear of a boat, when the weather would suffer us to leave the Island. OSTIG IN SKY At Ostig, of which Mr. Macpherson is minister, we were entertained for some days, then removed to Armidel, where we finished our observations on the island of Sky. As this Island lies in the fifty-seventh degree, the air cannot be supposed to have much warmth. The long continuance of the sun above the horizon, does indeed sometimes produce great heat in northern latitudes; but this can only happen in sheltered places, where the atmosphere is to a certain degree stagnant, and the same mass of air continues to receive for many hours the rays of the sun, and the vapours of the earth. Sky lies open on the west and north to a vast extent of ocean, and is cooled in the summer by perpetual ventilation, but by the same blasts is kept warm in winter. Their weather is not pleasing. Half the year is deluged with rain. From the autumnal to the vernal equinox, a dry day is hardly known, except when the showers are suspended by a tempest. Under such skies can be expected no great exuberance of vegetation. Their winter overtakes their summer, and their harvest lies upon the ground drenched with rain. The autumn struggles hard to produce some of our early fruits. I gathered gooseberries in September; but they were small, and the husk was thick. Their winter is seldom such as puts a full stop to the growth of plants, or reduces the cattle to live wholly on the surplusage of the summer. In the year Seventy-one they had a severe season, remembered by the name of the Black Spring, from which the island has not yet recovered. The snow lay long upon the ground, a calamity hardly known before. Part of their cattle died for want, part were unseasonably sold to buy sustenance for the owners; and, what I have not read or heard of before, the kine that survived were so emaciated and dispirited, that they did not require the male at the usual time. Many of the roebucks perished. The soil, as in other countries, has its diversities. In some parts there is only a thin layer of earth spread upon a rock, which bears nothing but short brown heath, and perhaps is not generally capable of any better product. There are many bogs or mosses of greater or less extent, where the soil cannot be supposed to want depth, though it is too wet for the plow. But we did not observe in these any aquatick plants. The vallies and the mountains are alike darkened with heath. Some grass, however, grows here and there, and some happier spots of earth are capable of tillage. Their agriculture is laborious, and perhaps rather feeble than unskilful. Their chief manure is seaweed, which, when they lay it to rot upon the field, gives them a better crop than those of the Highlands. They heap sea shells upon the dunghill, which in time moulder into a fertilising substance. When they find a vein of earth where they cannot use it, they dig it up, and add it to the mould of a more commodious place. Their corn grounds often lie in such intricacies among the craggs, that there is no room for the action of a team and plow. The soil is then turned up by manual labour, with an instrument called a crooked spade, of a form and weight which to me appeared very incommodious, and would perhaps be soon improved in a country where workmen could be easily found and easily paid. It has a narrow blade of iron fixed to a long and heavy piece of wood, which must have, about a foot and a half above the iron, a knee or flexure with the angle downwards. When the farmer encounters a stone which is the great impediment of his operations, he drives the blade under it, and bringing the knee or angle to the ground, has in the long handle a very forcible lever. According to the different mode of tillage, farms are distinguished into long land and short land. Long land is that which affords room for a plow, and short land is turned up by the spade. The grain which they commit to the furrows thus tediously formed, is either oats or barley. They do not sow barley without very copious manure, and then they expect from it ten for one, an increase equal to that of better countries; but the culture is so operose that they content themselves commonly with oats; and who can relate without compassion, that after all their diligence they are to expect only a triple increase? It is in vain to hope for plenty, when a third part of the harvest must be reserved for seed. When their grain is arrived at the state which they must consider as ripeness, they do not cut, but pull the barley: to the oats they apply the sickle. Wheel carriages they have none, but make a frame of timber, which is drawn by one horse with the two points behind pressing on the ground. On this they sometimes drag home their sheaves, but often convey them home in a kind of open panier, or frame of sticks upon the horse's back. Of that which is obtained with so much difficulty, nothing surely ought to be wasted; yet their method of clearing their oats from the husk is by parching them in the straw. Thus with the genuine improvidence of savages, they destroy that fodder for want of which their cattle may perish. From this practice they have two petty conveniences. They dry the grain so that it is easily reduced to meal, and they escape the theft of the thresher. The taste contracted from the fire by the oats, as by every other scorched substance, use must long ago have made grateful. The oats that are not parched must be dried in a kiln. The barns of Sky I never saw. That which Macleod of Raasay had erected near his house was so contrived, because the harvest is seldom brought home dry, as by perpetual perflation to prevent the mow from heating. Of their gardens I can judge only from their tables. I did not observe that the common greens were wanting, and suppose, that by choosing an advantageous exposition, they can raise all the more hardy esculent plants. Of vegetable fragrance or beauty they are not yet studious. Few vows are made to Flora in the Hebrides. They gather a little hay, but the grass is mown late; and is so often almost dry and again very wet, before it is housed, that it becomes a collection of withered stalks without taste or fragrance; it must be eaten by cattle that have nothing else, but by most English farmers would be thrown away. In the Islands I have not heard that any subterraneous treasures have been discovered, though where there are mountains, there are commonly minerals. One of the rocks in Col has a black vein, imagined to consist of the ore of lead; but it was never yet opened or essayed. In Sky a black mass was accidentally picked up, and brought into the house of the owner of the land, who found himself strongly inclined to think it a coal, but unhappily it did not burn in the chimney. Common ores would be here of no great value; for what requires to be separated by fire, must, if it were found, be carried away in its mineral state, here being no fewel for the smelting-house or forge. Perhaps by diligent search in this world of stone, some valuable species of marble might be discovered. But neither philosophical curiosity, nor commercial industry, have yet fixed their abode here, where the importunity of immediate want supplied but for the day, and craving on the morrow, has left little room for excursive knowledge or the pleasing fancies of distant profit. They have lately found a manufacture considerably lucrative. Their rocks abound with kelp, a sea-plant, of which the ashes are melted into glass. They burn kelp in great quantities, and then send it away in ships, which come regularly to purchase them. This new source of riches has raised the rents of many maritime farms; but the tenants pay, like all other tenants, the additional rent with great unwillingness; because they consider the profits of the kelp as the mere product of personal labour, to which the landlord contributes nothing. However, as any man may be said to give, what he gives the power of gaining, he has certainly as much right to profit from the price of kelp as of any thing else found or raised upon his ground. This new trade has excited a long and eager litigation between Macdonald and Macleod, for a ledge of rocks, which, till the value of kelp was known, neither of them desired the reputation of possessing. The cattle of Sky are not so small as is commonly believed. Since they have sent their beeves in great numbers to southern marts, they have probably taken more care of their breed. At stated times the annual growth of cattle is driven to a fair, by a general drover, and with the money, which he returns to the farmer, the rents are paid. The price regularly expected, is from two to three pounds a head: there was once one sold for five pounds. They go from the Islands very lean, and are not offered to the butcher, till they have been long fatted in English pastures. Of their black cattle, some are without horns, called by the Scots humble cows, as we call a bee an humble bee, that wants a sting. Whether this difference be specifick, or accidental, though we inquired with great diligence, we could not be informed. We are not very sure that the bull is ever without horns, though we have been told, that such bulls there are. What is produced by putting a horned and unhorned male and female together, no man has ever tried, that thought the result worthy of observation. Their horses are, like their cows, of a moderate size. I had no difficulty to mount myself commodiously by the favour of the gentlemen. I heard of very little cows in Barra, and very little horses in Rum, where perhaps no care is taken to prevent that diminution of size, which must always happen, where the greater and the less copulate promiscuously, and the young animal is restrained from growth by penury of sustenance. The goat is the general inhabitant of the earth, complying with every difference of climate, and of soil. The goats of the Hebrides are like others: nor did I hear any thing of their sheep, to be particularly remarked. In the penury of these malignant regions, nothing is left that can be converted to food. The goats and the sheep are milked like the cows. A single meal of a goat is a quart, and of a sheep a pint. Such at least was the account, which I could extract from those of whom I am not sure that they ever had inquired. The milk of goats is much thinner than that of cows, and that of sheep is much thicker. Sheeps milk is never eaten before it is boiled: as it is thick, it must be very liberal of curd, and the people of St. Kilda form it into small cheeses. The stags of the mountains are less than those of our parks, or forests, perhaps not bigger than our fallow deer. Their flesh has no rankness, nor is inferiour in flavour to our common venison. The roebuck I neither saw nor tasted. These are not countries for a regular chase. The deer are not driven with horns and hounds. A sportsman, with his gun in his hand, watches the animal, and when he has wounded him, traces him by the blood. They have a race of brinded greyhounds, larger and stronger than those with which we course hares, and those are the only dogs used by them for the chase. Man is by the use of fire-arms made so much an overmatch for other animals, that in all countries, where they are in use, the wild part of the creation sensibly diminishes. There will probably not be long, either stags or roebucks in the Islands. All the beasts of chase would have been lost long ago in countries well inhabited, had they not been preserved by laws for the pleasure of the rich. There are in Sky neither rats nor mice, but the weasel is so frequent, that he is heard in houses rattling behind chests or beds, as rats in England. They probably owe to his predominance that they have no other vermin; for since the great rat took possession of this part of the world, scarce a ship can touch at any port, but some of his race are left behind. They have within these few years began to infest the isle of Col, where being left by some trading vessel, they have increased for want of weasels to oppose them. The inhabitants of Sky, and of the other Islands, which I have seen, are commonly of the middle stature, with fewer among them very tall or very short, than are seen in England, or perhaps, as their numbers are small, the chances of any deviation from the common measure are necessarily few. The tallest men that I saw are among those of higher rank. In regions of barrenness and scarcity, the human race is hindered in its growth by the same causes as other animals. The ladies have as much beauty here as in other places, but bloom and softness are not to be expected among the lower classes, whose faces are exposed to the rudeness of the climate, and whose features are sometimes contracted by want, and sometimes hardened by the blasts. Supreme beauty is seldom found in cottages or work-shops, even where no real hardships are suffered. To expand the human face to its full perfection, it seems necessary that the mind should co-operate by placidness of content, or consciousness of superiority. Their strength is proportionate to their size, but they are accustomed to run upon rough ground, and therefore can with great agility skip over the bog, or clamber the mountain. For a campaign in the wastes of America, soldiers better qualified could not have been found. Having little work to do, they are not willing, nor perhaps able to endure a long continuance of manual labour, and are therefore considered as habitually idle. Having never been supplied with those accommodations, which life extensively diversified with trades affords, they supply their wants by very insufficient shifts, and endure many inconveniences, which a little attention would easily relieve. I have seen a horse carrying home the harvest on a crate. Under his tail was a stick for a crupper, held at the two ends by twists of straw. Hemp will grow in their islands, and therefore ropes may be had. If they wanted hemp, they might make better cordage of rushes, or perhaps of nettles, than of straw. Their method of life neither secures them perpetual health, nor exposes them to any particular diseases. There are physicians in the Islands, who, I believe, all practise chirurgery, and all compound their own medicines. It is generally supposed, that life is longer in places where there are few opportunities of luxury; but I found no instance here of extraordinary longevity. A cottager grows old over his oaten cakes, like a citizen at a turtle feast. He is indeed seldom incommoded by corpulence. Poverty preserves him from sinking under the burden of himself, but he escapes no other injury of time. Instances of long life are often related, which those who hear them are more willing to credit than examine. To be told that any man has attained a hundred years, gives hope and comfort to him who stands trembling on the brink of his own climacterick. Length of life is distributed impartially to very different modes of life in very different climates; and the mountains have no greater examples of age and health than the low lands, where I was introduced to two ladies of high quality; one of whom, in her ninety-fourth year, presided at her table with the full exercise of all her powers; and the other has attained her eighty-fourth, without any diminution of her vivacity, and with little reason to accuse time of depredations on her beauty. In the Islands, as in most other places, the inhabitants are of different rank, and one does not encroach here upon another. Where there is no commerce nor manufacture, he that is born poor can scarcely become rich; and if none are able to buy estates, he that is born to land cannot annihilate his family by selling it. This was once the state of these countries. Perhaps there is no example, till within a century and half, of any family whose estate was alienated otherwise than by violence or forfeiture. Since money has been brought amongst them, they have found, like others, the art of spending more than they receive; and I saw with grief the chief of a very ancient clan, whose Island was condemned by law to be sold for the satisfaction of his creditors. The name of highest dignity is Laird, of which there are in the extensive Isle of Sky only three, Macdonald, Macleod, and Mackinnon. The Laird is the original owner of the land, whose natural power must be very great, where no man lives but by agriculture; and where the produce of the land is not conveyed through the labyrinths of traffick, but passes directly from the hand that gathers it to the mouth that eats it. The Laird has all those in his power that live upon his farms. Kings can, for the most part, only exalt or degrade. The Laird at pleasure can feed or starve, can give bread, or withold it. This inherent power was yet strengthened by the kindness of consanguinity, and the reverence of patriarchal authority. The Laird was the father of the Clan, and his tenants commonly bore his name. And to these principles of original command was added, for many ages, an exclusive right of legal jurisdiction. This multifarious, and extensive obligation operated with force scarcely credible. Every duty, moral or political, was absorbed in affection and adherence to the Chief. Not many years have passed since the clans knew no law but the Laird's will. He told them to whom they should be friends or enemies, what King they should obey, and what religion they should profess. When the Scots first rose in arms against the succession of the house of Hanover, Lovat, the Chief of the Frasers, was in exile for a rape. The Frasers were very numerous, and very zealous against the government. A pardon was sent to Lovat. He came to the English camp, and the clan immediately deserted to him. Next in dignity to the Laird is the Tacksman; a large taker or lease-holder of land, of which he keeps part, as a domain, in his own hand, and lets part to under tenants. The Tacksman is necessarily a man capable of securing to the Laird the whole rent, and is commonly a collateral relation. These tacks, or subordinate possessions, were long considered as hereditary, and the occupant was distinguished by the name of the place at which he resided. He held a middle station, by which the highest and the lowest orders were connected. He paid rent and reverence to the Laird, and received them from the tenants. This tenure still subsists, with its original operation, but not with the primitive stability. Since the islanders, no longer content to live, have learned the desire of growing rich, an ancient dependent is in danger of giving way to a higher bidder, at the expense of domestick dignity and hereditary power. The stranger, whose money buys him preference, considers himself as paying for all that he has, and is indifferent about the Laird's honour or safety. The commodiousness of money is indeed great; but there are some advantages which money cannot buy, and which therefore no wise man will by the love of money be tempted to forego. I have found in the hither parts of Scotland, men not defective in judgment or general experience, who consider the Tacksman as a useless burden of the ground, as a drone who lives upon the product of an estate, without the right of property, or the merit of labour, and who impoverishes at once the landlord and the tenant. The land, say they, is let to the Tacksman at sixpence an acre, and by him to the tenant at ten- pence. Let the owner be the immediate landlord to all the tenants; if he sets the ground at eight-pence, he will increase his revenue by a fourth part, and the tenant's burthen will be diminished by a fifth. Those who pursue this train of reasoning, seem not sufficiently to inquire whither it will lead them, nor to know that it will equally shew the propriety of suppressing all wholesale trade, of shutting up the shops of every man who sells what he does not make, and of extruding all whose agency and profit intervene between the manufacturer and the consumer. They may, by stretching their understandings a little wider, comprehend, that all those who by undertaking large quantities of manufacture, and affording employment to many labourers, make themselves considered as benefactors to the publick, have only been robbing their workmen with one hand, and their customers with the other. If Crowley had sold only what he could make, and all his smiths had wrought their own iron with their own hammers, he would have lived on less, and they would have sold their work for more. The salaries of superintendents and clerks would have been partly saved, and partly shared, and nails been sometimes cheaper by a farthing in a hundred. But then if the smith could not have found an immediate purchaser, he must have deserted his anvil; if there had by accident at any time been more sellers than buyers, the workmen must have reduced their profit to nothing, by underselling one another; and as no great stock could have been in any hand, no sudden demand of large quantities could have been answered and the builder must have stood still till the nailer could supply him. According to these schemes, universal plenty is to begin and end in universal misery. Hope and emulation will be utterly extinguished; and as all must obey the call of immediate necessity, nothing that requires extensive views, or provides for distant consequences will ever be performed. To the southern inhabitants of Scotland, the state of the mountains and the islands is equally unknown with that of Borneo or Sumatra: Of both they have only heard a little, and guess the rest. They are strangers to the language and the manners, to the advantages and wants of the people, whose life they would model, and whose evils they would remedy. Nothing is less difficult than to procure one convenience by the forfeiture of another. A soldier may expedite his march by throwing away his arms. To banish the Tacksman is easy, to make a country plentiful by diminishing the people, is an expeditious mode of husbandry; but little abundance, which there is nobody to enjoy, contributes little to human happiness. As the mind must govern the hands, so in every society the man of intelligence must direct the man of labour. If the Tacksmen be taken away, the Hebrides must in their present state be given up to grossness and ignorance; the tenant, for want of instruction, will be unskilful, and for want of admonition will be negligent. The Laird in these wide estates, which often consist of islands remote from one another, cannot extend his personal influence to all his tenants; and the steward having no dignity annexed to his character, can have little authority among men taught to pay reverence only to birth, and who regard the Tacksman as their hereditary superior; nor can the steward have equal zeal for the prosperity of an estate profitable only to the Laird, with the Tacksman, who has the Laird's income involved in his own. The only gentlemen in the Islands are the Lairds, the Tacksmen, and the Ministers, who frequently improve their livings by becoming farmers. If the Tacksmen be banished, who will be left to impart knowledge, or impress civility? The Laird must always be at a distance from the greater part of his lands; and if he resides at all upon them, must drag his days in solitude, having no longer either a friend or a companion; he will therefore depart to some more comfortable residence, and leave the tenants to the wisdom and mercy of a factor. Of tenants there are different orders, as they have greater or less stock. Land is sometimes leased to a small fellowship, who live in a cluster of huts, called a Tenants Town, and are bound jointly and separately for the payment of their rent. These, I believe, employ in the care of their cattle, and the labour of tillage, a kind of tenants yet lower; who having a hut with grass for a certain number of cows and sheep, pay their rent by a stipulated quantity of labour. The condition of domestick servants, or the price of occasional labour, I do not know with certainty. I was told that the maids have sheep, and are allowed to spin for their own clothing; perhaps they have no pecuniary wages, or none but in very wealthy families. The state of life, which has hitherto been purely pastoral, begins now to be a little variegated with commerce; but novelties enter by degrees, and till one mode has fully prevailed over the other, no settled notion can be formed. Such is the system of insular subordination, which, having little variety, cannot afford much delight in the view, nor long detain the mind in contemplation. The inhabitants were for a long time perhaps not unhappy; but their content was a muddy mixture of pride and ignorance, an indifference for pleasures which they did not know, a blind veneration for their chiefs, and a strong conviction of their own importance. Their pride has been crushed by the heavy hand of a vindictive conqueror, whose seventies have been followed by laws, which, though they cannot be called cruel, have produced much discontent, because they operate upon the surface of life, and make every eye bear witness to subjection. To be compelled to a new dress has always been found painful. Their Chiefs being now deprived of their jurisdiction, have already lost much of their influence; and as they gradually degenerate from patriarchal rulers to rapacious landlords, they will divest themselves of the little that remains. That dignity which they derived from an opinion of their military importance, the law, which disarmed them, has abated. An old gentleman, delighting himself with the recollection of better days, related, that forty years ago, a Chieftain walked out attended by ten or twelve followers, with their arms rattling. That animating rabble has now ceased. The Chief has lost his formidable retinue; and the Highlander walks his heath unarmed and defenceless, with the peaceable submission of a French peasant or English cottager. Their ignorance grows every day less, but their knowledge is yet of little other use than to shew them their wants. They are now in the period of education, and feel the uneasiness of discipline, without yet perceiving the benefit of instruction. The last law, by which the Highlanders are deprived of their arms, has operated with efficacy beyond expectation. Of former statutes made with the same design, the execution had been feeble, and the effect inconsiderable. Concealment was undoubtedly practised, and perhaps often with connivance. There was tenderness, or partiality, on one side, and obstinacy on the other. But the law, which followed the victory of Culloden, found the whole nation dejected and intimidated; informations were given without danger, and without fear, and the arms were collected with such rigour, that every house was despoiled of its defence. To disarm part of the Highlands, could give no reasonable occasion of complaint. Every government must be allowed the power of taking away the weapon that is lifted against it. But the loyal clans murmured, with some appearance of justice, that after having defended the King, they were forbidden for the future to defend themselves; and that the sword should be forfeited, which had been legally employed. Their case is undoubtedly hard, but in political regulations, good cannot be complete, it can only be predominant. Whether by disarming a people thus broken into several tribes, and thus remote from the seat of power, more good than evil has been produced, may deserve inquiry. The supreme power in every community has the right of debarring every individual, and every subordinate society from self-defence, only because the supreme power is able to defend them; and therefore where the governor cannot act, he must trust the subject to act for himself. These Islands might be wasted with fire and sword before their sovereign would know their distress. A gang of robbers, such as has been lately found confederating themselves in the Highlands, might lay a wide region under contribution. The crew of a petty privateer might land on the largest and most wealthy of the Islands, and riot without control in cruelty and waste. It was observed by one of the Chiefs of Sky, that fifty armed men might, without resistance ravage the country. Laws that place the subjects in such a state, contravene the first principles of the compact of authority: they exact obedience, and yield no protection. It affords a generous and manly pleasure to conceive a little nation gathering its fruits and tending its herds with fearless confidence, though it lies open on every side to invasion, where, in contempt of walls and trenches, every man sleeps securely with his sword beside him; where all on the first approach of hostility came together at the call to battle, as at a summons to a festal show; and committing their cattle to the care of those whom age or nature has disabled, engage the enemy with that competition for hazard and for glory, which operate in men that fight under the eye of those, whose dislike or kindness they have always considered as the greatest evil or the greatest good. This was, in the beginning of the present century, the state of the Highlands. Every man was a soldier, who partook of national confidence, and interested himself in national honour. To lose this spirit, is to lose what no small advantage will compensate. It may likewise deserve to be inquired, whether a great nation ought to be totally commercial? whether amidst the uncertainty of human affairs, too much attention to one mode of happiness may not endanger others? whether the pride of riches must not sometimes have recourse to the protection of courage? and whether, if it be necessary to preserve in some part of the empire the military spirit, it can subsist more commodiously in any place, than in remote and unprofitable provinces, where it can commonly do little harm, and whence it may be called forth at any sudden exigence? It must however be confessed, that a man, who places honour only in successful violence, is a very troublesome and pernicious animal in time of peace; and that the martial character cannot prevail in a whole people, but by the diminution of all other virtues. He that is accustomed to resolve all right into conquest, will have very little tenderness or equity. All the friendship in such a life can be only a confederacy of invasion, or alliance of defence. The strong must flourish by force, and the weak subsist by stratagem. Till the Highlanders lost their ferocity, with their arms, they suffered from each other all that malignity could dictate, or precipitance could act. Every provocation was revenged with blood, and no man that ventured into a numerous company, by whatever occasion brought together, was sure of returning without a wound. If they are now exposed to foreign hostilities, they may talk of the danger, but can seldom feel it. If they are no longer martial, they are no longer quarrelsome. Misery is caused for the most part, not by a heavy crush of disaster, but by the corrosion of less visible evils, which canker enjoyment, and undermine security. The visit of an invader is necessarily rare, but domestick animosities allow no cessation. The abolition of the local jurisdictions, which had for so many ages been exercised by the chiefs, has likewise its evil and its good. The feudal constitution naturally diffused itself into long ramifications of subordinate authority. To this general temper of the government was added the peculiar form of the country, broken by mountains into many subdivisions scarcely accessible but to the natives, and guarded by passes, or perplexed with intricacies, through which national justice could not find its way. The power of deciding controversies, and of punishing offences, as some such power there must always be, was intrusted to the Lairds of the country, to those whom the people considered as their natural judges. It cannot be supposed that a rugged proprietor of the rocks, unprincipled and unenlightened, was a nice resolver of entangled claims, or very exact in proportioning punishment to offences. But the more he indulged his own will, the more he held his vassals in dependence. Prudence and innocence, without the favour of the Chief, conferred no security; and crimes involved no danger, when the judge was resolute to acquit. When the chiefs were men of knowledge and virtue, the convenience of a domestick judicature was great. No long journies were necessary, nor artificial delays could be practised; the character, the alliances, and interests of the litigants were known to the court, and all false pretences were easily detected. The sentence, when it was past, could not be evaded; the power of the Laird superseded formalities, and justice could not be defeated by interest or stratagem. I doubt not but that since the regular judges have made their circuits through the whole country, right has been every where more wisely, and more equally distributed; the complaint is, that litigation is grown troublesome, and that the magistrates are too few, and therefore often too remote for general convenience. Many of the smaller Islands have no legal officer within them. I once asked, If a crime should be committed, by what authority the offender could be seized? and was told, that the Laird would exert his right; a right which he must now usurp, but which surely necessity must vindicate, and which is therefore yet exercised in lower degrees, by some of the proprietors, when legal processes cannot be obtained. In all greater questions, however, there is now happily an end to all fear or hope from malice or from favour. The roads are secure in those places through which, forty years ago, no traveller could pass without a convoy. All trials of right by the sword are forgotten, and the mean are in as little danger from the powerful as in other places. No scheme of policy has, in any country, yet brought the rich and poor on equal terms into courts of judicature. Perhaps experience, improving on experience, may in time effect it. Those who have long enjoyed dignity and power, ought not to lose it without some equivalent. There was paid to the Chiefs by the publick, in exchange for their privileges, perhaps a sum greater than most of them had ever possessed, which excited a thirst for riches, of which it shewed them the use. When the power of birth and station ceases, no hope remains but from the prevalence of money. Power and wealth supply the place of each other. Power confers the ability of gratifying our desire without the consent of others. Wealth enables us to obtain the consent of others to our gratification. Power, simply considered, whatever it confers on one, must take from another. Wealth enables its owner to give to others, by taking only from himself. Power pleases the violent and proud: wealth delights the placid and the timorous. Youth therefore flies at power, and age grovels after riches. The Chiefs, divested of their prerogatives, necessarily turned their thoughts to the improvement of their revenues, and expect more rent, as they have less homage. The tenant, who is far from perceiving that his condition is made better in the same proportion, as that of his landlord is made worse, does not immediately see why his industry is to be taxed more heavily than before. He refuses to pay the demand, and is ejected; the ground is then let to a stranger, who perhaps brings a larger stock, but who, taking the land at its full price, treats with the Laird upon equal terms, and considers him not as a Chief, but as a trafficker in land. Thus the estate perhaps is improved, but the clan is broken. It seems to be the general opinion, that the rents have been raised with too much eagerness. Some regard must be paid to prejudice. Those who have hitherto paid but little, will not suddenly be persuaded to pay much, though they can afford it. As ground is gradually improved, and the value of money decreases, the rent may be raised without any diminution of the farmer's profits: yet it is necessary in these countries, where the ejection of a tenant is a greater evil, than in more populous places, to consider not merely what the land will produce, but with what ability the inhabitant can cultivate it. A certain stock can allow but a certain payment; for if the land be doubled, and the stock remains the same, the tenant becomes no richer. The proprietors of the Highlands might perhaps often increase their income, by subdividing the farms, and allotting to every occupier only so many acres as he can profitably employ, but that they want people. There seems now, whatever be the cause, to be through a great part of the Highlands a general discontent. That adherence, which was lately professed by every man to the chief of his name, has now little prevalence; and he that cannot live as he desires at home, listens to the tale of fortunate islands, and happy regions, where every man may have land of his own, and eat the product of his labour without a superior. Those who have obtained grants of American lands, have, as is well known, invited settlers from all quarters of the globe; and among other places, where oppression might produce a wish for new habitations, their emissaries would not fail to try their persuasions in the Isles of Scotland, where at the time when the clans were newly disunited from their Chiefs, and exasperated by unprecedented exactions, it is no wonder that they prevailed. Whether the mischiefs of emigration were immediately perceived, may be justly questioned. They who went first, were probably such as could best be spared; but the accounts sent by the earliest adventurers, whether true or false, inclined many to follow them; and whole neighbourhoods formed parties for removal; so that departure from their native country is no longer exile. He that goes thus accompanied, carries with him all that makes life pleasant. He sits down in a better climate, surrounded by his kindred and his friends: they carry with them their language, their opinions, their popular songs, and hereditary merriment: they change nothing but the place of their abode; and of that change they perceive the benefit. This is the real effect of emigration, if those that go away together settle on the same spot, and preserve their ancient union. But some relate that these adventurous visitants of unknown regions, after a voyage passed in dreams of plenty and felicity, are dispersed at last upon a Sylvan wilderness, where their first years must be spent in toil, to clear the ground which is afterwards to be tilled, and that the whole effect of their undertakings is only more fatigue and equal scarcity. Both accounts may be suspected. Those who are gone will endeavour by every art to draw others after them; for as their numbers are greater, they will provide better for themselves. When Nova Scotia was first peopled, I remember a letter, published under the character of a New Planter, who related how much the climate put him in mind of Italy. Such intelligence the Hebridians probably receive from their transmarine correspondents. But with equal temptations of interest, and perhaps with no greater niceness of veracity, the owners of the Islands spread stories of American hardships to keep their people content at home. Some method to stop this epidemick desire of wandering, which spreads its contagion from valley to valley, deserves to be sought with great diligence. In more fruitful countries, the removal of one only makes room for the succession of another: but in the Hebrides, the loss of an inhabitant leaves a lasting vacuity; for nobody born in any other parts of the world will choose this country for his residence, and an Island once depopulated will remain a desert, as long as the present facility of travel gives every one, who is discontented and unsettled, the choice of his abode. Let it be inquired, whether the first intention of those who are fluttering on the wing, and collecting a flock that they may take their flight, be to attain good, or to avoid evil. If they are dissatisfied with that part of the globe, which their birth has allotted them, and resolve not to live without the pleasures of happier climates; if they long for bright suns, and calm skies, and flowery fields, and fragrant gardens, I know not by what eloquence they can be persuaded, or by what offers they can be hired to stay. But if they are driven from their native country by positive evils, and disgusted by ill-treatment, real or imaginary, it were fit to remove their grievances, and quiet their resentment; since, if they have been hitherto undutiful subjects, they will not much mend their principles by American conversation. To allure them into the army, it was thought proper to indulge them in the continuance of their national dress. If this concession could have any effect, it might easily be made. That dissimilitude of appearance, which was supposed to keep them distinct from the rest of the nation, might disincline them from coalescing with the Pensylvanians, or people of Connecticut. If the restitution of their arms will reconcile them to their country, let them have again those weapons, which will not be more mischievous at home than in the Colonies. That they may not fly from the increase of rent, I know not whether the general good does not require that the landlords be, for a time, restrained in their demands, and kept quiet by pensions proportionate to their loss. To hinder insurrection, by driving away the people, and to govern peaceably, by having no subjects, is an expedient that argues no great profundity of politicks. To soften the obdurate, to convince the mistaken, to mollify the resentful, are worthy of a statesman; but it affords a legislator little self-applause to consider, that where there was formerly an insurrection, there is now a wilderness. It has been a question often agitated without solution, why those northern regions are now so thinly peopled, which formerly overwhelmed with their armies the Roman empire. The question supposes what I believe is not true, that they had once more inhabitants than they could maintain, and overflowed only because they were full. This is to estimate the manners of all countries and ages by our own. Migration, while the state of life was unsettled, and there was little communication of intelligence between distant places, was among the wilder nations of Europe, capricious and casual. An adventurous projector heard of a fertile coast unoccupied, and led out a colony; a chief of renown for bravery, called the young men together, and led them out to try what fortune would present. When Caesar was in Gaul, he found the Helvetians preparing to go they knew not whither, and put a stop to their motions. They settled again in their own country, where they were so far from wanting room, that they had accumulated three years provision for their march. The religion of the North was military; if they could not find enemies, it was their duty to make them: they travelled in quest of danger, and willingly took the chance of Empire or Death. If their troops were numerous, the countries from which they were collected are of vast extent, and without much exuberance of people great armies may be raised where every man is a soldier. But their true numbers were never known. Those who were conquered by them are their historians, and shame may have excited them to say, that they were overwhelmed with multitudes. To count is a modern practice, the ancient method was to guess; and when numbers are guessed they are always magnified. Thus England has for several years been filled with the atchievements of seventy thousand Highlanders employed in America. I have heard from an English officer, not much inclined to favour them, that their behaviour deserved a very high degree of military praise; but their number has been much exaggerated. One of the ministers told me, that seventy thousand men could not have been found in all the Highlands, and that more than twelve thousand never took the field. Those that went to the American war, went to destruction. Of the old Highland regiment, consisting of twelve hundred, only seventy-six survived to see their country again. The Gothick swarms have at least been multiplied with equal liberality. That they bore no great proportion to the inhabitants, in whose countries they settled, is plain from the paucity of northern words now found in the provincial languages. Their country was not deserted for want of room, because it was covered with forests of vast extent; and the first effect of plenitude of inhabitants is the destruction of wood. As the Europeans spread over America the lands are gradually laid naked. I would not be understood to say, that necessity had never any part in their expeditions. A nation, whose agriculture is scanty or unskilful, may be driven out by famine. A nation of hunters may have exhausted their game. I only affirm that the northern regions were not, when their irruptions subdued the Romans, overpeopled with regard to their real extent of territory, and power of fertility. In a country fully inhabited, however afterward laid waste, evident marks will remain of its former populousness. But of Scandinavia and Germany, nothing is known but that as we trace their state upwards into antiquity, their woods were greater, and their cultivated ground was less. That causes were different from want of room may produce a general disposition to seek another country is apparent from the present conduct of the Highlanders, who are in some places ready to threaten a total secession. The numbers which have already gone, though like other numbers they may be magnified, are very great, and such as if they had gone together and agreed upon any certain settlement, might have founded an independent government in the depths of the western continent. Nor are they only the lowest and most indigent; many men of considerable wealth have taken with them their train of labourers and dependants; and if they continue the feudal scheme of polity, may establish new clans in the other hemisphere. That the immediate motives of their desertion must be imputed to their landlords, may be reasonably concluded, because some Lairds of more prudence and less rapacity have kept their vassals undiminished. From Raasa only one man had been seduced, and at Col there was no wish to go away. The traveller who comes hither from more opulent countries, to speculate upon the remains of pastoral life, will not much wonder that a common Highlander has no strong adherence to his native soil; for of animal enjoyments, or of physical good, he leaves nothing that he may not find again wheresoever he may be thrown. The habitations of men in the Hebrides may be distinguished into huts and houses. By a house, I mean a building with one story over another; by a hut, a dwelling with only one floor. The Laird, who formerly lived in a castle, now lives in a house; sometimes sufficiently neat, but seldom very spacious or splendid. The Tacksmen and the Ministers have commonly houses. Wherever there is a house, the stranger finds a welcome, and to the other evils of exterminating Tacksmen may be added the unavoidable cessation of hospitality, or the devolution of too heavy a burden on the Ministers. Of the houses little can be said. They are small, and by the necessity of accumulating stores, where there are so few opportunities of purchase, the rooms are very heterogeneously filled. With want of cleanliness it were ingratitude to reproach them. The servants having been bred upon the naked earth, think every floor clean, and the quick succession of guests, perhaps not always over-elegant, does not allow much time for adjusting their apartments. Huts are of many gradations; from murky dens, to commodious dwellings. The wall of a common hut is always built without mortar, by a skilful adaptation of loose stones. Sometimes perhaps a double wall of stones is raised, and the intermediate space filled with earth. The air is thus completely excluded. Some walls are, I think, formed of turfs, held together by a wattle, or texture of twigs. Of the meanest huts, the first room is lighted by the entrance, and the second by the smoke hole. The fire is usually made in the middle. But there are huts, or dwellings of only one story, inhabited by gentlemen, which have walls cemented with mortar, glass windows, and boarded floors. Of these all have chimneys, and some chimneys have grates. The house and the furniture are not always nicely suited. We were driven once, by missing a passage, to the hut of a gentleman, where, after a very liberal supper, when I was conducted to my chamber, I found an elegant bed of Indian cotton, spread with fine sheets. The accommodation was flattering; I undressed myself, and felt my feet in the mire. The bed stood upon the bare earth, which a long course of rain had softened to a puddle. In pastoral countries the condition of the lowest rank of people is sufficiently wretched. Among manufacturers, men that have no property may have art and industry, which make them necessary, and therefore valuable. But where flocks and corn are the only wealth, there are always more hands than work, and of that work there is little in which skill and dexterity can be much distinguished. He therefore who is born poor never can be rich. The son merely occupies the place of the father, and life knows nothing of progression or advancement. The petty tenants, and labouring peasants, live in miserable cabins, which afford them little more than shelter from the storms. The Boor of Norway is said to make all his own utensils. In the Hebrides, whatever might be their ingenuity, the want of wood leaves them no materials. They are probably content with such accommodations as stones of different forms and sizes can afford them. Their food is not better than their lodging. They seldom taste the flesh of land animals; for here are no markets. What each man eats is from his own stock. The great effect of money is to break property into small parts. In towns, he that has a shilling may have a piece of meat; but where there is no commerce, no man can eat mutton but by killing a sheep. Fish in fair weather they need not want; but, I believe, man never lives long on fish, but by constraint; he will rather feed upon roots and berries. The only fewel of the Islands is peat. Their wood is all consumed, and coal they have not yet found. Peat is dug out of the marshes, from the depth of one foot to that of six. That is accounted the best which is nearest the surface. It appears to be a mass of black earth held together by vegetable fibres. I know not whether the earth be bituminous, or whether the fibres be not the only combustible part; which, by heating the interposed earth red hot, make a burning mass. The heat is not very strong nor lasting. The ashes are yellowish, and in a large quantity. When they dig peat, they cut it into square pieces, and pile it up to dry beside the house. In some places it has an offensive smell. It is like wood charked for the smith. The common method of making peat fires, is by heaping it on the hearth; but it burns well in grates, and in the best houses is so used. The common opinion is, that peat grows again where it has been cut; which, as it seems to be chiefly a vegetable substance, is not unlikely to be true, whether known or not to those who relate it. There are water mills in Sky and Raasa; but where they are too far distant, the house-wives grind their oats with a quern, or hand-mill, which consists of two stones, about a foot and a half in diameter; the lower is a little convex, to which the concavity of the upper must be fitted. In the middle of the upper stone is a round hole, and on one side is a long handle. The grinder sheds the corn gradually into the hole with one hand, and works the handle round with the other. The corn slides down the convexity of the lower stone, and by the motion of the upper is ground in its passage. These stones are found in Lochabar. The Islands afford few pleasures, except to the hardy sportsman, who can tread the moor and climb the mountain. The distance of one family from another, in a country where travelling has so much difficulty, makes frequent intercourse impracticable. Visits last several days, and are commonly paid by water; yet I never saw a boat furnished with benches, or made commodious by any addition to the first fabric. Conveniences are not missed where they never were enjoyed. The solace which the bagpipe can give, they have long enjoyed; but among other changes, which the last Revolution introduced, the use of the bagpipe begins to be forgotten. Some of the chief families still entertain a piper, whose office was anciently hereditary. Macrimmon was piper to Macleod, and Rankin to Maclean of Col. The tunes of the bagpipe are traditional. There has been in Sky, beyond all time of memory, a college of pipers, under the direction of Macrimmon, which is not quite extinct. There was another in Mull, superintended by Rankin, which expired about sixteen years ago. To these colleges, while the pipe retained its honour, the students of musick repaired for education. I have had my dinner exhilarated by the bagpipe, at Armidale, at Dunvegan, and in Col. The general conversation of the Islanders has nothing particular. I did not meet with the inquisitiveness of which I have read, and suspect the judgment to have been rashly made. A stranger of curiosity comes into a place where a stranger is seldom seen: he importunes the people with questions, of which they cannot guess the motive, and gazes with surprise on things which they, having had them always before their eyes, do not suspect of any thing wonderful. He appears to them like some being of another world, and then thinks it peculiar that they take their turn to inquire whence he comes, and whither he is going. The Islands were long unfurnished with instruction for youth, and none but the sons of gentlemen could have any literature. There are now parochial schools, to which the lord of every manor pays a certain stipend. Here the children are taught to read; but by the rule of their institution, they teach only English, so that the natives read a language which they may never use or understand. If a parish, which often happens, contains several Islands, the school being but in one, cannot assist the rest. This is the state of Col, which, however, is more enlightened than some other places; for the deficiency is supplied by a young gentleman, who, for his own improvement, travels every year on foot over the Highlands to the session at Aberdeen; and at his return, during the vacation, teaches to read and write in his native Island. In Sky there are two grammar schools, where boarders are taken to be regularly educated. The price of board is from three pounds, to four pounds ten shillings a year, and that of instruction is half a crown a quarter. But the scholars are birds of passage, who live at school only in the summer; for in winter provisions cannot be made for any considerable number in one place. This periodical dispersion impresses strongly the scarcity of these countries. Having heard of no boarding-school for ladies nearer than Inverness, I suppose their education is generally domestick. The elder daughters of the higher families are sent into the world, and may contribute by their acquisitions to the improvement of the rest. Women must here study to be either pleasing or useful. Their deficiencies are seldom supplied by very liberal fortunes. A hundred pounds is a portion beyond the hope of any but the Laird's daughter. They do not indeed often give money with their daughters; the question is, How many cows a young lady will bring her husband. A rich maiden has from ten to forty; but two cows are a decent fortune for one who pretends to no distinction. The religion of the Islands is that of the Kirk of Scotland. The gentlemen with whom I conversed are all inclined to the English liturgy; but they are obliged to maintain the established Minister, and the country is too poor to afford payment to another, who must live wholly on the contribution of his audience. They therefore all attend the worship of the Kirk, as often as a visit from their Minister, or the practicability of travelling gives them opportunity; nor have they any reason to complain of insufficient pastors; for I saw not one in the Islands, whom I had reason to think either deficient in learning, or irregular in life: but found several with whom I could not converse without wishing, as my respect increased, that they had not been Presbyterians. The ancient rigour of puritanism is now very much relaxed, though all are not yet equally enlightened. I sometimes met with prejudices sufficiently malignant, but they were prejudices of ignorance. The Ministers in the Islands had attained such knowledge as may justly be admired in men, who have no motive to study, but generous curiosity, or, what is still better, desire of usefulness; with such politeness as so narrow a circle of converse could not have supplied, but to minds naturally disposed to elegance. Reason and truth will prevail at last. The most learned of the Scottish Doctors would now gladly admit a form of prayer, if the people would endure it. The zeal or rage of congregations has its different degrees. In some parishes the Lord's Prayer is suffered: in others it is still rejected as a form; and he that should make it part of his supplication would be suspected of heretical pravity. The principle upon which extemporary prayer was originally introduced, is no longer admitted. The Minister formerly, in the effusion of his prayer, expected immediate, and perhaps perceptible inspiration, and therefore thought it his duty not to think before what he should say. It is now universally confessed, that men pray as they speak on other occasions, according to the general measure of their abilities and attainments. Whatever each may think of a form prescribed by another, he cannot but believe that he can himself compose by study and meditation a better prayer than will rise in his mind at a sudden call; and if he has any hope of supernatural help, why may he not as well receive it when he writes as when he speaks? In the variety of mental powers, some must perform extemporary prayer with much imperfection; and in the eagerness and rashness of contradictory opinions, if publick liturgy be left to the private judgment of every Minister, the congregation may often be offended or misled. There is in Scotland, as among ourselves, a restless suspicion of popish machinations, and a clamour of numerous converts to the Romish religion. The report is, I believe, in both parts of the Island equally false. The Romish religion is professed only in Egg and Canna, two small islands, into which the Reformation never made its way. If any missionaries are busy in the Highlands, their zeal entitles them to respect, even from those who cannot think favourably of their doctrine. The political tenets of the Islanders I was not curious to investigate, and they were not eager to obtrude. Their conversation is decent and inoffensive. They disdain to drink for their principles, and there is no disaffection at their tables. I never heard a health offered by a Highlander that might not have circulated with propriety within the precincts of the King's palace. Legal government has yet something of novelty to which they cannot perfectly conform. The ancient spirit, that appealed only to the sword, is yet among them. The tenant of Scalpa, an island belonging to Macdonald, took no care to bring his rent; when the landlord talked of exacting payment, he declared his resolution to keep his ground, and drive all intruders from the Island, and continued to feed his cattle as on his own land, till it became necessary for the Sheriff to dislodge him by violence. The various kinds of superstition which prevailed here, as in all other regions of ignorance, are by the diligence of the Ministers almost extirpated. Of Browny, mentioned by Martin, nothing has been heard for many years. Browny was a sturdy Fairy; who, if he was fed, and kindly treated, would, as they said, do a great deal of work. They now pay him no wages, and are content to labour for themselves. In Troda, within these three-and-thirty years, milk was put every Saturday for Greogach, or 'the Old Man with the Long Beard.' Whether Greogach was courted as kind, or dreaded as terrible, whether they meant, by giving him the milk, to obtain good, or avert evil, I was not informed. The Minister is now living by whom the practice was abolished. They have still among them a great number of charms for the cure of different diseases; they are all invocations, perhaps transmitted to them from the times of popery, which increasing knowledge will bring into disuse. They have opinions, which cannot be ranked with superstition, because they regard only natural effects. They expect better crops of grain, by sowing their seed in the moon's increase. The moon has great influence in vulgar philosophy. In my memory it was a precept annually given in one of the English Almanacks, 'to kill hogs when the moon was increasing, and the bacon would prove the better in boiling.' We should have had little claim to the praise of curiosity, if we had not endeavoured with particular attention to examine the question of the Second Sight. Of an opinion received for centuries by a whole nation, and supposed to be confirmed through its whole descent, by a series of successive facts, it is desirable that the truth should be established, or the fallacy detected. The Second Sight is an impression made either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant or future are perceived, and seen as if they were present. A man on a journey far from home falls from his horse, another, who is perhaps at work about the house, sees him bleeding on the ground, commonly with a landscape of the place where the accident befalls him. Another seer, driving home his cattle, or wandering in idleness, or musing in the sunshine, is suddenly surprised by the appearance of a bridal ceremony, or funeral procession, and counts the mourners or attendants, of whom, if he knows them, he relates the names, if he knows them not, he can describe the dresses. Things distant are seen at the instant when they happen. Of things future I know not that there is any rule for determining the time between the Sight and the event. This receptive faculty, for power it cannot be called, is neither voluntary nor constant. The appearances have no dependence upon choice: they cannot be summoned, detained, or recalled. The impression is sudden, and the effect often painful. By the term Second Sight, seems to be meant a mode of seeing, superadded to that which Nature generally bestows. In the Earse it is called Taisch; which signifies likewise a spectre, or a vision. I know not, nor is it likely that the Highlanders ever examined, whether by Taisch, used for Second Sight, they mean the power of seeing, or the thing seen. I do not find it to be true, as it is reported, that to the Second Sight nothing is presented but phantoms of evil. Good seems to have the same proportions in those visionary scenes, as it obtains in real life: almost all remarkable events have evil for their basis; and are either miseries incurred, or miseries escaped. Our sense is so much stronger of what we suffer, than of what we enjoy, that the ideas of pain predominate in almost every mind. What is recollection but a revival of vexations, or history but a record of wars, treasons, and calamities? Death, which is considered as the greatest evil, happens to all. The greatest good, be it what it will, is the lot but of a part. That they should often see death is to be expected; because death is an event frequent and important. But they see likewise more pleasing incidents. A gentleman told me, that when he had once gone far from his own Island, one of his labouring servants predicted his return, and described the livery of his attendant, which he had never worn at home; and which had been, without any previous design, occasionally given him. Our desire of information was keen, and our inquiry frequent. Mr. Boswell's frankness and gaiety made every body communicative; and we heard many tales of these airy shows, with more or less evidence and distinctness. It is the common talk of the Lowland Scots, that the notion of the Second Sight is wearing away with other superstitions; and that its reality is no longer supposed, but by the grossest people. How far its prevalence ever extended, or what ground it has lost, I know not. The Islanders of all degrees, whether of rank or understanding, universally admit it, except the Ministers, who universally deny it, and are suspected to deny it, in consequence of a system, against conviction. One of them honestly told me, that he came to Sky with a resolution not to believe it. Strong reasons for incredulity will readily occur. This faculty of seeing things out of sight is local, and commonly useless. It is a breach of the common order of things, without any visible reason or perceptible benefit. It is ascribed only to a people very little enlightened; and among them, for the most part, to the mean and the ignorant. To the confidence of these objections it may be replied, that by presuming to determine what is fit, and what is beneficial, they presuppose more knowledge of the universal system than man has attained; and therefore depend upon principles too complicated and extensive for our comprehension; and that there can be no security in the consequence, when the premises are not understood; that the Second Sight is only wonderful because it is rare, for, considered in itself, it involves no more difficulty than dreams, or perhaps than the regular exercise of the cogitative faculty; that a general opinion of communicative impulses, or visionary representations, has prevailed in all ages and all nations; that particular instances have been given, with such evidence, as neither Bacon nor Bayle has been able to resist; that sudden impressions, which the event has verified, have been felt by more than own or publish them; that the Second Sight of the Hebrides implies only the local frequency of a power, which is nowhere totally unknown; and that where we are unable to decide by antecedent reason, we must be content to yield to the force of testimony. By pretension to Second Sight, no profit was ever sought or gained. It is an involuntary affection, in which neither hope nor fear are known to have any part. Those who profess to feel it, do not boast of it as a privilege, nor are considered by others as advantageously distinguished. They have no temptation to feign; and their hearers have no motive to encourage the imposture. To talk with any of these seers is not easy. There is one living in Sky, with whom we would have gladly conversed; but he was very gross and ignorant, and knew no English. The proportion in these countries of the poor to the rich is such, that if we suppose the quality to be accidental, it can very rarely happen to a man of education; and yet on such men it has sometimes fallen. There is now a Second Sighted gentleman in the Highlands, who complains of the terrors to which he is exposed. The foresight of the Seers is not always prescience; they are impressed with images, of which the event only shews them the meaning. They tell what they have seen to others, who are at that time not more knowing than themselves, but may become at last very adequate witnesses, by comparing the narrative with its verification. To collect sufficient testimonies for the satisfaction of the publick, or of ourselves, would have required more time than we could bestow. There is, against it, the seeming analogy of things confusedly seen, and little understood, and for it, the indistinct cry of national persuasion, which may be perhaps resolved at last into prejudice and tradition. I never could advance my curiosity to conviction; but came away at last only willing to believe. As there subsists no longer in the Islands much of that peculiar and discriminative form of life, of which the idea had delighted our imagination, we were willing to listen to such accounts of past times as would be given us. But we soon found what memorials were to be expected from an illiterate people, whose whole time is a series of distress; where every morning is labouring with expedients for the evening; and where all mental pains or pleasure arose from the dread of winter, the expectation of spring, the caprices of their Chiefs, and the motions of the neighbouring clans; where there was neither shame from ignorance, nor pride in knowledge; neither curiosity to inquire, nor vanity to communicate. The Chiefs indeed were exempt from urgent penury, and daily difficulties; and in their houses were preserved what accounts remained of past ages. But the Chiefs were sometimes ignorant and careless, and sometimes kept busy by turbulence and contention; and one generation of ignorance effaces the whole series of unwritten history. Books are faithful repositories, which may be a while neglected or forgotten; but when they are opened again, will again impart their instruction: memory, once interrupted, is not to be recalled. Written learning is a fixed luminary, which, after the cloud that had hidden it has past away, is again bright in its proper station. Tradition is but a meteor, which, if once it falls, cannot be rekindled. It seems to be universally supposed, that much of the local history was preserved by the Bards, of whom one is said to have been retained by every great family. After these Bards were some of my first inquiries; and I received such answers as, for a while, made me please myself with my increase of knowledge; for I had not then learned how to estimate the narration of a Highlander. They said that a great family had a Bard and a Senachi, who were the poet and historian of the house; and an old gentleman told me that he remembered one of each. Here was a dawn of intelligence. Of men that had lived within memory, some certain knowledge might be attained. Though the office had ceased, its effects might continue; the poems might be found, though there was no poet. Another conversation indeed informed me, that the same man was both Bard and Senachi. This variation discouraged me; but as the practice might be different in different times, or at the same time in different families, there was yet no reason for supposing that I must necessarily sit down in total ignorance. Soon after I was told by a gentleman, who is generally acknowledged the greatest master of Hebridian antiquities, that there had indeed once been both Bards and Senachies; and that Senachi signified 'the man of talk,' or of conversation; but that neither Bard nor Senachi had existed for some centuries. I have no reason to suppose it exactly known at what time the custom ceased, nor did it probably cease in all houses at once. But whenever the practice of recitation was disused, the works, whether poetical or historical, perished with the authors; for in those times nothing had been written in the Earse language. Whether the 'Man of talk' was a historian, whose office was to tell truth, or a story-teller, like those which were in the last century, and perhaps are now among the Irish, whose trade was only to amuse, it now would be vain to inquire. Most of the domestick offices were, I believe, hereditary; and probably the laureat of a clan was always the son of the last laureat. The history of the race could no otherwise be communicated, or retained; but what genius could be expected in a poet by inheritance? The nation was wholly illiterate. Neither bards nor Senachies could write or read; but if they were ignorant, there was no danger of detection; they were believed by those whose vanity they flattered. The recital of genealogies, which has been considered as very efficacious to the preservation of a true series of ancestry, was anciently made, when the heir of the family came to manly age. This practice has never subsisted within time of memory, nor was much credit due to such rehearsers, who might obtrude fictitious pedigrees, either to please their masters, or to hide the deficiency of their own memories. Where the Chiefs of the Highlands have found the histories of their descent is difficult to tell; for no Earse genealogy was ever written. In general this only is evident, that the principal house of a clan must be very ancient, and that those must have lived long in a place, of whom it is not known when they came thither. Thus hopeless are all attempts to find any traces of Highland learning. Nor are their primitive customs and ancient manner of life otherwise than very faintly and uncertainly remembered by the present race. The peculiarities which strike the native of a commercial country, proceeded in a great measure from the want of money. To the servants and dependents that were not domesticks, and if an estimate be made from the capacity of any of their old houses which I have seen, their domesticks could have been but few, were appropriated certain portions of land for their support. Macdonald has a piece of ground yet, called the Bards or Senachies field. When a beef was killed for the house, particular parts were claimed as fees by the several officers, or workmen. What was the right of each I have not learned. The head belonged to the smith, and the udder of a cow to the piper: the weaver had likewise his particular part; and so many pieces followed these prescriptive claims, that the Laird's was at last but little. The payment of rent in kind has been so long disused in England, that it is totally forgotten. It was practised very lately in the Hebrides, and probably still continues, not only in St. Kilda, where money is not yet known, but in others of the smaller and remoter Islands. It were perhaps to be desired, that no change in this particular should have been made. When the Laird could only eat the produce of his lands, he was under the necessity of residing upon them; and when the tenant could not convert his stock into more portable riches, he could never be tempted away from his farm, from the only place where he could be wealthy. Money confounds subordination, by overpowering the distinctions of rank and birth, and weakens authority by supplying power of resistance, or expedients for escape. The feudal system is formed for a nation employed in agriculture, and has never long kept its hold where gold and silver have become common. Their arms were anciently the Glaymore, or great two-handed sword, and afterwards the two-edged sword and target, or buckler, which was sustained on the left arm. In the midst of the target, which was made of wood, covered with leather, and studded with nails, a slender lance, about two feet long, was sometimes fixed; it was heavy and cumberous, and accordingly has for some time past been gradually laid aside. Very few targets were at Culloden. The dirk, or broad dagger, I am afraid, was of more use in private quarrels than in battles. The Lochaber-ax is only a slight alteration of the old English bill. After all that has been said of the force and terrour of the Highland sword, I could not find that the art of defence was any part of common education. The gentlemen were perhaps sometimes skilful gladiators, but the common men had no other powers than those of violence and courage. Yet it is well known, that the onset of the Highlanders was very formidable. As an army cannot consist of philosophers, a panick is easily excited by any unwonted mode of annoyance. New dangers are naturally magnified; and men accustomed only to exchange bullets at a distance, and rather to hear their enemies than see them, are discouraged and amazed when they find themselves encountered hand to hand, and catch the gleam of steel flashing in their faces. The Highland weapons gave opportunity for many exertions of personal courage, and sometimes for single combats in the field; like those which occur so frequently in fabulous wars. At Falkirk, a gentleman now living, was, I suppose after the retreat of the King's troops, engaged at a distance from the rest with an Irish dragoon. They were both skilful swordsmen, and the contest was not easily decided: the dragoon at last had the advantage, and the Highlander called for quarter; but quarter was refused him, and the fight continued till he was reduced to defend himself upon his knee. At that instant one of the Macleods came to his rescue; who, as it is said, offered quarter to the dragoon, but he thought himself obliged to reject what he had before refused, and, as battle gives little time to deliberate, was immediately killed. Funerals were formerly solemnized by calling multitudes together, and entertaining them at great expence. This emulation of useless cost has been for some time discouraged, and at last in the Isle of Sky is almost suppressed. Of the Earse language, as I understand nothing, I cannot say more than I have been told. It is the rude speech of a barbarous people, who had few thoughts to express, and were content, as they conceived grossly, to be grossly understood. After what has been lately talked of Highland Bards, and Highland genius, many will startle when they are told, that the Earse never was a written language; that there is not in the world an Earse manuscript a hundred years old; and that the sounds of the Highlanders were never expressed by letters, till some little books of piety were translated, and a metrical version of the Psalms was made by the Synod of Argyle. Whoever therefore now writes in this language, spells according to his own perception of the sound, and his own idea of the power of the letters. The Welsh and the Irish are cultivated tongues. The Welsh, two hundred years ago, insulted their English neighbours for the instability of their Orthography; while the Earse merely floated in the breath of the people, and could therefore receive little improvement. When a language begins to teem with books, it is tending to refinement; as those who undertake to teach others must have undergone some labour in improving themselves, they set a proportionate value on their own thoughts, and wish to enforce them by efficacious expressions; speech becomes embodied and permanent; different modes and phrases are compared, and the best obtains an establishment. By degrees one age improves upon another. Exactness is first obtained, and afterwards elegance. But diction, merely vocal, is always in its childhood. As no man leaves his eloquence behind him, the new generations have all to learn. There may possibly be books without a polished language, but there can be no polished language without books. That the Bards could not read more than the rest of their countrymen, it is reasonable to suppose; because, if they had read, they could probably have written; and how high their compositions may reasonably be rated, an inquirer may best judge by considering what stores of imagery, what principles of ratiocination, what comprehension of knowledge, and what delicacy of elocution he has known any man attain who cannot read. The state of the Bards was yet more hopeless. He that cannot read, may now converse with those that can; but the Bard was a barbarian among barbarians, who, knowing nothing himself, lived with others that knew no more. There has lately been in the Islands one of these illiterate poets, who hearing the Bible read at church, is said to have turned the sacred history into verse. I heard part of a dialogue, composed by him, translated by a young lady in Mull, and thought it had more meaning than I expected from a man totally uneducated; but he had some opportunities of knowledge; he lived among a learned people. After all that has been done for the instruction of the Highlanders, the antipathy between their language and literature still continues; and no man that has learned only Earse is, at this time, able to read. The Earse has many dialects, and the words used in some Islands are not always known in others. In literate nations, though the pronunciation, and sometimes the words of common speech may differ, as now in England, compared with the South of Scotland, yet there is a written diction, which pervades all dialects, and is understood in every province. But where the whole language is colloquial, he that has only one part, never gets the rest, as he cannot get it but by change of residence. In an unwritten speech, nothing that is not very short is transmitted from one generation to another. Few have opportunities of hearing a long composition often enough to learn it, or have inclination to repeat it so often as is necessary to retain it; and what is once forgotten is lost for ever. I believe there cannot be recovered, in the whole Earse language, five hundred lines of which there is any evidence to prove them a hundred years old. Yet I hear that the father of Ossian boasts of two chests more of ancient poetry, which he suppresses, because they are too good for the English. He that goes into the Highlands with a mind naturally acquiescent, and a credulity eager for wonders, may come back with an opinion very different from mine; for the inhabitants knowing the ignorance of all strangers in their language and antiquities, perhaps are not very scrupulous adherents to truth; yet I do not say that they deliberately speak studied falsehood, or have a settled purpose to deceive. They have inquired and considered little, and do not always feel their own ignorance. They are not much accustomed to be interrogated by others; and seem never to have thought upon interrogating themselves; so that if they do not know what they tell to be true, they likewise do not distinctly perceive it to be false. Mr. Boswell was very diligent in his inquiries; and the result of his investigations was, that the answer to the second question was commonly such as nullified the answer to the first. We were a while told, that they had an old translation of the scriptures; and told it till it would appear obstinacy to inquire again. Yet by continued accumulation of questions we found, that the translation meant, if any meaning there were, was nothing else than the Irish Bible. We heard of manuscripts that were, or that had been in the hands of somebody's father, or grandfather; but at last we had no reason to believe they were other than Irish. Martin mentions Irish, but never any Earse manuscripts, to be found in the Islands in his time. I suppose my opinion of the poems of Ossian is already discovered. I believe they never existed in any other form than that which we have seen. The editor, or author, never could shew the original; nor can it be shewn by any other; to revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of insolence, with which the world is not yet acquainted; and stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt. It would be easy to shew it if he had it; but whence could it be had? It is too long to be remembered, and the language formerly had nothing written. He has doubtless inserted names that circulate in popular stories, and may have translated some wandering ballads, if any can be found; and the names, and some of the images being recollected, make an inaccurate auditor imagine, by the help of Caledonian bigotry, that he has formerly heard the whole. I asked a very learned Minister in Sky, who had used all arts to make me believe the genuineness of the book, whether at last he believed it himself? but he would not answer. He wished me to be deceived, for the honour of his country; but would not directly and formally deceive me. Yet has this man's testimony been publickly produced, as of one that held Fingal to be the work of Ossian. It is said, that some men of integrity profess to have heard parts of it, but they all heard them when they were boys; and it was never said that any of them could recite six lines. They remember names, and perhaps some proverbial sentiments; and, having no distinct ideas, coin a resemblance without an original. The persuasion of the Scots, however, is far from universal; and in a question so capable of proof, why should doubt be suffered to continue? The editor has been heard to say, that part of the poem was received by him, in the Saxon character. He has then found, by some peculiar fortune, an unwritten language, written in a character which the natives probably never beheld. I have yet supposed no imposture but in the publisher, yet I am far from certainty, that some translations have not been lately made, that may now be obtruded as parts of the original work. Credulity on one part is a strong temptation to deceit on the other, especially to deceit of which no personal injury is the consequence, and which flatters the author with his own ingenuity. The Scots have something to plead for their easy reception of an improbable fiction; they are seduced by their fondness for their supposed ancestors. A Scotchman must be a very sturdy moralist, who does not love Scotland better than truth: he will always love it better than inquiry; and if falsehood flatters his vanity, will not be very diligent to detect it. Neither ought the English to be much influenced by Scotch authority; for of the past and present state of the whole Earse nation, the Lowlanders are at least as ignorant as ourselves. To be ignorant is painful; but it is dangerous to quiet our uneasiness by the delusive opiate of hasty persuasion. But this is the age, in which those who could not read, have been supposed to write; in which the giants of antiquated romance have been exhibited as realities. If we know little of the ancient Highlanders, let us not fill the vacuity with Ossian. If we had not searched the Magellanick regions, let us however forbear to people them with Patagons. Having waited some days at Armidel, we were flattered at last with a wind that promised to convey us to Mull. We went on board a boat that was taking in kelp, and left the Isle of Sky behind us. We were doomed to experience, like others, the danger of trusting to the wind, which blew against us, in a short time, with such violence, that we, being no seasoned sailors, were willing to call it a tempest. I was sea-sick and lay down. Mr. Boswell kept the deck. The master knew not well whither to go; and our difficulties might perhaps have filled a very pathetick page, had not Mr. Maclean of Col, who, with every other qualification which insular life requires, is a very active and skilful mariner, piloted us safe into his own harbour. COL In the morning we found ourselves under the Isle of Col, where we landed; and passed the first day and night with Captain Maclean, a gentleman who has lived some time in the East Indies; but having dethroned no Nabob, is not too rich to settle in own country. Next day the wind was fair, and we might have had an easy passage to Mull; but having, contrarily to our own intention, landed upon a new Island, we would not leave it wholly unexamined. We therefore suffered the vessel to depart without us, and trusted the skies for another wind. Mr. Maclean of Col, having a very numerous family, has, for some time past, resided at Aberdeen, that he may superintend their education, and leaves the young gentleman, our friend, to govern his dominions, with the full power of a Highland Chief. By the absence of the Laird's family, our entertainment was made more difficult, because the house was in a great degree disfurnished; but young Col's kindness and activity supplied all defects, and procured us more than sufficient accommodation. Here I first mounted a little Highland steed; and if there had been many spectators, should have been somewhat ashamed of my figure in the march. The horses of the Islands, as of other barren countries, are very low: they are indeed musculous and strong, beyond what their size gives reason for expecting; but a bulky man upon one of their backs makes a very disproportionate appearance. From the habitation of Captain Maclean, we went to Grissipol, but called by the way on Mr. Hector Maclean, the Minister of Col, whom we found in a hut, that is, a house of only one floor, but with windows and chimney, and not inelegantly furnished. Mr. Maclean has the reputation of great learning: he is seventy-seven years old, but not infirm, with a look of venerable dignity, excelling what I remember in any other man. His conversation was not unsuitable to his appearance. I lost some of his good-will, by treating a heretical writer with more regard than, in his opinion, a heretick could deserve. I honoured his orthodoxy, and did not much censure his asperity. A man who has settled his opinions, does not love to have the tranquillity of his conviction disturbed; and at seventy-seven it is time to be in earnest. Mention was made of the Earse translation of the New Testament, which has been lately published, and of which the learned Mr. Macqueen of Sky spoke with commendation; but Mr. Maclean said he did not use it, because he could make the text more intelligible to his auditors by an extemporary version. From this I inferred, that the language of the translation was not the language of the Isle of Col. He has no publick edifice for the exercise of his ministry; and can officiate to no greater number, than a room can contain; and the room of a hut is not very large. This is all the opportunity of worship that is now granted to the inhabitants of the Island, some of whom must travel thither perhaps ten miles. Two chapels were erected by their ancestors, of which I saw the skeletons, which now stand faithful witnesses of the triumph of the Reformation. The want of churches is not the only impediment to piety: there is likewise a want of Ministers. A parish often contains more Islands than one; and each Island can have the Minister only in its own turn. At Raasa they had, I think, a right to service only every third Sunday. All the provision made by the present ecclesiastical constitution, for the inhabitants of about a hundred square miles, is a prayer and sermon in a little room, once in three weeks: and even this parsimonious distribution is at the mercy of the weather; and in those Islands where the Minister does not reside, it is impossible to tell how many weeks or months may pass without any publick exercise of religion. GRISSIPOL IN COL After a short conversation with Mr. Maclean, we went on to Grissipol, a house and farm tenanted by Mr. Macsweyn, where I saw more of the ancient life of a Highlander, than I had yet found. Mrs. Macsweyn could speak no English, and had never seen any other places than the Islands of Sky, Mull, and Col: but she was hospitable and good-humoured, and spread her table with sufficient liberality. We found tea here, as in every other place, but our spoons were of horn. The house of Grissipol stands by a brook very clear and quick; which is, I suppose, one of the most copious streams in the Island. This place was the scene of an action, much celebrated in the traditional history of Col, but which probably no two relaters will tell alike. Some time, in the obscure ages, Macneil of Barra married the Lady Maclean, who had the Isle of Col for her jointure. Whether Macneil detained Col, when the widow was dead, or whether she lived so long as to make her heirs impatient, is perhaps not now known. The younger son, called John Gerves, or John the Giant, a man of great strength who was then in Ireland, either for safety, or for education, dreamed of recovering his inheritance; and getting some adventurers together, which, in those unsettled times, was not hard to do, invaded Col. He was driven away, but was not discouraged, and collecting new followers, in three years came again with fifty men. In his way he stopped at Artorinish in Morvern, where his uncle was prisoner to Macleod, and was then with his enemies in a tent. Maclean took with him only one servant, whom he ordered to stay at the outside; and where he should see the tent pressed outwards, to strike with his dirk, it being the intention of Maclean, as any man provoked him, to lay hands upon him, and push him back. He entered the tent alone, with his Lochabar-axe in his hand, and struck such terror into the whole assembly, that they dismissed his uncle. When he landed at Col, he saw the sentinel, who kept watch towards the sea, running off to Grissipol, to give Macneil, who was there with a hundred and twenty men, an account of the invasion. He told Macgill, one of his followers, that if he intercepted that dangerous intelligence, by catching the courier, he would give him certain lands in Mull. Upon this promise, Macgill pursued the messenger, and either killed, or stopped him; and his posterity, till very lately, held the lands in Mull. The alarm being thus prevented, he came unexpectedly upon Macneil. Chiefs were in those days never wholly unprovided for an enemy. A fight ensued, in which one of their followers is said to have given an extraordinary proof of activity, by bounding backwards over the brook of Grissipol. Macneil being killed, and many of his clan destroyed, Maclean took possession of the Island, which the Macneils attempted to conquer by another invasion, but were defeated and repulsed. Maclean, in his turn, invaded the estate of the Macneils, took the castle of Brecacig, and conquered the Isle of Barra, which he held for seven years, and then restored it to the heirs. CASTLE OF COL From Grissipol, Mr. Maclean conducted us to his father's seat; a neat new house, erected near the old castle, I think, by the last proprietor. Here we were allowed to take our station, and lived very commodiously, while we waited for moderate weather and a fair wind, which we did not so soon obtain, but we had time to get some information of the present state of Col, partly by inquiry, and partly by occasional excursions. Col is computed to be thirteen miles in length, and three in breadth. Both the ends are the property of the Duke of Argyle, but the middle belongs to Maclean, who is called Col, as the only Laird. Col is not properly rocky; it is rather one continued rock, of a surface much diversified with protuberances, and covered with a thin layer of earth, which is often broken, and discovers the stone. Such a soil is not for plants that strike deep roots; and perhaps in the whole Island nothing has ever yet grown to the height of a table. The uncultivated parts are clothed with heath, among which industry has interspersed spots of grass and corn; but no attempt has yet been made to raise a tree. Young Col, who has a very laudable desire of improving his patrimony, purposes some time to plant an orchard; which, if it be sheltered by a wall, may perhaps succeed. He has introduced the culture of turnips, of which he has a field, where the whole work was performed by his own hand. His intention is to provide food for his cattle in the winter. This innovation was considered by Mr. Macsweyn as the idle project of a young head, heated with English fancies; but he has now found that turnips will really grow, and that hungry sheep and cows will really eat them. By such acquisitions as these, the Hebrides may in time rise above their annual distress. Wherever heath will grow, there is reason to think something better may draw nourishment; and by trying the production of other places, plants will be found suitable to every soil. Col has many lochs, some of which have trouts and eels, and others have never yet been stocked; another proof of the negligence of the Islanders, who might take fish in the inland waters, when they cannot go to sea. Their quadrupeds are horses, cows, sheep, and goats. They have neither deer, hares, nor rabbits. They have no vermin, except rats, which have been lately brought thither by sea, as to other places; and are free from serpents, frogs, and toads. The harvest in Col, and in Lewis, is ripe sooner than in Sky; and the winter in Col is never cold, but very tempestuous. I know not that I ever heard the wind so loud in any other place; and Mr. Boswell observed, that its noise was all its own, for there were no trees to increase it. Noise is not the worst effect of the tempests; for they have thrown the sand from the shore over a considerable part of the land; and it is said still to encroach and destroy more and more pasture; but I am not of opinion, that by any surveys or landmarks, its limits have been ever fixed, or its progression ascertained. If one man has confidence enough to say, that it advances, nobody can bring any proof to support him in denying it. The reason why it is not spread to a greater extent, seems to be, that the wind and rain come almost together, and that it is made close and heavy by the wet before the storms can put it in motion. So thick is the bed, and so small the particles, that if a traveller should be caught by a sudden gust in dry weather, he would find it very difficult to escape with life. For natural curiosities, I was shown only two great masses of stone, which lie loose upon the ground; one on the top of a hill, and the other at a small distance from the bottom. They certainly were never put into their present places by human strength or skill; and though an earthquake might have broken off the lower stone, and rolled it into the valley, no account can be given of the other, which lies on the hill, unless, which I forgot to examine, there be still near it some higher rock, from which it might be torn. All nations have a tradition, that their earliest ancestors were giants, and these stones are said to have been thrown up and down by a giant and his mistress. There are so many more important things, of which human knowledge can give no account, that it may be forgiven us, if we speculate no longer on two stones in Col. This Island is very populous. About nine-and-twenty years ago, the fencible men of Col were reckoned one hundred and forty, which is the sixth of eight hundred and forty; and probably some contrived to be left out of the list. The Minister told us, that a few years ago the inhabitants were eight hundred, between the ages of seven and of seventy. Round numbers are seldom exact. But in this case the authority is good, and the errour likely to be little. If to the eight hundred be added what the laws of computation require, they will be increased to at least a thousand; and if the dimensions of the country have been accurately related, every mile maintains more than twenty-five. This proportion of habitation is greater than the appearance of the country seems to admit; for wherever the eye wanders, it sees much waste and little cultivation. I am more inclined to extend the land, of which no measure has ever been taken, than to diminish the people, who have been really numbered. Let it be supposed, that a computed mile contains a mile and a half, as was commonly found true in the mensuration of the English roads, and we shall then allot nearly twelve to a mile, which agrees much better with ocular observation. Here, as in Sky, and other Islands, are the Laird, the Tacksmen, and the under tenants. Mr. Maclean, the Laird, has very extensive possessions, being proprietor, not only of far the greater part of Col, but of the extensive Island of Rum, and a very considerable territory in Mull. Rum is one of the larger Islands, almost square, and therefore of great capacity in proportion to its sides. By the usual method of estimating computed extent, it may contain more than a hundred and twenty square miles. It originally belonged to Clanronald, and was purchased by Col; who, in some dispute about the bargain, made Clanronald prisoner, and kept him nine months in confinement. Its owner represents it as mountainous, rugged, and barren. In the hills there are red deer. The horses are very small, but of a breed eminent for beauty. Col, not long ago, bought one of them from a tenant; who told him, that as he was of a shape uncommonly elegant, he could not sell him but at a high price; and that whoever had him should pay a guinea and a half. There are said to be in Barra a race of horses yet smaller, of which the highest is not above thirty-six inches. The rent of Rum is not great. Mr. Maclean declared, that he should be very rich, if he could set his land at two-pence halfpenny an acre. The inhabitants are fifty-eight families, who continued Papists for some time after the Laird became a Protestant. Their adherence to their old religion was strengthened by the countenance of the Laird's sister, a zealous Romanist, till one Sunday, as they were going to mass under the conduct of their patroness, Maclean met them on the way, gave one of them a blow on the head with a yellow stick, I suppose a cane, for which the Earse had no name, and drove them to the kirk, from which they have never since departed. Since the use of this method of conversion, the inhabitants of Egg and Canna, who continue Papists, call the Protestantism of Rum, the religion of the Yellow Stick. The only Popish Islands are Egg and Canna. Egg is the principal Island of a parish, in which, though he has no congregation, the Protestant Minister resides. I have heard of nothing curious in it, but the cave in which a former generation of the Islanders were smothered by Macleod. If we had travelled with more leisure, it had not been fit to have neglected the Popish Islands. Popery is favourable to ceremony; and among ignorant nations, ceremony is the only preservative of tradition. Since protestantism was extended to the savage parts of Scotland, it has perhaps been one of the chief labours of the Ministers to abolish stated observances, because they continued the remembrance of the former religion. We therefore who came to hear old traditions, and see antiquated manners, should probably have found them amongst the Papists. Canna, the other Popish Island, belongs to Clanronald. It is said not to comprise more than twelve miles of land, and yet maintains as many inhabitants as Rum. We were at Col under the protection of the young Laird, without any of the distresses, which Mr. Pennant, in a fit of simple credulity, seems to think almost worthy of an elegy by Ossian. Wherever we roved, we were pleased to see the reverence with which his subjects regarded him. He did not endeavour to dazzle them by any magnificence of dress: his only distinction was a feather in his bonnet; but as soon as he appeared, they forsook their work and clustered about him: he took them by the hand, and they seemed mutually delighted. He has the proper disposition of a Chieftain, and seems desirous to continue the customs of his house. The bagpiper played regularly, when dinner was served, whose person and dress made a good appearance; and he brought no disgrace upon the family of Rankin, which has long supplied the Lairds of Col with hereditary musick. The Tacksmen of Col seem to live with less dignity and convenience than those of Sky; where they had good houses, and tables not only plentiful, but delicate. In Col only two houses pay the window tax; for only two have six windows, which, I suppose, are the Laird's and Mr. Macsweyn's. The rents have, till within seven years, been paid in kind, but the tenants finding that cattle and corn varied in their price, desired for the future to give their landlord money; which, not having yet arrived at the philosophy of commerce, they consider as being every year of the same value. We were told of a particular mode of under-tenure. The Tacksman admits some of his inferior neighbours to the cultivation of his grounds, on condition that performing all the work, and giving a third part of the seed, they shall keep a certain number of cows, sheep, and goats, and reap a third part of the harvest. Thus by less than the tillage of two acres they pay the rent of one. There are tenants below the rank of Tacksmen, that have got smaller tenants under them; for in every place, where money is not the general equivalent, there must be some whose labour is immediately paid by daily food. A country that has no money, is by no means convenient for beggars, both because such countries are commonly poor, and because charity requires some trouble and some thought. A penny is easily given upon the first impulse of compassion, or impatience of importunity; but few will deliberately search their cupboards or their granaries to find out something to give. A penny is likewise easily spent, but victuals, if they are unprepared, require houseroom, and fire, and utensils, which the beggar knows not where to find. Yet beggars there sometimes are, who wander from Island to Island. We had, in our passage to Mull, the company of a woman and her child, who had exhausted the charity of Col. The arrival of a beggar on an Island is accounted a sinistrous event. Every body considers that he shall have the less for what he gives away. Their alms, I believe, is generally oatmeal. Near to Col is another Island called Tireye, eminent for its fertility. Though it has but half the extent of Rum, it is so well peopled, that there have appeared, not long ago, nine hundred and fourteen at a funeral. The plenty of this Island enticed beggars to it, who seemed so burdensome to the inhabitants, that a formal compact was drawn up, by which they obliged themselves to grant no more relief to casual wanderers, because they had among them an indigent woman of high birth, whom they considered as entitled to all that they could spare. I have read the stipulation, which was indited with juridical formality, but was never made valid by regular subscription. If the inhabitants of Col have nothing to give, it is not that they are oppressed by their landlord: their leases seem to be very profitable. One farmer, who pays only seven pounds a year, has maintained seven daughters and three sons, of whom the eldest is educated at Aberdeen for the ministry; and now, at every vacation, opens a school in Col. Life is here, in some respects, improved beyond the condition of some other Islands. In Sky what is wanted can only be bought, as the arrival of some wandering pedlar may afford an opportunity; but in Col there is a standing shop, and in Mull there are two. A shop in the Islands, as in other places of little frequentation, is a repository of every thing requisite for common use. Mr. Boswell's journal was filled, and he bought some paper in Col. To a man that ranges the streets of London, where he is tempted to contrive wants, for the pleasure of supplying them, a shop affords no image worthy of attention; but in an Island, it turns the balance of existence between good and evil. To live in perpetual want of little things, is a state not indeed of torture, but of constant vexation. I have in Sky had some difficulty to find ink for a letter; and if a woman breaks her needle, the work is at a stop. As it is, the Islanders are obliged to content themselves with succedaneous means for many common purposes. I have seen the chief man of a very wide district riding with a halter for a bridle, and governing his hobby with a wooden curb. The people of Col, however, do not want dexterity to supply some of their necessities. Several arts which make trades, and demand apprenticeships in great cities, are here the practices of daily economy. In every house candles are made, both moulded and dipped. Their wicks are small shreds of linen cloth. They all know how to extract from the Cuddy, oil for their lamps. They all tan skins, and make brogues. As we travelled through Sky, we saw many cottages, but they very frequently stood single on the naked ground. In Col, where the hills opened a place convenient for habitation, we found a petty village, of which every hut had a little garden adjoining; thus they made an appearance of social commerce and mutual offices, and of some attention to convenience and future supply. There is not in the Western Islands any collection of buildings that can make pretensions to be called a town, except in the Isle of Lewis, which I have not seen. If Lewis is distinguished by a town, Col has also something peculiar. The young Laird has attempted what no Islander perhaps ever thought on. He has begun a road capable of a wheel-carriage. He has carried it about a mile, and will continue it by annual elongation from his house to the harbour. Of taxes here is no reason for complaining; they are paid by a very easy composition. The malt-tax for Col is twenty shillings. Whisky is very plentiful: there are several stills in the Island, and more is made than the inhabitants consume. The great business of insular policy is now to keep the people in their own country. As the world has been let in upon them, they have heard of happier climates, and less arbitrary government; and if they are disgusted, have emissaries among them ready to offer them land and houses, as a reward for deserting their Chief and clan. Many have departed both from the main of Scotland, and from the Islands; and all that go may be considered as subjects lost to the British crown; for a nation scattered in the boundless regions of America resembles rays diverging from a focus. All the rays remain, but the heat is gone. Their power consisted in their concentration: when they are dispersed, they have no effect. It may be thought that they are happier by the change; but they are not happy as a nation, for they are a nation no longer. As they contribute not to the prosperity of any community, they must want that security, that dignity, that happiness, whatever it be, which a prosperous community throws back upon individuals. The inhabitants of Col have not yet learned to be weary of their heath and rocks, but attend their agriculture and their dairies, without listening to American seducements. There are some however who think that this emigration has raised terrour disproportionate to its real evil; and that it is only a new mode of doing what was always done. The Highlands, they say, never maintained their natural inhabitants; but the people, when they found themselves too numerous, instead of extending cultivation, provided for themselves by a more compendious method, and sought better fortune in other countries. They did not indeed go away in collective bodies, but withdrew invisibly, a few at a time; but the whole number of fugitives was not less, and the difference between other times and this, is only the same as between evaporation and effusion. This is plausible, but I am afraid it is not true. Those who went before, if they were not sensibly missed, as the argument supposes, must have gone either in less number, or in a manner less detrimental, than at present; because formerly there was no complaint. Those who then left the country were generally the idle dependants on overburdened families, or men who had no property; and therefore carried away only themselves. In the present eagerness of emigration, families, and almost communities, go away together. Those who were considered as prosperous and wealthy sell their stock and carry away the money. Once none went away but the useless and poor; in some parts there is now reason to fear, that none will stay but those who are too poor to remove themselves, and too useless to be removed at the cost of others. Of antiquity there is not more knowledge in Col than in other places; but every where something may be gleaned. How ladies were portioned, when there was no money, it would be difficult for an Englishman to guess. In 1649, Maclean of Dronart in Mull married his sister Fingala to Maclean of Coll, with a hundred and eighty kine; and stipulated, that if she became a widow, her jointure should be three hundred and sixty. I suppose some proportionate tract of land was appropriated to their pasturage. The disposition to pompous and expensive funerals, which has at one time or other prevailed in most parts of the civilized world, is not yet suppressed in the Islands, though some of the ancient solemnities are worn away, and singers are no longer hired to attend the procession. Nineteen years ago, at the burial of the Laird of Col, were killed thirty cows, and about fifty sheep. The number of the cows is positively told, and we must suppose other victuals in like proportion. Mr. Maclean informed us of an odd game, of which he did not tell the original, but which may perhaps be used in other places, where the reason of it is not yet forgot. At New-year's eve, in the hall or castle of the Laird, where, at festal seasons, there may be supposed a very numerous company, one man dresses himself in a cow's hide, upon which other men beat with sticks. He runs with all this noise round the house, which all the company quits in a counterfeited fright: the door is then shut. At New-year's eve there is no great pleasure to be had out of doors in the Hebrides. They are sure soon to recover from their terrour enough to solicit for re-admission; which, for the honour of poetry, is not to be obtained but by repeating a verse, with which those that are knowing and provident take care to be furnished. Very near the house of Maclean stands the castle of Col, which was the mansion of the Laird, till the house was built. It is built upon a rock, as Mr. Boswell remarked, that it might not be mined. It is very strong, and having been not long uninhabited, is yet in repair. On the wall was, not long ago, a stone with an inscription, importing, that 'if any man of the clan of Maclonich shall appear before this castle, though he come at midnight, with a man's head in his hand, he shall there find safety and protection against all but the King.' This is an old Highland treaty made upon a very memorable occasion. Maclean, the son of John Gerves, who recovered Col, and conquered Barra, had obtained, it is said, from James the Second, a grant of the lands of Lochiel, forfeited, I suppose, by some offence against the state. Forfeited estates were not in those days quietly resigned; Maclean, therefore, went with an armed force to seize his new possessions, and, I know not for what reason, took his wife with him. The Camerons rose in defence of their Chief, and a battle was fought at the head of Loch Ness, near the place where Fort Augustus now stands, in which Lochiel obtained the victory, and Maclean, with his followers, was defeated and destroyed. The lady fell into the hands of the conquerours, and being found pregnant was placed in the custody of Maclonich, one of a tribe or family branched from Cameron, with orders, if she brought a boy, to destroy him, if a girl, to spare her. Maclonich's wife, who was with child likewise, had a girl about the same time at which lady Maclean brought a boy, and Maclonich with more generosity to his captive, than fidelity to his trust, contrived that the children should be changed. Maclean being thus preserved from death, in time recovered his original patrimony; and in gratitude to his friend, made his castle a place of refuge to any of the clan that should think himself in danger; and, as a proof of reciprocal confidence, Maclean took upon himself and his posterity the care of educating the heir of Maclonich. This story, like all other traditions of the Highlands, is variously related, but though some circumstances are uncertain, the principal fact is true. Maclean undoubtedly owed his preservation to Maclonich; for the treaty between the two families has been strictly observed: it did not sink into disuse and oblivion, but continued in its full force while the chieftains retained their power. I have read a demand of protection, made not more than thirty-seven years ago, for one of the Maclonichs, named Ewen Cameron, who had been accessory to the death of Macmartin, and had been banished by Lochiel, his lord, for a certain term; at the expiration of which he returned married from France, but the Macmartins, not satisfied with the punishment, when he attempted to settle, still threatened him with vengeance. He therefore asked, and obtained shelter in the Isle of Col. The power of protection subsists no longer, but what the law permits is yet continued, and Maclean of Col now educates the heir of Maclonich. There still remains in the Islands, though it is passing fast away, the custom of fosterage. A Laird, a man of wealth and eminence, sends his child, either male or female, to a tacksman, or tenant, to be fostered. It is not always his own tenant, but some distant friend that obtains this honour; for an honour such a trust is very reasonably thought. The terms of fosterage seem to vary in different islands. In Mull, the father sends with his child a certain number of cows, to which the same number is added by the fosterer. The father appropriates a proportionable extent of ground, without rent, for their pasturage. If every cow brings a calf, half belongs to the fosterer, and half to the child; but if there be only one calf between two cows, it is the child's, and when the child returns to the parent, it is accompanied by all the cows given, both by the father and by the fosterer, with half of the increase of the stock by propagation. These beasts are considered as a portion, and called Macalive cattle, of which the father has the produce, but is supposed not to have the full property, but to owe the same number to the child, as a portion to the daughter, or a stock for the son. Children continue with the fosterer perhaps six years, and cannot, where this is the practice, be considered as burdensome. The fosterer, if he gives four cows, receives likewise four, and has, while the child continues with him, grass for eight without rent, with half the calves, and all the milk, for which he pays only four cows when he dismisses his Dalt, for that is the name for a foster child. Fosterage is, I believe, sometimes performed upon more liberal terms. Our friend, the young Laird of Col, was fostered by Macsweyn of Grissipol. Macsweyn then lived a tenant to Sir James Macdonald in the Isle of Sky; and therefore Col, whether he sent him cattle or not, could grant him no land. The Dalt, however, at his return, brought back a considerable number of Macalive cattle, and of the friendship so formed there have been good effects. When Macdonald raised his rents, Macsweyn was, like other tenants, discontented, and, resigning his farm, removed from Sky to Col, and was established at Grissipol. These observations we made by favour of the contrary wind that drove us to Col, an Island not often visited; for there is not much to amuse curiosity, or to attract avarice. The ground has been hitherto, I believe, used chiefly for pasturage. In a district, such as the eye can command, there is a general herdsman, who knows all the cattle of the neighbourhood, and whose station is upon a hill, from which he surveys the lower grounds; and if one man's cattle invade another's grass, drives them back to their own borders. But other means of profit begin to be found; kelp is gathered and burnt, and sloops are loaded with the concreted ashes. Cultivation is likely to be improved by the skill and encouragement of the present heir, and the inhabitants of those obscure vallies will partake of the general progress of life. The rents of the parts which belong to the Duke of Argyle, have been raised from fifty-five to one hundred and five pounds, whether from the land or the sea I cannot tell. The bounties of the sea have lately been so great, that a farm in Southuist has risen in ten years from a rent of thirty pounds to one hundred and eighty. He who lives in Col, and finds himself condemned to solitary meals, and incommunicable reflection, will find the usefulness of that middle order of Tacksmen, which some who applaud their own wisdom are wishing to destroy. Without intelligence man is not social, he is only gregarious; and little intelligence will there be, where all are constrained to daily labour, and every mind must wait upon the hand. After having listened for some days to the tempest, and wandered about the Island till our curiosity was satisfied, we began to think about our departure. To leave Col in October was not very easy. We however found a sloop which lay on the coast to carry kelp; and for a price which we thought levied upon our necessities, the master agreed to carry us to Mull, whence we might readily pass back to Scotland. MULL As we were to catch the first favourable breath, we spent the night not very elegantly nor pleasantly in the vessel, and were landed next day at Tobor Morar, a port in Mull, which appears to an unexperienced eye formed for the security of ships; for its mouth is closed by a small island, which admits them through narrow channels into a bason sufficiently capacious. They are indeed safe from the sea, but there is a hollow between the mountains, through which the wind issues from the land with very mischievous violence. There was no danger while we were there, and we found several other vessels at anchor; so that the port had a very commercial appearance. The young Laird of Col, who had determined not to let us lose his company, while there was any difficulty remaining, came over with us. His influence soon appeared; for he procured us horses, and conducted us to the house of Doctor Maclean, where we found very kind entertainment, and very pleasing conversation. Miss Maclean, who was born, and had been bred at Glasgow, having removed with her father to Mull, added to other qualifications, a great knowledge of the Earse language, which she had not learned in her childhood, but gained by study, and was the only interpreter of Earse poetry that I could ever find. The Isle of Mull is perhaps in extent the third of the Hebrides. It is not broken by waters, nor shot into promontories, but is a solid and compact mass, of breadth nearly equal to its length. Of the dimensions of the larger Islands, there is no knowledge approaching to exactness. I am willing to estimate it as containing about three hundred square miles. Mull had suffered like Sky by the black winter of seventy-one, in which, contrary to all experience, a continued frost detained the snow eight weeks upon the ground. Against a calamity never known, no provision had been made, and the people could only pine in helpless misery. One tenant was mentioned, whose cattle perished to the value of three hundred pounds; a loss which probably more than the life of man is necessary to repair. In countries like these, the descriptions of famine become intelligible. Where by vigorous and artful cultivation of a soil naturally fertile, there is commonly a superfluous growth both of grain and grass; where the fields are crowded with cattle; and where every hand is able to attract wealth from a distance, by making something that promotes ease, or gratifies vanity, a dear year produces only a comparative want, which is rather seen than felt, and which terminates commonly in no worse effect, than that of condemning the lower orders of the community to sacrifice a little luxury to convenience, or at most a little convenience to necessity. But where the climate is unkind, and the ground penurious, so that the most fruitful years will produce only enough to maintain themselves; where life unimproved, and unadorned, fades into something little more than naked existence, and every one is busy for himself, without any arts by which the pleasure of others may be increased; if to the daily burden of distress any additional weight be added, nothing remains but to despair and die. In Mull the disappointment of a harvest, or a murrain among the cattle, cuts off the regular provision; and they who have no manufactures can purchase no part of the superfluities of other countries. The consequence of a bad season is here not scarcity, but emptiness; and they whose plenty, was barely a supply of natural and present need, when that slender stock fails, must perish with hunger. All travel has its advantages. If the passenger visits better countries, he may learn to improve his own, and if fortune carries him to worse, he may learn to enjoy it. Mr. Boswell's curiosity strongly impelled him to survey Iona, or Icolmkil, which was to the early ages the great school of Theology, and is supposed to have been the place of sepulture for the ancient kings. I, though less eager, did not oppose him. That we might perform this expedition, it was necessary to traverse a great part of Mull. We passed a day at Dr. Maclean's, and could have been well contented to stay longer. But Col provided us horses, and we pursued our journey. This was a day of inconvenience, for the country is very rough, and my horse was but little. We travelled many hours through a tract, black and barren, in which, however, there were the reliques of humanity; for we found a ruined chapel in our way. It is natural, in traversing this gloom of desolation, to inquire, whether something may not be done to give nature a more cheerful face, and whether those hills and moors that afford heath cannot with a little care and labour bear something better? The first thought that occurs is to cover them with trees, for that in many of these naked regions trees will grow, is evident, because stumps and roots are yet remaining; and the speculatist hastily proceeds to censure that negligence and laziness that has omitted for so long a time so easy an improvement. To drop seeds into the ground, and attend their growth, requires little labour and no skill. He who remembers that all the woods, by which the wants of man have been supplied from the Deluge till now, were self-sown, will not easily be persuaded to think all the art and preparation necessary, which the Georgick writers prescribe to planters. Trees certainly have covered the earth with very little culture. They wave their tops among the rocks of Norway, and might thrive as well in the Highlands and Hebrides. But there is a frightful interval between the seed and timber. He that calculates the growth of trees, has the unwelcome remembrance of the shortness of life driven hard upon him. He knows that he is doing what will never benefit himself; and when he rejoices to see the stem rise, is disposed to repine that another shall cut it down. Plantation is naturally the employment of a mind unburdened with care, and vacant to futurity, saturated with present good, and at leisure to derive gratification from the prospect of posterity. He that pines with hunger, is in little care how others shall be fed. The poor man is seldom studious to make his grandson rich. It may be soon discovered, why in a place, which hardly supplies the cravings of necessity, there has been little attention to the delights of fancy, and why distant convenience is unregarded, where the thoughts are turned with incessant solicitude upon every possibility of immediate advantage. Neither is it quite so easy to raise large woods, as may be conceived. Trees intended to produce timber must be sown where they are to grow; and ground sown with trees must be kept useless for a long time, inclosed at an expence from which many will be discouraged by the remoteness of the profit, and watched with that attention, which, in places where it is most needed, will neither be given nor bought. That it cannot be plowed is evident; and if cattle be suffered to graze upon it, they will devour the plants as fast as they rise. Even in coarser countries, where herds and flocks are not fed, not only the deer and the wild goats will browse upon them, but the hare and rabbit will nibble them. It is therefore reasonable to believe, what I do not remember any naturalist to have remarked, that there was a time when the world was very thinly inhabited by beasts, as well as men, and that the woods had leisure to rise high before animals had bred numbers sufficient to intercept them. Sir James Macdonald, in part of the wastes of his territory, set or sowed trees, to the number, as I have been told, of several millions, expecting, doubtless, that they would grow up into future navies and cities; but for want of inclosure, and of that care which is always necessary, and will hardly ever be taken, all his cost and labour have been lost, and the ground is likely to continue an useless heath. Having not any experience of a journey in Mull, we had no doubt of reaching the sea by day-light, and therefore had not left Dr. Maclean's very early. We travelled diligently enough, but found the country, for road there was none, very difficult to pass. We were always struggling with some obstruction or other, and our vexation was not balanced by any gratification of the eye or mind. We were now long enough acquainted with hills and heath to have lost the emotion that they once raised, whether pleasing or painful, and had our mind employed only on our own fatigue. We were however sure, under Col's protection, of escaping all real evils. There was no house in Mull to which he could not introduce us. He had intended to lodge us, for that night, with a gentleman that lived upon the coast, but discovered on the way, that he then lay in bed without hope of life. We resolved not to embarrass a family, in a time of so much sorrow, if any other expedient could he found; and as the Island of Ulva was over- against us, it was determined that we should pass the strait and have recourse to the Laird, who, like the other gentlemen of the Islands, was known to Col. We expected to find a ferry-boat, but when at last we came to the water, the boat was gone. We were now again at a stop. It was the sixteenth of October, a time when it is not convenient to sleep in the Hebrides without a cover, and there was no house within our reach, but that which we had already declined. ULVA While we stood deliberating, we were happily espied from an Irish ship, that lay at anchor in the strait. The master saw that we wanted a passage, and with great civility sent us his boat, which quickly conveyed us to Ulva, where we were very liberally entertained by Mr. Macquarry. To Ulva we came in the dark, and left it before noon the next day. A very exact description therefore will not be expected. We were told, that it is an Island of no great extent, rough and barren, inhabited by the Macquarrys; a clan not powerful nor numerous, but of antiquity, which most other families are content to reverence. The name is supposed to be a depravation of some other; for the Earse language does not afford it any etymology. Macquarry is proprietor both of Ulva and some adjacent Islands, among which is Staffa, so lately raised to renown by Mr. Banks. When the Islanders were reproached with their ignorance, or insensibility of the wonders of Staffa, they had not much to reply. They had indeed considered it little, because they had always seen it; and none but philosophers, nor they always, are struck with wonder, otherwise than by novelty. How would it surprise an unenlightened ploughman, to hear a company of sober men, inquiring by what power the hand tosses a stone, or why the stone, when it is tossed, falls to the ground! Of the ancestors of Macquarry, who thus lies hid in his unfrequented Island, I have found memorials in all places where they could be expected. Inquiring after the reliques of former manners, I found that in Ulva, and, I think, no where else, is continued the payment of the Mercheta Mulierum; a fine in old times due to the Laird at the marriage of a virgin. The original of this claim, as of our tenure of Borough English, is variously delivered. It is pleasant to find ancient customs in old families. This payment, like others, was, for want of money, made anciently in the produce of the land. Macquarry was used to demand a sheep, for which he now takes a crown, by that inattention to the uncertain proportion between the value and the denomination of money, which has brought much disorder into Europe. A sheep has always the same power of supplying human wants, but a crown will bring at one time more, at another less. Ulva was not neglected by the piety of ardent times: it has still to show what was once a church. INCH KENNETH In the morning we went again into the boat, and were landed on Inch Kenneth, an Island about a mile long, and perhaps half a mile broad, remarkable for pleasantness and fertility. It is verdant and grassy, and fit both for pasture and tillage; but it has no trees. Its only inhabitants were Sir Allan Maclean and two young ladies, his daughters, with their servants. Romance does not often exhibit a scene that strikes the imagination more than this little desert in these depths of Western obscurity, occupied not by a gross herdsman, or amphibious fisherman, but by a gentleman and two ladies, of high birth, polished manners and elegant conversation, who, in a habitation raised not very far above the ground, but furnished with unexpected neatness and convenience, practised all the kindness of hospitality, and refinement of courtesy. Sir Allan is the Chieftain of the great clan of Maclean, which is said to claim the second place among the Highland families, yielding only to Macdonald. Though by the misconduct of his ancestors, most of the extensive territory, which would have descended to him, has been alienated, he still retains much of the dignity and authority of his birth. When soldiers were lately wanting for the American war, application was made to Sir Allan, and he nominated a hundred men for the service, who obeyed the summons, and bore arms under his command. He had then, for some time, resided with the young ladies in Inch Kenneth, where he lives not only with plenty, but with elegance, having conveyed to his cottage a collection of books, and what else is necessary to make his hours pleasant. When we landed, we were met by Sir Allan and the Ladies, accompanied by Miss Macquarry, who had passed some time with them, and now returned to Ulva with her father. We all walked together to the mansion, where we found one cottage for Sir Allan, and I think two more for the domesticks and the offices. We entered, and wanted little that palaces afford. Our room was neatly floored, and well lighted; and our dinner, which was dressed in one of the other huts, was plentiful and delicate. In the afternoon Sir Allan reminded us, that the day was Sunday, which he never suffered to pass without some religious distinction, and invited us to partake in his acts of domestick worship; which I hope neither Mr. Boswell nor myself will be suspected of a disposition to refuse. The elder of the Ladies read the English service. Inch Kenneth was once a seminary of ecclesiasticks, subordinate, I suppose, to Icolmkill. Sir Allan had a mind to trace the foundations of the college, but neither I nor Mr. Boswell, who bends a keener eye on vacancy, were able to perceive them. Our attention, however, was sufficiently engaged by a venerable chapel, which stands yet entire, except that the roof is gone. It is about sixty feet in length, and thirty in breadth. On one side of the altar is a bas relief of the blessed Virgin, and by it lies a little bell; which, though cracked, and without a clapper, has remained there for ages, guarded only by the venerableness of the place. The ground round the chapel is covered with gravestones of Chiefs and ladies; and still continues to be a place of sepulture. Inch Kenneth is a proper prelude to Icolmkill. It was not without some mournful emotion that we contemplated the ruins of religious structures and the monuments of the dead. On the next day we took a more distinct view of the place, and went with the boat to see oysters in the bed, out of which the boatmen forced up as many as were wanted. Even Inch Kenneth has a subordinate Island, named Sandiland, I suppose in contempt, where we landed, and found a rock, with a surface of perhaps four acres, of which one is naked stone, another spread with sand and shells, some of which I picked up for their glossy beauty, and two covered with a little earth and grass, on which Sir Allan has a few sheep. I doubt not but when there was a college at Inch Kenneth, there was a hermitage upon Sandiland. Having wandered over those extensive plains, we committed ourselves again to the winds and waters; and after a voyage of about ten minutes, in which we met with nothing very observable, were again safe upon dry ground. We told Sir Allan our desire of visiting Icolmkill, and entreated him to give us his protection, and his company. He thought proper to hesitate a little, but the Ladies hinted, that as they knew he would not finally refuse, he would do better if he preserved the grace of ready compliance. He took their advice, and promised to carry us on the morrow in his boat. We passed the remaining part of the day in such amusements as were in our power. Sir Allan related the American campaign, and at evening one of the Ladies played on her harpsichord, while Col and Mr. Boswell danced a Scottish reel with the other. We could have been easily persuaded to a longer stay upon Inch Kenneth, but life will not be all passed in delight. The session at Edinburgh was approaching, from which Mr. Boswell could not be absent. In the morning our boat was ready: it was high and strong. Sir Allan victualled it for the day, and provided able rowers. We now parted from the young Laird of Col, who had treated us with so much kindness, and concluded his favours by consigning us to Sir Allan. Here we had the last embrace of this amiable man, who, while these pages were preparing to attest his virtues, perished in the passage between Ulva and Inch Kenneth. Sir Allan, to whom the whole region was well known, told us of a very remarkable cave, to which he would show us the way. We had been disappointed already by one cave, and were not much elevated by the expectation of another. It was yet better to see it, and we stopped at some rocks on the coast of Mull. The mouth is fortified by vast fragments of stone, over which we made our way, neither very nimbly, nor very securely. The place, however, well repaid our trouble. The bottom, as far as the flood rushes in, was encumbered with large pebbles, but as we advanced was spread over with smooth sand. The breadth is about forty-five feet: the roof rises in an arch, almost regular, to a height which we could not measure; but I think it about thirty feet. This part of our curiosity was nearly frustrated; for though we went to see a cave, and knew that caves are dark, we forgot to carry tapers, and did not discover our omission till we were wakened by our wants. Sir Allan then sent one of the boatmen into the country, who soon returned with one little candle. We were thus enabled to go forward, but could not venture far. Having passed inward from the sea to a great depth, we found on the right hand a narrow passage, perhaps not more than six feet wide, obstructed by great stones, over which we climbed and came into a second cave, in breadth twenty-five feet. The air in this apartment was very warm, but not oppressive, nor loaded with vapours. Our light showed no tokens of a feculent or corrupted atmosphere. Here was a square stone, called, as we are told, Fingal's Table. If we had been provided with torches, we should have proceeded in our search, though we had already gone as far as any former adventurer, except some who are reported never to have returned; and, measuring our way back, we found it more than a hundred and sixty yards, the eleventh part of a mile. Our measures were not critically exact, having been made with a walking pole, such as it is convenient to carry in these rocky countries, of which I guessed the length by standing against it. In this there could be no great errour, nor do I much doubt but the Highlander, whom we employed, reported the number right. More nicety however is better, and no man should travel unprovided with instruments for taking heights and distances. There is yet another cause of errour not always easily surmounted, though more dangerous to the veracity of itinerary narratives, than imperfect mensuration. An observer deeply impressed by any remarkable spectacle, does not suppose, that the traces will soon vanish from his mind, and having commonly no great convenience for writing, defers the description to a time of more leisure, and better accommodation. He who has not made the experiment, or who is not accustomed to require rigorous accuracy from himself, will scarcely believe how much a few hours take from certainty of knowledge, and distinctness of imagery; how the succession of objects will be broken, how separate parts will be confused, and how many particular features and discriminations will be compressed and conglobated into one gross and general idea. To this dilatory notation must be imputed the false relations of travellers, where there is no imaginable motive to deceive. They trusted to memory, what cannot be trusted safely but to the eye, and told by guess what a few hours before they had known with certainty. Thus it was that Wheeler and Spon described with irreconcilable contrariety things which they surveyed together, and which both undoubtedly designed to show as they saw them. When we had satisfied our curiosity in the cave, so far as our penury of light permitted us, we clambered again to our boat, and proceeded along the coast of Mull to a headland, called Atun, remarkable for the columnar form of the rocks, which rise in a series of pilasters, with a degree of regularity, which Sir Allan thinks not less worthy of curiosity than the shore of Staffa. Not long after we came to another range of black rocks, which had the appearance of broken pilasters, set one behind another to a great depth. This place was chosen by Sir Allan for our dinner. We were easily accommodated with seats, for the stones were of all heights, and refreshed ourselves and our boatmen, who could have no other rest till we were at Icolmkill. The evening was now approaching, and we were yet at a considerable distance from the end of our expedition. We could therefore stop no more to make remarks in the way, but set forward with some degree of eagerness. The day soon failed us, and the moon presented a very solemn and pleasing scene. The sky was clear, so that the eye commanded a wide circle: the sea was neither still nor turbulent: the wind neither silent nor loud. We were never far from one coast or another, on which, if the weather had become violent, we could have found shelter, and therefore contemplated at ease the region through which we glided in the tranquillity of the night, and saw now a rock and now an island grow gradually conspicuous and gradually obscure. I committed the fault which I have just been censuring, in neglecting, as we passed, to note the series of this placid navigation. We were very near an Island, called Nun's Island, perhaps from an ancient convent. Here is said to have been dug the stone that was used in the buildings of Icolmkill. Whether it is now inhabited we could not stay to inquire. At last we came to Icolmkill, but found no convenience for landing. Our boat could not be forced very near the dry ground, and our Highlanders carried us over the water. We were now treading that illustrious Island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge, and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish, if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona! We came too late to visit monuments: some care was necessary for ourselves. Whatever was in the Island, Sir Allan could command, for the inhabitants were Macleans; but having little they could not give us much. He went to the headman of the Island, whom Fame, but Fame delights in amplifying, represents as worth no less than fifty pounds. He was perhaps proud enough of his guests, but ill prepared for our entertainment; however, he soon produced more provision than men not luxurious require. Our lodging was next to be provided. We found a barn well stocked with hay, and made our beds as soft as we could. In the morning we rose and surveyed the place. The churches of the two convents are both standing, though unroofed. They were built of unhewn stone, but solid, and not inelegant. I brought away rude measures of the buildings, such as I cannot much trust myself, inaccurately taken, and obscurely noted. Mr. Pennant's delineations, which are doubtless exact, have made my unskilful description less necessary. The episcopal church consists of two parts, separated by the belfry, and built at different times. The original church had, like others, the altar at one end, and tower at the other: but as it grew too small, another building of equal dimension was added, and the tower then was necessarily in the middle. That these edifices are of different ages seems evident. The arch of the first church is Roman, being part of a circle; that of the additional building is pointed, and therefore Gothick, or Saracenical; the tower is firm, and wants only to be floored and covered. Of the chambers or cells belonging to the monks, there are some walls remaining, but nothing approaching to a complete apartment. The bottom of the church is so incumbered with mud and rubbish, that we could make no discoveries of curious inscriptions, and what there are have been already published. The place is said to be known where the black stones lie concealed, on which the old Highland Chiefs, when they made contracts and alliances, used to take the oath, which was considered as more sacred than any other obligation, and which could not be violated without the blackest infamy. In those days of violence and rapine, it was of great importance to impress upon savage minds the sanctity of an oath, by some particular and extraordinary circumstances. They would not have recourse to the black stones, upon small or common occasions, and when they had established their faith by this tremendous sanction, inconstancy and treachery were no longer feared. The chapel of the nunnery is now used by the inhabitants as a kind of general cow-house, and the bottom is consequently too miry for examination. Some of the stones which covered the later abbesses have inscriptions, which might yet be read, if the chapel were cleansed. The roof of this, as of all the other buildings, is totally destroyed, not only because timber quickly decays when it is neglected, but because in an island utterly destitute of wood, it was wanted for use, and was consequently the first plunder of needy rapacity. The chancel of the nuns' chapel is covered with an arch of stone, to which time has done no injury; and a small apartment communicating with the choir, on the north side, like the chapter-house in cathedrals, roofed with stone in the same manner, is likewise entire. In one of the churches was a marble altar, which the superstition of the inhabitants has destroyed. Their opinion was, that a fragment of this stone was a defence against shipwrecks, fire, and miscarriages. In one corner of the church the bason for holy water is yet unbroken. The cemetery of the nunnery was, till very lately, regarded with such reverence, that only women were buried in it. These reliques of veneration always produce some mournful pleasure. I could have forgiven a great injury more easily than the violation of this imaginary sanctity. South of the chapel stand the walls of a large room, which was probably the hall, or refectory of the nunnery. This apartment is capable of repair. Of the rest of the convent there are only fragments. Besides the two principal churches, there are, I think, five chapels yet standing, and three more remembered. There are also crosses, of which two bear the names of St. John and St. Matthew. A large space of ground about these consecrated edifices is covered with gravestones, few of which have any inscription. He that surveys it, attended by an insular antiquary, may be told where the Kings of many nations are buried, and if he loves to sooth his imagination with the thoughts that naturally rise in places where the great and the powerful lie mingled with the dust, let him listen in submissive silence; for if he asks any questions, his delight is at an end. Iona has long enjoyed, without any very credible attestation, the honour of being reputed the cemetery of the Scottish Kings. It is not unlikely, that, when the opinion of local sanctity was prevalent, the Chieftains of the Isles, and perhaps some of the Norwegian or Irish princes were reposited in this venerable enclosure. But by whom the subterraneous vaults are peopled is now utterly unknown. The graves are very numerous, and some of them undoubtedly contain the remains of men, who did not expect to be so soon forgotten. Not far from this awful ground, may be traced the garden of the monastery: the fishponds are yet discernible, and the aqueduct, which supplied them, is still in use. There remains a broken building, which is called the Bishop's house, I know not by what authority. It was once the residence of some man above the common rank, for it has two stories and a chimney. We were shewn a chimney at the other end, which was only a nich, without perforation, but so much does antiquarian credulity, or patriotick vanity prevail, that it was not much more safe to trust the eye of our instructor than the memory. There is in the Island one house more, and only one, that has a chimney: we entered it, and found it neither wanting repair nor inhabitants; but to the farmers, who now possess it, the chimney is of no great value; for their fire was made on the floor, in the middle of the room, and notwithstanding the dignity of their mansion, they rejoiced, like their neighbours, in the comforts of smoke. It is observed, that ecclesiastical colleges are always in the most pleasant and fruitful places. While the world allowed the monks their choice, it is surely no dishonour that they chose well. This Island is remarkably fruitful. The village near the churches is said to contain seventy families, which, at five in a family, is more than a hundred inhabitants to a mile. There are perhaps other villages: yet both corn and cattle are annually exported. But the fruitfulness of Iona is now its whole prosperity. The inhabitants are remarkably gross, and remarkably neglected: I know not if they are visited by any Minister. The Island, which was once the metropolis of learning and piety, has now no school for education, nor temple for worship, only two inhabitants that can speak English, and not one that can write or read. The people are of the clan of Maclean; and though Sir Allan had not been in the place for many years, he was received with all the reverence due to their Chieftain. One of them being sharply reprehended by him, for not sending him some rum, declared after his departure, in Mr. Boswell's presence, that he had no design of disappointing him, 'for,' said he, 'I would cut my bones for him; and if he had sent his dog for it, he should have had it.' When we were to depart, our boat was left by the ebb at a great distance from the water, but no sooner did we wish it afloat, than the islanders gathered round it, and, by the union of many hands, pushed it down the beach; every man who could contribute his help seemed to think himself happy in the opportunity of being, for a moment, useful to his Chief. We now left those illustrious ruins, by which Mr. Boswell was much affected, nor would I willingly be thought to have looked upon them without some emotion. Perhaps, in the revolutions of the world, Iona may be sometime again the instructress of the Western Regions. It was no long voyage to Mull, where, under Sir Allan's protection, we landed in the evening, and were entertained for the night by Mr. Maclean, a Minister that lives upon the coast, whose elegance of conversation, and strength of judgment, would make him conspicuous in places of greater celebrity. Next day we dined with Dr. Maclean, another physician, and then travelled on to the house of a very powerful Laird, Maclean of Lochbuy; for in this country every man's name is Maclean. Where races are thus numerous, and thus combined, none but the Chief of a clan is addressed by his name. The Laird of Dunvegan is called Macleod, but other gentlemen of the same family are denominated by the places where they reside, as Raasa, or Talisker. The distinction of the meaner people is made by their Christian names. In consequence of this practice, the late Laird of Macfarlane, an eminent genealogist, considered himself as disrespectfully treated, if the common addition was applied to him. Mr. Macfarlane, said he, may with equal propriety be said to many; but I, and I only, am Macfarlane. Our afternoon journey was through a country of such gloomy desolation, that Mr. Boswell thought no part of the Highlands equally terrifick, yet we came without any difficulty, at evening, to Lochbuy, where we found a true Highland Laird, rough and haughty, and tenacious of his dignity; who, hearing my name, inquired whether I was of the Johnstons of Glencroe, or of Ardnamurchan. Lochbuy has, like the other insular Chieftains, quitted the castle that sheltered his ancestors, and lives near it, in a mansion not very spacious or splendid. I have seen no houses in the Islands much to be envied for convenience or magnificence, yet they bare testimony to the progress of arts and civility, as they shew that rapine and surprise are no longer dreaded, and are much more commodious than the ancient fortresses. The castles of the Hebrides, many of which are standing, and many ruined, were always built upon points of land, on the margin of the sea. For the choice of this situation there must have been some general reason, which the change of manners has left in obscurity. They were of no use in the days of piracy, as defences of the coast; for it was equally accessible in other places. Had they been sea-marks or light-houses, they would have been of more use to the invader than the natives, who could want no such directions of their own waters: for a watch-tower, a cottage on a hill would have been better, as it would have commanded a wider view. If they be considered merely as places of retreat, the situation seems not well chosen; for the Laird of an Island is safest from foreign enemies in the center; on the coast he might be more suddenly surprised than in the inland parts; and the invaders, if their enterprise miscarried, might more easily retreat. Some convenience, however, whatever it was, their position on the shore afforded; for uniformity of practice seldom continues long without good reason. A castle in the Islands is only a single tower of three or four stories, of which the walls are sometimes eight or nine feet thick, with narrow windows, and close winding stairs of stone. The top rises in a cone, or pyramid of stone, encompassed by battlements. The intermediate floors are sometimes frames of timber, as in common houses, and sometimes arches of stone, or alternately stone and timber; so that there was very little danger from fire. In the center of every floor, from top to bottom, is the chief room, of no great extent, round which there are narrow cavities, or recesses, formed by small vacuities, or by a double wall. I know not whether there be ever more than one fire-place. They had not capacity to contain many people, or much provision; but their enemies could seldom stay to blockade them; for if they failed in the first attack, their next care was to escape. The walls were always too strong to be shaken by such desultory hostilities; the windows were too narrow to be entered, and the battlements too high to be scaled. The only danger was at the gates, over which the wall was built with a square cavity, not unlike a chimney, continued to the top. Through this hollow the defendants let fall stones upon those who attempted to break the gate, and poured down water, perhaps scalding water, if the attack was made with fire. The castle of Lochbuy was secured by double doors, of which the outer was an iron grate. In every castle is a well and a dungeon. The use of the well is evident. The dungeon is a deep subterraneous cavity, walled on the sides, and arched on the top, into which the descent is through a narrow door, by a ladder or a rope, so that it seems impossible to escape, when the rope or ladder is drawn up. The dungeon was, I suppose, in war, a prison for such captives as were treated with severity, and, in peace, for such delinquents as had committed crimes within the Laird's jurisdiction; for the mansions of many Lairds were, till the late privation of their privileges, the halls of justice to their own tenants. As these fortifications were the productions of mere necessity, they are built only for safety, with little regard to convenience, and with none to elegance or pleasure. It was sufficient for a Laird of the Hebrides, if he had a strong house, in which he could hide his wife and children from the next clan. That they are not large nor splendid is no wonder. It is not easy to find how they were raised, such as they are, by men who had no money, in countries where the labourers and artificers could scarcely be fed. The buildings in different parts of the Island shew their degrees of wealth and power. I believe that for all the castles which I have seen beyond the Tweed, the ruins yet remaining of some one of those which the English built in Wales, would supply materials. These castles afford another evidence that the fictions of romantick chivalry had for their basis the real manners of the feudal times, when every Lord of a seignory lived in his hold lawless and unaccountable, with all the licentiousness and insolence of uncontested superiority and unprincipled power. The traveller, whoever he might be, coming to the fortified habitation of a Chieftain, would, probably, have been interrogated from the battlements, admitted with caution at the gate, introduced to a petty Monarch, fierce with habitual hostility, and vigilant with ignorant suspicion; who, according to his general temper, or accidental humour, would have seated a stranger as his guest at the table, or as a spy confined him in the dungeon. Lochbuy means the Yellow Lake, which is the name given to an inlet of the sea, upon which the castle of Mr. Maclean stands. The reason of the appellation we did not learn. We were now to leave the Hebrides, where we had spent some weeks with sufficient amusement, and where we had amplified our thoughts with new scenes of nature, and new modes of life. More time would have given us a more distinct view, but it was necessary that Mr. Boswell should return before the courts of justice were opened; and it was not proper to live too long upon hospitality, however liberally imparted. Of these Islands it must be confessed, that they have not many allurements, but to the mere lover of naked nature. The inhabitants are thin, provisions are scarce, and desolation and penury give little pleasure. The people collectively considered are not few, though their numbers are small in proportion to the space which they occupy. Mull is said to contain six thousand, and Sky fifteen thousand. Of the computation respecting Mull, I can give no account; but when I doubted the truth of the numbers attributed to Sky, one of the Ministers exhibited such facts as conquered my incredulity. Of the proportion, which the product of any region bears to the people, an estimate is commonly made according to the pecuniary price of the necessaries of life; a principle of judgment which is never certain, because it supposes what is far from truth, that the value of money is always the same, and so measures an unknown quantity by an uncertain standard. It is competent enough when the markets of the same country, at different times, and those times not too distant, are to be compared; but of very little use for the purpose of making one nation acquainted with the state of another. Provisions, though plentiful, are sold in places of great pecuniary opulence for nominal prices, to which, however scarce, where gold and silver are yet scarcer, they can never be raised. In the Western Islands there is so little internal commerce, that hardly any thing has a known or settled rate. The price of things brought in, or carried out, is to be considered as that of a foreign market; and even this there is some difficulty in discovering, because their denominations of quantity are different from ours; and when there is ignorance on both sides, no appeal can be made to a common measure. This, however, is not the only impediment. The Scots, with a vigilance of jealousy which never goes to sleep, always suspect that an Englishman despises them for their poverty, and to convince him that they are not less rich than their neighbours, are sure to tell him a price higher than the true. When Lesley, two hundred years ago, related so punctiliously, that a hundred hen eggs, new laid, were sold in the Islands for a peny, he supposed that no inference could possibly follow, but that eggs were in great abundance. Posterity has since grown wiser; and having learned, that nominal and real value may differ, they now tell no such stories, lest the foreigner should happen to collect, not that eggs are many, but that pence are few. Money and wealth have by the use of commercial language been so long confounded, that they are commonly supposed to be the same; and this prejudice has spread so widely in Scotland, that I know not whether I found man or woman, whom I interrogated concerning payments of money, that could surmount the illiberal desire of deceiving me, by representing every thing as dearer than it is. From Lochbuy we rode a very few miles to the side of Mull, which faces Scotland, where, having taken leave of our kind protector, Sir Allan, we embarked in a boat, in which the seat provided for our accommodation was a heap of rough brushwood; and on the twenty-second of October reposed at a tolerable inn on the main land. On the next day we began our journey southwards. The weather was tempestuous. For half the day the ground was rough, and our horses were still small. Had they required much restraint, we might have been reduced to difficulties; for I think we had amongst us but one bridle. We fed the poor animals liberally, and they performed their journey well. In the latter part of the day, we came to a firm and smooth road, made by the soldiers, on which we travelled with great security, busied with contemplating the scene about us. The night came on while we had yet a great part of the way to go, though not so dark, but that we could discern the cataracts which poured down the hills, on one side, and fell into one general channel that ran with great violence on the other. The wind was loud, the rain was heavy, and the whistling of the blast, the fall of the shower, the rush of the cataracts, and the roar of the torrent, made a nobler chorus of the rough musick of nature than it had ever been my chance to hear before. The streams, which ran cross the way from the hills to the main current, were so frequent, that after a while I began to count them; and, in ten miles, reckoned fifty-five, probably missing some, and having let some pass before they forced themselves upon my notice. At last we came to Inverary, where we found an inn, not only commodious, but magnificent. The difficulties of peregrination were now at an end. Mr. Boswell had the honour of being known to the Duke of Argyle, by whom we were very kindly entertained at his splendid seat, and supplied with conveniences for surveying his spacious park and rising forests. After two days stay at Inverary we proceeded Southward over Glencroe, a black and dreary region, now made easily passable by a military road, which rises from either end of the glen by an acclivity not dangerously steep, but sufficiently laborious. In the middle, at the top of the hill, is a seat with this inscription, 'Rest, and be thankful.' Stones were placed to mark the distances, which the inhabitants have taken away, resolved, they said, 'to have no new miles.' In this rainy season the hills streamed with waterfalls, which, crossing the way, formed currents on the other side, that ran in contrary directions as they fell to the north or south of the summit. Being, by the favour of the Duke, well mounted, I went up and down the hill with great convenience. From Glencroe we passed through a pleasant country to the banks of Loch Lomond, and were received at the house of Sir James Colquhoun, who is owner of almost all the thirty islands of the Loch, which we went in a boat next morning to survey. The heaviness of the rain shortened our voyage, but we landed on one island planted with yew, and stocked with deer, and on another containing perhaps not more than half an acre, remarkable for the ruins of an old castle, on which the osprey builds her annual nest. Had Loch Lomond been in a happier climate, it would have been the boast of wealth and vanity to own one of the little spots which it incloses, and to have employed upon it all the arts of embellishment. But as it is, the islets, which court the gazer at a distance, disgust him at his approach, when he finds, instead of soft lawns; and shady thickets, nothing more than uncultivated ruggedness. Where the Loch discharges itself into a river, called the Leven, we passed a night with Mr. Smollet, a relation of Doctor Smollet, to whose memory he has raised an obelisk on the bank near the house in which he was born. The civility and respect which we found at every place, it is ungrateful to omit, and tedious to repeat. Here we were met by a post- chaise, that conveyed us to Glasgow. To describe a city so much frequented as Glasgow, is unnecessary. The prosperity of its commerce appears by the greatness of many private houses, and a general appearance of wealth. It is the only episcopal city whose cathedral was left standing in the rage of Reformation. It is now divided into many separate places of worship, which, taken all together, compose a great pile, that had been some centuries in building, but was never finished; for the change of religion intercepted its progress, before the cross isle was added, which seems essential to a Gothick cathedral. The college has not had a sufficient share of the increasing magnificence of the place. The session was begun; for it commences on the tenth of October and continues to the tenth of June, but the students appeared not numerous, being, I suppose, not yet returned from their several homes. The division of the academical year into one session, and one recess, seems to me better accommodated to the present state of life, than that variegation of time by terms and vacations derived from distant centuries, in which it was probably convenient, and still continued in the English universities. So many solid months as the Scotch scheme of education joins together, allow and encourage a plan for each part of the year; but with us, he that has settled himself to study in the college is soon tempted into the country, and he that has adjusted his life in the country, is summoned back to his college. Yet when I have allowed to the universities of Scotland a more rational distribution of time, I have given them, so far as my inquiries have informed me, all that they can claim. The students, for the most part, go thither boys, and depart before they are men; they carry with them little fundamental knowledge, and therefore the superstructure cannot be lofty. The grammar schools are not generally well supplied; for the character of a school-master being there less honourable than in England, is seldom accepted by men who are capable to adorn it, and where the school has been deficient, the college can effect little. Men bred in the universities of Scotland cannot be expected to be often decorated with the splendours of ornamental erudition, but they obtain a mediocrity of knowledge, between learning and ignorance, not inadequate to the purposes of common life, which is, I believe, very widely diffused among them, and which countenanced in general by a national combination so invidious, that their friends cannot defend it, and actuated in particulars by a spirit of enterprise, so vigorous, that their enemies are constrained to praise it, enables them to find, or to make their way to employment, riches, and distinction. From Glasgow we directed our course to Auchinleck, an estate devolved, through a long series of ancestors, to Mr. Boswell's father, the present possessor. In our way we found several places remarkable enough in themselves, but already described by those who viewed them at more leisure, or with much more skill; and stopped two days at Mr. Campbell's, a gentleman married to Mr. Boswell's sister. Auchinleck, which signifies a stony field, seems not now to have any particular claim to its denomination. It is a district generally level, and sufficiently fertile, but like all the Western side of Scotland, incommoded by very frequent rain. It was, with the rest of the country, generally naked, till the present possessor finding, by the growth of some stately trees near his old castle, that the ground was favourable enough to timber, adorned it very diligently with annual plantations. Lord Auchinleck, who is one of the Judges of Scotland, and therefore not wholly at leisure for domestick business or pleasure, has yet found time to make improvements in his patrimony. He has built a house of hewn stone, very stately, and durable, and has advanced the value of his lands with great tenderness to his tenants. I was, however, less delighted with the elegance of the modern mansion, than with the sullen dignity of the old castle. I clambered with Mr. Boswell among the ruins, which afford striking images of ancient life. It is, like other castles, built upon a point of rock, and was, I believe, anciently surrounded with a moat. There is another rock near it, to which the drawbridge, when it was let down, is said to have reached. Here, in the ages of tumult and rapine, the Laird was surprised and killed by the neighbouring Chief, who perhaps might have extinguished the family, had he not in a few days been seized and hanged, together with his sons, by Douglas, who came with his forces to the relief of Auchinleck. At no great distance from the house runs a pleasing brook, by a red rock, out of which has been hewn a very agreeable and commodious summer-house, at less expence, as Lord Auchinleck told me, than would have been required to build a room of the same dimensions. The rock seems to have no more dampness than any other wall. Such opportunities of variety it is judicious not to neglect. We now returned to Edinburgh, where I passed some days with men of learning, whose names want no advancement from my commemoration, or with women of elegance, which perhaps disclaims a pedant's praise. The conversation of the Scots grows every day less unpleasing to the English; their peculiarities wear fast away; their dialect is likely to become in half a century provincial and rustick, even to themselves. The great, the learned, the ambitious, and the vain, all cultivate the English phrase, and the English pronunciation, and in splendid companies Scotch is not much heard, except now and then from an old Lady. There is one subject of philosophical curiosity to be found in Edinburgh, which no other city has to shew; a college of the deaf and dumb, who are taught to speak, to read, to write, and to practice arithmetick, by a gentleman, whose name is Braidwood. The number which attends him is, I think, about twelve, which he brings together into a little school, and instructs according to their several degrees of proficiency. I do not mean to mention the instruction of the deaf as new. Having been first practised upon the son of a constable of Spain, it was afterwards cultivated with much emulation in England, by Wallis and Holder, and was lately professed by Mr. Baker, who once flattered me with hopes of seeing his method published. How far any former teachers have succeeded, it is not easy to know; the improvement of Mr. Braidwood's pupils is wonderful. They not only speak, write, and understand what is written, but if he that speaks looks towards them, and modifies his organs by distinct and full utterance, they know so well what is spoken, that it is an expression scarcely figurative to say, they hear with the eye. That any have attained to the power mentioned by Burnet, of feeling sounds, by laying a hand on the speaker's mouth, I know not; but I have seen so much, that I can believe more; a single word, or a short sentence, I think, may possibly be so distinguished. It will readily be supposed by those that consider this subject, that Mr. Braidwood's scholars spell accurately. Orthography is vitiated among such as learn first to speak, and then to write, by imperfect notions of the relation between letters and vocal utterance; but to those students every character is of equal importance; for letters are to them not symbols of names, but of things; when they write they do not represent a sound, but delineate a form. This school I visited, and found some of the scholars waiting for their master, whom they are said to receive at his entrance with smiling countenances and sparkling eyes, delighted with the hope of new ideas. One of the young Ladies had her slate before her, on which I wrote a question consisting of three figures, to be multiplied by two figures. She looked upon it, and quivering her fingers in a manner which I thought very pretty, but of which I know not whether it was art or play, multiplied the sum regularly in two lines, observing the decimal place; but did not add the two lines together, probably disdaining so easy an operation. I pointed at the place where the sum total should stand, and she noted it with such expedition as seemed to shew that she had it only to write. It was pleasing to see one of the most desperate of human calamities capable of so much help; whatever enlarges hope, will exalt courage; after having seen the deaf taught arithmetick, who would be afraid to cultivate the Hebrides? Such are the things which this journey has given me an opportunity of seeing, and such are the reflections which that sight has raised. Having passed my time almost wholly in cities, I may have been surprised by modes of life and appearances of nature, that are familiar to men of wider survey and more varied conversation. Novelty and ignorance must always be reciprocal, and I cannot but be conscious that my thoughts on national manners, are the thoughts of one who has seen but little. 
26142	----	produced by Core Historical Literature in Agriculture (CHLA), Cornell University) PEAT AND ITS USES, AS FERTILIZER AND FUEL. BY SAMUEL W. JOHNSON, A. M., PROFESSOR OF ANALYTICAL AND AGRICULTURAL CHEMISTRY, YALE COLLEGE. FULLY ILLUSTRATED. NEW-YORK: ORANGE JUDD & COMPANY. 245 BROADWAY. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by ORANGE JUDD & CO., At the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York. LOVEJOY & SON, ELECTROTYPERS AND STEREOTYPERS 15 Vandewater street N. Y. TO MY FATHER, MY EARLIEST AND BEST INSTRUCTOR IN RURAL AFFAIRS, THIS VOLUME IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. S. W. J. CONTENTS. Introduction vii PART I.--ORIGIN, VARIETIES, AND CHEMICAL CHARACTERS OF PEAT. PAGE 1. What is Peat? 9 2. Conditions of its Formation 9 3. Different Kinds of Peat 14 Swamp Muck 17 Salt Mud 18 4. Chemical Characters and Composition of Peat 18 a. Organic or combustible part 19 Ulmic and Humic Acids 19 Ulmin and Humin--Crenic and Apocrenic Acids 20 Ulmates and Humates 21 Crenates and Apocrenates 22 Gein and Geic Acid--Elementary Composition of Peat 23 Ultimate Composition of the Constituents of Peat 25 b. Mineral Part--Ashes 25 5. Chemical Changes that occur in the Formation of Peat 26 PART II.--ON THE AGRICULTURAL USES OF PEAT AND SWAMP MUCK. 1. Characters that adapt Peat for Agricultural Use 28 A. Physical or Amending Characters 28 I. Absorbent Power for Water, as Liquid and Vapor 31 II. " " for Ammonia 32 III. Influence in Disintegrating the Soil 34 IV. Influence on the Temperature of Soils 37 B. Fertilizing Characters 38 I. Fertilizing Effects of the Organic Matters, excluding Nitrogen 38 1. Organic Matters as Direct Food to Plants 38 2. Organic Matters as Indirect Food to Plants 40 3. Nitrogen, including Ammonia and Nitric Acid 42 II. Fertilizing Effects of the Ashes of Peat 46 III. Peculiarities in the Decay of Peat 50 IV. Comparison of Peat with Stable Manure 51 2. Characters of Peat that are detrimental, or that need correction 54 I. Possible Bad Effects on Heavy Soils 54 II. Noxious Ingredients 55 a. Vitriol Peats 55 b. Acidity--c. Resinous Matters 57 3. Preparation of Peat for Agricultural Use 57 a. Excavation 57 b. Exposure, or Seasoning 59 c. Composting 62 Compost with Stable Manure 63 " " Night Soil 68 " " Guano 69 " " Fish and other Animal Matters 70 " " Potash-lye & Soda-ash; Wood-ashes, Shell-marl, Lime 72 " " Salt and Lime Mixture 73 " " Carbonate of Lime, Mortar, etc 75 4. The Author's Experiments with Peat Composts 77 5. Examination of Peat with reference to its Agricultural Value 81 6. Composition of Connecticut Peats 84 Method of Analysis 86 Tables of Composition 88-89-90 PART III.--ON PEAT AS FUEL 1. Kinds of Peat that Make the Best Fuel 92 2. Density of Peat 95 3. Heating Power of Peat as Compared with Wood and Anthracite 96 4. Modes of Burning Peat 102 5. Burning of Broken Peat 103 6. Hygroscopic Water of Peat-fuel 104 7. Shrinkage 105 8. Time of Excavation and Drying 105 9. Drainage 106 10. Cutting of Peat for Fuel--a. Preparations for Cutting 107 b. Cutting by Hand; with Common Spade; German Peat Knife 108 " with Irish Slane--System employed in East Friesland 109 c. Machines for Cutting Peat; Brosowsky's Machine; Lepreux's Machine 113 11. Dredging of Peat 115 12. Moulding of Peat 116 13. Preparation of Peat-fuel by Machinery, etc 116 A. Condensation by Pressure 116 a. Of Fresh Peat 116 Mannhardt's Method 117 The Neustadt Method 119 b. Of Air-dried Peat--Lithuanian Process 120 c. Of Hot-dried Peat--Gwynne's Method; Exter's Method 121 Elsberg's Process 125 B. Condensation without Pressure 127 a. Of Earthy Peat 128 Challeton's Method, at Mennecy, France 128 " " Langenberg, Prussia 130 Roberts' " Pekin, N. Y. 132 Siemens' " Boeblingen, Wirtemberg 134 b. Condensation of Fibrous Peat--Weber's Method; Hot-drying 135 Gysser's Method and Machine 140 c. Condensation of Peat of all Kinds--Schlickeysen's Machine 144 Leavitt's Peat Mill, Lexington, Mass 146 Ashcroft & Betteley's Machine 148 Versmann's Machine, Great Britain 150 Buckland's " " 151 14. Artificial Drying of Peat 152 15. Peat Coal 157 16. Metallurgical Uses of Peat 162 17. Peat as a Source of Illuminating Gas 165 18. Examination of Peat with regard to its Value as Fuel 167 INTRODUCTION. In the years 1857 and 1858, the writer, in the capacity of Chemist to the State Agricultural Society of Connecticut, was commissioned to make investigations into the agricultural uses of the deposits of peat or swamp muck which are abundant in this State; and, in 1858, he submitted a Report to Henry A. Dyer, Esq., Corresponding Secretary of the Society, embodying his conclusions. In the present work the valuable portions of that Report have been recast, and, with addition of much new matter, form Parts I. and II. The remainder of the book, relating to the preparation and employment of peat for fuel, &c., is now for the first time published, and is intended to give a faithful account of the results of the experience that has been acquired in Europe, during the last twenty-five years, in regard to the important subject of which it treats. The employment of peat as an amendment and absorbent for agricultural purposes has proved to be of great advantage in New-England farming. It is not to be doubted, that, as fuel, it will be even more valuable than as a fertilizer. Our peat-beds, while they do not occupy so much territory as to be an impediment and a reproach to our country, as they have been to Ireland, are yet so abundant and so widely distributed--occurring from the Atlantic to the Missouri, along and above the 40th parallel, and appearing on our Eastern Coast at least as far South as North Carolina[1]--as to present, at numberless points, material, which, sooner or later, will serve us most usefully when other fuel has become scarce and costly. The high prices which coal and wood have commanded for several years back have directed attention to peat fuel; and, such is the adventurous character of American enterprise, it cannot be doubted that we shall rapidly develop and improve the machinery for producing it. As has always been the case, we shall waste a vast deal of time and money in contriving machines that violate every principle of mechanism and of economy; but the results of European invention furnish a safe basis from which to set out, and we have among us the genius and the patience that shall work out the perfect method. It may well be urged that a good degree of caution is advisable in entering upon the peat enterprise. In this country we have exhaustless mines of the best coal, which can be afforded at a very low rate, with which other fuel must compete. In Germany, where the best methods of working peat have originated, fuel is more costly than here; and a universal and intense economy there prevails, of which we, as a people, have no conception. If, as the Germans themselves admit, the peat question there is still a nice one as regards the test of dollars and cents, it is obvious, that, for a time, we must "hasten slowly." It is circumstances that make peat, and gold as well, remunerative or otherwise; and these must be well considered in each individual case. Peat is the name for a material that varies extremely in its quality, and this quality should be investigated carefully before going to work upon general deductions. In my account of the various processes for working peat by machinery, such data as I have been able to find have been given as to cost of production. These data are however very imperfect, and not altogether trustworthy, in direct application to American conditions. The cheapness of labor in Europe is an item to our disadvantage in interpreting foreign estimates. I incline to the belief that this is more than offset among us by the quality of our labor, by the energy of our administration, by the efficiency of our overseeing, and, especially, by our greater skill in the adaptation of mechanical appliances. While counselling caution, I also recommend enterprise in developing our resources in this important particular; knowing full well, however, that what I can say in its favor will scarcely add to the impulse already apparent among my countrymen. SAMUEL W. JOHNSON. _Sheffield Scientific School_,} _Yale College, June, 1866._ } FOOTNOTES: [1] The great Dismal Swamp is a grand peat bog, and doubtless other of the swamps of the coast, as far south as Florida and the Gulf, are of the same character. PART I. THE ORIGIN, VARIETIES, AND CHEMICAL CHARACTERS OF PEAT. 1. _What is Peat?_ By the general term Peat, we understand the organic matter or vegetable soil of bogs, swamps, beaver-meadows and salt-marshes. It consists of substances that have resulted from the decay of many generations of aquatic or marsh plants, as mosses, sedges, coarse grasses, and a great variety of shrubs, mixed with more or less mineral substances, derived from these plants, or in many cases blown or washed in from the surrounding lands. 2. _The conditions under which Peat is formed._ In this country the production of Peat from fallen and decaying plants, depends upon the presence of so much water as to cover or saturate the vegetable matters, and thereby hinder the full access of air. Saturation with water also has the effect to maintain the decaying matters at a low temperature, and by these two causes in combination, the process of decay is made to proceed with great slowness, and the solid products of such slow decay, are compounds that themselves resist decay, and hence they accumulate. In the United States there appears to be nothing like the extensive _moors_ or _heaths_, that abound in Ireland, Scotland, the north of England, North Germany, Holland, and the elevated plains of Bavaria, which are mostly level or gently sloping tracts of country, covered with peat or turf to a depth often of 20, and sometimes of 40, or more, feet. In this country it is only in low places, where streams become obstructed and form swamps, or in bays and inlets on salt water, where the flow of the tide furnishes the requisite moisture, that our peat-beds occur. If we go north-east as far as Anticosti, Labrador, or Newfoundland, we find true moors. In these regions have been found a few localities of the _Heather_ (_Calluna vulgaris_), which is so conspicuous a plant on the moors of Europe, but which is wanting in the peat-beds of the United States. In the countries above named, the weather is more uniform than here, the air is more moist, and the excessive heat of our summers is scarcely known. Such is the greater humidity of the atmosphere that the bog-mosses,--the so-called _Sphagnums_,--which have a wonderful avidity for moisture, (hence used for packing plants which require to be kept moist on journeys), are able to keep fresh and in growth during the entire summer. These mosses decay below, and throw out new vegetation above, and thus produce a bog, especially wherever the earth is springy. It is in this way that in those countries, moors and peat-bogs actually grow, increasing in depth and area, from year to year, and raise themselves above the level of the surrounding country. Prof. Marsh informs the writer that he has seen in Ireland, near the north-west coast, a granite hill, capped with a peat-bed, several feet in thickness. In the Bavarian highlands similar cases have been observed, in localities where the atmosphere and the ground are kept moist enough for the growth of moss by the extraordinary prevalence of fogs. Many of the European moors rise more or less above the level of their borders towards the centre, often to a height of 10 or 20 and sometimes of 30 feet. They are hence known in Germany as _high_ moors (_Hochmoore_) to distinguish from the level or dishing _meadow-moors_, (_Wiesenmoore_). The peat-producing vegetation of the former is chiefly moss and heather, of the latter coarse grasses and sedges. In Great Britain the reclamation of a moor is usually an expensive operation, for which not only much draining, but actual cutting out and burning of the compact peat is necessary. The warmth of our summers and the dryness of our atmosphere prevent the accumulation of peat above the highest level of the standing water of our marshes, and so soon as the marshes are well drained, the peat ceases to form, and in most cases the swamp may be easily converted into good meadow land. Springy hill-sides, which in cooler, moister climates would become moors, here dry up in summer to such an extent that no peat can be formed upon them. As already observed, our peat is found in low places. In many instances its accumulation began by the obstruction of a stream. To that remarkable creature, the beaver, we owe many of our peat-bogs. These animals, from time immemorial, have built their dams across rivers so as to flood the adjacent forest. In the rich leaf-mold at the water's verge, and in the cool shade of the standing trees, has begun the growth of the sphagnums, sedges, and various purely aquatic plants. These in their annual decay have shortly filled the shallow borders of the stagnating water, and by slow encroachments, going on through many years, they have occupied the deeper portions, aided by the trees, which, perishing, give their fallen branches and trunks, towards completing the work. The trees decay and fall, and become entirely converted into peat; or, as not unfrequently happens, especially in case of resinous woods, preserve their form, and to some extent their soundness. In a similar manner, ponds and lakes are encroached upon; or, if shallow, entirely filled up by peat deposits. In the Great Forest of Northern New York, the voyager has abundant opportunity to observe the formation of peat-swamps, both as a result of beaver dams, and of the filling of shallow ponds, or the narrowing of level river courses. The formation of peat in water of some depth greatly depends upon the growth of aquatic plants, other than those already mentioned. In our Eastern States the most conspicuous are the Arrow-head, (_Sagittaria_); the Pickerel Weed, (_Pontederia_;) Duck Meat, (_Lemna_;) Pond Weed, (_Potamogeton_;) various _Polygonums_, brothers of Buckwheat and Smart-weed; and especially the Pond Lilies, _(Nymphoea_ and _Nuphar_.) The latter grow in water four or five feet deep, their leaves and long stems are thick and fleshy, and their roots, which fill the oozy mud, are often several inches in diameter. Their decaying leaves and stems, and their huge roots, living or dead, accumulate below and gradually raise the bed of the pond. Their living foliage which often covers the water almost completely for acres, becomes a shelter or support for other more delicate aquatic plants and sphagnums, which, creeping out from the shore, may so develop as to form a floating carpet, whereon the leaves of the neighboring wood, and dust scattered by the wind collect, bearing down the mass, which again increases above, or is reproduced until the water is filled to its bottom with vegetable matter. It is not rare to find in our bogs, patches of moss of considerable area concealing deep water with a treacherous appearance of solidity, as the hunter and botanist have often found to their cost. In countries of more humid atmosphere, they are more common and attain greater dimensions. In Zealand the surfaces of ponds are so frequently covered with floating beds of moss, often stout enough to bear a man, that they have there received a special name "_Hangesak_." In the Russian Ural, there occur lakes whose floating covers of moss often extend five or six feet above the water, and are so firm that roads are made across them, and forests of large fir-trees find support. These immense accumulations are in fact floating moors, consisting entirely of peat, save the living vegetation at the surface. Sometimes these floating peat-beds, bearing trees, are separated by winds from their connection with the shore, and become swimming peat islands. In a small lake near Eisenach, in Central Germany, is a swimming island of this sort. Its diameter is 40 rods, and it consists of a felt-like mass of peat, three to five feet in depth, covered above by sphagnums and a great variety of aquatic plants. A few birches and dwarf firs grow in this peat, binding it together by their roots, and when the wind blows, they act as sails, so that the island is constantly moving about upon the lake. On the Neusiedler lake, in Hungary, is said to float a peat island having an area of six square miles, and on lakes of the high Mexican Plateau are similar islands which, long ago, were converted in fruitful gardens. 3. _The different kinds of Peat._ Very great differences in the characters of the deposits in our peat-beds are observable. These differences are partly of color, some peats being gray, others red, others again black; the majority, when dry, possess a dark brown-red or snuff color. They also vary remarkably in weight and consistency. Some are compact, destitute of fibres or other traces of the vegetation from which they have been derived, and on drying, shrink greatly and yield tough dense masses which burn readily, and make an excellent fuel. Others again are light and porous, and remain so on drying; these contain intermixed vegetable matter that is but little advanced in the peaty decomposition. Some peats are almost entirely free from mineral matters, and on burning, leave but a few _per cent._ of ash, others contain considerable quantities of lime or iron, in chemical combination, or of sand and clay that have been washed in from the hills adjoining the swamps. As has been observed, the peat of some swamps is mostly derived from mosses, that of others originates largely from grasses; some contain much decayed wood and leaves, others again are free from these. In the same swamp we usually observe more or less of all these differences. We find the surface peat is light and full of partly decayed vegetation, while below, the deposits are more compact. We commonly can trace distinct strata or layers of peat, which are often very unlike each other in appearance and quality, and in some cases the light and compact layers alternate so that the former are found below the latter. The light and porous kinds of peat appear in general to be formed in shallow swamps or on the surface of bogs, where there is considerable access of air to the decaying matters, while the compacter, older, riper peats are found at a depth, and seem to have been formed beneath the low water mark, in more complete exclusion of the atmosphere, and under a considerable degree of pressure. The nature of the vegetation that flourishes in a bog, has much effect on the character of the peat. The peats chiefly derived from mosses that have grown in the full sunlight, have a yellowish-red color in their upper layers, which usually becomes darker as we go down, running through all shades of brown until at a considerable depth it is black. Peats produced principally from grasses are grayish in appearance at the surface, being full of silvery fibres--the skeletons of the blades of grasses and sedges, while below they are commonly black. _Moss peat_ is more often fibrous in structure, and when dried forms somewhat elastic masses. _Grass peat_, when taken a little below the surface, is commonly destitute of fibres; when wet, is earthy in its look, and dries to dense hard lumps. Where mosses and grasses have grown together simultaneously in the same swamp, the peat is modified in its characters accordingly. Where, as may happen, grass succeeds moss, or moss succeeds grass, the different layers reveal their origin by their color and texture. At considerable depths, however, where the peat is very old, these differences nearly or entirely disappear. The geological character of a country is not without influence on the kind of peat. It is only in regions where the rocks are granitic or silicious, where, at least, the surface waters are free or nearly free from lime, that _mosses_ make the bulk of the peat. In limestone districts, peat is chiefly formed from _grasses_ and _sedges_. This is due to the fact that mosses (sphagnums) need little lime for their growth, while the grasses require much; aquatic grasses cannot, therefore, thrive in pure waters, and in waters containing the requisite proportion of lime, grasses and sedges choke out the moss. The accidental admixtures of soil often greatly affect the appearance and value of a peat, but on the whole it would appear that its quality is most influenced by the degree of decomposition it has been subjected to. In meadows and marshes, overflowed by the ocean tides, we have _salt-peat_, formed from Sea-weeds (_Algæ_,) Salt-wort (_Salicornia_,) and a great variety of marine or strand-plants. In its upper portions, salt-peat is coarsely fibrous from the grass roots, and dark-brown in color. At sufficient depth it is black and destitute of fibres. The fact that peat is fibrous in texture shows that it is of comparatively recent formation, or that the decomposition has been arrested before reaching its later stages. Fibrous peat is found near the surface, and as we dig down into a very deep bed we find almost invariably that the fibrous structure becomes less and less evident until at a certain depth it entirely disappears. It is not depth simply, but age or advancement in decomposition, which determines these differences of texture. The "ripest," most perfectly formed peat, that in which the peaty decomposition has reached its last stage,--which, in Germany, is termed _pitchy-peat_ or _fat peat_, (_Pechtorf_, _Specktorf_)--is dark-brown or black in color, and comparatively heavy and dense. When moist, it is firm, sticky and coherent almost like clay, may be cut and moulded to any shape. Dried, it becomes hard, and on a cut or burnished surface takes a luster like wax or pitch. In Holland, West Friesland, Holstein, Denmark and Pomerania, a so-called _mud-peat_ (_Schlammtorf_, also _Baggertorf_ and _Streichtorf_,) is "fished up" from the bottoms of ponds, as a black mud or paste, which, on drying, becomes hard and dense like the pitchy-peat. The two varieties of peat last named are those which are most prized as fuel in Europe. _Vitriol peat_ is peat of any kind impregnated with sulphate of iron (_copperas_,) and sulphate of alumina, (the astringent ingredient of alum.) _Swamp Muck._--In New England, the vegetable remains occurring in swamps, etc., are commonly called _Muck_. In proper English usage, muck is a general term for manure of any sort, and has no special application to the contents of bogs. With us, however, this meaning appears to be quite obsolete, though in our agricultural literature--formerly, more than now, it must be admitted,--the word as applied to the subject of our treatise, has been qualified as _Swamp Muck_. In Germany, peat of whatever character, is designated by the single word _Torf_; in France it is _Tourbe_, and of the same origin is the word _Turf_, applied to it in Great Britain. With us turf appears never to have had this signification. Peat, no doubt, is a correct name for the substance which results from the decomposition of vegetable matters under or saturated with water, whatever its appearance or properties. There is, however, with us, an inclination to apply this word particularly to those purer and more compact sorts which are adapted for fuel, while to the lighter, less decomposed or more weathered kinds, and to those which are considerably intermixed with soil or silt, the term muck or swamp muck is given. These distinctions are not, indeed, always observed, and, in fact, so great is the range of variation in the quality of the substance, that it would be impossible to draw a line where muck leaves off and peat begins. Notwithstanding, a rough distinction is better than none, and we shall therefore employ the two terms when any greater clearness of meaning can be thereby conveyed. It happens, that in New England, the number of small shallow swales, that contain unripe or impure peat, is much greater than that of large and deep bogs. Their contents are therefore more of the "mucky" than of the "peaty" order, and this may partly account for New England usage in regard to these old English words. By the term muck, some farmers understand leaf-mold (decayed leaves), especially that which collects in low and wet places. When the deposit is deep and saturated with water, it may have all the essential characters of peat. Ripe peat, from such a source is, however, so far as the writer is informed, unknown to any extent in this country. We might distinguish as _leaf-muck_ the leaves which have decomposed under or saturated with water, retaining the well established term leaf-mold to designate the dry or drier covering of the soil in a dense forest of deciduous trees. _Salt-mud._--In the marshes, bays, and estuaries along the sea-shore, accumulate large quantities of fine silt, brought down by rivers or deposited from the sea-water, which are more or less mixed with finely divided peat or partly decomposed vegetable matters, derived largely from Sea-weed, and in many cases also with animal remains (mussels and other shell-fish, crabs, and myriads of minute organisms.) This black mud has great value as a fertilizer. 4. _The Chemical Characters and Composition of Peat._ The process of burning, demonstrates that peat consists of two kinds of substance; one of which, the larger portion, is combustible, and is _organic_ or vegetable matter; the other, smaller portion, remaining indestructible by fire is _inorganic matter_ or _ash_. We shall consider these separately. a. _The organic or combustible part of peat_ varies considerably in its proximate composition. It is in fact an indefinite mixture of several or perhaps of many compound bodies, whose precise nature is little known. These bodies have received the collective names _Humus_ and _Geine_. We shall employ the term _humus_ to designate this mixture, whether occurring in peat, swamp-muck, salt-mud, in composts, or in the arable soil. Its chemical characters are much the same, whatever its appearance or mode of occurrence; and this is to be expected since it is always formed from the same materials and under essentially similar conditions. _Resinous_ and _Bituminous matters_.--If dry pulverized peat be agitated and warmed for a short time with alcohol, there is usually extracted a small amount of _resinous_ and sometimes of _bituminous_ matters, which are of no account in the agricultural applications of peat, but have a bearing on its value as fuel. _Ulmic_ and _Humic acids_.--On boiling what remains from the treatment with alcohol, with a weak solution of carbonate of soda (sal-soda), we obtain a yellowish-brown or black liquid. This liquid contains certain acid ingredients of the peat which become soluble by entering into chemical combination with soda. On adding to the solution strong vinegar, or any other strong acid, there separates a bulky brown or black substance, which, after a time, subsides to the bottom of the vessel as a precipitate, to use a chemical term, leaving the liquid of a more or less yellow tinge. This deposit, if obtained from light brown peat, is _ulmic acid_; if from black peat, it is _humic acid_. These acids, when in the precipitated state, are insoluble in vinegar; but when this is washed away, they are considerably soluble in water. They are, in fact, modified by the action of the soda, so as to acquire much greater solubility in water than they otherwise possess. On drying the bulky bodies thus obtained, brown or black lustrous masses result, which have much the appearance of coal. _Ulmin_ and _Humin_.--After extracting the peat with solution of carbonate of soda, it still contains ulmin or humin. These bodies cannot be obtained in the pure state from peat, since they are mixed with more or less partially decomposed vegetable matters from which they cannot be separated without suffering chemical change. They have been procured, however, by the action of muriatic acid on sugar. They are indifferent in their chemical characters, are insoluble in water and in solution of carbonate of soda; but upon heating with solution of hydrate of soda they give dark-colored liquids, being in fact converted by this treatment into ulmic and humic acids, respectively, with which they are identical in composition. The terms ulmic and humic acids do not refer each to a single compound, but rather to a group of bodies of closely similar appearance and properties, which, however, do differ slightly in their characteristics, and differ also in composition by containing more or less of oxygen and hydrogen in equal equivalents. After complete extraction with hydrate of soda, there remains more or less undecomposed vegetable matter, together with sand and soil, were these contained in the peat. _Crenic_ and _apocrenic acids_.--From the usually yellowish liquid out of which the ulmic and humic acids have been separated, may further be procured by appropriate chemical means, not needful to be detailed here, two other bodies which bear the names respectively of _Crenic Acid_ and _Apocrenic Acid_. These acids were discovered by Berzelius, the great Swedish chemist, in the water and sediment of the Porla spring, in Sweden. By the action upon peat of carbonate of ammonia, which is generated to some extent in the decay of vegetable matters and is also absorbed from the air, ulmic and humic acids are made soluble, and combine with the ammonia as well as with lime, oxide of iron, etc. In some cases the ulmates and humates thus produced may be extracted from the peat by water, and consequently occur dissolved in the water of the swamp from which the peat is taken, giving it a yellow or brown color. _Ulmates_ and _Humates_.--Of considerable interest to us here, are the properties of the compounds of these acids, that may be formed in peat when it is used as an ingredient of composts. The ulmates and humates of the alkalies, viz.: _potash_, _soda_, and _ammonia_, dissolve readily in water. They are formed when the alkalies or their carbonates act on ulmin and humin, or upon ulmates or humates of lime, iron, etc. Their dilute solutions are yellow, or brown. The ulmates and humates of _lime_, _magnesia_, oxide of _iron_, oxide of _manganese_ and _alumina_, are insoluble, or nearly so in water. In ordinary soils, the earths and oxides just named, predominate over the alkalies, and although they may contain considerable ulmic and humic acids, water is able to extract but very minute quantities of the latter, on account of the insolubility of the compounds they have formed. On the other hand, peat, highly manured garden soil, leaf-mold, rotted manure and composts, yield yellow or brown extracts with water, from the fact that alkalies are here present to form soluble compounds. An important fact established by Mulder is, that when solutions of alkali-carbonates are put in contact with the insoluble ulmates and humates, the latter are decomposed; soluble alkali-ulmates and humates being formed, and _in these, a portion of the otherwise insoluble ulmates and humates dissolve_, so that thus, in a compost, lime, magnesia, oxide of iron, and even alumina may exist in soluble combinations, by the agency of these acids. _Crenates_ and _Apocrenates_.--The ulmic and humic acids when separated from their compounds, are nearly insoluble, and, so far as we know, comparatively inert bodies; by further change, (uniting with oxygen) they pass into or yield the crenic and apocrenic acids which, according to Mulder, have an acid taste, being freely soluble in water, and in all respects, decided acids. The compounds of both these acids with the alkalies are soluble. The crenates of lime, magnesia, and protoxide of iron are soluble, crenates of peroxide of iron and of oxide of manganese are but very slightly soluble; crenate of alumina is insoluble. The apocrenates of iron and manganese are slightly soluble; those of lime, magnesia, and alumina are insoluble. All the insoluble crenates and apocrenates, are soluble in solutions of the corresponding salts of the alkalies. Application of these facts will be given in subsequent paragraphs. It may be here remarked, that the crenate of protoxide of iron is not unfrequently formed in considerable quantity in peat-bogs, and dissolving in the water of springs gives them a chalybeate character. Copious springs of this kind occur at the edge of a peat-bed at Woodstock, Conn., which are in no small repute for their medicinal qualities, having a tonic effect from the iron they contain. Such waters, on exposure to the air, shortly absorb oxygen, and the substance is thereby converted into crenate and afterwards into apocrenate of peroxide of iron, which, being but slightly soluble, or insoluble, separates as a yellow or brown ochreous deposit along the course of the water. By further exposure to air the organic acid is oxidized to carbonic acid, and hydrated oxide of iron remains. Bog-iron ore appears often to have originated in this way. _Gein and Geic acid._--Mulder formerly believed another substance to exist in peat which he called _Gein_, and from this by the action of alkalies he supposed geic acid to be formed. In his later writings, however, he expresses doubt as to the existence of such a substance, and we may omit further notice of it, especially since, if it really do occur, its properties are not distinct from those of humic acid. We should not neglect to remark, however, that the word gein has been employed by some writers in the sense in which we use humus, viz.: to denote the brown or black products of the decomposition of vegetable matters. It is scarcely to be doubted that other organic compounds exist in peat. As yet, however, we have no knowledge of any other ingredients, while it appears certain that those we have described are its chief constituents, and give it its peculiar properties. With regard to them it must nevertheless be admitted, that our chemical knowledge is not entirely satisfactory, and new investigations are urgently demanded to supply the deficiencies of the researches so ably made by Mulder, more than twenty years ago. _Elementary Composition of Peat._ After this brief notice of those organic _compounds_ that have been recognized in or produced from peat, we may give attention to the elementary composition of peat itself. Like that of the vegetation from which it originates, the organic part of peat consists of Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen and Nitrogen. In the subjoined table are given the proportions of these elements as found in the combustible part of sphagnum, of several kinds of wood, and in that of a number of peats in various stages of ripeness. They are arranged in the order of their content of carbon. -----------------------------------+----------+-----+-------+-----+------- | |_Car-|_Hydro-|_Oxy-|_Nitro- |_Analyst._|bon._| gen._ |gen._| gen._ -----------------------------------+----------+-----+-------+-----+------- 1--Sphagnum } | Websky |49.88| 6.54 |42.42| 1.16 2--Peach wood } undecomposed |Chevandier|49.90| 6.10 |43.10| 0.90 3--Poplar " } | " |50.30| 6.30 |42.40| 1.00 4--Oak " } | " |50.60| 6.00 |42.10| 1.30 5--Peat, porous, light-brown, | | | | | sphagnous | Websky |50.86| 5.80 |42.57| 0.77 6-- " porous, red-brown. | Jæckel |53.51| 5.90 | 40.59 7-- " heavy, brown. | " |56.43| 5.32 | 38.25 8-- " dark red-brown, | | | | | well decomposed | Websky |59.47| 6.52 |31.51| 2.51 9-- " black, very dense | | | | | and hard. | " |59.70| 5.70 |33.04| 1.56 10-- " black, heavy, }best quality| " |59.71| 5.27 |32.07| 2.59 11-- " brown, heavy, }for fuel. | " |62.54| 6.81 |29.24| 1.41 -----------------------------------+----------+-----+-------+-----+------- From this table it is seen that sphagnum, and the wood of our forest trees are very similar in composition, though not identical. Further, it is seen from analyses 1 and 5, that in the first stages of the conversion of sphagnum into peat--which are marked by a change of color, but in which the form of the sphagnum is to a considerable extent preserved--but little alteration occurs in ultimate composition; about one _per cent._ of carbon being gained, and one of hydrogen lost. We notice in running down the columns that as the peat becomes heavier and darker in color, it also becomes richer in carbon and poorer in oxygen. Hydrogen varies but slightly. As a general statement we may say that the ripest and heaviest peat contains 10 or 12 _per cent._ more carbon and 10 or 12 _per cent._ less oxygen than the vegetable matter from which it is produced; while between the unaltered vegetation and the last stage of humification, the peat runs through an indefinite number of intermediate stages. Nitrogen is variable, but, in general, the older peats contain the most. To this topic we shall shortly recur, and now pass on to notice-- _The ultimate composition of the compounds of which peat consists._ Below are tabulated analyses of the organic acids of peat:-- _Carbon._ _Hydrogen._ _Oxygen._ Ulmic acid, artificial from sugar 67.10 4.20 28.70 Humic acid, from Frisian peat 61.10 4.30 34.60 Crenic acid 56.47 2.74 40.78 Apocrenic acid 45.70 4.80 49.50 It is seen that the amount of carbon diminishes from ulmic acid to apocrenic, that of oxygen increases in the same direction and to the same extent, viz.: about 21 _per cent._, while the hydrogen remains nearly the same in all. b. _The mineral part of peat, which remains as ashes_ when the organic matters are burned away, is variable in quantity and composition. Usually a portion of sand or soil is found in it, and this not unfrequently constitutes its larger portion. Some peats leave on burning much carbonate of lime; others chiefly sulphate of lime; the ash of others again is mostly oxyd of iron; silicic, and phosphoric acids, magnesia, potash, soda, alumina and chlorine, also occur in small quantities in the ash of all peats. With one exception (alumina) all these bodies are important ingredients of agricultural plants. In some rare instances, peats are found, which are so impregnated with soluble sulphates of iron and alumina, as to yield these salts to water in large quantity; and sulphate of iron (green vitriol,) has actually been manufactured from such peats, which in consequence have been characterized as _vitriol peats_. Those bases (lime, oxide of iron, etc.,) which are found as carbonates or simple oxides in the ashes, exist in the peat itself in combination with the humic and other organic acids. When these compounds are destroyed by burning, the bases remain united to carbonic acid. 5.--_Chemical Changes that occur in the formation of Peat._ When a plant perishes, its conversion into humus usually begins at once. When exposed to the atmosphere, the oxygen of the air attacks it, uniting with its carbon producing carbonic acid gas, and with its hydrogen generating water. This action goes on, though slowly, even at some depth under water, because the latter dissolves oxygen from the air in small quantity,[2] and constantly resupplies itself as rapidly as the gas is consumed. Whether exposed to the air or not, the organic matter suffers internal decomposition, and portions of its elements assume the gaseous or liquid form. We have seen that ripe peat is 10 to 12 _per cent._ richer in carbon and equally poorer in oxygen, than the vegetable matters from which it originates. Organic matters, in passing into peat, lose carbon and nitrogen; but they lose oxygen more rapidly than the other two elements, and hence the latter become relatively more abundant. The loss of hydrogen is such that its proportion to the other elements is but little altered. The bodies that separate from the decomposing vegetable matter are carbonic acid gas, carburetted hydrogen (marsh gas), nitrogen gas, and water. Carbonic acid is the most abundant gaseous product of the peaty decomposition. Since it contains nearly 73 _per cent._ of oxygen and but 27 _per cent._ of carbon, it is obvious that by its escape the proportion of carbon in the residual mass is increased. In the formation of water from the decaying matters, 1 part of hydrogen carries off 8 parts of oxygen, and this change increases the proportion of carbon and of hydrogen. Marsh gas consists of one part of hydrogen to three of carbon, but it is evolved in comparatively small quantity, and hence has no effect in diminishing the _per cent._ of carbon. The gas that bubbles up through the water of a peat-bog, especially if the decomposing matters at the bottom be stirred, consists largely of marsh gas and nitrogen, often with but a small proportion of carbonic acid. Thus Websky found in gas from a peat-bed Carbonic acid 2.97 Marsh gas 43.36 Nitrogen 53.67 ------ 100.00 Carbonic acid, however, dissolves to a considerable extent in water, and is furthermore absorbed by the living vegetation, which is not true of marsh gas and nitrogen; hence the latter escape while the former does not. Nitrogen escapes in the uncombined state, as it always (or usually) does in the decay of vegetable and animal matters that contain it. Its loss is, in general, slower than that of the other elements, and it sometimes accumulates in the peat in considerable quantity. A small portion of nitrogen unites with hydrogen, forming ammonia, which remains combined with the humic and other acids. PART II. ON THE AGRICULTURAL USES OF PEAT AND SWAMP MUCK. After the foregoing account of the composition of peat, we may proceed to notice: 1.--_The characters that adapt it for agricultural uses._ These characters are conveniently discussed under two heads, viz.: Those which render it useful in improving the texture and physical characters of the soil, and indirectly contribute to the nourishment of crops,--characters which constitute it an _amendment_ to the soil (_A_); and Those which make it a direct _fertilizer_ (_B_). A.--Considered as an amendment, the value of peat depends upon _Its remarkable power of absorbing and retaining water, both as a liquid and as a vapor_ (I): _Its power of absorbing ammonia_ (II): _Its effect in promoting the disintegration and solution of mineral ingredients, that is the stony matters of the soil_ (III): _and_ _Its influence on the temperature of the soil_ (IV). The agricultural importance of these properties of peat is best illustrated by considering the faults of a certain class of soils. Throughout the State of Connecticut, for instance, are found abundant examples of light, leachy, hungry soils, which consist of coarse sand or fine gravel; are surface-dry in a few hours after the heaviest rains, and in the summer drouths, are as dry as an ash-heap to a depth of several or many feet. These soils are easy to work, are ready for the plow early in the spring, and if well manured give fair crops in wet seasons. In a dry summer, however, they yield poorly, or fail of crops entirely; and, at the best, they require constant and very heavy manuring to keep them in heart. Crops fail on these soils from two causes, viz.; _want of moisture_ and _want of food_. Cultivated plants demand as an indispensable condition of their growth and perfection, to be supplied with water in certain quantities, which differ with different crops. Buckwheat will flourish best on dry soils, while cranberries and rice grow in swamps. Our ordinary cereal, root, forage and garden crops require a medium degree of moisture, and with us it is in all cases desirable that the soil be equally protected from excess of water and from drouth. Soils must be thus situated either naturally, or as the result of improvement, before any steadily good results can be obtained in their cultivation. The remedy for excess of water in too heavy soils, is thorough drainage. It is expensive, but effectual. It makes the earth more porous, opens and maintains channels, through which the surplus water speedily runs off, and permits the roots of crops to go down to a considerable depth. What, let us consider, is the means of obviating the defects of soils that are naturally too porous, from which the water runs off too readily, and whose crops "burn up" in dry seasons? In wet summers, these light soils, as we have remarked, are quite productive if well manured. It is then plain that if we could add anything to them which would retain the moisture of dews and rains in spite of the summer-heats, our crops would be uniformly fair, provided the supply of manure were kept up. But why is it that light soils, need more manure than loamy or heavy lands? We answer--because, in the first place the rains which quickly descend through the open soil, wash down out of the reach of vegetation the soluble fertilizing matters, especially the nitrates, for which the soil has no retentive power; and in the second place, from the porosity of the soil, the air has too great access, so that the vegetable and animal matters of manures decay too rapidly, their volatile portions, ammonia and carbonic acid, escape into the atmosphere, and are in measure lost to the crops. From these combined causes we find that a heavy dressing of well-rotted stable manure, almost if not entirely, disappears from such soils in one season, so that another year the field requires a renewed application; while on loamy soils the same amount of manure would have lasted several years, and produced each year a better effect. We want then to _amend_ light soils by incorporating with them something that prevents the rains from leaching through them too rapidly, and also that renders them less open to the air, or absorbs and retains for the use of crops the volatile products of the decay of manures. For these purposes, vegetable matter of some sort is the best and almost the only amendment that can be economically employed. In many cases a good peat or muck is the best form of this material, that lies at the farmer's command. I.--_Its absorbent power for liquid water_ is well known to every farmer who has thrown it up in a pile to season for use. It holds the water like a sponge, and, according to its greater or less porosity, will retain from 50 to 100 or more _per cent._ of its weight of liquid, without dripping. Nor can this water escape from it rapidly. It dries almost as slowly as clay, and a heap of it that has been exposed to sun and wind for a whole summer, though it has of course lost much water, is still distinctly wet to the eye and the feel a little below the surface. _Its absorbent power for vapor of water_ is so great that more than once it has happened in Germany, that barns or close sheds filled with partially dried peat, such as is used for fuel, have been burst by the swelling of the peat in damp weather, occasioned by the absorption of moisture from the air. This power is further shown by the fact that when peat has been kept all summer long in a warm room, thinly spread out to the air, and has become like dry snuff to the feel, it still contains from 8 to 30 _per cent._ (average 15 _per cent._) of water. To dry a peat thoroughly, it requires to be exposed for some time to the temperature of boiling water. It is thus plain, as experience has repeatedly demonstrated, that no ordinary summer heats can dry up a soil which has had a good dressing of this material, for on the one hand, it soaks up and holds the rains that fall upon it, and on the other, it absorbs the vapor of water out of the atmosphere whenever it is moist, as at night and in cloudy weather. When peat has once become _air-dry_, it no longer manifests this avidity for water. In drying it shrinks, loses its porosity and requires long soaking to saturate it again. In the soil, however, it rarely becomes air-dry, unless indeed, this may happen during long drouth with a peaty soil, such as results from the draining of a bog. II.--_Absorbent power for ammonia._ All soils that deserve to be called fertile, have the property of absorbing and retaining ammonia and the volatile matters which escape from fermenting manures, but light and coarse soils may be deficient in this power. Here again in respect to its absorptive power for ammonia, peat comes to our aid. It is easy to show by direct experiment that peat absorbs and combines with ammonia. In 1858 I took a weighed quantity of air-dry peat from the New Haven Beaver Pond, (a specimen furnished me by Chauncey Goodyear, Esq.,) and poured upon it a known quantity of dilute solution of ammonia, and agitated the two together occasionally during 48 hours. I then distilled off at a boiling heat the unabsorbed ammonia and determined its quantity. This amount subtracted from that of the ammonia originally employed, gave the quantity of ammonia absorbed and retained by the peat at the temperature of boiling water. The peat retained ammonia to the amount of 0.95 of _one per cent._ I made another trial at the same time with carbonate of ammonia, adding excess of solution of this salt to a quantity of peat, and exposing it to the heat of boiling water, until no smell of ammonia was perceptible. The entire nitrogen in the peat was then determined, and it was found that the dry peat which originally contained nitrogen equivalent to 2.4 _per cent._ of ammonia, now yielded an amount corresponding to 3.7 _per cent._ The quantity of ammonia absorbed and retained at a temperature of 212°, was thus 1.3 _per cent._ This last experiment most nearly represents the true power of absorption; because, in fermenting manures, ammonia mostly occurs in the form of carbonate, and this is more largely retained than free ammonia, on account of its power of decomposing the humate of lime, forming with it carbonate of lime and humate of ammonia. The absorbent power of peat is well shown by the analyses of three specimens, sent me in 1858, by Edwin Hoyt, Esq., of New Canaan, Conn. The first of these was the swamp muck he employed. It contained in the air-dry state nitrogen equivalent to 0.58 _per cent._ of ammonia. The second sample was the same muck that had lain under the flooring of the horse stables, and had been, in this way, partially saturated with urine. It contained nitrogen equivalent to 1.15 _per cent._ of ammonia. The third sample was, finally, the same muck composted with white-fish. It contained nitrogen corresponding to 1.31 _per cent._ of ammonia.[3] The quantities of ammonia thus absorbed, both in the laboratory and field experiments are small--from 0.7 to 1.3 _per cent._ The absorption is without doubt chiefly due to the organic matter of the peats, and in all the specimens on which these trials were made, the proportion of inorganic matter is large. The results therefore become a better expression of the power of _peat_, in general, to absorb ammonia, if we reckon them on the organic matter alone. Calculated in this way, the organic matter of the Beaver Pond peat (which constitutes but 68 _per cent._ of the dry peat) absorbs 1.4 _per cent._ of free ammonia, and 1.9 _per cent._ of ammonia out of the carbonate of ammonia. Similar experiments, by Anderson, on a Scotch peat, showed it to possess, when wet, an absorptive power of 2 _per cent._, and, after drying in the air, it still retained 1.5 _per cent._--[Trans. Highland and Ag'l Soc'y.] When we consider how small an ingredient of most manures nitrogen is, viz.: from one-half to three-quarters of one _per cent._ in case of stable manure, and how little of it, in the shape of guano for instance, is usually applied to crops--not more than 40 to 60 lbs. to the acre, (the usual dressings with guano are from 250 to 400 lbs. per acre, and nitrogen averages but 15 _per cent._ of the guano), we at once perceive that an absorptive power of one or even one-half _per cent._ is greatly more than adequate for every agricultural purpose. III.--_Peat promotes the disintegration of the soil._ The soil is a storehouse of food for crops; the stores it contains are, however, only partly available for immediate use. In fact, by far the larger share is locked up, as it were, in insoluble combinations, and only by a slow and gradual change can it become accessible to the plant. This change is largely brought about by the united action of _water_ and _carbonic acid gas_. Nearly all the rocks and minerals out of which fertile soils are formed,--which therefore contain those inorganic matters that are essential to vegetable growth,--though very slowly acted on by pure water, are decomposed and dissolved to a much greater extent by water, charged with carbonic acid gas. It is by these solvents that the formation of soil from broken rocks is to a great extent due. Clay is invariably a result of their direct action upon rocks. The efficiency of the soil depends greatly upon their chemical influence. _The only abundant source of carbonic acid in the soil, is decaying vegetable matter._ Hungry, leachy soils, from their deficiency of vegetable matter and of moisture, do not adequately yield their own native resources to the support of crops, because the conditions for converting their fixed into floating capital are wanting. Such soils dressed with peat or green manured, at once acquire the power of retaining water, and keep that water ever charged with carbonic acid: thus not only the extraneous manures which the farmer applies are fully economized; but the soil becomes more productive from its own stores of fertility which now begin to be unlocked and available. Dr. Peters, of Saxony, has made some instructive experiments that are here in point. He filled several large glass jars, (2-1/2 feet high and 5-1/2 inches wide) with a rather poor loamy sand, containing considerable humus, and planted in each one, June 14, 1857, an equal number of seeds of oats and peas. Jar No. 2 had daily passed into it through a tube, adapted to the bottom, about 3-1/4 pints of common air. No. 3 received daily the same bulk of a mixture of air and carbonic acid gas, of which the latter amounted to one-fourth. No. 1 remained without any treatment of this kind, _i. e._: in just the condition of the soil in an open field, having no air in its pores, save that penetrating it from the atmosphere. On October 3, the plants were removed from the soil, and after drying at the boiling point of water, were weighed. The crops from the pots into which air and carbonic acid were daily forced, were about _twice as heavy_ as No. 1, which remained in the ordinary condition. Examination of the soil further demonstrated, that in the last two soils, a considerably greater quantity of mineral and organic matters had become soluble in water, than in the soil that was not artificially aërated. The actual results are given in the table below in grammes, and refer to 6000 grammes of soil in each case:-- ACTION OF CARBONIC ACID ON THE SOIL. -----------------------------------+-----------+--------+------------ | _No. 1, | | | Without |_No. 2, | _No. 3, _Substances soluble in water, etc._| Artificial| Common | Air and | Supply of | Air | Carbonic | Air._ | Added._|acid added._ -----------------------------------+-----------+--------+------------ Mineral matters | 2.04 | 3.71 | 4.99 Potash | 0.07 | 0.17 | 0.14 Soda | 0.17 | 0.23 | 0.28 Organic matters | 2.76 | 4.32 | 2.43 | | | Weight of Crops | 5.89 | 10.49 | 12.35 -----------------------------------+-----------+--------+------------ It will be seen from the above that air alone exercised nearly as much solvent effect as the mixture of air with one-fourth its weight of carbonic acid; this is doubtless, in part due to the fact that the air, upon entering the soil rich in humus, caused the abundant formation of carbonic acid, as will be presently shown must have been the case. It is, however, probable that organic acids (crenic and apocrenic,) and nitric acid were also produced (by oxidation,) and shared with carbonic the work of solution. It is almost certain, that the acids of peat exert a powerful decomposing, and ultimately solvent effect on the minerals of the soil; but on this point we have no precise information, and must therefore be content merely to present the probability. This is sustained by the fact that the crenic, apocrenic and humic acids, though often partly uncombined, are never wholly so, but usually occur united in part to various bases, viz.: lime, magnesia, ammonia, potash, alumina and oxide of iron. The crenic and apocrenic acids (that are formed by the oxidation of ulmic and humic acids,) have such decided acid characters,--crenic acid especially, which has a strongly sour taste--that we cannot well doubt their dissolving action. IV.--_The influence of peat on the temperature_ of light soils dressed with it may often be of considerable practical importance. A light dry soil is subject to great variations of temperature, and rapidly follows the changes of the atmosphere from cold to hot, and from hot to cold. In the summer noon a sandy soil becomes so warm as to be hardly endurable to the feel, and again it is on such soils that the earliest frosts take effect. If a soil thus subject to extremes of temperature have a dressing of peat, it will on the one hand not become so warm in the hot day, and on the other hand it will not cool so rapidly, nor so much in the night; its temperature will be rendered more uniform, and on the whole, more conducive to the welfare of vegetation. This regulative effect on temperature is partly due to the stores of water held by peat. In a hot day this water is constantly evaporating, and this, as all know, is a cooling process. At night the peat absorbs vapor of water from the air, and condenses it within its pores, this condensation is again accompanied with the evolution of heat. It appears to be a general, though not invariable fact, that dark colored soils, other things being equal, are constantly the warmest, or at any rate maintain the temperature most favorable to vegetation. It has been repeatedly observed that on light-colored soils plants mature more rapidly, if the earth be thinly covered with a coating of some black substance. Thus Lampadius, Professor in the School of Mines at Freiberg, a town situated in a mountainous part of Saxony, found that he could ripen melons, even in the coolest summers, by strewing a coating of coal-dust an inch deep over the surface of the soil. In some of the vineyards of the Rhine, the powder of a black slate is employed to hasten the ripening of the grape. Girardin, an eminent French agriculturist, in a series of experiments on the cultivation of potatoes, found that the time of their ripening varied eight to fourteen days, according to the character of the soil. He found, on the 25th of August, in a very dark soil, made so by the presence of much humus or decaying vegetable matter, twenty-six varieties ripe; in sandy soil but twenty, in clay nineteen, and in a white lime soil only sixteen. It cannot be doubted then, that the effect of dressing a light sandy or gravelly soil with peat, or otherwise enriching it in vegetable matter, is to render it warmer, in the sense in which that word is usually applied to soils. The upward range of the thermometer is not, indeed, increased, but the uniform warmth so salutary to our most valued crops is thereby secured. In the light soils stable-manure wastes too rapidly because, for one reason, at the extremes of high temperature, oxidation and decay proceed with great rapidity, and the volatile portions of the fertilizer are used up faster than the plant can appropriate them, so that not only are they wasted during the early periods of growth, but they are wanting at a later period when their absence may prove the failure of a crop. B. The ingredients and qualities which make peat _a direct fertilizer_ next come under discussion. We shall notice: _The organic matters including nitrogen (ammonia and nitric acid)_ (I): _The inorganic or mineral ingredients_ (II): _Peculiarities in the decay of Peat_ (III), _and_ _Institute a comparison between peat and stable manure_ (IV). I.--Under this division we have to consider: 1. _The organic matters as direct food to plants._ Thirty years ago, when Chemistry and Vegetable Physiology began to be applied to Agriculture, the opinion was firmly held among scientific men, that the organic parts of humus--by which we understand decayed vegetable matter, such as is found to a greater or less extent in all good soils, and _abounds_ in many fertile ones, such as constitutes the leaf-mold of forests, such as is produced in the fermenting of stable manure, and that forms the principal part of swamp-muck and peat,--are the true nourishment of vegetation, at any rate of the higher orders of plants, those which supply food to man and to domestic animals. In 1840, Liebig, in his celebrated treatise on the "Applications of Chemistry to Agriculture and Physiology," gave as his opinion that these organic bodies do not nourish vegetation except by the products of their decay. He asserted that they cannot enter the plant directly, but that the water, carbonic acid and ammonia resulting from their decay, are the substances actually imbibed by plants, and from these alone is built up the organic or combustible part of vegetation. To this day there is a division of opinion among scientific men on this subject, some adopting the views of Liebig, others maintaining that certain soluble organic matters, viz., crenic and apocrenic acids are proper food of plants. On the one hand it has been abundantly demonstrated that these organic matters are not at all essential to the growth of agricultural plants, and can constitute but a small part of the actual food of vegetation taken in the aggregate. On the other hand, we are acquainted with no satisfactory evidence that the soluble organic matters of the soil and of peat, especially the crenates and apocrenates, are not actually appropriated by, and, so far as they go, are not directly serviceable as food to plants. Be this as it may, practice has abundantly demonstrated the value of humus as an ingredient of the soil, and if not directly, yet indirectly, it furnishes the material out of which plants build up their parts. 2. _The organic matters of peat as indirect food to plants._ Very nearly one-half, by weight, of our common crops, when perfectly dry, consists of _carbon_. The substance which supplies this element to plants is the gas, carbonic acid. Plants derive this gas mostly from the atmosphere, absorbing it by means of their leaves. But the free atmosphere, at only a little space above the soil, contains on the average but 1/2500 of its bulk of this gas, whereas plants flourish in air containing a larger quantity, and, in fact, their other wants being supplied, they grow better as the quantity is increased to 1/12 the bulk of the air. These considerations make sufficiently obvious how important it is that the soil have in itself a constant and abundant source of carbonic acid gas. As before said, _organic matter, in a state of decay_, is the single material which the farmer can incorporate with his soil in order to make the latter a supply of this most indispensable form of plant-food. When organic matters decay in the soil, their carbon ultimately assumes the form of Carbonic acid. This gas, constantly exhaling from the soil, is taken up by the foliage of the crops, and to some extent is absorbed likewise by their roots. Boussingault & Lewy have examined the air inclosed in the interstices of various soils, and invariably found it much richer (10 to 400 times) than that of the atmosphere above. Here follow some of their results: CARBONIC ACID IN SOILS. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Key: A - _Volumes of Carbonic acid in 100 of air in pores of Soil._ B - _Cubic feet of air in acre to depth of 14 inches._ C - _Cubic feet of Carbonic acid in acre to depth of 14 inches._ D - _Volumes of Carbonic acid to 100 of air above the soil._ E - _Cubic feet of air over one acre to height of 14 inches._ F - _Cubic feet of Carbonic acid over one acre to a height of 14 inches._ --------------------------------------------------------+-----+------+---- _Designation and Condition of Soil._ | A | B | C --------------------------------------------------------+-----+------+---- Sandy subsoil of forest |0.24 | 4,326| 14 Loamy " " " |0.82 | 3,458| 28 Surface soil " " |0.86 | 5,768| 56 Clayey soil of artichoke field |0.66 |10,094| 71 Soil of asparagus bed, unmanured for one year |0.79 |10,948| 86 " " " " newly manured |1.54 |10,948| 172 Sandy soil, six days after manuring, and three | | | days of rain.|2.21 |11,536| 257 " " ten " " " " " | | | " " " |9.74 |11,536|1144 Compost of vegetable mold |3.64 |20,608| 772 | | | _Carbonic Acid in Atmosphere_ | D | E | F |-----+------+---- |0.025|50,820| 14 --------------------------------------------------------+-----+------+---- From the above it is seen that in soils containing little decomposing organic matters--as the forest sub-soils--the quantity of carbonic acid is no greater than that contained in an equal bulk of the atmosphere. It is greater in loamy and clayey soils; but is still small. In the artichoke field (probably light soil not lately manured), and even in an asparagus bed unmanured for one year, the amount of carbonic acid is not greatly larger. In newly manured fields, and especially in a vegetable compost, the quantity is vastly greater. The organic matters which come from manures, or from the roots and other residues of crops, are the source of the carbonic acid of the soil. These matters continually waste in yielding this gas, and must be supplied anew. Boussingault found that the rich soil of his kitchen garden (near Strasburg) which had been heavily manured from the barn-yard for many years, lost one-third of its carbon by exposure to the air for three months (July, August and September,) being daily watered. It originally contained 2.43 _per cent._ At the conclusion of the experiment it contained but 1.60 _per cent._, having lost 0.83 _per cent._ Peat and swamp-muck, when properly prepared, furnish carbonic acid in large quantities during their slow oxidation in the soil. 3. _The Nitrogen of Peat, including Ammonia and Nitric Acid._ The sources of the nitrogen of plants, and the real cause of the value of nitrogenous fertilizers, are topics that have excited more discussion than any other points in Agricultural Chemistry. This is the result of two circumstances. One is the obscurity in which some parts of the subject have rested; the other is the immense practical and commercial importance of this element, as a characteristic and essential ingredient of the most precious fertilizers. It is a rule that the most valuable manures, _commercially considered_, are those containing the most nitrogen. Peruvian guano, sulphate of ammonia, soda-saltpeter, fish and flesh manures, bones and urine, cost the farmer more money per ton than any other manures he buys or makes, superphosphate of lime excepted, and this does not find sale, for general purposes, unless it contains several _per cent._ of nitrogen. These are, in the highest sense, nitrogenous fertilizers, and, if deprived of their nitrogen, they would lose the greater share of their fertilizing power. The importance of the nitrogen of manures depends upon the fact that those forms (compounds) of nitrogen which are capable of supplying it to vegetation are comparatively scarce. It has long been known that peat contains a considerable quantity of nitrogen. The average amount in thirty specimens, analyzed under the author's direction, including peats and swamp mucks of all grades of quality, is equivalent to 1-1/2 _per cent._ of the air-dried substance, or more than thrice as much as exists in ordinary stable or yard manure. In several peats the amount is as high as 2.4 _per cent._, and in one case 2.9 _per cent._ were found. Of these thirty samples, one-half were largely mixed with soil, and contained from 15 to 60 _per cent._ of mineral matters. Reducing them to an average of 15 _per cent._ of water and 5 _per cent._ of ash, they contain 2.1 _per cent._ of nitrogen, while the organic part, considered free from water and mineral substances, contains on the average 2.6 _per cent._ See table, page 90. The five peats, analyzed by Websky and Chevandier, as cited on page 24, considered free from water and ash, contain an average of 1.8 _per cent._ of nitrogen. We should not neglect to notice that peat is often comparatively poor in nitrogen. Of the specimens, examined in the Yale Analytical Laboratory, several contained but half a _per cent._ or less. So in the analyses of Websky, one sample contained but 0.77 _per cent._ of the element in question. As concerns the state of combination in which nitrogen exists in peat, there is a difference of opinion. Mulder regards it as chiefly occurring in the form of _ammonia_ (a compound of nitrogen and hydrogen), united to the organic acids from which it is very difficult to separate it. Recent investigations indicate that in general, peat contains but a small proportion of ready-formed ammonia. The great part of the nitrogen of peat exists in an insoluble and inert form: but, by the action of the atmosphere upon it, especially when mixed with and divided by the soil, it gradually becomes available to vegetation to as great an extent as the nitrogen of ordinary fertilizers. It appears from late examinations that weathered peat may contain _nitric acid_ (compound of nitrogen with oxygen) in a proportion which, though small, is yet of great importance, agriculturally speaking. What analytical data we possess are subjoined. PROPORTIONS OF NITROGEN, ETC., IN PEAT. ---------+-------------+------------+------------+---------+------------ | | | Total |Ammonia, | | | Analyst. | Nitrogen. |per cent.|Nitric acid. ---------+-------------+------------+------------+---------+------------ 1--Brown | | | | | Peat|Air dry (?) |Boussingault| 2.20 | 0.018 | 0.000 2--Black | | | | | Peat| " | " |Undetermined| 0.025 |Undetermined 3--Peat |Dried at 212°|Reichardt[4]| " | 0.152 | 0.483 4--Peat | " | " | " | 0.165 | 0.525 5--Peat | " | " | " | 0.305 | 0.241 6--Peat | " | " | " | 0.335 | 0.421 ---------+-------------+------------+------------+---------+------------ Specimens 3, 4 and 5, are swamp (or heath) mucks, and have been weathered for use in flower-culture. 3 and 4 are alike, save that 3 has been weathered a year longer than 4. They contain respectively 41, 56 and 67 _per cent._ of organic matter. Sample 6, containing 86 _per cent._ of organic matter, is employed as a manure with great advantage, and probably was weathered before analysis. It contained 85 _per cent._ of organic substance. More important to us than the circumstance that this peat contains but little or no ammonia or nitric acid, and the other contains such or such a fraction of one _per cent._ of these bodies, is the grand fact that all peats may yield a good share of their nitrogen to the support of crops, when properly treated and applied. Under the influence of Liebig's teachings, which were logically based upon the best data at the disposal of this distinguished philosopher when he wrote 25 years ago, it has been believed that the nitrogen of a fertilizer, in order to be available, must be converted into ammonia and presented in that shape to the plant. It has been recently made clear that nitric acid, rather than ammonia, is the form of nitrogenous food which is most serviceable to vegetation, and the one which is most abundantly supplied by the air and soil. The value of ammonia is however positive, and not to be overlooked. When peat, properly prepared by weathering or composting, is suitably incorporated with a poor or light soil, it slowly suffers decomposition and wastes away. If it be wet, and air have access in limited quantity, especially if _lime_ be mixed with it, a portion of its nitrogen is gradually converted into ammonia. With full access of air _nitric acid_ is produced. In either case, it appears that a considerable share of the nitrogen escapes in the free state as gas, thereby becoming useless to vegetation until it shall have become converted again into ammonia or nitric acid. It happens in a cultivated soil that the oxygen of the air is in excess at the surface, and less abundant as we go down until we get below organic matters: it happens that one day it is saturated with water more or less, and another day it is dry, so that at one time we have the conditions for the formation of ammonia, and at another, those favorable to producing nitric acid. In this way, so far as our present knowledge warrants us to affirm, organic matters, decaying in the soil, continuously yield portions of their nitrogen in the forms of ammonia and nitric acid for the nourishment of plants. The farmer who skillfully employs as a fertilizer a peat containing a good proportion of nitrogen, may thus expect to get from it results similar to what would come from the corresponding quantity of nitrogen in guano or stable manure. But the capacity of peat for feeding crops with, nitrogen appears not to stop here. Under certain conditions, _the free nitrogen of the air which cannot be directly appropriated by vegetation, is oxidized in the pores of the soil to nitric acid, and thus, free of expense to the farmer, his crops are daily dressed with the most precious of all fertilizers_. This gathering of useless nitrogen from the air, and making it over into plant-food cannot go on in a soil destitute of organic matter, requires in fact that vegetable remains or humified substances of some sort be present there. The evidence of this statement, whose truth was maintained years ago as a matter of opinion by many of the older chemists, has recently become nearly a matter of demonstration by the investigations of Boussingault and Knop, while the explanation of it is furnished by the researches of Schoenbein and Zabelin. To attempt any elucidation of it here would require more space than is at our disposal. It is plain from the contents of this paragraph that peat or swamp muck is, in general, an abundant source of nitrogen, and is often therefore an extremely cheap means of replacing the most rare and costly fertilizers. II.--With regard to the _inorganic matters of peat_ considered as food to plants, it is obvious, that, leaving out of the account for the present, some exceptional cases, they are useful as far as they go. In the ashes of peats, we almost always find small quantities of sulphate of lime, magnesia and phosphoric acid. Potash and soda too, are often present, though rarely to any considerable amount. Carbonate and sulphate of lime are large ingredients of the ashes of about one-half, of the thirty-three peats and swamp mucks I have examined. The ashes of the other half are largely mixed with sand and soil, but in most cases also contain considerable sulphate of lime, and often carbonates of lime and magnesia. In one swamp-muck, from Milford, Conn., there was found but two _per cent._ of ash, at least one-half of which was sand, and the remainder sulphate of lime, (gypsum.) In other samples 20, 30, 50 and even 60 _per cent._ remained after burning off the organic matter. In these cases the ash is chiefly sand. The amount of ash found in those peats which were most free from sand, ranges from five to nine _per cent._ Probably the average proportion of true ash, viz.: that derived from the organic matters themselves, not including sand and accidental ingredients, is not far from five _per cent._ In twenty-two specimens of European peat, examined by Websky, Jæckel, Walz, Wiegmann, Einhof and Berthier, eleven contained from 0.6 to 3.5 _per cent._ of ash. The other eleven yielded from 5.3 to 22 _per cent._ The average of the former was 2.4, that of the latter 12.7 _per cent._ Most of these contained a considerable proportion of sand or soil. Variation in the composition as well as in the quantity of ash is very great. Three analyses of peat-ashes have been executed at the author's instance with the subjoined results: ANALYSES OF PEAT-ASHES. ---------------------------+-----------+-----------+---------- | A. | B. | C. Potash. | 0.69 | 0.80 | 3.46 Soda. | 0.58 | | trace. Lime. | 40.52 | 35.59 | 6.60 Magnesia. | 6.06 | 4.92 | 1.05 Oxide of iron and alumina. | 5.17 | 9.08 | 15.59 Phosphoric acid. | 0.50 | 0.77 | 1.55 Sulphuric acid. | 5.52 | 10.41 | 4.04 Chlorine. | 0.15 | 0.43 | 0.70 Soluble silica. | 8.23 | 1.40 } | Carbonic acid. | 19.60 | 22.28 } | 67.01 Sand. | 12.11 | 15.04 } | +-----------+-----------+---------- | 99.13 | 100.74 | 100.00 ---------------------------+-----------+-----------+---------- A was furnished by Mr. Daniel Buck, Jr., of Poquonock, Conn., and comes from a peat which he uses as fuel. B was sent by Mr. J. H. Stanwood, of Colebrook, Conn. C was sent from Guilford, Conn., by Mr. Andrew Foote.[5] A and B, after excluding sand, are seen to consist chiefly of carbonates and sulphates of lime and magnesia. III. contains a very large proportion of sand and soluble silica, much iron and alumina, less lime and sulphuric acid. Potash and phosphoric acid are three times more abundant in C than in the others. Instead of citing in full the results of Websky, Jæckel and others, it will serve our object better to present the maximum, minimum and average proportions of the important ingredients in twenty-six recent analyses, (including these three,) that have come under the author's notice. VARIATIONS AND AVERAGES IN COMPOSITION OF PEAT-ASHES. _Minimum._ _Maximum._ _Average._ Potash 0.05 to 3.64 0.89 per cent. Soda none " 5.73 0.83 " Lime 4.72 " 58.38 24.00 " Magnesia none " 24.39 3.20 " Alumina 0.90 " 20.50 5.78 " Oxide of iron none " 73.33 18.70 " Sulphuric acid none " 37.40 7.50 " Chlorine " " 6.50 0.60 " Phosphoric acid " " 6.29 2.56 " Sand 0.99 " 56.97 25.50 " It is seen from the above figures that the ash of peat varies in composition to an indefinite degree. Lime is the only ingredient that is never quite wanting, and with the exception of sand, it is on the average the largest. Of the other agriculturally valuable components, sulphuric acid has the highest average; then follows magnesia; then phosphoric acid, and lastly, potash and soda: all of these, however, may be nearly or quite lacking. Websky, who has recently made a study of the composition of a number of German peats, believes himself warranted to conclude that peat is so modified in appearance by its mineral matters, that the quantity or character of the latter may be judged of in many cases by the eye. He remarks, (_Journal fuer Praktische Chemie, Bd. 92, S. 87_,) "that while for example the peats containing much sand and clay have a red-brown powdery appearance, and never assume a lustrous surface by pressure; those which are very rich in lime, are black, sticky when moist, hard and of a waxy luster on a pressed surface, when dry: a property which they share indeed with very dense peats that contain little ash. Peats impregnated with iron are easily recognized. Their peculiar odor, and their changed appearance distinguish them from all others." From my own investigations on thirty specimens of Connecticut peats, I am forced to disagree with Websky entirely, and to assert that except as regards sand, which may often be detected by the eye, there is no connection whatever between the quantity or character of the ash and the color, consistency, density or any other external quality of the peat. The causes of this variation in the ash-content of peat, deserve a moment's notice. The plants that produce peat contain considerable proportions of lime, magnesia, alkalies, sulphuric acid, chlorine and phosphoric acid, as seen from the following analysis by Websky. COMPOSITION OF THE ASH OF SPHAGNUM. Potash. 17.2 Soda. 8.3 Lime. 11.8 Magnesia. 6.7 Sulphuric acid. 6.5 Chlorine. 6.2 Phosphoric acid. 6.7 _Per cent._ of ash, 2.5. The mineral matters of the sphagnum do not all become ingredients of the peat; but, as rapidly as the moss decays below, its soluble matters are to a great degree absorbed by the vegetation, which is still living and growing above. Again, when a stream flows through a peat-bed, soluble matters are carried away by the water, which is often dark-brown from the substances dissolved in it. Finally the soil of the adjacent land is washed or blown upon the swamp, in greater or less quantities. III.--_The decomposition of peat in the soil offers some peculiarities_ that are worthy of notice in this place. Peat is more gradual and regular in decay than the vegetable matters of stable dung, or than that furnished by turning under sod or green crops. It is thus a more steady and lasting benefit, especially in light soils, out of which ordinary vegetable manures disappear too rapidly. The decay of peat appears to proceed through a regular series of steps. In the soil, especially in contact with soluble alkaline bodies, as ammonia and lime, there is a progressive conversion of the _insoluble_ or _less soluble_ into _soluble_ compounds. Thus the inert matters that resist the immediate solvent power of alkalies, absorb oxygen from the air, and form the humic or ulmic acids soluble in alkalies; the humic acids undergo conversion into crenic acid, and this body, by oxidation, passes into apocrenic acid. The two latter are soluble in water, and, in the porous soil, they are rapidly brought to the end-results of decay, viz.: water, carbonic acid, ammonia and free nitrogen. Great differences must be observed, however, in the rapidity with which these changes take place. Doubtless they go on most slowly in case of the fibrous compact peats, and perhaps some of the lighter and more porous samples of swamp muck, would decay nearly as fast as rotted stable dung. It might appear from the above statement, that the effect of exposing peat to the air, as is done when it is incorporated with the soil, would be to increase relatively the amount of soluble organic matters; but the truth is, that they are often actually diminished. In fact, the oxidation and consequent removal of these soluble matters (crenic and apocrenic acids,) is likely to proceed more rapidly than they can be produced from the less soluble humic acid of the peat. IV.--_Comparison of Peat with Stable Manure._ The fertilizing value of peat is best understood by comparing it with some standard manure. Stable manure is obviously that fertilizer whose effects are most universally observed and appreciated, and by setting analyses of the two side by side, we may see at a glance, what are the excellencies and what the deficiencies of peat. In order rightly to estimate the worth of those ingredients which occur in but small proportion in peat, we must remember that it, like stable manure, may be, and usually should be, applied in large doses, so that in fact the smallest ingredients come upon an acre in considerable quantity. In making our comparison, we will take the analysis of Peat from the farm of Mr. Daniel Buck, Jr., of Poquonock, Conn., and the average of several analyses of rotted stable dung of _good quality_. No. _I_, is the analysis of Peat; No. _II_, that of well rotted stable manure:-- _I._ _II._ Water expelled at 212 degrees. 79.000 79.00 {Soluble in dilute solution } Org. { of carbonate of soda. 7.312 } Matter. {Insoluble in solution } 14.16 { of carbonate of soda. 12.210 } Potash. 0.010 0.65 Soda. 0.009 Lime. 0.608 0.57 Magnesia. 0.091 0.19 Phosphoric acid. 0.008 0.23 Sulphuric acid. 0.082 0.27 Nitrogen. 0.600 0.55 Matters, soluble in water. 0.450 4.42 To make the comparison as just as possible, the peat is calculated with the same content of water, that stable dung usually has. We observe then, that the peat contains in a given quantity, _about one-third more organic matter, an equal amount of lime and nitrogen_; but is _deficient in potash, magnesia, phosphoric and sulphuric acids_. The deficiencies of this peat in the matter of composition may be corrected, as regards potash, by adding to 100 lbs. of it 1 lb. of potash of commerce, or 5 lbs. of unleached wood-ashes; as regards phosphoric and sulphuric acids, by adding 1 lb. of good superphosphate, or 1 lb. each of bone dust and plaster of Paris. In fact, the additions just named, will convert _any fresh peat_, containing not more than 80 _per cent._ of water and not less than 20 _per cent._ of organic matter, into a mixture having as much fertilizing matters as stable dung, with the possible exception of nitrogen. It is a fact, however, that two manures may reveal to the chemist the same composition, and yet be very unlike in their fertilizing effects, because their conditions are unlike, because they differ in their degrees of solubility or availability. As before insisted upon, it is true in general, that peat is more slow of decomposition than yard-manure, and this fact, which is an advantage in an amendment, is a disadvantage in a fertilizer. Though there may be some peats, or rather swamp mucks, which are energetic and rapid in their action, it seems that they need to be applied in larger quantities than stable manure in order to produce corresponding fertilizing effects. In many cases peat requires some preparation by weathering, or by chemical action--"fermentation"--induced by decomposing animal matters or by alkalies. This topic will shortly be discussed. We adopt, as a general fact, the conclusion that peat is inferior in fertilizing power to stable manure. Experience asserts, however, with regard to some individual kinds, that they are equal to common yard manure without any preparation whatever. Mr. Daniel Buck, of Poquonock, Conn., says, of the 'muck,' over-lying the peat, whose composition has just been compared with stable manure, that it "has been applied fresh to meadow with good results; the grass is not as tall but thicker and finer, and of a darker green in the spring, than when barn-yard manure is spread on." A swamp muck, from Mr. A. M. Haling, Rockville, Conn., "has been used as a top-dressing, on grass, with excellent results. It is a good substitute for barn-yard manure." A peat, from Mr. Russell U. Peck, of Berlin, Conn., "has been used fresh, on corn and meadow, with good effect." Of the peat, from the 'Beaver Pond,' near New Haven, Mr. Chauncey Goodyear, says, "it has been largely used in a fresh state, and in this condition is as good as cow dung." Mr. Henry Keeler, remarks, concerning a swamp muck occurring at South Salem, N. Y., that "it has been used in the fresh state, applied to corn and potatoes, and appears to be equal to good barn manure:" further:--"it has rarely been weathered more than two months, and then applied side by side with the best yard manure has given equally good results." A few words as to the apparent contradiction between Chemistry, which says that peat is not equal to stable dung as a fertilizer, and Practice, which in these cases affirms that it is equal to our standard manure. In the first place, the chemical conclusion is a general one, and does not apply to individual peats, which, in a few instances, may be superior to yard manure. The practical judgment also is, that, in general, yard manure is the best. To go to the individual cases; second: A peat in which nitrogen exists in as large a proportion as is found in stable or yard manure, being used in larger quantity, or being more durable in its action, may for a few seasons produce better results than the latter, merely on account of the presence of this one ingredient, it may in fact, for the soil and crop to which it is applied, be a better fertilizer than yard manure, because nitrogen is most needed in that soil, and yet for the generality of soils, or in the long run, it may prove to be an inferior fertilizer. Again; third--the melioration of the physical qualities of a soil, the amendment of its dryness and excessive porosity, by means of peat, may be more effective for agricultural purposes, than the application of tenfold as much fertilizing, _i. e._ plant-feeding materials; in the same way that the mere draining of an over-moist soil often makes it more productive than the heaviest manuring. 2.--_On the characters of Peat that are detrimental, or that may sometimes need correction before it is agriculturally useful._ I.--_Bad effects on wet heavy soils._ We have laid much stress on the amending qualities of peat, when applied to dry and leachy soils, which by its use are rendered more retentive of moisture and manure. These properties, which it would seem, are just adapted to renovate very light land, under certain circumstances, may become disadvantageous on heavier soils. On clays no application is needed to retain moisture. They are already too wet as a general thing. Peat, when put into the soil, lasts much longer than stubble, or green crops plowed in, or than long manure. If buried too deeply, or put into a heavy soil, especially if in large quantity, it does not decay, but remains wet, and tends to make a bog of the field itself. For soils that are rather heavy, it is therefore best to compost the peat with some rapidly fermenting manure. We thus get a compound which is quicker than muck, and slower than stable manure, etc., and is therefore better adapted to the wants of the soil than either of these would be alone. Here it will be seen that much depends on the character of the peat itself. If light and spongy, and easily dried, it may be used alone with advantage on loamy soils, whereas if dense, and coherent, it would most likely be a poor amendment on a soil which has much tendency to become compact, and therefore does not readily free itself from excess of water. But even a clay soil, if _thorough-drained and deeply plowed_, may be wonderfully improved by even a heavy dressing of muck, as then, the water being let off, the muck can exert no detrimental action; but operates as effectually to loosen a too heavy soil, as in case of sand, it makes an over-porous soil compact or retentive. A clay may be made friable, if well drained, by incorporating with it any substance as lime, sand, long manure or muck, which interposing between the clayey particles, prevents their adhering together. II.--_Noxious ingredients._ a. _Vitriol peat._ Occasionally a peat is met with which is injurious if applied in the fresh state to crops, from its containing some substance which exerts a poisonous action on vegetation. The principal detrimental ingredients that occur in peat, appear to be sulphate of protoxide of iron,--the same body that is popularly known under the names copperas and green-vitriol,--and sulphate of alumina, the astringent component of alum. I have found these substances ready formed in large quantity in but one of the peats that I have examined, viz.: that sent me by Mr. Perrin Scarborough; of Brooklyn, Conn. This peat dissolved in water to the extent of 15 _per cent._, and the soluble portion, although containing some organic matter and sulphate of lime, consisted in great part of green-vitriol. Portions of this muck, when thrown up to the air, become covered with "a white crust, having the taste of alum or saltpeter." The bed containing this peat, though drained, yields but a little poor bog hay, and the peat itself, even after weathering for a year, when applied, mixed with one-fifth of stable manure to corn in the hill, gave no encouraging results, though a fair crop was obtained. It is probable that the sample analyzed was much richer in salts of iron and alumina, than the average of the muck. Green-vitriol in minute doses is not hurtful, but rather beneficial to vegetation; but in larger quantity it is fatally destructive. In a salt-marsh mud sent me by the Rev. Wm. Clift, of Stonington, Conn., there was found sulphate of iron in considerable quantity. This noxious substance likewise occurred in small amount in swamp muck from E. Hoyt, Esq., New Canaan, Conn., and in hardly appreciable quantity in several others that I have examined. Besides green-vitriol, it is possible that certain organic salts of iron, may be deleterious. The poisonous properties of vitriol-peats may be effectually corrected by composting with lime, or wood-ashes. By the action of these substances, sulphate of lime, (plaster of Paris) is formed, while the iron separates as peroxide, which, being insoluble, is without deleterious effect on vegetation. Where only soluble organic salts of iron (crenate of iron) are present, simple exposure to the air suffices to render them innocuous. b. _The acidity of Peats._--Many writers have asserted that peat and muck possess a hurtful "acidity" which must be corrected before they can be usefully employed. It is indeed a fact, that peat consists largely of acids, but, except perhaps in the vitriol-peats, (those containing copperas,) they are so insoluble, or if soluble, are so quickly modified by the absorption of oxygen, that they do not exhibit any "acidity" that can be deleterious to vegetation. It is advised to neutralize this supposed acidity by lime or an alkali before using peat as a fertilizer or amendment, and there is great use in such mixtures of peat with alkaline matters, as we shall presently notice under the head of composts. By the word acidity is conveyed the idea of something hurtful to plants. This something is, doubtless, in many cases, the salts of iron we have just noticed. In others, it is simply the inertness, "coldness" of the peat, which is not positively injurious, but is, for a time at least, of no benefit to the soil. c. _Resinous matters_ are mentioned by various writers as injurious ingredients of peat, but I find no evidence that this notion is well-founded. The peat or muck formed from the decay of resinous wood and leaves does not appear to be injurious, and the amount of resin in peat is exceedingly small. 3.--_The Preparation of Peat for Agricultural use._ a. _Excavation._--As to the time and manner of getting out peat, the circumstances of each case must determine. I only venture here to offer a few hints on this subject, which belongs so exclusively to the farm. The month of August is generally the appropriate time for throwing up peat, as then the swamps are usually most free from water, and most accessible to men and teams; but peat is often dug to best advantage in the winter, not only on account of the cheapness of labor, and from there being less hurry with other matters on the farm at that season, but also, because the freezing and thawing of the peat that is thrown out, greatly aid to disintegrate it and prepare it for use. A correspondent of The _Homestead_, signing himself "Commentator," has given directions for getting out peat that are well worth the attention of farmers. He says:-- "The composting of muck and peat, with our stable and barn-yard manures, is surely destined to become one of the most important items in farm management throughout all the older States at least. One of the difficulties which lie in the way, is the first removal of the muck from its low and generally watery bed; to facilitate this, in many locations, it is less expensive to dry it before carting, by beginning an excavation at the border of the marsh in autumn, sufficiently wide for a cart path, throwing the muck out upon the surface on each side, and on a floor of boards or planks, to prevent it from absorbing moisture from the wet ground beneath; this broad ditch to be carried a sufficient length and depth to obtain the requisite quantity of muck. Thus thrown out, the two piles are now in a convenient form to be covered with boards, and, if properly done, the muck kept covered till the succeeding autumn, will be found to be dry and light, and in some cases may be carted away on the surface, or it may be best to let it remain a few months longer until the bottom of the ditch has become sufficiently frozen to bear a team; it can then be more easily loaded upon a sled or sleigh, and drawn to the yards and barn. In other localities, and where large quantities are wanted, and it lies deep, a sort of wooden railroad and inclined plane can be constructed by means of a plank track for the wheels of the cart to run upon, the team walking between these planks, and if the vehicle is inclined to 'run off the track,' it may usually be prevented by scantlings, say four inches thick, nailed upon one of the tracks on each side of the place where the wheel should run. Two or more teams and carts may now be employed, returning into the excavation outside of this track. As the work progresses, the track can be extended at both ends, and by continuing or increasing the inclination at the upper end, a large and high pile may be made, and if kept dry, will answer for years for composting, and can be easily drawn to the barn at any time." b. _Exposure, weathering, or seasoning of peat._--In some cases, the chief or only use of exposing the thrown-up peat to the action of the air and weather during several months or a whole year, is to rid it of the great amount of water which adheres to it, and thus reduce its bulk and weight previous to cartage. The general effect of exposure as indicated by my analyses, is to reduce the amount of matter soluble in water, and cause peats to approach in this respect a fertile soil, so that instead of containing 2, 4, or 6 _per cent._ of substances soluble in water, as at first, they are brought to contain but one-half these amounts, or even less. This change, however, goes on so rapidly after peat is mingled with the soil, that previous exposure on this account is rarely necessary, and most peats might be used perfectly fresh but for the difficulty often experienced, of reducing them to such a state of division as to admit of proper mixture with the soil. The coherent peats which may be cut out in tough blocks, must be weathered, in order that the fibres of moss or grass-roots, which give them their consistency, may be decomposed or broken to an extent admitting of easy pulverization by the instruments of tillage. The subjection of fresh and wet peat to frost, speedily destroys its coherence and reduces it to the proper state of pulverization. For this reason, fibrous peat should be exposed when wet to winter weather. Another advantage of exposure is, to bring the peat into a state of more active chemical change. Peat, of the deeper denser sorts, is generally too inert ("sour," cold) to be directly useful to the plant. By exposure to the air it appears gradually to acquire the properties of the humus of the soil, or of stable manure, which are vegetable matters, altered by the same exposure. It appears to become more readily oxidable, more active, chemically, and thus more capable of exciting or rather aiding vegetable growth, which, so far as the soil is concerned, is the result of chemical activities. Account has been already given of certain peats, which, used fresh, are accounted equal or nearly equal to stable manure. Others have come under the writer's notice, which have had little immediate effect when used before seasoning. Mr. J. H. Stanwood says of a peat, from Colebrook, Conn., that it "has been used to some extent as a top-dressing for grass and other crops with satisfactory results, _although no particular benefit was noticeable during the first year_. After that, the effects might be seen for a number of years." Rev. Wm. Clift observes, concerning a salt peat, from Stonington, Conn.:--"It has not been used fresh; is too acid; even potatoes do not yield well _in it the first season_, without manure." The nature of the chemical changes induced by weathering, is to some extent understood so far as the nitrogen, the most important fertilizing element, is concerned. The nitrogen of peat, as we have seen, is mostly inert, a small portion of it only, existing in a soluble or available form. By weathering, portions of this nitrogen become converted into nitric acid. This action goes on at the surface of the heap, where it is most fully exposed to the air. Below, where the peat is more moist, ammonia is formed, perhaps simply by the reduction of nitric acid--not unlikely also, by the transformation of inert nitrogen. On referring to the analyses given on page 44, it is seen, that the first two samples contain but little ammonia and no nitric acid. Though it is not stated what was the condition of these peats, it is probable they had not been weathered. The other four samples were weathered, and the weathering had been the more effectual from the large admixture of sand with them. They yielded to the analyst very considerable quantities of ammonia and nitrates. When a peat contains sulphate of protoxide of iron, or soluble organic salts of iron, to an injurious extent, these may be converted into other insoluble and innocuous bodies, by a sufficient exposure to the air. Sulphate of protoxide of iron is thus changed into sulphate of peroxide of iron, which is insoluble, and can therefore exert no hurtful effect on vegetation, while the soluble organic bodies of peat are oxydized and either converted into carbonic acid gas, carbonate of ammonia and water, or else made insoluble. It is not probable, however, that merely throwing up a well characterized vitriol-peat into heaps, and exposing it thus imperfectly to the atmosphere, is sufficient to correct its bad qualities. Such peats need the addition of some alkaline body, as ammonia, lime, or potash, to render them salutary fertilizers. c. _This brings us to the subject of composting_, which appears to be the best means of taking full advantage of all the good qualities of peat, and of obviating or neutralizing the ill results that might follow the use of some raw peats, either from a peculiarity in their composition, (soluble organic compounds of iron, sulphate of protoxide of iron,) or from too great indestructibility. The chemical changes (oxidation of _iron_ and _organic acids_), which prepare the inert or even hurtful ingredients of peat to minister to the support of vegetation, take place most rapidly in presence of certain other substances. The substances which rapidly induce chemical change in peats, are of two kinds, viz.: 1.--animal or vegetable matters that are highly susceptible to alteration and decay, and 2.--alkalies, either _ammonia_ coming from the decomposition of animal matters, or _lime_, _potash_ and _soda_. A great variety of matters may of course be employed for making or mixing with peat composts; but there are comparatively few which allow of extensive and economical use, and our notice will be confined to these. First of all, the composting of peat with _animal manures_ deserves attention. Its advantages may be summed up in two statements. 1.--It is an easy and perfect method of economizing all such manures, even those kinds most liable to loss by fermentation, as night soil and horse dung; and, 2.--It develops most fully and speedily the inert fertilizing qualities of the peat itself. Without attempting any explanation of the changes undergone by a peat and manure compost, further than to say that the fermentation which begins in the manure extends to and involves the peat, reducing the whole nearly, if not exactly, to the condition of well-rotted dung, and that in this process the peat effectually prevents the loss of nitrogen as ammonia,--I may appropriately give the practical experience of farmers who have proved in the most conclusive manner how profitable it is to devote a share of time and labor to the manufacture of this kind of compost. _Preparation of Composts with Stable Manure._--The best plan of composting is to have a water tight trench, four inches deep and twenty inches wide, constructed in the stable floor, immediately behind the cattle, and every morning put a bushel-basketful of muck behind each animal. In this way the urine is perfectly absorbed by the muck, while the warmth of the freshly voided excrements so facilitates the fermentative process, that, according to Mr. F. Holbrook, Brattleboro, Vt., who has described this method, _much more muck can thus be well prepared for use_ in the spring, than by any of the ordinary modes of composting. When the dung and muck are removed from the stable, they should be well intermixed, and as fast as the compost is prepared, it should be put into a compact heap, and covered with a layer of muck several inches thick. It will then hardly require any shelter if used in the spring. If the peat be sufficiently dry and powdery, or free from tough lumps, it may usefully serve as bedding, or litter for horses and cattle, as it absorbs the urine, and is sufficiently mixed with the dung in the operation of cleaning the stable. It is especially good in the pig-pen, where the animals themselves work over the compost in the most thorough manner, especially if a few kernels of corn be occasionally scattered upon it. Mr. Edwin Hoyt, of New Canaan, Conn., writes:--"Our horse stables are constructed with a movable floor and pit beneath, which holds 20 loads of muck of 25 bushels per load. Spring and fall, this pit is filled with fresh muck, which receives all the urine of the horses, and being occasionally worked over and mixed, furnishes us annually with 40 loads of the most valuable manure." "Our stables are sprinkled with muck every morning, at the rate of one bushel per stall, and the smell of ammonia, etc., so offensive in most stables, is never perceived in ours. Not only are the stables kept sweet, but the ammonia is saved by this procedure." When it is preferred to make the compost out of doors, the plan generally followed is to lay down a bed of weathered peat, say eight to twelve inches thick; cover this with a layer of stable dung, of four to eight inches; put on another stratum of peat, and so, until a heap of three to four feet is built up. The heap may be six to eight feet wide, and indefinitely long. It should be finished with a thick coating of peat, and the manure should be covered as fast as brought out. The proportions of manure and peat should vary somewhat according to their quality and characters. Strawy manure, or that from milch-cows, will "ferment" less peat than clear dung, especially when the latter is made by horses or highly fed animals. Some kinds of peat heat much easier than others. There are peats which will ferment of themselves in warm moist weather--even in the bog, giving off ammonia in perceptible though small amount. Experience is the only certain guide as to the relative quantities to be employed, various proportions from one to five of peat for one of manure, by bulk, being used. When the land is light and needs amending, as regards its retentive power, it is best to make the quantity of peat as large as can be thoroughly fermented by the manure. The making of a high heap, and the keeping it trim and in shape, is a matter requiring more labor than is generally necessary. Mr. J. H. Stanwood, of Colebrook, Conn., writes me:-- "My method of composting is as follows: I draw my muck to the barn-yard, placing the loads as near together as I can tip them from the cart. Upon this I spread whatever manure I have at hand, and mix with the feet of the cattle, and heap up with a scraper." Peat may be advantageously used to save from waste the droppings of the yard. Mr. Edwin Hoyt, of New Canaan, Conn., says:--"We use muck largely in our barn-yards, and after it becomes thoroughly saturated and intermixed with the droppings of the stock, it is piled up to ferment, and the yard is covered again with fresh muck." Mr. N. Hart, Jr., of West Cornwall, Conn., writes:--"In the use of muck we proceed as follows: Soon after haying we throw up enough for a year's use, or several hundred loads. In the fall, the summer's accumulation in hog-pens and barn cellars is spread upon the mowing grounds, and a liberal supply of muck carted in and spread in the bottoms of the cellars, ready for the season for stabling cattle. When this is well saturated with the drippings of the stables, a new supply is added. The accumulation of the winter is usually applied to the land for the corn crop, except the finer portion, which is used to top-dress meadow land. A new supply is then drawn in for the swine to work up. This is added to from time to time, and as the swine are fed on whey, they will convert a large quantity into valuable manure for top-dressing mowing land." A difference of opinion exists as to the treatment of the compost. Some hold it indifferent whether the peat and manure are mixed, or put in layers when the composting begins. Others assert, that the fermentation proceeds better when the ingredients are stratified. Some direct, that the compost should not be stirred. The general testimony is, that mixture, at the outset, is as effectual as putting up in layers; but, if the manure be strawy, it is, of course, difficult or impracticable to mix at first. Opinion also preponderates in favor of stirring, during or after the fermentation. Mr. Hoyt remarks:--"We are convinced, that the oftener a compost pile of yard manure and muck is worked over after fermenting, the better. We work it over and add to it a little more muck and other material, and the air being thus allowed to penetrate it, a new fermentation or heating takes place, rendering it more decomposable and valuable." Rev. Wm. Clift, writes:--"Three or four loads of muck to one of stable manure, put together in the fall or winter in alternate layers, forked over twice before spreading and plowing in, may represent the method of composting." Mr. Adams White, of Brooklyn, Conn., proceeds in a different manner. He says:--"In composting, 20 loads are drawn on to upland in September, and thrown up in a long pile. Early in the spring 20 loads of stable manure are laid along side, and covered with the muck. As soon as it has heated moderately, the whole is forked over and well mixed." Those who have practiced making peat composts with their yard, stable, and pen manure, almost invariably find them highly satisfactory in use, especially upon light soils. A number of years ago, I saw a large pile of compost in the farm-yard of Mr. Pond, of Milford, Conn., and witnessed its effect as applied by that gentleman to a field of sixteen acres of fine gravelly or coarse sandy soil. The soil, from having a light color and excessive porosity, had become dark, unctuous, and retentive of moisture, so that during the drouth of 1856, the crops on this field were good and continued to flourish, while on the contiguous land they were dried up and nearly ruined. This compost was made from a light muck, that contained but three _per cent._ of ash (more than half of which was sand), and but 1.2 _per cent._ of nitrogen, in the air-dry state--(twenty _per cent._ of water). Three loads of this muck were used to one of stable manure. Here follow some estimates of the value of this compost by practical men. They are given to show that older statements, to the same effect, cannot be regarded as exaggerated. Mr. J. H. Stanwood, of Colebrook, Conn., says:--"Experiments made by myself, have confirmed me in the opinion that a compost of equal parts of muck and stable manure is equal to the same quantity of stable manure." Mr. Daniel Buck, Jr., of Poquonock, Conn., remarks:--"8 loads of muck and 4 of manure in compost, when properly forked over, are equal to 12 loads of barn-yard manure on sandy soil." Rev. Wm. Clift, of Stonington, Conn., writes:--"I consider a compost made of one load of stable manure and three of muck, equal in value to four loads of yard manure." Mr. N. Hart, Jr., of West Cornwall, Conn., observes of a peat sent by him for analysis:--"We formerly composted it in the yard with stable manure, but have remodeled our stables, and now use it as an absorbent and to increase the bulk of manure to double its original quantity. We consider the mixture more valuable than the same quantity of stable manure." Again, "so successful has been the use of it, that we could hardly carry on our farming operations without it." Mr. Adams White, of Brooklyn, Conn., states:--"The compost of equal bulks of muck and stable manure, has been used for corn (with plaster in the hill,) on dry sandy soil to great advantage. I consider the compost worth more per cord than the barn-yard manure." _Night Soil_ is a substance which possesses, when fresh, the most valuable fertilizing qualities, in a very concentrated form. It is also one which is liable to rapid and almost complete deterioration, as I have demonstrated by analyses. The only methods of getting the full effect of this material are, either to use it fresh, as is done by the Chinese and Japanese on a most extensive and offensive scale; or to compost it before it can decompose. The former method, will, it is to be hoped, never find acceptance among us. The latter plan has nearly all the advantages of the former, without its unpleasant features. When the night soil falls into a vault, it may be composted, by simply sprinkling fine peat over its surface, once or twice weekly, as the case may require, _i. e._ as often as a bad odor prevails. The quantity thus added, may be from twice to ten times the bulk of the night soil,--the more within these limits, the better. When the vault is full, the mass should be removed, worked well over and after a few days standing, will be ready to use to manure corn, tobacco, etc., in the hill, or for any purpose to which guano or poudrette is applied. If it cannot be shortly used, it should be made into a compact heap, and covered with a thick stratum of peat. When signs of heating appear, it should be watched closely; and if the process attains too much violence, additional peat should be worked into it. Drenching with water is one of the readiest means of checking too much heating, but acts only temporarily. Dilution with peat to a proper point, which experience alone can teach, is the surest way of preventing loss. It should not be forgotten to put a thick layer of peat at the bottom of the vault to begin with. Another excellent plan, when circumstances admit, is, to have the earth-floor where the night soil drops, level with the surface of the ground, or but slightly excavated, and a shed attached to the rear of the privy to shelter a good supply of peat as well as the compost itself. Operations are begun by putting down a layer of peat to receive the droppings; enough should be used to absorb all the urine. When this is nearly saturated, more should be sprinkled on, and the process is repeated until the accumulations must be removed to make room for more. Then, once a week or so, the whole is hauled out into the shed, well mixed, and formed into a compact heap, or placed as a layer upon a stratum of peat, some inches thick, and covered with the same. The quantity of first-class compost that may be made yearly upon any farm, if due care be taken, would astonish those who have not tried it. James Smith, of Deanston, Scotland, who originated our present system of Thorough Drainage, asserted, that the excrements of one man for a year, are sufficient to manure half an acre of land. In Belgium the manure from such a source has a commercial value of $9.00 gold. It is certain, that the skillful farmer may make considerably more than that sum from it in New England, _per annum_. Mr. Hoyt, of New Canaan, Conn., says:-- "Our privies are deodorized by the use of muck, which is sprinkled over the surface of the pit once a week, and from them alone we thus prepare annually, enough "poudrette" to manure our corn in the hill." _Peruvian Guano_, so serviceable in its first applications to light soils, may be composted with muck to the greatest advantage. Guano is an excellent material for bringing muck into good condition, and on the other hand the muck most effectually prevents any waste of the costly guano, and at the same time, by furnishing the soil with its own ingredients, to a greater or less degree prevents the exhaustion that often follows the use of guano alone. The quantity of muck should be pretty large compared to that of the guano,--a bushel of guano will compost six, eight, or ten of muck. Both should be quite fine, and should be well mixed, the mixture should be moist and kept covered with a layer of muck of several inches of thickness. This sort of compost would probably be sufficiently fermented in a week or two of warm weather, and should be made and kept under cover. If no more than five or six parts of muck to one of guano are employed, the compost, according to the experience of Simon Brown, Esq., of the Boston _Cultivator_, (Patent Office Report for 1856), will prove injurious, if placed in the hill in contact with seed, but may be applied broadcast without danger. The _Menhaden_ or "_White fish_", so abundantly caught along our Sound coast during the summer months, or any variety of fish may be composted with muck, so as to make a powerful manure, with avoidance of the excessively disagreeable stench which is produced when these fish are put directly on the land. Messrs. Stephen Hoyt & Sons, of New Canaan, Conn., make this compost on a large scale. I cannot do better than to give entire Mr. Edwin Hoyt's account of their operations, communicated to me several years ago. "During the present season, (1858,) we have composted about 200,000 white fish with about 700 loads (17,500 bushels) of muck. We vary the proportions somewhat according to the crop the compost is intended for. For rye we apply 20 to 25 loads per acre of a compost made with 4,500 fish, (one load) and with this manuring, no matter how poor the soil, the rye will be as large as a man can cradle. Much of ours we have to reap. For oats we use less fish, as this crop is apt to lodge. For corn, one part fish to ten or twelve muck is about right, while for grass or any top-dressing, the proportion of fish may be increased." "We find it is best to mix the fish in the summer and not use the compost until the next spring and summer. Yet we are obliged to use in September for our winter rye a great deal of the compost made in July. We usually compost the first arrivals of fish in June for our winter grain; after this pile has stood three or four weeks, it is worked over thoroughly. In this space of time the fish become pretty well decomposed, though they still preserve their form and smell outrageously. As the pile is worked over, a sprinkling of muck or plaster is given to retain any escaping ammonia. At the time of use in September the fish have completely disappeared, bones and fins excepted." "The effect on the muck is to blacken it and make it more loose and crumbly. As to the results of the use of this compost, we find them in the highest degree satisfactory. We have raised 30 to 35 bushels of rye per acre on land that without it could have yielded 6 or 8 bushels at the utmost. This year we have corn that will give 60 to 70 bushels per acre, that otherwise would yield but 20 to 25 bushels. It makes large potatoes, excellent turnips and carrots." Fish compost thus prepared, is a uniform mass of fishy but not putrefactive odor, not disagreeable to handle. It retains perfectly all the fertilizing power of the fish. Lands, manured with this compost, will keep in heart and improve: while, as is well known to our coast farmers, the use of fish alone is ruinous in the end, on light soils. It is obvious that _any other easily decomposing animal matters, as slaughter-house offal, soap boiler's scraps, glue waste, horn shavings, shoddy, castor pummace, cotton seed-meal, etc., etc._, may be composted in a similar manner, and that several or all these substances may be made together into one compost. In case of the composts with yard manure, guano and other animal matters, the alkali, _ammonia_, formed in the fermentation, greatly promotes chemical change, and it would appear that this substance, on some accounts, excels all others in its efficacy. The other alkaline bodies, _potash_, _soda_ and _lime_, are however scarcely less active in this respect, and being at the same time, of themselves, useful fertilizers, they also may be employed in preparing muck composts. _Potash-lye_ and _soda-ash_ have been recommended for composting with muck; but, although they are no doubt highly efficacious, they are too costly for extended use. The other alkaline materials that may be cheaply employed, and are recommended, are _wood-ashes_, leached and unleached, _ashes of peat_, _shell marl_, (consisting of carbonate of lime,) _quick lime_, _gas lime_, and what is called "_salt and lime mixture_." With regard to the proportions to be used, no very definite rules can be laid down; but we may safely follow those who have had experience in the matter. Thus, to a cord of muck, which is about 100 bushels, may be added, of unleached wood ashes twelve bushels, or of leached wood ashes twenty bushels, or of peat ashes twenty bushels, or of marl, or of gas lime twenty bushels. Ten bushels of quick lime, slaked with water or salt-brine previous to use, is enough for a cord of muck. Instead of using the above mentioned substances singly, any or all of them may be employed together. The muck should be as fine and free from lumps as possible, and must be intimately mixed with the other ingredients by shoveling over. The mass is then thrown up into a compact heap, which may be four feet high. When the heap is formed, it is well to pour on as much water as the mass will absorb, (this may be omitted if the muck is already quite moist,) and finally the whole is covered over with a few inches of pure muck, so as to retain moisture and heat. If the heap is put up in the Spring, it may stand undisturbed for one or two months, when it is well to shovel it over and mix it thoroughly. It should then be built up again, covered with fresh muck, and allowed to stand as before until thoroughly decomposed. The time required for this purpose varies with the kind of muck, and the quality of the other material used. The weather and thoroughness of intermixture of the ingredients also materially affect the rapidity of decomposition. In all cases five or six months of summer weather is a sufficient time to fit these composts for application to the soil. Mr. Stanwood of Colebrook, Conn., says: "I have found a compost made of two bushels of unleached ashes to twenty-five of muck, superior to stable manure as a top-dressing for grass, on a warm, dry soil." N. Hart, Jr., of West Cornwall, Conn., states: "I have mixed 25 bushels of ashes with the same number of loads of muck, and applied it to 3/4 of an acre. The result was far beyond that obtained by applying 300 lbs. best guano to the same piece." The use of "_salt and lime mixture_" is so strongly recommended, that a few words may be devoted to its consideration. When quick-lime is slaked with a brine of common salt (chloride of sodium), there are formed by double decomposition, small portions of caustic soda and chloride of calcium, which dissolve in the liquid. If the solution stand awhile, carbonic acid is absorbed from the air, forming carbonate of soda: but carbonate of soda and chloride of calcium instantly exchange their ingredients, forming insoluble carbonate of lime and reproducing common salt. When the fresh mixture of quick-lime and salt is incorporated with _any porous body_, as soil or peat, then, as Graham has shown, _unequal diffusion_ of the caustic soda and chloride of calcium occurs from the point where they are formed, through the moist porous mass, and the result is, that the small portion of caustic soda which diffuses most rapidly, or the carbonate of soda formed by its speedy union with carbonic acid, is removed from contact with the chloride of calcium. Soda and carbonate of soda are more soluble in water and more strongly alkaline than lime. They, therefore, act on peat more energetically than the latter. It is on account of the formation of soda and carbonate of soda from the lime and salt mixture, that this mixture exerts a more powerful decomposing action than lime alone. Where salt is cheap and wood ashes scarce, the mixture may be employed accordingly to advantage. Of its usefulness we have the testimony of practical men. Says Mr. F. Holbrook of Vermont, (Patent Office Report for 1856, page 193.) "I had a heap of seventy-five half cords of muck mixed with lime in the proportion of a half cord of muck to a bushel of lime. The muck was drawn to the field when wanted in August. A bushel of salt to six bushels of lime was dissolved in water enough to slake the lime down to a fine dry powder, the lime being slaked no faster than wanted, and spread immediately while warm, over the layers of muck, which were about six inches thick; then a coating of lime and so on, until the heap reached the height of five feet, a convenient width, and length enough to embrace the whole quantity of the muck. In about three weeks a powerful decomposition was apparent, and the heap was nicely overhauled, nothing more being done to it till it was loaded the next Spring for spreading. The compost was spread on the plowed surface of a dry sandy loam at the rate of about fifteen cords to the acre, and harrowed in. The land was planted with corn and the crop was more than sixty bushels to the acre." Other writers assert that they "have decomposed with this mixture, spent tan, saw dust, corn stalks, swamp muck, leaves from the woods, indeed every variety of inert substance, and in _much shorter time than it could be done by any other means_." (Working Farmer, Vol. III. p. 280.) Some experiments that have a bearing on the efficacy of this compost will be detailed presently. There is no doubt that the soluble and more active (caustic) forms of alkaline bodies exert a powerful decomposing and solvent action on peat. It is asserted too that the _nearly insoluble and less active matters of this kind_, also have an effect, though a less complete and rapid one. Thus, _carbonate of lime_ in the various forms of chalk, shell marl,[6] old mortar, leached ashes and peat ashes, (for in all these it is the chief and most "alkaline" ingredient,) is recommended to compost with peat. Let us inquire whether carbonate of lime can really exert any noticeable influence in improving the fertilizing quality of peat. In the case of vitriol peats, carbonate of lime is the cheapest and most appropriate means of destroying the noxious sulphate of protoxide of iron, and correcting their deleterious quality. When carbonate of lime is brought in contact with sulphate of protoxide of iron, the two bodies mutually decompose, with formation of sulphate of lime (gypsum) and carbonate of protoxide of iron. The latter substance absorbs oxygen from the air with the utmost avidity, and passes into the peroxide of iron, which is entirely inert. The admixture of any earthy matter with peat, will facilitate its decomposition, and make it more active chemically, in so far as it promotes the separation of the particles of the peat from each other, and the consequent access of air. This benefit may well amount to something when we add to peat one-fifth of its bulk of marl or leached ashes, but the question comes up: Do these insoluble mild alkalies exert any direct action? Would not as much soil of any kind be equally efficacious, by promoting to an equal degree the contact of oxygen from the atmosphere? There are two ways in which carbonate of lime may exert a chemical action on the organic matters of peat. Carbonate of lime, itself, in the forms we have mentioned, is commonly called insoluble in water. It is, however, soluble to a very slight extent; it dissolves, namely, in about 30,000 times its weight of pure water. It is nearly thirty times more soluble in water saturated with carbonic acid; and this solution has distinct alkaline characters. Since the water contained in a heap of peat must be considerably impregnated with carbonic acid, it follows that when carbonate of lime is present, the latter must form a solution, very dilute indeed, but still capable of some direct effect on the organic matters of the peat, when it acts through a long space of time. Again, it is possible that the solution of carbonate of lime in carbonic acid, may act to liberate some ammonia from the soluble portions of the peat, and this ammonia may react on the remainder of the peat to produce the same effects as it does in the case of a compost made with animal matters. Whether the effects thus theoretically possible, amount to anything practically important, is a question of great interest. It often happens that opinions entertained by practical men, not only by farmers, but by mechanics and artisans as well, are founded on so untrustworthy a basis, are supported by trials so destitute of precision, that their accuracy may well be doubted, and from all the accounts I have met with, it does not seem to have been well established, practically, that composts made with carbonate of lime, are better than the peat and carbonate used separately. Carbonate of lime (leached ashes, shell marl, etc.), is very well to use _in conjunction with_ peat, to furnish a substance or substances needful to the growth of plants, and supply the deficiencies of peat as regards composition. Although in the agricultural papers, numerous accounts of the efficacy of such mixtures are given, we do not learn from them whether these bodies exert any such good effect upon the peat itself, as to warrant the trouble of making a _compost_. 4.--_Experiments by the author on the effect of alkaline bodies in developing the fertilizing power of Peat._ During the summer of 1862, the author undertook a series of experiments with a view of ascertaining the effect of various composting materials upon peat. Two bushels of peat were obtained from a heap that had been weathering for some time on the "Beaver Meadow," near New Haven. This was thoroughly air-dried, then crushed by the hand, and finally rubbed through a moderately fine sieve. In this way, the peat was brought to a perfectly homogeneous condition. Twelve-quart flower-pots, new from the warehouse, were filled as described below; the trials being made in duplicate:-- Pots 1 and 2 contained each 270 grammes of peat. Pots 3 and 4 contained each 270 grammes of peat, mixed-with 10 grammes of ashes of young grass. Pots 5 and 6 contained each 270 grammes of peat, 10 grammes of ashes, and 10 grammes of carbonate of lime. Pots 7 and 8 contained each 270 grammes of peat, 10 grammes of ashes, and 10 grammes of slaked (hydrate of) lime. Pots 9 and 10 contained each 270 grammes of peat, 10 grammes of ashes, and 5 grammes of lime, slaked with strong solution of common salt. Pots 11 and 12 contained each 270 grammes of peat, 10 grammes of ashes, and 3 grammes of Peruvian guano. In each case the materials were thoroughly mixed together, and so much water was cautiously added as served to wet them thoroughly. Five kernels of dwarf (pop) corn were planted in each pot, the weight of each planting being carefully ascertained. The pots were disposed in a glazed case within a cold grapery,[7] and were watered when needful with pure water. The seeds sprouted duly, and developed into healthy plants. The plants served thus as tests of the chemical effect of carbonate of lime, of slaked lime, and of salt and lime mixture, on the peat. The guano pots enabled making a comparison with a well-known fertilizer. The plants were allowed to grow until those best developed, enlarged above, not at the expense of the peat, etc., but of their own lower leaves, as shown by the withering of the latter. They were then cut, and, after drying in the air, were weighed with the subjoined results. VEGETATION EXPERIMENTS IN PEAT COMPOSTS. KEY A - _Weight of crops in grammes._ B - _Comparative weight of crops, the sum of 1. and 2. taken as unity._ C - _Ratio of weight of crops to weight of seeds, the latter assumed as unity._ -------------------------------------------+---------------+----+------- _Nos._ _Medium of Growth._ | A | B | C -------------------------------------------+---------------+----+------- 1 } | 1.61} | | 2 } Peat alone. | 2.59} 4.20 | 1 | 2-1/2 | | | 3 } | 14.19} | | 4 } Peat, and ashes of grass, | 18.25} 32.44 | 8 | 20-1/2 | | | 5 } | 18.19} | | 6 } Peat, ashes, and carbonate of lime, | 20.25} 38.44 | 9 | 25-1/2 | | | 7 } | 21.49} | | 8 } Peat, ashes, and slaked lime, | 20.73} 42.22 | 10 | 28-1/2 | | | 9 } | 23.08} | | 10 } Peat, ashes, slaked lime, and salt, | 23.34} 46.42 | 11 | 30-1/2 | | | 11 } | 26.79} | | 12 } Peat, ashes, and Peruvian Guano, | 26.99} 53.78 | 13 | 35-1/2 -------------------------------------------+---------------+----+------- Let us now examine the above results. The experiments 1 and 2, demonstrate that the peat itself is deficient in something needful to the plant. In both pots, but 4.2 grammes of crop were produced, a quantity two and a half times greater than that of the seeds, which weighed 1.59 grammes. The plants were pale in color, slender, and reached a height of but about six inches. Nos. 3 and 4 make evident what are some of the deficiencies of the peat. A supply of mineral matters, such as are contained in all plants, being made by the addition of _ashes_, consisting chiefly of phosphates, carbonates and sulphates of lime, magnesia and potash, a crop is realized nearly eight times greater than in the previous cases; the yield being 32.44 grammes, or 20-1/2 times the weight of the seed. The quantity of ashes added, viz.:--10 grammes, was capable of supplying every mineral element, greatly in excess of the wants of any crop that could be grown in a quart of soil. The plants in pots 3 and 4 were much stouter than those in 1 and 2, and had a healthy color. The experiments 5 and 6 appear to demonstrate that _carbonate of lime_ considerably aided in converting the peat itself into plant-food. The ashes alone contained enough carbonate of lime to supply the wants of the plant in respect to that substance. More carbonate of lime could only operate by acting on the organic matters of the peat. The amount of the crop is raised by the effect of carbonate of lime from 32.44 to 38.44 grammes, or from 20-1/2 to 25-1/2 times that of the seed. Experiments 7 and 8 show, that _slaked lime_ has more effect than the carbonate, as we should anticipate. Its influence does not, however, exceed that of the carbonate very greatly, the yield rising from 38.44 to 42.22 grammes, or from 25-1/2 to 28-1/2 times the weight of the seed. In fact, quick-lime can only act as such for a very short space of time, since it rapidly combines with the carbonic acid, which is supplied abundantly by the peat. In experiments 7 and 8, a good share of the influence exerted must therefore be actually ascribed to the carbonate, rather than to the quick-lime itself. In experiments 9 and 10, we have proof that the "_lime and salt mixture_" has a greater efficacy than lime alone, the crop being increased thereby from 42.22, to 46.42 grammes, or from 28-1/2 to 30-1/2 times that of the seed. Finally, we see from experiments 11 and 12 that in all the foregoing cases it was a limited supply of _nitrogen_ that limited the crop; for, on adding Peruvian guano, which could only act by this element (its other ingredients, phosphates of lime and potash, being abundantly supplied in the ashes), the yield was carried up to 53.78 grammes, or 35-1/2 times the weight of the seed, and 13 times the weight of the crop obtained from the unmixed peat. 5.--_The Examination of Peat (muck and marsh-mud) with reference to its Agricultural Value._ Since, as we are forced to conclude, the variations in the composition of peat stand in no recognizable relations to differences of appearance, it is only possible to ascertain the value of any given specimen by actual trial or by chemical investigation. The method _by practical trial_ is usually the cheaper and more satisfactory of the two, though a half year or more is needful to gain the desired information. It is sufficient to apply to small measured plots of ground, each say two rods square, known quantities of the fresh, the weathered, and the composted peat in order, by comparison of the growth and _weight_ of the crop, to decide the question of their value. Peat and its composts are usually applied at rates ranging from 20 to 40 wagon or cart loads per acre. There being 160 square rods in the acre, the quantity proper to a plot of two rods square (= four square rods,) would be one half to one load. The composts with stable manure and lime, or salt and lime mixture, are those which, in general, it would be best to experiment with. From the effects of the stable manure compost, could be inferred with safety the value of any compost, of which animal manure is an essential ingredient. One great advantage of the practical trial on the small scale is, that the adaptation of the peat or of the compost to the _peculiarities of the soil_, is decided beyond a question. It must be borne in mind, however, that the results of experiments can only be relied upon, when the plots are accurately measured, when the peat, etc., are applied in known quantities, and when the crops are separately harvested and carefully weighed. If experiments are made upon grass or clover, the gravest errors may arise by drawing conclusions from the appearance of the standing crop. Experience has shown that two clover crops, gathered from contiguous plots differently manured, may strikingly differ in appearance, but yield the same amounts of hay. The _chemical examination_ of a peat may serve to inform us, without loss of time, upon a number of important points. To test a peat for _soluble iron salts_ which might render it deleterious, we soak and agitate a handful for some hours, with four or five times its bulk of warm soft water. From a _good fresh-water peat_ we obtain, by this treatment, a yellow liquid, more or less deep in tint, the taste of which is very slight and scarcely definable. From a _vitriol peat_ we get a dark-brown or black solution, which has a bitter, astringent, metallic or inky taste, like that of copperas. _Salt peat_ will yield a solution having the taste of salt-brine, unless it contains iron, when the taste of the latter will prevail. On evaporating the water-solution to dryness and heating strongly in a China cup, a _vitriol peat_ gives off white choking fumes of sulphuric acid, and there remains, after burning, brown-red oxide of iron in the dish. The above testings are easily conducted by any one, with the ordinary conveniences of the kitchen. Those that follow, require, for the most part, the chemical laboratory, and the skill of the practised chemist, for satisfactory execution. Besides testing for soluble iron compounds, as already indicated, the points to be regarded in the chemical examination, are:-- 1st. _Water or moisture._--This must be estimated, because it is so variable, and a knowledge of its quantity is needful, if we will compare together different samples. A weighed amount of the peat is dried for this purpose at 212° F., as long as it suffers loss. 2d. The _proportions of organic matter and ash_ are ascertained by carefully burning a weighed sample of the peat. By this trial we distinguish between peat with 2 to 10 _per cent._ of ash and peaty soil, or mud, containing but a few _per cent._ of organic matter. This experiment may be made in a rough way, but with sufficient accuracy for common purposes, by burning a few lbs. or ozs. of peat upon a piece of sheet iron, or in a sauce pan, and noting the loss, which includes both _water_ and _organic matter_. 3d. As further regards the organic matters, we ascertain _the extent to which the peaty decomposition has taken place_ by boiling with dilute solution of carbonate of soda. This solvent separates the humic and ulmic acids from the undecomposed vegetable fibers. For practical purposes this treatment with carbonate of soda may be dispensed with, since the amount of undecomposed fiber is gathered with sufficient accuracy from careful inspection of the peat. Special examination of the organic acids is of no consequence in the present state of our knowledge. 4th. The _proportion of nitrogen_ is of the first importance to be ascertained. In examinations of 30 samples of peat, I have found the content of nitrogen to range from 0.4 to 2.9 _per cent._, the richest containing seven times as much as the poorest. It is practically a matter of great moment whether, for example, a Peruvian guano contains 16 _per cent._ of nitrogen as it should, or but one-seventh that amount, as it may when grossly adulterated. In the same sense, it is important before making a heavy outlay in excavating and composting peat, to know whether (as regards nitrogen) it belongs to the poorer or richer sorts. This can only be done by the complicated methods known to the chemist. 5th. The estimation of _ammonia_ (actual or ready-formed,) is a matter of scientific interest, but subordinate in a practical point of view. 6th. _Nitric acid_ and _nitrates_ can scarcely exist in peat except where it is well exposed to the air, in a merely moist but not wet state. Their estimation in composts is of great interest, though troublesome to execute. 7th. As regards the ash, its red color indicates _iron_. Pouring hydrochloric acid upon it, causes effervescence in the presence of _carbonate of lime_. This compound, in most cases, has been formed in the burning, from humate and other organic salts of lime. _Sand_, or _clay_, being insoluble in the acid, remains, and may be readily estimated. _Phosphoric acid_ and alkalies, especially _potash_, are, next to lime, the important ingredients of the ash. _Magnesia_ and _sulphuric acid_, rank next in value. Their estimation requires a number of tedious operations, and can scarcely be required for practical purposes, until more ready methods of analyses shall have been discovered. 8th. The quantity of _matters soluble in water_ has considerable interest, but is not ordinarily requisite to be ascertained. 6.--_Composition of Connecticut Peats_. In the years 1857 and 1858, the author was charged by the Connecticut State Agricultural Society[8] with the chemical investigation of 33 samples of peat and swamp muck, sent to him in compliance with official request. In the foregoing pages, the facts revealed by the laborious analyses executed on these samples, have been for the most part communicated, together with many valuable practical results derived from the experience of the gentlemen who sent in the specimens. The analytical data themselves appear to me to be worthy of printing again, for the information of those who may hereafter make investigations in the same direction.--See Tables I, II, and III, p.p. 89, 90, and 91. The specimens came in all stages of dryness. Some were freshly dug and wet, others had suffered long exposure, so that they were air-dry; some that were sent in the moist state, became dry before being subjected to examination; others were prepared for analysis while still moist. A sufficient quantity of each specimen was carefully pulverized, intermixed, and put into a stoppered bottle and thus preserved for experiment. The analyses were begun in the winter of 1857 by my assistant, Edward H. Twining, Esq. The samples 1 to 17 of the subjoined tables were then analyzed. In the following year the work was continued on the remaining specimens 18--33 by Dr. Robert A. Fisher. The method of analysis was the same in both cases, except in two particulars. In the earlier analyses, 1 to 17 inclusive, the treatment with carbonate of soda was not carried far enough to dissolve the whole of the soluble organic acids. It was merely attempted to make _comparative_ determinations by treating all alike for the same time, and with the same quantity of alkali. I have little doubt that in some cases not more than one-half of the portion really soluble in carbonate of soda is given as such. In the later analyses, 18 to 33, however, the treatment was continued until complete separation of the soluble organic acids was effected. By acting on a peat for a long time with a hot solution of carbonate of soda, there is taken up not merely a quantity of organic matter, but inorganic matters likewise enter solution. Silica, oxyd of iron and alumina are thus dissolved. In this process too, sulphate of lime is converted into carbonate of lime. The total amount of these soluble inorganic matters has been determined with approximate accuracy in analyses 18 to 33. In the analyses 1 to 17 the collective amount of matters soluble in water was determined. In the later analyses the proportions of organic and inorganic matters in the water-solution were separately estimated. The process of analysis as elaborated and employed by Dr. Fisher and the author, is as follows: I. To prepare a sample for analysis, half a pound, more or less, of the substance is pulverized and passed through a wire sieve of 24 meshes to the inch. It is then thoroughly mixed and bottled. II. 2 grammes of the above are dried (in tared watch-glasses) at the temperature of 212 degrees, until they no longer decrease in weight. The loss sustained represents the _amount of water_, (according to MARSILLY, Annales des Mines, 1857, XII., 404, peat loses carbon if dried at a temperature higher than 212 degrees.) III. The capsule containing the residue from I. is slowly heated to incipient redness, and maintained at that temperature until the organic matter is entirely consumed. The loss gives the total amount of _organic_, the residue the total amount of _inorganic_ matter. NOTE.--In peats containing sulphate of the protoxide of iron, the loss that occurs during ignition is partly due to the escape of sulphuric acid, which is set free by the decomposition of the above mentioned salt of iron. But the quantity is usually so small in comparison with the organic matter, that it may be disregarded. The same may be said of the combined water in the clay that is mixed with some mucks, which is only expelled at a high temperature. IV. 3 grammes of the sample are digested for half an hour, with 200 cubic centimeters (66.6 times their weight,) of boiling water, then removed from the sand bath, and at the end of twenty-four hours, the clear liquid is decanted. This operation is twice repeated upon the residue; the three solutions are mixed, filtered, concentrated, and finally evaporated to dryness (in a tared platinum capsule,) over a water bath. The residue, which must be dried at 212 degrees, until it ceases to lose weight, gives the _total amount soluble in water_. The dried residue is then heated to low redness, and maintained at that temperature until the organic matter is burned off. The loss represents the amount of _organic matter soluble in water_, the ash gives the quantity of _soluble inorganic matter_. V. 1 gramme is digested for two hours, at a temperature just below the boiling point, with 100 cubic centimeters of a solution containing 5 _per cent._ of crystallized carbonate of soda. It is then removed from the sand bath and allowed to settle. When the supernatant liquid has become perfectly transparent, it is carefully decanted. This operation is repeated until all the organic matter soluble in this menstruum is removed; which is accomplished as soon as the carbonate of soda solution comes off colorless. The residue, which is to be washed with boiling water until the washings no longer affect test papers, is thrown upon a tared filter, and dried at 212 degrees. It is the _total amount of organic and inorganic matter insoluble in carbonate of soda_. The loss that it suffers upon ignition, indicates the amount of _organic matter_, the ash gives the _inorganic_ matter. NOTE.--The time required to insure perfect settling after digesting with carbonate of soda solution, varies, with different peats, from 24 hours to several days. With proper care, the results obtained are very satisfactory. Two analyses of No. 6, executed at different times, gave _total insoluble in carbonate of soda_--1st analysis 23.20 _per cent._; 2d analysis 23.45 _per cent._ These residues yielded respectively 14.30 and 14.15 _per cent._ of ash. VI. The quantity of _organic matter insoluble in water but soluble in solution of carbonate of soda_, is ascertained by deducting the joint weight of the amounts soluble in water, and insoluble in carbonate of soda, from the total amount of organic matter present. The _inorganic matter insoluble in water, but soluble in carbonate of soda_, is determined by deducting the joint weight of the amounts of inorganic matter soluble in water, and insoluble in carbonate of soda, from the total inorganic matter. VII. The amount of nitrogen is estimated by the combustion of 1 gramme with soda-lime in an iron tube, collection of the ammonia in a standard solution of sulphuric acid, and determination of the residual free acid by an equivalent solution of caustic potash and a few drops of tincture of cochineal as an indicator. The results of the analyses are given in the following Tables. Table I. gives the direct results of analysis. In Table II. the analyses are calculated on dry matter, and the nitrogen upon the organic matters. Table III. gives a condensed statement of the external characters and agricultural value[9] of the samples in their different localities, and the names of the parties supplying them. TABLE I.-COMPOSITION OF CONNECTICUT PEATS AND MUCKS. KEY: A - _Soluble in water._ B - _Insol. in water, but soluble in carbonate of soda._ C - _Insol. in water and carbonate of soda._ D - _Total._ E - _Water._ F - _Nitrogen._ G - _Total matters soluble in water._ -------------------------+-----------------------+ | ORGANIC MATTER. | _From Whom and |-----+-----+-----+-----+ Whence Received_ | A | B | C | D | -------------------------+~~~~~v~~~~~+-----+-----+ 1. Lewis M. Norton. | | | | Goshen Conn. | 17.63 |34.79|52.42| 2. " " " | 60.02 |11.65|71.67| 3. " " " | 50.60 |29.75|80.35| 4. Messrs. Pond & Miles.| | | | " Milford Conn. | 65.15 |11.95|77.10| 5. " " " | 67.75 |16.65|84.40| 6. Samuel Camp. | | | | Plainville Conn. | 43.20 | 8.90|52.10| 7. Russell U. Peck. | | | | Berlin Conn. | 38.49 |30.51|69.00| 8. Rev. B. F. Northrop. | | | | Griswold Conn. | 42.30 |10.15|52.45| 9. J. H. Stanwood. | | | | Colebrook Conn. | 49.65 | 7.40|57.05| 10. N. Hart, Jr. | | | | West Cornwall Conn.| 55.11 |10.29|65.40| 11. A. L. Loveland. | | | | North Granby " | 38.27 | 2.89|41.16| 12. Daniel Buck, Jr. | | | | Poquonock " | 27.19 |48.84|76.03| 13. " " " | 33.66 |40.51|74.17| 14. Philip Scarborough | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | 51.45 |25.00|76.45| 15. Adams White. | | | | Brooklyn " | 54.38 |23.14|77.52| 16. Paris Dyer. | | | | Brooklyn " | 18.86 | 5.02|23.88| 17. Perrin Scarborough. | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | 43.27 |16.83|60.10| 18. Geo. K. Virgin. | | | | Collinsville Conn.| 2.21|20.57| 8.25|31.03| 19. " " " | 1.12| 9.19| 5.10|15.41| 20. " " " | 0.72| 9.31| 3.65|13.68| 21. S. Mead. | | | | | New Haven Conn. | 3.30|40.52| 8.20|52.02| 22. Edwin Hoyt. | | | | | New Canaan " | 2.84|13.42| 7.55|23.81| 23. " " " | 2.34|13.49| 8.05|23.88| 24. " " " | 1.15|17.29| 8.00|26.44| 25. A. M. Haling. | | | | | Rockville " | 3.43|52.15| 8.65|64.23| 26. " " " | 3.87|71.57| 8.44|83.88| 27. " " " | 3.87|44.04| 4.25|52.16| 28. Albert Day. | | | | | Brooklyn " | 2.45|46.25| 6.35|55.05| 29. C. Goodyear. | | | | | New Haven " | 1.80|45.42|10.35|57.57| 30. Rev. Wm. Clift | | | | | Stonington " | 3.33|51.68| 9.80|64.81| 31. Henry Keeler. | | | | | South Salem N. Y. | 2.13|45.12|12.05|59.30| 32. John Adams. | | | | | Salisbury Conn. | 1.71|42.87|10.65|55.23| 33. Rev. Wm. Clift. | | | | | Stonington " | 5.40|16.72| 7.25|29.37| | | |-----| | Average | | | 2.06| | -------------------------+-----------------------+-----+-----+----- | INORGANIC MATTER. | | | _From Whom and |-----+-----+-----+-----| | | Whence Received_ | A | B | C | D | E | F | G -------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- 1. Lewis M. Norton. | | | | | | | Goshen Conn. | | | |35.21|12.37| 1.28| 1.54 2. " " " | | | | 8.00|20.33| 1.85| 3. " " " | | | | 4.52|15.13| 1.90| 2.51 4. Messrs. Pond & Miles.| | | | | | | " Milford Conn. | | | | 3.23|19.67| 1.20| 1.63 5. " " " | | | | 2.00|13.60| .95| 3.42 6. Samuel Camp. |~~~~~v~~~~~| | | | | Plainville Conn. | 14.90 |14.80|29.20|18.70| 2.10| 2.50 7. Russell U. Peck. | | | | | | | Berlin Conn. | | | |13.59|17.41| 1.62| 2.61 8. Rev. B. F. Northrop. | | | | | | | Griswold Conn. | | | |34.70|12.85| 1.31| 1.64 9. J. H. Stanwood. | | | | | | | Colebrook Conn. | | | | 4.57|38.38| 1.23| 1.83 10. N. Hart, Jr. | | | | | | | West Cornwall Conn.| | | |14.89|19.71| 2.10| 6.20 11. A. L. Loveland. | | | | | | | North Granby " | | | |47.24|11.60| 1.00| .75 12. Daniel Buck, Jr. | | | | | | | Poquonock " | | | | 5.92|18.05| 2.40| 2.94 13. " " " | | | | 8.63|17.20| 2.40| 1.80 14. Philip Scarborough. | | | | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | | | | 7.67|15.88| 1.20| 1.43 15. Adams White. | | | | | | | Brooklyn " | | | | 9.03|13.45| 2.89| 5.90 16. Paris Dyer. | | | | | | | Brooklyn " | | | |67.77| 8.35| 1.03| 2.63 17. Perrin Scarborough. | | | | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | | | |25.78|14.12| 0.86|15.13 18. Geo. K. Virgin. | | | | | | | Collinsville Conn.| 0.32| 9.41|48.05|57.78|11.19| 0.64| 2.53 19. " " " | 0.28| 1.08|48.65|50.01|34.58| 0.34| 1.40 20. " " " | 0.25| 0.76|28.20|29.21|57.11| 0.28| .97 21. S. Mead. | | | | | | | New Haven Conn. | 2.60|10.02|23.90|36.52|11.46| 1.51| 5.90 22. Edwin Hoyt. | | | | | | | New Canaan " | 2.72|19.88|46.30|68.90| 7.29| 0.45| 5.56 23. " " " | 1.54|12.42|56.20|70.16| 5.96| 0.90| 3.88 24. " " " | 1.67|14.13|51.10|66.90| 6.66| 1.01| 2.82 25. A. M. Haling. | | | | | | | Rockville " | 0.35| 0.16| 4.90| 5.41|30.36| 1.62| 3.78 26. " " " | 0.23| | 1.98| 2.21|13.91| 1.32| 4.10 27. " " " | 0.51| 4.07| 5.05| 9.63|38.21| 1.88| 4.38 28. Albert Day. | | | | | | | Brooklyn " | 0.32| 0.65| 5.40| 6.37|38.58| 0.84| 2.77 29. C. Goodyear. | | | | | | | New Haven " | 0.35| 7.98|18.80|27.13|15.30| 1.68| 2.15 30. Rev. Wm. Clift | | | | | | | Stonington " | 2.82| | 5.86| 8.68|26.51| 0.95| 6.15 31. Henry Keeler. | | | | | | | South Salem N. Y. | 0.78| 3.79|16.70|21.27|19.43| 1.57| 2.91 32. John Adams. | | | | | | | Salisbury Conn. | 1.02| 1.33|14.35|16.70|28.07| 1.76| 2.73 33. Rev. Wm. Clift. | | | | | | | Stonington " | 7.40| 6.40|48.05|61.85| 8.78| 1.32| 2.80 | | |-----| | |-----|----- Average | | | 1.44| | | 1.37| 3.72 TABLE II.-COMPOSITION OF CONNECTICUT PEATS AND MUCKS. _Calculated in the dry state: the percentage of nitrogen calculated also on organic matters._ KEY: A - _In this table the matters soluble in water and the nitrogen are calculated to two places of decimals; the other ingredients are expressed in round numbers._ B - _Soluble in water._ C - _Insol. in water, but soluble in carbonate of soda._ D - _Insol. in water and carbonate of soda._ E - _Total._ F - _Total matters soluble in water._ G - _Nitrogen._ H - _Nitrogen in per cent. of the organic matter._ -------------------------+-----------------------+ | ORGANIC MATTER. | |-----+-----+-----+-----+ A | B | C | D | E | -------------------------+~~~~~v~~~~~+-----+-----+ 1. Lewis M. Norton. | | | | Goshen Conn. | 20 | 40 | 60 | 2. " " " | 75 | 15 | 90 | 3. " " " | 60 | 35 | 95 | 5. Messrs. Pond & Miles.| | | | " Milford Conn. | 81 | 15 | 96 | 5. " " " | 79 | 19 | 98 | 6. Samuel Camp. | | | | Plainville Conn. | 53 | 11 | 64 | 7. Russell U. Peck. | | | | Berlin Conn. | 46 | 37 | 83 | 8. Rev. B. F. Northrop. | | | | Griswold Conn. | 48 | 11 | 59 | 9. J. H. Stanwood. | | | | Colebrook Conn. | 75 | 11 | 86 | 10. N. Hart, Jr. | | | | West Cornwall Conn.| 69 | 13 | 82 | 11. A. L. Loveland. | | | | North Granby " | 43 | 4 | 47 | 12. Daniel Buck, Jr. | | | | Poquonock " | 33 | 60 | 93 | 13. " " " | 41 | 49 | 90 | 14. Philip Scarborough. | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | 61 | 30 | 91 | 15. Adams White. | | | | Brooklyn " | 63 | 27 | 90 | 16. Paris Dyer. | | | | Brooklyn " | 21 | 5 | 26 | 17. Perrin Scarborough. | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | 62 | 8 | 70 | 18. Geo. K. Virgin. | | | | Collinsville Conn.| 2.48| 23 | 9 | 35 | 19. " " " | 1.72| 14 | 8 | 23 | 20. " " " | 1.67| 22 | 8 | 32 | 21. Solomon Mead. | | | | | New Haven Conn. | 3.70| 48 | 9 | 60 | 22. Edwin Hoyt. | | | | | New Canaan " | 3.05| 14 | 8 | 26 | 23. " " " | 2.47| 14 | 8 | 25 | 24. " " " | 1.23| 18 | 9 | 28 | 25. A. M. Haling. | | | | | Rockville " | 4.90| 75 | 12 | 92 | 26. " " " | 4.50| 83 | 10 | 97 | 27. " " " | 6.24| 71 | 7 | 84 | 28. Albert Day. | | | | | Brooklyn " | 4.01| 76 | 10 | 90 | 29. C. Goodyear. | | | | | New Haven " | 2.11| 54 | 12 | 68 | 30. Rev. Wm. Clift | | | | | Stonington " | 4.56| 71 | 13 | 88 | 31. Henry Keeler. | | | | | South Salem N. Y. | 2.66| 56 | 15 | 73 | 32. John Adams. | | | | | Salisbury Conn. | 2.37| 59 | 15 | 76 | 33. Rev. Wm. Clift. | | | | | Stonington " | 5.93| 18 | 8 | 32 | -------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+ -------------------------+-----------------------+-----+-----+----- | INORGANIC MATTER. | | | |-----+-----+-----+-----| | | A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H -------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- 1. Lewis M. Norton. | | | | | | | Goshen Conn. | | | | 40 | 1.75| 1.46| 2.25 2. " " " | | | | 10 | | 2.32| 2.58 3. " " " | | | | 5 | 2.95| 2.23| 2.36 5. Messrs. Pond & Miles.| | | | | | | " Milford Conn. | | | | 4 | 2.03| 1.49| 1.55 5. " " " |~~~~~v~~~~~| | 2 | 3.97| 1.09| 1.12 6. Samuel Camp. | 18 | 18 | | | | Plainville Conn. | | | | 36 | 3.08| 2.58| 4.03 7. Russell U. Peck. | | | | | | | Berlin Conn. | | | | 17 | 3.27| 1.96| 2.34 8. Rev. B. F. Northrop. | | | | | | | Griswold Conn. | | | | 41 | 1.88| 1.50| 2.49 9. J. H. Stanwood. | | | | | | | Colebrook Conn. | | | | 14 | 2.77| 1.99| 2.15 10. N. Hart, Jr. | | | | | | | West Cornwall Conn.| | | | 18 | 7.75| 2.61| 3.21 11. A. L. Loveland. | | | | | | | North Granby " | | | | 53 | .85| 1.13| 2.43 12. Daniel Buck, Jr. | | | | | | | Poquonock " | | | | 7 | 3.58| 2.92| 3.15 13. " " " | | | | 10 | 2.16| 2.89| 2.23 14. Philip Scarborough. | | | | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | | | | 9 | 1.70| 1.42| 1.57 15. Adams White. | | | | | | | Brooklyn " | | | | 10 | 6.78| 3.33| 3.72 16. Paris Dyer. | | | | | | | Brooklyn " | | | | 74 | 2.85| 1.12| 4.31 17. Perrin Scarborough. | | | | | | | Brooklyn Conn. | | | | 30 |17.59| 1.00| 1.43 18. Geo. K. Virgin. | | | | | | | Collinsville Conn.| 0.35| 11 | 54 | 65 | 2.83| 0.72| 2.06 19. " " " | .43| 2 | 75 | 77 | 2.15| 0.51| 2.20 20. " " " | .58| 2 | 66 | 68 | 2.25| 0.65| 2.04 21. Solomon Mead. | | | | | | | New Haven Conn. | 2.92| 11 | 27 | 40 | 6.62| 1.70| 2.90 22. Edwin Hoyt. | | | | | | | New Canaan " | 2.92| 21 | 50 | 74 | 6.07| 0.48| 1.88 23. " " " | 1.63| 13 | 60 | 75 | 4.10| 0.95| 3.76 24. " " " | 1.79| 15 | 55 | 72 | 3.02| 1.08| 3.82 25. A. M. Haling. | | | | | | | Rockville " | .50| | 7 | 8 | 5.40| 2.32| 2.52 26. " " " | .27| | 2 | 3 | 4.77| 1.53| 1.57 27. " " " | .82| 7 | 8 | 16 | 7.06| 3.04| 3.64 28. Albert Day. | | | | | | | Brooklyn " | .52| 1 | 8 | 10 | 4.58| 1.36| 1.52 29. C. Goodyear. | | | | | | | New Haven " | .40| 9 | 22 | 32 | 2.51| 1.98| 2.91 30. Rev. Wm. Clift | | | | | | | Stonington " | 3.86| | 8 | 12 | 8.42| 1.29| 1.46 31. Henry Keeler. | | | | | | | South Salem N. Y. | .97| 5 | 21 | 27 | 3.63| 1.98| 2.64 32. John Adams. | | | | | | | Salisbury Conn. | 1.40| 2 | 20 | 24 | 3.77| 2.44| 3.18 33. Rev. Wm. Clift. | | | | | | | Stonington " | 8.13| 7 | 53 | 68 |14.06| 1.44| 4.49 -------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- TABLE III.--DESCRIPTION, ETC., OF PEATS AND MUCKS. _No._ _Color._ 1. Lewis M. Norton |chocolate-brown,| | |. 2. " " | " " | | | 3. " " |light-brown, | | | 4. Messrs. Pond & Miles|chocolate-brown,| | | | | 5. " " |brownish-red, | | | 6. Samuel Camp |black, | | | 7. Russell U. Peck |chocolate-brown,| | | 8. Rev. B. F. Northrop |grayish-brown, | | | | | 9. J. H. Stanwood |chocolate-brown,| | | 10. N. Hart, Jr |brownish-black, | 11. A. L. Loveland |black, | | | 12. Daniel Buck, Jr |chocolate-brown,| | | 13. " " | " " | 14. Philip Scarborough | | | | 15. Adams White |chocolate-brown,| | | 16. Paris Dyer |grayish-black, | | | 17. Perrin Scarborough |chocolate-brown,| | | | | 18. Geo. K. Virgin |light | | brownish-gray | | | 19. " " |chocolate-brown,| | | 20. " " |black, | 21. Solomon Mead |grayish-brown, | | | | | 22. Edwin Hoyt |brownish-gray, | | | 23. " " | " | | | 24. " " | " | | | 25. A. M. Haling |chocolate-brown,| 26. " " | " " | 27. " " | " " | | | 28. Albert Day |dark-brown, | | | | | 29. C. Goodyear |black, | | | 30. Rev. Wm. Clift |chocolate-brown,| | | | | 31. Henry Keeler |light-brown, | | | 32. John Adams | " | | | 33. Rev. Wm. Clift |dark ash-gray, | | | _Condition at Time of Analysis, _No._ Reputed value, etc._ 1. Lewis M. Norton |air-dry, tough, compact, heavy; from bottom; | 3 to 4 feet deep; very good in compost. 2. " " | " tough, compact, heavier than 1, from | near surface; very good in compost. 3. " " | " coherent but light, from between 1 and | 2, very good in compost. 4. Messrs. Pond & Miles| " coherent but light, surface peat, | considered better than No. 5; good in | compost. 5. " " | " very light and loose in texture, from | depth of 3 feet, good in compost. 6. Samuel Camp | " hard lumps, half as good as yard manure, | in compost equal to yard manure. 7. Russell U. Peck | " is good fresh, long exposed, half as | good as barn-yard manure. 8. Rev. B. F. Northrop | " light, easily crushed masses containing | sand, has not been used alone, good in | compost. 9. J. H. Stanwood |moist, hard lumps, used fresh good after first | year; excellent in compost. 10. N. Hart, Jr |air-dry, hard lumps, excellent in compost. 11. A. L. Loveland | " hard lumps, contains grains of coarse | sand. 12. Daniel Buck, Jr | " coherent cakes, good as top dressing on | grass when fresh; excellent in compost. 13. " " | " light surface layers of No. 12. 14. Philip Scarborough | " after exposure over winter, has | one-third value of yard-manure. 15. Adams White | " hard lumps, good in compost, causes | great growth of straw. 16. Paris Dyer | " easily crushed lumps, largely admixed | with soil. 17. Perrin Scarborough | " well-characterized "vitriol peat;" in | compost, after 1 year's exposure, gives | indifferent results. 18. Geo. K. Virgin | " light, coherent surface peat; sample | long exposed; astonishing results on | sandy soil. 19. " " |moist, crumbly, contains much sand, four feet | from surface. 20. " " |wet. 21. Solomon Mead |air-dry, light, porous, coherent from grass | roots; long weathered, good; fresh, | better in compost. 22. Edwin Hoyt | " loose, light, much mixed with soil, | good in compost. 23. " " | " No. 22 saturated with horse urine, | darker than No. 22. 24. " " | " No. 22 composted with white fish, | darker than No. 23; fish-bones evident. 25. A. M. Haling |moist, fresh dug. 26. " " |air-dry, No. 25 after two year's weathering. 27. " " |moist, fresh dug, good substitute for yard | manure as top-dressing on grass. 28. Albert Day | " coherent and hard; fresh dug, but from | surface where weathered; injurious to | crops; vitriol peat. (?) 29. C. Goodyear |air-dry, very hard tough cakes; when fresh dug, | "as good as cow dung." 30. Rev. Wm. Clift |moist, from an originally fresh water bog, | broken into 100 years ago by tide, now | salt marsh; good after weathering. 31. Henry Keeler |air-dry, leaf-muck, friable; when fresh, appears | equal to good yard manure. 32. John Adams |moist, overlies shell marl, fresh or weathered | does not compare with ordinary manure. 33. Rev. Wm. Clift |air-dry, from bottom of salt ditch, where tide | flows daily; contains sulphate of iron. FOOTNOTES: [2] The oxygen thus absorbed by water, serves for the respiration of fish and aquatic animals. [3] This sample contained also fish-bones, hence the larger content of nitrogen was not entirely due to absorbed ammonia. [4] Reichardt's analyses are probably inaccurate, and give too much ammonia and nitric acid. [5] These analyses were executed--A by Professor G. F. Barker; B by Mr. O. C. Sparrow; C by Mr. Peter Collier. [6] _Shell marl_, consisting of fragments and powder of fresh-water shells, is frequently met with, underlying peat beds. Such a deposit occurs on the farm of Mr. John Adams, in Salisbury, Conn. It is eight to ten feet thick. An air-dry sample, analyzed under the writer's direction, gave results as follows: "Water 30.62 {soluble in water 0.70} Organic matter { } 6.52 {insoluble in water 5.82} Carbonate of lime 57.09 Sand 1.86 Oxide of iron and alumina, with traces of potash, magnesia, sulphuric and phosphoric acid 3.91 ------- 100.00 Another specimen from near Milwaukee, Wis., said to occur there in immense quantities underlying peat, contained, by the author's analysis-- Water 1.14 Carbonate of lime 92.41 Carbonate of magnesia 3.43 Peroxide of iron with a trace of phosphoric acid 0.92 Sand 1.60 ------ 99.50 [7] To the kindness of Joseph Sheffield, Esq., of New Haven, the author is indebted for facilities in carrying on these experiments. [8] At the instigation of Henry A. Dyer, Esq., at that time the Society's Corresponding Secretary. [9] Derived from the communications published in the author's Report. Trans. Conn. State Ag. Soc. 1858 p.p. 101-153. PART III. ON PEAT AS FUEL. 1.--_Kinds of peat that make the best fuel._ The value of peat for fuel varies greatly, like its other qualities. Only those kinds which can be cut out in the shape of coherent blocks, or which admit of being artificially formed into firm masses, are of use in ordinary stoves and furnaces. The powdery or friable surface peat, which has been disintegrated by frost and exposure, is ordinarily useless as fuel, unless it be rendered coherent by some mode of preparation. Unripe peat which contains much undecomposed moss or grass roots, which is therefore very light and porous, is in general too bulky to make an effective heating material before subjection to mechanical treatment. The best peat for burning, is that which is most free from visible fiber or undecomposed vegetable matters, which has therefore a homogeneous brown or black aspect, and which is likewise free from admixture of earthy substances in the form of sand or clay. Such peat is unctuous when moist, shrinks greatly on drying, and forms hard and heavy masses when dry. It is usually found at a considerable depth, where it has been subjected to pressure, and then has such consistence as to admit of cutting out in blocks; or it may exist as a black mud or paste at the bottom of bogs and sluices. The value of peat as fuel stands in direct ratio to its content of carbon. We have seen that this ranges from 51 to 63 _per cent. of the organic matter_, and the increase of carbon is related to its ripeness and density. The poorest, youngest peat, has the same proportion of carbon as exists in wood. It does not, however, follow that its heating power is the same. The various kinds of wood have essentially the same proportion of carbon, but their heating power is very different. The close textured woods--those which weigh the most per cord--make the best fuel for most purposes. We know, that a cord of hickory will produce twice as much heat as a cord of bass-wood. Peat, though having the same or a greater proportion of carbon, is generally inferior to wood on account of its occupying a greater bulk for a given weight, a necessary result of its porosity. The best qualities of peat, or poor kinds artificially condensed, may, on the other hand, equal or exceed wood in heating power, bulk for bulk. One reason that peat is, in general, inferior to wood in heating effect, lies in its greater content of incombustible ash. Wood has but 0.5 to 1.5 _per cent._ of mineral matters, while peat contains usually 5 to 10 _per cent._, and often more. The oldest, ripest peats are those which contain the most carbon, and have at the same time the greatest compactness. From these two circumstances they make the best fuel. It thus appears that peat which is light, loose in structure, and much mixed with clay or sand, is a poor or very poor article for producing heat: while a dense pure peat is very good. A great drawback to the usefulness of most kinds of peat-fuel, lies in their great friability. This property renders them unable to endure transportation. The blocks of peat which are commonly used in most parts of Germany as fuel, break and crumble in handling, so that they cannot be carried far without great waste. Besides, when put into a stove, there can only go on a slow smouldering combustion as would happen in cut tobacco or saw-dust. A free-burning fuel must exist in compact lumps or blocks, which so retain their form and solidity, as to admit of a rapid draught of air through the burning mass. The bulkiness of ordinary peat fuel, as compared with hard wood, and especially with coal, likewise renders transportation costly, especially by water, where freights are charged by bulk and not by weight, and renders storage an item of great expense. The chief value of that peat fuel, which is simply cut from the bog, and dried without artificial condensation, must be for the domestic use of the farmer or villager who owns a supply of it not far from his dwelling, and can employ his own time in getting it out. Though worth perhaps much less cord for cord when dry than hard wood, it may be cheaper for home consumption than fuel brought from a distance. Various processes have been devised for preparing peat, with a view to bringing it into a condition of density and toughness, sufficient to obviate its usual faults, and make it compare with wood or even with coal in heating power. The efforts in this direction have met with abundant success as regards producing a good fuel. In many cases, however, the cost of preparation has been too great to warrant the general adoption of these processes. We shall recur to this subject on a subsequent page, and give an account of the methods that have been proposed or employed for the manufacture of condensed peat fuel. 2.--_Density of Peat._ The apparent[10] specific gravity of peat in the air-dry state, ranges from 0.11 to 1.03. In other words, a full cubic foot weighs from one-tenth as much as, to slightly more than a cubic foot of water, = 62-1/3 lbs. Peat, which has a specific gravity of but 0.25, may be and is employed as fuel. A full cubic foot of it will weigh about 16 lbs. In Germany, the cubic foot of "good ordinary peat" in blocks,[11] ranges from 15 to 25 lbs. in weight, and is employed for domestic purposes. The heavier peat, weighing 30 or more lbs. per cubic foot in blocks, is used for manufacturing and metallurgical purposes, and for firing locomotives. Karmarsch has carefully investigated more than 100 peats belonging to the kingdom of Hanover, with reference to their heating effect. He classifies them as follows:-- A. _Turfy peat_, (_Rasentorf_,) consisting of slightly decomposed mosses and other peat-producing plants, having a yellow or yellowish-brown color, very soft, spongy and elastic, sp. gr. 0.11 to 0.26, the full English cubic foot weighing from 7 to 16 lbs. B. _Fibrous peat_, unripe peat, which is brown or black in color, less elastic than turfy peat, the fibres either of moss, grass, roots, leaves, or wood, distinguishable by the eye, but brittle, and easily broken; sp. gr. 0.24 to 0.67, the weight of a full cubic foot being from 15 to 42 lbs. C. _Earthy peat._--Nearly or altogether destitute of fibrous structure, drying to earth-like masses which break with more or less difficulty, giving lustreless surfaces of fracture; sp. gr. 0.41 to 0.90, the full cubic foot weighing, accordingly, from 25 to 56 lbs. D. _Pitchy peat_, (_Pechtorf_,) dense; when dry, hard; often resisting the blows of a hammer, breaking with a smooth, sometimes lustrous fracture, into sharp-angled pieces. Sp. gr. 0.62 to 1.03, the full cubic foot weighing from 38 to 55 lbs. In Kane and Sullivan's examination of 27 kinds of Irish peat, the specific gravities ranged from 0.274 to 1.058. 3.--_Heating power of peat as compared with wood and anthracite._ Karmarsch found that in absolute heating effect 100 lbs. of turfy, air-dry peat, on the average = 95 lbs. of pine wood. " fibrous " " " = 108 " " " earthy " " " = 104 " " " pitchy " " " = 111 " " The comparison of heating power by bulk, instead of weight, is as follows:-- 100 cubic ft. of turfy peat, on the average[12] = 33 cubic ft. of pine wood, in sticks. " " fibrous " " = 90 cubic ft. of pine wood, in sticks. " " earthy " " = 145 cubic ft. of pine wood, in sticks. " " pitchy " " = 184 cubic ft. of pine wood, in sticks. According to Brix, the weight per English cord and relative heating effect of several air-dry peats--the heating power of an equal bulk of oak wood being taken at 100 as a standard--are as follows, _bulk for bulk_:[13] _Weight per _Heating cord._ effect._ Oak wood 4150 lbs. 100 Peat from Linum, 1st quality, dense and pitchy 3400 " 70 " " 2d " fibrous 2900 " 55 " " 3d " turfy 2270 " 53 Peat from Buechsenfeld, 1st quality, pitchy, very hard and heavy 3400 lbs. 74 Peat from Buechsenfeld, 2d quality 2730 " 64 These statements agree in showing, that, while weight for weight, the ordinary qualities of peat do not differ much from wood in heating power; the heating effect of _equal bulks_ of this fuel, as found in commerce, may vary extremely, ranging from one-half to three quarters that of oak wood. Condensed peat may be prepared by machinery, which will weigh more than hard wood, bulk for bulk, and whose heating power will therefore exceed that of wood. Gysser gives the following comparisons of a good peat with various German woods and charcoals, equal weights being employed, and split beech wood, air-dry, assumed as the standard.[14] Beech wood, split, air dry 1.00 Peat, condensed by Weber's & Gysser's method,[15] air-dried, with 25 _per cent._ moisture. 1.00 Peat, condensed by Weber's & Gysser's method, hot-dried, with 10 _per cent._ moisture. 1.48 Peat-charcoal, from condensed peat. 1.73 The same peat, simply cut and air-dried. 0.80 Beech-charcoal. 1.90 Summer-oak wood. 1.18 Birch wood. 0.95 White pine wood. 0.72 Alder. 0.65 Linden. 0.65 Red pine. 0.61 Poplar. 0.50 Some experiments have been made in this country on the value of peat as fuel. One was tried on the N. Y. Central Railroad, Jan. 3, 1866. A locomotive with 25 empty freight cars attached, was propelled from Syracuse westward--the day being cold and the wind ahead--at the rate of 16 miles the hour. The engineer reported that "the peat gave us as much steam as wood, and burnt a beautiful fire." The peat, we infer, was cut and prepared near Syracuse, N. Y. In one of the pumping houses of the Nassau Water Department of the City of Brooklyn, an experiment has been made for the purpose of comparing peat with anthracite, for the results of which I am indebted to the courtesy of Moses Lane, Esq., Chief Engineer of the Department. Fire was started under a steam boiler with wood. When steam was up, the peat was burned--its quantity being 1743 lbs., or 18 barrels--and after it was consumed, the firing was continued with coal. The pressure of steam was kept as nearly uniform as possible throughout the trial, and it was found that with 1743 lbs. of peat the engine made 2735 revolutions, while with 1100 lbs. of coal it made 3866 revolutions. In other words, 100 lbs. of coal produced 351-45/100 revolutions, and 100 lbs. of peat produced 156-91/100 revolutions. One pound of coal therefore equalled 2-24/100 lbs. of peat in heating effect. The peat burned well and generated steam freely. Mr. Lane could not designate the quality of the peat, not having been able to witness the experiment. These trials have not, indeed, all the precision needful to fix with accuracy the comparative heating effect of the fuels employed; for a furnace, that is adapted for wood, is not necessarily suited to peat, and a coal grate must have a construction unlike that which is proper for a peat fire; nevertheless they exhibit the relative merits of wood, peat, and anthracite, with sufficient closeness for most practical purposes. Two considerations would prevent the use of ordinary cut peat in large works, even could two and one-fourth tons of it be afforded at the same price as one ton of coal. The Nassau Water Department consumes 20,000 tons of coal yearly, the handling of which is a large expense, six firemen being employed to feed the furnaces. To generate the same amount of steam with peat of the quality experimented with, would require the force of firemen to be considerably increased. Again, it would be necessary to lay in, under cover, a large stock of fuel during the summer, for use in winter, when peat cannot be raised. Since a barrel of this peat weighed less than 100 lbs., the short ton would occupy the volume of 20 barrels; as is well known, a ton of anthracite can be put into 8 barrels. A given weight of peat therefore requires 2-1/2 times as much storage room, as the same weight of coal. As 2-1/4 tons of peat, in the case we are considering, are equivalent to but one ton of coal in heating effect, the winter's supply of peat fuel would occupy 5-5/8 times the bulk of the same supply in coal, admitting that the unoccupied or air-space in a pile of peat is the same as in a heap of coal. In fact, the calculation would really turn out still more to the disadvantage of peat, because the air-space in a bin of peat is greater than in one of coal, and coal can be excavated for at least two months more of the year than peat. It is asserted by some, that, because peat can be condensed so as to approach anthracite in specific gravity, it must, in the same ratio, approach the latter in heating power. Its effective heating power is, indeed, considerably augmented by condensation, but no mechanical treatment can increase its percentage of carbon or otherwise alter its chemical composition; hence it must forever remain inferior to anthracite. The composition and density of the best condensed peat is compared with that of hard wood and anthracite in the following statement:-- _In 100 _Carbon._ _Hydrogen._ _Oxygen and _Ash._ _Water._ _Specific parts._ Nitrogen._ Gravity._ Wood, 39.6 4.8 34.8 0.8 20.0 0.75 Condensed peat 47.2 4.9 22.9 5.0 20.0 1.20 Anthracite 91.3 2.9 2.8 3.0 1.40 In combustion in ordinary fires, the _water_ of the fuel is a source of waste, since it consumes heat in acquiring the state of vapor. This is well seen in the comparison of the same kind of peat in different states of dryness. Thus, in the table of Gysser, (page 97) Weber's condensed peat, containing 10 _per cent._ of moisture, surpasses in heating effect that containing 25 _per cent._ of moisture, by nearly one-half. The _oxygen_ is a source of waste, for heat as developed from fuel, is chiefly a result of the chemical union of atmospheric or free oxygen, with the carbon and hydrogen of the combustible. The oxygen of the fuel, being already combined with carbon and hydrogen, not only cannot itself contribute to the generation of heat, but neutralizes the heating effect of those portions of the carbon and hydrogen of the fuel with which it remains in combination. The quantity of heating effect thus destroyed, cannot, however, be calculated with certainty, because physical changes, viz: the conversion of solids into gases, not to speak of secondary chemical transformations, whose influence cannot be estimated, enter into the computation. _Nitrogen_ and ash are practically indifferent in the burning process, and simply impair the heating value of fuel in as far as they occupy space in it and make a portion of its weight, to the exclusion of combustible matter. Again, as regards density, peat is, in general, considerably inferior to anthracite. The best uncondensed peat has a specific gravity of 0.90. Condensed peat usually does not exceed 1.1. Sometimes it is made of sp. gr. 1.3. Assertions to the effect of its acquiring a density of 1.8, can hardly be credited of pure peat, though a considerable admixture of sand or clay might give such a result. The comparative heating power of fuels is ascertained by burning them in an apparatus, so constructed, that the heat generated shall expend itself in evaporating or raising the temperature of a known quantity of water. _The amount of heat that will raise the temperature of one gramme of water, one degree of the centigrade thermometer, is agreed upon as the unit of heat._[16] In the complete combustion of carbon in the form of charcoal or gas-coal, there are developed 8060 units of heat. In the combustion of one gramme of hydrogen gas, 34,210 units of heat are generated. The heating effect of hydrogen is therefore 4.2 times greater than that of carbon. It was long supposed that the heating effect of compound combustibles could be calculated from their elementary composition. This view is proved to be erroneous, and direct experiment is the only satisfactory means of getting at the truth in this respect. The data of Karmarsch, Brix, and Gysser, already given, were obtained by the experimental method. They were, however, made mostly on a small scale, and, in some cases, without due regard to the peculiar requirements of the different kinds of fuel, as regards fire space, draught, etc. They can only be regarded as approximations to the truth, and have simply a comparative value, which is, however, sufficient for ordinary purposes. The general results of the investigations hitherto made on all the common kinds of fuel, are given in the subjoined statement. The comparison is made in units of heat, and refers to equal weights of the materials experimented with. HEATING POWER OF DIFFERENT KINDS OF FUEL. Air-dry Wood 2800 " Peat 2500 3000 Perfectly dry Wood 3600 " " Peat 3000 4000 Air-dry Lignite or Brown Coal 3300 4200 Perfectly dry Lignite or Brown Coal 4000 5000 Bituminous Coal 3800 7000 Anthracite 7500 Wood Charcoal 6300 7500 Coke 6500 7600 4.--_Modes of Burning Peat._ In the employment of peat fuel, regard must be had to its shape and bulk. Commonly, peat is cut or moulded into blocks or sods like bricks, which have a length of 8 to 18 inches; a breadth of 4 to 6 inches, and a thickness of 1-1/2 to 3 inches. Machine peat is sometimes formed into circular disks of 2 to 3 inches diameter, and 1 to 2 inches thickness and thereabouts. It is made also in the shape of balls of 2 to 3 inches diameter. Another form is that of thick-walled pipes, 2 to 3 inches in diameter, a foot or more long, and with a bore of one-half inch. Flat blocks are apt to lie closely together in the fire, and obstruct the draft. A fire-place, constructed properly for burning them, should be shallow, not admitting of more than two or three layers being superposed. According to the bulkiness of the peat, the fire-place should be roomy, as regards length and breadth. Fibrous and easily crumbling peat is usually burned upon a hearth, _i. e._ without a grate, either in stoves or open fire-places. Dense peat burns best upon a grate, the bars of which should be thin and near together, so that the air have access to every part of the fuel. The denser and tougher the peat, and the more its shape corresponds with that usual to coal, the better is it adapted for use in our ordinary coal stoves and furnaces. 5.--_Burning of broken peat._ [Illustration: Fig. 1--STAIR GRATE.] Broken peat--the fragments and waste of the cut or moulded blocks, and peat as obtained by plowing and harrowing the surface of drained peat-beds--may be used to advantage in the _stair grate_, fig. 1, which was introduced some years ago in Austria, and is adapted exclusively for burning finely divided fuel. It consists of a series of thin iron bars 3 to 4 inches wide, _a_, _a_, _a_, ... which are arranged above each other like steps, as shown in the figure. They are usually half as long as the grate is wide, and are supported at each end by two side pieces or walls, _l._ Below, the grate is closed by a heavy iron plate. The fuel is placed in the hopper _A_, which is kept filled, and from which it falls down the incline as rapidly as it is consumed. The air enters from the space _G_, and is regulated by doors, not shown in the cut, which open into it. The masonry is supported at _u_, by a hollow iron beam. Below, a lateral opening serves for clearing out the ashes. The effect of the fire depends upon the width of the throat of the hopper at _u_, which regulates the supply of fuel to the grate, and upon the inclination of the latter. The throat is usually from 6 to 8 inches wide, according to the nature of the fuel. The inclination of the grate is 40 to 45° and, in general, should be that which is assumed by the sides of a pile of the fuel to be burned, when it is thrown up into a heap. This grate ensures complete combustion of fuel that would fall through ordinary grates, and that would merely smoulder upon a hearth. The fire admits of easy regulation, the ashes may be removed and the fuel may be supplied without _checking the fire_. Not only broken peat, but coal dust, saw dust, wood turnings and the like may be burned on this grate. The figure represents it as adapted to a steam boiler. 6.--_Hygroscopic water of peat fuel._ The quantity of water retained by air-dried peat appears to be the same as exists in air-dried wood, viz., about 20 _per cent._ The proportion will vary however according to the time of seasoning. In thoroughly seasoned wood or peat, it may be but 15 _per cent._; while in the poorly dried material it may amount to 25 or more _per cent._ When _hot-dried_, the proportion of water may be reduced to 10 _per cent._, or less. When peat is still moist, it gathers water rapidly from damp air, and in this condition has been known to burst the sheds in which it was stored, but after becoming dry to the eye and feel, it is but little affected by dampness, no more so, it appears, than seasoned wood. 7.--_Shrinkage._ In estimating the value and cost of peat fuel, it must be remembered that peat shrinks greatly in drying, so that three to five cords of fresh peat yield but one cord of dry peat. When the fiber of the peat is broken by the hand, or by machinery, the shrinkage is often much greater, and may sometimes amount to seven-eighths of the original volume.--_Dingler's Journal, Oct. 1864_, _S._ 68. The difference in weight between fresh and dry peat is even greater. Fibrous peat, fresh from the bog, may contain ninety _per cent._ of water, of which seventy _per cent._ must evaporate before it can be called dry. The proportion of water in earthy or pitchy peat is indeed less; but the quantity is always large, so that from five to nine hundred weight of fresh peat must be lifted in order to make one hundred weight of dry fuel. 8.--_Time of excavation, and drying._ Peat which is intended to be used after simply drying, must be excavated so early in the season that it shall become dry before frosty weather arrives: because, if frozen when wet, its coherence is destroyed, and on thawing it falls to a powder useless for fuel. Peat must be dried with certain precautions. If a block of fresh peat be exposed to hot sunshine, it dries and shrinks on the surface much more rapidly than within: as a consequence it cracks, loses its coherence, and the block is easily broken, or of itself falls to pieces. In Europe, it is indeed customary to dry peat without shelter, the loss by too rapid drying not being greater than the expense of building and maintaining drying sheds. There however the sun is not as intense, nor the air nearly so dry, as it is here. Even there, the occurrence of an unusually hot summer, causes great loss. In our climate, some shelter would be commonly essential unless the peat be dug early in the spring, so as to lose the larger share of its water before the hot weather; or, as would be best of all, in the autumn late enough to escape the heat, but early enough to ensure such dryness as would prevent damage by frost. The peculiarities of climate must decide the time of excavating and the question of shelter. The point in drying peat is to make it lose its water gradually and regularly, so that the inside of each block shall dry nearly as fast as the outside. Some of the methods of hot-drying peat, will be subsequently noticed. Summer or fall digging would be always advantageous on account of the swamps being then most free from water. In Bavaria, peat is dug mostly in July and the first half of August. 9.--_Drainage._ When it is intended to raise peat fuel _in the form of blocks_, the bog should be drained no more rapidly than it is excavated. Peat, which is to be worth cutting in the spring, must be covered with water during the winter, else it is pulverized by the frost. So, too, it must be protected against drying away and losing its coherency in summer, by being kept sufficiently impregnated with water. In case an extensive bog is to be drained to facilitate the cutting out of the peat for use as fuel, the canals that carry off the water from the parts which are excavating, should be so constructed, that on the approach of cold weather, the remaining peat may be flooded again to the usual height. In most of the smaller swamps, systematic draining is unnecessary, the water drying away in summer enough to admit of easy working. In some methods of preparing or condensing peat by machinery, it is best or even needful to drain and air-dry the peat, preliminary to working. By draining, the peat settles, especially on the borders of the ditches, several inches, or even feet, according to its nature and depth. It thus becomes capable of bearing teams and machinery, and its density is very considerably augmented. 10.--_The Cutting of Peat._--a. _Preparations._ In preparing to raise peat fuel from the bog, the surface material, which from the action of frost and sun has been pulverized to "muck," or which otherwise is full of roots and undecomposed matters, must be removed usually to the depth of 12 to 18 inches. It is only those portions of the peat which have never frozen nor become dry, and are free from coarse fibers of recent vegetation, that can be cut for fuel. Peat fuel must be brought into the form of blocks or masses of such size and shape as to adapt them to use in our common stoves and furnaces. Commonly, the peat is of such consistence in its native bed, that it may be cut out with a spade or appropriate tool into blocks having more or less coherence. Sometimes it is needful to take away the surplus water from the bog, and allow the peat to settle and drain a while before it can be cut to advantage. When a bog is to be opened, a deep ditch is run from an outlet or lowest point a short distance into the peat bed, and the working goes on from the banks of this ditch. It is important that system be followed in raising the peat, or there will be great waste of fuel and of labor. If, as often happens, the peat is so soft in the wet season as to break on the vertical walls of a ditch and fill it, at the same time dislocating the mass and spoiling it for cutting, it is best to carry down the ditch in terraces, making it wide above and narrow at the bottom. b. _Cutting by hand._ The simplest mode of procedure, consists in laying off a "field" or plot of, say 20 feet square, and making vertical cuts with a sharp spade three or four inches deep from end to end in parallel lines, as far apart as it is proposed to make the breadth of the peats or sods, usually four to five inches. Then, the field is cut in a similar manner in lines at right angles to the first, and at a distance that shall be the length of the peats, say 18 to 20 inches. Finally, the workman lifts the peats by horizontal thrusts of his spade, made at a depth of three inches. The sods as lifted, are placed on a light barrow or upon a board or rack, and are carried off to a drying ground, near at hand, where they are laid down flatwise to drain and dry. In Ireland, it is the custom, after the peats have lain thus for a fortnight or so, to "foot" them, i. e. to place them on end close together; after further drying the "footing" is succeeded by "clamping," which is building the sods up into stacks of about twelve to fifteen feet long, four feet wide at bottom, narrowing to one foot at top, with a height of four to five feet. The outer turfs are inclined so as to shed the rain. The peat often remains in these clamps on the bog until wanted for use, though in rainy seasons the loss by crumbling is considerable. [Illustration: Fig. 2.--GERMAN PEAT-KNIFE.] Other modes of lifting peat, require tools of particular construction.... In Germany it is common to excavate by _vertical_ thrusts of the tool, the cutting part of which is represented above, fig. 2. This tool is pressed down into the peat to a depth corresponding to the thickness of the required block: its three edges cut as many sides of the block, and the bottom is then broken or torn out by a prying motion. In other cases, this or a similar tool is forced down by help of the foot as deeply into the peat as possible by a workman standing above, while a second man in the ditch cuts out the blocks of proper thickness by means of a sharp spade thrust horizontally. When the peats are taken out to the depth of the first vertical cutting, the knife is used again from above, and the process is thus continued as before, until the bottom of the peat or the desired depth is reached. In Ireland, is employed the "slane," a common form of which is shown in fig. 3, it being a long, narrow and sharp spade, 20 inches by six, with a wing at right angles to the blade. [Illustration: Fig. 3.--IRISH SLANE.] The peats are cut by one thrust of this instrument which is worked by the arms alone. After a vertical cut is made by a spade, in a line at right angles to a bank of peat, the slane cuts the bottom and other side of the block; while at the end the latter is simply lifted or broken away. Peat is most easily cut in a vertical direction, but when, as often happens, it is made up of layers, the sods are likely to break apart where these join. Horizontal cutting is therefore best for stratified peat. _System employed in East Friesland._--In raising peat, great waste both of labor and of fuel may easily occur as the result of random and unsystematic methods of working. For this reason, the mode of cutting peat, followed in the extensive moors of East Friesland, is worthy of particular description. There, the business is pursued systematically on a plan, which, it is claimed, long experience[17] has developed to such perfection that the utmost economy of time and labor is attained. The cost of producing marketable peat in East Friesland in 1860, was one silver groschen=about 2-1/2 cents, per hundred weight; while at that time, in Bavaria, the hundred weight cost three times as much when fit for market; and this, notwithstanding living and labor are much cheaper in the latter country. The method to be described, presupposes that the workmen are not hindered by water, which, in most cases, can be easily removed from the high-moors of the region. The peat is worked in long stretches of 10 feet in width, and 100 to 1000 paces in length: each stretch or plot is excavated at once to a considerable depth and to its full width. Each successive year the excavation is widened by 10 feet, its length remaining the same. Sometimes, unusual demand leads to more rapid working; but the width of 10 feet is adhered to for each cutting, and, on account of the labor of carrying the peats, it is preferred to extend the length rather than the width. Assuming that the peat bed has been opened by a previous cutting, to the depth of 5-1/2 feet, and the surface muck and light peat, 1-1/2 feet thick, have been thrown into the excavation of the year before--a new plot is worked by five men as follows. One man, the "Bunker," removes from the surface, about two inches of peat, disintegrated by the winter's frost, throwing it into last year's ditch. Following him, come two "Diggers," of whom one stands on the surface of the peat, and with a heavy, long handled tool, cuts out the sides and end of the blocks, which are about seventeen by five inches; while the other stands in the ditch, and by horizontal thrusts of a light, sharp spade, removes the sods, each of five and a half inches thickness, and places them on a small board near by. Each block of peat has the dimensions of one fourth of a cubic foot, and weighs about 13 pounds. Two good workmen will raise 25 such peats, or 6-1/4 cubic feet, per minute. A fourth man, the "Loader," puts the sods upon a wheel-barrow, always two rows of six each, one upon the other, and-- A fifth, the "Wheeler," removes the load to the drying ground, and with some help from the Bunker, disposes them flatwise in rows of 16 sods wide, which run at right angles to the ditch, and, beginning at a little more than 10 feet from the latter, extend 50 feet. The space of 10 feet between the plot that is excavating, and the drying ground, is, at the same time, cleared of the useless surface muck by the Bunker, in preparation for the next year's work. With moderate activity, the five men will lift and lay out 12,000 sods (3000 cubic feet,) daily, and it is not uncommon that five first-rate hands get out 16,800 peats (4200 cubic feet,) in this time. A gang of five men, working as described, suffices for cutting out a bed of four feet of solid peat. When the excavation is to be made deeper, a sixth man, the "Hanker," is needful for economical work; and with his help the cutting may be extended down to nine and a half feet; i. e. through eight feet of solid peat. The cutting is carried down at first, four feet as before, but the peats are carried 50 feet further, in order to leave room for those to be subsequently lifted. The "Hanker" aids here, with a second wheel-barrow. In taking out the lower peat, the "Hanker" stands on the bottom of the first excavation, receives the blocks from the Diggers, on a broad wooden shovel, and hands them up to the Loader; while the Wheeler, having only the usual distance to carry them, lays them out in the drying rows without difficulty. After a little drying in the rows, the peats are gradually built up into narrow piles, like a brick wall of one and a half bricks thickness. These piles are usually raised by women. They are made in the spaces between the rows, and are laid up one course at a time, so that each block may dry considerably, before it is covered by another. A woman can lay up 12,000 peats daily--the number lifted by 5 men--and as it requires about a month of good weather to give each course time (two days) to dry, she is able to pile for 30 gangs of workmen. If the weather be very favorable, the peats may be stacked or put into sheds, in a few days after the piling is finished. Stacking is usually practised. The stacks are carefully laid up in cylindrical form, and contain 200 to 500 cubic feet. When the stacks are properly built, the peat suffers but little from the weather. According to Schroeder, from whose account (Dingler's Polytechnisches Journal, Bd. 156, S. 128) the above statements are derived, the peats excavated under his direction, in drying thoroughly, shrank to about one-fourth of their original bulk (became 12 inches x 3 inches x 3 inches,) and to one-seventh or one-eighth of their original weight. c. _Machines for Cutting Peat._ In North Prussia, the Peat Cutting Machine of Brosowsky, see fig. 4, is extensively employed. It consists of a cutter, made like the four sides of a box, but with oblique edges, _a_, which by its own weight, and by means of a crank and rack-work, operated by men, is forced down into the peat to a depth that may reach 20 feet. It can cut only at the edge of a ditch or excavation, and when it has penetrated sufficiently, a spade like blade, _d_, is driven under the cutter by means of levers _c_, and thus a mass is loosened, having a vertical length of 10 feet or more, and whose other dimensions are about 24 � 28 inches. This is lifted by reversing the crank motion, and is then cut up by the spade into blocks of 14 inches � 6 inches � 5 inches. Each parallelopipedon of peat, cut to a depth of 10 feet, makes 144 sods, and this number can be cut in less than 10 minutes. Four hands will cut and lay out to dry, 12,000 to 14,000 peats daily, or 3100 cubic feet. One great advantage of this machine consists in the circumstance that it can be used to raise peat from below the surface of water, rendering drainage in many cases unnecessary. Independently of this, it appears to be highly labor saving, since 1300 machines were put to use in Mecklenburg and Pomerania in about 5 years from its introduction. The Mecklenburg moors are now traversed by canals, cut by this machine, which are used for the transportation of the peat to market.[18] [Illustration: Fig. 4.--BROSOWSKY'S PEAT CUTTER.] Lepreux in Paris, has invented a similar but more complicated machine, which is said to be very effective in its operation. According to Hervé Mangon, this machine, when worked by two men, raises and cuts 40,000 peats daily, of which seven make one cubic foot, equal to 5600 cubic feet. The saving in expense by using this machine[19] is said to be 70 _per cent._, when the peat to be raised is under water. 11.--_The Dredging of Peat._ When peat exists, not as a coherent more or less fibrous mass, but as a paste or mud, saturated with water, it cannot be raised and formed by the methods above described. In such cases the peat is dredged from the bottom of the bog by means of an iron scoop, like a pail with sharp upper edges, which is fastened to a long handle. The bottom is made of coarse sacking, so that the water may run off. Sometimes, a stout ring of iron with a bag attached, is employed in the same way. The fine peat is emptied from the dredge upon the ground, where it remains, until the water has been absorbed or has evaporated, so far as to leave the mass somewhat firm and plastic. In the mean time, a drying bed is prepared by smoothing, and, if needful, stamping a sufficient space of ground, and enclosing it in boards 14 inches wide, set on edge. Into this bed the partially dried peat is thrown, and, as it cracks on the surface by drying, it is compressed by blows with a heavy mallet or flail, or by treading it with flat boards, attached to the feet, somewhat like snow shoes. By this treatment the mass is reduced to a continuous sheet of less than one-half its first thickness, and becomes so firm, that a man's step gives little impression in it. The boards are now removed, and it is cut into blocks by means of a very thin, sharp spade. Every other block being lifted out and placed crosswise upon those remaining, air is admitted to the whole and the drying goes on rapidly. This kind of peat is usually of excellent quality. In North Germany it is called "Baggertorf," i. e. mud-peat. Peat is sometimes dredged by machinery, as will be noticed hereafter. 12.--_The Moulding of Peat._ When black, earthy or pitchy peat cannot be cut, and is not so saturated with water as to make a mud; it is, after raking or picking out roots, etc., often worked into a paste by the hands or feet, with addition of water, until it can be formed into blocks which, by slow drying, acquire great firmness. In Ireland this product is termed "hand-peat." In Germany it is called "Formtorf," _i. e._ moulded peat, or "Backtorf," _i. e._ baked peat. The shaping is sometimes accomplished by plastering the soft mass into wooden moulds, as in making bricks. 13.--_Preparation of Peat Fuel by Machinery, etc._ Within the last 15 years, numerous inventions have been made with a view to improving the quality of peat fuel, as well as to expedite its production. These inventions are directed to the following points, viz.: 1. _Condensation_ of the peat, so as bring more fuel into a given space, thus making it capable of giving out an intenser heat; at the same time increasing its hardness and toughness, and rendering it easier and more economical of transportation. 2. _Drying_ by artificial heat or reducing the amount of water from 20 or 25 _per cent._ to half that quantity or less. This exalts the heating power in no inconsiderable degree. 3. _Charring._ Peat-charcoal is as much better than peat, for use where intense heat is required, as wood charcoal is better than wood. 4. _Purifying from useless matters._ Separation of earthy admixtures which are incombustible and hinder draught. A.--_Condensation by Pressure._ _Pressing Wet Peat._--The condensation of peat was first attempted by subjecting the fresh, wet material, to severe pressure. As long ago as the year 1821, Pernitzsch, in Saxony, prepared peat by this method, and shortly afterwards Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, in Scotland, and others, adopted the same principle. Simple pressure will, indeed, bring fresh peat at once into much smaller bulk; but, if the peat be fibrous and light, and for this reason require condensation, it is also elastic, and, when the pressure is relieved, it acquires again much of its original volume. Furthermore, although pressure will squeeze out much water from a saturated well-ripened peat, the complete drying of the pressed blocks usually requires as much or more time than that of the unpressed material, on account of the closeness of texture of the surface produced by the pressure. The advantages of subjecting fresh peat to pressure in the ordinary presses, it is found, are more than offset by the expense of the operation, and it is therefore unnecessary to give the subject further attention. Fresh peat appears however to have been advantageously pressed by other mechanical means. Two methods require notice. _Mannhardt's Method_, invented about the year 1858, has been practically applied on the large scale at _Schleissheim_, Bavaria. Mannhardt's machine consists of two colossal iron rolls, each of 15 feet diameter, and 6-1/2 feet length, geared into each other so as to revolve horizontally in opposite directions and with equal velocity. These rolls are hollow, their circumference consists of stout iron plate perforated with numerous small holes, and is supported by iron bars which connect the ends of the roll, having intervals between them of about one inch. Each roll is covered by an endless band of hair cloth, stretched over and kept in place by rollers. The rolls are operated by a steam engine of 12 horse power. The fresh peat is thrown into a hopper, and passing between the rolls, loses a considerable share of its water, issuing as a broad continuous sheet, which is divided into blocks by an arrangement presently to be described. The cloth, covering the rolls, must have great strength, sufficient porosity to allow water to pass it freely, and such closeness of texture as to retain the fine particles of peat. Many trials have led to the use of a fabric, specially made for the purpose, of goat's hair. The cloth for each pair of rolls, costs $160. The peat at Schleissheim is about 5 feet in depth, and consists of a dark-brown mud or paste, free from stones and sticks, and penetrated only by fine fibers. The peat is thrown up on the edge of a ditch, and after draining, is moved on a tram-way to the machine. It is there thrown upon a chain of buckets, which deliver it at the hopper above the rolls. The rolls revolve once in 7-1/3 minutes and at each revolution turn out a sheet of peat, which cuts into 528 blocks. Each block has, when moist, a length of about 12 inches, by 5 inches of width and 1-1/4 inches of thickness, and weighs on the average 1-1/2 lbs. The water that is pressed out of the peat, falls within the rolls and is conducted away; it is but slightly turbid from suspended particles. The band of pressed peat is divided in one direction as it is formed, by narrow slats which are secured horizontally to the press-cloth, at about 5 inches distance from each other. The further division of the peat is accomplished by a series of six circular saws, under which the peat is carried as it is released from the rolls, by a system of endless cords strung over rollers. These cords run parallel until the peat passes the saws; thenceforth they radiate, so that the peat-blocks are separated somewhat from each other. They are carried on until they reach a roll, over which they are delivered upon drying lattices. The latter move regularly under the roll; the peats arrange themselves upon them edgewise, one leaning against the other, so as to admit of free circulation of air. The lattices are loaded upon cars, and moved on a tram-way to the drying ground, where they are set up in frames. The peat-cake separates well from the press-cloths; but the pores of the latter become somewhat choked by fine particles that penetrate them. They are therefore washed at each revolution by passing before a pipe from which issue, against them, a number of jets of water under high pressure. The blocks, after leaving the machine, are soft, and require 5 or 6 days to become air-dry. When dry they are dense and of good quality, but not better than the same raw material yields by simple moulding. The capacity of the rolls, which easily turn out 100,000 peats in 24 hours, greatly exceeds at present that of the drying arrangements, and for this reason the works are not, as yet, remunerative. The rolls are, in reality, a simple forming machine. The pressure they exert on the peat, is but inconsiderable, owing to its soft pasty character; and since the pair of rolls costs $8000 and can only be worked 3 to 4 months, this method must be regarded rather as an ingenious and instructive essay in the art of making peat-fuel, than as a practical success. The persevering efforts of the inventor may yet overcome all difficulties and prove the complete efficacy of the method. It is especially important, that blocks of greater thickness should be produced, since those now made, pack together too closely in the fire. _Neustadt Method._--At Neustadt, in Hanover, a loose-textured fibrous peat was prepared for metallurgical use in 1860, by passing through iron rolls of ordinary construction. The peat was thereby reduced two-thirds in bulk, burned more regularly, gave a coherent coal, and withstood carriage better. The peat was, however, first cut into sods of regular size, and these were fed into the rollers by boys. b. _Pressing Air-dried Peat._ Some kinds of peat, when in the air-dry and pulverized state, yield by great pressure very firm, excellent, and economical fuel. _Lithuanian Process._--In Lithuania, according to Leo,[20] the following method is extensively adopted. The bog is drained, the surface moss or grass-turf and roots are removed, and then the peat is broken up by a simple spade-plow, in furrows 2 inches wide and 8 or 10 inches deep. The broken peat is repeatedly traversed with wooden harrows, and is thus pulverized and dried. When suitably dry, it is carried to a magazine, where it is rammed into moulds by a simple stamp of two hundred pounds weight. The broken peat is reduced to two-fifths its first bulk, and the blocks thus formed are so hard, as to admit of cutting with a saw or ax without fracture. They require no further drying, are of a deep-brown color, with lustrous surfaces, and their preparation may go on in winter with the stock of broken peat, which is accumulated in the favorable weather of summer. In this manufacture there is no waste of material. The peat is dry enough for pressing when, after forming in the hands to a ball, it will not firmly retain this shape, but on being let fall to the ground, breaks to powder. The entire cost of preparing 1000 peats for use, or market, was 2 Thalers, or $1.40. Thirty peats, or "stones" as they are called from their hardness, have the bulk of two cubic feet, and weigh 160 lbs. The cost of preparing a hundred weight, was therefore, (in 1859,) four Silver-groschen, or about 10 cents. The stamp is of simple construction, somewhat like a pile driver, the mould and face of the ram being made of cast iron. The above process is not applicable to _fibrous peat_. c. _Pressing Hot-dried Peat._ The two methods to be next described, are similar to the last mentioned, save that the peat is _hot-pressed_. _Gwynne's Method._--In 1853, Gwynne of London, patented machinery and a method for condensing peat for fuel. His process consisted, first, in rapidly drying and pulverizing the fresh peat by a centrifugal machine, or by passing between rollers, and subsequent exposure to heat in revolving cylinders; and, second, in compressing the dry peat-powder in a powerful press at a high temperature, about 180° F. By this heat it is claimed, that the peat is not only thoroughly dried, but is likewise partially decomposed; _bituminous matters being developed, which cement the particles to a hard dense mass_. Gwynne's machinery was expensive and complicated, and although an excellent fuel was produced, the process appears not to have been carried put on the large scale with pecuniary success. A specimen of so-called "Peat coal" in the author's possession, made in Massachusetts some years ago, under Gwynne's patent, appears to consist of pulverized peat, prepared as above described; but contains an admixture of rosin. It must have been an excellent fuel, but could not at that time compete with coal in this country. _Exter's Method._[21] [Illustration: Fig. 5.--EXTER'S DRYING OVEN.] [Illustration: Fig. 6.--EXTER'S DRYING OVEN.] In 1856, Exter, of Bavaria, carried into operation on an extensive scale, a plan of preparing peat-fuel in some respects not unlike the last mentioned method. Exter's works, belonging to the Bavarian Government, are on the Haspelmoor, situated between Augsburg and Munich. According to Ruehlmann, who examined them at the command of the Hanoverian Government in 1857, the method is as follows:--1. The bog is laid dry by drains and the surface is cleared of bushes, roots, and grass-turf, down to good peat. 2. The peat is broken up superficially to the depth of about one inch, by a gang of three plows, propelled by a portable steam engine. 3. The peat is further pulverized by a harrow, drawn by a yoke of oxen. 4. In two or three days after harrowing, the peat is turned by an implement like our cultivator, this process being repeated at suitable intervals. 5. The fine and air-dry peat is gathered together by scrapers, and loaded into wagons; then drawn by rope connected with the engine, to the press or magazine. 6. If needful, the peat, thus collected, is further pulverized by passing it through toothed rollers. 7. The fine peat is now introduced into a complicated drying oven, see figures 5 and 6. It falls through the opening _T_, and is moved by means of the spirals along the horizontal floors _O_, _O_, falling from one to another until it emerges at _Q_. The floors, _O_, _O_, are made by wide and thin iron chambers, through which passes waste steam from an engine. The oven is heated further by hot air, which circulates through the canals _K_, _K_. The peat occupies about one hour in its passage through the oven and falls from _Q_, into the press, having a temperature of from 120° to 140°Fahrenheit. The press employed at Staltach is essentially the same as that now used at the Kolbermoor, and figured on p. 125. It is a powerful eccentric of simple construction, and turns out continuously 40 finished peats per minute. These occupy about one-fourth the space of the peat before pressing, the cubic foot weighing about 72 lbs. The peats are 7 inches long, 3 inches wide, and one half to three quarters of an inch thick, each weighing three quarters of a pound. Three presses furnish annually 180,000 cwt. of condensed peat, which is used exclusively for firing locomotives. Its specific gravity is 1.14, and its quality as fuel is excellent. Ruehlmann estimated its cost, at Haspelmoor in 1857, at 8-1/2 Kreuzers, or a little more than 6 cents per cwt., and calculated that by adopting certain obvious improvements, and substituting steam power for the labor of men and cattle, the cost might be reduced to 6-1/2 Kreuzers, or a little more than 4 cents per cwt. Exter's method has been adopted with some modifications at Kolbermoor, near Munich, in Bavaria, at Miskolz, in Hungary, and also at the Neustadt Smelting Works, in Hanover. At the latter place, however, it appears to have been abandoned for the reasons that it could be applied only to the better kinds of peat; and the expense was there so great, that the finished article could not compete with other fuel in the Hanoverian markets. Details of the mechanical arrangements at present employed on the Kolbermoor, are as follows: After the bog is drained, and the surface cleared of dwarf pines, etc., and suitably leveled, the peat is plowed by steam. This is accomplished in a way which the annexed cut serves to illustrate. The plot to be plowed, is traversed through the middle by the railway _x_, _y_. A locomotive _a_, sets in motion an endless wire-rope, which moves upon large horizontal pulleys _o_, _o_, stationed at either border of the land. Four gang plows _b_, _b_, are attached to the rope, and as the latter is set in motion, they break up the strip of peat they pass over, completely. The locomotive and the pulleys are then moved back, and the process is repeated until the whole field has been plowed. The plows are square frames, carrying six to eight shares and as many coulters. [Illustration: Fig. 7.] The press employed at Kolbermoor, is shown in figs. 8 and 9. The hot peat falls into the hopper, _b_, _c_. The plunger _d_, worked in the cavity _e_, by an eccentric, allows the latter to fill with peat as it is withdrawn, and by its advance compresses it into a block. The blocks _m_, once formed, by their friction in the channel _e_, oppose enough resistance to the peat to effect its compression. In order to regulate this resistance according to the varying quality of the peat, the piece of metal _g_, which hangs on a pivot at _o_, is depressed or raised, by the screw _i_, so as to contract or enlarge the channel. At each stroke of the plunger a block is formed, and when the channel _e_ is once filled, the peats fall continuously from its extremity. Their dimensions are 7 inches long, 3-1/2 wide, and 1-1/2 thick. [Illustration: Fig. 8.--EXTER'S PEAT PRESS.] Several presses are worked by the same engine at the Kolbermoor, each of which turns out daily 200 to 300 cwt. of peats, which, in 1863, were sold at 24 Kreuzers (16 cents), per cwt. [Illustration: Fig. 9.--EXTER'S PEAT PRESS.] C. Hodgson has patented in Great Britain a compressing-ram similar to Exter's, and works were put up at Derrylea, in Ireland, some years ago, in which Exter's process of manufacturing peat fuel appears to have been adopted. _Elsberg's Process._ Dr. Louis Elsberg, of New York City, has invented a modification of Exter's method, which appears to be of great importance. His experimental machine, which is in operation near Belleville, N. J., consists of a cylindrical pug-mill, in which the peat, air-dried as in Exter's method, is further broken, and at the same time is subjected to a current of steam admitted through a pipe and jacket surrounding the cylinder. The steamed peat is then condensed by a pair of presses similar to that just described, which are fed directly from the mill. In this way the complicated drying oven of Exter is dispensed with. Elsberg & Co. are still engaged in perfecting their arrangements. Some samples of their making are of very excellent quality, having a density of 1.2 to 1.3. The pressing of air-dry peat only succeeds when it is made warm, and is, at the same time, moist. In Exter's original process the peat is considerably dried in the ovens, but on leaving them, is so moist as to bedew the hand that is immersed in it. It is, in fact, steamed by the vaporization of its own water. In Elsberg's process, the air-dry peat is not further desiccated, but is made moist and warm by the admission of hot steam. The latter method is the more ready and doubtless the more economical of the two. Whether the former gives a dryer product or not, the author cannot decide. Elsberg's peat occurs in cylindrical cakes 2 inches broad, and one inch in thickness. The cakes are somewhat cracked upon the edges, as if by contraction, in drying. When wet, the surface of the cakes swells up, and exfoliates as far as the water has penetrated. In the fire, a similar breaking away of the surface takes place, and when coked, the coal is but moderately coherent. The reasons why steamed peat admits of solidification by pressure, are simply that the air, ordinarily adhering to the fibres and particles, is removed, and the fibres themselves become softened and more plastic, so that pressure brings them into intimate contact. The idea that the heat develops bituminous matters, or fuses the resins which exist in peat, and that these cement the particles, does not harmonize with the fact that the peat, thus condensed, flakes to pieces by a short immersion in water. The great advantage of Exter's and Elsberg's method consists in avoiding what most of the others require, viz.: the expensive transportation and handling of fresh peat, which contains 80 to 90 _per cent._ of water, and the rapid removal of this excess of water before the manufacture. In the other methods the surplus water must be slowly removed during or after condensation. Again, enough peat may be air-dried and stored during summer weather, to supply a machine with work during the whole year. Its disadvantages are, that it requires a large outlay of capital and great expenditure of mechanical force. Its product is, moreover, not adapted for coking. B.--_Condensation without Pressure._ The methods of condensing peat, that remain to be described, are based upon radically different principles from those already noticed. In these, little or no pressure is employed in the operations; but advantage is taken of the important fact that when wet or moist peat is ground, cut or in any way reduced to a pulpy or pasty consistence, with destruction of the elastic fibres, it will, on drying, shrink together to a coherent mass, that may acquire a density and toughness much greater than it is possible to obtain by any amount of mere pressure. The various processes that remain to notice are essentially reducible to two types, of which the French method, invented by Challeton, and the German, invented it appears by Weber, are the original representatives. The former method is only applicable to earthy, well-decomposed peat, containing little fibre. The latter was originally applied to fibrous moss-peat, but has since been adapted to all kinds. Other inventors, English, German, and American, have modified these methods in their details, or in the construction of the requisite machinery, rendering them more perfect in their execution and perhaps more profitable in their results; but, as regards the essential principles of production, or the quality of product, no advance appears to have been made beyond the original inventors. a. _Condensation of Earthy Peat._ _Challeton's Method_ consists essentially in destroying the fibres, and reducing the peat by cutting and grinding with water to a pulp; then slowly removing the liquid, until the peat dries away to a hard coherent mass. It provides also for the purification of the peat from earthy matters. It is, in many respects, an imitation of the old Dutch and Irish mode of making "hand peat" (_Baggertorf_), and is very like the paper manufacture in its operations. Challeton's Works, situated near Paris, at Mennecy, near Montanges, were visited in 1856 by a Commission of the Agricultural Society of Holstein, consisting of Drs. Meyn and Luetkens, and also by Dr. Ruehlmann, in the interest of the Hanoverian Government. From their account[22] the following statements are derived. The peat at Mennecy comes from the decay of grasses, is black, well decomposed, and occasionally intermingled with shells and sand. The moor is traversed by canals, which serve for the transport of the excavated peat in boats. The peat, when brought to the manufactory, is emptied into a cistern, which, by communicating with the adjacent canal, maintains a constant level of water. From this cistern the peat is carried up by a chain of buckets and emptied into a hopper, where it is caught by toothed cylinders in rapid revolution, and cut or torn to pieces. Thence it passes into a chamber where the fine parts are separated from unbroken roots and fibres by revolving brushes, which force the former through small holes in the walls of the chamber, while the latter are swept out through a larger passage. The pulverized peat finally falls into a cistern, in which it is agitated by revolving arms. A stream of water constantly enters this vessel from beneath, while a chain of buckets as rapidly carries off the peat pulp. All sand, shells, and other heavy matters, remain at the bottom of this cistern. The peat pulp, thus purified, flows through wooden troughs into a series of basins, in which the peat is formed and dried. These basins are made upon the ground by putting up a square frame (of boards on edge,) about one foot deep, and placing at the bottom old matting or a layer of flags or reeds. Each basin is about a rod square, and 800 of them are employed. They are filled with the peat pulp to the top. In a few days the water either filters away into the ground, or evaporates, so that a soft stratum of peat, about 3 inches in thickness, remains. Before it begins to crack from drying, it is divided into blocks, by pressing into it a light trellis-like framework, having thin partitions that serve to indent the peat in lines corresponding to the intended divisions. On further drying, the mass separates into blocks at the lines thus impressed, and in a few days, they are ready to remove and arrange for further desiccation. The finished peats from Challeton's works, as well as those made by the same method near Neuchatel, Switzerland, by the Messrs. Roy, were of excellent quality, and in the opinion of the Commission from Holstein, the method is admirably adapted for the purification and concentration of the heavy kinds of peat. In Holstein, a French company constructed, and in 1857 worked successfully a portable machine for preparing peat on this plan, but were shortly restrained by legal proceedings. Of their later operations we have no information. No data are at hand regarding the cost of producing fuel by Challeton's machinery. It is believed, however, that his own works were unremunerative, and several manufactories on his pattern, erected in Germany, have likewise proved unprofitable. The principle is, however, a good one, though his machinery is only applicable to earthy or pitchy, and not to very fibrous peat. It has been elsewhere applied with satisfactory results. _Simplified machinery_ for applying Challeton's method is in operation at Langenberg, near Stettin, in Prussia.[23] The moss-meadows along the river Oder, near which Langenberg is situated, are but a foot or so higher at the surface than the medium level of this river, and are subject to frequent and sudden inundations, so that draining and partial drying of the peat are out of the question. The character of the peat is unadapted to cutting by hand, since portions of it are pitchy and crumble too easily to form good sods; and others, usually the lower layers, at a depth of seven feet or more, are made up to a considerable extent of quite firm reeds and flags, having the consistence of half decayed straw. The earthy peat is manufactured after Challeton's method. It is raised with a steam dredger of 20 horse power, and emptied into flat boats, seven in number, which are drawn to the works by an endless rope operated by horse power. The works themselves are situated on a small sand hill in the middle of the moor, and communicate by canal with the dredger and with the drying ground. A chain of buckets, working in a frame 45 feet long, attached by a horizontal hinge to the top of the machine house, reaches over the dock where the boats haul up, into the rear end of the latter; and, as the buckets begin to raise the peat, the boat itself is moved under the frame towards the house, until, with a man's assistance, its entire load is taken up. The contents of one boat are six square yards, with a depth of one foot, and a boat is emptied in 20 minutes time. Forty to forty-four boatloads are thus passed into the pulverizing machine daily, by two chains of buckets. The peat-mud falls from the buckets into a large wooden trough, which branches into two channels, conducting to two large tubs standing side by side. These tubs are 10 feet in diameter and 2 feet deep, and are made of 2-inch plank. Within each tub is placed concentrically a cylindrical sieve, or colander, 8 feet in diameter and 2 feet high, made of 3/8 round iron, and it is within this that the peat is emptied. The peat is stirred and forced through the meshes of the sieve by four arms of a shaft that revolves 20 times per minute, the arms carrying at their extremities stiff vertical brooms, which rub the inside of the sieve. In these four tubs the peat is pulverized under addition of water; the fine parts pass the sieves, while the latter retain the coarse fibres, roots, etc. The peat-mud flows from the tubs into mills, made like a flour mill, but the "stones" constructed of hard wood. The "stones" have a diameter of 8 feet 6 inches; the lower is 8 inches; the upper 21 inches thick. The pressure of the upper "stone" is regulated by adjusting the level of the discharging channel, so that the "stone" may be more or less buoyed, or even fully floated by the water with which it is surrounded. The peat-substance, which is thus finely ground, gathers from the four mills into a common reservoir whence it is lifted by a centrifugal pump into a trough, which distributes it over the drying ground. The drying ground consists of the surface formed by grading the sand hill, on which the works are built, and includes about 30 English acres. This is divided into small plots, each of which is enclosed on three sides with a wall of earth, and on the fourth side by boards set on edge. Each plot is surrounded by a ditch to carry off water, and by means of portable troughs, the peat is let on from the main channel. The peat-slime is run into these beds to the depth of 20 to 22 inches, an acre being covered daily. After 4 to 8 days, according to the weather, the peat has lost so much water, which, rapidly soaks off through the sand, that its surface begins to crack. It is then thoroughly trodden by men, shod with boards 5 inches by 10 inches, and after 6 to 8 days more, it is cut with sharp spades into sods. The peats are dried in the usual manner. The works at Langenberg yielded, in 1863, as the result of the operations of 60 days of 12 hours each, 125,000 cwt. of marketable peat. It is chiefly employed for metallurgical purposes, and sells at 3-1/3 Silver-groschen, or nearly 8 cents per cwt. The specific gravity of the peat ranges from 0.73 to 0.90. _Roberts' Process._ In this country attempts have been made to apply Challeton's method. In 1865, Mr. S. Roberts, of Pekin, N. Y., erected machinery at that place, which was described in the "Buffalo Express," of Nov. 17, 1865, as follows:-- "In outward form, the machine was like a small frame house on wheels, supposing the smoke-stack to be a chimney. The engine and boiler are of locomotive style; the engine being of thirteen horse power. The principal features of the machine are a revolving elevator and a conveyer. The elevator is seventy-five feet long, and runs from the top of the machine to the ground, where the peat is dug up, placed on the elevator, carried to the top of the machine, and dropped into a revolving wheel that cuts it up; separates from it all the coarse particles, bits of sticks, stones, etc.; and throws them to one side. The peat is next dropped into a box below, where water is passed in, sufficient to bring it to the consistency of mortar. By means of a slide under the control of the engineer, it is next sent to the rear of the machine, where the conveyer, one hundred feet long, takes it, and carries it within two rods of the end; at which point the peat begins to drop through to the ground to the depth of about four or five inches. When sufficient has passed through to cover the ground to the end of the conveyer,--two rods,--the conveyer is swung around about two feet, and the same process gone through, as fast as the ground under the elevator, for the distance of two rods in length and two feet in width gets covered, the elevator being moved. At each swing of the elevator, the peat just spread is cut into blocks (soft ones, however) by knives attached to the elevator. It generally takes from three to four weeks before it is ready for use. It has to lie a week before it is touched, after the knives pass through it; when it is turned over, and allowed to lie another week. It has then to be taken up, and put in a shed, and within a week or ten days can be used, although it is better to let it remain a little longer time. The machine can spread the peat over eighteen square rods of ground--taking out one square rod of peat--without being moved. After the eighteen rods are covered, the machine is moved two rods ahead, enabling it to again spread a semicircular space of some thirty-two feet in width by eighteen rods in length. The same power, which drives the engine, moves the machine. It is estimated by Mr. Roberts, that, by the use of this machine, from twenty to thirty tons of peat can be turned out in a day." Mr. Roberts informs us that he is making (April 1866,) some modifications of his machinery. He employs a revolving digger to take up the peat from the bed, and carry it to the machine. At the time of going to press, we do not learn whether he regards his experiments as leading to a satisfactory conclusion, or otherwise. _Siemens' method._ Siemens, Professor of Technology, in the Agricultural Academy, at Hohenheim, successfully applied the following mode of preparing peat for the Beet Sugar Manufactory at Boeblingen, near Hohenheim, in the year 1857. Much of the peat there is simply cut and dried in the usual manner. There is great waste, however, in this process, owing to the frequent occurrence of shells and clay, which destroy the coherence of the peat. Besides, a large quantity of material accumulates in the colder months, from the ditches which are then dug, that cannot be worked in the usual manner at that time of the year. It was to economize this otherwise useless material that the following process was devised, after a failure to employ Challeton's method with profit. In the first place, the peat was dumped into a boarded cistern, where it was soaked and worked with water, until it could be raised by a chain of buckets into the pulverizer. The pulverization of the peat was next effected by passing it through a machine invented by Siemens, for pulping potatoes and beets. This machine, (the same we suppose as that described and figured in Otto's Landwirthschaftliche Gewerbe), perfectly breaks up and grates the peat to a fine pulp, delivers it in the consistency of mortar into the moulds, made of wooden frames, with divisions to form the peats. The peat-paste is plastered by hand into these moulds, which are immediately emptied to fill again, while the blocks are carried away to the drying ground where they are cured in the ordinary style without cover. In this simple manner 8 men were able to make 10,000 peats daily, which, on drying, were considerably denser and harder than the cut peat. The peat thus prepared, cost about one-third more than the cut peat. Siemens reckoned, this greater cost would be covered by its better heating effect, and its ability to withstand transportation without waste by crumbling. b. _Condensation of fibrous peat._ _Weber's method._ At Staltach, in Southern Bavaria, Weber has established an extensive peat works, of which Vogel has given a circumstantial account.[24] The peat at Staltach is very light and fibrous, but remarkably free from mineral matters, containing less than 2 _per cent._ of ash in the perfectly dry substance. The moor is large, (475 acres), and the peat is from 12 to 20 feet in depth. The preparation consists in converting the fresh peat into pulp or paste, forming it into moulds and drying it; at first by exposure to the air at ordinary temperature, and finally, by artificial heat, in a drying house constructed for the purpose. The peat is cut out by a gang of men, in large masses, cleared of coarse roots and sticks, and pushed on tram wagons to the works, which, are situated lower than the surface of the bog. Arrived at the works, the peat is carried upon an inclined endless apron, up to a platform 10 feet high, where a workman pushes it into the pulverizing mill, the construction of which is seen from the accompanying cut. The vertical shaft _b_ is armed with sickle-shaped knives, _d_, which revolve between and cut contrary to similar knives _c_, fixed to the interior of the vessel. The latter is made of iron, is 3-1/2 feet high, 2 feet across at top and 1-1/2 feet wide at the bottom. From the base of the machine at _g_, the perfectly pulverized or minced peat issues as a stiff paste. If the peat is dry, a little water is added. Vogel found the fresh peat to contain 90 _per cent._, of water, the pulp 92 _per cent._ Weber's machine, operated by an engine of 10 horse power, working usually to half its capacity only, reduced 400 cubic feet of peat per hour, to the proper consistency for moulding. [Illustration: Fig. 10.--WEBER'S PEAT MILL.] Three modes of forming the paste into blocks have been practiced. One was in imitation of that employed with mud-peat. The paste was carried by railway to sheds, where it was filled by hand into moulds 17 inches by 7-1/4 by 5-1/2 inches, and put upon frames to dry. These sheds occupied together 52,000 square feet, and contained at once 200,000 peats. The peats remained here 8 to 14 days or more, according to the weather, when they were either removed to the drying house, or piled in large stacks to dry slowly out-of-doors. The sheds could be filled and emptied at least 12 times each season, and since they protected from light frosts, the season began in April and lasted until November. The second mode of forming the peat was to run off the pulp into large and deep pits, excavated in the ground, and provided with drains for carrying off water. The water soaked away into the soil, and in a few weeks of good weather, the peat was stiff enough to cut out into blocks by the spade, having lost 20 to 25 _per cent._ of its water, and 15 _per cent._ of its bulk. The blocks were removed to the drying sheds, and set upon edge in the spaces left by the shrinking of the peats made by the other method. The working of the peat for the pits could go on, except in the coldest weather, as a slight covering usually sufficed to protect them from frost. Both of these methods have been given up as too expensive, and are replaced, at present, by the following: In the third method the peat-mass falls from the mill into a hopper, which directs it between the rolls _A B_ of fig. 11, (see next page). The roll _A_ has a series of boxes on its periphery _m m_, with movable bottoms which serve as moulds. The peat is carried into these boxes by the rolls _c c_. The iron projections _n n_ of the large roll _B_, which work cog-like into the boxes, compress the peat gently and, at last, the eccentric p acting upon the pin _z_, forces up the movable bottom of the box and throws out the peat-block upon an endless band of cloth, which carries it to the drying place. The peats which are dried at first under cover and therefore slowly, shrink more evenly and to a greater extent than those which are allowed to dry rapidly. The latter become cracked upon the surface and have cavities internally, which the former do not. This fact is of great importance for the density of the peat, for its usefulness in producing intense heat, and its power to withstand carriage. [Illustration: Fig. 11--WEBER'S PEAT MOULDING MACHINE.] The _complete drying_ is, on the other hand, by this method, a much slower process, since the dense, fissureless exterior of the peats hinders the escape of water from within. It requires, in fact, several months of ordinary drying for the removal of the greater share of the water, and at the expiration of this time they are still often moist in the interior. Artificial drying is therefore employed to produce the most compact, driest, and best fuel. Weber's _Drying house_ is 120 feet long and 46 feet wide. Four large flues traverse the whole length of it, and are heated with the pine roots and stumps which abound in the moor. These flues are enclosed in brick-work, leaving a narrow space for the passage of air from without, which is heated by the flues, and is discharged at various openings in the brick-work into the house itself, where the peat is arranged on frames. The warm air being light, ascends through the peat, charges itself with moisture, thereby becomes heavier and falls to the floor, whence it is drawn off by flues of sheet zinc that pass up through the roof. This house holds at once 300,000 peats, which are heated to 130° to 145° F., and require 10 to 14 days for drying. The effect of the hot air upon the peat is, in the first place, to soften and cause it to swell; it, however, shortly begins to shrink again and dries away to masses of great solidity. It becomes almost horny in its character, can be broken only by a heavy blow, and endures the roughest handling without detriment. Its quality as fuel is correspondingly excellent. The effects of the mechanical treatment and drying on the Staltach peat, are seen from the subjoined figures: _Lbs. _Specific per Cubic _Per cent of Gravity._ Foot._ Water._ Peat, raised and dried in usual way, 0.24 15 18 to 20 Machine-worked and hot-dried 0.65 35 12 Vogel estimates the cost of peat made by Weber's method at 5 Kreuzers per (Bavarian) hundred weight, while that of ordinary peat is 13-1/2 Kreuzers. Schroeder, in his comparison of machine-wrought and ordinary peat, demonstrates that the latter can be produced much cheaper than was customary in Bavaria, in 1859, by a better system of labor. Weber's method was adopted with some improvements in an extensive works built in 1860, by the Government of Baden, at Willaringen, for the purpose of raising as much fuel as possible, during the course of a lease that expired with the year 1865. [Illustration: Fig. 12.--GEYSSER'S PEAT MACHINE.] _Gysser's method._[25]--Rudolph Gysser, of Freiburg, who was charged with the erection of the works at Willaringen just alluded to, invented a portable hand-machine on the general plan of Weber, but with important improvements; and likewise omitted and varied some details of the manufacture, bringing it within the reach of parties of small means. In the accompanying cuts, (figs. 12, 13, and 14), are given an elevation of Gysser's machine, together with a bird's-eye view and vertical section of the interior mechanism. [Illustration: Fig. 13.] [Illustration: Fig. 14.] It consists of a cast iron funnel _c d i_ of the elevation, (fig. 12), having above a sheet iron hopper _a b_ to receive the peat, and within a series of six knives fastened in a spiral, and curving outwards and downwards, (figs. 13 and 14); another series of three similar knives is affixed to a vertical shaft, which is geared to a crank and turned by a man standing on the platform _j k_; these revolving knives curve upwards and cut between and in a direction contrary to the fixed knives; below the knives, and affixed to the shaft a spiral plate of iron and a scraper _m_, (fig. 13), serve to force the peat, which has been at once minced and carried downwards by the knives, as a somewhat compressed mass through the lateral opening at the bottom of the funnel, whence it issues as a continuous hollow cylinder like drain-tile, having a diameter of four inches. The iron cone _i_, held in the axis of the opening by the thin and sharp-edged support _g h_, forms the bore of the tube of peat as it issues. Two men operate the machine; one turning the crank, which, by suitable gearing, works the shaft, and the other digging and throwing in the peat. The mass, as it issues from the machine, is received by two boys alternately, who hold below the opening a semi-cylindrical tin-plate shovel, (fig. 15), of the width and length of the required peats, and break or rather wipe them off, when they reach the length of 14 inches. [Illustration: Fig. 15.] [Illustration: Fig. 16.] The formed peats are dried in light, cheap and portable houses, Fig. 17, each of which consists of six rectangular frames supported one above another, and covered by a light roof. The frames, Fig. 16, have square posts at each corner like a bedstead, and are made by nailing light strips to these posts. The tops of these posts are obtusely beveled to an edge, and at the bottom they are notched to correspond. The direction of the edges and of the notches in two diagonally opposite posts, is at right angles to that of the other two. By this construction the frames, being of the same size, when placed above each other, fit together by the edges and notches of their posts into a structure that cannot be readily overturned. The upper frame has a light shingled roof, which completes the house. Each frame has transverse slats, cast in plaster of Paris, 20 in number, which support the peats. The latter being tubular, dry more readily, uniformly, and to a denser consistence than they could otherwise. The machine being readily set up where the peat is excavated, the labor of transporting the fresh and water-soaked material is greatly reduced. The drying-frames are built up into houses as fast as they are filled from the machine. They can be set up anywhere without difficulty, require no leveling of the ground, and, once filled, no labor in turning or stacking the peats is necessary; while the latter are insured against damage from rain. These advantages, Gysser claims, more than cover their cost. [Illustration: Fig. 17.] The daily production of a machine operated by two men with the assistance of one or two boys, is 2500 to 3000 peats, which, on drying, have 9-1/2 to 10 inches of length, and 2-1/2 in diameter, and weigh, on the average, one pound each. c.--_Condensation of peat of all kinds._--_Weber's method with modified machinery._ [Illustration: Fig. 18.--SCHLICKEYSEN'S PEAT MILL.] _Schlickeysen's Machine._[26]--This machine has been in use in Germany since 1860, in the preparation of peat. It appears to have been originally constructed for the working and moulding of clay for making bricks. The principle of its operation is identical with that of Weber's process. The peat is finely pulverized, worked into a homogenous mass, and moulded into suitable forms. Like Gysser's machine, it forces the peat under some pressure through a nozzle, or, in the larger kinds through several nozzles, whence it issues in a continuous block or pipe that is cut off in proper lengths, either by hand or by mechanism It consists of a vertical cylinder, through the axis of which revolves a shaft, whereon are fastened the blades, whose edges cut and whose winding figure forces down the peat. The blades are arranged nearly, but not exactly, in a true spiral; the effect is therefore that they act unequally upon the mass, and thus mix and divide it more perfectly. No blades or projections are affixed to the interior of the cylinder. Above, where the peat enters into a flaring hopper, is a scraper, that prevents adhesion to the sides and gives downward propulsion to the peat. The blades are, by this construction, very strong, and not liable to injury from small stones or roots, and effectually reduce the toughest and most compact peat. Furthermore, addition of water is not only unnecessary in any case, but the peat may be advantageously air-dried to a considerable extent before it enters the machine. Wet peat is, indeed, worked with less expenditure of power; but the moulded peats are then so soft as to require much care in the handling, and must be spread out in single courses, as they will not bear to be placed one upon another. Peat, that is somewhat dry, though requiring more power to work, leaves the machine in blocks that can be piled up on edge and upon each other, six or eight high, without difficulty, and require, of course, less time for curing. The cut, (fig. 18), represents one of Schlickeysen's portable peat-mills, with elevator for feeding, from which an idea of the pulverizing arrangements may be gathered. In Livonia, near Pernan, according to Leo, two of Schlickeysen's machines, No. 6, were put in operation upon a purely fibrous peat. They were driven by an engine of 12 horse-power. The peat was plowed, once harrowed, then carted directly to the hopper of the machine. These two machines, with 26 men and 4 horses, produced daily 60,000 peats = 7500 cubic feet. 100 cubic feet of these peats were equal in heating effect to 130 cubic feet of fir-wood, and cost but two-thirds as much. The peats were extremely hard, and dried in a few days sufficiently for use. In 1864, five large Schlickeysen machines were in operation at one establishment at St. Miskolz, in Hungary. The smaller sizes of Schlickeysen's machine are easily-portable, and adapted for horse or hand-power. _Leavitt's Peat-condensing and Moulding Mill._[27]--In this country, Mr. T. H. Leavitt, of Boston, has patented machinery, which is in operation at East Lexington, Mass., at the works of the Boston Peat Company. The process is essentially identical with that of Weber, the hot-drying omitted. The fresh peat is pulverized or cut fine, moulded into blocks, and dried on light frames in the open air. The results claimed by Mr. Leavitt, indicate, that his machine is very efficacious. It consists, principally, of a strong box or cistern, three feet in diameter, and six feet high, the exterior of which, with its gearing, is shown in figure 19. The mill is adapted to be driven by a four horse-power engine. "The upper portion of the box is divided by a series of horizontal partitions, the upper ones being open latticework, and the lower ones perforated with numerous holes. The upright shaft, which rotates in the centre of the box, carries a series of arms or blades, extending alternately on opposite sides, and as these revolve, they cut the peat, and force it through the openings in the diaphragms. The lower portion of the box, in place of complete partitions, has a series of corrugated shelves extending alternately from opposite sides, and the peat is pressed and scraped from these by a series of arms adapted to the work. By this series of severe operations the air-bubbles are expelled from the peat, and it is reduced to a homogeneous paste. When it arrives at the bottom of the box, it is still further compressed by the converging sides of the hopper, and it is received in light moulds which are carried on an endless belt." Mr. Leavitt has patented the use of powdered peat for the purpose of preventing the prepared peat from adhering to the moulds. [Illustration: Fig. 19.--LEAVITT'S PEAT MILL.] This mill, it is asserted, will condense 40 tons of crude peat daily, which, at Lexington, is estimated to yield 10 to 14 tons of dry merchantable fuel. The cost of producing the latter is asserted to be less than $2.00 per ton; while its present value, in Boston, is $10 per ton. It requires seven men, three boys, and two horses to dig, cart, mill, and spread the peat. The machine costs $600, the needful buildings, engine, etc., from $2000 to $3000. The samples of peat, manufactured by this machine, are of excellent quality. The drying in the open air is said to proceed with great rapidity, eight or ten days being ordinarily sufficient in the summer season. The dry peat, at Lexington, occupies one-fourth the bulk, and has one-fourth to one-third the weight of the raw material; the latter, as we gather, being by no means saturated with water, but well drained, and considerably dry, before milling. _Ashcroft & Betteley's Machinery._ The American Peat Company, of Boston, are the owners of five patents, taken out by Messrs. Ashcroft & Betteley, for peat machinery. They claim to "make fuel equal to the best English Cannel coal," and really do make a very good peat, though with a rather complicated apparatus. The following statement is derived from the circular issued by the company. The machinery consists of the following parts:-- _First._--TRITURATING MACHINE--36 inches diameter, 4 feet 6 inches high, with arms both on the inside of this cylinder and on the upright revolving shaft. In the bottom of the cylinder or tub a large slide gate is fitted to work with a lever, so that the peat may be discharged, at pleasure, into the Combing Machine, which is placed directly under this Triturator. _Second._--COMBING MACHINE--Semi-circular vessel 6 feet long and 3 feet 6 inches in diameter. Inside, a shaft is placed, which is provided with fingers, placed one inch apart; the fingers to be 20 inches long, so as to reach within 2 inches of the bottom and sides of this vessel. Another shaft, of the same size and dimensions, is placed at an angle of 45°, 26 inches from the first shaft, with arms of the same dimensions placed upon this shaft, with the same spaces, and so placed that this set of arms pass between the first set, both shafts revolving in the same direction; the second shaft mentioned being driven at double the speed of the first. At the bottom of this Combing Machine is to be fixed a gate, to be operated by a lever, to deliver, at pleasure, the cleansed peat into the Manipulator or Kneading Machine. _Third._--MANIPULATOR.--A Tube of iron 7 feet long and 16 inches diameter, fitted with a shaft, with flanges upon it, to gain 6 inches in each revolution. _Fourth._--CONVEYOR.--This Conveyor, to be made with two endless chains and buckets of iron, with a driving shaft. The hopper, to receive the peat when first taken from the bog, to be placed below the surface of the ground, so that the top edge of the hopper may be level with the surface, that the peat may be dumped from the car by which it is taken from the bog, and carried to the hopper without hand labor; and this conveyor to be so arranged that the peat will be delivered into the Triturator without hand labor. _Fifth._--CONVEYOR.--Another conveyor, precisely like the one above described, is to be placed so as to convey the peat from the Manipulator into the Tank without hand labor. _Sixth._--TANK.--A tank 35 feet high and 15 feet in diameter; the bottom of this tank is made sloping towards the sides, at an angle of 65°, and is covered with sole tile or drain tile, and the entire inside of this tank is also ribbed with these tile; the ends of these pipes of tile being left open, so that the water which percolates through the pores of the tile, by the pressure of the column of peat, will pass out at the bottom, through the false floor of the tank into the drain, and the solid peat is retained in the tank. A worm is fixed in the bottom of this tank, which is driven by machinery, which forces out the peat in the form of brick, which are cut to any length, and stacked up in sheds, for fuel, after it is fully dried by the air. [Illustration: Fig. 20.--VERSMANN'S PEAT PULVERIZER.] _Versmann's Machine_[28]--This machine, see Fig. 20, was invented by a German engineer, in London, and was patented there in Sept., 1861. It consists of a funnel or hollow cone _b_, of boiler-plate, from one to two feet in diameter at top, and perforated with 200 to 300 small holes per square foot of surface, within which rapidly revolves an iron cone _a_, carrying on its circumference two spiral knives. The peat thrown in at the top of the funnel is carried down by the knives, and at once cut or broken and forced in a state of fine division through the holes of the funnel, as through a colander. The fine peat collects on the inclined bottom of the chamber _d_, whence it is carried by means of Archimedean screws to a moulding machine. The coarse stuff that escapes pulverization falls through _e_ into the cavity _c_. It may be employed as fuel for the engine, or again put through the machine. This machine effects a more perfect pulverization of the peat, than any other hitherto described. This extreme division is, however, unnecessary to the perfection of the product, and is secured at great expense of power. Through the opening at the bottom of the funnel, much unpulverized peat finds its way, which must be continually returned to the machine. Again, stones, entering the funnel, are likely to break or damage the spiral knives, which bear close to the walls of the funnel. The pulverized peat must be moulded by hand, or by a separate instrument. _Buckland's Machine_[29] is identical in principle with Versmann's, and in construction differs simply in the fact of the interior cone having spiral grooves instead of spiral knives. This gives greater simplicity and durability to the machine. It appears, however, to require too much power to work it, and can hardly equal other machines in the quantity of product it will deliver for a given expenditure. The ground peat yielded by it, must be moulded by hand, or by other machinery. This machine, we understand, has been tried near Boston, and abandoned as uneconomical. The machines we have described are by no means all that have been proposed and patented. They include, however, so the author believes, all that have been put into actual operation, at the date of this writing, or that present important peculiarities of construction. The account that has been given of them will serve to illustrate what mechanism has accomplished hitherto in the manufacture of peat-fuel, and may save the talent of the American inventor from wasting itself on what is already in use, or having been tried, has been found wanting. At present, very considerable attention is devoted to the subject. Scarcely a week passes without placing one or more Peat-mill patents on record. In this treatise our business is with what has been before the public in a more or less practical way, and it would, therefore, be useless to copy the specifications of new, and for the most part untried patents, which can be found in the files of our mechanical Journals. 14. _Artificial Drying of Peat._ As we have seen, air-dry peat contains 20 to 30 and may easily contain 50 _per cent._ of water, and the best hot-made machine peat contains 15 _per cent._ When peat is used as fuel in ordinary furnaces, this water must be evaporated, and in this process a large amount of heat is consumed, as is well understood. It is calculated, that the temperature which can be produced in perfectly burning full-dried peat, compares with that developed in the combustion of peat containing water, as follows:-- Pyrometric effect of perfectly dry peat 4000° F. " " peat with 30 _per cent._ of water 3240° " " " " 50 " " 2848° " But, furthermore, moist or air-dried peat does not burn in ordinary furnaces, except with considerable waste, as is evident from the smokiness of its flame. When air-dried peat is distilled in a retort, a heavy yellow vapor escapes for some time after the distillation begins, which, obviously, contains much inflammable matter, but which is so mixed and diluted with steam that it will not burn at all, or but imperfectly. It is obvious then, that when a high temperature is to be attained, anhydrous or full-dried peat is vastly superior to that which has simply been cured in the open air. Notice has already been made of Weber's drying-house, the use of which is an essential part of his system of producing peat-fuel. Various other arrangements have been proposed from time to time, for accomplishing the same object. It appears, however, that in most cases the anticipations regarding their economy have not been fully realized. It is hardly probable, that artificially dried peat can be employed to advantage except where waste heat is utilized in the operation. A point of the utmost importance in reference to the question of drying peat by artificial warmth is this, viz.: Although the drying may be carried so far as to remove the whole of the water, and produce an absolutely dry fuel, the peat absorbs moisture from the air again on exposure; so that drying to less than 15 _per cent._ of water is of no advantage, unless the peat is to be used immediately, or within a few days. The employment of highly dried peat is consequently practicable only for smelting-works, locomotives, and manufacturing establishments, where it may be consumed as fast as it is produced. A fact likewise to be regarded is, that artificial drying is usually inapplicable to fresh peat. The precautions needful in curing peat have already been detailed. Above all, slow drying is necessary, in order that the blocks shrink uniformly, without cracking and warping in such a way as to seriously injure their solidity and usefulness. In general, peat must be air-dried to a considerable extent before it can be kiln-dried to advantage. If exposed to dry artificial heat, when comparatively moist, a hard crust is formed externally, which greatly hinders subsequent desiccation. At the same time this crust, contracting around the moist interior, becomes so rifted and broken, that the ultimate shrinkage and condensation of the mass is considerably less than it would have been had the drying proceeded more slowly. Besides Weber's drying oven, the fuel for firing which is derived without cost from the stumps and roots of trees that are abundant on the moor, at Staltach, and which are thus conveniently disposed of, we have briefly to notice several other drying kilns with regard to all of which, however, it must be remarked, that they can only be employed with profit, by the use of waste heat, or, as at Staltach, of fuel that is comparatively worthless for other purposes. [Illustration: Fig. 21.--CARINTHIAN PEAT DRYING-KILN.] The _Peat Kilns_ employed at Lippitzbach, in Carinthia, and at Neustadt, in Hanover, are of the kind shown in fig. 21. The peat with which the main chamber is filled, is heated directly by the hot gases that arise from a fire made in the fire-place at the left. These gases first enter a vault, where they intermingle and cool down somewhat; thence they ascend through the openings of the brick grating, and through the mass of peat to the top of the chamber. On their way they become charged with vapor, and falling, pass off through the chimney, as is indicated by the arrows. The draught is regulated by the damper on the top of the chimney. To manage the fire, so that on the one hand the chimney is sufficiently heated to create a draught, and on the other waste of fuel, or even ignition of the peat itself is prevented, requires some care. In _Welkner's Peat Kiln_[30] (fig. 22) the peat, previously air-dried, is exposed to a stream of hot air, until it is completely desiccated, and the arrangement is such, that air-dried peat may be thrown in at the top, and the hot-dried fuel be removed at the bottom, continuously. In the cut, _A_ represents the section of a wooden cylinder about 10 feet wide and 6-1/2 feet deep, which surmounts a funnel of iron plate _A'_. The mouth of the funnel is closed by a door _n_; about 20 inches above the door the pipe _B_, which conducts hot air, terminates in the ring _a a_, through the holes in which, _e e_, it is distributed into the funnel filled with peat. The air is driven in by a blower, and is heated by circulating through a system of pipes, which are disposed in the chimney of a steam boiler. From time to time a quantity of dried peat is drawn off into the wagon _D_, which runs on rails, and a similar amount of undried peat is thrown in above. According to Welkner, a kiln of the dimensions stated, which cost, about $1800 gold, is capable of desiccating daily ten tons of peat with 20 _per cent._ of water, using thereby 2000 cubic feet of air of a temperature of 212° F. When the air is heated by a fire kept up exclusively for that purpose, 10 _per cent._ of the dried peat, or its equivalent, is consumed in the operation. At the Alexis Smelting Works, near Lingen, in Hanover, this peat kiln furnishes about half the fuel for a high furnace, in which bog iron ore is smelted. The drying costs but little, since half the requisite heat is obtained from the waste heat of the furnace itself. [Illustration: Fig. 22.--WELKNER'S PEAT DRYING KILN.] The advantages of this drying kiln are, that it is cheap in construction and working; dries gradually and uniformly; occupies little ground, and runs without intermission. Other drying ovens are described in Knapp's _Lehrbuch_ der _Chemischen Technologie_, 3. Aufl. Bd. 1, Theil 1, pp. 178-9; _Jahrbuch der Bergakademien Schemnitz_ und _Leoben_, 1860, p. 108, 1861, p. 55; Wagner's _Jahresbericht der Chemischen Technologie_, 1863, p. 748; Zerrenner's _Metallurgische Gasfeuerung in Oesterreich_; Tunner's _Stabeisen- und Stahlbereitung_, 2. Auflage, Bd. I, pp. 23-25. 15. _Peat Coal, or Coke._ When peat is charred, it yields a coal or coke which, being richer in carbon, is capable of giving an intenser heat than peat itself, in the same way that charcoal emits an intenser heat in its combustion than the wood from which it is made. Peat coal has been and is employed to some extent in metallurgical processes, as a substitute for charcoal, and when properly prepared from good peat, is in no way inferior to the latter; is, in fact, better. It is only, however, from peat which naturally dries to a hard and dense consistency, or which has been solidified on the principles of Challeton's and Weber's methods, that a coal can be made possessing the firmness necessary for furnace use. Fibrous peat, or that condensed by pressure, as in Exter's, Elsberg's, and the Lithuanian process, yields by coking or charring, a friable coal comparatively unsuited for heating purposes. A peat which is dense as the result of proper mechanical treatment and slow drying, yields a very homogeneous and compact coal, superior to any wood charcoal, the best qualities weighing nearly twice as much per bushel. Peat is either charred in pits and heaps, or in kilns. From the regularity of the rectangular blocks into which peat is usually formed, it may be charred more easily in pits than wood, since the blocks admit of closer packing in the heap, and because the peat coal is less inflammable than wood coal. The heaps may likewise be made much smaller than is needful in case of wood, viz.: six to eight feet in diameter, and four feet high. The pit is arranged as follows: The ground is selected and prepared as for charcoal burning, and should be elevated, dry and compact. Three stout poles are firmly driven into the ground, so as to stand vertically and equi-distant from each other, leaving within them a space of six or eight inches. Around these poles the peats are placed endwise, in concentric rows to the required width and height, leaving at the bottom a number of air-channels of the width of one peat, radiating from the centre outwards. The upper layers of peat are narrowed in so as to round off the heap, which is first covered with dry leaves, sods, or moss, over which a layer of soil is thrown. Dry, light wood being placed at the bottom of the central shaft, it is kindled from one of the canals at the bottom, and the charring is conducted as is usual in making wood coal. The yield of coal ranges from 25 to 35 _per cent._ of the peat by weight, and from 30 to 50 _per cent._ by volume. Gysser recommends to mould the peat for charring in the form of cylinders of 3 to 4 feet long, which, when dry, may be built up into a heap like wood. A great variety of ovens or kilns have been constructed for coking peat. At the Gun Factory of Oberndorf, in Wirtemberg, peat is charred in the kiln represented in the accompanying figure. The chamber is 9 feet high, and 5-1/2 feet in diameter. The oven proper, _b b_, is surrounded by a mantle of brick _a a_, and the space between, _c c_, is filled with sand. Each wall, as well as the space, is 15 inches in thickness, and the walls are connected by stones _d d_, at intervals of three feet. Above the sole of the kiln, are three series of air holes, made by imbedding old gun barrels in the walls. The door, which serves to empty the kiln, is a plate of cast iron, the sides of its frame are wider than the thickness of the wall, and by means of a board _e_, a box _m_ can be made in front of the door, which is filled with sand to prevent access of air. The peat is filled in through _i_, a channel being arranged across the bottom of the kiln, from the door _f_, for kindling. When the firing begins, the lowest air-holes and _i_ are open. When, through the lower gun barrels, the peat is seen to be ignited, these are corked, and those above are opened. When the smoke ceases to escape above, all the openings are closed, _m_, is filled with sand, _i_ is covered over with it, and the whole is left to cool. It requires about 8 to 9 days to finish the charring of a charge. Several kilns are kept in operation, so that the work proceeds uninterruptedly. [Illustration: Fig. 23.--OBERNDORFER PEAT CHARRING KILN.] [Illustration: Fig. 24.--WEBER'S CHARRING FURNACE.--TRANSVERSE SECTION.] [Illustration: Fig. 25.--WEBER'S CHARRING FURNACE.--LONGITUDINAL SECTION.] At Staltach, Weber prepares peat coal in a cylinder of sheet iron, which is surrounded by masonry. Below, it rests on a grating of stout wire. Above, it has a cover, that may be raised by a pulley and on one side is attached a small furnace, figure 24, the draught of which is kept up by means of a blower, or an exhauster, and the flame and hot gases from it, _which contain no excess of oxygen_, play upon the peat and decompose it, expelling its volatile portions without burning or wasting it in the slightest degree. The construction of the furnace, see fig. 24, is such, that the sticks of wood, which are employed for fuel, are supported at their ends on shoulders in the brick-work, and the draught enters the fire above instead of below. The wood is hereby completely consumed, and by regulating the supply of air at _a_ (fig. 25) by a sliding cover, and at _b_ by a register, the flame and current of air which enters the cylinder containing the peat, is intensely hot and accomplishes a rapid carbonization of the peat, but as before stated, does not burn it. In this furnace the wood, which is cut of uniform length, is itself the grate, since iron would melt or rapidly burn out; and the coals that fall are consumed by the air admitted through c. The hot gases which enter the cylinder filled with peat near its top, are distributed by pipes, and, passing off through the grating at the bottom, enter the surrounding brick mantle. Before reaching the exhaustor, however, they pass through a cooler in which a quantity of tar and pyroligneous acid is collected. Weber's oven is 15 feet in diameter, and 3-1/2 feet high; 528 cubic feet of peat may be coked in it in the space of 15 hours. The wood furnace is 2 feet in section, and consumes for the above amount of peat 3-1/2 cwt. of wood. So perfectly are the contents of the iron cylinder protected from contact of oxygen, that a rabbit placed within it, has been converted into coal without the singeing of a hair; and a bouquet of flowers has been carbonized, perfectly retaining its shape. The yield of coal in Weber's oven is nearly 50 _per cent._ of the peat by weight. Whenever possible, charring of peat should be carried on, or aided by waste heat, or the heat necessary to coking should be itself economized. In manufacturing and metallurgical establishments, a considerable economy in both the drying and coking may often be effected in this manner. On the bog of Allen, in Ireland, we have an example of this kind. Peat is placed in iron ovens in the form of truncated pyramids, the bottoms of which consist of movable and perforated iron plates. The ovens are mounted on wheels, and run on a rail track. Five ovens filled with peat are run into a pit in a drying house, in which blocks of fresh peat are arranged for drying. Each oven is connected with a flue, and fire is applied. The peat burns below, and the heat generated in the coking, warms the air of the drying house. When the escaping smoke becomes transparent, the pit in which the ovens stand is filled with water slightly above their lower edges, whereby access of air to the burning peat is at once cut off. When cool, the ovens are run out and replaced by others filled with peat. Each oven holds about 600 lbs. of peat, and the yield of coal is 25 _per cent._ by weight. The small yield compared with that obtained by Weber's method, is due to the burning of the peat and the coal itself, in the draught of air that passes through the ovens. The author has carbonized, in an iron retort, specimens of peat prepared by Elsberg's, Leavitt's, and Aschcroft and Betteley's processes. Elsberg's gave 35, the others 37 _per cent._ of coal. The coal from Elsberg's peat was greatly fissured, and could be crushed in the fingers to small fragments. That from the other peats was more firm, and required considerable exertion to break it. All had a decided metallic brilliancy of surface. 16.--_Metallurgical Uses of Peat._ In Austria, more than any other country, peat has been employed in the manufacture of iron. In Bavaria, Prussia, Wirtemberg, Hanover, and Sweden, and latterly in Great Britain, peat has been put to the same use. The general results of experience, are as follows:-- Peat can only be employed to advantage, when wood and mineral coal are expensive, or of poor quality. Peat can be used in furnaces adapted for charcoal, but not in those built for mineral coal. Good air-dry peat, containing 20 to 30 _per cent._ of water, in some cases may replace a share of charcoal in the high furnace. At Pillersee, in Austria, spathic iron ore has been reduced by a mixture of fir-wood charcoal, and air-dry peat in the proportions of three parts by bulk of the former to one of the latter. The use of peat was found to effect a considerable saving in the outlay for fuel, and enabled the production to be somewhat increased, while the excellence of the iron was in no way impaired. The peat was of the best quality, and was worked and moulded by hand. When the ore is refractory and contains impurities that must be fluxed and worked off in slag, a large proportion of air-dry peat cannot be used to advantage, because the evaporation of the water in it consumes so much heat, that the requisite temperature is not easily attained. At Achthal, in Bavaria, air-dry peat was employed in 1860, to replace a portion of the fir wood charcoal, which had been used for smelting an impure clay-iron-stone: the latter fuel having become so dear, that peat was resorted to as a make shift. Instead of one "sack," or 33 cubic feet of charcoal, 24 cubic feet of charcoal and 15 cubic feet of peat were employed in each charge, and the quantity of ore had to be diminished thereby, so that the yield of pig was reduced, on the average, by about 17 _per cent._ In this case the quality of the iron, when worked into bar, was injured by the use of peat, obviously from an increase of its content of phosphorus. The exclusive use of air-dry peat as fuel in the high furnace, appears to be out of the question. At Ransko, in Bohemia, _kiln-dried peat_, nearly altogether free from water, has been employed in a high furnace, mixed with but one-third its bulk of charcoal, and in cupola furnaces for re-melting pig, full-dried peat has been used alone, answering the purpose perfectly. The most important metallurgical application of peat is in the refining of iron. Dried peat is extensively used in puddling furnaces, especially in the so-called gas puddling furnaces, in Carinthia, Steyermark, Silesia, Bavaria, Wirtemberg, Sweden, and other parts of Europe. In Steyermark, peat has been thus employed for 25 years. Air-dry peat is, indeed, also employed, but is not so well adapted for puddling, as its water burns away a notable quantity of iron. It is one of the best known facts in chemistry, that ignited iron is rapidly oxidized in a stream of water-vapor, free hydrogen being at the same time evolved. In the high furnace, _peat-coal_, when compact and firm (not crumbly) may replace charcoal perfectly, but its cost is usually too great. When peat or peat-coal is employed in smelting, it must be as free as possible from ash, because the ash usually consists largely of silica, and this must be worked off by flux. If the ash be carbonate of lime, it will, in most cases, serve itself usefully as flux. In hearth puddling, it is important not only that the peat or peat-coal contain little ash, but especially that the ash be as free as possible from sulphates and phosphates, which act so deleteriously on the metal. The notion that, in general, peat and peat charcoal are peculiarly adapted for the iron manufacture, because they are free from sulphur and phosphorus, is extremely erroneous. Not infrequently they contain these bodies in such quantity, as to forbid their use in smelting. In the gas-puddling furnace, or in the ordinary reverberatory, impure peat may, however, be employed, since the ashes do not come in contact with the metal. The only disadvantage in the use of peat in these furnaces is, that the grates require cleaning more frequently, which interrupts the fire, and, according to Tunner, increases the consumption of fuel 8 to 10 _per cent._, and diminishes the amount of metal that can be turned out in a given time by the same quantity. Notwithstanding the interruption of work, it has been found, at Rothburga, in Austria, that by substitution of machine-made and kiln-dried peat for wood in the gas-puddling furnace, a saving of 50 _per cent._ in the cost of bar iron was effected, in 1860. What is to the point, in estimating the economy of peat, is the fact that while 6.2 cubic feet of dry fir-wood were required to produce 100 lbs. of crude bar, this quantity of iron could be puddled with 4.3 cubic feet of peat. In the gas furnace, a second blast of air is thrown into the flame, effecting its complete combustion; Dellvik asserts, that at Lesjoeforss, in Sweden, 100 lbs. of kiln-dried peat are equal to 197 lbs. of kiln-dried wood in heavy forging. In an ordinary fire, the peat would be less effective from the escape of unburned carbon in the smoke. In other metallurgical and manufacturing operations where flame is required, as well as in those which are not inconvenienced by the ingredients of its ash, it is obvious that peat can be employed when circumstances conspire to render its use economical. 17.--_Peat as a source of illuminating gas._ Prof Pettenkofer, of Munich, was the first to succeed in making illuminating gas from wood; and peat, when operated according to his method, furnishes also a gas of good quality, though somewhat inferior to wood-gas in illuminating power. It is essential, that well-dried peat be employed, and the waste heat from the retorts may serve in part, at least, for the drying. The retorts must be of a good conducting material; therefore cast iron is better than clay. They are made of the [symbol: D] form, and must be relatively larger than those used for coal. A retort of two feet width, one foot depth, and 8 to 9 feet length, must receive but 100 lbs. of peat at a charge. The quantity of gas yielded in a given time, is much greater than from bituminous coal. From retorts of the size just named, 8000 to 9000 cubic feet of gas are delivered in 24 hours. The exit pipes must, therefore, be large, not less than 5 to 6 inches, and the coolers must be much more effective than is needful for coal gas, in order to separate from it the tarry matters. The number of retorts requisite to furnish a given volume of gas, is much less than in the manufacture from coal. On the other hand, the dimensions of the furnace are considerably greater, because the consumption of fuel must be more rapid, in order to supply the heat, which is carried off by the copious formation of gas. Gas may be made from peat at a comparatively low temperature, but its illuminating power is then trifling. At a red heat alone can we procure a gas of good quality. The chief impurity of peat-gas is carbonic acid: this amounts to 25 to 30 _per cent._ of the gas before purification, and if the peat be insufficiently dried, it is considerably more. The quantity of slaked lime that is consumed in purifying, is therefore much greater than is needed for coal-gas, and is an expensive item in the making of peat-gas. While wood-gas is practically free from sulphur compounds and ammonia, peat-gas may contain them both, especially the latter, in quantity that depends upon the composition of the peat, which, as regards sulphur and nitrogen, is very variable. Peat-gas is denser than coal-gas, and therefore cannot be burned to advantage except from considerably wider orifices than answer for the latter, and under slight pressure. The above statements show the absurdity of judging of the value of peat as a source of gas, by the results of trials made in gas works arranged for bituminous coal. As to the yield of gas we have the following data, weights and measures being English:-- 100 lbs. of peat of medium quality from Munich, gave REISSIG 303 cub. ft. " air-dry peat from Biermoos, Salzburg, gave RIEDINGER 305 " " very light fibrous peat, gave REISSIG 379 to 430 " " Exter's machine-peat, from Haspelmoor, gave 367 " Thenius states, that, to produce 1000 English cubic feet of purified peat-gas, in the works at Kempten, Bavaria, there are required in the retorts 292 lbs of peat. To distil this, 138-1/2 lbs. of peat are consumed in the fire; and to purify the gas from carbonic acid, 91-1/2 lbs. of lime are used. In the retorts remain 117 lbs. of peat coal, and nearly 6 lbs. of tar are collected in the operation, besides smaller quantities of acetic acid and ammonia. According to Stammer, 4 cwt. of dry peat are required for 1000 cubic feet of purified gas. The quality of the gas is somewhat better than that made from bituminous coal. 18.--_The examination of Peat as to its value for Fuel_, begins with and refers to the air-dry substance, in which: 1.--Water is estimated, by drying the pulverized peat, at 212°, as long as any diminution of weight occurs. Well-dried peat-fuel should not contain more than 20 _per cent._ of water. On the other hand it cannot contain less than 15 _per cent._, except it has been artificially dried at a high temperature, or kept for a long time in a heated apartment. 2.--_Ash_ is estimated by carefully burning the dry residue in 1. In first-rate fuel, it should amount to less than 3 _per cent._ If more than 8 _per cent._, the peat is thereby rendered of inferior quality, though peat is employed which contains considerably more. 3.--_Sulphur_ and _phosphorus_ are estimated by processes, which it would be useless to describe here. Only in case of vitriol peats is so much sulphur present, that it is recognizable by the suffocating fumes of sulphuric acid or of sulphurous acid, which escape in the burning. When peat is to be employed for iron manufacture, or under steam boilers, its phosphorus, and especially its sulphur, should be estimated, as they injure the quality of iron when their quantity exceeds a certain small amount, and have a destructive effect on grate-bars and boilers. For common uses it is unnecessary to regard these substances. 4.--The quantity of _coal_ or _coke_ yielded by peat, is determined by heating a weighed quantity of the peat to redness in an iron retort, or in a large platinum crucible, until gases cease to escape. The neck of the retort is corked, and when the vessel is cool, the coal is removed and weighed. In case a platinum crucible is employed, it should have a tight-fitting cover, and when gases cease to escape, the crucible is quickly cooled by placing it in cold water. Coal, or coke, includes of course the ash of the peat. This, being variable, should be deducted, and the _ash-free coal_ be considered in comparing fuels. 5.--The _density_ of peat-fuel may be ascertained by cutting out a block that will admit of accurate measurement, calculating its cubic contents, and comparing its weight with that of an equal bulk of water. To avoid calculation, the block may be made accurately one or several cubic inches in dimensions and weighed. The cubic inch of water at 60° F., weighs 252-1/2 grains. FOOTNOTES: [10] The apparent specific gravity here means the weight of the mass,--the air-filled cavities and pores included--as compared with an equal bulk of water. The real specific gravity of the _peat itself_ is always greater than that of water, and all kinds of peat will sink in water when they soak long enough, or are otherwise treated so that all air is removed. [11] The "full" cubic foot implies a cubic foot having no cavities or waste space, such as exist in a pile, made up of numerous blocks. If a number of peat blocks be put into a box and shaken together, the empty space between the more or less irregular blocks, may amount to 46 _per cent._ of the whole; and when closely packed, the cavities amount to 30 _per cent._, according to the observations of _Wasserzieher_. (_Dingler's Journal_, Oct., 1864, p. 118.) Some confusion exists in the statements of writers in regard to this matter, and want of attention to it, has led to grave errors in estimating the weight of fuel. [12] The _waste space_ in peat and wood as commonly piled, is probably included here in the statement, and is usually about the same in both; viz.: not far from 40 _per cent._ [13] See note on the preceding page. [14] _Der Torf, etc._, S. 43. [15] See page 00. [16] On account of the great convenience of the decimal weights and measures, and their nearly universal recognition by scientific men, we have adopted them here. The gramme = 15 grains; 5 degrees centigrade = 9 degrees Fahrenheit. [17] Pliny, Hist. Nat. (Lib. XVI, 1) expresses his pity for the "miserable people" living in East Friesland and vicinity in his day, who "dug out with the hands a moor earth, which, dried more by wind than sun, they used for preparing their food and warming their bodies:" _captum manibus lutum ventis magis quam sole siccantis, terra cibos et rigentia septembrione viscera sua urunt_. As regards the "_misera gens_," it should be said that rich grain fields and numerous flourishing villages have occupied for several centuries large portions of the Duevel moor near Bremen. [18] For further account and plans of this machine see Dingler's Polytechnisches Journal, Bd. 176, S. 336. [19] Described and figured in Bulletin de la Societe d'Encouragement, August 1857, p. 513; also Dingler's Polytechnisches Journal, Bd. 146, S. 252. [20] Berg- und Huettenmænnische Zeitung, 1859, Nr. 26. [21] Henneberg's Journal fuer Landwirthschaft, 1858, S. 42. [22] Henneberg's Journal fuer Landwirthschaft, 1858, p.p. 42 and 83. [23] Dingler's Journal, Oct., 1864. [24] Dingler's Polytechnisches Journal, Bd. 152, S. 272. See also, Knapp, Lehrbuch der Chemischen Technologie, 3te Auflage, 1., 167. [25] Der Torf; seine Bildung und Bereitungsweise, von Rudolph Gysser, Weimar, 1864. [26] Dingler's Journal, Bd. 165, S. 184.; und Bd. 172, S, 333. [27] Scientific American, Feb. 10, 1866; also, Facts about Peat as Fuel, by T. H. Leavitt, 2d Ed., Boston, p. 23. [28] Dingler's Journal, Bd. 168, S. 306, und Bd. 172, S. 332. [29] Described in Journal of the Society of Arts, 1860, p. 437. [30] Bernemann & Kerl's Berg und Huettenmænnische Zeitung, 1862, 221. +-------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 6 Robert's changed to Roberts' | | Page 24 Jaeckel changed to Jæckel | | Page 47 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 49 connexion changed to connection | | Page 51 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 53 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 53 Russel changed to Russell | | Page 62 subtances changed to substances | | Page 67 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 89 5 changed to 4 | | Page 89 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 90 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 91 Poquonnock changed to Poquonock | | Page 116 artifical changed to artificial | | Page 127 developes changed to develops | | Page 149 Kneeding changed to Kneading | | Page 165 The symbol looks like a D | | lying on its back. | | | +-------------------------------------------+ 
7780	----	THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY SAMUEL JOHNSON _Notes to Shakespeare_ Vol. I Comedies Edited, with an Introduction, by Arthur Sherbo GENERAL EDITORS RICHARD C. BOYS, _University of Michigan_ RALPH COHEN, _University of California, Los Angeles_ VINTON A. DEARING, _University of California, Los Angeles_ LAWRENCE CLARK POWELL, _Clark Memorial Library_ ASSISTANT EDITOR W. EARL BRITTON, _University of Michigan_ ADVISORY EDITORS EMMETT L. AVERY, _State College of Washington_ BENJAMIN BOYCE, _Duke University_ LOUIS BREDVOLD, _University of Michigan_ JOHN BUTT, _King's College, University of Durham_ JAMES L. CLIFFORD, _Columbia University_ ARTHUR FRIEDMAN, _University of Chicago_ EDWARD NILES HOOKER, _University of California, Los Angeles_ LOUIS A. LANDA, _Princeton University_ SAMUEL H. MONK, _University of Minnesota_ ERNEST C. MOSSNER, _University of Texas_ JAMES SUTHERLAND, _University College; London_ H. T. SWEDENBERG, JR., _University of California, Los Angeles_ CORRESPONDING SECRETARY EDNA C. DAVIS, _Clark Memorial Library_ GENERAL INTRODUCTION Dr. Johnson's Preface to Shakespeare is one of the most famous critical essays of the eighteenth century, and yet too many students have forgotten that it is, precisely, a preface to the plays of Shakespeare, edited by Dr. Johnson himself. That is to say, the edition itself has been obscured or overshadowed by its preface, and the sustained effort of that essay has virtually monopolized scholarly attention--much of which should be directed to the commentary. Johnson's love for Shakespeare's plays is well known; nowhere is this more manifest than in his notes on them. And it is on the notes that his claim to remembrance as a critic of Shakespeare must rest, for the famous Preface is, after all, only rarely an original and personal statement. The idea of editing Shakespeare's plays had attracted Johnson early, and in 1745 he issued proposals for an edition. Forced to give up the project because of copyright difficulties, he returned to it again in 1756 with another, much fuller set of proposals. Between 1745 and 1756 he had completed the great _Dictionary_ and could advance his lexicographical labors as an invaluable aid in the explication of Shakespeare. Although he had promised speedy publication, "on or before Christmas 1757," Johnson's public had to wait until Oct. 10, 1765 for the Shakespeare edition to appear. The first edition, largely subscribed for, was soon exhausted, and a second edition was ready the very next month. A third edition was published in 1768, but there were no revisions in the notes in either of these editions. At some time after February 1, 1766, the date of George Steevens' own proposals for an edition of Shakespeare, and before March 21, 1770 when Johnson wrote to Richard Farmer for some assistance in the edition (_Life_, II, 114), Johnson decided to join forces with Steevens. The result was, of course, the so-called 1773 Johnson-Steevens variorum from which the notes in this reprint are taken. A second Johnson-Steevens variorum appeared in 1778, but Johnson's part in this was negligible, and I have been able to find only fifty-one revisions (one, a definition, is a new note) which I feel reasonably certain are his. The third variorum, edited by Isaac Reed in 1785, contains one revision in Johnson's notes. "Dr. Johnson has displayed, in this revisal, such ingenuity, and accuracy of just conception, as render the present annotations a valuable addition to his former remarks on the subject." The writer is a reviewer for the _Critical Review_ (Dee., 1773, p. 416); the work in question is the 1773 Johnson-Steevens edition of Shakespeare's plays. The remark quoted is from the last paragraph of a long review beginning in November and seems almost an afterthought, for the same reviewer had said that the edition "deserves to be considered as almost entirely the production of Mr. Steevens" (p. 346). In a sense this is true, but the basis for the commentary in the 1773 edition was still the approximately 5600 notes, both his own and those of previous editors and critics, that had appeared in Dr. Johnson's 1765 edition. The actual text of the plays is another matter; a combination of collation and judicious borrowing, it was provided by George Steevens. Steevens' contributions to the text and annotation of Shakespeare's plays concern students of the dramatist; That Johnson had to say about the plays concerns Johnsonians as veil as Shakespeareans. And it is unfortunately true that too little attention has been paid to what is after all Johnson's final and reconsidered judgment on a number of passages in the plays. The decision to reprint the commentary in the 1773 edition may be questioned. Should not the 1765 text of the notes be reprinted, since it, after all, is nearest to the author's manuscript? Will not errors from the second and third editions have been perpetuated and new ones committed in 1773, an inevitable result of reprinting any large body of material? Ideally, the 1765 edition should be the copy-text. But Johnson made about 500 revisions in his commentary, adding eighty-four new notes and omitting thirty-four of his original notes in the first edition. Obviously, Johnson cannot, or should not, be condemned for a note in the 1765 edition which he omitted in 1773. Yet in selections from Johnson's notes to Shakespeare that appear in anthologies some of these offending notes have been reprinted without any indication that the editors knew of their later retraction. In seventy-three notes Johnson adds comments to his original note; in eighty-eight, to the notes of other editors and critics. He revises seventy-five of his original notes and he omits ten comments on the notes of others. And there are many other changes. Some of the revisions come from the Appendix to the 1765 edition. I have collated the notes in the 1765 and 1773 editions for evidence of revision; changes in punctuation were passed over, and I must admit that I do not think them important. In the light of my collation and because of the greater clumsiness of an apparatus to indicate revisions in the 1765 notes I have elected to use the 1773 text of Johnson's commentary, trusting that I have not overlooked any significant changes. The reader has, then, for the first time, outside the covers of the ten volumes of the 1773 edition, an almost complete text of Johnson's notes on Shakespeare. The only omission in this reprint is of those notes which merely list variant readings, either from one of the folios or quartos or from a previous editor. Johnson's reputation as an editor of Shakespeare rests, after all, on his commentary, not on his textual labors. Up to now Johnson's notes have been available only in such books as Walter Raleigh's _Johnson on Shakespeare_ and Mona Wilson's _Johnson; Prose and Poetry_, and here one gets merely a selection. For example: Miss Wilson reprints only two notes from _The Tempest_, one from _Julius Caesar_, three from _Antony and Cleopatra_, and one from _Titus Andronicus_. One rarely gets the chance to read the more than 2000 notes in the edition given over to definitions or paraphrases and explanations. Yet it must be remembered that Johnson has been most often praised for these notes by scholars whose primary interest was Shakespeare's meaning, not Johnson's personality. And, what bears constant repetition, the anthologies draw their notes from the 1765 edition, neglecting altogether Johnson's revisions. It is only very recently that these revisions have been studied at all--and then but partially. The present division of the commentary into three parts--the notes on the comedies, those on the tragedies, and those on the history plays--is arbitrary and mostly a matter of convenience. Some division was necessary, and it seemed advantageous to present introductions which could use Johnson's reaction to comedy, tragedy, and history plays--and Shakespeare's comedies, tragedies, and histories--as a point of departure. Were the notes reprinted in the order of appearance of the plays one would find _Macbeth_, coming after _The Winter's Tale_ (the last of the comedies), introducing the history plays. Since Johnson had written _Miscellaneous Observations on the Tragedy of Macbeth_ in 1745 and had included the play among the tragedies in the 1765 edition it seems reasonable to assume that he regarded it as a tragedy and possibly bowed to Steevens' wishes in allowing it to appear where it does in 1773. Hence, the notes on _Macbeth_ occur with those on the other tragedies in this reprint. One of the reasons for a full reprinting of Johnson's commentary has already been discussed: a complete and accurate knowledge of his thoughts on each of the plays of the then accepted canon is thus gained. (I might add here that some notes by other editors, inadvertently unattributed in the 1765 edition--some of them still unattributed in 1773--have been erroneously reprinted as Johnson's by both Walter Raleigh and Mona Wilson.) Another reason is, of course, the relative difficulty of getting at the volumes of the 1773 edition. Although not a particularly scarce item, the edition can usually be consulted only in Rare Book rooms (there are exceptions), where the working scholar is hampered by the inaccessibility of many other books, not "rare," which he needs at his elbow. Then again, the present reprint gives only Johnson's notes, except for necessary explanations of, or quotations from, the notes of previous editors and critics. But far transcending these reasons, although deriving from them, is the enormous value to the student of Johnson the man and the critic of a now easily accessible body of literary criticism and personal comment that is second in importance only to the _Lives of the Poets_. Johnson's notes to the plays of Shakespeare are an invaluable source of information of many kinds. I can only suggest here, and give a few examples of, the wealth of material that awaits further, detailed examination by other scholars. One demonstration, however, of the use to which the notes can be put is provided by Professor E. L. McAdam's _Dr. Johnson and the English Law_ (1951) in which are recorded notes showing Johnson's familiarity with various legal terms. Further insight into Johnson's knowledge of books of _esoterica_, histories, ballads, etc., can be gleaned from the comments on Shakespeare. A subject in which I must confess an interest possibly out of proportion to its worth is that of Johnson's reading. Some day we will have a list, probably never complete, of the books we can be sure Johnson knew. Not only will the notes to Shakespeare supply the names of works that Johnson knew, quoted from, or alluded to only in these notes, but they will also help to establish more firmly certain fields or subjects that fascinated him. Thus, one note is evidence for Johnson's knowledge of Guevara's _Dial of Princes_; another for his familiarity with Ficino's _De Vita Libri Tres_; and nowhere else in Johnson's works, letters, or conversation are these works so much as alluded, to. Other notes show us that Johnson remembered now a poem, now an essay, from the _Gentleman's Magazine_. In still other notes one encounters or is able to identify the names of John Caius, John Trevisa, Dr. William Alabaster, Paul Scarron, Abraham Ortelius, Meric Casaubon, and many others. Plays, sermons, travel books, ballads, romances, proverbs, poems, histories, biographies, essays, letters, documents--all have their place in the notes to Shakespeare. No discussion of Johnson's knowledge of books can ignore the importance of his reading for the _Dictionary_. Nor can this same preparatory reading be overlooked in a consideration of the Shakespeare edition. Between one-fifth and one-fourth of the notes to Shakespeare can be traced back to the _Dictionary_. What is more, the revision of the 1765 _Shakespeare_ was undertaken at the same time that Johnson was revising his _Dictionary_; both revisions appeared in the same year. And so one is not surprised to find that these two labors are of reciprocal assistance. One illustration will have to do duty for several: in a note Johnson observes of the verb "to roam" that it is "supposed to be derived from the cant of vagabonds, who often pretended a pilgrimage to Rome;" this etymology is absent from the 1755 _Dictionary_; in the revised _Dictionary_ the verb "is imagined to come from the pretenses of vagrants, who always said they were going to Rome." A number of the new notes and comments in the 1773 Shakespeare are clearly derived, directly or indirectly, from the _Dictionary_. I have already mentioned the _Lives of the Poets_ as the only critical work by Johnson which takes precedence over the commentary (and Preface, also) to the plays of Shakespeare. And yet this statement needs modification. In one important respect the notes to Shakespeare are of greater significance than the much more famous _Lives_ for an investigation of Johnson the critic at work. Why, for example, is the _Life of Cowley_ one of the most valuable of the _Lives_? For two reasons: Johnson is discussing a school of poetry which has provoked much comment, _and_ that particular _ Life_ abounds in quotations upon which Johnson exercises his critical abilities. But there are not many of the _Lives_ which reveal Johnson at work on particular passages, where the passage in question is quoted and critical comment is made on a particular line or a particular image, rhyme, word, etc. In short, as so often in Johnson, we are confronted with the large general statement in so much of the criticism in the _Lives_. The "diction" of _Lycidas_ is "harsh." "Some philosophical notions [in _Paradise_ _Lost_], especially when the philosophy is false, might have been better omitted." The plays of Nicholas Rowe are marked by "elegance of diction." Dryden is not often "pathetick." Some of Swift's poetry is "gross" and some is "trifling." The diction of Shenstone's _Elegies_ is "often harsh, improper, and affected." Johnson has not made his meaning entirely clear in these statements because he has not illustrated his remarks with quotations from the works or authors under examination. The famous--or notorious-- condemnation of _Lycidas_ as "harsh" in diction continues to give scholars pause. Most often Johnson has been accused of a poor--or no-- ear for poetry, since the only definition of "harsh" in his _Dictionary_ which is applicable here is "rough to the ear." As no specific lines from the poem are labelled "harsh," one is forced to conclude that the whole poem is unmusical to Johnson's ears--if "harsh" means only "rough to the ear." But the notes to Shakespeare make it perfectly clear that "harsh" often means something other than that. Sometimes a line is stigmatised as "harsh" because it contains what Johnson in _Rambler_ No. 88 called the "collision of consonants." An image offends his sense of propriety and is therefore "harsh." Some words are "harsh" because they are "appropriated to particular arts" (the phrase comes from his _Life of Dryden_). Thus, in _Measure for Measure_, a "leaven'd choice" is "one of Shakespeare's harsh metaphors" because it conjures up images of a baker at his trade. Johnson also uses "harsh" to describe a word used in a sense not familiar to him. And "harsh" is sometimes used synonymously with "forced and far-fetched." "Is't not a kind of incest, to take life From thine own sister's shame?" asks Isabella of her brother in _Measure for Measure_, provoking from Johnson the remark that in her "declamation there is something harsh, and something forced and far-fetched." Only now, with the varying uses of "harsh" as exemplified in the notes to Shakespeare as guides, can one hope better to understand the bare statement that the diction of _Lycidas_ is "harsh." Similar investigation of other important words in Johnson's critical vocabulary is possible through a close study of his commentary on Shakespeare's plays. Words such as "elegant," "inartificial," "just," "low," "pathetic," "proper," "vicious," and others used in criticism of specific lines and passages help one to pin down Johnson's meaning when he uses the same words in general contexts elsewhere. Johnson stands clearly revealed as a critic in his notes to Shakespeare; if there is any doubt of this, it can only center about the comparative importance we may wish to attach to the commentary in relation to the rest of Johnson's criticism. But there is another aspect of Johnson of which one gets but half-glimpses in the notes; and here I may be accused or romanticizing or of reading too much significance into remarks whose purpose was to illuminate Shakespeare's art and not, decidedly, to reveal the editor's character. To put it baldly, I believe that in some notes Johnson has given us clues to his own feelings under circumstances similar to those in which Shakespeare's characters find themselves. Let me illustrate. In the concluding line of Act II of _2 Henry VI_, Eleanor, wife to the Duke of Gloucester, is on her way to prison. She says, "Go, lead the way. I long to see my prison." Johnson comments: "This impatience of a high spirit is very natural. It is not so dreadful to be imprisoned, as it is desirable in a state of disgrace to be sheltered from the scorn of gazers." This note may be innocuous enough, but it is worth recalling that Johnson was arrested for debt in February, 1758, when he was engaged in the edition of Shakespeare. And two years earlier, in March of 1756, he had also been arrested for debt. Friends came to his rescue both times. Curiously, there is no mention of the arrests in Boswell's _Life_. Did Boswell know and deliberately omit these facts, or did Johnson prefer to keep silent about them? Anecdote after anecdote shows Johnson to have been an extremely proud man, one who would feel keenly a public disgrace. Was he exposed to "the scorn of gazers" on one or both of these occasions? It is tempting, and admittedly dangerous, to read autobiographical significance in the note on Eleanor's words. But another question intrudes itself in this connection: Is there a link between the two arrests and _Idler_ No. 22, "Imprisonment of Debtors," which Johnson substituted for the original essay when the periodical was republished in 1761? I am not prepared to answer these questions; I can only raise them. I cannot forbear another excursion into the region of Johnsonian autobiography (or pseudo-autobiography) even at the increased risk of committing a scholarly sin against which I have myself protested. In my own defense I can say that I know the highly conjectural nature of what I am doing. Johnson's pride may have suffered when he was arrested for debt in the presence of unsympathetic onlookers. This is sheer hypothesizing. But when, in _Henry IV_, Worcester speaks the following words: For, bear ourselves as even as we can, The King will always think him in our debt; And think, we deem ourselves unsatisfy'd, Till he hath found a time to pay us home. (I.iii.285-8) and Johnson comments: "This is a natural description of the state of mind between those who have conferred, and those that have received, obligations too great to be satisfied," we may protest that such a reaction is by no means universal. The suspicion that Johnson is speaking for himself is strengthened by an observation made by Sir Joshua Reynolds and recorded by his biographer, Junes Northcote. Reynolds remarks "that if any drew [Johnson] into a state of obligation without his own consent, that man was the first he would affront, by way of clearing off the account" (see Boswell's _Life_, III, 345, n.l). Johnson's note may nov be looked upon as a possible personal confession. Other conjectures are justified, I believe, by still other notes, but it may be preferable to list, without comment, some of the topics upon which Johnson has his say in the notes to Shakespeare. He comments on melancholy, falsehood, the lightness with which vows are made, cruelty to animals, "the pain of deformity," the horrors of solitude, kindness to dependents, friendship, slavery, guilt, the "unsocial mind," the "mean" and the "great"--and a host of others. It is not difficult, therefore, to understand why the editor of _The Beauties of Johnson_ quoted so often from the notes to Shakespeare. The University of Illinois copy of the 1773 Shakespeare has been used. It is unique, I believe, in that the last volume contains a list of "Cancels In Shakespeare. This List not to be bound up with the Book, being only to direct the Binder," one of the earliest of these forgotten directions to the binder to be recorded. There is another point of bibliographical interest in the edition. L. F. Powell states that there are three Appendices in the last volume of the edition (_Life_. II, 490), as does T. J. Monaghan (_RES_, 1953, p. 238). Yet the Illinois copy has only two appendices, and a check of copies in some six large American libraries reveals the same number. The copy with the three Appendices would seem quite rare. One or two symbols and abbreviations have been used for the sake of economy. A new note or comment by Johnson, one added in 1773, is indicated by (1773) at the end of the note. "W" is Warburton; "T" is Theobald. The notation "W: winter" points to an easily recognizable emendation by Warburton in a line quoted before the note in question. Easily identifiable references to revisions of notes in the 1765 edition, or to revisions later made in the 1778 edition, are placed in parentheses at the end of the notes. Scholars interested in these revisions must check them for themselves. Act, scene, and line references to Shakespeare are from Kittredge's edition of the works (Boston, 1936). The numbers in parentheses after the reference in Kittredge are to page and note number (the volume being given only once) in the 1773 edition. The page reference is to the page upon which the note, Johnson's or another editor's, starts; sometimes the notes extend to three or more pages. The text of Shakespeare quoted is that of the 1773 edition; this is the text that Johnson's contemporaries saw, and it would be a distortion to reprint Johnson's notes after a modern text. The following list is of notes Johnson omitted in 1773; the references are, of course, to the 1765 edition: I, 64, 0; 94,0 106 ; 113, 0; 133,0; 151,0 ; 153,0 ; 233, 8; 469, 1; II, 217, 2; 295, 8; 326, 8; 396, 8; 464, 6; III, 193, 3; IV, 149, 2; 201, 5; 347, 4; 372, 5; 398, 7; 404, 3; V, 61, 5; 107, 9; VI, 17, 3; 80, 5; [166]; 415, 9; 440, 9; VII, 316, 3; VIII, 121, 9; 198, 2; 272, 6; 281, 9; 362, 7. Fourteen notes in the 1765 edition, there inadvertently unattributed, are taken verbatim from other editors and critics; five of these are correctly attributed in 1773 (see 1765, V, 182, 1; VI, 24, 3 and 177, 3; and Appendix, notes on V, 253 and VII, 444). Four notes are entirely omitted: 1773, II, 50, 4; 138, 5; V, 297, 6; and VII, 317, 6. In four others (1773, I, 249, 5; II, 466, 7; VI, 72, 4; and X, 417, 8) the part of the note that is not Johnson's is set off by brackets and properly attributed. Finally, the note on II, 452 in the 1765 Appendix, taken partly from "Mr. Smith," appears in 1773 (I, 195, 5) as part of Steevens' comment. _Introduction on Comedies_. If I were to select the one passage in Dr. Johnson's Preface to Shakespeare which occasioned the greatest immediate protest and which has continued to be held up to critical scorn, I should have to pitch upon this: "In tragedy he is always struggling after some occasion to be comick; but in comedy he seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of thinking congenial to his nature. In his tragick scenes there is always something wanting, but his comedy often surpasses expectation or desire. His comedy pleases by the thoughts and the language, and his tragedy for the greater part by incident and action. His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be instinct." As a theatre-goer, Johnson could also say in the Preface that "familiar comedy is often more powerful on the theatre, than in the page; imperial tragedy is always less." One might logically assume, then, that Johnson's greater enjoyment of Shakespeare's comedies would be easily remarked in his commentary--and even, possibly, that they would be singled out for more annotation and comment than the tragedies or the histories. The most heavily annotated plays are, however, the tragedies, and it is curious to observe that the sombre "problem comedy," _Measure for Measure_, commands more notes than any other comedy. Further, Johnson's moral and religious sensibilities were offended by profanity and obscenity in the drama, and Shakespeare's comedies, far more than his tragedies and histories, transgress in this direction. One recollects, finally, that the dramatic genre favored most by Johnson was the "she-tragedy." Was Johnson lauding Shakespeare's comedies because the tragedies had been excessively praised? I do not know. I an most grateful to the Research Board of the University of Illinois for a grant which greatly expedited my work. COMEDIES Vol. I THE TEMPEST I.i (4,2) [_Enter a Ship-master and a Boatswain_] In this naval dialogue, perhaps the first example of sailor's language exhibited on the stage, there are, as I have been told by a skilful narrator, some inaccuracies and contradictory orders. I.i.8 (4,4) [blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough] Perhaps it might be read,--_blow till thou burst, wind, if room enough_. I.i.30 (5,5) It may be observed of Gonzalo, that, being the only good man that appears with the king, he is the only man that preserves his cheerfulness in the wreck, and his hope on the island. I.i.52 (6,7) [set her two courses; off to sea again] The courses are the main-sail and fore-sail. This term is used by Raleigh, in his _Discourse on Shipping_. I.i.63 (6,9) [He'll be hang'd yet; Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at wid'st to glut him.] Shakespeare probably wrote, _t'englut him, to swallow him_; for which I know not that _glut_ is ever used by him. In this signification _englut_, from _engloutir_, French, occurs frequently, as in _Henry VI_. "--Thou art so near the gulf Thou needs must be _englutted_." And again in _Timon_ and _Othello_. Yet Milton writes _glutted offal_ for _swallowed_, and therefore perhaps the present text may stand. I.i.65 (7,1) [Farewell, brother!] All these lines have been hitherto given to Gonzalo, who has no brother in the ship. It is probable that the lines succeeding the _confused noise within_ should be considered as spoken by no determinate characters, but should be printed thus. 1 _Sailor_. Mercy on us! We split, we split! 2 _Sailor_. Farewell, my, &c. 3 _Sailor_. Brother, farewell, &c. (see 1765, I,6,6) I.ii.15 (8,3) [_Mira_. O, woe the day! _Pro_. No harm, I have done nothing but in care of thee] I know not whether Shakespeare did not make Miranda speak thus: _O, woe the day! no harm?_ To which Prospero properly answers: _I have done nothing but in care of thee_. Miranda, when he speaks the words, _O, woe the day_! supposes, not that the crew had escaped, but that her father thought differently from her, and counted their destruction _no harm_. I.ii.27 (8,4) [virtue of compassion] Virtue; the most efficacious part, the energetic quality; in a like sense we say, _The virtue of a plant is in the extract_. I.ii.29 (8,5) [I have with such provision in mine art So safely order'd, that there is no soul-- No, not so much perdition as an hair, Betid to any creature in the vessel] Thus the old editions read, but this is apparently defective. Mr. Rowe, and after him Dr. Warburton, read _that there is no soul lost_, without any notice of the variation. Mr. Theobald substitutes _no foil_, and Mr. Pope follows him. To come so near the right, and yet to miss it, is unlucky: the author probably wrote _no soil_, no stain, no spot: for so Ariel tells, _Not a hair perish'd; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before._ And Gonzalo, _The rarity of it is, that our garments being drench'd in the sea, keep notwithstanding their freshness and glosses_. Of this emendation I find that the author of notes on _The Tempest_ had a glimpse, but could not keep it. I.ii.58 (10,7) [and thy father Was duke of Milan, thou his only heir] Perhaps--_and_ thou _his only heir_. I.ii.83 (11,1) [having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state To what tune pleas'd his ear] _Key_ in this place seems to signify the key of a musical instrument, by which he set _Hearts to tune_. I.ii.93 (11,2) [and my trust,_Like a good parent, did beget of him_ A falshood] Alluding to the observation, that a father above the common rate of men has commonly a son below it. _Heroum filii noxae_. I.ii.155 (14,6) [deck'd the sea] _To deck the sea_, if explained, to honour, adorn, or dignify, is indeed ridiculous, but the original import of the verb _deck_ is, _to cover_; so in some parts they yet say _deck the table_. This sense nay be borne, but perhaps the poet wrote _fleck'd_, which I think is still used in rustic language of drops falling upon water. Dr. Warburton reads _mock'd_, the Oxford edition _brack'd_. (see 1765, I,13,5) I.ii.185 (15,8) [Thou art inclin'd to sleep: 'tis a good dulness] Dr. Warburton rightly observes, that this sleepiness, which Prospero by his art had brought upon Miranda, and of which he knew not how soon the effect would begin, makes him question her so often whether she is attentive to his story. I.ii.196 (16,1) [I boarded the king's ship: now on the beak] The beak was a strong pointed body at the head of the ancient gallies; it is used here for the forecastle, or the bolt-sprit. I.ii.197 (16,2) [Now in the waste] The part between the quarter-deck and the forecastle. I.ii.209 (16,3) [Not a soul _But felt a fever of the mad_] In all the later editions this is changed to a _fever of the mind_, without reason or authority, nor is any notice given of an alteration. I.ii.218 (17,4) [_On their sustaining garments not a blemish_ Thomas Edwards' MSS: sea-stained] This note of Mr. Edwards, with which I suppose no reader is satisfied, shews with how much greater ease critical emendations are destroyed than made, and how willingly every man would be changing the text, if his imagination would furnish alterations. (1773) I.ii.239 (19,7) [What is the time o' the day?] This passage needs not be disturbed, it being common to ask a question, which the next moment enables us to answer; he that thinks it faulty may easily adjust it thus: Pro. _What is the time o' the day? Past the mid season._ Ari. _At least two glasses._ Pro. _The time 'twixt six and now_-- I.ii.250 (19,8) [_Pro._ Dost thou forget _From what a torment I did free thee?_] That the character and conduct of Prospero may be understood, something must be known of the system of enchantment, which supplied all the marvellous found in the romances of the middle ages. This system seems to be founded on the opinion that the fallen spirits, having different degrees of guilt, had different habitations allotted them at their expulsion, some being confined in hell, _some_ (as Hooker, who delivers the opinion of our poet's age, expresses it) _dispersed in air, some on earth, some in water, others in caves, dens, or minerals under the earth_. Of these, some were more malignant and mischievous than others. The earthy spirits seem to have been thought the most depraved, and the aerial the least vitiated. Thus Prospero observes of Ariel: --_Thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her_ earthy _and abhorr'd commands._ Over these spirits a power might be obtained by certain rites performed or charms learned. This power was called _The Black Art_, or _Knowledge of Enchantment_. The enchanter being (as king James observes in his _Demonology_) one _who commands the devil, whereas the witch serves him_. Those who thought best of this art, the existence of which was, I am afraid, believed very seriously, held, that certain sounds and characters had a physical power over spirits, and compelled their agency; others who condemned the practice, which in reality was surely never practised, were of opinion, with more reason, that the power of charms arose _only_ from compact, and was no more than the spirits voluntary allowed them for the seduction of man. The art was held by all, though not equally criminal, yet unlawful, and therefore Causabon, speaking of one who had commerce with spirits, blames him, though he imagines him _one of the best kind who dealt with them by way of command_. Thus Prospero repents of his art in the last scene. The spirits were always considered as in some measure enslaved to the enchanter, at least for a time, and as serving with unwillingness, therefore Ariel so often begs for liberty; and Caliban observes, that the spirits serve Prospero with no good will, but _hate him rootedly_.--Of these trifles enough. I.ii.306 (22,1) [_Mira._ The strangeness of your story put _Heaviness in me_.] Why should a wonderful story produce sleep? I believe experience will prove, that any violent agitation of the mind easily subsides in slumber, especially when, as in Prospero's relation, the last images are pleasing. I.ii.321 (23,2) [As wicked dew, as e'er my mother brush'd With raven's feather from unwholsome fen, Drop on you both!] [Some critics, Bentley among them, had spoken of Caliban's new language.] Whence these critics derived the notion of a new language appropriated to Caliban, I cannot find: they certainly mistook brutality of sentiment for uncouthness of words. Caliban had learned to speak of Prospero and his daughter, he had no names for the sun and moon before their arrival, and could not have invented a language of his own without more understanding than Shakespeare has thought it proper to bestow upon him. His diction is indeed somewhat clouded by the gloominess of his temper, and the malignity of his purposes; but let any other being entertain the same thoughts, and he will find them easily issue in the same expressions. [_As wicked dew_,]--_Wicked_; having baneful qualities. So Spenser says, _wicked weed_; so, in opposition, we say herbs or medicines have _virtues_. Bacon mentions _virtuous Bezoar_, and Dryden _virtuous herbs_. I.ii.351 (25,4) [Abhorred slave] This speech, which the old copy gives to Miranda, is very judiciously bestowed by Mr. Theobald on Prospero. I.ii.364 (27,7) [the red plague] I suppose from the redness of the body universally inflamed. I.ii.396 (28,9) [Full fathom five thy father lies] [Charles Gildon had criticized the song as trifling, and Warburton had defended its dramatic propriety.] I know not whether Dr. Warburton has very successfully defended these songs from Gildon's accusation. Ariel's lays, however seasonable and efficacious, must be allowed to be of no supernatural dignity or elegance, they express nothing great, nor reveal any thing above mortal discovery. The reason for which Ariel is introduced thus trifling is, that he and his companions are evidently of the fairy kind, an order of beings to which tradition has always ascribed a sort of diminutive agency, powerful but ludicrous, a humorous and frolick controlment of nature, well expressed by the songs of Ariel. I.ii.425 (31,3) [Fer. my prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid, or no? Mira. No wonder, Sir; But, certainly, a maid.] [Nothing could be more prettily imagined to illustrate the singularity of her character, than this pleasant mistake. W.] Dr. Warburton has here found a beauty, which I think the author never intended. Ferdinand asks her not whether she was a _created being_, a question which, if he meant it, he has ill expressed, but whether she was unmarried; for after the dialogue which Prospero's interruption produces, he goes on pursuing his former question. _O, if a virgin, I'll make you queen of Naples_. I.ii.439 (32,5) [controul thee] Confute thee, unanswerably contradict thee. I.ii.471 (33,7) [come from thy ward] Desist from any hope of awing me by that posture of defence. II.i.3 (36,1) [our hint of woe] _Hint_ is that which recals to the memory. The cause that fills our minds with grief is common. Dr. Warburton reads _stint_ of woe. II.i.11 (36,3) [_Ant._ The visitor will not give him o'er so] Why Dr. Warburton should change _visitor_ to _'vizer_ for _adviser_, I cannot discover. Gonzalo gives not only advice, but comfort, and is therefore properly called _The Visitor_, like others who visit the sick or distressed to give them consolation. In some of the Protestant churches there is a kind of officers termed consolators for the sick. II.i.78 (38,6) [Widow Dido!] The name of a widow brings to their minds their own shipwreck, which they consider as having made many widows in Naples. II.i.132 (39,7) [Milan and Naples have More widows in them of this business' making, Than we bring men to comfort them] It does not clearly appear whether the king and these lords thought the ship lost. This passage seems to imply, that they were themselves confident of returning, but imagined part of the fleet destroyed. Why, indeed, should Sebastian plot against his brother in the following scene, unless he knew how to find the kingdom which be was to inherit? II.i.232 (43,1) [this lord of weak remembrance] This lord, who, being now in his dotage, has outlived his faculty of remembering; and who, once laid in the ground, shall be as little remembered himself, as he can now remember other things. II.i.235 (43,2) [For he's a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade the king his son's alive] Of this entangled sentence I can draw no sense from the present reading, and therefore imagine that the author gave it thus: _For_ he, _a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade_. Of which the meaning may be either, that _he alone, who is a spirit of persuasion, professes to persuade the king_; or that, _He only professes to persuade_, that is, _without being so persuaded himself, he makes a show of persuading the king_. II.i.242 (44,3) [Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond] That this is the utmost extent of the prospect of ambition, the point where the eye can pass no further, and where objects lose their distinctness, so that what is there discovered, is faint, obscure, and doubtful. (rev. 1778, I,50,4) II.i.251 (44,5) [though some cast again; And, by that destiny, to perform an act, Whereof what's past is prologue; what to come, In yours, and my discharge.] These lines stand in the old edition thus: --_though some cast again; And, by that destiny, to perform an act, Whereof what's past, is prologue; what to come, In your and my discharge_. The reading in the later editions is without authority. The old text may very well stand, except that in the last line _in_ should be _is_. and perhaps we might better say--_and that by destiny_. It being a common plea of wickedness to call temptation destiny. II.i.259 (45,6) [Keep in Tunis] There is in this passage a propriety lost, which a slight alteration will restore: --Sleep _in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake_! II.i.278 (45,7) [Twenty consciences, That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candy'd be they, Or melt e'er they molest] I had rather read, Would _melt e'er they molest_. i.e. _Twenty consciences, such as stand between me and my hopes, though they were congealed, would melt before they could molest one_, or prevent the execution of my purposes. (see 1765, I,40,7) II.i.286 (46,8) [This ancient morsel] For _morsel_ Dr. Warburton reads _ancient moral_, very elegantly and judiciously, yet I know not whether the author might not write _morsel_, as we say a _piece of a man_. II.i.288 (46,9) [take suggestion] i.e. Receive any hint of villainy, (1773) II.i.297 (46,1) [_Ari._ My master through his art foresees the danger, That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth (For else his project dies) to keep them living] [i.e. Alonzo and Antonio; for it was on their lives that his project depended. Yet the Oxford Editor alters _them_ to _you_, because in the verse before, it is said--_you his friend_; as if, because Ariel was _sent forth_ to _save his friend_, he could not have another purpose in sending him, _viz_. to _save his project_ too. W.] I think Dr. Warburton and the Oxford Editor both mistaken. The sense of the passage, as it now stands, is this: He sees _your_ danger, and will therefore save _them_. Dr. Warburton has mistaken Antonio for Gonzalo. Ariel would certainly not tell Gonzalo, that his master saved him only for his project. He speaks to himself as he approaches, _My master through his art foresees the danger That_ these _his friends are in_. _These_ written with a _y_, according to the old practice, did not much differ from _you_. II.i.308 (47,2) [Why are you drawn?] Having your swords drawn. So in _Romeo and Juliet_: "What art thou _drawn_ among these heartless hinds?" II.ii.12 (48,3) [sometime am I All wound with adders] Enwrapped by adders _wound_ or twisted about me. II.ii.32 (49,5) [make a man] That is, make a man's fortune. So in _Midsummer Night's Dream_--"we are all _made men_." II.ii.176 (54,5) [I'll get thee Young scamels from the rock] This word has puzzled the commentators: Dr. Warburton reads _shamois_. Mr. Theobald would read any thing rather than _scamels_. Mr. Holt, who wrote notes upon this play, observes, that limpets are in some places called _scams_, therefore I have suffered _scamels_ to stand. III.i.48 (58,8) [Of every creature's best] Alluding to the picture of Venus by Apelles. III.ii.71 (62,5) [What a py'd ninny's this?] This line should certainly be given to Stephano. _Py'd ninny_ alludes to the striped coat worn by fools, of which Caliban could have no knowledge. Trinculo had before been reprimanded and threatened by Stephano for giving Caliban the lie, he is now supposed to repeat his offence. Upon which Stephano cries out, _What a py'd ninny's this? Thou scurvy patch_!-- Caliban, now seeing his master in the mood that he wished, instigates him to vengeance: _I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows_. III.iii.48 (67,2) [Each putter out on five for one] This passage alluding to a forgotten custom is very obscure: the _putter out_ must be a traveller, else how could he give this account? the _five for one_ is money to be received by him at his return, Mr. Theobald has well illustrated this passage by a quotation from Jonson. III.iii.82 (69,3) [clear life] Pure, blameless, innocent. III.iii.86 (69,4) [so with good life, And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done] This seems a corruption. I know not in what sense _life_ can here be used, unless for alacrity, liveliness, vigour, and in this sense the expression is harsh. Perhaps we may read,--_with good_ lift, with good will, with sincere zeal for my service. I should have proposed,--_with good_ lief, in the same sense, but that I cannot find _lief_ to be a substantive. _With good life_ may however mean, with _exact presentation of their several characters, with observation strange_ of their particular and distinct parts. So we say, he acted to the _life_. (see 1765, I,60,4) III.iii.99 (70,5) [bass my trespass] The deep pipe told it me in a rough bass sound. IV.i.2 (71,7) [for I Have given you here a third of mine own life] [Theobald had argued that Miranda was at least half of Prospero's life and had emended.] In consequence of this ratiocination Mr. Theobald printed the text, _a_ thread _of my own life_. I have restored the ancient reading. Prospero, in his reason subjoined why he calls her the _third_ of his life, seems to allude to some logical distinction of causes, making her the final cause. IV.i.7 (71,8) [strangely stood the test] Strangely is used by way of commendation, _merveilleusement, to a wonder_; the sense is the same in the foregoing scene, with _observation strange_. IV.i.37 (72,1) [the rabble] The crew of meaner spirits. IV.i.59 (73,4) [No tongue] Those who are present at incantations are obliged to be strictly silent, "else," as we are afterwards told, "the spell is marred." IV.i.166 (80,4) [We must prepare to meet with Caliban] _To meet with_ is to counteract; to play stratagem against stratagem.--_The parson knows the temper of every one in his house, and accordingly either_ meets with their vices, _or advances their virtues_. HERBERT's _Country Parson_. IV.i.178 (80,5) [so I charm'd their ears, That, calf-like, they my loving follow'd through Tooth'd briars, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, Which enter'd their frail shins] Thus Drayton, in his _Court of Fairie of Hobgoblin caught in a Spell:_ "But once the circle got within, "The charms to work do straight begin, "And he was caught as in a gin: "For as be thus was busy, "A pain he in his head-piece feels, "Against a stubbed tree he reels, "And up went poor Hobgoblin's heels: "Alas, his brain was dizzy. "At length upon his feet he gets, "Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets; "And as again he forward sets, "And through the bushes scrambles, "A stump doth hit him in his pace, "Down comes poor Hob upon his face, "And lamentably tore his case "Among the briers and brambles." IV.i.196 (81,7) [your fairy ... has done little better than play'd the Jack with us] Has led us about like an _iguis fatuus_, by which travellers are decoyed into the mire. IV.i.246 (83,3) [put some lime] That is, _birdlime_. V.i.102 (90,7) [_Ari_. I drink the air before me] Is an expression of swiftness of the same kind as _to devour the way_ in _Henry IV_. V.i.144 (92,1) [_Alon_. You the like loss? _Pro_. As great to me, as late;] My loss is as great as yours, and has as lately happened to me. V.i.174 (93,2) [Yes, for a score of kingdoms] I take the sense to be only this: Ferdinand would not, he says, play her false for the _world_; yes, answers she, I would allow you to do it for something less than the world, for _twenty kingdoms_, and I wish you well enough to allow you, after a little _wrangle_, that your play was fair. So likewise Dr. Gray. V.i.213 (94,3) [When no man was his own] For _when_ perhaps should be read _where_. V.i.247 (96,4) [at pick'd leisure (Which shall be shortly) single I'll resolve you, (Which to you shall seem probable) of every These happen'd accidents] These words seem, at the first view, to have no use; some lines are perhaps lost with which they were connected. Or we may explain them thus: I will resolve you, by yourself, which method, when you hear the story [of Anthonio's and Sebastian's plot] _shall seem probable_, that is, _shall deserve your approbation_. V.i.267 (97,5) [Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say, if they be true] That is, _honest_. _A true man_ is, in the language of that time, opposed to a thief. The sense is, _Mark what these men wear, and say if they are honest_. Epilogue.10 (100,7) With the help of your good hands] By your applause, by clapping hands. (1773) General Observation (100) It is observed of _The Tempest_, that its plan is regular; this the author of _The Revisal_ thinks, what I think too, an accidental effect of the story, not intended or regarded by our author. But whatever might be Shakespeare's intention in forming or adopting the plot, he has made it instrumental to the production of many characters, diversified with boundless invention, and preserved with profound skill in nature, extensive knowledge of opinions, and accurate observation of life. In a single drama are here exhibited princes, courtiers, and sailors, all speaking in their real characters. There is the agency of airy spirits, and of an earthly goblin. The operation of magick, the tumults of a storm, the adventures of a desert island, the native effusion of untaught affection, the punishment of guilt, and the final happiness of the pair for whom our passions and reason are equally interested. (1773) THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA It is observable (I know not for what cause) that the stile of this comedy is less figurative, and more natural and unaffected than the greater part of this author's, though supposed to be one of the first he wrote. [Pope.] To this observation of Mr. Pope, which is very just, Mr. Theobald has added, that this is one of Shakespeare's _worst plays, and is less corrupted than any other_. Mr. Upton peremptorily determines, _that if any proof can be drawn from manner and stile, this play must be sent packing, and seek for its parent elsewhere. How otherwise_, says he, _do painters distinguish copies from originals, and have not authors their peculiar stile and manner from which a true critic can form as unerring judgment as a painter_? I am afraid this illustration of a critic's science will not prove what is desired. A painter knows a copy from an original by rules somewhat resembling these by which critics know a translation, which if it be literal, and literal it must be to resemble the copy of a picture, will be easily distinguished. Copies are known from originals, even when the painter copies his own picture; so if an author should literally translate his work, he would lose the manner of an original. Mr. Upton confounds the copy of a picture with the imitation of a painter's manner. Copies are easily known, but good imitations are not detected with equal certainty, and are, by the best judges, often mistaken. Nor is it true that the writer has always peculiarities equally distinguishable with those of the painter. The peculiar manner of each arises from the desire, natural to every performer, of facilitating his subsequent works by recurrence to his former ideas; this recurrence produces that repetition which is called habit. The painter, whose work is partly intellectual and partly manual, has habits of the mind, the eye and the hand, the writer has only habits of the mind. Yet, some painters have differed as much from themselves as from any other; and I have been told, that there is little resemblance between the first works of Raphael and the last. The same variation may be expected in writers; and if it be true, as it seems, that they are less subject to habit, the difference between their works may be yet greater. But by the internal marks of a composition we may discover the author with probability, though seldom with certainty. When I read this play, I cannot but think that I find, both in the serious and ludicrous scenes, the language and sentiments of Shakespeare. It is not indeed one of his most powerful effusions, it has neither many diversities of character, nor striking delineations of life, but it abounds in [Greek: gnomahi] beyond most of his plays, and few have more lines or passages, which, singly considered, are eminently beautiful. I am yet inclined to believe that it was not very successful, and suspect that it has escaped corruption, only because being seldom played, it was less exposed to the hazards of transcription. I.i.34 (108,6) [However, but a folly bought with wit; Or else a wit by folly vanquished] This love will end in a _foolish action_, to produce which you are long to spend your _wit_, or it will end in the loss of your _wit_, which will be overpowered by the folly of love. I.i.69 (109,7) [Made wit with musing weak] For _made_ read _make_. _Thou_, Julia, _hast_ made _me war with good counsel, and_ make _wit weak with muting_. I.i.70 (109,8) [_Enter Speed_] [Pope found this scene low and full of "trifling conceits" and suggested it was possibly an interpolation by the actors.] That this, like many other scenes, is mean and vulgar, will be universally allowed; but that it was interpolated by the players seems advanced without any proof, only to give a greater licence to criticism. I.i.153 (112,4) [you have testern'd me] You have gratified me with a _tester, testern_, or _testen_, that is, with a sixpence. I.ii.41 (114,5) [a goodly broker!] A _broker_ was used for matchmaker, sometimes for a procuress. I.ii.68 (115,6) [stomach on your meat] _Stomach_ was used for _passion_ or _obstinacy_. I.ii.137 (117,8) [I see you have a month's mind to them] [_A month's mind_ was an _anniversary_ in times of popery. Gray.] A _month's mind_, in the ritual sense, signifies not desire or inclination, but remonstrance; yet I suppose this is the true original of the expression. (1773) I.iii.1 (118,9) [what sad talk] _Sad_ is the same as _grave_ or _serious_. I.iii.26 (119,2) [Valentine, Attends the emperor in his royal court] [Theobald had tried to straighten out an historical error.] Mr. Theobald discovers not any great skill in history. Vienna is not the court of the emperor as emperor, nor has Milan been always without its princes since the days of Charlemaigne; but the note has its use. I.iii.44 (120,3) [in good time] _In good time_ was the old expression when something happened which suited the thing in hand, as the French say, _a propos_. I.iii.84 (121,4) [Oh, how this spring of love resembleth] At the end of this verse there is wanting a syllable, for the speech apparently ends in a quatrain. I find nothing that will rhyme to _sun_, and therefore shall leave it to some happier critic. But I suspect that the author might write thus: _Oh, how this spring of love resembleth_ right, _The uncertain glory of an April day_; _Which now shews all the glory of the_ light, _And, by and by, a cloud takes all away_. _Light_ was either by negligence or affectation changed to _sun_, which, considered without the rhyme, is indeed better. The next transcriber, finding that the word _right_ did not rhyme to _sun_, supposed it erroneously written, and left it out. II.i.27 (123,1) [Hallowmas] That is, about the feast of All-Saints, when winter begins, and the life of a vagrant becomes less comfortable. II.i.39 (123,2) [without you were so simple, none else would] None else would _be so simple_. II.i.148 (127,5) [reasoning with yourself?] That is, _discoursing, talking_. An Italianism. II.iii.22 (129,2) [I am the dog] This passage is much confused, and of confusion the present reading makes no end. Sir T. Hammer reads, _I am the dog, no, the dog is himself and I am_ me, _the dog is_ the dog, _and I am myself_. This certainly is more reasonable, but I know not how much reason the author intended to bestow on Launce's soliloquy. II.iv.57 (133,1) [not without desert] And not dignified with so much reputation without proportionate merit. II.iv.115 (134,2) [No: that you are worthless] I have inserted the particle _no_ to fill up the measure. II.iv.129 (135,4) [I have done penance for contemning love; Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans] For _whose_ I read _those_. I have contemned love and am punished. _Those_ high thoughts by which I exalted myself above human passions or frailties have brought upon me fasts and groans. II.iv.138 (136,5) [no woe to his correction] No misery that _can be compared to_ the punishment inflicted by love. Herbert called for the prayers of the liturgy a little before his death, saying, _None_ to _them_, _none_ to _them_. II.iv.152 (136,6) [a principality] The first or _principal_ of women. So the old writers use _state_. _She is a lady, a great_ state. Latymer. _This look is called in_ states _warlie, in others otherwise_. Sir T. More. II.iv.167 (137,8) [She is alone] She stands by herself. There is none to be compared to her. II.iv.207 (138,1) [with more advice] With more prudence, with more discretion. II.iv.209 (138,2) ['Tis but her picture I have yet beheld] This is evidently a slip of attention, for he had seen her in the last scene, and in high terms offered her his service. II.v.28 (139,4) [My staff understands me] This equivocation, miserable as it is, has been admitted by Milton in his great poem. B. VI. "----The terms we sent were terms of weight, "Such as we may perceive, amaz'd them all, "And stagger'd many who receives them right, "Had need from head to foot well _understand_, "Not _understood_, this gift they have besides, "To shew us when our foes stand not upright." II.vi (141,5) [Enter Protheus] It is to be observed, that in the first folio edition, the only edition of authority, there are no directions concerning the scenes; they have been added by the later editors, and may therefore be changed by any reader that can give more consistency or regularity to the drama by such alterations. I make this remark in this place, because I know not whether the following soliloquy of Protheus is so proper in the street. II.vi.7 (141,6) [O sweet-suggesting love] To _suggest_ is to _tempt_ in our author's language. So again: "Knowing that tender youth is soon _suggested_." The sense is, _O_ tempting love, _if thou hast_ influenced me to sin, _teach me to excuse it_. Dr. Warburton reads, _if I have sinn'd_; but, I think, not only without necessity, but with less elegance. II.vi.35 (142,7) [Myself in counsel, his competitor] _Myself, who am his_ competitor _or_ rival, being admitted to his counsel. II.vi.37 (142,8) [pretended flight] We may read _intended flight_. II.vi.43 (142,9) [Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!] I suspect that the author concluded the act with this couplet, and that the next scene should begin the third act; but the change, as it will add nothing to the probability of the action, is of no great importance. III.i.45 (146,1) [be not aimed at] Be not _guessed_. III.i.47 (147,2) [of this pretence] Of this _claim_ made to your daughter. III.i.86 (148,4) [the fashion of the time] The modes of courtship, the acts by which men recommended themselves to ladies. III.i.148 (150,5) [for they are sent by me] _For_ is the same as _for that, since_. III.i.153 (150,6) [why, Phaeton (for thou art Merops' son)] Thou art Phaeton in thy rashness, but without his pretensions; thou art not the son of a divinity, but a _terrae filius_, a low born wretch; Merops is thy true father, with whom Phaeton was falsely reproached. III.i.185 (151,7) [I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom] _To fly his doom_, used for _by flying_, or _in flying_, is a gallicism. The sense is, By avoiding the execution of his sentence I shall not escape death. If I stay here, I suffer myself to be destroyed; if I go away, I destroy myself. III.i.261 (153,8) [_Laun_. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's all one, if he be but one knave] [W: but one kind] This alteration is acute and specious, yet I know not whether, in Shakespeare's language, _one knave_ may not signify a _knave on only one occasion_, a _single knave_. We still use a _double villain_ for a villain beyond the common rate of guilt. III.i.265 (154,9) [a team of horse shall not pluck] I see how Valentine suffers for telling his love-secrets, therefore I will keep mine close. III.i.330 (156,4) [_Speed. Item, she hath a. sweet mouth_] This I take to be the same with what is now vulgarly called a _sweet tooth_, a luxurious desire of dainties and sweetmeats. III.i.351 (157,5) [_Speed. Item, she will often praise her liquor_] That is, shew how well she likes it by drinking often. III.i.355 (157,6) [_Speed. Item, she is too liberal_] _Liberal_, is licentious and gross in language. So in _Othello_, "Is he not a profane and very _liberal_ counsellor." III.ii.7 (158,8) [Trenched in ice] Cut, carved in ice. _Trencher_, to cut, French. III.ii.36 (159,9) [with circumstance] With the addition of such incidental particulars as may induce belief. III.ii.51 (160,1) [Therefore as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel, and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me] As you wind off her love from him, make me the _bottom_ on which you wind it. The housewife's term for a ball of thread wound upon a central body, is a _bottom of thread_. III.ii.68 (160,2) [lime] That is, _birdlime_. III.ii.98 (161,4) [_Duke_. Even now about it. I will pardon you] I will excuse you from waiting. IV.i.36 (163,2) [By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar] _Robin Hood_ was captain of a band of robbers, and was much inclined to rob churchmen. IV.i.46 (163,3) [awful men] Reverend, worshipful, such as magistrates, and other principal members of civil communities. IV.ii.12 (165,1) [sudden quips] That is, hasty passionate reproaches and scoffs. So Macbeth is in a kindred sense said to be _sudden_; that is, irascible and impetuous. IV.ii.45 (166,2) [_For beauty lives with kindness_] Beauty without kindness _dies_ unenjoyed, and undelighting. IV.ii.93 (168,4) [You have your wish; my will is even this] The word _will_ is here ambiguous. He wishes to _gain_ her _will_; she tells him, if he wants her _will_ he has it. IV.ii.130 (169,5) [But, since your falsehood shall become you well] This is hardly sense. We may read, with very little alteration, But since _you're false_, it shall become you well. IV.iii.37 (171,2) [Madam, I pity much your grievances] Sorrows, sorrowful affections. IV.iv.13 (172,1) [I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things] I believe we should read, _I would have_. &c. _one that takes upon him to be a dog_, to be a dog _indeed, to be_, &c. IV.iv.79 (174,3) [It seems, you lov'd not her, to leave her token] Protheus does not properly leave his lady's token, he gives it away. The old edition has it, It seems you lov'd her not, _not_ leave her token. I should correct it thus, It seems you lov'd her not, _nor love_ her token. IV.iv.106 (175,4) [To carry that which I would have refus'd] The sense is, To go and present that which I wish to be not accepted, to praise him whom I wish to be dispraised. IV.iv.159 (176,5) [The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks, And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face. That now she is become as black as I] [W: And pitch'd] This is no emendation; none ever heard of a face being _pitched_ by the weather. The colour of a part _pinched_, is livid, as it is commonly termed, _black and blue_. The weather may therefore be justly said to _pinch_ when it produces the same visible effect. I believe this is the reason why the cold is said to _pinch_. IV.iv.198 (179,2) [her forehead's low] A high forehead was in our author's time accounted a feature eminently beautiful. So in _The History of Guy of Warwick_, Felice his lady is said to have _the same high forehead as Venus_. IV.iv.206 (179,3) [My substance should be statue in thy stead] [W: statued] _Statued_ is, I am afraid, a new word, and that it should be received, is not quite evident. V.i.12 (180,4) [sure enough] _Sure_ is safe, out of danger. V.iv.71 (185,1) [The private wound is deepest. Oh time, most curst!] I have a little mended the measure. The old edition, and all but Sir T. Hammer, read, _The private wound is deepest_, _oh time most_ accurst. V.iv.106 (187,4) [if shame live In a disguise of love] That is, _if it be any shame to wear a disguise for the purposes of love_. V.iv.126 (187,5) [Come not within the measure of my wrath] The length of my sword, the reach of my anger. General Observation (189,8) In this play there is a strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance, of care and negligence. The versification is often excellent, the allusions are learned and just; but the author conveys his heroes by sea from one inland town to another in the same country; he places the emperor at Milan, and sends his young men to attend him, but never mentions him more; he makes Protheus, after an interview with Silvia, say he has only seen her picture; and, if we may credit the old copies, he has, by mistaking places, left his scenery inextricable. The reason of all this confusion seems to be, that he took his story from a novel, which he sometimes followed, and sometimes forsook, sometimes remembered, and sometimes forgot. That this play is rightly attributed to Shakespeare, I have little doubt. If it be taken from him, to whom shall it be given? This question may be asked of all the disputed plays, except _Titus Andronicus_; and it will be found more credible, that Shakespeare might sometimes sink below his highest flights, than that any other should rise up to his lowest. (see 1765, I,259,5) THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR I.i.7 (194,4) [_Custalorum_] This it, I suppose, intended for a corruption of _Custos Rotulorum_. The mistake was hardly designed by the author, who, though he gives Shallow folly enough, makes him rather pedantic than illiterate. If we read: Shal. _Ay, cousin Slender, and_ Custos Rotulorum. It follows naturally: Slen. _Ay, and_ Ratalorum _too_. I.i.22 (194,5) [The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat] I see no consequence in this answer. Perhaps we may read, _the salt fish is_ not _an old coat_. That is, the _fresh fish_ is the coat of an ancient family, and the _salt fish_ is the coat of a merchant grown rich by trading over the sea. I.i.115 (198,1) [and broke open my lodge] This probably alludes to some real incident, at that time well known. I.i.121 (198,2) ['Twere better for you, if 'twere not known in council; you'll be laugh'd at] The old copies read, '_Twere better for you, if 'twere known in council_. Perhaps it is an abrupt speech, and must be read thus: '_Twere better for you--if 'twere known in council, you'll be laugh'd at. 'Twere better for you_, is, I believe, a menace.(1773) I.i.127 (199,3) [coney-catching rascals] A _coney-catcher_ was, in the time of Elizabeth, a common name for a cheat or sharper. Green, one of the first among us who made a trade of writing pamphlets, published _A Detection of the Frauds and Tricks of Coney-catchers and Couzeners_. I.i.159 (200,6) [Edward shovel-boards] By this term, I believe, are meant brass castors, such as are shoveled on a board, with king Edward's face stamped upon them. I.i.166 (201,8) [Word of denial in thy Labra's here] I suppose it should rather be read, _Word of denial in_ my _Labra's_ hear; that is, _hear_ the word of denial in my _lips. Thou ly'st_. I.i.170 (201,9) [_marry trap_] When a man was caught in his own stratagem, I suppose the exclamation of insult was _marry, trap_! I.i.184 (202,3) [and so conclusions pass'd the careires] I believe this strange word is nothing but the French _cariere_; and the expression means, that _the common bounds of good behaviour were overpassed_. I.i.211 (203,4) [upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas?] [Theobald suspected that Shakespeare had written "Martlemas."] This correction, thus seriously and wisely enforced, is received by Sir Tho. Hammer; but probably Shakespeare intended a blunder. I.iii.56 (210,7) [The anchor is deep: will that humour pass?] I see not what relation _the anchor_ has to _translation_. Perhaps we may read, _the_ author _is deep_; or perhaps the line is out of its place, and should be inserted lower after Falstaff has said, Sail like my pinnace to those golden shores. It may be observed, that in the tracts of that time _anchor_ and _author_ could hardly be distinguished. (see 1765, II,464,7) I.iii.110 (213,6) [I will possess him with yellowness] _Yellowness_ is jealousy. (1773) I.iii.III (213,7) [for the revolt of mine is dangerous] I suppose we may read, _the revolt_ of men. Sir T. Hammer reads, _this_ revolt of _mine_. Either may serve, for of the present text I can find no meaning. I.iv.9 (213,8) [at the latter end of a sea-coal fire] That is, when my master is in bed. II.i.5 (219,1) [though love use reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor] Of this word I do not see any meaning that is very apposite to the present intention. Perhaps Falstaff said, _Though love use reason as his_ physician, _he admits him not for his counsellor_. This will be plain sense. Ask not the _reason_ of my love; the business of _reason_ is not to assist love, but to _cure_ it. There may however be this meaning in the present reading. _Though love_, when he would submit to regulation, may _use reason as his precisian_, or director in nice cases, yet when he is only eager to attain his end, he takes not reason for _his counsellor_. (1773) II.i.27 (220,2) [I was then frugal of my mirth] By breaking this speech into exclamations, the text may stand; but I once thought it must be read, If _I was_ not _then frugal of my mirth_. II.i.29 (220,3) [Why, I'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men] [T: of fat men] [W: of mum] I do not see that any alteration is necessary; if it were, either of the foregoing conjectures might serve the turn. But surely Mrs. Ford may naturally enough, in the first heat of her anger, rail at the sex for the fault of one. II.i.52 (222,4) [These knights will hack, and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry] [W: lack] Upon this passage the learned editor has tried his strength, in my opinion, with more spirit than success. I read thus--_These knights_ we'll _hack, and so thou shouldest not alter the article of thy gentry_. The punishment of a recreant or undeserving knight, was to _hack_ off his spurs: the meaning therefore is; it is not worth the while of a gentlewoman to be made a knight, for we'll degrade all these knights in a little time, by the usual form of _hacking_ off their spurs, and thou, if thou art knighted, shalt be hacked with the rest. II.i.79 (223,5) [for he cares not what he puts into the press] Press is used ambiguously, for a _press_ to print, and a _press_ to squeeze. II.i.114 (224,7) [curtail-dog] That is, a dog that misses hie game. The tail is counted necessary to the agility of a greyhound; and one method of disqualifying a dog, according to the forest laws, is to cut his tail, or make him a _curtail_. (see 1765, II,477,+) II.i.128 (225,9) [Away, Sir corporal Nym.--Believe it, Page, he speaks sense] Nym, I believe, is out of place, and we should read thus: _Away, Sir corporal._ Nym. _Believe it. Page, he speaks sense._ II.i.135 (225,1) [I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity.--He loves your wife] [V: bite--upon my necessity, he] I do not see the difficulty of this passage: no phrase is more common than--_you may_, upon a need, _thus_. Nym, to gain credit, says, that he is above the mean office of carrying love-letters; he has nobler means of living; _he has a sword, and upon his necessity_, that is, _when his need drives him to unlawful expedients_, his sword _shall bite_. II.i.148 (226,3) [I will not believe such a Cataian] [Theobald and Warburton had both explained "Cataian" as a liar.] Mr. Theobald and Dr. Warburton have both told their stories with confidence, I am afraid, very disproportionate to any evidence that can be produced. That _Cataian_ was a word of hatred or contempt is plain, but that it signified a _boaster_ or a _liar_ has not been proved. Sir Toby, in _Twelfth Night_, says of the Lady Olivia to her maid, "thy Lady's a _Cataian_;" but there is no reason to think he means to call her _liar_. Besides, Page intends to give Ford a reason why Pistol should not be credited. He therefore does not say, _I would not believe such a_ liar: for that he is a liar is yet to be made probable: but he says, _I would not believe such a Cataian on any testimony of his veracity_. That is, "This fellow has such an odd appearance; is so unlike a man civilized, and taught the duties of life, that I cannot credit him." To be a foreigner was always in England, and I suppose everywhere else, a reason of dislike. So Pistol calls Slender in the first act, a _mountain foreigner_; that is, a fellow uneducated, and of gross behaviour; and again in his anger calls Bardolph, _Hungarian wight_. II.i.182 (228,4) [very rogues] A _rogue_ is a _wanderer_ or _vagabond_, and, in its consequential signification, _a cheat_. II.i.236 (230,7) [my long sword] Not long before the introduction of rapiers, the swords in use were of an enormous length, and sometimes raised with both hands. Shallow, with an old man's vanity, censures the innovation by which lighter weapons were introduced, tells what he could once have done with his _long sword_, and ridicules the terms and rules of the rapier. II.ii.28 (234,6) [red lattice phrases] Your ale-house conversation. II.ii.28 (234,7) [your bold-beating oaths] [W: bold-bearing] A _beating oath_ is, I think, right; so we now say, in low language, a _thwacking_ or _swinging_ thing. II.ii.61 (235,8) [canaries] This is the name of a brisk light dance, and is therefore properly enough used in low language for any hurry or perturbation. II.ii.94 (236,1) [frampold] This word I have never seen elsewhere, except in Dr. Hacket's _Life of Archbishop Williams_, where a _frampul_ man signifies a peevish troublesome fellow. II.ii.142 (238,3) [Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights] [Warburton had quoted a passage from Dryden'a _Amboyna_ for "fights," explaining them as "small arms."] The quotation from Dryden might at least have raised a suspicion that _fights_ were neither _small_ arms, nor cannon. _Fights_ and _nettings_ are properly joined. _Fights_, I find, are _cloaths_ hung round the ship to conceal the men from the enemy, and _close-fights_ are _bulkheads_, or any other shelter that the fabrick of a ship affords. II.ii.170 (240,5) [not to charge you] That is, not with a purpose of putting you to expence, or _being burthensome_. II.ii.256 (242,6) [instance and argument] _Instance_ is _example_. II.ii.324 (244,8) [Eleven o'clock] Ford should rather have said _ten o'clock_: the time was between ten and eleven; and his impatient suspicion was not likely to stay beyond the time. II.iii.60 (246,2) [mock-water] The host means, I believe, to reflect on the inspection of urine, which made a considerable part of practical physick in that time; yet I do not well see the meaning of _mock-water_. III.i.17 (249,5) [By shallow rivers, to whose falls] [Warburton had introduced _The Passionate Shepherd to his Love_ and _The Nymph's _Reply_ at this point in his text, attributing both to Shakespeare.] These two poems, which Dr. Warburton gives to Shakespeare, are, by writers nearer that time, disposed of, one to Marlow, the other to Raleigh. These poems are read in different copies with great variations. III.i.123 (253,6) [scald, scurvy] _Scall_ was an old word of reproach, as _scab_ was afterwards. Chaucer imprecates on his _scrivener_; "Under thy longe lockes mayest thou have the _scalle_." III.ii.58 (255,7) [We have linger'd about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer] They have not linger'd very long. The match was proposed by Sir Hugh but the day before. III.ii.73 (256,1) [The gentleman is of no having] _Having_ is the same as _estate_ or _fortune_. III.ii.90 (257,2) [I think, I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him] [Tyrwhitt: horn-pipe wine] _Pipe_ is known to be a vessel of wine, now containing two hogsheads. _Pipe_ wine is therefore wine, not from the _bottle_, but the _pipe_; and the text consists in the ambiguity of the word, which signifies both a cask of wine, and a musical instrument. _Horn-pipe wine_ has no meaning. (1773) III.iii.60 (260,4) [that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance] [Warburton had explained the two tents as head-dresses, and "of Venetian admittance" as "which will admit to be adorned."] This note is plausible, except in the explanation of _Venetian admittance_: but I am afraid this whole system of dress is unsupported by evidence. III.iv.13 (267,7) [father's wealth] Some light may be given to those who shall endear one to calculate the increase of English wealth, by observing, that Latymer, in the time of Edward VI. mentions it as proof of his father's prosperity, _That though but a yeoman. he gave his daughters five pounds each for her portion_. At the latter end of Elizabeth, seven hundred pounds were such a temptation to courtship, as made all other motives suspected. Congreve makes twelve thousand pounds more than a counterbalance to the affectation of Belinda. Ho poet would now fly his favourite character at less than fifty thousand. III.iv.100 (270,1) [will you cast away your child on a fool and a physician?] I should read _fool_ or a _physician_, meaning Slender and Caius. III.v.113 (274,4) [bilbo] A _bilbo_ is a Spanish blade, of which the excellence is flexibleness and elasticity. III.v.117 (274,5) [kidney] _Kidney_ in this phrase now signifies _kind_ or _qualities_, but Falstaff means a man whose _kidnies_ are as _fat_ as mine. III.v.155 (275,6) [I'll be horn-mad] There is no image which our author appears so fond of, as that of cuckold's horns. Scarcely a light character is introduced that does not endearor to produce merriment by some allusion to horned husbands. As he wrote his plays for the stage rather than the press, he perhaps reviewed them seldom, and did not observe this repetition, or finding the jest, however, frequent, still successful, did not think correction necessary. IV.i (276,7) [_Page's house_. _Enter Mrs. Page. Mrs. Quickly, and William_] This is a very trifling scene, of no use to the plot, and I should think of no great delight to the audience; but Shakespeare best knew what would please. IV.ii.22 (879,8) [he so takes on] _To take on_, which is now used for _to, grieve_, seems to be used by our author for _to, rage_. Perhaps it was applied to any passion. IV.ii.26 (279,9) [buffets himself on the forehead, crying, _peer- out, peer-out_!] That is, appear horns. Shakespeare is at his old lunes. (see 1765, II, 526,+) IV.ii.161 (283,1) [this wrongs you] This is below your character, unworthy of your understanding, injurious to your honour. So in _The Taming of the Shrew_, Bianca, being ill treated by her rugged sister, says: "You _wrong_ me much, indeed you _wrong_ yourself." IV.ii.195 (284,2) [ronyon!] _Ronyon_, applied to a woman, means, as far as can be traced, much the same with _scall_ or _scab_ spoken of a man. IV.ii.204 (284,3) [I spy a great peard under his muffler] As the second stratagem, by which Falstaff escapes, is much the grosser of the two, I wish it had been practiced first. It is very unlikely that Ford, baring been so deceived before, and knowing that he had been deceived, would suffer him to escape in so slight a disguise. IV.ii.208 (284,4) [cry out upon no trail] The expression is taken from the hunters. _Trail_ is the scent left by the passage of the game. _To cry out_, is to _open_ or _bark_. IV.iii.13 (285,5) [they must come off] _To come off_, signifies in our author, sometimes _to be uttered with spirit and volubility_. In this place it seems to mean what is in our time expressed by _to come down_, to pay liberally and readily. These accidental and colloquial senses are the disgrace of language, and the plague of commentators. IV.iv.32 (287,7) [And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle] To _take_, in Shakespeare, signifies to seize or strike with a disease, to blast. So in _Hamlet_; "No planet _takes_." So in _Lear_; "-----Strike her young bones, "Ye taking airs, with lameness." (rev. 1778,I,341,4) IV.v.7 (290,3) [standing-bed, and truckle-bed] The usual furniture of chambers in that time was a standing-bed, under which was a _trochle, truckle_, or _running_ bed. In the standing-bed lay the master, and in the truckle-bed the servant. So in Hall's _Account of a Servile Tutor_: "He lieth in the _truckle-bed_. "While his young master lieth o'er his head." IV.v.21 (291,4) [Bohemian-Tartar] The French call a _Bohemian_ what we call a _Gypsey_; but I believe the Host means nothing more than, by a wild appellation, to insinuate that Simple makes a strange appearance. IV. v. 29 (291, 5) [mussel-shell] He calls poor Simple mussel-shell, because he stands with his mouth open. IV. v. 104 (293, 6) [_Primero_] A game at cards. IV. v. 122 (294, 7) [counterfeiting the action of an old woman] [T: a wood woman] This emendation is received by Sir Thomas Hammer, but rejected by Dr. Warburton. To me it appears reasonable enough. IV. v. 130 (294, 8) [sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so cross'd] The great fault of this play, is the frequency of expressions so profane, that no necessity of preserving character can justify them. There are laws of higher authority than those of criticism. V. v. 28 (300, 3) [my shoulders for the fellow of this walk] Who the _fellow_ is, or why he keeps his shoulders for bin, I do not understand. V. v. 77 (304, 9) [Fairies use flowers for their charactery] For the matter with which they make letters. V. v. 84 (304, 1) [I smell a man of middle earth] Spirits are supposed to inhabit the ethereal regions, and fairies to dwell under ground, men therefore are in a middle station. V. v. 99 (305, 4) [_Lust is but a bloody fire_] So the old copies. I once thought it should be read, _Lust is but a_ cloudy _fire_, but Sir T. Hammer reads with less violence, _Lust is but_ i' the blood a _fire_. V. v. 172 (308, 8) [ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me] Though this be perhaps not unintelligible, yet it is an odd way of confessing his dejection. I should wish to read: --_ignorance itself_ has a plume o' me; That is, I am so depressed, that ignorance itself plucks me, and decks itself with the spoils of my weakness. Of the present reading, which is probably right, the meaning may be, I am so enfeebled, that _ignorance itself_ weighs me down and oppresses me. (see 1765, II, 554, 1) V. v. 181 (309, 1) [laugh at my wife] The two plots are excellently connected, and the transition very artfully made in this speech. V. v. 249 (311, 2) [_Page_. Tell, what remedy?] In the first sketch of this play, which, as Mr. Pope observes, is much inferior to the latter performance, the only sentiment of which I regret the omission, occurs at this critical time, when Fenton brings in his wife, there is this dialogue. Mrs. Ford. _Come, mistress Page. I must be bold with you. 'Tis pity to part love that is so true._ Mrs. Page. [Aside] _Although that I have miss'd in my intent, Yet I am glad my husband's match is cross'd. --Here Fenton. take her.--_ Eva. _Come, master Page, you must needs agree._ Ford. _I' faith, Sir, come, you see your wife is pleas'd._ Page. _I cannot tell, and yet my heart is eas'd; And yet it doth me good the Doctor miss'd. Come hither, Fenton, and come hither, daughter._ (1773) General Observation. Of this play there is a tradition preserved by Mr. Rowe, that it was written at the command of queen Elizabeth, who was so delighted with the character of Falstaff, that she wished it to be diffused through more plays; but suspecting that it might pall by continued uniformity, directed the poet to diversify his manner, by shewing him in love. No task is harder than that of writing to the ideas of another. Shakespeare knew what the queen, if the story be true, seems not to have known, that by any real passion of tenderness, the selfish craft, the careless jollity, and the lazy luxury of Falstaff must have suffered so much abatement, that little of his former cast would have remained. Falstaff could not love, but by ceasing to be Falstaff. He could only counterfeit love, and his professions could be prompted, not by the hope of pleasure, but of money. Thus the poet approached as near as he could to the work enjoined him; yet having perhaps in the former plays completed his own idea, seems not to have been able to give Falstaff all his former power of entertainment. This comedy is remarkable for the variety and number of the personages, who exhibit more characters appropriated and discriminated, than perhaps can be found in any other play. Whether Shakespeare was the first that produced upon the English stage the effect of language distorted and depraved by provincial or foreign pronunciations, I cannot certainly decide. This mode of forming ridiculous characters can confer praise only on him, who originally discovered it, for it requires not much of either wit or judgment: its success must be derived almost wholly from the player, but its power in a skilful month, even he that despises it, is unable to resist. The conduct of this drama is deficient; the action begins and ends often before the conclusion, and the different parts might change places without inconvenience; but its general power, that power by which all works of genius shall finally be tried, is such, that perhaps it never yet had reader or spectator, who did not think it too soon at an end. Vol. II MEASURE FOR MEASURE Persons Represented: Varrius might be omitted, for he is only once spoken to, and says nothing. There it perhaps not one of Shakespeare's plays more darkened than this by the peculiarities of its authour, and the unskilfulness of its editors, by distortions of phrase, or negligence of transcription. I.i.6 (4,4) [lists] Bounds, limits. I.i.7 (4,5) [Then no more remains, But that your sufficiency, as your worth is able, And let them work] This is a passage which has exercised the sagacity of the editors, and is now to employ mine. [Johnson adds T's and W's notes] Sir Tho. Hammer, having caught from Mr. Theobald a hint that a line was lost, endeavours to supply it thus. --_Then no more remains, But that to your sufficiency_ you join A will to serve us, _as your worth is able_. He has by this bold conjecture undoubtedly obtained a meaning, but, perhaps not, even in his own opinion, the meaning of Shakespeare. That the passage is more or less corrupt, I believe every reader will agree with the editors. I am not convinced that a line is lost, as Mr. Theobald conjectures, nor that the change of _but_ to _put_, which Dr. Warburton has admitted after some other editor, will amend the fault. There was probably some original obscurity in the expression, which gave occasion to mistake in repetition or transcription. I therefore suspect that the authour wrote thus, --_Then no more remains. But that to your_ sufficiencies _your worth is_ abled, _And let them work. Then nothing remains more than to tell you, that your virtue is now invested with power equal to your knowledge and wisdom. Let therefore your knowledge and your virtue now work together._ It may easily be conceived how _sufficiencies_ was, by an inarticulate speaker, or inattentive hearer, confounded with _sufficiency as_, and how _abled_, a word very unusual, was changed into _able_. For _abled_, however, an authority is not wanting. Lear uses it in the same sense, or nearly the same, with the Duke. As for _sufficiencies_, D. Hamilton, in his dying speech, prays that Charles II. _may exceed both the_ virtues _and_ sufficiencies _of his father_. I.i.11 (6,6) [the terms For common justice, you are as pregnant in] The later editions all give it, without authority, --_the terms_ Of _justice_,-- and Dr. Warburton makes _terms_ signify _bounds_ or _limits_. I rather think the Duke meant to say, that Escalus was _pregnant_, that is, _ready_ and knowing in all the forms of law, and, among other things, in the _terms_ or _times set apart_ for its administration. I.i.18 (7,7) [we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply] [W: roll] This editor is, I think, right in supposing a corruption, but less happy in his emendation. I read, --_we have with special_ seal _Elected him our absence to supply_. A special _seal_ is a very natural metonymy for a special _commission_. I.i.28 (8,8) [There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history Fully unfold] Either this introduction has more solemnity than meaning, or it has a meaning which I cannot discover. What is there peculiar in this, that a man's _life_ informs the observer of his _history_? Might it be supposed that Shakespeare wrote this? _There is a kind of character in thy_ look. _History_ may be taken in a more diffuse and licentious meaning, for _future occurrences_, or the part of life yet to come. If this sense be received, the passage is clear and proper. I.i.37 (8,1) [to fine issues] To great consequences. For high purposes. I.i.41 (9,2) [But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise] I know not whether we may not better read, _One that can my part_ to _him advertise_, One that can _inform himself_ of that which it would be otherwise _my part_ to tell him. I.i.43 (9,3) [Hold therefore, Angelo] That is, continue to be Angelo; _hold_ as thou art. I.i.47 (9,4) [first in question] That is, first called for; first appointed. I.i.52 (9,5) [We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice Proceeded to you] [W: a levell'd] No emendation is necessary. _Leaven'd_ choice is one of Shakespeare's harsh metaphors. His train of ideas seems to be this. _I have proceeded to you with choice_ mature, concocted, fermented, _leavened_. When bread is _leavened_ it is left to ferment: a _leavened_ choice is therefore a choice not hasty, but considerate, not declared as soon as it fell into the imagination, but suffered to work long in the mind. Thus explained, it suits better with _prepared_ than _levelled_. I.i.65 (10,6) [your scope is as mine own] That is, Your amplitude of power. I.ii.22 (12,7) [in metre?] In the primers, there are metrical graces, such as, I suppose, were used in Shakespeare's time. I.ii.25 (12,9) [Grace is grace, despight of all controversy] [Warbarton had suspected an allusion to ecclesiastical disputes.] I am in doubt whether Shakespeare's thoughts reached so far into ecclesiastical disputes. Every commentator is warped a little by the tract of his own profession. The question is, whether the second gentleman has ever heard grace. The first gentleman limits the question to _grace in metre_. Lucio enlarges it to _grace in any_ form _or language_. The first gentleman, to go beyond him, says, or _in any religion_, which Lucio allows, because the nature of things is unalterable; grace is as immutably grace, as his merry antagonist is a _wicked villain_. Difference in religion cannot make a _grace_ not to be _grace_, a _prayer_ not to be _holy_; as nothing can make a _villain_ not to be a _villain_. This seems to be the meaning, such as it is. I.ii.28 (12,1) [there went but a pair of sheers between us] We are both of the same piece. I.ii.35 (13,2) [be pil'd, as thou art pil'd, for a French velvet?] The jest about the pile of a French velvet alludes to the loss of hair in the French disease, a very frequent topick of our authour's jocularity. Lucio finding that the gentleman understands the distemper so well, and mentions it so _feelingly_, promises to remember to drink his _health_, but to forget _to drink after him_. It was the opinion of Shakespeare's time, that the cup of an infected person was contagious. I.ii.50 (13,3) [To three thousand dollars a year] [A quibble intended between _dollars_ and _dolours_. Hammer.] The same jest occured before in the _Tempest_. I.ii.83 (15,5) [what with the sweat] This nay allude to the _sweating sickness_, of which the memory was very fresh in the time of Shakespeare: but more probably to the method of cure then used for the diseases contracted in brothels. I.ii.124 (16,6) [Thus can the demi-god, Authority, Make us pay down, for our offence, by weight.-- The words of heaven;--on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just] [Warburton had emended the punctuation of the second line] I suspect that a line is lost. I.ii.162 (18,8) [the fault, and glimpse, of newness] _Fault_ and _glimpse_ have so little relation to each other, that both can scarcely be right: we may read _flash_ for _fault_ or, perhaps we may read, _Whether it be the fault_ or _glimpse_-- That is, whether it be the seeming enormity of the action, or the glare of new authority. Yet the sane sense follows in the next lines, (see 1765, I, 275, 4) I.ii.188 (19,2) [There is a prone and speechless dialect] I can scarcely tell what signification to give to the word _prone_. Its primitive and translated senses are well known. The authour may, by a _prone_ dialect, mean a dialect which men are _prone_ to regard, or a dialect natural and unforced, as those actions seem to which we are _prone_. Either of these interpretations are sufficiently strained; but such distortion of words is not uncommon in our authour. For the sake of an easier sense, we may read, --_In her youth There is a_ pow'r, _and speechless dialect, Such as moves men._ Or thus, _There is a_ prompt _and speechless dialect._ I.ii.194 (20,3) [under grievous imposition] I once thought it should be _inquisition_, but the present reading is probably right. _The crime would be under grievous_ penalties imposed. I.iii.2 (20,4) [Believe not, that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a compleat bosom] Think not that a breast _compleatly armed_ can be pierced by the dart of love that comes _fluttering without force_. I.iii.12 (21,5) [(A man of stricture and firm abstinence)] [W: strict ure] _Stricture_ may easily be used for _strictness_; _ure_ is indeed an old word, but, I think, always applied to things, never to persons. I.iii.43 (22,9) [To do it slander] The text stood, _So do in slander_.-- Sir Thomas Hammer has very well corrected it thus, To _do_ it _slander_.-- Yet perhaps less alteration might have produced the true reading, _And yet my nature never, in the fight,_ So _do_ing _slander_ed.-- And yet my nature never suffer slander by doing any open acts of severity. (see 1765, I,279,3) I.iii.51 (23,2) [Stands at a guard] Stands on terms of defiance. I.iv.30 (24,3) [make me not your story] Do not, by deceiving me, make me a subject for a tale. I.iv.41 (26,5) [as blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foyson, so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry] As the sentence now stands, it is apparently ungrammatical. I read, At _blossoming time_, &c. That is, _As they that feed grow full, so her womb now_ at blossoming time, _at that time through which the feed time proceeds to the harvest_, her womb shows what has been doing. Lucio ludicrously calls pregnancy _blossoming time_, the time when fruit is promised, though not yet ripe. I.iv.51 (26,6) [Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand, and hope of action] _To bear in hand_ is a common phrase for _to keep in expectation and dependance_, but we should read, --with _hope of action_. I.iv.56 (26,7) [with full line] With full extent, with the whole length. I.iv.62 (27,8) [give fear to use] To intimidate _use_, that is, practices long countenanced by _custom_. I.iv.69 (27,9) [Unless you have the grace] That is, the acceptableness, the power of gaining favour. So when she makes her suit, the provost says, _Heaven give thee moving_ graces. (1765, I,282,1) I.iv.70 (27,1) [pith Of business] The inmost part, the main of my message. I.iv.86 (28,4) [the mother] The abbess, or prioress. II.i.8 (29,7) [Let but your honour know] To _know_ is here to _examine_, to _take cognisance_. So in _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, _Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires_; Know of _your truth, examine well your blood_. II.i.23 (29,8) ['Tis very pregnant, The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it, Because we see it; but what we do not see, We tread upon, and never think of it] 'Tis _plain_ that we must act with bad as with good; we punish the faults, as we take the advantages, that lie in our way, and what we do not see we cannot note. II.i.28 (30,8) [For I have had such faults] That is, _because, by reason that I_ have had faults. II.i.57 (31,9) [This comes off well] This is nimbly spoken; this is volubly uttered. II.i.63 (32,1) [a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd] This we should now express by saying, _he is_ half-tapster, half-bawd. (1773) II.i.66 (32,2) [she professes a hot-house] A _hot-house_ is an English name for a _bagnio_. _Where lately harbour'd many a famous whore, A purging-bill now fix'd upon the door, Tells you it it a_ hot-house, _so it may. And still be a whore-house_. Ben. Jonson. II.i.85 (32,3) [Ay, sir, by mistress Over-done's means] Here seems to have been some mention made of Froth, who was to be accused, and some words therefore may have been lost, unless the irregularity of the narrative may be better imputed to the ignorance of the constable. II.i.180 (35,4) [Justice or Iniquity?] These were, I suppose, two personages well known to the audience by their frequent appearance in the old moralities. The words, therefore, at that time, produced a combination of ideas, which they have now lost. II.i.183 (35,5) [Hannibal] Mistaken by the constable for _Cannibal_. II.i.215 (36,6) [they will draw you] _Draw_ has here a cluster of senses. As it refers to the tapster, it signifies _to drain, to empty_; as it is related to hang, it means _to be conveyed to execution on a hurdle_. In Froth's answer, it is the same as _to bring along by some motive or power_. II.i.254 (37,7) [I'll rent the fairest house in it, after three pence a bay] A _bay_ of building is, in many parts of England, a common term, of which the best conception that I could ever attain, is, that it is the space between the main beams of the roof; so that a barn crossed twice with beams is a barn of three _bays_. II.ii.26 (40,8) [Stay yet a while] It is not clear why the provost is bidden to stay, nor when he goes out. II.ii.32 (40,9) [For which I must not plead but that I am at war, 'twixt will, and will not] This is obscure; perhaps it may be mended by reading, _For which I must_ now _plead; but_ yet _I am At war, 'twixt will, and will not._ _Yet_ and _yt_ are almost indistinguishable in a manuscript. Yet no alteration is necessary, since the speech is not unintelligible as it now stands, (see 1765, 9I,294,5) II.ii.78 (42,2) [And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made] I rather think the meaning is, _You would then change the severity of your present character_. In familiar speech, _You would be quite another man_. (see 1765, 1,296,7) II.ii.99 (43,6) [_Isab_. Yet shew some pity. _Ang_. I shew it most of all, when I shew justice; For then I pity those I do not know] This was one of Bale's memorials. _When I find myself swayed to mercy, let me remember, that there is a mercy likewise due to the country_. II.ii.126 (45,2) [We cannot weigh our brother with ourself] [W: yourself] The old reading is right. _We_ mortals proud and foolish cannot prevail on our passions to _weigh_ or compare _our brother_, a being of like nature and frailty, with _ourself_. We have different names and different judgments for the same faults committed by persons of different condition. (1773) II.ii.141 (46,3) [She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it] Thus all the folios. Some later editor has changed _breeds_ to _bleeds_, and Dr. Warburton blames poor Mr. Theobald for recalling the old word, which yet is certainly right. _My sense_ breeds _with her sense_, that is, new thoughts are stirring in my mind, new conceptions are _hatched_ in my imagination. So we say to _brood_ over thought. II.ii.149 (46,4) [tested gold] Rather cupelled, brought to the _test_, refined, (see 1765,I,299,6) II.ii.157 (47,6) [For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross] Which way Angelo is going to temptation, we begin to perceive; but how _prayers cross_ that way, or cross each other, at that way, more than any other, I do not understand. Isabella prays that his _honour_ may be safe, meaning only to give him his title: his imagination is caught by the word _honour_; he feels that his _honour_ is in danger, and therefore, I believe, answers thus: _I am that way going to temptation_, Which your _prayers cross_. That is, I am tempted to lose that honour of which thou implorest the preservation. The temptation under which I labour is that which thou hast unknowingly _thwarted_ with thy prayer. He uses the same mode language a few lines lower. Isabella, parting, says, Save your _honour_! Angelo catches the word--_Save it_! _From what_? _From thee; even from thy virtue_!--(rev. 1778,II,52,3) II.ii.165 (47,7) [But it is I, That lying, by the violet, in the sun, Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.] I am not corrupted by her, but by my own heart, which excites foul desires under the same benign influences that exalt her purity, as the carrion grows putrid by those beams which encrease the fragrance of the violet. II.ii.186 (48,8) [Ever, till now, When men were fond, I smil'd, and wonder'd how] As a day must now intervene between this conference of Isabella with Angelo, and the next, the act might more properly end here; and here, in my opinion, it was ended by the poet. II.iii.11 (49,1) [Who falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blister'd her report] Who doth not see that the integrity of the metaphor requires we should read, --_flames of her own youth_? Warburton.] Who does not see that, upon such principles, there is no end of correction? II.iii.36 (50,3) [There rest] Keep yourself in this temper. II.iii.40 (50,4) [Oh, injurious love] Her execution was respited on account of her pregnancy, the effects of her love: therefore she calls it _injurious_; not that it brought her to shame, but that it hindered her freeing herself from it. Is not this all very natural? yet the Oxford editor changes it to _injurious law_. II.iv.9 (51,6) [Grown fear'd and tedious] [W: sear'd] I think _fear'd_ may stand. What we go to with reluctance may be said to be _fear'd_. II.iv.13 (51,7) [case] For outside; garb; external shew. II.iv.14 (51,8) [Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming?] Here Shakespeare judiciously distinguishes the different operations of high place upon different minds. Fools are frighted, and wise men are allured. Those who cannot judge but by the eye, are easily awed by splendour; those who consider men as well as conditions, are easily persuaded to love the appearance of virtue dignified with power. II.iv.16 (51,9) [Let's write good angel on the devil's horn; 'Tis not the devil's crest] [Hammer: Is't not the devil's crest] I am still inclined to the opinion of the Oxford editor. Angelo, reflecting on the difference between his seeming character, and his real disposition, observes, that he _could change his gravity for a plume_. He then digresses into an apostrophe, _O dignity, how dost thou impose upon the world_! then returning to himself, _Blood_, says he, _thou art but blood_, however concealed with appearances and decorations. Title and character do not alter nature, which is still corrupt, however dignified. _Let's write good angel on the devil's horn_; _Is't not_?--or rather--_'Tis yet the devil's crest_. It may however be understood, according to Dr. Warburton's explanation. O place, how dost thou impose upon the world by false appearances! so much, that if we _write good angel on the devil's horn, 'tis not_ taken any longer to be _the devil's crest_. In this sense, _Blood, thou art but blood._! is an interjected exclamation. (1773) II.iv.27 (53,1) [The gen'ral subjects to a well-wish'd king] So the later editions: but the old copies read, _The_ general subject _to a well-wish'd king_. The _general subject_ seems a harsh expression, but _general subjects_ has no sense at all; and _general_ was, in our authour's time, a word for _people_, so that the _general_ is the _people_, or _multitude, subject_ to a king. So in _Hamlet_: _The play pleased not the_ million; _'twas caviare to the_ general. II.iv.47 (54,3) [Falsely to take away a life true made] _Falsely_ is the same with _dishonestly, illegally_: so _false_, in the next lines, is _illegal, illegitimate_. II.iv.48 (54,4) [As to put metal in restrained means] In forbidden moulds. I suspect _means_ not to be the right word, but I cannot find another. II.iv.50 (55,5) ['Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth] I would have it considered, whether the train of the discourse does not rather require Isabel to say, _'Tis so set down in_ earth, _but not in_ heaven. When she has said this, _Then_, says Angelo, _I shall poze you quickly_. Would you, who, for the present purpose, declare your brother's crime to be less in the sight of heaven, than the law has made it; would you commit that crime, light as it is, to save your brother's life? To this she answers, not very plainly in either reading, but more appositely to that which I propose: _I had rather give my body, than my soul_. (1773) II.iv.67 (56,6) [Pleas'd you to do't at peril of your soul, Were equal poize of sin and charity] The reasoning is thus: Angelo asks, whether there might _not be a charity in sin to save this brother_. Isabella answers, that _if Angelo will save him, she will stake her soul that it were charity, not sin_. Angelo replies, that if Isabella would _save him at the hazard of her soul, it would be not indeed no sin, but a sin to which the charity would be equivalent_. II.iv.73 (56,7) [And nothing of your answer] I think it should be read, _And nothing of_ yours _answer_. You, and whatever is _yours_, be exempt from penalty. II.iv.86 (56,9) [Accountant to the law upon that pain] _Pain_ is here for _penalty, punishment_. II.iv.90 (57,2) [But in the loss of question,] The _loss_ of question I do not well understand, and should rather read, _But in the_ toss _of question_. In the _agitation_, in the _discussion_ of the question. To _toss_ an argument is a common phrase. II.iv.106 (57,4) [a brother dy'd at once] Perhaps we should read, _Better it were, a brother died_ for _once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him. Should die_ for _ever_. II.iv.123 (58,6) [Owe, and succeed by weakness] To _owe_ is, in this place, to _own_, to _hold_, to have possession. II.iv.125 (59,7) [the glasses where they view themselves; Which are as easily broke, as they make forms] Would it not be better to read, ----take _forms_. II.iv.128 (59,8) [In profiting by them] In imitating them, in taking them for examples. II.iv.139 (59,1) [I have no tongue but one. Gentle my lord, Let me intreat you, speak the former language] Isabella answers to his circumlocutory courtship, that she has but _one tongue_, she does not understand this new phrase, and desires him to talk his _former language_, that is, to talk as he talked before. II.iv.150 (60,3) [Seeming, seeming!] Hypocrisy, hypocrisy; counterfeit virtue. II.iv.156 (60,4) [My Touch against you] [The calling his denial of her charge _his vouch_, has something fine. _Vouch_ is the testimony one man bears for another. So that, by this, he insinuates his authority was so great, that his _denial_ would have the same credit that a _vouch_ or testimony has in ordinary cases. Warburton.] I believe this beauty is merely imaginary, and that _vouch against_ means no more than denial. II.iv.165 (60,5) [die the death] This seems to be a solemn phrase for death inflicted by law. So in _Midsummer Night's Dream_. _Prepare_ to die the death. II.iv.178 (61,6) [prompture] Suggestion, temptation, instigation. III.i.5 (62,8) [Be absolute for death] Be determined to die, without any hope of life. _Horace_,-- --_The hour, which exceeds expectation will be welcome._ III.i.7 (62,9) [I do lose a thing, That none but fools would keep] [W: would reck] The meaning seems plainly this, that _none but fools would_ wish _to keep life_; or, _none but fools would keep_ it, if choice were allowed. A sense, which whether true or not, is certainly innocent. III.i.14 (63,3) [For all the accommodations, that thou bear'st Are nurs'd by baseness] Dr. Warburton is undoubtedly mistaken in supposing that by _baseness_ is meant _self-love_ here assigned as the motive of all human actions. Shakespeare only meant to observe, that a minute analysis of life at once destroys that splendour which dazzles the imagination. Whatever grandeur can display, or luxury enjoy, is procured by _baseness_, by offices of which the mind shrinks from the contemplation. All the delicacies of the table may be traced back to the shambles and the dunghill, all magnificence of building was hewn from the quarry, and all the pomp of ornaments dug from among the damps and darkness of the mine. III.i.16 (64,4) [the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm] _Worm_ is put for any creeping thing or _serpent_. Shakespeare supposes falsely, but according to the vulgar notion, that a serpent wounds with his tongue, and that his tongue is _forked_. He confounds reality and fiction, a serpent's tongue is _soft_ but not _forked_ nor hurtful. If it could hurt, it could not be soft. In _Midsummer Night's Dream_ he has the same notion. --_With_ doubler _tongue Than thine, O serpent, never adder_ stung. III.i.17 (64,5) [Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grosly fear'st Thy death which is no more] Here Dr. Warburton might have found a sentiment worthy of his animadversion. I cannot without indignation find Shakespeare saying, that _death is only sleep_, lengthening out his exhortation by a sentence which in the friar is impious, in the reasoner is foolish, and in the poet trite and vulgar. III.i.19 (64,6) [Thou art not thyself, For thou exist'st on many thousand grains, That issue out of dust] Thou art perpetually repaired and renovated by external assistance, thou subsistest upon foreign matter, and hast no power of producing or continuing thy own being. III.i.24 (64,7) [strange effects] For _effects_ read _affects_; that is, _affections_, _passions_ of mind, or disorders of body variously _affected_. So in _Othello_, _The young_ affects. III.i.32 (65,9) [Thou hast nor youth, nor age; But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both] This is exquisitely imagined. When we are young, we busy ourselves in forming schemes for succeeding time, and miss the gratifications that are before us; when we are old, we amuse the languor of age with the recollection of youthful pleasures or performances; so that our life, of which no part is filled with the business of the present time, resembles our dreams after dinner, when the events of the morning are mingled with the designs of the evening. III.i.34 (65,1) [for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld] [W: for pall'd, thy blazed youth Becomes assuaged] Here again I think Dr. Warburton totally mistaken. Shakespeare declares that man has _neither youth nor age_; for in _youth_, which is the _happiest_ time, or which might be the happiest, he commonly wants means to obtain what he could enjoy; he is dependent on _palsied eld_; _must beg alms_ from the coffers of hoary avarice: and being very niggardly supplied, _becomes as aged_, looks, like an old man, on happiness which is beyond his reach. And when _he is old and rich_, when he has wealth enough for the purchase of all that formerly excited his desires, he has no longer the powers of enjoyment, --_has neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, To make _his _riches pleasant_.-- I have explained this passage according to the present reading, which may stand without much inconvenience; yet I am willing to persuade my reader, because I have almost persuaded myself, that our authour wrote, --_for all thy_ blasted _youth Becomes as aged_-- III.i.37 (66,2) [Thou has neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty To make thy riches pleasant] [W: nor bounty] I am inclined to believe, that neither man nor woman will have much difficulty to tell how _beauty makes riches pleasant_. Surely this emendation, though it it elegant and ingenious, is not such as that an opportunity of inserting it should be purchased by declaring ignorance of what every one knows, by confessing insensibility to what every one feels. III.i.40 (66,3) [more thousand deaths] For this sir T. Hammer reads, ----_ a thousand deaths_:---- The meaning is not only _a thousand deaths_, but _a thousand deaths_ besides what have been mentioned. III.i.55 (67,5) [Why, as all comforts are; most good in Deed] If this reading be right, Isabella must mean that she brings something better than _words_ of comfort, she brings an assurance of _deeds_. This is harsh and constrained, but I know not what better to offer. Sir Thomas Hammer reads,--_in_ speed. III.i.59 (68,6) [an everlasting leiger. Therefore your best appointment] _Leiger_ is the same with resident. _Appointment_; preparation; act of fitting, or state of being fitted for any thing. So in old books, we have a knight well _appointed_; that is, well armed and mounted or fitted at all points. III.i.68 (68,8) [Tho' all the world's vastidity you had, To a determin'd scope] A confinement of your mind to one painful idea; to ignominy, of which the remembrance can neither be suppressed nor escaped. III.i.79 (69,9) [And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great, As when a giant dies] The reasoning is, _that death is no more than every being must suffer, though the dread of it is peculiar to man_; or perhaps, that_ we are inconsistent with ourselves, when we so much dread that which we carelessly inflict on other creatures, that feel the pain as acutely as we. III.i.91 (69,1) [follies doth emmew] Forces follies to lie in cover without daring to show themselves. III.1.93 (69,3) [His filth within being cast] To _cast_ a pond is to empty it of mud. Mr. Upton reads, _His_ pond _within being cast, he would appear A_ filth _as deep as hell_. III.1.94 (70,4) [_Claud_. The princely Angelo? _Isab_. Oh, 'tis the cunning livery of hell, The damned'st body to invest and cover In princely guards!] [W: priestly guards] The first folio has, in both places, _prenzie_, from which the other folios made _princely_, and every editor may make what he can. III.i.113 (71,7) [If it were damnable, he being so wise, Why would he for the momentary trick Be perdurably fin'd?] Shakespeare shows his knowledge of human nature in the conduct of Claudio. When Isabella first tells him of Angelo's proposal, he answers, with honest indignation, agreeably to his settled principles, _Thou shalt not do't._ But the love of life being permitted to operate, soon furnishes him with sophistical arguments, he believes it cannot be very dangerous to the soul, since Angelo, who is so wise, will venture it. III.i.121 (71,8) [delighted spirit] This reading may perhaps stand, but many attempts have been made to correct it. The most plausible is that which substitutes, --_the_ benighted _spirit_, alluding to the darkness always supposed in the place of future punishment. Perhaps we may read, --_the_ delinquent _spirit_, a word easily changed to _delighted_ by a bad copier, or unskilful reader. _Delinquent_ is proposed by Thirlby in his manuscript.(1773) III.i.127 (72,9) [lawless and incertain thoughts] Conjecture sent out to wander without any certain direction, and ranging through all possibilities of pain. III.i.139 (73,2) [Is't not a kind of incest, to take life From thine own sister's shame?] In Isabella's declamation there is something harsh, and something forced and far-fetched. But her indignation cannot be thought violent, when we consider her not only as a virgin, but as a nun. III.i.149 (74,4) [but a trade] A custom; a practice, an established habit. So we say of a man much addicted to any thing, _he makes_ a trade _of it_. III.i.176 (75,6) [Hold you there] Continue in that resolution. III.i.255 (77,l) [only refer yourself to this advantage] This is scarcely to be reconciled to any established mode of speech. We may read, _only_ reserve yourself to, or _only_ reserve to _yourself this advantage_. III.i.266 (77,2) [the corrupt deputy scaled] _To scale the deputy_ may _be, to reach him, notwithstanding the elevation of his place_; or it may be, _to strip him and discover his nakedness, though armed and concealed by the investments of authority_. III.ii.6 (78,4) [since, of two usuries] Sir Thomas Hammer corrected this with less pomp [than Warburton], then _since of two_ usurers _the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed, by order of law, a furr'd gown_, &c. His punctuation is right, but the alteration, small as it is, appears more than was wanted. Usury may be need by an easy licence for the _professors of usury_. III.ii.14 (79,5) [father] This word should be expunged. III.ii.40 (80,7) [That we were all, as some would seem to be, Free from all faults, as faults from seeming free!] Sir T. Hammer reads, _Free from all faults, as from faults seeming free_. In the interpretation of Dr. Warburton, the sense is trifling, and the expression harsh. To wish _that men were as free from faults, as faults are free from comeliness_ [instead of _void of comeliness_] is a very poor conceit. I once thought it should be read, _O that all were, as all would seem to be. Free from all faults_, or _from_ false seeming _free_. So in this play, _O place, 0 power--how dost thou Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy_ false seeming. But now I believe that a less alteration will serve the turn. _Free from all faults_, or _faults from seeming free; that men were really good, or that their faults were known_, that men were free from faults, _or_ faults from _hypocrisy_. So Isabella calls Angelo's hypocrisy, _seeming, seeming_. III.ii.42 (81,8) [His neck will come to your waist] That is, his neck will be tied, like your waist, with a rope. The friars of the Franciscan order, perhaps of all others, wear a hempen cord for a girdle. Thus Buchanan, _Fac gemant suis, Variata terga funibus_. III.ii.51 (81,1) [what say'st thou to this tune, matter and method? Is't not drown'd i' the last rain?] [W: It's not down i' the last reign] Dr. Warburton's emendation is ingenious, but I know not whether the sense may not be restored with less change. Let us consider it. Lucio, a prating fop, meets his old friend going to prison, and pours out upon him his impertinent interrogatories, to which, when the poor fellow makes no answer, he adds, _What reply? ha? what say'st thou to this? tune, matter, and method,--is't not? drown'd i' th' last rain? ha? what say'st thou, trot_? &c. It is a common phrase used in low raillery of a man crest-fallen and dejected, that _he looks like a drown'd puppy_, Lucio, therefore, asks him, whether he was _drowned in the last rain_, and therefore cannot speak. III.ii.52 (82,2) [what say'st thou, trot?] _Trot_, or as it is now often pronounced, honest _trout_, is a familiar address to a man among the provincial vulgar. (1773) III.ii.54 (82,3) [Which is the way?] _What is the_ mode _now_? III.ii.59 (82,4) [in the tub] The method of cure for veneral complaints is grosly celled the _powdering tub_. III.ii.89 (83,6) [Go--to kennel, Pompey--go] It should be remembered, that Pompey is the common name of a dog, to which allusion is made in the mention of a _kennel_. (1773) III.ii.135 (85,9) [clack-dish] The beggars, two or three centuries ago, used to proclaim their wont by a wooden dish with a moveable cover, which they clacked to shew that their vessel was empty. This appears in a passage quoted on another occasion by Dr. Gray, (see 1765, I,331,9 and the note in the 1765 Appendix) III.ii.144 (86,1) [The greater file of the subject] The larger list, the greater number. III.ii.193 (87,5) [He's now past it] Sir Thomas Hammer, _He is not past it yet_. This emendation was received in the former edition, but seems not necessary. It were to be wished, that we all explained more, and amended less. (see 1765, I,333,5) III.ii.277 (90,9) [Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go] These lines I cannot understand, but believe that they should be read thus: Patterning _himself to know_, In _grace to stand_, in _virtue go_; To _pattern_ is _to work after a pattern_, and, perhaps, in Shakespeare's licentious diction, simply to work. The sense is, _he that bears the sword of heaven should be holy as well as severe; one that after good examples labours to know himself, to live with innocence, and to act with virtue_. III.ii.294 (91,5) [So disguise shall, by the disguis'd Pay with falshood false exacting] So _disguise_ shall by means of a person _disguised_, return an _injurious demand_ with a _counterfeit person_. IY.i.13 (93,4) [My mirth it much displeas'd, but pleas'd my woe] Though the musick soothed my sorrows, it had no tendency to produce light merriment. IV.i.21 (93,5) [constantly] Certainly; without fluctuation of mind. IV.i.28 (93,6) [circummur'd with brick] _Circummured_, walled round. _He caused the doors to be_ mured _and cased up_. Painter's Palace of Pleasure. IV.i.40 (94,7) [In action all of precept] I rather think we should read, _In precept all of action_,-- that is, _in direction given not by words, but by mute signs_. IV.i.44 (94,8) [I have possess'd him] I have made him clearly and strongly comprehend. IV.i.60 (95,9) [O place and greatness] [It plainly appears, that _this_ fine speech belongs to _that_ which concludes the preceding scene, between the Duke and Lucio.... But that some time might be given to the two women to confer together, the players, I suppose, took part of the speech, beginning at _No might nor greatness_, &c. and put it here, without troubling themselves about its pertinency. Warburton.] I cannot agree that these lines are placed here by the players. The sentiments are common, and such as a prince, given to reflection, must have often present. There was a necessity to fill up the time in which the ladies converse apart, and they must have quick tongues and ready apprehensions, if they understood each other while this speech was uttered. IV.i.60 (95,1) [false eyes] That is, Eyes insidious and traiterous. IV.i.62 (95,2) [contrarious quests] Different reports, _running counter_ to each other. IV.i.76 (96,4) [for yet our tithe's to sow] [W: tilth] The reader is here attacked with a pretty sophism. We should read _tilth_, i.e. our _tillage is to make_. But in the text it is _to sow_; and who has ever said that his _tillage_ was to _sow_? I believe _tythe_ is right, and that the expression is proverbial, in which _tithe_ is taken, by an easy metonymy, for _harvest_. IV.ii.69 (100,7) [ As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones ] Stiffly. These two lines afford a very pleasing image. IV.ii.83 (101,1) [Even with the stroke] _Stroke_ is here put for the _stroke_ of a pen or a line. IV.ii.86 (101,2) [To qualify] To temper, to moderate, as we say wine is _qualified_ with water. IV.ii.86 (101,3) [Were he meal'd] Were he sprinkled; were he defiled, A figure of the same kind our authour uses in _Macbeth_, _The_ blood-bolter'd _Banquo._ IV.ii.91 (101,4) [that spirit's possess'd with haste, That wounds the unresisting postern with these strokes] The line is irregular, and the _unresisting postern_ so strange an expression, that want of measure, and want of sense, might justly raise suspicion of an errour, yet none of the later editors seem to have supposed the place faulty, except sir Tho. Hammer, who reads, _the_ unresting _postern_. The three folio's have it, _unsisting postern_, out of which Mr. Rowe made _unresisting_, and the rest followed him. Sir Thomas Hammer seems to have supposed _unresisting_ the word in the copies, from which he plausibly enough extracted _unresting_, but be grounded his emendation on the very syllable that wants authority. What can be made of _unsisting_ I know not; the best that occurs to me is _unfeeling_. IV.ii.103 (103,6) [_Duke_. This is his lordship's man. _Prov_. And here comes Claudio's pardon] [Tyrwhitt suggested that the names of the speakers were misplaced] When, immediately after the Duke had hinted his expectation of a pardon, the Provost sees the Messenger, he supposes the Duke to to have _known something_, and changes his mind. Either reading may serve equally well. (1773) IV.ii.153 (104,7) [desperately mortal] This expression is obscure. Sir Thomas Hammer reads, _mortally desperate_. _Mortally_ is in low conversation used in this sense, but I know not whether it was ever written. I am inclined to believe, that _desperately mortal_ means _desperately mischievous_. Or _desperately mortal_ may mean a man likely to die in a _desperate_ state, without reflection or repentance. (see 1765, I,348,7) IV.ii.187 (106,8) [and tie the beard] A beard tied would give a very new air to that face, which had never been seen but with the beard loose, long, and squalid. (1773) IV.iii.4 (107,2) [First, here's young master Rash] This enumeration of the inhabitants of the prison affords a very striking view of the practices predominant in Shakespeare's age. Besides those whose follies are common to all times, we have four fighting men and a traveller. It is not unlikely that the originals of the pictures were then known. IV.iii.17 (108,4) [master Forthlight] Should not _Forthlight_ be _Forthright_, alluding to the line in which the thrust is made? (1773) IV.iii.21 (108,6) [in for the Lord's sake] [i.e. to beg for the rest of their lives. Warburton.] I rather think this expression intended to ridicule the puritans, whose turbulence and indecency often brought them to prison, and who considered themselves as suffering for religion. It is not unlikely that men imprisoned for other crimes, might represent themselves to casual enquirers, as suffering for puritanism, and that this might be the common cant of the prisons. In Donne's time, every prisoner was brought to jail by suretiship. IV.iii.68 (110,7) [After him, fellows] Here was a line given to the Duke, which belongs to the Provost. The Provost, while the Duke is lamenting the obduracy of the prisoner, cries out, _After him, fellows_, &c. and, when they are gone out, turns again to the Duke. IV.iii.72 (110,8) [to transport him] To remove him from one world to another. The French _trepas_ affords a kindred sense. IV.iii.115 (112,1) [I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair, When least it is expected.] A better reason might have been given. It was necessary to keep Isabella in ignorance, that she might with more keenness accuse the deputy. IV.iii.139 (113,2) [your bosom] Your wish; your heart's desire. IV.iii.149 (113,3) [I am combined by a sacred vow] I once thought this should be _confined_, but Shakespeare uses _combine_ for to _bind by a pact or agreement_, so he calls Angelo the _combinate_ husband of Mariana. IV.iii.163 (113,4) [if the old fantastical duke] Sir Thomas Hammer reads, _the_ odd _fantastical duke_, but _old_ is a common word of aggravation in ludicrous language, as, _there was_ old _revelling_. IV.iii.170 (114,5) [woodman] That is, _huntsman_, here taken for a _hunter of girls_. IV.iv.19 (115,6) [sort and suit] Figure and rank. IV.iv.27 (115,7) [Yet reason dares her No] Mr. Theobald reads, --_Yet reason dares her_ note. Sir Thomas Hammer, --_Yet reason dares her: No._ Mr. Upton, --_Yet reason dares her--No_, which he explains thus: _Yet_, says Angelo, _reason will give her courage_--_No_, that is, _it will not_. I am afraid _dare_ has no such signification. I have nothing to offer worth insertion. IV.iv.28 (116,8) [For my authority bears a credent bulk; That no particular scandal once can touch] _Credent_ is _creditable, inforcing credit, not questionable_. The old English writers often confound the active and passive adjectives. So Shakespeare, and Milton after him, use _inexpressive_ from inexpressible. _Particular_ is _private_, a French sense. No scandal from any _private_ mouth can reach a man in my authority. IV.iv.36 (116,9) [Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not] Here undoubtedly the act should end, and was ended by the poet; for here is properly a cessation of action, and a night intervenes, and the place is changed, between the passages of this scene, and those of the next. The next act beginning with the following scene, proceeds without any interruption of time or change of place. IV.v.1 (117,1) [_Duke_. These letters at fit time deliver me] Peter never delivers the letters, but tells his story without any credentials. The poet forgot the plot which he had formed. IV.vi.4 (118,2) [He says, to vail full purpose] [T: t'availful] [Warburton had explained "full" as "beneficial."] _To vail full_ purpose, may, with very little force on the words, mean, _to hide_ _the whole extent of our design_, and therefore the reading may stand; yet I cannot but think Mr. Theobald's alteration either lucky or ingenious. To interpret words with such laxity, as to make _full_ the sane with _beneficial_, is to put an end, at once, to all necessity of emendation, for any word may then stand in the place of another. IV.vi.9 (118,3) [_Enter Peter_] This play has two Friars, either of whom might singly have served. I should therefore imagine, that Friar Thomas, in the first act, might be changed, without any harm, to Friar Peter; for why should the Duke unnecessarily trust two in an affair which required only one. The none of Friar Thomas is never mentioned in the dialogue, and therefore seems arbitrarily placed at the head of the scene. IV.vi.14 (119,4) [Have bent the gates] Have taken possession of the gates, (rev. 1778, II,134,4) V.i.20 (120,5) [vail your regard] That is, withdraw your thoughts from higher things, let your notice descend upon a wronged woman. To _vail_, is to lower. V.i.45 (121,6) [truth is truth To the end of reckoning] That is, truth has no gradations; nothing which admits of encrease can be so much what it is, as _truth_ is _truth_. There may be a _strange_ thing, and a thing _more strange_, but if a proposition be _true_, there can be none _more true_. V.i.54 (121,7) [as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute] _As shy_; as reserved, as abstracted: _as just_; as nice, as exact: _as absolute_; as complete in all the round of duty. V.i.56 (121,8) [In all his dressings] In all his semblance of virtue, in all his habiliments of office. V.i.64 (122,1) [do not banish reason For inequality] Let not the high quality of my adversary prejudice you against me. V.i.104 (124,4) [Oh, that it were as like, as it is true!] [Warburton had explained "like" as "seemly."] _Like_ I have never found for _seemly_. V.i.107 (124,8) [In hateful practice] _Practice_ was used by the old writers for any unlawful or insidious stratagem. So again, _This must needs be_ practice: and again, _Let me have way to find this_ practice _out_. V.i.145 (125,6) [nor a temporary medler] It is hard to know what is meant by a _temporary_ medler. In its usual sense, as opposed to _perpetual_, it cannot be used here. It may stand for _temporal_: the sense will then be, _I know him for a holy man, one that meddles not with_ secular _affairs_. It may mean _temporising_: I know him to be a holy man, one who would not_ temporise, _or take the opportunity of your absence to defame you_. Or we may read, _Not scurvy, nor a_ tamperer and _medler_: not one who would bare _tampered_ with this woman to make her a false evidence against your deputy. V.i.160 (126,8) [So vulgarly and personally accus'd] Meaning either so _grosly_, with such _indecency_ of invective, or by so _mean_ and inadequate witnesses. V.i.205 (128,2) [This is a strange abuse] _Abuse_ stands in this place for _deception_, or _puzzle_. So in _Macbeth_, _This strange and self_ abuse, means, _this strange_ deception _of himself_. V.i.219 (129,3) [her promised proportions Came short of composition] Her fortune, which was promised _proportionate_ to mine, fell short of the _composition_, that is, contract or bargain. V.i.236 (129,4) [These poor informal women] I once believed _informal_ had no other or deeper signification than _informing, accusing_. The _scope_ of justice, is the full extent; but think, upon farther enquiry, that _informal_ signifies _incompetent, not qualified to give testimony_. Of this use there are precedents to be found, though I cannot now recover them. V.i.245 (130,5) [That's seal'd in approbation?] Then any thing subject to counterfeits is tried by the proper officers and approved, a stamp or _seal_ is put upon it, as among us on plate, weights, and measures. So the Duke says, that Angela's faith has been tried, _approved_, and _seal'd_ in testimony of that _approbation_, and, like other things so _sealed_, is no more to be called in question. V.i.255 (131,6) [to hear this matter forth] To hear it to the end; to search it to the bottom. V.i.303 (132,4) [to retort your manifest appeal] To _refer back_ to Angelo and the cause in which you _appealed_ from Angelo to the Duke. V.i.317 (133,5) [his subject I am not, Nor here provincial] Nor here _accountable_. The meaning seems to be, I am not one of his natural subjects, nor of any dependent province. V.i.323 (133,6) [the forfeits in a barber's shop] [Warburton had explained that a list of forfeitures were posted in barber shops to warn patrons to keep their hands off the barber's surgical instruments.] This explanation may serve till a better is discovered. But whoever has seen the instruments of a chirurgeon, knows that they may be very easily kept out of improper hands in a very small box, or in his pocket. V.i.336 (134,7) [And was the duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?] So again afterwards, _You, sirrah, that know me for a fool, a_ coward, _One of all luxury_-- But Lucio had not, in the former conversation, mentioned _cowardice_ among the faults of the duke.--Such failures of memory are incident to writers more diligent than this poet. V.i.359 (135,8) [show your sheep-biting face, and be hang'd an hour' Will't not off?] This is intended to be the common language of vulgar indignation. Our phrase on such occasions is simply; _show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged_. The words _an hour_ have no particular use here, nor are authorised by custom. I suppose it was written thus, _show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged--an' how? wilt not off_? In the midland counties, upon any unexpected obstruction or resistance, it is common to exclaim _an' how_? V.i.388 (136,9) [Advertising, and holy] Attentive and faithful. V.i.393 (136,l) [be you as free to us] Be as _generous_ to us, pardon us as we have pardoned you. V.i.401 (136,2) [That brain'd my purpose] We now use in conversation a like phrase. _This it was that knocked my design on the head_. Dr. Warburton reads, --baned _my purpose_. V.i.413 (137,3) [even from his proper tongue] Even from Angelo's _own tongue_. So above. _In the witness of his_ proper _ear To call him villain._ V.i.438 (138,5) [Against all sense you do importune her] The meaning required is, against all reason and natural affection; Shakespeare, therefore, judiciously uses a single word that implies both; _sense_ signifying both reason and affection. V.i.452 (139,6) ['Till he did look on me] The duke has justly observed that Isabel is _importuned against all sense_ to solicit for Angelo, yet here _against all sense_ she solicits for him. Her argument is extraordinary. _A due sincerity govern'd his deeds, 'Till he did look on me; since it is so. Let him not die._ That Angelo had committed all the crimes charged against him, as far as he could commit them, is evident. The only _intent_ which _his_ act did not overtake, was the defilement of Isabel. Of this Angelo was only intentionally guilty. Angela's crimes were such, as must sufficiently justify punishment, whether its end be to secure the innocent from wrong, or to deter guilt by example; and I believe every reader feels some indignation when he finds him spared. From what extenuation of his crime, can Isabel, who yet supposes her brother dead, form any plea in his favour. _Since he was good 'till he looked on me, let him not die_. I am afraid our varlet poet intended to inculcate, that women think ill of nothing that raises the credit of their beauty, and are ready, however virtuous, to pardon any act which they think incited by their own charms. V.i.488 (140,7) [But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all] Thy faults, so far as they are punishable on earth, so far as they are cognisable by temporal power, I forgive. V.i.499 (141,8) [By this, lord Angelo perceives he's safe] It is somewhat strange, that Isabel is not made to express either gratitude, wonder or joy at the sight of her brother. V.i.501 (141,9) [your evil quits you well] _Quits you_, recompenses, requites you. V.i.502 (141,1) [Look, that you love your wife; her worth, worth yours] Sir T. Hammer reads, _Her worth_ works _yours_. This reading is adopted by Dr. Warburton, but for what reason? How does her _worth work Angelo's worth_? it has only contributed to _work_ his pardon. The words are, as they are too frequently, an affected gingle, but the sense is plain. _Her worth, worth yours_; that is, her value is equal to your value, the match is not unworthy of you. V.i.504 (141,2) [And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon] After the pardon of two murderers, Lucio might be treated by the good duke with less harshness; but perhaps the poet intended to show, what is too often seen, _that men easily forgive wrongs which are not committed against themselves_. V.i.509 (142,3) [according to the trick] To my custom, my habitual practice. V.i.526 (142,4) [thy other forfeits] Thy other punishments. V.i.534 (142,5) [Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness] I have always thought that there is great confusion in this concluding speech. If my criticism would not be censured as too licentious, I should regulate it thus, _Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness. Thanks. Provost, for thy care and secrecy; We shall employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio's. _Ang_. _Th' offence pardons itself_. _Duke_, _There's more behind That is more gratulate. Dear Isabel, I have a motion_,&c, V.i.545 (143,6) General Observation The novel of Cynthio Giraldi, from which Shakespeare is supposed to have borrowed this fable, may be read in _Shakespeare illustrated_, elegantly translated, with remarks which will assist the enquirer to discover how much absurdity Shakespeare has admitted or avoided. I cannot but suspect that some other had new-modelled the novel of Cynthio, or written a story which in some particulars resembled it, and that Cynthio was not the authour whom Shakespeare immediately followed. The emperour in Cynthio is named Maximine; the duke, in Shakespeare's enumeration of the persons of the drama, is called Vincentio. This appears a very slight remark; but since the duke has no name in the play, nor is ever mentioned but by his title, why should he be called Vincentio among the _persons_, but because the name was copied from the story, and placed superfluously at the head of the list by the mere habit of transcription? It is therefore likely that there was then a story of Vincentio duke of Vienna, different from that of Maximine emperour of the Romans. Of this play the light or comick part is very natural and pleasing, but the grave scenes, if a few passages be excepted, have more labour than elegance. The plot is rather intricate than artful. The time of the action is indefinite; some time, we know not how much, must have elapsed between the recess of the duke and the imprisonment of Claudio; for he must have learned the story of Mariana in his disguise, or he delegated his power to a man already known to be corrupted. The unities of action and place are sufficiently preserved. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS I.ii.96 (155,3) [o'er-raught] That is, _over-reached_. I.ii.98 (156,5) [As, nimble jugglers, that deceive the eye, Dark-working sorcerers, that change the mind, Soul-killing witches, that deform the body] [W: Drug-working] The learned commentator has endeavoured with much earnestness to recommend his alteration; but, if I may judge of other apprehensions by my own, without great success. This interpretation of _soul-killing_ is forced and harsh. Sir T. Hammer reads _soul-selling_, agreeable enough to the common opinion, but without such improvement as may justify the change. Perhaps the epithets have only been misplaced, and the lines should be read thus, Soul-killing _sorcerers, that change the mind_; Dark-working _witches that deform the body_. This change seems to remove all difficulties. By _soul-killing_ I understand destroying the rational faculties by such means as make men fancy themselves beasts. I.ii.102 (157,6) [liberties of sin] Sir T. Hammer reads, _libertines_, which, as the author has been enumerating not acts but persons, seems right. II.i.30 (158,8) [How if your husband start some other where?] I cannot but think, that our authour wrote, --_start some other_ hare? So in _Much ado about Nothing_, Cupid is said to be _a good hare-finder_. II.i.32 (159,9) [tho' she pause] To _pause_ is to rest, to be in quiet. II.i.41 (159,1) [fool-begg'd] She seems to mean, by _fool-begg'd patience_, that patience which is so near to _idiotical simplicity_, that your next relation would take advantage from it to represent you as a _fool_, and _beg_ the guardianship of your fortune. II.i.82 (161,3) [Am I so round with you, as you with me] He plays upon the word _round_, which signified _spherical_ applied to himself, and _unrestrained_, or _free in speech_ or _action_, spoken of his mistress. So the king, in _Hamlet_, bids the queen be _round_ with her son. II.i.100 (161,5) [too unruly deer] The ambiguity of _deer_ and _dear_ is borrowed, poor as it is, by Waller, in his poem on the _Ladies Girdle_. "This was my heav'n's extremest sphere, "This pale that held my lovely deer." II.i.101 (161,6) [poor I am but his stale] The word _stale_, in our authour, used as a substantive, means, not something offered to _allure_ or _attract_, but something _vitiated_ with _use_, something of which the best part has been enjoyed and consumed. II.ii.86 (166,4) [Not a man of those, but he hath the wit to lose his hair] That is, _Those who have more hair than wit_, are easily entrapped by loose women, and suffer the consequences of lewdness, one of which, in the first appearance of the disease in Europe, was the loss of hair. II.ii.173 (169,6) [Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt] Exempt, separated, parted. The sense is, _If I am doomed to suffer the wrong of separation, yet injure not with contempt me who am already injured_. II.ii.210 (171,1) [And shrive you] That is, I will _call you to confession_, and make you tell your tricks. III.i.4 (172,2) [carkanet] seems to have been a necklace or rather chain, perhaps hanging down double from the neck. So Lovelace in his poem, _The empress spreads her_ carcanets. III.i.15 (173,3) [Marry, so it doth appear By the wrongs I suffer, and the blows I bear] [T: don't appear] I do not think this emendation necessary. He first says, that his _wrongs_ and _blows_ prove him an _ass_; but immediately, with a correction of his former sentiment, such as may be hourly observed in conversation, he observes that, if he had been an ass, he should, when he was _kicked_, have _kicked_ again. III.i.101 (177,7) [supposed by the common rout] For _suppose_ I once thought it might be more commodious to substitute _supported_; but there is no need of change: _supposed_ is _founded on supposition_, made by conjecture. III.i.105 (178,8) [For slander lives upon succession] The line apparently wants two syllables: what they were, cannot now be known. The line may be filled up according to the reader's fancy, as thus: _For_ lasting _slander lives upon succession_. III.ii.27 (180,3) ['Tis holy sport to be a little vain] is _light of tongue, not veracious_. III.ii.64 (181,2) [My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim] When be calls the girl his _only heaven on the earth_, he utters the common cant of lovers. When he calls her _his heaven's claim_, I cannot understand him. Perhaps he means that which he asks of heaven. III.ii.125 (184,5) [_S. Ant._ Where France? _S. Dro._ In her forehead; arm'd and reverted, making war against her hair] [T, from the first Folio: heir] With this correction and explication Dr. Warburton concurs, and sir T. Hammer thinks an equivocation intended, though he retains _hair_ in the text. Yet surely they have all lost the sense by looking beyond it. Our authour, in my opinion, only sports with an allusion, in which he takes too much delight, and means that his mistress had the French disease. The ideas are rather too offensive to be dilated. By a forehead _armed_, he means covered with incrusted eruptions: by reverted, he means having the hair turning backwards. An equivocal word must have senses applicable to both the subjects to which it is applied. Both _forehead_ and _France_ might in some sort make war against their _hair_, but how did the _forehead_ make war against its _heir_? The sense which I have given immediately occurred to me, and will, I believe, arise to every reader who is contented with the meaning that lies before him, without sending out conjecture in search of refinements. IV.ii.19 (192,9) [sere] that is, _dry_, withered. IV.ii.22 (192,1) [Stigmatical in making] This is, _marked_ or _stigmatized_ by nature with deformity, as a token of his vicious disposition. IV.ii.35 (193,3) [A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough] [T: A fiend, a fury] There were fairies like _hobgoblins_, pitiless and rough, and described as malevolent and mischievous, (see 1765, III,143,3) IV.ii.39 (193,5) [A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well] To _run counter_ is to _run backward_, by mistaking the course of the animal pursued; to _draw dry-foot_ is, I believe, to pursue by the _track_ or _prick of the foot_; to _run counter_ and _draw dry-foot well are_, therefore, inconsistent. The jest consists in the ambiguity of the word _counter_, which means the _wrong way in_* _the chase._ and a _prison_ in London. The officer that arrested him was a serjeant of the counter. For the congruity of this jest with the scene of action, let our authour answer. IV.iii.13 (196,9) [what, have you got the picture of old Adam new apparel'd] [T: got rid of the picture] The explanation is very good, but the text does not require to be amended. IV.iii.27 (`is rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris pike] [W: a Maurice-pike] This conjecture is very ingenious, yet the commentator talks unnecessarily of the _rest of a musket._ by which he makes the hero of the speech set up the _rest_ of a _musket,_ to do exploits with a _pike._ The rest of a _pike_ was a common term, and signified, I believe, the manner in which it was fixed to receive the rush of the enemy. A _morris-pike_ was a pike used in a morris or a military dance, and with which great _exploits_ were _done,_ that is, great feats of dexterity were shewn. There is no need of change. IV.iv.78 (202,3) [kitchen-vestal] Her charge being like that of the vestal virgins, to keep the fire burning. V.1.137 (210,6) [important letters]_Important_ seems to be for _importunate._ (1773) V.i.298 (216,2) [time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face] _Defeature_ is the privative of _feature._ The meaning is, time hath cancelled my features. V.i.406 (220,7) [After so long grief such nativity!] We should surely read. _After so long grief, such_ festivity. _Nativity_ lying so near, and the termination being the same of both words, the mistake was easy. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING I.i.27 (226,3) [no faces truer] That is, none _honester,_ none _more sincere._ I.i.40 (227,7) [challenged Cupid at the flight] The disuse of the bow makes this passage obscure. Benedick is represented as challenging Cupid at archery. To challenge _at the flight is,_ I believe, to wager who shall shoot the arrow furthest without any particular mark. To _challenge at the bird-bolt,_ seems to mean the same as to challenge at children's archery, with snail arrows such as are discharged at birds. In Twelfth Night Lady Olivia opposes a _bird-bolt_ to a _cannon-bullet,_ the lightest to the heaviest of missive weapons. I.i.66 (228,9) [four of his five wits] In our author's time _wit_ was the general term for intellectual powers. So Davies on the Soul. Wit, _seeking truth from cause to cause ascends._ _And never rests till it the first attain;_ Will, _seeking good, finds many middle ends, But never stays till it the last do gain._ And in another part, _But if a phrenzy do possess the brain, It so disturbs and blots the form of things, As fantasy proves altogether vain, And to the_ wit, _no true relation brings. Then doth the_ wit, _admitting all for true, Build fond conclusions on those idle grounds;_-- The _wits_ seem to have reckoned five, by analogy to the five senses, or the five inlets of ideas. I.i.79 (229,4) [the gentleman is not in your books] This is a phrase used, I believe, by more than understand it. _To be in one's books is to be in one's_ codicils _or_ will, _to be among friends set down for legacies_. I.i.82 (230,5) [young squarer] A _squarer_ I take to be a cholerick, quarrelsome fellow, for in this sense Shakespeare uses the word to _square_. So in Midsummer Night's Dream it is said of Oberon and Titalia, that _they never meet but they_ square. So the sense may be, _Is there no_ hot-blooded _youth that will keep him company through all his mad pranks_? I.i.103 (231,6) [You embrace your charge] That is your _burthen_, your _incumbrunce_. I.i.185 (233,7) [to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder] I know not whether I conceive the jest here intended. Claudio hints his love of Hero. Benedick asks whether he is serious, or whether he only means to jest, and tell them that _Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter_. A man praising a pretty lady in jest, may shew the quick sight of Cupid, but what has it to do with the _carpentry_ of Vulcan? Perhaps the thought lies no deeper than this, _Do you mean to tell us as new what we all know already?_ I.i.200 (234,8) [wear his cap with suspicion?] That is, subject his head to the disquiet of jealousy. I.i.217 (235,1) [_Claud_. If this were so, so were it uttered] This and the three next speeches I do not well understand; there seems something omitted relating to Hero's consent, or to Claudio's marriage, else I know not what Claudio can wish _not to be otherwise_. The copies all read alike. Perhaps it may be better thus, Claud. _If this were so, so were it_. Bene. _Uttered like the old tale_, &c. Claudio gives a sullen answer, _if it is so, so it is_. Still there seems something omitted which Claudio and Pedro concur in wishing. I.i.243 (236,3) [but that I will have a recheate winded in my forehead] That is, _I will wear a horn on my forehead which the huntsman may blow_. A _recheate_ is the sound by which dogs are called back. Shakespeare had no mercy upon the poor cuckold, his _horn_ is an inexhaustible subject of merriment. 1.1.258 (236,4) [notable argument] An eminent subject for satire. 1.1.259 (237,5) [Adam] Adam Bell was a companion of Robin Hood, as may be seen in Robin Hood's Garland; in which, if I do not mistake, are these lines, _For he brought Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough, And William of Cloudeslea, To shoot with this forester for forty marks, And the forester beat them all three._ (see 1765, III,182,2) I.i.290 (238,4) [ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience] _Before you endeavour to distinguish yourself any more by antiquated allusions, examine whether you can fairly claim them for your own_. This, I think is the meaning; or it may be understood in another sense, _examine, if your sarcasms do not touch yourself._ I.iii.14 (241,6) [I cannot hide what I am] This is one of our authour's natural touches. An envious and unsocial mind, too proud to give pleasure, and too sullen to receive it, always endeavours to hide its malignity from the world and from itself, under the plainness of simple honesty, or the dignity of haughty independence. I.iii.19 (241,7) [claw no man in his humour] To _claw_ is to flatter. So _the pope's claw-backs_, in bishop Jewel, are the pope's _flatterers_. The sense is the same in the proverb, _Mulus mulum scabit_. I.iii.28 (242,8) [I had rather be a canker in a hedge, than a rose in his grace] A _canker_ is the _canker_ rose, _dog-rose, cynosbatus,_ or _hip_. The sense is, I would rather live in obscurity the wild life of nature, than owe dignity or estimation to my brother. He still continues his wish of gloomy independence. But what is the meaning of the expression, _a rose in his grace_? if he was a _rose_ of himself, his brother's _grace_ or _favour_ could not degrade him. I once read thus, _I had rather be a canker in a hedge, than a rose in his_ garden; that is, I had rather be what nature makes me, however mean, than owe any exaltation or improvement to my brother's kindness or cultivation. But a less change will be sufficient: I think it should be read, _I had rather be a canker in a hedge, than a rose by his grace_. II.i.3 (244,1) [I never can see him, but I am heart-burn'd an hour after] The pain commonly called the _heart-burn_, proceeds from an _acid_ humour in the stomach, and is therefore properly enough imputed to _tart_ looks. II.i.53 (245,3) [Well then, go you into hell] Of the two next speeches Mr. Warburton says, _All this impious nonsense thrown to the bottom is the players, and foisted in without rhyme or reason_. He therefore puts them in the margin. They do not deserve indeed so honourable a place, yet I am afraid they are too much in the manner of our authour, who is sometimes trying to purchase merriment at too dear a rate. (see 1765, III,190,9) II.i.73 (246,4) [if the prince be too important] _Important_ here, and in many other places, is _importunate_. II.i.99 (247,6) [My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove] [T: house is love] This amendation, thus impressed with all the power of his eloquence and reason, Theobald found in the quarto edition of 1600, which he professes to have seen; and in the first folio, the _l_ and the _I_ are so much alike, that the printers, perhaps, used the same type for either letter. (1773) II.i.143 (249,2) [his gift is in devising impossible slanders] [W: impassible] _Impossible_ slanders are, I suppose, such slanders as, from their absurdity and impossibility, bring their own confutation with them. II.i.195 (251,4) [usurer's chain] I know not whether the _chain_ was, in our authour's time, the common ornament of wealthy citizens, or whether he satirically uses _usurer_ and _alderman_ as synonymous terms. II.i.214 (252,5) [It is the base, the bitter disposition of Beatrice, that puts the world into her person] That is, _It is the disposition of Beatrice, who takes upon her to personate the world, and therefore represents the world as saying what she only says herself_. _Base, tho bitter_. I do not understand how _base_ and _bitter_ are inconsistent, or why what is _bitter_ should not be _base_. I believe, we may safely read, _It is the base_, the _bitter_ disposition. II.i.253 (253,8) [such impossible conveyance] [W: impassible] I know not what to propose. _Impossible_ seems to have no meaning here, and for _impassible_ I have not found any authority. Spenser uses the word _importable_ in a sense very congruous to this passage, for _insupportable_, or _not to be sustained_. _Both him charge on either side, With hideous strokes and_ importable _power, Which forced him his ground to traverse wide_. It may be easily imagined, that the transcribers would change a word so unusual, into that word most like it, which they could readily find. It must be however confessed, that _importable_ appears harsh to our ears, and I wish a happier critick may find a better word. Sir Tho. Hammer reads _impetuous_, which will serve the purpose well enough, but is not likely to have been changed to _impossible_. _Importable_ was a word not peculiar to Spenser, but used by the last translators of the Apocrypha, and therefore such a word as Shakespeare may be supposed to have written. (1773) II.i.330 (256,2) [Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sun-burn'd] What is it, _to go the world_? perhaps, to enter by marriage into a settled state: but why is the unmarry'd lady _sun-burnt_? I believe we should read, _Thus goes every one to the wood_ but I, and I am sun-burnt_. Thus does every one but I find a shelter, and I am left exposed to wind and _sun. The nearest way to the_ wood, is a phrase for the readiest means to any end. It is said of a woman, who accepts a worse match than those which she had refused, that she has passed through the _wood_, and at last taken a crooked stick. But conjectural criticism has always something to abate its confidence. Shakespeare, in All's well that Ends well, uses the phrase, _to go to the world_, for _marriage_. So that my emendation depends only on the opposition of _wood_ to _sun-burnt_. II.i.380 (258,4) [to bring signior Benedick, and the lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection, the one with another] _A mountain of affection with one another_ is a strange expression, yet I know not well how to change it. Perhaps it was originally written, _to bring Benedick into a mooting of affection_; to bring them not to any more _mootings_ of contention, but to a _mooting_ or conversation of love. This reading is confirmed by the preposition _with; a mountain with each other,_ or _affection with each other,_ cannot be used, but _a mooting with each other_ is proper and regular. II.iii.104 (265,7) [but, that she loves him, with an enraged affection, it is past the infinite of thought] [W: the definite of] Here are difficulties raised only to shew how easily they can be removed. The plain sense is, _I know not what to think_ otherwise, _but that she loves him with_ an enraged _affection: It_ (this affection) [is past the infinite of thought. Here are no abrupt stops, or imperfect sentences. _Infinite_ may well enough stand; it is used by more careful writers for _indefinite_; and the speaker only means, that _thought_, though in itself _unbounded_, cannot reach or estimate the degree of her passion. II.iii.146 (267,8) [O, she tore the letter into a thousand half-pence] [i.e. into a thousand pieces of the same bigness.] This is farther explained by a passage in As you Like it. --_There were none principal; they were all like one another as_ half-pence _are_. [Theobald.] How the quotation explains the passage, to which it is applied, I cannot discover. II.iii.188 (268,9) [contemptible spirit] That is, a temper inclined to scorn and contempt. It has been before remarked, that our authour uses his verbal adjectives with great licence. There is therefore no need of changing the word with sir T. Hammer to _contemptuous_. III.i.52 (273,3) [Misprising] Despising, contemning. III.i.96 (275,8) [argument] This word seems here to signify _discourse_, or, the _powers_ of reasoning. III.i.104 (275,7) [She's lim'd] She is ensnared and entangled as a sparrow with _birdlime_. III.i.107 (275,9) [Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand] This image is taken from falconry. She had been charged with being as wild as _haggards of the rock_; she therefore says, that _wild_ as her _heart_ is, she will tame it _to the hand_. III.ii.31 (277,2) [There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises] Here is a play upon the word _fancy_, which Shakespeare uses for _love_ as well as for _humour, caprice_, or _affectation_. III.ii.71 (278,3) [She shall be buried with her face upwards] [T: heels upwards] This emendation, which appears to me very specious, is rejected by Dr. Warburton. The meaning seems to be, that she who acted upon principles contrary to others, should be buried with the same contrariety. III.iii.43 (282,5) [only have a care that your bills be not stolen] A _bill_ is still carried by the watchmen at Litchfield. It was the old weapon of the English infantry, which, says Temple, _gave the most ghastly and deplorable wounds_. It may be called _securis falcata_. III.iv.44 (289,3) [Light o' love] A tune so called, which has been already mentioned by our authour. III.iv.49 (290,4) [you'll look he shall lack no burns] A quibble between _barns_, repositories of corn, and _bairns_, the old word for children. III.iv.56 (290,5) [For the letter that begins them all, H] This is a poor jest, somewhat obscured, and not worth the trouble of elucidation. Margaret asks Beatrice for what she cries, _hey ho_; Beatrice answers, for an _H_, that is, for an _ache_ or _pain_. III.iv.57 (290,6) [turn'd Turk] [i.e. taken captive by love, and turned a renegade to his religion. Warburton.] This interpretation is somewhat far-fetched, yet, perhaps, it is right. III.iv.78 (291,7) [some morel] That is, some secret meaning, like the _moral_ of a fable. III.iv.89 (291,8) [he eats his meat without grudging] I do not see how this is a proof of Benedick's change of mind. It would afford more proof of amourosness to say, _he eats_ not _his meat without grudging_; but it is impossible to fix the meaning of proverbial expressions: perhaps, _to eat meat without grudging_, was the same as, _to do as others do_, and the meaning is, _he is content to live by eating like other mortals and will be content, notwithstanding his boasts, like other mortals, to have a wife_. III.v.15 (293,9) [I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man, and no honester than I] [There is much humour, and extreme good sense under the covering of this blundering expression. It is a sly insinuation that length of years, and the being much _hacknied in the ways of men_, as Shakespeare expresses it, take off the gloss of virtue, and bring much defilement on the manners. Warburton.] Much of this is true, but I believe Shakespeare did not intend to bestow all this reflection on the speaker. III.v.40 (294,1) [an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind] This is not out of place, or without meaning. Dogberry, in his vanity of superiour parts, apologizing for his neighbour, observes, that _of two men on an horse, one must ride behind_. The _first_ place of rank or understanding can belong but to _one_, and that happy _one_ ought not to despise his inferiour. IV.i.22 (296,2) [Interjections? Why, then some be of laughing] This is a quotation from the Accidence. IV.i.42 (296,3) [luxurious bed] That is, _lascivious_. _Luxury_ is the confessor's term for unlawful pleasures of the sex. IV.i.53 (297,5) [word too large] So he uses _large jests_ in this play, for _licentious, not restrained within due bounds_. IV.i.57 (297,6) [I will write against it] [W: rate against] As to _subscribe to_ any thing is to _allow_ it, so to _write against_ is to _disallow_ or _deny_. IV.i.59 (297,7) [chaste as is the bud] Before the air has tasted its sweetness. IV.i.75 (298,8) [kindly power] That is, _natural power_. _Kind_ is _nature_. IV.i.93 (298,9) [liberal villain] _Liberal_ here, as in many places of these plays, means, _frank beyond honesty_ or _decency_. _Free of tongue_. Dr. Warburton unnecessarily reads, _illiberal_. IV.i. 101 (299,1) [O Hero! What a Hero hadst thou been] I am afraid here is intended a poor conceit upon the word _Hero_. IV.i.123 (300,2) [The story that is printed in her blood?] That is, _the story which her blushes discover to be true_. IV.i.128 (300,3) [Griev'd I, I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?] [W: nature's 'fraine] Though _frame_ be not the word which appears to a reader of the present time most proper to exhibit the poet's sentiment, yet it may as well be used to shew that he had _one child_, and _no more_, as that he had a _girl_, not a _boy_, and as it may easily signify _the system of things_, or _universal scheme_, the whole order of beings is comprehended, there arises no difficulty from it which requires to be removed by so violent an effort as the introduction of a new word offensively mutilated. IV.i.137 (301,4) [But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that I was proud on] [W: "as mine" in three places] Even of this small alteration there is no need. The speaker utters his emotion abruptly, But _mine_, _and mine_ that _I loved_, &c. by an ellipsis frequent, perhaps too frequent, both in verse and prose. IV.i.187 (303,6) [bent of honour] _Bent_ is used by our authour for the utmost degree of any passion, or mental quality. In this play before Benedick says of Beatrice, _her affection has its full bent_. The expression is derived from archery; the bow has its _bent_, when it is drawn as far as it can be. IV.i.206 (304,8) [ostentation] Show; appearance. IV.i.251 (305,1) [The smallest twine nay lead me] This is one of our author's observations upon life. Men overpowered with distress, eagerly listen to the first offers of relief, close with every scheme, and believe every promise. He that has no longer any confidence in himself, is glad to repose his trust in any other that will undertake to guide him. IV.ii.70 (311,6) [_Sexton_. Let them be in hand] There is nothing in the old quarto different in this scene from the common copies, except that the names of two actors, Kempe and Cowley, are placed at the beginning of the speeches, instead of the proper words, (see 1765, III,249,7) V.i.15 (313,7) [If such a one will smile and stroke his beard; And, sorrow wag! cry; hem, when he should groan] Sir Thomas Hammer, and after him Dr. Warburton, for _wag_ read _waive_, which is, I suppose, the same as, _put aside_ or _shift off_. None of these conjectures satisfy me, nor perhaps any other reader. I cannot but think the true meaning nearer than it is imagined. I point thus, _If such an one will smile, and stroke his beard, And, sorrow wag! cry; hem, when he should groan;_ That is, _If he will smile, and cry_ sorrow be gone, _and hem instead_ of groaning. The order in which _and_ and _cry_ are placed is harsh, and this harshness made the sense mistaken. Range the words in the common order, and my reading will be free from all difficulty. _If such an one will smile, and stroke his beard, Cry, sorrow, wag! and hem when he should groan._ V.i.32 (314,8) [My griefs cry louder than advertisement] That is, than _admonition_, than _moral instruction_. V.i.102 (318,4) [we will not wake your patience] [W: wrack] This emendation is very specious, and perhaps is right; yet the present reading may admit a congruous meaning with less difficulty than many other of Shakespeare's expressions. The old men have been both very angry and outrageous; the prince tells them that he and Claudio _will not_ wake _their patience_; will not any longer force them to _endure_ the presence of those whom, though they look on them as enemies, they cannot resist. V.i.138 (319,6) [to turn his girdle] We have a proverbial speech, _If he be angry, let him turn the buckle of his girdle_. But I do not know its original or meaning. V.i.166 (320,7) [a wise gentleman] This jest depending on the colloquial use of words is now obscure; perhaps we should read, _a wise gentle man_, or _a man wise enough to be a coward_. Perhaps _wise gentleman_ was in that age used ironically, and always stood for _silly fellow_. V.i.231 (322,9) [one meaning well suited] That is, _one meaning is put into many different dresses_; the prince having asked the same question in four modes of speech. V.ii.9 (326,3) [To have no man come over me? why, shall I always keep below stairs?] [T: above] I suppose every reader will find the meaning of the old copies. V.ii.l7 (327,4) [I give thee the bucklers] I suppose that _to give the bucklers_ is, _to yield_, or _to lay by all thoughts of defence_, so _clipeum abjicere_. The rest deserves no comment. V.iii.13 (330,7) [_Those that slew thy virgin knight_] _Knight_, in its original signification, means _follower_ or _pupil_, and in this sense may be feminine. Helena, in All's well that Ends well, uses _knight_ in the same signification. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST I.i.31 (342,2) [To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die; With all these, living in philosophy] The stile of the rhyming scenes in this play is often entangled and obscure. I know not certainly to what _all these_ is to be referred; I suppose he means, that he finds _love_, _pomp_, and _wealth_ in _philosophy_. I.i.75 (344,4) [while truth the while Doth falsly blind] _Falsly_ is here, and in many other places, the same as _dishonestly_ or _treacherously_. The whole sense of this gingling declamation is only this, that _a man by too close study may read himself blind_, which might have been told with less obscurity in fewer words. I.i.82 (344,5) [Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light, that it was blinded by] This is another passage unnecessarily obscure: the meaning is, that when he _dazzles_, that is, has his eye made weak, _by fixing his eye upon a fairer eye, that_ fairer _eye shall be his heed_, his _direction_ or _lode-star_,(See Midsummer-Night's Dream) [_and give him light that was blinded by it_. I.i.92 (345,6) [Too much to know, is, to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name] [W: "shame" or "feign"] That there are _two ways of setting_ a passage _right_ gives reason to suspect that there may be a third way better than either. The first of these emendations _makes a fine sense_, but will not unite with the next line; the other makes a sense less fine, and yet will not rhyme to the correspondent word. I cannot see why the passage may not stand without disturbance. _The consequence_, says Biron, _of too much knowledge_, is not any real solution of doubts, but mere empty _reputation_. That is, _too much knowledge gives only fame, a name which every godfather can give likewise_. (1773) I.i.95 (345,7) [Proceeded well to stop all good proceeding] To _proceed_ is an academical term, meaning, _to take a degree_, as _he_ proceeded _bachelor in physick_. The sense is, _he has taken his degrees on the art of hindering the degrees of others_. I.i.153 (348,1) [Not by might master'd, but by especial grace] Biron, amidst his extravagancies, speaks with great justness against the folly of vows. They are made without sufficient regard to the variations of life, and are therefore broken by some unforeseen necessity. They proceed commonly from a presumptuous confidence, and a false estimate of human power. I.i.159 (349,2) [Suggestions] Temptations. I.i.162 (349,3) [quick recreation] Lively sport, spritely diversion. I.i.169 (349,4) [A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny] This passage, I believe, means no more than that Don Armado was a man nicely versed in ceremonial distinctions, one who could distinguish in the most delicate questions of honour the exact boundaries of right and wrong. _Compliment_, in Shakespeare's time, did not signify, at least did not only signify verbal civility, or phrases of courtesy, but according to its original meaning, the trapping, or ornamental appendages of a character, in the same manner, and on the same principles of speech with _accomplishment. Compliment_ is, as Arwado well expresses it, _the varnish of a complete man_. I.i.174 (350,6) [in the world's debate] The _world_ seems to be used in a monastick sense by the king, now devoted for a time to a monastic life. _In the world, in seculo_, in the bustle of human affairs, from which we are now happily sequestred, _in the world_, to which the votaries of solitude have no relation. I.i.252 (353,1) [_base minow of thy mirth_] A _minnow_ is a little fish which cannot be intended here. We may read, _the base_ minion _of thy mirth_. I.ii.5 (355,2) [dear imp] _Imp_ was anciently a term of dignity. Lord Cromwell in his last letter to Henry VIII. prays for _the_ imp _his son_. It is now used only in contempt or abhorrence; perhaps in our authour's time it was ambiguous, in which state it suits well with this dialogue. I.ii.36 (356,3) [crosses love not him] By _crosses_ he means money. So in As you like it, the Clown says to Celia, _if I should bear you, I should bear no cross_. I.ii.150 (360,7) [_Jaq_. Fair weather after you! _Dull_. Come, Jaquenetta, away] [Theobald had reassigned two speeches] Mr. Theobald has endeavoured here to dignify his own industry by a very slight performance. The folios all read as he reads, except that instead of naming the persons they give their characters, enter _Clown, Constable, and Wench_. I.ii.168 (361,8) [It is not for prisoners to be silent in their words] I suppose we should read, it is not for prisoners to be silent in their _wards_, that is, in _custody_, in the _holds_. I.ii.183 (361,9) [The first and second cause will not serve my turn] See the last act of As you like it, with the notes. II.i.15 (362,1) [Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues] Chapman here seems to signify the _seller_, not, as now commonly, the _buyer_. _Cheap_ or _cheping_ was anciently the _market_, _chapman_ therefore is _marketman_. The meaning is, that _that the estimation of beauty depends not on the_ uttering or _proclamation of the seller, but on the eye of the buyer_. II.i.45 (363,2) [Well fitted] is _well qualified_. II.i.49 (363,3) [match'd with] is _combined_ or _joined_ with. II.i.105 (365,4) ['Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord; And sin to break it] Sir T. Hammer reads, Not _sin to break it_. I believe erroneously. The Princess shews an inconvenience very frequently attending rash oaths, which, whether kept or broken, produce guilt. II.i.203 (369,6) [God's blessing on your beard!] That is, mayst thou have sense and seriousness more proportionate to thy beard, the length of which suits ill with such idle catches of wit. II.i.223 (370,7) [My lips are no common, though several they be] _Several_, is an inclosed field of a private proprietor, so Maria says, _her lips_ are _private property_. Of a lord that was newly married one observed that he grew fat; Yes, said sir Walter Raleigh, any beast will grow fat, if you take him from the _common_ and graze him in the _several_. II.i.238 (370,8) [His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see] That is, _his tongue being impatiently desirous to see as well as_ _speak_. II. i. 241 (370,9) [To feel only looking] Perhaps we may better read, _To_ feed _only_ by _looking_. II. i. 262 (371,1) [_Boyet_. You are too hard for me] [Theobald did not end Act II here] Mr. Theobald has reason enough to propose this alteration, but he should not have made it in his book without better authority or more need. I have therefore preserved his observation, but continued the former division. III.i (372,2) [_Enter Armado, and Moth._] In the folios the direction is, _enter Braggart and Moth_, and at the beginning of every speech of Armado stands _Brag_, both in this and the foregoing scene between him and his boy. The other personages of this play are likewise noted by their characters as often as by their names. All this confusion has been well regulated by the later editors. III.i.3 (372,3) [Concolinel] Here is apparently a song lost. III. i. 22 (373,5) [These are complements] Dr. Warburton has here changed _complements_ to _'complishments_, for accomplishments, but unnecessarily. III. i. 32 (374,8) [but a colt] _Colt_ is a hot, mad-brained, unbroken young fellow; or sometimes an old fellow with youthful desires. III. i. 62 (375,9) [You are too swift, Sir, to say so] How is he too swift for saying that lead is slow? I fancy we should read, as well to supply the rhyme as the sense, _You are too swift, sir, to say so, so soon Is that lead slow, sir, which is fir'd from a gun?_ III. i. 68 (375,1) [By thy favour, sweet welkin] Welkin is the sky, to which Armado, with the false dignity of a Spaniard, makes an apology for sighing in its face. III. i. 73 (376,3) [no salve in the male, Sir] The old folio reads, _no salve in_ thee _male, sir_, which, in another folio, is, _no salve, in the male, sir_. What it can mean is not easily discovered: if _mail_ for a _packet_ or _bag_ was a word then in use, _no salve in the mail_ may mean, no salve in the mountebank's budget. Or shall we read, _no enigma, no riddle, no l'envoy--in the_ vale, _sir--O, sir. plantain_. The matter is not great, but one would wish for some meaning or other. III. i.112 (377,5) [how was there a Costard broken in a shin?] _Costard_ is the name of a species of apple. III. i.136 (378,7) [my in-cony Jew] [W. jewel] I know not whether it be fit, however specious, to change _Jew_ to _jewel_. _Jew_, in our author's time, was, for whatever reason, apparently a word of endearment. So in Midsummer-Night's Dream, _Most tender Juvenile, and eke most lovely_ Jew. (see 1765, II,144,9) III.i.182 (381,2) [This signior Junto's giant-dwarf. Don Cupid] Mr. Upton has made a very ingenious conjecture on this passage. He reads, _This signior_ Julio's _giant-dwarf_-- Shakespeare, says he, intended to compliment Julio Romano, who drew Cupid in the character of a giant-dwarf. Dr. Warburton thinks, that by Junio is meant youth in general. III.i.188 (382,3) [Of trotting paritors] An _apparitor_, or _paritor_. is an officer of the bishop's court who carries out citations; as citations are most frequently issued for fornication, the _paritor_ is put under Cupid's government. III.i.189 (382,4) [And I to be a corporal of his field, And wear his colours! like a tumbler's hoop!] The conceit seems to be very forced and remote, however it be understood. The notion is not that the _hoop wears colours_, but that the colours are worn as a _tumbler_ carries his _hoop_, hanging on one shoulder and falling under the opposite arm. III.i.207 (383,5) [Some men must love my lady, and some Joan] To this line Mr. Theobald extends his second act, not injudiciously, but, as was before observed, without sufficient authority. IV.i.19 (384,6) [Here,--good my glass] To understand how the princess has her glass so ready at hand in a casual conversation, it must be remembered that in those days it was the fashion among the French ladies to wear a looking-glass,' as Mr. Bayle coarsely represents it, _on their bellies_; that is, to have a small mirrour set in gold hanging at the girdle, by which they occasionally viewed their faces or adjusted their hair. IV.i.35 (385,8) [that my heart means no ill] [W: tho'] _That my heart means no ill_, is the same with _to whom my heart means no ill_; the common phrase suppresses the particle, as _I mean him_ [not _to_ him] _no harm_. IV.i.41 (386,9) [a member of the commonwealth] Here, I believe, is a kind of jest intended; a member of the _common_-wealth is put for one of the _common_ people, one of the meanest. IV.i.49 (386,1) [An' your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids girdles for your waist should be fit] [W: my waste ... your wit ... my waste] This conjecture is ingenious enough, but not well considered. It is plain that the ladies girdles would not fit the princess. For when she has referred the clown to _the thickest and the tallest_, he turns immediately to her with the blunt apology, _truth is truth_; and again tells her, _you are the thickest here_. If any alteration is to be made, I should propose, _An' your waist, mistress, were as slender as_ your _wit_. This would point the reply; but perhaps he mentions the slenderness of his own wit to excuse his bluntness. IV.i.59 (387,3) [Break the neck of the wax] Still alluding to the capon. IV.i.65 (388,5) [_king_ Cophetua] This story is again alluded to in Henry IV. _Let king Cophetua know the truth thereof._ But of this king and beggar, the story, then doubtless well known, is, I am afraid, lost. Zenelophon has not appearance of a female name, but since I know not the true none, it is idle to guess. IV.i.99 (389,7) [ere while] Just now; a little while ago. So Raleigh, _Here lies Hobbinol our shepherd_, while e'er. IV.i.108 (390,9) [Come, lords, away] Perhaps the Princess said rather, --_Come_, ladies, _away_. The rest of the scene deserves no care. IV.ii (392,2) [_Enter Dull, Holofernes, and Sir Nathaniel_] I am not of the learned commentator's [Wurburton] opinion, that the satire of Shakespeare is so seldom personal. It is of the nature of personal invectives to be soon unintelligible; and the authour that gratifies private malice, _aniuam in vulnere ponit_, destroys the future efficacy of his own writings, and sacrifices the esteem of succeeding times to the laughter of a day. It is no wonder, therefore, that the sarcasms, which, perhaps, in the authour's time, _set the_ playhouse _in a roar_, are now lost among general reflections. Yet whether the character of Holofernes was pointed at any particular man, I am, notwithstanding the plausibility of Dr. Warburton's conjecture, inclined to doubt. Every man adheres as long as he can to his own pre-conceptions. Before I read this note I considered the character of Holofernes as borrowed from the Rhombus of sir Philip Sidney, who, in a kind of pastoral entertainment, exhibited to queen Elizabeth, has introduced a school-master so called, speaking _a leash of languages at once_, and puzzling himself and his auditors with a jargon like that of Holofernes in the present play. Sidney himself might bring the character from Italy; for, as Peacham observes, the school-master has long been one of the ridiculous personages in the farces of that country. IV.ii.29 (395,4) [And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be, Which we taste and feeling are for those parts that do fructify in us, more than he] Sir T. Hammer reads thus, _And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be, For those parts which we taste and feel do fructify in us more than he._ And Mr. Edwards, in his animadversions on Dr. Warburton's notes, applauds the emendation. I think both the editors mistaken, except that sir T. Hammer found the metre, though he missed the sense. I read, with a slight change, _And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be_, When _we taste and feeling are for those parts that do fructify in us more than he_. That is, _such barren plants_ are exhibited in the creation, to make us _thankful when we have more taste and feeling than he, of those parts_ or qualities _which_ produce fruit _in us_, and preserve as from being likewise _barren plants_. Such is the sense, just in itself and pious, but a little clouded by the diction of sir Nathaniel. The length of these lines was no novelty on the English stage. The moralities afford scenes of the like measure. (1773) IV.ii.32 (396,5) [For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool; So were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school] The meaning is, to be in a school would as ill become a _patch_, or low fellow, as folly would become me. IV.ii.99 (399,2) [_Vinegia. Vinegia, Chi non te vedi, ei non te pregia_] [This reading is an emendation by Theobald] The proverb, as I am informed, is this; _He that sees Venice little, values it much; he that sees it much, values it little_. But I suppose Mr. Theobald is right, for the true proverb would hot serve the speaker's purpose. IV.ii.156 (403,6) [colourable colours] That is specious, or fair seeming appearances. IV.iii.3 (403,7) [I am toiling in a pitch] Alluding to lady Rosaline's complexion, who is through the whole play represented as a black beauty. IV.iii.29 (404,8) [The night of dew, that on my cheeks down flows] I cannot think the _night of dew_ the true reading, but know not what to offer. IV.iii.47 (405,9) [he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers] The punishment of perjury is to wear on the breast a paper expressing the crime. IV.iii.74 (406,2) [the liver-vein] The liver was anciently supposed to be the seat of love. IV.iii.110 (408,5) [_Air, would I might triumph so_!] Perhaps we may better read, Ah! _would I might triumph so!_ IV.iii.117 (409,7) [ay true love's fasting pain] [W: festring] There is no need of any alteration. _Fasting_ is _longing, hungry, wanting_. IV.iii.148 (410,8) [How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it?] [W: geap] To _leap_ is to _exult_, to skip for joy. It must stand. IV.iii.166 (410,9) [To see a king transformed to a knot!] _Knot_ has no sense that can suit this place. We may read _sot_. The rhimes in this play are such, as that _sat_ and _sot_ may be well enough admitted. IV.iii.180 (412,2) [With men like men] [W: vane-like] This is well imagined, but perhaps the poet may mean, with _men like_ common _men_. IV.iii.231 (414,3) [She (an attending star)] Something like this is a stanza of sir Henry Wotton, of which the poetical reader will forgive the insertion. _--Ye stars, the train of night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light: Ye common people of the skies, What are ye when the sun shall rise_. IV.iii.256 (415,6) [And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well] [W: crete] This emendation cannot be received till its authour can prove that _crete_ is an English word. Besides, _crest_ is here properly opposed to _badge_. _Black_, says the King, is the _badge of hell_, but that which graces the heaven is _the crest of_ beauty. _Black_ darkens hell, and is therefore hateful; _white_ adorns heaven, and is therefore lovely. IV.iii.290 (417,8) [affection's men at arms] _A man at arms_, is a soldier armed at all points both offensively and defensively. It is no more than, _Ye soldiers of affection_. IV.iii.313 (418,2) [Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye] i.e. a lady's eyes gives a fuller notion of beauty than any authour. IV.iii.321 (418.3) [In leaden contemplation have found out Such fiery numbers] _Numbers_ are, in this passage, nothing more than _poetical measures_. _Could you_, says Biron, _by solitary contemplation, have attained such poetical_ fire, _such spritely numbers, as have been prompted by the eyes of beauty_? The astronomer, by looking too much aloft, falls into a ditch. IV.iii.358 (422,9) [Or for love's sake, a word, that loves all men; Or for men's sake, the author of these women; Or women's sake, by whom we men are men] Perhaps we might read thus, transposing the lines, _Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men; For women's sake, by whom we men are men; Or for men's sake, the authours of these women_. The antithesis of _a word that all men love_, and _a word which loves all men_, though in itself worth little, has much of the spirit of this play. IV.iii.386 (423,2) [If so, our copper buys no better treasure] Here Mr. Theobald ends the third act. V.i.3 (423,3) [your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious] I know not well what degree of respect Shakespeare intends to obtain for this vicar, but he has here put into his mouth a finished representation of colloquial excellence. It is very difficult to add any thing to this character of the school-master's table-talk, and perhaps all the precepts of Castiglione will scarcely be found to comprehend a rule for conversation so justly delineated, so widely dilated, and so nicely limited. It may be proper just to note, that _reason_ here, and in many other places, signifies _discourse_; and that _audacious_ is used in a good sense for _spirited, animated, confident_. _Opinion_ is the same with _obstinacy_ or _opinionated_. V.i.14 (424,4) [He is too picked] To have the beard _piqued_ or shorn so as to end in a point, was, in our authour's time, a mark of a traveller affecting foreign fashions: so says the Bastard in K. John, --_I catechise _My_ piqued _man of countries_. V.i.29 (425,6) [(_Ne intelligis, Domine._) to make frantick, lunatick?] There seems yet something wanting to the integrity of this passage, which Mr. Theobald has in the most corrupt and difficult places very happily restored. For _ne intelligis domine, to make frantick, lunatick_, I read, (nonne _intelligis, domine?_) to _be_ mad, frantick, lunatick. V.i.44 (427,6) [_honorificabilitudinitatibus_] This word, whencesoever it comes, is often mentioned as the longest word known. (1773) V.i.110 (429,6) [dally with my excrement] The authour has before called the beard _valour's excrement_ in the Merchant of Venice. V.ii.43 (432,5) ['Ware pencils!] The former editions read, Were _pencils_---- Sir T. Hammer here rightly restored, 'Ware _pencils_----- Rosaline, a black beauty, reproaches the fair Catherine for painting. V.ii.69 (434,9) [None are so surely caught when they are catch'd, As wit turn'd fool] These are observation worthy of a man who has surveyed human nature with the closest attention. V.ii.87 (434,1) [Saint Dennis to St. Cupid!] The Princess of France invokes, with too much levity, the patron of her country, to oppose his power to that of Cupid. V.ii.117 (435,2) [spleen ridiculous] is, a ridiculous _fit_. V.ii.205 (439,5) [Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars] When queen Elizabeth asked an ambassadour how he liked her ladies, _It is hard,_ said he, _to judge of stars in the presence of the sun._ V.ii.235 (440,6) [Since you can cog] To _cog_ signifies _to falsify the dice,_ and _to falsify a narrative,_ or _to lye._ V.ii.281 (442,7) [better wits have worn plain statute-caps] This line is not universally understood, because every reader does not know that a statute cap is part of the academical habit. Lady Rosaline declares that her expectation was disappointed by these courtly students, and that _better wits_ might be found in the common places of education. [Gray had offered a different explanation] I think my own interpretation of this passage right. (see 1765, II,197,3) V.ii.295 (443,8) [Fair ladies, mask'd, are roses in their bud; Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shewn, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown] [Hammer: angels vailing clouds] [Warburton exercised his sarcasm on this] I know not why Sir T. Hanmer's explanation should be treated with so much contempt, or why _vailing clouds_ should be _capping the sun. Ladies unmask'd,_ says Boyet, _are_ like _angels vailing clouds,_ or letting those clouds which obscured their brightness, sink from before them. What is there in this absurd or contemptible? V.ii.309 (444,1) [_Exeunt ladies_] Mr. Theobald ends the fourth act here. V.ii.337 (447,4) [--behaviour, what wert thou, 'Till this mad man shew'd thee? and what art thou now?] [These are two wonderfully fine lines, intimating that what courts call _manners,_ and value themselves so much upon teaching, as a thing no where else to be learnt, is a modest silent accomplishment under the direction of nature and common sense, which does its office in promoting social life without being taken notice of. But that when it degerates into shew and parade, it becomes an unmanly contemptible quality. Warburton.] What is told in this note is undoubtedly true, but is not comprised in the quotation. V.ii.348 (448,5) [The virtue of your eye must break my oath] I believe the author means that the _virtue,_ in which word _goodness_ and _power_ are both comprised, _must dissolve_ the obligation of the oath. The Princess, in her answer, takes the most invidious part of the ambiguity. V.ii.374 (449,6) [when we greet With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye, By light we lose light: your capacity Is of that nature, as to your huge store Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor] This is a very lofty and elegant compliment. V.ii.419 (450,7) [Write, _Lord have mercy on us_, on those three] This was the inscription put upon the door of the houses infected with the plague, to which Biron compares the love of himself and his companions; and pursuing the metaphor finds the _tokens_ likewise on the ladies. The _tokens_ of the plague are the first spots or discolorations, by which the infection is known to be received. V.ii.426 (451,8) [how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?] That is, how can those be liable to forfeiture that begin the process. The jest lies in the ambiguity of _sue_, which signifies _to prosecute by law_, or to _offer a petition_. V.ii.440 (451,9) [you force not to forswear] _You force not_ is the same with _you make no difficulty_. This is a very just observation. The crime which has been once committed, is committed again with less reluctance. V.ii.471 (452,2) [in will and error. Much upon this it is:--And might not you] I, believe this passage should be read thus, --_in will and error_. Boyet. _Much upon this it is_. Biron. _And might not you_, &c. V.ii.490 (453,5) [You cannot beg us] That is, we are not fools, our next relations cannot _beg_ the wardship of our persons and fortunes. One of the legal tests of a _natural_ is to try whether he can number. V.ii.517 (454,6) [That sport best pleases, that doth least know how. Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Dies in the zeal of that which it presents] The third line may be read better thus, --_the contents_ _Die in the zeal of_ him _which_ them _presents_. This sentiment of the Princess is very natural, but less generous than that of the Amazonian Queen, who says, on a like occasion, in Midsummer-Night's Dream, _I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharg'd_, _Nor duty in his service perishing_. V.ii.547 (455,8) [A bare throw at novum] This passage I do not understand. I fancy that _novum_ should be _novem_, and that some allusion is intended between the play of _nine pins_ and the play of the _nine_ worthies, but it lies too deep for my investigation. V.ii.581 (457,2) [A-jax] There is a conceit of _Ajax_ and _a jakes_. V.ii.694 (461,4) [more Ates] That is, more instigation. Ate was the mischievous goddess that incited bloodshed. V.ii.702 (461,5) [my arms] The weapons and armour which he wore in the character of Pompey. V.ii.744 (463,8) [In the converse of breath] Perhaps _converse_ may, in this line, mean _interchange_. V.ii.755 (464,2) [which fain it would convince] We must read, --_which fain_ would it _convince_; that is, the entreaties of love which would fain _over-power_ grief. So Lady Macbeth declares, _That she will_ convince _the chamberlain with wine_. V.ii.762 (464,3) [Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief] As it seems not very proper for Biron to court the princess for the king in the king's presence, at this critical moment, I believe the speech is given to a wrong person. I read thus, Prin. _I understand you not, my griefs are double: Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief._ King. _And by these badges_, &c. V.ii.779 (465,4) [Suggested us] That is, _tempted_ us. V.ii.790 (465,5) [As bombast, and as lining to the time] This line is obscure. _Bombast_ was a kind of loose texture not unlike what is now called wadding, used to give the dresses of that time bulk and protruberance, without much increase of weight; whence the same name is given a tumour of words unsupported by solid sentiment. The Princess, therefore, says, that they considered this courtship as but _bombast_, as something to fill out life, which not being closely united with it, might be thrown away at pleasure. V.ii.795 (466,7) [We did not quote them so] [We should read, _quote_, esteem, reckon. Warburton] though our old writers spelling by the ear, probably wrote _cote_, as it was pronounced. (see 1765, II,218,5) V.ii.823 (467,8) [To flatter up these powers of mine with rest] Dr. Warburton would read _fetter_, but _flatter_ or _sooth_ is, in my opinion, more apposite to the king's purpose than _fetter_. Perhaps we may read, _To flatter_ on _these_ hours of time _with rest_; That is, I would not deny to live in the hermitage, to make the year of delay pass in quiet. V.ii.873 (469,2) [dear groans] _Dear_ should here, as in many other places, be _dere_, sad, odious. V.ii.904 (470,3) [_When daisies pied, and violets blue_] The first lines of this song that were transposed, have been replaced by Mr. Theobald. V.ii.907 (470,5) [_Do paint the meadows with delight_] [W: much bedight] Much less elegant than the present reading. (472,7) General Observation. In this play, which all the editors have concurred to censure, and some have rejected as unworthy of him. Vol. III A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM I.i.6 (4,2) [Long withering out a young man's revenue] [W: wintering] That the common reading is not good English, I cannot perceive, and therefore find in myself no temptation to change it. I.i.47 (5,6) [To leave the figure, or disfigure it] [W: 'leve] I know not why so harsh a word should be admitted with so little need, a word that, spoken, could not be understood, and of which no example can be shown. The sense is plain, _you owe to your father a being which he may at pleasure continue or destroy_. I.i.68 (6,8) [Know of your youth] Bring your youth to the question. Consider your youth. (1773) I.i.76 (7,9) [But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd] Thus all the copies, yet _earthlier_ is so harsh a word, and _earthlier happy_ for _happier earthly_, a mode of speech so unusual, that I wonder none of the editors have proposed _earlier happy_. I.i.110 (8,2) [spotted] As _spotless_ is innocent, so _spotted_ is wicked. (1773) I.i.131 (9,3) [Beteem them] give them, bestow upon then. The word is used by Spenser. I.i.157 (10,8) [I have a widow aunt, a dowager] These lines perhaps might more properly be regulated thus: _I have a widow aunt, a dowager Of great revenue, and she hath no child, And she respects me as her only son; Her house from Athens is remov'd seven leagues, There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee, And to that place--_ I.i.169-178 (11,1) [Warburton had reassigned speeches here] This emendation is judicious, but not necessary. I have therefore given the note without altering the text. The censure of men, as oftner perjured than women, seems to make that line more proper for the lady. I.i.183 (12,3) [Your eyes are lode-stars] This was a complement not unfrequent among the old poets. The lode star is the _leading_ or guiding star, that is, the pole-star. The magnet is, for the same reason, called the _lode-stone_, either became it leads iron, or because it guides the sailor. Milton has the same thought in L'Allegro: _Tow'rs and battlements he sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The_ Cynosure _of neighb'ring eyes._ Davies calls Elizabeth, _lode-stone_ to hearts, and _lode-stone_ to all eyes, (see 1765, 1,97,9) I.i.204 (13,6) [Before the time I did Lysander see, Seem'd Athens like a paradise to me] Perhaps every reader may not discover the propriety of these lines. Hermia is willing to comfort Helena, and to avoid all appearance of triumph over her. She therefore bids her not to consider the power of pleasing, as an advantage to be much envied or much desired, since Hermia, whom she considers as possessing it in the supreme degree, has found no other effect of it than the loss of happiness. I.i.232 (15,8) [Things base and vile, holding no quantity] _quality_ seems a word more suitable to the sense than quantity, but either may serve. (1773) I.i.240 (15,9) [in game] _Game_ here signifies not contentious play, but _sport, jest_. So Spenser, _'Twixt earnest and 'twixt_ game. I.ii (16,2) [_Enter Quince the carpenter, Snug the joiner. Bottom the weaver. Flute the bellows-mender. Snout the tinker, and Starveling the taylor_] In this scene Shakespeare takes advantage of his knowledge of the theatre, to ridicule the prejudices and competitions of the players. Bottom, who is generally acknowledged the principal actor, declares his inclination to be for a tyrant, for a part of fury, tumult, and noise, such as every young man pants to perform when he first steps upon the stage. The same Bottom, who seems bred in a tiring-room, has another histrionical passion. He is for engrossing every part, and would exclude his inferiors from all possibility of distinction. He is therefore desirous to play Pyramus, Thisbe, and the Lyon at the same time. I.ii.10 (17,4) [grow on to a point] Dr. Warburton read _go on_; but _grow_ is used, in allusion to his name, Quince. (see 1765, I,100,8) I.ii.52 (18,6) [_Flu._ Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming. _Quin._ That's all one, you shall play it in a masque; and you may speak as small as you will] This passage shews how the want of women on the old stage was supplied. If they had not a young man who could perform the part with a face that might pass for feminine, the character was acted in a mask, which was at that time part of a lady's dress so much in use that it did not give any unusual appearance to the scene: and he that could modulate his voice in a female tone might play the women very successfully. It is observed in Downes's Memoirs of the Playhouse, that one of these counterfeit heroines moved the passions more strongly than the women that have since been brought upon the stage. Some of the catastrophes of the old comedies, which make lovers marry the wrong women, are, by recollection of the common use of masks, brought nearer to probability. I.ii.98 (20,8) [_Bot_. I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your orange tawny beard, your purple-in grain beard, or your French crown-coloured beard; your perfect yellow] Here Bottom again discovers a true genius for the stage by his solicitude for propriety of dress, and his deliberation which beard to chuse among many beards, all unnatural. II.i.2 (21,3) [Over hill, over dale] So Drayton in his Court of Fairy, _Thorough brake_, _thorough brier_. _Thorough muck_, _thorough mire_. _Thorough water_, _thorough fire_. II.i.9 (22,4) [To dew her orbs upon the green] For _orbs_ Dr. Gray is inclined to substitute _herbs_. The orbs here mentioned are the circles supposed to be made by the Fairies on the ground, whose verdure proceeds from the fairy's care to water them. _They in their courses make that_ round, _In meadows and in marshes found_, _Of then so called the fairy ground_. Drayton. II.i.10 (22,5) [The cowslips tall her pensioners be] The cowslip was a favourite among the fairies. There is a hint in Drayton of their attention to May morning. --_for the queen a fitting tow'r_, _Quoth he, is that fair_ cowslip flow'r.-- _In all your train there's not a fay_ _That ever went_ to gather May, _But she hath made it in her way_, _The_ tallest _there that groweth_. II.i.16 (22,7) [lob of spirits] _Lob_, _lubber_, _looby_, _lobcock_, all denote both inactivity of body and dulness of mind. II.i.23 (23,8) [changeling] _Changeling_ is commonly used for the child supposed to be left by the fairies, but here for the child taken away. II.i.29 (23,9) [sheen] Shining, bright, gay. II.i.30 (23,1) [But they do square] [To _square_ here is to quarrel. _And now you are such fools to_ square _for this_? Gray.] The French word _contrecarrer_ has the same import. II.i.36 (24,4) [Skim milk; and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless huswife churn] The sense of these lines is confused. _Are not you he_, says the fairy, _that fright the country girls_. _that skim milk_, _work in the hand-mill_, _and make the tired dairy-woman churn without effect_? The mention of the mill seem out of place, for she is not now telling the good but the evil that he does. I would regulate the lines thus: _And sometimes make the breathless housewife churn Skim milk, and bootless labour in the quern._ Or by a simple transposition of the lines; _And bootless, make the breathless housewife churn Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern._ Yet there is no necessity of alteration. (see 1765, I,106,1) II.i.40 (24,6) [Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work] To those traditionary opinions Milton has reference in L'Allegro, _Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat. How Fairy Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd and pull'd she said. And he by Frier's lapthorp led; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night ere glimpse of morn His shadowy flail had thresh'd the corn Which ten day-labourers could not end. Then lies him down the_ lubber _fiend_. A like account of Puck is given by Drayton, _He meeteth Puck, which most men call Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall.-- This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, Still walking like a ragged colt, And oft out of a bed doth bolt, Of purpose to deceive us; And leading us makes us to stray. Long winter's nights out of the way. And when we stick in mire and clay. He doth with laughter leave us._ It will be apparent to him that shall compare Drayton's poem with this play, that either one of the poets copied the other, or, as I rather believe, that there was then some system of the fairy empire generally received, which they both represented as accurately as they could. Whether Drayton or Shakespeare wrote first, I cannot discover. II.i.42 (25,7) [_Puck_. Thou speak'st aright] I have filled up the verse which I suppose the author left complete, It seems that in the Fairy mythology Puck, or Hobgoblin, was the trusty servant of Oberon, and always employed to watch or detect the intrigues of Queen Mab, called by Shakespeare Titania. For in Drayton's Nynphidia, the same fairies are engaged in the sane business. Mab has an amour with Pigwiggen; Oberon being jealous, sends Hobgoblin to catch them, and one of Mab's nymphs opposes him by a spell. II.i.54 (26,8) [And _tailor_ cries] The custom of crying _tailor_ at a sudden fall backwards, I think I remember to have observed. He that slips beside his chair falls as a taylor squats upon his board. The Oxford editor and Dr. Warburton after him, read _and rails or cries_, plausibly, but I believe not rightly. Besides, the trick of the fairy is represented as producing rather merriment than anger. II.i.56 (26,9) [And waxen] And _encrease_, as the _moon waxes_. II.i.58 (26,1) [But room, Faery] All the old copies read--_But room Fairy_. The word Fairy or Faery, was sometimes of three syllables, as often in Spenser. II.i.84 (28,5) [paved fountain] A fountain laid round the edge with stone. II.i.88 (28,6) [the winds, piping] So Milton, _While rocking winds are piping loud._ II.i.91 (28,7) [pelting river] Thus the quarto's: the folio reads _petty_. Shakespeare has in Lear the same word, _low pelting farms_. The meaning is plainly, _despicable, mean, sorry, wretched_; but as it is a word without any reasonable etymology, I should be glad to dismiss it for _petty_, yet it is undoubtedly right. We have _petty pelting officer_ in Measure for Measure. II.i.92 (28,8) [over-born their continents] Born down the banks that contained then. So in Lear, _Close pent guilts Rive their concealing_ continents. II.i.98 (29,1) [The nine-men's morris] This was some kind of rural game played in a marked ground. But what it was more I have not found. II.i.100 (29,2) [The human mortals want their winter here] After all the endeavours of the editors, this passage still remains to me unintelligible. I cannot see why winter is, in the general confusion of the year now described, more wanted than any other season. Dr. Warburton observes that he alludes to our practice of singing carols in December; but though Shakespeare is no great chronologer in his dramas, I think he has never so mingled true and false religion, as to give us reason for believing that he would make the moon incensed for the omission of our carols. I therefore imagine him to have meant heathen rites of adoration. This is not all the difficulty. Titania's account of this calamity is not sufficiently consequential. _Men find no winter_, therefore they sing no hymns; the moon provoked by this omission, alters the seasons: that is, the alteration of the seasons produces the alteration of the seasons. I am far from supposing that Shakespeare might not sometimes think confusedly, and therefore am not sure that the passage is corrupted. If we should read, _And human mortals want their_ wonted year, yet will not this licence of alteration much mend the narrative; the cause and the effect are still confounded. Let us carry critical temerity a little further. Scaliger transposed the lines of Virgil's Gallus. Why may not the same experiment be ventured upon Shakespeare. _The human mortals want_ their wonted year, _The seasons alter; hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; And on old_ Hyems' _chin, and icy crown, An od'rous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mock'ry set. The spring, the summer, The chiding autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the 'mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. No night is now with hymn or carol blest; Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air; And thorough this distemperature, we see That rheumatick diseases do abound. And this same progeny of evil comes From our debate, from our dissension._ I know not what credit the reader will give to this emendation, which I do not much credit myself. II.i.114 (31,4) [By their increase] That is, _By their produce._ II.i.130 (32,6) [Which she, with pretty and with swimming gate, Following] [cf: follying] The foregoing note is very ingenious, but since _follying_ is a word of which I know not any example, and the Fairy's favourite might, without much licentiousness of language, be said to _follow_ a ship that sailed in the direction of the coast; I think there is no sufficient reason for adopting it. The coinage of new words is a violent remedy, not to be used but in the last necessity. II.i.157 (35,8) [Cupid all-arm'd] _All-armed_, does not signify _dressed in panoply_, but only enforces the word _armed_, as we might say _all-booted_. I am afraid that the general sense of _alarmed_, by which it is used for _put into fear or care by whatever cause_, is later than our authour. II.i.220 (38,4) [For that It is not night when I do see your face] This passage is paraphrased from two lines of an ancient poet, --_Tu nocte vel atra Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis_. (see 1765, I,118,6) II.i.251 (39,5) [over-canopy'd with the luscious woodbine] All the old editions have, Quite _over-canopied with luscious woodbine_. On the margin of one of my folio's an unknown hand has written _lush_ woodbine, which, I think, is right. This hand I have since discovered to be Theobald's, (see 1765, I,119,4) II.ii. (41,9) [quaint spirits] For this Dr. Warburton reads against all authority, ----_quaint_ sports.---- But Prospero, in _The Tempest,_ applies _quaint_ to Ariel. II.ii.30 (42.2) [Be it ounce] The ounce is a snail tiger, or tiger-cat. (1773) II.ii.45 (43,3) [O take the sense, sweet, of my innocence; Love takes the meaning in love's conference] [Warburton wished to transpose "innocence" and "conference"] I am by no means convinced of the necessity of this alteration. Lysander in the language of love professes, that as they have one heart, they shall have one bed; this Hernia thinks rather too much, and intreats him to _lye further off_. Lysander answers, _O take the sense, sweet, of my_ innocence. understand _the meaning of my innocence_, or _my innocent meaning._ Let no suspicion of ill enter thy mind. _Love takes the meaning, in love's_ conference. In the conversation of those who are assured of each other's kindness, not _suspicion_, but _love takes the meaning_. No malevolent interpretation is to be made, but all is to be received in the sense which _love_ can find, and which _love_ can dictate. II.ii.89 (45,6) [my grace] My acceptableness, the favour that I can gain. (1773) II.ii.120 (46,7) [Reason becomes the marshal to my will] That is, My will now follows reason. III.i (48,3) In the time of Shakespeare, there were many companies of players, sometimes five at the same time, contending for the favour of the publick. Of these some were undoubtedly very unskilful and very poor, and it is probable that the design of this scene was to ridicule their ignorance, and the odd expedients to which they might be driven by the want of proper decorations. Bottom was perhaps the head of a rival house, and is therefore honoured with an ass's head. III.i.110 (52,8) [Through bog, through bush, through brake, through bryer] Here are two syllables wanting. Perhaps, it was written, _Through bog_, through mire,------- III.i.116 (52,9) [to make me afeard] _Afeard_ is from _to fear_, by the old form of the language, as _an hungred_, from _to hunger_. So _adry_, for _thirsty_. (1773) III.i.117 (52,1) [O Bottom! thou art chang'd! what do I see on thee?] It is plain by Bottom's answer, that Snout mentioned an _ass's head._ Therefore we should read, Snout. _O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee_? An ass's head? III.i.141 (53,3) [Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note,] So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; And thy fair virtue's force (perforce) [doth move me, On the first view to say, to swear I love thee] These lines are in one quarto of 1600, the first folio of 1623, the second of 1632, and the third of 1664, &c. ranged in the following order: _Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note. On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape, And thy fair virtue's force (perforce) [doth move me._ This reading I have inserted, not that it can suggest any thing better than the order to which the lines have been restored by Mr. Theobald from another quarto, but to shew that some liberty of conjecture must be allowed in the revisal of works so inaccurately printed, and so long neglected. III.i.173 (55,6) [the fiery glow-worm's eyes] I know not how Shakespeare,who commonly derived his knowledge of nature from his own observation, happened to place the glow-worm's light in his eyes, which is only in his tail. III.ii.9 (56,l) [patches] _Patch_ was in old language used as a term of opprobry; perhaps with much the some import as we use _raggamuffin_, or _tatterdemalion_. III.ii.17 (56,2) [nowl] A head. Saxon. III.ii.19 (57,4) [minnock] This is the reading of the old quarto, and I believe right, _Minnekin_, now _minx_, is a nice trifling girl. _Minnock_ is apparently a word of contempt. III.ii.21 (57,5) [sort] Company. So above, --_that barren_ sort; and in Waller, _A_ sort _of lusty shepherds strive_. III.ii.25 (57,6) [And, at our stamp] This seems to be a vicious reading. Fairies are never represented stamping, or of a size that should give force to a stamp, nor could they have distinguished the stamps of Puck from those of their own companions. I read, _And at a_ stump _here o'er and o'er one falls_. So Drayton, _A pain he in his head-piece feels, Against a_ stubbed tree _he reels, And up went poor hobgoblin's heels; Alas, his brain was dizzy_.---- _At length upon his feet he gets, Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets, And as again he forward sets, And through the bushes scrambles,_ A stump _doth_ trip him _in his pace, Down fell poor Hob upon his face, Among the briers and brambles._ III.ii.30 (58,7) [Some, sleeves; some, hats] There is the like image in Drayton of queen Mab and her fairies flying from Hobgoblin. _Some tore a ruff, and some a gown, 'Gainat one another jostling; They flew about like chaff i' th' wind, For haste some left their masks behind, Some could not stay their gloves to find, There never was such bustling._ III.ii.48 (58,l) [Being o'er shoes in blood] An allusion to the proverb, _Over shoes, over boots._ III.ii.70 (59,3) [O brave touch!] _Touch_ in Shakespeare's time was the same with our _exploit_, or rather _stroke_. A brave touch, a noble stroke, _un grand coup_. _Mason was very merry, pleasantly playing both with the shrewd_ touches _of many curst boys, and the small discretion of many lewd schoolmasters._ Ascham. III.ii.74 (60,4) [mispris'd] Mistaken; so below _misprision_ is mistake. III.ii.141 (62,5) [Taurus' snow] Taurus is the name of a range of mountains in Asia. III.ii.144 (62,7) [seal of bliss!] Be has elsewhere the same image, _But my kisses bring again_ Seals of love, _but seal'd in vain_, (rev. 1778, III,74,4) III.ii.150 (62,8) [join in souls] This is surely wrong. We may read, _Join in_ scorns, or _join in_ scoffs. [Tyrwhitt: join, ill souls] This is a very reasonable conjecture, though I think it is hardly right. (1773) III.ii.160 (63,9) [extort A poor soul's patience] Harrass, torment. III.ii.171 (63,1) [My heart with her] We should read, _My heart_ with _her but as guest-wise sojourn'd_. So Prior, _No matter what beauties I saw in my way, They were but my visits, but then not my home._ (rev. 1778, III,76,9) III.ii.188 (64,2) [all yon fiery O's] I would willingly believe that the poet wrote _fiery orbs_. III.ii.194 (64,3) [in spight to me] I read, _in spite_ to _me_. III.ii.242 (66,2) [such an argument] Such a _subject_ of light merriment. III.ii.352 (71,1) [so sort] So happen in the issue. III.ii.367 (71,2) [virtuous property] Salutiferous. So be calls, in the Tempest, _poisonous dew_, wicked _dew_. III.ii.426 (74,5) [buy this dear] i.e. _thou shalt dearly pay for this._ Though this is sense, and may well enough stand, yet the poet perhaps wrote _thou shalt 'by it dear_. So in another place, _thou shalt_ aby it. So Milton, _How_ dearly I abide _that boust so vain._ IV.i (75,6) I see no reason why the fourth act should begin here, when there seems no interruption of the action. In the old quartos of 1600, there is no division of acts, which seems to have been afterwards arbitrarily made in the first folio, and may therefore be altered at pleasure, (see 1765, I,149,5) IV.i.2 (75,7) [do coy] To _coy_ is to sooth. Skinner, (rev. 1778, III, 89,6) IV.i.45 (77,2) [So doth the woodbine, the sweet honey-suckle, Gently entwist] Mr. Upton reads, _So doth the_ woodrine _the sweet honey-suckle_, for bark of the wood. Shakespeare perhaps only meant so, the leaves involve the flower, using _woodbine_ for the plant and _honeysuckle_ for the flower; or perhaps Shakespeare made a blunder, (rev. 1778, III,91,2) IV.i.107 (81,9) [our observation is perform'd] The honours due to the morning of May. I know not why Shakespear calls this play a _Midsummer- Night's Dream_, when he so carefully informs us that it happened on the night preceding _May_ day. IV.i.123 (81,4) [so sanded] So marked with small spots. IV.i.166 (83,6) [Fair Helena in fancy following me] _Fancy_ is here taken for _love_ or _affection_, and is opposed to _fury_, as before. _Sighs and tears poor_ Fancy's _follovers_. Some now call that which a man takes particular delight in his _Fancy. Flower-fancier_, for a florist, and _bird-fancier_, for a lover and feeder of birds, are colloquial words. IV.i.194 (84,6) [And I have found Demetrius like a jewel] [W: gewell] This emendation is ingenious enough to deserve to be true. IV.i.213 (85,8) [patch'd fool] That is, a fool in a particolour'd coat. IV.ii.14 (86,2) [a thing of nought] which Mr. Theobald changes with great pomp to _a thing of naught_, is, a _good for nothing thing_. IV.ii.18 (86,3) [made men] In the same sense us in the _Tempest, any monster in England_ makes _a man_. V.i.2-22 (88,4) [More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys] These beautiful lines are in all the old editions thrown out of metre. They are very well restored by the later editors. V.i.26 (89,5) [constancy] Consistency; stability; certainty. V.i.79 (92,4) [Unless you can find sport in their intents] Thus all the copies. But as I know not what it is to _stretch_ and _con_ an _intent_, I suspect a line to be lost. V.i.91 (92,5) [And what poor duty cannot do, Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.] The sense of this passage, as it now stands, if it has any sense, is this: _What the inability of duty cannot perform, regardful generosity receives as an act of ability, though not of merit._ The contrary is rather true: _What dutifulness tries to perform without ability, regardful generosity receives as having the merit, though not the power, of complete performance._ We should therefore read, _And what poor duty cannot do, Noble respect takes not in might, but merit._ V.i.147 (95,4) [Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade] Mr. Upton rightly observes, that Shakespeare in this line ridicules the affectation of beginning many words with the same letter. He night have remarked the same of _The raging rocks and shivering shocks._ Gascoigne, contemporary with our poet, remarks and blames the same affectation. V.i.199 (97,6) [And like Limander am I trusty still] Limander and Helen, are spoken by the blundering player, for Leander and Hero. Shafalus and Procrus, for Cephalus and Procris. V.i.254 (99,1) [in snuff] An equivocation. _Snuff_ signifies both the cinder of a caudle, and hasty anger. V.i.379 (104,2) [And the wolf beholds the moon] [W: behowls] The alteration is better than the original reading; but perhaps the author meant only to say, that the wolf _gazes at_ the moon, (see 1765, I,173,2) V.i.396 (105,4) [I am sent, with broom, before, To sweep the dust behind the door] Cleanliness is always necessary to invite the residence and the favour of Fairies. _These make our girls their slutt'ry rue, By pinching them both black and blue. And put a penny in their shoe The house for cleanly sweeping._ Drayton. V.i.398 (105,5) [Through this house give glimmering light] Milton perhaps had this picture in his thought: _Glowing cabers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom._ Il Penseroso. So Drayton: _Hence shadows seeming idle shapes Of little frisking elves and apes, To earth do make their wanton 'scapes As hope of pastime hastes them._ I think it should be read, _Through this house_ in _glimmering light_. V.i.408 (106,6) [Now, until the break of day] This speech, which both the old quartos give to Oberon, is in the edition of 1623, and in all the following, printed as the song. I have restored it to Oberon, as it apparently contains not the blessing which he intends to bestow on the bed, but his declaration that he will bless it, and his orders to the fairies how to perform the necessary rites. But where then is the song?--I am afraid it is gone after many other things of greater value. The truth is that two songs are lost. The series of the scene is this; after the speech of Puck, Oberon enters, and calls his fairies to a song, which song is apparently wanting in all the copies. Next Titania leads another song, which is indeed lost like the former, tho' the editors have endeavoured to find it. Then Oberon dismisses his fairies to the dispatch of the ceremonies. The songs, I suppose, were lost, because they were not inserted in the players parts, from which the drama was printed. V.i.440 (107,8) [Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue] That is, If we be dismiss'd without hisses. V.i.444 (107,9) [Give me your hands] That is, Clap your hands. Give us your applause. (107,8) General Observation. Of this play there are two editions in quarto; one printed for Thomas Fisher, the other for James Roberts, both in 1600. I have used the copy of Roberts, very carefully collated, as it seems, with that of Fisher. Neither of the editions approach to exactness. Fisher is sometimes preferable, but Roberts was followed, though not without some variations, by Hemings and Condel, and they by all the folios that succeeded them. Wild and fantastical as this play is, all the parts in their various modes are well written, and give the kind of pleasure which the author designed. Fairies in his time were much in fashion; common tradition had made them familiar, and Spenser's poem had made them great. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE I.i.9 (112,2) [Argosies] [a ship from Argo. Pope.] Whether it be derived from Argo I am in doubt. It was a name given in our author's time to ships of great burthen, probably galleons, such as the Spaniards now use in their East India trade. [An Argosie meant originally a ship from Ragusa, a city and territory on the gulph of Venice, tributary to the Porte. Steevens.] I.i.18 (112,3) [Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind] By holding up the grass, or any light body that will bend by a gentle blast, the direction of the wind is found. _This way I used in shooting. Betwixt the markes was an open place, there I take a fethere, or a_ lytle grasse, _and so learned_ _how the wind stood_. Ascham. I.i.27 (113,5) [And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand] The name of the ship. I.i.113 (116,3) [Is that any thing now?] All the old copies read, _is that any thing now_? I suppose we should read, _is that any thing_ new? I.i.146 (117,4) [like a wilful youth] [W: witless] Dr. Warburton confounds the time past and present. He has formerly lost his money like a _wilful_ youth, he now borrows more in _pure innocence_, without disguising his former fault, or his present designs. I.ii.44 (120,6) [Ay, that's a colt, indeed] _Colt_ is used for a witless, heady, gay youngster, whence the phrase used of an old man too juvenile, that he still retains his _colt's tooth_. See Hen. VIII. I.ii.49 (120,7) [there is the Count Palatine] I am always inclined to believe, that Shakespeare has more allusions to particular facts and persons than his readers commonly suppose. The count here mentioned was, perhaps, Albertus a Lasco, a Polish Palatine, who visited England in our author's time, was eagerly caressed, and splendidly entertained; but running in debt, at last stole away, and endeavoured to repair his fortune by enchantment. I.ii.90 (122,3) [How like you the young German] In Shakespeare's time the duke of Bavaria visited London, and was made knight of the garter. Perhaps in this enumeration of Portia's suitors, there may be some covert allusion to those of Queen Elizabeth. I.iii.47 (125,4) [catch him once upon the hip] A phrase taken from the practice of wrestlers. I.iii.63 (126,5) [the ripe wants of my friend] _Ripe wants_ are wants _come to the height_, wants that can have no longer delay. Perhaps we might read, _rife wants_, wants that come thick upon him. I.iii.100 (127,6) [ An evil soul, producing holy witness, Is like a villain with a smiling cheek; A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falshood hath?] I wish any copy would give the authority to range and read the lines thus: _O, what a_ godly _outside falshood hath! An evil soul producing holy witness, Is like a villain with a sailing cheek; Or goodly apply rotten at the heart._ Yet there is no difficulty in the present reading. _Falsehood_, which as _truth_ means _honesty_, is taken here for _treachery_ and _knavery_, does not stand for _falshood_ in general, but for the dishonesty now operating. (1773) I.iii.156 (129,8) [dwell in my necessity] To _dwell_ seems in this place to mean the same as to _continue_. To _abide_ has both the senses of _habitation_ and _continuance_. I.iii.176 (130,9) [left in the fearful guard] [W: fearless] Dr. Warburton has forgotten that _fearful_ is not only that which fears, but that which is feared or causes fear. _Fearful guard_, is a guard that is not to be trusted, but gives cause of fear. To _fear_ was anciently to _give_ as well as _feel terrours_. (see 1765, I,402,4) I.iii.180 (130,1) [I like not fair terms] Kind words, good language. II.i.7 (131,2) [To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine] To understand how the tawney prince, whose savage dignity is very well supported, means to recommend himself by this challenge, it must be remembered that _red_ blood is a traditionary sign of courage: Thus Macbeth calls one of his frighted soldiers, a _lilly liver'd_ Lown; again in this play, Cowards are said to _have livers as white as milk_; and an effeminate and timorous man is termed a _milksop._ II.i.18 (132,4) [And hedg'd me by his will] I suppose we may safely read, _and hedg'd me by his_ will. Confined me by his will. II.i.25 (132,5) [That slew the Sophy] Shakespeare seldom escapes well when he is entangled with geography. The prince of Morocco must have travelled far to kill the Sophy of Persia. II.i.42 (133,7) [Therefore be advis'd] Therefore be not precipitant; consider well what we are to do. _Advis'd_ is the word opposite to _rash_. II.ii.38 (134,8) [try conclusions]--So the old quarto. The first folio, by a mere blunder, reads, try _confusions_, which, because it makes a kind of paltry jest, has been copied by all the editors. II.ii.91 (136,1) [your child that shall be] The distinction between _boy_ and _son_ is obvious, but child seems to have some meaning, which is now lost. II.ii.166 (138,3) [Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table, which doth suffer to swear upon a book] Mr. Theobald's note is as obscure as the passage. It may be read more than once before the complication of ignorance can be completely disentangled. Table is the palm expanded. What Mr. Theobald conceives it to be cannot easily be discovered, but he thinks it somewhat that promises a full belly. Dr. Warburton understood the word, but puzzles himself with no great success in the pursuit of the meaning. The whole matter is this: Launcelot congratulates himself upon his dexterity and good fortune, and, in the height of his rapture, inspects his hand, and congratulates himself upon the felicities in his table. The act of expounding his hand puts him in mind of the action in which the palm is shewn, by raising it to lay it on the book, in judicial attestations. _Well_, says he, _if any man in Italy have a fairer table, that doth offer to swear upon a book_----Here he stops with an abruptness very common, and proceeds to particulars. II.ii.194 (140,5) [Something too liberal] Liberal I have already shewn to be mean, gross, coarse, licentious. II.ii.205 (141,9) [sad ostent] Grave appearance; shew of staid and serious behaviour. II.vi.5 (146,1) [O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly] [W: widgeons] I believe the poet wrote as the editors have printed. How it is so very _high humour_ to call lovers _widgeons_ rather than pigeons. I cannot find. Lovers have in poetry been alway called _Turtles_, or _Doves_, which in lower language may be pigeons. II.vi.51 (148,3) [a Gentile, and no Jew] A jest rising from the ambiguity of _Gentile_, which signifies both a _Heathen_, and _one well born._ II.vii.8 (149,4) [This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt] That is, as gross as the dull metal. II.vii.69 (151,5) [_Gilded tombs do worms infold_] In all the old editions this line is written thus: _Gilded timber do worms infold._ From which Mr. Rowe and all the following editors have made _Gilded wood may worms infold._ A line not bad in itself, but not so applicable to the occasion as that which, I believe, Shakespeare wrote, _Gilded_ tombs _do worms infold_. A tomb is the proper repository of a _death's-head_. II.vii.72 (151,6) [Your answer had not been inscrol'd] Since there is an answer inscrol'd or written in every casket, I believe for _your_ we should read _this_. When the words were written y'r and y's, the mistake was easy. II.vii.79 (151,7) [chuse ce so] The old quarto edition of 1600 has no distribution of acts, but proceeds from the beginning to the end in an unbroken tenour. This play therefore having been probably divided without authority by the publishers of the first folio, lies open to a new regulation, if any more commodious division can be proposed. The story is itself so wildly incredible, and the changes of the scene so frequent and capricious, that the probability of action does not deserve much care; yet it may be proper to observe, that, by concluding the second act here, time is given for Bassanio's passage to Belmont. II.viii.42 (153,8) [_Let it not enter in your mind of love_] So all the copies, but I suspect some corruption. II.viii.52 (153,9) [embraced heaviness] [W: enraced] Of Dr. Warburton's correction it is only necessary to observe, that it has produced a new word, which cannot be received without necessity. When I thought the passage corrupted, it seemed to me not improbable that Shakespeare had written _entranced heaviness_, musing, abstracted, moping melancholy. But I know not why any great efforts should be made to change a word which has no uncommodious or unusual sense. We say of a man now, _that he_ hugs _his sorrows_, and why might not Anthonio _embrace heaviness_. II.ix.46 (155,2) [How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour?] The meaning is, _How much meanness would be found among the great, and how much greatness among the mean_. But since men are always said to _glean_ corn though they may _pick_ chaff, the sentence had been more agreeable to the common manner of speech if it had been written thus, _How much low peasantry would then be pick'd From the true seed of_honour? how much honour Glean'd from the chaff?_ II.ix.70 (157,4) [_Take what wife you will to-bed_] Perhaps the poet had forgotten that he who missed Portia was never to marry any woman. III.i.47 (160,7) [a bankrupt, a prodigal] There is no need of alteration. There could be, in Shylock's opinion, no prodigality more culpable than such liberality as that by which a man exposes himself to ruin for his friend. III.ii.21 (163,9) [And so though yours, not yours.--Prove it so] It may be more grammatically read, _And so though yours_ I'm _not yours._ III.ii.54 (165,2) [With no less presence] With the same _dignity of mien_. III.ii.73 (166,5) [So may the outward shows] He begins abruptly, the first part of the argument has passed in his mind. III.ii.76 (166,6) [gracious voice] Pleasing; winning favour. III.ii.112 (167,9) [In measure rain thy joy] The first quarto edition reads, _In measure_ range _thy joy_. The folio and one of the quartos, _In measure_ raine _thy joy_. I once believ'd Shakespeare meant, _In measure_ rein _thy joy_. The words _rain_ and _rein_ were not in these times distinguished by regular orthography. There is no difficulty in the present reading, only where the copies vary some suspicion of error is always raised, (see 1765, I,437,1) III.ii.125 (168,1) [Methinks, it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnish'd] I know not how _unfinish'd_ has intruded without notice into the later editions, as the quartos and folio have _unfurnished_, which Sir Tho. Banner has received. Perhaps it might be _And leave_ himself _unfurnish'd_. III.ii.191 (170,4) [you can wish none from me] That is, none _away from_ me; none that I shall lose, if you gain it. III.v.70 (182,5) [how his words are suited!] I believe the meaning is: What a _series_ or _suite_ of _words_ he has independent of meaning; how one word draws on another without relation to the matter. IV,i.21 (184,6) [apparent] That is, _seeming_; not real. IV.i.22 (184,7) [_where_] for _whereas_. IV.i.29 (184,8) [Enough to press a royal merchant down] This epithet was in our poet's time more striking and better understood, because Gresham was then commonly dignified with the title of the _royal merchant_. IV.i.42 (185,1) [I'll not answer that; But, say, it is my humour] [Cf: By saying] Dr. Warburton has mistaken the sense. The Jew being asked a question which the law does not require him to answer, stands upon his right, and refuses; but afterwards gratifies his own malignity by such answers as he knows will aggravate the pain of the enquirer. I will not answer, says he, as to a legal or serious question, but since you want an answer, will this serve you? IV.i.56 (187,4) [For affection, Masters of passion, sway it to the mood Of what it likes, or loaths] As for _affection_, those that know how to operate upon the passions of men, rule it by making it operate in obedience to the notes which please or disgust it. (1773) [Woollen bag pipe] As all the editors agree with complete uniformity in this reading, I can hardly forbear to imagine that they understood it. But I never saw a _woollen bag-pipe_, nor can well conceive it. I suppose the authour wrote _wooden_ bag-pipe, meaning that the bag was of leather, and the pipe of _wood_. IV.i.90 (189,5) [many a purchas'd slave] This argument considered as used to the particular persons, seems conclusive. I see not how Venetians or Englishmen, while they practise the purchase and sale of slaves, can much enforce or demand the law of _doing to others as we would that they should do to us_. IV.i.105 (189,6) [Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for] The doctor and the court are here somewhat unskilfully brought together. That the duke would, on such an occasion, consult a doctor of great reputation, is not unlikely, but how should this be forknown by Portia? IV.i.214 (193,8) [malice bears down truth] Malice oppresses honesty, a _true man_ in old language is an _honest man_. We now call the jury _good men and true._ IV.i.382 (198,8) [I am content] The terms proposed have been misunderstood. Antonio declares, that as the duke quits one half of the forfeiture, he is likewise content to abate his claim, and desires not the property but the _use_ or produce only of the half, and that only for the Jew's life, unless we read, as perhaps is right, _upon_ my _death._ V.i.63 (204,3) [Such harmony is in immortal souls] [W: sounds] This passage is obscure. _Immortal sounds_ is a harsh combination of words, yet Milton uses a parallel expression: _Spiritus & rapidos qui circinat igneus orbes, Nunc quoque sidereis intercinit ipse choreia_ Immortale melos, _& inenarrabile curmen._ It is proper to exhibit the lines as they stand in the copies of the first, second, third, and fourth editions, without any variation, for a change has been silently made, by Rowe, and adopted by all the succeeding editors. _Such harmony is in immortal souls, But while this muddy vesture of decay Doth grosly close_ in it, _we cannot hear it._ That the third is corrupt must be allowed, but it gives reason to suspect that the original was, _Doth grosly close_ it in. Yet I know not whether from this any thing better can be produced than the received reading. Perhaps _harmony_ is _the power of perceiving harmony_, as afterwards, _Musick in the soul_ is the quality of being _moved with concord of sweet sounds_. This will somewhat explain the old copies, but the sentence is still imperfect; which might be completed by reading, _Such harmony is in_ th' _immortal_ soul, _But while this muddy vesture of decay Doth grosly close_ it in, _we cannot hear it._ (1773) V.i.66 (205,4) [wake Diana with a hymn] Diana is the moon, who is in the next scene represented as sleeping. V.i.99 (207,6) [Nothing is good, I see, without respect] Not absolutely good, but relatively, good as it is modified by circumstances. V.i.129 (208,7) [Let me give light] There is scarcely any word with which Shakespeare delights to trifle as with _light_, in its various significations. V.i.203 (210,2) [What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas'd to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony?] This is a very licentious expression. The sense is, _What man could have so little modesty_ or _wanted modesty so much_, as to urge the demand of a thing kept on an account in some sort religious. (see 1785, 1,476,7) V.i.249 (212,4) [I once did lend my body for his wealth] For his advantage; to obtain his happiness. _Wealth_ was, at that time, the term opposite to _adversity_, or _calamity_. V.i.294 (213,5) [_Lor_. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people] [Shakespeare is not more exact in any thing, than in adapting his images with propriety to his speakers; of which he has here given an instance in making the young Jewess call good fortune, _manna_. Warburton.] The commentator should have remarked, that this speech is not, even in his own edition, the speech of the Jewess. V.i.307 (214,6) [_Exeunt omnes_] It has been lately discovered, that this fable is taken from a story in the Pecorope of Ser Giovauni Fiorentino, a novellist, who wrote in 1378. The story has been published in English, and I have epitomised the translation. The translator is of opinion, that the choice of the caskets is borrowed from a tale of Boccace, which I have likewise abridged, though I believe that Shakespeare must have had some other novel in view. (223) General Observation. Of The MERCHANT of VENICE the stile is even and easy, with few peculiarities of diction, or anomalies of construction. The comick part raises laughter, and the serious fixes expectation. The probability of either one or the other story cannot be maintained. The union of two actions in one event is in this drama eminently happy. Dryden was much pleased with his own address in connecting the two plots of his Spanish Friar, which yet, I believe, the critick will find excelled by this play. AS YOU LIKE IT I.i.3 (229,2) [As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me. By will, but a poor thousand crowns] There is, in my opinion, nothing but a point misplaced, and an omission of a word which every hearer can supply, and which therefore an abrupt and eager dialogue naturally excludes. I read thus: _As I remember, Adam, it was on this fashion bequeathed me. By will but a poor thousand crowns; and, as thou sayest, charged my brother on his blessing to breed me well._ What is there in this difficult or obscure? The nominative _my father_ is certainly left out, but so left out that the auditor inserts it, in spite of himself. I.i.9 (230,3) [stays me here at home, unkept] [W: Stys] _Sties_ is better than _stays_, and more likely to be Shakespeare's. I.i.19 (230,4) [his countenance seems to take from me] [W: discountenance] There is no need of change, a countenance is either good or bad. I.i.33 (231,5) [be better employ'd, and be nought a while] Warburton explained ["be nought a while" as "a mischief on you"] If _be nought a while_ has the signification here given it, the reading may certainly stand; but till I learned its meaning from this note, I read, _Be better employed, and be_ naught a while. In the same sense as we say, _it is better to do mischief, than to do nothing_. I.i.59 (233,7) [I am no villain] The word _villain_ is used by the elder brother, in its present meaning, for a _worthless, wicked_, or _bloody man_; by Orlando in its original signification, for a _fellow of base extraction_. I.ii.34 (237,9) [mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel] The wheel of Fortune is not the _wheel_ of a _housewife_. Shakespeare has confounded Fortune, whose wheel only figures uncertainty and vicissitude, with the Destiny that spins the thread of life, though indeed not with a wheel. I.ii.87 (239,1) [_Clo_. One, that old Frederick your father loves. _Cel_. My father's love is enough to honour him] [T. invoking the Dramatis Personae: Celia] Mr. Theobald seems not to know that the Dramatis Personae were first enumerated by Rowe. I.ii.95 (239,2) [since the little wit that fools have, was silenc'd] Shakespeare probably alludes to the use of _fools_ or _jesters_, who for some ages had been allowed in all courts an unbridled liberty of censure and mockery, and about this time began to be less tolerated. I.ii.112 (240,3) [laid on with a trowel] I suppose the meaning is, that there is too heavy a mass of big words laid upon a slight subject. I.ii.115 (240,4) [You amaze me, ladies] To _amaze_, here, is not to astonish or strike with wonder, but to perplex; to confuse; as, to put out of the intended narrative. I.ii.131 (241,5) [With bills on their necks: _Be it known unto all men by these presents_] This conjecture is ingenious. Where meaning is so very thin, as in this vein of jocularity, it is hard to catch, and therefore I know not well what to determine; but I cannot see why Rosalind should suppose, that the competitors in a wrestling match carried _bills_ on their shoulders, and I believe the whole conceit is in the poor resemblance of _presence_ and _presents_. I.ii.149 (241,6) [is there any else longs to see this broken musick in his sides?] [W: set] If any change were necessary, I should write, _feel this broken musick_, for _see_. But _see_ is the colloquial term for perception or experiment. So we say every day, _see_ if the water be hot; I will _see_ which is the best time; she has tried, and _sees_ that she cannot lift it. In this sense _see_ may be here used. The sufferer can, with no propriety, be said to _set_ the musick; neither is the allusion to the act of tuning an instrument, or pricking a tune, one of which must be meant by _setting_ musick. Rosalind hints at a whimsical similitude between the series of ribs gradually shortening, and some musical instruments, and therefore calls _broken ribs, broken musick_. I.ii.185 (243,8) [If you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment] [W: our eyes, and our judgment] I cannot find the absurdity of the present reading. _If you were not blinded and intoxicated_, says the princess, _with the spirit of enterprise, if you could use_ your own eyes to _see_, or your own judgment to know _yourself, the fear of your adventure would counsel you_. I.ii.195 (243,9) [I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty] I should wish to read, _I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts_. Therein _I confess myself much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing._ I.ii.257 (246,1) [one out of suits with Fortune] This seems an allusion to cards, where he that has no more cards to play of any particular sort is _out of suit_. I.ii.275 (247,3) [the Duke's condition] The word _condition_ means character, temper, disposition. So Anthonio the merchant of Venice, is called by his friend the _best conditioned man_. I.iii.33 (249,5) [you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly] That is, by this way of _following_ the argument. _Dear_ is used by Shakespeare in a double sense, for _beloved_, and for _hurtful_, _hated_, _baleful_. Both senses are authorised, and both drawn from etymology, but properly _beloved_ is _dear_, and _hateful_ is _dere._ Rosalind uses _dearly_ in the good, and Celia in the bad sense. I.iii.83 (251,6) [And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous] [W: shine] The plain meaning of the old and true reading is, that when she was seen alone, she would be more noted. I.iii.98 (251,7) [Rosalind lacks then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one][W: which teacheth me] Either reading may stand. The sense of the established text is not remote or obscure. Where would be the absurdity of saying, _You know not the law which teaches you to do right_. I.iii.119 (252,9) [curtle-ax]--_curtle-axe_. or _cutlace_. a broad sword. II.i.13 (254,3) [Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous Wears yet a precious jewel in his head] It was the current opinion in Shakespeare's time, that in the head of an old toad was to be found a stone, or pearl, to which great virtues were ascribed. This stone has been often sought, but nothing has been found more than accidental or perhaps morbid indurations of the skull. II.i.18 (254,4) [I would not change it] Mr. Upton, not without probability, gives these words to the Duke, and makes Amiens begin, _Happy is your grace_. II.i.67 (256,6) [to cope him] To encounter him; to engage with him. II.iii.8 (257,8) [The bony priser] So Milton, _Giants of mighty_ bone. II.iii.37 (258,9) [diverted blood] Blood turned out of the course of nature. II.iii.60 (259,1) [promotion; And, having that, do choak their service up Even with the having] Even with the _promotion_ gained by service is service extinguished. II.iv.33 (261,4) [If thou remember'st not the slightest folly] I am inclined to believe that from this passage Suckling took the hint of his song. _Honest lover, whosoever, If in all thy love there ever Were one wav'ring thought, thy flame Were not even, still the same. Know this Thou lov'st amiss, And to love true Thou must begin again and love anew_, &c. (rev. 1778, III,297,4) II.iv.48 (262,5) [batlet] The instrument with which washers beat their coarse cloaths. II.iv.51 (262,6) [two cods] For _cods_ it would be more like sense to read _peas_, which having the shape of pearls, resembled the common presents of lovers. II.iv.55 (262,7) [so is all nature in love, mortal in folly] This expression I do not well understand. In the middle counties, _mortal_, from _mort_, a great quantity, is used as a particle of amplification; as _mortal tall, mortal little_. Of this sense I believe Shakespeare takes advantage to produce one of his darling equivocations. Thus the meaning will be, _so is all nature in love_ abounding _in folly_. II.iv.87 (263,8) [And in my voice most welcome shall ye be] _In my voice_, as far as I have a voice or vote, as far as I have power to bid you welcome. II.v.56 (265,2) [Duc ad me] For _ducdame_ sir T. Hammer, very acutely and judiciously, reads _duc ad me_. That is, _bring him to me_. II.v.63 (266,3) [the first-born of Egypt] A proverbial expression for high-born persons. (1773) II.vii.13 (267,4) [A motley fool!--a miserable world.'] [W: miserable varlet] I see no need of changing _fool_ to _varlet_, nor, if a change were necessary, can I guess how it should certainly be known that _varlet_ is the true word. _A miserable world_ is a parenthetical exclamation, frequent among melancholy men, and natural to Jaques at the sight of a fool, or at the hearing of reflections on the fragility of life. II.vii.44 (268,5) [only suit] _Suit_ means _petition_. I believe, not _dress_. II.vii.55 (269,7) [If not, The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd Even by the squandring glances of the fool] Unless men have the prudence not to appear touched with the sarcasm of a jester, they subject themselves to his power, and the wise man will have his folly _anatomised_, that is _dissected_ and _laid open_ by the _squandring glances_ or _random shots_ of a fool. II.vii.66 (269,8) [As sensual as the brutish sting] Though the _brutish sting_ is capable of a sense not inconvenient in this passage, yet as it is a harsh and unusual mode of speech, I should read the _brutish sty_. II.vii.04 (270,9) [The thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the shew Of smooth civility] We might read _torn_ with more elegance, but elegance alone will not justify alteration. II.vii.125 (271,1) [And take upon command what help we have] It seems necessary to read, _then take upon_ demand _what help_, &c. that is, _ask_ for what we can supply, and have it. II.vii.156 (272,3) [Full of wise saws and modern instances] I am in doubt whether _modern_ is in this place used for absurd; the meaning seems to be, that the justice is full of _old_ sayings and _late_ examples. II.vii.167 (273,5) [Set down your venerable burden] Is it not likely that Shakespeare had in his mind this line of the Metamorphoses? --_Patremque Fert humeris_, venerabile onus _Cythereius heros_. II.vii.177 (274,5) [Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen] [W: art not sheen] I am afraid that no reader is satisfied with Dr. Warburton's emendation, however vigorously enforced; and it is indeed enforced with more art than truth. _Sheen_, i.e. _smiling, shining_. That _sheen_ signifies _shining_, is easily proved, but when or where did it signify _smiling_? yet _smiling_ gives the sense necessary in this place. Sir T. Banner's change is less uncouth, but too remote from the present text. For my part, I question whether the original line is not lost, and this substituted merely to fill up the measures and the rhyme. Yet even out of this line, by strong agitation may sense be elicited, and sense not unsuitable to the occasion. _Thou winter wind_, says the Duke, _thy rudeness gives the less pain_, as thou art not seen, _as thou art an enemy that dost not brave us with thy presence, and whose unkindness is therefore not aggravated by insult_. II.vii.187 (275,6) [Tho' thou the waters warp] To _warp_ was probably, in Shakespeare's time, a colloquial word, which conveyed no distant allusion to any thing else, physical or medicinal. To warp is to _turn_, and to _turn_ is to _change_; when milk is _changed_ by curdling, we now say, it is _turned_; when water is _changed_ or _turned_ by frost, Shakespeare says, it is _curdled_. To be _warp'd_ is only to be changed from its natural state. (1773) III.i.3 (276,7) [an absent argument] An _argument_ is used for the _contents_ of a book, thence Shakespeare considered it as meaning the _subject_, and then used it for _subject_ in yet another sense. III.i.18 (277,8) [Do this expediently] That is, _expeditiously_. III.ii.2 (277,9) [thrice-crowned queen of night] Alluding to the triple character of Proserpine, Cynthia, and Diana, given by some mythologists to the same Goddess, and comprised in these memorial lines: _Terret, lustrat, agit, Proserpina, Luna, Diana, Ima, superna, feras, sceptro, fuljore, sagittis._ III.ii.10 (277,1) [unexpressive] for _inexpressible_. III.ii.31 (278,2) [complain of good breeding] I am in doubt whether the custom of the language in Shakespeare's time did not authorise this mode of speech, and make _complain of good breeding_ the same with _complain_ of the want of _good_ breeding. In the last line of the Merchant of Venice we find that to _fear the keeping_ is to _fear the_ not _keeping_. III.ii.39 (279,5) [Truly, then art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side] Of this jest I do not fully comprehend the meaning. III.ii.85 (281,1) [bawd to a bell-wether] _Wether_ and _ram_ had anciently the same meaning. III.ii.135 (282,1) [Tongues I'll hang on every tree, That shall civil sayings show] _Civil_ is here used in the same sense as when we say _civil_ wisdom or _civil life_, in opposition to a solitary state, or to the state of nature. This desert shall not appear _unpeopled_, for every tree shall teach the maxims or incidents of social life. III.ii.149 (283,2) [Therefore heaven nature charg'd] From the picture of Apelles, or the accomplishments of Pandora. [Greek: Aeanertu, oti pautei dlumpia Dorou xdorau.-----------] So before, -------------------_But thou So perfect, and no peerless art created Of ev'ry creature's beat._ Tempest. Perhaps from this passage Swift had his hint of Biddy Floyd. III.ii.155 (283,3) [Atalanta's better part] I know not well what could be the better part of Atalanta here ascribed to Rosalind. Of the Atalanta most celebrated, and who therefore must be intended here where she has no epithet of discrimination, the better part seems to have been her heels, and the worse part was so bad that Rosalind would not thank her lover for the comparison. There is a more obscure Atalanta, a huntress and a heroine, but of her nothing bad is recorded, and therefore I know not which was the better part. Shakespeare was no despicable mythologist, yet he seems here to have mistaken some other character for that of Atalanta. III.ii.156 (283,4) [Sad] is _grave, sober_, not _light_. III.ii.160 (284,5) [the touches] The features; _les traits._ III.ii.186 (284,6) [I was never so be-rhimed since Pythagoras's time, that I was an Irish rat] Rosalind is a very learned lady. She alludes to the Pythagorean doctrine, which teaches that souls transmigrate from one animal to another, and relates that in his time she was an Irish _rat_, and by some metrical charm was rhymed to death. The power of killing rats with rhymes Donne mentions in his Satires, and Temple in his Treatises. Dr. Gray has produced a similar passage from Randolph. --_My poets Shall with a saytire steeped in vinegar Rhyme then to death as they do rats in Ireland._ III.ii.206 (285,8) [One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery] This sentence is rightly noted by the commentator [W] as nonsense, but not so happily restored to sense. I read thus: _One inch of delay more is a South-sea_. Discover, _I pr'ythee; tell me who is it quickly;_--When the transcriber had once made _discovery_ from _discover, I_, he easily put an article after South-sea. But it may be read with still less change, and with equal probability. _Every inch of delay more is a_ South-sea discovery: _Every delay_, however short, is to me tedious and irksome as the longest voyage, as a voyage of _discovery_ on the _South-sea_. How such voyages to the South-sea, on which the English had then first ventured, engaged the conversation of that time, may be easily imagined. III.ii.238 (287,9) [Garagantna's mouth] Rosalind requires nine questions to be answered in _one word_. Celia tells her that a word of such magnitude is too big for any mouth but that of Garagantua the giant of Rabelais. III.ii.290 (288,2) [but I answer you right painted cloth] Sir T. Hammer reads, _I answer you right_, in the stile of the _painted cloth. Something seems wanting, and I know not what can be proposed better. _I answer you right painted cloth_, may mean, I give you a true painted cloth answer; as we say, she talks _right Billingsgate_; that is, exactly such language as is used at Billingsgate. (1773) III.ii.363 (291,3) [in-land man] Is used in this play for one _civilised_, in opposition to the _rustick_ of the priest. So Orlando before--_Yet am I_ in-land _bred_, _and know some nurture._ III.ii.393 (291,4) [an unquestionable spirit] That is, a spirit not _inquisitive_, a mind indifferent to common objects, and negligent of common occurrences. Here Shakespeare has used a passive for an active mode of speech; so in a former scene, _The Duke is too_ disputable _for me_, that is, too _disputatious_. III.ii.439 (293,5) [to a living humour of madness] If this be the true reading we must by _living_ understand _lasting_, or _permanent_, but I cannot forbear to think that some antithesis was intended which is now lost; perhaps the passage stood thus, _I drove my suitor from a_ dying _humour of love to a living humour of madness_. Or rather thus, _from a mad humour of love to a_ loving _humour of madness_, that is, from a _madness_ that was _love_, to a _love_ that was _madness_. This seems somewhat harsh and strained, but such modes of speech are not unusual in our poet; and this harshness was probably the cause of the corruption. III.iii.21 (294,7) [and what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers, they do feign] This sentence seems perplexed and inconsequent, perhaps it were better read thus, _What they swear as lovers they may be said to feign as poets_. III.iii.32 (295,8) [A material fool!] A fool with _matter_ in bin; a fool stocked with notions. III.iii.51 (295,1) [what tho?] What then. III.iii.65 (296,2) [Sir Oliver] He that has taken his first degree at the university, is in the academical style called _Dominus_, and in common language was heretofore termed _Sir_. This was not always a word of contempt; the graduates assumed it in their own writings; so Trevisa the historian writes himself _Syr_ John de Trevisa. III.iii.101 (297,4) [Not, O sweet Oliver] Of this speech, as it now appears, I can make nothing, and think nothing can be made. In the same breath he calls his mistress to be married, and sends away the man that should marry them. Dr. Warburton has very happily observed, that _O sweet Oliver_ is a quotation from an old song; I believe there are two quotations put in opposition to each other. For _wind_ I read _wend,_ the old word for _go._ Perhaps the whole passage may be regulated thus, Clo. _I am not in the mind. but it were better for me to be married of him than of another, for he is not like to marry me well, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife--Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry._ Jaq. _Go then with me, and let me counsel thee._ [they whisper.] Clo. _Farewel, good sir Oliver, not _O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, leave Be not behind thee,--_but_ _Wend away Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee to-day._ Of this conjecture the reader may take as much as shall appear necessary to the sense, or conducive to the humour. I have received all but the additional words. The song seems to be complete without them. (1773) III.iv.11 (298, 5) [I' faith, his hair is of a good colour] There is much of nature in this petty perverseness of Rosalind; she finds faults in her lover, in hope to be contradicted, and when Celia in sportive malice too readily seconds her accusations, she contradicts herself rather than suffer her favourite to want a vindication. III.v.5 (301, 1) [Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?] [W: deals and lives] [Hammer: lives and thrives] Either Dr. Warburton's emendation, except that the word _deals,_ wants its proper construction, or that of sir T. Hammer may serve the purpose; but I believe they have fixed corruption upon the wrong word, and should rather read, _Than he that dies_ his lips by _bloody drops?_ Will you speak with more sternness than the executioner, whose _lips_ are used to be _sprinkled_ with blood? The mention of _drops_ implies some part that must be sprinkled rather than dipped. III. v. 23 (303, 2) [The cicatrice and capable impressure] Cicatrice is here not very properly used; it is the scar of a wound. _Capable impressure arrows mark._ III. v. 29 (303, 3) [power of fancy] _Fancy_ is here used for _love,_ as before in Midsummer Night's Dream. III. v. 35 (304, 4) [Who might be your mother] It is common for the poets to express cruelty by saying, of those who commit it, that they were born of rocks, or suckled by tigresses. III. v. 48 (305, 8) [That can entame ay spirits to your worship] [W: entraine] The common reading seems unexceptionable. III. v. 62 (305, 9) [Foal is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer] [W: being found] The sense of the received reading is not fairly represented; it is, _The ugly seem most ugly, when,_ though _ugly, they are scoffers._ III.v.78 (306,2) [Though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight, as he] Though all mankind could look on you, none could be so _deceived_ as to think you beautiful but he. IV.i.37 (309,3) [swam in a gondola] That is, _been at_ Venice, the sweat at that tine of all licentiousness, where the young English gentlemen waited their fortunes, debased their morals, and sometimes lost their religion. The fashion of travelling, which prevailed very much in our author's time, was considered by the wiser men as one of the principal causes of corrupt manners. It was therefore gravely censored by Aschaa in his Schoolmaster, and by bishop Hall in his Quo Vadis; and is here, and in other passages, ridiculed by Shakespeare. IV.i.157 (312,6) [and that when you are inclin'd to sleep] [W: to weep] I know not why we should read _to weep_. I believe most men would be more angry to have their _sleep_ hindered than their _grief_ interrupted. IV.i.168 (313,8) [_Wit, whither wilt_?] This must be some allusion to a story well known at that time, though not perhaps irretrievable. IV.i.177 (313,9) [make her fault her husband's occasion] That is, represent her fault as occasioned by her husband. Sir T. Banner reads, _her husband's_ accusation. IV.i.195 (314,1) [I will think you the most pathetical break-promise] [W: atheistical] I do not see but that _pathetical_ may stand, which seems to afford as much sense and as much humour as _atheistical_. IV.ii.14 (315,2) [_Take thou no scorn_] [T: In former editions: _Then sing him home, the rest shall bear his burden_. This is an admirable instance of the sagacity of our preceding editors, to say nothing worse. One should expect, when they were _poets_, they would at least have taken care of the _rhimes_, and not foisted in what has nothing to answer it. Now, where is the rhime to, _the rest shall bear this burden_? Or, to ask another question, where is the sense of it? Does the poet mean, that He, that kill'd the deer, shall be sung home, and the rest shall bear the deer on their backs? This is laying a burden on the poet, that we mist help him to throw off. In short, the mystery of the whole is, that a marginal note is wisely thrust into the text: the song being design'd to be sung by a single voice, and the stanzas to close with a burden to be sung by the whole company.] This note I have given as a specimen of Mr. Theobald's jocularity, and the eloquence with which he recommends his emendations. IV.iii (316,4) [_Enter Rosalind and Celia_] The foregoing noisy scene was introduced only to fill up an interval, which is to represent two hours. This contraction of the time we might impute to poor Rosalind's impatience, but that a few minutes after we find Orlando sending his excuse. I do not see that by any probable division of the acts this absurdity can be obviated. IV.iii.48 (318,3) [_That could do no vengeance to me] Vengeance_ is used for _mischief_. IV.iii.59 (318,4) [youth and kind] _Kind_ is the old word for _nature_. IV.iii.101 (319,5) [Within an hour] We must read, _within two hours_. IV.iii.160 (321,6) [cousin--Ganymed!] Celia in her first fright forgets Rosalind's character and disguise, and calls out _cousin_, then recollects herself, and says Ganymed. V.ii.21 (325,9) [And you, fair sister] I know not why Oliver should call Rosalind sister. He takes her yet to be a man. I suppose we should read, _and you_, and your _fair sister_. V.ii.45 (326,1) [Clubs cannot part them] Alluding to the way of parting dogs in wrath. V.ii.74 (327,2) [human as she is] That is, not a phantom, but the real Rosalind, without any of the danger generally conceived to attend the rites of incantation. V.iii.17 (329,3) [_It was a lover and his lass_] The stanzas of this song are in all the editions evidently transposed: as I have regulated them, that which in the former copies was the second stanza is now the last. The same transposition of these stanzas is made by Dr. Thirlby, in a copy containing some notes on the margin, which I have perused by the favour of Sir Edward Walpole. (see 1765, II,97,3) V.iii.36 (330,4) [the note was very untuneable] [T: untimeable] This emendation is received. I think very undeservedly, by Dr. Warburton. V.iv.4 (331,5) [As those that fear, they hope, and know they fear] [W: their hap, and know their] The deprivation of this line is evident, but I do not think the learned commentator's emendation very happy. I read thus, _As those that fear_ with _hope, and hope_ with _fear_. Or thus, with less alteration, _As those that fear_, they _hope, and_ now _they fear_. V.iv.36 (332,6) [Here comes a pair of very strange beasts] [W: unclean beasts] _Strange beasts_ are only what we call _odd_ animals. There is no need of any alteration. V.iv.51 (333,7) [found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause] So all the copies; but it is apparent from the sequel that we must read, _the quarrel was_ not _upon the seventh cause_. V.iv.56 (333,8) [I desire you of the like] [W: of you] I have not admitted the alteration, because there are other examples of this mode of expression. (1773) V.iv.59 (333,9) [according as marraige binds, and blood breaks] I cannot discover what has here puzzled the commentator [W]: _to swear according as marriage binds_, ii to take the oath enjoin'd in the ceremonial of marriage. V.iv.68 (334,1) [dulcet diseases] This I do not understand. For _diseases_ it is easy to read _discourses_: but, perhaps the fault may lie deeper. V.iv.114 (336,4) [_Enter Hymen_] Rosalind is imagined by the rest of the company to be brought by enchantment, and is therefore introduced by a supposed aerial being in the character of Hymen. V.iv.125 (336,5) [If there be truth in sight] The answer of Phebe makes it probable that Orlando says, _if there be truth in_ shape: that is, _if a form may be trusted_; if one cannot usurp the form of another. V.iv.136 (337,6) [If truth holds true contents] That is, if there be _truth in truth_, unless truth fails of veracity. V.iv.147 (337,7) [_Wedding is great Juno's crown_] Catullus, addressing himself to Hymen, has this stanza: Quae tuis careat sacris, Non queat dare praesides Terra finibus: at queat Te volente. Quis huic deo Compararier ausit? (1773) Epilogue.7 (340,5) [What a case am I in then] Here seems to be a chasm, or some other depravation, which destroys the sentiment here intended. The reasoning probably stood thus, _Good wine needs no bush, good plays need no epilogue_, but bad wine requires a good bush, and a bad play a good epilogue. _What case am I in then_? To restore the words is impossible; all that can be done without copies is, to note the fault. Epilogue.10 (340,1) [furnish'd like a beggar] That is dressed: so before, he was _furnished_ like a huntsman. Epilogue.13 (340,2) [I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this Play as pleases them: and I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women----that between you and the women] [W: pleases them...pleases them] The words _you_ and _of_ written as was the custom in that time, were in manuscript scarcely distinguishable. The emendation is very judicious and probable. (341,4) General Observation. Of this play the fable is wild and pleasing. I know not how the ladies will approve the facility with which both Rosalind and Celia give away their hearts. To Celia much may be forgiven for the heroism of her friendship. The character of Jaqaes is natural and well preferred. The comick dialogue is very sprightly, with less mixture of low buffoonery than in some other plays; and the graver part is elegant and harmonious. By hastening to the end of his work, Shakespeare suppressed the dialogue between the usurper and the hermit, and lost an opportunity of exhibiting a moral lesson in which he might have found matter worthy of his highest powers. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW Induction.i.l (346,1) [I'll pheeze you] To _pheeze_ or _fease_. is to separate a twist into single threads. In the figurative sense it may well enough be taken, like _teaze_ or _toze_, for to _harrass_. to _plague_. Perhaps _I'll pheeze you_, may be equivalent to _I'll comb your head_, a phrase vulgarly used by persons of Sly's character on like occasions. The following explanation of the word is given by Sir Tho. Sayth in his book de Sermone Anglico, printed by Robert Stephens, 4vo. To _feize_. means _in fila diducere_. (see 1765, III,[3],1) Induction.i.3 (347,2) [no rogues] That is _vagrants_, no mean fellows, but gentlemen. Induction.i.17 (348,7) [Brach Merriman, the poor cur is imboat] Sir T. Banner reads, Leech _Merriman_. that is, apply some remedies to Merriman, the poor cur has his _joints swelled_. Perhaps we might read, _bathe_ Merriman, which is I believe the common practice of huntsmen, but the present reading may stand: --_tender well my hounds_: Brach--Merriman--_the poor cur is imboat._ Induction.i.64 (351,8) [And when he says he is,--say that he dreams] [steevens:he's poor,--say] If any thing should be inserted, it may be done thus, "And when he says he's _Sly_, say that he dreams." The likeness in writing of _Sly_ and _say_ produced the omission.(1773) Induction.i.67 (352,9) [It will be pastime excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty] By _modesty_ is meant _moderation_, without suffering our merriment to break into an excess. Induction.i.82 (352,1) [to accept our duty] It was in those times the custom of players to travel in companies, and offer their service at great houses. Induction.i.101 (353,4) [property] in the language of a playhouse, is every implement necessary to the exhibition. Induction.i.125 (355,7) [To rain a shower of commanded toars, An onion will do well for such a shift] It is not unlikely that the _onion_ was an expedient used by the actors of interludes. Induction.ii.89 (359,8) [Leet] As the _Court leet_. or courts of the manor. I.i.9 (362,2) [ingenious studies] I rather think it was written ingenuous studies, but of this and a thousand such observations there is little certainty. I.i.18 (363,4) [Virtue, and that part of philosophy Will I apply] Sir Thomas Hammer, and after him Dr. Warburton, read to virtues but formerly ply and apply were indifferently used, as to ply or apply his studies. I.i.78 (365,7) [A pretty peat!] Peat or pet is a word of endearment from petit, little, as if it meant pretty little thing. I.i.85 (365,8) [will you be so strange?] That is, so odd, so different from others in your conduct. I.i.97 (366,9) [cunning men] Cunning had not yet lost its original signification of knowing, learned, as nay be observed in the translations of the Bible. I.i.167 (368,2) [Redime te captum quasi queas minimi] Our author had this line from Lilly, which I mention, that it may not be brought as an argument of his learning. I.i.208 (369,3) [port] Pert, is figure, show, appearance. I.ii.52 (372,5) [Where small experience grows. But, in a few] Why this should seem nonsense, I cannot perceive. In few words it means the same as in short. I.ii.68 (373,6) [As wealth is burthen of my wooing dance] The burthen of a dance is an expression which I have never heard; the burthen of his wooing song had been more proper. I.ii.72 (373,8) [Affection's edge in me] Surely the sense of the present reading is too obvious to be missed or mistaken. Petruchio says, that, if a girl has money enough, no bad qualities of mind or body will remove affection's edge; i.e. hinder him from liking her. I.ii.112 (375,1) [an' he begin once, he'll rail--In his rope-tricks] This is obscure. Sir Thomas Hammer reads, he'll rail in his rhetorick; I'll tell you, &c. Rhetorick agrees very well with figure in the succeeding part of the speech, yet I am inclined to believe that rope-tricks is the true word. I.ii.115 (375,2) [that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat] It may mean, that he shall swell up her eyes with blows, till she shall seem to peep with a contracted pupil like a cat in the light. (1773) I.ii.276 (381,9) [Please ye, we may contrive this afternoon] The word is used in the same sense of spending or wearing out in the Palace of Pleasure. II.1.17 (382,2) [You will have Gremio, to keep you fair] I wish to read, To keep you fine. But either word may serve. II.i.26 (388,3) [hilding] The word hildlng or hinderling--a low wretch; it is applied to Catharine for the coarseness of her behaviour. II.i.209 (389,7) [Ay, for a turtle; as he takes a buzzard] Perhaps we may read better, Ay, for a turtle, and he take a buzzard. That is, he may take me for a turtle, and he shall find me a hawk. II.i.310 (393,9) [kill on kiss She vy's so fast] I know not that the word vie has any construction that will suit this place; we may easily read, --kiss on kiss She ply'd so fast. II.i.340 (394,1) [Tra. Grey-beard! thy love doth freeze. Ore. But thine doth fry] Old Gremio's notions are confirmed by Shadwell: The fire of love in youthful blood. Like what is kindled in brush-wood. But for a moment burns-- But when crept into aged reins, It slowly burns, and long remains, It glows, and with a sullen heat. Like fire in logs, it burns, and warms us long; And though the flame be not so great, Yet is the heat as strong. II.1.407 (397,4) [Yet have I fac'd it with a card of ten] [W. quoted Jonson for "a hart of ten"] If the word hart be right, I do not see any use of the latter quotation. II.1.413 (398,5)[Here the former editors add, Sly. Sim, when will the fool come again? Steevens.] The character of the fool has not been introduced in this drama, therefore I believe that the word again should be omitted, and that Sly asks, When will the fool come? the fool being the favourite of the vulgar, or, as we now phrase it, of the upper gallery, was naturally expected in every interlude. III.1.37 (400,6) [pantaloon] the old cully in Italian farces. III.ii.10 (403,1) [full of spleen] That is, full of humour, caprice; and inconstancy. III.ii.45 (404,3) [a pair of boots that have been candle--eases; one buckled, another lac'd; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless, with two broken points] Bow a sword should have two broken points, I cannot tell. There is, I think, a transposition caused by the seeming relation of point to sword. I read, a pair of boots, one buckled, another _laced_ with two broken points; _an old rusty sword_--_with a broken hilt, and chapeless_. III.ii.109 (406,7) [to digress] to deviate from any promise. IV.i.3 (412,9) [was ever man so ray'd?] That is, was ever man so mark'd with lashes. IV.i.93 (416,7) [garters of an indifferent knit] What is the sense of this I know not, unless it means, that their _garters_ should be _fellows_; _indifferent_, or _not different_, one from the other. IV.i.139 (417,8) [no link, to colour Peter's hat] _Link_, I believe, is the name with what we now call _lamp-black_. IV.i.145 (418,9) [Soud, soud] That is, _sweet, sweet_. _Soot_, and sometimes _sooth_, is _sweet_. So in Milton, _to sing soothly_, is, to sing sweetly. IV.i.196 (420,3) [to man my haggard] A _haggard_ is a _wild hawk_; to _man_ a hawk is to _tame_ her. IV.iii.43 (428,8) [And all my pains is sorted to no proof] And all _my_ labour has ended in nothing, or _proved_ nothing. _We tried an experiment, but it_ sorted _not. Bacon_. IV.iii.56 (428,9) [With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings, With ruffs, and cuffs, and fardingals, and things] Though _things_ is a poor word, yet I have no better, and perhaps the authour had not another that would rhyme. I once thought to transpose the words _rings_ and _things_, but it would make little improvement. IV.iii.91 (430,2) [censer] in barber's shops, are now disused, but they may easily be imagined to have been vessels which, for the emission of the smoke, were cut with great number and varieties of interstices. IV.iii.107 (430,3) [thou thimble] The taylor's trade having an appearance of effeminacy, has always been, among the rugged English, liable to sarcasms and contempt. IV.iii.140 (431,3) [a small compass'd cape] A _compass'd cape_ is a round cape. To _compass_ is _to come round_. (1773) IV.iv (434,5) I cannot but think that the direction about the Tinker, who is always introduced at the end of the acts, together with the change of the scone, and the proportion of each act to the rest, make it probable that the fifth act begins here. IV.iv.48 (436,7) [Where then do you know best, Be we affied] This seems to be wrong. We may read more commodiously, ----_Where then_ you do _know best_ _Be we affied_;----- Or thus, which I think is right, _Where then do you_ trow _best_, _We be affied_;------ V.i.70 (443,2) [a copatain hat!] is, I believe, a hat with a conical crown, such as was anciently worn by well-dressed men. V.ii.54 (448,5) [A good swift simile] besides the original sense of _speedy in motion_, signified _witty, quick-witted_. So in As You Like It, the Duke says of the Clown, _He is very_ swift _and sententious. Quick_ is now used in almost the same sense as _nimble_ was in the age after that of our author. Heylin says of Hales, that _he had known Laud for a_ nimble, _disputant_. V.ii.186 (453,7) [tho' you hit the white] To hit the _white_ is a phrase borrowed from archery: the mark was commonly white. Here it alludes to the name _Bianca_, or _white_. (454) General Observation. From this play the Tatler formed a story, [Johnson here copies out the _Tatler_ story.] It cannot but seen strange that Shakespeare should be so little known to the author of the Tatler, that he should suffer this story to be obtruded upon him; or so little known to the publick, that he could hope to make it pass upon his readers as a real narrative of a transaction in Lincolnshire; yet it is apparent, that he was deceived, or intended to deceive, that he knew not himself whence the story was taken, or hoped that he might rob so obscure a writer without detection. Of this play the two plots are so well united, that they can hardly be called two without injury to the art with which they are interwoven. The attention is entertained with all the variety of a double plot, yet is not distracted by unconnected incidents. The part between Catharine and Petruchio is eminently spritely and diverting. At the marriage of Bianca the arrival of the real father, perhaps, produces more perplexity than pleasure. The whole play is very popular and diverting, (see 1765, III,97,5) Vol. IV ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL I.i.1 (3,2) [In delivering my son from me] [W: dissevering] Of this change I see no need: the present reading is clear, and, perhaps, as proper as that which the great commentator would substitute; for the king _dissevers_ her son from her, she only _delivers_ him. I.i.5 (4,3) [to whom I am now in ward] Under his particular care, as my guardian, till I come to age. It is now almost forgotten in England that the heirs of great fortunes were the king's _wards_. Whether the same practice prevailed in France, it is of no great use to enquire, for Shakespeare gives to all nations the manners of England. I. i.19 (4,5) [This young gentlewoman had a father, (O, that _had_! how sad a passage 'tis!)] [W: presage 'tis] This emendation is ingenious, perhaps preferable to the present reading, yet since _passage_ may be fairly enough explained, I have left it in the text. _Passage_ is _anything that passes_, so we now say, a _passage_ of an _authour_. and we said about a century ago, the _passages_ of a _reign_. When the _countess_ mentions Helena's loss of a father, she recollects her own loss of a husband, and stops to observe how heavily that word _had_ passes through her mind. I.i.48 (6,6) [for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too; in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and atchieves her goodness] [W: her simpleness] This is likewise a plausible but unnecessary alteration. _Her virtues are the better for their simpleness_, that is, her excellencies are the better because they are artless and open, without fraud, without design. The learned commentator has well explained _virtues_. but has not, I think, reached the force of the word _traitors_, and therefore has not shown the full extent of Shakespeare's masterly observation. _Virtues in an unclean mind are virtues and traitors too_. Estimable and useful qualities, joined with evil disposition, give that evil disposition power over others, who, by admiring the virtue, are betrayed to the malevolence. The _Tatler_ mentioning the sharpers of his time, observes, that some of them are men of such elegance and knowledge, that _a young man who falls into their way is_ betrayed _as much by his judgment as his passions_. I.i.86 (7,8) [If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal] [W: be not enemy] This emendation I had once admitted into the text, but restored the old reading, because I think it capable of an easy explication. _Lafeu_ says, _excessive grief is the enemy of the living_: the countess replies, _If the living be an enemy to grief, the excess soon makes it mortal_: that is, _if the living do not indulge grief, grief destroys itself by its own excess_. By the word _mortal_ I understand _that which dies_, and Dr. Warburton, _that which destroys_. I think that my interpretation gives a sentence more acute and more refined. Let the reader judge. I.i.78 (8,9) [That thee may furnish] That may help thee with more and better qualifications. I.i.84 (8,1) [The best wishes that can beforg'd in your thoughts, be servants to you!] That is, may you be mistress of your wishes, and have power to bring then to effect. I.i.91 (8,2) [And these great tears grace his remembrance more] The tears which the king and countess shed for him. I.i.99 (8,3) [In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere] I cannot be united with him and move in the same _sphere_, but _must be comforted_ at a distance by the _radiance_ that shoots _on all sides_ from him. I.i.107 (9,4) [Of every line and trick of his sweet favour!] So in King John; _he hath a_ trick _of Coeur de Lion's face. Trick_ seen to be some peculiarity of look or feature. I.i.122 (9,6) [you have some stain of soldier in you] [W: _"Stain_ for colour."] _Stain_ rather for what we now say _tincture_, some qualities, at least superficial, of a soldier. (1773) I.i.150 (10,8) [He, that hangs himself, is a virgin] [W: As he...so is] I believe most readers Will spare both the emendations, which I do not think much worth a claim or a contest. The old reading is more spritely and equally just. I.i.165 (11,1) [Marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes] Parolles, in answer to the question, _how one shall lose virginity to her own liking?_ plays upon the word _liking_, and says, _she must do ill, for_ virginity, to be so lost, _must like him that likes not_ virginity. I.i.178-191 (12,5) [Not my virginity yet] This whole speech is abrupt, unconnected, and obscure. Dr. Warburton thinks much of it suppofititious. I would be glad to think so of the whole, for a commentator naturally wishes to reject what he cannot understand. Something, which should connect Helena's words with those of Parolles, seems to be wanting. Hammer has made a fair attempt by reading, _Not my virginity yet_--You're for the court, _There shall your master_, &c. Some such clause has, I think, dropped out, but still the first words want connection. Perhaps Parolles, going away after his harangue, said, _will you any thing with me_? to which Helen may reply--I know not what to do with the passage. I.i.184 (13,7) [a traitress] It seems that traitress was in that age a term of endearment, for when Lafeu introduces Helena to the king, he says, _You like a_ traytor, _but such_ traytors _his majesty does not much fear_. I.i.199 (14,8) [And shew what we alone must think] And _shew_ by realities what we now _must only think_. I.i.218 (14,9) [is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well] [W: good ming] This conjecture I could wish to see better proved. This _common_ word _ming_ I have never found. The first edition of this play exhibits wing without a capital: yet, I confess, that a _virtue of good wing_ is an expression that I cannot understand, unless by a metaphor taken from falconry, it may mean, _a virtue that will fly high_, and in the stile of Hotspur, _Pluck honour from the moon_. I.i.235 (15,1) [What power is it, which mounts my love so high; That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?] She means, by what influence is my love directed to a person so much above me. [why am I made to discern excellence, sad left to long after it, without the food of hope.] I.i.237 (15,2) [The mightiest space in fortune, nature brings To join like likes, and kiss, like native things. Impossible be strange attempts, to those That weigh their pain in sense; and do suppose, What hath been] All these four lines are obscure, and, I believe, corrupt. I shall propose an emendation, which those who can explain the present reading, are at liberty to reject. Through _mightiest space in fortune nature brings_ Likes to join likes, _and kiss, like native things._ That is, _nature_ brings _like qualities_ and dispositions _to meet_ through any _distance_ that _fortune_ may have set between them; she _joins_ them and makes them _kiss like things born together._ The next lines I read with Hammer. _Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose What_ ha'n't _been, cannot be._ _New_ attempts seen impossible to those who estimate their _labour_ or _enterprises_ by sense, and believe that nothing can be but what they see before them. I.ii.32 (17,3) [He had the wit, which I can well observe To-day in our young lords, but they may jest, Till their own scorn return to them; unnoted, Ere they can hide their levity in honour] I believe _honour_ is not _dignity of birth or rank,_ but _acquired reputation: Your father_, says the king, _had the same airy flights of satirical wit-with the young lords of the present time, but they do not what he did_, hide their unnoted _levity_ in honour, _cover petty faults with great merit._ This is an excellent observation. Jocose follies, and slight offences, are only allowed by mankind in him that overpowers them by great qualities. I.ii.36 (18,4) [So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, His equal had awak'd them] [W: no contempt or] The original edition reads the first line thus, _So like a courtier, contempt_ nor _bitterness._ The sense is the same. _Nor_ was used without reduplication. So in _Measure for Measure,_ _More_ nor _less to others paying, Than by self-offences weighing._ The old text needs to be explained. He was so like a courtier, that there was in _his dignity of manner nothing contemptuous,_ and I.ii.41 (19, 5) [His tongue obey'd his hand] We should read, _His tongue obeyed_ the _hand._ That is, the _hand_ of _his honour's clock,_ shewing _the true minute when exceptions bad him speak._ I.ii.44 (19, 7) [Making then proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled] [W: proud; and his] Every man has seen the _mean_ too often _proud_ of the _humility_ of the great, and perhaps the great may sometimes be _humbled in the praises_ of the mean, of those who commend them without conviction or discernment: this, however is not so common; the _mean_ are found more frequently than the _great._ I.ii.50 (19, 8) [So in approof lives not his epitaph, As in your royal speech] [W: _Epitaph_ for character.] I should wish to read, _Approof_ so lives not _in his_ epitaph, _As in your royal speech._ _Approof_ is _approbation._ If I should allow Dr. _Warburton's_ interpretation of _Epitaph,_ which is more than can be reasonably expected, I can yet find no sense in the present reading. I.ii.61 (20, 9) [_whose judgments are meer fathers of their garments_] Who have no other use of their faculties, than to invent new modes of dress. I.iii (21, 1) [_Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown_] A _Clown_ in Shakespeare is commonly taken for a _licensed jester,_ or domestick _fool._ We are not to wonder that we find this character often in his plays, since fools were, at that time, maintained in all great families, to keep up merriment in the house. In the picture of Sir Thomas More's family, by Hans Holbein, the only servant represented is Patison the _fool._ This is a proof of the familiarity to which they were admitted, not by the great only, but the wise. In some plays, a servant, or a rustic, of remarkable petulance and freedom of speech, is likewise called a clown. I.iii.3 (21, 2) [to even your content] To act up to your desires. I.iii.45 (23, 4) [You are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a weary of] [Tyrwhitt: my great] The meaning seems to be, you are not deeply skilled in the character of offices of great friends. (1773) I.iii.96 (26, 1) [Clo. That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!--Tho' honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart] The clown's answer is obscure. His lady bids him do as he is _commanded._ He answers with the licentious petulance of his character, that _if a man does as a woman commands, it is likely he will do amiss;_ that he does not amiss, being at the command of a woman, he makes the effect, not of his lady's goodness, but of his own _honesty,_ which, though not very nice or _puritanical,_ will _do no hurt;_ and will not only do no hurt, but, unlike the _puritans_, will comply with the injunctions of superiors, and wear the _surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart_; will obey commands, though not much pleased with a state of subjection. Here is an allusion, violently enough forced in, to satirize the obstinacy with which the _puritans_ refused the use of the ecclesiastical habits, which was, at that time, one principal cause of the breach of union, and, perhaps, to insinuate, that the modest purity of the surplice was sometimes a cover for pride. I.iii.140 (28,3) [By our remembrances] That is, _according to_ our recollection. So we say, he is old _by_ my reckoning. I.iii.169 (29,5) [--or, were you both our mothers I care no more for, than I do for heaven. So I were not his sister] [W: I can no more fear, than I do fear heav'n.] I do not much yield to this emendation; yet I have not been able to please myself with any thing to which even my own partiality can give the preference. Sir Thomas Banner reads, _Or were you both our mothers_. I cannot ask for more than that of heaven. _So I were not his sister_; can be no other Way _I your daughter_, but _he must be my brother_? I.iii.171 (30,6) [can't no other, But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?] The meaning is obscur'd by the elliptical diction. Can _it_ be _no other_ way, but if _I_ be _your daughter he must be my brother_? I.iii.178 (30,8) [Your salt tears' head] The force, the fountain of your tears, the cause of your grief. I.iii.208 (31,9) [captious and intenible sieve] The word _captious_ I never found in this sense; yet I cannot tell what to substitute, unless _carious,_ for _rotten_, which yet is a word more likely to have been mistaken by the copyers than used by the author. I.iii.232 (32,2) [As notes, whose faculties inclusive were Receipts in which greater _virtues_ were _inclosed] _Do not throw from you; you, my lord,, farewell; Share the advice betwixt you; if both_ gain all, _The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd, And is enough for both._ The first edition, from which the passage is restored, was sufficiently clear; yet it is plain, that the latter editors preferred a reading which they did not understand. II.i.12 (35,8) [let higher Italy (Those 'hated, that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy) [see, that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it] [Hammer: Those bastards that inherit] Dr. Warburton's observation is learned, but rather too subtle; Sir Tho. Hanmer's alteration is merely arbitrary. The passage is confessedly obscure, and there-fore I may offer another explanation. I am of opinion that the epithet _higher_ is to be understood of situation rather than of dignity. The sense may then be this,_Let upper Italy,_ where you are to exercise your valour, _see that you come to gain honour, to the_ abatement, _that is, to the disgrace and depression of those_ that have now lost their ancient military fame, and _inherit but the fall of the last monarchy_. To _abate_ is used by Shakespeare in the original sense of _abatre_, to _depress_, to _sink_, to _deject_, to _subdue_. So in Coriolanus, --_'till ignorance deliver you. As moat_ abated _captives to some nation That won you without blows_. And bated is used in a kindred sense in the Jew of Venice. --_in a bondman's key With _bated_ breath and whisp'ring humbleness_. The word has still the same meaning in the language of the law. II.i.21 (37,9) [Beware of being captives, Before you serve] The word _serve_ is equivocal; the sense is, _Be not captives before _ you serve in the war. _Be not captives before you are soldiers._ II.i.36 (37,1) [I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur'd body] I read thus, _Our parting is_ the parting of _a tortured body._ Our parting is as the disruption of limbs torn from each other. Repetition of a word is often the cause of mistakes, the eye glances on the wrong word, and the intermediate part of the sentence is omitted. II.i.54 (38,3) [they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there, do muster true gait] [W: to muster] I think this amendation cannot be said to give much light to the obscurity of the passage. Perhaps it might be read thus, They do _muster_ with the _true gaite._ that is, they have the true military step. Every man has observed something peculiar in the strut of a soldier, (rev. 1778, IV,35,8) II.i.70 (39,4) [across] This word, as has been already observed, is used when any pass of wit miscarries. II.i.74 (39,5) [Yes, but you will, my noble grapes, as if] These words,_my noble grapes_, seem to Dr. Warburton and Sir T. Hammer, to stand so much in the way, that they have silently omitted them. They may be indeed rejected without great loss, but I believe they are Shakespeare's words. _You will eat_, says Lafen, _no grapes. Yes, but you will eat such noble grapes_ as I bring you, _if you could reach them._ II.i. 100 (41,8) [I am Cressid's uncle] I am like Pandarus. See Troilus and Cressida. (see 1765, III,310,2) II.i.114 (41,9) [wherein the honour Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power] Perhaps we may better read,--_ wherein the power Of my dear father's gift stands chief in_ honour, II.i.144 (42,1) [When miracles have by the greatest been deny'd] I do not see the import or connection of this line. As the next line stands without a correspondent rhyme, I suspect that something has been lost. II.i.159 (43,2) [Myself against the level of mine aim] I rather think that she means to say, _I am not an impostor that proclaim_ one thing and design another, _that proclaim_ a cure and aim at a fraud: I think what I speak. II.i.174 (43,3) [a divulged shame Traduc'd by odious ballds; my maiden's name Sear'd otherwise; no worse of worst extended, With vilest torture let my life be ended] This passage is apparently corrupt, and how shall it be rectified? I have no great hope of success, but something must be tried. I read the whole thus, King. _What darest thou venture?_ Hal. _Tax of impudence. A strumpet's boldness; a divulged shame, Traduc'd by odious ballads my maiden name; Sear'd otherwise,_ to worst _of worst extended; With vilest torture let my life be ended._ When this alteration first came into my mind, I supposed Helen to mean thus, _First,_ I venture what is dearest to me, my maiden reputation; but if your distrust _extends_ my character _to the worst of_ the _worst, and supposes me _seared_ against the sense of infamy, I will add to the stake of reputation, the stake of life. This certainly is sense, and the language as grammatical as many other passages of Shakespeare. Yet we may try another experiment. Fear _otherwise_ to worst of _worst extended; With vilest torture let my life be ended._ That is, let me act under the greatest terrors possible. But once again we will try to find the right way by the glimmer of Hanmer's amendation, who reads thus, --_my maiden name Sear'd; otherwise_ the worst of _worst extended._ etc. Perhaps it were better thus, --_ my maiden name Sear'd; otherwise_ the worst to _worst extended; _ _With vilest torture let my life be ended._ II.i.182 (45,5) [Thy life is dear; for all, that life can rate Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate] May be _counted_ among the gifts enjoyed by them. II.i.185 (45,7) [prime] Youth; the spring or morning of life. II.ii.40 (48,1) [To be young again] The lady censures her own levity in trifling with her jester, as a ridiculous attempt to return back to youth. Il.iii.6 (49,3) [unknown fear] _Fear_ is here the object of fear. II.iii.11 (50,4) [_Par._ So I say, both of Galen and Paracelsus. _Laf._ Of all the learned and authentic fellows] As the whole merriment of this scene consists in the pretensions of Parollei to knowledge and sentiments which he has not, I believe here are two passages in which the words and sense are bestowed upon him by the copies, which the author gave to Lafen. I read this passage thus, Laf. _To be relinquished of the artists----_ Par. _So I. say._ Laf. _Both of Galen and Paracelsus, of all the learned and authentick fellows----_ Par. _Right, so I say.__ II.iii.41 (51,7) [which should, indeed, give us a farther use to be made, than alone the recovery of the King; as to be-- _Laf._ Generally thankful] I cannot see that there is any _hiatus_, or other irregularity of language than such as is very common in these plays. I believe Parolles has again usurped words and sense to which he has no right; and I read this passage thus, Laf. _In a most weak and debile minister, great power, great transcendence; which should, indeed, give us a farther use to be made than the mere recovery of the king._ Par. _As to be._ Laf. _Generally thankful._ II.iii.66 (52,9) [My mouth no more were broken than these boys'] A broken mouth is a mouth which has lost part of its teeth. II.iii.77 (53,1) [Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever] [W: dearth] The white death is the chlorosis. II.iii.80 (53,2) [And to imperial Love] [W. The old editions read IMPARTIAL, which is right.] There is no edition of this play older than that of 1623, the next is that of 1632, of which both read imperials the second reads imperial Jove. II.iii.92 (53,3) [Laf. Do they all deny her?] None of them have yet denied her, or deny her afterwards but Bertram. The scene must be so regulated that Lafeu and Parolles talk at a distance, where they nay see what passes between Helena and the lords, but not hear it, so that they know not by whom the refusal is made. II.iii.105 (54,4) [There's one grape yet,--I am sure, they father drunk wine.--But if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen. I have known thee already] This speech the three last editors have perplexed themselves by dividing between Lafeu and Parolles, without any authority of copies, or any improvement of sense. I have restored the old reading, and should have thought no explanation necessary, but that Mr. Theobald apparently misunderstood it. Old Lafeu having, upon the supposition that the lady was refused, reproached the young lords as _boys of ice_, throwing his eyes on Bertram who remained, cries out, "_There is one yet into whom his father put good blood,----but I have known thee long enough to know thee for an ass_." II.iii.135 (55,6) [good alone Is good, without a name, vileness is so] [W: good; and with a name,] The present reading is certainly wrong, and, to confess the truth, I do not think Dr. Warburton's emendation right; yet I have nothing that I can propose with much confidence. Of all the conjectures that I can make, that which least displeases me is this: --_good alone. Is good without a name_; Helen _is so_; The rest follows easily by this change. II.iii.138 (56,7) [--She is young, wise, fair; In these, to nature she's immediate heir; And these breed honour] Here is a long note [W's] which I wish had been shorter. _Good_ is better than _young_, as it refers to _honour_. But she is more the _immediate heir_ of _nature_ with respect to _youth_ than _goodness_. To be _immediate heir_ is to inherit without any intervening transmitter: thus she inherits beauty _immediately_ from _nature_, but honour is transmitted by ancestors; youth is received _immediately_ from _nature_. but _goodness_ may be conceived in part the gift of parents, or the effect of education. The alteration therefore loses on one side what it gains on the other. II.iii.170 (58,9) [Into the staggers] One species of the _staggers_, or the _horses apoplexy_, is a raging impatience which makes the animal dash himself with destructive violence against posts or walls. To this the allusion, I suppose, is made. II.iii.185 (59,1) [whose ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, And be perform'd to-night] This, if it be at all intelligible, is at least obscure and inaccurate. Perhaps it was written thus, --what _ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief_ Shall _be perform'd to-night; the solemn feast_ _Shall more attend_-- The _brief_ is the _contract of espousal_, or the _licence_ of the church. The King means, What _ceremony_ is necessary to make this _contract a marriage_, shall be immediately _performed_; the rest may be delayed. II.iii.211 (60,2) [I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow] While I sat twice with thee at table. II.iii.217 (60,3) [yet art then good for nothing but taking up] To take up, is to _contradict_, to _call to account_, as well as to _pick off the ground_. II.iii.242 (60,4) [in the default] That is, _at a need_. II.iii.246 (61,5) [for doing, I am past; as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave] [Warburton suspected a line lost after "past"] This suspicion of chasm is groundless. The conceit which is so thin that it might well escape a hasty reader, is in the word _past, I am past, as I will be_ past _by thee_. II.iii.309 (63,9) [To the dark house] The _dark house_ is a house made gloomy by discontent. Milton says of _death_ and the _king_ of hell preparing to combat, _So frown'd the mighty combatants, that hell Grew_ darker _at their frown_. II.iv.45 (65,1) [Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets] The _sweets_ with which this _want_ are _strewed_, I suppose, are compliments and professions of kindness. II.iv.52 (65,2) [probable need] A specious appearance of necessity. III.i.10 (70,5) [The reasons of our state I cannot yield] I cannot inform you of the reasons. III.i.11 (70,6) [an outward man] [W: i.e. one not in the secret of affairs] So _inward_ is familiar, admitted to secrets. _I was an_ inward _of his_. Measure for Measure. III.ii.59 (73,1) [_When thou canst get the ring upon my finger_] [W: When thou canst get the ring, which is on my finger, into thy possession] I think Dr. Warburton's explanation sufficient, but I once read it thus, _When thou canst get the ring upon_ thy _finger, which newer shall come off_ mine. III.ii.100 (74,3) [Not so, but as we change our courtesies] The gentlemen declare that they are servants to the Countess, she replies, No otherwise than as she returns the same offices of civility. III.iv.4 (77,4) [St. Jaques' pilgrim] I do not remember any place famous for pilgrimages consecrated in Italy to St. James, but it is common to visit St. James of Compostella, in Spain. Another saint might easily have been found, Florence being somewhat out of the road from Bonsillon to Compostella. III.iv.13 (77,6) [Juno] Alluding to tho story of Hercules. III.iv.19 (77,6) [Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much] _Advice_, is _discretion_ or _thought_. III.v.21 (79,7) [are not the things they go under] [W: Mr. Theobald explains these words by, _They are not really so true and sincere as in appearance they seem to be_.] I think Theobald's interpretation right; _to go under_ the name of any thing is a known expression. The meaning is, they are not the things for which their names would make them pass. III.v.66 (81,8) [examin'd] That is, _question'd, doubted_. III.v.74 (81,9) [brokes] Deals as a _broker_. III.vi.107 (86,6) [we have almost imboss'd him] To imboss a deer is to inclose him in a wood. Milton uses the same word: _Like that self-begotten bird In th' Arabian woods embost. Which no second knows or third_. III.vi.III (87,7) [ere we case him] This is, before we strip him naked. (1773) III.vii.9 (88,2) [to your sworn council] To your private knowledge, after having required from you an oath of secrecy. III.vii.21 (88,9) [Now his important blood will nought deny] _Important_ here, and elsewhere, is _importunate_. IV.i.16 (90,2) [some band of strangers i' the adversary's entertainment] That is, _foreign troops in the enemy's pay_. Iv.i.44 (91,3) [the instance] The _proof_. IV.ii.13 (94,5) [No more of that! I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows: I was compell'd to her] I know not well what Bertram can mean by entreating Diana _not to strive against his vows_. Diana has just mentioned his _wife_, so that the _vows_ seem to relate to his marriage. In this sense not Diana, but himself, _strives against his vows_. His _vows_ indeed may mean _vows_ made to Diana; but, in that case, to _strive against_ is not properly used for to reject, nor does this sense cohere well with his first exclamation of impatience at the mention of his wife. _No more of that_! Perhaps we might read, _I Pr'ythee do not_ drive _against my vows. Do not_ run _upon that topick; talk of any thing else that I can bear to hear_. I have another conceit upon this passage, which I would be thought to offer without much confidence: _No more of that_! _I pr'ythee do not_ strive--_against my_ voice _I was compell'd to her._ Diana tells him unexpectedly of his wife. He answers with perturbation, _No more of that! I pr'ythee do not_ play the confessor --_against my own_ consent _I was compelled to her_. When a young profligate finds his courtship so gravely repressed by an admonition of his duty, he very naturally desires the girl not to take upon her the office of a confessor. IV.ii.23 (95,6) [What is not holy, that we swear not 'bides] [W: not 'bides] This is an acute and excellent conjecture, and I have done it the due honour of exalting it to the text; yet, methinks, there is something yet wanting. The following words, _but take the High'st to witness_, even though it be understood as an anticipation or assumption in this sense,--_but_ now suppose that you _take the_ Highest _to witness_,--has not sufficient relation to the antecedent sentence. I will propose a reading nearer to the surface, and let it take its chance. Ber. _How have I sworn_! Diana. _'Tis not the many oaths, that make the truth, But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true_. Ber. _What is not holy, that we swear not by. But take the High'st to witness_. Diana. _Then, pray tell me. If I should swear_, &c. Bertram means to enforce his suit, by telling her, that he has bound himself to her, not by the pretty protestations usual among lovers, but by vows of greater solemnity. She then makes a proper and rational reply. IV.ii.25 (96,7) [If I should swear by Jove's great attributes] In the print of the old folio, it is doubtful whether it be _Jove's_ or _Love's_, the characters being not distinguishable. If it is read _Love's_, perhaps it may be something less difficult. I am still at a loss. It may be read thus, --"this has no holding, "To swear by him whom I _attest_ to love, "That I will work against him." There is no consistence in expressing reverence for Jupiter by calling him to _attest_ my love, and shewing at the same time, by _working against him_ by a wicked passion, that I have no respect to the name which I invoke. (1773) IV.ii.28 (96,8) [To swear by him whom I protest to love, That I will work against him] This passage likewise appears to me corrupt. She swears not _by_ him whom she _loves_, but by Jupiter. I believe we may read, _to swear_ to _him_. There is, says she, no _holding_, no consistency, in swearing to one that _I love him_, when I swear it only to _injure_ him. IV.ii.73 (98,9) [Since Frenchmen are so braid, Marry that will, I'll live and die a maid] [W: Marry 'em] The passage is very unimportant, and the old reading reasonable enough. Nothing is more common than for girls, on such occasions, to say in a pet what they do not think, or to think for a time what they do not finally resolve. IV.iii.7 (98,1) [I _Lord_] The later editors have with great liberality bestowed lordship upon these interlocutors, who, in the original edition, are called, with more propriety, _capt_. E. and _capt_. G. It is true that _captain_ E. is in a former scene called _lord_ E. but the subordination in which they seem to act, and the timorous manner in which they converse, determines them to be only captains. Yet as the later readers of Shakespeare have been used to find them lords, I have not thought it worth while to degrade them in the margin. IV.iii.29 (99,2) [he, that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself] That is, _betrays his own secrets in his own talk_. The reply shows that this is the meaning. IV.iii.38 (100,3) [he might take a measure of his own judgment] This is a very just and moral reason. Bertram, by finding how erroneously he has judged, will be less confident, and more easily moved by admonition. IV.iii.113 (102,4) [bring forth this counterfeit module] [W: medal] _Module_ being the _pattern_ of any thing, may be here used in that sense. Bring forth this fellow, who, by _counterfeit_ virtue pretended to make himself a _pattern_. IV.iii.237 (106,8) [Dian. _the Count's a fool, and full of gold_] After this line there is apparently a line lost, there being no rhime that corresponds to gold. IV.iii.254 (106,9) [Half won, is match well made; match, and well make it] This line has no meaning that I can find. I read, with a very slight alteration, _Half won is match well made_; watch, _and well make it_. That is, _a match well made is half won; watch, and make it well_. This is, in my opinion, not all the error. The lines are misplaced, and should be read thus: _Half won is match well made; watch, and well make it; when he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it. After he scores, he never pays the score: He never pays after-debts, take it before. And say----_ That is, take his money and leave him to himself. When the players had lost the second line, they tried to make a connection out of the rest. Part is apparently in couplets, and the note was probably uniform. IV.iii.280 (107,1) [He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister] I know not that _cloister_, though it may etymologically signify _any_ _thing shut_ is used by our author, otherwise than for a _monastery_, and therefore I cannot guess whence this hyperbole could take its original: perhaps it means only this: _He will steal any thing, however trifling, from any place, however holy_. IV.iii.307 (108,2) [he's a cat still] That is, throw him how you will, he lights upon his legs. [Steevens offered another explanation] I an still of my former opinion. The same speech was applied by king James to Coke, with respect to his subtilties of law, that throw him which way we would, he could still like a cat light upon his legs. (see 1765, III,372,1) IV.iii.317 (109,3) [Why does he ask him of me?] This is nature. Every man is on such occasions more willing to hear his neighbour's character than his own. IV.iii.332 (109,4) [Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the Count, have I run into this danger] That is, _to deceive the opinion_, to make the count think me a man that _deserves well_. IV.iv.23 (III,6) [When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night!] [W: When Fancy,] This conjecture is truly ingenious, but, I believe, the author of it will himself think it unnecessary, when he recollects that _saucy_ may very properly signify _luxurious_, and by consequence _lascivious_. IV.iv.31 (112,7) [But with the word, the time will bring on summer, When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns, And be as sweet as sharp] The meaning of this observation is, that _as briars_ have _sweetness_ with their _prickles_, so shall these _troubles_ be recompensed with _joy_. IV.iv.34 (112,8) [Our waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us] [W: revyes] The present reading is corrupt, and I am afraid the emendation none of the soundest. I never remember to have seen the word _revye_. One may as well leave blunders as make them. Why may we not read for a shift, without much effort, _the time_ invites _us_? IV.v.8 (114,1) [I would, I had not known him!] This dialogue serves to connect the incidents of Parolles with the main plan of the play. IV.v.66 (116,4) [_Laf_. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy] That is, _mischievously waggish; unlucky_. (see 1765, III,379,3) IV.v.70 (116,5) [he has no pace, but runs where he will] [Tyrrwhit: place] A _pace_ is a certain or prescribed walk, so we say of a man meanly obsequious, that he has learned his _paces_. (1773) [(rev. 1778, IV,126,3] V.i.35 (120,8) [I will come after you, with what good speed Our means will make us means] Shakespeare delights much in this kind of reduplication, sometimes so as to obscure his meaning. Helena says, _they will follow with such speed as the means which they have will give them ability to exert_. V.ii.57 (123,3) [tho' you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat] Parolles has many of the lineaments of Falstaff, and seems to be the character which Shakespeare delighted to draw, a fellow that had more wit than virtue. Though justice required that he should be detected and exposed, yet his _vices sit so fit in him_ that he is not at last suffered to starve. V.iii.1 (123,4) [We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem Was made much poorer by it] Dr. Warburton, in Theobald's edition, altered this word to _estate_, in his own he lets it stand and explains it by worth or estate. But _esteem_ is here _reckoning_ or _estimate_. Since the loss of _Helen_ with her _virtues_ and _qualifications_, our _account_ is _sunk_; what we have to _reckon_ ourselves king of, is much _poorer_ than before. V.iii.4 (123,5) [home] That is, _completely_, _in its full extent_. V.iii.6 (123,6) [done i' the blade of youth] In the _spring_ of _early life_, when the man is yet _green_, _oil_ and _fire_ suit but ill with _blade_, and therefore Dr. Warburton reads, _blaze_ of youth. V.iii.21 (124,7) [the first view shall kill All repetition] _The first interview shall put an end to all recollection of the past_. Shakespeare is now hastening to the end of the play, finds his matter sufficient to fill up his remaining scenes, and therefore, as on other such occasions, contracts his dialogue and precipitates his action. Decency required that Bertram's double crime of cruelty and disobedience, joined likewise with some hypocrisy, should raise more resentment; and that though his mother might easily forgive him, his king should more pertinaciously vindicate his own authority and Helen's merit: of all this Shakespeare could not be ignorant, but Shakespeare wanted to conclude his play. V.iii.50 (125,9) [My high repented blames] [A long note by Warburton] It was but just to insert this note, long as it is, because the commentator seems to think it of importance. Let the reader judge. V.iii.65 (127,1) [Our own love, waking, cries to see what's done, While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon] These two lines I should be glad to call _an interpolation of a player_. They are ill connected with the former, and not very clear or proper in themselves. I believe the author made two couplets to the same purpose, wrote them both down that he might take his choice, and so they happened to be both preserved. For _sleep_ I think we should read _slept_. _Love cries_ to see what was done while hatred _slept_, and suffered mischief to be done. Or the meaning may be, that _hatred_ still _continues_ to _sleep_ at ease, while _love_ is weeping; and so the present reading may stand. V.iii.93 (128,3) [In Florence was it from a casement thrown me] Bertram still continues to have too little virtue to deserve Helen. He did not know indeed that it was Helen's ring, but he knew that he had it not from a window. V.iii.95 (128,4) [Noble she was, and thought I stood engag'd] [T: I don't understand this reading; if we are to understand, that she thought Bertram engag'd to her in affection, insnared by her charms, this meaning is too obscurely express'd.] The context rather makes me believe, that the poet wrote, _noble she was, and thought I stood_ ungag'd;----- i.e. unengag'd: neither my heart, nor person, dispos'd of.--The plain meaning is, when she saw me receive the ring, she thought me _engaged_ to her. V.iii.101 (129,5) [_King_ Plutus himself , That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine] Plutus the grand alchemist, who knows the _tincture_ which confers the properties of gold upon base metals, and the _matter_ by which _gold_ is _multiplied_, by which a small quantity of gold is made to communicate its qualities to a large mass of metal. In the reign of Henry the fourth a law was made to forbid _all men thenceforth to_ multiply _gold, or use any craft of_ multiplication. Of which law Mr. Boyle, when he was warm with the hope of transmutation, procured a repeal. V.iii.105 (129,6) [Then if you know, That you are well acquainted with yourself] The true meaning of this _strange_ [Warburton's word] expression is, _If you know that_ your faculties are so found, as _that you have the proper consciousness of your own actions_, and are able to recollect and relate what you have done, _tell me_. &c. V.iii.121 (130,7) [My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall, Shall tax my fears of little vanity, Having vainly fear'd too little] The _proofs which I have already had_, are sufficient to show that my _fears_ were not _vain_ and irrational. I have rather been hither-to more easy than I ought, and have _unreasonably_ had _too little fear_. V.iii.131 (130,8) [Who hath, some four or five removes, come short] _Removes_ are _journies_ or _post-stages_. V.iii.191 (133,1) [O, behold this ring. Whose high respect and rich validity] _Validity is a very bad word for _value_, which yet I think is its meaning, unless it be considered as making a contract _valid_. V.iii.214 (133,2) [As all impediments in fancy's course, Are motives of more fancy: and in fine, Her insult coming with her modern grace, Subdu'd me to her rate: she got the ring] _Every thing that obstructs love is an occasion by which love is heightened. And, to conclude, her solicitation concurring with her fashionable appearance_, she got the ring. I an not certain that I have attained the true meaning of the word _modern_, which, perhaps, signifies rather _meanly pretty_. V.iii.296-305 (137,3) This dialogue is too long, since the audience already knew the whole transaction; nor is there any reason for puzzling the king and playing with his passions; but it was much easier than to make a pathetical interview between Helen and her husband, her mother, and the king. V.iii.305 (137,4) [exorcist] This word is used not very properly for _enchanter_. V.iii.339 (139,2) [Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts] The meaning is: _Grant us then your patience_; hear us without interruption. _And_ take _our parts_; that is, support and defend us. (see 1765, III,399) (139) General Observation. This play has many delightful scenes, though not sufficiently probable, and some happy characters, though not new, nor produced by any deep knowledge of human nature. Parolles is a boaster and a coward, such as has always been the sport of the stage, but perhaps never raised more laughter or contempt than in the hands of Shakespeare. I cannot reconcile my heart to Bertram; a man noble without generosity, and young without truth; who marries Helen as a coward, and leaves her as a profligate: when she is dead by his unkindness, sneaks home to a second marriage, is accused by a woman whom he has wronged, defends himself by falsehood, and is dismissed to happiness. The story of Bertram and Diana hod been told before of Mariana and Angelo, and, to confess the truth, scarcely merited to be heard a second time. TWELFTH-NIGHT (142) The persons of the drama were first enumerated, with all the cant of the modern stage, by Mr. Rowe. I.i.2 (143,2) [that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die] [W: app'tite, Love] It is true, we do not talk of the _death of appetite_, because we do not ordinarily speak in the figurative language of poetry; but that _appetite sickens by a surfeit_ is true, and therefore proper. I.i.21 (145,6) [That instant was I turn'd into a hart] This image evidently alludes to the story of Acteon, by which Shakespeare seems to think men cautioned against too great familiarity with forbidden beauty. Acteon, who saw Diana naked, and was torn in pieces by his hounds, represents a man, who indulging his eyes, or his imagination, with the view of a woman that he cannot gain, has his heart torn with incessant longing. An interpretation far more elegant and natural than that of Sir Francis Bacon, who, in his _Wisdom of the Antients_, supposes this story to warn us against enquiring into the secrets of princes, by shewing, that those who knew that which for reasons of state is to be concealed, will be detected and destroyed by their own servants. I.ii.25 (147,9) [A noble Duke in nature, as in name] I know not whether the nobility of the name is comprised in _Duke_, or in _Orsino_, which is, I think, the name of a great Italian family. I.ii.42 (148,1) [_Vio_. O, that I serv'd that lady; And might not be deliver'd to the world, 'Till I had made mine own occasion mellow What my estate is!] I wish I might not be _made public_ to the world, with regard to the _state_ of my birth and fortune, till I have gained a _ripe opportunity_ for my design. Viola seems to have formed a very deep design with very little premeditation: she is thrown by shipwreck on an unknown coast, hears that the prince is a batchelor, and resolves to supplant the lady whom he courts. I.ii.55 (149,2) [I'll serve this Duke] Viola is an excellent schemer, never at a loss; if she cannot serve the lady, she will serve the Duke. I.iii.77 (152,5) [It's dry, sir] What is the jest of _dry hand_, I know not any better than Sir Andrew. It may possibly mean, a hand with no money in it; or, according to the rules of physiognomy, she may intend to insinuate, that it is not a lover's hand, a moist hand being vulgarly accounted a sign of an amorous constitution. I.iii.148 (154,9) [Taurus? that's sides and heart] Alluding to the medical astrology still preserved in almanacks, which refers the affections or particular parts of the body, to the predominance of particular constellations. I.iv.34 (155,1) [And all is semblative--a woman's part] That is, thy proper part in a play would be a woman's. Women were then personated by boys. I.v.9 (156,2) [lenten answer] A _lean_, or as we now call it, a _dry_ answer. I.v.39 (157,4) [Better be a witty fool, than a foolish wit] Hall, in his _Chronicle_, speaking of the death of Sir Thomas More, says, that he knows not whether to call him _a foolish wise man, or a wise foolish man_. I.v.105 (159,5) [Now Mercury indue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well of fools!] [W: pleasing] I think the present reading more humourous. _May Mercury teach thee to lie, since thou liest in favour of fools_. I.v.213 (164,1) [to make one in so skipping a dialogue] Wild, frolick, mad. I.v.218 (164,2) [Some mollification for your giant] Ladies, in romance, are guarded by giants, who repel all improper or troublesome advances. Viola seeing the waiting-maid so eager to oppose her message, intreats Olivia to pacify her giant. I.v.328 (168,8) [_Oli_. I do, I know not what; and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind] I believe the meaning is; I am not mistress of my own actions, I am afraid that my eyes betray me, and flatter the youth without my consent, with discoveries of love. II.i.15 (169,9) [to express myself] That is, _to reveal myself_. II.i.28 (169,1) [with such estimable wonder] These words Dr. Warburton calls _an interpolation of the players_, but what did the players gain by it? they may be sometimes guilty of a joke without the concurrence of the poet, but they never lengthen a speech only to make it longer. Shakespeare often confounds the active and passive adjectives. _Estimable wonder_ is _esteeming wonder_, or _wonder and esteem_. The meaning is, that he could not venture to think so highly as others of his sister. II.ii.21 (171,2) [her eyes had lost her tongue] [W: crost] That the fascination of the eyes was called _crossing_ ought to have been proved. But however that be, the present reading has not only sense but beauty. We say a man _loses_ his company when they go one way and he goes another. So Olivia's tongue _lost_ her eyes; her tongue was talking of the Duke and her eyes gazing on his messenger. II.ii.29 (171,3) [the pregnant enemy] is, I believe, the dexterous fiend, or enemy of mankind. (1773) II.ii.30 (171,4) [How easy is it, for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms] This is obscure. The meaning is, _how easy is disguise to women_; how easily does _their own falsehood_, contained in their _waxen changeable _hearts_, enable them to assume deceitful appearances. The two next lines are perhaps transposed, and should be read thus, _For such as we are made, if such we be, Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we_. II.iii.27 (175,9) [I did impeticoat thy gratility] This, Sir T. Hammer tells us, is the same with _impocket thy gratuity_. He is undoubtedly right; but we must read, _I did_ impeticoat _thy_ gratuity. The fools were kept in long coats, to which the allusion is made. There is yet much in this dialogue which I do not understand. II.iii.51 (176,1) [In delay there lies no plenty] [W: decay] I believe _delay_ is right. II.iii.52 (176,2) [Then come kiss me, sweet, and twenty] This line is obscure; we might read, _Come, a kiss then, sweet, and twenty._ Yet I know not whether the present reading be not right, for in some counties _sweet and twenty_, whatever be the meaning, is a phrase of endearment. II.iii.59 (176,3) [make the welkin dance] That is, drink till the sky seems to turn round. II.iii.75 (177,5) [They sing a catch] This catch is lost. II.iii.81 (177,6) [Peg-a-Ramsey] _Peg-a-Ramsey_ I do not understand. _Tilly vally_ was an interjection of contempt, which Sir Thomas More a lady is recorded to have had very often in her mouth. II.iii.97 (178,7) [ye squeak out your coziers catches] A _Cozier_ is a taylor, from _coudre_ to sew, part, _consu_, French, (see 1765, 11,383,2) II.iii.128 (180,l) [rub your chain with crums] I suppose it should be read, _rub your_ chin _with crums_, alluding to what had been said before that. Malvolio was only a steward, and consequently dined after his lady. II.iii.131 (180,2) [you would not give means for this uncivil rule] _Rule_ is, method of life, so _misrule_ is tumult and riot. II.iii.149 (181,3) [Possess us] That is, _inform us_, _tell us_, make us masters of the matter. II.iv.5 (183,5) [light airs, and recollected terms] I rather think that _recollected_ signifies, more nearly to its primitive sense, _recalled_, _repeated_, and alludes to the practice of composers, who often prolong the song by repetitions. II.iv.26 (184,6) [favour] The word _favour_ ambiguously used. II.iv.35 (184,7) [lost and worn] Though _lost and worn_ may means _lost and worn out_, yet _lost and won_ being, I think, better, these two words coming usually and naturally together, and the alteration being very slight, I would so read in this place with Sir Tho. Hammer. II.iv.46 (185,8) [free] is, perhaps, _vacant_, _unengaged_, _easy in mind_. II.iv.47 (185,9) [silly sooth] It is plain, simple truth. II.iv.49 (185,2) [old age] The _old age_ is the _ages past_, the times of simplicity. II.iv.58 (185,3) [My part of death no one so true Did share it] Though _death_ is a _part_ in which every one acts his _share_, yet of all these actors no one is _so true_ as I. II.iv.87 (187,6) [But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems, That nature pranks her in] [W: pranks, her mind] The _miracle and queen of gems_ is her _beauty_, which the commentator might have found without so emphatical an enquiry. As to her mind, he that should be captious would say, that though it may be formed by nature it must be _pranked_ by education. Shakespeare does not say that _nature pranks her in a miracle_, but _in the miracle of gems_, that is, _in a gem miraculously beautiful_. II.v.43 (191,2) [the lady of the Strachy] [W: We should read _Trachy_. i.e. _Thrace_; for so the old English writers called it] What we should read is hard to say. Here it an allusion to some old story which I have not yet discovered. II.v.51 (191,3) [stone-bow] That is, a cross-bow, a bow which shoots stones. II.v.66 (192,4) [wind up my watch] In our author's time watches were very uncommon. When Guy Faux was taken, it was urged as a circumstance of suspicion that a watch was found upon him. II.v.70 (192,5) [Tho' our silence be drawn from us with carts] I believe the true reading is, _Though our silence be drawn from us with_ carts, _yet peace_. In the _The Two Gentlemen of_ Verona, one of the Clowns says, _I have a mistress, but who that is_, a team of horses _shall not_ draw from me. So in this play, _Oxen and wainropes will not bring them together_. II.v.97 (193,7) [her great _P_'s] [Steevens: In the direction of the letter which Malvolio reads, there is neither a C, nor a P, to be found] There may, however, be words in the direction which he does not read. To formal directions of two ages ago were often added these words, Humbly _Present_. (1773) II.v.144 (195,2) [And _O_ shall end, I hope] By _O_ is here meant what we now call a _hempen collar_. II.v.207 (197,6) [tray-trip] The word _tray-trip_ I do not understand. II.v.215 (198,7) [aqua vitae] Is the old name of _strong waters_. III.i.57 (200,9) [lord Pandarus] See our author's play of _Troilus and Cressida_. III.i.71 (200,1) [And, like the haggard, check at every feather] The meaning may be, that he must catch every opportunity, as the wild hawk strikes every bird. But perhaps it might be read more properly, Not _like the haggard_. He must chuse persons and times, and observe tempers, he must fly at proper game, like the trained hawk, and not fly at large like the _haggard_, to seize all that comes in his way. (1773) III.i.75 (201,2) [But wise-men's folly fall'n] Sir Thomas Hammer reads, _folly shewn_. [The sense is, _But wise men's folly, when it is once fallen into extravagance, overpowers their discretion_. Revisal.] I explain it thus. The folly which he shows with proper adaptation to persons and times, _is fit_, has its propriety, and therefore produces no censure; but the folly of wise men when it _falls_ or _happens_, taints their wit, destroys the reputation of their judgment. (see 1765, II,402,2) III.i.86 (202,4) [she is the list of my voyage] Is the _bound, limit, farthest point_. III.i.100 (202,5) [most pregnant and vouchsafed ear] _Pregnant_ is a word in this writer of very lax signification. It may here mean _liberal_. (1773) III.i.123 (203,6) [After the last enchantment (you did hear)] [W: enchantment you did here] The present reading is no more nonsense than the emendation. III.i.132 (203,8) [a Cyprus] Is a transparent stuff. III.i.135 (204,9) [a grice] Is a _step_, sometimes written _greese_ from _degres_, French. III.i.170 (205,1) [I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has] And that heart and boson I have never yielded to any woman. III.ii.45 (207,5) [Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief] _Martial hand_, seems to be a careless scrawl, such as shewed the writer to neglect ceremony. _Curst_, is petulant, crabbed--a curst cur, is a dog that with little provocation snarls and bites. (1773) III.iv.61 (213,1) [midsummer madness] Hot weather often turns the brain, which is, I suppose, alluded to here. III.iv.82 (214,3) [I have lim'd her] I have entangled or caught her, as a bird is caught with birdlime. III.iv.85 (214,4) [Fellow:] This word which originally signified companion, was not yet totally degraded to its present meaning; and Malvolio takes it in the favourable sense. III.iv.130 (215,6) [Hang him, foul collier] The devil is called _Collier_ for his blackness, _Like will to like, says the Devil to the Collier_. (1773) III.iv.154 (216,7) [a finder of madmen] This is, I think, an allusion to the _witch-finders_, who were very busy. III.iv.184 (217,8) [_God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better_] We may read, _He may have mercy upon_ thine, _but my hope is better_. Yet the passage may well enough stand without alteration. It were much to be wished, that Shakespeare in this and some other passages, had not ventured so near profaneness. III.iv.228 (218,9) [wear this jewel for me] _Jewel_ does not properly signify a single gem, but any precious ornament or superfluity. III.iv.257 (219,2) [Be is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration] That is, he is no soldier by profession, not a Knight Banneret, dubbed in the field of battle, but, _on carpet consideration_, at a festivity, or on sone peaceable occasion, when knights receive their dignity kneeling not on the ground, as in war, but on a _carpet_. This is, I believe, the original of the contemptuous term a carpet knight, who was naturally held in scorn by the men of war. III.iv.301 (222,4) [I have not seen such a virago] _Virago_ cannot be properly used here, unless we suppose Sir Toby to mean, I never saw one that had so much the look of woman with the prowess of man. III.iv.408 (225,7) [Methinks, his words do from such passion fly, That he believes himself;--so do not I] This I believe, means, I do not yet believe myself, when, from this accident, I gather hope of my brother's life. IV.i.14 (227,8) [I am afraid this great lubber the world will prove a cockney] That is, affectation and foppery will overspread the world. IV.i.57 (228,2) [In this uncivil and unjust extent] _Extent_ is, in law, a writ of execution, whereby goods are seized for the king. It is therefore taken here for _violence_ in general. IV.i.60 (228,3) [This ruffian hath botch'd up] I fancy it is only a coarse expression for _made up_, as a bad taylor is called a _botcher_. and to botch is to make clumsily. IV.i.63 (229,4) [He started one poor heart of mine in thee] I know not whether here be not an ambiguity intended between _heart_ and _hart_. The sense however is easy enough. _He that offends thee attacks one of my hearts_; or, as the antients expressed it, _half my heart_. IV.i.64 (229,5) [What relish is this?] How does it taste? What judgment am I to make of it? IV.ii.53 (231,9) [constant question] A settled, a determinate, a regular question. IV.ii.68 (232,1) [Nay, I am for all waters] I rather think this expression borrowed from sportsmen, and relating to the qualifications of a complete spaniel. IV.ii.99 (233,2) [They have here property'd me] They have taken possession of me as of a man unable to look to himself. IV.ii.107 (233,3) [Maintain no words with him] Here the Clown in the dark acts two persons, and counterfeits, by variation of voice, a dialogue between himself and Sir Topas.--_I Will, sir, I Will_. is spoken after a pause, as if, in the mean time, Sir Topas had whispered. IV.ii.121 (234,4) [tell me true, are you not mad, indeed, or do you but counterfeit?] If he was not mad, what did be counterfeit by declaring that he was not mad? The fool, who meant to insult him, I think, asks, _are you mad, or do you but counterfeit_? That is, _you look like a madman, you talk like a madman_: _Is your madness real, or have you any secret design in it_? This, to a man in poor Malvolio's state, was a severe taunt. IV.ii.134 (234,5) [like to the old vice] _Vice_ was the fool of the old moralities. Some traces of this character are still preserved in puppet-shows, and by country mummers. IV.ii.141 (235.6)_'Adieu, goodman devil_] This last line has neither rhime nor meaning. I cannot but suspect that the fool translates Malvolio's name, and says, _Adieu, goodman mean-evil_. (1773) IV.iii.12 (236,8) [all instance, all discourse] _Instance_ is _example_. (see 1765, II,433,9) IV.iii.15 (236,9) [To any other trust] To any other belief, or confidence, to any other fixed opinion. IV.iii.29 (236,1) [Whiles] Is _until_. This word is still so used in the northern counties. It is, I think, used in this sense in the preface to the Accidence. IV.iii.33 (237,2) [And, having sworn truth, ever will be true] _Truth_ is _fidelity_. V.i.23 (238,3) [so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why, then the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes] Though I do not discover much ratiocination in the Clown's discourse, yet, methinks, I can find some glimpse of a meaning in his observation, that _the conclusion is as kisses_. For, says he, _if four negatives make two affirmatives, the conclusion is as kisses_; that is, the conclusion follows by the conjunction of two negatives, which, by _kissing_ and embracing, coalesce into one, and make an affirmative. What the _four_ negatives are I do not know. I read, _So that conclusions be as kisses_. V.i.42 (239,4) [bells of St. Bennet] When in this play he mentioned the _bed of_ Ware, he recollected that the scene was in Illyria, and added _in England_; but his sense of the same impropriety could not restrain him from the bells of St. Bennet. V.i.67 (240,5) [desperate of shame, and state] Unattentive to his character or his condition, like a desperate man. V.i.112 (241,5) [as fat and fulsome] [W: flat] _Fat_ means _dull_; so we say a _fatheaded_ fellow; _fat_ likewise means _gross_, and is sometimes used for _obscene_; and _fat_ is more congruent to _fulsome_ than _flat_. V.i.168 (244,7) [case] _Case_ is a word used contemptuously for _skin_. We yet talk of a _fox case_, meaning the stuffed skin of a fox. V.i.204 (246,9) [A natural perspective] A _perspective_ seems to be taken for shows exhibited through a glass with such lights as make the pictures appear really protruberant. The Duke therefore says, that nature has here exhibited such a show, where shadows seem realities; where that which is _not_ appears like that which is. V.i.306 (249,3) [but to read his right wits, is to read thus] Perhaps so,--_but to read his_ wits right _is to read thus_. To represent his present state of mind, is to read a madman's letter, as I now do, like a madman. (1773) V.i.326 (249,4) [One day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you] [Revisal: an't so] This is well conjectured; but _on't_ may relate to the double character of sister and wife. (1773) V.i.347 (250,5) [to frown Upon sir Toby, and the lighter people] People of less dignity or importance. V.i.351 (250,6) [geck] A fool. (253) General Observation. This play is in the graver part elegant and easy, and in some of the lighter scenes exquisitely humorous. Ague--cheek is drawn with great propriety, but his character is, in a great measure, that of natural fatuity, and is therefore not the proper prey of a satirist. The soliloquy of Malvolio is truly comic; he is betrayed to ridicule merely by his pride. The marriage of Olivia, and the succeeding perplexity, though well enough contrived to divert on the stage, wants credibility, and fails to produce the proper instruction required in the drama, as it exhibits no just picture of life. THE WINTER'S TALE (257,1) The story of this play is taken from the _Pleasaunt History of Dorastus and Fawnia_, written by Robert Greene. (1773) I.i.9 (258,2) [Wherein our entertainment shall shame us, we will be justified in our loves] Though we cannot give you equal entertainment, yet the consciousness of our good-will shall justify us. I.i.30 (258,3) [royally attornied] Nobly supplied by substitution of embassies, &c. l.i.43 (259,4) [physicks the subject] Affords a cordial to the state; has the power of assuaging the sense of misery. I.ii.13 (259,5) [that may blow No sneaping rinds] _That may blow_ is a Gallicism, for _may there blow_. (1773) I.ii.31 (261,6) [All in Bohemia's well: this satisfaction The bygone day proclaim'd] We had satisfactory accounts yesterday of the state of Bohemia. (1773) I.ii.123 (266,6) [We must be neat] Leontes, seeing his son's nose smutched, cries, _We must be neat_, then recollecting that _neat_ is the term for _horned_ cattle, he says, _not neat, but cleanly_. I.ii.125 (266,7) [Still virginalling] Still playing with her fingers, as a girl playing on the _virginals_. I.ii.132 (266,8) [As o'er-dy'd blacks] Sir T. Hammer understands, blacks died too much, and therefore rotten. I.ii.136 (267,9) [welkin-eye] Blue eye; an eye of the same colour with the _welkin_, or sky. I.ii.139 (267,2) [Thou dost make possible things not so held] i.e. thou dost make those things possible, which are conceived to be impossible. (1773) I.ii.161,3 (268,3) [will you take eggs for mony?] This seems to be a proverbial expression, used when a man sees himself wronged and makes no resistance. Its original, or precise meaning, I cannot find, but I believe it means, will you be a _cuckold_ for hire. The cuckow is reported to lay her eggs in another bird's nest; he therefore that has eggs laid in his nest, is said to be _cocullatus_, _cuckow'd_, or _cuckold_. I.ii.163 (268,4) [happy man be his dole!] May his _dole_ or _share_ in life be to be a _happy man_. I.ii.176 (269,5) [he's Appareat to my heart] That is, _heir apparent_.or the next claimant. I.ii.186 (269,6) [a fork'd one] That is, a _horned_ one; a _cuckold_. I.ii.217 (270,9) [whispering, rounding] _To round in the ear_, is to _whisper_, or _to tell secretly_. The expression is very copiously explained by H. Casaubon, in his book _de Ling. Sax_. I.ii.227 (271,1) [lower messes] _Mess_ is a contraction of _Master_, as _Mess_ John. Master John; an appellation used by the Scots, to those who have taken their academical degree. _Lower Messes_, therefore are graduates of a lower form. The speaker is now mentioning gradations of understanding, and not of rank, (see 1765, II,244,9) I.ii.260 (372,2) [Whereof the execution did cry out Against the nonperformance] This is one of the expressions by which Shakespeare too frequently clouds his meaning. This sounding phrase means, I think, no more than _a thing necessary to be done_. [_Revisal_; the now-performance] I do not see that this attempt does any thing more, than produce a harsher word without on easier sense, (see 1765, II,245,1) I.ii.320 (275,5) [But with a ling'ring dram, that should not work, Maliciously, like poison] [Hammer: Like a malicious poison] _Rash_ is _hasty_, as in another place, _rash gunpowder. Maliciously_ is _malignantly_, with effects _openly hurtful_. Shakespeare had no thought of _betraying the user_. The Oxford emendation is harmless and useless. 1.ii.321 (275,6) [But I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. _Leo_. I have lov'd thee--Make that thy question, and go rot!] [Theobald had emended the text to give the words "I have lov'd thee" to Leontes] I have admitted this alteration, as Dr. Warburton has done, but am not convinced that it is necessary. Camillo, desirous to defend the queen, and willing to secure credit to his apology, begins, by telling the king that he _has loved him_, is about to give instances of his love, and to infer from them his present zeal, when he is interrupted. I.ii.394 (278,7) [In whose success we are gentle] I know not whether _success_ here does not mean _succession_. I.ii.424 (279,1) [_Cam_. Swear this thought over By each particular star in heaven] [T: this though] _Swear his thought over_ May however perhaps mean, _overswear his present persuasion_, that is, endeavour to _overcome his opinion_, by swearing oaths numerous as the stars. (1773) I.ii.458 (281,3) [Good expedition be my friend, and comfort The gracious queen] [W: queen's] Dr. Warburton's conjecture is, I think, just; but what shall be done with the following words, of which I can make nothing? Perhaps the line which connected them to the rest, is lost. --_and comfort The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta'en suspicion!_ Jealousy is a passion compounded of love and suspicion, this passion is the theme or subject of the king's thoughts.--Polixenes, perhaps, wishes the queen, for her comfort, so much of that _theme_ or subject as is good, but deprecates that which causes misery. May part of the king's present sentiments comfort the queen, but away with his suspicion. This is such meaning as can be picked out. (1773) II.i.38 (283,4) [Alack, for lesser knowledge!] That is, _O that my knowledge were less_. II.i.50 (284,5) [He hath discover'd my design, and I Remain a pinch'd thing] [_Revisal_: The sense, I think, is, He hath now discovered my design, and I am treated as a mere child's baby, a thing pinched out of clouts, a puppet for them to move and actuate as they please.] This sense is possible, but many other meanings might serve as well. (1773) II.i.100 (286,7) [No, if I mistake In these foundations which I build upon, The center is not big enough to bear A school-boy's top] That is, if the proofs which I can offer will not support the opinion I have formed, no foundation can be trusted. II.i.104 (286,8) [He, who shall speak for her, is far off guilty, But that he speaks] [T: far of] It is strange that Mr. Theobald could not find out that _far_ off _guilty_, signifies, _guilty in a remote degree_. II.i.121 (287,9) [this action] The word _action_ is here taken in the lawyer's sense, for _indictment, charge_, or _accusation_. II.i.143 (288,2) [land-damn him] Sir T. Hammer interprets, _stop his urine_. _Land_ or _lant_ being the old word for _urine_. _Land-damn_ is probably one of those words which caprice brought into fashion, and which, after a short time, reason and grammar drove irrecoverably away. It perhaps meant no more than I will _rid the country_ of him; _condemn_ him to quit the _land_, (see 1765, II,259,2) II.i.177 (290,5) [nought for approbation, But only seeing] _Approbation_, in this place, is put for _proof_. II.i.185 (290,6) [stuff'd sufficiency] That is, of abilities more than enough. II.i.195 (291,7) [Left that the treachery of the two, fled hence, Be left her to perform] He has before declared, that there is a _plot against his life and crown_, and that Hermione is _federary_ with Polixenes and Camillo. II.iii.5 (294,9) [out of the blank And level of my brain] Beyond the _aim_ of any attempt that I can make against him. _Blank_ and _level_ are terms of archery. II.iii.60 (296,1) [And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you] The _worst_ means only the _lowest_. Were I the meanest of your servants, I would yet claim the combat against any accuser. II.iii.67 (297,2) [A mankind witch:] A _mankind_ woman, is yet used in the midland counties, for a woman violent, ferocious, and mischievous. It has the same sense in this passage. Witches are supposed to be _mankind_, to put off the softness and delicacy of women, therefore Sir Hugh, in the _Merry Wives of Windsor,_ says, of a woman inspected to be a witch, _that he does not like when a woman has a beard._ Of this meaning Mr. Theobald has given examples. II.iii.77 (298, 5) [Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak'st up the princess, by that forced baseness] Leontes had ordered Antigonus to _take up the bastard,_ Paulina forbids him to touch the princess under that appellation. _Forced_ is false, uttered with violence to truth. II.iii.106 (299, 6) [No yellow in't] _Yellow_ is the colour of jealousy. II.iii.181 (301, 8) [commend it strangely to some place] Commit to some place, _as a stranger,_ without more provision. III.i.2 (302, 9) [Fertile the isle] [Warburton objected to "isle" as impossible geographically and offered "soil"] Shakespeare is little careful of geography. There is no need of this emendation in a play of which the whole plot depends upon a geographical error, by which Bohemia is supposed to be a maritime country. III.i.3 (303, 1) [I shall report, For most it caught me] [W: It shames report, Foremost] Of this emendation I see no reason; the utmost that can be necessary is, to change, _it caught me,_ to _they caught me;_ but even this may well enough be omitted. _It_ may relate to the whole spectacle. III.i.14 (304, 2) [The time is worth the use on't] [W: The use is worth the time on't] Either reading may serve, but neither is very elegant. _The time is worth the use on't,_ means, the time which we have spent in visiting Delos, has recompensed us for the trouble of so spending it. III.ii.18 (305, 4) [pretence] Is, in this place, taken for a _scheme laid,_ a _design formed;_ to _pretend_ means to _design,_ in the _Gent. of Verona._ III.ii.27 (305, 5) [mine integrity, Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, Be so receiv'd] That is, my _virtue_ being accounted _wickedness,_ my assertion of it will pass but for a _lie. Falsehood_ means both _treachery_ and _lie._ III.ii.43 (306, 6) [For life I prize it As I weigh grief which I would spare] _Life_ is to me now only _grief,_ and as such only is considered by me, I would therefore willingly dismiss it. III.ii.44 (306, 5) [I would spare] To _spare_ any thing is to _let it go. to quit the possession of it._ (1773) III.ii.49 (306, 7) [Since he came, With what encounter so uncurrent I Have strain'd, to appear thus?] These lines I do not understand; with the license of all editors, what I cannot understand I suppose unintelligible, and therefore propose that they may be altered thus, --------_Since he came, With what encounter so uncurrent_ have I _Been_ stain'd _to appear thus_. At least I think it might be read, _With what encounter so uncurrent have I Strain'd to appear thus? If one Jet beyond_. (see 1765, II,276,5) III.ii.55 (307,8) [I ne'er heard yet, That any of those bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gain--say what they did, Than to perform it first] It is apparent that according to the proper, at least according to the present, use of words, _less_ should be _more_, or _wanted_ should be _had_. But Shakespeare is very uncertain in his use of negatives. It nay be necessary once to observe, that in our language two negatives did not originally affirm, but strengthen the negation. This mode of speech was in time changed, but as the change was made in opposition to long custom, it proceeded gradually, and uniformity was not obtained but through an intermediate confusion. III.ii.82 (308,9) [My life stands in the level of your dreams] To be _in the level_ is by a metaphor from archery _to be within the reach_. III.ii.85 (308,1) [As you were past all shame, (Those of your fact are so) [so past all truth] I do not remember that _fact_ is used any where absolutely for _guilt_, which must be its sense in this place. Perhaps we may read, _Those of your_ pack _are so_. _Pack_ is a low coarse word well suited to the rest of this royal invective. III.ii.107 (309,3) [I have got strength of limit] I know not well how _strength_ of _limit_ can mean _strength to pass the limits_ of the childbed chamber, which yet it must mean in this place, unless we read in a more easy phrase, _strength of_ limb. _And_ now, &c. III.ii.123 (310,4) [The flatness of my misery] That is, how low, how _flat_ I am laid by my calamity. III.ii.146 (310,5) [Of the queen's speed] Of the _event_ of the queen's trial: so we still say, he _sped_ well or ill. III.ii.173 (311,6) [Does my deeds make the blacker!] This vehement retraction of Leontes, accompanied with the confession of more crimes than he was suspected of, is agreeable to our daily experience of the vicissitudes of violent tempers, and the eruptions of minds oppressed with guilt. III.ii.187 (312,7) [That thou betray'dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing That did but shew thee, of a fool, inconstant, And damnable ungrateful] [T: of a soul] [W: shew thee off, a fool] Poor Mr. Theobald's courtly remark cannot be thought to deserve much notice. Or. Warburton too might have spared his sagacity if he had remembered, that the present reading, by a mode of speech anciently much used, means only, _It shew'd thee_ first _a fool_, then _inconstant and ungrateful_. III.ii.219 (314,9) [I am sorry for't] This it another instance of the sudden changes incident to vehement and ungovernable minds. III.iii.1 (315,1) [Thou art perfect then] _Perfect_ is often used by Shakeapeare for _certain, well assured_, or _well informed_. III.iii.56 (317,2) [A savage clamour!--Well may I get aboard--This is the chace] This clamour was the cry of the dogs and hunters; then seeing the bear, he cries, _this is the chace_. or, the _animal pursued_. IV.i.6 (321,9) [and leave the growth untry'd Of that wide gap] [W: gulf untry'd] This emendation is plausible, but the common reading is consistent enough with our author's manner, who attends more to his ideas than to his words. _The growth of the wide gap_, is some-what irregular; but he means, the _growth_, or progression of the time which filled up the _gap_ of the story between Perdita's birth and her sixteenth year. _To leave this growth untried_, is _to leave the passages of the intermediate years unnoted and unexamined. Untried_ is not, perhaps, the word which he would have chosen, but which his rhyme required. IV.i.7 (321,1) [since it is in my power To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am, ere ancient'st order was, Or what is now receiv'd] The reasoning of _Time_ is not very clear! he seems to mean, that he who has broke so many laws may now break another; that he who introduced every thing, may introduce Perdita on her sixteenth year; and he intreats that he may pass as of old, before any _order_ or succession of objects, ancient or modern, distinguished his periods. IV.i.19 (322,2) [Imagine me, Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia] _Time_ is every where alike. I know not whether both sense and grammar may not dictate, --_imagine_ we, Gentle spectators, that_ you _now may be_, &c. Let _us_ imagine that _you_, who behold these scenes, are now in Bohemia? IV.i.29 (322,3) [Is the argument of time] _Argument_ is the same with _subject_. IV.i.32 (322,4) [He wishes earnestly you newer may] I believe this speech of _time_ rather begins the fourth act than concludes the third. IV.ii.21 (323,6) [and my profit therein, the heaping friendships] [W. reaping] I see not that the present reading is nonsense; the sense of _heaping friendships_ is, though like many other of our author's, unusual, at least unusual to modern ears, is not very obscure. _To be more thankful shall be my study; and my profit therein the heaping friendships._ That is, _I will for the future be more liberal of recompence, from which I shall receive this advantage, that as I heap benefits I shall heap friendships, as I confer favours on thee I shall increase the friendship between us._ IV.ii.35 (324,7) [but I have, missingly, noted] [W. missing him] [Hammer; musingly noted] I see not how the sense is mended by Sir T. Hammer's alteration, nor how is it at all changed by Dr. Warburton's. IV.iii.3 (325,9) [_Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter pale_] Dr. Thirlby reads, perhaps rightly, certainly with much more probability, and easiness of construction; _For the red blood_ runs _in the_ winter _pale._ That is, _for the red blood runs pale in the winter._ Sir T. Banner reads, _For the red blood reigns_ o'er _the winter's pale._ IV.iii.7 (326,1) [pugging tooth] Sir T. Hammer, and after his, Dr. Warburton, read, _progging tooth_. It is certain that _pugging_ is not now understood. But Dr. Thirlby observes, that this is the cant of gypsies. IV.iii.28 (327,7) [Gallows, and knock, are too powerful on the highway; beating and hanging are terrors to me] The resistance which a highwayman encounters in the fact, and the punishment which he suffers on detection, withold me from daring robbery, and determine me to the silly cheat and petty theft. (1773) IV.iii.99 (330,4) [abide] To _abide_, here, must signify, to _sojourn_, to live for a time without a settled habitation. IV.iv.6 (331,7) [To chide at your extremes, it not becomes me] That is, your _excesses_, the _extravagance_ of your praises. IV.iv.8 (331,8) [The gracious mark o' the land] The _object_ of all men's _notice_ and expectation. IV.iv.13 (332,9) [sworn, 1 think, To shew myself a glass] [Banner: swoon] Dr. Thirlby inclines rather to Sir T. Hanmer's emendation, which certainly makes an easy sense, and is, in my opinion, preferable to the present reading. But concerning this passage I know not what to decide. IV.ii.21 (333,1) [How would he look, to see his work, so noble, Vilely bound up!] It is impossible for any man to rid his mind of his profession. The authorship of Shakespeare has supplied him with a metaphor, which rather than he would lose it, he has put with no great propriety into the month of a country maid. Thinking of his own works, his mind passed naturally to the binder. I am glad that he has no hint at an editor. IV.ii.76 (335,2) [Grace and remembrance] _Rue_ was called _herb of grace. Rosemary_ was the emblem of remembrance; I know not why, unless because it was carried at funerals. (see 1765, II,300,5) IV.iv.143 (338,6) [Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you're doing in the present deeds] That is, your manner in each act crowns the act. IV.iv.155 (338,8) [_Per_. I'll swear for 'em] I fancy this half line is placed to a wrong person. And that the king begins his speech aside Pol. _I'll swear for 'em This is the prettiest_. &c. IV.iv.164 (339,1) [we stand upon our manners] That is, we are now on our behaviour. IV.iv.169 (339,2) [a worthy feeding] I conceive _feeding_ to be a _pasture_, and a _worthy feeding_ to be a tract of pasturage not inconsiderable, not unworthy of my daughter's fortune. IV.iv.204 (340,3) [unbraided wares?] Surely we must read _braided_, for such are all the _wares_ mentioned in the answer. IV.iv.212 (341,5) [sleeve-band] Is put very properly by Sir T. Hammer, it was before _sleeve--hand_. IV.iv.316 (346,9) [sad] For _serious_. (1773) IV.iv.330 (346,1) [_That doth utter all mens' wear-a_] To _utter_. To _bring out_, or _produce_. (1773) IV.iv.333 (347,3) [all men of hair] [W: i.e. nimble, that leap as if they rebounded] This is a strange interpretation. _Errors_, says Dryden, _flow upon the surface_, but there are men who will fetch them from the bottom. _Men of hair_, are _hairy men_, or _satyrs_. A dance of satyrs was no unusual entertainment in the middle ages. At a great festival celebrated in France, the king and some of the nobles personated satyrs dressed in close habits, tufted or shagged all over, to imitate hair. They began a wild dance, and in the tumult of their merriment one of them went too near a candle and set fire to his satyr's garb, the flame ran instantly over the loose tufts, and spread itself to the dress of those that were next him; a great number of the dancers were cruelly scorched, being neither able to throw off their coats nor extinguish them. The king had set himself in the lap of the dutchess of Burgundy, who threw her robe over him and saved him. IV.iv.338 (347,4) [bowling] _Bowling_, I believe, is here a term for a dance of smooth motion with great exertion of agility. IV.iv.411 (350,6) [dispute his own estate?] Perhaps for _dispute_ we might read _compute_; but _dispute his estate_ may be the same with _talk over his affairs_. IV.iv.441 (351,7) [Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, Far than Deucalion off] I think for _far than_ we should read _far as_. We will not hold thee of our kin even so far off as Deucalion the common ancestor of all. IV.iv.493 (354,2) [and by my fancy] It must be remembered that _fancy_ in this author very often, as in this place, means _love_. IV.iv.551 (356,3) [Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies] As _chance_ has driven me to these extremities, so I commit myself to _chance_ to be conducted through them. IV.iv.613 (359,6) [as if my trinkets had been hallowed] This alludes to beads often sold by the Romanists, as made particularly efficacious by the touch of some relick. IV.iv.651 (360,7) [boot] that is, _something over and above_, or, as we now say, _something to boot_. IV.iv.734 (362,9) [pedler's excrement] Is pedler's beard, (see 1765, II,323,2) IV.iv.748 (363,1) [therefore they do not give us the lye] [W: do give] The meaning is, they are _paid_ for lying, therefore they do not give us the lye, they _sell_ it us. (1773) IV.iv.768 (363,2) [Advocate's the court-word for a pheasant] This satire, or this pleasantry, I confess myself not well to understand. IV.iv.779 (364,3) [A great man, I'll warrant; I know, by the picking on's teeth] It seems, that to pick the teeth was, at this time, a mark of some pretension to greatness or elegance. So the Bastard in _King John_, speaking of the traveller, says, _He and_ his pick-tooth _at my worship's mess_. IV.iv.816 (365,4) [the hottest day prognostication proclaims] That is, _the hottest day foretold in the almanack_. V.i.14 (368,7) [Or, from the All that are, took something good] This is a favourite thought; it was bestowed on Miranda and Rosalind before. V.i,19 (368,8) [What were more holy, Than to rejoice, the former queen is well] [W: rejoice the...queen? This will.] This emendation is one of those of which many may be made; It is such as we may wish the authour had chosen, but which we cannot prove that he did chuse; the reasons for it are plausible, but not cogent. V.i.58 (370,9) [on this stage, (Where we offend her now)] [The offenders now appear] The Revisal reads, _Were we offenders_ now---- very reasonably. (1773) V.i.74 (371,1) [Affront his eye] _To affront_, is _to meet_. V.i.98 (372,2) [Sir, you yourself Have said, and writ so] The reader must observe, that _so_ relates not to what precedes, but to what follows that, _she had not been'_----_equall'd_. V.i.159 (374, 3) [whose daughter His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her] This is very ungrammatical and obscure. We aay better read, ----_whose daughter His tears proclaim'd_ her _parting with her_. The prince first tells that the lady came _from Lybia_. the king interrupting him, says, _from Smalus; from him_, says the prince, _whose tears, at parting, shewed her to be his daughter_. V.i.214 (376, 4) [Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty] [W. in birth] _Worth_ is as proper as _birth. Worth_ signifies any kind of _worthiness_, and among others that of high descent. The King means that he is sorry the prince's choice is not in other respects as worthy of him as in beauty. V.ii.105 (380, 5) [that rare Italian meter, Jolio Romano] [Theobald praised the passage but called it an anachronism] Poor Theobald's eucomium of this passage is not very happily conceired or expressed, nor is the passage of any eminent excellence; yet a little candour will clear Shakespeare from part of the impropriety imputed to him. By _eternity_ he means only i_mmortality_, or that part of eternity which is to come; so we talk of _eternal_ renown and _eternal_ infamy. _Immortality_ may subsist without _divinity_, and therefore the meaning only is, that if Julio could always continue his labours, he would mimick nature. V.ii.107 (381, 6) [would beguile nature of her custom] That is, _of her trade,_--would draw her customers from her. V.ii.118 (381, 7) [Who would be thence, that has the benefit of access?] It was, I suppose, only to spare his own labour that the poet put this whole scene into narrative, for though part of the transaction was already known to the audience, and therefore could not properly be shewn again, yet the two kings might have met upon the stage, and after the examination of the old shepherd, the young lady might have been recognised in sight of the spectators. V.ii.173 (383, 8) [franklins say it] _Franklin_ is a _freeholder_, or _yeoman_, a man above a _Villain_, but not a _gentleman_. V.ii.179 (383 ,9) [tall fellow] _Tall_, in that time, was the word used for _stout_. V.iii.17 (384,1) [therefore I keep it Lonely, apart] [Hammer: lovely] I am yet inclined to _lonely_, which in the old angular writing cannot be distinguished from lovely. To say, that _I keep it alone, separate from the rest_, is a pleonasm which scarcely any nicety declines. V.iii.46 (385,2) [Oh, patience] That is, _Stay a while, be not go eager_. V.iii.56 (386,3) [Indeed, my lord, If I had thought, the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you, (for the stone is mine) I'd not have shew'd it] [Tyrwhitt: for the stone i' th' mine] To change an accurate expression for an expression confessedly not accurate, has somewhat of retrogradation. (1773) V.iii.131 (389,6) [You precious winners all] You who by this discovery have _gained_ what you desired may join in festivity, in which I, who have lost what never can be recovered, can have no part. (300) General Observation, Of this play no edition is known published before the folio of 1623. This play, as Dr. Warburton justly observes, is, with all its absurdities, very entertaining. The character of Antolycus is very naturally conceived, and strongly represented, (see 1765, II, 349) TABLE OF CONTENTS General Introduction Introduction on Comedies Notes to _The Tempest The Two Gentlemen of Verona The Merry Wives of Windsor Measure for Measure The Comedy of Errors Much Ado About Nothing Love's Labour's Lost A Midsummer-Night's Dream The Merchant of Venice As You Like It The Taming of the Shrew All's Well that Ends Well Twelfth-Night The Winter's Tale 
15566	----	THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY SAMUEL JOHNSON NOTES TO SHAKESPEARE Vol. III Tragedies Edited, with an Introduction, by Arthur Sherbo Los Angeles William Andrews Clark Memorial Library University of California 1958 GENERAL EDITORS Richard C. Boys, _University of Michigan_ Ralph Cohen, _University of California, Los Angeles_ Vinton A. Dearing, _University of California, Los Angeles_ Lawrence Clark Powell, _Clark Memorial Library_ ASSISTANT EDITOR W. Earl Britton, _University of Michigan_ ADVISORY EDITORS Emmett L. Avery, _State College of Washington_ Benjamin Boyce, _Duke University_ Louis Bredvold, _University of Michigan_ John Butt, _King's College, University of Durham_ James L. Clifford, _Columbia University_ Arthur Friedman, _University of Chicago_ Louis A. Landa, _Princeton University_ Samuel H. Monk, _University of Minnesota_ Ernest C. Mossner, _University of Texas_ James Sutherland, _University College, London_ H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., _University of California, Los Angeles_ CORRESPONDING SECRETARY Edna C. Davis, _Clark Memorial Library_ Introduction on Tragedies Dr. Johnson's reaction to Shakespeare's tragedies is a curious one, compounded as it is of deep emotional involvement in a few scenes in some plays and a strange dispassionateness toward most of the others. I suspect that his emotional involvement took root when he read Shakespeare as a boy--one remembers the terror he experienced in reading of the Ghost in _Hamlet_, and it was probably also as a boy that he suffered that shock of horrified outrage and grief at the death of Cordelia that prevented him from rereading the scene until be came to edit the play. Johnson's deepest feelings and convictions, Professor Clifford has recently reminded us, can be traced back to his childhood and adolescence. But it is surprising to learn, as one does from his commentary, that other scenes in these very plays (_Hamlet_ and _King Lear_, and in _Macbeth_, too) leave him unmoved, if one can so interpret the absence of any but an explanatory note on, say, Lear's speech beginning "Pray, do not mock me;/I am a very foolish fond old man." Besides this negative evidence there is also the positive evidence of many notes which display the dispassionate editorial mind at work where one might expect from Johnson an outburst of personal feeling. There are enough of these outbursts to warrant our expecting others, but we are too frequently disappointed. Perhaps Johnson thought of most of Shakespeare's tragedies as "imperial tragedies" and that is why he could maintain a stance of aloofness; conversely, "the play of _Timon_ is a domestick Tragedy, and therefore strongly fastens on the attention of the reader." But the "tragedy" of Timon does not capture the attention of the modern reader, and perhaps all attempts to fix Johnson's likes and dislikes, and the reasons for them, in the canon of Shakespeare's plays must circle endlessly without ever getting to their destination. TRAGEDIES Vol. IV MACBETH (392) Most of the notes which the present editor has subjoined to this play were published by him in a small pamphlet in 1745. I.i (393,*) _Enter three Witches_] In order to make a true estimate of the abilities and merit of a writer, it it always necessary to examine the genius of his age, and the opinions of his contemporaries. A poet who should now make the whole action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment, and produce the chief events by the assistance of supernatural agents, would be censured as transgressing the bounds of probability, be banished from the theatre to the nursery, and condemned to write fairy tales instead of tragedies; but a survey of the notions that prevailed at the time when this play was written, will prove that Shakespeare was in no danger of such censures, since he only turned the system that was then universally admitted, to his advantage, and was far from overburthening the credulity of his audience. The reality of witchcraft or enchantment, which, though not strictly the same, are confounded in this play, has in all ages and countries been credited by the common people, and in most, by the learned themselves. These phantoms have indeed appeared more frequently, in proportion as the darkness of ignorance has been more gross; but it cannot be shown, that the brightest gleams of knowledge have at any time been sufficient to drive them out of the world. The time in which this kind of credulity was at its height, seems to have been that of the holy war, in which the Christians imputed all their defeats to enchantments or diabolical opposition, as they ascribed their success to the assistance of their military saints; and the learned Dr. Warburton appears to believe (_Suppl. to the Introduction to Don Quixote_) that the first accounts of enchantments were brought into this part of the world by those _who_ returned from their eastern expeditions. But there is always some distance between the birth and maturity of folly as of wickedness: this opinion had long existed, though perhaps the application of it had in no foregoing age been so frequent, nor the reception so general. Olympiodorus, in Photius's extracts, tells us of one Libanius, who practised this kind of military magic, and having promised [Greek: choris opliton kata barbaron energein] to perform great things against the Barbarians without soldiers, was, at the instances of the empress Placidia, put to death, when he was about to have given proofs of his abilities. The empress shewed some kindness in her anger by cutting him off at a time so convenient for his reputation. But a more remarkable proof of the antiquity of this notion may be found in St. Chrysostom's book _de Sacerdotia_, which exhibits a scene of enchantments not exceeded by any romance of the middle age: he supposes a spectator overlooking a field of battle attended by one that points out all the various objects of horror, the engines of destruction, and the arts of slaughter. [Greek: Deichnuto de eti para tois enantiois kai petomenous hippous dia tinos magganeias, kai oplitas di' aeros pheromenous, kai pasaen goaeteias dunomin kai idean.] _Let him then proceed to shew him in the opposite armies horses flying by enchantment, armed men transported through the air, and every power and form of magic._ Whether St. Chrysostom believed that such performances were really to be seen in a day of battle, or only endeavoured to enliven his description, by adopting the notions of the vulgar, it is equally certain, that such nations were in his time received, and that therefore they were not imported from the Saracens in a later age; the wars with the Saracens however gave occasion to their propagation, not only as bigotry naturally discovers prodigies, but as the scene of action was removed to a great distance. The Reformation did not immediately arrive at its meridian, and though day was gradually encreasing upon us, the goblins of witchcraft still continued to hover in the twilight. In the time of queen Elizabeth was the remarkable trial of the witches of Warbois, whose conviction is still commemorated in an annual sermon at Huntingdon. But in the reign of king James, in which this tragedy was written, many circumstances concurred to propagate and confirm this opinion. The king, who was much celebrated for his knowledge, had, before his arrival in England, not only examined in person a woman accused of witchcraft, but had given a very formal account of the practices and illusions of evil spirits, the compacts of witches, the ceremonies used by them, the manner of detecting them, and the justice of punishing them, in his dialogues of _Daemonologie_, written in the Scottish dialect, and published at Edinburgh. This book was, soon after his accession, reprinted at London, and as the ready way to gain king James's favour was to flatter his speculations, the system of _Daemonologie_ was immediately adopted by all who desired either to gain preferment or not to lose it. Thus the doctrine of witchcraft was very powerfully inculcated; and as the greatest part of mankind have no other reason for their opinions than that they are in fashion, it cannot be doubted but this persuasion made a rapid progress, since vanity and credulity co-operated in its favour. The infection soon reached the parliament, who, in the first year of king James, made a law, by which it was enacted, chap. xii. "That if any person shall use any invocation or conjuration of any evil or wicked spirit; 2. or shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any evil or cursed spirit to or for any intent or purpose; 3. or take up any dead man, woman or child out of the grave,--or the skin, bone, or any part of the dead person, to be employed or used in any manner of witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment; 4. or shall use, practise or exercise any sort of witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment; 5. whereby any person shall be destroyed, killed, wasted, consumed, pined, or lamed in any part of the body; 6. That every such person being convicted shall suffer death." This law was repealed in our own time. Thus, in the time of Shakespeare, was the doctrine of witchcraft at once established by law and by the fashion, and it became not only unpolite, but criminal, to doubt it; and as prodigies are always seen in proportion as they are expected, witches were every day discovered, and multiplied as fast in some places, that bishop Hall mentions a village in Lancashire, where their number was greater than that of the houses. The jesuits and sectaries took advantage of this universal error, and endeavoured to promote the interest of their parties by pretended cures of persons afflicted by evil spirits; but they were detected and exposed by the clergy of the established church. Upon this general infatuation Shakespeare might be easily allowed to found a play, especially since he has followed with great exactness such histories as were then thought true; nor can it be doubted that the scenes of enchantment, however they may now be ridiculed, were both by himself and his audience thought awful and affecting. I.i.10 (396,5) Fair is foul, and foul is fair] I believe the meaning is, that _to us_, perverse and malignant as we are, _fair is foul, and foul is fair_. I.ii.14 (398,9) And Fortune, on his damned quarry smiling] Thus the old copy; but I am inclined to read _quarrel_. _Quarrel_ was formerly used for _cause_, or for _the occasion of a quarrel_, and is to be found in that sense in Hollingshed's account of the story of Macbeth, who, upon the creation of the prince of Cumberland, thought, says the historian, that he had _a just quarrel_, to endeavour after the crown. The sense therefore is, _Fortune smiling on his excrable cause_, &c. This is followed by Dr. Warburten. (see 1765, VI, 373, 4). I.ii.28 (400,4) Discomfort swells] _Discomfort_ the natural opposite to _comfort_. _Well'd_, for _flawed_, was an emendation. The common copies have, _discomfort swells_. I.ii.37 (400,5) As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks, So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe] Mr. Theobald has endeavoured to improve the sense of this passage by altering the punctuation thus: --_they were As cannons overcharg'd, with double cracks So they redoubled strokes_-- He declares, with some degree of exultation, that he has no idea of a _cannon charged with double cracks_; but surely the great author will not gain much by an alteration which makes him say of a hero, that he _redoubles strokes with double cracks_, an expression not more loudly to be applauded, or more easily pardoned than that which is rejected in its favour. That a cannon is charged _with thunder_, or _with double thunders_, may be written, not only without nonsense, but with elegance, and nothing else is here meant by _cracks_, which in the time of this writer was a word of such emphasis and dignity, that in this play he terms the general dissolution of nature the _crack of doom_. The old copy reads, _They doubly redoubled strokes_. I.ii.46 (401,8) So should he look, that seems to speak things strange] The meaning of this passage, as it now stands, is, _so should he look, that looks as if he told things strange_. But Rosse neither yet told strange things, nor could look as if he told them; Lenox only conjectured from his air that he had strange things to tell, and therefore undoubtedly said, _What haste looks thro' his eyes? So should he look, that_ teems _to speak thinks strange_. He looks like one that _is big with_ something of importance; a metaphor so natural that it is every day used in common discourse. I.ii.55 (402,1) Confronted him with self-comparisons] [Theobald interpreted "him" as Cawdor; Johnson, in 1745, accused Shakespeare of forgetfulness on the basis of Theobald's error; and Warburton here speaks of "blunder upon blunder."] The second blunderer was the present editor. I.iii.6 (403,5) _Aroint thee, witch_!] In one of the folio editions the reading is _Anoint thee_, in a sense very consistent with the common accounts of witches, who are related to perform many supernatural acts by the means of unguents, and particularly to fly through the air to the places where they meet at their hellish festivals. In this sense, _anoint thee, Witch_, will mean, _Away, Witch, to your infernal assembly_. This reading I was inclined to favour, because I had met with the word _aroint_ in no other authour till looking into Hearne's Collections I found it in a very old drawing, that he has published, in which St. Patrick is represented visiting hell, and putting the devils into great confusion by his presence, of whom one that is driving the damned before him with a prong, has a label issuing out of his mouth with these words, OUT OUT ARONGT, of which the last is evidently the same with _aroint_, and used in the same sense as in this passage. I.iii.15 (405,8) And the very points they blew] As the word _very_ is here of no other use than to fill up the verse, it is likely that Shakespeare wrote _various_, which might be easily mistaken for _very_, being either negligently read, hastily pronounced, or imperfectly heard. I.iii.21 (405,9) He shall live a man forbid] Mr. Theobald has very justly explained _forbid_ by _accursed_, but without giving any reason of his interpretation. To _bid_ is originally _to pray_, as in this Saxon fragment, Ðe iÿ þiÿ þ bit y bote _He is wise that_ prays and makes amends. As to forbid_ therefore implies to _prohibit_, in opposition to the word _bid_ in its present sense, it signifies by the same kind of opposition to _curse_, when it is derived from the same word in its primitive meaning. I.iii.42 (409,3) are you aught/That man may question?] Are ye any beings with which man is permitted to hold converse, or of which it is lawful _to ask questions_? I.iii.53 (410,5) Are ye fantastical] By _fantastical_, he means creatures of fantasy or imagination; the question is, Are these real beings before us, or are we deceived by illusions of fancy? I.iii.97 (412,8) As thick as tale] [As thick as hail] Was Mr. Pope's correction. The old copy has, --_As thick_ as tale _Can_ post _with_ post;-- which perhaps is not amiss, meaning that the news came as _thick_ as a _tale_ can _travel_ with the _post_. Or we may read, perhaps yet better, --_As thick as tale_ Came _post with post_;-- That is, posts arrived as fast as they could be counted. I.iii.130 (414,4) This supernatural solliciting] _Solliciting_ is rather, in my opinion, _incitement_ than _information_. I.iii.134 (414,5) why do I yield] To _yield_ is, simply, to _give way to_. I.iii.137 (414,6) Present fears/Are less than horrible imaginings] [W: feats] _Present fears_ are _fears of things present_, which Macbeth declares, and every man has found, to be less than the _imagination_ presents them while the objects are yet distant. _Fears_ is right. I.iii.140 (415,7) single state of man] The _single state of man_ seems to be used by Shakespeare for an _individual_, in opposition to a _commonwealth_, or _conjunct body_. I.iii.40 (415,8) function/Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is,/ But what is not] All powers of action are oppressed and crushed by one overwhelming image in the mind, and nothing is present to me, but that which is really future. Of things now about me I have no perception, being intent wholly on that which has yet no existence. I.iii.147 (415,9) Time and the hour runs through the roughest day] I suppose every reader is disgusted at the tautology in this passage, _Time and the hour_, and will therefore willingly believe that Shakespeare wrote it thus, _Come what come may_, Time! on!--_the hour runs thro' the roughest day_. Macbeth is deliberating upon the events which are to befall him, but finding no satisfaction from his own thoughts, he grows impatient of reflection, and resolves to wait the close without harrassing hinaelf with conjectures. _Come what come may_. But to shorten the pain of suspense, he calls upon Time In the usual stile of ardent desire, to quicken his motion, _Time! on!_ -- He then comforts himself with the reflection that all his perplexity must have an end, --_the hour runs thro' the roughest day._ This conjecture is supported by the passage in the letter to his lady, in which he says, _they referred me to the_ coming on of time, _with Hail, King that shalt be_. I.iii.149 (416,1) My dull brain was wrought] My head was _worked_, _agitated_, put into commotion. I.iv.9 (417,3) studied in his death] Instructed in the art of dying. It was usual to say _studied_, for _learned_ in science. I.iv.12 (417,4) To find the mind's construction in the face] The _construction of the mind_ is, I believe, a phrase peculiar to Shakespeare; it implies the _frame_ or _disposition_ of the mind, by which it is determined to good or ill. I.iv.26 (418,5) Which do but what they should, by doing everything, Safe toward your love and honour] Of the last line of this speech, which is certainly, as it is now read, unintelligible, an emendation has been attempted, which Dr. Warburton and Dr. Theobald once admitted as the true reading: --_our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants, Which do but what they should, in doing every thing_ Fiefs _to your love and honour._ My esteem for these critics inclines me to believe that they cannot be much pleased with these expressions _fiefs to love_, or _fiefs to honour_, and that they have proposed this alteration rather because no other occured to them, than because they approved of it. I shall therefore propose a bolder change, perhaps with no better success, but _sua cuique placent_. I read thus, --_our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants Which do but what they should, in doing_ nothing, Save _toward_ your love and honour. We do but perform our duty when we contract all our views to your service, when we act with _no other_ principle than regard to _your love and honour_. It is probable that this passage was first corrupted by writing _safe_ for _save_, and the lines then stood thus: --_doing nothing Safe toward your love and honour._ which the next transcriber observing to be wrong, and yet not being able to discover the real fault, altered to the present reading. Dr. Warburton has since changed _fiefs_ to _fief'd_, and Hanmer has altered _safe_ to _shap'd_. I am afraid none of us have hit the right word. I.v.2 (420, 6) _by the perfected report_] By the best intelligence. Dr. Warburton would read, _perfected_, and explains _report_ by _prediction_. Little regard can be paid to an emendation that instead of clearing the sense, makes it more difficult. I.v.23 (420, 7) thoud'st have, great Glamis,/That which cries, _Thus thou must do, if thou have it_] As the object of Macbeth's desire is here introduced speaking of itself, it is necessary to read, --_thoud'st have, great Glamis, That which cries_, thus thou must do, if thou have _me_. I.v.39 (422, 8) The raven himself is hoarse] Dr. Warburton reads, --_The raven himself's_ not _hoarse_. Yet I think the present words may stand. The messenger, says the servant, had hardly breath _to make up his message_; to which the lady answers mentally, that he may well want breath, such a message would add hoarseness to the raven. That even the bird, whose harsh voice is accustomed to predict calamities, could not _croak the entrance of_ Duncan but in a note of unwonted harshness. I.v.42 (422, 2) mortal thoughts] This expression signifies not _the thoughts of mortals_, but _murtherous, deadly_, or _destructive designs_. So in act 5, _Hold fast the_ mortal _sword_. And in another place, _With twenty_ mortal _murthers_. I.v.47 (422, 3) nor keep peace between/The effect, and it!] The intent of lady Macbeth evidently is to wish that no womanish tenderness, or conscientious remorse, may hinder her purpose from proceeding to effect; but neither this, nor indeed any other sense, is expressed by the present reading, and therefore it cannot be doubted that Shakespeare wrote differently, perhaps thus, _That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep_ pace _between Th' effect, and it_.-- To _keep_ pace _between_ may signify _to pass between_, to _intervene_. _Pace_ is on many occasions a favourite of Shakespeare's. This phrase is indeed not usual in this sease, but was it not its novelty that gave occasion to the present corruption? [The sense is, _that no compunctious visitings of nature_ may prevail upon her, to give place in her mind to _peaceful_ thoughts, or to rest one moment in quiet, from the hour of her purpose to its full completion in the effect. REVISAL.] This writer thought himself perhaps very sagacious that be found a meaning which nobody missed, the difficulty still remains how such a meaning is made by the words. (see 1765, VI, 394, 6) I.v.49 (423, 5) take my milk for gall] _Take_ away _my milk_, and put _gall_ into the place. I.v.51 (423, 6) You wait on nature's mischief!] _Nature's mischief_ is mischief done to nature, violation of nature's order committed by wickedness. I.v.55 (423,8) To cry, _hold, hold_!] On this passage there is a long criticism in the _Rambler_. I.v.58 (424,1) This ignorant present time] _Ignorant_ has here the signification of _unknowing_; that it, I feel by anticipation these future hours, of which, according to the process of nature, the present time would be _ignorant_. I.vi.3 (425,3) our gentle senses] _Senses_ are nothing more _than each man's sense_. _Gentle senses_ is very elegant, as it means _placid_, _calm_, _composed_, and intimates the peaceable delight of a fine day. (see 1765, VI,396,2) I.vi.7 (426,5) coigne of 'vantage] Convenient corner. I.vi.13 (426,7) How you should bid god-yield as for your pains] I believe _yield_, or, as it is in the folio of 1623, _eyld_, is a corrupted contraction of _shield_. The wish implores not _reward_ but _protection_. I.vii.1 (428,1) If it were _done_] A man of learning recommends another punctuation: _If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well. It were done quickly, if, &c._ I.vii.2 (428,2) If the assassination/Could tramel up the consequence] Of this soliloquy the meaning is not very clear; I have never found the readers of Shakespeare agreeing about it. I understand it thus, "If that which I am about to do, when it is once _done_ and executed, were _done_ and ended without any following effects, it would then be best _to do it quickly_; if the murder could terminate in itself, and restrain the regular course of consequences, if _its success_ could secure _its surcease_, if being once done _successfully_, without detection, it could _fix a period_ to all vengeance and enquiry, so that _this blow_ might be all that I have to do, and this anxiety all that I have to suffer; if this could be my condition, even _here_ in _this world_, in this contracted period of temporal existence, on this narrow _bank_ in the ocean of eternity, _I would jump the life to come_, I would venture upon the deed without care of any future state. But this is one of _these cases_ in which judgment is pronounced and vengeance inflicted upon as _here_ in our present life. We teach others to do as we have done, and are punished by our own example." (1773) I.vii.4 (428,3) With his surcease, success] I think the reasoning requires that we should read, _With its_ success surcease. I.vii.6 (429,4) shoal of time] This is Theobald's emendation, undoubtedly right. The old edition has _school_, and Dr. Warburton _shelve_. I.vii.22 (429,7) or heavens cherubin, hors'd/Upon the sightless couriers of the air] [W: couriers] _Courier_ is only _runner_. _Couriers of air_ are _winds_, air in motion. _Sightless_ is _invisible_. I.vii.25 (430,8) That tears shall drown the wind] Alluding to the remission of the wind in a shower. I.vii.28 (430,9) _Enter Lady_] The arguments by which lady Macbeth persuades her husband to commit the murder, afford a proof of Shakespeare's knowledge of human nature. She urges the excellence and dignity of courage, a glittering idea which has dazzled mankind from age to age, and animated sometimes the house-breaker, and sometimes the conqueror; but this sophism Macbeth has for ever destroyed, by distinguishing true from false fortitude, in a line and a half; of which it may almost be said, that they ought to bestow immortality on the author, though all his other productions had been lost: _I dare do all that become a man, Who dares do more, is none_. This topic, which has been always employed with too much success, is used in this scene with peculiar propriety, to a soldier by a woman. Courage is the distinguishing virtue of a soldier, and the reproach of cowardice cannot be borne by any man from a woman, without great impatience. She then urges the oaths by which he had bound himself to murder Duncan, another art of sophistry by which men have sometimes deluded their consciences, and persuaded themselves that what would be criminal in others is virtuous in them; this argument Shakespeare, whose plan obliged him to make Macbeth yield, has not confuted, though he might easily have shewn that a former obligation could not be vacated by a latter: that obligations laid on us by a higher power, could not be over-ruled by obligations which we lay upon ourselves. I.vii.41 (431,1) --Whouldst thou have that, Which then esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem?] In this there seems to be no reasoning. I should read, Or _live a coward in thine own esteem_? Unless we choose rather, --_Wouldst thou_ leave _that_. I.vii.45 (431,2) Like the poor cat i' the adage?] The adage alluded to is, _The cat loves fish, but dares not wet her feet, Catus amat pisces, sed men vult tingere plantas_. I.vii.64 (432,5) Will I with wine and wassel so convince] To _convince_ is in Shakespeare to _overpower_ or _subdue_, as in this play, --_Their malady_ convinces _The great assay of art_. I.vii.67 (433,6) A limbeck only] That is, shall be only a vessel to emit _fumes_ or _vapours_. I.vii.71 (433,7) our great quell] _Quell_ is _murder_. _manquellers_ being in the old language the term for which _murderers_ is now used. II.i (434,8) _Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch before him_] The place is not mark'd in the old edition, nor is it easy to say where this encounter can be. It is not in the _hall_, as the editors have all supposed it, for Banquo sees the sky; it is not far from the bedchamber, as the conversation shews: it must be in the inner court of the castle, which Banquo might properly cross in his way to bed. II.i.25 (435,2) If you shall cleave to my consent, Then 'tis,/It shall make honour for you] Macbeth expressed his thought with affected obscurity; he does not mention the royalty, though he apparently has it in his mind, _If you shall cleave to my consent_, if you shall concur with me when I determine to accept the crown, _when 'tis_, when that happens which the prediction promises, _it shall make honour for you_. II.i.49 (437,6) Now o'er the one half world/Nature seems dead] That is, _over our hemisphere all action and motion seem to have ceased_. This image, which is perhaps the most striking that poetry can produce, has been adopted by Dryden in his _Conquest of Mexico_: _All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead, The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head; The little birds in dreams their song repeat, And sleeping flow'rs beneath the night dews sweat. Even lust and envy sleep!_ These lines, though so well known, I have transcribed, that the contrast between them and this passage of Shakespeare may be more accurately observed. Night is described by two great poets, but one describes a night of quiet, the other of perturbation. In the night of Dryden, all the disturbers of the world are laid asleep; in that of Shakespeare, nothing but sorcery, lust, and murder, is awake. He that reads Dryden, finds himself lull'd with serenity, and disposed to solitude and contemplation. He that peruses Shakspeare looks round alarmed, and starts to find himself alone. One is the night of a lover, the other, of a murderer. II.i.52 (438,8) --wither'd Murther, --thus with hia stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his design moves like a ghost.--] This was the reading of this passage [ravishing sides] in all the editions before that of Mr. Pope, who for _sides_, inserted in the text _strides_, which Mr. Theobald has tacitly copied from him, though a more proper alteration might perhaps have been made. A _ravishing stride_ is an action of violence, impetuosity, and tumult, like that of a savage rushing at his prey; whereas the poet is here attempting to exhibit an image of secrecy and caution, of anxious circumspection and guilty timidity, the _stealthy pace_ of a _ravisher_ creeping into the chamber of a virgin, and of an assassin approaching the bed of him whom he proposes to murder, without awaking him; these he describes as _moving like ghosts_, whose progression is so different from _strides_, that it has been in all ages represented te be, as Milton expresses it, _Smooth sliding without step_. This hemiatic will afford the true reading of this place, which is, I think, to be corrected thus: --_and wither'd Murder_. --_thus with his_ stealthy _pace_. _With Tarquin ravishing_, slides _tow'rds his design_, _Moves like a ghost_.-- _Tarquin_ is in this place the general name of a ravisher, and the sense is, Now is the time in which every one is a-sleep, but those who are employed in wickedness; the witch who is sacrificing to Hecate, and the ravisher, and the murderer, who, like me, are stealing upon their prey. When the reading is thus adjusted, he wishes with great propriety, in the following lines, that the _earth_ may not _hear his steps_. II.i.59 (439,3) And take the present horrour from the time,/Which now suits with it] Of this passage an alteration was once proposed by me, of which I have now a less favourable opinion, yet will insert it, as it may perhaps give some hint to other critics: _And take the present horrour from the time, Which now suits with it_.-- I believe every one that has attentively read this dreadful soliloquy is disappointed at the conclusion, which, if not wholly unintelligible, is, at least, obscure, nor can be explained into any sense worthy of the authour. I shall therefore propose a slight alteration: --_Thou sound and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And talk--the present horrour of the time! That now suits with it_.-- Macbeth has, in the foregoing lines, disturbed his imagination by enumerating all the terrors of the night; at length he is wrought up to a degree of frenzy, that makes him afraid of some supernatural discovery of his design, and calls out to the stones not to betray him, not to declare where he walks, nor _to talk_.--As he is going to say of what, he discovers the absurdity of his suspicion, and pauses, but is again overwhelmed by his guilt, and concludes, that such are the horrors of the present night, that the stones may be expected to cry out against him: That _now suits with it_.-- He observes in a subsequent passage, that on such occasions _stones have been known to move_. It is now a very just and strong picture of a man about to commit a deliberate murder under the strongest conviction of the wickedness of his design. Of this alteration, however, I do not now see much use, and certainly see no necessity. Whether to _take horrour from the time_ means not rather to _catch_ _it_ as communicated, than to _deprive the time of horrour_, deserves te be considered. II.ii.37 (443,6) sleave of care] A skein of silk is called a _sleave_ of silk, as I learned from Mr. Seward, the ingenious editor of Beaumont and Fletcher. II.ii.56 (444,8) gild the faces of the grooms withal,/For it must seem their guilt] Could Shakespeare possibly mean to play upon the similitude of _gild_ and _guilt_. II.iii.45 (447,5) I made a shift to cast him] To _cast him up_, to ease my stomach of him. The equivocation is between _cast_ or _throw_, as a term of wrestling, and _cast_ or _cast up_. II.iii.61 (448,7) --strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible Of dire combustions, and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: The obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night: some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake] Those lines I think should be rather regulated thus: --_prophecying with accents terrible, Of dire combustions and cosfus'd events. New-hatch'd to th' woful time, the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night. Some say the earth Was fev'rous and did shake._ A _prophecy_ of an _event new hatch'd_, seems to be a _prophecy_ of an _event past_. And _a prophecy new hatch'd_ is a wry expression. The term _new hatch'd_ is properly applicable to a _bird_, and that birds of ill omen should be _new-hatch'd to the woful time_, that is, should appear in uncommon numbers, is very consistent with the rest of the prodigies here mentioned, and with the universal disorder into which nature is described as thrown, by the perpetration of this horrid murder. (see 1765, VI, 413, 7) II.iii.117 (452,3) Here, lay Duncan,/His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood] Mr. Pope has endeavoured to improve one of these lines by substituting _goary blood_ for _golden blood_; but it may easily be admitted that he who could on such an occasion talk of _lacing the silyer skin_, would _lace it_ with _golden blood_. No amendment can be made to this line, of which every word is equally faulty, but by a general blot. It is not improbable, that Shakespeare put these forced and unnatural metaphors into the mouth of Macbeth as a mark of artifice and dissimulation, to shew the difference between the studied language of hypocrisy, and the natural outcries of sudden passion. This whole speech so considered, is a remarkable instance of judgment, as it consists entirely of antithesis and metaphor. II.iii.122 (432,5) Unmannerly breech'd with gore] An _unmannerly dagger_, and a _dagger breech'd_, or as in some editions _breech'd with_, gore, are expressions not easily to be understood. There are undoubtedly two faults in this passage, which I have endeavored to take away by reading, --_daggers_ Unmanly drench'd _with gore_:-- _I saw_ drench'd _with the King's blood the fatal daggers, not only instruments of murder but evidence of cowardice_. Each of these words might easily be confounded with that which I have substituted for it, by a hand not exact, a casual blot, or a negligent inspection, [W: Unmanly reech'd] Dr. Warburton has, perhaps, rightly put _reach'd_ for _breech'd_. II.iii.138 (454,8) In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretence I fight Of treasonous malice] _Pretence_ is not act, but _simulation_, a _pretence_ of the traitor, whoever he might be, to suspect some other of the murder. I here fly to the protector of innocence from any charge which, yet _undivulg'd_, the traitor may pretend to fix upon me. II.iii.147 (454,7) This murtherous shaft that's shot,/Hath not yet lighted] The design to fix the murder opon some innocent person, has not yet taken effect. II.iv.15 (456,9) minions of their race] Theobald reads, --_minions of_ the _race_, very probably, and very poetically. II.iv.24 (456,1) What good could they pretend?] To _pretend_ is here to _propose to themselves_, to _set before themselves_ as a motive of action. III.i.7 (457,2) As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine] _Shine_, for appear with all the _lustre_ of _conspicuous_ truth. III.i.56 (459,4) as, it is said,/Mark Anthony's was by Caesar] Though I would not often assume the critic's privilege of being confident where certainty cannot be obtained, nor indulge myself too far in departing from the established reading; yet I cannot but propose the rejection of this passage, which I believe was an insertion of some player, that having so much learning as to discover to what Shakespeare alluded, was not willing that his audience should be less knowing than himself, and has therefore weakened the authour's sense by the intrusion of a remote and useless image into a speech bursting from a man wholly possess'd with his own present condition, and therefore not at leisure to explain his own allusions to himself. If these words are taken away, by which not only the thought but the numbers are injured, the lines of Shakespeare close together without any traces of a breach. _My genius is rebuk'd. He chid the sisters._ This note was written before I was fully acquainted with Shakespeare's manner, and I do not now think it of much weight; for though the words, which I was once willing to eject, seem interpolated, I believe they may still be genuine, and added by the authour in his revision. The authour of the _Revisal_ cannot admit the measure to be faulty. There is only one foot, he says, put for another. This is one of the effects of literature in minds not naturally perspicacious. Every boy or girl finds the metre imperfect, but the pedant comes to its defence with a tribrachys or an anapaest, and sets it right at once by applying to one language the rules of another. If we may be allowed to change feet, like the old comic writers, it will not be easy to write a line not metrical. To hint this once, is sufficient. (see 1765, VI, 424, 2) III.i.65 (460,5) For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind] [W: 'filed] This mark of contraction is not necessary. To _file_ is in the bishop's _Bible_. III.i.69 (460,6) the common enemy of man] It is always an entertainment to an inquisitive reader, to trace a sentiment to its original source; and therefore, though the term _enemy of man_, applied to the devil, is in itself natural and obvious, yet some may be pleased with being informed, that Shakespeare probably borrowed it from the first lines of the Destruction of Troy, a book which he is known to have read. This expression, however, he might have had in many other places. The word _fiend_ signifies enemy. III.i.71 (461,7) come, Fate, into the list,/And champion me to the utterance!] This passage will be best explained by translating it into the language from whence the only word of difficulty in it is borrowed, "_Que la destinée se rende en lice, et qu'elle me donne un defi a l'outrance_." A challenge or a combat _a l'outrance_, _to extremity_, was a fix'd term in the law of arms, used when the combatants engaged with an _odium internecinum, an intention to destroy each other_, in opposition to trials of skill at festivals, or on other occasions, where the contest was only for reputation or a prize. The sense therefore is, _Let Fate, that has foredoom'd the exaltation of the sons of Banquo, enter the lists against me, with the utmost animosity, in defence of its own decrees, which I will endeavour to invalidate, whatever be the danger_. [Johnson quotes Warburton's note] After the former explication, Dr. Warburton was desirous to seem to do something; and he has therefore made _Fate_ the _marshal_, whom I had made the _champion_, and has left Macbeth to enter the lists without an opponent. III.i.88 (462,9) Are you so gospell'd] Are you of that degree of precise virtue? _Gospeller_ was a name of contempt given by the Papists to the Lollards, the puritans of early times, and the precursors of _protestantism_. III.i.94 (463,1) Showghes] _Showghes_ are probably what we now call _shocks_, demi-wolves, _lyciscae_; dogs bred between wolves and dogs. (1773) III.i.95 (463,2) the valued file] In this speech the word _file_ occurs twice, and seems in both places to have a meaning different from its present use. The expression, _valued file_, evidently means, a list or catalogue of value. A station in the _file_, and not in the worst rank, may mean, a place in the list of manhood, and not in the lowest place. But _file_ seems rather to mean in this place, a post of honour; the first rank, in opposition to the last; a meaning which I have not observed in any other place. (1773) III.i.112 (465,2) So weary with disasters, tug'd with fortune] _Tug'd with fortune_ may be, _tug'd_ or _worried_ by fortune. III.i.130 (465,4) Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time] What is meant by _the spy of the time_, it will be found difficult to explain; and therefore sense will be cheaply gained by a slight alteration.--Macbeth is assuring the assassins that they shall not want directions to find Banquo, and therefore says, _I will_-- _Acquaint you with_ a perfect spy _o' the time_. Accordingly a third murderer joins them afterwards at the place of action. _Perfect_ is _well instructed_, or _well informed_, as in this play, _Though in your state of honour I am_ perfect. though I am _well acquainted_ with your quality and rank. [Warburton explained this as "the critical juncture"] How the _critical juncture_ is the _spy o' the time_ I know not, but I think my own conjecture right. III.ii.38 (467,1) nature's copy's not eternal] The _copy_, the _lease_, by which they hold their lives from nature, has its time of termination limited. III.iii.1 (469,6) But who did bid thee join with us?] The meaning of this abrupt dialogue is this. The _perfect spy_, mentioned by Macbeth in the foregoing scene, has, before they enter upon the stage, given them the directions which were promised at the time of their agreement; yet one of the murderers suborned suspects him of intending to betray them; the other observes, that, by his exact knowledge of _what they were to do_, he appears to be employed by Macbeth, and needs not be mistrusted. III.iv.1 (470,9) You know your own degrees, sit down: at first,/And last the hearty welcome] As this passage stands [sit down:/At first and last], not only the numbers are very imperfect, but the sense, if any can be found, weak and contemptible. The numbers will be improved by reading, --_sit down at first, And last a hearty welcome_. But for _last_ should then be written _next_. I believe the true reading is, _You know your own degrees, sit down_.--_To first And last the hearty welcome_. All of whatever degree, from the highest to the lowest, may be assured that their visit is well received. III.iv.14 (471,1) 'Tis better thee without, than he within] The sense requires that this passage should be read thus: _'Tis better_ thee _without, than_ him _within_. That is, _I am better pleased that the blood of Banquo should be on thy face than in his body_. The authour might mean, _It is better that Banquo's blood were on thy face, than_ he _in this room_. Expressions thus imperfect are common in his works. III.iv.33 (472,2) the feast is sold] The meaning is,--That which ia not _given cheerfully_, cannot be called a _gift_, it is something that must be paid for. (1773) III.iv.57 (473,3) extend his passion] Prolong his suffering; make his fit longer. III.iv.60 (473,4) O proper stuff!] This speech is rather too long for the circumstances in which it is spoken. It had begun better at, _Shame itself_! III.iv.63 (473,5) Oh, these flaws, and starts, (Impostors to true fear,) would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam] _Flaws_, are _sudden gusts_. The authour perhaps wrote, --_Those flaws and starts_, Impostures true to fear _would well become_; _A woman's story_,-- These symptoms of terrour and amazement might better become _impostures true_ only _to fear, might become a coward at the recital of such falsehoods as no man could credit, whose understanding was not weaken'd by his terrours; tales told by a woman over a fire on the authority of her grandam_. III.iv.76 (474,6) Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal] The _gentle weal_, is, the _peaceable community_, the state made quiet and safe by _human statutes_. _Mollia securae peragebant otia gentes_. III.iv.92 (475,7) And all to all] I once thought it should be _hail_ to all, but I now think that the present reading is right. III.iv.105 (475,8) If trembling I inhabit] This is the original reading, which Mr. Pope changed to _inhibit_, which _inhibit_ Dr. Warburton interprets _refuse_. The old reading may stand, at least as well as the emendation. Suppose we read, _If trembling I_ evade _it_. III.iv.110 (476,9) Can such things be,/And overcome us, like a summer's cloud,/Without our special wonder?] [W: Can't] The alteration is introduced by a misinterpretation. The meaning is not that _these things are like a summer-cloud_, but can such wonders as these pass over us without wonder, as a casual summer cloud passes over us. III.iv.112 (477,1) You make me strange/Even to the disposition that I owe] You produce in me an _alienation of mind_, which is probably the expression which our author intended to paraphrase. III.iv.124 (477,2) Augurs, and understood relations] By the word _relation_ is understood the _connection_ of effects with causes; to _understand relations_ as _an angur_, is to know how these things _relate_ to each other, which have no visible combination or dependence. III.iv.141 (479,5) You lack the season of all natures, sleep] I take the meaning to be, _you want sleep_, which _seasons_, or gives the relish to _all nature_. _Indiget somni vitae condimenti_. III.v.24 (480,8) vaporous drop, profound] That is, a drop that has _profound_, _deep_, or _hidden_ qualities. III.v.26 (480,9) slights] Arts; subtle practices. III.vi (481,1) _Enter Lenox, and another Lord_] As this tragedy, like the rest of Shakespeare's, is perhaps overstocked with personages, it is not easy to assign a reason why a nameless character should be introduced here, since nothing is said that might not with equal propriety have been put into the mouth of any other disaffected man. I believe therefore that in the original copy it was written with a very common form of contraction Lenox and An. for which the transcriber, instead of Lenox and Angus, set down Lenox and _another Lord_. The author had indeed been more indebted to the transcriber's fidelity and diligence had he committed no errors of greater importance. III.vi.36 (482,3) and receive free honours] [_Free_ for grateful. WARBURTON.] How can _free_ be _grateful_? It may be either honours _freely bestowed_, not purchased by crimes; or honours _without slavery_, without dread of a tyrant. IV.i (484,5) As this is the chief scene of enchantment in the play, it is proper in this place to observe, with how much judgment Shakespeare has selected all the circumstances of his infernal ceremonies, and how exactly he has conformed to common opinions and traditions: _Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd_. The usual form in which familiar spirits are reported to converse with witches, is that of a cat. A witch, who was tried about half a century before the time of Shakespeare, had a cat named Rutterkin, as the spirit of one of these witches was Grimalkin; and when any mischief was to be done she used to bid Rutterkin _go and fly_, but once when she would have sent Rutterkin to torment a daughter of the countess of Rutland, instead of _going_ or _flying_, he only cried _mew_, from whence she discovered that the lady was out of his power, the power of witches being not universal, but limited, as Shakespeare has taken care to inculcate: _Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost._ The common afflictions which the malice of witches produced were melancholy, fits, and loss of flesh, which are threatened by one of Shakespeare's witches: _Weary sev'n nights, nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine._ It was likewise their practice to destroy the cattle of their neighbours, and the farmers have to this day many ceremonies to secure their cows and other cattle from witchcraft; but they seem to have been most suspected of malice against swine. Shakespeare has accordingly made one of his witches declare that she has been _killing swine_, and Dr. Harsenet observes, that about that time, _a sow could not be ill of the measles, nor a girl of the sullens, but some old woman was charged with witchcraft_. _Toad, that under the cold stone, Days and night has, thirty-one, Swelter'd venom sleeping got; Boil thou first i'the charm'd pot_. Toads have likewise long lain under the reproach of being by some means accessory to witchcraft, for which reason Shakespeare, in the first scene of this play, calls one of the spirits Padocke or Toad, and now takes care to put a toad first into the pot. When Vaninus was seized at Theleuse, there was found at his lodgings _ingens Bufo Vitro inclusus, a great toad shut in a vial_, upon which those that prosecuted him, _Veneficium exprebrabent, charged him_, I suppose, _with witchcraft_. _Fillet of fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bakae: Eye of newt, and toe of frog;-- For a charm, &c_. The propriety of these ingredients may be known by consulting the books _de Viribus Animalium_ and _de Mirabilibus Mundi_, ascribed to Albertus Magnus, in which the reader, who has time and credulity, may discover very wonderful secrets. _Finger of birth-strangled babe, Ditch deliver'd by a drab_;-- It has been already mentioned in the law against witches, that they are supposed to take up dead bodies to use in enchantments, which was confessed by the woman whom king James examined, and who had of a dead body that was divided in one of their assemblies, two fingers for her share. It is observable that Shakespeare, on this great occasion, which involves the fate of a king, multiplies all the circumstanaces of horror. The babe, whose finger is used, must be strangled in its birth; the grease must not only be human, but must have dropped from a gibbet, the gibbet of a murderer; and even the sow, whose blood is used, must have offended nature by devouring her own farrow. These are touches of judgment and genius. _And now about the cauldron sing-- Black spirits and white, Blue spirits and grey, Mingle, mingle, mingle, You that mingle say_. And in a former part, --_weyward sisters, hand in hand,-- Thus do go about, about. Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine. And thrice again to make up nine!_ These two passages I have brought together, because they both seem subject to the objection of too much levity for the solemnity of enchantment, and may both be shewn, by one quotation from Camden's account of Ireland, to be founded upon a practice really observed by the uncivilised natives of that country: "When any one gets a fall, _says the informer of Camden_, he starts up, and, _turning three times to the right_, digs a hole in the earth; for they imagine that there is a spirit in the ground, and if he falls sick in two or three days, they send one of their women that is skilled in that way to the place, where she says, I call thee from the east, west, north, and south, from the groves, the woods, the rivers, and the fens, from the fairies _red, black, white_." There was likewise a book written before the time of Shakespeare, describing, amongst other properties, the _colours_ of spirits. Many other circumstances might be particularised, in which Shakespeare has shown his judgment and his knowledge. IV.i.53 (489,6) yesty waves] That is, _foaming_ or _frothy waves_. IV.i.88 (491,1) the round/And top of sovereignty?] This _round_ is that part of the crown that encircles the head. The _top_ is the ornament that rises above it. IV.i.95 (492,3) Who can impress the forest] i.e. who can command the forest to serve him like a soldier impress'd. (1773) IV.i.97 (492,4) Rebellious head, rise never] Mr. Theobald, who first proposed this change ["head" for "dead"] rightly observes, that _head_ means _host_, or power. --_Douglas and the rebels met, A mighty and a fearful_ head _they are_. And again, _His divisions--are in three heads_. IV.i.113 (493,6) Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls] The expression of Macbeth, that the _crown_ sears _his_ eye-balls, is taken from the method formerly practised of destroying the sight of captives or competitors, by holding a burning bason before the eye, which dried up its humidity. Whence the Italian, _abacinare_, to _blind_. IV.i.113 (493,7) And thy air,/Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:--/A third is like the former] In former editions, --_and thy_ hair, _Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first_:-- _A third is like the former_:-- As Macbeth expected to see a train of kings, and was only enquiring from what race they would proceed, he could not be surprised that the _hair_ of the second was _bound with gold_ like that of the first; he was offended only that the second resembled the first, as the first resembled Banquo, and therefore said, --_and thy_ air, _Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first_. This Dr. Warburton has followed. IV.i.144 (495,2) Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits] To _anticipate_ is here to _prevent_, by taking away the opportunity. IV.ii.9 (496,3) He wants the natural touch] Natural sensibility. He is not touched with natural affection. IV.ii.71 (498,7) To do worse to you, were fell cruelty] To do _worse_ is, to let her and her children be destroyed without warning. IV.iii.2 (500,9) Let us rather/Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,/ Bestride our down-faln birthdom] In former editions, _Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, Bestride our_ downfal birthdoom.--] He who can discover what is meant by him that earnestly exhorts him to _bestride_ his _downfal birth-doom_, is at liberty to adhere to the present text; but it is probable that Shakespeare wrote, --_like good men, Bestride our_ downfaln birthdom-- The allusion is to a man from whom something valuable is about to be taken by violence, and who, that he may defend it without incombrance, lays it on the ground, and stands over it with his weapon in his hand. Our birthdom, or birthright, says he, lies on the ground, let us, like men who are to fight for what is dearest to them, not abandon it, but stand over it and defend it. This is a strong picture of obstinate resolution. So Falstaff says to Hal. _When I am down, if thou wilt_ bestride me, _so_. _Birthdom_ for _birthright_ is formed by the same analogy with _masterdom_ in this play, signifying the _privileges_ or _rights_ of a _master_. Perhaps it might be _birth-dame_ for _mother_; let us stand over our _mother_ that lies bleeding on the ground. IV.iii.19 (501,4) A good and virtuous nature may recoil/In an imperial charge] A good mind may _recede_ from goodness in the execution of a _royal commission_. IV.iii.23 (501,5) Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,/Yet grace must look still so] This is not very clear. The meaning perhaps is this:--_My suspicions cannot injure you, if you be virtuous, by supposing that a traitor may put on your virtuous appearance. I do not say that your virtuous appearance_. _proves you a traitor; for virtue must wear its proper form, though that form be often counterfeited by villany_. IV.iii.26 (502,6) Why in that rawness left you wife and children] Without previous provision, without due preparation, without _maturity_ of counsel. IV.iii.33 (502,7) Wear thou thy wrongs] That is, _Poor country, wear thou thy wrongs_. IV.iii.69 (503,1) Sudden, malicious] [_Sudden_, for capricious. WARBUR.] Rather violent, passionate, hasty. IV.iii.85 (504,2) Than summer seeming lust] When I was younger and bolder I corrected it thus, _Than fume, or seething lust_. that is, Than angry passion, or boiling lust. (1773) IV.iii.135 (506,4) All ready at a point] [W: at appoint] There is no need of change. IV.iii.136 (506,5) and the chance of goodness/Be like our warranted quarrel!] The _chance of goodness_, as it is commonly read, conveys no sense. If there be not some more important errour in the passage, it should at least be pointed thus: --_and the chance, of goodness, Be like our warranted quarrel_!-- That is, may the event be, of the goodness of heaven, [_pro justitia divina_] answerable to the cause. The author of the _Revisal_ conceives the sense of the passage to be rather this: _And may the success of that goodness, which is about to exert itself in my behalf, be such as may be equal to the justice of my quarrel_. But I am inclined to believe that Shakespeare wrote, --and the chance, O goodness, Be like our warranted quarrel!-- This some of his transcribers wrote with a small _o_, which another imagined to mean _of_. If we adopt this reading, the sense will be, _and O thou sovereign Goodness, to whom we now appeal, may our fortune answer to our cause_. (see 1765, VI, 462, 7) IV.iii.170 (508,9) A modern ecstacy] I believe _modern_ is only _foolish_ or _trifling_. IV.iii.196 (509,2), fee-grief] A peculiar sorrow; a grief that hath a single owner. The expression is, at least to our ears, very harsh. IV.iii.216 (511,4) He has no children] It has been observed by an anonymous critic, that this is not said of Macbeth, who had children, but of Malcolm, who having none, supposes a father. V.i.86 (515,8) My mind she has mated] [Conquer'd or subdued. POPE.] Rather astonished, confounded. V.ii.24 (516,1) When all that is within him does condemn/Itself, for being there?] That is, when all the faculties of the mind are employed in self-condemnation. V.iii.1 (516,2) Bring me no more reports] _Tell me not any more of desertions--Let all ny subjects leave me--I am safe till,_ &c. V.iii.8 (517,3) English Epicures] The reproach of Epicurism, on which Mr. Theobald has bestowed a note, is nothing more than a natural invective uttered by an inhabitant of a barren country, against, those who have more opportunities of luxury. V.iii.22 (518,6) my way of life/Is fall'n into the sear] As there is no relation between the _way of life_, and _fallen into the sear_, I am inclined to think that the W is only an M inverted, and that it was originally written, --_my_ May _of life_. _I am now passed from the spring to the autumn of my days, but I am without those comforts that should succeed the spriteliness of bloom, and support me in this melancholy season._ The authour has _May_ in the same sense elsewhere. V.iv.8 (521,1) the confident tyrant/Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure/Our setting down before't] He was _confident_ of success; so _confident_ that he would not fly, but endure their _setting down_ before his castle. V.iv.11 (521,2) For where there is advantage to be given,/ Both more and less have given him the revolt] The impropriety of the expression, _advantage to be given_, and the disagreeable repetition of the word _given_ in the next line, incline me to read, --_where there is_ a 'vantage _to be_ gone, _Both more and less have given him the revolt._ _Advantage or 'vantage_, in the time of Shakespeare, signified _opportunity_. _He shut up himself and his soldiers_, (says Malcolm) _in the castle, because when there is an opportunity to be gone they all desert him_. _More and less_ is the same with _greater and less_. So in the interpolated _Mandeville_, a book of that age, there is a chapter of _India the More and the Less_. V.iv.20 (522,4) arbitrate]--_arbitrate_ is _determine_. V.v.11 (523,3) fell of hair] My hairy part, my _capillitium_. _Fell_ is _skin_. V.v.17 (523,7) She should have dy'd hereafter;/ There would have been a time for such a word] This passage has very justly been suspected of being corrupt. It is not apparent for what _word_ there would have been a _time_, and that there would or would not be a _time_ for any _word_ seems not a consideration of importance sufficient to transport Macbeth into the following exclamation. I read therefore, _She should have dy'd hereafter. There would have been a time for--such a_ world!-- _Tomorrow_, &c. It is a broken speech in which only part of the thought is expressed, and may be paraphrased thus: _The queen is dead_. Macbeth. _Her death should have been deferred to some more peaceful hour; had she liv'd longer_, there would at length have been a time for the _honours due to her as a queen, and that respect which I owe her for her fidelity and love. Such is the_ world--such is the condition of human life, that we always think_ to-morrow _will be happier than to-day, but to-morrow and to-morrow steals over us unenjoyed and unregarded, and we still linger in the same expectation to the moment appointed for our end. All these days, which have thus passed away, have sent multitudes of fools to the grave, who were engrossed by the same dream of future felicity, and, when life was departing from them, were, like me, reckoning on to-morrow_. Such was once my conjecture, but I am now less confident. Macbeth might mean, that there would have been a more convenient _time_ for such a _word_, for such _intelligence_, and so fall into the following reflection. We say we send _word_ when we give intelligence. V.v.21 (524,8) To the last syllable of recorded time] _Recorded time_ seems to signify the time fixed in the decrees of Heaven for the period of life. The _record_ of _futurity_ is indeed no accurate expression, but as we only know transactions past or present, the language of men affords no term for the volumes of prescience, in which future events may be supposed to be written. V.v.23 (524,9) The way to dusty death] _Dusty_ is a very natural epithet. The second folio has, _The way to_ study _death_.-- which Mr. Upton prefers, but it is only an errour by an accidental transposition of the types. V.v.42 (525,2) I pull in resolution, and begin/To doubt the equivocation of the fiend,/ That lies like truth] Though this is the reading of all the editions, yet, as it is a phrase without either example, elegance or propriety, it is surely better to read, _I_ pall _in resolution,-- I languish in my constancy, my confidence begins to forsake as_. It is scarcely necessary to observe how easily _pall_ might be changed into _pull_ by a negligent writer, or mistaken for it by an unskilful printer. With this emendation Dr. Warburton and Mr. Heath concur. (see 1765, VI,478,8) V.viii.9 (529,3) the intrenchant air] That is, air which cannot be cut. V.viii.20 (529,5) That palter with us in a double sense] That _shuffle_ with ambiguous expressions. V.viii.48 (531,7) Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death] This incident is thus related from Henry of Huntingdon by Camden in his _Remains_, from which our authour probably copied it. When Seyward, the martial earl of Northumberland, understood that his son, whom he had sent in service against the Scotchmen, was slain, he demanded whether his wounds were in the fore part or hinder part of his body. When it was answered, in the fore part, he replied, "I am right glad; neither wish I any other death to me or mine." General Observation. This play is deservedly celebrated for the propriety of its fictions, and solemnity, grandeur, and variety of its action; but it has no nice discriminations of character, the events are too great to admit the influence of particular dispositions, and the course of the action necessarily determines the conduct of the agents. The danger of ambition is well described; and I know not whether it may not be said in defence of some parts which now seem improbable, that, in Shakespeare's time, it was necessary to warn credulity against vain and illusive predictions. The passions are directed to their true end. Lady Macbeth is merely detested; and though the courage of Macbeth preserves some esteem, yet every reader rejoices at his fall. Vol. VII CORIOLANUS 1.i.19 (292,1) but they think, we are too dear] They think that the charge of maintaining us is more than we are worth. I.i.23 (292,3) ere we become rakes] It is plain that, in our authour's time, we had the proverb, _as lean as a rake_. Of this proverb the original is obscure. _Rake_ now signifies a _dissolute man_, a man worn out with disease and debauchery. But the signification is, I think, much more modern than the proverb. _Raekel_, in Islandick, is said to mean a _cur-dog_, and this was probably the first use among us of the word _rake_; _as lean as a rake_ is, therefore, as lean as it dog too worthless to be fed. 1.i.94 (294,4) I will venture/To scale't a little more] [Warburton had taken Theobald to task for emending to "stale't", offering two quotations to prove that "scale" meant "apply."] Neither of Dr. Warburton's examples afford a sense congruous to the present occasion. In the passage quoted, to _scale_ may be to _weigh_ and _compare_, but where do we find that _scale_ is to _apply_? If we _scale_ the two criticks, I think Theobald has the advantage. I.i.97 (295,5) fob off our disgraces with a tale] _Disgraces_ are _hardships, injuries_. I.i.104 (295,6) where the other instruments] _Where_ for _whereas_. I.i.112 (296,7) Which ne'er came from the lungs] with a smile not indicating pleasure, but contempt. I.i.120 (296,9) The counsellor heart] The heart was anciently esteemed the seat of prudence. _Homo cordatum_ is a _prudent man_. I.i.163 (297,1) Thou rascal, that art worst in blood, to ruin,/ Lead'st first, to win some 'vantage] I think, we may better read, by an easy change, _Thou rascal that art worst, in blood, to_ ruin [to run] _Lead'st first, to win_, &c. Thou that art the meanest by birth, art the foremost to lead thy fellows _to ruin_, in hope of some advantage. The meaning, however, is perhaps only this, Thou that art a hound, or running dog of the lowest breed, lead'st the pack, when any thing is to be gotten. (see 1765, VI, 493, 1) I.i.172 (298,4) What would you have, ye curs,/ That like not peace, nor war? The one affrights you,/ The other makes you proud] [W: likes] That _to like_ is _to please_, every one knows, but in that sense it is as hard to say why peace should not _like_ the people, as, in the other sense, why the people should not _like_ peace. The truth is, that Coriolanus does not use the two sentences consequentially, but reproaches them with unsteadiness, then with their other occasional vices. I.i.202 (300,6) I'd make a quarry/With thousands] Why a quarry? I suppose, not because he would pile them square, but because he would give them for carrion to the birds of prey. I.i.215 (300,7) To break the heart of generosity] To give the final blow to the _nobles_. _Generosity_ is _high birth_. I.i.231 (301,8) 'tis true, that yon have lately told us./The Volscians are in arms] Coriolanus had been but just told himself that _the Volscians were in arms_. The meaning is, _The intelligence which you gave us some little time ago of the designs of the Volscians is now verified; they are in arms._ I.i.255 (302,8) Your valour puts well forth] That is, You have in this mutiny shewn fair blossoms of valour. I.i.260 (303,9) to gird. To _sneer_, to _gibe_. So Falstaff uses the noun, when he says, _every man has a _gird _at me_. I.i.281 (304,3) in what fashion,/More than his singularity he goes/ Upon this present action] We will learn what he is to do, besides _going himself_; what are his powers, and what is his appointment. I.ii.28 (305,4) for the remove/Bring up your army] [W:'fore they] I do not see the nonsense or impropriety of the old reading. Says the senator to Aufidius, _Go to your troops, we will garrison Corioli_. If the Romans besiege us, bring up your army _to remove them_. If any change should be made, I would read, --_for_ their _remove_. I.iii.16 (307,5) brows bound with oak] The crown given by the Romans to him that saved the life of a citizen, which was accounted more honourable than any other. I.iv.14 (311,9) nor a man that fears you less than he,/That's lesser than a little] The sense requires it to be read, _nor a man that fears you_ more _than he_, Or more probably, _nor a man_ but _fears you less than he, That's lesser than a little_. I.v.5 (314,4) prize their hours] In the first edition it is, _prize their_ hours. I know not who corrected it [to _prize their honours_]. A modern editor, who had made such an improvement, would have spent half a page in ostentation of his sagacity. I.vi.36 (317,6) Ransoming him, or pitying] i.e. _remitting his ransom_. I.vi.61 (318,8) swords advanc'd] That is, swords lifted high. I.vi.83 (319,9) Please you to march,/And four shall quickly draw out my command,/Which men are best inclin'd] I cannot but suspect this passage of corruption. Why should they _march_, that _four_ might select those that were _best inclin'd_? How would their inclinations be known? Who were the _four_ that should select them? Perhaps, we may read, --_Please you to march, And_ fear _shall quickly draw out_ of _my command, Which men are_ least _inclin'd_. It is easy to conceive that, by a little negligence, _fear_ might be changed to _four_, and _least_ to _best_. Let us march, and that fear which incites desertion will free my army from cowards. (see 1765, VI, 512, 1) I.viii.11 (320,1) Wert thou the Hector,/That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny] The Romans boasted themselves descended from the Trojans, how then was Hector the _whip of their progeny_? It must mean the whip with which the Trojans scourged the Greeks, which cannot be but by a very unusual construction, or the authour must have forgotten the original of the Romans; unless _whip_ has some meaning which includes _advantage_ or _superiority_, as we say, _he has the_ whip-hand, for _he has the_ advantage. I.viii.14 (321,2) you have sham'd me/In your condemned seconds] For _condemned_, we may read _contemned_. You have, to my shane, sent me help _which I despise_. I.ix.12 (321,4) Here is the steed, we the caparisons!] This is an odd encomium. The meaning is, _this man performed the action, and we only filled up the show_. I.ii.14 (322,5) a charter to extol] A privilege to praise her own son. I.ix.29 (322,6) Should they not] That is, _not be remembered_. I.ix.72 (325,9) To the fairness of any power] [_Fairness_, for _utmost_. WARE.] I know not how _fairness_ can mean _utmost_. When two engage on _equal_ terms, we say it is _fair_; _fairness_ may therefore be _equality; in proportion equal to my power_. I.ix.76 (325,1) The best] The _chief_ men of Corioli. I.x.5 (326,3) Being a Volsce, be that I am] It may be just observed, that Shakespeare calls the _Volsci, Volsces_, which the modern editors have changed to the modern termination [Volscian]. I mention it here, because here the change has spoiled the measure. _Being a_ Volsce, _be that I am. Condition_. [Steevans restored _Volsce_ in the text.] I.x.17 (326,2) My valour's poison'd,/With only suffering stain by him, for him/ Shall flie out of itself] To mischief him, my valour should _deviate from_ its own native generosity. I.x.25 (327,4) At home, upon my brother's guard] In my own house, with my brother posted to protect him. II.i.8 (328,5) Pray you, who does the wolf love?] When the tribune, in reply to Menenius's remark, on the people's hate of Coriolanus, had observed that even _beasts know their friends_, Menenius asks, _whom does the wolf love_? implying that there are beasts which love nobody, and that among those beasts are the people. II.i.43 (329,6) towards the napes of your necks] With allusion to the fable, which says, that every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him, in which he stows his own. II.i.56 (330,7) one that converses more with the buttock of the night, than with the forehead of the morning] Rather a late lier down than an early riser. II.i.84 (330,1) set up the bloody flag against all patience] That is, declare war against patience. There is not wit enough in this satire to recompense its grossness. II.i.105 (331,2) herdsmen of beastly Plebeians] As kings are called [Greek: poimenes laon]. II.i.115 (331,3) Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee] [W: cup] Shakespeare so often mentions throwing up caps in this play, that Menenius may be well enough supposed to throw up his cap in thanks to Jupiter. II.i.146 (333,4) possest of this?] _Possest_, in our authour's language, is fully informed. II.i.178 (334,6) Which being advanc'd, declines] Volumnia, in her boasting strain, says, that her son to kill his enemy, has nothing to do but to lift his hand up and let it fall. II.i.232 (337,3) Commit the war of white and damask, in/Their nicely gawded cheeks] [W: wars] Has the commentator never heard of roses _contending_ with lilies for the empire of a lady's cheek? The _opposition_ of colours, though not the _commixture_, may be called a war. II.i.235 (338,1) As if that whatsoever God] That is, _as if that God who leads him, whatsoever_ God he be. II.i.241 (338,2) From where he should begin, and end] Perhaps it should be read, _From where he should begin_ t'an _end_.-- II.i.247 (338,3) As he is proud to do't] [I should rather think the author wrote _prone_: because the common reading is scarce sense or English. WARBURTON.] _Proud to do_, is the same as, _proud of doing_, very plain sense, and very common English. II.i.285 (340,4) carry with us ears and eyes] That is, let us observe what passes, but keep our hearts fixed on our design of crushing Coriolanus. II.ii.19 (340,5) he wav'd indifferently] That is, _he would wave indifferently_. II.ii.29 (341,6) supple and courteous to the people; bonnetted] The sense, I think, requires that we should read, _unbonnetted_. Who have risen only by _pulling off their hats_ to the people. _Bonnetted_ may relate to _people_, but not without harshness. II.ii.57 (342,7) Your loving motion toward the common body] Your kind interposition with the common people. II.ii.64 (342,9) That's off, that's off] That is, that is nothing to the purpose. II.ii.82 (343,1) how can he flatter] The reasoning of Menenius is this: How can he be expected to practice flattery to others, who abhors it so much, that he cannot bear it even when offered to himself. II.ii.92 (343,2) When Tarquin made a head for Rome] When Tarquin, who had been expelled, _raised a power_ to recover Rome. II.ii.113 (344,6) every motion/Was tim'd with dying cries] The cries of the slaughter'd regularly followed his motions, as musick and a dancer accompany each ether. II.ii.115 (345,7) The mortal gate] The gate that was made the scene of death. II.ii.127 (345,8) He cannot but with measure fit the honours] That is, no honour will be too great far him; he will show a mind equal to any elevation. II.ii.131 (345,1) rewards His deeds with doing them; and is content To spend his time, to end it] I know not whether my conceit will be approved, but I cannot forbear to think that our author wrote thus. --he _rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend his time, to spend it. To do great acts, for the sake of doing them; to spend his life, for the sake of spending it. II.iii.4 (348,2) We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do] [Warburton saw this as "a ridicule on the Augustine manner of defining _free-will_."] A ridicule may be intended, but the sense is clear enough. _Power_ first signifies _natural power_ or _force_, and then _moral power_ or _right_. Davies has used the same word with great variety of meaning. _Use all thy_ powers _that heavenly_ power _to praise, That gave thee_ power _to do_.-- II.iii.18 (348,3) many-headed multitude] Hanmer reads, _many-headed_ monster, but without necessity. To be _many-headed_ includes _monstrousness_. II.iii.115 (352,7) I will not seal your knowledge] I will not strengthen or compleat your knowledge. The seal is that which gives authenticity to a writing. II.iii.122 (352,8) Why in this woolvish tongue should I stand here To beg of Bob and Dick, that do appear, Their needless vouches?] Why stand I here in this ragged apparel to beg of Bob and Dick, and such others as _make their appearance_ here, their _unnecessary votes_. I rather think we should read [instead of _voucher_], _Their needless_ vouches. But _voucher_ may serve, as it may perhaps signify either the act or the agent. II.iii.122 (352) this woolvish gown] Signifies this _rough hirsute_ gown. II.iii.182 (355,1) ignorant to see't?] [W: "ignorant" means "impotent"] That _ignorant_ at any time has, otherwise than consequentially, the same meaning with _impotent_, I do not know. It has no such meaning in this place. _Were you_ ignorant _to see it_, is, did you want knowledge to discern it. II.iii.208 (356,2) free contempt] That is, with contempt open and unrestrained. II.iii.227 (357,4) Enforce his pride] Object his pride, and enforce the objection. II.iii.258 (358,7) Scaling his present bearing with his past] That is, _weighing_ his past and present behaviour. II.iii.267 (359,8) observe and answer/The vantage of his anger] Mark, catch, and improve the opportunity, which his hasty anger will afford us. III.i.23 (360,9) prank them in authority] _Plume, deck, dignify_ themselves. III.i.58 (362,3) This paltring/Becomes not Rome] That is, this trick of dissimulation, this shuffling. _Let these be no more believ'd That_ palter _with us in a double sense_. Macbeth. III.i.60 (362,4) laid falsly] _Falsly_ for _treacherously_. III.i.66 (362,5) Let them regard me, as I do not flatter, and/ Therein behold themselves] Let them look in the mirror which I hold up to them, a mirror which does not flatter, and see themselves. III.i.89 (363,6) minnows] a _minnow_ is one of the smallest river fish, called in some counties a _pink_. III.i.90 (364,6) 'Twas from the canon] Was contrary to the established role; it was a form of speech to which he has no right. III.i.98 (364,9) Then vail your ignorance] [W: "ignorance" means "impotence."] Hanmer's transposition deserves notice --_If they have power, Let them have cushions by you; if none, awake Your dang'rous lenity; if you are learned, Be not as commmon fools; if you are not, Then vail your ignorance. You are Plebeians_, &c. I neither think the transposition of one editor right, nor the interpretation of the other. The sense is plain enough without supposing _ignorance_ to have any remote or consequential sense. _If this man has power, let the_ ignorance _that gave it him_ vail _or bow down before him._ III.i.101 (365,1) You are Plebeians, If they be Senators: and they are no less, When, both your voices blended, the greatest taste Most palates theirs] These lines may, I think, be made more intelligible by a very slight correction. --_they no less [than senators] When, both your voices blended, the great'st taste_ Must palate _theirs._ When the _taste_ of the _great_, the patricians, must _palate_, must _please_ [or must _try_] that of the plebeians. III.i.124 (366,3) They would not thread the gates] That is, _pass_ them. We yet say, to _thread_ an alley. III.i.129 (366,4) could never be the native] [_Native_ for natural birth. WARBURTON.] _Native_ is here not natural birth, but _natural parent_, or _cause of birth_. But I would read _motive_, which, without any distortion of its meaning, suits the speaker's purpose. III.i.151 (367,7) That love the fundamental part of state/More than you doubt the change of't] To _doubt_ is to _fear_. The meaning is, You whose zeal predominates over your terrours; you who do not so much fear the danger of violent measures, as wish the good to which they are necessary, the preservation of the original constitution of our government. III.i.158 (368,2) Mangles true judgment] _Judgment_ is _judgment_ in its common sense, or the faculty by which right is distinguished from wrong. III.i.159 (368,3) that integrity which should become it] _Integrity_ is in this place _soundness_, uniformity, consistency, in the same sense as Dr. Warburton often uses it, when he mentions the _integrity_ of a metaphor. To _become_, is to _suit_, to _befit_. III.i.221 (370,5) are very poisonous] I read, _are very_ poisons. III.i.242 (371,7) One time will owe another] I know not whether to _owe_ in this place means to _possess by right_, or to _be indebted_. Either sense may be admitted. _One time_, in which the people are seditious, will _give us power_ in some other time; or, _this time_ of the people's predominance will _run them in debt_; that is, will lay them open to the law, and expose them hereafter to more servile subjection. III.i.248 (372,8) Before the tag return] The lowest and most despicable of the populace are still denominated by those a little above them, _Tag, rag, and bobtail_. (1773) III.ii.7 (376,4) I muse] That is, _I wonder. I am at a loss_. III.ii.12 (376,5) my ordinance] My _rank_. III.ii.51 (378,8) Why force you] Why _urge_ you. III.ii.56 (378,9) bastards, and syllables/Of no allowance, to your bosom's truth] I read, _Of no_ alliance,-- therefore _bastards_. Yet _allowance_ may well enough stand, as meaning _legal right, established rank_, or _settled authority_. (see 1765, VI, 566, 7) III.ii.64 (379,1) I am in this/Your wife, your son] I rather think the meaning is, _I am in their_ condition, I am _at stake_, together with _your wife, your son_. III.ii.66 (379,2) our general lowts] Our _common clowns_. III.ii.69 (379,3) that want] The _want_ of their loves. III.ii.71 (379,4) Not what] In this place _not_ seems to signify _not only_. III.ii.77 (379,5) Waving thy head,/With often, thus, correcting thy stout heart] [W: thy hand,/Which soften thus] The correction is ingenious, yet I think it not right. _Head_ or _hand_ is indifferent. The _hand_ is _waved_ to gain attention; the _head_ is shaken in token of sorrow. The word _wave_ suits better to the hand, but in considering the authour's language, too much stress must not be laid on propriety against the copies. I would read thus, --_waving thy head_, With _often, thus, correcting thy stout heart_. That is, _shaking thy head_, and _striking_ thy breast. The alteration is slight, and the gesture recommended not improper. III.ii.99 (381,6) my unbarb'd sconce?] The suppliants of the people used to present themselves to them in sordid and neglected dresses. III.ii.113 (381,8) Which quired with my drum] Which played in concert with my drum. III.ii.116 (382,1) Tent in my cheeks] To _tent_ is _to take up residence_. III.ii.121 (382,2) honour mine own truth] [Greek: Panton de malis aischuneui sauton]. Pythagoras. III.ii.125 (382,3) let/Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear/ Thy dangerous stoutness] This is obscure. Perhaps, she means, Go, _do thy worst; let me rather feel the_ utmost _extremity that thy pride can bring upon us, than live thus in fear of thy dangerous obstinacy_. III.iii.17 (384,3) Insisting on the old prerogative And power in' the truth o' the cause] This is not very easily understood. We might read, --o'er _the truth o' the cause_. III.iii.26 (384,4) and to have his word/Of contradiction] _To have his word of contradiction_ is no more than, _he is used to contradict_; and _to have his word_, that is, _not to be opposed_. We still say of an obstinate disputant, _he will have the last word_. III.iii.29 (384,5) which looks/With us to break his neck] To _look_ is to _wait_ or _expect_. The sense I believe is, _What he has in his heart_ is waiting there _to help us to break his neck_. III.iii.57 (386,8) Rather than envy you] _Envy_ is here taken at large for _malignity_ or ill intention. III.iii.64 (386,9) season'd office] All _office established_ and _settled_ by time, and made familiar to the people by long use. III.iii.96 (387,1) has now at last] Read rather, --has _now at last_ [instead of _as now at last_]. III.iii.97 (387,2) not in the presence] _Not_ stands again for _not only_. III.iii.114 (388,3) My dear wife's estimate] I love my country beyond the rate at which I _value my dear wife_. III.iii.127 (389,4) Have the power still To banish your defenders'; till, at length, Your ignorance, (which finds not, till it feels)] _Still retain the power of banishing your defenders, till your undiscerning folly, which can foresee no consequences, leave none in the city but yourselves, who are always labouring your own destruction._ It is remarkable, that, among the political maxims of the speculative Harrington, there is one which he might have borrowed from this speech. _The people_, says he, _cannot see, but they can feel_. It is not much to the honour of the people, that they have the same character of stupidity from their enemy and their friend. Such was the power of our authour's mind, that he looked through life in all its relations private and civil. IV.i.7 (390,1) Fortune's blows,/When most struck home, being gentle wounded, craves/A noble cunning] This it the ancient and authentick reading. The modern editors have, for _gentle wounded_, silently substituted _gently warded_, and Dr. Warburton has explained _gently_ by _nobly_. It is good to be sure of our authour's words before we go about to explain their meaning. The sense is, When Fortune strikes her hardest blows, to be wounded, and yet continue calm, requires a generous policy. He calls this calmness _cunning_, because it is the effect of reflection and philosophy. Perhaps the first emotions of nature are nearly uniform, and one man differs from another in the power of endurance, as he is better regulated by precept and instruction. _They bore as heroes, but they felt as men_. (see 1765, VI, 577, 9) IV.i.33 (391,3) cautelous baits and practice] By artful and false tricks, and treason. IV.ii.15 (393,6) _Sic._ Are you mankind? _Vol._ Ay, fool; Is that a shame? Note but this fool. Was not a man my father?] The word _mankind_ is used maliciously by the first speaker, and taken perversely by the second. A _mankind_ woman is a woman with the roughness of a man, and, in an aggravated sense, a woman ferocious, violent, and eager to shed blood. In this sense Sicinius asks Volumnia, if she be _mankind_. She takes _mankind_ for a _human creature_, and accordingly cries out, --_Note but this, fool. Was not a man my father?_ IV.ii.18 (394,7) Hadst thou foxship] Hadst thou, fool as thou art, mean cunning enough to banish Coriolanus? IV.iii.9 (395,7) but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue] [W: well appeal'd] I should read, --_is well_ affear'd, That is, _strengthened, attested,_ a word used by our authour. _My title is_ affear'd. Macbeth. To _repeal_ may be _to bring to remembrance_, but _appeal_ has another meaning. IV.iii.48 (397,8) already in the entertainment] That is, tho' not actually encamped, yet already in _pay_. To _entertain_ an army is to take them into pay. IV.iv.22 (398,1) So, with me:-- My birth-place hate I, and my love's upon This enemy's town:--I'll enter: if he slay me] He who reads this [My country have I and my lovers left;/This enemy's town I'll enter] would think that he was reading the lines of Shakespeare: except that Coriolanus, being already in the town, says, he _will enter it_. Yet the old edition exhibits it thus --_So with me. My birth-place have I; and my loves upon This enemic towne; I'll enter if he slay me_, &c. The intermediate line seems to be lost, in which, conformably to his former observation, he says, that _he has_ lost _his birth-place, and his loves upon_ a petty dispute, and is trying his chance in _this enemy town_, he then cries, turning to the house of Anfidius, _I'll enter if he slay me_. I have preferred the common reading, because it is, though faulty, yet intelligible, and the original passage, for want of copies, cannot be restored. IV.v.76 (403,3) a good memory] The Oxford editor, not knowing that _memory_ was used at that time for _memorial_, alters it to _memorial_. IV.v.90 (403,4) A heart of wreak in thee] A heart of resentment. IV.v.91 (403,5) maims/Of shame] That is, disgraceful diminutions of territory. IV.v.207 (406,5) sanctifies himself with's hands] Alluding, improperly, to the act of _crossing_ upon any strange event. IV.v.212 (407,6) He will go, he says, and sowle the porter of Rome gates by the ears] That is, I suppose, drag him down by the ears into the dirt. _Souiller_, Fr. IV.v.214 (407,7) his passage poll'd] That is, _bared, cleared_. IV.v.238 (408,8) full of vent] Full of _rumour_, full of materials for _discourse_. IV.vi.2 (408,1) His remedies are tame i' the present peace] The old reading is, _His remedies are tame, the present peace_. I do not understand either line, but fancy it should be read thus, --_neither need we fear him; His remedies are ta'en, the present peace, And quietness o' the people_,-- The meaning, somewhat harshly expressed, according to our authour's custom, is this: _We need not fear him_, the proper _remedies_ against him _are taken_, by restoring _peace and quietness_. IV.vi.32 (410,2) affecting one sole throne,/Without assistance] That is, without _assessors_; without any other suffrage. IV.vi.51 (411,3) reason with the fellow] That is, have some _talk_ with him. In this sense Shakespeare often uses the word. IV.vi.72 (412,4) can no more atone] To _atone_, in the active sense, is to _reconcile_, and is so used by our authour. To _atone_ here, is, in the neutral sense, to _come to reconciliation_. To _atone_ is to _unite_. IV.vi.85 (412,5) burned in their cement] [W: "cement" for "cincture or inclosure"] _Cement_ has here its common signification. IV.vi.98 (413,5) The breath of garlick-eaters!] To smell of garlick was once such a brand of vulgarity, that garlick was a food forbidden to an ancient order of Spanish knights, mentioned by Guevara. IV.vi.112 (414,7) they charge him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein shew'd like enemies] Their _charge_ or injunction would shew them insensible of his wrongs, and make them _shew like enemies_. I read _shew_, not _shewed, like enemies_. IV.vi.124 (414,8) They'll roar him in again] As they _hooted_ at his departure, they will _roar_ at his return; as he went out with scoffs, he will come back with lamentations. IV.vii.37 (417,1) whether pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether] Ausidius assigns three probable reasons of the miscarriage of Coriolanus; pride, which easily follows an uninterrupted train of success; unskilfulness to regulate the consequences of his own victories; a stubborn uniformity of nature, which could not make the proper transition from the _casque_ or _helmet_ to the _cushion_ or _chair of civil authority_; but acted with the same despotism in peace as in war. IV.vii.48 (418,2) he has a merit,/To choak it in the utterance] He has a merit, for no other purpose than to destroy it by boasting it. IV.vii.55 (418,4) Right's by right fouler] [W: fouled] I believe _rights_, like _strengths_, is a plural noon. I read, _Rights by rights_ founder, _strengths by strengths do fail_. That is, by the exertion of one right another right is lamed. V.i.20 (420,2) It was a bare petition] [_Bare_, for mean, beggarly. WARBURTON.] I believe rather, a petition unsupported, unaided by names that might give it influence. V.i.63 (422,4) I tell you, he does sit in gold] He is inthroned in all the pomp and pride of imperial splendour. [Greek: Chruzothronos Aerae]--Hom. V.i.69 (422,5) Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions] This if apparently wrong. Sir T. Hanmer, and Dr. Warburton after him, read, _Bound with an oath_ not to _yield to_ new _conditions_. They might have read more smoothly, --_to yield no new conditions_. But the whole speech is in confusion, and I suspect something left out. I should read, --_What he would do, He sent in writing after; what he would not, Bound with an oath. To yield to his conditions_. Here is, I think, a chasm. The speaker's purpose seems to be this: _To yield to his conditions_ is ruin, and better cannot be obtained, _so that all hope is vain_. V.ii.10 (424,7) it is lots to blanks] A _lot_ here is a _prize_. V.ii.17 (424,8) For I have ever verify'd my friends, (Of whom he's chief) with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer] [W: narrified] [Hanmer: magnified] If the commentator had given any example of the word _narrify_, the correction would have been not only received, but applauded. Now, since the new word stands without authority, we must try what sense the old one will afford. To _verify_ is _to establish by testimony_. One may say with propriety, he brought false witnesses to verify his title. Shakespeare considered the word with his usual laxity, as importing rather _testimony_ than _truth_, and only meant to say, _I_ bore witness _to my friends with all the size that verity would suffer_. V.ii.45 (426,1) the virginal palms of your daughters] [W: _pasmes_ or _pames_, French for "swooning fits." Warburton also quotes _Tarquin and Lucrece_, "To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs" and emends to "tarnish," from the French, meaning "to dry up," used of springs and rivers.] I have inserted this note, because it contains an apology for many others. It is not denied that many French words were mingled in the time of Elizabeth with our language, which have since been ejected, and that any which are known to have been then in use may be properly recalled when they will help the sense. But when a word is to be admitted, the first question should be, by whom was it ever received? in what book can it be shown? If it cannot be proved to have been in use, the reasons which can justify its reception must be stronger than any critick will often have to bring. Even in this certain emendation, the new word is very liable to contest. I should read, --_and_ perish _springs_. The verb _perish_ is commonly neutral, but in conversation is often used actively, and why not in the works of a writer negligent beyond all others of grammatical niceties? V.ii.60 (427,2) Back, I say, go; lest I let forth your half pint of blood;--back, that's the utmost of your having:--Back] [Warburton emended the punctuation] I believe the meaning never was mistaken, and therefore do not change the reading. V.ii.69 (428,3) guess by my entertainment with him] I read, _Guess_ by _my entertainment with him, if thou standest not i' the state of hanging_ [in place of _guess_ but _my entertainment_]. V.ii.80 (428,4) Though I owe/My revenge properly] Though I have a _peculiar right_ in revenge, in the power of forgiveness the Volacians are conjoined. V.ii.104 (429,5) how we are shent] _Shent_ is _brought to destruction_. V.iii.3 (430,6) how plainly/I have born this business] That is, _how openly, how_ remotely from artifice or concealment. V.iii.39 (431,7) The sorrow, that delivers us thus chang'd,/Makes you think so] Virgilia makes a voluntary misinterpretation of her husband's words. He says, _These eyes are not the same_, meaning, that he saw things with _other eyes_, or other _dispositions_. She lays hold on the word _eyes_, to turn his attention on their present appearance. V.iii.46 (431,8) Now by the jealous queen of heaven] That is, _by Juno_, the guardian of marriage, and consequently the avenger of connubial perfidy. V.iii.64 (432,1) The noble sister of Poplicola] Valeria, methinks, should not have been brought only to fill up the procession without speaking. V.iii.68 (432,2) epitome of yours] I read, --_epitome of you_. _An epitome of you_ which, _enlarged by the commentaries of time_, may equal you in magnitude. V.iii.74 (433,4) every flaw] That is, every _gust_, every _storm_. V.iii.100 (435,2) Constrains them weep, and shake] That is, _constrain_ the eye to _weep_, _and_ the heart to _shake_. V.iii.149 (436,3) the fine strains] The niceties, the refinements. V.iii.159 (436,5) he lets me prate,/Like one i' the stocks] Keep me in a state of ignominy talking to no purpose. V.iii.176 (437,6) Does reason our petition] Does _argue for_ us and our petition. V.iii.201 (438,7) I'll work/Myself a former fortune] I will take advantage of this concession to restore myself to my former credit and power. V.iii.206 (438,8) Come, enter with us,--Ladies, you deserve] [Warburton proposed to give the speech beginning "Ladies, you deserve" to Aufidius] The speech suits Aufidius justly enough, if it had been written for him; but it may, without impropriety, be spoken by Coriolanus: and since the copies give it to him, why should we dispossess him? V.iv.22 (439,1) He sits in state as a thing made for Alexander] In a foregoing note he was said to _sit in gold_. The phrase, _as a thing made for Alexander_, means, _as one made to resemble Alexander_. V.vi.39 (443,2) He wag'd me with his countenance] This is obscure. The meaning, I think, is, he _prescribed_ to me vith an air of authority, and gave me _his countenance_ for _my wages_; thought me sufficiently rewarded with good looks. V.vi.44 (443,3) For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him] This is the point on which I will attack him with my utmost abilities. V.vi.66 (444,4) answering us/With our own charge] That is, _rewarding us with our own expences_; making the cost of the war its recompence. V.vi.125 (446,5) his fame folds in/This orbe o' th' earth] His fame overspreads the world. (447) General Observation. The tragedy of Coriolanus is one of the most amusing of our author's performances. The old man's merriment in Menenius; the lofty lady's dignity in Volumnia; the bridal modesty in Virgilia; the patrician and military haughtiness in Coriolanus; the plebeian malignity and tribunitian insolence in Brutus and Sicinius, make a very pleasing and interesting variety: and the various revolutions of the hero's fortune fill the mind with anxious curiosity. There is, perhaps, too much bustle in the first act, and too little in the last. Vol. VIII JULIUS CAESAR I.i.20 (4,2) _Mar._ What meanest thou by that?] [Theobald gave this speech to Flavius] I have replaced _Marullus_, who might properly enough reply to a saucy sentence directed to his colleague, and to whom the speech was probably given, that he might not stand too long unemployed upon the stage. I.ii.25 (7,5) [_Sennet. Exeunt Caesar and Train_] I have here inserted the word _Sennet_, from the original edition, that I may have an opportunity of retracting a hasty conjecture in one of the marginal directions in _Henry_ VIII. _Sennet_ appears to be a particular tune or mode of martial musick. I.ii.35 (8,6) You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand] _Strange_, is alien, unfamiliar, such as might become a stranger. I.ii.39 (8,7) Vexed I am,/Of late, with passions of some difference] With a fluctation of discordant opinions and desires. I.ii.73 (9,9) To stale with ordinary oaths my love/To every new protester] To invite _every new protestor_ to my affection by the _stale_ or allurement of _customary_ oaths. I.ii.87 (10,1) And I will look on both indifferently] Dr. Warburton has a long note on this occasion, which is very trifling. When _Brutus_ first names _honour_ and _death_, he calmly declares them indifferent; but as the image kindles in his mind, he sets _honour_ above _life_. Is not this natural? I.ii.160 (12,6) eternal devil] I should think that our author wrote rather, _infernal devil_. I.ii.171 (13,7) chew upon this] Consider this at leisure; _ruminate_ on this. I.ii.186 (13,8) Looks with such ferret, and such fiery eyes] A ferret has red eyes. I.ii.268 (16,2) a man of any occupation] Had I been a mechanick, one of the Plebeians to whom he offered his threat. I.ii.313 (17,3) Thy honourable metal may be wrought/From what it is dispos'd] The best _metal_ or _temper_ may be worked into qualities contrary to its original constitution. I.ii.318 (17,4) If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius,/He should not humour me] The meaning, I think, is this, _Caesar loves Brutus, but if Brutus and I were to change places, his love should not humour me_, should not take hold of my affection, so as to make me forget my principles. I.iii.1 (18,5) brought you Caesar home?] Did you attend Caesar home? I.iii.3 (18,6) sway of earth] The whole weight or _momentum_ of this globe. I.iii.21 (19,7) Who glar'd upon me] The first edition reads, _Who_ glaz'd _upon me_,-- Perhaps, _Who_ gaz'd _upon me_. I.iii.64 (20,8) Why birds, and beasts, from quality and kind] That is, Why they _deviate_ from quality and nature. This line might perhaps be more properly placed after the next line. _Why birds, and beasts, from quality and kind; Why all these things change from their ordinance._ I.iii.65 (20,9) and children calculate] [Shakespeare, with his usual liberty, employs the _species_ [calculate] for the _genus_ foretel]. WARB.] Shakespeare found the liberty established. _To calculate a nativity_, is the technical term. I.iii.l14 (22,2) My answer must be made] I shall be called to account, and must _answer_ as for seditious words. I.iii.117 (22,3) Hold my hand] Is the same as, _Here's my hand_. I.iii.118 (22,4) Be factious for redress] _Factious_ seems here to mean _active_. I.iii.129 (23,5) It favours, like the work] The old edition reads, It favours, _like the work_-- I think we should read, In favour's, _like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible._ _Favour_ is _look, countenance, appearance_. (rev. 1778, VIII, 25, 7) II.i.19 (25,6) Remorse from power] [_Remorse_, for mercy. WARB.] _Remorse_ (says the Author of the _Ravisal_) signifies the conscious uneasiness arising from a sense of having done wrong; to extinguish which feeling, nothing hath so great a tendency as absolute uncontrouled power. I think Warbuton right. (1773) II.i.21 (25,7) common proof] Common experiment. II.i.26 (25,8) base degrees] Low steps. II.i.33 (26,9) as his kind] According to his nature. II.i.63 (27,3) Between the acting of a dreadful thing, And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius, and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection] The [Greek: deinon] of the Greek critics does not, I think, mean sentiments which _raise fear_, more than _wonder_, or any other of the tumultuous passions; [Greek: to deinon] is that which _strikes_, which _astonishes_, with the idea either of some great subject, or of the author's abilities. Dr. Warburton'a pompous criticism might well have been shortened. The _genius_ is not the _genius_ of a _kingdom_, nor are the _instruments, conspirators_. Shakespeare is describing what passes in a single bosom, the _insurrection_ which a conspirator feels agitating the _little kingdom_ of his own mind; when the _Genius_, or power that watches for his protection, and the _mortal instruments_, the passions, which excite him to a deed of honour and danger, are in council and debate; when the desire of action and the care of safety, keep the mind in continual fluctuation and disturbance. II.i.76 (29,5) any mark of favour] Any distinction of countenance. II.i.83 (30,6) For if thou path thy native semblance on] If thou _walk_ in thy true form. II.i.114 (31,7) No, not an oath. If not the face of men] Dr. Warburten would read _fate of men_; but his elaborate emendation is, I think, erroneous. _The_ face _of men_ is the _countenance_, the _regard_, the _esteem_ of the publick; in other terms, _honour_ and _reputation_; or _the face of men_ may mean the dejected look of the people. He reads, with the other modern editions, --_If_ that _the face of men_, but the old reading is, --_if_ not _the face_, &c. II.i.129 (32,1) Swear priests, and cowards, and men cautelous] This is imitated by Utway, _When you would bind me, is there need of oaths?_ &c. Venice preserved. II.i.187 (34,2) take thought] That is, _turn_ melancholy. II.i.196 (34,3) Quite from the main opinion he held once] _Main opinion_, is nothing more than _leading, fixed, predominant opinion_. II.i.225 (36,6) Let not our looks put on our purposes] Let not our faces _put on_, that is, _wear_ or _show_ our designs. II.ii.36 (42,3) death, a necessary end,/Will come, when it will come] This is a sentence derived from the Stoical doctrine of predestination, and is therefore improper in the mouth of Caesar. II.ii.41 (42,4) The Gods do this in shame of cowardice:/Caesar should be a beast without a heart] The ancients did not place courage but wisdom in the heart. II.ii.88 (44,7) and that great men shall press/For tinctures, stains, relicks, and cognisance] [Warburton conjectured some lines lost] I am not of opinion that any thing is lost, and have therefore marked no omission. This speech, which is intentionally pompous, is somewhat confused. There are two allusions; one to coats armorial, to which princes make additions, or give new _tinctures_, and new marks of _cognisance_; the other to martyrs, whose reliques are preserved with veneration. The Romans, says Brutus, all come to you as to a saint, for reliques, as to a prince, for honours. II.ii.104 (45,8) And reason to my love is liable] And reason, or propriety of conduct and language, is subordinate to my love. II.iii.16 (47,9) the fates with traitors do contrive] The fates join with traitors in contriving thy destruction. III.i.38 (51,2) And turn pre-ordinance and first decree/Into the lane of children] I do not veil understand what is meant by the _lane_ of children. I should read, the _law_ of children. It was, _change pre-ordinance and decree into the law of children_; into such slight determinations as every start of will would alter. _Lane_ and _laws_ in some manuscripts are not easily distinguished. III.i.67 (52,4) apprehensive] Susceptible of fear, or other passions. III.i.68 (52,5) but one] One, and only one. III.i.69 (52,6) holds on his rank] Perhaps, _holds on his_ race; continues his course. We commonly say, To _hold a rank_, and To _hold on_ a _course_ or _way_. III.i.75 (52,7) Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?] I would read, Do _not Brutus bootless kneel_! III.i.152 (55,9) Who else must be let blood, who else is rank] Who else may be supposed to have _overtopped_ his equals, and _grown too high_ for the public safety. III.i.257 (59,3) in the tide of times] That is, in the course of times. III.i.262 (60,4) A curse shall light upon the limbs of men] Hanmer reads, --kind _of men_. I rather think it should be, --_the_ lives _of men_. unless we read, --these lymms _of men_; That is, _these bloodhounds_ of men. The uncommonness of the word _lymm_ easily made the change. III.i.273 (60,5) Cry _Havock_] A learned correspondent has informed me, that, in the military operations of old times, _havock_ was the word by which declaration was made, that no quarter should be given. In a tract intitled, _The Office of the Conestable & Mareschall in the Tyme of Werre_, contained in the Black Book of the Admiralty, there is the following chapter: "The peyne of hym that crieth _havock_ and of them that followeth hym. etit. v." "Item Si quis inventus fuerit qui clamorem inceperit qui vecatur _Havok_." "Also that no man be so hardy to crye _Havok_ upon peyne that he that is begynner shal be deede therefore: & the remanent that doo the same or folow shall lose their horse & harneis: and the persones of such as foloweth & escrien shal be under arrest of the Conestable & Mareschall warde unto tyme that they have made fyn; & founde suretie no morr to offende; & his body in prison at the Kyng wylle.--" III.ii.116 (66,8) Caesar has had great wrong] [Pope has a rather ridiculous note on this] I have inserted this note, because it is Pope's, for it is otherwise of no value. It is strange that he should so much forget the date of the copy before him, as to think it not printed in Jonson's time. (see 1765, VII, 81, 1) III.ii.126 (68,9) And none so poor] The meanest man is now too high to do reverence to Caesar. III.ii.192 (68,2) And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!] [Warburton suggested transposing the second and third of these lines] The image seems to be, that the blood of Caesar flew upon the statue, and trickled down it. And the exclamation, _O what a fall was there--_ follows better after _-great Caesar fell,_ than with a line interposed, (see 1765, VII, 64, 3) III.ii.226 (70,4) For I have neither writ] The old copy reads instead of _wit_, _For I have neither_ writ, _nor words,--_ which may mean, I have no _penned_ and premeditated oration. IV.ii.4 (77,1 Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers, Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done, undone] [W: own charge] The arguments for the change proposed are insufficient. Brutus could not but know whether the wrongs committed were done by those who were immediately under the command of Cassius, or those under his officers. The answer of Brutus to the servant is only an act of artful civility; his question to Lucilius proves, that his suspicion still continued. Yet I cannot but suspect a corruption, and would read, _In his own change, or by ill_ offices. That is, either _changing_ his inclination _of himself_, or _by_ the _ill offices_ and bad influences of others. (see 1765, VII, 71, 8) IV.iii.30 (80,4) To hedge me in] That is, to limit my authority by your direction or censure. IV.iii.32 (80,5) To make conditions] That is, to know on what terms it is fit to confer the offices which are at my disposal. IV.iii.86 (82,7) A friend should bear a friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. _Bru._ I do not, till you practise them on me] The meaning is this; I do not look for your faults, I only see them, and mention them with vehemence, when you force them into my notice, _by practising them on me._ (see 1765, VII, 77, 6) IV.iii.100 (53,8) There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth] [W: thou needst a Roman's,] I am not satisfied with the change proposed, yet cannot deny, that the words, as they now stand, require some interpretation. I think he means only, that he is so far from Avarice, when the cause of his country requires liberality, that if any man should wish for his heart, he would not need enforce his desire any otherwise, than by showing that he was a Roman. V.i.5 (92,5) They mean to warn as at Philippi here] To warn, seems to mean here the same as to alarm. Hanmer reads, _They mean to_ wage _us_. V.i.43 (93,6) While damned Casca, like a cur behind,/Struck Caesar on the neck] Casca struck Caesar on the neck, coming _like_ a degenerate _cur behind him._ V.i.100 (96,2) Even by the rule of that philosophy, By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself; (I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life:) arming myself with patience] Dr. Warburton thinks, that in this speech something is lost, but there needed only a parenthesis to clear it. The construction is this; I an determined to act according to that philosophy which directed me to blame the suicide of Cato, arming myself with patience. V.iv.12 (102,6) _Luc._ Only I yield to die:/There is so much, that then wilt kill me straight] Dr. Warburton has been much inclined to find _lacunae_, or passages broken by omission, throughout this play. I think he has been always mistaken. The soldier here says, _Yield, or thou diest_. Lucilius replies, I yield only on this condition, that I may die; here is so much gold as thou seest in my hand, which I offer thee as a reward for speedy death. What now is there wanting? (106) General Observation. Of this tragedy many particular passages deserve regard, and the contention and reconcilement of Brutus and Cassius is universally celebrated; but I have never been strongly agitated in perusing it, and think it somewhat cold and unaffecting, compared with some other of Shakespeare's plays; his adherence to the real story, and to Roman manners, seems to have impeded the natural vigour of his genius. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA I.i.9 (110,2) And is become the bellows, and the fan,/To cool a gypsy's lust] In this passage something seems to be wanting. The bellows and fan being commonly used for contrary purposes, were probably opposed by the author, who might perhaps have written, _--is become the bellows, and the fan_, To kindle and _to cool a gypsy's lust_. I.i.10 (110,3) gypsy's lust] Gypsy is here used both in the original meaning for an _Egyptian_, and in its accidental sense for a _bad woman_. 1.i.17 (110,6) Then must thou needs find out new heaven] Thou must set the boundary of my love at a greater distance than the present visible universe affords. 1.i.18 (110,7) The sum] Be brief, _sum_ thy business in a few words. I.i.33 (111,8) and the wide arch/Of the rang'd empire fall!] [Taken from the Roman custom of raising triumphal arches to perpetuate their victories. Extremely noble. WARBURTON.] I am in doubt whether Shakespeare had any idea but of a fabrick standing on pillars. The later editions have all printed the _raised_ empire, for the _ranged_ empire, as it was first given, (see 1765, VII, 107, 8) I.i.42 (112,1) Antony Will be himself. _Ant._ But stirr'd by Cleopatra] _But_, in this passage, seems to have the old Saxon signification of _without, unless, except. Antony_, says the queen, _will recollect his thoughts_. Unless _kept_, he replies, _in commotion by Cleopatra_. (see 1765, VII, 108,1) I.ii.5 (113,2) change his horns with garlands] [W: charge] Sir Thomas Hanmer reads, not improbably, _change_ for _horns_ his _garlands_. I am in doubt, whether to _change_ is not merely to _dress_, or _to dress with changes of_ garlands. I.ii.23 (114,3) I had rather heat my liver] To know why the lady is so averse from _heating_ her _liver_, it must be remembered, that a heated liver is supposed to make a pimpled face. I.ii.35 (114,5) Then, belike, my children shall have no names] If I have already had the best of my fortune, then I suppose _I shall never name children_, that is, I am never to be married. However, tell me the truth, tell me, _how many boys and wenches_? 1.ii.38 (114,6) If every of your wishes had a womb, and foretel every wish, a million] [W: fertil ev'ry] For _foretel_, in ancient editions, the latter copies have _foretold_. _Foretel_ favours the emendation, which is made with great acuteness; yet the original reading may, I think, stand. _If you had as many wombs as you will have wishes; and_ I should _foretel all those wishes, I should foretel a million of children._ It is an ellipsis very frequent in conversation; _I should shame you, and tell all_; that is, _and if I should_ tell all. _And_ is for _and if_, which was anciently, and is still provincially, used for _if_. I.ii.105 (117,8) extended Asia] To _extend_, is a term used for to _seize_; I know not whether that be not the sense here. I.ii.113 (118,9) Oh, when we bring forth weeds,/When our quick winds lie still] The sense is, that man, not agitated by censure, like soil not ventilated by _quick winds_, produces more evil than good. I.ii.128 (118,1) the present pleasure, By revolution lowring, does become The opposite of itself] [The allusion is to the sun's diurnal course; which rising in the _east_, and _by revolution lowering_, or setting in the _west_, becomes _the opposite of itself_. WARB.] This is an obscure passage. The explanation which Dr. Warburton has offered is such, that I can add nothing to it; yet perhaps Shakespeare, who was less learned than his commentator, meant only, that our pleasures, as they are _revolved_ in the mind, turn to pain. I.ii.146 (119,3) upon far poorer moment] For less reason; upon meaner motives. I.ii.169 (120,4) It shews to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein] I have printed this after the original, which, though harsh and obscure, I know not how to amend. Sir Tho. Hanmer reads, They shew _to man the tailors of the earth comforting_ him therein. I think the passage, with somewhat less alteration, for alteration is always dangerous, may stand thus; _It shews to_ men _the tailors of the earth, comforting_ them, &c. I.ii.187 (121,6) more urgent touches] Things that touch me more sensibly, more pressing motives. I.ii.190 (121,7) Petition us at home] Wish us at home; call for us to reside at home. I.ii.201 (121,9) Say, our pleasure To such whose places under us, requires Our quick remove from hence] This is hardly sense. I believe we should read, Their _quick remove from hence_. Tell our design of going away to those, who being by their places obliged to attend us, must remove in haste. I.iii.3 (122,1) I did not send you] You must go as if you came without my order or knowledge. I.iii.37 (123,2) a race of heaven] [i.e. had a smack or flavour of heaven. WARB.] This word is well explained by Dr. Warburton; the _race_ of wine is the taste of the woil. Sir T. Hanmer, not understanding the word, reads, _ray_. I.iii.44 (124,3) Remains in use] The poet seems to allude to the legal distinction between the _use_ and _absolute possession_. I.iii.54 (124,4) should safe my going] [T: salve] Mr. Upton reads, I think rightly, --_safe_ my going. I.iii.62 (125,5) O most false love! Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water?] Alluding to the lachrymatory vials, or bottles of tears, which the Romans sometimes put into the urn of a friend. I.iii.77 (125,6) the tears/Belong to Egypt] To me, the queen of Egypt. I.iii.90 (126,7) Oh, ny oblivion is a very Antony,/And I am all forgotten] [The plain meaning is, _My forgetfulness makes me forget myself_. WARBURTON.] [Hanmer explained "all forgotten" as "apt to forget everything"] I cannot understand the learned critic's explanation. It appears to me, that she should rather have said, _O my_ remembrance _is a very_ Antony, _And I am all forgotten._ It was her memory, not her oblivion, that, like Antony, vas forgetting and deserting her. I think a slight change will restore the passage. The queen, having something to say, which she is not able, or would not seem able to recollect, cries out, _O my oblivion_!--'Tis _a very Antony_. The thought of which I was in quest is a very Antony, is treacherous and fugitive, and has irrevocably left me, _And I am all forgotten._ If this reading stand, I think the explanation of Hanmer must be received, (see 1765, VII, 122, 6) I.iv.3 (127,9) One great competitor] Perhaps, _Our_ great competitor. I.iv.12 (128,1) as the spots of heaven,/More fiery by night's blackness] If by spots are meant stars, as night has no other fiery spots, the comparison is forced and harsh, stars having been always supposed to beautify the night; nor do I comprehend what there is in the counter-part of this simile, which answers to night's blackness. Hanmer reads, --_spots_ on ermine Or fires, _by night's blackness_. I.iv.14 (128,2) purchas'd] Procured by his own fault or endeavour. I.iv.21 (128,3) say, this becomes him, (As his composure must be rare, indeed, Whom these things cannot blemish] This seems inconsequent. I read _And his composure_, &c. _Grant that this becomes him_, and _if it can become him, he must have in him something very uncommon_; yet, _&c._ I.iv.25 (128,4) So great weight in his lightness] The word _light_ it one of Shakespeare's favourite play-things. The sense is, His trifling levity throws so much burden upon us. I.iv.25 (129,5) If he fill'd His vacancy with his voluptuousness, Full surfeits, and the dryness of his bones, Call on him for't] _Call on him_, is, _visit him_. Says Caesar, _If Antony followed his debaucheries at a time of leisure, I should leave him to be punished by their natural consequences, by_ surfeits _and_ dry bones. I.iv.31 (129,6) boys; who being mature in knowledge] For this Hanmer, who thought the _maturity_ of a _boy_ an inconsistent idea, has put, --_who_, immature _in knowledge_, but the words _experience_ and _judgment_ require that we read _mature_; though Dr. Warburton has received the emendation. By _boys mature in knowledge_, are meant, _boys old enough to know their duty_. I.iv.38 (129,7) he is belov'd of these/That only have fear'd Caesar] Those whom not _love_ but _fear_ made adherents to Caesar, now shew their affection for Pompey. I.iv.49 (130,2) which they ear] To _ear_, is to _plow_; a common metaphor. I.iv.52 (130,3) Lack blood to think on't] Turn pale at the thought of it. I.v.4 (132,5) mandragora] A plant of which the infusion was supposed to procure sleep. Shakespeare mentions it in _Othello_: _Not poppy, nor_ mandragora, _Can ever med'cine thee to that sweet sleep_. I.v.38 (133,8) that great medicine hath/With his tinct gilded thee] Alluding to the philosopher's stone, which, by its touch, converts base metal into gold. The alchemists call the matter, whatever it be, by which they perform transmutation, a _medicine_. I.v.48 (134,9) arm-gaunt steed] [i.e. his steed worn lean and thin by much service in war. So Fairfax, _His_ stall-worn _steed the champion stout bestrode_. WARB.] On this note Mr. Edwards has been very lavish of his pleasantry, and indeed has justly censured the misquotation of _stall-worn_, for _stall-worth_, which means _strong_, but makes no attempt to explain the word in the play. Mr. Seyward, in his preface to Beaumont, has very elaborately endeavoured to prove, that an _arm-gaunt_ steed is a steed with _lean shoulders_. _Arm_ is the Teutonick word for _want_, or _poverty_. _Arm-gaunt_ may be therefore an old word, signifying, _lean_ for _want_, ill fed. Edwards's observation, that a worn-out horse is not proper for Atlas to mount in battle, is impertinent; the horse here mentioned seems to be a post horse, rather than a war horse. Yet as _arm-gaunt_ seems not intended to imply any defect, it perhaps means, a horse so slender that a man might clasp him, and therefore formed for expedition. Hanmer reads, --_arm-girt steed_. I.v.50 (134,1) Was beastly dumb by him] Mr. Theobald reads _dumb'd_, put to silence. _Alexas means_, (says he) _the horse made such a neighing, that if he had spoke he could not have been heard_. I.v.76 (136,3) Get me ink and paper: he shall have every day/ A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Aegypt] By sending out messengers. II.i (136,4) _Enter Pompey_, _Menecrates_, _and Menas_] The persons are so named in the first edition; but I know not why Menecrates appears; Menas can do all without him. II.i.4 (136,5) While we are suitors to their throne, decays/The thing we sue for] [W: delays] It is not always prudent to be too hasty in exclamation; the reading which Dr. Warburton rejects as _nonsense_, is in my opinion right; if _delay_ be what they sue for, they have it, and the consolation offered becomes superfluous. The meaning is, _While we are praying_, _the thing for which we pray_ is losing its value. II.i.38 (138,8) The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony] [Theobald emended "near lust-wearied" to "ne'er-lust-wearied"] Could it be imagined, after this swelling exultation, that the first edition stands literally thus, _The_ neere _lust wearied Antony_. II.i.45 (139,9) square] That is, quarrel. II.i.51 (139,1) Our lives upon] This play is not divided into acts by the authour or first editors, and therefore the present division may be altered at pleasure. I think the first act may be commodiously continued to this place, and the second act opened with the interview of the chief persons, and a change of the state of action. Yet it must be confessed, that it is of small importance, where these unconnected and desultory scenes are interrupted. II.ii.7 (140,2) Were I the wearer of Antonius' beard,/I would not shav't to-day] I believe he means, _I would meet him undressed_, _without shew of respect_. II.ii.25 (141,3) Nor curstness grow to the matter] Let not _ill-humour_ be added to the real _subject_ of our difference. II.ii.28 (141,4) _Caes_. Sit./_Ant_. Sit, sir!] [Antony appears to be jealous of a circumstance which seemed to indicate a consciousness of superiority in his too successful partner in power; and accordingly resents the invitation of Caesar to be seated: Caesar answers, _Nay then_--i.e. _if you are so ready to resent what I meant an act of civility, there can be no reason to suppose you have temper enough for the business on which at present we are met_. STEEVENS.] The following circumstance may serve to strengthen Mr. Steevens's opinion: When the fictitious Sebastian made his appearance in Europe, he came to a conference with the Conde de Lemos; to whom, after the firat exchange of civilities, he said, _Conde de Lemos, be covered_. And being asked by that nobleman, by what pretences he laid claim to the superiority expressed by such permission, he replied, I do it by right of my birth; I am Sebastian. (1773) II.ii.43 (142,5) their contestation/Was theam for you, you were the word of war] [W: theam'd] I am neither satisfied with the reading nor the emendation; _theam'd_ is, I think, a word unauthorised, and very harsh. Perhaps we may read, --_their contestation_ Had _theme_ from _you_, _you were the word o' th' war_. _The dispute derived its subject from you_. It may be corrected by mere transposition, --_their contestation_ You were theme for, _you were the word_. II.ii.51 (143,8) Having alike your cause?] The meaning seems to be, _having the same cause as you to be offended with me_. But why, because he was offended with Antony, should he make war upon Caesar? May it not be read thus, --_Did he not rather Discredit my authority with yours, And make the wars alike against my stomach_, Hating _alike_ our _cause_? II.ii.53 (143,9) As matter whole you have not to make it with] The original copy reads, _As matter whole you_ have _to make it with_. Without doubt erroneously; I therefore only observe it, that the reader may more readily admit the liberties which the editors of this authour's works have necessarily taken. II.ii.61 (144,1) fronted] i.e. _opposed_. II.ii.85 (145,4) The honour's sacred which he talks on now,/Supposing that I lack'd it] [_Sacred_, for unbroken, unviolated. WARB.] Dr. Warburton seems to understand this passage thus; _The honour which he_ talks _of me as_ lacking, _is_ unviolated, _I never lacked it_. This may perhaps be the true meaning, but before I read the note, I understood it thus: Lepidus interrupts Caesar, on the supposition that what he is about to say will be too harsh to be endured by Antony; to which Antony replies, _No, Lepidus, let him speak, the security of_ honour on which he now speaks, _on which this conference is held now_, is sacred, _even_ supposing that I lacked _honour_ before. II.ii.112 (146,5) your considerate stone] This line is passed by all the editors, as if they understood it, and believed it universally, intelligible. I cannot find in it any very obvious, and hardly any possible meaning. I would therefore read, _Go to then_, you _considerate_ ones. You, who dislike my frankness and temerity of speech, and are so _considerate_ and discreet, _go to_, do your on business. II.ii.113 (146,6) I do not much dislike the matter, but/The manner of his speech] I do not, says Caesar, think the man wrong, but too free of him interposition; _for't cannot be, we shall remain in friendship: yet if it were possible, I would endeavour it_. II.ii.123 (147,7) your reproof/Were well deserv'd] In the old edition, --_your_ proof _Were well deserv'd_-- Which Mr. Theobald, with his usual triumph, changes to _approof_, which he explains, _allowance_. Dr. Warburton inserted _reproof_ very properly into Hanmer's edition, but forgot it in his own. II.ii.159 (148,8) Lest my remembrance suffer ill report] Lest I be thought too willing to forget benefits, I must barely return him thanks, and then I will defy him. II.ii.210 (150,1) And what they undid, did] It might be read less harshly, _And what they did_, undid. II.ii.212 (150,2) tended her i' the eyes] Perhaps _tended her_ by th' _eyes_, discovered her will by her eyes. II.iii.21 (153,6) thy angel/Becomes a Fear] Mr.Uptan reads, _Becomes_ afear'd,-- The common reading is more poetical. II.iii.37 (154,7) his quails ever/Beat mine] The ancients used to match quails as we match cocks. II.iii.38 (154,8) inhoop'd, at odds] Thus the old copy. _Inhoop'd_ is _inclosed, confined_, that they may fight. The modern editions read, _Beat mine_, in whoop'd-_at odds_.-- II.v.1 (155,9) musick, moody food] [The _mood_ is the _mind_, or _mental disposition_. Van Haaren's panegyrick on the English begins, _Groot-moedig Volk, great-minded nation_.] Perhaps here is a poor jest intended between _mood_ the _mind_ and _moods_ of musick. II.v.41 (l57,4) Not like a formal man] [_Formal_, for ordinary. WARB.] Rather decent, regular. II.v.103 (161,8) Thou art not what thou'rt sure of!] For this, which is not easily understood, Sir Thomas Hanmer has given, _That_ say'st but _what thou'rt sure of!_ I am not satisfied with the change, which, though it affords sense, exhibits little spirit. I fancy the line consists only of abrupt starts. _Oh that his fault should make a knave of thee_, That art--not what?--Thou'rt sure on't.--Get thee hence. _That his fault should make a knave of thee that art_--but what _shall I say thou art not_? Thou art then sure of _this marriage._--Get thee hence. Dr. Warburton has received Sir T. Hanmer's emendation. II.v.115 (161,9) Let him for ever go] She is now talking in broken sentences, not of the messenger, but Antony. II.vi.24 (163,2) Thou canst not fear us] Thou canst not affright us with thy numerous navy. II.vi.28 (163,3) But since the cuckow builds not for himself] Since, like the cuckow, that seizes the nests of other birds, you have invaded a house which you could not build, keep it while you can. II.vii.1 (167,6) some o' their plants] _Plants_, besides its common meaning, is here used for the _foot_, from the Latin. II.vii.14 (167,9) a partizan] A pike. II.vii.16 (167,1) To be call'd into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in't, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks] This speech seems to be mutilated; to supply the deficiencies is impossible, but perhaps the sense was originally approaching to this. _To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in it_, is a very ignominious state; great offices _are the holes where eyes should be, which_, if eyes be wanting, _pitifully disaster the cheeks_. II.vii.88 (170,2) thy pall'd fortunes] _Palled_, is vapid, past its time of excellence; _palled_ wine, is wine that has lost its original spriteliness. II.vii.102 (171,3) Strike the vessels] Try whether the casks sound as empty. II.vii.116 (171,4) The holding every man shall bear] Every man shall accompany the chorus by drumming on his sides, in token of concurrence and applause. [Theobald had emended "beat" to "bear"] (1773) III.i.1 (173,6) Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck] _Struck_ alludes to darting. Thou whose darts have so often struck others, art struck now thyself. (1773) III.ii.12 (175,8) Arabian bird!] The phoenix. III.ii.16 (176,9) Ho! hearts, tongues, figure, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number, ho!] Not only the tautology of _bards_ and _poets_, but the want of a correspondent action for the _poet_, whose business in the next line is only to _number_, makes me suspect some fault in this passage, which I know not how to mend. III.ii.26 (176,1) as my furthest bond] As I will venture the greatest pledge of security, on the trial of thy conduct. III.ii.40 (177,1) The elements be kind to thee, and make/Thy spirits all of comfort!] This is obscure. It seems to mean, _May the different_ elements _of the body, or principles of life, maintain such proportion and harmony as may keep you cheerful_. III.iv.26 (182,7) I'll raise the preparation of a war/Shall stain your brother] [T: strain] I do not see but _stain_ may be allowed to remain unaltered, meaning no more than _shame_ or _disgrace_. III.iv.30 (182,8) Wars 'twixt you 'twain would be/As if the world should cleave] The sense is, that war between Caesar and Antony would engage the world between them, and that the slaughter would be great in so extensive a commotion. III.v.8 (183,9) rivality] Equal rank. III.v.11 (183,1) Upon his own appeal] To _appeal_, in Shakespeare, is to _accuse_; Caesar seized Lepidus without any other proof than Caesar's accusation. III.v.21 (184,3) More, Domitius] I have something _more_ to tell you, which I might have told at first, and delayed my news. Antony requires your presence. III.vi.9 (184,4) made her/Of Lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia./Absolute queen] For _Lydia_, Mr. Upton, from Plutarch, has restored _Lybia_. III.vi.68-75 (187,6) Mr. Upton remarks, that there are some errours in this enumeration of the auxiliary kings; but it is probable that the authour did not much wish to be accurate. III.vi.95 (188,7) And gives his potent regiment to a trull] _Regiment_, is _government, authority_; he puts his _power_ and his empire into the hands of a false woman. It may be observed, that _trull_ was not, in our author's time, a term of mere infamy, but a word of slight contempt, as _wench_ is now. III.vii.3 (188,8) forespoke my being] To _forespeak_, is to _contradict_, to _speak against_, as _forbid_ is to order negatively. III.vii.68 (191,1) By Hercules, I think, I am i' the right. Can. Soldier, thou art: but his whole action grows Not in the power on't] That is, his whole conduct becomes, ungoverned by the right, or by reason. III.vii.77 (191,2) distractions] Detachments; separate bodies. III.x.6 (193,4) The greater cantle] [A piece or lump. POPE.] _Cantle_ is rather a _corner_. Caesar in this play mentions the _three-nook'd world_. Of this triangular world every triumvir had a corner. (see 1765, VII, 185, 6) III.x.9 (193,5) token'd pestilence] Spotted. III.x.10 (193,6) Yon' ribauld nag of Aegypt] The word is in the old edition _ribaudred_, which I do not understand, but mention it, in hopes others may raise some happy conjecture. [Tyrwhitt: hag] The brieze, or oestrum, the fly that stings cattle, proves that _nag_ is the right word. (1773) III.x.11 (193,7) Whom leprosy o'ertake!] _Leprosy_, an epidemical distemper of the Aegyptians; to which Horace probably alludes in the controverted line. _Contaminato cum grege turpium Morbo virorum._ III.x.36 (195,1) The wounded chance of Antony] I know not whether the author, who loves to draw his images from the sports of the field, might not have written, _The wounded_ chase _of Antony_,-- The allusion is to a deer wounded and chased, whom all other deer avoid. _I will_, says Enobarbus, _follow Antony_, though _chased_ and _wounded_. The common reading, however, may very well stand. III.xi.3 (195,2) so lated in the world] Alluding to a benighted traveller. III.xi.23 (196,3) I have lost command] I am not master of my own emotions. III.xi.35 (196,4) He at Philippi kept/His sword e'en like a dancer] In the Moriaco, and perhaps anciently in the Pyrrhick dance, the dancers held swords in their hands with the points upward. III.xi.39 (196,6) he alone/Dealt on lieutenantry] I know not whether the meaning is, that Caesar acted only as lieutenant at Philippi, or that he made his attempts only on lieutenants, and left the generals to Antony. III.xi.47 (197,7) death will seize her; but/Your comfort] _But_ has here, as once before in this play, the force of _except_, or _unless_. III.ii.52 (197,8) How I convey my shame] How, by looking another way, I withdraw my ignominy from your sight. III.ii.57 (197,9) ty'd by the strings] That is by the _heart string_. III.xii.18 (199,1) The circle of the Ptolemies] The diadem; the ensign of royalty. III.xii.34 (199,2) how Antony becomes his flaw] That is, how Antony conforms himself to this breach of his fortune. III.xiii.1 (200,3) Think, and die] [Hanmer: Drink] This reading, offered by sir T. Hanmer, is received by Dr. Warburton and Mr. Upton, but I have not advanced it into the page, not being convinced that it is necessary. _Think, and die_; that is, _Reflect on your folly, and leave the world_, is a natural answer. III.xiii.9 (201,4) he being/The meered question] The _meered_ question is a term I do not understand. I know not what to offer, except, _The_ mooted _question_.-- That is, the _disputed_ point, the subject of debate. _Mere_ is indeed a _boundary_, and the _meered question_, if it can mean any thing, may, with some violence of language, mean, the _disputed boundary_. III.xiii.25 (202, 5) I dare him therefore To lay his gay comparisons apart And answer me declin'd] I require of Caesar not to depend on that superiority which the _comparison_ of our different fortunes may exhibit to him, but to answer me man to man, in this decline of my age or power. III.xiii.42 (202,6) The loyalty, well held to fools, does make/Our faith meer folly] [T: Though loyalty, well held] I have preserved the old reading: Enobarbus is deliberating upon desertion, and finding it is more prudent to forsake a fool, and more reputable to be faithful to him, makes no positive conclusion. Sir T. Hanmer follows Theobald; Dr. Warburton retains the old reading. III.xiii.77 (204,9) Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear/The doom of Aegypt] _Doom_ is declared rather by an _all-commanding_, than an _all-obeying breath_. I suppose we ought to read, --_all_-obeyed breath. III.xiii.81 (205,1) Give me grace] Grant me the favour. III.xiii.109 (206,3) By one that looks on feeders?] One that waits at the table while others are eating. III.xiii.128 (207,4) The horned herd] It is not without pity and indignation that the reader of this great poet meets so often with this low jest, which is too much a favourite to be left out of either mirth or fury. III.xiii.151 (208,5) to quit me] To repay me this insult; to _requite_ me. III.xiii.180 (209,9) Were nice and lucky] [_Nice_, for delicate, courtly, flowing in peace. WARBURTON.] _Nice_ rather seems to be, _just fit for my purpose, agreeable to my wish_. So we vulgarly say of any thing that is done better than was expected, it is _nice_. IV.i.5 (210,1) I have many other ways to die] [Upton: He hath.../I laugh] I think this emendation deserves to be received. It had, before Mr. Upton's book appeared, been made by sir T. Hanmer. IV.i.9 (211,2) Make boot of] Take advantage of. IV.ii.8 (212,3) _take all_] Let the survivor take all. No composition, victory or death. IV.ii.14 (212,4) one of those odd tricks] I know not what obscurity the editors find in this passage. _Trick_ is here used in the sense in which it is uttered every day by every mouth, elegant and vulgar: yet sir T. Hanmer changes it to _freaks_, and Dr. Warburton, in his rage of Gallicism, to _traits_. IV.ii.26 (213,5) Haply, you shall not see me more; or if,/A mangled shadow] _Or if_ you see me more, you will see me _a mangled shadow_, only the external form of what I was. IV.ii.35 (213,6) onion-ey'd] I have my eyes as full of tears as if they had been fretted by onions. IV.iv.3 (215,8) Come, good fellow, put thine iron on] I think it should be rather, --mine _iron_-- IV.iv.5 (215,9) Nay, I'll help too] These three little speeches, which in the other editions are only one, and given to Cleopatra, were happily disentangled by sir T. Hanmer. IV.iv.10 (215,1) Briefly, sir] That is, _quickly_, sir. IV.v.17 (218,3) Dispatch. Enobarbus!] Thus [_Dispatch, my Eros_] the modern editors. The old edition reads, --_Dispatch Enobarbus_. Perhaps, it should be, --_Dispatch! To Enobarbus!_ (see 1765, VII, 208, 3) IV.vi.12 (219,6) persuade] The old copy has _dissuade_, perhaps rightly. IV.vi.34 (219,7) This blows my heart] All the latter editions have, --_This_ bows _my heart_; I have given the original word again the place from which I think it unjustly excluded. _This generosity_, (says Enobarbus) swells _my heart_, so that it will quickly break, _if thought break it not, a swifter mean_. IV.vii.2 (220,8) and our oppression] Sir T. Hanmer has received _opposition_. Perhaps rightly. IV.viii.1 (221,9) run one before,/And let the queen know of our guests] [W: gests] This passage needs neither correction nor explanation. Antony after his success intends to bring his officers to sup with Cleopatra, and orders notice to be given her of their _guests_. IV.viii.12 (222,1) To this great fairy] Mr. Upton has well observed, that _fairy_; which Dr. Warburton and sir T. Hanmer explain by _Inchantress_, comprises the idea of power and beauty. IV.viii.22 (222,2) get goal for goal of youth] At all plays of barriers, the boundary is called a _goal_; to _win a goal_, is to be superiour in a contest of activity. IV.viii.31 (223,4) Bear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them] i.e. hack'd as much as the men are to whom they belong. WARB.] Why not rather, _Bear our hack'd targets_ with spirit and exaltation, such as becomes the brave warriors _that own them_? IV.ix.15 (224,5) Throw my heart Against the flint and hardness of my fault; Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder, And finish all foul thoughts] The pathetick of Shakespeare too often ends in the ridiculous. It is painful to find the gloomy dignity of this noble scene destroyed by the intrusion of a conceit so far-fetched and unaffecting. IV.xii.13 (226,1) Triple turn'd whore!] She was first for Antony, then was supposed by him to have _turned_ to Caesar, when he found his messenger kissing her hand, then she _turned_ again to Antony, and now has _turned_ to Caesar. Shall I mention what has dropped into my imagination, that our author might perhaps have written _triple-tongued_? _Double-tongued_ is a common term of reproach, which rage might improve to _triple-tongued_. But the present reading may stand. IV.xii.21 (227,2) That pannell'd me at heels] All the editions read, _That_ pannell'd _me at heels_,-- Sir T. Hanmer substituted _spaniel'd_ by an emendation, with which it was reasonable to expect that even rival commentators would be satisfied; yet Dr. Warburton proposes _pantler'd_, in a note, of which he is not injur'd by the suppression; and Mr. Upton having in his first edition proposed plausibly enough, _That_ paged _me at heels_,-- in the second edition retracts his alteration, and maintains _pannell'd_ to be the right reading, being a metaphor taken, he says, from a _pannel_ of wainscot. IV.xii.25 (227,3) this grave charm] I know not by what authority, nor for what reason, _this_ grave _charm_, which the first, the only original copy exhibits, has been through all the modern editors changed to _this_ gay _charm_. By _this_ grave _charm_, is meant, _this sublime, this majestic beauty_. IV.xii.29 (227,4) to the very heart of loss] To the utmost loss possible. IV.xii.45 (228,7) Let me lodge, Lichas] Sir T. Hanmer reads thus, --thy _rage_ Led thee _lodge Lichas_--and-- _Subdue_ thy _worthiest self_.-- This reading, harsh as it is, Dr. Warburton has received, after having rejected many better. The meaning is, Let me do something in my rage, becoming the successor of Hercules, IV.xiv.19 (230,2) Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false play'd my glory/Unto an enemy's triumph] [Warburton had explained and praised Shakespeare's "metaphor"] This explanation is very just, the thought did not deserve so good an annotation. IV.xiv.39 (231,3) The battery from my heart] I would read, This _battery from my heart_.-- IV.xiv.49 (232,4) Seal then, and all is done] I believe the reading is, --seel _then, and all is done_-- To _seel hawks_, is to close their eyes. The meaning will be, --_since the torch is out, Lie down, and stray no further. How all labour Marrs what it does_.--Seel _then, and all is done_. Close thine eyes _for ever, and be quiet_. IV.xiv.73 (233,5) pleach'd arms] Arms folded in each other. IV.xiv.77 (233,6) His baseness that ensued?] The poor conquered wretch that followed. IV.xiv.86 (233,7) the worship of the whole world] The _worship_, is the _dignity_, the _authority_. IV.xv.9 (237,9) O sun, Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in!--darkling stand The varying shore o' the world] She desires the sun, to _burn_ his own _orb_, the vehicle of light, and then the earth will be dark. IV.xv.19-23 (237,1) I here importune death] [Theobald had regularized the versification and had added two words] Mr. Theobald's emendation is received by the succeeding editors; but it seems not necessary that a dialogue so distressful should be nicely regular. I have therefore preserved the original reading in the text, and the emendation below. IV.xv.28 (238,2) still conclusion] Sedate determination; silent coolness of resolution. IV.xv.32 (236,3) Here's sport, indeed!] I suppose the meaning of these strange words is, _here's_ trifling, _you_ do not work _in earnest_. IV.xv.39 (239,4) Quicken with kissing] That is, _Revive by my kiss_. IV.xv.44 (239,6) That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel] This despicable line has occurred before. IV.xv.65 (240,8) The soldier's pole] He at whom the soldiers pointed, as at a pageant held high for observation. IV.xv.72 (240,9) _Char_. Peace, peace, Iras. _Cleo_. No more--but e'en a woman] [W: peace, Isis] Of this note it may be truly said, that it at least deserves to be right, nor can he, that shall question the justness of the emendation, refuse his esteem to the ingenuity and learning with which it is proposed. Hanmer had proposed another emendation, not injudiciously. He reads thus, Iras. _Royal Aegypt! empress!_ Cleo. _Peace, peace, Iras. No more but a mere woman_, &c. That is, _no more an empress, but a mere woman_. It is somewhat unfortunate that the words, _mere woman_, which so much strengthen the opposition to either _empress_ or _Isis_, are not in the original edition, which stands thus, _No more but_ in a _woman_. _Mere woman_ was probably the arbitrary reading of Rowe. I suppose, however, that we muy justly change the ancient copy thus, _No more, but_ e'en a _woman_. which will enough accommodate either of the editors. I am inclined to think that she speaks abruptly, not answering her woman, but discoursing with her own thoughts, _No more--but_ e'en a _woman_. _I have_ no more _of my wonted greatness_, but am even a woman, _on the level with other women; were I what I once was_. --It were for me To throw my scepter, _&c_. If this simple explanation be admitted, how much labour has been thrown away. _Peace, peace, Iras_, is said by Charmian, when she sees the queen recovering, and thinks speech troublesome. V.i.15 (244,4) The round world/Should have shook lions into civil streets] I think here is a line lost, after which it is in vain to go in quest. The sense seems to have been this: _The round world should have shook_, and this great alteration of the system of things should send _lions into streets, and citizens into dens_. There is sense still, but it is harsh and violent. V.i.27 (244,5) but it is tidings/To wash the eyes of kings!] That is, May _the Gods rebuke me_, if this be not _tidings to make kings weep_. _But_, again, for _if not_. V.i.46 (245,7) that our stars,/Unreconciliable, should divide/Our equalness to this] That is, _should have made us_, in our equality of fortune, disagree _to_ a pitch like this, that one of us must die. V.i.52 (246,8) A poor Aegyptian yet; the queen my mistress] If this punctuation be right, the man means to say, that he is _yet an Aegyptian_, that is, _yet a servant of the queen of Aegypt_, though soon to become, a subject of Rome. V.i.65 (246,9) her life in Rome/Would be eternal in our triumph] Hanmer reads judiciously enough, but without necessity, _Would be_ eternalling _our triumph_. The sense is, _If she dies here, she will be forgotten, but if I send her_ in triumph at Rome, _her memory and my glory_ will be eternal. V.ii.3 (247,1) fortune's knave] The _servant_ of fortune. V.ii.4 (247,2) it is great To do that thing, that ends all other deeds; Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change; Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung, The beggar's nurse, and Caesar's] [Warburton added a whole line and emended "dung" to "dugg"] I cannot perceive the loss of a line, or the need of an emendation. The commentator seems to have entangled his own ideas; his supposition that _suicide_ is called _the beggar's nurse and Caesar's_, and his concession that the position is _intelligible_, show, I think, a mind not intent upon the business before it. The difficulty of the passage, if any difficulty there be, arises only from this, that the act of suicide, and the state which is the effect of suicide are confounded. Voluntary death, says she, is an act _which bolts up change_; it produces a state, _Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung, The beggar's nurse, and Caesar's_. Which has no longer need of the gross and terrene sustenance, in the use of which Caesar and the beggar are on a level. The speech is abrupt, but perturbation in such a state is surely natural. V.ii.29 (249,4) I am his fortune's vassal, and I send him/The greatness he has got] I allow him to be my conqueror; I own his superiority with complete submission. V.ii.34 (249,5) You see how easily she may be surpriz'd] This line in the first edition is given not to Charuian, but to Proculeius; and to him it certainly belongs, though perhaps misplaced. I would put it at the end of his foregoing speech, _Where he for grace is kneel'd to._ [Aside to Gallus.] _You see, how easily she may be surpriz'd._ Then while Cleopatra makes a formal answer, Gallus, upon the hint given, seizes her, and Proculeius, interrupting the civility of his answer, _--your plight is pity'd Of him that caus'd it._ Cries out, _Guard her till, Caesar come._ V.ii.40 (250,6) who are in this/Reliev'd, but not betray'd] [W: Bereav'd, but] I do not think the emendation necessary, since the sense is not made better by it, and the abruptness in Cleopatra's answer is more forcible in the old reading. V.ii.42 (250,7) rids our dogs of languish] For _languish_, I think we may read, _anguish_. V.ii.48 (251,8) Worth many babes and beggars] Why, death, wilt thou not rather seize a queen, than employ thy force upon _babes_ and _beggars_. (see 1765, VII, 238, 9) V.ii.50 (251,9) If idle talk will once be necessary] [This nonsense should be reformed thus, _If idle_ TIME _whill once be necessary._ i.e. if _repose_ be necessary to cherish life, I will not sleep. WARBURTON.] I do not see that the nonsense is made sense by the change. Sir T. Hanmer reads, _If idle talk will once be_ accessary; Neither is this better. I know not what to offer better than an easy explanation. That is, _I will not eat_, and _if it will be necessary now for once_ to waste a moment in _idle talk_ of my purpose, _I will not sleep neither_. In common conversation we often use _will be_, with as little relation to futurity. As, Now I am going, it _will be_ fit for me to dine first. V.ii.98 (254,2) yet to imagine An Antony, were Nature's piece 'gainst Fancy, Condemning shadows quite] [W: Nature's prize] In this passage I cannot discover any temptation to critical experiments. The word _piece_, is a term appropriated to works of art. Here Nature and Fancy produce each their _piece_, and the _piece_ done by Nature had the preference. Antony was in reality _past the size of dreaming_; he was more by _Nature_ than _Fancy_ could present in sleep. V.ii.121 (255,3) I cannot project mine own cause so well] [W: procter] Sir T. Hanmer reads, _I cannot_ parget _my own cause---_ meaning, I cannot _whitewash, varnish_, or _gloss_ my cause. I believe the present reading to be right. To _project a cause_ is to _represent_ a cause; to _project_ it _well_, is to _plan_ or _contrive_ a scheme of defense. V.ii.139 (256,4) "tis exactly valued, /Not petty things admitted] [T: omitted] Notwithstanding the wrath of Mr. Theobald, I have restored the old reading. She is angry afterwards, that she is accused of having reserved more than petty things. Dr. Warburton and sir T. Hanmer follow Theobald. V.ii.146 (257,5) seel my lips] Sew up my mouth. V.ii.163 (258,7) Parcel the sum of my disgraces by] _To parcel her disgraces_, might be expressed in vulgar language, _to bundle up her calamaties_. (see 1765, VII, 244, 8) V.ii.176 (259,8) _Cleo._ Be't known, that we, the greatest, are misthought for things that others do; and, when we fall, We answer others merits in our names; Are therefore to be pitied] I do not think that either of the criticks [Warburton and Hanmer] have reached the sense of the author, which may be very commodiously explained thus; We suffer at our highest state of elevation in the _thoughts of mankind for that which others do, and when we fall_, those that contented themselves only to think ill before, call us to _answer in our own names for the merits of others. We are therefore to be pitied. Merits_ is in this place taken in an ill sense, for actions _meriting_ censure. If any alteration be necessary, I should only propose, _Be 't known, that we_ at _greatest_, &c. V.ii.185 (259,1) Make not your thoughts your prisons] I once wished to read, _make not your thoughts your_ poison:-- Do not destroy yourself by musing on your misfortune. Yet I would change nothing, as the old reading presents a very proper sense. _Be not a prisoner in imagination, when in reality you are free._ V.ii.215 (261,2) scald rhimers] Sir T. Hanmer reads, --stall 'd _rhimers. Scald_ was a word of contempt, implying poverty, disease, and filth. V.ii.216 (261,3) quick comedians] The gay inventive players. V.ii.226 (261,5) Their most absurd intents] [T: assured] I have preserved the old reading. The design certainly appeared _absurd_ enough to Cleopatra, both as she thought it unreasonable in itself, and as she knew it would fail. V.ii.243 (263,7) the pretty worm of Nilus] _Worm_ is the Teutonick word for _serpent_; we have the _blind-worm_ and _slow-worm_ still in our language, and the Norwegians call an enormous monster, seen sometimes in the northern ocean, the _sea-worm_. V.ii.264 (263,9) the worm will do him kind] The serpent will act according to his nature. V.ii.305 (205,2) He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss,/ Which is my heaven to have] He will enquire of her concerning me, and kiss her for giving him intelligence. V.ii.352 (267,5) something blown] The flesh is somewhat _puffed_ or _swoln_. (268) General Observation. This play keeps curiosity always busy, and the passions always interested. The continual hurry of the action, the variety of incidents, and the quick succession of one personage to another, call the mind forward without intermission from the first act to the last. But the power of delighting is derived principally from the frequent changes of the scene; for, except the feminine arts, some of which are too low, which distinguish Cleopatra, no character is very strongly discriminated. Upton, who did not easily miss what he desired to find, has discovered that the language of Antony is, with great skill and learning, made pompous and superb, according to his real practice. But I think his diction not distinguishable from that of others: the most tumid speech in the play is that which Caesar makes to Octavia. The events, of which the principal are described according to history, are produced without any art of connexion or care of disposition. TIMON OF ATHENS I.i.3 (271,3) _Poet_. Ay, that's well known: But what particular rarity! what strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magick of bounty!] The learned commentator's [Warburton's] note must shift for itself. I cannot but think that this passage is at present in confusion. The poet asks a question, and stays not for an answer, nor has his question any apparent drift or consequence. I would range the passage thus: Poet. _Ay, that's well known. Bat what particular rarity? what so strange, That manifold record not matches?_ Pain. _See!_ Poet. _Magick of--bounty, &c._ It may not be improperly observed here, that as there is only one copy of this play, no help can be had from collation, and more liberty must be allowed to conjecture. I.i.10 (272,4) breath'd as it were/To an untirable and continuate goodness] _Breathed_ is _inured by constant practice; so trained as not to be wearied. To _breathe_ a horse, is to exercise him for the course. I.i.20 (273,8) _Poet_. A thing slipt idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 'tis nourished. The fire i' the flint Shews not, 'till it be struck: our gentle flame Provokes itself, and, like the current flies Each bound it chafes. What have you there!] This speech of the poet is very obscure. He seems to boast the copiousness and facility of his vein, by declaring that verses drop from a poet as gums from odoriferous trees, and that his flame kindles itself without the violence necessary to elicit sparkles from the flint. What follows next? that it, _like a current, flies each bound it chafes_. This may mean, that it expands itself notwithstanding all obstructions: but the images in the comparison are so ill-sorted, and the effect so obscurely expressed, that I cannot but think something omitted that connected the last sentence with the former. It is well knovn that the players often shorten speeches to quicken the representation; and it may be suspected, that they sometimes performed their amputations with more haste than judgment, (see 1765, VI, 169, 6) I.i.27 (274,9) _Poet_. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.] As soon as my book has been presented to lord Timon. I.i.29 (274,1) This comes off weil and excellent] [By this we are to understand what the painters call the _goings off_ of a picture, which requires the nicest execution. WARBURTON.] The note I understand less than the text. The meaning is, This figure rises weil from the canvas. _C'est bien relevè._ I.i.37 (275,3) artificial strife] _Strife_ is either the contest or act with nature. _Hic ille est_ Raphael, _timuit, quo aospite vinci Rerum magna parens, & moriente, mori_. Or it is the contrast of forms or opposition of colours. I.i.43 (275,4) this confluence, this great flood of visitors] _Mane salutantúm totis vomit aedibus undam_. I.1.46 (275,5) Halts not particularly] My design does not stop at any single characters. I.1.47 (276,7) no levell'd malice Infects one comma in the course I hold; But flies an eagle-flight, bold, and forth on, Leaving no tract behind] To _level_ is to _aim_, to point the shot at a mark. Shakespeare's meaning is, my poem is not a satire written with any particular view, or _levelled_ at any single person; I fly like an eagle into the general expanse of life, and leave not, by any private mischief, the trace of my passage. I.i.51 (276,8) I'll unbolt] I'll open, I'll explain. I.i.53 (276,9) glib and slippery creatures] Hanmer, and Warburton after him, read, _natures_. _Slippery_ is _smooth_, unresisting. I.i.58 (276,1) glass-fac'd flatterer] That shows in his own look, as by reflection, the looks of his patron. I.i.65 (277,3) rank'd with all deserts] _Cover'd with ranks_ of all kinds of men. I.i.67 (277,4) To propagate their states] To advance or improve their various conditions of life. I.i.72 (277,5) conceiv'd to scope] Properly imagined, appositely, to the purpose. I.i.82 (278,8) through him/Drink the free air] That is, catch his breath in affected fondness. I.i.90 (278,9) A thousand moral paintings I can shew] Shakespeare seems to intend in this dialogue to express some competition between the two great arts of imitation. Whatever the poet declares himself to have shewn, the painter thinks he could have shewn better. (1773) I.i.107 (279,1) 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,/But to support him after] This thought is better expressed by Dr. Madden in his elegy on archbishop Boulter. --_He thought it mean Only to help the poor to beg again._ I.i.129 (280,2) Therefore he will be, Timon] I rather think an emendation necessary, and read, _Therefore_ well be him, _Timon. His honesty rewards him in itself._ That is, _If he in honest_, bene fit illi, _I wish him the proper happiness of an honest man, but his honesty gives him no claim to my daughter_. The first transcriber probably wrote _will be him_, which the next, not understanding, changed to, _he will be_. (1773) I.i.149 (281,3) never may That state, or fortune, fall into my keeping, Which is not ow'd to you!] The meaning is, let me never henceforth consider any thing that I possess, but as _owed_ or _due_ to you; held for your service, and at your disposal. I.i.159 (281,4) pencil'd figures are/Even such as they give out] Pictures have no hypocrisy; they are what they profess to be. I.i.165 (282,5) unclew me quite] To _unclew_, is to _unwind_ a ball of thread. To _unclew_ a man, is to draw out the whole mass of his fortunes. I.i.171 (282,5) Are prized by their masters] Are rated according to the, esteem in which their possessor is held. I.i.178 (282,8) _Tim._ Good-morrow to thee, gentle Apemantua! _Apam._ 'Till I be gentle, stay for thy good-morrow. When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest,--] [Warburton conjectured a line lost and added one of his own making] I think my punctuation may clear the passage without any greater effort. I.i.180 (283,9) Then thou art Timon's dog] When thou hast gotten a better character, and instead of being Timon, as thou art, shalt be changed to Timon's dog, and become more worth; of kindness and salutation. (1773) I.i.241 (284,9) That I had no angry wit to be a lord] [W: so hungry a wit] The meaning may be, I should hate myself for _patiently enduring to be a lord_. This is ill enough expressed. Perhaps some happy change may set it right. I have tried, and can do nothing, yet I cannot heartily concur with Dr. Warburton. I.i.259 (286,2) The strain of man's bred out/Into baboon and monkey] Man is exhausted and degenerated; his _strain_ or lineage is worn down into monkey. I.ii.12 (288,5) If our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them. Faults that are rich, are fair] [Warburton gave the second line to Apemantus] I cannot see that these lines are more proper in any other mouth than Timon's, to whose character of generosity and condescension they are very suitable. To suppose that by _our betters_ are meant the Gods, is very harsh, because to imitate the Gods has been hitherto reckoned the highest pitch of human virtue. The whole is a trite and obvious thought, uttered by Timon with a kind of affected modesty. If I would make any alteration, it should be only to reform the numbers thus: _Our betters play that game; we must not dare T' imitate then; faults that are rich are fair._ I.ii.34 (289,6) thou art an Athenian,/Therefore welcome: I myself would have no power] If this be the true reading, the sense is, _all Athenians are welcome to share my fortune_; I would myself have no _exclusive right or power in this house_. Perhaps we might read, _I myself would have no_ poor. I would have every Athenian consider himself as joint possessor of my fortune. I.ii.38 (289,7) I scorn thy meat, 'twould choke me, for I should/ Ne'er flatter thee] [W: 'fore/I should e'er] Of this emendation there is little need. The meaning is, I could not swallow thy meat, for I could not pay for it with flattery; and what was given me with an ill will would stick in my throat. I.ii.41 (290,8) so many dip their meat/In one man's blood] The allusion is to a pack of hounds trained to pursuit by being gratified with the blood of the animal which they kill, and the wonder is that the animal on which they are feeding _cheers them_ to the chase. I.ii.52 (290,9) wind-pipe's dangerous notes] The notes of the windpipe seem to be the only indications which shew where the windpipe is. (see 1765, VI, 184, 4) I.ii.54 (290,1) My lord, in heart] That is, _my lord's health with sincerity_. An emendation hat been proposed thus: _My_ love _in heart_;-- but it is not necessary. I.ii.89 (292,2) we should think ourselves for ever perfect] That is, arrived at the perfection of happiness. I.ii.94 (292,4) did not you chiefly belong to my heart?] I think it should be inverted thus: _did I not chiefly belong to_ your hearts. Lacius wishes that Timon would give him and the rest an opportunity _of expressing some part of their zeals_. Timon answers that, _doubtless the Gods have provided that I should have help from you; how else are you my friends_? why are you stiled my friends, if--what? _if I do not love you_. Such is the present reading; but the consequence is not very clear; the proper close must be, _if you do not love me_, and to this my alteration restores it. But, perhaps, the old reading may stand. [The _Revisal_'s note on this line is quoted.] The meaning is probably this. Why are you distinguished from thousands by that title of endearment, was there not a particular connection and intercourse of tenderness between you and me. (see 1765, VI, 185, 8) I.ii.97 (293,5) I confirm you] I fix your characters firmly in my own mind. I.ii.99 (293,7) O joy, e'en made away, ere it can be born!] For this Hanmer writes, _O joy, e'en made a joy ere't can be born_; and is followed by Dr. Warburton. I am always inclinable to think well of that which is approved by so much learning and sagacity, yet cannot receive this alteration. Tears being the effect both of joy and grief, supplied our author with an opportunity of conceit, which he seldom fails to indulge. Timon, weeping with a kind of tender pleasure, cries out, _O joy, e'en made away_, destroyed, turned to tears, before _it can be born_, before it can be fully possessed. I.ii.110 (293,8) Mine eyes cannot hold water, methinks: to forget their faults, I drink to you] In the original edition the words stand thus: _mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To forget their faults, I drink to you_. Perhaps the true reading is this, _Mine eyes cannot hold out_; they _water. Methinks, to forget their faults, I will drink to you_. Or it may be explained without any change. _Mine eyes cannot hold out water_, that is, cannot keep water from breaking in upon them, (see 1765, VI, 186, 2) I.ii.113 (294,9) _Apem_. Thou weep'st to make them drink] Hanmer reads, --_to make then drink_ thee, and is again followed by Dr. Warburton, I think without sufficient reason. The covert sense of Apemantus is, _what thou losest, they get_. I.ii.118 (294,1) like a babe] That is a _weeping babe_. I.ii.138 (295,3) They dance! They are mad women. Like madness is the glory of this life, As this pomp shews to a little oil and root] [Warburton conjectured some lines lost after the second verse] When I read this passage, I was at first of the same opinion with this learned man; but, upon longer consideration, I grew less confident, because I think the present reading susceptible of explanation, with no more violence to language than is frequently found in our author. _The glory of this life is very near to madness_, as may be made appear from _this pomp_, exhibited in a place where a philosopher is feeding on _oil and roots_. When we see by example how few are the necessaries of life, we learn what madness there is in so much superfluity. I.ii.146 (296,5) who dies, that bears/Not one spurn to their graves, of their friends gift?] That is, given them by their friends.(1773) I.ii.155 (297,6) mine own device] The mask appears to have been design'd by Timon to surprise his guests. I.ii.157 (297,7) _L Lady_. My lord, you take us even at the best] This answer seems rather to belong to one of the ladies. It was probably only mark'd _L_ in the copy. I.ii.169 (298,1) 'Tis pity, bounty has not eyes behind] To see the miseries that are following her. I.ii.170 (298,2) That man might ne'er be wretched for his mind] For nobleness of soul. I.ii.176 (298,3) to/Advance this jewel] To prefer it; to raise it to honour by wearing it. I.ii.230 (300,6) all the lands thou hast Lie in a pitch'd field. _Alc._ I' defiled land, my lord] This is the old reading, which apparently depends on a very low quibble. Alcibiades is told, that _his estate lies in a_ pitch'd _field_. Now _pitch_, as Falstaff says, _doth defile_. Alcibiades therefore replies, that his estate lies _in defiled land_. This, as it happened, was not understood, and all the editors published, _I defy land_,-- I.ii.237 (301,8) Serving of becks] [W: serring] The commentator conceives _beck_ to mean the _mouth_ or the _head_, after the French, _bec_, whereas it means a salutation made with the head. So Milton, "Nods and _becks_, and wreathed smiles." To _serve a beck_, is to offer a salutation. I.ii.238 (301,9) I doubt, whether their legs] He plays upon the word _leg_, as it signifies a _limb_ and a _bow_ or _act of obeisance_. I.ii.247 (302,1) I fear me, thou/Wilt give away thyself in paper shortly] [W: in proper] Hanmer reads very plausibly, --_thou Wilt give away thyself_ in perpetuum. I.ii.235 (302,2) I'll lock/Thy heaven from thee] The pleasure of being flattered. II.i.10 (304,5) No porter at his gate;/But rather one that smiles, and still invites] I imagine that a line is lost here, in which the behaviour of a surly porter was described. II.i.12 (304,6) no reason/Can found his state in safety] The supposed meaning of this [Can sound his state] must be, _No reason_, by _sounding_, fathoming, or trying, _his state_, can find it _safe_. But as the words stand, they imply, that _no reason can_ safely _sound his state_. I read thus, --_no reason Can_ found _his state in safety_.-- _Reason_ cannot find his fortune to have any _safe_ or solid _foundation_. The types of the first printer of this play were so worn and defaced, that _f_ and _s_ are not always to be distinguished. II.ii.5 (305,9) Never mind/Was to be so unwise, to be so kind] Of this mode of expression conversation affords many examples: "I was always to be blamed, whatever happened." "I am in the lottery, but I was always to draw blanks." (1773) II.ii.9 (306,1) Good even, Varro] It is observable, that this _good evening_ is before dinner; for Timon tells Alcibiades, that they will _go forth again as soon as dinner's done_, which may prove that by _dinner_ our author meant not the _coena_ of ancient times, but the mid-day's repast. I do not suppose the passage corrupt: such inadvertencies neither author nor editor can escape. There is another remark to be made. Varro and Isidore sink a few lines afterwards into the servants of Varro and Isidore. Whether servants, in our author's time, took the names of their masters, I know not. Perhaps it is a slip of negligence. II.ii.47 (308,4) _Enter Apemantus and a Fool_] I suspect some scene to be lost, in which the entrance of the fool, and the page that follows him, was prepared by some introductory dialogue, in which the audience was informed that they were the fool and page of Phrynia, Timandra, or some other courtesan, upon the knowledge of which depends the greater part of the ensuing jocularity. II.ii.60-66 (309,4) Poor rogues] This is said so abruptly, that I am inclined to think it misplaced, and would regulate the passage thus: Caph. _Where's the fool now?_ Apem. _He last ask'd the question._ All. _What are we, Apemantus?_ Apem. _Asses._ All. _Why?_ Apem. _That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Poor rogues', and usurers' men! bawds between gold and want! Speak_, &c. Thus every word will have its proper place. It is likely that the passage transposed was forgot in the copy, and inserted in the margin, perhaps a little beside the proper place, which the transcriber wanting either skill or care to observe, wrote it where it now stands. II.ii.71 (309,5) She's e'en setting on water to scald] The old name for the disease got at Corinth was the _brenning_, and a sense of _scalding_ is one of its first symptoms. II.ii.117 (311,7) with two stones more than's artificial one] Meaning the celebrated philosopher's stone, which was in those times much talked of. Sir Thomas Smith was one of those who lost considerable sums in seeking of it. II.ii.152 (312,9) Though you hear now, yet now's too late a time] [Warburton objected to this, an emendation by Hanmer] I think Hanmer right, and have received his emendation. Il.ii.155 (313,1) and at length/How goes our reckoning?] [W: Hold good our] It is common enough, and the commentator knows it is common to propose interrogatively, that of which neither the speaker nor the hearer has any doubt. The present reading may therefore stand. II.ii.171 (314,2) a wasteful cock] [i.e. a _cockloft_, a garret. And a _wasteful cock_, signifies a garret lying in waste, neglected, put to no use. HANMER.] Hanmer's explanation is received by Dr. Warburton, yet I think them both apparently mistaken. A _wasteful cock_ is a _cock_ or pipe with a turning stopple _running_ to _waste_. In this sense, both the terms have their usual meaning; but I know not that _cock_ is ever used for _cockloft_, or _wasteful_ for _lying in waste_, or that lying in waste is at all a phrase. Il.ii.187 (314,4) And try the arguments] [_Arguments_ for natures. _WARB_.] How _arguments_ should stand for natures I do not see. But the licentiousness of our author forces us often upon far fetched expositions. _Arguments_ may mean _contents_, as the _arguments_ of a book; or for _evidences_ and _proofs_. II.ii.209 (315,5) I knew it the most general way] _General_ is not speedy, but _compendious_, the way to try many at a time. II.ii.219 (316,6) And so, intending other serious matters] _Intending_ is _regarding, turning their notice_ to other things. II.ii.220 (316,7) these hard fractions] [Warburton saw an allusion to fractions in mathematics] This is, I think, no conceit in the head of Flavius, who, by _fractions_, means _broken_ hints, _interrupted_ sentences, _abrupt_ remarks. II.ii.221 (316,8) half-caps] A _half cap_ is a _cap_ slightly moved, not put off. II.ii.241 (317,3) I would, I could not] The original edition has, _I would, I could not think it, that thought_, &c. It has been changed ['Would], to mend the numbers, without authority. II.ii.242 (317,4) That thought is bounty's foe; Being free itself, it thinks all other so] _Free_, is _liberal_, not parsimonious. III.i.57 (319,6) Has friendship such a faint and milky heart, It turns in less than two nights?] Alluding to the _turning_ or acescence of milk. III.ii.3 (320,3) We know him for no less] That is, _we know him_ by report to be _no less_ than you represent him, though we are strangers to his person. III.ii.24 (321,5) yet had he mistook him, and sent him to me] [W: mislook'd] I rather read, _yet had he_ not _mistook him, and sent to me_. III.ii.45 (322,7) If his occasion were not virtuous] [_Virtuous_, for strong, forcible, pressing. _WARBURTON_.] The meaning may more naturally be;--If he did not want it for a good use. (1773) III.ii.51 (322,9) that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour?] [T: a little dirt] This emendation is received, like all others, by sir T. Hanmer, but neglected by Dr. Warburton. I think Theobald right in suspecting a corruption; nor is his emendation injudicious, though perhaps we may better read, _purchase the day before for a little park_. III.ii.71 (323,1) And just of the same piece is every flatterer's soul] This is Dr. Warburton's emendation. The other editions read, _Why this is the world's soul; Of the same piece is every flatterer's_ sport. Mr. Upton has not unluckily transposed the two final words, thus, _Why, this is the world's_ sport: _Of the same piece is ev'ry flatterer's_ soul. The passage is not so obscure as to provoke so much enquiry. _This_, says he, _is the soul_ or spirit _of the world: every flatterer_ plays the same game, makes _sport_ with the confidence of his friend. (see 1765, VI, 211, 4) III.ii.81 (324,2) He does deny him, in respect of his, What charitable men afford to beggars] That is, _in respect of his_ fortune, what Lucius denies to Timon is in proportion to what Lucius possesses, less than the ususal alms given by good men to beggars. III.ii.90 (324,3) I would have put my wealth into donation, And the best half should ha' return'd to him] Hanmer reads, _I would have put my wealth into_ partition, _And the best half should have_ attorn'd _to him_. Dr. Warbarton receives _attorn'd_. The only difficulty is in the word _return'd_, which, since he had received nothing from him, cannot be used but in a very low and licentious meaning, (see 1765, VI, 212, 6) III.iii.5 (325,4) They have all been touch'd] That is, _tried_, alluding to the _touchstone_. III.iii.11 (325,5) His friends, like physicians,/Thrive, give him over?] The original reading is, --his friends, (_like physicians_) Thrive, give him over? which Theobald has misrepresented. Hanmer reads, _try'd_, plausibly enough. Instead of _three_ proposed by Mr. Pope, I should read _thrice_. But perhaps the old reading is the true. III.iii.24 (326,6) I had such a courage] Such an ardour, such an eager desire. III.iii.28 (326,8) The devil knew not what he did] I cannot but think that, the negative _not_ has intruded into this passage, and the reader will think so too, when he reads Dr. Warburton's explanation of the next words. III.iii.28 (326,9) The devil knew not what he did, when he made men politick; he cross'd himself by't: and I cannot think, but in the end the villainies of man will set him clear] [_Set him clear_ does not mean acquit him before heaven; for then _the devil_ must be supposed _to know what_ he did: but it signifies puzzle him, outdo him at his own weapons. WARBURTON.] How the devil, or any other being, should be _set clear_ by being _puzzled_ and _outdone_, the commentator has not explained. When in a crowd we would have an opening made, we say, _Stand clear_, that is, _out of the way of danger_. With some affinity to this use, though not without great harshness, to _set clear_, may be to _set aside_. But I believe the original corruption is the insertion of the negative, which was obtruded by some transcriber, who supposed _crossed_ to mean _thwarted_, when it meant, _exempted from evil_. The use of _crossing_, by way of protection or purification, was probably not worn out in Shakespeare's time. The sense of _set clear_ is now easy; he has no longer the guilt of tempting man. To cross himself may mean, in a very familiar sense, _to clear his score, to get out of debt, to quit his reckoning_. He knew not _what he did_, may mean, he knew not how much good he was doing himself. There is then no need of emendation. (1773) III.iii.42 (327,2) keep his house] i.e. keep within doors for fear of duns. III.iv (328,3) _Enter Varro, Titus, Hortense, Lucius_] Lucius is here again for the servant of Lucius. III.iv.12 (328,4) a prodigal's course/Is like the sun's] That is, like him in blaze and splendour. _Soles occidere et redire possunt._ Catul. III.iv.25 (329,5) I am weary of this charge] That is, of this _commission_, of this _employment_. III.iv.32 (329,6) Else, surely, his had equall'd] Should it not be, _else, surely, mine had equall'd_. III.iv.67 (330,7) _Enter Servilius_] It may be observed that Shakespeare has unskilfully filled his Greek story with Roman names. III.v.14 (333,6) He is a man, setting his fate aside, Of comely virtues: Nor did he soil the fact with cowardise; (An honour in him which buys out his fault)] I have printed these lines after the original copy, except that, for _an honour_, it is there, _and honour_. All the latter editions deviate unwarrantably from the original, and give the lines thus: _He is a man, setting his fault aside, Of virtuous honour, which buys out his fault; Nor did he soil_, &c. III.v.22 (333,3) He did behave, his anger ere 'twas spent, As if he had but prov'd an argument] The original copy reads not _behave_ but _behoove_. I do not well understand the passage in either reading. Shall we try a daring conjecture? --_with such sober and unnoted passion He did behold his adversary shent, As if he had but prov'd an argument_. He looked with such calmness on his slain adversary. I do not suppose that this is right, but put it down for want of better. (1773) III.v.24 (334,4) You undergo too strict a paradox] You undertake a paradox too _hard_. III.v.32 (334,5) and make his wrongs His outsides: to wear them like an argument, carelessly. We outside wear; hang like his] The present reading is better. III.v.46 (335,6) What make we/Abroad?] _What do we_, or _what have we to do in the field_. III.v.46 (335,7) what make we Abroad? why then, women are more valiant, That stay at home, if bearing carry it; The ass, more than the lion; and the fellow, Loaden with irons, wiser than the judge, If wisdom be in suffering] Here is another arbitrary regulation, the original reads thus, _what make we Abroad, why then women are more valiant That stay at home, if bearing carry it: And the ass more captain than the lion, The fellow, loaden with irons, wiser than the judge, If wisdom_, &c. I think it may be better adjusted thus: _what make we Abroad, why then the women are more valiant That stay at home; If bearing carry it, than is the ass More captain than the lion, and the_ felon _Loaden with irons, wiser than the judge, If wisdom_, &c. III.v.54 (336,8) sin's extreamest gust] _Gust_ is here in its common sense; the utmost degree of _appetite_ for sin. III.v.55 (336,9) by mercy, 'tis most just] [By _mercy_ is meant _equity_. WARBURTON] _Mercy_ is not put for equity. If such explanation be allowed, what can be difficult? The meaning is, _I call_ mercy _herself_ to witness, that defensive violence is just. III.v.68 (338,2) a sworn rioter] A _sworn rioter_ is a man who practises riot, as if he had by an oath made it his duty. III.v.80 (337,3) your reverend ages love/Security] He charges them obliquely with being usurers. III.v.96 (337,5) Do you dare our anger?/'Tis in few words, but spacious in effect] This reading may pass, but perhaps the author wrote, _our anger_? _'Tis few in words, but spacious in effect._ III.v.114 (338,7) I'll cheer up My discontented troops, and play for hearts. 'Tis honour with most hands to be at odds] [Warburton had substituted "hands" for "lands"] I think _hands_ is very properly substituted for _lands_. In the foregoing line, for, _lay for hearts_, I would read, _play_ for _hearts_. III.vi.4 (339,7) Upon that were my thoughts tiring] A hawk, I think, is said to _tire_, when she amuses herself with pecking a pheasant's wing, or any thing that puts her in mind of prey. To _tire_ upon a thing, is therefore, to be _idly employed upon it_. III.vi.100 (342,9) Is your perfection] Your _perfection_, is _the highest of your excellence_. III.vi.101 (342,1) and spangled you with flatteries] [W: with your] The present reading is right. III.vi.106 (342,2) time-flies] Flies of a season. III.vi. 107 (342,5) minute-jacks!] Hanmer thinks it means _Jack-a-lantern_, which shines and disappears in an instant. What it was I know not; but it was something of quick motion, mentioned in Richard III. III.vi.108 (342,4) the infinite malady] Every kind of disease incident to man and beast. IV.i.19 (344,6) Degrees, observances, customs and laws, Decline to your confounding contraries, And yet confusion live!] Hanmer reads, _let_ confusion; but the meaning may be, _though by such confusion all things seem to hasten to dissolution_, yet _let not dissolution come, but the miseries of_ confusion _continue._ IV.ii (345,1) Enter Flavius] Nothing contributes more to the exaltation of Timon's character than the zeal and fidelity of his servants. Nothing but real virtue can be honoured by domesticks; nothing but impartial kindness can gain affection from dependants. IV.ii.10 (345,2) So his familiars from his buried fortunes/Slink all away] The old copies have _to_ instead of _from_. The correction is Hanmer's; but the old reading might stand (see 1765, VI, 231, 2) IV.ii.38 (346,4) strange unusual blood] Of this passage, I suppose, every reader would wish for a correction; but the word, harsh as it is, stands fortified by the rhyme, to which, perhaps, it owes its introduction. I know not what to propose. Perhaps, --_strange unusual_ mood, may, by some, be thought better, and by others worse. IV.iii.1 (347,5) O blessed, breeding sun] [W: blessing breeding] I do not see that this emendation much strengthens the sense. IV.iii.2 (347,6) thy sister's orb] That is, the moon's, this _sublunary_ world. IV.iii.6 (348,7) Not nature,/To whom all sores lay siege] I have preserved this note rather for the sake of the commentator [Warburton] than of the author. How _nature, to whom all sores lay siege_, can so emphatically express _nature in its greatest perfection_, I shall not endeavour to explain. The meaning I take to be this: _Brother, when his fortune is inlarged, will scorn brother_; for this is the general depravity of human nature, which, _besieged as it is by misery_, admonished as it is of want and imperfection, when _elevated by fortune, will despise_ beings of _nature like its own_. IV.iii.12 (349,9) It is the pastor lards the brother's sides,/The want that makes him leave] [W: weather's sides] This passage is very obscure, nor do I discover any clear sense, even though we should admit the emendation. Let us inspect the text as I have given it from the original edition, _It is the_ pastour _lards the_ brother's _sides, The want that makes him_ leave. Dr. Warburton found the passage already changed thus, _It is the_ pasture _lards the_ beggar's _sides, The want that makes him_ lean. And upon this reading of no authority, raised another equally uncertain. Alterations are never to be made without necessity. Let us see what sense the genuine reading will afford. Poverty, says the poet, _bears contempt hereditary_, and _wealth native honour_. To illustrate this position, having already mentioned the case of a poor and rich brother, he remarks, that this preference is given to wealth by those whom it least becomes; _it is the_ pastour _that greases or_ flatters _the rich_ brother, and will grease him on till _want makes him leave_. The poet then goes on to ask, _Who dares to say this man_, this pastour, _is a flatterer_; the crime is universal; through all the world _the learned pate_, with allusion to the pastour, _ducks to the golden fool_. If it be objected, as it may justly be, that the mention of pastour is unsuitable, we must remember the mention of _grace_ and _cherubims_ in this play, and many such anachronisms in many others. I would therefore read thus: _It is the pastour lards the brother's sides_, 'Tis _want that makes him leave_. The obscurity is still great. Perhaps a line is lost. I have at least given the original reading. IV.iii.27 (350,2) no idle votarist] No insincere or inconstant supplicant. _Gold_ will not serve me instead of _roots_. IV.iii.38 (351,5) That makes the wappen'd widow wed again] Of _wappened_ I have found no example, nor know any meaning. To _awhape_ is used by Spenser in his _Hubberd's Tale_, but I think not in either of the senses mentioned. I would read _wained_, for _decayed by time_. So our author in _Richard the Third_, _A beauty_-waining _and distressed widow_. IV.iii.41 (352,6) To the April day again] That is, _to the wedding day_, called by the poet, satirically, _April day_, or _fool's day_. IV.iii.44 (352,7) Do thy right nature] Lie in the earth where nature laid thee. IV.iii.44 (352,8) Thou'rt quick] Thou hast life and motion in thee. IV.iii.64 (353,9) I will not kiss thee] This alludes to an opinion in former times, generally prevalent, that the venereal infection transmitted to another, left the infecter free. I will not, says Timon, take the rot from thy lips by kissing thee. IV.iii.72 (353,1) _Tim._ Promise me friendship, but perform none. If Thou wilt not promise, the Gods plague thee, for Thou art a man; if thou dost perform, confound thee, For thou art a man!] That is, however thou may'st act, since thou art man, hated man, I wish thee evil. IV.iii.82 (354,2) Be a whore still! They love thee not that use thee; Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust: Make use of thy salt hours] There is here a slight transposition. I would read, --_They love thee not that use thee, Leaving with thee their lust; give them diseases; Make use of thy salt hours; season the slaves For tubs and baths_;-- IV.iii.115 (356,6) milk-paps,/That through the window-bars bore at mens' eyes] [W: window-lawn] The reading is more probably, --_window-bar_,-- The virgin that shews her bosom through the lattice of her chamber. IV.iii.119 (356,8) exhaust their mercy] For _exhaust_, sir T. Hanmer, and after him Dr. Warburton, read _extort_; but _exhaust_ here signifies literally to _draw forth_. IV.iii.120 (356,7) Think it a bastard, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully prunounc'd thy throat shall cut] An allusion to the tale of OEdipus. IV.iii.134 (357,8) And to make whores a bawd] [W: make whole] The old edition reads, _And to make whores a bawd._ That is, _enough to make a whore leave whoring, and a bawd leave making whores_. IV.iii.139 (357,9) I'll trust to your conditions] You need not swear to continue whores, I will trust to your inclinations. IV.iii.140 (358,1) Yet may your pains, six months,/Be quite contrary] The explanation [Warburton's] is ingenious, but I think it very remote, and would willingly bring the author and his readers to meet on easier terms. We may read, --_Yet may your pains six months Be quite_ contraried.-- Timon is wishing ill to mankind, but is afraid lest the whores should imagine that he wishes well to them; to obviate which he lets them know, that he imprecates upon them influence enough to plague others, and disappointments enough to plague themselves. He wishes that they may do all possible mischief, and yet take _pains six months_ of the year in vain. In this sense there is a connection of this line with the next. Finding _your pains contraried_, try new expedients, _thatch your thin roofs_, and _paint_. To _contrary_ is on old verb. Latymer relates, that when he went to court, he was advised not to _contrary_ the king. IV.iii.153 (359,3) mens' spurring] Hanmer reads _sparring_, properly enough, if there be any ancient example of the word. IV.iii.158 (359,5) take the bridge quite away Of him, that his particular to foresee Smells from the general weal] [W: to forefend] The metaphor is apparently incongruous, but the sense is good. To _foresee his particular_, is _to provide for his private advantage_, for which _he leaves the right scent of publick good_. In hunting, when hares have cross'd one another, it is common for some of the hounds _to smell from the general weal, and foresee their own particular_. Shakespeare, who seems to have been a skilful sportsman, and has alluded often to falconry, perhaps, alludes here to hunting. To the commentator's emendation it may be objected, that he used _forefend_ in the wrong meaning. To _forefend_, is, I think, never to _provide for_, but to _provide against_. The verbs compounded with _for_ or _fore_ have commonly either an evil or negative sense. IV.iii.182 (361,8) eyeless venom'd worm] The serpent, which we, from the smallness of his eyes, call the _blind worm_, and the Latins, _caecilia_. IV.iii.183 (361,9) below crisp heaven] [W: cript] Mr. Upton declares for _crisp_, curled, bent, hollow. IV.iii.188 (361,1) Let it no more bring out ingrateful man!] [W: out to ungrateful] It is plain that _bring out_ is _bring forth_, with which the following lines correspond so plainly, that the commentator might be suspected of writing his note without reading the whole passage. IV.iii.193 (362,2) Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough torn leas] I cannot concur to censure Theobald [as Warburton did] as a _critic_ very _unhappy_. He was weak, but he was cautious: finding but little power in his mind, he rarely ventured far under its conduct. This timidity hindered him from daring conjectures, and sometimes hindered him happily. This passage, among many others, may pass without change. The genuine reading is not _marrows, veins_, but _marrows_, vines: the sense is this; _O nature! cease_ to _produce men, ensear thy womb_; but if thou wilt continue to produce them, at least cease to pamper them; _dry up thy marrows_, on which they fatten with _unctuous morsels_, thy _vines_, which give them _liquorish draughts_, and thy _plow-torn leas_. Here are effects corresponding with causes, _liquorish draughts_ with _vines_, and _unctuous morsels_ with _marrows_, and the old reading literally preserved. IV.iii.209 (363,3) the cunning of a carper] _Cunning_ here seems to signify _counterfeit appearance_. IV.ii.223 (364,4) moist trees] Hanmer reads very elegantly, --moss'd _trees_. IV.iii.37 (364,5) _Tim._ Always a villain's office, or a fool's. Dost please thyself in't? _Apem._ Ay. _Tim._ What! a knave too?] Such was Dr. Warburton's first conjecture ["and know't too"], but afterwards he adopted Sir T. Hanmer's conjecture, _What a knave_ thou! but there is no need of alteration. Timon had just called Apemantus _fool_, in consequence of what he had known of him by former acquaintance; but when Apemantus tells him, that he comes _to vex him_, Timon determines that to _vex_ is either _the office of a villain or a fool_; that _to vex by design_ is _villainy, to vex without design_ is _folly_. He then properly asks Apemantus whether he takes delight in _vexing_, and when he answers, _yes_, Timon replies, _What! and knave too?_ I before only knew thee to be a _fool_, but I now find thee likewise a _knave_. This seems to be so clear as not to stand in need of a comment. IV.iii.242 (365,6) Willing misery/Out-lives incertain pomp; is crown'd before] Arrives sooner at _high wish_; that is, at the _completion of its wishes_. IV.iii.247 (365,7) Worse than the worst, content] Best states contentless have a wretched being, a being worse than that of the worst states that are content. This one would think too plain to have been mistaken. (1773) IV.iii.249 (365,8) by his breath] It means, I believe, by his _counsel_, by his _direction_. IV. iii. 252 (366,l) Hadst thou, like us] There is in this speech a sullen haughtiness, and malignant dignity, suitable at once to the lord and the man-hater. The impatience with which he bears to have his luxury reproached by one that never had luxury within his reach, is natural and graceful. There is in a letter, written by the earl of Essex, just before his execution, to another nobleman, a passage somewhat resembling this, with which, I believe every reader will be pleased, though it is so serious and solemn that it can scarcely be inserted without irreverence. "God grant your lordship may quickly feel the comfort I now enjoy in my unfettered conversion, but that you may never feel the torments I have suffered for my long delaying it. _I had none but deceivers to call upon me, to whom I said, if my ambition could have entered into their narrow breasts, they would not have been so precise. But your lordship hath one to call upon you, that knoweth what it is you now enjoy; and what the greatest fruit and end is of all contentment that this world can afford._ Think, therefore, dear earl, that I have staked and buoyed all the ways of pleasure unto you, and left them as sea-marks for you to keep the channel of religious virtue. For shut your eyes never so long, they must be open at the last, and then you must say with me, _there is no peace to the ungodly_." IV.iii.252 (366,2) from our first swath] From infancy. _Swath_ is the dress of a new-born child. IV.iii.258 (366,3) precepts of respect] Of obedience to laws. IV.iii.259 (366,4) But myself] The connection here requires some attention. _But_ is here used to denote opposition; but what immediately precedes is not opposed to that which follows. The adversative particle refers to the two first lines. _Thou art a slave, whom fortune's tender arm With favour never claspt; but bred a dog. --But myself, Who had the world as my confectionary,_ &c. The intermediate lines are to be considered as a parenthesis of passion. IV.iii.271 (367,5) If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag,/ Must be thy subject] If we read _poor rogue_, it will correspond rather better to what follows. IV.iii.276 (367,6) Thou hadst been knave and flatterer] Dryden has quoted two verses of Virgil to shew how well he could have written satires. Shakespeare has here given a specimen of the same power by a line bitter beyond all bitterness, in which Timon tells Apemantus, that he had not virtue enough for the vices which he condemns. Dr. Warburton explains _worst_ by _lowest_, which somewhat weakens the sense, and yet leaves it sufficiently vigorous. I have heard Mr. Bourke commend the subtilty of discrimination with which Shakespeare distinguishes the present character of Timon from that of Apemantus, whom to vulgar eyes he would now resemble. (see 1763, VI, 249, 6) (rev. 1778, VIII, 424, 4) IV.iii.308 (369,8) Ay, though it look like thee] Timon here supposes that an objection against hatred, which through the whole tenor of the conversation appears an argument for it. One would have expected him to have answered, Yes, _for it looks like thee_. The old edition, which always gives the pronoun instead of the affirmative particle, has it, _I, though it look like thee_. Perhaps we should read, _I_ thought _it_ look'd _like thee_. IV,iii.363 (371,2) Thou art the cap] i.e. the property, the bubble. WARBURTON.] I rather think, the _top_, the _principal_. The remaining dialogue has more malignity than wit. IV.iii.383 (372,4) 'Twixt natural, son and sire!'] [Greek: dia touton ouk adelphoi dia touton ou toxaeas. ANAC.] IV.iii.398 (373,6) More things like men?] This line, in the old edition, is given to Aremantus, but it apparently belongs to Timon. Hanmer has transposed the foregoing dialogue according to his own mind, not unskilfully, but with unwarrantable licence. IV.iii.419 (373,7) you want much of meat] [T: of meet] Such is Mr. Theobald's emendation, in which he is followed by Dr. Warburton. Sir T. Hanmer reads, --_you want much of_ men. They have been all busy without necessity. Observe the series of the conversation. The thieves tell him, that they are _men that much do want_. Here is an ambiguity between _much want_ and _want_ of _much_. Timon takes it on the wrong side, and tells them that their _greatest want is_, that, like other men, _they want much of meat_; then telling them where meat may be had, he asks, _Want? why want?_ (see 1765, VI, 254, 5) IV.iii.420 (374,8) the earth hath roots;/Within this mile break forth an hundred springs] _Vile plus, et duris haerentia mora rubetis Pugnantis stomachi composuere famen: Flumine vicino stultus sitit._ I do not suppose these to be imitations, but only to be similar thoughts on similar occasions. IV.iii.442 (375,2) The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves/The moon into salt tears] [W: The mounds] I am not willing to receive _mounds_, which would not be understood but by him that suggested it. The _moon_ is supposed to be humid, and perhaps a source of humidity, but cannot be _resolved_ by the _surges_ of the sea. Yet I think _moon_ is the true reading. Here is a circulation of thievary described: The sun, moon, and sea all rob, and are robbed. IV.iii.456 (376,3) 'Tis in the malice of mankind, that he thus advises us; not to have us thrive in our mystery] [Hanmer: his malice to] Hanmer's emendation, though not necessary, is very probable, and very unjustly charged with nonsense [by Warburton]. The reason of his advice, says the thief, is _malice to mankind_, not any kindness to us, or desire _to have us thrive in our mystery_. IV.iii.468 (378,5) What an alteration of honour has/Desperate want made!] [W: of humour] The original copy has, _What an alteration of honour has desperate want made!_ The present reading is certainly better, but it has no authority. To change _honour_ to _humour_ is not necessary. _An alteration of honour_, is an _alteration_ of an _honourable state_ to a state of disgrace. IV.iii.474 (378,8) Grant, I may ever love, and rather woe Those that would mischief me, than those that do!] [W: rather too/...that woo] In defiance of this criticism, I have ventured to replace the former reading, as more suitable to the general spirit of these scenes, and as free from the absurdities charged upon it. It is plain, that in this whole speech _friends_ and _enemies_ are taken only for those who _profess friendship_ and _profess enmity_; for the _friend_ is supposed not to be more kind, but more dangerous than the _enemy_. In the amendation, _those that would mischief_ are placed in opposition to _those that woo_, but in the speaker's intention _those that woo_ are _those that mischief_ most. The sense is, _Let me rather woo or caress those that_ would _mischief, that_ profess to mean me mischief, _than those_ that really _do_ me _mischief under false professions of kindness_. The Spaniards, I think, have this proverb; _Defend me from my friends, and from my enemies I will defend myself_. This proverb is a sufficient comment on the passage. IV.iii.484 (379,9) all/I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains] _Knave_ is here in the compounded sense of a _servant_ and a _rascal_. IV.iii.492 (379,1) Pity's sleeping] I do not know that any correction is necessary, but I think we might read, --_eyes do never give But thorough lust and laughter, pity sleeping_. _Eyes never flow_ (to _give_ is to dissolve as saline bodies in moist weather) _but by lust_ or _laughter_, undisturbed _by_ emotions of _pity_. IV.iii.499 (380,2) It almost turns my dangerous nature wild] [W: mild] This emendation is specious, but even this may be controverted. To _turn wild_ is _to distract_. An appearance so unexpected, says Timon, _almost turns my savageness_ to distraction. Accordingly he examines with nicety lest his phrenzy, should deceive him, _Let me behold thy face. Surely this man Was born of woman_. And to this suspected disorder of mind he alludes, _Perpetual, sober, Gods_!-- Ye powers whose intellects are out of the reach of perturbation. IV.iii.533 (381,3) thou shalt build from men] Away from human habitations. V.i (382,5) _Enter Poet and Painter_] The poet and the painter were within view when Apemantus parted from Timon, and might then have seen Timon, since Apemantus, standing by him could not see them: But the scenes of the thieves and steward have passed before their arrival, and yet passed, as the drama is now conducted within their view. It might be suspected that some scenes are transposed, for all these difficulties would be removed by introducing the poet and painter first, and the thieves in this place. Yet I am afraid the scenes must keep their present order; for the painter alludes to the thieves when he says, _he likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity_. This impropriety is now heightened by placing the thieves in one act, and the poet and painter in another: but it must be remembered, that in the original edition this play is not divided into separate acts, so that the present distribution is arbitrary, and may be changed if any convenience can be gained, or impropriety obviated by alteration. V.i.47 (384,6) While the day serves, before black-corner'd night] [W: black-cornette] _Black-corner'd night_ is probably corrupt, but _black-cornette_ can hardly be right, for it should be _black-cornetted night_. I cannot propose any thing, but must leave the place in its present state. (1773) V.i.101 (386,8) a made-up villain] That is a villain that adopts qualities and characters not properly belonging to him; a hypocrite. V.i.105 (386,9) drown them in a draught] That is, _in the_ jakes. V.i.109 (388,1) But two in company-- Each man apart, all single and alone, Yet an arch villain keeps him company] This passage is obscure. I think the meaning is this: _but two in company_, that is, stand apart, _let only two be together_; for even when each stands single there are two, he himself and a villain. V.i.151 (388,3) Of its own fall] [The Oxford editor alters _fall_ to _fault_, not knowing that Shakespeare uses _fall_ to signify dishonour, not destruction. So in _Hamlet_, _What a_ falling_ off was there_! WARBURTON.] The truth is, that neither _fall_ means _disgrace_, nor is _fault_ a necessary emendation. _Falling off_ in the quotation is not _disgrace_ but _defection_. The Athenians _had sense_, that is, felt the danger _of their own fall_, by the arms of Alcibiades. V.i.151 (388,4) restraining aid to Timon] I think it should be _refraining aid_, that is, with-holding aid that should have been given _to_ Timon. V.i.154 (389,5) Than their offence can weigh down by the dram] This which was in the former editions can scarcely be right, and yet I know not whether my reading will be thought to rectify it. I take the meaning to be, We will give thee a recompence that our offences cannot outweigh, _heaps of wealth down by the dram_, or delivered according to the exactest measure. A little disorder may perhaps have happened in transcribing, which may be reformed by reading, --_Ay, ev'n such heaps And sums of love and wealth, down by the dram, As shall to thee_-- V.i.165 (389,6) Allow'd with absolute power] _Allowed_ is _licensed_, _privileged_, _uncontrolled_. So of a buffoon, in _Love's Labour lost_, it is said, that he is _allowed_, that is, at liberty to say what he will, a privileged scoffer. V.i.139 (390,7) My long sickness/Of health and living now begins to mend] The disease of life begins to promise me a period. V.i.211 (391,8) in the sequence of degree] Methodically, from highest to lowest. V.iii.4 (393,2) Some beast read this; here does not live a man] [W: rear'd] Notwithstanding this remark, I believe the old reading to be the right. _The soldier had only seen the rude heap of earth._ He had evidently seen something that told him _Timon was dead_; and what could tell that but his tomb? The tomb he sees, and the inscription upon it, which not being able to read, and finding none to read it for him, he exclaims peevishly, _some beast read this_, for it must be read, and in this place it cannot be read by man. There is something elaborately unskilful in the contrivance of sending a soldier, who cannot read, to take the epitaph in wax, only that it may close the play by being read with more solemnity in the last scene. V.iv.7 (394, 3) traverst arms] Arms across. V.iv.8 (394,4) the time is flush] A bird is _flush_ when his feathers are grown, and he can leave the nest. _Flush_ is _mature_. V.iv.18 (395,7) So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city's love, By humble message, and by promis'd means] [T: promis'd mends] Dr. Warburton agrees with Mr. Theobald, but the old reading may well stand. V.iv.28 (395,8) Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess/Hath broke their hearts] [Theobald had emended the punctuation] I have no wish to disturb the means of Theobald, yet think some emendation nay be offered that will make the construction less harsh, and the sentence more serious. I read, _Shape that they wanted, coming in excess, Hath broke their hearts._ _Shame which they_ had so long _wanted at last_ coming in _its utmost_ excess. V.iv.36 (396,8) not square] Not regular, not equitable. V.iv.35 (397,9) uncharged ports] That is, _unguarded gates_. V.iv.59 (397,1) not a man/Shall pass his quarter] Not a soldier shall quit his station, or be let loose upon you; and, if any commits violence, he shall answer it regularly to the law. V.iv.76 (308.,3) our brain's flow; Hanmer and Dr. Warburton read, --brine's flow,-- Our brain's flow is our tears; but we any read our brine's flow, our salt tears. Either will serve. (see 1765, VI, 276, 6) (399) General Observation. The play of _Timon_ is a domestic tragedy, and therefore strongly fastens on the attention of the reader. In the plan there is not much art, but the incidents are natural, and the characters various and exact. The catastrophe affords a very powerful warning against that ostentations liberality, which scatters bounty, but confers no benefits, and buys flattery, but not friendship. In this tragedy are many passages perplexed, obscure, and probably corrupt, which I have endeavoured to rectify, or explain, with due diligence; but having only one copy, cannot promise myself that my endeavours shall be much applauded. TITUS ANDRONICUS (403,1) It is observable, that this play is printed in the quarto of 1611, with exactness equal to that of the other books of those times. The first edition was probably corrected by the author, so that here is very little room for conjecture or emendation; and accordingly none of the editors have much molested this piece with officious criticism. I.i.70 (406,2) Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!] [W: my] _Thy_ is as well as _my_. We may suppose the Romans in a grateful ceremony, meeting the dead sons of Andronicus with mourning habits. I.i.77 (407,3) Thou great defender of this Capitol] Jupiter, to whom the Capitol was sacred. I.i.168 (410,5) And fame's eternal date for virtue's praise!] [W: In] To _live in fame's date_ is, if an allowable, yet a harsh expression. To _outlive_ an _eternal date_, is, though not philosophical, yet poetical sense. He wishes that her life may be longer than his, and her praise longer than fame. I.i.309 (414,6) changing piece] Spoken of Lavinia. _Piece_ was then, as it is now, used personally as a word of contempt. II.i (421,8) In the quarto, the direction is, _Manet Aaron_, and he is before made to enter with Tamora, though he says nothing. This scene ought to continue the first act. II.i.9 (421,9) So Tamora--/Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait] [W: her will] I think _wit_, for which she is eminent in the drama, is right. II.i.116 (425,2) by kind] That is, by _nature_, which is the old signification of _kind_. II.ii (425,3) _Changes to a Forest_] The division of this play into acts, which was first made by the editors in 1623, is improper. There is here an interval of action, and here the second act ought to have begun. II.iii.8 (427,6) And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest, That have their alms out of the empress' chest] This is obscure. It seems to mean only, that they who are to come at this gold of the empress are to suffer by it. II.iii.72 (430,9) swarth Cimmerian] _Swarth_ is _black_. The Moor is called Cimmerien, from the affinity of blackness to darkness. II.iii.85 (430,1) _Bas._ The king, my brother, shall have note of this. _Lav._ Ay, for these slips have made him noted long] He had yet been married but one night. II.iii.104 (431,2) Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly] This is said in fabulous physiology, of those that hear the groan of the mandrake torn up. II.iii.126 (432,3) And with that painted hope she braves your mightiness] [W: cope] _Painted hope_ is only _specious_ hope, or ground of confidence more plausible than solid. II.iii.227 (435,4) A precious ring, that lightens all the hole] There is supposed to be a gem called a carbuncle, which emits not reflected but native light. Mr. Boyle believes the reality of its existence. II.iv.13 (438,5) If I do dream, 'would all my wealth would wake me'] If this be a dream, I would give all my possessions to be delivered from it by waking. III.i.91 (443,8) It was my deer] The play upon _deer_ and _dear_ has been used by Waller, who calls a lady's girdle, _The pale that held my lovely_ deer. III.i.216 (447,1) And do not break into these deep extremes] [We should read, instead of this nonsense, --woe-_extremes_. i.e. extremes caused by excessive sorrow. But Mr. Theobald, on his own authority, alters it to _deep_, without notice given. WARB.] It is _deep_ in the old quarto of 1611, (rev. 1778, VIII, 510, 8) III.ii (450,2) _An apartment in Titus's house_] This scene, which does not contribute any thing to the action, yet seems to have the same author with the rest, is omitted in the quarto of 1611, but found in the folio of 1623. III.ii.45 (452,3) by still practice] By _constant_ or _continual_ practice. IV.i.129 (458,6) Revenge the heavens] It should be, _Revenge_, ye _Heavens_!-- _Ye_ was by the transcriber taken for _y'e_, the. IV.ii.85 (461,7) I'll broach the tadpole] A _broach_ is a _spit_. I'll _spit_ the tadpole. IV.ii.99 (462,8) Coal-black is better than another hue,/ In that it seems to bear another hue] We may better read, _In that it_ scorns _to bear another hue_. IV.iii.88 (466,1) Yet wrung with wrongs] To _wring_ a horse is to press or strain his back. IV.iv.90 (472,4) With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,/ Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep] _Honey-stalks_ are clover-flowers, which contain a sweet juice. It is common for cattle to over-charge themselves with clover, and die. V.i.102 (476,7) As true a dog, as ever fought at head] An allusion to bull-dogs, whose generosity and courage are always shown by meeting the bull in front, and seizing his nose. V.ii.189 (484,1) And of the paste a coffin will I rear] A _coffin_ is the term of art for the cavity of a raised pye. V.iii.19 (486,2) break the parley] That is, _begin_ the parley. We yet say, he _breaks_ his mind. (492) General Observation. All the editors and critics agree with Mr. Theobald in supposing this play spurious. I see no reason for differing from them; for the colour of the stile is wholly different from that of the other plays, and there is an attempt at regular versification, and artificial closes, not always inelegant, yet seldom pleasing. The barbarity of the spectacles, and the general massacre, which are here exhibited, can scarcely be conceived tolerable to any audience; yet we are told by Jonson, that they were not only borne, but praised. That Shakespeare wrote any part, though Theobald declares it _incontestible_, I see no reason for believing. The testimony produced at the beginning of this play, by which it is ascribed to Shakespeare, is by no means equal to the argument against its authenticity, arising from the total difference of conduct, language, and sentiments, by which it stands apart from all the rest. Meeres had probably no other evidence than that of a title-page, which, though in our time it be sufficient, was then of no great authority; for all the plays which were rejected by the first collectors of Shakespeare's works, and admitted in later editions, and again rejected by the critical editors, had Shakespeare's name on the title, as we must suppose, by the fraudulence of the printers, who, while there were yet no gazettes, nor advertisements, nor any means of circulating literary intelligence, could usurp at pleasure any celebrated name. Nor had Shakespeare any interest in detecting the imposture, as none of his fame or profit was produced by the press. The chronology of this play does not prove it not to be Shakespeare's. If it had been written twenty-five years, in 1614, it might have been written when Shakespeare was twenty-five years old. When he left Warwickshire I know not, but at the age of twenty-five it was rather too late to fly for deer-stealing. Ravenscroft, who in the reign of Charles II, revised this play, and restored it to the stage, tells us, in his preface, from a theatrical tradition, I suppose, which in his time might be of sufficient authority, that this play was touched in different parts by Shakespeare, but written by some other poet. I do not find Shakespeare's touches very discernible, (see 1765, VI, 364) (rev. 1778, VIII, 559) Vol. IX. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA Prologue. (4,2) _And hither am I come A prologue arm'd; but not in confidence Of author's pen, or actor's voice; but suited In like conditions as our argument_] I come here to speak the prologue, and come in armour; not defying the audience, in confidence of either the author's or actor's abilities, but merely in a character suited to the subject, in a dress of war, before a warlike play. I.i.12 (8,3) And skill-less as unpractis'd infancy] Mr. Dryden, in his alteration of this play, has taken this speech as it stands, except that he has changed _skill-less_ to _artless_, not for the better, because _skill-less_ refers to _skill_ and _skilful_. I.i.58 (10,4) The cignet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense/Hard as the palm of ploughman!] _In comparison with_ Cressid's _hand_, says he, _the spirit of sense_, the utmost degree, the most exquisite power of sensibility, which implies a soft hand, since the sense of touching, as Scaliger says in his _Exercitations_, resides chiefly in the fingers, is hard as the callous and insensible palm of the ploughman. WARBURTON reads, --SPITE _of sense_: HANMER, --to th' _spirit of sense_. It is not proper to make a lover profess to praise his mistress in _spite of sense_; for though he often does it in _spite of the sense_ of others, his own senses are subdued to his desires. I.i.66 (10,5) if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands] She may mend her complexion by the assistance of cosmeticks. I.ii.4 (12,1) Hector, whose patience/Is, as a virtue, fix'd] [W: Is as the] I think the present text may stand. Hector's patience was as a virtue, not variable and accidental, but fixed and constant. If I would alter it, it should be thus: --Hector, whose patience Is ALL a virtue fix'd,-- _All_, in old English, is the _intensive_ or enforcing particle. I.ii.8 (13,2) Before the sun rose, he was harness'd light] [Warburton stated that "harnessed light" meant Hector was to fight on foot] How does it appear that Hector was to fight on foot rather to-day than on any other day? It is to be remembered, that the ancient heroes never fought on horseback; nor does their manner of fighting in chariots seem to require less activity than on foot. I.ii.23 (14,4) his valour is crushed into folly] To be _crushed into folly_, is to be _confused_ and mingled with _folly_, so as that they make one mass together. I.ii.46 (15,6) Ilium] Was the palace of Troy. I.ii.120 (17,7) compass-window] The _compass-window_ is the same as the _bow-window_. (1773) I.ii.212 (20,2) _Cre._ Will he give you the nod? _Pan._ You shall see. _Cre._ If he do, the rich shall have more] [W: rich] I wonder why the commentator should think any emendation necessary, since his own sense is fully expressed by the present reading. Hanmer appears not to have understood the passage. That to _give the nod_ signifies to _set a mark of folly_, I do not know; the allusion is to the word _noddy_, which, as now, did, in our author's time, and long before, signify, _a silly fellow_, and may, by its etymology, signify likewise _full of nods_. Cressid means, that _a_ noddy _shall have more_ nods. Of such remarks as these is a comment to consist? I.ii.260 (22,3) money to boot] So the folio. The old quarto, with more force, Give _an eye_ to boot. (rev. 1778, IX, 25, 1) I.ii.285 (22,4) upon my wit to defend my wiles] So read both the copies) yet perhaps the author wrote, Upon my wit to defend my will. The terms _wit_ and _will_ were, in the language of that time, put often in opposition. I.ii.300 (23,5) At your own house; there he unarms him] [These necessary words added from the quarto edition. POPE.] The words added are only, _there he unarms him_. I.ii.313 (23,6) joy's soul lies in the doing] So read both the old editions, for which the later editions have poorly given, --the _soul's joy_ lies in doing. I.ii.316 (23,7) That she] Means, that woman. I.iii.31 (25,2) With due observance of thy godlike seat] [T: godlike seat] This emendation [for goodly seat] Theobald might have found in the quarto, which has, --the _godlike_ seat. I.iii.32 (25,3) Nestor shall apply/Thy latest words] Nestor _applies_ the words to another instance. I.iii.54 (26,7) Returns to chiding fortune] For _returns_, Hanmer reads _replies_, unnecessarily, the sense being the same. The folio and quarto have _retires_, corruptly. I.iii.62 (27,8) both your speeches; which are such, As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass; and such again, As venerable Nestor, hatch'd in silver, Should with a bond of air (strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides) knit all the Greekish ears To his experienc'd tongue] Ulysses begins his oration with praising those who had spoken before him, and marks the characteristick excellencies of their different eloquence, strength, and sweetness, which he expresses by the different metals on which he recommends them to be engraven for the instruction of posterity. The speech of Agamemnon is such that it ought to be engraven in brass, and the tablet held up by him on the one side, and Greece on the other, to shew the union of their opinion. And Nestor ought to be exhibited in silver, uniting all his audience in one mind by his soft and gentle elocution. Brass is the common emblem of strength, and silver of gentleness. We call a soft voice a _silver_ voice, and a persuasive tongue a _silver_ tongue.--I once read for _hand_, the _band_ of Greece, but I think the text right.--To _hatch_ is a term of art for a particular method of _engraving_. _Hatcher_, to cut, Fr. I.iii.78 (28,1) The specialty of rule] The particular rights of supreme authority. I.iii.81 (29,2) When that the general is not like the hive] The meaning is, _When the general is not_ to the army _like the hive_ to the bees, the repository of the stock of every individual, that to which each particular resorts with whatever be has collected for the good of the whole, _what honey is expected_? what hope of advantage? The sense is clear, the expression is confused. I.iii.101 (30,5) Oh, when degree is shak'd] I would read, --So when degree is shak'd. (see 1765, VII, 431, 5) I.iii.103 (30,6) The enterprize] Perhaps we should read, _Then_ enterprize is sick!-- I.iii.104 (30,7) brotherhoods in cities] Corporations, companies, _confraternities_. I.iii.128 (31,8) That by a pace goes backward] That goes backward _step by step_. I.iii.128 (31,9) with a purpose/It hath to climb] With a design in each man to aggrandize himself, by slighting his immediate superior. I.iii.134 (31,1) bloodless emulation] An emulation not vigorous and active, but malignant and sluggish. I.iii.152 (31,2) Thy topless deputation] _Topless_ is that has nothing _topping_ or _overtopping_ it; supreme; sovereign. I.iii.167 (32,3) as near as the extremest ends/Of parallels] The parallels to which the allusion seems to be made are the parallels on a map. As like as East to West. I.iii.179 (32,4) All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Atchievements, plots] The meaning is this, All our good _grace exact_, means of _excellence irreprehensible_. I.iii.184 (32,5) to make paradoxes] _Paradoxes_ may have a meaning, but it is not clear and distinct. I wish the copies had given, --to make _parodies_. I.iii.188 (33,6) bears his head/In such a rein] That is, holds up his head as haughtily. We still say of a girl, _she bridles_. I.iii.196 (33,7) How rank soever rounded in with danger] A _rank weed_ is a _high weed_. The modern editions silently read, How _hard_ soever-- I.iii.202 (33,8) and know by measure/Of their observant toil the enemies' weight] I think it were better to read, --and know _the_ measure, _By_ their observant toil, _of_ th' enemies' weight. I.iii.220 (34,1) Achilles' arm] So the copies. Perhaps the author wrote, --_Alcides'_ arm. I.iii.262 (35,4) long continu'd truce] Of this long _truce_ there has been no notice taken; in this very act it is said, that _Ajax coped Hector yesterday in the battle_. I.iii.270 (36,7) (With truant vows to her own lips he loves)] That is, _confession made with idle vows to the lips of her whom he loves_. I.iii.319 (37,1) nursery] Alluding to a plantation called a nursery. I.iii.341 (38,4) scantling] That is, a _measure_, _proportion_. The carpenter cuts his wood to a certain _scantling_. I.iii.343 (38,5) small pricks] Small _points compared_ with the volumes. II.i (40,1) _The Grecian camp. Enter Ajax and Thorsites_] ACT II.] This play is not divided into acts in any of the original editions. II.i.13 (41,2) The plague of Greece] Alluding perhaps to the plague sent by Apollo on the Grecian army. II.i.15 (41,3) Speak then, thou unsalted leaven, speak] [T: unwinnow'dst] [W: windyest] Hanmer preserves _whinid'st_, the reading of the folio; but does not explain it, nor do I understand it. If the folio be followed, I read, _vinew'd_, that is _mouldy leven_. Thou composition of _mustiness_ and _sourness_.--Theobald's assertion, however confident, is false. _Unsalted_ leaven is in the old quarto. It means _sour_ without _salt_, malignity without wit. Shakespeare wrote first _unsalted_; but recollecting that want of _salt_ was no fault in leaven, changed it to _vinew'd_. II.i.38 (42,5) aye that thou bark'st at him] I read, _O_ that thou _bark'dst_ at him. II.i.42 (42,6) pun thee into shivers] _Pun_ is in the midland counties the vulgar and colloquial word for _pound_. (1773) II.i.125 (45,1) when Achilles' brach bids me] The folio and quarto read, _Achilles'_ brooch. _Brooch_ is an appendant ornament. The meaning may be, equivalent to one of _Achilles' hangers on_. II.ii.29 (47,2) The past-proportion of his infinite?] Thus read both the copies. The meaning is, _that greatness, to which no measure bears any proportion_. The modern editors silently give, The _vast_ proportion-- II.ii.58 (48,4) And the will dotes that is inclinable] [Old edition, not so well, has it, _attributive_. POPE.] By the old edition Mr. Pope means the old quarto. The folio has, as it stands, _inclinable_.--I think the first reading better; _the will dotes that attributes_ or gives _the qualities which it affects_; that first causes excellence, and then admires it. II.ii.60 (48,5) Without some image of the affected merit] The present reading is right. The will _affects_ an object for some supposed _merit_, which Hector says, is uncensurable, unless the _merit_ so _affected_ be really there. II.ii.71 (48,7) unrespective sieve] That is, into a _common voider_. _Sieve_ is in the quarto. The folio reads, --unrespective _fame_; for which the modern editions have silently printed, --unrespective _place_. II.ii.88 (49,9) why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate; And do a deed that fortune never did, Beggar that estimation which you priz'd Richer than sea and land?] If I understand this passage, the meaning is, "Why do you, by censuring the determination of your own wisdoms, degrade Helen, whom fortune has not yet deprived of her value, or against whom, as the wife of Paris, fortune has not in this war so declared, as to make us value her less?" This is very harsh, and much strained. II.ii.122 (50,2) her brain-sick raptures/Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel] Corrupt; change to a worse state. II.ii.179 (52,3) benummed wills] That is, inflexible, inmoveable, no longer obedient to superior direction. II.ii.180 (52,4) There is a law in each well-ordered nation] What the law does in every nation between individuals, justice ought to do between nations. II.ii.188 (52,5) Hector's opinion/Is this in way of truth] Though considering _truth_ and _justice_ in this question, this is my opinion; yet as a question of honour, I think on it as you. II.ii.196 (53,6) the performance of our heaving spleens] The execution of spite and resentment. II.ii.212 (53,7) emulation] That is, envy, factious contention. II.iii.18 (54,8) without drawing the massy iron and cutting the web] That is, _without drawing their swords to cut the web_. They use no means but those of violence. II.iii.55 (55,1) decline the whole question] Deduce the question from the first case to the last. II.iii.108 (57,6) but it was a strong composure, a fool could disunite] So reads the quarto very properly; but the folio, which the moderns have followed, has, _it was a strong_ COUNSEL. II.iii.118 (57,7) noble state] Person of high dignity; spoken of Agamemnon. II.iii.137 (58,8) under-write] To _subscribe_, in Shakespeare, is to _obey_. II.iii.215 (60,2) pheese his pride] To _pheese_ is to _comb_ or _curry_. II.iii.217 (60,3) Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel] Not for the value of all for which we are fighting. II.iii.267 (62,6) _Ajax._ Shall I call you father? _Nest._ Ay, my good son] In the folio and in the nodern editions Ajax desires to give the title of _father_ to Ulysses; in the quarto, more naturally, to Nestor. III.i.35 (64,1) love's invisible soul] _love's_ visible _soul_.] So HANMER. The other editions have _invisible_, which perhaps may be right, and may mean the _soul of love_ invisible every where else. III.i.83 (65,3) And, my lord, he desires you] Here I think the speech of Pandarus should begin, and the rest of it should be added to that of Helen, but I have followed the copies. III.i.96 (65,4) with my disposer Cressida] [W: dispouser] I do not understand the word _disposer_, nor know what to substitute in its place. There is no variation in the copies. III.i.132 (67,6) _Yet that which seems the wound to kill_] _To kill the wound_ is no very intelligible expression, nor is the measure preserved. We might read, _These lovers cry, Oh! oh! they die!_ But _that which seems to kill, Doth turn_, &c. _So dying love lives still_. Yet as _the wound to kill_ may mean _the wound that seems mortal_, I alter nothing. III.ii.25 (69,1) tun'd too sharp in sweetness]--and _too sharp in sweetness_,] So the folio and all modern editions; but the quarto more accurately, --_tun'd_ too sharp in sweetness. III.ii.99 (71,4) our head shall go bare, 'till merit crown it] I cannot forbear to observe, that the quarto reads thus: _Our head shall go bare, 'till merit_ lower part no affection, _in reversion_, &c. Had there been no other copy, hov could this have been corrected? The true reading is in the folio. III.ii.102 (72,5) his addition shall be humble] We will give him no high or pompous titles. III.ii.162 (74,6) but you are wise, Or else you love not; to be wise and love, Exceeds man's might] I read, --but _we're not_ wise, Or else _we_ love not; to be wise and love, Exceeds man's might;-- Cressida, in return to the praise given by Troilus to her wisdom, replies, "That lovers are never wise; that it is beyond the power of man to bring love and wisdom to an union." III.ii.173 (74,8) Might be affronted with the match] I wish "my integrity might be met and matched with such equality and force of pure unmingled love." III.ii.184 (75,2) As true as steel, as plantage to the moon] _Plantage_ is not, I believe, a general term, but the herb which we now call _plantain_, in Latin, _plantago_, which was, I suppose, imagined to be under the peculiar influence of the moon. III.ii.187 (76,3) Yet after all comparisons of truth, As truth's authentic author to be cited _As true as Troilus_, shall crown up the verse] Troilus shall _crown the verse_, as a man _to be cited as the authentic author of truth_; as one whose protestations were true to a proverb. III.iii.1-16 (77,5) Now, princes, for the service I have done you] I am afraid, that after all the learned commentator's [Warburton's] efforts to clear the argument of Calchas, it will still appear liable to objection; nor do I discover more to be urged in his defence, than that though his skill in divination determined him to leave Troy, jet that he joined himself to Agamemnon and his army by unconstrained good-will; and though he came as a fugitive escaping from destruction, yet his services after his reception, being voluntary and important, deserved reward. This argument is not regularly and distinctly deduced, but this is, I think, the best explication that it will yet admit. III.iii.4 (78,6) through the sight I bear in things, to Jove] This passage in all the modern editions is silently depraved, and printed thus: --through the sight I bear in things to come. The word is so printed that nothing but the sense can determine whether it be _love_ or _Jove_. I believe that the editors read it as _love_, and therefore made the alteration to obtain some meaning. III.iii.28 (79,7) he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done, In most accepted pain] Sir T. HANMER, and Dr. WARBURTON after him, read, In most accepted _pay_. They do not seem to understand the construction of the passage. _Her presence_, says Calchas, shall strike off, or recompence _the service I have done_, even in these _labours_ which were _most accepted_. III.iii.44 (80,8) derision med'cinable] All the modern editions have _decision_. The old copies are apparently right. The folio in this place agrees with the quarto, so that the corruption was at first merely accidental. III.iii.96 (82,9) how dearly ever parted] I do not think that in the word _parted_ is included any idea of _division_; it means, _however excellently endowed_, with however _dear_ or precious _parts_ enriched or adorned. III.iii.113 (82,2) but the author's drift:/Who, in his circumstance] In the detail or circumduction of his argument. III.iii.125 (83,3) The unknovn Ajax] Ajax, who has abilities which were never brought into view or use. III.iii.134 (83,4) How some men creep in skittish Fortune's hall, While others play the idiots in her eyes!] To _creep_ is to _keep out of sight_ from whatever motive. Some men _keep out of notice in the hall of Fortune_, while others, though they but _play the idiot_, are always _in her eye_, in the way of distinction. III.iii.137 (83,5) feasting] Folio. The quarto has _fasting_. Either word may bear a good sense. III.iii.145 (84,6) Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back] This speech is printed in all the modern editions with such deviations from the old copy, as exceed the lawful power of an editor. III.iii.171 (85,2) for beauty, wit,/High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service] The modern editors read, For beauty, wit, high birth, desert in service, &c. I do not deny but the changes produce a more easy lapse of numbers, but they do not exhibit the work of Shakespeare, (see 1765, VII, 435, 2) III.iii.178 (85,3) And shew to dust, that is a little gilt, More laud than gilt o'er-dusted] [T: give to ... laud than they will give to gold] This emendation has been received by the succeeding editors, but recedes too far from the copy. There is no other corruption than such as Shakespeare's incorrectness often resembles. He has omitted the article _to_ in the second line: he should have written, _More laud than_ to _gilt o'er-dusted_. (1773) (rev. 1778, IX, 93, 7) III.iii.189 (86,4) Made emulous missions] The meaning of _mission_ seems to be _dispatches_ of the gods _from heaven_ about mortal business, such as often happened at the siege of Troy. III.iii.197 (86,5) Knows almost every grain of Pluto's gold] For this elegant line the quarto has only, Knows almost every _thing_. III.iii.201 (86,7) (with which relation/Durst never meddle)] There is a secret administration of affairs, which no _history_ was ever able to discover. III.iii.230 (87,9) Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger] By _neglecting_ our duty we _commission_ or enable that _danger_ of dishonour, which could not reach us before, to lay hold upon us. III.iii.254 (88,1) with a politic regard] With a _sly look_. IV.i.11 (91,1) During all question of the gentle truce] I once thought to read, During all _quiet_ of the gentle truce. But I think _question_ means intercourse, interchange of conversation. IV.i.36 (92,4) His purpose meets you] I bring you his meaning and his orders. IV.i.65 (93,6) Both merits pois'd, each weighs no less nor more, But he as he, the heavier for a whore] I read, But he as he, _each_ heavier for a whore. _Heavy_ is taken both for _weighty_, and for _sad_ or _miserable_. The quarto reads, But he as he, _the_ heavier for a whore. I know not whether the thought is not that of a wager. It must then be read thus: But he as he. Which heavier for a whore? That is, _for a whore_ staked down, _which is the heavier_. IV.i.78 (94,7) We'll not commend what we intend to sell] I believe the meaning is only this: though you practise the buyer's art, we will not practise the seller's. We intend to sell Helen dear, yet will not commend her. IV.ii.62 (96,4) My matter is so rash] My business is so _hasty_ and so abrupt. IV.ii.74 (97,6) the secrets of neighbour Pandar] [Pope had emended the Folio's "secrets of nature" to the present reading] Mr. Pope's reading is in the old quarto. So great is the necessity of collation. IV.iv.3 (99,1) The grief] The folio reads, The grief is fine, full perfect, that I taste, And no less in a sense as strong As that which causeth it.-- The quarto otherwise, The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And _violenteth_ in a sense as strong As that which causeth it.-- _Violenteth_ is a word with which I am not acquainted, yet perhaps it may be right. The reading of the text is without authority. IV.iv.65 (101,3) For I will throw my glove to death] That is, I will _challenge_ death himself in defence of thy fidelity. IV.iv.105 (103,5) While others fish, with craft, for great opinion, I, with great truth, catch mere simplicity.] The meaning, I think, is, _while others_, by their art, gain high estimation, I, by honesty, obtain a plain simple approbation. IV.iv.109 (103,6) the moral of my wit/Is, _plain and true_] That is, the _governing principle of my understanding_; but I rather think we should read, --the _motto_ of my wit Is, plain and true,-- IV.iv.114 (103,7) possess thee what she is] I will _make thee fully understand_. This sense of the word _possess_ is frequent in our author. IV.iv.134 (104,9) I'll answer to my list] This, I think, is right, though both the old copies read _lust_. IV.v.8 (105,1) bias cheek] Swelling out like the bias of a bowl. IV.v.37 (106,3) I'll make my match to live./The kiss you take is better than you give] I will make such _bargains_ as I may live by, _such as may bring me profit_, therefore will not take a worse kiss than I give. IV.v.48 (107,4) Why, beg then] For the sake of rhime we should read, Why beg _two_. If you think kisses worth begging, beg more than one. IV.v.52 (107,5) Never's my day, and then a kiss of you] I once gave both these lines to Cressida. She bids Ulysses beg a kiss; he asks that he may have it, When Helen is a maid again-- She tells him that then he shall have it: When Helen is a maid again-- _Cre._ I am your debtor, claim it when 'tis due; Never's my day, and then a kiss _for_ you. But I rather think that Ulysses means to slight her, and that the present reading is right. IV.v.57 (107,6) motive of her body] _Motive_ for _part that contributes to motion_. IV.v.59 (107,7) a coasting] An amorous address; courtship. IV.v.62 (107,8) sluttish spoils of opportunity] Corrupt wenches, of whose chastity every opportunity may make a prey. IV.v.73 (108,9) _Aga._ 'Tis done like Hector, but securely done] [Theobald gave the speech to Achilles] As the old copies agree, I have made no change. IV.v.79 (108,1) Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector] Shakespeare's thought is not exactly deduced. Nicety of expression is not his character. The cleaning is plain, "Valour (says AEneas) is in Hector greater than valour in other men, and pride in Hector is less than pride in other men. So that Hector is distinguished by the excellence of having pride less than other pride, and valour more than other valour." IV.v.103 (109,2) an impair thought] A thought suitable to the dignity of his character. This word I should have changed to _impure_, were I not over-powered by the unanimity of the editors, and concurrence of the old copies, (rev. 1778, IX, 120, 8) IV.v.105 (109,3) Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes/To tender objects] That is, _yields, gives_ way. IV.v.112 (110,4) thus translate him to me] Thus _explain his character_. IV.v.142 (111,5) _Hect._ Not Neoptolemus so mirable] [W: Neoptolemus's sire irascible] After all this contention it is difficult to imagine that the critic believes _mirable_ to have been changed to _irascible_. I should sooner read, Not Neoptolemus th' admirable; as I know not whether _mirable_ can be found in any other place. The correction which the learned commentator gave to Hanmer, Not Neoptolemus' _sire_ so mirable, as it was modester than this, was preferable to it. But nothing is more remote from justness of sentiment, than for Hector to characterise Achilles as the father of Neoptolemus, a youth that had not yet appeared in arms, and whose name was therefore much less knovn than his father's. My opinion is, that by Neoptolemus the author meant Achilles himself; and remembering that the son was Pyrrhus Neoptolemus, considered Neoptolemus as the nomen gentilitium, and thought the father was likewise Achilles Neoptolemus. IV.v.147 (112,6) We'll answer it] That is, answer the _expectance_. IV.v.275 (117,5) Beat loud the tabourines] For this the quarto and the latter editions have, To taste your bounties.-- The reading which I have given from the folio seems chosen at the revision, to avoid the repetition of the word _bounties_ [273]. V.i.5 (118,1) Thou crusty batch of nature] _Batch_ is changed by Theobald to _botch_, and the change is justified by a pompous note, which discovers that he did not know the word _batch_. What is more strange, Hanmer has followed him. _Batch_ is any thing _baked_. V.i.19 (119,3) Male-varlet] HANMER reads _male-harlot_, plausibly enough, except that it seems too plain to require the explanation which Patroclus demands. V.i.23 (119,4) cold palsies] This catalogue of loathsome maladies ends in the folio at _cold palsies_. This passage, as it stands, is in the quarto: the retrenchment was in my opinion judicious. It may be remarked, though it proves nothing, that, of the few alterations made by Milton in the second edition of his wonderful poem, one was, an enlargement of the enumeration of diseases. V.i.32 (119,5) you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur] Patroclos reproaches Thersites with deformity, with having one part crowded into another. V.i.35 (119,6) thou idle immaterial skeyn of sley'd silk] All the terms used by Thersites of Patroclus, are emblematically expressive of flexibility, compliance, and mean officiousness. V.i.40 (119,7) Out, gall!] HANMER reads _nut-gall_, which answers well enough to _finch-egg_; it has already appeared, that our author thought the _nut-gall_ the bitter gall. He is called _nut_, from the conglobation of his form; but both the copies read, _Out, gall_! V.i.41 (120,8) Finch egg!] Of this reproach I do not know the exact meaning. I suppose he means to call him _singing bird_, as implying an useless favourite, and yet more, something more worthless, a singing bird in the egg, or generally, a slight thing easily crushed. V.i.64 (121,2) forced with wit] Stuffed with wit. A term of cookery.--In this speech I do not well understand what is meant by _loving quails_. V.i.73 (121,3) spirits and fires!] This Thersites speaks upon the first sight of the distant lights. V.ii.11 (124,1) And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff] That is, her _key_. _Clef_, French. V.ii.41 (125,2) You flow to great distraction] So the moderns. The folio has, You _flow_ to great _distraction_.-- The quarto, You _flow_ to great _destruction_.-- I read, You _show too_ great distraction.-- V.ii.108 (128,7) But with my heart the other eye doth see] I think it should be read thus, But _my heart with_ the other eye doth see. V.ii.113 (128,8) A proof of strength she could not publish more] She could not publish a stronger proof. V.ii.125 (129,1) I cannot conjure, Trojan] That is, I cannot raise spirits in the form of Cressida. V.ii.141 (129,2) If there be rule in unity itself] I do not well understand what is meant by _rule in unity_. By _rule_ our author, in this place as in others, intends _virtuous restraint, regularity of manners, command of passions and appetites_. In Macbeth, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule.-- But I know not how to apply the word in this sense to _unity_. I read, If there be rule in _purity_ itself, Or, If there be rule in _verity_ itself. Such alterations would not offend the reader, who saw the state of the old editions, in which, for instance, a few lines lower, _the almighty sun_ is called _the almighty fenne_.--Yet the words may at last mean, If there be _certainty_ in _unity_, if it be a _rule_ that _one is one_. V.ii.144 (130,3) Bi-fold authority!] This is the reading of the quarto. The folio gives us, _By foul_ authority!-- There is _madness_ in that disquisition in which a man reasons at once _for_ and _against himself upon authority_ which he knows _not to be valid_. The quarto is right. V.ii.144 (130,4) where reason can revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt] The words _loss_ and _perdition_ are used in their common sense, but they mean the _loss_ or _perdition_ of _reason_. V.ii.157 (131,6) And with another knot five-finger-tied] A knot tied by giving her hand to Diomed. V.ii.160 (131,7) o'er-eaten faith] Vows which she has already swallowed _once over_. We still say of a faithless man, that he has _eaten his words_. V.ii.161 (131,8) _Ulyss._ May worthy Troilus be half attach'd With that which here his passion doth express!] Can Troilus really feel on this occasion half of what he utters? A question suitable to the calm Ulysses. V.iii.21 (133,2) For us to count we give what's gain'd by thefts, And rob in the behalf of charity] This is so oddly confused in the folio, that I transcribe it as a specimen of incorrectness: --do not count it holy, To hurt by being just; it were as lawful _For we would count give much to as violent thefts_, And rob in the behalf of charity. V.iii.23 (133,3) _Cas._ It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold] The mad prophetess speaks here with all the coolness and judgment of a skilful casuist. "The essence of a lawful vow, is a lawful purpose, and the vow of which the end is wrong must not be regarded as cogent." V.iii.27 (134,4) Life every man holds dear; but the dear man Holds honour far more precious dear than life] _Valuable_ man. The modern editions read, --_brave_ man. The repetition of the word is in our author's manner. V.iii.37 (134,5) Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Which better fits a lion, than a man] The traditions and stories of the darker ages abounded with examples of the lion's generosity. Upon the supposition that these acts of clemency were true, Troilus reasons not improperly, that to spare against reason, by mere instinct of pity, became rather a generous beast than a wise man. V.x.33 (137,9) Hence, broker lacquey!] For _brothel_, the folio reads _brother_, erroneously for _broker_, as it stands at the end of the play where the lines are repeated. Of _brother_ the following editors made _brothel_. V.iv.18 (138,2) the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion] To set up the authority of ignorance to declare that they will be governed by policy no longer. V.vi.11 (142,1) you cogging Greeks] This epithet has no particular propriety in this place, but the author had heard of _Graecia Mendax_. V.vi.29 (144,3) I'll frush it] The word _frush_ I never found elsewhere, nor understand it. HANMER explains it, to _break_ or _bruise_. V.viii.7 (146,1) Even with the vail and darkening of the sun] The _vail_ is, I think, the _sinking_ of the sun; not _veil_ or _cover_. (149) General Observation. This play is more correctly written than most of Shakespeare's compositions, but it is not one of those in which either the extent of his views or elevation of his fancy is fully displayed. As the story abounded with materials, he has exerted little invention; but he has diversified his characters with great variety, and preserved them with great exactness. His vicious characters sometimes disgust, but cannot corrupt, for both Cressida and Pandarus are detested and contemned. The comic characters seem to have been the favourites of the writer; they are of the superficial kind, and exhibit more of manners than nature; but they are copiously filled and powerfully impressed. Shakespeare has in his story followed, for the greater part, the old book of Caxton, which was then very popular; but the character of Thersites, of which it makes no mention, is a proof that this play was written after Chapman had published his version of _Homer_. CYMBELINE I.i.1 (153,2) You do not meet a man, but frowns: our bloods No more obey the heavens, than our courtiers' Still seen, as does the king's] [W: brows/No more] This passage is so difficult, that commentators may differ concerning it without animosity or shame. Of the two emendations proposed, Hanmer's is the more licentious; but he makes the sense clear, and leaves the reader an easy passage. Dr. Warburton has corrected with more caution, but less improvement: his reasoning upon his own reading is so obscure and perplexed, that I suspect some injury of the press.--I am now to tell my opinion, which is, that the lines stand as they were originally written, and that a paraphrase, such as the licentious and abrupt expressions of our author too frequently require, will make emendation unnecessary. _We do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods_--our countenances, which, in popular speech, are said to be regulated by the temper of the blood,--_no more obey_ the laws of _heaven_,--which direct us to appear what we really are,--_than our courtiers_;--that is, than the_ bloods of our courtiers_; but our bloods, like theirs,--_still seem, as doth the king's_. I.i.25 (155,3) I do extend him, Sir, within himself] I extend him within himself: my praise, however _extensive_, is _within_ his merit. I.i.46 (156,4) liv'd in court,/(Which rare it is to do) most prais'd, most lov'd] This encomium is high and artful. To be at once in any great degree _loved_ and _praised_ is truly _rare_. I.i.49 (156,5) A glass that feated them] _A glass that featur'd them_] Such is the reading in all the modern editions, I know not by whom first substituted, for A glass that _feared_ them;-- I have displaced _featur'd_, though it can plead long prescription, because I am inclined to think that _feared_ has the better title. _Mirrour_ was a favourite word in that age for an _example_, or a _pattern_, by noting which the manners were to be formed, as dress is regulated by looking in a glass. When Don Bellianis is stiled _The Mirrour of Knighthood_, the idea given is not that of a glass in which every knight may behold his own resemblance, but an example to be viewed by knights as often as a glass is looked upon by girls, to be viewed, that they may know, not what they are, but what they ought to be. Such a glass may _fear the more mature_, as displaying excellencies which they have arrived at maturity without attaining. To _fear_ is here, as in other places, to _fright_. [I believe Dr. Johnson is mistaken as to the reading of the folio, which is _feated_. The page of the copy which he consulted is very faintly printed; but I have seen another since, which plainly gives this reading. STEEVENS.] If _feated_ be the right word, it must, I think, be explained thus; _a glass that_ formed _them_; a model, by the contemplation and inspection of which they formed their manners. (see 1765, VII, 260, 4) I.i.86 (158,1) I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing (Always reserv'd my holy duty) what His rage can do on me] I say I do not fear my father, so far as I may say it without breach of duty. I.i.101 (158,2) Though ink be made of gall] Shakespeare, even in this poor conceit, has confounded the vegetable _galls_ used in ink, with the animal _gall_, supposed to be bitter. I.i.132 (160,4) then heapest/A year's age on me] Dr. WARBURTON reads, A _yare_ age on me. It seems to me, even from SKINNER, whom he cites, that _yare_ is used only as a personal quality. Nor is the authority of Skinner sufficient, without some example, to justify the alteration. HANMER's reading is better, but rather too far from the original copy: --thou heapest _many_ A year's age on me. I read, --thou heap'st _Years, ages_ on me. I.i.135 (160,5) a touch more rare/Subdues all pangs, all fears] _Rare_ is used often for _eminently good_; but I do not remember any passage in which it stands for _eminently bad_. May we read, --a touch more _near_. _Cura deam_ propior luctusque domesticus angit. _Ovid_. Shall we try again, --a touch more _rear_. _Crudum vulnus._ But of this I know not any example. There is yet another interpretation, which perhaps will remove the difficulty. _A touch more rare_, may mean _a nobler passion_. I.i.140 (161,6) a puttock] A _kite_. I.ii.31 (163,1) her beauty and her brain go not together] I believe the lord means to speak a sentence, "Sir, as I told you always, beauty and brain go not together." I.ii.32 (164,2) She's a good sign] [W: shine] There is acuteness enough in this note, yet I believe the poet meant nothing by _sign_, but _fair outward_ shew. I.iii.8 (165,2) for so long As he could make me with this eye, or ear, Distinguish him from others] [W: this eye] Sir T. HANMER alters it thus: --for so long As he could _mark_ me with his eye, or _I_ Distinguish-- The reason of Hanmer's reading was, that Pisanio describes no address made to the _ear_. I.iii.18 (165,3) till the diminution/Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle] _The diminution of space_, is _the diminution_ of which _space_ is the cause. Trees are killed by a blast of lightning, that is, by _blasting_, not _blasted_ lightning. I.iii.24 (166,4) next vantage] Next _opportunity_. I.iii.37 (166,6) Shakes all our buds from growing] A bud, without any distinct idea, whether of flower or fruit, is a natural representation of any thing incipient or immature; and the buds of flowers, if flowers are meant, _grow_ to flowers, as the buds of fruits _grow_ to fruits. I.iv.9 (167,1) makes him] In the sense in which we say, This will _make_ or _mar_ you. I.iv.16 (167,2) words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter] Makes the description of him very distant from the truth. I.iv.20 (167,3) under her colours] Under her banner; by her influence. I.iv.47 (168,6) I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard, than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences] This is expressed with a kind of fantastical perplexity. He means, I was then willing to take for my direction the experience of others, more than such intelligence as I had gathered myself. I.iv,58 (169,7) 'Twas a contention in publick, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report] Which, undoubtedly, may be publickly told. I.iv.73 (169,8) tho' I profess myself her adorer, not her friend] Though I have not the common obligations of a lover to his mistress, and regard her not with the fondness of a friend, but the reverence of an adorer. I.iv.77 (169,9) If she went before others I have seen, as that diamond of yours out-lustres many I have beheld, I could not believe she excelled many] [W: could believe] I should explain the sentence thus: "Though your lady excelled, as much as your diamond, _I could not believe she excelled many_; that is, I too _could_ yet _believe that there are_ many _whom_ she did not excel." But I yet think Dr. Warburton right. (1773) I.iv.104 (171,l) to convince the honour of my mistress] [_Convince_, for overcome. WARBURTON.] So in _Macbeth_, --their malady _convinces_ "The great essay of art." I.iv.124 (171,2) abus'd] _Deceiv'd._ I.iv.134 (172,3) approbation] Proof. I.iv.148 (172,4) You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But, I see, you have some religion in you, that you fear] _You are a friend_ to the lady, _and therein the wiser_, as you will not expose her to hazard; and that you _fear_, is a proof of your _religious_ fidelity. (see 1765, VII, 276, 1) I.iv.l60 (173,5) _Iach._ If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours, so is my diamond too: if I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours-- _Post._ I embrace these conditions] [W: bring you sufficient] I once thought this emendation right, but am now of opinion, that Shakespeare intended that Iachimo, having gained his purpose, should designedly drop the invidious and offensive part of the wager, and to flatter Posthumus, dwell long upon the more pleasing part of the representation. One condition of a wager implies the other, and there is no need to mention both. I.v.18 (176,1) Other conclusions] Other _experiments_. _I commend_, says WALTON, _an angler that tries_ conclusions, and improves his art. I.v.23 (175,2) Your highness/Shall from this practice but make hard your heart] Thare is in this passage nothing that much requires a note, yet I cannot forbear to push it forward into observation. The thought would probably have been more amplified, had our author lived to be shocked with such experiments as have been published in later times, by a race of men that have practised tortures without pity, and related then without shame, and are yet suffered to erect their heads among human beings. "Cape saxa manu, cape robora, pastor." I.v.33-44 (175,3) I do not like her] This soliloquy is very inartificial. The speaker is under no strong pressure of thought; he is neither resolving, repenting, suspecting, nor deliberating, and yet makes a long speech to tell himself what himself knows. I.v.54 (176,4) to shift his being] To change his abode. I.v.58 (118,5) What shalt thou expect,/To be depender on a thing that leans?] That _inclines_ towards its fall. I.v.80 (177,7) Of leigers for her sweet] A _leiger_ ambassador, is one that resides at a foreign court to promote his master's interest. I.vi.7 (178,9) Bless'd be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort] I am willing to comply with any meaning that can be extorted from the present text, rather than change it, yet will propose, but with great diffidence, a slight alteration: --Bless'd be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, _With reason's_comfort.-- Who gratify their innocent wishes with reasonable enjoyments. I.vi.35 (180,2) and the twinn'd stones/Upon the number'd beach?] I know not well how to regulate this passage. _Number'd_ is perhaps _numerous_. _Twinn'd stones_ I do not understand. _Twinn'd shells_, or _pairs of shells_, are very common. For _twinn'd_, we might read _twin'd_; that is, _twisted, convolved_; but this sense is more applicable to shells than to stones. I.vi.44 (181,3) Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed] [i.e. that appetite, which is not allured to feed on such excellence, can have no stomach at all; but, though empty, must nauseate every thing. WARB.] I explain this passage in a sense almost contrary. Iachimo, in this counterfeited rapture, has shewn how the _eyes_ and the _judgment_ would determine in favour of Imogen, comparing her with the present mistress of Posthumus, and proceeds to say, that appetite too would give the same suffrage. _Desire_, says he, when it approached _sluttery_, and considered it in comparison with _such neat excellence_, would not only be _not so allured to feed_, but, seized with a fit of loathing, _would vomit emptiness_, would feel the convulsions of disgust, though, being unfed, it had nothing to eject. [Tyrwhitt: vomit, emptiness ... allure] This is not ill conceived; but I think my own explanation right. _To vomit emptiness_ is, in the language of poetry, to feel the convulsions of eructation without plenitude. (1773) I.vi.54 (182,4) He's strange, and peevish] He is a foreigner, easily fretted. I.vi.97 (184,5) timely knowing] Rather timely _known_. I.vi.99 (184,6) What both you spur and stop] What it is that at once incites you to speak, and restrains you from it. [I think Imogen means to enquire what is that news, that intelligence, or information, you profess to bring, and yet with-hold: at least, I think Dr. JOHNSON's explanation a mistaken one, for Imogen's request supposes Iachimo an agent, not a patient. HAWKINS.] I think my explanation true. (see 1765, VII, 286, 7) I.vi.106 (184,7) join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falshood (falshood as With labour) then lye peeping in an eye] The old edition reads, --join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falshood (_falshood _ as With labour) then by peeping in an eye, &c. I read, --then _lye_ peeping-- The author of the present regulation of the text I do not know, but have suffered it to stand, though not right. _Hard with falshood_ is, hard by being often griped with frequent change of hands. I.vi.122 (185,8) With tomboys, hir'd with that self-exhibition/Which your own coffers yield!] _Gross strumpets_, hired with the _very pension_ which you allow your husband. I.vi.152 (186,9) As in a Romish stew] The stews of Rome are deservedly censured by the reformed. This is one of many instances in which Shakespeare has mingled in the manners of distant ages in this play. II.i.2 (188,1) kiss'd the jack upon an up-cast] He is describing his fate at bowls. The _jack_ is the small bowl at which the others are aimed. He who is nearest to it wins. _To kiss the jack_ is a state of great advantage. (1773) II.i.15 (189,2) 2 _Lord_. No, my lord; nor crop the ears of them. [_Aside_.] This, I believe, should stand thus: 1 _Lord_. No, my lord. 2 _Lord_. Nor crop the ears of them, [_Aside_. II.i.26 (189,3) you crow, cock, with your comb on] The allusion is to a fool's cap, which hath a _comb_ like a cock's. II.i.29 (189,4) every companion] The use of _companion_ was the same as of _fellow_ now. It was a word of contempt. II.ii.12 (191,1) our Tarquin] The speaker is an Italian. II.ii.13 (191,2) Did softly press the rushes] It was the custom in the time of our author to strew chambers with rushes, as we now cover them with carpets. The practice is mentioned in _Caius de Ephemera Britannica_. II.iii.24 (194,2) _His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies_] Hanmer reads, Each _chalic'd_ flower supplies; to escape a false concord: but correctness must not be obtained by such licentious alterations. It may be noted, that the _cup_ of a flower is called _calix_, whence _chalice_. II.iii.28 (195,3) _With, every thing that pretty bin_] is very properly restored by Hanmer, for _pretty is_; but he too grammatically reads, With _all the things_ that pretty _bin_. II.iii.102 (197,5) one of your great knowing/Should learn, being taught, forbearance] i.e. A man _who is taught forbearance should learn it_. II.iii.111 (198,7) so verbal] Is, so _verbose_, so full of talk. II.iii.118-129 (199,8) The contract you pretend with that base wretch] Here Shakespeare has not preserved, with his common nicety, the uniformity of character. The speech of Cloten is rough and harsh, but certainly not the talk of one, Who can't take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen.-- His argument is just and well enforced, and its prevalence is allowed throughout all civil nations: as for rudeness, he seems not to be mach undermatched. II.iii.124 (199,9) in self-figur'd knot] [This is nonsense. We should read, --SELF-FINGER'D _knot_; WARBURTON.] But why nonsense? A _self-figured knot_ is a knot formed by yourself. (see 1765, VII, 301, 8) II.iv.71 (204,4) And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for/The press of boats, or pride] [This is an agreeable ridicule on poetical exaggeration, which gives human passions to inanimate things: and particularly, upon what he himself writes in the foregoing play on this very subject: "--And made The water, which they beat, to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes." WARBURTON.] It is easy to sit down and give our author meanings which he never had. Shakespeare has no great right to censure poetical exaggeration, of which no poet is more frequently guilty. That he intended to ridicule his own lines is very uncertain, when there are no means of knowing which of the two plays was written first. The commentator has contented himself to suppose, that the foregoing play in his book was the play of earlier composition. Nor is the reasoning better than the assertion. If the language of Iachimo be such as shews him to be mocking the credibility of his hearer, his language is very improper, when his business was to deceive. But the truth is, that his language is such as a skilful villain would naturally use, a mixture of airy triumph and serious deposition. His gaiety shews his seriousness to be without anxiety, and his seriousness proves his gaiety to be without art. II.iv.83 (205,5) never saw I figures/So likely to report themselves] So near to speech. The Italians call a portrait, when the likeness is remarkable, a _speaking picture_. II.iv.84 (205,6) the cutter/Was as another nature, dumb, out-went her;/Motion and breath left out] [W: done; out-went her.] This emendation I think needless. The meaning is this, The _sculptor_ was as _nature_, but as _nature dumb_; he gave every thing that nature gives, but _breath_ and _motion_. In _breath_ is included _speech_. II.iv.91 (205,7) _Post._ This is her honour!] [T: What's this t'her honour?] This emendation has been followed by both the succeeding editors, but I think it must be rejected. The expression is ironical. Iachimo relates many particulars, to which Posthumus answers with impatience, This is her honour! That is, And the attainment of this knowledge is to pass for the corruption of her honour. II.iv.95 (206,8) if you can/Be pale] If you can forbear to flush your cheek with rage. II.iv.110 (207,9) The vows of women Of no more bondage be, to where they are made, Than they are to their virtues] The love vowed by women no more abides with him to whom it is vowed, than women adhere to their virtue. II.iv.127 (207,2) The cognizance] The badge; the token; the visible proof. III.i.26 (211,2) and his shipping,/(Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas] [_Ignorant_, for _of no use_. WARB.] Rather, _unacquainted_ with the nature of our boisterous seas. III.i.51 (212,3) against all colour] Without any pretence of right. III.i.73 (213,5) keep at utterance] [i.e. At extreme distance. WARB.] More properly, in a state of hostile defiance, and deadly opposition. III.i.73 (213,6) I am perfect] I am well informed. So, in Macbeth, "--in your state of honour _I am perfect_." (see 1765, VII, 314,7) III.ii.4 (214,2) What false Italian (As poisonous tongu'd as handed)] About Shakespeare's time the practice of poisoning was very common in Italy, and the suspicion of Italian poisons yet more common. III.ii.9 (214,3) take in some virtue] To _take in_ a town, is to _conquer_ it. III.ii.34 (215,6) For it doth physic love] That is, grief for absence, keeps love in health and vigour. III.ii.47 (215,8) _loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love_] I read, Loyal to his vow and _you_, increasing in love. III.ii.79 (216,1) A franklin's housewife] A _franklin_ is literally a _freeholder_, with a small estate, neither _villain_ nor _vassal_. III.ii.80 (217,2) I see before me, man, nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues; but have a fog in them, That I cannot look thro'] This passage may, in my opinion, be very easily understood, without any emendation. The lady says, "I can see neither one way nor other, before me nor behind me, but all the ways are covered with an impenetrable fog." There are objections insuperable to all that I can propose, and since reason can give me no counsel, I will resolve at once to follow my inclination. III.iii.5 (218,2) giants may jet through/And keep their impious turbans on] The idea of a _giant_ was, among the readers of romances, who were almost all the readers of those times, always confounded with that of a Saracen. III.iii.16 (218,3) This service it not service, so being done,/But being so allow'd] In war it is not sufficient to do duty well; the advantage rises not from the act, but the acceptance of the act. III.iii.23 (219,5) Richer, than doing nothing for a babe] I have always suspected that the right reading of this passage is what I had not in my former edition the confidence to propose: Richer, than doing nothing for a _brabe_. _Brabium_ is a badge of honour, or the ensign of an honour, or any thing worn as a mask of dignity. The word was strange to the editors as it will be to the reader: they therefore changed it to _babe_; and I am forced to propose it without the support of any authority. _Brabium_ is a word found in Holyoak's Dictionary, who terms it a _reward_. Cooper, in his _Thesaurus_, defines it to be a _prize, or reward for any game_. (1773) (rev. 1778, IX, 248, 8) III.iii.35 (219,6) To stride a limit] To overpass his bound. III.iii.35 (220,7) What should we speak of,/When we are as old as you?] This dread of an old age, unsupplied with matter for discourse and meditation, is a sentiment natural and noble. No state can be more destitute than that of him who, when the delights of sense forsake him, has no pleasures of the mind. III.iii.82 (221,9) tho' trained up thus meanly I' the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roof of palaces] [W: wherein they bow] HANMER reads, I' the cave, _here in this brow_.-- I think the reading is this: I' the cave, wherein the BOW, &c. That is, they are trained up in the _cave, where their thoughts_ in hitting the _bow_, or arch of their habitation, _hit the roofs of palaces_. In other words, though their condition is low, their thoughts are high. The sentence is at last, as THEOBALD remarks, abrupt, but perhaps no less suitable to Shakespeare. I know not whether Dr. WARBURTON's conjecture be not better than mine. III.iii.101 (223,2) I stole these babes] Shakespeare seems to intend Belarius for a good character, yet he makes him forget the injury which he has done to the young princes, whom he has robbed of a kingdom only to rob their father of heirs.--The latter part of this soliloquy is very inartificial, there being no particular reason why Belarius should now tell to himself what he could not know better by telling it. III.iv.15 (224,2) drug-damn'd Italy] This is another allusion to Italian poisons. III.iv.39 (225,4) Kings, queens, and states] Persons of highest rank. III.iv.52 (225,6) Some jay of Italy,/Whose mother was her painting] _Some jay of Italy_, made by art the creature, not of nature, but of painting. In this sense _painting_ may be not improperly termed her _mother_. (see 1765, VII, 325, 9) III.iv.63 (226,7) So thou, Posthumus,/Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men] HANMER reads, --lay the _level_-- without any necessity. III.iv.97 (228,1) That now thou tir'st on] A hawk is said to _tire_ upon that which he pecks; from _tirer_, French. III.iv.104 (228,2) I'll wake mine eye-balls blind first. _Imo._ Wherefore then] This is the old reading. The modern editions for _wake_ read _break_, and supply the deficient syllable by _ah_, wherefore. I read, I'll wake mine eye-balls _out_ first, or, _blind_, first. III.iv.111 (228,3) To be unbent] To have thy bow unbent, alluding to a hunter. III.iv.146 (229,4) Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That, which, to appear itself, must not yet be, But by self-danger] To wear a dark mind, is to carry a mind impenetrable to the search of others. _Darkness_ applied to the _mind_ is _secrecy_, applied to the _fortune_ is _obscurity_. The next lines are obscure. _You must_, says Pisanio, _disguise that_ greatness, _which, to appear_ hereafter _in its proper form_, cannot yet appear without great _danger to itself_. (see 1765, VII, 329, 6) III.iv.149 (230,5) full of view] With opportunities of examining your affairs with your own eyes. III.iv.155 (230,6) Though peril to my modesty, not death on't,/I would adventure] I read, _Through_ peril-- _I would for such means adventure_ through _peril of my modesty_; I would risque every thing but real dishonour. III.iv.162 (230,7) nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek; Exposing it (but, oh, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy)] I think it very natural to reflect in this distress on the cruelty of Posthumus. Dr. WARBURTON proposes to read, --the harder _hap_!-- III.iv.177 (231,8) which you'll make him know] This is HANMER's reading. The common books have it, --which _will_ make him know. Mr. THEOBALD, in one of bit long notes, endeavours to prove, that it should be, --which will make him _so_. He is followed by Dr. WARBURTON. III.iv.184 (231,9) we'll even/All that good time will give us] We'll make our work _even_ with our _time_; we'll do what time will allow. III.v.71 (235,2) And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman; from every one The best she hath] [The second line is intolerable nonsense. It should be read and pointed thus, Than lady ladies; _winning_ from each one. WARBURTON.] I cannot perceive the second line to be intolerable, or to be nonsense. The speaker only rises in his ideas. _She has all courtly parts_, says he, _more exquisite than_ any _lady_, than all _ladies_, than all _womankind_. Is this nonsense? III.v.101 (236,3) _Pia._ Or this, or perish] These words, I think, belong to Cloten, who, requiring the paper, says, Let's see't: I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. Or this, or perish. Then Pisanio giving the paper, says to himself, She's far enough, &c. III.vi.12 (239,1) To lapse in fullness/Is sorer, than to lye for need] Is a _greater_, or _heavier_ crime. III.vi.23 (239,3) If any thing that's civil, speak; if savage,/Take, or lend] [W: Take 'or 't end.] I suppose the emendation proposed will not easily be received; it is strained and obscure, and the objection against Hanmer's reading is likewise very strong. I question whether, after the words, _if savage_, a line be not lost. I can offer nothing better than to read, --Ho! who's here? If any thing that's civil, _take or lend_, If savage, _speak_. If you are _civilised_ and _peaceable, take_ a price for what I want, or _lend_ it for a future recompence; if you are _rough inhospitable_ inhabitants of the mountain, _speak_, that I may know my state. III.vi.77 (242,4) then had my prize/Been less; and so more equal ballasting] HANMER reads plausibly, but without necessity, _price_, for _prize_, and _balancing_, for _ballasting_. He is followed by Dr. WARBURTON. The meaning is, Had I been a less prize, I should not have been too heavy for Posthumus. III.vi.86 (243,5) That nothing-gift of differing multitudes] [T: deferring] He is followed by Sir T. HANMER and Dr. WARBURTON; but I do not see why _differing_ may not be a general epithet, and the expression equivalent to the _many-headed_ rabble. III.vii.8 (244,2) and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission] The plain meaning is, he _commands_ the commission to be given to you. So we say, I _ordered_ the materials to the workmen. IV.ii.10 (245,1) Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom/ Is breach of all] Keep your _daily_ course uninterrupted; if the stated plan of life is once broken, nothing follows but confusion. IV.ii.17 (246,2) How much the quantity] I read, _As_ much the quantity.-- IV.ii.38 (247,3) I could not stir him] Not _move_ him to tell his story. IV.ii.39 (247,4) gentle, but unfortunate] _Gentle_, is _well born_, of birth above the vulgar. IV.ii.59 (248,6) And let the stinking elder, Grief, untwine/ His perishing root, with the encreasing vine!] Shakespeare had only seen _English vines_ which grow against walls, and therefore may be sometimes entangled with the _elder_. Perhaps we should read _untwine from the vine_. IV.ii.105 (251,9) the snatches in his vice,/And burst of speaking] This is one of our author's strokes of observation. An abrupt and tumultuous utterance very frequently accompanies a confused and cloudy understanding. IV.ii.111 (251,1) for the effect of judgment/Is oft the cause of fear] HANMER reads, with equal justness of sentiment, --for defect of judgment Is oft the _cure_ of fear.-- But, I think, the play of _effect_ and _cause_ more resembling the manner of our author. IV.ii.118 (252,2) I am perfect, what] I am _well informed_, what. So in this play, I'm _perfect_, the Pannonians are in arms. IV.ii.121 (252,3) take us in] To _take in_, was the phrase in use for to _apprehend_ an out-law, or to make him amenable to public justice. IV.ii.148 (253,5) the boy Fidele's sickness/Did make my way long forth] Fidele's sickness made my _walk forth_ from the cave _tedious_. IV.ii.159 (254,6) revenges/That possible strength might meet] Such pursuit of vengeance as fell within any possibility of opposition. IV.ii.168 (254,7) I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood] [W: marish] The learned commentator has dealt the raproach of nonsense very liberally through this play. Why this is nonsense, I cannot discover. I would, says the young prince, to recover Fidele, kill as many Clotens as would fill a _parish_. IV.ii.246 (258,1) He was paid for that] HANMER reads, He _has_ paid for that:-- rather plausibly than rightly. _Paid_ is for _punished_. So JONSON, "Twenty things more, my friend, which you know due, For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll _pay_ you." (see 1765, VII, 356, 3) IV.ii.247 (258,2) reverence,/(That angel of the world)] _Reverence_, or due regard to subordination, is the power that keeps peace and order in the world. IV.ii.268 (259,4) _The scepter, learning, physic, must/ All follow this, and come to dust_] The poet's sentiment seems to have been this. All human excellence is equally the subject to the stroke of death: neither the power of kings, nor the science of scholars, nor the art of those whose immediate study is the prolongation of life, can protect then from the final destiny of man. (1773) IV.ii.272 (260,5) _Fear not slander, censure rash_] Perhaps, Fear not _slander's_ censure rash. IV.ii.275 (260,6) Consign to thee] Perhaps, Consign to _this_. And in the former stanza, for _all follow this_, we might read, _all follow_ thee. IV.ii.280 (260,7) Both. _Quiet consummation have;/ And renowned be thy grave!_] For the obsequies of Fidele, a song was written by my unhappy friend, Mr. William Collins of Chichester, a man of uncommon learning and abilities. I shall give it a place at the end in honour of his memory. IV.ii.315 (262,1) Conspired with] The old copy reads thus, --thou Conspir'd with that irregulous divel, Cloten. I suppose it should be, Conspir'd with _th' irreligious_ devil, Cloten. IV.ii.346 (263,2) Last night the very gods shew'd me a vision] [W: warey] Of this meaning I know not any example, nor do I see any need of alteration. It was no common dream, but sent from _the very gods_, or the gods themselves. IV.ii.363 (264,3) who was he, That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good figure?] Here are many words upon a very slight debate. The sense is not much cleared by either critic [Theobald and Warburton]. The question is asked, not about a _body_, but a _picture_, which is not very apt to grow shorter or longer. To _do_ a picture, and a picture is well _done_, are standing phrases; the question therefore is, Who has altered this picture, so as to make it otherwise than nature _did_ it. IV.ii.389 (266,5) these poor pickaxes] Meaning her fingers. IV.iii (266,1) _Cymbeline's palace_] This scene is omitted against all authority by Sir T. HANMER. It is indeed of no great use in the progress of the fable, yet it makes a regular preparation for the next act. IV.iii.22 (267,3) our jealousy/Does yet depend] My suspicion is yet undetermined; if I do not condemn you, I likewise have not acquitted you. We now say, the _cause_ is _depending_. IV.iii.29 (267,4) Your preparation can affront no less/Than what you hear of] Your forces are able to _face_ such an army as we hear the enemy will bring against us. IV.iii.44 (268,6) to the note o' the king] I will so distinguish myself, the king shall remark my valour. IV.iv.11 (269,1) a render/Where we have liv'd] An account of our place of abode. This dialogue is a just representation of the superfluous caution of an old man. IV.iv.13 (269,2) That which we have done, whose answer would be death] The _retaliation_ of the death of Cloten would be _death_, &c. IV.iv.18 (269,3) their quarter'd fires] Their fires regularly disposed. V.i (271,1) _Enter Posthumus, with a bloody handkerchief_] The bloody token of Imogen's death, which Pisanio in the foregoing act determined to send. V.i.1-33 (271,2) Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee] This is a soliloquy of nature, uttered when the effervescence of a mind agitated and perturbed spontaneously and inadvertently discharges itself in words. The speech, throughout all its tenor, if the last conceit be excepted, seems to issue warm from the heart. He first condemns his own violence; then tries to disburden himself, by imputing part of the crime to Pisanio; he next sooths his mind to an artificial and momentary tranquility, by trying to think that he has been only an instrument of the gods for the happiness of Imogen. He is now grown reasonable enough to determine, that having done so much evil he will do no more; that he will not fight against the country which he has already injured; but as life is not longer supportable, he will die in a just cause, and die with the obscurity of a man who does not think himself worthy to be remembered. V.i.9 (271,3) to put on] Is to _incite_, to _instigate_. V.i.14 (272,4) To second ills with ills, each elder worse] For this reading all the later editors have contentedly taken, --each worse than other, without enquiries whence they have received it. Yet they know, or might know, that it has no authority. The original copy reads, --each elder worse, The last deed is certainly not the oldest, but Shakespeare calls the _deed_ of an _elder_ man an _elder deed_. V.i.15 (272,5) And make them dread it, to the doers' thrift] [T: dreaded, to] This emendation ia followed by HANMER. Dr. WARBURTON reads, I know not whether by the printer's negligence, And make them _dread_, to the doers' thrift. There seems to be no very satisfactory sense yet offered. I read, but with hesitation, And make them _deeded_, to the doers' thrift. The word _deeded_ I know not indeed where to find; but Shakespeare has, in another sense _undeeded_, in _Macbeth_: "--my sword "I sheath again _undeeded_."-- I will try again, and read thus, --others you permit To second ills with ills, each other worse, And make them _trade it_, to the doers' thrift. _Trade_ and _thrift_ correspond. Our author plays with _trade_, as it signifies a lucrative vocation, or a frequent practice. So Isabella says, "Thy sins, not accidental, but a _trade_." V.i.16 (273,9) Do your best wills,/And make me blest to obey!] So the copies. It was more in the manner of our author to have written, --Do your blest wills, And make me blest t' obey.-- V.iii.41 (276,3) A rout, confusion thick] [W: confusion-thick] I do not see what great addition is made to _fine diction_ by this compound. Is it not as natural to enforce the principal event in a story by repetition, as to enlarge the principal figure in a figure? V.iii.51 (276,4) bugs] Terrors. V.iii.53 (277,5) Nay, do not wonder at it] [T: do but] There is no need of alteration. Posthumus first bids him not wonder, then tells him in another mode of reproach, that wonder is all that he was made for. V.iii.79 (278,8) great the answer be] _Answer_, as once in this play before, is _retaliation_. V.iii.87 (278,9) That gave the affront with them] That is, that turned their faces to the enemy. V.iv.1 (279,1) You shall not now be stolen, you have locks upon you;/So, graze, as you find pasture] This wit of the gaoler alludes to the custom of putting a lock on a horse's leg, when he is turned to pasture. V.iv.27 (280,3) If you will take this audit, take this life,/And cancel those cold bonds] This equivocal use of _bonds_ is another instance of our author's infelicity in pathetic speeches. V.iv.45 (281,5) That from me my Posthumus ript] The old copy reads, That from me _was_ Posthumus ript. Perhaps we should read, That from _my womb_ Posthumus ript, Came crying 'mongst his foes. V.iv.146 (284,7) 'Tis still a dream; or else such stuff, as madmen Tongue, and brain not: either both or nothing: Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it] The meaning, which is too thin to be easily caught, I take to be this: _This is a dream or madness, or both--or nothing--but whether it be a speech without consciousness_, as in a dream, _or a speech unintelligible_, as in madness, be it as it is, _it is like my course of life_. We might perhaps read, Whether _both, or nothing_-- V.iv,164 (285,8) sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much] _Tavern bills_, says the gaoler, _are the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth--you depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and_--what? _sorry that you are paid too much_. Where is the opposition? I read, _And_ merry _that you are paid_ so _much_. I take the second _paid_ to be _paid_, for _appaid, filled, satiated_. V.iv.171 (286,9) debtor and creditor] For an _accounting book_. V.iv.188 (286,1) jump the after-enquiry] That is, _venture_ at it without thought. So _Macbeth_, "We'd _jump_ the life to come." (see 1765, VII, 382, 7) V.v.9 (288,1) one that promis'd nought/But beggary and poor looks] To promise _nothing but_ poor _looks_, may be, to give no promise of courageous behaviour. V.v.88 (291,2) So feat] So ready; so dextrous in waiting. V.v.93 (291,3) His favour is familiar to me] I am acquainted with his countenance. V.v.120 (292,4) One sand another/Not more resembles. That sweet rosy lad] [W: resembles, than be th' sweet] There was no great difficulty in the line, which, when properly pointed, needs no alteration. V.v.203 (296,8) averring notes/Of chamber-hanging, pictures] Such marks of the chamber and pictures, as _averred_ or confirmed my report. V.v.220 (297,9) the temple/Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself] That is, She was not only _the temple of virtue_, but _virtue herself_. V.v.233 (297,1) these staggers] This wild and delirious perturbation. _Staggers_ is the horse's apoplexy. V.v.262 (298,2) Think, that you are upon a rock; and now/Throw me again] In this speech, or in the answer, there is little meaning. I suppose, she would say, Consider such another act as equally fatal to me with precipitation from a rock, and now let me see whether you will repeat it. V.v.308 (300,3) By tasting of our wrath] [W: hasting] There is no need of change; the consequence is taken for the whole action; _by tasting_ is _by forcing us to make thee taste_. V.v.334 (301,5) Your pleasure was my near offence, my punishment,/ Itself, and all my treason] I think this passage may better be read thus, Your pleasure was my _dear_ offence, my punishment Itself _was_ all my treason; that I suffer'd, Was all the harm I did.-- The offence which cost me so _dear_ was only your caprice. My sufferings have been all my crime. V.v.352 (302,6) Thou weep'st, and speak'st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell'st] "Thy tears give testimony to the sincerity of thy relation; and I have the less reason to be incredulous, because the actions which you have done within my knowledge are more incredible than the story which you relate." The king reasons very justly. V.v.378 (303,7) When ye were so, indeed] The folio gives, When _we_ were so, indeed. If this be right, we must read, _Imo._ I, you brothers. _Arv._ When we were so, indeed. V.v.382 (303,8) fierce abridgment] _Fierce_, is _vehement, rapid_. V.v.459 (306,1) My peace we will begin] I think it better to read, _By_ peace we will begin.-- (307) General Observation. This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expence of much incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion of the names, and manners of different times, and the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too gross for aggravation. KING LEAR I.i.4 (311,2) in the division of the kingdom] There is something of obscurity or inaccuracy in this preparatory scene. The king has already divided his kingdom, and yet when he enters he examines his daughters, to discover in what proportions he should divide it. Perhaps Kent and Gloucester only were privy to his design, which he still kept in his own hands, to be changed or performed as subsequent reasons should determine him. I.i.37 (313,7) express our darker purpose] [_Darker_, for more secret; not for indirect, oblique. WARBURTON.] This word may admit a further explication. _We shall express our darker purpose_: that is, we have already made known in some measure our design of parting the kingdom; we will now discover what has not been told before, the reasons by which we shall regulate the partition. This interpretation will justify or palliate the exordial dialogue. I.i.39 (313,8) and 'tis our fast intent] [This is an interpolation of Mr. Lewis Theobald, for want of knowing the meaning of the old reading in the quarto of 1608, and first folio of 1623; where we find it, --and 'tis our _first_ intent. WARBURTON.] _Fast_ is the reading of the first folio, and, I think, the true reading. I.i.44 (314,9) We have this hour a constant will] _constant will_ seems a confirmation of _fast_ intent. I.i.62 (314,2) Beyond all manner of so much I love you] Beyond all assignable quantity. I love you beyond limits, and cannot say it is _so much_, for how much soever I should name, it would yet be more. I.i.73 (315,4) I find, she names my very deed of love, Only she comes too short; that I profess] _That_ seems to stand without relation, but is referred to _find_, the first conjunction being inaccurately suppressed. I find _that_ she names my deed, I find that I profess, &c. I.i.76 (315,5) Which the most precious square of sense possesses] [Warburton explained "square" as the "four nobler senses"] This is acute; but perhaps _square_ means only _compass, comprehension_. I.i.80 (315,6) More pond'rous than my tongue] [W: their tongue] I think the present reading right. I.i.84 (316,8) Now our joy] Here the true reading is picked out of two copies. Butter's quarto reads, --_But_ now our joy, Although the last, not least in our dear love, What can you say to win a third, &c. The folio, --Now our joy, Although our last, _and_ least; to whose young love The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy, Strive to be int'ress'd. _What can you say?_ I.i.138 (318,5) The sway, revenue, execution of the rest] [W: of th' hest] I do not see any great difficulty in the words, _execution of the rest_, which are in both the old copies. The _execution of the rest_ is, I suppose, _all the other business_. Dr. Warburton's own explanation of his amendment confutes it; if _hest_ be a _regal comnand_, they were, by the grant of Lear, to have rather the _hest_ than the execution. 1.1.149 (319,6) Think'st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak, When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound, When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom, And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least] I have given this passage according to the old folio, from which the modern editions have silently departed, for the sake of better numbers, with a degree of insincerity, which, if not sometimes detected and censured, must impair the credit of ancient books. One of the editors, and perhaps only one, knew how much mischief may be done by such clandestine alterations. The quarto agrees with the folio, except that for _reserve thy state_, it gives, _reverse thy doom_, and has _stoops_ instead of _falls to folly_. The meaning of _answer my life my judgment_, is, _Let my life be answerable for my judgment_, or, _I will stake my life on my opinion_.--The reading which, without any right, has possessed all the modern copies is this; --to plainness honour Is bound, when majesty to folly falls. Reserve thy state; with better judgment check This hideous rashness; with my life I answer, Thy youngest daughter, &c. I am inclined to think that _reverse thy doom_ was Shakespeare's first reading, as more apposite to the present occasion, and that he changed it afterwards to _reserve thy state_, which conduces more to the progress of the action. I.i.161 (320,9) The true blank of thine eye] The _blank_ is the _white_ or exact mark at which the arrow is shot. _See better_, says Kent, _and keep me always in your view_. I.i.172 (320,1) strain'd pride] The oldest copy reads _strayed pride_; that is, _pride exorbitant_; pride passing due bounds. I.i.174 (320,3) Which nor our nature, nor our place, can bear;/ Our potency made good] [T: (Which ... bear) ... made good] [Warburton defended "make"] Theobald only inserted the parenthesis; he found _made good_ in the best copy of 1623. Dr. Warburton has very acutely explained and defended the reading that he has chosen, but I am not certain that he has chosen right. If we take the reading of the folio, _our potency_ made _good_, the sense will be less profound indeed, but less intricate, and equally commodious. _As thou hast come with unreasonable pride between the_ sentence _which I had passed, and the_ power _by which I shall execute it_, take thy reward _in another sentence which shall_ make good, _shall establish, shall maintain_, that power. If Dr. Warburton's explanation be chosen, and every reader will wish to choose it, we may better read, Which nor our nature, nor our state can bear, _Or_ potency make good.-- Mr. Davies thinks, that _our potency made good_ relates only to _our place_.--Which our nature cannot bear, nor our _place_, without departure from the _potency_ of that place. This is easy and clear.--Lear, who is characterized as hot, heady, and violent, is, with very just observation of life, made to entangle himself with vows, upon any sudden provocation to vow revenge, and then to plead the obligation of a vow in defence of implacability. I.i.181 (322,4) By Jupiter] Shakespeare makes his Lear too much a mythologist: he had Hecate and Apollo before. I.i.190 (322,6) He'll shape his old course] He will follow his old maxims; he will continue to act upon the same principles. I.i.201 (323,7) If aught within that little, seeming, substance] _Seeming_ is _beautiful_. I.i.209 (323,9) Election makes not up on such conditions] To _make up_ signifies to complete, to conclude; as, _they made up the bargain_; but in this sense it has, I think, always the subject noun after it. To _make up_, in familiar language, is, neutrally, _to come forward_, to _make advances_, which, I think, is meant here. I.i.221 (324,2) Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree, That monsters it: or your fore-vouch'd affection Fall into taint] The common books read, --or your fore-vouch'd affection Fall'n into taint:-- This line has no clear or strong sense, nor is this reading authorized by any copy, though it has crept into all the late editions. The early quarto reads, --or you for vouch'd affections Fall'n into taint.-- The folio, --or your fore-vouch'd affection Fall into taint.-- _Taint_ is used for _corruption_ and for _disgrace_. If therefore we take the oldest reading it may be reformed thus: --sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree, That monsters it; or you for vouch'd affection Fall into taint. Her offence must be prodigious, or _you_ must _fal1 into reproach_ for having _vouched affection_ which you did not feel. If the reading of the folio be preferred, we may with a very slight change produce the same sense: --sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree, That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection _Falls_ into taint.-- That is, _falls into reproach_ or _censure_. But there is another possible sense. _Or_ signifies _before_, and _or ever_ is _before ever_; the meaning in the folio may therefore be, _Sure her crime must be monstrous_ before _your affection can be affected with hatred_. Let the reader determine.--As I am not much a friend to conjectural emendation, I should prefer the latter sense, which requires no change of reading. I.i.243 (325,3) from the intire point] _Intire_, for right, true. WARB.] Rather, single, unmixed with other considerations. I.i.264 (326,5) Thou losest here, better where to find] _Here_ and _where_ have the power of nouns. Thou losest this residence to find a better residence in another place. I.i.282 (326,6) And well are worth the want that you have wanted] [This I take to be the poet's meaning, stript of the jingle which makes it dark: "You well deserve to meet with that _want_ of love from your husband, which you have professed to _want_ for our father." THEOBALD.] [W: have vaunted] I think the common reading very suitable to the manner of our author, and well enough explained by Theobald. I.i.283 (327,7) plaited cunning] i.e. _complicated, involved_ cunning. (1773) I.ii.3 (328,2) Stand in the plague of custom] The word _plague_ is in all the copies; I can scarcely think it right, nor can I yet reconcile myself to the emendation proposed, though I have nothing better to offer [Warburton had proposed _plage_]. I.ii.21 (330,7) Shall be the legitimate] [Hanmer: toe th'] Hanmer's emendation will appear very plausible to him that shall consult the original reading. Butter's quarto reads, --Edmund the base Shall _tooth'_ legitimate.-- The folio, --Edmund the base Shall _to th'_ legitimate.-- Hanmer, therefore, could hardly be charged with coining a word, though his explanation may be doubted. To _toe_ him, is perhaps to _kick_ him _out_, a phrase yet in vulgar use; or, to _toe_, may be literally to _supplant_. The word _be_ has no authority. I.ii.24 (331,1) subscrib'd his power!] To subscribe, is, to transfer by signing or _subscribing_ a writing of testimony. We now use the term, He _subscribed_ forty pounds to the new building. I.ii.25 (331,2) Confin'd to exhibition!] Is _allowance_. The term is yet used in the universities. I.ii.25 (331,3) All this done/Upon the gad!] So the old copies; the later editions read, --All _is gone_ Upon the gad!-- which, besides that it is unauthorized, is less proper. _To_ do upon the _gad_, is, to act by the sudden stimulation of caprice, as cattle run madding when they are stung by the gad fly. I.ii.47 (332,4) taste of my virtue] Though _taste_ may stand in this place, yet I believe we should read, _assay_ or _test_ of my virtue: they are both metallurgical terms, and properly joined. So in Hamlet, Bring me to the _test_. I.ii.51 (323,6) idle and fond] Weak and foolish. I.ii.95 (333,7) pretence] _Pretence_ is design, purpose. So afterwards in this play, _Pretence_ and purpose of unkindness. I.ii.106 (333,8) wind me into him] I once thought it should be read, _you_ into him; but, perhaps, it is a familiar phrase, like _do me this_. I.ii.107 (333,9) I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution] [i.e. I will throw aside all consideration of my relation to him, that I may act as justice requires. WARBURTON.] Such is this learned man's explanation. I take the meaning to be rather this, _Do you frame the business_, who can act with less emotion; _I would unstate myself_; it would in me be a departure from the paternal character, _to be in a due resolution_, to be settled and composed on such an occasion. The words _would_ and _should_ are in old language often confounded. I.ii.l09 (334,1) convey the business] [_Convey_, for introduce. WARB.] To _convey_ is rather to _carry through_ than to introduce; in this place it is to _manage artfully_: we say of a juggler, that he has a clean _conveyance_. I.ii.112 (334,2) These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: tho' the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourg'd by the frequent effects] That is, though natural philosophy can give account of eclipses, yet we feel their consequences. I.ii.156 (338,8) I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeed unhappily] The folio edition commonly differs from the first quarto, by augmentations or insertions, but in this place it varies by omission, and by the omission of something which naturally introduces the following dialogue. It is easy to remark, that in this speech, which ought, I think, to be inserted as it now is in the text, Edmund, with the common craft of fortune-tellers, mingles the past and future, and tells of the future only what he already foreknows by confederacy, or can attain by probable conjecture. (see 1765, VI, 27, 6) I.ii.178 (339,1) that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay] This reading is in both copies; yet I believe the author gave it, _that_ but _with the mischief_ of your person it would scarce allay. I.iii.19 (341,2) Old fools are babes again; and must be us'd/ With checks, as flatteries when they are seen abus'd] These lines hardly deserve a note, though Mr. Theobald thinks them _very fine_. Whether _fools_ or _folks_ should be read is not worth enquiry. The controverted line is yet in the old quarto, not as the editors represent it, but thus: With checks as flatteries when they are seen abus'd. I am in doubt whether there is any error of transcription. The sense seems to be this: _Old men must be treated with checks_, when as _they are seen to be deceived with flatteries_: or, _when they are weak enough to be_ seen abused by flatteries, they are then weak enough to be _used with checks_. There is a play of the words _used_ and _abused_. To _abuse_ is, in our author, very frequently the same as to _deceive_. This construction is harsh and ungrammatical; Shakespeare perhaps thought it vicious, and chose to throw away the lines rather than correct them, nor would now thank the officiousness of his editors, who restore what they do not understand. I.iv.118 (347,5) Would I had two coxcombs, and two daughters] Two fools caps, intended, as it seems, to mark double folly in the man that gives all to his daughters. I.iv.133 (347,7) Lend less than thou owest] That is, _do not lend all that thou hast_. To _owe_, in old English, is _to possess_. If _owe_ be taken for _to be in debt_, the more prudent precept would be, Lend _more_ than thou owest. I.iv.153-170 (348,9) This dialogue, from _No, lad; teach me_, down to, _Give me an egg_, was restored from the first edition by Mr. Theobald. It is omitted in the folio, perhaps for political reasons, as it seemed to censure monopolies. I.iv.181 (349,2) Fools ne'er had less grace in a year] There never was a time when fools were less in favour; and the reason is, that they were never so little wanted, for wise men now supply their place. Such I think is the meaning. The old edition has _wit_ for _grace_. I.iv.219 (350,5) That's a sheal'd peascod] i.e. Now a mere husk, which contains nothing. The outside of a king remains, but all the intrinsic parts of royalty are gone: he has nothing to give. (1773) I.iv.245 (351,3) Whoop, Jug] There are in the fool's speeches several passages which seem to be proverbial allusions, perhaps not now to be understood. I.iv.256 (352,1) _Fool_. Which they will make an obedient father] [This line I have restored from the quarto. STEEVENS] This note [Tyrwhitt's, quoted by Steevens] is written with confidence disproportionate to the conviction which it can bring. Lear might as well know by the marks and tokens arising from sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, that he had or had not daughters, as he could know by any thing else. But, says he, if I judge by these tokens, I find the persuasion false by which I long thought myself the father of daughters. (1773) I.iv.302 (355,7) from her derogate body] [_Derogate_ for _unnatural_. WARB.] Rather, I think, _degraded; blasted_. I.iv.320 (356,9) That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them.--Blasts and fogs upon thee! The untented woundings of a father's curse Pierce every sense about thee!--Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again] I will transcribe this passage from the first edition, that it may appear to those who are unacquainted with old books, what is the difficulty of revision, and what indulgence is due to those that endeavour to restore corrupted passages.--_That these hot tears, that breake from me perforce, should make the worst blasts and fogs upon the untender woundings of a father's curse, peruse every sense about the old fond eyes, beweep this cause again, &c._ I.iv.362 (358,3) compact it more] Unite one circumstance with another, so as to make a consistent account. I.iv.366 (358,4) You are much more at task for want of wisdom] It is a common phrase now with parents and governesses. _I'll take you to task_, i.e. _I will reprehend and correct you. To be at task_, therefore, is to be liable to _reprehension and correction_. (1773) I.v.5 (358,1) I shall be there afore you] He seems to intend to go to his daughter, but it appears afterwards that he is going to the house of Glo'ster. I.v.25 (359,2) I did her wrong] He is musing on Cordelia. I.v.42 (359,3) To take it again perforce!] He is meditating on the resumption of his royalty. II.i.9 (360,1) ear-kissing arguments] Subjects of discourse; topics. II.i.19 (361,2) queazy question] Something of a _suspicious, questionable, and uncertain nature_. This is, I think, the meaning. II.i.27 (361,4) have you nothing said/Upon his party 'gainst the duke of Albany?] I cannot but think the line corrupted, and would read, _Against_ his party, _for_ the duke of Albany? II.i.57 (363,7) gasted] Frighted. II.i.59 (363,8) Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;/And found--Dispatch] [Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found dispatch--the noble duke, &c.] [W: found, dispatch'd.] I do not see how this change mends the sense: I think it may be better regulated as in the page above. The sense is interrupted. He shall be caught--and found, _he shall be punished_. Dispatch. II.i.67 (363,2) And found him pight to do it, with curst speech] _Pight_ is _pitched_, fixed, settled. _Curst_ is severe, harsh, vehemently angry. II.i.122 (366,7) Occasions, noble Glo'ster, of some prize] [W: poize] _Prize_, or _price_, for value. (1773) II.i.126 (366,8) from our home] Not at home, but at some other place. II.ii.9 (367,1) Lipsbury pinfold] The allusion which seems to be contained in this line I do not understand. In the violent eruption of reproaches which bursts from Kent in this dialogue, there are some epithets which the commentators have left unexpounded, and which I am not very able to make clear. Of a _three-suited knave_ I know not the meaning, unless it be that he has different dresses for different occupations. _Lilly-liver'd_ is _cowardly_; _white-blooded_ and _white-liver'd_ are still in vulgar use. An _one-trunk-inheriting slave_, I take to be a wearer of old cast-off cloaths, an inheritor of torn breeches. II.ii.36 (368,4) barber-monger] Of this word I do not clearly see the force. II.ii.39 (368,5) Vanity the puppet's] Alluding to the mysteries or allegorical shews, in which vanity, iniquity, and other vices, were personified. II.ii.45 (369,6) neat slave] You mere slave, you very slave. II.ii.69 (369,8) Thou whoreson zed; thou unnecessary letter!] I do not well understand how a man is reproached by being called _zed_, nor how Z is an _unnecessary letter_. Scarron compares his deformity to the shape of Z, and it may be a proper word of insult to a crook-backed man; but why should Gonerill's steward be crooked, unless the allusion be to his bending or cringing posture in the presence of his superiors. Perhaps it was written, _thou whoreson_ C (for cuckold) _thou unnecessary letter_. C is a letter unnecessary in our alphabet, one of its two sounds being represented by S, and one by K. But all the copies concur in the common reading. II.ii.87 (371,3) epileptic visage!] The frighted countenance of a man ready to fall in a fit. II.ii.103 (372,5) constrains the garb/Quite from his nature] Forces his _outside_ or his _appearance_ to something totally _different from_ his natural disposition. II.ii.109 (372,8) Than twenty silly ducking observants] [W: silky] The alteration is more ingenious than the arguments by which it is supported. II.ii.119 (373,8) though I should win your displeasure to intreat me to't] Though I should win you, displeased as you now are, to like me so well as to intreat me to be a knave. II.ii.167 (375,3) Good king, that must approve the common saw! Thou out of heaven's benediction com'at To the warm sun!] That art now to exemplify the common proverb, _That out of_, &c. That changest better for worse. Hanmer observes, that it is a proverbial saying, applied to those who are turned out of house and home to the open weather. It was perhaps first used of men dismissed from an hospital, or house of charity, such as was erected formerly in many places for travellers. Those houses had names properly enough alluded to by _heaven's benediction_. II.ii.173 (376,4) I know 'tis from Cordelia; Who hath most fortunately been inform'd Of my obscur'd coarse, and shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies] This passage, which some of the editors have degraded, as spurious, to the margin, and others have silently altered, I have faithfully printed according to the quarto, from which the folio differs only in punctuation. The passage is very obscure, if not corrupt. Perhaps it may be read thus: --Cordelia--has been--informed. Of my obscur'd course, and shall find time From this enormous state-seeking, to give Losses their remedies.-- Cordelia is informed of our affairs, and when the _enormous_ care of _seeking her fortune_ will allow her time, she will employ it in remedying losses. This is harsh; perhaps something better may be found. I have at least supplied the genuine reading of the old copies. _Enormous_ is unwonted, out of rule, out of the ordinary course of things. II.iii.18 (377,2) Poor pelting villages] _Pelting_ is, I believe, only an accidental depravation of _petty_. Shakespeare uses it in the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_ of _small brooks_. II.iii.20 (378,3) Poor Turlygood! poor Tom!] [W: Turlupin] Hanmer reads, _poor_ Turlurd. It is probable the word _Turlygood_ was the common corrupt pronunciation. II.iii.21 (378,4) Edgar I nothing am] As Edgar I am out-lawed, dead in law; I have no longer any political existence. II.iv (378,1) _Changes again to the earl of Glo'ster's castle_] It is not very clearly discovered why Lear comes hither. In the foregoing part he sent a letter to Glo'ster; but no hint is given of its contents. He seems to have gone to visit Glo'ster while Cornwall and Regan might prepare to entertain him. II.iv.24 (380,4) To do upon respect such violent outrage] To violate the public and venerable character of a messenger from the king. II.iv.46 (380,7) Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way] If this be their behaviour, the king's troubles are not yet at an end. II.iv.70 (381,9) All that follow their noses are led by their eyes, but blind men; and there's not a nose among twenty, but can smell him that's stinking] There is in this sentence no clear series of thought. If he that follows his nose is led or guided by his eyes, he wants no information from his nose. I persuade myself, but know not whether I can persuade others, that our author wrote thus:--"All men are led by their eyes, but blind men, and they follow their noses; and there's not a nose among twenty but can smell him that's stinking."--Here is a succession of reasoning. You ask, why the king has no more in his train? why, because men who are led by their eyes see that he is ruined; and if there were any blind among them, who, for want of eyes, followed their noses, they might by their noses discover that it was no longer fit to follow the king. II.iv.83 (382,2) But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly; The knave turns fool, that runs away; The fool no knave, perdy] I think this passage erroneous, though both the copies concur. The sense mill be mended if we read, But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly; The fool turns knave, that runs away; The knave no fool,-- That I stay with the king is a proof that I am a fool, the wise men are deserting him. There is knavery in this desertion, but there is no folly. II.iv.116 (383,3) Is practice only] _Practice_ is in Shakespeare, and other old writers, used commonly in an ill sense for _unlawful artifice_. II.iv.122 (384,4) Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels, when she put them i' the paste alive] Hinting that the eel and Lear are in the same danger. II.iv.142 (384,7) Than she to scant her duty] The word _scant_ is directly contrary to the sense intended. The quarto reads, --_slack_ her duty, which is no better. May we not change it thus: You less know bow to value her desert, Than she to _scan_ her duty. To _scan_ may be to _measure_ or _proportion_. Yet our author uses his negatives with such licentiousness, that it is hardly safe to make any alteration.--_Scant_ may mean to _adapt_, to _fit_, to _proportion_; which sense seems still to be retained in the mechanical term scantling. (see 1765, VI, 67, 4) II.iv.155 (385,1) Do you but mark how this becomes the house?] [T: the use?] [Warburton called "becomes the house" "a most expressive phrase"] with this _most expressive phrase_ I believe no reader is satisfied. I suspect that it has been written originally, Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becometh--thus. Dear daughter, I confess, &c. _Becomes the house_, and _becometh thus_, might be easily confounded by readers so unskilful as the original printers. II.iv.157 (386,2) _Age is unnecessary_] i.e. Old age has few wants. II.iv.162 (386,3) Look'd black upon me] To _look black_, may easily be explained to _look cloudy_ or _gloomy_. See Milton: "So frown'd the mighty combatants, that hell Grew darker at their frown."-- II.iv.170 (386,4) To fall, and blast her pride!] Thus the quarto: the folio reads not so well, _to fall and blister_. I think there is still a fault, which may be easily mended by changing a letter: --Infect her beauty, Ye fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, _Do_, fall, and blast her pride! II.iv.174 (387.6) Thy tender-hested nature shall not give/Thee o'er to harshness] This word, though its general meaning be plain, I do not critically understand. II.iv.178 (387,7) to scant my sizes] To contract my allowances or proportions settled. II.iv.203 (388,9) much less advancement] The word _advancement_ is ironically used here for _conspicuousness_ of punishment; as we now say, _a man is advanced to the pillory_. We should read, --but his own disorders Deserv'd much _more_ advancement. II.iv.204 (388,1) I pray you, father, being weak, seem so] [W: deem't so] The meaning is, since _you are weak_, be content to think yourself weak. No change is needed. II.iv.218 (389,3) base life] i.e. In a _servile_ state. II.iv.227 (390,5) embossed carbuncle] _Embossed_ is _swelling, protuberant_. II.iv.259 (391,6) Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd:/ When others are more wicked] Dr. Warburton would exchange the repeated epithet _wicked_ into _wrinkled_ in both places. The commentator's only objection to the lines as they now stand, is the discrepancy of the metaphor, the want of opposition between _wicked_ and _well-favoured_. But he might have remembered what he says in his own preface concerning _mixed modes_. Shakespeare, whose mind was more intent upon notions than words, had in his thoughts the pulchritude of virtue, and the deformity of wickedness; and though he had mentioned _wickedness_, made the correlative answer to _deformity_. III.i.7 (394,1) That things might change, or cease: tears his white hair] The first folio ends the speech at _change, or cease_, and begins again with Kent's question, _But who is with him?_ The whole speech is forcible, but too long for the occasion, and properly retrenched. III.i.18 (395,3) my note] My observation of your character. III.i.29 (395,6) _are but furnishings_] _Furnishings_ are what we now call _colours, external pretences_. (1773) III.i.19 (395,8) There is division, Although as yet the face of it is cover'd with mutual cunning, 'twixt Albany and Cornwall; _Who have (as who have not, whom their great stars Throne and set high?) servants, who seem no less; Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes; Or the hard rein, which both of them have borne Against the old kind king; or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings._ [But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter'd kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret fee In some of our best ports, and are at point To shew their open banner.--Now to you:]] The true state of this speech cannot from all these notes be discovered. As it now stands it is collected from two editions: the lines which I have distinguished by Italics are found in the folio, not in the quarto; the following lines inclosed in crotchets are in the quarto, not in the folio. So that if the speech be read with omissions of the Italics, it will stand according to the first edition; and if the Italics are read, and the lines that follow them omitted, it will then stand according to the second. The speech is now tedious, because it is formed by a coalition of both. The second edition is generally best, and was probably nearest to Shakespeare's last copy, but in this passage the first is preferable; for in the folio, the messenger is sent, he knows not why, he knows not whither. I suppose Shakespeare thought his plot opened rather too early, and made the alteration to veil the event from the audience; but trusting too much to himself, and full of a single purpose, he did not accommodate his new lines to the rest of the scene.--The learned critic's [Warburton] emendations are now to be examined. _Scattered_ he has changed to _scathed_; for _scattered_, he says, gives _the idea of an anarchy, which was not the case_. It may be replied that _scathed_ gives the idea of ruin, waste, and desolation, _which was not the case_. It is unworthy a lover of truth, in questions of great or little moment, to exaggerate or extenuate for mere convenience, or for vanity yet less than convenience. _Scattered_ naturally means _divided, unsettled, disunited_.--Next is offered with great pomp a change of _sea_ to _seize_; but in the first edition the word is _fee_, for _hire_, in the sense of having any one in _fee_, that is, at _devotion for money_. _Fee_ is in the second quarto changed to _see_, from which one made _sea_ and another _seize_. III.ii.4 (398,1) thought-executing] Doing execution with rapidity equal to thought. III.ii.19 (399,4) Here I stand, your slave] [W: brave] The meaning is plain enough, he was not their _slave_ by right or compact, but by necessity and compulsion. Why should a passage be darkened for the sake of changing it? Besides, of _brave_ in that sense I remember no example. III.ii.24 (399,5) 'tis foul] Shameful; dishonourable. III.ii.30 (399,6) So beggars marry many] i.e. A beggar marries a wife and lice. III.ii.46 (400,1) Man's nature cannot carry/The affliction, nor the fear] So the folio: the later editions read, with the quarto, _force_ for _fear_, less elegantly. III.ii.56 (401,3) That under covert and convenient seeming] _Convenient_ needs not be understood in any other than its usual and proper sense; _accommodate_ to the present purpose; _suitable_ to a design. _Convenient seeming_ is _appearance_ such as may promote his purpose to destroy. III.ii.53 (401,4) concealing continents] _Continent_ stands for that which _contains_ or _incloses_. III.ii.72 (401,(5) Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart,/ That's sorry yet for thee] Some editions read, --_thing_ in my heart; from which Hanmer, and Dr. Warburton after him, have made _string_, very unnecessarily; both the copies have _part_. III.ii.74 (402,7) _He that has a little tiny wit,-- With heigh ho, the wind and the rain; Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day_] I fancy that the second line of this stanza had once a termination that rhymed with the fourth; but I can only fancy it; for both the copies agree. It was once perhaps written, With heigh ho, the wind and the rain _in his way_. The meaning seems likewise to require this insertion. "He that has wit, however small, and finds wind and rain in his way, must content himself by thinking, that somewhere or other _it raineth every day_, and others are therefore suffering like himself." Yet I am afraid that all this is chimerical, for the burthen appears again in the song at the end of _Twelfth Night_, and seems to have been an arbitrary supplement, without any reference to the sense of the song. (see 1765, VI, 84, 6) III.ii.80 (402,8) I'll speak a prophecy ere I go] [W: or two ere] The sagacity and acuteness of Dr. Warburton are very conspicuous in this note. He has disentangled the confusion of the passage, and I have inserted his emendation in the text. _Or e'er_ is proved by Mr. Upton to be good English, but the controversy was not necessary, for _or_ is not in the old copies. [Steevens retained "ere"] III.ii.84 (403,1) No heretics burnt, but wenches' suitors] The disease to which _wenches' suitors_ are particularly exposed, was called in Shakespeare's time the _brenning_ or _burning_. III.iv.26 (406,1) In, boy; go first. [_To the Fool._] You houseless poverty-- Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep] These two lines were added in the author's revision, and are only in the folio. They are very judiciously intended to represent that humility, or tenderness, or neglect of forms, which affliction forces on the mind. III.iv.52 (407,3) led through fire and through flame] Alluding to the _ignis fatuus_, supposed to be lights kindled by mischievous beings to lead travellers into destruction. III.iv.54 (407,4) laid knives under his pillow] He recounts the temptations by which he was prompted to suicide; the opportunities of destroying himself, which often occurred to him in his melancholy moods. III.iv.60 (407,5) Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking!] To _take_ is to blast, or strike with malignant influence: --strike her young limbs, Ye taking airs, with lameness. III.iv.77 (408,6) pelican daughters] The young pelican is fabled to suck the mother's blood. III.iv.95 (408,8) light of ear] [i.e. Credulous. WARBURTON.] Not merely _credulous_, but _credulous of evil_, ready to receive malicious reports. (1773) III.iv.103 (409,1) says suum, mun, ha no nonny, dolphin my boy, boy, Sessy: let him trot by] Of this passage I can make nothing. I believe it corrupt: for wildness, not nonsense, is the effect of a disordered imagination. The quarto reads, _hay no on ny, dolphins, my boy, cease, let him trot by_. Of interpreting this there is not much hope or much need. But any thing may be tried. The madman, now counterfeiting a proud fit, supposes himself met on the road by some one that disputes the way, and cries _Hey!--No--but altering his mind, condescends to let him pass, and calls to his boy _Dolphin_ (Rodolph) not to contend with him. _On--Dolphin, my boy, cease. Let him trot by_. III.iv.122 (410,3) web and the pin] Diseases of the eye. III.iv.125 (411,4) Saint Withold footed thrice the void; He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold; Bid her alight, and her troth plight, And aroynt thee, witch, aroynt thee!] In the old quarto the corruption is such as may deserve to be noted. "Swithold footed thrice the old another night moore and her nine fold bid her, O light, and her troth plight, and arint thee, with arint thee." III.iv.144 (412,6) _small deer_] Sir Thomas Hanmer reads _geer_, and is followed by Dr. Warburton. But _deer_ in old language is a general word for wild animals. III.iv.187 (414,8) _Child Rowland_] This word is in some of our ballads. There is a song of _Child Walter, and a Lady_. III.v.21 (415,2) If I find him comforting the king] He uses the word in the juridical sense for _supporting, helping_, according to its derivation; _salvia_ comfortat _ne vos_.--_Schol. Sal._ (rev. 1778, IX, 477, 3) III.vi.20 (416,2) a horse's health] [W: heels] Shakespeare is here speaking not of things maliciously treacherous, but of things uncertain and not durable, A horse is above all other animals subject to diseases. III.vi.26 (416,3) Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam?] It may be observed that Edgar, being supposed to be found by chance, and therefore to have no knowledge of the rest, connects not his ideas with those of Lear, but pursues his own train of delirious or fantastic thought. To these words, _At trial, madam?_ I think therefore that the name of Lear should be put. The process of the dialogue will support this conjecture. (1773) III.vi.27 (417,4) _Come oe'er the broom, Bessy, to me_] As there is no relation between _broom_ and a _boat_, we may better read, Come o'er the _brook_, Bessy, to me. III.vi.43 (417,6) _Sleepest, or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth, Thy sheep shall take no harm.] This seems to be a stanza of some pastoral song. A shepherd is desired to pipe, and the request is enforced by a promise, that though his sheep be in the corn, i.e. committing a trespass by his negligence, implied in the question, _Sleepest thou or wakest?_ Yet a single tune upon his pipe shall secure them from the pound. (1773) III.vi.77 (419,8) Sessy, come] Here is _sessey_ again, which I take to be the French word _cessez_ pronounced _cessey_, which was, I suppose, like some others in common use among us. It is an interjection enforcing cessation of any action, like, _be quiet, have done_. It seems to have been gradually corrupted into, _so, so_. III.vi.78 (419,9) thy horn is dry] Men that begged under pretence of lunacy used formerly to carry a horn, and blow it through the streets. III.vi.103-121 (420,2) [_Kent._ Opprest nature sleeps] The lines inserted from the quarto are in crotchets. The omission of them in the folio is certainly faulty: yet I believe the folio is printed from Shakespeare'a last revision, carelessly and hastily performed, with more thought of shortening the scenes, than of continuing the action. III.vi.111 (421,4) free things] States clear from distress. III.vi. 117 (421,5) Mark the high noises! and thyself bewray, When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee, In thy just proof, repeals, and reconciles thee] Attend to the great events that are approaching, and make thyself known. Then that _false opinion_ now prevailing against thee shall, in consequence of _just proof_ of thy integrity, revoke its erroneous sentence, and recall thee to honour and reconciliation. III.vii.13 (421,6) ray lord of Glo'ster] Meaning Edmund, newly invested with his father's titles. The steward, speaking immediately after, mentions the old duke by the same title. III.vii.24 (422,3) Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice; yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath] _To do a courtesy_ is to gratify, to comply with. _To pass_, is to pass a judicial sentence. (1773) III.vii.29 (422,4) corky arms] Dry, wither'd, husky arms. III.vii.54 (424,9) I am ty'd to the stake, and I must stand the course] The running of the dogs upon me. III.vii.65 (425,2) All cruels else subscrib'd] Yielded, submitted to the necessity of the occasion. III.vii.99-107 (426,3) I'll never care what wickedness I do] [This short dialogue I have inserted from the old quarto, because I think it full of nature. Servants could hardly see such a barbarity committed on their master, without pity; and the vengeance that they presume canst overtake the actors of it is a sentiment and doctrine well worthy of the stage. THEOBALD.] It is not necessary to suppose them the servants of Glo'ster; for Cornwall was opposed to extremity by his own servant. IV.i.1 (427,1) Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd] The meaning is, _'Tis better_ to be _thus contemned, and_ known _to yourself_ to be contemned. Or perhaps there is an error, which may be rectified thus: Yet better thus unknown to be contemn'd. When a man divests himself of his real character he feels no pain from contempt, because he supposes it incurred only by a voluntary disguise which he can throw off at pleasure. I do not think any correction necessary. IV.i.20 (429,3) Our mean secures us] [i.e. Moderate, mediocre condition. WARBURTON.] Banner writes, by an easy change, _meanness_ secures us. The two original editions have, Our _meanes_ secures us.-- I do not remember that _mean_ is ever used aa a substantive for low fortune, which is the sense here required, nor for mediocrity, except in the phrase, the _golden mean_. I suspect the passage of corruption, and would either read, Our means _seduce_ us:-- Our powers of body or fortune draw us into evils. Or, Our _maims_ secure us.-- That hurt or deprivation which makes us defenceless, proves our safeguard. This is very proper in Glo'ster, newly maimed by the evulsion of his eyes. IV.i.59-64 (431,8) [Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as _Obidicut_; _Hobbididance_, prince of dumbness; _Mahu_, of stealing; _Modo_, of murder; and _Flibbertigibbet_, of mopping and mowing; who since possesses chamber-maids and waiting-women. So bless thee, master!]] The passage in crotchets is omitted in the folio, because I suppose as the story was forgotten, the jest was lost. IV.i.68 (432,1) Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man] Lear has before uttered the same sentiment, which indeed cannot be too strongly impressed, tho' it may be too often repeated. IV.i.69 (432,2) That slaves your ordinance] [W: braves] The emendation is plausible, yet I doubt whether it be right. The language of Shakespeare is very licentious, and his words have often meanings remote from the proper and original use. To _slave_ or _beslave_ another is to _treat_ him _with terms of indignity_; in a kindred sense, to _slave the ordinance_, may be, to _slight_ or _ridicule_ it. IV.ii.1 (433,1) our mild husband] It must be remembered that Albany, the husband of Gonerill, disliked, in the end of the first act, the scheme of oppression and ingratitude. IV.ii.29 (434,5) I have been worth the whistle] This expression is a reproach to Albany for having neglected her; _though you disregard me thus_, I have been worth the whistle, _I have found one that thinks me worth calling_. (1773) IV.ii.35 (435,9) From her maternal sap] [W: material] I suppose no reader doubts but the word should be _maternal_. Dr. Warburton has taken great pains without much success, and indeed without much exactness of attention, to prove that _material_ has a more proper sense than _maternal_, and yet seemed glad at last to infer from an apparent error of another press that _material_ and _maternal_ meant the same. IV.ii.45 (436,2) A man, a prince by him so benefited?] [After this line I suspect a line or two to be wanting, which upbraids her for her sister's cruelty to Glo'ster. WARBURTON.] Here is a pompous note to support a conjecture apparently erroneous, and confuted by the next scene, in which the account is given for the first time to Albany of Glo'ster's sufferings. IV.ii.50 (436,3) Like monsters of the deep] Fishes are the only animals that are known to prey upon their own species. IV.ii.62 (437,5) Thou changed, and self-cover'd thing] Of these lines there is but one copy, and the editors are forced open conjecture. They have published this line thus; Thou chang'd, and _self-converted_ thing; but I cannot but think that by _self-cover'd_ the author meant, thou that hast _disguised_ nature by wickedness; thou that hast _hid_ the woman under the fiend. IV.ii.83 (438,6) One way, I like this well] Gonerill is well pleased that Cornwall is destroyed, who was preparing war against her and her husband, but is afraid of losing Edmund to the widow. IV.iii (439,1) _The French camp, near Dover. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman_] This scene seems to have been left out only to shorten the play, and is necessary to continue the action. It is extant only in the quarto, being omitted in the first folio. I have therefore put it between crotchets. IV.iii (439,2) _a Gentleman_] The gentleman whom he sent in the foregoing act with letters to Cordelia. IV.iii.26 (440,4) Made she no verbal question?] I do not see the impropriety of _verbal question_; such pleonasms are common. So we say, _my ears have heard, my eyes have beheld_. Besides, where is the word _quest_ [Warburton's emendation] to be found? IV.iii.33 (440,6) And clamour-moisten'd] _Clamour moisten'd her_; that is, _her out-cries were accompanied with tears_. IV.iii.36 (441,7) one self-mate and mate] The same husband and the same wife. IV.iii.51 (441,9) 'Tis so they are a-foot] Dr. Warburton thinks it necessary to read, _'tis said_; but the sense is plain, _So it is_ that _they are on foot_. IV.iv.4 (442,1) With bur-docks, hemlock] I do not remember any such plant as a _hardock_, but one of the most common weeds is a _burdock_, which I believe should be read here; and so Hanmer reads. IV.iv.20 (443,2) the means to lead it] The reason which should guide it. IV.iv.26 (443,3) My mourning and important tears hath pitied] In other places of this author for _importunate_. IV.iv.27 (443,4) No blown embition] No inflated, no swelling pride. Beza on the Spanish Armada: "Quem bene te ambitio mersit vanissima, ventus, Et tumidos tumidae voa superastis aquae." IV.v.4 (444,1) _Reg._ Lord Edmund spake not with your lady at home?] The folio reads, _your lord_; but lady is the first and better reading. IV.v.22 (444,3) Let me unseal the letter./_Stew._ Madam, I had rather] I know not well why Shakespeare gives the steward, who is a mere factor of wickedness, so much fidelity. He now refuses the letter; and afterwards, when he is dying, thinks only how it may be safely delivered. IV.v.29 (445,5) I do advise you, take this note] _Note_ means in this place not a _letter_ but a _remark_. Therefore _observe_ what I am saying. IV.v.32 (446,6) You may gather more] You may infer more than I have directly told you. IV.vi (446,1) _The country near Dover. Enter Glo'ster, and Edgar as a peasant_] This scene, and the stratagem by which Glo'ster is cured of his desperation, are wholly borrowed from Sidney's _Arcadia_. IV.vi.7 (447,2) thy voice is alter'd] Edgar alters his voice in order to pass afterwards for a malignant spirit. IV.vi.11 (447,5) How fearful/And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!] This description has been much admired since the time of Addison, who has remarked, with a poor attempt at pleasantry, that "he who can read it without being giddy, has a very good head, or a very bad one." The description is certainly not mean, but I am far from thinking it wrought to the utmost excellence of poetry. He that looks from a precipice finds himself assailed by one great and dreadful image of irresistible destruction. But this overwhelming idea is dissipated and enfeebled from the instant that the mind can restore itself to the observation of particulars, and diffuse its attention to distinct objects. The enumeration of the choughs and crows, the samphire-man, and the fishers, counteracts the great effect of the prospect, as it peoples the desert of intermediate vacuity, and stops the mind in the rapidity of its descent through emptiness and horror. IV.vi.19 (447,4) her cock] Her cock-boat. IV.vi.43 (448,6) when life itself/Yields to the theft] When life is willing to be destroyed. IV.vi.47 (449,7) Thus might he pass, indeed] Thus he might _die_ in reality. We still use the word _passing_ bell. IV.vi.53 (449,9) Ten masts at each make not the altitude] [Pope: attacht] Mr. Pope's conjecture may stand if the word which he uses were known in our author's time, but I think it is of later introduction. He may say, Ten masts _on end_-- IV.vi.57 (449,1) chalky bourn] _Bourn_ seems here to signify a _hill_. Its common signification is a _brook_. Milton in _Comus_ uses _bosky bourn_ in the same sense perhaps with Shakespeare. But in both authors it may mean only a _boundary_. IV.vi.73 (450,2) the clearest gods] The purest; the most free from evil. IV.vi.80 (450,3) Bear free and patient thoughts] To be melancholy is to have the mind _chained down_ to one painful idea; there is therefore great propriety in exhorting Glo'ster to _free thoughts_, to an emancipation of his soul from grief and despair. IV.vi.81 (450,4) The safer sense will ne'er accommodate/His master thus] [W: sober sense] I read rather, The _saner_ sense will ne'er accoomodate His master thus. "Here is Lear, but he must be mad: his sound or _sane_ senses would never suffer him to be thus disguised." IV.vi.87 (451,5) That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper] This _crow-keeper_ was so common in the author's time, that it is one of the few peculiarities mentioned by Ortelius in his account of our island. IV.vi.93 (451,8) Give the word] Lear supposes himself in a garrison, and before he lets Edgar pass, requires the watch-word. IV.vi.97 (452,7) Ha! Gonerill!--with a white beard!] So reads the folio, properly; the quarto, whom the later editors have followed, has, _Ha! Gonerill, ha! Regan! they flattered me_, &c. which is not so forcible. IV.vi.98 (452,8) They flattered me like a dog] They played the spaniel to me. IV.vi.121 (453,2) Whose face between her forks] I believe that the _forks_ were two prominences of the ruff rising on each side of the face. IV.vi.124 (453,4) nor the soyled horse] _Soiled_ horse is probably the same as _pampered_ horse, _un cheval soûlé_. IV.vi.169 (454.5) Robes and furr'd gowns hide all] From _hide all_ to _accuser's lips_, the whole passage is wanting in the first edition, being added, I suppose, at his revisal. IV.vi.187 (455,8) This a good block!] I do not see how this _block_ corresponds either with his foregoing or following train of thoughts. Madmen think not wholly at random. I would read thus, _a good flock_. _Flocks_ are wool moulded together. The sentence then follows properly: It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt;-- i.e. with _flocks_ kneaded to a mass, a practice I believe sometimes used in former ages, for it is mentioned in _Ariosto_: "--Fece nel cader strepito quanto Avesse avuto sotto i piedi il _feltro_." It is very common for madmen to catch an accidental hint, and strain it to the purpose predominant in their minds. Lear picks up a _flock_, and immediately thinks to surprize his enemies by a troop of horse shod with _flocks_ or _felt_. Yet _block_ may stand, if we suppose that the sight of a block put him in mind of mounting his horse. IV.vi.199 (457,1) Why, this would make a man, a man of salt] Would make a man melt away like salt in wet weather. IV.vi.206 (457,2) Then there's life in't] The case is not yet desperate. IV.vi.217 (457,3) the main descry/Stands on the hourly thought] The _main_ body is _expected_ to be _descry'd_ every hour. The expression is harsh. IV.vi.246 (459,7) che vor'ye] _I warn you_. Edgar counterfeits the western dialect. IV.vi.281 (460,3) Thee I'll rake up] I'll _cover_ thee. In Staffordshire, to _rake_ the fire, is to cover it with fuel for the night. IV.vi.234 (460,4) the death-practis'd duke] The duke of Albany, whose death is machinated by _practice_ or treason. IV.vii.3 (461,1) every measure fail me] All good which I shall allot thee, or _measure out_ to thee, will be scanty. IV.vii.9 (461,4) shortens my made intent] [W: laid] An intent _made_, is an intent _formed_. So we say in common language, to _make a design_, and to _make a resolution_. IV.vii.41 (464,2) 'Tis wonder, that thy life and wits, at once,/Had not concluded all] [W: concluded.--Ah!] The plain construction is this: _It is wonder that the wits and life had not all ended_. IV.vii.85-97 (466,9) [_Gent_. Holds it true, Sir, That the duke of Cornwall was so slain?] What is printed in crotchets is not in the folio. It is at least proper, if not necessary; and was omitted by the author, I suppose, for no other reason than to shorten the representation. V.i.4 (467,2) his constant pleasure] His settled resolution. V.i.54 (470,7) We will greet the time] We will be ready to meet the occasion. V.i.61 (470,8) carry out my side] Bring my purpose to a successful issue, to completion. _Side_ seems here to have the sense of the French word _partie_, in _prendre partie, to take his resolution_. V.i.68 (471,9) for my state/Stands on me to defend, not to debate] I do not think that _for_ stands in this place as a word of inference or causality. The meaning is rather: _Such is my determination concerning Lear_; _as_ for my state _it requires now, not_ deliberation, _but_ defence _and support_. V.iii.16 (472,1) And take upon us the mystery of things,/As if we were God's spies] As if we were angels commissioned to survey and report the lives of men, and were consequently endowed with the power of prying into the original motives of action and the mysteries of conduct. V.iii.18 (472,2) packs and sects] Packs is used for _combinations_ or _collection_, as is a _pack of cards_. For _sects_ I think _sets_ might be more commodiously read. So we say, _affairs are now managed by a new_ set. _Sect_, however, may well stand. V.iii.24 (473,6) flesh and fell] Flesh and skin. V.iii.54 (475,1) [At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd By those that feel their sharpness:-- The question of Cordelia, and her father, Requires a fitter place.]] This passage, well worthy of restoration, is omitted in the folio. V.iii.65 (475,4) The which immediacy] [_Immediacy_, for representation. WARBURTON.] _Immediacy_ is rather _supremacy_ in opposition to _subordination_, which has _quiddam medium_ between itself and power. V.iii.79 (476,7) The lett alone lies not in your good will] Whether he shall not or shall depends not on your choice. V.iii.89 (476,8) An interlude!] This short exclamation of Gonerill is added in the folio edition, I suppose, only to break the speech of Albany, that the exhibition on the stage might be more distinct and intelligible. V.iii.129 (478,1) Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,/My oath, and my profession] The _privilege_ of this _oath_ means the privilege gained by taking the oath administered in the regular initiation of a knight professed. V.iii.151 (479,3) _Alb._ Save him, save him! _Gon._ This is mere practice, Glo'ster] He desired that Edmund's life might be spared at present, only to obtain his confession, and to convict him openly by his own letter. V.iii.166 (480,6) Let us exchange charity] Our author by negligence gives his heathens the sentiments and practices of Christianity. In _Hamlet_ there is the same solemn act of final reconciliation, but with exact propriety, for the personages are Christians. V.iii. 204-221 (481,2) [Edg;.--This would have seem'd a period] The lines between crotchets are not in the folio. V.iii.229 (433,4) Here comes Kent, Sir] The manner in which Edgar here mentions Kent, seems to require the lines which are inserted from the first edition in the foregoing scene. V.iii.264 (485,7) _Edg._ Or image of that horror? _Alb._ Fall, and cease!] These two exclamations are given to Edgar and Albany in the folio, to animate the dialogue, and employ all the persons on the stage; but they are very obscure. V.iii.301 (487,4) With boot] With advantage, with increase. (488) General Observation. The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakespeare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions and interests our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking opposition of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no scene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the distress or conduct of the action, and scarce a line which does not conduce to the progress of the scene. So powerful is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind, which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along. On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct it may be observed, that he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly received as true. And, perhaps, if we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and ignorance of the age to which this story is referred, it will appear not so unlikely as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. Such preference of one daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on such conditions, would be yet credible, if told of a petty prince of Guinea or Madagascar. Shakespeare, indeed, by the mention of his earls and dukes, has given us the idea of times more civilized, and of life regulated by softer manners; and the truth is, that though he so nicely discriminates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he commonly neglects and confounds the characters of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, English and foreign. My learned friend Mr. Warton, who has in the _Adventurer_ very minutely criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too savage and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the simplicity of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a series by dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologize with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Glo'ster's eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatic exhibition, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our author well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote. The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief design, and the opportunity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked son with the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that villainy is never at a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin. But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Shakespeare has suffered the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader, and, what is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by _The Spectator_, who blames Tate for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares, that, in his opinion, _the tragedy has lost half its beauty_. Dennis has remarked, whether justly or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of _Cato, the town was poisoned with much false and abominable criticism_, and that endeavours had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in which the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless be good, because it is a just representation of the common events of human life: but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or, that if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue. In the present case the public has decided. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I night relate, I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor. There is another controversy among the critics concerning this play. It is disputed whether the predominant image in Lear's disordered mind be the loss of his kingdom or the cruelty of his daughters. Mr. Murphy, a very judicious critic, has evinced by induction of particular passages, that the cruelty of his daughters is the primary source of his distress, and that the loss of royalty affects him only as a secondary and subordinate evil. He observes with great justness, that Lear would move our compassion but little, did we not rather consider the injured father than the degraded king. The story of this play, except the episode of Edmund, which is derived, I think, from Sidney, is taken originally from Geoffry of Monmouth, whom Hollinshed generally copied; but perhaps immediately from an old historical ballad. My reason for believing that the play was posterior to the ballad, rather than the ballad to the play, is, that the ballad has nothing of Shakespeare's nocturnal tempest, which is too striking to have been omitted, and that it follows the chronicle; it has the rudiments of the play, but none of its amplifications: it first hinted Lear's madness, but did not array it in circumstances. The writer of the ballad added something to the history, which is a proof that he would have added more, if more had occurred to his mind, and more must have occurred if he had seen Shakespeare. [Johnson appends "A lamentable SONG of the Death of King Leir and his Three Daughters"] Vol. I ROMEO AND JULIET I.i.82 (9,7) Give me my long sword] The _long sword_ was the sword used in war, which was sometimes wielded with both hands. I.i.158 (11,2) As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the same] I cannot but suspect that some lines are lost, which connected this simile more closely with the foregoing speech; these lines, if such there were, lamented the danger that Romeo will die of his melancholy, before his virtues or abilities were known to the world. I.i.176 (12,3) Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see path-ways to his will.] Sir T. Hanmer, and after him Dr. Warburton, read, to his _ill_. The present reading has some obscurity; the meaning may be, that _love_ finds out means to pursue his _desire_. That the _blind_ should _find paths to ill_ is no great wonder. I.i.183 (13,4) O brawling love! O loving hate!] Of these lines neither the sense nor occasion is very evident. He is not yet in love with an eneny, and to love one and hate another is no such uncommon state, as can deserve all this toil of antithesis. I.i.192 (14,5) Why, such is love's transgression] Such is the consequence of unskilful and mistaken kindness. (see 1765, VIII, 12, 2) 1.1.198 (14,6) Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes] The author may mean _being purged of smoke_, but it is perhaps a meaning never given to the word in any other place. I would rather read, _Being_ urged, _a fire sparkling_. Being excited and inforced. To _urge_ the fire is the technical term. I.i.199 (14,7) Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears] As this line stands single, it is likely that the foregoing or following line that rhym'd to it, is lost. I.i.206 (14,8) Tell me in sadness] That is, tell me _gravely_, tell me in _seriousness_. I.i.217 (15,1) in strong proof] In chastity _of proof_, as we say in armour _of proof_. I.i.222 (15,2) O, she is rich in beauty; only poor That when she dies, with beauty dies her store] Mr. Theobald reads, "_With_ her dies beauties _store_;" and is followed by the two succeeding editors. I have replaced the old reading, because I think it at least as plausible as the correction. _She is rich_, says he, _in beauty_, and _only poor_ in being subject to the lot of humanity, that _her store_, or riches, _can be destroyed by death_, who shall, by the same blow, put an end to beauty. I.ii.15 (17,2) She is the hopeful lady of my earth] _The lady of his earth_ is an expression not very intelligible, unless he means that she is heir to his estate, and I suppose no man ever called his lands his earth. I will venture to propose a bold change: She is the hope _and stay_ of my _full years_. I.ii.25 (18,3) Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light] [W: dark even] But why nonsense [Warburton's comment]? Is any thing mere commonly said, than that beauties eclipse the sun? Has not Pope the thought and the word? "Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, "And spe'd those eyes that must _eclipse the day_." Both the old and the new reading are philosophical nonsense, but they are both, and both equally poetical sense. I.ii.26 (18,4) Such comfort as do lusty young men feel] To say, and to say in pompous words, that a _young man shall feel_ as much in an assembly of beauties, _as young men feel in the month of April_, is surely to waste sound upon a very poor sentiment. I read, Such comfort as do lusty _yeomen_ feel. You shall feel from the sight and conversation of these ladies, such hopes of happiness and such pleasure, as the farmer receives from the spring, when the plenty of the year begins, and the prospect of the harvest fills him with delight. I.ii.32 (18,5) Such, amongst view of many, mine, being one. May stand in number, the' in reckoning none] The first of these lines I do not understand. The old folio gives no help; the passage is there, _Which_ one _more view_. I can offer nothing better than this: _Within your view_ of many, mine being one, May stand in number, &c. I.iii.13 (22,1) to my teen] To my sorrow. I.iii.66 (24,4) It is an honour] The modern editors all read, _it is an honour_. I have restored the genuine word ["hour"], which is more seemly from a girl to her mother. _Your, fire_, and such words as are vulgarly uttered in two syllables, are used as dissyllables by Shakespeare. [The first quarto reads _honour_; the folio _hour_. I have chosen the reading of the quarto. STEEVENS.] (rev. 1778, X, 28, 2) I.iii.92 (25,9) That in gold clasps locks in the golden story] The _golden story_ is perhaps the _golden legend_, a book in the darker ages of popery much read, and doubtless often exquisitely embellished, but of which Canus, one of the popish doctors, proclaims the author to have been _homo ferrei oris, plumbei cordis_. I.iv.6 (27,2) like a crow-keeper] The word _crow-keeper_ is explained in Lear. I.iv.37 (28,8) for I am proverb'd with a grand-sire phrase] The grandsire phrase is--_The black ox has trod upon my foot_. I.iv.42 (30,1) Or (save your reverence) love] The word _or_ obscures the sentence; we ahould read _O_! for _or love_. Mercutio having called the affection vith which Romeo was entangled by so disrespectful a word as _mire_, cries out, O! save your reverence, love. I.iv.84 (34,7) Spanish blades] A sword is called a toledo, from the excellence of the Toletan steel. So Gratius, "--Ensis Toletanus "Unda Tagi non est alie celebranda metallo, Utilis in cives est ibi lamna sues." I.iv.113 (35,9) Direct my sail:] [I have restored this reading from the elder quarto, as being more congruous to the metaphor in the preceding line. _Suit_ is the reading of the folio. STEEVENS.] _Direct my suit_! Guide the _sequel_ of the adventure. I.v.27 (37,4) You are welcome, gentlemen. Come musicians, play. A ball! a ball! Give room. And foot it, girls] These two lines, omitted by the modern editors, I have replaced from the folio. I.v.32 (37, 6) good cousin Capulet] This _cousin_ Capulet is _unkle_ in the paper of invitation; but as Capulet is described as old, _cousin_ is probably the right word in both places. I know not how Capulet and his lady might agree, their ages were very disproportionate; he has been past masking for thirty years, and her age, as she tells Juliet, is but eight-and-twenty. II.Prologue (42,3) _Enter CHORUS_] The use of this chorus is not easily discovered; it conduces nothing to the progress of the play, but relates what is already known, or what the next scenes will shew; and relates it without adding the improvement of any moral sentiment. II.ii.1 (45,1) He jests at scars] That is, Mercutio jests, whom he overheard. II.ii.7 (45,2) Be not her maid] Be not a votary to the moon, to Diana. II.ii.10 (45,3) It is my lady; O! it is my love; O, that she knew we were!] This line and half I have replaced. II.ii.39 (47,7) Thou art thyself, though not a Montague] I think the true reading is, Thou art thyself, _then_ not a Montague. Thou art a being of peculiar excellence, and hast none of the malignity of the family, from which thou hast thy name.--Hanmer reads, Thour't not _thyself_ so, _though_ a Montague. II.iii.15 (53,6) the powerful grace, that lies/In plants] Efficacious virtue. II.iii.27 (53,7) Two such opposed foes encamp them still] [W: opposed kin] _Foes_ may be the right reading, or _kings_, but I think _kin_ can hardly be admitted. Two _kings_ are two opposite _powers_, two contending _potentates_, in both the natural and moral world. The word _encamp_ is proper to _commanders_. (see 1765, VIII, 46, 2) II.iv.20 (57,3) courageous captain of compliments] A complete master of all the laws of ceremony, the principal man in the doctrine of punctilio. "A man of compliments, whom right and wrong "Have chose as umpire;" says our author of Don _Armado_, the Spaniard, in _Love's Labour Lost_. II.iv.27 (57,6) the hay!] All the terms of the modern fencing-school were originally Italian; the rapier, or small thrusting sword, being first used in Italy. The _hay_ is the word _hai_, you _have_ it, used when a thrust reaches the antagonist, from which our fencers, on the same occasion, without knowing, I suppose, any reason for it, cry out, _ha_! II.iv.35 (58,9) these pardonnez-moy's] _Pardonnez-moi_ became the language of doubt or hesitation among men of the sword, when the point of honour was grown so delicate, that no other mode of contradiction would be endured. II.iv.64 (59,3) then is my pump wall flower'd] Here is a vein of wit too thin to be easily found. The fundamental idea is, that Romeo wore _pinked_ pumps, that is, pumps punched with holes in figures. II.iv.87 (60,7) a wit of cheverel] _Cheverel_ is soft-leather for gloves. II.iv.138 (62,8) No hare, Sir] Mercutio having roared out, _So ho_! the cry of the sportsmen when they start a hare; Romeo asks _what he has found_. And Mercutio answers, _No hare_, &c. The rest is a series of quibbles unworthy of explanation, which he who does not understand, needs not lament his ignorance. II.iv.162 (63,1) none of his skains-mates] The word _skains-mate_, I do not understand, but suppose that _skains_ was some low play, and _skains-mate_, a companion at such play. II.iv.200 (64,2) like a tackled stair] Like stairs of rope in the tackle of a ship. II.iv.222 (65,4) Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the nonce; I know it begins with another letter] This passage is thus in the old folio. _A mocker, that's the dog's name. R is for the_ no, _I know it begins with some other letter._ In this copy the error is but small. I read, _Ah, mocker. that's the dog's name. R is for the_ nonce, _I know it begins with another letter._ For the _nonce_, is for some _design, for a sly trick_. II.vi.15 (70,2) Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow] He that travels too fast is as long before he comes to the end of his journey, as he that travels slow. Precipitation produces mishap. III.i.2 (71,1) The day is hot] It is observed, that in Italy almost all assassinations are committed during the heat of summer. III.i.124 (75,6) This day's black fate on more days does depend] This day's unhappy destiny _hangs over_ the days yet to come. There will yet be more mischief. III.i.141 (78,7) Oh! I am fortune's fool] I am always running in the way of evil fortune, _like_ the fool in the play. _Thou art death's fool_, in _Measure for Measure_. See Dr. Warburton's note. III.i.153 (77,8) as thou art true] As thou art _just_ and _upright_. III.i.159 (77,9) How nice the quarrel] How _slight_, how _unimportant_, how _petty_. So in the last act, The letter was not _nice_, but full of charge Of dear import. III.i.182 (78,2) Affection makes him false] The charge of falshood on Bonvolio, though produced at hazard, is very just. The author, who seems to intend the character of Bonvolio as good, meant perhaps to shew, how the best minds, in a state of faction and discord, are detorted to criminal partiality. III.i.193 (78,3) I have an interest in your hate's proceeding: Sir Thomas Hanmer saw that this line gave no sense, and therefore put, by a very easy change, I have an interest in your _heat's_ proceeding! which is undoubtedly better than the old reading which Dr. Warburton has followed; but the sense yet seems to be weak, and perhaps a more licentious correction is necessary. I read therefore, I _had no_ interest in your _heat's preceding_. This, says the prince, is no quarrel of mine, _I had no interest in your former discord_; I suffer merely by your private animosity. III.ii.5 (79,3) Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,/That run-away's eyes may wink] [Warburton explained the "run-away" as the "sun"] I am not satisfied with this explanation, yet have nothing better to propose. III.ii.10 (80,4) Come, civil night] _Civil_ is _grave, decently solemn_. III.ii.14 (80,5) unmann'd blood] Blood yet unacquainted with man. III.ii.25 (81,6) the garish sun] Milton had this speech in his thoughts when he wrote _Il Penseroso_. "--Civil night, "Thou sober-suited matron."--_Shakespeare_. "Till civil-suited morn appear."--_Milton_. "Pay no worship to the gairish sun."--_Shakespeare_. "Hide me from day's gairish eye."--_Milton_. III.ii.46 (82,7) the death-darting eye of cockatrice] [The strange lines that follow here in the common books are not in the old edition. POPE.] The strange lines are these: I am not I, if there be such an I, Or these eyes shot, that makes thee answer I; If he be slain, say I; or if not, no; Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. These lines hardly deserve emendatien; yet it may be proper to observe, that their meanness has not placed them below the malice of fortune, the two first of them being evidently transposed; we should read, --That one vowel _I_ shall poison more, Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice, Or these eyes shot, that make thee answer, I. I am not I, &c. III.ii.114 (85,9) Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts] Hath put Tybalt out of my mind, as if out of being. III.ii.120 (85,1) Which modern lamentation might have mov'd] This line is left out of the later editions, I suppose because the editors did not remember that Shakespeare uses _modern_ for _common_, or _slight_: I believe it was in his time confounded in colloquial language with _moderate_. III.iii.112 (89,4) Unseemly woman in a seeming man! And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!] [W: seeming groth] The old reading is probable. _Thou art a beast of ill qualities, under the appearance both of a woman and a man_. III.iii.135 (90,5) And thou dismember'd with thine own defence] And thou torn to pieces with thy own weapons. III.iii.166-168 (91,6) Go hence. Good night] These three lines are omitted in all the modern editions. III.iii.166 (91,7) here stands all your state] The whole of your fortune depends on this. III.iv.12 (92,9) Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender/Of my child's love] _Desperate_ means only _bold, advent'rous_, as if he had said in the vulgar phrase, _I will speak a_ bold _word_, and venture _to promise you my daughter_. III.v.20 (94,1) 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow] The appearance of a cloud opposed to the moon. III.v.23 (94,2) I have more care to stay, than will to go] Would it be better thus, _I have more will to stay, than care to go_? III.v.31 (94,3) Some say, the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes] This tradition of the toad and lark I hare heard expressed in a rustick rhyme, --_to heav'n I'd fly, But the toad beguil'd me of my eye._ III.v.33 (95,4) Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with huntaup to the day] These two lines are omitted in the modern editions, and do not deserve to be replaced, but as they may shew the danger of critical temerity. Dr. Warburton's change of _I would_ to _I wot_ was specious enough, yet it it is evidently erroneous. The sense is this, _The lark, they say, has lost her eyes to the toad, and now_ I would _the toad had her voice too, since she uses it to the disturbance of lovers_. III.v.86 (97,3) _Jul._ Ay, Madam, from the reach of these my hands: 'Would, none but I might venge my cousin's death.!] Juliet's equivocations are rather too artful for a mind disturbed by the loss of a new lover. III.v.91 (98,4) That shall bestow on hin so sure a draught] [Thus the elder quarto, which I have followed in preference to the quarto 1609, and the folio 1623, which read, less intelligibly, "Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram." STEEVENS.] --_unaccustomed dram_.] In vulgar language, Shall give him a _dram_ which he is _not used_ to. Though I have, if I mistake not, observed, that in old books _unaccustomed_ signifies _wonderful, powerful, efficacious_. III.v.112 (98,6) in happy time] _A la bonne heure_. This phrase was interjected, when the hearer was not quite so well pleased as the speaker. III.v.227 (103,3) As living here] Sir T. HANMER reads, _as living_ hence; that is, at a dsitance, in banishment; but _here_ may signify, _in this world_. IV.i.3 (104,1) And I am nothing alow to slack his haste] _His haste shall not be abated by my slowness_. It might be read, And I an nothing slow to _back_ his haste: that is, I am diligent to _abet_ and _enforce_ his haste. IV.i.l8 (104,2) _Par._ Happily met, my lady and my wife! _Jul._ That may be, Sir, when I may be a wife] As these four first lines seem intended to rhyme, perhaps the author wrote thus: --my lady and my _life_! IV.i.62 (106,3) this bloody knife/Shall play the umpire] That is, this knife shall decide the struggle between me and my distress. IV.i.64 (106,4) commission of thy years and art] _Commission_ is for _authority_ or _power_. IV.i.79 (106,5) Or chain me to some sleepy mountain's top, Where rearing bears and savage lions roam; Or shut me nightly in a charnel house] [Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with rearing bears, Or hide me nightly, &c. It is thus the editions vary. POPE.] my edition has the words which Mr. Pope has omitted; but the old copy seems in this place preferable; only perhaps we might better read, Where _savage_ bears and _rearing_ lions roam. IV.i.119 (108,8) If no unconstant toy] If no _fickle freak_, no _light caprice_, no _change of fancy_, hinder the performance. IV.ii.38 (110,2) We shall be short] That is, we shall be _defective_. IV.iii.3 (110,3) For I have need of many orisons] Juliet plays most of her pranks under the appearance of religion: perhaps Shakespeare meant to punish her hypocrisy. IV.iii.46 (112,6) Alas, alas! it is not like that I] This speech is confused, and inconsequential, according to the disorder of Juliet's mind. IV.iv.4 (113,1) The curfeu bell] I knew not that the morning-bell is called the _curfeu_ in any other place. IV.iv.107 (119,9) O, play me some merry dump] This is not in the folio, but the answer plainly requires it. V.i (121,1) ACT V. SCENE I. MANTUA] The acts are here properly enough divided, nor did any better distribution than the editors have already made, occur to me in the perusal of this play; yet it may not be improper to remark, that in the first folio, and I suppose the foregoing editions are in the same state, there is no division of the acts, and therefore some future editor may try, whether any improvement can be made, by reducing them to a length more equal, or interrupting the action at more proper intervals. V.i.1 (121,2) If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep] The sense is, _If I may only trust the_ honesty _of sleep_, which I know however not to be so nice as not often to practise _flattery_. V.i.3 (121,3) My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne; And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts] These three lines are very gay and pleasing. But why does Shakespeare give Romeo this involuntary cheerfulness just before the extremity of unhappiness? Perhaps to shew the vanity of trusting to these uncertain and casual exaltations or depressions, which many consider as certain foretokens of good and evil. V.i.45 (123,6) A beggarly account of empty boxes] Dr. Warburton would read, a _braggartly_ account; but _beggarly_ is probably right: if the _boxes_ were _empty_, the _account_ was more _beggarly_, as it was more pompous. V.iii.31 (127,1) a ring that I must use/In dear employment] That is, _action of importance_. Gems were supposed to have great powers and virtues. V.iii.86 (129,4) her beauty makes/This vault a feasting presence full of light] A _presence_ is a _public room_. V.iii.90 (129,5) O, how may I/Call this a lightning?] I think we should read, --_O_, now _may I Call this a lightning_!-- V.iii.178 (135,1) Raise up the Montagues.--Some others; search:-- We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry] Here seems to be a rhyme intended, which may be easily restored; "Raise up the Montagues. Some others, go. "We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, "But the true ground of all _this_ piteous _woe_ "We cannot without circumstance descry." V.iii.194 (136,2) What fear is this, which startles in our ears?] [Originally _your ears_] Read, "What fear is this, which startles in _our_ ears? V.iii.229 (138,6) _Fri._ I will be brief] It is much to be lamented, that the poet did not conclude the dialogue with the action, and avoid a narrative of events which the audience already knew. (141) General Observation. This play is one of the most pleasing of our author's performances. The scenes are busy and various, the incidents numerous and important, the catastrophe irresistibly affecting, and the process of the action carried on with such probability, at least with such congruity to popular opinions, as tragedy requires. Here is one of the few attempts of Shakespeare to exhibit the conversation of gentlemen, to represent the airy sprightliness of juvenile elegance. Mr. Dryden mentions a tradition, which might easily reach his time, of a declaration made by Shakespeare, that _he was obliged to kill Mercutio in the third act, lest he should have been killed by him_. Yet he thinks him _no such formidable person, but that he might have lived through the play, and died in his bed_, without danger to a poet. Dryden well knew, had he been in quest of truth, that, in a pointed sentence, more regard is commonly had to the words than the thought, and that it is very seldom to be rigorously understood. Mercutio's wit, gaiety, and courage, will always procure him friends that wish him a longer life; but his death is not precipitated, he has lived out the time allotted him in the construction of the play; nor do I doubt the ability of Shakespeare to have continued his existence, though some of his sallies are perhaps out of the reach of Dryden; whose genius was not very fertile of merriment, nor ductile to humour, but acute, argumentative, comprehensive, and sublime. The Nurse is one of the characters in which the author delighted: he has, with great subtilty of distinction, drawn her at once loquacious and secret, obsequious and insolent, trusty and dishonest. His comic scenes are happily wrought, but his pathetic strains are always polluted with some unexpected depravations. His persons, however distressed, _have a conceit left them in their misery, a miserable conceit_. HAMLET (145,2) This play is printed both in the folio of 1623, and in the quarto of 1637, more correctly, than almost any other of the works of Shakespeare. I.i.29 (147,7) approve our eyes] Add a new testimony to that of our eyes. I.i.33 (147,8) What we two nights have seen] This line is by Hanmer given to Marcellus, but without necessity. I.i.63 (149,9) He smote the sledded Polack on the ice] Polack was, in that age, the term for an inhabitant of Poland: Polaque, French. As in a translation of Passeratius's epitaph on Henry III. of France, published by Camden: "Whether thy chance or choice thee hither brings, "Stay, passenger, and wail the best of kings. "this little stone a great king's heart doth hold, "Who rul'd the fickle French and Polacks bold: "So frail are even the highest earthly things, "Go, passenger, and wail the hap of kings." (rev. 1776, I, 174,3) I.i.65 (149,2) and just at this dead hour] The old reading is, _jump at this same hour; same_ is a kind of correlative to _jump; just_ is in the oldest folio. The correction was probably made by the author. I.i.68 (149,4) gross and scope] General thoughts, and tendency at large. (1773) I.i.93 (151,7) And carriage of the articles design'd] _Carriage_, is _import; design'd_, is _formed, drawn up between them_. I.i.96 (151,8) Of unimproved mettle hot and full] _Full of unimproved mettle_, is full of spirit not regulated or guided by knowledge or experience. I.i.100 (151,1) That hath a stomach in't] _Stomach_, in the time of our author, was used for _constancy, resolution_. I.i.107 (152,3) romage] Tumultous hurry. (1773) I.i.108-125 (152,3) These, and all other lines confin'd within crotchets throughout this play, are omitted in the folio edition of 1623. The omissions leave the play sometimes better and sometimes worse, and seen made only for the sake of abbreviation. I.i.109 (152,4) Well may it sort] The cause and the effect are proportionate and suitable. (1773) I.i.121 (152,7) Was even the like precurse of fierce events] Not only such prodigies have been seen in Rome, but the elements have shewn our countrymen like forerunners and foretokens of violent events. (1773) I.i.128 (153,1) If thou hast any sound] The speech of Horatio to the spectre is very elegant and noble, and congruous to the common traditions of the causes of apparitions. I.i.153 (154,2) Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine] According to the pneumatology of that tine, every element was inhabited by its peculiar order of spirits, who had dispositions different, according to their various places of abode. The meaning therefore is, that all _spirits extravagant_, wandering out of their element, whether aerial spirits visiting earth, or earthly spirits ranging the air, return to their station, to their proper limits in which they are _confined_. We might read, "--And at his warning "Th' extravagant and erring spirit hies "To his confine, whether in sea or air, "Or earth, or fire. And of, &c. But this change, tho' it would smooth the construction, is not necessary, and being unnecessary, should not be made against authority. I.i.163 (154,5) No fairy takes] No fairy _strikes_, with lameness or diseases. This sense of _take_ is frequent in this author. I.ii.37 (156,8) more than the scope/Of these dilated articles allows] More than is comprised in the general design of these articles, which you may explain in a more diffuse and dilated stile. (1773) I.ii.47 (157,9) The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than to the throne of Denmark is thy father] [W: The blood ... Than to the throne] Part of this emendation I have received, but cannot discern why the _head_ is not as much _native to the heart_, as the _blood_, that is, _natural_ and _congenial_ to it, _born with it_, and co-operating with it. The relation is likewise by this reading better preserved, the _counsellor_ being to the _king_ as the _head_ to the _heart_. I.ii.62 (158,1) Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will] I rather think this line is in want of emendation. I read, --_Time is thine_, _And_ my best _graces; spend it at thy will_. I.ii.65 (158,2) A little more than kin, and less than kind] _Kind_ is the Teutonick word for _child_. Hamlet therefore answers with propriety, to the titles of _cousin_ and _son_, which the king had given him, that he was somewhat more than _cousin_, and less than _son_. I.ii.67 (159,3) too much i' the sun] He perhaps alludes to the proverb, _Out of heaven's blessing into the warm sun_. I.ii.70 (159,4) veiled lids] With lowering eyes, cast down eyes. (1773) I.ii.89 (160,5) your father lost a father;/That father lost, lost his] I do not admire the repetition of the word, but it has so much of our author's manner, that I find no temptation to recede from the old copies. I.ii.92 (160,6) obsequious sorrow] _Obsequious_ is here from _obsequies_, or _funeral ceremonies_. I.ii.103 (161,9) To reason most absurd] Reason is here used in its common sense, for the _faculty_ by which we form conclusions from arguments. I.ii.110 (161,1) And with no less nobility of love] [_Nobility_, for _magnitude_. WARBURTON.] _Nobility_ is rather _generosity_. I.ii.112 (161,2) Do I impart toward you] I believe _impart_ is, _impart myself_, _communicate_ whatever I can bestow. I.ii.125 (162,4) No jocund health] The king's intemperance is very strongly impressed; every thing that happens to him gives him occasion to drink. I.ii.163 (164,9) I'll change that name] I'll be your servant, you shall be my friend. (1773) I.ii.164 (164,1) what make you] A familiar phrase for _what are you doing_. I.ii.167 (164,2) good Even, Sir] So the copies. Sir Th. Hanmer and Dr. Warburton put it, _good morning_. The alteration is of no importance, but all licence is dangerous. There is no need of any change. Between the first and eighth scene of this act it is apparent, that a natural day must pass, and how much of it is already over, there is nothing that can determine. The king has held a council. It may now as well be _evening_ as _morning_. I.ii.182 (165,3) 'Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven] _Dearest_, for _direst_, most dreadful, most dangerous. I.ii.192 (165,5) Season your admiration] That is, _temper_ it. I.ii.204 (166,6) they, distill'd/Almost to jelly with the act of fear,/Stand dumb] [W: th' effect of] Here is an affectation of subtilty without accuracy. _Fear_ is every day considered as an _agent_. _Fear laid hold on him; fear drove him away_. If it were proper to be rigorous in examining trifles, it might be replied, that Shakespeare would write more erroneously, if he wrote by the direction of this critick; they were not _distilled_, whatever the word may mean, _by the effect of fear_; for that _distillation_ was itself the _effect_; _fear_ was the cause, the active cause, that _distilled_ them by that force of operation which we strictly call _act_ involuntary, and _power_ in involuntary agents, but popularly call _act_ in both. But of this too much. I.iii.15 (169,9) The virtue of his will] _Virtue_ seems here to comprise both _excellence_ and _power_, and may be explained the _pure effect_. I.iii.21 (169,1) The sanity and health of the whole state] [W: safety] HANMER reads very rightly, _sanity_. _Sanctity_ is elsewhere printed for _sanity_, in the old edition of this play. I.iii.32 (170,2) unmaster'd] i.e. _licentious_. (1773) I.iii.34 (170,3) keep you in the rear of your affection] That is, do not advance so far as your affection would lead you. I.iii.49 (170,4) Whilst, like a puft and reckless libertine] [W: Whilest he] The emendation is not amiss, but the reason for it is very inconclusive; we use the same mode of speaking on many occasions. When I say of one, _he squanders like a spendthrift_, of another, _he robbed me like a thief_, the phrase produces no ambiguity; it is understood that the one is a _spendthrift_, and the other a _thief_. I.iii.64 (172,7) But do not dull thy palm with entertainment/Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade] The literal sense is, _Do not make thy palm callous by shaking every man by the hand_. The figurative meaning may be, _Do not by promiscuous conversation make thy mind insensible to the difference of characters_. I.iii.81 (173,1) my blessing season this in thee!] [_Season_, for _infuse_. WARBURTON.] It is more than to _infuse_, it is to infix it in such a manner as that it never may wear out. I.iii.83 (173,3) your servants tend] i.e. your servants are waiting for you. (1773) I.iii.86 (173,4) 'Tis in my memory lock'd,/And you yourself shall keep the key of it] That is, By thinking on you, I shall think on your lessons. I.iii.107 (174,6) Tender yourself mere dearly; Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase) Wronging it thus, you'll tender me a fool] I believe the word _wronging_ has reference, not to the phrase, but to Ophelia; if you go on _wronging it thus_, that is, _if you continue to go on thus wrong_. This is a mode of speaking perhaps not very grammatical, but very common, nor have the best writers refused it. _To sinner it or saint it_, is in Pope. And Rowe, --_Thus to_ coy it, _To one who knows you too._ The folio has it, --_roaming it thus_,-- That is, _letting yourself loose to such improper liberty_. But _wronging_ seems to be more proper. I.iii.112 (175,7) fashion you may call it] She uses _fashion_ for _manner_, and he for a _transient practice_. I.iii.122 (175,8) Set your intreatments] _Intreatments_ here means _company, conversation_, from the French _entrétien_. I.iii.125 (175,9) larger tether] _Tether_ is that string by which an animal, set to graze in grounds uninclosed, is confined within the proper limits. (1773) I.iii.132 (176,2) I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,/ Have you so slander any moment's leisure] [The humour of this is fine. WARBURTON.] Here is another _fine_ passage, of which I take the beauty to be only imaginary. Polonius says, _in plain terms_, that is, not in language less elevated or embellished than before, but _in terms that cannot be misunderstood_: _I would not have you so disgrace your most idle moments, as not to find better employment for them than lord Hamlet's conversation_. I.iv.9 (177,3) the swaggering up-spring] The blustering upstart. I.iv.17 (177,4) This heavy-headed revel, east and west] I should not have suspected this passage of ambiguity or obscurity, had I not found my opinion of it differing from that of the learned critic [Warburton]. I construe it thus, _This heavy-headed revel makes us traduced east and west, and taxed of other nations_. I.iv.22 (178,5) The pith and marrow of our attribute] The best and most valuable part of the praise that would be otherwise attributed to us. I.iv.32 (178,7) fortune's scar] In the old quarto of 1637, it is --_fortune's_ star: But I think _scar_ is proper. I.iv.34 (178,8) As infinite as man may undergo] As large as can be accumulated upon man. I.iv.39-57 (179,2) Angels and ministers of grace defend us!] Hamlet's speech to the apparition of his father seems to me to consist of three parts. When first he sees the spectre, he fortifies himself with an invocation. _Angel and ministers of grace defend us!_ As the spectre approaches, he deliberates with himself, and determines, that whatever it be he will venture to address it. _Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee_, &c. This he says while his father is advancing; he then, as he had determined, _speaks to him_, and _calls him--Hamlet, King, Father, Royal Dane: oh! answer me_. (1773) I.iv.43 (180,4) questionable shape] [By _questionable_ is meant provoking question. HANMER.] So in _Macbeth_, _Live you, or are you aught That man may_ question? I.iv.46 (180,5) tell,/Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,/ Have burst their cearments?] [W: in earth] It were too long to examine this note period by period, though almost every period seems to me to contain something reprehensible. The critic, in his zeal for change, writes with so little consideration, as to say, that Hamlet cannot call his father _canonized_, because _we are told he was murdered with all his sins fresh upon him_. He was not then told it, and had so little the power of knowing it, that he was to be told it by an apparition. The long succession of reasons upon reasons prove nothing, but what every reader discovers, that the king had been buried, which is implied by so many adjuncts of burial, that the direct mention of _earth_ is not necessary. Hamlet, amazed at an apparition, which, though in all ages credited, has in all ages been considered as the most wonderful and most dreadful operation of supernatural agency, enquires of the spectre, in the most emphatic terms, why he breaks the order of nature, by returning from the dead; this he asks in a very confused circumlocution, confounding in his fright the soul and body. Why, says he, have _thy bones_, which with due ceremonies have been intombed _in death_, in the common state of departed mortals, _burst_ the folds in which they were embalmed? Why has the tomb, in which we saw thee quietly laid, opened his mouth, that mouth which, by its weight and stability, seemed closed for ever? The whole sentence is this: _Why dost thou appear, whom we know to be dead?_ Had the change of the word removed any obscurity, or added any beauty, it might have been worth a struggle; but either reading leaves the sense the same. If there be any asperity in this controversial note, it must be imputed to the contagion of peevishneas, or some resentment of the incivility shewn to the Oxford editor, who is represented as supposing the ground _canonized_ by a funeral, when he only meant to say, that the _body_ has deposited in _holy ground_, in ground consecrated according to the _canon_. I.iv.65 (183,9) I do not set my life at a pin's fee] The value of a pin. (1773) I.iv.73 (183,1) deprive your sovereignty] I believe _deprive_ in this place signifies simply to _take away_. I.iv.77 (184,4) confin'd to fast in fires] I am rather inclined to read, _confin'd to_ lasting _fires_, to fires _unremitted_ and _unconsumed_. The change is slight. I.v.30 (186,7) As meditation or the thoughts of love] The comment [Warburton's] on the word _meditation_ is so ingenious, that I hope it is just. I.v.77 (188,6) Unhonsel'd, disappointed, unaneal'd] This is a very difficult line. I think Theobald's objection to the sense of _unaneal'd_, for _notified by the bell_, must be owned to be very strong. I have not yet by my enquiry satisfied myself. Hanmer's explication of _unaneal'd_ by _unprepar'd_, because to _anneal_ metals, is to _prepare_ them in manufacture, is too general and vague; there is no resemblance between any funeral ceremony and the practice of _annealing_ metals. _Disappointed_ is the same as _unappointed_, and may be properly explained _unprepared_; a man well furnished with things necessary for any enterprize, was said to be well _appointed_. I.v.80 (190,7) Oh, horrible! oh, horrible! most horrible!] It was ingeniously hinted to me by a very learned lady, that this line seems to belong to Hamlet, in whose mouth it is a proper and natural exclamation; and who, according to the practice of the stage, may be supposed to interrupt so long a speech. (1773) I.v.154 (193,5) Swear by my sword] [Here the poet has preserved the manners of the ancient Danes, with whom it was _religion_ to swear upon their swords. WARBURTON.] I was once inclinable to this opinion, which is likewise well defended by Mr. Upton; but Mr. Garrick produced me a passage, I think, in _Brantoms_, from which it appeared, that it was common to swear upon the sword, that is, upon the cross which the old swords always had upon the hilt. II.i.25 (197,8) drinking, fencing, swearing] I suppose, by _fencing_ is meant a too diligent frequentation of the fencing-school, a resort of violent and lawless young men. II.i.46 (197,4) _Good Sir_, or so, or _friend_, or _gentleman_] [W: sire] I know not that _sire_ was ever a general word of compliment, as distinct from _sir_; nor do I conceive why any alteration should be made. It is a common mode of colloquial language to use, _or so_, as a slight intimation of more of the same, or a like kind, that might be mentioned. We might read, but we need not, _Good sir_, forsooth, _or friend, or gentleman_. _Forsooth_, a term of which I do not well know the original meaning, was used to men as well as to women. II.i.71 (198,5) Observe his inclination in yourself] HANMER reads, _e'en_ yourself, and is followed by Dr. Warburton; but perhaps _in_ yourself means, _in your own person_, not by spies. II.i.112 (200,7) I had not quoted him] To _quote_ is, I believe, to _reckon_, to take an account of, to take the _quotient_ or result of a computation. II.i.114 (201,8) it as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions, As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion] This is not the remark of a weak man. The vice of age is too much suspicion. Men long accustomed to the wiles of life _cast_ commonly _beyond themselves_, let their cunning go further than reason can attend it. This is always the fault of a little mind, made artful by long commerce with the world. II.ii.24 (202,2) For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks] That the hope which your arrival has raised may be completed by the desired effect. II.ii.47 (203,4) the trail of policy] The _trail_ is the _course of an animal pursued by the scent_. Il.ii.52 (203,5) My news shall be the fruit of that great feast] The _desert_ after the meat. II.ii.84 (204,7) at night we'll feast] The king's intemperance is never suffered to be forgotten. II.ii.86-167 (205,8) My liege, and Madam, to expostulate] This account of the character of Polonius, though it sufficiently reconciles the seeming inconsistency of so much wisdom with so much folly, does not perhaps correspond exactly to the ideas of our author. The commentator Warburton makes the character of Polonius, a character only of manners, discriminated by properties superficial, accidental, and acquired. The poet intended a nobler delineation of a mixed character of manners and of nature. Polonius is a man bred in courts, exercised in business, stored with observations, confident of his knowledge, proud of his eloquence, and declining into dotage. His mode of oratory is truly represented as designed to ridicule the practice of those times, of prefaces that made no introduction, and of method that embarrassed rather than explained. This part of his character is accidental, the rest is natural. Such a man is positive and confident, because he knows that his mind was once strong, and knows not that it is become weak. Such a man excels in general principles, but fails in the particular application. He is knowing in retrospect, and ignorant in foresight. While he depends upon his memory, and can draw from his repositories of knowledge, he utters weighty sentences, and gives useful counsel; but as the mind in its enfeebled state cannot be kept long busy and intent, the old man is subject to sudden dereliction of his faculties, he loses the order of his ideas, and entangles himself in his own thoughts, till he recovers the leading principle, and falls again into his former train. This idea of dotage encroaching upon wisdom, will solve all the phaenomena of the character of Polonius. II.ii.109 (207,1) _To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia_] [T: beatified] Both Sir Thomas Hanmer and Dr. Warburton have followed Theobald, but I am in doubt whether _beautified_, though, as Polonius calls it, a _vile phrase_, be not the proper word. _Beautified_ seems to be a _vile phrase_, for the ambiguity of its meaning, (rev. 1778, X, 241, 3) II.ii.126 (208,2) more above] is, _moreover, besides_. II.ii.145 (209,6) she took the fruits of my advice] She took the _fruits_ of advice when she obeyed advice, the advice was then made _fruitful_. II.ii.181 (211,9) For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog,/Being a god, kissing carrion] [This is Warburton's emendation for "a good kissing"] This is a noble emendation, which almost sets the critic on a level with the author. II.ii.265 (214,2) the shadow of a dream] Shakespeare has accidentally inverted an expression of Pindar, that the state of humanity is the _dream_ of a _shadow_. II.ii.269 (215,3) Then are our beggars, bodies] Shakespeare seems here to design a ridicule of these declamations against wealth and greatness, that seem to make happiness consist in poverty. II.ii.336 (217,7) shall end his part in peace] [After these words the folio adds, _the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o' th' sere_. WARBURTON.] This passage I have omitted, for the same reason, I suppose, as the other editors: I do not understand it. II.ii.338 (217,8) the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for't] _The lady shall have no obstruction, unless from the lameness of the verse._ II.ii.346 (217,9) I think, their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation] I fancy this is transposed: Hamlet enquires not about an _inhibition_, but an _innovation_; the answer therefore probably was, _I think, their_ innovation, _that is_, their new practice of strolling, _comes by the means of the late_ inhibition. II.ii.352-379 (218,1) _Ham._ How comes it? do they grow rusty?] The lines marked with commas are in the folio of 1623, but not in the quarto of 1637, nor, I suppose, in any of the quartos. II.ii.355 (218,2) cry out on the top of question] The meaning seems to be, they ask a common question in the highest notes of the voice. II.ii.362 (218,3) escoted] Paid. II.ii.362 (218,4) Will they pursue quality no longer than they can _sing_?] Will they follow the _profession_ of players no longer than they keep the voices of boys? So afterwards he says to the player, _Come, give us a taste of your_ quality; come, _a passionate speech_. II.ii.370 (219,6) to tarre them on to controversy] To provoke any animal to rage, is _to tarre him_. The word is said to come from the Greek. (1773) II.ii.380 (219,8) It is not very strange, for mine uncle is king of Denmark] I do not wonder that the new players have so suddenly risen to reputation, my uncle supplies another example of the facility with which honour is conferred upon new claimants. II.ii.412 (220,2) Buz, buz!] Mere idle talk, the _buz_ of the vulgar. II.ii.414 (220,3) _Then came each actor on his ass_] This seems to be a line of a ballad. II.ii.420 (221,6) For the law of writ, and the liberty, these are the only men] All the modern editions have, _the law of_ wit, _and the liberty_; but both my old copies have, _the law of_ writ, I believe rightly. _Writ_, for _writing, composition_. Wit_ was not, in our author's time, taken either for _imagination_, or _acuteness_, or _both together_, but for _understanding_, for the faculty by which we _apprehend_ and _judge_. Those who wrote of the human mind distinguished its primary powers into _wit_ and _will_. Ascham distinguishes _boys_ of tardy and of active faculties into _quick wits_ and _slow wits_. II.ii.438 (221,8) the first row of the pious chanson] [It is _pons chansons_ in the first folio edition. POPE.] It is _pons chansons_ in the quarto too. I know not whence the _rubric_ has been brought, yet it has not the appearance of an arbitrary addition. The titles of old ballads were never printed red; but perhaps _rubric_ may stand for _marginal explanation_. II.ii.439 (222,9) For, look, where my abridgment comes] He calls the players afterwards, _the brief chronicles of the time_; but I think he now means only _those who will shorten my talk_. II.ii.448 (223,2) be not crack'd within the ring] That is, _crack'd too much for use_. This is said to a young player who acted the parts of women. II.ii.450 (223,3) like French faulconers] HANMER, who has much illustrated the allusions to falconry, reads, _like_ French _falconers. [French falconers_ is not a correction by Hanmer, but the reading of the first folio. STEEVENS.] (see 1765, VIII, 198, 1) II.ii.459 (223,5) (as I received it, and others whose judgment in such matters cried in the top of mine)] [i.e. whose judgment I had the highest opinion of. WARBURTON.] I think it means only that _were higher than mine_. II.ii.466 (224,8) but called it, an honest method] Hamlet is telling how much his judgment differed from that of others. _One said, there was no salt in the lines_, &c. _but call'd it an honest method_. The author probably gave it, _But I called it an honest method_, &c. II.ii.525 (226,9) _the mobled queen] Mobled signifies _huddled, grossly covered_. II.ii.587 (228,5) the cue for passion] The _hint_, the _direction_. II.ii.589 (228,6) the general ear] The ears of all mankind. So before, _Caviare to the_ general, that is, to the _multitude_. II.ii.595 (229,7) unpregnant of my cause] [_Unpregnant_, for _having no due sense of_. WARBURTON.] Rather, _not quickened with a new desire of vengeance; not teeming with revenge_. II.ii.598 (229,8) A damn'd defeat was made] [_Defeat_, for _destruction_. WARBURTON.] Rather, _dispossession_. II.ii.608 (229,1) kindless] _Unnatural_. II.ii.616 (229,3) About, my brain!] _Wits, to your work_. _Brain_, go _about_ the present business. II.ii.625 (230,5) tent him] Search his wounds. II.ii.632 (230,7) More relative than this] [_Relative_, for _convictive_. WARB.] _Convictive_ is only the consequential sense. _Relative_ is, _nearly related, closely connected_. III.i.17 (231,2) o'er-raught on the way] _Over-raught_ is _over-reached_, that is, _over-took_. III.i.31 (232,4) Affront Ophelia.] To _affront_, is only _to meet directly_. III.i.47 (233,5) 'Tis too much prov'd] It is found by too frequent experience. III.i.52 (233,6) more ugly to the thing that helps it] That is, _compared with_ the thing that helps it. III.i.56-88 (233,7) To be, or not to be?] Of this celebrated soliloquy, which bursting from a man distracted with contrariety of desires, and overwhelmed with the magnitude of his own purposes, is connected rather in the speaker's mind, than on his tongue, I shall endeavour to discover the train, and to shew how one sentiment produces another. Hamlet, knowing himself injured in the most enormous and atrocious degree, and seeing no means of redress, but such as must expose him to the extremity of hazard, meditates on his situation in this manner: _Before I can form any rational scheme of action under this pressure of distress_, it is necessary to decide, whether, _after our present state, we are_ to be or not to be. That is the question, which, as it shall be answered, will determine, _whether 'tis nobler_, and more suitable to the dignity of reason, _to suffer the outrages of fortune_ patiently, or to take arms against _them_, and by opposing end them, _though perhaps_ with the loss of life. If _to die_, were _to sleep_, no more, _and by a sleep to end_ the miseries of our nature, such a sleep were _devoutly to be wished_; but if _to sleep_ in death, be _to dream_, to retain our powers of sensibility, we must _pause_ to consider, _in that sleep of death what dreams may come_. This consideration _makes calamity_ so long endured; for _who would bear_ the vexations of life, which might be ended _by a bare bodkin_, but that he is afraid of something in unknown futurity? This fear it is that gives efficacy to conscience, which, by turning the mind upon _this regard_, chills the ardour of _resolution_, checks the vigour of _enterprize_, and makes the _current_ of desire stagnate in inactivity. We may suppose that he would have applied these general observations to his own case, but that he discovered Ophelia. III.i.59 (234,8) Or to take arms against a sea of troubles] [W: against assail] Mr. Pope proposed _siege_. I know not why there should be so much solicitude about this metaphor. Shakespeare breaks his metaphors often, and in this desultory speech there was less need of preserving them. III.i.70 (235,2) the whips and scorns of time] [W: of th' time] I doubt whether the corruption of this passage is not more than the editor has suspected. _Whips_ and _scorns_ have no great connexion with one another, or with _time: whips_ and _scorns_ are evils of very different magnitude, and though at all _times scorn_ may be endured, yet the _times_ that put men ordinarily in danger of _whips_, are rery rare. Falstaff has said, that the _courtiers would_ whip _him with their quick wits_; but I know not that _whip_ can be used for a _scoff_ or _insult_, unless its meaning be fixed by the whole expression. I am afraid lest I should venture too far in correcting this passage. If _whips_ be retained, we may read, _For who would bear the whips and scorns of_ tyrant. But I think that _quip_, a _sneer_, a _sarcasm_, a _contemptuous_ jest, is the proper word, as suiting very exactly with _scorn_. What then must be done with _time_? it suits no better with the new reading than with the old, and _tyrant_ is an image too bulky and serious. I read, but not confidently, _For who would bear the_ quips _and scorns of_ title. It say be remarked, that Hamlet, in his enumeration of miseries, forgets, whether properly or not, that he is a prince, and mentions many evils to which inferior stations only are exposed. III.i.77 (236,4) To groan and sweat] All the old copies have, _to_ grunt _and sweat_. It is undoubtedly the true reading, but can scarcely be borne by modern ears. III.i.89 (237,5) Nymph, in thy orisons] This is a touch of nature. Hamlet, at the sight of Ophelia, does not immediately recollect, that he is to personate madness, but makes her an address grave and solemn, such as the foregoing meditation excited in his thoughts. III.i.107 (237,6) That if you be honest and fair, you should admit no discourse to your beauty] This is the reading of all the modern editions, and is copied from the quarto. The folio reads, your honesty _should admit no discourse to your beauty_. The true reading seems to be this, _If you be honest and fair, you should admit_ your honesty _to no discourse with your beauty_. This is the sense evidently required by the process of the conversation. III.i.127 (238,7) I have thoughts to put them in] _To put a thing into thought_, is _to think on it_. III.i.148 (239,8) I have heard of your paintings too, well enough] This is according to the quarto; the folio, for _painting_, has _prattlings_, and for _face_, has _pace_, which agrees with what follows, _you jig, you amble_. Probably the author wrote both. I think the common reading best. III.i.152 (239,9) make your wantonness your ignorance] You mistake by _wanton_ affectation, and pretend to mistake by _ignorance_. III.i.161 (239,2) the mould of form] The model by whom all endeavoured to form themselves. III.ii.12 (241,3) the groundlings] The meaner people then seem to have sat below, as they now sit in the upper gallery, who, not well understanding poetical language, were sometimes gratified by a mimical and mute representation of the drama, previous to the dialogue. III.ii.14 (242,4) inexplicable dumb shews] I believe the meaning is, _shews, without words to explain them_. III.ii.26 (242,6) the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure] The _age_ of the _time_ can hardly pass. May we not read, the _face_ and _body_, or did the author write, the _page_? The _page_ suits well with _form_ and _pressure_, but ill with _body_. III.ii.28 (242,7) pressure] Resemblance, as in a _print_. III.ii.34 (242,8) (not to speak it profanely)] _Profanely_ seems to relate, not to the praise which he has mentioned, but to the censure which he is about to utter. Any gross or indelicate language was called _profane_. III.ii.66 (243,9) the pregnant hinges of the knee] I believe the sense of _pregnant_ in this place is, _quick, ready, prompt_. III.ii.68 (244,1) my dear soul] Perhaps, my _clear_ soul. III.ii.74 (244,2) Whose blood and judgment] According to the doctrine of the four humours, _desire_ and _confidence_ were seated in the blood, and _judgment_ in the phlegm, and the due mixture of the humours made a perfect character. III.ii.89 (244,3) Vulcan's stithy] _Stithy_ is a smith's _anvil_. III.ii.103 (245,4) nor mine now] A man's words, says the proverb, are his own no longer than he keep them unspoken. III.ii.112 (245,5) they stay upon your patience] May it not be read more intelligibly, _They stay upon your_ pleasure. In _Macbeth_ it is, "Noble Macbeth, we stay upon your _leisure_." III.ii.123 (245,6) Do you think I meant country matters?] I think we must read, _Do you think I meant country_ manners? Do you imagine that I meant to sit in your lap, with such rough gallantry as clowns use to their lasses? III.ii.137 (246,7) Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables] I know not why our editors should, with such implacable anger, persecute our predecessors. The dead, it is true, can make no resistance, they may be attacked with great security; but since they can neither feel nor mend, the safety of mauling them seems greater than the pleasure; nor perhaps would it much misbeseem us to remember, amidst our triumphs over the _nonsensical_ and the _senseless_, that we likewise are men; that _debemur morti_, and, as Swift observed to Burnet, shall soon be among the dead ourselves. I cannot find how the common reading is nonsense, nor why Hamlet, when he laid aside his dress of mourning, in a country where it was _bitter cold_, and the air was _nipping and eager_, should not have a _suit of sables_. I suppose it is well enough known, that the fur of sables is not black. III.ii.147 (249,1) Marry, this is miching maliche; it means mischief] [W: malhechor] I think Hanmer's exposition most likely to be right. Dr. Warburton, to justify his interpretation, must write, _miching_ for _malechor_, and even then it will be harsh. III.ii.167 (250,3) sheen] Splendor, lustre. III.ii.177 (250,4) For women fear too much, even as they love] Here seems to be a line lost, which should have rhymed to _love_. III.ii.192 (251,6) The instances, that second marriage move] The _motives_. III.ii.202 (252,7) Most necessary 'tis, that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt] The performance of a resolution, in which only the _resolver_ is interested, is a debt only to himself, which he may therefore remit at pleasure. III.ii.206 (252,8) The violence of either grief or joy, Their own enactures with themselves destroy] What grief or joy _enact_ or determine in their violence, is revealed in their abatement. _Enactures_ is the word in the quarto; all the modern editions have _enactors_. III.ii.229 (252,9) An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope] May my whole liberty and enjoyment be to live on hermit's fare in a prison. _Anchor_ is for _anchoret_. III.ii.250 (253,1) Baptista] _Baptista_ is, I think, in Italian, the name always of a man. III.ii.262 (254,4) So you must take your husbands] Read, _So you_ must take _your husbands_ [in place of "mistake"]; that is, _for better, for worse_. III.ii.288 (255,5) with two provencial roses on my rayed shoes] When shoe-strings were worn, they were covered, where they met in the middle, by a ribband, gathered into the form of a rose. So in an old song, Gil-de-Roy _was a bonny boy_, _Had_ roses _tull his_ shoen. _Rayed_ shoes, are shoes _braided_ in lines. III.ii.304 (256,1) For if the king like not the comedy/Why, then, belike] Hamlet was going on to draw the consequence when the courtiers entered. III.ii.314 (256,2) With drink, Sir?] Hamlet takes particular care that his uncle's love of drink shall not be forgotten. III.ii.346 (257,3) further trade] Further business; further dealing. III.ii.348 (257,4) by these pickers] By these hands. III.ii.373 (258,6) ventages] The holes of a flute. III.ii.401 (259,9) they fool me to the top of my bent] They compel me to play the fool, till I can endure to do it no longer. III.iii.7 (261,4) Out of his lunes] [The old quartos read, _Out of his_ brows. This was from the ignorance of the first editors; as is this unnecessary Alexandrine, which we owe to the players. The poet, I am persuaded, wrote, --_us doth hourly grow_ _out of his_ lunes. i.e. his _madness, frenzy_. THEOBALD.] _Lunacies_ is the reading of the folio. I take _brows_ to be, properly read, _frows_, which, I think, is a provincial word for _perverse humours_; which being, I suppose, not understood, was changed to _lunacies_. But of this I an not confident. [Steevens adopted Theobald's emendation] III.iii.33 (262,7) of vantage] By some opportunity of secret observation. III.iii.56 (263,9) May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence?] He that does not amend what can be amended, _retains_ his _offence_. The king kept the crown from the right heir. III.iii.66 (263,1) Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?] What can repentance _do for a man that cannot be penitent_, for a man who has only part of penitence, distress of conscience, without the other part, resolution of amendment. III.iii.77 (264,1) I, his sole son, do this same villain send] The folio reads foule son, a reading apparently corrupted from the quarto. The meaning is plain. _I, his_ only _son_, who am bound to punish his murderer. III.iii.88 (264,2) Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent] [T: bent] This reading is followed by Sir T. HANMER and Dr. WARBURTON; but _hent_ is probably the right vord. To _hent_ is used by Shakespeare for, to _seize_, to _catch_, to _lay hold on_. _Hent_ is, therefore, _hold_, or _seizure_. _Lay hold_ on him, sword, at a more horrid time. III.iii.94 (265,3) his soul may be as damn'd and black/As hell, whereto it goes] This speech, in which Hamlet, represented as a virtuous character, is not content vith taking blood for blood, but contrives damnation for the man that he would punish, is too horrible to be read or to be uttered. III.iv.4 (266,4) I'll silence me e'en here:/Pray you, be round vith him] Sir T. HANMER, who is folloved by Dr. WARBURTON, reads, --_I'll_ sconce _me here_. _Retire_ to a place of _security_. They forget that the contrivance of Polonius to overhear the conference, was no more told to the queen than to Hamlet.--_I'll silence me even here_, is, _I'll use no more words_. III.iv.48 (268,8) Heaven's face doth glow; Yea, this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, It thought-sick at the act] [W: O'er this ... visage, and, as 'gainst] The word _heated_ [from the "old quarto"], though it agrees well enough with _glow_, is, I think, not so striking as _tristful_, which was, I suppose, chosen at the revisal. I believe the whole passage now stands as the author gave it. Dr. WARBURTON's reading restores two improprieties, which Shakespeare, by his alteration, had removed. In the first, and in the new reading: _Heaven's_ face _glows with tristful_ visage; and, _Heaven's face is_ thought-sick. To the common reading there is no just objection. III.iv.52 (268,9) what act,/That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?] The meaning is, _What is_ this act, of which the _discovery_, or _mention_, cannot be made, but with this violence of clamour? III.iv.82 (270,5) Rebellious hell,/If thou canst mutiny in a matron's bones] I think the present reading right, but cannot admit that HANMER's emendation ["Rebellious heat"] produces nonsense. May not what is said of _heat_, be said of _hell_, that it will mutiny wherever it is quartered? Though the emendation be elegant, it is not necessary. (1773) III.iv.88 (271,6) reason panders will] So the folio, I think rightly; but the reading of the quarto is defensible; --_reason_ pardons _will_. III.iv.90 (271,7) grained] Dyed in grain. III.iv.92 (271,8) incestuous bed] The folio has _enseamed_, that is, _greasy_ bed. III.iv.98 (271,9) vice of kings!] a low mimick of kings. The vice is the fool of a farce; from whom the modern _punch_ is descended. III.iv.102 (272,2) A king of shreds and patches] This is said, pursuing the idea of the _vice of kings_. The _vice_ was dressed as a fool, in a coat of party-coloured patches. III.iv.107 (272,3) lap's in time and passion] That, having suffered _time_ to _slip_, and _passion_ to _cool, lets go_, &c. III.iv.151 (274,6) And do not spread the compost on the weeds/To make them ranker] Do not, by any new indulgence, heighten your former offences. III.iv.155 (274,7) curb] That is, _bend_ and _truckle_. Fr. _courber_. III.iv.161 (274,8) That monster custom, who all sense doth eat/ Of habits evil, is angel yet in this] [Thirlby: habits evil] I think THIRLBY's conjecture wrong, though the succeeding editors have followed it; _angel_ and _devil_ are evidently opposed. [Steevens accepted "evil"] III.iv.203 (277,5) adders fang'd] That is, adders with their _fangs_, or _poisonous teeth_, undrawn. It has been the practice of mountebanks to boast the efficacy of their antidotes by playing with vipers, but they first disabled their fangs. IV.i (278,l) _A royal apartment. Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern_] This play is printed in the old editions without any separation of the acts. The division is modern and arbitrary; and is here not very happy, for the pause is made at a time when there is more continuity of action than in almost any other of the scenes. IV.i.18 (278,2) out of haunt] I would rather read, _out of_ harm. IV.i.25 (279,3) his very madness, like some ore among a mineral of metals base, Shews itself pure] Shakespeare seems to think _ore_ to be _or_, that is, gold. Base metals have _ore_ no less than precious. IV.ii.19 (281,5) he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw] The quarto has _apple_, which is generally followed. The folio has _ape_, which HANMER has received, and illustrated with the following note. "It is the way of monkeys in eating, to throw that part of their food, which they take up first, into a pouch they are provided with on the side of their jaw, and then they keep it, till they have done with the rest." IV.ii.28 (281,6) The body is with the king] This answer I do not comprehend. Perhaps it should be, _The body is_ not _with the king_, for _the king is not with the body_. IV.ii.32 (282,7) Of nothing] Should it not be read, _Or_ nothing? When the courtiers remark, that Hamlet has contemptuously called the _king a thing_, Hamlet defends himself by observing, that the king must be a _thing_, or _nothing_. IV.ii.46 (283,9) the wind at help] I suppose it should be read, _The bark is ready, and the wind at_ helm. IV.ii.68 (284,3) And thou must cure me: till I know 'tis done,/ Howe'er my haps, my joys will ne'er begin] This being the termination of a scene, should, according to our author's custom, be rhymed. Perhaps he wrote, _Howe'er my_ hopes, _my joys_ are not begun. If _haps_ be retained, the meaning will be, _'till I know 'tis done, I shall be miserable_, whatever befall me (see 1785, VIII, 257, 3) IV.iv.33 (286,4) What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed?] If his highest good, and _that for which he sells his time_, be to sleep and feed. IV.iv.36 (286,5) large discourse] Such latitude of comprehension, such power of reviewing the past, and anticipating the future. IV.iv.53 (286,6) Rightly to be great,/Is not to stir without great argument] This passage I have printed according to the copy. Mr. THEOBALD had regulated it thus: --_'Tis not to be great, Never to stir without great argument; But greatly_, &c. The sentiment of Shakespeare is partly just, and partly romantic. --_Rightly to be great, Is not to stir without great argument_; is exactly philosophical. _But greatly to find quarrel in a straw, When honour is at stake_, is the idea of a modern hero. _But then_, says he _honour is an argument, or subject of debate_, sufficiently great, _and_ when honour is at stake, we must _find cause of quarrel in a straw_. IV.iv.56 (287,7) Excitements of my reason and my blood] Provocations which excite both my reason and my passions to vengeance. IV.v.37 (289,4) _Larded all with sweet flowers_] The expression is taken from cookery. (1773) IV.v.53 (290,6) _And dupt the chamber-door_] To _dup_, is to _do up_; to lift the latch. It were easy to write, _And_ op'd-- IV.v.58 (290,7) _By Gis_] I rather imagine it should be read, _By_ Cis,-- That is, by St. Cecily. IV.v.83 (291,8) but greenly] But _unskilfully_; with _greenness_; that is, without_ maturity_ of judgment. IV.v.84 (291,9) In hugger-mugger to inter him] All the modern editions that I have consulted give it, _In_ private _to inter him_;-- That the words now replaced are better, I do not undertake to prove; it is sufficient that they are Shakespeare's: if phraseology is to be changed as words grow uncouth by disuse, or gross by vulgarity, the history of every language will be lost; we shall no longer have the words of any author; and, as these alterations will be often unskilfully made, we shall in time have very little of his meaning. IV.v.89 (292,1) Feeds on his wonder] The folio reads, Keeps _on his wonder_,-- The quarto, Feeds _on_ this _wonder_.-- Thus the true reading is picked out from between them. HANMER reads unnecessarily, Feeds _on his_ anger.-- IV.v.92 (292,2) Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,/ Will nothing stick our persons to arraign] HANMER reads, Whence animosity, _of matter beggar'd_. He seems not to have understood the connection. _Wherein_, that is, _in which pestilent speeches, necessity_, or, _the obligation of an accuser to support his charge, will nothing stick_, &c. IV.v.99 (293,4) The ocean, over-peering of his list] The lists are the barriers which the spectators of a tournament must not pass. IV.v.105 (293,5) The ratifiers and props of every ward] [W: ward] With this emendation, which was in Theobald's edition, Hanmer was not satisfied. It is indeed harsh. HANMER transposes the lines, and reads, _They cry_, "Chuse we Laertes for our king;" The ratifiers and props of every word, _Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds_. I think the fault may be mended at less expence, by reading, _Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every_ weal. That is, of every _government_. IV.v.110 (294,6) Oh, this is counter, you false Danish dogs] Hounds run _counter_ when they trace the trail backwards. IV.v.161 (296,9) Nature is fine in loves and, where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves] These lines are not in the quarto, and might hare been omitted in the folio without great loss, for they are obscure and affected; but, I think, they require no emendation. _Love_ (says Laertes) is the passion by which _nature is most_ exalted and _refined_; and as substances _refined_ and subtilised, easily obey any impulse, or follow any attraction, some part of nature, so purified and _refined_, flies off after the attracting object, after the thing it loves. _As into air the purer spirits f1ow, And separate from their kindred dregs below, So flew her soul_.-- IV.v.171 (297,1) O how the wheel becomes it!] [W: weal] I do not see why _weal_ is better than _wheel_. The story alluded to I do not know; but perhaps the lady stolen by the steward was reduced to _spin_. IV.v.175 (297,2) There's rosemary, that'll far rememberance. Pray you, love, remember. And there's pansies, that's for thoughts] There is probably some mythology in the choice of these herbs, but I cannot explain it. _Pansies_ is for _thoughts_, because of its name, _Pensées_; but _rosemary_ indicates _remembrance_, except that it is an ever-green, and carried at funerals, I have not discovered. IV.v.214 (300,7) No trophy, sword, nor batchment] It was the custom, in the times of our author, to hang a sword over the grave of a knight. IV.v.218 (300,8) And where the offence is, let the great axe fall] [W: tax] _Fall_ corresponds better to _axe_. IV.vi.26 (301,9) _for the bore of the matter_] The _bore_ is the calibier of a gun, or the capacity of the barrel. _The matter_ (says Hamlet) _would carry the heavier words_. IV.vii.18 (302,1) the general gender] The _common race_ of the people. IV.vii.19 (302,2) dipping all his faults in their affection, Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces] This simile is neither very seasonable in the deep interest of this conversation, nor very accurately applied. If the _spring_ had changed base metals to gold, the thought had been more proper. IV.vii.27 (302,3) if praises may go back again] If I may praise what has been, but is now to be found no more. IV.vii.77 (304,5) Of the unworthiest siege] Of the lowest rank. _Siege_, for _seat, place_. IV.vii.82 (304,6) Importing health and graveness] [W: wealth] _Importing_ here may be, not _inferring_ by logical consequence, but _producing_ by physical effect. A young man regards show in his dress, an old man, _health_. IV.vii.90 (305,7) I, in forgery of shapes and tricks/Come short of what he did] I could not contrive so many proofs of dexterity as he could perform. IV.vii.98 (305,8) in your defence] That is, _in the science of_ defence. IV.vii.101 (305,9) The scrimers] The _fencers_. IV.vii.112 (305,1) love is begun by time] This is obscure. The meaning may be, _love_ is not innate in us, and co-essential to our nature, but begins at a certain time from some external cause, and being always subject to the operations of time, suffers change and diminution. (1773) IV.vii.113 (300,2) in passages of proof] In transactions of daily experience. IV.vii.123 (306,4) And then this _should_ is like a spendthrift sigh/ That hurts by easing] [W: sign] This conjecture is so ingenious, that it can hardly be opposed, but with the same reluctance as the bow is drawn against a hero, whose virtues the archer holds in veneration. Here may be applied what Voltaire writes to the empress: _Le genereux Francois-- Te combat & t'admire._ Yet this emendation, however specious, is mistaken. The original reading is, not a _spendthrift's_ sigh, but a _spendthrift_ sigh; a _sigh_ that makes an unnecessary waste of the vital flame. It is a notion very prevalent, that _sighs_ impair the strength, and wear out the animal powers. IV.vii.135 (307,5) He being remiss] He being not vigilant or cautious. IV.vii.139 (307,7) a pass of practice] Practice is often by Shakespeare, and other writers, taken for an _insidious stratagem_, or _privy_ treason, a sense not incongruous to this passage, where yet I rather believe, that nothing more is meant than a _thrust for exercise_. IV.vii.151 (308,8) May fit us to our shape] May _enable_ us to _assume proper characters_, and to act our part. IV.vii.155 (308,9) blast in proof] This, I believe, is a metaphor taken from a mine, which, in the proof or execution, sometimes breaks out with an ineffectual _blast_. V.i.3 (310,1) make her grave straight] Make her grave from east to west in a direct line parallel to the church; not from north to south, athwart the regular line. This, I think, is meant. V.i.87 (313,1) which this ass now o'er-reaches] In the quarto, for _over-offices_ is, _over-reaches_, which agrees better with the sentence: it is a strong exaggeration to remark that an _ass_ can _over-reach_ him who would once have tried to _circumvent_.--I believe both the words were Shakespeare's. An author in revising his work, when his original ideas have faded from his mind, and new observations have produced new sentiments, easily introduces images which have been more newly impressed upon him, without observing their want of congruity to the general texture of his original design. V.i.96 (314,2) and now my lady Worm's] The scull that was _my lord Such a one's_, is now my _lady Worm's_. V.i.100 (314,3) to play at loggats with 'em?] A play, in which pins are set up to be beaten down with a bowl. V.i.149 (316,5) by the card] The _card_ is the paper on which the different points of the compass were described. _To do any thing by the card_, is, _to do it with nice observation_. V.i.151 (316,6) the age is grown so picked] So _smart_, so _sharp_, says HANMER, very properly; but there was, I think, about that time, a _picked_ shoe, that is, _a shoe with a long pointed toe_, in fashion, to which the allusion seems likewise to be made. _Every man now is smart; and every man now is a man of fashion_. V.i.239 (319,7) winter's flaw!] Winter's _blast_. V.i.242 (319,8) maimed rites!] Imperfect obsequies. V.i.244 (319,9) some estate] Some person of high rank. V.i.255 (319,2) Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants] I have been informed by an anonymous correspondent, that _crants_ is the German word for _garlands_, and I suppose it was retained by us from the Saxons. To carry _garlands_ before the bier of a maiden, and to hang them over her grave, is still the practice in rural parishes. _Crants_ therefore was the original word, which the author, discovering it to be provincial, and perhaps not understood, changed to a term more intelligible, but less proper. _Maiden rites_ give no certain or definite image. He might have put _maiden wreaths_, or _maiden garlands_, but he perhaps bestowed no thought upon it, and neither genius nor practice will always supply a hasty writer with the most proper diction. V.i.310 (323,6) When that her golden couplets] [W: E'er that] Perhaps it should be, _Ere yet_-- _Yet_ and _that_ are easily confounded. V.ii.6 (324,7) mutinies in the bilboes] _Mutinies_, the French word for seditious or disobedient fellows in the army or fleet. _Bilboes_, the _ship's prison_. V.ii.6 (324,8) Rashly,/And prais'd be rashness for it--Let us know] Both my copies read, --Rashly, _And prais'd be rashness for it_, let _us know_. Hamlet, delivering an account of his escape, begins with saying, that he _rashly_--and then is carried into a reflection upon the weakness of human wisdom. I rashly--praised be rashness for it--_Let us_ not think these events casual, but _let us know_, that is, _take notice and remember_, that we sometimes succeed by _indiscretion_, when we _fail_ by _deep plots_, and infer the perpetual superintendance and _agency_ of the _Divinity_. The observation is just, and will be allowed by every human being who shall reflect on the course of his own life. V.ii.22 (325,9) With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life] With _such causes of terror_, arising from my character and designs. V.ii.29 (325,2) Being thus benetted round with villainies,/ Ere I could make a prologue to my brains] [W: mark the prologue ... bane] In my opinion no alteration is necessary. Hamlet is telling how luckily every thing fell out; he groped out their commission in the dark without waking them; he found himself doomed to immediate destruction. Something was to be done for his preservation. An expedient occurred, not produced by the comparison of one method with another, or by a regular deduction of consequences, but before he _could make a prologue to his brains, they had begun the play_. Before he could summon his faculties, and propose to himself what should be done, a complete scheme of action presented itself to him. His mind operated before he had excited it. This appears to me to be the meaning. V.ii.41 (326,5) As peace should still her wheaten garland wear,/ And stand a comma 'tween their amities] HANMER reads, _And stand a_ cement-- I am again inclined to vindicate the old reading. The expression of our author is, like many of his phrases, sufficiently constrained and affected, but it is not incapable of explanation. The _comma_ is the note of _connection_ and continuity of sentences; the _period_ is the note of _abruption_ and disjunction. Shakespeare had it perhaps in his mind to write, That unless England complied with the mandate, _war should put a_ period _to their amity_; he altered his mode of diction, and thought that, in an opposite sense, he might put, that _Peace should stand a_ comma between their amities_. This is not an easy stile; but is it not the stile of Shakespeare? V.ii.43 (327,6) as's of great charge] _Asses_ heavily _loaded_. A quibble is intended between _as_ the conditional particle, and _ass_ the beast of burthen. That _charg'd_ anciently signified _leaded_, may be proved from the following passage in _The Widow's Tears_, by Chapman, 1612. "Thou must be the _ass charg'd with crowns_ to make way." (see 1765, VIII, 294, 2) V.ii.53 (327,7) The changeling never known] A _changeling_ is a _child_ which the fairies are supposed to leave in the room of that which they steal. V.ii.68 (328,1) To quit him] To requite him; to pay him his due. V.ii.84 (329,2) Dost know this water-fly] A _water-fly_, skips up and down upon the surface of the water, without any apparent purpose or reason, and is thence the proper emblem of a busy trifler. V.ii.89 (329,3) It is a chough] A kind of jackdaw. V.ii.112 (330,5) full of most excellent differences] Full of _distinguishing_ excellencies. V.ii.114 (330,6) the card or calendar of gentry] The general preceptor of elegance; the _card_ by which a gentleman is to direct his course; the _calendar_ by which he is to choose his time, that what he does may be both excellent and seasonable. V.ii.115 (330,7) for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see] _You shall find him containing_ and comprising every _quality_ which a _gentleman_ would desire to _contemplate_ for imitation. I know not but it should be read, _You shall find him the continent_ V.ii.119 (330,9) and yet but raw neither in respect of his quick sail] [W: but slow] I believe _raw_ to be the right word; it is a word of great latitude; _raw_ signifies _unripe, immature_, thence _unformed, imperfect, unskilful_. The best account of him would be _imperfect_, in respect of his quick sail. The phrase _quick sail_ was, I suppose, a proverbial term for _activity of mind_. V.ii.122 (330,1) a soul of great article] This is obscure. I once thought it might have been, _a soul of great altitude_; but, I suppose, _a soul of great article_, means _a soul of_ large comprehension, of many contents; the particulars of an inventory are called _articles_. V.ii.122 (331,2) his infusion of such dearth and rareness] _Dearth_ is _dearness_, value, price. And his internal qualities of such value and rarity. V.ii.131 (331,3) Is't not possible to understand in another tongue? you will do't, Sir, really] Of this interrogatory remark the sense ie very obscure. The question may mean, _Might not all this be understood in plainer language_. But then, _you will do it, Sir, really_, seems to have no use, for who could doubt but plain language would be intelligible? I would therefore read, _Is't possible_ not to be understood in a mother _tongue_. You will do it, Sir, really. V.ii.140 (331,4) if you did, it would not much approve me] If you knew I was not ignorant, your esteem would not nuch advance my reputation. To _approve_, is to _recommend to approbation_. V.ii.145 (331,5) I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence] I dare not pretend to know him, lest I should pretend to an equality: no man can completely know another, but by knowing himself, which is the utmost extent of human wisdom. V.ii.149 (332,6) in his meed] In his excellence. V.ii.156 (332,7) impon'd] Perhaps it should be, _depon'd_. So Hudibras, "I would upon this cause _depone_, "As much as any I have known." But perhaps _imponed_ is pledged, _impawned_, so spelt to ridicule the affectation of uttering English words with French pronunciation. V.ii.165 (332,9) more germane.] More_a-kin_. V.ii.172 (333,1) The king, Sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid on twelve for nine] This wager I do not understand. In a dozen passes one must exceed the other more or less than three hits. Nor can I comprehend, how, in a dozen, there can be twelve to nine. The passage is of no importance; it is sufficient that there was a wager. The quarto has the passage as it stands. The folio, _He hath one twelve for mine_. V.ii.193 (333,2) This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head] I see no particular propriety in the image of the lapwing. Osrick did not run till he had done his business. We may read, _This lapwing_ ran _away_--That is, _this fellow was full of unimportant bustle from his birth_. V.ii.199 (334,4) a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions] [W: most fann'd] This is a very happy emendation; but I know not why the critic should suppose that _fond_ was printed for _fann'd_ in consequence of any reason or reflection. Such errors, to which there is no temptation but idleness, and of which there was no cause but ignorance, are in every page of the old editions. This passage in the quarto stands thus: "They have got out of the habit of encounter, a kind of misty collection, which carries them through and through the most profane and renowned opinions." If this printer preserved any traces of the original, our author wrote, "the most fane and renowned opinions," which is better than fann'd and winnow'd. The meaning is, "these men have got the cant of the day, a superficial readiness of slight and cursory conversation, a kind of frothy collection of fashionable prattle, which yet carried them through the most select and approved judgment. This airy facility of talk sometimes imposes upon wise men." Who has not seen this observation verified? V.ii.201 (335,6) and do but blow them to their trials, the bubbles are out] These men of show, without solidity, are like bubbles raised from soap and water, which dance, and glitter, and please the eye, but if you extend them, by blowing hard, separate into a mist; so if you oblige these specious talkers to extend their compass of conversation, they at once discover the tenuity of their intellects. V.ii.216 (335,7) gentle entertainment] Mild and temperate conversation. V.ii.234 (336,1) Since no man knows aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?] The reading of the quarto was right, but in some other copy the harshness of the transposition was softened, and the passage stood thus: _Since no man knows aught of what he leaves_. For _knows_ was printed in the later copies _has_, by a slight blunder in such typographers. I do not think Dr. Warburton's interpretation of the passage the best that it will admit. The meaning may be this, Since _no man knows aught of_ the state of life which _he leaves_, since he cannot judge what others years may produce, why should he be afraid of _leaving_ life betimes? Why should he dread an early death, of which he cannot tell whether it is an exclusion of happiness, or an interception of calamity. I despise the superstition of augury and omens, which has no ground in reason or piety; my comfort is, that I cannot fall but by the direction of Providence. Hanmer has, _Since no man_ owes _aught_, a conjecture not very reprehensible. Since _no man can call any possession certain_, what is it to leave? V.ii.237 (337,2) Give me your pardon, Sir] I wish Hamlet had made some other defence; it is unsuitable to the character of a good or a brave man, to shelter himself in falsehood. V.ii.272 (338,5) Your grace hath laid upon the weaker side] Thus Hanmer. All the others read, _Your grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side._ When the odds were on the side of Laertes, who was to hit Hamlet twelve times to nine, it was perhaps the author's slip. V.ii.310 (340,7) you make a wanton of me] A _wanton_ was, a man feeble and effeminate. In _Cymbeline_, Imogen says, "I am not so citizen a _wanton_, To die, ere I be sick." V.ii.346 (342,8) That are but mutes or audience to this act] That are either mere _auditors_ of this _catastrophe_, or at most only _mute performers_, that fill the stage without any part in the action. V.ii.375 (344,2) This quarry cries, on havock!] Hanmer reads, --_cries_ out, _havock!_ To _cry on_, was to _exclaim against_. I suppose, when unfair sportsmen destroyed more _quarry_ or _game_ than was reasonable, the censure was to cry, _Havock_. (346) General Observation. If the dramas of Shakespeare were to be characterised, each by the particular excellence which distinguishes it from the rest, we must allow to the tragedy of Hamlet the praise of variety. The incidents are so numerous, that the argument of the play would make a long tale. The scenes are interchangeably diversified with merriment and solemnity; with merriment that includes judicious and instructive observations, and solemnity, not strained by poetical violence above the natural sentiments of man. New characters appear from time to time in continual succession, exhibiting various forms of life and particular modes of conversation. The pretended madness of Hamlet causes much mirth, the mournful distraction of Ophelia fills the heart with tenderness, and every personage produces the effect intended, from the apparition that in the first act chills the blood with horror, to the fop in the last, that exposes affectation to just contempt. The conduct is perhaps not wholly secure against objections. The action is indeed for the most part in continual progression, but there are some scenes which neither forward nor retard it. Of the feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause, for he does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity. He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty. Hamlet is, through the whole play, rather an instrument than an agent. After he has, by the stratagem of the play, convicted the king, he makes no attempt to punish him, and his death is at last effected by an incident which Hamlet had no part in producing. The catastrophe is not very happily produced; the exchange of weapons is rather an expedient of necessity, than a stroke of art. A scheme might easily have been formed to kill Hamlet with the dagger, and Laertes with the bowl. The poet is accused of having shewn little regard to poetical justice, and may be charged with equal neglect of poetical probability. The apparition left the regions of the dead to little purpose; the revenge which he demands is not obtained, but by the death of him that was required to take it; and the gratification which would arise from the destruction of an usurper and a murderer, is abated by the untimely death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the harmless, and the pious. OTHELLO I.i.20 (358,4) One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife] This is one of the passages which must for the present be resigned to corruption and obscurity. I have nothing that I can, with any approach to confidence, propose. I cannot think it very plain from Act 3. Scene 1. that Cassio was or was not a Florentine. I.i.30 (361,6) must be belee'd and calm'd] [--_must be_ LED _and calm'd_. So the old quarto. The first folio reads _belee'd_: but that spoils the measure. I read LET, hindered. WARBURTON.] _Belee'd_ suits to _calm'd_, and the measure is not less perfect than in many other places. I.i.36 (361,7) Preferment goes by letter] By _recommendation_ from powerful friends. I.i.37 (361,8) And not by old gradation] [W: Not (as of old)] _Old gradation_, is _gradation_ established by_ancient_ practice. Where is the difficulty? I.i.39 (361,9) If I in any just term am affin'd] _Affine_ is the reading of the third quarto and the first folio. The second quarto and all the modern editions have _assign'd_. The meaning is, _Do I stand_ within _any such_ terms _of propinquit_ or _relation to the Moor, as that it is my duty to love him_? I.i.49 (362,1) honest knaves] _Knave_ is here for _servant_, but with a mixture of sly contempt. I.i.63 (362,2) In compliment extern] In that which I do only for an outward shew of civility. I.i.76 (363,3) As when, by night and negligence, the fire/Is spied in populous cities] [Warburton, objecting to "by": Is spred] The particle is used equivocally; the same liberty is taken by writers more correct. _The wonderful creature! a woman of reason! Never grave_ out of _pride, never gay_ out of _season_. I.i.115 (364,4) What profane wretch art thou?] That is, _what wretch of gross and licentious language?_ In that sense Shakespeare often uses the word _profane_. I.i.124 (365,6) this odd even] The _even_ of _night_ is _midnight_, the time when night is divided into _even_ parts. I.i.149 (366,7) some check] Some rebuke. I.i.150 (366,8) cast him] That is, _dismiss_ him; _reject_ him. We still say, a _cast_ coat, and a _cast_ serving-man. I.i.162 (366,9) And what's to come of my despised time] [W: despited] _Despised time_, is _time of no value_; time in which "There's nothing serious in mortality, The wine of life is drawn, and the mere dregs Are left, this vault to brag of." _Macbeth_. I.i.173 (367,2) By which the property of youth and maidhood/May be abus'd?] By which the faculties of a young virgin may be infatuated, and made subject to illusions and to false imagination. "Wicked dreams _abuse_ The curtain'd sleep." _Macbeth._ I.ii.2 (368,3) stuff o' the conscience] This expression to common readers appears harsh. _Stuff_ of the _conscience_ is, _substance_, or _essence_ of the conscience. _Stuff_ is a word of great force in the Teutonic languages. The elements are called in Dutch, _Hoefd stoffen_, or _head stuffs_. I.ii.13 (368,4) And hath, in his effect, a voice potential/As double as the duke's] [Warburton had given a source in Dioscorides and Theocritus for "double"] This note has been much censured by Mr. Upton, who denies, that the quotation is in Dioscorides, and disputes, not without reason, the interpretation of Theocritus. All this learning, if it had even been what it endeavours to be thought, is, in this place, superfluous. There is no ground of supposing, that our author copied or knew the Greek phrase; nor does it follow, that, because a word has two senses in one language, the word which in another answers to one sense, should answer to both. _Manus_, in Latin, signifies both a _hand_ and _troop of soldiers_, but we cannot say, that _the captain marched at the_ head _of his_ hand; or, that _he laid his_ troop _upon his sword_. It is not always in books that the meaning is to be sought of this writer, who was much more acquainted with naked reason and with living manners. _Double_ has here its natural sense. The president of every deliberative assembly has a _double voice_. In our courts, the chief justice and one of the inferior judges prevail over the other two, because the chief justice has a _double_ voice. Brabantio had, _in his effect_, though not by law, yet by _weight_ and _influence_, a voice not _actual_ and formal, but _potential_ and operative, as _double_, that is, a voice that when a question was suspended, would turn the balance as effectually _as the duke's_. _Potential_ is used in the sense of science; a _caustic_ is called _potential_ fire. I.ii.23 (370,7) speak, unbonnetted] [Pope: unbonnetting] I do not see the propriety of Mr. Pope's emendation, though adopted by Dr. Warburton. _Unbonnetting_ may as well be, _not putting on_, as _not putting off_, the bonnet. Hamner reads _e'en_ bonnetted. I.ii.26 (370,8) unhoused] Free from _domestic_ cares. A thought natural to an adventurer. I.ii.28 (370,9) For the sea's worth] I would not marry her, though she were as rich as the Adriatic, which the Doge annually marries. I.ii.30 (371,2) a land-carrack] A _carrack_ is a ship of great bulk, and commonly of great value; perhaps what we now call a _galleon_. I.ii.55 (372,3) be advis'd] That is, be _cool_; be _cautious_; be _discreet_. I.ii.68 (372,4) The wealthy curled darlings of our nation] _Curled_ is _elegantly and ostentatiously dressed_. He had not the hair particularly in his thoughts. I.ii.74 (373,6) Abused her delicate youth with drugs, or minerals,/ That weaken notion] [T: notion] Hanmer reads with equal probability, _That_ waken motion. [Originally _motion_]. I.iii.6 (375,9) As in these cases where they aim reports] [W: the aim] The folio has, --_the_ aim reports. But, _they aim reports_, has a sense sufficiently easy and commodious. There men _report_ not by certain knowledge, but by _aim _and conjecture. I.ii.18 (375,1) By no assay of reason] Bring it to the _test_, examine it by reason as we examine metals by the _assay_, it will be found counterfeit by all trials. I.iii.23 (376,2) facile question] _Question_ is for the _act of seeking_. With more _easy endeavour_. I.iii.24 (376,4) warlike brace] State of defence. To arm was called to _brace on_ the armour. I.iii.42 (376,5) And prays you to believe him] The late learned and ingenious Mr. Thomas Clark, of Lincoln's Inn, read the passage thus: _And prays you to_ relieve _him_. But the present reading may stand. _He intreats you not to doubt the truth of this intelligence_. I.iii.54 (377,6) Hath rais'd me from my bed; nor doth the general care] The word _care_, which encumbers the verse, was probably added by the players. Shakespeare uses _the general_ as a substantive, though, I think, not in this sense. I.iii.69 (373,8) though our proper son/Stood in your action] Were the man exposed to your _charge_ or _accusation_. I.iii.80 (378,9) The very head and front of my offending] The _main_, the _whole_, unextenuated. I.iii.85 (379,2) Their dearest action] That is _dear_, for which much is paid, whether money or labour; _dear action_, is action performed at great expence, either of ease or safety. I.iii.107 (380,4) overt test] Open proofs, external evidence. I.iii.108 (380,5) thin habits and poor likelihoods/Of modern seeming] Weak shew of slight appearance. I.iii.139 (381,6) And portance in my travel's history] [I have restored, _And with it all my travel's history_: From the old edition. It is in the rest, _And portance in my travel's history_. Rymer, in his criticism on this play, has changed it to _portents_, instead of _portance_. POPE.] Mr. Pope has restored a line, to which there is little objection, but which has no force. I believe _portance_ was the author's word in some revised copy. I read thus, _Of being----sold To slavery, of my redemption, thence, And portance in't; my travel's history._ My redemption from slavery, and behaviour in it. I.iii.140-170 (381,7) Wherein of antres vast, and desarts idle] Whoever ridicules this account of the progress of love, shows his ignorance, not only of history, but of nature and manners. It is no wonder that, in any age, or in any nation, a lady, recluse, timorous, and delicate, should desire to hear of events and scenes which she could never see, and should admire the man who had endured dangers and performed actions, which, however great, were yet magnified by her timidity. [Pope: deserts wild] Every mind is liable to absence and inadvertency, else Pope could never have rejected a word so poetically beautiful. Idle is an epithet used to express the infertility of the chaotic state, in the Saxon translation of the Pentateuch. (1773) I.iii.140 (382,8) antres] [French grottos. POPE.] Rather _caves_ and _dens_. I.iii.142 (382,9) It was my hint to speak] [W: hent] _Hent_ is not used in Shakespeare, nor, I believe, in any other author; _hint_, or _cue_, is comnonly used for occasion of speech, which is explained by, _such was the process_, that is, the course of the tale required it. If _hent_ be restored, it may be explained by _handle_. I had a _handle_, or _opportunity_, to speak of cannibals. I.iii.144 (382,1) men whose heads/Do grow beneath their shoulders] Of these men there is an account in the interpolated travels of Mondeville, a book of that time. I.iii.199 (384,4) Let me speak like yourself;] [W: our self] Hanmer reads, _Let me_ now speak _more_ like your self. Dr. Warburton's emendation is specious; but I do not see how Hanmer's makes any alteration. The duke seems to mean, when he says he will speak like Brabantio, that he will speak sententiously. I.iii.213 (385,6) But the free comfort which from thence he hears] But the moral precepts of consolation, which are liberally bestowed on occasion of the sentence. I.iii.232 (386,8) thrice-driven bed of down] A _driven_ bed, is a bed for which the feathers are selected, by _driving_ with a fan, which separates the light from the heavy. I.iii.237 (337,9) I crave fit disposition for my wife; Due reverence of place, and exhibition] I desire, that a proper _disposition_ be made for my wife, that she may have _precedency_, and _revenue_, accommodation, and _company_, suitable to her rank. For _reference_ of place, the old quartos have _reverence_, which Hanmer has received. I should read, _Due_ preference _of place_.-- I.iii.246 (387,1) And let me find a charter in your voice] Let your favour _privilege_ me. I.iii.250 (387,2) My down-right violence and storm of fortunes] [W: to forms, my fortunes] There is no need of this emendation. _Violence_ is not _violence suffered_, but _violence acted_. Breach of common rules and obligations. The old quarto has, _scorn_ of fortune, which is perhaps the true reading. I.iii.253 (388,3) I saw Othello's visage in his mind] It must raise no wonder, that I loved a man of an appearance so little engaging; I saw his face only in his mind; the greatness of his character reconciled me to his form. I.iii.264 (386,4) Nor to comply with heat (the young affects, In me defunct) and proper satisfaction] [T: me distinct, i.e. with that heat and new affections which the indulgence of my appetite has raised and created. This is the meaning of _defunct_, which has made all the difficulty of the passage. WARBURTON.] I do not think that Mr. Theobald's emendation clears the text from embarrassment, though it is with a little imaginary improvement received by Hanmer, who reads thus: _Nor to comply with heat_, affects the young _In my_ distinct _and proper satisfaction_. Dr. Warburton's explanation is not more satisfactory: what made the difficulty, will continue to make it. I read, --_I beg it not, To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat (the young affects In me defunct) and proper satisfaction; But to be free and bounteous to her mind._ _Affects_ stands here, not for _love_, but for _passions_, for that by which any thing is affected. _I ask it not_, says he, _to please appetite, or satisfy loose desires_, the passions of youth which I have now outlived, or _for any particular gratification of myself, but merely that I may indulge the wishes of my wife_. Mr. Upton had, before me, changed _my_ to _me_; but he has printed young _effects_, not seeming to know that _affects_ could be a noun. (1773) I.iii.290 (391,6) If virtue no delighted beauty lack] [W: belighted] Hanmer reads, more plausibly, _delighting_. I do not know that _belighted_ has any authority. I should rather read, _If virtue no_ delight or _beauty lack_. _Delight_, for _delectation_, or _power of pleasing_, as it is frequently used. I.iii.299 (391,8) best advantage] Fairest opportunity. I.iii.317 (392,9) a Guinea-hen] A showy bird with fine feathers. I.iii.346 (392,1) defeat thy favour with an usurped beard] [W: disseat] It is more English, to _defeat_, than _disseat_. To _defeat_, is to _undo_, to _change_. I.iii.350 (393,2) It was a violent commencement in her, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration] There seems to be an opposition of terms here intended, which has been lost in transcription. We may read, _It was a violent_ conjunction, _and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration_; or, what seems to me preferable, _It was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequel_. I.iii.363 (393,4) betwixt an erring Barbarian] [W: errant] Hanmer reads, _errant_. _Erring_ is as well as either. II.i.15 (396,1) And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole] Alluding to the star _Arctophylax_. II.i.48 (397,3) His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot Of very expert and approv'd allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure] I do not understand these lines. I know not how _hope_ can be _surfeited to death_, that is, _can be encreased, till it is destroyed_; nor what it is _to stand in bold cure_; or why _hope_ should be considered as a disease. In the copies there is no variation. Shall we read Therefore my fears, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure? This is better, but it is not well. Shall we strike a bolder stroke, and read thus? _Therefore my hopes, not_ forfeited _to death_, _Stand_ bold, not sure. II.i.49 (398,4) Of very expert and approv'd allowance] I read, _Very expert, and of approv'd allowance_. II.i.64 (308,5) And in the essential vesture of creation/Does bear all excellency; We in terrestrial] I do not think the present reading inexplicable. The author seems to use _essential_, for _existent, real_. She excels the praises of invention, says he, and in _real qualities_, with which _creation_ has _invested_ her, _bears all excellency_. _Does bear all excellency_----] Such is the reading of the quartos, for which the folio has this, _And in the essential vesture of creation_ Do's tyre the ingeniuer. Which I explain thus, _Does tire the_ ingenious verse. This is the best reading, and that which the author substituted in his revisal. II.i.112 (401,9) Saints in your injuries] When you have a mind to do injuries, you put on an air of sanctity. II.i.120 (402,1) I am nothing, if not critical] That is, _censorious_. II.i.137 (402,2) _She never yet was foolish_] We may read, She ne'er was yet so foolish that was fair, But even her folly help'd her to an heir. Yet I believe the common reading to be right; the lay makes the power of cohabitation a proof that a man is not a _natural_; therefore, since the foolishest woman, if _pretty_, may have a child, no _pretty woman_ is ever foolish. II.i.146 (403,3) put on the vouch of very malice itself] _To put on the vouch of malice_, is to assume a character vouched by the testimony of malice itself. II.i.165 (404,5) profane] Gross of language, of expression broad and brutal. So Brabantio, in the first act, calls Iago _profane_ wretch. II.i.165 (404,6) liberal counsellor.] _Counsellor_ seems to mean, not so much a man that _gives counsel_, us one that discourses fearlessly and volubly. A talker. II.i.177 (405,8) well kiss'd! an excellent courtesy!] [--_well kissed_, and _excellent courtesy_;--] This I think should be printed, _well kiss'd_! an _excellent courtesy_! Spoken when Cassio kisses his hand, and Desdemona courtesies. [The old quarto confirms Dr. Johnson's emendation. STEEVENS.] II.i.208 (406,1) I prattle out of fashion] Out of method, without any settled order of discourse. II.i.211 (406,2) the master] The pilot of the ship. II.i.223 (406,3) Lay thy finger thus] On thy mouth, to stop it while thou art listening to a wiser man. II.i.252 (407,5) green minds] Minds unripe, minds not yet fully formed. II.i.254 (408,6) she is full of most bless'd condition] Qualities, disposition of mind. II.i.274 (408,7) tainting his discipline] Throwing a slur upon hie discipline. II.i.279 (408,8) sudden in choler] _Sudden_, is precipitately violent. II.i.283 (408,9) whose qualification shall come into no true taste again] Whose resentment shall not be so _qualified_ or _tempered_, as to be _well tasted_, as not to retain _some bitterness_. The phrase is harsh, at least to our ears. II.i.306 (409,1) like a poisonous mineral] This is philosophical. Mineral poisons kill by corrosion. II.i.314 (411,4) I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip] A phrase from the art of wrestling. II.i.321 (411,6) Knavery's plain face is never seen] An honest man acts upon a plan, and forecasts his designs; but a knave depends upon temporary and local opportunities, and never knows his own purpose, but at the time of execution. II.iii.14 (413,8) Our general cast us] That is, _appointed us to our stations_. To _cast the play_, is, in the stile of the theatres, to assign to every actor his proper part. II.iii.26 (413,9) And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love?] The voice may _sound_ an _alarm_ more properly than the _eye_ can _sound_ a _parley_. II.iii.46 (413,1) I have drunk but one cap to-night, and that was carefully qualified too] Slily mixed with water. II.iii.59 (414,2) The very elements; As quarrelsome as the as the _discordia semina rerum_; as quick in opposition as fire and water. II.iii.64 (414,3) If consequence do but approve my dream] [T: my deer] This reading is followed by the succeeding editions. I rather read, _If consequence do but approve my scheme_. But why should _dream_ be rejected? Every scheme subsisting only in the imagination may be termed a _dream_. II.iii.93-99 (416,6) _King Stephen was a worthy peer_] These stanzas are taken from an old song, which the reader will find recovered and preserved in a curious work lately printed, intitled, _Relicks of Ancient Poetry_, consisting of old heroic ballands, songs, &c. 3 vols. 12. II.iii.95 (416,7) _lown_] Sorry fellow, paltry wretch. II.iii.135 (417,8) He'll watch the horologe a double set] If he have no drink, he'll keep awake while the clock strikes two rounds, or four and twenty hours. Chaucer uses the ward _horologe_ in more places than one. "Well skirer was his crowing in his loge "Than is a clock or abbey _horologe_."] The bracketed part of Johnson's note is taken verbatim from Zacbary Gray, _Critical ... Notes on Shakespeare_, 1754, II, 316.] (see 1765, VIII, 374, 6) (rev. 1778, I, 503, 9) II.iii.145 (418,9) ingraft infirmity; An infirmity _rooted, settled_ in his constitution. II.iii.175 (419,3) it frights the isle/From her propriety] From her regular and _proper state_. II.iii.180 (419,4) In quarter] In their quarters; at their lodging. II.iii.194 (420,5) you unlace your reputation thus] Slacken, or _loosen_. Put in danger of dropping; or perhaps strip of its ornaments. II.iii.195 (420,6) spend your rich opinion] Throw away and squander a reputation as valuable as yours. II.iii.202 (420,7) self-charity] Care of one's self. II.iii.211 (421,9) he that is approv'd in this offence] He that is convicted by proof, of having been engaged in this offence. II.iii.274 (423,1) cast in his mood] Ejected in his anger. II.iii.343 (425,4) this advice is free] This counsel has an appearance of honest openness, of frank good-will. II.iii.348 (425,5) free elements] Liberal, bountiful, as the elements, out of which all things are produced. II.iii.355 (425,6) to this parallel course] i.e. a course level, and even with his design. II.iii.363 (425,8) That she repeals him] That is, recalls him. II.iii.382 (426,1) Though ether things grew fair against the sun, Yet fruits, that blossom first, will first be ripe] Of many different things, all planned with the same art, and promoted with the same diligence, some must succeed sooner than others, by the order of nature. Every thing cannot be done at once; we must proceed by the necessary gradation. We are not to _despair_ of slow events any _more_ than of tardy fruits, while the causes are in regular progress, and the fruits _grow fair against the sun_. Hanmer has not, I think, rightly conceived the sentiment; for he reads, _Those fruits which blossom first_, are not first _ripe_. I have therefore drawn it out at length, for there are few to whom that will be easy which was difficult to Hanmer. III.i.3 (427,2) Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i' the nose thus?] The venereal disease first appeared at the siege of Naples. III.iii.14 (430,6) That policy may either last so long, Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, Or breed itself so out of circumstance, That I, being absent, and my place supplied, My general will forget my love and service] He may either of himself think it politic to keep me out of office so long, or he may be satisfied with such slight reasons, or so many accidents may make him think my re-admission at that time improper, that I may be quite forgotten. III.iii.23 (431,7) I'll watch him tame] It is said, that the ferocity of beasts, insuperable and irreclaimable by any other means, is subdued by keeping them from sleep. III.iii.47 (431,8) His present reconciliation take] [W: make] To _take his reconciliation_, may be to accept the submission which he makes in order to be reconciled. III.iii.65 (432,1) the wars must make examples/Out of their best] The severity of military discipline must not spare the _best men_ of the army, when their punishment nay afford a wholesome _example_. III.iii.90 (433,2) Excellent wretch!--Perdition catch my soul,/But I do love thee!] The meaning of the word _wretch_, is not generally understood. It is now, in some parts of England, a term of the softest and fondest tenderness. It expresses the utmost degree of amiableness, joined with an idea, which perhaps all tenderness includes, of feebleness, softness, and want of protection. Othello, considering Desdemona as excelling in beauty and virtue, soft and timorous by her sex, and by her situation absolutely in his power, calls her _Excellent wretch!_ It may be expressed, _Dear, harmless, helpless Excellence._ III.iii.91 (433,3) when I love thee not,/Chaos is come again] When my love is for a moment suspended by suspicion, I have nothing in my mind but discord, tumult, perturbation, and confusion. III.iii.123 (435,4) They are close delations working from the heart,/ That passion cannot rule] _They are_ cold dilations _working from the heart,/That passion cannot rule_.] I know not why the modern editors are satisfied with this reading, which no explanation can clear. They might easily have found, that it is introduced without authority. The old copies uniformly give, _close dilations_, except that the earlier quarto has _close denotements_; which was the author's first expression, afterwards changed by him, not to _cold dilations_, for _cold_ is read in no ancient copy; nor, I believe, to _close dilations_, but to _close delations_; to _occult_ and _secret accusations, working_ involuntarily _from the heart_, which, though resolved to conceal the fault, cannot rule its _passion_ of resentment. III.iii.127 (435,5) Or, those that be not, 'would they might seem none!] [W: seem knaves] I believe the meaning is, _would they might no longer seem_, or bear the shape of _men_. III.iii.140 (436,6) Keep leets and law-days] [i.e. govern. WARBURTON.] Rather _visit_ than _govern_, but visit with authoritative intrusion. III.iii.149 (437,8) From one that so improbably conceits]--imperfectly _conceits_,] In the old quarto it is, --improbably _conceits_, Which I think preferable. III.iii.166 (437,9) the green-ey'd monster, which doth make/The meat it feeds on] _which doth_ mock _The meat it feeds on_.] I have received Hanmer's emendation ["make"]; because _to mock_, does not signify _to loath_; and because, when Iago bids Othello _beware of jealousy, the green-eyed monster_, it is natural to tell why he should beware, and for caution he gives him two reasons, that jealousy _often_ creates its own cause, and that, when the causes are real, jealousy is misery. III.iii.173 (438,1) But riches, fineless] Unbounded, endless, unnumbered treasures. III.iii.180 (438,3) Exchange me for a goat, When I shall turn the business of my soul To such exsuffolate and blown surmises, Matching thy inference] This odd and far-fetched word was made yet more uncouth in all the editions before Hanmer's, by being printed, _exsufflicate_. The allusion is to a bubble. Do not think, says the Moor, that I shall change the noble designs that now employ my thoughts, to suspicions which, like bubbles _blown_ into a wide extent, have only an empty shew without solidity, or that in consequence of such empty fears, I will close with thy inference against the virtue of my wife. III.iii.188 (439,4) Where virtue is, those are most virtuous] An action in itself indifferent grows virtuous by its end and application. III.iii.201 (439,6) I know our country disposition well; In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks] Here Iago seems to be a Venetian. III.iii.207 (440,7) And, when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks,/She lov'd them most] This and the following argument of Iago ought to be deeply impressed on every reader. Deceit and falsehood, whatever conveniencies they may for a time promise or produce, are, in the sum of life, obstacles to happiness. Those, who profit by the cheat, distruat the deceiver, and the act, by which kindness was sought, puts an end to confidence. The same objection may be made with a lower degree of strength against the imprudent generosity of disproportionate marriages. When the first heat of passion is over, it is easily succeeded by suspicion, that the same violence of inclination, which caused one irregularity, may stimulate to another; and those who have shown, that their passions are too powerful for their prudence, will, with very alight appearances againat them, be censured, as not very likely to restrain them by their virtue. (see 1765, VIII, 397, 1) III.iii.210 (440,8) To seel her father's eyes up, close as oak] There is little relation between _eyes_ and _oak_. I would read, _She seel'd her father's eyes up close as_ owl's. _As blind as an owl_, is a proverb. III.iii.222 (441,1) My speech would fall into such vile success] [_Success_, far succession, i.e. conclusion; not prosperous issue. WARB.] I rather think there is a depravation, and would read, _My speech would fall into such vile_ excess. If _success_ be the right word, it seems to mean _consequence_ or _event_, as _successo_ is used in Italian. III.iii.232 (441,2) will most rank] _Will_, is for wilfulness. It is so used by Ascham. A _rank will_, is _self-will_ overgrown and exuberant. III.iii.249 (442,3) You shall by that perceive him, and his means] You shall discover whether he thinks his best _means_, his most powerful _interest_, is by the solicitation of your lady. III.iii.250 (442,4) strain his entertainnent] Press hard his re-admission to his pay and office. _Entertainment_ was the military term for admission of soldiers. III.iii.256 (442,5) Fear not my government] Do not distrust ay ability to contain my passion. III.iii.259 (442,6) knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,/Of human dealings] The construction is, He knows with a learned spirit all qualities of human dealings. III.iii.260 (442,7) If I do prore her haggard] A _haggard_ hark, is a _wild_ hawk, a _hawk unreclaimed_, or _irreclaimable_. III.iii.262 (443,8) I'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind,/ To prey at fortune] The falconers always let fly the hawk against the wind; if she flies with the wind behind her, she seldom returns. If therefore a hawk was for any reason to be dismissed, she was _let down the wind_, and from that time shifted far herself, and _preyed at fortune_. This was told me by the late Mr. Clark. III.iii.276 (443,9) forked plague] In allusion to a _barbed_ or _forked_ arrow, which, once infixed, cannot be extracted. III.iii.312 (445,2) And, to the advantage, I, being here, took it up] I being _opportunely_ here, took it up. III.iii.319 (445,3) Be not you known on't] Should it not rather be read, _Be not you known_ in't? The folio reads, _Be not_ unknown _on't_. The sense is plain, but of the expression I cannot produce any example. III.iii.332 (446,5) that sweet sleep,/Which thou owedst yesterday] To _owe_ is, in our author, oftener to _possess_, than _to be indebted_, and such was its meaning here; but as that sense was growing less usual, it was changed unnecessarily by the editors to _hadst_; to the sane meaning, more intelligibly expressed. III.iii.351 (447,6) Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife] Dr. Warburton has offered _fear-spersing_, for _fear-dispersing_. But _ear-piercing_ is an epithet so eminently adapted to the _fife_, and so distinct from the shrillness of the trumpet, that it certainly ought not to be changed. Dr. Warburton has been censured for this proposed emendation with more noise than honesty, for he did not himself put it in the text. III.iii.369 (449,8) abandon all remorse] [_Remorse_, for repentance. WARBURTON.] I rather think it is, Let go all scruples, throw aside all restraints. III.iii.429 (451,4) _Oth._ 'tis a shrewd doubt] [The old quarto gives this line, with the two following, to Iago; and rightly. WARB.] I think it more naturally spoken by Othello, who, by dwelling so long upon the proof, encouraged Iago to enforce it. III.iii.448 (452,8) hearted throne] [W: parted] _Hearted_ throne, is the heart on which thou wast _enthroned_. _Parted_ throne has no meaning. III.iii.467 (453,3) Let him command, And to obey, shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever] [Pope: Not to obey] [T: Nor, to obey.] [W: me. Remord] Of these two emendations, I believe, Theobald's will have the greater number of suffrages; it has at least mine. The objection against the propriety of the declaration in Iago is a cavil; he does not say that he has no principle of remorse, but that it shall not operate against Othello's commands. _To obey shall be in me_, for _I will obey you_, is a mode of expression not worth the pains here taken to introduce it; and the word _remords_ has not in the quotation the meaning of _withhold_, or _make reluctant_, but of _reprove_, or _censure_; nor do I know that it is used by any of the contemporaries of Shakespeare. I will offer an interpretation, which, if it be received, will make alteration unnecessary, but it is very harsh and violent. Iago devotes himself to wronged Othello, and says, _Let him command whatever bloody business_, and in me it shall be an act, not of cruelty, but _of tenderness, to obey him_; not of malice to other, but of _tenderness_ for him. If this sense be thought too violent, I see nothing better than to follow Pope's reading, as it is improved by Theobald. III.iv.26 (457,5) cruzadoes] [A Portugueze coin, in value three shillings sterling. Dr. GREY.] So called from the cross stamped upon it. III.iv.46 (458,6) The hearts, of old, gave hands] [Warburton explains this is an allusion to James the First's practice of creating baronets for money and emends to "The hands of old gave hearts"] The historical observation is very judicious and acute, but of the emendation there is no need. She says, that her hand gave away _her heart_. He goes on with his suspicion, and the hand which he had before called _frank_, he now terms _liberal_; then proceeds to remark, that _the hand was formerly given by the heart_; but now it neither gives it, nor is given by it. III.iv.51 (459,7) salt and sullen rheum]--_salt and_ sorry rheum] The old quarto has, --_salt and_ sullen _rheum_--- That is, a _rheum obstinately troublesome_. I think this better. III.iv.70 (459,8) A Sybil, that had numbred in the world The sun to course two hundred compasses] The expression is not very infrequent; we say, _I counted the clock to strike four_; so she _number'd_ the sun _to course_, to run _two hundred compasses_, two hundred annual circuits. III.iv.79 (460,1) Why do you speak so startingly, and rash?] Is _vehement, violent_. III.iv.103 (461,2) 'Tis not a year, or two, shews us a man] From this line it may be conjectured, that the author intended the action of the play to be considered as longer than is marked by any note of time. Since their arrival at Cyprus, to which they were hurried on their wedding-night, the fable seems to have been in one continual progress, nor can I see any vacuity into which a _year or two_, or even a month or two, could be put. On the night of Othello's arrival, a feast was proclaimed; at that feast Cassio was degraded, and immediately applies to Desdemona to get him restored. Iago indeed advises Othello to hold him off a while, but there is no reason to think, that he has been held off long. A little longer interval would increase the probability of the story, though it might violate the rules of the drama. See Act. 5. Sc. 2. (see 1765, VIII, 416, 1) III.iv.113 (461,3) the duty of my heart] --_the office _of my heart_.] The elder quarto reads, --_the_ duty _of my heart_. The author used the more proper word, and then changed it, I suppose, for fashionable diction; but, as fashion is a very weak protectress, the old word is now ready to resume its place. III.iv.119 (462,4) But to know so, must be my benefit] "Si nequeo placidas affari Caesaris aures, "Saltem aliquis veniat, qui mihi dicat, abi." III.iv.125 (462,7) in favour] In _look_, in _countenance_. III.iv.128 (462,8) within the blank of his displeasure] Within the _shot_ of his anger. III.iv.141 (463,9) some unhatch'd practice] Some treason that has not taken effect. III.iv.146 (463,1) for let our finger ach, And it endues our other healthful members Even to that sense of pain] _Endue with a sense of pain_, is an expression, which, though it might be endured, if it were genuine, cannot deserve to be introduced by artifice. The copies, both quarto and folio, read, _Endue our other healthful members even to a sense of pain_. I believe it should be rather, SUBDUE _our other healthful members to a sense of pain_. III.iv.151 (463,2) (unhandsome warrior as I am)] [W: wrangler] _Unhandsome warrior_, is evidently _unfair assailant_. III.iv.178 (464,3) a more continuate time]--_more_ convenient _time_] The folio has, --_more_ continuate _time_; Time _less interrupted_, time which I can call more my own. It gives a more distinct image than _convenient_. III.iv.180 (464,4) Take me this work out] The meaning is not, "Pick out the work, and leave the ground plain;" but, "Copy this work in another handkerchief." IV.i.5 (466,6) Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm? It is hypocrisy against the devil] _Hypocrisy against the devil_, means hypocrisy to cheat the devil. As common hypocrites cheat men, by seeming good, and yet living wickedly, these men would cheat the devil, by giving him flattering hopes, and at last avoiding the crime which he thinks them ready to commit. IV.i.22 (467,8) Boding to all] Thus all the old copies. The moderns, less grammatically, _Boding to_ ill-- IV.i.42 (468,2) without sone instruction] [W: induction] This is a noble conjecture, and whether right or wrong does honour to its author. Yet I am in doubt whether there is any necessity of emendation. There has always prevailed in the world an opinion, that when any great calamity happens at a distance, notice is given of it to the sufferer by some dejection or perturbation of mind, of which he discovers no external cause. This is ascribed to that general communication of one part of the universe with another, which is called sympathy and antipathy; or to the secret monition, _instruction_, and influence of a superior Being, which superintends the order of nature and of life. Othello says, _Nature could not invest herself in such shadowing passion without_ instruction. _It is not words that shake me thus._ This passion, which spreads its clouds over me, is the effect of some agency more than the operation of words; it is one of those notices which men have of unseen calamities. IV.i.76 (471,4) Confine yourself but in a patient list] For attention; act of listening. IV.i.82 (471,5) encave yourself] Hide yourself in a private place. IV.i.89 (471,6) Or I shall say, you are all in all in spleen,/And nothing of a man] I read, _Or shall I say, you're all in all a spleen_. I think our author uses this expression elsewhere. IV.i.121 (472,8) Do you triumph, Roman? do you triumph?] Othello calls him _Roman_ ironically. _Triumph_, which was a Roman ceremony, brought Roman into his thoughts. _What_ (says he) _you are now_ triumphing _as great as a Roman_? IV.i.123 (472,9) a customer!] A common woman, one that invites custom. IV.i.130 (473,1) Have you scar'd me? Have you made my reckoning? have you settled the term of my life? The old quarto reads, _stored_ me. Have you disposed of me? have you laid me up? IV.i.150 (473,2) 'Tis such another fitchew! marry, a perfum'd one] Shakespeare has in another place mentioned the lust of this animal. He tells Iago, that she is as lewd as the _polecat_, but of better scent, the polecat being a very stinking animal. IV.i.244 (476,4) atone them] Make them _one_; reconcile them. IV.i.256 (477,5) If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile] If womens tears could impregnate the earth. By the doctrine of equivocal generation, new animals were supposed producible by new combinations of matter. See Bacon. IV.i.277 (478,7) whose solid virtue The shot of accident, nor dart of chance, Could neither graze nor pierce] [T: of change] To _graze_ is not merely to touch superficially, but to strike not directly, not so as to bury the body of the thing striking in the matter struck. Theobald trifles, as is usual. _Accident_ and _chance_ may admit a subtle distinction; _accident_ may be considered as the _act_, and _chance_ as the _power_ or _agency_ of fortune; as, _It was_ by chance _that this_ accident _befel me_. At least, if we suppose all corrupt that is inaccurate, there will be no end of emendation. IV.ii.57 (482,1) garner'd up my heart] That is, _treasured_ up; the _garner_ and the _fountain_ are improperly conjoined. IV.ii.62 (482,2) Turn thy complexion there! Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubim; Ay, there, look grim as hell] At such an object do thou, _patience_, thyself _change colour_; at this do thou, even thou, _rosy cherub_ as thou art, _look grim as hell_. The old editions and the new have it, _I here look grim as hell._ _I_ was written for _ay_, and not since corrected. IV.ii.109 (484,4) The small'st opinion on my great'st abuse] The old quarto reads [for "least misuse"], _The small'st opinion on my_ great'st abuse. Which I think is better. IV.ii.140 (486,6) Some base notorious knave] For _gross_, not in its proper meaning for _known_. IV.ii.144 (486,7) Speak within door] Do not clamour so as to be heard beyond the house. IV.ii.146 (486,8) the seamy side without] That is, _inside out_. IV.iii.27 (490,2) and he, she lov'd, prov'd mad,/And did forsake her] I believe that _mad_ only signifies _wild, frantick, uncertain_. IV.iii.31 (490,3) I have much to do,/But to go hang my head] I _have much_ ado to do any thing _but hang my head_. We might read, Not _to go hang my head_. This is perhaps the only insertion made in the latter editions which has improved the play. The rest seem to have been added for the sake of amplification, or of ornament. When the imagination had subsided, and the mind was no longer agitated by the horror of the action, it became at leisure to look round for specious additians. This addition is natural. Desdemona can at first hardly forbear to sing the song; she endeavours to change her train of thoughts, but her imagination at last prevails, and she sings it. IV.iii.41 (491,4) _Des._ "The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore-tree, "Sing all a green willow] This song, in two parts, is printed in a late collection of old ballads; the lines preserved here differ somewhat from the copy discovered by the ingenious collector. IV.iii.55 (491,5) _Des._ "I call'd my love false love; but what said "he then? "Sing willow, &c.] This couplet is not in the ballad, which is the complaint, not of a woman forsaken, but of a man rejected. These lines were probably added when it was accommodated to a woman. IV.iii.94 (493,6) our former having] Our former allowance of experience. IV.iii.107 (493,7) heaven me such usage send] --_heaven me such_ uses _send_,] Such is the reading of the folio, and of the subsequent editions; but the old quarto has, --_such_ usage _send_.-- _Usage_ is an old word for _custom_, and, I think, better than _uses_. V.i.11 (494,1) I have rubb'd this young quat _almost to the sense_] In some editions, _I've rubb'd this young_ gnat _almost to the sense, And he grows angry_.] This is a passage much controverted among the editors. Sir T. Hanner reads _quab_, a _gudgeon_; not that a gudgeon can be _rubbed_ to much _sense_, but that a man grossly deceived is often called a _gudgeon_. Mr. Upton reads _quail_, which he proves, by much learning, to be a very choleric bird. Dr. Warburton retains _gnat_, which is found in the early quarto. Theobald would introduce _knot_, a small bird of that name. I have followed the text of the folio, and third and fourth quartos. A _quat_ in the midland counties is a _pimple_, which by rubbing is made to smart, or is _rubbed to sense_. Roderigo is called a _quat_ by the same mode of speech, as a low fellow is now termed in lay language a _scab. To rub to the sense_, is _to rub to the quick_. V.i.37 (496,2) No passage?] No passengers? No body going by? V.i.42 (499,4) a heary night] A _thick cloudy_ night, in which an ambush may be commodiously laid. V.ii.1 (499,4) It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;--/Let me not name it] The abruptness of this soliloquy makes it obscure. The meaning, I think, is this: "I am here (says Othello in his mind) overwhelmed with horror. What is the reason of this perturbation? Is it want of resolution to do justice? Is it the dread of shedding blood? No; it is not the action that shocks me, but _it is the cause, it is the cause, my soul; let me not name it to you, ye chaste stars; it is the cause_." V.ii.20 (500,7) I must weep, But they are cruel tears: this sorrel's heavenly; It strikes, where it doth love.--She wakes--] This tenderness, with which I lament the punishment which justice compels me to inflict, is a holy passion. I wish these two lines could be honestly ejected. It is the fate of Shakespeare to counteract his own pathos. V.ii.65 (502,8) A murder, which I thought a sacrifice] This line is difficult. _Thou hast hardened my heart, and makest me_ kill thee with the rage of a _murderer_, when _I thought to have sacrificed_ thee to justice with the calmness of a priest striking a victim. It must not be omitted, that one of the elder quartos reads, _thou dost stone_ thy _heart_; which I suspect to be genuine. The meaning then will be, _thou forcest me_ to dismiss thee from the world in the state of the _murdered_ without preparation for death, _when I intended_ that thy punishment should have been a _sacrifice_ atoning for thy crime. I am glad that I have ended my revisal of this dreadful scene. It is not to be endured. V.ii.134 (505,3) false as water] As water that will support no weight, nor keep any impression. V.ii.151 (506,4) villainy has made mocks with love] _Villainy_ has taken advantage to _play upon_ the weakness of a violent passion. V.ii.162 (506,5) Thou hast not half that power to do me harm, /As I have to be hurt] [Hamner: to bear hurt] The Oxford Editor saw well the meaning of his author, but weakened his expression. She means to say, _I have in this cause power to endure more than thou hast power to inflict_. V.ii.183 (507, 6) charm your tongue] I know not whether I have read, or whether my own thoughts hare suggested, an alteration of this passage. It seems to me not improbable, that Shakespeare wrote _clam_ your tongue; to _clam_ a bell, is to cover the clapper with felt, which drowns the blow, and hinders the sound. V.ii.211 (509,7) she with Cassio had the act of shame/A thousand times committed] This is another passage which seems to suppose a longer space comprised in the action of this play than the scenes include. V.ii.253 (512,2) It was a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper] [In the first edition it is, _Isebroke's temper_. Thence corrupted to _Ice-brook's_.--_Ebro's temper_; the waters of that river of Spain are particularly famous for tempering of steel. POPE.] I believe the old reading changed to _ice-brook_ is right. Steel is hardened by being put red hot into very cold water. V.ii.286 (513,3) I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable. If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee] To see if, according to the common opinion, his feet be cloven. V.ii.292 (513,4) Fall'n in the practice of a cursed slave] In the _snare_, by the _stratagem_. V.ii.317 (514,5) in the interim] The first copy has, _in the_ nick. It was, I suppose, thought upon revisal, that _nick_ was too familiar. V.ii.342 (515,6) Speak of me as I am] The early copies read, _Speak of them as they are_. The present reading has more force. (rev. 1778, X, 622, 6) (520,2) General Observation. The beauties of this play impress themselves so strongly upon the attention of the reader, that they can draw no aid from critical illustration. The fiery openness of Othello, magnanimous, artless, and credulous, boundless in his confidence, ardent in his affection, inflexible in his resolution, and obdurate in his revenge; the cool malignity of Iago, silent in his resentment, subtle in his designs, and studious at once of his interest and his vengeance; the soft simplicity of Desdemona, confident of merit, and conscious of innocence, her artless perseverance in her suit, and her slowness to suspect that she can be suspected, are such proofs of Shakespeare's skill in human nature, as, I suppose, it is vain to seek in any modern writer. The gradual progress which Iago makes in the Moor's conviction, and the circumstances which he employs to inflame him, are so artfully natural, that, though it will perhaps not be said of him as he says of himself, that he is _a man not easily jealous_, yet we cannot but pity him, when at last we find him _perplexed in the extreme_. There is always danger, lest wickedness, conjoined with abilities, should steal upon esteem, though it misses of approbation; but the character of Iago is so conducted, that he is from the first scene to the last hated and despised. Even the inferior characters of this play would be very conspicuous in any other piece, not only for their justness, but their strength. Cassio is brave, benevolent, and honest, ruined only by his want of stubbornness to resist an insidious invitation. Roderigo's suspicious credulity, and impatient submission to the cheats which he sees practised upon him, and which by persuasion he suffers to be repeated, exhibit a strong picture of a weak mind betrayed by unlawful desires to a false friend; and the virtue of Aemilia is such as we often find, worn loosely, but not cast off, easy to commit small crimes, but quickened and alarmed at atrocious villainies. The scenes from the beginning to the end are busy, varied by happy interchanges, and regularly promoting the progression of the story; and the narrative in the end, though it tells but what is known already, yet is necessary to produce the death of Othello. Had the scene opened in Cyprus, and the preceding incidents been occasionally related, there had been little wanting to a drama of the most exact and scrupulous regularity. (LI 2) Appendix. Some apology perhaps is necessary for the inconvenience of an Appendix, which, however, we can justify by the strongest of all pleas, the plea of necessity. The Notes which it contains, whether communicated by correspondents, or collected from published volumes, were not within our reach when the plays were printed, to which they relate. Of that which chance has supplied, we could have no previous knowledge; and he that waited till the river should run dry, did not act with less reason than the Editor would do, who should suspend his publication for possibilities of intelligence, or promises of improvement. Had we foreseen the _Oxford_ edition, the assistance we expected from it might have persuaded us to pause; but our volumes were completely finished before its publication. [There are no notes by Johnson in this Appendix; several are by Steevens.] 
10835	----	DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS. LIFE, POEMS, AND TALES. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. IN NINE VOLUMES. VOLUME THE FIRST. MDCCCXXV ADVERTISEMENT. It may be asserted, without a partial panegyric of the object of our praise, that the works of no single author in the wide range of British literature, not excepting, perhaps, even Addison, contain a richer and more varied fund of rational entertainment and sound instruction than those of Dr. Johnson. A correct edition of his works must, therefore, be an acceptable contribution to the mass of national literature. That the present edition has, perhaps, fairer claims on public approbation than most preceding ones, we feel ourselves justified in asserting, without envious detraction of those who have gone before us. It has been our wish and diligent endeavour to give as accurate a text as possible, to which we have subjoined notes, where elucidation seemed to be required. They have been collected with care, and will prove our impartiality by their occasional censures of the faults and failings of the writer whose works it is our office to illustrate, and our more common and more grateful task to praise. Though, being diffused over a wide space, they appear less numerous than they really are, it has been our incessant care to abstain from that method of redundant annotation, which tends to display the ingenuity or mental resources of an editor, much more than to illustrate the original writer. Notes have been chiefly introduced for the purpose of guarding our readers against some political sophisms, or to correct some hasty error. But happily, in the writings to which we have devoted our time and attention, the chaff and dross lie so open to view, and are so easily separated from purer matter, that a hint is sufficient to protect the most incautious from harm. Accordingly, in our notes and prefaces we have confined ourselves to simple and succinct histories of the respective works under consideration, and have avoided, as much as might be, a burdensome repetition of criticisms or anecdotes, in almost every person's possession, or an idle pointing out of beauties which none could fail to recognise. The length of time that has elapsed since the writings of Johnson were first published, has amply developed their intrinsic merits, and destroyed the personal and party prejudices which assail a living author: but the years have been too few to render the customs and manners alluded to so obsolete as to require much illustrative research.[a] It may be satisfactory to subjoin, that care has been exercised in every thing that we have advanced, and that when we have erred, it has been on the side of caution. All the usually received works of Dr. Johnson, together with Murphy's Essay on his Life and Genius, are comprised in this edition. In pursuance of our plan of brevity, we shall not here give a list of his minor and unacknowledged productions, but refer our readers to Boswell; a new, amended, and enlarged edition of whose interesting and picturesque Memoirs we purpose speedily to present to the public, after the style and manner of the present work. One very important addition, however, we conceive that we have made, in publishing the whole of his sermons. It has been hitherto the practice to give one or two, with a cursory notice, that Johnson's theological knowledge was scanty, or unworthy of his general fame. We have acted under a very different impression; for though Johnson was not, nor pretended to be, a polemical or controversial divine, he well knew how to apply to the right regulation of our moral conduct the lessons of that Christianity which was not promulged for a sect, but for mankind; which sought not a distinctive garb in the philosopher's grove, nor secluded itself in the hermit's cell, but entered without reserve every walk of life, and sympathized with all the instinctive feelings of our common nature. This high privilege of our religion Johnson felt, and to the diffusion of its practical, not of its theoretical advantages, he applied the energies of his heart and mind; and with what success, we leave to every candid reader to pronounce. In conclusion, we would express a hope that we shall not inaptly commence a series of OXFORD ENGLISH CLASSICS with the works of one whose writings have so enlarged and embellished the science of moral evidence, which has long constituted a characteristic feature in the literary discipline of this university. The science of mind and its progress, as recorded by history, or unfolded by biography, was Johnson's favourite study, and is still the main object of pursuit in the place whose system and institutions he so warmly praised, and to which he ever professed himself so deeply indebted. If the terseness of attic simplicity has been desiderated by some in the pages of Johnson, they undeniably display the depth of thought, the weight of argument, the insight into mind and morals, which are to be found in their native dignity only in the compositions of those older writers with whose spirit he was so richly imbued. In this place, then, where those models which Johnson admired and imitated are still upheld as the only sure guides to sound learning, his writings can never be laid aside unread and neglected. OXFORD, JUNE 23, 1825. [a] See a remark on this subject made by Johnson, with reference to the Spectator, and all other works of the same class, which describe manners. Boswell, ii. 218, and Prefatory Notice to Rambler, vol. i. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. ESSAY on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson POEMS. London The Vanity of Human Wishes Prologue, spoken by Mr. Garrick, at the opening of the theatre-royal, Drury lane Prefatory Notice to the tragedy of Irene Prologue Irene Epilogue, by sir William Yonge Prologue to the masque of Comus Prologue to the comedy of the Good-natured Man Prologue to the comedy of a Word to the Wise Spring Midsummer Autumn Winter The Winter's Walk To Miss ****, on her giving the author a gold and silk network purse, of her own weaving To Miss ****, on her playing upon the harpsichord, in a room hung with flower-pieces of her own painting Evening; an ode To the same To a friend Stella in mourning To Stella Verses, written at the request of a gentleman, to whom a lady had given a sprig of myrtle To lady Firebrace, at Bury assizes To Lyce, an elderly lady On the death of Mr. Robert Levet Epitaph on Claude Phillips Epitaphium in Thomam Hanmer, baronettum Paraphrase of the above, by Dr. Johnson To Miss Hickman, playing on the spinet Paraphrase of Proverbs, chap. vi. verses 6-11 Horace, lib. iv. ode vii. translated Anacreon, ode ix Lines written in ridicule of certain poems published in 1777 Parody of a translation from the Medea of Euripides Translation from the Medea of Euripides Translation of the two first stanzas of the song "Rio Verde, Rio Verde" Imitation of the style of **** Burlesque of some lines of Lopez de Vega Translation of some lines at the end of Baretti's Easy Phraseology Improviso translation of a distich on the duke of Modena's running away from the comet in 1742 or 1743 Improviso translation of some lines of M. Benserade à son Lit Epitaph for Mr. Hogarth Translation of some lines, written under a print representing persons skating Impromptu translation of the same To Mrs. Thrale, on her completing her thirty-fifth year Impromptu translation of an air in the Clemenza di Tito of Metastasio Translation of a speech of Aquileio in the Adriano of Metastasio Burlesque of the modern versifications of ancient legendary tales Friendship; an ode On seeing a bust of Mrs. Montague Improviso on a young heir's coming of age Epitaphs--on his father --his wife --Mrs. Bell --Mrs. Salusbury --Dr. Goldsmith --Mr. Thrale POEMATA Prefatory observations to the history of Rasselas Rasselas, prince of Abissinia LETTERS. I. To Mr. James Elphinston II. to XL. To Mrs. Thrale XLI. To Mr. Thrale XLII. to LIII. To Mrs. Thrale LIV. To Mrs. Piozzi AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND GENIUS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. When the works of a great writer, who has bequeathed to posterity a lasting legacy, are presented to the world, it is naturally expected that some account of his life should accompany the edition. The reader wishes to know as much as possible of the author. The circumstances that attended him, the features of his private character, his conversation, and the means by which he arose to eminence, become the favourite objects of inquiry. Curiosity is excited; and the admirer of his works is eager to know his private opinions, his course of study, the particularities of his conduct, and, above all, whether he pursued the wisdom which he recommends, and practised the virtue which his writings inspire. A principle of gratitude is awakened in every generous mind. For the entertainment and instruction which genius and diligence have provided for the world, men of refined and sensible tempers are ready to pay their tribute of praise, and even to form a posthumous friendship with the author. In reviewing the life of such a writer, there is, besides, a rule of justice to which the public have an undoubted claim. Fond admiration and partial friendship should not be suffered to represent his virtues with exaggeration; nor should malignity be allowed, under a specious disguise, to magnify mere defects, the usual failings of human nature, into vice or gross deformity. The lights and shades of the character should be given; and if this be done with a strict regard to truth, a just estimate of Dr. Johnson will afford a lesson, perhaps, as valuable as the moral doctrine that speaks with energy in every page of his works. The present writer enjoyed the conversation and friendship of that excellent man more than thirty years. He thought it an honour to be so connected, and to this hour he reflects on his loss with regret; but regret, he knows, has secret bribes, by which the judgment may be influenced, and partial affection may be carried beyond the bounds of truth. In the present case, however, nothing needs to be disguised, and exaggerated praise is unnecessary. It is an observation of the younger Pliny, in his epistle to his friend Tacitus, that history ought never to magnify matters of fact, because worthy actions require nothing but the truth: "nam nec historia debet egredi veritatem, et honeste factis veritas sufficit." This rule, the present biographer promises, shall guide his pen throughout the following narrative. It may be said, the death of Dr. Johnson kept the public mind in agitation beyond all former example. No literary character ever excited so much attention; and, when the press has teemed with anecdotes, apophthegms, essays, and publications of every kind, what occasion now for a new tract on the same thread-bare subject? The plain truth shall be the answer. The proprietors of Johnson's works thought the life, which they prefixed to their former edition, too unwieldy for republication. The prodigious variety of foreign matter, introduced into that performance, seemed to overload the memory of Dr. Johnson, and, in the account of his own life, to leave him hardly visible. They wished to have a more concise, and, for that reason, perhaps, a more satisfactory account, such as may exhibit a just picture of the man, and keep him the principal figure in the foreground of his own picture. To comply with that request is the design of this essay, which the writer undertakes with a trembling hand. He has no discoveries, no secret anecdotes, no occasional controversy, no sudden flashes of wit and humour, no private conversation, and no new facts, to embellish his work. Every thing has been gleaned. Dr. Johnson said of himself, "I am not uncandid, nor severe: I sometimes say more than I mean, in jest, and people are apt to think me serious[a]." The exercise of that privilege, which is enjoyed by every man in society, has not been allowed to him. His fame has given importance even to trifles; and the zeal of his friends has brought every thing to light. What should be related, and what should not, has been published without distinction: "dicenda tacenda locuti!" Every thing that fell from him has been caught with eagerness by his admirers, who, as he says in one of his letters, have acted with the diligence of spies upon his conduct. To some of them the following lines, in Mallet's poem on verbal criticism, are not inapplicable: "Such that grave bird in northern seas is found. Whose name a Dutchman only knows to sound; Where'er the king of fish moves on before, This humble friend attends from shore to shore; With eye still earnest, and with bill inclined, He picks up what his patron drops behind, With those choice cates his palate to regale, And is the careful Tibbald of a whale." After so many essays and volumes of Johnsoniana, what remains for the present writer? Perhaps, what has not been attempted; a short, yet full, a faithful, yet temperate, history of Dr. Johnson. SAMUEL JOHNSON was born at Lichfield, September 7, 1709, O. S[b]. His father, Michael Johnson, was a bookseller in that city; a man of large, athletic make, and violent passions; wrong-headed, positive, and, at times, afflicted with a degree of melancholy, little short of madness. His mother was sister to Dr. Ford, a practising physician, and father of Cornelius Ford, generally known by the name of parson Ford, the same who is represented near the punch-bowl in Hogarth's Midnight Modern Conversation. In the life of Fenton, Johnson says, that "his abilities, instead of furnishing convivial merriment to the voluptuous and dissolute, might have enabled him to excel among the virtuous and the wise." Being chaplain to the earl of Chesterfield, he wished to attend that nobleman on his embassy to the Hague. Colley Cibber has recorded the anecdote. "You should go," said the witty peer, "if to your many vices you would add one more." "Pray, my lord, what is that?" "Hypocrisy, my dear doctor." Johnson had a younger brother named Nathaniel, who died at the age of twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Michael Johnson, the father, was chosen, in the year 1718, under bailiff of Lichfield; and, in the year 1725, he served the office of the senior bailiff. He had a brother of the name of Andrew, who, for some years, kept the ring at Smithfield, appropriated to wrestlers and boxers. Our author used to say, that he was never thrown or conquered. Michael, the father, died December 1731, at the age of seventy-six: his mother at eighty-nine, of a gradual decay, in the year 1759. Of the family nothing more can be related worthy of notice. Johnson did not delight in talking of his relations. "There is little pleasure," he said to Mrs. Piozzi, "in relating the anecdotes of beggary." Johnson derived from his parents, or from an unwholesome nurse, the distemper called the king's evil. The Jacobites at that time believed in the efficacy of the royal touch, and, accordingly, Mrs. Johnson presented her son, when two years old, before queen Anne, who, for the first time, performed that office, and communicated to her young patient all the healing virtue in her power[c]. He was afterwards cut for that scrophulous humour, and the under part of his face was seamed and disfigured by the operation. It is supposed, that this disease deprived him of the sight of his left eye, and also impaired his hearing. At eight years old, he was placed under Mr. Hawkins, at the free school in Lichfield, where he was not remarkable for diligence or regular application. Whatever he read, his tenacious memory made his own. In the fields, with his schoolfellows, he talked more to himself than with his companions. In 1725, when he was about sixteen years old, he went on a visit to his cousin Cornelius Ford, who detained him for some months, and, in the mean time, assisted him in the classics. The general direction for his studies, which he then received, he related to Mrs. Piozzi. "Obtain," says Ford, "some general principles of every science: he who can talk only on one subject, or act only in one department, is seldom wanted, and, perhaps, never wished for; while the man of general knowledge can often benefit, and always please." This advice Johnson seems to have pursued with a good inclination. His reading was always desultory, seldom resting on any particular author, but rambling from one book to another, and, by hasty snatches, hoarding up a variety of knowledge. It may be proper, in this place, to mention another general rule laid down by Ford for Johnson's future conduct: "You will make your way the more easily in the world, as you are contented to dispute no man's claim to conversation excellence: they will, therefore, more willingly allow your pretensions as a writer." "But," says Mrs. Piozzi, "the features of peculiarity, which mark a character to all succeeding generations, are slow in coming to their growth." That ingenious lady adds, with her usual vivacity, "Can one, on such an occasion, forbear recollecting the predictions of Boileau's father, who said, stroking the head of the young satirist, 'This little man has too much wit, but he will never speak ill of any one.'" On Johnson's return from Cornelius Ford, Mr. Hunter, then master of the free school at Lichfield, refused to receive him again on that foundation. At this distance of time, what his reasons were, it is vain to inquire; but to refuse assistance to a lad of promising genius must be pronounced harsh and illiberal. It did not, however, stop the progress of the young student's education. He was placed at another school, at Stourbridge in Worcestershire, under the care of Mr. Wentworth. Having gone through the rudiments of classic literature, he returned to his father's house, and was probably intended for the trade of a bookseller. He has been heard to say that he could bind a book. At the end of two years, being then about nineteen, he went to assist the studies of a young gentleman, of the name of Corbet, to the university of Oxford; and on the 31st of October, 1728, both were entered of Pembroke college; Corbet as a gentleman-commoner, and Johnson as a commoner. The college tutor, Mr. Jordan, was a man of no genius; and Johnson, it seems, shewed an early contempt of mean abilities, in one or two instances behaving with insolence to that gentleman. Of his general conduct at the university there are no particulars that merit attention, except the translation of Pope's Messiah, which was a college exercise imposed upon him as a task by Mr. Jordan. Corbet left the university in about two years, and Johnson's salary ceased. He was, by consequence, straitened in his circumstances; but he still remained at college. Mr. Jordan, the tutor, went off to a living; and was succeeded by Dr. Adams, who afterwards became head of the college, and was esteemed through life for his learning, his talents, and his amiable character. Johnson grew more regular in his attendance. Ethics, theology, and classic literature, were his favourite studies. He discovered, notwithstanding, early symptoms of that wandering disposition of mind, which adhered to him to the end of his life. His reading was by fits and starts, undirected to any particular science. General philology, agreeably to his cousin Ford's advice, was the object of his ambition. He received, at that time, an early impression of piety, and a taste for the best authors, ancient and modern. It may, notwithstanding, be questioned whether, except his bible, he ever read a book entirely through. Late in life, if any man praised a book in his presence, he was sure to ask, "Did you read it through?" If the answer was in the affirmative, he did not seem willing to believe it. He continued at the university, till the want of pecuniary supplies obliged him to quit the place. He obtained, however, the assistance of a friend, and, returning in a short time, was able to complete a residence of three years. The history of his exploits at Oxford, he used to say, was best known to Dr. Taylor and Dr. Adams. Wonders are told of his memory, and, indeed, all who knew him late in life can witness, that he retained that faculty in the greatest vigour. From the university, Johnson returned to Lichfield. His father died soon after, December, 1731; and the whole receipt out of his effects, as appeared by a memorandum in the son's handwriting, dated 15th of June, 1732, was no more than twenty pounds[d]. In this exigence, determined that poverty should neither depress his spirits nor warp his integrity, he became under-master of a grammar school at Market Bosworth, in Leicestershire. That resource, however, did not last long. Disgusted by the pride of sir Wolstan Dixie, the patron of that little seminary, he left the place in discontent, and ever after spoke of it with abhorrence. In 1733, he went on a visit to Mr. Hector, who had been his schoolfellow, and was then a surgeon at Birmingham, lodging at the house of Warren, a bookseller. At that place Johnson translated a Voyage to Abyssinia, written by Jerome Lobo, a Portuguese missionary. This was the first literary work from the pen of Dr. Johnson. His friend, Hector, was occasionally his amanuensis. The work was, probably, undertaken at the desire of Warren, the bookseller, and was printed at Birmingham; but it appears, in the Literary Magazine, or history of the works of the learned, for March, 1735, that it was published by Bettesworth and Hitch, Paternoster row. It contains a narrative of the endeavours of a company of missionaries to convert the people of Abyssinia to the church of Rome. In the preface to this work, Johnson observes, "that the Portuguese traveller, contrary to the general view of his countrymen, has amused his readers with no romantick absurdities, or incredible fictions. He appears, by his modest and unaffected narration, to have described things, as he saw them; to have copied nature from the life; and to have consulted his senses, not his imagination. He meets with no basilisks, that destroy with their eyes; his crocodiles devour their prey, without tears; and his cataracts fall from the rock, without deafening the neighbouring inhabitants. The reader will here find no regions cursed with irremediable barrenness, or blessed with spontaneous fecundity; no perpetual gloom, or unceasing sunshine; nor are the nations, here described, either void of all sense of humanity, or consummate in all private and social virtues; here are no Hottentots without religion, polity or articulate language; no Chinese perfectly polite, and completely skilled in all sciences; he will discover, what will always be discovered by a diligent and impartial inquirer, that, wherever human nature is to be found, there is a mixture of vice and virtue, a contest of passion and reason; and that the Creator doth not appear partial in his distributions, but has balanced, in most countries, their particular inconveniencies, by particular favours."--We have here an early specimen of Johnson's manner; the vein of thinking, and the frame of the sentences, are manifestly his: we see the infant Hercules. The translation of Lobo's narrative has been reprinted lately in a separate volume, with some other tracts of Dr. Johnson's, and, therefore, forms no part of this edition; but a compendious account of so interesting a work, as father Lobo's discovery of the head of the Nile, will not, it is imagined, be unacceptable to the reader. "Father Lobo, the Portuguese missionary, embarked, in 1622, in the same fleet with the count Vidigueira, who was appointed, by the king of Portugal, viceroy of the Indies. They arrived at Goa; and, in January 1624, father Lobo set out on the mission to Abyssinia. Two of the Jesuits, sent on the same commission, were murdered in their attempt to penetrate into that empire. Lobo had better success; he surmounted all difficulties, and made his way into the heart of the country. Then follows a description of Abyssinia, formerly the largest empire of which we have an account in history. It extended from the Red sea to the kingdom of Congo, and from Egypt to the Indian sea, containing no less than forty provinces. At the time of Lobo's mission, it was not much larger than Spain, consisting then but of five kingdoms, of which part was entirely subject to the emperour, and part paid him a tribute, as an acknowledgment. The provinces were inhabited by Moors, Pagans, Jews, and Christians. The last was, in Lobo's time, the established and reigning religion. The diversity of people and religion is the reason why the kingdom was under different forms of government, with laws and customs extremely various. Some of the people neither sowed their lands, nor improved them by any kind of culture, living upon milk and flesh, and, like the Arabs, encamping without any settled habitation. In some places they practised no rites of worship, though they believed that, in the regions above, there dwells a being that governs the world. This deity they call, in their language, Oul. The christianity, professed by the people in some parts, is so corrupted with superstitions, errours, and heresies, and so mingled with ceremonies borrowed from the Jews, that little, besides the name of christianity, is to be found among them. The Abyssins cannot properly be said to have either cities or houses; they live in tents or cottages made of straw or clay, very rarely building with stone. Their villages, or towns, consist of these huts; yet even of such villages they have but few, because the grandees, the viceroys, and the emperour himself, are always in camp, that they may be prepared, upon the most sudden alarm, to meet every emergence in a country, which is engaged, every year, either in foreign wars or intestine commotions. Aethiopia produces very near the same kinds of provision as Portugal, though, by the extreme laziness of the inhabitants, in a much less quantity. What the ancients imagined of the torrid zone being a part of the world uninhabitable, is so far from being true, that the climate is very temperate. The blacks have better features than in other countries, and are not without wit and ingenuity. Their apprehension is quick, and their judgment sound. There are, in this climate, two harvests in the year; one in winter, which lasts through the months of July, August, and September; the other in the spring. They have, in the greatest plenty, raisins peaches pomegranates, sugar-canes, and some figs. Most of these are ripe about lent, which the Abyssins keep with great strictness. The animals of the country are the lion, the elephant, the rhinoceros, the unicorn, horses, mules, oxen, and cows without number. They have a very particular custom, which obliges every man, that has a thousand cows, to save every year one day's milk of all his herd, and make a bath with it for his relations. This they do so many days in each year, as they have thousands of cattle; so that, to express how rich a man is, they tell you, 'he bathes so many times.' "Of the river Nile, which has furnished so much controversy, we have a full and clear description. It is called, by the natives, Abavi, the Father of Water. It rises in Sacala, a province of the kingdom of Goiama, the most fertile and agreeable part of the Abyssinian dominions. On the eastern side of the country, on the declivity of a mountain, whose descent is so easy, that it seems a beautiful plain, is that source of the Nile, which has been sought after, at so much expense and labour. This spring, or rather these two springs, are two holes, each about two feet diameter, a stone's cast distant from each other. One of them is about five feet and a half in depth. Lobo was not able to sink his plummet lower, perhaps, because it was stopped by roots, the whole place being full of trees. A line of ten feet did not reach the bottom of the other. These springs are supposed, by the Abyssins, to be the vents of a great subterraneous lake. At a small distance to the south, is a village called Guix, through which you ascend to the top of the mountain, where there is a little hill, which the idolatrous Agaci hold in great veneration. Their priest calls them together to this place once a year; and every one sacrifices a cow, or more, according to the different degrees of wealth and devotion. Hence we have sufficient proof, that these nations always paid adoration to the deity of this famous river. "As to the course of the Nile, its waters, after their first rise, run towards the east, about the length of a musket-shot; then, turning northward, continue hidden in the grass and weeds for about a quarter of a league, when they reappear amongst a quantity of rocks. The Nile, from its source, proceeds with so inconsiderable a current that it is in danger of being dried up by the hot season; but soon receiving an increase from the Gemma, the Keltu, the Bransa, and the other smaller rivers, it expands to such a breadth in the plains of Boad, which is not above three days' journey from its source, that a musket-ball will scarcely fly from one bank to the other. Here it begins to run northward, winding, however, a little to the east, for the space of nine or ten leagues, and then enters the so-much-talked-of lake of Dambia, flowing with such violent rapidity, that its waters may be distinguished through the whole passage, which is no less than six leagues. Here begins the greatness of the Nile. Fifteen miles farther, in the land of Alata, it rushes precipitately from the top of a high rock, and forms one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the world. Lobo says, he passed under it without being wet, and resting himself, for the sake of the coolness, was charmed with a thousand delightful rainbows, which the sunbeams painted on the water, in all their shining and lively colours[e]. The fall of this mighty stream, from so great a height, makes a noise that may be heard at a considerable distance: but it was not found, that the neighbouring inhabitants were deaf. After the cataract, the Nile collects its scattered stream among the rocks, which are so near each other, that, in Lobo's time, a bridge of beams, on which the whole imperial army passed, was laid over them. Sultan Sequed has since built a stone bridge of one arch, in the same place, for which purpose he procured masons from India. Here the river alters its course, and passes through various kingdoms, such as Amhara, Olaca, Choaa, Damot, and the kingdom of Goiama, and, after various windings, returns within a short day's journey of its spring. To pursue it through all its mazes, and accompany it round the kingdom of Goiama, is a journey of twenty-nine days. From Abyssinia, the river passes into the countries of Fazulo and Ombarca, two vast regions little known, inhabited by nations entirely different from the Abyssins. Their hair, like that of the other blacks in those regions, is short and curled. In the year 1615, Rassela Christos, lieutenant-general to sultan Sequed, entered those kingdoms in a hostile manner; but, not being able to get intelligence, returned without attempting any thing. As the empire of Abyssinia terminates at these descents, Lobo followed the course of the Nile no farther, leaving it to rage over barbarous kingdoms, and convey wealth and plenty into Aegypt, which owes to the annual inundations of this river its envied fertility[f]. Lobo knows nothing of the Nile in the rest of its passage, except that it receives great increase from many other rivers, has several cataracts like that already described, and that few fish are to be found in it: that scarcity is to be attributed to the river-horse, and the crocodile, which destroy the weaker inhabitants of the river. Something, likewise, must be imputed to the cataracts, where fish cannot fall without being killed. Lobo adds, that neither he, nor any with whom he conversed about the crocodile, ever saw him weep; and, therefore, all that hath been said about his tears, must be ranked among the fables, invented for the amusement of children. "As to the causes of the inundations of the Nile, Lobo observes, that many an idle hypothesis has been framed. Some theorists ascribe it to the high winds, that stop the current, and force the water above its banks. Others pretend a subterraneous communication between the ocean and the Nile, and that the sea, when violently agitated, swells the river. Many are of opinion, that this mighty flood proceeds from the melting of the snow on the mountains of Aethiopia; but so much snow and such prodigious heat are never met with in the same region. Lobo never saw snow in Abyssinia, except on mount Semen, in the kingdom of Tigre, very remote from the Nile; and on Namara, which is, indeed, nor far distant, but where there never falls snow enough to wet, when dissolved, the foot of the mountain. To the immense labours of the Portuguese mankind is indebted for the knowledge of the real cause of these inundations, so great and so regular. By them we are informed, that Abyssinia, where the Nile rises, is full of mountains, and, in its natural situation, is much higher than Aegypt; that in the winter, from June to September, no day is without rain; that the Nile receives in its course, all the rivers, brooks, and torrents, that fall from those mountains, and, by necessary consequence, swelling above its banks, fills the plains of Aegypt with inundations, which come regularly about the month of July, or three weeks after the beginning of the rainy season in Aethiopia. The different degrees of this flood are such certain indications of the fruitfulness or sterility of the ensuing year, that it is publickly proclaimed at Cairo how much the water hath gained during the night." Such is the account of the Nile and its inundations, which, it is hoped, will not be deemed an improper or tedious digression, especially as the whole is an extract from Johnson's translation. He is, all the time, the actor in the scene, and, in his own words, relates the story. Having finished this work, he returned in February, 1734, to his native city; and, in the month of August following, published proposals for printing, by subscription, the Latin poems of Politian, with the history of Latin poetry, from the aera of Petrarch to the time of Politian; and also the life of Politian, to be added by the editor, Samuel Johnson. The book to be printed in thirty octavo sheets, price five shillings. It is to be regretted that this project failed for want of encouragement. Johnson, it seems, differed from Boileau, Voltaire, and D'Alembert, who had taken upon them to proscribe all modern efforts to write with elegance in a dead language. For a decision pronounced in so high a tone, no good reason can be assigned. The interests of learning require, that the diction of Greece and Rome should be cultivated with care; and he who can write a language with correctness, will be most likely to understand its idiom, its grammar, and its peculiar graces of style. What man of taste would willingly forego the pleasure of reading Vida, Fracastorius, Sannazaro, Strada, and others, down to the late elegant productions of bishop Lowth? The history which Johnson proposed to himself would, beyond all question, have been a valuable addition to the history of letters; but his project failed. His next expedient was to offer his assistance to Cave, the original projector of the Gentleman's Magazine. For this purpose he sent his proposals in a letter, offering, on reasonable terms, occasionally to fill some pages with poems and inscriptions, never printed before; with fugitive pieces that deserved to be revived, and critical remarks on authors, ancient and modern. Cave agreed to retain him as a correspondent and contributor to the magazine. What the conditions were cannot now be known; but, certainly, they were not sufficient to hinder Johnson from casting his eyes about him in quest of other employment. Accordingly, in 1735, he made overtures to the reverend Mr. Budworth, master of a grammar school at Brerewood, in Staffordshire, to become his assistant. This proposition did not succeed. Mr. Budworth apprehended, that the involuntary motions, to which Johnson's nerves were subject, might make him an object of ridicule with his scholars, and, by consequence, lessen their respect for their master. Another mode of advancing himself presented itself about this time. Mrs. Porter, the widow of a mercer in Birmingham, admired his talents. It is said, that she had about eight hundred pounds; and that sum, to a person in Johnson's circumstances, was an affluent fortune. A marriage took place; and, to turn his wife's money to the best advantage, he projected the scheme of an academy for education. Gilbert Walmsley, at that time, registrar of the ecclesiastical court of the bishop of Lichfield, was distinguished by his erudition, and the politeness of his manners. He was the friend of Johnson, and, by his weight and influence, endeavoured to promote his interest. The celebrated Garrick, whose father, captain Garrick, lived at Lichfield, was placed in the new seminary of education by that gentleman's advice.--Garrick was then about eighteen years old. An accession of seven or eight pupils was the most that could be obtained, though notice was given by a public advertisement[g], that at Edial, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen are boarded and taught the Latin and Greek languages, by Samuel Johnson. The undertaking proved abortive. Johnson, having now abandoned all hopes of promoting his fortune in the country, determined to become an adventurer in the world at large. His young pupil, Garrick, had formed the same resolution; and, accordingly, in March, 1737, they arrived in London together. Two such candidates for fame, perhaps never, before that day, entered the metropolis together. Their stock of money was soon exhausted. In his visionary project of an academy, Johnson had probably wasted his wife's substance; and Garrick's father had little more than his half-pay.--The two fellow-travellers had the world before them, and each was to choose his road to fortune and to fame. They brought with them genius, and powers of mind, peculiarly formed by nature for the different vocations to which each of them felt himself inclined. They acted from the impulse of young minds, even then meditating great things, and with courage anticipating success. Their friend, Mr. Walmsley, by a letter to the reverend Mr. Colson, who, it seems, was a great mathematician, exerted his good offices in their favour. He gave notice of their intended journey: "Davy Garrick," he said, "will be with you next week; and Johnson, to try his fate with a tragedy, and to get himself employed in some translation, either from the Latin or French. Johnson is a very good scholar and a poet, and, I have great hopes, will turn out a fine tragedy-writer. If it should be in your way, I doubt not but you will be ready to recommend and assist your countrymen." Of Mr. Walmsley's merit, and the excellence of his character, Johnson has left a beautiful testimonial at the end of the life of Edmund Smith. It is reasonable to conclude, that a mathematician, absorbed in abstract speculations, was not able to find a sphere of action for two men, who were to be the architects of their own fortune. In three or four years afterwards, Garrick came forth with talents that astonished the public. He began his career at Goodman's fields, and there, "monstratus fatis Vespasianus!" he chose a lucrative profession, and, consequently, soon emerged from all his difficulties. Johnson was left to toil in the humble walks of literature. A tragedy, as appears by Walmsley's letter, was the whole of his stock. This, most probably, was Irene; but, if then finished, it was doomed to wait for a more happy period. It was offered to Fleetwood, and rejected. Johnson looked round him for employment. Having, while he remained in the country, corresponded with Cave, under a feigned name, he now thought it time to make himself known to a man, whom he considered as a patron of literature. Cave had announced, by public advertisement, a prize of fifty pounds for the best poem on life, death, judgment, heaven, and hell; and this circumstance diffused an idea of his liberality. Johnson became connected with him in business, and in a close and intimate acquaintance. Of Cave's character it is unnecessary to say any thing in this place, as Johnson was afterwards the biographer of his first and most useful patron. To be engaged in the translation of some important book was still the object which Johnson had in view. For this purpose, he proposed to give the history of the council of Trent, with copious notes, then lately added to a French edition. Twelve sheets of this work were printed, for which Johnson received forty-nine pounds, as appears by his receipt, in the possession of Mr. Nichols, the compiler of that entertaining and useful work, The Gentleman's Magazine. Johnson's translation was never completed: a like design was offered to the public, under the patronage of Dr. Zachary Pearce; and, by that contention, both attempts were frustrated. Johnson had been commended by Pope, for the translation of the Messiah into Latin verse; but he knew no approach to so eminent a man. With one, however, who was connected with Pope, he became acquainted at St. John's gate; and that person was no other than the well-known Richard Savage, whose life was afterwards written by Johnson with great elegance, and a depth of moral reflection. Savage was a man of considerable talents. His address, his various accomplishments, and, above all, the peculiarity of his misfortunes, recommended him to Johnson's notice. They became united in the closest intimacy. Both had great parts, and they were equally under the pressure of want. Sympathy joined them in a league of friendship. Johnson has been often heard to relate, that he and Savage walked round Grosvenor square till four in the morning; in the course of their conversation reforming the world, dethroning princes, establishing new forms of government, and giving laws to the several states of Europe, till, fatigued at length with their legislative office, they began to feel the want of refreshment, but could not muster up more than four-pence-halfpenny. Savage, it is true, had many vices; but vice could never strike its roots in a mind like Johnson's, seasoned early with religion, and the principles of moral rectitude. His first prayer was composed in the year 1738. He had not, at that time, renounced the use of wine; and, no doubt, occasionally enjoyed his friend and his bottle. The love of late hours, which followed him through life, was, perhaps, originally contracted in company with Savage. However that may be, their connexion was not of long duration. In the year 1738, Savage was reduced to the last distress. Mr. Pope, in a letter to him, expressed his concern for "the miserable withdrawing of his pension after the death of the queen;" and gave him hopes that, "in a short time, he should find himself supplied with a competence, without any dependance on those little creatures, whom we are pleased to call the great." The scheme proposed to him was, that he should retire to Swansea in Wales, and receive an allowance of fifty pounds a year, to be raised by subscription: Pope was to pay twenty pounds. This plan, though finally established, took more than a year before it was carried into execution. In the mean time, the intended retreat of Savage called to Johnson's mind the third satire of Juvenal, in which that poet takes leave of a friend, who was withdrawing himself from all the vices of Rome. Struck with this idea, he wrote that well-known poem, called London. The first lines manifestly point to Savage. "Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel, When injur'd Thales bids the town farewell; Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend; I praise the hermit, but regret the friend: Resolv'd, at length, from vice and London far, To breathe, in distant fields, a purer air; And, fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore, Give to St. David one true Briton more." Johnson, at that time, lodged at Greenwich. He there fixes the scene, and takes leave of his friend; who, he says in his life, parted from him with tears in his eyes. The poem, when finished, was offered to Cave. It happened, however, that the late Mr. Dodsley was the purchaser, at the price of ten guineas. It was published in 1738; and Pope, we are told, said, "The author, whoever he is, will not be long concealed;" alluding to the passage in Terence, "Ubi, ubi est, diu celari non potest." Notwithstanding that prediction, it does not appear that, besides the copy-money, any advantage accrued to the author of a poem, written with the elegance and energy of Pope. Johnson, in August, 1738, went, with all the fame of his poetry, to offer himself a candidate for the mastership of the school at Appleby, in Leicestershire. The statutes of the place required, that the person chosen should be a master of arts. To remove this objection, the then lord Gower was induced to write to a friend, in order to obtain for Johnson a master's degree in the university of Dublin, by the recommendation of Dr. Swift. The letter was printed in one of the magazines, and was as follows: SIR,--Mr. Samuel Johnson, author of London, a satire, and some other poetical pieces, is a native of this county, and much respected by some worthy gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who are trustees of a charity-school, now vacant; the certain salary of which is sixty pounds per year, of which they are desirous to make him master; but, unfortunately, he is not capable of receiving their bounty, which would make him happy for life, by not being a master of arts, which, by the statutes of the school, the master of it must be. Now these gentlemen do me the honour to think, that I have interest enough in you, to prevail upon you to write to dean Swift, to persuade the university of Dublin to send a diploma to me, constituting this poor man master of arts in their university. They highly extol the man's learning and probity; and will not be persuaded, that the university will make any difficulty of conferring such a favour upon a stranger, if he is recommended by the dean. They say, he is not afraid of the strictest examination, though he is of so long a journey; and yet he will venture it, if the dean thinks it necessary, choosing rather to die upon the road, than to be starved to death in translating for booksellers, which has been his only subsistence for some time past. I fear there is more difficulty in this affair than these good-natured gentlemen apprehend, especially as their election cannot be delayed longer than the eleventh of next month. If you see this matter in the same light that it appears to me, I hope you will burn this, and pardon me for giving you so much trouble about an impracticable thing; but, if you think there is a probability of obtaining the favour asked, I am sure your humanity and propensity to relieve merit, in distress, will incline you to serve the poor man, without my adding any more to the trouble I have already given you, than assuring you, that I am, with great truth, sir, Your faithful humble servant, Trentham, Aug. 1st. GOWER. This scheme miscarried. There is reason to think, that Swift declined to meddle in the business; and, to that circumstance, Johnson's known dislike of Swift has been often imputed. It is mortifying to pursue a man of merit through all his difficulties; and yet this narrative must be, through many following years, the history of genius and virtue struggling with adversity. Having lost the school at Appleby, Johnson was thrown back on the metropolis. Bred to no profession, without relations, friends, or interest, he was condemned to drudgery in the service of Cave, his only patron. In November, 1738, was published a translation of Crousaz's Examen of Pope's Essay on Man; containing a succinct view of the system of the fatalists, and a confutation of their opinions; with an illustration of the doctrine of free will; and an enquiry, what view Mr. Pope might have in touching upon the Leibnitzian philosophy, and fatalism: by Mr. Crousaz, professor of philosophy and mathematics at Lausanne. This translation has been generally thought a production of Johnson's pen; but it is now known, that Mrs. Elizabeth Carter has acknowledged it to be one of her early performances. It is certain, however, that Johnson was eager to promote the publication. He considered the foreign philosopher as a man zealous in the cause of religion; and with him he was willing to join against the system of the fatalists, and the doctrine of Leibnitz. It is well known, that Warburton wrote a vindication of Mr. Pope; but there is reason to think, that Johnson conceived an early prejudice against the Essay on Man; and what once took root in a mind like his, was not easily eradicated. His letter to Cave on this subject is still extant, and may well justify sir John Hawkins, who inferred that Johnson was the translator of Crousaz. The conclusion of the letter is remarkable: "I am yours, Impransus." If by that Latin word was meant, that he had not dined, because he wanted the means, who can read it, even at this hour, without an aching heart? With a mind naturally vigorous, and quickened by necessity, Johnson formed a multiplicity of projects; but most of them proved abortive. A number of small tracts issued from his pen with wonderful rapidity; such as Marmor Norfolciense; or an essay on an ancient prophetical inscription, in monkish rhyme, discovered at Lynn, in Norfolk. By Probus Britannicus. This was a pamphlet against sir Robert Walpole. According to sir John Hawkins, a warrant was issued to apprehend the author, who retired, with his wife, to an obscure lodging near Lambeth marsh, and there eluded the search of the messengers. But this story has no foundation in truth. Johnson was never known to mention such an incident in his life; and Mr. Steele, late of the treasury, caused diligent search to be made at the proper offices, and no trace of such a proceeding could be found. In the same year (1739) the lord chamberlain prohibited the representation of a tragedy, called Gustavus Vasa, by Henry Brooke. Under the mask of irony, Johnson published, A Vindication of the Licenser from the malicious and scandalous Aspersions of Mr. Brooke. Of these two pieces, sir John Hawkins says, "they have neither learning nor wit; nor a single ray of that genius, which has since blazed forth;" but, as they have been lately reprinted, the reader, who wishes to gratify his curiosity, is referred to the fourteenth volume of Johnson's works, published by Stockdale[h]. The lives of Boerhaave, Blake, Barratier, father Paul, and others, were, about that time, printed in the Gentleman's Magazine. The subscription of fifty pounds a year for Savage was completed; and, in July 1739, Johnson parted with the companion of his midnight hours, never to see him more. The separation was, perhaps, an advantage to him, who wanted to make a right use of his time, and even then beheld, with self-reproach, the waste occasioned by dissipation. His abstinence from wine and strong liquors began soon after the departure of Savage. What habits he contracted in the course of that acquaintance cannot now be known. The ambition of excelling in conversation, and that pride of victory, which, at times, disgraced a man of Johnson's genius, were, perhaps, native blemishes. A fierce spirit of independence, even in the midst of poverty, may be seen in Savage; and, if not thence transfused by Johnson into his own manners, it may, at least, be supposed to have gained strength from the example before him. During that connexion, there was, if we believe sir John Hawkins, a short separation between our author and his wife; but a reconciliation soon took place. Johnson loved her, and showed his affection in various modes of gallantry, which Garrick used to render ridiculous by his mimicry. The affectation of soft and fashionable airs did not become an unwieldy figure: his admiration was received by the wife with the flutter of an antiquated coquette; and both, it is well known, furnished matter for the lively genius of Garrick. It is a mortifying reflection, that Johnson, with a store of learning and extraordinary talents, was not able, at the age of thirty, to force his way to the favour of the public: "Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd." "He was still," as he says himself, "to provide for the day that was passing over him." He saw Cave involved in a state of warfare with the numerous competitors, at that time, struggling with the Gentleman's Magazine; and gratitude for such supplies as Johnson received, dictated a Latin ode on the subject of that contention. The first lines, "Urbane, nullis fesse laboribus, Urbane, nullis victe calumniis," put one in mind of Casimir's ode to Pope Urban: "Urbane, regum maxime, maxime Urbane vatum."-- The Polish poet was, probably, at that time, in the hands of a man, who had meditated the history of the Latin poets. Guthrie, the historian, had, from July, 1736, composed the parliamentary speeches for the magazine; but, from the beginning of the session, which opened on the 19th of November, 1740, Johnson succeeded to that department, and continued it from that time to the debate on spirituous liquors, which happened in the house of lords, in February, 1742-3. The eloquence, the force of argument, and the splendor of language, displayed in the several speeches, are well known, and universally admired. That Johnson was the author of the debates, during that period, was not generally known; but the secret transpired several years afterwards, and was avowed, by himself, on the following occasion. Mr. Wedderburne, now lord Loughborough[i], Dr. Johnson, Dr. Francis, the translator of Horace, the present writer, and others, dined with the late Mr. Foote. An important debate, towards the end of sir Robert Walpole's administration, being mentioned, Dr. Francis observed, "that Mr. Pitt's speech, on that occasion, was the best he had ever read." He added, "that he had employed eight years of his life in the study of Demosthenes, and finished a translation of that celebrated orator, with all the decorations of style and language within the reach of his capacity; but he had met with nothing equal to the speech above mentioned." Many of the company remembered the debate, and some passages were cited, with the approbation and applause of all present. During the ardour of conversation, Johnson remained silent. As soon as the warmth of praise subsided, he opened with these words: "That speech I wrote in a garret in Exeter street." The company was struck with astonishment. After staring at each other in silent amaze, Dr. Francis asked, "how that speech could be written by him?" "Sir," said Johnson, "I wrote it in Exeter street. I never had been in the gallery of the house of commons but once. Cave had interest with the door-keepers. He, and the persons employed under him, gained admittance; they brought away the subject of discussion, the names of the speakers, the side they took, and the order in which they rose, together with notes of the arguments advanced in the course of the debate. The whole was afterwards communicated to me, and I composed the speeches in the form which they now have in the parliamentary debates." To this discovery, Dr. Francis made answer: "Then, sir, you have exceeded Demosthenes himself; for to say, that you have exceeded Francis's Demosthenes, would be saying nothing." The rest of the company bestowed lavish encomiums on Johnson: one, in particular, praised his impartiality; observing, that he dealt out reason and eloquence, with an equal hand to both parties. "That is not quite true," said Johnson; "I saved appearances tolerably well; but I took care that the WHIG DOGS should not have the best of it." The sale of the magazine was greatly increased by the parliamentary debates, which were continued by Johnson till the month of March, 1742-3. From that time the magazine was conducted by Dr. Hawkesworth. In 1743-4, Osborne, the bookseller, who kept a shop in Gray's inn, purchased the earl of Oxford's library, at the price of thirteen thousand pounds. He projected a catalogue in five octavo volumes, at five shillings each. Johnson was employed in that painful drudgery. He was, likewise, to collect all such small tracts as were, in any degree, worth preserving, in order to reprint and publish the whole in a collection, called The Harleian Miscellany. The catalogue was completed; and the miscellany, in 1749, was published in eight quarto volumes. In this business Johnson was a day-labourer for immediate subsistence, not unlike Gustavus Vasa, working in the mines of Dalecarlia. What Wilcox, a bookseller of eminence in the Strand, said to Johnson, on his first arrival in town, was now almost confirmed. He lent our author five guineas, and then asked him, "How do you mean to earn your livelihood in this town?" "By my literary labours," was the answer. Wilcox, staring at him, shook his head: "By your literary labours! You had better buy a porter's knot." Johnson used to tell this anecdote to Mr. Nichols: but he said, "Wilcox was one of my best friends, and he meant well." In fact, Johnson, while employed in Gray's inn, may be said to have carried a porter's knot. He paused occasionally to peruse the book that came to his hand. Osborne thought that such curiosity tended to nothing but delay, and objected to it with all the pride and insolence of a man who knew that he paid daily wages. In the dispute that of course ensued, Osborne, with that roughness which was natural to him, enforced his argument by giving the lie. Johnson seized a folio, and knocked the bookseller down. This story has been related as an instance of Johnson's ferocity; but merit cannot always take the spurns of the unworthy with a patient spirit[k]. That the history of an author must be found in his works is, in general, a true observation; and was never more apparent than in the present narrative. Every aera of Johnson's life is fixed by his writings. In 1744, he published the life of Savage; and then projected a new edition of Shakespeare. As a prelude to that design, he published, in 1745, Miscellaneous Observations on the Tragedy of Macbeth, with remarks on sir Thomas Hanmer's edition; to which were prefixed, Proposals for a new Edition of Shakespeare, with a specimen. Of this pamphlet, Warburton, in the preface to Shakespeare, has given his opinion: "As to all those things, which have been published under the title of essays, remarks, observations, &c. on Shakespeare, if you except some critical notes on Macbeth, given as a specimen of a projected edition, and written, as appears, by a man of parts and genius, the rest are absolutely below a serious notice." But the attention of the public was not excited; there was no friend to promote a subscription; and the project died to revive at a future day. A new undertaking, however, was soon after proposed; namely, an English dictionary upon an enlarged plan. Several of the most opulent booksellers had meditated a work of this kind; and the agreement was soon adjusted between the parties. Emboldened by this connexion, Johnson thought of a better habitation than he had hitherto known. He had lodged with his wife in courts and alleys about the Strand; but now, for the purpose of carrying on his arduous undertaking, and to be nearer his printer and friend, Mr. Strahan, he ventured to take a house in Gough square, Fleet street. He was told, that the earl of Chesterfield was a friend to his undertaking; and, in consequence of that intelligence, he published, in 1747, The Plan of a Dictionary of the English Language, addressed to the right honourable Philip Dormer, earl of Chesterfield, one of his majesty's principal secretaries of state. Mr. Whitehead, afterwards poet laureate, undertook to convey the manuscript to his lordship: the consequence was an invitation from lord Chesterfield to the author. A stronger contrast of characters could not be brought together; the nobleman, celebrated for his wit, and all the graces of polite behaviour; the author, conscious of his own merit, towering in idea above all competition, versed in scholastic logic, but a stranger to the arts of polite conversation, uncouth, vehement, and vociferous. The coalition was too unnatural. Johnson expected a Maecenas, and was disappointed. No patronage, no assistance followed. Visits were repeated; but the reception was not cordial. Johnson, one day, was left a full hour, waiting in an antichamber, till a gentleman should retire, and leave his lordship at leisure. This was the famous Colley Cibber. Johnson saw him go, and, fired with indignation, rushed out of the house[l]. What lord Chesterfield thought of his visitor may be seen in a passage in one of that nobleman's letters to his son[m]. "There is a man, whose moral character, deep learning, and superior parts, I acknowledge, admire, and respect; but whom it is so impossible for me to love, that I am almost in a fever, whenever I am in his company. His figure (without being deformed) seems made to disgrace or ridicule the common structure of the human body. His legs and arms are never in the position which, according to the situation of his body, they ought to be in, but constantly employed in committing acts of hostility upon the graces. He throws any where, but down his throat, whatever he means to drink; and mangles what he means to carve. Inattentive to all the regards of social life, he mistimes and misplaces every thing. He disputes with heat indiscriminately, mindless of the rank, character, and situation of those with whom he disputes. Absolutely ignorant of the several gradations of familiarity and respect, he is exactly the same to his superiors, his equals, and his inferiors; and, therefore, by a necessary consequence, is absurd to two of the three. Is it possible to love such a man? No. The utmost I can do for him is, to consider him a respectable Hottentot." Such was the idea entertained by lord Chesterfield. After the incident of Colley Cibber, Johnson never repeated his visits. In his high and decisive tone, he has been often heard to say, "lord Chesterfield is a wit among lords, and a lord among wits." In the course of the year 1747, Garrick, in conjunction with Lacy, became patentee of Drury lane playhouse. For the opening of the theatre, at the usual time, Johnson wrote, for his friend, the well-known prologue, which, to say no more of it, may, at least, be placed on a level with Pope's to the tragedy of Cato. The playhouse being now under Garrick's direction, Johnson thought the opportunity fair to think of his tragedy of Irene, which was his whole stock on his first arrival in town, in the year 1737. That play was, accordingly, put into rehearsal in January, 1749. As a precursor to prepare the way, and to awaken the public attention, The Vanity of human Wishes, a poem in imitation of the tenth satire of Juvenal, by the author of London, was published in the same month. In the Gentleman's Magazine, for February, 1749, we find that the tragedy of Irene was acted at Drury lane, on Monday, February the 6th, and, from that time, without interruption, to Monday, February the 20th, being in all thirteen nights. Since that time, it has not been exhibited on any stage. Irene may be added to some other plays in our language, which have lost their place in the theatre, but continue to please in the closet. During the representation of this piece, Johnson attended every night behind the scenes. Conceiving that his character, as an author, required some ornament for his person, he chose, upon that occasion, to decorate himself with a handsome waistcoat, and a gold-laced hat. The late Mr. Topham Beauclerc, who had a great deal of that humour, which pleases the more for seeming undesigned, used to give a pleasant description of this green-room finery, as related by the author himself; "But," said Johnson, with great gravity, "I soon laid aside my gold-laced hat, lest it should make me proud." The amount of the three benefit nights for the tragedy of Irene, it is to be feared, was not very considerable, as the profit, that stimulating motive, never invited the author to another dramatic attempt. Some years afterwards, when the present writer was intimate with Garrick, and knew Johnson to be in distress, he asked the manager, why he did not produce another tragedy for his Lichfield friend? Garrick's answer was remarkable: "When Johnson writes tragedy, 'declamation roars, and passion sleeps:' when Shakespeare wrote, he dipped his pen in his own heart." There may, perhaps, be a degree of sameness in this regular way of tracing an author from one work to another, and the reader may feel the effect of a tedious monotony; but, in the life of Johnson, there are no other landmarks. He was now forty years old, and had mixed but little with the world. He followed no profession, transacted no business, and was a stranger to what is called a town life. We are now arrived at the brightest period, he had hitherto known. His name broke out upon mankind with a degree of lustre that promised a triumph over all his difficulties. The life of Savage was admired, as a beautiful and instructive piece of biography. The two imitations of Juvenal were thought to rival even the excellence of Pope; and the tragedy of Irene, though uninteresting on the stage, was universally admired in the closet, for the propriety of the sentiments, the richness of the language, and the general harmony of the whole composition. His fame was widely diffused; and he had made his agreement with the booksellers for his English dictionary at the sum of fifteen hundred guineas; a part of which was to be, from time to time, advanced, in proportion to the progress of the work. This was a certain fund for his support, without being obliged to write fugitive pieces for the petty supplies of the day. Accordingly we find that, in 1749, he established a club, consisting of ten in number, at Horseman's, in Ivy lane, on every Tuesday evening. This is the first scene of social life to which Johnson can be traced, out of his own house. The members of this little society were, Samuel Johnson; Dr. Salter, father of the late master of the Charter house; Dr. Hawkesworth; Mr. Ryland, a merchant; Mr. Payne, a bookseller, in Paternoster row; Mr. Samuel Dyer, a learned young man; Dr. William M'Ghie, a Scotch physician; Dr. Edmund Barker, a young physician; Dr. Bathurst, another young physician; and sir John Hawkins. This list is given by sir John, as it should seem, with no other view than to draw a spiteful and malevolent character of almost every one of them. Mr. Dyer, whom sir John says he loved with the affection of a brother, meets with the harshest treatment, because it was his maxim, that "to live in peace with mankind, and in a temper to do good offices, was the most essential part of our duty." That notion of moral goodness gave umbrage to sir John Hawkins, and drew down upon the memory of his friend, the bitterest imputations. Mr. Dyer, however, was admired and loved through life. He was a man of literature. Johnson loved to enter with him into a discussion of metaphysical, moral, and critical subjects; in those conflicts, exercising his talents, and, according to his custom, always contending for victory. Dr. Bathurst was the person on whom Johnson fixed his affection. He hardly ever spoke of him without tears in his eyes. It was from him, who was a native of Jamaica, that Johnson received into his service Frank[n], the black servant, whom, on account of his master, he valued to the end of his life. At the time of instituting the club in Ivy lane, Johnson had projected the Rambler. The title was most probably suggested by the Wanderer; a poem which he mentions, with the warmest praise, in the life of Savage. With the same spirit of independence with which he wished to live, it was now his pride to write. He communicated his plan to none of his friends: he desired no assistance, relying entirely on his own fund, and the protection of the divine being, which he implored in a solemn form of prayer, composed by himself for the occasion. Having formed a resolution to undertake a work that might be of use and honour to his country, he thought, with Milton, that this was not to be obtained "but by devout prayer to that eternal spirit, that can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and send out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases." Having invoked the special protection of heaven, and by that act of piety fortified his mind, he began the great work of the Rambler. The first number was published on Tuesday, March the 20th, 1750; and from that time was continued regularly every Tuesday and Saturday, for the space of two years, when it finally closed on Saturday, March 14, 1752. As it began with motives of piety, so it appears that the same religious spirit glowed, with unabating ardour, to the last. His conclusion is: "The essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity of the present age. I, therefore, look back on this part of my work with pleasure, which no man shall diminish or augment. I shall never envy the honours which wit and learning obtain in any other cause, if I can be numbered among the writers who have given ardour to virtue, and confidence to truth." The whole number of essays amounted to two hundred and eight. Addison's, in the Spectator, are more in number, but not half in point of quantity: Addison was not bound to publish on stated days; he could watch the ebb and flow of his genius, and send his paper to the press, when his own taste was satisfied. Johnson's case was very different. He wrote singly and alone. In the whole progress of the work he did not receive more than ten essays. This was a scanty contribution. For the rest, the author has described his situation: "He that condemns himself to compose on a stated day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a memory embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he will labour on a barren topick, till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce." Of this excellent production, the number sold on each day did not amount to five hundred: of course, the bookseller, who paid the author four guineas a week, did not carry on a successful trade. His generosity and perseverance deserve to be commended; and happily, when the collection appeared in volumes, were amply rewarded. Johnson lived to see his labours nourish in a tenth edition. His posterity, as an ingenious French writer has said, on a similar occasion, began in his life-time. In the beginning of 1750, soon after the Rambler was set on foot, Johnson was induced, by the arts of a vile impostor, to lend his assistance, during a temporary delusion, to a fraud not to be paralleled in the annals of literature[o]. One Lauder, a native of Scotland, who had been a teacher in the university of Edinburgh, had conceived a mortal antipathy to the name and character of Milton. His reason was, because the prayer of Pamela, in sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, was, as he supposed, maliciously inserted by the great poet in an edition of the Eikôn Basilike, in order to fix an imputation of impiety on the memory of the murdered king. Fired with resentment, and willing to reap the profits of a gross imposition, this man collected, from several Latin poets, such as Masenius the jesuit, Staphorstius, a Dutch divine, Beza, and others, all such passages as bore any kind of resemblance to different places in the Paradise Lost; and these he published, from time to time, in the Gentleman's Magazine, with occasional interpolations of lines, which he himself translated from Milton. The public credulity swallowed all with eagerness; and Milton was supposed to be guilty of plagiarism from inferior modern writers. The fraud succeeded so well, that Lauder collected the whole into a volume, and advertised it under the title of An Essay on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns, in his Paradise Lost; dedicated to the universities of Oxford and Cambridge. While the book was in the press, the proof-sheets were shown to Johnson, at the Ivy lane club, by Payne, the bookseller, who was one of the members. No man in that society was in possession of the authors from whom Lauder professed to make his extracts. The charge was believed, and the contriver of it found his way to Johnson, who is represented, by sir John Hawkins, not indeed as an accomplice in the fraud, but, through motives of malignity to Milton, delighting in the detection, and exulting that the poet's reputation would suffer by the discovery. More malice to a deceased friend cannot well be imagined. Hawkins adds, "that he wished well to the argument must be inferred from the preface, which, indubitably, was written by him." The preface, it is well known, was written by Johnson, and for that reason is inserted in this edition. But if Johnson approved of the argument, it was no longer than while he believed it founded in truth. Let us advert to his own words in that very preface. "Among the inquiries to which the ardour of criticism has naturally given occasion, none is more obscure in itself, or more worthy of rational curiosity, than a retrospection of the progress of this mighty genius in the construction of his work; a view of the fabrick gradually rising, perhaps from small beginnings, till its foundation rests in the centre, and its turrets sparkle in the skies; to trace back the structure, through all its varieties, to the simplicity of the first plan; to find what was projected, whence the scheme was taken, how it was improved, by what assistance it was executed, and from what stores the materials were collected; whether its founder dug them from the quarries of nature, or demolished other buildings to embellish his own." These were the motives that induced Johnson to assist Lauder with a preface; and are not these the motives of a critic and a scholar? What reader of taste, what man of real knowledge, would not think his time well employed in an enquiry so curious, so interesting, and instructive? If Lauder's facts were really true, who would not be glad, without the smallest tincture of malevolence, to receive real information? It is painful to be thus obliged to vindicate a man who, in his heart, towered above the petty arts of fraud and imposition, against an injudicious biographer, who undertook to be his editor, and the protector of his memory. Another writer, Dr. Towers, in an Essay on the Life and Character of Dr. Johnson, seems to countenance this calumny. He says: "It can hardly be doubted, but that Johnson's aversion to Milton's politics was the cause of that alacrity, with which he joined with Lauder in his infamous attack on our great epic poet, and which induced him to assist in that transaction." These words would seem to describe an accomplice, were they not immediately followed by an express declaration, that Johnson was "unacquainted with the imposture." Dr. Towers adds, "It seems to have been, by way of making some compensation to the memory of Milton, for the share he had in the attack of Lauder, that Johnson wrote the prologue, spoken by Garrick, at Drury lane theatre, 1750, on the performance of the Masque of Comus, for the benefit of Milton's granddaughter." Dr. Towers is not free from prejudice; but, as Shakespeare has it, "he begets a temperance, to give it smoothness." He is, therefore, entitled to a dispassionate answer. When Johnson wrote the prologue, it does appear that he was aware of the malignant artifices practised by Lauder. In the postscript to Johnson's preface, a subscription is proposed, for relieving the granddaughter of the author of Paradise Lost. Dr. Towers will agree, that this shows Johnson's alacrity in doing good. That alacrity showed itself again, in the letter printed in the European Magazine, January, 1785, and there said to have appeared originally in the General Advertiser, 4th April, 1750, by which the public were invited to embrace the opportunity of paying a just regard to the illustrious dead, united with the pleasure of doing good to the living. The letter adds, "To assist industrious indigence, struggling with distress, and debilitated by age, is a display of virtue, and an acquisition of happiness and honour. Whoever, therefore, would be thought capable of pleasure, in reading the works of our incomparable Milton, and not so destitute of gratitude, as to refuse to lay out a trifle, in a rational and elegant entertainment, for the benefit of his living remains, for the exercise of their own virtue, the increase of their reputation, and the consciousness of doing good, should appear at Drury lane theatre, to-morrow, April 5, when Comus will be performed, for the benefit of Mrs. Elizabeth Foster, granddaughter to the author, and the only surviving branch of his family. _Nota bene_, there will be a new prologue on the occasion, written by the author of Irene, and spoken by Mr. Garrick." The man, who had thus exerted himself to serve the granddaughter, cannot be supposed to have entertained personal malice to the grandfather. It is true, that the malevolence of Lauder, as well as the impostures of Archibald Bower, were fully detected by the labours, in the cause of truth, of the reverend Dr. Douglas, the late lord bishop of Salisbury, --"Diram qui contudit Hydram Notaque fatali portenta labore subegit." But the pamphlet, entitled, Milton vindicated from the Charge of Plagiarism brought against him by Mr. Lauder, and Lauder himself convicted of several forgeries, and gross impositions on the public, by John Douglas, M.A. rector of Eaton Constantine, Salop, was not published till the year 1751. In that work, p. 77, Dr. Douglas says, "It is to be hoped, nay, it is expected, that the elegant and nervous writer, whose judicious sentiments, and inimitable style, point out the author of Lauder's preface and postcript, will no longer allow a man to plume himself with his feathers, who appears so little to have deserved his assistance; an assistance which, I am persuaded, would never have been communicated, had there been the least suspicion of those facts, which I have been the instrument of conveying to the world." We have here a contemporary testimony to the integrity of Dr. Johnson, throughout the whole of that vile transaction. What was the consequence of the requisition made by Dr. Douglas? Johnson, whose ruling passion may be said to be the love of truth, convinced Lauder, that it would be more for his interest to make a full confession of his guilt, than to stand forth the convicted champion of a lie; and, for this purpose, he drew up, in the strongest terms, a recantation, in a letter to the reverend Mr. Douglas, which Lauder signed, and published in the year 1751. That piece will remain a lasting memorial of the abhorrence, with which Johnson beheld a violation of truth. Mr. Nichols, whose attachment to his illustrious friend was unwearied, showed him, in 1780, a book, called Remarks on Johnson's Life of Milton; in which the affair of Lauder was renewed with virulence; and a poetical scale in the Literary Magazine, 1758, (when Johnson had ceased to write in that collection,) was urged as an additional proof of deliberate malice. He read the libellous passage with attention, and instantly wrote on the margin: "In the business of Lauder I was deceived, partly by thinking the man too frantick to be fraudulent. Of the poetical scale, quoted from the magazine, I am not the author. I fancy it was put in after I had quitted that work; for I not only did not write it, but I do not remember it." As a critic and a scholar, Johnson was willing to receive what numbers, at the time, believed to be true information: when he found that the whole was a forgery, he renounced all connexion with the author. In March, 1752, he felt a severe stroke of affliction in the death of his wife. The last number of the Rambler, as already mentioned, was on the 14th of that month. The loss of Mrs. Johnson was then approaching, and, probably, was the cause that put an end to those admirable periodical essays. It appears that she died on the 28th of March, in a memorandum, at the foot of the Prayers and Meditations, that is called her Dying Day. She was buried at Bromley, under the care of Dr. Hawkesworth. Johnson placed a Latin inscription on her tomb, in which he celebrated her beauty. With the singularity of his prayers for his deceased wife, from that time to the end of his days, the world is sufficiently acquainted. On Easter day, 22nd April, 1764, his memorandum says: "Thought on Tetty, poor dear Tetty! with my eyes full. Went to church. After sermon I recommended Tetty in a prayer by herself; and my father, mother, brother, and Bathurst, in another. I did it only once, so far as it might be lawful for me." In a prayer, January 23, 1759, the day on which his mother was buried, he commends, as far as may be lawful, her soul to God, imploring for her whatever is most beneficial to her in her present state. In this habit he persevered to the end of his days. The reverend Mr. Strahan, the editor of the Prayers and Meditations, observes, "that Johnson, on some occasions, prays that the Almighty _may have had mercy_ on his wife and Mr. Thrale; evidently supposing their sentence to have been already passed in the divine mind; and, by consequence, proving, that he had no belief in a state of purgatory, and no reason for praying for the dead that could impeach the sincerity of his profession as a protestant." Mr. Strahan adds, "that, in praying for the regretted tenants of the grave, Johnson conformed to a practice which has been retained by many learned members of the established church, though the liturgy no longer admits it, if _where the tree, falleth, there it shall be_; if our state, at the close of life, is to be the measure of our final sentence, then prayers for the dead, being visibly fruitless, can be regarded only as the vain oblations of superstition. But of all superstitions this, perhaps, is one of the least unamiable, and most incident to a good mind. If our sensations of kindness be intense, those, whom we have revered and loved, death cannot wholly seclude from our concern. It is true, for the reason just mentioned, such evidences of our surviving affection may be thought ill judged; but surely they are generous, and some natural tenderness is due even to a superstition, which thus originates in piety and benevolence." These sentences, extracted from the reverend Mr. Strahan's preface, if they are not a full justification, are, at least, a beautiful apology. It will not be improper to add what Johnson himself has said on the subject. Being asked by Mr. Boswell[p], what he thought of purgatory, as believed by the Roman catholicks? his answer was, "It is a very harmless doctrine. They are of opinion, that the generality of mankind are neither so obstinately wicked, as to deserve everlasting punishment; nor so good as to merit being admitted into the society of blessed spirits; and, therefore, that God is graciously pleased to allow a middle state, where they may be purified by certain degrees of suffering. You see there is nothing unreasonable in this; and if it be once established, that there are souls in purgatory, it is as proper to pray for them, as for our brethren of mankind, who are yet in this life." This was Dr. Johnson's guess into futurity; and to guess is the utmost that man can do: "Shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it." Mrs. Johnson left a daughter, Lucy Porter, by her first husband. She had contracted a friendship with Mrs. Anne Williams, the daughter of Zachary Williams, a physician of eminence in South Wales, who had devoted more than thirty years of a long life to the study of the longitude, and was thought to have made great advances towards that important discovery. His letters to lord Halifax, and the lords of the admiralty, partly corrected and partly written by Dr. Johnson, are still extant in the hands of Mr. Nichols[q]. We there find Dr. Williams, in the eighty-third year of his age, stating, that he had prepared an instrument, which might be called an epitome or miniature of the terraqueous globe, showing, with the assistance of tables, constructed by himself, the variations of the magnetic needle, and ascertaining the longitude, for the safety of navigation. It appears that this scheme had been referred to sir Isaac Newton; but that great philosopher excusing himself on account of his advanced age, all applications were useless, till 1751, when the subject was referred, by order of lord Anson, to Dr. Bradley, the celebrated professor of astronomy. His report was unfavourable[r], though it allows that a considerable progress had been made. Dr. Williams, after all his labour and expense, died in a short time after, a melancholy instance of unrewarded merit. His daughter possessed uncommon talents, and, though blind, had an alacrity of mind that made her conversation agreeable, and even desirable. To relieve and appease melancholy reflexions, Johnson took her home to his house in Gough square. In 1755, Garrick gave her a benefit play, which produced two hundred pounds. In 1766, she published, by subscription, a quarto volume of miscellanies, and increased her little stock to three hundred pounds. That fund, with Johnson's protection, supported her, through the remainder of her life. During the two years in which the Rambler was carried on, the Dictionary proceeded by slow degrees. In May, 1752, having composed a prayer, preparatory to his return from tears and sorrow to the duties of life, he resumed his grand design, and went on with vigour, giving, however, occasional assistance to his friend, Dr. Hawkesworth, in the Adventurer, which began soon after the Rambler was laid aside. Some of the most valuable essays in that collection were from the pen of Johnson. The Dictionary was completed towards the end of 1754; and, Cave being then no more, it was a mortification to the author of that noble addition to our language, that his old friend did not live to see the triumph of his labours. In May, 1755, that great work was published. Johnson was desirous that it should come from one who had obtained academical honours; and for that purpose his friend, the rev. Thos. Warton, obtained for him, in the preceding month of February, a diploma for a master's degree, from the university of Oxford.--Garrick, on the publication of the Dictionary, wrote the following lines: "Talk of war with a Briton, he'll boldly advance, That one English soldier can beat ten of France. Would we alter the boast, from the sword to the pen, Our odds are still greater, still greater our men. In the deep mines of science, though Frenchmen may toil, Can their strength be compar'd to Locke, Newton, or Boyle? Let them rally their heroes, send forth all their powers, Their versemen and prosemen, then match them with ours. First Shakespeare and Milton, like gods in the fight, Have put their whole drama and epic to flight. In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope? Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope. And Johnson, well arm'd, like a hero of yore, Has beat forty French, and will beat forty more." It is, perhaps, needless to mention, that forty was the number of the French academy, at the time when their dictionary was published to settle their language. In the course of the winter, preceding this grand publication, the late earl of Chesterfield gave two essays in the periodical paper, called The World, dated November 28, and December 5, 1754, to prepare the public for so important a work. The original plan, addressed to his lordship in the year 1747, is there mentioned, in terms of the highest praise; and this was understood, at the time, to be a courtly way of soliciting a dedication of the Dictionary to himself. Johnson treated this civility with disdain. He said to Garrick and others: "I have sailed a long and painful voyage round the world of the English language; and does he now send out two cockboats to tow me into harbour?" He had said, in the last number of the Rambler, "that, having laboured to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness of dedication." Such a man, when he had finished his Dictionary, "not," as he says himself, "in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academick bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow, and without the patronage of the great," was not likely to be caught by the lure, thrown out by lord Chesterfield. He had, in vain, sought the patronage of that nobleman; and his pride, exasperated by disappointment, drew from him the following letter, dated in the month of February, 1755. "TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. MY LORD,--I have been lately informed, by the proprietors of The World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the publick, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish, that I might boast myself "le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre;" that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending. But I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in publick, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing, which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward room, or was repulsed from your door; during which time, I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect; for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew acquainted with love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed, till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations, where no benefit has been received; or to be unwilling that the publick should consider me as owing that to a patron, which providence has enabled me to do for myself. Having carried on my work, thus far, with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed, though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself, with so much exultation, My lord, your lordship's most humble and most obedient servant, SAMUEL JOHNSON." It is said, upon good authority, that Johnson once received from lord Chesterfield the sum of ten pounds. It were to be wished that the secret had never transpired. It was mean to receive it, and meaner to give it. It may be imagined, that for Johnson's ferocity, as it has been called, there was some foundation in his finances; and, as his Dictionary was brought to a conclusion, that money was now to flow in upon him. The reverse was the case. For his subsistence, during the progress of the work, he had received, at different times, the amount of his contract; and, when his receipts were produced to him at a tavern dinner, given by the booksellers, it appeared, that he had been paid a hundred pounds and upwards more than his due. The author of a book, called Lexiphanes[s], written by a Mr. Campbell, a Scotchman, and purser of a man of war, endeavoured to blast his laurels, but in vain. The world applauded, and Johnson never replied. "Abuse," he said, "is often of service: there is nothing so dangerous to an author as silence; his name, like a shittlecock [Transcriber's note: sic], must be beat backward and forward, or it falls to the ground." Lexiphanes professed to be an imitation of the pleasant manner of Lucian; but humour was not the talent of the writer of Lexiphanes. As Dryden says, "he had too much horse-play in his raillery." It was in the summer, 1754, that the present writer became acquainted with Dr. Johnson. The cause of his first visit is related by Mrs. Piozzi, nearly in the following manner:--Mr. Murphy being engaged in a periodical paper, the Gray's inn Journal, was at a friend's house in the country, and, not being disposed to lose pleasure for business, wished to content his bookseller by some unstudied essay. He, therefore, took up a French Journal Littéraire, and, translating something he liked, sent it away to town. Time, however, discovered that he translated from the French, a Rambler, which had been taken from the English, without acknowledgment. Upon this discovery, Mr. Murphy thought it right to make his excuses to Dr. Johnson. He went next day, and found him covered with soot, like a chimney-sweeper, in a little room, as if he had been acting Lungs, in the Alchemist, "making ether." This being told by Mr. Murphy, in company, "Come, come," said Dr. Johnson, "the story is black enough; but it was a happy day that brought you first to my house." After this first visit, the author of this narrative, by degrees, grew intimate with Dr. Johnson. The first striking sentence, that he heard from him, was in a few days after the publication of lord Bolingbroke's posthumous works. Mr. Garrick asked him, "If he had seen them." "Yes, I have seen them." "What do you think of them?" "Think of them!" He made a long pause, and then replied: "Think of them! A scoundrel, and a coward! A scoundrel, who spent his life in charging a gun against christianity; and a coward, who was afraid of hearing the report of his own gun; but left half a crown to a hungry Scotchman to draw the trigger, after his death." His mind, at this time strained, and over-laboured by constant exertion, called for an interval of repose and indolence. But indolence was the time of danger: it was then that his spirits, not employed abroad, turned with inward hostility against himself. His reflections on his own life and conduct were always severe; and, wishing to be immaculate, he destroyed his own peace by unnecessary scruples. He tells us, that when he surveyed his past life, he discovered nothing but a barren waste of time, with some disorders of body, and disturbances of mind, very near to madness. His life, he says, from his earliest years, was wasted in a morning bed; and his reigning sin was a general sluggishness, to which he was always inclined, and, in part of his life, almost compelled, by morbid melancholy, and weariness of mind. This was his constitutional malady, derived, perhaps, from his father, who was, at times, overcast with a gloom that bordered on insanity. When to this it is added, that Johnson, about the age of twenty, drew up a description of his infirmities, for Dr. Swinfen, at that time an eminent physician, in Staffordshire; and received an answer to his letter, importing, that the symptoms indicated a future privation of reason; who can wonder, that he was troubled with melancholy, and dejection of spirit? An apprehension of the worst calamity that can befall human nature hung over him all the rest of his life, like the sword of the tyrant suspended over his guest. In his sixtieth year he had a mind to write the history of his melancholy; but he desisted, not knowing whether it would not too much disturb him. In a Latin poem, however, to which he has prefixed, as a title, [Greek: GNOTHI SEAUTON], he has left a picture of himself, drawn with as much truth, and as firm a hand, as can be seen in the portraits of Hogarth, or sir Joshua Reynolds. The learned reader will find the original poem in this volume; and it is hoped, that a translation, or rather imitation, of so curious a piece, will not be improper in this place. KNOW YOURSELF. (AFTER REVISING AND ENLARGING THE ENGLISH LEXICON, OR DICTIONARY.) When Scaliger, whole years of labour past, Beheld his lexicon complete at last, And weary of his task, with wond'ring eyes, Saw, from words pil'd on words, a fabric rise, He curs'd the industry, inertly strong, In creeping toil that could persist so long; And if, enrag'd he cried, heav'n meant to shed Its keenest vengeance on the guilty head, The drudgery of words the damn'd would know, Doom'd to write lexicons in endless woe[t]. Yes, you had cause, great genius, to repent; "You lost good days, that might be better spent;" You well might grudge the hours of ling'ring pain, And view your learned labours with disdain. To you were given the large expanded mind, The flame of genius, and the taste refin'd. 'Twas yours, on eagle wings, aloft to soar, And, amidst rolling worlds, the great first cause explore, To fix the aeras of recorded time, And live in ev'ry age and ev'ry clime; Record the chiefs, who propt their country's cause; Who founded empires, and establish'd laws; To learn whate'er the sage, with virtue fraught, Whate'er the muse of moral wisdom taught. These were your quarry; these to you were known, And the world's ample volume was your own. Yet, warn'd by me, ye pigmy wits, beware, Nor with immortal Scaliger compare. For me, though his example strike my view, Oh! not for me his footsteps to pursue. Whether first nature, unpropitious, cold, This clay compounded in a ruder mould; Or the slow current, loit'ring at my heart, No gleam of wit or fancy can impart; Whate'er the cause, from me no numbers flow, No visions warm me, and no raptures glow. A mind like Scaliger's, superior still, No grief could conquer, no misfortune chill. Though, for the maze of words, his native skies He seem'd to quit, 'twas but again to rise; To mount, once more, to the bright source of day, And view the wonders of th' ethereal way. The love of fame his gen'rous bosom fir'd; Each science hail'd him, and each muse inspir'd. For him the sons of learning trimm'd the bays, And nations grew harmonious in his praise. My task perform'd, and all my labours o'er, For me what lot has fortune now in store? The listless will succeeds, that worst disease, The rack of indolence, the sluggish ease. Care grows on care, and o'er my aching brain Black melancholy pours her morbid train. No kind relief, no lenitive at hand, I seek, at midnight clubs, the social band; But midnight clubs, where wit with noise conspires, Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires, Delight no more: I seek my lonely bed, And call on sleep to sooth my languid head. But sleep from these sad lids flies far away; I mourn all night, and dread the coming day. Exhausted, tir'd, I throw my eyes around, To find some vacant spot on classic ground; And soon, vain hope! I form a grand design; Languor succeeds, and all my pow'rs decline. If science open not her richest vein, Without materials all our toil is vain. A form to rugged stone when Phidias gives-- Beneath his touch a new creation lives. Remove his marble, and his genius dies: With nature then no breathing statue vies. Whate'er I plan, I feel my pow'rs confin'd By fortune's frown, and penury of mind. I boast no knowledge, glean'd with toil and strife, That bright reward of a well acted life. I view myself, while reason's feeble light Shoots a pale glimmer through the gloom of night; While passions, error, phantoms of the brain, And vain opinions, fill the dark domain; A dreary void, where fears, with grief combin'd, Waste all within, and desolate the mind. What then remains? Must I, in slow decline, To mute inglorious ease old age resign? Or, bold ambition kindling in my breast, Attempt some arduous task? Or, were it best, Brooding o'er lexicons to pass the day, And in that labour drudge my life away? Such is the picture for which Dr. Johnson sat to himself. He gives the prominent features of his character; his lassitude, his morbid melancholy, his love of fame, his dejection, his tavern-parties, and his wandering reveries, "Vacuae mala somnia mentis," about which so much has been written; all are painted in miniature, but in vivid colours, by his own hand. His idea of writing more dictionaries was not merely said in verse. Mr. Hamilton, who was at that time an eminent printer, and well acquainted with Dr. Johnson, remembers that he engaged in a Commercial Dictionary, and, as appears by the receipts in his possession, was paid his price for several sheets; but he soon relinquished the undertaking. It is probable, that he found himself not sufficiently versed in that branch of knowledge. He was again reduced to the expedient of short compositions, for the supply of the day. The writer of this narrative has now before him a letter, in Dr. Johnson's handwriting, which shows the distress and melancholy situation of the man, who had written the Rambler, and finished the great work of his Dictionary. The letter is directed to Mr. Richardson, the author of Clarissa, and is as follows: "SIR,--I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under an arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I should have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home; and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Millar. If you will be so good as to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and add it to all former obligations. I am, sir, Your most obedient, and most humble servant, SAMUEL JOHNSON. Gough square, 16 March." In the margin of this letter, there is a memorandum in these words: "March 16, 1756, sent six guineas. Witness, Wm. Richardson." For the honour of an admired writer it is to be regretted, that we do not find a more liberal entry. To his friend, in distress, he sent eight shillings more than was wanted. Had an incident of this kind occurred in one of his romances, Richardson would have known how to grace his hero; but in fictitious scenes, generosity costs the writer nothing. About this time Johnson contributed several papers to a periodical miscellany, called The Visiter, from motives which are highly honourable to him, a compassionate regard for the late Mr. Christopher Smart. The criticism on Pope's epitaphs appeared in that work. In a short time after, he became a reviewer in the Literary magazine, under the auspices of the late Mr. Newbery, a man of a projecting head, good taste, and great industry. This employment engrossed but little of Johnson's time. He resigned himself to indolence, took no exercise, rose about two, and then received the visits of his friends. Authors, long since forgotten, waited on him, as their oracle, and he gave responses in the chair of criticism. He listened to the complaints, the schemes, and the hopes and fears of a crowd of inferior writers, "who," he said, in the words of Roger Ascham, "lived _men knew not how, and died obscure, men marked not when_." He believed, that he could give a better history of Grub street than any man living. His house was filled with a succession of visitors till four or five in the evening. During the whole time he presided at his tea-table. Tea was his favourite beverage; and, when the late Jonas Hanway pronounced his anathema against the use of tea, Johnson rose in defence of his habitual practice, declaring himself "in that article, a hardened sinner, who had for years diluted his meals with the infusion of that fascinating plant; whose tea-kettle had no time to cool; who, with tea, solaced the midnight hour, and with tea welcomed the morning." The proposal for a new edition of Shakespeare, which had formerly miscarried, was resumed in the year 1756. The booksellers readily agreed to his terms: and subscription-tickets were issued out. For undertaking this work, money, he confessed, was the inciting motive. His friends exerted themselves to promote his interest; and, in the mean time, he engaged in a new periodical production, called The Idler. The first number appeared on Saturday, April 15, 1758 and the last, April 5, 1760. The profits of this work, and the subscriptions for the new edition of Shakespeare, were the means by which he supported himself for four or five years. In 1759, was published Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. His translation of Lobo's Voyage to Abissinia, seems to have pointed out that country for the scene of action; and Rassela Christos, the general of sultan Sequed, mentioned in that work, most probably suggested the name of the prince. The author wanted to set out on a journey to Lichfield, in order to pay the last offices of filial piety to his mother, who, at the age of ninety, was then near her dissolution; but money was necessary. Mr. Johnston, a bookseller, who has, long since, left off business, gave one hundred pounds for the copy. With this supply Johnson set out for Lichfield; but did not arrive in time to close the eyes of a parent whom he loved. He attended the funeral, which, as appears among his memorandums, was on the 23rd of January, 1759. Johnson now found it necessary to retrench his expenses. He gave up his house in Gough square. Mrs. Williams went into lodgings. He retired to Gray's inn, and soon removed to chambers in the Inner Temple lane, where he lived in poverty, total idleness, and the pride of literature: "Magni stat nominis umbra." Mr. Fitzherbert, the father of lord St. Helens, the present minister at Madrid, a man distinguished, through life, for his benevolence and other amiable qualities, used to say, that he paid a morning visit to Johnson, intending, from his chambers, to send a letter into the city; but, to his great surprise, he found an author by profession, without pen, ink, or paper. The present bishop of Salisbury was also among those who endeavoured, by constant attention, to sooth the cares of a mind, which he knew to be afflicted with gloomy apprehensions. At one of the parties made at his house, Boscovich, the jesuit, who had then lately introduced the Newtonian philosophy at Rome, and, after publishing an elegant Latin poem on the subject, was made a fellow of the Royal Society, was one of the company invited to meet Dr. Johnson. The conversation, at first, was mostly in French. Johnson, though thoroughly versed in that language, and a professed admirer of Boileau and La Bruyère, did not understand its pronunciation, nor could he speak it himself with propriety. For the rest of the evening the talk was in Latin. Boscovich had a ready current flow of that flimsy phraseology, with which a priest may travel through Italy, Spain, and Germany. Johnson scorned what he called colloquial barbarisms. It was his pride to speak his best. He went on, after a little practice, with as much facility as if it was his native tongue. One sentence this writer well remembers. Observing that Fontenelle, at first, opposed the Newtonian philosophy, and embraced it afterwards, his words were: "Fontinellus, ni fallor, in extrema senectute, fuit transfuga ad castra Newtoniana." We have now travelled through that part of Dr. Johnson's life, which was a perpetual struggle with difficulties. Halcyon days are now to open upon him. In the month of May, 1762, his majesty, to reward literary merit, signified his pleasure to grant to Johnson a pension of three hundred pounds a year. The earl of Bute was minister. Lord Loughborough, who, perhaps, was originally a mover in the business, had authority to mention it. He was well acquainted with Johnson; but, having heard much of his independent spirit, and of the downfal of Osborne, the bookseller, he did not know but his benevolence might be rewarded with a folio on his head. He desired the author of these memoirs to undertake the task. This writer thought the opportunity of doing so much good the most happy incident in his life. He went, without delay, to the chambers, in the Inner Temple lane, which, in fact, were the abode of wretchedness. By slow and studied approaches the message was disclosed. Johnson made a long pause: he asked if it was seriously intended: he fell into a profound meditation, and his own definition of a pensioner occurred to him. He was told, "that he, at least, did not come within the definition." He desired to meet next day, and dine at the Mitre tavern. At that meeting he gave up all his scruples. On the following day, lord Loughborough conducted him to the earl of Bute. The conversation that passed, was, in the evening, related to this writer, by Dr. Johnson. He expressed his sense of his majesty's bounty, and thought himself the more highly honoured, as the favour was not bestowed on him for having dipped his pen in faction. "No, sir," said lord Bute, "it is not offered to you for having dipped your pen in faction, nor with a design that you ever should." Sir John Hawkins will have it, that, after this interview, Johnson was often pressed to wait on lord Bute, but with a sullen spirit refused to comply. However that be, Johnson was never heard to utter a disrespectful word of that nobleman. The writer of this essay remembers a circumstance, which may throw some light on this subject. The late Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, whom Johnson loved and respected, contended for the pre-eminence of the Scotch writers; and Ferguson's book on Civil Society, then on the eve of publication, he said, would give the laurel to North Britain. "Alas! what can he do upon that subject?" said Johnson: "Aristotle, Polybius, Grotius, Puffendorf, and Burlemaqui, have reaped in that field before him." "He will treat it," said Dr. Rose, "in a new manner." "A new manner! Buckinger had no hands, and he wrote his name with his toes, at Charing Cross, for half a crown a piece; that was a new manner of writing!" Dr. Rose replied: "If that will not satisfy you, I will name a writer, whom you must allow to be the best in the kingdom." "Who is that?" "The earl of Bute, when he wrote an order for your pension." "There, sir," said Johnson, "you have me in the toil: to lord Bute I must allow whatever praise you claim for him." Ingratitude was no part of Johnson's character. Being now in the possession of a regular income, Johnson left his chambers in the temple, and, once more, became master of a house in Johnson's court, Fleet street. Dr. Levet, his friend and physician in ordinary[u], paid his daily visits, with assiduity; made tea all the morning, talked what he had to say, and did not expect an answer. Mrs. Williams had her apartment in the house, and entertained her benefactor with more enlarged conversation. Chymistry was a part of Johnson's amusement. For this love of experimental philosophy, sir John Hawkins thinks an apology necessary. He tells us, with great gravity, that curiosity was the only object in view; not an intention to grow suddenly rich by the philosopher's stone, or the transmutation of metals. To enlarge this circle, Johnson, once more, had recourse to a literary club. This was at the Turk's head, in Gerard street, Soho, on every Tuesday evening through the year. The members were, besides himself, the right honourable Edmund Burke, sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, Dr. Goldsmith, the late Mr. Topham Beauclerc, Mr. Langton, Mr. Chamier, sir J. Hawkins, and some others. Johnson's affection for sir Joshua was founded on a long acquaintance, and a thorough knowledge of the virtuous and amiable qualities of that excellent artist. He delighted in the conversation of Mr. Burke. He met him, for the first time, at Mr. Garrick's, several years ago. On the next day he said: "I suppose, Murphy, you are proud of your countryman: 'Cum talis sit, utinam noster esset!'" From that time, his constant observation was, "that a man of sense could not meet Mr. Burke, by accident, under a gateway, to avoid a shower, without being convinced, that he was the first man in England." Johnson felt not only kindness, but zeal and ardour for his friends. He did every thing in his power to advance the reputation of Dr. Goldsmith. He loved him, though he knew his failings, and particularly the leaven of envy, which corroded the mind of that elegant writer, and made him impatient, without disguise, of the praises bestowed on any person whatever. Of this infirmity, which marked Goldsmith's character, Johnson gave a remarkable instance. It happened that he went with sir Joshua Reynolds and Goldsmith, to see the fantoccini, which were exhibited, some years ago, in or near the Haymarket. They admired the curious mechanism by which the puppets were made to walk the stage, draw a chair to the table, sit down, write a letter, and perform a variety of other actions, with such dexterity, that "though nature's journeymen made the men, they imitated humanity," to the astonishment of the spectator. The entertainment being over, the three friends retired to a tavern. Johnson and sir Joshua talked with pleasure of what they had seen; and, says Johnson, in a tone of admiration: "How the little fellow brandished his spontoon!" "There is nothing in it," replied Goldsmith, starting up with impatience, "give me a spontoon; I can do it as well myself." Enjoying his amusements at his weekly club, and happy in a state of independence, Johnson gained, in the year 1765, another resource, which contributed, more than any thing else, to exempt him from the solicitudes of life. He was introduced to the late Mr. Thrale and his family. Mrs. Piozzi has related the fact, and it is, therefore, needless to repeat it in this place. The author of this narrative looks back to the share he had in that business, with self-congratulation, since he knows the tenderness which, from that time, soothed Johnson's cares at Streatham, and prolonged a valuable life. The subscribers to Shakespeare began to despair of ever seeing the promised edition. To acquit himself of this obligation, he went to work unwillingly, but proceeded with vigour. In the month of October, 1765, Shakespeare was published; and, in a short time after, the university of Dublin sent over a diploma, in honourable terms, creating him a doctor of laws. Oxford, in eight or ten years afterwards, followed the example; and, till then, Johnson never assumed the title of doctor. In 1766, his constitution seemed to be in a rapid decline; and that morbid melancholy, which often clouded his understanding, came upon him with a deeper gloom than ever. Mr. and Mrs. Thrale paid him a visit in this situation, and found him on his knees, with Dr. Delap, the rector of Lewes, in Sussex, beseeching God to continue to him the use of his understanding. Mr. Thrale took him to his house at Streatham, and Johnson, from that time, became a constant resident in the family. He went, occasionally, to the club in Gerard street, but his headquarters were fixed at Streatham. An apartment was fitted up for him, and the library was greatly enlarged. Parties were constantly invited from town; and Johnson was every day at an elegant table, with select and polished company. Whatever could be devised by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to promote the happiness, and establish the health of their guest, was studiously performed from that time to the end of Mr. Thrale's life. Johnson accompanied the family, in all their summer excursions, to Brighthelmstone, to Wales, and to Paris. It is but justice to Mr. Thrale to say, that a more ingenuous frame of mind no man possessed. His education at Oxford gave him the habits of a gentleman; his amiable temper recommended his conversation; and the goodness of his heart made him a sincere friend. That he was the patron of Johnson, is an honour to his memory. In petty disputes with contemporary writers, or the wits of the age, Johnson was seldom entangled. A single incident of that kind may not be unworthy of notice, since it happened with a man of great celebrity in his time. A number of friends dined with Garrick on a Christmas day. Foote was then in Ireland. It was said, at table, that the modern Aristophanes (so Foote was called) had been horsewhipped by a Dublin apothecary, for mimicking him on the stage. "I wonder," said Garrick, "that any man should show so much resentment to Foote; he has a patent for such liberties; nobody ever thought it worth his while to quarrel with him in London." "I am glad," said Johnson, "to find that the man is rising in the world." The expression was afterwards repeated to Foote, who, in return, gave out, that he would produce the Caliban of literature on the stage. Being informed of this design, Johnson sent word to Foote: "that the theatre being intended for the reformation of vice, he would step from the boxes on the stage, and correct him before the audience." Foote knew the intrepidity of his antagonist, and abandoned the design. No ill will ensued. Johnson used to say: "that for broad-faced mirth, Foote had not his equal." Dr. Johnson's fame excited the curiosity of the king. His majesty expressed a desire to see a man of whom extraordinary things were said. Accordingly, the librarian at Buckingham house invited Johnson to see that elegant collection of books, at the same time giving a hint of what was intended. His majesty entered the room, and, among other things, asked the author, "if he meant to give the world any more of his compositions." Johnson answered: "that he thought he had written enough." "And I should think so too," replied his majesty, "if you had not written so well." Though Johnson thought he had written enough, his genius, even in spite of bodily sluggishness, could not lie still. In 1770 we find him entering the lists, as a political writer. The flame of discord that blazed throughout the nation, on the expulsion of Mr. Wilkes, and the final determination of the house of commons, that Mr. Luttrell was duly elected by two hundred and six votes, against eleven hundred and forty-three, spread a general spirit of discontent. To allay the tumult, Dr. Johnson published the False Alarm. Mrs. Piozzi informs us, "that this pamphlet was written at her house, between eight o'clock on Wednesday night and twelve on Thursday night." This celerity has appeared wonderful to many, and some have doubted the truth. It may, however, be placed within the bounds of probability. Johnson has observed, that there are different methods of composition. Virgil was used to pour out a great number of verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching the exuberances, and correcting inaccuracies; and it was Pope's custom to write his first thoughts in his first words, and gradually to amplify, decorate, rectify, and refine them. Others employ, at once, memory and invention, and, with little intermediate use of the pen, form and polish large masses by continued meditation, and write their productions only, when, in their opinion, they have completed them. This last was Johnson's method. He never took his pen in hand till he had well weighed his subject, and grasped, in his mind, the sentiments, the train of argument, and the arrangement of the whole. As he often thought aloud, he had, perhaps, talked it over to himself. This may account for that rapidity with which, in general, he despatched his sheets to the press, without being at the trouble of a fair copy. Whatever may be the logic or eloquence of the False Alarm, the house of commons have since erased the resolution from the journals. But whether they have not left materials for a future controversy may be made a question. In 1771, he published another tract, on the subject of Falkland islands. The design was to show the impropriety of going to war with Spain for an island, thrown aside from human use, stormy in winter, and barren in summer. For this work it is apparent, that materials were furnished by direction of the minister. At the approach of the general election in 1774, he wrote a short discourse, called The Patriot, not with any visible application to Mr. Wilkes; but to teach the people to reject the leaders of opposition, who called themselves patriots. In 1775, he undertook a pamphlet of more importance, namely, Taxation no Tyranny, in answer to the Resolutions and Address of the American congress. The scope of the argument was, that distant colonies, which had, in their assemblies, a legislature of their own, were, notwithstanding, liable to be taxed in a British parliament, where they had neither peers in one house, nor representatives in the other. He was of opinion, that this country was strong enough to enforce obedience. "When an Englishman," he says, "is told that the Americans shoot up like the hydra, he naturally considers how the hydra was destroyed." The event has shown how much he and the minister of that day were mistaken. The account of the Tour to the Western Islands of Scotland, which was undertaken in the autumn of 1773, in company with Mr. Boswell, was not published till some time in the year 1775. This book has been variously received; by some extolled for the elegance of the narrative, and the depth of observation on life and manners; by others, as much condemned, as a work of avowed hostility to the Scotch nation. The praise was, beyond all question, fairly deserved; and the censure, on due examination, will appear hasty and ill founded. That Johnson entertained some prejudices against the Scotch must not be dissembled. It is true, as Mr. Boswell says, "that he thought their success in England exceeded their proportion of real merit, and he could not but see in them that nationality which no liberal-minded Scotsman will deny." The author of these memoirs well remembers, that Johnson one day asked him, "have you observed the difference between your own country impudence and Scotch impudence?" The answer being in the negative: "then I will tell you," said Johnson. "The impudence of an Irishman is the impudence of a fly, that buzzes about you, and you put it away, but it returns again, and flutters and teases you. The impudence of a Scotsman is the impudence of a leech, that fixes and sucks your blood." Upon another occasion, this writer went with him into the shop of Davies, the bookseller, in Russell street, Covent garden. Davies came running to him, almost out of breath with joy: "The Scots gentleman is come, sir; his principal wish is to see you; he is now in the back parlour." "Well, well, I'll see the gentleman," said Johnson. He walked towards the room. Mr. Boswell was the person. This writer followed, with no small curiosity. "I find," said Mr. Boswell, "that I am come to London, at a bad time, when great popular prejudice has gone forth against us North Britons; but, when I am talking to you, I am talking to a large and liberal mind, and you know that I cannot help coming from Scotland." "Sir," said Johnson, "no more can the rest of your countrymen[x]." He had other reasons that helped to alienate him from the natives of Scotland. Being a cordial well-wisher to the constitution in church and state, he did not think that Calvin and John Knox were proper founders of a national religion. He made, however, a wide distinction between the dissenters of Scotland and the separatists of England. To the former he imputed no disaffection, no want of loyalty. Their soldiers and their officers had shed their blood with zeal and courage in the service of great Britain; and the people, he used to say, were content with their own established modes of worship, without wishing, in the present age, to give any disturbance to the church of England. This he was, at all times, ready to admit; and, therefore, declared, that, whenever he found a Scotchman, to whom an Englishman was as a Scotchman, that Scotchman should be as an Englishman to him. In this, surely, there was no rancour, no malevolence. The dissenters, on this side the Tweed, appeared to him in a different light. Their religion, he frequently said, was too worldly, too political, too restless and ambitious. The doctrine of cashiering kings, and erecting, on the ruins of the constitution, a new form of government, which lately issued from their pulpits, he always thought was, under a calm disguise, the principle that lay lurking in their hearts. He knew, that a wild democracy had overturned kings, lords, and commons; and that a set of republican fanatics, who would not bow at the name of Jesus, had taken possession of all the livings, and all the parishes in the kingdom. That those scenes of horror might never be renewed, was the ardent wish of Dr. Johnson; and, though he apprehended no danger from Scotland, it is probable, that his dislike of calvinism mingled, sometimes, with his reflections on the natives of that country. The association of ideas could not be easily broken; but it is well known, that he loved and respected many gentlemen from that part of the island. Dr. Robertson's History of Scotland, and Dr. Beattie's Essays, were subjects of his constant praise. Mr. Boswell, Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, Andrew Millar, Mr. Hamilton, the printer, and the late Mr. Strahan, were among his most intimate friends. Many others might be added to the list. He scorned to enter Scotland as a spy; though Hawkins, his biographer, and the professing defender of his fame, allowed himself leave to represent him in that ignoble character. He went into Scotland to survey men and manners. Antiquities, fossils, and minerals, were not within his province. He did not visit that country to settle the station of Roman camps, or the spot, where Galgacus fought the last battle for public liberty. The people, their customs, and the progress of literature, were his objects. The civilities which he received in the course of his tour, have been repaid with grateful acknowledgment, and, generally, with great elegance of expression. His crime is, that he found the country bare of trees, and he has stated the fact. This, Mr. Boswell, in his tour to the Hebrides, has told us, was resented, by his countrymen, with anger inflamed to rancour; but he admits that there are few trees on the east side of Scotland. Mr. Pennant, in his tour, says, that, in some parts of the eastern side of the country, he saw several large plantations of pine, planted by gentlemen near their seats; and, in this respect, such a laudable spirit prevails, that, in another half-century, it never shall be said, "To spy the nakedness of the land are you come." Johnson could not wait for that half-century, and, therefore, mentioned things as he found them. If, in any thing, he has been mistaken, he has made a fair apology, in the last paragraph of his book, avowing with candour: "That he may have been surprised by modes of life, and appearances of nature, that are familiar to men of wider survey, and more varied conversation. Novelty and ignorance must always be reciprocal: and he is conscious that his thoughts on national manners, are the thoughts of one who has seen but little." The poems of Ossian made a part of Johnson's inquiry, during his residence in Scotland and the Hebrides. On his return to England, November, 1773, a storm seemed to be gathering over his head; but the cloud never burst, and the thunder never fell.--Ossian, it is well known, was presented to the public, as a translation from the Erse; but that this was a fraud, Johnson declared, without hesitation. "The Erse," he says, "was always oral only, and never a written language. The Welsh and the Irish were more cultivated. In Erse, there was not in the world a single manuscript a hundred years old. Martin, who, in the last century, published an account of the Western Islands, mentions Irish, but never Erse manuscripts, to be found in the islands in his time. The bards could not read; if they could, they might, probably, have written. But the bard was a barbarian among barbarians, and, knowing nothing himself, lived with others that knew no more. If there is a manuscript from which the translation was made, in what age was it written, and where is it? If it was collected from oral recitation, it could only be in detached parts, and scattered fragments: the whole is too long to be remembered. Who put it together in its present form?" For these, and such like reasons, Johnson calls the whole an imposture. He adds, "The editor, or author, never could show the original, nor can it be shown by any other. To revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of insolence with which the world is not yet acquainted; and stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt." This reasoning carries with it great weight. It roused the resentment of Mr. Macpherson. He sent a threatening letter to the author; and Johnson answered him in the rough phrase of stern defiance. The two heroes frowned at a distance, but never came to action. In the year 1777, the misfortunes of Dr. Dodd excited his compassion. He wrote a speech for that unhappy man, when called up to receive judgment of death; besides two petitions, one to the king, and another to the queen; and a sermon to be preached by Dodd to the convicts in Newgate. It may appear trifling to add, that, about the same time, he wrote a prologue to the comedy of a Word to the Wise, written by Hugh Kelly. The play, some years before, had been damned by a party on the first night. It was revived for the benefit of the author's widow. Mrs. Piozzi relates, that when Johnson was rallied for these exertions, so close to one another, his answer was, "When they come to me with a dying parson, and a dead stay-maker, what can a man do?" We come now to the last of his literary labours. At the request of the booksellers, he undertook the Lives of the Poets. The first publication was in 1779, and the whole was completed in 1781. In a memorandum of that year, he says, some time in March he finished the Lives of the Poets, which he wrote in his usual way, dilatorily and hastily, unwilling to work, yet working with vigour and haste. In another place, he hopes they are written in such a manner, as may tend to the promotion of piety. That the history of so many men, who, in their different degrees, made themselves conspicuous in their time, was not written recently after their deaths, seems to be an omission that does no honour to the republic of letters. Their contemporaries, in general, looked on with calm indifference, and suffered wit and genius to vanish out of the world in total silence, unregarded and unlamented. Was there no friend to pay the tribute of a tear? No just observer of life to record the virtues of the deceased? Was even envy silent? It seemed to have been agreed, that if an author's works survived, the history of the man was to give no moral lesson to after-ages. If tradition told us that Ben Jonson went to the Devil tavern; that Shakespeare stole deer, and held the stirrup at play-house doors; that Dryden frequented Button's coffee-house; curiosity was lulled asleep, and biography forgot the best part of her function, which is, to instruct mankind by examples taken from the school of life. This task remained for Dr. Johnson, when years had rolled away; when the channels of information were, for the most part, choked up, and little remained besides doubtful anecdote, uncertain tradition, and vague report. "Nunc situs informis premit et deserta vetustas." The value of biography has been better understood in other ages, and in other countries. Tacitus informs us, that to record the lives and characters of illustrious men, was the practice of the Roman authors, in the early periods of the republic. In France, the example has been followed. Fontenelle, D'Alembert, and monsieur Thomas, have left models in this kind of composition. They have embalmed the dead. But it is true, that they had incitements and advantages, even at a distant day, which could not, by any diligence, be obtained by Dr. Johnson. The wits of France had ample materials. They lived in a nation of critics, who had, at heart, the honour done to their country by their poets, their heroes, and their philosophers. They had, besides, an academy of belles-lettres, where genius was cultivated, refined, and encouraged. They had the tracts, the essays, and dissertations, which remain in the memoirs of the academy, and they had the speeches of the several members, delivered at their first admission to a seat in that learned assembly. In those speeches the new academician did ample justice to the memory of his predecessor; and though his harangue was decorated with the colours of eloquence, and was, for that reason, called panegyric, yet, being pronounced before qualified judges, who knew the talents, the conduct, and morals of the deceased, the speaker could not, with propriety, wander into the regions of fiction. The truth was known, before it was adorned. The academy saw the marble before the artist polished it. But this country has had no academy of literature. The public mind, for centuries, has been engrossed by party and faction; "by the madness of many for the gain of a few;" by civil wars, religious dissensions, trade and commerce, and the arts of accumulating wealth. Amidst such attentions, who can wonder that cold praise has been often the only reward of merit? In this country, Dr. Nathaniel Hodges, who, like the good bishop of Marseilles, drew purer breath amidst the contagion of the plague in London, and, during the whole time, continued in the city, administering medical assistance, was suffered, as Johnson used to relate, with tears in his eyes, to die for debt, in a gaol. In this country, the man who brought the New river to London, was ruined by that noble project; and, in this country, Otway died for want, on Tower hill; Butler, the great author of Hudibras, whose name can only die with the English language, was left to languish in poverty; the particulars of his life almost unknown, and scarce a vestige of him left, except his immortal poem. Had there been an academy of literature, the lives, at least, of those celebrated persons, would have been written for the benefit of posterity. Swift, it seems, had the idea of such an institution, and proposed it to lord Oxford; but whig and tory were more important objects. It is needless to dissemble, that Dr. Johnson, in the life of Roscommon, talks of the inutility of such a project. "In this country," he says, "an academy could be expected to do but little. If an academician's place were profitable, it would be given by interest; if attendance were gratuitous, it would be rarely paid, and no man would endure the least disgust. Unanimity is impossible, and debate would separate the assembly." To this it may be sufficient to answer, that the Royal society has not been dissolved by sullen disgust; and the modern academy, at Somerset house, has already performed much, and promises more. Unanimity is not necessary to such an assembly. On the contrary, by difference of opinion, and collision of sentiment, the cause of literature would thrive and flourish. The true principles of criticism, the secret of fine writing, the investigation of antiquities, and other interesting subjects, might occasion a clash of opinions; but, in that contention, truth would receive illustration, and the essays of the several members would supply the memoirs of the academy. "But," says Dr. Johnson, "suppose the philological decree made and promulgated, what would be its authority? In absolute government there is, sometimes, a general reverence paid to all that has the sanction of power the countenance of greatness.--How little this is the state of our country, needs not to be told. The edicts of an English academy would, probably, be read by many, only that they may be sure to disobey them. The present manners of the nation would deride authority, and, therefore, nothing is left, but that every writer should criticise himself." This, surely, is not conclusive. It is by the standard of the best writers, that every man settles, for himself, his plan of legitimate composition; and since the authority of superior genius is acknowledged, that authority, which the individual obtains, would not be lessened by an association with others of distinguished ability. It may, therefore, be inferred, that an academy of literature would be an establishment highly useful, and an honour to literature. In such an institution, profitable places would not be wanted. "Vatis avarus haud facile est animus;" and the minister, who shall find leisure, from party and faction, to carry such a scheme into execution, will, in all probability, be respected by posterity, as the Maecenas of letters. We now take leave of Dr. Johnson, as an author. Four volumes of his Lives of the Poets were published in 1778, and the work was completed in 1781. Should biography fall again into disuse, there will not always be a Johnson to look back through a century, and give a body of critical and moral instruction. In April, 1781, he lost his friend Mr. Thrale. His own words, in his diary, will best tell that melancholy event. "On Wednesday, the 11th of April, was buried my dear friend Mr. Thrale, who died on Wednesday, the 4th, and with him were buried many of my hopes and pleasures. About five, I think, on Wednesday morning, he expired. I felt almost the last flutter of his pulse, and looked, for the last time, upon the face, that, for fifteen years before, had never been turned upon me but with respect and benignity. Farewell: may God, that delighteth in mercy, have had mercy on thee! I had constantly prayed for him before his death. The decease of him, from whose friendship I had obtained many opportunities of amusement, and to whom I turned my thoughts, as to a refuge from misfortunes, has left me heavy. But my business is with myself."--From the close of his last work, the malady that persecuted him through life came upon him with alarming severity, and his constitution declined apace. In 1782, his old friend, Levet, expired, without warning and without a groan. Events like these reminded Johnson of his own mortality. He continued his visits to Mrs. Thrale, at Streatham, to the 7th day of October, 1782, when, having first composed a prayer for the happiness of a family, with whom he had, for many years, enjoyed the pleasures and comforts of life, he removed to his own house in town. He says he was up early in the morning, and read fortuitously in the Gospel, "which was his parting use of the library." The merit of the family is manifested by the sense he had of it, and we see his heart overflowing with gratitude. He leaves the place with regret, and "casts a lingering look behind." The few remaining occurrences may be soon despatched. In the month of June, 1783, Johnson had a paralytic stroke, which affected his speech only. He wrote to Dr. Taylor, of Westminster; and to his friend Mr. Allen, the printer, who lived at the next door. Dr. Brocklesby arrived in a short time, and by his care, and that of Dr. Heberden, Johnson soon recovered. During his illness, the writer of this narrative visited him, and found him reading Dr. Watson's Chymistry. Articulating with difficulty, he said, "From this book, he who knows nothing may learn a great deal; and he who knows, will be pleased to find his knowledge recalled to his mind in a manner highly pleasing." In the month of August he set out for Lichfield, on a visit to Mrs. Lucy Porter, the daughter of his wife by her first husband; and, in his way back, paid his respects to Dr. Adams, at Oxford. Mrs. Williams died, at his house in Bolt court, in the month of September, during his absence. This was another shock to a mind like his, ever agitated by the thoughts of futurity. The contemplation of his own approaching end was constantly before his eyes; and the prospect of death, he declared, was terrible. For many years, when he was not disposed to enter into the conversation going forward, whoever sat near his chair, might hear him repeating, from Shakespeare, "Aye, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods"-- And from Milton, --"Who would lose, For fear of pain, this intellectual being?" By the death of Mrs. Williams he was left in a state of destitution, with nobody but Frank, his black servant, to sooth his anxious moments. In November, 1783, he was swelled from head to foot with a dropsy. Dr. Brocklesby, with that benevolence with which he always assists his friends, paid his visits with assiduity. The medicines prescribed were so efficacious, that, in a few days, Johnson, while he was offering up his prayers, was suddenly obliged to rise, and, in the course of the day, discharged twenty pints of water. Johnson, being eased of his dropsy, began to entertain hopes that the vigour of his constitution was not entirely broken. For the sake of conversing with his friends, he established a conversation club, to meet on every Wednesday evening; and, to serve a man whom he had known in Mr. Thrale's household for many years, the place was fixed at his house, in Essex street, near the Temple. To answer the malignant remarks of sir John Hawkins, on this subject, were a wretched waste of time. Professing to be Johnson's friend, that biographer has raised more objections to his character, than all the enemies to that excellent man. Sir John had a root of bitterness that "put rancours in the vessel of his peace." Fielding, he says, was the inventor of a cant phrase, "Goodness of heart, which means little more than the virtue of a horse or a dog." He should have known, that kind affections are the essence of virtue: they are the will of God implanted in our nature, to aid and strengthen moral obligation; they incite to action: a sense of benevolence is no less necessary than a sense of duty. Good affections are an ornament, not only to an author, but to his writings. He who shows himself upon a cold scent for opportunities to bark and snarl throughout a volume of six hundred pages, may, if he will, pretend to moralise; but goodness of heart, or, to use that politer phrase, "the virtue of a horse or a dog," would redound more to his honour. But sir John is no more: our business is with Johnson. The members of his club were respectable for their rank, their talents, and their literature. They attended with punctuality, till about Midsummer, 1784, when, with some appearance of health, Johnson went into Derbyshire, and thence to Lichfield. While he was in that part of the world, his friends, in town, were labouring for his benefit. The air of a more southern climate, they thought, might prolong a valuable life. But a pension of three hundred pounds a year was a slender fund for a travelling valetudinarian, and it was not then known that he had saved a moderate sum of money. Mr. Boswell and sir Joshua Reynolds undertook to solicit the patronage of the chancellor. With lord Thurlow, while he was at the bar, Johnson was well acquainted. He was often heard to say, "Thurlow is a man of such vigour of mind, that I never knew I was to meet him, but--I was going to say, I was afraid, but that would not be true, for I never was afraid of any man; but I never knew that I was to meet Thurlow, but I knew I had something to encounter." The chancellor undertook to recommend Johnson's case; but without success. To protract, if possible, the days of a man, whom he respected, he offered to advance the sum of five hundred pounds. Being informed of this at Lichfield, Johnson wrote the following letter: "MY LORD,--After a long, and not inattentive observation of mankind, the generosity of your lordship's offer raises in me not less wonder than gratitude. Bounty, so liberally bestowed, I should gladly receive, if my condition made it necessary; for to such a mind who would not be proud to own his obligations? But it has pleased God to restore me to so great a measure of health, that, if I should now appropriate so much of a fortune destined to do good, I could not escape from myself the charge of advancing a false claim. My journey to the continent, though I once thought it necessary, was never much encouraged by my physicians; and I was very desirous that your lordship should be told it, by sir Joshua Reynolds, as an event very uncertain; for, if I grew much better, I should not be willing; if much worse, I should not be able to migrate. Your lordship was first solicited without my knowledge; but when I was told that you were pleased to honour me with your patronage, I did not expect to hear of a refusal; yet, as I have had no long time to brood hopes, and have not rioted in imaginary opulence, this cold reception has been scarce a disappointment; and from your lordship's kindness I have received a benefit which only men, like you, are able to bestow. I shall now live _mihi carior_, with a higher opinion of my own merit. I am, my lord, Your lordship's most obliged, Most grateful, and most humble servant, SAMUEL JOHNSON. September, 1784." We have, in this instance, the exertion of two congenial minds; one, with a generous impulse, relieving merit in distress; and the other, by gratitude and dignity of sentiment, rising to an equal elevation. It seems, however, that greatness of mind is not confined to greatness of rank. Dr. Brocklesby was not content to assist with his medical art; he resolved to minister to his patient's mind, and pluck from his memory the sorrow which the late refusal from a high quarter might occasion. To enable him to visit the south of France, in pursuit of health, he offered, from his own funds, an annuity of one hundred pounds, payable quarterly. This was a sweet oblivious antidote, but it was not accepted, for the reasons assigned to the chancellor. The proposal, however, will do honour to Dr. Brocklesby, as long as liberal sentiment shall be ranked among the social virtues. In the month of October, 1784, we find Dr. Johnson corresponding with Mr. Nichols, the intelligent compiler of the Gentleman's Magazine, and, in the languor of sickness, still desirous to contribute all in his power to the advancement of science and useful knowledge. He says, in a letter to that gentleman, dated Lichfield, October 20, that "he should be glad to give so skilful a lover of antiquities any information." He adds, "At Ashbourne, where I had very little company, I had the luck to borrow Mr. Bowyer's Life, a book, so full of contemporary history, that a literary man must find some of his old friends. I thought that I could, now and then, have told you some hints worth your notice: we, perhaps, may talk a life over. I hope we shall be much together. You must now be to me what you were before, and what dear Mr. Allen was besides. He was taken unexpectedly away, but, I think, he was a very good man. I have made very little progress in recovery. I am very weak, and very sleepless; but I live on and hope." In that languid condition he arrived, on the 16th of November, at his house in Bolt court, there to end his days. He laboured with the dropsy and an asthma. He was attended by Dr. Heberden, Dr. Warren, Dr. Brocklesby, Dr. Butter, and Mr. Cruikshank, the eminent surgeon. Eternity presented to his mind an awful prospect, and, with as much virtue as, perhaps, ever is the lot of man, he shuddered at the thought of his dissolution. His friends awakened the comfortable reflection of a well-spent life; and, as his end drew near, they had the satisfaction of seeing him composed, and even cheerful, insomuch that he was able, in the course of his restless nights, to make translations of Greek epigrams from the Anthologia; and to compose a Latin epitaph for his father, his mother, and his brother Nathaniel. He meditated, at the same time, a Latin inscription to the memory of Garrick; but his vigour was exhausted. His love of literature was a passion that stuck to his last sand. Seven days before his death he wrote the following letter to his friend Mr. Nichols: "SIR,--The late learned Mr. Swinton, of Oxford, having one day remarked, that one man, meaning, I suppose, no man but himself, could assign all the parts of the Ancient Universal History to their proper authors, at the request of sir Robert Chambers, or myself, gave the account which I now transmit to you, in his own hand, being willing that of so great a work the history should be known, and that each writer should receive his due proportion of praise from posterity. I recommend to you to preserve this scrap of literary intelligence, in Mr. Swinton's own hand, or to deposit it in the Museum[y], that the veracity of this account may never be doubted. I am, sir, Your most humble servant, SAM. JOHNSON. Dec. 6, 1784." Mr. Swinton. The History of the Carthaginians. --Numidians. --Mauritanians. --Gaetulians. --Garamantes. --Melano-Gaetulians. --Nigritae. --Cyrenaica. --Marmarica. --Regio Syrtica. --Turks, Tartars, and Moguls. --Indians. --Chinese. The Dissertation on the peopling of America. The Dissertation on the Independency of the Arabs. The Cosmogony, and a small part of the History immediately following. By Mr. Sale. To the Birth of Abraham. Chiefly by Mr. Shelvock. History of the Jews, Gauls, and Spaniards. By Mr. Psalmanazai. Xenophon's Retreat. By the same. History of the Persians, and the Constantinopolitan Empire. By Dr. Campbell. History of the Romans. By Mr. Bower[z]. On the morning of December 7, Dr. Johnson requested to see Mr. Nichols. A few days before, he had borrowed some of the early volumes of the magazine, with a professed intention to point out the pieces which he had written in that collection. The books lay on the table, with many leaves doubled down, and, in particular, those which contained his share in the parliamentary debates. Such was the goodness of Johnson's heart, that he then declared, that "those debates were the only parts of his writings which gave him any compunction: but that, at the time he wrote them, he had no conception that he was imposing upon the world, though they were, frequently, written from very slender materials, and often from none at all, the mere coinage of his own imagination." He added, "that he never wrote any part of his work with equal velocity." "Three columns of the magazine in an hour," he said, "was no uncommon effort; which was faster than most persons could have transcribed that quantity. In one day, in particular, and that not a very long one, he wrote twelve pages, more in quantity than ever he wrote at any other time, except in the Life of Savage, of which forty-eight pages, in octavo, were the production of one long day, including a part of the night." In the course of the conversation, he asked whether any of the family of Faden, the printer, were living. Being told that the geographer, near Charing Cross, was Faden's son, he said, after a short pause, "I borrowed a guinea of his father near thirty years ago; be so good as to take this, and pay it for me." Wishing to discharge every duty, and every obligation, Johnson recollected another debt of ten pounds, which he had borrowed from his friend, Mr. Hamilton, the printer, about twenty years before. He sent the money to Mr. Hamilton, at his house in Bedford row, with an apology for the length of time. The reverend Mr. Strahan was the bearer of the message, about four or five days before Johnson breathed his last. Mr. Sastres, whom Dr. Johnson esteemed and mentioned in his will, entered the room, during his illness. Dr. Johnson, as soon as he saw him, stretched forth his hand, and, in a tone of lamentation, called out, "Jam moriturus!" But the love of life was still an active principle. Feeling himself swelled with the dropsy, he conceived that, by incisions in his legs, the water might be discharged. Mr. Cruikshank apprehended that a mortification might be the consequence; but, to appease a distempered fancy, he gently lanced the surface. Johnson cried out, "Deeper, deeper! I want length of life, and you are afraid of giving me pain, which I do not value." On the 8th of December, the reverend Mr. Strahan drew his will, by which, after a few legacies, the residue, amounting to about fifteen hundred pounds, was bequeathed to Frank, the black servant, formerly consigned to the testator by his friend Dr. Bathurst. The history of a death-bed is painful. Mr. Strahan informs us, that the strength of religion prevailed against the infirmity of nature; and his foreboding dread of the divine justice subsided into a pious trust, and humble hope of mercy, at the throne of grace. On Monday, the 13th day of December, the last of his existence on this side the grave, the desire of life returned with all its former vehemence. He still imagined, that, by puncturing his legs, relief might be obtained. At eight in the morning he tried the experiment, but no water followed. In an hour or two after, he fell into a doze, and about seven in the evening expired without a groan. On the 20th of the month his remains, with due solemnities, and a numerous attendance of his friends, were buried in Westminster abbey, near the foot of Shakespeare's monument, and close to the grave of the late Mr. Garrick. The funeral service was read by his friend, Dr. Taylor. A black marble over his grave has the following inscription: SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. obiit XIII die Decembris, Anno Domini MDCCLXXXIV. Aetatis suae LXXV. If we now look back, as from an eminence, to view the scenes of life, and the literary labours in which Dr. Johnson was engaged, we may be able to delineate the features of the man, and to form an estimate of his genius. As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in open daylight. Nothing remains undiscovered. Whatever he said is known; and without allowing him the usual privilege of hazarding sentiments, and advancing positions for mere amusement, or the pleasure of discussion, criticism has endeavoured to make him answerable for what, perhaps, he never seriously thought. His diary, which has been printed, discovers still more. We have before us the very heart of the man, with all his inward consciousness; and yet neither in the open paths of life, nor in his secret recesses, has any one vice been discovered. We see him reviewing every year of his life, and severely censuring himself, for not keeping resolutions, which morbid melancholy, and other bodily infirmities, rendered impracticable. We see him, for every little defect, imposing on himself voluntary penance, going through the day with only one cup of tea without milk, and to the last, amidst paroxysms and remissions of illness, forming plans of study and resolutions to amend his life[aa]. Many of his scruples may be called weaknesses; but they are the weaknesses of a good, a pious, and most excellent man. His person, it is well known, was large and unwieldy. His nerves were affected by that disorder, for which, at two years of age, he was presented to the royal touch. His head shook, and involuntary motions made it uncertain that his legs and arms would, even at a tea-table, remain in their proper place. A person of lord Chesterfield's delicacy might, in his company, be in a fever. He would, sometimes, of his own accord, do things inconsistent with the established modes of behaviour. Sitting at table with the celebrated Mrs. Cholmondeley, who exerted herself to circulate the subscription for Shakespeare, he took hold of her hand, in the middle of dinner, and held it close to his eye, wondering at the delicacy and whiteness, till, with a smile, she asked, "Will he give it to me again, when he has done with it?" The exteriors of politeness did not belong to Johnson. Even that civility, which proceeds, or ought to proceed, from the mind, was sometimes violated. His morbid melancholy had an effect on his temper; his passions were irritable; and the pride of science, as well as of a fierce independent spirit, inflamed him, on some occasions, above all bounds of moderation. Though not in the shade of academic bowers, he led a scholastic life; and the habit of pronouncing decisions to his friends and visitors, gave him a dictatorial manner, which was much enforced by a voice naturally loud, and often overstretched. Metaphysical discussion, moral theory, systems of religion, and anecdotes of literature, were his favourite topics. General history had little of his regard. Biography was his delight. The proper study of mankind is man. Sooner than hear of the Punic war, he would be rude to the person that introduced the subject. Johnson was born a logician; one of those, to whom only books of logic are said to be of use. In consequence of his skill in that art, he loved argumentation. No man thought more profoundly, nor with such acute discernment. A fallacy could not stand before him; it was sure to be refuted by strength of reasoning, and a precision, both in idea and expression, almost unequalled. When he chose, by apt illustration, to place the argument of his adversary in a ludicrous light, one was almost inclined to think ridicule the test of truth. He was surprised to be told, but it is certainly true, that, with great powers of mind, wit and humour were his shining talents. That he often argued for the sake of triumph over his adversary, cannot be dissembled. Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, has been heard to tell of a friend of his, who thanked him for introducing him to Dr. Johnson, as he had been convinced, in the course of a long dispute, that an opinion, which he had embraced as a settled truth, was no better than a vulgar error. This being reported to Johnson, "Nay," said he, "do not let him be thankful, for he was right, and I was wrong." Like his uncle Andrew, in the ring at Smithfield, Johnson, in a circle of disputants, was determined neither to be thrown nor conquered. Notwithstanding all his piety, self-government or the command of his passions in conversation, does not seem to have been among his attainments. Whenever he thought the contention was for superiority, he has been known to break out with violence, and even ferocity. When the fray was over, he generally softened into repentance, and, by conciliating measures, took care that no animosity should be left rankling in the breast of his antagonist. Of this defect he seems to have been conscious. In a letter to Mrs. Thrale, he says, "Poor Baretti! do not quarrel with him; to neglect him a little will be sufficient. He means only to be frank and manly and independent, and, perhaps, as you say, a little wise. To be frank, he thinks, is to be cynical; and to be independent, is to be rude. Forgive him, dearest lady, the rather, because of his misbehaviour, I am afraid, he learned part of me. I hope to set him, hereafter, a better example." For his own intolerant and over-bearing spirit he apologized, by observing, that it had done some good; obscenity and impiety were repressed in his company. It was late in life, before he had the habit of mixing, otherwise than occasionally, with polite company. At Mr. Thrale's he saw a constant succession of well-accomplished visiters. In that society he began to wear off the rugged points of his own character. He saw the advantages of mutual civility, and endeavoured to profit by the models before him. He aimed at what has been called, by Swift, the "lesser morals," and by Cicero, "minores virtutes." His endeavour, though new and late, gave pleasure to all his acquaintance. Men were glad to see that he was willing to be communicative on equal terms and reciprocal complacence. The time was then expected, when he was to cease being what George Garrick, brother to the celebrated actor, called him, the first time he heard him converse, "a tremendous companion." He certainly wished to be polite, and even thought himself so; but his civility still retained something uncouth and harsh. His manners took a milder tone, but the endeavour was too palpably seen. He laboured even in trifles. He was a giant gaining a purchase to lift a feather. It is observed, by the younger Pliny, that "in the confines of virtue and great qualities, there are, generally, vices of an opposite nature." In Dr. Johnson not one ingredient can take the name of vice. From his attainments in literature, grew the pride of knowledge; and from his powers of reasoning, the love of disputation and the vain glory of superior vigour.--His piety, in some instances, bordered on superstition. He was willing to believe in preternatural agency, and thought it not more strange, that there should be evil spirits than evil men. Even the question about second sight held him in suspense. "Second sight," Mr. Pennant tells us, "is a power of seeing images impressed on the organs of sight, by the power of fancy; or on the fancy, by the disordered spirits operating on the mind. It is the faculty of seeing spectres or visions, which represent an event actually passing at a distance, or likely to happen at a future day. In 1771, a gentleman, the last who was supposed to be possessed of this faculty, had a boat at sea, in a tempestuous night, and, being anxious for his freight, suddenly started up, and said his men would be drowned, for he had seen them pass before him with wet garments and dropping locks. The event corresponded with his disordered fancy. And thus," continues Mr. Pennant, "a distempered imagination, clouded with anxiety, may make an impression on the spirits; as persons, restless, and troubled with indignation, see various forms and figures, while they lie awake in bed." This is what Dr. Johnson was not willing to reject. He wished for some positive proof of communications with another world. His benevolence embraced the whole race of man, and yet was tinctured with particular prejudices. He was pleased with the minister in the isle of Skie, and loved him so much, that he began to wish him not a presbyterian. To that body of dissenters his zeal for the established church, made him, in some degree, an adversary; and his attachment to a mixed and limited monarchy, led him to declare open war against what he called a sullen republican. He would rather praise a man of Oxford than of Cambridge. He disliked a whig, and loved a tory. These were the shades of his character, which it has been the business of certain party-writers to represent in the darkest colours. Since virtue, or moral goodness, consists in a just conformity of our actions to the relations, in which we stand to the supreme being and to our fellow-creatures, where shall we find a man who has been, or endeavoured to be, more diligent in the discharge of those essential duties? His first prayer was composed in 1738; he continued those fervent ejaculations of piety to the end of his life. In his Meditations we see him scrutinizing himself with severity, and aiming at perfection unattainable by man. His duty to his neighbour consisted in universal benevolence, and a constant aim at the production of happiness. Who was more sincere and steady in his friendships? It has been said, that there was no real affection between him and Garrick. On the part of the latter, there might be some corrosions of jealousy. The character of Prospero, in the Rambler, No. 200, was, beyond all question, occasioned by Garrick's ostentatious display of furniture and Dresden china. It was surely fair to take, from this incident, a hint for a moral essay; and, though no more was intended, Garrick, we are told, remembered it with uneasiness. He was also hurt, that his Lichfield friend did not think so highly of his dramatic art, as the rest of the world. The fact was, Johnson could not see the passions, as they rose, and chased one another, in the varied features of that expressive face; and, by his own manner of reciting verses, which was wonderfully impressive, he plainly showed, that he thought, there was too much of artificial tone and measured cadence, in the declamation of the theatre. The present writer well remembers being in conversation with Dr. Johnson, near the side of the scenes, during the tragedy of King Lear: when Garrick came off the stage, he said, "You two talk so loud, you destroy all my feelings." "Prithee," replied Johnson, "do not talk of feelings, Punch has no feelings." This seems to have been his settled opinion; admirable as Garrick's imitation of nature always was, Johnson thought it no better than mere mimickry. Yet, it is certain, that he esteemed and loved Garrick; that he dwelt with pleasure on his praise; and used to declare, that he deserved his great success, because, on all applications for charity, he gave more than was asked. After Garrick's death, he never talked of him, without a tear in his eye. He offered, if Mrs. Garrick would desire it of him, to be the editor of his works, and the historian of his life[bb]. It has been mentioned, that, on his death-bed, he thought of writing a Latin inscription to the memory of his friend. Numbers are still living who know these facts, and still remember, with gratitude, the friendship which he showed to them, with unaltered affection, for a number of years. His humanity and generosity, in proportion to his slender income, were unbounded. It has been truly said, that the lame, the blind, and the sorrowful, found, in his house, a sure retreat. A strict adherence to truth he considered as a sacred obligation, insomuch that, in relating the most minute anecdote, he would not allow himself the smallest addition to embellish his story. The late Mr. Tyers, who knew Dr. Johnson intimately, observed, "that he always talked, as if he was talking upon oath." After a long acquaintance with this excellent man, and an attentive retrospect to his whole conduct, such is the light in which he appears to the writer of this essay. The following lines of Horace, may be deemed his picture in miniature: "Iracundior est paulo? minus aptus acutis Naribus horum hominum? rideri possit, eo quod Rusticius tonso toga defluit, et male laxus In pede calceus haeret? At est bonus, ut melior vir Non alius quisquam: at tibi amicus: at ingenium ingens Inculto latet hoc sub corpore." "Your friend is passionate, perhaps unfit For the brisk petulance of modern wit. His hair ill-cut, his robe, that awkward flows, Or his large shoes, to raillery expose The man you love; yet is he not possess'd Of virtues, with which very few are blest? While underneath this rude, uncouth disguise, A genius of extensive knowledge lies." Francis's Hor. book i. sat. 3. It remains to give a review of Johnson's works; and this, it is imagined, will not be unwelcome to the reader. Like Milton and Addison, he seems to have been fond of his Latin poetry. Those compositions show, that he was an early scholar; but his verses have not the graceful ease, that gave so much suavity to the poems of Addison. The translation of the Messiah labours under two disadvantages: it is first to be compared with Pope's inimitable performance, and afterwards with the Pollio of Virgil. It may appear trifling to remark, that he has made the letter _o_, in the word _virgo_, long and short in the same line: "Virgo, virgo parit." But the translation has great merit, and some admirable lines. In the odes there is a sweet flexibility, particularly--to his worthy friend Dr. Lawrence; on himself at the theatre, March 8, 1771; the ode in the isle of Skie; and that to Mrs. Thrale, from the same place. His English poetry is such as leaves room to think, if he had devoted himself to the muses, that he would have been the rival of Pope. His first production, in this kind, was London, a poem in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal. The vices of the metropolis are placed in the room of ancient manners. The author had heated his mind with the ardour of Juvenal, and, having the skill to polish his numbers, he became a sharp accuser of the times. The Vanity of Human Wishes, is an imitation of the tenth satire of the same author. Though it is translated by Dryden, Johnson's imitation approaches nearest to the spirit of the original. The subject is taken from the Alcibiades of Plato, and has an intermixture of the sentiments of Socrates, concerning the object of prayers offered up to the deity. The general proposition is, that good and evil are so little understood by mankind, that their wishes, when granted, are always destructive. This is exemplified in a variety of instances, such as riches, state-preferment, eloquence, military glory, long life, and the advantages of form and beauty. Juvenal's conclusion is worthy of a christian poet, and such a pen as Johnson's. "Let us," he says, "leave it to the gods to judge what is fittest for us. Man is dearer to his creator than to himself. If we must pray for special favour, let it be for a sound mind in a sound body. Let us pray for fortitude, that we may think the labours of Hercules, and all his sufferings, preferable to a life of luxury, and the soft repose of Sardanapalus. This is a blessing within the reach of every man; this we can give ourselves. It is virtue, and virtue only, that can make us happy." In the translation, the zeal of the christian conspired with the warmth and energy of the poet; but Juvenal is not eclipsed. For the various characters in the original, the reader is pleased, in the English poem, to meet with cardinal Wolsey, Buckingham stabbed by Felton, lord Strafford, Clarendon, Charles the twelfth of Sweden; and for Tully and Demosthenes, Lydiat, Galileo, and archbishop Laud. It is owing to Johnson's delight in biography, that the name of Lydiat is called forth from obscurity. It may, therefore, not be useless to tell, that Lydiat was a learned divine and mathematician in the beginning of the last century. He attacked the doctrine of Aristotle and Scaliger, and wrote a number of sermons on the harmony of the evangelists. With all his merit, he lay in the prison of Bocardo, at Oxford, till bishop Usher, Laud, and others, paid his debts. He petitioned Charles the first to be sent to Ethiopia, to procure manuscripts. Having spoken in favour of monarchy and bishops, he was plundered by the puritans, and twice carried away, a prisoner, from his rectory. He died, very poor, in 1646. The tragedy of Irene is founded on a passage in Knolles's History of the Turks; an author highly commended in the Rambler, No. 122. An incident in the life of Mahomet the great, first emperor of the Turks, is the hinge on which the fable is made to move. The substance of the story is shortly this: In 1453, Mahomet laid siege to Constantinople, and having reduced the place, became enamoured of a fair Greek, whose name was Irene. The sultan invited her to embrace the law of the prophet, and to grace his throne. Enraged at this intended marriage, the janizaries formed a conspiracy to dethrone the emperor. To avert the impending danger, Mahomet, in a full assembly of the grandees, "catching with one hand," as Knolles relates it, "the fair Greek by the hair of her head, and drawing his falchion with the other, he, at one blow, struck off her head, to the great terror of them all; and, having so done, said unto them: 'Now by this, judge whether your emperor is able to bridle his affections or not.'" The story is simple, and it remained for the author to amplify it, with proper episodes, and give it complication and variety. The catastrophe is changed, and horror gives place to terror and pity. But, after all, the fable is cold and languid. There is not, throughout the piece, a single situation to excite curiosity, and raise a conflict of passions. The diction is nervous, rich, and elegant; but splendid language, and melodious numbers, will make a fine poem--not a tragedy. The sentiments are beautiful, always happily expressed, but seldom appropriated to the character, and generally too philosophic. What Johnson has said of the tragedy of Cato, may be applied to Irene: "It is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a succession of just sentiments, in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections. Nothing excites or assuages emotion. The events are expected without solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care; we consider not what they are doing, nor what they are suffering; we wish only to know, what they have to say. It is unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy." The following speech, in the mouth of a Turk, who is supposed to have heard of the British constitution, has been often selected from the numberless beauties with which Irene abounds: "If there be any land, as fame reports, Where common laws restrain the prince and subject; A happy land, where circulating power Flows through each member of th' embodied state, Sure, not unconscious of the mighty blessing, Her grateful sons shine bright with ev'ry virtue; Untainted with the LUST OF INNOVATION; Sure, all unite to hold her league of rule, Unbroken, as the sacred chain of nature, That links the jarring elements in peace." These are British sentiments. Above forty years ago, they found an echo in the breast of applauding audiences; and to this hour they are the voice of the people, in defiance of the metaphysics, and the new lights of certain politicians, who would gladly find their private advantage in the disasters of their country; a race of men, "quibus nulla ex honesto spes." The prologue to Irene is written with elegance, and, in a peculiar style, shows the literary pride and lofty spirit of the author. The epilogue, we are told, in a late publication, was written by sir William Yonge. This is a new discovery, but by no means probable. When the appendages to a dramatic performance are not assigned to a friend, or an unknown hand, or a person of fashion, they are always supposed to be written by the author of the play. It is to be wished, however, that the epilogue, in question, could be transferred to any other writer. It is the worst jeu d'esprit that ever fell from Johnson's pen[cc]. An account of the various pieces contained in this edition, such as miscellaneous tracts, and philological dissertations, would lead beyond the intended limits of this essay. It will suffice to say, that they are the productions of a man, who never wanted decorations of language, and always taught his reader to think. The life of the late king of Prussia, as far as it extends, is a model of the biographical style. The review of the Origin of Evil was, perhaps, written with asperity; but the angry epitaph which it provoked from Soame Jenyns, was an ill-timed resentment, unworthy of the genius of that amiable author. The Rambler may be considered, as Johnson's great work. It was the basis of that high reputation, which went on increasing to the end of his days. The circulation of those periodical essays was not, at first, equal to their merit. They had not, like the Spectators, the art of charming by variety; and, indeed, how could it be expected? The wits of queen Anne's reign sent their contributions to the Spectator; and Johnson stood alone. A stagecoach, says sir Richard Steele, must go forward on stated days, whether there are passengers or not. So it was with the Rambler, every Tuesday and Saturday, for two years. In this collection Johnson is the great moral teacher of his countrymen; his essays form a body of ethics; the observations on life and manners, are acute and instructive; and the papers, professedly critical, serve to promote the cause of literature. It must, however, be acknowledged, that a settled gloom hangs over the author's mind; and all the essays, except eight or ten, coming from the same fountain-head, no wonder that they have the raciness of the soil from which they sprang. Of this uniformity Johnson was sensible. He used to say, that if he had joined a friend or two, who would have been able to intermix papers of a sprightly turn, the collection would have been more miscellaneous, and, by consequence, more agreeable to the generality of readers. This he used to illustrate by repeating two beautiful stanzas from his own ode to Cave, or Sylvanus Urban: "Non ulla musis pagina gratior, Quam quae severis ludicra jungere Novit, fatigatamque nugis Utilibus recreare mentem. Texente nymphis serta Lycoride, Rosae ruborem sic viola adjuvat Iramista, sic Iris refulget Aethereis variata fucis." It is remarkable, that the pomp of diction, which has been objected to Johnson, was first assumed in the Rambler. His Dictionary was going on at the same time, and, in the course of that work, as he grew familiar with technical and scholastic words, he thought that the bulk of his readers were equally learned; or, at least, would admire the splendour and dignity of the style. And yet it is well known, that he praised, in Cowley, the ease and unaffected structure of the sentences. Cowley may be placed at the head of those who cultivated a clear and natural style. Dryden, Tillotson, and sir William Temple followed. Addison, Swift, and Pope, with more correctness, carried our language well nigh to perfection. Of Addison, Johnson was used to say, "he is the Raphael of essay writers." How he differed so widely from such elegant models, is a problem not to be solved, unless it be true, that he took an early tincture from the writers of the last century, particularly sir Thomas Browne. Hence the peculiarities of his style, new combinations, sentences of an unusual structure, and words derived from the learned languages. His own account of the matter is: "When common words were less pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their signification, I familiarized the terms of philosophy, by applying them to popular ideas." But he forgot the observation of Dryden: "If too many foreign words are poured in upon us, it looks, as if they were designed, not to assist the natives, but to conquer them." There is, it must be admitted, a swell of language, often out of all proportion to the sentiment; but there is, in general, a fulness of mind, and the thought seems to expand with the sound of the words. Determined to discard colloquial barbarisms and licentious idioms, he forgot the elegant simplicity that distinguishes the writings of Addison. He had, what Locke calls, a round-about view of his subject; and, though he never was tainted, like many modern wits, with the ambition of shining in paradox, he may be fairly called an original thinker. His reading was extensive. He treasured in his mind whatever was worthy of notice, but he added to it from his own meditation. He collected, "quae reconderet, auetaque promeret." Addison was not so profound a thinker. He was "born to write, converse, and live with ease;" and he found an early patron in lord Somers. He depended, however, more upon a fine taste than the vigour of his mind. His Latin poetry shows, that he relished, with a just selection, all the refined and delicate beauties of the Roman classics; and, when he cultivated his native language, no wonder that he formed that graceful style, which has been so justly admired; simple, yet elegant; adorned, yet never over-wrought; rich in allusion, yet pure and perspicuous; correct, without labour; and though, sometimes, deficient in strength, yet always musical. His essays, in general, are on the surface of life; if ever original, it was in pieces of humour. Sir Roger de Coverly, and the tory fox-hunter, need not to be mentioned. Johnson had a fund of humour, but he did not know it; nor was he willing to descend to the familiar idiom, and the variety of diction, which that mode of composition required. The letter, in the Rambler, No. 12, from a young girl that wants a place, will illustrate this observation. Addison possessed an unclouded imagination, alive to the first objects of nature and of art. He reaches the sublime without any apparent effort. When he tells us, "If we consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different set of planets; if we still discover new firmaments, and new lights, that are sunk further in those unfathomable depths of ether; we are lost in a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magnificence and immensity of nature;" the ease, with which this passage rises to unaffected grandeur, is the secret charm that captivates the reader. Johnson is always lofty; he seems, to use Dryden's phrase, to be "o'erinform'd with meaning," and his words do not appear to himself adequate to his conception. He moves in state, and his periods are always harmonious. His Oriental Tales are in the true style of eastern magnificence, and yet none of them are so much admired, as the Visions of Mirza. In matters of criticism, Johnson is never the echo of preceding writers. He thinks, and decides, for himself. If we except the essays on the Pleasures of Imagination, Addison cannot be called a philosophical critic. His moral essays are beautiful; but in that province nothing can exceed the Rambler, though Johnson used to say, that the essay on "the burthens of mankind," (in the Spectator, No. 558,) was the most exquisite he had ever read. Talking of himself, Johnson said, "Topham Beauclerk has wit, and every thing comes from him with ease; but when I say a good thing, I seem to labour." When we compare him with Addison, the contrast is still stronger: Addison lends grace and ornament to truth; Johnson gives it force and energy. Addison makes virtue amiable; Johnson represents it as an awful duty: Addison insinuates himself with an air of modesty; Johnson commands like a dictator; but a dictator in his splendid robes, not labouring at the plough: Addison is the Jupiter of Virgil, with placid serenity talking to Venus, "Vultu, quo coelum tempestatesque serenat." Johnson is Jupiter Tonans: he darts his lightning and rolls his thunder, in the cause of virtue and piety. The language seems to fall short of his ideas; he pours along, familiarizing the terms of philosophy, with bold inversions, and sonorous periods; but we may apply to him, what Pope has said of Homer: "It is the sentiment that swells and fills out the diction, which rises with it, and forms itself about it: like glass in the furnace, which grows to a greater magnitude, as the breath within is more powerful, and the heat more intense." It is not the design of this comparison to decide between these two eminent writers. In matters of taste every reader will choose for himself. Johnson is always profound, and, of course, gives the fatigue of thinking. Addison charms, while he instructs; and writing, as he always does, a pure, an elegant, and idiomatic style, he may be pronounced the safest model for imitation. The essays written by Johnson in the Adventurer, may be called a continuation of the Rambler. The Idler, in order to be consistent with the assumed character, is written with abated vigour, in a style of ease and unlaboured elegance. It is the Odyssey, after the Iliad. Intense thinking would not become the Idler. The first number presents a well-drawn portrait of an Idler, and from that character no deviation could be made. Accordingly, Johnson forgets his austere manner, and plays us into sense. He still continues his lectures on human life, but he adverts to common occurrences, and is often content with the topic of the day. An advertisement in the beginning of the first volume informs us, that twelve entire essays were a contribution from different hands. One of these, No. 33, is the journal of a senior fellow, at Cambridge, but, as Johnson, being himself an original thinker, always revolted from servile imitation, he has printed the piece with an apology, importing, that the journal of a citizen, in the Spectator, almost precluded the attempt of any subsequent writer. This account of the Idler may be closed, after observing, that the author's mother being buried on the 23rd of January, 1759, there is an admirable paper occasioned by that event, on Saturday, the 27th of the same month, No. 41. The reader, if he pleases, may compare it with another fine paper in the Rambler, No. 54, on the conviction that rushes on the mind at the bed of a dying friend. "Rasselas," says sir John Hawkins, "is a specimen of our language scarcely to be paralleled; it is written in a style refined to a degree of immaculate purity, and displays the whole force of turgid eloquence." One cannot but smile at this encomium. Rasselas, is, undoubtedly, both elegant and sublime. It is a view of human life, displayed, it must be owned, in gloomy colours. The author's natural melancholy, depressed, at the time, by the approaching dissolution of his mother, darkened the picture. A tale, that should keep curiosity awake by the artifice of unexpected incidents, was not the design of a mind pregnant with better things. He, who reads the heads of the chapters, will find, that it is not a course of adventures that invites him forward, but a discussion of interesting questions; reflections on human life; the history of Imlac, the man of learning; a dissertation upon poetry; the character of a wise and happy man, who discourses, with energy, on the government of the passions, and, on a sudden, when death deprives him of his daughter, forgets all his maxims of wisdom, and the eloquence that adorned them, yielding to the stroke of affliction, with all the vehemence of the bitterest anguish. It is by pictures of life, and profound moral reflection, that expectation is engaged, and gratified throughout the work. The history of the mad astronomer, who imagines that, for five years, he possessed the regulation of the weather, and that the sun passed, from tropic to tropic, by his direction, represents, in striking colours, the sad effects of a distempered imagination. It becomes the more affecting when we recollect, that it proceeds from one who lived in fear of the same dreadful visitation; from one who says emphatically: "Of the uncertainties in our present state, the most dreadful and alarming is the uncertain continuance of reason." The inquiry into the cause of madness, and the dangerous prevalence of imagination, till, in time, some particular train of ideas fixes the attention, and the mind recurs constantly to the favourite conception, is carried on in a strain of acute observation; but it leaves us room to think, that the author was transcribing from his own apprehensions. The discourse on the nature of the soul, gives us all that philosophy knows, not without a tincture of superstition. It is remarkable, that the vanity of human pursuits was, about the same time, the subject that employed both Johnson and Voltaire; but Candide is the work of a lively imagination; and Rasselas, with all its splendour of eloquence, exhibits a gloomy picture. It should, however, be remembered, that the world has known the weeping, as well as the laughing philosopher. The Dictionary does not properly fall within the province of this essay. The preface, however, will be found in this edition. He who reads the close of it, without acknowledging the force of the pathethic and sublime, must have more insensibility in his composition, than usually falls to the share of a man. The work itself, though, in some instances, abuse has been loud, and, in others, malice has endeavoured to undermine its fame, still remains the MOUNT ATLAS of English literature. "Though storms and tempests thunder on its brow, And oceans break their billows at its feet, It stands unmov'd, and glories in its height." That Johnson was eminently qualified for the office of a commentator on Shakespeare, no man can doubt; but it was an office which he never cordially embraced. The public expected more than he had diligence to perform; and yet his edition has been the ground, on which every subsequent commentator has chosen to build. One note, for its singularity, may be thought worthy of notice in this place. Hamlet says, "For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing carrion." In this Warburton discovered the origin of evil. Hamlet, he says, breaks off in the middle of the sentence; but the learned commentator knows what he was going to say, and, being unwilling to keep the secret, he goes on in a train of philosophical reasoning, that leaves the reader in astonishment. Johnson, with true piety, adopts the fanciful hypothesis, declaring it to be a noble emendation, which almost sets the critic on a level with the author. The general observations at the end of the several plays, and the preface, will be found in this edition. The former, with great elegance and precision, give a summary view of each drama. The preface is a tract of great erudition and philosophical criticism. Johnson's political pamphlets, whatever was his motive for writing them, whether gratitude for his pension, or the solicitation of men in power, did not support the cause for which they were undertaken. They are written in a style truly harmonious, and with his usual dignity of language. When it is said that he advanced positions repugnant to the "common rights of mankind," the virulence of party may be suspected. It is, perhaps, true, that in the clamour, raised throughout the kingdom, Johnson overheated his mind; but he was a friend to the rights of man, and he was greatly superior to the littleness of spirit, that might incline him to advance what he did not think and firmly believe. In the False Alarm, though many of the most eminent men in the kingdom concurred in petitions to the throne, yet Johnson, having well surveyed the mass of the people, has given, with great humour, and no less truth, what may be called, "the birth, parentage, and education of a remonstrance." On the subject of Falkland's islands, the fine dissuasive from too hastily involving the world in the calamities of war, must extort applause even from the party that wished, at that time, for scenes of tumult and commotion. It was in the same pamphlet, that Johnson offered battle to Junius, a writer, who, by the uncommon elegance of his style, charmed every reader, though his object was to inflame the nation in favour of a faction. Junius fought in the dark; he saw his enemy, and had his full blow; while he himself remained safe in obscurity. "But let us not," said Johnson, "mistake the venom of the shaft, for the vigour of the bow." The keen invective which he published, on that occasion, promised a paper war between two combatants, who knew the use of their weapons. A battle between them was as eagerly expected, as between Mendoza and Big Ben. But Junius, whatever was his reason, never returned to the field. He laid down his arms, and has, ever since, remained as secret as the man in the mask, in Voltaire's history. The account of his journey to the Hebrides, or western isles of Scotland, is a model for such as shall, hereafter, relate their travels. The author did not visit that part of the world in the character of an antiquary, to amuse us with wonders taken from the dark and fabulous ages; nor, as a mathematician, to measure a degree, and settle the longitude and latitude of the several islands. Those, who expected such information, expected what was never intended. "In every work regard the writer's end." Johnson went to see men and manners, modes of life, and the progress of civilization. His remarks are so artfully blended with the rapidity and elegance of his narrative, that the reader is inclined to wish, as Johnson did, with regard to Gray, that "to travel, and to tell his travels, had been more of his employment." As to Johnson's Parliamentary Debates, nothing, with propriety, can be said in this place. They are collected, in two volumes, by Mr. Stockdale, and the flow of eloquence which runs through the several speeches, is sufficiently known. It will not be useless to mention two more volumes, which may form a proper supplement to this edition. They contain a set of sermons, left for publication by John Taylor, LL.D. The reverend Mr. Hayes, who ushered these discourses into the world, has not given them, as the composition of Dr. Taylor. All he could say for his departed friend was, that he left them, in silence, among his papers. Mr. Hayes knew them to be the production of a superior mind; and the writer of these memoirs owes it to the candour of that elegant scholar, that he is now warranted to give an additional proof of Johnson's ardour in the cause of piety, and every moral duty. The last discourse in the collection was intended to be delivered by Dr. Taylor, at the funeral of Johnson's wife; but that reverend gentleman declined the office, because, as he told Mr. Hayes, the praise of the deceased was too much amplified. He, who reads the piece, will find it a beautiful moral lesson, written with temper, and nowhere overcharged with ambitious ornaments. The rest of the discourses were the fund, which Dr. Taylor, from time to time, carried with him to his pulpit. He had the _largest bull_[dd] in England, and some of the best sermons. We come now to the Lives of the Poets, a work undertaken at the age of seventy, yet, the most brilliant, and, certainly, the most popular, of all our author's writings. For this performance he needed little preparation. Attentive always to the history of letters, and, by his own natural bias, fond of biography, he was the more willing to embrace the proposition of the booksellers. He was versed in the whole body of English poetry, and his rules of criticism were settled with precision. The dissertation, in the life of Cowley, on the metaphysical poets of the last century, has the attraction of novelty, as well as sound observation. The writers, who followed Dr. Donne, went in quest of something better than truth and nature. As Sancho says, in Don Quixote, they wanted better bread than is made with wheat. They took pains to bewilder themselves, and were ingenious for no other purpose than to err. In Johnson's review of Cowley's works, false wit is detected in all its shapes, and the Gothic taste for glittering conceits, and far-fetched allusions, is exploded, never, it is hoped, to revive again. An author who has published his observations on the Life and Writings of Dr. Johnson, speaking of the Lives of the Poets, says, "These compositions, abounding in strong and acute remark, and with many fine, and even sublime, passages, have, unquestionably, great merit; but, if they be regarded, merely as containing narrations of the lives, delineations of the characters, and strictures of the several authors, they are far from being always to be depended on." He adds: "The characters are sometimes partial, and there is, sometimes, too much malignity of misrepresentation, to which, perhaps, may be joined no inconsiderable portion of erroneous criticism." The several clauses of this censure deserve to be answered, as fully as the limits of this essay will permit. In the first place, the facts are related upon the best intelligence, and the best vouchers that could be gleaned, after a great lapse of time. Probability was to be inferred from such materials, as could be procured, and no man better understood the nature of historical evidence than Dr. Johnson; no man was more religiously an observer of truth. If his history is any where defective, it must be imputed to the want of better information, and the errors of uncertain tradition. "Ad nos vix tenuis famae perlabitur aura." If the strictures on the works of the various authors are not always satisfactory, and if erroneous criticism may sometimes be suspected, who can hope, that in matters of taste, all shall agree? The instances, in which the public mind has differed, from the positions advanced by the author, are few in number. It has been said, that justice has not been done to Swift; that Gay and Prior are undervalued; and that Gray has been harshly treated. This charge, perhaps, ought not to be disputed. Johnson, it is well known, had conceived a prejudice against Swift. His friends trembled for him, when he was writing that life, but were pleased, at last, to see it executed with temper and moderation. As to Prior, it is probable that he gave his real opinion, but an opinion that will not be adopted by men of lively fancy. With regard to Gray, when he condemns the apostrophe, in which father Thames is desired to tell who drives the hoop, or tosses the ball, and then adds, that father Thames had no better means of knowing than himself; when he compares the abrupt beginning of the first stanza of the bard, to the ballad of Johnny Armstrong, "Is there ever a man in all Scotland;" there are, perhaps, few friends of Johnson, who would not wish to blot out both the passages. It may be questioned, whether the remarks on Pope's Essay on Man can be received, without great caution. It has been already mentioned, that Crousaz, a professor in Switzerland, eminent for his Treatise of Logic, started up a professed enemy to that poem. Johnson says, "his mind was one of those, in which philosophy and piety are happily united. He looked, with distrust, upon all metaphysical systems of theology, and was persuaded, that the positions of Pope were intended to draw mankind away from revelation, and to represent the whole course of things, as a necessary concatenation of indissoluble fatality." This is not the place fur a controversy about the Leibnitzian system. Warburton, with all the powers of his large and comprehensive mind, published a vindication of Pope; and yet Johnson says, that, "in many passages, a religious eye may easily discover expressions not very favourable to morals, or to liberty." This sentence is severe, and, perhaps, dogmatical. Crousaz wrote an Examen of the Essay on Man, and, afterwards, a commentary on every remarkable passage; and, though it now appears, that Mrs. Elizabeth Carter translated the foreign critic, yet it is certain, that Johnson encouraged the work, and, perhaps, imbibed those early prejudices, which adhered to him to the end of his life. He shuddered at the idea of irreligion. Hence, we are told, in the life of Pope, "Never were penury of knowledge, and vulgarity of sentiment, so happily disguised; Pope, in the chair of wisdom, tells much that every man knows, and much that he did not know himself; and gives us comfort in the position, that though man's a fool, yet God is wise; that human advantages are unstable; that our true honour is, not to have a great part, but to act it well; that virtue only is our own, and that happiness is always in our power." The reader, when he meets all this in its new array, no longer knows the talk of his mother and his nurse. But, may it not be said, that every system of ethics must, or ought, to terminate, in plain and general maxims for the use of life? and, though in such anxioms no discovery is made, does not the beauty of the moral theory consist in the premises, and the chain of reasoning that leads to the conclusion? May not truth, as Johnson himself says, be conveyed to the mind by a new train of intermediate images? Pope's doctrine, about the ruling passion, does not seem to be refuted, though it is called, in harsh terms, pernicious, as well as false, tending to establish a kind of moral predestination, or overruling principle, which cannot be resisted. But Johnson was too easily alarmed in the cause of religion. Organized as the human race is, individuals have different inlets of perception, different powers of mind, and different sensations of pleasure and pain. "All spread their charms, but charm not all alike, On different senses different objects strike: Hence different passions more or less inflame, As strong or weak the organs of the frame. And hence one master-passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest." Brumoy says, Pascal, from his infancy, felt himself a geometrician; and Vandyke, in like manner, was a painter. Shakespeare, who, of all poets, had the deepest insight into human nature, was aware of a prevailing bias in the operations of every mind. By him we are told, "Masterless passion sways us to the mood of what it likes or loathes." It remains to inquire, whether, in the lives before us, the characters are partial, and too often drawn with malignity of misrepresentation? To prove this, it is alleged, that Johnson has misrepresented the circumstances relative to the translation of the first Iliad, and maliciously ascribed that performance to Addison, instead of Tickell, with too much reliance on the testimony of Pope, taken from the account in the papers left by Mr. Spence. For a refutation of the fallacy imputed to Addison, we are referred to a note in the Biographia Britannica, written by the late judge Blackstone, who, it is said, examined the whole matter with accuracy, and found, that the first regular statement of the accusation against Addison, was published by Ruffhead, in his life of Pope, from the materials which he received from Dr. Warburton. But, with all due deference to the learned judge, whose talents deserve all praise, this account is by no means accurate. Sir Richard Steele, in a dedication of the comedy of the Drummer, to Mr. Congreve, gave the first insight into that business. He says, in a style of anger and resentment: "If that gentleman (Mr. Tickell) thinks himself injured, I will allow I have wronged him upon this issue, that, if the reputed translator of the first book of Homer shall please to give us another book, there shall appear another good judge in poetry, besides Mr. Alexander Pope, who shall like it." The authority of Steele outweighs all opinions, founded on vain conjecture, and, indeed, seems to be decisive, since we do not find that Tickell, though warmly pressed, thought proper to vindicate himself. But the grand proof of Johnson's malignity, is the manner in which he has treated the character and conduct of Milton. To enforce this charge has wearied sophistry, and exhausted the invention of a party. What they cannot deny, they palliate; what they cannot prove, they say is probable. But why all this rage against Dr. Johnson? Addison, before him, had said of Milton: "Oh! had the poet ne'er profan'd his pen, To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men!" And had not Johnson an equal right to avow his sentiments? Do his enemies claim a privilege to abuse whatever is valuable to Englishmen, either in church or state? and must the liberty of unlicensed printing be denied to the friends of the British constitution? It is unnecessary to pursue the argument through all its artifices, since, dismantled of ornament and seducing language, the plain truth may be stated in a narrow compass. Johnson knew that Milton was a republican: he says, "an acrimonious and surly republican, for which it is not known that he gave any better reason than, that a popular government was the most frugal; for the trappings of a monarchy would set up an ordinary commonwealth." Johnson knew that Milton talked aloud "of the danger of readmitting kingship in this nation;" and when Milton adds, "that a commonwealth was commended, or rather enjoined, by our Saviour himself, to all christians, not without a remarkable disallowance, and the brand of gentilism upon kingship," Johnson thought him no better than a wild enthusiast. He knew, as well as Milton, "that the happiness of a nation must needs be firmest and certainest in a full and free council of their own electing, where no single person, but reason only, sways;" but the example of all the republicks, recorded in the annals of mankind, gave him no room to hope, that reason only would be heard. He knew, that the republican form of government, having little or no complication, and no consonance of parts, by a nice mechanism forming a regular whole, was too simple to be beautiful, even in theory. In practice it, perhaps, never existed. In its most flourishing state, at Athens, Rome, and Carthage, it was a constant scene of tumult and commotion. From the mischiefs of a wild democracy, the progress has ever been to the dominion of an aristocracy; and the word aristocracy, fatally includes the boldest and most turbulent citizens, who rise by their crimes, and call themselves the best men in the state. By intrigue, by cabal, and faction, a pernicious oligarchy is sure to succeed, and end, at last, in the tyranny of a single ruler. Tacitus, the great master of political wisdom, saw, under the mixed authority of king, nobles, and people, a better form of government than Milton's boasted republick; and what Tacitus admired in theory, but despaired of enjoying, Johnson saw established in this country. He knew that it had been overturned by the rage of frantic men; but he knew that, after the iron rod of Cromwell's usurpation, the constitution was once more restored to its first principles. Monarchy was established, and this country was regenerated. It was regenerated a second time, at the revolution: the rights of men were then defined, and the blessings of good order, and civil liberty, have been ever since diffused through the whole community. The peace and happiness of society were what Dr. Johnson had at heart. He knew that Milton called his defence of the regicides, a defence of the people of England; but, however glossed and varnished, he thought it an apology for murder. Had the men, who, under a show of liberty, brought their king to the scaffold, proved, by their subsequent conduct, that the public good inspired their actions, the end might have given some sanction to the means; but usurpation and slavery followed. Milton undertook the office of secretary, under the despotic power of Cromwell, offering the incense of adulation to his master, with the titles of "director of public councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the father of his country." Milton declared, at the same time, "that nothing is more pleasing to God, or more agreeable to reason, than that the highest mind should have the sovereign power." In this strain of servile flattery, Milton gives us the right divine of tyrants. But it seems, in the same piece, he exhorts Cromwell "not to desert those great principles of liberty which he had professed to espouse; for, it would be a grievous enormity, if, after having successfully opposed tyranny, he should himself act the part of a tyrant, and betray the cause that he had defended." This desertion of every honest principle the advocate for liberty lived to see. Cromwell acted the tyrant; and, with vile hypocrisy, told the people, that he had consulted the Lord, and the Lord would have it so. Milton took an under part in the tragedy. Did that become the defender of the people of England? Brutus saw his country enslaved; he struck the blow for freedom, and he died with honour in the cause. Had he lived to be a secretary under Tiberius, what would now be said of his memory? But still, it seems, the prostitution with which Milton is charged, since it cannot be defended, is to be retorted on the character of Johnson. For this purpose, a book has been published, called Remarks on Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton; to which are added, Milton's Tractate of Education, and Areopagitica. In this laboured tract we are told, "There is one performance, ascribed to the pen of the Doctor, where the prostitution is of so singular a nature, that it would be difficult to select an adequate motive for it, out of the mountainous heap of conjectural causes of human passions, or human caprice. It is the speech of the late unhappy Dr. William Dodd, when he was about to hear the sentence of the law pronounced upon him, in consequence of an indictment for forgery. The voice of the public has given the honour of manufacturing this speech to Dr. Johnson; and the style, and configuration of the speech itself, confirm the imputation. But it is hardly possible to divine what could be his motive for accepting the office. A man, to express the precise state of mind of another, about to be destined to an ignominious death, for a capital crime, should, one would imagine, have some consciousness, that he himself had incurred some guilt of the same kind." In all the schools of sophistry, is there to be found so vile an argument? In the purlieus of Grub street, is there such another mouthful of dirt? In the whole quiver of malice, is there so envenomed a shaft? After this, it is to be hoped, that a certain class of men will talk no more of Johnson's malignity. The last apology for Milton is, that he acted according to his principles. But Johnson thought those principles detestable; pernicious to the constitution, in church and state, destructive of the peace of society, and hostile to the great fabric of civil policy, which the wisdom of ages has taught every Briton to revere, to love, and cherish. He reckoned Milton in that class of men, of whom the Roman historian says, when they want, by a sudden convulsion, to overturn the government, they roar and clamour for liberty; if they succeed, they destroy liberty itself: "Ut imperium evertant, libertatem praeferunt; si perverterint, libertatem ipsam aggredientur." Such were the sentiments of Dr. Johnson; and it may be asked, in the language of Bolingbroke, "Are these sentiments, which any man, who is born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought to be ashamed, or afraid to avow?" Johnson has done ample justice to Milton's poetry: the criticism on Paradise Lost is a sublime composition. Had he thought the author as good and pious a citizen as Dr. Watts, he would have been ready, notwithstanding his nonconformity, to do equal honour to the memory of the man. It is now time to close this essay, which the author fears has been drawn too much into length. In the progress of the work, feeble as it may be, he thought himself performing the last human office to the memory of a friend, whom he loved, esteemed, and honoured: "His saltern accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere."-- The author of these memoirs has been anxious to give the features of the man, and the true character of the author. He has not suffered the hand of partiality to colour his excellencies with too much warmth; nor has he endeavoured to throw his singularities too much into the shade. Dr. Johnson's failings may well be forgiven, for the sake of his virtues. His defects were spots in the sun. His piety, his kind affections, and the goodness of his heart, present an example worthy of imitation. His works still remain a monument of genius and of learning. Had he written nothing but what is contained in this edition, the quantity shows a life spent in study and meditation. If to this be added, the labour of his Dictionary, and other various productions, it may be fairly allowed, as he used to say of himself, that he has written his share. In the volumes here presented to the public the reader will find a perpetual source of pleasure and instruction. With due precautions, authors may learn to grace their style with elegance, harmony, and precision; they may be taught to think with vigour and perspicuity; and, to crown the whole, by a diligent attention to these books, all may advance in virtue. FOOTNOTES [a] Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. ii. p. 465, 4to. edit. [b] This appears in a note to Johnson's Diary, prefixed to the first of his Prayers. After the alteration of the style, he kept his birthday on the 18th of September, and it is accordingly marked September 7/18 [c] The impression which this interview left on Johnson's fancy, is recorded by Mrs. Piozzi in her anecdotes; and Johnson's description of it is picturesque and poetical. Being asked if he could remember queen Anne, "he had (he said) a confused, but somehow a sort of solemn recollection of a lady in diamonds, and a long black hood." --ED. [d] The entry of this is remarkable for his early resolution to preserve through life a fair and upright character. "1732, Junii 15. Undecim aureos deposui, quo die, quidquid ante matris funus (quod serum sit precor) de paternis bonis sperare licet, viginti scilicet libras, accepi. Usque adeo mihi mea fortuna fingenda est. Interea, ne paupertate vires animi languescant, nec in flagitia egestas abigat, cavendum." [e] This, Mr. Bruce, the late traveller, avers to be a downright falsehood. He says, a deep pool of water reaches to the very foot of the rock; and, allowing that there was a seat or bench (which there is not) in the middle of the pool, it is absolutely impossible, by any exertion of human strength, to have arrived at it. But it may be asked, can Mr. Bruce say what was the face of the country in the year 1622, when Lobo saw the magnificent sight which he has described? Mr. Bruce's pool of water may have been formed since; and Lobo, perhaps, was content to sit down without a bench. [f] After comparing this description with that lately given by Mr. Bruce, the reader will judge, whether Lobo is to lose the honour of having been at the head of the Nile, near two centuries before any other European traveller. [g] See the Gentleman's Magazine for 1736, p. 418. [h] It is added to the present edition of Dr. Johnson's works; vol. v. p. 202. [i] Afterwards earl of Roslin. He died January 3, 1805. [Transcriber's Note: There is no Footnote [j]] [k] Mr. Boswell says, "The simple truth I had from Johnson himself. 'Sir, he was impertinent to me, and I beat him. But it was not in his shop: it was in my own chamber.'" [l] Dr. Johnson denies the whole of this story. See Boswell's Life, vol. i. p. 128. oct. edit. 1804. [m] Letter 212. [n] See Gent. Mag. vol. lxxi. p. 190. [o] It has since been paralleled, in the case of the Shakespeare MSS. by a yet more vile impostor. [p] Life of Johnson, vol. i. p.328. 4to. edit. [q] See Gentleman's Magazine for Nov. and Dec. 1787. [r] See Gentleman's Magazine for Dec. 1787, p. 1042. [s] This work was not published until the year 1767, when Dr. Johnson's Dictionary was fully established in reputation. [t] See Scaliger's epigram on this subject, (communicated, without doubt, by Dr. Johnson,) Gent. Mag. 1748, p. 8. [u] See Johnson's epitaph on him, in this volume, p. 130. [Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [v] or Footnote [w]] [x] Mr. Boswell's account of this introduction is very different from the above. See his Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 360. 8vo. edit. 1804. [y] It is there deposited. [z] Before this authentic communication, Mr. Nichols had given, in the volume of the Gentleman's Magazine, for 1781, p. 370, the following account of the Universal History. The proposals were published October 6, 1729; and the authors of the first seven volumes were, Vol. I. Mr. Sale, translator of the Koran. IV. The same as vol. iii. II. George Psalmanazar. V. Mr. Bower. III. George Psalmanazar. VI. Mr. Bower. Archibald Bower. Rev. John Swinton. Captain Shelvock. VII. Mr. Swinton. Dr. Campbell. Mr. Bower. [aa] On the subject of voluntary penance, see the Rambler, No. 110. [bb] It is to be regretted, that he was not encouraged in this undertaking. The assistance, however, which he gave to Davies, in writing the Life of Garrick, has been acknowledged, in general terms, by that writer, and, from the evidence of style, appears to have been very considerable. [cc] Dr. Johnson informed Mr. Boswell, that this epilogue was written by sir William Yonge. See Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 469-- 70. 8vo. edit. 1804. The internal evidence, that it is not Johnson's, is very strong, particularly in the line, "But how the devil," &c. [dd] See Johnson's letters from Ashbourne, in this volume. POEMS. PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS TO THE IMITATIONS OF THE THIRD AND TENTH SATIRES OF JUVENAL. We will not examine here Johnson's poetical merits, since that discussion will more properly introduce his Lives of the Poets, but merely offer some few biographical remarks. In the poem of London, Mr. Boswell was of opinion, that Johnson did not allude to Savage, under the name of Thales, and adds, for his reason, that Johnson was not so much as acquainted with Savage when he _wrote_ his London. About a month, however, before he _published_ this poem, he addressed the following lines to him, through the Gentleman's Magazine, for April, 1738. AD RICARDUM SAVAGE. Humanani studium generis cui pectore fervet O colat humanum te, foveatque, genus! We cannot certainly infer, from this, an intimacy with Savage, but it is more probable, that these lines flowed from a feeling of private friendship, than mere admiration of an author, in a public point of view; and they, at any rate, give credibility to the general opinion, that, under the name of Thales, the poet referred to the author of the Wanderer, who was, at this time, preparing for his retreat to Wales, whither he actually went in the ensuing year. The names of Lydiat, Vane, and Sedley, which are brought forward in the poem on the Vanity of Human Wishes, as examples of inefficiency of either learning or beauty, to shield their possessors from distress, have exercised inquiry. The following is the best account of them we can collect: THOMAS LYDIAT was born in 1572. After passing through the studies of the university of Oxford, with applause, he was elected fellow of New college; but his defective utterance induced him to resign his fellowship, in order to avoid entering holy orders, and to live upon a small patrimony. He was highly esteemed by the accomplished and unfortunate prince Henry, son of James the first. But his hopes of provision in that quarter were blasted by that prince's premature death; and he then accompanied the celebrated Usher into Ireland. After two or three years, he returned to England, and poverty induced him now to accept the rectory of Okerton, near Banbury, which he had before declined. Here he imprudently became security for the debts of a relation, and, being unable to pay, was imprisoned for several years. He was released, at last, by his patron, Usher, sir W. Boswell, Dr. Pink, then warden of New college, and archbishop Laud, to whom he showed his gratitude by writing in defence of his measures of church-government. He now applied to Charles the first for his protection and encouragement to travel into the east, to collect MSS. but the embarrassed state of the king's affairs prevented his petition from receiving attention. Lastly, his well-known attachment to the royal cause drew upon him the repeated violence of the parliament troops, who plundered, imprisoned, and abused him, in the most cruel manner. He died in obscurity and indigence, in 1646. A stone was laid over his grave in Okerton church, in 1669, by the society of New college, who also erected an honorary monument to his memory in the cloisters of their college. We have dwelt thus long on Lydiat's name, because, when this poem was published, it was a subject of inquiry, who Lydiat was, though some of his contemporaries, both in England and on the continent, ranked him with lord Bacon, in mathematical and physical knowledge. For a more detailed account, see Chalmers' Biographical Dictionary, vol. xxi. whence the above facts have been extracted, and Gentleman's Magazine, vol. lxviii. GALILEO, and his history, are too well known to require a note in this place. The VANE, who told, "what ills from beauty spring," was not Lady Vane, the subject of Smollett's memoirs, in Peregrine Pickle, but, according to Mr. Malone, she was Anne Vane, mistress to Frederick prince of Wales, and died in 1736, not long before Johnson settled in London. Some account of her was published, under the title of the Secret History of Vanella, 8vo. 1732, and in other similar works, referred to in Boswell, i. 173. In Mr. Boswell's Tour to the Hebrides, we find lord Hailes objecting to the instances of unfortunate beauties selected by Johnson, and suggesting, in place of Vane and Sedley, the names of Shore and Valière. CATHERINE SEDLEY was daughter of sir Charles Sedley, mistress of king James the second, who created her countess of Dorchester. She was a woman of a sprightly and agreeable wit, which could charm without the aid of beauty, and longer maintain its power. She had been the king's mistress before he ascended the throne, and soon after (January 2, 1685-6) was created countess of Dorchester. Sir C. Sedley, her father, looked on this title, as a splendid indignity, purchased at the expense of his daughter's honour; and when he was very active against the king, about the time of the revolution, he said, that, in gratitude, he should do his utmost to make his majesty's daughter a queen, as the king had made his own a countess. The king continued to visit her, which gave great uneasiness to the queen, who employed her friends, particularly the priests, to persuade him to break off the correspondence. They remonstrated with him on the guilt of the commerce, and the reproach it would bring on the catholic religion; she, on the contrary, employed the whole force of her ridicule against the priests and their counsels. They, at length, prevailed, and he is said to have sent her word to retire to France, or that her pension of 4,000_l_. a year should be withdrawn. She then, probably, repented of having been the royal mistress, and "cursed the form that pleased the king." See Manning and Bray's Surrey, ii. 788. where the countess's issue is also given. See, also, Christian's note on Blackstone's Com. iv. p. 65. It is remarkable, that when Johnson was asked, at a late period of his life, to whom he had alluded, under the name of Sedley, he said, that he had quite forgotten. See note on Idler, No. 36.--ED. LONDON; A POEM: IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL WRITTEN IN 1738. --Quis ineptae Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se? JUV. [a]Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel, When injur'd Thales bids the town farewell, Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend, I praise the hermit, but regret the friend; Resolv'd at length, from vice and London far, To breathe, in distant fields, a purer air, And, fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore, Give to St. David one true Briton more. [b]For who would leave, unbrib'd, Hibernia's land, Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand? There none are swept by sudden fate away, But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay: Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire, And now a rabble rages, now a fire; Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, And here the fell attorney prowls for prey; Here falling houses thunder on your head, And here a female atheist talks you dead. [c]While Thales waits the wherry, that contains Of dissipated wealth the small remains, On Thames's banks, in silent thought, we stood Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood; Struck with the seat that gave Eliza[A] birth, We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth; In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, And call Britannia's glories back to view; Behold her cross triumphant on the main, The guard of commerce, and the dread of Spain, Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd Or English honour grew a standing jest. A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, And, for a moment, lull the sense of woe. At length awaking, with contemptuous frown, Indignant Thales eyes the neighb'ring town. [d] Since worth, he cries, in these degen'rate days, Wants ev'n the cheap reward of empty praise; In those curs'd walls, devote to vice and gain, Since unrewarded science toils in vain; Since hope but sooths to double my distress, And ev'ry moment leaves my little less; While yet my steady steps no [e]staff sustains, And life, still vig'rous, revels in my veins; Grant me, kind heaven, to find some happier place, Where honesty and sense are no disgrace; Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play, Some peaceful vale, with nature's paintings gay; Where once the harass'd Briton found repose, And, safe in poverty, defied his foes; Some secret cell, ye pow'rs, indulgent give, [f]Let--live here, for--has learn'd to live. Here let those reign, whom pensions can incite To vote a patriot black, a courtier white; Explain their country's dear-bought rights away, And plead for[B] pirates in the face of day; With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth, And lend a lie the confidence of truth. [g]Let such raise palaces, and manors buy, Collect a tax, or farm a lottery; With warbling eunuchs fill a [C]licens'd [D]stage, And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall hold, What check restrain your thirst of pow'r and gold? Behold rebellious virtue quite o'erthrown, Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives, your own. To such the plunder of a land is giv'n, When publick crimes inflame the wrath of heaven: [h]But what, my friend, what hope remains for me. Who start at theft, and blush at perjury? Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he sing, To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing; A statesman's logick unconvinc'd can hear. And dare to slumber o'er the [E]Gazetteer; Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd, And strive, in vain, to laugh at Clodio's jest[F]. [i]Others, with softer smiles, and subtler art, Can sap the principles, or taint the heart; With more address a lover's note convey, Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. Well may they rise, while I, whose rustick tongue Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, Live unregarded, unlamented die. [k]For what but social guilt the friend endears? Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares. [l]But thou, should tempting villany present All Marlb'rough hoarded, or all Villiers spent, Turn from the glitt'ring bribe thy scornful eye, Nor sell for gold, what gold could never buy, The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. [m] The cheated nation's happy fav'rites, see! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! London! the needy villain's gen'ral home, The common sewer of Paris and of Rome; With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. Forgive my transports, on a theme like this, [n]I cannot bear a French metropolis. [o]Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day, The land of heroes and of saints survey; Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, The rustick grandeur, or the surly grace; But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, Behold the warriour dwindled to a beau; Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away, Of France the mimick, and of Spain the prey. All that at home no more can beg or steal, Or like a gibbet better than a wheel; Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court, Their air, their dress, their politicks, import; [p]Obsequious, artful, voluble and gay, On Britain's fond credulity they prey. No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, [q]They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a clap: All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, And, bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. [r]Ah! what avails it, that, from slav'ry far, I drew the breath of life in English air; Was early taught a Briton's right to prize, And lisp the tale of Henry's victories; If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain, And flattery prevails, when arms are vain![G] [s]Studious to please, and ready to submit, The supple Gaul was born a parasite: Still to his int'rest true, where'er he goes, Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bestows; In ev'ry face a thousand graces shine, From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine. [t]These arts in vain our rugged natives try, Strain out, with fault'ring diffidence, a lie, And get a kick[H] for awkward flattery. Besides, with justice, this discerning age Admires their wondrous talents for the stage: [u]Well may they venture on the mimick's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; Practis'd their master's notions to embrace, Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face; With ev'ry wild absurdity comply, And view each object with another's eye; To shake with laughter, ere the jest they hear, To pour at will the counterfeited tear; And, as their patron hints the cold or heat. To shake in dog-days, in December sweat. [x]How, when competitors, like these, contend, Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend? Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, And lie without a blush, without a smile; Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore, Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore: Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear, He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air. For arts, like these, preferr'd, admir'd, caress'd, They first invade your table, then your breast; [y]Explore your secrets with insidious art, Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart; Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay, Commence your lords, and govern or betray. [z]By numbers here from shame or censure free, All crimes are safe, but hated poverty. This, only this, the rigid law pursues, This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke; With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. [aa]Of all the griefs, that harass the distress'd, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest; Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart, Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. [bb]Has heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore? No secret island in the boundless main? No peaceful desert, yet unclaim'd by Spain?[I] Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is ev'ry where confess'd, [cc]SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D: But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold; Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, The groom retails the favours of his lord. But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies: Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow'r, Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow'r, Aghast you start, and scarce, with aching sight, Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light; Swift from pursuing horrours take your way, And leave your little ALL to flames a prey; [dd]Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam; For where can starving merit find a home? In vain your mournful narrative disclose, While all neglect, and most insult your woes. [ee]Should heav'n's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound, [J]And spread his flaming palace on the ground, Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies, And publick mournings pacify the skies; The laureate tribe in venal verse relate, How virtue wars with persecuting fate; [ff]With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land. See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come, And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome; The price of boroughs and of souls restore; And raise his treasures higher than before. Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great, The polish'd marble and the shining plate, [gg]Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire, And hopes from angry heav'n another fire. [hh]Could'st thou resign the park and play, content, For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent; There might'st thou find some elegant retreat, Some hireling senator's deserted seat; And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land, For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand; There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers, Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers; [K] And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford, Despise the dainties of a venal lord: There ev'ry bush with nature's musick rings; There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings; On all thy hours security shall smile, And bless thine evening walk and morning toil. [ii]Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, And sign your will, before you sup from home. [kk] Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, Who sleeps on brambles, till he kills his man; Some frolick drunkard, reeling from a feast, Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. [ll]Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay, Lords of the street, and terrours of the way; Flush'd, as they are, with folly, youth, and wine; Their prudent insults to the poor confine; Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach, And shun the shining train, and golden coach. [mm]In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close, And hope the balmy blessings of repose; Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murd'rer bursts the faithless bar; Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, [L]And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast. [nn]Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die, With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band, Whose ways and means[M]support the sinking land: Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring, To rig another convoy for the king[N]. [oo]A single gaol, in Alfred's golden reign, Could half the nation's criminals contain; Fair justice, then, without constraint ador'd, Held high the steady scale, but sheath'd the sword [D]; No spies were paid, no special juries known, Blest age! but ah! how different from our own! [pp]Much could I add,--but see the boat at hand, The tide, retiring, calls me from the land: [qq] Farewell!--When youth, and health, and fortune spent, Thou fly'st for refuge to the wilds of Kent; And, tir'd, like me, with follies and with crimes, In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times; Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade; In virtue's cause, once more, exert his rage, Thy satire point, and animate thy page. FOOTNOTES [a] Quamvis digressu veteris confusus amici, Laudo, tamen, vacuis quod sedem figere Cumis Destinet atque unum civcm donare Sibyllae. [b] --Ego vel Prochytam praepono Suburae. Nam quid tam miserum, tam solum vidimus, ut non Deterius credas horrere incendia, lapsus Tectorum assiduos, ae mille pericula saevae Urbis et Augusto recitantes mense poetas [c] Sed dum tota domus reda componitur una, Substitit ad veteres arcus-- [d] Hic tunc Umbricius; Quando artibus, inquit, honestis Nullus in urbe locus, nulla emolumenta laborum, Res hodie minor est, here quam fuit, atque eadem eras Deteret exiguis aliquid: proponimus illue Ire, fatigatas ubi Daedalus exuit alas, Dum nova canities,-- [e] --et pedibus me Porto meis, nullo dextram subeunte bacillo. [f] Cedamus patria: vivant Artorius istic Et Catulus: maneant, qui nigrum in candida vertunt. [g] Queis facile est aedem conducere, flumina, portus, Siccandam eluviem, portandum ad busta cadaver,-- Munera nunc edunt. [h] Quid Romae faciam? Mentiri nescio: librum, Si malus est, nequeo laudare et poscere:-- [i] --Ferre ad nuptam, quae mittit adulter, Quae mandat, norunt alii; me nemo ministro Fur erit, atque ideo nulli comes exeo,-- [Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [j]] [k] Quis nune diligitur, nisi conscius?-- Carus erit Verri, qui Verrem tempore, quo vult, Acuusare potest.-- [l] --Tanti tibi non sit opaci Omnis arena Tagi, quodque in mare volvitur aurum, Ut somno careas-- [m] Quae nunc divitibus gens acceptissima nostris Et quos praecipue fugiam, properabo fateri. [n] --Non possum ferre, Quirites, Graecam urbem:-- [o] Rusticus ille tuus sumit trechedipna, Quirine, Et ceromatico fert niceteria collo. [p] Ingenium velox, audacia perdita, sermo Promptus-- [q] Augur, schoenobates, medicus, magus: omnia novit. Graeculus esuriens in coelum, jusseris, ibit. [r] Usque adeo nihil est, quod nostra infantia coelum Hausit Aventinum?-- [s] Quid? quod adulandi gens prudentissima laudat Sermonem indocti, faciem deformis amici? [t] Haec eadem licet et nobis laudare: sed illis Creditur.-- [u] Natio comoeda est. Rides? majore cachinno Coneutitur, &c. [Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [v] or Footnote [w]] [x] Non sumus ergo pares: melior, qui semper et omni Nocte dieque potest alienum sumere vultum, A facie jactare manus, laudare paratus, Si bene ructavit, si rectum minxit amicus.-- [y] Scire volunt secreta domus atque inde timeri. [z] --Materiam praebet causasque jocorum Omnibus hic idem, si foeda et scissa lacerna, &c. [aa] Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se, Quam quod ridiculos homines facit.-- [bb] --Agmine facto, Debuerant olim tenues migrasse Quirites. [cc] Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat Res angusta domi; sed Romae; durior illis Conatus:-- --Omnia Romaae Cum pretio.-- Cogimur, et cultis augere peculia servis. [dd] --Ultimus autem Aerumnae cumulus, quod nudum et frustra rogautem Nemo cibo, nemo hospitio tectoque juvabit. [ee] Si magna Asturii cecidit domus, horrida mater: Pullati proccres,-- [ff] --Jam accurrit, qui marmora donet, Conferat impensas: hic &c. [gg] Hic modium argenti. Meliora, ac plura reponit Persicus orborum lautissimus-- [hh] Si potes avelli Circensibus, optima Sorae, Aut Fabrateriae domus, aut Frusinone paratur, Quanti nunc tenebras unum conducis in annum. Hortulus hic-- Vive bidentis amans et culti villicus horti; Unde epulum possis centum dare Pythagoreis. [ii] --Possis ignavus haberi Et subiti casus improvidus, ad coenam si Intestatus eas.-- [Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [jj]] [kk] Ebrius, ac petulans, qui nullum forte cecidit, Dat poenas, noetem patitur lugentis amicum Pelidae.-- [ll] --Sed, quamvis improbus annis, Atque mero fervens, cavet hunc, quem coccina lae [Transcriber's note: remainder of word illegible] Vitari jubet, et comitum longissimus ordo, Multum praeterca flammarum, atque aenca lampas, [mm] Nec tamen hoc tantum metuas: nam qui spoliet te, Non deerit, clausis domibus, &c. [nn] Maximus in vinclis ferri modus, ut timeas, ne Vomer deficiat, ne marrae et sarcula desint. [oo] Felices proavorum atavos, felicia dicas Saecula, quae quondam sub regibus atque tribunis Viderunt uno contentam carcere Romam. [pp] His alias poteram, et plures subnectere causas: Sed jumenta vocant-- [qq] --Ergo vale nostri memor et, quoties te Roma tuo refici properantem reddet Aquino, Me quoque ad Helvinam Cererem vestramque Dianam Convelle a Cumis. Satirarum ego, ni pudet illas, Adjutor gelidos veniam caligatus in agros. [A] Queen Elizabeth, born at Greenwich. [B] The invasions of the Spaniards were defended in the houses of parliament. [C] The licensing act was then lately made. [D] _Our silenc'd._ [E] The paper which, at that time, contained apologies for the court. [F] H--y's jest. [G] And what their armies lost, their cringes gain [H] And _gain_ a kick. [I] The Spaniards at this time were said to make claim to some of our American provinces. [J] This was by Hitch, a bookseller. Justly observed to be no picture of modern manners, though it might be true at Rome. MS. note in Dr. Johnson's hand-writing. [K] And, while thy _beds_. [L] And _plants_ unseen. [M] A cant term in the house of commons for methods of raising money. [N] The nation was discontented at the visits made by the king to Hanover. [O] _Sustain'd_ the _balance_, but _resign'd_ the sword. THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES; IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. Let[a] observation, with extensive view, Survey mankind, from China to Peru; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life; Then say, how hope and fear, desire and hate O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride To tread the dreary paths, without a guide, As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good; How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice. How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd, When vengeance listens to the fool's request. Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, Each gift of nature, and each grace of art; With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, With fatal sweetness elocution flows, Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath, And restless fire precipitates on death. [b]But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold; Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfin'd, And crowds with crimes the records of mankind; For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws; Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, The dangers gather as the treasures rise. Let hist'ry tell where rival kings command, And dubious title shakes the madded land, When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, How much more safe the vassal than the lord; Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of power, And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower[c], Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, Though confiscation's vultures hover round[d]. The needy traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy; Increase his riches, and his peace destroy; [e]Now fears, in dire vicissitude, invade, The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade; Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief. [f] Yet still one gen'ral cry[g] the skies assails, And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales: Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care, Th' insidious rival, and the gaping heir. [h]Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth, See motley life in modern trappings dress'd, And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest: Thou, who could'st laugh where want enchain'd caprice, Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece; Where wealth, unlov'd, without a mourner died; And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride; Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state; Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws, And senates heard, before they judg'd a cause; How would'st thou shake at Britain's modish tribe, Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe? Attentive truth and nature to descry, And pierce each scene with philosophick eye; To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe: All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind, Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind; How just that scorn, ere yet thy voice declare, Search ev'ry state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r. [i]Unnumber'd suppliants crowd preferment's gate, Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; Delusive fortune hears th' incessant call, They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door Pours in the morning worshipper no more; For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, To growing wealth the dedicator flies; From ev'ry room descends the painted face, That hung the bright palladium of the place; And, smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold, To better features yields the frame of gold; For now no more we trace in ev'ry line Heroick worth, benevolence divine: The form, distorted, justifies the fall, And detestation rids th' indignant wall. But will not Britain hear the last appeal, Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal? Through freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, Degrading nobles and controling kings; Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, And ask no questions but the price of votes; With weekly libels and septennial ale, Their wish is full to riot and to rail. In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand; To him the church, the realm their pow'rs consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, His smile alone security bestows. Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r, Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r; Till conquest, unresisted, ceas'd to please, And rights, submitted, left him none to seize. At length his sov'reign frowns--the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops, at once, the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liv'ried army, and the menial lord. With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, He seeks the refuge of monastick rest: Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine? Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, [k]The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight? Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, With louder ruin to the gulfs below? [l]What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife, And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life? What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde, By kings protected, and to kings allied? What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine, And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign? [m]When first the college rolls receive his name, The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; [n]Through all his veins the fever of renown Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown; O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, And [o]Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth! Yet, should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat Till captive science yields her last retreat; Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, And pour on misty doubt resistless day; Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain, [p]And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart; Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade; Yet hope not life, from grief or danger free, Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee: Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol[q]. See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, To buried merit raise the tardy bust. If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end[r]. Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows, The glitt'ring eminence exempt from woes; See, when the vulgar scape[s], despis'd or aw'd, Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. From meaner minds though smaller fines content, The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd rent; Mark'd out by dang'rous parts, he meets the shock, And fatal learning leads him to the block: Around his tomb let art and genius weep, But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. [t]The festal blazes, the triumphal show, The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale, With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd; For such the steady Romans shook the world; For such, in distant lands, the Britons shine, And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine; This pow'r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm, Till fame supplies the universal charm. Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game, Where wasted nations raise a single name; And mortgag'd states, their grandsires' wreaths regret. From age to age in everlasting debt; Wreaths which, at last, the dear-bought right convey To rust on medals, or on stones decay. [u]On what foundation stands the warriour's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; [x]O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain; No joys to him pacifick sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; "Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till nought remain, On Moscow's walls till Gothick standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky." The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern famine guards the solitary coast, And winter barricades the realm of frost; He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;-- Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day: The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not chance, at length, her errour mend? Did no subverted empire mark his end? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destin'd to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale. [y]All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. In gay hostility and barb'rous pride, With half mankind embattl'd at his side, Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, And starves exhausted regions in his way; Attendant flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er, Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more; Fresh praise is try'd till madness fires his mind, The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind, New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestow'd, Till rude resistance lops the spreading god; The daring Greeks deride the martial show, And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe; Th' insulted sea, with humbler thoughts, he gains; A single skiff to speed his flight remains; Th' incumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast Through purple billows and a floating host. The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, Tries the dread summits of Caesarean pow'r, With unexpected legions bursts away, And sees defenceless realms receive his sway;-- Short sway! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms; From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise; The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, [z]With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war; The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom, His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame, And steals to death from anguish and from shame. [aa]Enlarge my life with multitude of days! In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays; Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, That life protracted is protracted woe. Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy; In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r; With listless eyes the dotard views the store, He views, and wonders that they please no more; Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines, And luxury with sighs her slave resigns. Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, [bb]Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain: No sounds, alas! would touch th' impervious ear, Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus near; Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs attend, Nor sweeter musick of a virtuous friend; But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, Perversely grave, or positively wrong. The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest, Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest, While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring sneer, And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear; The watchful guests still hint the last offence; The daughter's petulance, the son's expense, Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill, And mould his passions till they make his will. Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade; But unextinguish'd av'rice still remains, And dreaded losses aggravate his pains; He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands; Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime; [cc]An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, And glides in modest innocence away; Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, Whose night congratulating conscience cheers; The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend; Such age there is, and who shall wish its end[dd]? Yet e'en on this her load misfortune flings, To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; New sorrow rises as the day returns, A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. Now kindred merit fills the sable bier, Now lacerated friendship claims a tear; Year chases year, decay pursues decay, Still drops some joy from with'ring life away; New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage, Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage, Till pitying nature signs the last release, And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. But few there are whom hours like these await, Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate. From Lydia's monarch should the search descend, By Solon caution'd to regard his end, In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise! From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, And Swift expires a driv'ller and a show. [ee]The teeming mother, anxious for her race, Begs for each birth the fortune of a face; Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring; And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king. Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise; Whom joys with soft varieties invite, By day the frolick, and the dance by night; Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, And ask the latest fashion of the heart; What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save, Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave? Against your fame with fondness hate combines, The rival batters, and the lover mines. With distant voice neglected virtue calls, Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls; Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign, And pride and prudence take her seat in vain. In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, The harmless freedom, and the private friend. The guardians yield, by force superiour ply'd: To int'rest, prudence; and to flatt'ry, pride. Here beauty falls, betray'd, despis'd, distress'd, And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. [ff]Where then shall hope and fear their objects find? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain Which heav'n may hear; nor deem religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice. Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires[gg], Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, [hh]Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat: These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain; These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain; With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. FOOTNOTES [a] Ver. 1--11. [b] Ver. 12--22. [c] In the first edition, "the _bonny_ traitor!" an evident allusion to the Scotch lords who suffered for the rebellion in 1745. [d] Clang around. [e] New fears. [f] Ver. 23-37. [g] Yet still the gen'ral cry. [h] Ver. 28-55. [i] Ver. 56--107. [Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [j]] [k] The richest landlord. [l] Ver. 108--113. [m] Ver. 114--132. [n] _Resistless burns the_ fever of renown, _Caught_ from the strong contagion of the gown. Mr. Boswell tells us, that when he remarked to Dr. Johnson, that there was an awkward repetition of the word spreads in this passage, he altered it to "Burns from the strong contagion of the gown;" but this expression, it appears, was only resumed from the reading in the first edition. [o] There is a tradition, that the study of friar Bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall, when a man greater than Bacon shall pass under it. To prevent so shocking an accident, it was pulled down many years since. [p] And sloth's _bland_ opiates _shed_ their fumes in vain. [q] The _garret_ and the gaol. [r] See Gent. Mag. vol. lxviii. p. 951, 1027. [s] This was first written, "See, when the vulgar scap_ed_;" but, as the rest of the paragraph was in the present tense, he altered it to scape_s_; but again recollecting that the word _vulgar_ is never used as a singular substantive, he adopted the reading of the text. [t] Ver. 133--146. [u] Ver. 147--167. [Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [v] or Footnote [w]] [x] O'er love or _force_. [y] Ver. 168--187. [z] _And_ all the sons. [aa] Ver. 188--288. [bb] And _yield_. [cc] An age that melts _in_. [dd] _Could_ wish its end. [ee] Ver. 289-345. [ff] Ver. 346-366. [gg] Yet, _with_ the sense of sacred presence _press'd_, _When_ strong devotion _fills thy glowing breast_. [hh] _Thinks_ death. PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 1747. When learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting time toil'd after him in vain: His pow'rful strokes presiding truth impress'd, And unresisted passion storm'd the breast. Then Jonson came, instructed from the school To please in method, and invent by rule; His studious patience and laborious art, By regular approach, assail'd the heart: Cold approbation gave the ling'ring bays; For those, who durst not censure, scarce could praise: A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom, But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakespeare's flame: Themselves they studied, as they felt, they writ; Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit; Vice always found a sympathetick friend; They pleas'd their age, and did not aim to mend. Yet bards, like these, aspir'd to lasting praise, And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days. Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were strong; Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long: Till shame regain'd the post that sense betray'd, And virtue call'd oblivion to her aid. Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd, as refin'd, For years the pow'r of tragedy declin'd; From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till declamation roar'd, while passion slept; Yet still did virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remain'd, though nature fled. But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit; Exulting folly hail'd the joyful day, And pantomime and song confirm'd her sway. But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the stage? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; Perhaps, where Lear has ray'd, and Hamlet dy'd, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride: Perhaps, (for who can guess th' effects of chance?) Here Hunt[a] may box, or Mahomet may dance. Hard is his lot that, here by fortune plac'd, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With ev'ry meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the publick voice; The drama's laws the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live. Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence Of rescued nature and reviving sense; To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show, For useful mirth and salutary woe; Bid scenick virtue form the rising age, And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage. [a] Hunt, a famous boxer on the stage; Mahomet, a ropedancer, who had exhibited at Covent garden theatre the winter before, said to be a Turk. PREFATORY NOTICE TO THE TRAGEDY OF IRENE. The history of this tragedy's composition is interesting, as affording dates to distinguish Johnson's literary progress. It was begun, and considerably advanced, while he kept a school at Edial, near Lichfield, in 1736. In the following year, when he relinquished the task of a schoolmaster, so little congenial with his mind and disposition, and resolved to seek his fortunes in the metropolis, Irene was carried along with him as a foundation for his success. Mr. Walmsley, one of his early friends, recommended him, and his fellow-adventurer, Garrick, to the notice and protection of Colson, the mathematician. Unless Mrs. Piozzi is correct, in rescuing the character of Colson from any identity with that of Gelidus, in the Rambler[a], Johnson entertained no lively recollection of his first patron's kindness. He was ever warm in expressions of gratitude for favours, conferred on him in his season of want and obscurity; and from his deep silence here, we may conclude, that the recluse mathematician did not evince much sympathy with the distresses of the young candidate for dramatic fame. Be this, however, as it may, Johnson, shortly after this introduction, took lodgings at Greenwich, to proceed with his Irene in quiet and retirement, but soon returned to Lichfield, to complete it. The same year that saw these successive disappointments, witnessed also Johnson's return to London, with his tragedy completed, and its rejection by Fleetwood, the patentee, at that time, of Drury lane theatre. Twelve years elapsed, before it was acted, and, after many alterations by his pupil and companion, Garrick, who was then manager of the theatre, it was, by his zeal, and the support of the most eminent performers of the day, carried through a representation of nine nights. Johnson's profits, after the deduction of expenses, and together with the hundred pounds, which he received from Robert Dodsley, for the copy, were nearly three hundred pounds. So fallacious were the hopes cherished by Walmsley, that Johnson would "turn out a fine tragedy writer[b]." "The tragedy of Irene," says Mr. Murphy, "is founded on a passage in Knolles's History of the Turks;" an author highly commended in the Rambler, No. 122. An incident in the life of Mahomet the great, first emperor of the Turks, is the hinge, on which the fable is made to move. The substance of the story is shortly this:--In 1453, Mahomet laid siege to Constantinople, and, having reduced the place, became enamoured of a fair Greek, whose name was Irene. The sultan invited her to embrace the law of the prophet, and to grace his throne. Enraged at this intended marriage, the janizaries formed a conspiracy to dethrone the emperor. To avert the impending danger, Mahomet, in a full assembly of the grandees, "catching, with one hand," as Knolles relates it, "the fair Greek by the hair of her head, and drawing his falchion with the other, he, at one blow, struck off her head, to the great terror of them all; and, having so done, said unto them, 'Now, by this, judge whether your emperor is able to bridle his affections or not[c].'" We are not unjust, we conceive, in affirming, that there is an interest kept alive in the plain and simple narrative of the old historian, which is lost in the declamatory tragedy of Johnson. It is sufficient, for our present purpose, to confess that he _has_ failed in this his only dramatic attempt; we shall endeavour, more fully, to show _how_ he has failed, in our discussion of his powers as a critic. That they were not blinded to the defects of others, by his own inefficiency in dramatic composition, is fully proved by his judicious remarks on Cato, which was constructed on a plan similar to Irene: and the strongest censure, ever passed on this tragedy, was conveyed in Garrick's application of Johnson's own severe, but correct critique, on the wits of Charles, in whose works "Declamation roar'd, while passion slept."[d] "Addison speaks the language of poets," says Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, "and Shakespeare of men. We find in Cato innumerable beauties, which enamour us of its author, but we see nothing that acquaints us with human sentiments, or human actions; we place it with the fairest and the noblest progeny which judgment propagates by conjunction with learning; but Othello is the vigorous and vivacious offspring of observation, impregnated by genius. Cato affords a splendid exhibition of artificial and fictitious manners, and delivers just and noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated and harmonious; but its hopes and fears communicate no vibration to the heart: the composition refers us only to the writer; we pronounce the name of Cato, but we think on Addison." The critic's remarks on the same tragedy, in his Life of Addison, are as applicable as the above to his own production. "Cato is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here 'excites or assuages emotion:' here is no 'magical power of raising phantastick terrour or wild anxiety.' The events are expected without solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care; we consider not what they are doing, or what they are suffering; we wish only to know what they have to say." But, while we thus pronounce Johnson's failure in the production of dramatic effect, we will not withhold our tribute of admiration from Irene, as a moral piece. For, although a remark of Fox's on an unpublished tragedy of Burke's, that it was rather rhetorical than poetical, may be applied to the work under consideration; still it abounds, throughout, with the most elevated and dignified lessons of morality and virtue. The address of Demetrius to the aged Cali, on the dangers of procrastination[e]; Aspasia's reprobation of Irene's meditated apostasy[f]; and the allusive panegyric on the British constitution[g], may be enumerated, as examples of its excellence in sentiment and diction. Lastly, we may consider Irene, as one other illustrious proof, that the most strict adherence to the far-famed unities, the most harmonious versification, and the most correct philosophy, will not vie with a single and simple touch of nature, expressed in simple and artless language. "But how rich in reputation must that author be, who can spare _an Irene_, and not feel the loss [h]." FOOTNOTES [a] Rambler, No. 24, and note. [b] Boswell's Life, i. [c] Murphy's Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson. [d] Prologue at the opening of Drury lane theatre, 1747. [e] Act iii. scene ii. "To-morrow's action!" &c. [f] Act iii. scene viii. "Reflect, that life and death," &c. [g] Act i. scene ii. "If there be any land, as fame reports," &c. [h] Dr. Young's remark on Addison's Cato. See his Conjectures on Original Composition. Works, vol. v. PROLOGUE. Ye glitt'ring train, whom lace and velvet bless, Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress! From grov'ling bus'ness and superfluous care, Ye sons of avarice, a moment spare! Vot'ries of fame, and worshippers of power, Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour! Our daring bard, with spirit unconfin'd, Spreads wide the mighty moral for mankind. Learn here, how heaven supports the virtuous mind, Daring, though calm; and vig'rous, though resign'd; Learn here, what anguish racks the guilty breast, In pow'r dependant, in success depress'd. Learn here, that peace from innocence must flow; All else is empty sound, and idle show. If truths, like these, with pleasing language join; Ennobled, yet unchang'd, if nature shine; If no wild draught depart from reason's rules; Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools; Intriguing wits! his artless plot forgive; And spare him, beauties! though his lovers live. Be this, at least, his praise, be this his pride; To force applause, no modern arts are try'd. Should partial catcals all his hopes confound, He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound. Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit, He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit; No snares, to captivate the judgment, spreads, Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads. Unmov'd, though witlings sneer, and rivals rail, Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail, He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain, With merit needless, and without it vain. In reason, nature, truth, he dares to trust: Ye fops, be silent: and, ye wits, be just! PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. MEN. MAHOMET, Emperour of the Turks, Mr. BARRY. CALI BASSA, First vizier, Mr. BERRY. MUSTAPHA, A Turkish aga, Mr. SOWDEN. ABDALLA, An officer, Mr. HAVARD. HASAN, \ / Mr. USHER, Turkish captains, CARAZA, / \ Mr. BURTON. DEMETRIUS, \ / Mr. GARRICK, Greek noblemen, LEONTIUS, / \ MR. BLAKES. MURZA, An eunuch, Mr. KING. WOMEN. ASPASIA, \ / Mrs. GIBBER, Greek ladies, IRENE, / \ Mrs. PRITCHARD. Attendants on IRENE. ACT I.--SCENE I. DEMETRIUS _and_ LEONTIUS, _in Turkish habits_. LEONTIUS. And, is it thus Demetrius meets his friend, Hid in the mean disguise of Turkish robes, With servile secrecy to lurk in shades, And vent our suff'rings in clandestine groans? DEMETRIUS. Till breathless fury rested from destruction, These groans were fatal, these disguises vain: But, now our Turkish conquerors have quench'd Their rage, and pall'd their appetite of murder, No more the glutted sabre thirsts for blood; And weary cruelty remits her tortures. LEONTIUS. Yet Greece enjoys no gleam of transient hope, No soothing interval of peaceful sorrow: The lust of gold succeeds the rage of conquest; --The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorseless, The last corruption of degen'rate man! Urg'd by th' imperious soldiers' fierce command, The groaning Greeks break up their golden caverns, Pregnant with stores, that India's mines might envy, Th' accumulated wealth of toiling ages. DEMETRIUS. That wealth, too sacred for their country's use! That wealth, too pleasing to be lost for freedom! That wealth, which, granted to their weeping prince, Had rang'd embattled nations at our gates! But, thus reserv'd to lure the wolves of Turkey, Adds shame to grief, and infamy to ruin. Lamenting av'rice, now too late, discovers Her own neglected in the publick safety. LEONTIUS. Reproach not misery.--The sons of Greece, Ill fated race! so oft besieg'd in vain, With false security beheld invasion. Why should they fear?--That pow'r that kindly spreads The clouds, a signal of impending show'rs, To warn the wand'ring linnet to the shade, Beheld without concern expiring Greece; And not one prodigy foretold our fate. DEMETRIUS. A thousand horrid prodigies foretold it: A feeble government, eluded laws, A factious populace, luxurious nobles, And all the maladies of sinking states. When publick villany, too strong for justice, Shows his bold front, the harbinger of ruin, Can brave Leontius call for airy wonders, Which cheats interpret, and which fools regard? When some neglected fabrick nods beneath The weight of years, and totters to the tempest, Must heav'n despatch the messengers of light, Or wake the dead, to warn us of its fall? LEONTIUS. Well might the weakness of our empire sink Before such foes of more than human force: Some pow'r invisible, from heav'n or hell, Conducts their armies, and asserts their cause. DEMETRIUS. And yet, my friend, what miracles were wrought Beyond the pow'r of constancy and courage? Did unresisted lightning aid their cannon? Did roaring whirlwinds sweep us from the ramparts? 'Twas vice that shook our nerves, 'twas vice, Leontius, That froze our veins, and wither'd all our pow'rs. LEONTIUS. Whate'er our crimes, our woes demand compassion. Each night, protected by the friendly darkness, Quitting my close retreat, I range the city, And, weeping, kiss the venerable ruins; With silent pangs, I view the tow'ring domes, Sacred to pray'r; and wander through the streets, Where commerce lavish'd unexhausted plenty, And jollity maintain'd eternal revels-- DEMETRIUS. --How chang'd, alas!--Now ghastly desolation, In triumph, sits upon our shatter'd spires; Now superstition, ignorance, and errour, Usurp our temples, and profane our altars. LEONTIUS. From ev'ry palace bursts a mingled clamour, The dreadful dissonance of barb'rous triumph, Shrieks of affright, and waitings of distress. Oft when the cries of violated beauty Arose to heav'n, and pierc'd my bleeding breast, I felt thy pains, and trembled for Aspasia. DEMETRIUS. Aspasia!--spare that lov'd, that mournful name: Dear, hapless maid--tempestuous grief o'erbears My reasoning pow'rs--Dear, hapless, lost Aspasia! LEONTIUS. Suspend the thought. DEMETRIUS. All thought on her is madness; Yet let me think--I see the helpless maid; Behold the monsters gaze with savage rapture, Behold how lust and rapine struggle round her! LEONTIUS. Awake, Demetrius, from this dismal dream; Sink not beneath imaginary sorrows; Call to your aid your courage and your wisdom; Think on the sudden change of human scenes; Think on the various accidents of war; Think on the mighty pow'r of awful virtue; Think on that providence that guards the good. DEMETRIUS. O providence! extend thy care to me; For courage droops, unequal to the combat; And weak philosophy denies her succours. Sure, some kind sabre in the heat of battle, Ere yet the foe found leisure to be cruel, Dismiss'd her to the sky. LEONTIUS. Some virgin martyr, Perhaps, enamour'd of resembling virtue, With gentle hand, restrain'd the streams of life, And snatch'd her timely from her country's fate. DEMETRIUS. From those bright regions of eternal day, Where now thou shin'st among thy fellow-saints, Array'd in purer light, look down on me: In pleasing visions and assuasive dreams, O! sooth my soul, and teach me how to lose thee. LEONTIUS. Enough of unavailing tears, Demetrius: I come obedient to thy friendly summons, And hop'd to share thy counsels, not thy sorrows: While thus we mourn the fortune of Aspasia, To what are we reserv'd? DEMETRIUS. To what I know not: But hope, yet hope, to happiness and honour; If happiness can be, without Aspasia. LEONTIUS. But whence this new-sprung hope? DEMETRIUS. From Cali bassa, The chief, whose wisdom guides the Turkish counsels. He, tir'd of slav'ry, though the highest slave, Projects, at once, our freedom and his own; And bids us, thus disguis'd, await him here. LEONTIUS. Can he restore the state he could not save? In vain, when Turkey's troops assail'd our walls, His kind intelligence betray'd their measures; Their arms prevail'd, though Cali was our friend. DEMETRIUS. When the tenth sun had set upon our sorrows, At midnight's private hour, a voice unknown Sounds in my sleeping ear, 'Awake, Demetrius, Awake, and follow me to better fortunes.' Surpris'd I start, and bless the happy dream; Then, rousing, know the fiery chief Abdalla, Whose quick impatience seiz'd my doubtful hand, And led me to the shore where Cali stood, Pensive, and list'ning to the beating surge. There, in soft hints, and in ambiguous phrase, With all the diffidence of long experience, That oft had practis'd fraud, and oft detected, The vet'ran courtier half reveal'd his project. By his command, equipp'd for speedy flight, Deep in a winding creek a galley lies, Mann'd with the bravest of our fellow-captives, Selected by my care, a hardy band, That long to hail thee chief. LEONTIUS. But what avails So small a force? or, why should Cali fly? Or, how can Call's flight restore our country? DEMETRIUS. Reserve these questions for a safer hour; Or hear himself, for see the bassa comes. SCENE II. DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS, CALI. CALI. Now summon all thy soul, illustrious Christian! Awake each faculty that sleeps within thee: The courtier's policy, the sage's firmness, The warriour's ardour, and the patriot's zeal. If, chasing past events with vain pursuit, Or wand'ring in the wilds of future being, A single thought now rove, recall it home.-- But can thy friend sustain the glorious cause, The cause of liberty, the cause of nations? DEMETRIUS. Observe him closely, with a statesman's eye, Thou, that hast long perus'd the draughts of nature, And know'st the characters of vice and virtue, Left by the hand of heav'n on human clay. CALI. His mien is lofty, his demeanour great; Nor sprightly folly wantons in his air; Nor dull serenity becalms his eyes. Such had I trusted once, as soon as seen, But cautious age suspects the flatt'ring form, And only credits what experience tells. Has silence press'd her seal upon his lips? Does adamantine faith invest his heart? Will he not bend beneath a tyrant's frown? Will he not melt before ambition's fire? Will he not soften in a friend's embrace? Or flow dissolving in a woman's tears? DEMETRIUS. Sooner the trembling leaves shall find a voice, And tell the secrets of their conscious walks; Sooner the breeze shall catch the flying sounds, And shock the tyrant with a tale of treason. Your slaughter'd multitudes, that swell the shore With monuments of death, proclaim his courage; Virtue and liberty engross his soul, And leave no place for perfidy, or fear. LEONTIUS. I scorn a trust unwillingly repos'd; Demetrius will not lead me to dishonour; Consult in private, call me, when your scheme Is ripe for action, and demands the sword. [_Going_. DEMETRIUS. Leontius, stay. CALI. Forgive an old man's weakness, And share the deepest secrets of my soul, My wrongs, my fears, my motives, my designs.-- When unsuccessful wars, and civil factions Embroil'd the Turkish state, our sultan's father, Great Amurath, at my request, forsook The cloister's ease, resum'd the tott'ring throne, And snatch'd the reins of abdicated pow'r From giddy Mahomet's unskilful hand. This fir'd the youthful king's ambitious breast: He murmurs vengeance, at the name of Cali, And dooms my rash fidelity to ruin. DEMETRIUS. Unhappy lot of all that shine in courts, For forc'd compliance, or for zealous virtue, Still odious to the monarch, or the people. CALI. Such are the woes, when arbitrary pow'r And lawless passion hold the sword of justice. If there be any land, as fame reports, Where common laws restrain the prince and subject, A happy land, where circulating pow'r Flows through each member of th' embodied state; Sure, not unconscious of the mighty blessing, Her grateful sons shine bright with every virtue; Untainted with the lust of innovation, Sure, all unite to hold her league of rule Unbroken, as the sacred chain of nature That links the jarring elements in peace. LEONTIUS. But say, great bassa, why the sultan's anger, Burning in vain, delays the stroke of death? CALI. Young, and unsettled in his father's kingdoms, Fierce as he was, he dreaded to destroy The empire's darling, and the soldier's boast; But now confirm'd, and swelling with his conquests, Secure, he tramples my declining fame, Frowns unrestrain'd, and dooms me with his eyes. DEMETRIUS. What can reverse thy doom? CALI. The tyrant's death. DEMETRIUS. But Greece is still forgot. CALI. On Asia's coast, Which lately bless'd my gentle government, Soon as the sultan's unexpected fate Fills all th' astonish'd empire with confusion, My policy shall raise an easy throne; The Turkish pow'rs from Europe shall retreat, And harass Greece no more with wasteful war. A galley mann'd with Greeks, thy charge, Leontius, Attends to waft us to repose and safety. DEMETRIUS. That vessel, if observ'd, alarms the court, And gives a thousand fatal questions birth: Why stor'd for flight? and why prepar'd by Cali? CALI. This hour I'll beg, with unsuspecting face, Leave to perform my pilgrimage to Mecca; Which granted, hides my purpose from the world, And, though refus'd, conceals it from the sultan. LEONTIUS. How can a single hand attempt a life, Which armies guard, and citadels enclose? CALI. Forgetful of command, with captive beauties, Far from his troops, he toys his hours away. A roving soldier seiz'd, in Sophia's temple, A virgin, shining with distinguish'd charms, And brought his beauteous plunder to the sultan-- DEMETRIUS. In Sophia's temple!--What alarm!--Proceed. CALI. The sultan gaz'd, he wonder'd, and he lov'd: In passion lost, he bade the conqu'ring fair Renounce her faith, and be the queen of Turkey. The pious maid, with modest indignation, Threw back the glitt'ring bribe. DEMETRIUS. Celestial goodness! It must, it must be she;--her name? CALI. Aspasia. DEMETRIUS. What hopes, what terrours, rush upon my soul! O lead me quickly to the scene of fate; Break through the politician's tedious forms; Aspasia calls me, let me fly to save her. LEONTIUS. Did Mahomet reproach, or praise her virtue? CALI. His offers, oft repeated, still refus'd, At length rekindled his accustomed fury, And chang'd th' endearing smile, and am'rous whisper To threats of torture, death, and violation. DEMETRIUS. These tedious narratives of frozen age Distract my soul;--despatch thy ling'ring tale; Say, did a voice from heav'n restrain the tyrant? Did interposing angels guard her from him? CALI. Just in the moment of impending fate, Another plund'rer brought the bright Irene; Of equal beauty, but of softer mien, Fear in her eye, submission on her tongue, Her mournful charms attracted his regards, Disarm'd his rage, and, in repeated visits, Gain'd all his heart; at length, his eager love To her transferr'd the offer of a crown, LEONTIUS. Nor found again the bright temptation fail? CALI. Trembling to grant, nor daring to refuse, While heav'n and Mahomet divide her fears, With coy caresses and with pleasing wiles She feeds his hopes, and sooths him to delay. For her, repose is banish'd from the night, And bus'ness from the day: in her apartments He lives-- LEONTIUS. And there must fall. CALI. But yet, th' attempt Is hazardous. LEONTIUS. Forbear to speak of hazards; What has the wretch, that has surviv'd his country, His friends, his liberty, to hazard? CALI. Life. DEMETRIUS. Th' inestimable privilege of breathing! Important hazard! What's that airy bubble, When weigh'd with Greece, with virtue, with Aspasia?-- A floating atom, dust that falls, unheeded, Into the adverse scale, nor shakes the balance. CALI. At least, this day be calm--If we succeed, Aspasia's thine, and all thy life is rapture.-- See! Mustapha, the tyrant's minion, comes; Invest Leontius with his new command; And wait Abdalla's unsuspected visits: Remember freedom, glory, Greece, and love. [_Exeunt_ Demetrius _and_ Leontius. SCENE III. CALI, MUSTAPHA. MUSTAPHA. By what enchantment does this lovely Greek Hold in her chains the captivated sultan? He tires his fav'rites with Irene's praise, And seeks the shades to muse upon Irene; Irene steals, unheeded, from his tongue, And mingles, unperceiv'd, with ev'ry thought. CALI. Why should the sultan shun the joys of beauty, Or arm his breast against the force of love? Love, that with sweet vicissitude relieves The warriour's labours and the monarch's cares. But, will she yet receive the faith of Mecca? MUSTAPHA. Those pow'rful tyrants of the female breast, Fear and ambition, urge her to compliance; Dress'd in each charm of gay magnificence, Alluring grandeur courts her to his arms, Religion calls her from the wish'd embrace, Paints future joys, and points to distant glories. CALI. Soon will th' unequal contest be decided. Prospects, obscur'd by distance, faintly strike; Each pleasure brightens, at its near approach, And ev'ry danger shocks with double horrour. MUSTAPHA. How shall I scorn the beautiful apostate! How will the bright Aspasia shine above her! CALI. Should she, for proselytes are always zealous, With pious warmth receive our prophet's law-- MUSTAPHA. Heav'n will contemn the mercenary fervour, Which love of greatness, not of truth, inflames. CALI. Cease, cease thy censures; for the sultan comes Alone, with am'rous haste to seek his love. SCENE IV. MAHOMET, CALI, MUSTAPHA. CALI. Hail! terrour of the monarchs of the world; Unshaken be thy throne, as earth's firm base; Live, till the sun forgets to dart his beams, And weary planets loiter in their courses! MAHOMET. But, Cali, let Irene share thy prayers; For what is length of days, without Irene? I come from empty noise, and tasteless pomp, From crowds, that hide a monarch from himself, To prove the sweets of privacy and friendship, And dwell upon the beauties of Irene. CALI. O may her beauties last, unchang'd by time, As those that bless the mansions of the good! MAHOMET. Each realm, where beauty turns the graceful shape, Swells the fair breast, or animates the glance, Adorns my palace with its brightest virgins; Yet, unacquainted with these soft emotions, I walk'd superiour through the blaze of charms, Prais'd without rapture, left without regret. Why rove I now, when absent from my fair, From solitude to crowds, from crowds to solitude, Still restless, till I clasp the lovely maid, And ease my loaded soul upon her bosom? MUSTAPHA. Forgive, great sultan, that intrusive duty Inquires the final doom of Menodorus, The Grecian counsellor. MAHOMET. Go, see him die; His martial rhet'rick taught the Greeks resistance; Had they prevail'd, I ne'er had known Irene. [_Exit_ Mustapha. SCENE V. MAHOMET, CALI. MAHOMET. Remote from tumult, in th' adjoining palace, Thy care shall guard this treasure of my soul: There let Aspasia, since my fair entreats it, With converse chase the melancholy moments. Sure, chill'd with sixty winter camps, thy blood, At sight of female charms, will glow no more. CALI. These years, unconquer'd Mahomet, demand Desires more pure, and other cares than love. Long have I wish'd, before our prophet's tomb, To pour my pray'rs for thy successful reign, To quit the tumults of the noisy camp, And sink into the silent grave in peace. MAHOMET. What! think of peace, while haughty Scanderbeg, Elate with conquest, in his native mountains, Prowls o'er the wealthy spoils of bleeding Turkey! While fair Hungaria's unexhausted valleys Pour forth their legions; and the roaring Danube Rolls half his floods, unheard, through shouting camps! Nor could'st thou more support a life of sloth Than Amurath-- CALI. Still, full of Amurath! [_Aside_. MAHOMET. Than Amurath, accustom'd to command, Could bear his son upon the Turkish throne. CALI. This pilgrimage our lawgiver ordain'd-- MAHOMET. For those, who could not please by nobler service.-- Our warlike prophet loves an active faith. The holy flame of enterprising virtue Mocks the dull vows of solitude and penance, And scorns the lazy hermit's cheap devotion. Shine thou, distinguish'd by superiour merit; With wonted zeal pursue the task of war, Till ev'ry nation reverence the koran, And ev'ry suppliant lift his eyes to Mecca. CALI. This regal confidence, this pious ardour, Let prudence moderate, though not suppress. Is not each realm, that smiles with kinder suns, Or boasts a happier soil, already thine? Extended empire, like expanded gold, Exchanges solid strength for feeble splendour. MAHOMET. Preach thy dull politicks to vulgar kings, Thou know'st not yet thy master's future greatness, His vast designs, his plans of boundless pow'r. When ev'ry storm in my domain shall roar, When ev'ry wave shall beat a Turkish shore; Then, Cali, shall the toils of battle cease, Then dream of pray'r, and pilgrimage, and peace. [_Exeunt_. ACT II.--SCENE I. ASPASIA, IRENE. IRENE. Aspasia, yet pursue the sacred theme; Exhaust the stores of pious eloquence, And teach me to repel the sultan's passion. Still, at Aspasia's voice, a sudden rapture Exalts my soul, and fortifies my heart; The glitt'ring vanities of empty greatness, The hopes and fears, the joys and pains of life, Dissolve in air, and vanish into nothing. ASPASIA. Let nobler hopes and juster fears succeed, And bar the passes of Irene's mind Against returning guilt. IRENE. When thou art absent, Death rises to my view, with all his terrours; Then visions, horrid as a murd'rer's dreams, Chill my resolves, and blast my blooming virtue: Stern torture shakes his bloody scourge before me, And anguish gnashes on the fatal wheel. ASPASIA. Since fear predominates in ev'ry thought, And sways thy breast with absolute dominion, Think on th' insulting scorn, the conscious pangs, The future mis'ries, that wait th' apostate; So shall timidity assist thy reason, And wisdom into virtue turn thy frailty. IRENE. Will not that pow'r, that form'd the heart of woman, And wove the feeble texture of her nerves, Forgive those fears that shake the tender frame? ASPASIA. The weakness we lament, ourselves create; Instructed, from our infant years, to court, With counterfeited fears, the aid of man, We learn to shudder at the rustling breeze, Start at the light, and tremble in the dark; Till, affectation ripening to belief, And folly, frighted at her own chimeras, Habitual cowardice usurps the soul. IRENE. Not all, like thee, can brave the shocks of fate. Thy soul, by nature great, enlarg'd by knowledge, Soars unincumber'd with our idle cares, And all Aspasia, but her beauty's man. ASPASIA. Each gen'rous sentiment is thine, Demetrius, Whose soul, perhaps, yet mindful of Aspasia, Now hovers o'er this melancholy shade, Well pleas'd to find thy precepts not forgotten. Oh! could the grave restore the pious hero, Soon would his art or valour set us free, And bear us far from servitude and crimes. IRENE. He yet may live. ASPASIA. Alas! delusive dream! Too well I know him; his immoderate courage, Th' impetuous sallies of excessive virtue, Too strong for love, have hurried him on death. SCENE II. ASPASIA, IRENE, CALI, ABDALLA. CALI _to_ ABDALLA, _as they advance_. Behold our future sultaness, Abdalla;-- Let artful flatt'ry now, to lull suspicion, Glide, through Irene, to the sultan's ear. Would'st thou subdue th' obdurate cannibal To tender friendship, praise him to his mistress. [_To_ IRENE.] Well may those eyes, that view these heav'nly charms, Reject the daughters of contending kings; For what are pompous titles, proud alliance, Empire or wealth, to excellence like thine? ABDALLA. Receive th' impatient sultan to thy arms; And may a long posterity of monarchs, The pride and terrour of succeeding days, Rise from the happy bed; and future queens Diffuse Irene's beauty through the world! IRENE. Can Mahomet's imperial hand descend To clasp a slave? or can a soul, like mine, Unus'd to pow'r, and form'd for humbler scenes, Support the splendid miseries of greatness? CALI. No regal pageant, deck'd with casual honours, Scorn'd by his subjects, trampled by his foes; No feeble tyrant of a petty state, Courts thee to shake on a dependant throne; Born to command, as thou to charm mankind, The sultan from himself derives his greatness. Observe, bright maid, as his resistless voice Drives on the tempest of destructive war, How nation after nation falls before him. ABDALLA. At his dread name the distant mountains shake Their cloudy summits, and the sons of fierceness, That range uncivilized from rock to rock, Distrust th' eternal fortresses of nature, And wish their gloomy caverns more obscure. ASPASIA. Forbear this lavish pomp of dreadful praise; The horrid images of war and slaughter Renew our sorrows, and awake our fears. ABDALLA. Cali, methinks yon waving trees afford A doubtful glimpse of our approaching friends; Just as I mark'd them, they forsook the shore, And turn'd their hasty steps towards the garden. CALI. Conduct these queens, Abdalla, to the palace: Such heav'nly beauty, form'd for adoration, The pride of monarchs, the reward of conquest! Such beauty must not shine to vulgar eyes. SCENE III. CALI, _solus_. How heav'n, in scorn of human arrogance, Commits to trivial chance the fate of nations! While, with incessant thought, laborious man Extends his mighty schemes of wealth and pow'r, And towers and triumphs in ideal greatness; Some accidental gust of opposition Blasts all the beauties of his new creation, O'erturns the fabrick of presumptuous reason, And whelms the swelling architect beneath it. Had not the breeze untwin'd the meeting boughs, And, through the parted shade, disclos'd the Greeks, Th' important hour had pass'd, unheeded, by, In all the sweet oblivion of delight, In all the fopperies of meeting lovers; In sighs and tears, in transports and embraces, In soft complaints, and idle protestations. SCENE IV. CALI, DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS. CALI. Could omens fright the resolute and wise, Well might we fear impending disappointments. LEONTIUS. Your artful suit, your monarch's fierce denial, The cruel doom of hapless Menodorus-- DEMETRIUS. And your new charge, that dear, that heav'nly maid-- LEONTIUS. All this we know already from Abdalla. DEMETRIUS. Such slight defeats but animate the brave To stronger efforts and maturer counsels. CALI. My doom confirm'd establishes my purpose. Calmly he heard, till Amurath's resumption Rose to his thought, and set his soul on fire: When from his lips the fatal name burst out, A sudden pause th' imperfect sense suspended, Like the dread stillness of condensing storms. DEMETRIUS. The loudest cries of nature urge us forward; Despotick rage pursues the life of Cali; His groaning country claims Leontius' aid; And yet another voice, forgive me, Greece, The pow'rful voice of love, inflames Demetrius; Each ling'ring hour alarms me for Aspasia. CALI. What passions reign among thy crew, Leontius? Does cheerless diffidence oppress their hearts? Or sprightly hope exalt their kindling spirits? Do they, with pain, repress the struggling shout, And listen eager to the rising wind? LEONTIUS. All there is hope, and gaiety, and courage, No cloudy doubts, or languishing delays; Ere I could range them on the crowded deck, At once a hundred voices thunder'd round me, And ev'ry voice was liberty and Greece. DEMETRIUS. Swift let us rush upon the careless tyrant, Nor give him leisure for another crime. LEONTIUS. Then let us now resolve, nor idly waste Another hour in dull deliberation. CALI. But see, where destin'd to protract our counsels, Comes Mustapha.--Your Turkish robes conceal you. Retire with speed, while I prepare to meet him With artificial smiles, and seeming friendship. SCENE V. CALI, MUSTAPHA. CALI. I see the gloom, that low'rs upon thy brow; These days of love and pleasure charm not thee; Too slow these gentle constellations roll; Thou long'st for stars, that frown on human kind, And scatter discord from their baleful beams. MUSTAPHA. How blest art thou, still jocund and serene, Beneath the load of business, and of years! CALI. Sure, by some wond'rous sympathy of souls, My heart still beats responsive to the sultan's; I share, by secret instinct, all his joys, And feel no sorrow, while my sov'reign smiles. MUSTAPHA. The sultan comes, impatient for his love; Conduct her hither; let no rude intrusion Molest these private walks, or care invade These hours, assign'd to pleasure and Irene. SCENE VI. MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA. MAHOMET. Now, Mustapha, pursue thy tale of horrour. Has treason's dire infection reach'd my palace? Can Cali dare the stroke of heav'nly justice, In the dark precincts of the gaping grave, And load with perjuries his parting soul? Was it for this, that, sick'ning in Epirus, My father call'd me to his couch of death, Join'd Cali's hand to mine, and falt'ring cried, Restrain the fervour of impetuous youth With venerable Cali's faithful counsels? Are these the counsels, this the faith of Cali? Were all our favours lavish'd on a villain? Confest?-- MUSTAPHA. Confest by dying Menodorus. In his last agonies, the gasping coward, Amidst the tortures of the burning steel, Still fond of life, groan'd out the dreadful secret, Held forth this fatal scroll, then sunk to nothing. MAHOMET. _examining the paper_. His correspondence with our foes of Greece! His hand! his seal! The secrets of my soul, Conceal'd from all but him! All, all conspire To banish doubt, and brand him for a villain! Our schemes for ever cross'd, our mines discover'd, Betray'd some traitor lurking near my bosom. Oft have I rag'd, when their wide-wasting cannon Lay pointed at our batt'ries yet unform'd, And broke the meditated lines of war. Detested Cali, too, with artful wonder, Would shake his wily head, and closely whisper, Beware of Mustapha, beware of treason. MUSTAPHA. The faith of Mustapha disdains suspicion; But yet, great emperour, beware of treason; Th' insidious bassa, fir'd by disappointment-- MAHOMET. Shall feel the vengeance of an injur'd king. Go, seize him, load him with reproachful chains; Before th' assembled troops, proclaim his crimes; Then leave him, stretch'd upon the ling'ring rack, Amidst the camp to howl his life away. MUSTAPHA. Should we, before the troops, proclaim his crimes, I dread his arts of seeming innocence, His bland address, and sorcery of tongue; And, should he fall, unheard, by sudden justice, Th' adoring soldiers would revenge their idol. MAHOMET. Cali, this day, with hypocritick zeal, Implor'd my leave to visit Mecca's temple; Struck with the wonder of a statesman's goodness, I rais'd his thoughts to more sublime devotion. Now let him go, pursu'd by silent wrath, Meet unexpected daggers in his way, And, in some distant land, obscurely die. MUSTAPHA. There will his boundless wealth, the spoil of Asia, Heap'd by your father's ill-plac'd bounties on him, Disperse rebellion through the eastern world; Bribe to his cause, and list beneath his banners, Arabia's roving troops, the sons of swiftness, And arm the Persian heretick against thee; There shall he waste thy frontiers, check thy conquests, And, though at length subdued, elude thy vengeance. MAHOMET. Elude my vengeance! No--My troops shall range Th' eternal snows that freeze beyond Maeotis, And Africk's torrid sands, in search of Cali. Should the fierce north, upon his frozen wings, Bear him aloft, above the wond'ring clouds, And seat him in the pleiads' golden chariots, Thence shall my fury drag him down to tortures; Wherever guilt can fly, revenge can follow. MUSTAPHA. Wilt thou dismiss the savage from the toils, Only to hunt him round the ravag'd world? MAHOMET. Suspend his sentence--Empire and Irene Claim my divided soul. This wretch, unworthy To mix with nobler cares, I'll throw aside For idle hours, and crush him at my leisure. MUSTAPHA. Let not th' unbounded greatness of his mind Betray my king to negligence of danger. Perhaps, the clouds of dark conspiracy Now roll, full fraught with thunder, o'er your head. Twice, since the morning rose, I saw the bassa, Like a fell adder swelling in a brake, Beneath the covert of this verdant arch, In private conference; beside him stood Two men unknown, the partners of his bosom; I mark'd them well, and trac'd in either face The gloomy resolution, horrid greatness, And stern composure, of despairing heroes; And, to confirm my thoughts, at sight of me, As blasted by my presence, they withdrew, With all the speed of terrour and of guilt. MAHOMET. The strong emotions of my troubled soul Allow no pause for art or for contrivance; And dark perplexity distracts my counsels. Do thou resolve: for, see, Irene comes! At her approach each ruder gust of thought Sinks, like the sighing of a tempest spent, And gales of softer passion fan my bosom. [Cali _enters with_ Irene, _and exit [Transcriber's note: sic] with_ Mustapha. SCENE VII. MAHOMET, IRENE. MAHOMET. Wilt thou descend, fair daughter of perfection, To hear my vows, and give mankind a queen? Ah! cease, Irene, cease those flowing sorrows, That melt a heart impregnable till now, And turn thy thoughts, henceforth, to love and empire. How will the matchless beauties of Irene, Thus bright in tears, thus amiable in ruin, With all the graceful pride of greatness heighten'd, Amidst the blaze of jewels and of gold, Adorn a throne, and dignify dominion! IRENE. Why all this glare of splendid eloquence, To paint the pageantries of guilty state? Must I, for these, renounce the hope of heav'n, Immortal crowns, and fulness of enjoyment? MAHOMET. Vain raptures all--For your inferiour natures, Form'd to delight, and happy by delighting, Heav'n has reserv'd no future paradise, But bids you rove the paths of bliss, secure Of total death, and careless of hereafter; While heaven's high minister, whose awful volume Records each act, each thought of sov'reign man, Surveys your plays with inattentive glance, And leaves the lovely trifler unregarded. IRENE. Why then has nature's vain munificence Profusely pour'd her bounties upon woman? Whence, then, those charms thy tongue has deign'd to flatter, That air resistless, and enchanting blush, Unless the beauteous fabrick was design'd A habitation for a fairer soul? MAHOMET. Too high, bright maid, thou rat'st exteriour grace: Not always do the fairest flow'rs diffuse The richest odours, nor the speckled shells Conceal the gem; let female arrogance Observe the feather'd wand'rers of the sky; With purple varied, and bedrop'd with gold, They prune the wing, and spread the glossy plumes, Ordain'd, like you, to flutter and to shine, And cheer the weary passenger with musick. IRENE. Mean as we are, this tyrant of the world Implores our smiles, and trembles at our feet. Whence flow the hopes and fears, despair and rapture, Whence all the bliss and agonies of love? MAHOMET. Why, when the balm of sleep descends on man, Do gay delusions, wand'ring o'er the brain, Sooth the delighted soul with empty bliss? To want, give affluence? and to slav'ry, freedom? Such are love's joys, the lenitives of life, A fancy'd treasure, and a waking dream. IRENE. Then let me once, in honour of our sex, Assume the boastful arrogance of man. Th' attractive softness, and th' endearing smile, And pow'rful glance, 'tis granted, are our own; Nor has impartial nature's frugal hand Exhausted all her nobler gifts on you. Do not we share the comprehensive thought, Th' enlivening wit, the penetrating reason? Beats not the female breast with gen'rous passions, The thirst of empire, and the love of glory? MAHOMET. Illustrious maid, new wonders fix me thine; Thy soul completes the triumphs of thy face. I thought (forgive, my fair,) the noblest aim, The strongest effort of a female soul, Was but to choose the graces of the day; To tune the tongue, to teach the eyes to roll, Dispose the colours of the flowing robe, And add new roses to the faded cheek. Will it not charm a mind, like thine, exalted, To shine, the goddess of applauding nations; To scatter happiness and plenty round thee, To bid the prostrate captive rise and live, To see new cities tow'r, at thy command, And blasted kingdoms flourish, at thy smile? IRENE. Charm'd with the thought of blessing human kind, Too calm I listen to the flatt'ring sounds. MAHOMET. O! seize the power to bless--Irene's nod Shall break the fetters of the groaning Christian; Greece, in her lovely patroness secure, Shall mourn no more her plunder'd palaces. IRENE. Forbear--O! do not urge me to my ruin! MAHOMET. To state and pow'r I court thee, not to ruin: Smile on my wishes, and command the globe. Security shall spread her shield before thee, And love infold thee with his downy wings. If greatness please thee, mount th' imperial seat; If pleasure charm thee, view this soft retreat; Here ev'ry warbler of the sky shall sing; Here ev'ry fragrance breathe of ev'ry spring: To deck these bow'rs each region shall combine, And e'en our prophet's gardens envy thine: Empire and love shall share the blissful day, And varied life steal, unperceiv'd, away. [_Exeunt_. ACT III.--SCENE I. CALI, ABDALLA. [CALI _enters, with a discontented air; to him enters_ ABDALLA.] CALI. Is this the fierce conspirator, Abdalla? Is this the restless diligence of treason? Where hast thou linger'd, while th' incumber'd hours Fly, lab'ring with the fate of future nations, And hungry slaughter scents imperial blood? ABDALLA. Important cares detain'd me from your counsels. CALI. Some petty passion! some domestick trifle! Some vain amusement of a vacant soul! A weeping wife, perhaps, or dying friend, Hung on your neck, and hinder'd your departure. Is this a time for softness or for sorrow? Unprofitable, peaceful, female virtues! When eager vengeance shows a naked foe, And kind ambition points the way to greatness. ABDALLA. Must then ambition's votaries infringe The laws of kindness, break the bonds of nature, And quit the names of brother, friend, and father? CALI. This sov'reign passion, scornful of restraint, E'en from the birth, affects supreme command, Swells in the breast, and, with resistless force, O'erbears each gentler motion of the mind: As, when a deluge overspreads the plains, The wand'ring rivulet, and silver lake, Mix undistinguish'd with the gen'ral roar. ABDALLA. Yet can ambition, in Abdalla's breast, Claim but the second place: there mighty love Has fix'd his hopes, inquietudes, and fears, His glowing wishes, and his jealous pangs. CALI. Love is, indeed, the privilege of youth; Yet, on a day like this, when expectation Pants for the dread event--But let us reason-- ABDALLA. Hast thou grown old, amidst the crowd of courts, And turn'd th' instructive page of human life, To cant, at last, of reason to a lover? Such ill-tim'd gravity, such serious folly, Might well befit the solitary student, Th' unpractis'd dervis, or sequester'd faquir. Know'st thou not yet, when love invades the soul, That all her faculties receive his chains? That reason gives her sceptre to his hand, Or only struggles to be more enslav'd? Aspasia, who can look upon thy beauties? Who hear thee speak, and not abandon reason? Reason! the hoary dotard's dull directress, That loses all, because she hazards nothing! Reason! the tim'rous pilot, that, to shun The rocks of life, for ever flies the port! CALI. But why this sudden warmth? ABDALLA. Because I love: Because my slighted passion burns in vain! Why roars the lioness, distress'd by hunger? Why foam the swelling waves, when tempests rise? Why shakes the ground, when subterraneous fires Fierce through the bursting caverns rend their way? CALI. Not till this day, thou saw'st this fatal fair; Did ever passion make so swift a progress? Once more reflect; suppress this infant folly. ABDALLA. Gross fires, enkindled by a mortal hand, Spread, by degrees, and dread th' oppressing stream; The subtler flames, emitted from the sky, Flash out at once, with strength above resistance. CALI. How did Aspasia welcome your address? Did you proclaim this unexpected conquest? Or pay, with speaking eyes, a lover's homage? ABDALLA. Confounded, aw'd, and lost in admiration, I gaz'd, I trembled; but I could not speak; When e'en, as love was breaking off from wonder, And tender accents quiver'd on my lips, She mark'd my sparkling eyes, and heaving breast, And smiling, conscious of her charms, withdrew. [_Enter_ Demetrius _and_ Leontius. CALI. Now be, some moments, master of thyself; Nor let Demetrius know thee for a rival. Hence! or be calm--To disagree is ruin. SCENE II. CALI, DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS, ABDALLA. DEMETRIUS. When will occasion smile upon our wishes, And give the tortures of suspense a period? Still must we linger in uncertain hope? Still languish in our chains, and dream of freedom, Like thirsty sailors gazing on the clouds, Till burning death shoots through their wither'd limbs? CALI. Deliverance is at hand; for Turkey's tyrant, Sunk in his pleasures, confident and gay, With all the hero's dull security, Trusts to my care his mistress and his life, And laughs, and wantons in the jaws of death. LEONTIUS. So weak is man, when destin'd to destruction!-- The watchful slumber, and the crafty trust. CALI. At my command, yon iron gates unfold; At my command, the sentinels retire; With all the license of authority, Through bowing slaves, I range the private rooms, And of to-morrow's action fix the scene. DEMETRIUS. To-morrow's action! Can that hoary wisdom, Borne down with years, still dote upon to-morrow? That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose An useless life, in waiting for to-morrow, To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow, Till interposing death destroys the prospect! Strange! that this gen'ral fraud, from day to day, Should fill the world with wretches undetected. The soldier, lab'ring through a winter's march, Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph; Still to the lover's long-expecting arms To-morrow brings the visionary bride. But thou, too old to bear another cheat, Learn, that the present hour alone is man's. LEONTIUS. The present hour, with open arms, invites; Seize the kind fair, and press her to thy bosom. DEMETRIUS. Who knows, ere this important morrow rise, But fear or mutiny may taint the Greeks? Who knows, if Mahomet's awaking anger May spare the fatal bowstring till to-morrow? ABDALLA. Had our first Asian foes but known this ardour, We still had wander'd on Tartarian hills. Rouse, Cali; shall the sons of conquer'd Greece Lead us to danger, and abash their victors? This night, with all her conscious stars, be witness, Who merits most, Demetrius or Abdalla. DEMETRIUS. Who merits most!--I knew not, we were rivals. CALI. Young man, forbear--the heat of youth, no more-- Well,--'tis decreed--This night shall fix our fate. Soon as the veil of ev'ning clouds the sky, With cautious secrecy, Leontius, steer Th' appointed vessel to yon shaded bay, Form'd by this garden jutting on the deep; There, with your soldiers arm'd, and sails expanded, Await our coming, equally prepar'd For speedy flight, or obstinate defence. [Exit Leont. SCENE III. CALI, ABDALLA, DEMETRIUS. DEMETRIUS. Now pause, great bassa, from the thoughts of blood, And kindly grant an ear to gentler sounds. If e'er thy youth has known the pangs of absence, Or felt th' impatience of obstructed love, Give me, before th' approaching hour of fate, Once to behold the charms of bright Aspasia, And draw new virtue from her heav'nly tongue. CALI. Let prudence, ere the suit be farther urg'd, Impartial weigh the pleasure with the danger. A little longer, and she's thine for ever. DEMETRIUS. Prudence and love conspire in this request, Lest, unacquainted with our bold attempt, Surprise o'erwhelm her, and retard our flight. CALI. What I can grant, you cannot ask in vain-- DEMETRIUS. I go to wait thy call; this kind consent Completes the gift of freedom and of life. [_Exit_ Dem. SCENE IV. CALI, ABDALLA. ABDALLA. And this is my reward--to burn, to languish, To rave, unheeded; while the happy Greek, The refuse of our swords, the dross of conquest, Throws his fond arms about Aspasia's neck, Dwells on her lips, and sighs upon her breast. Is't not enough, he lives by our indulgence, But he must live to make his masters wretched? CALI. What claim hast thou to plead? ABDALLA. The claim of pow'r, Th' unquestion'd claim of conquerors and kings! CALI. Yet, in the use of pow'r, remember justice. ABDALLA. Can then th' assassin lift his treach'rous hand Against his king, and cry, remember justice? Justice demands the forfeit life of Cali; Justice demands, that I reveal your crimes; Justice demands--but see th' approaching sultan! Oppose my wishes, and--remember justice. CALI. Disorder sits upon thy face--retire. [_Exit_ Abdalla; enter Mahomet. SCENE V. CALI, MAHOMET. CALI. Long be the sultan bless'd with happy love! My zeal marks gladness dawning on thy cheek, With raptures, such as fire the pagan crowds, When, pale and anxious for their years to come, They see the sun surmount the dark eclipse, And hail, unanimous, their conqu'ring god. MAHOMET. My vows, 'tis true, she hears with less aversion; She sighs, she blushes, but she still denies. CALI. With warmer courtship press the yielding fair: Call to your aid, with boundless promises, Each rebel wish, each traitor inclination, That raises tumults in the female breast, The love of pow'r, of pleasure, and of show. MAHOMET. These arts I try'd, and, to inflame her more, By hateful business hurried from her sight, I bade a hundred virgins wait around her, Sooth her with all the pleasures of command, Applaud her charms, and court her to be great. [_Exit_ Mahomet. SCENE VI. CALI, _solus_. He's gone--Here rest, my soul, thy fainting wing; Here recollect thy dissipated pow'rs.-- Our distant int'rests, and our diff'rent passions. Now haste to mingle in one common centre. And fate lies crowded in a narrow space. Yet, in that narrow space what dangers rise!-- Far more I dread Abdalla's fiery folly, Than all the wisdom of the grave divan. Reason with reason fights on equal terms; The raging madman's unconnected schemes We cannot obviate, for we cannot guess. Deep in my breast be treasur'd this resolve, When Cali mounts the throne, Abdalla dies, Too fierce, too faithless, for neglect or trust. [_Enter_ Irene _with attendants_. SCENE VII. CALI, IRENE, ASPASIA, &c. CALI. Amidst the splendour of encircling beauty, Superiour majesty proclaims thee queen, And nature justifies our monarch's choice. IRENE. Reserve this homage for some other fair; Urge me not on to glitt'ring guilt, nor pour In my weak ear th' intoxicating sounds. CALI. Make haste, bright maid, to rule the willing world; Aw'd by the rigour of the sultan's justice, We court thy gentleness. ASPASIA. Can Cali's voice Concur to press a hapless captive's ruin? CALI. Long would my zeal for Mahomet and thee Detain me here. But nations call upon me, And duty bids me choose a distant walk, Nor taint with care the privacies of love. SCENE VIII. IRENE, ASPASIA, _attendants_. ASPASIA. If yet this shining pomp, these sudden honours, Swell not thy soul, beyond advice or friendship, Nor yet inspire the follies of a queen, Or tune thine ear to soothing adulation, Suspend awhile the privilege of pow'r, To hear the voice of truth; dismiss thy train, Shake off th' incumbrances of state, a moment, And lay the tow'ring sultaness aside, Irene _signs to her attendants to retire_. While I foretell thy fate: that office done,-- No more I boast th' ambitious name of friend, But sink among thy slaves, without a murmur. IRENE. Did regal diadems invest my brow, Yet should my soul, still faithful to her choice, Esteem Aspasia's breast the noblest kingdom. ASPASIA. The soul, once tainted with so foul a crime, No more shall glow with friendship's hallow'd ardour: Those holy beings, whose superiour care Guides erring mortals to the paths of virtue, Affrighted at impiety, like thine, Resign their charge to baseness and to ruin[a]. [a] In the original copy of this tragedy, given to Mr. Langton, the above speech is as follows; and, in Mr. Boswell's judgment, is finer than in the present editions: "Nor think to say, here will I stop; Here will I fix the limits of transgression, Nor farther tempt the avenging rage of heaven. When guilt, like this, once harbours in the breast, Those holy beings, whose unseen direction Guides, through the maze of life, the steps of man. Fly the detested mansions of impiety, And quit their charge to horrour and to ruin." See Boswell, i. for other compared extracts from the first sketch. --ED. IRENE. Upbraid me not with fancied wickedness; I am not yet a queen, or an apostate. But should I sin beyond the hope of mercy, If, when religion prompts me to refuse, The dread of instant death restrains my tongue? ASPASIA. Reflect, that life and death, affecting sounds! Are only varied modes of endless being; Reflect, that life, like ev'ry other blessing, Derives its value from its use alone; Not for itself, but for a nobler end, Th' Eternal gave it, and that end is virtue. When inconsistent with a greater good, Reason commands to cast the less away: Thus life, with loss of wealth, is well preserv'd, And virtue cheaply say'd, with loss of life. IRENE. If built on settled thought, this constancy Not idly flutters on a boastful tongue, Why, when destruction rag'd around our walls, Why fled this haughty heroine from the battle? Why, then, did not this warlike amazon Mix in the war, and shine among the heroes? ASPASIA. Heav'n, when its hand pour'd softness on our limbs, Unfit for toil, and polish'd into weakness, Made passive fortitude the praise of woman: Our only arms are innocence and meekness. Not then with raving cries I fill'd the city; But, while Demetrius, dear, lamented name! Pour'd storms of fire upon our fierce invaders, Implor'd th' eternal pow'r to shield my country, With silent sorrows, and with calm devotion. IRENE. O! did Irene shine the queen of Turkey, No more should Greece lament those pray'rs rejected; Again, should golden splendour grace her cities, Again, her prostrate palaces should rise, Again, her temples sound with holy musick: No more should danger fright, or want distress The smiling widows, and protected orphans. ASPASIA. Be virtuous ends pursued by virtuous means, Nor think th' intention sanctifies the deed: That maxim, publish'd in an impious age, Would loose the wild enthusiast to destroy, And fix the fierce usurper's bloody title; Then bigotry might send her slaves to war, And bid success become the test of truth: Unpitying massacre might waste the world, And persecution boast the call of heaven. IRENE. Shall I not wish to cheer afflicted kings, And plan the happiness of mourning millions? ASPASIA. Dream not of pow'r, thou never canst attain: When social laws first harmoniz'd the world, Superiour man possess'd the charge of rule, The scale of justice, and the sword of power, Nor left us aught, but flattery and state. IRENE. To me my lover's fondness will restore Whate'er man's pride has ravish'd from our sex. ASPASIA. When soft security shall prompt the sultan, Freed from the tumults of unsettled conquest, To fix his court, and regulate his pleasures, Soon shall the dire seraglio's horrid gates Close, like th' eternal bars of death, upon thee. Immur'd, and buried in perpetual sloth, That gloomy slumber of the stagnant soul, There shalt thou view, from far, the quiet cottage, And sigh for cheerful poverty in vain; There wear the tedious hours of life away, Beneath each curse of unrelenting heav'n, Despair and slav'ry, solitude and guilt. IRENE. There shall we find the yet untasted bliss Of grandeur and tranquillity combin'd. ASPASIA. Tranquillity and guilt, disjoin'd by heaven, Still stretch in vain their longing arms afar; Nor dare to pass th' insuperable bound. Ah! let me rather seek the convent's cell; There, when my thoughts, at interval of prayer, Descend to range these mansions of misfortune, Oft shall I dwell on our disastrous friendship, And shed the pitying tear for lost Irene. IRENE. Go, languish on in dull obscurity; Thy dazzled soul, with all its boasted greatness, Shrinks at th' o'erpow'ring gleams of regal state, Stoops from the blaze, like a degen'rate eagle, And flies for shelter to the shades of life. ASPASIA. On me should providence, without a crime, The weighty charge of royalty confer; Call me to civilize the Russian wilds, Or bid soft science polish Britain's heroes; Soon should'st thou see, how false thy weak reproach, My bosom feels, enkindled from the sky, The lambent flames of mild benevolence, Untouch'd by fierce ambition's raging fires. IRENE. Ambition is the stamp, impress'd by heav'n To mark the noblest minds; with active heat Inform'd, they mount the precipice of pow'r, Grasp at command, and tow'r in quest of empire; While vulgar souls compassionate their cares, Gaze at their height, and tremble at their danger: Thus meaner spirits, with amazement, mark The varying seasons, and revolving skies, And ask, what guilty pow'r's rebellious hand Rolls with eternal toil the pond'rous orbs; While some archangel, nearer to perfection, In easy state, presides o'er all their motions, Directs the planets, with a careless nod, Conducts the sun, and regulates the spheres. ASPASIA. Well may'st thou hide in labyrinths of sound The cause that shrinks from reason's pow'rful voice. Stoop from thy flight, trace back th' entangled thought, And set the glitt'ring fallacy to view. Not pow'r I blame, but pow'r obtain'd by crime; Angelick greatness is angelick virtue. Amidst the glare of courts, the shout of armies, Will not th' apostate feel the pangs of guilt, And wish, too late, for innocence and peace, Curst, as the tyrant of th' infernal realms, With gloomy state and agonizing pomp? SCENE IX. IRENE, ASPASIA, MAID. MAID. A Turkish stranger, of majestick mien, Asks at the gate admission to Aspasia, Commission'd, as he says, by Cali bassa. IRENE. Whoe'er thou art, or whatsoe'er thy message, [Aside. Thanks for this kind relief--With speed admit him. ASPASIA. He comes, perhaps, to separate us for ever; When I am gone, remember, O! remember, That none are great, or happy, but the virtuous. [_Exit_ Irene; _enter_ Demetrius. SCENE X. ASPASIA, DEMETRIUS. DEMETRIUS. 'Tis she--my hope, my happiness, my love! Aspasia! do I, once again, behold thee? Still, still the same--unclouded by misfortune! Let my blest eyes for ever gaze-- ASPASIA. Demetrius! DEMETRIUS. Why does the blood forsake thy lovely cheek? Why shoots this chilness through thy shaking nerves? Why does thy soul retire into herself? Recline upon my breast thy sinking beauties: Revive--Revive to freedom and to love. ASPASIA. What well-known voice pronounc'd the grateful sounds, Freedom and love? Alas! I'm all confusion; A sudden mist o'ercasts my darken'd soul; The present, past, and future swim before me, Lost in a wild perplexity of joy. DEMETRIUS. Such ecstasy of love, such pure affection, What worth can merit? or what faith reward? ASPASIA. A thousand thoughts, imperfect and distracted, Demand a voice, and struggle into birth; A thousand questions press upon my tongue, But all give way to rapture and Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. O say, bright being, in this age of absence, What fears, what griefs, what dangers, hast thou known? Say, how the tyrant threaten'd, flatter'd, sigh'd! Say, how he threaten'd, flatter'd, sigh'd in vain! Say, how the hand of violence was rais'd! Say, how thou call'dst in tears upon Demetrius! ASPASIA. Inform me rather, how thy happy courage Stemm'd in the breach the deluge of destruction, And pass'd, uninjur'd, through the walks of death. Did savage anger and licentious conquest Behold the hero with Aspasia's eyes? And, thus protected in the gen'ral ruin, O! say, what guardian pow'r convey'd thee hither. DEMETRIUS. Such strange events, such unexpected chances, Beyond my warmest hope, or wildest wishes, Concurr'd to give me to Aspasia's arms, I stand amaz'd, and ask, if yet I clasp thee. ASPASIA. Sure heav'n, (for wonders are not wrought in vain!) That joins us thus, will never part us more. SCENE XI. DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, ABDALLA. ABDALLA. It parts you now--The hasty sultan sign'd The laws unread, and flies to his Irene. DEMETRIUS. Fix'd and intent on his Irene's charms, He envies none the converse of Aspasia. ABDALLA. Aspasia's absence will inflame suspicion; She cannot, must not, shall not, linger here; Prudence and friendship bid me force her from you. DEMETRIUS. Force her! profane her with a touch, and die! ABDALLA. 'Tis Greece, 'tis freedom, calls Aspasia hence; Your careless love betrays your country's cause. DEMETRIUS. If we must part-- ASPASIA. No! let us die together. DEMETRIUS. If we must part-- ABDALLA. Despatch; th' increasing danger Will not admit a lover's long farewell, The long-drawn intercourse of sighs and kisses. DEMETRIUS. Then--O! my fair, I cannot bid thee go. Receive her, and protect her, gracious heav'n! Yet let me watch her dear departing steps; If fate pursues me, let it find me here. Reproach not, Greece, a lover's fond delays, Nor think thy cause neglected, while I gaze; New force, new courage, from each glance I gain, And find our passions not infus'd in vain. [_Exeunt_. ACT IV.--SCENE I. DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, _enter as talking_. ASPASIA. Enough--resistless reason calms my soul-- Approving justice smiles upon your cause, And nature's rights entreat th' asserting sword. Yet, when your hand is lifted to destroy, Think, but excuse a woman's needless caution,-- Purge well thy mind from ev'ry private passion, Drive int'rest, love, and vengeance, from thy thoughts; Fill all thy ardent breast with Greece and virtue; Then strike secure, and heav'n assist the blow! DEMETRIUS. Thou kind assistant of my better angel, Propitious guide of my bewilder'd soul, Calm of my cares, and guardian of my virtue! ASPASIA. My soul, first kindled by thy bright example, To noble thought and gen'rous emulation, Now but reflects those beams that flow'd from thee. DEMETRIUS. With native lustre and unborrow'd greatness, Thou shin'st, bright maid, superiour to distress; Unlike the trifling race of vulgar beauties, Those glitt'ring dewdrops of a vernal morn, That spread their colours to the genial beam, And, sparkling, quiver to the breath of May; But, when the tempest, with sonorous wing, Sweeps o'er the grove, forsake the lab'ring bough, Dispers'd in air, or mingled with the dust. ASPASIA. Forbear this triumph--still new conflicts wait us, Foes unforeseen, and dangers unsuspected. Oft, when the fierce besiegers' eager host Beholds the fainting garrison retire, And rushes joyful to the naked wall, Destruction flashes from th' insidious mine, And sweeps th' exulting conqueror away. Perhaps, in vain the sultan's anger spar'd me, To find a meaner fate from treach'rous friendship-- Abdalla!-- DEMETRIUS. Can Abdalla then dissemble! That fiery chief, renown'd for gen'rous freedom, For zeal unguarded, undissembled hate, For daring truth, and turbulence of honour! ASPASIA. This open friend, this undesigning hero, With noisy falsehoods, forc'd me from your arms, To shock my virtue with a tale of love. DEMETRIUS. Did not the cause of Greece restrain my sword, Aspasia should not fear a second insult. ASPASIA. His pride and love, by turns, inspir'd his tongue, And intermix'd my praises with his own; His wealth, his rank, his honours, he recounted, Till, in the midst of arrogance and fondness, Th' approaching sultan forc'd me from the palace; Then, while he gaz'd upon his yielding mistress, I stole, unheeded, from their ravish'd eyes, And sought this happy grove in quest of thee. DEMETRIUS. Soon may the final stroke decide our fate, Lest baleful discord crush our infant scheme, And strangled freedom perish in the birth! ASPASIA. My bosom, harass'd with alternate passions, Now hopes, now fears-- DEMETRIUS. Th' anxieties of love. ASPASIA. Think, how the sov'reign arbiter of kingdoms Detests thy false associates' black designs, And frowns on perjury, revenge, and murder. Embark'd with treason on the seas of fate, When heaven shall bid the swelling billows rage, And point vindictive lightnings at rebellion, Will not the patriot share the traitor's danger? Oh! could thy hand, unaided, free thy country, Nor mingled guilt pollute the sacred cause! DEMETRIUS. Permitted oft, though not inspir'd, by heaven, Successful treasons punish impious kings. ASPASIA. Nor end my terrours with the sultan's death; Far as futurity's untravell'd waste Lies open to conjecture's dubious ken, On ev'ry side confusion, rage, and death, Perhaps, the phantoms of a woman's fear, Beset the treach'rous way with fatal ambush; Each Turkish bosom burns for thy destruction, Ambitious Cali dreads the statesman's arts, And hot Abdalla hates the happy lover. DEMETRIUS. Capricious man! to good and ill inconstant, Too much to fear or trust is equal weakness. Sometimes the wretch, unaw'd by heav'n or hell, With mad devotion idolizes honour. The bassa, reeking with his master's murder, Perhaps, may start at violated friendship. ASPASIA. How soon, alas! will int'rest, fear, or envy, O'erthrow such weak, such accidental virtue, Nor built on faith, nor fortified by conscience! DEMETRIUS. When desp'rate ills demand a speedy cure, Distrust is cowardice, and prudence folly. ASPASIA. Yet, think a moment, ere you court destruction, What hand, when death has snatch'd away Demetrius, Shall guard Aspasia from triumphant lust. DEMETRIUS. Dismiss these needless fears--a troop of Greeks, Well known, long try'd, expect us on the shore. Borne on the surface of the smiling deep, Soon shalt thou scorn, in safety's arms repos'd, Abdalla's rage and Cali's stratagems. ASPASIA. Still, still, distrust sits heavy on my heart. Will e'er a happier hour revisit Greece? DEMETRIUS. Should heav'n, yet unappeas'd, refuse its aid, Disperse our hopes, and frustrate our designs, Yet shall the conscience of the great attempt Diffuse a brightness on our future days; Nor will his country's groans reproach Demetrius. But how canst thou support the woes of exile? Canst thou forget hereditary splendours, To live obscure upon a foreign coast, Content with science, innocence, and love? ASPASIA. Nor wealth, nor titles, make Aspasia's bliss. O'erwhelm'd and lost amidst the publick ruins, Unmov'd, I saw the glitt'ring trifles perish, And thought the petty dross beneath a sigh. Cheerful I follow to the rural cell; Love be my wealth, and my distinction virtue. DEMETRIUS. Submissive, and prepar'd for each event, Now let us wait the last award of heav'n, Secure of happiness from flight or conquest; Nor fear the fair and learn'd can want protection. The mighty Tuscan courts the banish'd arts To kind Italia's hospitable shades; There shall soft leisure wing th' excursive soul, And peace, propitious, smile on fond desire; There shall despotick eloquence resume Her ancient empire o'er the yielding heart; There poetry shall tune her sacred voice, And wake from ignorance the western world. SCENE II. DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, CALI. CALI. At length th' unwilling sun resigns the world To silence and to rest. The hours of darkness, Propitious hours to stratagem and death, Pursue the last remains of ling'ring light. DEMETRIUS. Count not these hours, as parts of vulgar time; Think them a sacred treasure lent by heaven, Which, squander'd by neglect, or fear, or folly, No prayer recalls, no diligence redeems. To-morrow's dawn shall see the Turkish king Stretch'd in the dust, or tow'ring on his throne; To-morrow's dawn shall see the mighty Cali The sport of tyranny, or lord of nations. CALI. Then waste no longer these important moments In soft endearments, and in gentle murmurs; Nor lose, in love, the patriot and the hero. DEMETRIUS. 'Tis love, combin'd with guilt alone, that melts The soften'd soul to cowardice and sloth; But virtuous passion prompts the great resolve, And fans the slumbering spark of heavenly fire. Retire, my fair; that pow'r that smiles on goodness, Guide all thy steps, calm ev'ry stormy thought, And still thy bosom with the voice of peace! ASPASIA. Soon may we meet again, secure and free, To feel no more the pangs of separation! [_Exit_. DEMETRIUS, CALI. DEMETRIUS. This night alone is ours--Our mighty foe, No longer lost in am'rous solitude, Will now remount the slighted seat of empire, And show Irene to the shouting people: Aspasia left her, sighing in his arms, And list'ning to the pleasing tale of pow'r; With soften'd voice she dropp'd the faint refusal, Smiling consent she sat, and blushing love. CALI. Now, tyrant, with satiety of beauty Now feast thine eyes; thine eyes, that ne'er hereafter Shall dart their am'rous glances at the fair, Or glare on Cali with malignant beams. SCENE III. DEMETRIUS, CALI, LEONTIUS, ABDALLA. LEONTIUS. Our bark, unseen, has reach'd th' appointed bay, And, where yon trees wave o'er the foaming surge, Reclines against the shore: our Grecian troop Extends its lines along the sandy beach, Elate with hope, and panting for a foe. ABDALLA. The fav'ring winds assist the great design, Sport in our sails, and murmur o'er the deep. CALI. 'Tis well--A single blow completes our wishes; Return with speed, Leontius, to your charge; The Greeks, disorder'd by their leader's absence, May droop dismay'd, or kindle into madness. LEONTIUS. Suspected still!--What villain's pois'nous tongue Dares join Leontius' name with fear or falsehood? Have I for this preserv'd my guiltless bosom, Pure as the thoughts of infant innocence? Have I for this defy'd the chiefs of Turkey, Intrepid in the flaming front of war? CALI. Hast thou not search'd my soul's profoundest thoughts? Is not the fate of Greece and Cali thine? LEONTIUS. Why has thy choice then pointed out Leontius, Unfit to share this night's illustrious toils? To wait, remote from action, and from honour, An idle list'ner to the distant cries Of slaughter'd infidels, and clash of swords? Tell me the cause, that while thy name, Demetrius, Shall soar, triumphant on the wings of glory, Despis'd and curs'd, Leontius must descend Through hissing ages, a proverbial coward, The tale of women, and the scorn of fools? DEMETRIUS. Can brave Leontius be the slave of glory? Glory, the casual gift of thoughtless crowds! Glory, the bribe of avaricious virtue! Be but my country free, be thine the praise; I ask no witness, but attesting conscience, No records, but the records of the sky. LEONTIUS. Wilt thou then head the troop upon the shore, While I destroy th' oppressor of mankind? DEMETRIUS. What canst thou boast superiour to Demetrius? Ask, to whose sword the Greeks will trust their cause, My name shall echo through the shouting field: Demand, whose force yon Turkish heroes dread, The shudd'ring camp shall murmur out Demetrius. CALI Must Greece, still wretched by her children's folly, For ever mourn their avarice or factions? Demetrius justly pleads a double title; The lover's int'rest aids the patriot's claim. LEONTIUS. My pride shall ne'er protract my country's woes; Succeed, my friend, unenvied by Leontius. DEMETRIUS. I feel new spirit shoot along my nerves; My soul expands to meet approaching freedom. Now hover o'er us, with propitious wings, Ye sacred shades of patriots and of martyrs! All ye, whose blood tyrannick rage effus'd, Or persecution drank, attend our call; I And from the mansions of perpetual peace Descend, to sweeten labours, once your own! CALI. Go then, and with united eloquence Confirm your troops; and, when the moon's fair beam Plays on the quiv'ring waves, to guide our flight, Return, Demetrius, and be free for ever. [_Exeunt_ Dem. _and_ Leon. SCENE IV. CALI, ABDALLA. ABDALLA. How the new monarch, swell'd with airy rule, Looks down, contemptuous, from his fancy'd height, And utters fate, unmindful of Abdalla! CALI. Far be such black ingratitude from Cali! When Asia's nations own me for their lord, Wealth, and command, and grandeur shall be thine! ABDALLA. Is this the recompense reserv'd for me? Dar'st thou thus dally with Abdalla's passion? Henceforward, hope no more my slighted friendship; Wake from thy dream of power to death and tortures, And bid thy visionary throne farewell. CALI. Name, and enjoy thy wish-- ABDALLA. I need not name it; Aspasia's lovers know but one desire, Nor hope, nor wish, nor live, but for Aspasia. CALI. That fatal beauty, plighted to Demetrius, Heaven makes not mine to give. ABDALLA. Nor to deny. CALI. Obtain her, and possess; thou know'st thy rival. ABDALLA. Too well I know him, since, on Thracia's plains, I felt the force of his tempestuous arm, And saw my scatter'd squadrons fly before him. Nor will I trust th' uncertain chance of combat; The rights of princes let the sword decide, The petty claims of empire and of honour: Revenge and subtle jealousy shall teach A surer passage to his hated heart. CALI. Oh! spare the gallant Greek, in him we lose The politician's arts, and hero's flame. ABDALLA. When next we meet, before we storm the palace, The bowl shall circle to confirm our league; Then shall these juices taint Demetrius' draught, [_Showing a phial_. And stream, destructive, through his freezing veins: Thus shall he live to strike th' important blow, And perish, ere he taste the joys of conquest. SCENE V. MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, CALI, ABDALLA. MAHOMET. Henceforth, for ever happy be this day, Sacred to love, to pleasure, and Irene! The matchless fair has bless'd me with compliance; Let every tongue resound Irene's praise, And spread the gen'ral transport through mankind. CALI. Blest prince, for whom indulgent heav'n ordains, At once, the joys of paradise and empire, Now join thy people's and thy Cali's prayers; Suspend thy passage to the seats of bliss, Nor wish for houries in Irene's arms. MAHOMET. Forbear--I know the long-try'd faith of Cali. CALI. Oh! could the eyes of kings, like those of heav'n, Search to the dark recesses of the soul, Oft would they find ingratitude and treason, By smiles, and oaths, and praises, ill disguis'd. How rarely would they meet, in crowded courts, Fidelity so firm, so pure, as mine. MUSTAPHA. Yet, ere we give our loosen'd thoughts to rapture, Let prudence obviate an impending danger: Tainted by sloth, the parent of sedition, The hungry janizary burns for plunder, And growls, in private, o'er his idle sabre. MAHOMET. To still their murmurs, ere the twentieth sun Shall shed his beams upon the bridal bed, I rouse to war, and conquer for Irene. Then shall the Rhodian mourn his sinking tow'rs, And Buda fall, and proud Vienna tremble; Then shall Venetia feel the Turkish pow'r, And subject seas roar round their queen in vain. ABDALLA. Then seize fair Italy's delightful coast, To fix your standard in imperial Rome. MAHOMET. Her sons malicious clemency shall spare, To form new legends, sanctify new crimes; To canonize the slaves of superstition, And fill the world with follies and impostures, Till angry heav'n shall mark them out for ruin, And war o'erwhelm them in their dream of vice. O! could her fabled saints and boasted prayers Call forth her ancient heroes to the field, How should I joy, midst the fierce shock of nations, To cross the tow'rings of an equal soul, And bid the master-genius rule the world! Abdalla, Cali, go--proclaim my purpose. [_Exeunt_ Cali _and_ Abdalla. SCENE VI. MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA. MAHOMET. Still Cali lives: and must he live to-morrow? That fawning villain's forc'd congratulations Will cloud my triumphs, and pollute the day. MUSTAPHA. With cautious vigilance, at my command, Two faithful captains, Hasan and Caraza, Pursue him through his labyrinths of treason, And wait your summons to report his conduct. MAHOMET. Call them--but let them not prolong their tale, Nor press, too much, upon a lover's patience. [_Exit_ Mustapha. SCENE VII. Mahomet, _Solus_. Whome'er the hope, still blasted, still renew'd, Of happiness lures on from toil to toil, Remember Mahomet, and cease thy labour. Behold him here, in love, in war, successful; Behold him, wretched in his double triumph! His fav'rite faithless, and his mistress base. Ambition only gave her to my arms, By reason not convinc'd, nor won by love. Ambition was her crime; but meaner folly Dooms me to loathe, at once, and dote on falsehood, And idolize th' apostate I contemn. If thou art more than the gay dream of fancy, More than a pleasing sound, without a meaning, O happiness! sure thou art all Aspasia's. SCENE VIII. MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, HASAN, CARAZA. MAHOMET. Caraza, speak--have ye remark'd the bassa? CARAZA. Close, as we might unseen, we watch'd his steps: His hair disorder'd, and his gait unequal, Betray'd the wild emotions of his mind. Sudden he stops, and inward turns his eyes, Absorb'd in thought; then, starting from his trance, Constrains a sullen smile, and shoots away. With him Abdalla we beheld-- MUSTAPHA. Abdalla! MAHOMET. He wears, of late, resentment on his brow, Deny'd the government of Servia's province. CARAZA. We mark'd him storming in excess of fury, And heard, within the thicket that conceal'd us, An undistinguish'd sound of threat'ning rage. MUSTAPHA. How guilt, once harbour'd in the conscious breast, Intimidates the brave, degrades the great; See Cali, dread of kings, and pride of armies, By treason levell'd with the dregs of men! Ere guilty fear depress'd the hoary chief, An angry murmur, a rebellious frown, Had stretch'd the fiery boaster in the grave. MAHOMET. Shall monarchs fear to draw the sword of justice, Aw'd by the crowd, and by their slaves restrain'd? Seize him this night, and, through the private passage, Convey him to the prison's inmost depths, Reserv'd to all the pangs of tedious death. [_Exeunt_ Mahomet _and_ Mustapha. SCENE IX. HASAN, CARAZA. HASAN. Shall then the Greeks, unpunish'd and conceal'd, Contrive, perhaps, the ruin of our empire; League with our chiefs, and propagate sedition? CARAZA. Whate'er their scheme, the bassa's death defeats it, And gratitude's strong ties restrain my tongue. HASAN. What ties to slaves? what gratitude to foes? CARAZA. In that black day, when slaughter'd thousands fell Around these fatal walls, the tide of war Bore me victorious onward, where Demetrius Tore, unresisted, from the giant hand Of stern Sebalias, the triumphant crescent, And dash'd the might of Asam from the ramparts. There I became, nor blush to make it known, The captive of his sword. The coward Greeks, Enrag'd by wrongs, exulting with success, Doom'd me to die with all the Turkish captains; But brave Demetrius scorn'd the mean revenge, And gave me life.-- HASAN. Do thou repay the gift, Lest unrewarded mercy lose its charms. Profuse of wealth, or bounteous of success, When heav'n bestows the privilege to bless, Let no weak doubt the gen'rous hand restrain; For when was pow'r beneficent in vain? [_Exeunt._ ACT V.--SCENE I. ASPASIA, _sola_. In these dark moments of suspended fate, While yet the future fortune of my country Lies in the womb of providence conceal'd, And anxious angels wait the mighty birth; O! grant thy sacred influence, pow'rful virtue! Attentive rise, survey the fair creation, Till, conscious of th' encircling deity, Beyond the mists of care thy pinion tow'rs. This calm, these joys, dear innocence! are thine: Joys ill exchang'd for gold, and pride, and empire. [_Enter_ Irene _and attendants_. SCENE II. ASPASIA, IRENE _and attendants_. IRENE. See how the moon, through all th' unclouded sky, Spreads her mild radiance, and descending dews Revive the languid flow'rs; thus nature shone New from the maker's hand, and fair array'd In the bright colours of primeval spring; When purity, while fraud was yet unknown, Play'd fearless in th' inviolated shades. This elemental joy, this gen'ral calm, Is, sure, the smile of unoffended heav'n. Yet! why-- MAID. Behold, within th' embow'ring grove Aspasia stands-- IRENE. With melancholy mien, Pensive, and envious of Irene's greatness. Steal, unperceiv'd, upon her meditations But see, the lofty maid, at our approach, Resumes th' imperious air of haughty virtue. Are these th' unceasing joys, th' unmingled pleasures, [_To_ Aspasia. For which Aspasia scorn'd the Turkish crown? Is this th' unshaken confidence in heav'n? Is this the boasted bliss of conscious virtue? When did content sigh out her cares in secret? When did felicity repine in deserts? ASPASIA. Ill suits with guilt the gaieties of triumph; When daring vice insults eternal justice, The ministers of wrath forget compassion, And snatch the flaming bolt with hasty hand. IRENE. Forbear thy threats, proud prophetess of ill, Vers'd in the secret counsels of the sky. ASPASIA. Forbear!--But thou art sunk beneath reproach; In vain affected raptures flush the cheek, And songs of pleasure warble from the tongue, When fear and anguish labour in the breast, And all within is darkness and confusion. Thus, on deceitful Etna's flow'ry side, Unfading verdure glads the roving eye; While secret flames, with unextinguish'd rage, Insatiate on her wasted entrails prey, And melt her treach'rous beauties into ruin. [_Enter_ Demetrius. SCENE III. ASPASIA, IRENE, DEMETRIUS. DEMETRIUS. Fly, fly, my love! destruction rushes on us, The rack expects us, and the sword pursues. ASPASIA. Is Greece deliver'd? is the tyrant fall'n? DEMETRIUS. Greece is no more; the prosp'rous tyrant lives, Reserv'd for other lands, the scourge of heav'n. ASPASIA. Say, by what fraud, what force, were you defeated? Betray'd by falsehood, or by crowds o'erborne? DEMETRIUS. The pressing exigence forbids relation. Abdalla-- ASPASIA. Hated name! his jealous rage Broke out in perfidy--Oh! curs'd Aspasia, Born to complete the ruin of her country! Hide me, oh hide me from upbraiding Greece; Oh, hide me from myself! DEMETRIUS. Be fruitless grief The doom of guilt alone, nor dare to seize The breast, where virtue guards the throne of peace. Devolve, dear maid, thy sorrows on the wretch, Whose fear, or rage, or treachery, betray'd us! IRENE. _aside_. A private station may discover more; Then let me rid them of Irene's presence; Proceed, and give a loose to love and treason. [_Withdraws_ ASPASIA. Yet tell. DEMETRIUS. To tell or hear were waste of life. ASPASIA. The life, which only this design supported, Were now well lost in hearing how you fail'd. DEMETRIUS. Or meanly fraudulent or madly gay, Abdalla, while we waited near the palace, With ill tim'd mirth propos'd the bowl of love. Just as it reach'd my lips, a sudden cry Urg'd me to dash it to the ground, untouch'd, And seize my sword with disencumber'd hand. ASPASIA. What cry? The stratagem? Did then Abdalla-- DEMETRIUS. At once a thousand passions fir'd his cheek! Then all is past, he cry'd--and darted from us; Nor, at the call of Cali, deign'd to turn. ASPASIA. Why did you stay, deserted and betray'd? What more could force attempt, or art contrive? DEMETRIUS. Amazement seiz'd us, and the hoary bassa Stood, torpid in suspense; but soon Abdalla Return'd with force that made resistance vain, And bade his new confed'rates seize the traitors. Cali, disarm'd, was borne away to death; Myself escap'd, or favour'd, or neglected. ASPASIA. Oh Greece! renown'd for science and for wealth, Behold thy boasted honours snatch'd away. DEMETRIUS. Though disappointment blast our general scheme, Yet much remains to hope. I shall not call The day disastrous, that secures our flight; Nor think that effort lost, which rescues thee. [_Enter_ Abdalla. SCENE IV. IRENE, ASPASIA, DEMETRIUS, ABDALLA. ABDALLA. At length, the prize is mine--The haughty maid, That bears the fate of empires in her air, Henceforth shall live for me; for me alone Shall plume her charms, and, with attentive watch, Steal from Abdalla's eye the sign to smile. DEMETRIUS. Cease this wild roar of savage exultation; Advance, and perish in the frantick boast. ASPASIA. Forbear, Demetrius, 'tis Aspasia calls thee; Thy love, Aspasia, calls; restrain thy sword; Nor rush on useless wounds, with idle courage. DEMETRIUS. What now remains? ASPASIA. It now remains to fly! DEMETRIUS. Shall, then, the savage live, to boast his insult; Tell, how Demetrius shunn'd his single hand, And stole his life and mistress from his sabre? ABDALLA. Infatuate loiterer, has fate, in vain, Unclasp'd his iron gripe to set thee free? Still dost thou flutter in the jaws of death; Snar'd with thy fears, and maz'd in stupefaction? DEMETRIUS. Forgive, my fair; 'tis life, 'tis nature calls: Now, traitor, feel the fear that chills my hand. ASPASIA. 'Tis madness to provoke superfluous danger, And cowardice to dread the boast of folly. ABDALLA. Fly, wretch, while yet my pity grants thee flight; The pow'r of Turkey waits upon my call. Leave but this maid, resign a hopeless claim, And drag away thy life, in scorn and safety, Thy life, too mean a prey to lure Abdalla. DEMETRIUS. Once more I dare thy sword; behold the prize, Behold, I quit her to the chance of battle. [_Quitting_ Aspasia. ABDALLA. Well may'st thou call thy master to the combat, And try the hazard, that hast nought to stake; Alike my death or thine is gain to thee; But soon thou shalt repent: another moment Shall throw th' attending janizaries round thee. [_Exit, hastily_, Abdalla. SCENE V. ASPASIA, IRENE, DEMETRIUS. IRENE. Abdalla fails; now, fortune, all is mine. [_Aside_. Haste, Murza, to the palace, let the sultan [_To one of her attendant_ Despatch his guards to stop the flying traitors, While I protract their stay. Be swift and faithful. [_Exit_ Murza. This lucky stratagem shall charm the sultan, [_Aside_. Secure his confidence, and fix his love. DEMETRIUS. Behold a boaster's worth! Now snatch, my fair, The happy moment; hasten to the shore, Ere he return with thousands at his side. ASPASIA. In vain I listen to th' inviting call Of freedom and of love; my trembling joints, Relax'd with fear, refuse to bear me forward. Depart, Demetrius, lest my fate involve thee; Forsake a wretch abandon'd to despair, To share the miseries herself has caus'd. DEMETRIUS. Let us not struggle with th' eternal will, Nor languish o'er irreparable ruins; Come, haste and live--Thy innocence and truth Shall bless our wand'rings, and propitiate heav'n. IRENE. Press not her flight, while yet her feeble nerves Refuse their office, and uncertain life Still labours with imaginary woe; Here let me tend her with officious care, Watch each unquiet flutter of the breast, And joy to feel the vital warmth return, To see the cloud forsake her kindling cheek, And hail the rosy dawn of rising health. ASPASIA. Oh! rather, scornful of flagitious greatness, Resolve to share our dangers and our toils, Companion of our flight, illustrious exile, Leave slav'ry, guilt, and infamy behind. IRENE. My soul attends thy voice, and banish'd virtue Strives to regain her empire of the mind: Assist her efforts with thy strong persuasion; Sure, 'tis the happy hour ordain'd above, When vanquish'd vice shall tyrannise no more. DEMETRIUS. Remember, peace and anguish are before thee, And honour and reproach, and heav'n and hell. ASPASIA. Content with freedom, and precarious greatness. DEMETRIUS. Now make thy choice, while yet the pow'r of choice Kind heav'n affords thee, and inviting mercy Holds out her hand to lead thee back to truth. IRENE. Stay--in this dubious twilight of conviction, The gleams of reason, and the clouds of passion, Irradiate and obscure my breast, by turns: Stay but a moment, and prevailing truth Will spread resistless light upon my soul. DEMETRIUS. But, since none knows the danger of a moment, And heav'n forbids to lavish life away, Let kind compulsion terminate the contest. [_Seizing her hand_. Ye christian captives, follow me to freedom: A galley waits us, and the winds invite. IRENE. Whence is this violence? DEMETRIUS. Your calmer thought Will teach a gentler term. IRENE. Forbear this rudeness, And learn the rev'rence due to Turkey's queen: Fly, slaves, and call the sultan to my rescue. DEMETRIUS. Farewell, unhappy maid; may every joy Be thine, that wealth can give, or guilt receive! ASPASIA. nd when, contemptuous of imperial pow'r, Disease shall chase the phantoms of ambition, May penitence attend thy mournful bed, And wing thy latest pray'r to pitying heav'n! [_Exeunt_ Dem. Asp. _with part of the attendants_. SCENE VI. [IRENE _walks at a distance from her attendants._] _After a pause_. Against the head, which innocence secures, Insidious malice aims her darts in vain, Turn'd backwards by the pow'rful breath of heav'n. Perhaps, e'en now the lovers, unpursu'd, Bound o'er the sparkling waves. Go, happy bark, Thy sacred freight shall still the raging main. To guide thy passage shall th' aerial spirits Fill all the starry lamps with double blaze; Th' applauding sky shall pour forth all its beams, To grace the triumph of victorious virtue; While I, not yet familiar to my crimes, Recoil from thought, and shudder at myself. How am I chang'd! How lately did Irene Fly from the busy pleasures of her sex, Well pleas'd to search the treasures of remembrance, And live her guiltless moments o'er anew! Come, let us seek new pleasures in the palace, [_To her attendants, going off_. Till soft fatigue invite us to repose. SCENE VII. [_Enter_ MUSTAPHA, _meeting and stopping her_.] MUSTAPHA. Fair falsehood, stay. IRENE. What dream of sudden power Has taught my slave the language of command? Henceforth, be wise, nor hope a second pardon. MUSTAPHA. Who calls for pardon from a wretch condemn'd? IRENE. Thy look, thy speech, thy action, all is wildness-- Who charges guilt, on me? MUSTAPHA. Who charges guilt! Ask of thy heart; attend the voice of conscience-- Who charges guilt! lay by this proud resentment That fires thy cheek, and elevates thy mien, Nor thus usurp the dignity of virtue. Review this day. IRENE. Whate'er thy accusation, The sultan is my judge. MUSTAPHA. That hope is past; Hard was the strife of justice and of love; But now 'tis o'er, and justice has prevail'd. Know'st thou not Cali? know'st thou not Demetrius? IRENE. Bold slave, I know them both--I know them traitors. MUSTAPHA. Perfidious!--yes--too well thou know'st them traitors. IRENE. Their treason throws no stain upon Irene. This day has prov'd my fondness for the sultan; He knew Irene's truth. MUSTAPHA. The sultan knows it; He knows, how near apostasy to treason-- But 'tis not mine to judge--I scorn and leave thee. I go, lest vengeance urge my hand to blood, To blood too mean to stain a soldier's sabre. [_Exit_ Mustapha. IRENE, _to her attendants_. Go, blust'ring slave--He has not heard of Murza. That dext'rous message frees me from suspicion. SCENE VIII. _Enter_ HASAN, CARAZA, _with mutes, who throw the black robe upon_ IRENE, _and sign to her attendants to withdraw_. HASAN. Forgive, fair excellence, th' unwilling tongue, The tongue, that, forc'd by strong necessity, Bids beauty, such as thine, prepare to die. IRENE. What wild mistake is this! Take hence, with speed, Your robe of mourning, and your dogs of death. Quick from my sight, you inauspicious monsters; Nor dare, henceforth, to shock Irene's walks. HASAN. Alas! they come commanded by the sultan, Th' unpitying ministers of Turkish justice, Nor dare to spare the life his frown condemns. IRENE. Are these the rapid thunderbolts of war, That pour with sudden violence on kingdoms, And spread their flames, resistless, o'er the world? What sleepy charms benumb these active heroes, Depress their spirits, and retard their speed? Beyond the fear of ling'ring punishment, Aspasia now, within her lover's arms, Securely sleeps, and, in delightful dreams, Smiles at the threat'nings of defeated rage. CARAZA. We come, bright virgin, though relenting nature Shrinks at the hated task, for thy destruction. When summon'd by the sultan's clam'rous fury, We ask'd, with tim'rous tongue, th' offender's name, He struck his tortur'd breast, and roar'd, Irene! We started at the sound, again inquir'd; Again his thund'ring voice return'd, Irene! IRENE. Whence is this rage; what barb'rous tongue has wrong'd me? What fraud misleads him? or what crimes incense? HASAN. Expiring Cali nam'd Irene's chamber, The place appointed for his master's death. IRENE. Irene's chamber! From my faithful bosom Far be the thought--But hear my protestation. CARAZA. 'Tis ours, alas! to punish, not to judge, Not call'd to try the cause, we heard the sentence, Ordain'd the mournful messengers of death. IRENE. Some ill designing statesman's base intrigue! Some cruel stratagem of jealous beauty! Perhaps, yourselves the villains that defame me:-- Now haste to murder, ere returning thought Recall th' extorted doom.--It must be so: Confess your crime, or lead me to the sultan; There dauntless truth shall blast the vile accuser; Then shall you feel, what language cannot utter, Each piercing torture, ev'ry change of pain, That vengeance can invent, or pow'r inflict. [_Enter_ Abdalla: _he stops short and listens_. SCENE IX. IRENE, HASAN, CARAZA, ABDALLA. ABDALLA, _aside_. All is not lost, Abdalla; see the queen, See the last witness of thy guilt and fear, Enrob'd in death--Despatch her, and be great. CARAZA. Unhappy fair! compassion calls upon me To check this torrent of imperious rage: While unavailing anger crowds thy tongue With idle threats and fruitless exclamation, The fraudful moments ply their silent wings, And steal thy life away. Death's horrid angel Already shakes his bloody sabre o'er thee. The raging sultan burns, till our return, Curses the dull delays of ling'ring mercy, And thinks his fatal mandates ill obey'd. ABDALLA. Is then your sov'reign's life so cheaply rated, That thus you parley with detected treason? Should she prevail to gain the sultan's presence, Soon might her tears engage a lover's credit; Perhaps, her malice might transfer the charge; Perhaps, her pois'nous tongue might blast Abdalla. IRENE. O! let me but be heard, nor fear from me Or flights of pow'r, or projects of ambition. My hopes, my wishes, terminate in life, A little life, for grief, and for repentance. ABDALLA. I mark'd her wily messenger afar, And saw him sculking in the closest walks: I guess'd her dark designs, and warn'd the sultan, And bring her former sentence new-confirmed. HASAN. Then call it not our cruelty, nor crime; Deem us not deaf to woe, nor blind to beauty, That, thus constrain'd, we speed the stroke of death. [_Beckons the mutes_. IRENE. O, name not death! Distraction and amazement, Horrour and agony are in that sound! Let me but live, heap woes on woes upon me; Hide me with murd'rers in the dungeon's gloom; Send me to wander on some pathless shore, Let shame and hooting infamy pursue me, Let slav'ry harass, and let hunger gripe. CARAZA. Could we reverse the sentence of the sultan, Our bleeding bosoms plead Irene's cause. But cries and tears are vain; prepare, with patience, To meet that fate, we can delay no longer. [_The mutes, at the sign, lay hold of her_. ABDALLA. Despatch, ye ling'ring slaves; or nimbler hands, Quick at my call, shall execute your charge; Despatch, and learn a fitter time for pity. IRENE. Grant me one hour. O! grant me but a moment, And bounteous heav'n repay the mighty mercy, With peaceful death, and happiness eternal. CARAZA. The pray'r I cannot grant--I dare not hear. Short be thy pains. [_Signs again to the mutes_. IRENE. Unutterable anguish! Guilt and despair, pale spectres! grin around me, And stun me with the yellings of damnation! O, hear my pray'rs! accept, all-pitying heav'n, These tears, these pangs, these last remains of life; Nor let the crimes of this detested day Be charg'd upon my soul. O, mercy! mercy! [_Mutes force her out_. SCENE X. ABDALLA, HASAN, CARAZA. ABDALLA, _aside_. Safe in her death, and in Demetrius' flight, Abdalla, bid thy troubled breast be calm. Now shalt thou shine, the darling of the sultan, The plot all Cali's, the detection thine. HASAN _to_ CARAZA. Does not thy bosom (for I know thee tender, A stranger to th' oppressor's savage joy,) Melt at Irene's fate, and share her woes? CARAZA. Her piercing cries yet fill the loaded air, Dwell on my ear, and sadden all my soul. But let us try to clear our clouded brows, And tell the horrid tale with cheerful face; The stormy sultan rages at our stay. ABDALLA. Frame your report with circumspective art: Inflame her crimes, exalt your own obedience; But let no thoughtless hint involve Abdalla. CARAZA. What need of caution to report the fate Of her, the sultan's voice condemn'd to die? Or why should he, whose violence of duty Has serv'd his prince so well, demand our silence? ABDALLA. Perhaps, my zeal, too fierce, betray'd my prudence; Perhaps, my warmth exceeded my commission; Perhaps--I will not stoop to plead my cause, Or argue with the slave that sav'd Demetrius. CARAZA. From his escape learn thou the pow'r of virtue; Nor hope his fortune, while thou want'st his worth. HASAN. The sultan comes, still gloomy, still enraged. SCENE XI. HASAN, CARAZA, MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, ABDALLA. MAHOMET. Where's this fair traitress? Where's this smiling mischief, Whom neither vows could fix, nor favours bind? HASAN. Thine orders, mighty sultan, are perform'd, And all Irene now is breathless clay. MAHOMET. Your hasty zeal defrauds the claim of justice, And disappointed vengeance burns in vain. I came to heighten tortures by reproach, And add new terrours to the face of death. Was this the maid, whose love I bought with empire? True, she was fair; the smile of innocence Play'd on her cheek--So shone the first apostate-- Irene's chamber! Did not roaring Cali, Just as the rack forc'd out his struggling soul, Name for the scene of death, Irene's chamber? MUSTAPHA. His breath prolong'd, but to detect her treason, Then, in short sighs, forsook his broken frame. MAHOMET. Decreed to perish in Irene's chamber! There had she lull'd me with endearing falsehoods, Clasp'd in her arms, or slumb'ring on her breast, And bar'd my bosom to the ruffian's dagger. SCENE XII. HASAN, CARAZA, MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, MURZA, ABDALLA. MURZA. Forgive, great sultan, that, by fate prevented, I bring a tardy message from Irene. MAHOMET. Some artful wile of counterfeited love! Some soft decoy to lure me to destruction! And thou, the curs'd accomplice of her treason, Declare thy message, and expect thy doom. MURZA. The queen requested, that a chosen troop Might intercept the traitor Greek, Demetrius, Then ling'ring with his captive mistress here. MUSTAPHA. The Greek, Demetrius! whom th' expiring bassa Declar'd the chief associate of his guilt! MAHOMET. A chosen troop--to intercept--Demetrius-- The queen requested--Wretch, repeat the message; And, if one varied accent prove thy falsehood, Or but one moment's pause betray confusion, Those trembling limbs--Speak out, thou shiv'ring traitor. MURZA. The queen requested-- MAHOMET. Who? the dead Irene? Was she then guiltless! Has my thoughtless rage Destroy'd the fairest workmanship of heav'n! Doom'd her to death, unpity'd and unheard, Amidst her kind solicitudes for me! Ye slaves of cruelty, ye tools of rage, [_To_ Hasan _and_ Caraza. Ye blind, officious ministers of folly, Could not her charms repress your zeal for murder? Could not her pray'rs, her innocence, her tears, Suspend the dreadful sentence for an hour? One hour had freed me from the fatal errour! One hour had say'd me from despair and madness. CARAZA. Your fierce impatience forc'd us from your presence, Urg'd us to speed, and bade us banish pity, Nor trust our passions with her fatal charms. MAHOMET. What hadst thou lost, by slighting those commands? Thy life, perhaps--Were but Irene spar'd, Well, if a thousand lives like thine had perish'd; Such beauty, sweetness, love, were cheaply bought With half the grov'ling slaves that load the globe. MUSTAPHA. Great is thy woe! But think, illustrious sultan, Such ills are sent for souls, like thine, to conquer. Shake off this weight of unavailing grief, Rush to the war, display thy dreadful banners, And lead thy troops, victorious, round the world. MAHOMET. Robb'd of the maid, with whom I wish'd to triumph, No more I burn for fame, or for dominion; Success and conquest now are empty sounds, Remorse and anguish seize on all my breast; Those groves, whose shades embower'd the dear Irene, Heard her last cries, and fann'd her dying beauties, Shall hide me from the tasteless world for ever. [Mahomet _goes back, and returns_. Yet, ere I quit the sceptre of dominion, Let one just act conclude the hateful day-- Hew down, ye guards, those vassals of destruction, [_Pointing to_ Hasan _and_ Caraza. Those hounds of blood, that catch the hint to kill, Bear off, with eager haste, th' unfinished sentence, And speed the stroke, lest mercy should o'ertake them. CARAZA. Then hear, great Mahomet, the voice of truth. MAHOMET. Hear! shall I hear thee! didst thou hear Irene? CARAZA. Hear but a moment. MAHOMET. Hadst thou heard a moment, Thou might'st have liv'd, for thou hadst spar'd Irene. CARAZA. I heard her, pitied her, and wish'd to save her. MAHOMET. And wish'd--be still thy fate to wish in vain. CARAZA. I heard, and soften'd, till Abdalla brought Her final doom, and hurried her destruction. MAHOMET. Abdalla brought her doom! Abdalla brought it! The wretch, whose guilt, declar'd by tortur'd Cali, My rage and grief had hid from my remembrance: Abdalla brought her doom! HASAN. Abdalla brought it, While yet she begg'd to plead her cause before thee. MAHOMET. O, seize me, madness--Did she call on me! I feel, I see the ruffian's barb'rous rage. He seiz'd her melting in the fond appeal, And stopp'd the heav'nly voice that call'd on me. My spirits fail; awhile support me, vengeance-- Be just, ye slaves; and, to be just, be cruel; Contrive new racks, imbitter ev'ry pang, Inflict whatever treason can deserve, Which murder'd innocence that call'd on me. [_Exit_ Mahomet; Abdalla _is dragged off_. SCENE XIII. HASAN, CARAZA, MUSTAPHA, MURZA. MUSTAPHA _to_ MURZA. What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee, Thou sluggish idler, dilatory slave! Behold the model of consummate beauty, Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect. MURZA. Such was the will of heav'n--A band of Greeks, That mark'd my course, suspicious of my purpose, Rush'd out and seiz'd me, thoughtless and unarm'd, Breathless, amaz'd, and on the guarded beach Detain'd me, till Demetrius set me free. MUSTAPHA. So sure the fall of greatness, rais'd on crimes! So fix'd the justice of all conscious heav'n! When haughty guilt exults with impious joy, Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy; Weak man, with erring rage, may throw the dart, But heav'n shall guide it to the guilty heart. EPILOGUE. BY SIR WILLIAM YONGE. Marry a Turk! a haughty, tyrant king! Who thinks us women born to dress and sing To please his fancy! see no other man! Let him persuade me to it--if he can; Besides, he has fifty wives; and who can bear To have the fiftieth part, her paltry share? 'Tis true, the fellow's handsome, straight, and tall, But how the devil should he please us all! My swain is little--true--but, be it known, My pride's to have that little all my own. Men will be ever to their errours blind, Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind. I swear this eastern pageantry is nonsense, And for one man--one wife's enough in conscience. In vain proud man usurps what's woman's due; For us, alone, they honour's paths pursue: Inspir'd by us, they glory's heights ascend; Woman the source, the object, and the end. Though wealth, and pow'r, and glory, they receive, These are all trifles to what we can give. For us the statesman labours, hero fights, Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious nights; And, when blest peace has silenc'd war's alarms; Receives his full reward in beauty's arms. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. PROLOGUE; SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, APRIL 5, 1750, BEFORE THE MASQUE OF COMUS. Acted at Drury lane theatre, for the benefit of Milton's granddaughter[a]. Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name; Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring rhymes, Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times; Immortal patrons of succeeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise; Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage With close malevolence, or publick rage; Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore, Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell, That never Britain can in vain excel; The slighted arts futurity shall trust, And rising ages hasten to be just. At length, our mighty bard's victorious lays Fill the loud voice of universal praise; And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, Yields to renown the centuries to come; With ardent haste each candidate of fame, Ambitious, catches at his tow'ring name; He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow Those pageant honours, which he scorn'd below; While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold, Or trace his form on circulating gold. Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay, And want hung threat'ning o'er her slow decay, What, though she shine with no Miltonian fire, No fav'ring muse her morning dreams inspire; Yet softer claims the melting heart engage, Her youth laborious, and her blameless age; Her's the mild merits of domestick life, The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife. Thus, grac'd with humble virtue's native charms, Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms; Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell, While tutelary nations guard her cell. Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave! 'Tis yours to crown desert--beyond the grave. [a] See Life of Milton. PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN, 1769, Prest by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the gen'ral toil of human kind; With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain: Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share This bustling season's epidemick care; Like Caesar's pilot, dignify'd by fate, Tost in one common storm with all the great; Distrest alike the statesman and the wit, When one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for pow'r and fame Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same; Disabled both to combat or to fly, Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, For that blest year, when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill persuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts, without fear, to merit and to you. PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF A WORK TO THE WISE[a] SPOKEN BY MR. HULL. This night presents a play, which publick rage, Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage[b]. From zeal or malice, now, no more we dread, For English vengeance wars not with the dead. A gen'rous foe regards, with pitying eye, The man whom fate has laid, where all must lie. To wit, reviving from its author's dust, Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just. For no renew'd hostilities invade Th' oblivious grave's inviolable shade. Let one great payment ev'ry claim appease; And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please; To please by scenes, unconscious of offence, By harmless merriment, or useful sense. Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays, Approve it only--'tis too late to praise. If want of skill, or want of care appear, Forbear to hiss--the poet cannot hear. By all, like him, must praise and blame be found, At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound. Yet, then, shall calm reflection bless the night, When lib'ral pity dignify'd delight; When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame, And mirth was bounty with an humbler name. [a] Performed at Covent garden theatre in 1777, for the benefit of Mrs. Kelly, widow of Hugh Kelly, esq. (the author of the play,) and her children. [b] Upon the first representation of this play, 1770, a party assembled to damn it, and succeeded. SPRING; AN ODE. Stern winter now, by spring repress'd, Forbears the long-continued strife; And nature, on her naked breast, Delights to catch the gales of life. Now o'er the rural kingdom roves Soft pleasure with the laughing train, Love warbles in the vocal groves, And vegetation plants the plain. Unhappy! whom to beds of pain, Arthritick[a] tyranny consigns; Whom smiling nature courts in vain, Though rapture sings, and beauty shines. Yet though my limbs disease invades, Her wings imagination tries, And bears me to the peaceful shades, Where--s humble turrets rise; Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight, Nor from the pleasing groves depart, Where first great nature charm'd my sight, Where wisdom first inform'd my heart. Here let me through the vales pursue A guide--a father--and a friend, Once more great nature's works renew, Once more on wisdom's voice attend. From false caresses, causeless strife, Wild hope, vain fear, alike remov'd, Here let me learn the use of life, When best enjoy'd--when most improv'd. Teach me, thou venerable bower, Cool meditation's quiet seat, The gen'rous scorn of venal power, The silent grandeur of retreat. When pride, by guilt, to greatness climbs, Or raging factions rush to war, Here let me learn to shun the crimes, I can't prevent, and will not share. But, lest I fall by subtler foes, Bright wisdom, teach me Curio's art, The swelling passions to compose, And quell the rebels of the heart. [a] The author being ill of the gout. MIDSUMMER; AN ODE. O Phoebus! down the western sky, Far hence diffuse thy burning ray, Thy light to distant worlds supply, And wake them to the cares of day. Come, gentle eve, the friend of care, Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! Refresh me with a cooling air, And cheer me with a lambent light: Lay me, where o'er the verdant ground Her living carpet nature spreads; Where the green bow'r, with roses crown'd, In show'rs its fragrant foliage sheds; Improve the peaceful hour with wine; Let musick die along the grove; Around the bowl let myrtles twine, And ev'ry strain be tun'd to love. Come, Stella, queen of all my heart! Come, born to fill its vast desires! Thy looks perpetual joys impart, Thy voice perpetual love inspires. Whilst, all my wish and thine complete, By turns we languish and we burn, Let sighing gales our sighs repeat, Our murmurs--murmuring brooks return, Let me, when nature calls to rest, And blushing skies the morn foretell, Sink on the down of Stella's breast, And bid the waking world farewell. AUTUMN; AN ODE. Alas! with swift and silent pace, Impatient time rolls on the year; The seasons change, and nature's face Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe, 'Twas spring, 'twas summer, all was gay, Now autumn bends a cloudy brow; The flow'rs of spring are swept away, And summer-fruits desert the bough. The verdant leaves, that play'd on high, And wanton'd on the western breeze, Now, trod in dust, neglected lie, As Boreas strips the bending trees. The fields, that way'd with golden grain, As russet heaths, are wild and bare; Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain, Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there. No more, while through the midnight shade, Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray, Soft pleasing woes my heart invade, As Progne pours the melting lay. From this capricious clime she soars, Oh! would some god but wings supply! To where each morn the spring restores, Companion of her flight I'd fly. Vain wish! me fate compels to bear The downward season's iron reign; Compels to breathe polluted air, And shiver on a blasted plain. What bliss to life can autumn yield, If glooms, and show'rs, and storms prevail, And Ceres flies the naked field, And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail? Oh! what remains, what lingers yet, To cheer me in the dark'ning hour! The grape remains! the friend of wit, In love, and mirth, of mighty pow'r. Haste--press the clusters, fill the bowl; Apollo! shoot thy parting ray: This gives the sunshine of the soul, This god of health, and verse, and day. Still--still the jocund strain shall flow, The pulse with vig'rous rapture beat; My Stella with new charms shall glow, And ev'ry bliss in wine shall meet. WINTER; AN ODE. No more tire morn, with tepid rays, Unfolds the flow'r of various hue; Noon spreads no more the genial blaze, Nor gentle eve distils the dew. The ling'ring hours prolong the night, Usurping darkness shares the day; Her mists restrain the force of light, And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway. By gloomy twilight, half reveal'd, With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field, The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill. No musick warbles through the grove, No vivid colours paint the plain; No more, with devious steps, I rove Through verdant paths, now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars, Congeal'd, impetuous show'rs descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend. In nature's aid, let art supply With light and heat my little sphere; Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high, Light up a constellation here. Let musick sound the voice of joy, Or mirth repeat the jocund tale; Let love his wanton wiles employ, And o'er the season wine prevail. Yet time life's dreary winter brings, When mirth's gay tale shall please no more Nor musick charm--though Stella sings; Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour, Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a short summer--man a flow'r: He dies--alas! how soon he dies! THE WINTER'S WALK. Behold, my fair, where'er we rove, What dreary prospects round us rise; The naked hill, the leafless grove, The hoary ground, the frowning skies! Nor only through the wasted plain, Stern winter! is thy force confess'd; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign, I feel thy pow'r usurp my breast. Enliv'ning hope, and fond desire, Resign the heart to spleen and care; Scarce frighted love maintains her fire, And rapture saddens to despair. In groundless hope, and causeless fear, Unhappy man! behold thy doom; Still changing with the changeful year, The slave of sunshine and of gloom. Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms, With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms, And screen me from the ills of life[a]. [a] And _hide_ me from the _sight_ of life. 1st edition. TO MISS **** ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING[a]. Though gold and silk their charms unite To make thy curious web delight, In vain the varied work would shine, If wrought by any hand but thine; Thy hand, that knows the subtler art To weave those nets that catch the heart. Spread out by me, the roving coin Thy nets may catch, but not confine; Nor can I hope thy silken chain The glitt'ring vagrants shall restrain. Why, Stella, was it then decreed, The heart, once caught, should ne'er be freed? [a] Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. TO MISS **** ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD, IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF HER OWN PAINTING[a]. When Stella strikes the tuneful string, In scenes of imitated spring, Where beauty lavishes her pow'rs On beds of never-fading flow'rs, And pleasure propagates around Each charm of modulated sound; Ah! think not, in the dang'rous hour, The nymph fictitious as the flow'r; But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove, Nor tempt the snares of wily love. When charms thus press on ev'ry sense, What thought of flight, or of defence? Deceitful hope, and vain desire, For ever flutter o'er her lyre, Delighting, as the youth draws nigh, To point the glances of her eye, And forming, with unerring art, New chains to hold the captive heart. But on those regions of delight Might truth intrude with daring flight, Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young, One moment hear the moral song, Instruction, with her flowers, might spring, And wisdom warble from her string. Mark, when from thousand mingled dies Thou seest one pleasing form arise, How active light, and thoughtful shade In greater scenes each other aid; Mark, when the different notes agree In friendly contrariety, How passion's well-accorded strife Gives all the harmony of life; Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame, Consistent still, though not the same; Thy musick teach the nobler art, To tune the regulated heart. [a] Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. EVENING; AN ODE. TO STELLA. Ev'ning now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, Cooling breezes shake the reed; Shake the reed, and curl the stream, Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the checquer'd, lonely grove, Hears, and keeps thy secrets, love. Stella, thither let us stray, Lightly o'er the dewy way. Phoebus drives his burning car Hence, my lovely Stella, far; In his stead, the queen of night Round us pours a lambent light; Light, that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow. Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Ev'ning's silent hours employ; Silence best, and conscious shades, Please the hearts that love invades; Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain. TO THE SAME. Whether Stella's eyes are found Fix'd on earth, or glancing round, If her face with pleasure glow, If she sigh at others' woe, If her easy air express Conscious worth, or soft distress, Stella's eyes, and air, and face, Charm with undiminish'd grace. If on her we see display'd Pendent gems, and rich brocade; If her chints with less expense Flows in easy negligence; Still she lights the conscious flame, Still her charms appear the same; If she strikes the vocal strings, If she's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love, and still approve. Vain the casual, transient glance, Which alone can please by chance; Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendent gems and rich brocade. I those charms alone can prize, Which from constant nature rise, Which nor circumstance, nor dress, E'er can make, or more, or less. TO A FRIEND. No more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With av'rice, painful vigils keep; Still unenjoy'd the present store, Still endless sighs are breath'd for more. Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize, Which not all India's treasure buys! To purchase heav'n has gold the power? Can gold remove the mortal hour? In life, can love be bought with gold? Are friendship's pleasures to be sold? No--all that's worth a wish--a thought, Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought. Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind, Let nobler views engage thy mind. With science tread the wondrous way, Or learn the muses' moral lay; In social hours indulge thy soul, Where mirth and temp'rance mix the bowl; To virtuous love resign thy breast, And be, by blessing beauty--blest. Thus taste the feast, by nature spread, Ere youth, and all its joys are fled; Come, taste with me the balm of life, Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife. I boast whate'er for man was meant, In health, and Stella, and content; And scorn! oh! let that scorn be thine! Mere things of clay that dig the mine. STELLA IN MOURNING. When lately Stella's form display'd The beauties of the gay brocade, The nymphs, who found their pow'r decline, Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine. "Fate! snatch away the bright disguise, And let the goddess trust her eyes." Thus blindly pray'd the fretful fair, And fate malicious heard the pray'r; But, brighten'd by the sable dress, As virtue rises in distress, Since Stella still extends her reign, Ah! how shall envy sooth her pain? Th' adoring youth and envious fair, Henceforth, shall form one common prayer: And love and hate, alike, implore The skies--"That Stella mourn no more." TO STELLA. Not the soft sighs of vernal gales, The fragrance of the flow'ry vales, The murmurs of the crystal rill, The vocal grove, the verdant hill; Not all their charms, though all unite, Can touch my bosom with delight. Not all the gems on India's shore, Not all Peru's unbounded store, Not all the power, nor all the fame, That heroes, kings, or poets claim; Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve; To form one wish my soul can move. Yet nature's charms allure my eyes, And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize; Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain, Nor seek I nature's charms in vain; In lovely Stella all combine; And, lovely Stella! thou art mine. VERSES, WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN, TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE [a]. What hopes, what terrours, does thy gift create! Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate! The myrtle (ensign of supreme command, Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand) Not less capricious than a reigning fair, Oft favours, oft rejects, a lover's pray'r. In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain, In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain. The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads, Th' unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads. Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart, And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart. Soon must this bough, as you shall fix its doom, Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb. [a] These verses were first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1768, p. 439, but were written many years earlier. Elegant as they are, Dr. Johnson assured me, they were composed in the short space of five minutes.--N. TO LADY FIREBRACE[a]. AT BURY ASSIZES. At length, must Suffolk beauties shine in vain, So long renown'd in B--n's deathless strain? Thy charms, at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre; For, such thy beauteous mind and lovely face, Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a muse and grace. [a] This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, esq. of that town. She became the second wife of sir Cordell Firebrace, the last baronet of that name, to whom she brought a fortune of 25,000 pounds, July 26, 1737. Being again left a widow, in 1759, she was a third time married, April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, esq. uncle to the late duke of Argyle, and died July 3, 1782. TO LYCE, AN ELDERLY LADY. Ye nymphs, whom starry rays invest, By flatt'ring poets given; Who shine, by lavish lovers drest, In all the pomp of heaven; Engross not all the beams on high, Which gild a lover's lays; But, as your sister of the sky, Let Lyce share the praise. Her silver locks display the moon, Her brows a cloudy show, Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are seen, And show'rs from either flow. Her teeth the night with darkness dies, She's starr'd with pimples o'er; Her tongue, like nimble lightning, plies, And can with thunder roar. But some Zelinda, while I sing, Denies my Lyce shines; And all the pens of Cupid's wing Attack my gentle lines. Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye, And all her bards express, My Lyce makes as good a sky, And I but flatter less. ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET[a], A PRACTISER IN PHYSICK. Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine, As on we toil, from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well try'd, through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of ev'ry friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature call'd for aid, And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd The pow'r of art, without the show. In mis'ry's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely want retir'd to die. No summons, mock'd by chill delay, No petty gain, disdain'd by pride; The modest wants of ev'ry day The toil of ev'ry day supply'd. His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the eternal master found The single talent well-employ'd. The busy day--the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm--his pow'rs were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then, with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke, at once, the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way. [a] These stanzas, to adopt the words of Dr. Drake, "are warm from the heart; and this is the only poem, from the pen of Johnson, that has been bathed with tears." Levet was Johnson's constant and attentive companion, for near forty years; he was a practitioner in physic, among the lower class of people, in London. Humanity, rather than desire of gain, seems to have actuated this single hearted and amiable being; and never were the virtues of charity recorded in more touching strains. "I am acquainted," says Dr. Drake, "with nothing superior to them in the productions of the moral muse." See Drake's Literary Life of Johnson; and Boswell, i. ii. iii. iv.--ED. EPITAPH ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS, AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN[a]. Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove The pangs of guilty pow'r, and hapless love, Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more, Find here that calm thou gay'st so oft before; Sleep, undisturb'd, within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee, with a note like thine. [a] These lines are among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies: they are, nevertheless, recognised as Johnson's, in a memorandum of his handwriting, and were probably written at her request. This Phillips was a fiddler, who travelled up and down Wales, and was much celebrated for his skill. The above epitaph, according to Mr. Boswell, won the applause of lord Kames, prejudiced against Johnson as he was. It was published in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies, and was, at first, ascribed to Garrick, from its appearing with the signature G.--Garrick, however, related, that they were composed, almost impromptu, by Johnson, on hearing some lines on the subject, by Dr. Wilkes, which he disapproved. See Boswell, i. 126, where is, likewise, preserved an epigram, by Johnson, on Colley Cibber and George the second, whose illiberal treatment of artists and learned men was a constant theme of his execration. As it has not yet been inserted among Johnson's works, we will present it to the readers of the present edition, in this note. EPITAPHIUM[a] IN THOMAM HANMER, BARONETTUM. Honorabilis admodum THOMAS HANMER, Baronnettus, Augustus still survives in Maro's strain, And Spenser's verse prolongs Eliza's reign; Great George's acts let tuneful Gibber sing; For nature formed the poet for the king. Wilhelmi Hanmer armigeri, e Peregrina Henrici North De Mildenhall, in Com. Suffolciae, baronetti sorore et haerede, Filius; Johannis Hanmer de Hanmer baronetti Haeres patruelis Antiquo gentis suae et titulo et patrimonio successit. Duas uxores sortitus est; Alteram Isabellam, honore a patre derivato, de Arlington comitissam, Deinde celsissimi principis, ducis de Grafton, viduam dotariam: Alteram Elizabetham, Thomae Foulkes de Barton, in Com. Suff. armigeri Filiam et haeredem. Inter humanitatis studia feliciter enutritus, Omnes liberalium artium disciplinas avide arripuit, Quas morum suavitate baud leviter ornavit, Postquam excessit ex ephebis, Continuo inter populares suos fama eminens, Et comitatus sui legatus ad parliamentum missus, Ad ardua regni negotia, per annos prope triginta, se accinxit: Cumque, apud illos amplissimorum virorum ordines, Solent nihil temere effutire, Sed probe perpensa diserte expromere, Orator gravis et pressus, Non minus integritatis quam eloquentiae laude commendatus, Aeque omnium, utcunque inter se alioqui dissidentium, Aures atque arrimos attraxit. Annoque demum M.DCC.XIII. regnante Anna, Felicissimae florentissimaeque memoriae regina, Ad prolocutoris cathedram, Communi senatus universi voce, designatus est: Quod munus, Cum nullo tempore non difficile, Tum illo certe, negotiis Et variis, et lubricis, et implicatis, difficillimum, Cum dignitate sustinuit. Honores alios, et omnia quae sibi in lucrum cederent munera, Sedulo detrectavit, Ut rei totus inserviret publicae; Justi rectique tenax, Et fide in patriam incorrupta notus. Ubi omnibus, quae virum civemque bonum decent, officiis satisfecisset, Paulatim se a publicis consiliis in otium recipiens, Inter literarum amoenitates, Inter ante-actae vitae baud insuaves recordationes, Inter amicorum convictus et amplexus, Honorifice consenuit; Et bonis omnibus, quibus charissimus vixit, Desideratissimus obiit. Hie, juxta cineres avi, suos condi voluit, et curavit Gulielmus Bunbury B'ttus, nepos et haeres. PARAPHRASE OF THE ABOVE EPITAPH. BY DR. JOHNSON (b). Thou, who survey'st these walls with curious eye, Pause at the tomb, where Hanmer's ashes lie; His various worth, through vary'd life, attend, And learn his virtues, while thou mourn'st his end. His force of genius burn'd, in early youth, With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth; His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart. Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid, His country call'd him from the studious shade; In life's first bloom his publick toils began, At once commenc'd the senator and man. In bus'ness dext'rous, weighty in debate, Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state; In ev'ry speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, In ev'ry act refulgent virtue glow'd: Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife, To hear his eloquence, and praise his life. Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice, Who hail'd him speaker, with united voice. Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone, When Hanmer fill'd the chair--and Anne the throne! Then, when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, The moderator firmly mild appear'd-- Beheld with love--with veneration heard. This task perform'd--he sought no gainful post, Nor wish'd to glitter, at his country's cost: Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye, With temp'rate zeal and wise anxiety; Nor e'er from virtue's paths was lur'd aside, To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure, or of pride. Her gifts despis'd, corruption blush'd, and fled, And fame pursu'd him, where conviction led. Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest, With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd; To letter'd ease retir'd, and honest mirth, To rural grandeur and domestick worth; Delighted still to please mankind, or mend, The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend. Calm conscience, then, his former life survey'd, And recollected toils endear'd the shade, Till nature call'd him to the gen'ral doom, And virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb. [a] At Hanmer church, in Flintshire. [b] This paraphrase is inserted in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. The Latin is there said to be written by Dr. Freind. Of the person whose memory it celebrates, a copious account may be seen in the appendix to the supplement to the Biographia Britannica. TO MISS HICKMAN[a], PLAYING ON THE SPINET. Bright Stella, form'd for universal reign, Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain; When in your eyes resistless lightnings play, Aw'd into love our conquer'd hearts obey, And yield reluctant to despotick sway: But, when your musick sooths the raging pain, We bid propitious heav'n prolong your reign, We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain. When old Timotheus struck the vocal string, Ambition's fury fir'd the Grecian king: Unbounded projects lab'ring in his mind, He pants for room, in one poor world confin'd. Thus wak'd to rage, by musick's dreadful pow'r, He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour. Had Stella's gentle touches mov'd the lyre, Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire; No more delighted with destructive war, Ambitious only now to please the fair, Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms, And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms. [a] These lines, which have been communicated by Dr. Turton, son to Mrs. Turton, the lady to whom they are addressed by her maiden name of Hickman, must have been written, at least, as early as 1734, as that was the year of her marriage: at how much earlier a period of Dr. Johnson's life they might have been written, is not known. PARAPHRASE OF PROVERBS, CHAP. VI. VERSES 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. _"Go to the ant, thou sluggard[a]_." Turn on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes, Observe her labours, sluggard, and be wise: No stern command, no monitory voice, Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice; Yet, timely provident, she hastes away, To snatch the blessings of the plenteous day; When fruitful summer loads the teeming plain, She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain. How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy pow'rs; While artful shades thy downy couch inclose, And soft solicitation courts repose? Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight, Year chases year with unremitted flight, Till want now following, fraudulent and slow, Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe. [a] First printed in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. HORACE, LIB. IV. ODE VII. TRANSLATED. The snow, dissolv'd, no more is seen, The fields and woods, behold! are green; The changing year renews the plain, The rivers know their banks again; The sprightly nymph and naked grace The mazy dance together trace; The changing year's successive plan Proclaims mortality to man; Rough winter's blasts to spring give way, Spring yields to summer's sov'reign ray; Then summer sinks in autumn's reign, And winter chills the world again; Her losses soon the moon supplies, But wretched man, when once he lies Where Priam and his sons are laid, Is nought but ashes and a shade. Who knows if Jove, who counts our score, Will toss us in a morning more? What with your friend you nobly share, At least you rescue from your heir. Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome, When Minos once has fixed your doom, Or eloquence, or splendid birth, Or virtue, shall restore to earth. Hippolytus, unjustly slain, Diana calls to life in vain; Nor can the might of Theseus rend The chains of hell that hold his friend. Nov. 1784. The following translations, parodies, and burlesque verses, most of them extempore, are taken from Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, published by Mrs. Piozzi. ANACREON, ODE IX. Lovely courier of the sky, Whence and whither dost thou fly? Scatt'ring, as thy pinions play, Liquid fragrance all the way: Is it business? is it love? Tell me, tell me, gentle dove. Soft Anacreon's vows I bear, Vows to Myrtale the fair; Grac'd with all that charms the heart, Blushing nature, smiling art. Venus, courted by an ode, On the bard her dove bestow'd: Vested with a master's right, Now Anacreon rules my flight; His the letters that you see, Weighty charge, consign'd to me: Think not yet my service hard, Joyless task without reward; Smiling at my master's gates, Freedom my return awaits; But the lib'ral grant in vain Tempts me to be wild again. Can a prudent dove decline Blissful bondage such as mine? Over hills and fields to roam, Fortune's guest without a home; Under leaves to hide one's head Slightly shelter'd, coarsely fed: Now my better lot bestows Sweet repast and soft repose; Now the gen'rous bowl I sip, As it leaves Anacreon's lip: Void of care, and free from dread, From his fingers snatch his bread; Then, with luscious plenty gay, Round his chamber dance and play; Or from wine, as courage springs, O'er his face extend my wings; And when feast and frolick tire, Drop asleep upon his lyre. This is all, be quick and go, More than all thou canst not know; Let me now my pinions ply, I have chatter'd like a pie. LINES WRITTEN IN RIDICULE OF CERTAIN POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1777. Wheresor'er I turn my view, All is strange, yet nothing new; Endless labour all along, Endless labour to be wrong; Phrase that time hath flung away, Uncouth words in disarray, Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet, Ode, and elegy, and sonnet. PARODY OF A TRANSLATION. FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. Err shall they not, who resolute explore Times gloomy backward with judicious eyes; And, scanning right the practices of yore, Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise. They to the dome, where smoke, with curling play, Announc'd the dinner to the regions round, Summon'd the singer blithe, and harper gay, And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound. The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill, By quiv'ring string or modulated wind; Trumpet or lyre--to their harsh bosoms chill Admission ne'er had sought, or could not find. Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun, Her baleful eyes where sorrow rolls around; Where gloom-enamour'd mischief loves to dwell, And murder, all blood-bolter'd, schemes the wound. When cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish, And purple nectar glads the festive hour; The guest, without a want, without a wish, Can yield no room to musick's soothing pow'r. TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES, V. 196[a] The rites deriv'd from ancient days, With thoughtless reverence we praise; The rites that taught us to combine The joys of musick and of wine, And bade the feast, and song, and bowl O'erfill the saturated soul: But ne'er the flute or lyre applied To cheer despair, or soften pride; Nor call'd them to the gloomy cells Where want repines and vengeance swells; Where hate sits musing to betray, And murder meditates his prey. To dens of guilt and shades of care, Ye sons of melody repair, Nor deign the festive dome to cloy With superfluities of joy. Ah! little needs the minstrel's power To speed the light convivial hour. The board, with varied plenty crown'd, May spare the luxuries of sound[b]. [a] The classical reader will, doubtless, be pleased to see the exquisite original in immediate comparison with this translation; we, therefore, subjoin it, and also Dr. J. Warton's imitation of the same passage. [Greek:] skaious de legon kouden ti sophous tous prosthe brotous, ouk an amartois oitines umnous epi men thaliais, epi d'eilapinais kai para deipnois euronto biou terpnas akoas stugious de broton oudeis pulas eureto mousae kai poluchordois odais pauein, exon thanatoi deinai te tuchai sphallonsi domous kaitoi tade men kerdos akeisthai molpaisi brotous ina d'endeipnoi daites ti mataen teinousi boan to paron gar echei terpsin aph auton daitos plaeroma brotaoisin MEDEA, 193--206. ED. PORS Queen of every moving measure, Sweetest source of purest pleasure, Music! why thy pow'rs employ Only for the sons of joy; Only for the smiling guests, At natal or at nuptial feasts? Rather thy lenient numbers pour On those, whom secret griefs devour, Bid be still the throbbing hearts Of those whom death or absence parts, And, with some softly whisper'd air, Sooth the brow of dumb despair. [b] This translation was written by Johnson for his friend Dr. Burney, and was inserted, as the work of "a learned friend," in that gentleman's History of Musick, vol. ii. p. 340. It has always been ascribed to Johnson; but, to put the matter beyond a doubt, Mr. Malone ascertained the fact by applying to Dr. Burney himself. J. B. TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST TWO STANZAS OF THE SONG "RIO VERDE, RIO VERDE," PRINTED IN BISHOP PERCY'S RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY. AN IMPROMPTU. Glassy water, glassy water, Down whose current, clear and strong, Chiefs confused in mutual slaughter, Moor and Christian roll along. IMITATION OF THE STYLE OF ****. Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's ev'ning grey, Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way. Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, Scarce repress'd the starting tear, When the hoary sage reply'd, Come, my lad, and drink some beer. BURLESQUE OF THE FOLLOWING LINES OF LOPEZ DE VEGA. AN IMPROMPTU. Se a quien los leones vence Vence una muger hermosa, O el de flaco avergonze, O ella di ser mas furiosa. If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof, that he had rather Have a turnip than his father. TRANSLATION OF THE FOLLOWING LINES AT THE END OF BARETTI'S EASY PHRASEOLOGY. AN IMPROMPTU. Viva, viva la padrona! Tutta bella, e tutta buona, La padrona è un' angiolella Tutta buona e tutta bella; Tutta bella e tutta buona; Viva! viva la padrona! Long may live my lovely Hetty! Always young, and always pretty; Always pretty, always young, Live, my lovely Hetty, long! Always young, and always pretty, Long may live my lovely Hetty! IMPROVISO TRANSLATION OF THE FOLLOWING DISTICH ON THE DUKE OF MODENA'S RUNNING AWAY FROM THE COMET IN 1742 OR 1743. Se al venir vostro i principi sen' vanno Deh venga ogni di--durate un' anno. If at your coming princes disappear, Comets! come every day--and stay a year. IMPROVISO TRANSLATION OF THE FOLLOWING LINES OF M. BENSERADE A SON LIT. Theatre des ris, et des pleurs, Lit! où je nais, et où je meurs, Tu nous fais voir comment voisins Sont nos plaisirs, et nos chagrins. In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And, born in bed, in bed we die; The near approach a bed may show Of human bliss to human woe. EPITAPH FOR MR. HOGARTH. The hand of him here torpid lies, That drew th' essential form of grace; Here clos'd in death th' attentive eyes, That saw the manners in the face. TRANSLATION OF THE FOLLOWING LINES, WRITTEN UNDER A PRINT REPRESENTING PERSONS SKATING. Sur un mince cristal l'hiver conduit leurs pas, Le précipice est sous la glace: Telle est de nos plaisirs la légère surface: Glissez, mortels; n'appuyez pas. O'er ice the rapid skater flies, With sport above, and death below; Where mischief lurks in gay disguise, Thus lightly touch and quickly go. IMPROMPTU TRANSLATION OF THE SAME. O'er crackling ice, o'er gulfs profound, With nimble glide the skaters play; O'er treach'rous pleasure's flow'ry ground Thus lightly skim, and haste away. TO MRS. THRALE, ON HER COMPLETING HER THIRTY-FIFTH YEAR. AN IMPROMPTU. Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five! Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never drive O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar, and deep to dive, Nature gives at thirty-five. Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five; For, howe'er we boast and strive. Life declines from thirty-five. He that ever hopes to thrive Must begin by thirty-five; And all, who wisely wish to wive, Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. IMPROMPTU TRANSLATION OF AN AIR IN THE CLEMENZA DI TITO OF METASTASIO, BEGINNING "DEH SE PIACERMI VUOI." Would you hope to gain my heart, Bid your teasing doubts depart; He, who blindly trusts, will find Faith from ev'ry gen'rous mind: He, who still expects deceit, Only teaches how to cheat. TRANSLATION OF A SPEECH OF AQUILEIO, IN THE ADRIANO OF METASTASIO, BEGINNING "TU CHE IN CORTE INVECCHIASTI[a]." Grown old in courts, thou surely art not one Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour; Well skill'd to sooth a foe with looks of kindness, To sink the fatal precipice before him, And then lament his fall, with seeming friendship: Open to all, true only to thyself, Thou know'st those arts, which blast with envious praise, Which aggravate a fault, with feign'd excuses, And drive discountenanc'd virtue from the throne; That leave the blame of rigour to the prince, And of his ev'ry gift usurp the merit; That hide, in seeming zeal, a wicked purpose, And only build upon another's ruin. [a] The character of Cali, in Irene, is a masterly sketch of the old and practised dissembler of a despotic court,--ED. BURLESQUE OF THE MODERN VERSIFICATIONS OF ANCIENT LEGENDARY TALES. AN IMPROMPTU. The tender infant, meek and mild, Fell down upon the stone: The nurse took up the squealing child, But still the child squeal'd on. FRIENDSHIP; AN ODE[a]. Friendship, peculiar boon of heaven, The noble mind's delight and pride, To men and angels only given, To all the lower world deny'd. While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires[b], The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires[c]; With bright, but oft destructive, gleam, Alike, o'er all his lightnings fly; Thy lambent glories only beam Around the fav'rites of the sky. Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs[d], And hugs a flatt'rer for a friend. Directress of the brave and just[e], O! guide us through life's darksome way! And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey. Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow[f], When souls to blissful climes remove: What rais'd our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above. [a] This ode originally appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1743. See Boswell's Life of Johnson, under that year. It was afterwards printed in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies, in 1766, with several variations, which are pointed out, below.--J.B. [b] Parent of rage and hot desires.--Mrs. W. [c] Inflames alike with equal fires. [d] In vain for thee the _monarch_ sighs. [e] This stanza is omitted in Mrs. William's Miscellanies, and instead of it, we have the following, which may be suspected, from internal evidence, not to have been Johnson's: When virtues, kindred virtues meet, And sister-souls together join, Thy pleasures permanent, as great, Are all transporting--all divine. [f] O! shall thy flames then cease to glow. ON SEEING A BUST OF MRS. MONTAGUE. Had this fair figure, which this frame displays, Adorn'd in Roman time the brightest days, In every dome, in every sacred place, Her statue would have breath'd an added grace, And on its basis would have been enroll'd, "This is Minerva, cast in virtue's mould." IMPROVISO ON A YOUNG HEIR'S COMING OF AGE Long expected one-and-twenty, Ling'ring year, at length is flown; Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great----, are now your own. Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell; Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell. Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir. All that prey on vice or folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester light and jolly, There the lender grave and sly. Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come, and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high-- What are acres? what are houses? Only dirt, or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend, or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste; Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother, You can hang or drown at last. EPITAPHS. AT LICHFIELD. H. S. E. MICHAEL JOHNSON, VIR impavidus, constans, animosus, periculorum immemor, laborum patientissimus; fiducia christiana fortis, fervidusque; paterfamilias apprime strenuus; bibliopola admodum peritus; mente et libris et negotiis exculta; animo ita firmo, ut, rebus adversis diu conflictatus, nec sibi nec suis defuerit; lingua sic temperata, ut ei nihil quod aures vel pias vel castas laesisset, aut dolor vel voluptas unquam expresserit. Natus Cubleiae, in agro Derbiensi, anno MDCLVI; obijt MDCCXXXI. Apposita est SARA, conjux, Antiqua FORDORUM gente oriunda; quam domi sedulam, foris paucis notam; nulli molestam, mentis acumine et judicii subtilitate praecellentem; aliis multum, sibi parum indulgentem: aeternitati semper attentam, omne fere virtutis nomen commendavit. Nata Nortoniae Regis, in agro Varvicensi, anno MDCLXIX; obijt MDCCLIX. Cum NATHANAELE, illorum filio, qui natus MDCCXII. cum vires et animi et corporis multa pollicerentur, anno MDCCXXXVII. vitam brevem pia morte finivit. IN BROMLEY CHURCH. HIC conduntur reliquae ELIZABETHAE Antiqua JARVISIORUM gente Peatlingae, apud Leicestrenses, ortae; Formosae, cultae, ingeniosae, piae; Uxoris, primis nuptiis, HENRICI PORTER, secundis, SAMUELIS JOHNSON, Qui multum amatam, diuque defletam, Hoc lapide contexit. Obijt Londini, mense Mart. A. D. MDCCLIII. IN WATFORD CHURCH. In the vault below are deposited the remains of JANE BELL[a], wife of JOHN BELL, esq. who, in the fifty-third year of her age, surrounded with many worldly blessings, heard, with fortitude and composure truly great, the horrible malady, which had, for some time, begun to afflict her, pronounced incurable; and for more than three years, endured with patience, and concealed with decency, the daily tortures of gradual death; continued to divide the hours not allotted to devotion, between the cares of her family, and the converse of her friends; rewarded the attendance of duty, and acknowledged the offices of affection; and, while she endeavoured to alleviate by cheerfulness her husband's sufferings and sorrows, increased them by her gratitude for his care, and her solicitude for his quiet. To the testimony of these virtues, more highly honoured, as more familiarly known, this monument is erected by JOHN BELL. [a] She died in October, 1771. IN STRETHAM CHURCH. Juxta sepulta est HESTERA MARIA, Thomae Cotton de Combermere, baronetti Cestriensis, filia, Johannis Salusbury, armigeri Flintiensis, uxor, Forma felix, felix ingenio; Omnibus jucunda, suorum amantissima. Linguis artibusque ita exeulta, Ut loquenti nunquam deessent Sermonis nitor, sententiarum flosculi, Sapientiae gravitas, leporum gratia: Modum servandi adeo perita, Ut domestica inter negotia literis oblectaretur; Literarum inter delicias, rem familiarem sedulo curaret. Multis illi multos annos precantibus diri carcinomatis venene contabuit, nexibusque vitae paulatim resolutis, e terris, meliora sperans, emigravit. Nata 1707. Nupta 1739. Obijt 1773. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. OLIVARII GOLDSMITH, Poetae, Physici, Historici, Qui nullum fere scribendi genus Non tetigit, Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: Sive risus essent movendi, Sive lacrimae, Affectuum potens, at lenis, dominator: Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis, Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus: Hoc monumento memoriam coluit Sodalium amor, Amicorum fides, Lectorum veneratio. Elfiniae, in Hibernia, natus MDCCXXIX. Eblauae literis institutus: Londini obijt MDCCLXXIV [a]. [a] This is the epitaph, that drew from Gibbon, sir J. Reynolds, Sheridan, Joseph Warton, &c. the celebrated _Round Robin_, composed by Burke, intreating Johnson to write an English epitaph on an English author. His reply was, in the genuine spirit of an old scholar, "he would never consent to disgrace the walls of Westminster abbey with an English inscription." One of his arguments, in favour of a common learned language, was ludicrously cogent: "Consider, sir, how you should feel, were you to find, at Rotterdam, an epitaph, upon Erasmus, _in Dutch_!" Boswell, iii. He would, however, undoubtedly have written a better epitaph in English, than in Latin. His compositions in that language are not of first rate excellence, either in prose or verse. The epitaph, in Stretham church, on Mr. Thrale, abounds with inaccuracies; and those who are fond of detecting little blunders in great men, may be amply gratified in the perusal of a review of Thrale's epitaph in the Classical Journal, xii. 6. His Greek epitaph on Goldsmith, is not remarkable in itself, but we will subjoin it, in this place, as a literary curiosity. [Greek:] Thon taphon eisoraas thon OLIBARIOIO, koniaen Aphrosi mae semnaen, xeine, podessi patei. Oisi memaele phusis, metron charis, erga palaion, Klaiete poiaetaen, istorikon, phusikon. --ED. IN STRETHAM CHURCH. Hie conditur quod reliquum est HENRICI THRALE, Qui res seu civiles, seu domesticas, ita egit, Ut vitam illi longiorem multi optarent; Ita sacras, Ut quam brevem esset habiturus praescire videretur; Simplex, apertus, sibique semper similis, Nihil ostentavit aut arte fictum, aut cura elaboratum. In senatu, regi patriaeque Fideliter studuit, Vulgi obstrepentis contemptor animosus; Domi, inter mille mercaturae negotia, Literarum elegantiam minime neglexit. Amicis, quocunque modo laborantibus, Consiliis, auctoritate, muneribus, adfuit. Inter familiares, comites, convivas, hospites, Tam facili fuit morum suavitate Ut omnium animos ad se alliceret; Tam felici sermonis libertate, Ut nulli adulatus, omnibus placeret. Natus 1724. Obijt 1781. Consortes tumuli habet Rodolphum, patrem, strenuum fortemque virum, et Henricum, filium unicum, quem spei parentum mors inopiua decennem proripuit. Ita Domus felix et opulenta quam erexit Avus, auxitque pater, cum nepote decidit. Abi, Viator, Et, vicibus rerum humanarum perspectis, Aeternitatem cogita! POEMATA MESSIA [a]. Ex alieno ingenio poeta, ex suo tantum versificator. SCALIG. Poet. Tollite concentum, Solymaeae tollite nymphae, Nil mortale loquor; coelum mihi carminis alta Materies; poscunt gravius coelestia plectrum. Muscosi fontes, sylvestria tecta, valete, Aonidesque deae, et mendacis somnia Pindi: Tu, mihi, qui flamma movisti pectora sancti Siderea Isaiae, dignos accende furores! Immatura calens rapitur per secula vates Sic orsus--Qualis rerum mihi nascitur ordo! Virgo! virgo parit! Felix radicibus arbor Jessaeis surgit, mulcentesque sethera flores Coelestes lambunt animae, ramisque columba, Nuncia sacra Dei, plaudentibus insidet alis. Nectareos rores, alimentaque mitia coelum Praebeat, et tacite foecundos irriget imbres. Hue, foedat quos lepra, urit quos febris, adeste, Dia salutares spirant medicamina rami; Hic requies fessis: non sacra sacvit in umbra Vis boreae gelida, aut rapidi violeutia solis. Irrita vanescent priscae vestigia fraudis, Justitiaeque manus, pretio intemerata, bilancem Attollet reducis; bellis praetendet olivas Compositis pax alma suas, terrasque revisens Sedatas niveo virtus lucebit amictu.-- Volvantur celeres anni! lux purpuret ortum Expectata diu! naturae claustra refringens, Nascere, magne puer! tibi primas, ecce, corollas Deproperat tellus, fundit tibi munera, quicquid Carpit Arabs, hortis quicquid frondescit Eois; Altius, en! Lebanon gaudentia culmina tollit; En! summo exultant nutantes vertice sylvae: Mittit aromaticas vallis Saronica nubes, Et juga Carmeli recreant fragrantia coelum. Deserti laeta mollescunt aspera voce: Auditur Deus! ecce Deus! reboantia circum Saxa sonant, Deus! ecce Deus! deflectitur aether, Demissumque Deum tellus capit; ardua cedrus, Gloria sylvarum, dominum inclinata salutet: Surgite convalles, tumidi subsidite montes! Sternite saxa viam, rapidi discedite fluctus; En! quem turba diu cecinerunt enthea, vates, En! salvator adest; vultus agnoscite, caeci, Divinos, surdos sacra vox permulceat aures. Ille cutim spissam visus hebetare vetabit, Reclusisque oculis infundet amabile lumen; Obstrictasque diu linguas in carmina solvet. Ille vias vocis pandet, flexusque liquentis Harmoniae purgata novos mirabitur auris. Accrescunt teneris tactu nova robora nervis: Consuetus fulcro innixus reptare bacilli Nunc saltu capreas, nunc cursu provocat euros. Non planctus, non moesta sonant suspiria; pectus Singultans mulcet, lachrymantes tergit ocellos. Vincla coercebunt luctantem adamantina mortem, Aeternoque orci dominator vuluere languens Invalidi raptos sceptri plorabit honores. Ut, qua dulce strepunt scatebrse, qua lasta virescunt Pascua, qua blandum spirat purissimus aer, Pastor agit pecudes, teneros modo suscipit agnos, Et gremio fotis selectas porrigit herbas, Amissas modo quserit oves, revocatque vagantes; Fidus adest custos, seu nox furat humida nimbis, Sive dies medius morieutia torreat arva. Postera sic pastor divinus secla beabit, Et curas felix patrias testabitur orbis. Non ultra infestis concurrent agmina signis, Hostiles oculis flammas jaculantia torvis; Non litui accendent bellum, non campus ahenis Triste coruscabit radiis; dabit hasta recusa Vomerem, et in falcem rigidus curvabitur ensis. Atria, pacis opus, surgent, finemque caduci Natus ad optatum perducet coepta parentis. Qui duxit sulcos, illi teret area messem, Et serae texent vites umbracula proli. Attoniti dumeta vident inculta coloni Suave rubere rosis, sitientesque inter arenas Garrula mirantur salientis murmura rivi. Per saxa, ignivomi nuper spelaea draconis, Canna viret, juncique tremit variabilis umbra. Horruit implexo qua vallis sente, figurae Surgit amans abies teretis, buxique sequaces Artificis frondent dextrae; palmisque rubeta Aspera, odoratae cedunt mala gramiua myrto. Per valles sociata lupo lasciviet agna, Cumque leone petet tutus praesepe juvencus. Florea mansuetae petulantes vincula tigri Per ludum pueri injicient, et fessa colubri Membra viatoris recreabunt frigore linguae. Serpentes teneris nil jam lethale micantes Tractabit palmis infans, motusque trisulcae Bidebit linguae innocuos, squamasque virentes Aureaque admirans rutilantis fulgura cristae. Indue reginam, turritae frontis honores Tolle Salema sacros, quam circum gloria pennas Explicat, incinctam radiatae luce tiaras! En! formosa tibi spatiosa per atria proles Ordinibus surgit densis, vitamque requirit Impatiens, lenteque fluentes increpat annos. Ecce peregrinis fervent tua limina turbis; Barbarus, en! clarum divino lumine templum Ingreditur, cultuque tuo mansuescere gaudet. Cinnameos cumulos, Nabathaei munera veris, Ecce! cremant genibus tritae regalibus arae. Solis Ophyraeis crudum tibi montibus aurum Maturant radii; tibi balsama sudat Idume. Aetheris en! portas sacro fulgore micantes Coelicolae pandunt, torrentis aurea lucis Flumina prorumpunt; non posthac sole rubescet India nascenti, placidaeve argentea noctis Luna vices revehet; radios pater ipse diei Proferet archetypos; coelestis gaudia lucis Ipso fonte bibes, quae circumfusa beatam Regiam inundabit, nullis cessura tenebris. Littora deficiens arentia deseret aequor; Sidera fumabunt, diro labefaeta tremore Saxa cadent, solidique liquescent robora montis: Tu secura tamen confusa elementa videbis, Laetaque Messia semper dominabere rege, Pollicitis firmata Dei, stabilita ruinis. [a] This translation has been severely criticised by Dr. Warton, in his edition of Pope, vol. i. p. 105, 8vo. 1797. It certainly contains some expressions that are not classical. Let it be remembered, however, that it was a college exercise, performed with great rapidity, and was, at first, praised, beyond all suspicion of defect--This translation was first published in a Miscellany of Poems by several hands. Published by J. Husbands, A.M. fellow of Pembroke college, Oxon. 8vo. Oxford, 1731. Of Johnson's production, Mr. Husbands says, in his preface, "The translation of Mr. Pope's Messiah was delivered to his tutor as a college exercise, by Mr. Johnson, a commoner of Pembroke college in Oxford, and 'tis hoped will be no discredit to the excellent original." Mr. Husbands died in the following year. [Jan. 20, 21, 1773.] Vitae qui varias vices Rerum perpetuus temperat arbiter, Laeto cedere lumini Noctis tristitiam qui gelidae jubet, Acri sanguine turgidos, Obductosque oculos nubibus humidis Sanari voluit meos; Et me, cuncta beaus cui nocuit dies, Luci reddidit et mihi. Qua te laude, Deus, qua prece prosequar? Sacri discipulis libri Te semper studiis utilibus colam: Grates, summe pater, tuis Recte qui fruitur muneribus, dedit. [Dec. 25, 1779.] Nunc dies Christo memoranda nato Fulsit, in pectus mihi fonte purum Gaudium sacro fluat, et benigni Gratia coeli! Christe, da tutam trepido quietem, Christe, spem praesta stabilem timenti; Da fidem certam, precibusque fidis Annue, Christe. [In lecto, die passionis, Apr. 13, 1781.] Summe Deus, qui semper amas quodcunque creasti; Judice quo, scelerum est poenituisse salus: Da veteres noxas animo sic flere novato, Per Christum ut veniam sit reperire mihi. [In lecto, Dec. 25, 1782.] Spe non inani confugis, Peccator, ad latus meum; Quod poscis, hand unquam tibi Negabitur solatium. (Nocte, inter 16 et 17 Junii, 1783[a]) Summe pater, quodcunque tuum[b] de corpore Numen[c] Hoc statuat[d], precibus[e] Christus adesse velit: Ingenio parcas, nee sit mihi culpa rogasse[f], Qua solum potero parte, placere[g] tibi. [a] The night, above referred to by Dr. Johnson, was that, in which a paralytic stroke had deprived him of his voice; and, in the anxiety he felt, lest it should, likewise, have impaired his understanding, he composed the above lines, and said, concerning them, that he knew, at the time, that they were not good, but then, that he deemed his discerning this to be sufficient for quieting the anxiety before mentioned, as it showed him, that his power of judging was not diminished. [b] Al. tuae. [c] Al. leges. [d] Al. statuant. [e] Al. votis. [f] Al. precari. [g] Al. litare. [Cal. Jan. in lecto, ante lucem, 1784.] Summe dator vitae, naturae aeterne magister, Causarum series quo moderante fluit, Respice quem subiget senium, morbique seniles, Quem terret vitae meta propinqua suae, Respice inutiliter lapsi quem poenitet aevi; Recte ut poeniteat, respice, magne parens. Pater benigne, summa semper lenitas, Crimine gravatam plurimo mentem leva: Concede veram poenitentiam, precor, Concede agendam legibus vitam tuis. Sacri vagantes luminis gressus face Rege, et tuere; quae nocent pellens procul: Veniam petenti, summe, da veniam, pater; Veniaeque sancta pacis adde gaudia: Sceleris ut expers, omni et vacuus metu, Te, mente pura, mente tranquilla colam, Mihi dona morte haec impetret Christus sua. [Jan. 18, 1784.] Summe pater, puro collustra lumine pectus, Anxietas noceat ne tenebrosa mihi. In me sparsa manu virtutum semina larga Sic ale, proveniat messis ut ampla boni. Noctes atque dies animo spes laeta recurset; Certa mihi sancto flagret amore fides; Certa vetat dubitare fides, spes laeta timere; Velle vetet cuiquam non bene sanctus amor. Da, ne sint permissa, pater, mihi praemia frustra, Et colere, et leges semper amare tuas. Haec mihi, quo gentes, quo secula, Christe, piasti, Sanguine, precanti promereare tuo! [Feb. 27, 1784.] Mens mea, quid quereris? veniet tibi mollior hora, In summo ut videas numine laeta patrem; Divinam insontes iram placavit Iesus; Nunc est pro poena poenituisse reis. CHRISTIANUS PERFECTUS. Qui cupit in sanctos, Christo cogente, referri, Abstergat mundi labem, nec gaudia carnis Captans, nec fastu tumidus, semperque futuro Instet, et evellens terroris spicula corde, Suspiciat tandem clementem in numine patrem. Huic quoque, nec genti nec sectae noxius ulli, Sit sacer orbis amor, miseris qui semper adesse Gestiat, et, nullo pietatis limite clausus, Cunctorum ignoscat vitiis, pictate fruatur. Ardeat huic toto sacer ignis pectore, possit Ut vitam, poscat si res, impendere vero. Cura placere Deo sit prima, sit ultima; sanctae Irruptum vitae cupiat servare tenorem; Et sibi, delirans quanquam et peccator in horas Displiceat, servet tutum sub pectore rectum: Nec natet, et nunc has partes, nunc eligat illas, Nec dubitet quem dicat herum, sed, totus in uno, Se fidum addicat Christo, mortalia temnens. Sed timeat semper, caveatque ante omnia, turbae Ne stolidae similis, leges sibi segreget audax Quas servare velit, leges quas lentus omittat, Plenum opus effugiens, aptans juga mollia collo, Sponte sua demens; nihilum decedere summae Vult Deus, at qui cuncta dedit tibi, cuncta reposcit. Denique perpetuo contendit in ardua nisu, Auxilioque Dei fretus, jam mente serena Pergit, et imperiis sentit se dulcibus actum. Paulatim mores, animum, vitamque refingit, Effigiemque Dei, quantum servare licebit, Induit, et, terris major, coelestia spirat. Aeterne rerum conditor, Salutis aeternae dator; Felicitatis sedibus Qui nec scelestos exigis, Quoscumque scelerum poenitet; Da, Christe, poenitentiam, Veniamque, Christe, da mihi; Aegrum trahenti spiritum Succurre praesens corpori; Multo gravatam crimine Mentem benignus alleva. Luce collustret mihi pectus alma, Pellat et tristes animi tenebras, Nec sinat semper tremere ac dolere, Gratia Christi. Me pater tandem reducem benigno Summus amplexu foveat, beato Me gregi sanctus socium beatum Spiritus addat. JEJUNIUM ET CIBUS. Serviat ut menti corpus jejunia serva, Ut mens utatur corpore, sume cibos. AD URBANUM[a], 1738. Urbane, nullis fesse laboribus, Urbane, nullis victe calumniis, Cui fronte sertum in erudita Perpetuo viret, et virebit; Quid moliatur gens imitantium, Quid et minetur, solicitus parum, Vacare solis perge musis, Juxta animo, studiisque foelix. Linguae procacis plumbea spicula, Fidens, superbo frange silentio; Victrix per obstantes catervas Sedulitas animosa tendet. Intende nervos fortis, inanibus Risurus olim nisibus emuli; Intende jam nervos, habebis Participes opera Camoenas. Non ulla musis pagina gratior, Quam quae severis ludicra jungere Novit, fatigatamque nugis Utilibus recreare mentem. Texente nymphis serta Lycoride, Rosae ruborem sic viola adjuvat Immista, sic Iris refulget Aethereis variata fucis. [a] See Gent. Mag. vol. viii. p. 156; and see also the Introduction to vol. liv. IN RIVUM A MOLA STOANA LICHFELDIAE DIFFLUENTEM. Errat adhuc vitreus per prata virentia rivus, Quo toties lavi membra tenella puer; Hic delusa rudi frustrabar brachia motu, Dum docuit, blanda voce, natare pater. Fecerunt rami latebras, tenebrisque diurnis Pendula secretas abdidit arbor aquas. Nunc veteres duris periere securibus umbrae, Longinquisque oculis nuda lavacra patent. Lympha, tamen, cursus agit indefessa perennis, Tectaque qua fluxit, nunc et aperta fluit. Quid ferat externi velox, quid deterat aetas, Tu quoque securus res age, Nise, tuas. [Greek: GNOTHI SEAUTON][a] [Post Lexicon Anglicanum auctum et emendatum.] Lexicon ad finem longo luctamine tandem Scaliger ut duxit, tenuis pertaesus opellae, Vile indignatus studium, nugasque molestas Ingemit exosus, scribendaque lexica mandat Damnatis, poenam pro poenis omnibus unam. Ille quidem recte, sublimis, doctus et acer, Quem decuit majora sequi, majoribus aptum, Qui veterum modo facta ducum, modo carmina vatum, Gesserat, et quicquid virtus, sapientia quicquid Dixerat, imperiique vices, coelique meatus, Ingentemque animo seclorum volveret orbem. Fallimur exemplis; temere sibi turba scholarum Ima tuas credit permitti, Scaliger, iras. Quisque suum norit modulum; tibi, prime virorum, Ut studiis sperem, aut ausim par esse querelis, Non mihi sorte datum; lenti seu sanguinis obsint Frigora, seu nimium longo jacuisse veterno, Sive mihi mentem dederit natura minorem. Te sterili functum cura, vocumque salebris Tuto eluctatum, spatiis sapientia dia Excipit aethereis, ars omnis plaudit amico, Linguarumque omni terra discordia concors Multiplici reducem circumsonat ore magistrum. Me, pensi immunis cum jam mihi reddor, inertis Desidiae sors dura manet, graviorque labore Tristis et atra quies, et tardae taedia vitae. Nascuntur curis curae, vexatque dolorum Importuna cohors, vacuae mala somnia mentis. Nunc clamosa juvant nocturnae gaudia mensae, Nunc loca sola placent; frustra te, somne, recumbens, Alme voco, impatiens noctis, metuensque diei. Omnia percurro trepidus, circum omnia lustro, Si qua usquam pateat melioris semita vitae, Nec quid again invenio; meditatus grandia, cogor Notior ipse mihi fieri, incultumque fateri Pectus, et ingenium vano se robore jactans. Ingenium, nisi materiem doctrina ministrat, Cessat inops rerum, ut torpet, si marmoris absit Copia, Phidiaci foecunda potentia coeli. Quicquid agam, quocunque ferar, conatibus obstat Res angusta domi, et macrae penuria mentis. Non rationis opes animus, nunc parta recensens Conspicit aggestas, et se miratur in illis, Nec sibi de gaza praesens quod postulat usus Summus adesse jubet celsa dominator ab arce; Non, operum serie seriem dum computat aevi, Praeteritis fruitur, laetos aut sumit honores Ipse sui judex, actae bene munera vitae; Sed sua regna videns, loca nocte silentia late Horret, ubi vanae species, umbraeque fugaces, Et rerum volitant rarae per inane figurae. Quid faciam? tenebrisne pigram damnare senectam Restat? an accingar studiis gravioribus audax? Aut, hoc si nimium est, tandem nova lexica poscam? [a] For a translation of this poem, see Murphy's Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson, prefixed to the present volume. AD THOMAM LAURENCE, MEDICUM DOCTISSIMUM, Cum filium peregre agentem desiderio nimis tristi prosequeretur. Fateris ergo, quod populus solet Crepare vecors, nil sapientiam Prodesse vitae, literasque In dubiis dare terga rebus. Tu, queis laborat sors hominum, mala Nec vincis acer, nee pateris pius; Te mille succorum potentem Destituit medicina mentis. Per caeca noctis taedia turbidae, Pigrae per horas lucis inutiles, Torpesque, languescisque, curis Solicitus nimis heu! paternis. Tandem dolori plus satis est datum, Exsurge fortis, nunc animis opus, Te, docta, Laurenti, vetustas, Te medici revocant labores. Permitte summo quicquid habes patri, Permitte fidens; et muliebribus, Amice, majorem querelis Redde tuis, tibi redde, mentem. IN THEATRO, MARCH 8, 1771. Tertii verso quater orbe lustri, Quid theatrales tibi, Crispe, pompae? Quam decet canos male litteratos Sera voluptas! Tene mulceri fidibus canoris? Tene cantorum modulis stupere? Tene per pictas, oculo elegante, Currere formas? Inter aequales, sine felle liber, Codices, veri studiosus, inter Rectius vives. Sua quisque carpat Gaudia gratus. Lusibus gaudet puer otiosis, Luxus oblectat juvenem theatri, At seni fluxo sapienter uti Tempore restat. INSULA KENNETHI, INTER HEBRIDAS. Parva quidem regio, sed religione priorum Clara, Caledonias panditur inter aquas. Voce ubi Cennethus populos domuisse feroces Dicitur, et vanos dedocuisse deos. Huc ego delatus placido per caerulea cursu, Scire locus volui quid daret iste novi. Illic Leniades humili regnabat in aula, Leniades, magnis nobilitatus avis. Una duas cepit casa cum genitore puellas, Quas amor undarum crederet esse deas. Nec tamen inculti gelidis latuere sub antris, Accola Danubii qualia saevus habet. Mollia non desunt vacuae solatia vitae, Sive libros poscant otia, sive lyram. Fulserat ilia dies, legis qua docta supernae Spes hominum et curas gens procul esse jubet. Ut precibus justas avertat numinis iras, Et summi accendat pectus amore boni. Ponte inter strepitus non sacri munera cultus Cessarunt, pietas hic quoque cura fuit: Nil opus est aeris sacra de turre sonantis Admonitu, ipsa suas nunciat hora vices. Quid, quod sacrifici versavit foemina libros. Sint pro legitimis pura labella sacris-- Quo vagor ulterius? quod ubique requiritur hic est; Hic secura quies, hic et honestus amor. SKIA. Ponti profundis clausa recessibus, Strepens procellis, rupibus obsita, Quam grata defesso virentem, Skia, sinum nebulosa pandis! His cura, credo, sedibus exulat; His blanda certe pax habitat locis; Non ira, non moeror quietis Insidias meditatur horis. At non cavata rupe latescere, Menti nec aegrae montibus aviis Prodest vagari, nec frementes In specula numerare fluctus. Humana virtus non sibi sufficit; Datur nec aequum cuique animum sibi Parare posse, utcunque jactet Grandiloquus nimis alta Zeno. Exaestuantis pectoris impetum, Rex summe, solus tu regis, arbiter; Mentisque, te tollente, fluctus; Te, resident, moderante fluctus. ODE DE SKIA INSULA. Permeo terras, ubi nuda rupes Saxeas miscet nebulis ruinas, Torva ubi rident steriles coloni Rura labores. Pervagor gentes hominum ferorum, Vita ubi nullo decorata cultu Squallet informis, tugurique fumis Foeda latescit. Inter erroris salebrosa longi, Inter ignotae strepitus loquelae, Quot modis, mecum, quid agat, requiro, Thralia dulcis? Seu viri curas pia nupta mulcet, Seu fovet mater sobolem benigna, Sive cum libris novitate pascit Sedula mentem. Sit memor nostri, fideique solvat Fida mercedem, meritoque blandum Thraliae discant resonare nomen Littora Skiae. SPES. Apr. 16, 1783. Hora sic peragit citata cursum; Sic diem sequitur dies fugacem! Spes novas nova lux parit, secunda Spondens omnia credulis homullis; Spes ludit stolidas, metuque caeco Lux angit, miseros ludens homullos. VERSUS COLLARI CAPRAE DOMINI BANKS INSCRIBENDI. Perpetui, ambita bis terra, praemia lactis Haec habet, altrici capra secunda Jovis. AD FOEMINAM QUANDAM GENEROSAM QUAE LIBERTATIS CAUSAE IN SERMONE PATROCINATA FUERAT. Liber ut esse velim, suasisti, pulchra Maria: Ut maneam liber, pulchra Maria, vale. JACTURA TEMPORIS. Hora perit furtim laetis, mens temporis aegra Pigritiam incusat, nec minus hora perit. Quas navis recipit, quantum sit pondus aquarum, Dimidrum tanti ponderis intret onus. Quot vox missa pedes abit, horae parte secunda? Undecies centum denos quater adde duosque. [Greek: Eis BIRCHION][a] [Greek:] Eiden Alaetheiae proaen chairousa graphonta Haeroon te bious Birchion, aede sophon Kai bion, eipen, hotan rhipsaes thanatoio belessi, Sou pote grapsomenon Birchion allon echois. [a] The rev. Dr. Thomas Birch, author of the History of the Royal Society, and other works of note. [Greek:] Eis to taes ELISSAES peri ton oneiron ainigma.[a] Tae kallous dunamei ti telos; Zeus panta dedoken Kupridi, und' autou skaeptra memaele theo. Aek Dios estin Onap, theios pot' egrapsen Homaeros, Alla tod' eis thnaetous Kupris epempsen onar Zeus mounos phlogoenti poleis ekperse kerauno, Ommasi lampra Dios Kupris oista pherei. [a] When Johnson had composed this Greek epigram to Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, he said, in a letter to Cave, "I think she ought to be celebrated in as many different languages as Louis le grand." His admiration of her learning was so great, that when he wished to praise the acquirements of any one excessively, he remarked that, he knew as much Greek almost as Mrs. Carter. The verses in Elizae Aenigma are addressed to the same excellent and accomplished lady. It is now nearly an insult to add, that she translated Epictetus, and contributed Nos. 44 and 100, to the Rambler. See Boswell, i. iii. and iv. and preface to Rambler, ii.--ED. IN ELIZAE AENIGMA. Quis formae modus imperio? Venus arrogat audax Omnia, nec curae sunt sua sceptra Jovi. Ab Jove Maeonides descendere somnia narrat: Haec veniunt Cypriae somnia missa Deae. Jupiter unus erat, qui stravit fulmine gentes; Nunc armant Veneris lumina tela Jovis. [a]O! Qui benignus crimina ignoscis, pater, Facilisque semper confitenti ades reo, Aurem faventem precibus O! praebe meis; Scelerum catena me laborantem grave Aeterna tandem liberet clementia, Ut summa laus sit, summa Christo gloria. Per vitae tenebras rerumque incerta vagantem Numine praesenti me tueare, pater! Me ducat lux sancta, Deus, lux sancta sequatur; Usque regat gressus gratia fida meos. Sic peragam tua jussa libens, accinctus ad omne Mandatum vivam, sic moriarque tibi. Me, pater omnipotens, de puro respice coelo, Quem moestum et timidum crimina dira gravant; Da veniam pacemque mihi, da, mente serena, Ut tibi quae placeant, omnia promptus agam. Solvi, quo Christus cunctis delicta redemit, Et pro me pretium, tu patiare, pater. [a] This and the three following articles are metrical versions of collects in the liturgy; the first, of that, beginning, "O God, whose nature and property"; the second and third of the collects for the seventeenth and twenty-first Sundays after Trinity; and the fourth, of the first collect in the communion service. [Dec. 5, 1784.][a] Summe Deus, cui caeca patent penetralia cordis; Quem nulla anxietas, nulla cupido fugit; Quem nil vafrities peccantum subdola celat; Omnia qui spectans, omnia ubique regis; Mentibus afflatu terrenas ejice sordes Divino, sanctus regnet ut intus amor: Eloquiumque potens linguis torpentious affer, Ut tibi laus omni semper ab ore sonet: Sanguine quo gentes, quo secula cuncta piavit, Haec nobis Christus promeruisse velit! [a] The day on which he received the sacrament for the last time; and eight days before his decease. PSALMUS CXVII. Anni qua volucris ducitur orbita, Patrem coelicolum perpetuo colunt Quo vis sanguine cretae Gentes undique carmine. Patrem, cujus amor blandior in dies Mortales miseros servat, alit, fovet, Omnes undique gentes, Sancto dicite carmine. [a]Seu te saeva fames, levitas sive improba fecit, Musca, meae comitem, participemque dapis, Pone metum, rostrum fidens immitte culullo, Nam licet, et toto prolue laeta mero. Tu, quamcunque tibi velox indulserit annus, Carpe diem; fugit, heu, non revocanda dies! Quae nos blanda comes, quae nos perducat eodem, Volvitur hora mihi, volvitur hora tibi! Una quidem, sic fata volunt, tibi vivitur aestas, Eheu, quid decies plus mihi sexta dedit! Olim praeteritae numeranti tempora vitae, Sexaginta annis non minor unus erit. [a] The above is a version of the song, "Busy, curious, thirsty fly." [b]Habeo, dedi quod alteri; Habuique, quod dedi mihi; Sed quod reliqui, perdidi. [b] These lines are a version of three sentences that are said, in the manuscript, to be "On the monument of John of Doncaster;" and which are as follow: What I gave, that I have; What I spent, that I had; What I left, that I lost. [a]E WALTONI PISCATORE PERFECTO EXCERPTUM. Nunc, per gramina fusi, Densa fronde salicti, Dum defenditur imber, Molles ducimus horas. Hic, dum debita morti Paulum vita moratur, Nunc rescire priora, Nunc instare futuris, Nunc summi prece sancta Patris numen adire est. Quicquid quraeitur ultra, Caeco ducit amore, Vel spe ludit inani, Luctus mox pariturum. [a] These lines are a translation of part of a song in the Complete Angler of Isaac Walton, written by John Chalkhill, a friend of Spenser, and a good poet in his time. They are but part of the last stanza, which, that the reader may have it entire, is here given at length: If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get For a friendly shelter! Where in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging, We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath: Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. [a]Quisquis iter tendis, vitreas qua lucidus undas Speluncae late Thamesis praetendit opacae; Marmorea trepidant qua lentae in fornice guttae, Crystallisque latex fractus scintillat acutis; Gemmaque, luxuriae nondum famulata nitenti Splendit, et incoquitur tectum sine fraude metallum; Ingredere O! rerum pura cole mente parentem; Auriferasque auri metuens scrutare cavernas. Ingredere! Egeriae sacrum en tibi panditur antrum! Hic, in se totum, longe per opaca futuri Temporis, Henricum rapuit vis vivida mentis: Hic pia Vindamius traxit suspiria, in ipsa Morte memor patriae; hic Marmonti pectore prima Coelestis fido caluerunt semina flammae. Temnere opes, pretium sceleris, patriamque tueri Fortis, ades; tibi, sponte, patet venerabile limen. [a] The above lines are a version of Pope's verses on his own grotto, which begin, "Thou, who shall stop where Thames' translucent wave." GRAECORTUM EPIGRAMMATUM VERSIONES METRICAE. Pag. 2. Brodaei edit. Bas. ann. 1549. Non Argos pugilem, non me Messana creavit; Patria Sparta mihi est, patria clara virum. Arte valent isti, mihi robo revivere solo est, Convenit ut natis, inclyta Sparta, tuis. Br. 2. Quandoquidem passim nulla ratione feruntur, Cuncta cinis, cuncta et ludicra, cuncta nihil. Br. 5. Pectore qui duro, crudos de vite racemos, Venturi exsecuit vascula prima meri, Labraque constrictus, semesos, jamque terendos Sub pedibus, populo praetereunte, jacit. Supplicium huic, quoniam crescentia gaudia laesit, Det Bacchus, dederat quale, Lycurge, tibi. Hae poterant uvae laeto convivia cantu Mulcere, aut pectus triste levare malis. Br. 8. Fert humeris claudum validis per compita caecus, Hic oculos socio commodat, ille pedes. Br. 10. Qui, mutare vias ausus terraeque marisque, Trajecit montes nauta, fretumque pedes, Xerxi, tercentum Spartae Mars obstitit acris Militibus; terris sit pelagoque pudor! Br. 11. Sit tibi, Calliope, Parnassum, cura, tenenti, Alter ut adsit Homerus, adest etenim alter Achilles. Br. 18. Ad musas Venus haec: Veneri parete, puellae, In vos ne missus spicula tendat amor. Haec musae ad Venerem: sic Marti, diva, mineris, Hue nunquam volitat debilis iste puer. Br. 19. Prospera sors nec te strepitoso turbine tollat, Nec menti injiciat sordida cura jugum; Nam vita incertis incerta impellitur auris, Omnesque in partes tracta, retracta fluit; Firma manet virtus; virtuti innitere, tutus Per fluctus vitae sic tibi cursus erit. Br. 24. Hora bonis quasi nunc instet suprema fruaris, Plura ut victurus secula, parce bonis: Divitiis, utrinque cavens, qui tempore parcit, Tempore divitiis utitur, ille sapit. Br. 24. Nunquam jugera messibus onusta, aut Quos Gyges cumulos habebat auri; Quod vitae satis est, peto, Macrine, Mi, nequid nimis, est nimis probatum. Br. 24. Non opto aut precibus posco ditescere, paucis Sit contenta mihi vita, dolore carens. Br. 24 Recta ad pauperiem tendit, cui corpora cordi est Multa alere, et multas aedificare domos. Br. 24. Tu neque dulce putes alienae accumbere mensae; Nec probrosa avidae grata sit offa gulae; Nec ficto fletu, fictis solvere cachinnis, Arridens domino, collacrymansque tuo; Laetior hand tecum, tecum neque tristior unquam, Sed Miliae ridens, atque dolens Miliae. Br. 26. Nil non mortale est mortalibus; omne quod est hie Praetereunt, aut hos praeterit omne bonum. Br. 26. Democrite, invisas homines majore cachinno; Plus tibi ridendum secula nostra dabunt. Heraclite, fluat lacrymarum crebrior imber; Vita hominum nunc plus quod misereris habet. Interea dubito; tecum me causa nec ulla Ridere, aut tecum me lacrymare jubet. Br. 26. Elige iter vitae, ut possis: rixisque, dolisque, Perstrepit omne forum; cura molesta domi est; Rura labor lassat; mare mille pericula terrent; Verte solum, fient causa timoris opes; Paupertas misera est; multae, cum conjuge, lites Tecta ineunt; coelebs omnia solus ages. Proles aucta gravat, rapta orbat; caeca juventae est Virtus; canities cauta vigore caret. Ergo optent homines, aut nunquam in luminis oras Venisse, aut visa luce repente mori. Elige iter vitae, ut mavis: prudenua, lausque, Permeat omne forum; vita quieta domi est; Rus ornat natura; levat maris aspera lucrum, Verte solum, donat plena crumena decus; Pauperies latitat; cum conjuge, gaudia multa Tecta ineunt; coelebs impediere minus; Mulcet amor prolis, sopor est sine prole profundus; Praecellit juvenis vi, pietate senex. Nemo optet, nunquam venisse in luminis oras, Aut periisse; scatet vita benigna bonis. Br. 27. Vita omnis scena est ludusque: aut ludere disce Seria seponens, aut mala dura pati. Br. 27. Quae, sine morte, fuga est vitae, quam turba malorum Non vitanda gravem, non toleranda facit? Dulcia dat natura quidem, mare, sidera, terras, Lunaque quas, et sol, itque reditque vias. Terror inest aliis, moerorque, et siquid habebis, Forte, boni, ultrices experiere vices. Br. 27. Terram adii nudus, de terra nudus abibo. Quid labor efficiet? non, nisi nudus, ero. Br. 27. Natus eram lacrymans, lacrymans e luce recedo: Sunt quibus a lacrymis vix vacat ulla dies. Tale hominum genus est, infirmum, triste, misellum, Quod mors in cineres solvit, et abdit humo. Br. 29. Quisquis adit lectos, elata uxore, secundos, Naufragus iratas ille retentat aquas. Br. 30. Foelix ante alios nullius debitor aeris; Hunc sequitur coelebs; tertius, orbe, venis. Nee male res cessit, subito si funere sponsam, Didatus magna dote, recondis humo. His sapiens lectis, Epicurum quaerere frustra Quales sint monades, qua fit inane, sinas. Br. 31. Optarit quicunque senex sibi longius aevum, Dignus, qui multa in lustra senescat, erit. Cum procul est, optat, cum venit, quisque senectam, Incusat, semper spe meliora videt. Br. 46. Omnis vita nimis brevis est felicibus, una Nox miseris longi temporis instar habet. Br. 55. Gratia ter grata est velox, sin forte moretur, Gratia vix restat nomine digna suo. Br. 56. Seu prece poscatur, seu non, da, Jupiter, omne, Magne, bonum; omne malum, et poscentibus, abnue nobis. Br. 60. Me, cane vitato, canis excipit alter; eodem In me animo tellus gignit et unda feras, Nec mirum; restat lepori conscendere coelum, Sidereus tamen hie territat, ecce canis! Br. 70. Telluri arboribus ver frondens, sidera coelo, Graeciae et urbs, urbi est ista propago, decus. Br. 75. Impia facta patrans, homines fortasse latebis, Non poteris, meditans prava, latere deos. Br. 75. Antiope satyrum, Danae aurum, Europa juvencum, Et cycnum fecit Leda petita, Jovem. Br. 92. Aevi sat novi quam sim brevis; astra tuenti, Per certas; stabili lege, voluta vices, Tangitur haud pedibus tellus: conviva deorum Expleor ambrosiis, exhilarorque cibis. Br. 96. Quod nimium est sit ineptum, hinc, ut dixere priores, Et melli nimio fellis amaror inest. Br. 103. Puppe gubernatrix sedisti, audacia, prima Divitiis acuens aspera corda virum; Sola rates struis infidas, et dulcis amorem Lucri ulciscendum mox nece sola doces. Aurea secla hominum, quorum spectandus ocellis E longinquo itidem pontus et orcus erat. Br. 126. Ditescis, credo, quid restat? quicquid habebis In tumulum tecum, morte jubente, trahes? Divitias cumulas, pereuntes negligis horas; Incrementa aevi non cumulare potes. Br. 120. Mater adulantum, prolesque, pecunia, curae, Teque frui timer est, teque carere dolor. Br. 126. Me miserum sors omnis habet; florentibus annis, Pauper eram, nummis diffluit area senis; Queis uti poteram quondam, fortuna negavit, Queis uti nequeo, nunc mihi praebet, opes. Br. 127. Mnemosyne, ut Sappho, mellita voce, canentem Audiit, irata est, ne nova musa foret. Br. 152. Cum tacet indoctus, sapientior esse videtur, Et morbus tegitur, dum premit ora pudor. Br. 155. Nunc huic, nunc aliis cedens, cui farra Menippus Credit, Achaemenidae nuper agellus eram. Quod nulli proprium versat fortuna, putabat Ille suum stolidus, nunc putat ille suum. Br. 156. Non fortuna sibi te gratum tollit in altum; At docet, exemplo, vis sibi quanta, tuo. Br. 162. Hic, aurum ut reperit, laqueum abjicit; alter ut aurum Non reperit, nectit quem reperit, laqueum. Br. 167. Vive tuo ex ammo: vario rumore loquetur De te plebs audax, hic bene, et ille male. Br. 168. Vitae rosa brevis est; properans si carpere nolis, Quaerenti obveniet mox sine flore rubus. Br. 170. Pulicibus morsus, restincta lampade, stultus Exclamat: nunc me cernere desinitis. Br. 202, Mendotum pinxit Diodorus, et exit imago, Praeter Menodotura, nullius absimilis. Br. 205. Haud lavit Phido, haud tetigit, mihi febre calenti In mentem ut venit nominis, interii. Br. 210. Nycticorax cantat lethale; sed ipsa, canenti Demophilo auscultans, Nycticorax moritur. Br. 212. Hermem deorum nuncium, pennis levem, Quo rege gaudent Arcades, furem boum, Hujus palestrae qui vigil custos stetit, Clam nocte tollit Aulus, et ridens ait: Praestat magistro saepe discipulus suo. Br. 223. Qui jacet hic servus vixit: nunc, lumine cassus, Dario magno non minus ille potest. Br. 227. Funus Alexandri mentitur fama; fidesque Si Phoebo, victor nescit obire diem. Br. 241. Nauta, quis hoc jaceat, ne percontere, sepulchro, Eveniat tantum mitior unda tibi! Br. 256. Cur opulentus eges? tua cuncta in foenore ponis: Sic aliis dives, tu tibi pauper agis. Br. 262. Qui pascis barbam, si crescis mente, Platoni, Hirce, parem nitido te tua barba facit. Br. 266. Clarus Ioannes, reginae affinis, ab alto Sanguine Anastasii; cuncta sepulta jacent: Et pius, et recti cultor: non illa jacere Dicam; stat virtus non subigenda neci. Br. 267. Cunctiparens tellus, salve, levis esto pusillo Lysigeni, fuerat non gravis ille tibi. Br. 285. Naufragus hic jaceo; contra, jacet ecce colonus! Idem orcus terras, sic, pelagoque subest. Br. 301. Quid salvere jubes me, pessime? Corripe gressus; Est mihi quod non te rideo, plena salus. Br. 304. Et ferus est Timon sub terris; janitor orci, Cerbere, te morsu ne petat ille, cave. Br. 307. Vitam a terdecimo sextus mihi finiet annus, Astra mathematicos si modo vera docent. Sufficit hoc votis, flos hic pulcherrimus aevi est, Et senium triplex Nestoris urna capit. Br. 322. Zosima, quae solo fuit olim corpore serva, Corpore nunc etiam libera facta fuit. Br. 326. Exiguum en! Priami monumentum; hand ille meretur Quale, sed hostiles, quale dedere manus. Br. 326. Hector dat gladium Ajaci, dat balteum et Ajax Hectori, et exitio munus utrique fuit. Br. 344. Ut vis, ponte minax, modo tres discesseris ulnas Ingemina fluctus, ingeminaque sonum. Br. 344. Naufragus hic jaceo, fidens tamen utere velis; Tutum aliis aequor, me pereunte, fuit. Br. 398. Heraclitus ego; indoctae ne laedite liuguae Subtile ingenium, quaero, capaxque mei; Unus homo mihi pro soxcentis, turba popelli Pro nullo, clamo nunc tumulatus idem. Br. 399. Ambraciota, vale lux alma, Cleombrotus infit, Et saltu e muro ditis opaca petit: Triste nihil passus, animi at de sorte Platonis Scripta legens, sola vivere mente cupit. Br. 399. Servus, Epictetus, mutilato corpore, vixi, Pauperieque Irus, curaque summa deum. Br. 445. Unde hic Praxiteles? nudam vidistis, Adoni, Et Pari, et Anchisa, non alius, Venerem. Br. 451. Sufflato accendis quisquis carbone lucernam, Corde meo accendens; ardeo totus ego. Br. 486. Jupiter hoc templum, ut, siquando relinquit Olympum, Atthide non alius desit Olympus, habet. Br. 487. Civis et externus grati; domus hospita nescit Quaerere, quis, cujus, quis pater, unde venis. POMPEII. Br. 487. Cum fugere haud possit, fractis victoria pennis Te manet, imperii, Roma, perenne decus. Br. 488. Latrones, alibi locupletum quaerite tecta, Assidet huic, custos, strenua pauperies. Fortunae malim adversae tolerare procellas; Quam domini ingentis ferre supercilium. En, Sexto, Sexti meditatur imago, silente; Orator statua est, statuaeque orator imago. Pulchra est virgiuitas intacta, at vita periret, Omnes si vellent virginitate frui; Nequitiam fugiens, servata contrahe lege Conjugium, ut pro te des hominem patriae. Fert humeris, venerabile onus, Cythereius heros Per Trojae flammas, densaque tela, patrem: Clamat et Argivis, vetuli, ne tangite; vita Exiguum est Marti, sed mihi grande, lucrum. Forma animos hominum capit, at, si gratia desit, Non tenet; esca natat pulchra, sed hamus abest, Cogitat aut loquitur nil vir, nil cogitat uxor, Felici thalamo non, puto, rixa strepit. Buccina disjecit Thebarum moenia, struxit Quae lyra, quam sibi non concinit harmonia! Mente senes olim juvenis, Faustine, premebas, Nunc juvenum terres robore corda senex. Laevum at utrumque decus, juveni quod praebuit olim Turba senum, juvenes nunc tribuere seni. Exceptae hospitio, musae tribuere libellos Herodoto, hospitii praemia, quaeque suum. Stella mea, observans stellas, dii me aethera faxint Multis ut te oculis sim potis aspicere. Clara Cheroneae soboles, Plutarche, dicavit Hanc statuam ingenio, Roma benigna, tuo. Das bene collatos, quos Roma et Graecia jactat, Ad divos, paribus passibus, ire duces; Sed similem, Plutarche, tuae describere vitam Non poteras, regio non tulit ulla parem. Dat tibi Pythagoram pictor; quod ni ipse tacere Pythagoras mallet, vocem habuisset opus. Prolem Hippi, et sua qua meliorem secula nullum Videre, Archidicen, haec tumulavit humus; Quam, regum sobolem, nuptam, matrem, atque sororem Fecerunt nulli sors titulique gravem. Cecropidis gravis hic ponor, Martique dicatus, Quo tua signantur gesta, Philippe, lapis. Spreta jacet Marathon, jacet et Salaminia laurus, Omnia dum Macedum gloria et arma premunt. Sint Demosthenica ut jurata cadavera voce, Stabo illis qui sunt, quique fuere, gravis. Floribus in pratis, legi quos ipse, coronam Contextam variis, do, Rhodoclea, tibi: Hic anemone humet, confert narcissus odores Cum violis; spirant lilia mista rosis. His redimita comas, mores depone superbos, Haec peritura nitent; tu peritura nites! Murem Asclepiades sub tecto ut vidit avarus, Quid tibi, mus, mecum, dixit, amice, tibi? Mus blandum ridens, respondit, pelle timorem: Hic, bone vir, sedem, nori alimenta, peto. Saepe tuum in tumulum lacrymarum decidit imber, Quem fundit blando junctus amore dolor; Charus enim cunctis, tanquam, dum vita manebat, Cuique esses natus, cuique sodalis, eras. Heu quam dura preces sprevit, quam surda querelas Parca, juventutem non miserata tuam! Arti ignis lucem tribui, tamen artis et ignis Nunc ope, supplicii vivit imago mei. Gratia nulla hominum mentes tenet, ista Promethei Munera muneribus, si retulere fabri. Illa triumphatrix Graium consueta procorum Ante suas agmen Lais habere fores, Hoc Veneri speculum; nolo me cernere qualis Sum nunc, nec possum cernere qualis eram. Crethida fabellas dulces garrire peritam Prosequitur lacrymis filia moesta Sami: Blandam lanifici sociam sine fine loquacem, Quam tenet hic, cunctas quae manet, alta quies. Dicite, Causidici, gelido nunc marmore magni Mugitum tumulus comprimit Amphiloci. Si forsan tumulum quo conditur Eumarus aufers, Nil lucri facies; ossa habet et cinerem. EPICTETI. Me, rex deorum, tuque, due, necessitas, Quo, lege vestra, vita me feret mea. Sequar libenter, sin reluctari velim, Fiam scelestus, nec tamen minus sequar. E THEOCRITO. Poeta, lector, hic quiescit Hipponax, Si sis scelestus, praeteri, procul, marmor: At te bonum si noris, et bonis natum, Tutum hic sedile, et si placet, sopor tutus. EUR. MED. 193--203. Non immerito culpanda venit Proavum vecors insipientia, Qui convivia, lautasque dapes, Hilarare suis jussere modis Cantum, vitae dulce levamen. At nemo feras iras hominum Domibus claris exitiales, Voce aut fidibus pellere docuit; Queis tamen aptam ferre medelam Utile cunctis hoc opus esset; Namque, ubi mensas onerant epulae, Quorsum dulcis luxuria soni? Sat laetitia sine subsidiis, Pectora molli mulcet dubiae Copia coenae. [Greek:] Tois Araes brotoloighos enhi ptolemoisi memaene, Kahi toios Paphiaen plaesen eroti thean. The above is a version of a Latin epigram on the famous John duke of Marlborough, by the abbé Salvini, which is as follows: Haud alio vultu fremuit Mars acer in armis: Haud alio Cypriam percutit ore deam. The duke was, it seems, remarkably handsome in his person, to which the second line has reference. SEPTEM AETATES. Prima parit terras aetas; siccatque secunda; Evocat Abramum dein tertia; quarta relinquit Aegyptum; templo Solomonis quinta supersit; Cyrum sexta timet; laetatur septima Christo. [a]His Tempelmanni numeris descripseris orbem, [b]Cum sex ceiituriis Judaeo millia septem. Myrias[c] AEgypto cessit his septima pingui. Myrias adsciscit sibi nonagesima septem Imperium qua Turca[d] ferox exercet iniquum. Undecies binas decadas et millia septem Sortitur[e] Pelopis tellus quae nomine gaudet. Myriadas decies septem numerare jubebit Pastor Arabs: decies octo sibi Persa requirit. Myriades sibi pulchra duas, duo millia poscit Parthenope. [f]Novies vult tellus mille Sicana. [g]Papa suo regit imperio ter millia quinque. Cum sex centuriis numerat sex millia Tuscus[h]. Centuria Ligures[i] augent duo millia quarta. Centuriae octavam decadem addit Lucca[j] secundae. Ut dicas, spatiis quam latis imperet orbi [k]Russia, myriadas ter denas adde trecentis. [l]Sardiniam cum sexcentis sex millia complent. Cum sexagenis, dum plura recluserit aetas, Myriadas ter mille homini dat terra[m] colendas. Vult sibi vicenas millesima myrias addi, Vicenis quinas, Asiam[n] metata celebrem. Se quinquagenis octingentesima jungit Myrias, ut menti pateat tota Africa[o] doctae. Myriadas septem decies Europa[p] ducentis Et quadragenis quoque ter tria millia jungit. Myriadas denas dat, quinque et millia, sexque Centurias, et tres decades Europa Britannis[q]. Ter tria myriadi conjungit millia quartae, Centuriae quartae decades quinque[r] Anglia nectit. Millia myriadi septem foecunda secundae Et quadragenis decades quinque addit Ierne[s]. Quingentis quadragenis socialis adauget Millia Belga[t] novem. Ter sex centurias Hollandia jactat opima. Undecimum Camber vult septem millibus addi. [a] To the above lines, (which are unfinished, and can, therefore, be only offered as a fragment,) in the doctor's manuscript, are prefixed the words "Geographia Metrica." As we are referred, in the first of the verses, to Templeman, for having furnished the numerical computations that are the subject of them, his work has been, accordingly, consulted, the title of which is, a new Survey of the Globe; and which professes to give an accurate mensuration of all the empires, kingdoms, and other divisions thereof, in the square miles that they respectively contain. On comparison of the several numbers in these verses, with those set down by Templeman, it appears that nearly half of them are precisely the same; the rest are not quite so exactly done.--For the convenience of the reader, it has been thought right to subjoin each number, as it stands in Templeman's works, to that in Dr. Johnson's verses which refers to it. [b] In this first article that is versified, there is an accurate conformity in Dr. Johnson's number to Templeman's; who sets down the square miles of Palestine at 7,600. [c] The square miles of Egypt are, in Templeman, 140,700. [d] The whole Turkish empire, in Templeman, is computed at 960,057 square miles. [e] In the four following articles, the numbers in Templeman and in Johnson's verses are alike.--We find, accordingly, the Morea, in Templeman, to be set down at 7,220 square miles.--Arabia, at 700,000.--Persia, at 800,000.--and Naples, at 22,000. [f] Sicily, in Templeman, is put down at 9,400. [g] The pope's dominions, at 14,868. [h] Tuscany, at 6,640. [i] Genoa, in Templeman, as in Johnson likewise, is set down at 2,400. [j] Lucca, at 286. [k] The Russian empire, in the 29th plate of Templeman, is set down at 3,303,485 square miles. [l] Sardinia, in Templeman, as likewise in Johnson, 6,600. [m] The habitable world, in Templeman, is computed, in square miles, at 30,666,806 square miles. [n] Asia, at 10,257,487. [o] Africa, at 8,506,208. [p] Europe, at 2,749,349. [q] The British dominions, at 105,634. [r] England, as likewise in Johnson's expression of the number, at 49,450. [s] Ireland, at 27,457. [t] In the three remaining instances, which make the whole that Dr. Johnson appears to have rendered into Latin verse, we find the numbers exactly agreeing with those of Templeman, who makes the square miles of the United Provinces, 9540--of the province of Holland, 1800--and of Wales, 7011. TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM ON MILTON. Quos laudat vates, Graecus, Romanus, et Anglus, Tres tria temporibus secla dedere suis. Sublime ingenium Graecus; Romanus habebat Carmen grande sonans; Anglus utrumque tulit. Nil majus natura capit: clarare priores Quae potuere duos tertius unus habet. EPILOGUE TO THE CARMEN SAECULARE OF HORACE; PERFORMED AT FREEMASONS' HALL. Quae fausta Romae dixit Horatius, Haec fausta vobis dicimus, Angliae Opes, triumphos, et subacti Imperium pelagi precantes. Such strains as, mingled with the lyre, Could Rome with future greatness fire, Ye sons of England, deign to hear, Nor think our wishes less sincere. May ye the varied blessings share Of plenteous peace and prosp'rous war; And o'er the globe extend your reign, Unbounded masters of the main! TRANSLATION OF A WELSH EPITAPH (IN HERBERT'S TRAVELS) ON PRINCE MADOCK. Inclytus hic haeres magni requiescit Oeni, Confessas tantum mente, manuque, patrem; Servilem tuti cultum contempsit agelli, Et petiit terras, per freta longa, novas. THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS, PRINCE OF ABISSINIA. PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS. The following incomparable tale was published in 1759; and the early familiarity with eastern manners, which Johnson derived from his translation of father Lobo's travels into Abissinia, may be presumed to have led him to fix his opening scene in that country; while Rassela Christos, the general of sultan Sequed, mentioned in that work, may have suggested the name of his speculative prince. Rasselas was written in the evenings of a single week, and sent to the press, in portions, with the amiable view of defraying the funeral expenses of the author's aged mother, and discharging her few remaining debts. The sum, however, which he received for it, does not seem large, to those who know its subsequent popularity. None of his works has been more widely circulated; and the admiration, which it has attracted, in almost every country of Europe, proves, that, with all its depression and sadness, it does utter a voice, that meets with an assenting answer in the hearts of all who have tried life, and found its emptiness. Johnson's view of our lot on earth was always gloomy, and the circumstances, under which Rasselas was composed, were calculated to add a deepened tinge of melancholy to its speculations on human folly, misery, or malignity. Many of the subjects discussed, are known to have been those which had agitated Johnson's mind. Among them is the question, whether the departed ever revisit the places that knew them on earth, and how far they may take an interest in the welfare of those, over whom they watched, when here. We shall elsewhere have to contemplate the moralist, standing on the border of his mother's grave, and asking, with anxious agony, whether that dark bourn, once passed, terminated for ever the cares of maternity and love[a]. The frivolous and the proud, who think not, or acknowledge not, that there are secrets, in both matter and mind, of which their philosophy has not dreamed, may smile at what they may, in their derision, term such weak and idle inquiries. But on them, the most powerful minds that ever illuminated this world, have fastened, with an intense curiosity; and, owning their fears, or their ignorance, have not dared to disavow their belief[b]. It is not to be denied, that Rasselas displays life, as one unvaried series of disappointments, and leaves the mind, at its close, in painful depression. This effect has been considered an evil, and regarded even as similar to that produced by the doctrines of Voltaire, Bolingbroke, and Rousseau, who combined every thing venerable on earth with ridicule, treated virtue and vice, with equal contemptuous indifference, and laid bare, with cruel mockery, the vanity of all mortal wishes, prospects, and pursuits. Their motive, for all this, we need not pause, in this place, to examine. But a distinction may be made between the melancholy of the heart, and the melancholy of the mind: while the latter is sceptical, sour, and misanthropic, the former is passionate, tender, and religious. Those who are under the influence of the one, become inactive, morose, or heedless: detecting the follies of the wisest and the frailties of the best, they scoff at the very name of virtue; they spurn, as visionary and weak, every attempt to meliorate man's condition, and from their conviction of the earthward tendency of his mind, they bound his destinies by this narrow world and its concerns. But those whose hearts are penetrated with a feeling for human infirmity and sorrow, are benevolent and active; considering man, as the victim of sin, and woe, and death, for a cause which reason cannot unfold, but which religion promises to terminate, they sooth the short-lived disappointments of life, by pointing to a loftier and more lasting state. Candide is the book of the one party, Rasselas of the other. They appeared nearly together; they exhibit the same picture of change, and misery, and crime. But the one demoralized a continent, and gave birth to lust, and rapine, and bloodshed; the other has blessed many a heart, and gladdened the vale of sorrow, with many a rill of pure and living water. Voltaire may be likened to the venomous toad of eastern allegory, which extracts a deadly poison from that sunbeam which bears health, and light, and life to all beside: the philosopher, in Rasselas, like some holy and aged man, who has well nigh run his course, in recounting the toils and perils of his pilgrimage, may sadden the young heart, and crush the fond hopes of inexperience; but, while he wounds, he presents the antidote and the balm, and tells, where promises will be realized, and hopes will no more be disappointed. We have ventured to detain our readers thus long from Rasselas itself, because, from its similar view of life with the sceptical school, many well-intentioned men have apprehended, its effects might be the same. We have, therefore, attempted briefly to distinguish the sources whence these different writings have issued, and, we trust, we have pointed out their remoteness from each other. And we do not dwell on the subject, at greater length, because Johnson's writings, in various parts, will require our attention on this particular head. To be restless and weary of the dull details and incomplete enjoyments of life, is common to all lofty minds. Frederick of Prussia sought, in the bosom of a cold philosophy, to chill every generous impulse, and each warm aspiration after immortality; but he painfully felt, how inefficient was grandeur, or power, to fill the heart, and plaintively exclaimed to Maupertuis, "Que notre vie est peu de chose;" all is vanity. The philosophy of Rasselas, however, though it pronounces on the unsatisfactory nature of all human enjoyments, and though its perusal may check the worldling in his mirth, and bring down the mighty in his pride, does not, with the philosophic conqueror, sullenly despair, but gently sooths the mourner, by the prospect of a final recompense and repose. Its pages inculcate the same lesson, as those of the Rambler, but "the precept, which is tedious in a formal essay, may acquire attractions in a tale, and the sober charms of truth be divested of their austerity by the graces of innocent fiction[c]." We may observe, in conclusion, that the abrupt termination of Rasselas, so left, according to sir John Hawkins, by its author, to admit of continuation, and its unbroken gloom, induced Miss E. Cornelia Knight to present to the public a tale, entitled Dinarbas, to exhibit the fairer view of life. FOOTNOTES [a] See Idler, No. 41, and his letter to Mr. Elphinstone, on the death of his mother. [b] Aristot. Ethic. Nich. lib. i. c. 10, 11. In Barrow's sermon on the "the least credulous or fanciful of men." [c] See Drake's Speculator, 1790, No. 1. THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS, PRINCE OF ABISSINIA. CHAP. I. DESCRIPTION OF A PALACE IN A VALLEY. Ye, who listen, with credulity, to the whispers of fancy, and pursue, with eagerness, the phantoms of hope; who expect, that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow; attend to the history of Rasselas, prince of Abissinia. Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperour, in whose dominions the father of waters begins his course; whose bounty pours down the streams of plenty, and scatters over half the world the harvests of Egypt. According to the custom, which has descended, from age to age, among the monarchs of the torrid zone, Rasselas was confined in a private palace, with the other sons and daughters of Abissinian royalty, till the order of succession should call him to the throne. The place, which the wisdom, or policy, of antiquity had destined for the residence of the Abissinan princes, was a spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara, surrounded, on every side, by mountains, of which the summits overhang the middle part. The only passage, by which it could be entered, was a cavern that passed under a rock, of which it has been long disputed, whether it was the work of nature, or of human industry. The outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood, and the mouth, which opened into the valley, was closed with gates of iron, forged by the artificers of ancient days, so massy, that no man could, without the help of engines, open or shut them. From the mountains, on every side, rivulets descended, that filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake in the middle, inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented by every fowl, whom nature has taught to dip the wing in water. This lake discharged its superfluities by a stream, which entered a dark cleft of the mountain, on the northern side, and fell, with dreadful noise, from precipice to precipice, till it was heard no more. The sides of the mountains were covered with trees; the banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers; every blast shook spices from the rocks; and every month dropped fruits upon the ground. All animals that bite the grass, or browse the shrub, whether wild or tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured from beasts of prey, by the mountains which confined them. On one part, were flocks and herds feeding in the pastures; on another, all the beasts of chase frisking in the lawns; the sprightly kid was bounding on the rocks, the subtle monkey frolicking in the trees, and the solemn elephant reposing in the shade. All the diversities of the world were brought together, the blessings of nature were collected, and its evils extracted and excluded. The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabitants with the necessaries of life; and all delights and superfluities were added, at the annual visit which the emperour paid his children, when the iron gate was opened to the sound of musick; and during eight days every one, that resided in the valley, was required to propose whatever might contribute to make seclusion pleasant, to fill up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the tediousness of time. Every desire was immediately granted. All the artificers of pleasure were called to gladden the festivity; the musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the dancers showed their activity before the princes, in hope that they should pass their lives in this blissful captivity, to which those only were admitted, whose performance was thought able to add novelty to luxury. Such was the appearance of security and delight, which this retirement afforded, that they, to whom it was new, always desired, that it might be perpetual; and, as those, on whom the iron gate had once closed, were never suffered to return, the effect of long experience could not be known. Thus every year produced new schemes of delight, and new competitors for imprisonment. The palace stood on an eminence, raised about thirty paces above the surface of the lake. It was divided into many squares or courts, built with greater or less magnificence, according to the rank of those for whom they were designed. The roofs were turned into arches of massy stone, joined by a cement that grew harder by time, and the building stood, from century to century, deriding the solstitial rains and equinoctial hurricanes, without need of reparation. This house, which was so large, as to be fully known to none, but some ancient officers, who successively inherited the secrets of the place, was built, as if suspicion herself had dictated the plan. To every room there was an open and secret passage, every square had a communication with the rest, either from the upper stories, by private galleries, or, by subterranean passages, from the lower apartments. Many of the columns had unsuspected cavities, in which a long race of monarchs had reposited their treasures. They then closed up the opening with marble, which was never to be removed, but in the utmost exigencies of the kingdom; and recorded their accumulations in a book, which was itself concealed in a tower not entered, but by the emperour, attended by the prince, who stood next in succession. CHAP. II. THE DISCONTENT OP RASSELAS IN THE HAPPY VALLEY. Here the sons and daughters of Abissinia, lived only to know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and repose, attended by all that were skilful to delight, and gratified with whatever the senses can enjoy. They wandered in gardens of fragrance, and slept in the fortresses of security. Every art was practised, to make them pleased with their own condition. The sages, who instructed them, told them of nothing but the miseries of publick life, and described all beyond the mountains, as regions of calamity, where discord was always raging, and where man preyed upon man. To heighten their opinion of their own felicity, they were daily entertained with songs, the subject of which was the happy valley. Their appetites were excited, by frequent enumerations of different enjoyments, and revelry and merriment was the business of every hour, from the dawn of morning, to the close of even. These methods were, generally, successful; few of the princes had ever wished to enlarge their bounds, but passed their lives in full conviction, that they had all within their reach that art or nature could bestow, and pitied those, whom fate had excluded from this seat of tranquillity, as the sport of chance, and the slaves of misery. Thus, they rose in the morning, and lay down at night, pleased with each other and with themselves, all but Rasselas, who, in the twenty-sixth year of his age, began to withdraw himself from their pastimes and assemblies, and to delight in solitary walks, and silent meditation. He often sat before tables, covered with luxury, and forgot to taste the dainties that were placed before him: he rose abruptly in the midst of the song, and hastily retired beyond the sound of musick. His attendants observed the change, and endeavoured to renew his love of pleasure: he neglected their officiousness, repulsed their invitations, and spent day after day, on the banks of rivulets, sheltered with trees; where he sometimes listened to the birds in the branches, sometimes observed the fish playing in the stream, and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures and mountains filled with animals, of which some were biting the herbage, and some sleeping among the bushes. This singularity of his humour made him much observed. One of the sages, in whose conversation he had formerly delighted, followed him secretly, in hope of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Rasselas, who knew not that any one was near him, having, for some time, fixed his eyes upon the goats that were browsing among the rocks, began to compare their condition with his own. "What," said he, "makes the difference between man and all the rest of the animal creation? Every beast, that strays beside me, has the same corporal necessities with myself: he is hungry, and crops the grass, he is thirsty and drinks the stream, his thirst and hunger are appeased, he is satisfied and sleeps: he rises again and is hungry, he is again fed, and is at rest. I am hungry and thirsty, like him, but when thirst and hunger cease, I am not at rest; I am, like him, pained with want, but am not, like him, satisfied with fulness. The intermediate hours are tedious and gloomy; I long again to be hungry, that I may again quicken my attention. The birds peck the berries, or the corn, and fly away to the groves, where they sit, in seeming happiness, on the branches, and waste their lives in tuning one unvaried series of sounds. I, likewise, can call the lutanist and the singer, but the sounds, that pleased me yesterday, weary me to-day, and will grow yet more wearisome to-morrow. I can discover within me no power of perception, which is not glutted with its proper pleasure, yet I do not feel myself delighted. Man surely has some latent sense, for which this place affords no gratification; or he has some desires, distinct from sense, which must be satisfied, before he can be happy." After this, he lifted up his head, and seeing the moon rising, walked towards the palace. As he passed through the fields, and saw the animals around him, "Ye," said he, "are happy, and need not envy me, that walk thus among you, burdened with myself; nor do I, ye gentle beings, envy your felicity; for it is not the felicity of man. I have many distresses, from which ye are free; I fear pain, when I do not feel it; I sometimes shrink at evils recollected, and sometimes start at evils anticipated: surely the equity of providence has balanced peculiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments." With observations like these, the prince amused himself, as he returned, uttering them with a plaintive voice, yet with a look, that discovered him to feel some complacence in his own perspicacity, and to receive some solace of the miseries of life, from consciousness of the delicacy with which he felt, and the eloquence with which he bewailed them. He mingled, cheerfully, in the diversions of the evening, and all rejoiced to find, that his heart was lightened. CHAP. III. THE WANTS OF HIM THAT WANTS NOTHING. On the next day, his old instructor, imagining that he had now made himself acquainted with his disease of mind, was in hope of curing it by counsel, and officiously sought an opportunity of conference, which the prince, having long considered him, as one whose intellects were exhausted, was not very willing to afford: "Why," said he, "does this man thus obtrude upon me? shall I be never suffered to forget those lectures, which pleased, only while they were new, and to become new again, must be forgotten?" He then walked into the wood, and composed himself to his usual meditations, when, before his thoughts had taken any settled form, he perceived his pursuer at his side, and was, at first, prompted, by his impatience, to go hastily away; but, being unwilling to offend a man, whom he had once reverenced, and still loved, he invited him to sit down with him on the bank. The old man, thus encouraged, began to lament the change, which had been lately observed in the prince, and to inquire, why he so often retired from the pleasures of the palace, to loneliness and silence. "I fly from pleasure," said the prince, "because pleasure has ceased to please; I am lonely, because I am miserable, and am unwilling to cloud, with my presence, the happiness of others." "You, sir," said the sage, "are the first who has complained of misery in the happy valley. I hope to convince you, that your complaints have no real cause. You are here in full possession of all that the emperour of Abissinia can bestow; here is neither labour to be endured, nor danger to be dreaded, yet here is all that labour or danger can procure or purchase. Look round, and tell me which of your wants is without supply: if you want nothing, how are you unhappy?" "That I want nothing," said the prince, "or that I know not what I want, is the cause of my complaint; if I had any known want, I should have a certain wish; that wish would excite endeavour, and I should not then repine to see the sun move so slowly towards the western mountain, or lament when the day breaks, and sleep will no longer hide me from myself. When I see the kids and the lambs chasing one another, I fancy, that. I should be happy, if I had something to pursue. But, possessing all that I can want, I find one day and one hour exactly like another, except that the latter is still more tedious than the former. Let your experience inform me, how the day may now seem as short as in my childhood, while nature was yet fresh, and every moment showed me what I never had observed before. I have already enjoyed too much; give me something to desire." The old man was surprised at this new species of affliction, and knew not what to reply, yet was unwilling to be silent. "Sir," said he, "if you had seen the miseries of the world, you would know how to value your present state." "Now," said the prince, "you have given me something to desire; I shall long to see the miseries of the world, since the sight of them is necessary to happiness." CHAP. IV. THE PRINCE CONTINUES TO GRIEVE AND MUSE. At this time the sound of musick proclaimed the hour of repast, and the conversation was concluded. The old man went away, sufficiently discontented, to find that his reasonings had produced the only conclusion which they were intended to prevent. But, in the decline of life, shame and grief are of short duration; whether it be, that we bear easily what we have borne long, or that, finding ourselves in age less regarded, we less regard others; or that we look with slight regard upon afflictions, to which we know that the hand of death is about to put an end. The prince, whose views were extended to a wider space, could not speedily quiet his emotions. He had been before terrified at the length of life which nature promised him, because he considered, that in a long time much must be endured; he now rejoiced in his youth, because in many years much might be done. This first beam of hope, that had been ever darted into his mind, rekindled youth in his cheeks, and doubled the lustre of his eyes. He was fired with the desire of doing something, though he knew not yet, with distinctness, either end or means. He was now no longer gloomy and unsocial; but, considering himself as master of a secret stock of happiness, which he could enjoy only by concealing it, he affected to be busy in all schemes of diversion, and endeavoured to make others pleased with the state, of which he himself was weary. But pleasures never can be so multiplied or continued, as not to leave much of life unemployed; there were many hours, both of the night and day, which he could spend, without suspicion, in solitary thought. The load of life was much lightened: he went eagerly into the assemblies, because he supposed the frequency of his presence necessary to the success of his purposes; he retired gladly to privacy, because he had now a subject of thought. His chief amusement was to picture to himself that world which he had never seen; to place himself in various conditions; to be entangled in imaginary difficulties, and to be engaged in wild adventures: but his benevolence always terminated his projects in the relief of distress, the detection of fraud, the defeat of oppression, and the diffusion of happiness. Thus passed twenty months of the life of Rasselas. He busied himself so intensely in visionary bustle, that he forgot his real solitude, and, amidst hourly preparations for the various incidents of human affairs, neglected to consider, by what means he should mingle with mankind. One day, as he was sitting on a bank, he feigned to himself an orphan virgin, robbed of her little portion by a treacherous lover, and crying after him, for restitution and redress. So strongly was the image impressed upon his mind, that he started up in the maid's defence, and ran forward to seize the plunderer, with all the eagerness of real pursuit. Fear naturally quickens the flight of guilt: Rasselas could not catch the fugitive with his utmost efforts; but, resolving to weary, by perseverance, him whom he could not surpass in speed, he pressed on till the foot of the mountain stopped his course. Here he recollected himself, and smiled at his own useless impetuosity. Then, raising his eyes to the mountain, "This," said he, "is the fatal obstacle that hinders, at once, the enjoyment of pleasure, and the exercise of virtue. How long is it that my hopes and wishes have flown beyond this boundary of my life, which, yet, I never have attempted to surmount!" Struck with this reflection, he sat down to muse; and remembered, that, since he first resolved to escape from his confinement, the sun had passed twice over him in his annual course. He now felt a degree of regret, with which he had never been before acquainted. He considered, how much might have been done in the time which had passed, and left nothing real behind it. He compared twenty months with the life of man. "In life," said he, "is not to be counted the ignorance of infancy, or imbecility of age. We are long, before we are able to think, and we soon cease from the power of acting. The true period of human existence may be reasonably estimated at forty years, of which I have mused away the four and twentieth part. What I have lost was certain, for I have certainly possessed it; but of twenty months to come, who can assure me?" The consciousness of his own folly pierced him deeply, and he was long before he could be reconciled to himself. "The rest of my time," said he, "has been lost, by the crime or folly of my ancestors, and the absurd institutions of my country; I remember it with disgust, yet without remorse: but the months that have passed, since new light darted into my soul, since I formed a scheme of reasonable felicity, have been squandered by my own fault. I have lost that which can never be restored: I have seen the sun rise and set for twenty months, an idle gazer on the light of heaven: in this time, the birds have left the nest of their mother, and committed themselves to the woods and to the skies: the kid has forsaken the teat, and learned, by degrees, to climb the rocks, in quest of independent sustenance. I only have made no advances, but am still helpless and ignorant. The moon, by more than twenty changes, admonished me of the flux of life; the stream, that rolled before my feet, upbraided my inactivity. I sat feasting on intellectual luxury, regardless alike of the examples of the earth, and the instructions of the planets. Twenty months are passed; who shall restore them?" These sorrowful meditations fastened upon his mind; he passed four months, in resolving to lose no more time in idle resolves, and was awakened to more vigorous exertion, by hearing a maid, who had broken a porcelain cup, remark, that what cannot be repaired is not to be regretted. This was obvious; and Rasselas reproached himself, that he had not discovered it, having not known, or not considered, how many useful hints are obtained by chance, and how often the mind, hurried by her own ardour to distant views, neglects the truths that lie open before her. He, for a few hours, regretted his regret, and from that time bent his whole mind upon the means of escaping from the valley of happiness. CHAP. V. THE PRINCE MEDITATES HIS ESCAPE. He now found, that it would be very difficult to effect that which it was very easy to suppose effected. When he looked round about him, he saw himself confined by the bars of nature, which had never yet been broken, and by the gate, through which none, that once had passed it, were ever able to return. He was now impatient as an eagle in a grate. He passed week after week in clambering the mountains, to see if there was any aperture which the bushes might conceal, but found all the summits inaccessible by their prominence. The iron gate he despaired to open; for it was not only secured with all the power of art, but was always watched by successive sentinels, and was, by its position, exposed to the perpetual observation of all the inhabitants. He then examined the cavern through which the waters of the lake were discharged; and, looking down, at a time when the sun shone strongly upon its mouth, he discovered it to be full of broken rocks, which, though they permitted the stream to flow through many narrow passages, would stop any body of solid bulk. He returned discouraged and dejected; but, having now known the blessing of hope, resolved never to despair. In these fruitless searches he spent ten months. The time, however, passed cheerfully away: in the morning he rose with new hope, in the evening applauded his own diligence, and in the night slept sound after his fatigue. He met a thousand amusements, which beguiled his labour, and diversified his thoughts. He discerned the various instincts of animals, and properties of plants, and found the place replete with wonders, of which he purposed to solace himself with the contemplation, if he should never be able to accomplish his flight; rejoicing that his endeavours, though yet unsuccessful, had supplied him with a source of inexhaustible inquiry. But his original curiosity was not yet abated; he resolved to obtain some knowledge of the ways of men. His wish still continued, but his hope grew less. He ceased to survey any longer the walls of his prison, and spared to search, by new toils, for interstices which he knew could not be found; yet determined to keep his design always in view, and lay hold on any expedient that time should offer. CHAP. VI. A DISSERTATION ON THE ART OF FLYING. Among the artists that had been allured into the happy valley, to labour for the accommodation and pleasure of its inhabitants, was a man eminent for his knowledge of the mechanick powers, who had contrived many engines, both of use and recreation. By a wheel, which the stream turned, he forced the water into a tower, whence it was distributed to all the apartments of the palace. He erected a pavilion in the garden, around which he kept the air always cool by artificial showers. One of the groves, appropriated to the ladies, was ventilated by fans, to which the rivulet, that ran through it, gave a constant motion; and instruments of soft musick were placed at proper distances, of which some played by the impulse of the wind, and some by the power of the stream. This artist was, sometimes, visited by Rasselas, who was pleased with every kind of knowledge, imagining that the time would come, when all his acquisitions should be of use to him in the open world. He came one day to amuse himself in his usual manner, and found the master busy in building a sailing chariot: he saw that the design was practicable upon a level surface, and, with expressions of great esteem, solicited its completion. The workman was pleased to find himself so much regarded by the prince, and resolved to gain yet higher honours. "Sir," said he, "you have seen but a small part of what the mechanick sciences can perform. I have been long of opinion, that instead of the tardy conveyance of ships and chariots, man might use the swifter migration of wings; that the fields of air are open to knowledge, and that only ignorance and idleness need crawl upon the ground." This hint rekindled the prince's desire of passing the mountains: having seen what the mechanist had already performed, he was willing to fancy that he could do more; yet resolved to inquire further, before he suffered hope to afflict him by disappointment. "I am afraid," said he to the artist, "that your imagination prevails over your skill, and that you now tell me rather what you wish, than what you know. Every animal has his element assigned him: the birds have the air, and man and beasts the earth."--"So," replied the mechanist, "fishes have the water, in which, yet, beasts can swim by nature, and men by art. He that can swim needs not despair to fly: to swim is to fly in a grosser fluid, and to fly is to swim in a subtler. We are only to proportion our power of resistance to the different density of matter through which we are to pass. You will be, necessarily, upborne by the air, if you can renew any impulse upon it, faster than the air can recede from the pressure." "But the exercise of swimming," said the prince, "is very laborious; the strongest limbs are soon wearied; I am afraid, the act of flying will be yet more violent, and wings will be of no great use, unless we can fly further than we can swim." "The labour of rising from the ground," said the artist, "will be great, as we see it in the heavier domestick fowls; but as we mount higher, the earth's attraction, and the body's gravity, will be gradually diminished, till we shall arrive at a region, where the man will float in the air without any tendency to fall; no care will then be necessary but to move forwards, which the gentlest impulse will effect. You, sir, whose curiosity is so extensive, will easily conceive with what pleasure a philosopher, furnished with wings, and hovering in the sky, would see the earth, and all its inhabitants, rolling beneath him, and presenting to him, successively, by its diurnal motion, all the countries within the same parallel. How must it amuse the pendent spectator to see the moving scene of land and ocean, cities and deserts! To survey, with equal security, the marts of trade, and the fields of battle; mountains infested by barbarians, and fruitful regions gladdened by plenty, and lulled by peace! How easily shall we then trace the Nile through all its passage; pass over to distant regions, and examine the face of nature, from one extremity of the earth to the other!" "All this," said the prince, "is much to be desired; but I am afraid, that no man will be able to breathe in these regions of speculation and tranquillity. I have been told, that respiration is difficult upon lofty mountains, yet, from these precipices, though so high as to produce great tenuity of air, it is very easy to fall; therefore, I suspect, that from any height, where life can be supported, there may be danger of too quick descent." "Nothing," replied the artist, "will ever be attempted, if all possible objections must be first overcome. If you will favour my project, I will try the first flight at my own hazard. I have considered the structure of all volant animals, and find the folding continuity of the bat's wings most easily accommodated to the human form. Upon this model, I shall begin my task tomorrow, and in a year, expect to tower into the air beyond the malice and pursuit of man. But I will work only on this condition, that the art shall not be divulged, and that you shall not require me to make wings for any but ourselves." "Why," said Rasselas, "should you envy others so great an advantage? All skill ought to be exerted for universal good; every man has owed much to others, and ought to repay the kindness that he has received." "If men were all virtuous," returned the artist, "I should, with great alacrity, teach them all to fly. But what would be the security of the good, if the bad could, at pleasure, invade them from the sky? Against an army sailing through the clouds, neither walls, nor mountains, nor seas, could afford any security. A flight of northern savages might hover in the wind, and light, at once, with irresistible violence, upon the capital of a fruitful region, that was rolling under them. Even this valley, the retreat of princes, the abode of happiness, might be violated by the sudden descent of some of the naked nations, that swarm on the coast of the southern sea." The prince promised secrecy, and waited for the performance, not wholly hopeless of success. He visited the work, from time to time, observed its progress, and remarked many ingenious contrivances, to facilitate motion, and unite levity with strength. The artist was every day more certain, that he should leave vultures and eagles behind him, and the contagion of his confidence seized upon the prince. In a year the wings were finished, and, on a morning appointed, the maker appeared, furnished for flight, on a little promontory: he waved his pinions awhile, to gather air, then leaped from his stand, and, in an instant, dropped into the lake. His wings, which were of no use in the air, sustained him in the water, and the prince drew him to land, half dead with terrour and vexation.[a] [a] See Rambler, No. 199, and note. CHAP. VII. THE PRINCE FINDS A MAN OF LEARNING. The prince was not much afflicted by this disaster, having suffered himself to hope for a happier event, only because he had no other means of escape in view. He still persisted in his design to leave the happy valley by the first opportunity. His imagination was now at a stand; he had no prospect of entering into the world; and, notwithstanding all his endeavours to support himself, discontent, by degrees, preyed upon him, and he began again to lose his thoughts in sadness, when the rainy season, which, in these countries, is periodical, made it inconvenient to wander in the woods. The rain continued longer, and with more violence, than had been ever known: the clouds broke on the surrounding mountains, and the torrents streamed into the plain on every side, till the cavern was too narrow to discharge the water. The lake overflowed its banks, and all the level of the valley was covered with the inundation. The eminence, on which the palace was built, and some other spots of rising ground, were all that the eye could now discover. The herds and flocks left the pastures, and both the wild beasts and the tame retreated to the mountains. This inundation confined all the princes to domestick amusements, and the attention of Rasselas was particularly seized by a poem, which Imlac rehearsed, upon the various conditions of humanity. He commanded the poet to attend him in his apartment, and recite his verses a second time; then entering into familiar talk, he thought himself happy in having found a man who knew the world so well, and could so skilfully paint the scenes of life. He asked a thousand questions about things, to which, though common to all other mortals, his confinement, from childhood, had kept him a stranger. The poet pitied his ignorance, and loved his curiosity, and entertained him, from day to day, with novelty and instruction, so that the prince regretted the necessity of sleep, and longed till the morning should renew his pleasure. As they were sitting together, the prince commanded Imlac to relate his history, and to tell by what accident he was forced, or by what motive induced, to close his life in the happy valley. As he was going to begin his narrative, Rasselas was called to a concert, and obliged to restrain his curiosity till the evening. CHAP. VIII. THE HISTORY OF IMLAC. The close of the day is, in the regions of the torrid zone, the only season of diversion and entertainment, and it was, therefore, midnight before the musick ceased, and the princesses retired. Rasselas then called for his companion, and required him to begin the story of his life. "Sir," said Imlac, "my history will not be long; the life, that is devoted to knowledge, passes silently away, and is very little diversified by events. To talk in publick, to think in solitude, to read and hear, to inquire, and answer inquiries, is the business of a scholar. He wanders about the world without pomp or terrour, and is neither known nor valued but by men like himself. "I was born in the kingdom of Goiama, at no great distance from the fountain of the Nile. My father was a wealthy merchant, who traded between the inland countries of Africk and the ports of the Red sea. He was honest, frugal, and diligent, but of mean sentiments, and narrow comprehension; he desired only to be rich, and to conceal his riches, lest he should be spoiled by the governours of the province." "Surely," said the prince, "my father must be negligent of his charge, if any man, in his dominions, dares take that which belongs to another. Does he not know, that kings are accountable for injustice permitted, as well as done? If I were emperour, not the meanest of my subjects should be oppressed with impunity. My blood boils, when I am told that a merchant durst not enjoy his honest gains, for fear of losing them by the rapacity of power. Name the governour, who robbed the people, that I may declare his crimes to the emperour." "Sir," said Imlac, "your ardour is the natural effect of virtue animated by youth: the time will come, when you will acquit your father, and, perhaps, hear with less impatience of the governour. Oppression is, in the Abissinian dominions, neither frequent nor tolerated; but no form of government has been yet discovered, by which cruelty can be wholly prevented. Subordination supposes power on one part, and subjection on the other; and if power be in the hands of men, it will, sometimes, be abused. The vigilance of the supreme magistrate may do much, but much will still remain undone. He can never know all the crimes that are committed, and can seldom punish all that he knows." "This," said the prince, "I do not understand, but I had rather hear thee than dispute. Continue thy narration." "My father," proceeded Imlac, "originally intended that I should have no other education, than such as might qualify me for commerce; and, discovering in me great strength of memory, and quickness of apprehension, often declared his hope, that I should be, some time, the richest man in Abissinia." "Why," said the prince, "did thy father desire the increase of his wealth, when it was already greater than he durst discover or enjoy? I am unwilling to doubt thy veracity, yet inconsistencies cannot both be true." "Inconsistencies," answered Imlac, "cannot both be right, but, imputed to man, they may both be true. Yet diversity is not inconsistency. My father might expect a time of greater security. However, some desire is necessary to keep life in motion, and he, whose real wants are supplied, must admit those of fancy." "This," said the prince, "I can, in some measure, conceive. I repent that I interrupted thee." "With this hope," proceeded Imlac, "he sent me to school; but when I had once found the delight of knowledge, and felt the pleasure of intelligence and the pride of invention, I began, silently, to despise riches, and determined to disappoint the purpose of my father, whose grossness of conception raised my pity. I was twenty years old before his tenderness would expose me to the fatigue of travel, in which time I had been instructed, by successive masters, in all the literature of my native country. As every hour taught me something new, I lived in a continual course of gratifications; but, as I advanced towards manhood, I lost much of the reverence with which I had been used to look on my instructers; because, when the lesson was ended, I did not find them wiser or better than common men. "At length my father resolved to initiate me in commerce, and, opening one of his subterranean treasuries, counted out ten thousand pieces of gold. This, young man, said he, is the stock with which you must negotiate. I began with less than the fifth part, and you see how diligence and parsimony have increased it. This is your own, to waste or to improve. If you squander it by negligence or caprice, you must wait for my death, before you will be rich: if, in four years, you double your stock, we will thenceforward let subordination cease, and live together as friends and partners; for he shall always be equal with me, who is equally skilled in the art of growing rich. "We laid our money upon camels, concealed in bales of cheap goods, and travelled to the shore of the Red sea. When I cast my eye on the expanse of waters, my heart bounded like that of a prisoner escaped. I felt an unextinguishable curiosity kindle in my mind, and resolved to snatch this opportunity of seeing the manners of other nations, and of learning sciences unknown in Abissinia. "I remembered that my father had obliged me to the improvement of my stock, not by a promise, which I ought not to violate, but by a penalty, which I was at liberty to incur; and, therefore, determined to gratify my predominant desire, and, by drinking at the fountains of knowledge, to quench the thirst of curiosity. "As I was supposed to trade without connexion with my father, it was easy for me to become acquainted with the master of a ship, and procure a passage to some other country. I had no motives of choice to regulate my voyage; it was sufficient for me, that, wherever I wandered, I should see a country, which I had not seen before. I, therefore, entered a ship bound for Surat, having left a letter for my father, declaring my intention. CHAP. IX. THE HISTORY OF IMLAC CONTINUED. "When I first entered upon the world of waters, and lost sight of land, I looked round about me with pleasing terrour, and, thinking my soul enlarged by the boundless prospect, imagined that I could gaze round for ever without satiety; but, in a short time, I grew weary of looking on barren uniformity, where I could only see again what I had already seen. I then descended into the ship, and doubted, for awhile, whether all my future pleasures would not end like this, in disgust and disappointment. Yet, surely, said I, the ocean and the land are very different; the only variety of water is rest and motion, but the earth has mountains and valleys, deserts and cities; it is inhabited by men of different customs and contrary opinions; and I may hope to find variety in life, though I should miss it in nature. "With this thought I quieted my mind, and amused myself during the voyage, sometimes by learning from the sailors the art of navigation, which I have never practised, and sometimes by forming schemes for my conduct in different situations, in not one of which I have been ever placed. "I was almost weary of my naval amusements, when we landed safely at Surat. I secured my money, and, purchasing some commodities for show, joined myself to a caravan that was passing into the inland country. My companions, for some reason or other, conjecturing that I was rich, and, by my inquiries and admiration, finding that I was ignorant, considered me as a novice, whom they had a right to cheat, and who was to learn, at the usual expense, the art of fraud. They exposed me to the theft of servants, and the exaction of officers, and saw me plundered, upon false pretences, without any advantage to themselves, but that of rejoicing in the superiority of their own knowledge." "Stop a moment," said the prince. "Is there such depravity in man, as that he should injure another, without benefit to himself? I can easily conceive, that all are pleased with superiority: but your ignorance was merely accidental, which, being neither your crime nor your folly, could afford them no reason to applaud themselves; and the knowledge which they had, and which you wanted, they might as effectually have shown by warning, as betraying you." "Pride," said Imlac, "is seldom delicate; it will please itself with very mean advantages; and envy feels not its own happiness, but when it may be compared with the misery of others. They were my enemies, because they grieved to think me rich; and my oppressors, because they delighted to find me weak." "Proceed," said the prince: "I do not doubt of the facts which you relate, but imagine that you impute them to mistaken motives." "In this company," said Imlac, "I arrived at Agra, the capital of Indostan, the city in which the great mogul commonly resides. I applied myself to the language of the country, and, in a few months, was able to converse with the learned men; some of whom I found morose and reserved, and others easy and communicative; some were unwilling to teach another what they had, with difficulty, learned themselves; and some showed, that the end of their studies was to gain the dignity of instructing. "To the tutor of the young princes I recommended myself so much, that I was presented to the emperour as a man of uncommon knowledge. The emperour asked me many questions concerning my country and my travels; and though I cannot now recollect any thing that he uttered above the power of a common man, he dismissed me astonished at his wisdom, and enamoured of his goodness. "My credit was now so high, that the merchants, with whom I had travelled, applied to me for recommendations to the ladies of the court. I was surprised at their confidence of solicitation, and gently reproached them with their practices on the road. They heard me with cold indifference, and showed no tokens of shame or sorrow. "They then urged their request with the offer of a bribe; but what I would not do for kindness, I would not do for money; and refused them, not because they had injured me, but because I would not enable them to injure others; for I knew they would have made use of my credit to cheat those who should buy their wares. "Having resided at Agra till there was no more to be learned, I travelled into Persia, where I saw many remains of ancient magnificence, and observed many new accommodations of life. The Persians are a nation eminently social, and their assemblies afforded me daily opportunities of remarking characters and manners, and of tracing human nature through all its variations. "From Persia I passed into Arabia, where I saw a nation at once pastoral and warlike; who live without any settled habitation; whose only wealth is their flocks and herds; and who have yet carried on, through all ages, an hereditary war with all mankind, though they neither covet nor envy their possessions." CHAP. X. IMLAC'S HISTORY CONTINUED. A DISSERTATION UPON POETRY. "Wherever I went, I found that poetry was considered as the highest learning, and regarded with a veneration, somewhat approaching to that which man would pay to the angelick nature. And yet it fills me with wonder, that, in almost all countries, the most ancient poets are considered as the best: whether it be that every other kind of knowledge is an acquisition gradually attained, and poetry is a gift conferred at once; or that the first poetry of every nation surprised them as a novelty, and retained the credit by consent, which it received by accident at first: or whether, as the province of poetry is to describe nature and passion, which are always the same, the first writers took possession of the most striking objects for description, and the most probable occurrences for fiction, and left nothing to those that followed them, but transcription of the same events, and new combinations of the same images. Whatever be the reason, it is commonly observed, that the early writers are in possession of nature, and their followers of art: that the first excel in strength and invention, and the latter in elegance and refinement. "I was desirous to add my name to this illustrious fraternity. I read all the poets of Persia and Arabia, and was able to repeat, by memory, the volumes that are suspended in the mosque of Mecca. But I soon found, that no man was ever great by imitation. My desire of excellence impelled me to transfer my attention to nature and to life. Nature was to be my subject, and men to be my auditors: I could never describe what I had not seen; I could not hope to move those with delight or terrour, whose interest and opinions I did not understand. "Being now resolved to be a poet, I saw every thing with a new purpose; my sphere of attention was suddenly magnified: no kind of knowledge was to be overlooked. I ranged mountains and deserts for images and resemblances, and pictured upon my mind every tree of the forest and flower of the valley. I observed, with equal care, the crags of the rock and the pinnacles of the palace. Sometimes I wandered along the mazes of the rivulet, and sometimes watched the changes of the summer clouds. To a poet, nothing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful, and whatever is dreadful, must be familiar to his imagination: he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast, or elegantly little. The plants of the garden, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety; for every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of moral or religious truth; and he, who knows most, will have most power of diversifying his scenes, and of gratifying his reader with remote allusions and unexpected instruction. "All the appearances of nature I was, therefore, careful to study, and every country, which I have surveyed, has contributed something to my poetical powers." "In so wide a survey," said the prince, "you must surely have left much unobserved. I have lived till now, within the circuit of these mountains, and yet cannot walk abroad without the sight of something, which I had never beheld before, or never heeded." "The business of a poet," said Imlac, "is to examine, not the individual, but the species; to remark general properties and large appearances: he does not number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the different shades in the verdure of the forest. He is to exhibit, in his portraits of nature, such prominent and striking features, as recall the original to every mind; and must neglect the minuter discriminations, which one may have remarked, and another have neglected, for those characteristicks which are alike obvious to vigilance and carelessness. "But the knowledge of nature is only half the task of a poet; he must be acquainted, likewise, with all the modes of life. His character requires, that he estimate the happiness and misery of every condition; observe the power of all the passions in all their combinations, and trace the changes of the human mind, as they are modified by various institutions, and accidental influences of climate or custom, from the sprightliness of infancy to the despondence of decrepitude. He must divest himself of the prejudices of his age or country; he must consider right and wrong in their abstracted and invariable state; he must disregard present laws and opinions, and rise to general and transcendental truths, which will always be the same; he must, therefore, content himself with the slow progress of his name; contemn the applause of his own time, and commit his claims to the justice of posterity. He must write, as the interpreter of nature, and the legislator of mankind, and consider himself, as presiding over the thoughts and manners of future generations; as a being superiour to time and place. "His labour is not yet at an end: he must know many languages and many sciences; and, that his style may be worthy of his thoughts, must, by incessant practice, familiarize to himself every delicacy of speech and grace of harmony." CHAP. XI. IMLAC'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. A HINT ON PILGRIMAGE. Imlac now felt the enthusiastick fit, and was proceeding to aggrandize his own profession, when the prince cried out: "Enough! thou hast convinced me, that no human being can ever be a poet. Proceed with thy narration." "To be a poet," said Imlac, "is, indeed, very difficult." "So difficult," returned the prince, "that I will, at present, hear no more of his labours. Tell me whither you went, when you had seen Persia." "From Persia," said the poet, "I travelled through Syria, and for three years resided in Palestine, where I conversed with great numbers of the northern and western nations of Europe; the nations which are now in possession of all power and all knowledge; whose armies are irresistible, and whose fleets command the remotest parts of the globe. When I compared these men with the natives of our own kingdom, and those that surround us, they appeared almost another order of beings. In their countries it is difficult to wish for any thing that may not be obtained: a thousand arts, of which we never heard, are continually labouring for their convenience and pleasure; and whatever their own climate has denied them is supplied by their commerce." "By what means," said the prince, "are the Europeans thus powerful, or why, since they can so easily visit Asia and Africa, for trade or conquest, cannot the Asiaticks and Africans invade their coasts, plant colonies in their ports, and give laws to their natural princes? The same wind that carries them back would bring us thither." "They are more powerful, sir, than we," answered Imlac, "because they are wiser; knowledge will always predominate over ignorance, as man governs the other animals. But why their knowledge is more than ours, I know not what reason can be given, but the unsearchable will of the supreme being." "When," said the prince, with a sigh, "shall I be able to visit Palestine, and mingle with this mighty confluence of nations? Till that happy moment shall arrive, let me fill up the time with such representations as thou canst give me. I am not ignorant of the motive that assembles such numbers in that place, and cannot but consider it as the centre of wisdom and piety, to which the best and wisest men of every land must be continually resorting." "There are some nations," said Imlac, "that send few visitants to Palestine; for many numerous and learned sects in Europe concur to censure pilgrimage, as superstitious, or deride it as ridiculous." "You know," said the prince, "how little my life has made me acquainted with diversity of opinions; it will be too long to hear the arguments on both sides; you, that have considered them, tell me the result." "Pilgrimage," said Imlac, "like many other acts of piety, may be reasonable or superstitious, according to the principles upon which it is performed. Long journeys, in search of truth, are not commanded. Truth, such as is necessary to the regulation of life, is always found where it is honestly sought. Change of place is no natural cause of the increase of piety, for it inevitably produces dissipation of mind. Yet, since men go every day to view the fields where great actions have been performed, and return with stronger impressions of the event, curiosity of the same kind may naturally dispose us to view that country whence our religion had its beginning; and, I believe, no man surveys those awful scenes without some confirmation of holy resolutions. That the supreme being may be more easily propitiated in one place than in another, is the dream of idle superstition; but that some places may operate upon our own minds in an uncommon manner, is an opinion which hourly experience will justify[a]. He who supposes that his vices may be more successfully combated in Palestine, will, perhaps, find himself mistaken, yet he may go thither without folly; he who thinks they will be more freely pardoned, dishonours, at once, his reason and religion." "These," said the prince, "are European distinctions. I will consider them another time. What have you found to be the effect of knowledge? Are those nations happier than we?" "There is so much infelicity," said the poet, "in the world, that scarce any man has leisure, from his own distresses, to estimate the comparative happiness of others. Knowledge is certainly one of the means of pleasure, as is confessed by the natural desire which every mind feels of increasing its ideas. Ignorance is mere privation, by which nothing can be produced; it is a vacuity, in which the soul sits motionless and torpid, for want of attraction; and, without knowing why, we always rejoice when we learn, and grieve when we forget. I am, therefore, inclined to conclude, that, if nothing counteracts the natural consequence of learning, we grow more happy, as our minds take a wider range. "In enumerating the particular comforts of life, we shall find many advantages on the side of the Europeans. They cure wounds and diseases, with which we languish and perish. We suffer inclemencies of weather, which they can obviate. They have engines for the despatch of many laborious works, which we must perform by manual industry. There is such communication between distant places, that one friend can hardly be said to be absent from another. Their policy removes all publick inconveniencies: they have roads cut through their mountains, and bridges laid upon their rivers. And, if we descend to the privacies of life, their habitations are more commodious, and their possessions are more secure." "They are surely happy," said the prince, "who have all these conveniencies, of which I envy none so much as the facility with which separated friends interchange their thoughts." "The Europeans," answered Imlac, "are less unhappy than we, but they are not happy. Human life is everywhere a state, in which much is to be endured, and little to be enjoyed." [a] See Idler, No. 33, and note: and read, in Dr. Clarke's travels, the effect produced on his mind by the distant prospect of the Holy City, and by the habitual reverence of his guides. The passage exemplifies the sublime in narrative. See his Travels in Greece, Egypt, and the Holy Land, part ii. sect. i. 8vo. ed. vol. iv. p. 288.--Ed. CHAP. XII. THE STORY OF IMLAC CONTINUED. "I am not yet willing," said the prince, "to suppose, that happiness is so parsimoniously distributed to mortals; nor can believe but that, if I had the choice of life, I should be able to fill every day with pleasure. I would injure no man, and should provoke no resentment: I would relieve every distress, and should enjoy the benedictions of gratitude. I would choose my friends among the wise, and my wife among the virtuous; and, therefore, should be in no danger from treachery or unkindness. My children should, by my care, be learned and pious, and would repay to my age what their childhood had received. What would dare to molest him, who might call, on every side, to thousands enriched by his bounty, or assisted by his power? And why should not life glide quietly away in the soft reciprocation of protection and reverence? All this may be done without the help of European refinements, which appear, by their effects, to be rather specious than useful. Let us leave them, and pursue our journey." "From Palestine," said Imlac, "I passed through many regions of Asia; in the more civilized kingdoms, as a trader, and among the barbarians of the mountains, as a pilgrim. At last, I began to long for my native country, that I might repose, after my travels and fatigues, in the places where I had spent my earliest years, and gladden my old companions, with the recital of my adventures. Often did I figure to myself those with whom I had sported away the gay hours of dawning life, sitting round me in its evening, wondering at my tales, and listening to my counsels. "When this thought had taken possession of my mind, I considered every moment as wasted, which did not bring me nearer to Abissinia. I hastened into Egypt, and, notwithstanding my impatience, was detained ten months in the contemplation of its ancient magnificence, and in inquiries after the remains of its ancient learning. I found in Cairo a mixture of all nations; some brought thither by the love of knowledge, some by the hope of gain, and many by the desire of living, after their own manner, without observation, and of lying hid in the obscurity of multitudes: for in a city, populous as Cairo, it is possible to obtain, at the same time, the gratifications of society, and the secrecy of solitude. "From Cairo I travelled to Suez, and embarked on the Red sea, passing along the coast, till I arrived at the port from which I had departed twenty years before. Here I joined myself to a caravan, and reentered my native country. "I now expected the caresses of my kinsmen, and the congratulations of my friends, and was not without hope that my father, whatever value he had set upon riches, would own, with gladness and pride, a son, who was able to add to the felicity and honour of the nation. But I was soon convinced that my thoughts were vain. My father had been dead fourteen years, having divided his wealth among my brothers, who were removed to some other provinces. Of my companions, the greater part was in the grave; of the rest, some could, with difficulty, remember me, and some considered me, as one corrupted by foreign manners. "A man, used to vicissitudes, is not easily dejected. I forgot, after a time, my disappointment, and endeavoured to recommend myself to the nobles of the kingdom; they admitted me to their tables, heard my story, and dismissed me. I opened a school, and was prohibited to teach. I then resolved to sit down in the quiet of domestick life, and addressed a lady that was fond of my conversation, but rejected my suit, because my father was a merchant. "Wearied, at last, with solicitation and repulses, I resolved to hide myself for ever from the world, and depend no longer on the opinion or caprice of others. I waited for the time, when the gate of the happy valley should open, that I might bid farewell to hope and fear: the day came; my performance was distinguished with favour, and I resigned myself with joy to perpetual confinement." "Hast thou here found happiness at last?" said Rasselas. "Tell me, without reserve; art thou content with thy condition? or, dost thou wish to be again wandering and inquiring? All the inhabitants of this valley celebrate their lot, and, at the annual visit of the emperour, invite others to partake of their felicity." "Great prince," said Imlac, "I shall speak the truth; I know not one of all your attendants who does not lament the hour when he entered this retreat. I am less unhappy than the rest, because I have a mind replete with images, which I can vary and combine at pleasure. I can amuse my solitude by the renovation of the knowledge which begins to fade from my memory, and by recollection of the accidents of my past life. Yet all this ends in the sorrowful consideration, that my acquirements are now useless, and that none of my pleasures can be again enjoyed. The rest, whose minds have no impression but of the present moment, are either corroded by malignant passions, or sit stupid in the gloom of perpetual vacancy." "What passions can infest those," said the prince, "who have no rivals? We are in a place where impotence precludes malice, and where all envy is repressed by community of enjoyments." "There may be community," said Imlac, "of material possessions, but there can never be community of love or of esteem. It must happen, that one will please more than another; he that knows himself despised will always be envious; and still more envious and malevolent, if he is condemned to live in the presence of those who despise him. The invitations, by which they allure others to a state which they feel to be wretched, proceed from the natural malignity of hopeless misery. They are weary of themselves, and of each other, and expect to find relief in new companions. They envy the liberty which their folly has forfeited, and would gladly see all mankind imprisoned like themselves. "From this crime, however, I am wholly free. No man can say that he is wretched by my persuasion. I look with pity on the crowds who are annually soliciting admission to captivity, and wish that it were lawful for me to warn them of their danger." "My dear Imlac," said the prince, "I will open to thee my whole heart. I have long meditated an escape from the happy valley. I have examined the mountains on every side, but find myself insuperably barred: teach me the way to break my prison; thou shalt be the companion of my flight, the guide of my rambles, the partner of my fortune, and my sole director in the CHOICE OF LIFE." "Sir," answered the poet, "your escape will be difficult, and, perhaps, you may soon repent your curiosity. The world, which you figure to yourself smooth and quiet as the lake in the valley, you will find a sea foaming with tempests, and boiling with whirlpools; you will be sometimes overwhelmed by the waves of violence, and sometimes dashed against the rocks of treachery. Amidst wrongs and frauds, competitions and anxieties, you will wish, a thousand times, for these seats of quiet, and willingly quit hope to be free from fear." "Do not seek to deter me from my purpose," said the prince: "I am impatient to see what thou hast seen; and, since thou art thyself weary of the valley, it is evident that thy former state was better than this. Whatever be the consequence of my experiment, I am resolved to judge, with mine own eyes, of the various conditions of men, and then to make, deliberately, my CHOICE OF LIFE. "I am afraid," said Imlac, "you are hindered by stronger restraints than my persuasions; yet, if your determination is fixed, I do not counsel you to despair. Few things are impossible to diligence and skill." CHAP. XIII. RASSELAS DISCOVERS THE MEANS OF ESCAPE. The prince now dismissed his favourite to rest, but the narrative of wonders and novelties filled his mind with perturbation. He revolved all that he had heard, and prepared innumerable questions for the morning. Much of his uneasiness was now removed. He had a friend to whom he could impart his thoughts, and whose experience could assist him in his designs. His heart was no longer condemned to swell with silent vexation. He thought that even the happy valley might be endured, with such a companion, and that, if they could range the world together, he should have nothing further to desire. In a few days the water was discharged, and the ground dried. The prince and Imlac then walked out together, to converse, without the notice of the rest. The prince, whose thoughts were always on the wing, as he passed by the gate, said, with a countenance of sorrow, "Why art thou so strong, and why is man so weak?" "Man is not weak," answered his companion; "knowledge is more than equivalent to force. The master of mechanicks laughs at strength. I can burst the gate, but cannot do it secretly. Some other expedient must be tried." As they were walking on the side of the mountain, they observed that the conies, which the rain had driven from their burrows, had taken shelter among the bushes, and formed holes behind them, tending upwards, in an oblique line. "It has been the opinion of antiquity," said Imlac, "that human reason borrowed many arts from the instinct of animals; let us, therefore, not think ourselves degraded by learning from the cony. We may escape, by piercing the mountain in the same direction. We will begin, where the summit hangs over the middle part, and labour upwards, till we shall issue up beyond the prominence." The eyes of the prince, when he heard this proposal, sparkled with joy. The execution was easy, and the success certain. No time was now lost. They hastened, early in the morning, to choose a place proper for their mine. They clambered, with great fatigue, among crags and brambles, and returned without having discovered any part that favoured their design. The second and the third day were spent in the same manner, and with the same frustration. But, on the fourth, they found a small cavern, concealed by a thicket, where they resolved to make their experiment. Imlac procured instruments proper to hew stone and remove earth, and they fell to their work on the next day with more eagerness than vigour. They were presently exhausted by their efforts, and sat down to pant upon the grass. The prince, for a moment, appeared to be discouraged. "Sir," said his companion, "practice will enable us to continue our labour for a longer time; mark, however, how far we have advanced, and you will find, that our toil will sometime have an end. Great works are performed, not by strength, but perseverance: yonder palace was raised by single stones, yet you see its height and spaciousness. He that shall walk with vigour three hours a day, will pass, in seven years, a space equal to the circumference of the globe." They returned to their work day after day, and, in a short time, found a fissure in the rock, which enabled them to pass far with very little obstruction. This Rasselas considered as a good omen. "Do not disturb your mind," said Imlac, "with other hopes or fears than reason may suggest; if you are pleased with prognosticks of good, you will be terrified, likewise, with tokens of evil, and your whole life will be a prey to superstition. Whatever facilitates our work is more than an omen, it is a cause of success. This is one of those pleasing surprises which often happen to active resolution. Many tilings, difficult to design, prove easy to performance." CHAP. XIV. RASSELAS AND IMLAC RECEIVE AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. They had now wrought their way to the middle, and solaced their toil with the approach of liberty, when the prince, coming down to refresh himself with air, found his sister Nekayah, standing before the mouth of the cavity. He started, and stood confused, afraid to tell his design, yet hopeless to conceal it. A few moments determined him to repose on her fidelity, and secure her secrecy by a declaration without reserve. "Do not imagine," said the princess, "that I came hither, as a spy: I had long observed, from my window, that you and Imlac directed your walk every day towards the same point, but I did not suppose you had any better reason for the preference than a cooler shade, or more fragrant bank; nor followed you with any other design than to partake of your conversation. Since, then, not suspicion, but fondness, has detected you, let me not lose the advantage of my discovery. I am equally weary of confinement with yourself, and not less desirous of knowing what is done or suffered in the world. Permit me to fly with you from this tasteless tranquillity, which will yet grow more loathsome when you have left me. You may deny me to accompany you, but cannot hinder me from following." The prince, who loved Nekayah, above his other sisters, had no inclination to refuse her request, and grieved, that he had lost an opportunity of showing his confidence by a voluntary communication. It was, therefore, agreed, that she should leave the valley with them; and that, in the mean time, she should watch, lest any other straggler should, by chance or curiosity, follow them to the mountain. At length their labour was at an end; they saw light beyond the prominence, and, issuing to the top of the mountain, beheld the Nile, yet a narrow current, wandering beneath them. The prince looked round with rapture, anticipated all the pleasures of travel, and, in thought, was already transported beyond his father's dominions. Imlac, though very joyful at his escape, had less expectation of pleasure in the world, which he had before tried, and of which he had been weary. Rasselas was so much delighted with a wider horizon, that he could not soon be persuaded to return into the valley. He informed his sister, that the way was open, and that nothing now remained but to prepare for their departure. CHAP. XV. THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS LEAVE THE VALLEY, AND SEE MANY WONDERS. The prince and princess had jewels sufficient to make them rich, whenever they came into a place of commerce, which, by Imlac's direction, they hid in their clothes, and, on the night of the next full moon, all left the valley. The princess was followed only by a single favourite, who did not know whither she was going. They clambered through the cavity, and began to go down on the other side. The princess and her maid turned their eyes towards every part, and, seeing nothing to bound their prospect, considered themselves, as in danger of being lost in a dreary vacuity. They stopped and trembled. "I am almost afraid," said the princess, "to begin a journey, of which I cannot perceive an end, and to venture into this immense plain, where I may be approached, on every side, by men whom I never saw." The prince felt nearly the same emotions, though he thought it more manly to conceal them. Imlac smiled at their terrours, and encouraged them to proceed; but the princess continued irresolute, till she had been, imperceptibly, drawn forward too far to return. In the morning they found some shepherds in the field, who set milk and fruits before them. The princess wondered, that she did not see a palace ready for her reception, and a table spread with delicacies; but, being faint and hungry, she drank the milk, and eat the fruits, and thought them of a higher flavour than the produce of the valley. They travelled forward by easy journeys, being all unaccustomed to toil or difficulty, and knowing that, though they might be missed, they could not be pursued. In a few days they came into a more populous region, where Imlac was diverted with the admiration, which his companions expressed at the diversity of manners, stations, and employments. Their dress was such, as might not bring upon them the suspicion of having any thing to conceal; yet the prince, wherever he came, expected to be obeyed; and the princess was frightened, because those that came into her presence did not prostrate themselves before her. Imlac was forced to observe them with great vigilance, lest they should betray their rank by their unusual behaviour, and detained them several weeks in the first village, to accustom them to the sight of common mortals. By degrees, the royal wanderers were taught to understand that they had, for a time, laid aside their dignity, and were to expect only such regard, as liberality and courtesy could procure. And Imlac having, by many admonitions, prepared them to endure the tumults of a port, and the ruggedness of the commercial race, brought them down to the seacoast. The prince and his sister, to whom every thing was new, were gratified equally at all places, and, therefore, remained, for some months, at the port, without any inclination to pass further. Imlac was content with their stay, because he did not think it safe to expose them, unpractised in the world, to the hazards of a foreign country. At last he began to fear, lest they should be discovered, and proposed to fix a day for their departure. They had no pretensions to judge for themselves, and referred the whole scheme to his direction. He, therefore, took passage in a ship to Suez; and, when the time came, with great difficulty, prevailed on the princess to enter the vessel. They had a quick and prosperous voyage, and from Suez travelled by land to Cairo. CHAP. XVI. THEY ENTER CAIRO, AND FIND EVERY MAN HAPPY. As they approached the city, which filled the strangers with astonishment, "This," said Imlac to the prince, "is the place where travellers and merchants assemble from all the corners of the earth. You will here find men of every character, and every occupation. Commerce is here honourable: I will act as a merchant, and you shall live as strangers, who have no other end of travel than curiosity; it will soon be observed that we are rich; our reputation will procure us access to all whom we shall desire to know; you will see all the conditions of humanity, and enable yourself, at leisure, to make your CHOICE OF LIFE." They now entered the town, stunned by the noise, and offended by the crowds. Instruction had not yet so prevailed over habit, but that they wondered to see themselves pass, undistinguished, along the street, and met, by the lowest of the people, without reverence or notice. The princess could not, at first, bear the thought of being levelled with the vulgar, and, for some days, continued in her chamber, where she was served by her favourite, Pekuah, as in the palace of the valley. Imlac, who understood traffick, sold part of the jewels the next day, and hired a house, which he adorned with such magnificence, that he was immediately considered as a merchant of great wealth. His politeness attracted many acquaintance, and his generosity made him courted by many dependants. His table was crowded by men of every nation, who all admired his knowledge, and solicited his favour. His companions, not being able to mix in the conversation, could make no discovery of their ignorance or surprise, and were gradually initiated in the world, as they gained knowledge of the language. The prince had, by frequent lectures, been taught the use and nature of money; but the ladies could not, for a long time, comprehend what the merchants did with small pieces of gold and silver, or why things of so little use should be received as equivalent to the necessaries of life. They studied the language two years, while Imlac was preparing to set before them the various ranks and conditions of mankind. He grew acquainted with all who had any thing uncommon in their fortune or conduct. He frequented the voluptuous and the frugal, the idle and the busy, the merchants and the men of learning. The prince, being now able to converse with fluency, and having learned the caution necessary to be observed in his intercourse with strangers, began to accompany Imlac to places of resort, and to enter into all assemblies, that he might make his CHOICE OF LIFE. For some time, he thought choice needless, because all appeared, to him, equally happy. Wherever he went he met gaiety and kindness, and heard the song of joy, or the laugh of carelessness. He began to believe, that the world overflowed with universal plenty, and that nothing was withheld either from want or merit; that every hand showered liberality, and every heart melted with benevolence; "and who then," says he, "will be suffered to be wretched?" Imlac permitted the pleasing delusion, and was unwilling to crush the hope of inexperience, till one day, having sat awhile silent, "I know not," said the prince, "what can be the reason, that I am more unhappy than any of our friends. I see them perpetually and unalterably cheerful, but feel my own mind restless and uneasy. I am unsatisfied with those pleasures which I seem most to court; I live in the crowds of jollity, not so much to enjoy company, as to shun myself, and am only loud and merry to conceal my sadness." "Every man," said Imlac, "may, by examining his own mind, guess what passes in the minds of others: when you feel that your own gaiety is counterfeit, it may justly lead you to suspect that of your companions not to be sincere. Envy is commonly reciprocal. We are long before we are convinced, that happiness is never to be found, and each believes it possessed by others, to keep alive the hope of obtaining it for himself. In the assembly, where you passed the last night, there appeared such sprightliness of air, and volatility of fancy, as might have suited beings of a higher order, formed to inhabit serener regions, inaccessible to care or sorrow; yet, believe me, prince, there was not one who did not dread the moment, when solitude should deliver him to the tyranny of reflection." "This" said the prince, "may be true of others, since it is true of me; yet, whatever be the general infelicity of man, one condition is more happy than another, and wisdom surely directs us to take the least evil in the CHOICE OF LIFE." "The causes of good and evil," answered Imlac, "are so various and uncertain, so often entangled with each other, so diversified by various relations, and so much subject to accidents, which cannot be foreseen, that he, who would fix his condition upon incontestable reasons of preference, must live and die inquiring and deliberating." "But surely," said Rasselas, "the wise men, to whom we listen with reverence and wonder, chose that mode of life for themselves, which they thought most likely to make them happy." "Very few," said the poet, "live by choice. Every man is placed in his present condition by causes which acted without his foresight, and with which he did not always willingly cooperate; and, therefore, you will rarely meet one, who does not think the lot of his neighbour better than his own." "I am pleased to think," said the prince, "that my birth has given me, at least, one advantage over others, by enabling me to determine for myself. I have here the world before me; I will review it at leisure: surely happiness is somewhere to be found." CHAP. XVII. THE PRINCE ASSOCIATES WITH YOUNG MEN OF SPIRIT AND GAIETY. Rasselas rose next day, and resolved to begin his experiments upon life. "Youth," cried he, "is the time of gladness: I will join myself to the young men, whose only business is to gratify their desires, and whose time is all spent in a succession of enjoyments." To such societies he was readily admitted, but a few days brought him back, weary and disgusted. Their mirth was without images; their laughter without motive; their pleasures were gross and sensual, in which the mind had no part; their conduct was, at once, wild and mean; they laughed at order and at law, but the frown of power dejected, and the eye of wisdom abashed them. The prince soon concluded, that he should never be happy in a course of life, of which he was ashamed. He thought it unsuitable to a reasonable being to act without a plan, and to be sad or cheerful only by chance. "Happiness," said he, "must be something solid and permanent, without fear and without uncertainty." But his young companions had gained so much of his regard by their frankness and courtesy, that he could not leave them, without warning and remonstrance. "My friends," said he "I have seriously considered our manners and our prospects, and find that we have mistaken our own interest. The first years of man must make provision for the last. He that never thinks, never can be wise. Perpetual levity must end in ignorance; and intemperance, though it may fire the spirits for an hour, will make life short or miserable. Let us consider, that youth is of no long duration, and that, in maturer age, when the enchantments of fancy shall cease, and phantoms of delight dance no more about us, we shall have no comforts but the esteem of wise men, and the means of doing good. Let us, therefore, stop, while to stop is in our power: let us live as men who are sometime to grow old, and to whom it will be the most dreadful of all evils to count their past years by follies, and to be reminded of their former luxuriance of health, only by the maladies which riot has produced." They stared awhile, in silence, one upon another, and, at last, drove him away by a general chorus of continued laughter. The consciousness that his sentiments were just, and his intentions kind, was scarcely sufficient to support him against the horrour of derision. But he recovered his tranquillity, and pursued his search. CHAP. XVIII. THE PRINCE FINDS A WISE AND HAPPY MAN. As he was one day walking in the street, he saw a spacious building, which all were, by the open doors, invited to enter: he followed the stream of people, and found it a hall or school of declamation, in which professors read lectures to their auditory. He fixed his eye upon a sage, raised above the rest, who discoursed, with great energy, on the government of the passions. His look was venerable, his action graceful, his pronunciation clear, and his diction elegant. He showed, with great strength of sentiment, and variety of illustration, that human nature is degraded and debased, when the lower faculties predominate over the higher; that when fancy, the parent of passion, usurps the dominion of the mind, nothing ensues but the natural effect of unlawful government, perturbation and confusion; that she betrays the fortresses of the intellect to rebels, and excites her children to sedition against reason, their lawful sovereign. He compared reason to the sun, of which the light is constant, uniform, and lasting; and fancy to a meteor, of bright but transitory lustre, irregular in its motion, and delusive in its direction. He then communicated the various precepts given, from time to time, for the conquest of passion, and displayed the happiness of those who had obtained the important victory, after which man is no longer the slave of fear, nor the fool of hope; is no more emaciated by envy, inflamed by anger, emasculated by tenderness, or depressed by grief; but walks on calmly through the tumults, or privacies of life, as the sun pursues alike his course through the calm or the stormy sky. He enumerated many examples of heroes immovable by pain or pleasure, who looked with indifference on those modes or accidents, to which the vulgar give the names of good and evil. He exhorted his hearers to lay aside their prejudices, and arm themselves against the shafts of malice or misfortune, by invulnerable patience; concluding, that this state only was happiness, and that this happiness was in every one's power. Rasselas listened to him, with the veneration due to the instructions of a superiour being, and, waiting for him at the door, humbly implored the liberty of visiting so great a master of true wisdom. The lecturer hesitated a moment, when Rasselas put a purse of gold into his hand, which he received with a mixture of joy and wonder. "I have found," said the prince, at his return to Imlac, "a man who can teach all that is necessary to be known; who, from the unshaken throne of rational fortitude, looks down on the scenes of life changing beneath him. He speaks, and attention watches his lips. He reasons, and conviction closes his periods. This man shall be my future guide: I will learn his doctrines, and imitate his life." "Be not too hasty," said Imlac, "to trust, or to admire the teachers of morality: they discourse, like angels, but they live, like men." Rasselas, who could not conceive, how any man could reason so forcibly, without feeling the cogency of his own arguments, paid his visit in a few days, and was denied admission. He had now learned the power of money, and made his way, by a piece of gold, to the inner apartment, where he found the philosopher, in a room half-darkened, with his eyes misty, and his face pale. "Sir," said he, "you are come at a time when all human friendship is useless; what I suffer cannot be remedied, what I have lost cannot be supplied. My daughter, my only daughter, from whose tenderness I expected all the comforts of my age, died last night of a fever. My views, my purposes, my hopes are at an end: I am now a lonely being, disunited from society." "Sir," said the prince, "mortality is an event by which a wise man can never be surprised: we know that death is always near, and it should, therefore, always be expected." "Young man," answered the philosopher, "you speak like one that has never felt the pangs of separation." "Have you then forgot the precepts," said Rasselas, "which you so powerfully enforced? Has wisdom no strength to arm the heart against calamity? Consider, that external things are naturally variable, but truth and reason are always the same." "What comfort," said the mourner, "can truth and reason afford me? Of what effect are they now, but to tell me, that my daughter will not be restored?" The prince, whose humanity would not suffer him to insult misery with reproof, went away, convinced of the emptiness of rhetorical sound, and the inefficacy of polished periods and studied sentences. CHAP. XIX. A GLIMPSE OF PASTORAL LIFE. He was still eager upon the same inquiry: and having heard of a hermit, that lived near the lowest cataract of the Nile, and filled the whole country with the fame of his sanctity, resolved to visit his retreat, and inquire, whether that felicity, which publick life could not afford, was to be found in solitude; and whether a man, whose age and virtue made him venerable, could teach any peculiar art of shunning evils, or enduring them? Imlac and the princess agreed to accompany him, and, after the necessary preparations, they began their journey. Their way lay through the fields, where shepherds tended their flocks, and the lambs were playing upon the pasture. "This," said the poet, "is the life which has been often celebrated for its innocence and quiet; let us pass the heat of the day among the shepherds' tents, and know, whether all our searches are not to terminate in pastoral simplicity." The proposal pleased them, and they induced the shepherds, by small presents and familiar questions, to tell their opinion of their own state: they were so rude and ignorant, so little able to compare the good with the evil of the occupation, and so indistinct in their narratives and descriptions, that very little could be learned from them. But it was evident, that their hearts were cankered with discontent; that they considered themselves, as condemned to labour for the luxury of the rich, and looked up, with stupid malevolence, toward those that were placed above them. The princess pronounced with vehemence, that she would never suffer these envious savages to be her companions, and that she should not soon be desirous of seeing any more specimens of rustick happiness; but could not believe that all the accounts of primeval pleasures were fabulous; and was yet in doubt, whether life had any thing that could be justly preferred to the placid gratifications of fields and woods. She hoped, that the time would come, when, with a few virtuous and elegant companions, she should gather flowers, planted by her own hand, fondle the lambs of her own ewe, and listen, without care, among brooks and breezes, to one of her maidens reading in the shade. CHAP. XX. THE DANGER OF PROSPERITY. On the next day they continued their journey, till the heat compelled them to look round for shelter. At a small distance, they saw a thick wood, which they no sooner entered, than they perceived that they were approaching the habitations of men. The shrubs were diligently cut away to open walks, where the shades were darkest; the boughs of opposite trees were artificially interwoven; seats of flowery turf were raised in vacant spaces, and a rivulet, that wantoned along the side of a winding path, had its banks sometimes opened into small basins, and its streams sometimes obstructed by little mounds of stone, heaped together to increase its murmurs. They passed slowly through the wood, delighted with such unexpected accommodations, and entertained each other with conjecturing, what, or who, he could be, that, in those rude and unfrequented regions, had leisure and art for such harmless luxury. As they advanced, they heard the sound of musick, and saw youths and virgins dancing in the grove; and, going still further, beheld a stately palace, built upon a hill, surrounded with woods. The laws of eastern hospitality allowed them to enter, and the master welcomed them, like a man liberal and wealthy. He was skilful enough in appearances, soon to discern that they were no common guests, and spread his table with magnificence. The eloquence of Imlac caught his attention, and the lofty courtesy of the princess excited his respect. When they offered to depart, he entreated their stay, and was the next day still more unwilling to dismiss them than before. They were easily persuaded to stop, and civility grew up, in time, to freedom and confidence. The prince now saw all the domesticks cheerful, and all the face of nature smiling round the place, and could not forbear to hope that he should find here what he was seeking; but when he was congratulating the master upon his possessions, he answered, with a sigh: "My condition has, indeed, the appearance of happiness, but appearances are delusive. My prosperity puts my life in danger; the bassa of Egypt is my enemy, incensed only by my wealth and popularity. I have been, hitherto, protected against him by the princes of the country; but, as the favour of the great is uncertain, I know not, how soon my defenders may be persuaded to share the plunder with the bassa. I have sent my treasures into a distant country, and, upon the first alarm, am prepared to follow them. Then will my enemies riot in my mansion, and enjoy the gardens which I have planted." They all joined in lamenting his danger, and deprecating his exile; and the princess was so much disturbed with the tumult of grief and indignation, that she retired to her apartment. They continued with their kind inviter a few days longer, and then went forward to find the hermit. CHAP. XXI. THE HAPPINESS OF SOLITUDE. THE HERMIT'S HISTORY. They came, on the third day, by the direction of the peasants, to the hermit's cell: it was a cavern, in the side of a mountain, over-shadowed with palm-trees; at such a distance from the cataract, that nothing more was heard than a gentle uniform murmur, such as composed the mind to pensive meditation, especially when it was assisted by the wind whistling among the branches. The first rude essay of nature had been so much improved by human labour, that the cave contained several apartments, appropriated to different uses, and often afforded lodging to travellers, whom darkness or tempests happened to overtake. The hermit sat on a bench at the door, to enjoy the coolness of the evening. On one side lay a book, with pens and papers, on the other, mechanical instruments of various kinds. As they approached him unregarded, the princess observed, that he had not the countenance of a man that had found, or could teach the way to happiness. They saluted him with great respect, which he repaid, like a man not unaccustomed to the forms of courts. "My children," said he, "if you have lost your way, you shall be willingly supplied with such conveniencies, for the night, as this cavern will afford. I have all that nature requires, and you will not expect delicacies in a hermit's cell." They thanked him, and, entering, were pleased with the neatness and regularity of the place. The hermit set flesh and wine before them, though he fed only upon fruits and water. His discourse was cheerful without levity, and pious without enthusiasm. He soon gained the esteem of his guests, and the princess repented of her hasty censure. At last Imlac began thus: "I do not now wonder that your reputation is so far extended; we have heard at Cairo of your wisdom, and came hither to implore your direction for this young man and maiden, in the CHOICE OF LIFE." "To him that lives well," answered the hermit, "every form of life is good; nor can I give any other rule for choice, than to remove from all apparent evil." "He will remove most certainly from evil," said the prince, "who shall devote himself to that solitude, which you have recommended by your example." "I have, indeed, lived fifteen years in solitude," said the hermit, "but have no desire that my example should gain any imitators. In my youth I professed arms, and was raised, by degrees, to the highest military rank. I have traversed wide countries, at the head of my troops, and seen many battles and sieges. At last, being disgusted by the preferment of a younger officer, and feeling, that my vigour was beginning to decay, I was resolved to close my life in peace, having found the world full of snares, discord, and misery. I had once escaped from the pursuit of the enemy by the shelter of this cavern, and, therefore, chose it for my final residence. I employed artificers to form it into chambers, and stored it with all that I was likely to want. "For some time after my retreat, I rejoiced, like a tempest-beaten sailor at his entrance into the harbour, being delighted with the sudden change of the noise and hurry of war to stillness and repose. When the pleasure of novelty went away, I employed my hours in examining the plants which grow in the valley, and the minerals which I collected from the rocks. But that inquiry is now grown tasteless and irksome. I have been, for some time, unsettled and distracted; my mind is disturbed with a thousand perplexities of doubt, and vanities of imagination, which hourly prevail upon me, because I have no opportunities of relaxation or diversion. I am sometimes ashamed to think, that I could not secure myself from vice, but by retiring from the exercise of virtue, and begin to suspect, that I was rather impelled by resentment, than led by devotion, into solitude. My fancy riots in scenes of folly, and I lament, that I have lost so much, and have gained so little. In solitude, if I escape the example of bad men, I want, likewise, the counsel and conversation of the good. I have been long comparing the evils with the advantages of society, and resolve to return into the world to-morrow. The life of a solitary man will be certainly miserable, but not certainly devout." They heard his resolution with surprise, but, after a short pause, offered to conduct him to Cairo. He dug up a considerable treasure, which he had hid among the rocks, and accompanied them to the city, on which, as he approached it, he gazed with rapture. CHAP. XXII. THE HAPPINESS OF A LIFE, LED ACCORDING TO NATURE. Rasselas went often to an assembly of learned men, who met, at stated times, to unbend their minds, and compare their opinions. Their manners were somewhat coarse, but their conversation was instructive, and their disputations acute, though sometimes too violent, and often continued, till neither controvertist remembered, upon what question they began. Some faults were almost general among them; every one was desirous to dictate to the rest, and every one was pleased to hear the genius or knowledge of another depreciated. In this assembly Rasselas was relating his interview with the hermit, and the wonder with which he heard him censure a course of life, which he had so deliberately chosen, and so laudably followed. The sentiments of the hearers were various. Some were of opinion, that the folly of his choice had been justly punished by condemnation to perpetual perseverance. One of the youngest among them, with great vehemence, pronounced him a hypocrite. Some talked of the right of society to the labour of individuals, and considered retirement as a desertion of duty. Others readily allowed, that there was a time, when the claims of the publick were satisfied, and when a man might properly sequester himself, to review his life, and purify his heart. One, who appeared more affected with the narrative than the rest, thought it likely, that the hermit would, in a few years, go back to his retreat, and, perhaps, if shame did not restrain, or death intercept him, return once more from his retreat into the world: "For the hope of happiness," said he "is so strongly impressed, that the longest experience is not able to efface it. Of the present state, whatever it may be, we feel, and are forced to confess, the misery; yet, when the same state is again at a distance, imagination paints it as desirable. But the time will surely come, when desire will be no longer our torment, and no man shall be wretched, but by his own fault." "This," said a philosopher, who had heard him with tokens of great impatience, "is the present condition of a wise man. The time is already come, when none are wretched, but by their own fault. Nothing is more idle, than to inquire after happiness, which nature has kindly placed within our reach. The way to be happy is to live according to nature, in obedience to that universal and unalterable law, with which every heart is originally impressed; which is not written on it by precept, but engraven by destiny, not instilled by education, but infused at our nativity. He that lives according to nature will suffer nothing from the delusions of hope, or importunities of desire; he will receive and reject with equability of temper; and act or suffer, as the reason of things shall alternately prescribe. Other men may amuse themselves with subtile definitions, or intricate ratiocinations. Let them learn to be wise by easier means; let them observe the hind of the forest, and the linnet of the grove; let them consider the life of animals, whose motions are regulated by instinct; they obey their guide, and are happy. Let us, therefore, at length, cease to dispute, and learn to live; throw away the incumbrance of precepts, which they, who utter them, with so much pride and pomp, do not understand, and carry with us this simple and intelligible maxim: That deviation from nature is deviation from happiness." When he had spoken, he looked round him with a placid air, and enjoyed the consciousness of his own beneficence. "Sir," said the prince, with great modesty, "as I, like all the rest of mankind, am desirous of felicity, my closest attention has been fixed upon your discourse: I doubt not the truth of a position, which a man so learned has, so confidently, advanced. Let me only know, what it is to live according to nature." "When I find young men so humble and so docile," said the philosopher, "I can deny them no information which my studies have enabled me to afford. To live according to nature, is to act always with due regard to the fitness arising from the relations and qualities of causes and effects; to concur with the great and unchangeable scheme of universal felicity; to cooperate with the general disposition and tendency of the present system of things." The prince soon found that this was one of the sages whom he should understand less, as he heard him longer. He, therefore, bowed, and was silent, and the philosopher, supposing him satisfied, and the rest vanquished, rose up and departed, with the air of a man that had cooperated with the present system. CHAP. XXIII. THE PRINCE AND HIS SISTER DIVIDE BETWEEN THEM THE WORK OF OBSERVATION. Rasselas returned home full of reflections, doubtful how to direct his future steps. Of the way to happiness, he found the learned and simple equally ignorant; but, as he was yet young, he flattered himself that he had time remaining for more experiments, and further inquiries. He communicated to Imlac his observations and his doubts, but was answered by him with new doubts, and remarks that gave him no comfort. He, therefore, discoursed more frequently and freely with his sister, who had yet the same hope with himself, and always assisted him to give some reason why, though he had been, hitherto, frustrated, he might succeed at last. "We have, hitherto," said she, "known but little of the world: we have never yet been either great or mean. In our own country, though we had royalty, we had no power; and, in this, we have not yet seen the private recesses of domestick peace. Imlac favours not our search, lest we should, in time, find him mistaken. We will divide the task between us: you shall try what is to be found in the splendour of courts, and I will range the shades of humbler life. Perhaps command and authority may be the supreme blessings, as they afford most opportunities of doing good: or, perhaps, what this world can give may be found in the modest habitations of middle fortune, too low for great designs, and too high for penury and distress." CHAP. XXIV. THE PRINCE EXAMINES THE HAPPINESS OF HIGH STATIONS. Rasselas applauded the design, and appeared, next day, with a splendid retinue at the court of the bassa. He was soon distinguished for his magnificence, and admitted as a prince, whose curiosity had brought him from distant countries, to an intimacy with the great officers, and frequent conversation with the bassa himself. He was, at first, inclined to believe, that the man must be pleased with his own condition, whom all approached with reverence, and heard with obedience, and who had the power to extend his edicts, to a whole kingdom. "There can be no pleasure," said he, "equal to that of feeling, at once, the joy of thousands, all made happy by wise administration. Yet, since by the law of subordination, this sublime delight can be in one nation but the lot of one, it is, surely, reasonable to think, that there is some satisfaction more popular and accessible; and that millions can hardly be subjected to the will of a single man, only to fill his particular breast with incommunicable content." These thoughts were often in his mind, and he found no solution of the difficulty. But, as presents and civilities gained him more familiarity, he found that almost every man, who stood high in employment, hated all the rest, and was hated by them, and that their lives were a continual succession of plots and detections, stratagems and escapes, faction and treachery. Many of those, who surrounded the bassa, were sent only to watch and report his conduct; every tongue was muttering censure, and every eye was searching for a fault. At last the letters of revocation arrived, the bassa was carried in chains to Constantinople, and his name was mentioned no more. "What are we now to think of the prerogatives of power?" said Rasselas to his sister: "is it without any efficacy to good? or, is the subordinate degree only dangerous, and the supreme safe and glorious? Is the sultan the only happy man in his dominions? or, is the sultan himself subject to the torments of suspicion, and the dread of enemies?" In a short time the second bassa was deposed. The sultan, that had advanced him, was murdered by the janizaries, and his successour had other views, and different favourites. CHAP. XXV. THE PRINCESS PURSUES HER INQUIRY WITH MORE DILIGENCE THAN SUCCESS. The princess, in the mean time, insinuated herself into many families; for there are few doors, through which liberality, joined with good-humour, cannot find its way. The daughters of many houses were airy and cheerful, but Nekayah had been too long accustomed to the conversation of Imlac and her brother, to be much pleased with childish levity, and prattle, which had no meaning. She found their thoughts narrow, their wishes low, and their merriment often artificial. Their pleasures, poor as they were, could not be preserved pure, but were imbittered by petty competitions, and worthless emulation. They were always jealous of the beauty of each other; of a quality to which solicitude can add nothing, and from which detraction can take nothing away. Many were in love with triflers, like themselves, and many fancied that they were in love, when, in truth, they were only idle. Their affection was not fixed on sense or virtue, and, therefore, seldom ended but in vexation. Their grief, however, like their joy, was transient; every thing floated in their mind, unconnected with the past or future; so that one desire easily gave way to another, as a second stone, cast into the water, effaces and confounds the circles of the first. With these girls she played, as with inoffensive animals, and found them proud of her countenance, and weary of her company. But her purpose was to examine more deeply, and her affability easily persuaded the hearts that were swelling with sorrow, to discharge their secrets in her ear: and those, whom hope flattered, or prosperity delighted, often courted her to partake their pleasures. The princess and her brother commonly met in the evening in a private summer house, on the bank of the Nile, and related to each other the occurrences of the day. As they were sitting together, the princess cast her eyes upon the river that flowed before her. "Answer," said she, "great father of waters, thou that rollest thy floods through eighty nations, to the invocations of the daughter of thy native king. Tell me, if thou waterest, through all thy course, a single habitation from which thou dost not hear the murmurs of complaint?" "You are then," said Rasselas, "not more successful in private houses, than I have been in courts." "I have, since the last partition of our provinces," said the princess, "enabled myself to enter familiarly into many families, where there was the fairest show of prosperity and peace, and know not one house that is not haunted by some fury, that destroys their quiet. "I did not seek ease among the poor, because I concluded that, there, it could not be found. But I saw many poor, whom I had supposed to live in affluence. Poverty has, in large cities, very different appearances; it is often concealed in splendour, and often in extravagance. It is the care of a very great part of mankind to conceal their indigence from the rest; they support themselves by temporary expedients, and every day is lost in contriving for the morrow. "This, however, was an evil, which, though frequent, I saw with less pain, because I could relieve it. Yet some have refused my bounties; more offended with my quickness to detect their wants, than pleased with my readiness to succour them: and others, whose exigencies compelled them to admit my kindness, have never been able to forgive their benefactress. Many, however, have been sincerely grateful, without the ostentation of gratitude, or the hope of other favours." CHAP. XXVI. THE PRINCESS CONTINUES HER REMARKS UPON PRIVATE LIFE. Nekayah, perceiving her brother's attention fixed, proceeded in her narrative. "In families, where there is, or is not, poverty, there is commonly discord: if a kingdom be, as Imlac tells us, a great family, a family, likewise, is a little kingdom, torn with factions, and exposed to revolutions. An unpractised observer expects the love of parents and children to be constant and equal; but this kindness seldom continues beyond the years of infancy; in a short time the children become rivals to their parents. Benefits are allayed by reproaches, and gratitude debased by envy. "Parents and children seldom act in concert: each child endeavours to appropriate the esteem, or fondness of the parents; and the parents, with yet less temptation, betray each other to their children; thus some place their confidence in the father, and some in the mother, and, by degrees, the house is filled with artifices and feuds. "The opinions of children and parents, of the young and the old, are naturally opposite, by the contrary effects of hope and despondence, of expectation and experience, without crime or folly on either side. The colours of life, in youth and age, appear different, as the face of nature, in spring and winter. And how can children credit the assertions of parents, which their own eyes show them to be false? "Few parents act in such a manner, as much to enforce their maxims, by the credit of their lives. The old man trusts wholly to slow contrivance and gradual progression: the youth expects to force his way by genius, vigour, and precipitance. The old man pays regard to riches, and the youth reverences virtue. The old man deifies prudence: the youth commits himself to magnanimity and chance. The young man, who intends no ill, believes that none is intended, and, therefore, acts with openness and candour: but his father, having suffered the injuries of fraud, is impelled to suspect, and, too often, allured to practise it. Age looks with anger on the temerity of youth, and youth with contempt on the scrupulosity of age. Thus parents and children, for the greatest part, live on to love less and less: and, if those whom nature has thus closely united are the torments of each other, where shall we look for tenderness and consolation?" "Surely," said the prince, "you must have been unfortunate in your choice of acquaintance: I am unwilling to believe, that the most tender of all relations is thus impeded, in its effects, by natural necessity." "Domestick discord," answered she, "is not inevitably and fatally necessary; but yet it is not easily avoided. We seldom see that a whole family is virtuous: the good and evil cannot well agree: and the evil can yet less agree with one another: even the virtuous fall, sometimes, to variance, when their virtues are of different kinds, and tending to extremes. In general, those parents have most reverence who most deserve it: for he that lives well cannot be despised. "Many other evils infest private life. Some are the slaves of servants, whom they have trusted with their affairs. Some are kept in continual anxiety, by the caprice of rich relations, whom they cannot please, and dare not offend. Some husbands are imperious, and some wives perverse: and, as it is always more easy to do evil than good, though the wisdom or virtue of one can very rarely make many happy, the folly or vice of one may often make many miserable." "If such be the general effect of marriage," said the prince, "I shall, for the future, think it dangerous to connect my interest with that of another, lest I should be unhappy by my partner's fault." "I have met," said the princess, "with many who live single for that reason; but I never found that their prudence ought to raise envy. They dream away their time without friendship, without fondness, and are driven to rid themselves of the day, for which they have no use, by childish amusements, or vitious delights. They act as beings under the constant sense of some known inferiority, that fills their minds with rancour, and their tongues with censure. They are peevish at home, and malevolent abroad; and, as the outlaws of human nature, make it their business and their pleasure to disturb that society, which debars them from its privileges. To live without feeling or exciting sympathy; to be fortunate without adding to the felicity of others, or afflicted without tasting the balm of pity, is a state more gloomy than solitude: it is not retreat, but exclusion from mankind. Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures." "What then is to be done?" said Rasselas; "the more we inquire, the less we can resolve. Surely he is most likely to please himself, that has no other inclination to regard." CHAP. XXVII. DISQUISITION UPON GREATNESS. The conversation had a short pause. The prince, having considered his sister's observations, told her that she had surveyed life with prejudice, and supposed misery where she did not find it. "Your narrative," says he, "throws yet a darker gloom upon the prospects of futurity: the predictions of Imlac were but faint sketches of the evils painted by Nekayah. I have been lately convinced, that quiet is not the daughter of grandeur, or of power: that her presence is not to be bought by wealth, nor enforced by conquest. It is evident, that as any man acts in a wider compass, he must be more exposed to opposition from enmity, or miscarriage from chance; whoever has many to please or to govern, must use the ministry of many agents, some of whom will be wicked, and some ignorant; by some he will be misled, and by others betrayed. If he gratifies one, he will offend another: those that are not favoured will think themselves injured; and, since favours can be conferred but upon few, the greater number will be always discontented." "The discontent," said the princess, "which is thus unreasonable, I hope, that I shall always have spirit to despise, and you power to repress." "Discontent," answered Rasselas, "will not always be without reason under the most just and vigilant administration of publick affairs. None, however attentive, can always discover that merit, which indigence or faction may happen to obscure; and none, however powerful, can always reward it. Yet, he that sees inferiour desert advanced above him, will naturally impute that preference to partiality or caprice; and, indeed, it can scarcely be hoped that any man, however magnanimous by nature, or exalted by condition, will be able to persist, for ever, in the fixed and inexorable justice of distribution; he will sometimes indulge his own affections, and sometimes those of his favourites; he will permit some to please him who can never serve him; he will discover in those whom he loves, qualities which, in reality, they do not possess; and to those, from whom he receives pleasure, he will, in his turn, endeavour to give it. Thus will recommendations sometimes prevail, which were purchased by money, or by the more destructive bribery of flattery and servility. "He that has much to do will do something wrong, and, of that wrong must suffer the consequences; and, if it were possible that he should always act rightly, yet, when such numbers are to judge of his conduct, the bad will censure and obstruct him by malevolence, and the good sometimes by mistake. "The highest stations cannot, therefore, hope to be the abodes of happiness, which I would willingly believe to have fled from thrones and palaces to seats of humble privacy, and placid obscurity. For what can hinder the satisfaction, or intercept the expectations of him, whose abilities are adequate to his employments; who sees, with his own eyes, the whole circuit of his influence; who chooses, by his own knowledge, all whom he trusts; and whom none are tempted to deceive by hope or fear? Surely he has nothing to do, but to love and to be loved, to be virtuous and to be happy." "Whether perfect happiness would be procured by perfect goodness," said Nekayah, "this world will never afford an opportunity of deciding. But this, at least, may be maintained, that we do not always find visible happiness, in proportion to visible virtue. All natural, and almost all political evils, are incident alike to the bad and good; they are confounded in the misery of a famine, and not much distinguished in the fury of a faction; they sink together in a tempest, and are driven together from their country by invaders. All that virtue can afford is quietness of conscience, a steady prospect of a happier state; this may enable us to endure calamity with patience; but remember, that patience must suppose pain. CHAP. XXVIII. RASSELAS AND NEKAYAH CONTINUE THEIR CONVERSATION. "Dear princess," said Rasselas, "you fall into the common errours of exaggeratory declamation, by producing, in a familiar disquisition, examples of national calamities, and scenes of extensive misery, which are found in books, rather than in the world, and which, as they are horrid, are ordained to be rare. Let us not imagine evils which we do not feel, nor injure life by misrepresentations; I cannot bear that querulous eloquence, which threatens every city with a siege, like that of Jerusalem, that makes famine attend on every flight of locusts, and suspends pestilence on the wing of every blast that issues from the south. "On necessary and inevitable evils, which overwhelm kingdoms at once, all disputation is vain: when they happen they must be endured. But it is evident, that these bursts of universal distress are more dreaded than felt; thousands, and ten thousands, flourish in youth, and wither in age, without the knowledge of any other than domestick evils, and share the same pleasures and vexations, whether their kings are mild or cruel, whether the armies of their country pursue their enemies, or retreat before them. While courts are disturbed with intestine competitions, and ambassadours are negotiating in foreign countries, the smith still plies his anvil, and the husbandman drives his plough forward; the necessaries of life are required and obtained; and the successive business of the seasons continues to make its wonted revolutions. "Let us cease to consider what, perhaps, may never happen, and what, when it shall happen, will laugh at human speculation. We will not endeavour to modify the motions of the elements, or to fix the destiny of kingdoms. It is our business to consider what beings, like us, may perform; each labouring for his own happiness, by promoting, within his circle, however narrow, the happiness of others. "Marriage is evidently the dictate of nature; men and women are made to be companions of each other; and, therefore, I cannot be persuaded, but that marriage is one of the means of happiness." "I know not," said the princess, "whether marriage be more than one of the innumerable modes of human misery. When I see, and reckon, the various forms of connubial infelicity, the unexpected causes of lasting discord, the diversities of temper, the oppositions of opinion, the rude collisions of contrary desire, where both are urged by violent impulses, the obstinate contests of disagreeable virtues, where both are supported by consciousness of good intention, I am, sometimes, disposed to think, with the severer casuists of most nations, that marriage is rather permitted than approved, and that none, but by the instigation of a passion, too much indulged, entangle themselves with indissoluble compacts." "You seem to forget," replied Rasselas, "that you have, even now, represented celibacy, as less happy than marriage. Both conditions may be bad, but they cannot both be worst. Thus it happens, when wrong opinions are entertained, that they mutually destroy each other, and leave the mind open to truth." "I did not expect," answered the princess, "to hear that imputed to falsehood, which is the consequence only of frailty. To the mind, as to the eye, it is difficult to compare, with exactness, objects, vast in their extent, and various in their parts. Where we see, or conceive, the whole at once, we readily note the discriminations, and decide the preference: but of two systems, of which neither can be surveyed, by any human being, in its full compass of magnitude, and multiplicity of complication, where is the wonder, that, judging of the whole by parts, I am alternately affected by one and the other, as either presses on my memory or fancy? We differ from ourselves, just as we differ from each other, when we see only part of the question, as in the multifarious relations of politicks and morality; but when we perceive the whole at once, as in numerical computations, all agree in one judgment, and none ever varies his opinion." "Let us not add," said the prince, "to the other evils of life, the bitterness of controversy, nor endeavour to vie with each other in subtilties of argument. We are employed in a search, of which both are equally to enjoy the success, or suffer by the miscarriage. It is, therefore, fit that we assist each other. You, surely, conclude too hastily from the infelicity of marriage against its institution: will not the misery of life prove equally, that life cannot be the gift of heaven? The world must be peopled by marriage, or peopled without it." "How the world is to be peopled," returned Nekayah, "is not my care, and needs not be yours. I see no danger that the present generation should omit to leave successours behind them: we are not now inquiring for the world, but for ourselves." CHAP. XXIX. THE DEBATE ON MARRIAGE CONTINUED. "The good of the whole," says Rasselas, "is the same with the good of all its parts. If marriage be best for mankind, it must be evidently best for individuals, or a permanent and necessary duty must be the cause of evil, and some must be inevitably sacrificed to the convenience of others. In the estimate, which you have made of the two states, it appears, that the incommodities of a single life are, in a great measure, necessary and certain, but those of the conjugal state, accidental and avoidable. "I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that prudence and benevolence will make marriage happy. The general folly of mankind is the cause of general complaint. What can be expected, but disappointment and repentance, from a choice made in the immaturity of youth, in the ardour of desire, without judgment, without foresight, without inquiry after conformity of opinions, similarity of manners, rectitude of judgment, or purity of sentiment? "Such is the common process of marriage. A youth and maiden, meeting by chance, or brought together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go home, and dream of one another. Having little to divert attention, or diversify thought, they find themselves uneasy, when they are apart, and, therefore, conclude that they shall be happy together. They marry, and discover what nothing but voluntary blindness before had concealed; they wear out life in altercations, and charge nature with cruelty. "From those early marriages proceeds, likewise, the rivalry of parents and children; the son is eager to enjoy the world, before the father is willing to forsake it, and there is hardly room, at once, for two generations. The daughter begins to bloom, before the mother can be content to fade, and neither can forbear to wish for the absence of the other. "Surely all these evils may be avoided, by that deliberation and delay, which prudence prescribes to irrevocable choice. In the variety and jollity of youthful pleasures, life may be well enough supported, without the help of a partner. Longer time will increase experience, and wider views will allow better opportunities of inquiry and selection: one advantage, at least, will be certain; the parents will be visibly older than their children." "What reason cannot collect," said Nekayah, "and what experiment has not yet taught, can be known only from the report of others. I have been told, that late marriages are not eminently happy. This is a question too important to be neglected, and I have often proposed it to those, whose accuracy of remark, and comprehensiveness of knowledge, made their suffrages worthy of regard. They have generally determined, that it is dangerous for a man and woman to suspend their fate upon each other, at a time, when opinions are fixed, and habits are established; when friendships have been contracted on both sides; when life has been planned into method, and the mind has long enjoyed the contemplation of its own prospects. "It is scarcely possible that two, travelling through the world, under the conduct of chance, should have been both directed to the same path, and it will not often happen, that either will quit the track which custom has made pleasing. When the desultory levity of youth has settled into regularity, it is soon succeeded by pride, ashamed to yield, or obstinacy, delighting to contend. And, even though mutual esteem produces mutual desire to please, time itself, as it modifies unchangeably the external mien, determines, likewise, the direction of the passions, and gives an inflexible rigidity to the manners. Long customs are not easily broken: he that attempts to change the course of his own life, very often labours in vain; and how shall we do that for others, which we are seldom able to do for ourselves!" "But, surely," interposed the prince, "you suppose the chief motive of choice forgotten or neglected. Whenever I shall seek a wife, it shall be my first question, whether she be willing to be led by reason." "Thus it is," said Nekayah, "that philosophers are deceived. There are a thousand familiar disputes, which reason can never decide; questions that elude investigation, and make logick ridiculous; cases where something must be done, and where little can be said. Consider the state of mankind, and inquire how few can be supposed to act, upon any occasions, whether small or great, with all the reasons of action present to their minds. Wretched would be the pair, above all names of wretchedness, who should be doomed to adjust by reason, every morning, all the minute detail of a domestick day. "Those who marry at an advanced age, will, probably, escape the encroachments of their children; but, in diminution of this advantage, they will be likely to leave them, ignorant and helpless, to a guardian's mercy; or, if that should not happen, they must, at least, go out of the world, before they see those whom they love best, either wise or great. "From their children, if they have less to fear, they have less also to hope; and they lose, without equivalent, the joys of early love, and the convenience of uniting with manners pliant, and minds susceptible of new impressions, which might wear away their dissimilitudes by long cohabitation, as soft bodies, by continual attrition, conform their surfaces to each other. "I believe it will be found, that those who marry late, are best pleased with their children, and those who marry early with their partners." "The union of these two affections," said Rasselas, "would produce all that could be wished. Perhaps there is a time, when marriage might unite them, a time neither too early for the father, nor too late for the husband." "Every hour," answered the princess, "confirms my prejudice in favour of the position, so often uttered by the mouth of Imlac: 'That nature sets her gifts on the right hand and on the left.' Those conditions, which flatter hope and attract desire, are so constituted, that, as we approach one, we recede from another. There are goods so opposed, that we cannot seize both, but, by too much prudence, may pass between them, at too great a distance to reach either. This is often the fate of long consideration; he does nothing, who endeavours to do more than is allowed to humanity. Flatter not yourself with contrarieties of pleasure. Of the blessings set before you make your choice, and be content. No man can taste the fruits of autumn, while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of the spring; no man can, at the same time, fill his cup from the source and from the mouth of the Nile." CHAP. XXX. IMLAC ENTERS, AND CHANGES THE CONVERSATION. Here Imlac entered, and interrupted them. "Imlac," said Rasselas, "I have been taking from the princess the dismal history of private life, and am almost discouraged from further search." "It seems to me," said Imlac, "that, while you are making the choice of life, you neglect to live. You wander about a single city, which, however large and diversified, can now afford few novelties, and forget that you are in a country, famous among the earliest monarchies for the power and wisdom of its inhabitants; a country, where the sciences first dawned that illuminate the world, and beyond which the arts cannot be traced of civil society or domestick life. "The old Egyptians have left behind them monuments of industry and power, before which all European magnificence is confessed to fade away. The ruins of their architecture are the schools of modern builders; and, from the wonders which time has spared, we may conjecture, though uncertainly, what it has destroyed." "My curiosity," said Rasselas, "does not very strongly lead me to survey piles of stone, or mounds of earth; my business is with man. I came hither not to measure fragments of temples, or trace choked aqueducts, but to look upon the various scenes of the present world." "The things that are now before us," said the princess, "require attention, and deserve it. What have I to do with the heroes or the monuments of ancient times? with times which never can return, and heroes, whose form of life was different, from all that the present condition of mankind requires or allows?" "To know any thing," returned the poet, "we must know its effects; to see men, we must see their works, that we may learn what reason has dictated, or passion has incited, and find what are the most powerful motives of action. To judge rightly of the present we must oppose it to the past; for all judgment is comparative, and of the future nothing can be known. The truth is, that no mind is much employed upon the present: recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments. Our passions are joy and grief, love and hatred, hope and fear. Of joy and grief, the past is the object, and the future of hope and fear; even love and hatred respect the past, for the cause must have been before the effect. "The present state of things is the consequence of the former, and it is natural to inquire, what were the sources of the good that we enjoy, or the evil that we suffer. If we act only for ourselves, to neglect the study of history is not prudent: if we are intrusted with the care of others, it is not just. Ignorance, when it is voluntary, is criminal; and he may properly be charged with evil, who refused to learn how he might prevent it. "There is no part of history so generally useful, as that which relates the progress of the human mind, the gradual improvement of reason, the successive advances of science, the vicissitudes of learning and ignorance, which are the light and darkness of thinking beings, the extinction and resuscitation of arts, and the revolutions of the intellectual world. If accounts of battles and invasions are peculiarly the business of princes, the useful or elegant arts are not to be neglected; those who have kingdoms to govern, have understandings to cultivate. "Example is always more efficacious than precept. A soldier is formed in war, and a painter must copy pictures. In this, contemplative life has the advantage: great actions are seldom seen, but the labours of art are always at hand, for those who desire to know what art has been able to perform. "When the eye or the imagination is struck with an uncommon work, the next transition of an active mind is to the means by which it was performed. Here begins the true use of such contemplation; we enlarge our comprehension by new ideas, and, perhaps, recover some art lost to mankind, or learn what is less perfectly known in our own country. At least, we compare our own with former times, and either rejoice at our improvements, or, what is the first motion towards good, discover our defects." "I am willing," said the prince, "to see all that can deserve my search." "And I," said the princess, "shall rejoice to learn something of the manners of antiquity." "The most pompous monument of Egyptian greatness, and one of the most bulky works of manual industry," said Imlac, "are the pyramids; fabricks raised, before the time of history, and of which the earliest narratives afford us only uncertain traditions. Of these, the greatest is still standing, very little injured by time." "Let us visit them to-morrow," said Nekayah. "I have often heard of the pyramids, and shall not rest, till I have seen them, within and without, with my own eyes." CHAP. XXXI. THEY VISIT THE PYRAMIDS. The resolution being thus taken, they set out the next day. They laid tents upon their camels, being resolved to stay among the pyramids, till their curiosity was fully satisfied. They travelled gently, turned aside to every thing remarkable, stopped, from time to time, and conversed with the inhabitants, and observed the various appearances of towns ruined and inhabited, of wild and cultivated nature. When they came to the great pyramid, they were astonished at the extent of the base, and the height of the top. Imlac explained to them the principles upon which the pyramidal form was chosen for a fabrick, intended to coextend its duration with that of the world: he showed, that its gradual diminution gave it such stability, as defeated all the common attacks of the elements, and could scarcely be overthrown by earthquakes themselves, the least resistible of natural violence. A concussion that should shatter the pyramid, would threaten the dissolution of the continent. They measured all its dimensions, and pitched their tents at its foot. Next day they prepared to enter its interiour apartments, and, having hired the common guides, climbed up to the first passage, when the favourite of the princess, looking into the cavity, stepped back and trembled. "Pekuah," said the princess, "of what art thou afraid?" "Of the narrow entrance," answered the lady, "and of the dreadful gloom. I dare not enter a place which must, surely, be inhabited by unquiet souls. The original possessours of these dreadful vaults will start up before us, and, perhaps, shut us in for ever[a]." She spoke, and threw her arms round the neck of her mistress. "If all your fear be of apparitions," said the prince, "I will promise you safety: there is no danger from the dead; he that is once buried will be seen no more." "That the dead are seen no more," said Imlac, "I will not undertake to maintain, against the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages, and of all nations. There is no people, rude or learned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related and believed. This opinion, which perhaps, prevails, as far as human nature is diffused, could become universal only by its truth: those that never heard of one another, would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make credible. That it is doubted by single cavillers, can very little weaken the general evidence; and some, who deny it with their tongues, confess it by their fears".[b] "Yet I do not mean to add new terrours to those which have already seized upon Pekuah. There can be no reason, why spectres should haunt the pyramid more than other places, or why they should have power or will to hurt innocence and purity. Our entrance is no violation of their privileges; we can take nothing from them, how then can we offend them?" "My dear Pekuah," said the princess, "I will always go before you, and Imlac shall follow you. Remember that you are the companion of the princess of Abissinia." "If the princess is pleased that her servant should die," returned the lady, "let her command some death less dreadful than enclosure in this horrid cavern. You know, I dare not disobey you: I must go, if you command me; but, if I once enter, I never shall come back." The princess saw that her fear was too strong for expostulation or reproof, and, embracing her, told her, that she should stay in the tent, till their return. Pekuah was yet not satisfied, but entreated the princess not to pursue so dreadful a purpose, as that of entering the rececess of the pyramid. "Though I cannot teach courage," said Nekayah, "I must not learn cowardice; nor leave, at last, undone what I came hither only to do." [a] It may not be unacceptable to our readers, to quote, in this place, a stanza, from an Ode to Horror in the Student, ii. 313. It alludes to the story of a French gentleman, who, going into the catacombs, not far from Cairo, with some Arab guides, was there robbed by them, and left; a huge stone being placed over the entrance. What felt the Gallic, traveller, When far in Arab desert, drear, He found within the catacomb, Alive, the terrors of a tomb? While many a mummy, through the shade, In hieroglyphic stole arrayed, Seem'd to uprear the mystic head, And trace the gloom with ghostly tread; Thou heard'st him pour the stifled groan, Horror! his soul was all thy own! ED. [b] See Hibbert's Philosophy of Apparitions. It is to be regretted, that Coleridge has never yet gratified the wish he professed to feel, in the first volume of his Friend, p. 246, to devote an entire work to the subject of dreams, visions, ghosts, witchcraft, &c; in it we should have had the satisfaction of tracing the workings of a most vivid imagination, analyzed by the most discriminating judgment. See Barrow's sermon on the being of God, proved from supernatural effects. We need scarcely request the reader to bear in mind, that Barrow was a mathematician, and one of the most severe of reasoners.--ED. CHAP. XXXII. THEY ENTER THE PYRAMID. Pekuah descended to the tents, and the rest entered the pyramid: they passed through the galleries, surveyed the vaults of marble, and examined the chest, in which the body of the founder is supposed to have been reposited. They then sat down in one of the most spacious chambers, to rest awhile before they attempted to return. "We have now," said Imlac, "gratified our minds with an exact view of the greatest work of man, except the wall of China. "Of the wall it is very easy to assign the motive. It secured a wealthy and timorous nation from the incursions of barbarians, whose unskilfulness in arts made it easier for them to supply their wants by rapine than by industry, and who, from time to time, poured in upon the habitations of peaceful commerce, as vultures descend upon domestick fowl. Their celerity and fierceness, made the wall necessary, and their ignorance made it efficacious. "But, for the pyramids, no reason has ever been given adequate to the cost and labour of the work. The narrowness of the chambers proves that it could afford no retreat from enemies, and treasures might have been reposited, at far less expense, with equal security. It seems to have been erected only in compliance with that hunger of imagination, which preys incessantly upon life, and must be always appeased by some employment. Those who have already all that they can enjoy, must enlarge their desires. He that has built for use, till use is supplied, must begin to build for vanity, and extend his plan to the utmost power of human performance, that he may not be soon reduced to form another wish. "I consider this mighty structure, as a monument of the insufficiency of human enjoyments. A king, whose power is unlimited, and whose treasures surmount all real and imaginary wants, is compelled to solace, by the erection of a pyramid, the satiety of dominion and tastelessness of pleasures, and to amuse the tediousness of declining life, by seeing thousands labouring without end, and one stone, for no purpose, laid upon another. Whoever thou art, that, not content with a moderate condition, imaginest happiness in royal magnificence, and dreamest that command or riches can feed the appetite of novelty, with perpetual gratifications, survey the pyramids, and confess thy folly!" CHAP. XXXIII. THE PRINCESS MEETS WITH AN UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNE. They rose up, and returned through the cavity, at which they had entered, and the princess prepared for her favourite a long narrative of dark labyrinths, and costly rooms, and of the different impressions, which the varieties of the way had made upon her. But, when they came to their train, they found every one silent and dejected: the men discovered shame and fear in their countenances, and the women were weeping in the tents. What had happened they did not try to conjecture, but immediately inquired. "You had scarcely entered into the pyramid," said one of the attendants, "when a troop of Arabs rushed upon us; we were too few to resist them, and too slow to escape. They were about to search the tents, set us on our camels, and drive us along before them, when the approach of some Turkish horsemen put them to flight; but they seized the lady Pekuah with her two maids, and carried them away: the Turks are now pursuing them by our instigation, but, I fear, they will not be able to overtake them." The princess was overpowered with surprise and grief. Rasselas, in the first heat of his resentment, ordered his servants to follow him, and prepared to pursue the robbers with his sabre in his hand. "Sir," said Imlac, "what can you hope from violence or valour? the Arabs are mounted on horses trained to battle and retreat; we have only beasts of burden. By leaving our present station we may lose the princess, but cannot hope to regain Pekuah." In a short time, the Turks returned, having not been able to reach the enemy. The princess burst out into new lamentations, and Rasselas could scarcely forbear to reproach them with cowardice; but Imlac was of opinion, that the escape of the Arabs was no addition to their misfortune, for, perhaps, they would have killed their captives, rather than have resigned them. CHAP. XXXIV. THEY RETURN TO CAIRO WITHOUT PEKUAH. There was nothing to be hoped from longer stay. They returned to Cairo, repenting of their curiosity, censuring the negligence of the government, lamenting their own rashness, which had neglected to procure a guard, imagining many expedients, by which the loss of Pekuah might have been prevented, and resolving to do something for her recovery, though none could find any thing proper to be done. Nekayah retired to her chamber, where her women attempted to comfort her, by telling her, that all had their troubles, and that lady Pekuah had enjoyed much happiness in the world, for a long time, and might reasonably expect a change of fortune. They hoped, that some good would befall her, wheresoever she was, and that their mistress would find another friend, who might supply her place. The princess made them no answer, and they continued the form of condolence, not much grieved in their hearts that the favourite was lost. Next day the prince presented, to the bassa, a memorial of the wrong which he had suffered, and a petition for redress. The bassa threatened to punish the robbers, but did not attempt to catch them, nor, indeed, could any account or description be given, by which he might direct the pursuit. It soon appeared, that nothing would be done by authority. Governours, being accustomed to hear of more crimes than they can punish, and more wrongs than they can redress, set themselves at ease by indiscriminate negligence, and presently forget the request, when they lose sight of the petitioner. Imlac then endeavoured to gain some intelligence by private agents. He found many who pretended to an exact knowledge of all the haunts of the Arabs, and to regular correspondence with their chiefs, and who readily undertook the recovery of Pekuah. Of these, some were furnished with money for their journey, and came back no more; some were liberally paid for accounts which a few days discovered to be false. But the princess would not suffer any means, however improbable, to be left untried. While she was doing something, she kept her hope alive. As one expedient failed, another was suggested; when one messenger returned unsuccessful, another was despatched to a different quarter. Two months had now passed, and of Pekuah nothing had been heard; the hopes, which they had endeavoured to raise in each other, grew more languid, and the princess, when she saw nothing more to be tried, sunk down inconsolable in hopeless dejection. A thousand times she reproached herself with the easy compliance, by which she permitted her favourite to stay behind her. "Had not my fondness," said she, "lessened my authority, Pekuah had not dared to talk of her terrours. She ought to have feared me more than spectres. A severe look would have overpowered her; a peremptory command would have compelled obedience. Why did foolish indulgence prevail upon me? Why did I not speak, and refuse to hear?" "Great princess," said Imlac, "do not reproach yourself for your virtue, or consider that as blamable by which evil has accidentally been caused. Your tenderness for the timidity of Pekuah was generous and kind. When we act according to our duty, we commit the event to him, by whose laws our actions are governed, and who will suffer none to be finally punished for obedience. When, in prospect of some good, whether natural or moral, we break the rules prescribed us, we withdraw from the direction of superiour wisdom, and take all consequences upon ourselves. Man cannot so far know the connexion of causes and events, as that he may venture to do wrong, in order to do right. When we pursue our end by lawful means, we may always console our miscarriage by the hope of future recompense. When we consult only our own policy, and attempt to find a nearer way to good, by overleaping the settled boundaries of right and wrong, we cannot be happy even by success, because we cannot escape the consciousness of our fault; but, if we miscarry, the disappointment is irremediably imbittered. How comfortless is the sorrow of him, who feels, at once, the pangs of guilt, and the vexation of calamity, which guilt has brought upon him? "Consider, princess, what would have been your condition, if the lady Pekuah had entreated to accompany you, and, being compelled to stay in the tents, had been carried away; or how would you have borne the thought, if you had forced her into the pyramid, and she had died before you in agonies of terrour?" "Had either happened," said Nekayah, "I could not have endured life till now: I should have been tortured to madness by the remembrance of such cruelty, or must have pined away in abhorrence of myself." "This, at least," said Imlac, "is the present reward of virtuous conduct, that no unlucky consequence can oblige us to repent it." CHAP. XXXV. THE PRINCESS LANGUISHES FOR WANT OF PEKUAH. Nekayah, being thus reconciled to herself, found, that no evil is insupportable, but that which is accompanied with consciousness of wrong. She was, from that time, delivered from the violence of tempestuous sorrow, and sunk into silent pensiveness and gloomy tranquillity. She sat, from morning to evening, recollecting all that had been done or said by her Pekuah; treasured up, with care, every trifle on which Pekuah had set an accidental value, and which might recall to mind any little incident or careless conversation. The sentiments of her, whom she now expected to see no more, were treasured in her memory as rules of life, and she deliberated to no other end, than to conjecture, on any occasion, what would have been the opinion and counsel of Pekuah. The women, by whom she was attended, knew nothing of her real condition, and, therefore, she could not talk to them, but with caution and reserve. She began to remit her curiosity, having no great care to collect notions which she had no convenience of uttering. Rasselas endeavoured first to comfort, and afterwards to divert her; he hired musicians, to whom she seemed to listen, but did not hear them, and procured masters, to instruct her in various arts, whose lectures, when they visited her again, were again to be repeated. She had lost her taste of pleasure, and her ambition of excellence. And her mind, though forced into short excursions, always recurred to the image of her friend. Imlac was, every morning, earnestly enjoined to renew his inquiries, and was asked, every night, whether he had yet heard of Pekuah, till, not being able to return the princess the answer that she desired, he was less and less willing to come into her presence. She observed his backwardness, and commanded him to attend her. "You are not," said she, "to confound impatience with resentment, or to suppose, that I charge you with negligence, because I repine at your unsuccessfulness. I do not much wonder at your absence; I know that the unhappy are never pleasing, and that all naturally avoid the contagion of misery. To hear complaints is wearisome alike to the wretched and the happy; for who would cloud, by adventitious grief, the short gleams of gaiety which life allows us? or who, that is struggling under his own evils, will add to them the miseries of another? "The time is at hand, when none shall be disturbed any longer by the sighs of Nekayah: my search after happiness is now at an end. I am resolved to retire from the world, with all its flatteries and deceits, and will hide myself in solitude, without any other care than to compose my thoughts, and regulate my hours by a constant succession of innocent occupations, till, with a mind purified from all earthly desires, I shall enter into that state, to which all are hastening, and in which I hope again to enjoy the friendship of Pekuah." "Do not entangle your mind," said Imlac, "by irrevocable determinations, nor increase the burden of life by a voluntary accumulation of misery: the weariness of retirement will continue or increase, when the loss of Pekuah is forgotten. That you have been deprived of one pleasure, is no very good reason for rejection of the rest." "Since Pekuah was taken from me," said the princess, "I have no pleasure to reject or to retain. She that has no one to love or trust has little to hope. She wants the radical principle of happiness. We may, perhaps, allow that what satisfaction this world can afford, must arise from the conjunction of wealth, knowledge, and goodness. Wealth is nothing, but as it is bestowed, and knowledge nothing, but as it is communicated: they must, therefore, be imparted to others, and to whom could I now delight to impart them? Goodness affords the only comfort, which can be enjoyed without a partner, and goodness may be practised in retirement." "How far solitude may admit goodness, or advance it, I shall not," replied Imlac, "dispute at present. Remember the confession of the pious hermit. You will wish to return into the world, when the image of your companion has left your thoughts." "That time," said Nekayah, "will never come. The generous frankness, the modest obsequiousness, and the faithful secrecy of my dear Pekuah, will always be more missed, as I shall live longer to see vice and folly." "The state of a mind, oppressed with a sudden calamity," said Imlac, "is like that of the fabulous inhabitants of the new-created earth, who, when the first night came upon them, supposed that day would never return. When the clouds of sorrow gather over us, we see nothing beyond them, nor can imagine how they will be dispelled; yet a new day succeeded to the night, and sorrow is never long without a dawn of ease. But they who restrain themselves from receiving comfort, do as the savages would have done, had they put out their eyes when it was dark. Our minds, like our bodies, are in continual flux; something is hourly lost, and something acquired. To lose much, at once, is inconvenient to either, but, while the vital powers remain uninjured, nature will find the means of reparation. Distance has the same effect on the mind, as on the eye, and, while we glide along the stream of time, whatever we leave behind us, is always lessening, and that which we approach increasing in magnitude. Do not suffer life to stagnate; it will grow muddy for want of motion: commit yourself again to the current of the world; Pekuah will vanish by degrees; you will meet, in your way, some other favourite, or learn to diffuse yourself in general conversation." "At least," said the prince, "do not despair before all remedies have been tried; the inquiry after the unfortunate lady is still continued, and shall be carried on with yet greater diligence, on condition that you will promise to wait a year for the event, without any unalterable resolution." Nekayah thought this a reasonable demand, and made the promise to her brother, who had been advised, by Imlac, to require it. Imlac had, indeed, no great hope of regaining Pekuah, but he supposed, that, if he could secure the interval of a year, the princess would be then in no danger of a cloister. CHAP. XXXVI. PEKUAH IS STILL REMEMBERED. THE PROGRESS OF SORROW. Nekayah, seeing that nothing was omitted for the recovery of her favourite, and having, by her promise, set her intention of retirement at a distance, began, imperceptibly, to return to common cares, and common pleasures. She rejoiced, without her own consent, at the suspension of her sorrows, and sometimes caught herself, with indignation, in the act of turning away her mind from the remembrance of her, whom yet she resolved never to forget. She then appointed a certain hour of the day for meditation on the merits and fondness of Pekuah, and, for some weeks, retired constantly, at the time fixed, and returned with her eyes swollen, and her countenance clouded. By degrees, she grew less scrupulous, and suffered any important and pressing avocation to delay the tribute of daily tears. She then yielded to less occasions; sometimes forgot what she was, indeed, afraid to remember, and, at last, wholly released herself from the duty of periodical affliction. Her real love of Pekuah was yet not diminished. A thousand occurrences brought her back to memory, and a thousand wants, which nothing but the confidence of friendship can supply, made her frequently regretted. She, therefore, solicited Imlac never to desist from inquiry, and to leave no art of intelligence untried, that, at least, she might have the comfort of knowing, that she did not suffer by negligence or sluggishness. "Yet, what," said she, "is to be expected from our pursuit of happiness, when we find the state of life to be such, that happiness itself is the cause of misery? Why should we endeavour to attain that, of which the possession cannot be secured? I shall, henceforward, fear to yield my heart to excellence, however bright, or to fondness, however tender, lest I should lose again what I have lost in Pekuah." CHAP. XXXVII. THE PRINCESS HEARS NEWS OF PEKUAH. In seven months, one of the messengers, who had been sent away, upon the day when the promise was drawn from the princess, returned, after many unsuccessful rambles, from the borders of Nubia, with an account that Pekuah was in the hands of an Arab chief, who possessed a castle, or fortress, on the extremity of Egypt. The Arab, whose revenue was plunder, was willing to restore her, with her two attendants, for two hundred ounces of gold. The price was no subject of debate. The princess was in ecstasies when she heard that her favourite was alive, and might so cheaply be ransomed. She could not think of delaying, for a moment, Pekuah's happiness or her own, but entreated her brother to send back the messenger with the sum required. Imlac, being consulted, was not very confident of the veracity of the relater, and was still more doubtful of the Arab's faith, who might, if he were too liberally trusted, detain, at once, the money and the captives. He thought it dangerous to put themselves in the power of the Arab, by going into his district, and could not expect that the rover would so much expose himself as to come into the lower country, where he might be seized by the forces of the bassa. It is difficult to negotiate where neither will trust. But Imlac, after some deliberation, directed the messenger to propose, that Pekuah should be conducted, by ten horsemen, to the monastery of St. Anthony, which is situated in the deserts of upper Egypt, where she should be met by the same number, and her ransome should be paid. That no time might be lost, as they expected that the proposal would not be refused, they immediately began their journey to the monastery; and, when they arrived, Imlac went forward with the former messenger to the Arab's fortress. Rasselas was desirous to go with them; but neither his sister nor Imlac would consent. The Arab, according to the custom of his nation, observed the laws of hospitality, with great exactness, to those who put themselves into his power, and, in a few days, brought Pekuah, with her maids, by easy journeys, to the place appointed, where, receiving the stipulated price, he restored her, with great respect, to liberty and her friends, and undertook to conduct them back towards Cairo, beyond all danger of robbery or violence. The princess and her favourite embraced each other with transport, too violent to be expressed, and went out together to pour the tears of tenderness in secret, and exchange professions of kindness and gratitude. After a few hours, they returned into the refectory of the convent, where, in the presence of the prior and his brethren, the prince required of Pekuah the history of her adventures. CHAP. XXXVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF THE LADY PEKUAH. "At what time, and in what manner I was forced away," said Pekuah, "your servants have told you. The suddenness of the event struck me with surprise, and I was, at first, rather stupified, than agitated with any passion of either fear or sorrow. My confusion was increased by the speed and tumult of our flight, while we were followed by the Turks, who, as it seemed, soon despaired to overtake us, or were afraid of those whom they made a show of menacing. "When the Arabs saw themselves out of danger, they slackened their course, and, as I was less harassed by external violence, I began to feel more uneasiness in my mind. After some time, we stopped near a spring, shaded with trees, in a pleasant meadow, where we were set upon the ground, and offered such refreshments, as our masters were partaking. I was suffered to sit, with my maids, apart from the rest, and none attempted to comfort or insult us. Here I first began to feel the full weight of my misery. The girls sat weeping in silence, and, from time to time, looked on me for succour. I knew not to what condition we were doomed, nor could conjecture where would be the place of our captivity, or whence to draw any hope of deliverance. I was in the hands of robbers and savages, and had no reason to suppose, that their pity was more than their justice, or that they would forbear the gratification of any ardour of desire, or caprice of cruelty. I, however, kissed my maids, and endeavoured to pacify them, by remarking, that we were yet treated with decency, and that, since we were now carried beyond pursuit, there was no danger of violence to our lives. "When we were to be set again on horseback, my maids clung round me, and refused to be parted, but I commanded them not to irritate those who had us in their power. We travelled, the remaining part of the day, through an unfrequented and pathless country, and came, by moonlight, to the side of a hill, where the rest of the troop was stationed. Their tents were pitched, and their fires kindled, and our chief was welcomed, as a man much beloved by his dependants. "We were received into a large tent, where we found women, who had attended their husbands in the expedition. They set before us the supper, which they had provided, and I ate rather to encourage my maids than to comply with any appetite of my own. When the meat was taken away, they spread the carpets for repose. I was weary, and hoped to find, in sleep, that remission of distress which nature seldom denies. Ordering myself, therefore, to be undressed, I observed that the women looked submissively attended. When my upper vest was taken off, they were, apparently, struck with the splendour of my clothes, and one of them timorously laid her hand upon the embroidery. She then went out, and, in a short time, came back with another woman, who seemed to be of higher rank and greater authority. She did, at her entrance, the usual act of reverence, and, taking me by the hand, placed me in a smaller tent, spread with finer carpets, where I spent the night quietly with my maids. "In the morning, as I was sitting on the grass, the chief of the troop came towards me. I rose up to receive him, and he bowed with great respect. 'Illustrious lady,' said he, 'my fortune is better than I had presumed to hope; I am told, by my women, that I have a princess in my camp.' 'Sir,' answered I, 'your women have deceived themselves and you; I am not a princess, but an unhappy stranger, who intended soon to have left this country, in which I am now to be imprisoned for ever.' 'Whoever, or whencesoever, you are,' returned the Arab, 'your dress, and that of your servants, show your rank to be high, and your wealth to be great. Why should you, who can so easily procure your ransome, think yourself in danger of perpetual captivity? The purpose of my incursions is to increase my riches, or, more properly, to gather tribute. The sons of Ishmael are the natural and hereditary lords of this part of the continent, which is usurped by late invaders, and low-born tyrants, from whom we are compelled to take, by the sword, what is denied to justice. The violence of war admits no distinction: the lance that is lifted at guilt and power, will, sometimes, fall on innocence and gentleness.' "'How little,' said I, 'did I expect that yesterday it should have fallen upon me!' "'Misfortunes,' answered the Arab, 'should always be expected. If the eye of hostility could learn reverence or pity, excellence, like yours, had been exempt from injury. But the angels of affliction spread their toils alike for the virtuous and the wicked, for the mighty and the mean. Do not be disconsolate: I am not one of the lawless and cruel rovers of the desert; I know the rules of civil life: I will fix your ransome, give a passport to your messenger, and perform my stipulation, with nice punctuality.' "You will easily believe, that I was pleased with his courtesy: and, finding, that his predominant passion was desire of money, I began now to think my danger less, for I knew that no sum would be thought too great for the release of Pekuah. I told him, that he should have no reason to charge me with ingratitude, if I was used with kindness, and that any ransome, which could be expected for a maid of common rank, would be paid; but that he must not persist to rate me as a princess. He said he would consider what he should demand, and then, smiling, bowed and retired. "Soon after the women came about me, each contending to be more officious than the other, and my maids, themselves, were served with reverence. We travelled onwards by short journeys. On the fourth day the chief told me, that my ransome must be two hundred ounces of gold; which I not only promised him, but told him, that I would add fifty more, if I and my maids were honourably treated. "I never knew the power of gold before. From that time, I was the leader of the troop. The march of every day was longer, or shorter, as I commanded, and the tents were pitched where I chose to rest. We now had camels, and other conveniencies for travel; my own women were always at my side, and I amused myself with observing the manners of the vagrant nations, and with viewing remains of ancient edifices, with which these deserted countries appear to have been, in some distant age, lavishly embellished. "The chief of the band was a man far from illiterate: he was able to travel by the stars, or the compass, and had marked, in his erratick expeditions, such places as are most worthy the notice of a passenger. He observed to me, that buildings are always best preserved in places little frequented, and difficult of access: for, when once a country declines from its primitive splendour, the more inhabitants are left, the quicker ruin will be made. Walls supply stones more easily than quarries, and palaces and temples will be demolished, to make stables of granite, and cottages of porphyry. CHAP. XXXIX. THE ADVENTURES OF PEKUAH CONTINUED. "We wandered about, in this manner, for some weeks, whether, as our chief pretended, for my gratification, or, as I rather suspected, for some convenience of his own. I endeavoured to appear contented, where sullenness and resentment would have been of no use, and that endeavour conduced much to the calmness of my mind; but my heart was always with Nekayah, and the troubles of the night much overbalanced the amusements of the day. My women, who threw all their cares upon their mistress, set their minds at ease, from the time when they saw me treated with respect, and gave themselves up to the incidental alleviations of our fatigue, without solicitude or sorrow. I was pleased with their pleasure, and animated with their confidence. My condition had lost much of its terrour, since I found that the Arab ranged the country merely to get riches. Avarice is an uniform and tractable vice: other intellectual distempers are different in different constitutions of mind; that which sooths the pride of one, will offend the pride of another; but to the favour of the covetous, there is a ready way: bring money, and nothing is denied. "At last we came to the dwelling of our chief, a strong and spacious house, built with stone, in an island of the Nile, which lies, as I was told, under the tropick. 'Lady,' said the Arab, 'you shall rest, after your journey, a few weeks, in this place, where you are to consider yourself as sovereign. My occupation is war; I have, therefore, chosen this obscure residence, from which I can issue unexpected, and to which I can retire unpursued. You may now repose in security: here are few pleasures, but here is no danger.' He then led me into the inner apartments, and seating me on the richest couch, bowed to the ground. His women, who considered me as a rival, looked on me with malignity; but, being soon informed that I was a great lady, detained only for my ransome, they began to vie with each other in obsequiousness and reverence. "Being again comforted with new assurances of speedy liberty, I was, for some days, diverted from impatience by the novelty of the place. The turrets overlooked the country to a great distance, and afforded a view of many windings of the stream. In the day, I wandered from one place to another, as the course of the sun varied the splendour of the prospect, and saw many things which I had never seen before. The crocodiles and river-horses, are common in this unpeopled region, and I often looked upon them with terrour, though I knew that they could not hurt me. For some time I expected to see mermaids and tritons, which, as Imlac has told me, the European travellers have stationed in the Nile, but no such beings ever appeared, and the Arab, when I inquired after them, laughed at my credulity. "At night the Arab always attended me to a tower, set apart for celestial observations, where he endeavoured to teach me the names and courses of the stars. I had no great inclination to this study, but an appearance of attention was necessary to please my instructer, who valued himself for his skill; and, in a little while, I found some employment requisite to beguile the tediousness of time, which was to be passed always amidst the same objects. I was weary of looking in the morning, on things from which I had turned away weary in the evening. I, therefore, was, at last, willing to observe the stars, rather than do nothing, but could not always compose my thoughts, and was very often thinking on Nekayah, when others imagined me contemplating the sky. Soon after the Arab went upon another expedition, and then my only pleasure was to talk with my maids, about the accident by which we were carried away, and the happiness that we should all enjoy at the end of our captivity." "There were women in your Arab's fortress," said the princess, "why did you not make them your companions, enjoy their conversation, and partake their diversions'? In a place, where they found business or amusement, why should you alone sit corroded with idle melancholy? or, why could not you bear, for a few months, that condition to which they were condemned for life?" "The diversions of the women," answered Pekuah, "were only childish play, by which the mind, accustomed to stronger operations, could not be kept busy. I could do all which they delighted in doing by powers merely sensitive, while my intellectual faculties were flown to Cairo. They ran, from room to room, as a bird hops, from wire to wire, in his cage. They danced for the sake of motion, as lambs frisk in a meadow. One sometimes pretended to be hurt, that the rest might be alarmed; or hid herself, that another might seek her. Part of their time passed in watching the progress of light bodies, that floated on the river, and part, in marking the various forms into which clouds broke in the sky. "Their business was only needlework in which I and my maids, sometimes helped them; but you know that the mind will easily straggle from the fingers, nor will you suspect that captivity and absence from Nekayah could receive solace from silken flowers. "Nor was much satisfaction to be hoped from their conversation: for of what could they be expected to talk? They had seen nothing; for they had lived, from early youth, in that narrow spot: of what they had not seen they could have no knowledge, for they could not read. They had no ideas but of the few things that were within their view, and had hardly names for any thing but their clothes and their food. As I bore a superiour character, I was often called to terminate their quarrels, which I decided as equitably as I could. If it could have amused me to hear the complaints of each against the rest, I might have been often detained by long stories; but the motives of their animosity were so small, that I could not listen without intercepting the tale." "How," said Rasselas, "can the Arab, whom you represented as a man of more than common accomplishments, take any pleasure in his seraglio, when it is filled only with women like these? Are they exquisitely beautiful?" "They do not," said Pekuah, "want that unaffecting and ignoble beauty, which may subsist without sprightliness or sublimity, without energy of thought, or dignity of virtue. But to a man, like the Arab, such beauty was only a flower, casually plucked, and carelessly thrown away. Whatever pleasures he might find among them, they were not those of friendship or society. When they were playing about him, he looked on them with inattentive superiority: when they vied for his regard, he sometimes turned away disgusted. As they had no knowledge, their talk could take nothing from the tediousness of life; as they had no choice, their fondness, or appearance of fondness, excited in him neither pride nor gratitude; he was not exalted in his own esteem by the smiles of a woman, who saw no other man, nor was much obliged by that regard, of which he could never know the sincerity, and which he might often perceive to be exerted, not so much to delight him, as to pain a rival. That which he gave, and they received, as love, was only a careless distribution of superfluous time, such love as man can bestow upon that which he despises, such as has neither hope nor fear, neither joy nor sorrow." "You have reason, lady, to think yourself happy," said Imlac, "that you have been thus easily dismissed. How could a mind, hungry for knowledge, be willing, in an intellectual famine, to lose such a banquet as Pekuah's conversation?" "I am inclined to believe," answered Pekuah, "that he was, for sometime, in suspense; for, notwithstanding his promise, whenever I proposed to despatch a messenger to Cairo, he found some excuse for delay. While I was detained in his house, he made many incursions into the neighbouring countries, and, perhaps, he would have refused to discharge me, had his plunder been equal to his wishes. He returned always courteous, related his adventures, delighted to hear my observations, and endeavoured to advance my acquaintance with the stars. When I importuned him to send away my letters, he soothed me with professions of honour and sincerity; and, when I could be no longer decently denied, put his troop again in motion, and left me to govern in his absence. I was much afflicted by this studied procrastination, and was sometimes afraid, that I should be forgotten; that you would leave Cairo, and I must end my days in an island of the Nile. "I grew, at last, hopeless and dejected, and cared so little to entertain him, that he, for awhile, more frequently talked with my maids. That he should fall in love with them, or with me, might have been equally fatal, and I was not much pleased with the growing friendship. My anxiety was not long; for, as I recovered some degree of cheerfulness, he returned to me, and I could not forbear to despise my former uneasiness. "He still delayed to send for my ransome, and would, perhaps, never have determined, had not your agent found his way to him. The gold, which he would not fetch, he could not reject, when it was offered. He hastened to prepare for our journey hither, like a man delivered from the pain of an intestine conflict. I took leave of my companions in the house, who dismissed me with cold indifference." Nekayah, having heard her favourite's relation, rose and embraced her, and Rasselas gave her a hundred ounces of gold, which she presented to the Arab for the fifty that were promised. CHAP. XL. THE HISTORY OF A MAN OF LEARNING. They returned to Cairo, and were so well pleased at finding themselves together, that none of them went much abroad. The prince began to love learning, and, one day, declared to Imlac, that he intended to devote himself to science, and pass the rest of his days in literary solitude. "Before you make your final choice," answered Imlac, "you ought to examine its hazards, and converse with some of those who are grown old in the company of themselves. I have just left the observatory of one of the most learned astronomers in the world, who has spent forty years in unwearied attention to the motions and appearances of the celestial bodies, and has drawn out his soul in endless calculations. He admits a few friends, once a month, to hear his deductions, and enjoy his discoveries. I was introduced, as a man of knowledge worthy of his notice. Men of various ideas, and fluent conversation, are commonly welcome to those whose thoughts have been long fixed upon a single point, and who find the images of other things stealing away. I delighted him with my remarks; he smiled at the narrative of my travels, and was glad to forget the constellations, and descend, for a moment, into the lower world. "On the next day of vacation I renewed my visit, and was so fortunate as to please him again. He relaxed, from that time, the severity of his rule, and permitted me to enter at my own choice. I found him always busy, and always glad to be relieved. As each knew much which the other was desirous of learning, we exchanged our notions with great delight. I perceived that I had, every day, more of his confidence, and always found new cause of admiration in the profundity of his mind. His comprehension is vast, his memory capacious and retentive, his discourse is methodical, and his expression clear. "His integrity and benevolence are equal to his learning. His deepest researches, and most favourite studies, are willingly interrupted for any opportunity of doing good, by his counsel or his riches. To his closest retreat, at his most busy moments, all are admitted that want his assistance: 'For, though I exclude idleness and pleasure, I will never,' says he, bar my doors against charity. To man is permitted the contemplation of the skies, but the practice of virtue is commanded.'" "Surely," said the princess, "this man is happy." "I visited him," said Imlac, "with more and more frequency, and was every time more enamoured of his conversation: he was sublime without haughtiness, courteous without formality, and communicative without ostentation. I was, at first, great princess, of your opinion; thought him the happiest of mankind; and often congratulated him on the blessing that he enjoyed. He seemed to hear nothing with indifference but the praises of his condition, to which he always returned a general answer, and diverted the conversation to some other topick. "Amidst this willingness to be pleased, and labour to please, I had, quickly, reason to imagine, that some painful sentiment pressed upon his mind. He often looked up earnestly towards the sun, and let his voice fall in the midst of his discourse. He would sometimes, when we were alone, gaze upon me, in silence, with the air of a man, who longed to speak what he was yet resolved to suppress. He would often send for me, with vehement injunctions of haste, though, when I came to him, he had nothing extraordinary to say. And sometimes, when I was leaving him, would call me back, pause a few moments, and then dismiss me." CHAP. XLI. THE ASTRONOMER DISCOVERS THE CAUSE OF HIS UNEASINESS. "At last the time came, when the secret burst his reserve. We were sitting together, last night, in the turret of his house, watching the emersion of a satellite of Jupiter. A sudden tempest clouded the sky, and disappointed our observation. We sat awhile silent in the dark, and then he addressed himself to me in these words: 'Imlac, I have long considered thy friendship as the greatest blessing of my life. Integrity, without knowledge, is weak and useless; and knowledge, without integrity, is dangerous and dreadful. I have found in thee all the qualities requisite for trust--benevolence, experience, and fortitude. I have long discharged an office, which I must soon quit at the call of nature, and shall rejoice, in the hour of imbecility and pain, to devolve it upon thee.' "I thought myself honoured by this testimony, and protested, that whatever could conduce to his happiness, would add likewise to mine. "'Hear, Imlac, what thou wilt not, without difficulty, credit. I have possessed, for five years, the regulation of weather, and the distribution of the seasons: the sun has listened to my dictates, and passed, from tropick to tropick, by my direction; the clouds, at my call, have poured their waters, and the Nile has overflowed at my command; I have restrained the rage of the dog-star, and mitigated the fervours of the crab. The winds alone, of all the elemental powers, have, hitherto, refused my authority, and multitudes have perished by equinoctial tempests, which I found myself unable to prohibit or restrain. I have administered this great office with exact justice, and made, to the different nations of the earth, an impartial dividend of rain and sunshine. What must have been the misery of half the globe, if I had limited the clouds to particular regions, or confined the sun to either side of the equator!' CHAP. XLII. THE OPINION OF THE ASTRONOMER IS EXPLAINED AND JUSTIFIED. "I suppose he discovered in me, through the obscurity of the room, some tokens of amazement and doubt, for, after a short pause, he proceeded thus: "'Not to be easily credited will neither surprise nor offend me; for I am, probably, the first of human beings to whom this trust has been imparted. Nor do I know whether to deem this distinction a reward or punishment; since I have possessed it, I have been far less happy than before, and nothing but the consciousness of good intention could have enabled me to support the weariness of unremitted vigilance.' "How long, sir, said I, has this great office been in your hands?" "'About ten years ago,' said he, 'my daily observations of the changes of the sky, led me to consider, whether, if I had the power of the seasons, I could confer greater plenty upon the inhabitants of the earth. This contemplation fastened on my mind, and I sat, days and nights, in imaginary dominion, pouring, upon this country and that, the showers of fertility, and seconding every fall of rain with a due proportion of sunshine. I had yet only the will to do good, and did not imagine that I should ever have the power. "'One day, as I was looking on the fields withering with heat, I felt, in my mind, a sudden wish that I could send rain on the southern mountains, and raise the Nile to an inundation. In the hurry of my imagination, I commanded rain to fall, and, by comparing the time of my command with that of the inundation, I found, that the clouds had listened to my lips.' "Might not some other cause," said I, "produce this concurrence? the Nile does not always rise on the same day. "'Do not believe,' said he, with impatience, 'that such objections could escape me: I reasoned long against my own conviction, and laboured against truth with the utmost obstinacy. I sometimes suspected myself of madness, and should not have dared to impart this secret, but to a man like you, capable of distinguishing the wonderful from the impossible, and the incredible from the false.' "Why, sir," said I, "do you call that incredible, which you know, or think you know, to be true? "'Because,' said he, 'I cannot prove it by any external evidence; and I know, too well, the laws of demonstration, to think that my conviction ought to influence another, who cannot, like me, be conscious of its force. I, therefore, shall not attempt to gain credit by disputation. It is sufficient, that I feel this power, that I have long possessed, and every day exerted it. But the life of man is short, the infirmities of age increase upon me, and the time will soon come, when the regulator of the year must mingle with the dust. The care of appointing a successour has long disturbed me; the night and the day have been spent in comparisons of all the characters which have come to my knowledge, and I have yet found none so worthy as thyself.' CHAP. XLIII. THE ASTRONOMER LEAVES IMLAC HIS DIRECTIONS. "'Hear, therefore, what I shall impart, with attention, such as the welfare of the world requires. If the task of a king be considered as difficult, who has the care only of a few millions, to whom he cannot do much good or harm, what must be the anxiety of him, on whom depends the action of the elements, and the great gifts of light and heat!--Hear me, therefore, with attention. "'I have diligently considered the position of the earth and sun, and formed innumerable schemes, in which I changed their situation. I have sometimes turned aside the axis of the earth, and sometimes varied the ecliptick of the sun: but I have found it impossible to make a disposition, by which the world may be advantaged; what one region gains, another loses by an imaginable alteration, even without considering the distant parts of the solar system, with which ye are unacquainted. Do not, therefore, in thy administration of the year, indulge thy pride by innovation; do not please thyself with thinking, that thou canst make thyself renowned to all future ages, by disordering the seasons. The memory of mischief is no desirable fame. Much less will it become thee to let kindness or interest prevail. Never rob other countries of rain to pour it on thine own. For us the Nile is sufficient.' "I promised, that when I possessed the power, I would use it with inflexible integrity; and he dismissed me, pressing my hand. 'My heart,' said he, 'will be now at rest, and my benevolence will no more destroy my quiet: I have found a man of wisdom and virtue, to whom I can cheerfully bequeath the inheritance of the sun.'" The prince heard this narration with very serious regard; but the princess smiled, and Pekuah convulsed herself with laughter. "Ladies," said Imlac, "to mock the heaviest of human afflictions, is neither charitable nor wise. Few can attain this man's knowledge, and few practise his virtues; but all may suffer his calamity. Of the uncertainties of our present state, the most dreadful and alarming is the uncertain continuance of reason." The princess was recollected, and the favourite was abashed. Rasselas, more deeply affected, inquired of Imlac, whether he thought such maladies of the mind frequent, and how they were contracted. CHAP. XLIV. THE DANGEROUS PREVALENCE OF IMAGINATION. "Disorders of intellect," answered Imlac, "happen much more often than superficial observers will easily believe. Perhaps, if we speak with rigorous exactness, no human mind is in its right state[a]. There is no man, whose imagination does not, sometimes, predominate over his reason, who can regulate his attention wholly by his will, and whose ideas will come and go at his command. No man will be found, in whose mind airy notions do not, sometimes, tyrannize, and force him to hope or fear beyond the limits of sober probability. All power of fancy over reason, is a degree of insanity; but, while this power is such as we can control and repress, it is not visible to others, nor considered as any deprivation of the mental faculties: it is not pronounced madness, but when it becomes ungovernable, and apparently influences speech or action. "To indulge the power of fiction, and send imagination out upon the wing, is often the sport of those who delight too much in silent speculation. When we are alone we are not always busy; the labour of excogitation is too violent to last long; the ardour of inquiry will, sometimes, give way to idleness or satiety. He who has nothing external that can divert him, must find pleasure in his own thoughts, and must conceive himself what he is not; for who is pleased with what he is? He then expatiates in boundless futurity, and culls, from all imaginable conditions, that which, for the present moment, he should most desire; amuses his desires with impossible enjoyments, and confers upon his pride unattainable dominion. The mind dances from scene to scene, unites all pleasures in all combinations, and riots in delights, which nature and fortune, with all their bounty, cannot bestow. "In time, some particular train of ideas fixes the attention; all other intellectual gratifications are rejected; the mind, in weariness or leisure, recurs constantly to the favourite conception, and feasts on the luscious falsehood, whenever she is offended with the bitterness of truth. By degrees, the reign of fancy is confirmed; she grows first imperious, and in time despotick. Then fictions begin to operate as realities, false opinions fasten upon the mind, and life passes in dreams of rapture or of anguish. "This, sir, is one of the dangers of solitude, which the hermit has confessed not always to promote goodness, and the astronomer's misery has proved to be not always propitious to wisdom." "I will no more," said the favourite, "imagine myself the queen of Abissinia. I have often spent the hours, which the princess gave to my own disposal, in adjusting ceremonies, and regulating the court; I have repressed the pride of the powerful, and granted the petitions of the poor; I have built new palaces in more happy situations, planted groves upon the tops of mountains, and have exulted in the beneficence of royalty, till, when the princess entered, I had almost forgotten to bow down before her." "And I," said the princess, "will not allow myself any more to play the shepherdess in my waking dreams. I have often soothed my thoughts with the quiet and innocence of pastoral employments, till I have, in my chamber, heard the winds whistle, and the sheep bleat: sometimes freed the lamb entangled in the thicket, and, sometimes, with my crook, encountered the wolf. I have a dress like that of the village maids, which I put on to help my imagination, and a pipe, on which I play softly, and suppose myself followed by my flocks." "I will confess," said the prince, "an indulgence of fantastick delight more dangerous than yours. I have frequently endeavoured to image the possibility of a perfect government, by which all wrong should be restrained, all vice reformed, and all the subjects preserved in tranquillity and innocence. This thought produced innumerable schemes of reformation, and dictated many useful regulations and salutary edicts. This has been the sport, and sometimes the labour, of my solitude; and I start, when I think, with how little anguish I once supposed the death of my father and my brothers." "Such," said Imlac, "are the effects of visionary schemes; when we first form them, we know them to be absurd, but familiarize them by degrees, and, in time, lose sight of their folly." [a] See Traite Médico-philosophique sur l'Aliénation Mentale, par Pinel. Dr. Willis defined, in remarkable accordance with this case in Rasselas, insanity to be the tendency of a mind to cherish one idea, or one set of ideas, to the exclusion of others.--ED. CHAP. XLV. THEY DISCOURSE WITH AN OLD MAN. The evening was now far past, and they rose to return home. As they walked along the bank of the Nile, delighted with the beams of the moon quivering on the water, they saw, at a small distance, an old man, whom the prince had often heard in the assembly of the sages. "Yonder," said he, "is one whose years have calmed his passions, but not clouded his reason: let us close the disquisitions of the night, by inquiring, what are his sentiments of his own state, that we may know whether youth alone is to struggle with vexation, and whether any better hope remains for the latter part of life." Here the sage approached and saluted them. They invited him to join their walk, and prattled awhile, as acquaintance that had unexpectedly met one another. The old man was cheerful and talkative, and the way seemed short in his company. He was pleased to find himself not disregarded, accompanied them to their house, and, at the prince's request, entered with them. They placed him in the seat of honour, and set wine and conserves before him. "Sir," said the princess, "an evening walk must give, to a man of learning, like you, pleasures which ignorance and youth can hardly conceive. You know the qualities and the causes of all that you behold, the laws by which the river flows, the periods in which the planets perform their revolutions. Every thing must supply you with contemplation, and renew the consciousness of your own dignity." "Lady," answered he, "let the gay and the vigorous expect pleasure in their excursions; it is enough that age can obtain ease. To me, the world has lost its novelty: I look round, and see what I remember to have seen in happier days. I rest against a tree, and consider, that in the same shade I once disputed upon the annual overflow of the Nile, with a friend who is now silent in the grave. I cast my eyes upwards, fix them on the changing moon, and think, with pain, on the vicissitudes of life. I have ceased to take much delight in physical truth; for what have I to do with those things which I am soon to leave?" "You may, at least, recreate yourself," said Imlac, "with the recollection of an honourable and useful life, and enjoy the praise which all agree to give you." "Praise," said the sage, with a sigh, "is, to an old man, an empty sound. I have neither mother to be delighted with the reputation of her son, nor wife to partake the honours of her husband. I have outlived my friends and my rivals. Nothing is now of much importance; for I cannot extend my interest beyond myself. Youth is delighted with applause, because it is considered, as the earnest of some future good, and because the prospect of life is far extended; but to me, who am now declining to decrepitude, there is little to be feared from the malevolence of men, and yet less to be hoped from their affection or esteem. Something they may yet take away, but they can give me nothing. Riches would now be useless, and high employment would be pain. My retrospect of life recalls to my view many opportunities of good neglected, much time squandered upon trifles, and more lost in idleness and vacancy. I leave many great designs unattempted, and many great attempts unfinished. My mind is burdened with no heavy crime, and, therefore, I compose myself to tranquillity; endeavour to abstract my thoughts from hopes and cares, which, though reason knows them to be vain, still try to keep their old possession of the heart; expect, with serene humility, that hour which nature cannot long delay; and hope to possess, in a better state, that happiness, which here I could not find, and that virtue, which here I have not attained." He rose and went away, leaving his audience not much elated with the hope of long life. The prince consoled himself with remarking, that it was not reasonable to be disappointed by this account; for age had never been considered as the season of felicity, and, if it was possible to be easy in decline and weakness, it was likely that the days of vigour and alacrity might be happy; that the noon of life might be bright, if the evening could be calm. The princess suspected that age was querulous and malignant, and delighted to repress the expectations of those, who had newly entered the world. She had seen the possessours of estates look with envy on their heirs, and known many who enjoyed pleasure no longer than they could confine it to themselves. Pekuah conjectured, that the man was older than he appeared, and was willing to impute his complaints to delirious dejection: or else supposed that he had been unfortunate, and was, therefore, discontented: "For nothing," said she, "is more common than to call our own condition, the condition of life." Imlac, who had no desire to see them depressed, smiled at the comforts which they could so readily procure to themselves, and remembered, that, at the same age, he was equally confident of unmingled prosperity, and equally fertile of consolatory expedients. He forbore to force upon them unwelcome knowledge, which time itself would too soon impress. The princess and her lady retired; the madness of the astronomer hung on their minds, and they desired Imlac to enter upon his office, and delay next morning, the rising of the sun. CHAP. XLVI. THE PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT THE ASTRONOMER. The princess and Pekuah having talked in private of Imlac's astronomer, thought his character at once so amiable and so strange, that they could not be satisfied without a nearer knowledge; and Imlac was requested to find the means of bringing them together. This was somewhat difficult; the philosopher had never received any visits from women, though he lived in a city that had in it many Europeans, who followed the manners of their own countries, and many, from other parts of the world, that lived there with European liberty. The ladies would not be refused, and several schemes were proposed for the accomplishment of their design. It was proposed to introduce them as strangers in distress, to whom the sage was always accessible; but, after some deliberation, it appeared, that by this artifice, no acquaintance could be formed, for their conversation would be short, and they could not decently importune him often. "This," said Rasselas, "is true; but I have yet a stronger objection against the misrepresentation of your state. I have always considered it as treason against the great republick of human nature, to make any man's virtues the means of deceiving him, whether on great or little occasions. All imposture weakens confidence, and chills benevolence. When the sage finds that you are not what you seemed, he will feel the resentment natural to a man who, conscious of great abilities, discovers that he has been tricked by understandings meaner than his own, and, perhaps, the distrust, which he can never afterwards wholly lay aside, may stop the voice of counsel, and close the hand of charity; and where will you find the power of restoring his benefactions to mankind, or his peace to himself?" To this no reply was attempted, and Imlac began to hope that their curiosity would subside; but, next day, Pekuah told him, she had now found an honest pretence for a visit to the astronomer, for she would solicit permission to continue, under him, the studies in which she had been initiated by the Arab, and the princess might go with her, either as a fellow-student, or because a woman could not decently come alone. "I am afraid," said Imlac, "that he will be soon weary of your company: men, advanced far in knowledge do not love to repeat the elements of their art, and I am not certain that even of the elements, as he will deliver them, connected with inferences, and mingled with reflections, you are a very capable auditress." "That," said Pekuah, "must be my care: I ask of you only to take me thither. My knowledge is, perhaps, more than you imagine it, and, by concurring always with his opinions, I shall make him think it greater than it is." The astronomer, in pursuance of this resolution, was told, that a foreign lady, travelling in search of knowledge, had heard of his reputation, and was desirous to become his scholar. The uncommonness of the proposal raised, at once, his surprise and curiosity; and when, after a short deliberation, he consented to admit her, he could not stay, without impatience, till the next day. The ladies dressed themselves magnificently, and were attended by Imlac to the astronomer, who was pleased to see himself approached with respect by persons of so splendid an appearance. In the exchange of the first civilities, he was timorous and bashful; but, when the talk became regular, he recollected his powers, and justified the character which Imlac had given. Inquiring of Pekuah, what could have turned her inclination toward astronomy, he received from her a history of her adventure at the pyramid, and of the time passed in the Arab's island. She told her tale with ease and elegance, and her conversation took possession of his heart. The discourse was then turned to astronomy; Pekuah displayed what she knew: he looked upon her as a prodigy of genius, and entreated her not to desist from a study, which she had so happily begun. They came again and again, and were, every time, more welcome than before. The sage endeavoured to amuse them, that they might prolong their visits, for he found his thoughts grow brighter in their company; the clouds of solicitude vanished by degrees, as he forced himself to entertain them, and he grieved, when he was left, at their departure, to his old employment of regulating the seasons. The princess and her favourite had now watched his lips for several months, and could not catch a single word, from which they could judge whether he continued, or not, in the opinion of his preternatural commission. They often contrived to bring him to an open declaration; but he easily eluded all their attacks, and on which side soever they pressed him, escaped from them to some other topick. As their familiarity increased, they invited him often to the house of Imlac, where they distinguished him by extraordinary respect. He began, gradually, to delight in sublunary pleasures. He came early, and departed late; laboured to recommend himself by assiduity and compliance; excited their curiosity after new arts, that they might still want his assistance; and, when they made any excursion of pleasure, or inquiry, entreated to attend them. By long experience of his integrity and wisdom, the prince and his sister were convinced that he might be trusted without danger; and, lest he should draw any false hopes from the civilities which he received, discovered to him their condition, with the motives of their journey; and required his opinion on the CHOICE OF LIFE. "Of the various conditions which the world spreads before you, which you shall prefer," said the sage, "I am not able to instruct you. I can only tell, that I have chosen wrong. I have passed my time in study, without experience; in the attainment of sciences, which can, for the most part, be but remotely useful to mankind. I have purchased knowledge at the expense of all the common comforts of life: I have missed the endearing elegance of female friendship, and the happy commerce of domestick tenderness. If I have obtained any prerogatives above other students, they have been accompanied with fear, disquiet, and scrupulosity; but, even of these prerogatives, whatever they were, I have, since my thoughts have been diversified by more intercourse with the world, begun to question the reality. When I have been, for a few days, lost in pleasing dissipation, I am always tempted to think that my inquiries have ended in errour, and that I have suffered much, and suffered it in vain." Imlac was delighted to find that the sage's understanding was breaking through its mists, and resolved to detain him from the planets, till he should forget his task of ruling them, and reason should recover its original influence. From this time the astronomer was received into familiar friendship, and partook of all their projects and pleasures: his respect kept him attentive, and the activity of Rasselas did not leave much time unengaged. Something was always to be done; the day was spent in making observations which furnished talk for the evening, and the evening was closed with a scheme for the morrow. The sage confessed to Imlac, that since he had mingled in the gay tumults of life, and divided his hours by a succession of amusements, he found the conviction of his authority over the skies fade gradually from his mind, and began to trust less to an opinion which he never could prove to others, and which he now found subject to variation, from causes in which reason had no part. "If I am accidentally left alone for a few hours," said he, "my inveterate persuasion rushes upon my soul, and my thoughts are chained down by some irresistible violence; but they are soon disentangled by the prince's conversation, and instantaneously released at the entrance of Pekuah. I am like a man habitually afraid of spectres, who is set at ease by a lamp, and wonders at the dread which harassed him in the dark; yet, if his lamp be extinguished, feels again the terrours which he knows, that when it is light he shall feel no more. But I am sometimes afraid, lest I indulge my quiet by criminal negligence, and voluntarily forget the great charge with which I am intrusted. If I favour myself in a known errour, or am determined, by my own ease, in a doubtful question of this importance, how dreadful is my crime!" "No disease of the imagination," answered Imlac, "is so difficult of cure, as that which is complicated with the dread of guilt: fancy and conscience then act interchangeably upon us, and so often shift their places, that the illusions of one are not distinguished from the dictates of the other. If fancy presents images not moral or religious, the mind drives them away when they give it pain, but when melancholick notions take the form of duty, they lay hold on the faculties without opposition, because we are afraid to exclude or banish them. For this reason, the superstitious are often melancholy, and the melancholy almost always superstitious. "But do not let the suggestions of timidity overpower your better reason: the danger of neglect can be but as the probability of the obligation, which, when you consider it with freedom, you find very little, and that little growing every day less. Open your heart to the influence of the light, which, from time to time, breaks in upon you: when scruples importune you, which you, in your lucid moments know to be vain, do not stand to parley, but fly to business or to Pekuah, and keep this thought always prevalent, that you are only one atom of the mass of humanity, and have neither such virtue nor vice, as that you should be singled out for supernatural favours or afflictions." CHAP. XLVII. THE PRINCE ENTERS, AND BRINGS A NEW TOPICK. "All this," said the astronomer, "I have often thought, but my reason has been so long subjugated by an uncontroulable and overwhelming idea, that it durst not confide in its own decisions. I now see how fatally I betrayed my quiet, by suffering chimeras to prey upon me in secret; but melancholy shrinks from communication, and I never found a man before, to whom I could impart my troubles, though I had been certain of relief. I rejoice to find my own sentiments confirmed by yours, who are not easily deceived, and can have no motive or purpose to deceive. I hope that time and variety will dissipate the gloom that has so long surrounded me, and the latter part of my days will be spent in peace." "Your learning and virtue," said Imlac, "may justly give you hopes." Rasselas then entered with the princess and Pekuah, and inquired, whether they had contrived any new diversion for the next day? "Such," said Nekayah, "is the state of life, that none are happy, but by the anticipation of change: the change itself is nothing: when we have made it, the next wish is to change again. The world is not yet exhausted; let me see something to-morrow, which I never saw before." "Variety," said Rasselas, "is so necessary to content, that even the happy valley disgusted me by the recurrence of its luxuries; yet I could not forbear to reproach myself with impatience, when I saw the monks of St. Anthony support, without complaint, a life not of uniform delight, but uniform hardship." "Those men," answered Imlac, "are less wretched in their silent convent, than the Abissinian princes in their prison of pleasure. Whatever is done by the monks is incited by an adequate and reasonable motive. Their labour supplies them with necessaries; it, therefore, cannot be omitted, and is certainly rewarded. Their devotion prepares them for another state, and reminds them of its approach, while it fits them for it. Their time is regularly distributed; one duty succeeds another, so that they are not left open to the distraction of unguided choice, nor lost in the shades of listless inactivity. There is a certain task to be performed at an appropriated hour; and their toils are cheerful, because they consider them as acts of piety, by which they are always advancing towards endless felicity." "Do you think," said Nekayah, "that the monastick rule is a more holy and less imperfect state than any other? May not he equally hope for future happiness, who converses openly with mankind, who succours the distressed by his charity, instructs the ignorant by his learning, and contributes, by his industry, to the general system of life: even though he should omit some of the mortifications which are practised in the cloister, and allow himself such harmless delights, as his condition may place within his reach." "This," said Imlac, "is a question which has long divided the wise, and perplexed the good. I am afraid to decide on either part. He that lives well in the world, is better than he that lives well in a monastery. But, perhaps, every one is not able to stem the temptations of publick life; and, if he cannot conquer, he may properly retreat. Some have little power to do good, and have, likewise, little strength to resist evil. Many are weary of their conflicts with adversity, and are willing to eject those passions which have long busied them in vain. And many are dismissed, by age and disease, from the more laborious duties of society. In monasteries, the weak and timorous may be happily sheltered, the weary may repose, and the penitent may meditate. Those retreats of prayer and contemplation have something so congenial to the mind of man, that, perhaps, there is scarcely one that does not propose to close his life in pious abstraction with a few associates, serious as himself." "Such," said Pekuah, "has often been my wish; and I have heard the princess declare, that she should not willingly die in a crowd." "The liberty of using harmless pleasures," proceeded Imlac, "will not be disputed; but it is still to be examined, what pleasures are harmless. The evil of any pleasure that Nekayah can image, is not in the act itself, but in its consequences. Pleasure, in itself harmless, may become mischievous, by endearing to us a state which we know to be transient and probatory, and withdrawing our thoughts from that, of which every hour brings us nearer to the beginning, and of which no length of time will bring us to the end. Mortification is not virtuous in itself, nor has any other use, but that it disengages us from the allurements of sense. In the state of future perfection, to which we all aspire, there will be pleasure without danger, and security without restraint." The princess was silent, and Rasselas, turning to the astronomer, asked him, whether he could not delay her retreat, by showing her something which she had not seen before. "Your curiosity," said the sage, "has been so general, and your pursuit of knowledge so vigorous, that novelties are not now very easily to be found; but what you can no longer procure from the living, may be given by the dead. Among the wonders of this country are the catacombs, or the ancient repositories, in which the bodies of the earliest generations were lodged, and where, by the virtue of the gums which embalmed them, they yet remain without corruption." "I know not," said Rasselas, "what pleasure the sight of the catacombs can afford; but, since nothing else offers, I am resolved to view them, and shall place this with many other things which I have done, because I would do something." They hired a guard of horsemen, and the next day visited the catacombs. When they were about to descend into the sepulchral caves, "Pekuah," said the princess, "we are now again invading the habitations of the dead: I know that you will stay behind; let me find you safe when I return." "No, I will not be left," answered Pekuah; "I will go down between you and the prince." They then all descended, and roved, with wonder, through the labyrinth of subterraneous passages, where the bodies were laid in rows on either side. CHAP. XLVIII. IMLAC DISCOURSES ON THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. "What reason," said the prince, "can be given, why the Egyptians should thus expensively preserve those carcasses which some nations consume with fire, others lay to mingle with the earth, and all agree to remove from their sight, as soon as decent rites can be performed?" "The original of ancient customs," said Imlac "is commonly unknown; for the practice often continues when the cause has ceased; and, concerning superstitious ceremonies, it is vain to conjecture; for what reason did not dictate, reason cannot explain. I have long believed that the practice of embalming arose only from tenderness to the remains of relations or friends; and to this opinion I am more inclined, because it seems impossible that this care should have been general: had all the dead been embalmed, their repositories must, in time, have been more spacious than the dwellings of the living. I suppose only the rich or honourable were secured from corruption, and the rest left to the course of nature. "But it is commonly supposed, that the Egyptians believed the soul to live as long as the body continued undissolved, and, therefore, tried this method of eluding death." "Could the wise Egyptians," said Nekayah, "think so grossly of the soul? If the soul could once survive its separation, what could it afterwards receive or suffer from the body?" "The Egyptians would, doubtless, think erroneously," said the astronomer, "in the darkness of heathenism, and the first dawn of philosophy. The nature of the soul is still disputed, amidst all our opportunities of clearer knowledge; some yet say, that it may be material, who, nevertheless, believe it to be immortal." "Some," answered Imlac, "have, indeed, said, that the soul is material, but I can scarcely believe that any man has thought it, who knew how to think; for all the conclusions of reason enforce the immateriality of mind, and all the notices of sense and investigations of science concur to prove the unconsciousness of matter. "It was never supposed that cogitation is inherent in matter, or that every particle is a thinking being. Yet, if any part of matter be devoid of thought, what part can we suppose to think? Matter can differ from matter only in form, density, bulk, motion, and direction of motion: to which of these, however varied or combined, can consciousness be annexed? To be round or square, to be solid or fluid, to be great or little, to be moved slowly or swiftly one way or another, are modes of material existence, all equally alien from the nature of cogitation. If matter be once without thought, it can only be made to think by some new modification, but all the modifications which it can admit, are equally unconnected with cogitative powers." "But the materialists," said the astronomer, "urge, that matter may have qualities, with which we are unacquainted." "He who will determine," returned Imlac, "against that which he knows, because there may be something, which he knows not; he that can set hypothetical possibility against acknowledged certainty, is not to be admitted among reasonable beings. All that we know of matter is, that matter is inert, senseless, and lifeless; and, if this conviction cannot be opposed but by referring us to something that we know not, we have all the evidence that human intellect can admit. If that which is known may be overruled by that which is unknown, no being, not omniscient, can arrive at certainty." "Yet let us not," said the astronomer, "too arrogantly limit the creator's power." "It is no limitation of omnipotence," replied the poet, "to suppose that one thing is not consistent with another; that the same proposition cannot be, at once, true and false; that the same number cannot be even and odd; that cogitation cannot be conferred on that which is created incapable of cogitation." "I know not," said Nekayah, "any great use of this question. Does that immateriality, which, in my opinion, you have sufficiently proved, necessarily include eternal duration?" "Of immateriality," said Imlac, "our ideas are negative, and, therefore, obscure. Immateriality seems to imply a natural power of perpetual duration, as a consequence of exemption from all causes of decay: whatever perishes is destroyed by the solution of its contexture, and separation of its parts; nor can we conceive how that which has no parts, and, therefore, admits no solution, can be naturally corrupted or impaired." "I know not," said Rasselas, "how to conceive any thing without extension; what is extended must have parts, and you allow, that whatever has parts may be destroyed." "Consider your own conceptions," replied Imlac, "and the difficulty will be less. You will find substance without extension. An ideal form is no less real than material bulk: yet an ideal form has no extension. It is no less certain, when you think on a pyramid, that your mind possesses the idea of a pyramid, than that the pyramid itself is standing. What space does the idea of a pyramid occupy more than the idea of a grain of corn? or how can either idea suffer laceration? As is the effect, such is the cause: as thought, such is the power that thinks; a power impassive and indiscerptible." "But the being," said Nekayah, "whom I fear to name, the being which made the soul, can destroy it." "He, surely, can destroy it," answered Imlac, "since, however unperishable, it receives from a superiour nature its power of duration. That it will not perish by any inherent cause of decay, or principle of corruption, may be shown by philosophy; but philosophy can tell no more. That it will not be annihilated by him that made it, we must humbly learn from higher authority." The whole assembly stood, awhile, silent and collected. "Let us return," said Rasselas, "from this scene of mortality. How gloomy would be these mansions of the dead to him who did not know that he should never die; that what now acts shall continue its agency, and what now thinks shall think on for ever. Those that lie here, stretched before us, the wise and the powerful of ancient times, warn us to remember the shortness of our present state: they were, perhaps, snatched away, while they were busy, like us, in the choice of life." "To me," said the princess, "the choice of life is become less important; I hope, hereafter, to think only on the choice of eternity." They then hastened out of the caverns, and, under the protection of their guard, returned to Cairo. CHAP. XLIX. THIS CONCLUSION, IN WHICH NOTHING IS CONCLUDED. It was now the time of the inundation of the Nile: a few days after their visit to the catacombs the river began to rise. They were confined to their house. The whole region, being under water, gave them no invitation to any excursions, and, being well supplied with materials for talk, they diverted themselves with comparisons of the different forms of life, which they had observed, and with various schemes of happiness, which each of them had formed. Pekuah was never so much charmed with any place as the convent of St. Anthony, where the Arab restored her to the princess, and wished only to fill it with pious maidens, and to be made prioress of the order: she was weary of expectation and disgust, and would gladly be fixed in some unvariable state. The princess thought, that, of all sublunary things, knowledge was the best: she desired, first, to learn all sciences, and then purposed to found a college of learned women, in which she would preside; that, by conversing with the old, and educating the young, she might divide her time between the acquisition and communication of wisdom, and raise up, fur the next age, models of prudence, and patterns of piety. The prince desired a little kingdom, in which he might administer justice in his own person, and see all the parts of government with his own eyes; but he could never fix the limits of his dominion, and was always adding to the number of his subjects. Imlac and the astronomer were contented to be driven along the stream of life, without directing their course to any particular port. Of these wishes, that they had formed, they well knew that none could be obtained. They deliberated awhile what was to be done, and resolved, when the inundation should cease, to return to Abissinia. LETTERS. I.--To MR. JAMES ELPHINSTON. Sept. 25th, 1750. DEAR SIR,--You have, as I find by every kind of evidence, lost an excellent mother; and I hope you will not think me incapable of partaking of your grief. I have a mother, now eighty-two years of age, whom, therefore, I must soon lose, unless it please God that she rather should mourn for me. I read the letters in which you relate your mother's death to Mrs. Strahan, and think I do myself honour, when I tell you that I read them with tears; but tears are neither to you, nor to me, of any farther use, when once the tribute of nature has been paid. The business of life summons us away from useless grief, and calls us to the exercise of those virtues, of which we are lamenting our deprivation. The greatest benefit which one friend can confer upon another, is to guard and excite and elevate his virtues. This your mother will still perform, if you diligently preserve the memory of her life, and of her death: a life, so far as I can learn, useful, wise, and innocent; and a death, resigned, peaceful, and holy. I cannot forbear to mention, that neither reason nor revelation denies you to hope, that you may increase her happiness, by obeying her precepts; and that she may, in her present state, look, with pleasure, upon every act of virtue, to which her instructions or example have contributed. Whether this be more than a pleasing dream, or a just opinion of separate spirits, is, indeed, of no great importance to us, when we consider ourselves as acting under the eye of God: yet, surely, there is something pleasing in the belief, that our separation from those, whom we love, is merely corporeal; and it may be a great incitement to virtuous friendship, if it can be made probable, that that union, which has received the divine approbation, shall continue to eternity. There is one expedient, by which you may, in some degree, continue her presence. If you write down minutely what you remember of her from your earliest years, you will read it with great pleasure, and receive from it many hints of soothing recollection, when time shall remove her yet farther from you, and your grief shall be matured to veneration. To this, however painful for the present, I cannot but advise you, as to a source of comfort and satisfaction in the time to come; for all comfort and all satisfaction is sincerely wished you by, Dear sir, Your most obliged, most obedient, And most humble servant, SAM. JOHNSON. II.--To MRS. THRALE. London, Aug. 13, 1765. MADAM,--If you have really so good an opinion of me as you express, it will not be necessary to inform you how unwillingly I miss the opportunity of coming to Brighthelmstone in Mr. Thrale's company; or, since I cannot do what I wish first, how eagerly I shall catch the second degree of pleasure, by coming to you and him, as soon as I can dismiss my work from my hands. I am afraid to make promises, even to myself; but I hope that the week after the next will be the end of my present business. When business is done, what remains but pleasure? and where should pleasure be sought, but under Mrs. Thrale's influence? Do not blame me for a delay by which I must suffer so much, and by which I suffer alone. If you cannot think I am good, pray think I am mending, and that in time I may deserve to be, dear madam, your, &c. III.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, July 20, 1767. Madam,--Though I have been away so much longer than I purposed or expected, I have found nothing that withdraws my affections from the friends whom I left behind, or which makes me less desirous of reposing at that place, which your kindness and Mr. Thrale's allows me to call my home. Miss Lucy[a] is more kind and civil than I expected, and has raised my esteem by many excellencies, very noble and resplendent, though a little discoloured by hoary virginity. Every thing else recalls to my remembrance years, in which I proposed what, I am afraid, I have not done, and promised myself pleasure which I have not found. But complaint can be of no use; and why then should I depress your hopes by my lamentations? I suppose it is the condition of humanity to design what never will be done, and to hope what never will be obtained. But, among the vain hopes, let me not number the hope which I have, of being long, dear madam, your, &c. [a] Miss Lucy Porter, daughter to Dr. Johnson's wife, by a former husband. IV.--TO THE SAME. Lichfield, August 14, 1769. MADAM,--I set out on Thursday morning, and found my companion, to whom I was very much a stranger, more agreeable than I expected. We went cheerfully forward, and passed the night at Coventry. We came in late, and went out early; and, therefore, I did not send for my cousin Tom: but I design to make him some amends for the omission. Next day we came early to Lucy, who was, I believe, glad to see us. She had saved her best gooseberries upon the tree for me; and, as Steele says, "I was neither too proud nor too wise" to gather them. I have rambled a very little "inter fontes et flumina nota," but I am not yet well. They have cut down the trees in George lane. Evelyn, in his book of Forest Trees, tells us of wicked men that cut down trees, and never prospered afterwards; yet nothing has deterred these audacious aldermen from violating the Hamadryads of George lane. As an impartial traveller, I must however tell, that, in Stow street, where I left a draw-well, I have found a pump; but the lading-well, in this ill fated George lane, lies shamefully neglected. I am going to-day, or to-morrow, to Ashbourne; but I am at a loss how I shall get back in time to London. Here are only chance coaches, so that there is no certainty of a place. If I do not come, let it not hinder your journey. I can be but a few days behind you; and I will follow in the Brighthelmstone coach. But I hope to come. I took care to tell Miss Porter, that I have got another Lucy. I hope she is well. Tell Mrs. Salusbury that I beg her stay at Streatham, for little Lucy's sake. I am, &c. V.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, July 11, 1770. MADAM,--Since my last letter, nothing extraordinary has happened. Rheumatism, which has been very troublesome, is grown better. I have not yet seen Dr. Taylor, and July runs fast away. I shall not have much time for him, if he delays much longer to come or send. Mr. Green, the apothecary, has found a book, which tells who paid levies in our parish, and how much they paid, above a hundred years ago. Do you not think we study this book hard? Nothing is like going to the bottom of things. Many families, that paid the parish-rates, are now extinct, like the race of Hercules: "Pulvis et umbra sumus." What is nearest us, touches us most. The passions rise higher at domestick, than at imperial, tragedies. I am not wholly unaffected by the revolutions of Sadler street; nor can forbear to mourn a little when old names vanish away, and new come into their place. Do not imagine, madam, that I wrote this letter for the sake of these philosophical meditations; for when I began it, I had neither Mr. Green, nor his book, in my thoughts; but was resolved to write, and did not know what I had to send, but my respects to Mrs. Salusbury, and Mr. Thrale, and Harry, and the Misses. I am, dearest madam, your, &c. VI.--To MRS. THRALE. Ashbourne, July 23, 1770. DEAREST MADAM,--There had not been so long an interval between my two last letters, but that, when I came hither, I did not at first understand the hours of the post. I have seen the great bull; and very great he is. I have seen, likewise, his heir apparent, who promises to inherit all the bulk, and all the virtues, of his sire. I have seen the man who offered a hundred guineas for the young bull, while he was yet little better than a calf. Matlock, I am afraid, I shall not see, but I purpose to see Dovedale; and, after all this seeing, I hope to see you. I am, &c. VII.--TO THE SAME. Ashbourne, July 3, 1771. DEAR MADAM,--Last Saturday I came to Ashbourne; the dangers or the pleasures of the journey I have, at present, no disposition to recount; else might I paint the beauties of my native plains; might I tell of the "smiles of nature, and the charms of art;" else might I relate, how I crossed the Staffordshire canal, one of the great efforts of human labour, and human contrivance, which, from the bridge on which I viewed it, passed away on either side, and loses itself in distant regions, uniting waters that nature had divided, and dividing lands which nature had united. I might tell how these reflections fermented in my mind, till the chaise stopped at Ashbourne, at Ashbourne in the Peak. Let not the barren name of the Peak terrify you; I have never wanted strawberries and cream. The great bull has no disease but age. I hope, in time, to be like the great bull; and hope you will be like him, too, a hundred years hence. I am, &c. VIII.--To MRS. THRALE. Ashbourne, July 10, 1771. DEAREST MADAM,--I am obliged to my friend Harry, for his remembrance, but think it a little hard that I hear nothing from Miss. There has been a man here to-day to take a farm. After some talk, he went to see the bull, and said, that he had seen a bigger. Do you think he is likely to get the farm? _Toujours_ strawberries and cream. Dr. Taylor is much better, and my rheumatism is less painful. Let me hear, in return, as much good of you and of Mrs. Salusbury. You despise the Dog and Duck: things that are at hand are always slighted. I remember that Dr. Grevil, of Gloucester, sent for that water when his wife was in the same danger; but he lived near Malvern, and you live near the Dog and Duck. Thus, in difficult cases, we naturally trust most what we least know. Why Bromefield, supposing that a lotion can do good, should despise laurel-water, in comparison with his own receipt, I do not see; and see, still less, why he should laugh at that which Wall thinks efficacious. I am afraid philosophy will not warrant much hope in a lotion. Be pleased to make my compliments from Mrs. Salusbury to Susy. I am, &c. IX.--To THE SAME. October 31, 1772. MADAM,--Though I am just informed, that, by some accidental negligence, the letter, which I wrote on Thursday, was not given to the post, yet I cannot refuse myself the gratification of writing again to my mistress; not that I have any thing to tell, but that, by showing how much I am employed upon you, I hope to keep you from forgetting me. Doctor Taylor asked me, this morning, on what I was thinking; and I was thinking on Lucy. I hope Lucy is a good girl. But she cannot yet be so good as Queeney. I have got nothing yet for Queeney's cabinet. I hope dear Mrs. Salusbury grows no worse. I wish any thing could be found that would make her better. You must remember her admonition, and bustle in the brewhouse. When I come, you may expect to have your hands full with all of us. Our bulls and cows are all well, but we yet hate the man that had seen a bigger bull. Our deer have died, but many are left. Our waterfall, at the garden, makes a great roaring this wet weather. And so no more at present from, madam, your, &c. X.--To MRS. THRALE. November 23, 1772. DEAR MADAM,--I am sorry that none of your letters bring better news of the poor dear lady. I hope her pain is not great. To have a disease confessedly incurable, and apparently mortal, is a very heavy affliction; and it is still more grievous, when pain is added to despair. Every thing else in your letter pleased me very well, except that when I come I entreat I may not be flattered, as your letters flatter me. You have read of heroes and princes ruined by flattery, and, I question, if any of them had a flatterer so dangerous as you. Pray keep strictly to your character of governess. I cannot yet get well; my nights are flatulent and unquiet, but my days are tolerably easy, and Taylor says, that I look much better than when I came hither. You will see when I come, and I can take your word. Our house affords no revolutions. The great bull is well. But I write, not merely to think on you, for I do that without writing, but to keep you a little thinking on me. I perceive that I have taken a broken piece of paper, but that is not the greatest fault that you must forgive in, madam, your, &c. XI.--To MRS. THRALE. November 27, 1772. DEAR MADAM,--If you are so kind as to write to me on Saturday, the day on which you will receive this, I shall have it before I leave Ashbourne. I am to go to Lichfield on Wednesday, and purpose to find my way to London, through Birmingham and Oxford. I was yesterday at Chatsworth. It is a very fine house. I wish you had been with me to see it; for then, as we are apt to want matter of talk, we should have gained something new to talk on. They complimented me with playing the fountain, and opening the cascade. But I am of my friend's opinion, that when one has seen the ocean, cascades are but little things. I am in hope of a letter to-day from you or Queeney, but the post has made some blunder, and the packet is not yet distributed. I wish it may bring me a little good of you all. I am, &c. XII.--To THE SAME. Tuesday, Jan. 26, 1773. MADAM,--The inequalities of human life have always employed the meditation of deep thinkers, and I cannot forbear to reflect on the difference between your condition and my own. You live upon mock-turtle, and stewed rumps of beef; I dined, yesterday, upon crumpets. You sit with parish officers, caressing and caressed, the idol of the table, and the wonder of the day. I pine in the solitude of sickness, not bad enough to be pitied, and not well enough to be endured. You sleep away the night, and laugh, or scold away the day. I cough and grumble, and grumble and cough. Last night was very tedious, and this day makes no promises of much ease. However, I have this day put on my shoe, and hope that gout is gone. I shall have only the cough to contend with, and I doubt whether I shall get rid of that without change of place. I caught cold in the coach as I went away, and am disordered by very little things. Is it accident or age? I am, dearest madam, &c. XIII.--To MRS. THRALE. March 17, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--To tell you that I am sorry, both for the poor lady and for you, is useless. I cannot help either of you. The weakness of mind is, perhaps, only a casual interruption or intermission of the attention, such as we all suffer when some weighty care or urgent calamity has possession of the mind. She will compose herself. She is unwilling to die, and the first conviction of approaching death raised great perturbation. I think she has but very lately thought death close at hand. She will compose herself to do that as well as she can, which must, at last, be done. May she not want the divine assistance! You, madam, will have a great loss; a greater than is common in the loss of a parent. Fill your mind with hope of her happiness, and turn your thoughts first to him who gives and takes away, in whose presence the living and dead are standing together. Then remember, that when this mournful duty is paid, others yet remain of equal obligation, and, we may hope, of less painful performance. Grief is a species of idleness, and the necessity of attention to the present preserves us, by the merciful disposition of providence, from being lacerated and devoured by sorrow for the past. You must think on your husband and your children, and do what this dear lady has done for you. Not to come to town while the great struggle continues is, undoubtedly, well resolved. But do not harass yourself into danger; you owe the care of your health to all that love you, at least to all whom it is your duty to love. You cannot give such a mother too much, if you do not give her what belongs to another. I am, &c. XIV.--To MRS. THRALE. April 27, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--Hope is more pleasing than fear, but not less fallacious; you know, when you do not try to deceive yourself, that the disease, which at last is to destroy, must be gradually growing worse, and that it is vain to wish for more than, that the descent to death may be slow and easy. In this wish I join with you, and hope it will be granted. Dear, dear lady, whenever she is lost she will be missed, and whenever she is remembered she will be lamented. Is it a good or an evil to me, that she now loves me? It is surely a good; for you will love me better, and we shall have a new principle of concord; and I shall be happier with honest sorrow, than with sullen indifference: and far happier still than with counterfeited sympathy. I am reasoning upon a principle very far from certain, a confidence of survivance. You or I, or both, may be called into the presence of the supreme judge before her. I have lived a life of which I do not like the review. Surely I shall, in time, live better. I sat down with an intention to write high compliments; but my thoughts have taken another course, and some other time must now serve to tell you with what other emotions, benevolence, and fidelity, I am, &c. XV.--To THE SAME. May 17, 1773. MADAM,--Never imagine that your letters are long; they are always too short for my curiosity. I do not know that I was ever content with a single perusal. Of dear Mrs. Salusbury I never expect much better news than you send me; _de pis en pis_ is the natural and certain course of her dreadful malady. I am content, when it leaves her ease enough for the exercise of her mind. Why should Mr. **** suppose, that what I took the liberty of suggesting, was concerted with you? He does not know how much I revolve his affairs, and how honestly I desire his prosperity. I hope he has let the hint take some hold of his mind. Your declaration to Miss **** is more general than my opinions allow. I think an unlimited promise of acting by the opinion of another so wrong, that nothing, or hardly anything, can make it right. All unnecessary vows are folly, because they suppose a prescience of the future which has not been given us. They are, I think, a crime, because they resign that life to chance which God has given us to be regulated by reason; and superinduce a kind of fatality, from which it is the great privilege of our nature to be free. Unlimited obedience is due only to the universal father of heaven and earth. My parents may be mad and foolish; may be wicked and malicious; may be erroneously religious, or absurdly scrupulous. I am not bound to compliance with mandates, either positive or negative, which either religion condemns, or reason rejects. There wanders about the world a wild notion, which extends over marriage more than over any other transaction. If Miss **** followed a trade, would it be said, that she was bound, in conscience, to give or refuse credit at her father's choice? And is not marriage a thing in which she is more interested, and has, therefore, more right of choice? When I may suffer for my own crimes, when I may be sued for my own debts, I may judge, by parity of reason, for my own happiness. The parent's moral right can arise only from his kindness, and his civil right only from his money. Conscience cannot dictate obedience to the wicked, or compliance with the foolish; and of interest mere prudence is the judge. If the daughter is bound without a promise, she promises nothing; and if she is not bound, she promises too much. What is meant by tying up money in trade I do not understand No money is so little tied, as that which is employed in trade. Mr. ****, perhaps, only means, that in consideration of money to be advanced, he will oblige his son to be a trader. This is reasonable enough. Upon ten thousand pounds, diligently occupied, they may live in great plenty and splendour, without the mischiefs of idleness. I can write a long letter, as well as my mistress; and shall be glad that my long letters may be as welcome as hers. My nights are grown again very uneasy and troublesome. I know not that the country will mend them; but I hope your company will mend my days. Though I cannot now expect much attention, and would not wish for more than can be spared from the poor dear lady, yet I shall see you and hear you every now and then; and to see and hear you, is always to hear wit, and to see virtue. I shall I hope, see you to-morrow, and a little on the two next days; and with that little I must, for the present, try to be contented. I am, &c. XVI.--To MRS. THRALE. August 12, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--We left London on Friday, the 6th, not very early, and travelled, without any memorable accident, through a country which I had seen before. In the evening I was not well, and was forced to stop at Stilton, one stage short of Stamford, where we intended to have lodged. On the 7th we passed through Stamford and Grantham, and dined at Newark, where I had only time to observe, that the market-place was uncommonly spacious and neat. In London, we should call it a square, though the sides were neither straight nor parallel. We came, at night, to Doncaster, and went to church in the morning, where Chambers found the monument of Robert of Doncaster, who says on his stone something like this:--What I gave, that I have; what I spent, that I had; what I left, that I lost.--So saith Robert of Doncaster, who reigned in the world sixty-seven years, and all that time lived not one. Here we were invited to dinner, and, therefore, made no great haste away. We reached York, however, that night; I was much disordered with old complaints. Next morning we saw the minster, an edifice of loftiness and elegance, equal to the highest hopes of architecture. I remember nothing, but the dome of St. Paul's, that can be compared with the middle walk. The chapter-house is a circular building, very stately, but, I think, excelled by the chapter-house of Lincoln. I then went to see the ruins of the abbey, which are almost vanished, and I remember nothing of them distinct. The next visit was to the gaol, which they call the castle; a fabrick built lately, such is terrestrial mutability, out of the materials of the ruined abbey. The under gaoler was very officious to show his fetters, in which there was no contrivance. The head gaoler came in, and seeing me look, I suppose, fatigued, offered me wine, and, when I went away, would not suffer his servant to take money. The gaol is accounted the best in the kingdom, and you find the gaoler deserving of his dignity. We dined at York, and went on to Northallerton, a place of which I know nothing, but that it afforded us a lodging on Monday night, and about two hundred and seventy years ago gave birth to Roger Ascham. Next morning we changed our horses at Darlington, where Mr. Cornelius Harrison, a cousin-german of mine, was perpetual curate. He was the only one of my relations who ever rose in fortune above penury, or in character above neglect. The church is built crosswise, with a fine spire, and might invite a traveller to survey it; but I, perhaps, wanted vigour, and thought I wanted time. The next stage brought us to Durham, a place of which Mr. Thrale bade me take particular notice. The bishop's palace has the appearance of an old feudal castle, built upon an eminence, and looking down upon the river, upon which was formerly thrown a drawbridge, as I suppose, to be raised at night, lest the Scots should pass it. The cathedral has a massiness and solidity, such as I have seen in no other place; it rather awes than pleases, as it strikes with a kind of gigantick dignity, and aspires to no other praise than that of rocky solidity and indeterminate duration. I had none of my friends resident, and, therefore, saw but little. The library is mean and scanty. At Durham, beside all expectation, I met an old friend: Miss Fordyce is married there to a physician. We met, I think, with honest kindness on both sides. I thought her much decayed, and having since heard that the banker had involved her husband in his extensive ruin, I cannot forbear to think, that I saw in her withered features more impression of sorrow than that of time-- "Qua terra patet, sera regnat Erinnys." He that wanders about the world sees new forms of human misery, and if he chances to meet an old friend, meets a face darkened with troubles. On Tuesday night we came hither; yesterday I took some care of myself, and to-day I am _quite polite_. I have been taking a view of all that could be shown me, and find that all very near to nothing. You have often heard me complain of finding myself disappointed by books of travels; I am afraid travel itself will end likewise in disappointment. One town, one country, is very like another: civilized nations have the same customs, and barbarous nations have the same nature: there are, indeed, minute discriminations both of places and manners, which, perhaps, are not wanting of curiosity, but which a traveller seldom stays long enough to investigate and compare. The dull utterly neglect them; the acute see a little, and supply the rest with fancy and conjecture. I shall set out again to-morrow; but I shall not, I am afraid, see Alnwick, for Dr. Percy is not there. I hope to lodge to-morrow night at Berwick, and the next at Edinburgh, where I shall direct Mr. Drummond, bookseller at Ossian's head, to take care of my letters. I hope the little dears are all well, and that my dear master and mistress may go somewhither; but, wherever you go, do not forget, madam, your most humble servant. I am pretty well. August 15. Thus far I had written at Newcastle. I forgot to send it. I am now at Edinburgh; and have been this day running about. I run pretty well. XVII.--To MRS. THRALE. Edinburgh, August 17, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--On the 13th, I left Newcastle, and, in the afternoon, came to Alnwick, where we were treated with great civility by the duke: I went through the apartments, walked on the wall, and climbed the towers. That night we lay at Belford, and, on the next night, came to Edinburgh. On Sunday (15th) I went to the English chapel. After dinner, Dr. Robertson came in, and promised to show me the place. On Monday I saw their publick buildings: the cathedral, which I told Robertson I wished to see, because it had once been a church; the courts of justice, the parliament-house, the advocates' library, the repository of records, the college, and its library, and the palace, particularly the old tower, where the king of Scotland seized David Rizzio in the queen's presence. Most of their buildings are very mean; and the whole town bears some resemblance to the old part of Birmingham. Boswell has very handsome and spacious rooms, level with the ground, on one side of the house, and, on the other, four stories high. At dinner, on Monday, were the dutchess of Douglas, an old lady, who talks broad Scotch with a paralytick voice, and is scarcely understood by her own countrymen; the lord chief baron, sir Adolphus Oughton, and many more. At supper there was such a conflux of company, that I could scarcely support the tumult. I have never been well in the whole journey, and am very easily disordered. This morning I saw, at breakfast, Dr. Blacklock, the blind poet, who does not remember to have seen light, and is read to, by a poor scholar, in Latin, Greek, and French. He was, originally, a poor scholar himself. I looked on him with reverence. Tomorrow our journey begins; I know not when I shall write again. I am but poorly. I am, &c. XVIII.--To MRS. THRALE. Bamff, August 25, 1773. Dear Madam,--It has so happened, that, though I am perpetually thinking on you, I could seldom find opportunity to write; I have, in fourteen days, sent only one letter; you must consider the fatigues of travel, and the difficulties encountered in a strange country. August 18th. I passed, with Boswell, the frith of Forth, and began our journey; in the passage we observed an island, which I persuaded my companions to survey. We found it a rock somewhat troublesome to climb, about a mile long, and half a mile broad; in the middle were the ruins of an old fort, which had, on one of the stones,--"Maria Re. 1564." It had been only a blockhouse, one story high. I measured two apartments, of which the walls were entire, and found them twenty-seven feet long, and twenty-three broad. The rock had some grass and many thistles; both cows and sheep were grazing. There was a spring of water. The name is Inchkeith. Look on your maps. This visit took about an hour. We pleased ourselves with being in a country all our own, and then went back to the boat, and landed at Kinghorn, a mean town; and, travelling through Kirkaldie, a very long town, meanly built, and Cowpar, which I could not see, because it was night, we came late to St. Andrew's, the most ancient of the Scotch universities, and once the see of the primate of Scotland. The inn was full; but lodgings were provided for us at the house of the professor of rhetorick, a man of elegant manners, who showed us, in the morning, the poor remains of a stately cathedral, demolished in Knox's reformation, and now only to be imagined, by tracing its foundation, and contemplating the little ruins that are left. Here was once a religious house. Two of the vaults or cellars of the sub-prior are even yet entire. In one of them lives an old woman, who claims an hereditary residence in it, boasting that her husband was the sixth tenant of this gloomy mansion, in a lineal descent, and claims, by her marriage with this lord of the cavern, an alliance with the Bruces. Mr. Boswell staid awhile to interrogate her, because he understood her language; she told him, that she and her cat lived together; that she had two sons somewhere, who might, perhaps, be dead; that, when there were quality in the town, notice was taken of her, and that now she was neglected, but did not trouble them. Her habitation contained all that she had; her turf, for fire, was laid in one place, and her balls of coal-dust in another, but her bed seemed to be clean. Boswell asked her, if she never heard any noises; but she could tell him of nothing supernatural, though she often wandered in the night among the graves and ruins; only she had, sometimes, notice, by dreams, of the death of her relations. We then viewed the remains of a castle, on the margin of the sea, in which the archbishops resided, and in which cardinal Beatoun was killed. The professors, who happened to be readout in the vacation, made a publick dinner, and treated us very kindly and respectfully. They showed us their colleges, in one of which there is a library that, for luminousness and elegance, may vie, at least, with the new edifice at Streatham. But learning seems not to prosper among them; one of their colleges has been lately alienated, and one of their churches lately deserted. An experiment was made of planting a shrubbery in the church, but it did not thrive. Why the place should thus fall to decay, I know not; for education, such as is here to be had, is sufficiently cheap. The term, or, as they call it, their session, lasts seven months in the year, which the students of the highest rank and greatest expense, may pass here for twenty pounds, in which are included board, lodging, books, and the continual instruction of three professors. 20th. We left St. Andrew's, well satisfied with our reception, and, crossing the frith of Tay, came to Dundee, a dirty, despicable town. We passed, afterwards, through Aberbrothick, famous once for an abbey, of which there are only a few fragments left; but those fragments testify that the fabrick was once of great extent, and of stupendous magnificence. Two of the towers are yet standing, though shattered; into one of them Boswell climbed, but found the stairs broken: the way into the other we did not see, and had not time to search; I believe it might be ascended, but the top, I think, is open. We lay at Montrose, a neat place, with a spacious area for the market, and an elegant town-house. 21st. We travelled towards Aberdeen, another university, and, in the way, dined at lord Monboddo's, the Scotch judge, who has lately written a strange book about the origin of language, in which he traces monkeys up to men, and says that, in some countries, the human species have tails like other beasts. He inquired for these long-tailed men of Banks, and was not well pleased, that they had not been found in all his peregrination. He talked nothing of this to me, and I hope we parted friends; for we agreed pretty well, only we disputed in adjusting the claims of merit between a shopkeeper of London, and a savage of the American wildernesses. Our opinions were, I think, maintained, on both sides, without full conviction: Monboddo declared boldly for the savage; and I, perhaps, for that reason, sided with the citizen. We came late to Aberdeen, where I found my dear mistress's letter, and learned that all our little people were happily recovered of the measles. Every part of your letter was pleasing. There are two cities of the name of Aberdeen: the old town, built about a mile inland, once the see of a bishop, which contains the king's college, and the remains of the cathedral; and the new town, which stands, for the sake of trade, upon a frith or arm of the sea, so that ships rest against the quay. The two cities have their separate magistrates; and the two colleges are, in effect, two universities, which confer degrees independently of each other. New Aberdeen is a large town, built almost wholly of that granite which is used for the new pavement in London, which, hard as it is, they square with very little difficulty. Here I first saw the women in plaids. The plaid makes, at once, a hood and cloak, without cutting or sewing, merely by the manner of drawing the opposite sides over the shoulders. The maids, at the inns, run over the house barefoot; and children, not dressed in rags, go without shoes or stockings. Shoes are, indeed, not yet in universal use; they came late into this country. One of the professors told us, as we were mentioning a fort, built by Cromwell, that the country owed much of its present industry to Cromwell's soldiers. They taught us, said he, to raise cabbage, and make shoes. How they lived without shoes may yet be seen; but, in the passage through villages, it seems to him, that surveys their gardens, that when they had not cabbage, they had nothing. Education is here of the same price as at St. Andrew's, only the session is but from the 1st of November to the 1st of April. The academical buildings seem rather to advance than decline. They showed their libraries, which were not very splendid, but some manuscripts were so exquisitely penned, that I wished my dear mistress to have seen them. I had an unexpected pleasure, by finding an old acquaintance, now professor of physick, in the king's college: we were, on both sides, glad of the interview, having not seen, nor, perhaps, thought on one another, for many years; but we had no emulation, nor had either of us risen to the other's envy, and our old kindness was easily renewed. I hope we shall never try the effect of so long an absence, and that I shall always be, madam your, &c. XIX.--To MRS. THRALE. Inverness, August 28, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--August 23rd, I had the honour of attending the lord provost of Aberdeen, and was presented with the freedom of the city, not in a gold box, but in good Latin. Let me pay Scotland one just praise! there was no officer gaping for a fee; this could have been said of no city on the English side of the Tweed. I wore my patent of freedom, _pro more_, in my hat, from the new town to the old, about a mile. I then dined with my friend, the professor of physick, at his house, and saw the king's college. Boswell was very angry, that the Aberdeen professors would not talk. When I was at the English church, in Aberdeen, I happened to be espied by lady Di. Middleton, whom I had sometime seen in London; she told what she had seen to Mr. Boyd, lord Errol's brother, who wrote us an invitation to lord Errol's house, called Slane's castle We went thither on the next day, (24th of August,) and found a house, not old, except but one tower, built on the margin of the sea, upon a rock, scarce accessible from the sea; at one corner, a tower makes a perpendicular continuation of the lateral surface of the rock, so that it is impracticable to walk round; the house inclosed a square court, and on all sides within the court is a piazza, or gallery, two stories high. We came in, as we were invited to dinner, and, after dinner, offered to go; but lady Errol sent us word by Mr. Boyd, that if we went before lord Errol came home, we must never be forgiven, and ordered out the coach to show us two curiosities. We were first conducted, by Mr. Boyd, to Dunbuys, or the yellow rock. Dunbuys is a rock, consisting of two protuberances, each, perhaps, one hundred yards round, joined together by a narrow neck, and separated from the land by a very narrow channel or gully. These rocks are the haunts of seafowl, whose clang, though this is not their season, we heard at a distance. The eggs and the young are gathered here, in great numbers, at the time of breeding. There is a bird here, called a coot, which, though not much bigger than a duck, lays a larger egg than a goose. We went then to see the Buller, or Bouilloir, of Buchan: Buchan is the name of the district, and the Buller is a small creek, or gulf, into which the sea flows through an arch of the rock. We walked round it, and saw it black, at a great depth. It has its name from the violent ebullition of the water, when high winds or high tides drive it up the arch into the basin. Walking a little farther, I spied some boats, and told my companions that we would go into the Buller and examine it. There was no danger; all was calm; we went through the arch, and found ourselves in a narrow gulf, surrounded by craggy rocks, of height not stupendous, but, to a mediterranean visitor, uncommon. On each side was a cave, of which the fisherman knew not the extent, in which smugglers hide their goods, and sometimes parties of pleasure take a dinner. I am, &c. XX.--To MRS. THRALE. Skie, September 6, 1773. DEAREST MADAM,--I am now looking on the sea, from a house of sir Alexander Macdonald, in the isle of Skie. Little did I once think of seeing this region of obscurity, and little did you once expect a salutation from this verge of European life. I have now the pleasure of going where nobody goes, and seeing what nobody sees. Our design is to visit several of the smaller islands, and then pass over to the south-west of Scotland. I returned from the sight of Buller's Buchan to lord Errol's, and, having seen his library, had, for a time, only to look upon the sea, which rolled between us and Norway. Next morning, August 25th, we continued our journey through a country not uncultivated, but so denuded of its woods, that, in all this journey, I had not travelled a hundred yards between hedges, or seen five trees fit for the carpenter. A few small plantations may be found, but I believe scarcely any thirty years old; at least, they are all posterior to the union. This day we dined with a country-gentleman, who has in his grounds the remains of a Druid's temple, which, when it is complete, is nothing more than a circle, or double circle, of stones, placed at equal distances, with a flat stone, perhaps an altar, at a certain point, and a stone, taller than the rest, at the opposite point. The tall stone is erected, I think, at the south. Of these circles, there are many in all the unfrequented parts of the island. The inhabitants of these parts respect them as memorials of the sculpture of some illustrious person. Here I saw a few trees. We lay at Bamff. August 26th. We dined at Elgin, where we saw the ruins of a noble cathedral; the chapter-house is yet standing. A great part of Elgin is built with small piazzas to the lower story. We went on to Foris, over the heath where Macbeth met the witches, but had no adventure; only in the way we saw, for the first time, some houses with fruit-trees about them. The improvements of the Scotch are for immediate profit; they do not yet think it quite worth their while to plant what will not produce something to be eaten, or sold, in a very little time. We rested at Foris. A very great proportion of the people are barefoot; shoes are not yet considered as necessaries of life. It is still the custom to send out the sons of gentlemen without them into the streets and ways. There are more beggars than I have ever seen in England; they beg, if not silently, yet very modestly. Next day we came to Nairn, a miserable town, but a royal burgh, of which the chief annual magistrate is styled lord provost. In the neighbourhood we saw the castle of the old thane of Cawdor. There is one ancient tower, with its battlements and winding stairs, yet remaining; the rest of the house is, though not modern, of later erection. On the 28th we went to Fort George, which is accounted the most regular fortification in the island. The major of artillery walked with us round the walls, and showed us the principles upon which every part was constructed, and the way in which it could be defended. We dined with the governour, sir Eyre Coote, and his officers. It was a very pleasant and instructive day; but nothing puts my honoured mistress out of my mind. At night we came to Inverness, the last considerable town in the north, where we staid all the next day, for it was Sunday, and saw the ruins of what is called Macbeth's castle. It never was a large house, but was strongly situated. From Inverness we were to travel on horseback. August 30th. We set out with four horses. We had two highlanders to run by us, who were active, officious, civil, and hardy. Our journey was, for many miles, along a military way, made upon the banks of Lough Ness, a water about eighteen miles long, but not, I think, half a mile broad. Our horses were not bad, and the way was very pleasant; the rock, out of which the road was cut, was covered with birch-trees, fern, and heath. The lake below was beating its bank by a gentle wind, and the rocks beyond the water, on the right, stood sometimes horrid, and wild, and sometimes opened into a kind of bay, in which there was a spot of cultivated ground, yellow with corn. In one part of the way we had trees on both sides, for, perhaps, half a mile. Such a length of shade, perhaps Scotland cannot show in any other place. You are not to suppose, that here are to be any more towns or inns. We came to a cottage, which they call the General's Hut, where we alighted to dine, and had eggs and bacon, and mutton, with wine, rum, and whiskey. I had water. At a bridge over the river, which runs into the Ness the rocks rise on three sides, with a direction almost perpendicular, to a great height; they are, in part, covered with trees, and exhibit a kind of dreadful magnificence:--standing like the barriers of nature, placed to keep different orders of being in perpetual separation. Near this bridge is the fall of Fiers, a famous cataract, of which, by clambering over the rocks, we obtained a view. The water was low, and, therefore, we had only the pleasure of knowing that rain would make it, at once, pleasing and formidable; there will then be a mighty flood, foaming along a rocky channel, frequently obstructed by protuberances, and exasperated by reverberation, at last precipitated with a sudden descent, and lost in the depth of a gloomy chasm. We came, somewhat late, to Fort Augustus, where the lieutenant-governour met us beyond the gates, and apologized that, at that hour, he could not, by the rules of a garrison, admit us, otherwise than at a narrow door, which only one can enter at a time. We were well entertained and well lodged, and, next morning, after having viewed the fort, we pursued our journey. Our way now lay over the mountains, which are not to be passed by climbing them directly, but by traversing; so that, as we went forward, we saw our baggage following us below, in a direction exactly contrary. There is, in these ways, much labour, but little danger, and, perhaps, other places, of which very terrifick representations are made, are not, in themselves, more formidable. These roads have all been made by hewing the rock away with pickaxes, or bursting it with gunpowder. The stones, so separated, are often piled loose, as a wall by the wayside. We saw an inscription, importing the year in which one of the regiments made two thousand yards of the road eastward. After tedious travel of some hours, we came to what, I believe, we must call a village, a place where there were three huts built of turf; at one of which we were to have our dinner and our bed, for we could not reach any better place that night. This place is called Enoch in Glenmorrison. The house, in which we lodged, was distinguished by a chimney, the rest had only a hole for the smoke. Here we had eggs, and mutton, and a chicken, and a sausage, and rum. In the afternoon tea was made by a very decent girl in a printed linen: she engaged me so much, that I made her a present of Cocker's arithmetick. I am, &c. XXI.--To MRS. THRALE. Skie, Sept. 14,1773. DEAREST MADAM,--The post, which comes but once a week into these parts, is so soon to go, that I have not time to go on where I left off in my last letter. I have been several days in the island of Raarsa, and am now again in the isle of Skie, but at the other end of it. Skie is almost equally divided between the two great families of Macdonald and Macleod, other proprietors having only small districts. The two great lords do not know, within twenty square miles, the contents of their own territories. --kept up but ill the reputation of highland hospitality; we are now with Macleod, quite at the other end of the island, where there is a fine young gentleman and fine ladies. The ladies are studying Erse. I have a cold, and am miserably deaf, and am troublesome to lady Macleod; I force her to speak loud, but she will seldom speak loud enough. Raarsa is an island about fifteen miles long and two broad, under the dominion of one gentleman, who has three sons and ten daughters; the eldest is the beauty of this part of the world, and has been polished at Edinburgh: they sing and dance, and, without expense, have upon their table most of what sea, air, or earth can afford. I intended to have written about Raarsa, but the post will not wait longer than while I send my compliments to my dear master and little mistresses. I am, &c. XXII.--To MRS. THRALE. Skie, Sept. 21, 1773. DEAREST MADAM,--I am so vexed at the necessity of sending yesterday so short a letter, that I purpose to get a long letter beforehand, by writing something every day, which I may the more easily do, as a cold makes me now too deaf to take the usual pleasure in conversation. Lady Macleod is very good to me; and the place, at which we now are, is equal, in strength of situation, in the wildness of the adjacent country, and in the plenty and elegance of the domestick entertainment, to a castle in Gothick romances. The sea, with a little island, is before us; cascades play within view. Close to the house is the formidable skeleton of an old castle, probably Danish; and the whole mass of building stands upon a protuberance of rock, inaccessible till of late, but by a pair of stairs on the seaside, and secure, in ancient times, against any enemy that was likely to invade the kingdom of Skie. Macleod has offered me an island; if it were not too far off, I should hardly refuse it: my island would be pleasanter than Brighthelmstone, if you and my master could come to it; but I cannot think it pleasant to live quite alone, "Oblitusque meorum, obliviscendus et illis." That I should be elated, by the dominion of an island to forgetfulness of my friends at Streatham, I cannot believe, and I hope never to deserve that they should be willing to forget me. It has happened, that I have been often recognised in my journey, where I did not expect it. At Aberdeen, I found one of my acquaintance professor of physick: turning aside to dine with a country-gentleman, I was owned, at table, by one who had seen me at a philosophical lecture: at Macdonald's I was claimed by a naturalist, who wanders about the islands to pick up curiosities: and I had once, in London, attracted the notice of lady Macleod. I will now go on with my account. The highland girl made tea, and looked and talked not inelegantly; her father was by no means an ignorant or a weak man; there were books in the cottage, among which were some volumes of Prideaux's Connexion: this man's conversation we were glad of while we staid. He had been out, as they call it, in forty-five, and still retained his old opinions. He was going to America, because his rent was raised beyond what he thought himself able to pay. At night our beds were made, but we had some difficulty in persuading ourselves to lie down in them, though we had put on our own sheets; at last we ventured, and I slept very soundly in the vale of Glenmorrison, amidst the rocks and mountains. Next morning our landlord liked us so well, that he walked some miles with us for our company, through a country so wild and barren, that the proprietor does not, with all his pressure upon his tenants, raise more than four hundred pounds a year for near one hundred square miles, or sixty thousand acres. He let us know, that he had forty head of black cattle, a hundred goats, and a hundred sheep, upon a farm that he remembered let at five pounds a year, but for which he now paid twenty. He told us some stories of their march into England. At last, he left us, and we went forward, winding among mountains, sometimes green and sometimes naked, commonly so steep, as not easily to be climbed by the greatest vigour and activity: our way was often crossed by little rivulets, and we were entertained with small streams trickling from the rocks, which, after heavy rains, must be tremendous torrents. About noon we came to a small glen, so they call a valley, which, compared with other places, appeared rich and fertile; here our guides desired us to stop, that the horses might graze, for the journey was very laborious, and no more grass would be found. We made no difficulty of compliance, and I sat down to take notes on a green bank, with a small stream running at my feet, in the midst of savage solitude, with mountains before me, and, on either hand, covered with heath. I looked around me, and wondered, that I was not more affected, but the mind is not at all times equally ready to be put in motion; if my mistress, and master, and Queeney had been there, we should have produced some reflections among us, either poetical or philosophical; for though "solitude be the nurse of woe," conversation is often the parent of remarks and discoveries. In about an hour we remounted, and pursued our journey. The lake, by which we had travelled for some time, ended in a river, which we passed by a bridge, and came to another glen, with a collection of huts, called Auknashealds; the huts were, generally, built of clods of earth, held together by the intertexture of vegetable fibres, of which earth there are great levels in Scotland, which they call mosses. Moss in Scotland is bog in Ireland, and moss-trooper is bog-trotter; there was, however, one hut built of loose stones, piled up, with great thickness, into a strong, though not solid wall. From this house we obtained some great pails of milk, and having brought bread with us, we were liberally regaled. The inhabitants, a very coarse tribe, ignorant of any language but Erse, gathered so fast about us, that, if we had not had highlanders with us, they might have caused more alarm than pleasure; they are called the clan of Macrae. We had been told, that nothing gratified the highlanders so much as snuff and tobacco, and had, accordingly, stored ourselves with both at Fort Augustus. Boswell opened his treasure, and gave them each a piece of tobacco roll. We had more bread than we could eat for the present, and were more liberal than provident. Boswell cut it in slices, and gave them an opportunity of tasting wheaten bread, for the first time. I then got some half-pence for a shilling, and made up the deficiencies of Boswell's distribution, who had given some money among the children. We then directed, that the mistress of the stone-house should be asked, what we must pay her. She, who, perhaps, had never before sold any thing but cattle, knew not, I believe, well what to ask, and referred herself to us: we obliged her to make some demand, and one of the Highlanders settled the account with her at a shilling. One of the men advised her, with the cunning that clowns never can be without, to ask more; but she said that a shilling was enough. We gave her half-a-crown, and she offered part of it again. The Macraes were so well pleased with our behaviour, that they declared it the best day they had seen, since the time of the old laird of Macleod, who, I suppose, like us, stopped in their valley, as he was travelling to Skie. We were mentioning this view of the highlander's life at Macdonald's, and mentioning the Macraes, with some degree of pity, when a highland lady informed us, that we might spare our tenderness, for she doubted not but the woman, who supplied us with milk, was mistress of thirteen or fourteen milch cows. I cannot forbear to interrupt my narrative. Boswell, with some of his troublesome kindness, has informed this family, and reminded me, that the 18th of September is my birthday. The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general care of humanity to escape. I can now look back upon threescore and four years, in which little has been done, and little has been enjoyed; a life, diversified by misery, spent part in the sluggishness of penury, and part under the violence of pain, in gloomy discontent, or importunate distress. But, perhaps, I am better than I should have been, if I had been less afflicted. With this I will try to be content. In proportion as there is less pleasure in retrospective considerations, the mind is more disposed to wander forward into futurity; but, at sixty-four, what promises, however liberal, of imaginary good can futurity venture to make? yet something will be always promised, and some promises will be always credited. I am hoping, and I am praying, that I may live better in the time to come, whether long or short, than I have yet lived, and, in the solace of that hope, endeavour to repose. Dear Queeney's day is next: I hope she, at sixty-four, will have less to regret. I will now complain no more, but tell my mistress of my travels. After we left the Macraes, we travelled on through a country like that which we passed in the morning. The highlands are very uniform, for there is little variety in universal barrenness; the rocks, however, are not all naked, for some have grass on their sides, and birches and alders on their tops, and in the valleys are often broad and clear streams, which have little depth, and commonly run very quick; the channels are made by the violence of the wintry floods; the quickness of the stream is in proportion to the declivity of the descent, and the breadth of the channel makes the water shallow in a dry season. There are red deer and roe bucks in the mountains, but we found only goats in the road, and had very little entertainment, as we travelled, either for the eye or ear. There are, I fancy, no singing birds in the highlands. Towards night we came to a very formidable hill, called Rattiken, which we climbed with more difficulty than we had yet experienced, and, at last, came to Glanelg, a place on the seaside, opposite to Skie. We were, by this time, weary and disgusted, nor was our humour much mended by our inn, which, though it was built of lime and slate, the highlander's description of a house, which he thinks magnificent, had neither wine, bread, eggs, nor any thing that we could eat or drink. When we were taken up stairs, a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed, where one of us was to lie. Boswell blustered, but nothing could be got. At last, a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who heard of our arrival, sent us rum and white sugar. Boswell was now provided for, in part, and the landlord prepared some mutton chops, which we could not eat, and killed two hens, of which Boswell made his servant broil a limb; with what effect I know not. We had a lemon and a piece of bread, which supplied me with my supper. When the repast was ended, we began to deliberate upon bed: Mrs. Boswell had warned us, that we should _catch something_, and had given us _sheets_, for our _security_, for--and--, she said, came back from Skie, so scratching themselves. I thought sheets a slender defence against the confederacy with which we were threatened, and, by this time, our Highlanders had found a place, where they could get some hay: I ordered hay to be laid thick upon the bed, and slept upon it in my great coat: Boswell laid sheets upon his bed, and reposed in linen, like a gentleman. The horses were turned out to grass, with a man to watch them. The hill Rattiken, and the inn at Glanelg, were the only things of which we, or travellers yet more delicate, could find any pretensions to complain. Sept. 2nd. I rose, rustling from the hay, and went to tea, which I forget, whether we found or brought. We saw the isle of Skie before us, darkening the horizon with its rocky coast. A boat was procured, and we lanched into one of the straits of the Atlantick ocean. We had a passage of about twelve miles to the point where--resided, having come from his seat in the middle of the island, to a small house on the shore, as we believe, that he might, with less reproach, entertain us meanly. If he aspired to meanness, his retrograde ambition was completely gratified, but he did not succeed equally in escaping reproach. He had no cook, nor, I suppose, much provision, nor had the lady the common decencies of her tea-table; we picked up our sugar with our fingers. Boswell was very angry, and reproached him with his improper parsimony; I did not much reflect upon the conduct of a man with whom I was not likely to converse as long at any other time. You will now expect that I should give you some account of the isle of Skie, of which, though I have been twelve days upon it, I have little to say. It is an island, perhaps, fifty miles long, so much indented by inlets of the sea, that there is no part of it removed from the water more than six miles. No part, that I have seen, is plain; you are always climbing or descending, and every step is upon rock or mire. A walk upon ploughed ground in England is a dance upon carpets, compared to the toilsome drudgery of wandering in Skie. There is neither town nor village in the island, nor have I seen any house but Macleod's, that is not much below your habitation at Brighthelmstone. In the mountains there are stags and roe bucks, but no hares, and few rabbits; nor have I seen any thing that interested me, as a zoologist, except an otter, bigger than I thought an otter could have been. You are, perhaps, imagining that I am withdrawing from the gay and the busy world, into regions of peace and pastoral felicity, and am enjoying the relicks of the golden age; that I am surveying nature's magnificence from a mountain, or remarking her minuter beauties on the flowery bank of a winding rivulet; that I am invigorating myself in the sunshine, or delighting my imagination with being hidden from the invasion of human evils and human passions, in the darkness of a thicket; that I am busy in gathering shells and pebbles on the shore, or contemplative on a rock, from which I look upon the water, and consider how many waves are rolling between me and Streatham. The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and, instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. Here are mountains which I should once have climbed; but to climb steeps is now very laborious, and to descend them, dangerous; and I am now content with knowing, that, by scrambling up a rock, I shall only see other rocks, and a wider circuit of barren desolation. Of streams, we have here a sufficient number; but they murmur not upon pebbles, but upon rocks. Of flowers, if Chloris herself were here, I could present her only with the bloom of heath. Of lawns and thickets, he must read that would know them, for here is little sun, and no shade. On the sea I look from my window, but am not much tempted to the shore; for since I came to this island, almost every breath of air has been a storm, and, what is worse, a storm with all its severity, but without its magnificence, for the sea is here so broken into channels, that there is not a sufficient volume of water either for lofty surges, or a loud roar. On Sept. 6th, we left--to visit Raarsa, the island which I have already mentioned. We were to cross part of Skie on horseback; a mode of travelling very uncomfortable, for the road is so narrow, where any road can be found, that only one can go, and so craggy, that the attention can never be remitted; it allows, therefore, neither the gaiety of conversation, nor the laxity of solitude; nor has it, in itself, the amusement of much variety, as it affords only all the possible transpositions of bog, rock, and rivulet. Twelve miles, by computation, make a reasonable journey for a day. At night we came to a tenant's house, of the first rank of tenants, where we were entertained better than at the landlord's. There were books, both English and Latin. Company gathered about us, and we heard some talk of the second sight, and some talk of the events of forty-five; a year which will not soon be forgotten among the islanders. The next day we were confined by a storm. The company, I think, increased, and our entertainment was not only hospitable, but elegant. At night, a minister's sister, in very fine brocade, sung Erse songs; I wished to know the meaning; but the highlanders are not much used to scholastick questions, and no translations could be obtained. Next day, Sept. 8th, the weather allowed us to depart; a good boat was provided us, and we went to Raarsa, under the conduct of Mr. Malcolm Macleod, a gentleman who conducted prince Charles through the mountains in his distresses. The prince, he says, was more active than himself; they were, at least, one night without any shelter. The wind blew enough to give the boat a kind of dancing agitation, and, in about three or four hours, we arrived at Raarsa, where we were met by the laird, and his friends, upon the shore. Raarsa, for such is his title, is master of two islands; upon the smaller of which, called Rona, he has only flocks and herds. Rona gives title to his eldest son. The money which he raises annually by rent from all his dominions, which contain, at least, fifty thousand acres, is not believed to exceed two hundred and fifty pounds; but, as he keeps a large farm in his own hands, he sells, every year, great numbers of cattle, which add to his revenue, and his table is furnished from the farm and from the sea, with very little expense, except for those things this country does not produce, and of those he is very liberal. The wine circulates vigorously; and the tea, chocolate, and coffee, however they are got, are always at hand. I am, &c. We are this morning trying to get out of Skie. XXIII.--To MRS. THRALE. Skie, Sept. 24, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--I am still in Skie. Do you remember the song, "Every island is a prison, Strongly guarded by the sea." We have, at one time, no boat, and, at another, may have too much wind; but, of our reception here, we have no reason to complain. We are now with colonel Macleod, in a more pleasant place than I thought Skie could afford. Now to the narrative. We were received at Raarsa on the seaside, and after clambering, with some difficulty, over the rocks, a labour which the traveller, wherever he reposes himself on land, must, in these islands, be contented to endure; we were introduced into the house, which one of the company called the court of Raarsa, with politeness, which not the court of Versailles could have thought defective. The house is not large, though we were told, in our passage, that it had eleven fine rooms, nor magnificently furnished; but our utensils were, most commonly, silver. We went up into a dining-room, about as large as your blue room, where we had something given us to eat, and tea and coffee. Raarsa himself is a man of no inelegant appearance, and of manners uncommonly refined. Lady Raarsa makes no very sublime appearance for a sovereign, but is a good housewife, and a very prudent and diligent conductress of her family. Miss Flora Macleod is a celebrated beauty; has been admired at Edinburgh; dresses her head very high; and has manners so lady-like, that I wish her head-dress was lower. The rest of the nine girls are all pretty; the youngest is between Queeney and Lucy. The youngest boy, of four years old, runs barefoot, and wandered with us over the rocks to see a mill: I believe he would walk on that rough ground, without shoes, ten miles in a day. The laird of Raarsa has sometimes disputed the chieftainry of the clan with Macleod of Skie, but, being much inferiour in extent of possessions, has, I suppose, been forced to desist. Raarsa, and its provinces, have descended to its present possessour, through a succession of four hundred years, without any increase or diminution. It was, indeed, lately in danger of forfeiture, but the old laird joined some prudence with his zeal, and when prince Charles landed in Scotland, made over his estate to this son, the present laird, and led one hundred men of Raarsa into the field, with officers of his own family. Eighty-six only came back after the last battle. The prince was hidden, in his distress, two nights at Raarsa, and the king's troops burnt the whole country, and killed some of the cattle. You may guess at the opinions that prevail in this country; they are, however, content with fighting for their king; they do not drink for him. We had no foolish healths. At night, unexpectedly to us, who were strangers, the carpet was taken up; the fiddler of the family came up, and a very vigorous and general dance was begun. As I told you, we were two and thirty at supper; there were full as many dancers; for, though all who supped did not dance, some danced of the young people who did not sup. Raarsa himself danced with his children, and old Malcolm, in his fillibeg, was as nimble, as when he led the prince over the mountains. When they had danced themselves weary, two tables were spread, and, I suppose, at least twenty dishes were upon them. In this country, some preparations of milk are always served up at supper, and sometimes, in the place of tarts, at dinner. The table was not coarsely heaped, but, at once, plentiful and elegant. They do not pretend to make a loaf; there are only cakes, commonly of oats or barley, but they made me very nice cakes of wheat flour. I always sat at the left hand of lady Raarsa; and young Macleod of Skie, the chieftain of the clan, sat on the right. After supper, a young lady, who was visiting, sung Erse songs, in which lady Raarsa joined, prettily enough, but not gracefully; the young ladies sustained the chorus better. They are very little used to be asked questions, and not well prepared with answers. When one of the songs was over, I asked the princess, that sat next to me, "What is that about?" I question if she conceived that I did not understand it. "For the entertainment of the company," said she. "But, madam, what is the meaning of it?" "It is a love song." This was all the intelligence that I could obtain; nor have I been able to procure the translation of a single line of Erse. At twelve it was bed-time. I had a chamber to myself, which, in eleven rooms to forty people, was more than my share. How the company and the family were distributed, is not easy to tell. Macleod, the chieftain, and Boswell, and I, had all single chambers, on the first floor. There remained eight rooms only, for, at least, seven and thirty lodgers. I suppose they put up temporary beds in the dining-room, where they stowed all the young ladies. There was a room above stairs with six beds, in which they put ten men. The rest in my next. XXIV.--To MRS. THRALE. Ostich in Skie, Sept. 30, 1773. DEAREST MADAM,--I am still confined in Skie. We were unskilful travellers, and imagined that the sea was an open road, which we could pass at pleasure; but we have now learned, with some pain, that we may still wait, for a long time, the caprices of the equinoctial winds, and sit reading or writing, as I now do, while the tempest is rolling the sea, or roaring in the mountains. I am now no longer pleased with the delay; you can hear from me but seldom, and I cannot at all hear from you. It comes into my mind, that some evil may happen, or that I might be of use while I am away. But these thoughts are vain; the wind is violent and adverse, and our boat cannot yet come. I must content myself with writing to you, and hoping that you will sometime receive my letter. Now to my narrative. Sept. 9th. Having passed the night as is usual, I rose, and found the dining-room full of company; we feasted and talked, and when the evening came it brought musick and dancing. Young Macleod, the great proprietor of Skie, and head of his clan, was very distinguishable; a young man of nineteen, bred awhile at St. Andrew's, and afterwards at Oxford, a pupil of G. Strahan. He is a young man of a mind, as much advanced as I have ever known; very elegant of manners, and very graceful in his person. He has the full spirit of a feudal chief; and I was very ready to accept his invitation to Dunvegan. All Raarsa's children are beautiful. The ladies, all, except the eldest, are in the morning dressed in their hair. The true highlander never wears more than a riband on her head, till she is married. On the third day Boswell went out, with old Malcolm, to see a ruined castle, which he found less entire than was promised, but he saw the country. I did not go, for the castle was, perhaps, ten miles off, and there is no riding at Raarsa, the whole island being rock or mountain, from which the cattle often fall, and are destroyed. It is very barren, and maintains, as near as I could collect, about seven hundred inhabitants, perhaps ten to a square mile. In these countries you are not to suppose that you shall find villages or inclosures. The traveller wanders through a naked desert, gratified sometimes, but rarely, with the sight of cows, and now and then finds a heap of loose stones and turf, in a cavity between rocks, where a being, born with all those powers which education expands, and all those sensations which culture refines, is condemned to shelter itself from the wind and rain. Philosophers there are, who try to make themselves believe, that this life is happy; but they believe it only while they are saying it, and never yet produced conviction in a single mind; he whom want of words or images sunk into silence still thought, as he thought before, that privation of pleasure can never please, and that content is not to be much envied, when it has no other principle than ignorance of good. This gloomy tranquillity, which some may call fortitude, and others, wisdom, was, I believe, for a long time, to be very frequently found in these dens of poverty; every man was content to live like his neighbours, and, never wandering from home, saw no mode of life preferable to his own, except at the house of the laird, or the laird's nearest relations, whom he considered as a superiour order of beings, to whose luxuries or honours he had no pretensions. But the end of this reverence and submission seems now approaching; the highlanders have learned, that there are countries less bleak and barren than their own, where, instead of working for the laird, every man will till his own ground, and eat the produce of his own labour. Great numbers have been induced, by this discovery, to go, every year, for some time past, to America. Macdonald and Macleod, of Skie, have lost many tenants and many labourers; but Raarsa has not yet been forsaken by a single inhabitant. Rona is yet more rocky and barren than Raarsa, and, though it contains, perhaps, four thousand acres, is possessed only by a herd of cattle and the keepers. I find myself not very able to walk upon the mountains, but one day I went out to see the walls, yet standing, of an ancient chapel. In almost every island the superstitious votaries of the Romish church erected places of worship, in which the drones of convents, or cathedrals, performed the holy offices; but, by the active zeal of protestant devotion, almost all of them have sunk into ruin. The chapel at Raarsa is now only considered as the burying-place of the family, and, I suppose, of the whole island. We would now have gone away, and left room for others to enjoy the pleasures of this little court; but the wind detained us till the 12th, when, though it was Sunday, we thought it proper to snatch the opportunity of a calm day. Raarsa accompanied us in his six-oared boat, which, he said, was his coach and six. It is, indeed, the vehicle in which the ladies take the air, and pay their visits, but they have taken very little care for accommodations. There is no way, in or out of the boat, for a woman, but by being carried; and in the boat thus dignified with a pompous name, there is no seat, but an occasional bundle of straw. Thus we left Raarsa; the seat of plenty, civility, and cheerfulness. We dined at a publick house at Port Re; so called, because one of the Scottish kings landed there, in a progress through the western isles. Raarsa paid the reckoning privately. We then got on horseback, and, by a short, but very tedious journey, came to Kingsburgh, at which the same king lodged, after he landed. Here I had the honour of saluting the far-famed Miss Flora Macdonald, who conducted the prince, dressed as her maid, through the English forces, from the island of Lewes; and, when she came to Skie, dined with the English officers, and left her maid below. She must then have been a very young lady; she is now not old; of a pleasing person, and elegant behaviour. She told me, that she thought herself honoured by my visit; and, I am sure, that whatever regard she bestowed on me was liberally repaid. "If thou likest her opinions, thou wilt praise her virtue." She was carried to London, but dismissed without a trial, and came down with Malcolm Macleod, against whom sufficient evidence could not be procured. She and her husband are poor, and are going to try their fortune in America: "Sic rerum volvitur orbis." At Kingsburgh we were very liberally feasted, and I slept in the bed in which the prince reposed in his distress; the sheets which he used were never put to any meaner offices, but were wrapped up by the lady of the house, and at last, according to her desire, were laid round her in her grave. These are not whigs. On the 13th, travelling partly on horseback, where we could not row, and partly on foot, where we could not ride, we came to Dunvegan, which I have described already. Here, though poor Macleod had been left by his grandfather overwhelmed with debts, we had another exhibition of feudal hospitality. There were two stags in the house, and venison came to the table every day in its various forms. Macleod, besides his estate in Skie, larger, I suppose, than some English counties, is proprietor of nine inhabited isles; and, of his islands uninhabited, I doubt if he very exactly knows the number. I told him that he was a mighty monarch. Such dominions fill an Englishman with envious wonder; but, when he surveys the naked mountains, and treads the quaking moor, and wanders over the wild regions of gloomy barrenness, his wonder may continue, but his envy ceases. The unprofitableness of these vast domains can be conceived only by the means of positive instances. The heir of Col, an island not far distant, has lately told me, how wealthy he should be, if he could let Rum, another of his islands, for twopence halfpenny an acre; and Macleod has an estate, which the surveyor reports to contain eighty thousand acres, rented at six hundred pounds a year. While we were at Dunvegan, the wind was high, and the rain violent, so that we were not able to put forth a boat to fish in the sea, or to visit the adjacent islands, which may be seen from the house; but we filled up the time, as we could, sometimes by talk, sometimes by reading. I have never wanted books in the isle of Skie. We were invited one day by the laird and lady of Muck, one of the western islands, two miles long, and three quarters of a mile high. He has half his island in his own culture, and upon the other half live one hundred and fifty dependants, who not only live upon the product, but export corn sufficient for the payment of their rent. Lady Macleod has a son and four daughters; they have lived long in England, and have the language and manners of English ladies. We lived with them very easily. The hospitality of this remote region is like that of the golden age. We have found ourselves treated, at every house, as if we came to confer a benefit. We were eight days at Dunvegan, but we took the first opportunity which the weather afforded, after the first days, of going away, and, on the 21st, went to Ulinish, where we were well entertained, and wandered a little after curiosities. In the afternoon, an interval of calm sunshine courted us out, to see a cave on the shore, famous for its echo. When we went into the boat, one of our companions was asked, in Erse, by the boatmen, who they were, that came with him. He gave us characters, I suppose, to our advantage, and was asked, in the spirit of the highlands, whether I could recite a long series of ancestors. The boatmen said, as I perceived afterwards, that they heard the cry of an English ghost. This, Boswell says, disturbed him. We came to the cave, and, clambering up the rocks, came to an arch, open at one end, one hundred and eighty feet long, thirty broad, in the broadest part, and about thirty high. There was no echo: such is the fidelity of report; but I saw, what I had never seen before, muscles and whilks, in their natural state. There was another arch in the rock, open at both ends. September 23rd. We removed to Talisker, a house occupied by Mr. Macleod, a lieutenant colonel in the Dutch service. Talisker has been long in the possession of gentlemen, and, therefore, has a garden well cultivated, and, what is here very rare, is shaded by trees; a place where the imagination is more amused cannot easily be found. The mountains about it are of great height, with waterfalls succeeding one another so fast, that as one ceases to be heard, another begins. Between the mountains there is a small valley, extending to the sea, which is not far off, beating upon a coast, very difficult of access. Two nights before our arrival, two boats were driven upon this coast by the tempest; one of them had a pilot that knew the passage; the second followed, but a third missed the true course, and was driven forward, with great danger of being forced into the vast ocean, but, however, gained, at last, some other island. The crews crept to Talisker, almost lifeless with wet, cold, fatigue, and terrour, but the lady took care of them. She is a woman of more than common qualifications; having travelled with her husband, she speaks four languages. You find, that all the islanders, even in these recesses of life, are not barbarous. One of the ministers, who has adhered to us almost all the time, is an excellent scholar. We have now with us the young laird of Col, who is heir, perhaps, to two hundred square miles of land. He has first studied at Aberdeen, and afterwards gone to Hertfordshire, to learn agriculture, being much impressed with desire of improvement; he, likewise, has the notions of a chief, and keeps a piper. At Macleod's the bagpipe always played, while we were dining. Col has undertaken, by permission of the waves and wind, to carry us about several of the islands, with which he is acquainted enough to show us whatever curious is given by nature, or left by antiquity; but we grew afraid of deviating from our way home, lest we should be shut up for months upon some little protuberance of rock, that just appears above the sea, and, perhaps, is scarcely marked upon a map. You remember the doge of Genoa, who being asked, what struck him most at the French court, answered, "myself." I cannot think many things here more likely to affect the fancy, than to see Johnson ending his sixty-fourth year in the wilderness of the Hebrides. But now I am here, it will gratify me very little to return without seeing, or doing my best to see, what those places afford. I have a desire to instruct myself in the whole system of pastoral life, but I know not whether I shall be able to perfect the idea. However, I have many pictures in my mind, which I could not have had without this journey, and should have passed it with great pleasure, had you, and master, and Queeney, been in the party. We should have excited the attention, and enlarged the observation of each other, and obtained many pleasing topicks of future conversation. As it is, I travel with my mind too much at home, and, perhaps, miss many things worthy of observation, or pass them with transient notice; so that the images, for want of that reimpression which discussion and comparison produce, easily fade away; but I keep a book of remarks, and Boswell writes a regular journal of our travels, which, I think, contains as much of what I say and do, as of all other occurrences together; "for such a faithful chronicler as Griffith." I hope, dearest madam, you are equally careful to reposit proper memorials of all that happens to you and your family, and then, when we meet, we shall tell our stories. I wish you had gone this summer, in your usual splendour, to Brighthelmstone. Mr. Thrale probably wonders, how I live all this time without sending to him for money. Travelling in Scotland is dear enough, dearer, in proportion to what the country affords, than in England, but residence in the isles is unexpensive. Company is, I think, considered as a supply of pleasure, and a relief of that tediousness of life which is felt in every place, elegant or rude. Of wine and punch they are very liberal, for they get them cheap; but as there is no custom-house on the island, they can hardly be considered as smugglers. Their punch is made without lemons, or any substitute. Their tables are very plentiful; but a very nice man would not be pampered. As they have no meat but as they kill it, they are obliged to live, while it lasts, upon the same flesh. They kill a sheep, and set mutton boiled and roast on the table together. They have fish, both of the sea and of the brooks; but they can hardly conceive that it requires any sauce. To sauce, in general, they are strangers: now and then butter is melted, but I dare not always take, lest I should offend by disliking it. Barley broth is a constant dish, and is made well in every house. A stranger, if he is prudent, will secure his share, for it is not certain that he will be able to eat any thing else. Their meat, being often newly killed, is very tough, and, as nothing is sufficiently subdued by the fire, is not easily to be eaten. Carving is here a very laborious employment, for the knives are never whetted. Table knives are not of long subsistence in the highlands: every man, while arms were a regular part of dress, had his knife and fork appendant to his dirk. Knives they now lay upon the table, but the handles are apt to show that they have been in other hands, and the blades have neither brightness nor edge. Of silver, there is no want, and it will last long, for it is never cleaned. They are a nation just rising from barbarity: long contented with necessaries, now somewhat studious of convenience, but not yet arrived at delicate discriminations. Their linen is, however, both clean and fine. Bread, such as we mean by that name, I have never seen in the isle of Skie. They have ovens, for they bake their pies; but they never ferment their meal, nor mould a loaf. Cakes of oats and barley are brought to the table, but I believe wheat is reserved for strangers. They are commonly too hard for me, and, therefore, I take potatoes to my meat, and am sure to find them on almost every table. They retain so much of the pastoral life, that some preparation of milk is commonly one of the dishes, both at dinner and supper. Tea is always drunk at the usual times; but, in the morning, the table is polluted with a plate of slices of strong cheese. This is peculiar to the highlands; at Edinburgh there are always honey and sweetmeats on the morning tea-table. Strong liquors they seem to love. Every man, perhaps, woman, begins the day with a dram; and the punch is made both at dinner and supper. They have neither wood nor coal for fuel, but burn peat or turf in their chimneys. It is dug out of the moors or mosses, and makes a strong and lasting fire, not always very sweet, and somewhat apt to smoke the pot. The houses of inferiour gentlemen are very small, and every room serves many purposes. In the bed-rooms, perhaps, are laid up stores of different kinds; and the parlour of the day is a bed-room at night. In the room which I inhabited last, about fourteen feet square, there were three chests of drawers, a long chest for larger clothes, two closet-cupboards, and the bed. Their rooms are commonly dirty, of which they seem to have little sensibility, and if they had more, clean floors would be difficultly kept, where the first step from the door is into the dirt. They are very much inclined to carpets, and seldom fail to lay down something under their feet, better or worse, as they happen to be furnished. The highland dress, being forbidden by law, is very little used; sometimes it may be seen, but the English traveller is struck with nothing so much as the _nudité des pieds_ of the common people. Skie is the greatest island, or the greatest but one, among the Hebrides. Of the soil, I have already given some account: it is generally barren, but some spots are not wholly unfruitful. The gardens have apples and pears, cherries, strawberries, raspberries, currants, and gooseberries, but all the fruit, that I have seen, is small. They attempt to sow nothing but oats and barley. Oats constitute the bread-corn of the place. Their harvest is about the beginning of October; and, being so late, is very much subject to disappointments from the rains that follow the equinox. This year has been particularly disastrous. Their rainy season lasts from autumn to spring. They have seldom very hard frosts; nor was it ever known that a lake was covered with ice strong enough to bear a skater. The sea round them is always open. The snow falls, but soon melts; only in 1771, they had a cold spring, in which the island was so long covered with it, that many beasts, both wild and domestick, perished, and the whole country was reduced to distress, from which I know not if it is even yet recovered. The animals here are not remarkably small; perhaps they recruit their breed from the mainland. The cows are sometimes without horns. The horned and unhorned cattle are not accidental variations, but different species: they will, however, breed together. October 3rd. The wind is now changed, and if we snatch the moment of opportunity, an escape from this island is become practicable; I have no reason to complain of my reception, yet I long to be again at home. You and my master may, perhaps, expect, after this description of Skie, some account of myself. My eye is, I am afraid, not fully recovered; my ears are not mended; my nerves seem to grow weaker, and I have been otherwise not as well as I sometimes am, but think myself, lately, better. This climate, perhaps, is not within my degree of healthy latitude. Thus I have given my most honoured mistress the story of me and my little ramble. We are now going to some other isle, to what we know not; the wind will tell us. I am, &c. XXV.--To MRS. THRALE. Mull, Oct. 15, 1773. DEAR MADAM,--Though I have written to Mr. Thrale, yet having a little more time than was promised me, I would not suffer the messenger to go without some token of my duty to my mistress, who, I suppose, expects the usual tribute of intelligence, a tribute which I am not very able to pay. October 3rd. After having been detained, by storms, many days in Skie, we left it, as we thought, with a fair wind; but a violent gust, which Bos. had a great mind to call a tempest, forced us into Col, an obscure island; on which --"nulla campis Arbor aestiva recreatur aura." There is literally no tree upon the island, part of it is a sandy waste, over which it would be really dangerous to travel in dry weather, and with a high wind. It seems to be little more than one continued rock, covered, from space to space, with a thin layer of earth. It is, however, according to the highland notion, very populous, and life is improved beyond the manners of Skie; for the huts are collected into little villages, and every one has a small garden of roots and cabbage. The laird has a new house built by his uncle, and an old castle inhabited by his ancestors. The young laird entertained us very liberally; he is heir, perhaps, to three hundred square miles of land, which, at ten shillings an acre, would bring him ninety-six thousand pounds a year. He is desirous of improving the agriculture of his country; and, in imitation of the czar, travelled for improvement, and worked, with his own hands, upon a farm in Hertfordshire, in the neighbourhood of your uncle, sir Thomas Salusbury. He talks of doing useful things, and has introduced turnips for winter fodder. He has made a small essay towards a road. Col is but a barren place. Description has here few opportunities of spreading her colours. The difference of day and night is the only vicissitude. The succession of sunshine to rain, or of calms to tempests, we have not known; wind and rain have been our only weather. At last, after about nine days, we hired a sloop; and having lain in it all night, with such accommodations as these miserable vessels can afford, were landed yesterday on the isle of Mull; from which we expect an easy passage into Scotland. I am sick in a ship, but recover by lying down. I have not good health; I do not find that travelling much helps me. My nights are flatulent, though not in the utmost degree, and I have a weakness in my knees, which makes me very unable to walk. Pray, dear madam, let me have a long letter. I am, &c. XXVI.--To MRS. THRALE. Inverary, Oct. 24, 1773. HONOURED MISTRESS,--My last letters to you, and my dear master, were written from Mull, the third island of the Hebrides in extent. There is no post, and I took the opportunity of a gentleman's passage to the mainland. In Mull we were confined two days by the weather; on the third we got on horseback, and, after a journey, difficult and tedious, over rocks naked, and valleys untracked, through a country of barrenness and solitude, we came, almost in the dark, to the seaside, weary and dejected, having met with nothing but water falling from the mountains that could raise any image of delight. Our company was the young laird of Col, and his servant. Col made every Maclean open his house, where he came, and supply us with horses, when we departed; but the horses of this country are small, and I was not mounted to my wish. At the seaside we found the ferryboat departed; if it had been where it was expected, the wind was against us, and the hour was late, nor was it very desirable to cross the sea, in darkness, with a small boat. The captain of a sloop, that had been driven thither by the storms, saw our distress, and, as we were hesitating and deliberating, sent his boat, which, by Col's order, transported us to the isle of Ulva. We were introduced to Mr. Macquarry, the head of a small clan, whose ancestors have reigned in Ulva beyond memory, but who has reduced himself, by his negligence and folly, to the necessity of selling this venerable patrimony. On the next morning we passed the strait to Inch Kenneth, an island about a mile in length, and less than half a mile broad; in which Kenneth, a Scottish saint, established a small clerical college, of which the chapel walls are still standing. At this place I beheld a scene, which I wish you, and my master, and Queeney had partaken. The only family on the island is that of sir Allan, the chief of the ancient and numerous clan of Maclean; the clan which claims the second place, yielding only to Macdonald in the line of battle. Sir Allan, a chieftain, a baronet, and a soldier, inhabits, in this insulated desert, a thatched hut, with no chambers. Young Col, who owns him as his chief, and whose cousin was his lady, had, I believe, given him some notice of our visit; he received us with the soldier's frankness, and the gentleman's elegance, and introduced us to his daughters, two young ladies, who have not wanted education suitable to their birth, and who, in their cottage, neither forgot their dignity, nor affected to remember it. Do not you wish to have been with us? Sir Allan's affairs are in disorder, by the fault of his ancestors: and, while he forms some scheme for retrieving them, he has retreated hither. When our salutations were over, he showed us the island. We walked, uncovered, into the chapel, and saw, in the reverend ruin, the effects of precipitate reformation. The floor is covered with ancient grave-stones, of which the inscriptions are not now legible; and without, some of the chief families still continue the right of sepulture. The altar is not yet quite demolished; beside it, on the right side, is a bass-relief of the virgin with her child, and an angel hovering over her. On the other side still stands a hand-bell, which, though it has no clapper, neither presbyterian bigotry, nor barbarian wantonness, has yet taken away. The chapel is thirty-eight feet long, and eighteen broad. Boswell, who is very pious, went into it at night, to perform his devotions, but came back, in haste, for fear of spectres. Near the chapel is a fountain, to which the water, remarkably pure, is conveyed from a distant hill, through pipes laid by the Romish clergy, which still perform the office of conveyance, though they have never been repaired, since popery was suppressed. We soon after went in to dinner, and wanted neither the comforts nor the elegancies of life. There were several dishes, and variety of liquors. The servants live in another cottage; in which, I suppose, the meat is dressed. Towards evening, sir Allan told us, that Sunday never passed over him, like another day. One of the ladies read, and read very well, the evening service;--and paradise was opened in the wild. Next day, 18th, we went and wandered among the rocks on the shore, while the boat was busy in catching oysters, of which there is a great bed. Oysters lie upon the sand, one, I think, sticking to another, and cockles are found a few inches under the sand. We then went in the boat to Sondiland, a little island very near. We found it a wild rock, of about ten acres; part naked, part covered with sand, out of which we picked shells; and part clothed with a thin layer of mould, on the grass of which a few sheep are sometimes fed. We then came back and dined. I passed part of the afternoon in reading, and in the evening one of the ladies played on her harpsichord, and Boswell and Col danced a reel with the other. On the 19th, we persuaded sir Allan to lanch his boat again, and go with us to Icolmkill, where the first great preacher of Christianity to the Scots built a church, and settled a monastery. In our way we stopped to examine a very uncommon cave on the coast of Mull. We had some difficulty to make our way over the vast masses of broken rocks that lie before the entrance, and at the mouth were embarrassed with stones, which the sea had accumulated, as at Brighthelmstone; but, as we advanced, we reached a floor of soft sand, and, as we left the light behind us, walked along a very spacious cavity, vaulted over head with an arch almost regular, by which a mountain was sustained, at least a very lofty rock. From this magnificent cavern, went a narrow passage to the right hand, which we entered with a candle; and though it was obstructed with great stones, clambered over them to a second expansion of the cave, in which there lies a great square stone, which might serve as a table. The air here was very warm, but not oppressive, and the flame of the candle continued pyramidal. The cave goes onward to an unknown extent, but we were now one hundred and sixty yards under ground; we had but one candle, and had never heard of any that went farther and came back; we, therefore, thought it prudent to return. Going forward in our boat, we came to a cluster of rocks, black and horrid, which sir Allan chose for the place where he would eat his dinner. We climbed till we got seats. The stores were opened, and the repast taken. We then entered the boat again; the night came upon us; the wind rose; the sea swelled; and Boswell desired to be set on dry ground: we, however, pursued our navigation, and passed by several little islands in the silent solemnity of faint moonshine, seeing little, and hearing only the wind and the water. At last, we reached the island, the venerable seat of ancient sanctity; where secret piety reposed, and where falling greatness was reposited. The island has no house of entertainment, and we manfully made our bed in a farmer's barn. The description I hope to give you another time. I am, &c. XXVII.--To MRS. THRALE. Edinburgh, Nov. 12, 1773. DEAREST MADAM,--Among the possibilities of evil, which my imagination suggested at this distance, I missed that which has really happened. I never had much hope of a will in your favour, but was willing to believe that no will would have been made. The event is now irrevocable; it remains only to bear it. Not to wish it had been different, is impossible; but as the wish is painful without use, it is not prudent, perhaps, not lawful, to indulge it. As life, and vigour of mind, and sprightliness of imagination, and flexibility of attention, are given us for valuable and useful purposes, we must not think ourselves at liberty to squander life, to enervate intellectual strength, to cloud our thoughts, or fix our attention, when, by all this expense, we know that no good can be produced. Be alone as little as you can; when you are alone, do not suffer your thoughts to dwell on what you might have done, to prevent this disappointment. You, perhaps, could not have done what you imagine, or might have done it without effect. But even to think in the most reasonable manner, is, for the present, not so useful, as not to think. Remit yourself solemnly into the hands of God, and then turn your mind upon the business and amusements which lie before you. "All is best," says Chene, "as it has been, excepting the errours of our own free will." Burton concludes his long book upon Melancholy, with this important precept: "Be not solitary; be not idle." Remember Chene's position, and observe Burton's precept. We came hither on the ninth of this month. I long to come under your care, but, for some days, cannot decently get away. They congratulate our return, as if we had been with Phipps, or Banks; I am ashamed of their salutations. I have been able to collect very little for Queeney's cabinet; but she will not want toys now, she is so well employed. I wish her success; and am not without some thought of becoming her schoolfellow. I have got an Italian Rasselas. Surely my dear Lucy will recover; I wish, I could do her good. I love her very much; and should love another godchild, if I might have the honour of standing to the next baby. I am, &c. XXVIII.--To MRS. THRALE. Edinburgh, Nov. 18, 1773. MY DEAREST MISTRESS,--This is the last letter that I shall write; while you are reading it, I shall be coming home. I congratulate you upon your boy; but you must not think that I will love him, all at once, as well as I love Harry; for Harry, you know, is so rational. I shall love him by degrees. Poor, pretty, dear Lucy! Can nothing do her good? I am sorry to lose her. But, if she must be taken from us, let us resign her, with confidence, into the hands of him who knows, and who only knows, what is best both for us and her. Do not suffer yourself to be dejected. Resolution and diligence will supply all that is wanting, and all that is lost. But if your health should be impaired, I know not where to find a substitute. I shall have no mistress; Mr. Thrale will have no wife; and the little flock will have no mother. I long to be home, and have taken a place in the coach for Monday; I hope, therefore, to be in London on Friday, the 26th, in the evening. Please to let Mrs. Williams know. I am, &c. XXIX.--To THE SAME. Lichfield, June 23, 1775. DEAR MADAM,--Now I hope you are thinking: Shall I have a letter to-day from Lichfield? Something of a letter you will have; how else can I expect that you should write? and the morning, on which I should miss a letter, would be a morning of uneasiness, notwithstanding all that would be said or done by the sisters of Stowhill, who do and say whatever good they can. They give me good words, and cherries, and strawberries. Lady ****, and her mother and sister, were visiting there yesterday, and Lady ---- took her tea before her mother. Mrs. Cobb is to come to Miss Porter's this afternoon. Miss A--comes little near me. Mr. Langley, of Ashbourne, was here to-day, in his way to Birmingham, and every body talks of you. The ladies of the Amicable society are to walk, in a few days, from the townhall to the cathedral, in procession, to hear a sermon. They walk in linen gowns, and each has a stick, with an acorn; but for the acorn they could give no reason, till I told them of the civick crown. I have just had your sweet letter, and am glad that you are to be at the regatta. You know how little I love to have you left out of any shining part of life. You have every right to distinction, and should, therefore, be distinguished. You will see a show with philosophick superiority, and, therefore, may see it safely. It is easy to talk of sitting at home, contented, when others are seeing, or making shows. But, not to have been where it is supposed, and seldom supposed falsely, that all would go if they could; to be able to say nothing, when every one is talking; to have no opinion, when every one is judging; to hear exclamations of rapture, without power to depress; to listen to falsehoods, without right to contradict, is, after all, a state of temporary inferiority, in which the mind is rather hardened by stubbornness, than supported by fortitude. If the world be worth winning, let us enjoy it; if it is to be despised, let us despise it by conviction. But the world is not to be despised, but as it is compared with something better. Company is, in itself, better than solitude, and pleasure better than indolence: "Ex nihilo nihil fit," says the moral, as well as the natural, philosopher. By doing nothing, and by knowing nothing, no power of doing good can be obtained. He must mingle with the world, that desires to be useful. Every new scene impresses new ideas, enriches the imagination, and enlarges the power of reason, by new topicks of comparison. You, that have seen the regatta, will have images, which we, who miss it, must want; and no intellectual images are without use. But, when you are in this scene of splendour and gaiety, do not let one of your fits of negligence steal upon you. "Hoc age," is the great rule, whether you are serious or merry; whether you are stating the expenses of your family, learning science, or duty, from a folio, or floating on the Thames in a fancied dress. Of the whole entertainment, let me not hear so copious, nor so true an account, from any body as from you. I am, dearest madam, your, &c. XXX.--To MRS. THRALE. Ashbourne. DEAR MADAM,--I am sure I write and write, and every letter that comes from you charges me with not writing. Since I wrote to Queeney I have written twice to you, on the 6th and the 9th: be pleased to let me know whether you have them, or have them not. That of the 6th you should regularly have had on the 8th, yet your letter of the 9th seems not to mention it; all this puzzles me. Poor dear ****! He only grows dull, because he is sickly; age has not yet begun to impair him; nor is he such a chameleon as to take immediately the colour of his company. When you see him again you will find him reanimated. Most men have their bright and their cloudy days; at least they have days when they put their powers into action, and days when they suffer them to repose. Fourteen thousand pounds make a sum sufficient for the establishment of a family, and which, in whatever flow of riches or confidence of prosperity, deserves to be very seriously considered. I hope a great part of it has paid debts, and no small part bought land. As for gravelling, and walling, and digging, though I am not much delighted with them, yet something, indeed much, must be allowed to every man's taste. He that is growing rich has a right to enjoy part of the growth his own way. I hope to range in the walk, and row upon the water, and devour fruit from the wall. Dr. Taylor wants to be gardening. He means to buy a piece of ground in the neighbourhood, and surround it with a wall, and build a gardener's house upon it, and have fruit, and be happy. Much happiness it will not bring him; but what can he do better? If I had money enough, what would I do? Perhaps, if you and master did not hold me, I might go to Cairo, and down the Red sea to Bengal, and take a ramble in India. Would this be better than building and planting? It would surely give more variety to the eye, and more amplitude to the mind. Half fourteen thousand would send me out to see other forms of existence, and bring me back to describe them. I answer this the day on which I had yours of the 9th, that is on the 11th. Let me know when it comes. I am, &c. XXXI.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, August 2, 1775. MADAM,--I dined to-day at Stowhill, and am come away to write my letter. Never, surely, was I such a writer before. Do you keep my letters? I am not of your opinion, that I shall not like to read them hereafter; for though there is in them not much history of mind, or anything else, they will, I hope, always be, in some degree, the records of a pure and blameless friendship, and, in some hours of languor and sadness, may revive the memory of more cheerful times. Why you should suppose yourself not desirous hereafter to read the history of your own mind, I do not see. Twelve years, on which you now look, as on a vast expanse of life, will, probably, be passed over uniformly and smoothly, with very little perception of your progress, and with very few remarks upon the way. The accumulation of knowledge, which you promise to yourself, by which the future is to look back upon the present, with the superiority of manhood to infancy, will, perhaps, never be attempted, or never will be made; and you will find, as millions have found before you, that forty-five has made little sensible addition to thirty-three. As the body, after a certain time, gains no increase of height, and little of strength, there is, likewise, a period, though more variable by external causes, when the mind commonly attains its stationary point, and very little advances its powers of reflection, judgment, and ratiocination. The body may acquire new modes of motion, or new dexterities of mechanick operations, but its original strength receives not improvement: the mind may be stored with new languages, or new sciences, but its power of thinking remains nearly the same, and, unless it attains new subjects of meditation, it commonly produces thoughts of the same force and the same extent, at very distant intervals of life; as the tree, unless a foreign fruit be ingrafted, gives, year after year, productions of the same form, and the same flavour. By intellectual force, or strength of thought, is meant the degree of power which the mind possesses of surveying the subject of meditation, with its circuit of concomitants, and its train of dependence. Of this power, which all observe to be very different in different minds, part seems the gift of nature, and part the acquisition of experience. When the powers of nature have attained their intended energy, they can be no more advanced. The shrub can never become a tree. And it is not unreasonable to suppose, that they are, before the middle of life, in their full vigour. Nothing then remains but practice and experience; and, perhaps, why they do so little, may be worth inquiry. But I have just now looked, and find it so late, that I will inquire against the next post night. I am, &c. XXXII.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, Augusts, 1775. DEAR MADAM,--Instead of forty reasons for my return, one is sufficient, --that you wish for my company. I purpose to write no more till you see me. The ladies at Stowhill and Greenhill are unanimously of opinion, that it will be best to take a post chaise, and not to be troubled with the vexations of a common carriage. I will venture to suppose the ladies at Streatham to be of the same mind. You will now expect to be told, why you will not be so much wiser, as you expect, when you have lived twelve years longer. It is said, and said truly, that experience is the best teacher; and it is supposed, that, as life is lengthened, experience is increased. But a closer inspection of human life will discover, that time often passes without any incident which can much enlarge knowledge, or ratify judgment. When we are young we learn much, because we are universally ignorant; we observe every thing, because every thing is new. But, after some years, the occurrences of daily life are exhausted; one day passes like another, in the same scene of appearances, in the same course of transactions: we have to do what we have often done, and what we do not try, because we do not wish to do much better; we are told what we already know, and, therefore, what repetition cannot make us know with greater certainty. He that has early learned much, perhaps, seldom makes, with regard to life and manners, much addition to his knowledge; not only, because, as more is known, there is less to learn, but because a mind, stored with images and principles, turns inwards for its own entertainment, and is employed in settling those ideas, which run into confusion, and in recollecting those which are stealing away; practices by which wisdom may be kept, but not gained. The merchant, who was at first busy in acquiring money, ceases to grow richer, from the time when he makes it his business only to count it. Those who have families, or employments, are engaged in business of little difficulty, but of great importance, requiring rather assiduity of practice than subtilty of speculation, occupying the attention with images too bulky for refinement, and too obvious for research. The right is already known: what remains is only to follow it. Daily business adds no more to wisdom, than daily lesson to the learning of the teacher. But of how few lives does not stated duty claim the greater part! Far the greater part of human minds never endeavour their own improvement. Opinions, once received from instruction, or settled by whatever accident, are seldom recalled to examination; having been once supposed to be right, they are never discovered to be erroneous, for no application is made of any thing that time may present, either to shake or to confirm them. From this acquiescence in preconceptions none are wholly free; between fear of uncertainty, and dislike of labour, every one rests while he might yet go forward; and they that were wise at thirty-three, are very little wiser at forty-five. Of this speculation you are, perhaps, tired, and would rather hear of Sophy. I hope, before this comes, that her head will be easier, and your head less filled with fears and troubles, which you know are to be indulged only to prevent evil, not to increase it. Your uneasiness about Sophy is, probably, unnecessary, and, at worst, your own children are healthful, and your affairs prosperous. Unmingled good cannot be expected; but, as we may lawfully gather all the good within our reach, we may be allowed to lament after that which we lose. I hope your losses are at an end, and that, as far as the condition of our present existence permits, your remaining life will be happy. I am, &c. XXXIII.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, March 25, 1776. DEAR MADAM,--This letter will not, I hope, reach you many days before me; in a distress which can be so little relieved, nothing remains for a friend, but to come and partake it. Poor, dear, sweet little boy! When I read the letter this day to Mrs. Aston, she said, "such a death is the next to translation." Yet, however I may convince myself of this, the tears are in my eyes, and yet I could not love him as you loved him, nor reckon upon him for a future comfort, as you and his father reckoned upon him. He is gone, and we are going! We could not have enjoyed him long, and shall not long be separated from him. He has, probably, escaped many such pangs as you are now feeling. Nothing remains, but that, with humble confidence we resign ourselves to almighty goodness, and fall down, without irreverent murmurs, before the sovereign distributer of good and evil, with hope, that though sorrow endureth for a night, yet joy may come in the morning. I have known you, madam, too long to think that you want any arguments for submission to the supreme will; nor can my consolation have any effect, but that of showing that I wish to comfort you. What can be done, you must do for yourself. Remember first, that your child is happy; and then, that he is safe, not only from the ills of this world, but from those more formidable dangers which extend their mischief to eternity. You have brought into the world a rational being; have seen him happy during the little life that has been granted him; and can have no doubt but that his happiness is now permanent and immutable. When you have obtained, by prayer, such tranquillity as nature will admit, force your attention, as you can, upon your accustomed duties and accustomed entertainments. You can do no more for our dear boy, but you must not, therefore, think less on those whom your attention may make fitter for the place to which he is gone. I am, dearest, dearest madam, your most affectionate humble servant. XXXIV.--To MRS. THRALE. Sept. 6, 1777. DEAREST LADY,--It is true, that I have loitered, and, what is worse, loitered with very little pleasure. The time has run away, as most time runs, without account, without use, and without memorial. But, to say this of a few weeks, though not pleasing, might be borne; but what ought to be the regret of him who, in a few days, will have so nearly the same to say of sixty-eight years? But complaint is vain. If you have nothing to say from the neighbourhood of the metropolis, what can occur to me, in little cities and petty towns; in places which we have both seen, and of which no description is wanted? I have left part of the company with which you dined here, to come and write this letter, in which I have nothing to tell, but that my nights are very tedious. I cannot persuade myself to forbear trying something. As you have now little to do, I suppose you are pretty diligent at the Thraliana; and a very curious collection posterity will find it. Do not remit the practice of writing down occurrences as they arise, of whatever kind, and be very punctual in annexing the dates. Chronology, you know, is the eye of history; and every man's life is of importance to himself. Do not omit painful casualties, or unpleasing passages; they make the variegation of existence; and there are many transactions, of which I will not promise, with Aeneas, "et haec olim meminisse juvabit;" yet that remembrance which is not pleasant, may be useful. There is, however, an intemperate attention to slight circumstances, which is to be avoided, lest a great part of life be spent in writing the history of the rest. Every day, perhaps, has something to be noted; but in a settled and uniform course, few days can have much. Why do I write all this, which I had no thought of when I began! The Thraliana drove it all into my head. It deserves, however, an hour's reflection, to consider how, with the least loss of time, the loss of what we wish to retain may be prevented. Do not neglect to write to me, for when a post comes empty, I am really disappointed. Boswell, I believe, will meet me here. I am, dearest lady, your, &c. XXXV.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, October 3, 1777, DEAR MADAM,--This is the last time that I shall write, in this excursion, from this place. To-morrow I shall be, I hope, at Birmingham; from which place I shall do my best to find the nearest way home. I come home, I think, worse than I went; and do not like the state of my health. But, "vive hodie," make the most of life. I hope to get better, and--sweep the cobwebs. But I have sad nights. Mrs. Aston has sent me to Mr. Greene, to be cured. Did you see Foote at Brighthelmstone?--Did you think he would so soon be gone?--Life, says Falstaff, is a shuttle. He was a fine fellow in his way; and the world is really impoverished by his sinking glories. Murphy ought to write his life, at least, to give the world a Footeiana. Now, will any of his contemporaries bewail him? Will genius change _his sex_ to weep? I would really have his life written with diligence. It will be proper for me to work pretty diligently now for some time. I hope to get through, though so many weeks have passed. Little lives and little criticisms may serve. Having been in the country so long, with very little to detain me, I am rather glad to look homewards. I am, &c. XXXVI.--To MRS. THRALE. October 13, 1777. DEAR MADAM,--Yet I do love to hear from you: such pretty, kind letters as you send. But it gives me great delight to find that my master misses me, I begin to wish myself with you more than I should do, if I were wanted less. It is a good thing to stay away, till one's company is desired, but not so good to stay, after it is desired. You know I have some work to do. I did not set to it very soon; and if I should go up to London with nothing done, what would be said, but that I was--who can tell what? I, therefore, stay till I can bring up something to stop their mouths, and then-- Though I am still at Ashbourne, I receive your dear letters, that come to Lichfield, and you continue that direction, for I think to get thither as soon as I can. One of the does died yesterday, and I am afraid her fawn will be starved; I wish Miss Thrale had it to nurse; but the doctor is now all for cattle, and minds very little either does or hens. How did you and your aunt part? Did you turn her out of doors, to begin your journey? or did she leave you by her usual shortness of visits? I love to know how you go on. I cannot but think on your kindness and my master's. Life has, upon the whole, fallen short, very short, of my early expectation; but the acquisition of such a friendship, at an age, when new friendships are seldom acquired, is something better than the general course of things gives man a right to expect. I think on it with great delight: I am not very apt to be delighted. I am, &c. XXXVII.--To MRS. THRALE. Lichfield, October 27, 1777. DEAR MADAM,--You talk of writing and writing, as if you had all the writing to yourself. If our correspondence were printed, I am sure posterity, for posterity is always the author's favourite, would say that I am a good writer too.--"Anch'io sono pittore." To sit down so often with nothing to say; to say something so often, almost without consciousness of saying, and without any remembrance of having said, is a power of which I will not violate my modesty by boasting, but I do not believe that every body has it. Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection; some are wise and sententious; some strain their powers for efforts of gaiety; some write news, and some write secrets; but to make a letter without affection, without wisdom, without gaiety, without news, and without a secret, is, doubtless, the great epistolick art. In a man's letters, you know, madam, his soul lies naked, his letters are only the mirror of his breast; whatever passes within him, is shown, undisguised, in its natural process; nothing is inverted, nothing distorted: you see systems in their elements; you discover actions in their motives. Of this great truth, sounded by the knowing to the ignorant, and so echoed by the ignorant to the knowing, what evidence have you now before you? Is not my soul laid open in these veracious pages? Do not you see me reduced to my first principles? This is the pleasure of corresponding with a friend, where doubt and distrust have no place, and every thing is said as it is thought. The original idea is laid down in its simple purity, and all the supervenient conceptions are spread over it, "stratum super stratum," as they happen to be formed. These are the letters by which souls are united, and by which minds, naturally in unison, move each other, as they are moved themselves. I know, dearest lady, that in the perusal of this, such is the consanguinity of our intellects, you will be touched, as I am touched. I have, indeed, concealed nothing from you, nor do I expect ever to repent of having thus opened my heart. I am, &c. XXXVIII.--To MRS. THRALE. November 10, 1777. DEAR MADAM,--And so, supposing that I might come to town, and neglect to give you notice, or thinking some other strange thought, but certainly thinking wrong, you fall to writing about me to Tom Davies, as if he could tell you anything that I would not have you know. As soon as I came hither, I let you know of my arrival; and the consequence is, that I am summoned to Brighthelmstone, through storms, and cold, and dirt, and all the hardships of wintry journeys. You know my natural dread of all those evils; yet, to show my master an example of compliance, and to let you know how much I long to see you, and to boast how little I give way to disease, my purpose is to be with you on Friday. I am sorry for poor Nezzy, and hope she will, in time, be better; I hope the same for myself. The rejuvenescency of Mr. Scrase gives us both reason to hope, and, therefore, both of us rejoice in his recovery. I wish him well, besides, as a friend to my master. I am just come home from not seeing my lord mayor's show, but I might have seen, at least, part of it. But I saw Miss Wesley and her brothers; she sends her compliments. Mrs. Williams is come home, I think, a very little better. Every body was an enemy to that wig.--We will burn it, and get drunk; for what is joy without drink? Wagers are laid in the city about our success, which is yet, as the French call it, problematical. Well--but, seriously, I think, I shall be glad to see you in your own hair; but do not take too much time in combing, and twisting, and papering, and unpapering, and curling, and frizling, and powdering, and getting out the powder, with all the other operations required in the cultivation of a head of hair; yet let it be combed, at least, once in three months on the quarterday.--I could wish it might be combed once at least, in six weeks; if I were to indulge my wishes but what are wishes without hopes, I should fancy the operation performed--one knows not when one has enough--perhaps, every morning. I am, dearest lady, your, &c. XXXIX.--To MRS. THRALE. Ashbourne, June 14, 1779. DEAR MADAM,--Your account of Mr. Thrale's illness is very terrible; but when I remember that he seems to have it peculiar to his constitution, that, whatever distemper he has, he always has his head affected, I am less frighted. The seizure was, I think, not apoplectical but hysterical, and, therefore, not dangerous to life. I would have you, however, consult such physicians as you think you can best trust. Broomfield seems to have done well and, by his practice, appears not to suspect an apoplexy. This is a solid and fundamental comfort. I remember Dr. Marsigli, an Italian physician, whose seizure was more violent than Mr. Thrale's, for he fell down helpless, but his case was not considered as of much danger, and he went safe home, and is now a professor at Padua. His fit was considered as only hysterical. I hope sir Philip, who franked your letter, comforts you as well as Mr. Seward. If I can comfort you, I will come to you; but I hope you are now no longer in want of any help to be happy. I am, &c. The doctor sends his compliments; he is one of the people that are growing old. XL.--To MRS. THRALE. Ashbourne, June 14, 1779. DEAR MADAM,--How near we are all to extreme danger. We are merry or sad, or busy or idle, and forget that death is hovering over us. You are a dear lady for writing again. The case, as you now describe it, is worse than I conceived it, when I read your first letter. It is still, however, not apoplectick, but seems to have something worse than hysterical--a tendency to a palsy, which, I hope, however, is now over. I am glad that you have Heberden, and hope we are all safer. I am the more alarmed by this violent seizure, as I can impute it to no wrong practices, or intemperance of any kind, and, therefore, know not how any defence or preservative can be obtained. Mr. Thrale has, certainly, less exercise than when he followed the foxes; but he is very far from unwieldiness or inactivity, and further still from any vitious or dangerous excess. I fancy, however, he will do well to ride more. Do, dear madam, let me know, every post, how he goes on. Such sudden violence is very dreadful; we know not by what it is let loose upon us, nor by what its effects are limited. If my coming can either assist or divert, or be useful to any purpose, let me but know: I will soon be with you. Mrs. Kennedy, Queeney's Baucis, ended, last week, a long life of disease and poverty. She had been married about fifty years. Dr. Taylor is not much amiss, but always complaining. I am, &c. XLI.--To MR. THRALE. Lichfield, June 23, 1779. DEAR SIR,--To show how well I think of your health, I have sent you a hundred pounds, to keep for me. It will come within one day of quarterday, and that day you must give me. I came by it in a very uncommon manner, and would not confound it with the rest. My wicked mistress talks as if she thought it possible for me to be indifferent or negligent about your health or hers. If I could have done any good, I had not delayed an hour to come to you; and I will come very soon, to try if my advice can be of any use, or my company of any entertainment. What can be done, you must do for yourself: do not let any uneasy thought settle in your mind. Cheerfulness and exercise are your great remedies. Nothing is, for the present, worth your anxiety. "Vivite laeti" is one of the great rules of health. I believe it will be good to ride often, but never to weariness, for weariness is, itself, a temporary resolution of the nerves, and is, therefore, to be avoided. Labour is exercise continued to fatigue--exercise is labour used only, while it produces pleasure. Above all, keep your mind quiet: do not think with earnestness even of your health; but think on such things as may please without too much agitation; among which, I hope, is, dear sir, your, &c. XLII.--To MRS. THRALE. DEAR MADAM,--On Sunday I dined with poor Lawrence, who is deafer than ever. When he was told that Dr. Moisy visited Mr. Thrale, he inquired for what? and said there was nothing to be done, which nature would not do for herself. On Sunday evening, I was at Mrs. Vesy's, and there was inquiry about my master, but I told them all good. There was Dr. Bernard of Eton, and we made a noise all the evening; and there was Pepys, and Wraxal, till I drove him away. And I have no loss of my mistress, who laughs, and frisks, and frolicks it all the long day, and never thinks of poor Colin. If Mr. Thrale will but continue to mend, we shall, I hope, come together again, and do as good things as ever we did; but, perhaps, you will be made too proud to heed me, and yet, as I have often told you, it will not be easy for you to find such another. Queeney has been a good girl, and wrote me a letter; if Burney said she would write, she told you a fib. She writes nothing to me. She can write home fast enough. I have a good mind not to let her know that Dr. Bernard, to whom I had recommended her novel, speaks of it with great commendation, and that the copy which she lent me, has been read by Dr. Lawrence three times over. And yet what a gipsy it is. She no more minds me than if I were a Brangton. Pray speak to Queeney to write again. I have had a cold and a cough, and taken opium, and think I am better. We have had very cold weather; bad riding weather for my master, but he will surmount it all. Did Mrs. Browne make any reply to your comparison of business with solitude, or did you quite down her? I am much pleased to think that Mrs. Cotton thinks me worth a frame, and a place upon her wall; her kindness was hardly within my hope, but time does wonderful things. All my fear is, that if I should come again, my print would be taken down. I fear I shall never hold it. Who dines with you? Do you see Dr. Woodward, or Dr. Harrington? Do you go to the house where they write for the myrtle? You are at all places of high resort, and bring home hearts by dozens; while I am seeking for something to say about men, of whom I know nothing, but their verses, and, sometimes, very little of them. Now I have begun, however, I do not despair of making an end. Mr. Nichols holds, that Addison is the most taking of all that I have done. I doubt they will not be done, before you come away. Now you think yourself the first writer in the world for a letter about nothing. Can you write such a letter as this? So miscellaneous, with such noble disdain of regularity, like Shakespeare's works; such graceful negligence of transition, like the ancient enthusiasts? The pure voice of nature and of friendship. Now, of whom shall I proceed to speak? Of whom but Mrs. Montague? Having mentioned Shakespeare and nature, does not the name of Montague force itself upon me? Such were the transitions of the ancients, which now seem abrupt, because the intermediate idea is lost to modern understandings. I wish her name had connected itself with friendship; but, ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain! One thing, however, is left me, I have still to complain; but I hope I shall not complain much, while you have any kindness for me. I am, dearest, and dearest madam, your, &c. London, April, 11, 1780. XLIII.--To MRS. THRALE. DEAREST MADAM,--Mr. Thrale never will live abstinently, till he can persuade himself to abstain by rule. I lived on potatoes on Friday, and on spinage to-day; but I have had, I am afraid, too many dinners of late. I took physick too both days, and hope to fast to-morrow. When he comes home, we will shame him, and Jebb shall scold him into regularity. I am glad, however, that he is always one of the company, and that my dear Queeney is again another. Encourage, as you can, the musical girl. Nothing is more common than mutual dislike, where mutual approbation is particularly expected. There is often on both sides a vigilance, not over-benevolent; and as attention is strongly excited, so that nothing drops unheeded, any difference in taste or opinion, and some difference, where there is no restraint, will commonly appear, immediately generates dislike. Never let criticisms operate upon your face, or your mind; it is very rarely that an author is hurt by his criticks. The blaze of reputation cannot be blown out, but it often dies in the socket; a very few names may be considered as perpetual lamps, that shine unconsumed. From the author of Fitzosborne's Letters, I cannot think myself in much danger. I met him only once, about thirty years ago, and, in some small dispute, reduced him to whistle; having not seen him since, that is the last impression. Poor Moore, the fabulist, was one of the company. Mrs. Montague's long stay, against her own inclination, is very convenient. You would, by your own confession, want a companion; and she is "par pluribus," conversing with her you may "find variety in one." At Mrs. Ord's I met one Mrs. B--, a travelled lady, of great spirit, and some consciousness of her own abilities. We had a contest of gallantry, an hour long, so much to the diversion of the company, that at Ramsay's, last night, in a crowded room, they would have pitted us again. There were Smelt, and the bishop of St. Asaph, who comes to every place; and lord Monboddo, and sir Joshua, and ladies out of tale. The exhibition, how will you do either to see or not to see! The exhibition is eminently splendid. There is contour, and keeping, and grace, and expression, and all the varieties of artificial excellence. The apartments were truly very noble. The pictures, for the sake of a skylight, are at the top of the house; there we dined, and I sat over against the archbishop of York. See how I live, when I am not under petticoat government. I am, &c. London, May 1, 1780. XLIV.--To MRS. THRALE. London, June 9, 1780. DEAR MADAM,--To the question, Who was impressed with consternation? it may, with great truth, be answered, that every body was impressed, for nobody was sure of his safety. On Friday, the good protestants met in St. George's fields, at the summons of lord George Gordon, and marching to Westminster, insulted the lords and commons, who all bore it with great tameness. At night, the outrages began, by the demolition of the mass-house by Lincoln's inn. An exact journal of a week's defiance of government, I cannot give you. On Monday, Mr. Strahan, who had been insulted, spoke to lord Mansfield, who had, I think been insulted too, of the licentiousness of the populace; and his lordship treated it, as a very slight irregularity. On Tuesday night, they pulled down Fielding's house and burnt his goods in the street. They had gutted, on Monday sir George Saville's house, but the building was saved. On Tuesday evening, leaving Fielding's ruins, they went to Newgate, to demand their companions, who had been seized, demolishing the chapel. The keeper could not release them, but by the mayor's permission, which he went to ask; at his return, he found all the prisoners released, and Newgate in a blaze. They then went to Bloomsbury, and fastened upon lord Mansfield's house which they pulled down; and as for his goods, they totally burnt them. They have since gone to Caen wood, but a guard was there before them. They plundered some papists, I think, and burnt a mass-house in Moorfields the same night. On Wednesday, I walked with Dr. Scott, to look at Newgate, and found it in ruins, with the fire yet glowing As I went by, the protestants were plundering the Sessions house at the Old Bailey. There were not, I believe, a hundred; but they did their work at leisure, in full security, without sentinels, without trepidation, as men lawfully employed in full day. Such is the cowardice of a commercial place. On Wednesday they broke open the Fleet, and the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea, and Wood street Counter, and Clerkenwell Bridewell, and released all the prisoners. At night, they set fire to the Fleet, and to the King's Bench, and I know not how many other places; and one might see the glare of conflagration fill the sky from many parts. The sight was dreadful. Some people were threatened; Mr. Strahan advised me to take care of myself. Such a time of terrour you have been happy in not seeing. The king said, in council, that the magistrates had not done their duty, but that he would do his own; and a proclamation was published, directing us to keep our servants within doors, as the peace was now to be preserved by force. The soldiers were sent out to different parts, and the town is now at quiet. What has happened at your house, you will know; the harm is only a few butts of beer; and I think you may be sure that the danger is over. There is a body of soldiers at St. Margaret's hill. Of Mr. Tyson I know nothing, nor can guess to what he can allude; but I know that a young fellow of little more than seventy is naturally an unresisted conqueror of hearts. Pray tell Mr. Thrale that I live here and have no fruit, and if he does not interpose, am not likely to have much; but, I think, he might as well give me a little, as give all to the gardener. Pray make my compliments to Queeney and Burney. I am, &c. XLV.--To MRS. THRALE. June 10, 1780. DEAR MADAM,--You have, ere now, heard and read enough to convince you, that we have had something to suffer, and something to fear, and, therefore, I think it necessary to quiet the solicitude which you undoubtedly feel, by telling you that our calamities and terrours are now at an end. The soldiers are stationed so as to be every where within call; there is no longer any body of rioters, and the individuals are hunted to their holes, and led to prison; the streets are safe and quiet: lord George was last night sent to the Tower. Mr. John Wilkes was, this day, with a party of soldiers, in my neighbourhood, to seize the publisher of a seditious paper. Every body walks, and eats, and sleeps in security. But the history of the last week would fill you with amazement: it is without any modern example. Several chapels have been destroyed, and several inoffensive papists have been plundered, but the high sport was to burn the gaols. This was a good rabble trick. The debtors and the criminals were all set at liberty; but, of the criminals, as has always happened, many are already retaken, and two pirates have surrendered themselves, and it is expected that they will be pardoned. Government now acts again with its proper force; and we are all again under the protection of the king and the law. I thought that it would be agreeable to you and my master, to have my testimony to the publick security; and that you would sleep more quietly, when I told you, that you are safe. I am, dearest lady, your, &c. XLVI.--To MRS. THRALE. London, April 5, 1781. DEAREST MADAM,--Of your injunctions, to pray for you, and write to you, I hope to leave neither unobserved; and I hope to find you willing, in a short time, to alleviate your trouble by some other exercise of the mind. I am not without my part of the calamity. No death, since that of my wife, has ever oppressed me like this. But let us remember, that we are in the hands of him who knows when to give and when to take away; who will look upon us, with mercy, through all our variations of existence, and who invites us to call on him in the day of trouble. Call upon him in this great revolution of life, and call with confidence. You will then find comfort for the past, and support for the future. He that has given you happiness in marriage, to a degree of which, without personal knowledge, I should have thought the description fabulous, can give you another mode of happiness as a mother, and, at last, the happiness of losing all temporal cares, in the thoughts of an eternity in heaven. I do not exhort you to reason yourself into tranquillity. We must first pray, and then labour; first implore the blessing of God, and use those means which he puts into our hands. Cultivated ground has few weeds; a mind, occupied by lawful business, has little room for useless regret. We read the will to-day; but I will not fill my first letter with any other account, than that, with all my zeal for your advantage, I am satisfied; and, that the other executors, more used to consider property than I, commended it for wisdom and equity. Yet, why should I not tell you, that you have five hundred pounds for your immediate expenses, and two thousand pounds a year, with both the houses, and all the goods. Let us pray for one another, that the time, whether long or short, that shall yet be granted us, may be well spent; and, that, when this life, which, at the longest, is very short, shall come to an end, a better may begin, which shall never end. I am, dearest madam, your, &c. XLVII.--To MRS. THRALE. April 7, 1781. DEAR MADAM,--I hope you begin to find your mind grow clearer. My part of the loss hangs upon me. I have lost a friend of boundless kindness, at an age when it is very unlikely that I should find another. If you think change of place likely to relieve you, there is no reason why you should not go to Bath; the distances are unequal, but with regard to practice and business they are the same. It is a day's journey from either place; and the post is more expeditious and certain to Bath. Consult only your own inclination, for there is really no other principle of choice. God direct and bless you. Mr. C--has offered Mr. P--money, but it was not wanted. I hope we shall all do all we can to make you less unhappy, and you must do all you can for yourself. What we, or what you can do, will, for a time, be but little; yet, certainly, that calamity which may be considered as doomed to fall inevitably on half mankind, is not finally without alleviation. It is something for me, that, as I have not the decrepitude, I have not the callousness of old age. I hope, in time, to be less affected. I am, &c. XLVIII.--To MRS. THRALE. London, April 9, 1781. DEAR MADAM,--That you are gradually recovering your tranquillity is the effect to be humbly expected from trust in God. Do not represent life as darker than it is. Your loss has been very great, but you retain more than almost any other can hope to possess. You are high in the opinion of mankind; you have children, from whom much pleasure may be expected; and that you will find many friends you have no reason to doubt. Of my friendship, be it worth more or less, I hope you think yourself certain, without much art or care. It will not be easy for me to repay the benefits that I have received; but I hope to be always ready at your call. Our sorrow has different effects; you are withdrawn into solitude, and I am driven into company. I am afraid of thinking what I have lost. I never had such a friend before. Let me have your prayers and those of my dear Queeney. The prudence and resolution of your design to return so soon to your business and your duty, deserves great praise; I shall communicate it, on Wednesday, to the other executors. Be pleased to let me know, whether you would have me come to Streatham to receive you, or stay here till the next day. I am, &c. XLIX.--To THE SAME. Bolt court, Fleet street, June 19, 1783. DEAR MADAM,--I am sitting down, in no cheerful solitude, to write a narrative, which would once have affected you with tenderness and sorrow, but which you will, perhaps, pass over now with a careless glance of frigid indifference. For this diminution of regard, however, I know not whether I ought to blame you, who may have reasons which I cannot know; and I do not blame myself, who have, for a great part of human life, done you what good I could, and have never done you evil. I have been disordered in the usual way, and had been relieved, by the usual methods, by opium and catharticks, but had rather lessened my dose of opium. On Monday, the 16th, I sat for my picture, and walked a considerable way, with little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening, I felt myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, and, in a short time, waked and sat up, as has been long my custom, when I felt a confusion and indistinctness in my head, which lasted, I suppose, about half a minute; I was alarmed, and prayed God, that, however he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding. This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made in Latin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to be very good: I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpaired in my faculties. Soon after, I perceived that I had suffered a paralytick stroke, and that my speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection, in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered that, perhaps, death itself, when it should come, would excite less horrour than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two drams. Wine has been celebrated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into violent motion, and, I think, repeated it; but all was vain. I then went to bed, and, strange as it may seem, I think, slept. When I saw light, it was time to contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left me my hand: I enjoyed a mercy, which was not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now, perhaps, overlooks me, as I am writing, and rejoices that I have what he wanted. My first note was, necessarily, to my servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend, why he should read what I put into his hands. I then wrote a card to Mr. Allen, that I might have a discreet friend at hand, to act as occasion should require. In penning this note, I had some difficulty; my hand, I knew not how nor why, made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor, to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden, and I sent to Dr. Brocklesby, who is my neighbour. My physicians are very friendly and very disinterested, and give me great hopes, but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recovered my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's prayer, with no very imperfect articulation. My memory, I hope, yet remains as it was; but such an attack produces solicitude for the safety of every faculty. How this will be received by you, I know not. I hope you will sympathize with me; but, perhaps, "My mistress, gracious, mild, and good, Cries: Is he dumb? 'Tis time he shou'd." But can this be possible? I hope it cannot. I hope that what, when I could speak, I spoke of you, and to you, will be, in a sober and serious hour, remembered by you; and, surely, it cannot be remembered but with some degree of kindness. I have loved you with virtuous affection; I have honoured you with sincere esteem. Let not all our endearments be forgotten, but let me have, in this great distress, your pity and your prayers. You see, I yet turn to you with my complaints, as a settled and unalienable friend; do not, do not drive me from you, for I have not deserved either neglect or hatred. To the girls, who do not write often, for Susy has written only once, and Miss Thrale owes me a letter, I earnestly recommend, as their guardian and friend, that they remember their creator in the days of their youth. I suppose, you may wish to know, how my disease is treated by the physicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two from my ear to my throat, one on a side. The blister on the back has done little, and those on the throat have not risen. I bullied and bounced, (it sticks to our last sand,) and compelled the apothecary to make his salve according to the Edinburgh dispensatory, that it might adhere better. I have two on now of my own prescription. They, likewise, give me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence, but I am satisfied that what can be done, is done for me. O God! give me comfort and confidence in thee; forgive my sins; and, if it be thy good pleasure, relieve my diseases, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen. I am almost ashamed of this querulous letter; but now it is written, let it go. I am, &c. L.--To MRS. THRALE. DEAR MADAM,--Among those that have inquired after me, sir Philip is one; and Dr. Burney was one of those who came to see me. I have had no reason to complain of indifference or neglect. Dick Burney is come home five inches taller. Yesterday, in the evening, I went to church, and have been to-day to see the great burning-glass, which does more than was ever done before, by the transmission of the rays, but is not equal in power to those which reflect them. It wastes a diamond placed in the focus, but causes no diminution of pure gold. Of the rubies, exposed to its action, one was made more vivid, the other paler. To see the glass, I climbed up stairs to the garret, and then up a ladder to the leads, and talked to the artist rather too long; for my voice, though clear and distinct for a little while, soon tires and falters. The organs of speech are yet very feeble, but will, I hope, be, by the mercy of God, finally restored: at present, like any other weak limb, they can endure but little labour at once. Would you not have been very sorry for me, when I could scarcely speak? Fresh cantharides were this morning applied to my head, and are to be continued some time longer. If they play me no treacherous tricks, they give me very little pain. Let me have your kindness and your prayers; and think on me, as on a man, who, for a very great portion of your life has done you all the good he could, and desires still to be considered, madam, your, &c. LI.--To MRS. THRALE. London, July 1, 1783. DEAREST MADAM,--This morning I took the air by a ride to Hampstead, and this afternoon I dined with the club. But fresh cantharides were this day applied to my head. Mr. Cator called on me to-day, and told me, that he had invited you back to Streatham. I showed the unfitness of your return thither, till the neighbourhood should have lost its habits of depredation, and he seemed to be satisfied. He invited me, very kindly and cordially, to try the air of Beckenham; and pleased me very much by his affectionate attention to Miss Vesy. There is much good in his character, and much usefulness in his knowledge. Queeney seems now to have forgotten me. Of the different appearance of the hills and valleys an account may, perhaps, be given, without the supposition of any prodigy! If she had been out, and the evening was breezy, the exhalations would rise from the low grounds very copiously; and the wind that swept and cleared the hills, would only, by its cold, condense the vapours of the sheltered valleys. Murphy is just gone from me; he visits me very kindly, and I have no unkindness to complain of. I am sorry that sir Philip's request was not treated with more respect, nor can I imagine what has put them so much out of humour; I hope their business is prosperous. I hope that I recover by degrees, but my nights are restless; and you will suppose the nervous system to be somewhat enfeebled. I am, madam, your, &c. LII.--To MRS. THRALE. London, October 9, 1783. Two nights ago, Mr. Burke sat with me a long time; he seems much pleased with his journey. We had both seen Stonehenge this summer, for the first time. I told him that the view had enabled me to confute two opinions which have been advanced about it. One, that the materials are not natural stones, but an artificial composition, hardened by time. This notion is as old as Camden's time; and has this strong argument to support it, that stone of that species is nowhere to be found. The other opinion, advanced by Dr. Charlton, is, that it was erected by the Danes. Mr. Bowles made me observe, that the transverse stones were fixed on the perpendicular supporters by a knob, formed on the top of the upright stone, which entered into a hollow, cut in the crossing stone. This is a proof, that the enormous edifice was raised by a people who had not yet the knowledge of mortar; which cannot be supposed of the Danes, who came hither in ships, and were not ignorant, certainly, of the arts of life. This proves, likewise, the stones not to be factitious; for they that could mould such durable masses, could do much more than make mortar, and could have continued the transverse from the upright part with the same paste. You have, doubtless, seen Stonehenge; and if you have not, I should think it a hard task to make an adequate description. It is, in my opinion, to be referred to the earliest habitation of the island, as a druidical monument of, at least, two thousand years; probably the most ancient work of man, upon the island. Salisbury cathedral, and its neighbour Stonehenge, are two eminent monuments of art and rudeness, and may show the first essay, and the last perfection in architecture. I have not yet settled my thoughts about the generation of light air, which I, indeed, once saw produced, but I was at the height of my great complaint. I have made inquiry, and shall soon be able to tell you how to fill a balloon. I am, madam, your, &c. LIII.--To MRS. THRALE. London, Dec. 27, 1783. DEAR MADAM,--The wearisome solitude of the long evenings did, indeed, suggest to me the convenience of a club in my neighbourhood, but I have been hindered from attending it by want of breath. If I can complete the scheme, you shall have the names and the regulations. The time of the year, for I hope the fault is rather in the weather than in me, has been very hard upon me. The muscles of my breast are much convulsed. Dr. Heberden recommends opiates, of which I have such horrour, that I do not think of them but _in extremis_. I was, however, driven to them, last night, for refuge, and, having taken the usual quantity, durst not go to bed, for fear of that uneasiness to which a supine posture exposes me, but rested all night in a chair, with much relief, and have been, to-day, more warm, active, and cheerful. You have more than once wondered at my complaint of solitude, when you hear that I am crowded with visits. "Inopem me copia fecit." Visitors are no proper companions in the chamber of sickness. They come, when I could sleep or read, they stay till I am weary, they force me to attend, when my mind calls for relaxation, and to speak, when my powers will hardly actuate my tongue. The amusements and consolations of languor and depression are conferred by familiar and domestick companions, which can be visited or called at will, and can, occasionally, be quitted or dismissed, who do not obstruct accommodation by ceremony, or destroy indolence by awakening effort. Such society I had with Levet and Williams; such I had where--I am never likely to have it more. I wish, dear lady, to you and my dear girls, many a cheerful and pious Christmas. I am, your, &c. LIV.--To MRS. Piozzi. London, July 8, 1784. DEAR MADAM,--What you have done, however I may lament it, I have no pretence to resent, as it has not been injurious to me; I, therefore, breathe out one sigh more of tenderness, perhaps useless, but at least sincere. I wish that God may grant you every blessing, that you may be happy in this world, for its short continuance, and eternally happy in a better state; and whatever I can contribute to your happiness, I am very ready to repay, for that kindness which soothed twenty years of a life radically wretched. Do not think slightly of the advice which I now presume to offer. Prevail upon Mr. Piozzi to settle in England; you may live here with more dignity than in Italy, and with more security; your rank will be higher, and your fortune more under your own eye. I desire not to detail all my reasons; but every argument of prudence and interest is for England, and only some phantoms of imagination seduce you to Italy. I am afraid, however, that my counsel is vain, yet I have eased my heart by giving it. When queen Mary took the resolution of sheltering herself in England, the archbishop of St. Andrew's, attempting to dissuade her, attended on her journey; and when they came to the irremeable stream, that separated the two kingdoms, walked by her side into the water, in the middle of which he seized her bridle, and with earnestness, proportioned to her danger and his own affection, pressed her to return. The queen went forward.--If the parallel reaches thus far, may it go no farther.--The tears stand in my eyes. I am going into Derbyshire, and hope to be followed by your good wishes, for I am, with great affection, your, &c. END OF VOL. I. 
11397	----	JOHNSON'S WORKS. THE RAMBLER. VOL. II. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D, IN NINE VOLUMES. VOLUME THE THIRD. [Illustration] MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. NUMB. 106. The vanity of an author's expectations.--Reasons why good authors are sometimes neglected 107. Properantia's hopes of a year of confusion. The misery of prostitutes 108. Life sufficient to all purposes if well employed 109. The education of a fop 110. Repentance stated and explained. Retirement and abstinence useful to repentance 111. Youth made unfortunate by its haste and eagerness 112. Too much nicety not to be indulged. The character of Eriphile 113. The history of Hymenæus's courtship 114. The necessity of proportioning punishments to crimes 115. The sequel of Hymenæus's courtship 116. The young trader's attempt at politeness 117. The advantages of living in a garret 118. The narrowness of fame 119. Tranquilla's account of her lovers, opposed to Hymenæus 120. The history of Almamoulin the son of Nouradin 121. The dangers of imitation. The impropriety of imitating Spenser 122. A criticism on the English historians 123. The young trader turned gentleman 124. The lady's misery in a summer retirement 125. The difficulty of defining comedy. Tragick and comick sentiments confounded 126. The universality of cowardice. The impropriety of extorting praise. The impertinence of an astronomer 127. Diligence too soon relaxed. Necessity of perseverance 128. Anxiety universal. The unhappiness of a wit and a fine lady 129. The folly of cowardice and inactivity 130. The history of a beauty 131. Desire of gain the general passion 132. The difficulty of educating a young nobleman 133. The miseries of a beauty defaced 134. Idleness an anxious and miserable state 135. The folly of annual retreats into the country 136. The meanness and mischief of indiscriminate dedication 137. The necessity of literary courage 138. Original characters to be found in the country. The character of Mrs. Busy 139. A critical examination of Samson Agonistes 140. The criticism continued 141. The danger of attempting wit in conversation. The character of Papilius 142. An account of squire Bluster 143. The criterions of plagiarism 144. The difficulty of raising reputation. The various species of detractors 145. Petty writers not to be despised 146. An account of an author travelling in quest of his own character. The uncertainty of fame 147. The courtier's esteem of assurance 148. The cruelty of parental tyranny 149. Benefits not always entitled to gratitude 150. Adversity useful to the acquisition of knowledge 151. The climactericks of the mind 152. Criticism on epistolary writings 153. The treatment incurred by loss of fortune 154. The inefficacy of genius without learning 155. The usefulness of advice. The danger of habits. The necessity of reviewing life 156. The laws of writing not always indisputable. Reflections on tragi-comedy 157. The scholar's complaint of his own bashfulness 158. Rules of writing drawn from examples. Those examples often mistaken 159. The nature and remedies of bashfulness 160. Rules for the choice of associates 161. The revolutions of a garret 162. Old men in danger of falling into pupilage. The conduct of Thrasybulus 163. The mischiefs of following a patron 164. Praise universally desired. The failings of eminent men often imitated 165. The impotence of wealth. The visit of Scrotinus to the place of his nativity 166. Favour not easily gained by the poor 167. The marriage of Hymenæus and Tranquilla 168. Poetry debased by mean expressions. An example from Shakespeare 169. Labour necessary to excellence 170. The history of Misella debauched by her relation 171. Misella's description of the life of a prostitute 172. The effect of sudden riches upon the manners 173. Unreasonable fears of pedantry 174. The mischiefs of unbounded raillery. History of Dicaculus 175. The majority are wicked 176. Directions to authors attacked by criticks. The various degrees of critical perspicacity 177. An account of a club of antiquaries 178. Many advantages not to be enjoyed together 179. The awkward merriment of a student 180. The study of life not to be neglected for the sake of books 181. The history of an adventurer in lotteries 182. The history of Leviculus, the fortune-hunter 183. The influence of envy and interest compared 184. The subject of essays often suggested by chance. Chance equally prevalent in other affairs 185. The prohibition of revenge justifiable by reason. The meanness of regulating our conduct by the opinions of men 186. Anningait and Ajut; a Greenland history 187. The history of Anningait and Ajut concluded 188. Favour often gained with little assistance from understanding 189. The mischiefs of falsehood. The character of Turpicula 190. The history of Abouzaid, the son of Morad 191. The busy life of a young lady 192. Love unsuccessful without riches 193. The author's art of praising himself 194. A young nobleman's progress in politeness 195. A young nobleman's introduction to the knowledge of the town 196. Human opinions mutable. The hopes of youth fallacious 197. The history of a legacy-hunter 198. The legacy-hunter's history concluded 199. The virtues of Rabbi Abraham's magnet 200. Asper's complaint of the insolence of Prospero. Unpoliteness not always the effect of pride 201. The importance of punctuality 202. The different acceptations of poverty. Cynicks and Monks not poor 203. The pleasures of life to be sought in prospects of futurity. Future fame uncertain 204. The history of ten days of Seged, emperour of Ethiopia 205. The history of Seged concluded 206. The art of living at the cost of others 207. The folly of continuing too long upon the stage 208. The Rambler's reception. His design THE RAMBLER. No. 106. SATURDAY, MARCH 23, 1751. _Opinionum commenta delet dies, naturæ judicia Confirmat_. CICERO, vi. Att. 1. Time obliterates the fictions of opinion, and confirms the decisions of nature. It is necessary to the success of flattery, that it be accommodated to particular circumstances or characters, and enter the heart on that side where the passions stand ready to receive it. A lady seldom listens with attention to any praise but that of her beauty; a merchant always expects to hear of his influence at the bank, his importance on the exchange, the height of his credit, and the extent of his traffick: and the author will scarcely be pleased without lamentations of the neglect of learning, the conspiracies against genius, and the slow progress of merit, or some praises of the magnanimity of those who encounter poverty and contempt in the cause of knowledge, and trust for the reward of their labours to the judgment and gratitude of posterity. An assurance of unfading laurels, and immortal reputation, is the settled reciprocation of civility between amicable writers. To raise _monuments more durable than brass, and more conspicuous than pyramids_, has been long the common boast of literature; but, among the innumerable architects that erect columns to themselves, far the greater part, either for want of durable materials, or of art to dispose them, see their edifices perish as they are towering to completion, and those few that for a while attract the eye of mankind, are generally weak in the foundation, and soon sink by the saps of time. No place affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human hopes, than a publick library; for who can see the wall crowded on every side by mighty volumes, the works of laborious meditation, and accurate inquiry, now scarcely known but by the catalogue, and preserved only to increase the pomp of learning, without considering how many hours have been wasted in vain endeavours, how often imagination has anticipated the praises of futurity, how many statues have risen to the eye of vanity, how many ideal converts have elevated zeal, how often wit has exulted in the eternal infamy of his antagonists, and dogmatism has delighted in the gradual advances of his authority, the immutability of his decrees, and the perpetuity of his power? _--Non unquam dedit Documenta fors majora, quam frugili loco Starent superbi_. Insulting chance ne'er call'd with louder voice, On swelling mortals to be proud no more. Of the innumerable authors whose performances are thus treasured up in magnificent obscurity, most are forgotten, because they never deserved to be remembered, and owed the honours which they once obtained, not to judgment or to genius, to labour or to art, but to the prejudice of faction, the stratagem of intrigue, or the servility of adulation. Nothing is more common than to find men whose works are now totally neglected, mentioned with praises by their contemporaries, as the oracles of their age, and the legislators of science. Curiosity is naturally excited, their volumes after long inquiry are found, but seldom reward the labour of the search. Every period of time has produced these bubbles of artificial fame, which are kept up a while by the breath of fashion, and then break at once, and are annihilated. The learned often bewail the loss of ancient writers whose characters have survived their works; but, perhaps, if we could now retrieve them, we should find them only the Granvilles, Montagues, Stepneys, and Sheffields of their time, and wonder by what infatuation or caprice they could be raised to notice. It cannot, however, be denied, that many have sunk into oblivion, whom it were unjust to number with this despicable class. Various kinds of literary fame seem destined to various measures of duration. Some spread into exuberance with a very speedy growth, but soon wither and decay; some rise more slowly, but last long. Parnassus has its flowers of transient fragrance, as well as its oaks of towering height, and its laurels of eternal verdure. Among those whose reputation is exhausted in a short time by its own luxuriance, are the writers who take advantage of present incidents or characters which strongly interest the passions, and engage universal attention. It is not difficult to obtain readers, when we discuss a question which every one is desirous to understand, which is debated in every assembly, and has divided the nation into parties; or when we display the faults or virtues of him whose publick conduct has made almost every man his enemy or his friend. To the quick circulation of such productions all the motives of interest and vanity concur; the disputant enlarges his knowledge, the zealot animates his passion, and every man is desirous to inform himself concerning affairs so vehemently agitated and variously represented. It is scarcely to be imagined, through how many subordinations of interest the ardour of party is diffused; and what multitudes fancy themselves affected by every satire or panegyrick on a man of eminence. Whoever has, at any time, taken occasion to mention him with praise or blame, whoever happens to love or hate any of his adherents, as he wishes to confirm his opinion, and to strengthen his party, will diligently peruse every paper from which he can hope for sentiments like his own. An object, however small in itself, if placed near to the eye, will engross all the rays of light; and a transaction, however trivial, swells into importance when it presses immediately on our attention. He that shall peruse the political pamphlets of any past reign, will wonder why they were so eagerly read, or so loudly praised. Many of the performances which had power to inflame factions, and fill a kingdom with confusion, have now very little effect upon a frigid critick; and the time is coming, when the compositions of later hirelings shall lie equally despised. In proportion as those who write on temporary subjects, are exalted above their merit at first, they are afterwards depressed below it; nor can the brightest elegance of diction, or most artful subtilty of reasoning, hope for so much esteem from those whose regard is no longer quickened by curiosity or pride. It is, indeed, the fate of controvertists, even when they contend for philosophical or theological truth, to be soon laid aside and slighted. Either the question is decided, and there is no more place for doubt and opposition; or mankind despair of understanding it, and grow weary of disturbance, content themselves with quiet ignorance, and refuse to be harassed with labours which they have no hopes of recompensing with knowledge. The authors of new discoveries may surely expect to be reckoned among those whose writings are secure of veneration: yet it often happens that the general reception of a doctrine obscures the books in which it was delivered. When any tenet is generally received and adopted as an incontrovertible principle, we seldom look back to the arguments upon which it was first established, or can bear that tediousness of deduction, and multiplicity of evidence, by which its author was forced to reconcile it to prejudice, and fortify it in the weakness of novelty against obstinacy and envy. It is well known how much of our philosophy is derived from Boyle's discovery of the qualities of the air; yet of those who now adopt or enlarge his theory, very few have read the detail of his experiments. His name is, indeed, reverenced; but his works are neglected; we are contented to know, that he conquered his opponents, without inquiring what cavils were produced against him, or by what proofs they were confuted. Some writers apply themselves to studies boundless and inexhaustible, as experiments in natural philosophy. These are always lost in successive compilations, as new advances are made, and former observations become more familiar. Others spend their lives in remarks on language, or explanations of antiquities, and only afford materials for lexicographers and commentators, who are themselves overwhelmed by subsequent collectors, that equally destroy the memory of their predecessors by amplification, transposition, or contraction. Every new system of nature gives birth to a swarm of expositors, whose business is to explain and illustrate it, and who can hope to exist no longer than the founder of their sect preserves his reputation. There are, indeed, few kinds of composition from which an author, however learned or ingenious, can hope a long continuance of fame. He who has carefully studied human nature, and can well describe it, may with most reason flatter his ambition. Bacon, among all his pretensions to the regard of posterity, seems to have pleased himself chiefly with his Essays, _which come home to men's business and bosoms_, and of which, therefore, he declares his expectation, that they _will live as long as books last_. It may, however, satisfy an honest and benevolent mind to have been useful, though less conspicuous; nor will he that extends his hope to higher rewards, be so much anxious to obtain praise, as to discharge the duty which Providence assigns him. No. 107. TUESDAY, MARCH 26, 1751. _Alternis igitur contendere versibns ambo Coepere: alternos Musoe meminisse volebant_. VIRG. Ec. vii. 18 On themes alternate now the swains recite; The muses in alternate themes delight. ELPHINSTON. Among the various censures, which the unavoidable comparison of my performances with those of my predecessors has produced, there is none more general than that of uniformity. Many of my readers remark the want of those changes of colours, which formerly fed the attention with unexhausted novelty, and of that intermixture of subjects, or alternation of manner, by which other writers relieved weariness, and awakened expectation. I have, indeed, hitherto avoided the practice of uniting gay and solemn subjects in the same paper, because it seems absurd for an author to counteract himself, to press at once with equal force upon both parts of the intellectual balance, or give medicines, which, like the double poison of Dryden, destroy the force of one another. I have endeavoured sometimes to divert, and sometimes to elevate; but have imagined it an useless attempt to disturb merriment by solemnity, or interrupt seriousness by drollery. Yet I shall this day publish two letters of very different tendency, which I hope, like tragi-comedy, may chance to please even when they are not critically approved. TO THE RAMBLER. DEAR SIR, Though, as my mamma tells me, I am too young to talk at the table, I have great pleasure in listening to the conversation of learned men, especially when they discourse of things which I do not understand; and have, therefore, been of late particularly delighted with many disputes about the _alteration of the stile_, which, they say, is to be made by act of parliament. One day when my mamma was gone out of the room, I asked a very great scholar what the style was. He told me he was afraid I should hardly understand him when he informed me, that it was the stated and established method of computing time. It was not, indeed, likely that I should understand him; for I never yet knew time computed in my life, nor can imagine why we should be at so much trouble to count what we cannot keep. He did not tell me whether we are to count the time past, or the time to come; but I have considered them both by myself, and think it as foolish to count time that is gone, as money that is spent; and as for the time which is to come, it only seems further off by counting; and therefore, when any pleasure is promised me, I always think of the time as little as I can. I have since listened very attentively to every one that talked upon this subject, of whom the greater part seem not to understand it better than myself; for though they often hint how much the nation has been mistaken, and rejoice that we are at last growing wiser than our ancestors, I have never been able to discover from them, that any body has died sooner, or been married later, for counting time wrong; and, therefore, I began to fancy that there was a great bustle with little consequence. At last, two friends of my papa, Mr. Cycle, and Mr. Starlight, being, it seems, both of high learning, and able to make an almanack, began to talk about the new style. Sweet Mr. Starlight--I am sure I shall love his name as long as I live; for he told Cycle roundly, with a fierce look, that we should never be right without a _year of confusion_. Dear Mr. Rambler, did you ever hear any thing so charming? a whole year of confusion! When there has been a rout at mamma's, I have thought one night of confusion worth a thousand nights of rest; and if I can but see a year of confusion, a whole year, of cards in one room, and dancings in another, here a feast, and there a masquerade, and plays, and coaches, and hurries, and messages, and milliners, and raps at the door, and visits, and frolicks, and new fashions, I shall not care what they do with the rest of the time, nor whether they count it by the old style or the new; for I am resolved to break loose from the nursery in the tumult, and play my part among the rest; and it will be strange if I cannot get a husband and a chariot in the year of confusion. Cycle, who is neither so young nor so handsome as Starlight, very gravely maintained, that all the perplexity may he avoided by leaping over eleven days in the reckoning; and, indeed, if it should come only to this, I think the new style is a delightful thing; for my mamma says I shall go to court when I am sixteen, and if they can but contrive often to leap over eleven days together, the months of restraint will soon be at an end. It is strange, that with all the plots that have been laid against time, they could never kill it by act of parliament before. Dear sir, if you have any vote or interest, get them but for once to destroy eleven months, and then I shall be as old as some married ladies. But this is desired only if you think they will not comply with Mr. Starlight's scheme; for nothing surely could please me like a year of confusion, when I shall no longer be fixed this hour to my pen, and the next to my needle, or wait at home for the dancing-master one day, and the next for the musick-master; but run from ball to ball, and from drum to drum; and spend all my time without tasks, and without account, and go out without telling whither, and come home without regard to prescribed hours, or family rules. I am, sir, Your humble servant, PROPERANTIA. MR. RAMBLER, I was seized this morning with an unusual pensiveness, and, finding that books only served to heighten it, took a ramble into the fields, in hopes of relief and invigoration from the keenness of the air and brightness of the sun. As I wandered wrapped up in thought, my eyes were struck with the hospital for the reception of deserted infants, which I surveyed with pleasure, till, by a natural train of sentiment, I began to reflect on the fate of the mothers. For to what shelter can they fly? Only to the arms of their betrayer, which, perhaps, are now no longer open to receive them; and then how quick must be the transition from deluded virtue to shameless guilt, and from shameless guilt to hopeless wretchedness? The anguish that I felt, left me no rest till I had, by your means, addressed myself to the publick on behalf of those forlorn creatures, the women of the town; whose misery here might satisfy the most rigorous censor, and whose participation of our common nature might surely induce us to endeavour, at least, their preservation from eternal punishment. These were all once, if not virtuous, at least innocent; and might still have continued blameless and easy, but for the arts and insinuations of those whose rank, fortune, or education, furnished them with means to corrupt or to delude them. Let the libertine reflect a moment on the situation of that woman, who, being forsaken by her betrayer, is reduced to the necessity of turning prostitute for bread, and judge of the enormity of his guilt by the evils which it produces. It cannot be doubted but that numbers follow this dreadful course of life, with shame, horrour, and regret; but where can they hope for refuge: "_The world is not their friend, nor the world's law_." Their sighs, and tears, and groans, are criminal in the eye of their tyrants, the bully and the bawd, who fatten on their misery, and threaten them with want or a gaol, if they show the least design of escaping from their bondage. "To wipe all tears from off all faces," is a task too hard for mortals; but to alleviate misfortunes is often within the most limited power: yet the opportunities which every day affords of relieving the most wretched of human beings are overlooked and neglected, with equal disregard of policy and goodness. There are places, indeed, set apart, to which these unhappy creatures may resort, when the diseases of incontinence seize upon them; but if they obtain a cure, to what are they reduced? Either to return with the small remains of beauty to their former guilt, or perish in the streets with nakedness and hunger. How frequently have the gay and thoughtless, in their evening frolicks, seen a band of those miserable females, covered with rags, shivering with cold, and pining with hunger; and, without either pitying their calamities, or reflecting upon the cruelty of those who, perhaps, first seduced them by caresses of fondness, or magnificence of promises, go on to reduce others to the same wretchedness by the same means! To stop the increase of this deplorable multitude, is undoubtedly the first and most pressing consideration. To prevent evil is the great end of government, the end for which vigilance and severity are properly employed. But surely those whom passion or interest has already depraved, have some claim to compassion, from beings equally frail and fallible with themselves. Nor will they long groan in their present afflictions, if none were to refuse them relief, but those that owe their exemption from the same distress only to their wisdom and their virtue. I am, &c. AMICUS[a]. [Footnote a: The letter from Amicus was from an unknown correspondent. It breathes a tenderness of spirit worthy of Johnson himself. But he practised the lesson which it inculcates;--a harder task! Sterne could _write_ sentiment.] No. 108. SATURDAY, MARCH 30, 1751. _--Sapere aude: Incipe. Vivendi recte qui prorogat horam, Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis; at ille Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 39. Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise; He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream, which stopp'd him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on. COWLEY. An ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the present state of things, which his system of opinions obliged him to represent in its worst form, has observed of the earth, "that its greater part is covered by the uninhabitable ocean; that of the rest some is encumbered with naked mountains, and some lost under barren sands; some scorched with unintermitted heat, and some petrified with perpetual frost; so that only a few regions remain for the production of fruits, the pasture of cattle, and the accommodation of man." The same observation may be transferred to the time allotted us in our present state. When we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep, all that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature, or irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom; all that passes in regulating the superficial decorations of life, or is given up in the reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others; all that is torn from us by the violence of disease, or stolen imperceptibly away by lassitude and languor; we shall find that part of our duration very small of which we can truly call ourselves masters, or which we can spend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of the same employments; many of our provisions for ease or happiness are always exhausted by the present day; and a great part of our existence serves no other purpose, than that of enabling us to enjoy the rest. Of the few moments which are left in our disposal, it may reasonably be expected, that we should be so frugal, as to let none of them slip from us without some equivalent; and perhaps it might be found, that as the earth, however straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of producing more than all its inhabitants are able to consume, our lives, though much contracted by incidental distraction, would yet afford us a large space vacant to the exercise of reason and virtue; that we want not time, but diligence, for great performances; and that we squander much of our allowance, even while we think it sparing and insufficient. This natural and necessary comminution of our lives, perhaps, often makes us insensible of the negligence with which we suffer them to slide away. We never consider ourselves as possessed at once of time sufficient for any great design, and therefore indulge ourselves, in fortuitous amusements. We think it unnecessary to take an account of a few supernumerary moments, which, however employed, could have produced little advantage, and which were exposed to a thousand chances of disturbance and interruption. It is observable, that, either by nature or by habit, our faculties are fitted to images of a certain extent, to which we adjust great things by division, and little things by accumulation. Of extensive surfaces we can only take a survey, as the parts succeed one another; and atoms we cannot perceive till they are united into masses. Thus we break the vast periods of time into centuries and years; and thus, if we would know the amount of moments, we must agglomerate them into days and weeks. The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have informed us, that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, by the profusion of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, and which we never suffer ourselves to consider together. Of the same kind is the prodigality of life; he that hopes to look back hereafter with satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know the present value of single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to the ground. It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any new qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change the general course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and exclude pleasure, and to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that should steadily and resolutely assign to any science or language those interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most crowded variety of diversion or employment, would find every day new irradiations of knowledge, and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires; efforts which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires, which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of reason, and range capriciously from one object to another. The disposition to defer every important design to a time of leisure, and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from a false estimate of the human powers. If we except those gigantic and stupendous intelligences who are said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound forward from one series of conclusions to another, without regular steps through intermediate propositions, the most successful students make their advances in knowledge by short flights, between each of which the mind may lie at rest. For every single act of progression a short time is sufficient; and it is only necessary, that whenever that time is afforded, it be well employed. Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious meditation; and when a successful attack on knowledge has been made, the student recreates himself with the contemplation of his conquest, and forbears another incursion, till the new-acquired truth has become familiar, and his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifications. Whether the time of intermission is spent in company, or in solitude, in necessary business, or in voluntary levities, the understanding is equally abstracted from the object of inquiry; but, perhaps, if it be detained by occupations less pleasing, it returns again to study with greater alacrity than when it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited with intemperance of application. He that will not suffer himself to be discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel. From some cause like this, it has probably proceeded, that, among those who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances could place in their way, amidst the tumult of business, the distresses of poverty, or the dissipations of a wandering and unsettled state. A great part of the life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination; ill supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which always flattered and always deceived him; he yet found means, by unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours, which, in the midst of the most restless activity, will remain unengaged, to write more than another in the same condition would have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently discovers, by informing us, that the "Praise of Folly," one of his most celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy; _ne totum illud tempus quo equo fuit insidendum, illiteratis fabulis terreretur_: "lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback should be tattled away without regard to literature." An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that _time was his estate_; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be over-run with noxious plants, or laid out for shew, rather than for use. No. 109. TUESDAY, APRIL 2, 1751. _Gratum est, quod patriæ civem populoque dedisti, Si facis, ut patriæ sit idoneus, utilis agris, Utilis et bellorum et pacis rebus agendis. Plurimum enim intererit, quibus artibus, et quibus hunc tu Moribus instituas_ Juv. SAT, xiv. 70. Grateful the gift! a member to the state, If you that member useful shall create; Train'd both to war, and, when the war shall cease, As fond, as fit t'improve the arts of peace. For much it boots which way you train your boy, The hopeful object of your future joy. ELPHINSTON. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Though you seem to have taken a view sufficiently extensive of the miseries of life, and have employed much of your speculation on mournful subjects, you have not yet exhausted the whole stock of human infelicity. There is still a species of wretchedness which escapes your observation, though it might supply you with many sage remarks, and salutary cautions. I cannot but imagine the start of attention awakened by this welcome hint; and at this instant see the Rambler snuffing his candle, rubbing his spectacles, stirring his fire, locking out interruption, and settling himself in his easy chair, that he may enjoy a new calamity without disturbance. For, whether it be that continued sickness or misfortune has acquainted you only with the bitterness of being; or that you imagine none but yourself able to discover what I suppose has been seen and felt by all the inhabitants of the world; whether you intend your writings as antidotal to the levity and merriment with which your rivals endeavour to attract the favour of the publick; or fancy that you have some particular powers of dolorous declamation, and _warble out your groans_ with uncommon elegance or energy; it is certain, that whatever be your subject, melancholy for the most part bursts in upon your speculation, your gaiety is quickly overcast, and though your readers may be flattered with hopes of pleasantry, they are seldom dismissed but with heavy hearts. That I may therefore gratify you with an imitation of your own syllables of sadness, I will inform you that I was condemned by some disastrous influence to be an only son, born to the apparent prospect of a large fortune, and allotted to my parents at that time of life when satiety of common diversions allows the mind to indulge parental affection with greater intenseness. My birth was celebrated by the tenants with feasts, and dances, and bag-pipes: congratulations were sent from every family within ten miles round; and my parents discovered in my first cries such tokens of future virtue and understanding, that they declared themselves determined to devote the remaining part of life to my happiness and the increase of their estate. The abilities of my father and mother were not perceptibly unequal, and education had given neither much advantage over the other. They had both kept good company, rattled in chariots, glittered in playhouses, and danced at court, and were both expert in the games that were in their time called in as auxiliaries against the intrusion of thought. When there is such a parity between two persons associated for life, the dejection which the husband, if he be not completely stupid, must always suffer for want of superiority, sinks him to submissiveness. My mamma therefore governed the family without controul; and except that my father still retained some authority in the stables, and, now and then, after a supernumerary bottle, broke a looking-glass or china dish to prove his sovereignty, the whole course of the year was regulated by her direction, the servants received from her all their orders, and the tenants were continued or dismissed at her discretion. She, therefore, thought herself entitled to the superintendence of her son's education; and when my father, at the instigation of the parson, faintly proposed that I should be sent to school, very positively told him, that she should not suffer so fine a child to be ruined; that she never knew any boys at a grammar-school that could come into a room without blushing, or sit at table without some awkward uneasiness; that they were always putting themselves into danger by boisterous plays, or vitiating their behaviour with mean company, and that, for her part, she would rather follow me to the grave, than see me tear my clothes, and hang down my head, and sneak about with dirty shoes, and blotted fingers, my hair unpowdered, and my hat uncocked. My father, who had no other end in his proposal than to appear wise and manly, soon acquiesced, since I was not to live by my learning; for, indeed, he had known very few students that had not some stiffness in their manner. They, therefore, agreed, that a domestick tutor should be procured, and hired an honest gentleman of mean conversation and narrow sentiments, but whom, having passed the common forms of literary education, they implicitly concluded qualified to teach all that was to be learned from a scholar. He thought himself sufficiently exalted by being placed at the same table with his pupil, and had no other view than to perpetuate his felicity by the utmost flexibility of submission to all my mother's opinions and caprices. He frequently took away my book, lest I should mope with too much application, charged me never to write without turning up my ruffles, and generally brushed my coat before he dismissed me into the parlour. He had no occasion to complain of too burdensome an employment: for my mother very judiciously considered, that I was not likely to grow politer in his company, and suffered me not to pass any more time in his apartment than my lesson required. When I was summoned to my task, she enjoined me not to get any of my tutor's ways, who was seldom mentioned before me but for practices to be avoided. I was every moment admonished not to lean on my chair, cross my legs, or swing my hands like my tutor; and once my mother very seriously deliberated upon his total dismission, because I began, she said, to learn his manner of sticking on my hat, and had his bend in my shoulders, and his totter in my gait. Such, however, was her care, that I escaped all these depravities; and when I was only twelve years old, had rid myself of every appearance of childish diffidence. I was celebrated round the country for the petulance of my remarks, and the quickness of my replies; and many a scholar, five years older than myself, have I dashed into confusion by the steadiness of my countenance, silenced by my readiness of repartee, and tortured with envy by the address with which I picked up a fan, presented a snuff-box, or received an empty tea-cup. At fourteen I was completely skilled in all the niceties of dress, and I could not only enumerate all the variety of silks, and distinguish the product of a French loom, but dart my eye through a numerous company, and observe every deviation from the reigning mode. I was universally skilful in all the changes of expensive finery; but as every one, they say, has something to which he is particularly born, was eminently knowing in Brussels' lace. The next year saw me advanced to the trust and power of adjusting the ceremonial of an assembly. All received their partners from my hand, and to me every stranger applied for introduction. My heart now disdained the instructions of a tutor, who was rewarded with a small annuity for life, and left me qualified, in my own opinion, to govern myself. In a short time I came to London, and as my father was well known among the higher classes of life, soon obtained admission to the most splendid assemblies and most crowded card-tables. Here I found myself universally caressed and applauded; the ladies praised the fancy of my clothes, the beauty of my form, and the softness of my voice; endeavoured in every place to force themselves to my notice; and invited, by a thousand oblique solicitations, my attendance to the playhouse, and my salutations in the park. I was now happy to the utmost extent of my conception; I passed every morning in dress, every afternoon in visits, and every night in some select assemblies, where neither care nor knowledge were suffered to molest us. After a few years, however, these delights became familiar, and I had leisure to look round me with more attention. I then found that my flatterers had very little power to relieve the languor of satiety, or recreate weariness, by varied amusement; and therefore endeavoured to enlarge the sphere of my pleasures, and to try what satisfaction might be found in the society of men. I will not deny the mortification with which I perceived, that every man whose name I had heard mentioned with respect, received me with a kind of tenderness, nearly bordering on compassion; and that those whose reputation was not well established, thought it necessary to justify their understandings, by treating me with contempt. One of these witlings elevated his crest, by asking me in a full coffee-house the price of patches; and another whispered that he wondered why Miss Frisk did not keep me that afternoon to watch her squirrel. When I found myself thus hunted from all masculine conversation by those who were themselves barely admitted, I returned to the ladies, and resolved to dedicate my life to their service and their pleasure. But I find that I have now lost my charms. Of those with whom I entered the gay world, some are married, some have retired, and some have so much changed their opinion, that they scarcely pay any regard to my civilities, if there is any other man in the place. The new flight of beauties to whom I have made my addresses, suffer me to pay the treat, and then titter with boys. So that I now find myself welcome only to a few grave ladies, who, unacquainted with all that gives either use or dignity to life, are content to pass their hours between their bed and their cards, without esteem from the old, or reverence from the young. I cannot but think, Mr. Rambler, that I have reason to complain; for surely the females ought to pay some regard to the age of him whose youth was passed in endeavours to please them. They that encourage folly in the boy, have no right to punish it in the man. Yet I find that, though they lavish their first fondness upon pertness and gaiety, they soon transfer their regard to other qualities, and ungratefully abandon their adorers to dream out their last years in stupidity and contempt. I am, &c. FLORENTULUS. No. 110. SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1751 At nobis vitæ dominum quærentibus unum Lux iter est, et clara dies, et gratia simplex. Spem sequimur, gradimurque fide, fruimurque futuris, Ad quæ non veniunt præsentis gaudia vitæ, Nec currunt pariter capta, et capienda voluptus. PRUDENTIUS, Cont. Sym. ii. 904. We through this maze of life one Lord obey; Whose light and grace unerring lead the way. By hope and faith secure of future bliss, Gladly the joys of present life we miss: For baffled mortals still attempt in vain, Present and future bliss at once to gain. F. LEWIS. That to please the Lord and Father of the universe, is the supreme interest of created and dependent beings, as it is easily proved, has been universally confessed; and since all rational agents are conscious of having neglected or violated the duties prescribed to them, the fear of being rejected, or punished by God, has always burdened the human mind. The expiation of crimes, and renovation of the forfeited hopes of divine favour, therefore constitute a large part of every religion. The various methods of propitiation and atonement which fear and folly have dictated, or artifice and interest tolerated in the different parts of the world, however they may sometimes reproach or degrade humanity, at least shew the general consent of all ages and nations in their opinion of the placability of the divine nature. That God will forgive, may, indeed, be established as the first and fundamental truth of religion; for, though the knowledge of his existence is the origin of philosophy, yet, without the belief of his mercy, it would have little influence upon our moral conduct. There could be no prospect of enjoying the protection or regard of him, whom the least deviation from rectitude made inexorable for ever; and every man would naturally withdraw his thoughts from the contemplation of a Creator, whom he must consider as a governor too pure to be pleased, and too severe to be pacified; as an enemy infinitely wise, and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither deceive, escape, nor resist. Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavour. A constant and unfailing obedience is above the reach of terrestrial diligence; and therefore the progress of life could only have been the natural descent of negligent despair from crime to crime, had not the universal persuasion of forgiveness, to be obtained by proper means of reconciliation, recalled those to the paths of virtue, whom their passions had solicited aside; and animated to new attempts, and firmer perseverance, those whom difficulty had discouraged, or negligence surprised. In times and regions so disjoined from each other, that there can scarcely be imagined any communication of sentiments either by commerce or tradition, has prevailed a general and uniform expectation of propitiating God by corporal austerities, of anticipating his vengeance by voluntary inflictions, and appeasing his justice by a speedy and cheerful submission to a less penalty, when a greater is incurred. Incorporated minds will always feel some inclination towards exterior acts and ritual observances. Ideas not represented by sensible objects are fleeting, variable, and evanescent. We are not able to judge of the degree of conviction which operated at any particular time upon our own thoughts, but as it is recorded by some certain and definite effect. He that reviews his life in order to determine the probability of his acceptance with God, if he could once establish the necessary proportion between crimes and sufferings, might securely rest upon his performance of the expiation; but while safety remains the reward only of mental purity, he is always afraid lest he should decide too soon in his own favour; lest he should not have felt the pangs of true contrition; lest he should mistake satiety for detestation, or imagine that his passions are subdued when they are only sleeping. From this natural and reasonable diffidence arose, in humble and timorous piety, a disposition to confound penance with repentance, to repose on human determinations, and to receive from some judicial sentence the stated and regular assignment of reconciliatory pain. We are never willing to be without resource: we seek in the knowledge of others a succour for our own ignorance, and are ready to trust any that will undertake to direct us when we have no confidence in ourselves. This desire to ascertain by some outward marks the state of the soul, and this willingness to calm the conscience by some settled method, have produced, as they are diversified in their effects by various tempers and principles, most of the disquisitions and rules, the doubts and solutions, that have embarrassed the doctrine of repentance, and perplexed tender and flexible minds with innumerable scruples concerning the necessary measures of sorrow, and adequate degrees of self-abhorrence; and these rules, corrupted by fraud, or debased by credulity, have, by the common resiliency of the mind from one extreme to another, incited others to an open contempt of all subsidiary ordinances, all prudential caution, and the whole discipline of regulated piety. Repentance, however difficult to be practised, is, if it be explained without superstition, easily understood. _Repentance is the relinquishment of any practice, from the conviction that it has offended God_. Sorrow, and fear, and anxiety, are properly not parts, but adjuncts of repentance; yet they are too closely connected with it to be easily separated; for they not only mark its sincerity, but promote its efficacy. No man commits any act of negligence or obstinacy, by which his safety or happiness in this world is endangered, without feeling the pungency of remorse. He who is fully convinced, that he suffers by his own failure, can never forbear to trace back his miscarriage to its first cause, to image to himself a contrary behaviour, and to form involuntary resolutions against the like fault, even when he knows that he shall never again have the power of committing it. Danger, considered as imminent, naturally produces such trepidations of impatience as leave all human means of safety behind them; he that has once caught an alarm of terrour, is every moment seized with useless anxieties, adding one security to another, trembling with sudden doubts, and distracted by the perpetual occurrence of new expedients. If, therefore, he whose crimes have deprived him of the favour of God, can reflect upon his conduct without disturbance, or can at will banish the reflection; if he who considers himself as suspended over the abyss of eternal perdition only by the thread of life, which must soon part by its own weakness, and which the wing of every minute may divide, can cast his eyes round him without shuddering with horrour, or panting with security; what can he judge of himself, but that he is not yet awakened to sufficient conviction, since every loss is more lamented than the loss of the divine favour, and every danger more dreadful than the danger of final condemnation? Retirement from the cares and pleasures of the world has been often recommended as useful to repentance. This at least is evident, that every one retires, whenever ratiocination and recollection are required on other occasions; and surely the retrospect of life, the disentanglement of actions complicated with innumerable circumstances, and diffused in various relations, the discovery of the primary movements of the heart, and the extirpation of lusts and appetites deeply rooted and widely spread, may be allowed to demand some secession from sport and noise, business and folly. Some suspension of common affairs, some pause of temporal pain and pleasure, is doubtless necessary to him that deliberates for eternity, who is forming the only plan in which miscarriage cannot be repaired, and examining the only question in which mistake cannot be rectified. Austerities and mortifications are means by which the mind is invigorated and roused, by which the attractions of pleasure are interrupted, and the chains of sensuality are broken. It is observed by one of the fathers, that _he who restrains himself in the use of things lawful, will never encroach upon things forbidden_. Abstinence, if nothing more, is, at least, a cautious retreat from the utmost verge of permission, and confers that security which cannot be reasonably hoped by him that dares always to hover over the precipice of destruction, or delights to approach the pleasures which he knows it fatal to partake. Austerity is the proper antidote to indulgence; the diseases of mind as well as body are cured by contraries, and to contraries we should readily have recourse, if we dreaded guilt as we dread pain. The completion and sum of repentance is a change of life. That sorrow which dictates no caution, that fear which does not quicken our escape, that austerity which fails to rectify our affections, are vain and unavailing. But sorrow and terrour must naturally precede reformation; for what other cause can produce it? He, therefore, that feels himself alarmed by his conscience, anxious for the attainment of a better state, and afflicted by the memory of his past faults, may justly conclude, that the great work of repentance is begun, and hope by retirement and prayer, the natural and religious means of strengthening his conviction, to impress upon his mind such a sense of the divine presence, as may overpower the blandishments of secular delights, and enable him to advance from one degree of holiness to another, till death shall set him free from doubt and contest, misery and temptation[b]. What better can we do than prostrate fall Before him reverent; and there confess Humbly our faults, and pardon beg; with tears Wat'ring the ground, and with our sighs the air Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek? Par. Lost. B. x. 1087. No. 111. TUESDAY, APRIL 9, 1751. [Greek: phronein gar hoi tacheis, ouk asphaleis.] SOPHOC. Disaster always waits on early wit. It has been observed, by long experience, that late springs produce the greatest plenty. The delay of blooms and fragrance, of verdure and breezes, is for the most part liberally recompensed by the exuberance and fecundity of the ensuing seasons; the blossoms which lie concealed till the year is advanced, and the sun is high, escape those chilling blasts, and nocturnal frosts, which are often fatal to early luxuriance, prey upon the first smiles of vernal beauty, destroy the feeble principles of vegetable life, intercept the fruit in the gem, and beat down the flowers unopened to the ground. I am afraid there is little hope of persuading the young and sprightly part of my readers, upon whom the spring naturally forces my attention, to learn, from the great process of nature, the difference between diligence and hurry, between speed and precipitation; to prosecute their designs with calmness, to watch the concurrence of opportunity, and endeavour to find the lucky moment which they cannot make. Youth is the time of enterprize and hope: having yet no occasion of comparing our force with any opposing power, we naturally form presumptions in our own favour, and imagine that obstruction and impediment will give way before us. The first repulses rather inflame vehemence than teach prudence; a brave and generous mind is long before it suspects its own weakness, or submits to sap the difficulties which it expected to subdue by storm. Before disappointments have enforced the dictates of philosophy, we believe it in our power to shorten the interval between the first cause and the last effect; we laugh at the timorous delays of plodding industry, and fancy that, by increasing the fire, we can at pleasure accelerate the projection. At our entrance into the world, when health and vigour give us fair promises of time sufficient for the regular maturation of our schemes, and a long enjoyment of our acquisitions, we are eager to seize the present moment; we pluck every gratification within our reach, without suffering it to ripen into perfection, and crowd all the varieties of delight into a narrow compass; but age seldom fails to change our conduct; we grow negligent of time in proportion as we have less remaining, and suffer the last part of life to steal from us in languid preparations for future undertakings, or slow approaches to remote advantages, in weak hopes of some fortuitous occurrence, or drowsy equilibrations of undetermined counsel: whether it be that the aged, having tasted the pleasures of man's condition, and found them delusive, become less anxious for their attainment; or that frequent miscarriages have depressed them to despair, and frozen them to inactivity; or that death shocks them more as it advances upon them, and they are afraid to remind themselves of their decay, or to discover to their own hearts that the time of trifling is past. A perpetual conflict with natural desires seems to be the lot of our present state. In youth we require something of the tardiness and frigidity of age; and in age we must labour to recal the fire and impetuosity of youth; in youth we must learn to expect, and in age to enjoy. The torment of expectation is, indeed, not easily to be borne at a time when every idea of gratification fires the blood, and flashes on the fancy; when the heart is vacant to every fresh form of delight, and has no rival engagements to withdraw it from the importunities of a new desire. Yet, since the fear of missing what we seek must always be proportionable to the happiness expected from possessing it, the passions, even in this tempestuous state, might be somewhat moderated by frequent inculcation of the mischief of temerity, and the hazard of losing that which we endeavour to seize before our time. He that too early aspires to honours, must resolve to encounter not only the opposition of interest, but the malignity of envy. He that is too eager to be rich, generally endangers his fortune in wild adventures, and uncertain projects; and he that hastens too speedily to reputation, often raises his character by artifices and fallacies, decks himself in colours which quickly fade, or in plumes which accident may shake off, or competition pluck away. The danger of early eminence has been extended by some, even to the gifts of nature; and an opinion has been long conceived, that quickness of invention, accuracy of judgment, or extent of knowledge, appearing before the usual time, presage a short life. Even those who are less inclined to form general conclusions, from instances which by their own nature must be rare, have yet been inclined to prognosticate no suitable progress from the first sallies of rapid wits; but have observed, that after a short effort they either loiter or faint, and suffer themselves to be surpassed by the even and regular perseverance of slower understandings. It frequently happens, that applause abates diligence. Whoever finds himself to have performed more than was demanded, will be contented to spare the labour of unnecessary performances, and sit down to enjoy at ease his superfluities of honour. He whom success has made confident of his abilities, quickly claims the privilege of negligence, and looks contemptuously on the gradual advances of a rival, whom he imagines himself able to leave behind whenever he shall again summon his force to the contest. But long intervals of pleasure dissipate attention, and weaken constancy; nor is it easy for him that has sunk from diligence into sloth, to rouse out of his lethargy, to recollect his notions, rekindle his curiosity, and engage with his former ardour in the toils of study. Even that friendship which intends the reward of genius, too often tends to obstruct it. The pleasure of being caressed, distinguished, and admired, easily seduces the student from literary solitude. He is ready to follow the call which summons him to hear his own praise, and which, perhaps, at once flatters his appetite with certainty of pleasures, and his ambition with hopes of patronage; pleasures which he conceives inexhaustible, and hopes which he has not yet learned to distrust. These evils, indeed, are by no means to be imputed to nature, or considered as inseparable from an early display of uncommon abilities. They may be certainly escaped by prudence and resolution, and must therefore be recounted rather as consolations to those who are less liberally endowed, than as discouragements to such as are born with uncommon qualities. Beauty is well known to draw after it the persecutions of impertinence, to incite the artifices of envy, and to raise the flames of unlawful love; yet, among the ladies whom prudence or modesty have made most eminent, who has ever complained of the inconveniences of an amiable form? or would have purchased safety by the loss of charms? Neither grace of person, nor vigour of understanding, are to be regarded otherwise than as blessings, as means of happiness indulged by the Supreme Benefactor; but the advantages of either may be lost by too much eagerness to obtain them. A thousand beauties in their first blossom, by an imprudent exposure to the open world, have suddenly withered at the blast of infamy; and men who might have subjected new regions to the empire of learning, have been lured by the praise of their first productions from academical retirement, and wasted their days in vice and dependance. The virgin who too soon aspires to celebrity and conquest, perishes by childish vanity, ignorant credulity, or guiltless indiscretion. The genius who catches at laurels and preferment before his time, mocks the hopes that he had excited, and loses those years which might have been most usefully employed, the years of youth, of spirit, and vivacity. It is one of the innumerable absurdities of pride, that we are never more impatient of direction, than in that part of life when we need it most; we are in haste to meet enemies whom we have not strength to overcome, and to undertake tasks which we cannot perform: and as he that once miscarries does not easily persuade mankind to favour another attempt, an ineffectual struggle for fame is often followed by perpetual obscurity. [Footnote b: The perusal of these profound remarks on penance and repentance had so powerful an effect on one of the English Benedictine monks (The Rev. James Compton) at Paris, as to lead him from the errours of Popery! For an account of Dr. Johnson's true benevolence through the whole of this interesting occasion, see Malone's note to Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. iv. p. 210--edit. 1822.] No. 112. SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1751. _In mea vesanas habui dispendia vires, Et valui pænam fortis in ipse meain_. OVID, Am. Lib. i. vii. 25. Of strength pernicious to myself I boast; The pow'rs I have were given me to my cost. F. LEWIS. We are taught by Celsus, that health is best preserved by avoiding settled habits of life, and deviating sometimes into slight aberrations from the laws of medicine; by varying the proportions of food and exercise, interrupting the successions of rest and labour, and mingling hardships with indulgence. The body, long accustomed to stated quantities and uniform periods, is disordered by the smallest irregularity; and since we cannot adjust every day by the balance or barometer, it is fit sometimes to depart from rigid accuracy, that we may be able to comply with necessary affairs, or strong inclinations. He that too long observes nice punctualities, condemns himself to voluntary imbecility, and will not long escape the miseries of disease. The same laxity of regimen is equally necessary to intellectual health, and to a perpetual susceptibility of occasional pleasure. Long confinement to the same company which perhaps similitude of taste brought first together, quickly contracts the faculties, and makes a thousand things offensive that are in themselves indifferent; a man accustomed to hear only the echo of his own sentiments, soon bars all the common avenues of delight, and has no part in the general gratifications of mankind. In things which are not immediately subject to religious or moral consideration, it is dangerous to be too rigidly in the right. Sensibility may, by an incessant attention to elegance and propriety, be quickened to a tenderness inconsistent with the condition of humanity, irritable by the smallest asperity, and vulnerable by the gentlest touch. He that pleases himself too much with minute exactness, and submits to endure nothing in accommodations, attendance, or address, below the point of perfection, will, whenever he enters the crowd of life, be harassed with innumerable distresses, from which those who have not in the same manner increased their sensations find no disturbance. His exotick softness will shrink at the coarseness of vulgar felicity, like a plant transplanted to northern nurseries, from the dews and sunshine of the tropical regions. There will always be a wide interval between practical and ideal excellence; and, therefore, if we allow not ourselves to be satisfied while we can perceive any errour or defect, we must refer our hopes of ease to some other period of existence. It is well known, that, exposed to a microscope, the smoothest polish of the most solid bodies discovers cavities and prominences; and that the softest bloom of roseate virginity repels the eye with excrescences and discolorations. The perceptions as well as the senses may be improved to our own disquiet, and we may, by diligent cultivation of the powers of dislike, raise in time an artificial fastidiousness, which shall fill the imagination with phantoms of turpitude, shew us the naked skeleton of every delight, and present us only with the pains of pleasure, and the deformities of beauty. Peevishness, indeed, would perhaps very little disturb the peace of mankind, were it always the consequence of superfluous delicacy; for it is the privilege only of deep reflection, or lively fancy, to destroy happiness by art and refinement. But by continual indulgence of a particular humour, or by long enjoyment of undisputed superiority, the dull and thoughtless may likewise acquire the power of tormenting themselves and others, and become sufficiently ridiculous or hateful to those who are within sight of their conduct, or reach of their influence. They that have grown old in a single state are generally found to be morose, fretful, and captious; tenacious of their own practices and maxims; soon offended by contradiction or negligence; and impatient of any association, but with those that will watch their nod, and submit themselves to unlimited authority. Such is the effect of having lived without the necessity of consulting any inclination but their own. The irascibility of this class of tyrants is generally exerted upon petty provocations, such as are incident to understandings not far extended beyond the instincts of animal life; but, unhappily, he that fixes his attention on things always before him, will never have long cessations of anger. There are many veterans of luxury upon whom every noon brings a paroxysm of violence, fury, and execration; they never sit down to their dinner without finding the meat so injudiciously bought, or so unskilfully dressed, such blunders in the seasoning, or such improprieties in the sauce, as can scarcely be expiated without blood; and, in the transports of resentment, make very little distinction between guilt and innocence, but let fly their menaces, or growl out their discontent, upon all whom fortune exposes to the storm. It is not easy to imagine a more unhappy condition than that of dependance on a peevish man. In every other state of inferiority the certainty of pleasing is perpetually increased by a fuller knowledge of our duty; and kindness and confidence are strengthened by every new act of trust, and proof of fidelity. But peevishness sacrifices to a momentory offence the obsequiousness or usefulness of half a life, and, as more is performed, increases her exactions. Chrysalus gained a fortune by trade, and retired into the country; and, having a brother burthened by the number of his children, adopted one of his sons. The boy was dismissed with many prudent admonitions; informed of his father's inability to maintain him in his native rank; cautioned against all opposition to the opinions or precepts of his uncle; and animated to perseverance by the hopes of supporting the honour of the family, and overtopping his elder brother. He had a natural ductility of mind, without much warmth of affection, or elevation of sentiment; and therefore readily complied with every variety of caprice; patiently endured contradictory reproofs; heard false accusations without pain, and opprobrious reproaches without reply; laughed obstreperously at the ninetieth repetition of a joke; asked questions about the universal decay of trade; admired the strength of those heads by which the price of stocks is changed and adjusted; and behaved with such prudence and circumspection, that after six years the will was made, and Juvenculus was declared heir. But unhappily, a month afterwards, retiring at night from his uncle's chamber, he left the door open behind him: the old man tore his will, and being then perceptibly declining, for want of time to deliberate, left his money to a trading company. When female minds are embittered by age or solitude, their malignity is generally exerted in a rigorous and spiteful superintendance of domestic trifles. Eriphile has employed her eloquence for twenty years upon the degeneracy of servants, the nastiness of her house, the ruin of her furniture, the difficulty of preserving tapestry from the moths, and the carelessness of the sluts whom she employs in brushing it. It is her business every morning to visit all the rooms, in hopes of finding a chair without its cover, a window shut or open contrary to her orders, a spot on the hearth, or a feather on the floor, that the rest of the day may be justifiably spent in taunts of contempt, and vociferations of anger. She lives for no other purpose but to preserve the neatness of a house and gardens, and feels neither inclination to pleasure, nor aspiration after virtue, while she is engrossed by the great employment of keeping gravel from grass, and wainscot from dust. Of three amiable nieces she has declared herself an irreconcileable enemy; to one, because she broke off a tulip with her hoop; to another, because she spilt her coffee on a Turkey carpet; and to the third, because she let a wet dog run into the parlour. She has broken off her intercourse of visits, because company makes a house dirty; and resolves to confine herself more to her own affairs, and to live no longer in mire by foolish lenity. Peevishness is generally the vice of narrow minds, and, except when it is the effect of anguish and disease, by which the resolution is broken, and the mind made too feeble to bear the lightest addition to its miseries, proceeds from an unreasonable persuasion of the importance of trifles. The proper remedy against it is, to consider the dignity of human nature, and the folly of suffering perturbation and uneasiness from causes unworthy of our notice. He that resigns his peace to little casualties, and suffers the course of his life to be interrupted by fortuitous inadvertencies, or offences, delivers up himself to the direction of the wind, and loses all that constancy and equanimity which constitute the chief praise of a wise man. The province of prudence lies between the greatest things and the least; some surpass our power by their magnitude, and some escape our notice by their number and their frequency. But the indispensable business of life will afford sufficient exercise to every understanding; and such is the limitation of the human powers, that by attention to trifles we must let things of importance pass unobserved: when we examine a mite with a glass, we see nothing but a mite. That it is every man's interest to be pleased, will need little proof: that it is his interest to please others, experience will inform him. It is therefore not less necessary to happiness than to virtue, that he rid his mind of passions which make him uneasy to himself, and hateful to the world, which enchain his intellects, and obstruct his improvement. No. 113. TUESDAY, APRIL 16, 1751. --_Uxorem, Postume, ducis? Die, qua Tisiphone, quibus exagitere colubris?_ JUV. Sat. vi. 28. A sober man like thee to change his life! What fury would possess thee with a wife? DRYDEN. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I know not whether it is always a proof of innocence to treat censure with contempt. We owe so much reverence to the wisdom of mankind, as justly to wish, that our own opinion of our merit may be ratified by the concurrence of other suffrages; and since guilt and infamy must have the same effect upon intelligences unable to pierce beyond external appearance, and influenced often rather by example than precept, we are obliged to refute a false charge, lest we should countenance the crime which we have never committed. To turn away from an accusation with supercilious silence, is equally in the power of him that is hardened by villany, and inspirited by innocence. The wall of brass which Horace erects upon a clear conscience, may be sometimes raised by impudence or power; and we should always wish to preserve the dignity of virtue by adorning her with graces which wickedness cannot assume. For this reason I have determined no longer to endure, with either patient or sullen resignation, a reproach, which is, at least in my opinion, unjust; but will lay my case honestly before you, that you or your readers may at length decide it. Whether you will be able to preserve your boasted impartiality, when you hear that I am considered as an adversary by half the female world, you may surely pardon me for doubting, notwithstanding the veneration to which you may imagine yourself entitled by your age, your learning, your abstraction, or your virtue. Beauty, Mr. Rambler, has often overpowered the resolutions of the firm, and the reasonings of the wise, roused the old to sensibility, and subdued the rigorous to softness. I am one of those unhappy beings, who have been marked out as husbands for many different women, and deliberated a hundred times on the brink of matrimony. I have discussed all the nuptial preliminaries so often, that I can repeat the forms in which jointures are settled, pin-money secured, and provisions for younger children ascertained; but am at last doomed by general consent to everlasting solitude, and excluded by an irreversible decree from all hopes of connubial felicity. I am pointed out by every mother, as a man whose visits cannot be admitted without reproach; who raises hopes only to embitter disappointment, and makes offers only to seduce girls into a waste of that part of life, in which they might gain advantageous matches, and become mistresses and mothers. I hope you will think, that some part of this penal severity may justly be remitted, when I inform you, that I never yet professed love to a woman without sincere intentions of marriage; that I have never continued an appearance of intimacy from the hour that my inclination changed, but to preserve her whom I was leaving from the shock of abruptness, or the ignominy of contempt; that I always endeavoured to give the ladies an opportunity of seeming to discard me; and that I never forsook a mistress for larger fortune, or brighter beauty, but because I discovered some irregularity in her conduct, or some depravity in her mind; not because I was charmed by another, but because I was offended by herself. I was very early tired of that succession of amusements by which the thoughts of most young men are dissipated, and had not long glittered in the splendour of an ample patrimomy [Transcriber's note: sic] before I wished for the calm of domestick happiness. Youth is naturally delighted with sprightliness and ardour, and therefore I breathed out the sighs of my first affection at the feet of the gay, the sparkling, the vivacious Ferocula. I fancied to myself a perpetual source of happiness in wit never exhausted, and spirit never depressed; looked with veneration on her readiness of expedients, contempt of difficulty, assurance of address, and promptitude of reply; considered her as exempt by some prerogative of nature from the weakness and timidity of female minds; and congratulated myself upon a companion superior to all common troubles and embarrassments. I was, indeed, somewhat disturbed by the unshaken perseverance with which she enforced her demands of an unreasonable settlement; yet I should have consented to pass my life in union with her, had not my curiosity led me to a crowd gathered in the street, where I found Ferocula, in the presence of hundreds, disputing for six-pence with a chairman. I saw her in so little need of assistance, that it was no breach of the laws of chivalry to forbear interposition, and I spared myself the shame of owning her acquaintance. I forgot some point of ceremony at our next interview, and soon provoked her to forbid me her presence. My next attempt was upon a lady of great eminence for learning and philosophy. I had frequently observed the barrenness and uniformity of connubial conversation, and therefore thought highly of my own prudence and discernment, when I selected from a multitude of wealthy beauties, the deep-read Misothea, who declared herself the inexorable enemy of ignorant pertness, and puerile levity; and scarcely condescended to make tea, but for the linguist, the geometrician, the astronomer, or the poet. The queen of the Amazons was only to be gained by the hero who could conquer her in single combat; and Misothea's heart was only to bless the scholar who could overpower her by disputation. Amidst the fondest transports of courtship she could call for a definition of terms, and treated every argument with contempt that could not be reduced to regular syllogism. You may easily imagine, that I wished this courtship at an end; but when I desired her to shorten my torments, and fix the day of my felicity, we were led into a long conversation, in which Misothea endeavoured to demonstrate the folly of attributing choice and self-direction to any human being. It was not difficult to discover the danger of committing myself for ever to the arms of one who might at any time mistake the dictates of passion, or the calls of appetite, for the decree of fate; or consider cuckoldom as necessary to the general system, as a link in the everlasting chain of successive causes. I therefore told her, that destiny had ordained us to part, and that nothing should have torn me from her but the talons of necessity. I then solicited the regard of the calm, the prudent, the economical Sophronia, a lady who considered wit as dangerous, and learning as superfluous, and thought that the woman who kept her house clean, and her accounts exact, took receipts for every payment, and could find them at a sudden call, inquired nicely after the condition of the tenants, read the price of stocks once a-week, and purchased every thing at the best market, could want no accomplishments necessary to the happiness of a wise man. She discoursed with great solemnity on the care and vigilance which the superintendance of a family demands; observed how many were ruined by confidence in servants; and told me, that she never expected honesty but from a strong chest, and that the best storekeeper was the mistress's eye. Many such oracles of generosity she uttered, and made every day new improvements in her schemes for the regulations of her servants, and the distribution of her time. I was convinced that, whatever I might suffer from Sophronia, I should escape poverty; and we therefore proceeded to adjust the settlements according to her own rule, fair and softly. But one morning her maid came to me in tears to intreat my interest for a reconciliation with her mistress, who had turned her out at night for breaking six teeth in a tortoise-shell comb; she had attended her lady from a distant province, and having not lived long enough to save much money, was destitute among strangers, and, though of a good family, in danger of perishing in the streets, or of being compelled by hunger to prostitution. I made no scruple of promising to restore her; but upon my first application to Sophronia, was answered with an air which called for approbation, that if she neglected her own affairs, I might suspect her of neglecting mine; that the comb stood her in three half crowns; that no servant should wrong her twice; and that indeed she took the first opportunity of parting with Phillida, because, though she was honest, her constitution was bad, and she thought her very likely to fall sick. Of our conferrence I need not tell you the effect; it surely may be forgiven me, if on this occasion I forgot the decency of common forms. From two more ladies I was disengaged by finding, that they entertained my rivals at the same time, and determined their choice by the liberality of our settlements. Another, I thought myself justified in forsaking, because she gave my attorney a bribe to favour her in the bargain; another because I could never soften her to tenderness, till she heard that most of my family had died young; and another, because, to increase her fortune by expectations, she represented her sister as languishing and consumptive. I shall in another letter give the remaining part of my history of courtship. I presume that I should hitherto have injured the majesty of female virtue, had I not hoped to transfer my affection to higher merit. I am, &c. HYMENAEUS. No. 114. SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1751. --_Audi, Nulla umquum de morte hominis cunctatio longa est._ JUV. Sat. vi. 220. --When man's life is in debate, The judge can ne'er too long deliberate. DRYDEN. Power and superiority are so flattering and delightful, that, fraught with temptation, and exposed to danger, as they are, scarcely any virtue is so cautious, or any prudence so timorous, as to decline them. Even those that have most reverence for the laws of right, are pleased with shewing that not fear, but choice, regulates their behaviour; and would be thought to comply, rather than obey. We love to overlook the boundaries which we do not wish to pass; and, as the Roman satirist remarks, he that has no design to take the life of another, is yet glad to have it in his hands. From the same principle, tending yet more to degeneracy and corruption, proceeds the desire of investing lawful authority with terrour, and governing by force rather than persuasion. Pride is unwilling to believe the necessity of assigning any other reason than her own will; and would rather maintain the most equitable claims by violence and penalties, than descend from the dignity of command to dispute and expostulation. It may, I think, be suspected, that this political arrogance has sometimes found its way into legislative assemblies, and mingled with deliberations upon property and life. A slight perusal of the laws by which the measures of vindictive and coercive justice are established, will discover so many disproportions between crimes and punishments, such capricious distinctions of guilt, and such confusion of remissness and severity, as can scarcely be believed to have been produced by publick wisdom, sincerely and calmly studious of publick happiness. The learned, the judicious, the pious Boerhaave relates, that he never saw a criminal dragged to execution without asking himself, "Who knows whether this man is not less culpable than me?" On the days when the prisons of this city are emptied into the grave, let every spectator of the dreadful procession put the same question to his own heart. Few among those that crowd in thousands to the legal massacre, and look with carelessness, perhaps with triumph, on the utmost exacerbations of human misery, would then be able to return without horrour and dejection. For, who can congratulate himself upon a life passed without some act more mischievous to the peace or prosperity of others, than the theft of a piece of money? It has been always the practice, when any particular species of robbery becomes prevalent and common, to endeavour its suppression by capital denunciations. Thus one generation of malefactors is commonly cut off, and their successors are frighted into new expedients; the art of thievery is augmented with greater variety of fraud, and subtilized to higher degrees of dexterity, and more occult methods of conveyance. The law then renews the pursuit in the heat of anger, and overtakes the offender again with death. By this practice capital inflictions are multiplied, and crimes, very different in their degrees of enormity, are equally subjected to the severest punishment that man has the power of exercising upon man. The lawgiver is undoubtedly allowed to estimate the malignity of an offence, not merely by the loss or pain which single acts may produce, but by the general alarm and anxiety arising from the fear of mischief, and insecurity of possession: he therefore exercises the right which societies are supposed to have over the lives of those that compose them, not simply to punish a transgression, but to maintain order, and preserve quiet; he enforces those laws with severity, that are most in danger of violation, as the commander of a garrison doubles the guard on that side which is threatened by the enemy. This method has been long tried, but tried with so little success, that rapine and violence are hourly increasing, yet few seem willing to despair of its efficacy; and of those who employ their speculations upon the present corruption of the people, some propose the introduction of more horrid, lingering, and terrifick punishments; some are inclined to accelerate the executions; some to discourage pardons; and all seem to think that lenity has given confidence to wickedness, and that we can only be rescued from the talons of robbery by inflexible rigour, and sanguinary justice. Yet, since the right of setting an uncertain and arbitrary value upon life has been disputed, and since experience of past times gives us little reason to hope that any reformation will be effected by a periodical havock of our fellow-beings, perhaps it will not be useless to consider what consequences might arise from relaxations of the law, and a more rational and equitable adaptation of penalties to offences. Death is, as one of the ancients observes, [Greek: to ton phoberon phoberotaton], _of dreadful things the most dreadful_: an evil, beyond which nothing can be threatened by sublunary power, or feared from human enmity or vengeance. This terrour should, therefore, be reserved as the last resort of authority, as the strongest and most operative of prohibitory sanctions, and placed before the treasure of life, to guard from invasion what cannot be restored. To equal robbery with murder is to reduce murder to robbery; to confound in common minds the gradations of iniquity, and incite the commission of a greater crime to prevent the detection of a less. If only murder were punished with death, very few robbers would stain their hands in blood; but when, by the last act of cruelty, no new danger is incurred, and greater security may be obtained, upon what principle shall we bid them forbear? It may be urged, that the sentence is often mitigated to simple robbery; but surely this is to confess that our laws are unreasonable in our own opinion; and, indeed, it may be observed, that all but murderers have, at their last hour, the common sensations of mankind pleading in their favour. From this conviction of the inequality of the punishment to the offence, proceeds the frequent solicitation of pardons. They who would rejoice at the correction of a thief, are yet shocked at the thought of destroying him. His crime shrinks to nothing, compared with his misery; and severity defeats itself by exciting pity. The gibbet, indeed, certainly disables those who die upon it from infesting the community; but their death seems not to contribute more to the reformation of their associates, than any other method of separation. A thief seldom passes much of his time in recollection or anticipation, but from robbery hastens to riot, and from riot to robbery; nor, when the grave closes on his companion, has any other care than to find another. The frequency of capital punishments, therefore, rarely hinders the commission of a crime, but naturally and commonly prevents its detection, and is, if we proceed only upon prudential principles, chiefly for that reason to be avoided. Whatever may be urged by casuists or politicians, the greater part of mankind, as they can never think that to pick the pocket and to pierce the heart is equally criminal, will scarcely believe that two malefactors so different in guilt can be justly doomed to the same punishment: nor is the necessity of submitting the conscience to human laws so plainly evinced, so clearly stated, or so generally allowed, but that the pious, the tender, and the just, will always scruple to concur with the community in an act which their private judgment cannot approve. He who knows not how often rigorous laws produce total impunity, and how many crimes are concealed and forgotten for fear of hurrying the offender to that state in which there is no repentance, has conversed very little with mankind. And whatever epithets of reproach or contempt this compassion may incur from those who confound cruelty with firmness, I know not whether any wise man would wish it less powerful, or less extensive. If those whom the wisdom of our laws has condemned to die, had been detected in their rudiments of robbery, they might, by proper discipline and useful labour, have been disentangled from their habits, they might have escaped all the temptation to subsequent crimes, and passed their days in reparation and penitence; and detected they might all have been, had the prosecutors been certain that their lives would have been spared. I believe, every thief will confess, that he has been more than once seized and dismissed; and that he has sometimes ventured upon capital crimes, because he knew, that those whom he injured would rather connive at his escape, than cloud their minds with the horrours of his death. All laws against wickedness are ineffectual, unless some will inform, and some will prosecute; but till we mitigate the penalties for mere violations of property, information will always be hated, and prosecution dreaded. The heart of a good man cannot but recoil at the thought of punishing a slight injury with death; especially when he remembers that the thief might have procured safety by another crime, from which he was restrained only by his remaining virtue. The obligations to assist the exercise of publick justice are indeed strong; but they will certainly be overpowered by tenderness for life. What is punished with severity contrary to our ideas of adequate retribution, will be seldom discovered; and multitudes will be suffered to advance from crime to crime, till they deserve death, because, if they had been sooner prosecuted, they would have suffered death before they deserved it. This scheme of invigorating the laws by relaxation, and extirpating wickedness by lenity, is so remote from common practice, that I might reasonably fear to expose it to the publick, could it be supported only by my own observations: I shall, therefore, by ascribing it to its author, Sir Thomas More, endeavour to procure it that attention, which I wish always paid to prudence, to justice, and to mercy.[c] No. 115. TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1751. _Quaedam parvu quidem; sed non toleranda maritis_. JUV. Sat vi. 184. Some faults, though small, intolerable grow. DRYDEN. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I sit down, in pursuance of my late engagement, to recount the remaining part of the adventures that befel me in my long quest of conjugal felicity, which, though I have not yet been so happy as to obtain it, I have at least endeavoured to deserve by unwearied diligence, without suffering from repeated disappointments any abatement of my hope, or repression of my activity. You must have observed in the world a species of mortals who employ themselves in promoting matrimony, and without any visible motive of interest or vanity, without any discoverable impulse of malice or benevolence, without any reason, but that they want objects of attention and topicks of conversation, are incessantly busy in procuring wives and husbands. They fill the ears of every single man and woman with some convenient match; and when they are informed of your age and fortune, offer a partner for life with the same readiness, and the same indifference, as a salesman, when he has taken measure by his eye, fits his customer with a coat. It might be expected that they should soon be discouraged from this officious interposition by resentment or contempt; and that every man should determine the choice on which so much of his happiness must depend, by his own judgment and observation: yet it happens, that as these proposals are generally made with a shew of kindness, they seldom provoke anger, but are at worst heard with patience, and forgotten. They influence weak minds to approbation; for many are sure to find in a new acquaintance, whatever qualities report has taught them to expect; and in more powerful and active understandings they excite curiosity, and sometimes, by a lucky chance, bring persons of similar tempers within the attraction of each other. I was known to possess a fortune, and to want a wife; and therefore was frequently attended by these hymeneal solicitors, with whose importunity I was sometimes diverted, and sometimes perplexed; for they contended for me as vultures for a carcase; each employing all his eloquence, and all his artifices, to enforce and promote his own scheme, from the success of which he was to receive no other advantage than the pleasure of defeating others equally eager, and equally industrious. An invitation to sup with one of those busy friends, made me, by a concerted chance, acquainted with Camilla, by whom it was expected that I should be suddenly and irresistibly enslaved. The lady, whom the same kindness had brought without her own concurrence into the lists of love, seemed to think me at least worthy of the honour of captivity; and exerted the power, both of her eyes and wit, with so much art and spirit, that though I had been too often deceived by appearances to devote myself irrevocably at the first interview, yet I could not suppress some raptures of admiration, and flutters of desire. I was easily persuaded to make nearer approaches; but soon discovered, that an union with Camilla was not much to be wished. Camilla professed a boundless contempt for the folly, levity, ignorance, and impertinence of her own sex; and very frequently expressed her wonder that men of learning or experience could submit to trifle away life with beings incapable of solid thought. In mixed companies, she always associated with the men, and declared her satisfaction when the ladies retired. If any short excursion into the country was proposed, she commonly insisted upon the exclusion of women from the party; because, where they were admitted, the time was wasted in frothy compliments, weak indulgences, and idle ceremonies. To shew the greatness of her mind, she avoided all compliance with the fashion; and to boast the profundity of her knowledge, mistook the various textures of silk, confounded tabbies with damasks, and sent for ribands by wrong names. She despised the commerce of stated visits, a farce of empty form without instruction; and congratulated herself, that she never learned to write message cards. She often applauded the noble sentiment of Plato, who rejoiced that he was born a man rather than a woman; proclaimed her approbation of Swift's opinion, that women are only a higher species of monkeys; and confessed, that when she considered the behaviour, or heard the conversation, of her sex, she could not but forgive the Turks for suspecting them to want souls. It was the joy and pride of Camilla to have provoked, by this insolence, all the rage of hatred, and all the persecutions of calumny; nor was she ever more elevated with her own superiority, than when she talked of female anger, and female cunning. Well, says she, has nature provided that such virulence should be disabled by folly, and such cruelty be restrained by impotence. Camilla doubtless expected, that what she lost on one side, she should gain on the other; and imagined that every male heart would be open to a lady, who made such generous advances to the borders of virility. But man, ungrateful man, instead of springing forward to meet her, shrunk back at her approach. She was persecuted by the ladies as a deserter, and at best received by the men only as a fugitive. I, for my part, amused myself awhile with her fopperies, but novelty soon gave way to detestation, for nothing out of the common order of nature can be long borne. I had no inclination to a wife who had the ruggedness of a man without his force, and the ignorance of a woman without her softness; nor could I think my quiet and honour to be entrusted to such audacious virtue as was hourly courting danger, and soliciting assault. My next mistress was Nitella, a lady of gentle mien, and soft voice, always speaking to approve, and ready to receive direction from those with whom chance had brought her into company. In Nitella I promised myself an easy friend, with whom I might loiter away the day without disturbance or altercation. I therefore soon resolved to address her, but was discouraged from prosecuting my courtship, by observing, that her apartments were superstitiously regular; and that, unless she had notice of my visit, she was never to be seen. There is a kind of anxious cleanliness which I have always noted as the characteristick of a slattern; it is the superfluous scrupulosity of guilt, dreading discovery, and shunning suspicion: it is the violence of an effort against habit, which, being impelled by external motives, cannot stop at the middle point. Nitella was always tricked out rather with nicety than elegance; and seldom could forbear to discover, by her uneasiness and constraint, that her attention was burdened, and her imagination engrossed: I therefore concluded, that being only occasionally and ambitiously dressed, she was not familiarized to her own ornaments. There are so many competitors for the fame of cleanliness, that it is not hard to gain information of those that fail, from those that desire to excel: I quickly found that Nitella passed her time between finery and dirt; and was always in a wrapper, night-cap, and slippers, when she was not decorated for immediate show. I was then led by my evil destiny to Charybdis, who never neglected an opportunity of seizing a new prey when it came within her reach. I thought myself quickly made happy by permission to attend her to publick places; and pleased my own vanity with imagining the envy which I should raise in a thousand hearts, by appearing as the acknowledged favourite of Charybdis. She soon after hinted her intention to take a ramble for a fortnight, into a part of the kingdom which she had never seen. I solicited the happiness of accompanying her, which, after a short reluctance, was indulged me. She had no other curiosity on her journey, than after all possible means of expense; and was every moment taking occasion to mention some delicacy, which I knew it my duty upon such notices to procure. After our return, being now more familiar, she told me, whenever we met, of some new diversion; at night she had notice of a charming company that would breakfast in the gardens; and in the morning had been informed of some new song in the opera, some new dress at the playhouse, or some performer at a concert whom she longed to hear. Her intelligence was such, that there never was a show, to which she did not summon me on the second day; and as she hated a crowd, and could not go alone, I was obliged to attend at some intermediate hour, and pay the price of a whole company. When we passed the streets, she was often charmed with some trinket in the toy-shops; and from moderate desires of seals and snuff-boxes, rose, by degrees, to gold and diamonds. I now began to find the smile of Charybdis too costly for a private purse, and added one more to six and forty lovers, whose fortune and patience her rapacity had exhausted. Imperia then took possession of my affections; but kept them only for a short time. She had newly inherited a large fortune, and having spent the early part of her life in the perusal of romances, brought with her into the gay world all the pride of Cleopatra; expected nothing less than vows, altars, and sacrifices; and thought her charms dishonoured, and her power infringed, by the softest opposition to her sentiments, or the smallest transgression of her commands. Time might indeed cure this species of pride in a mind not naturally undiscerning, and vitiated only by false representations; but the operations of time are slow; and I therefore left her to grow wise at leisure, or to continue in errour at her own expense. Thus I have hitherto, in spite of myself, passed my life in frozen celibacy. My friends, indeed, often tell me, that I flatter my imagination with higher hopes than human nature can gratify; that I dress up an ideal charmer in all the radiance of perfection, and then enter the world to look for the same excellence in corporeal beauty. But surely, Mr. Rambler, it is not madness to hope for some terrestrial lady unstained by the spots which I have been describing; at least I am resolved to pursue my search; for I am so far from thinking meanly of marriage, that I believe it able to afford the highest happiness decreed to our present state; and if, after all these miscarriages, I find a woman that fills up my expectation, you shall hear once more from, Yours, &c. HYMENAEUS. [Footnote c: The arguments of the revered Sir Samuel Romilly on Criminal Law, have almost been anticipated in this luminous paper, which would have gained praise even for a legislator. On the correction of our English Criminal Code, see Mr. Buxton's speech in the House of Commons, 1820. It is a fund of practical information, and, apart from its own merits, will repay perusal by the valuable collection of opinions which it contains on this momentous and interesting subject. ED.] No. 116. SATURDAY, APRIL 27, 1751. _Optat ephippia bos piger: optat arare caballus_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xiv. 43. Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim; The sprightly horse would plough.--FRANCIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I was the second son of a country gentleman by the daughter of a wealthy citizen of London. My father having by his marriage freed the estate from a heavy mortgage, and paid his sisters their portions, thought himself discharged from all obligation to further thought, and entitled to spend the rest of his life in rural pleasures. He therefore spared nothing that might contribute to the completion of his felicity; he procured the best guns and horses that the kingdom could supply, paid large salaries to his groom and huntsman, and became the envy of the country for the discipline of his hounds. But, above all his other attainments, he was eminent for a breed of pointers and setting-dogs, which by long and vigilant cultivation he had so much improved, that not a partridge or heathcock could rest in security, and game of whatever species that dared to light upon his manor, was beaten down by his shot, or covered with his nets. My elder brother was very early initiated in the chace, and, at an age when other boys are _creeping like snails unwillingly to school_, he could wind the horn, beat the bushes, bound over hedges, and swim rivers. When the huntsman one day broke his leg, he supplied his place with equal abilities, and came home with the scut in his hat, amidst the acclamations of the whole village. I being either delicate or timorous, less desirous of honour, or less capable of sylvan heroism, was always the favourite of my mother; because I kept my coat clean, and my complexion free from freckles, and did not come home, like my brother, mired and tanned, nor carry corn in my hat to the horse, nor bring dirty curs into the parlour. My mother had not been taught to amuse herself with books, and being much inclined to despise the ignorance and barbarity of the country ladies, disdained to learn their sentiments or conversation, and had made no addition to the notions which she had brought from the precincts of Cornhill. She was, therefore, always recounting the glories of the city; enumerating the succession of mayors; celebrating the magnificence of the banquets at Guildhall; and relating the civilities paid her at the companies' feasts by men of whom some are now made aldermen, some have fined for sheriffs, and none are worth less than forty thousand pounds. She frequently displayed her father's greatness; told of the large bills which he had paid at sight; of the sums for which his word would pass upon the Exchange; the heaps of gold which he used on Saturday night to toss about with a shovel; the extent of his warehouse, and the strength of his doors; and when she relaxed her imagination with lower subjects, described the furniture of their country-house, or repeated the wit of the clerks and porters. By these narratives I was fired with the splendour and dignity of London, and of trade. I therefore devoted myself to a shop, and warmed my imagination from year to year with inquiries about the privileges of a freeman, the power of the common council, the dignity of a wholesale dealer, and the grandeur of mayoralty, to which my mother assured me that many had arrived who began the world with less than myself. I was very impatient to enter into a path, which led to such honour and felicity; but was forced for a time to endure some repression of my eagerness, for it was my grandfather's maxim, that a _young man seldom makes much money, who is out of his time before two-and-twenty_. They thought it necessary, therefore, to keep me at home till the proper age, without any other employment than that of learning merchants' accounts, and the art of regulating books; but at length the tedious days elapsed, I was transplanted to town, and, with great satisfaction to myself, bound to a haberdasher. My master, who had no conception of any virtue, merit, or dignity, but that of being rich, had all the good qualities which naturally arise from a close and unwearied attention to the main chance; his desire to gain wealth was so well tempered by the vanity of shewing it, that without any other principle of action, he lived in the esteem of the whole commercial world; and was always treated with respect by the only men whose good opinion he valued or solicited, those who were universally allowed to be richer than himself. By his instructions I learned in a few weeks to handle a yard with great dexterity, to wind tape neatly upon the ends of my fingers, and to make up parcels with exact frugality of paper and packthread; and soon caught from my fellow-apprentices the true grace of a counter-bow, the careless air with which a small pair of scales is to be held between the fingers, and the vigour and sprightliness with which the box, after the riband has been cut, is returned into its place. Having no desire of any higher employment, and therefore applying all my powers to the knowledge of my trade, I was quickly master of all that could be known, became a critick in small wares, contrived new variations of figures, and new mixtures of colours, and was sometimes consulted by the weavers when they projected fashions for the ensuing spring. With all these accomplishments, in the fourth year of my apprenticeship, I paid a visit to my friends in the country, where I expected to be received as a new ornament of the family, and consulted by the neighbouring gentlemen as a master of pecuniary knowledge, and by the ladies as an oracle of the mode. But, unhappily, at the first publick table to which I was invited, appeared a student of the Temple, and an officer of the guards, who looked upon me with a smile of contempt, which destroyed at once all my hopes of distinction, so that I durst hardly raise my eyes for fear of encountering their superiority of mien. Nor was my courage revived by any opportunities of displaying my knowledge; for the templar entertained the company for part of the day with historical narratives and political observations; and the colonel afterwards detailed the adventures of a birth-night, told the claims and expectations of the courtiers, and gave an account of assemblies, gardens, and diversions. I, indeed, essayed to fill up a pause in a parliamentary debate with a faint mention of trade and Spaniards; and once attempted, with some warmth, to correct a gross mistake about a silver breast-knot; but neither of my antagonists seemed to think a reply necessary; they resumed their discourse without emotion, and again engrossed the attention of the company; nor did one of the ladies appear desirous to know my opinion of her dress, or to hear how long the carnation shot with white, that was then new amongst them, had been antiquated in town. As I knew that neither of these gentlemen had more money than myself, I could not discover what had depressed me in their presence; nor why they were considered by others as more worthy of attention and respect; and therefore resolved, when we met again, to rouse my spirit, and force myself into notice. I went very early to the next weekly meeting, and was entertaining a small circle very successfully with a minute representation of my lord mayor's show, when the colonel entered careless and gay, sat down with a kind of unceremonious civility, and without appearing to intend any interruption, drew my audience away to the other part of the room, to which I had not the courage to follow them. Soon after came in the lawyer, not indeed with the same attraction of mien, but with greater powers of language: and by one or other the company was so happily amused, that I was neither heard nor seen, nor was able to give any other proof of my existence than that I put round the glass, and was in my turn permitted to name the toast. My mother, indeed, endeavoured to comfort me in my vexation, by telling me, that perhaps these showy talkers were hardly able to pay every one his own; that he who has money in his pocket need not care what any man says of him; that, if I minded my trade, the time will come when lawyers and soldiers would be glad to borrow out of my purse; and that it is fine, when a man can set his hands to his sides, and say he is worth forty thousand pounds every day of the year. These and many more such consolations and encouragements, I received from my good mother, which, however, did not much allay my uneasiness; for having by some accident heard, that the country ladies despised her as a cit, I had therefore no longer much reverence for her opinions, but considered her as one whose ignorance and prejudice had hurried me, though without ill intentions, into a state of meanness and ignominy, from which I could not find any possibility of rising to the rank which my ancestors had always held. I returned, however, to my master, and busied myself among thread, and silks, and laces, but without my former cheerfulness and alacrity. I had now no longer any felicity in contemplating the exact disposition of my powdered curls, the equal plaits of my ruffles, or the glossy blackness of my shoes; nor heard with my former elevation those compliments which ladies sometimes condescended to pay me upon my readiness in twisting a paper, or counting out the change. The term of Young Man, with which I was sometimes honoured, as I carried a parcel to the door of a coach, tortured my imagination; I grew negligent of my person, and sullen in my temper; often mistook the demands of the customers, treated their caprices and objections with contempt, and received and dismissed them with surly silence. My master was afraid lest the shop should suffer by this change of my behaviour; and, therefore, after some expostulations, posted me in the warehouse, and preserved me from the danger and reproach of desertion, to which my discontent would certainly have urged me, had I continued any longer behind the counter. In the sixth year of my servitude my brother died of drunken joy, for having run down a fox that had baffled all the packs in the province. I was now heir, and with the hearty consent of my master commenced gentleman. The adventures in which my new character engaged me shall be communicated in another letter, by, Sir, Yours, &c. MISOCAPELUS. No. 117. TUESDAY, APRIL 30, 1751. [Greek: Hossan ep Oulumpo memasan Themen autar ep Ossae Paelion einosiphullon, in ouranos ambatos eiae.] HOMER, Od. [Greek: L] 314. The gods they challenge, and affect the skies: Heav'd on Olympus tott'ring Ossa stood; On Ossa, Pelion nods with all his wood. POPE. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Nothing has more retarded the advancement of learning than the disposition of vulgar minds to ridicule and vilify what they cannot comprehend. All industry must be excited by hope; and as the student often proposes no other reward to himself than praise, he is easily discouraged by contempt and insult. He who brings with him into a clamorous multitude the timidity of recluse speculation, and has never hardened his front in publick life, or accustomed his passions to the vicissitudes and accidents, the triumphs and defeats of mixed conversation, will blush at the stare of petulant incredulity, and suffer himself to be driven by a burst of laughter, from the fortresses of demonstration. The mechanist will be afraid to assert before hardy contradiction, the possibility of tearing down bulwarks with a silk-worm's thread; and the astronomer of relating the rapidity of light, the distance of the fixed stars, and the height of the lunar mountains. If I could by any efforts have shaken off this cowardice, I had not sheltered myself under a borrowed name, nor applied to you for the means of communicating to the publick the theory of a garret; a subject which, except some slight and transient strictures, has been hitherto neglected by those who were best qualified to adorn it, either for want of leisure to prosecute the various researches in which a nice discussion must engage them, or because it requires such diversity of knowledge, and such extent of curiosity, as is scarcely to be found in any single intellect: or perhaps others foresaw the tumults which would be raised against them, and confined their knowledge to their own breasts, and abandoned prejudice and folly to the direction of chance. That the professors of literature generally reside in the highest stories, has been immemorially observed. The wisdom of the ancients was well acquainted with the intellectual advantages of an elevated situation: why else were the Muses stationed on Olympus or Parnassus, by those who could with equal right have raised them bowers in the vale of Tempe, or erected their altars among the flexures of Meander? Why was Jove himself nursed upon a mountain? or why did the goddesses, when the prize of beauty was contested, try the cause upon the top of Ida? Such were the fictions by which the great masters of the earlier ages endeavoured to inculcate to posterity the importance of a garret, which, though they had been long obscured by the negligence and ignorance of succeeding times, were well enforced by the celebrated symbol of Pythagoras, [Greek: anemon pneonton taen aecho proskunei]; "when the wind blows, worship its echo." This could not but be understood by his disciples as an inviolable injunction to live in a garret, which I have found frequently visited by the echo and the wind. Nor was the tradition wholly obliterated in the age of Augustus, for Tibullus evidently congratulates himself upon his garret, not without some allusion to the Pythagorean precept: _Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem-- Aut, gelidas hibernus aquas quum fuderit Auster, Securum somnos imbre juvante sequi_! Lib. i. El. i. 45. How sweet in sleep to pass the careless hours, Lull'd by the beating winds and dashing show'rs! And it is impossible not to discover the fondness of Lucretius, an earlier writer, for a garret, in his description of the lofty towers of serene learning, and of the pleasure with which a wise man looks down upon the confused and erratick state of the world moving below him: _Sed nil dulcius est, bene quam munita tenere Edita doctrina Sapientum templa serena; Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre Errare, atque viam palanteis quaerere vitae_. Lib. ii. 7. --'Tis sweet thy lab'ring steps to guide To virtue's heights, with wisdom well supplied, And all the magazines of learning fortified: From thence to look below on human kind, Bewilder'd in the maze of life, and blind. DRYDEN. The institution has, indeed, continued to our own time; the garret is still the usual receptacle of the philosopher and poet; but this, like many ancient customs, is perpetuated only by an accidental imitation, without knowledge of the original reason for which it was established. _Causa latet; res est notissima_. The cause is secret, but th' effect is known. ADDISON. Conjectures have, indeed, been advanced concerning these habitations of literature, but without much satisfaction to the judicious inquirer. Some have imagined, that the garret is generally chosen by the wits as most easily rented; and concluded that no man rejoices in his aerial abode, but on the days of payment. Others suspect, that a garret is chiefly convenient, as it is remoter than any other part of the house from the outer door, which is often observed to be infested by visitants, who talk incessantly of beer, or linen, or a coat, and repeat the same sounds every morning, and sometimes again in the afternoon, without any variation, except that they grow daily more importunate and clamorous, and raise their voices in time from mournful murmurs to raging vociferations. This eternal monotony is always detestable to a man whose chief pleasure is to enlarge his knowledge, and vary his ideas. Others talk of freedom from noise, and abstraction from common business or amusements; and some, yet more visionary, tell us, that the faculties are enlarged by open prospects, and that the fancy is at more liberty, when the eye ranges without confinement. These conveniences may perhaps all be found in a well-chosen garret; but surely they cannot be supposed sufficiently important to have operated unvariably upon different climates, distant ages, and separate nations. Of an universal practice, there must still be presumed an universal cause, which, however recondite and abstruse, may be perhaps reserved to make me illustrious by its discovery, and you by its promulgation. It is universally known that the faculties of the mind are invigorated or weakened by the state of the body, and that the body is in a great measure regulated by the various compressions of the ambient element. The effects of the air in the production or cure of corporeal maladies have been acknowledged from the time of Hippocrates; but no man has yet sufficiently considered how far it may influence the operations of the genius, though every day affords instances of local understanding, of wits and reasoners, whose faculties are adapted to some single spot, and who, when they are removed to any other place, sink at once into silence and stupidity. I have discovered, by a long series of observations, that invention and elocution suffer great impediments from dense and impure vapours, and that the tenuity of a defecated air at a proper distance from the surface of the earth, accelerates the fancy, and sets at liberty those intellectual powers which were before shackled by too strong attraction, and unable to expand themselves under the pressure of a gross atmosphere. I have found dulness to quicken into sentiment in a thin ether, as water, though not very hot, boils in a receiver partly exhausted; and heads, in appearance empty, have teemed with notions upon rising ground, as the flaccid sides of a football would have swelled out into stiffness and extension. For this reason I never think myself qualified to judge decisively of any man's faculties, whom I have only known in one degree of elevation; but take some opportunity of attending him from the cellar to the garret, and try upon him all the various degrees of rarefaction and condensation, tension and laxity. If he is neither vivacious aloft, nor serious below, I then consider him as hopeless; but as it seldom happens, that I do not find the temper to which the texture of his brain is fitted, I accommodate him in time with a tube of mercury, first marking the points most favourable to his intellects, according to rules which I have long studied, and which I may, perhaps, reveal to mankind in a complete treatise of barometrical pneumatology. Another cause of the gaiety and sprightliness of the dwellers in garrets is probably the increase of that vertiginous motion, with which we are carried round by the diurnal revolution of the earth. The power of agitation upon the spirits is well known; every man has felt his heart lightened in a rapid vehicle, or on a galloping horse; and nothing is plainer, than that he who towers to the fifth story, is whirled through more space by every circumrotation, than another that grovels upon the ground-floor. The nations between the topicks are known to be fiery, inconstant, inventive, and fanciful; because, living at the utmost length of the earth's diameter, they are carried about with more swiftness than those whom nature has placed nearer to the poles; and therefore, as it becomes a wise man to struggle with the inconveniencies of his country, whenever celerity and acuteness are requisite, we must actuate our languor by taking a few turns round the centre in a garret. If you imagine that I ascribe to air and motion effects which they cannot produce, I desire you to consult your own memory, and consider whether you have never known a man acquire reputation in his garret, which, when fortune or a patron had placed him upon the first floor, he was unable to maintain; and who never recovered his former vigour of understanding, till he was restored to his original situation. That a garret will make every man a wit, I am very far from supposing; I know there are some who would continue blockheads even on the summit of the Andes, or on the peak of Teneriffe. But let not any man be considered as unimprovable till this potent remedy has been tried; for perhaps he was formed to be great only in a garret, as the joiner of Aretaeus was rational in no other place but his own shop. I think a frequent removal to various distances from the centre, so necessary to a just estimate of intellectual abilities, and consequently of so great use in education, that if I hoped that the publick could be persuaded to so expensive an experiment, I would propose, that there should be a cavern dug, and a tower erected, like those which Bacon describes in Solomon's house, for the expansion and concentration of understanding, according to the exigence of different employments, or constitutions. Perhaps some that fume away in meditations upon time and space in the tower, might compose tables of interest at a certain depth; and he that upon level ground stagnates in silence, or creeps in narrative, might at the height of half a mile, ferment into merriment, sparkle with repartee, and froth with declamation. Addison observes, that we may find the heat of Virgil's climate, in some lines of his Georgick: so, when I read a composition, I immediately determine the height of the author's habitation. As an elaborate performance is commonly said to smell of the lamp, my commendation of a noble thought, a sprightly sally, or a bold figure, is to pronounce it fresh from the garret; an expression which would break from me upon the perusal of most of your papers, did I not believe, that you sometimes quit the garret, and ascend into the cock-loft. HYPERTATUS. No. 118. SATURDAY, MAY 4, 1751. --Omnes illacrymabiles Urgentur, ignotique longâ Nocte. Hon. Lib. iv. Ode ix. 26. In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown. FRANCIS. Cicero has, with his usual elegance and magnificence of language, attempted, in his relation of the dream of Scipio, to depreciate those honours for which he himself appears to have panted with restless solicitude, by shewing within what narrow limits all that fame and celebrity which man can hope for from men is circumscribed. "You see," says Africanus, pointing at the earth, from the celestial regions, "that the globe assigned to the residence and habitation of human beings is of small dimensions: how then can you obtain from the praise of men, any glory worthy of a wish? Of this little world the inhabited parts are neither numerous nor wide; even the spots where men are to be found are broken by intervening deserts, and the nations are so separated as that nothing can be transmitted from one to another. With the people of the south, by whom the opposite part of the earth is possessed, you have no intercourse; and by how small a tract do you communicate with the countries of the north? The territory which you inhabit is no more than a scanty island, inclosed by a small body of water, to which you give the name of the great sea and the Atlantick ocean. And even in this known and frequented continent, what hope can you entertain, that your renown will pass the stream of Ganges, or the cliffs of Caucasus? or by whom will your name be uttered in the extremities of the north or south, towards the rising or the setting sun? So narrow is the space to which your fame can be propagated; and even there how long will it remain?" He then proceeds to assign natural causes why fame is not only narrow in its extent, but short in its duration; he observes the difference between the computation of time in earth and heaven, and declares, that according to the celestial chronology, no human honours can last a single year. Such are the objections by which Tully has made a shew of discouraging the pursuit of fame; objections which sufficiently discover his tenderness and regard for his darling phantom. Homer, when the plan of his poem made the death of Patroclus necessary, resolved, at least, that he should die with honour; and therefore brought down against him the patron god of Troy, and left to Hector only the mean task of giving the last blow to an enemy whom a divine hand had disabled from resistance. Thus Tully ennobles fame, which he professes to degrade, by opposing it to celestial happiness; he confines not its extent but by the boundaries of nature, nor contracts its duration but by representing it small in the estimation of superior beings. He still admits it the highest and noblest of terrestrial objects, and alleges little more against it, than that it is neither without end, nor without limits. What might be the effect of these observations conveyed in Ciceronian eloquence to Roman understandings, cannot be determined; but few of those who shall in the present age read my humble version will find themselves much depressed in their hopes, or retarded in their designs; for I am not inclined to believe, that they who among us pass their lives in the cultivation of knowledge, or acquisition of power, have very anxiously inquired what opinions prevail on the further banks of the Ganges, or invigorated any effort by the desire of spreading their renown among the clans of Caucasus. The hopes and fears of modern minds are content to range in a narrower compass; a single nation, and a few years, have generally sufficient amplitude to fill our imaginations. A little consideration will indeed teach us, that fame has other limits than mountains and oceans; and that he who places happiness in the frequent repetition of his name, may spend his life in propagating it, without any danger of weeping for new worlds, or necessity of passing the Atlantick sea. The numbers to whom any real and perceptible good or evil can be derived by the greatest power, or most active diligence, are inconsiderable; and where neither benefit nor mischief operate, the only motive to the mention or remembrance of others is curiosity; a passion, which, though in some degree universally associated to reason, is easily confined, overborne, or diverted from any particular object. Among the lower classes of mankind, there will be found very little desire of any other knowledge, than what may contribute immediately to the relief of some pressing uneasiness, or the attainment of some near advantage. The Turks are said to hear with wonder a proposal to walk out, only that they may walk back; and inquire why any man should labour for nothing: so those whose condition has always restrained them to the contemplation of their own necessities, and who have been accustomed to look forward only to a small distance, will scarcely understand, why nights and days should be spent in studies, which end in new studies, and which, according to Malherbe's observation, do not tend to lessen the price of bread; nor will the trader or manufacturer easily be persuaded, that much pleasure can arise from the mere knowledge of actions, performed in remote regions, or in distant times; or that any thing can deserve their inquiry, of which, [Greek: kleos oion akouomen, oide ti idmen], we can only hear the report, but which cannot influence our lives by any consequences. The truth is, that very few have leisure from indispensable business, to employ their thoughts upon narrative or characters; and among those to whom fortune has given the liberty of living more by their own choice, many create to themselves engagements, by the indulgence of some petty ambition, the admission of some insatiable desire, or the toleration of some predominant passion. The man whose whole wish is to accumulate money, has no other care than to collect interest, to estimate securities, and to engage for mortgages: the lover disdains to turn his ear to any other name than that of Corinna; and the courtier thinks the hour lost which is not spent in promoting his interest, and facilitating his advancement. The adventures of valour, and the discoveries of science, will find a cold reception, when they are obtruded upon an attention thus busy with its favourite amusement, and impatient of interruption or disturbance. But not only such employments as seduce attention by appearances of dignity, or promises of happiness, may restrain the mind from excursion and inquiry; curiosity may be equally destroyed by less formidable enemies; it may be dissipated in trifles, or congealed by indolence. The sportsman and the man of dress have their heads filled with a fox or a horse-race, a feather or a ball; and live in ignorance of every thing beside, with as much content as he that heaps up gold, or solicits preferment, digs the field, or beats the anvil; and some yet lower in the ranks of intellect, dream out their days without pleasure or business, without joy or sorrow, nor ever rouse from their lethargy to hear or think. Even of those who have dedicated themselves to knowledge, the far greater part have confined their curiosity to a few objects, and have very little inclination to promote any fame, but that which their own studies entitle them to partake. The naturalist has no desire to know the opinions or conjectures of the philologer: the botanist looks upon the astronomer as a being unworthy of his regard: the lawyer scarcely hears the name of a physician without contempt; and he that is growing great and happy by electrifying a bottle, wonders how the world can be engaged by trifling prattle about war or peace. If, therefore, he that imagines the world filled with his actions and praises, shall subduct from the number of his encomiasts, all those who are placed below the flight of fame, and who hear in the valleys of life no voice but that of necessity; all those who imagine themselves too important to regard him, and consider the mention of his name as an usurpation of their time; all who are too much or too little pleased with themselves, to attend to any thing external; all who are attracted by pleasure, or chained down by pain, to unvaried ideas; all who are withheld from attending his triumph by different pursuits; and all who slumber in universal negligence; he will find his renown straitened by nearer bounds than the rocks of Caucasus, and perceive that no man can be venerable or formidable, but to a small part of his fellow-creatures. That we may not languish in our endeavours after excellence, it is necessary, that, as Africanus counsels his descendant, "we raise our eyes to higher prospects, and contemplate our future and eternal state, without giving up our hearts to the praise of crowds, or fixing our hopes on such rewards as human power can bestow." No. 119. TUESDAY, MAY 7, 1751. _Iliacos intra muros peccatur, et extra_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii, 16. Faults lay on either side the Trojan tow'rs. ELPHINSTON. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, As, notwithstanding all that wit, or malice, or pride, or prudence will be able to suggest, men and women must at last pass their lives together, I have never therefore thought those writers friends to human happiness, who endeavour to excite in either sex a general contempt or suspicion of the other. To persuade them who are entering the world, and looking abroad for a suitable associate, that all are equally vicious, or equally ridiculous; that they who trust are certainly betrayed, and they who esteem are always disappointed; is not to awaken judgment, but to inflame temerity. Without hope there can be no caution. Those who are convinced, that no reason for preference can be found, will never harass their thoughts with doubt and deliberation; they will resolve, since they are doomed to misery, that no needless anxiety shall disturb their quiet; they will plunge at hazard into the crowd, and snatch the first hand that shall be held toward them. That the world is over-run with vice, cannot be denied; but vice, however predominant, has not yet gained an unlimited dominion. Simple and unmingled good is not in our power, but we may generally escape a greater evil by suffering a less; and therefore, those who undertake to initiate the young and ignorant in the knowledge of life, should be careful to inculcate the possibility of virtue and happiness, and to encourage endeavours by prospects of success. You, perhaps, do not suspect, that these are the sentiments of one who has been subject for many years to all the hardships of antiquated virginity; has been long accustomed to the coldness of neglect, and the petulance of insult; has been mortified in full assemblies by inquiries after forgotten fashions, games long disused, and wits and beauties of ancient renown; has been invited, with malicious importunity, to the second wedding of many acquaintances; has been ridiculed by two generations of coquets in whispers intended to be heard; and been long considered by the airy and gay, as too venerable for familiarity, and too wise for pleasure. It is indeed natural for injury to provoke anger, and by continual repetition to produce an habitual asperity; yet I have hitherto struggled with so much vigilance against my pride and my resentment, that I have preserved my temper uncorrupted. I have not yet made it any part of my employment to collect sentences against marriage; nor am inclined to lessen the number of the few friends whom time has left me, by obstructing that happiness which I cannot partake, and venting my vexation in censures of the forwardness and indiscretion of girls, or the inconstancy, tastelessness, and perfidy of men. It is, indeed, not very difficult to bear that condition to which we are not condemned by necessity, but induced by observation and choice; and therefore I, perhaps, have never yet felt all the malignity with which a reproach, edged with the appellation of old maid, swells some of those hearts in which it is infixed. I was not condemned in my youth to solitude, either by indigence or deformity, nor passed the earlier part of life without the flattery of courtship, and the joys of triumph. I have danced the round of gaiety amidst the murmurs of envy, and gratulations of applause; been attended from pleasure to pleasure by the great, the sprightly, and the vain; and seen my regard solicited by the obsequiousness of gallantry, the gaiety of wit, and the timidity of love. If, therefore, I am yet a stranger to nuptial happiness, I suffer only the consequences of my own resolves, and can look back upon the succession of lovers, whose addresses I have rejected, without grief, and without malice. When my name first began to be inscribed upon glasses, I was honoured with the amorous professions of the gay Venustulus, a gentleman, who, being the only son of a wealthy family, had been educated in all the wantonness of expense, and softness of effeminacy. He was beautiful in his person, and easy in his address, and, therefore, soon gained upon my eye at an age when the sight is very little over-ruled by the understanding. He had not any power in himself of gladdening or amusing; but supplied his want of conversation by treats and diversions; and his chief art of courtship was to fill the mind of his mistress with parties, rambles, musick, and shows. We were often engaged in short excursions to gardens and seats, and I was for a while pleased with the care which Venustulus discovered in securing me from any appearance of danger, or possibility of mischance. He never failed to recommend caution to his coachman, or to promise the waterman a reward if he landed us safe; and always contrived to return by daylight, for fear of robbers. This extraordinary solicitude was represented for a time as the effect of his tenderness for me; but fear is too strong for continued hypocrisy. I soon discovered that Venustulus had the cowardice as well as elegance of a female. His imagination was perpetually clouded with terrours, and he could scarcely refrain from screams and outcries at any accidental surprise. He durst not enter a room if a rat was heard behind the wainscot, nor cross a field where the cattle were frisking in the sunshine; the least breeze that waved upon the river was a storm, and every clamour in the street was a cry of fire. I have seen him lose his colour when my squirrel had broke his chain; and was forced to throw water in his face on the sudden entrance of a black cat. Compassion once obliged me to drive away with my fan, a beetle that kept him in distress, and chide off a dog that yelped at his heels, to which he would gladly have given up me to facilitate his own escape. Women naturally expect defence and protection from a lover or a husband, and, therefore, you will not think me culpable in refusing a wretch, who would have burdened life with unnecessary fears, and flown to me for that succour which it was his duty to have given. My next lover was Fungoso, the son of a stockjobber, whose visits my friends, by the importunity of persuasion, prevailed upon me to allow. Fungoso was no very suitable companion; for having been bred in a counting-house, he spoke a language unintelligible in any other place. He had no desire of any reputation but that of an acute prognosticator of the changes in the funds; nor had any means of raising merriment, but by telling how somebody was overreached in a bargain by his father. He was, however, a youth of great sobriety and prudence, and frequently informed us how carefully he would improve my fortune. I was not in haste to conclude the match, but was so much awed by my parents, that I durst not dismiss him, and might, perhaps, have been doomed for ever to the grossness of pedlary, and the jargon of usury, had not a fraud been discovered in the settlement, which set me free from the persecution of grovelling pride, and pecuniary impudence. I was afterwards six months without any particular notice but at last became the idol of the glittering Flosculus, who prescribed the mode of embroidery to all the fops of his time, and varied at pleasure the cock of every hat, and the sleeve of every coat that appeared in fashionable assemblies. Flosculus made some impression upon my heart by a compliment which few ladies can hear without emotion; he commended my skill in dress, my judgment in suiting colours, and my art in disposing ornaments. But Flosculus was too much engaged by his own elegance, to be sufficiently attentive to the duties of a lover, or to please with varied praise an ear made delicate by riot of adulation. He expected to be repaid part of his tribute, and staid away three days, because I neglected to take notice of a new coat. I quickly found, that Flosculus was rather a rival than an admirer; and that we should probably live in a perpetual struggle of emulous finery, and spend our lives in stratagems to be first in the fashion. I had soon after the honour at a feast of attracting the eyes of Dentatus, one of those human beings whose only happiness is to dine. Dentatus regaled me with foreign varieties, told me of measures that he had laid for procuring the best cook in France, and entertained me with bills of fare, prescribed the arrangement of dishes, and taught me two sauces invented by himself. At length, such is the uncertainty of human happiness, I declared my opinion too hastily upon a pie made under his own direction; after which he grew so cold and negligent, that he was easily dismissed. Many other lovers, or pretended lovers, I have had the honour to lead awhile in triumph. But two of them I drove from me, by discovering that they had no taste or knowledge in musick; three I dismissed, because they were drunkards; two, because they paid their addresses at the same time to other ladies; and six, because they attempted to influence my choice by bribing my maid. Two more I discarded at the second visit for obscene allusions; and five for drollery on religion. In the latter part of my reign, I sentenced two to perpetual exile, for offering me settlements, by which the children of a former marriage would have been injured; four, for representing falsely the value of their estates; three for concealing their debts; and one, for raising the rent of a decrepit tenant. I have now sent you a narrative, which the ladies may oppose, to the tale of Hymenaeus. I mean not to depreciate the sex which has produced poets and philosophers, heroes and martyrs; but will not suffer the rising generation of beauties to be dejected by partial satire; or to imagine that those who censured them have not likewise their follies, and their vices. I do not yet believe happiness unattainable in marriage, though I have never yet been able to find a man, with whom I could prudently venture an inseparable union. It is necessary to expose faults, that their deformity may be seen; but the reproach ought not to be extended beyond the crime, nor either sex to be contemned, because some women, or men, are indelicate or dishonest. I am, &c. TRANQUILLA. No. 120. SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1751. Redditum Cyri solio Phraaten. Dissidens plebi, numero beatorum Eiimit virtus, populumque falsis Dedocet uti Vocibus.--HOR. Lib. ii. Od. ii. 17. True virtue can the crowd unteach Their false mistaken forms of speech; Virtue, to crowds a foe profest, Disdains to number with the blest Phraates, by his slaves ador'd, And to the Parthian crown restor'd. FRANCIS. In the reign of Jenghiz Can, conqueror of the east, in the city of Samarcand, lived Nouradin the merchant, renowned throughout all the regions of India, for the extent of his commerce, and the integrity of his dealings. His warehouses were filled with all the commodities of the remotest nations; every rarity of nature, every curiosity of art, whatever was valuable, whatever was useful, hasted to his hand. The streets were crowded with his carriages; the sea was covered with his ships; the streams of Oxus were wearied with conveyance, and every breeze of the sky wafted wealth to Nouradin. At length Nouradin felt himself seized with a slow malady, which he first endeavoured to divert by application, and afterwards to relieve by luxury and indulgence; but finding his strength every day less, he was at last terrified, and called for help upon the sages of physick; they filled his apartments with alexipharmicks, restoratives, and essential virtues; the pearls of the ocean were dissolved, the spices of Arabia were distilled, and all the powers of nature were employed to give new spirits to his nerves, and new balsam to his blood. Nouradin was for some time amused with promises, invigorated with cordials, or soothed with anodynes; but the disease preyed upon his vitals, and he soon discovered with indignation, that health was not to be bought. He was confined to his chamber, deserted by his physicians, and rarely visited by his friends; but his unwillingness to die flattered him long with hopes of life. At length, having passed the night in tedious languor, he called to him Almamoulin, his only son, and dismissing his attendants, "My son," says he, "behold here the weakness and fragility of man; look backward a few days, thy father was great and happy, fresh as the vernal rose, and strong as the cedar of the mountain; the nations of Asia drank his dews, and art and commerce delighted in his shade. Malevolence beheld me, and sighed: 'His root,' she cried, 'is fixed in the depths; it is watered by the fountains of Oxus; it sends out branches afar, and bids defiance to the blast; prudence reclines against his trunk, and prosperity dances on his top.' Now, Almamoulin, look upon me withering and prostrate; look upon me, and attend. I have trafficked, I have prospered, I have rioted in gain; my house is splendid, my servants are numerous; yet I displayed only a small part of my riches; the rest, which I was hindered from enjoying by the fear of raising envy, or tempting rapacity, I have piled in towers, I have buried in caverns, I have hidden in secret repositories, which this scroll will discover. My purpose was, after ten months more spent in commerce, to have withdrawn my wealth to a safer country; to have given seven years to delight and festivity, and the remaining part of my days to solitude and repentance; but the hand of death is upon me; a frigorifick torpor encroaches upon my veins; I am now leaving the produce of my toil, which it must be thy business to enjoy with wisdom." The thought of leaving his wealth filled Nouradin with such grief, that he fell into convulsions, became delirious, and expired. Almamoulin, who loved his father, was touched a while with honest sorrow, and sat two hours in profound meditation, without perusing the paper which he held in his hand. He then retired to his own chamber, as overborne with affliction, and there read the inventory of his new possessions, which swelled his heart with such transports, that he no longer lamented his father's death. He was now sufficiently composed to order a funeral of modest magnificence, suitable at once to the rank of Nouradin's profession, and the reputation of his wealth. The two next nights he spent in visiting the tower and the caverns, and found the treasures greater to his eye than to his imagination. Almamoulin had been bred to the practice of exact frugality, and had often looked with envy on the finery and expenses of other young men: he therefore believed, that happiness was now in his power, since he could obtain all of which he had hitherto been accustomed to regret the want. He resolved to give a loose to his desires, to revel in enjoyment, and feel pain or uneasiness no more. He immediately procured a splendid equipage, dressed his servants in rich embroidery, and covered his horses with golden caparisons. He showered down silver on the populace, and suffered their acclamations to swell him with insolence. The nobles saw him with anger, the wise men of the state combined against him, the leaders of armies threatened his destruction. Almamoulin was informed of his danger: he put on the robe of mourning in the presence of his enemies, and appeased them with gold, and gems, and supplication. He then sought to strengthen himself by an alliance with the princes of Tartary, and offered the price of kingdoms for a wife of noble birth. His suit was generally rejected, and his presents refused; but the princess of Astracan once condescended to admit him to her presence. She received him, sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and shining with the jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in her eyes, and dignity towered on her forehead. Almamoulin approached and trembled. She saw his confusion and disdained him: "How," says she, "dares the wretch hope my obedience, who thus shrinks at my glance? Retire, and enjoy thy riches in sordid ostentation; thou wast born to be wealthy, but never canst be great." He then contracted his desires to more private and domestick pleasures. He built palaces, he laid out gardens[d], he changed the face of the land, he transplanted forests, he levelled mountains, opened prospects into distant regions, poured fountains from the tops of turrets, and rolled rivers through new channels. These amusements pleased him for a time; but languor and weariness soon invaded him. His bowers lost their fragrance, and the waters murmured without notice. He purchased large tracts of land in distant provinces, adorned them with houses of pleasure, and diversified them with accommodations for different seasons. Change of place at first relieved his satiety, but all the novelties of situation were soon exhausted; he found his heart vacant, and his desires, for want of external objects, ravaging himself. He therefore returned to Samarcand, and set open his doors to those whom idleness sends out in search of pleasure. His tables were always covered with delicacies; wines of every vintage sparkled in his bowls, and his lamps scattered perfumes. The sound of the lute, and the voice of the singer, chased away sadness; every hour was crowded with pleasure; and the day ended and began with feasts and dances, and revelry and merriment. Almamoulin cried out, "I have at last found the use of riches; I am surrounded by companions, who view my greatness without envy; and I enjoy at once the raptures of popularity, and the safety of an obscure station. What trouble can he feel, whom all are studious to please, that they may be repaid with pleasure? What danger can he dread, to whom every man is a friend?" Such were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he looked down from a gallery upon the gay assembly regaling at his expense; but, in the midst of this soliloquy, an officer of justice entered the house, and in the form of legal citation, summoned Almamoulin to appear before the emperor. The guests stood awhile aghast, then stole imperceptibly away, and he was led off without a single voice to witness his integrity. He now found one of his most frequent visitants accusing him of treason, in hopes of sharing his confiscation; yet, unpatronized and unsupported, he cleared himself by the openness of innocence, and the consistence of truth; he was dismissed with honour, and his accuser perished in prison. Almamoulin now perceived with how little reason he had hoped for justice or fidelity from those who live only to gratify their senses; and, being now weary with vain experiments upon life and fruitless researches after felicity, he had recourse to a sage, who, after spending his youth in travel and observation, had retired from all human cares, to a small habitation on the banks of Oxus, where he conversed only with such as solicited his counsel. "Brother," said the philosopher, "thou hast suffered thy reason to be deluded by idle hopes, and fallacious appearances. Having long looked with desire upon riches, thou hadst taught thyself to think them more valuable than nature designed them, and to expect from them, what experience has now taught thee, that they cannot give. That they do not confer wisdom, thou mayest be convinced, by considering at how dear a price they tempted thee, upon thy first entrance into the world, to purchase the empty sound of vulgar acclamation. That they cannot bestow fortitude or magnanimity, that man may be certain, who stood trembling at Astracan, before a being not naturally superior to himself. That they will not supply unexhausted pleasure, the recollection of forsaken palaces, and neglected gardens, will easily inform thee. That they rarely purchase friends, thou didst soon discover, when thou wert left to stand thy trial uncountenanced and alone. Yet think not riches useless; there are purposes to which a wise man may be delighted to apply them; they may, by a rational distribution to those who want them, ease the pains of helpless disease, still the throbs of restless anxiety, relieve innocence from oppression, and raise imbecility to cheerfulness and vigour. This they will enable thee to perform, and this will afford the only happiness ordained for our present state, the confidence of Divine favour, and the hope of future rewards." [Footnote d: See Vathek.] No. 121. TUESDAY, MAY 14, 1751. O imitatores, servum pecus! Hor. Lib. i. Ep. xix. 19. Away, ye imitators, servile herd! ELPHINSTON. I have been informed by a letter from one of the universities, that among the youth from whom the next swarm of reasoners is to learn philosophy, and the next flight of beauties to hear elegies and sonnets, there are many, who, instead of endeavouring by books and meditation to form their own opinions, content themselves with the secondary knowledge, which a convenient bench in a coffee-house can supply; and without any examination or distinction, adopt the criticisms and remarks, which happen to drop from those who have risen, by merit or fortune, to reputation and authority. These humble retailers of knowledge my correspondent stigmatises with the name of Echoes; and seems desirous that they should be made ashamed of lazy submission, and animated to attempts after new discoveries and original sentiments. It is very natural for young men to be vehement, acrimonious, and severe. For, as they seldom comprehend at once all the consequences of a position, or perceive the difficulties by which cooler and more experienced reasoners are restrained from confidence, they form their conclusions with great precipitance. Seeing nothing that can darken or embarrass the question, they expect to find their own opinion universally prevalent, and are inclined to impute uncertainty and hesitation to want of honesty, rather than of knowledge. I may, perhaps, therefore, be reproached by my lively correspondent, when it shall be found, that I have no inclination to persecute these collectors of fortuitous knowledge with the severity required; yet, as I am now too old to be much pained by hasty censure, I shall not be afraid of taking into protection those whom I think condemned without a sufficient knowledge of their cause. He that adopts the sentiments of another, whom he has reason to believe wiser than himself, is only to be blamed when he claims the honours which are not due but to the author, and endeavours to deceive the world into praise and veneration; for, to learn, is the proper business of youth; and whether we increase our knowledge by books or by conversation, we are equally indebted to foreign assistance. The greater part of students are not born with abilities to construct systems, or advance knowledge; nor can have any hope beyond that of becoming intelligent hearers in the schools of art, of being able to comprehend what others discover, and to remember what others teach. Even those to whom Providence hath allotted greater strength of understanding, can expect only to improve a single science. In every other part of learning, they must be content to follow opinions, which they are not able to examine; and, even in that which they claim as peculiarly their own, can seldom add more than some small particle of knowledge, to the hereditary stock devolved to them from ancient times, the collective labour of a thousand intellects. In science, which, being fixed and limited, admits of no other variety than such as arises from new methods of distribution, or new arts of illustration, the necessity of following the traces of our predecessors is indisputably evident; but there appears no reason, why imagination should be subject to the same restraint. It might be conceived, that of those who profess to forsake the narrow paths of truth, every one may deviate towards a different point, since, though rectitude is uniform and fixed, obliquity may be infinitely diversified. The roads of science are narrow, so that they who travel them, must either follow or meet one another; but in the boundless regions of possibility, which fiction claims for her dominion, there are surely a thousand recesses unexplored, a thousand flowers unplucked, a thousand fountains unexhausted, combinations of imagery yet unobserved, and races of ideal inhabitants not hitherto described. Yet, whatever hope may persuade, or reason evince, experience can boast of very few additions to ancient fable. The wars of Troy, and the travels of Ulysses, have furnished almost all succeeding poets with incidents, characters, and sentiments. The Romans are confessed to have attempted little more than to display in their own tongue the inventions of the Greeks. There is, in all their writings, such a perpetual recurrence of allusions to the tales of the fabulous age, that they must be confessed often to want that power of giving pleasure which novelty supplies; nor can we wonder that they excelled so much in the graces of diction, when we consider how rarely they were employed in search of new thoughts. The warmest admirers of the great Mantuan poet can extol him for little more than the skill with which he has, by making his hero both a traveller and a warrior, united the beauties of the Iliad and the Odyssey in one composition: yet his judgment was perhaps sometimes overborne by his avarice of the Homeric treasures; and, for fear of suffering a sparkling ornament to be lost, he has inserted it where it cannot shine with its original splendour. When Ulysses visited the infernal regions, he found among the heroes that perished at Troy, his competitor, Ajax, who, when the arms of Achilles were adjudged to Ulysses, died by his own hand in the madness of disappointment. He still appeared to resent, as on earth, his loss and disgrace, Ulysses endeavoured to pacify him with praises and submission; but Ajax walked away without reply. This passage has always been considered as eminently beautiful; because Ajax, the haughty chief, the unlettered soldier, of unshaken courage, of immovable constancy, but without the power of recommending his own virtues by eloquence, or enforcing his assertions by any other argument than the sword, had no way of making his anger known, but by gloomy sullenness and dumb ferocity. His hatred of a man whom he conceived to have defeated him only by volubility of tongue, was therefore naturally shewn by silence more contemptuous and piercing than any words that so rude an orator could have found, and by which he gave his enemy no opportunity of exerting the only power in which he was superior. When Æneas is sent by Virgil to the shades, he meets Dido the queen of Carthage, whom his perfidy had hurried to the grave; he accosts her with tenderness and excuses; but the lady turns away like Ajax in mute disdain. She turns away like Ajax; but she resembles him in none of those qualities which give either dignity or propriety to silence. She might, without any departure from the tenour of her conduct, have burst out like other injured women into clamour, reproach, and denunciation; but Virgil had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore could not prevail on himself to teach Dido any other mode of resentment. If Virgil could be thus seduced by imitation, there will be little hope, that common wits should escape; and accordingly we find, that besides the universal and acknowledged practice of copying the ancients, there has prevailed in every age a particular species of fiction. At one time all truth was conveyed in allegory; at another, nothing was seen but in a vision; at one period all the poets followed sheep, and every event produced a pastoral; at another they busied themselves wholly in giving directions to a painter. It is indeed easy to conceive why any fashion should become popular, by which idleness is favoured, and imbecility assisted; but surely no man of genius can much applaud himself for repeating a tale with which the audience is already tired, and which could bring no honour to any but its inventor. There are, I think, two schemes of writing, on which the laborious wits of the present time employ their faculties. One is the adaptation of sense to all the rhymes which our language can supply to some word, that makes the burden of the stanza; but this, as it has been only used in a kind of amorous burlesque, can scarcely be censured with much acrimony. The other is the imitation of Spenser, which, by the influence of some men of learning and genius, seems likely to gain upon the age, and therefore deserves to be more attentively considered. To imitate the fictions and sentiments of Spenser can incur no reproach, for allegory is perhaps one of the most pleasing vehicles of instruction. But I am very far from extending the same respect to his diction or his stanza. His style was in his own time allowed to be vicious, so darkened with old words and peculiarities of phrase, and so remote from common use, that Jonson boldly pronounces him _to have written no language_. His stanza is at once difficult and unpleasing; tiresome to the ear by its uniformity, and to the attention by its length. It was at first formed in imitation of the Italian poets, without due regard to the genius of our language. The Italians have little variety of termination, and were forced to contrive such a stanza as might admit the greatest number of similar rhymes; but our words end with so much diversity, that it is seldom convenient for us to bring more than two of the same sound together. If it be justly observed by Milton, that rhyme obliges poets to express their thoughts in improper terms, these improprieties must always be multiplied, as the difficulty of rhyme is increased by long concatenations. The imitators of Spenser are indeed not very rigid censors of themselves, for they seem to conclude, that when they have disfigured their lines with a few obsolete syllables, they have accomplished their design, without considering that they ought not only to admit old words, but to avoid new. The laws of imitation are broken by every word introduced since the time of Spenser, as the character of Hector is violated by quoting Aristotle in the play. It would, indeed, be difficult to exclude from a long poem all modern phrases, though it is easy to sprinkle it with gleanings of antiquity. Perhaps, however, the style of Spenser might by long labour be justly copied; but life is surely given us for higher purposes than to gather what our ancestors have wisely thrown away, and to learn what is of no value, but because it has been forgotten. No. 122. SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1751. Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine captos Ducit. OVID, Ex Pon. Lib. i. Ep. iii. 35. By secret charms our native land attracts. Nothing is more subject to mistake and disappointment than anticipated judgment concerning the easiness or difficulty of any undertaking, whether we form our opinion from the performances of others, or from abstracted contemplation of the thing to be attempted. Whatever is done skilfully appears to be done with ease; and art, when it is once matured to habit, vanishes from observation. We are therefore more powerfully excited to emulation, by those who have attained the highest degree of excellence, and whom we can therefore with least reason hope to equal. In adjusting the probability of success by a previous consideration of the undertaking, we are equally in danger of deceiving ourselves. It is never easy, nor often possible, to comprise the series of any process with all its circumstances, incidents, and variations, in a speculative scheme. Experience soon shows us the tortuosities of imaginary rectitude, the complications of simplicity, and the asperities of smoothness. Sudden difficulties often start up from the ambushes of art, stop the career of activity, repress the gaiety of confidence, and when we imagine ourselves almost at the end of our labours, drive us back to new plans and different measures. There are many things which we every day see others unable to perform, and perhaps have even ourselves miscarried in attempting; and yet can hardly allow to be difficult; nor can we forbear to wonder afresh at every new failure, or to promise certainty of success to our next essay; but when we try, the same hindrances recur, the same inability is perceived, and the vexation of disappointment must again be suffered. Of the various kinds of speaking or writing, which serve necessity, or promote pleasure, none appears so artless or easy as simple narration; for what should make him that knows the whole order and progress of an affair unable to relate it? Yet we hourly find such as endeavour to entertain or instruct us by recitals, clouding the facts which they intend to illustrate, and losing themselves and their auditors in wilds and mazes, in digression and confusion. When we have congratulated ourselves upon a new opportunity of inquiry, and new means of information, it often happens, that without designing either deceit or concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or unwillingness to disclose it, the relator fills the ear with empty sounds, harasses the attention with fruitless impatience, and disturbs the imagination by a tumult of events, without order of time, or train of consequence. It is natural to believe, upon the same principle, that no writer has a more easy task than the historian. The philosopher has the works of omniscience to examine; and is therefore engaged in disquisitions, to which finite intellects are utterly unequal. The poet trusts to his invention, and is not only in danger of those inconsistencies, to which every one is exposed by departure from truth; but may be censured as well for deficiencies of matter, as for irregularity of disposition, or impropriety of ornament. But the happy historian has no other labour than of gathering what tradition pours down before him, or records treasure for his use. He has only the actions and designs of men like himself to conceive and to relate; he is not to form, but copy characters, and therefore is not blamed for the inconsistency of statesmen, the injustice of tyrants, or the cowardice of commanders. The difficulty of making variety consistent, or uniting probability with surprise, needs not to disturb him; the manners and actions of his personages are already fixed; his materials are provided and put into his hands, and he is at leisure to employ all his powers in arranging and displaying them. Yet, even with these advantages, very few in any age have been able to raise themselves to reputation by writing histories; and among the innumerable authors, who fill every nation with accounts of their ancestors, or undertake to transmit to futurity the events of their own time, the greater part, when fashion and novelty have ceased to recommend them, are of no other use than chronological memorials, which necessity may sometimes require to be consulted, but which fright away curiosity, and disgust delicacy. It is observed, that our nation, which has produced so many authors eminent for almost every other species of literary excellence, has been hitherto remarkably barren of historical genius; and so far has this defect raised prejudices against us, that some have doubted whether an Englishman can stop at that mediocrity of style, or confine his mind to that even tenour of imagination, which narrative requires. They who can believe that nature has so capriciously distributed understanding, have surely no claim to the honour of serious confutation. The inhabitants of the same country have opposite characters in different ages; the prevalence or neglect of any particular study can proceed only from the accidental influence of some temporary cause; and if we have failed in history, we can have failed only because history has not hitherto been diligently cultivated. But how is it evident, that we have not historians among us, whom we may venture to place in comparison with any that the neighbouring nations can produce? The attempt of Raleigh is deservedly celebrated for the labour of his researches, and the elegance of his style; but he has endeavoured to exert his judgment more than his genius, to select facts, rather than adorn them; and has produced an historical dissertation, but seldom risen to the majesty of history. The works of Clarendon deserve more regard. His diction is indeed neither exact in itself, nor suited to the purpose of history. It is the effusion of a mind crowded with ideas, and desirous of imparting them; and therefore always accumulating words, and involving one clause and sentence in another. But there is in his negligence a rude inartificial majesty, which, without the nicety of laboured elegance, swells the mind by its plenitude and diffusion. His narration is not perhaps sufficiently rapid, being stopped too frequently by particularities, which, though they might strike the author who was present at the transactions, will not equally detain the attention of posterity. But his ignorance or carelessness of the art of writing is amply compensated by his knowledge of nature and of policy; the wisdom of his maxims, the justness of his reasonings, and the variety, distinctness, and strength of his characters. But none of our writers can, in my opinion, justly contest the superiority of Knolles, who, in his history of the Turks, has displayed all the excellencies that narration can admit. His style, though somewhat obscured by time, and sometimes vitiated by false wit, is pure, nervous, elevated, and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is so artfully arranged, and so distinctly explained, that each facilitates the knowledge of the next. Whenever a new personage is introduced, the reader is prepared by his character for his actions; when a nation is first attacked, or city besieged, he is made acquainted with its history, or situation; so that a great part of the world is brought into view. The descriptions of this author are without minuteness, and the digressions without ostentation. Collateral events are so artfully woven into the contexture of his principal story, that they cannot be disjoined without leaving it lacerated and broken. There is nothing turgid in his dignity, nor superfluous in his copiousness. His orations only, which he feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been pronounced on remarkable occasions, are tedious and languid; and since they are merely the voluntary sports of imagination, prove how much the most judicious and skilful may be mistaken in the estimate of their own powers. Nothing could have sunk this author in obscurity, but the remoteness and barbarity of the people, whose story he relates. It seldom happens, that all circumstances concur to happiness or fame. The nation which produced this great historian, has the grief of seeing his genius employed upon a foreign and uninteresting subject; and that writer who might have secured perpetuity to his name, by a history of his own country, has exposed himself to the danger of oblivion, by recounting enterprises and revolutions, of which none desire to be informed. No. 123. TUESDAY, MAY 21, 1751. _Quo semet est imbuta recens, servabit odorem Testa din_.--HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 69. What season'd first the vessel, keeps the taste. CREECH. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Though I have so long found myself deluded by projects of honour and distinction, that I often resolve to admit them no more into my heart; yet how determinately soever excluded, they always recover their dominion by force or stratagem; and whenever, after the shortest relaxation of vigilance, reason and caution return to their charge, they find hope again in possession, with all her train of pleasures dancing about her. Even while I am preparing to write a history of disappointed expectations, I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that you and your readers are impatient for my performance; and that the sons of learning have laid down several of your late papers with discontent, when they found that Misocapelus had delayed to continue his narrative. But the desire of gratifying the expectations that I have raised, is not the only motive of this relation, which, having once promised it, I think myself no longer at liberty to forbear. For, however I may have wished to clear myself from every other adhesion of trade, I hope I shall be always wise enough to retain my punctuality, and amidst all my new arts of politeness, continue to despise negligence, and detest falsehood. When the death of my brother had dismissed me from the duties of a shop, I considered myself as restored to the rights of my birth, and entitled to the rank and reception which my ancestors obtained. I was, however, embarrassed with many difficulties at my first re-entrance into the world; for my haste to be a gentleman inclined me to precipitate measures; and every accident that forced me back towards my old station, was considered by me as an obstruction of my happiness. It was with no common grief and indignation, that I found my former companions still daring to claim my notice, and the journeymen and apprentices sometimes pulling me by the sleeve as I was walking in the street, and without any terrour of my new sword, which was, notwithstanding, of an uncommon size, inviting me to partake of a bottle at the old house, and entertaining me with histories of the girls in the neighbourhood. I had always, in my officinal state, been kept in awe by lace and embroidery; and imagined that, to fright away these unwelcome familiarities, nothing was necessary, but that I should, by splendour of dress, proclaim my re-union with a higher rank. I, therefore, sent for my tailor; ordered a suit with twice the usual quantity of lace; and that I might not let my persecutors increase their confidence, by the habit of accosting me, staid at home till it was made. This week of confinement I passed in practising a forbidding frown, a smile of condescension, a slight salutation, and an abrupt departure; and in four mornings was able to turn upon my heel, with so much levity and sprightliness, that I made no doubt of discouraging all publick attempts upon my dignity. I therefore issued forth in my new coat, with a resolution of dazzling intimacy to a fitter distance; and pleased myself with the timidity and reverence, which I should impress upon all who had hitherto presumed to harass me with their freedoms. But, whatever was the cause, I did not find myself received with any new degree of respect; those whom I intended to drive from me, ventured to advance with their usual phrases of benevolence; and those whose acquaintance I solicited, grew more supercilious and reserved. I began soon to repent the expense, by which I had procured no advantage, and to suspect that a shining dress, like a weighty weapon, has no force in itself, but owes all its efficacy to him that wears it. Many were the mortifications and calamities which I was condemned to suffer in my initiation to politeness. I was so much tortured by the incessant civilities of my companions, that I never passed through that region of the city but in a chair with the curtains drawn; and at last left my lodgings, and fixed myself in the verge of the court. Here I endeavoured to be thought a gentleman just returned from his travels, and was pleased to have my landlord believe that I was in some danger from importunate creditors; but this scheme was quickly defeated by a formal deputation sent to offer me, though I had now retired from business, the freedom of my company. I was now detected in trade, and therefore resolved to stay no longer. I hired another apartment, and changed my servants. Here I lived very happily for three months, and, with secret satisfaction, often overheard the family celebrating the greatness and felicity of the esquire; though the conversation seldom ended without some complaint of my covetousness, or some remark upon my language, or my gait. I now began to venture in the publick walks, and to know the faces of nobles and beauties; but could not observe, without wonder, as I passed by them, how frequently they were talking of a tailor. I longed, however, to be admitted to conversation, and was somewhat weary of walking in crowds without a companion, yet continued to come and go with the rest, till a lady whom I endeavoured to protect in a crowded passage, as she was about to step into her chariot, thanked me for my civility, and told me, that, as she had often distinguished me for my modest and respectful behaviour, whenever I set up for myself, I might expect to see her among my first customers. Here was an end of all my ambulatory projects. I indeed sometimes entered the walks again, but was always blasted by this destructive lady, whose mischievous generosity recommended me to her acquaintance. Being therefore forced to practise my adscititious character upon another stage, I betook myself to a coffee-house frequented by wits, among whom I learned in a short time the cant of criticism, and talked so loudly and volubly of nature, and manners, and sentiment, and diction, and similies, and contrasts, and action, and pronunciation, that I was often desired to lead the hiss and clap, and was feared and hated by the players and the poets. Many a sentence have I hissed, which I did not understand, and many a groan have I uttered, when the ladies were weeping in the boxes. At last a malignant author, whose performance I had persecuted through the nine nights, wrote an epigram upon Tape the critick, which drove me from the pit for ever. My desire to be a fine gentleman still continued: I therefore, after a short suspense, chose a new set of friends at the gaming-table, and was for some time pleased with the civility and openness with which I found myself treated. I was indeed obliged to play; but being naturally timorous and vigilant, was never surprised into large sums. What might have been the consequence of long familiarity with these plunderers, I had not an opportunity of knowing; for one night the constables entered and seized us, and I was once more compelled to sink into my former condition, by sending for my old master to attest my character. When I was deliberating to what new qualifications I should aspire, I was summoned into the country, by an account of my father's death. Here I had hopes of being able to distinguish myself, and to support the honour of my family. I therefore bought guns and horses, and, contrary to the expectation of the tenants, increased the salary of the huntsman. But when I entered the field, it was soon discovered, that I was not destined to the glories of the chase. I was afraid of thorns in the thicket, and of dirt in the marsh; I shivered on the brink of a river while the sportsmen crossed it, and trembled at the sight of a five-bar gate. When the sport and danger were over, I was still equally disconcerted; for I was effeminate, though not delicate, and could only join a feeble whispering voice in the clamours of their triumph. A fall, by which my ribs were broken, soon recalled me to domestick pleasures, and I exerted all my art to obtain the favour of the neighbouring ladies; but wherever I came, there was always some unlucky conversation upon ribands, fillets, pins, or thread, which drove all my stock of compliments out of my memory, and overwhelmed me with shame and dejection. Thus I passed the ten first years after the death of my brother, in which I have learned at last to repress that ambition, which I could never gratify; and, instead of wasting more of my life in vain endeavours after accomplishments, which, if not early acquired, no endeavours can obtain, I shall confine my care to those higher excellencies which are in every man's power, and though I cannot enchant affection by elegance and ease, hope to secure esteem by honesty and truth. I am, &c. MISOCAPELUS. No. 124. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1751. --Taciturn sylvas inter reptare salubres, Curantem quicquid dignim sapiente bonoque est? HOR. Lib. i. Ep. iv. 4. To range in silence through each healthful wood, And muse what's worthy of the wise and good. ELPHINSTON. The season of the year is now come, in which the theatres are shut, and the card-tables forsaken; the regions of luxury are for a while unpeopled, and pleasure leads out her votaries to groves and gardens, to still scenes and erratick gratifications. Those who have passed many months in a continual tumult of diversion; who have never opened their eyes in the morning, but upon some new appointment; nor slept at night without a dream of dances, musick, and good hands, or of soft sighs and humble supplications; must now retire to distant provinces, where the syrens of flattery are scarcely to be heard, where beauty sparkles without praise or envy, and wit is repeated only by the echo. As I think it one of the most important duties of social benevolence to give warning of the approach of calamity, when by timely prevention it may be turned aside, or by preparatory measures be more easily endured, I cannot feel the increasing warmth, or observe the lengthening days, without considering the condition of my fair readers, who are now preparing to leave all that has so long filled up their hours, all from which they have been accustomed to hope for delight; and who, till fashion proclaims the liberty of returning to the seats of mirth and elegance, must endure the rugged 'squire, the sober housewife, the loud huntsman, or the formal parson, the roar of obstreperous jollity, or the dulness of prudential instruction; without any retreat, but to the gloom of solitude, where they will yet find greater inconveniencies, and must learn, however unwillingly, to endure themselves. In winter, the life of the polite and gay may be said to roll on with a strong and rapid current; they float along from pleasure to pleasure, without the trouble of regulating their own motions, and pursue the course of the stream in all the felicity of inattention; content that they find themselves in progression, and careless whither they are going. But the months of summer are a kind of sleeping stagnation without wind or tide, where they are left to force themselves forward by their own labour, and to direct their passage by their own skill; and where, if they have not some internal principle of activity, they must be stranded upon shallows, or lie torpid in a perpetual calm. There are, indeed, some to whom this universal dissolution of gay societies affords a welcome opportunity of quitting, without disgrace, the post which they have found themselves unable to maintain; and of seeming to retreat only at the call of nature, from assemblies where, after a short triumph of uncontested superiority, they are overpowered by some new intruder of softer elegance or sprightlier vivacity. By these, hopeless of victory, and yet ashamed to confess a conquest, the summer is regarded as a release from the fatiguing service of celebrity, a dismission to more certain joys and a safer empire. They now solace themselves with the influence which they shall obtain, where they have no rival to fear; and with the lustre which they shall effuse, when nothing can be seen of brighter splendour. They imagine, while they are preparing for their journey, the admiration with which the rusticks will crowd about them; plan the laws of a new assembly; or contrive to delude provincial ignorance with a fictitious mode. A thousand pleasing expectations swarm in the fancy; and all the approaching weeks are filled with distinctions, honours, and authority. But others, who have lately entered the world, or have yet had no proofs of its inconstancy and desertion, are cut off, by this cruel interruption, from the enjoyment of their prerogatives, and doomed to lose four months in inactive obscurity. Many complaints do vexation and desire extort from those exiled tyrants of the town, against the inexorable sun, who pursues his course without any regard to love or beauty; and visits either tropick at the stated time, whether shunned or courted, deprecated or implored. To them who leave the places of publick resort in the full bloom of reputation, and withdraw from admiration, courtship, submission, and applause, a rural triumph can give nothing equivalent. The praise of ignorance, and the subjection of weakness, are little regarded by beauties who have been accustomed to more important conquests, and more valuable panegyricks. Nor indeed should the powers which have made havock in the theatres, or borne down rivalry in courts, be degraded to a mean attack upon the untravelled heir, or ignoble contest with the ruddy milkmaid. How then must four long months be worn away? Four months, in which there will be no routes, no shows, no ridottos; in which visits must be regulated by the weather, and assemblies will depend upon the moon! The Platonists imagine, that the future punishment of those who have in this life debased their reason by subjection to their senses, and have preferred the gross gratifications of lewdness and luxury, to the pure and sublime felicity of virtue and contemplation, will arise from the predominance and solicitations of the same appetites, in a state which can furnish no means of appeasing them. I cannot but suspect that this month, bright with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes; this month, which covers the meadow with verdure, and decks the gardens with all the mixtures of colorifick radiance; this month, from which the man of fancy expects new infusions of imagery, and the naturalist new scenes of observation; this month will chain down multitudes to the Platonick penance of desire without enjoyment, and hurry them from the highest satisfactions, which they have yet learned to conceive, into a state of hopeless wishes and pining recollection, where the eye of vanity will look round for admiration to no purpose, and the hand of avarice shuffle cards in a bower with ineffectual dexterity. From the tediousness of this melancholy suspension of life, I would willingly preserve those who are exposed to it, only by inexperience; who want not inclination to wisdom or virtue, though they have been dissipated by negligence, or misled by example; and who would gladly find the way to rational happiness, though it should be necessary to struggle with habit, and abandon fashion. To these many arts of spending time might be recommended, which would neither sadden the present hour with weariness, nor the future with repentance. It would seem impossible to a solitary speculatist, that a human being can want employment. To be born in ignorance with a capacity of knowledge, and to be placed in the midst of a world filled with variety, perpetually pressing upon the senses and irritating curiosity, is surely a sufficient security against the languishment of inattention. Novelty is indeed necessary to preserve eagerness and alacrity; but art and nature have stores inexhaustible by human intellects; and every moment produces something new to him, who has quickened his faculties by diligent observation. Some studies, for which the country and the summer afford peculiar opportunities, I shall perhaps endeavour to recommend in a future essay; but if there be any apprehension not apt to admit unaccustomed ideas, or any attention so stubborn and inflexible, as not easily to comply with new directions, even these obstructions cannot exclude the pleasure of application; for there is a higher and nobler employment, to which all faculties are adapted by Him who gave them. The duties of religion, sincerely and regularly performed, will always be sufficient to exalt the meanest, and to exercise the highest understanding. That mind will never be vacant, which is frequently recalled by stated duties to meditations on eternal interests; nor can any hour be long, which is spent in obtaining some new qualification for celestial happiness. No. 125. TUESDAY, MAY 28, 1751. _Descriptas servare vices, operumque colores, Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poëta salutor?_ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 86. But if, through weakness, or my want of art, I can't to every different style impart The proper strokes and colours it may claim, Why am I honour'd with a poet's name? FRANCIS. It is one of the maxims of the civil law, that _definitions are hazardous_. Things modified by human understandings, subject to varieties of complication, and changeable as experience advances knowledge, or accident influences caprice, are scarcely to be included in any standing form of expression, because they are always suffering some alteration of their state. Definition is, indeed, not the province of man; every thing is set above or below our faculties. The works and operations of nature are too great in their extent, or too much diffused in their relations, and the performances of art too inconstant and uncertain, to be reduced to any determinate idea. It is impossible to impress upon our minds an adequate and just representation of an object so great that we can never take it into our view, or so mutable that it is always changing under our eye, and has already lost its form while we are labouring to conceive it. Definitions have been no less difficult or uncertain in criticisms than in law. Imagination, a licentious and vagrant faculty, unsusceptible of limitations, and impatient of restraint, has always endeavoured to baffle the logician, to perplex the confines of distinction, and burst the inclosures of regularity. There is therefore scarcely any species of writing, of which we can tell what is its essence, and what are its constituents; every new genius produces some innovation, which, when invented and approved, subverts the rules which the practice of foregoing authors had established. Comedy has been particularly unpropitious to definers; for though perhaps they might properly have contented themselves, with declaring it to be _such a dramatick representation of human life, as may excite mirth_, they have embarrassed their definition with the means by which the comick writers attain their end, without considering that the various methods of exhilarating their audience, not being limited by nature, cannot be comprised in precept. Thus, some make comedy a representation of mean and others of bad men; some think that its essence consists in the unimportance, others in the fictitiousness of the transaction. But any man's reflections will inform him, that every dramatick composition which raises mirth, is comick; and that, to raise mirth, it is by no means universally necessary, that the personages should be either mean or corrupt, nor always requisite, that the action should be trivial, nor ever, that it should be fictitious. If the two kinds of dramatick poetry had been defined only by their effects upon the mind, some absurdities might have been prevented, with which the compositions of our greatest poets are disgraced, who, for want of some settled ideas and accurate distinctions, have unhappily confounded tragick with comick sentiments. They seem to have thought, that as the meanest of personages constituted comedy, their greatness was sufficient to form a tragedy; and that nothing was necessary but that they should crowd the scene with monarchs, and generals, and guards; and make them talk, at certain intervals, of the downfall of kingdoms, and the rout of armies. They have not considered, that thoughts or incidents, in themselves ridiculous, grow still more grotesque by the solemnity of such characters; that reason and nature are uniform and inflexible: and that what is despicable and absurd, will not, by any association with splendid titles, become rational or great; that the most important affairs, by an intermixture of an unseasonable levity, may be made contemptible; and that the robes of royalty can give no dignity to nonsense or to folly. "Comedy," says Horace, "sometimes raises her voice;" and Tragedy may likewise on proper occasions abate her dignity; but as the comick personages can only depart from their familiarity of style, when the more violent passions are put in motion, the heroes and queens of tragedy should never descend to trifle, but in the hours of ease, and intermissions of danger. Yet in the tragedy of Don Sebastian, when the king of Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and having just drawn the lot, by which he is condemned to die, breaks out into a wild boast that his dust shall take possession of Africk, the dialogue proceeds thus between the captive and his conqueror: _Muley Moluch_. What shall I do to conquer thee? _Seb_. Impossible! Souls know no conquerors. _M. Mol_. I'll shew thee for a monster thro' my Afric. _Seb_. No, thou canst only shew me for a man: Afric is stored with monsters; man's a prodigy Thy subjects have not seen. _M. Mol_. Thou talk'st as if Still at the head of battle. _Seb_. Thou mistak'st, For there I would not talk. _Benducar, the Minister_. Sure he would sleep. This conversation, with the sly remark of the minister, can only be found not to be comick, because it wants the probability necessary to representations of common life, and degenerates too much towards buffoonery and farce. The same play affords a smart return of the general to to the emperor, who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebastian, vents his impatience in this abrupt threat: --No more replies, But see thou dost it: Or-- To which Dorax answers, Choak in that threat: I can say Or as loud. A thousand instances of such impropriety might be produced, were not one scene in Aureng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, a captive queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whose charge she had been entrusted, and whom she had made sensible of her charms, to carry her message to his rival. ARIMANT, _with a letter in his hand_: INDAMORA. _Arim_. And I the messenger to him from you? Your empire you to tyranny pursue: You lay commands both cruel and unjust, To serve my rival, and betray my trust. _Ind_. You first betray'd your trust in loving me: And should not I my own advantage see? Serving my love, you may my friendship gain; You know the rest of your pretences vain. You must, my Arimant, you must be kind: 'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind. _Arim_. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign. _Ind_. His trust you may, but you shall never mine. Heaven made you love me for no other end, But to become my confidant and friend: As such, I keep no secret from your sight, And therefore make you judge how ill I write: Read it, and tell me freely then your mind, If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind. Arim. _I ask not heaven my freedom to restore_--[Reading. _But only for your sake_--I'll read no more. And yet I must-- _Less for my own, than for your sorrow sad_--[Reading. Another line like this, would make me mad-- Heav'n! she goes on--yet more--and yet more kind! [--_As reading_. Each sentence is a dagger to my mind. _See me this night_--[Reading. _Thank fortune who did such a friend provide; For faithful Arimant shall be your guide_. Not only to be made an instrument, But pre-engaged without my own consent! _Ind_. Unknown to engage you still augments my score, And gives you scope of meriting the more. _Arim_. The best of men Some int'rest in their actions must confess; None merit, but in hope they may possess: The fatal paper rather let me tear, Than, like Bellerophon, my own sentence hear. _Ind_. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice: 'Twill only give me pains of writing twice. You know you must obey me, soon or late: Why should you vainly struggle with your fate? _Arim_. I thank thee, heav'n! thou hast been wondrous kind! Why am I thus to slavery design'd, And yet am cheated with a free-born mind! Or make thy orders with my reason suit, Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute--[_She frowns_. You frown, and I obey with speed, before That dreadful sentence comes, _See me no more_. In this scene, every circumstance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The wild absurdity of the expedient; the contemptible subjection of the lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter, only because it ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interruptions of amorous impatience; the faint expostulations of a voluntary slave; the imperious haughtiness of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wise wish to lose his reason as soon as he finds himself about to do what he cannot persuade his reason to approve, are sufficient to awaken the most torpid risibility. There is scarce a tragedy of the last century which has not debased its most important incidents, and polluted its most serious interlocutions, with buffoonery and meanness; but though, perhaps, it cannot be pretended that the present age has added much to the force and efficacy of the drama, it has at least been able to escape many faults, which either ignorance had overlooked, or indulgence had licensed. The later tragedies, indeed, have faults of another kind, perhaps more destructive to delight, though less open to censure. That perpetual tumour of phrase with which every thought is now expressed by every personage, the paucity of adventures which regularity admits, and the unvaried equality of flowing dialogue, has taken away from our present writers almost all that dominion over the passions which was the boast of their predecessors. Yet they may at least claim this commendation, that they avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often move terrour or pity, they are always careful not to provoke laughter. No. 126. SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751. _--Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta_. VET. AUCT. Sands form the mountain, moments make the year. YOUNG. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Among other topicks of conversation which your papers supply, I was lately engaged in a discussion of the character given by Tranquilla of her lover Venustulus, whom, notwithstanding the severity of his mistress, the greater number seemed inclined to acquit of unmanly or culpable timidity. One of the company remarked that prudence ought to be distinguished from fear; and that if Venustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, no man who considered how much every avenue of the town was infested with robbers could think him blameable; for why should life be hazarded without prospect of honour or advantage? Another was of opinion, that a brave man might be afraid of crossing the river in the calmest weather, and declared, that, for his part, while there were coaches and a bridge, he would never be seen tottering in a wooden case, out of which he might be thrown by any irregular agitation, or which might be overset by accident, or negligence, or by the force of a sudden gust, or the rush of a larger vessel. It was his custom, he said, to keep the security of daylight, and dry ground; for it was a maxim with him, that no wise man ever perished by water, or was lost in the dark. The next was humbly of opinion, that if Tranquilla had seen, like him, the cattle run roaring about the meadows in the hot months, she would not have thought meanly of her lover for not venturing his safety among them. His neighbour then told us, that for his part he was not ashamed to confess, that he could not see a rat, though it was dead, without palpitation; that he had been driven six times out of his lodgings either by rats or mice; and that he always had a bed in the closet for his servant, whom he called up whenever the enemy was in motion. Another wondered that any man should think himself disgraced by a precipitate retreat from a dog; for there was always a possibility that a dog might be mad; and that surely, though there was no danger but of being bit by a fierce animal, there was more wisdom in flight than contest. By all these declarations another was encouraged to confess, that if he had been admitted to the honour of paying his addresses to Tranquilla, he should have been likely to incur the same censure; for, among all the animals upon which nature has impressed deformity and horrour, there is none whom he durst not encounter rather than a beetle. Thus, Sir, though cowardice is universally defined too close and anxious an attention to personal safety, there will be found scarcely any fear, however excessive in its degree, or unreasonable in its object, which will be allowed to characterise a coward. Fear is a passion which every man feels so frequently predominant in his own breast, that he is unwilling to hear it censured with great asperity; and, perhaps, if we confess the truth, the same restraint which would hinder a man from declaiming against the frauds of any employment among those who profess it, should withhold him from treating fear with contempt among human beings. Yet, since fortitude is one of those virtues which the condition of our nature makes hourly necessary, I think you cannot better direct your admonitions than against superfluous and panick terrours. Fear is implanted in us as a preservative from evil; but its duty, like that of other passions, is not to overbear reason, but to assist it; nor should it be suffered to tyrannize in the imagination, to raise phantoms of horrour, or beset life with supernumerary distresses. To be always afraid of losing life is, indeed, scarcely to enjoy a life that can deserve the care of preservation. He that once indulges idle fears will never be at rest. Our present state admits only of a kind of negative security; we must conclude ourselves safe when we see no danger, or none inadequate to our powers of opposition. Death, indeed, continually hovers about us, but hovers commonly unseen, unless we sharpen our sight by useless curiosity. There is always a point at which caution, however solicitous, must limit its preservatives, because one terrour often counteracts another. I once knew one of the speculatists of cowardice, whose reigning disturbance was the dread of housebreakers. His inquiries were for nine years employed upon the best method of barring a window, or a door; and many an hour has he spent in establishing the preference of a bolt to a lock. He had at last, by the daily superaddition of new expedients, contrived a door which could never be forced; for one bar was secured by another with such intricacy of subordination, that he was himself not always able to disengage them in the proper method. He was happy in this fortification, till being asked how he would escape if he was threatened by fire, he discovered, that with all his care and expense, he had only been assisting his own destruction. He then immediately tore off his bolts, and now leaves at night his outer door half-locked, that he may not by his own folly perish in the flames. There is one species of terrour which those who are unwilling to suffer the reproach of cowardice have wisely dignified with the name of _antipathy_. A man who talks with intrepidity of the monsters of the wilderness while they are out of sight, will readily confess his antipathy to a mole, a weasel, or a frog. He has indeed no dread of harm from an insect or a worm, but his antipathy turns him pale whenever they approach him. He believes that a boat will transport him with as much safety as his neighbours, but he cannot conquer his antipathy to the water. Thus he goes on without any reproach from his own reflections, and every day multiplies antipathies, till he becomes contemptible to others, and burdensome to himself. It is indeed certain, that impressions of dread may sometimes be unluckily made by objects not in themselves justly formidable; but when fear is discovered to be groundless, it is to be eradicated like other false opinions, and antipathies are generally superable by a single effort. He that has been taught to shudder at a mouse, if he can persuade himself to risk one encounter, will find his own superiority, and exchange his terrours for the pride of conquest. I am, Sir, &c. THRASO. SIR, As you profess to extend your regard to the minuteness of decency, as well as to the dignity of science, I cannot forbear to lay before you a mode of persecution by which I have been exiled to taverns and coffee-houses, and deterred from entering the doors of my friends. Among the ladies who please themselves with splendid furniture, or elegant entertainment, it is a practice very common, to ask every guest how he likes the carved work of the cornice, or the figures of the tapestry; the china at the table, or the plate on the side-board: and on all occasions to inquire his opinion of their judgment and their choice. Melania has laid her new watch in the window nineteen times, that she may desire me to look upon it. Calista has an art of dropping her snuff-box by drawing out her handkerchief, that when I pick it up I may admire it; and Fulgentia has conducted me, by mistake, into the wrong room, at every visit I have paid since her picture was put into a new frame. I hope, Mr. Rambler, you will inform them, that no man should be denied the privilege of silence, or tortured to false declarations; and that though ladies may justly claim to be exempt from rudeness, they have no right to force unwilling civilities. To please is a laudable and elegant ambition, and is properly rewarded with honest praise; but to seize applause by violence, and call out for commendation, without knowing, or caring to know, whether it be given from conviction, is a species of tyranny by which modesty is oppressed, and sincerity corrupted. The tribute of admiration, thus exacted by impudence and importunity, differs from the respect paid to silent merit, as the plunder of a pirate from the merchant's profit. I am, &c. MISOCOLAX SIR, Your great predecessor, the Spectator, endeavoured to diffuse among his female readers a desire of knowledge; nor can I charge you, though you do not seem equally attentive to the ladies, with endeavouring to discourage them from any laudable pursuit. But however either he or you may excite our curiosity, you have not yet informed us how it may be gratified. The world seems to have formed an universal conspiracy against our understandings; our questions are supposed not to expect answers, our arguments are confuted with a jest, and we are treated like beings who transgress the limits of our nature whenever we aspire to seriousness or improvement. I inquired yesterday of a gentleman eminent for astronomical skill, what made the day long in summer, and short in winter; and was told that nature protracted the days in summer, lest ladies should want time to walk in the park; and the nights in winter, lest they should not have hours sufficient to spend at the card-table. I hope you do not doubt but I heard such information with just contempt, and I desire you to discover to this great master of ridicule, that I was far from wanting any intelligence which he could have given me. I asked the question with no other intention than to set him free from the necessity of silence, and give him an opportunity of mingling on equal terms with a polite assembly, from which, however uneasy, he could not then escape, by a kind introduction of the only subject on which I believed him able to speak with propriety. I am, &c. GENEROSA. No. 127. TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1751. _Capisti meliust, quam desinis. Ultima primis Cedunt: dissimiles hic vir et ille puer_. Ovid. Ep. ix. 24. Succeeding years thy early fame destroy; Thou, who began'st a man, wilt end a boy. Politian, a name eminent among the restorers of polite literature, when he published a collection of epigrams, prefixed to many of them the year of his age at which they were composed. He might design, by this information, either to boast the early maturity of his genius, or to conciliate indulgence to the puerility of his performances. But whatever was his intent, it is remarked by Scaliger, that he very little promoted his own reputation, because he fell below the promise which his first productions had given, and, in the latter part of his life, seldom equalled the sallies of his youth. It is not uncommon for those who, at their first entrance into the world, were distinguished for attainments or abilities, to disappoint the hopes which they had raised, and to end in neglect and obscurity that life which they began in celebrity and honour. To the long catalogue of the inconveniencies of old age, which moral and satirical writers have so copiously displayed, may be often added the loss of fame. The advance of the human mind towards any object of laudable pursuit, may be compared to the progress of a body driven by a blow. It moves, for a time, with great velocity and vigour, but the force of the first impulse is perpetually decreasing, and though it should encounter no obstacle capable of quelling it by a sudden stop, the resistance of the medium through which it passes, and the latent inequalities of the smoothest surface, will, in a short time, by continued retardation, wholly overpower it. Some hindrances will be found in every road of life, but he that fixes his eyes upon any thing at a distance, necessarily loses sight of all that fills up the intermediate space, and therefore sets forward with alacrity and confidence, nor suspects a thousand obstacles, by which he afterwards finds his passage embarrassed and obstructed. Some are indeed stopt at once in their career by a sudden shock of calamity, or diverted to a different direction by the cross impulse of some violent passion; but far the greater part languish by slow degrees, deviate at first into slight obliquities, and themselves scarcely perceive at what time their ardour forsook them, or when they lost sight of their original design. Weariness and negligence are perpetually prevailing by silent encroachments, assisted by different causes, and not observed till they cannot, without great difficulty, be opposed. Labour necessarily requires pauses of ease and relaxation, and the deliciousness of ease commonly makes us unwilling to return to labour. We, perhaps, prevail upon ourselves to renew our attempts, but eagerly listen to every argument for frequent interpositions of amusement; for, when indolence has once entered upon the mind, it can scarcely be dispossessed but by such efforts as very few are willing to exert. It is the fate of industry to be equally endangered by miscarriage and success, by confidence and despondency. He that engages in a great undertaking, with a false opinion of its facility, or too high conceptions of his own strength, is easily discouraged by the first hindrance of his advances, because he had promised himself an equal and perpetual progression without impediment or disturbance; when unexpected interruptions break in upon him, he is in the state of a man surprised by a tempest, where he purposed only to bask in the calm, or sport in the shallows. It is not only common to find the difficulty of an enterprize greater, but the profit less, than hope had pictured it. Youth enters the world with very happy prejudices in her own favour. She imagines herself not only certain of accomplishing every adventure, but of obtaining those rewards which the accomplishment may deserve. She is not easily persuaded to believe that the force of merit can be resisted by obstinacy and avarice, or its lustre darkened by envy and malignity. She has not yet learned that the most evident claims to praise or preferment may be rejected by malice against conviction, or by indolence without examination; that they may be sometimes defeated by artifices, and sometimes overborne by clamour; that, in the mingled numbers of mankind, many need no other provocation to enmity than that they find themselves excelled; that others have ceased their curiosity, and consider every man who fills the mouth of report with a new name, as an intruder upon their retreat, and disturber of their repose; that some are engaged in complications of interest which they imagine endangered by every innovation; that many yield themselves up implicitly to every report which hatred disseminates or folly scatters; and that whoever aspires to the notice of the publick, has in almost every man an enemy and a rival; and must struggle with the opposition of the daring, and elude the stratagems of the timorous, must quicken the frigid and soften the obdurate, must reclaim perverseness and inform stupidity. It is no wonder that when the prospect of reward has vanished, the zeal of enterprize should cease; for who would persevere to cultivate the soil which he has, after long labour, discovered to be barren? He who hath pleased himself with anticipated praises, and expected that he should meet in every place with patronage or friendship, will soon remit his vigour, when he finds that, from those who desire to be considered as his admirers, nothing can be hoped but cold civility, and that many refuse to own his excellence, lest they should be too justly expected to reward it. A man, thus cut off from the prospect of that port to which his address and fortitude had been employed to steer him, often abandons himself to chance and to the wind, and glides careless and idle down the current of life, without resolution to make another effort, till he is swallowed up by the gulph of mortality. Others are betrayed to the same desertion of themselves by a contrary fallacy. It was said of Hannibal, that he wanted nothing to the completion of his martial virtues, but that when he had gained a victory he should know how to use it. The folly of desisting too soon from successful labours, and the haste of enjoying advantages before they are secured, are often fatal to men of impetuous desire, to men whose consciousness of uncommon powers fills them with presumption, and who, having borne opposition down before them, and left emulation panting behind, are early persuaded to imagine that they have reached the heights of perfection, and that now, being no longer in danger from competitors, they may pass the rest of their days in the enjoyment of their acquisitions, in contemplation of their own superiority, and in attention to their own praises, and look unconcerned from their eminence upon the toils and contentions of meaner beings. It is not sufficiently considered in the hour of exultation, that all human excellence is comparative; that no man performs much but in proportion to what others accomplish, or to the time and opportunities which have been allowed him; and that he who stops at any point of excellence is every day sinking in estimation, because his improvement grows continually more incommensurate to his life. Yet, as no man willingly quits opinions favourable to himself, they who have once been justly celebrated, imagine that they still have the same pretensions to regard, and seldom perceive the diminution of their character while there is time to recover it. Nothing then remains but murmurs and remorse; for if the spendthrift's poverty be embittered by the reflection that he once was rich, how must the idler's obscurity be clouded by remembering that he once had lustre! These errours all arise from an original mistake of the true motives of action. He that never extends his view beyond the praises or rewards of men will be dejected by neglect and envy, or infatuated by honours and applause. But the consideration that life is only deposited in his hands to be employed in obedience to a Master who will regard his endeavours, not his success, would have preserved him from trivial elations and discouragements, and enabled him to proceed with constancy and cheerfulness, neither enervated by commendation, nor intimidated by censure. No. 128. SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1751. [Greek: Aion d asphalaes Ouk egent, out Aiakida para Paelei, Oute par antitheo Kadmo legontai man broton Olbon hupertaton hoi Schein.] PIND. Py. iii. 153. For not the brave, or wise, or great, E'er yet had happiness complete: Nor Peleus, grandson of the sky, Nor Cadmus, scap'd the shafts of pain, Though favour'd by the Pow'rs on high, With every bliss that man can gain. The writers who have undertaken the task of reconciling mankind to their present state, and relieving the discontent produced by the various distribution of terrestrial advantages, frequently remind us that we judge too hastily of good and evil, that we view only the superfices of life, and determine of the whole by a very small part; and that in the condition of men it frequently happens, that grief and anxiety lie hid under the golden robes of prosperity, and the gloom of calamity is cheered by secret radiations of hope and comfort; as in the works of nature the bog is sometimes covered with flowers, and the mine concealed in the barren crags. None but those who have learned the art of subjecting their senses as well as reason to hypothetical systems, can be persuaded by the most specious rhetorician that the lots of life are equal; yet it cannot be denied that every one has his peculiar pleasures and vexations, that external accidents operate variously upon different minds, and that no man can exactly judge from his own sensations, what another would feel in the same circumstances. If the general disposition of things be estimated by the representation which every one makes of his own estate, the world must be considered as the abode of sorrow and misery; for how few can forbear to relate their troubles and distresses? If we judge by the account which may be obtained of every man's fortune from others, it may be concluded, that we all are placed in an elysian region, overspread with the luxuriance of plenty, and fanned by the breezes of felicity; since scarcely any complaint is uttered without censure from those that hear it, and almost all are allowed to have obtained a provision at least adequate to their virtue or their understanding, to possess either more than they deserve, or more than they enjoy. We are either born with such dissimilitude of temper and inclination, or receive so many of our ideas and opinions from the state of life in which we are engaged, that the griefs and cares of one part of mankind seem to the other hypocrisy, folly, and affectation. Every class of society has its cant of lamentation, which is understood or regarded by none but themselves; and every part of life has its uneasiness, which those who do not feel them will not commiserate. An event which spreads distraction over half the commercial world, assembles the trading companies in councils and committees, and shakes the nerves of a thousand stockjobbers, is read by the landlord and the farmer with frigid indifference. An affair of love, which fills the young breast with incessant alternations of hope and fear, and steals away the night and day from every other pleasure or employment, is regarded by them whose passions time has extinguished, as an amusement, which can properly raise neither joy nor sorrow, and, though it may be suffered to fill the vacuity of an idle moment, should always give way to prudence or interest. He that never had any other desire than to fill a chest with money, or to add another manor to his estate, who never grieved but at a bad mortgage, or entered a company but to make a bargain, would be astonished to hear of beings known among the polite and gay by the denomination of wits. How would he gape with curiosity, or grin with contempt, at the mention of beings who have no wish but to speak what was never spoken before; who, if they happen to inherit wealth, often exhaust their patrimonies in treating those who will hear them talk; and if they are poor, neglect opportunities of improving their fortunes, for the pleasure of making others laugh? How slowly would he believe that there are men who would rather lose a legacy than the reputation of a distich; who think it less disgrace to want money than repartee; whom the vexation of having been foiled in a contest of raillery is sometimes sufficient to deprive of sleep; and who would esteem it a lighter evil to miss a profitable bargain by some accidental delay, than not to have thought of a smart reply till the time of producing it was past? How little would he suspect that this child of idleness and frolick enters every assembly with a beating bosom, like a litigant on the day of decision, and revolves the probability of applause with the anxiety of a conspirator, whose fate depends upon the next night; that at the hour of retirement he carries home, under a show of airy negligence, a heart lacerated with envy, or depressed with disappointment; and immures himself in his closet, that he may disencumber his memory at leisure, review the progress of the day, state with accuracy his loss or gain of reputation, and examine the causes of his failure or success? Yet more remote from common conceptions are the numerous and restless anxieties, by which female happiness is particularly disturbed. A solitary philosopher would imagine ladies born with an exemption from care and sorrow, lulled in perpetual quiet, and feasted with unmingled pleasure; for what can interrupt the content of those, upon whom one age has laboured after another to confer honours, and accumulate immunities; those to whom rudeness is infamy, and insult is cowardice; whose eye commands the brave, and whose smiles soften the severe; whom the sailor travels to adorn, the soldier bleeds to defend, and the poet wears out life to celebrate; who claim tribute from every art and science, and for whom all who approach them endeavour to multiply delights, without requiring from them any returns but willingness to be pleased? Surely, among these favourites of nature, thus unacquainted with toil and danger, felicity must have fixed her residence; they must know only the changes of more vivid or more gentle joys: their life must always move either to the slow or sprightly melody of the lyre of gladness; they can never assemble but to pleasure, or retire but to peace. Such would be the thoughts of every man who should hover at a distance round the world, and know it only by conjecture and speculation. But experience will soon discover how easily those are disgusted who have been made nice by plenty and tender by indulgence. He will soon see to how many dangers power is exposed which has no other guard than youth and beauty, and how easily that tranquillity is molested which can only be soothed with the songs of flattery. It is impossible to supply wants as fast as an idle imagination may be able to form them, or to remove all inconveniencies by which elegance refined into impatience may be offended. None are so hard to please, as those whom satiety of pleasure makes weary of themselves; nor any so readily provoked as those who have been always courted with an emulation of civility. There are, indeed, some strokes which the envy of fate aims immediately at the fair. The mistress of Catullus wept for her sparrow many centuries ago, and lapdogs will be sometimes sick in the present age. The most fashionable brocade is subject to stains; a pinner, the pride of Brussels, may be torn by a careless washer; a picture may drop from a watch; or the triumph of a new suit may be interrupted on the first day of its enjoyment, and all distinctions of dress unexpectedly obliterated by a general mourning. Such is the state of every age, every sex, and every condition: all have their cares, either from nature or from folly: and whoever therefore finds himself inclined to envy another, should remember that he knows not the real condition which he desires to obtain, but is certain that by indulging a vicious passion, he must lessen that happiness which he thinks already too sparingly bestowed. No. 129. TUESDAY, JUNE 11. 1751. _--Nunc, O nunc, Daedale, dixit, Materiam, qua sis ingeniosus, habes. Possidet en terras, et possidet aequara, Minos: Nec tellus nostrae, nec patet undo fugae. Restat iter coelo: tentabimus ire. Da veniam caepto, Jupiter alte, meo. OVID. Ar. Am. Lib. ii. 33_. Now, Daedalus, behold, by fate assign'd, A task proportion'd to thy mighty mind! Unconquer'd bars on earth and sea withstand; Thine, Minos, is the main, and thine the land. The skies are open--let us try the skies: Forgive, great Jove, the daring enterprize. Moralists, like other writers, instead of casting their eyes abroad in the living world, and endeavouring to form maxims of practice and new hints of theory, content their curiosity with that secondary knowledge which books afford, and think themselves entitled to reverence by a new arrangement of an ancient system, or new illustration of established principles[e]. The sage precepts of the first instructors of the world are transmitted from age to age with little variation, and echoed from one author to another, not perhaps without some loss of their original force at every repercussion. I know not whether any other reason than this idleness of imitation can be assigned for that uniform and constant partiality, by which some vices have hitherto escaped censure, and some virtues wanted recommendation; nor can I discover why else we have been warned only against part of our enemies, while the rest have been suffered to steal upon us without notice; why the heart has on one side been doubly fortified, and laid open on the other to the incursions of errour, and the ravages of vice. Among the favourite topicks of moral declamation, may be numbered the miscarriages of imprudent boldness, and the folly of attempts beyond our power. Every page of every philosopher is crowded with examples of temerity that sunk under burdens which she laid upon herself, and called out enemies to battle by whom she was destroyed. Their remarks are too just to be disputed, and too salutary to be rejected; but there is likewise some danger lest timorous prudence should be inculcated, till courage and enterprise are wholly repressed, and the mind congealed in perpetual inactivity by the fatal influence of frigorifick wisdom. Every man should, indeed, carefully compare his force with his undertaking; for though we ought not to live only for our own sakes, and though therefore danger or difficulty should not be avoided merely because we may expose ourselves to misery or disgrace; yet it may be justly required of us, not to throw away our lives upon inadequate and hopeless designs, since we might, by a just estimate of our abilities, become more useful to mankind. There is an irrational contempt of danger, which approaches nearly to the folly, if not the guilt of suicide; there is a ridiculous perseverance in impracticable schemes, which is justly punished with ignominy and reproach. But in the wide regions of probability, which are the proper province of prudence and election, there is always room to deviate on either side of rectitude without rushing against apparent absurdity; and according to the inclinations of nature, or the impressions of precept, the daring and the cautious may move in different directions without touching upon rashness or cowardice. That there is a middle path which it is every man's duty to find, and to keep, is unanimously confessed: but it is likewise acknowledged that this middle path is so narrow, that it cannot easily be discovered, and so little beaten, that there are no certain marks by which it can be followed: the care, therefore, of all those who conduct others has been, that whenever they decline into obliquities, they should tend towards the side of safety. It can, indeed, raise no wonder that temerity has been generally censured; for it is one of the vices with which few can be charged, and which therefore, great numbers are ready to condemn. It is the vice of noble and generous minds, the exuberance of magnanimity, and the ebullition of genius; and is therefore not regarded with much tenderness, because it never flatters us by that appearance of softness and imbecility which is commonly necessary to conciliate compassion. But if the same attention had been applied to the search of arguments against the folly of pre-supposing impossibilities, and anticipating frustration, I know not whether many would not have been roused to usefulness, who, having been taught to confound prudence with timidity, never ventured to excel, lest they should unfortunately fail. It is necessary to distinguish our own interest from that of others, and that distinction will perhaps assist us in fixing the just limits of caution and adventurousness. In an undertaking that involves the happiness or the safety of many, we have certainly no right to hazard more than is allowed by those who partake the danger; but where only ourselves can suffer by miscarriage, we are not confined within such narrow limits; and still less is the reproach of temerity, when numbers will receive advantage by success, and only one be incommoded by failure. Men are generally willing to hear precepts by which ease is favoured; and as no resentment is raised by general representations of human folly, even in those who are most eminently jealous of comparative reputation, we confess, without reluctance, that vain man is ignorant of his own weakness, and therefore frequently presumes to attempt what he can never accomplish; but it ought likewise to be remembered, that man is no less ignorant of his own powers, and might perhaps have accomplished a thousand designs, which the prejudices of cowardice restrained him from attempting. It is observed in the golden verses of Pythagoras, that "Power is never far from necessity." The vigour of the human mind quickly appears, when there is no longer any place for doubt and hesitation, when diffidence is absorbed in the sense of danger, or overwhelmed by some resistless passion. We then soon discover, that difficulty is, for the most part, the daughter of idleness, that the obstacles with which our way seemed to be obstructed were only phantoms, which we believed real, because we durst not advance to a close examination; and we learn that it is impossible to determine without experience how much constancy may endure, or perseverance perform. But whatever pleasure may be found in the review of distresses when art or courage has surmounted them, few will be persuaded to wish that they may be awakened by want, or terrour, to the conviction of their own abilities. Every one should therefore endeavour to invigorate himself by reason and reflection, and determine to exert the latent force that nature may have reposed in him, before the hour of exigence comes upon him, and compulsion shall torture him to diligence. It is below the dignity of a reasonable being to owe that strength to necessity which ought always to act at the call of choice, or to need any other motive to industry than the desire of performing his duty. Reflections that may drive away despair, cannot be wanting to him who considers how much life is now advanced beyond the state of naked, undisciplined, uninstructed nature. Whatever has been effected for convenience or elegance, while it was yet unknown, was believed impossible; and therefore would never have been attempted, had not some, more daring than the rest, adventured to bid defiance to prejudice and censure. Nor is there yet any reason to doubt that the same labour would be rewarded with the same success. There are qualities in the products of nature yet undiscovered, and combinations in the powers of art yet untried. It is the duty of every man to endeavour that something may be added by his industry to the hereditary aggregate of knowledge and happiness. To add much can indeed be the lot of few, but to add something, however little, every one may hope; and of every honest endeavour, it is certain, that, however unsuccessful, it will be at last rewarded. [Footnote e: Johnson gained _his_ knowledge from actual experience. He told Boswell that before he wrote the Rambler he had been running about the world more than almost any body. Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 196.; and vol. iii. pp. 20, 21.] No. 130. SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1751. Non sic prata novo vere decentia Æstatis calidtæ dispoliat vapor: Sævit solstitio cum medius dies;-- Ut fulgor teneris qui radiat genis Momento rapitur! nullaque non dies Formosi spolium corporis abstulit. Res est forma fugax: quis sapiens bono Confidat fragili? SENECA, Hippol. act. ii. 764. Not faster in the summer's ray The spring's frail beauty fades away, Than anguish and decay consume The smiling virgin's rosy bloom. Some beauty's snatch'd each day, each hour; For beauty is a fleeting flow'r: Then how can wisdom e'er confide In beauty's momentary pride? ELPHINSTON TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, You have very lately observed that in the numerous subdivisions of the world, every class and order of mankind have joys and sorrows of their own; we all feel hourly pain and pleasure from events which pass unheeded before other eyes, but can scarcely communicate our perceptions to minds pre-occupied by different objects, any more than the delight of well-disposed colours or harmonious sounds can be imparted to such as want the senses of hearing or of sight. I am so strongly convinced of the justness of this remark, and have on so many occasions discovered with how little attention pride looks upon calamity of which she thinks herself not in danger, and indolence listens to complaint when it is not echoed by her own remembrance, that though I am about to lay the occurrences of my life before you, I question whether you will condescend to peruse my narrative, or, without the help of some female speculatists, to be able to understand it. I was born a beauty. From the dawn of reason I had my regard turned wholly upon myself, nor can recollect any thing earlier than praise and admiration. My mother, whose face had luckily advanced her to a condition above her birth, thought no evil so great as deformity. She had not the power of imagining any other defect than a cloudy complexion, or disproportionate features; and therefore contemplated me as an assemblage of all that could raise envy or desire, and predicted with triumphant fondness the extent of my conquests, and the number of my slaves. She never mentioned any of my young acquaintance before me, but to remark how much they fell below my perfection; how one would have had a fine face, but that her eyes were without lustre; how another struck the sight at a distance, but wanted my hair and teeth at a nearer view; another disgraced an elegant shape with a brown skin; some had short fingers, and others dimples in a wrong place. As she expected no happiness nor advantage but from beauty, she thought nothing but beauty worthy of her care; and her maternal kindness was chiefly exercised in contrivances to protect me from any accident that might deface me with a scar, or stain me with a freckle: she never thought me sufficiently shaded from the sun, or screened from the fire. She was severe or indulgent with no other intention than the preservation of my form; she excused me from work, lest I should learn to hang down my head, or harden my finger with a needle; she snatched away my book, because a young lady in the neighbourhood had made her eyes red with reading by a candle; but she would scarcely suffer me to eat, lest I should spoil my shape, nor to walk lest I should swell my ancle with a sprain. At night I was accurately surveyed from head to foot, lest I should have suffered any diminution of my charms in the adventures of the day; and was never permitted to sleep, till I had passed through the cosmetick discipline, part of which was a regular lustration performed with bean-flower water and May-dews; my hair was perfumed with variety of unguents, by some of which it was to be thickened, and by others to be curled. The softness of my hands was secured by medicated gloves, and my bosom rubbed with a pomade prepared by my mother, of virtue to discuss pimples, and clear discolorations. I was always called up early, because the morning air gives a freshness to the cheeks; but I was placed behind a curtain in my mother's chamber, because the neck is easily tanned by the rising sun. I was then dressed with a thousand precautions, and again heard my own praises, and triumphed in the compliments and prognostications of all that approached me. My mother was not so much prepossessed with an opinion of my natural excellencies as not to think some cultivation necessary to their completion. She took care that I should want none of the accomplishments included in female education, or considered necessary in fashionable life. I was looked upon in my ninth year as the chief ornament of the dancing-master's ball; and Mr. Ariet used to reproach his other scholars with my performances on the harpsichord. At twelve I was remarkable for playing my cards with great elegance of manner, and accuracy of judgment. At last the time came when my mother thought me perfect in my exercises, and qualified to display in the open world those accomplishments which had yet only been discovered in select parties, or domestick assemblies. Preparations were therefore made for my appearance on a publick night, which she considered as the most important and critical moment of my life. She cannot be charged with neglecting any means of recommendation, or leaving any thing to chance which prudence could ascertain. Every ornament was tried in every position, every friend was consulted about the colour of my dress, and the mantua-makers were harassed with directions and alterations. At last the night arrived from which my future life was to be reckoned. I was dressed and sent out to conquer, with a heart beating like that of an old knight-errant at his first sally. Scholars have told me of a Spartan matron, who, when she armed her son for battle, bade him bring back his shield, or be brought upon it. My venerable parent dismissed me to a field, in her opinion of equal glory, with a command to shew that I was her daughter, and not to return without a lover. I went, and was received like other pleasing novelties with a tumult of applause. Every man who valued himself upon the graces of his person, or the elegance of his address, crowded about me, and wit and splendour contended for my notice. I was delightfully fatigued with incessant civilities, which were made more pleasing by the apparent envy of those whom my presence exposed to neglect, and returned with an attendant equal in rank and wealth to my utmost wishes, and from this time stood in the first rank of beauty, was followed by gazers in the Mall, celebrated in the papers of the day, imitated by all who endeavoured to rise into fashion, and censured by those whom age or disappointment forced to retire. My mother, who pleased herself with the hopes of seeing my exaltation, dressed me with all the exuberance of finery; and when I represented to her that a fortune might be expected proportionate to my appearance, told me that she should scorn the reptile who could inquire after the fortune of a girl like me. She advised me to prosecute my victories, and time would certainly bring me a captive who might deserve the honour of being enchained for ever. My lovers were indeed so numerous, that I had no other care than that of determining to whom I should seem to give the preference. But having been steadily and industriously instructed to preserve my heart from any impressions which might hinder me from consulting my interest, I acted with less embarrassment, because my choice was regulated by principles more clear and certain than the caprice of approbation. When I had singled out one from the rest as more worthy of encouragement, I proceeded in my measures by the rules of art; and yet when the ardour of the first visits was spent, generally found a sudden declension of my influence; I felt in myself the want of some power to diversify amusement, and enliven conversation, and could not but suspect that my mind failed in performing the promises of my face. This opinion was soon confirmed by one of my lovers, who married Lavinia with less beauty and fortune than mine, because he thought a wife ought to have qualities which might make her amiable when her bloom was past. The vanity of my mother would not suffer her to discover any defect in one that had been formed by her instructions, and had all the excellence which she herself could boast. She told me that nothing so much hindered the advancement of women as literature and wit, which generally frightened away those that could make the best settlements, and drew about them a needy tribe of poets and philosophers, that filled their heads with wild notions of content, and contemplation, and virtuous obscurity. She therefore enjoined me to improve my minuet-step with a new French dancing-master, and wait the event of the next birth-night. I had now almost completed my nineteenth year: if my charms had lost any of their softness, it was more than compensated by additional dignity; and if the attractions of innocence were impaired, their place was supplied by the arts of allurement. I was therefore preparing for a new attack, without any abatement of my confidence, when, in the midst of my hopes and schemes, I was seized by that dreadful malady which has so often put a sudden end to the tyranny of beauty. I recovered my health after a long confinement; but when I looked again on that face which had been often flushed with transport at its own reflection, and saw all that I had learned to value, all that I had endeavoured to improve, all that had procured me honours or praises, irrecoverably destroyed, I sunk at once into melancholy and despondence. My pain was not much consoled or alleviated by my mother, who grieved that I had not lost my life together with my beauty; and declared, that she thought a young woman divested of her charms had nothing for which those who loved her could desire to save her from the grave. Having thus continued my relation to the period from which my life took a new course, I shall conclude it in another letter, if, by publishing this, you shew any regard for the correspondence of, Sir, &c. VICTORIA. No. 131. TUESDAY, JUNE 18, 1751. _--Fatis accede, Deisque, Et cole felices, miseros fuge. sidera terrae Ut distant, ut flamma mari, sic utile recto_. LUCAN. Lib. viii. 486. [Transcriber's note: punctuation in original.] Still follow where auspicious fates invite; Caress the happy, and the wretched slight. Sooner shall jarring elements unite, Than truth with gain, than interest with right. F. LEWIS. There is scarcely any sentiment in which, amidst the innumerable varieties of inclination that nature or accident have scattered in the world, we find greater numbers concurring, than in the wish for riches; a wish, indeed, so prevalent that it may be considered as universal and transcendental, as the desire in which all other desires are included, and of which the various purposes which actuate mankind are only subordinate species and different modifications. Wealth is the general centre of inclination, the point to which all minds preserve an invariable tendency, and from which they afterwards diverge in numberless directions. Whatever is the remote or ultimate design, the immediate care is to be rich; and in whatever enjoyment we intend finally to acquiesce, we seldom consider it as attainable but by the means of money. Of wealth therefore all unanimously confess the value, nor is there any disagreement but about the use. No desire can be formed which riches do not assist to gratify. He that places his happiness in splendid equipage or numerous dependants, in refined praise or popular acclamations, in the accumulation of curiosities or the revels of luxury, in splendid edifices or wide plantations, must still, either by birth or acquisition, possess riches. They may be considered as the elemental principles of pleasure, which may be combined with endless diversity; as the essential and necessary substance, of which only the form is left to be adjusted by choice. The necessity of riches being thus apparent, it is not wonderful that almost every mind has been employed in endeavours to acquire them; that multitudes have vied in arts by which life is furnished with accommodations, and which therefore mankind may reasonably be expected to reward. It had, indeed, been happy, if this predominant appetite had operated only in concurrence with virtue, by influencing none but those who were zealous to deserve what they were eager to possess, and had abilities to improve their own fortunes by contributing to the ease or happiness of others. To have riches and to have merit would then have been the same, and success might reasonably have been considered as a proof of excellence. But we do not find that any of the wishes of men keep a stated proportion to their powers of attainment. Many envy and desire wealth, who can never procure it by honest industry or useful knowledge. They therefore turn their eyes about to examine what other methods can be found of gaining that which none, however impotent or worthless, will be content to want. A little inquiry will discover that there are nearer ways to profit than through the intricacies of art, or up the steeps of labour; what wisdom and virtue scarcely receive at the close of life, as the recompense of long toil and repeated efforts, is brought within the reach of subtilty and dishonesty by more expeditious and compendious measures: the wealth of credulity is an open prey to falsehood; and the possessions of ignorance and imbecility are easily stolen away by the conveyances of secret artifice, or seized by the gripe of unresisted violence. It is likewise not hard to discover that riches always procure protection for themselves, that they dazzle the eyes of inquiry, divert the celerity of pursuit, or appease the ferocity of vengeance. When any man is incontestably known to have large possessions, very few think it requisite to inquire by what practices they were obtained; the resentment of mankind rages only against the struggles of feeble and timorous corruption, but when it has surmounted the first opposition, it is afterwards supported by favour, and animated by applause. The prospect of gaining speedily what is ardently desired, and the certainty of obtaining by every accession of advantage an addition of security, have so far prevailed upon the passions of mankind, that the peace of life is destroyed by a general and incessant struggle for riches. It is observed of gold, by an old epigrammatist, that "To have it is to be in fear, and to want it is to be in sorrow." There is no condition which is not disquieted either with the care of gaining or of keeping money; and the race of man may be divided in a political estimate between those who are practising fraud, and those who are repelling it. If we consider the present state of the world, it will be found, that all confidence is lost among mankind, that no man ventures to act, where money can be endangered upon the faith of another. It is impossible to see the long scrolls in which every contract is included, with all their appendages of seals and attestation, without wondering at the depravity of those beings, who must be restrained from violation of promise by such formal and publick evidences, and precluded from equivocation and subterfuge by such punctilious minuteness. Among all the satires to which folly and wickedness have given occasion, none is equally severe with a bond or a settlement. Of the various arts by which riches may be obtained, the greater part are at the first view irreconcileable with the laws of virtue; some are openly flagitious, and practised not only in neglect, but in defiance of faith and justice; and the rest are on every side so entangled with dubious tendencies, and so beset with perpetual temptations, that very few, even of those who are not yet abandoned, are able to preserve their innocence, or can produce any other claim to pardon than that they deviated from the right less than others, and have sooner and more diligently endeavoured to return. One of the chief characteristicks of the golden age, of the age in which neither care nor danger had intruded on mankind, is the community of possessions: strife and fraud were totally excluded, and every turbulent passion was stilled by plenty and equality. Such were indeed happy times, but such times can return no more. Community of possession must include spontaneity of production; for what is obtained by labour will be of right the property of him by whose labour it is gained. And while a rightful claim to pleasure or to affluence must be procured either by slow industry or uncertain hazard, there will always be multitudes whom cowardice or impatience incite to more safe and more speedy methods, who strive to pluck the fruit without cultivating the tree, and to share the advantages of victory without partaking the danger of the battle. In later ages, the conviction of the danger to which virtue is exposed while the mind continues open to the influence of riches, has determined many to vows of perpetual poverty; they have suppressed desire by cutting off the possibility of gratification, and secured their peace by destroying the enemy whom they had no hope of reducing to quiet subjection. But, by debarring themselves from evil, they have rescinded many opportunities of good; they have too often sunk into inactivity and uselessness; and, though they have forborne to injure society, have not fully paid their contributions to its happiness. While riches are so necessary to present convenience, and so much more easily obtained by crimes than virtues, the mind can only be secured from yielding to the continual impulse of covetousness by the preponderation of unchangeable and eternal motives. Gold will turn the intellectual balance, when weighed only against reputation; but will be light and ineffectual when the opposite scale is charged with justice, veracity, and piety[f]. No. 132. SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 1751. --_Dociles imitandis Turpibus ac pravis omnes sumus_.--JUV. Sat. xiv. 40. The mind of mortals, in perverseness strong, Imbibes with dire docility the wrong. TO THE RAMBLER. MR. RAMBLER, I was bred a scholar, and after the usual course of education, found it necessary to employ for the support of life that learning which I had almost exhausted my little fortune in acquiring. The lucrative professions drew my regard with equal attraction; each presented ideas which excited my curiosity, and each imposed duties which terrified my apprehension. There is no temper more unpropitious to interest than desultory application and unlimited inquiry, by which the desires are held in a perpetual equipoise, and the mind fluctuates between different purposes without determination. I had books of every kind round me, among which I divided my time as caprice or accident directed. I often spent the first hours of the day, in considering to what study I should devote the rest, and at last snatched up any author that lay upon the table, or perhaps fled to a coffee-house for deliverance from the anxiety of irresolution, and the gloominess of solitude. Thus my little patrimony grew imperceptibly less, till I was roused from my literary slumber by a creditor, whose importunity obliged me to pacify him with so large a sum, that what remained was not sufficient to support me more than eight months. I hope you will not reproach me with avarice or cowardice, if I acknowledge that I now thought myself in danger of distress, and obliged to endeavour after some certain competence. There have been heroes of negligence, who have laid the price of their last acre in a drawer, and, without the least interruption of their tranquillity, or abatement of their expenses, taken out one piece after another, till there was no more remaining. But I was not born to such dignity of imprudence, or such exaltation above the cares and necessities of life; I therefore immediately engaged my friends to procure me a little employment, which might set me free from the dread of poverty, and afford me time to plan out some final scheme of lasting advantage. My friends were struck with honest solicitude, and immediately promised their endeavours for my extrication. They did not suffer their kindness to languish by delay, but prosecuted their inquiries with such success, that in less than a month I was perplexed with variety of offers and contrariety of prospects. I had however no time for long pauses of consideration; and therefore soon resolved to accept the office of instructing a young nobleman in the house of his father: I went to the seat at which the family then happened to reside, was received with great politeness, and invited to enter immediately on my charge. The terms offered were such as I should willingly have accepted, though my fortune had allowed me greater liberty of choice: the respect with which I was treated, flattered my vanity; and perhaps the splendour of the apartments, and the luxury of the table, were not wholly without their influence. I immediately complied with the proposals, and received the young lord into my care. Having no desire to gain more than I should truly deserve, I very diligently prosecuted my undertaking, and had the satisfaction of discovering in my pupil a flexible temper, a quick apprehension, and a retentive memory. I did not much doubt that my care would, in time, produce a wise and useful counsellor to the state, though my labours were somewhat obstructed by want of authority, and the necessity of complying with the freaks of negligence, and of waiting patiently for the lucky moment of voluntary attention. To a man whose imagination was filled with the dignity of knowledge, and to whom a studious life had made all the common amusements insipid and contemptible, it was not very easy to suppress his indignation, when he saw himself forsaken in the midst of his lecture, for an opportunity to catch an insect, and found his instructions debarred from access to the intellectual faculties, by the memory of a childish frolick, or the desire of a new play-thing. Those vexations would have recurred less frequently, had not his mamma, by entreating at one time that he should be excused from a task as a reward for some petty compliance, and withholding him from his book at another, to gratify herself or her visitants with his vivacity, shewn him that every thing was more pleasing and more important than knowledge, and that study was to be endured rather than chosen, and was only the business of those hours which pleasure left vacant, or discipline usurped. I thought it my duty to complain, in tender terms, of these frequent avocations; but was answered, that rank and fortune might reasonably hope for some indulgence; that the retardation of my pupil's progress would not be imputed to any negligence or inability of mine; and that with the success which satisfied every body else, I might surely satisfy myself. I had now done my duty, and without more remonstrances continued to inculcate my precepts whenever they could be heard, gained every day new influence, and found that by degrees my scholar began to feel the quick impulses of curiosity, and the honest ardour of studious ambition. At length it was resolved to pass a winter in London. The lady had too much fondness for her son to live five months without him, and too high an opinion of his wit and learning to refuse her vanity the gratification of exhibiting him to the publick. I remonstrated against too early an acquaintance with cards and company; but, with a soft contempt of my ignorance and pedantry, she said, that he had been already confined too long to solitary study, and it was now time to shew him the world; nothing was more a brand of meanness than bashful timidity; gay freedom and elegant assurance were only to be gained by mixed conversation, a frequent intercourse with strangers, and a timely introduction to splendid assemblies; and she had more than once observed, that his forwardness and complaisance began to desert him, that he was silent when he had not something of consequence to say, blushed whenever he happened to find himself mistaken, and hung down his head in the presence of the ladies, without the readiness of reply, and activity of officiousness, remarkable in young gentlemen that are bred in London. Again I found resistance hopeless, and again thought it proper to comply. We entered the coach, and in four days were placed in the gayest and most magnificent region of the town. My pupil, who had for several years lived at a remote seat, was immediately dazzled with a thousand beams of novelty and shew. His imagination was filled with the perpetual tumult of pleasure that passed before him, and it was impossible to allure him from the window, or to overpower by any charm of eloquence the rattle of coaches, and the sounds which echoed from the doors in the neighbourhood. In three days his attention, which he began to regain, was disturbed by a rich suit, in which he was equipped for the reception of company, and which, having been long accustomed to a plain dress, he could not at first survey without ecstacy. The arrival of the family was now formally notified; every hour of every day brought more intimate or more distant acquaintances to the door; and my pupil was indiscriminately introduced to all, that he might accustom himself to change of faces, and be rid with speed of his rustick diffidence. He soon endeared himself to his mother by the speedy acquisition or recovery of her darling qualities; his eyes sparkle at a numerous assembly, and his heart dances at the mention of a ball. He has at once caught the infection of high life, and has no other test of principles or actions than the quality of those to whom they are ascribed. He begins already to look down on me with superiority, and submits to one short lesson in a week, as an act of condescension rather than obedience; for he is of opinion, that no tutor is properly qualified who cannot speak French; and having formerly learned a few familiar phrases from his sister's governess, he is every day soliciting his mamma to procure him a foreign footman, that he may grow polite by his conversation. I am not yet insulted, but find myself likely to become soon a superfluous incumbrance, for my scholar has now no time for science, or for virtue; and the lady yesterday declared him so much the favourite of every company, that she was afraid he would not have an hour in the day to dance and fence. I am, &c. EUMATHES. [Footnote f: Johnson often conversed, as well as wrote, on riches. In his conversations on the subject, amidst his often indulged laxity of talk, there was ever a deep insight into the human heart. "All the arguments," he once with keen satire remarked, "which are brought to represent poverty as no evil, shew it to be evidently a great evil. You never find people _labouring_ to convince you that you may live happily upon a plentiful fortune. So you hear people talking how miserable a king must be, and yet they all wish to be in his place." _Boswell_ vol. i. p. 422. When Simonides was asked whether it were better to be wise or rich, he gave an answer in favour of wealth. "For," said he, "I always behold the wise lingering at the gates of the wealthy." Aristot. Rhet. ii. 18.] No. 133. TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 1751. _Magna quidem, sacris quæ dat præcepta libellis Victrix fortune sapientia. Dicimus autem Hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitæ, Nec jactare jugum, vita didicere magistra._ Juv. Sat. xiii. 19. Let Stoicks ethicks' haughty rules advance To combat fortune, and to conquer chance: Yet happy those, though not so learn'd are thought, Whom life instructs, who by experience taught, For new to come from past misfortunes look, Nor shake the yoke, which galls the more 'tis shook. CREECH. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, You have shewn, by the publication of my letter, that you think the life of Victoria not wholly unworthy of the notice of a philosopher: I shall therefore continue my narrative, without any apology for unimportance which you have dignified, or for inaccuracies which you are to correct. When my life appeared to be no longer in danger, and as much of my strength was recovered as enabled me to bear the agitation of a coach, I was placed at a lodging in a neighbouring village, to which my mother dismissed me with a faint embrace, having repeated her command not to expose my face too soon to the sun or wind, and told me that with care I might perhaps become tolerable again. The prospect of being tolerable had very little power to elevate the imagination of one who had so long been accustomed to praise and ecstacy; but it was some satisfaction to be separated from my mother, who was incessantly ringing the knell of departed beauty, and never entered my room without the whine of condolence, or the growl of anger. She often wandered over my face, as travellers over the ruins of a celebrated city, to note every place which had once been remarkable for a happy feature. She condescended to visit my retirement, but always left me more melancholy; for after a thousand trifling inquiries about my diet, and a minute examination of my looks, she generally concluded with a sigh, that I should never more be fit to be seen. At last I was permitted to return home, but found no great improvement of my condition; for I was imprisoned in my chamber as a criminal, whose appearance would disgrace my friends, and condemn me to be tortured into new beauty. Every experiment which the officiousness of folly could communicate, or the credulity of ignorance admit, was tried upon me. Sometimes I was covered with emollients, by which it was expected that all the scars would be filled, and my cheeks plumped up to their former smoothness; and sometimes I was punished with artificial excoriations, in hopes of gaining new graces with a new skin. The cosmetick science was exhausted upon me; but who can repair the ruins of nature? My mother was forced to give me rest at last, and abandon me to the fate of a fallen toast, whose fortune she considered as a hopeless game, no longer worthy of solicitude or attention. The condition of a young woman who has never thought or heard of any other excellence than beauty, and whom the sudden blast of disease wrinkles in her bloom, is indeed sufficiently calamitous. She is at once deprived of all that gave her eminence or power; of all that elated her pride, or animated her activity; all that filled her days with pleasure, and her nights with hope; all that gave gladness to the present hour, or brightened her prospects of futurity. It is perhaps not in the power of a man whose attention has been divided by diversity of pursuits, and who has not been accustomed to derive from others much of his happiness, to image to himself such helpless destitution, such dismal inanity. Every object of pleasing contemplation is at once snatched away, and the soul finds every receptacle of ideas empty, or filled only with the memory of joys that can return no more. All is gloomy privation, or impotent desire; the faculties of anticipation slumber in despondency, or the powers of pleasure mutiny for employment. I was so little able to find entertainment for myself, that I was forced in a short time to venture abroad as the solitary savage is driven by hunger from his cavern. I entered with all the humility of disgrace into assemblies, where I had lately sparkled with gaiety, and towered with triumph. I was not wholly without hope, that dejection had misrepresented me to myself, and that the remains of my former face might yet have some attraction and influence; but the first circle of visits convinced me, that my reign was at an end; that life and death were no longer in my hands; that I was no more to practise the glance of command, or the frown of prohibition; to receive the tribute of sighs and praises, or be soothed with the gentle murmurs of amorous timidity. My opinion was now unheard, and my proposals were unregarded; the narrowness of my knowledge, and the meanness of my sentiments, were easily discovered, when the eyes were no longer engaged against the judgment; and it was observed, by those who had formerly been charmed with my vivacious loquacity, that my understanding was impaired as well as my face, and that I was no longer qualified to fill a place in any company but a party at cards. It is scarcely to be imagined how soon the mind sinks to a level with the condition. I, who had long considered all who approached me as vassals condemned to regulate their pleasures by my eyes, and harass their inventions for my entertainment, was in less than three weeks reduced to receive a ticket with professions of obligation; to catch with eagerness at a compliment; and to watch with all the anxiousness of dependance, lest any little civility that was paid me should pass unacknowledged. Though the negligence of the men was not very pleasing when compared with vows and adoration, yet it was far more supportable than the insolence of my own sex. For the first ten months after my return into the world, I never entered a single house in which the memory of my downfall was not revived. At one place I was congratulated on my escape with life; at another I heard of the benefits of early inoculation; by some I have been told in express terms, that I am not yet without my charms; others have whispered at my entrance, This is the celebrated beauty. One told me of a wash that would smooth the skin; and another offered me her chair that I might not front the light. Some soothed me with the observation that none can tell how soon my case may be her own; and some thought it proper to receive me with mournful tenderness, formal condolence, and consolatory blandishments. Thus was I every day harassed with all the stratagems of well-bred malignity; yet insolence was more tolerable than solitude, and I therefore persisted to keep my time at the doors of my acquaintance, without gratifying them with any appearance of resentment or depression. I expected that their exultation would in time vapour away; that the joy of their superiority would end with its novelty; and that I should be suffered to glide along in my present form among the nameless multitude, whom nature never intended to excite envy or admiration, nor enabled to delight the eye or inflame the heart. This was naturally to be expected, and this I began to experience. But when I was no longer agitated by the perpetual ardour of resistance, and effort of perseverance, I found more sensibly the want of those entertainments which had formerly delighted me; the day rose upon me without an engagement; and the evening closed in its natural gloom, without summoning me to a concert or a ball. None had any care to find amusements for me, and I had no power of amusing myself. Idleness exposed me to melancholy, and life began to languish in motionless indifference. Misery and shame are nearly allied. It was not without many struggles that I prevailed on myself to confess my uneasiness to Euphemia, the only friend who had never pained me with comfort or with pity. I at last laid my calamities before her, rather to ease my heart, than receive assistance. "We must distinguish," said she, "my Victoria, those evils which are imposed by Providence, from those to which we ourselves give the power of hurting us. Of your calamity, a small part is the infliction of Heaven, the rest is little more than the corrosion of idle discontent. You have lost that which may indeed sometimes contribute to happiness, but to which happiness is by no means inseparably annexed. You have lost what the greater number of the human race never have possessed; what those on whom it is bestowed for the most part possess in vain; and what you, while it was yours, knew not how to use: you have only lost early what the laws of nature forbid you to keep long, and have lost it while your mind is yet flexible, and while you have time to substitute more valuable and more durable excellencies. Consider yourself, my Victoria, as a being born to know, to reason, and to act; rise at once from your dream of melancholy to wisdom and to piety; you will find that there are other charms than those of beauty, and other joys than the praise of fools." I am, Sir, &c. VICTORIA. No. 134. SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1751. _Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernae crastina summae Tempora Dii superi?_ HOR. Lib. iv. Ode vii. 16. Who knows if Heav'n, with ever-bounteous pow'r, Shall add to-morrow to the present hour? FRANCIS. I sat yesterday morning employed in deliberating on which, among the various subjects that occurred to my imagination, I should bestow the paper of to-day. After a short effort of meditation by which nothing was determined, I grew every moment more irresolute, my ideas wandered from the first intention, and I rather wished to think, than thought upon any settled subject; till at last I was awakened from this dream of study by a summons from the press; the time was now come for which I had been thus negligently purposing to provide, and, however dubious or sluggish, I was now necessitated to write. Though to a writer whose design is so comprehensive and miscellaneous, that he may accommodate himself with a topick from every scene of life, or view of nature, it is no great aggravation of his task to be obliged to a sudden composition; yet I could not forbear to reproach myself for having so long neglected what was unavoidably to be done, and of which every moment's idleness increased the difficulty. There was however some pleasure in reflecting that I, who had only trifled till diligence was necessary, might still congratulate myself upon my superiority to multitudes, who have trifled till diligence is vain; who can by no degree of activity or resolution recover the opportunities which have slipped away; and who are condemned by their own carelessness to hopeless calamity and barren sorrow. The folly of allowing ourselves to delay what we know cannot be finally escaped, is one of the general weaknesses, which, in spite of the instruction of moralists, and the remonstrances of reason, prevail to a greater or less degree in every mind; even they who most steadily withstand it, find it, if not the most violent, the most pertinacious of their passions, always renewing its attacks, and though often vanquished, never destroyed. It is indeed natural to have particular regard to the time present, and to be most solicitous for that which is by its nearness enabled to make the strongest impressions. When therefore any sharp pain is to be suffered, or any formidable danger to be incurred, we can scarcely exempt ourselves wholly from the seducements of imagination; we readily believe that another day will bring some support or advantage which we now want; and are easily persuaded, that the moment of necessity which we desire never to arrive, is at a great distance from us. Thus life is languished away in the gloom of anxiety, and consumed in collecting resolutions which the next morning dissipates; in forming purposes which we scarcely hope to keep, and reconciling ourselves to our own cowardice by excuses, which, while we admit them, we know to be absurd. Our firmness is by the continual contemplation of misery, hourly impaired; every submission to our fear enlarges its dominion; we not only waste that time in which the evil we dread might have been suffered and surmounted, but even where procrastination produces no absolute increase of our difficulties, make them less superable to ourselves by habitual terrours. When evils cannot be avoided, it is wise to contract the interval of expectation; to meet the mischiefs which will overtake us if we fly; and suffer only their real malignity, without the conflicts of doubt, and anguish of anticipation. To act is far easier than to suffer; yet we every day see the progress of life retarded by the _vis inertiae_, the mere repugnance to motion, and find multitudes repining at the want of that which nothing but idleness hinders them from enjoying. The case of Tantalus, in the region of poetick punishment, was somewhat to be pitied, because the fruits that hung about him retired from his hand; but what tenderness can be claimed by those who, though perhaps they suffer the pains of Tantalus, will never lift their hands for their own relief? There is nothing more common among this torpid generation than murmurs and complaints; murmurs at uneasiness which only vacancy and suspicion expose them to feel, and complaints of distresses which it is in their own power to remove. Laziness is commonly associated with timidity. Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by infusing despair of success; or the frequent failure of irresolute struggles, and the constant desire of avoiding labour, impress by degrees false terrours on the mind. But fear, whether natural or acquired, when once it has full possession of the fancy, never fails to employ it upon visions of calamity, such as, if they are not dissipated by useful employment, will soon overcast it with horrours, and embitter life not only with those miseries by which all earthly beings are really more or less tormented, but with those which do not yet exist, and which can only be discerned by the perspicacity of cowardice. Among all who sacrifice future advantage to present inclination, scarcely any gain so little as those that suffer themselves to freeze in idleness. Others are corrupted by some enjoyment of more or less power to gratify the passions; but to neglect our duties, merely to avoid the labour of performing them, a labour which is always punctually rewarded, is surely to sink under weak temptations. Idleness never can secure tranquillity; the call of reason and of conscience will pierce the closest pavilion of the sluggard, and though it may not have force to drive him from his down, will be loud enough to hinder him from sleep. Those moments which he cannot resolve to make useful, by devoting them to the great business of his being, will still be usurped by powers that will not leave them to his disposal; remorse and vexation will seize upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is so desirous to appropriate. There are other causes of inactivity incident to more active faculties and more acute discernment. He to whom many objects of pursuit arise at the same time, will frequently hesitate between different desires, till a rival has precluded him, or change his course as new attractions prevail, and harass himself without advancing. He who sees different ways to the same end, will, unless he watches carefully over his own conduct, lay out too much of his attention upon the comparison of probabilities, and the adjustment of expedients, and pause in the choice of his road till some accident intercepts his journey. He whose penetration extends to remote consequences, and who, whenever he applies his attention to any design, discovers new prospects of advantage, and possibilities of improvement, will not easily be persuaded that his project is ripe for execution; but will superadd one contrivance to another, endeavour to unite various purposes in one operation, multiply complications, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in his own scheme, and bewildered in the perplexity of various intentions. He that resolves to unite all the beauties of situation in a new purchase, must waste his life in roving to no purpose from province to province. He that hopes in the same house to obtain every convenience, may draw plans and study Palladio, but will never lay a stone. He will attempt a treatise on some important subject, and amass materials, consult authors, and study all the dependant and collateral parts of learning, but never conclude himself qualified to write. He that has abilities to conceive perfection, will not easily be content without it; and since perfection cannot be reached, will lose the opportunity of doing well in the vain hope of unattainable excellence. The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will be much shorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true, that no diligence can ascertain success; death may intercept the swiftest career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest undertaking, has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has fought the battle though he missed the victory. No. 135. TUESDAY, JULY 2, 1751. Coelum, non animum, mutant. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xi. 27. Place may be chang'd; but who can change his mind? It is impossible to take a view on any side, or observe any of the various classes that form the great community of the world, without discovering the influence of example; and admitting with new conviction the observation of Aristotle, that _man is an imitative being_. The greater, far the greater number, follow the track which others have beaten, without any curiosity after new discoveries, or ambition of trusting themselves to their own conduct. And, of those who break the ranks and disorder the uniformity of the march, most return in a short time from their deviation, and prefer the equal and steady satisfaction of security before the frolicks of caprice and the honours of adventure. In questions difficult or dangerous it is indeed natural to repose upon authority, and, when fear happens to predominate, upon the authority of those whom we do not in general think wiser than ourselves. Very few have abilities requisite for the discovery of abstruse truth; and of those few some want leisure, and some resolution. But it is not so easy to find the reason of the universal submission to precedent where every man might safely judge for himself; where no irreparable loss can be hazarded, nor any mischief of long continuance incurred. Vanity might be expected to operate where the more powerful passions are not awakened; the mere pleasure of acknowledging no superior might produce slight singularities, or the hope of gaining some new degree of happiness awaken the mind to invention or experiment. If in any case the shackles of prescription could be wholly shaken off, and the imagination left to act without control, on what occasion should it be expected, but in the selection of lawful pleasure? Pleasure, of which the essence is choice; which compulsion dissociates from every thing to which nature has united it; and which owes not only its vigour but its being to the smiles of liberty. Yet we see that the senses, as well as the reason, are regulated by credulity; and that most will feel, or say that they feel, the gratifications which others have taught them to expect. At this time of universal migration, when almost every one, considerable enough to attract regard, has retired, or is preparing with all the earnestness of distress to retire, into the country; when nothing is to be heard but the hopes of speedy departure, or the complaints of involuntary delay; I have often been tempted to inquire what happiness is to be gained, or what inconvenience to be avoided, by this stated recession? Of the birds of passage, some follow the summer and some the winter, because they live upon sustenance which only summer or winter can supply; but of the annual flight of human rovers it is much harder to assign the reason, because they do not appear either to find or seek any thing which is not equally afforded by the town and country. I believe that many of these fugitives may have heard of men whose continual wish was for the quiet of retirement, who watched every opportunity to steal away from observation, to forsake the crowd, and delight themselves with _the society of solitude_. There is indeed scarcely any writer who has not celebrated the happiness of rural privacy, and delighted himself and his reader with the melody of birds, the whisper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets; nor any man eminent for extent of capacity, or greatness of exploits, that has not left behind him some memorials of lonely wisdom, and silent dignity. But almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble. Those who thus testified their weariness of tumult and hurry, and hasted with so much eagerness to the leisure of retreat, were either men overwhelmed with the pressure of difficult employments, harassed with importunities, and distracted with multiplicity; or men wholly engrossed by speculative sciences, who having no other end of life but to learn and teach, found their searches interrupted by the common commerce of civility, and their reasonings disjointed by frequent interruptions. Such men might reasonably fly to that ease and convenience which their condition allowed them to find only in the country. The statesman who devoted the greater part of his time to the publick, was desirous of keeping the remainder in his own power. The general, ruffled with dangers, wearied with labours, and stunned with acclamations, gladly snatched an interval of silence and relaxation. The naturalist was unhappy where the works of Providence were not always before him. The reasoner could adjust his systems only where his mind was free from the intrusion of outward objects. Such examples of solitude very few of those who are now hastening from the town, have any pretensions to plead in their own justification, since they cannot pretend either weariness of labour, or desire of knowledge. They purpose nothing more than to quit one scene of idleness for another, and after having trifled in publick, to sleep in secrecy. The utmost that they can hope to gain is the change of ridiculousness to obscurity, and the privilege of having fewer witnesses to a life of folly. He who is not sufficiently important to be disturbed in his pursuits, but spends all his hours according to his own inclination, and has more hours than his mental faculties enable him to fill either with enjoyment or desires, can have nothing to demand of shades and valleys. As bravery is said to be a panoply, insignificancy is always a shelter. There are, however, pleasures and advantages in a rural situation, which are not confined to philosophers and heroes. The freshness of the air, the verdure of the woods, the paint of the meadows, and the unexhausted variety which summer scatters upon the earth, may easily give delight to an unlearned spectator. It is not necessary that he who looks with pleasure on the colours of a flower should study the principles of vegetation, or that the Ptolemaick and Copernican system should be compared before the light of the sun can gladden, or its warmth invigorate. Novelty is itself a source of gratification; and Milton justly observes, that to him who has been long pent up in cities, no rural object can be presented, which will not delight or refresh some of his senses. Yet even these easy pleasures are missed by the greater part of those who waste their summer in the country. Should any man pursue his acquaintances to their retreats, he would find few of them listening to Philomel, loitering in woods, or plucking daisies, catching the healthy gale of the morning, or watching the gentle coruscations of declining day. Some will be discovered at a window by the road side, rejoicing when a new cloud of dust gathers towards them, as at the approach of a momentary supply of conversation, and a short relief from the tediousness of unideal vacancy. Others are placed in the adjacent villages, where they look only upon houses as in the rest of the year, with no change of objects but what a remove to any new street in London might have given them. The same set of acquaintances still settle together, and the form of life is not otherwise diversified than by doing the same things in a different place. They pay and receive visits in the usual form, they frequent the walks in the morning, they deal cards at night, they attend to the same tattle, and dance with the same partners; nor can they, at their return to their former habitation, congratulate themselves on any other advantage, than that they have passed their time like others of the same rank; and have the same right to talk of the happiness and beauty of the country, of happiness which they never felt, and beauty which they never regarded. To be able to procure its own entertainments, and to subsist upon its own stock, is not the prerogative of every mind. There are indeed understandings so fertile and comprehensive, that they can always feed reflection with new supplies, and suffer nothing from the preclusion of adventitious amusements; as some cities have within their own walls enclosed ground enough to feed their inhabitants in a siege. But others live only from day to day, and must be constantly enabled, by foreign supplies, to keep out the encroachments of languor and stupidity. Such could not indeed be blamed for hovering within reach of their usual pleasure, more than any other animal for not quitting its native element, were not their faculties contracted by their own fault. But let not those who go into the country, merely because they dare not be left alone at home, boast their love of nature, or their qualifications for solitude; nor pretend that they receive instantaneous infusions of wisdom from the Dryads, and are able, when they leave smoke and noise behind, to act, or think, or reason for themselves. No. 136. SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1751. [Greek: Echthrus gar moi keimos, omos aidao pulusin, Os ch eteron men keuthei eni phresin, allo de bazei.] HOMER, [Greek: I'.] 313. Who dares think one thing, and another tell, My heart detests him as the gates of Hell. POPE. The regard which they whose abilities are employed in the works of imagination claim from the rest of mankind, arises in a great measure from their influence on futurity. Rank may be conferred by princes, and wealth bequeathed by misers or by robbers; but the honours of a lasting name, and the veneration of distant ages, only the sons of learning have the power of bestowing. While therefore it continues one of the characteristicks of rational nature to decline oblivion, authors never can be wholly overlooked in the search after happiness, nor become contemptible but by their own fault. The man who considers himself as constituted the ultimate judge of disputable characters, and entrusted with the distribution of the last terrestrial rewards of merit, ought to summon all his fortitude to the support of his integrity, and resolve to discharge an office of such dignity with the most vigilant caution and scrupulous justice. To deliver examples to posterity, and to regulate the opinion of future times, is no slight or trivial undertaking; nor is it easy to commit more atrocious treason against the great republick of humanity, than by falsifying its records and misguiding its decrees. To scatter praise or blame without regard to justice, is to destroy the distinction of good and evil. Many have no other test of actions than general opinion; and all are so far influenced by a sense of reputation, that they are often restrained by fear of reproach, and excited by hope of honour, when other principles have lost their power; nor can any species of prostitution promote general depravity more than that which destroys the force of praise, by shewing that it may be acquired without deserving it, and which, by setting free the active and ambitious from the dread of infamy, lets loose the rapacity of power, and weakens the only authority by which greatness is controlled. Praise, like gold and diamonds, owes its value only to its scarcity. It becomes cheap as it becomes vulgar, and will no longer raise expectation, or animate enterprise. It is therefore not only necessary, that wickedness, even when it is not safe to censure it, be denied applause, but that goodness be commended only in proportion to its degree; and that the garlands, due to the great benefactors of mankind, be not suffered to fade upon the brow of him who can boast only petty services and easy virtues. Had these maxims been universally received, how much would have been added to the task of dedication, the work on which all the power of modern wit has been exhausted. How few of these initial panegyricks had appeared, if the author had been obliged first to find a man of virtue, then to distinguish the distinct species and degree of his desert, and at last to pay him only the honours which he might justly claim. It is much easier to learn the name of the last man whom chance has exalted to wealth and power, to obtain by the intervention of some of his domesticks the privilege of addressing him, or, in confidence of the general acceptance of flattery, to venture on an address without any previous solicitation; and after having heaped upon him all the virtues to which philosophy had assigned a name, inform him how much more might be truly said, did not the fear of giving pain to his modesty repress the raptures of wonder and the zeal of veneration. Nothing has so much degraded literature from its natural rank, as the practice of indecent and promiscuous dedication; for what credit can he expect who professes himself the hireling of vanity, however profligate, and without shame or scruple, celebrates the worthless, dignifies the mean, and gives to the corrupt, licentious, and oppressive, the ornaments which ought only to add grace to truth, and loveliness to innocence? Every other kind of adulation, however shameful, however mischievous, is less detestable than the crime of counterfeiting characters, and fixing the stamp of literary sanction upon the dross and refuse of the world. Yet I would not overwhelm the authors with the whole load of infamy, of which part, perhaps the greater part, ought to fall upon their patrons. If he that hires a bravo, partakes the guilt of murder, why should he who bribes a flatterer, hope to be exempted from the shame of falsehood? The unhappy dedicator is seldom without some motives which obstruct, though not destroy, the liberty of choice; he is oppressed by miseries which he hopes to relieve, or inflamed by ambition which he expects to gratify. But the patron has no incitements equally violent; he can receive only a short gratification, with which nothing but stupidity could dispose him to be pleased. The real satisfaction which praise can afford is by repeating aloud the whispers of conscience, and by shewing us that we have not endeavoured to deserve well in vain. Every other encomium is, to an intelligent mind, satire and reproach; the celebration of those virtues which we feel ourselves to want, can only impress a quicker sense of our own defects, and shew that we have not yet satisfied the expectations of the world, by forcing us to observe how much fiction must contribute to the completion of our character. Yet sometimes the patron may claim indulgence; for it does not always happen, that the encomiast has been much encouraged to his attempt. Many a hapless author, when his book, and perhaps his dedication, was ready for the press, has waited long before any one would pay the price of prostitution, or consent to hear the praises destined to insure his name against the casualties of time; and many a complaint has been vented against the decline of learning, and neglect of genius, when either parsimonious prudence has declined expense, or honest indignation rejected falsehood. But if at last, after long inquiry and innumerable disappointments, he find a lord willing to hear of his own eloquence and taste, a statesman desirous of knowing how a friendly historian will represent his conduct, or a lady delighted to leave to the world some memorial of her wit and beauty, such weakness cannot be censured as an instance of enormous depravity. The wisest man may, by a diligent solicitor, be surprised in the hour of weakness, and persuaded to solace vexation, or invigorate hope, with the musick of flattery. To censure all dedications as adulatory and servile, would discover rather envy than justice. Praise is the tribute of merit, and he that has incontestably distinguished himself by any publick performance, has a right to all the honours which the publick can bestow. To men thus raised above the rest of the community, there is no need that the book or its author should have any particular relation; that the patron is known to deserve respect, is sufficient to vindicate him that pays it. To the same regard from particular persons, private virtue and less conspicuous excellence may be sometimes entitled. An author may with great propriety inscribe his work to him by whose encouragement it was undertaken, or by whose liberality he has been enabled to prosecute it, and he may justly rejoice in his own fortitude that dares to rescue merit from obscurity. _Acribus exemplis videor te claudere: misce Ergo aliquid nostris de moribus.--_ Thus much I will indulge thee for thy ease, And mingle something of our times to please. Dryden, jun. I know not whether greater relaxation may not he indulged, and whether hope as well as gratitude may not unblamably produce a dedication; but let the writer who pours out his praises only to propitiate power, or attract the attention of greatness, be cautious lest his desire betray him to exuberant eulogies. We are naturally more apt to please ourselves with the future than the past, and while we luxuriate in expectation, may be easily persuaded to purchase what we yet rate, only by imagination, at a higher price than experience will warrant. But no private views of personal regard can discharge any man from his general obligations to virtue and to truth. It may happen in the various combinations of life, that a good man may receive favours from one, who, notwithstanding his accidental beneficence, cannot be justly proposed to the imitation of others, and whom therefore he must find some other way of rewarding than by public celebrations. Self-love has indeed many powers of seducement; but it surely ought not to exalt any individual to equality with the collective body of mankind, or persuade him that a benefit conferred on him is equivalent to every other virtue. Yet many, upon false principles of gratitude, have ventured to extol wretches, whom all but their dependents numbered among the reproaches of the species, and whom they would likewise have beheld with the same scorn, had they not been hired to dishonest approbation. To encourage merit with praise is the great business of literature; but praise must lose its influence, by unjust or negligent distribution; and he that impairs its value may be charged with misapplication of the power that genius puts into his hands, and with squandering on guilt the recompense of virtue. No. 137. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 1751. _Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currunt_. Hor. Lib. i. Sat. ii. 24. --Whilst fools one vice condemn, They run into the opposite extreme. CREECH. That wonder is the effect of ignorance, has been often observed. The awful stillness of attention, with which the mind is overspread at the first view of an unexpected effect, ceases when we have leisure to disentangle complications and investigate causes. Wonder is a pause of reason, a sudden cessation of the mental progress, which lasts only while the understanding is fixed upon some single idea, and is at an end when it recovers force enough to divide the object into its parts, or mark the intermediate gradations from the first agent to the last consequence. It may be remarked with equal truth, that ignorance is often the effect of wonder. It is common for those who have never accustomed themselves to the labour of inquiry, nor invigorated their confidence by conquests over difficulty, to sleep in the gloomy quiescence of astonishment, without any effort to animate inquiry, or dispel obscurity. What they cannot immediately conceive, they consider as too high to be reached, or too extensive to be comprehended; they therefore content themselves with the gaze of folly, forbear to attempt what they have no hopes of performing, and resign the pleasure of rational contemplation to more pertinacious study, or more active faculties. Among the productions of mechanick art, many are of a form so different from that of their first materials, and many consist of parts so numerous and so nicely adapted to each other, that it is not possible to view them without amazement. But when we enter the shops of artificers, observe the various tools by which every operation is facilitated, and trace the progress of a manufacture through the different hands, that, in succession to each other, contribute to its perfection, we soon discover that every single man has an easy task, and that the extremes, however remote, of natural rudeness and artificial elegance, are joined by a regular concatenation of effects, of which every one is introduced by that which precedes it, and equally introduces that which is to follow. The same is the state of intellectual and manual performances. Long calculations or complex diagrams affright the timorous and unexperienced from a second view; but if we have skill sufficient to analyze them into simple principles, it will be discovered that our fear was groundless. _Divide and conquer_, is a principle equally just in science as in policy. Complication is a species of confederacy, which, while it continues united, bids defiance to the most active and vigorous intellect; but of which every member is separately weak, and which may therefore be quickly subdued, if it can once be broken. The chief art of learning, as Locke has observed, is to attempt but little at a time. The widest excursions of the mind are made by short flights frequently repeated; the most lofty fabricks of science are formed by the continued accumulation of single propositions. It often happens, whatever be the cause, that impatience of labour, or dread of miscarriage, seizes those who are most distinguished for quickness of apprehension; and that they who might with greatest reason promise themselves victory, are least willing to hazard the encounter. This diffidence, where the attention is not laid asleep by laziness, or dissipated by pleasures, can arise only from confused and general views, such as negligence snatches in haste, or from the disappointment of the first hopes formed by arrogance without reflection. To expect that the intricacies of science will be pierced by a careless glance, or the eminences of fame ascended without labour, is to expect a particular privilege, a power denied to the rest of mankind; but to suppose that the maze is inscrutable to diligence, or the heights inaccessible to perseverance, is to submit tamely to the tyranny of fancy, and enchain the mind in voluntary shackles. It is the proper ambition of the heroes in literature to enlarge the boundaries of knowledge by discovering and conquering new regions of the intellectual world. To the success of such undertakings perhaps some degree of fortuitous happiness is necessary, which no man can promise or procure to himself; and therefore doubt and irresolution may be forgiven in him that ventures into the unexplored abysses of truth, and attempts to find his way through the fluctuations of uncertainty, and the conflicts of contradiction. But when nothing more is required, than to pursue a path already beaten, and to trample obstacles which others have demolished, why should any man so much distrust his own intellect as to imagine himself unequal to the attempt? It were to be wished that they who devote their lives to study would at once believe nothing too great for their attainment, and consider nothing as too little for their regard; that they would extend their notice alike to science and to life, and unite some knowledge of the present world to their acquaintance with past ages and remote events. Nothing has so much exposed men of learning to contempt and ridicule, as their ignorance of things which are known to all but themselves. Those who have been taught to consider the institutions of the schools, as giving the last perfection to human abilities, are surprised to see men wrinkled with study, yet wanting to be instructed in the minute circumstances of propriety, or the necessary forms of daily transaction; and quickly shake off their reverence for modes of education, which they find to produce no ability above the rest of mankind. "Books," says Bacon, "can never teach the use of books." The student must learn by commerce with mankind to reduce his speculations to practice, and accommodate his knowledge to the purposes of life. It is too common for those who have been bred to scholastick professions, and passed much of their time in academies where nothing but learning confers honours, to disregard every other qualification, and to imagine that they shall find mankind ready to pay homage to their knowledge, and to crowd about them for instruction. They therefore step out from their cells into the open world with all the confidence of authority and dignity of importance; they look round about them at once with ignorance and scorn on a race of beings to whom they are equally unknown and equally contemptible, but whose manners they must imitate, and with whose opinions they must comply, if they desire to pass their time happily among them. To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look on the common business of the world, and the unwillingness with which they condescend to learn what is not to be found in any system of philosophy, it may be necessary to consider that though admiration is excited by abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given, nor affection conciliated, but by softer accomplishments, and qualities more easily communicable to those about us. He that can only converse upon questions, about which only a small part of mankind has knowledge sufficient to make them curious, must lose his days in unsocial silence, and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be useful on great occasions, may die without exerting his abilities, and stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations which fret away happiness, and which nothing is required to remove but a little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients. No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire of fond endearments, and tender officiousness; and therefore, no one should think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which friendship may be gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits or interchange of pleasures; but such benefits only can be bestowed, as others are capable to receive, and such pleasures only imparted, as others are qualified to enjoy. By this descent from the pinnacles of art no honour will be lost; for the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to use the simile of Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination: he remits his splendour but retains his magnitude, and pleases more though he dazzles less. No. 138. SATURDAY, JULY 13, 1751. _O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida rura, Atque humiles habitare casas, et figere cervos_. VIRG. EC. ii 28. With me retire, and leave the pomp of courts For humble cottages and rural sports. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Though the contempt with which you have treated the annual migrations of the gay and busy part of mankind is justified by daily observation; since most of those who leave the town, neither vary their entertainments nor enlarge their notions; yet I suppose you do not intend to represent the practice itself as ridiculous, or to declare that he whose condition puts the distribution of his time into his own power may not properly divide it between the town and country. That the country, and only the country, displays the inexhaustible varieties of nature, and supplies the philosophical mind with matter for admiration and inquiry, never was denied; but my curiosity is very little attracted by the colour of a flower, the anatomy of an insect, or the structure of a nest; I am generally employed upon human manners, and therefore fill up the months of rural leisure with remarks on those who live within the circle of my notice. If writers would more frequently visit those regions of negligence and liberty, they might diversify their representations, and multiply their images, for in the country are original characters chiefly to be found. In cities, and yet more in courts, the minute discriminations which distinguish one from another are for the most part effaced, the peculiarities of temper and opinion are gradually worn away by promiscuous converse, as angular bodies and uneven surfaces lose their points and asperities by frequent attrition against one another, and approach by degrees to uniform rotundity. The prevalence of fashion, the influence of example, the desire of applause, and the dread of censure, obstruct the natural tendencies of the mind, and check the fancy in its first efforts to break forth into experiments of caprice. Few inclinations are so strong as to grow up into habits, when they must struggle with the constant opposition of settled forms and established customs. But in the country every man is a separate and independent being: solitude flatters irregularity with hopes of secrecy; and wealth, removed from the mortification of comparison, and the awe of equality, swells into contemptuous confidence, and sets blame and laughter at defiance; the impulses of nature act unrestrained, and the disposition dares to shew itself in its true form, without any disguise of hypocrisy, or decorations of elegance. Every one indulges the full enjoyment of his own choice, and talks and lives with no other view than to please himself, without inquiring how far he deviates from the general practice, or considering others as entitled to any account of his sentiments or actions. If he builds or demolishes, opens or encloses, deluges or drains, it is not his care what may be the opinion of those who are skilled in perspective or architecture, it is sufficient that he has no landlord to controul him, and that none has any right to examine in what projects the lord of the manour spends his own money on his own grounds. For this reason it is not very common to want subjects for rural conversation. Almost every man is daily doing something which produces merriment, wonder, or resentment, among his neighbours. This utter exemption from restraint leaves every anomalous quality to operate in its full extent, and suffers the natural character to diffuse itself to every part of life. The pride which, under the check of publick observation, would have been only vented among servants and domesticks, becomes in a country baronet the torment of a province, and instead of terminating in the destruction of China-ware and glasses, ruins tenants, dispossesses cottagers, and harasses villages with actions of trespass and bills of indictment. It frequently happens that, even without violent passions, or enormous corruption, the freedom and laxity of a rustick life produces remarkable particularities of conduct or manner. In the province where I now reside, we have one lady eminent for wearing a gown always of the same cut and colour; another for shaking hands with those that visit her; and a third for unshaken resolution never to let tea or coffee enter her house. But of all the female characters which this place affords, I have found none so worthy of attention as that of Mrs. Busy, a widow, who lost her husband in her thirtieth year, and has since passed her time at the manour-house in the government of her children, and the management of the estate. Mrs. Busy was married at eighteen from a boarding-school, where she had passed her time like other young ladies, in needle-work, with a few intervals of dancing and reading. When she became a bride she spent one winter with her husband in town, where, having no idea of any conversation beyond the formalities of a visit, she found nothing to engage her passions: and when she had been one night at court, and two at an opera, and seen the Monument, the Tombs, and the Tower, she concluded that London had nothing more to shew, and wondered that when women had once seen the world, they could not be content to stay at home. She therefore went willingly to the ancient seat, and for some years studied housewifery under Mr. Busy's mother, with so much assiduity, that the old lady, when she died, bequeathed her a caudle-cup, a soup-dish, two beakers, and a chest of table-linen spun by herself. Mr. Busy, finding the economical qualities of his lady, resigned his affairs wholly into her hands, and devoted his life to his pointers and his hounds. He never visited his estates but to destroy the partridges or foxes; and often committed such devastations in the rage of pleasure, that some of his tenants refused to hold their lands at the usual rent. Their landlady persuaded them to be satisfied, and entreated her husband to dismiss his dogs, with many exact calculations of the ale drunk by his companions, and corn consumed by the horses, and remonstrances against the insolence of the huntsman, and the frauds of the groom. The huntsman was too necessary to his happiness to be discarded; and he had still continued to ravage his own estate, had he not caught a cold and a fever by shooting mallards in the fens. His fever was followed by a consumption, which in a few months brought him to the grave. Mrs. Busy was too much an economist to feel either joy or sorrow at his death. She received the compliments and consolations of her neighbours in a dark room, out of which she stole privately every night and morning to see the cows milked; and after a few days declared that she thought a widow might employ herself better than in nursing grief; and that, for her part, she was resolved that the fortunes of her children should not be impaired by her neglect. She therefore immediately applied herself to the reformation of abuses. She gave away the dogs, discharged the servants of the kennel and stable, and sent the horses to the next fair, but rated at so high a price that they returned unsold. She was resolved to have nothing idle about her, and ordered them to be employed in common drudgery. They lost their sleekness and grace, and were soon purchased at half the value. She soon disencumbered herself from her weeds, and put on a riding-hood, a coarse apron, and short petticoats, and has turned a large manour into a farm, of which she takes the management wholly upon herself. She rises before the sun to order the horses to their gears, and sees them well rubbed down at their return from work; she attends the dairy morning and evening, and watches when a calf falls that it may be carefully nursed; she walks out among the sheep at noon, counts the lambs, and observes the fences, and, where she finds a gap, stops it with a bush till it can be better mended. In harvest she rides a-field in the waggon, and is very liberal of her ale from a wooden bottle. At her leisure hours she looks goose eggs, airs the wool-room, and turns the cheese. When respect or curiosity brings visitants to her house, she entertains them with prognosticks of a scarcity of wheat, or a rot among the sheep, and always thinks herself privileged to dismiss them, when she is to see the hogs fed, or to count her poultry on the roost. The only things neglected about her are her children, whom she has taught nothing but the lowest household duties. In my last visit I met Miss Busy carrying grains to a sick cow, and was entertained with the accomplishments of her eldest son, a youth of such early maturity, that though he is only sixteen, she can trust him to sell corn in the market. Her younger daughter, who is eminent for her beauty, though somewhat tanned in making hay, was busy in pouring out ale to the ploughmen, that every one might have an equal share. I could not but look with pity on this young family, doomed by the absurd prudence of their mother to ignorance and meanness: but when I recommended a more elegant education, was answered, that she never saw bookish or finical people grow rich, and that she was good for nothing herself till she had forgotten the nicety of the boarding-school. I am, Yours, &c. BUCOLUS. No. 139. TUESDAY, JULY 16, 1751 --_Sit quod vis simplex duntanat et unum_. Hor. Art. Poet. 23. Let ev'ry piece be simple and be one. It is required by Aristotle to the perfection of a tragedy, and is equally necessary to every other species of regular composition, that it should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. "The beginning," says he, "is that which hath nothing necessarily previous, but to which that which follows is naturally consequent; the end, on the contrary, is that which by necessity, or, at least, according to the common course of things, succeeds something else, but which implies nothing consequent to itself; the middle is connected on one side to something that naturally goes before, and on the other to something that naturally follows it." Such is the rule laid down by this great critick, for the disposition of the different parts of a well-constituted fable. It must begin where it may be made intelligible without introduction; and end where the mind is left in repose, without expectation of any further event. The intermediate passages must join the last effect to the first cause, by a regular and unbroken concatenation; nothing must be, therefore, inserted, which does not apparently arise from something foregoing, and properly make way for something that succeeds it. This precept is to be understood in its rigour only with respect to great and essential events, and cannot be extended in the same force to minuter circumstances and arbitrary decorations, which yet are more happy, as they contribute more to the main design; for it is always a proof of extensive thought and accurate circumspection, to promote various purposes by the same act; and the idea of an ornament admits use, though it seems to exclude necessity. Whoever purposes, as it is expressed by Milton, _to build the lofty rhyme_, must acquaint himself with this law of poetical architecture, and take care that his edifice be solid as well as beautiful; that nothing stand single or independent, so as that it may be taken away without injuring the rest; but that, from the foundation to the pinnacles, one part rest firm upon another. The regular and consequential distribution is among common authors frequently neglected; but the failures of those, whose example can have no influence, may be safely overlooked, nor is it of much use to recall obscure and unguarded names to memory for the sake of sporting with their infamy. But if there is any writer whose genius can embellish impropriety, and whose authority can make errour venerable, his works are the proper objects of critical inquisition. To expunge faults where there are no excellencies is a task equally useless with that of the chymist, who employs the arts of separation and refinement upon ore in which no precious metal is contained to reward his operations. The tragedy of Samson Agonistes has been celebrated as the second work of the great author of Paradise Lost, and opposed, with all the confidence of triumph, to the dramatick performances of other nations. It contains, indeed, just sentiments, maxims of wisdom, and oracles of piety, and many passages written with the ancient spirit of choral poetry, in which there is a just and pleasing mixture of Seneca's moral declamation, with the wild enthusiasm of the Greek writers. It is, therefore, worthy of examination, whether a performance thus illuminated with genius, and enriched with learning, is composed according to the indispensable laws of Aristotelian criticism: and, omitting, at present, all other considerations, whether it exhibits a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning is undoubtedly beautiful and proper, opening with a graceful abruptness, and proceeding naturally to a mournful recital of facts necessary to be known: _Samson_. A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on; For yonder bank hath choice of sun and shade: There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves me from my task of servile toil, Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me.-- O, wherefore was my birth from Heav'n foretold Twice by an Angel?-- Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd, As of a person separate to God, Design'd for great exploits; if I must die Betray'd, captiv'd, and both my eyes put out?-- Whom have I to complain of but myself? Who this high gift of strength committed to me, In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me, Under the seal of silence could not keep: But weakly to a woman must reveal it. His soliloquy is interrupted by a chorus or company of men of his own tribe, who condole his miseries, extenuate his fault, and conclude with a solemn vindication of divine justice. So that at the conclusion of the first act there is no design laid, no discovery made, nor any disposition formed towards the consequent event. In the second act, Manoah, the father of Samson, comes to seek his son, and, being shewn him by the chorus, breaks out into lamentations of his misery, and comparisons of his present with his former state, representing to him the ignominy which his religion suffers, by the festival this day celebrated in honour of Dagon, to whom the idolaters ascribed his overthrow. --Thou bear'st Enough, and more, the burthen of that fault; Bitterly hast thou paid, and still art paying That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains, This day the Philistines a popular feast Here celebrate in Gaza; and proclaim Great pomp, and sacrifice, and praises loud To Dagon, as their God who hath deliver'd Thee, Samson, bound and blind, into their hands, Them out of thine, who slew'st them many a slain. Samson, touched with this reproach, makes a reply equally penitential and pious, which his father considers as the effusion of prophetick confidence: _Samson_.--He, be sure, Will not connive, or linger, thus provok'd, But will arise and his great name assert: Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him Of all these boasted trophies won on me. _Manoah_. With cause this hope relieves thee, and these words I as a prophecy receive; for God, Nothing more certain, will not long defer To vindicate the glory of his name. This part of the dialogue, as it might tend to animate or exasperate Samson, cannot, I think, be censured as wholly superfluous; but the succeeding dispute, in which Samson contends to die, and which his father breaks off, that he may go to solicit his release, is only valuable for its own beauties, and has no tendency to introduce any thing that follows it. The next event of the drama is the arrival of Dalila, with all her graces, artifices, and allurements. This produces a dialogue, in a very high degree elegant and instructive, from which she retires, after she has exhausted her persuasions, and is no more seen nor heard of; nor has her visit any effect but that of raising the character of Samson. In the fourth act enters Harapha, the giant of Gath, whose name had never been mentioned before, and who has now no other motive of coming, than to see the man whose strength and actions are so loudly celebrated: _Haraph_.--Much I have heard Of thy prodigious might and feats perform'd, Incredible to me, in this displeas'd, That I was never present in the place Of those encounters, where we might have tried Each other's force in camp or listed fields; And now am come to see of whom such noise Hath walk'd about, and each limb to survey, If thy appearance answer loud report. Samson challenges him to the combat; and, after an interchange of reproaches, elevated by repeated defiance on one side, and imbittered by contemptuous insults on the other, Harapha retires; we then hear it determined by Samson, and the chorus, that no consequence good or bad will proceed from their interview: _Chorus_. He will directly to the lords, I fear, And with malicious counsel stir them up Some way or other yet farther to afflict thee. _Sams_. He must allege some cause, and offer'd fight Will not dare mention, lest a question rise Whether he durst accept the offer or not; And, that he durst not, plain enough appear'd. At last, in the fifth act, appears a messenger from the lords assembled at the festival of Dagon, with a summons by which Samson is required to come and entertain them with some proof of his strength. Samson, after a short expostulation, dismisses him with a firm and resolute refusal; but, during the absence of the messenger, having a while defended the propriety of his conduct, he at last declares himself moved by a secret impulse to comply, and utters some dark presages of a great event to be brought to pass by his agency, under the direction of Providence: _Sams_. Be of good courage, I begin to feel Some rousing motions in me, which dispose To something extraordinary my thoughts. I with this messenger will go along, Nothing to do, be sure, that may dishonour Our Law, or stain my vow of Nazarite. If there be aught of presage in the mind, This day will be remarkable in my life By some great act, or of my days the last. While Samson is conducted off by the messenger, his father returns with hopes of success in his solicitation, upon which he confers with the chorus till their dialogue is interrupted, first by a shout of triumph, and afterwards by screams of horrour and agony. As they stand deliberating where they shall be secure, a man who had been present at the show enters, and relates how Samson, having prevailed on his guide to suffer him to lean against the main pillars of the theatrical edifice, tore down the roof upon the spectators and himself: --Those two massy pillars, With horrible convulsion, to and fro He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came, and drew The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder Upon the heads of all who sat beneath-- Samson, with these immixt, inevitably Pull'd down the same destruction on himself. This is undoubtedly a just and regular catastrophe, and the poem, therefore, has a beginning and an end which Aristotle himself could not have disapproved; but it must be allowed to want a middle, since nothing passes between the first act and the last, that either hastens or delays the death of Samson. The whole drama, if its superfluities were cut off, would scarcely fill a single act; yet this is the tragedy which ignorance has admired, and bigotry applauded. No. 140. SATURDAY, JULY 20, 1751. --_Quis tam Lucili fautor inepte est, Ut non hoc fateatur?_ HOR. Lib. i. Sat. x. 2. What doating bigot, to his faults so blind, As not to grant me this, can Milton find? It is common, says Bacon, to desire the end without enduring the means. Every member of society feels and acknowledges the necessity of detecting crimes, yet scarce any degree of virtue or reputation is able to secure an informer from publick hatred. The learned world has always admitted the usefulness of critical disquisitions, yet he that attempts to show, however modestly, the failures of a celebrated writer, shall surely irritate his admirers, and incur the imputation of envy, captiousness, and malignity. With this danger full in my view, I shall proceed to examine the sentiments of Milton's tragedy, which, though much less liable to censure than the disposition of his plan, are, like those of other writers, sometimes exposed to just exceptions for want of care, or want of discernment. Sentiments are proper and improper as they consist more or less with the character and circumstances of the person to whom they are attributed, with the rules of the composition in which they are found, or with the settled and unalterable nature of things. It is common among the tragick poets to introduce their persons alluding to events or opinions, of which they could not possibly have any knowledge. The barbarians of remote or newly discovered regions often display their skill in European learning. The god of love is mentioned in Tamerlane with all the familiarity of a Roman epigrammatist; and a late writer has put Harvey's doctrine of the circulation of the blood into the mouth of a Turkish statesman, who lived near two centuries before it was known even to philosophers or anatomists. Milton's learning, which acquainted him with the manners of the ancient eastern nations, and his invention, which required no assistance from the common cant of poetry, have preserved him from frequent outrages of local or chronological propriety. Yet he has mentioned Chalybean steel, of which it is not very likely that his chorus should have heard, and has made Alp the general name of a mountain, in a region where the Alps could scarcely be known: No medicinal liquor can assuage, Nor breath of cooling air from snowy Alp. He has taught Samson the tales of Circe, and the Syrens, at which he apparently hints in his colloquy with Dalila: --I know thy trains, Though dearly to my cost, thy gins, and toils; Thy fair _enchanted cup_, and _warbling charms_ No more on me have pow'r. But the grossest errour of this kind is the solemn introduction of the Phoenix in the last scene; which is faulty, not only as it is incongruous to the personage to whom it is ascribed, but as it is so evidently contrary to reason and nature, that it ought never to be mentioned but as a fable in any serious poem: --Virtue giv'n for lost, Deprest, and overthrown, as seem'd, Like that self-begotten bird In the Arabian woods embost, That no second knows nor third, And lay ere while a holocaust, From out her ashy womb now teem'd, Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most When most unactive deem'd, And though her body die, her fame survives A secular bird, ages of lives. Another species of impropriety is the unsuitableness of thoughts to the general character of the poem. The seriousness and solemnity of tragedy necessarily reject all pointed or epigrammatical expressions, all remote conceits and opposition of ideas. Samson's complaint is therefore too elaborate to be natural: As in the land of darkness, yet in light, To live a life half dead, a living death, And bury'd; but, O yet more miserable! Myself, my sepulchre, a moving grave, Buried, yet not exempt, By privilege of death and burial, From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs. All allusions to low and trivial objects, with which contempt is usually associated, are doubtless unsuitable to a species of composition which ought to be always awful, though not always magnificent. The remark therefore of the chorus on good or bad news seems to want elevation: _Manoah_. A little stay will bring some notice hither. _Chor_. Of good _or_ bad so great, of bad the sooner; For evil news _rides post_, while good news _baits_. But of all meanness that has least to plead which is produced by mere verbal conceits, which, depending only upon sounds, lose their existence by the change of a syllable. Of this kind is the following dialogue: _Chor_. But had we best retire? I see a _storm_. _Sams_. Fair days have oft contracted wind and rain. _Chor_. But this another kind of tempest brings. _Sams_. Be less abstruse, my riddling days are past. _Chor_. Look now for no enchanting voice, nor fear The bait of honied words; a rougher tongue Draws hitherward; I know him by his stride, The giant _Harapha_.-- And yet more despicable are the lines in which Manoah's paternal kindness is commended by the chorus: Fathers are wont to _lay up_ for their sons, Thou for thy son art bent to _lay out_ all. Samson's complaint of the inconveniencies of imprisonment is not wholly without verbal quaintness: --I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw The air, imprison'd also, close and damp. From the sentiments we may properly descend to the consideration of the language, which, in imitation of the ancients, is through the whole dialogue remarkably simple and unadorned, seldom heightened by epithets, or varied by figures; yet sometimes metaphors find admission, even where their consistency is not accurately preserved. Thus Samson confounds loquacity with a shipwreck: How could I once look up, or heave the head, Who, like a foolish _pilot_, have _shipwreck'd_ My _vessel_ trusted to me from above, Gloriously _rigg'd_; and for a word, a tear, Fool! have _divulg'd_ the _secret gift_ of God To a deceitful woman?-- And the chorus talks of adding fuel to flame in a report: He's gone, and who knows how he may _report_ Thy _words_, by _adding fuel to the flame_? The versification is in the dialogue much more smooth and harmonious, than in the parts allotted to the chorus, which are often so harsh and dissonant, as scarce to preserve, whether the lines end with or without rhymes, any appearance of metrical regularity: Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he, That heroic, that renown'd, Irresistible Samson? whom unarm'd No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand; Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid. Since I have thus pointed out the faults of Milton, critical integrity requires that I should endeavour to display his excellencies, though they will not easily be discovered in short quotations, because they consist in the justness of diffuse reasonings, or in the contexture and method of continued dialogues; this play having none of those descriptions, similies, or splendid sentences, with which other tragedies are so lavishly adorned. Yet some passages may be selected which seem to deserve particular notice, either as containing sentiments of passion, representations of life, precepts of conduct, or sallies of imagination. It is not easy to give a stronger representation of the weariness of despondency, than in the words of Samson to his father: --I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat, Nature within me seems In all her functions weary of herself, My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest. The reply of Samson to the flattering Dalila affords a just and striking description of the stratagems and allurements of feminine hypocrisy: --These are thy wonted arts, And arts of every woman false like thee, To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray, Then as repentant to submit, beseech, And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse, Confess and promise wonders in her change; Not truly penitent, but chief to try Her husband, how far urg'd his patience bears, His virtue or weakness which way to assail: Then with more cautious and instructed skill Again transgresses, and again submits. When Samson has refused to make himself a spectacle at the feast of Dagon, he first justifies his behaviour to the chorus, who charge him with having served the Philistines, by a very just distinction: and then destroys the common excuse of cowardice and servility, which always confound temptation with compulsion: _Chor_. Yet with thy strength thou serv'st the Philistines. _Sams_. Not in their idol worship, but by labour Honest and lawful to deserve my food Of those, who have me in their civil power. _Chor_. Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not. _Sams_. Where outward force constrains, the sentence holds. But who constrains me to the temple of Dagon, Not dragging? The Philistine lords command. Commands are no constraints. If I obey them, I do it freely, venturing to displease God for the fear of Man, and Man prefer, Set God behind. The complaint of blindness which Samson pours out at the beginning of the tragedy is equally addressed to the passions and the fancy. The enumeration of his miseries is succeeded by a very pleasing train of poetical images, and concluded by such expostulation and wishes, as reason too often submits to learn from despair: O first created Beam, and thou great Word "Let there be light, and light was over all;" Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life, And almost life itself, if it be true That light is in the soul, She all in every part; why was the sight To such a tender hall as the eye confin'd, So obvious and so easy to be quench'd? And not, as feeling, through all parts diffus'd, That she may look at will through every pore? Such are the faults and such the beauties of Samson Agonistes, which I have shown with no other purpose than to promote the knowledge of true criticism. The everlasting verdure of Milton's laurels has nothing to fear from the blasts of malignity; nor can my attempt produce any other effect, than to strengthen their shoots by lopping their luxuriance[g]. [Footnote g: This is not the language of an accomplice in Lauder's imposition.--ED.] No. 141. TUESDAY, JULY 23, 1751. _Hilarisque, tamen cum pondere, virtus_. STAT. Greatness with ease, and gay severity. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Politicians have long observed, that the greatest events may be often traced back to slender causes. Petty competition or casual friendship, the prudence of a slave, or the garrulity of a woman, have hindered or promoted the most important schemes, and hastened or retarded the revolutions of empire. Whoever shall review his life will generally find, that the whole tenour of his conduct has been determined by some accident of no apparent moment, or by a combination of inconsiderable circumstances, acting when his imagination was unoccupied, and his judgment unsettled; and that his principles and actions have taken their colour from some secret infusion, mingled without design in the current of his ideas. The desires that predominate in our hearts, are instilled by imperceptible communications at the time when we look upon the various scenes of the world, and the different employments of men, with the neutrality of inexperience; and we come forth from the nursery or the school, invariably destined to the pursuit of great acquisitions, or petty accomplishments. Such was the impulse by which I have been kept in motion from my earliest years. I was born to an inheritance which gave my childhood a claim to distinction and caresses, and was accustomed to hear applauses, before they had much influence on my thoughts. The first praise of which I remember myself sensible was that of good-humour, which, whether I deserved it or not when it was bestowed, I have since made it my whole business to propagate and maintain. When I was sent to school, the gaiety of my look, and the liveliness of my loquacity, soon gained me admission to hearts not yet fortified against affection by artifice or interest. I was entrusted with every stratagem, and associated in every sport; my company gave alacrity to a frolick, and gladness to a holiday. I was indeed so much employed in adjusting or executing schemes of diversion, that I had no leisure for my tasks, but was furnished with exercises, and instructed in my lessons, by some kind patron of the higher classes. My master, not suspecting my deficiency, or unwilling to detect what his kindness would not punish nor his impartiality excuse, allowed me to escape with a slight examination, laughed at the pertness of my ignorance, and the sprightliness of my absurdities, and could not forbear to show that he regarded me with such tenderness, as genius and learning can seldom excite. From school I was dismissed to the university, where I soon drew upon me the notice of the younger students, and was the constant partner of their morning walks, and evening compotations. I was not indeed much celebrated for literature, but was looked on with indulgence as a man of parts, who wanted nothing but the dulness of a scholar, and might become eminent whenever he should condescend to labour and attention. My tutor a while reproached me with negligence, and repressed my sallies with supercilious gravity; yet, having natural good-humour lurking in his heart, he could not long hold out against the power of hilarity, but after a few months began to relax the muscles of disciplinarian moroseness, received me with smiles after an elopement, and, that he might not betray his trust to his fondness, was content to spare my diligence by increasing his own. Thus I continued to dissipate the gloom of collegiate austerity, to waste my own life in idleness, and lure others from their studies, till the happy hour arrived, when I was sent to London. I soon discovered the town to be the proper element of youth and gaiety, and was quickly distinguished as a wit by the ladies, a species of beings only heard of at the university, whom I had no sooner the happiness of approaching than I devoted all my faculties to the ambition of pleasing them. A wit, Mr. Rambler, in the dialect of ladies, is not always a man who, by the action of a vigorous fancy upon comprehensive knowledge, brings distant ideas unexpectedly together, who, by some peculiar acuteness, discovers resemblance in objects dissimilar to common eyes, or, by mixing heterogeneous notions, dazzles the attention with sudden scintillations of conceit. A lady's wit is a man who can make ladies laugh, to which, however easy it may seem, many gifts of nature, and attainments of art, must commonly concur. He that hopes to be received as a wit in female assemblies, should have a form neither so amiable as to strike with admiration, nor so coarse as to raise disgust, with an understanding too feeble to be dreaded, and too forcible to be despised. The other parts of the character are more subject to variation; it was formerly essential to a wit, that half his back should be covered with a snowy fleece, and, at a time yet more remote, no man was a wit without his boots. In the days of the _Spectator_ a snuff-box seems to have been indispensable; but in my time an embroidered coat was sufficient, without any precise regulation of the rest of his dress. But wigs and boots and snuff-boxes are vain, without a perpetual resolution to be merry, and who can always find supplies of mirth? Juvenal indeed, in his comparison of the two opposite philosophers, wonders only whence an unexhausted fountain of tears could be discharged: but had Juvenal, with all his spirit, undertaken my province, he would have found constant gaiety equally difficult to be supported. Consider, Mr. Rambler, and compassionate the condition of a man, who has taught every company to expect from him a continual feast of laughter, an unintermitted stream of jocularity. The task of every other slave has an end. The rower in time reaches the port; the lexicographer at last finds the conclusion of his alphabet; only the hapless wit has his labour always to begin, the call for novelty is never satisfied, and one jest only raises expectation of another. I know that among men of learning and asperity the retainers to the female world are not much regarded: yet I cannot but hope that if you knew at how dear a rate our honours are purchased, you would look with some gratulation on our success, and with some pity on our miscarriages. Think on the misery of him who is condemned to cultivate barrenness and ransack vacuity; who is obliged to continue his talk when his meaning is spent, to raise merriment without images, to harass his imagination in quest of thoughts which he cannot start, and his memory in pursuit of narratives which he cannot overtake; observe the effort with which he strains to conceal despondency by a smile, and the distress in which he sits while the eyes of the company are fixed upon him as the last refuge from silence and dejection. It were endless to recount the shifts to which I have been reduced, or to enumerate the different species of artificial wit. I regularly frequented coffee-houses, and have often lived a week upon an expression, of which he who dropped it did not know the value. When fortune did not favour my erratick industry, I gleaned jests at home from obsolete farces. To collect wit was indeed safe, for I consorted with none that looked much into books, but to disperse it was the difficulty. A seeming negligence was often useful, and I have very successfully made a reply not to what the lady had said, but to what it was convenient for me to hear; for very few were so perverse as to rectify a mistake which had given occasion to a burst of merriment. Sometimes I drew the conversation up by degrees to a proper point, and produced a conceit which I had treasured up, like sportsmen who boast of killing the foxes which they lodge in the covert. Eminence is, however, in some happy moments, gained at less expense; I have delighted a whole circle at one time with a series of quibbles, and made myself good company at another, by scalding my fingers, or mistaking a lady's lap for my own chair. These are artful deceits and useful expedients; but expedients are at length exhausted, and deceits detected. Time itself, among other injuries, diminishes the power of pleasing, and I now find, in my forty-fifth year, many pranks and pleasantries very coldly received, which had formerly filled a whole room with jollity and acclamation. I am under the melancholy necessity of supporting that character by study, which I gained by levity, having learned too late that gaiety must be recommended by higher qualities, and that mirth can never please long but as the efflorescence of a mind loved for its luxuriance, but esteemed for its usefulness. I am, &c. PAPILIUS. No. 142. SATURDAY, JULY 27, 1751. [Greek: Entha d aner eniaue pelorios-- --oude, met allous Poleit, all apaneuthen eon athemistia ede. Kai gar Oaum etetukto pelorion oude epskei Andri ge sitophagps.] HOMER. Od. [Greek: I'.] 187. A giant shepherd here his flock maintains Far from the rest, and solitary reigns, In shelter thick of horrid shade reclin'd; And gloomy mischiefs labour in the mind. A form enormous! far unlike the race Of human birth, in stature or in face. POPE. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Having been accustomed to retire annually from the town, I lately accepted the invitation of Eugenio, who has an estate and seat in a distant county. As we were unwilling to travel without improvement, we turned often from the direct road to please ourselves with the view of nature or of art; we examined every wild mountain and medicinal spring, criticised every edifice, contemplated every ruin, and compared every scene of action with the narratives of historians. By this succession of amusements we enjoyed the exercise of a journey without suffering the fatigue, and had nothing to regret but that, by a progress so leisurely and gentle, we missed the adventures of a post-chaise, and the pleasure of alarming villages with the tumult of our passage, and of disguising our insignificancy by the dignity of hurry. The first week after our arrival at Eugenio's house was passed in receiving visits from his neighbours, who crowded about him with all the eagerness of benevolence; some impatient to learn the news of the court and town, that they might be qualified by authentick information to dictate to the rural politicians on the next bowling day; others desirous of his interest to accommodate disputes, or his advice in the settlement of their fortunes and the marriage of their children. The civilities which he had received were soon to be returned; and I passed sometime with great satisfaction in roving through the country, and viewing the seats, gardens, and plantations, which are scattered over it. My pleasure would indeed have been greater had I been sometimes allowed to wander in a park or wilderness alone; but to appear as a friend of Eugenio was an honour not to be enjoyed without some inconveniencies: so much was every one solicitous for my regard, that I could seldom escape to solitude, or steal a moment from the emulation of complaisance, and the vigilance of officiousness. In these rambles of good neighbourhood, we frequently passed by a house of unusual magnificence. While I had my curiosity yet distracted among many novelties, it did not much attract my observation; but in a short time I could not forbear surveying it with particular notice; for the length of the wall which inclosed the gardens, the disposition of the shades that waved over it, and the canals of which I could obtain some glimpses through the trees from our own windows, gave me reason to expect more grandeur and beauty than I had yet seen in that province. I therefore inquired, as we rode by it, why we never, amongst our excursions, spent an hour where there was such an appearance of splendour and affluence? Eugenio told me that the seat which I so much admired, was commonly called in the country the _haunted house_, and that no visits were paid there by any of the gentlemen whom I had yet seen. As the haunts of incorporeal beings are generally ruinous, neglected, and desolate, I easily conceived that there was something to be explained, and told him that I supposed it only fairy ground, on which we might venture by day-light without danger. The danger, says he, is indeed only that of appearing to solicit the acquaintance of a man, with whom it is not possible to converse without infamy, and who has driven from him, by his insolence or malignity, every human being who can live without him. Our conversation was then accidentally interrupted; but my inquisitive humour being now in motion, could not rest without a full account of this newly discovered prodigy. I was soon informed that the fine house and spacious gardens were haunted by squire Bluster, of whom it was very easy to learn the character, since nobody had regard for him sufficient to hinder them from telling whatever they could discover. Squire Bluster is descended of an ancient family. The estate which his ancestors had immemorially possessed was much augmented by captain Bluster, who served under Drake in the reign of Elizabeth; and the Blusters, who were before only petty gentlemen, have from that time frequently represented the shire in parliament, been chosen to present addresses, and given laws at hunting-matches and races. They were eminently hospitable and popular, till the father of this gentleman died of an election. His lady went to the grave soon after him, and left the heir, then only ten years old, to the care of his grandmother, who would not suffer him to be controlled, because she could not bear to hear him cry; and never sent him to school, because she was not able to live without his company. She taught him however very early to inspect the steward's accounts, to dog the butler from the cellar, and to catch the servants at a junket; so that he was at the age of eighteen a complete master of all the lower arts of domestick policy, had often on the road detected combinations between the coachman and the ostler, and procured the discharge of nineteen maids for illicit correspondence with cottagers and charwomen. By the opportunities of parsimony which minority affords, and which the probity of his guardians had diligently improved, a very large sum of money was accumulated, and he found himself, when he took his affairs into his own hands, the richest man in the county. It has been long the custom of this family to celebrate the heir's completion of his twenty-first year, by an entertainment, at which the house is thrown open to all that are inclined to enter it, and the whole province flocks together as to a general festivity. On this occasion young Bluster exhibited the first tokens of his future eminence, by shaking his purse at an old gentleman who had been the intimate friend of his father, and offering to wager a greater sum than he could afford to venture; a practice with which he has, at one time or other, insulted every freeholder within ten miles round him. His next acts of offence were committed in a contentious and spiteful vindication of the privileges of his manours, and a rigorous and relentless prosecution of every man that presumed to violate his game. As he happens to have no estate adjoining equal to his own, his oppressions are often borne without resistance, for fear of a long suit, of which he delights to count the expenses without the least solicitude about the event; for he knows, that where nothing but an honorary right is contested, the poorer antagonist must always suffer, whatever shall be the last decision of the law. By the success of some of these disputes, he has so elated his insolence, and, by reflection upon the general hatred which they have brought upon him, so irritated his virulence, that his whole life is spent in meditating or executing mischief. It is his common practice to procure his hedges to be broken in the night, and then to demand satisfaction for damages which his grounds have suffered from his neighbour's cattle. An old widow was yesterday soliciting Eugenio to enable her to replevin her only cow, then in the pound by squire Bluster's order, who had sent one of his agents to take advantage of her calamity, and persuade her to sell the cow at an under rate. He has driven a day-labourer from his cottage, for gathering blackberries in a hedge for his children, and has now an old woman in the county-gaol for a trespass which she committed, by coming into his ground to pick up acorns for her hog. Money, in whatever hands, will confer power. Distress will fly to immediate refuge, without much consideration of remote consequences. Bluster has therefore a despotick authority in many families, whom he has assisted, on pressing occasions, with larger sums than they can easily repay. The only visits that he makes are to these houses of misfortune, where he enters with the insolence of absolute command, enjoys the terrours of the family, exacts their obedience, riots at their charge, and in the height of his joy insults the father with menaces, and the daughters with obscenity. He is of late somewhat less offensive; for one of his debtors, after gentle expostulations, by which he was only irritated to grosser outrage, seized him by the sleeve, led him trembling into the court-yard, and closed the door upon him in a stormy night. He took his usual revenge next morning by a writ; but the debt was discharged by the assistance of Eugenio. It is his rule to suffer his tenants to owe him rent, because by this indulgence he secures to himself the power of seizure whenever he has an inclination to amuse himself with calamity, and feast his ears with entreaties and lamentations. Yet as he is sometimes capriciously liberal to those whom he happens to adopt as favourites, and lets his lands at a cheap rate, his farms are never long unoccupied; and when one is ruined by oppression, the possibility of better fortune quickly lures another to supply his place. Such is the life of squire Bluster; a man in whose power fortune has liberally placed the means of happiness, but who has defeated all her gifts of their end by the depravity of his mind. He is wealthy without followers; he is magnificent without witnesses; he has birth without alliance, and influence without dignity. His neighbours scorn him as a brute; his dependants dread him as an oppressor; and he has only the gloomy comfort of reflecting, that if he is hated, he is likewise feared. I am, Sir, &c. VAGULUS. No. 143. TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1751. _--Moveat cornicula risum Furtivis nudata coloribus.--_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 19. Lest when the birds their various colours claim, Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn Should stand the laughter of the publick scorn. FRANCIS. Among the innumerable practices by which interest or envy have taught those who live upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the excellence of a new composition can no longer be contested, and malice is compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded, though his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot obscure, may be set at such a distance as not to overpower our fainter lustre. This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it may be sometimes urged with probability. Bruyere declares, that we are come into the world too late to produce any thing new, that nature and life are preoccupied, and that description and sentiment have been long exhausted. It is indeed certain, that whoever attempts any common topick, will find unexpected coincidences of his thoughts with those of other writers; nor can the nicest judgment always distinguish accidental similitude from artful imitation. There is likewise a common stock of images, a settled mode of arrangement, and a beaten track of transition, which all authors suppose themselves at liberty to use, and which produce the resemblance generally observable among contemporaries. So that in books which best deserve the name of originals, there is little new beyond the disposition of materials already provided; the same ideas and combinations of ideas have been long in the possession of other hands; and, by restoring to every man his own, as the Romans must have returned to their cots from the possession of the world, so the most inventive and fertile genius would reduce his folios to a few pages. Yet the author who imitates his predecessors only by furnishing himself with thoughts and elegancies out of the same general magazine of literature, can with little more propriety be reproached as a plagiary, than the architect can be censured as a mean copier of Angelo or Wren, because he digs his marble from the same quarry, squares his stones by the same art, and unites them in the columns of the same orders. Many subjects fall under the consideration of an author, which, being limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidental diversities. All definitions of the same thing must be nearly the same; and descriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and fanciful kind, must always have in some degree that resemblance to each other which they all have to their object. Different poets describing the spring or the sea would mention the zephyrs and the flowers, the billows and the rocks; reflecting on human life, they would, without any communication of opinions, lament the deceitfulness of hope, the fugacity of pleasure, the fragility of beauty, and the frequency of calamity; and for palliatives of these incurable miseries, they would concur in recommending kindness, temperance, caution, and fortitude. When therefore there are found in Virgil and Horace two similar passages-- _Hæ tibi erunt artes-- Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos_. VIRG. To tame the proud, the fetter'd slave to free: These are imperial arts, and worthy thee. DRYDEN. _Imperet bellante prior, jacentem Lenis in hostem_. HOR. Let Cæsar spread his conquests far, Less pleas'd to triumph than to spare-- it is surely not necessary to suppose with a late critick, that one is copied from the other, since neither Virgil nor Horace can be supposed ignorant of the common duties of humanity, and the virtue of moderation in success. Cicero and Ovid have on very different occasions remarked how little of the honour of a victory belongs to the general, when his soldiers and his fortune have made their deductions; yet why should Ovid be suspected to have owed to Tully an observation which perhaps occurs to every man that sees or hears of military glories? Tully observes of Achilles, that had not Homer written, his valour had been without praise: _Nisi Ilias illa extitisset, idem tumulus qui corpus ejus contexerat, nomen ejus obruisset_. Unless the Iliad had been published, his name had been lost in the tomb that covered his body. Horace tells us with more energy that there were brave men before the wars of Troy, but they were lost in oblivion for want of a poet: _Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles Urgentur, ignotique longá Nocte, carent quia vate sacro_. Before great Agamemnon reign'd, Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave, Whose huge ambition's now contain'd In the small compass of a grave: In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown: No bard had they to make all time their own. FRANCIS. Tully inquires, in the same oration, why, but for fame, we disturb a short life with so many fatigues? _Quid est quod in hoc tam exiguo vitae curriculo et tam brevi, tantis nos in laboribus exerceamus?_ Why in so small a circuit of life should we employ ourselves in so many fatigues? Horace inquires in the same manner, _Quid brevi fortes jaculamur aevo Multa?_ Why do we aim, with eager strife, At things beyond the mark of life? FRANCIS. when our life is of so short duration, why we form such numerous designs? But Horace, as well as Tully, might discover that records are needful to preserve the memory of actions, and that no records were so durable as poems; either of them might find out that life is short, and that we consume it in unnecessary labour. There are other flowers of fiction so widely scattered and so easily cropped, that it is scarcely just to tax the use of them as an act by which any particular writer is despoiled of his garland; for they may be said to have been planted by the ancients in the open road of poetry for the accommodation of their successors, and to be the right of every one that has art to pluck them without injuring their colours or their fragrance. The passage of Orpheus to hell, with the recovery and second loss of Eurydice, have been described after Boetius by Pope, in such a manner as might justly leave him suspected of imitation, were not the images such as they might both have derived from more ancient writers. _Quae sontes agitant metu, Ultrices scelerum deæ Jam masta: lacrymis madent, Non Ixionium caput Velox præcipitat rota_. The pow'rs of vengeance, while they hear, Touch'd with compassion, drop a tear: Ixion's rapid wheel is bound, Fix'd in attention to the sound. F. LEWIS. Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands still, Ixion rests upon the wheel, And the pale spectres dance! The furies sink upon their iron beds. POPE _Tandem, vincimur, arbiter Umbrarum, miserans, ait-- Donemus, comitem viro, Emtam carmine, conjugem_. Subdu'd at length, Hell's pitying monarch cry'd, The song rewarding, let us yield the bride. F. LEWIS. He sung; and hell consented To hear the poet's prayer; Stern Proserpine relented, And gave him back the fair. POPE _Heu, noctis prope terminos Orpheus Eurydicen suam Vidit, perdidit, occidit_. Nor yet the golden verge of day begun, When Orpheus, her unhappy lord, Eurydice to life restor'd, At once beheld, and lost, and was undone. F. LEWIS. But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes: Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! POPE. No writer can be fully convicted of imitation, except there is a concurrence of more resemblance than can be imagined to have happened by chance; as where the same ideas are conjoined without any natural series or necessary coherence, or where not only the thought but the words are copied. Thus it can scarcely be doubted, that in the first of the following passages Pope remembered Ovid, and that in the second he copied Crashaw: _Saepe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas? Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes-- Sponte suâ carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos, Et quod conabar scribere, versus erat_. OVID. Quit, quit this barren trade, my father cry'd: Ev'n Homer left no riches when he dy'd-- In verse spontaneous flow'd my native strain, Forc'd by no sweat or labour of the brain. F. LEWIS. I left no calling for this idle trade; No duty broke, no father disobey'd; While yet a child, ere yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. POPE. --This plain floor, Believe me, reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can, Here lies a truly honest man. CRASHAW. This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, Here lies an honest man. POPE. Conceits, or thoughts not immediately impressed by sensible objects, or necessarily arising from the coalition or comparison of common sentiments, may be with great justice suspected whenever they are found a second time. Thus Wallar probably owed to Grotius an elegant compliment: Here lies the learned Savil's heir, So early wise, and lasting fair, That none, except her years they told, Thought her a child, or thought her old. WALLER. [Transcriber's note: Inconsistency in spelling Waller/Wallar in original] _Unica lux saecli, genitoris gloria, nemo Quem puerum, nemo credidit esse senem_. GROT. The age's miracle, his father's joy! Nor old you would pronounce him, nor a boy. F. LEWIS. And Prior was indebted for a pretty illustration to Alleyne's poetical history of Henry the Seventh: For nought but light itself, itself can shew, And only kings can write, what kings can do. ALLEYNE. Your musick's pow'r, your musick must disclose, For what light is, 'tis only light that shews. PRIOR. And with yet more certainty may the same writer be censured, for endeavouring the clandestine appropriation of a thought which he borrowed, surely without thinking himself disgraced, from an epigram of Plato: [Greek: Tae Paphiae to katoptron, epei toiae men orasthai Ouk ethelo, oiae d' aen paros, ou dunamai.] Venus, take my votive glass, Since I am not what I was; What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see. As not every instance of similitude can be considered as a proof of imitation, so not every imitation ought to be stigmatized as plagiarism. The adoption of a noble sentiment, or the insertion of a borrowed ornament, may sometimes display so much judgment as will almost compensate for invention: and an inferior genius may, without any imputation of servility, pursue the path of the ancients, provided he declines to tread in their footsteps. No. 144. SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 1751. --_Daphnidis arcum Fregisti et calamos: quae tu, perverse Menalea, Et quum vidisti puero donata, dolebas; Et si non aliqua nocuisses, mortuus esses._ VIRG. EC. iii. 12. The bow of Daphnis and the shafts you broke; When the fair boy receiv'd the gift of right; And but for mischief, you had dy'd for spite. DRYDEN. It is impossible to mingle in conversation without observing the difficulty with which a new name makes its way into the world. The first appearance of excellence unites multitudes against it; unexpected opposition rises up on every side; the celebrated and the obscure join in the confederacy; subtlety furnishes arms to impudence, and invention leads on credulity. The strength and unanimity of this alliance is not easily conceived. It might be expected that no man should suffer his heart to be inflamed with malice, but by injuries; that none should busy himself in contesting the pretensions of another, but when some right of his own was involved in the question; that at least hostilities, commenced without cause, should quickly cease; that the armies of malignity should soon disperse, when no common interest could be found to hold them together; and that the attack upon a rising character should be left to those who had something to hope or fear from the event. The hazards of those that aspire to eminence, would be much diminished if they had none but acknowledged rivals to encounter. Their enemies would then be few, and, what is yet of greater importance, would be known. But what caution is sufficient to ward off the blows of invisible assailants, or what force can stand against uninterrupted attacks, and a continual succession of enemies? Yet such is the state of the world, that no sooner can any man emerge from the crowd, and fix the eyes of the publick upon him, than he stands as a mark to the arrows of lurking calumny, and receives in the tumult of hostility, from distant and from nameless hands, wounds not always easy to be cured. It is probable that the onset against the candidates for renown, is originally incited by those who imagine themselves in danger of suffering by their success; but, when war is once declared, volunteers flock to the standard, multitudes follow the camp only for want of employment, and flying squadrons are dispersed to every part, so pleased with an opportunity of mischief, that they toil without prospect of praise, and pillage without hope of profit. When any man has endeavoured to deserve distinction, he will be surprised to hear himself censured where he could not expect to have been named; he will find the utmost acrimony of malice among those whom he never could have offended. As there are to be found in the service of envy men of every diversity of temper and degree of understanding, calumny is diffused by all arts and methods of propagation. Nothing is too gross or too refined, too cruel or too trifling, to be practised; very little regard is had to the rules of honourable hostility, but every weapon is accounted lawful, and those that cannot make a thrust at life are content to keep themselves in play with petty malevolence, to tease with feeble blows and impotent disturbance. But as the industry of observation has divided the most miscellaneous and confused assemblages into proper classes, and ranged the insects of the summer, that torment us with their drones or stings, by their several tribes; the persecutors of merit, notwithstanding their numbers, may be likewise commodiously distinguished into Roarers, Whisperers, and Moderators. The Roarer is an enemy rather terrible than dangerous. He has no other qualification for a champion of controversy than a hardened front and strong voice. Having seldom so much desire to confute as to silence, he depends rather upon vociferation than argument, and has very little care to adjust one part of his accusation to another, to preserve decency in his language, or probability in his narratives. He has always a store of reproachful epithets and contemptuous appellations, ready to be produced as occasion may require, which by constant use he pours out with resistless volubility. If the wealth of a trader is mentioned, he without hesitation devotes him to bankruptcy; if the beauty and elegance of a lady be commended, he wonders how the town can fall in love with rustick deformity; if a new performance of genius happens to be celebrated, he pronounces the writer a hopeless idiot, without knowledge of books or life, and without the understanding by which it must be acquired. His exaggerations are generally without effect upon those whom he compels to hear them; and though it will sometimes happen that the timorous are awed by his violence, and the credulous mistake his confidence for knowledge, yet the opinions which he endeavours to suppress soon recover their former strength, as the trees that bend to the tempest erect themselves again when its force is past. The Whisperer is more dangerous. He easily gains attention by a soft address, and excites curiosity by an air of importance. As secrets are not to be made cheap by promiscuous publication, he calls a select audience about him, and gratifies their vanity with an appearance of trust by communicating his intelligence in a low voice. Of the trader he can tell that, though he seems to manage an extensive commerce, and talks in high terms of the funds, yet his wealth is not equal to his reputation; he has lately suffered much by an expensive project, and had a greater share than is acknowledged in the rich ship that perished by the storm. Of the beauty he has little to say, but that they who see her in a morning do not discover all those graces which are admired in the Park. Of the writer he affirms with great certainty, that though the excellence of the work be incontestible, he can claim but a small part of the reputation; that he owed most of the images and sentiments to a secret friend; and that the accuracy and equality of the style was produced by the successive correction of the chief criticks of the age. As every one is pleased with imagining that he knows something not yet commonly divulged, secret history easily gains credit; but it is for the most part believed only while it circulates in whispers; and when once it is openly told, is openly confuted. The most pernicious enemy is the man of Moderation. Without interest in the question, or any motive but honest curiosity, this impartial and zealous inquirer after truth is ready to hear either side, and always disposed to kind interpretations and favourable opinions. He hath heard the trader's affairs reported with great variation, and, after a diligent comparison of the evidence, concludes it probable that the splendid superstructure of business being originally built upon a narrow basis, has lately been found to totter; but between dilatory payment and bankruptcy there is a great distance; many merchants have supported themselves by expedients for a time, without any final injury to their creditors; and what is lost by one adventure may be recovered by another. He believes that a young lady pleased with admiration, and desirous to make perfect what is already excellent, may heighten her charms by artificial improvements, but surely most of her beauties must be genuine, and who can say that he is wholly what he endeavours to appear? The author he knows to be a man of diligence, who perhaps does not sparkle with the fire of Homer, but has the judgment to discover his own deficiencies, and to supply them by the help of others; and, in his opinion, modesty is a quality so amiable and rare, that it ought to find a patron wherever it appears, and may justly be preferred by the publick suffrage to petulant wit and ostentatious literature. He who thus discovers failings with unwillingness, and extenuates the faults which cannot be denied, puts an end at once to doubt or vindication; his hearers repose upon his candour and veracity, and admit the charge without allowing the excuse. Such are the arts by which the envious, the idle, the peevish, and the thoughtless, obstruct that worth which they cannot equal, and, by artifices thus easy, sordid, and detestable, is industry defeated, beauty blasted, and genius depressed. No. 145. TUESDAY, AUGUST 6, 1751. _Non, si priores Maeonius tenet Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent, Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces, Stesichorique graves Camoenae_. HOR. Lib. iv. Od. ix. 5. What though the muse her Homer thrones High above all the immortal quire; Nor Pindar's raptures she disowns, Nor hides the plaintive Caean lyre; Alcaeus strikes the tyrant soul with dread, Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread. FRANCIS. It is allowed that vocations and employments of least dignity are of the most apparent use; that the meanest artizan or manufacturer contributes more to the accommodation of life, than the profound scholar and argumentative theorist; and that the publick would suffer less present inconvenience from the banishment of philosophers than from the extinction of any common trade. Some have been so forcibly struck with this observation, that they have, in the first warmth of their discovery, thought it reasonable to alter the common distribution of dignity, and ventured to condemn mankind of universal ingratitude. For justice exacts, that those by whom we are most benefited should be most honoured. And what labour can be more useful than that which procures to families and communities those necessaries which supply the wants of nature, or those conveniencies by which ease, security, and elegance, are conferred? This is one of the innumerable theories which the first attempt to reduce them into practice certainly destroys. If we estimate dignity by immediate usefulness, agriculture is undoubtedly the first and noblest science; yet we see the plough driven, the clod broken, the manure spread, the seeds scattered, and the harvest reaped, by men whom those that feed upon their industry will never be persuaded to admit into the same rank with heroes, or with sages; and who, after all the confessions which truth may extort in favour of their occupation, must be content to fill up the lowest class of the commonwealth, to form the base of the pyramid of subordination, and lie buried in obscurity themselves, while they support all that is splendid, conspicuous, or exalted. It will be found upon a closer inspection, that this part of the conduct of mankind is by no means contrary to reason or equity. Remuneratory honours are proportioned at once to the usefulness and difficulty of performances, and are properly adjusted by comparison of the mental and corporeal abilities, which they appear to employ. That work, however necessary, which is carried on only by muscular strength and manual dexterity, is not of equal esteem, in the consideration of rational beings, with the tasks that exercise the intellectual powers, and require the active vigour of imagination or the gradual and laborious investigations of reason. The merit of all manual occupations seems to terminate in the inventor; and surely the first ages cannot be charged with ingratitude; since those who civilized barbarians, and taught them how to secure themselves from cold and hunger, were numbered amongst their deities. But these arts once discovered by philosophy, and facilitated by experience, are afterwards practised with very little assistance from the faculties of the soul; nor is any thing necessary to the regular discharge of these inferior duties, beyond that rude observation which the most sluggish intellect may practise, and that industry which the stimulations of necessity naturally enforce. Yet though the refusal of statues and panegyrick to those who employ only their hands and feet in the service of mankind may be easily justified, I am far from intending to incite the petulance of pride, to justify the superciliousness of grandeur, or to intercept any part of that tenderness and benevolence which, by the privilege of their common nature, one may claim from another. That it would be neither wise nor equitable to discourage the husbandman, the labourer, the miner, or the smith, is generally granted; but there is another race of beings equally obscure and equally indigent, who, because their usefulness is less obvious to vulgar apprehensions, live unrewarded and die unpitied, and who have been long exposed to insult without a defender, and to censure without an apologist. The authors of London were formerly computed by Swift at several thousands, and there is not any reason for suspecting that their number has decreased. Of these only a very few can be said to produce, or endeavour to produce, new ideas, to extend any principle of science, or gratify the imagination with any uncommon train of images or contexture of events; the rest, however laborious, however arrogant, can only be considered as the drudges of the pen, the manufacturers of literature, who have set up for authors, either with or without a regular initiation, and, like other artificers, have no other care than to deliver their tale of wares at the stated time. It has been formerly imagined, that he who intends the entertainment or instruction of others, must feel in himself some peculiar impulse of genius; that he must watch the happy minute in which his natural fire is excited, in which his mind is elevated with nobler sentiments, enlightened with clearer views, and invigorated with stronger comprehension; that he must carefully select his thoughts and polish his expressions; and animate his efforts with the hope of raising a monument of learning, which neither time nor envy shall be able to destroy. But the authors whom I am now endeavouring to recommend have been too long _hackneyed in the ways of men_ to indulge the chimerical ambition of immortality; they have seldom any claim to the trade of writing, but that they have tried some other without success; they perceive no particular summons to composition, except the sound of the clock; they have no other rule than the law or the fashion for admitting their thoughts or rejecting them; and about the opinion of posterity they have little solicitude, for their productions are seldom intended to remain in the world longer than a week. That such authors are not to be rewarded with praise is evident, since nothing can be admired when it ceases to exist; but surely, though they cannot aspire to honour, they may be exempted from ignominy, and adopted in that order of men which deserves our kindness, though not our reverence. These papers of the day, the _Ephemerae_ of learning, have uses more adequate to the purposes of common life than more pompous and durable volumes. If it is necessary for every man to be more acquainted with his contemporaries than with past generations, and to rather know the events which may immediately affect his fortune or quiet, than the revolutions of ancient kingdoms, in which he has neither possessions nor expectations; if it be pleasing to hear of the preferment and dismission of statesmen, the birth of heirs, and the marriage of beauties, the humble author of journals and gazettes must be considered as a liberal dispenser of beneficial knowledge. Even the abridger, compiler, and translator, though their labours cannot be ranked with those of the diurnal historiographer, yet must not be rashly doomed to annihilation. Every size of readers requires a genius of correspondent capacity; some delight in abstracts and epitomes, because they want room in their memory for long details, and content themselves with effects, without inquiry after causes; some minds are overpowered by splendour of sentiment, as some eyes are offended by a glaring light; such will gladly contemplate an author in an humble imitation, as we look without pain upon the sun in the water. As every writer has his use, every writer ought to have his patrons; and since no man, however high he may now stand, can be certain that he shall not be soon thrown down from his elevation by criticism or caprice, the common interest of learning requires that her sons should cease from intestine hostilities, and, instead of sacrificing each other to malice and contempt, endeavour to avert persecution from the meanest of their fraternity. No. 146. SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 1751. _Sunt illic duo, tresve, qui revolvant Nostrarum tineas ineptiarum; Sed cum sponsio, fabultaeque lassae De scarpo fuerint incitato_. MART. 'Tis possible that one or two These fooleries of mine may view; But then the bettings must be o'er, Nor Crab or Childers talk'd of more. F. LEWIS. None of the projects or designs which exercise the mind of man are equally subject to obstructions and disappointments with the pursuit of fame. Riches cannot easily be denied to them who have something of greater value to offer in exchange; he whose fortune is endangered by litigation, will not refuse to augment the wealth of the lawyer; he whose days are darkened by langour, or whose nerves are excruciated by pain, is compelled to pay tribute to the science of healing. But praise may be always omitted without inconvenience. When once a man has made celebrity necessary to his happiness, he has put it in the power of the weakest and most timorous malignity, if not to take away his satisfaction, at least to withhold it. His enemies may indulge their pride by airy negligence, and gratify their malice by quiet neutrality. They that could never have injured a character by invectives, may combine to annihilate it by silence; as the women of Rome threatened to put an end to conquest and dominion, by supplying no children to the commonwealth. When a writer has with long toil produced a work intended to burst upon mankind with unexpected lustre, and withdraw the attention of the learned world from every other controversy or inquiry, he is seldom contented to wait long without the enjoyment of his new praises. With an imagination full of his own importance, he walks out like a monarch in disguise to learn the various opinions of his readers. Prepared to feast upon admiration; composed to encounter censures without emotion; and determined not to suffer his quiet to be injured by a sensibility too exquisite of praise or blame, but to laugh with equal contempt at vain objections and injudicious commendations, he enters the places of mingled conversation, sits down to his tea in an obscure corner, and, while he appears to examine a file of antiquated journals, catches the conversation of the whole room. He listens, but hears no mention of his book, and therefore supposes that he has disappointed his curiosity by delay; and that as men of learning would naturally begin their conversation with such a wonderful novelty, they had digressed to other subjects before his arrival. The company disperses, and their places are supplied by others equally ignorant, or equally careless. The same expectation hurries him to another place, from which the same disappointment drives him soon away. His impatience then grows violent and tumultuous; he ranges over the town with restless curiosity, and hears in one quarter of a cricket-match, in another of a pick-pocket; is told by some of an unexpected bankruptcy; by others of a turtle feast; is sometimes provoked by importunate inquiries after the white bear, and sometimes with praises of the dancing dog; he is afterwards entreated to give his judgment upon a wager about the height of the Monument; invited to see a foot-race in the adjacent villages; desired to read a ludicrous advertisement; or consulted about the most effectual method of making inquiry after a favourite cat. The whole world is busied in affairs which he thinks below the notice of reasonable creatures, and which are nevertheless sufficient to withdraw all regard from his labours and his merits. He resolves at last to violate his own modesty, and to recall the talkers from their folly by an inquiry after himself. He finds every one provided with an answer; one has seen the work advertised, but never met with any that had read it; another has been so often imposed upon by specious titles, that he never buys a book till its character is established; a third wonders what any man can hope to produce after so many writers of greater eminence; the next has inquired after the author, but can hear no account of him, and therefore suspects the name to be fictitious; and another knows him to be a man condemned by indigence to write too frequently what he does not understand. Many are the consolations with which the unhappy author endeavours to allay his vexation, and fortify his patience. He has written with too little indulgence to the understanding of common readers; he has fallen upon an age in which solid knowledge, and delicate refinement, have given way to a low merriment, and idle buffoonery, and therefore no writer can hope for distinction, who has any higher purpose than to raise laughter. He finds that his enemies, such as superiority will always raise, have been industrious, while his performance was in the press, to vilify and blast it; and that the bookseller, whom he had resolved to enrich, has rivals that obstruct the circulation of the copies. He at last reposes upon the consideration, that the noblest works of learning and genius have always made their way slowly against ignorance and prejudice; and that reputation, which is never to be lost, must be gradually obtained, as animals of longest life are observed not soon to attain their full stature and strength. By such arts of voluntary delusion does every man endeavour to conceal his own unimportance from himself. It is long before we are convinced of the small proportion which every individual bears to the collective body of mankind; or learn how few can be interested in the fortune of any single man; how little vacancy is left in the world for any new object of attention; to how small extent the brightest blaze of merit can be spread amidst the mists of business and of folly; and how soon it is clouded by the intervention of other novelties. Not only the writer of books, but the commander of armies, and the deliverer of nations, will easily outlive all noisy and popular reputation; he may be celebrated for a time by the publick voice, but his actions and his name will soon be considered as remote and unaffecting, and be rarely mentioned but by those whose alliance gives them some vanity to gratify by frequent commemoration. It seems not to be sufficiently considered how little renown can be admitted in the world. Mankind are kept perpetually busy by their fears or desires, and have not more leisure from their own affairs, than to acquaint themselves with the accidents of the current day. Engaged in contriving some refuge from calamity, or in shortening the way to some new possession, they seldom suffer their thoughts to wander to the past or future; none but a few solitary students have leisure to inquire into the claims of ancient heroes or sages; and names which hoped to range over kingdoms and continents, shrink at last into cloisters or colleges. Nor is it certain, that even of these dark and narrow habitations, these last retreats of fame, the possession will be long kept. Of men devoted to literature, very few extend their views beyond some particular science, and the greater part seldom inquire, even in their own profession, for any authors but those whom the present mode of study happens to force upon their notice; they desire not to fill their minds with unfashionable knowledge, but contentedly resign to oblivion those books which they now find censured or neglected. The hope of fame is necessarily connected with such considerations as must abate the ardour of confidence, and repress the vigour of pursuit. Whoever claims renown from any kind of excellence, expects to fill the place which is now possessed by another; for there are already names of every class sufficient to employ all that will desire to remember them; and surely he that is pushing his predecessors into the gulph of obscurity, cannot but sometimes suspect, that he must himself sink in like manner, and, as he stands upon the same precipice, be swept away with the same violence. It sometimes happens, that fame begins when life is at an end; but far the greater number of candidates for applause have owed their reception in the world to some favourable casualties, and have therefore immediately sunk into neglect, when death stripped them of their casual influence, and neither fortune nor patronage operated in their favour. Among those who have better claims to regard, the honour paid to their memory is commonly proportionate to the reputation which they enjoyed in their lives, though still growing fainter, as it is at a greater distance from the first emission; and since it is so difficult to obtain the notice of contemporaries, how little is to be hoped from future times? What can merit effect by its own force, when the help of art or friendship can scarcely support it? No. 147. TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 1751. Tu nihil invitâ dices faciesve Minervâ. Hon. Ar. Poet. 385. --You are of too quick a sight, Not to discern which way your talent lies. ROSCOMMON. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, As little things grow great by continual accumulation, I hope you will not think the dignity of your character impaired by an account of a ludicrous persecution, which, though it produced no scenes of horrour or of ruin, yet, by incessant importunity of vexation, wears away my happiness, and consumes those years which nature seems particularly to have assigned to cheerfulness, in silent anxiety and helpless resentment. I am the eldest son of a gentleman, who having inherited a large estate from his ancestors, and feeling no desire either to increase or lessen it, has from the time of his marriage generally resided at his own seat; where, by dividing his time among the duties of a father, a master, and a magistrate, the study of literature, and the offices of civility, he finds means to rid himself of the day, without any of those amusements, which all those with whom my residence in this place has made me acquainted, think necessary to lighten the burthen of existence. When my age made me capable of instruction, my father prevailed upon a gentleman, long known at Oxford for the extent of his learning and the purity of his manners, to undertake my education. The regard with which I saw him treated, disposed me to consider his instructions as important, and I therefore soon formed a habit of attention, by which I made very quick advances in different kinds of learning, and heard, perhaps too often, very flattering comparisons of my own proficiency with that of others, either less docile by nature, or less happily forwarded by instruction. I was caressed by all that exchanged visits with my father; and as young men are with little difficulty taught to judge favourably of themselves, began to think that close application was no longer necessary, and that the time was now come when I was at liberty to read only for amusement, and was to receive the reward of my fatigues in praise and admiration. While I was thus banqueting upon my own perfections, and longing in secret to escape from tutorage, my father's brother came from London to pass a summer at his native place. A lucrative employment which he possessed, and a fondness for the conversation and diversions of the gay part of mankind, had so long kept him from rural excursions, that I had never seen him since my infancy. My curiosity was therefore strongly excited by the hope of observing a character more nearly, which I had hitherto reverenced only at a distance. From all private and intimate conversation, I was long withheld by the perpetual confluence of visitants with whom the first news of my uncle's arrival crowded the house; but was amply recompensed by seeing an exact and punctilious practice of the arts of a courtier, in all the stratagems of endearment, the gradations of respect, and variations of courtesy. I remarked with what justice of distribution he divided his talk to a wide circle; with what address he offered to every man an occasion of indulging some favourite topick, or displaying some particular attainment; the judgment with which he regulated his inquiries after the absent; and the care with which he shewed all the companions of his early years how strongly they were infixed in his memory, by the mention of past incidents and the recital of puerile kindnesses, dangers, and frolicks. I soon discovered that he possessed some science of graciousness and attraction which books had not taught, and of which neither I nor my father had any knowledge; that he had the power of obliging those whom he did not benefit; that he diffused, upon his cursory behaviour and most trifling actions, a gloss of softness and delicacy by which every one was dazzled; and that, by some occult method of captivation, he animated the timorous, softened the supercilious, and opened the reserved. I could not but repine at the inelegance of my own manners, which left me no hopes but not to offend, and at the inefficacy of rustick benevolence, which gained no friends but by real service. My uncle saw the veneration with which I caught every accent of his voice, and watched every motion of his hand; and the awkward diligence with which I endeavoured to imitate his embrace of fondness, and his bow of respect. He was, like others, easily flattered by an imitator by whom he could not fear ever to be rivalled, and repaid my assiduities with compliments and professions. Our fondness was so increased by a mutual endeavour to please each other, that when he returned to London, he declared himself unable to leave a nephew so amiable and so accomplished behind him; and obtained my father's permission to enjoy my company for a few months, by a promise to initiate me in the arts of politeness, and introduce me into publick life. The courtier had little inclination to fatigue, and therefore, by travelling very slowly, afforded me time for more loose and familiar conversation; but I soon found, that by a few inquiries which he was not well prepared to satisfy, I had made him weary of his young companion. His element was a mixed assembly, where ceremony and healths, compliments and common topicks, kept the tongue employed with very little assistance from memory or reflection; but in the chariot, where he was necessitated to support a regular tenour of conversation, without any relief from a new comer, or any power of starting into gay digressions, or destroying argument by a jest, he soon discovered that poverty of ideas which had been hitherto concealed under the tinsel of politeness. The first day he entertained me with the novelties and wonders with which I should be astonished at my entrance into London, and cautioned me with apparent admiration of his own wisdom against the arts by which rusticity is frequently deluded. The same detail and the same advice he would have repeated on the second day; but as I every moment diverted the discourse to the history of the towns by which we passed, or some other subject of learning or of reason, he soon lost his vivacity, grew peevish and silent, wrapped his cloak about him, composed himself to slumber, and reserved his gaiety for fitter auditors. At length I entered London, and my uncle was reinstated in his superiority. He awaked at once to loquacity as soon as our wheels rattled on the pavement, and told me the name of every street as we crossed it, and owner of every house as we passed by. He presented me to my aunt, a lady of great eminence for the number of her acquaintances, and splendour of her assemblies, and either in kindness or revenge consulted with her, in my presence, how I might be most advantageously dressed for my first appearance, and most expeditiously disencumbered from my villatick bashfulness. My indignation at familiarity thus contemptuous flushed in my face; they mistook anger for shame, and alternately exerted their eloquence upon the benefits of publick education, and the happiness of an assurance early acquired. Assurance is, indeed, the only qualification to which they seem to have annexed merit, and assurance, therefore, is perpetually recommended to me as the supply of every defect, and the ornament of every excellence. I never sit silent in company when secret history is circulating, but I am reproached for want of assurance. If I fail to return the stated answer to a compliment; if I am disconcerted by unexpected raillery; if I blush when I am discovered gazing on a beauty, or hesitate when I find myself embarrassed in an argument; if I am unwilling to talk of what I do not understand, or timorous in undertaking offices which I cannot gracefully perform; if I suffer a more lively tatler to recount the casualties of a game, or a nimbler fop to pick up a fan, I am censured between pity and contempt, as a wretch doomed to grovel in obscurity for want of assurance. I have found many young persons harassed in the same manner, by those to whom age has given nothing but the assurance which they recommend; and therefore cannot but think it useful to inform them, that cowardice and delicacy are not to be confounded; and that he whose stupidity has armed him against the shafts of ridicule, will always act and speak with greater audacity, than they whose sensibility represses their ardour, and who dare never let their confidence outgrow their abilities. No. 148. SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 1751. _Me pater saevis oneret catenis, Quod viro clemens misero peperci: Me vel extremis Numidarum in agros Classe releget._ HOR. Lib. iii. Od. xi. 45. Me let my father load with chains, Or banish to Numidia's farthest plains! My crime, that I, a loyal wife, In kind compassion sav'd my husband's life. FRANCIS. Politicians remark, that no oppression is so heavy or lasting as that which is inflicted by the perversion and exorbitance of legal authority. The robber may be seized, and the invader repelled, whenever they are found; they who pretend no right but that of force, may by force be punished or suppressed. But when plunder bears the name of impost, and murder is perpetrated by a judicial sentence, fortitude is intimidated, and wisdom confounded: resistance shrinks from an alliance with rebellion, and the villain remains secure in the robes of the magistrate. Equally dangerous and equally detestable are the cruelties often exercised in private families, under the venerable sanction of parental authority; the power which we are taught to honour from the first moments of reason; which is guarded from insult and violation by all that can impress awe upon the mind of man; and which therefore may wanton in cruelty without control, and trample the bounds of right with innumerable transgressions, before duty and piety will dare to seek redress, or think themselves at liberty to recur to any other means of deliverance than supplications by which insolence is elated, and tears by which cruelty is gratified. It was for a long time imagined by the Romans, that no son could be the murderer of his father; and they had therefore no punishment appropriated to parricide. They seem likewise to have believed with equal confidence, that no father could be cruel to his child; and therefore they allowed every man the supreme judicature in his own house, and put the lives of his offspring into his hands. But experience informed them by degrees, that they determined too hastily in favour of human nature; they found that instinct and habit were not able to contend with avarice or malice; that the nearest relation might be violated; and that power, to whomsoever intrusted, might be ill employed. They were therefore obliged to supply and to change their institutions; to deter the parricide by a new law, and to transfer capital punishments from the parent to the magistrate. There are indeed many houses which it is impossible to enter familiarly, without discovering that parents are by no means exempt from the intoxications of dominion; and that he who is in no danger of hearing remonstrances but from his own conscience, will seldom be long without the art of controling his convictions, and modifying justice by his own will. If in any situation the heart were inaccessible to malignity, it might be supposed to be sufficiently secured by parental relation. To have voluntarily become to any being the occasion of its existence, produces an obligation to make that existence happy. To see helpless infancy stretching out her hands, and pouring out her cries in testimony of dependence, without any powers to alarm jealousy, or any guilt to alienate affection, must surely awaken tenderness in every human mind; and tenderness once excited will be hourly increased by the natural contagion of felicity, by the repercussion of communicated pleasure, by the consciousness of the dignity of benefaction. I believe no generous or benevolent man can see the vilest animal courting his regard, and shrinking at his anger, playing his gambols of delight before him, calling on him in distress, and flying to him in danger, without more kindness than he can persuade himself to feel for the wild and unsocial inhabitants of the air and water. We naturally endear to ourselves those to whom we impart any kind of pleasure, because we imagine their affection and esteem secured to us by the benefits which they receive. There is, indeed, another method by which the pride of superiority may be likewise gratified. He that has extinguished all the sensations of humanity, and has no longer any satisfaction in the reflection that he is loved as the distributor of happiness, may please himself with exciting terrour as the inflictor of pain: he may delight his solitude with contemplating the extent of his power and the force of his commands; in imagining the desires that flutter on the tongue which is forbidden to utter them, or the discontent which preys on the heart in which fear confines it: he may amuse himself with new contrivances of detection, multiplications of prohibition, and varieties of punishment; and swell with exultation when he considers how little of the homage that he receives he owes to choice. That princes of this character have been known, the history of all absolute kingdoms will inform us; and since, as Aristotle observes, _[Greek: hae oikonomikae monarchia], the government of a family is naturally monarchical_, it is, like other monarchies, too often arbitrarily administered. The regal and parental tyrant differ only in the extent of their dominions, and the number of their slaves. The same passions cause the same miseries; except that seldom any prince, however despotick, has so far shaken off all awe of the publick eye, as to venture upon those freaks of injustice, which are sometimes indulged under the secrecy of a private dwelling. Capricious injunctions, partial decisions, unequal allotments, distributions of reward, not by merit, but by fancy, and punishments, regulated not by the degree of the offence, but by the humour of the judge, are too frequent where no power is known but that of a father. That he delights in the misery of others, no man will confess, and yet what other motive can make a father cruel? The king may be instigated by one man to the destruction of another; he may sometimes think himself endangered by the virtues of a subject; he may dread the successful general or the popular orator; his avarice may point out golden confiscations; and his guilt may whisper that he can only be secure by cutting off all power of revenge. But what can a parent hope from the oppression of those who were born to his protection, of those who can disturb him with no competition, who can enrich him with no spoils? Why cowards are cruel may be easily discovered; but for what reason, not more infamous than cowardice, can that man delight in oppression who has nothing to fear? The unjustifiable severity of a parent is loaded with this aggravation, that those whom he injures are always in his sight. The injustice of a prince is often exercised upon those of whom he never had any personal or particular knowledge; and the sentence which he pronounces, whether of banishment, imprisonment, or death, removes from his view the man whom he condemns. But the domestick oppressor dooms himself to gaze upon those faces which he clouds with terrour and with sorrow; and beholds every moment the effects of his own barbarities. He that can bear to give continual pain to those who surround him, and can walk with satisfaction in the gloom of his own presence; he that can see submissive misery without relenting, and meet without emotion the eye that implores mercy, or demands justice, will scarcely be amended by remonstrance or admonition; he has found means of stopping the avenues of tenderness, and arming his heart against the force of reason. Even though no consideration should be paid to the great law of social beings, by which every individual is commanded to consult the happiness of others, yet the harsh parent is less to be vindicated than any other criminal, because he less provides for the happiness of himself. Every man, however little he loves others, would willingly be loved; every man hopes to live long, and therefore hopes for that time at which he shall sink back to imbecility, and must depend for ease and cheerfulness upon the officiousness of others. But how has he obviated the inconveniencies of old age, who alienates from him the assistance of his children, and whose bed must be surrounded in the last hours, in the hours of languor and dejection, of impatience and of pain, by strangers to whom his life is indifferent, or by enemies to whom his death is desirable? Piety will, indeed, in good minds overcome provocation, and those who have been harassed by brutality will forget the injuries which they have suffered, so far as to perform the last duties with alacrity and zeal. But surely no resentment can be equally painful with kindness thus undeserved, nor can severer punishment be imprecated upon a man not wholly lost in meanness and stupidity, than, through the tediousness of decrepitude, to be reproached by the kindness of his own children, to receive not the tribute but the alms of attendance, and to owe every relief of his miseries, not to gratitude but to mercy. No. 149. TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1751. _Quod non sit Pylades hoc tempore, non sit Orestes, Miraris? Pylades, Marce, bibebat idem. Nec melior panis, turdusve dabatur Oresti: Sed par, atque eadem coena duobus erat.-- Te Cadmea Tyrus, me pinguis Gallia vestit: Vis te purpureum, Marce, sagatus amem? Ut praestem Pyladen, aliquis mihi praestet Orestem. Hoc non fit verbis, Marce: ut ameris, ama_. MART. Lib. vi. Ep. xi. You wonder now that no man sees Such friends as those of ancient Greece. Here lay the point--Orestes' meat Was just the same his friend did eat; Nor can it yet be found, his wine Was better, Pylades, than thine. In home-spun russet, I am drest, Your cloth is always of the best; But, honest Marcus, if you please To chuse me for your Pylades, Remember, words alone are vain; Love--if you would be lov'd again. F. LEWIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, No depravity of the mind has been more frequently or justly censured than ingratitude. There is indeed sufficient reason for looking on those that can return evil for good, and repay kindness and assistance with hatred or neglect, as corrupted beyond the common degrees of wickedness; nor will he, who has once been clearly detected in acts of injury to his benefactor, deserve to be numbered among social beings; he has endeavoured to destroy confidence, to intercept sympathy, and to turn every man's attention wholly on himself. There is always danger lest the honest abhorrence of a crime should raise the passions with too much violence against the man to whom it is imputed. In proportion as guilt is more enormous, it ought to be ascertained by stronger evidence. The charge against ingratitude is very general; almost every man can tell what favours he has conferred upon insensibility, and how much happiness he has bestowed without return; but perhaps, if these patrons and protectors were confronted with any whom they boast of having befriended, it would often appear that they consulted only their pleasure or vanity, and repaid themselves their petty donatives by gratifications of insolence and indulgence of contempt. It has happened that much of my time has been passed in a dependent state, and consequently I have received many favours in the opinion of those at whose expense I have been maintained; yet I do not feel in my heart any burning gratitude or tumultuous affection; and, as I would not willingly suppose myself less susceptible of virtuous passions than the rest of mankind, I shall lay the history of my life before you, that you may, by your judgment of my conduct, either reform, or confirm, my present sentiments. My father was the second son of a very ancient and wealthy family. He married a lady of equal birth, whose fortune, joined to his own, might have supported his posterity in honour; but being gay and ambitious, he prevailed on his friends to procure him a post, which gave him an opportunity of displaying his elegance and politeness. My mother was equally pleased with splendour, and equally careless of expense; they both justified their profusion to themselves, by endeavouring to believe it necessary to the extension of their acquaintance, and improvement of their interest; and whenever any place became vacant, they expected to be repaid. In the midst of these hopes my father was snatched away by an apoplexy; and my mother, who had no pleasure but in dress, equipage, assemblies, and compliments, finding that she could live no longer in her accustomed rank, sunk into dejection, and in two years wore out her life with envy and discontent. I was sent with a sister, one year younger than myself, to the elder brother of my father. We were not yet capable of observing how much fortune influences affection, but flattered ourselves on the road with the tenderness and regard with which we should be treated by our uncle. Our reception was rather frigid than malignant; we were introduced to our young cousins, and for the first month more frequently consoled than upbraided; but in a short time we found our prattle repressed, our dress neglected, our endearments unregarded, and our requests referred to the housekeeper. The forms of decency were now violated, and every day produced new insults. We were soon brought to the necessity of receding from our imagined equality with our cousins, to whom we sunk into humble companions without choice or influence, expected only to echo their opinions, facilitate their desires, and accompany their rambles. It was unfortunate that our early introduction into polite company, and habitual knowledge of the arts of civility, had given us such an appearance of superiority to the awkward bashfulness of our relations, as naturally drew respect and preference from every stranger; and my aunt was forced to assert the dignity of her own children, while they were sculking in corners for fear of notice, and hanging down their heads in silent confusion, by relating the indiscretion of our father, displaying her own kindness, lamenting the misery of birth without estate, and declaring her anxiety for our future provision, and the expedients which she had formed to secure us from those follies or crimes, to which the conjunction of pride and want often gives occasion. In a short time care was taken to prevent such vexatious mistakes; we were told, that fine clothes would only fill our heads with false expectations, and our dress was therefore accommodated to our fortune. Childhood is not easily dejected or mortified. We felt no lasting pain from insolence or neglect; but finding that we were favoured and commended by all whose interest did not prompt them to discountenance us, preserved our vivacity and spirit to years of greater sensibility. It then became irksome and disgusting to live without any principle of action but the will of another, and we often met privately in the garden to lament our condition, and to ease our hearts with mutual narratives of caprice, peevishness, and affront. There are innumerable modes of insult and tokens of contempt, for which it is not easy to find a name, which vanish to nothing in an attempt to describe them, and yet may, by continual repetition, make day pass after day in sorrow and in terrour. Phrases of cursory compliment and established salutation may, by a different modulation of the voice, or cast of the countenance, convey contrary meanings, and be changed from indications of respect to expressions of scorn. The dependant who cultivates delicacy in himself, very little consults his own tranquillity. My unhappy vigilance is every moment discovering some petulance of accent, or arrogance of mien, some vehemence of interrogation, or quickness of reply, that recals my poverty to my mind, and which I feel more acutely, as I know not how to resent it. You are not, however, to imagine, that I think myself discharged from the duties of gratitude, only because my relations do not adjust their looks, or tune their voices to my expectation. The insolence of benefaction terminates not in negative rudeness or obliquities of insult. I am often told in express terms of the miseries from which charity has snatched me, while multitudes are suffered by relations equally near to devolve upon the parish; and have more than once heard it numbered among other favours, that I am admitted to the same table with my cousins. That I sit at the first table I must acknowledge, but I sit there only that I may feel the stings of inferiority. My inquiries are neglected, my opinion is overborne, my assertions are controverted, and, as insolence always propagates itself, the servants overlook me, in imitation of their master; if I call modestly, I am not heard; if loudly, my usurpation of authority is checked by a general frown. I am often obliged to look uninvited upon delicacies, and sometimes desired to rise upon very slight pretences. The incivilities to which I am exposed would give me less pain, were they not aggravated by the tears of my sister, whom the young ladies are hourly tormenting with every art of feminine persecution. As it is said of the supreme magistrate of Venice, that he is a prince in one place and a slave in another, my sister is a servant to her cousins in their apartments, and a companion only at the table. Her wit and beauty drew so much regard away from them, that they never suffer her to appear with them in any place where they solicit notice, or expect admiration; and when they are visited by neighbouring ladies and pass their hours in domestick amusements, she is sometimes called to fill a vacancy, insulted with contemptuous freedoms, and dismissed to her needle, when her place is supplied. The heir has of late, by the instigation of his sisters, begun to harass her with clownish jocularity; he seems inclined to make his first rude essays of waggery upon her; and by the connivance, if not encouragement, of his father, treats her with such licentious brutality, as I cannot bear, though I cannot punish it. I beg to be informed, Mr. Rambler, how much we can be supposed to owe to beneficence, exerted on terms like these? to beneficence which pollutes its gifts with contumely, and may be truly said to pander to pride? I would willingly be told, whether insolence does not reward its own liberalities, and whether he that exacts servility can, with justice, at the same time, expect affection? I am, Sir, &c. HYPERDULUS. No. 150. SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 1751. --_O munera nondum Intellecta Deum!_ LUCAN. --Thou chiefest good! Bestow'd by Heav'n, but seldom understood. ROWE. As daily experience makes it evident that misfortunes are unavoidably incident to human life, that calamity will neither be repelled by fortitude, nor escaped by flight; neither awed by greatness, nor eluded by obscurity; philosophers have endeavoured to reconcile us to that condition which they cannot teach us to mend, by persuading us that most of our evils are made afflictive only by ignorance or perverseness, and that nature has annexed to every vicissitude of external circumstances some advantage sufficient to over-balance all its inconveniencies. This attempt may, perhaps, be justly suspected of resemblance to the practice of physicians, who, when they cannot mitigate pain, destroy sensibility, and endeavour to conceal, by opiates, the inefficacy of their other medicines. The panegyrists of calamity have more frequently gained applause to their wit, than acquiescence to their arguments; nor has it appeared that the most musical oratory, or subtle ratiocination, has been able long to overpower the anguish of oppression, the tediousness of languor, or the longings of want. Yet, it may be generally remarked, that, where much has been attempted, something has been performed; though the discoveries or acquisitions of man are not always adequate to the expectations of his pride, they are at least sufficient to animate his industry. The antidotes with which philosophy has medicated the cup of life, though they cannot give it salubrity and sweetness, have at least allayed its bitterness, and contempered its malignity; the balm which she drops upon the wounds of the mind abates their pain, though it cannot heal them. By suffering willingly what we cannot avoid, we secure ourselves from vain and immoderate disquiet; we preserve for better purposes that strength which would be unprofitably wasted in wild efforts of desperation, and maintain that circumspection which may enable us to seize every support, and improve every alleviation. This calmness will be more easily obtained, as the attention is more powerfully withdrawn from the contemplation of unmingled unabated evil, and diverted to those accidental benefits which prudence may confer on every state. Seneca has attempted, not only to pacify us in misfortune, but almost to allure us to it, by representing it as necessary to the pleasures of the mind. _He that never was acquainted with adversity_, says he, _has seen the world but on one side, and is ignorant of half the scenes of nature_. He invites his pupil to calamity, as the Syrens allured the passenger to their coasts, by promising that he shall return [Greek: pleiona eidos], with increase of knowledge, with enlarged views, and multiplied ideas. Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last; and perhaps always predominates in proportion to the strength of the contemplative faculties. He who easily comprehends all that is before him, and soon exhausts any single subject, is always eager for new inquiries; and, in proportion as the intellectual eye takes in a wider prospect, it must be gratified with variety by more rapid flights, and bolder excursions; nor perhaps can there be proposed to those who have been accustomed to the pleasures of thought, a more powerful incitement to any undertaking, than the hope of filling their fancy with new images, of clearing their doubts, and enlightening their reason. When Jason, in Valerius Flaccus, would incline the young prince Acastus to accompany him in the first essay of navigation, he disperses his apprehensions of danger by representations of the new tracts of earth and heaven, which the expedition would spread before their eyes; and tells him with what grief he will hear, at their return, of the countries which they shall have seen, and the toils which they have surmounted: _O quantum terrae, quantum cognoscere coeli Permissum est! pelagus quantos aperimus in usus! Nunc forsan grave reris opus: sed laeta recurret Cum ratis, et caram cum jam mihi reddet Iolcon; Quis pudor heu nostros tibi tunc audire labores! Quam referam visas tua per suspiria gentes!_ ARG. Lib. i. 168. Led by our stars, what tracts immense we trace! From seas remote, what funds of science raise! A pain to thought! but when the heroick band Returns applauded to their native land, A life domestick you will then deplore, And sigh while I describe the various, shore. EDW. CAVE. Acastus was soon prevailed upon by his curiosity to set rocks and hardships at defiance, and commit his life to the winds; and the same motives have in all ages had the same effect upon those whom the desire of fame or wisdom has distinguished from the lower orders of mankind. If, therefore, it can be proved that distress is necessary to the attainment of knowledge, and that a happy situation hides from us so large a part of the field of meditation, the envy of many who repine at the sight of affluence and splendour will be much diminished; for such is the delight of mental superiority, that none on whom nature or study have conferred it, would purchase the gifts of fortune by its loss. It is certain, that however the rhetorick of Seneca may have dressed adversity with extrinsick ornaments, he has justly represented it as affording some opportunities of observation, which cannot be found in continual success; he has truly asserted, that to escape misfortune is to want instruction, and that to live at ease is to live in ignorance. As no man can enjoy happiness without thinking that he enjoys it, the experience of calamity is necessary to a just sense of better fortune: for the good of our present state is merely comparative, and the evil which every man feels will be sufficient to disturb and harass him, if he does not know how much he escapes. The lustre of diamonds is invigorated by the interposition of darker bodies; the lights of a picture are created by the shades. The highest pleasure which nature has indulged to sensitive perception, is that of rest after fatigue; yet, that state which labour heightens into delight, is of itself only ease, and is incapable of satisfying the mind without the superaddition of diversified amusements. Prosperity, as is truly asserted by Seneca, very much obstructs the knowledge of ourselves. No man can form a just estimate of his own powers by unactive speculation. That fortitude which has encountered no dangers, that prudence which has surmounted no difficulties, that integrity which has been attacked by no temptations, can at best be considered but as gold not yet brought to the test, of which therefore the true value cannot be assigned. _He that traverses the lists without an adversary, may receive_, says the philosopher, _the reward of victory, but he has no pretensions to the honour_. If it be the highest happiness of man to contemplate himself with satisfaction, and to receive the gratulations of his own conscience; he whose courage has made way amidst the turbulence of opposition, and whose vigour has broken through the snares of distress, has many advantages over those that have slept in the shades of indolence, and whose retrospect of time can entertain them with nothing but day rising upon day, and year gliding after year. Equally necessary is some variety of fortune to a nearer inspection of the manners, principles, and affections of mankind. Princes, when they would know the opinions or grievances of their subjects, find it necessary to steal away from guards and attendants, and mingle on equal terms among the people. To him who is known to have the power of doing good or harm, nothing is shewn in its natural form. The behaviour of all that approach him is regulated by his humour, their narratives are adapted to his inclination, and their reasonings determined by his opinions; whatever can alarm suspicion, or excite resentment, is carefully suppressed, and nothing appears but uniformity of sentiments, and ardour of affection. It may be observed, that the unvaried complaisance which ladies have the right of exacting, keeps them generally unskilled in human nature; prosperity will always enjoy the female prerogatives, and therefore must be always in danger of female ignorance. Truth is scarcely to be heard, but by those from whom it can serve no interest to conceal it. No. 151. TUESDAY, AUGUST 27, 1751. [Greek:--Amphi d anthro- pon phresin amplakiai Anarithmatoi kremantai Touto d amachanon eurein, O ti nun, kai en teleu- ta, phertaton andri tuchein.] PINDAR, Ol. vii. 43. [Transcriber's note: line breaks and hyphenation in original.] But wrapt in error is the human mind, And human bliss is ever insecure: Know we what fortune yet remains behind? Know we how long the present shall endure? WEST. The writers of medicine and physiology have traced, with great appearance of accuracy, the effects of time upon the human body, by marking the various periods of the constitution, and the several stages by which animal life makes its progress from infancy to decrepitude. Though their observations have not enabled them to discover how manhood may be accelerated, or old age retarded, yet surely, if they be considered only as the amusements of curiosity, they are of equal importance with conjectures on things more remote, with catalogues of the fixed stars, and calculations of the bulk of planets. It had been a task worthy of the moral philosophers to have considered with equal care the climactericks of the mind; to have pointed out the time at which every passion begins and ceases to predominate, and noted the regular variations of desire, and the succession of one appetite to another. The periods of mental change are not to be stated with equal certainty; our bodies grow up under the care of nature, and depend so little on our own management, that something more than negligence is necessary to discompose their structure, or impede their vigour. But our minds are committed in a great measure first to the direction of others, and afterwards of ourselves. It would be difficult to protract the weakness of infancy beyond the usual time, but the mind may be very easily hindered from its share of improvement, and the bulk and strength of manhood must, without the assistance of education and instruction, be informed only with the understanding of a child. Yet, amidst all the disorder and inequality which variety of discipline, example, conversation, and employment, produce in the intellectual advances of different men, there is still discovered, by a vigilant spectator, such a general and remote similitude, as may be expected in the same common nature affected by external circumstances indefinitely varied. We all enter the world in equal ignorance, gaze round about us on the same objects, and have our first pains and pleasures, our first hopes and fears, our first aversions and desires, from the same causes; and though, as we proceed farther, life opens wider prospects to our view, and accidental impulses determine us to different paths, yet as every mind, however vigorous or abstracted, is necessitated, in its present state of union, to receive its informations, and execute its purposes, by the intervention of the body, the uniformity of our corporeal nature communicates itself to our intellectual operations; and those whose abilities or knowledge incline them most to deviate from the general round of life, are recalled from eccentricity by the laws of their existence. If we consider the exercises of the mind, it will be found that in each part of life some particular faculty is more eminently employed. When the treasures of knowledge are first opened before us, while novelty blooms alike on either hand, and every thing equally unknown and unexamined seems of equal value, the power of the soul is principally exerted in a vivacious and desultory curiosity. She applies by turns to every object, enjoys it for a short time, and flies with equal ardour to another. She delights to catch up loose and unconnected ideas, but starts away from systems and complications, which would obstruct the rapidity of her transitions, and detain her long in the same pursuit. When a number of distinct images are collected by these erratick and hasty surveys, the fancy is busied in arranging them; and combines them into pleasing pictures with more resemblance to the realities of life as experience advances, and new observations rectify the former. While the judgment is yet uninformed, and unable to compare the draughts of fiction with their originals, we are delighted with improbable adventures, impracticable virtues, and inimitable characters: but, in proportion as we have more opportunities of acquainting ourselves with living nature, we are sooner disgusted with copies in which there appears no resemblance. We first discard absurdity and impossibility, then exact greater and greater degrees of probability, but at last become cold and insensible to the charms of falsehood, however specious, and, from the imitations of truth, which are never perfect, transfer our affection to truth itself. Now commences the reign of judgment or reason; we begin to find little pleasure but in comparing arguments, stating propositions, disentangling perplexities, clearing ambiguities, and deducing consequences. The painted vales of imagination are deserted, and our intellectual activity is exercised in winding through the labyrinths of fallacy, and toiling with firm and cautious steps up the narrow tracks of demonstration. Whatever may lull vigilance, or mislead attention, is contemptuously rejected, and every disguise in which errour may be concealed, is carefully observed, till, by degrees, a certain number of incontestable or unsuspected propositions are established, and at last concatenated into arguments, or compacted into systems. At length weariness succeeds to labour, and the mind lies at ease in the contemplation of her own attainments, without any desire of new conquests or excursions. This is the age of recollection and narrative; the opinions are settled, and the avenues of apprehension shut against any new intelligence; the days that are to follow must pass in the inculcation of precepts already collected, and assertion of tenets already received; nothing is henceforward so odious as opposition, so insolent as doubt, or so dangerous as novelty. In like manner the passions usurp the separate command of the successive periods of life. To the happiness of our first years nothing more seems necessary than freedom from restraint: every man may remember that if he was left to himself, and indulged in the disposal of his own time, he was once content without the superaddition of any actual pleasure. The new world is itself a banquet; and, till we have exhausted the freshness of life, we have always about us sufficient gratifications: the sunshine quickens us to play, and the shade invites us to sleep. But we soon become unsatisfied with negative felicity, and are solicited by our senses and appetites to more powerful delights, as the taste of him who has satisfied his hunger must be excited by artificial stimulations. The simplicity of natural amusement is now past, and art and contrivance must improve our pleasures; but, in time, art, like nature, is exhausted, and the senses can no longer supply the cravings of the intellect. The attention is then transferred from pleasure to interest, in which pleasure is perhaps included, though diffused to a wider extent, and protracted through new gradations. Nothing now dances before the eyes but wealth and power, nor rings in the ear, but the voice of fame; wealth, to which, however variously denominated, every man at some time or other aspires; power, which all wish to obtain within their circle of action; and fame, which no man, however high or mean, however wise or ignorant, was yet able to despise. Now prudence and foresight exert their influence: no hour is devoted wholly to any present enjoyment, no act or purpose terminates in itself, but every motion is referred to some distant end; the accomplishment of one design begins another, and the ultimate wish is always pushed off to its former distance. At length fame is observed to be uncertain, and power to be dangerous; the man whose vigour and alacrity begin to forsake him, by degrees contracts his designs, remits his former multiplicity of pursuits, and extends no longer his regard to any other honour than the reputation of wealth, or any other influence than his power. Avarice is generally the last passion of those lives of which the first part has been squandered in pleasure, and the second devoted to ambition. He that sinks under the fatigue of getting wealth, lulls his age with the milder business of saving it. I have in this view of life considered man as actuated only by natural desires, and yielding to their own inclinations, without regard to superior principles, by which the force of external agents may be counteracted, and the temporary prevalence of passions restrained. Nature will indeed always operate, human desires will be always ranging; but these motions, though very powerful, are not resistless; nature may be regulated, and desires governed; and, to contend with the predominance of successive passions, to be endangered first by one affection, and then by another, is the condition upon which we are to pass our time, the time of our preparation for that state which shall put an end to experiment, to disappointment, and to change. No. 152. SATURDAY, AUGUST 31, 1751. --Tristia maestum Vullum verba decent, iratum plena minarum. HOR. De Ar. Poet. 105. Disastrous words can best disaster shew; In angry phrase the angry passions glow. ELPHINSTON. "It was the wisdom," says Seneca, "of ancient times, to consider what is most useful as most illustrious." If this rule be applied to works of genius, scarcely any species of composition deserves more to be cultivated than the epistolary style, since none is of more various or frequent use through the whole subordination of human life. It has yet happened that, among the numerous writers which our nation has produced, equal, perhaps, always in force and genius, and of late in elegance and accuracy, to those of any other country, very few have endeavoured to distinguish themselves by the publication of letters, except such as were written in the discharge of publick trusts, and during the transaction of great affairs; which, though they afford precedents to the minister, and memorials to the historian, are of no use as examples of the familiar style, or models of private correspondence. If it be inquired by foreigners, how this deficiency has happened in the literature of a country, where all indulge themselves with so little danger in speaking and writing, may we not without either bigotry or arrogance inform them, that it must be imputed to our contempt of trifles, and our due sense of the dignity of the publick? We do not think it reasonable to fill the world with volumes from which nothing can be learned, nor expect that the employments of the busy, or the amusements of the gay, should give way to narratives of our private affairs, complaints of absence, expressions of fondness, or declarations of fidelity. A slight perusal of the innumerable letters by which the wits of France have signalized their names, will prove that other nations need not be discouraged from the like attempts by the consciousness of inability; for surely it is not very difficult to aggravate trifling misfortunes, to magnify familiar incidents, repeat adulatory professions, accumulate servile hyperboles, and produce all that can be found in the despicable remains of Voiture and Scarron. Yet, as much of life must be passed in affairs considerable only by their frequent occurrence, and much of the pleasure which our condition allows, must be produced by giving elegance to trifles, it is necessary to learn how to become little without becoming mean, to maintain the necessary intercourse of civility, and fill up the vacuities of actions by agreeable appearances. It had therefore been of advantage, if such of our writers as have excelled in the art of decorating insignificance, had supplied us with a few sallies of innocent gaiety, effusions of honest tenderness, or exclamations of unimportant hurry. Precept has generally been posterior to performance. The art of composing works of genius has never been taught but by the example of those who performed it by natural vigour of imagination, and rectitude of judgment. As we have few letters, we have likewise few criticisms upon the epistolary style. The observations with which Walsh has introduced his pages of inanity, are such as give him little claim to the rank assigned him by Dryden among the criticks. _Letters_, says he, _are intended as resemblances of conversation, and the chief excellencies of conversation are good humour and good breeding_. This remark, equally valuable for its novelty and propriety, he dilates and enforces with an appearance of complete acquiescence in his own discovery. No man was ever in doubt about the moral qualities of a letter. It has been always known that he who endeavours to please must appear pleased, and he who would not provoke rudeness must not practise it. But the question among those who establish rules for an epistolary performance is how gaiety or civility may be properly expressed; as among the criticks in history it is not contested whether truth ought to be preserved, but by what mode of diction it is best adorned. As letters are written on all subjects, in all states of mind, they cannot be properly reduced to settled rules, or described by any single characteristick; and we may safely disentangle our minds from critical embarrassments, by determining that a letter has no peculiarity but its form, and that nothing is to be refused admission, which would be proper in any other method of treating the same subject. The qualities of the epistolary style most frequently required, are ease and simplicity, an even flow of unlaboured diction, and an artless arrangement of obvious sentiments. But these directions are no sooner applied to use, than their scantiness and imperfection become evident. Letters are written to the great and to the mean, to the learned and the ignorant, at rest and in distress, in sport and in passion. Nothing can be more improper than ease and laxity of expression, when the importance of the subject impresses solicitude, or the dignity of the person exacts reverence. That letters should be written with strict conformity to nature is true, because nothing but conformity to nature can make any composition beautiful or just. But it is natural to depart from familiarity of language upon occasions not familiar. Whatever elevates the sentiments will consequently raise the expression; whatever fills us with hope or terrour, will produce some perturbation of images and some figurative distortions of phrase. Wherever we are studious to please, we are afraid of trusting our first thoughts, and endeavour to recommend our opinion by studied ornaments, accuracy of method, and elegance of style. If the personages of the comick scene be allowed by Horace to raise their language in the transports of anger to the turgid vehemence of tragedy, the epistolary writer may likewise without censure comply with the varieties of his matter. If great events are to be related, he may with all the solemnity of an historian deduce them from their causes, connect them with their concomitants, and trace them to their consequences. If a disputed position is to be established, or a remote principle to be investigated, he may detail his reasonings with all the nicety of syllogistick method. If a menace is to be averted, or a benefit implored, he may, without any violation of the edicts of criticism, call every power of rhetorick to his assistance, and try every inlet at which love or pity enters the heart. Letters that have no other end than the entertainment of the correspondents are more properly regulated by critical precepts, because the matter and style are equally arbitrary, and rules are more necessary, as there is a larger power of choice. In letters of this kind, some conceive art graceful, and others think negligence amiable; some model them by the sonnet, and will allow them no means of delighting but the soft lapse of calm mellifluence; others adjust them by the epigram, and expect pointed sentences and forcible periods. The one party considers exemption from faults as the height of excellence, the other looks upon neglect of excellence as the most disgusting fault; one avoids censure, the other aspires to praise; one is always in danger of insipidity, the other continually on the brink of affectation. When the subject has no intrinsick dignity, it must necessarily owe its attractions to artificial embellishments, and may catch at all advantages which the art of writing can supply. He that, like Pliny, sends his friend a portion for his daughter, will, without Pliny's eloquence or address, find means of exciting gratitude, and securing acceptance; but he that has no present to make but a garland, a riband, or some petty curiosity, must endeavour to recommend it by his manner of giving it. The purpose for which letters are written when no intelligence is communicated, or business transacted, is to preserve in the minds of the absent either love or esteem: to excite love we must impart pleasure, and to raise esteem we must discover abilities. Pleasure will generally be given, as abilities are displayed by scenes of imagery, points of conceit, unexpected sallies, and artful compliments. Trifles always require exuberance of ornament; the building which has no strength can be valued only for the grace of its decorations. The pebble must be polished with care, which hopes to be valued as a diamond; and words ought surely to be laboured, when they are intended to stand for things. No. 153. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1751 _Turba Remi? Sequitur Fortunam, ut semper, et odit Damnatos_. JUV. Sat. x. 73. The fickle crowd with fortune comes and goes; Wealth still finds followers, and misfortune foes. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, There are occasions on which all apology is rudeness. He that has an unwelcome message to deliver, may give some proof of tenderness and delicacy, by a ceremonial introduction and gradual discovery, because the mind, upon which the weight of sorrow is to fall, gains time for the collection of its powers; but nothing is more absurd than to delay the communication of pleasure, to torment curiosity by impatience, and to delude hope by anticipation. I shall therefore forbear the arts by which correspondents generally secure admission, for I have too long remarked the power of vanity, to doubt that I shall be read by you with a disposition to approve, when I declare that my narrative has no other tendency than to illustrate and corroborate your own observations. I was the second son of a gentleman, whose patrimony had been wasted by a long succession of squanderers, till he was unable to support any of his children, except his heir, in the hereditary dignity of idleness. Being therefore obliged to employ that part of life in study which my progenitors had devoted to the hawk and hound, I was in my eighteenth year despatched to the university, without any rural honours. I had never killed a single woodcock, nor partaken one triumph over a conquered fox. At the university I continued to enlarge my acquisitions with little envy of the noisy happiness which my elder brother had the fortune to enjoy; and, having obtained my degree, retired to consider at leisure to what profession I should confine that application which had hitherto been dissipated in general knowledge. To deliberate upon a choice which custom and honour forbid to be retracted, is certainly reasonable; yet to let loose the attention equally to the advantages and inconveniencies of every employment is not without danger; new motives are every moment operating on every side; and mechanicks have long ago discovered, that contrariety of equal attractions is equivalent to rest. While I was thus trifling in uncertainty, an old adventurer, who had been once the intimate friend of my father, arrived from the Indies with a large fortune; which he had so much harassed himself in obtaining, that sickness and infirmity left him no other desire than to die in his native country. His wealth easily procured him an invitation to pass his life with us; and, being incapable of any amusement but conversation, he necessarily became familiarized to me, whom he found studious and domestick. Pleased with an opportunity of imparting my knowledge, and eager of any intelligence that might increase it, I delighted his curiosity with historical narratives and explications of nature, and gratified his vanity by inquiries after the products of distant countries, and the customs of their inhabitants. My brother saw how much I advanced in the favour of our guest, who, being without heirs, was naturally expected to enrich the family of his friend, but never attempted to alienate me, nor to ingratiate himself. He was, indeed, little qualified to solicit the affection of a traveller, for the remissness of his education had left him without any rule of action but his present humour. He often forsook the old gentleman in the midst of an adventure, because the horn sounded in the court-yard, and would have lost an opportunity, not only of knowing the history, but sharing the wealth of the mogul, for the trial of a new pointer, or the sight of a horse-race. It was therefore not long before our new friend declared his intention of bequeathing to me the profits of his commerce, as the only man in the family by whom he could expect them to be rationally enjoyed. This distinction drew upon me the envy not only of my brother but my father. As no man is willing to believe that he suffers by his own fault, they imputed the preference which I had obtained to adulatory compliances, or malignant calumnies. To no purpose did I call upon my patron to attest my innocence, for who will believe what he wishes to be false? In the heat of disappointment they forced their inmate by repeated insults to depart from the house, and I was soon, by the same treatment, obliged to follow him. He chose his residence in the confines of London, where rest, tranquillity, and medicine, restored him to part of the health which he had lost. I pleased myself with perceiving that I was not likely to obtain the immediate possession of wealth which no labour of mine had contributed to acquire; and that he, who had thus distinguished me, might hope to end his life without a total frustration of those blessings, which, whatever be their real value, he had sought with so much diligence, and purchased with so many vicissitudes of danger and fatigue. He, indeed, left me no reason to repine at his recovery, for he was willing to accustom me early to the use of money, and set apart for my expenses such a revenue as I had scarcely dared to image. I can yet congratulate myself that fortune has seen her golden cup once tasted without inebriation. Neither my modesty nor prudence was overwhelmed by affluence; my elevation was without insolence, and my expense without profusion. Employing the influence which money always confers, to the improvement of my understanding, I mingled in parties of gaiety, and in conferences of learning, appeared in every place where instruction was to be found, and imagined that, by ranging through all the diversities of life, I had acquainted myself fully with human nature, and learned all that was to be known of the ways of men. It happened, however, that I soon discovered how much was wanted to the completion of my knowledge, and found that, according to Seneca's remark, I had hitherto seen the world but on one side. My patron's confidence in his increase of strength tempted him to carelessness and irregularity; he caught a fever by riding in the rain, of which he died delirious on the third day. I buried him without any of the heir's affected grief or secret exultation; then preparing to take a legal possession of his fortune, I opened his closet, where I found a will, made at his first arrival, by which my father was appointed the chief inheritor, and nothing was left me but a legacy sufficient to support me in the prosecution of my studies. I had not yet found such charms in prosperity as to continue it by any acts of forgery or injustice, and made haste to inform my father of the riches which had been given him, not by the preference of kindness, but by the delays of indolence and cowardice of age. The hungry family flew like vultures on their prey, and soon made my disappointment publick, by the tumult of their claims, and the splendour of their sorrow. It was now my part to consider how I should repair the disappointment. I could not but triumph in my long list of friends, which comprised almost every name that power or knowledge entitled to eminence; and, in the prospect of the innumerable roads to honour and preferment, which I had laid open to myself by the wise use of temporary riches, I believed nothing necessary but that I should continue that acquaintance to which I had been so readily admitted, and which had hitherto been cultivated on both sides with equal ardour. Full of these expectations, I one morning ordered a chair, with an intention to make my usual circle of morning visits. Where I first stopped I saw two footmen lolling at the door, who told me without any change of posture, or collection of countenance, that their master was at home, and suffered me to open the inner door without assistance. I found my friend standing, and, as I was tattling with my former freedom, was formally entreated to sit down; but did not stay to be favoured with any further condescensions. My next experiment was made at the levee of a statesman, who received me with an embrace of tenderness, that he might with more decency publish my change of fortune to the sycophants about him. After he had enjoyed the triumph of condolence, he turned to a wealthy stockjobber, and left me exposed to the scorn of those who had lately courted my notice, and solicited my interest. I was then set down at the door of another, who, upon my entrance, advised me, with great solemnity, to think of some settled provision for life. I left him, and hurried away to an old friend, who professed himself unsusceptible of any impressions from prosperity or misfortune, and begged that he might see me when he was more at leisure. Of sixty-seven doors, at which I knocked in the first week after my appearance in a mourning dress, I was denied admission at forty-six; was suffered at fourteen to wait in the outer room till business was despatched; at four, was entertained with a few questions about the weather; at one, heard the footman rated for bringing my name; and at two was informed, in the flow of casual conversation, how much a man of rank degrades himself by mean company. My curiosity now led me to try what reception I should find among the ladies; but I found that my patron had carried all my powers of pleasing to the grave. I had formerly been celebrated as a wit, and not perceiving any languor in my imagination, I essayed to revive that gaiety which had hitherto broken out involuntarily before my sentences were finished. My remarks were now heard with a steady countenance, and if a girl happened to give way to habitual merriment, her forwardness was repressed with a frown by her mother or her aunt. Wherever I come I scatter infirmity and disease; every lady whom I meet in the Mall is too weary to walk; all whom I entreat to sing are troubled with colds: if I propose cards, they are afflicted with the head-ach; [Transcriber's note: sic] if I invite them to the gardens, they cannot bear a crowd. All this might be endured; but there is a class of mortals who think my understanding impaired with my fortune, exalt themselves to the dignity of advice, and, whenever we happen to meet, presume to prescribe my conduct, regulate my economy, and direct my pursuits. Another race, equally impertinent and equally despicable, are every moment recommending to me an attention to my interest, and think themselves entitled, by their superior prudence, to reproach me if I speak or move without regard to profit. Such, Mr. Rambler, is the power of wealth, that it commands the ear of greatness and the eye of beauty, gives spirit to the dull, and authority to the timorous, and leaves him from whom it departs, without virtue and without understanding, the sport of caprice, the scoff of insolence, the slave of meanness, and the pupil of ignorance. I am, &c. No. 154. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1751. _--Tibi res antiquae laudis et artis Ingredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes_. VIR. Geo. ii. 174. For thee my tuneful accents will I raise, And treat of arts disclos'd in ancient days; Once more unlock for thee the sacred spring. DRYDEN. The direction of Aristotle to those that study politicks, is first to examine and understand what has been written by the ancients upon government; then to cast their eyes round upon the world, and consider by what causes the prosperity of communities is visibly influenced, and why some are worse, and others better administered. The same method must be pursued by him who hopes to become eminent in any other part of knowledge. The first task is to search books, the next to contemplate nature. He must first possess himself of the intellectual treasures which the diligence of former ages has accumulated, and then endeavour to increase them by his own collections. The mental disease of the present generation, is impatience of study, contempt of the great masters of ancient wisdom, and a disposition to rely wholly upon unassisted genius and natural sagacity. The wits of these happy days have discovered a way to fame, which the dull caution of our laborious ancestors durst never attempt; they cut the knots of sophistry which it was formerly the business of years to untie, solve difficulties by sudden irradiations of intelligence, and comprehend long processes of argument by immediate intuition. Men who have flattered themselves into this opinion of their own abilities, look down on all who waste their lives over books, as a race of inferior beings, condemned by nature to perpetual pupilage, and fruitlessly endeavouring to remedy their barrenness by incessant cultivation, or succour their feebleness by subsidiary strength. They presume that none would be more industrious than they, if they were not more sensible of deficiencies; and readily conclude, that he who places no confidence in his own powers, owes his modesty only to his weakness. It is however certain, that no estimate is more in danger of erroneous calculations than those by which a man computes the force of his own genius. It generally happens at our entrance into the world, that, by the natural attraction of similitude, we associate with men like ourselves, young, sprightly, and ignorant, and rate our accomplishments by comparison with theirs; when we have once obtained an acknowledged superiority over our acquaintances, imagination and desire easily extend it over the rest of mankind, and if no accident forces us into new emulations, we grow old, and die in admiration of ourselves. Vanity, thus confirmed in her dominion, readily listens to the voice of idleness, and sooths the slumber of life with continual dreams of excellence and greatness. A man, elated by confidence in his natural vigour of fancy and sagacity of conjecture, soon concludes that he already possesses whatever toil and inquiry can confer. He then listens with eagerness to the wild objections which folly has raised against the common means of improvement; talks of the dark chaos of indigested knowledge; describes the mischievous effects of heterogeneous sciences fermenting in the mind; relates the blunders of lettered ignorance; expatiates on the heroick merit of those who deviate from prescription, or shake off authority; and gives vent to the inflations of his heart by declaring that he owes nothing to pedants and universities. All these pretensions, however confident, are very often vain. The laurels which superficial acuteness gains in triumphs over ignorance unsupported by vivacity, are observed by Locke to be lost, whenever real learning and rational diligence appear against her; the sallies of gaiety are soon repressed by calm confidence; and the artifices of subtilty are readily detected by those, who, having carefully studied the question, are not easily confounded or surprised. But, though the contemner of books had neither been deceived by others nor himself, and was really born with a genius surpassing the ordinary abilities of mankind; yet surely such gifts of Providence may be more properly urged as incitements to labour, than encouragements to negligence. He that neglects the culture of ground naturally fertile, is more shamefully culpable, than he whose field would scarcely recompense his husbandry. Cicero remarks, that not to know what has been transacted in former times, is to continue always a child. If no use is made of the labours of past ages, the world must remain always in the infancy of knowledge. The discoveries of every man must terminate in his own advantage, and the studies of every age be employed on questions which the past generation had discussed and determined. We may with as little reproach borrow science as manufactures from our ancestors; and it is as rational to live in caves till our own hands have erected a palace, as to reject all knowledge of architecture which our understandings will not supply. To the strongest and quickest mind it is far easier to learn than to invent. The principles of arithmetick and geometry may be comprehended by a close attention in a few days; yet who can flatter himself that the study of a long life would have enabled him to discover them, when he sees them yet unknown to so many nations, whom he cannot suppose less liberally endowed with natural reason, than the Grecians or Egyptians? Every science was thus far advanced towards perfection, by the emulous diligence of contemporary students, and the gradual discoveries of one age improving on another. Sometimes unexpected flashes of instruction were struck out by the fortuitous collision of happy incidents, or an involuntary concurrence of ideas, in which the philosopher to whom they happened had no other merit than that of knowing their value, and transmitting, unclouded, to posterity, that light which had been kindled by causes out of his power. The happiness of these casual illuminations no man can promise to himself, because no endeavours can procure them; and therefore whatever be our abilities or application, we must submit to learn from others what perhaps would have lain hid for ever from human penetration, had not some remote inquiry brought it to view; as treasures are thrown up by the ploughman and the digger in the rude exercise of their common occupations. The man whose genius qualifies him for great undertakings, must at least be content to learn from books the present state of human knowledge; that he may not ascribe to himself the invention of arts generally known; weary his attention with experiments of which the event has been long registered; and waste, in attempts which have already succeeded or miscarried, that time which might have been spent with usefulness and honour upon new undertakings. But, though the study of books is necessary, it is not sufficient to constitute literary eminence. He that wishes to be counted among the benefactors of posterity, must add by his own toil to the acquisitions of his ancestors, and secure his memory from neglect by some valuable improvement. This can only be effected by looking out upon the wastes of the intellectual world, and extending the power of learning over regions yet undisciplined and barbarous; or by surveying more exactly our ancient dominions, and driving ignorance from the fortresses and retreats where she skulks undetected and undisturbed. Every science has its difficulties, which yet call for solution before we attempt new systems of knowledge; as every country has its forests and marshes, which it would be wise to cultivate and drain, before distant colonies are projected as a necessary discharge of the exuberance of inhabitants. No man ever yet became great by imitation. Whatever hopes for the veneration of mankind must have invention in the design or the execution; either the effect must itself be new, or the means by which it is produced. Either truths hitherto unknown must be discovered, or those which are already known enforced by stronger evidence, facilitated by clearer method, or elucidated by brighter illustrations. Fame cannot spread wide or endure long that is not rooted in nature, and matured by art. That which hopes to resist the blast of malignity, and stand firm against the attacks of time, must contain in itself some original principle of growth. The reputation which arises from the detail or transposition of borrowed sentiments, may spread for awhile, like ivy on the rind of antiquity, but will be torn away by accident or contempt, and suffered to rot unheeded on the ground. No. 155. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1751. _--Steriles transmisimus annos, Haec aevi mihi prima dies, haec limina vitae_. STAT. i. 362. --Our barren years are past; Be this of life the first, of sloth the last. ELPHINSTON. No weakness of the human mind has more frequently incurred animadversion, than the negligence with which men overlook their own faults, however flagrant, and the easiness with which they pardon them, however frequently repeated. It seems generally believed, that as the eye cannot see itself, the mind has no faculties by which it can contemplate its own state, and that therefore we have not means of becoming acquainted with our real characters; an opinion which, like innumerable other postulates, an inquirer finds himself inclined to admit upon very little evidence, because it affords a ready solution of many difficulties. It will explain why the greatest abilities frequently fail to promote the happiness of those who possess them; why those who can distinguish with the utmost nicety the boundaries of vice and virtue, suffer them to be confounded in their own conduct; why the active and vigilant resign their affairs implicitly to the management of others; and why the cautious and fearful make hourly approaches towards ruin, without one sigh of solicitude or struggle for escape. When a position teems thus with commodious consequences, who can without regret confess it to be false? Yet it is certain that declaimers have indulged a disposition to describe the dominion of the passions as extended beyond the limits that nature assigned. Self-love is often rather arrogant than blind; it does not hide our faults from ourselves, but persuades us that they escape the notice of others, and disposes us to resent censures lest we should confess them to be just. We are secretly conscious of defects and vices, which we hope to conceal from the publick eye, and please ourselves with innumerable impostures, by which, in reality, nobody is deceived. In proof of the dimness of our internal sight, or the general inability of man to determine rightly concerning his own character, it is common to urge the success of the most absurd and incredible flattery, and the resentment always raised by advice, however soft, benevolent, and reasonable. But flattery, if its operation be nearly examined, will be found to owe its acceptance, not to our ignorance, but knowledge of our failures, and to delight us rather as it consoles our wants than displays our possessions. He that shall solicit the favour of his patron by praising him for qualities which he can find in himself, will be defeated by the more daring panegyrist who enriches him with adscititious excellence. Just praise is only a debt, but flattery is a present. The acknowledgment of those virtues on which conscience congratulates us, is a tribute that we can at any time exact with confidence; but the celebration of those which we only feign, or desire without any vigorous endeavours to attain them, is received as a confession of sovereignty over regions never conquered, as a favourable decision of disputable claims, and is more welcome as it is more gratuitous. Advice is offensive, not because it lays us open to unexpected regret, or convicts us of any fault which had escaped our notice, but because it shews us that we are known to others as well as to ourselves; and the officious monitor is persecuted with hatred, not because his accusation is false, but because he assumes that superiority which we are not willing to grant him, and has dared to detect what we desired to conceal. For this reason advice is commonly ineffectual. If those who follow the call of their desires, without inquiry whither they are going, had deviated ignorantly from the paths of wisdom, and were rushing upon dangers unforeseen, they would readily listen to information that recals them from their errours, and catch the first alarm by which destruction or infamy is denounced. Few that wander in the wrong way mistake it for the right, they only find it more smooth and flowery, and indulge their own choice rather than approve it: therefore few are persuaded to quit it by admonition or reproof, since it impresses no new conviction, nor confers any powers of action or resistance. He that is gravely informed how soon profusion will annihilate his fortune, hears with little advantage what he knew before, and catches at the next occasion of expense, because advice has no force to suppress his vanity. He that is told how certainly intemperance will hurry him to the grave, runs with his usual speed to a new course of luxury, because his reason is not invigorated, nor his appetite weakened. The mischief of flattery is, not that it persuades any man that he is what he is not, but that it suppresses the influence of honest ambition, by raising an opinion that honour may be gained without the toil of merit; and the benefit of advice arises commonly not from any new light imparted to the mind, but from the discovery which it affords of the publick suffrages. He that could withstand conscience is frighted at infamy, and shame prevails when reason is defeated. As we all know our own faults, and know them commonly with many aggravations which human perspicacity cannot discover, there is, perhaps, no man, however hardened by impudence or dissipated by levity, sheltered by hypocrisy or blasted by disgrace, who does not intend some time to review his conduct, and to regulate the remainder of his life by the laws of virtue. New temptations indeed attack him, new invitations are offered by pleasure and interest, and the hour of reformation is always delayed; every delay gives vice another opportunity of fortifying itself by habit; and the change of manners, though sincerely intended and rationally planned, is referred to the time when some craving passion shall be fully gratified, or some powerful allurement cease its importunity. Thus procrastination is accumulated on procrastination, and one impediment succeeds another, till age shatters our resolution, or death intercepts the project of amendment. Such is often the end of salutary purposes, after they have long delighted the imagination, and appeased that disquiet which every mind feels from known misconduct, when the attention is not diverted by business or by pleasure. Nothing surely can be more unworthy of a reasonable nature, than to continue in a state so opposite to real happiness, as that all the peace of solitude, and felicity of meditation, must arise from resolutions of forsaking it. Yet the world will often afford examples of men, who pass months and years in a continual war with their own convictions, and are daily dragged by habit, or betrayed by passion, into practices which they closed and opened their eyes with purposes to avoid; purposes which, though settled on conviction, the first impulse of momentary desire totally overthrows. The influence of custom is indeed such, that to conquer it will require the utmost efforts of fortitude and virtue; nor can I think any man more worthy of veneration and renown, than those who have burst the shackles of habitual vice. This victory, however, has different degrees of glory as of difficulty; it is more, heroick as the objects of guilty gratification are more familiar, and the recurrence of solicitation more frequent. He that, from experience of the folly of ambition, resigns his offices, may set himself free at once from temptation to squander his life in courts, because he cannot regain his former station. He who is enslaved by an amorous passion, may quit his tyrant in disgust, and absence will, without the help of reason, overcome by degrees the desire of returning. But those appetites to which every place affords their proper object, and which require no preparatory measures or gradual advances, are more tenaciously adhesive; the wish is so near the enjoyment, that compliance often precedes consideration, and, before the powers of reason can be summoned, the time for employing them is past. Indolence is therefore one of the vices from which those whom it once infects are seldom reformed. Every other species of luxury operates upon some appetite that is quickly satiated, and requires some concurrence of art or accident which every place will not supply; but the desire of ease acts equally at all hours, and the longer it is indulged is the more increased. To do nothing is in every man's power; we can never want an opportunity of omitting duties. The lapse to indolence is soft and imperceptible, because it is only a mere cessation of activity; but the return to diligence is difficult, because it implies a change from rest to motion, from privation to reality: --_Facilis descensus Averni: Noctes atque dies patet atri junua ditis; Sed revocare gradum, saperasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus, hic labor est_.--VIR. Aen. Lib. vi. 126. The gates of Hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way; But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labour lies. DRYDEN. Of this vice, as of all others, every man who indulges it is conscious: we all know our own state, if we could be induced to consider it, and it might perhaps be useful to the conquest of all these ensnarers of the mind, if, at certain stated days, life was reviewed. Many things necessary are omitted, because we vainly imagine that they may be always performed; and what cannot be done without pain will for ever be delayed, if the time of doing it be left unsettled. No corruption is great but by long negligence, which can scarcely prevail in a mind regularly and frequently awakened by periodical remorse. He that thus breaks his life into parts, will find in himself a desire to distinguish every stage of his existence by some improvement, and delight himself with the approach of the day of recollection, as of the time which is to begin a new series of virtue and felicity. No. 156. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1751. _Nunquam aliud Natura, aliud Sapientia dicit_. Juv. Sat. xiv. 321. For Wisdom ever echoes Nature's voice. Every government, say the politicians, is perpetually degenerating towards corruption, from which it must be rescued at certain periods by the resuscitation of its first principles, and the re-establishment of its original constitution. Every animal body, according to the methodick physicians, is, by the predominance of some exuberant quality, continually declining towards disease and death, which must be obviated by a seasonable reduction of the peccant humour to the just equipoise which health requires. In the same manner the studies of mankind, all at least which, not being subject to rigorous demonstration, admit the influence of fancy and caprice, are perpetually tending to errour and confusion. Of the great principles of truth which the first speculatists discovered, the simplicity is embarrassed by ambitious additions, or the evidence obscured by inaccurate argumentation; and as they descend from one succession of writers to another, like light transmitted from room to room, they lose their strength and splendour, and fade at last in total evanescence. The systems of learning therefore must be sometimes reviewed, complications analyzed into principles, and knowledge disentangled from opinion. It is not always possible, without a close inspection, to separate the genuine shoots of consequential reasoning, which grow out of some radical postulate, from the branches which art has ingrafted on it. The accidental prescriptions of authority, when time has procured them veneration, are often confounded with the laws of nature, and those rules are supposed coëval with reason, of which the first rise cannot be discovered. Criticism has sometimes permitted fancy to dictate the laws by which fancy ought to be restrained, and fallacy to perplex the principles by which fallacy is to be detected; her superintendence of others has betrayed her to negligence of herself; and, like the ancient Scythians, by extending her conquests over distant regions, she has left her throne vacant to her slaves. Among the laws of which the desire of extending authority, or ardour of promoting knowledge, has prompted the prescription, all which writers have received, had not the same original right to our regard. Some are to be considered as fundamental and indispensable, others only as useful and convenient; some as dictated by reason and necessity, others as enacted by despotick antiquity; some as invincibly supported by their conformity to the order of nature and operations of the intellect; others as formed by accident, or instituted by example, and therefore always liable to dispute and alteration. That many rules have been advanced without consulting nature or reason, we cannot but suspect, when we find it peremptorily decreed by the ancient masters, that only three speaking personages should appear at once upon the stage; a law, which, as the variety and intricacy of modern plays has made it impossible to be observed, we now violate without scruple, and, as experience proves, without inconvenience. The original of this precept was merely accidental. Tragedy was a monody, or solitary song in honour of Bacchus, improved afterwards into a dialogue by the addition of another speaker; but the ancients, remembering that the tragedy was at first pronounced only by one, durst not for some time venture beyond two; at last, when custom and impunity had made them daring, they extended their liberty to the admission of three, but restrained themselves by a critical edict from further exorbitance. By what accident the number of acts was limited to five, I know not that any author has informed us; but certainly it is not determined by any necessity arising either from the nature of action, or propriety of exhibition. An act is only the representation of such a part of the business of the play as proceeds in an unbroken tenour, or without any intermediate pause. Nothing is more evident than that of every real, and by consequence of every dramatick action, the intervals may be more or fewer than five; and indeed the rule is upon the English stage every day broken in effect, without any other mischief than that which arises from an absurd endeavour to observe it in appearance. Whenever the scene is shifted the act ceases, since some time is necessarily supposed to elapse while the personages of the drama change their place. With no greater right to our obedience have the criticks confined the dramatick action to a certain number of hours. Probability requires that the time of action should approach somewhat nearly to that of exhibition, and those plays will always be thought most happily conducted which crowd the greatest, variety into the least space. But since it will frequently happen that some delusion must be admitted, I know not where the limits of imagination can be fixed. It is rarely observed that minds, not prepossessed by mechanical criticism, feel any offence from the extension of the intervals between the acts; nor can I conceive it absurd or impossible, that he who can multiply three hours into twelve or twenty-four, might imagine with equal ease a greater number. I know not whether he that professes to regard no other laws than those of nature, will not be inclined to receive tragi-comedy to his protection, whom, however generally condemned, her own laurels have hitherto shaded from the fulminations of criticism. For what is there in the mingled drama which impartial reason can condemn? The connexion of important with trivial incidents, since it is not only common but perpetual in the world, may surely be allowed upon the stage, which pretends only to be the mirror of life. The impropriety of suppressing passions before we have raised them to the intended agitation, and of diverting the expectation from an event which we keep suspended only to raise it, may be speciously urged. But will not experience shew this objection to be rather subtle than just? Is it not certain that the tragick and comick affections have been moved alternately with equal force, and that no plays have oftener filled the eye with tears, and the breast with palpitation, than those which are variegated with interludes of mirth? I do not however think it safe to judge of works of genius merely by the event. The resistless vicissitudes of the heart, this alternate prevalence of merriment and solemnity, may sometimes be more properly ascribed to the vigour of the writer than the justness of the design: and, instead of vindicating tragi-comedy by the success of Shakspeare, we ought, perhaps, to pay new honours to that transcendent and unbounded genius that could preside over the passions in sport; who, to actuate the affections, needed not the slow gradation of common means, but could fill the heart with instantaneous jollity or sorrow, and vary our disposition as he changed his scenes. Perhaps the effects even of Shakspeare's poetry might have been yet greater, had he not counteracted himself; and we might have been more interested in the distresses of his heroes, had we not been so frequently diverted by the jokes of his buffoons. There are other rules more fixed and obligatory. It is necessary that of every play the chief action should be single; for since a play represents some transaction, through its regular maturation to its final event, two actions equally important must evidently constitute two plays. As the design of tragedy is to instruct by moving the passions, it must always have a hero, a personage apparently and incontestably superior to the rest, upon whom the attention may be fixed, and the anxiety suspended. For though, of two persons opposing each other with equal abilities and equal virtue, the auditor will inevitably, in time, choose his favourite, yet as that choice must be without any cogency of conviction, the hopes or fears which it raises will be faint and languid. Of two heroes acting in confederacy against a common enemy, the virtues or dangers will give little emotion, because each claims our concern with the same right, and the heart lies at rest between equal motives. It ought to be the first endeavour of a writer to distinguish nature from custom; or that which is established because it is right, from that which is right only because it is established; that he may neither violate essential principles by a desire of novelty, nor debar himself from the attainment of beauties within his view, by a needless fear of breaking rules which no literary dictator had authority to enact. No. 157. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1751. [Greek:--Oi aidos Ginetai ae t' andras mega sinetai aed' oninaesi.] HOM. Il. [Greek: O.] 44. Shame greatly hurts or greatly helps mankind. ELPHINSTON. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Though one of your correspondents has presumed to mention with some contempt that presence of attention and easiness of address, which the polite have long agreed to celebrate and esteem, yet I cannot be persuaded to think them unworthy of regard or cultivation; but am inclined to believe that, as we seldom value rightly what we have never known the misery of wanting, his judgment has been vitiated by his happiness; and that a natural exuberance of assurance has hindered him from discovering its excellence and use. This felicity, whether bestowed by constitution, or obtained by early habitudes, I can scarcely contemplate without envy. I was bred under a man of learning in the country, who inculcated nothing but the dignity of knowledge, and the happiness of virtue. By frequency of admonition, and confidence of assertion, he prevailed upon me to believe, that the splendour of literature would always attract reverence, if not darkened by corruption. I therefore pursued my studies with incessant industry, and avoided every thing which I had been taught to consider either as vicious or tending to vice, because I regarded guilt and reproach as inseparably united, and thought a tainted reputation the greatest calamity. At the university, I found no reason for changing my opinion; for though many among my fellow-students took the opportunity of a more remiss discipline to gratify their passions; yet virtue preserved her natural superiority, and those who ventured to neglect, were not suffered to insult her. The ambition of petty accomplishments found its way into the receptacles of learning, but was observed to seize commonly on those who either neglected the sciences or could not attain them; and I was therefore confirmed in the doctrines of my old master, and thought nothing worthy of my care but the means of gaining or imparting knowledge. This purity of manners, and intenseness of application, soon extended my renown, and I was applauded by those, whose opinion I then thought unlikely to deceive me, as a young man that gave uncommon hopes of future eminence. My performances in time reached my native province, and my relations congratulated themselves upon the new honours that were added to their family. I returned home covered with academical laurels, and fraught with criticism and philosophy. The wit and the scholar excited curiosity, and my acquaintance was solicited by innumerable invitations. To please will always be the wish of benevolence, to be admired must be the constant aim of ambition; and I therefore considered myself as about to receive the reward of my honest labours, and to find the efficacy of learning and of virtue. The third day after my arrival I dined at the house of a gentleman who had summoned a multitude of his friends to the annual celebration of his wedding-day. I set forward with great exultation, and thought myself happy that I had an opportunity of displaying my knowledge to so numerous an assembly. I felt no sense of my own insufficiency, till, going up stairs to the dining-room, I heard the mingled roar of obstreperous merriment. I was, however, disgusted rather than terrified, and went forward without dejection. The whole company rose at my entrance; but when I saw so many eyes fixed at once upon me, I was blasted with a sudden imbecility, I was quelled by some nameless power which I found impossible to be resisted. My sight was dazzled, my cheeks glowed, my perceptions were confounded; I was harassed by the multitude of eager salutations, and returned the common civilities with hesitation and impropriety; the sense of my own blunders increased my confusion, and, before the exchange of ceremonies allowed me to sit down, I was ready to sink under the oppression of surprise; my voice grew weak, and my knees trembled. The assembly then resumed their places, and I sat with my eyes fixed upon the ground. To the questions of curiosity, or the appeals of complaisance, I could seldom answer but with negative monosyllables, or professions of ignorance; for the subjects on which they conversed, were such as are seldom discussed in books, and were therefore out of my range of knowledge. At length an old clergyman, who rightly conjectured the reason of my conciseness, relieved me by some questions about the present state of natural knowledge, and engaged me, by an appearance of doubt and opposition, in the explication and defence of the Newtonian philosophy. The consciousness of my own abilities roused me from depression, and long familiarity with my subject enabled me to discourse with ease and volubility; but, however I might please myself, I found very little added by my demonstrations to the satisfaction of the company; and my antagonist, who knew the laws of conversation too well to detain their attention long upon an unpleasing topick, after he had commended my acuteness and comprehension, dismissed the controversy, and resigned me to my former insignificance and perplexity. After dinner, I received from the ladies, who had heard that I was a wit, an invitation to the tea-table. I congratulated myself upon an opportunity to escape from the company, whose gaiety began to be tumultuous, and among whom several hints had been dropped of the uselessness of universities, the folly of book-learning, and the awkwardness of scholars. To the ladies, therefore, I flew, as to a refuge from clamour, insult, and rusticity; but found my heart sink as I approached their apartment, and was again disconcerted by the ceremonies of entrance, and confounded by the necessity of encountering so many eyes at once. When I sat down I considered that, something pretty was always said to ladies, and resolved to recover my credit by some elegant observation or graceful compliment. I applied myself to the recollection of all that I had read or heard in praise of beauty, and endeavoured to accommodate some classical compliment to the present occasion. I sunk into profound meditation, revolved the characters of the heroines of old, considered whatever the poets have sung in their praise, and, after having borrowed and invented, chosen and rejected a thousand sentiments, which, if I had uttered them, would not have been understood, I was awakened from my dream of learned gallantry, by the servant who distributed the tea. There are not many situations more incessantly uneasy than that in which the man is placed who is watching an opportunity to speak, without courage to take it when it is offered, and who, though he resolves to give a specimen of his abilities, always finds some reason or other for delaying it to the next minute. I was ashamed of silence, yet could find nothing to say of elegance or importance equal to my wishes. The ladies, afraid of my learning, thought themselves not qualified to propose any subject of prattle to a man so famous for dispute, and there was nothing on either side but impatience and vexation. In this conflict of shame, as I was re-assembling my scattered sentiments, and, resolving to force my imagination to some sprightly sally, had just found a very happy compliment, by too much attention to my own meditations, I suffered the saucer to drop from my hand. The cup was broken, the lap-dog was scalded, a brocaded petticoat was stained, and the whole assembly was thrown into disorder. I now considered all hopes of reputation at an end, and while they were consoling and assisting one another, stole away in silence. The misadventures of this unhappy day are not yet at an end; I am afraid of meeting the meanest of them that triumphed over me in this state of stupidity and contempt, and feel the same terrours encroaching upon my heart at the sight of those who have once impressed them. Shame, above any other passion, propagates itself. Before those who have seen me confused, I can never appear without new confusion, and the remembrance of the weakness which I formerly discovered, hinders me from acting or speaking with my natural force. But is this misery, Mr. Rambler, never to cease; have I spent my life in study only to become the sport of the ignorant, and debarred myself from all the common enjoyments of youth to collect ideas which must sleep in silence, and form opinions which I must not divulge? Inform me, dear Sir, by what means I may rescue my faculties from these shackles of cowardice, how I may rise to a level with my fellow-beings, recall myself from this langour of involuntary subjection to the free exertion of my intellects, and add to the power of reasoning the liberty of speech. I am, Sir, &c. VERECUNDULUS. No. 158. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1751. Grammatici certunt, et adhuc sub judice lis est. HOR. Ar. Poet. 78. --Criticks yet contend, And of their vain disputings find no end. FRANCIS. Criticism, though dignified from the earliest ages by the labours of men eminent for knowledge and sagacity, and, since the revival of polite literature, the favourite study of European scholars, has not yet attained the certainty and stability of science. The rules hitherto received are seldom drawn from any settled principle or self-evident postulate, or adapted to the natural and invariable constitution of things; but will be found, upon examination, the arbitrary edicts of legislators, authorised only by themselves, who, out of various means by which the same end may be attained, selected such as happened to occur to their own reflection, and then, by a law which idleness and timidity were too willing to obey, prohibited new experiments of wit, restrained fancy from the indulgence of her innate inclination to hazard and adventure, and condemned all future flights of genius to pursue the path of the Meonian eagle. This authority may be more justly opposed, as it is apparently derived from them whom they endeavour to control; for we owe few of the rules of writing to the acuteness of criticks, who have generally no other merit than that, having read the works of great authors with attention, they have observed the arrangement of their matter, or the graces of their expression, and then expected honour and reverence for precepts which they never could have invented; so that practice has introduced rules, rather than rules have directed practice. For this reason the laws of every species of writing have been settled by the ideas of him who first raised it to reputation, without inquiry whether his performances were not yet susceptible of improvement. The excellencies and faults of celebrated writers have been equally recommended to posterity; and, so far has blind reverence prevailed, that even the number of their books has been thought worthy of imitation. The imagination of the first authors of lyrick poetry was vehement and rapid, and their knowledge various and extensive. Living in an age when science had been little cultivated, and when the minds of their auditors, not being accustomed to accurate inspection, were easily dazzled by glaring ideas, they applied themselves to instruct, rather by short sentences and striking thoughts, than by regular argumentation; and, finding attention more successfully excited by sudden sallies and unexpected exclamations, than by the more artful and placid beauties of methodical deduction, they loosed their genius to its own course, passed from one sentiment to another without expressing the intermediate ideas, and roved at large over the ideal world with such lightness and agility, that their footsteps are scarcely to be traced. From this accidental peculiarity of the ancient writers the criticks deduce the rules of lyrick poetry, which they have set free from all the laws by which other compositions are confined, and allow to neglect the niceties of transition, to start into remote digressions, and to wander without restraint from one scene of imagery to another. A writer of later times has, by the vivacity of his essays, reconciled mankind to the same licentiousness in short dissertations; and he therefore who wants skill to form a plan, or diligence to pursue it, needs only entitle his performance an essay, to acquire the right of heaping together the collections of half his life without order, coherence, or propriety. In writing, as in life, faults are endured without disgust when they are associated with transcendent merit, and may be sometimes recommended to weak judgments by the lustre which they obtain from their union with excellence; but it is the business of those who presume to superintend the taste or morals of mankind, to separate delusive combinations and distinguish that which may be praised from that which can only be excused. As vices never promote happiness, though, when overpowered by more active and more numerous virtues, they cannot totally destroy it; so confusion and irregularity produce no beauty, though they cannot always obstruct the brightness of genius and learning. To proceed from one truth to another, and connect distant propositions by regular consequences, is the great prerogative of man. Independent and unconnected sentiments flashing upon the mind in quick succession, may, for a time, delight by their novelty, but they differ from systematical reasoning, as single notes from harmony, as glances of lightning from the radiance of the sun. When rules are thus drawn, rather from precedents than reason, there is danger not only from the faults of an author, but from the errours of those who criticise his works; since they may often mislead their pupils by false representations, as the Ciceronians of the sixteenth century were betrayed into barbarisms by corrupt copies of their darling writer. It is established at present, that the proemial lines of a poem, in which the general subject is proposed, must be void of glitter and embellishment. "The first lines of Paradise Lost," says Addison, "are perhaps as plain, simple, and unadorned, as any of the whole poem, in which particular the author has conformed himself to the example of Homer, and the precept of Horace." This observation seems to have been made by an implicit adoption of the common opinion, without consideration either of the precept or example. Had Horace been consulted, he would have been found to direct only what should be comprised in the proposition, not how it should be expressed; and to have commended Homer in opposition to a meaner poet, not for the gradual elevation of his diction, but the judicious expansion of his plan; for displaying unpromised events, not for producing unexpected elegancies. --Specivsa dehinc miracula prouiat; Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. Hon. Ar. Poet. 146. But from a cloud of smoke he breaks to light, And pours his specious miracles to sight; Antiphates his hideous feast devours, Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars. FRANCIS. If the exordial verses of Homer be compared with the rest of the poem, they will not appear remarkable for plainness or simplicity, but rather eminently adorned and illuminated: [Greek: Andra moi ennepe, Mousa, polutropon, os mala polla Plagchthae, epei Troiaes ieron ptoliethron eperse; Pollon d anthropon iden astea, kai noon egno; Polla d og en pontps pathen algea on kata thumon, Arnumenos aen te psuchaen kai noston etairon; All oud os etarous errusato, iemenos per; Auton gar spheteraesin atasthaliaesin olonto. Naepioi, oi kata bous uperionos Aeelioio Aesthion; autar o toisin apheileto vostimon aemao; Ton amothen ge, thea, thugater Dios, eipe kai eamin.] The man, for wisdom's various arts renown'd, Long exercised in woes, O muse! resound. Who, when his arms had wrought the destin'd fall Of sacred Troy, and raz'd her heav'n-built wall, Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray'd, The manners noted, and their states survey'd. On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore, Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore: Vain toils! their impious folly dar'd to prey On herds devoted to the god of day; The god vindictive doom'd them never more (Ah! men unbless'd) to touch that natal shore. O snatch some portion of these acts from fate, Celestial muse! and to our world relate. POPE. The first verses of the Iliad are in like manner particularly splendid, and the proposition of the Aeneid closes with dignity and magnificence not often to be found even in the poetry of Virgil. The intent of the introduction is to raise expectation, and suspend it; something therefore must be discovered, and something concealed; and the poet, while the fertility of his invention is yet unknown, may properly recommend himself by the grace of his language. He that reveals too much, or promises too little; he that never irritates the intellectual appetite, or that immediately satiates it, equally defeats his own purpose. It is necessary to the pleasure of the reader, that the events should not be anticipated, and how then can his attention be invited, but by grandeur of expression? No. 159. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1751. _Sunt verba et voces, quibus hunc lenire dolorem Possis, et magnuum morbi deponere partem_. HOR. Ep. Lib. i. 34. The power of words, and soothing sounds, appease The raging pain, and lessen the disease. FRANCIS. The imbecility with which Verecundulus complains that the presence of a numerous assembly freezes his faculties, is particularly incident to the studious part of mankind, whose education necessarily secludes them in their earlier years from mingled converse, till, at their dismission from schools and academies, they plunge at once into the tumult of the world, and, coming forth from the gloom of solitude, are overpowered by the blaze of publick life. It is, perhaps, kindly provided by nature, that as the feathers and strength of a bird grow together, and her wings are not completed till she is able to fly, so some proportion should be preserved in the human kind between judgment and courage; the precipitation of inexperience is therefore restrained by shame, and we remain shackled by timidity, till we have learned to speak and act with propriety. I believe few can review the days of their youth without recollecting temptations, which shame, rather than virtue, enabled them to resist; and opinions which, however erroneous in their principles, and dangerous in their consequences, they have panted to advance at the hazard of contempt and hatred, when they found themselves irresistibly depressed by a languid anxiety, which seized them at the moment of utterance, and still gathered strength from their endeavours to resist it. It generally happens that assurance keeps an even pace with ability, and the fear of miscarriage, which hinders Our first attempts, is gradually dissipated as our skill advances towards certainty of success. That bashfulness, therefore, which prevents disgrace, that short and temporary shame which secures us from the danger of lasting reproach, cannot be properly counted among our misfortunes. Bashfulness, however it may incommode for a moment, scarcely ever produces evils of long continuance; it may flush the cheek, flutter in the heart, deject the eyes, and enchain the tongue, but its mischiefs soon pass off without remembrance. It may sometimes exclude pleasure, but seldom opens any avenue to sorrow or remorse. It is observed somewhere that _few have repented of having forborne to speak_. To excite opposition, and inflame malevolence, is the unhappy privilege of courage made arrogant by consciousness of strength. No man finds in himself any inclination to attack or oppose him who confesses his superiority by blushing in his presence. Qualities exerted with apparent fearfulness, receive applause from every voice, and support from every hand. Diffidence may check resolution and obstruct performance, but compensates its embarrassments by more important advantages; it conciliates the proud, and softens the severe, averts envy from excellence, and censure from miscarriage. It may indeed happen that knowledge and virtue remain too long congealed by this frigorifick power, as the principles of vegetation are sometimes obstructed by lingering frosts. He that enters late into a public station, though with all the abilities requisite to the discharge of his duty, will find his powers at first impeded by a timidity which he himself knows to be vicious, and must struggle long against dejection and reluctance, before he obtains the full command of his own attention, and adds the gracefulness of ease to the dignity of merit. For this disease of the mind I know not whether any remedies of much efficacy can be found. To advise a man unaccustomed to the eyes of multitudes to mount a tribunal without perturbation, to tell him whose life was passed in the shades of contemplation, that he must not be disconcerted or perplexed in receiving and returning the compliments of a splendid assembly, is to advise an inhabitant of Brasil or Sumatra not to shiver at an English winter, or him who has always lived upon a plain to look from a precipice without emotion. It is to suppose custom instantaneously controllable by reason, and to endeavour to communicate, by precept, that which only time and habit can bestow. He that hopes by philosophy and contemplation alone to fortify himself against that awe which all, at their first appearance on the stage of life, must feel from the spectators, will, at the hour of need, be mocked by his resolution; and I doubt whether the preservatives which Plato relates Alcibiades to have received from Socrates, when he was about to speak in publick, proved sufficient to secure him from the powerful fascination. Yet, as the effects of time may by art and industry be accelerated or retarded, it cannot be improper to consider how this troublesome instinct may be opposed when it exceeds its just proportion, and instead of repressing petulance and temerity, silences eloquence, and debilitates force; since, though it cannot be hoped that anxiety should be immediately dissipated, it may be at least somewhat abated; and the passions will operate with less violence, when reason rises against them, than while she either slumbers in neutrality, or, mistaking her interest, lends them her assistance. No cause more frequently produces bashfulness than too high an opinion of our own importance. He that imagines an assembly filled with his merit, panting with expectation, and hushed with attention, easily terrifies himself with the dread of disappointing them, and strains his imagination in pursuit of something that may vindicate the veracity of fame, and shew that his reputation was not gained by chance. He considers that what he shall say or do will never be forgotten; that renown or infamy is suspended upon every syllable, and that nothing ought to fall from him which will not bear the test of time. Under such solicitude, who can wonder that the mind is overwhelmed, and, by struggling with attempts above her strength, quickly sinks into languishment and despondency? The most useful medicines are often unpleasing to the taste. Those who are oppressed by their own reputation, will, perhaps, not be comforted by hearing that their cares are unnecessary. But the truth is, that no man is much regarded by the rest of the world. He that considers how little he dwells upon the condition of others, will learn how little the attention of others is attracted by himself. While we see multitudes passing before us, of whom, perhaps, not one appears to deserve our notice, or excite our sympathy, we should remember, that we likewise are lost in the same throng; that the eye which happens to glance upon us is turned in a moment on him that follows us, and that the utmost which we can reasonably hope or fear is, to fill a vacant hour with prattle, and be forgotten. No. 160. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1751 --Inter se convenit ursis. JUV. Sat. xv. 164. Beasts of each kind their fellows spare; Bear lives in amity with bear. "The world," says Locke, "has people of all sorts." As in the general hurry produced by the superfluities of some, and necessities of others, no man needs to stand still for want of employment, so in the innumerable gradations of ability, and endless varieties of study and inclination, no employment can be vacant for want of a man qualified to discharge it. Such is probably the natural state of the universe; but it is so much deformed by interest and passion, that the benefit of this adaptation of men to things is not always perceived. The folly or indigence of those who set their services to sale, inclines them to boast of qualifications which they do not possess, and attempt business which they do not understand; and they who have the power of assigning to others the task of life, are seldom honest or seldom happy in their nomination. Patrons are corrupted by avarice, cheated by credulity, or overpowered by resistless solicitation. They are sometimes too strongly influenced by honest prejudices of friendship, or the prevalence of virtuous compassion. For, whatever cool reason may direct, it is not easy for a man of tender and scrupulous goodness to overlook the immediate effect of his own actions, by turning his eyes upon remoter consequences, and to do that which must give present pain, for the sake of obviating evil yet unfelt, or securing advantage in time to come. What is distant is in itself obscure, and, when we have no wish to see it, easily escapes our notice, or takes such a form as desire or imagination bestows upon it. Every man might, for the same reason, in the multitudes that swarm about him, find some kindred mind with which he could unite in confidence and friendship; yet we see many straggling single about the world, unhappy for want of an associate, and pining with the necessity of confining their sentiments to their own bosoms. This inconvenience arises, in like manner, from struggles of the will against the understanding. It is not often difficult to find a suitable companion, if every man would be content with such as he is qualified to please. But if vanity tempts him to forsake his rank, and post himself among those with whom no common interest or mutual pleasure can ever unite him, he must always live in a state of unsocial separation, without tenderness and without trust. There are many natures which can never approach within a certain distance, and which, when any irregular motive impels them towards contact, seem to start back from each other by some invincible repulsion. There are others which immediately cohere whenever they come into the reach of mutual attraction, and with very little formality of preparation mingle intimately as soon as they meet. Every man, whom either business or curiosity has thrown at large into the world, will recollect many instances of fondness and dislike, which have forced themselves upon him without the intervention of his judgment; of dispositions to court some and avoid others, when he could assign no reason for the preference, or none adequate to the violence of his passions; of influence that acted instantaneously upon his mind, and which no arguments or persuasions could ever overcome. Among those with whom time and intercourse have made us familiar, we feel our affections divided in different proportions without much regard to moral or intellectual merit. Every man knows some whom he cannot induce himself to trust, though he has no reason to suspect that they would betray him; those to whom he cannot complain, though he never observed them to want compassion; those in whose presence he never can be gay, though excited by invitations to mirth and freedom; and those from whom he cannot be content to receive instruction, though they never insulted his ignorance by contempt or ostentation. That much regard is to be had to those instincts of kindness and dislike, or that reason should blindly follow them, I am far from intending to inculcate: it is very certain, that by indulgence we may give them strength which they have not from nature, and almost every example of ingratitude and treachery proves, that by obeying them we may commit our happiness to those who are very unworthy of so great a trust. But it may deserve to be remarked, that since few contend much with their inclinations, it is generally vain to solicit the good-will of those whom we perceive thus involuntarily alienated from us; neither knowledge nor virtue will reconcile antipathy, and though officiousness may be for a time admitted, and diligence applauded, they will at last be dismissed with coldness, or discouraged by neglect. Some have indeed an occult power of stealing upon the affections, of exciting universal benevolence, and disposing every heart to fondness and friendship. But this is a felicity granted only to the favourites of nature. The greater part of mankind find a different reception from different dispositions; they sometimes obtain unexpected caresses from those whom they never flattered with uncommon regard, and sometimes exhaust all their arts of pleasing without effect. To these it is necessary to look round, and attempt every breast in which they find virtue sufficient for the foundation of friendship; to enter into the crowd, and try whom chance will offer to their notice, till they fix on some temper congenial to their own, as the magnet rolled in the dust collects the fragments of its kindred metal from a thousand particles of other substances. Every man must have remarked the facility with which the kindness of others is sometimes gained by those to whom he never could have imparted his own. We are by our occupations, education, and habits of life, divided almost into different species, which regard one another, for the most part, with scorn and malignity. Each of these classes of the human race has desires, fears, and conversation, vexations and merriment peculiar to itself; cares which another cannot feel; pleasures which he cannot partake; and modes of expressing every sensation which he cannot understand. That frolick which shakes one man with laughter, will convulse another with indignation; the strain of jocularity which in one place obtains treats and patronage, would in another be heard with indifference, and in a third with abhorrence. To raise esteem we must benefit others, to procure love we must please them. Aristotle observes, that old men do not readily form friendships, because they are not easily susceptible of pleasure. He that can contribute to the hilarity of the vacant hour, or partake with equal gust the favourite amusement; he whose mind is employed on the same objects, and who therefore never harasses the understanding with unaccustomed ideas, will be welcomed with ardour, and left with regret, unless he destroys those recommendations by faults with which peace and security cannot consist. It were happy, if, in forming friendships, virtue could concur with pleasure; but the greatest part of human gratifications approach so nearly to vice, that few who make the delight of others their rule of conduct, can avoid disingenuous compliances; yet certainly he that suffers himself to be driven or allured from virtue, mistakes his own interest, since he gains succour by means, for which his friend, if ever he becomes wise, must scorn him, and for which at last he must scorn himself. No. 161. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1751. [Greek: Oiae gar phullon geneae, toiaede kai Andron.] HOM. Il. [Greek: T.] Frail as the leaves that quiver on the sprays, Like them man flourishes, like them decays. MR. RAMBLER. SIR, You have formerly observed that curiosity often terminates in barren knowledge, and that the mind is prompted to study and inquiry rather by the uneasiness of ignorance, than the hope of profit. Nothing can be of less importance to any present interest, than the fortune of those who have been long lost in the grave, and from whom nothing now can be hoped or feared. Yet, to rouse the zeal of a true antiquary, little more is necessary than to mention a name which mankind have conspired to forget; he will make his way to remote scenes of action through obscurity and contradiction, as Tully sought amidst bushes and brambles the tomb of Archimedes. It is not easy to discover how it concerns him that gathers the produce, or receives the rent of an estate, to know through what families the land has passed, who is registered in the Conqueror's survey as its possessor, how often it has been forfeited by treason, or how often sold by prodigality. The power or wealth of the present inhabitants of a country cannot be much increased by an inquiry after the names of those barbarians, who destroyed one another twenty centuries ago, in contests for the shelter of woods, or convenience of pasturage. Yet we see that no man can be at rest in the enjoyment of a new purchase till he has learned the history of his grounds from the ancient inhabitants of the parish, and that no nation omits to record the actions of their ancestors, however bloody, savage, and rapacious. The same disposition, as different opportunities call it forth, discovers itself in great or little things. I have always thought it unworthy of a wise man to slumber in total inactivity, only because he happens to have no employment equal to his ambition or genius; it is therefore my custom to apply my attention to the objects before me, and as I cannot think any place wholly unworthy of notice that affords a habitation to a man of letters, I have collected the history and antiquities of the several garrets in which I have resided. Quantulacunque estis, vos ego magna voco. How small to others, but how great to me! Many of these narratives my industry has been able to extend to a considerable length; but the woman with whom I now lodge has lived only eighteen months in the house, and can give no account of its ancient revolutions; the plaisterer having, at her entrance, obliterated, by his white-wash, all the smoky memorials which former tenants had left upon the ceiling, and perhaps drawn the veil of oblivion over politicians, philosophers, and poets. When I first, cheapened my lodgings, the landlady told me, that she hoped I was not an author, for the lodgers on the first floor had stipulated that the upper rooms should not be occupied by a noisy trade. I very readily promised to give no disturbance to her family, and soon despatched a bargain on the usual terms. I had not slept many nights in my new apartment before I began to inquire after my predecessors, and found my landlady, whose imagination is filled chiefly with her own affairs, very ready to give me information. Curiosity, like all other desires, produces pain as wel as pleasure. Before she began her narrative, I had heated my head with expectations of adventures and discoveries, of elegance in disguise, and learning in distress; and was somewhat mortified when I heard that the first tenant was a tailor, of whom nothing was remembered but that he complained of his room for want of light; and, after having lodged in it a month, and paid only a week's rent, pawned a piece of cloth which he was trusted, to cut out, and was forced to make a precipitate retreat from this quarter of the town. The next was a young woman newly arrived from the country, who lived for five weeks with great regularity, and became by frequent treats very much the favourite of the family, but at last received visits so frequently from a cousin in Cheapside, that she brought the reputation of the house into danger, and was therefore dismissed with good advice. The room then stood empty for a fortnight; my landlady began to think that she had judged hardly, and often wished for such another lodger. At last, an elderly man of a grave aspect read the bill, and bargained for the room at the very first price that was asked. He lived in close retirement, seldom went out till evening, and then returned early, sometimes cheerful, and at other times dejected. It was remarkable, that whatever he purchased, he never had small money in his pocket; and, though cool and temperate on other occasions, was always vehement and stormy, till he received his change. He paid his rent with great exactness, and seldom failed once a week to requite my landlady's civility with a supper. At last, such is the fate of human felicity, the house was alarmed at midnight by the constable, who demanded to search the garrets. My landlady assuring him that he had mistaken the door, conducted him up stairs, where he found the tools of a coiner; but the tenant had crawled along the roof to an empty house, and escaped; much to the joy of my landlady, who declares him a very honest man, and wonders why any body should be hanged for making money when such numbers are in want of it. She however confesses that she shall, for the future, always question the character of those who take her garret without beating down the price. The bill was then placed again in the window, and the poor woman was teased for seven weeks by innumerable passengers, who obliged her to climb with them every hour up five stories, and then disliked the prospect, hated the noise of a publick street, thought the stairs narrow, objected to a low ceiling, required the walls to be hung with fresher paper, asked questions about the neighbourhood, could not think of living so far from their acquaintance, wished the windows had looked to the south rather than the west, told how the door and chimney might have been better disposed, bid her half the price that she asked, or promised to give her earnest the next day, and came no more. At last, a short meagre man, in a tarnished waistcoat, desired to see the garret, and when he had stipulated for two long shelves, and a larger table, hired it at a low rate. When the affair was completed, he looked round him with great satisfaction, and repeated some words which the woman did not understand. In two days he brought a great box of books, took possession of his room, and lived very inoffensively, except that he frequently disturbed the inhabitants of the next floor by unseasonable noises. He was generally in bed at noon, but from evening to midnight he sometimes talked aloud with great vehemence, sometimes stamped as in rage, sometimes threw down his poker, then clattered his chairs, then sat down in deep thought, and again burst out into loud vociferations; sometimes he would sigh as oppressed with misery, and sometimes shaked with convulsive laughter. When he encountered any of the family, he gave way or bowed, but rarely spoke, except that as he went up stairs he often repeated, [Greek:--Hos hupertata domata naiei]. This habitant th' aerial regions boast; hard words, to which his neighbours listened so often, that they learned them without understanding them. What was his employment she did not venture to ask him, but at last heard a printer's boy inquire for the author. My landlady was very often advised to beware of this strange man, who, though he was quiet for the present, might perhaps become outrageous in the hot months; but, as she was punctually paid, she could not find any sufficient reason for dismissing him, till one night he convinced her, by setting fire to his curtains, that it was not safe to have an author for her inmate. She had then for six weeks a succession of tenants, who left the house on Saturday, and, instead of paying their rent, stormed at their landlady. At last she took in two sisters, one of whom had spent her little fortune in procuring remedies for a lingering disease, and was now supported and attended by the other: she climbed with difficulty to the apartment, where she languished eight weeks without impatience, or lamentation, except for the expense and fatigue which her sister suffered, and then calmly and contentedly expired. The sister followed her to the grave, paid the few debts which they had contracted, wiped away the tears of useless sorrow, and, returning to the business of common life, resigned to me the vacant habitation. Such, Mr. Rambler, are the changes which have happened in the narrow space where my present fortune has fixed my residence. So true it is that amusement and instruction are always at hand for those who have skill and willingness to find them; and, so just is the observation of Juvenal, that a single house will shew whatever is done or suffered in the world. I am, Sir, &c. No. 162. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1751. Orbus es, et locuples, et Bruto consule natus, Esse tibi veras credis amicitias? Sunt veræ: sed quas juvenis, quas pauper habebas: Qui novus est, mortem diligit ille tuam. MART. Lib. xi. Ep. 44. What! old, and rich, and childless too, And yet believe your friends are true? Truth might perhaps to those belong, To those who lov'd you poor and young; But, trust me, for the new you have, They'll love you dearly--in your grave. F. LEWIS. One of the complaints uttered by Milton's Samson, in the anguish of blindness, is, that he shall pass his life under the direction of others; that he cannot regulate his conduct by his own knowledge, but must lie at the mercy of those who undertake to guide him. There is no state more contrary to the dignity of wisdom than perpetual and unlimited dependance, in which the understanding lies useless, and every motion is received from external impulse. Reason is the great distinction of human nature, the faculty by which we approach to some degree of association with celestial intelligences; but as the excellence of every power appears only in its operations, not to have reason, and to have it useless and unemployed, is nearly the same. Such is the weakness of man, that the essence of things is seldom so much regarded as external and accidental appendages. A small variation of trifling circumstances, a slight change of form by an artificial dress, or a casual difference of appearance, by a new light and situation, will conciliate affection or excite abhorrence, and determine us to pursue or to avoid. Every man considers a necessity of compliance with any will but his own, as the lowest state of ignominy and meanness; few are so far lost in cowardice or negligence, as not to rouse at the first insult of tyranny, and exert all their force against him who usurps their property, or invades any privilege of speech or action. Yet we see often those who never wanted spirit to repel encroachment or oppose violence, at last, by a gradual relaxation of vigilance, delivering up, without capitulation, the fortress which they defended against assault, and laying down unbidden the weapons which they grasp the harder for every attempt to wrest them from their hands. Men eminent for spirit and wisdom often resign themselves to voluntary pupilage, and suffer their lives to be modelled by officious ignorance, and their choice to be regulated by presumptuous stupidity. This unresisting acquiescence in the determination of others, may be the consequence of application to some study remote from the beaten track of life, some employment which does not allow leisure for sufficient inspection of those petty affairs, by which nature has decreed a great part of our duration to be filled. To a mind thus withdrawn from common objects, it is more eligible to repose on the prudence of another, than to be exposed every moment to slight interruptions. The submission which such confidence requires, is paid without pain, because it implies no confession of inferiority. The business from which we withdraw our cognizance, is not above our abilities, but below our notice. We please our pride with the effects of our influence thus weakly exerted, and fancy ourselves placed in a higher orb, for which we regulate subordinate agents by a slight and distant superintendance. But, whatever vanity or abstraction may suggest, no man can safely do that by others which might be done by himself; he that indulges negligence will quickly become ignorant of his own affairs; and he that trusts without reserve will at last be deceived. It is, however, impossible but that, as the attention tends strongly towards one thing, it must retire from another; and he that omits the care of domestick business, because he is engrossed by inquiries of more importance to mankind, has, at least, the merit of suffering in a good cause. But there are many who can plead no such extenuation of their folly; who shake off the burden of their situation, not that they may soar with less incumbrance to the heights of knowledge or virtue, but that they may loiter at ease and sleep in quiet; and who select for friendship and confidence not the faithful and the virtuous, but the soft, the civil, and compliant. This openness to flattery is the common disgrace of declining life. When men feel weakness increasing on them, they naturally desire to rest from the struggles of contradiction, the fatigue of reasoning, the anxiety of circumspection; when they are hourly tormented with pains and diseases, they are unable to bear any new disturbance, and consider all opposition as an addition to misery, of which they feel already more than they can patiently endure. Thus desirous of peace, and thus fearful of pain, the old man seldom inquires after any other qualities in those whom he caresses, than quickness in conjecturing his desires, activity in supplying his wants, dexterity in intercepting complaints before they approach near enough to disturb him, flexibility to his present humour, submission to hasty petulance, and attention to wearisome narrations. By these arts alone many have been able to defeat the claims of kindred and of merit, and to enrich themselves with presents and legacies. Thrasybulus inherited a large fortune, and augmented it by the revenues of several lucrative employments, which he discharged with honour and dexterity. He was at last wise enough to consider, that life should not be devoted wholly to accumulation, and therefore retiring to his estate, applied himself to the education of his children, and the cultivation of domestick happiness. He passed several years in this pleasing amusement, and saw his care amply recompensed; his daughters were celebrated for modesty and elegance, and his sons for learning, prudence, and spirit. In time the eagerness with which the neighbouring gentlemen courted his alliance, obliged him to resign his daughters to other families; the vivacity and curiosity of his sons hurried them out of rural privacy into the open world, from whence they had not soon an inclination to return. This, however, he had always hoped; he pleased himself with the success of his schemes, and felt no inconvenience from solitude till an apoplexy deprived him of his wife. Thrasybulus had now no companion; and the maladies of increasing years having taken from him much of the power of procuring amusement for himself, he thought it necessary to procure some inferior friend, who might ease him of his economical solicitudes, and divert him by cheerful conversation. All these qualities he soon recollected in Vafer, a clerk in one of the offices over which he had formerly presided. Vafer was invited to visit his old patron, and being by his station acquainted with the present modes of life, and by constant practice dexterous in business, entertained him with so many novelties, and so readily disentangled his affairs, that he was desired to resign his clerkship, and accept a liberal salary in the house of Thrasybulus. Vafer, having always lived in a state of dependance, was well versed in the arts by which favour is obtained, and could, without repugnance or hesitation, accommodate himself to every caprice, and echo every opinion. He never doubted but to be convinced, nor attempted opposition but to flatter Thrasybulus with the pleasure of a victory. By this practice he found his way into his patron's heart, and, having first made himself agreeable, soon became important. His insidious diligence, by which the laziness of age was gratified, engrossed the management of affairs; and his petty offices of civility, and occasional intercessions, persuaded the tenants to consider him as their friend and benefactor, and to entreat his enforcement of their representations of hard years, and his countenance to petitions for abatement of rent. Thrasybulus had now banqueted on flattery, till he could no longer bear the harshness of remonstrance or the insipidity of truth. All contrariety to his own opinion shocked him like a violation of some natural right, and all recommendation of his affairs to his own inspection was dreaded by him as a summons to torture. His children were alarmed by the sudden riches of Vafer, but their complaints were heard by their father with impatience, as the result of a conspiracy against his quiet, and a design to condemn him, for their own advantage, to groan out his last hours in perplexity and drudgery. The daughters retired with tears in their eyes, but the son continued his importunities till he found his inheritance hazarded by his obstinacy. Vafer triumphed over all their efforts, and, continuing to confirm himself in authority, at the death of his master, purchased an estate, and bade defiance to inquiry and justice. No. 163. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1751. Mitte superba pati fastidia, spemque caducam Despice; vive tibi, nam moriere tibi. SENECA. Bow to no patron's insolence; rely On no frail hopes, in freedom live and die. F. LEWIS. None of the cruelties exercised by wealth and power upon indigence and dependance is more mischievous in its consequences, or more frequently practised with wanton negligence, than the encouragement of expectations which are never to be gratified, and the elation and depression of the heart by needless vicissitudes of hope and disappointment. Every man is rich or poor, according to the proportion between his desires and enjoyments; any enlargement of wishes is therefore equally destructive to happiness with the diminution of possession; and he that teaches another to long for what he never shall obtain, is no less an enemy to his quiet, than if he had robbed him of part of his patrimony. But representations thus refined exhibit no adequate idea of the guilt of pretended friendship; of artifices by which followers are attracted only to decorate the retinue of pomp, and swell the shout of popularity, and to be dismissed with contempt and ignominy, when their leader has succeeded or miscarried, when he is sick of show, and weary of noise. While a man infatuated with the promises of greatness, wastes his hours and days in attendance and solicitation, the honest opportunities of improving his condition pass by without his notice; he neglects to cultivate his own barren soil, because he expects every moment to be placed in regions of spontaneous fertility, and is seldom roused from his delusion, but by the gripe of distress which he cannot resist, and the sense of evils which cannot be remedied. The punishment of Tantalus in the infernal regions affords a just image of hungry servility, flattered with the approach of advantage, doomed to lose it before it comes into his reach, always within a few days of felicity, and always sinking back to his former wants: [Greek: Kai maen Tantalon eiseidon, chalep alge echonta, Estaot en limnae hae de proseplaze geneio. Steuto de dipsaon, pieein d ouk eichen elesthai. Ossaki gar kupsei ho geron pieein meneainon, Tossach hudor apolesket anabrochen. amphi de possi Gaia melaina phaneske katazaenaske de daimon, Dendrea d hupsipeteala katakoeathen chee kaopon Onchnai, kai roiai, kai maeleai aglaokarpoi, Sukai te glukeoai, kai elaiai taelethoosai. Ton opot ithusei o geoon epi cheosi masasthai, Tasd anemos riptaske poti nephea skioenta.] HOM. Od. [Greek: A'.] 581. "I saw," says Homer's Ulysses, "the severe punishment of Tantalus. In a lake, whose waters approached to his lips, he stood burning with thirst, without the power to drink. Whenever he inclined his head to the stream, some deity commanded it to be dry, and the dark earth appeared at his feet. Around him lofty trees spread their fruits to view; the pear, the pomegranate and the apple, the green olive and the luscious fig quivered before him, which, whenever he extended his hand to seize them, were snatched by the winds into clouds and obscurity." This image of misery was perhaps originally suggested to some poet by the conduct of his patron, by the daily contemplation of splendour which he never must partake, by fruitless attempts to catch at interdicted happiness, and by the sudden evanescence of his reward, when he thought his labours almost at an end. To groan with poverty, when all about him was opulence, riot, and superfluity, and to find the favours which he had long been encouraged to hope, and had long endeavoured to deserve, squandered at last on nameless ignorance, was to thirst with water flowing before him, and to see the fruits, to which his hunger was hastening, scattered by the wind. Nor can my correspondent, whatever he may have suffered, express with more justness or force the vexations of dependance. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I am one of those mortals who have been courted and envied as the favourites of the great. Having often gained the prize of composition at the university, I began to hope that I should obtain the same distinction in every other place, and determined to forsake the profession to which I was destined by my parents, and in which the interest of my family would have procured me a very advantageous settlement. The pride of wit fluttered in my heart, and when I prepared to leave the college, nothing entered my imagination but honours, caresses, and rewards, riches without labour, and luxury without expense. I however delayed my departure for a time, to finish the performance by which I was to draw the first notice of mankind upon me. When it was completed I hurried to London, and considered every moment that passed before its publication, as lost in a kind of neutral existence, and cut off from the golden hours of happiness and fame. The piece was at last printed and disseminated by a rapid sale; I wandered from one place of concourse to another, feasted from morning to night on the repetition of my own praises, and enjoyed the various conjectures of criticks, the mistaken candour of my friends, and the impotent malice of my enemies. Some had read the manuscript, and rectified its inaccuracies; others had seen it in a state so imperfect, that they could not forbear to wonder at its present excellence; some had conversed with the author at the coffeehouse; and others gave hints that they had lent him money. I knew that no performance is so favourably read as that of a writer who suppresses his name, and therefore resolved to remain concealed, till those by whom literary reputation is established had given their suffrages too publickly to retract them. At length my bookseller informed me that Aurantius, the standing patron of merit, had sent inquiries after me, and invited me to his acquaintance. The time which I had long expected was now arrived. I went to Aurantius with a beating heart, for I looked upon our interview as the critical moment of my destiny. I was received with civilities which my academick rudeness made me unable to repay; but when I had recovered from my confusion, I prosecuted the conversation with such liveliness and propriety, that I confirmed my new friend in his esteem of my abilities, and was dismissed with the utmost ardour of profession, and raptures of fondness. I was soon summoned to dine with Aurantius, who had assembled the most judicious of his friends to partake of the entertainment. Again I exerted my powers of sentiment and expression, and again found every eye sparkling with delight, and every tongue silent with attention. I now became familiar at the table of Aurantius, but could never, in his most private or jocund hours, obtain more from him than general declarations of esteem, or endearments of tenderness, which included no particular promise, and therefore conferred no claim. This frigid reserve somewhat disgusted me, and when he complained of three days absence, I took care to inform him with how much importunity of kindness I had been detained by his rival Pollio. Aurantius now considered his honour as endangered by the desertion of a wit, and, lest I should have an inclination to wander, told me that I could never find a friend more constant and zealous than himself; that indeed he had made no promises, because he hoped to surprise me with advancement, but had been silently promoting my interest, and should continue his good offices, unless he found the kindness of others more desired. If you, Mr. Rambler, have ever ventured your philosophy within the attraction of greatness, you know the force of such language introduced with a smile of gracious tenderness, and impressed at the conclusion with an air of solemn sincerity. From that instant I gave myself up wholly to Aurantius, and, as he immediately resumed his former gaiety, expected every morning a summons to some employment of dignity and profit. One month succeeded another, and, in defiance of appearances, I still fancied myself nearer to my wishes, and continued to dream of success, and wake to disappointment. At last the failure of my little fortune compelled me to abate the finery which I hitherto thought necessary to the company with whom I associated, and the rank to which I should be raised. Aurantius, from the moment in which he discovered my poverty, considered me as fully in his power, and afterwards rather permitted my attendance than invited it; thought himself at liberty to refuse my visits, whenever he had other amusements within reach, and often suffered me to wait, without pretending any necessary business. When I was admitted to his table, if any man of rank equal to his own was present, he took occasion to mention my writings, and commend my ingenuity, by which he intended to apologize for the confusion of distinctions, and the improper assortment of his company; and often called upon me to entertain his friends with my productions, as a sportsman delights the squires of his neighbourhood with the curvets of his horse, or the obedience of his spaniels. To complete my mortification, it was his practice to impose tasks upon me, by requiring me to write upon such subjects as he thought susceptible of ornament and illustration. With these extorted performances he was little satisfied, because he rarely found in them the ideas which his own imagination had suggested, and which he therefore thought more natural than mine. When the pale of ceremony is broken, rudeness and insult soon enter the breach. He now found that he might safely harass me with vexation, that he had fixed the shackles of patronage upon me, and that I could neither resist him nor escape. At last, in the eighth year of my servitude, when the clamour of creditors was vehement, and my necessity known to be extreme, he offered me a small office, but hinted his expectation, that I should marry a young woman with whom he had been acquainted. I was not so far depressed by my calamities as to comply with this proposal; but, knowing that complaints and expostulations would but gratify his insolence, I turned away with that contempt with which I shall never want spirit to treat the wretch who can outgo the guilt of a robber without the temptation of his profit, and who lures the credulous and thoughtless to maintain the show of his levee, and the mirth of his table, at the expense of honour, happiness, and life. I am, Sir, &c. LIBERALIS. No. 164. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1751. _--Vitium, Gaure, Catonis habes_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lxxxix. 2. Gaurus pretends to Cato's fame; And proves--by Cato's vice, his claim. Distinction is so pleasing to the pride of man, that a great part of the pain and pleasure of life arises from the gratification or disappointment of an incessant wish for superiority, from the success or miscarriage of secret competitions, from victories and defeats, of which, though they appear to us of great importance, in reality none are conscious except ourselves. Proportionate to the prevalence of this love of praise is the variety of means by which its attainment is attempted. Every man however hopeless his pretensions may appear to all but himself, has some project by which he hopes to rise to reputation; some art by which he imagines that the notice of the world will be attracted; some quality, good or bad, which discriminates him from the common herd of mortals, and by which others maybe persuaded to love, or compelled to fear him. The ascents of honour, however steep, never appear inaccessible; he that despairs to scale the precipices by which learning and valour have conducted their favourites, discovers some by-bath, or easier acclivity, which, though it cannot bring him to the summit, will yet enable him to overlook those with whom he is now contending for eminence; and we seldom require more to the happiness of the present hour, than to surpass him that stands next before us. As the greater part of human kind speak and act wholly by imitation, most of those who aspire to honour and applause propose to themselves some example which serves as the model of their conduct, and the limit of their hopes. Almost every man, if closely examined, will be found to have enlisted himself under some leader whom he expects to conduct him to renown; to have some hero or other, living or dead, in his view, whose character he endeavours to assume, and whose performances he labours to equal. When the original is well chosen, and judiciously copied, the imitator often arrives at excellence, which he could never have attained without direction; for few are formed with abilities to discover new possibilities of excellence, and to distinguish themselves by means never tried before. But folly and idleness often contrive to gratify pride at a cheaper rate: not the qualities which are most illustrious, but those which are of easiest attainment, are selected for imitation; and the honours and rewards which publick gratitude has paid to the benefactors of mankind, are expected by wretches who can only imitate them in their vices and defects, or adopt some petty singularities of which those from whom they are borrowed were secretly ashamed. No man rises to such a height as to become conspicuous, but he is on one side censured by undiscerning malice, which reproaches him for his best actions, and slanders his apparent and incontestable excellencies; and idolized on the other by ignorant admiration, which exalts his faults and follies into virtues. It may be observed, that he by whose intimacy his acquaintances imagine themselves dignified, generally diffuses among them his mien and his habits; and indeed, without more vigilance than is generally applied to the regulation of the minuter parts of behaviour, it is not easy, when we converse much with one whose general character excites our veneration, to escape all contagion of his peculiarities, even when we do not deliberately think them worthy of our notice, and when they would have excited laughter or disgust, had they not been protected by their alliance to nobler qualities, and accidentally consorted with knowledge or with virtue. The faults of a man loved or honoured, sometimes steal secretly and imperceptibly upon the wise and virtuous, but, by injudicious fondness or thoughtless vanity, are adopted with design. There is scarce any failing of mind or body, any errour of opinion, or depravity of practice, which instead of producing shame and discontent, its natural effects, has not at one time or other gladdened vanity with the hopes of praise, and been displayed with ostentatious industry by those who sought kindred minds among the wits or heroes, and could prove their relation only by similitude of deformity. In consequence of this perverse ambition, every habit which reason condemns may be indulged and avowed. When a man is upbraided with his faults, he may indeed be pardoned if he endeavours to run for shelter to some celebrated name; but it is not to be suffered that, from the retreats to which he fled from infamy, he should issue again with the confidence of conquests, and call upon mankind for praise. Yet we see men that waste their patrimony in luxury, destroy their health with debauchery, and enervate their minds with idleness, because there have been some whom luxury never could sink into contempt, nor idleness hinder from the praise of genius. This general inclination of mankind to copy characters in the gross, and the force which the recommendation of illustrious examples adds to the allurements of vice, ought to be considered by all whose character excludes them from the shades of secrecy, as incitements to scrupulous caution and universal purity of manners. No man, however enslaved to his appetites, or hurried by his passions, can, while he preserves his intellects unimpaired, please himself with promoting the corruption of others. He whose merit has enlarged his influence, would surely wish to exert it for the benefit of mankind. Yet such will be the effect of his reputation, while he suffers himself to indulge in any favourite fault, that they who have no hope to reach his excellence will catch at his failings, and his virtues will be cited to justify the copiers of his vices. It is particularly the duty of those who consign illustrious names to posterity, to take care lest their readers be misled by ambiguous examples. That writer may be justly condemned as an enemy to goodness, who suffers fondness or interest to confound right with wrong, or to shelter the faults which even the wisest and the best have committed from that ignominy which guilt ought always to suffer, and with which it should be more deeply stigmatized when dignified by its neighbourhood to uncommon worth, since we shall be in danger of beholding it without abhorrence, unless its turpitude be laid open, and the eye secured from the deception of surrounding splendour. No. 165. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1751. [Greek: Aen neos, alla penaes nun gaeron, plousios eimi O monos ek panton oiktros en amphoterois, Os tote men chraesthai dunamaen, hopot oud' en eichon. Nun d' opote chraesthai mae dunamai, tot echo.] ANTIPHILUS. Young was I once and poor, now rich and old; A harder case than mine was never told; Blest with the power to use them--I had none; Loaded with _riches_ now, the power is gone. F. LEWIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, The writers who have undertaken the unpromising task of moderating desire, exert all the power of their eloquence, to shew that happiness is not the lot of man, and have, by many arguments and examples, proved the instability of every condition by which envy or ambition are excited. They have set before our eyes all the calamities to which we are exposed from the frailty of nature, the influence of accident, or the stratagems of malice; they have terrified greatness with conspiracies, and riches with anxieties, wit with criticism, and beauty with disease. All the force of reason, and all the charms of language, are indeed necessary to support positions which every man hears with a wish to confute them. Truth finds an easy entrance into the mind when she is introduced by desire, and attended by pleasure; but when she intrudes uncalled, and brings only fear and sorrow in her train, the passes of the intellect are barred against her by prejudice and passion; if she sometimes forces her way by the batteries of argument, she seldom long keeps possession of her conquests, but is ejected by some favoured enemy, or at best obtains only a nominal sovereignty, without influence and without authority. That life is short we are all convinced, and yet suffer not that conviction to repress our projects or limit our expectations; that life is miserable we all feel, and yet we believe that the time is near when we shall feel it no longer. But to hope happiness and immortality is equally vain. Our state may indeed be more or less embittered as our duration may be more or less contracted; yet the utmost felicity which we can ever attain will be little better than alleviation of misery, and we shall always feel more pain from our wants than pleasure from our enjoyments. The incident which I am going to relate will shew, that to destroy the effect of all our success, it is not necessary that any signal calamity should fall upon us, that we should be harassed by implacable persecution, or excruciated by irremediable pains: the brightest hours of prosperity have their clouds, and the stream of life, if it is not ruffled by obstructions, will grow putrid by stagnation. My father, resolving not to imitate the folly of his ancestors, who had hitherto left the younger sons encumbrances on the eldest, destined me to a lucrative profession; and I, being careful to lose no opportunity of improvement, was, at the usual time in which young men enter the world, well qualified for the exercise of the business which I had chosen. My eagerness to distinguish myself in publick, and my impatience of the narrow scheme of life to which my indigence confined me, did not suffer me to continue long in the town where I was born. I went away as from a place of confinement, with a resolution to return no more, till I should be able to dazzle with my splendour those who now looked upon me with contempt, to reward those who had paid honours to my dawning merit, and to shew all who had suffered me to glide by them unknown and neglected, how much they mistook their interest in omitting to propitiate a genius like mine. Such were my intentions when I sallied forth into the unknown world, in quest of riches and honours, which I expected to procure in a very short time; for what could withhold them from industry and knowledge? He that indulges hope will always be disappointed. Reputation I very soon obtained; but as merit is much more cheaply acknowledged than rewarded, I did not find myself yet enriched in proportion to my celebrity. I had, however, in time, surmounted the obstacles by which envy and competition obstruct the first attempts of a new claimant, and saw my opponents and censurers tacitly confessing their despair of success, by courting my friendship and yielding to my influence. They who once pursued me, were now satisfied to escape from me; and they who had before thought me presumptuous in hoping to overtake them, had now their utmost wish, if they were permitted, at no great distance, quietly to follow me. My wants were not madly multiplied as my acquisitions increased, and the time came, at length, when I thought myself enabled to gratify all reasonable desires, and when, therefore, I resolved to enjoy that plenty and serenity which I had been hitherto labouring to procure, to enjoy them while I was yet neither crushed by age into infirmity, nor so habituated to a particular manner of life as to be unqualified for new studies or entertainments. I now quitted my profession, and, to set myself at once free from all importunities to resume it, changed my residence, and devoted the remaining part of my time to quiet and amusement. Amidst innumerable projects of pleasure, which restless idleness incited me to form, and of which most, when they came to the moment of execution, were rejected for others of no longer continuance, some accident revived in my imagination the pleasing ideas of my native place. It was now in my power to visit those from whom I had been so long absent, in such a manner as was consistent with my former resolution, and I wondered how it could happen that I had so long delayed my own happiness. Full of the admiration which I should excite, and the homage which I should receive, I dressed my servants in a more ostentatious livery, purchased a magnificent chariot, and resolved to dazzle the inhabitants of the little town with an unexpected blaze of greatness. While the preparations that vanity required were made for my departure, which, as workmen will not easily be hurried beyond their ordinary rate, I thought very tedious, I solaced my impatience with imaging the various censures that my appearance would produce; the hopes which some would feel from my bounty; the terrour which my power would strike on others; the awkward respect with which I should be accosted by timorous officiousness; and the distant reverence with which others, less familiar to splendour and dignity, would be contented to gaze upon me. I deliberated a long time, whether I should immediately descend to a level with my former acquaintances; or make my condescension more grateful by a gentle transition from haughtiness and reserve. At length I determined to forget some of my companions, till they discovered themselves by some indubitable token, and to receive the congratulations of others upon my good fortune with indifference, to shew that I always expected what I had now obtained. The acclamations of the populace I purposed to reward with six hogsheads of ale, and a roasted ox, and then recommend to them to return to their work. At last all the trappings of grandeur were fitted, and I began the journey of triumph, which I could have wished to have ended in the same moment; but my horses felt none of their master's ardour, and I was shaken four days upon rugged roads. I then entered the town, and, having graciously let fall the glasses, that my person might be seen, passed slowly through the street. The noise of the wheels brought the inhabitants to their doors, but I could not perceive that I was known by them. At last I alighted, and my name, I suppose, was told by my servants, for the barber stepped from the opposite house, and seized me by the hand with honest joy in his countenance, which, according to the rule that I had prescribed to myself, I repressed with a frigid graciousness. The fellow, instead of sinking into dejection, turned away with contempt, and left me to consider how the second salutation should be received. The next fellow was better treated, for I soon found that I must purchase by civility that regard which I had expected to enforce by insolence. There was yet no smoke of bonfires, no harmony of bells, no shout of crowds, nor riot of joy; the business of the day went forward as before; and, after having ordered a splendid supper, which no man came to partake, and which my chagrin hindered me from tasting, I went to bed, where the vexation of disappointment overpowered the fatigue of my journey, and kept me from sleep. I rose so much humbled by those mortifications, as to inquire after the present state of the town, and found that I had been absent too long to obtain the triumph which had flattered my expectation. Of the friends whose compliments I expected, some had long ago moved to distant provinces, some had lost in the maladies of age all sense of another's prosperity, and some had forgotten our former intimacy amidst care and distresses. Of three whom I had resolved to punish for their former offences by a longer continuance of neglect, one was, by his own industry, raised above my scorn, and two were sheltered from it in the grave. All those whom I loved, feared, or hated, all whose envy or whose kindness I had hopes of contemplating with pleasure, were swept away, and their place was filled by a new generation with other views and other competitions; and among many proofs of the impotence of wealth, I found that it conferred upon me very few distinctions in my native place. I am, Sir, &c. SEROTINUS. No. 166. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1751. _Semper, eris pauper si pauper es, Aemiliane: Dantur opes nullis nunc nisi divitibus_. MART. Lib. v. Ep. xxxi. Once poor, my friend, still poor you must remain, The rich alone have all the means of gain. EDW. CAVF. [Transcriber's note: Difficult to make out in original--possibly CAVE?] No complaint has been more frequently repeated in all ages than that of the neglect of merit associated with poverty, and the difficulty with which valuable or pleasing qualities force themselves into view, when they are obscured by indigence. It has been long observed, that native beauty has little power to charm without the ornaments which fortune bestows, and that to want the favour of others is often sufficient to hinder us from obtaining it. Every day discovers that mankind are not yet convinced of their errour, or that their conviction is without power to influence their conduct; for poverty still continues to produce contempt, and still obstructs the claims of kindred and of virtue. The eye of wealth is elevated towards higher stations, and seldom descends to examine the actions of those who are placed below the level of its notice, and who in distant regions and lower situations are struggling with distress, or toiling for bread. Among the multitudes overwhelmed with insuperable calamity, it is common to find those whom a very little assistance would enable to support themselves with decency, and who yet cannot obtain from near relations, what they see hourly lavished in ostentation, luxury, or frolick. There are natural reasons why poverty does not easily conciliate affection. He that has been confined from his infancy to the conversation of the lowest classes of mankind, must necessarily want those accomplishments which are the usual means of attracting favour; and though truth, fortitude, and probity, give an indisputable right to reverence and kindness, they will not be distinguished by common eyes, unless they are brightened by elegance of manners, but are cast aside like unpolished gems, of which none but the artist knows the intrinsick value, till their asperities are smoothed, and their incrustations rubbed away. The grossness of vulgar habits obstructs the efficacy of virtue, as impurity and harshness of style impair the force of reason, and rugged numbers turn off the mind from artifice of disposition, and fertility of invention. Few have strength of reason to over-rule the perceptions of sense; and yet fewer have curiosity or benevolence to struggle long against the first impression; he therefore who fails to please in his salutation and address, is at once rejected, and never obtains an opportunity of shewing his latent excellencies, or essential qualities. It is, indeed, not easy to prescribe a successful manner of approach to the distressed or necessitous, whose condition subjects every kind of behaviour equally to miscarriage. He whose confidence of merit incites him to meet, without any apparent sense of inferiority, the eyes of those who flattered themselves with their own dignity, is considered as an insolent leveller, impatient of the just prerogatives of rank and wealth, eager to usurp the station to which he has no right, and to confound the subordinations of society; and who would contribute to the exaltation of that spirit which even want and calamity are not able to restrain from rudeness and rebellion? But no better success will commonly be found to attend servility and dejection, which often give pride the confidence to treat them with contempt. A request made with diffidence and timidity is easily denied, because the petitioner himself seems to doubt its fitness. Kindness is generally reciprocal; we are desirous of pleasing others, because we receive pleasure from them; but by what means can the man please, whose attention is engrossed by his distresses, and who has no leisure to be officious; whose will is restrained by his necessities, and who has no power to confer benefits; whose temper is perhaps vitiated by misery, and whose understanding is impeded by ignorance? It is yet a more offensive discouragement, that the same actions performed by different hands produce different effects, and, instead of rating the man by his performances, we rate too frequently the performance by the man. It sometimes happens in the combinations of life, that important services are performed by inferiors; but though their zeal and activity may be paid by pecuniary rewards, they seldom excite that flow of gratitude, or obtain that accumulation of recompense, with which all think it their duty to acknowledge the favour of those who descend to their assistance from a higher elevation. To be obliged, is to be in some respect inferior to another[h]; and few willingly indulge the memory of an action which raises one whom they have always been accustomed to think below them, but satisfy themselves with faint praise and penurious payment, and then drive it from their own minds, and endeavour to conceal it from the knowledge of others. It may be always objected to the services of those who can be supposed to want a reward, that they were produced not by kindness but interest; they are, therefore, when they are no longer wanted, easily disregarded as arts of insinuation, or stratagems of selfishness. Benefits which are received as gifts from wealth, are exacted as debts from indigence; and he that in a high station is celebrated for superfluous goodness, would in a meaner condition have barely been confessed to have done his duty. It is scarcely possible for the utmost benevolence to oblige, when exerted under the disadvantages of great inferiority; for, by the habitual arrogance of wealth, such expectations are commonly formed as no zeal or industry can satisfy; and what regard can he hope, who has done less than was demanded from him? There are indeed kindnesses conferred which were never purchased by precedent favours, and there is an affection not arising from gratitude or gross interest, by which similar natures, are attracted to each other, without prospect of any other advantage than the pleasure of exchanging sentiments, and the hope of confirming their esteem of themselves by the approbation of each other. But this spontaneous fondness seldom rises at the sight of poverty, which every one regards with habitual contempt, and of which the applause is no more courted by vanity, than the countenance is solicited by ambition. The most generous and disinterested friendship must be resolved at last into the love of ourselves; he therefore whose reputation or dignity inclines us to consider his esteem as a testimonial of desert, will always find our hearts open to his endearments. We every day see men of eminence followed with all the obsequiousness of dependance, and courted with all the blandishments of flattery, by those who want nothing from them but professions of regard, and who think themselves liberally rewarded by a bow, a smile, or an embrace. But those prejudices which every mind feels more or less in favour of riches, ought, like other opinions, which only custom and example have impressed upon us, to be in time subjected to reason. We must learn how to separate the real character from extraneous adhesions and casual circumstances, to consider closely him whom we are about to adopt or to reject; to regard his inclinations as well as his actions; to trace out those virtues which lie torpid in the heart for want of opportunity, and those vices that lurk unseen by the absence of temptation; that when we find worth faintly shooting in the shades of obscurity, we may let in light and sunshine upon it, and ripen barren volition into efficacy and power. [Footnote h: Sir Joshua Reynolds evinced great reach of mind and intimate acquaintance with humanity, when he observed, on overhearing a person condoling with some ladies on the death of one who had conferred the greatest favours upon them, that at all events they were relieved from the burden of gratitude.] No. 167. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1751. Candida perpetuo reside, Concordia, lecto, Tamque pari semper sit Venus æqua jugo. Diligat illa senem quondam: sed et ipsa marito, Tum quoque cum fuerit, non videatur, anus. MART. Lib, w. xii. 7. Their nuptial bed may smiling concord dress, And Venus still the happy union bless! Wrinkled with age, may mutual love and truth To their dim eyes recal the bloom of youth. F. LEWIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, It is not common to envy those with whom we cannot easily be placed in comparison. Every man sees without malevolence the progress of another in the tracks of life, which he has himself no desire to tread, and hears, without inclination to cavils or contradiction, the renown of those whose distance will not suffer them to draw the attention of mankind from his own merit. The sailor never thinks it necessary to contest the lawyer's abilities; nor would the Rambler, however jealous of his reputation, be much disturbed by the success of rival wits at Agra or Ispahan. We do not therefore ascribe to you any superlative degree of virtue, when we believe that we may inform you of our change of condition without danger of malignant fascination; and that when you read of the marriage of your correspondents Hymenæus and Tranquilla, you will join your wishes to those of their other friends for the happy event of an union in which caprice and selfishness had so little part. There is at least this reason why we should be less deceived in our connubial hopes than many who enter into the same state, that we have allowed our minds to form no unreasonable expectations, nor vitiated our fancies in the soft hours of courtship, with visions of felicity which human power cannot bestow, or of perfection which human virtue cannot attain. That impartiality with which we endeavour to inspect the manners of all whom we have known was never so much overpowered by our passion, but that we discovered some faults and weaknesses in each other; and joined our hands in conviction, that as there are advantages to be enjoyed in marriage, there are inconveniencies likewise to be endured; and that, together with confederate intellects and auxiliar virtues, we must find different opinions and opposite inclinations. We however flatter ourselves, for who is not flattered by himself as well as by others on the day of marriage? that we are eminently qualified to give mutual pleasure. Our birth is without any such remarkable disparity as can give either an opportunity of insulting the other with pompous names and splendid alliances, or of calling in, upon any domestick controversy, the overbearing assistance of powerful relations. Our fortune was equally suitable, so that we meet without any of those obligations, which always produce reproach or suspicion of reproach, which, though they may be forgotten in the gaities of the first month, no delicacy will always suppress, or of which the suppression must be considered as a new favour, to be repaid by tameness and submission, till gratitude takes the place of love, and the desire of pleasing degenerates by degrees into the fear of offending. The settlements caused no delay; for we did not trust our affairs to the negociation of wretches, who would have paid their court by multiplying stipulations. Tranquilla scorned to detain any part of her fortune from him into whose hands she delivered up her person; and Hymenæus thought no act of baseness more criminal than his who enslaves his wife by her own generosity, who by marrying without a jointure, condemns her to all the dangers of accident and caprice, and at last boasts his liberality, by granting what only the indiscretion of her kindness enabled him to withhold. He therefore received on the common terms the portion which any other woman might have brought him, and reserved all the exuberance of acknowledgment for those excellencies which he has yet been able to discover only in Tranquilla. We did not pass the weeks of courtship like those who consider themselves as taking the last draught of pleasure, and resolve not to quit the bowl without a surfeit, or who know themselves about to set happiness to hazard, and endeavour to lose their sense of danger in the ebriety of perpetual amusement, and whirl round the gulph before they sink. Hymenæus often repeated a medical axiom, that _the succours of sickness ought not to be wasted in health_. We know that however our eyes may yet sparkle, and our hearts bound at the presence of each other, the time of listlessness and satiety, of peevishness and discontent, must come at last, in which we shall be driven for relief to shows and recreations; that the uniformity of life must be sometimes diversified, and the vacuities of conversation sometimes supplied. We rejoice in the reflection that we have stores of novelty yet unexhausted, which may be opened when repletion shall call for change, and gratifications yet untasted, by which life, when it shall become vapid or bitter, may be restored to its former sweetness and sprightliness, and again irritate the appetite, and again sparkle in the cup. Our time will probably be less tasteless than that of those whom the authority and avarice of parents unite almost without their consent in their early years, before they have accumulated any fund of reflection, or collected materials for mutual entertainment. Such we have often seen rising in the morning to cards, and retiring in the afternoon to doze, whose happiness was celebrated by their neighbours, because they happened to grow rich by parsimony, and to be kept quiet in insensibility, and agreed to eat and to sleep together. We have both mingled with the world, and are therefore no strangers to the faults and virtues, the designs and competitions, the hopes and fears of our contemporaries. We have both amused our leisure with books, and can therefore recount the events of former times, or cite the dictates of ancient wisdom. Every occurrence furnishes us with some hint which one or the other can improve, and if it should happen that memory or imagination fail us, we can retire to no idle or unimproving solitude. Though our characters, beheld at a distance, exhibit this general resemblance, yet a nearer inspection discovers such a dissimilitude of our habitudes and sentiments, as leaves each some peculiar advantages, and affords that _concordia discors_, that suitable disagreement which is always necessary to intellectual harmony. There may be a total diversity of ideas which admits no participation of the same delight, and there may likewise be such a conformity of notions as leaves neither any thing to add to the decisions of the other. With such contrariety there can be no peace, with such similarity there can be no pleasure. Our reasonings, though often formed upon different views, terminate generally in the same conclusion. Our thoughts, like rivulets issuing from distant springs, are each impregnated in its course with various mixtures, and tinged by infusions unknown to the other, yet, at last, easily unite into one stream, and purify themselves by the gentle effervescence of contrary qualities. These benefits we receive in a greater degree as we converse without reserve, because we have nothing to conceal. We have no debts to be paid by imperceptible deductions from avowed expenses, no habits to be indulged by the private subserviency of a favoured servant, no private interviews with needy relations, no intelligence with spies placed upon each other. We considered marriage as the most solemn league of perpetual friendship, a state from which artifice and concealment are to be banished for ever, and in which every act of dissimulation is a breach of faith. The impetuous vivacity of youth, and that ardour of desire, which the first sight of pleasure naturally produces, have long ceased to hurry us into irregularity and vehemence; and experience has shewn us that few gratifications are too valuable to be sacrificed to complaisance. We have thought it convenient to rest from the fatigue of pleasure, and now only continue that course of life into which we had before entered, confirmed in our choice by mutual approbation, supported in our resolution by mutual encouragement, and assisted in our efforts by mutual exhortation. Such, Mr. Rambler, is our prospect of life, a prospect which, as it is beheld with more attention, seems to open more extensive happiness, and spreads, by degrees, into the boundless regions of eternity. But if all our prudence has been vain, and we are doomed to give one instance more of the uncertainty of human discernment, we shall comfort ourselves amidst our disappointments, that we were not betrayed but by such delusions as caution could not escape, since we sought happiness only in the arms of virtue. We are, Sir, Your humble Servants, HYMENÆUS. TRANQUILLA. No. 168. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1751. _--Decipit Frons prima multos: rara mens intelligit, Quod interiore condidit cura angulo_. PHÆDRUS, Lib. iv. Fab. i. 5. The tinsel glitter, and the specious mien, Delude the most; few pry behind the scene. It has been observed by Boileau, that "a mean or common thought expressed in pompous diction, generally pleases more than a new or noble sentiment delivered in low and vulgar language; because the number is greater of those whom custom has enabled to judge of words, than whom study has qualified to examine things." This solution might satisfy, if such only were offended with meanness of expression as are unable to distinguish propriety of thought, and to separate propositions or images from the vehicles by which they are conveyed to the understanding. But this kind of disgust is by no means confined to the ignorant or superficial; it operates uniformly and universally upon readers of all classes; every man, however profound or abstracted, perceives himself irresistibly alienated by low terms; they who profess the most zealous adherence to truth are forced to admit that she owes part of her charms to her ornaments; and loses much of her power over the soul, when she appears disgraced by a dress uncouth or ill-adjusted. We are all offended by low terms, but are not disgusted alike by the same compositions, because we do not all agree to censure the same terms as low. No word is naturally or intrinsically meaner than another; our opinion therefore of words, as of other things arbitrarily and capriciously established, depends wholly upon accident and custom. The cottager thinks those apartments splendid and spacious, which an inhabitant of palaces will despise for their inelegance; and to him who has passed most of his hours with the delicate and polite, many expressions will seem sordid, which another, equally acute, may hear without offence; but a mean term never fails to displease him to whom it appears mean, as poverty is certainly and invariably despised, though he who is poor in the eyes of some, may, by others, be envied for his wealth. Words become low by the occasions to which they are applied, or the general character of them who use them; and the disgust which they produce, arises from the revival of those images with which they are commonly united. Thus if, in the most solemn discourse, a phrase happens to occur which has been successfully employed in some ludicrous narrative, the gravest auditor finds it difficult to refrain from laughter, when they who are not prepossessed by the same accidental association, are utterly unable to guess the reason of his merriment. Words which convey ideas of dignity in one age, are banished from elegant writing or conversation in another, because they are in time debased by vulgar mouths, and can be no longer heard without the involuntary recollection of unpleasing images. When Macbeth is confirming himself in the horrid purpose of stabbing his king, he breaks out amidst his emotions into a wish natural to a murderer: --Come, thick night! And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; Nor heav'n peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry, Hold! hold!-- In this passage is exerted all the force of poetry; that force which calls new powers into being, which embodies sentiment, and animates matter: yet, perhaps, scarce any man now peruses it without some disturbance of his attention from the counteraction of the words to the ideas. What can be more dreadful than to implore the presence of night, invested, not in common obscurity, but in the smoke of hell? Yet the efficacy of this invocation is destroyed by the insertion of an epithet now seldom heard but in the stable, and _dun_ night may come or go without any other notice than contempt. If we start into raptures when some hero of the Iliad tells us that [Greek: doru mainetai], his lance rages with eagerness to destroy; if we are alarmed at the terrour of the soldiers commanded by Caesar to hew down the sacred grove, who dreaded, says Lucan, lest the axe aimed at the oak should fly back upon the striker: --_Si robora sacra ferirent, In sua credebaut redituras membra secures_; None dares with impious steel the grove to rend, Lest on himself the destin'd stroke descend; we cannot surely but sympathise with the horrours of a wretch about to murder his master, his friend, his benefactor, who suspects that the weapon will refuse its office, and start back from the breast which he is preparing to violate. Yet this sentiment is weakened by the name of an instrument used by butchers and cooks in the meanest employments: we do not immediately conceive that any crime of importance is to be committed with a _knife_; or who does not, at last, from the long habit of connecting a knife with sordid offices, feel aversion rather than terrour? Macbeth proceeds to wish, in the madness of guilt, that the inspection of heaven may be intercepted, and that he may, in the involutions of infernal darkness, escape the eye of Providence. This is the utmost extravagance of determined wickedness; yet this is so debased by two unfortunate words, that while I endeavour to impress on my reader the energy of the sentiment, I can scarce check my risibility, when the expression forces itself upon my mind; for who, without some relaxation of his gravity, can hear of the avengers of guilt _peeping through a blanket_? These imperfections of diction are less obvious to the reader, as he is less acquainted with common usages; they are therefore wholly imperceptible to a foreigner, who learns our language from books, and will strike a solitary academick less forcibly than a modish lady. Among the numerous requisites that must concur to complete an author, few are of more importance than an early entrance into the living world. The seeds of knowledge may be planted in solitude, but must be cultivated in publick. Argumentation may be taught in colleges, and theories formed in retirement; but the artifice of embellishment, and the powers of attraction, can be gained only by general converse. An acquaintance with prevailing customs and fashionable elegance is necessary likewise for other purposes. The injury that grand imagery suffers from unsuitable language, personal merit may fear from rudeness and indelicacy. When the success of Æneas depended on the favour of the queen upon whose coasts he was driven, his celestial protectress thought him not sufficiently secured against rejection by his piety or bravery, but decorated him for the interview with preternatural beauty. Whoever desires, for his writings or himself, what none can reasonably contemn, the favour of mankind, must add grace to strength, and make his thoughts agreeable as well as useful. Many complain of neglect who never tried to attract regard. It cannot be expected that the patrons of science or virtue should be solicitous to discover excellencies, which they who possess them shade and disguise. Few have abilities so much needed by the rest of the world as to be caressed on their own terms; and he that will not condescend to recommend himself by external embellishments, must submit to the fate of just sentiment meanly expressed, and be ridiculed and forgotten before he is understood. No. 169. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1751. _Nec pluteum cædit, nec demorsos sapit ungues_. PER. Sat. i. 106. No blood from bitten nails those poems drew; But churn'd, like spittle, from the lips they flew. DRYDEN. Natural historians assert, that whatever is formed for long duration arrives slowly to its maturity. Thus the firmest timber is of tardy growth, and animals generally exceed each other in longevity, in proportion to the time between their conception and their birth. The same observation may be extended to the offspring of the mind. Hasty compositions, however they please at first by flowery luxuriance, and spread in the sunshine of temporary favour, can seldom endure the change of seasons, but perish at the first blast of criticism, or frost of neglect. When Apelles was reproached with the paucity of his productions, and the incessant attention with which he retouched his pieces, he condescended to make no other answer than that _he painted for perpetuity_. No vanity can more justly incur contempt and indignation than that which boasts of negligence and hurry. For who can bear with patience the writer who claims such superiority to the rest of his species, as to imagine mankind are at leisure for attention to his extemporary sallies, and that posterity will reposite his casual effusions among the treasures of ancient wisdom? Men have sometimes appeared of such transcendent abilities, that their slightest and most cursory performances excel all that labour and study can enable meaner intellects to compose; as there are regions of which the spontaneous products cannot be equalled in other soils by care and culture. But it is no less dangerous for any man to place himself in this rank of understanding, and fancy that he is born to be illustrious without labour, than to omit the cares of husbandry, and expect from his ground the blossoms of Arabia. The greatest part of those who congratulate themselves upon their intellectual dignity, and usurp the privileges of genius, are men whom only themselves would ever have marked out as enriched by uncommon liberalities of nature, or entitled to veneration and immortality on easy terms. This ardour of confidence is usually found among those who, having not enlarged their notions by books or conversation, are persuaded, by the partiality which we all feel in our own favour, that they have reached the summit of excellence, because they discover none higher than themselves; and who acquiesce in the first thoughts that occur, because their scantiness of knowledge allows them little choice; and the narrowness of their views affords them no glimpse of perfection, of that sublime idea which human industry has from the first ages been vainly toiling to approach. They see a little, and believe that there is nothing beyond their sphere of vision, as the Patuecos of Spain, who inhabited a small valley, conceived the surrounding mountains to be the boundaries of the world. In proportion as perfection is more distinctly conceived, the pleasure of contemplating our own performances will be lessened; it may therefore be observed, that they who most deserve praise are often afraid to decide in favour of their own performances; they know how much is still wanting to their completion, and wait with anxiety and terrour the determination of the publick. _I please every one else_, says Tully, _but never satisfy myself_. It has often been inquired, why, notwithstanding the advances of later ages in science, and the assistance which the infusion of so many new ideas has given us, we fall below the ancients in the art of composition. Some part of their superiority may be justly ascribed to the graces of their language, from which the most polished of the present European tongues are nothing more than barbarous degenerations. Some advantage they might gain merely by priority, which put them in possession of the most natural sentiments, and left us nothing but servile repetition or forced conceits. But the greater part of their praise seems to have been the just reward of modesty and labour. Their sense of human weakness confined them commonly to one study, which their knowledge of the extent of every science engaged them to prosecute with indefatigable diligence. Among the writers of antiquity I remember none except Statius who ventures to mention the speedy production of his writings, either as an extenuation of his faults, or a proof of his facility. Nor did Statius, when he considered himself as a candidate for lasting reputation, think a closer attention unnecessary, but amidst all his pride and indigence, the two great hasteners of modern poems, employed twelve years upon the Thebaid, and thinks his claim to renown proportionate to his labour. _Thebais, multa cruciata lima, Tentat, audaci fide, Mantuanæ Gaudia famæ_. Polish'd with endless toil, my lays At length aspire to Mantuan praise. Ovid indeed apologizes in his banishment for the imperfection of his letters, but mentions his want of leisure to polish them as an addition to his calamities; and was so far from imagining revisals and corrections unnecessary, that at his departure from Rome, he threw his Metamorphoses into the fire, lest he should be disgraced by a book which he could not hope to finish. It seems not often to have happened that the same writer aspired to reputation in verse and prose; and of those few that attempted such diversity of excellence, I know not that even one succeeded. Contrary characters they never imagined a single mind able to support, and therefore no man is recorded to have undertaken more than one kind of dramatick poetry. What they had written, they did not venture in their first fondness to thrust into the world, but, considering the impropriety of sending forth inconsiderately that which cannot be recalled, deferred the publication, if not nine years, according to the direction of Horace, yet till their fancy was cooled after the raptures of invention, and the glare of novelty had ceased to dazzle the judgment. There were in those days no weekly or diurnal writers; _multa dies et multa litura_, much time, and many rasures, were considered as indispensable requisites; and that no other method of attaining lasting praise has been yet discovered, may be conjectured from the blotted manuscripts of Milton now remaining, and from the tardy emission of Pope's compositions, delayed more than once till the incidents to which they alluded were forgotten, till his enemies were secure from his satire, and, what to an honest mind must be more painful, his friends were deaf to his encomiums. To him, whose eagerness of praise hurries his productions soon into the light, many imperfections are unavoidable, even where the mind furnishes the materials, as well as regulates their disposition, and nothing depends upon search or information. Delay opens new veins of thought, the subject dismissed for a time appears with a new train of dependent images, the accidents of reading or conversation supply new ornaments or allusions, or mere intermission of the fatigue of thinking enables the mind to collect new force, and make new excursions. But all those benefits come too late for him, who, when he was weary with labour, snatched at the recompense, and gave his work to his friends and his enemies, as soon as impatience and pride persuaded him to conclude it. One of the most pernicious effects of haste, is obscurity. He that teems with a quick succession of ideas, and perceives how one sentiment produces another, easily believes that he can clearly express what he so strongly comprehends; he seldom suspects his thoughts of embarrassment, while he preserves in his own memory the series of connection, or his diction of ambiguity, while only one sense is present to his mind. Yet if he has been employed on an abstruse, or complicated argument, he will find, when he has awhile withdrawn his mind, and returns as a new reader to his work, that he has only a conjectural glimpse of his own meaning, and that to explain it to those whom he desires to instruct, he must open his sentiments, disentangle his method, and alter his arrangement. Authors and lovers always suffer some infatuation, from which only absence can set them free; and every man ought to restore himself to the full exercise of his judgment, before he does that which he cannot do improperly, without injuring his honour and his quiet. No. 170. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1751. _Confiteor; si quid prodest delicta fateri_. OVID. Am. Lib. i. El. iv. 3. I grant the charge; forgive the fault confess'd. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I am one of those beings from whom many, that melt at the sight of all other misery, think it meritorious to withhold relief; one whom the rigour of virtuous indignation dooms to suffer without complaint, and perish without regard; and whom I myself have formerly insulted in the pride of reputation and security of innocence. I am of a good family, but my father was burthened with more children than he could decently support. A wealthy relation, as he travelled from London to his country-seat, condescending to make him a visit, was touched with compassion of his narrow fortune, and resolved to ease him of part of his charge, by taking the care of a child upon himself. Distress on one side, and ambition on the other, were too powerful for parental fondness, and the little family passed in review before him, that he might, make his choice. I was then ten years old, and, without knowing for what purpose, I was called to my great cousin, endeavoured to recommend myself by my best courtesy, sung him my prettiest song, told the last story that I had read, and so much endeared myself by my innocence, that he declared his resolution to adopt me, and to educate me with his own daughters. My parents felt the common struggles at the thought of parting, and _some natural tears they dropp'd, but wip'd them soon_. They considered, not without that false estimation of the value of wealth, which poverty long continued always produces, that I was raised to higher rank than they could give me, and to hopes of more ample fortune than they could bequeath. My mother sold some of her ornaments to dress me in such a manner as might secure me from contempt at my first arrival; and when she dismissed me, pressed me to her bosom with an embrace that I still feel, gave me some precepts of piety, which, however neglected, I have not forgotten, and uttered prayers for my final happiness, of which I have not yet ceased to hope that they will at last be granted. My sisters envied my new finery, and seemed not much to regret our separation; my father conducted me to the stage-coach with a kind of cheerful tenderness; and in a very short time I was transported to splendid apartments, and a luxurious table, and grew familiar to shew, noise, and gaiety. In three years my mother died, having implored a blessing on her family with her last breath. I had little opportunity to indulge a sorrow which there was none to partake with me, and therefore soon ceased to reflect much upon my loss. My father turned all his care upon his other children, whom some fortunate adventures and unexpected legacies enabled him, when he died, four years after my mother, to leave in a condition above their expectations. I should have shared the increase of his fortune, and had once a portion assigned me in his will; but my cousin assuring him that all care for me was needless, since he had resolved to place me happily in the world, directed him to divide my part amongst my sisters. Thus I was thrown upon dependance without resource. Being now at an age in which young women are initiated into company, I was no longer to be supported in my former character, but at a considerable expense; so that partly lest I should waste money, and partly lest my appearance might draw too many compliments and assiduities, I was insensibly degraded from my equality, and enjoyed few privileges above the head servant, but that of receiving no wages. I felt every indignity, but knew that resentment would precipitate my fall. I therefore endeavoured to continue my importance by little services and active officiousness, and, for a time, preserved myself from neglect, by withdrawing all pretences to competition, and studying to please rather than to shine. But my interest, notwithstanding this expedient, hourly declined, and my cousin's favourite maid began to exchange repartees with me, and consult me about the alterations of a cast gown. I was now completely depressed; and, though I had seen mankind enough to know the necessity of outward cheerfulness, I often withdrew to my chamber to vent my grief, or turn my condition in my mind, and examine by what means I might escape from perpetual mortification. At last my schemes and sorrows were interrupted by a sudden change of my relation's behaviour, who one day took an occasion when we were left together in a room, to bid me suffer myself no longer to be insulted, but assume the place which he always intended me to hold in the family. He assured me that his wife's preference of her own daughters should never hurt me; and, accompanying his professions with a purse of gold, ordered me to bespeak a rich suit at the mercer's, and to apply privately to him for money when I wanted it, and insinuate that my other friends supplied me, which he would take care to confirm. By this stratagem, which I did not then understand, he filled me with tenderness and gratitude, compelled me to repose on him as my only support, and produced a necessity of private conversation. He often appointed interviews at the house of an acquaintance, and sometimes called on me with a coach, and carried me abroad. My sense of his favour, and the desire of retaining it, disposed me to unlimited complaisance, and, though I saw his kindness grow every day more fond, I did not suffer any suspicion to enter my thoughts. At last the wretch took advantage of the familiarity which he enjoyed as my relation, and the submission which he exacted as my benefactor, to complete the ruin of an orphan, whom his own promises had made indigent, whom his indulgence had melted, and his authority subdued. I know not why it should afford subject of exultation to overpower on any terms the resolution, or surprise the caution of a girl; but of all the boasters that deck themselves in the spoils of innocence and beauty, they surely have the least pretensions to triumph, who submit to owe their success to some casual influence. They neither employ the graces of fancy, nor the force of understanding, in their attempts; they cannot please their vanity with the art of their approaches, the delicacy of their adulations, the elegance of their address, or the efficacy of their eloquence; nor applaud themselves as possessed of any qualities, by which affection is attracted. They surmount no obstacles, they defeat no rivals, but attack only those who cannot resist, and are often content to possess the body, without any solicitude to gain the heart. Many of those despicable wretches does my present acquaintance with infamy and wickedness enable me to number among the heroes of debauchery. Reptiles whom their own servants would have despised, had they not been their servants, and with whom beggary would have disdained intercourse, had she not been allured by hopes of relief. Many of the beings which are now rioting in taverns, or shivering in the streets, have been corrupted, not by arts of gallantry which stole gradually upon the affections and laid prudence asleep, but by the fear of losing benefits which were never intended, or of incurring resentment which they could not escape; some have been frighted by masters, and some awed by guardians into ruin. Our crime had its usual consequence, and he soon perceived that I could not long continue in his family. I was distracted at the thought of the reproach which I now believed inevitable. He comforted me with hopes of eluding all discovery, and often upbraided me with the anxiety, which perhaps none but himself saw in my countenance; but at last mingled his assurances of protection and maintenance with menaces of total desertion, if, in the moments of perturbation I should suffer his secret to escape, or endeavour to throw on him any part of my infamy. Thus passed the dismal hours, till my retreat could no longer be delayed. It was pretended that my relations had sent for me to a distant county, and I entered upon a state which shall be described in my next letter. I am, &c. MISELLA. No. 171. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1751. _Tædet coeli convexa tueri_. VIRG. Æn. iv. 451. Dark is the sun, and loathsome is the day. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Misella now sits down to continue her narrative. I am convinced that nothing would more powerfully preserve youth from irregularity, or guard inexperience from seduction, than a just description of the condition into which the wanton plunges herself; and therefore hope that my letter may be a sufficient antidote to my example. After the distraction, hesitation, and delays which the timidity of guilt naturally produces, I was removed to lodgings in a distant part of the town, under one of the characters commonly assumed upon such occasions. Here being by my circumstances condemned to solitude, I passed most of my hours in bitterness and anguish. The conversation of the people with whom I was placed was not at all capable of engaging my attention, or dispossessing the reigning ideas. The books which I carried to my retreat were such as heightened my abhorrence of myself; for I was not so far abandoned as to sink voluntarily into corruption, or endeavour to conceal from my own mind the enormity of my crime. My relation remitted none of his fondness, but visited me so often, that I was sometimes afraid lest his assiduity should expose him to suspicion. Whenever he came he found me weeping, and was therefore less delightfully entertained than he expected. After frequent expostulations upon the unreasonableness of my sorrow, and innumerable protestations of everlasting regard, he at last found that I was more affected with the loss of my innocence, than the danger of my fame, and that he might not be disturbed by my remorse, began to lull my conscience with the opiates of irreligion. His arguments were such as my course of life has since exposed me often to the necessity of hearing, vulgar, empty, and fallacious; yet they at first confounded me by their novelty, filled me with doubt and perplexity, and interrupted that peace which I began to feel from the sincerity of my repentance, without substituting any other support. I listened a while to his impious gabble, but its influence was soon overpowered by natural reason and early education, and the convictions which this new attempt gave me of his baseness completed my abhorrence. I have heard of barbarians, who, when tempests drive ships upon their coast, decoy them to the rocks that they may plunder their lading, and have always thought that wretches, thus merciless in their depredations, ought to be destroyed by a general insurrection of all social beings; yet how light is this guilt to the crime of him, who, in the agitations of remorse, cuts away the anchor of piety, and, when he has drawn aside credulity from the paths of virtue, hides the light of heaven which would direct her to return. I had hitherto considered him as a man equally betrayed with myself by the concurrence of appetite and opportunity; but I now saw with horrour that he was contriving to perpetuate his gratification, and was desirous to fit me to his purpose, by complete and radical corruption. To escape, however, was not yet in my power. I could support the expenses of my condition only by the continuance of his favour. He provided all that was necessary, and in a few weeks congratulated me upon my escape from the danger which we had both expected with so much anxiety. I then began to remind him of his promise to restore me with my fame uninjured to the world. He promised me in general terms, that nothing should be wanting which his power could add to my happiness, but forbore to release me from my confinement. I knew how much my reception in the world depended upon my speedy return, and was therefore outrageously impatient of his delays, which I now perceived to be only artifices of lewdness. He told me at last, with an appearance of sorrow, that all hopes of restoration to my former state were for ever precluded; that chance had discovered my secret, and malice divulged it; and that nothing now remained, but to seek a retreat more private, where curiosity or hatred could never find us. The rage, anguish, and resentment, which I felt at this account are not to be expressed. I was in so much dread of reproach and infamy, which he represented as pursuing me with full cry, that I yielded myself implicitly to his disposal and was removed, with a thousand studied precautions, through by-ways and dark passages to another house, where I harassed him with perpetual solicitations for a small annuity that might enable me to live in the country in obscurity and innocence. This demand he at first evaded with ardent professions, but in time appeared offended at my importunity and distrust; and having one day endeavoured to sooth me with uncommon expressions of tenderness, when he found my discontent immoveable, left me with some inarticulate murmurs of anger. I was pleased that he was at last roused to sensibility, and expecting that at his next visit he would comply with my request, lived with great tranquillity upon the money in my hands, and was so much pleased with this pause of persecution, that I did not reflect how much his absence had exceeded the usual intervals, till I was alarmed with the danger of wanting subsistence. I then suddenly contracted my expenses, but was unwilling to supplicate for assistance. Necessity, however, soon overcame my modesty or my pride, and I applied to him by a letter, but had no answer. I writ in terms more pressing, but without effect. I then sent an agent to inquire after him, who informed me, that he had quitted his house, and was gone with his family to reside for some time on his estate in Ireland. However shocked at this abrupt departure, I was yet unwilling to believe that he could wholly abandon me, and therefore, by the sale of my clothes, I supported myself, expecting that every post would bring me relief. Thus I passed seven months between hope and dejection, in a gradual approach to poverty and distress, emaciated with discontent, and bewildered with uncertainty. At last my landlady, after many hints of the necessity of a new lover, took the opportunity of my absence to search my boxes, and missing some of my apparel, seized the remainder for rent, and led me to the door. To remonstrate against legal cruelty, was vain; to supplicate obdurate brutality, was hopeless. I went away I knew not whither, and wandered about without any settled purpose, unacquainted with the usual expedients of misery, unqualified for laborious offices, afraid to meet an eye that had seen me before, and hopeless of relief from those who were strangers to my former condition. Night came on in the midst of my distraction, and I still continued to wander till the menaces of the watch obliged me to shelter myself in a covered passage. Next day, I procured a lodging in the backward garret of a mean house, and employed my landlady to inquire for a service. My applications were generally rejected for want of a character. At length I was received at a draper's, but when it was known to my mistress that I had only one gown, and that of silk, she was of opinion that I looked like a thief, and without warning hurried me away. I then tried to support myself by my needle; and, by my landlady's recommendation obtained a little work from a shop, and for three weeks lived without repining; but when my punctuality had gained me so much reputation, that I was trusted to make up a head of some value, one of my fellow-lodgers stole the lace, and I was obliged to fly from a prosecution. Thus driven again into the streets, I lived upon the least that could support me, and at night accommodated myself under pent-houses as well as I could. At length I became absolutely pennyless, and having strolled all day without sustenance, was, at the close of evening, accosted by an elderly man, with an invitation to a tavern. I refused him with hesitation; he seized me by the hand, and drew me into a neighbouring house, where, when he saw my face pale with hunger, and my eyes swelling with tears, he spurned me from him, and bade me cant and whine in some other place; he for his part would take care of his pockets. I still continued to stand in the way, having scarcely strength to walk further, when another soon addressed me in the same manner. When he saw the same tokens of calamity, he considered that I might be obtained at a cheap rate, and therefore quickly made overtures, which I no longer had firmness to reject. By this man I was maintained four months in penurious wickedness, and then abandoned to my former condition, from which I was delivered by another keeper. In this abject state I have now passed four years, the drudge of extortion and the sport of drunkenness; sometimes the property of one man, and sometimes the common prey of accidental lewdness; at one time tricked up for sale by the mistress of a brothel, at another begging in the streets to be relieved from hunger by wickedness; without any hope in the day but of finding some whom folly or excess may expose to my allurements, and without any reflections at night, but such as guilt and terrour impress upon me. If those who pass their days in plenty and security, could visit for an hour the dismal receptacles to which the prostitute retires from her nocturnal excursions, and see the wretches that lie crowded together, mad with intemperance, ghastly with famine, nauseous with filth, and noisome with disease; it would not be easy for any degree of abhorrence to harden them against compassion, or to repress the desire which they must immediately feel to rescue such numbers of human beings from a state so dreadful. It is said, that in France they annually evacuate their streets, and ship their prostitutes and vagabonds to their colonies. If the women that infest this city had the same opportunity of escaping from their miseries, I believe very little force would be necessary; for who among them can dread any change? Many of us indeed are wholly unqualified for any but the most servile employments, and those perhaps would require the care of a magistrate to hinder them from following the same practices in another country; but others are only precluded by infamy from reformation, and would gladly be delivered on any terms from the necessity of guilt, and the tyranny of chance. No place but a populous city, can afford opportunities for open prostitution; and where the eye of justice can attend to individuals, those who cannot be made good may be restrained from mischief. For my part, I should exult at the privilege of banishment, and think myself happy in any region that should restore me once again to honesty and peace. I am, Sir, &c. MISELLA. No. 172. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1751. _Sæpe rogare soles, qualis sim, Prisce, futurus, Si fiam locuples, simque repente potens. Quemquam posse putas mores narrare futuros? Die mihi, si fias tu leo, qualis eris?_ MART. Lib. xii. Ep. 93. Priscus, you've often ask'd me how I'd live, Should fate at once both wealth and honour give. What soul his future conduct can foresee? Tell me what sort of lion you would be. F. LEWIS. Nothing has been longer observed, than that a change of fortune causes a change of manners; and that it is difficult to conjecture from the conduct of him whom we see in a low condition, how he would act, if wealth and power were put into his hands. But it is generally agreed, that few men are made better by affluence or exaltation; and that the powers of the mind, when they are unbound and expanded by the sunshine of felicity, more frequently luxuriate into follies, than blossom into goodness. Many observations have concurred to establish this opinion, and it is not likely soon to become obsolete, for want of new occasions to revive it. The greater part of mankind are corrupt in every condition, and differ in high and in low stations, only as they have more or fewer opportunities of gratifying their desires, or as they are more or less restrained by human censures. Many vitiate their principles in the acquisition of riches; and who can wonder that what is gained by fraud and extortion is enjoyed with tyranny and excess? Yet I am willing to believe that the depravation of the mind by external advantages, though certainly not uncommon, yet approaches not so nearly to universality, as some have asserted in the bitterness of resentment, or heat of declamation. Whoever rises above those who once pleased themselves with equality, will have many malevolent gazers at his eminence. To gain sooner than others that which all pursue with the same ardour, and to which all imagine themselves entitled, will for ever be a crime. When those who started with us in the race of life, leave us so far behind, that we have little hope to overtake them, we revenge our disappointment by remarks on the arts of supplantation by which they gained the advantage, or on the folly and arrogance with which they possess it. Of them, whose rise we could not hinder, we solace ourselves by prognosticating the fall. It is impossible for human purity not to betray to an eye, thus sharpened by malignity, some stains which lay concealed and unregarded, while none thought it their interest to discover them; nor can the most circumspect attention, or steady rectitude, escape blame from censors, who have no inclination to approve. Riches therefore, perhaps, do not so often produce crimes as incite accusers. The common charge against those who rise above their original condition, is that of pride. It is certain that success naturally confirms us in a favourable opinion of our own abilities. Scarce any man is willing to allot to accident, friendship, and a thousand causes, which concur in every event without human contrivance or interposition, the part which they may justly claim in his advancement. We rate ourselves by our fortune rather than our virtues, and exorbitant claims are quickly produced by imaginary merit. But captiousness and jealousy are likewise easily offended, and to him who studiously looks for an affront, every mode of behaviour will supply it; freedom will be rudeness, and reserve sullenness; mirth will be negligence, and seriousness formality; when he is received with ceremony, distance and respect are inculcated; if he is treated with familiarity, he concludes himself insulted by condescensions. It must however be confessed, that as all sudden changes are dangerous, a quick transition from poverty to abundance can seldom be made with safety. He that has long lived within sight of pleasures which he could not reach, will need more than common moderation, not to lose his reason in unbounded riot, when they are first put into his power. Every possession is endeared by novelty; every gratification is exaggerated by desire. It is difficult not to estimate what is lately gained above its real value; it is impossible not to annex greater happiness to that condition from which we are unwillingly excluded, than nature has qualified us to obtain. For this reason, the remote inheritor of an unexpected fortune, may be generally distinguished from those who are enriched in the common course of lineal descent, by his greater haste to enjoy his wealth, by the finery of his dress, the pomp of his equipage, the splendour of his furniture, and the luxury of his table. A thousand things which familiarity discovers to be of little value, have power for a time to seize the imagination. A Virginian king, when the Europeans had fixed a lock on his door, was so delighted to find his subjects admitted or excluded with such facility, that it was from morning to evening his whole employment to turn the key. We, among whom locks and keys have been longer in use, are inclined to laugh at this American amusement; yet I doubt whether this paper will have a single reader that may not apply the story to himself, and recollect some hours of his life in which he has been equally overpowered by the transitory charms of trifling novelty. Some indulgence is due to him whom a happy gale of fortune has suddenly transported into new regions, where unaccustomed lustre dazzles his eyes, and untasted delicacies solicit his appetite. Let him not be considered as lost in hopeless degeneracy, though he for a while forgets the regard due to others, to indulge the contemplation of himself, and in the extravagance of his first raptures expects that his eye should regulate the motions of all that approach him, and his opinion be received as decisive and oraculous. His intoxication will give way to time; the madness of joy will fume imperceptibly away; the sense of his insufficiency will soon return; he will remember that the co-operation of others is necessary to his happiness, and learn to conciliate their regard by reciprocal beneficence. There is, at least, one consideration which ought to alleviate our censures of the powerful and rich. To imagine them chargeable with all the guilt and folly of their own actions, is to be very little acquainted with the world. _De l'absolu pouvoir vous ignorez l'yvresse, Et du lache flateur la voix enchanteresse_. Thou hast not known the giddy whirls of fate, Nor servile flatteries which enchant the great. Miss A. W. He that can do much good or harm, will not find many whom ambition or cowardice will suffer to be sincere. While we live upon the level with the rest of mankind, we are reminded of our duty by the admonitions of friends and reproaches of enemies; but men who stand in the highest ranks of society, seldom hear of their faults; if by any accident an opprobrious clamour reaches their ears, flattery is always at hand to pour in her opiates, to quiet conviction, and obtund remorse. Favour is seldom gained but by conformity in vice. Virtue can stand without assistance, and considers herself as very little obliged by countenance and approbation: but vice, spiritless and timorous, seeks the shelter of crowds, and support of confederacy. The sycophant, therefore, neglects the good qualities of his patron, and employs all his art on his weaknesses and follies, regales his reigning vanity, or stimulates his prevalent desires. Virtue is sufficiently difficult with any circumstances, but the difficulty is increased when reproof and advice are frighted away. In common life, reason and conscience have only the appetites and passions to encounter; but in higher stations, they must oppose artifice and adulation. He, therefore, that yields to such temptations, cannot give those who look upon his miscarriage much reason for exultation, since few can justly presume that from the same snare they should have been able to escape. No. 173. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1751. _Quo virtus, quo ferat error_. HOR. De Ar. Poet. 308. Now say, where virtue stops, and vice begins? As any action or posture, long continued, will distort and disfigure the limbs; so the mind likewise is crippled and contracted by perpetual application to the same set of ideas. It is easy to guess the trade of an artizan by his knees, his fingers, or his shoulders: and there are few among men of the more liberal professions, whose minds do not carry the brand of their calling, or whose conversation does not quickly discover to what class of the community they belong. These peculiarities have been of great use, in the general hostility which every part of mankind exercises against the rest, to furnish insults and sarcasms. Every art has its dialect, uncouth and ungrateful to all whom custom has not reconciled to its sound, and which therefore becomes ridiculous by a slight misapplication, or unnecessary repetition. The general reproach with which ignorance revenges the superciliousness of learning, is that of pedantry; a censure which every man incurs, who has at any time the misfortune to talk to those who cannot understand him, and by which the modest and timorous are sometimes frighted from the display of their acquisitions, and the exertion of their powers. The name of a pedant is so formidable to young men when they first sally from their colleges, and is so liberally scattered by those who mean to boast their elegance of education, easiness of manners, and knowledge of the world, that it seems to require particular consideration; since, perhaps, if it were once understood, many a heart might be freed from painful apprehensions, and many a tongue, delivered from restraint. Pedantry is the unseasonable ostentation of learning. It may be discovered either in the choice of a subject, or in the manner of treating it. He is undoubtedly guilty of pedantry, who, when he has made himself master of some abstruse and uncultivated part of knowledge, obtrudes his remarks and discoveries upon those whom he believes unable to judge of his proficiency, and from whom, as he cannot fear contradiction, he cannot properly expect applause. To this errour the student is sometimes betrayed by the natural recurrence of the mind to its common employment, by the pleasure which every man receives from the recollection of pleasing images, and the desire of dwelling upon topicks, on which he knows himself able to speak with justness. But because we are seldom so far prejudiced in favour of each other, as to search out for palliations, this failure of politeness is imputed always to vanity; and the harmless collegiate, who, perhaps, intended entertainment and instruction, or at worst only spoke without sufficient reflection upon the character of his hearers, is censured as arrogant or overbearing, and eager to extend his renown, in contempt of the convenience of society and the laws of conversation. All discourse of which others cannot partake, is not only an irksome usurpation of the time devoted to pleasure and entertainment, but what never fails to excite very keen resentment, an insolent assertion of superiority, and a triumph over less enlightened understandings. The pedant is, therefore, not only heard with weariness, but malignity; and those who conceive themselves insulted by his knowledge, never fail to tell with acrimony how injudiciously it was exerted. To avoid this dangerous imputation, scholars sometimes divest themselves with too much haste of their academical formality, and in their endeavours to accommodate their notions and their style to common conceptions, talk rather of any thing than of that which they understand, and sink into insipidity of sentiment and meanness of expression. There prevails among men of letters an opinion, that all appearance of science is particularly hateful to women; and that therefore, whoever desires to be well received in female assemblies, must qualify himself by a total rejection of all that is serious, rational, or important; must consider argument or criticism, as perpetually interdicted; and devote all his attention to trifles, and all his eloquence to compliment. Students often form their notions of the present generation from the writings of the past, and are not very early informed of those changes which the gradual diffusion of knowledge, or the sudden caprice of fashion, produces in the world. Whatever might be the state of female literature in the last century, there is now no longer any danger lest the scholar should want an adequate audience at the tea-table; and whoever thinks it necessary to regulate his conversation by antiquated rules, will be rather despised for his futility than caressed for his politeness. To talk intentionally in a manner above the comprehension of those whom we address, is unquestionable pedantry; but surely complaisance requires, that no man should, without proof, conclude his company incapable of following him to the highest elevation of his fancy, or the utmost extent of his knowledge. It is always safer to err in favour of others than of ourselves, and therefore we seldom hazard much by endeavouring to excel. It ought at least to be the care of learning, when she quits her exaltation, to descend with dignity. Nothing is more despicable than the airiness and jocularity of a man bred to severe science, and solitary meditation. To trifle agreeably is a secret which schools cannot impart; that gay negligence and vivacious levity, which charm down resistance wherever they appear, are never attainable by him who, having spent his first years among the dust of libraries, enters late into the gay world with an unpliant attention and established habits. It is observed in the panegyrick on Fabricius the mechanist, that, though forced by publick employments into mingled conversation, he never lost the modesty and seriousness of the convent, nor drew ridicule upon himself by an affected imitation of fashionable life. To the same praise every man devoted to learning ought to aspire. If he attempts the softer arts of pleasing, and endeavours to learn the graceful bow and the familiar embrace, the insinuating accent and the general smile, he will lose the respect due to the character of learning, without arriving at the envied honour of doing any thing with elegance and facility. Theophrastus was discovered not to be a native of Athens, by so strict an adherence to the Attick dialect, as shewed that he had learned it not by custom, but by rule. A man not early formed to habitual elegance, betrays, in like manner, the effects of his education, by an unnecessary anxiety of behaviour. It is as possible to become pedantick, by fear of pedantry, as to be troublesome by ill-timed civility. There is no kind of impertinence more justly censurable than his who is always labouring to level thoughts to intellects higher than his own; who apologizes for every word which his own narrowness of converse inclines him to think unusual; keeps the exuberance of his faculties under visible restraint; is solicitous to anticipate inquiries by needless explanations; and endeavours to shade his own abilities, lest weak eyes should be dazzled with their lustre. No. 174. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1751. _Faenum habet in cornu, longe fuge; dummodo risum Excutiat sibi, non hic cuiquam parcet amico_. HOR. Lib. i. Sat. iv. 34. Yonder he drives--avoid that furious beast: If he may have his jest, he never cares At whose expense; nor friend nor patron spares. FRANCIS. TO THE RAMBLER. MR. RAMBLER, The laws of social benevolence require, that every man should endeavour to assist others by his experience. He that has at last escaped into port from the fluctuations of chance, and the gusts of opposition, ought to make some improvements in the chart of life, by marking the rocks on which he has been dashed, and the shallows where he has been stranded. The errour into which I was betrayed, when custom first gave me up to my own direction, is very frequently incident to the quick, the sprightly, the fearless, and the gay; to all whose ardour hurries them into precipitate execution of their designs, and imprudent declaration of their opinions; who seldom count the cost of pleasure, or examine the distant consequences of any practice that flatters them with immediate gratification. I came forth into the crowded world with the usual juvenile ambition, and desired nothing beyond the title of a wit. Money I considered as below my care; for I saw such multitudes grow rich without understanding, that I could not forbear to look on wealth as an acquisition easy to industry directed by genius, and therefore threw it aside as a secondary convenience, to be procured when my principal wish should be satisfied, and the claim to intellectual excellence universally acknowledged. With this view I regulated my behaviour in publick, and exercised my meditations in solitude. My life was divided between the care of providing topicks for the entertainment of my company, and that of collecting company worthy to be entertained; for I soon found, that wit, like every other power, has its boundaries; that its success depends upon the aptitude of others to receive impressions; and that as some bodies, indissoluble by heat, can set the furnace and crucible at defiance, there are minds upon which the rays of fancy may be pointed without effect, and which no fire of sentiment can agitate or exalt. It was, however, not long before I fitted myself with a set of companions who knew how to laugh, and to whom no other recommendation was necessary than the power of striking out a jest. Among those I fixed my residence, and for a time enjoyed the felicity of disturbing the neighbours every night with the obstreperous applause which my sallies forced from the audience. The reputation of our club every day increased, and as my flights and remarks were circulated by my admirers, every day brought new solicitations for admission into our society. To support this perpetual fund of merriment, I frequented every place of concourse, cultivated the acquaintance of all the fashionable race, and passed the day in a continual succession of visits, in which I collected a treasure of pleasantry for the expenses of the evening. Whatever errour of conduct I could discover, whatever peculiarity of manner I could observe, whatever weakness was betrayed by confidence, whatever lapse was suffered by neglect, all was drawn together for the diversion of my wild companions, who when they had been taught the art of ridicule, never failed to signalize themselves by a zealous imitation, and filled the town on the ensuing day with scandal and vexation, with merriment and shame. I can scarcely believe, when I recollect my own practice, that I could have been so far deluded with petty praise, as to divulge the secrets of trust, and to expose the levities of frankness; to waylay the walks of the cautious, and surprise the security of the thoughtless. Yet it is certain, that for many years I heard nothing but with design to tell it, and saw nothing with any other curiosity than after some failure that might furnish out a jest. My heart, indeed, acquits me of deliberate malignity, or interested insidiousness. I had no other purpose than to heighten the pleasure of laughter by communication, nor ever raised any pecuniary advantage from the calamities of others. I led weakness and negligence into difficulties, only that I might divert myself with their perplexities and distresses; and violated every law of friendship, with no other hope than that of gaining the reputation of smartness and waggery. I would not be understood to charge myself with any crimes of the atrocious or destructive kind. I never betrayed an heir to gamesters, or a girl to bebauchees; [Transcriber's note: sic] never intercepted the kindness of a patron, or sported away the reputation of innocence. My delight was only in petty mischief, and momentary vexations, and my acuteness was employed not upon fraud and oppression, which it had been meritorious to detect, but upon harmless ignorance or absurdity, prejudice or mistake. This inquiry I pursued with so much diligence and sagacity, that I was able to relate, of every man whom I knew, some blunder or miscarriage; to betray the most circumspect of my friends into follies, by a judicious flattery of his predominant passion; or expose him to contempt, by placing him in circumstances which put his prejudices into action, brought to view his natural defects, or drew the attention of the company on his airs of affectation. The power had been possessed in vain if it had never been exerted; and it was not my custom to let any arts of jocularity remain unemployed. My impatience of applause brought me always early to the place of entertainment; and I seldom failed to lay a scheme with the small knot that first gathered round me, by which some of those whom we expected might be made subservient to our sport. Every man has some favourite topick of conversation, on which, by a feigned seriousness of attention, he may be drawn to expatiate without end. Every man has some habitual contortion of body, or established mode of expression, which never fails to raise mirth if it be pointed out to notice. By premonitions of these particularities I secured our pleasantry. Our companion entered with his usual gaiety, and began to partake of our noisy cheerfulness, when the conversation was imperceptibly diverted to a subject which pressed upon his tender part, and extorted the expected shrug, the customary exclamation, or the predicted remark. A general clamour of joy then burst from all that were admitted to the stratagem. Our mirth was often increased by the triumph of him that occasioned it; for as we do not hastily form conclusions against ourselves, seldom any one suspected, that he had exhilarated us otherwise than by wit. You will hear, I believe, with very little surprise, that by this conduct I had in a short time united mankind against me, and that every tongue was diligent in prevention or revenge. I soon perceived myself regarded with malevolence or distrust, but wondered what had been discovered in me either terrible or hateful. I had invaded no man's property; I had rivalled no man's claims: nor had ever engaged in any of those attempts which provoke the jealousy of ambition or the rage of faction. I had lived but to laugh, and make others laugh; and believed that I was loved by all who caressed, and favoured by all who applauded me. I never imagined, that he who, in the mirth of a nocturnal revel, concurred in ridiculing his friend, would consider, in a cooler hour, that the same trick might be played against himself; or that even where there is no sense of danger, the natural pride of human nature rises against him, who, by general censures, lays claim to general superiority. I was convinced, by a total desertion, of the impropriety of my conduct; every man avoided, and cautioned others to avoid me. Wherever I came, I found silence and dejection, coldness and terrour. No one would venture to speak, lest he should lay himself open to unfavourable representations; the company, however numerous, dropped off at my entrance upon various pretences; and, if I retired to avoid the shame of being left, I heard confidence and mirth revive at my departure. If those whom I had thus offended could have contented themselves with repaying one insult for another, and kept up the war only by a reciprocation of sarcasms, they might have perhaps vexed, but would never have much hurt me; for no man heartily hates him at whom he can laugh. But these wounds which they give me as they fly, are without cure; this alarm which they spread by their solicitude to escape me, excludes me from all friendship and from all pleasure. I am condemned to pass a long interval of my life in solitude, as a man suspected of infection is refused admission into cities; and must linger in obscurity, till my conduct shall convince the world, that I may be approached without hazard. I am, &c. DICACULUS. No. 175. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1751. _Rari quippe boni: numerus vix est totidem quot Thebarum portae, vel divitis ostia Nili_. Juv. Sat. xiii. 26. Good men are scarce; the just are thinly sown: They thrive but ill, nor can they last when grown; And should we count them, and our store compile, Yet Thebes more gates could show, more mouths the Nile. CREECH. None of the axioms of wisdom which recommend the ancient sages to veneration, seem to have required less extent of knowledge or perspicacity of penetration, than the remarks of Bias, that [Greek: oi pleones kakoi], "the majority are wicked." The depravity of mankind is so easily discoverable, that nothing but the desert or the cell can exclude it from notice. The knowledge of crimes intrudes uncalled and undesired. They whom their abstraction from common occurrences hinders from seeing iniquity, will quickly have their attention awakened by feeling it. Even he who ventures not into the world, may learn its corruption in his closet. For what are treatises of morality, but persuasives to the practice of duties, for which no arguments would be necessary, but that we are continually tempted to violate or neglect them? What are all the records of history, but narratives of successive villanies, of treasons and usurpations, massacres and wars? But, perhaps, the excellence of aphorisms consists not so much in the expression of some rare and abstruse sentiment, as in the comprehension of some obvious and useful truths in a few words. We frequently fall into errour and folly, not because the true principles of action are not known, but because, for a time, they are not remembered; and he may, therefore, be justly numbered among the benefactors of mankind, who contracts the great rules of life into short sentences, that may be easily impressed on the memory, and taught by frequent recollection to recur habitually to the mind. However those who have passed through half the life of man, may now wonder that any should require to be cautioned against corruption, they will find that they have themselves purchased their conviction by many disappointments and vexations which an earlier knowledge would have spared them; and may see, on every side, some entangling themselves in perplexities, and some sinking into ruin, by ignorance or neglect of the maxim of Bias. Every day sends out, in quest of pleasure and distinction, some heir fondled in ignorance, and flattered into pride. He comes forth with all the confidence of a spirit unacquainted with superiors, and all the benevolence of a mind not yet irritated by opposition, alarmed by fraud, or embittered by cruelty. He loves all, because he imagines himself the universal favourite. Every exchange of salutation produces new acquaintance, and every acquaintance kindles into friendship. Every season brings a new flight of beauties into the world, who have hitherto heard only of their own charms, and imagine that the heart feels no passion but that of love. They are soon surrounded by admirers whom they credit, because they tell them only what is heard with delight. Whoever gazes upon them is a lover; and whoever forces a sigh, is pining in despair. He surely is a useful monitor, who inculcates to these thoughtless strangers, that the _majority are wicked_; who informs them, that the train which wealth and beauty draw after them, is lured only by the scent of prey; and that, perhaps, among all those who crowd about them with professions and flatteries, there is not one who does not hope for some opportunity to devour or betray them, to glut himself by their destruction, or to share their spoils with a stronger savage. Virtue presented singly to the imagination or the reason, is so well recommended by its own graces, and so strongly supported by arguments, that a good man wonders how any can be bad; and they who are ignorant of the force of passion and interest, who never observed the arts of seduction, the contagion of example, the gradual descent from one crime to another, or the insensible depravation of the principles by loose conversation, naturally expect to find integrity in every bosom, and veracity on every tongue. It is, indeed, impossible not to hear from those who have lived longer, of wrongs and falsehoods, of violence and circumvention; but such narratives are commonly regarded by the young, the heady, and the confident, as nothing more than the murmurs of peevishness, or the dreams of dotage; and, notwithstanding all the documents of hoary wisdom, we commonly plunge into the world fearless and credulous, without any foresight of danger, or apprehension of deceit. I have remarked, in a former paper, that credulity is the common failing of unexperienced virtue; and that he who is spontaneously suspicious, may be justly charged with radical corruption; for, if he has not known the prevalence of dishonesty by information, nor had time to observe it with his own eyes, whence can he take his measures of judgment but from himself? They who best deserve to escape the snares of artifice, are most likely to be entangled. He that endeavours to live for the good of others, must always be exposed to the arts of them who live only for themselves, unless he is taught by timely precepts the caution required in common transactions, and shewn at a distance the pitfalls of treachery. To youth, therefore, it should be carefully inculcated, that, to enter the road of life without caution or reserve, in expectation of general fidelity and justice, is to launch on the wide ocean without the instruments of steerage, and to hope that every wind will be prosperous, and that every coast will afford a harbour. To enumerate the various motives to deceit and injury, would be to count all the desires that prevail among the sons of men; since there is no ambition however petty, no wish however absurd, that by indulgence will not be enabled to overpower the influence of virtue. Many there are, who openly and almost professedly regulate all their conduct by their love of money; who have no other reason for action or forbearance, for compliance or refusal, than that they hope to gain more by one than by the other. These are indeed the meanest and cruellest of human beings, a race with whom, as with some pestiferous animals, the whole creation seems to be at war; but who, however detested or scorned, long continue to add heap to heap, and when they have reduced one to beggary, are still permitted to fasten on another. Others, yet less rationally wicked, pass their lives in mischief, because they cannot bear the sight of success, and mark out every man for hatred, whose fame or fortune they believe increasing. Many who have not advanced to these degrees of guilt are yet wholly unqualified for friendship, and unable to maintain any constant or regular course of kindness. Happiness may be destroyed not only by union with the man who is apparently the slave of interest, but with him whom a wild opinion of the dignity of perseverance, in whatever cause, disposes to pursue every injury with unwearied and perpetual resentment; with him whose vanity inclines him to consider every man as a rival in every pretension; with him whose airy negligence puts his friend's affairs or secrets in continual hazard, and who thinks his forgetfulness of others excused by his inattention to himself; and with him whose inconstancy ranges without any settled rule of choice through varieties of friendship, and who adopts and dismisses favourites by the sudden impulse of caprice. Thus numerous are the dangers to which the converse of mankind exposes us, and which can be avoided only by prudent distrust. He therefore that, remembering this salutary maxim, learns early to withhold his fondness from fair appearances, will have reason to pay some honours to Bias of Priene, who enabled him to become wise without the cost of experience. No. 176. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1751 --_Naso suspendis adunco_. HOR. Lib. i. Sat. vi. 5. On me you turn the nose.-- There are many vexatious accidents and uneasy situations which raise little compassion for the sufferer, and which no man but those whom they immediately distress can regard with seriousness. Petty mischiefs, that have no influence on futurity, nor extend their effects to the rest of life, are always seen with a kind of malicious pleasure. A mistake or embarrassment, which for the present moment fills the face with blushes, and the mind with confusion, will have no other effect upon those who observe it, than that of convulsing them with irresistible laughter. Some circumstances of misery are so powerfully ridiculous, that neither kindness nor duty can withstand them; they bear down love, interest, and reverence, and force the friend, the dependent, or the child, to give way to, instantaneous motions of merriment. Among the principal of comick calamities, may be reckoned the pain which an author, not yet hardened into insensibility, feels at the onset of a furious critick, whose age, rank, or fortune, gives him confidence to speak without reserve; who heaps one objection upon another, and obtrudes his remarks, and enforces his corrections, without tenderness or awe. The author, full of the importance of his work, and anxious for the justification of every syllable, starts and kindles at the slightest attack; the critick, eager to establish his superiority, triumphing in every discovery of failure, and zealous to impress the cogency of his arguments, pursues him from line to line without cessation or remorse. The critick, who hazards little, proceeds with vehemence, impetuosity, and fearlessness; the author, whose quiet and fame, and life and immortality, are involved in the controversy, tries every art of subterfuge and defence; maintains modestly what he resolves never to yield, and yields unwillingly what cannot be maintained. The critick's purpose is to conquer, the author only hopes to escape; the critick therefore knits his brow, and raises his voice, and rejoices whenever he perceives any tokens of pain excited by the pressure of his assertions, or the point of his sarcasms. The author, whose endeavour is at once to mollify and elude his persecutor, composes his features and softens his accent, breaks the force of assault by retreat, and rather steps aside than flies or advances. As it very seldom happens that the rage of extemporary criticism inflicts fatal or lasting wounds, I know not that the laws of benevolence entitle this distress to much sympathy. The diversion of baiting an author has the sanction of all ages and nations, and is more lawful than the sport of teasing other animals, because, for the most part, he comes voluntarily to the stake, furnished, as he imagines, by the patron powers of literature, with resistless weapons, and impenetrable armour, with the mail of the boar of Erymanth, and the paws of the lion of Nemea. But the works of genius are sometimes produced by other motives than vanity; and he whom necessity or duty enforces to write, is not always so well satisfied with himself, as not to be discouraged by censorious impudence. It may therefore be necessary to consider, how they whom publication lays open to the insults of such as their obscurity secures against reprisals, may extricate themselves from unexpected encounters. Vida, a man of considerable skill in the politicks of literature, directs his pupil wholly to abandon his defence, and even when he can irrefragably refute all objections, to suffer tamely the exultations of his antagonist. This rule may perhaps be just, when advice is asked, and severity solicited, because no man tells his opinion so freely as when he imagines it received with implicit veneration; and criticks ought never to be consulted, but while errours may yet be rectified or insipidity suppressed. But when the book has once been dismissed into the world, and can be no more retouched, I know not whether a very different conduct should not be prescribed, and whether firmness and spirit may not sometimes be of use to overpower arrogance and repel brutality. Softness, diffidence, and moderation, will often be mistaken for imbecility and dejection; they hire cowardice to the attack by the hopes of easy victory, and it will soon be found that he whom every man thinks he can conquer, shall never be at peace. The animadversions of criticks are commonly such as may easily provoke the sedatest writer to some quickness of resentment and asperity of reply. A man, who by long consideration has familiarized a subject to his own mind, carefully surveyed the series of his thoughts, and planned all the parts of his composition into a regular dependance on each other, will often start at the sinistrous interpretations or absurd remarks of haste and ignorance, and wonder by what infatuation they have been led away from the obvious sense, and upon what peculiar principles of judgment they decide against him. The eye of the intellect, like that of the body, is not equally perfect in all, nor equally adapted in any to all objects; the end of criticism is to supply its defects; rules are the instruments of mental vision, which may indeed assist our faculties when properly used, but produce confusion and obscurity by unskilful application. Some seem always to read with the microscope of criticism, and employ their whole attention upon minute elegance, or faults scarcely visible to common observation. The dissonance of a syllable, the recurrence of the same sound, the repetition of a particle, the smallest deviation from propriety, the slightest defect in construction or arrangement, swell before their eyes into enormities. As they discern with great exactness, they comprehend but a narrow compass, and know nothing of the justness of the design, the general spirit of the performance, the artifice of connection, or the harmony of the parts; they never, conceive how small a proportion that which they are busy in contemplating bears to the whole, or how the petty inaccuracies, with which they are offended, are absorbed and lost in general excellence. Others are furnished by criticism with a telescope. They see with great clearness whatever is too remote to be discovered by the rest of mankind, but are totally blind to all that lies immediately before them. They discover in every passage some secret meaning, some remote allusion, some artful allegory, or some occult imitation, which no other reader ever suspected; but they have no perception of the cogency of arguments, the force of pathetick sentiments, the various colours of diction, or the flowery embellishments of fancy; of all that engages the attention of others they are totally insensible, while they pry into worlds of conjecture, and amuse themselves with phantoms in the clouds. In criticism, as in every other art, we fail sometimes by our weakness, but more frequently by our fault. We are sometimes bewildered by ignorance, and sometimes by prejudice, but we seldom deviate far from the right, but when we deliver ourselves up to the direction of vanity. No. 177. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1751. _Turpe est difficiles habere nugas_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lxxxvi. 9. Those things which now seem frivolous and slight, Will be of serious consequence to you, When they have made you once ridiculous. ROSCOMMON. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, When I was, at the usual time, about to enter upon the profession to which my friends had destined me, being summoned, by the death of my father, into the country, I found myself master of an unexpected sum of money, and of an estate, which, though not large, was, in my opinion, sufficient to support me in a condition far preferable to the fatigue, dependance, and uncertainty of any gainful occupation. I therefore resolved to devote the rest of my life wholly to curiosity, and without any confinement of my excursions, or termination of my views, to wander over the boundless regions of general knowledge. This scheme of life seemed pregnant with inexhaustible variety, and therefore I could not forbear to congratulate myself upon the wisdom of my choice. I furnished a large room with all conveniences for study; collected books of every kind; quitted every science at the first perception of disgust; returned to it again as soon as my former ardour happened to revive; and having no rival to depress me by comparison, nor any critick to alarm me with objections, I spent day after day in profound tranquillity, with only so much complaisance in my own improvements, as served to excite and animate my application. Thus I lived for some years with complete acquiescence in my own plan of conduct, rising early to read, and dividing the latter part of the day between economy, exercise, and reflection. But, in time, I began to find my mind contracted and stiffened by solitude. My ease and elegance were sensibly impaired; I was no longer able to accommodate myself with readiness to the accidental current of conversation; my notions grew particular and paradoxical, and my phraseology formal and unfashionable; I spoke, on common occasions, the language of books. My quickness of apprehension, and celerity of reply, had entirely deserted me; when I delivered my opinion, or detailed my knowledge, I was bewildered by an unseasonable interrogatory, disconcerted by any slight opposition, and overwhelmed and lost in dejection, when the smallest advantage was gained against me in dispute. I became decisive and dogmatical, impatient of contradiction, perpetually jealous of my character, insolent to such as acknowledged my superiority, and sullen and malignant to all who refused to receive my dictates. This I soon discovered to be one of those intellectual diseases which a wise man should make haste to cure. I therefore resolved for a time to shut my books, and learn again the art of conversation; to defecate and clear my mind by brisker motions, and stronger impulses; and to unite myself once more to the living generation. For this purpose I hasted to London, and entreated one of my academical acquaintances to introduce me into some of the little societies of literature which are formed in taverns and coffee-houses. He was pleased with an opportunity of shewing me to his friends, and soon obtained me admission among a select company of curious men, who met once a week to exhilarate their studies, and compare their acquisitions. The eldest and most venerable of this society was Hirsutus, who, after the first civilities of my reception, found means to introduce the mention of his favourite studies, by a severe censure of those who want the due regard for their native country. He informed me, that he had early withdrawn his attention from foreign trifles, and that since he began to addict his mind to serious and manly studies, he had very carefully amassed all the English books that were printed in the black character. This search he had pursued so diligently, that he was able to shew the deficiencies of the best catalogues. He had long since completed his Caxton, had three sheets of Treveris unknown to the antiquaries, and wanted to a perfect Pynson but two volumes, of which one was promised him as a legacy by its present possessor, and the other he was resolved to buy, at whatever price, when Quisquilius's library should be sold. Hirsutus had no other reason for the valuing or slighting a book, than that it was printed in the Roman or the Gothic letter, nor any ideas but such as his favourite volumes had supplied; when he was serious he expatiated on the narratives "of Johan de Trevisa," and when he was merry, regaled us with a quotation from the "Shippe of Foles." While I was listening to this hoary student, Ferratus entered in a hurry, and informed us with the abruptness of ecstacy, that his set of halfpence was now complete; he had just received in a handful of change, the piece that he had so long been seeking, and could now defy mankind to outgo his collection of English copper. Chartophylax then observed how fatally human sagacity was sometimes baffled, and how often the most valuable discoveries are made by chance. He had employed himself and his emissaries seven years at great expense to perfect his series of Gazettes, but had long wanted a single paper, which, when he despaired of obtaining it, was sent him wrapped round a parcel of tobacco. Cantilenus turned all his thoughts upon old ballads, for he considered them as the genuine records of the national taste. He offered to shew me a copy of "The Children in the Wood," which he firmly believed to be of the first edition, and, by the help of which, the text might be freed from several corruptions, if this age of barbarity had any claim to such favours from him. Many were admitted into this society as inferior members, because they had collected old prints and neglected pamphlets, or possessed some fragment of antiquity, as the seal of an ancient corporation, the charter of a religious house, the genealogy of a family extinct, or a letter written in the reign of Elizabeth. Every one of these virtuosos looked on all his associates as wretches of depraved taste and narrow notions. Their conversation was, therefore, fretful and waspish, their behaviour brutal, their merriment bluntly sarcastick, and their seriousness gloomy and suspicious. They were totally ignorant of all that passes, or has lately passed, in the world; unable to discuss any question of religious, political, or military knowledge; equally strangers to science and politer learning, and without any wish to improve their minds, or any other pleasure than that of displaying rarities, of which they would not suffer others to make the proper use. Hirsutus graciously informed me, that the number of their society was limited, but that I might sometimes attend as an auditor. I was pleased to find myself in no danger of an honour, which I could not have willingly accepted, nor gracefully refused, and left them without any intention of returning; for I soon found that the suppression of those habits with which I was vitiated, required association with men very different from this solemn race. I am, Sir, &c. VIVACULUS. It is natural to feel grief or indignation when any thing necessary or useful is wantonly wasted, or negligently destroyed; and therefore my correspondent cannot be blamed for looking with uneasiness on the waste of life. Leisure and curiosity might soon make great advances in useful knowledge, were they not diverted by minute emulation and laborious trifles. It may, however, somewhat mollify his anger to reflect, that perhaps none of the assembly which he describes, was capable of any nobler employment, and that he who does his best, however little, is always to be distinguished from him who does nothing. Whatever busies the mind without corrupting it, has at least this use, that it rescues the day from idleness, and he that is never idle will not often be vicious. No. 178. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1751. _Purs sanitatis velle sanuria fuit_. SENECA. To yield to remedies is half the cure. Pythagoras is reported to have required from those whom he instructed in philosophy a probationary silence of five years. Whether this prohibition of speech extended to all the parts of this time, as seems generally to be supposed, or was to be observed only in the school or in the presence of their master, as is more probable, it was sufficient to discover the pupil's disposition; to try whether he was willing to pay the price of learning, or whether he was one of those whose ardour was rather violent than lasting, and who expected to grow wise on other terms than those of patience and obedience. Many of the blessings universally desired, are very frequently wanted, because most men, when they should labour, content themselves to complain, and rather linger in a state in which they cannot be at rest, than improve their condition by vigour and resolution. Providence has fixed the limits of human enjoyment by immoveable boundaries, and has set different gratifications at such a distance from each other, that no art or power can bring them together. This great law it is the business of every rational being to understand, that life may not pass away in an attempt to make contradictions consistent, to combine opposite qualities, and to unite things which the nature of their being must always keep asunder. Of two objects tempting at a distance on contrary sides, it is impossible to approach one but by receding from the other; by long deliberation and dilatory projects, they may be both lost, but can never be both gained. It is, therefore, necessary to compare them, and, when we have determined the preference, to withdraw our eyes and our thoughts at once from that which reason directs us to reject. This is more necessary, if that which we are forsaking has the power of delighting the senses, or firing the fancy. He that once turns aside to the allurements of unlawful pleasure, can have no security that he shall ever regain the paths of virtue. The philosophick goddess of Boethius, having related the story of Orpheus, who, when he had recovered his wife from the dominions of death, lost her again by looking back upon her in the confines of light, concludes with a very elegant and forcible application. "Whoever you are that endeavour to elevate your minds to the illuminations of Heaven, consider yourselves as represented in this fable; for he that is once so far overcome as to turn back his eyes towards the infernal caverns, loses at the first sight all that influence which attracted him on high:" Vos haec fabula respicit, Quicunque in superum diem Mentem ducere quaeritis. Nam qui Tartareum in specus Victus lumina flexerit, Quidquid praecipuum trahit, Perdit, dum videt inferos. It may be observed, in general, that the future is purchased by the present. It is not possible to secure instant or permanent happiness but by the forbearance of some immediate gratification. This is so evidently true with regard to the whole of our existence, that all the precepts of theology have no other tendency than to enforce a life of faith; a life regulated not by our senses but our belief; a life in which pleasures are to be refused for fear of invisible punishments, and calamities sometimes to be sought, and always endured, in hope of rewards that shall be obtained in another state. Even if we take into our view only that particle of our duration which is terminated by the grave, it will be found that we cannot enjoy one part of life beyond the common limitations of pleasure, but by anticipating some of the satisfaction which should exhilarate the following years. The heat of youth may spread happiness into wild luxuriance, but the radical vigour requisite to make it perennial is exhausted, and all that can be hoped afterwards is languor and sterility. The reigning errour of mankind is, that we are not content with the conditions on which the goods of life are granted. No man is insensible of the value of knowledge, the advantages of health, or the convenience of plenty, but every day shews us those on whom the conviction is without effect. Knowledge is praised and desired by multitudes whom her charms could never rouse from the couch of sloth; whom the faintest invitation of pleasure draws away from their studies; to whom any other method of wearing out the day is more eligible than the use of books, and who are more easily engaged by any conversation, than such as may rectify their notions or enlarge their comprehension. Every man that has felt pain, knows how little all other comforts can gladden him to whom health is denied. Yet who is there does not sometimes hazard it for the enjoyment of an hour? All assemblies of jollity, all places of public entertainment, exhibit examples of strength wasting in riot, and beauty withering in irregularity; nor is it easy to enter a house in which part of the family is not groaning in repentance of past intemperance, and part admitting disease by negligence, or soliciting it by luxury. There is no pleasure which men of every age and sect have more generally agreed to mention with contempt, than the gratifications of the palate; an entertainment so far removed from intellectual happiness, that scarcely the most shameless of the sensual herd have dared to defend it: yet even to this, the lowest of our delights, to this, though neither quick nor lasting, is health with all its activity and sprightliness daily sacrificed; and for this are half the miseries endured which urge impatience to call on death. The whole world is put in motion by the wish for riches and the dread of poverty. Who, then, would not imagine that such conduct as will inevitably destroy what all are thus labouring to acquire, must generally be avoided? That he who spends more than he receives, must in time become indigent, cannot be doubted; but, how evident soever this consequence may appear, the spendthrift moves in the whirl of pleasure with too much rapidity to keep it before his eyes, and, in the intoxication of gaiety, grows every day poorer without any such sense of approaching ruin as is sufficient to wake him into caution. Many complaints are made of the misery of life; and indeed it must be confessed that we are subject to calamities by which the good and bad, the diligent and slothful, the vigilant and heedless, are equally afflicted. But surely, though some indulgence may be allowed to groans extorted by inevitable misery, no man has a right to repine at evils which, against warning, against experience, he deliberately and leisurely brings upon his own head; or to consider himself as debarred from happiness by such obstacles as resolution may break or dexterity may put aside. Great numbers who quarrel with their condition, have wanted not the power but the will to obtain a better state. They have never contemplated the difference between good and evil sufficiently to quicken aversion, or invigorate desire; they have indulged a drowsy thoughtlessness or giddy levity; have committed the balance of choice to the management of caprice; and when they have long accustomed themselves to receive all that chance offered them, without examination, lament at last that they find themselves deceived. No. 179. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1751. _Perpetuo risu pulmonem agitare solebat_. JUV. Sat. x. 33. Democritus would feed his spleen, and shake His sides and shoulders till he felt them ake. DRYDEN Every man, says Tully, has two characters; one which he partakes with all mankind, and by which he is distinguished from brute animals; another which discriminates him from the rest of his own species, and impresses on him a manner and temper peculiar to himself; this particular character, if it be not repugnant to the laws of general humanity, it is always his business to cultivate and preserve. Every hour furnishes some confirmation of Tully's precept. It seldom happens, that an assembly of pleasure is so happily selected, but that some one finds admission, with whom the rest are deservedly offended; and it will appear, on a close inspection, that scarce any man becomes eminently disagreeable, but by a departure from his real character, and an attempt at something for which nature or education have left him unqualified. Ignorance or dulness have indeed no power of affording delight, but they never give disgust except when they assume the dignity of knowledge, or ape the sprightliness of wit. Awkwardness and inelegance have none of those attractions by which ease and politeness take possession of the heart; but ridicule and censure seldom rise against them, unless they appear associated with that confidence which belongs only to long acquaintance with the modes of life, and to consciousness of unfailing propriety of behaviour. Deformity itself is regarded with tenderness rather than aversion, when it does not attempt to deceive the sight by dress and decoration, and to seize upon fictitious claims the prerogatives of beauty. He that stands to contemplate the crowds that fill the streets of a populous city, will see many passengers whose air and motion it will be difficult to behold without contempt and laughter; but if he examines what are the appearances that thus powerfully excite his risibility, he will find among them neither poverty nor disease, nor any involuntary or painful defect. The disposition to derision and insult is awakened by the softness of foppery, the swell of insolence, the liveliness of levity, or the solemnity of grandeur; by the sprightly trip, the stately stalk, the formal strut, the lofty mien; by gestures intended to catch the eye, and by looks elaborately formed as evidences of importance. It, has, I think, been sometimes urged in favour of affectation, that it is only a mistake of the means to a good end, and that the intention with which it is practised is always to please. If all attempts to innovate the constitutional or habitual character have really proceeded from publick spirit and love of others, the world has hitherto been sufficiently ungrateful, since no return but scorn has yet been made to the most difficult of all enterprises, a contest with nature; nor has any pity been shown to the fatigues of labour which never succeeded, and the uneasiness of disguise by which nothing was concealed. It seems therefore to be determined by the general suffrage of mankind, that he who decks himself in adscititious qualities rather purposes to command applause than impart pleasure: and he is therefore treated as a man who, by an unreasonable ambition, usurps the place in society to which he has no right. Praise is seldom paid with willingness even to incontestable merit, and it can be no wonder that he who calls for it without desert is repulsed with universal indignation. Affectation naturally counterfeits those excellencies which are placed at the greatest distance from possibility of attainment. We are conscious of our own defects, and eagerly endeavour to supply them by artificial excellence; nor would such efforts be wholly without excuse, were they not often excited by ornamental trifles, which he, that thus anxiously struggles for the reputation of possessing them, would not have been known to want, had not his industry quickened observation. Gelasimus passed the first part of his life in academical privacy and rural retirement, without any other conversation than that of scholars, grave, studious, and abstracted as himself. He cultivated the mathematical sciences with indefatigable diligence, discovered many useful theorems, discussed with great accuracy the resistance of fluids, and, though his priority was not generally acknowledged, was the first who fully explained all the properties of the catenarian curve. Learning, when if rises to eminence, will be observed in time, whatever mists may happen to surround it. Gelasimus, in his forty-ninth year, was distinguished by those who have the rewards of knowledge in their hands, and called out to display his acquisitions for the honour of his country, and add dignity by his presence to philosophical assemblies. As he did not suspect his unfitness for common affairs, he fell no reluctance to obey the invitation, and what he did not feel he had yet too much honesty to feign. He entered into the world as a larger and more populous college, where his performances would be more publick, and his renown farther extended; and imagined that he should find his reputation universally prevalent, and the influence of learning every where the same. His merit introduced him to splendid tables and elegant acquaintance; but he did not find himself always qualified to join in the conversation. He was distressed by civilities, which he knew not how to repay, and entangled in many ceremonial perplexities, from which his books and diagrams could not extricate him. He was sometimes unluckily engaged in disputes with ladies, with whom algebraick axioms had no great weight, and saw many whose favour and esteem he could not but desire, to whom he was very little recommended by his theories of the tides, or his approximations to the quadrature of the circle. Gelasimus did not want penetration to discover, that no charm was more generally irresistible than that of easy facetiousness and flowing hilarity. He saw that diversion was more frequently welcome than improvement; that authority and seriousness were rather feared than loved; and that the grave scholar was a kind of imperious ally, hastily dismissed when his assistance was no longer necessary. He came to a sudden resolution of throwing off those cumbrous ornaments of learning which hindered his reception, and commenced a man of wit and jocularity. Utterly unacquainted with every topick of merriment, ignorant of the modes and follies, the vices and virtues of mankind, and unfurnished with any ideas but such as Pappas and Archimedes had given him, he began to silence all inquiries with a jest instead of a solution, extended his face with a grin, which he mistook for a smile, and in the place of scientifick discourse, retailed in a new language, formed between the college and the tavern, the intelligence of the newspaper. Laughter, he knew, was a token of alacrity; and, therefore, whatever he said or heard, he was careful not to fail in that great duty of a wit. If he asked or told the hour of the day, if he complained of heat or cold, stirred the fire, or filled a glass, removed his chair, or snuffed a candle, he always found some occasion to laugh. The jest was indeed a secret to all but himself; but habitual confidence in his own discernment hindered him from suspecting any weakness or mistake. He wondered that his wit was so little understood, but expected that his audience would comprehend it by degrees, and persisted all his life to shew by gross buffoonery, how little the strongest faculties can perform beyond the limits of their own province. No. 180. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1751. [Greek: Taut eidos sophos isthi, mataen d' Epikouron eason Poy to kenon zaetein, kai tines ai monades.] AUTOMEDON. On life, on morals, be thy thoughts employ'd; Leave to the schools their atoms and their void. It is somewhere related by Le Clerc, that a wealthy trader of good understanding, having the common ambition to breed his son a scholar, carried him to an university, resolving to use his own judgment in the choice of a tutor. He had been taught, by whatever intelligence, the nearest way to the heart of an academick, and at his arrival entertained all who came about him with such profusion, that the professors were lured by the smell of his table from their books, and flocked round him with all the cringes of awkward complaisance. This eagerness answered the merchant's purpose: he glutted them with delicacies, and softened them with caresses, till he prevailed upon one after another to open his bosom, and make a discovery of his competitions, jealousies, and resentments. Having thus learned each man's character, partly from himself, and partly from his acquaintances, he resolved to find some other education for his son, and went away convinced, that a scholastick life has no other tendency than to vitiate the morals and contract the understanding: nor would he afterwards hear with patience the praises of the ancient authors, being persuaded that scholars of all ages must have been the same, and that Xenophon and Cicero were professors of some former university, and therefore mean and selfish, ignorant and servile, like those whom he had lately visited and forsaken. Envy, curiosity, and a sense of the imperfection of our present state, incline us to estimate the advantages which are in the possession of others above their real value. Every one must have remarked, what powers and prerogatives the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. A man of science is expected to excel the unlettered and unenlightened even on occasions where literature is of no use, and among weak minds, loses part of his reverence, by discovering no superiority in those parts of life, in which all are unavoidably equal; as when a monarch makes a progress to the remoter provinces, the rustics are said sometimes to wonder that they find him of the same size with themselves. These demands of prejudice and folly can never be satisfied; and therefore many of the imputations which learning suffers from disappointed ignorance, are without reproach. But there are some failures, to which men of study are peculiarly exposed. Every condition has its disadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the most active and diligent intellect, and while science is pursued, other accomplishments are neglected; as a small garrison must leave one part of an extensive fortress naked, when an alarm calls them to another. The learned, however, might generally support their dignity with more success, if they suffered not themselves to be misled by the desire of superfluous attainments. Raphael, in return to Adam's inquiries into the courses of the stars, and the revolutions of heaven, counsels him to withdraw his mind from idle speculations, and employ his faculties upon nearer and more interesting objects, the survey of his own life, the subjection of his passions, the knowledge of duties which must daily be performed, and the detection of dangers which must daily be incurred. This angelick counsel every man of letters should always have before him. He that devotes himself to retired study naturally sinks from omission to forgetfulness of social duties; he must be therefore sometimes awakened and recalled to the general condition of mankind. I am far from any intention to limit curiosity, or confine the labours of learning to arts of immediate and necessary use. It is only from the various essays of experimental industry, and the vague excursions of minds sent out upon discovery, that any advancement of knowledge can be expected; and, though many must be disappointed in their labours, yet they are not to be charged with having spent their time in vain; their example contributed to inspire emulation, and their miscarriages taught others the way to success. But the distant hope of being one day useful or eminent, ought not to mislead us too far from that study which is equally requisite to the great and mean, to the celebrated and obscure; the art of moderating the desires, of repressing the appetites, and of conciliating or retaining the favour of mankind. No man can imagine the course of his own life, or the conduct of the world around him, unworthy his attention; yet, among the sons of learning, many seem to have thought of every thing rather than of themselves, and to have observed every thing but what passes before their eyes: many who toil through the intricacy of complicated systems, are insuperably embarrassed with the least perplexity in common affairs; many who compare the actions, and ascertain the characters of ancient heroes, let their own days glide away without examination, and suffer vicious habits to encroach upon their minds without resistance or detection. The most frequent reproach of the scholastick race is the want of fortitude, not martial but philosophick. Men bred in shades and silence, taught to immure themselves at sunset, and accustomed to no other weapon than syllogism, may be allowed to feel terrour at personal danger, and to be disconcerted by tumult and alarm. But why should he whose life is spent in contemplation, and whose business is only to discover truth, be unable to rectify the fallacies of imagination, or contend successfully against prejudice and passion? To what end has he read and meditated, if he gives up his understanding to false appearances, and suffers himself to be enslaved by fear of evils to which only folly or vanity can expose him, or elated by advantages to which, as they are equally conferred upon the good and bad, no real dignity is annexed. Such, however, is the state of the world, that the most obsequious of the slaves of pride, the most rapturous of the gazers upon wealth, the most officious of the whisperers of greatness, are collected from seminaries appropriated to the study of wisdom and of virtue, where it was intended that appetite should learn to be content with little, and that hope should aspire only to honours which no human power can give or take away[j]. The student, when he comes forth into the world, instead of congratulating himself upon his exemption from the errours of those whose opinions have been formed by accident or custom, and who live without any certain principles of conduct, is commonly in haste to mingle with the multitude, and shew his sprightliness and ductility by an expeditious compliance with fashions or vices. The first smile of a man, whose fortune gives him power to reward his dependants, commonly enchants him beyond resistance; the glare of equipage, the sweets of luxury, the liberality of general promises, the softness of habitual affability, fill his imagination; and he soon ceases to have any other wish than to be well received, or any measure of right and wrong but the opinion of his patron. A man flattered and obeyed, learns to exact grosser adulation, and enjoin lower submission. Neither our virtues nor vices are all our own. If there were no cowardice, there would be little insolence; pride cannot rise to any great degree, but by the concurrence of blandishment or the sufferance of tameness. The wretch who would shrink and crouch before one that should dart his eyes upon him with the spirit of natural equality, becomes capricious and tyrannical when he sees himself approached with a downcast look, and hears the soft address of awe and servility. To those who are willing to purchase favour by cringes and compliance, is to be imputed the haughtiness that leaves nothing to be hoped by firmness and integrity. If, instead of wandering after the meteors of philosophy, which fill the world with splendour for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the candidates of learning fixed their eyes upon the permanent lustre of moral and religious truth, they would find a more certain direction to happiness. A little plausibility of discourse, and acquaintance with unnecessary speculations, is dearly purchased, when it excludes those instructions which fortify the heart with resolution, and exalt the spirit to independence. [Footnote j: "Such are a sort of sacrilegious ministers in the temple of intellect. They profane its shew-bread to pamper the palate, its everlasting lamp they use to light unholy fires within their breast, and show them the way to the sensual chambers of sense and worldliness." IRVING.] No. 181. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1751. _--Neu fluitem dubue spe pendulus horae_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xviii. 110. Nor let me float in fortune's pow'r, Dependent on the future hour. FRANCIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, As I have passed much of my life in disquiet and suspense, and lost many opportunities of advantage by a passion which I have reason to believe prevalent in different degrees over a great part of mankind, I cannot but think myself well qualified to warn those who are yet uncaptivated, of the danger which they incur by placing themselves within its influence. I served an apprenticeship to a linen-draper, with uncommon reputation for diligence and fidelity; and at the age of three-and-twenty opened a shop for myself with a large stock, and such credit among all the merchants, who were acquainted with my master, that I could command whatever was imported curious or valuable. For five years I proceeded with success proportionate to close application and untainted integrity; was a daring bidder at every sale; always paid my notes before they were due; and advanced so fast in commercial reputation, that I was proverbially marked out as the model of young traders, and every one expected that a few years would make me an alderman. In this course of even prosperity, I was one day persuaded to buy a ticket in the lottery. The sum was inconsiderable, part was to be repaid though fortune might fail to favour me, and therefore my established maxims of frugality did not restrain me from so trifling an experiment. The ticket lay almost forgotten till the time at which every man's fate was to be determined; nor did the affair even then seem of any importance, till I discovered by the publick papers that the number next to mine had conferred the great prize. My heart leaped at the thought of such an approach to sudden riches, which I considered myself, however contrarily to the laws of computation, as having missed by a single chance; and I could not forbear to revolve the consequences which such a bounteous allotment would have produced, if it had happened to me. This dream of felicity, by degrees, took possession of my imagination. The great delight of my solitary hours was to purchase an estate, and form plantations with money which once might have been mine, and I never met my friends but I spoiled all their merriment by perpetual complaints of my ill luck. At length another lottery was opened, and I had now so heated my imagination with the prospect of a prize, that I should have pressed among the first purchasers, had not my ardour been withheld by deliberation upon the probability of success from one ticket rather than another. I hesitated long between even and odd; considered the square and cubick numbers through the lottery; examined all those to which good luck had been hitherto annexed; and at last fixed upon one, which, by some secret relation to the events of my life, I thought predestined to make me happy. Delay in great affairs is often mischievous; the ticket was sold, and its possessor could not be found. I returned to my conjectures, and after many arts of prognostication, fixed upon another chance, but with less confidence. Never did captive, heir, or lover, feel so much vexation from the slow pace of time, as I suffered between the purchase of my ticket and the distribution of the prizes. I solaced my uneasiness as well as I could, by frequent contemplation of approaching happiness; when the sun rose I knew it would set, and congratulated myself at night that I was so much nearer to my wishes. At last the day came, my ticket appeared, and rewarded all my care and sagacity with a despicable prize of fifty pounds. My friends, who honestly rejoiced upon my success, were very coldly received; I hid myself a fortnight in the country, that my chagrin might fume away without observation, and then returning to my shop, began to listen after another lottery. With the news of a lottery I was soon gratified, and having now found the vanity of conjecture, and inefficacy of computation, I resolved to take the prize by violence, and therefore bought forty tickets, not omitting, however, to divide them between the even and odd numbers, that I might not miss the lucky class. Many conclusions did I form, and many experiments did I try, to determine from which of those tickets I might most reasonably expect riches. At last, being unable to satisfy myself by any modes of reasoning, I wrote the numbers upon dice, and allotted five hours every day to the amusement of throwing them in a garret; and, examining the event by an exact register, found, on the evening before the lottery was drawn, that one of my numbers had been turned up five times more than any of the rest in three hundred and thirty thousand throws. This experiment was fallacious; the first day presented the hopeful ticket, a detestable blank. The rest came out with different fortune, and in conclusion I lost thirty pounds by this great adventure. I had now wholly changed the cast of my behaviour and the conduct of my life. The shop was for the most part abandoned to my servants, and if I entered it, my thoughts were so engrossed by my tickets, that I scarcely heard or answered a question, but considered every customer as an intruder upon my meditations, whom I was in haste to despatch. I mistook the price of my goods, committed blunders in my bills, forgot to file my receipts, and neglected to regulate my books. My acquaintances by degrees began to fall away; but I perceived the decline of my business with little emotion, because whatever deficience there might be in my gains, I expected the next lottery to supply. Miscarriage naturally produces diffidence; I began now to seek assistance against ill luck, by an alliance with those that had been more successful. I inquired diligently at what office any prize had been sold, that I might purchase of a propitious vender; solicited those who had been fortunate in former lotteries, to partake with me in my new tickets; and whenever I met with one that had in any event of his life been eminently prosperous, I invited him to take a larger share. I had, by this rule of conduct, so diffused my interest, that I had a fourth part of fifteen tickets, an eighth of forty, and a sixteenth of ninety. I waited for the decision of my fate with my former palpitations, and looked upon the business of my trade with the usual neglect. The wheel at last was turned, and its revolutions brought me a long succession of sorrows and disappointments. I indeed often partook of a small prize, and the loss of one day was generally balanced by the gain of the next; but my desires yet remained unsatisfied, and when one of my chances had failed, all my expectation was suspended on those which remained yet undetermined. At last a prize of five thousand pounds was proclaimed; I caught fire at the cry, and inquiring the number, found it to be one of my own tickets, which I had divided among those on whose luck I depended, and of which I had retained only a sixteenth part. You will easily judge with what detestation of himself, a man thus intent upon gain reflected that he had sold a prize which was once in his possession. It was to no purpose, that I represented to my mind the impossibility of recalling the past, or the folly of condemning an act, which only its event, an event which no human intelligence could foresee, proved to be wrong. The prize which, though put in my hands, had been suffered to slip from me, filled me with anguish, and knowing that complaint would only expose me to ridicule, I gave myself up silently to grief, and lost by degrees my appetite and my rest. My indisposition soon became visible; I was visited by my friends, and among them by Eumathes, a clergyman, whose piety and learning gave him such an ascendant over me, that I could not refuse to open my heart. There are, said he, few minds sufficiently firm to be trusted in the hands of chance. Whoever finds himself inclined to anticipate futurity, and exalt possibility to certainty, should avoid every kind of casual adventure, since his grief must be always proportionate to his hope. You have long wasted that time, which, by a proper application, would have certainly, though moderately, increased your fortune, in a laborious and anxious pursuit of a species of gain, which no labour or anxiety, no art or expedient, can secure or promote. You are now fretting away your life in repentance of an act, against which repentance can give no caution, but to avoid the occasion of committing it. Rouse from this lazy dream of fortuitous riches, which, if obtained, you could scarcely have enjoyed, because they could confer no consciousness of desert; return to rational and manly industry, and consider the mere gift of luck as below the care of a wise man. No. 182. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1751. _--Dives qui fieri vult, Et cilo vult fieri.--_ JUV. Sat. xiv. 176 The lust of wealth can never bear delay. It has been observed in a late paper, that we are unreasonably desirous to separate the goods of life from those evils which Providence has connected with them, and to catch advantages without paying the price at which they are offered us. Every man wishes to be rich, but very few have the powers necessary to raise a sudden fortune, either by new discoveries, or by superiority of skill, in any necessary employment; and among lower understandings, many want the firmness and industry requisite to regular gain and gradual acquisitions. From the hope of enjoying affluence by methods more compendious than those of labour, and more generally practicable than those of genius, proceeds the common inclination to experiment and hazard, and that willingness to snatch all opportunities of growing rich by chance, which, when it has once taken possession of the mind, is seldom driven out either by time or argument, but continues to waste life in perpetual delusion, and generally ends in wretchedness and want. The folly of untimely exultation and visionary prosperity, is by no means peculiar to the purchasers of tickets; there are multitudes whose life is nothing but a continual lottery; who are always within a few months of plenty and happiness, and how often soever they are mocked with blanks, expect a prize from the next adventure. Among the most resolute and ardent of the votaries of chance, may be numbered the mortals whose hope is to raise themselves by a wealthy match; who lay out all their industry on the assiduities of courtship, and sleep and wake with no other ideas than of treats, compliments, guardians and rivals. One of the most indefatigable of this class, is my old friend Leviculus, whom I have never known for thirty years without some matrimonial project of advantage. Leviculus was bred under a merchant, and by the graces of his person, the sprightliness of his prattle, and the neatness of his dress, so much enamoured his master's second daughter, a girl of sixteen, that she declared her resolution to have no other husband. Her father, after having chidden her for undutifulness, consented to the match, not much to the satisfaction of Leviculus, who was sufficiently elated with his conquest to think himself entitled to a larger fortune. He was, however, soon rid of his perplexity, for his mistress died before their marriage. He was now so well satisfied with his own accomplishments, that he determined to commence fortune-hunter; and when his apprenticeship expired, instead of beginning, as was expected, to walk the Exchange with a face of importance, or associating himself with those who were most eminent for their knowledge of the stocks, he at once threw off the solemnity of the counting-house, equipped himself with a modish wig, listened to wits in coffee-houses, passed his evenings behind the scenes in the theatres, learned the names of beauties of quality, hummed the last stanzas of fashionable songs, talked with familiarity of high play, boasted of his achievements upon drawers and coachmen, was often brought to his lodgings at midnight in a chair, told with negligence and jocularity of bilking a tailor, and now and then let fly a shrewd jest at a sober citizen. Thus furnished with irresistible artillery, he turned his batteries upon the female world, and, in the first warmth of self-approbation, proposed no less than the possession of riches and beauty united. He therefore paid his civilities to Flavilla, the only daughter of a wealthy shop-keeper, who not being accustomed to amorous blandishments, or respectful addresses, was delighted with the novelty of love, and easily suffered him to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where she visited. Leviculus did not doubt but her father, however offended by a clandestine marriage, would soon be reconciled by the tears of his daughter, and the merit of his son-in-law, and was in haste to conclude the affair. But the lady liked better to be courted than married, and kept him three years in uncertainty and attendance. At last she fell in love with a young ensign at a ball, and having danced with him all night, married him in the morning. Leviculus, to avoid the ridicule of his companions, took a journey to a small estate in the country, where, after his usual inquiries concerning the nymphs in the neighbourhood, he found it proper to fall in love with Altilia, a maiden lady, twenty years older than himself, for whose favour fifteen nephews and nieces were in perpetual contention. They hovered round her with such jealous officiousness, as scarcely left a moment vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheless, discovered his passion in a letter, and Altilia could not withstand the pleasure of hearing vows and sighs, and flatteries and protestations. She admitted his visits, enjoyed for five years the happiness of keeping all her expectants in perpetual alarms, and amused herself with the various stratagems which were practised to disengage her affections. Sometimes she was advised with great earnestness to travel for her health, and sometimes entreated to keep her brother's house. Many stories were spread to the disadvantage of Leviculus, by which she commonly seemed affected for a time, but took care soon afterwards to express her conviction of their falsehood. But being at last satiated with this ludicrous tyranny, she told her lover, when he pressed for the reward of his services, that she was very sensible of his merit, but was resolved not to impoverish an ancient family. He then returned to the town, and soon after his arrival, became acquainted with Latronia, a lady distinguished by the elegance of her equipage, and the regularity of her conduct. Her wealth was evident in her magnificence, and her prudence in her economy, and therefore Leviculus, who had scarcely confidence to solicit her favour, readily acquitted fortune of her former debts, when he found himself distinguished by her with such marks of preference as a woman of modesty is allowed to give. He now grew bolder, and ventured to breathe out his impatience before her. She heard him without resentment, in time permitted him to hope for happiness, and at last fixed the nuptial day, without any distrustful reserve of pin-money, or sordid stipulations for jointure, and settlements. Leviculus was triumphing on the eve of marriage, when he heard on the stairs the voice of Latronia's maid, whom frequent bribes had secured in his service. She soon burst into his room, and told him that she could not suffer him to be longer deceived; that her mistress was now spending the last payment of her fortune, and was only supported in her expense by the credit of his estate. Leviculus shuddered to see himself so near a precipice, and found that he was indebted for his escape to the resentment of the maid, who having assisted Latronia to gain the conquest, quarrelled with her at last about the plunder. Leviculus was now hopeless and disconsolate, till one Sunday he saw a lady in the Mall, whom her dress declared a widow, and whom, by the jolting prance of her gait, and the broad resplendence of her countenance, he guessed to have lately buried some prosperous citizen. He followed her home, and found her to be no less than the relict of Prune the grocer, who, having no children, had bequeathed to her all his debts and dues, and his estates real and personal. No formality was necessary in addressing madam Prune, and therefore Leviculus went next morning without an introductor. His declaration was received with a loud laugh; she then collected her countenance, wondered at his impudence, asked if he knew to whom he was talking, then shewed him the door, and again laughed to find him confused. Leviculus discovered that this coarseness was nothing more than the coquetry of Cornhill, and next day returned to the attack. He soon grew familiar to her dialect, and in a few weeks heard, without any emotion, hints of gay clothes with empty pockets; concurred in many sage remarks on the regard due to people of property; and agreed with her in detestation of the ladies at the other end of the town, who pinched their bellies to buy fine laces, and then pretended to laugh at the city. He sometimes presumed to mention marriage; but was always answered with a slap, a hoot, and a flounce. At last he began to press her closer, and thought himself more favourably received; but going one morning, with a resolution to trifle no longer, he found her gone to church with a young journeyman from the neighbouring shop, of whom she had become enamoured at her window. In these, and a thousand intermediate adventures, has Leviculus spent his time, till he is now grown grey with age, fatigue, and disappointment. He begins at last to find that success is not to be expected, and being unfit for any employment that might improve his fortune, and unfurnished with any arts that might amuse his leisure, is condemned to wear out a tasteless life in narratives which few will hear, and complaints which none will pity. No. 183. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1751. _Nidla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas Impatiens consortis erit_. LUCAN. Lib. i. 92. No faith of partnership dominion owns; Still discord hovers o'er divided thrones. The hostility perpetually exercised between one man and another, is caused by the desire of many for that which only few can possess. Every man would be rich, powerful, and famous; yet fame, power, and riches are only the names of relative conditions, which imply the obscurity, dependance, and poverty of greater numbers. This universal and incessant competition produces injury and malice by two motives, interest and envy; the prospect of adding to our possessions what we can take from others, and the hope of alleviating the sense of our disparity by lessening others, though we gain nothing to ourselves. Of these two malignant and destructive powers, it seems probable at the first view, that interest has the strongest and most extensive influence. It is easy to conceive that opportunities to seize what has been long wanted, may excite desires almost irresistible; but surely the same eagerness cannot be kindled by an accidental power of destroying that which gives happiness to another. It must be more natural to rob for gain, than to ravage only for mischief. Yet I am inclined to believe, that the great law of mutual benevolence is oftener violated by envy than by interest, and that most of the misery which the defamation of blameless actions, or the obstruction of honest endeavours, brings upon the world, is inflicted by men that propose no advantage to themselves but the satisfaction of poisoning the banquet which they cannot taste, and blasting the harvest which they have no right to reap. Interest can diffuse itself but to a narrow compass. The number is never large of those who can hope to fill the posts of degraded power, catch the fragments of shattered fortune, or succeed to the honours of depreciated beauty. But the empire of envy has no limits, as it requires to its influence very little help from external circumstances. Envy may always be produced by idleness and pride, and in what place will they not be found? Interest requires some qualities not universally bestowed. The ruin of another will produce no profit to him who has not discernment to mark his advantage, courage to seize, and activity to pursue it; but the cold malignity of envy may be exerted in a torpid and quiescent state, amidst the gloom of stupidity, in the coverts of cowardice. He that falls by the attacks of interest, is torn by hungry tigers; he may discover and resist his enemies. He that perishes in the ambushes of envy, is destroyed by unknown and invisible assailants, and dies like a man suffocated by a poisonous vapour, without knowledge of his danger, or possibility of contest. Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain much, has commonly something to lose, and when he ventures to attack superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrecoverably crushed. But envy may act without expense or danger. To spread suspicion, to invent calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither labour nor courage. It is easy for the author of a lie, however malignant, to escape detection, and infamy needs very little industry to assist its circulation. Envy is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in every place; the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of irritation: its effects therefore are every where discoverable, and its attempts always to be dreaded. It is impossible to mention a name which any advantageous distinction has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy trader, however he may abstract himself from publick affairs, will never want those who hint, with Shylock, that ships are but boards. The beauty, adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of detraction. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain or instruct, yet suffers persecution from innumerable criticks, whose acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased, and of hearing applauses which another enjoys. The frequency of envy makes it so familiar, that it escapes our notice; nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice, but by attempting to excel, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he never saw, with all the implacability of personal resentment; when he perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a publick enemy, and incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes of his family, or the follies of his youth, exposed to the world; and every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed; he then learns to abhor those artifices at which he only laughed before, and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the eradication of envy from the human heart. Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations, which, if carefully implanted and diligently propagated, might in time overpower and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation. It is above all other vices inconsistent with the character of a social being, because it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that plunders a wealthy neighbour gains as much as he takes away, and may improve his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained. I have hitherto avoided that dangerous and empirical morality, which cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable, so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almost any other quality is to be preferred. It is one of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may honestly be used. Let it therefore be constantly remembered, that whoever envies another, confesses his superiority, and let those be reformed by their pride who have lost their virtue. It is no slight aggravation of the injuries which envy incites, that they are committed against those who have given no intentional provocation; and that the sufferer is often marked out for ruin, not because he has failed in any duty, but because he has dared to do more than was required. Almost every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but envy is mere unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one should aspire to heroism or sanctity, but only that he should resolve not to quit the rank which nature assigns him, and wish to maintain the dignity of a human being. No. 184. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1751. _Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus, quid Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris_. JUV. Sat. x. 347. Intrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above; Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant What their unerring wisdom sees thee want. DRYDEN. As every scheme of life, so every form of writing, has its advantages and inconveniencies, though not mingled in the same proportions. The writer of essays escapes many embarrassments to which a large work would have exposed him; he seldom harasses his reason with long trains of consequences, dims his eyes with the perusal of antiquated volumes, or burthens his memory with great accumulations of preparatory knowledge. A careless glance upon a favourite author, or transient survey of the varieties of life, is sufficient to supply the first hint or seminal idea, which, enlarged by the gradual accretion of matter stored in the mind, is by the warmth of fancy easily expanded into flowers, and sometimes ripened into fruit. The most frequent difficulty by which the authors of these petty compositions are distressed, arises from the perpetual demand of novelty and change. The compiler of a system of science lays his invention at rest, and employs only his judgment, the faculty exerted with least fatigue. Even the relator of feigned adventures, when once the principal characters are established, and the great events regularly connected, finds incidents and episodes crowding upon his mind; every change opens new views, and the latter part of the story grows without labour out of the former. But he that attempts to entertain his reader with unconnected pieces, finds the irksomeness of his task rather increased than lessened by every production. The day calls afresh upon him for a new topick, and he is again obliged to choose, without any principle to regulate his choice. It is indeed true, that there is seldom any necessity of looking far, or inquiring long for a proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature, every publick blessing or calamity, every domestick pain or gratification, every sally of caprice, blunder of absurdity, or stratagem of affectation, may supply matter to him whose only rule is to avoid uniformity. But it often happens, that the judgment is distracted with boundless multiplicity, the imagination ranges from one design to another, and the hours pass imperceptibly away, till the composition can be no longer delayed, and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts which then happen to be at hand. The mind, rejoicing at deliverance on any terms from perplexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously to the work before her, collects embellishments and illustrations, and sometimes finishes, with great elegance and happiness, what in a state of ease and leisure she never had begun. It is not commonly observed, how much, even of actions, considered as particularly subject to choice, is to be attributed to accident, or some cause out of our own power, by whatever name it be distinguished. To close tedious deliberations with hasty resolves, and after long consultations with reason to refer the question to caprice, is by no means peculiar to the essayist. Let him that peruses this paper review the series of his life, and inquire how he was placed in his present condition. He will find, that of the good or ill which he has experienced, a great part came unexpected, without any visible gradations of approach; that every event has been influenced by causes acting without his intervention; and that whenever he pretended to the prerogative of foresight, he was mortified with new conviction of the shortness of his views. The busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the adventurous, may be said to throw themselves by design into the arms of fortune, and voluntarily to quit the power of governing themselves; they engage in a course of life in which little can be ascertained by previous measures; nor is it any wonder that their time is passed between elation and despondency, hope and disappointment. Some there are who appear to walk the road of life with more circumspection, and make no step till they think themselves secure from the hazard of a precipice, when neither pleasure nor profit can tempt them from the beaten path; who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or to run lest they should stumble, and move slowly forward without any compliance with those passions by which the heady and vehement are seduced and betrayed. Yet even the timorous prudence of this judicious class is far from exempting them from the dominion of chance, a subtle and insidious power, who will intrude upon privacy and embarrass caution. No course of life is so prescribed and limited, but that many actions must result from arbitrary election. Every one must form the general plan of his conduct by his own reflections; he must resolve whether he will endeavour at riches or at content; whether he will exercise private or publick virtues; whether he will labour for the general benefit of mankind, or contract his beneficence to his family and dependants. This question has long exercised the schools of philosophy, but remains yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted with the arguments on either side, should determine his own destiny otherwise than by chance? When chance has given him a partner of his bed, whom he prefers to all other women, without any proof of superior desert, chance must again direct him in the education of his children; for, who was ever able to convince himself by arguments, that he had chosen for his son that mode of instruction to which his understanding was best adapted, or by which he would most easily be made wise or virtuous? Whoever shall inquire by what motives he was determined on these important occasions, will find them such as his pride will scarcely suffer him to confess; some sudden ardour of desire, some uncertain glimpse of advantage, some petty competition, some inaccurate conclusion, or some example implicitly reverenced. Such are often the first causes of our resolves; for it is necessary to act, but impossible to know the consequences of action, or to discuss all the reasons which offer themselves on every part to inquisitiveness and solicitude. Since life itself is uncertain, nothing which has life for its basis can boast much stability. Yet this is but a small part of our perplexity. We set out on a tempestuous sea in quest of some port, where we expect to find rest, but where we are not sure of admission, we are not only in danger of sinking in the way, but of being misled by meteors mistaken for stars, of being driven from our course by the changes of the wind, and of losing it by unskilful steerage; yet it sometimes happens, that cross winds blow us to a safer coast, that meteors draw us aside from whirlpools, and that negligence or errour contributes to our escape from mischiefs to which a direct course would have exposed us. Of those that, by precipitate conclusions, involve themselves in calamities without guilt, very few, however they may reproach themselves, can be certain that other measures would have been more successful. In this state of universal uncertainty, where a thousand dangers hover about us, and none can tell whether the good that he pursues is not evil in disguise, or whether the next step will lead him to safety or destruction, nothing can afford any rational tranquillity, but the conviction that, however we amuse ourselves with unideal sounds, nothing in reality is governed by chance, but that the universe is under the perpetual superintendance of Him who created it; that our being is in the hands of omnipotent Goodness, by whom what appears casual to us, is directed for ends ultimately kind and merciful; and that nothing can finally hurt him who debars not himself from the Divine favour. No. 185. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1751. _At vindicta bonum vita jucundius ipsa, Nempe hoc indocti.-- Chrysippus non dicet idem, nec mite Thaletis Ingenium, dulcique senex vicinus Hymetto, Qui partem adceptæ sæva inter vincla Cicutæ Adcusatori nollet dare.-- --Quippe minuti Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas Ultio_. JUV. Sat. xiii. 180. _But O! revenge is sweet_. Thus think the crowd; who, eager to engage, Take quickly fire, and kindle into rage. Not so mild Thales nor Chrysippus thought, Nor that good man, who drank the poisonous draught. With mind serene; and could not wish to see His vile accuser drink as deep as he: Exalted Socrates! divinely brave! Injur'd he fell, and dying he forgave! Too noble for revenge; which still we find The weakest frailty of a feeble mind. DRYDEN. No vicious dispositions of the mind more obstinately resist both the counsels of philosophy and the injunctions of religion, than those which are complicated with an opinion of dignity; and which we cannot dismiss without leaving in the hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously obtained, or suffering from our own prejudices some imputation of pusillanimity. For this reason scarcely any law of our Redeemer is more openly transgressed, or more industriously evaded, than that by which he commands his followers to forgive injuries, and prohibits, under the sanction of eternal misery, the gratification of the desire which every man feels to return pain upon him that inflicts it. Many who could have conquered their anger, are unable to combat pride, and pursue offences to extremity of vengeance, lest they should be insulted by the triumph of an enemy. But certainly no precept could better become him, at whose birth _peace_ was proclaimed _to the earth_. For, what would so soon destroy all the order of society, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a permission to every one to judge his own cause, and to apportion his own recompense for imagined injuries? It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour himself too much, in the calmest moments of solitary meditation. Every one wishes for the distinctions for which thousands are wishing at the same time, in their own opinion, with better claims. He that, when his reason operates in its full force, can thus, by the mere prevalence of self-love, prefer himself to his fellow-beings, is very unlikely to judge equitably when his passions are agitated by a sense of wrong, and his attention wholly engrossed by pain, interest, or danger. Whoever arrogates, to himself the right of vengeance, shews how little he is qualified to decide his own claims, since he certainly demands what he would think unfit to be granted to another. Nothing is more apparent than that, however injured, or however provoked, some must at last be contented to forgive. For it can never be hoped, that he who first commits an injury, will contentedly acquiesce in the penalty required: the same haughtiness of contempt, or vehemence of desire, that prompt the act of injustice, will more strongly incite its justification; and resentment can never so exactly balance the punishment with the fault, but there will remain an overplus of vengeance which even he who condemns his first action will think himself entitled to retaliate. What then can ensue but a continual exacerbation of hatred, an unextinguishable feud, an incessant reciprocation of mischief, a mutual vigilance to entrap, and eagerness to destroy. Since then the imaginary right of vengeance must be at last remitted, because it is impossible to live in perpetual hostility, and equally impossible that of two enemies, either should first think himself obliged by justice to submission, it is surely eligible to forgive early. Every passion is more easily subdued before it has been long accustomed to possession of the heart; every idea is obliterated with less difficulty, as it has been more slightly impressed, and less frequently renewed. He who has often brooded over his wrongs, pleased himself with schemes of malignity, and glutted his pride with the fancied supplications of humbled enmity, will not easily open his bosom to amity and reconciliation, or indulge the gentle sentiments of benevolence and peace. It is easiest to forgive, while there is yet little to be forgiven. A single injury may be soon dismissed from the memory; but a long succession of ill offices by degrees associates itself with every idea; a long contest involves so many circumstances, that every place and action will recall it to the mind, and fresh remembrance of vexation must still enkindle rage, and irritate revenge. A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom of malice, and perturbations of stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is an union of sorrow with malignity, a combination of a passion which all endeavour to avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin; whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness of prosperity, nor the calm of innocence. Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger of errour and of guilt; which we are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. From this pacifick and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and ourselves, to domestick tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary, or despised by the world. It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that "all pride is abject and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants. Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way to any thing but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice, or overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives. The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive, is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or advantage; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; an habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men, of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they never have examined; and whose sentence is therefore of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own conscience. He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these, at the price of his innocence; he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal Sovereign, has little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly. Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this great duty eternity is suspended, and to him that refuses to practise it, the Throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has been born in vain. No. 186. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1751. _Pone me, pigris ubi nulla campis Arbor æstica recreatur aurâ-- Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, Dulce loquentem_. HOR. Lib. i. Ode xxii. 17. Place me where never summer breeze Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees; Where ever lowering clouds appear, And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year: Love and the nymph shall charm my toils, The nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles. FRANCIS. Of the happiness and misery of our present state, part arises from our sensations, and part from our opinions; part is distributed by nature, and part is in a great measure apportioned by ourselves. Positive pleasure we cannot always obtain, and positive pain we often cannot remove. No man can give to his own plantations the fragrance of the Indian groves; nor will any precepts of philosophy enable him to withdraw his attention from wounds or diseases. But the negative infelicity which proceeds, not from the pressure of sufferings, but the absence of enjoyments, will always yield to the remedies of reason. One of the great arts of escaping superfluous uneasiness, is to free our minds from the habit of comparing our condition with that of others on whom the blessings of life are more bountifully bestowed, or with imaginary states of delight and security, perhaps unattainable by mortals. Few are placed in a situation so gloomy and distressful, as not to see every day beings yet more forlorn and miserable, from whom they may learn to rejoice in their own lot. No inconvenience is less superable by art or diligence than the inclemency of climates, and therefore none affords more proper exercise for this philosophical abstraction. A native of England, pinched with the frosts of December, may lessen his affection for his own country by suffering his imagination to wander in the vales of Asia, and sport among the woods that are always green, and streams that always murmur; but if he turns his thought towards the polar regions, and considers the nations to whom a great portion of the year is darkness, and who are condemned to pass weeks and months amidst mountains of snow, he will soon recover his tranquillity, and, while he stirs his fire, or throws his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes to Providence, that he is not placed in Greenland or Siberia. The barrenness of the earth and the severity of the skies in these dreary countries, are such as might be expected to confine the mind wholly to the contemplation of necessity and distress, so that the care of escaping death from cold and hunger, should leave no room for those passions which, in lands of plenty, influence conduct, or diversify characters; the summer should be spent only in providing for the winter, and the winter in longing for the summer. Yet learned curiosity is known to have found its way into these abodes of poverty and gloom: Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their criticks, and their poets; and love, that extends his dominion wherever humanity can be found, perhaps exerts the same power in the Greenlander's hut as in the palaces of eastern monarchs. In one of the large caves to which the families of Greenland retire together, to pass the cold months, and which may be termed their villages or cities, a youth and maid, who came from different parts of the country, were so much distinguished for their beauty, that they were called by the rest of the inhabitants Anningait and Ajut, from a supposed resemblance to their ancestors of the same names, who had been transformed of old into the sun and moon. Anningait for some time heard the praises of Ajut with little emotion, but at last, by frequent interviews, became sensible of her charms, and first made a discovery of his affection, by inviting her with her parents to a feast, where he placed before Ajut the tail of a whale. Ajut seemed not much delighted by this gallantry; yet, however, from that time was observed rarely to appear, but in a vest made of the skin of a white deer; she used frequently to renew the black dye upon her hands and forehead, to adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to braid her hair with great exactness. The elegance of her dress, and the judicious disposition of her ornaments, had such an effect upon Anningait, that he could no longer be restrained from a declaration of his love. He therefore composed a poem in her praise, in which, among other heroick and tender sentiments, he protested, that "she was beautiful as the vernal willow, and fragrant as the thyme upon the mountains; that her fingers were white as the teeth of the morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolution of the ice; that he would pursue her, though she should pass the snows of the midland cliffs, or seek shelter in the caves of the eastern cannibals: that he would tear her from the embraces of the genius of the rocks, snatch her from the paws of Amarock, and rescue her from the ravine of Hafgufa." He concluded with a wish, that "whoever shall attempt to hinder his union with Ajut, might be buried without his bow, and that, in the land of souls, his skull might serve for no other use than to catch the droppings of the starry lamps." This ode being universally applauded, it was expected that Ajut would soon yield to such fervour and accomplishments; but Ajut, with the natural haughtiness of beauty, expected all the forms of courtship; and before she would confess herself conquered, the sun returned, the ice broke, and the season of labour called all to their employments. Anningait and Ajut for a time always went out in the same boat, and divided whatever was caught. Anningait, in the sight of his mistress, lost no opportunity of signalizing his courage: he attacked the sea-horses on the ice; pursued the seals into the water, and leaped upon the back of the whale, while he was yet struggling with the remains of life. Nor was his diligence less to accumulate all that could be necessary to make winter comfortable: he dried the roe of fishes and the flesh of seals; he entrapped deer and foxes, and dressed their skins to adorn his bride; he feasted her with eggs from the rocks, and strewed her tent with flowers. It happened that a tempest drove the fish to a distant part of the coast, before Anningait had completed his store; he therefore entreated Ajut, that she would at last grant him her hand, and accompany him to that part of the country whither he was now summoned by necessity. Ajut thought him not yet entitled to such condescension, but proposed, as a trial of his constancy, that he should return at the end of summer to the cavern where their acquaintance commenced, and there expect the reward of his assiduities. "O virgin, beautiful as the sun shining on the water, consider," said Anningait, "what thou hast required. How easily may my return be precluded by a sudden frost or unexpected fogs! then must the night be passed without my Ajut. We live not, my fair, in those fabled countries, which lying strangers so wantonly describe; where the whole year is divided into short days and nights; where the same habitation serves for summer and winter; where they raise houses in rows above the ground, dwell together from year to year, with flocks of tame animals grazing in the fields about them; can travel at any time from one place to another, through ways inclosed with trees, or over walls raised upon the inland waters; and direct their course through wide countries by the sight of green hills or scattered buildings. Even in summer we have no means of crossing the mountains, whose snows are never dissolved; nor can remove to any distant residence, but in our boats coasting the bays. Consider, Ajut, a few summer-days, and a few winter-nights, and the life of man is at an end. Night is the time of ease and festivity, of revels and gaiety; but what will be the flaming lamp, the delicious seal, or the soft oil, without the smile of Ajut?" The eloquence of Anningait was vain; the maid continued inexorable, and they parted with ardent promises to meet again before the night of winter. No. 187. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1751. _Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores; Non si frigoribus mediis Hebrunique bibamus, Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae:-- Ominia vincit amor. Vinc. Ec. x. 64_. Love alters not for us his hard decrees, Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze, Or the mild bliss of temperate skies forego, And in raid winter tread Sithonian snow:-- Love conquers all.--DRYDEN. Anningait, however discomposed by the dilatory coyness of Ajut, was yet resolved to omit no tokens of amorous respect; and therefore presented her at his departure with the skins of seven white fawns, of five swans and eleven seals, with three marble lamps, ten vessels of seal oil, and a large kettle of brass, which he had purchased from a ship, at the price of half a whale, and two horns of sea-unicorns. Ajut was so much affected by the fondness of her lover, or so much overpowered by his magnificence, that she followed him to the sea-side; and, when she saw him enter the boat, wished aloud, that he might return with plenty of skins and oil; that neither the mermaids might snatch him into the deeps, nor the spirits of the rocks confine him in their caverns. She stood a while to gaze upon the departing vessel, and then returning to her hut, silent and dejected, laid aside, from that hour, her white deer skin, suffered her hair to spread unbraided on her shoulders, and forbore to mix in the dances of the maidens. She endeavoured to divert her thoughts, by continual application to feminine employments, gathered moss for the winter lamps, and dried grass to line the boots of Anningait. Of the skins which he had bestowed upon her, she made a fishing-coat, a small boat, and tent, all of exquisite manufacture; and while she was thus busied, solaced her labours with a song, in which she prayed, "that her lover might have hands stronger than the paws of the bear, and feet swifter than the feet of the reindeer; that his dart might never err, and that his boat might never leak; that he might never stumble on the ice, nor faint in the water; that the seal might rush on his harpoon, and the wounded whale might dash the waves in vain." The large boats in which the Greenlanders transport their families, are always rowed by women; for a man will not debase himself by work, which requires neither skill nor courage. Anningait was therefore exposed by idleness to the ravages of passion. He went thrice to the stern of the boat, with an intent to leap into the water, and swim back to his mistress; but, recollecting the misery which they must endure in the winter, without oil for the lamp, or skins for the bed, he resolved to employ the weeks of absence in provision for a night of plenty and felicity. He then composed his emotions as he could, and expressed, in wild numbers and uncouth images, his hopes, his sorrows, and his fears. "O life!" says he, "frail and uncertain! where shall wretched man find thy resemblance, but in ice floating on the ocean? It towers on high, it sparkles from afar, while the storms drive and the waters beat it, the sun melts it above, and the rocks shatter it below. What art thou, deceitful pleasure! but a sudden blaze streaming from the north, which plays a moment on the eye, mocks the traveller with the hopes of light, and then vanishes for ever? What, love, art thou but a whirlpool, which we approach without knowledge of our danger, drawn on by imperceptible degrees, till we have lost all power of resistance and escape? Till I fixed my eyes on the graces of Ajut, while I had not yet called her to the banquet, I was careless as the sleeping morse, was merry as the singers in the stars. Why, Ajut, did I gaze upon thy graces? why, my fair, did I call thee to the banquet? Yet, be faithful, my love, remember Anningait, and meet my return with the smile of virginity. I will chase the deer, I will subdue the whale, resistless as the frost of darkness, and unwearied as the summer sun. In a few weeks I shall return prosperous and wealthy; then shall the roe-fish and the porpoise feast thy kindred; the fox and hare shall cover thy couch; the tough hide of the seal shall shelter thee from cold; and the fat of the whale illuminate thy dwelling." Anningait having with these sentiments consoled his grief, and animated his industry, found that they had now coasted the headland, and saw the whales spouting at a distance. He therefore placed himself in his fishing-boat, called his associates to their several employments, plied his oar and harpoon with incredible courage and dexterity; and, by dividing his time between the chace and fishery, suspended the miseries of absence and suspicion. Ajut, in the mean time, notwithstanding her neglected dress, happened, as she was drying some skins in the sun, to catch the eye of Norngsuk, on his return from hunting. Norngsuk was of birth truly illustrious. His mother had died in child-birth, and his father, the most expert fisher of Greenland, had perished by too close pursuit of the whale. His dignity was equalled by his riches; he was master of four men's and two women's boats, had ninety tubs of oil in his winter habitation, and five-and-twenty seals buried in the snow against the season of darkness. When he saw the beauty of Ajut, he immediately threw over her the skin of a deer that he had taken, and soon after presented her with a branch of coral. Ajut refused his gifts, and determined to admit no lover in the place of Anningait. Norngsuk, thus rejected, had recourse to stratagem. He knew that Ajut would consult an Angekkok, or diviner, concerning the fate of her lover, and the felicity of her future life. He therefore applied himself to the most celebrated Angekkok of that part of the country, and, by a present of two seals and a marble kettle, obtained a promise, that when Ajut should consult him, he would declare that her lover was in the land of souls. Ajut, in a short time, brought him a coat made by herself, and inquired what events were to befall her, with assurances of a much larger reward at the return of Anningait, if the prediction should flatter her desires. The Angekkok knew the way to riches, and foretold that Anningait, having already caught two whales, would soon return home with a large boat laden with provisions. This prognostication she was ordered to keep secret; and Norngsuk depending upon his artifice, renewed his addresses with greater confidence; but finding his suit still unsuccessful, applied himself to her parents with gifts and promises. The wealth of Greenland is too powerful for the virtue of a Greenlander; they forgot the merit and the presents of Anningait, and decreed Ajut to the embraces of Norngsuk. She entreated; she remonstrated; she wept, and raved; but finding riches irresistible, fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon such berries as she could gather, and the birds or hares which she had the fortune to ensnare, taking care, at an hour when she was not likely to be found, to view the sea every day, that her lover might not miss her at his return. At last she saw the great boat in which Anningait had departed, stealing slow and heavy laden along the coast. She ran with all the impatience of affection to catch her lover in her arms, and relate her constancy and sufferings. When the company reached the land, they informed her that Anningait, after the fishery was ended, being unable to support the slow passage of the vessel of carriage, had set out before them in his fishing-boat, and they expected at their arrival to have found him on shore. Ajut, distracted at this intelligence, was about to fly into the hills, without knowing why, though she was now in the hands of her parents, who forced her back to their own hut, and endeavoured to comfort her; but when at last they retired to rest, Ajut went down to the beach; where, finding a fishing-boat, she entered it without hesitation, and telling those who wondered at her rashness, that she was going in search of Anningait, rowed away with great swiftness, and was seen no more. The fate of these lovers gave occasion to various fictions and conjectures. Some are of opinion, that they were changed into stars; others imagine, that Anningait was seized in his passage by the genius of the rocks, and that Ajut was transformed into a mermaid, and still continues to seek her lover in the deserts of the sea. But the general persuasion is, that they are both in that part of the land of souls where the sun never sets, where oil is always fresh, and provisions always warm. The virgins sometimes throw a thimble and a needle into the bay, from which the hapless maid departed; and when a Greenlander would praise any couple for virtuous affection, he declares that they love like Anningait and Ajut. No. 188. SATURDAY, JANUARY 4, 1751. --_Si te colo, Sexte, non amabo_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lv. 33. The more I honour thee, the less I love. None of the desires dictated by vanity is more general, or less blamable, than that of being distinguished for the arts of conversation. Other accomplishments may be possessed without opportunity of exerting them, or wanted without danger that the defect can often be remarked; but as no man can live, otherwise than in an hermitage, without hourly pleasure or vexation, from the fondness or neglect of those about him, the faculty of giving pleasure is of continual use. Few are more frequently envied than those who have the power of forcing attention wherever they come, whose entrance is considered as a promise of felicity, and whose departure is lamented, like the recess of the sun from northern climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy, or inspirits gaiety. It is apparent, that to excellence in this valuable art, some peculiar qualifications are necessary; for every one's experience will inform him, that the pleasure which men are able to give in conversation, holds no stated proportion to their knowledge or their virtue. Many find their way to the tables and the parties of those who never consider them as of the least importance in any other place; we have all, at one time or other, been content to love those whom we could not esteem, and been persuaded to try the dangerous experiment of admitting him for a companion, whom we knew to be too ignorant for a counsellor, and too treacherous for a friend. I question whether some abatement of character is not necessary to general acceptance. Few spend their time with much satisfaction under the eye of uncontestable superiority; and therefore, among those whose presence is courted at assemblies of jollity, there are seldom found men eminently distinguished for powers or acquisitions. The wit whose vivacity condemns slower tongues to silence, the scholar whose knowledge allows no man to fancy that he instructs him, the critick who suffers no fallacy to pass undetected, and the reasoner who condemns the idle to thought, and the negligent to attention, are generally praised and feared, reverenced and avoided. He that would please must rarely aim at such excellence as depresses his hearers in their own opinion, or debars them from the hope of contributing reciprocally to the entertainment of the company. Merriment, extorted by sallies of imagination, sprightliness of remark, or quickness of reply, is too often what the Latins call, the Sardinian laughter, a distortion of the face without gladness of heart. For this reason, no style of conversation is more extensively acceptable than the narrative. He who has stored his memory with slight anecdotes, private incidents, and personal peculiarities, seldom fails to find his audience favourable. Almost every man listens with eagerness to contemporary history; for almost every man has some real or imaginary connexion with a celebrated character, some desire to advance or oppose a rising name. Vanity often co-operates with curiosity. He that is a hearer in one place, qualifies himself to become a speaker in another; for though he cannot comprehend a series of argument, or transport the volatile spirit of wit without evaporation, he yet thinks himself able to treasure up the various incidents of a story, and please his hopes with the information which he shall give to some inferior society. Narratives are for the most part heard without envy, because they are not supposed to imply any intellectual qualities above the common rate. To be acquainted with facts not yet echoed by plebeian mouths, may happen to one man as well as to another; and to relate them when they are known, has in appearance so little difficulty, that every one concludes himself equal to the task. But it is not easy, and in some situations of life not possible, to accumulate such a stock of materials as may support the expense of continual narration; and it frequently happens, that they who attempt this method of ingratiating themselves, please only at the first interview; and, for want of new supplies of intelligence, wear out their stories by continual repetition. There would be, therefore, little hope of obtaining the praise of a good companion, were it not to be gained by more compendious methods; but such is the kindness of mankind to all, except those who aspire to real merit and rational dignity, that every understanding may find some way to excite benevolence; and whoever is not envied may learn the art of procuring love. We are willing to be pleased, but are not willing to admire: we favour the mirth or officiousness that solicits our regard, but oppose the worth or spirit that enforces it. The first place among those that please, because they desire only to please, is due to the _merry fellow_, whose laugh is loud, and whose voice is strong; who is ready to echo every jest with obstreperous approbation, and countenance every frolick with vociferations of applause. It is not necessary to a merry fellow to have in himself any fund of jocularity, or force of conception; it is sufficient that he always appears in the highest exaltation of gladness, for the greater part of mankind are gay or serious by infection, and follow without resistance the attraction of example. Next to the merry fellow is the _good-natured man_, a being generally without benevolence, or any other virtue, than such as indolence and insensibility confer. The characteristick of a good-natured man is to bear a joke; to sit unmoved and unaffected amidst noise and turbulence, profaneness and obscenity; to hear every tale without contradiction; to endure insult without reply; and to follow the stream of folly, whatever course it shall happen to take. The good-natured man is commonly the darling of the petty wits, with whom they exercise themselves in the rudiments of raillery; for he never takes advantage of failings, nor disconcerts a puny satirist with unexpected sarcasms; but while the glass continues to circulate, contentedly bears the expense of an uninterrupted laughter, and retires rejoicing at his own importance. The _modest man_ is a companion of a yet lower rank, whose only power of giving pleasure is not to interrupt it. The modest man satisfies himself with peaceful silence, which all his companions are candid enough to consider as proceeding not from inability to speak, but willingness to hear. Many, without being able to attain any general character of excellence, have some single art of entertainment which serves them as a passport through the world. One I have known for fifteen years the darling of a weekly club, because every night, precisely at eleven, he begins his favourite song, and during the vocal performance, by corresponding motions of his hand, chalks out a giant upon the wall. Another has endeared himself to a long succession of acquaintances by sitting among them with his wig reversed; another by contriving to smut the nose of any stranger who was to be initiated in the club; another by purring like a cat, and then pretending to be frighted; and another by yelping like a hound, and calling to the drawers to drive out the dog[k]. Such are the arts by which cheerfulness is promoted, and sometimes friendship established; arts, which those who despise them should not rigorously blame, except when they are practised at the expense of innocence; for it is always necessary to be loved, but not always necessary to be reverenced. No. 189. TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1752. _Quod tam grande Sophos clamat tibi turba togata; Non tu, Pomponi; caena diserta tua est_. MART. Lib. vi. Ep. xlviii. Resounding plaudits though the crowd have rung; Thy treat is eloquent, and not thy tongue. F. LEWIS. The world scarcely affords opportunities of making any observation more frequently, than on false claims to commendation. Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess, and to gain applause which he cannot keep; so that scarcely can two persons casually meet, but one is offended or diverted by the ostentation of the other. Of these pretenders it is fit to distinguish those who endeavour to deceive from them who are deceived; those who by designed impostures promote their interest, or gratify their pride, from them who mean only to force into regard their latent excellencies and neglected virtues; who believe themselves qualified to instruct or please, and therefore invite the notice of mankind. The artful and fraudulent usurpers of distinction deserve greater severities than ridicule and contempt, since they are seldom content with empty praise, but are instigated by passions more pernicious than vanity. They consider the reputation which they endeavour to establish as necessary to the accomplishment of some subsequent design, and value praise only as it may conduce to the success of avarice or ambition. The commercial world is very frequently put into confusion by the bankruptcy of merchants, that assumed the splendour of wealth only to obtain the privilege of trading with the stock of other men, and of contracting debts which nothing but lucky casualties could enable them to pay; till after having supported their appearance a while by tumultuous magnificence of boundless traffick, they sink at once, and drag down into poverty those whom their equipages had induced to trust them. Among wretches that place their happiness in the favour of the great, of beings whom only high titles or large estates set above themselves, nothing is more common than to boast of confidence which they do not enjoy; to sell promises which they know their interest unable to perform; and to reimburse the tribute which they pay to an imperious master, from the contributions of meaner dependants, whom they can amuse with tales of their influence, and hopes of their solicitation. Even among some, too thoughtless and volatile for avarice or ambition, may be found a species of falsehood more detestable than the levee or exchange can shew. There are men that boast of debaucheries, of which they never had address to be guilty; ruin, by lewd tales, the characters of women to whom they are scarcely known, or by whom they have been rejected; destroy in a drunken frolick the happiness of families; blast the bloom of beauty, and intercept the reward of virtue. Other artifices of falsehood, though utterly unworthy of an ingenuous mind, are not yet to be ranked with flagitious enormities, nor is it necessary to incite sanguinary justice against them, since they may be adequately punished by detection and laughter. The traveller who describes cities which he has never seen; the squire, who, at his return from London, tells of his intimacy with nobles to whom he has only bowed in the park or coffee-house; the author who entertains his admirers with stories of the assistance which he gives to wits of a higher rank; the city dame who talks of her visits at great houses, where she happens to know the cook-maid, are surely such harmless animals as truth herself may be content to despise without desiring to hurt them. But of the multitudes who struggle in vain for distinction, and display their own merits only to feel more acutely the sting of neglect, a great part are wholly innocent of deceit, and are betrayed, by infatuation and credulity, to that scorn with which the universal love of praise incites us all to drive feeble competitors out of our way. Few men survey themselves with so much severity, as not to admit prejudices in their own favour, which an artful flatterer may gradually strengthen, till wishes for a particular qualification are improved to hopes of attainment, and hopes of attainment to belief of possession. Such flatterers every one will find, who has power to reward their assiduities. Wherever there is wealth there will be dependance and expectation, and wherever there is dependance, there will be an emulation of servility. Many of the follies which provoke general censure, are the effects of such vanity as, however it might have wantoned in the imagination, would scarcely have dared the publick eye, had it not been animated and emboldened by flattery. Whatever difficulty there may be in the knowledge of ourselves, scarcely any one fails to suspect his own imperfections, till he is elevated by others to confidence. We are almost all naturally modest and timorous; but fear and shame are uneasy sensations, and whosoever helps to remove them is received with kindness. Turpicula was the heiress of a large estate, and having lost her mother in her infancy, was committed to a governess, whom misfortunes had reduced to suppleness and humility. The fondness of Turpicula's father would not suffer him to trust her at a publick school, but he hired domestick teachers, and bestowed on her all the accomplishments that wealth could purchase. But how many things are necessary to happiness which money cannot obtain! Thus secluded from all with whom she might converse on terms of equality, she heard none of those intimations of her defects, which envy, petulance, or anger, produce among children, where they are not afraid of telling what they think. Turpicula saw nothing but obsequiousness, and heard nothing but commendations. None are so little acquainted with the heart, as not to know that woman's first wish is to be handsome, and that consequently the readiest method of obtaining her kindness is to praise her beauty. Turpicula had a distorted shape and a dark complexion; yet, when the impudence of adulation had ventured to tell her of the commanding dignity of her motion, and the soft enchantment of her smile, she was easily convinced, that she was the delight or torment of every eye, and that all who gazed upon her felt the fire of envy or love. She therefore neglected the culture of an understanding which might have supplied the defects of her form, and applied all her care to the decoration of her person; for she considered that more could judge of beauty than of wit, and was, like the rest of human beings, in haste to be admired. The desire of conquest naturally led her to the lists in which beauty signalizes her power. She glittered at court, fluttered in the park, and talked aloud in the front box; but after a thousand experiments of her charms, was at last convinced that she had been flattered, and that her glass was honester than her maid. [Footnote k: Mrs. Piozzi, in her Anecdotes, informs us, that the man who sung, and, by corresponding motions of his arm, chalked out a giant on the wall, was one Richardson, an attorney: the ingenious imitator of a cat, was one Busby, a proctor in the Commons: and the father of Dr. Salter, of the Charter-House, a friend of Johnson's, and a member of the Ivy-Lane Club, was the person who yelped like a hound, and perplexed the distracted waiters.--Mr. Chalmers, in his preface to the Rambler, observes, that the above-quoted lively writer was the only authority for these assignments. She is certainly far too hasty and negligent to be relied on, when unsupported by other testimony.--See Preface.] No. 190. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1752. _Ploravere suis non respondere favorem Speratum meritis_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 9. Henry and Alfred-- Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind. POPE. Among the emirs and visiers, the sons of valour and of wisdom, that stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the counsels or conduct the wars of the posterity of Timur, the first place was long held by Morad the son of Hanuth. Morad, having signalized himself in many battles and sieges, was rewarded with the government of a province, from which the fame of his wisdom and moderation was wafted to the pinnacles of Agra, by the prayers of those whom his administration made happy. The emperour called him into his presence, and gave into his hand the keys of riches, and the sabre of command. The voice of Morad was heard from the cliffs of Taurus to the Indian ocean, every tongue faultered in his presence, and every eye was cast down before him. Morad lived many years in prosperity; every day increased his wealth, and extended his influence. The sages repeated his maxims, the captains of thousands waited his commands. Competition withdrew into the cavern of envy, and discontent trembled at his own murmurs. But human greatness is short and transitory, as the odour of incense in the fire. The sun grew weary of gilding the palaces of Morad, the clouds of sorrow gathered round his head, and the tempest of hatred roared about his dwelling. Morad saw ruin hastily approaching. The first that forsook him were his poets; their example was followed by all those whom he had rewarded for contributing to his pleasures, and only a few, whose virtue had entitled them to favour, were now to be seen in his hall or chambers. He felt his danger, and prostrated himself at the foot of the throne. His accusers were confident and loud, his friends stood contented with frigid neutrality, and the voice of truth was overborne by clamour. He was divested of his power, deprived of his acquisitions, and condemned to pass the rest of his life on his hereditary estate. Morad had been so long-accustomed to crowds and business, supplicants and flattery, that he knew not how to fill up his hours in solitude; he saw with regret the sun rise to force on his eye a new day for which he had no use; and envied the savage that wanders in the desert, because he has no time vacant from the calls of nature, but is always chasing his prey, or sleeping in his den. His discontent in time vitiated his constitution, and a slow disease seized upon him. He refused physick, neglected exercise, and lay down on his couch peevish and restless, rather afraid to die than desirous to live. His domesticks, for a time, redoubled their assiduities; but finding that no officiousness could soothe, nor exactness satisfy, they soon gave way to negligence and sloth; and he that once commanded nations, often languished in his chamber without an attendant. In this melancholy state, he commanded messengers to recall his eldest son Abouzaid from the army. Abouzaid was alarmed at the account of his father's sickness, and hasted by long journeys to his place of residence. Morad was yet living, and felt his strength return at the embraces of his son; then commanding him to sit down at his bedside, "Abouzaid," says he, "thy father has no more to hope or fear from the inhabitants of the earth; the cold hand of the angel of death is now upon him, and the voracious grave is howling for his prey. Hear, therefore, the precepts of ancient experience, let not my last instructions issue forth in vain. Thou hast seen me happy and calamitous, thou hast beheld my exaltation and my fall. My power is in the hands of my enemies, my treasures have rewarded my accusers; but my inheritance, the clemency of the emperour has spared, and my wisdom his anger could not take away. Cast thine eyes around thee; whatever thou beholdest will, in a few hours, be thine: apply thine ear to my dictates, and these possessions will promote thy happiness. Aspire not to public honours, enter not the palaces of kings; thy wealth will set thee above insult, let thy moderation keep thee below envy. Content thyself with private dignity, diffuse thy riches among thy friends, let every day extend thy beneficence, and suffer not thy heart to be at rest till thou art loved by all to whom thou art known. In the height of my power, I said to defamation, Who will hear thee? and to artifice, What canst thou perform? But, my son, despise not thou the malice of the weakest, remember that venom supplies the want of strength, and that the lion may perish by the puncture of an asp." Morad expired in a few hours. Abouzaid, after the months of mourning, determined to regulate his conduct by his father's precepts, and cultivate the love of mankind by every art of kindness and endearment. He wisely considered, that domestick happiness was first to be secured, and that none have so much power of doing good or hurt, as those who are present in the hour of negligence, hear the bursts of thoughtless merriment, and observe the starts of unguarded passion. He therefore augmented the pay of all his attendants, and requited every exertion of uncommon diligence by supernumerary gratuities. While he congratulated himself upon the fidelity and affection of his family, he was in the night alarmed with robbers, who, being pursued and taken, declared that they had been admitted by one of his servants; the servant immediately confessed, that he unbarred the door, because another not more worthy of confidence was entrusted with the keys. Abouzaid was thus convinced that a dependant could not easily be made a friend; and that while many were soliciting for the first rank of favour, all those would be alienated whom he disappointed. He therefore resolved to associate with a few equal companions selected from among the chief men of the province. With these he lived happily for a time, till familiarity set them free from restraint, and every man thought himself at liberty to indulge his own caprice, and advance his own opinions. They then disturbed each other with contrariety of inclinations, and difference of sentiments, and Abouzaid was necessitated to offend one party by concurrence, or both by indifference. He afterwards determined to avoid a close union with beings so discordant in their nature, and to diffuse himself in a larger circle. He practised the smile of universal courtesy, and invited all to his table, but admitted none to his retirements. Many who had been rejected in his choice of friendship, now refused to accept his acquaintance; and of those whom plenty and magnificence drew to his table, every one pressed forward toward intimacy, thought himself overlooked in the crowd, and murmured because he was not distinguished above the rest. By degrees all made advances, and all resented repulse. The table was then covered with delicacies in vain; the musick sounded in empty rooms; and Abouzaid was left to form in solitude some new scheme of pleasure or security. Resolving now to try the force of gratitude, he inquired for men of science, whose merit was obscured by poverty. His house was soon crowded with poets, sculptors, painters, and designers, who wantoned in unexperienced plenty, and employed their powers in celebration of their patron. But in a short time they forgot the distress from which they had been rescued, and began to consider their deliverer as a wretch of narrow capacity, who was growing great by works which he could not perform, and whom they overpaid by condescending to accept his bounties. Abouzaid heard their murmurs and dismissed them, and from that hour continued blind to colours, and deaf to panegyrick. As the sons of art departed, muttering threats of perpetual infamy, Abouzaid, who stood at the gate, called to him Hamet the poet. "Hamet," said he, "thy ingratitude has put an end to my hopes and experiments: I have now learned the vanity of those labours that wish to be rewarded by human benevolence; I shall henceforth do good, and avoid evil, without respect to the opinion of men; and resolve to solicit only the approbation of that Being whom alone we are sure to please by endeavouring to please him." No. 191. TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 1752. _Cereus in vitium flecli, monitoribus asper_. HOR. Art. Poet. 163. The youth-- Yielding like wax, th' impressive folly bears; Rough to reproof, and slow to future cares. FRANCIS. TO THE RAMBLER. DEAR MR. RAMBLER, I have been four days confined to my chamber by a cold, which has already kept me from three plays, nine sales, five shows, and six card-tables, and put me seventeen visits behind-hand; and the doctor tells my mamma, that, if I fret and cry, it will settle in my head, and I shall not be fit to be seen these six weeks. But, dear Mr. Rambler, how can I help it? At this very time Melissa is dancing with the prettiest gentleman;--she will breakfast with him to-morrow, and then run to two auctions, and hear compliments, and have presents; then she will be drest, and visit, and get a ticket to the play; then go to cards and win, and come home with two flambeaux before her chair. Dear Mr. Rambler, who can bear it? My aunt has just brought me a bundle of your papers for my amusement. She says you are a philosopher, and will teach me to moderate my desires, and look upon the world with indifference. But, dear sir, I do not wish nor intend to moderate my desires, nor can I think it proper to look upon the world with indifference, till the world looks with indifference on me. I have been forced, however, to sit this morning a whole quarter of an hour with your paper before my face; but just as my aunt came in, Phyllida had brought me a letter from Mr. Trip, which I put within the leaves; and read about _absence_ and _inconsolableness_, and _ardour_, and _irresistible passion_, and _eternal constancy_, while my aunt imagined that I was puzzling myself with your philosophy, and often cried out when she saw me look confused, "If there is any word that you do not understand, child, I will explain it." Dear soul! how old people that think themselves wise may be imposed upon! But it is fit that they should take their turn, for I am sure, while they can keep poor girls close in the nursery, they tyrannize over us in a very shameful manner, and fill our imaginations with tales of terrour, only to make us live in quiet subjection, and fancy that we can never be safe but by their protection. I have a mamma and two aunts, who have all been formerly celebrated for wit and beauty, and are still generally admired by those that value themselves upon their understanding, and love to talk of vice and virtue, nature and simplicity, and beauty and propriety; but if there was not some hope of meeting me, scarcely a creature would come near them that wears a fashionable coat. These ladies, Mr. Rambler, have had me under their government fifteen years and a half, and have all that time been endeavouring to deceive me by such representations of life as I now find not to be true; but I know not whether I ought to impute them to ignorance or malice, as it is possible the world may be much changed since they mingled in general conversation. Being desirous that I should love books, they told me, that nothing but knowledge could make me an agreeable companion to men of sense, or qualify me to distinguish the superficial glitter of vanity from the solid merit of understanding; and that a habit of reading would enable me to fill up the vacuities of life without the help of silly or dangerous amusements, and preserve me from the snares of idleness and the inroads of temptation. But their principal intention was to make me afraid of men; in which they succeeded so well for a time, that I durst not look in their faces, or be left alone with them in a parlour; for they made me fancy, that no man ever spoke but to deceive, or looked but to allure; that the girl who suffered him that had once squeezed her hand, to approach her a second time, was on the brink of ruin; and that she who answered a billet, without consulting her relations, gave love such power over her, that she would certainly become either poor or infamous. From the time that my leading-strings were taken off, I scarce heard any mention of my beauty but from the milliner, the mantua-maker, and my own maid; for my mamma never said more, when she heard me commended, but "the girl is very well," and then endeavoured to divert my attention by some inquiry after my needle, or my book. It is now three months since I have been suffered to pay and receive visits, to dance at publick assemblies, to have a place kept for me in the boxes, and to play at lady Racket's rout; and you may easily imagine what I think of those who have so long cheated me with false expectations, disturbed me with fictitious terrours, and concealed from me all that I have found to make the happiness of woman. I am so far from perceiving the usefulness or necessity of books, that if I had not dropped all pretensions to learning, I should have lost Mr. Trip, whom I once frighted into another box, by retailing some of Dryden's remarks upon a tragedy; for Mr. Trip declares, that he hates nothing like hard words, and I am sure, there is not a better partner to be found; his very walk is a dance. I have talked once or twice among ladies about principles and ideas, but they put their fans before their faces, and told me I was too wise for them, who for their part never pretended to read any thing but the play-bill, and then asked me the price of my best head. Those vacancies of time which are to be filled up with books I have never vet obtained; for, consider, Mr. Rambler, I go to bed late, and therefore cannot rise early; as soon as I am up, I dress for the gardens; then walk in the park; then always go to some sale or show, or entertainment at the little theatre; then must be dressed for dinner; then must pay my visits; then walk in the park; then hurry to the play; and from thence to the card-table. This is the general course of the day, when there happens nothing extraordinary; but sometimes I ramble into the country, and come back again to a ball; sometimes I am engaged for a whole day and part of the night. If, at any time, I can gain an hour by not being at home, I have so many things to do, so many orders to give to the milliner, so many alterations to make in my clothes, so many visitants' names to read over, so many invitations to accept or refuse, so many cards to write, and so many fashions to consider, that I am lost in confusion, forced at last to let in company or step into my chair, and leave half my affairs to the direction of my maid. This is the round of my day; and when shall I either stop my course, or so change it as to want a book? I suppose it cannot be imagined, that any of these diversions will soon be at an end. There will always be gardens, and a park, and auctions, and shows, and playhouses, and cards; visits will always be paid, and clothes always be worn; and how can I have time unemployed upon my hands? But I am most at a loss to guess for what purpose they related such tragick stories of the cruelty, perfidy, and artifices of men, who, if they ever were so malicious and destructive, have certainly now reformed their manners. I have not, since my entrance into the world, found one who does not profess himself devoted to my service, and ready to live or die as I shall command him. They are so far from intending to hurt me, that their only contention is, who shall be allowed most closely to attend, and most frequently to treat me; when different places of entertainment, or schemes of pleasure are mentioned, I can see the eye sparkle and the cheeks glow of him whose proposals obtain my approbation; he then leads me off in triumph, adores my condescension, and congratulates himself that he has lived to the hour of felicity. Are these, Mr. Rambler, creatures to be feared? Is it likely that an injury will be done me by those who can enjoy life only while I favour them with my presence? As little reason can I yet find to suspect them of stratagems and fraud. When I play at cards, they never take advantage of my mistakes, nor exact from me a rigorous observation of the game. Even Mr. Shuffle, a grave gentleman, who has daughters older than myself, plays with me so negligently, that I am sometimes inclined to believe he loses his money by design, and yet he is so fond of play, that he says, he will one day take me to his house in the country, that we may try by ourselves who can conquer. I have not yet promised him; but when the town grows a little empty, I shall think upon it, for I want some trinkets, like Letitia's, to my watch. I do not doubt my luck, but must study some means of amusing my relations. For all these distinctions I find myself indebted to that beauty which I was never suffered to hear praised, and of which, therefore, I did not before know the full value. The concealment was certainly an intentional fraud, for my aunts have eyes like other people, and I am every day told, that nothing but blindness can escape the influence of my charms. Their whole account of that world which they pretend to know so well, has been only one fiction entangled with another; and though the modes of life oblige me to continue some appearances of respect, I cannot think that they, who have been so clearly detected in ignorance or imposture, have any right to the esteem, veneration, or obedience of, Sir, Yours, BELLARIA. No. 192. SATURDAY, JANUARY 18, 1752. [Greek: Genos ouden eis Erota; Sophiae, tropos pateitai; Monon arguron blepousin. Apoloito protos autos Ho ton arguron philaesas. Dia touton ou tokaees, Dai touton ou tokaees; Polemoi, phonoi di auton. To de cheiron, ollymestha Dia touton oi philountes.] ANACREON. [Greek: ODLI Ms.] 5. Vain the noblest birth would prove, Nor worth or wit avail in love; 'Tis gold alone succeeds--by gold The venal sex is bought and sold. Accurs'd be he who first of yore Discover'd the pernicious ore! This sets a brother's heart on fire, And arms the son against the sire; And what, alas! is worse than all, To this the lover owes his fall. F. LEWIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I am the son of a gentleman, whose ancestors, for many ages, held the first rank in the country; till at last one of them, too desirous of popularity, set his house open, kept a table covered with continual profusion, and distributed his beef and ale to such as chose rather to live upon the folly of others, than their own labour, with such thoughtless liberality, that he left a third part of his estate mortgaged. His successor, a man of spirit, scorned to impair his dignity by parsimonious retrenchments, or to admit, by a sale of his lands, any participation of the rights of his manour; he therefore made another mortgage to pay the interest of the former, and pleased himself with the reflection, that his son would have the hereditary estate without the diminution of an acre. Nearly resembling this was the practice of my wise progenitors for many ages. Every man boasted the antiquity of her family, resolved to support the dignity of his birth, and lived in splendour and plenty at the expense of his heir, who, sometimes by a wealthy marriage, and sometimes by lucky legacies, discharged part of the incumbrances, and thought himself entitled to contract new debts, and to leave to his children the same inheritance of embarrassment and distress. Thus the estate perpetually decayed; the woods were felled by one, the park ploughed by another, the fishery let to farmers by a third; at last the old hall was pulled down to spare the cost of reparation, and part of the materials sold to build a small house with the rest. We were now openly degraded from our original rank, and my father's brother was allowed with less reluctance to serve an apprenticeship, though we never reconciled ourselves heartily to the sound of haberdasher, but always talked of warehouses and a merchant, and when the wind happened to blow loud, affected to pity the hazards of commerce, and to sympathize with the solicitude of my poor uncle, who had the true retailer's terrour of adventure, and never exposed himself or his property to any wider water than the Thames. In time, however, by continual profit and small expenses, he grew rich, and began to turn his thoughts towards rank. He hung the arms of the family over his parlour-chimney; pointed at a chariot decorated only with a cypher; became of opinion that money could not make a gentleman; resented the petulance of upstarts; told stories of alderman Puff's grandfather the porter; wondered that there was no better method for regulating precedence; wished for some dress peculiar to men of fashion; and when his servant presented a letter, always inquired whether it came from his brother the esquire. My father was careful to send him game by every carrier, which, though the conveyance often cost more than the value, was well received, because it gave him an opportunity of calling his friends together, describing the beauty of his brother's seat, and lamenting his own folly, whom no remonstrances could withhold from polluting his fingers with a shop-book. The little presents which we sent were always returned with great munificence. He was desirous of being the second founder of his family, and could not bear that we should be any longer outshone by those whom we considered as climbers upon our ruins, and usurpers of our fortune. He furnished our house with all the elegance of fashionable expense, and was careful to conceal his bounties, lest the poverty of his family should be suspected. At length it happened that, by misconduct like our own, a large estate, which had been purchased from us, was again exposed to the best bidder. My uncle, delighted with an opportunity of reinstating the family in their possessions, came down with treasures scarcely to be imagined in a place where commerce has not made large sums familiar, and at once drove all the competitors away, expedited the writings, and took possession. He now considered himself as superior to trade, disposed of his stock, and as soon as he had settled his economy, began to shew his rural sovereignty, by breaking the hedges of his tenants in hunting, and seizing the guns or nets of those whose fortunes did not qualify them for sportsmen. He soon afterwards solicited the office of sheriff, from which all his neighbours were glad to be reprieved, but which he regarded as a resumption of ancestral claims, and a kind of restoration to blood after the attainder of a trade. My uncle, whose mind was so filled with this change of his condition, that he found no want of domestick entertainment, declared himself too old to marry, and resolved to let the newly-purchased estate fall into the regular channel of inheritance. I was therefore considered as heir apparent, and courted with officiousness and caresses, by the gentlemen who had hitherto coldly allowed me that rank which they could not refuse, depressed me with studied neglect, and irritated me with ambiguous insults. I felt not much pleasure from the civilities for which I knew myself indebted to my uncle's industry, till, by one of the invitations which every day now brought me, I was induced to spend a week with Lucius, whose daughter Flavilla I had often seen and admired like others, without any thought of nearer approaches. The inequality which had hitherto kept me at a distance being now levelled, I was received with every evidence of respect: Lucius told me the fortune which he intended for his favourite daughter; many odd accidents obliged us to be often together without company, and I soon began to find that they were spreading for me the nets of matrimony. Flavilla was all softness and complaisance. I, who had been excluded by a narrow fortune from much acquaintance with the world, and never been honoured before with the notice of so fine a lady, was easily enamoured. Lucius either perceived my passion, or Flavilla betrayed it; care was taken, that our private meetings should be less frequent, and my charmer confessed by her eyes how much pain she suffered from our restraint. I renewed my visit upon every pretence, but was not allowed one interview without witness; at last I declared my passion to Lucius, who received me as a lover worthy of his daughter, and told me that nothing was wanting to his consent, but that my uncle should settle his estate upon me. I objected the indecency of encroaching on his life, and the danger of provoking him by such an unseasonable demand. Lucius seemed not to think decency of much importance, but admitted the danger of displeasing, and concluded that as he was now old and sickly, we might, without any inconvenience, wait for his death. With this resolution I was better contented, as it procured me the company of Flavilla, in which the days passed away amidst continual rapture; but in time I began to be ashamed of sitting idle, in expectation of growing rich by the death of my benefactor, and proposed to Lucius many schemes of raising my own fortune by such assistance as I knew my uncle willing to give me. Lucius, afraid lest I should change my affection in absence, diverted me from my design by dissuasives to which my passion easily listened. At last my uncle died, and considering himself as neglected by me, from the time that Flavilla took possession of my heart, left his estate to my younger brother, who was always hovering about his bed, and relating stories of my pranks and extravagance, my contempt of the commercial dialect, and my impatience to be selling stock. My condition was soon known, and I was no longer admitted by the father of Flavilla. I repeated the protestations of regard, which had been formerly returned with so much ardour, in a letter which she received privately, but returned by her father's footman. Contempt has driven out my love, and I am content to have purchased, by the loss of fortune, an escape from a harpy, who has joined the artifices of age to the allurements of youth. I am now going to pursue my former projects with a legacy which my uncle bequeathed me, and if I succeed, shall expect to hear of the repentance of Flavilla. I am, Sir, Yours, &c. CONSTANTIUS. No. 193. TUESDAY, JANUARY 21, 1752. _Laudis amore tumes? sunt certa piacula, quoe te Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 36. Or art thou vain? books yield a certain spell To stop thy tumour; you shall cease to swell When you have read them thrice, and studied well. CREECH. Whatever is universally desired, will be sought by industry and artifice, by merit and crimes, by means good and bad, rational and absurd, according to the prevalence of virtue or vice, of wisdom or folly. Some will always mistake the degree of their own desert, and some will desire that others may mistake it. The cunning will have recourse to stratagem, and the powerful to violence, for the attainment of their wishes; some will stoop to theft, and others venture upon plunder. Praise is so pleasing to the mind of man, that it is the original motive of almost all our actions. The desire of commendation, as of every thing else, is varied indeed by innumerable differences of temper, capacity, and knowledge; some have no higher wish than for the applause of a club; some expect the acclamations of a county; and some have hoped to fill the mouths of all ages and nations with their names. Every man pants for the highest eminence within his view; none, however mean, ever sinks below the hope of being distinguished by his fellow-beings, and very few have by magnanimity or piety been so raised above it, as to act wholly without regard to censure or opinion. To be praised, therefore, every man resolves; but resolutions will not execute themselves. That which all think too parsimoniously distributed to their own claims, they will not gratuitously squander upon others, and some expedient must be tried, by which praise may be gained before it can be enjoyed. Among the innumerable bidders for praise, some are willing to purchase at the highest rate, and offer ease and health, fortune and life. Yet even of these only a small part have gained what they so earnestly desired; the student wastes away in meditation, and the soldier perishes on the ramparts, but unless some accidental advantage cooperates with merit, neither perseverance nor adventure attracts attention, and learning and bravery sink into the grave, without honour or remembrance. But ambition and vanity generally expect to be gratified on easier terms. It has been long observed, that what is procured by skill or labour to the first possessor, may be afterwards transferred for money; and that the man of wealth may partake all the acquisitions of courage without hazard, and all the products of industry without fatigue. It was easily discovered, that riches would obtain praise among other conveniencies, and that he whose pride was unluckily associated with laziness, ignorance, or cowardice, needed only to pay the hire of a panegyrist, and he might be regaled with periodical eulogies; might determine, at leisure, what virtue or science he would be pleased to appropriate, and be lulled in the evening with soothing serenades, or waked in the morning by sprightly gratulations. The happiness which mortals receive from the celebration of beneficence which never relieved, eloquence which never persuaded, or elegance which never pleased, ought not to be envied or disturbed, when they are known honestly to pay for their entertainment. But there are unmerciful exactors of adulation, who withhold the wages of venality; retain their encomiast from year to year by general promises and ambiguous blandishments; and when he has run through the whole compass of flattery, dismiss him with contempt, because his vein of fiction is exhausted. A continual feast of commendation is only to be obtained by merit or by wealth; many are therefore obliged to content themselves with single morsels, and recompense the infrequency of their enjoyment by excess and riot, whenever fortune sets the banquet before them. Hunger is never delicate; they who are seldom gorged to the full with praise, may be safely fed with gross compliments; for the appetite must be satisfied before it is disgusted. It is easy to find the moment at which vanity is eager for sustenance, and all that impudence or servility can offer will be well received. When any one complains of the want of what he is known to possess in an uncommon degree, he certainly waits with impatience to be contradicted. When the trader pretends anxiety about the payment of his bills, or the beauty remarks how frightfully she looks, then is the lucky moment to talk of riches or of charms, of the death of lovers, or the honour of a merchant. Others there are yet more open and artless, who, instead of suborning a flatterer, are content to supply his place, and, as some animals impregnate themselves, swell with the praises which they hear from their own tongues. _Recte is dicitur laudare sese, cui nemo alius contigit laudator_. "It is right," says Erasmus, "that he, whom no one else will commend, should bestow commendations on himself." Of all the sons of vanity, these are surely the happiest and greatest; for what is greatness or happiness but independence on external influences, exemption from hope or fear, and the power of supplying every want from the common stores of nature, which can neither be exhausted nor prohibited? Such is the wise man of the stoicks; such is the divinity of the epicureans; and such is the flatterer of himself. Every other enjoyment malice may destroy; every other panegyrick envy may withhold; but no human power can deprive the boaster of his own encomiums. Infamy may hiss, or contempt may growl, the hirelings of the great may follow fortune, and the votaries of truth may attend on virtue; but his pleasures still remain the same; he can always listen with rapture to himself, and leave those who dare not repose upon their own attestation, to be elated or depressed by chance, and toil on in the hopeless task of fixing caprice, and propitiating malice. This art of happiness has been long practised by periodical writers, with little apparent violation of decency. When we think our excellencies overlooked by the world, or desire to recall the attention of the publick to some particular performance, we sit down with great composure and write a letter to ourselves. The correspondent, whose character we assume, always addresses us with the deference due to a superior intelligence; proposes his doubts with a proper sense of his own inability; offers an objection with trembling diffidence; and at last has no other pretensions to our notice than his profundity of respect, and sincerity of admiration, his submission to our dictates, and zeal for our success. To such a reader, it is impossible to refuse regard, nor can it easily be imagined with how much alacrity we snatch up the pen which indignation or despair had condemned to inactivity, when we find such candour and judgment yet remaining in the world. A letter of this kind I had lately the honour of perusing, in which, though some of the periods were negligently closed, and some expressions of familiarity were used, which I thought might teach others to address me with too little reverence, I was so much delighted with the passages in which mention was made of universal learning--unbounded genius--soul of Homer, Pythagoras, and Plato--solidity of thought--accuracy of distinction--elegance of combination--vigour of fancy--strength of reason--and regularity of composition--that I had once determined to lay it before the publick. Three times I sent it to the printer, and three times I fetched it back. My modesty was on the point of yielding, when reflecting that I was about to waste panegyricks on myself, which might be more profitably reserved for my patron, I locked it up for a better hour, in compliance with the farmer's principle, who never eats at home what he can carry to the market. No. 194. SATURDAY, JANUARY 25, 1752. _Si damnosa senem juvat alea, ludit et heres Bullatus, parvoque eadem movet arma fritillo_. JUV. Sat. xiv. 4. If gaming does an aged sire entice, Then my young master swiftly learns the vice, And shakes in hanging sleeves the little box and dice. J. DRYDEN, jun. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, That vanity which keeps every man important in his own eyes, inclines me to believe that neither you nor your readers have yet forgotten the name of Eumathes, who sent you a few months ago an account of his arrival at London, with a young nobleman his pupil. I shall therefore continue my narrative without preface or recapitulation. My pupil, in a very short time, by his mother's countenance and direction, accomplished himself with all those qualifications which constitute puerile politeness. He became in a few days a perfect master of his hat, which with a careless nicety he could put off or on, without any need to adjust it by a second motion. This was not attained but by frequent consultations with his dancing-master, and constant practice before the glass, for he had some rustick habits to overcome; but, what will not time and industry perform? A fortnight more furnished him with all the airs and forms of familiar and respectful salutation, from the clap on the shoulder to the humble bow; he practises the stare of strangeness, and the smile of condescension, the solemnity of promise, and the graciousness of encouragement, as if he had been nursed at a levee; and pronounces, with no less propriety than his father, the monosyllables of coldness, and sonorous periods of respectful profession. He immediately lost the reserve and timidity which solitude and study are apt to impress upon the most courtly genius; was able to enter a crowded room with airy civility; to meet the glances of a hundred eyes without perturbation; and address those whom he never saw before with ease and confidence. In less than a month his mother declared her satisfaction at his proficiency by a triumphant observation, that she believed _nothing would make him blush_. The silence with which I was contented to hear my pupil's praises, gave the lady reason to suspect me not much delighted with his acquisitions; but she attributed my discontent to the diminution of my influence, and my fears of losing the patronage of the family; and though she thinks favourably of my learning and morals, she considers me as wholly unacquainted with the customs of the polite part of mankind; and therefore not qualified to form the manners of a young nobleman, or communicate the knowledge of the world. This knowledge she comprises in the rules of visiting, the history of the present hour, an early intelligence of the change of fashions, an extensive acquaintance with the names and faces of persons of rank, and a frequent appearance in places of resort. All this my pupil pursues with great application. He is twice a day in the Mall, where he studies the dress of every man splendid enough to attract his notice, and never comes home without some observation upon sleeves, button-holes, and embroidery. At his return from the theatre, he can give an account of the gallantries, glances, whispers, smiles, sighs, flirts, and blushes of every box, so much to his mother's satisfaction, that when I attempted to resume my character, by inquiring his opinion of the sentiments and diction of the tragedy, she at once repressed my criticism, by telling me, "that she hoped he did not go to lose his time in attending to the creatures on the stage." But his acuteness was most eminently signalized at the masquerade, where he discovered his acquaintance through their disguises, with such wonderful facility, as has afforded the family an inexhaustible topick of conversation. Every new visitor is informed how one was detected by his gait, and another by the swinging of his arms, a third by the toss of his head, and another by his favourite phrase; nor can you doubt but these performances receive their just applause, and a genius thus hastening to maturity is promoted by every art of cultivation. Such have been his endeavours, and such his assistances, that every trace of literature was soon obliterated. He has changed his language with his dress, and instead of endeavouring at purity or propriety, has no other care than to catch the reigning phrase and current exclamation, till, by copying whatever is peculiar in the talk of all those whose birth or fortune entitles them to imitation, he has collected every fashionable barbarism of the present winter, and speaks a dialect not to be understood among those who form their style by poring upon authors. To this copiousness of ideas, and felicity of language, he has joined such eagerness to lead the conversation, that he is celebrated among the ladies as the prettiest gentleman that the age can boast of, except that some who love to talk themselves, think him too forward, and others lament that, with so much wit and knowledge, he is not taller. His mother listens to his observations with her eyes sparkling and her heart beating, and can scarcely contain, in the most numerous assemblies, the expectations which she has formed for his future eminence. Women, by whatever fate, always judge absurdly of the intellects of boys. The vivacity and confidence which attract female admiration, are seldom produced in the early part of life, but by ignorance at least, if not by stupidity; for they proceed not from confidence of right, but fearlessness of wrong. Whoever has a clear apprehension, must have quick sensibility, and where he has no sufficient reason to trust his own judgment, will proceed with doubt and caution, because he perpetually dreads the disgrace of errour. The pain of miscarriage is naturally proportionate to the desire of excellence; and, therefore, till men are hardened by long familiarity with reproach, or have attained, by frequent struggles, the art of suppressing their emotions, diffidence is found the inseparable associate of understanding. But so little distrust has my pupil of his own abilities, that he has for some time professed himself a wit, and tortures his imagination on all occasions for burlesque and jocularity. How he supports a character which, perhaps, no man ever assumed without repentance, may be easily conjectured. Wit, you know, is the unexpected copulation of ideas, the discovery of some occult relation between images in appearance remote from each other; an effusion of wit, therefore, presupposes an accumulation of knowledge; a memory stored with notions, which the imagination may cull out to compose, new assemblages. Whatever may be the native vigour of the mind, she can never form many combinations from few ideas, as many changes can never be rung upon a few bells. Accident may indeed sometimes produce a lucky parallel or a striking contrast; but these gifts of chance are not frequent, and he that has nothing of his own, and yet condemns himself to needless expenses, must live upon loans or theft. The indulgence which his youth has hitherto obtained, and the respect which his rank secures, have hitherto supplied the want of intellectual qualifications; and he imagines that all admire who applaud, and that all who laugh are pleased. He therefore returns every day to the charge with increase of courage, though not of strength, and practises all the tricks by which wit is counterfeited. He lays trains for a quibble; he contrives blunders for his footman; he adapts old stories to present characters; he mistakes the question, that he may return a smart answer; he anticipates the argument, that he may plausibly object; when he has nothing to reply, he repeats the last words of his antagonist, then says, "your humble servant," and concludes with a laugh of triumph. These mistakes I have honestly attempted to correct; but what can be expected from reason unsupported by fashion, splendour, or authority? He hears me, indeed, or appears to hear me, but is soon rescued from the lecture by more pleasing avocations; and shows, diversions, and caresses, drive my precepts from his remembrance. He at last imagines himself qualified to enter the world, and has met with adventures in his first sally, which I shall, by your paper, communicate to the publick. I am, &c. EUMATHES. No. 195. TUESDAY, JANUARY 28, 1752. --_Nescit equo rudis Haerere ingenuus puer, Venarique timet; ludere doctior, Seu Graeco jubeas trocho, Seu malis vetitâ legibus aleâ_. HOR. Lib. iii. Ode xxiv. 54. Nor knows our youth, of noblest race, To mount the manag'd steed, or urge the chace; More skill'd in the mean arts of vice, The whirling troque, or law-forbidden dice. FRANCIS. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Favours of every kind are doubled when they are speedily conferred. This is particularly true of the gratification of curiosity. He that long delays a story, and suffers his auditor to torment himself with expectation, will seldom be able to recompense the uneasiness, or equal the hope which he suffers to be raised. For this reason, I have already sent you the continuation of my pupil's history, which, though it contains no events very uncommon, may be of use to young men who are in too much haste to trust their own prudence, and quit the wing of protection before they are able to shift for themselves. When he first settled in London, he was so much bewildered in the enormous extent of the town, so confounded by incessant noise, and crowds, and hurry, and so terrified by rural narratives of the arts of sharpers, the rudeness of the populace, malignity of porters, and treachery of coachmen, that he was afraid to go beyond the door without an attendant, and imagined his life in danger if he was obliged to pass the streets at night in any vehicle but his mother's chair. He was therefore contented, for a time, that I should accompany him in all his excursions. But his fear abated as he grew more familiar with its objects; and the contempt to which his rusticity exposed him from such of his companions as had accidentally known the town longer, obliged him to dissemble his remaining terrours. His desire of liberty made him now willing to spare me the trouble of observing his motions; but knowing how much his ignorance exposed him to mischief, I thought it cruel to abandon him to the fortune of the town. We went together every day to a coffee-house, where he met wits, heirs, and fops, airy, ignorant, and thoughtless as himself, with whom he had become acquainted at card-tables, and whom he considered as the only beings to be envied or admired. What were their topicks of conversation, I could never discover; for, so much was their vivacity repressed by my intrusive seriousness, that they seldom proceeded beyond the exchange of nods and shrugs, an arch grin, or a broken hint, except when they could retire, while I was looking on the papers, to a corner of the room, where they seemed to disburden their imaginations, and commonly vented the superfluity of their sprightliness in a peal of laughter. When they had tittered themselves into negligence, I could sometimes overhear a few syllables, such as--solemn rascal--academical airs--smoke the tutor-- company for gentlemen!--and other broken phrases, by which I did not suffer my quiet to be disturbed, for they never proceeded to avowed indignities, but contented themselves to murmur in secret, and, whenever I turned my eye upon them, shrunk into stillness. He was, however, desirous of withdrawing from the subjection which he could not venture to break, and made a secret appointment to assist his companions in the persecution of a play. His footman privately procured him a catcall, on which he practised in a back-garret for two hours in the afternoon. At the proper time a chair was called; he pretended an engagement at lady Flutter's, and hastened to the place where his critical associates had assembled. They hurried away to the theatre, full of malignity and denunciations against a man whose name they had never heard, and a performance which they could not understand; for they were resolved to judge for themselves, and would not suffer the town to be imposed upon by scribblers. In the pit, they exerted themselves with great spirit and vivacity; called out for the tunes of obscene songs, talked loudly at intervals of Shakespeare and Jonson, played on their catcalls a short prelude of terrour, clamoured vehemently for a prologue, and clapped with great dexterity at the first entrance of the players. Two scenes they heard without attempting interruption; but, being no longer able to restrain their impatience, they then began to exert themselves in groans and hisses, and plied their catcalls with incessant diligence; so that they were soon considered by the audience as disturbers of the house; and some who sat near them, either provoked at the obstruction of their entertainment, or desirous to preserve the author from the mortification of seeing his hopes destroyed by children, snatched away their instruments of criticism, and, by the seasonable vibration of a stick, subdued them instantaneously to decency and silence. To exhilarate themselves after this vexatious defeat, they posted to a tavern, where they recovered their alacrity, and, after two hours of obstreperous jollity, burst out big with enterprize, and panting for some occasion to signalize their prowess. They proceeded vigorously through two streets, and with very little opposition dispersed a rabble of drunkards less daring than themselves, then rolled two watchmen in the kennel, and broke the windows of a tavern in which the fugitives took shelter. At last it was determined to march up to a row of chairs, and demolish them for standing on the pavement; the chairmen formed a line of battle, and blows were exchanged for a time with equal courage on both sides. At last the assailants were overpowered, and the chairmen, when they knew then-captives, brought them home by force. The young gentleman, next morning, hung his head, and was so much ashamed of his outrages and defeat, that perhaps he might have been checked in his first follies, had not his mother, partly in pity of his dejection, and partly in approbation of his spirit, relieved him from his perplexity by paying the damages privately, and discouraging all animadversion and reproof. This indulgence could not wholly preserve him from the remembrance of his disgrace, nor at once restore his confidence and elation. He was for three days silent, modest, and compliant, and thought himself neither too wise for instruction, nor too manly for restraint. But his levity overcame this salutary sorrow; he began to talk with his former raptures of masquerades, taverns, and frolicks; blustered when his wig was not combed with exactness; and threatened destruction to a tailor who had mistaken his directions about the pocket. I knew that he was now rising again above control, and that his inflation of spirits would burst out into some mischievous absurdity. I therefore watched him with great attention; but one evening, having attended his mother at a visit, he withdrew himself, unsuspected, while the company was engaged at cards. His vivacity and officiousness were soon missed, and his return impatiently expected; supper was delayed, and conversation suspended; every coach that rattled through the street was expected to bring him, and every servant that entered the room was examined concerning his departure. At last the lady returned home, and was with great difficulty preserved from fits by spirits and cordials. The family was despatched a thousand ways without success, and the house was filled with distraction, till, as we were deliberating what further measures to take, he returned from a petty gaming-table, with his coat torn and his head broken; without his sword, snuff-box, sleeve-buttons, and watch. Of this loss or robbery, he gave little account; but, instead of sinking into his former shame, endeavoured to support himself by surliness and asperity. "He was not the first that had played away a few trifles, and of what use were birth and fortune if they would not admit some sallies and expenses?" His mamma was so much provoked by the cost of this prank, that she would neither palliate nor conceal it; and his father, after some threats of rustication which his fondness would not suffer him to execute, reduced the allowance of his pocket, that he might not be tempted by plenty to profusion. This method would have succeeded in a place where there are no panders to folly and extravagance, but was now likely to have produced pernicious consequences; for we have discovered a treaty with a broker, whose daughter he seems disposed to marry, on condition that he shall be supplied with present money, for which he is to repay thrice the value at the death of his father. There was now no time to be lost. A domestick consultation was immediately held, and he was doomed to pass two years in the country; but his mother, touched with his tears, declared, that she thought him too much of a man to be any longer confined to his book, and he therefore begins his travels to-morrow under a French governour. I am, &c. EUMATHES. No. 196. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1752. _Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, Multa recedentes adimunt.--_ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 175. The blessings flowing in with life's full tide, Down with our ebb of life decreasing glide. FRANCIS. Baxter, in the narrative of his own life, has enumerated several opinions, which, though he thought them evident and incontestable at his first entrance into the world, time and experience disposed him to change. Whoever reviews the state of his own mind from the dawn of manhood to its decline, and considers what he pursued or dreaded, slighted or esteemed, at different periods of his age, will have no reason to imagine such changes of sentiment peculiar to any station or character. Every man, however careless and inattentive, has conviction forced upon him; the lectures of time obtrude themselves upon the most unwilling or dissipated auditor; and, by comparing our past with our present thoughts, we perceive that we have changed our minds, though perhaps we cannot discover when the alteration happened, or by what causes it was produced. This revolution of sentiments occasions a perpetual contest between the old and young. They who imagine themselves entitled to veneration by the prerogative of longer life, are inclined to treat the notions of those whose conduct they superintend with superciliousness and contempt, for want of considering that the future and the past have different appearances; that the disproportion will always be great between expectation and enjoyment, between new possession and satiety; that the truth of many maxims of age gives too little pleasure to be allowed till it is felt; and that the miseries of life would be increased beyond all human power of endurance, if we were to enter the world with the same opinions as we carry from it. We naturally indulge those ideas that please us. Hope will predominate in every mind, till it has been suppressed by frequent disappointments. The youth has not yet discovered how many evils are continually hovering about us, and when he is set free from the shackles of discipline, looks abroad into the world with rapture; he sees an elysian region open before him, so variegated with beauty, and so stored with pleasure, that his care is rather to accumulate good, than to shun evil; he stands distracted by different forms of delight, and has no other doubt, than which path to follow of those which all lead equally to the bowers of happiness. He who has seen only the superficies of life believes every thing to be what it appears, and rarely suspects that external splendour conceals any latent sorrow or vexation. He never imagines that there may be greatness without safety, affluence without content, jollity without friendship, and solitude without peace. He fancies himself permitted to cull the blessings of every condition, and to leave its inconveniencies to the idle and the ignorant. He is inclined to believe no man miserable but by his own fault, and seldom looks with much pity upon failings or miscarriages, because he thinks them willingly admitted, or negligently incurred. It is impossible, without pity and contempt, to hear a youth of generous sentiments and warm imagination, declaring, in the moment of openness and confidence, his designs and expectations; because long life is possible, he considers it as certain, and therefore promises himself all the changes of happiness, and provides gratifications for every desire. He is, for a time, to give himself wholly to frolick and diversion, to range the world in search of pleasure, to delight every eye, to gain every heart, and to be celebrated equally for his pleasing levities and solid attainments, his deep reflections and his sparkling repartees. He then elevates his views to nobler enjoyments, and finds all the scattered excellencies of the female world united in a woman, who prefers his addresses to wealth and titles; he is afterwards to engage in business, to dissipate difficulty, and overpower opposition: to climb, by the mere force of merit, to fame and greatness; and reward all those who countenanced his rise, or paid due regard to his early excellence. At last he will retire in peace and honour; contract his views to domestick pleasures; form the manners of children like himself; observe how every year expands the beauty of his daughters, and how his sons catch ardour from their father's history; he will give laws to the neighbourhood; dictate axioms to posterity; and leave the world an example of wisdom and of happiness. With hopes like these, he sallies jocund into life; to little purpose is he told, that the condition of humanity admits no pure and unmingled happiness; that the exuberant gaiety of youth ends in poverty or disease; that uncommon qualifications and contrarieties of excellence, produce envy equally with applause; that whatever admiration and fondness may promise him, he must marry a wife like the wives of others, with some virtues and some faults, and be as often disgusted by her vices, as delighted by her elegance; that if he adventures into the circle of action, he must expect to encounter men as artful, as daring, as resolute as himself; that of his children, some may be deformed, and others vicious; some may disgrace him by their follies, some offend him by their insolence, and some exhaust him by their profusion. He hears all this with obstinate incredulity, and wonders by what malignity old age is influenced, that it cannot forbear to fill his ears with predictions of misery. Among other pleasing errours of young minds, is the opinion of their own importance. He that has not yet remarked, how little attention his contemporaries can spare from their own affairs, conceives all eyes turned upon himself, and imagines every one that approaches him to be an enemy or a follower, an admirer or a spy. He therefore considers his fame as involved in the event of every action. Many of the virtues and vices of youth proceed from this quick sense of reputation. This it is that gives firmness and constancy, fidelity, and disinterestedness, and it is this that kindles resentment for slight injuries, and dictates all the principles of sanguinary honour. But as time brings him forward into the world, he soon discovers that he only shares fame or reproach with innumerable partners; that he is left unmarked in the obscurity of the crowd; and that what he does, whether good or bad, soon gives way to new objects of regard. He then easily sets himself free from the anxieties of reputation, and considers praise or censure as a transient breath, which, while he hears it, is passing away, without any lasting mischief or advantage. In youth, it is common to measure right and wrong by the opinion of the world, and, in age, to act without any measure but interest, and to lose shame without substituting virtue. Such is the condition of life, that something is always wanting to happiness. In youth, we have warm hopes, which are soon blasted by rashness and negligence, and great designs, which are defeated by inexperience. In age, we have knowledge and prudence without spirit to exert, or motives to prompt them; we are able to plan schemes and regulate measures, but have not time remaining to bring them to completion. No. 197. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1752. _Cujus vulturis hoc erit cadaver_? MART. Lib. vi. Ep. lxii. 4. Say, to what vulture's share this carcase falls? F. LEWIS TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, I belong to an order of mankind, considerable at least for their number, to which your notice has never been formally extended, though equally entitled to regard with those triflers, who have hitherto supplied you with topicks of amusement or instruction. I am, Mr. Rambler, a legacy-hunter; and, as every man is willing to think well of the tribe in which his name is registered, you will forgive my vanity, if I remind you that the legacy-hunter, however degraded by an ill-compounded appellation in our barbarous language, was known, as I am told, in ancient Rome, by the sonorous titles of Captator and Hæredipeta. My father was an attorney in the country, who married his master's daughter in hopes of a fortune which he did not obtain, having been, as he afterwards discovered, chosen by her only because she had no better offer, and was afraid of service. I was the first offspring of a marriage, thus reciprocally fraudulent, and therefore could not be expected to inherit much dignity or generosity, and if I had them not from nature, was not likely ever to attain them; for, in the years which I spent at home, I never heard any reason for action or forbearance, but that we should gain money or lose it; nor was taught any other style of commendation, than that Mr. Sneaker is a warm man, Mr. Gripe has done his business, and needs care for nobody. My parents, though otherwise not great philosophers, knew the force of early education, and took care that the blank of my understanding should be filled with impressions of the value of money. My mother used, upon all occasions, to inculcate some salutary axioms, such as might incite me _to keep what I had, and get what I could_; she informed me that we were in a world, where _all must catch that catch can_; and as I grew up, stored my memory with deeper observations; restrained me from the usual puerile expenses, by remarking that _many a little made a mickle_; and, when I envied the finery of my neighbours, told me that _brag was a good dog, but hold-fast was a better_. I was soon sagacious enough to discover that I was not born to great wealth; and having heard no other name for happiness, was sometimes inclined to repine at my condition. But my mother always relieved me, by saying, that there was money enough in the family, that _it was good to be of kin to means_, that I had nothing to do but to please my friends, and I might come to hold up my head with the best squire in the country. These splendid expectations arose from our alliance to three persons of considerable fortune. My mother's aunt had attended on a lady, who, when she died, rewarded her officiousness and fidelity with a large legacy. My father had two relations, of whom one had broken his indentures and run to sea, from whence, after an absence of thirty years, he returned with ten thousand pounds; and the other had lured an heiress out of a window, who, dying of her first child, had left him her estate, on which he lived, without any other care than to collect his rents, and preserve from poachers that game which he could not kill himself. These hoarders of money were visited and courted by all who had any pretence to approach them, and received presents and compliments from cousins who could scarcely tell the degree of their relation. But we had peculiar advantages, which encouraged us to hope, that we should by degrees supplant our competitors. My father, by his profession, made himself necessary in their affairs; for the sailor and the chambermaid, he inquired out mortgages and securities, and wrote bonds and contracts; and had endeared himself to the old woman, who once rashly lent an hundred pounds without consulting him, by informing her, that her debtor, was on the point of bankruptcy, and posting so expeditiously with an execution, that all the other creditors were defrauded. To the squire he was a kind of steward, and had distinguished himself in his office by his address in raising the rents, his inflexibility in distressing the tardy tenants, and his acuteness in setting the parish free from burdensome inhabitants, by shifting them off to some other settlement. Business made frequent attendance necessary; trust soon produced intimacy; and success gave a claim to kindness; so that we had opportunity to practise all the arts of flattery and endearment. My mother, who could not support the thoughts of losing any thing, determined, that all their fortunes should centre in me; and, in the prosecution of her schemes, took care to inform me that _nothing cost less than good words_, and that it is comfortable to leap into an estate which another has got. She trained me by these precepts to the utmost ductility of obedience, and the closest attention to profit. At an age when other boys are sporting in the fields or murmuring in the school, I was contriving some new method of paying my court; inquiring the age of my future benefactors; or considering how I should employ their legacies. If our eagerness of money could have been satisfied with the possessions of any one of my relations, they might perhaps have been obtained; but as it was impossible to be always present with all three, our competitors were busy to efface any trace of affection which we might have left behind; and since there was not, on any part, such superiority of merit as could enforce a constant and unshaken preference, whoever was the last that flattered or obliged, had, for a time, the ascendant. My relations maintained a regular exchange of courtesy, took care to miss no occasion of condolence or congratulation, and sent presents at stated times, but had in their hearts not much esteem for one another. The seaman looked with contempt upon the squire as a milksop and a landman, who had lived without knowing the points of the compass, or seeing any part of the world beyond the county-town; and whenever they met, would talk of longitude and latitude, and circles and tropicks, would scarcely tell him the hour without some mention of the horizon and meridian, nor shew him the news without detecting his ignorance of the situation of other countries. The squire considered the sailor as a rude uncultivated savage, with little more of human than his form, and diverted himself with his ignorance of all common objects and affairs; when he could persuade him to go into the field, he always exposed him to the sportsmen, by sending him to look for game in improper places; and once prevailed upon him to be present at the races, only that he might shew the gentlemen how a sailor sat upon a horse. The old gentlewoman thought herself wiser than both, for she lived with no servant but a maid, and saved her money. The others were indeed sufficiently frugal; but the squire could not live without dogs and horses, and the sailor never suffered the day to pass but over a bowl of punch, to which, as he was not critical in the choice of his company, every man was welcome that could roar out a catch, or tell a story. All these, however, I was to please; an arduous task; but what will not youth and avarice undertake? I had an unresisting suppleness of temper, and an insatiable wish for riches; I was perpetually instigated by the ambition of my parents, and assisted occasionally by their instructions. What these advantages enabled me to perform, shall be told in the next letter of, Yours, &c. CAPTATOR. No. 198. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1752. _Nil mihi das vivus: dicis, post fata daturum. Si non es stultus, scis, Maro, quid cupiam_. MART. Lib. xi. 67. You've told me, Maro, whilst you live, You'd not a single penny give, But that whene'er you chance to die, You'd leave a handsome legacy: You must be mad beyond redress, If my next wish you cannot guess. F. LEWIS. MR. RAMBLER. SIR, You, who must have observed the inclination which almost every man, however unactive or insignificant, discovers of representing his life as distinguished by extraordinary events, will not wonder that Captator thinks his narrative important enough to be continued. Nothing is more common than for those to tease their companions with their history, who have neither done nor suffered any thing that can excite curiosity, or afford instruction. As I was taught to flatter with the first essays of speech, and had very early lost every other passion in the desire of money, I began my pursuit with omens of success; for I divided my officiousness so judiciously among my relations, that I was equally the favourite of all. When any of them entered the door, I went to welcome him with raptures; when he went away, I hung down my head, and sometimes entreated to go with him with so much importunity, that I very narrowly escaped a consent which I dreaded in my heart. When at an annual entertainment they were altogether, I had a harder task; but plied them so impartially with caresses, that none could charge me with neglect; and when they were wearied with my fondness and civilities, I was always dismissed with money to buy playthings. Life cannot be kept at a stand: the years of innocence and prattle were soon at an end, and other qualifications were necessary to recommend me to continuance of kindness. It luckily happened that none of my friends had high notions of book-learning. The sailor hated to see tall boys shut up in a school, when they might more properly be seeing the world, and making their fortunes; and was of opinion, that when the first rules of arithmetick were known, all that was necessary to make a man complete might be learned on ship-board. The squire only insisted, that so much scholarship was indispensably necessary, as might confer ability to draw a lease and read the court hands; and the old chambermaid declared loudly her contempt of books, and her opinion that they only took the head off the main chance. To unite, as well as we could, all their systems, I was bred at home. Each was taught to believe, that I followed his directions, and I gained likewise, as my mother observed, this advantage, that I was always in the way; for she had known many favourite children sent to schools or academies, and forgotten. As I grew fitter to be trusted to my own discretion, I was often despatched upon various pretences to visit my relations, with directions from my parents how to ingratiate myself, and drive away competitors. I was, from my infancy, considered by the sailor as a promising genius, because I liked punch better than wine; and I took care to improve this prepossession by continual inquiries about the art of navigation, the degree of heat and cold in different climates, the profits of trade, and the dangers of shipwreck. I admired the courage of the seamen, and gained his heart by importuning him for a recital of his adventures, and a sight of his foreign curiosities. I listened with an appearance of close attention to stories which I could already repeat, and at the close never failed to express my resolution to visit distant countries, and my contempt of the cowards and drones that spend all their lives in their native parish; though I had in reality no desire of any thing but money, nor ever felt the stimulations of curiosity or ardour of adventure, but would contentedly have passed the years of Nestor in receiving rents, and lending upon mortgages. The squire I was able to please with less hypocrisy, for I really thought it pleasant enough to kill the game and eat it. Some arts of falsehood, however, the hunger of gold persuaded me to practise, by which, though no other mischief was produced, the purity of my thoughts was vitiated, and the reverence for truth gradually destroyed. I sometimes purchased fish, and pretended to have caught them; I hired the countrymen to shew me partridges, and then gave my uncle intelligence of their haunt; I learned the seats of hares at night, and discovered them in the morning with a sagacity that raised the wonder and envy of old sportsmen. One only obstruction to the advancement of my reputation I could never fully surmount; I was naturally a coward, and was therefore always left shamefully behind, when there was a necessity to leap a hedge, to swim a river, or force the horses to the utmost speed; but as these exigencies did not frequently happen, I maintained my honour with sufficient success, and was never left out of a hunting party. The old chambermaid was not so certainly, nor so easily pleased, for she had no predominant passion but avarice, and was therefore cold and inaccessible. She had no conception of any virtue in a young man but that of saving his money. When she heard of my exploits in the field, she would shake her head, inquire how much I should be the richer for all my performances, and lament that such sums should be spent upon dogs and horses. If the sailor told her of my inclination to travel, she was sure there was no place like England, and could not imagine why any man that can live in his own country should leave it. This sullen and frigid being I found means, however, to propitiate by frequent commendations of frugality, and perpetual care to avoid expense. From the sailor was our first and most considerable expectation; for he was richer than the chambermaid, and older than the squire. He was so awkward and bashful among women, that we concluded him secure from matrimony; and the noisy fondness with which he used to welcome me to his house, made us imagine that he would look out for no other heir, and that we had nothing to do but wait patiently for his death. But in the midst of our triumph, my uncle saluted us one morning with a cry of transport, and, clapping his hand hard on my shoulder, told me, I was a happy fellow to have a friend like him in the world, for he came to fit me out for a voyage with one of his old acquaintances. I turned pale, and trembled; my father told him, that he believed my constitution not fitted to the sea; and my mother, bursting into tears, cried out, that her heart would break if she lost me. All this had no effect; the sailor was wholly insusceptive of the softer passions, and, without regard to tears or arguments, persisted in his resolution to make me a man. We were obliged to comply in appearance, and preparations were accordingly made. I took leave of my friends with great alacrity, proclaimed the beneficence of my uncle with the highest strains of gratitude, and rejoiced at the opportunity now put into my hands of gratifying my thirst of knowledge. But, a week before the day appointed for my departure, I fell sick by my mother's direction, and refused all food but what she privately brought me; whenever my uncle visited me I was lethargick or delirious, but took care in my raving fits to talk incessantly of travel and merchandize. The room was kept dark; the table was filled with vials and gallipots; my mother was with difficulty persuaded not to endanger her life with nocturnal attendance; my father lamented the loss of the profits of the voyage; and such superfluity of artifices was employed, as perhaps might have discovered the cheat to a man of penetration. But the sailor, unacquainted with subtilties and stratagems, was easily deluded; and as the ship could not stay for my recovery, sold the cargo, and left me to re-establish my health at leisure. I was sent to regain my flesh in a purer air, lest it should appear never to have been wasted, and in two months returned to deplore my disappointment. My uncle pitied my dejection, and bid me prepare myself against next year, for no land-lubber should touch his money. A reprieve however was obtained, and perhaps some new stratagem might have succeeded another spring; but my uncle unhappily made amorous advances to my mother's maid, who, to promote so advantageous a match, discovered the secret with which only she had been entrusted. He stormed, and raved, and declaring that he would have heirs of his own, and not give his substance to cheats and cowards, married the girl in two days, and has now four children. Cowardice is always scorned, and deceit universally detested. I found my friends, if not wholly alienated, at least cooled in their affection; the squire, though he did not wholly discard me, was less fond, and often inquired when I would go to sea. I was obliged to bear his insults, and endeavoured to rekindle his kindness by assiduity and respect; but all my care was vain; he died without a will, and the estate devolved to the legal heir. Thus has the folly of my parents condemned me to spend in flattery and attendance those years in which I might have been qualified to place myself above hope or fear. I am arrived at manhood without any useful art, or generous sentiment; and, if the old woman should likewise at last deceive me, am in danger at once of beggary and ignorance. I am, &c. CAPTATOR. No. 199. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1752. _Decolor, obscurus, cilis. Non ille repexam Cæsariem Regum, nec Candida virginis ornat Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu: Sed nova si nigri videas miracula suai, Tum pulcros superat cultus, et quldquid Evis Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga_. CLAUDIANUS, xlviii. 10. Obscure, unpris'd, and dark, the magnet lies, Nor lures the search of avaricious eyes, Nor binds the neck, nor sparkles in the hair, Nor dignifies the great, nor decks the fair. But search the wonders of the dusky stone, And own all glories of the mine outdone, Each grace of form, each ornament of state, That decks the fair, or dignifies the great. TO THE RAMBLER. SIR, Though you have seldom digressed from moral subjects, I suppose you are not so rigorous or cynical as to deny the value or usefulness of natural philosophy; or to have lived in this age of inquiry and experiment, without any attention to the wonders every day produced by the pokers of magnetism and the wheels of electricity. At least, I may be allowed to hope that, since nothing is more contrary to moral excellence than envy, you will not refuse to promote the happiness of others, merely because you cannot partake of their enjoyments. In confidence, therefore, that your ignorance has not made you an enemy to knowledge, I offer you the honour of introducing to the notice of the publick, an adept, who, having long laboured for the benefit of mankind, is not willing, like too many of his predecessors, to conceal his secrets in the grave. Many have signalized themselves by melting their estates in crucibles. I was born to no fortune, and therefore had only my mind and body to devote to knowledge, and the gratitude of posterity will attest, that neither mind nor body have been spared. I have sat whole weeks without sleep by the side of an athanor, to watch the moment of projection; I have made the first experiment in nineteen diving engines of new construction; I have fallen eleven times speechless under the shock of electricity; I have twice dislocated my limbs, and once fractured my skull, in essaying to fly[l]; and four times endangered my life by submitting to the transfusion of blood. In the first period of my studies, I exerted the powers of my body more than those of my mind, and was not without hopes that fame might be purchased by a few broken bones without the toil of thinking; but having been shattered by some violent experiments, and constrained to confine myself to my books, I passed six-and-thirty years in searching the treasures of ancient wisdom, but am at last amply recompensed for all my perseverance. The curiosity of the present race of philosophers, having been long exercised upon electricity, has been lately transferred to magnetism; the qualities of the loadstone have been investigated, if not with much advantage, yet with great applause; and as the highest praise of art is to imitate nature, I hope no man will think the makers of artificial magnets celebrated or reverenced above their deserts. I have, for some time, employed myself in the same practice, but with deeper knowledge and more extensive views. While my contemporaries were touching needles and raising weights, or busying themselves with inclination and variation, I have been examining those qualities of magnetism which may be applied to the accommodation and happiness of common life. I have left to inferior understandings the care of conducting the sailor through the hazards of the ocean, and reserved to myself the more difficult and illustrious province of preserving the connubial compact from violation, and setting mankind free for ever from the danger of supposititious children, and the torments of fruitless vigilance and anxious suspicion. To defraud any man of his due praise is unworthy of a philosopher; I shall, therefore, openly confess that I owe the first hint of this inestimable secret to the rabbi Abraham Ben Hannase, who, in his treatise of precious stones, has left this account of the magnet: [Hebrew: chkalamta],&c. "The calamita, or loadstone that attracts iron, produces many bad fantasies in man. Women fly from this stone. If, therefore, any husband be disturbed with jealousy, and fear lest his wife converses with other men, let him lay this stone upon her while she is asleep. If she be pure, she will, when she wakes, clasp her husband fondly in her arms; but if she be guilty, she will fall out of bed, and run away." When I first read this wonderful passage, I could not easily conceive why it had remained hitherto unregarded in such a zealous competition for magnetical fame. It would surely be unjust to suspect that any of the candidates are strangers to the name or works of rabbi Abraham, or to conclude, from a late edict of the Royal Society in favour of the English language, that philosophy and literature are no longer to act in concert. Yet, how should a quality so useful escape promulgation, but by the obscurity of the language in which it was delivered? Why are footmen and chambermaids paid on every side for keeping secrets, which no caution nor expense could secure from the all-penetrating magnet? Or, why are so many witnesses summoned, and so many artifices practised, to discover what so easy an experiment would infallibly reveal? Full of this perplexity, I read the lines of Abraham to a friend, who advised me not to expose my life by a mad indulgence of the love of fame: he warned me by the fate of Orpheus, that knowledge or genius could give no protection to the invader of female prerogatives; assured me that neither the armour of Achilles, nor the antidote of Mithridates, would be able to preserve me; and counselled me, if I could not live without renown, to attempt the acquisition of universal empire, in which the honour would perhaps be equal, and the danger certainly be less. I, a solitary student, pretend not to much knowledge of the world, but am unwilling to think it so generally corrupt, as that a scheme for the detection of incontinence should bring any danger upon its inventor. My friend has indeed told me that all the women will be my enemies, and that, however I flatter myself with hopes of defence from the men, I shall certainly find myself deserted in the hour of danger. Of the young men, said he, some will be afraid of sharing the disgrace of their mothers, and some the danger of their mistresses; of those who are married, part are already convinced of the falsehood of their wives, and part shut their eyes to avoid conviction; few ever sought for virtue in marriage, and therefore few will try whether they have found it. Almost every man is careless or timorous, and to trust is easier and safer than to examine. These observations discouraged me, till I began to consider what reception I was likely to find among the ladies, whom I have reviewed under the three classes of maids, wives, and widows, and cannot but hope that I may obtain some countenance among them. The single ladies I suppose universally ready to patronise my method, by which connubial wickedness may be detected, since no woman marries with a previous design to be unfaithful to her husband. And to keep them steady in my cause, I promise never to sell one of my magnets to a man who steals a girl from school; marries a woman of forty years younger than himself; or employs the authority of parents to obtain a wife without her own consent. Among the married ladies, notwithstanding the insinuations of slander, yet I resolve to believe, that the greater part are my friends, and am at least convinced, that they who demand the test, and appear on my side, will supply, by their spirit, the deficiency of their numbers, and that their enemies will shrink and quake at the sight of a magnet, as the slaves of Scythia fled from the scourge. The widows will be confederated in my favour by their curiosity, if not by their virtue; for it may be observed, that women who have outlived their husbands, always think themselves entitled to superintend the conduct of young wives; and as they are themselves in no danger from this magnetick trial, I shall expect them to be eminently and unanimously zealous in recommending it. With these hopes I shall, in a short time, offer to sale magnets armed with a particular metallick composition, which concentrates their virtue, and determines their agency. It is known that the efficacy of the magnet, in common operations, depends much upon its armature, and it cannot be imagined, that a stone, naked, or cased only in a common manner, will discover the virtues ascribed to it by Rabbi Abraham. The secret of this metal I shall carefully conceal, and, therefore, am not afraid of imitators, nor shall trouble the offices with solicitations for a patent. I shall sell them of different sizes, and various degrees of strength. I have some of a bulk proper to be hung at the bed's head, as scare-crows, and some so small that they may be easily concealed. Some I have ground into oval forms to be hung at watches; and some, for the curious, I have set in wedding rings, that ladies may never want an attestation of their innocence. Some I can produce so sluggish and inert, that they will not act before the third failure; and others so vigorous and animated, that they exert their influence against unlawful wishes, if they have been willingly and deliberately indulged. As it is my practice honestly to tell my customers the properties of my magnets, I can judge, by their choice, of the delicacy of their sentiments. Many have been content to spare cost by purchasing only the lowest degree of efficacy, and all have started with terrour from those which operate upon the thoughts. One young lady only fitted on a ring of the strongest energy, and declared that she scorned to separate her wishes from her acts, or allow herself to think what she was forbidden to practise. I am, &c. HERMETICUS. [Footnote l: In the sixth chapter of Rasselas we have an excellent story of an experimentalist in the art of flying. Dr. Johnson sketched perhaps from life, for we are informed that he once lodged in the same house with a man who broke his legs in the daring attempt.] No. 200. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1752. _Nemo petit, modicis quae mittebantur amicis A Seneca, quae Piso bonus, quae Cotta solebut Largiri; namque et titulis, et fascibus olim Major habebatur donandi gloria: solum Poscimus, ut caenes civiliter. Hoc face, el esto, Esto, ut nunc multi, dives tibi, pauper amicis_. JUV. Sat. v. 108. No man expects (for who so much a sot Who has the times he lives in so forgot?) What Seneca, what Piso us'd to send, To raise or to support a sinking friend. Those godlike men, to wanting virtue kind, Bounty well plac'd, preferr'd, and well design'd, To all their titles, all that height of pow'r, Which turns the brains of fools, and fools alone adore. When your poor client is condemn'd t' attend, 'Tis all we ask, receive him as a friend: Descend to this, and then we ask no more; Rich to yourself, to all beside be poor. BOWLES. TO THE RAMBLER. MR. RAMBLER, Such is the tenderness or infirmity of many minds, that when any affliction oppresses them, they have immediate recourse to lamentation and complaint, which, though it can only be allowed reasonable when evils admit of remedy, and then only when addressed to those from whom the remedy is expected, yet seems even in hopeless and incurable distresses to be natural, since those by whom it is not indulged, imagine that they give a proof of extraordinary fortitude by suppressing it. I am one of those who, with the Sancho of Cervantes, leave to higher characters the merit of suffering in silence, and give vent without scruple to any sorrow that swells in my heart. It is therefore to me a severe aggravation of a calamity, when it is such as in the common opinion will not justify the acerbity of exclamation, or support the solemnity of vocal grief. Yet many pains are incident to a man of delicacy, which the unfeeling world cannot be persuaded to pity, and which, when they are separated from their peculiar and personal circumstances, will never be considered as important enough to claim attention, or deserve redress. Of this kind will appear to gross and vulgar apprehensions, the miseries which I endured in a morning visit to Prospero, a man lately raised to wealth by a lucky project, and too much intoxicated by sudden elevation, or too little polished by thought and conversation, to enjoy his present fortune with elegance and decency. We set out in the world together; and for a long time mutually assisted each other in our exigencies, as either happened to have money or influence beyond his immediate necessities. You know that nothing generally endears men so much as participation of dangers and misfortunes; I therefore always considered Prospero as united with me in the strongest league of kindness, and imagined that our friendship was only to be broken by the hand of death. I felt at his sudden shoot of success an honest and disinterested joy; but as I want no part of his superfluities, am not willing to descend from that equality in which we hitherto have lived. Our intimacy was regarded by me as a dispensation from ceremonial visits; and it was so long before I saw him at his new house, that he gently complained of my neglect, and obliged me to come on a day appointed. I kept my promise, but found that the impatience of my friend arose not from any desire to communicate his happiness, but to enjoy his superiority. When I told my name at the door, the footman went to see if his master was at home, and, by the tardiness of his return, gave me reason to suspect that time was taken to deliberate. He then informed me, that Prospero desired my company, and shewed the staircase carefully secured by mats from the pollution of my feet. The best apartments were ostentatiously set open, that I might have a distant view of the magnificence which I was not permitted to approach; and my old friend receiving me with all the insolence of condescension at the top of the stairs, conducted me to a back room, where he told me he always breakfasted when he had not great company. On the floor where we sat lay a carpet covered with a cloth, of which Prospero ordered his servant to lift up a corner, that I might contemplate the brightness of the colours, and the elegance of the texture, and asked me whether I had ever seen any thing so fine before? I did not gratify his folly with any outcries of admiration, but coldly bade the footman let down the cloth. We then sat down, and I began to hope that pride was glutted with persecution, when Prospero desired that I would give the servant leave to adjust the cover of my chair, which was slipt a little aside, to shew the damask; he informed me that he had bespoke ordinary chairs for common use, but had been disappointed by his tradesman. I put the chair aside with my foot, and drew another so hastily, that I was entreated not to rumple the carpet. Breakfast was at last set, and as I was not willing to indulge the peevishness that began to seize me, I commended the tea: Prospero then told me, that another time I should taste his finest sort, but that he had only a very small quantity remaining, and reserved it for those whom he thought himself obliged to treat with particular respect. While we were conversing upon such subjects as imagination happened to suggest, he frequently digressed into directions to the servant that waited, or made a slight inquiry after the jeweller or silversmith; and once, as I was pursuing an argument with some degree of earnestness, he started from his posture of attention, and ordered, that if lord Lofty called on him that morning, he should be shown into the best parlour. My patience was yet not wholly subdued. I was willing to promote his satisfaction, and therefore observed that the figures on the china were eminently pretty. Prospero had now an opportunity of calling for his Dresden china, which, says he, I always associate with my chased teakettle. The cups were brought; I once resolved not to have looked upon them, but my curiosity prevailed. When I had examined them a little, Prospero desired me to set them down, for they who were accustomed only to common dishes, seldom handled china with much care. You will, I hope, commend my philosophy, when I tell you that I did not dash his baubles to the ground. He was now so much elevated with his own greatness, that he thought some humility necessary to avert the glance of envy, and therefore told me, with an air of soft composure, that I was not to estimate life by external appearance, that all these shining acquisitions had added little to his happiness, that he still remembered with pleasure the days in which he and I were upon the level, and had often, in the moment of reflection, been doubtful, whether he should lose much by changing his condition for mine. I began now to be afraid lest his pride should, by silence and submission be emboldened to insults that could not easily be borne, and therefore coolly considered, how I should repress it without such bitterness of reproof as I was yet unwilling to use. But he interrupted my meditation, by asking leave to be dressed, and told me, that he had promised to attend some ladies in the park, and, if I was going the same way, would take me in his chariot. I had no inclination to any other favours, and therefore left him without any intention of seeing him again, unless some misfortune should restore his understanding. I am, &c. ASPER. Though I am not wholly insensible of the provocations which my correspondent has received, I cannot altogether commend the keenness of his resentment, nor encourage him to persist in his resolution of breaking off all commerce with his old acquaintance. One of the golden precepts of Pythagoras directs, that _a friend should not be hated for little faults_; and surely he, upon whom nothing worse can be charged, than that he mats his stairs, and covers his carpet, and sets out his finery to show before those whom he does not admit to use it, has yet committed nothing that should exclude him from common degrees of kindness. Such improprieties often proceed rather from stupidity than malice. Those who thus shine only to dazzle, are influenced merely by custom and example, and neither examine, nor are qualified to examine, the motives of their own practice, or to state the nice limits between elegance and ostentation. They are often innocent of the pain which their vanity produces, and insult others when they have no worse purpose than to please themselves. He that too much refines his delicacy will always endanger his quiet. Of those with whom nature and virtue oblige us to converse, some are ignorant of the art of pleasing, and offend when they design to caress; some are negligent, and gratify themselves without regard to the quiet of another; some, perhaps, are malicious, and feel no greater satisfaction in prosperity, than that of raising envy and trampling inferiority. But, whatever be the motive of insult, it is always best to overlook it, for folly scarcely can deserve resentment, and malice is punished by neglect[m]. [Footnote m: Garrick's little vanities are recognized by all in the character of Prospero. Mr. Boswell informs us, that he never forgave its pointed satire. On the same authority we are assured, that though Johnson so dearly loved to ridicule his pupil, yet he so habitually considered him as his own property, that he would permit no one beside to hold up his weaknesses to derision.] No. 201. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1752. --_Sanctus haberi Justitiæque tenat factis dictisque mereris, Adnosco procerem_. JUV. Sat. Lib. viii. 24. Convince the world that you're devout and true; Be just in all you say, and all you do; Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be A peer of the first magnitude to me. STEPNEY. Boyle has observed, that the excellency of manufactures, and the facility of labour, would be much promoted, if the various expedients and contrivances which lie concealed in private hands, were by reciprocal communications made generally known; for there are few operations that are not performed by one or other with some peculiar advantages, which, though singly of little importance, would, by conjunction and concurrence, open new inlets to knowledge, and give new powers to diligence. There are, in like manner, several moral excellencies distributed among the different classes of a community. It was said by Cujacius, that he never read more than one book by which he was not instructed; and he that shall inquire after virtue with ardour and attention, will seldom find a man by whose example or sentiments he may not be improved. Every profession has some essential and appropriate virtue, without which there can be no hope of honour or success, and which, as it is more or less cultivated, confers within its sphere of activity different degrees of merit and reputation. As the astrologers range the subdivisions of mankind under the planets which they suppose to influence their lives, the moralist may distribute them according to the virtues which they necessarily practise, and consider them as distinguished by prudence or fortitude, diligence or patience. So much are the modes of excellence settled by time and place, that men may be heard boasting in one street of that which they would anxiously conceal in another. The grounds of scorn and esteem, the topicks of praise and satire, are varied according to the several virtues or vices which the course of life has disposed men to admire or abhor; but he who is solicitous for his own improvement, must not be limited by local reputation, but select from every tribe of mortals their characteristical virtues, and constellate in himself the scattered graces which shine single in other men. The chief praise to which a trader aspires is that of punctuality, or an exact and rigorous observance of commercial engagements; nor is there any vice of which he so much dreads the imputation, as of negligence and instability. This is a quality which the interest of mankind requires to be diffused through all the ranks of life, but which many seem to consider as a vulgar and ignoble virtue, below the ambition of greatness or attention of wit, scarcely requisite among men of gaiety and spirit, and sold at its highest rate when it is sacrificed to a frolick or a jest. Every man has daily occasion to remark what vexations arise from this privilege of deceiving one another. The active and vivacious have so long disdained the restraints of truth, that promises and appointments have lost their cogency, and both parties neglect their stipulations, because each concludes that they will be broken by the other. Negligence is first admitted in small affairs, and strengthened by petty indulgences. He that is not yet hardened by custom, ventures not on the violation of important engagements, but thinks himself bound by his word in cases of property or danger, though he allows himself to forget at what time he is to meet ladies in the park, or at what tavern his friends are expecting him. This laxity of honour would be more tolerable, if it could be restrained to the play-house, the ball-room, or the card-table; yet even there it is sufficiently troublesome, and darkens those moments with expectation, suspense, and resentment, which are set aside for pleasure, and from which we naturally hope for unmingled enjoyment, and total relaxation. But he that suffers the slightest breach in his morality, can seldom tell what shall enter it, or how wide it shall be made; when a passage is open, the influx of corruption is every moment wearing down opposition, and by slow degrees deluges the heart. Aliger entered the world a youth of lively imagination, extensive views, and untainted principles. His curiosity incited him to range from place to place, and try all the varieties of conversation; his elegance of address and fertility of ideas gained him friends wherever he appeared; or at least he found the general kindness of reception always shown to a young man whose birth and fortune give him a claim to notice, and who has neither by vice nor folly destroyed his privileges. Aliger was pleased with this general smile of mankind, and was industrious to preserve it by compliance and officiousness, but did not suffer his desire of pleasing to vitiate his integrity. It was his established maxim, that a promise is never to be broken; nor was it without long reluctance that he once suffered himself to be drawn away from a festal engagement by the importunity of another company. He spent the evening, as is usual in the rudiments of vice, in perturbation and imperfect enjoyment, and met his disappointed friends in the morning with confusion and excuses. His companions, not accustomed to such scrupulous anxiety, laughed at his uneasiness, compounded the offence for a bottle, gave him courage to break his word again, and again levied the penalty. He ventured the same experiment upon another society, and found them equally ready to consider it as a venial fault, always incident to a man of quickness and gaiety; till, by degrees, he began to think himself at liberty to follow the last invitation, and was no longer shocked at the turpitude of falsehood. He made no difficulty to promise his presence at distant places, and if listlessness happened to creep upon him, would sit at home with great tranquillity, and has often sunk to sleep in a chair, while he held ten tables in continual expectations of his entrance. It was so pleasant to live in perpetual vacancy, that he soon dismissed his attention as an useless incumbrance, and resigned himself to carelessness and dissipation, without any regard to the future or the past, or any other motive of action than the impulse of a sudden desire, or the attraction of immediate pleasure. The absent were immediately forgotten, and the hopes or fears felt by others, had no influence upon his conduct. He was in speculation completely just, but never kept his promise to a creditor; he was benevolent, but always deceived those friends whom he undertook to patronise or assist; he was prudent, but suffered his affairs to be embarrassed for want of regulating his accounts at stated times. He courted a young lady, and when the settlements were drawn, took a ramble into the country on the day appointed to sign them. He resolved to travel, and sent his chests on shipboard, but delayed to follow them till he lost his passage. He was summoned as an evidence in a cause of great importance, and loitered on the way till the trial was past. It is said that when he had, with great expense, formed an interest in a borough, his opponent contrived, by some agents who knew his temper, to lure him away on the day of election. His benevolence draws him into the commission of a thousand crimes, which others less kind or civil would escape. His courtesy invites application; his promises produce dependence; he has his pockets filled with petitions, which he intends some time to deliver and enforce, and his table covered with letters of request, with which he purposes to comply; but time slips imperceptibly away, while he is either idle or busy; his friends lose their opportunities, and charge upon him their miscarriages and calamities. This character, however contemptible, is not peculiar to Aliger. They whose activity of imagination is often shifting the scenes of expectation, are frequently subject to such sallies of caprice as make all their actions fortuitous, destroy the value of their friendship, obstruct the efficacy of their virtues, and set them below the meanest of those that persist in their resolutions, execute what they design, and perform what they have promised. No. 202. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1752. [Greek: Pros apanta deilos estin o penaes pragmata, Kai pantas autou kataphronein upolambanei O de metrios pratton periskegesteron Apanta t aniara, dampria, phepei.] CALLIMACHUS. From no affliction is the poor exempt, He thinks each eye surveys him with contempt; Unmanly poverty subdues the heart, Cankers each wound, and sharpen's[1] ev'ry dart. F. LEWIS. [1] Transcriber's note: sic. Among those who have endeavoured to promote learning, and rectify judgment, it has been long customary to complain of the abuse of words, which are often admitted to signify things so different, that, instead of assisting the understanding as vehicles of knowledge, they produce errour, dissention, and perplexity, because what is affirmed in one sense, is received in another. If this ambiguity sometimes embarrasses the most solemn controversies, and obscures the demonstrations of science, it may well be expected to infest the pompous periods of declaimers, whose purpose is often only to amuse with fallacies, and change the colours of truth and falsehood; or the musical compositions of poets, whose style is professedly figurative, and whose art is imagined to consist in distorting words from their original meaning. There are few words of which the reader believes himself better to know the import, than of _poverty_; yet, whoever studies either the poets or philosophers, will find such an account of the condition expressed by that term as his experience or observation will not easily discover to be true. Instead of the meanness, distress, complaint, anxiety, and dependance, which have hitherto been combined in his ideas of poverty, he will read of content, innocence, and cheerfulness, of health and safety, tranquillity and freedom; of pleasures not known but to men unencumbered with possessions; and of sleep that sheds his balsamick anodynes only on the cottage. Such are the blessings to be obtained by the resignation of riches, that kings might descend from their thrones, and generals retire from a triumph, only to slumber undisturbed in the elysium of poverty. If these authors do not deceive us, nothing can be more absurd than that perpetual contest for wealth which keeps the world in commotion; nor any complaints more justly censured than those which proceed from want of the gifts of fortune, which we are taught by the great masters of moral wisdom to consider as golden shackles, by which the wearer is at once disabled and adorned; as luscious poisons which may for a time please the palate, but soon betray their malignity by languor and by pain. It is the great privilege of poverty to be happy unenvied, to be healthful without physick, and secure without a guard; to obtain from the bounty of nature, what the great and wealthy are compelled to procure by the help of artists and attendants, of flatterers and spies. But it will be found upon a nearer view, that they who extol the happiness of poverty, do not mean the same state with those who deplore its miseries. Poets have their imaginations filled with ideas of magnificence; and being accustomed to contemplate the downfall of empires, or to contrive forms of lamentations, for monarchs in distress, rank all the classes of mankind in a state of poverty, who make no approaches to the dignity of crowns. To be poor, in the epick language, is only not to command the wealth of nations, nor to have fleets and armies in pay. Vanity has perhaps contributed to this impropriety of style. He that wishes to become a philosopher at a cheap rate, easily gratifies his ambition by submitting to poverty when he does not feel it, and by boasting his contempt of riches when he has already more than he enjoys. He who would shew the extent of his views, and grandeur of his conceptions, or discover his acquaintance with splendour and magnificence, may talk like Cowley, of an humble station and quiet obscurity, of the paucity of nature's wants, and the inconveniencies of superfluity, and at last, like him, limit his desires to five hundred pounds a year; a fortune, indeed, not exuberant, when we compare it with the expenses of pride and luxury, but to which it little becomes a philosopher to affix the name of poverty, since no man can, with any propriety, be termed poor, who does not see the greater part of mankind richer than himself. As little is the general condition of human life understood by the panegyrists and historians, who amuse us with accounts of the poverty of heroes and sages. Riches are of no value in themselves, their use is discovered only in that which they procure. They are not coveted, unless by narrow understandings, which confound the means with the end, but for the sake of power, influence, and esteem; or, by some of less elevated and refined sentiments, as necessary to sensual enjoyment. The pleasures of luxury, many have, without uncommon virtue, been able to despise, even when affluence and idleness have concurred to tempt them; and therefore he who feels nothing from indigence but the want of gratifications which he could not in any other condition make consistent with innocence, has given no proof of eminent patience. Esteem and influence every man desires, but they are equally pleasing, and equally valuable, by whatever means they are obtained; and whoever has found the art of securing them without the help of money, ought, in reality, to be accounted rich, since he has all that riches can purchase to a wise man. Cincinnatus, though he lived upon a few acres cultivated by his own hand, was sufficiently removed from all the evils generally comprehended under the name of poverty, when his reputation was such, that the voice of his country called him from his farm to take absolute command into his hand; nor was Diogenes much mortified by his residence in a tub, where he was honoured with the visit of Alexander the Great. The same fallacy has conciliated veneration to the religious orders. When we behold a man abdicating the hope of terrestrial possessions, and precluding himself, by an irrevocable vow, from the pursuit and acquisition of all that his fellow-beings consider as worthy of wishes and endeavours, we are immediately struck with the purity, abstraction, and firmness of his mind, and regard him as wholly employed in securing the interests of futurity, and devoid of any other care than to gain, at whatever price, the surest passage to eternal rest. Yet, what can the votary be justly said to have lost of his present happiness? If he resides in a convent, he converses only with men whose condition is the same with his own; he has, from the munificence of the founder, all the necessaries of life, and is safe from that destitution, which Hooker declares to be "such an impediment to virtue, as, till it be removed, suffereth not the mind of man to admit any other care." All temptations to envy and competition are shut out from his retreat; he is not pained with the sight of unattainable dignity, nor insulted with the bluster of insolence, or the smile of forced familiarity. If he wanders abroad, the sanctity of his character amply compensates all other distinctions; he is seldom seen but with reverence, nor heard but with submission. It has been remarked, that death, though often defied in the field, seldom fails to terrify when it approaches the bed of sickness in its natural horrour; so poverty may easily be endured, while associated with dignity and reputation, but will always be shunned and dreaded, when it is accompanied with ignominy and contempt. No. 203. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1752. _Cum volet illa dies, quae nil nisi corporis hujus Jus habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat avi_. OVID. Met. xv. 873. Come, soon or late, death's undetermin'd day, This mortal being only can decay. WELSTED. It seems to be the fate of man to seek all his consolations in futurity. The time present is seldom able to fill desire or imagination with immediate enjoyment, and we are forced to supply its deficiencies by recollection or anticipation. Every one has so often detected the fallaciousness of hope, and the inconvenience of teaching himself to expect what a thousand accidents may preclude, that, when time has abated the confidence with which youth rushes out to take possession of the world, we endeavour, or wish, to find entertainment in the review of life, and to repose upon real facts, and certain experience. This is perhaps one reason, among many, why age delights in narratives. But so full is the world of calamity, that every source of pleasure is polluted, and every retirement of tranquillity disturbed. When time has supplied us with events sufficient to employ our thoughts, it has mingled them with so many disasters, that we shrink from their remembrance, dread their intrusion upon our minds, and fly from them as from enemies that pursue us with torture. No man past the middle point of life can sit down to feast upon the pleasures of youth without finding the banquet embittered by the cup of sorrow; he may revive lucky accidents, and pleasing extravagancies; many days of harmless frolick, or nights of honest festivity, will perhaps recur; or, if he has been engaged in scenes of action, and acquainted with affairs of difficulty and vicissitudes of fortune, he may enjoy the nobler pleasure of looking back upon distress firmly supported, dangers resolutely encountered, and opposition artfully defeated. Aeneas properly comforts his companions, when, after the horrours of a storm, they have landed on an unknown and desolate country, with the hope that their miseries will be at some distant time recounted with delight. There are few higher gratifications, than that of reflection on surmounted evils, when they are not incurred nor protracted by our fault, and neither reproach us with cowardice nor guilt. But this felicity is almost always abated by the reflection that they with whom we should be most pleased to share it are now in the grave. A few years make such havock in human generations, that we soon see ourselves deprived of those with whom we entered the world, and whom the participation of pleasures or fatigues had endeared to our remembrance. The man of enterprise recounts his adventures and expedients, but is forced, at the close of the relation, to pay a sigh to the names of those that contributed to his success; he that passes his life among the gayer part of mankind, has his remembrance stored with remarks and repartees of wits, whose sprightliness and merriment are now lost in perpetual silence; the trader, whose industry has supplied the want of inheritance, repines in solitary plenty at the absence of companions, with whom he had planned out amusements for his latter years; and the scholar, whose merit, after a long series of efforts, raises him from obscurity, looks round in vain from his exaltation for his old friends or enemies, whose applause or mortification would heighten his triumph. Among Martial's requisites to happiness is, _Res non parta labore, sed relicta_, "an estate not gained by industry, but left by inheritance." It is necessary to the completion of every good, that it be timely obtained; for whatever comes at the close of life will come too late to give much delight; yet all human happiness has its defects. Of what we do not gain for ourselves we have only a faint and imperfect fruition, because we cannot compare the difference between want and possession, or at least can derive from it no conviction of our own abilities, nor any increase of self-esteem; what we acquire by bravery or science, by mental or corporeal diligence, comes at last when we cannot communicate, and, therefore, cannot enjoy it. Thus every period of life is obliged to borrow its happiness from the time to come. In youth we have nothing past to entertain us, and in age, we derive little from retrospect but hopeless sorrow. Yet the future likewise has its limits, which the imagination dreads to approach, but which we see to be not far distant. The loss of our friends and companions impresses hourly upon us the necessity of our own departure; we know that the schemes of man are quickly at an end, that we must soon lie down in the grave with the forgotten multitudes of former ages, and yield our place to others, who, like us, shall be driven awhile by hope or fear about the surface of the earth, and then like us be lost in the shades of death. Beyond this termination of our material existence, we are therefore obliged to extend our hopes; and almost every man indulges his imagination with something, which is not to happen till he has changed his manner of being: some amuse themselves with entails and settlements, provide for the perpetuation of families and honours, or contrive to obviate the dissipation of the fortunes, which it has been their business to accumulate; others, more refined or exalted, congratulate their own hearts upon the future extent of their reputation, the reverence of distant nations, and the gratitude of unprejudiced posterity. They whose souls are so chained down to coffers and tenements, that they cannot conceive a state in which they shall look upon them with less solicitude, are seldom attentive or flexible to arguments; but the votaries of fame are capable of reflection, and therefore may be called to reconsider the probability of their expectations. Whether to be remembered in remote times be worthy of a wise man's wish, has not yet been satisfactorily decided; and, indeed, to be long remembered, can happen to so small a number, that the bulk of mankind has very little interest in the question. There is never room in the world for more than a certain quantity or measure of renown. The necessary business of life, the immediate pleasures or pains of every condition, leave us not leisure beyond a fixed proportion for contemplations which do not forcibly influence our present welfare. When this vacuity is filled, no characters can be admitted into the circulation of fame, but by occupying the place of some that must be thrust into oblivion. The eye of the mind, like that of the body, can only extend its view to new objects, by losing sight of those which are now before it. Reputation is therefore a meteor, which blazes a while and disappears for ever; and, if we except a few transcendent and invincible names, which no revolutions of opinion or length of time is able to suppress; all those that engage our thoughts, or diversify our conversation, are every moment hasting to obscurity, as new favourites are adopted by fashion. It is not therefore from this world, that any ray of comfort can proceed, to cheer the gloom of the last hour. But futurity has still its prospects; there is yet happiness in reserve, which, if we transfer our attention to it, will support us in the pains of disease, and the languor of decay. This happiness we may expect with confidence, because it is out of the power of chance, and may be attained by all that sincerely desire and earnestly pursue it. On this therefore every mind ought finally to rest. Hope is the chief blessing of man, and that hope only is rational, of which we are certain that it cannot deceive us. No. 204. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1752 _Nemo tam divos habuit faventes, Crastinum ut possit sibi polliceit_. SENECA. Of heaven's protection who can be So confident to utter this?-- To-morrow I will spend in bliss. F. LEWIS. Seged, lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the world: To the sons of _Presumption_, humility and fear; and to the daughters of _Sorrow_, content and acquiescence. Thus, in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, spoke Seged, the monarch of forty nations, the distributor of the waters of the Nile: "At length, Seged, thy toils are at an end; thou hast reconciled disaffection, thou hast suppressed rebellion, thou hast pacified the jealousies of thy courtiers, thou hast chased war from thy confines, and erected fortresses in the lands of thine enemies. All who have offended thee tremble in thy presence, and wherever thy voice is heard, it is obeyed. Thy throne is surrounded by armies, numerous as the locusts of the summer, and resistless as the blasts of pestilence. Thy magazines are stored with ammunition, thy treasures overflow with the tribute of conquered kingdoms. Plenty waves upon thy fields, and opulence glitters in thy cities. Thy nod is as the earthquake that shakes the mountains, and thy smile as the dawn of the vernal day. In thy hand is the strength of thousands, and thy health is the health of millions. Thy palace is gladdened by the song of praise, and thy path perfumed by the breath of benediction. Thy subjects gaze upon thy greatness, and think of danger or misery no more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake the blessings thou bestowest? Why shouldst thou only forbear to rejoice in this general felicity? Why should thy face be clouded with anxiety, when the meanest of those who call thee sovereign, gives the day to festivity, and the night to peace? At length, Seged, reflect and be wise. What is the gift of conquest but safety? Why are riches collected but to purchase happiness?" Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, built in an island of the lake of Dambea, to be prepared for his reception. "I will retire," says he, "for ten days from tumult and care, from counsels and decrees. Long quiet is not the lot of the governours of nations, but a cessation of ten days cannot be denied me. This short interval of happiness may surely be secured from the interruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow or disappointment. I will exclude all trouble from my abode, and remove from my thoughts whatever may confuse the harmony of the concert, or abate the sweetness of the banquet. I will fill the whole capacity of my soul with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wish unsatisfied." In a few days the orders were performed, and Seged hasted to the palace of Dambea, which stood in an island cultivated only for pleasure, planted with every flower that spreads its colours to the sun, and every shrub that sheds fragrance in the air. In one part of this extensive garden, were open walks for excursions in the morning; in another, thick groves, and silent arbours, and bubbling fountains for repose at noon. All that could solace the sense, or flatter the fancy, all that industry could extort from nature, or wealth furnish to art, all that conquest could seize, or beneficence attract, was collected together, and every perception of delight was excited and gratified. Into this delicious region Seged summoned all the persons of his court, who seemed eminently qualified to receive or communicate pleasure. His call was readily obeyed; the young, the fair, the vivacious, and the witty, were all in haste to be sated with felicity. They sailed jocund over the lake, which seemed to smooth its surface before them: their passage was cheered with musick, and their hearts dilated with expectation. Seged, landing here with his band of pleasure, determined from that hour to break off all acquaintance with discontent, to give his heart for ten days to ease and jollity, and then fall back to the common state of man, and suffer his life to be diversified, as before, with joy and sorrow. He immediately entered his chamber, to consider where he should begin his circle of happiness. He had all the artists of delight before him, but knew not whom to call, since he could not enjoy one, but by delaying the performance of another. He chose and rejected, he resolved and changed his resolution, till his faculties were harassed, and his thoughts confused; then returned to the apartment where his presence was expected, with languid eyes and clouded countenance, and spread the infection of uneasiness over the whole assembly. He observed their depression, and was offended, for he found his vexation increased by those whom he expected to dissipate and relieve it. He retired again to his private chamber, and sought for consolation in his own mind; one thought flowed in upon another; a long succession of images seized his attention; the moments crept imperceptibly away through the gloom of pensiveness, till, having recovered his tranquillity, he lifted his head, and saw the lake brightened by the setting sun. "Such," said Seged, sighing, "is the longest day of human existence: before we have learned to use it, we find it at, an end." The regret which he felt for the loss of so great a part of his first day, took from him all disposition to enjoy the evening; and, after having endeavoured, for the sake of his attendants, to force an air of gaiety, and excite that mirth which he could not share, he resolved to refer his hopes to the next morning, and lay down to partake with the slaves of labour and poverty the blessing of sleep. He rose early the second morning, and resolved now to be happy. He therefore fixed upon the gate of the palace an edict, importing, that whoever, during nine days, should appear in the presence of the king with a dejected countenance, or utter any expression of discontent or sorrow, should be driven for ever from the palace of Dambea. This edict was immediately made known in every chamber of the court, and bower of the gardens. Mirth was frighted away, and they who were before dancing in the lawns, or singing in the shades, were at once engaged in the care of regulating their looks, that Seged might find his will punctually obeyed, and see none among them liable to banishment. Seged now met every face settled in a smile; but a smile that betrayed solicitude, timidity, and constraint. He accosted his favourites with familiarity and softness; but they durst not speak without premeditation, lest they should be convicted of discontent or sorrow. He proposed diversions, to which no objection was made, because objection would have implied uneasiness; but they were regarded with indifference by the courtiers, who had no other desire than to signalize themselves by clamorous exultation. He offered various topicks of conversation, but obtained only forced jests, and laborious laughter; and after many attempts to animate his train to confidence and alacrity, was obliged to confess to himself the impotence of command, and resign another day to grief and disappointment. He at last relieved his companions from their terrours, and shut himself up in his chamber to ascertain, by different measures, the felicity of the succeeding days. At length he threw himself on the bed, and closed his eyes, but imagined, in his sleep, that his palace and gardens were overwhelmed by an inundation, and waked with all the terrours of a man struggling in the water. He composed himself again to rest, but was affrighted by an imaginary irruption into his kingdom; and striving, as is usual in dreams, without ability to move, fancied himself betrayed to his enemies, and again started up with horrour and indignation. It was now day, and fear was so strongly impressed on his mind, that he could sleep no more. He rose, but his thoughts were filled with the deluge and invasion, nor was he able to disengage his attention, or mingle with vacancy and ease in any amusement. At length his perturbation gave way to reason, and he resolved no longer to be harassed by visionary miseries; but, before this resolution could be completed, half the day had elapsed: he felt a new conviction of the uncertainty of human schemes, and could not forbear to bewail the weakness of that being whose quiet was to be interrupted by vapours of the fancy. Having been first disturbed by a dream, he afterwards grieved that a dream could disturb him. He at last discovered, that his terrours and grief were equally vain, and that to lose the present in lamenting the past, was voluntarily to protract a melancholy vision. The third day was now declining, and Seged again resolved to be happy on the morrow. No. 205. TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1752. _Volat ambiguis Mobilis alis hora, nec ulli Præstat velox Fortuna fidem_. SENECA. Hippol. 1141. On fickle wings the minutes haste, And fortune's favours never last. F. LEWIS. On the fourth morning Seged rose early, refreshed with sleep, vigorous with health, and eager with expectation. He entered the garden, attended by the princes and ladies of his court, and seeing nothing about him but airy cheerfulness, began to say to his heart, "This day shall be a day of pleasure." The sun played upon the water, the birds warbled in the groves, and the gales quivered among the branches. He roved from walk to walk as chance directed him, and sometimes listened to the songs, sometimes mingled with the dancers, sometimes let loose his imagination in flights of merriment; and sometimes uttered grave reflections, and sententious maxims, and feasted on the admiration with which they were received. Thus the day rolled on, without any accident of vexation, or intrusion of melancholy thoughts. All that beheld him caught gladness from his looks, and the sight of happiness conferred by himself filled his heart with satisfaction: but having passed three hours in this harmless luxury, he was alarmed on a sudden by an universal scream among the women, and turning back saw the whole assembly flying in confusion. A young crocodile had risen out of the lake, and was ranging the garden in wantonness or hunger. Seged beheld him with indignation, as a disturber of his felicity, and chased him back into the lake, but could not persuade his retinue to stay, or free their hearts from the terrour which had seized upon them. The princesses inclosed themselves in the palace, and could yet scarcely believe themselves in safety. Every attention was fixed upon the late danger and escape, and no mind was any longer at leisure for gay sallies or careless prattle. Seged had now no other employment than to contemplate the innumerable casualties which lie in ambush on every side to intercept the happiness of man, and break in upon the hour of delight and tranquillity. He had, however, the consolation of thinking, that he had not been now disappointed by his own fault, and that the accident which had blasted the hopes of the day, might easily be prevented by future caution. That he might provide for the pleasure of the next morning, he resolved to repeal his penal edict, since he had already found that discontent and melancholy were not to be frighted away by the threats of authority, and that pleasure would only reside where she was exempted from control. He therefore invited all the companions of his retreat to unbounded pleasantry, by proposing prizes for those who should, on the following day, distinguish themselves by any festive performances; the tables of the antechamber were covered with gold and pearls, and robes and garlands decreed the rewards of those who could refine elegance or heighten pleasure. At this display of riches every eye immediately sparkled, and every tongue was busied in celebrating the bounty and magnificence of the emperour. But when Seged entered, in hopes of uncommon entertainment from universal emulation, he found that any passion too strongly agitated, puts an end to that tranquillity which is necessary to mirth, and that the mind, that is to be moved by the gentle ventilations of gaiety, must be first smoothed by a total calm. Whatever we ardently wish to gain, we must in the same degree be afraid to lose, and fear and pleasure cannot dwell together. All was now care and solicitude. Nothing was done or spoken, but with so visible an endeavour at perfection, as always failed to delight, though it sometimes forced admiration: and Seged could not but observe with sorrow, that his prizes had more influence than himself. As the evening approached, the contest grew more earnest, and those who were forced to allow themselves excelled, began to discover the malignity of defeat, first by angry glances, and at last by contemptuous murmurs. Seged likewise shared the anxiety of the day, for considering himself as obliged to distribute with exact justice the prizes which had been so zealously sought, he durst never remit his attention, but passed his time upon the rack of doubt, in balancing different kinds of merit, and adjusting the claims of all the competitors. At last, knowing that no exactness could satisfy those whose hopes he should disappoint, and thinking that on a day set apart for happiness, it would be cruel to oppress any heart with sorrow, he declared that all had pleased him alike, and dismissed all with presents of equal value. Seged soon saw that his caution had not been able to avoid offence. They who had believed themselves secure of the highest prizes, were not pleased to be levelled with the crowd: and though, by the liberality of the king, they received more than his promise had entitled them to expect, they departed unsatisfied, because they were honoured with no distinction, and wanted an opportunity to triumph in the mortification of their opponents. "Behold here," said Seged, "the condition of him who places his happiness in the happiness of others." He then retired to meditate, and, while the courtiers were repining at his distributions, saw the fifth sun go down in discontent. The next dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. But having learned how little he could effect by settled schemes or preparatory measures, he thought it best to give up one day entirely to chance, and left every one to please and be pleased his own way. This relaxation of regularity diffused a general complacence through the whole court, and the emperour imagined that he had at last found the secret of obtaining an interval of felicity. But as he was roving in this careless assembly with equal carelessness, he overheard one of his courtiers in a close arbour murmuring alone: "What merit has Seged above us, that we should thus fear and obey him, a man, whom, whatever he may have formerly performed, his luxury now shows to have the same weakness with ourselves." This charge affected him the more, as it was uttered by one whom he had always observed among the most abject of his flatterers. At first his indignation prompted him to severity; but reflecting, that what was spoken without intention to be heard, was to be considered as only thought, and was perhaps but the sudden burst of casual and temporary vexation, he invented some decent pretence to send him away, that his retreat might not be tainted with the breath of envy, and, after the struggle of deliberation was past, and all desire of revenge utterly suppressed, passed the evening not only with tranquillity, but triumph, though none but himself was conscious of the victory. The remembrance of his clemency cheered the beginning of the seventh day, and nothing happened to disturb the pleasure of Seged, till, looking on the tree that shaded him, he recollected, that, under a tree of the same kind he had passed the night after his defeat in the kingdom of Goiama. The reflection on his loss, his dishonour, and the miseries which his subjects suffered from the invader, filled him with sadness. At last he shook off the weight of sorrow, and began to solace himself with his usual pleasures, when his tranquillity was again disturbed by jealousies which the late contest for the prizes had produced, and which, having in vain tried to pacify them by persuasion, he was forced to silence by command. On the eighth morning Seged was awakened early by an unusual hurry in the apartments, and inquiring the cause, was told that the princess Balkis was seized with sickness. He rose, and calling the physicians, found that they had little hope of her recovery. Here was an end of jollity: all his thoughts were now upon his daughter, whose eyes he closed on the tenth day. Such were the days which Seged of Ethiopia had appropriated to a short respiration from the fatigues of war and the cares of government. This narrative he has bequeathed to future generations, that no man hereafter may presume to say, "This day shall be a day of happiness." No. 206. SATURDAY, MARCH 7, 1752. _--Propositi nondum pudet, atque eadem est mens, Ut bona summa putes, alienâ vivere quadrâ_. JUV. Sat. v. 1. But harden'd by affronts, and still the same, Lost to all sense of honour and of fame, Thou yet canst love to haunt the great man's board, And think no supper good but with a lord. BOWLES. When Diogenes was once asked, what kind of wine he liked best? he answered, "That which is drunk at the cost of others." Though the character of Diogenes has never excited any general zeal of imitation, there are many who resemble him in his taste of wine; many who are frugal, though not abstemious; whose appetites, though too powerful for reason, are kept under restraint by avarice; and to whom all delicacies lose their flavour, when they cannot be obtained but at their own expense. Nothing produces more singularity of manners and inconstancy of life, than the conflict of opposite vices in the same mind. He that uniformly pursues any purpose, whether good or bad, has a settled principle of action; and as he may always find associates who are travelling the same way, is countenanced by example, and sheltered in the multitude; but a man, actuated at once by different desires, must move in a direction peculiar to himself, and suffer that reproach which we are naturally inclined to bestow on those who deviate from the rest of the world, even without inquiring whether they are worse or better. Yet this conflict of desires sometimes produces wonderful efforts. To riot in far-fetched dishes, or surfeit with unexhausted variety, and yet practise the most rigid economy, is surely an art which may justly draw the eyes of mankind upon them whose industry or judgment has enabled them to attain it. To him, indeed, who is content to break open the chests, or mortgage the manours, of his ancestors, that he may hire the ministers of excess at the highest price, gluttony is an easy science; yet we often hear the votaries of luxury boasting of the elegance which they owe to the taste of others, relating with rapture the succession of dishes with which their cooks and caterers supply them; and expecting their share of praise with the discoverers of arts and the civilizers of nations. But to shorten the way to convivial happiness, by eating without cost, is a secret hitherto in few hands, but which certainly deserves the curiosity of those whose principal enjoyment is their dinner, and who see the sun rise with no other hope than that they shall fill their bellies before it sets. Of them that have within my knowledge attempted this scheme of happiness, the greater part have been immediately obliged to desist; and some, whom their first attempts flattered with success, were reduced by degrees to a few tables, from which they were at last chased to make way for others; and having long habituated themselves to superfluous plenty, growled away their latter years in discontented competence. None enter the regions of luxury with higher expectations than men of wit, who imagine, that they shall never want a welcome to that company whose ideas they can enlarge, or whose imaginations they can elevate, and believe themselves able to pay for their wine with the mirth which it qualifies them to produce. Full of this opinion, they crowd with little invitation, wherever the smell of a feast allures them, but are seldom encouraged to repeat their visits, being dreaded by the pert as rivals, and hated by the dull as disturbers of the company. No man has been so happy in gaining and keeping the privilege of living at luxurious houses as Gulosulus, who, after thirty years of continual revelry, has now established, by uncontroverted prescription, his claim to partake of every entertainment, and whose presence they who aspire to the praise of a sumptuous table are careful to procure on a day of importance, by sending the invitation a fortnight before. Gulosulus entered the world without any eminent degree of merit; but was careful to frequent houses where persons of rank resorted. By being often seen, he became in time known; and, from sitting in the same room, was suffered to mix in idle conversation, or assisted to fill up a vacant hour, when better amusement was not readily to be had. From the coffee-house he was sometimes taken away to dinner; and as no man refuses the acquaintance of him whom he sees admitted to familiarity by others of equal dignity, when he had been met at a few tables, he with less difficulty found the way to more, till at last he was regularly expected to appear wherever preparations are made for a feast, within the circuit of his acquaintance. When he was thus by accident initiated in luxury, he felt in himself no inclination to retire from a life of so much pleasure, and therefore very seriously considered how he might continue it. Great qualities, or uncommon accomplishments, he did not find necessary; for he had already seen that merit rather enforces respect than attracts fondness; and as he thought no folly greater than that of losing a dinner for any other gratification, he often congratulated himself, that he had none of that disgusting excellence which impresses awe upon greatness, and condemns its possessors to the society of those who are wise or brave, and indigent as themselves. Gulosulus, having never allotted much of his time to books or meditation, had no opinion in philosophy or politicks, and was not in danger of injuring his interest by dogmatical positions or violent contradiction. If a dispute arose, he took care to listen with earnest attention; and, when either speaker grew vehement and loud, turned towards him with eager quickness, and uttered a short phrase of admiration, as if surprised by such cogency of argument as he had never known before. By this silent concession, he generally preserved in either controvertist such a conviction of his own superiority, as inclined him rather to pity than irritate his adversary, and prevented those outrages which are sometimes produced by the rage of defeat, or petulance of triumph. Gulosulus was never embarrassed but when he was required to declare his sentiments before he had been able to discover to which side the master of the house inclined, for it was his invariable rule to adopt the notions of those that invited him. It will sometimes happen that the insolence of wealth breaks into contemptuousness, or the turbulence of wine requires a vent; and Gulosulus seldom fails of being singled out on such emergencies, as one on whom any experiment of ribaldry may be safely tried. Sometimes his lordship finds himself inclined to exhibit a specimen of raillery for the diversion of his guests, and Gulosulus always supplies him with a subject of merriment. But he has learned to consider rudeness and indignities as familiarities that entitle him to greater freedom: he comforts himself, that those who treat and insult him pay for their laughter, and that he keeps his money while they enjoy their jest. His chief policy consists in selecting some dish from every course, and recommending it to the company, with an air so decisive, that no one ventures to contradict him. By this practice he acquires at a feast a kind of dictatorial authority; his taste becomes the standard of pickles and seasoning, and he is venerated by the professors of epicurism, as the only man who understands the niceties of cookery. Whenever a new sauce is imported, or any innovation made in the culinary system, he procures the earliest intelligence, and the most authentick receipt; and, by communicating his knowledge under proper injunctions of secrecy, gains a right of tasting his own dish whenever it is prepared, that he may tell whether his directions have been fully understood. By this method of life Gulosulus has so impressed on his imagination the dignity of feasting, that he has no other topick of talk, or subject of meditation. His calendar is a bill of fare; he measures the year by successive dainties. The only common-places of his memory are his meals; and if you ask him at what time an event happened, he considers whether he heard it after a dinner of turbot or venison. He knows, indeed, that those who value themselves upon sense, learning, or piety, speak of him with contempt; but he considers them as wretches, envious or ignorant, who do not know his happiness, or wish to supplant him; and declares to his friends, that he is fully satisfied with his own conduct, since he has fed every day on twenty dishes, and yet doubled his estate. No. 207. TUESDAY, MARCH 10, 1752. _Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne Peccet ad extremum ridendus.--_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 8. The voice of reason cries with winning force, Loose from the rapid car your aged horse, Lest, in the race derided, left behind, He drag his jaded limbs, and burst his wind. FRANCIS. Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by disgust; and the malicious remark of the Greek epigrammatist on marriage may be applied to every other course of life, that its two days of happiness are the first and the last. Few moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting measures for a new undertaking. From the first hint that wakens the fancy, till the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While preparations are made, and materials accumulated, day glides after day through elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of hope. Such is the pleasure of projecting, that many content themselves with a succession of visionary schemes, and wear out their allotted time in the calm amusement of contriving what they never attempt or hope to execute. Others, not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas, advance somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand researches and consultations, are snatched away by death, as they stand _in procinctu_, waiting for a proper opportunity to begin. If there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never suffers experience to show him the vanity of speculation; for no sooner are notions reduced to practice, than tranquillity and confidence forsake the breast; every day brings its task, and often without bringing abilities to perform it: difficulties embarrass, uncertainty perplexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or neglect depresses. We proceed because we have begun; we complete our design, that the labour already spent may not be vain; but as expectation gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are compelled to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and constancy. When once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it is the prospect of its end; for though in every long work there are some joyous intervals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated by unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental excellencies; yet the toil with which performance struggles after idea, is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of resting below that perfection which we imagined within our reach, that seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours than a painful conviction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of desires which he feels himself unable to gratify. So certainly is weariness the concomitant of our undertakings, that every man, in whatever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of change; if he has made his way by assiduity to publick employment, he talks among his friends of the delight of retreat; if by the necessity of solitary application he is secluded from the world, he listens with a beating heart to distant noises, longs to mingle with living beings, and resolves to take hereafter his fill of diversions, or display his abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the pleasure of distinction and applause. Every desire, however innocent, grows dangerous, as by long indulgence it becomes ascendant in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to consider any thing as capable of giving happiness, it is not easy to restrain our ardour, or to forbear some precipitation in our advances, and irregularity in our pursuits. He that has cultivated the tree, watched the swelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased himself with computing how much every sun and shower add to its growth, scarcely stays till the fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have diligently laboured for any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it, and, because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is to be done. All attraction is increased by the approach of the attracting body. We never find ourselves so desirous to finish as in the latter part of our work, or so impatient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot be long. This unseasonable importunity of discontent may be partly imputed to languor and weariness, which must always oppress those more whose toil has been longer continued; but the greater part usually proceeds from frequent contemplation of that ease which is now considered as within reach, and which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot suffer to be withheld. In some of the noblest compositions of wit, the conclusion falls below the vigour and spirit of the first books; and as a genius is not to be degraded by the imputation of human failings, the cause of this declension is commonly sought in the structure of the work, and plausible reasons are given why, in the defective part, less ornament was necessary, or less could be admitted. But, perhaps, the author would have confessed, that his fancy was tired, and his perseverance broken; that he knew his design to be unfinished, but that, when he saw the end so near, he could no longer refuse to be at rest. Against the instillations of this frigid opiate, the heart should be secured by all the considerations which once concurred to kindle the ardour of enterprise. Whatever motive first incited action, has still greater force to stimulate perseverance; since he that might have lain still at first in blameless obscurity, cannot afterwards desist but with infamy and reproach. He, whom a doubtful promise of distant good could encourage to set difficulties at defiance, ought not to remit his vigour, when he has almost obtained his recompense. To faint or loiter, when only the last efforts are required, is to steer the ship through tempests, and abandon it to the winds in sight of land; it is to break the ground and scatter the seed, and at last to neglect the harvest. The masters of rhetorick direct, that the most forcible arguments be produced in the latter part of an oration, lest they should be effaced or perplexed by supervenient images. This precept may be justly extended to the series of life: nothing is ended with honour, which does not conclude better than it began. It is not sufficient to maintain the first vigour; for excellence loses its effect upon the mind by custom, as light after a time ceases to dazzle. Admiration must be continued by that novelty which first produced it, and how much soever is given, there must always be reason to imagine that more remains. We not only are most sensible of the last impressions, but such is the unwillingness of mankind to admit transcendant merit, that, though it be difficult to obliterate the reproach of miscarriages by any subsequent achievement, however illustrious, yet the reputation raised by a long train of success may be finally ruined by a single failure; for weakness or errour will be always remembered by that malice and envy which it gratifies. For the prevention of that disgrace, which lassitude and negligence may bring at last upon the greatest performances, it is necessary to proportion carefully our labour to our strength. If the design comprises many parts, equally essential, and, therefore, not to be separated, the only time for caution is before we engage; the powers of the mind must be then impartially estimated, and it must be remembered that, not to complete the plan, is not to have begun it; and that nothing is done while any thing is omitted. But, if the task consists in the repetition of single acts, no one of which derives its efficacy from the rest, it may be attempted with less scruple, because there is always opportunity to retreat with honour. The danger is only, lest we expect from the world the indulgence with which most are disposed to treat themselves; and in the hour of listlessness imagine, that the diligence of one day will atone for the idleness of another, and that applause begun by approbation will be continued by habit. He that is himself weary will soon weary the publick. Let him therefore lay down his employment, whatever it be, who can no longer exert his former activity or attention; let him not endeavour to struggle with censure, or obstinately infest the stage till a general hiss commands him to depart. No. 208. SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1752. [Greek: Aerakleitos ego ti me o kato helket amousoi, Ouch hymin eponoun, tois de m' episgamenoi; Eis emoi anthropos trismurioi; oi d' anarithmoi Oudeis; taut audo kai para Persephonae] DIOG. LAERT. Begone, ye blockheads, Heraclitus cries, And leave my labours to the learn'd and wise; By wit, by knowledge, studious to be read, I scorn the multitude, alive and dead. Time, which puts an end to all human pleasures and sorrows, has likewise concluded the labours of the Rambler. Having supported, for two years, the anxious employment of a periodical writer, and multiplied my essays to upwards of two hundred, I have now determined to desist. The reasons of this resolution it is of little importance to declare, since justification is unnecessary when no objection is made. I am far from supposing, that the cessation of my performances will raise any inquiry, for I have never been much a favourite of the publick, nor can boast that, in the progress of my undertaking, I have been animated by the rewards of the liberal, the caresses of the great, or the praises of the eminent. But I have no design to gratify pride by submission, or malice by lamentation; nor think it reasonable to complain of neglect from those whose regard I never solicited. If I have not been distinguished by the distributors of literary honours, I have seldom descended to the arts by which favour is obtained. I have seen the meteors of fashions rise and fall, without any attempt to add a moment to their duration. I have never complied with temporary curiosity, nor enabled my readers to discuss the topick of the day; I have rarely exemplified my assertions by living characters; in my papers, no man could look for censures of his enemies, or praises of himself; and they only were expected to peruse them, whose passions left them leisure for abstracted truth, and whom virtue could please by its naked dignity. To some, however, I am indebted for encouragement, and to others for assistance. The number of my friends was never great, but they have been such as would not suffer me to think that I was writing in vain, and I did not feel much dejection from the want of popularity. My obligations having not been frequent, my acknowledgments may be soon despatched. I can restore to all my correspondents their productions, with little diminution of the bulk of my volumes, though not without the loss of some pieces to which particular honours have been paid. The parts from which I claim no other praise than that of having given them an opportunity of appearing, are the four billets in the tenth paper, the second letter in the fifteenth, the thirtieth, the forty-fourth, the ninety-seventh, and the hundredth papers, and the second letter in the hundred and seventh. Having thus deprived myself of many excuses which candour might have admitted for the inequality of my compositions, being no longer able to allege the necessity of gratifying correspondents, the importunity with which publication was solicited, or obstinacy with which correction was rejected, I must remain accountable for all my faults, and submit, without subterfuge, to the censures of criticism, which, however, I shall not endeavour to soften by a formal deprecation, or to overbear by the influence of a patron. The supplications of an author never yet reprieved him a moment from oblivion; and, though greatness has sometimes sheltered guilt, it can afford no protection to ignorance or dulness. Having hitherto attempted only the propagation of truth, I will not at last violate it by the confession of terrours which I do not feel; having laboured to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness of dedication. The seeming vanity with which I have sometimes spoken of myself, would perhaps require an apology, were it not extenuated by the example of those who have published essays before me, and by the privilege which every nameless writer has been hitherto allowed. "A mask," says Castiglione, "confers a right of acting and speaking with less restraint, even when the wearer happens to be known." He that is discovered without his own consent, may claim some indulgence, and cannot be rigorously called to justify those sallies or frolicks which his disguise must prove him desirous to conceal. But I have been cautious lest this offence should be frequently or grossly committed; for, as one of the philosophers directs us to live with a friend, as with one that is some time to become an enemy, I have always thought it the duty of an anonymous author to write, as if he expected to be hereafter known. I am willing to flatter myself with hopes, that, by collecting these papers, I am not preparing, for my future life, either shame or repentance. That all are happily imagined, or accurately polished, that the same sentiments have not sometimes recurred, or the same expressions been too frequently repeated, I have not confidence in my abilities sufficient to warrant. He that condemns himself to compose on a stated day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a memory embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he will labour on a barren topick, till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce. Whatever shall be the final sentence of mankind, I have at least endeavoured to deserve their kindness. I have laboured to refine our language to grammatical purity, and to clear it from colloquial barbarisms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Something, perhaps, I have added to the elegance of its construction, and something to the harmony of its cadence. When common words were less pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their signification, I have familiarized the terms of philosophy, by applying them to popular ideas, but have rarely admitted any words not authorized by former writers; for I believe that whoever knows the English tongue in its present extent, will be able to express his thoughts without further help from other nations. As it has been my principal design to inculcate wisdom or piety, I have allotted few papers to the idle sports of imagination. Some, perhaps, may be found, of which the highest excellence is harmless merriment; but scarcely any man is so steadily serious as not to complain, that the severity of dictatorial instruction has been too seldom relieved, and that he is driven by the sternness of the Rambler's philosophy to more cheerful and airy companions. Next to the excursions of fancy are the disquisitions of criticism, which, in my opinion, is only to be ranked among the subordinate and instrumental arts. Arbitrary decision and general exclamation I have carefully avoided, by asserting nothing without a reason, and establishing all my principles of judgment on unalterable and evident truth. In the pictures of life I have never been so studious of novelty or surprise, as to depart wholly from all resemblance; a fault which writers deservedly celebrated frequently commit, that they may raise, as the occasion requires, either mirth or abhorrence. Some enlargement may be allowed to declamation, and some exaggeration to burlesque; but as they deviate farther from reality, they become less useful, because their lessons will fail of application. The mind of the reader is carried away from the contemplation of his own manners; he finds in himself no likeness to the phantom before him; and though he laughs or rages, is not reformed. The essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of Christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity of the present age. I therefore look back on this part of my work with pleasure, which no blame or praise of man shall diminish or augment. I shall never envy the honours which wit and learning obtain in any other cause, if I can be numbered among the writers who have given ardour to virtue, and confidence to truth. [Greek: Auton ek makaron autaxios eiae amoibae.] Celestial pow'rs! that piety regard, From you my labours wait their last reward. END OF VOL. III. 
12050	----	DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS. THE ADVENTURER AND IDLER. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. IN NINE VOLUMES. VOLUME THE FOURTH. MDCCCXXV. PREFATORY NOTICE TO THE ADVENTURER. The Adventurer was projected in the year 1752, by Dr. John Hawkesworth. He was partly induced to undertake the work by his admiration of the Rambler, which had now ceased to appear, the style and sentiments of which evidently, from his commencement, he made the models of his imitation. The first number was published on the seventh of November, 1752. The quantity and price were the same as the Rambler, and also the days of its appearance. He was joined in his labours by Dr. Johnson in 1753, whose first paper is dated March 3, of that year; and after its publication Johnson applied to his friend, Dr. Joseph Warton, for his assistance, which was afforded: and the writers then were, besides the projector Dr. Hawkesworth, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Joseph Warton, Dr. Bathurst, Colman, Mrs. Chapone and the Hon. Hamilton Boyle, the accomplished son of Lord Orrery [1]. Our business, however, in the present pages, does not lie with the Adventurer in general, but only with Dr. Johnson's contributions; which amount to the number of twenty-nine, beginning with No. 34, and ending with No. 138. Much criticism has been employed in appropriating some of them, and the carelessness of editors has overlooked several that have been satisfactorily proved to be Johnson's own[2]. Mr. Boswell relies on internal evidence, which is unnecessary, since in Dr. Warton's copy (and his authority on the subject will scarcely be disputed) the following remark was found at the end: "The papers marked T were written by Mr. S. Johnson." Mrs. Anna Williams asserted that he dictated most of these to Dr. Bathurst, to whom he presented the profits. The anecdote may well be believed from the usual benevolence of Johnson and his well-known attachment to that amiable physician, whose professional knowledge might undoubtedly have enabled him to offer hints to Johnson in the progress of composition. Thus we may account for the references to recondite medical writers in No. 39, which so staggered Boswell and Malone in pronouncing on the genuineness of this paper. Those who are familiar with Johnson's writings can have little hesitation, we conceive, in recognising his style, and manner, and sentiments in those papers which are now published under his name. They may be considered as a continuation of the Rambler. The same subjects are discussed; the interests of literature and of literary men, the emptiness of praise and the vanity of human wishes. The same intimate knowledge, of the town and its manners is displayed[3]; and occasionally we are amused with humorous delineation of adventure and of character[4]. From the greater variety of its subjects, aided, perhaps, by a growing taste for periodical literature, the sale of the Adventurer was greater than that of the Rambler on its first appearance. But still there were those, who "talked of it as a catch-penny performance, carried on by a set of needy and obscure scribblers[5]." So slowly is a national taste for letters diffused, and so hardly do works of sterling merit, which deal not in party-politics, nor exemplify their ethical discussions by holding out living characters to censure or contempt, win the applause of those, whose passions leave them no leisure for abstracted truth, and whom virtue itself cannot please by its naked dignity. But, by such, Johnson professed, that he had little expectation of his writings being perused. Keeping then our main object more immediately in view, the elucidation of Johnson's real character and motives, we cannot but admire the prompt benevolence, with which he joined Hawkesworth in his task, and the ready zeal, with which he embraced any opportunity of promoting the interests of morality and virtue. "To a benevolent disposition every state of life will afford some opportunities of contributing to the welfare of mankind," is the characteristic opening of his first Adventurer. And when we have admired the real excellence of his heart, we must wonder at the vigour of a mind, which could so abstract itself from its own sorrows and misfortunes, which too often deaden our feelings of pity, as to sympathize with others in affliction, and even to promote innocent cheerfulness. Bowed down by the loss of a wife[6], on whom he had called from amidst the horrors of a hopeless melancholy, to "hide him from the ills of life," and depressed by poverty, "that numbs the soul with icy hand," his genius sank not beneath a load, which might have crushed the loftiest; but the "incumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his mind, 'as dew-drops from a lion's mane[7].'" The same pure and exalted morality, which stamps their chief value on the pages of the Rambler, instructs us in the lessons of the Adventurer. Here is no cold doctrine of expediency or dangerous speculations on moral approbation, no easy virtue which can be practised without a struggle, and which interdicts the gratification of no passion but malice: here is no compromise of personal sensuality, for an endurance of others' frailties, amounting to an indifference of moral distinctions altogether. Johnson boldly and, at once, propounds the real motives to Christian conduct; and does not, with some ethical writers, in a slavish dread of interfering with the more immediate office of the divine, hold out slender inducements to virtuous action, which can never give us strength to stem the torrent of passion; but holding with the acute Owen Feltham[8], "that, as true religion cannot be without morality, no more can morality, that is right, be without religion," Johnson ever directs our attention, not to the world's smile or frown, but to the discharge of the duty which Providence assigns us, by the consideration of the awful approach of that night when no man can work. To conclude with the appropriate words of an eloquent writer, "in his sublime discussions of the most sacred truths, as no style can be too lofty nor conceptions too grand for such a subject, so has the great master never exerted the powers of his great genius with more signal success. Impiety shrinks beneath his rebuke; the atheist trembles and repents; the dying sinner catches a gleam of revealed hope; and all acknowledge the just dispensations of eternal Wisdom[9]." FOOTNOTES: [1] For the general history of the Adventurer, the reader may be referred to Chalmers' British Essayists, xxiii, Dr. Drake's Essays on Rambler, Adventurer, &c. ii, and Boswell's Journal, 3rd edit. p. 240. [2] Five of these, Nos. 39, 67, 74, 81, and 128, which Sir John Hawkins omitted to arrange among the writings of Johnson, are given in this edition. [3] See particularly the Letters of Misagargyrus. [4] The description in No. 84, of the incidents of a stage-coach journey, so often imitated by succeeding writers, but, perhaps, never surpassed, will exemplify the above remark. [5] See Lounger, No. 30. [6] "I have heard, he means to occasionally throw some papers into the Daily Advertiser; but he has not begun yet, as he is in great affliction, I fear, poor man, for the loss of his wife."--Letter from Miss Talbot to Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Johnson died March 17, 1752. [7] See the Preface to Shakespeare. [8] Owen Feltham's Resolves. [9] Indian Observer, No. 1, 1793. See likewise Adventurers, Nos. 120, 126, 128. PREFATORY NOTICE TO THE IDLER. The Idler may be ranked among the best attempts which have been made to render our common newspapers the medium of rational amusement; and it maintained its ground in this character longer than any of the papers which have been brought forward by Colman and others on the same plan[1]. Dr. Johnson first inserted this production in the Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette, April 15, 1758, four years after he had desisted from his labours as an essayist. It would seem probable, that Newbery, the publisher of the Chronicle, projected it as a vehicle for Johnson's essays, since it ceased to appear when its pages were no longer enlivened by the humour of the Idler. It is well known, that Johnson was not "built of the press and pen[2]" when he composed the Rambler; but his sphere of observation had been much enlarged since its publication, and his more ample means no longer suffered his genius to be "limited by the narrow conversation, to which men in want are inevitably condemned[3]." "The sublime philosophy of the Rambler cannot properly be said to have portrayed the manners of the times; it has seldom touched on subjects so transient and fugitive, but has displayed the more fixed and invariable operations of the human heart[4]." But the Idler breathes more of a worldly spirit, and savours less of the closet than Johnson's earlier essays; and, accordingly, we find delineated in its diversified pages the manners and characters of the day in amusing variety and contrast. Written professedly for a paper of miscellaneous intelligence, the Idler dwells on the passing incidents of the day, whether serious or light[5], and abounds with party and political allusion. Johnson ever surveyed mankind with the eye of a philosopher; but his own easier circumstances would now present the world's aspect to him in brighter, fairer colours. Besides, he could, with more propriety and less risk of misapprehension, venture to trifle now, than when first he addressed the public. The World[6] had diffused its precepts, and corrected the fluctuating manners of fashion, in the tone of fashionable raillery; and the Connoisseur[7], by its gay and sparkling effusions, had forwarded the advance of the public mind to that last stage of intellectual refinement, in which alone a relish exists for delicate and half latent irony. The plain and literal citizens of an earlier period, who conned over what was "so nominated in the bend," would have misapprehended that graceful playfulness of satire, elegant and fanciful as ever charmed the leisure of the literary loungers of Athens. For, in the writings of Bonnel Thornton and Colman, the philosophy of Aristippus may indeed be said to be revived[8]. We would not, however, be supposed, by these allusions, to imply that all the papers of the Idler are light and sportive; or that Johnson for a moment lost sight of a grand moral end in all his discussions. His mind only accommodated itself to the circumstances in which it was placed, and diligently sought to avail itself of each varying opportunity to admonish and to benefit, whether from the chair of philosophic reproof or in the cheerful, social circle. Whatever faults have been charged upon the Idler may be traced, we conceive, to this source. Nobody at times, said Johnson, talks more laxly than I do[9]. And this acknowledged propensity may well be presumed to have affected the humorous and almost conversational tone of the work before us. In the conscious pride of mental might and in the easier moments of conversations, that illuminated the minds of Reynolds[10] and of Burke, Johnson delighted to indulge in a lively sophistry which might sometimes deceive himself, when at first he merely wished to sport in elegant raillery or ludicrous paradox. When these sallies were recorded and brought to bear against him on future occasions, irritated at their misconstruction and conscious to himself of an upright intention, or at most of only a wish to promote innocent cheerfulness, he was too stubborn in retracting what he had thus advanced. Hence, when menaced with a prosecution for his definition of Excise in his Dictionary, so far from offering apology or promising alteration, he called, in his Idler, a Commissioner of Excise the lowest of human beings, and classes him with the scribbler for a party[11]. So strange a definition and still less pardonable adherence to it can only be justified on the ground of Johnson's warm feelings for the comfort of the middle class of society. He knew that the execution of the excise laws involved an intrusion into the privacies of domestic life, and often violated the fireside of the unoffending and quiet tradesman. He, therefore, disliked those laws altogether, and his warm-hearted disposition would not allow him to calculate on their abstract advantages with modern political economists, who, in their generalizing doctrines, too frequently overlook individual comfort and interests. His remarks, in the same paper, on the edition of the Pleas of the Crown cannot be thus vindicated, and we must here lament an error in an otherwise honest and well-intentioned mind[12]. Every impartial reader of his works may thus easily trace to their origin Johnson's chief political errors, and his research must terminate in admiration of a writer, who never prostituted his pen to fear or favour; and who, though erroneous often in his estimate of men and measures, still, in his support of a party, firmly believed himself to be the advocate of morality and right. His tenderness of spirit, his firm principles and his deep sense of the emptiness of human pursuits are visible amidst the lighter papers of the Idler, and his serious reflections are, perhaps, more strikingly affecting as contrasted with mirthfulness and pleasantry. His concluding paper and the one[13] on the death of his mother have, perhaps, never been surpassed. Here is no affectation of sentimentality, no morbid and puling complaints, but the dignified and chastened expression of sorrow, which a mind, constituted as Johnson's, must have experienced on the departure of a mother. A heart, tender and susceptible of pathetic emotion, as his was, must have deeply felt, how dreary it is to walk downward to the grave unregarded by her "who has looked on our childhood." Occasions for more violent and perturbed grief may occur to us in our passage through life, but the gentle, quiet death of a mother speaks to us with "still small voice" of our wasting years, and breaks completely and, at once, our earliest and most cherished associations. This tenderness of spirit seems ever to have actuated Johnson, and he is surely greatest when he breathes it forth over the sorrows and miseries of man. Even in his humorous papers, he never wounds feeling for the sake of raising a laugh, nor sports with folly, but in the hope of reclaiming the vicious and with the design of warning the young of the delusion and danger of an example, which can only be imitated by the forfeiture of virtue and the practice of vice. "In whatever he undertook, it was his determined purpose to rectify the heart, to purify the passions, to give ardour to virtue and confidence to truth[14]." FOOTNOTES: [1] The Genius was published by Colman in the St. James's Chronicle, 1761, 1762. The Gentleman, by the same author, came out in the London-Packet, 1775. The Grumbler was the production of the Antiquary Grose, and appeared in the English Chronicle, 1791. [2] Owen Feltham. [3] Preface to Shakespeare. [4] Country Spectator, No. 1. [5] Idler, No. 6. [6] The World was published in 1753. [7] The Connoisseur appeared in 1754. [8] See Dr. Drake's Essays, II. [9] Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides. [10] See life of Sir Joshua Reynolds, prefixed to his Works by Malone, i. 28, &c. [11] See Idler, No. 65 and Mr. Chalmers' Preface to vol. 33 of the British Essayists. [12] See Gentleman's Magazine 1706. p. 272. [13] Idler, No. 41. [14] See Pursuits of Literature, Dialogue I. note. CONTENTS OF THE FOURTH VOLUME. THE ADVENTURER. 34. Folly of extravagance. The story of Misargyrus 39. On sleep 41. Sequel of the story of Misargyrus 45. The difficulty of forming confederacies 50. On lying 53. Misargyrus' account of his companions in the Fleet 58. Presumption of modern criticism censured. Ancient poetry necessarily obscure. Examples from Horace 62. Misargyrus' account of his companions concluded 67. On the trades of London 69. Idle hope 74. Apology for neglecting officious advice 81. Incitement to enterprise and emulation. Some account of the admirable Crichton 84. Folly of false pretences to importance. A journey in a stagecoach 85. Study, composition, and converse equally necessary to intellectual accomplishment 92. Criticism on the Pastorals of Virgil 95. Apology for apparent plagiarism. Sources of literary variety 99. Projectors injudiciously censured and applauded 102. Infelicities of retirement to men of business 107. Different opinions equally plausible 108. On the uncertainty of human things 111. The pleasures and advantages of industry 115. The itch of writing universal 119. The folly of creating artificial wants 120. The miseries of life 126. Solitude not eligible 128. Men differently employed unjustly censured by each other 131. Singularities censured 137. Writers not a useless generation 138. Their happiness and infelicity THE IDLER. 1. The Idler's character. 2. Invitation to correspondents. 3. Idler's reason for writing. 4. Charities and hospitals. 5. Proposal for a female army. 6. Lady's performance on horseback. 7. Scheme for news-writers. 8. Plan of military discipline. 9. Progress of idleness. 10. Political credulity. 11. Discourses on the weather. 12. Marriages, why advertised. 13. The imaginary housewife. 14. Robbery of time. 15. Treacle's complaint of his wife. 16. Drugget's retirement. 17. Expedients of idlers. 18. Drugget vindicated. 19. Whirler's character. 20. Capture of Louisbourg. 21. Linger's history of listlessness. 22. Imprisonment of debtors. 23. Uncertainty of friendship. 24. Man does not always think. 25. New actors on the stage. 26. Betty Broom's history. 27. Power of habits. 28. Wedding-day. Grocer's wife. Chairman. 29. Betty Broom's history continued. 30. Corruption of news-writers. 31. Disguises of idleness. Sober's character. 32. On Sleep. 33. Journal of a fellow of a college. 34. Punch and conversation compared. 35. Auction-hunter described and ridiculed. 36. The terrific diction ridiculed. 37. Useful things easy of attainment. 38. Cruelty shown to debtors in prison. 39. The various uses of the bracelet. 40. The art of advertising exemplified. 41. Serious reflections on the death of a friend. 42. Perdita's complaint of her father. 43. Monitions on the flight of time. 44. The use of memory considered. 45. On painting. Portraits defended. 46. Molly Quick's complaint of her mistress. 47. Deborah Ginger's account of city-wits. 48. The bustle of idleness described and ridiculed. 49. Marvel's journey narrated. 50. Marvel's journey paralleled. 51. Domestick greatness unattainable. 52. Self-denial necessary. 53. Mischiefs of good company. 54. Mrs. Savecharges' complaint. 55. Authors' mortifications. 56. Virtuosos whimsical. 57. Character of Sophron. 58. Expectations of pleasure frustrated. 59. Books fall into neglect. 60. Minim the critic. 61. Minim the critic. 62. Hanger's account of the vanity of riches. 63. Progress of arts and language. 64. Ranger's complaint concluded. 65. Fate of posthumous works. 66. Loss of ancient writings. 67. Scholar's journal. 68. History of translation. 69. History of translation. 70. Hard words defended. 71. Dick Shifter's rural excursion. 72. Regulation of memory. 73. Tranquil's use of riches. 74. Memory rarely deficient. 75. Gelaleddin of Bassora. 76. False criticisms on painting. 77. Easy writing. 78. Steady, Snug, Startle, Solid and Misty. 79. Grand style of painting. 80. Ladies' journey to London. 81. Indian's speech to his countrymen. 82. The true idea of beauty. 83. Scruple, Wormwood, Sturdy and Gentle. 84. Biography, how best performed. 85. Books multiplied by useless compilations. 86. Miss Heartless' want of a lodging. 87. Amazonian bravery revived. 88. What have ye done? 89. Physical evil moral good. 90. Rhetorical action considered. 91. Sufficiency of the English language. 92. Nature of cunning. 93. Sam Softly's history. 94. Obstructions of learning. 95. Tim Wainscot's son a fine gentleman. 96. Hacho of Lapland. 97. Narratives of travellers considered. 98. Sophia Heedful. 99. Ortogrul of Basra. 100. The good sort of woman. 101. Omar's plan of life. 102. Authors inattentive to themselves. 103. Honour of the last. THE ADVENTURER. No. 34. SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1753. _Has toties optata exegit gloria pænas._ Juv. Sat. x. 187. Such fate pursues the votaries of praise. TO THE ADVENTURER. SIR, Fleet Prison, Feb. 24. To a benevolent disposition, every state of life will afford some opportunities of contributing to the welfare of mankind. Opulence and splendour are enabled to dispel the cloud of adversity, to dry up the tears of the widow and the orphan, and to increase the felicity of all around them: their example will animate virtue, and retard the progress of vice. And even indigence and obscurity, though without power to confer happiness, may at least prevent misery, and apprize those who are blinded by their passions, that they are on the brink of irremediable calamity. Pleased, therefore, with the thought of recovering others from that folly which has embittered my own days, I have presumed to address the ADVENTURER from the dreary mansions of wretchedness and despair, of which the gates are so wonderfully constructed, as to fly open for the reception of strangers, though they are impervious as a rock of adamant to such as are within them: --_Facilis descensus Averni: Noctes utque dies patet atri janua Ditis: Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus, hic labor est_.--VIRG. �n. vi. 126. The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return and view the cheerful skies; In this the task and mighty labour lies. DRYDEN. Suffer me to acquaint you, Sir, that I have glittered at the ball, and sparkled in the circle; that I have had the happiness to be the unknown favourite of an unknown lady at the masquerade, have been the delight of tables of the first fashion, and envy of my brother beaux; and to descend a little lower, it is, I believe, still remembered, that Messrs. Velours and d'Espagne stand indebted for a great part of their present influence at Guildhall, to the elegance of my shape, and the graceful freedom of my carriage. --_Sed quæ præclara et prospera tanti, Ut rebus lætis par sit mensura malorum_? Juv. Sat. x. 97. See the wild purchase of the bold and vain, Where every bliss is bought with equal pain! As I entered into the world very young, with an elegant person and a large estate, it was not long before I disentangled myself from the shackles of religion; for I was determined to the pursuit of pleasure, which according to my notions consisted in the unrestrained and unlimited gratifications of every passion and every appetite; and as this could not be obtained under the frowns of a perpetual dictator, I considered religion as my enemy; and proceeding to treat her with contempt and derision, was not a little delighted, that the unfashionableness of her appearance, and the unanimated uniformity of her motions, afforded frequent opportunities for the sallies of my imagination. Conceiving now that I was sufficiently qualified to laugh away scruples, I imparted my remarks to those among my female favourites, whose virtue I intended to attack; for I was well assured, that pride would be able to make but a weak defence, when religion was subverted; nor was my success below my expectation: the love of pleasure is too strongly implanted in the female breast, to suffer them scrupulously to examine the validity of arguments designed to weaken restraint; all are easily led to believe, that whatever thwarts their inclination must be wrong: little more, therefore, was required, than by the addition of some circumstances, and the exaggeration of others, to make merriment supply the place of demonstration; nor was I so senseless as to offer arguments to such as could not attend to them, and with whom a repartee or catch would more effectually answer the same purpose. This being effected, there remained only "the dread of the world:" but Roxana soared too high, to think the opinion of others worthy her notice; Lætitia seemed to think of it only to declare, that "if all her hairs were worlds," she should reckon them "well lost for love;" and Pastorella fondly conceived, that she could dwell for ever by the side of a bubbling fountain, content with her swain and fleecy care; without considering that stillness and solitude can afford satisfaction only to innocence. It is not the desire of new acquisitions, but the glory of conquests, that fires the soldier's breast; as indeed the town is seldom worth much, when it has suffered the devastations of a siege; so that though I did not openly declare the effects of my own prowess, which is forbidden by the laws of honour, it cannot be supposed that I was very solicitous to bury my reputation, or to hinder accidental discoveries. To have gained one victory, is an inducement to hazard a second engagement: and though the success of the general should be a reason for increasing the strength of the fortification, it becomes, with many, a pretence for an immediate surrender, under the notion that no power is able to withstand so formidable an adversary; while others brave the danger, and think it mean to surrender, and dastardly to fly. Melissa, indeed, knew better; and though she could not boast the apathy, steadiness, and inflexibility of a Cato, wanted not the more prudent virtue of Scipio, and gained the victory by declining the contest. You must not, however, imagine, that I was, during this state of abandoned libertinism, so fully convinced of the fitness of my own conduct, as to be free from uneasiness. I knew very well, that I might justly be deemed the pest of society, and that such proceedings must terminate in the destruction of my health and fortune; but to admit thoughts of this kind was to live upon the rack: I fled, therefore, to the regions of mirth and jollity, as they are called, and endeavoured with Burgundy, and a continual rotation of company, to free myself from the pangs of reflection. From these orgies we frequently sallied forth in quest of adventures, to the no small terrour and consternation of all the sober stragglers that came in our way: and though we never injured, like our illustrious progenitors, the Mohocks, either life or limbs; yet we have in the midst of Covent Garden buried a tailor, who had been troublesome to some of our fine gentlemen, beneath a heap of cabbage-leaves and stalks, with this conceit, _Satia te caule quem semper cupisti_. Glut yourself with cabbage, of which you have always been greedy. There can be no reason for mentioning the common exploits of breaking windows and bruising the watch; unless it be to tell you of the device of producing before the justice broken lanterns, which have been paid for an hundred times; or their appearances with patches on their heads, under pretence of being cut by the sword that was never drawn: nor need I say any thing of the more formidable attack of sturdy chairmen, armed with poles; by a slight stroke of which, the pride of Ned Revel's face was at once laid flat, and that effected in an instant, which its most mortal foe had for years assayed in vain. I shall pass over the accidents that attended attempts to scale windows, and endeavours to dislodge signs from their hooks: there are many "hair-breadth 'scapes," besides those in the "imminent deadly breach;" but the rake's life, though it be equally hazardous with that of the soldier, is neither accompanied with present honour nor with pleasing retrospect; such is, and such ought to be, the difference between the enemy and the preserver of his country. Amidst such giddy and thoughtless extravagance, it will not seem strange, that I was often the dupe of coarse flattery. When Mons. L'Allonge assured me, that I thrust quart over arm better than any man in England, what could I less than present him with a sword that cost me thirty pieces? I was bound for a hundred pounds for Tom Trippet, because he had declared that he would dance a minuet with any man in the three kingdoms except myself. But I often parted with money against my inclination, either because I wanted the resolution to refuse, or dreaded the appellation of a niggardly fellow; and I may be truly said to have squandered my estate, without honour, without friends, and without pleasure. The last may, perhaps, appear strange to men unacquainted with the masquerade of life: I deceived others, and I endeavoured to deceive myself; and have worn the face of pleasantry and gaiety, while my heart suffered the most exquisite torture. By the instigation and encouragement of my friends, I became at length ambitious of a seat in parliament; and accordingly set out for the town of Wallop in the west, where my arrival was welcomed by a thousand throats, and I was in three days sure of a majority: but after drinking out one hundred and fifty hogsheads of wine, and bribing two-thirds of the corporation twice over, I had the mortification to find that the borough had been before sold to Mr. Courtly. In a life of this kind, my fortune, though considerable, was presently dissipated; and as the attraction grows more strong the nearer any body approaches the earth, when once a man begins to sink into poverty, he falls with velocity always increasing; every supply is purchased at a higher and higher price, and every office of kindness obtained with greater and greater difficulty. Having now acquainted you with my state of elevation, I shall, if you encourage the continuance of my correspondence, shew you by what steps I descended from a first floor in Pall-Mall to my present habitation[1]. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, MISARGYRUS. [1] For an account of the disputes raised on this paper, and on the other letters of Misargyrus, see Preface. No. 39. TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1753. --[Greek: Oduseus phulloisi kalupsato to d ar Athaenae Hypnon ep ommasi cheu, ina min pauseie tachista Dusponeos kamatoio.]--HOM. E. 491 --Pallas pour'd sweet slumbers on his soul; And balmy dreams, the gift of soft repose, Calm'd all his pains, and banish'd all his woes. POPE. If every day did not produce fresh instances of the ingratitude of mankind, we might, perhaps, be at a loss, why so liberal and impartial a benefactor as sleep, should meet with so few historians or panegyrists. Writers are so totally absorbed by the business of the day, as never to turn their attention to that power, whose officious hand so seasonably suspends the burthen of life; and without whose interposition man would not be able to endure the fatigue of labour, however rewarded, or the struggle with opposition, however successful. Night, though she divides to many the longest part of life, and to almost all the most innocent and happy, is yet unthankfully neglected, except by those who pervert her gifts. The astronomers, indeed, expect her with impatience, and felicitate themselves upon her arrival: Fontenelle has not failed to celebrate her praises; and to chide the sun for hiding from his view the worlds, which he imagines to appear in every constellation. Nor have the poets been always deficient in her praises: Milton has observed of the night, that it is "the pleasant time, the cool, the silent." These men may, indeed, well be expected to pay particular homage to night; since they are indebted to her, not only for cessation of pain, but increase of pleasure; not only for slumber, but for knowledge. But the greater part of her avowed votaries are the sons of luxury; who appropriate to festivity the hours designed for rest; who consider the reign of pleasure as commencing when day begins to withdraw her busy multitudes, and ceases to dissipate attention by intrusive and unwelcome variety; who begin to awake to joy when the rest of the world sinks into insensibility; and revel in the soft affluence of flattering and artificial lights, which "more shadowy set off the face of things." Without touching upon the fatal consequences of a custom, which, as Ramazzini observes, will be for ever condemned, and for ever retained; it may be observed, that however sleep may be put off from time to time, yet the demand is of so importunate a nature, as not to remain long unsatisfied: and if, as some have done, we consider it as the tax of life, we cannot but observe it as a tax that must be paid, unless we could cease to be men; for Alexander declared, that nothing convinced him that he was not a divinity, but his not being able to live without sleep. To live without sleep in our present fluctuating state, however desirable it might seem to the lady in Clelia, can surely be the wish only of the young or the ignorant; to every one else, a perpetual vigil will appear to be a state of wretchedness, second only to that of the miserable beings, whom Swift has in his travels so elegantly described, as "supremely cursed with immortality." Sleep is necessary to the happy to prevent satiety, and to endear life by a short absence; and to the miserable, to relieve them by intervals of quiet. Life is to most, such as could not be endured without frequent intermission of existence: Homer, therefore, has thought it an office worthy of the goddess of wisdom, to lay Ulysses asleep when landed on Phaeacia. It is related of Barretier, whose early advances in literature scarce any human mind has equalled, that he spent twelve hours of the four-and-twenty in sleep: yet this appears from the bad state of his health, and the shortness of his life, to have been too small a respite for a mind so vigorously and intensely employed: it is to be regretted, therefore, that he did not exercise his mind less, and his body more: since by this means, it is highly probable, that though he would not then have astonished with the blaze of a comet, he would yet have shone with the permanent radiance of a fixed star. Nor should it be objected, that there have been many men who daily spend fifteen or sixteen hours in study: for by some of whom this is reported it has never been done; others have done it for a short time only; and of the rest it appears, that they employed their minds in such operations as required neither celerity nor strength, in the low drudgery of collating copies, comparing authorities, digesting dictionaries, or accumulating compilations. Men of study and imagination are frequently upbraided by the industrious and plodding sons of care, with passing too great a part of their life in a state of inaction. But these defiers of sleep seem not to remember that though it must be granted them that they are crawling about before the break of day, it can seldom be said that they are perfectly awake; they exhaust no spirits, and require no repairs; but lie torpid as a toad in marble, or at least are known to live only by an inert and sluggish locomotive faculty, and may be said, like a wounded snake, to "drag their slow length along." Man has been long known among philosophers by the appellation of the microcosm, or epitome of the world: the resemblance between the great and little world might, by a rational observer, be detailed to many particulars; and to many more by a fanciful speculatist. I know not in which of these two classes I shall be ranged for observing, that as the total quantity of light and darkness allotted in the course of the year to every region of the earth is the same, though distributed at various times and in different portions; so, perhaps, to each individual of the human species, nature has ordained the same quantity of wakefulness and sleep; though divided by some into a total quiescence and vigorous exertion of their faculties, and, blended by others in a kind of twilight of existence, in a state between dreaming and reasoning, in which they either think without action, or act without thought. The poets are generally well affected to sleep: as men who think with vigour, they require respite from thought; and gladly resign themselves to that gentle power, who not only bestows rest, but frequently leads them to happier regions, where patrons are always kind, and audiences are always candid; where they are feasted in the bowers of imagination, and crowned with flowers divested of their prickles, and laurels of unfading verdure. The more refined and penetrating part of mankind, who take wide surveys of the wilds of life, who see the innumerable terrours and distresses that are perpetually preying on the heart of man, and discern with unhappy perspicuity, calamities yet latent in their causes, are glad to close their eyes upon the gloomy prospect, and lose in a short insensibility the remembrance of others' miseries and their own. The hero has no higher hope, than that, after having routed legions after legions, and added kingdom to kingdom, he shall retire to milder happiness, and close his days in social festivity. The wit or the sage can expect no greater happiness, than that, after having harassed his reason in deep researches, and fatigued his fancy in boundless excursions, he shall sink at night in the tranquillity of sleep. The poets, among all those that enjoy the blessings of sleep, have been least ashamed to acknowledge their benefactor. How much Statius considered the evils of life as assuaged and softened by the balm of slumber, we may discover by that pathetick invocation, which he poured out in his waking nights: and that Cowley, among the other felicities of his darling solitude, did not forget to number the privilege of sleeping without disturbance, we may learn from the rank that he assigns among the gifts of nature to the poppy, "which is scattered," says he, "over the fields of corn, that all the needs of man may be easily satisfied, and that bread and sleep may be found together." Si quis invisum Cereri benignæ Me putat germen, vehementer errat; Illa me in partem recipit libenter Fertilis agri. Meque frumentumque simul per omnes Consulens mundo Dea spargit oras; Crescite, O! dixit, duo magna sustentaculu vitæ, Carpe, mortalis, mea dona lætus, Carpe, nec plantas alias require, Sed satur panis, satur et soporis, Cætera sperue, He wildly errs who thinks I yield Precedence in the well-cloth'd field, Tho' mix'd with wheat I grow: Indulgent Ceres knew my worth, And to adorn the teeming earth, She bade the Poppy blow. Nor vainly gay the sight to please, But blest with pow'r mankind to ease, The goddess saw me rise: "Thrive with the life-supporting grain," She cried, "the solace of the swain, The cordial of his eyes. Seize, happy mortal, seize the good; My hand supplies thy sleep and food, And makes thee truly blest: With plenteous meals enjoy the day, In slumbers pass the night away, And leave to fate the rest." C. B. Sleep, therefore, as the chief of all earthly blessings, is justly appropriated to induustry and temperance; the refreshing rest, and the peaceful night, are the portion only of him who lies down weary with honest labour, and free from the fumes of indigested luxury; it is the just doom of laziness and gluttony, to be inactive without ease, and drowsy without tranquillity. Sleep has been often mentioned as the image of death[1]; "so like it," says Sir Thomas Brown, "that I dare not trust it without my prayers:" their resemblance is, indeed, apparent and striking; they both, when they seize the body, leave the soul at liberty: and wise is he that remembers of both, that they can be safe and happy only by virtue. [1] Lovely sleep! thou beautiful image of terrible death, Be thou my pillow-companion, my angel of rest! Come, O sleep! for thine are the joys of living and dying: Life without sorrow, and death with no anguish, no pain. _From the German of Schmidt_ No. 41. TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1753. --_Si mutabile pectus Est tibi, consiliis, non curribus, utere nostris; Dum potes, et solidis etiamnum sedibus adstas, Dumque male optatos nondum premis inscius axes._ OVID. Met. ii. 143. --Th' attempt forsake, And not my chariot but my counsel take; While yet securely on the earth you stand; Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand. ADDISON. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, Fleet, March 24. I now send you the sequel of my story, which had not been so long delayed, if I could have brought myself to imagine, that any real impatience was felt for the fate of Misargyrus; who has travelled no unbeaten track to misery, and consequently can present the reader only with such incidents as occur in daily life. You have seen me, Sir, in the zenith of my glory, not dispensing the kindly warmth of an all-cheering sun: but, like another Phaeton, scorching and blasting every thing round me. I shall proceed, therefore, to finish my career, and pass as rapidly as possible through the remaining vicissitudes of my life. When I first began to be in want of money, I made no doubt of an immediate supply. The newspapers were perpetually offering directions to men, who seemed to have no other business than to gather heaps of gold for those who place their supreme felicity in scattering it. I posted away, therefore, to one of these advertisers, who by his proposals seemed to deal in thousands; and was not a little chagrined to find, that this general benefactor would have nothing to do with any larger sum than thirty pounds, nor would venture that without a joint note from myself and a reputable housekeeper, or for a longer time than three months. It was not yet so bad with me, as that I needed to solicit surety for thirty pounds: yet partly from the greediness that extravagance always produces, and partly from a desire of seeing the humour of a petty usurer, a character of which I had hitherto lived in ignorance, I condescended to listen to his terms. He proceeded to inform me of my great felicity in not falling into the hands of an extortioner; and assured me, that I should find him extremely moderate in his demands: he was not, indeed, certain that he could furnish me with the whole sum, for people were at this particular time extremely pressing and importunate for money: yet, as I had the appearance of a gentleman, he would try what he could do, and give me his answer in three days. At the expiration of the time, I called upon him again; and was again informed of the great demand for money, and that, "money was money now:" he then advised me to be punctual in my payment, as that might induce him to befriend me hereafter; and delivered me the money, deducting at the rate of five and thirty _per cent_. with another panegyrick upon his own moderation. I will not tire you with the various practices of usurious oppression; but cannot omit my transaction with Squeeze on Tower-hill, who, finding me a young man of considerable expectations, employed an agent to persuade me to borrow five hundred pounds, to be refunded by an annual payment of twenty per cent_. during the joint lives of his daughter Nancy Squeeze and myself. The negociator came prepared to enforce his proposal with all his art; but, finding that I caught his offer with the eagerness of necessity, he grew cold and languid; "he had mentioned it out of kindness; he would try to serve me: Mr. Squeeze was an honest man, but extremely cautious." In three days he came to tell me, that his endeavours had been ineffectual, Mr. Squeeze having no good opinion of my life; but that there was one expedient remaining: Mrs. Squeeze could influence her husband, and her good will might be gained by a compliment. I waited that afternoon on Mrs. Squeeze, and poured out before her the flatteries which usually gain access to rank and beauty: I did not then know, that there are places in which the only compliment is a bribe. Having yet credit with a jeweller, I afterwards procured a ring of thirty guineas, which I humbly presented, and was soon admitted to a treaty with Mr. Squeeze. He appeared peevish and backward, and my old friend whispered me, that he would never make a dry bargain: I therefore invited him to a tavern. Nine times we met on the affair; nine times I paid four pounds for the supper and claret; and nine guineas I gave the agent for good offices. I then obtained the money, paying ten _per cent_. advance; and at the tenth meeting gave another supper, and disbursed fifteen pounds for the writings. Others who styled themselves brokers, would only trust their money upon goods: that I might, therefore, try every art of expensive folly, I took a house and furnished it. I amused myself with despoiling my moveables of their glossy appearance, for fear of alarming the lender with suspicions: and in this I succeeded so well, that he favoured me with one hundred and sixty pounds upon that which was rated at seven hundred. I then found that I was to maintain a guardian about me to prevent the goods from being broken or removed. This was, indeed, an unexpected tax; but it was too late to recede: and I comforted myself, that I might prevent a creditor, of whom I had some apprehensions, from seizing, by having a prior execution always in the house. By such means I had so embarrassed myself, that my whole attention was engaged in contriving excuses, and raising small sums to quiet such as words would no longer mollify. It cost me eighty pounds in presents to Mr. Leech the attorney, for his forbearance of one hundred, which he solicited me to take when I had no need. I was perpetually harassed with importunate demands, and insulted by wretches, who a few months before would not have dared to raise their eyes from the dust before me. I lived in continual terrour, frighted by every noise at the door, and terrified at the approach of every step quicker than common. I never retired to rest without feeling the justness of the Spanish proverb, "Let him who sleeps too much, borrow the pillow of a debtor:" my solicitude and vexation kept me long waking; and when I had closed my eyes, I was pursued or insulted by visionary bailiffs. When I reflected upon the meanness of the shifts I had reduced myself to, I could not but curse the folly and extravagance that had overwhelmed me in a sea of troubles, from which it was highly improbable that I should ever emerge. I had some time lived in hopes of an estate, at the death of my uncle; but he disappointed me by marrying his housekeeper; and, catching an opportunity soon after of quarrelling with me, for settling twenty pounds a year upon a girl whom I had seduced, told me that he would take care to prevent his fortune from being squandered upon prostitutes. Nothing now remained, but the chance of extricating myself by marriage; a scheme which, I flattered myself, nothing but my present distress would have made me think on with patience. I determined, therefore, to look out for a tender novice, with a large fortune, at her own disposal; and accordingly fixed my eyes upon Miss Biddy Simper. I had now paid her six or seven visits; and so fully convinced her of my being a gentleman and a rake, that I made no doubt that both her person and fortune would be soon mine. At this critical time, Miss Gripe called upon me, in a chariot bought with my money, and loaded with trinkets that I had, in my days of affluence, lavished on her. Those days were now over; and there was little hope that they would ever return. She was not able to withstand the temptation of ten pounds that Talon the bailiff offered her, but brought him into my apartment disguised in a livery; and taking my sword to the window, under pretence of admiring the workmanship, beckoned him to seize me. Delay would have been expensive without use, as the debt was too considerable for payment or bail: I, therefore, suffered myself to be immediately conducted to gaol. _Vestibulum ante ipsum, primisque in faucibus Orci, Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae: Pallentesque habitant morbi, tristisque senectus, Et metus, et malesuada fames, et turpis egestas._ VIRG. Aen. vi. 273. Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell, Revengeful cares and sullen sorrows dwell; And pale diseases, and repining age; Want, fear, and famine's unresisted rage. DRYDEN. Confinement of any kind is dreadful; a prison is sometimes able to shock those, who endure it in a good cause: let your imagination, therefore, acquaint you with what I have not words to express, and conceive, if possible, the horrours of imprisonment attended with reproach and ignominy, of involuntary association with the refuse of mankind, with wretches who were before too abandoned for society, but, being now freed from shame or fear, are hourly improving their vices by consorting with each other. There are, however, a few, whom, like myself, imprisonment has rather mortified than hardened: with these only I converse; and of these you may, perhaps, hereafter receive some account from Your humble servant, MISARGYRUS. No. 45. TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1753 _Nulla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas Impatiens consortis erit._--LUCAN. Lib. i. 92. No faith of partnership dominion owns: Still discord hovers o'er divided thrones. It is well known, that many things appear plausible in speculation, which can never be reduced to practice; and that of the numberless projects that have flattered mankind with theoretical speciousness, few have served any other purpose than to show the ingenuity of their contrivers. A voyage to the moon, however romantick and absurd the scheme may now appear, since the properties of air have been better understood, seemed highly probable to many of the aspiring wits in the last century, who began to dote upon their glossy plumes, and fluttered with impatience for the hour of their departure: --_Pereunt vestigia mille Ante fugam, absentemque ferit gravis ungula campum._ Hills, vales and floods appear already crost; And, ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost. POPE. Among the fallacies which only experience can detect, there are some, of which scarcely experience itself can destroy the influence; some which, by a captivating show of indubitable certainty, are perpetually gaining upon the human mind; and which, though every trial ends in disappointment, obtain new credit as the sense of miscarriage wears gradually away, persuade us to try again what we have tried already, and expose us by the same failure to double vexation. Of this tempting, this delusive kind, is the expectation of great performances by confederated strength. The speculatist, when he has carefully observed how much may be performed by a single hand, calculates by a very easy operation the force of thousands, and goes on accumulating power till resistance vanishes before it; then rejoices in the success of his new scheme, and wonders at the folly or idleness of former ages, who have lived in want of what might so readily be procured, and suffered themselves to be debarred from happiness by obstacles which one united effort would have so easily surmounted. But this gigantick phantom of collective power vanishes at once into air and emptiness, at the first attempt to put it into action. The different apprehensions, the discordant passions, the jarring interests of men, will scarcely permit that many should unite in one undertaking. Of a great and complicated design, some will never be brought to discern the end; and of the several means by which it may be accomplished, the choice will be a perpetual subject of debate, as every man is swayed in his determination by his own knowledge or convenience. In a long series of action some will languish with fatigue, and some be drawn off by present gratifications; some will loiter because others labour, and some will cease to labour because others loiter: and if once they come within prospect of success and profit, some will be greedy and others envious; some will undertake more than they can perform, to enlarge their claims of advantage; some will perform less than they undertake, lest their labours should chiefly turn to the benefit of others. The history of mankind informs us that a single power is very seldom broken by a confederacy. States of different interests, and aspects malevolent to each other, may be united for a time by common distress; and in the ardour of self-preservation fall unanimously upon an enemy, by whom they are all equally endangered. But if their first attack can be withstood, time will never fail to dissolve their union: success and miscarriage will be equally destructive: after the conquest of a province, they will quarrel in the division; after the loss of a battle, all will be endeavouring to secure themselves by abandoning the rest. From the impossibility of confining numbers to the constant and uniform prosecution of a common interest, arises the difficulty of securing subjects against the encroachment of governours. Power is always gradually stealing away from the many to the few, because the few are more vigilant and consistent; it still contracts to a smaller number, till in time it centres in a single person. Thus all the forms of governments instituted among mankind, perpetually tend towards monarchy; and power, however diffused through the whole community, is, by negligence or corruption, commotion or distress, reposed at last in the chief magistrate. "There never appear," says Swift, "more than five or six men of genius in an age; but if they were united, the world could not stand before them." It is happy, therefore, for mankind, that of this union there is no probability. As men take in a wider compass of intellectual survey, they are more likely to choose different objects of pursuit; as they see more ways to the same end, they will be less easily persuaded to travel together; as each is better qualified to form an independent scheme of private greatness, he will reject with greater obstinacy the project of another; as each is more able to distinguish himself as the head of a party, he will less readily be made a follower or an associate. The reigning philosophy informs us, that the vast bodies which constitute the universe, are regulated in their progress through the ethereal spaces by the perpetual agency of contrary forces; by one of which they are restrained from deserting their orbits, and losing themselves in the immensity of heaven; and held off by the other from rushing together, and clustering round their centre with everlasting cohesion. The same contrariety of impulse may be perhaps discovered in the motions of men: we are formed for society, not for combination; we are equally unqualified to live in a close connexion with our fellow-beings, and in total separation from them; we are attracted towards each other by general sympathy, but kept back from contact by private interests. Some philosophers have been foolish enough to imagine, that improvements might be made in the system of the universe, by a different arrangement of the orbs of heaven; and politicians, equally ignorant and equally presumptuous, may easily be led to suppose, that the happiness of our world would be promoted by a different tendency of the human mind. It appears, indeed, to a slight and superficial observer, that many things impracticable in our present state, might be easily effected, if mankind were better disposed to union and co-operation: but a little reflection will discover, that if confederacies were easily formed, they would lose their efficacy, since numbers would be opposed to numbers, and unanimity to unanimity; and instead of the present petty competitions of individuals or single families, multitudes would be supplanting multitudes, and thousands plotting against thousands. There is no class of the human species, of which the union seems to have been more expected, than of the learned: the rest of the world have almost always agreed to shut scholars up together in colleges and cloisters; surely not without hope, that they would look for that happiness in concord, which they were debarred from finding in variety; and that such conjunctions of intellect would recompense the munificence of founders and patrons, by performances above the reach of any single mind. But discord, who found means to roll her apple into the banqueting chamber of the goddesses, has had the address to scatter her laurels in the seminaries of learning. The friendship of students and of beauties is for the most part equally sincere, and equally durable: as both depend for happiness on the regard of others, on that of which the value arises merely from comparison, they are both exposed to perpetual jealousies, and both incessantly employed in schemes to intercept the praises of each other. I am, however, far from intending to inculcate that this confinement of the studious to studious companions, has been wholly without advantage to the publick: neighbourhood, where it does not conciliate friendship, incites competition; and he that would contentedly rest in a lower degree of excellence, where he had no rival to dread, will be urged by his impatience of inferiority to incessant endeavours after great attainments. These stimulations of honest rivalry are, perhaps, the chief effects of academies and societies; for whatever be the bulk of their joint labours, every single piece is always the production of an individual, that owes nothing to his colleagues but the contagion of diligence, a resolution to write, because the rest are writing, and the scorn of obscurity while the rest are illustrious[1]. [1] It may not be uninteresting to place in immediate comparison with this finished paper its first rough draught as given in Boswell, vol. i. "_Confederacies difficult; why_. "Seldom in war a match for single persons--nor in peace; therefore kings make themselves absolute. Confederacies in learning--every great work the work of one. _Bruy_. Scholars friendship like ladies. Scribebamus, &c. Mart. The apple of discord--the laurel of discord--the poverty of criticism. Swift's opinion of the power of six geniuses united. That union scarce possible. His remarks just; --man a social, not steady nature. Drawn to man by words, repelled by passions. Orb drawn by attraction, rep. [_repelled_] by centrifugal. "Common danger unites by crushing other passions--but they return. Equality hinders compliance. Superiority produces insolence and envy. Too much regard in each to private interest;--too little. "The mischiefs of private and exclusive societies.--The fitness of social attraction diffused through the whole. The mischiefs of too partial love of our country. Contraction of moral duties. [Greek: Oi philoi, ou philos]. "Every man moves upon his own centre, and therefore repels others from too near a contact, though he may comply with some general laws. Of confederacy with superiors every one knows the inconvenience. With equals no authority;--every man his own opinion--his own interest. "Man and wife hardly united;--scarce ever without children. Computation, if two to one against two, how many against five? If confederacies were easy--useless;--many oppresses many.--If possible only to some, dangerous. _Principum amicitias_." No. 50. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1753. _Quicunque turpi fraude semel innotuit, Etiamsi verum dicit, amittit fidem._ PH�D. Lib. i. Fab. x. l. The wretch that often has deceiv'd, Though truth he speaks, is ne'er believ'd. When Aristotle was once asked, what a man could gain by uttering falsehoods? he replied, "Not to be credited when he shall tell the truth." The character of a liar is at once so hateful and contemptible, that even of those who have lost their virtue it might be expected that from the violation of truth they should be restrained by their pride. Almost every other vice that disgraces human nature, may be kept in countenance by applause and association: the corrupter of virgin innocence sees himself envied by the men, and at least not detested by the women; the drunkard may easily unite with beings, devoted like himself to noisy merriments or silent insensibility, who will celebrate his victories over the novices of intemperance, boast themselves the companions of his prowess, and tell with rapture of the multitudes whom unsuccessful emulation has hurried to the grave; even the robber and the cut-throat have their followers, who admire their address and intrepidity, their stratagems of rapine, and their fidelity to the gang. The liar, and only the liar, is invariably and universally despised, abandoned, and disowned: he has no domestick consolations, which he can oppose to the censure of mankind; he can retire to no fraternity, where his crimes may stand in the place of virtues; but is given up to the hisses of the multitude, without friend and without apologist. It is the peculiar condition of falsehood, to be equally detested by the good and bad: "The devils," says Sir Thomas Brown, "do not tell lies to one another; for truth is necessary to all societies: nor can the society of hell subsist without it." It is natural to expect, that a crime thus generally detested should be generally avoided; at least, that none should expose himself to unabated and unpitied infamy, without an adequate temptation; and that to guilt so easily detected, and so severely punished, an adequate temptation would not readily be found. Yet so it is, that in defiance of censure and contempt, truth is frequently violated; and scarcely the most vigilant and unremitted circumspection will secure him that mixes with mankind, from being hourly deceived by men of whom it can scarcely be imagined, that they mean any injury to him or profit to themselves: even where the subject of conversation could not have been expected to put the passions in motion, or to have excited either hope or fear, or zeal or malignity, sufficient to induce any man to put his reputation in hazard, however little he might value it, or to overpower the love of truth, however weak might be its influence. The casuists have very diligently distinguished lies into their several classes, according to their various degrees of malignity: but they have, I think, generally omitted that which is most common, and perhaps, not least mischievous; which, since the moralists have not given it a name, I shall distinguish as the _lie of vanity_. To vanity may justly be imputed most of the falsehoods which every man perceives hourly playing upon his ear, and, perhaps, most of those that are propagated with success. To the lie of commerce, and the lie of malice, the motive is so apparent, that they are seldom negligently or implicitly received; suspicion is always watchful over the practices of interest; and whatever the hope of gain, or desire of mischief, can prompt one man to assert, another is by reasons equally cogent incited to refute. But vanity pleases herself with such slight gratifications, and looks forward to pleasure so remotely consequential, that her practices raise no alarm, and her stratagems are not easily discovered. Vanity is, indeed, often suffered to pass unpursued by suspicion, because he that would watch her motions, can never be at rest: fraud and malice are bounded in their influence; some opportunity of time and place is necessary to their agency; but scarce any man is abstracted one moment from his vanity; and he, to whom truth affords no gratifications, is generally inclined to seek them in falsehoods. It is remarked by Sir Kenelm Digby, "that every man has a desire to appear superior to others, though it were only in having seen what they have not seen." Such an accidental advantage, since it neither implies merit, nor confers dignity, one would think should not be desired so much as to be counterfeited: yet even this vanity, trifling as it is, produces innumerable narratives, all equally false; but more or less credible in proportion to the skill or confidence of the relater. How many may a man of diffusive conversation count among his acquaintances, whose lives have been signalized by numberless escapes; who never cross the river but in a storm, or take a journey into the country without more adventures than befel the knights-errant of ancient times in pathless forests or enchanted castles! How many must he know, to whom portents and prodigies are of daily occurrence; and for whom nature is hourly working wonders invisible to every other eye, only to supply them with subjects of conversation. Others there are that amuse themselves with the dissemination of falsehood, at greater hazard of detection and disgrace; men marked out by some lucky planet for universal confidence and friendship, who have been consulted in every difficulty, intrusted with every secret, and summoned to every transaction: it is the supreme felicity of these men, to stun all companies with noisy information; to still doubt, and overbear opposition, with certain knowledge or authentick intelligence. A liar of this kind, with a strong memory or brisk imagination, is often the oracle of an obscure club, and, till time discovers his impostures, dictates to his hearers with uncontrouled authority; for if a publick question be started, he was present at the debate; if a new fashion be mentioned, he was at court the first day of its appearance; if a new performance of literature draws the attention of the publick, he has patronized the author, and seen his work in manuscript; if a criminal of eminence be condemned to die, he often predicted his fate, and endeavoured his reformation: and who that lives at a distance from the scene of action, will dare to contradict a man, who reports from his own eyes and ears, and to whom all persons and affairs are thus intimately known? This kind of falsehood is generally successful for a time, because it is practised at first with timidity and caution: but the prosperity of the liar is of short duration; the reception of one story is always an incitement to the forgery of another less probable; and he goes on to triumph over tacit credulity, till pride or reason rises up against him, and his companions will no longer endure to see him wiser than themselves. It is apparent, that the inventors of all these fictions intend some exaltation of themselves, and are led off by the pursuit of honour from their attendance upon truth: their narratives always imply some consequence in favour of their courage, their sagacity, or their activity, their familiarity with the learned, or their reception among the great; they are always bribed by the present pleasure of seeing themselves superior to those that surround them, and receiving the homage of silent attention and envious admiration. But vanity is sometimes excited to fiction by less visible gratifications: the present age abounds with a race of liars who are content with the consciousness of falsehood, and whose pride is to deceive others without any gain or glory to themselves. Of this tribe it is the supreme pleasure to remark a lady in the playhouse or the park, and to publish, under the character of a man suddenly enamoured, an advertisement in the news of the next day, containing a minute description of her person and her dress. From this artifice, however, no other effect can be expected, than perturbations which the writer can never see, and conjectures of which he never can be informed; some mischief, however, he hopes he has done; and to have done mischief, is of some importance. He sets his invention to work again, and produces a narrative of a robbery or a murder, with all the circumstances of time and place accurately adjusted. This is a jest of greater effect and longer duration: if he fixes his scene at a proper distance, he may for several days keep a wife in terrour for her husband, or a mother for her son; and please himself with reflecting, that by his abilities and address some addition is made to the miseries of life. There is, I think, an ancient law of Scotland, by which _leasing-making_ was capitally punished. I am, indeed, far from desiring to increase in this kingdom the number of executions; yet I cannot but think, that they who destroy the confidence of society, weaken the credit of intelligence, and interrupt the security of life; harass the delicate with shame, and perplex the timorous with alarms; might very properly be awakened to a sense of their crimes, by denunciations of a whipping-post or pillory: since many are so insensible of right and wrong, that they have no standard of action but the law; nor feel guilt, but as they dread punishment. No. 53. TUESDAY, MAY 8, 1753. _Quisque suos patimur manes_. VIRG. Aen. Lib. vi. 743. Each has his lot, and bears the fate he drew. Sir, Fleet, May 6. In consequence of my engagements, I address you once more from the habitations of misery. In this place, from which business and pleasure are equally excluded, and in which our only employment and diversion is to hear the narratives of each other, I might much sooner have gathered materials for a letter, had I not hoped to have been reminded of my promise; but since I find myself placed in the regions of oblivion, where I am no less neglected by you than by the rest of mankind, I resolved no longer to wait for solicitation, but stole early this evening from between gloomy sullenness and riotous merriment, to give you an account of part of my companions. One of the most eminent members of our club is Mr. Edward Scamper, a man of whose name the Olympick heroes would not have been ashamed. Ned was born to a small estate, which he determined to improve; and therefore, as soon as he became of age, mortgaged part of his land to buy a mare and stallion, and bred horses for the course. He was at first very successful, and gained several of the king's plates, as he is now every day boasting, at the expense of very little more than ten times their value. At last, however, he discovered, that victory brought him more honour than profit: resolving, therefore, to be rich as well as illustrious, he replenished his pockets by another mortgage, became on a sudden a daring bettor, and resolving not to trust a jockey with his fortune, rode his horse himself, distanced two of his competitors the first heat, and at last won the race by forcing his horse on a descent to full speed at the hazard of his neck. His estate was thus repaired, and some friends that had no souls advised him to give over; but Ned now knew the way to riches, and therefore without caution increased his expenses. From this hour he talked and dreamed of nothing but a horse-race; and rising soon to the summit of equestrian reputation, he was constantly expected on every course, divided all his time between lords and jockeys, and, as the unexperienced regulated their bets by his example, gained a great deal of money by laying openly on one horse and secretly on the other. Ned was now so sure of growing rich, that he involved his estate in a third mortgage, borrowed money of all his friends, and risked his whole fortune upon Bay Lincoln. He mounted with beating heart, started fair, and won the first heat; but in the second, as he was pushing against the foremost of his rivals, his girth broke, his shoulder was dislocated, and before he was dismissed by the surgeon, two bailiffs fastened upon him, and he saw Newmarket no more. His daily amusement for four years has been to blow the signal for starting, to make imaginary matches, to repeat the pedigree of Bay Lincoln, and to form resolutions against trusting another groom with the choice of his girth. The next in seniority is Mr. Timothy Snug, a man of deep contrivance and impenetrable secrecy. His father died with the reputation of more wealth than he possessed: Tim, therefore, entered the world with a reputed fortune of ten thousand pounds. Of this he very well knew that eight thousand was imaginary: but being a man of refined policy, and knowing how much honour is annexed to riches, he resolved never to detect his own poverty; but furnished his house with elegance, scattered his money with profusion, encouraged every scheme of costly pleasure, spoke of petty losses with negligence, and on the day before an execution entered his doors, had proclaimed at a public table his resolution to be jolted no longer in a hackney coach. Another of my companions is the magnanimous Jack Scatter, the son of a country gentleman, who, having no other care than to leave him rich, considered that literature could not be had without expense; masters would not teach for nothing; and when a book was bought and read, it would sell for little. Jack was, therefore, taught to read and write by the butler; and when this acquisition was made, was left to pass his days in the kitchen and the stable, where he heard no crime censured but covetousness and distrust of poor honest servants, and where all the praise was bestowed on good housekeeping, and a free heart. At the death of his father, Jack set himself to retrieve the honour of his family: he abandoned his cellar to the butler, ordered his groom to provide hay and corn at discretion, took his housekeeper's word for the expenses of the kitchen, allowed all his servants to do their work by deputies, permitted his domesticks to keep his house open to their relations and acquaintance, and in ten years was conveyed hither, without having purchased by the loss of his patrimony either honour or pleasure, or obtained any other gratification than that of having corrupted the neighbouring villagers by luxury and idleness. Dick Serge was a draper in Cornhill, and passed eight years in prosperous diligence, without any care but to keep his books, or any ambition but to be in time an alderman: but then, by some unaccountable revolution in his understanding, he became enamoured of wit and humour, despised the conversation of pedlars and stock-jobbers, and rambled every night to the regions of gaiety, in quest of company suited to his taste. The wits at first flocked about him for sport, and afterwards for interest; some found their way into his books, and some into his pockets; the man of adventure was equipped from his shop for the pursuit, of a fortune; and he had sometimes the honour to have his security accepted when his friends were in distress. Elated with these associations, he soon learned to neglect his shop; and having drawn his money out of the funds, to avoid the necessity of teasing men of honour for trifling debts, he has been forced at last to retire hither, till his friends can procure him a post at court. Another that joins in the same mess is Bob Cornice, whose life has been spent in fitting up a house. About ten years ago Bob purchased the country habitation of a bankrupt: the mere shell of a building Bob holds no great matter; the inside is the test of elegance. Of this house he was no sooner master than he summoned twenty workmen to his assistance, tore up the floors and laid them anew, stripped off the wainscot, drew the windows from their frames, altered the disposition of doors and fire-places, and cast the whole fabrick into a new form: his next care was to have his ceilings painted, his pannels gilt, and his chimney-pieces carved: every thing was executed by the ablest hands: Bob's business was to follow the workmen with a microscope, and call upon them to retouch their performances, and heighten excellence to perfection. The reputation of his house now brings round him a daily confluence of visitants, and every one tells him of some elegance which he has hitherto overlooked, some convenience not yet procured, or some new mode in ornament or furniture. Bob, who had no wish but to be admired, nor any guide but the fashion, thought every thing beautiful in proportion as it was new, and considered his work as unfinished, while any observer could suggest an addition; some alteration was therefore every day made, without any other motive than the charms of novelty. A traveller at last suggested to him the convenience of a grotto: Bob immediately ordered the mount of his garden to be excavated: and having laid out a large sum in shells and minerals, was busy in regulating the disposition of the colours and lustres, when two gentlemen, who had asked permission to see his gardens, presented him a writ, and led him off to less elegant apartments. I know not, Sir, whether among this fraternity of sorrow you will think any much to be pitied; nor indeed do many of them appear to solicit compassion, for they generally applaud their own conduct, and despise those whom want of taste or spirit suffers to grow rich. It were happy if the prisons of the kingdom were filled only with characters like these, men whom prosperity could not make useful, and whom ruin cannot make wise: but there are among us many who raise different sensations, many that owe their present misery to the seductions of treachery, the strokes of casualty, or the tenderness of pity; many whose sufferings disgrace society, and whose virtues would adorn it: of these, when familiarity shall have enabled me to recount their stories without horrour, you may expect another narrative from Sir, Your most humble servant, MISARGYRUS. No. 58. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1753. _Damnant quod non intelligunt_. CIC. They condemn what they do not understand. Euripides, having presented Socrates with the writings of Heraclitus[1], a philosopher famed for involution and obscurity, inquired afterwards his opinion of their merit. "What I understand," said Socrates, "I find to be excellent; and, therefore, believe that to be of equal value which I cannot understand." The reflection of every man who reads this passage will suggest to him the difference between the practice of Socrates, and that of modern criticks: Socrates, who had, by long observation upon himself and others, discovered the weakness of the strongest, and the dimness of the most enlightened intellect, was afraid to decide hastily in his own favour, or to conclude that an author had written without meaning, because he could not immediately catch his ideas; he knew that the faults of books are often more justly imputable to the reader, who sometimes wants attention, and sometimes penetration; whose understanding is often obstructed by prejudice, and often dissipated by remissness; who comes sometimes to a new study, unfurnished with knowledge previously necessary; and finds difficulties insuperable, for want of ardour sufficient to encounter them. Obscurity and clearness are relative terms: to some readers scarce any book is easy, to others not many are difficult: and surely they, whom neither any exuberant praise bestowed by others, nor any eminent conquests over stubborn problems, have entitled to exalt themselves above the common orders of mankind, might condescend to imitate the candour of Socrates; and where they find incontestable proofs of superior genius, be content to think that there is justness in the connexion which they cannot trace, and cogency in the reasoning which they cannot comprehend. This diffidence is never more reasonable than in the perusal of the authors of antiquity; of those whose works have been the delight of ages, and transmitted as the great inheritance of mankind from one generation to another: surely, no man can, without the utmost arrogance, imagine that he brings any superiority of understanding to the perusal of these books which have been preserved in the devastation of cities, and snatched up from the wreck of nations; which those who fled before barbarians have been careful to carry off in the hurry of migration, and of which barbarians have repented the destruction. If in books thus made venerable by the uniform attestation of successive ages, any passages shall appear unworthy of that praise which they have formerly received, let us not immediately determine, that they owed their reputation to dulness or bigotry; but suspect at least that our ancestors had some reasons for their opinions, and that our ignorance of those reasons makes us differ from them. It often happens that an author's reputation is endangered in succeeding times, by that which raised the loudest applause among his contemporaries: nothing is read with greater pleasure than allusions to recent facts, reigning opinions, or present controversies; but when facts are forgotten, and controversies extinguished, these favourite touches lose all their graces; and the author in his descent to posterity must be left to the mercy of chance, without any power of ascertaining the memory of those things, to which he owed his luckiest thoughts and his kindest reception. On such occasions, every reader should remember the diffidence of Socrates, and repair by his candour the injuries of time: he should impute the seeming defects of his author to some chasm of intelligence, and suppose that the sense which is now weak was once forcible, and the expression which is now dubious formerly determinate. How much the mutilation of ancient history has taken away from the beauty of poetical performances, may be conjectured from the light which a lucky commentator sometimes effuses, by the recovery of an incident that had been long forgotten: thus, in the third book of Horace, Juno's denunciations against, those that should presume to raise again the walls of Troy, could for many ages please only by splendid images and swelling language, of which no man discovered the use or propriety, till Le Fevre, by showing on what occasion the Ode was written, changed wonder to rational delight. Many passages yet undoubtedly remain in the same author, which an exacter knowledge of the incidents of his time would clear from objections. Among these I have always numbered the following lines: _Aurum per medios ire satellites, Et perrumpere amat saxa, potentius Ictu fulmineo. Concidit auguris Argivi domus ob lucrum Demersa exitio. Diffidit urbium Portas vir Macedo, et subruit aemulos Regis muneribus_: Munera navium Saevos illaqueant duces. HOR. Lib. iii. Ode xvi. 9. Stronger than thunder's winged force, All-powerful gold can spread its course, Thro' watchful guards its passage make, And loves thro' solid walls to break: From gold the overwhelming woes That crush'd the Grecian augur rose: Philip with gold thro' cities broke, And rival monarchs felt his yoke; _Captains of ships to gold are slaves, Tho' fierce as their own winds and waves._ FRANCIS. The close of this passage, by which every reader is now disappointed and offended, was probably the delight of the Roman Court: it cannot be imagined, that Horace, after having given to gold the force of thunder, and told of its power to storm cities and to conquer kings, would have concluded his account of its efficacy with its influence over naval commanders, had he not alluded to some fact then current in the mouths of men, and therefore more interesting for a time than the conquests of Philip. Of the like kind may be reckoned another stanza in the same book: --_Jussa coram non sine conscio Surgit marito, seu vocat_ institor, _Seu_ navis Hispanae magister, _Dedecorum pretiosus emptor_. HOR. Lib. iii. Ode. vi. 29. The conscious husband bids her rise, _When some rich factor courts her charms_, Who calls the wanton to his arms, And, prodigal of wealth and fame, Profusely buys the costly shame. FRANCIS. He has little knowledge of Horace who imagines that the _factor_, or the _Spanish merchant_, are mentioned by chance: there was undoubtedly some popular story of an intrigue, which those names recalled to the memory of his reader. The flame of his genius in other parts, though somewhat dimmed by time, is not totally eclipsed; his address and judgment yet appear, though much of the spirit and vigour of his sentiment is lost: this has happened in the twentieth Ode of the first book: _Vile potabis modicis Sabinum Cantharis, Graecâ quod ego ipse testâ Conditum levi, datus in theatro Cum tibi plausus, Care Maecenas eques: ut paterni Fluminis ripae, simul et jocosa Redderet laudes tibi Vaticani Montis imago._ A poet's beverage humbly cheap, (Should great Maecenas be my guest,) The vintage of the Sabine grape, But yet in sober cups shall crown the feast: 'Twas rack'd into a Grecian cask, Its rougher juice to melt away; I seal'd it too--a pleasing task! With annual joy to mark the glorious day, When in applausive shouts thy name Spread from the theatre around, Floating on thy own Tiber's stream, And Echo, playful nymph, return'd the sound. FRANCIS. We here easily remark the intertexture of a happy compliment with an humble invitation; but certainly are less delighted than those, to whom the mention of the applause bestowed upon Maecenas, gave occasion to recount the actions or words that produced it. Two lines which have exercised the ingenuity of modern criticks, may, I think, be reconciled to the judgment, by an easy supposition: Horace thus addresses Agrippa: _Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium Victor_, Maeonii carminis alite. HOR. Lib. i. Ode vi. 1. Varius, a _swan of Homer's wing_, Shall brave Agrippa's conquests sing. That Varius should be called "A bird of Homeric song," appears so harsh to modern ears, that an emendation of the text has been proposed: but surely the learning of the ancients had been long ago obliterated, had every man thought himself at liberty to corrupt the lines which he did not understand. If we imagine that Varius had been by any of his contemporaries celebrated under the appellation of _Musarum ales_, "the swan of the Muses," the language of Horace becomes graceful and familiar; and that such a compliment was at least possible, we know from the transformation feigned by Horace of himself. The most elegant compliment that was paid to Addison, is of this obscure and perishable kind; When panting Virtue her last efforts made, You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid. These lines must please as long as they are understood; but can be understood only by those that have observed Addison's signatures in the Spectator. The nicety of these minute allusions I shall exemplify by another instance, which I take this occasion to mention, because, as I am told, the commentators have omitted it. Tibullus addressed Cynthia in this manner: _Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora, Te teneam moriens deficiente manu._ Lib. i. El. i. 73. Before my closing eyes dear Cynthia stand, Held weakly by my fainting trembling hand. To these lines Ovid thus refers in his Elegy on the death of Tibullus: Cynthia discedens, Felicius, inquit, amata Sum tibi; vixisti dum tuus ignis eram. Cui Nemesis, quid, ait, tibi sint mea damna dolori? Me tenuit moriens deficiente manu. Am. Lib. in. El. ix. 56. Blest was my reign, retiring Cynthia cry'd; Not till he left my breast, Tibullus dy'd. Forbear, said Nemesis, my loss to moan, The _fainting trembling hand_ was mine alone. The beauty of this passage, which consists in the appropriation made by Nemesis of the line originally directed to Cynthia, had been wholly imperceptible to succeeding ages, had chance, which has destroyed so many greater volumes, deprived us likewise of the poems of Tibullus. [1] The obscurity of this philosopher's style is complained of by Aristotle in his treatise on Rhetoric, iii. 5. We make the reference with the view of recommending to attention the whole of that book, which is interspersed with the most acute remarks, and with rules of criticism founded deeply on the workings of the human mind. It is undervalued only by those who have not scholarship to read it, and surely merits this slight tribute of admiration from an Editor of Johnson's works, with whom a Translation of the Rhetoric was long a favourite project. No. 62. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1753. _O fortuna viris, invida fortibus Quam non aequa bonis praemia dividis._ SENECA. Capricious Fortune ever joys, With partial hand to deal the prize, To crush the brave and cheat the wise. TO THE ADVENTURER. Fleet, June 6. SIR, To the account of such of my companions as are imprisoned without being miserable, or are miserable without any claim to compassion, I promised to add the histories of those, whose virtue has made them unhappy or whose misfortunes are at least without a crime. That this catalogue should be very numerous, neither you nor your readers ought to expect: _rari quippe boni_; "the good are few." Virtue is uncommon in all the classes of humanity; and I suppose it will scarcely be imagined more frequent in a prison than in other places. Yet in these gloomy regions is to be found the tenderness, the generosity, the philanthropy of Serenus, who might have lived in competence and ease, if he could have looked without emotion on the miseries of another. Serenus was one of those exalted minds, whom knowledge and sagacity could not make suspicious; who poured out his soul in boundless intimacy, and thought community of possessions the law of friendship. The friend of Serenus was arrested for debt, and after many endeavours to soften his creditor, sent his wife to solicit that assistance which never was refused. The tears and importunity of female distress were more than was necessary to move the heart of Serenus; he hasted immediately away, and conferring a long time with his friend, found him confident that if the present pressure was taken off, he should soon be able to reestablish his affairs. Serenus, accustomed to believe, and afraid to aggravate distress, did not attempt to detect the fallacies of hope, nor reflect that every man overwhelmed with calamity believes, that if that was removed he shall immediately be happy: he, therefore, with little hesitation offered himself as surety. In the first raptures of escape all was joy, gratitude, and confidence: the friend of Serenus displayed his prospects, and counted over the sums of which he should infallibly be master before the day of payment. Serenus in a short time began to find his danger, but could not prevail with himself to repent of beneficence; and therefore suffered himself still to be amused with projects which he durst not consider, for fear of finding them impracticable. The debtor, after he had tried every method of raising money which art or indigence could prompt, wanted either fidelity or resolution to surrender himself to prison, and left Serenus to take his place. Serenus has often proposed to the creditor, to pay him whatever he shall appear to have lost by the flight of his friend: but however reasonable this proposal may be thought, avarice and brutality have been hitherto inexorable, and Serenus still continues to languish in prison. In this place, however, where want makes almost every man selfish, or desperation gloomy, it is the good fortune of Serenus not to live without a friend: he passes most of his hours in the conversation of Candidus, a man whom the same virtuous ductility has, with some difference of circumstances, made equally unhappy. Candidus, when he was young, helpless, and ignorant, found a patron that educated, protected, and supported him; his patron being more vigilant for others than himself, left at his death an only son, destitute and friendless. Candidus was eager to repay the benefits he had received; and having maintained the youth for a few years at his own house, afterwards placed him with a merchant of eminence, and gave bonds to a great value as a security for his conduct. The young man, removed too early from the only eye of which he dreaded the observation, and deprived of the only instruction which he heard with reverence, soon learned to consider virtue as restraint, and restraint as oppression: and to look with a longing eye at every expense to which he could not reach, and every pleasure which he could not partake: by degrees he deviated from his first regularity, and unhappily mingling among young men busy in dissipating the gains of their fathers' industry, he forgot the precepts of Candidus, spent the evening in parties of pleasure, and the morning in expedients to support his riots. He was, however, dexterous and active in business: and his master, being secured against any consequences of dishonesty, was very little solicitous to inspect his manners, or to inquire how he passed those hours, which were not immediately devoted to the business of his profession: when he was informed of the young man's extravagance or debauchery, "let his bondsman look to that," said he, "I have taken care of myself." Thus the unhappy spendthrift proceeded from folly to folly, and from vice to vice, with the connivance, if not the encouragement, of his master; till in the heat of a nocturnal revel he committed such violences in the street as drew upon him a criminal prosecution. Guilty and unexperienced, he knew not what course to take; to confess his crime to Candidus, and solicit his interposition, was little less dreadful than to stand before the frown of a court of justice. Having, therefore, passed the day with anguish in his heart and distraction in his looks, he seized at night a very large sum of money in the compting-house, and setting out he knew not whither, was heard of no more. The consequence of his flight was the ruin of Candidus; ruin surely undeserved and irreproachable, and such as the laws of a just government ought either to prevent or repair: nothing is more inequitable than that one man should suffer for the crimes of another, for crimes which he neither prompted nor permitted, which he could neither foresee nor prevent. When we consider the weakness of human resolutions and the inconsistency of human conduct, it must appear absurd that one man shall engage for another, that he will not change his opinions or alter his conduct. It is, I think, worthy of consideration, whether, since no wager is binding without a possibility of loss on each side, it is not equally reasonable, that no contract should be valid without reciprocal stipulations; but in this case, and others of the same kind, what is stipulated on his side to whom the bond is given? he takes advantage of the security, neglects his affairs, omits his duty, suffers timorous wickedness to grow daring by degrees, permits appetite to call for new gratifications, and, perhaps, secretly longs for the time in which he shall have power to seize the forfeiture; and if virtue or gratitude should prove too strong for temptation, and a young man persist in honesty, however instigated by his passions, what can secure him at last against a false accusation? I for my part always shall suspect, that he who can by such methods secure his property, will go one step further to increase it; nor can I think that man safely trusted with the means of mischief, who, by his desire to have them in his hands, gives an evident proof how much less he values his neighbour's happiness than his own. Another of our companions is Lentulus, a man whose dignity of birth was very ill supported by his fortune. As some of the first offices in the kingdom were filled by his relations, he was early invited to court, and encouraged by caresses and promises to attendance and solicitation; a constant appearance in splendid company necessarily required magnificence of dress; and a frequent participation of fashionable amusements forced him into expense: but these measures were requisite to his success; since every body knows, that to be lost to sight is to be lost to remembrance, and that he who desires to fill a vacancy, must be always at hand, lest some man of greater vigilance should step in before him. By this course of life his little fortune was every day made less: but he received so many distinctions in publick, and was known to resort so familiarly to the houses of the great, that every man looked on his preferment as certain, and believed that its value would compensate for its slowness: he, therefore, found no difficulty in obtaining credit for all that his rank or his vanity made necessary: and, as ready payment was not expected, the bills were proportionably enlarged, and the value of the hazard or delay was adjusted solely by the equity of the creditor. At length death deprived Lentulus of one of his patrons, and a revolution in the ministry of another; so that all his prospects vanished at once, and those that had before encouraged his expenses, began to perceive that their money was in danger; there was now no other contention but who should first seize upon his person, and, by forcing immediate payment, deliver him up naked to the vengeance of the rest. In pursuance of this scheme, one of them invited him to a tavern, and procured him to be arrested at the door; but Lentulus, instead of endeavouring secretly to pacify him by payment, gave notice to the rest, and offered to divide amongst them the remnant of his fortune: they feasted six hours at his expense, to deliberate on his proposal; and at last determined, that as he could not offer more than five shillings in the pound, it would be more prudent to keep him in prison, till he could procure from his relations the payment of his debts. Lentulus is not the only man confined within these walls, on the same account: the like procedure, upon the like motives, is common among men whom yet the law allows to partake the use of fire and water with the compassionate and the just; who frequent the assemblies of commerce in open day, and talk with detestation and contempt of highwaymen or housebreakers: but, surely, that man must be confessedly robbed, who is compelled, by whatever means, to pay the debts which he does not owe: nor can I look with equal hatred upon him, who, at the hazard of his life, holds out his pistol and demands my purse, as on him who plunders under shelter of the law, and by detaining my son or my friend in prison, extorts from me the price of their liberty. No man can be more an enemy to society than he, by whose machinations our virtues are turned to our disadvantage; he is less destructive to mankind that plunders cowardice, than he that preys upon compassion. I believe, Mr. Adventurer, you will readily confess, that though not one of these, if tried before a commercial judicature, can be wholly acquitted from imprudence or temerity; yet that, in the eye of all who can consider virtue as distinct from wealth, the fault of two of them, at least, is outweighed by the merit; and that of the third is so much extenuated by the circumstances of his life, as not to deserve a perpetual prison: yet must these, with multitudes equally blameless, languish in confinement, till malevolence shall relent, or the law be changed. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, MISARGYRUS. No. 67. TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1753. _Inventas--vitam excolucre per artes_. VIRG. Aen. vi. 663. They polish life by useful arts. That familiarity produces neglect, has been long observed. The effect of all external objects, however great or splendid, ceases with their novelty; the courtier stands without emotion in the royal presence; the rustick tramples under his foot the beauties of the spring with little attention to their colours or their fragrance; and the inhabitant of the coast darts his eye upon the immense diffusion of waters, without awe, wonder, or terrour. Those who have past much of their lives in this great city, look upon its opulence and its multitudes, its extent and variety, with cold indifference; but an inhabitant of the remoter parts of the kingdom is immediately distinguished by a kind of dissipated curiosity, a busy endeavour to divide his attention amongst a thousand objects, and a wild confusion of astonishment and alarm. The attention of a new comer is generally first struck by the multiplicity of cries that stun him in the streets, and the variety of merchandize and manufactures which the shopkeepers expose on every hand; and he is apt, by unwary bursts of admiration, to excite the merriment and contempt of those who mistake the use of their eyes for effects of their understanding, and confound accidental knowledge with just reasoning. But, surely, these are subjects on which any man may without reproach employ his meditations: the innumerable occupations, among which the thousands that swarm in the streets of London, are distributed, may furnish employment to minds of every cast, and capacities of every degree. He that contemplates the extent of this wonderful city, finds it difficult to conceive, by what method plenty is maintained in our markets, and how the inhabitants are regularly supplied with the necessaries of life; but when he examines the shops and warehouses, sees the immense stores of every kind of merchandize piled up for sale, and runs over all the manufactures of art and products of nature, which are every where attracting his eye and soliciting his purse, he will be inclined to conclude, that such quantities cannot easily be exhausted, and that part of mankind must soon stand still for want of employment, till the wares already provided shall be worn out and destroyed. As Socrates was passing through the fair at Athens, and casting his eyes over the shops and customers, "how many things are here," says he, "that I do not want!" The same sentiment is every moment rising in the mind of him that walks the streets of London, however inferior in philosophy to Socrates: he beholds a thousand shops crowded with goods, of which he can scarcely tell the use, and which, therefore, he is apt to consider as of no value: and indeed, many of the arts by which families are supported, and wealth is heaped together, are of that minute and superfluous kind, which nothing but experience could evince possible to be prosecuted with advantage, and which, as the world might easily want, it could scarcely be expected to encourage. But so it is, that custom, curiosity, or wantonness, supplies every art with patrons, and finds purchasers for every manufacture; the world is so adjusted, that not only bread, but riches may be obtained without great abilities or arduous performances: the most unskilful hand and unenlightened mind have sufficient incitements to industry; for he that is resolutely busy, can scarcely be in want. There is, indeed, no employment, however despicable, from which a man may not promise himself more than competence, when he sees thousands and myriads raised to dignity, by no other merit than that of contributing to supply their neighbours with the means of sucking smoke through a tube of clay; and others raising contributions upon those, whose elegance disdains the grossness of smoky luxury, by grinding the same materials into a. powder that may at once gratify and impair the smell. Not only by these popular and modish trifles, but by a thousand unheeded and evanescent kinds of business, are the multitudes of this city preserved from idleness, and consequently from want. In the endless variety of tastes and circumstances that diversify mankind, nothing is so superfluous, but that some one desires it: or so common, but that some one is compelled to buy it. As nothing is useless but because it is in improper hands, what is thrown away by one is gathered up by another; and the refuse of part of mankind furnishes a subordinate class with the materials necessary to their support. When I look round upon those who are thus variously exerting their qualifications, I cannot but admire the secret concatenation of society that links together the great and the mean, the illustrious and the obscure; and consider with benevolent satisfaction, that no man, unless his body or mind be totally disabled, has need to suffer the mortification of seeing himself useless or burthensome to the community: he that will diligently labour, in whatever occupation, will deserve the sustenance which he obtains, and the protection which he enjoys; and may lie down every night with the pleasing consciousness of having contributed something to the happiness of life. Contempt and admiration are equally incident to narrow minds: he whose comprehension can take in the whole subordination of mankind, and whose perspicacity can pierce to the real state of things through the thin veils of fortune or of fashion, will discover meanness in the highest stations, and dignity in the meanest; and find that no man can become venerable but by virtue, or contemptible but by wickedness. In the midst of this universal hurry, no man ought to be so little influenced by example, or so void of honest emulation, as to stand a lazy spectator of incessant labour; or please himself with the mean happiness of a drone, while the active swarms are buzzing about him: no man is without some quality, by the due application of which he might deserve well of the world; and whoever he be that has but little in his power, should be in haste to do that little, lest he be confounded with him that can do nothing. By this general concurrence of endeavours, arts of every kind have been so long cultivated, that all the wants of man may be immediately supplied; idleness can scarcely form a wish which she may not gratify by the toil of others, or curiosity dream of a toy, which the shops are not ready to afford her. Happiness is enjoyed only in proportion as it is known; and such is the state or folly of man, that it is known only by experience of its contrary: we who have long lived amidst the conveniencies of a town immensely populous, have scarce an idea of a place where desire cannot be gratified by money. In order to have a just sense of this artificial plenty, it is necessary to have passed some time in a distant colony, or those parts of our island which are thinly inhabited: he that has once known how many trades every man in such situations is compelled to exercise, with how much labour the products of nature must be accommodated to human use, how long the loss or defect of any common utensil must be endured, or by what awkward expedients it must be supplied, how far men may wander with money in their hands before any can sell them what they wish to buy, will know how to rate at its proper value the plenty and ease of a great city. But that the happiness of man may still remain imperfect, as wants in this place are easily supplied, new wants likewise are easily created; every man, in surveying the shops of London, sees numberless instruments and conveniencies, of which, while he did not know them, he never felt the need; and yet, when use has made them familiar, wonders how life could be supported without them. Thus it comes to pass, that our desires always increase with our possessions; the knowledge that something remains yet unenjoyed, impairs our enjoyment of the good before us. They who have been accustomed to the refinements of science, and multiplications of contrivance, soon lose their confidence in the unassisted powers of nature, forget the paucity of our real necessities, and overlook the easy methods by which they may be supplied. It were a speculation worthy of a philosophical mind, to examine how much is taken away from our native abilities, as well as added to them, by artificial expedients. We are so accustomed to give and receive assistance, that each of us singly can do little for himself; and there is scarce any one among us, however contracted may be his form of life, who does not enjoy the labour of a thousand artists. But a survey of the various nations that inhabit the earth will inform us, that life may be supported with less assistance; and that the dexterity, which practice enforced by necessity produces, is able to effect much by very scanty means. The nations of Mexico and Peru erected cities and temples without the use of iron; and at this day the rude Indian supplies himself with all the necessaries of life: sent like the rest of mankind naked into the world, as soon as his parents have nursed him up to strength, he is to provide by his own labour for his own support. His first care is to find a sharp flint among the rocks; with this he undertakes to fell the trees of the forest; he shapes his bow, heads his arrows, builds his cottage, and hollows his canoe, and from that time lives in a state of plenty and prosperity; he is sheltered from the storms, he is fortified against beasts of prey, he is enabled to pursue the fish of the sea, and the deer of the mountains; and as he does not know, does not envy the happiness of polished nations, where gold can supply the want of fortitude and skill, and he whose laborious ancestors have made him rich, may lie stretched upon a couch, and see all the treasures of all the elements poured down before him. This picture of a savage life if it shows how much individuals may perform, shows likewise how much society is to be desired. Though the perseverance and address of the Indian excite our admiration, they nevertheless cannot procure him the conveniencies which are enjoyed by the vagrant beggar of a civilized country: he hunts like a wild beast to satisfy his hunger; and when he lies down to rest after a successful chase, cannot pronounce himself secure against the danger of perishing in a few days: he is, perhaps, content with his condition, because he knows not that a better is attainable by man; as he that is born blind does not long for the perception of light, because he cannot conceive the advantages which light would afford him; but hunger, wounds, and weariness, are real evils, though he believes them equally incident to all his fellow-creatures; and when a tempest compels him to lie starving in his hut, he cannot justly be concluded equally happy with those whom art has exempted from the power of chance, and who make the foregoing year provide for the following. To receive and to communicate assistance, constitutes the happiness of human life: man may, indeed, preserve his existence in solitude, but can enjoy it only in society; the greatest understanding of an individual, doomed to procure food and clothing for himself, will barely supply him with expedients to keep off death from day to day; but as one of a large community performing only his share of the common business, he gains leisure for intellectual pleasures, and enjoys the happiness of reason and reflection. No. 69. TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1753. _Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt._ Cæsar. Men willingly believe what they wish to be true. Tully has long ago observed, that no man, however weakened by long life, is so conscious of his own decrepitude, as not to imagine that he may yet hold his station in the world for another year. Of the truth of this remark every day furnishes new confirmation: there is no time of life, in which men for the most part seem less to expect the stroke of death, than when every other eye sees it impending; or are more busy in providing for another year, than when it is plain to all but themselves, that at another year they cannot arrive. Though every funeral that passes before their eyes evinces the deceitfulness of such expectations, since every man who is born to the grave thought himself equally certain of living at least to the next year; the survivor still continues to flatter himself, and is never at a loss for some reason why his life should be protracted, and the voracity of death continue to be pacified with some other prey. But this is only one of the innumerable artifices practised in the universal conspiracy of mankind against themselves: every age and every condition indulges some darling fallacy; every man amuses himself with projects which he knows to be improbable, and which, therefore, he resolves to pursue without daring to examine them. Whatever any man ardently desires, he very readily believes that he shall some time attain: he whose intemperance has overwhelmed him with diseases, while he languishes in the spring, expects vigour and recovery from the summer sun; and while he melts away in the summer, transfers his hopes to the frosts of winter: he that gazes upon elegance or pleasure, which want of money hinders him from imitating or partaking, comforts himself that the time of distress will soon be at an end, and that every day brings him nearer to a state of happiness; though he knows it has passed not only without acquisition of advantage, but perhaps without endeavours after it, in the formation of schemes that cannot be executed, and in the contemplation of prospects which cannot be approached. Such is the general dream in which we all slumber out our time: every man thinks the day coming, in which he shall be gratified with all his wishes, in which he shall leave all those competitors behind, who are now rejoicing like himself in the expectation of victory; the day is always coming to the servile in which they shall be powerful, to the obscure in which they shall be eminent, and to the deformed in which they shall be beautiful. If any of my readers has looked with so little attention on the world about him, as to imagine this representation exaggerated beyond probability, let him reflect a little upon his own life; let him consider what were his hopes and prospects ten years ago, and what additions he then expected to be made by ten years to his happiness; those years are now elapsed; have they made good the promise that was extorted from them? have they advanced his fortune, enlarged his knowledge, or reformed his conduct, to the degree that was once expected? I am afraid, every man that recollects his hopes must confess his disappointment; and own that day has glided unprofitably after day, and that he is still at the same distance from the point of happiness. With what consolations can those, who have thus miscarried in their chief design, elude the memory of their ill success? with what amusements can they pacify their discontent, after the loss of so large a portion of life? they can give themselves up again to the same delusions, they can form new schemes of airy gratifications, and fix another period of felicity; they can again resolve to trust the promise which they know will be broken, they can walk in a circle with their eyes shut, and persuade themselves to think that they go forward. Of every great and complicated event, part depends upon causes out of our power, and part must be effected by vigour and perseverance. With regard to that which is styled in common language the work of chance, men will always find reasons for confidence or distrust, according to their different tempers or inclinations; and he that has been long accustomed to please himself with possibilities of fortuitous happiness, will not easily or willingly be reclaimed from his mistake. But the effects of human industry and skill are more easily subjected to calculation: whatever can be completed in a year, is divisible into parts, of which each may be performed in the compass of a day; he, therefore, that has passed the day without attention to the task assigned him, may be certain, that the lapse of life has brought him no nearer to his object; for whatever idleness may expect from time, its produce will be only in proportion to the diligence with which it has been used. He that floats lazily down the stream, in pursuit of something borne along by the same current, will find himself indeed move forward; but unless he lays his hand to the oar, and increases his speed by his own labour, must be always at the same distance from that which he is following. There have happened in every age some contingencies of unexpected and undeserved success, by which those who are determined to believe whatever favours their inclinations, have been encouraged to delight themselves with future advantages; they support confidence by considerations, of which the only proper use is to chase away despair: it is equally absurd to sit down in idleness because some have been enriched without labour, as to leap a precipice because some have fallen and escaped with life, or to put to sea in a storm because some have been driven from a wreck upon the coast to which they are bound. We are all ready to confess, that belief ought to be proportioned to evidence or probability: let any man, therefore, compare the number of those who have been thus favoured by fortune, and of those who have failed of their expectations, and he will easily determine, with what justness he has registered himself in the lucky catalogue. But there is no need on these occasions for deep inquiries or laborious calculations; there is a far easier method of distinguishing the hopes of folly from those of reason, of finding the difference between prospects that exist before the eyes, and those that are only painted on a fond imagination. Tom Drowsy had accustomed himself to compute the profit of a darling project till he had no longer any doubt of its success; it was at last matured by close consideration, all the measures were accurately adjusted, and he wanted only five hundred pounds to become master of a fortune that might be envied by a director of a trading company. Tom was generous and grateful, and was resolved to recompense this small assistance with an ample fortune; he, therefore, deliberated for a time, to whom amongst his friends he should declare his necessities; not that he suspected a refusal, but because he could not suddenly determine which of them would make the best use of riches, and was, therefore, most worthy of his favour. At last his choice was settled; and knowing that in order to borrow he must shew the probability of repayment, he prepared for a minute and copious explanation of his project. But here the golden dream was at an end: he soon discovered the impossibility of imposing upon others the notions by which he had so long imposed upon himself; which way soever he turned his thoughts, impossibility and absurdity arose in opposition on every side; even credulity and prejudice were at last forced to give way, and he grew ashamed of crediting himself what shame would not suffer him to communicate to another. To this test let every man bring his imaginations, before they have been too long predominant in his mind. Whatever is true will bear to be related, whatever is rational will endure to be explained; but when we delight to brood in secret over future happiness, and silently to employ our meditations upon schemes of which we are conscious that the bare mention would expose us to derision and contempt; we should then remember, that we are cheating ourselves by voluntary delusions; and giving up to the unreal mockeries of fancy, those hours in which solid advantages might be attained by sober thought and rational assiduity. There is, indeed, so little certainty in human affairs, that the most cautious and severe examiner may be allowed to indulge some hopes which he cannot prove to be much favoured by probability; since, after his utmost endeavours to ascertain events, he must often leave the issue in the hands of chance. And so scanty is our present allowance of happiness, that in many situations life could scarcely be supported, if hope were not allowed to relieve the present hour by pleasures borrowed from futurity; and reanimate the languor of dejection to new efforts, by pointing to distant regions of felicity, which yet no resolution or perseverance shall ever reach. But these, like all other cordials, though they may invigorate in a small quantity, intoxicate in a greater; these pleasures, like the rest, are lawful only in certain circumstances, and to certain degrees; they may be useful in a due subserviency to nobler purposes, but become dangerous and destructive when once they gain the ascendant in the heart: to soothe the mind to tranquillity by hope, even when that hope is likely to deceive us, may be sometimes useful; but to lull our faculties in a lethargy is poor and despicable. Vices and errours are differently modified, according to the state of the minds to which they are incident; to indulge hope beyond the warrant of reason, is the failure alike of mean and elevated understandings; but its foundation and its effects are totally different: the man of high courage and great abilities is apt to place too much confidence in himself, and to expect, from a vigorous exertion of his powers, more than spirit or diligence can attain: between him and his wish he sees obstacles indeed, but he expects to overleap or break them; his mistaken ardour hurries him forward; and though, perhaps, he misses his end, he nevertheless obtains some collateral good, and performs something useful to mankind, and honourable to himself. The drone of timidity presumes likewise to hope, but without ground and without consequence; the bliss with which he solaces his hours he always expects from others, though very often he knows not from whom: he folds his arms about him, and sits in expectation of some revolution in the state that shall raise him to greatness, or some golden shower that shall load him with wealth; he dozes away the day in musing upon the morrow; and at the end of life is roused from his dream only to discover that the time of action is past, and that he can now shew his wisdom only by repentance. No. 74. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1753. _Insanientis dun sapientæ Consultus erro.--_ HOR. Lib. i. Od. xxxiv. 2. I miss'd my end, and lost my way, By crack-brain'd wisdom led astray. TO THE ADVENTURER. SIR, It has long been charged by one part of mankind upon the other, that they will not take advice; that counsel and instruction are generally thrown away; and that, in defiance both of admonition and example, all claim the right to choose their own measures, and to regulate their own lives. That there is something in advice very useful and salutary, seems to be equally confessed on all hands: since even those that reject it, allow for the most part that rejection to be wrong, but charge the fault upon the unskilful manner in which it is given: they admit the efficacy of the medicine, but abhor the nauseousness of the vehicle. Thus mankind have gone on from century to century: some have been advising others how to act, and some have been teaching the advisers how to advise; yet very little alteration has been made in the world. As we must all by the law of nature enter life in ignorance, we must all make our way through it by the light of our own experience; and for any security that advice has been yet able to afford, must endeavour after success at the hazard of miscarriage, and learn to do right by venturing to do wrong. By advice I would not be understood to mean, the everlasting and invariable principles of moral and religious truth, from which no change of external circumstances can justify any deviation; but such directions as respect merely the prudential part of conduct, and which may he followed or neglected without any violation of essential duties. It is, indeed, not so frequently to make us good as to make us wise, that our friends employ the officiousness of counsel; and among the rejectors of advice, who are mentioned by the grave and sententious with so much acrimony, you will not so often find the vicious and abandoned, as the pert and the petulant, the vivacious and the giddy. As the great end of female education is to get a husband, this likewise is the general subject of female advice: and the dreadful denunciation against those volatile girls, who will not listen patiently to the lectures of wrinkled wisdom, is, that they will die unmarried, or throw themselves away upon some worthless fellow, who will never be able to keep them a coach. I being naturally of a ductile and easy temper, without strong desires or quick resentments, was always a favourite amongst the elderly ladies, because I never rebelled against seniority, nor could be charged with thinking myself wise before my time; but heard every opinion with submissive silence, professed myself ready to learn from all who seemed inclined to teach me, paid the same grateful acknowledgments for precepts contradictory to each other, and if any controversy arose, was careful to side with her who presided in the company. Of this compliance I very early found the advantage; for my aunt Matilda left me a very large addition to my fortune, for this reason chiefly, as she herself declared, because I was not above hearing good counsel, but would sit from morning till night to be instructed, while my sister Sukey, who was a year younger than myself, and was, therefore, in greater want of information, was so much conceited of her own knowledge, that whenever the good lady in the ardour of benevolence reproved or instructed her, she would pout or titter, interrupt her with questions, or embarrass her with objections. I had no design to supplant my sister by this complaisant attention; nor, when the consequence of my obsequiousness came to be known, did Sukey so much envy as despise me: I was, however, very well pleased with my success; and having received, from the concurrent opinion of all mankind, a notion that to be rich was to be great and happy, I thought I had obtained my advantages at an easy rate, and resolved to continue the same passive attention, since I found myself so powerfully recommended by it to kindness and esteem. The desire of advising has a very extensive prevalence; and since advice cannot be given but to those that will hear it, a patient listener is necessary to the accommodation of all those who desire to be confirmed in the opinion of their own wisdom: a patient listener, however, is not always to be had; the present age, whatever age is present, is so vitiated and disordered that young people are readier to talk than to attend, and good counsel is only thrown away upon those who are full of their own perfections. I was, therefore, in this scarcity of good sense, a general favourite; and seldom saw a day in which some sober matron did not invite me to her house, or take me out in her chariot, for the sake of instructing me how to keep my character in this censorious age, how to conduct myself in the time of courtship, how to stipulate for a settlement, how to manage a husband of every character, regulate my family, and educate my children. We are all naturally credulous in our own favour. Having been so often caressed and applauded for docility, I was willing to believe myself really enlightened by instruction, and completely qualified for the task of life. I did not doubt but I was entering the world with a mind furnished against all exigencies, with expedients to extricate myself from every difficulty, and sagacity to provide against every danger; I was, therefore, in haste to give some specimen of my prudence, and to show that this liberality of instruction had not been idly lavished upon a mind incapable of improvement. My purpose, for why should I deny it? was like that of other women, to obtain a husband of rank and fortune superior to my own; and in this I had the concurrence of all those that had assumed the province of directing me. That the woman was undone who married below herself, was universally agreed: and though some ventured to assert, that the richer man ought invariably to be preferred, and that money was a sufficient compensation for a defective ancestry; yet the majority declared warmly for a gentleman, and were of opinion that upstarts should not be encouraged. With regard to other qualifications I had an irreconcilable variety of instructions. I was sometimes told that deformity was no defect in a man; and that he who was not encouraged to intrigue by an opinion of his person, was more likely to value the tenderness of his wife: but a grave-widow directed me to choose a man who might imagine himself agreeable to me, for that the deformed were always insupportably vigilant, and apt to sink into sullenness, or burst into rage, if they found their wife's eye wandering for a moment to a good face or a handsome shape. They were, however, all unanimous in warning me, with repeated cautions, against all thoughts of union with a wit, as a being with whom no happiness could possibly be enjoyed: men of every other kind I was taught to govern, but a wit was an animal for whom no arts of taming had been yet discovered: the woman whom he could once get within his power, was considered as lost to all hope of dominion or of quiet: for he would detect artifice and defeat allurement; and if once he discovered any failure of conduct, would believe his own eyes, in defiance of tears, caresses, and protestations. In pursuance of these sage principles, I proceeded to form my schemes; and while I was yet in the first bloom of youth, was taken out at an assembly by Mr. Frisk. I am afraid my cheeks glowed, and my eyes sparkled; for I observed the looks of all my superintendants fixed anxiously upon me; and I was next day cautioned against him from all hands, as a man of the most dangerous and formidable kind, who had writ verses to one lady, and then forsaken her only because she could not read them, and had lampooned another for no other fault than defaming his sister. Having been hitherto accustomed to obey, I ventured to dismiss Mr. Frisk, who happily did not think me worth the labour of a lampoon. I was then addressed by Mr. Sturdy, and congratulated by all my friends on the manors of which I was shortly to be lady: but Sturdy's conversation was so gross, that after the third visit I could endure him no longer; and incurred, by dismissing him, the censure of all my friends, who declared that my nicety was greater than my prudence, and that they feared it would be my fate at last to be wretched with a wit. By a wit, however, I was never afterwards attacked, but lovers of every other class, or pretended lovers, I have often had; and, notwithstanding the advice constantly given me, to have no regard in my choice to my own inclinations, I could not forbear to discard some for vice, and some for rudeness. I was once loudly censured for refusing an old gentleman who offered an enormous jointure, and died of the phthisic a year after; and was so baited with incessant importunities, that I should have given my hand to Drone the stock-jobber, had not the reduction of interest made him afraid of the expenses of matrimony. Some, indeed, I was permitted to encourage; but miscarried of the main end, by treating them according to the rules of art which had been prescribed me. Altilis, an old maid, infused into me so much haughtiness and reserve, that some of my lovers withdrew themselves from my frown, and returned no more; others were driven away, by the demands of settlement which the widow Trapland directed me to make; and I have learned, by many experiments, that to ask advice is to lose opportunity. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, PERDITA. No. 81. TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 1753. _Nil desperandum. Lib. i. Od. vii. 27. Avaunt despair!_ I have sometimes heard it disputed in conversation, whether it be more laudable or desirable, that a man should think too highly or too meanly of himself: it is on all hands agreed to be best, that he should think rightly; but since a fallible being will always make some deviations from exact rectitude, it is not wholly useless to inquire towards which side it is safer to decline. The prejudices of mankind seem to favour him who errs by under-rating his own powers: he is considered as a modest and harmless member of society, not likely to break the peace by competition, to endeavour after such splendour of reputation as may dim the lustre of others, or to interrupt any in the enjoyment of themselves; he is no man's rival, and, therefore, may be every man's friend. The opinion which a man entertains of himself ought to be distinguished, in order to an accurate discussion of this question, as it relates to persons or to things. To think highly of ourselves in comparison with others, to assume by our own authority that precedence which none is willing to grant, must be always invidious and offensive; but to rate our powers high in proportion to things, and imagine ourselves equal to great undertakings, while we leave others in possession of the same abilities, cannot with equal justice provoke censure. It must be confessed, that self-love may dispose us to decide too hastily in our own favour: but who is hurt by the mistake? If we are incited by this vain opinion to attempt more than we can perform, ours is the labour, and ours is the disgrace. But he that dares to think well of himself, will not always prove to be mistaken; and the good effects of his confidence will then appear in great attempts and great performances: if he should not fully complete his design, he will at least advance it so far as to leave an easier task for him that succeeds him; and even though he should wholly fail, he will fail with honour. But from the opposite errour, from torpid despondency, can come no advantage; it is the frost of the soul, which binds up all its powers, and congeals life in perpetual sterility. He that has no hopes of success, will make no attempts; and where nothing is attempted, nothing can be done. Every man should, therefore, endeavour to maintain in himself a favourable opinion of the powers of the human mind; which are, perhaps, in every man, greater than they appear, and might, by diligent cultivation, be exalted to a degree beyond what their possessor presumes to believe. There is scarce any man but has found himself able, at the instigation of necessity, to do what in a state of leisure and deliberation he would have concluded impossible; and some of our species have signalized themselves by such achievements, as prove that there are few things above human hope. It has been the policy of all nations to preserve, by some public monuments, the memory of those who have served their country by great exploits: there is the same reason for continuing or reviving the names of those, whose extensive abilities have dignified humanity. An honest emulation may be alike excited; and the philosopher's curiosity may be inflamed by a catalogue of the works of Boyle or Bacon, as Themistocles was kept awake by the trophies of Miltiades. Among the favourites of nature that have from time to time appeared in the world, enriched with various endowments and contrarieties of excellence, none seems to have been exalted above the common rate of humanity, than the man known about two centuries ago by the appellation of the Admirable Crichton; of whose history, whatever we may suppress as surpassing credibility, yet we shall, upon incontestable authority, relate enough to rank him among prodigies. "Virtue," says Virgil, "is better accepted when it comes in a pleasing form:" the person of Crichton was eminently beautiful; but his beauty was consistent with such activity and strength, that in fencing he would spring at one bound the length of twenty feet upon his antagonist; and he used the sword in either hand with such force and dexterity, that scarce any one had courage to engage him. Having studied at St. Andrew's in Scotland, he went to Paris in his twenty-first year, and affixed on the gate of the college of Navarre a kind of challenge to the learned of that university to dispute with him on a certain day: offering to his opponents, whoever they should be, the choice of ten languages, and of all faculties and sciences. On the day appointed three thousand auditors assembled, when four doctors of the church and fifty masters appeared against him; and one of his antagonists confesses, that the doctors were defeated; that he gave proofs of knowledge above the reach of man; and that a hundred years passed without food or sleep, would not be sufficient for the attainment of his learning. After a disputation of nine hours, he was presented by the president and professors with a diamond and a purse of gold, and dismissed with repeated acclamations. From Paris he went away to Rome, where he made the same challenge, and had in the presence of the pope and cardinals the same success. Afterwards he contracted at Venice an acquaintance with Aldus Manutius, by whom he was introduced to the learned of that city: then visited Padua, where he engaged in another publick disputation, beginning his performance with an extemporal poem in praise of the city and the assembly then present, and concluding with an oration equally unpremeditated in commendation of ignorance. He afterwards published another challenge, in which he declared himself ready to detect the errours of Aristotle and all his commentators, either in the common forms of logick, or in any which his antagonists should propose of a hundred different kinds of verse. These acquisitions of learning, however stupendous, were not gained at the expense of any pleasure which youth generally indulges, or by the omission of any accomplishment in which it becomes a gentleman to excel: he practised in great perfection the arts of drawing and painting, he was an eminent performer in both vocal and instrumental musick, he danced with uncommon gracefulness, and, on the day after his disputation at Paris, exhibited his skill in horsemanship before the court of France, where at a publick match of tilting, he bore away the ring upon his lance fifteen times together. He excelled likewise in domestic games of less dignity and reputation: and in the interval between his challenge and disputation at Paris, he spent so much of his time at cards, dice, and tennis, that a lampoon was fixed upon the gate of the Sorbonne, directing those that would see this monster of erudition, to look for him at the tavern. So extensive was his acquaintance with life and manners, that in an Italian comedy composed by himself, and exhibited before the court of Mantua, he is said to have personated fifteen different characters; in all which he might succeed without great difficulty, since he had such power of retention, that once hearing an oration of an hour, he would repeat it exactly, and in the recital follow the speaker through all his variety of tone and gesticulation. Nor was his skill in arms less than in learning, or his courage inferior to his skill: there was a prize-fighter at Mantua, who travelling about the world, according to the barbarous custom of that age, as a general challenger, had defeated the most celebrated masters in many parts of Europe; and in Mantua, where he then resided, had killed three that appeared against him. The duke repented that he had granted him his protection; when Crichton, looking on his sanguinary success with indignation, offered to stake fifteen hundred pistoles, and mount the stage against him. The duke with some reluctance consented, and on the day fixed the combatants appeared: their weapon seems to have been single rapier, which was then newly introduced in Italy. The prize-fighter advanced with great violence and fierceness, and Crichton contented himself calmly to ward his passes, and suffered him to exhaust his vigour by his own fury. Crichton then became the assailant; and pressed upon him with such force and agility, that he thrust him thrice through the body, and saw him expire: he then divided the prize he had won among the widows whose husbands had been killed. The death of this wonderful man I should be willing to conceal, did I not know that every reader will inquire curiously after that fatal hour, which is common to all human beings, however distinguished from each other by nature or by fortune. The duke of Mantua, having received so many proofs of his various merit, made him tutor to his son Vicentio di Gonzaga, a prince of loose manners and turbulent disposition. On this occasion it was, that he composed the comedy in which he exhibited so many different characters with exact propriety. But his honour was of short continuance; for as he was one night in the time of Carnival rambling about the streets, with his guitar in his hand, he was attacked by six men masked. Neither his courage nor skill in his exigence deserted him: he opposed them with such activity and spirit, that he soon dispersed them, and disarmed their leader, who throwing off his mask, discovered himself to be the prince his pupil. Crichton, falling on his knees, took his own sword by the point, and presented it to the prince; who immediately seized it, and instigated, as some say, by jealousy, according to others, only by drunken fury and brutal resentment, thrust him through the heart. Thus was the Admirable Crichton brought into that state, in which he could excel the meanest of mankind only by a few empty honours paid to his memory: the court of Mantua testified their esteem by a publick mourning, the contemporary wits were profuse of their encomiums, and the palaces of Italy were adorned with pictures, representing him on horseback with a lance in one hand and a book in the other[1]. [1] This paper is enumerated by Chalmers among those which Johnson dictated, not to Bathurst, but to Hawkesworth. It is an elegant summary of Crichton's life which is in Mackenzie's Writers of the Scotch Nation. See a fuller account by the Earl of Buchan and Dr. Kippis in the Biog. Brit. and the recently published one by Mr. Frazer Tytler. No. 84. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1753. _Tolle periclum, Jam vaga prosiliet frenis natura remotis._ HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. vii. 73. But take the danger and the shame away, And vagrant nature bounds upon her prey. FRANCIS. TO THE ADVENTURER. SIR, It has been observed, I think, by Sir William Temple, and after him by almost every other writer, that England affords a greater variety of characters than the rest of the world. This is ascribed to the liberty prevailing amongst us, which gives every man the privilege of being wise or foolish his own way, and preserves him from the necessity of hypocrisy or the servility of imitation. That the position itself is true, I am not completely satisfied. To be nearly acquainted with the people of different countries can happen to very few; and in life, as in every thing else beheld at a distance, there appears an even uniformity: the petty discriminations which diversify the natural character, are not discoverable but by a close inspection; we, therefore, find them most at home, because there we have most opportunities of remarking them. Much less am I convinced, that this peculiar diversification, if it be real, is the consequence of peculiar liberty; for where is the government to be found that superintends individuals with so much vigilance, as not to leave their private conduct without restraint? Can it enter into a reasonable mind to imagine, that men of every other nation are not equally masters of their own time or houses with ourselves, and equally at liberty to be parsimonious or profuse, frolick or sullen, abstinent or luxurious? Liberty is certainly necessary to the full play of predominant humours; but such liberty is to be found alike under the government of the many or the few, in monarchies or commonwealths. How readily the predominant passion snatches an interval of liberty, and how fast it expands itself when the weight of restraint is taken away, I had lately an opportunity to discover, as I took a journey into the country in a stage-coach; which, as every journey is a kind of adventure, may be very properly related to you, though I can display no such extraordinary assembly as Cervantes has collected at Don Quixote's inn[1]. In a stage coach, the passengers are for the most part wholly unknown to one another, and without expectation of ever meeting again when their journey is at an end; one should therefore imagine, that it was of little importance to any of them, what conjectures the rest should form concerning him. Yet so it is, that as all think themselves secure from detection, all assume that character of which they are most desirous, and on no occasion is the general ambition of superiority more apparently indulged. On the day of our departure, in the twilight of the morning, I ascended the vehicle with three men and two women, my fellow travellers. It was easy to observe the affected elevation of mien with which every one entered, and the supercilious servility with which they paid their compliments to each other. When the first ceremony was despatched, we sat silent for a long time, all employed in collecting importance into our faces, and endeavouring to strike reverence and submission into our companions. It is always observable that silence propagates itself, and that the longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find any thing to say. We began now to wish for conversation; but no one seemed inclined to descend from his dignity, or first propose a topick of discourse. At last a corpulent gentleman, who had equipped himself for this expedition with a scarlet surtout and a large hat with a broad lace, drew out his watch, looked on it in silence, and then held it dangling at his finger. This was, I suppose, understood by all the company as an invitation to ask the time of the day, but nobody appeared to heed his overture; and his desire to be talking so far overcame his resentment, that he let us know of his own accord it was past five, and that in two hours we should be at breakfast. His condescension was thrown away: we continued all obdurate; the ladies held up their heads; I amused myself with watching their behaviour; and of the other two, one seemed to employ himself in counting the trees as we drove by them, the other drew his hat over his eyes, and counterfeited a slumber. The man of benevolence, to shew that he was not depressed by our neglect, hummed a tune, and beat time upon his snuff-box. Thus universally displeased with one another, and not much delighted with ourselves, we came at last to the little inn appointed for our repast; and all began at once to recompense themselves for the constraint of silence, by innumerable questions and orders to the people that attended us. At last, what every one had called for was got, or declared impossible to be got at that time, and we were persuaded to sit round the same table; when the gentleman in the red surtout looked again upon his watch, told us that we had half an hour to spare, but he was sorry to see so little merriment among us; that all fellow travellers were for the time upon the level, and that it was always his way to make himself one of the company. "I remember," says he, "it was on just such a morning as this, that I and my Lord Mumble and the Duke of Tenterden were out upon a ramble: we called at a little house as it might be this; and my landlady, I warrant you, not suspecting to whom she was talking, was so jocular and facetious, and made so many merry answers to our questions, that we were all ready to burst with laughter. At last the good woman happening to overhear me whisper the duke and call him by his title, was so surprised and confounded, that we could scarcely get a word from her; and the duke never met me from that day to this, but he talks of the little house, and quarrels with me for terrifying the landlady." He had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the veneration which this narrative must have procured for him from the company, when one of the ladies having reached out for a plate on a distant part of the table, began to remark, "the inconveniencies of travelling, and the difficulty which they who never sat at home without a great number of attendants, found in performing for themselves such offices as the road required; but that people of quality often travelled in disguise, and might be generally known from the vulgar by their condescension to poor inn-keepers, and the allowance which they made for any defect in their entertainment; that for her part, while people were civil and meant well, it was never her custom to find fault, for one was not to expect upon a journey all that one enjoyed at one's own house." A general emulation seemed now to be excited. One of the men who had hitherto said nothing, called for the last newspaper; and having perused it a while with deep pensiveness, "It is impossible," says he, "for any man to guess how to act with regard to the stocks; last week it was the general opinion that they would fall; and I sold out twenty thousand pounds in order to a purchase: they have now risen unexpectedly; and I make no doubt but at my return to London I shall risk thirty thousand pounds among them again." A young man, who had hitherto distinguished himself only by the vivacity of his looks, and a frequent diversion of his eyes from one object to another, upon this closed his snuff-box, and told us that "he had a hundred times talked with the chancellor and the judges on the subject of the stocks; that for his part he did not pretend to be well acquainted with the principles on which they were established, but had always heard them reckoned pernicious to trade, uncertain in their produce, and unsolid in their foundation; and that he had been advised by three judges, his most intimate friends, never to venture his money in the funds, but to put it out upon land security, till he could light upon an estate in his own country." It might be expected, that upon these glimpses of latent dignity, we should all have begun to look round us with veneration; and have behaved like the princes of romance, when the enchantment that disguises them is dissolved, and they discover the dignity of each other; yet it happened, that none of these hints made much impression on the company; every one was apparently suspected of endeavouring to impose false appearances upon the rest; all continued their haughtiness in hopes to enforce their claims; and all grew every hour more sullen, because they found their representations of themselves without effect. Thus we travelled on four days with malevolence perpetually increasing, and without any endeavour but to outvie each other in superciliousness and neglect; and when any two of us could separate ourselves for a moment we vented our indignation at the sauciness of the rest. At length the journey was at an end; and time and chance, that strip off all disguises, have discovered that the intimate of lords and dukes is a nobleman's butler, who has furnished a shop with the money he has saved; the man who deals so largely in the funds, is the clerk of a broker in Change-alley; the lady who so carefully concealed her quality, keeps a cook-shop behind the Exchange; and the young man who is so happy in the friendship of the judges, engrosses and transcribes for bread in a garret of the Temple. Of one of the women only I could make no disadvantageous detection, because she had assumed no character, but accommodated herself to the scene before her, without any struggle for distinction or superiority. I could not forbear to reflect on the folly of practising a fraud, which, as the event showed, had been already practised too often to succeed, and by the success of which no advantage could have been obtained; of assuming a character, which was to end with the day; and of claiming upon false pretences honours which must perish with the breath that paid them. But, Mr. Adventurer, let not those who laugh at me and my companions, think this folly confined to a stagecoach. Every man in the journey of life takes the same advantage of the ignorance of his fellow travellers, disguises himself in counterfeited merit, and hears those praises with complacency which his conscience reproaches him for accepting. Every man deceives himself while he thinks he is deceiving others; and forgets that the time is at hand when every illusion shall cease, when fictitious excellence shall be torn away, and _all_ must be shown to _all_ in their realestate. I am, Sir, your humble servant, Viator. [1] Johnson has made impressive allusion to the immortal work of Cervantes in his second Rambler. Every reflecting man must arise from its perusal with feelings of the deepest melancholy, with the most tender commiseration for the weakness and lot of humanity. To such a man its moral must ever be "profoundly sad." Vulgar minds cannot know it. Hence it has ever been the favorite with the intellectual class, while Gil Blas has more generally won the applause of men of the world. An amusing anecdote of the almost universal admiration for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of Le Sage may be found in Butler's Reminiscences. That bigotted, yet extraordinary man, Alva, predicted, with prophetic precision, the effects which the satire on Chivalry would produce in Spain. _See Broad Stone of Honour; or Rules for the Gentlemen of England._ No. 85 TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1753. _Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit fecitque puer._ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 412. The youth, who hopes th' Olympic prize to gain, All arts must try, and every toil sustain. FRANCIS. It is observed by Bacon, that "reading makes a full man, conversation a ready man, and writing an exact man." As Bacon attained to degrees of knowledge scarcely ever reached by any other man, the directions which he gives for study have certainly a just claim to our regard; for who can teach an art with so great authority, as he that has practised it with undisputed success? Under the protection of so great a name, I shall, therefore, venture to inculcate to my ingenious contemporaries, the necessity of reading, the fitness of consulting other understandings than their own, and of considering the sentiments and opinions of those who, however neglected in the present age, had in their own times, and many of them a long time afterwards, such reputation for knowledge and acuteness as will scarcely ever be attained by those that despise them. An opinion has of late been, I know not how, propagated among us, that libraries are filled only with useless lumber; that men of parts stand in need of no assistance; and that to spend life in poring upon books, is only to imbibe prejudices, to obstruct and embarrass the powers of nature, to cultivate memory at the expense of judgment, and to bury reason under a chaos of indigested learning. Such is the talk of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others; of whom part probably believe their own tenets, and part may be justly suspected of endeavouring to shelter their ignorance in multitudes, and of wishing to destroy that reputation which they have no hopes to share. It will, I believe, be found invariably true, that learning was never decried by any learned man; and what credit can be given to those who venture to condemn that which they do not know? If reason has the power ascribed to it by its advocates, if so much is to be discovered by attention and meditation, it is hard to believe, that so many millions, equally participating of the bounties of nature with ourselves, have been for ages upon ages meditating in vain: if the wits of the present time expect the regard of posterity, which will then inherit the reason which is now thought superior to instruction, surely they may allow themselves to be instructed by the reason of former generations. When, therefore, an author declares, that he has been able to learn nothing from the writings of his predecessors, and such a declaration has been lately made, nothing but a degree of arrogance unpardonable in the greatest human understanding, can hinder him from perceiving that he is raising prejudices against his own performance; for with what hopes of success can he attempt that in which greater abilities have hitherto miscarried? or with what peculiar force does he suppose himself invigorated, that difficulties hitherto invincible should give way before him? Of those whom Providence has qualified to make any additions to human knowledge, the number is extremely small; and what can be added by each single mind, even of this superior class, is very little: the greatest part of mankind must owe all their knowledge, and all must owe far the larger part of it, to the information of others. To understand the works of celebrated authors, to comprehend their systems, and retain their reasonings, is a task more than equal to common intellects; and he is by no means to be accounted useless or idle, who has stored his mind with acquired knowledge, and can detail it occasionally to others who have less leisure or weaker abilities. Persius has justly observed, that knowledge is nothing to him who is not known by others to possess it[1]: to the scholar himself it is nothing with respect either to honour or advantage, for the world cannot reward those qualities which are concealed from it; with respect to others it is nothing, because it affords no help to ignorance or errour. It is with justice, therefore, that in an accomplished character, Horace unites just sentiments with the power of expressing them; and he that has once accumulated learning, is next to consider, how he shall most widely diffuse and most agreeably impart it. A ready man is made by conversation. He that buries himself among his manuscripts, "besprent," as Pope expresses it, "with learned dust," and wears out his days and nights in perpetual research and solitary meditation, is too apt to lose in his elocution what he adds to his wisdom; and when he comes into the world, to appear overloaded with his own notions, like a man armed with weapons which he cannot wield. He has no facility of inculcating his speculations, of adapting himself to the various degrees of intellect which the accidents of conversation will present; but will talk to most unintelligibly, and to all unpleasantly. I was once present at the lectures of a profound philosopher, a man really skilled in the science which he professed, who having occasion to explain the terms _opacum_ and _pellucidum_, told us, after some hesitation, that _opacum_ was, as one might say, _opake_, and that _pellucidum_ signified _pellucid_. Such was the dexterity with which this learned reader facilitated to his auditors the intricacies of science; and so true is it, that a man may know what he cannot teach. Boerhaave complains, that the writers who have treated of chymistry before him, are useless to the greater part of students, because they presuppose their readers to have such degrees of skill as are not often to be found. Into the same errour are all men apt to fall, who have familiarized any subject to themselves in solitude: they discourse, as if they thought every other man had been employed in the same inquiries; and expect that short hints and obscure allusions will produce in others the same train of ideas which they excite in themselves. Nor is this the only inconvenience which the man of study suffers from a recluse life. When he meets with an opinion that pleases him, he catches it up with eagerness; looks only after such arguments as tend to his confirmation; or spares himself the trouble of discussion, and adopts it with very little proof; indulges it long without suspicion, and in time unites it to the general body of his knowledge, and treasures it up among incontestable truths: but when he comes into the world among men who, arguing upon dissimilar principles, have been led to different conclusions, and being placed in various situations, view the same object on many sides; he finds his darling position attacked, and himself in no condition to defend it: having thought always in one train, he is in the state of a man who having fenced always with the same master, is perplexed and amazed by a new posture of his antagonist; he is entangled in unexpected difficulties, he is harassed by sudden objections, he is unprovided with solutions or replies; his surprise impedes his natural powers of reasoning, his thoughts are scattered and confounded, and he gratifies the pride of airy petulance with an easy victory. It is difficult to imagine, with what obstinacy truths which one mind perceives almost by intuition, will be rejected by another; and how many artifices must be practised, to procure admission for the most evident propositions into understandings frighted by their novelty, or hardened against them by accidental prejudice; it can scarcely be conceived, how frequently, in these extemporaneous controversies, the dull will be subtle, and the acute absurd; how often stupidity will elude the force of argument, by involving itself in its own gloom; and mistaken ingenuity will weave artful fallacies, which reason can scarcely find means to disentangle. In these encounters the learning of the recluse usually fails him: nothing but long habit and frequent experiments can confer the power of changing a position into various forms, presenting it in different points of view, connecting it with known and granted truths, fortifying it with intelligible arguments, and illustrating it by apt similitudes; and he, therefore, that has collected his knowledge in solitude, must learn its application by mixing with mankind. But while the various opportunities of conversation invite us to try every mode of argument, and every art of recommending our sentiments, we are frequently betrayed to the use of such as are not in themselves strictly defensible: a man heated in talk, and eager of victory, takes advantage of the mistakes or ignorance of his adversary, lays hold of concessions to which he knows he has no right, and urges proofs likely to prevail on his opponent, though he knows himself that they have no force: thus the severity of reason is relaxed, many topicks are accumulated, but without just arrangement or distinction; we learn to satisfy ourselves with such ratiocination as silences others; and seldom recall to a close examination, that discourse which has gratified our vanity with victory and applause. Some caution, therefore, must be used lest copiousness and facility be made less valuable by inaccuracy and confusion. To fix the thoughts by writing, and subject them to frequent examinations and reviews, is the best method of enabling the mind to detect its own sophisms, and keep it on guard against the fallacies which it practises on others: in conversation we naturally diffuse our thoughts, and in writing we contract them; method is the excellence of writing, and unconstraint the grace of conversation. To read, write, and converse in due proportions, is, therefore, the business of a man of letters. For all these there is not often equal opportunity; excellence, therefore, is not often attainable; and most men fail in one or other of the ends proposed, and are full without readiness, or without exactness. Some deficiency must be forgiven all, because all are men; and more must be allowed to pass uncensured in the greater part of the world, because none can confer upon himself abilities, and few have the choice of situations proper for the improvement of those which nature has bestowed: it is, however, reasonable to have _perfection_ in our eye; that we may always advance towards it, though we know it never can be reached. [1] Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter. Sat. i. 27. No. 92. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1753. _Cum tabulis animum censoris sumet honesti._HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. it. 110. Bold be the critick, zealous to his trust, Like the firm judge inexorably just. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, In the papers of criticism which you have given to the publick, I have remarked a spirit of candour and love of truth equally remote from bigotry and captiousness; a just distribution of praise amongst the ancients and the moderns: a sober deference to reputation long established, without a blind adoration of antiquity; and a willingness to favour later performances, without a light or puerile fondness for novelty. I shall, therefore, venture to lay before you, such observations as have risen to my mind in the consideration of Virgil's pastorals, without any inquiry how far my sentiments deviate from established rules or common opinions. If we survey the ten pastorals in a general view, it will be found that Virgil can derive from them very little claim to the praise of an inventor. To search into the antiquity of this kind of poetry is not my present purpose; that it has long subsisted in the east, the _Sacred Writings_ sufficiently inform us; and we may conjecture, with great probability, that it was sometimes the devotion, and sometimes the entertainment of the first generations of mankind. Theocritus united elegance with simplicity; and taught his shepherds to sing with so much ease and harmony, that his countrymen, despairing to excel, forbore to imitate him; and the Greeks, however vain or ambitious, left him in quiet possession of the garlands which the wood-nymphs had bestowed upon him. Virgil, however, taking advantage of another language, ventured to copy or to rival the _Sicilian bard_: he has written with greater splendour of diction, and elevation of sentiment: but as the magnificence of his performances was more, the simplicity was less; and, perhaps, where he excels Theocritus, he sometimes obtains his superiority by deviating from the pastoral character, and performing what Theocritus never attempted. Yet, though I would willingly pay to Theocritus the honour which is always due to an original author, I am far from intending to depreciate Virgil: of whom Horace justly declares, that the rural muses have appropriated to him their elegance and sweetness, and who, as he copied Theocritus in his design, has resembled him likewise in his success; for, if we except Calphurnius, an obscure author of the lower ages, I know not that a single pastoral was written after him by any poet, till the revival of literature. But though his general merit has been universally acknowledged, I am far from thinking all the productions of his rural Thalia equally excellent; there is, indeed, in all his pastorals a strain of versification which it is vain to seek in any other poet; but if we except the first and the tenth, they seem liable either wholly or in part to considerable objections. The second, though we should forget the great charge against it, which I am afraid can never be refuted, might, I think, have perished, without any diminution of the praise of its author; for I know not that it contains one affecting sentiment or pleasing description, or one passage that strikes the imagination or awakens the passions. The third contains a contest between two shepherds, begun with a quarrel of which some particulars might well be spared, carried on with sprightliness and elegance, and terminated at last in a reconciliation: but, surely, whether the invectives with which they attack each other be true or false, they are too much degraded from the dignity of pastoral innocence; and instead of rejoicing that they are both victorious, I should not have grieved could they have been both defeated. The poem to Pollio is, indeed, of another kind: it is filled with images at once splendid and pleasing, and is elevated with grandeur of language worthy of the first of Roman poets; but I am not able to reconcile myself to the disproportion between the performance and the occasion that produced it: that the golden age should return because Pollio had a son, appears so wild a fiction, that I am ready to suspect the poet of having written, for some other purpose, what he took this opportunity of producing to the publick. The fifth contains a celebration of Daphnis, which has stood to all succeeding ages as the model of pastoral elegies. To deny praise to a performance which so many thousands have laboured to imitate, would be to judge with too little deference for the opinion of mankind: yet whoever shall read it with impartiality, will find that most of the images are of the mythological kind, and therefore easily invented; and that there are few sentiments of rational praise or natural lamentation. In the Silenus he again rises to the dignity of philosophick sentiments, and heroick poetry. The address to Varus is eminently beautiful: but since the compliment paid to Gallus fixes the transaction to his own time, the fiction of Silenus seems injudicious: nor has any sufficient reason yet been found, to justify his choice of those fables that make the subject of the song. The seventh exhibits another contest of the tuneful shepherds: and, surely, it is not without some reproach to his inventive power, that of ten pastorals Virgil has written two upon the same plan. One of the shepherds now gains an acknowledged victory, but without any apparent, superiority, and the reader, when he sees the prize adjudged, is not able to discover how it was deserved. Of the eighth pastoral, so little is properly the work of Virgil, that he has no claim to other praise or blame, than that of a translator. Of the ninth, it is scarce possible to discover the design or tendency; it is said, I know not upon what authority, to have been composed from fragments of other poems; and except a few lines in which the author touches upon his own misfortunes, there is nothing that seems appropriated to any time or place, or of which any other use can be discovered than to fill up the poem. The first and the tenth pastorals, whatever be determined of the rest, are sufficient to place their author above the reach of rivalry. The complaint of Gallus disappointed in his love, is full of such sentiments as disappointed love naturally produces; his wishes are wild, his resentment is tender, and his purposes are inconstant. In the genuine language of despair, he soothes himself awhile with the pity that shall be paid him after his death. _--Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit, Montibus haec vestris: soli cantare periti Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant, Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores!_ Virg. Ec. x. 31. --Yet, O Arcadian swains, Ye best artificers of soothing strains! Tune your soft reeds, and teach your rocks my woes, So shall my shade in sweeter rest repose. O that your birth and business had been mine; To feed the flock, and prune the spreading vine! WARTON. Discontented with his present condition, and desirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes himself one of the shepherds. He then catches the idea of rural tranquillity; but soon discovers how much happier he should be in these happy regions, with Lycoris at his side: _Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori: Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerer aevo. Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis Tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes. Tu procul a patria (nec sit mihi credere) tantum Alpinas, ah dura, nives, et frigora Rheni Me sine sola vides. Ah te ne frigora laedant! Ah tibi ne teneras glacies secet aspera plantas!_ Ec. x. 42. Here cooling fountains roll through flow'ry meads, Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads; Here could I wear my careless life away, And in thy arms insensibly decay. Instead of that, me frantick love detains, 'Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains: While you--and can my soul the tale believe, Far from your country, lonely wand'ring leave Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive! Seek the rough Alps where snows eternal shine, And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine. Ah! may no cold e'er blast my dearest maid, Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade. WARTON. He then turns his thoughts on every side, in quest of something that may solace or amuse him: he proposes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another: and at last finds that nothing will satisfy: _Jam neque Hamadryades rursum, nec carmina nobis Ipsa placent: ipsae rursum concedite sylvae. Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores; Nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus, Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae: Nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo Aethiopum versemus oves sub sidere Cancri. Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamns amori._ Ec. x. 62. But now again no more the woodland maids, Nor pastoral songs delight--Farewell, ye shades-- No toils of ours the cruel god can change, Tho' lost in frozen deserts we should range; Tho' we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows, Endure bleak winter blasts, and Thracian snows: Or on hot India's plains our flocks should feed, Where the parch'd elm declines his sickening head, Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer's fiery beams, Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams. Love over all maintains resistless sway, And let us love's all-conquering power obey. WARTON. But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the preference to the first, which is equally natural and more diversified. The complaint of the shepherd, who saw his old companion at ease in the shade, while himself was driving his little flock he knew not whither, is such as, with variation of circumstances, misery always utters at the sight of prosperity: _Nos patriae fines, et dulcia linquimus arra; Nos patrium fugimus: Tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas._ Ec. i. 3. We leave our country's bounds, our much-lov'd plains; We from our country fly, unhappy swains! You, Tit'rus, in the groves at leisure laid, Teach Amaryllis' name to every shade. WARTON. His account of the difficulties of his journey, gives a very tender image of pastoral distress: --_En ipse capellas Protenus aeger ago: hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco: Hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos, Spem gregis, ah! silice in nuda connixa reliquit._ Ec. i. 12. And lo! sad partner of the general care, Weary and faint I drive my goats afar! While scarcely this my leading hand sustains, Tired with the way, and recent from her pains; For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we past, On the bare flints her hapless twin she cast, The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold! WARTON. The description of Virgil's happiness in his little farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure; and he, therefore, that can read it with indifference, has no sense of pastoral poetry: _Fortunate senex! ergo tua rura manebunt, Et tibi magna satis; quamvis lapis omnia nudus, Limosoque palus obducat pascua junco: Non insueta graves tentabunt pabula foetas, Nec mala vicini pecoris contagia laedent. Fortunate senex! hic inter flumina nota, Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes, Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti, Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro. Hinc alta sub rupe canet frondator ad auras. Nec tamen interea raucae, tua cura, palumbes, Nec gemere aëria cessabit turtur ab ulmo._ Ec. i. 47 Happy old man! then still thy farms restored, Enough for thee, shall bless thy frugal board. What tho' rough stones the naked soil o'erspread, Or marshy bulrush rear its wat'ry head, No foreign food thy teeming ewes shall fear, No touch contagious spread its influence here. Happy old man! here 'mid th' accustom'd streams And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams; While from yon willow-fence, thy picture's bound, The bees that suck their flow'ry stores around, Shall sweetly mingle with the whispering boughs Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose: While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard; Nor the soft-cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird, Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, Nor turtles from th' aërial elm to 'plain. WARTON. It may be observed, that these two poems were produced by events that really happened; and may, therefore, be of use to prove, that we can always feel more than we can imagine, and that the most artful fiction must give way to truth. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, DUBIUS. No. 95. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1753. --_Dulcique animos novitate tenebo_. OVID. Met. iv. 284. And with sweet novelty your soul detain. It is often charged upon writers, that with all their pretensions to genius and discoveries, they do little more than copy one another; and that compositions obtruded upon the world with the pomp of novelty, contain only tedious repetitions of common sentiments, or at best exhibit a transposition of known images, and give a new appearance to truth only by some slight difference of dress and decoration. The allegation of resemblance between authors is indisputably true; but the charge of plagiarism, which is raised upon it, is not to be allowed with equal readiness. A coincidence of sentiment may easily happen without any communication, since there are many occasions in which all reasonable men will nearly think alike. Writers of all ages have had the same sentiments, because they have in all ages had the same objects of speculation; the interests and passions, the virtues and vices of mankind, have been diversified in different times, only by unessential and casual varieties: and we must, therefore, expect in the works of all those who attempt to describe them, such a likeness as we find in the pictures of the same person drawn in different periods of his life. It is necessary, therefore, that before an author be charged with plagiarism, one of the most reproachful, though, perhaps, not the most atrocious of literary crimes, the subject on which he treats should be carefully considered. We do not wonder, that historians, relating the same facts, agree in their narration; or that authors, delivering the elements of science, advance the same theorems, and lay down the same definitions: yet it is not wholly without use to mankind, that books are multiplied, and that different authors lay out their labours on the same subject; for there will always be some reason why one should on particular occasions, or to particular persons, be preferable to another; some will be clear where others are obscure, some will please by their style and others by their method, some by their embellishments and others by their simplicity, some by closeness and others by diffusion. The same indulgence is to be shown to the writers of morality: right and wrong are immutable; and those, therefore, who teach us to distinguish them, if they all teach us right, must agree with one another. The relations of social life, and the duties resulting from them, must be the same at all times and in all nations: some petty differences may be, indeed, produced, by forms of government or arbitrary customs; but the general doctrine can receive no alteration. Yet it is not to be desired, that morality should be considered as interdicted to all future writers: men will always be tempted to deviate from their duty, and will, therefore, always want a monitor to recall them; and a new book often seizes the attention of the publick, without any other claim than that it is new. There is likewise in composition, as in other things, a perpetual vicissitude of fashion; and truth is recommended at one time to regard, by appearances which at another would expose it to neglect; the author, therefore, who has judgment to discern the taste of his contemporaries, and skill to gratify it, will have always an opportunity to deserve well of mankind, by conveying instruction to them in a grateful vehicle. There are likewise many modes of composition, by which a moralist may deserve the name of an original writer: he may familiarize his system by dialogues after the manner of the ancients, or subtilize it into a series of syllogistick arguments: he may enforce his doctrine by seriousness and solemnity, or enliven it by sprightliness and gaiety: he may deliver his sentiments in naked precepts, or illustrate them by historical examples: he may detain the studious by the artful concatenation of a continued discourse, or relieve the busy by short strictures, and unconnected essays. To excel in any of these forms of writing will require a particular cultivation of the genius: whoever can attain to excellence, will be certain to engage a set of readers, whom no other method would have equally allured; and he that communicates truth with success, must be numbered among the first benefactors to mankind. The same observation may be extended likewise to the passions: their influence is uniform, and their effects nearly the same in every human breast: a man loves and hates, desires and avoids, exactly like his neighbour; resentment and ambition, avarice and indolence, discover themselves by the same symptoms in minds distant a thousand years from one another. Nothing, therefore, can be more unjust, than to charge an author with plagiarism, merely because he assigns to every cause its natural effect; and makes his personages act, as others in like circumstances have always done. There are conceptions in which all men will agree, though each derives them from his own observation: whoever has been in love, will represent a lover impatient of every idea that interrupts his meditations on his mistress, retiring to shades and solitude, that he may muse without disturbance on his approaching happiness, or associating himself with some friend that flatters his passion, and talking away the hours of absence upon his darling subject. Whoever has been so unhappy as to have felt the miseries of long-continued hatred, will, without any assistance from ancient volumes, be able to relate how the passions are kept in perpetual agitation, by the recollection of injury and meditations of revenge; how the blood boils at the name of the enemy, and life is worn away in contrivances of mischief. Every other passion is alike simple and limited, if it be considered only with regard to the breast which it inhabits; the anatomy of the mind, as that of the body, must perpetually exhibit the same appearances; and though by the continued industry of successive inquirers, new movements will be from time to time discovered, they can affect only the minuter parts, and are commonly of more curiosity than importance. It will now be natural to inquire, by what arts are the writers of the present and future ages to attract the notice; and favour of mankind. They are to observe the alterations which time is always making in the modes of life, that they may gratify every generation with a picture of themselves. Thus love is uniform, but courtship is perpetually varying: the different arts of gallantry, which beauty has inspired, would of themselves be sufficient to fill a volume; sometimes balls and serenades, sometimes tournaments and adventures, have been employed to melt the hearts of ladies, who in another century have been sensible of scarce any other merit than that of riches, and listened only to jointures and pin-money. Thus the ambitious man has at all times been eager of wealth and power; but these hopes have been gratified in some countries by supplicating the people, and in others by flattering the prince: honour in some states has been only the reward of military achievements, in others it has been gained by noisy turbulence and popular clamour. Avarice has worn a different form, as she actuated the usurer of Rome, and the stock-jobber of England; and idleness itself, how little soever inclined to the trouble of invention, has been forced from time to time to change its amusements, and contrive different methods of wearing out the day. Here then is the fund, from which those who study mankind may fill their compositions with an inexhaustible variety of images and allusions: and he must be confessed to look with little attention upon scenes thus perpetually changing, who cannot catch some of the figures before they are made vulgar by reiterated descriptions. It has been discovered by Sir Isaac Newton, that the distinct and primogenial colours are only seven; but every eye can witness, that from various mixtures, in various proportions, infinite diversifications of tints may be produced. In like manner, the passions of the mind, which put the world in motion, and produce all the bustle and eagerness of the busy crowds that swarm upon the earth; the passions, from whence arise all the pleasures and pains that we see and hear of, if we analyze the mind of man, are very few; but those few agitated and combined, as external causes shall happen to operate, and modified by prevailing opinions and accidental caprices, make such frequent alterations on the surface of life, that the show, while we are busied in delineating it, vanishes from the view, and a new set of objects succeed, doomed to the same shortness of duration with the former: thus curiosity may always find employment, and the busy part of mankind will furnish the contemplative with the materials of speculation to the end of time. The complaint, therefore, that all topicks are preoccupied, is nothing more than the murmur of ignorance or idleness, by which some discourage others, and some themselves; the mutability of mankind will always furnish writers with new images, and the luxuriance of fancy may always embellish them with new decorations. No. 99. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1753. --_Magnis tamen excidit ausis_. OVID. Met. Lib. ii. 328. But in the glorious enterprise he died. ADDISON. It has always been the practice of mankind, to judge of actions by the event. The same attempts, conducted in the same manner, but terminated by different success, produce different judgments: they who attain their wishes, never want celebrators of their wisdom and their virtue; and they that miscarry, are quickly discovered to have been defective not only in mental but in moral qualities. The world will never be long without some good reason to hate the unhappy; their real faults are immediately detected; and if those are not sufficient to sink them into infamy, an additional weight of calumny will be superadded: he that fails in his endeavours after wealth or power, will not long retain either honesty or courage. This species of injustice has so long prevailed in universal practice, that it seems likewise to have infected speculation: so few minds are able to separate the ideas of greatness and prosperity, that even Sir William Temple has determined, "that he who can deserve the name of a hero, must not only be virtuous but fortunate." By this unreasonable distribution of praise and blame, none have suffered oftener than projectors, whose rapidity of imagination and vastness of design raise such envy in their fellow mortals, that every eye watches for their fall, and every heart exults at their distresses: yet even a projector may gain favour by success; and the tongue that was prepared to hiss, then endeavours to excel others in loudness of applause. When Coriolanus, in Shakespeare, deserted to Aufidius, the Volscian servants at first insulted him, even while he stood under the protection of the household gods: but when they saw that the project took effect, and the stranger was seated at the head of the table, one of them very judiciously observes, "that he always thought there was more in him than he could think." Machiavel has justly animadverted on the different notice taken by all succeeding times, of the two great projectors, Cataline and Cæsar. Both formed the same project, and intended to raise themselves to power, by subverting the commonwealth: they pursued their design, perhaps, with equal abilities, and with equal virtue; but Cataline perished in the field, and Cæsar returned from Pharsalia with unlimited authority: and from that time, every monarch of the earth has thought himself honoured by a comparison with Cæsar; and Cataline has been never mentioned, but that his name might be applied to traitors and incendiaries. In an age more remote, Xerxes projected the conquest of Greece, and brought down the power of Asia against it: but after the world had been filled with expectation and terrour, his army was beaten, his fleet was destroyed, and Xerxes has been never mentioned without contempt. A few years afterwards, Greece likewise had her turn of giving birth to a projector; who invading Asia with a small army, went forward in search of adventures, and by his escape from one danger, gained only more rashness to rush into another: he stormed city after city, over-ran kingdom after kingdom, fought battles only for barren victory, and invaded nations only that he might make his way through them to new invasions: but having been fortunate in the execution of his projects, he died with the name of Alexander the Great. These are, indeed, events of ancient times; but human nature is always the same, and every age will afford us instances of publick censures influenced by events. The great business of the middle centuries, was the holy war; which undoubtedly was a noble project, and was for a long time prosecuted with a spirit equal to that with which it had been contrived; but the ardour of the European heroes only hurried them to destruction; for a long time they could not gain the territories for which they fought, and, when at last gained, they could not keep them: their expeditions, therefore, have been the scoff of idleness and ignorance, their understanding and their virtue have been equally vilified, their conduct has been ridiculed, and their cause has been defamed. When Columbus had engaged king Ferdinand in the discovery of the other hemisphere, the sailors, with whom he embarked in the expedition, had so little confidence in their commander, that after having been long at sea looking for coasts which they expected never to find, they raised a general mutiny, and demanded to return. He found means to sooth them into a permission to continue the same course three days longer, and on the evening of the third day descried land. Had the impatience of his crew denied him a few hours of the time requested, what had been his fate but to have come back with the infamy of a vain projector, who had betrayed the king's credulity to useless expenses, and risked his life in seeking countries that had no existence? how would those that had rejected his proposals have triumphed in their acuteness! and when would his name have been mentioned, but with the makers of potable gold and malleable glass? The last royal projectors with whom the world has been troubled, were Charles of Sweden and the Czar of Muscovy. Charles, if any judgment may be formed of his designs by his measures and his inquiries, had purposed first to dethrone the Czar, then to lead his army through pathless deserts into China, thence to make his way by the sword through the whole circuit of Asia, and by the conquest of Turkey to unite Sweden with his new dominions: but this mighty project was crushed at Pultowa; and Charles has since been considered as a madman by those powers, who sent their ambassadors to solicit his friendship, and their generals "to learn under him the art of war." The Czar found employment sufficient in his own dominions, and amused himself in digging canals, and building cities: murdering his subjects with insufferable fatigues, and transplanting nations from one corner of his dominions to another, without regretting the thousands that perished on the way: but he attained his end, he made his people formidable, and is numbered by fame among the demi-gods. I am far from intending to vindicate the sanguinary projects of heroes and conquerors, and would wish rather to diminish the reputation of their success, than the infamy of their miscarriages: for I cannot conceive, why he that has burned cities, wasted nations, and filled the world with horrour and desolation, should be more kindly regarded by mankind, than he that died in the rudiments of wickedness; why he that accomplished mischief should be glorious, and he that only endeavoured it should be criminal. I would wish Cæsar and Catiline, Xerxes and Alexander, Charles and Peter, huddled together in obscurity or detestation. But there is another species of projectors, to whom I would willingly conciliate mankind; whose ends are generally laudable, and whose labours are innocent; who are searching out new powers of nature, or contriving new works of art; but who are yet persecuted with incessant obloquy, and whom the universal contempt with which they are treated, often debars from that success which their industry would obtain, if it were permitted to act without opposition. They who find themselves inclined to censure new undertakings, only because they are new, should consider, that the folly of projection is very seldom the folly of a fool; it is commonly the ebullition of a capacious mind, crowded with variety of knowledge, and heated with intenseness of thought; it proceeds often from the consciousness of uncommon powers, from the confidence of those, who having already done much, are easily persuaded that they can do more. When Rowley had completed the orrery, he attempted the perpetual motion; when Boyle had exhausted the secrets of vulgar chymistry, he turned his thoughts to the work of transmutation[1]. A projector generally unites those qualities which have the fairest claim to veneration, extent of knowledge and greatness of design; it was said of Catiline, "_immoderata, incredibilia, nimis alta semper cupiebat_." Projectors of all kinds agree in their intellects, though they differ in their morals; they all fail by attempting things beyond their power, by despising vulgar attainments, and aspiring to performances to which, perhaps, nature has not proportioned the force of man: when they fail, therefore, they fail not by idleness or timidity, but by rash adventure and fruitless diligence. That the attempts of such men will often miscarry, we may reasonably expect; yet from such men, and such only, are we to hope for the cultivation of those parts of nature which lie yet waste, and the invention of those arts which are yet wanting to the felicity of life. If they are, therefore, universally discouraged, art and discovery can make no advances. Whatever is attempted without previous certainty of success, may be considered as a project, and amongst narrow minds may, therefore, expose its author to censure and contempt; and if the liberty of laughing be once indulged, every man will laugh at what he does not understand, every project will be considered as madness, and every great or new design will be censured as a project. Men unaccustomed to reason and researches, think every enterprise impracticable, which is extended beyond common effects, or comprises many intermediate operations. Many that presume to laugh at projectors, would consider a flight through the air in a winged chariot, and the movement of a mighty engine by the steam of water as equally the dreams of mechanick lunacy; and would hear, with equal negligence, of the union of the Thames and Severn by a canal, and the scheme of Albuquerque, the viceroy of the Indies, who in the rage of hostility had contrived to make Egypt a barren desert, by turning the Nile into the Red Sea. Those who have attempted much, have seldom failed to perform more than those who never deviate from the common roads of action: many valuable preparations of chymistry are supposed to have risen from unsuccessful inquiries after the grand elixir: it is, therefore, just to encourage those who endeavour to enlarge the power of art, since they often succeed beyond expectation; and when they fail, may sometimes benefit the world even by their miscarriages. [1] Sir Richard Steele was infatuated, with notions of Alchemy, and wasted money in its visionary projects. He had a laboratory at Poplar. Addisoniana, vol i. p. 10. The readers of Washington Irving's Brace-Bridge Hall will recollect a pleasing and popular exposition of the alternately splendid and benevolent, and always passionate reveries of the Alchemist, in the affecting story of the Student of Salamanca. No. 102. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1753. --_Quid tam dextro pede concipis, ut te Conatus non poeniteat votique peracti?_ JUV. Sat. x. 5. What in the conduct of our life appears So well design'd, so luckily begun, But when we have our wish, we wish undone. DRYDEN. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, I have been for many years a trader in London. My beginning was narrow, and my stock small; I was, therefore, a long time brow-beaten and despised by those, who, having more money, thought they had more merit than myself. I did not, however, suffer my resentment to instigate me to any mean arts of supplantation, nor my eagerness of riches to betray me to any indirect methods of gain; I pursued my business with incessant assiduity, supported by the hope of being one day richer than those who contemned me; and had, upon every annual review of my books, the satisfaction of finding my fortune increased beyond my expectation. In a few years my industry and probity were fully recompensed, my wealth was really great, and my reputation for wealth still greater. I had large warehouses crowded with goods, and considerable sums in the publick funds; I was caressed upon the Exchange by the most eminent merchants; became the oracle of the common council; was solicited to engage in all commercial undertakings; was flattered with the hopes of becoming in a short time one of the directors of a wealthy company, and, to complete my mercantile honours, enjoyed the expensive happiness of fining for sheriff. Riches, you know, easily produce riches; when I had arrived to this degree of wealth, I had no longer any obstruction or opposition to fear; new acquisitions were hourly brought within my reach, and I continued for some years longer to heap thousands upon thousands. At last I resolved to complete the circle of a citizen's prosperity by the purchase of an estate in the country, and to close my life in retirement. From the hour that this design entered my imagination, I found the fatigues of my employment every day more oppressive, and persuaded myself that I was no longer equal to perpetual attention, and that my health would soon be destroyed by the torment and distraction of extensive business. I could image to myself no happiness, but in vacant jollity, and uninterrupted leisure: nor entertain my friends with any other topick than the vexation and uncertainty of trade, and the happiness of rural privacy. But, notwithstanding these declarations, I could not at once reconcile myself to the thoughts of ceasing to get money; and though I was every day inquiring for a purchase, I found some reason for rejecting all that were offered me; and, indeed, had accumulated so many beauties and conveniencies in my idea of the spot where I was finally to be happy, that, perhaps, the world might have been travelled over without discovery of a place which would not have been defective in some particular. Thus I went on, still talking of retirement, and still refusing to retire; my friends began to laugh at my delays, and I grew ashamed to trifle longer with my own inclinations; an estate was at length purchased, I transferred my stock to a prudent young man who had married my daughter, went down into the country, and commenced lord of a spacious manor. Here for some time I found happiness equal to my expectation. I reformed the old house according to the advice of the best architects, I threw down the walls of the garden, and enclosed it with palisades, planted long avenues of trees, filled a green-house with exotick plants, dug a new canal, and threw the earth into the old moat. The fame of these expensive improvements brought in all the country to see the show. I entertained my visitors with great liberality, led them round my gardens, showed them my apartments, laid before them plans for new decorations, and was gratified by the wonder of some and the envy of others. I was envied: but how little can one man judge of the condition of another! The time was now coming, in which affluence and splendour could no longer make me pleased with myself. I had built till the imagination of the architect was exhausted; I had added one convenience to another, till I knew not what more to wish or to design; I had laid out my gardens, planted my park, and completed my water-works; and what now remained to be done? what, but to look up to turrets, of which when they were once raised I had no further use, to range over apartments where time was tarnishing the furniture, to stand by the cascade of which I scarcely now perceived the sound, and to watch the growth of woods that must give their shade to a distant generation. In this gloomy inactivity, is every day begun and ended: the happiness that I have been so long procuring is now at an end, because it has been procured; I wander from room to room, till I am weary of myself; I ride out to a neighbouring hill in the centre of my estate, from whence all my lands lie in prospect round me; I see nothing that I have not seen before, and return home disappointed, though I knew that I had nothing to expect. In my happy days of business I had been accustomed to rise early in the morning; and remember the time when I grieved that the night came so soon upon me, and obliged me for a few hours to shut out affluence and prosperity. I now seldom see the rising sun, but to "tell him," with the fallen angel, "how I hate his beams[1]." I awake from sleep as to languor or imprisonment, and have no employment for the first hour but to consider by what art I shall rid myself of the second. I protract the breakfast as long as I can, because when it is ended I have no call for my attention, till I can with some degree of decency grow impatient for my dinner. If I could dine all my life, I should be happy; I eat not because I am hungry, but because I am idle: but, alas! the time quickly comes when I can eat no longer; and so ill does my constitution second my inclination, that I cannot bear strong liquors: seven hours must then be endured before I shall sup; but supper comes at last, the more welcome as it is in a short time succeeded by sleep. Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the happiness, the hope of which seduced me from the duties and pleasures of a mercantile life. I shall be told by those who read my narrative, that there are many means of innocent amusement, and many schemes of useful employment, which I do not appear ever to have known; and that nature and art have provided pleasures, by which, without the drudgery of settled business, the active may be engaged, the solitary soothed, and the social entertained. These arts, Sir, I have tried. When first I took possession of my estate, in conformity to the taste of my neighbours, I bought guns and nets, filled my kennel with dogs, and my stable with horses: but a little experience showed me, that these instruments of rural felicity would afford me few gratifications. I never shot but to miss the mark, and, to confess the truth, was afraid of the fire of my own gun. I could discover no musick in the cry of the dogs, nor could divest myself of pity for the animal whose peaceful and inoffensive life was sacrificed to our sport. I was not, indeed, always at leisure to reflect upon her danger; for my horse, who had been bred to the chase, did not always regard my choice either of speed or way, but leaped hedges and ditches at his own discretion, and hurried me along with the dogs, to the great diversion of my brother sportsmen. His eagerness of pursuit once incited him to swim a river; and I had leisure to resolve in the water, that I would never hazard my life again for the destruction of a hare. I then ordered books to be procured, and by the direction of the vicar had in a few weeks a closet elegantly furnished. You will, perhaps, be surprised when I shall tell you, that when once I had ranged them according to their sizes, and piled them up in regular gradations, I had received all the pleasure which they could give me. I am not able to excite in myself any curiosity after events which have been long passed, and in which I can, therefore, have no interest; I am utterly unconcerned to know whether Tully or Demosthenes excelled in oratory, whether Hannibal lost Italy by his own negligence or the corruption of his countrymen. I have no skill in controversial learning, nor can conceive why so many volumes should have been written upon questions, which I have lived so long and so happily without understanding. I once resolved to go through the volumes relating to the office of justice of the peace, but found them so crabbed and intricate, that in less than a month I desisted in despair, and resolved to supply my deficiencies by paying a competent salary to a skilful clerk. I am naturally inclined to hospitality, and for some time kept up a constant intercourse of visits with the neighbouring gentlemen; but though they are easily brought about me by better wine than they can find at any other house, I am not much relieved by their conversation; they have no skill in commerce or the stocks, and I have no knowledge of the history of families or the factions of the country; so that when the first civilities are over, they usually talk to one another, and I am left alone in the midst of the company. Though I cannot drink myself, I am obliged to encourage the circulation of the glass; their mirth grows more turbulent and obstreperous; and before their merriment is at an end, I am sick with disgust, and, perhaps, reproached with my sobriety, or by some sly insinuations insulted as a cit. Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the life to which I am condemned by a foolish endeavour to be happy by imitation; such is the happiness to which I pleased myself with approaching, and which I considered as the chief end of my cares and my labours. I toiled year after year with cheerfulness, in expectation of the happy hour in which I might be idle: the privilege of idleness is attained, but has not brought with it the blessing of tranquillity. I am yours, &c. MERCATOR. [1] Johnson was too apt to destroy the _keeping_ of character in his correspondences. A retired trader might desire a little more slumber, "a little folding of the hands to sleep;" but the lofty malignity of a fallen spirit sickening at the beams of day, would not be among the feelings of an ordinary mind. Some good remarks on this point may be seen in Miss Talbot's Letters to Mrs. Carter. No. 107. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1753. --_Sub judice lis est._ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 78. And of their vain disputings find no end. FRANCIS. It has been sometimes asked by those who find the appearance of wisdom more easily attained by questions than solutions, how it comes to pass, that the world is divided by such difference of opinion? and why men, equally reasonable, and equally lovers of truth, do not always think in the same manner? With regard to simple propositions, where the terms are understood, and the whole subject is comprehended at once, there is such an uniformity of sentiment among all human beings, that, for many ages, a very numerous set of notions were supposed to be innate, or necessarily co-existent with the faculty of reason: it being imagined, that universal agreement could proceed only from the invariable dictates of the universal parent. In questions diffuse and compounded, this similarity of determination is no longer to be expected. At our first sally into the intellectual world, we all march together along one straight and open road; but as we proceed further, and wider prospects open to our view, every eye fixes upon a different scene; we divide into various paths, and, as we move forward, are still at a greater distance from each other. As a question becomes more complicated and involved, and extends to a greater number of relations, disagreement of opinion will always be multiplied; not because we are irrational, but because we are finite beings, furnished with different kinds of knowledge, exerting different degrees of attention, one discovering consequences which escape another, none taking in the whole concatenation of causes and effects, and most comprehending but a very small part, each comparing what he observes with a different criterion, and each referring it to a different purpose. Where, then, is the wonder, that they who see only a small part should judge erroneously of the whole? or that they, who see different and dissimilar parts, should judge differently from each other? Whatever has various respects, must have various appearances of good and evil, beauty or deformity; thus, the gardener tears up as a weed, the plant which the physician gathers as a medicine; and "a general," says Sir Kenelm Digby, "will look with pleasure over a plain, as a fit place on which the fate of empires might be decided in battle, which the farmer will despise as bleak and barren, neither fruitful of pasturage, nor fit for tillage[1]." Two men examining the same question proceed commonly like the physician and gardener in selecting herbs, or the farmer and hero looking on the plain; they bring minds impressed with different notions, and direct their inquiries to different ends; they form, therefore, contrary conclusions, and each wonders at the other's absurdity. We have less reason to be surprised or offended when we find others differ from us in opinion, because we very often differ from ourselves. How often we alter our minds, we do not always remark; because the change is sometimes made imperceptibly and gradually, and the last conviction effaces all memory of the former: yet every man, accustomed from time to time to take a survey of his own notions, will by a slight retrospection be able to discover, that his mind has suffered many revolutions; that the same things have in the several parts of his life been condemned and approved, pursued and shunned: and that on many occasions, even when his practice has been steady, his mind has been wavering, and he has persisted in a scheme of action, rather because he feared the censure of inconstancy, than because he was always pleased with his own choice. Of the different faces shown by the same objects, as they are viewed on opposite sides, and of the different inclinations which they must constantly raise in him that contemplates them, a more striking example cannot easily be found than two Greek epigrammatists will afford us in their accounts of human life, which I shall lay before the reader in English prose. Posidippus, a comick poet, utters this complaint: "Through which of the paths of life is it eligible to pass? In public assemblies are debates and troublesome affairs: domestick privacies are haunted with anxieties; in the country is labour; on the sea is terrour: in a foreign land, he that has money must live in fear, he that wants it must pine in distress: are you married? you are troubled with suspicions; are you single? you languish in solitude; children occasion toil, and a childless life is a state of destitution: the time of youth is a time of folly, and gray hairs are loaded with infirmity. This choice only, therefore, can be made, either never to receive being, or immediately to lose it[2]." Such and so gloomy is the prospect, which Posidippus has laid before us. But we are not to acquiesce too hastily in his determination against the value of existence: for Metrodorus, a philosopher of Athens, has shown, that life has pleasures as well as pains; and having exhibited the present state of man in brighter colours, draws with equal appearance of reason, a contrary conclusion. "You may pass well through any of the paths of life. In publick assemblies are honours and transactions of wisdom; in domestick privacy is stillness and quiet: in the country are the beauties of nature; on the sea is the hope of gain: in a foreign land, he that is rich is honoured, he that is poor may keep his poverty secret: are you married? you have a cheerful house; are you single? you are unincumbered; children are objects of affection, to be without children is to be without care: the time of youth is the time of vigour, and gray hairs are made venerable by piety. It will, therefore, never be a wise man's choice, either not to obtain existence, or to lose it; for every state of life has its felicity." In these epigrams are included most of the questions which have engaged the speculations of the inquirers after happiness; and though they will not much assist our determinations, they may, perhaps, equally promote our quiet, by showing that no absolute determination ever can be formed. Whether a publick station or private life be desirable, has always been debated. We see here both the allurements and discouragements of civil employments; on one side there is trouble, on the other honour; the management of affairs is vexatious and difficult, but it is the only duty in which wisdom can be conspicuously displayed: it must then still be left to every man to choose either ease or glory; nor can any general precept be given, since no man can be happy by the prescription of another. Thus, what is said of children by Posidippus, "that they are occasions of fatigue," and by Metrodorus, "that they are objects of affection," is equally certain; but whether they will give most pain or pleasure, must depend on their future conduct and dispositions, on many causes over which the parent can have little influence: there is, therefore, room for all the caprices of imagination, and desire must be proportioned to the hope or fear that shall happen to predominate. Such is the uncertainty in which we are always likely to remain with regard to questions wherein we have most interest, and which every day affords us fresh opportunity to examine: we may examine, indeed, but we never can decide, because our faculties are unequal to the subject; we see a little, and form an opinion; we see more, and change it. This inconstancy and unsteadiness, to which we must so often find ourselves liable, ought certainly to teach us moderation and forbearance towards those who cannot accommodate themselves to our sentiments: if they are deceived, we have no right to attribute their mistake to obstinacy or negligence, because we likewise have been mistaken; we may, perhaps, again change our own opinion: and what excuse shall we be able to find for aversion and malignity conceived against him, whom we shall then find to have committed no fault, and who offended us only by refusing to follow us into errour? It may likewise contribute to soften that resentment which pride naturally raises against opposition, if we consider, that he who differs from us, does not always contradict us; he has one view of an object, and we have another; each describes what he sees with equal fidelity, and each regulates his steps by his own eyes: one man with Posidippus, looks on celibacy as a state of gloomy solitude, without a partner in joy, or a comforter in sorrow; the other considers it, with Metrodorus, as a state free from incumbrances, in which a man is at liberty to choose his own gratifications, to remove from place to place in quest of pleasure, and to think of nothing but merriment and diversion: full of these notions one hastens to choose a wife, and the other laughs at his rashness, or pities his ignorance; yet it is possible that each is right, but that each is right only for himself. Life is not the object of science: we see a little, very little; and what is beyond we only can conjecture. If we inquire of those who have gone before us, we receive small satisfaction; some have travelled life without observation, and some willingly mislead us. The only thought, therefore, on which we can repose with comfort, is that which presents to us the care of Providence, whose eye takes in the whole of things, and under whose direction all involuntary errours will terminate in happiness. [1] Livy has described the Achaean leader, Philopaemen, as actually so exercising his thoughts whilst he wandered among the rocky passes of the Morea, xxxv. 28. In the graphic page of the Roman historian, as in the stanzas of the "Ariosto of the North:" "From shingles grey the lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart, The rushes and the willow wand Are bristling into axe and brand." Lady of the Lake, Canto v. 9. [2] "Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be." Lord Byron's Euthanasia. Compare also the plaintive chorus in the Oedipus at Colonos, 1211. Among the tragedies of Sophocles this stands forth a mass of feeling. See Schlegel's remarks upon it in his Dramatic Literature. No. 108. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1753. _Nobis, quum semet occidit brevis lux, Nox est perpetua una dormienda._ CATULLUS. Lib. v. El. v. When once the short-liv'd mortal dies, A night eternal seals his eyes. ADDISON. It may have been observed by every reader, that there are certain topicks which never are exhausted. Of some images and sentiments the mind of man may be said to be enamoured; it meets them, however often they occur, with the same ardour which a lover feels at the sight of his mistress, and parts from them with the same regret when they can no longer be enjoyed. Of this kind are many descriptions which the poets have transcribed from each other, and their successors will probably copy to the end of time; which will continue to engage, or, as the French term it, to flatter the imagination, as long as human nature shall remain the same. When a poet mentions the spring, we know that the zephyrs are about to whisper, that the groves are to recover their verdure, the linnets to warble forth their notes of love, and the flocks and herds to frisk over vales painted with flowers: yet, who is there so insensible of the beauties of nature, so little delighted with the renovation of the world, as not to feel his heart bound at the mention of the spring? When night overshadows a romantick scene, all is stillness, silence, and quiet; the poets of the grove cease their melody, the moon towers over the world in gentle majesty, men forget their labours and their cares, and every passion and pursuit is for a while suspended. All this we know already, yet we hear it repeated without weariness; because such is generally the life of man, that he is pleased to think on the time when he shall pause from a sense of his condition. When a poetical grove invites us to its covert, we know that we shall find what we have already seen, a limpid brook murmuring over pebbles, a bank diversified with flowers, a green arch that excludes the sun, and a natural grot shaded with myrtles; yet who can forbear to enter the pleasing gloom to enjoy coolness and privacy, and gratify himself once more by scenes with which nature has formed him to be delighted? Many moral sentiments likewise are so adapted to our state, that they find approbation whenever they solicit it, and are seldom read without exciting a gentle emotion in the mind: such is the comparison of the life of man with the duration of a flower, a thought which perhaps every nation has heard warbled in its own language, from the inspired poets of the Hebrews to our own times; yet this comparion must always please, because every heart feels its justness, and every hour confirms it by example. Such, likewise, is the precept that directs us to use the present hour, and refer nothing to a distant time, which we are uncertain whether we shall reach: this every moralist may venture to inculcate, because it will always be approved, and because it is always forgotten. This rule is, indeed, every day enforced, by arguments more powerful than the dissertations of moralists: we see men pleasing themselves with future happiness, fixing a certain hour for the completion of their wishes, and perishing, some at a greater and some at a less distance from the happy time; all complaining of their disappointments, and lamenting that they had suffered the years which heaven allowed them, to pass without improvement, and deferred the principal purpose of their lives to the time when life itself was to forsake them. It is not only uncertain, whether, through all the casualties and dangers which beset the life of man, we shall be able to reach the time appointed for happiness or wisdom; but it is likely, that whatever now hinders us from doing that which our reason and conscience declare necessary to be done, will equally obstruct us in times to come. It is easy for the imagination, operating on things not yet existing, to please itself with scenes of unmingled felicity, or plan out courses of uniform virtue; but good and evil are in real life inseparably united; habits grow stronger by indulgence; and reason loses her dignity, in proportion as she has oftener yielded to temptation: "he that cannot live well to-day," says Martial, "will be less qualified to live well to-morrow." Of the uncertainty of every human good, every human being seems to be convinced; yet this uncertainty is voluntarily increased by unnecessary delay, whether we respect external causes, or consider the nature of our own minds. He that now feels a desire to do right, and wishes to regulate his life according to his reason, is not sure that, at any future time assignable, he shall be able to rekindle the same ardour; he that has now an opportunity offered him of breaking loose from vice and folly, cannot know, but that he shall hereafter be more entangled, and struggle for freedom without obtaining it. We are so unwilling to believe any thing to our own disadvantage, that we will always imagine the perspicacity of our judgment and the strength of our resolution more likely to increase than to grow less by time; and, therefore, conclude, that the will to pursue laudable purposes, will be always seconded by the power. But, however we may be deceived in calculating the strength of our faculties, we cannot doubt the uncertainty of that life in which they must be employed: we see every day the unexpected death of our friends and our enemies, we see new graves hourly opened for men older and younger than ourselves, for the cautious and the careless, the dissolute and the temperate, for men who like us were providing to enjoy or improve hours now irreversibly cut off: we see all this, and yet, instead of living, let year glide after year in preparations to live. Men are so frequently cut off in the midst of their projections, that sudden death causes little emotion in them that behold it, unless it be impressed upon the attention by uncommon circumstances. I, like every other man, have outlived multitudes, have seen ambition sink in its triumphs, and beauty perish in its bloom; but have been seldom so much affected as by the fate of Euryalus, whom I lately lost as I began to love him. Euryalus had for some time flourished in a lucrative profession; but having suffered his imagination to be fired by an unextinguishable curiosity, he grew weary of the same dull round of life, resolved to harass himself no longer with the drudgery of getting money, but to quit his business and his profit, and enjoy for a few years the pleasures of travel. His friends heard him proclaim his resolution without suspecting that he intended to pursue it; but he was constant to his purpose, and with great expedition closed his accounts and sold his moveables, passed a few days in bidding farewell to his companions, and with all the eagerness of romantick chivalry crossed the sea in search of happiness. Whatever place was renowned in ancient or modern history, whatever region art or nature had distinguished, he determined to visit: full of design and hope he lauded on the continent; his friends expected accounts from him of the new scenes that opened in his progress, but were informed in a few days, that Euryalus was dead. Such was the end of Euryalus. He is entered that state, whence none ever shall return; and can now only benefit his friends, by remaining to their memories a permanent and efficacious instance of the blindness of desire, and the uncertainty of all terrestrial good. But perhaps, every man has like me lost an Euryalus, has known a friend die with happiness in his grasp; and yet every man continues to think himself secure of life, and defers to some future time of leisure what he knows it will be fatal to have finally omitted. It is, indeed, with this as with other frailties inherent in our nature; the desire of deferring to another time, what cannot be done without endurance of some pain, or forbearance of some pleasure, will, perhaps, never be totally overcome or suppressed; there will always be something that we shall wish to have finished, and be nevertheless unwilling to begin: but against this unwillingness it is our duty to struggle, and every conquest over our passions will make way for an easier conquest: custom is equally forcible to bad and good; nature will always be at variance with reason, but will rebel more feebly as she is oftener subdued. The common neglect of the present hour is more shameful and criminal, as no man is betrayed to it by errour, but admits it by negligence. Of the instability of life, the weakest understanding never thinks wrong, though the strongest often omits to think justly: reason and experience are always ready to inform us of our real state; but we refuse to listen to their suggestions, because we feel our hearts unwilling to obey them: but, surely, nothing is more unworthy of a reasonable being, than to shut his eyes, when he sees the road which he is commanded to travel, that he may deviate with fewer reproaches from himself: nor could any motive to tenderness, except the consciousness that we have all been guilty of the same fault, dispose us to pity those who thus consign themselves to voluntary ruin. No. 111. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1753. --Quae non fecimus ipsi, Vix ea nostra voco. OVID. The deeds of long descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours. DRYDEN The evils inseparably annexed to the present condition of man, are so numerous and afflictive, that it has been, from age to age, the task of some to bewail, and of others to solace them; and he, therefore, will be in danger of seeing a common enemy, who shall attempt to depreciate the few pleasures and felicities which nature has allowed us. Yet I will confess, that I have sometimes employed my thoughts in examining the pretensions that are made to happiness, by the splendid and envied condition of life; and have not thought the hour unprofitably spent, when I have detected the imposture of counterfeit advantages, and found disquiet lurking under false appearances of gaiety and greatness. It is asserted by a tragick poet, that _est miser nemo nisi comparatus_, "no man is miserable, but as he is compared with others happier than himself:" this position is not strictly and philosophically true. He might have said, with rigorous propriety, that no man is happy but as he is compared with the miserable; for such is the state of this world, that we find in it absolute misery, but happiness only comparative; we may incur as much pain as we can possibly endure, though we can never obtain as much happiness as we might possibly enjoy. Yet it is certain, likewise, that many of our miseries are merely comparative: we are often made unhappy, not by the presence of any real evil, but by the absence of some fictitious good; of something which is not required by any real want of nature, which has not in itself any power of gratification, and which neither reason nor fancy would have prompted us to wish, did we not see it in the possession of others. For a mind diseased with vain longings after unattainable advantages, no medicine can be prescribed, but an impartial inquiry into the real worth of that which is so ardently desired. It is well known, how much the mind, as well as the eye, is deceived by distance; and, perhaps, it will be found, that of many imagined blessings it may be doubted, whether he that wants or possesses them has more reason to be satisfied with his lot. The dignity of high birth and long extraction, no man, to whom nature has denied it, can confer upon himself; and, therefore, it deserves to be considered, whether the want of that which can never be gained, may not easily be endured. It is true, that if we consider the triumph and delight with which most of those recount their ancestors, who have ancestors to recount, and the artifices by which some who have risen to unexpected fortune endeavour to insert themselves into an honourable stem, we shall be inclined to fancy that wisdom or virtue may be had by inheritance, or that all the excellencies of a line of progenitors are accumulated on their descendant. Reason, indeed, will soon inform us, that our estimation of birth is arbitrary and capricious, and that dead ancestors can have no influence but upon imagination; let it then be examined, whether one dream may not operate in the place of another; whether he that owes nothing to forefathers, may not receive equal pleasure from the consciousness of owing all to himself; whether he may not, with a little meditation, find it more honourable to found than to continue a family, and to gain dignity than transmit it; whether, if he receives no dignity from the virtues of his family, he does not likewise escape the danger of being disgraced by their crimes; and whether he that brings a new name into the world, has not the convenience of playing the game of life without a stake, and opportunity of winning much though he has nothing to lose. There is another opinion concerning happiness, which approaches much more nearly to universality, but which may, perhaps, with equal reason be disputed. The pretensions to ancestral honours many of the sons of earth easily see to be ill-grounded; but all agree to celebrate the advantage of hereditary riches, and to consider those as the minions of fortune, who are wealthy from their cradles, whose estate is _res non parta labore, sed relicta_; "the acquisition of another, not of themselves;" and whom a father's industry has dispensed from a laborious attention to arts or commerce, and left at liberty to dispose of life as fancy shall direct them. If every man were wise and virtuous, capable to discern the best use of time, and resolute to practise it, it might be granted, I think, without hesitation, that total liberty would be a blessing; and that it would be desirable to be left at large to the exercise of religious and social duties, without the interruption of importunate avocations. But, since felicity is relative, and that which is the means of happiness to one man may be to another the cause of misery, we are to consider, what state is best adapted to human nature in its present degeneracy and frailty. And, surely, to far the greater number it is highly expedient, that they should by some settled scheme of duties be rescued from the tyranny of caprice, that they should be driven on by necessity through the paths of life with their attention confined to a stated task, that they may be less at leisure to deviate into mischief at the call of folly. When we observe the lives of those whom an ample inheritance has let loose to their own direction, what do we discover that can excite our envy? Their time seems not to pass with much applause from others, or satisfaction to themselves: many squander their exuberance of fortune in luxury and debauchery, and have no other use of money than to inflame their passions, and riot in a wide range of licentiousness; others, less criminal indeed, but surely not much to be praised, lie down to sleep, and rise up to trifle, are employed every morning in finding expedients to rid themselves of the day, chase pleasure through all the places of publick resort, fly from London to Bath, and from Bath to London, without any other reason for changing place, but that they go in quest of company as idle and as vagrant as themselves, always endeavouring to raise some new desire, that they may have something to pursue, to rekindle some hope which they know will be disappointed, changing one amusement for another which a few months will make equally insipid, or sinking into languor and disease for want of something to actuate their bodies or exhilarate their minds. Whoever has frequented those places, where idlers assemble to escape from solitude, knows that this is generally the state of the wealthy; and from this state it is no great hardship to be debarred. No man can be happy in total idleness: he that should be condemned to lie torpid and motionless, "would fly for recreation," says South, "to the mines and the galleys;" and it is well, when nature or fortune find employment for those, who would not have known how to procure it for themselves. He, whose mind is engaged by the acquisition or improvement of a fortune, not only escapes the insipidity of indifference, and the tediousness of inactivity, but gains enjoyments wholly unknown to those, who live lazily on the toil of others; for life affords no higher pleasure than that of surmounting difficulties, passing from one step of success to another, forming new wishes, and seeing them gratified. He that labours in any great or laudable undertaking, has his fatigues first supported by hope, and afterwards rewarded by joy; he is always moving to a certain end, and when he has attained it, an end more distant invites him to a new pursuit. It does not, indeed, always happen, that diligence is fortunate; the wisest schemes are broken by unexpected accidents; the most constant perseverance sometimes toils through life without a recompense; but labour, though unsuccessful, is more eligible than idleness; he that prosecutes a lawful purpose by lawful means, acts always with the approbation of his own reason; he is animated through the course of his endeavours by an expectation which, though not certain, he knows to be just; and is at last comforted in his disappointment, by the consciousness that he has not failed by his own fault. That kind of life is most happy which affords us most opportunities of gaining our own esteem; and what can any man infer in his own favour from a condition to which, however prosperous, he contributed nothing, and which the vilest and weakest of the species would have obtained by the same right, had he happened to be the son of the same father? To strive with difficulties, and to conquer them, is the highest human felicity; the next is, to strive, and deserve to conquer: but he whose life has passed without a contest, and who can boast neither success nor merit, can survey himself only as a useless filler of existence; and if he is content with his own character, must owe his satisfaction to insensibility. Thus it appears that the satirist advised rightly, when he directed us to resign ourselves to the hands of Heaven, and to leave to superior powers the determination of our lot: _Permittes ipsis expendere Numinibus, quid Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris:-- Carior est illis homo quam sibi._ JUV. Sat. x. 347. Intrust thy fortune to the Pow'rs above: Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant What their unerring wisdom sees the want. In goodness as in greatness they excel: Ah! that we lov'd ourselves but half so well. DRYDEN. What state of life admits most happiness, is uncertain; but that uncertainty ought to repress the petulance of comparison, and silence the murmurs of discontent. No. 115. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1753. _Scribimus indocti doctique._ HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 17. All dare to write, who can or cannot read. They who have attentively considered the history of mankind, know that every age has its peculiar character. At one time, no desire is felt but for military honours; every summer affords battles and sieges, and the world is filled with ravage, bloodshed, and devastation: this sanguinary fury at length subsides, and nations are divided into factions, by controversies about points that will never be decided. Men then grow weary of debate and altercation, and apply themselves to the arts of profit; trading companies are formed, manufactures improved, and navigation extended; and nothing is any longer thought on, but the increase and preservation of property, the artifices of getting money, and the pleasures of spending it. The present age, if we consider chiefly the state of our own country, may be styled, with great propriety, _The Age of Authors_[1]; for, perhaps, there never was a time in which men of all degrees of ability, of every kind of education, of every profession and employment, were posting with ardour so general to the press. The province of writing was formerly left to those, who by study, or appearance of study, were supposed to have gained knowledge unattainable by the busy part of mankind; but in these enlightened days, every man is qualified to instruct every other man: and he that beats the anvil, or guides the plough, not content with supplying corporal necessities, amuses himself in the hours of leisure with providing intellectual pleasures for his countrymen. It may be observed, that of this, as of other evils, complaints have been made by every generation: but though it may, perhaps, be true, that at all times more have been willing than have been able to write, yet there is no reason for believing, that the dogmatical legions of the present race were ever equalled in number by any former period: for so widely is spread the itch of literary praise, that almost every man is an author, either in act or in purpose: has either bestowed his favours on the publick, or withholds them, that they may be more seasonably offered, or made more worthy of acceptance. In former times, the pen, like the sword, was considered as consigned by nature to the hands of men; the ladies contented themselves with private virtues and domestick excellence; and a female writer, like a female warrior, was considered as a kind of eccentrick being, that deviated, however illustriously, from her due sphere of motion, and was, therefore, rather to be gazed at with wonder, than countenanced by imitation. But as in the times past are said to have been a nation of Amazons, who drew the bow and wielded the battle-axe, formed encampments and wasted nations, the revolution of years has now produced a generation of Amazons of the pen, who with the spirit of their predecessors have set masculine tyranny at defiance, asserted their claim to the regions of science, and seem resolved to contest the usurpations of virility. Some indeed there are, of both sexes, who are authors only in desire, but have not yet attained the power of executing their intentions; whose performances have not arrived at bulk sufficient to form a volume, or who have not the confidence, however impatient of nameless obscurity, to solicit openly the assistance of the printer. Among these are the innumerable correspondents of publick papers, who are always offering assistance which no man will receive, and suggesting hints that are never taken; and who complain loudly of the perverseness and arrogance of authors, lament their insensibility of their own interest, and fill the coffee-houses with dark stories of performances by eminent hands, which have been offered and rejected. To what cause this universal eagerness of writing can be properly ascribed, I have not yet been able to discover. It is said, that every art is propagated in proportion to the rewards conferred upon it; a position from which a stranger would naturally infer, that literature was now blessed with patronage far transcending the candour or munificence of the Augustan age, that the road to greatness was open to none but authors, and that by writing alone riches and honour were to be obtained. But since it is true, that writers, like other competitors, are very little disposed to favour one another, it is not to be expected, that at a time when every man writes, any man will patronize; and, accordingly, there is not one that I can recollect at present, who professes the least regard for the votaries of science, invites the addresses of learned men, or seems to hope for reputation from any pen but his own. The cause, therefore, of this epidemical conspiracy for the destruction of paper, must remain a secret: nor can I discover, whether we owe it to the influences of the constellations, or the intemperature of seasons: whether the long continuance of the wind at any single point, or intoxicating vapours exhaled from the earth, have turned our nobles and our peasants, our soldiers and traders, our men and women, all into wits, philosophers, and writers. It is, indeed, of more importance to search out the cure than the cause of this intellectual malady; and he would deserve well of this country, who, instead of amusing himself with conjectural speculations, should find means of persuading the peer to inspect his steward's accounts, or repair the rural mansion of his ancestors; who could replace the tradesman behind his counter, and send back the farmer to the mattock and the flail. General irregularities are known in time to remedy themselves. By the constitution of ancient Egypt, the priesthood was continually increasing, till at length there was no people beside themselves; the establishment was then dissolved, and the number of priests was reduced and limited. Thus among us, writers will, perhaps, be multiplied, till no readers will be found, and then the ambition of writing must necessarily cease. But as it will be long before the cure is thus gradually effected, and the evil should be stopped, if it be possible, before it rises to so great a height, I could wish that both sexes would fix their thoughts upon some salutary considerations, which might repress their ardour for that reputation, which not one of many thousands is fated to obtain. Let it be deeply impressed, and frequently recollected, that he who has not obtained the proper qualifications of an author, can have no excuse for the arrogance of writing, but the power of imparting to mankind something necessary to be known. A man uneducated or unlettered may sometimes start a useful thought, or make a lucky discovery, or obtain by chance some secret of nature, or some intelligence of facts, of which the most enlightened mind may be ignorant, and which it is better to reveal, though by a rude and unskilful communication, than to lose for ever by suppressing it. But few will be justified by this plea; for of the innumerable books and pamphlets that have overflowed the nation, scarce one has made any addition to real knowledge, or contained more than a transposition of common sentiments, and a repetition of common phrases. It will be naturally inquired, when the man who feels an inclination to write, may venture to suppose himself properly qualified; and, since every man is inclined to think well of his own intellect, by what test he may try his abilities, without hazarding the contempt or resentment of the publick. The first qualification of a writer is a perfect knowledge of the subject which he undertakes to treat; since we cannot teach what we do not know, nor can properly undertake to instruct others while we are ourselves in want of instruction. The next requisite is, that he be master of the language in which he delivers his sentiments: if he treats of science and demonstration, that he has attained a style clear, pure, nervous, and expressive; if his topicks be probable and persuasory, that he be able to recommend them by the superaddition of elegance and imagery, to display the colours of varied diction, and pour forth the musick of modulated periods. If it be again inquired, upon what principles any man shall conclude that he wants those powers, it may be readily answered, that no end is attained but by the proper means; he only can rationally presume that he understands a subject, who has read and compared the writers that have hitherto discussed it, familiarized their arguments to himself by long meditation, consulted the foundations of different systems, and separated truth from errour by a rigorous examination. In like manner, he only has a right to suppose that he can express his thoughts, whatever they are, with perspicuity or elegance, who has carefully perused the best authors, accurately noted their diversities of style, diligently selected the best modes of diction, and familiarized them by long habits of attentive practice. No man is a rhetorician or philosopher by chance. He who knows that he undertakes to write on questions which he has never studied, may without hesitation determine, that he is about to waste his own time and that of his reader, and expose himself to the derision of those whom he aspires to instruct: he that without forming his style by the study of the best models hastens to obtrude his compositions on the publick, may be certain, that whatever hope or flattery may suggest, he shall shock the learned ear with barbarisms, and contribute, wherever his work shall be received, to the depravation of taste and the corruption of language. [1] See Knox. Essay 50. No. 119. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1753. _Latius regnes, avidum domando Spiritum, quam si Libyam remotis Gadibus jungas, et uterque Poenus Serviat uni._ Hor. Lib. ii. Ode ii. 9. By virtue's precepts to controul The thirsty cravings of the soul, Is over wider realms to reign Unenvied monarch, than if Spain You could to distant Lybia join, And both the Carthages were thine. FRANCIS. When Socrates was asked, "which of mortal men was to be accounted nearest to the _gods_ in happiness?" he answered, "that man who is in want of the fewest things." In this answer, Socrates left it to be guessed by his auditors, whether, by the exemption from want which was to constitute happiness, he meant amplitude of possessions or contraction of desire. And, indeed, there is so little difference between them, that Alexander the Great confessed the inhabitant of a tub the next man to the master of the world; and left a declaration to future ages, that if he was not Alexander he should wish to be Diogenes. These two states, however, though they resemble each other in their consequence, differ widely with respect to the facility with which they may be attained. To make great acquisitions can happen to very few; and in the uncertainty of human affairs, to many it will be incident to labour without reward, and to lose what they already possess by endeavours to make it more: some will always want abilities, and others opportunities to accumulate wealth. It is therefore happy, that nature has allowed us a more certain and easy road to plenty; every man may grow rich by contracting his wishes, and by quiet acquiescence in what has been given him, supply the absence of more. Yet so far is almost every man from emulating the happiness of the gods, by any other means than grasping at their power, that it seems to be the great business of life to create wants as fast as they are satisfied. It has been long observed by moralists, that every man squanders or loses a great part of that life, of which every man knows and deplores the shortness: and it may be remarked with equal justness, that though every man laments his own insufficiency to his happiness, and knows himself a necessitous and precarious being, incessantly soliciting the assistance of others, and feeling wants which his own art or strength cannot supply; yet there is no man, who does not, by the superaddition of unnatural cares, render himself still more dependent; who does not create an artificial poverty, and suffer himself to feel pain for the want of that, of which, when it is gained, he can have no enjoyment. It must, indeed, be allowed, that as we lose part of our time because it steals away silent and invisible, and many an hour is passed before we recollect that it is passing; so unnatural desires insinuate themselves unobserved into the mind, and we do not perceive that they are gaining upon us, till the pain which they give us awakens us to notice. No man is sufficiently vigilant to take account of every minute of his life, or to watch every motion of his heart. Much of our time likewise is sacrificed to custom; we trifle, because we see others trifle; in the same manner we catch from example the contagion of desire; we see all about us busied in pursuit of imaginary good, and begin to bustle in the same chase, lest greater activity should triumph over us. It is true, that to man as a member of society, many things become necessary, which, perhaps, in a state of nature are superfluous; and that many things, not absolutely necessary, are yet so useful and convenient, that they cannot easily be spared. I will make yet a more ample and liberal concession. In opulent states, and regular governments, the temptations to wealth and rank, and to the distinctions that follow them, are such as no force of understanding finds it easy to resist. If, therefore, I saw the quiet of life disturbed only by endeavours after wealth and honour; by solicitude, which the world, whether justly or not, considered as important; I should scarcely have had courage to inculcate any precepts of moderation and forbearance. He that is engaged in a pursuit, in which all mankind profess to be his rivals, is supported by the authority of all mankind in the prosecution of his design, and will, therefore, scarcely stop to hear the lectures of a solitary philosopher. Nor am I certain, that the accumulation of honest gain ought to be hindered, or the ambition of just honours always to be repressed. Whatever can enable the possessor to confer any benefit upon others, may be desired upon virtuous principles; and we ought not too rashly to accuse any man of intending to confine the influence of his acquisitions to himself. But if we look round upon mankind, whom shall we find among those that fortune permits to form their own manners, that is not tormenting himself with a wish for something, of which all the pleasure and all the benefit will cease at the moment of attainment? One man is beggaring his posterity to build a house, which when finished he never will inhabit; another is levelling mountains to open a prospect, which, when he has once enjoyed it, he can enjoy it no more; another is painting ceilings, carving wainscot, and filling his apartments with costly furniture, only that some neighbouring house may not be richer or finer than his own. That splendour and elegance are not desirable, I am not so abstracted from life to inculcate; but if we inquire closely into the reason for which they are esteemed, we shall find them valued principally as evidences of wealth. Nothing, therefore, can show greater depravity of understanding, than to delight in the show when the reality is wanting; or voluntarily to become poor, that strangers may for a time imagine us to be rich. But there are yet minuter objects and more trifling anxieties. Men may be found, who are kept from sleep by the want of a shell particularly variegated! who are wasting their lives, in stratagems to obtain a book in a language which they do not understand; who pine with envy at the flowers of another man's parterre; who hover like vultures round the owner of a fossil, in hopes to plunder his cabinet at his death; and who would not much regret to see a street in flames, if a box of medals might be scattered in the tumult. He that imagines me to speak of these sages in terms exaggerated and hyperbolical, has conversed but little with the race of virtuosos. A slight acquaintance with their studies, and a few visits to their assemblies, would inform him, that nothing is so worthless, but that prejudice and caprice can give it value; nor any thing of so little use, but that by indulging an idle competition or unreasonable pride, a man may make it to himself one of the necessaries of life. Desires like these, I may surely, without incurring the censure of moroseness, advise every man to repel when they invade his mind; or if he admits them, never to allow them any greater influence than is necessary to give petty employments the power of pleasing, and diversify the day with slight amusements. An ardent wish, whatever be its object, will always be able to interrupt tranquillity. What we believe ourselves to want, torments us not in proportion to its real value, but according to the estimation by which we have rated it in our own minds; in some diseases, the patient has been observed to long for food, which scarce any extremity of hunger would in health have compelled him to swallow; but while his organs were thus depraved, the craving was irresistible, nor could any rest be obtained till it was appeased by compliance. Of the same nature are the irregular appetites of the mind; though they are often excited by trifles, they are equally disquieting with real wants: the Roman, who wept at the death of his lamprey, felt the same degree of sorrow that extorts tears on other occasions. Inordinate desires, of whatever kind, ought to be repressed upon yet a higher consideration; they must be considered as enemies not only to happiness but to virtue. There are men, among those commonly reckoned the learned and the wise, who spare no stratagems to remove a competitor at an auction, who will sink the price of a rarity at the expense of truth, and whom it is not safe to trust alone in a library or cabinet. These are faults, which the fraternity seem to look upon as jocular mischiefs, or to think excused by the violence of the temptation: but I shall always fear that he, who accustoms himself to fraud in little things, wants only opportunity to practise it in greater; "he that has hardened himself by killing a sheep," says Pythagoras, "will with less reluctance shed the blood of a man." To prize every thing according to its _real_ use ought to be the aim of a rational being. There are few things which can much conduce to happiness, and, therefore, few things to be ardently desired. He that looks upon the business and bustle of the world, with the philosophy with which Socrates surveyed the fair at Athens, will turn away at last with his exclamation, "How many things are here which I do not want!" No. 120. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1753. _--Ultima semper Expectanda dies homini: dicique beatus Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet._ OVID. Met. Lib. iii. 135. But no frail man, however great or high, Can be concluded blest before he die. ADDISON. The numerous miseries of human life have extorted in all ages an universal complaint. The wisest of men terminated all his experiments in search of happiness, by the mournful confession, that "all is vanity;" and the ancient patriarchs lamented, that "the days of their pilgrimage were few and evil." There is, indeed, no topick on which it is more superfluous to accumulate authorities, nor any assertion of which our own eyes will more easily discover, or our sensations more frequently impress the truth, than, that misery is the lot of man, that our present state is a state of danger and infelicity. When we take the most distant prospect of life, what does it present us but a chaos of unhappiness, a confused and tumultuous scene of labour and contest, disappointment and defeat? If we view past ages in the reflection of history, what do they offer to our meditation but crimes and calamities? One year is distinguished by a famine, another by an earthquake; kingdoms are made desolate, sometimes by wars, and sometimes by pestilence; the peace of the world is interrupted at one time by the caprices of a tyrant, at another by the rage of the conqueror. The memory is stored only with vicissitudes of evil; and the happiness, such as it is, of one part of mankind, is found to arise commonly from sanguinary success, from victories which confer upon them the power, not so much of improving life by any new enjoyment, as of inflicting misery on others, and gratifying their own pride by comparative greatness. But by him that examines life with a more close attention, the happiness of the world will be found still less than it appears. In some intervals of publick prosperity, or to use terms more proper, in some intermissions of calamity, a general diffusion of happiness may seem to overspread a people; all is triumph and exultation, jollity and plenty; there are no publick fears and dangers, and "no complainings in the streets." But the condition of individuals is very little mended by this general calm: pain and malice and discontent still continue their havock; the silent depredation goes incessantly forward; and the grave continues to be filled by the victims of sorrow. He that enters a gay assembly, beholds the cheerfulness displayed in every countenance, and finds all sitting vacant and disengaged, with no other attention than to give or to receive pleasure, would naturally imagine, that he had reached at last the metropolis of felicity, the place sacred to gladness of heart, from whence all fear and anxiety were irreversibly excluded. Such, indeed, we may often find to be the opinion of those, who from a lower station look up to the pomp and gaiety which they cannot reach: but who is there of those who frequent these luxurious assemblies, that will not confess his own uneasiness, or cannot recount the vexations and distresses that prey upon the lives of his gay companions? The world, in its best state, is nothing more than a larger assembly of beings, combining to counterfeit happiness which they do not feel, employing every art and contrivance to embellish life, and to hide their real condition from the eyes of one another. The species of happiness most obvious to the observation of others, is that which depends upon the goods of fortune; yet even this is often fictitious. There is in the world more poverty than is generally imagined; not only because many whose possessions are large have desires still larger, and many measure their wants by the gratifications which others enjoy; but great numbers are pressed by real necessities which it is their chief ambition to conceal, and are forced to purchase the appearance of competence and cheerfulness at the expense of many comforts and conveniencies of life. Many, however, are confessedly rich, and many more are sufficiently removed from all danger of real poverty: but it has been long ago remarked, that money cannot purchase quiet; the highest of mankind can promise themselves no exemption from that discord or suspicion, by which the sweetness of domestick retirement is destroyed; and must always be even more exposed, in the same degree as they are elevated above others, to the treachery of dependants, the calumny of defamers and the violence of opponents. Affliction is inseparable from our present state: it adheres to all the inhabitants of this world, in different proportions indeed, but with an allotment which seems very little regulated by our own conduct. It has been the boast of some swelling moralists, that every man's fortune was in his own power, that prudence supplied the place of all other divinities, and that happiness is the unfailing consequence of virtue. But, surely, the quiver of Omnipotence is stored with arrows, against which the shield of human virtue, however adamantine it has been boasted, is held up in vain: we do not always suffer by our crimes; we are not always protected by our innocence. A good man is by no means exempt from the danger of suffering by the crimes of others; even his goodness may raise him enemies of implacable malice and restless perseverance: the good man has never been warranted by Heaven from the treachery of friends, the disobedience of children or the dishonesty of a wife; he may see his cares made useless by profusion, his instructions defeated by perverseness, and his kindness rejected by ingratitude; he may languish under the infamy of false accusations, or perish reproachfully by an unjust sentence. A good man is subject, like other mortals, to all the influences of natural evil; his harvest is not spared by the tempest, nor his cattle by the murrain; his house flames like others in a conflagration; nor have his ships any peculiar power of resisting hurricanes: his mind, however elevated, inhabits a body subject to innumerable casualties, of which he must always share the dangers and the pains; he bears about him the seeds of disease, and may linger away a great part of his life under the tortures of the gout or stone; at one time groaning with insufferable anguish, at another dissolved in listlessness and languor. From this general and indiscriminate distribution of misery, the moralists have always derived one of their strongest moral arguments for a future state; for since the common events of the present life happen alike to the good and bad, it follows from the justice of the Supreme Being, that there must be another state of existence, in which a just retribution shall be made, and every man shall be happy and miserable according to his works. The miseries of life may, perhaps, afford some proof of a future state, compared as well with the mercy as the justice of God. It is scarcely to be imagined that Infinite Benevolence would create a being capable of enjoying so much more than is here to be enjoyed, and qualified by nature to prolong pain by remembrance, and anticipate it by terrour, if he was not designed for something nobler and better than a state, in which many of his faculties can serve only for his torment; in which he is to be importuned by desires that never can be satisfied, to feel many evils which he had no power to avoid, and to fear many which he shall never feel: there will surely come a time, when every capacity of happiness shall be filled, and none shall be wretched but by his own fault. In the mean time, it is by affliction chiefly that the heart of man is purified, and that the thoughts are fixed upon a better state. Prosperity, allayed and imperfect as it is, has power to intoxicate the imagination, to fix the mind upon the present scene, to produce confidence and elation, and to make him who enjoys affluence and honours forget the hand by which they were bestowed. It is seldom that we are otherwise, than by affliction, awakened to a sense of our own imbecility, or taught to know how little all our acquisitions can conduce to safety or to quiet; and how justly we may ascribe to the superintendence of a higher Power, those blessings which in the wantonness of success we considered as the attainments of our policy or courage. Nothing confers so much ability to resist the temptations that perpetually surround us, as an habitual consideration of the shortness of life, and the uncertainty of those pleasures that solicit our pursuit; and this consideration can be inculcated only by affliction. "O Death! how bitter is the remembrance of thee, to a man that lives at ease in his possessions!" If our present state were one continued succession of delights, or one uniform flow of calmness and tranquillity, we should never willingly think upon its end; death would then surely surprise us as "a thief in the night;" and our task of duty would remain unfinished, till "the night came when no man can work." While affliction thus prepares us for felicity, we may console ourselves under its pressures, by remembering, that they are no particular marks of divine displeasure; since all the distresses of persecution have been suffered by those, "of whom the world was not worthy;" and the Redeemer of mankind himself was "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief!" No. 126. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1754. --_Steriles nec legit arenas Ut caner et paucis, mersitque hoc pulvere verum._ LUCAN. Canst thou believe the vast eternal Mind Was e'er to Syrts and Lybian sands confin'd? That he would choose this waste, this barren ground, To teach the thin inhabitants around, And leave his truth in wilds and deserts drown'd? There has always prevailed among that part of mankind that addict their minds to speculation, a propensity to talk much of the delights of retirement: and some of the most pleasing compositions produced in every age contain descriptions of the peace and happiness of a country life. I know not whether those who thus ambitiously repeat the praises of solitude, have always considered, how much they depreciate mankind by declaring, that whatever is excellent or desirable is to be obtained by departing from them; that the assistance which we may derive from one another, is not equivalent to the evils which we have to fear; that the kindness of a few is overbalanced by the malice of many; and that the protection of society is too dearly purchased by encountering its dangers and enduring its oppressions. These specious representations of solitary happiness, however opprobrious to human nature, have so far spread their influence over the world, that almost every man delights his imagination with the hopes of obtaining some time an opportunity of retreat. Many, indeed, who enjoy retreat only in imagination, content themselves with believing, that another year will transport them to rural tranquillity, and die while they talk of doing what, if they had lived longer, they would never have done. But many likewise there are, either of greater resolution or more credulity, who in earnest try the state which they have been taught to think thus secure from cares and dangers; and retire to privacy, either that they may improve their happiness, increase their knowledge, or exalt their virtue. The greater part of the admirers of solitude, as of all other classes of mankind, have no higher or remoter view, than the present gratification of their passions. Of these, some, haughty and impetuous, fly from society only because they cannot bear to repay to others the regard which themselves exact; and think no state of life eligible, but that which places them out of the reach of censure or control, and affords them opportunities of living in a perpetual compliance with their own inclinations, without the necessity of regulating their actions by any other man's convenience or opinion. There are others, of minds more delicate and tender, easily offended by every deviation from rectitude, soon disgusted by ignorance or impertinence, and always expecting from the conversation of mankind more elegance, purity and truth, than the mingled mass of life will easily afford. Such men are in haste to retire from grossness, falsehood and brutality; and hope to find in private habitations at least a negative felicity, an exemption from the shocks and perturbations with which publick scenes are continually distressing them. To neither of these votaries will solitude afford that content, which she has been taught so lavishly to promise. The man of arrogance will quickly discover, that by escaping from his opponents he has lost his flatterers, that greatness is nothing where it is not seen, and power nothing where it cannot be felt: and he, whose faculties are employed in too close an observation of failings and defects, will find his condition very little mended by transferring his attention from others to himself: he will probably soon come back in quest of new objects, and be glad to keep his captiousness employed on any character rather than his own. Others are seduced into solitude merely by the authority of great names, and expect to find those charms in tranquillity which have allured statesmen and conquerors to the shades: these likewise are apt to wonder at their disappointment, for want of considering, that those whom they aspire to imitate carried with them to their country-seats minds full fraught with subjects of reflection, the consciousness of great merit, the memory of illustrious actions, the knowledge of important events, and the seeds of mighty designs to be ripened by future meditation. Solitude was to such men a release from fatigue, and an opportunity of usefulness. But what can retirement confer upon him, who having done nothing can receive no support from his own importance, who having known nothing can find no entertainment in reviewing the past, and who intending nothing can form no hopes from prospects of the future? He can, surely, take no wiser course than that of losing himself again in the crowd, and filling the vacuities of his mind with the news of the day. Others consider solitude as the parent of philosophy, and retire in expectation of greater intimacies with science, as Numa repaired to the groves when he conferred with Egeria. These men have not always reason to repent. Some studies require a continued prosecution of the same train of thought, such as is too often interrupted by the petty avocations of common life: sometimes, likewise, it is necessary, that a multiplicity of objects be at once present to the mind; and every thing, therefore, must be kept at a distance, which may perplex the memory or dissipate the attention. But though learning may be conferred by solitude, its application must be attained by general converse. He has learned to no purpose, that is not able to teach; and he will always teach unsuccessfully, who cannot recommend his sentiments by his diction or address. Even the acquisition of knowledge is often much facilitated by the advantages of society: he that never compares his notions with those of others, readily acquiesces in his first thoughts, and very seldom discovers the objections which may be raised against his opinions; he, therefore, often thinks himself in possession of truth, when he is only fondling an errour long since exploded. He that has neither companions nor rivals in his studies, will always applaud his own progress, and think highly of his performances, because he knows not that others have equalled or excelled him. And I am afraid it may be added, that the student who withdraws himself from the world, will soon feel that ardour extinguished which praise or emulation had enkindled, and take the advantage of secrecy to sleep, rather than to labour. There remains yet another set of recluses, whose intention entitles them to higher respect, and whose motives deserve a more serious consideration. These retire from the world, not merely to bask in ease or gratify curiosity, but that, being disengaged from common cares, they may employ more time in the duties of religion; that they may regulate their actions with stricter vigilance, and purify their thoughts by more frequent meditation. To men thus elevated above the mists of mortality, I am far from presuming myself qualified to give directions. On him that appears to "pass through things temporal," with no other care than not to "finally lose the things eternal," I look with such veneration as inclines me to approve his conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its parts; yet I could never forbear to wish, that while vice is every day multiplying seducements, and stalking forth with more hardened effrontery, virtue would not withdraw the influence of her presence, or forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance in the right. Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of Heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and however free from taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendour of beneficence. Our Maker, who, though he gave us such varieties of temper and such difference of powers, yet designed us all for happiness, undoubtedly intended that we should obtain that happiness by different means. Some are unable to resist the temptations of importunity, or the impetuosity of their own passions incited by the force of present temptations: of these it is undoubtedly the duty to fly from enemies which they cannot conquer, and cultivate, in the calm of solitude, that virtue which is too tender to endure the tempests of publick life. But there are others, whose passions grow more strong and irregular in privacy; and who cannot maintain an uniform tenour of virtue, but by exposing their manners to the publick eye, and assisting the admonitions of conscience with the fear of infamy: for such it is dangerous to exclude all witnesses of their conduct, till they have formed strong habits of virtue, and weakened their passions by frequent victories. But there is a higher order of men so inspired with ardour, and so fortified with resolution, that the world passes before them without influence or regard: these ought to consider themselves as appointed the guardians of mankind: they are placed in an evil world, to exhibit publick examples of good life; and may be said, when they withdraw to solitude, to desert the station which Providence assigned them. No. 128. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1754. _Ille sinistrorsum, hic dextrorsum abit; unus utrique Error, sed variis illudit partibus._--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. iii. 50. When in a wood we leave the certain way, One error fools us, though we various stray, Some to the left, and some to t'other side. FRANCIS. It is common among all the classes of mankind, to charge each other with trifling away life: every man looks on the occupation or amusement of his neighbour, as something below the dignity of our nature, and unworthy of the attention of a rational being. A man who considers the paucity of the wants of nature, and who, being acquainted with the various means by which all manual occupations are now facilitated, observes what numbers are supported by the labour of a few, would, indeed, be inclined to wonder, how the multitudes who are exempted from the necessity of working, either for themselves or others, find business to fill up the vacuities of life. The greater part of mankind neither card the fleece, dig the mine, fell the wood, nor gather in the harvest; they neither tend herds nor build houses; in what then are they employed? This is certainly a question, which a distant prospect of the world will not enable us to answer. We find all ranks and ages mingled together in a tumultuous confusion, with haste in their motions, and eagerness in their looks; but what they have to pursue or avoid, a more minute observation must inform them. When we analyze the crowd into individuals, it soon appears that the passions and imaginations of men will not easily suffer them to be idle: we see things coveted merely because they are rare, and pursued because they are fugitive; we see men conspire to fix an arbitrary value on that which is worthless in itself, and then contend for the possession. One is a collector of fossils, of which he knows no other use than to show them; and when he has stocked his own repository, grieves that the stones which he has left behind him should be picked up by another. The florist nurses a tulip, and repines that his rival's beds enjoy the same showers and sunshine with his own. This man is hurrying to a concert, only lest others should have heard the new musician before him; another bursts from his company to the play, because he fancies himself the patron of an actress; some spend the morning in consultations with their tailor, and some in directions to their cook; some are forming parties for cards, and some laying wagers at a horse-race. It cannot, I think, be denied, that some of these lives are passed in trifles, in occupations by which the busy neither benefit themselves nor others, and by which no man could be long engaged, who seriously considered what he was doing, or had knowledge enough to compare what he is, with what he might be made. However, as people who have the same inclination generally flock together, every trifler is kept in countenance by the sight of others as unprofitably active as himself; by kindling the heat of competition, he in time thinks himself important, and by having his mind intensely engaged, he is secured from weariness of himself. Some degree of self-approbation is always the reward of diligence; and I cannot, therefore, but consider the laborious cultivation of petty pleasures, as a more happy and more virtuous disposition, than that universal contempt and haughty negligence, which is sometimes associated with powerful faculties, but is often assumed by indolence when it disowns its name, and aspires to the appellation of greatness of mind. It has been long observed, that drollery and ridicule is the most easy kind of wit: let it be added that contempt and arrogance is the easiest philosophy. To find some objection to every thing, and to dissolve in perpetual laziness under pretence that occasions are wanting to call forth activity, to laugh at those who are ridiculously busy without setting an example of more rational industry, is no less in the power of the meanest than of the highest intellects. Our present state has placed us at once in such different relations, that every human employment, which is not a visible and immediate act of goodness, will be in some respect or other subject to contempt; but it is true, likewise, that almost every act, which is not directly vicious, is in some respect beneficial and laudable. "I often," says Bruyere, "observe from my window, two beings of erect form and amiable countenance, endowed with the powers of reason, able to clothe their thoughts in language, and convey their notions to each other. They rise early in the morning, and are every day employed till sunset in rubbing two smooth stones together, or, in other terms, in polishing marble." "If lions could paint," says the fable, "in the room of those pictures which exhibit men vanquishing lions, we should see lions feeding upon men." If the stone-cutter could have written like Bruyere, what would he have replied? "I look up," says he, "every day from my shop, upon a man whom the idlers, who stand still to gaze upon my work, often celebrate as a wit and a philosopher. I often perceive his face clouded with care, and am told that his taper is sometimes burning at midnight. The sight of a man who works so much harder than myself, excited my curiosity. I heard no sound of tools in his apartment, and, therefore, could not imagine what he was doing; but was told at last, that he was writing descriptions of mankind, who when he had described them would live just as they had lived before; that he sat up whole nights to change a sentence, because the sound of a letter was too often repeated: that he was often disquieted with doubts, about the propriety of a word which every body understood; that he would hesitate between two expressions equally proper, till he could not fix his choice but by consulting his friends; that he will run from one end of Paris to the other, for an opportunity of reading a period to a nice ear; that if a single line is heard with coldness and inattention, he returns home dejected and disconsolate; and that by all this care and labour, he hopes only to make a little book, which at last will teach no useful art, and which none who has it not will perceive himself to want. I have often wondered for what end such a being as this was sent into the world; and should be glad to see those who live thus foolishly, seized by an order of the government, and obliged to labour at some useful occupation." Thus, by a partial and imperfect representation, may every thing be made equally ridiculous. He that gazed with contempt on human beings rubbing stones together, might have prolonged the same amusement by walking through the city, and seeing others with looks of importance heaping one brick upon another; or by rambling into the country, where he might observe other creatures of the same kind driving a piece of sharp iron into the clay, or, in the language of men less enlightened, ploughing the field. As it is thus easy by a detail of minute circumstances to make every thing little, so it is not difficult by an aggregation of effects to make every thing great. The polisher of marble may be forming ornaments for the palaces of virtue, and the schools of science; or providing tables on which the actions of heroes and the discoveries of sages shall be recorded, for the incitement and instruction of generations. The mason is exercising one of the principal arts by which reasoning beings are distinguished from the brute, the art to which life owes much of its safety and all its convenience, by which we are secured from the inclemency of the seasons, and fortified against the ravages of hostility; and the ploughman is changing the face of nature, diffusing plenty and happiness over kingdoms, and compelling the earth to give food to her inhabitants. Greatness and littleness are terms merely comparative; and we err in our estimation of things, because we measure them by some wrong standard. The trifler proposes to himself only to equal or excel some other trifler, and is happy or miserable as he succeeds or miscarries: the man of sedentary desire and unactive ambition sits comparing his power with his wishes; and makes his inability to perform things impossible, an excuse to himself for performing nothing. Man can only form a just estimate of his own actions, by making his power the test of his performance, by comparing what he does with what he can do. Whoever steadily perseveres in the exertion of all his faculties, does what is great with respect to himself; and what will not be despised by Him, who has given to all created beings their different abilities: he faithfully performs the task of life, within whatever limits his labours may be confined, or how soon soever they may be forgotten. We can conceive so much more than we can accomplish, that whoever tries his own actions by his imagination, may appear despicable in his own eyes. He that despises for its littleness any thing really useful, has no pretensions to applaud the grandeur of his conceptions; since nothing but narrowness of mind hinders him from seeing, that by pursuing the same principles every thing limited will appear contemptible. He that neglects the care of his family, while his benevolence expands itself in scheming the happiness of imaginary kingdoms, might with equal reason sit on a throne dreaming of universal empire, and of the diffusion of blessings over all the globe: yet even this globe is little, compared with the system of matter within our view! and that system barely something more than nonentity, compared with the boundless regions of space, to which neither eye nor imagination can extend. From conceptions, therefore, of what we might have been, and from wishes to be what we are not, conceptions that we know to be foolish, and wishes which we feel to be vain, we must necessarily descend to the consideration of what we are. We have powers very scanty in their utmost extent, but which in different men are differently proportioned. Suitably to these powers we have duties prescribed, which we must neither decline for the sake of delighting ourselves with easier amusements, nor overlook in idle contemplation of greater excellence or more extensive comprehension. In order to the right conduct of our lives, we must remember, that we are not born to please ourselves. He that studies simply his own satisfaction, will always find the proper business of his station too hard or too easy for him. But if we bear continually in mind our relation to the Father of Being, by whom we are placed in the world, and who has allotted us the part which we are to bear in the general system of life, we shall be easily persuaded to resign our own inclinations to Unerring Wisdom, and do the work decreed for us with cheerfulness and diligence. No. 131. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1754. --_Misce Ergo aliquid nostris de moribus_. JUV. Sat. iv. 322. And mingle something of our times to please. DRYDEN, Jun. Fontanelle, in his panegyrick on Sir Isaac Newton, closes a long enumeration of that great philosopher's virtues and attainments, with an observation, that "he was not distinguished from other men, by any singularity either natural or affected." It is an eminent instance of Newton's superiority to the rest of mankind, that he was able to separate knowledge from those weaknesses by which knowledge is generally disgraced; that he was able to excel in science and wisdom without purchasing them by the neglect of little things; and that he stood alone, merely because he had left the rest of mankind behind him, not because he deviated from the beaten track. Whoever, after the example of Plutarch, should compare the lives of illustrious men, might set this part of Newton's character to view with great advantage, by opposing it to that of Bacon, perhaps the only man, of later ages, who has any pretensions to dispute with him the palm of genius or science. Bacon, after he had added to a long and careful contemplation of almost every other object of knowledge a curious inspection into common life, and after having surveyed nature as a philosopher, had examined "men's business and bosoms" as a statesman; yet failed so much in the conduct of domestick affairs, that, in the most lucrative post to which a great and wealthy kingdom could advance him, he felt all the miseries of distressful poverty, and committed all the crimes to which poverty incites. Such were at once his negligence and rapacity, that, as it is said, he would gain by unworthy practices that money, which, when so acquired, his servants might steal from one end of the table, while he sat studious and abstracted at the other. As scarcely any man has reached the excellence, very few have sunk to the weakness of Bacon: but almost all the studious tribe, as they obtain any participation of his knowledge, feel likewise some contagion of his defects; and obstruct the veneration which learning would procure, by follies greater or less, to which only learning could betray them. It has been formerly remarked by _The Guardian_, that the world punishes with too great severity the errours of those, who imagine that the ignorance of little things may be compensated by the knowledge of great; for so it is, that as more can detect petty failings than can distinguish or esteem great qualifications, and as mankind is in general more easily disposed to censure than to admiration, contempt is often incurred by slight mistakes, which real virtue or usefulness cannot counterbalance. Yet such mistakes and inadvertencies it is not easy for a man deeply immersed in study to avoid; no man can become qualified for the common intercourses of life, by private meditation: the manners of the world are not a regular system, planned by philosophers upon settled principles, in which every cause has a congruous effect, and one part has a just reference to another. Of the fashions prevalent in every country, a few have arisen, perhaps, from particular temperatures of the climate; a few more from the constitution of the government; but the greater part have grown up by chance; been started by caprice, been contrived by affectation, or borrowed without any just motives of choice from other countries. Of all these, the savage that hunts his prey upon the mountains, and the sage that speculates in his closet, must necessarily live in equal ignorance: yet by the observation of those trifles it is, that the ranks of mankind are kept in order, that the address of one to another is regulated, and the general business of the world carried on with facility and method. These things, therefore, though small in themselves, become great by their frequency: and he very much mistakes his own interest, who to the unavoidable unskilfulness of abstraction and retirement, adds a voluntary neglect of common forms, and increases the disadvantages of a studious course of life by an arrogant contempt of those practices, by which others endeavour to gain favour and multiply friendships. A real and interior disdain of fashion and ceremony, is indeed, not very often to be found: much the greater part of those who pretend to laugh at foppery and formality, secretly wish to have possessed those qualifications which they pretend to despise; and because they find it difficult to wash away the tincture which they have so deeply imbibed, endeavour to harden themselves in a sullen approbation of their own colour. Neutrality is a state, into which the busy passions of man cannot easily subside; and he who is in danger of the pangs of envy, is generally forced to recreate his imagination with an effort of comfort. Some, however, may be found, who, supported by the consciousness of great abilities, and elevated by a long course of reputation and applause, voluntarily consign themselves to singularity, affect to cross the roads of life because they know that they shall not be jostled, and indulge a boundless gratification of will because they perceive that they shall be quietly obeyed. Men of this kind are generally known by the name of Humourists, an appellation by which he that has obtained it, and can be contented to keep it, is set free at once from the shackles of fashion: and can go in or out, sit or stand, be talkative or silent, gloomy or merry, advance absurdities or oppose demonstration, without any other reprehension from mankind, than that it is his way, that he is an odd fellow, and must be let alone. This seems to many an easy passport through the various factions of mankind; and those on whom it is bestowed, appear too frequently to consider the patience with which their caprices are suffered as an undoubted evidence of their own importance, of a genius to which submission is universally paid, and whose irregularities are only considered as consequences of its vigour. These peculiarities, however, are always found to spot a character, though they may not totally obscure it; and he who expects from mankind, that they should give up established customs in compliance with his single will, and exacts that deference which he does not pay, may be endured, but can never be approved. Singularity is, I think, in its own nature universally and invariably displeasing. In whatever respect a man differs from others, he must be considered by them as either worse or better: by being better, it is well known that a man gains admiration oftener than love, since all approbation of his practice must necessarily condemn him that gives it; and though a man often pleases by inferiority, there are few who desire to give such pleasure. Yet the truth is, that singularity is almost always regarded as a brand of slight reproach; and where it is associated with acknowledged merit, serves as an abatement or an allay of excellence, by which weak eyes are reconciled to its lustre, and by which, though kindness is not gained, at least envy is averted. But let no man be in haste to conclude his own merit so great or conspicuous, as to require or justify singularity: it is as hazardous for a moderate understanding to usurp the prerogatives of genius, as for a common form to play over the airs of uncontested beauty. The pride of men will not patiently endure to see one, whose understanding or attainments are but level with their own, break the rules by which they have consented to be bound, or forsake the direction which they submissively follow. All violation of established practice implies in its own nature a rejection of the common opinion, a defiance of common censure, and an appeal from general laws to private judgment: he, therefore, who differs from others without apparent advantage, ought not to be angry if his arrogance is punished with ridicule; if those whose example he superciliously overlooks, point him out to derision, and hoot him back again into the common road. The pride of singularity is often exerted in little things, where right and wrong are indeterminable, and where, therefore, vanity is without excuse. But there are occasions on which it is noble to dare to stand alone. To be pious among infidels, to be disinterested in a time of general venality, to lead a life of virtue and reason in the midst of sensualists, is a proof of a mind intent on nobler things than the praise or blame of men, of a soul fixed in the contemplation of the highest good, and superior to the tyranny of custom and example. In moral and religious questions only, a wise man will hold no consultations with fashion, because these duties are constant and immutable, and depend not on the notions of men, but the commands of Heaven: yet even of these, the external mode is to be in some measure regulated by the prevailing taste of the age in which we live; for he is certainly no friend to virtue, who neglects to give it any lawful attraction, or suffers it to deceive the eye or alienate the affections for want of innocent compliance with fashionable decorations. It is yet remembered of the learned and pious Nelson[1], that he was remarkably elegant in his manners, and splendid in his dress. He knew, that the eminence of his character drew many eyes upon him; and he was careful not to drive the young or the gay away from religion, by representing it as an enemy to any distinction or enjoyment in which human nature may innocently delight. In this censure of singularity, I have, therefore, no intention to subject reason or conscience to custom or example. To comply with the notions and practices of mankind, is in some degree the duty of a social being; because by compliance only he can please, and by pleasing only he can become useful: but as the end is not to be lost for the sake of the means, we are not to give up virtue to complaisance; for the end of complaisance is only to gain the kindness of our fellow-beings, whose kindness is desirable only as instrumental to happiness, and happiness must be always lost by departure from virtue. [1] The neglect of his writings must be considered as indicative of an increasing neglect of that apostolical establishment, whose Fasts and Festivals this author has illustrated with a raciness of style and sentiment worthy of a primitive father of the Church. No. 137. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1754. [Greek: Ti d erexa]; PYTHAG. What have I been doing? As man is a being very sparingly furnished with the power of prescience, he can provide for the future only by considering the past; and as futurity is all in which he has any real interest, he ought very diligently to use the only means by which he can be enabled to enjoy it, and frequently to revolve the experiments which he has hitherto made upon life, that he may gain wisdom from his mistakes, and caution from his miscarriages. Though I do not so exactly conform to the precepts of Pythagoras, as to practise every night this solemn recollection, yet I am not so lost in dissipation as wholly to omit it; nor can I forbear sometimes to inquire of myself, in what employment my life has passed away. Much of my time has sunk into nothing, and left no trace by which it can be distinguished; and of this I now only know, that it was once in my power, and might once have been improved. Of other parts of life, memory can give some account; at some hours I have been gay, and at others serious; I have sometimes mingled in conversation, and sometimes meditated in solitude; one day has been spent in consulting the ancient sages, and another in writing _Adventurers_. At the conclusion of any undertaking, it is usual to compute the loss and profit. As I shall soon cease to write _Adventurers_, I could not forbear lately to consider what has been the consequence of my labours; and whether I am to reckon the hours laid out in these compositions, as applied to a good and laudable purpose, or suffered to fume away in useless evaporations. That I have intended well, I have the attestation of my own heart: but good intentions may be frustrated when they are executed without suitable skill, or directed to an end unattainable in itself. Some there are, who leave writers very little room for self-congratulation; some who affirm, that books have no influence upon the publick, that no age was ever made better by its authors, and that to call upon mankind to correct their manners, is, like Xerxes, to scourge the wind, or shackle the torrent. This opinion they pretend to support by unfailing experience. The world is full of fraud and corruption, rapine or malignity; interest is the ruling motive of mankind, and every one is endeavouring to increase his own stores of happiness by perpetual accumulation, without reflecting upon the numbers whom his superfluity condemns to want: in this state of things a book of morality is published, in which charity and benevolence are strongly enforced; and it is proved beyond opposition, that men are happy in proportion as they are virtuous, and rich as they are liberal. The book is applauded, and the author is preferred; he imagines his applause deserved, and receives less pleasure from the acquisition of reward than the consciousness of merit. Let us look again upon mankind: interest is still the ruling motive, and the world is yet full of fraud and corruption, malevolence and rapine. The difficulty of confuting this assertion, arises merely from its generality and comprehension; to overthrow it by a detail of distinct facts, requires a wider survey of the world than human eyes can take; the progress of reformation is gradual and silent, as the extension of evening shadows; we know that they were short at noon, and are long at sunset, but our senses were not able to discern their increase: we know of every civil nation, that it was once savage, and how was it reclaimed but by precept and admonition? Mankind are universally corrupt, but corrupt in different degrees; as they are universally ignorant, yet with greater or less irradiations of knowledge. How has knowledge or virtue been increased and preserved in one place beyond another, but by diligent inculcation and rational enforcement? Books of morality are daily written, yet its influence is still little in the world; so the ground is annually ploughed, and yet multitudes are in want of bread. But, surely, neither the labours of the moralist nor of the husbandman are vain: let them for a while neglect their tasks, and their usefulness will be known; the wickedness that is now frequent will become universal, the bread that is now scarce would wholly fail. The power, indeed, of every individual is small, and the consequence of his endeavours imperceptible, in a general prospect of the world. Providence has given no man ability to do much, that something might be left for every man to do. The business of life is carried on by a general co-operation; in which the part of any single man can be no more distinguished, than the effect of a particular drop when the meadows are floated by a summer shower: yet every drop increases the inundation, and every hand adds to the happiness or misery of mankind. That a writer, however zealous or eloquent, seldom works a visible effect upon cities or nations, will readily be granted. The book which is read most, is read by few, compared with those that read it not; and of those few, the greater part peruse it with dispositions that very little favour their own improvement. It is difficult to enumerate the several motives which procure to books the honour of perusal: spite, vanity, and curiosity, hope and fear, love and hatred, every passion which incites to any other action, serves at one time or other to stimulate a reader. Some are fond to take a celebrated volume into their hands, because they hope to distinguish their penetration, by finding faults which have escaped the publick; others eagerly buy it in the first bloom of reputation, that they may join the chorus of praise, and not lag, as Falstaff terms it, in "the rearward of the fashion." Some read for style, and some for argument: one has little care about the sentiment, he observes only how it is expressed; another regards not the conclusion, but is diligent to mark how it is inferred: they read for other purposes than the attainment of practical knowledge; and are no more likely to grow wise by an examination of a treatise of moral prudence, than an architect to inflame his devotion by considering attentively the proportions of a temple. Some read that they may embellish their conversation, or shine in dispute; some that they may not be detected in ignorance, or want the reputation of literary accomplishments: but the most general and prevalent reason of study is the impossibility of finding another amusement equally cheap or constant, equally independent on the hour or the weather. He that wants money to follow the chase of pleasure through her yearly circuit, and is left at home when the gay world rolls to Bath or Tunbridge; he whose gout compels him to hear from his chamber the rattle of chariots transporting happier beings to plays and assemblies, will be forced to seek in books a refuge from himself. The author is not wholly useless, who provides innocent amusements for minds like these. There are, in the present state of things, so many more instigations to evil, than incitements to good, that he who keeps men in a neutral state, may be justly considered as a benefactor to life. But, perhaps, it seldom happens, that study terminates in mere pastime. Books have always a secret influence on the understanding; we cannot, at pleasure, obliterate ideas: he that reads books of science, though without any fixed desire of improvement, will grow more knowing; he that entertains himself with moral or religious treatises, will imperceptibly advance in goodness; the ideas which are often offered to the mind, will at last find a lucky moment when it is disposed to receive them. It is, therefore, urged without reason, as a discouragement to writers, that there are already books sufficient in the world; that all the topicks of persuasion have been discussed, and every important question clearly stated and justly decided; and that, therefore, there is no room to hope, that pigmies should conquer where heroes have been defeated, or that the petty copiers of the present time should advance the great work of reformation, which their predecessors were forced to leave unfinished. Whatever be the present extent of human knowledge, it is not only finite, and therefore in its own nature capable of increase, but so narrow, that almost every understanding may, by a diligent application of its powers, hope to enlarge it. It is, however, not necessary that a man should forbear to write, till he has discovered some truth unknown before; he may be sufficiently useful, by only diversifying the surface of knowledge, and luring the mind by a new appearance to a second view of those beauties which it had passed over inattentively before. Every writer may find intellects correspondent to his own, to whom his expressions are familiar, and his thoughts congenial; and, perhaps, truth is often more successfully propagated by men of moderate abilities, who, adopting the opinions of others, have no care but to explain them clearly, than by subtle speculatists and curious searchers, who exact from their readers powers equal to their own, and if their fabricks of science be strong, take no care to render them accessible. For my part, I do not regret the hours which I have laid out in these little compositions. That the world has grown apparently better, since the publication of the _Adventurer_, I have not observed; but am willing to think, that many have been affected by single sentiments, of which it is their business to renew the impression; that many have caught hints of truth, which it is now their duty to pursue; and that those who have received no improvement, have wanted not opportunity but intention to improve. No. 138. SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1754. _Quid pure tranquillet; honos, an dulce lucellum, An secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitae._ HOR. Lib, i. Ep. xviii. 102. Whether the tranquil mind and pure, Honours or wealth our bliss ensure: Or down through life unknown to stray, Where lonely leads the silent way. FRANCIS. Having considered the importance of authors to the welfare of the publick, I am led by a natural train of thought, to reflect on their condition with regard to themselves; and to inquire what degree of happiness or vexation is annexed to the difficult and laborious employment of providing instruction or entertainment for mankind. In estimating the pain or pleasure of any particular state, every man, indeed, draws his decisions from his own breast, and cannot with certainty determine whether other minds are affected by the same causes in the same manner. Yet by this criterion we must be content to judge, because no other can be obtained; and, indeed, we have no reason to think it very fallacious, for excepting here and there an anomalous mind, which either does not feel like others, or dissembles its sensibility, we find men unanimously concur in attributing happiness or misery to particular conditions, as they agree in acknowledging the cold of winter and the heat of autumn. If we apply to authors themselves for an account of their state, it will appear very little to deserve envy; for they have in all ages been addicted to complaint. The neglect of learning, the ingratitude of the present age, and the absurd preference by which ignorance and dulness often obtain favour and rewards, have been from age to age topicks of invective; and few have left their names to posterity, without some appeal to future candour from the perverseness and malice of their own times. I have, nevertheless, been often inclined to doubt, whether authors, however querulous, are in reality more miserable than their fellow mortals. The present life is to all a state of infelicity; every man, like an author, believes himself to merit more than he obtains, and solaces the present with the prospect of the future; others, indeed, suffer those disappointments in silence, of which the writer complains, to show how well he has learnt the art of lamentation. There is at least one gleam of felicity, of which few writers have missed the enjoyment: he whose hopes have so far overpowered his fears, as that he has resolved to stand forth a candidate for fame, seldom fails to amuse himself, before his appearance, with pleasing scenes of affluence or honour: while his fortune is yet under the regulation of fancy, he easily models it to his wish, suffers no thoughts of criticks or rivals to intrude upon his mind, but counts over the bounties of patronage, or listens to the voice of praise. Some there are, that talk very luxuriously of the second period of an author's happiness, and tell of the tumultuous raptures of invention, when the mind riots in imagery, and the choice stands suspended between different sentiments. These pleasures, I believe, may sometimes be indulged to those, who come to a subject of disquisition with minds full of ideas, and with fancies so vigorous, as easily to excite, select, and arrange them. To write is, indeed, no unpleasing employment, when one sentiment readily produces another, and both ideas and expressions present themselves at the first summons; but such happiness, the greatest genius does not always obtain; and common writers know it only to such a degree, as to credit its possibility. Composition is, for the most part, an effort of slow diligence and steady perseverance, to which the mind is dragged by necessity or resolution, and from which the attention is every moment starting to more delightful amusements. It frequently happens, that a design which, when considered at a distance, gave flattering hopes of facility, mocks us in the execution with unexpected difficulties; the mind which, while it considered it in the gross, imagined itself amply furnished with materials, finds sometimes an unexpected barrenness and vacuity, and wonders whither all those ideas are vanished, which a little before seemed struggling for emission. Sometimes many thoughts present themselves; but so confused and unconnected, that they are not without difficulty reduced to method, or concatenated in a regular and dependent series; the mind falls at once into a labyrinth, of which neither the beginning nor end can be discovered, and toils and struggles without progress or extrication. It is asserted by Horace, that, "if matter be once got together, words will be found with very little difficulty;" a position which, though sufficiently plausible to be inserted in poetical precepts, is by no means strictly and philosophically true. If words were naturally and necessarily consequential to sentiments, it would always follow, that he who has most knowledge must have most eloquence, and that every man would clearly express what he fully understood: yet we find, that to think, and discourse, are often the qualities of different persons: and many books might surely be produced, where just and noble sentiments are degraded and obscured by unsuitable diction. Words, therefore, as well as things, claim the care of an author. Indeed of many authors, and those not useless or contemptible, words are almost the only care: many make it their study, not so much to strike out new sentiments, as to recommend those which are already known to more favourable notice by fairer decorations; but every man, whether he copies or invents, whether he delivers his own thoughts or those of another, has often found himself deficient in the power of expression, big with ideas which he could not utter, obliged to ransack his memory for terms adequate to his conceptions, and at last unable to impress upon his reader the image existing in his own mind. It is one of the common distresses of a writer, to be within a word of a happy period, to want only a single epithet to give amplification its full force, to require only a correspondent term in order to finish a paragraph with elegance, and make one of its members answer to the other; but these deficiencies cannot always be supplied: and after a long study and vexation, the passage is turned anew, and the web unwoven that was so nearly finished. But when thoughts and words are collected and adjusted, and the whole composition at last concluded, it seldom gratifies the author, when he comes coolly and deliberately to review it, with the hopes which had been excited in the fury of the performance: novelty always captivates the mind; as our thoughts rise fresh upon us, we readily believe them just and original, which, when the pleasure of production is over, we find to be mean and common, or borrowed from the works of others, and supplied by memory rather than invention. But though it should happen that the writer finds no such faults in his performance, he is still to remember, that he looks upon it with partial eyes: and when he considers, how much men, who could judge of others with great exactness, have often failed of judging of themselves, he will be afraid of deciding too hastily in his own favour, or of allowing himself to contemplate with too much complacence, treasure that has not yet been brought to the test, nor passed the only trial that can stamp its value. From the publick, and only from the publick, is he to await a confirmation of his claim, and a final justification of self-esteem; but the publick is not easily persuaded to favour an author. If mankind were left to judge for themselves, it is reasonable to imagine, that of such writings, at least, as describe the movements of the human passions, and of which every man carries the archetype within him, a just opinion would be formed; but whoever has remarked the fate of books, must have found it governed by other causes than general consent arising from general conviction. If a new performance happens not to fall into the hands of some who have courage to tell, and authority to propagate their opinion, it often remains long in obscurity, and perishes unknown and unexamined. A few, a very few, commonly constitute the taste of the time; the judgment which they have once pronounced, some are too lazy to discuss, and some too timorous to contradict; it may however be, I think, observed, that their power is greater to depress than exalt, as mankind are more credulous of censure than of praise. This perversion of the publick judgment is not to be rashly numbered amongst the miseries of an author; since it commonly serves, after miscarriage, to reconcile him to himself. Because the world has sometimes passed an unjust sentence, he readily concludes the sentence unjust by which his performance is condemned; because some have been exalted above their merits by partiality, he is sure to ascribe the success of a rival, not to the merit of his work, but the zeal of his patrons. Upon the whole, as the author seems to share all the common miseries of life, he appears to partake likewise of its lenitives and abatements[1]. [1] See a pamphlet entitled "The Case of Authors by Profession," 8vo. 1758. It is the production of Mr. James Ralph, who knew from painful experience the bitter evils incident to an employment which yielded a bare maintenance to Johnson himself. For anecdotes of Ralph, and the work alluded to, see Dr. Drake's Essays on Rambler, &c. vol. i. p. 96. THE IDLER. ADVERTISEMENT. The IDLER having omitted to distinguish the essays of his correspondents by any particular signature, thinks it necessary to inform his readers, that from the ninth, the fifteenth, thirty-third, forty-second, fifty-fourth, sixty-seventh, seventy-sixth, seventy-ninth, eighty-second, ninety-third, ninety-sixth, and ninety-eighth papers, he claims no other praise than that of having given them to the publick[1]. [1] The names of the Authors of these Papers, as far as known, will be given in the course of the present edition. THE IDLER. No. 1. SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1758. _--Vacui sub umbra Lusimus_.--Hor. Lib. i. Ode xxxii. 1. Those who attempt periodical essays seem to be often stopped in the beginning, by the difficulty of finding a proper title. Two writers, since the time of the Spectator, have assumed his name[1] without any pretensions to lawful inheritance; an effort was once made to revive the Tatler[2], and the strange appellations, by which other papers have been called, show that the authors were distressed, like the natives of America, who come to the Europeans to beg a name. It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if his title had required any search, he never would have found it. Every mode of life has its conveniencies. The Idler, who habituates himself to be satisfied with what he can most easily obtain, not only escapes labours which are often fruitless, but sometimes succeeds better than those who despise all that is within their reach, and think every thing more valuable as it is harder to be acquired. If similitude of manners be a motive to kindness, the Idler may flatter himself with universal patronage. There is no single character under which such numbers are comprised. Every man is, or hopes to be, an Idler. Even those who seem to differ most from us are hastening to increase our fraternity; as peace is the end of war, so to be idle is the ultimate purpose of the busy. There is perhaps no appellation by which a writer can better denote his kindred to the human species. It has been found hard to describe man by an adequate definition. Some philosophers have called him a reasonable animal; but others have considered reason as a quality of which many creatures partake. He has been termed likewise a laughing animal; but it is said that some men have never laughed. Perhaps man may be more properly distinguished as an idle animal; for there is no man who is not sometimes idle. It is at least a definition from which none that shall find it in this paper can be excepted; for who can be more idle than the reader of the Idler? That the definition may be complete, idleness must be not only the general, but the peculiar characteristick of man; and perhaps man is the only being that can properly be called idle, that does by others what he might do himself, or sacrifices duty or pleasure to the love of ease. Scarcely any name can be imagined from which less envy or competition is to be dreaded. The Idler has no rivals or enemies. The man of business forgets him; the man of enterprise despises him; and though such as tread the same track of life fall commonly into jealousy and discord, Idlers are always found to associate in peace; and he who is most famed for doing nothing, is glad to meet another as idle as himself. What is to be expected from this paper, whether it will be uniform or various, learned or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral, continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no reader will inquire. That the Idler has some scheme, cannot be doubted, for to form schemes is the Idler's privilege. But though he has many projects in his head, he is now grown sparing of communication, having observed, that his hearers are apt to remember what he forgets himself; that his tardiness of execution exposes him to the encroachments of those who catch a hint and fall to work; and that very specious plans, after long contrivance and pompous displays, have subsided in weariness without a trial, and without miscarriage have been blasted by derision. Something the Idler's character may be supposed to promise. Those that are curious after diminutive history, who watch the revolutions of families, and the rise and fall of characters either male or female, will hope to be gratified by this paper; for the Idler is always inquisitive and seldom retentive. He that delights in obloquy and satire, and wishes to see clouds gathering over any reputation that dazzles him with its brightness, will snatch up the Idler's essays with a beating heart. The Idler is naturally censorious; those who attempt nothing themselves, think every thing easily performed, and consider the unsuccessful always as criminal. I think it necessary to give notice, that I make no contract, nor incur any obligation. If those who depend on the Idler for intelligence and entertainment, should suffer the disappointment which commonly follows ill-placed expectations, they are to lay the blame only on themselves. Yet hope is not wholly to be cast away. The Idler, though sluggish, is yet alive, and may sometimes be stimulated to vigour and activity. He may descend into profoundness, or tower into sublimity; for the diligence of an Idler is rapid and impetuous, as ponderous bodies forced into velocity move with violence proportionate to their weight. But these vehement exertions of intellect cannot be frequent, and he will therefore gladly receive help from any correspondent, who shall enable him to please without his own labour. He excludes no style, he prohibits no subject; only let him that writes to the Idler remember, that his letters must not be long; no words are to be squandered in declarations of esteem, or confessions of inability; conscious dulness has little right to be prolix, and praise is not so welcome to the Idler as quiet. [1] The Universal Spectator in 1728, by the celebrated antiquary William Oldys. The Female Spectator in 1744, by Eliza Haywood. These were followed by the New Spectator in 1784; and lastly, by the Country Spectator in 1792. This last is a production of very considerable merit. [2] This attempt was made in 1750, under the title of the Tatler Revived. After a short trial it completely failed. No. 2. SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1758. --_Toto non quater anno Membranam_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. iii. 1. Many positions are often on the tongue, and seldom in the mind; there are many truths which every human being acknowledges and forgets. It is generally known, that he who expects much will be often disappointed; yet disappointment seldom cures us of expectation, or has any other effect than that of producing a moral sentence, or peevish exclamation. He that embarks in the voyage of life, will always wish to advance rather by the impulse of the wind, than the strokes of the oar; and many founder in the passage, while they lie waiting for the gale that is to waft them to their wish. It will naturally be suspected that the Idler has lately suffered some disappointment, and that he does not talk thus gravely for nothing. No man is required to betray his own secrets. I will however, confess, that I have now been a writer almost a week, and have not yet heard a single word of praise, nor received one hint from any correspondent. Whence this negligence proceeds I am not able to discover. Many of my predecessors have thought themselves obliged to return their acknowledgments in the second paper, for the kind reception of the first; and in a short time, apologies have become necessary to those ingenious gentlemen and ladies, whose performances, though in the highest degree elegant and learned, have been unavoidably delayed. What then will be thought of me, who, having experienced no kindness, have no thanks to return; whom no gentleman or lady has yet enabled to give any cause of discontent, and who have therefore no opportunity of showing how skilfully I can pacify resentment, extenuate negligence, or palliate rejection. I have long known that splendour of reputation is not to be counted among the necessaries of life, and therefore shall not much repine if praise be withheld till it is better deserved. But surely I may be allowed to complain, that, in a nation of authors, not one has thought me worthy of notice after so fair an invitation. At the time when the rage of writing has seized the old and young, when the cook warbles her lyricks in the kitchen, and the thrasher vociferates his heroicks in the barn; when our traders deal out knowledge in bulky volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers to teach kingdoms wisdom; it may seem very unnecessary to draw any more from their proper occupations, by affording new opportunities of literary fame[1]. I should be indeed unwilling to find that, for the sake of corresponding with the Idler, the smith's iron had cooled on the anvil, or the spinster's distaff stood unemployed. I solicit only the contributions of those who have already devoted themselves to literature, or, without any determinate intention, wander at large through the expanse of life, and wear out the day in hearing at one place what they utter at another. Of these, a great part are already writers. One has a friend in the country upon whom he exercises his powers; whose passions he raises and depresses; whose understanding he perplexes with paradoxes, or strengthens by argument; whose admiration he courts, whose praises he enjoys; and who serves him instead of a senate or a theatre; as the young soldiers in the Roman camp learned the use of their weapons by fencing against a post in the place of an enemy. Another has his pockets filled with essays and epigrams, which he reads from house to house, to select parties; and which his acquaintances are daily entreating him to withhold no longer from the impatience of the publick. If among these any one is persuaded, that, by such preludes of composition, he has qualified himself to appear in the open world, and is yet afraid of those censures which they who have already written, and they who cannot write, are equally ready to fulminate against publick pretenders to fame, he may, by transmitting his performances to the Idler, make a cheap experiment of his abilities, and enjoy the pleasure of success, without the hazard of miscarriage. Many advantages not generally known arise from this method of stealing on the publick. The standing author of the paper is always the object of critical malignity. Whatever is mean will be imputed to him, and whatever is excellent be ascribed to his assistants. It does not much alter the event, that the author and his correspondents are equally unknown; for the author, whoever he be, is an individual, of whom every reader has some fixed idea, and whom he is therefore unwilling to gratify with applause; but the praises given to his correspondents are scattered in the air, none can tell on whom they will light, and therefore none are unwilling to bestow them. He that is known to contribute to a periodical work, needs no other caution than not to tell what particular pieces are his own; such secrecy is indeed very difficult; but if it can be maintained, it is scarcely to be imagined at how small an expense he may grow considerable. A person of quality, by a single paper, may engross the honour of a volume. Fame is indeed dealt with a hand less and less bounteous through the subordinate ranks, till it descends to the professed author, who will find it very difficult to get more than he deserves; but every man who does not want it, or who needs not value it, may have liberal allowances; and, for five letters in the year sent to the Idler, of which perhaps only two are printed, will be promoted to the first rank of writers by those who are weary of the present race of wits, and wish to sink them into obscurity before the lustre of a name not yet known enough to be detested. [1] See Knox's Essays, Number 50. No. 3. SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1758. --_Otia vitae Solamur cantu_. STAT. It has long been the complaint of those who frequent the theatres, that all the dramatick art has been long exhausted, and that the vicissitudes of fortune, and accidents of life, have been shown in every possible combination, till the first scene informs us of the last, and the play no sooner opens, than every auditor knows how it will conclude. When a conspiracy is formed in a tragedy, we guess by whom it will be detected; when a letter is dropt in a comedy, we can tell by whom it will be found. Nothing is now left for the poet but character and sentiment, which are to make their way as they can, without the soft anxiety of suspense, or the enlivening agitation of surprise. A new paper lies under the same disadvantages as a new play. There is danger lest it be new without novelty. My earlier predecessors had their choice of vices and follies, and selected such as were most likely to raise merriment or attract attention; they had the whole field of life before them, untrodden and unsurveyed; characters of every kind shot up in their way, and those of the most luxuriant growth, or most conspicuous colours, were naturally cropt by the first sickle. They that follow are forced to peep into neglected corners, to note the casual varieties of the same species, and to recommend themselves by minute industry and distinctions too subtle for common eyes. Sometimes it may happen, that the haste or negligence of the first inquirers has left enough behind to reward another search; sometimes new objects start up under the eye, and he that is looking for one kind of matter, is amply gratified by the discovery of another. But still it must be allowed, that, as more is taken, less can remain; and every truth brought newly to light impoverishes the mine, from which succeeding intellects are to dig their treasures. Many philosophers imagine, that the elements themselves may be in time exhausted; that the sun, by shining long, will effuse all its light; and that, by the continual waste of aqueous particles, the whole earth will at last become a sandy desert. I would not advise my readers to disturb themselves by contriving how they shall live without light and water. For the days of universal thirst and perpetual darkness are at a great distance. The ocean and the sun will last our time, and we may leave posterity to shift for themselves. But if the stores of nature are limited, much more narrow bounds must be set to the modes of life; and mankind may want a moral or amusing paper, many years before they shall be deprived of drink or day-light. This want, which to the busy and the inventive may seem easily remediable by some substitute or other, the whole race of Idlers will feel with all the sensibility that such torpid animals can suffer. When I consider the innumerable multitudes that, having no motive of desire, or determination of will, lie freezing in perpetual inactivity, till some external impulse puts them in motion; who awake in the morning, vacant of thought, with minds gaping for the intellectual food, which some kind essayist has been accustomed to supply; I am moved by the commiseration with which all human beings ought to behold the distresses of each other, to try some expedients for their relief, and to inquire by what methods the listless may be actuated, and the empty be replenished. There are said to be pleasures in madness known only to madmen. There are certainly miseries in idleness, which the Idler only can conceive. These miseries I have often felt and often bewailed. I know by experience, how welcome is every avocation that summons the thoughts to a new image; and how much languor and lassitude are relieved by that officiousness which offers a momentary amusement to him who is unable to find it for himself. It is naturally indifferent to this race of men what entertainment they receive, so they are but entertained. They catch, with equal eagerness, at a moral lecture, or the memoirs of a robber; a prediction of the appearance of a comet, or the calculation of the chances of a lottery. They might therefore easily be pleased, if they consulted only their own minds; but those who will not take the trouble to think for themselves, have always somebody to think for them; and the difficulty in writing is to please those from whom others learn to be pleased. Much mischief is done in the world with very little interest or design. He that assumes the character of a critick, and justifies his claim by perpetual censure, imagines that he is hurting none but the author, and him he considers as a pestilent animal, whom every other being has a right to persecute; little does he think how many harmless men he involves in his own guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without malignity, and to repeat objections which they do not understand; or how many honest minds he debars from pleasure, by exciting an artificial fastidiousness, and making them too wise to concur with their own sensations. He who is taught by a critick to dislike that which pleased him in his natural state, has the same reason to complain of his instructer, as the madman to rail at his doctor, who, when he thought himself master of Peru, physicked him to poverty. If men will struggle against their own advantage, they are not to expect that the Idler will take much pains upon them; he has himself to please as well as them, and has long learned, or endeavoured to learn, not to make the pleasure of others too necessary to his own. No. 4. SATURDAY, MAY 6, 1758. [Greek: Pantas gar phileeske.] HOM. Charity, or tenderness for the poor, which is now justly considered, by a great part of mankind, as inseparable from piety, and in which almost all the goodness of the present age consists, is, I think, known only to those who enjoy, either immediately or by transmission, the light of revelation. Those ancient nations who have given us the wisest models of government, and the brightest examples of patriotism, whose institutions have been transcribed by all succeeding legislatures, and whose history is studied by every candidate for political or military reputation, have yet left behind them no mention of alms-houses or hospitals, or places where age might repose, or sickness be relieved. The Roman emperours, indeed, gave large donatives to the citizens and soldiers, but these distributions were always reckoned rather popular than virtuous: nothing more was intended than an ostentation of liberality, nor was any recompense expected, but suffrages and acclamations. Their beneficence was merely occasional; he that ceased to need the favour of the people, ceased likewise to court it; and, therefore, no man thought it either necessary or wise to make any standing provision for the needy, to look forwards to the wants of posterity, or to secure successions of charity, for successions of distress. Compassion is by some reasoners, on whom the name of philosophers has been too easily conferred, resolved into an affection merely selfish, an involuntary perception of pain at the involuntary sight of a being like ourselves languishing in misery. But this sensation, if ever it be felt at all from the brute instinct of uninstructed nature, will only produce effects desultory and transient; it will never settle into a principle of action, or extend relief to calamities unseen, in generations not yet in being. The devotion of life or fortune to the succour of the poor, is a height of virtue, to which humanity has never risen by its own power. The charity of the Mahometans is a precept which their teacher evidently transplanted from the doctrines of Christianity; and the care with which some of the Oriental sects attend, as is said, to the necessities of the diseased and indigent, may be added to the other arguments, which prove Zoroaster to have borrowed his institutions from the law of Moses. The present age, though not likely to shine hereafter among the most splendid periods of history, has yet given examples of charity, which may be very properly recommended to imitation. The equal distribution of wealth, which long commerce has produced, does not enable any single hand to raise edifices of piety like fortified cities, to appropriate manors to religious uses, or deal out such large and lasting beneficence as was scattered over the land in ancient times, by those who possessed counties or provinces. But no sooner is a new species of misery brought to view, and a design of relieving it professed, than every hand is open to contribute something, every tongue is busied in solicitation, and every art of pleasure is employed for a time in the interest of virtue. The most apparent and pressing miseries incident to man, have now their peculiar houses of reception and relief; and there are few among us, raised however little above the danger of poverty, who may not justly claim, what is implored by the Mahometans in their most ardent benedictions, the prayers of the poor. Among those actions which the mind can most securely review with unabated pleasure, is that of having contributed to an hospital for the sick. Of some kinds of charity the consequences are dubious: some evils which beneficence has been busy to remedy, are not certainly known to be very grievous to the sufferer, or detrimental to the community; but no man can question whether wounds and sickness are not really painful; whether it be not worthy of a good man's care to restore those to ease and usefulness, from whose labour infants and women expect their bread, and who, by a casual hurt, or lingering disease, lie pining in want and anguish, burthensome to others, and weary of themselves. Yet as the hospitals of the present time subsist only by gifts bestowed at pleasure, without any solid fund of support, there is danger lest the blaze of charity, which now burns with so much heat and splendour, should die away for want of lasting fuel; lest fashion should suddenly withdraw her smile, and inconstancy transfer the publick attention to something which may appear more eligible, because it will be new. Whatever is left in the hands of chance must be subject to vicissitude; and when any establishment is found to be useful, it ought to be the next care to make it permanent. But man is a transitory being, and his designs must partake of the imperfections of their author. To confer duration is not always in our power. We must snatch the present moment, and employ it well, without too much solicitude for the future, and content ourselves with reflecting that our part is performed. He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, and regret, in the last hour, his useless intentions, and barren zeal. The most active promoters of the present schemes of charity cannot be cleared from some instances of misconduct, which may awaken contempt or censure, and hasten that neglect which is likely to come too soon of itself. The open competitions between different hospitals, and the animosity with which their patrons oppose one another, may prejudice weak minds against them all. For it will not be easily believed, that any man can, for good reasons, wish to exclude another from doing good. The spirit of charity can only be continued by a reconciliation of these ridiculous feuds; and therefore, instead of contentions who shall be the only benefactors to the needy, let there be no other struggle than who shall be the first. No. 5. SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1758. --[Greek: Kallos Ant egcheon hapanton Ant aspidon hapason]. ANAC. Our military operations are at last begun; our troops are marching in all the pomp of war, and a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight; the heart of every Englishman now swells with confidence, though somewhat softened by generous compassion for the consternation and distresses of our enemies. This formidable armament and splendid march produce different effects upon different minds, according to the boundless diversities of temper, occupation, and habits of thought. Many a tender maiden considers her lover as already lost, because he cannot reach the camp but by crossing the sea; men of a more political understanding are persuaded that we shall now see, in a few days, the ambassadours of France supplicating for pity. Some are hoping for a bloody battle, because a bloody battle makes a vendible narrative; some are composing songs of victory; some planning arches of triumph; and some are mixing fireworks for the celebration of a peace. Of all extensive and complicated objects, different parts are selected by different eyes; and minds are variously affected, as they vary their attention. The care of the publick is now fixed upon our soldiers, who are leaving their native country to wander, none can tell how long, in the pathless deserts of the Isle of Wight. The tender sigh for their sufferings, and the gay drink to their success. I, who look, or believe myself to look, with more philosophick eyes on human affairs, must confess, that I saw the troops march with little emotion; my thoughts were fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole into my eyes, not for those who were going away, but for those who were left behind. We have no reason to doubt but our troops will proceed with proper caution; there are men among them who can take care of themselves. But how shall the ladies endure without them? By what arts can they, who have long had no joy but from the civilities of a soldier, now amuse their hours, and solace their separation? Of fifty thousand men, now destined to different stations, if we allow each to have been occasionally necessary only to four women, a short computation will inform us, that two hundred thousand ladies are left to languish in distress; two hundred thousand ladies, who must run to sales and auctions without an attendant; sit at the play, without a critick to direct their opinion; buy their fans by their own judgment; dispose shells by their own invention; walk in the Mall without a gallant; go to the gardens without a protector; and shuffle cards with vain impatience, for want of a fourth to complete the party. Of these ladies, some, I hope, have lap-dogs, and some monkeys; but they are unsatisfactory companions. Many useful offices are performed by men of scarlet, to which neither dog nor monkey has adequate abilities. A parrot, indeed, is as fine as a colonel, and, if he has been much used to good company, is not wholly without conversation; but a parrot, after all, is a poor little creature, and has neither sword nor shoulder-knot, can neither dance nor play at cards. Since the soldiers must obey the call of their duty, and go to that side of the kingdom which faces France, I know not why the ladies, who cannot live without them, should not follow them. The prejudices and pride of man have long presumed the sword and spindle made for different hands, and denied the other sex to partake the grandeur of military glory. This notion may be consistently enough received in France, where the salick law excludes females from the throne; but we, who allow them to be sovereigns, may surely suppose them capable to be soldiers. It were to be wished that some man, whose experience and authority might enforce regard, would propose that our encampments for the present year should comprise an equal number of men and women, who should march and fight in mingled bodies. If proper colonels were once appointed, and the drums ordered to beat for female volunteers, our regiments would soon be filled without the reproach or cruelty of an impress. Of these heroines, some might serve on foot under the denomination of the _Female Buffs_, and some on horseback, with the title of _Lady Hussars_. What objections can be made to this scheme I have endeavoured maturely to consider; and cannot find that a modern soldier has any duties, except that of obedience, which a lady cannot perform. If the hair has lost its powder, a lady has a puff; if a coat be spotted, a lady has a brush. Strength is of less importance since fire-arms have been used; blows of the hand are now seldom exchanged; and what is there to be done in the charge or the retreat beyond the powers of a sprightly maiden? Our masculine squadrons will not suppose themselves disgraced by their auxiliaries, till they have done something which women could not have done. The troops of Braddock never saw their enemies, and perhaps were defeated by women. If our American general had headed an army of girls, he might still have built a fort and taken it. Had Minorca been defended by a female garrison, it might have been surrendered, as it was, without a breach; and I cannot but think, that seven thousand women might have ventured to look at Rochfort, sack a village, rob a vineyard, and return in safety. No. 6. SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1758. [Greek: Tameion aretaes gennaia gynae]. GR. PRO. The lady who had undertaken to ride on one horse a thousand miles in a thousand hours, has completed her journey in little more than two-thirds of the time stipulated, and was conducted through the last mile with triumphal honours. Acclamation shouted before her, and all the flowers of the spring were scattered in her way. Every heart ought to rejoice when true merit is distinguished with publick notice. I am far from wishing either to the amazon or her horse any diminution of happiness or fame, and cannot but lament that they were not more amply and suitably rewarded. There was once a time when wreaths of bays or oak were considered as recompenses equal to the most wearisome labours and terrifick dangers, and when the miseries of long marches and stormy seas were at once driven from the remembrance by the fragrance of a garland. If this heroine had been born in ancient times, she might perhaps have been delighted with the simplicity of ancient gratitude; or if any thing was wanting to full satisfaction, she might have supplied the deficiency with the hope of deification, and anticipated the altars that would be raised, and the vows that would be made, by future candidates for equestrian glory, to the patroness of the race and the goddess of the stable. But fate reserved her for a more enlightened age, which has discovered leaves and flowers to be transitory things; which considers profit as the end of honour; and rates the event of every undertaking only by the money that is gained or lost. In these days, to strew the road with daisies and lilies, is to mock merit, and delude hope. The toyman will not give his jewels, nor the mercer measure out his silks, for vegetable coin. A primrose, though picked up under the feet of the most renowned courser, will neither be received as a stake at cards, nor procure a seat at an opera, nor buy candles for a rout, nor lace for a livery. And though there are many virtuosos, whose sole ambition is to possess something which can be found in no other hand, yet some are more accustomed to store their cabinets by theft than purchase, and none of them would either steal or buy one of the flowers of gratulation till he knows that all the rest are totally destroyed. Little therefore did it avail this wonderful lady to be received, however joyfully, with such obsolete and barren ceremonies of praise. Had the way been covered with guineas, though but for the tenth part of the last mile, she would have considered her skill and diligence as not wholly lost; and might have rejoiced in the speed and perseverance which had left her such superfluity of time, that she could at leisure gather her reward without the danger of Atalanta's miscarriage. So much ground could not indeed have been paved with gold but at a large expense, and we are at present engaged in a war, which demands and enforces frugality. But common rules are made only for common life, and some deviation from general policy may be allowed in favour of a lady that rode a thousand miles in a thousand hours. Since the spirit of antiquity so much prevails amongst us, that even on this great occasion we have given flowers instead of money, let us at least complete our imitation of the ancients, and endeavour to transmit to posterity the memory of that virtue, which we consider as superior to pecuniary recompense. Let an equestrian statue of this heroine be erected, near the starting-post on the heath of Newmarket, to fill kindred souls with emulation, and tell the grand-daughters of our grand-daughters what an English maiden has once performed. As events, however illustrious, are soon obscured if they are intrusted to tradition, I think it necessary, that the pedestal should be inscribed with a concise account of this great performance. The composition of this narrative ought not to be committed rashly to improper hands. If the rhetoricians of Newmarket, who may be supposed likely to conceive in its full strength the dignity of the subject, should undertake to express it, there is danger lest they admit some phrases which, though well understood at present, may be ambiguous in another century. If posterity should read on a publick monument, that _the lady carried her horse a thousand miles in a thousand hours_, they may think that the statue and inscription are at variance, because one will represent the horse as carrying his lady, and the other tell that the lady carried her horse. Some doubts likewise may be raised by speculatists, and some controversies be agitated among historians, concerning the motive as well as the manner of the action. As it will be known, that this wonder was performed in a time of war, some will suppose that the lady was frighted by invaders, and fled to preserve her life or her chastity: others will conjecture, that she was thus honoured for some intelligence carried of the enemy's designs: some will think that she brought news of a victory; others, that she was commissioned to tell of a conspiracy; and some will congratulate themselves on their acuter penetration, and find, that all these notions of patriotism and publick spirit are improbable and chimerical; they will confidently tell, that she only ran away from her guardians, and that the true causes of her speed were fear and love. Let it therefore be carefully mentioned, that by this performance _she won her wager_; and, lest this should, by any change of manners, seem an inadequate or incredible incitement, let it be added, that at this time the original motives of human actions had lost their influence; that the love of praise was extinct; the fear of infamy was become ridiculous; and the only wish of an Englishman was, _to win his wager_[1]. [1] The incident, so pleasingly ridiculed in this paper, happened in 1758; and the newspapers of the time gave it due importance. No. 7. SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1758. One of the principal amusements of the _Idler_ is to read the works of those minute historians the writers of news, who, though contemptuously overlooked by the composers of bulky volumes, are yet necessary in a nation where much wealth produces much leisure, and one part of the people has nothing to do but to observe the lives and fortunes of the other. To us, who are regaled every morning and evening with intelligence, and are supplied from day to day with materials for conversation, it is difficult to conceive how man can subsist without a newspaper, or to what entertainment companies can assemble, in those wide regions of the earth that have neither _Chronicles_ nor _Magazines_, neither _Gazettes_ nor _Advertisers_, neither _Journals_ nor _Evening Posts_. There are never great numbers in any nation, whose reason or invention can find employment for their tongues, who can raise a pleasing discourse from their own stock of sentiments and images; and those few who have qualified themselves by speculation for general disquisitions are soon left without an audience. The common talk of men must relate to facts in which the talkers have, or think they have, an interest; and where such facts cannot be known, the pleasures of society will be merely sensual. Thus the natives of the Mahometan empires, who approach most nearly to European civility, have no higher pleasure at their convivial assemblies than to hear a piper, or gaze upon a tumbler; and no company can keep together longer than they are diverted by sounds or shows. All foreigners remark, that the knowledge of the common people of England is greater than that of any other vulgar. This superiority we undoubtedly owe to the rivulets of intelligence, which are continually trickling among us, which every one may catch, and of which every one partakes[1]. This universal diffusion of instruction is, perhaps, not wholly without its inconveniencies; it certainly fills the nation with superficial disputants; enables those to talk who were born to work; and affords information sufficient to elate vanity, and stiffen obstinacy, but too little to enlarge the mind into complete skill for full comprehension. Whatever is found to gratify the publick, will be multiplied by the emulation of venders beyond necessity or use. This plenty indeed produces cheapness, but cheapness always ends in negligence and depravation. The compilation of newspapers is often committed to narrow and mercenary minds, not qualified for the task of delighting or instructing; who are content to fill their paper, with whatever matter, without industry to gather, or discernment to select. Thus journals are daily multiplied without increase of knowledge. The tale of the morning paper is told again in the evening, and the narratives of the evening are bought again in the morning. These repetitions, indeed, waste time, but they do not shorten it. The most eager peruser of news is tired before he has completed his labour; and many a man, who enters the coffee-house in his nightgown and slippers, is called away to his shop, or his dinner, before he has well considered the state of Europe. It is discovered by Reaumur, that spiders might make silk, if they could be persuaded to live in peace together. The writers of news, if they could be confederated, might give more pleasure to the publick. The morning and evening authors might divide an event between them; a single action, and that not of much importance, might be gradually discovered, so as to vary a whole week with joy, anxiety, and conjecture. We know that a French ship of war was lately taken by a ship of England; but this event was suffered to burst upon us all at once, and then what we knew already was echoed from day to day, and from week to week. Let us suppose these spiders of literature to spin together, and inquire to what an extensive web such another event might be regularly drawn, and how six morning and six evening writers might agree to retail their articles. On _Monday Morning_ the Captain of a ship might arrive, who left the _Friseur_ of _France_, and the _Bull-dog_, Captain _Grim_, in sight of one another, so that an engagement seemed unavoidable. _Monday Evening._ A sound of cannon was heard off Cape Finisterre, supposed to be those of the Bull-dog and Friseur. _Tuesday Morning._ It was this morning reported that the Bull-dog engaged the Friseur, yard-arm and yard-arm, three glasses and a half, but was obliged to sheer off for want of powder. It is hoped that inquiry will be made into this affair in a proper place. _Tuesday Evening._ The account of the engagement between the Bull-dog and Friseur was premature. _Wednesday Morning._ Another express is arrived, which brings news, that the Friseur had lost all her masts, and three hundred of her men, in the late engagement; and that Captain Grim is come into harbour much shattered. _Wednesday Evening._ We hear that the brave Captain Grim, having expended his powder, proposed to enter the Friseur sword in hand; but that his lieutenant, the nephew of a certain nobleman, remonstrated against it. _Thursday Morning_. We wait impatiently for a full account of the late engagement between the Bull-dog and Friseur. _Thursday Evening_. It is said the order of the Bath will be sent to Captain Grim. _Friday Morning_. A certain Lord of the Admiralty has been heard to say of a certain Captain, that if he had done his duty, a certain French ship might have been taken. It was not thus that merit was rewarded in the days of Cromwell. _Friday Evening_. There is certain information at the Admiralty, that the Friseur is taken, after a resistance of two hours. _Saturday Morning_. A letter from one of the gunners of the Bull-dog mentions the taking of the Friseur, and attributes their success wholly to the bravery and resolution of Captain Grim, who never owed any of his advancement to borough-jobbers, or any other corrupters of the people. _Saturday Evening_. Captain Grim arrived at the Admiralty, with an account that he engaged the Friseur, a ship of equal force with his own, off Cape Finisterre, and took her after an obstinate resistance, having killed one hundred and fifty of the French, with the loss of ninety-five of his own men. [1] For some pleasing remarks on this subject see De Lolme on the constitution of England, chap. 12. We cannot retrain from quoting here the speech of Sir James Mackintosh in the well known Peltier cause. "A sort of prophetic instinct, if I may so speak, seems to have revealed to her (Queen Elizabeth) the importance of that great instrument, for rousing and guiding the minds of men, of the effects of which she had no experience; which, since her time, has changed the condition of the world; but which few modern statesmen have thoroughly understood, or wisely employed; which is no doubt connected with many ridiculous and degrading details; which has produced, and may again produce, terrible mischiefs; but of which the influence must after all be considered as the most certain effect of the most efficacious cause of civilization; and which, whether it be a blessing or a curse, is the most powerful engine that a politician can move--I mean the Press. It is a curious fact, that in the year of the Armada, Queen Elizabeth caused to be printed the first Gazettes that ever appeared in England." No. 8. SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, In the time of publick danger, it is every man's duty to withdraw his thoughts in some measure from his private interest, and employ part of his time for the general welfare. National conduct ought to be the result of national wisdom, a plan formed by mature consideration and diligent selection out of all the schemes which may be offered, and all the information which can be procured. In a battle, every man should fight as if he was the single champion; in preparations for war, every man should think, as if the last event depended on his counsel. None can tell what discoveries are within his reach, or how much he may contribute to the publick safety. Full of these considerations, I have carefully reviewed the process of the war, and find, what every other man has found, that we have hitherto added nothing to our military reputation: that at one time we have been beaten by enemies whom we did not see; and, at another, have avoided the sight of enemies lest we should be beaten. Whether our troops are defective in discipline or in courage, is not very useful to inquire; they evidently want something necessary to success; and he that shall supply that want will deserve well of his country. _To learn of an enemy_ has always been accounted politick and honourable; and therefore I hope it will raise no prejudices against my project, to confess that I borrowed it from a Frenchman. When the Isle of Rhodes was, many centuries ago, in the hands of that military order now called the Knights of Malta, it was ravaged by a dragon, who inhabited a den under a rock, from which he issued forth when he was hungry or wanton, and without fear or mercy devoured men and beasts as they came in his way. Many councils were held, and many devices offered, for his destruction; but as his back was armed with impenetrable scales, none would venture to attack him. At last Dudon, a French knight, undertook the deliverance of the island. From some place of security, he took a view of the dragon, or, as a modern soldier would say, _reconnoitred_ him, and observed that his belly was naked and vulnerable. He then returned home to make his _arrangements_; and, by a very exact imitation of nature, made a dragon of pasteboard, in the belly of which he put beef and mutton, and accustomed two sturdy mastiffs to feed themselves by tearing their way to the concealed flesh. When his dogs were well practised in this method of plunder, he marched out with them at his heels, and showed them the dragon; they rushed upon him in quest of their dinner; Dudon battered his scull, while they lacerated his belly; and neither his sting nor claws were able to defend him. Something like this might be practised in our present state. Let a fortification be raised on Salisbury Plain, resembling Brest, or Toulon, or Paris itself, with all the usual preparation for defence; let the inclosure be filled with beef and ale: let the soldiers, from some proper eminence, see shirts waving upon lines, and here and there a plump landlady hurrying about with pots in her hands. When they are sufficiently animated to advance, lead them in exact order, with fife and drum, to that side whence the wind blows, till they come within the scent of roast meat and tobacco. Contrive that they may approach the place fasting about an hour after dinner-time, assure them that there is no danger, and command an attack. If nobody within either moves or speaks, it is not unlikely that they may carry the place by storm; but if a panick should seize them, it will be proper to defer the enterprise to a more hungry hour. When they have entered, let them fill their bellies and return to the camp. On the next day let the same place be shown them again, but with some additions of strength or terrour. I cannot pretend to inform our generals through what gradations of danger they should train their men to fortitude. They best know what the soldiers and what themselves can bear. It will be proper that the war should every day vary its appearance. Sometimes, as they mount the rampart, a cook may throw fat upon the fire, to accustom them to a sudden blaze; and sometimes, by the clatter of empty pots, they may be inured to formidable noises. But let it never be forgotten, that victory must repose with a full belly. In time it will be proper to bring our French prisoners from the coast, and place them upon the walls in martial order. At their first appearance their hands must be tied, but they may be allowed to grin. In a month they may guard the place with their hands loosed, provided that on pain of death they be forbidden to strike. By this method our army will soon be brought to look an enemy in the face. But it has been lately observed, that fear is received by the ear as well as the eyes; and the Indian war-cry is represented as too dreadful to be endured; as a sound that will force the bravest veteran to drop his weapon, and desert his rank; that will deafen his ear, and chill his breast; that will neither suffer him to hear orders or to feel shame, or retain any sensibility but the dread of death. That the savage clamours of naked barbarians should thus terrify troops disciplined to war, and ranged in array with arms in their hands, is surely strange. But this is no time to reason. I am of opinion, that by a proper mixture of asses, bulls, turkeys, geese, and tragedians, a noise might be procured equally horrid with the war-cry. When our men have been encouraged by frequent victories, nothing will remain but to qualify them for extreme danger, by a sudden concert of terrifick vociferation. When they have endured this last trial, let them be led to action, as men who are no longer to be frightened; as men who can bear at once the grimaces of the Gauls, and the howl of the Americans. No. 9. SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I have read you; that is a favour few authors can boast of having received from me besides yourself. My intention in telling you of it is to inform you, that you have both pleased and angered me. Never did writer appear so delightful to me as you did when you adopted the name of the _Idler_. But what a falling off was there when your first production was brought to light! A natural irresistible attachment to that favourable passion, _idling_, had led me to hope for indulgence from the _Idler_, but I find him a stranger to the title. What rules has he proposed totally to unbrace the slackened nerve; to shade the heavy eye of inattention; to give the smooth feature and the uncontracted muscle; or procure insensibility to the whole animal composition? These were some of the placid blessings I promised myself the enjoyment of, when I committed violence upon myself by mustering up all my strength to set about reading you; but I am disappointed in them all, and the stroke of eleven in the morning is still as terrible to me as before, and I find putting on my clothes still as painful and laborious. Oh that our climate would permit that original nakedness which the thrice happy Indians to this day enjoy! How many unsolicitous hours should I bask away, warmed in bed by the sun's glorious beams, could I, like them, tumble from thence in a moment, when necessity obliges me to endure the torment of getting upon my legs! But wherefore do I talk to you upon subjects of this delicate nature? you who seem ignorant of the inexpressible charms of the elbow-chair, attended with a soft stool for the elevation of the feet! Thus, vacant of thought, do I indulge the live-long day. You may define happiness as you please; I embrace that opinion which makes it consist in the absence of pain. To reflect is pain; to stir is pain; therefore I never reflect or stir but when I cannot help it. Perhaps you will call my scheme of life indolence, and therefore think the _Idler_ excused from taking any notice of me; but I have always looked upon indolence and idleness as the same; and so desire you will now and then, while you profess yourself of our fraternity, take some notice of me, and others in my situation, who think they have a right to your assistance; or relinquish the name. You may publish, burn, or destroy this, just as you are in the humour; it is ten to one but I forget that I wrote it, before it reaches you. I believe you may find a motto for it in Horace, but I cannot reach him without getting out of my chair; that is a sufficient reason for my not affixing any.--And being obliged to sit upright to ring the bell for my servant to convey this to the penny-post, if I slip the opportunity of his being now in the room, makes me break off abruptly[1]. This correspondent, whoever he be, is not to be dismissed without some tokens of regard. There is no mark more certain of a genuine Idler, than uneasiness without molestation, and complaint without a grievance. Yet my gratitude to the contributor of half a paper shall not wholly overpower my sincerity. I must inform him, that, with all his pretensions, he that calls for directions to be idle, is yet but in the rudiments of idleness, and has attained neither the practice nor theory of wasting life. The true nature of idleness he will know in time, by continuing to be idle. Virgil tells us of an impetuous and rapid being, that acquires strength by motion. The Idler acquires weight by lying still. The _vis inertiae_, the quality of resisting all external impulses, is hourly increasing; the restless and troublesome faculties of attention and distinction, reflection on the past, and solicitude for the future, by a long indulgence of idleness, will, like tapers in unelastick air, be gradually extinguished; and the officious lover, the vigilant soldier, the busy trader, may, by a judicious composure of his mind, sink into a state approaching to that of brute matter; in which he shall retain the consciousness of his own existence, only by an obtuse languor and drowsy discontent. This is the lowest stage to which the favourites of idleness can descend; these regions of undelighted quiet can be entered by few. Of those that are prepared to sink down into their shade, some are roused into action by avarice or ambition, some are awakened by the voice of fame, some allured by the smile of beauty, and many withheld by the importunities of want. Of all the enemies of idleness, want is the most formidable. Fame is soon found to be a sound, and love a dream; avarice and ambition may be justly suspected of privy confederacies with idleness; for, when they have for a while protected their votaries, they often deliver them up to end their lives under her dominion. Want always struggles against idleness, but want herself is often overcome; and every hour shows the careful observer those who had rather live in ease than in plenty. So wide is the region of Idleness, and so powerful her influence. But she does not immediately confer all her gifts. My correspondent, who seems, with all his errours, worthy of advice, must be told, that he is calling too hastily for the last effusion of total insensibility. Whatever he may have been taught by unskilful Idlers to believe, labour is necessary in his initiation to idleness. He that never labours may know the pains of idleness, but not the pleasure. The comfort is, that if he devotes himself to insensibility, he will daily lengthen the intervals of idleness, and shorten those of labour, till at last he will lie down to rest, and no longer disturb the world or himself by bustle or competition. Thus I have endeavoured to give him that information which, perhaps, after all, he did not want; for a true Idler often calls for that which he knows is never to be had, and asks questions which he does not desire ever to be answered. [1] By an unknown correspondent. No. 10. SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 1758. Credulity, or confidence of opinion too great for the evidence from which opinion is derived, we find to be a general weakness imputed by every sect and party to all others, and indeed by every man to every other man. Of all kinds of credulity, the most obstinate and wonderful is that of political zealots; of men, who being numbered, they know not how or why, in any of the parties that divide a state, resign the use of their own eyes and ears, and resolve to believe nothing that does not favour those whom they profess to follow. The bigot of philosophy is seduced by authorities which he has not always opportunities to examine, is entangled in systems by which truth and falsehood are inextricably complicated, or undertakes to talk on subjects which nature did not form him able to comprehend. The Cartesian, who denies that his horse feels the spur, or that the hare is afraid when the hounds approach her; the disciple of Malbranche, who maintains that the man was not hurt by the bullet, which, according to vulgar apprehension, swept away his legs; the follower of Berkeley, who while he sits writing at his table, declares that he has neither table, paper, nor fingers; have all the honour at least of being deceived by fallacies not easily detected, and may plead that they did not forsake truth, but for appearances which they were not able to distinguish from it. But the man who engages in a party has seldom to do with any thing remote or abstruse. The present state of things is before his eyes; and, if he cannot be satisfied without retrospection, yet he seldom extends his views beyond the historical events of the last century. All the knowledge that he can want is within his attainment, and most of the arguments which he can hear are within his capacity. Yet so it is, that an Idler meets every hour of his life with men who have different opinions upon every thing past, present, and future; who deny the most notorious facts, contradict the most cogent truths, and persist in asserting to-day what they asserted yesterday, in defiance of evidence, and contempt of confutation. Two of my companions, who are grown old in idleness, are Tom Tempest and Jack Sneaker. Both of them consider themselves as neglected by their parties, and therefore entitled to credit; for why should they favour ingratitude? They are both men of integrity, where no factious interest is to be promoted; and both lovers of truth, when they are not heated with political debate. Tom Tempest is a steady friend to the house of Stuart. He can recount the prodigies that have appeared in the sky, and the calamities that have afflicted the nation every year from the Revolution; and is of opinion, that, if the exiled family had continued to reign, there would have neither been worms in our ships nor caterpillars in our trees. He wonders that the nation was not awakened by the hard frost to a revocation of the true king, and is hourly afraid that the whole island will be lost in the sea. He believes that king William burned Whitehall that he might steal the furniture; and that Tillotson died an atheist. Of queen Anne he speaks with more tenderness, owns that she meant well, and can tell by whom and why she was poisoned. In the succeeding reigns all has been corruption, malice, and design. He believes that nothing ill has ever happened for these forty years by chance or errour; he holds that the battle of Dettingen was won by mistake, and that of Fontenoy lost by contract; that the Victory was sunk by a private order; that Cornhill was fired by emissaries from the council; and the arch of Westminster-bridge was so contrived as to sink on purpose that the nation might be put to charge. He considers the new road to Islington as an encroachment on liberty, and often asserts that _broad wheels_ will be the ruin of England. Tom is generally vehement and noisy, but nevertheless has some secrets which he always communicates in a whisper. Many and many a time has Tom told me, in a corner, that our miseries were almost at an end, and that we should see, in a month, another monarch on the throne; the time elapses without a revolution; Tom meets me again with new intelligence, the whole scheme is now settled, and we shall see great events in another month. Jack Sneaker is a hearty adherent to the present establishment; he has known those who saw the bed into which the Pretender was conveyed in a warming-pan. He often rejoices that the nation was not enslaved by the Irish. He believes that king William never lost a battle, and that if he had lived one year longer he would have conquered France. He holds that Charles the First was a Papist. He allows there were some good men in the reign of queen Anne, but the peace of Utrecht brought a blast upon the nation, and has been the cause of all the evil that we have suffered to the present hour. He believes that the scheme of the South Sea was well intended, but that it miscarried by the influence of France. He considers a standing army as the bulwark of liberty, thinks us secured from corruption by septennial parliaments, relates how we are enriched and strengthened by the electoral dominions, and declares that the publick debt is a blessing to the nation. Yet, amidst all this prosperity, poor Jack is hourly disturbed by the dread of Popery. He wonders that some stricter laws are not made against Papists, and is sometimes afraid that they are busy with French gold among the bishops and judges. He cannot believe that the Nonjurors are so quiet for nothing, they must certainly be forming some plot for the establishment of Popery; he does not think the present oaths sufficiently binding, and wishes that some better security could be found for the succession of Hanover. He is zealous for the naturalization of foreign Protestants, and rejoiced at the admission of the Jews to the English privileges, because he thought a Jew would never be a Papist. No. 11. SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1758. --_Nec te quaesiveris extra_. PERS. It is commonly observed, that when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather; they are in haste to tell each other, what each must already know, that it is hot or cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm. There are, among the numerous lovers of subtilties and paradoxes, some who derive the civil institutions of every country from its climate, who impute freedom and slavery to the temperature of the air, can fix the meridian of vice and virtue, and tell at what degree of latitude we are to expect courage or timidity, knowledge or ignorance. From these dreams of idle speculation, a slight survey of life, and a little knowledge of history, are sufficient to awaken any inquirer, whose ambition of distinction has not overpowered his love of truth. Forms of government are seldom the result of much deliberation; they are framed by chance in popular assemblies, or in conquered countries, by despotick authority. Laws are often occasional, often capricious, made always by a few, and sometimes by a single voice. Nations have changed their characters; slavery is now no where more patiently endured, than in countries once inhabited by the zealots of liberty. But national customs can arise only from general agreement; they are not imposed, but chosen, and are continued only by the continuance of their cause. An Englishman's notice of the weather is the natural consequence of changeable skies and uncertain seasons. In many parts of the world, wet weather and dry are regularly expected at certain periods; but in our island every man goes to sleep, unable to guess whether he shall behold in the morning a bright or cloudy atmosphere, whether his rest shall be lulled by a shower, or broken by a tempest. We therefore rejoice mutually at good weather, as at an escape from something that we feared; and mutually complain of bad, as of the loss of something that we hoped. Such is the reason of our practice; and who shall treat it with contempt? Surely not the attendant on a court, whose business is to watch the looks of a being weak and foolish as himself, and whose vanity is to recount the names of men, who might drop into nothing, and leave no vacuity; nor the proprietor of funds, who stops his acquaintance in the street to tell him of the loss of half-a-crown; nor the inquirer after news, who fills his head with foreign events, and talks of skirmishes and sieges, of which no consequence will ever reach his hearers or himself. The weather is a nobler and more interesting subject; it is the present state of the skies, and of the earth, on which plenty and famine are suspended, on which millions depend for the necessaries of life. The weather is frequently mentioned for another reason, less honourable to my dear countrymen. Our dispositions too frequently change with the colour of the sky; and when we find ourselves cheerful and good-natured, we naturally pay our acknowledgments to the powers of sunshine; or, if we sink into dulness and peevishness, look round the horizon for an excuse, and charge our discontent upon an easterly wind or a cloudy day. Surely nothing is more reproachful to a being endowed with reason, than to resign its powers to the influence of the air, and live in dependence on the weather and the wind, for the only blessings which nature has put into our power, tranquillity and benevolence. To look up to the sky for the nutriment of our bodies, is the condition of nature; to call upon the sun for peace and gaiety, or deprecate the clouds lest sorrow should overwhelm us, is the cowardice of idleness, and the idolatry of folly. Yet even in this age of inquiry and knowledge, when superstition is driven away, and omens and prodigies have lost their terrours, we find this folly countenanced by frequent examples. Those that laugh at the portentous glare of a comet, and hear a crow with equal tranquillity from the right or left, will yet talk of times and situations proper for intellectual performances, will imagine the fancy exalted by vernal breezes, and the reason invigorated by a bright calm. If men who have given up themselves to fanciful credulity would confine their conceits in their own minds, they might regulate their lives by the barometer, with inconvenience only to themselves; but to fill the world with accounts of intellects subject to ebb and flow, of one genius that awakened in the spring, and another that ripened in the autumn, of one mind expanded in the summer, and of another concentrated in the winter, is no less dangerous than to tell children of bugbears and goblins. Fear will find every house haunted; and idleness will wait for ever for the moment of illumination. This distinction of seasons is produced only by imagination operating on luxury. To temperance every day is bright, and every hour is propitious to diligence. He that shall resolutely excite his faculties, or exert his virtues, will soon make himself superior to the seasons, and may set at defiance the morning mist, and the evening damp, the blasts of the east, and the clouds of the south. It was the boast of the Stoick philosophy, to make man unshaken by calamity, and unelated by success, incorruptible by pleasure, and invulnerable by pain; these are heights of wisdom which none ever attained, and to which few can aspire; but there are lower degrees of constancy necessary to common virtue; and every man, however he may distrust himself in the extremes of good or evil, might at least struggle against the tyranny of the climate, and refuse to enslave his virtue or his reason to the most variable of all variations, the changes of the weather. No. 12. SATURDAY, JULY 1, 1758. That every man is important in his own eyes, is a position of which we all either voluntarily or unwarily at least once an hour confess the truth; and it will unavoidably follow, that every man believes himself important to the publick. The right which this importance gives us to general notice and visible distinction, is one of those disputable privileges which we have not always courage to assert; and which we therefore suffer to lie dormant till some elation of mind, or vicissitude of fortune, incites us to declare our pretensions and enforce our demands. And hopeless as the claim of vulgar characters may seem to the supercilious and severe, there are few who do not at one time or other endeavour to step forward beyond their rank; who do not make some struggles for fame, and show that they think all other conveniencies and delights imperfectly enjoyed without a name. To get a name, can happen but to few. A name, even in the most commercial nation, is one of the few things which cannot be bought. It is the free gift of mankind, which must be deserved before it will be granted, and is at last unwillingly bestowed. But this unwillingness only increases desire in him who believes his merit sufficient to overcome it. There is a particular period of life, in which this fondness for a name seems principally to predominate in both sexes. Scarce any couple comes together but the nuptials are declared in the newspapers with encomiums on each party. Many an eye, ranging over the page with eager curiosity in quest of statesmen and heroes, is stopped by a marriage celebrated between Mr. Buckram, an eminent salesman in Threadneedle-street, and Miss Dolly Juniper, the only daughter of an eminent distiller, of the parish of St. Giles's in the Fields, a young lady adorned with every accomplishment that can give happiness to the married state. Or we are told, amidst our impatience for the event of a battle, that on a certain day Mr. Winker, a tide-waiter at Yarmouth, was married to Mrs. Cackle, a widow lady of great accomplishments, and that as soon as the ceremony was performed they set out in a post-chaise for Yarmouth. Many are the inquiries which such intelligence must undoubtedly raise, but nothing in this world is lasting. When the reader has contemplated with envy, or with gladness, the felicity of Mr. Buckram and Mr. Winker, and ransacked his memory for the names of Juniper and Cackle, his attention is diverted to other thoughts, by finding that Mirza will not cover this season; or that a spaniel has been lost or stolen, that answers to the name of Ranger. Whence it arises that on the day of marriage all agree to call thus openly for honours, I am not able to discover. Some, perhaps, think it kind, by a publick declaration, to put an end to the hopes of rivalry and the fears of jealousy, to let parents know that they may set their daughters at liberty whom they have locked up for fear of the bridegroom, or to dismiss to their counters and their offices the amorous youths that had been used to hover round the dwelling of the bride. These connubial praises may have another cause. It may be the intention of the husband and wife to dignify themselves in the eyes of each other, and, according to their different tempers or expectations, to win affection, or enforce respect. It was said of the family of Lucas, that it was _noble_, for _all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters were virtuous_. What would a stranger say of the _English_ nation, in which on the day of marriage all the men are _eminent_, and all the women _beautiful, accomplished_, and _rich_? How long the wife will be persuaded of the eminence of her husband, or the husband continue to believe that his wife has the qualities required to make marriage happy, may reasonably be questioned. I am afraid that much time seldom passes before each is convinced that praises are fallacious, and particularly those praises which we confer upon ourselves. I should therefore think, that this custom might be omitted without any loss to the community; and that the sons and daughters of lanes and alleys might go hereafter to the next church, with no witnesses of their worth or happiness but their parents and their friends; but if they cannot be happy on the bridal day without some gratification of their vanity, I hope they will be willing to encourage a friend of mine who proposes to devote his powers to their service. Mr. Settle, a man whose _eminence_ was once allowed by the _eminent_, and whose _accomplishments_ were confessed by the _accomplished_, in the latter part of a long life supported himself by an uncommon expedient. He had a standing elegy and epithalamium, of which only the first and last were leaves varied occasionally, and the intermediate pages were, by general terms, left applicable alike to every character. When any marriage became known, Settle ran to the bridegroom with his epithalamium; and when he heard of any death, ran to the heir with his elegy. Who can think himself disgraced by a trade that was practised so long by the rival of Dryden, by the poet whose "Empress of Morocco" was played before princes by ladies of the court? My friend purposes to open an office in the Fleet for matrimonial panegyricks, and will accommodate all with praise who think their own powers of expression inadequate to their merit. He will sell any man or woman the virtue or qualification which is most fashionable or most desired; but desires his customers to remember, that he sets beauty at the highest price, and riches at the next, and, if he be well paid, throws in virtue for nothing. No. 13. SATURDAY, JULY 8, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Dear Mr. Idler, Though few men of prudence are much inclined to interpose in disputes between man and wife, who commonly make peace at the expense of the arbitrator; yet I will venture to lay before you a controversy, by which the quiet of my house has been long disturbed, and which, unless you can decide it, is likely to produce lasting evils, and embitter those hours which nature seems to have appropriated to tenderness and repose. I married a wife with no great fortune, but of a family remarkable for domestick prudence, and elegant frugality. I lived with her at ease, if not with happiness, and seldom had any reason of complaint. The house was always clean, the servants were active and regular, dinner was on the table every day at the same minute, and the ladies of the neighbourhood were frightened when I invited their husbands, lest their own economy should be less esteemed. During this gentle lapse of life, my dear brought me three daughters. I wished for a son, to continue the family; but my wife often tells me, that boys are dirty things, and are always troublesome in a house; and declares that she has hated the sight of them ever since she saw lady Fondle's eldest son ride over a carpet with his hobby-horse all mire. I did not much attend to her opinion, but knew that girls could not be made boys; and therefore composed myself to bear what I could not remedy, and resolved to bestow that care on my daughters, to which only the sons are commonly thought entitled. But my wife's notions of education differ widely from mine. She is an irreconcilable enemy to idleness, and considers every state of life as idleness, in which the hands are not employed, or some art acquired, by which she thinks money may be got or saved. In pursuance of this principle, she calls up her daughters at a certain hour, and appoints them a task of needlework to be performed before breakfast. They are confined in a garret, which has its window in the roof, both because work is best done at a sky-light, and because children are apt to lose time by looking about them. They bring down their work to breakfast, and as they deserve are commended or reproved; they are then sent up with a new task till dinner; if no company is expected, their mother sits with them the whole afternoon, to direct their operations, and to draw patterns, and is sometimes denied to her nearest relations when she is engaged in teaching them a new stitch. By this continual exercise of their diligence, she has obtained a very considerable number of laborious performances. We have twice as many fire-skreens as chimneys, and three flourished quilts for every bed. Half the rooms are adorned with a kind of _sutile pictures_, which imitate tapestry. But all their work is not set out to show; she has boxes filled with knit garters and braided shoes. She has twenty covers for side-saddles embroidered with silver flowers, and has curtains wrought with gold in various figures, which she resolves some time or other to hang up. All these she displays to her company whenever she is elate with merit, and eager for praise; and amidst the praises which her friends and herself bestow upon her merit, she never fails to turn to me, and ask what all these would cost, if I had been to buy them. I sometimes venture to tell her, that many of the ornaments are superfluous; that what is done with so much labour might have been supplied by a very easy purchase; that the work is not always worth the materials; and that I know not why the children should be persecuted with useless tasks, or obliged to make shoes that are never worn. She answers with a look of contempt, that men never care how money goes, and proceeds to tell of a dozen new chairs for which she is contriving covers, and of a couch which she intends to stand as a monument of needle-work. In the mean time, the girls grow up in total ignorance of every thing past, present, and future. Molly asked me the other day, whether Ireland was in France, and was ordered by her mother to mend her hem. Kitty knows not, at sixteen, the difference between a Protestant and a Papist, because she has been employed three years in filling the side of a closet with a hanging that is to represent Cranmer in the flames. And Dolly, my eldest girl, is now unable to read a chapter in the Bible, having spent all the time, which other children pass at school, in working the interview between Solomon and the queen of Sheba. About a month ago, Tent and Turkey-stitch seemed at a stand; my wife knew not what new work to introduce; I ventured to propose that the girls should now learn to read and write, and mentioned the necessity of a little arithmetick; but, unhappily, my wife has discovered that linen wears out, and has bought the girls three little wheels, that they may spin huckaback for the servants' table. I remonstrated, that with larger wheels they might despatch in an hour what must now cost them a day; but she told me, with irresistible authority, that any business is better than idleness; that when these wheels are set upon a table, with mats under them, they will turn without noise, and keep the girls upright; that great wheels are not fit for gentlewomen; and that with these, small as they are, she does not doubt but that the three girls, if they are kept close, will spin every year as much cloth as would cost five pounds if one were to buy it. No 14. SATURDAY, JULY 15, 1758. When Diogenes received a visit in his tub from Alexander the Great, and was asked, according to the ancient forms of royal courtesy, what petition he had to offer; "I have nothing," said he, "to ask, but that you would remove to the other side, that you may not, by intercepting the sunshine, take from me what you cannot give me." Such was the demand of Diogenes from the greatest monarch of the earth, which those, who have less power than Alexander, may, with yet more propriety, apply to themselves. He that does much good, may be allowed to do sometimes a little harm. But if the opportunities of beneficence be denied by fortune, innocence should at least be vigilantly preserved. It is well known, that time once passed never returns; and that the moment which is lost, is lost for ever. Time therefore ought, above all other kinds of property, to be free from invasion; and yet there is no man who does not claim the power of wasting that time which is the right of others. This usurpation is so general, that a very small part of the year is spent by choice; scarcely any thing is done when it is intended, or obtained when it is desired. Life is continually ravaged by invaders; one steals away an hour, and another a day; one conceals the robbery by hurrying us into business, another by lulling us with amusement; the depredation is continued through a thousand vicissitudes of tumult and tranquillity, till, having lost all, we can lose no more. This waste of the lives of men has been very frequently charged upon the Great, whose followers linger from year to year in expectations, and die at last with petitions in their hands. Those who raise envy will easily incur censure. I know not whether statesmen and patrons do not suffer more reproaches than they deserve, and may not rather themselves complain, that they are given up a prey to pretensions without merit, and to importunity without shame. The truth is, that the inconveniencies of attendance are more lamented than felt. To the greater number solicitation is its own reward. To be seen in good company, to talk of familiarities with men of power, to be able to tell the freshest news, to gratify an inferior circle with predictions of increase or decline of favour, and to be regarded as a candidate for high offices, are compensations more than equivalent to the delay of favours, which, perhaps, he that begs them has hardly confidence to expect. A man conspicuous in a high station, who multiplies hopes that he may multiply dependants, may be considered as a beast of prey, justly dreaded, but easily avoided; his den is known, and they who would not be devoured, need not approach it. The great danger of the waste of time is from caterpillars and moths, who are not resisted, because they are not feared, and who work on with unheeded mischiefs, and invisible encroachments. He, whose rank or merit procures him the notice of mankind, must give up himself, in a great measure, to the convenience or humour of those who surround him. Every man, who is sick of himself, will fly to him for relief; he that wants to speak will require him to hear; and he that wants to hear will expect him to speak. Hour passes after hour, the noon succeeds to morning, and the evening to noon, while a thousand objects are forced upon his attention, which he rejects as fast as they are offered, but which the custom of the world requires to be received with appearance of regard. If we will have the kindness of others, we must endure their follies. He who cannot persuade himself to withdraw from society, must be content to pay a tribute of his time to a multitude of tyrants; to the loiterer, who makes appointments which he never keeps; to the consulter, who asks advice which he never takes; to the boaster, who blusters only to be praised; to the complainer, who whines only to be pitied; to the projector, whose happiness is to entertain his friends with expectations which all but himself know to be vain; to the economist, who tells of bargains and settlements; to the politician, who predicts the fate of battles and breach of alliances; to the usurer, who compares the different funds; and to the talker, who talks only because he loves to be talking. To put every man in possession of his own time, and rescue the day from this succession of usurpers, is beyond my power, and beyond my hope. Yet, perhaps, some stop might be put to this unmerciful persecution, if all would seriously reflect, that whoever pays a visit that is not desired, or talks longer than the hearer is willing to attend, is guilty of an injury which he cannot repair, and takes away that which he cannot give. No. 15. SATURDAY, JULY 22, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I have the misfortune to be a man of business; that, you will say, is a most grievous one; but what makes it the more so to me, is, that my wife has nothing to do: at least she had too good an education, and the prospect of too good a fortune in reversion when I married her, to think of employing herself either in my shop-affairs, or the management of my family. Her time, you know, as well as my own, must be filled up some way or other. For my part, I have enough to mind in weighing my goods out, and waiting on my customers: but my wife, though she could be of as much use as a shopman to me, if she would put her hand to it, is now only in my way. She walks all the morning sauntering about the shop with her arms through her pocket-holes or stands gaping at the door-sill, and looking at every person that passes by. She is continually asking me a thousand frivolous questions about every customer that comes in and goes out; and all the while that I am entering any thing in my day-book, she is lolling over the counter, and staring at it, as if I was only scribbling or drawing figures for her amusement. Sometimes, indeed, she will take a needle; but as she always works at the door, or in the middle of the shop, she has so many interruptions, that she is longer hemming a towel, or darning a stocking, than I am in breaking forty loaves of sugar, and making it up into pounds. In the afternoons I am sure likewise to have her company, except she is called upon by some of her acquaintance: and then, as we let out all the upper part of our house, and have only a little room backwards for ourselves, they either keep such a chattering, or else are calling out every moment to me, that I cannot mind my business for them. My wife, I am sure, might do all the little matters our family requires; and I could wish that she would employ herself in them; but, instead of that, we have a girl to do the work, and look after a little boy about two years old, which, I may fairly say, is the mother's own child. The brat must be humoured in every thing: he is therefore suffered constantly to play in the shop, pull all the goods about, and clamber up the shelves to get at the plums and sugar. I dare not correct him; because, if I did, I should have wife and maid both upon me at once. As to the latter, she is as lazy and sluttish as her mistress; and because she complains she has too much work, we can scarcely get her to do any thing at all: nay, what is worse than that, I am afraid she is hardly honest; and as she is intrusted to buy-in all our provisions, the jade, I am sure, makes a market-penny out of every article. But to return to my deary.--The evenings are the only time, when it is fine weather, that I am left to myself; for then she generally takes the child out to give it milk in the Park. When she comes home again, she is so fatigued with walking, that she cannot stir from her chair: and it is an hour, after shop is shut, before I can get a bit of supper, while the maid is taken up in undressing and putting the child to bed. But you will pity me much more, when I tell you the manner in which we generally pass our Sundays. In the morning she is commonly too ill to dress herself to go to church; she therefore never gets up till noon; and, what is still more vexatious, keeps me in bed with her, when I ought to be busily engaged in better employment. It is well if she can get her things on by dinner-time; and, when that is over, I am sure to be dragged out by her either to Georgia, or Hornsey Wood, or the White Conduit House. Yet even these near excursions are so very fatiguing to her, that, besides what it costs me in tea and hot rolls, and sillabubs, and cakes for the boy, I am frequently forced to take a hackney-coach, or drive them out in a one-horse chair. At other times, as my wife is rather of the fattest, and a very poor walker, besides bearing her whole weight upon my arm, I am obliged to carry the child myself. Thus, Sir, does she constantly drawl out her time, without either profit or satisfaction; and, while I see my neighbours' wives helping in the shop, and almost earning as much as their husbands, I have the mortification to find that mine is nothing but a dead weight upon me. In short, I do not know any greater misfortune can happen to a plain hard-working tradesman, as I am, than to be joined to such a woman, who is rather a clog than a helpmate to him. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, ZACHARY TREACLE.[1] [1]An unknown correspondent. No. 16. SATURDAY, JULY 29, 1758. I paid a visit yesterday to my old friend Ned Drugget, at his country-lodgings. Ned began trade with a very small fortune; he took a small house in an obscure street, and for some years dealt only in remnants. Knowing that _light gains make a heavy purse_, he was content with moderate profit: having observed or heard the effects of civility, he bowed down to the counter-edge at the entrance and departure of every customer, listened without impatience to the objections of the ignorant, and refused without resentment the offers of the penurious. His only recreation was to stand at his own door and look into the street. His dinner was sent him from a neighbouring alehouse, and he opened and shut the shop at a certain hour with his own hands. His reputation soon extended from one end of the street to the other; and Mr. Drugget's exemplary conduct was recommended by every master to his apprentice, and by every father to his son. Ned was not only considered as a thriving trader, but as a man of elegance and politeness, for he was remarkably neat in his dress, and would wear his coat threadbare without spotting it; his hat was always brushed, his shoes glossy, his wig nicely curled, and his stockings without a wrinkle. With such qualifications it was not very difficult for him to gain the heart of Miss Comfit, the only daughter of Mr. Comfit the confectioner. Ned is one of those whose happiness marriage has increased. His wife had the same disposition with himself; and his method of life was very little changed, except that he dismissed the lodgers from the first floor, and took the whole house into his own hands. He had already, by his parsimony, accumulated a considerable sum, to which the fortune of his wife was now added. From this time he began to grasp at greater acquisitions, and was always ready, with money in his hand, to pick up the refuse of a sale, or to buy the stock of a trader who retired from business. He soon added his parlour to his shop, and was obliged a few months afterwards to hire a warehouse. He had now a shop splendidly and copiously furnished with every thing that time had injured, or fashion had degraded, with fragments of tissues, odd yards of brocade, vast bales of faded silk, and innumerable boxes of antiquated ribbons. His shop was soon celebrated through all quarters of the town, and frequented by every form of ostentatious poverty. Every maid, whose misfortune it was to be taller than her lady, matched her gown at Mr. Drugget's; and many a maiden, who had passed a winter with her aunt in London, dazzled the rusticks, at her return, with cheap finery which Drugget had supplied. His shop was often visited in a morning by ladies who left their coaches in the next street, and crept through the alley in linen gowns. Drugget knows the rank of his customers by their bashfulness; and, when he finds them unwilling to be seen, invites them up stairs, or retires with them to the back window. I rejoiced at the increasing prosperity of my friend, and imagined that, as he grew rich, he was growing happy. His mind has partaken the enlargement of his fortune. When I stepped in for the first five years, I was welcomed only with a shake of the hand; in the next period of his life, he beckoned across the way for a pot of beer; but for six years past, he invites me to dinner; and, if he bespeaks me the day before, never fails to regale me with a fillet of veal. His riches neither made him uncivil nor negligent; he rose at the same hour, attended with the same assiduity, and bowed with the same gentleness. But for some years he has been much inclined to talk of the fatigues of business, and the confinement of a shop, and to wish that he had been so happy as to have renewed his uncle's lease of a farm, that he might have lived without noise and hurry, in a pure air, in the artless society of honest villagers, and the contemplation of the works of nature. I soon discovered the cause of my friend's philosophy. He thought himself grown rich enough to have a lodging in the country, like the mercers on Ludgate-hill, and was resolved to enjoy himself in the decline of life. This was a revolution not to be made suddenly. He talked three years of the pleasures of the country, but passed every night over his own shop. But at last he resolved to be happy, and hired a lodging in the country, that he may steal some hours in the week from business; for, says he, _when a man advances in life, he loves to entertain himself sometimes with his own thoughts._ I was invited to this seat of quiet and contemplation, among those whom Mr. Drugget considers as his most reputable friends, and desires to make the first witnesses of his elevation to the highest dignities of a shopkeeper. I found him at Islington, in a room which overlooked the high road, amusing himself with looking through the window, which the clouds of dust would not suffer him to open. He embraced me, told me I was welcome into the country, and asked me if I did not feel myself refreshed. He then desired that dinner might be hastened, for fresh air always sharpened his appetite, and ordered me a toast and a glass of wine after my walk. He told me much of the pleasures he found in retirement, and wondered what had kept him so long out of the country. After dinner company came in, and Mr. Drugget again repeated the praises of the country, recommended the pleasures of meditation, and told them that he had been all the morning at the window, counting the carriages as they passed before him. No. 17. SATURDAY, AUGUST 5, 1758. _Surge tandem Carnifex_[1]. MAECENAS AD AUGUSTUM. The rainy weather, which has continued the last month, is said to have given great disturbance to the inspectors of barometers. The oraculous glasses have deceived their votaries; shower has succeeded shower, though they predicted sunshine and dry skies; and, by fatal confidence in these fallacious promises, many coats have lost their gloss, and many curls been moistened to flaccidity. This is one of the distresses to which mortals subject themselves by the pride of speculation. I had no part in this learned disappointment, who am content to credit my senses, and to believe that rain will fall when the air blackens, and that the weather will be dry when the sun is bright. My caution, indeed, does not always preserve me from a shower. To be wet may happen to the genuine Idler; but to be wet in opposition to theory, can befall only the Idler that pretends to be busy. Of those that spin out life in trifles and die without a memorial, many flatter themselves with high opinions of their own importance, and imagine that they are every day adding some improvement to human life. To be idle and to be poor have always been reproaches, and therefore every man endeavours, with his utmost care, to hide his poverty from others, and his idleness from himself. Among those whom I never could persuade to rank themselves with Idlers, and who speak with indignation of my morning sleeps and nocturnal rambles; one passes the day in catching spiders, that he may count their eyes with a microscope; another erects his head, and exhibits the dust of a marigold separated from the flower with a dexterity worthy of Leuwenhoeck himself. Some turn the wheel of electricity; some suspend rings to a load-stone, and find that what they did yesterday they can do again to-day. Some register the changes of the wind, and die fully convinced that the wind is changeable. There are men yet more profound, who have heard that two colourless liquors may produce a colour by union, and that two cold bodies will grow hot if they are mingled; they mingle them, and produce the effect expected, say it is strange, and mingle them again. The Idlers that sport only with inanimate nature may claim some indulgence; if they are useless, they are still innocent: but there are others, whom I know not how to mention without more emotion than my love of quiet willingly admits. Among the inferior professors of medical knowledge, is a race of wretches, whose lives are only varied by varieties of cruelty; whose favourite amusement is to nail dogs to tables and open them alive; to try how long life may be continued in various degrees of mutilation, or with the excision or laceration of the vital parts; to examine whether burning irons are felt more acutely by the bone or tendon; and whether the more lasting agonies are produced by poison forced into the mouth, or injected into the veins. It is not without reluctance that I offend the sensibility of the tender mind with images like these. If such cruelties were not practised, it were to be desired that they should not be conceived; but, since they are published every day with ostentation, let me be allowed once to mention them, since I mention them with abhorrence. Mead has invidiously remarked of Woodward, that he gathered shells and stones, and would pass for a philosopher. With pretensions much less reasonable, the anatomical novice tears out the living bowels of an animal, and styles himself physician, prepares himself by familiar cruelty for that profession which he is to exercise upon the tender and the helpless, upon feeble bodies and broken minds, and by which he has opportunities to extend his arts of torture, and continue those experiments upon infancy and age, which he has hitherto tried upon cats and dogs. What is alleged in defence of these hateful practices, every one knows; but the truth is, that by knives, fire, and poison, knowledge is not always sought, and is very seldom attained. The experiments that have been tried, are tried again; he that burned an animal with irons yesterday, will be willing to amuse himself with burning another to-morrow. I know not, that by living dissections any discovery has been made by which a single malady is more easily cured. And if the knowledge of physiology has been somewhat increased, he surely buys knowledge dear, who learns the use of the lacteals at the expense of his humanity. It is time that universal resentment should arise against these horrid operations, which tend to harden the heart, extinguish those sensations which give man confidence in man, and make the physician more dreadful than the gout or stone. [1] Dr. Johnson gave this, among other mottos, to Mrs. Piozzi. They will be inserted in this Edition in their proper places, and indicated by an asterisk. See Mrs. Piozzi's Anecdotes, and Chalmers' British Essayists, vol. 33. No. 18. SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, It commonly happens to him who endeavours to obtain distinction by ridicule or censure, that he teaches others to practise his own arts against himself; and that, after a short enjoyment of the applause paid to his sagacity, or of the mirth excited by his wit, he is doomed to suffer the same severities of scrutiny, to hear inquiry detecting his faults, and exaggeration sporting with his failings. The natural discontent of inferiority will seldom fail to operate in some degree of malice against him who professes to superintend the conduct of others, especially if he seats himself uncalled in the chair of judicature, and exercises authority by his own commission. You cannot, therefore, wonder that your observations on human folly, if they produce laughter at one time, awaken criticism at another; and that among the numbers whom you have taught to scoff at the retirement of Drugget, there is one who offers his apology. The mistake of your old friend is by no means peculiar. The publick pleasures of far the greater part of mankind are counterfeit. Very few carry their philosophy to places of diversion, or are very careful to analyze their enjoyments. The general condition of life is so full of misery, that we are glad to catch delight without inquiring whence it comes, or by what power it is bestowed. The mind is seldom quickened to very vigorous operations but by pain, or the dread of pain. We do not disturb ourselves with the detection of fallacies which do us no harm, nor willingly decline a pleasing effect to investigate its cause. He that is happy, by whatever means, desires nothing but the continuance of happiness, and is no more solicitous to distribute his sensations into their proper species, than the common gazer on the beauties of the spring to separate light into its original rays. Pleasure is therefore seldom such as it appears to others, nor often such as we represent it to ourselves. Of the ladies that sparkle at a musical performance, a very small number has any quick sensibility of harmonious sounds. But every one that goes has her pleasure. She has the pleasure of wearing fine clothes, and of showing them, of outshining those whom she suspects to envy her; she has the pleasure of appearing among other ladies in a place whither the race of meaner mortals seldom intrudes, and of reflecting that, in the conversations of the next morning, her name will be mentioned among those that sat in the first row; she has the pleasure of returning courtesies, or refusing to return them, of receiving compliments with civility, or rejecting them with disdain. She has the pleasure of meeting some of her acquaintance, of guessing why the rest are absent, and of telling them that she saw the opera, on pretence of inquiring why they would miss it. She has the pleasure of being supposed to be pleased with a refined amusement, and of hoping to be numbered among the votaresses of harmony. She has the pleasure of escaping for two hours the superiority of a sister, or the control of a husband; and from all these pleasures she concludes, that heavenly musick is the balm of life. All assemblies of gaiety are brought together by motives of the same kind. The theatre is not filled with those that know or regard the skill of the actor, nor the ball-room by those who dance, or attend to the dancers. To all places of general resort, where the standard of pleasure is erected, we run with equal eagerness, or appearance of eagerness, for very different reasons. One goes that he may say he has been there, another because he never misses. This man goes to try what he can find, and that to discover what others find. Whatever diversion is costly will be frequented by those who desire to be thought rich; and whatever has, by any accident, become fashionable, easily continues its reputation, because every one is ashamed of not partaking it. To every place of entertainment we go with expectation and desire of being pleased; we meet others who are brought by the same motives; no one will be the first to own the disappointment; one face reflects the smile of another, till each believes the rest delighted, and endeavours to catch and transmit the circulating rapture. In time all are deceived by the cheat to which all contribute. The fiction of happiness is propagated by every tongue, and confirmed by every look, till at last all profess the joy which they do not feel, consent to yield to the general delusion; and when the voluntary dream is at an end, lament that bliss is of so short a duration. If Drugget pretended to pleasures of which he had no perception, or boasted of one amusement where he was indulging another, what did he which is not done by all those who read his story? of whom some pretend delight in conversation, only because they dare not be alone; some praise the quiet of solitude, because they are envious of sense, and impatient of folly; and some gratify their pride, by writing characters which expose the vanity of life. I am, Sir, Your humble servant. No. 19. SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1758. Some of those ancient sages that have exercised their abilities in the inquiry after the supreme good, have been of opinion, that the highest degree of earthly happiness is quiet; a calm repose both of mind and body, undisturbed by the sight of folly or the noise of business, the tumults of publick commotion, or the agitations of private interest: a state in which the mind has no other employment, but to observe and regulate her own motions, to trace thought from thought, combine one image with another, raise systems of science, and form theories of virtue. To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, it has been justly objected, that if they are happy, they are happy only by being useless. That mankind is one vast republick, where every individual receives many benefits from the labours of others, which, by labouring in his turn for others, he is obliged to repay; and that where the united efforts of all are not able to exempt all from misery, none have a right to withdraw from their task of vigilance, or to be indulged in idle wisdom or solitary pleasures. It is common for controvertists, in the heat of disputation, to add one position to another till they reach the extremities of knowledge, where truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their admirers follow them to the brink of absurdity, and then start back from each side towards the middle point. So it has happened in this great disquisition. Many perceive alike the force of the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful, and business dangerous, and therefore pass their lives between them, in bustle without business, and negligence without quiet. Among the principal names of this moderate set is that great philosopher Jack Whirler, whose business keeps him in perpetual motion, and whose motion always eludes his business; who is always to do what he never does, who cannot stand still because he is wanted in another place, and who is wanted in many places because he stays in none. Jack has more business than he can conveniently transact in one house; he has therefore one habitation near Bow-church, and another about a mile distant. By this ingenious distribution of himself between two houses, Jack has contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade is extensive, and he has many dealers; his conversation is sprightly, and he has many companions; his disposition is kind, and he has many friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure for business, nor omits business for pleasure, but is equally invisible to his friends and his customers; to him that comes with an invitation to a club, and to him that waits to settle an account. When you call at his house, his clerk tells you that Mr. Whirler has just stept out, but will be at home exactly at two; you wait at a coffee-house till two, and then find that he has been at home, and is gone out again, but left word that he should be at the Half-moon tavern at seven, where he hopes to meet you. At seven you go to the tavern. At eight in comes Mr. Whirler to tell you that he is glad to see you, and only begs leave to run for a few minutes to a gentleman that lives near the Exchange, from whom he will return before supper can be ready. Away he runs to the Exchange, to tell those who are waiting for him that he must beg them to defer the business till to-morrow, because his time is come at the Half-moon. Jack's cheerfulness and civility rank him among those whose presence never gives pain, and whom all receive with fondness and caresses. He calls often on his friends, to tell them that he will come again to-morrow; on the morrow he comes again, to tell them how an unexpected summons hurries him away.--When he enters a house, his first declaration is, that he cannot sit down; and so short are his visits, that he seldom appears to have come for any other reason, but to say, He must go. The dogs of Egypt, when thirst brings them to the Nile, are said to run as they drink for fear of the crocodiles. Jack Whirler always dines at full speed. He enters, finds the family at table, sits familiarly down, and fills his plate; but while the first morsel is in his mouth, hears the clock strike, and rises; then goes to another house, sits down again, recollects another engagement, has only time to taste the soup, makes a short excuse to the company, and continues through another street his desultory dinner. But, overwhelmed as he is with business, his chief desire is to have still more. Every new proposal takes possession of his thoughts; he soon balances probabilities, engages in the project, brings it almost to completion, and then forsakes it for another, which he catches with the same alacrity, urges with the same vehemence, and abandons with the same coldness. Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of complaint, on which he dwells in his moments of dejection. Jack's topick of sorrow is the want of time. Many an excellent design languishes in empty theory for want of time. For the omission of any civilities, want of time is his plea to others; for the neglect of any affairs, want of time is his excuse to himself. That he wants time, he sincerely believes; for he once pined away many months with a lingering distemper, for want of time to attend to his health. Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigue without proportionate advantage, because he does not consider that no man can see all with his own eyes, or do all with his own hands; that whoever is engaged in multiplicity of business, must transact much by substitution, and leave something to hazard; and that he who attempts to do all, will waste his life in doing little. No. 20. SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1758. There is no crime more infamous than the violation of truth. It is apparent that men can be social beings no longer than they believe each other. When speech is employed only as the vehicle of falsehood, every man must disunite himself from others, inhabit his own cave, and seek prey only for himself. Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and necessary, is broken without punishment, without censure, in compliance with inveterate prejudice and prevailing passions. Men are willing to credit what they wish, and encourage rather those who gratify them with pleasure, than those that instruct them with fidelity. For this reason every historian discovers his country; and it is impossible to read the different accounts of any great event, without a wish that truth had more power over partiality. Amidst the joy of my countrymen for the acquisition of Louisbourg, I could not forbear to consider how differently this revolution of American power is not only now mentioned by the contending nations, but will be represented by the writers of another century. The English historian will imagine himself barely doing justice to English virtue, when he relates the capture of Louisbourg in the following manner: "The English had hitherto seen, with great indignation, their attempts baffled and their force defied by an enemy, whom they considered themselves as entitled to conquer by the right of prescription, and whom many ages of hereditary superiority had taught them to despise. Their fleets were more numerous, and their seamen braver, than those of France; yet they only floated useless on the ocean, and the French derided them from their ports. Misfortunes, as is usual, produced discontent, the people murmured at the ministers, and the ministers censured the commanders. "In the summer of this year, the English began to find their success answerable to their cause. A fleet and an army were sent to America to dislodge the enemies from the settlements which they had so perfidiously made, and so insolently maintained, and to repress that power which was growing more every day by the association of the Indians, with whom these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and whom they secured to their party by presents and promises. "In the beginning of June the ships of war and vessels containing the land-forces appeared before Louisbourg, a place so secured by nature that art was almost superfluous, and yet fortified by art as if nature had left it open. The French boasted that it was impregnable, and spoke with scorn of all attempts that could be made against it. The garrison was numerous, the stores equal to the longest siege, and their engineers and commanders high in reputation. The mouth of the harbour was so narrow, that three ships within might easily defend it against all attacks from the sea. The French had, with that caution which cowards borrow from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our fleets, and sent into that port five great ships and six smaller, of which they sunk four in the mouth of the passage, having raised batteries and posted troops at all the places where they thought it possible to make a descent. The English, however, had more to dread from the roughness of the sea, than from the skill or bravery of the defendants. Some days passed before the surges, which rise very high round that island, would suffer them to land. At last their impatience could be restrained no longer; they got possession of the shore with little loss by the sea, and with less by the enemy. In a few days the artillery was landed, the batteries were raised, and the French had no other hope than to escape from one post to another. A shot from the batteries fired the powder in one of their largest ships, the flame spread to the two next, and all three were destroyed; the English admiral sent his boats against the two large ships yet remaining, took them without resistance, and terrified the garrison to an immediate capitulation." Let us now oppose to this English narrative the relation which will be produced, about the same time, by the writer of the age of Louis XV. "About this time the English admitted to the conduct of affairs a man who undertook to save from destruction that ferocious and turbulent people, who, from the mean insolence of wealthy traders, and the lawless confidence of successful robbers, were now sunk in despair and stupified with horrour. He called in the ships which had been dispersed over the ocean to guard their merchants, and sent a fleet and an army, in which almost the whole strength of England was comprised, to secure their possessions in America, which were endangered alike by the French arms and the French virtue. We had taken the English fortresses by force, and gained the Indian nations by humanity. The English, wherever they come, are sure to have the natives for their enemies; for the only motive of their settlements is avarice, and the only consequence of their success is oppression. In this war they acted like other barbarians; and, with a degree of outrageous cruelty, which the gentleness of our manners scarcely suffers us to conceive, offered rewards by open proclamation to those who should bring in the scalps of Indian women and children. A trader always makes war with the cruelty of a pirate. "They had long looked with envy and with terrour upon the influence which the French exerted over all the northern regions of America by the possession of Louisbourg, a place naturally strong, and new-fortified with some slight outworks. They hoped to surprise the garrison unprovided; but that sluggishness, which always defeats their malice, gave us time to send supplies, and to station ships for the defence of the harbour. They came before Louisbourg in June, and were for some time in doubt whether they should land. But the commanders, who had lately seen an admiral shot for not having done what he had not power to do, durst not leave the place unassaulted. An Englishman has no ardour for honour, nor zeal for duty; he neither values glory nor loves his king, but balances one danger with another, and will fight rather than be hanged. They therefore landed, but with great loss their engineers had, in the last war with the French, learned something of the military science, and made their approaches with sufficient skill; but all their efforts had been without effect, had not a ball unfortunately fallen into the powder of one of our ships, which communicated the fire to the rest, and, by opening the passage of the harbour, obliged the garrison to capitulate. Thus was Louisbourg lost, and our troops marched out with the admiration of their enemies, who durst hardly think themselves masters of the place." No. 21. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Dear Mr. Idler, There is a species of misery, or of disease, for which our language is commonly supposed to be without a name, but which I think is emphatically enough denominated _listlessness_, and which is commonly termed a want of something to do. Of the unhappiness of this state I do not expect all your readers to have an adequate idea. Many are overburdened with business, and can imagine no comfort but in rest; many have minds so placid, as willingly to indulge a voluntary lethargy; or so narrow, as easily to be filled to their utmost capacity. By these I shall not be understood, and therefore cannot be pitied. Those only will sympathize with my complaint, whose imagination is active, and resolution weak, whose desires are ardent, and whose choice is delicate; who cannot satisfy themselves with standing still, and yet cannot find a motive to direct their course. I was the second son of a gentleman, whose estate was barely sufficient to support himself and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He therefore made use of the interest which the alliances of his family afforded him, to procure me a post in the army. I passed some years in the most contemptible of all human stations, that of a soldier in time of peace. I wandered with the regiment as the quarters were changed, without opportunity for business, taste for knowledge, or money for pleasure. Wherever I came, I was for some time a stranger without curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance without friendship. Having nothing to hope in these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned my conduct to chance; I had no intention to offend, I had no ambition to delight. I suppose every man is shocked when he hears how frequently soldiers are wishing for war. The wish is not always sincere; the greater part are content with sleep and lace, and counterfeit an ardour which they do not feel; but those who desire it most are neither prompted by malevolence nor patriotism; they neither pant for laurels, nor delight in blood; but long to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and restored to the dignity of active beings. I never imagined myself to have more courage than other men, yet was often involuntarily wishing for a war, but of a war, at that time, I had no prospect; and being enabled, by the death of an uncle, to live without my pay, I quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my own motions. I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty of independence, and imagined that I had now found what every man desires. My time was in my own power, and my habitation was wherever my choice should fix it. I amused myself for two years in passing from place to place, and comparing one convenience with another; but being at last ashamed of inquiry, and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, and established my family. I now expected to begin to be happy, and was happy for a short time with that expectation. But I soon perceived my spirits to subside, and my imagination to grow dark. The gloom thickened every day round me. I wondered by what malignant power my peace was blasted, till I discovered at last that I had nothing to do. Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to him whose whole employment is to watch its flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to enable me to endure the tediousness of the day. I rise when I can sleep no longer, and take my morning-walk; I see what I have seen before, and return. I sit down, and persuade myself that I sit down to think; find it impossible to think without a subject, rise up to inquire after news, and endeavour to kindle in myself an artificial impatience for intelligence of events, which will never extend any consequence to me, but that, a few minutes, they abstract me from myself. When I have heard any thing that may gratify curiosity, I am busied for a while in running to relate it. I hasten from one place of concourse, to another, delighted with my own importance, and proud to think that I am doing something, though I know that another hour would spare my labour. I had once a round of visits, which I paid very regularly; but I have now tired most of my friends. When I have sat down I forget to rise, and have more than once overheard one asking another, when I would be gone. I perceive the company tired, I observe the mistress of the family whispering to her servants, I find orders given to put off business till to-morrow, I see the watches frequently inspected, and yet cannot withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, or venture myself in my own company. Thus burdensome to myself and others, I form many schemes of employment which may make my life useful or agreeable, and exempt me from the ignominy of living by sufferance. This new course I have long designed, but have not yet begun. The present moment is never proper for the change, but there is always a time in view when all obstacles will be removed, and I shall surprise all that know me with a new distribution of my time. Twenty years have past since I have resolved a complete amendment, and twenty years have been lost in delays. Age is coming upon me; and I should look back with rage and despair upon the waste of life, but that I am now beginning in earnest to begin a reformation. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, DICK LINGER. No. 22. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1758. _Oh nomen dulce libertatis! Oh jus eximium nostra civitatis!_ CICERO. TO THE IDLER. Sir, As I was passing lately under one of the gates of this city, I was struck with horrour by a rueful cry, which summoned me _to remember the poor debtors_. The wisdom and justice of the English laws are, by Englishmen at least, loudly celebrated: but scarcely the most zealous admirers of our institutions can think that law wise, which, when men are capable of work, obliges them to beg; or just, which exposes the liberty of one to the passions of another. The prosperity of a people is proportionate to the number of hands and minds usefully employed. To the community, sedition is a fever, corruption is a gangrene, and idleness an atrophy. Whatever body, and whatever society, wastes more than it acquires, must gradually decay; and every being that continues to be fed, and ceases to labour, takes away something from the publick stock. The confinement, therefore, of any man in the sloth and darkness of a prison, is a loss to the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of the multitudes who are pining in those cells of misery, a very small part is suspected of any fraudulent act by which they retain what belongs to others. The rest are imprisoned by the wantonness of pride, the malignity of revenge, or the acrimony of disappointed expectation. If those, who thus rigorously exercise the power which the law has put into their hands, be asked, why they continue to imprison those whom they know to be unable to pay them; one will answer, that his debtor once lived better than himself; another, that his wife looked above her neighbours, and his children went in silk clothes to the dancing-school; and another, that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some will reply, that if they were in debt, they should meet with the same treatment; some, that they owe no more than they can pay, and need therefore give no account of their actions. Some will confess their resolution, that their debtors shall rot in jail; and some will discover, that they hope, by cruelty, to wring the payment from their friends. The end of all civil regulations is to secure private happiness from private malignity; to keep individuals from the power of one another; but this end is apparently neglected, when a man, irritated with loss, is allowed to be the judge of his own cause, and to assign the punishment of his own pain; when the distinction between guilt and happiness, between casualty and design, is intrusted to eyes blind with interest, to understandings depraved by resentment. Since poverty is punished among us as a crime, it ought at least to be treated with the same lenity as other crimes; the offender ought not to languish at the will of him whom he has offended, but to be allowed some appeal to the justice of his country. There can be no reason why any debtor should be imprisoned, but that he may be compelled to payment; and a term should therefore be fixed, in which the creditor should exhibit his accusation of concealed property. If such property can be discovered, let it be given to the creditor; if the charge is not offered, or cannot be proved, let the prisoner be dismissed. Those who made the laws have apparently supposed, that every deficiency of payment is the crime of the debtor. But the truth is, that the creditor always shares the act, and often more than shares the guilt, of improper trust. It seldom happens that any man imprisons another but for debts which he suffered to be contracted in hope of advantage to himself, and for bargains in which he proportioned his profit to his own opinion of the hazard; and there is no reason why one should punish the other for a contract in which both concurred. Many of the inhabitants of prisons may justly complain of harder treatment. He that once owes more than he can pay, is often obliged to bribe his creditor to patience, by increasing his debt. Worse and worse commodities, at a higher and higher price, are forced upon him; he is impoverished by compulsive traffick, and at last overwhelmed, in the common receptacles of misery, by debts, which, without his own consent, were accumulated on his head. To the relief of this distress, no other objection can be made, but that by an easy dissolution of debts fraud will be left without punishment, and imprudence without awe; and that when insolvency should be no longer punishable, credit will cease. The motive to credit is the hope of advantage. Commerce can never be at a stop, while one man wants what another can supply; and credit will never be denied, while it is likely to be repaid with profit. He that trusts one whom he designs to sue, is criminal by the act of trust: the cessation of such insidious traffick is to be desired, and no reason can be given why a change of the law should impair any other. We see nation trade with nation, where no payment can be compelled. Mutual convenience produces mutual confidence; and the merchants continue to satisfy the demands of each other, though they have nothing to dread but the loss of trade. It is vain to continue an institution, which experience shows to be ineffectual. We have now imprisoned one generation of debtors after another, but we do not find that their numbers lessen. We have now learned that rashness and imprudence will not be deterred from taking credit; let us try whether fraud and avarice may be more easily restrained from giving it[1]. I am, Sir, &c. [1] This number was substituted, for some reason not ascertained, for the keenly satirical original, which is reprinted at the end of this volume. The observations of the present paper are such as would naturally suggest themselves to an honest and benevolent mind like Johnson's; but their political correctness may reasonably be questioned. An attempt has been made, since his day, to provide a humane protection for the unfortunate debtor. But has it not, at the same time, exposed the confiding tradesman to deception and to consequent ruin, by destroying all adequate punishment, and therefore removing every check upon vice and prodigality? In a _Dictionnaire des Gens du Monde_, insolvency has been, not unaptly, defined, a mode of getting rich by infallible rules! See Idler 38, and Note. No. 23. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1758. Life has no pleasure higher or nobler than that of friendship. It is painful to consider, that this sublime enjoyment may be impaired or destroyed by innumerable causes, and that there is no human possession of which the duration is less certain. Many have talked, in very exalted language, of the perpetuity of friendship, of invincible constancy, and unalienable kindness; and some examples have been seen of men who have continued faithful to their earliest choice, and whose affection has predominated over changes of fortune, and contrariety of opinion. But these instances are memorable, because they are rare. The friendship which is to be practised or expected by common mortals, must take its rise from mutual pleasure, and must end when the power ceases of delighting each other. Many accidents therefore may happen, by which the ardour of kindness will be abated, without criminal baseness or contemptible inconstancy on either part. To give pleasure is not always in our power; and little does he know himself, who believes that he can be always able to receive it. Those who would gladly pass their days together may be separated by the different course of their affairs; and friendship, like love, is destroyed by long absence, though it may be increased by short intermissions. What we have missed long enough to want it, we value more when it is regained; but that which has been lost till it is forgotten, will be found at last with little gladness, and with still less if a substitute has supplied the place. A man deprived of the companion to whom he used to open his bosom, and with whom he shared the hours of leisure and merriment, feels the day at first hanging heavy on him; his difficulties oppress, and his doubts distract him; he sees time come and go without his wonted gratification, and all is sadness within, and solitude about him. But this uneasiness never lasts long; necessity produces expedients, new amusements are discovered, and new conversation is admitted. No expectation is more frequently disappointed, than that which naturally arises in the mind from the prospect of meeting an old friend after long separation. We expect the attraction to be revived, and the coalition to be renewed; no man considers how much alteration time has made in himself, and very few inquire what effect it has had upon others. The first hour convinces them that the pleasure, which they had formerly enjoyed, is for ever at an end; different scenes have made different impressions; the opinions of both are changed; and that similitude of manners and sentiment is lost, which confirmed them both in the approbation of themselves. Friendship is often destroyed by opposition of interest, not only by the ponderous and visible interest which the desire of wealth and greatness forms and maintains, but by a thousand secret and slight competitions, scarcely known to the mind upon which they operate. There is scarcely any man without some favourite trifle which he values above greater attainments, some desire of petty praise which he cannot patiently suffer to be frustrated. This minute ambition is sometimes crossed before it is known, and sometimes defeated by wanton petulance; but such attacks are seldom made without the loss of friendship; for whoever has once found the vulnerable part will always be feared, and the resentment will burn on in secret, of which shame hinders the discovery. This, however, is a slow malignity, which a wise man will obviate as inconsistent with quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary to virtue; but human happiness is sometimes violated by some more sudden strokes. A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which, a moment before, was on both parts regarded with careless indifference, is continued by the desire of conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, and opposition rankles into enmity. Against this hasty mischief, I know not what security can be obtained: men will be sometimes surprised into quarrels; and though they might both hasten to reconciliation, as soon as their tumult had subsided, yet two minds will seldom be found together, which can at once subdue their discontent, or immediately enjoy the sweets of peace, without remembering the wounds of the conflict. Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is always hardening the cautious, and disgust repelling the delicate. Very slender differences will sometimes part those whom long reciprocation of civility or beneficence has united. Lonelove and Ranger retired into the country to enjoy the company of each other, and returned in six weeks cold and petulant; Ranger's pleasure was to walk in the fields, and Lonelove's to sit in a bower; each had complied with the other in his turn, and each was angry that compliance had been exacted. The most fatal disease of friendship is gradual decay, or dislike hourly increased by causes too slender for complaint, and too numerous for removal.--Those who are angry may be reconciled; those who have been injured may receive a recompense: but when the desire of pleasing and willingness to be pleased is silently diminished, the renovation of friendship is hopeless; as, when the vital powers sink into languor, there is no longer any use of the physician. No. 24. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1758. When man sees one of the inferior creatures perched upon a tree, or basking in the sunshine, without any apparent endeavour or pursuit, he often asks himself, or his companion, _On what that animal can be supposed to be thinking_? Of this question, since neither bird nor beast can answer it, we must be content to live without the resolution. We know not how much the brutes recollect of the past, or anticipate of the future; what power they have of comparing and preferring; or whether their faculties may not rest in motionless indifference, till they are moved by the presence of their proper object, or stimulated to act by corporal sensations. I am the less inclined to these superfluous inquiries, because I have always been able to find sufficient matter for curiosity in my own species. It is useless to go far in quest of that which may be found at home; a very narrow circle of observation will supply a sufficient number of men and women, who might be asked, with equal propriety, _On what they can be thinking_? It is reasonable to believe, that thought, like every thing else, has its causes and effects; that it must proceed from something known, done, or suffered; and must produce some action or event. Yet how great is the number of those in whose minds no source of thought has ever been opened, in whose life no consequence of thought is ever discovered; who have learned nothing upon which they can reflect; who have neither seen nor felt any thing which could leave its traces on the memory; who neither foresee nor desire any change in their condition, and have therefore neither fear, hope, nor design, and yet are supposed to be thinking beings. To every act a subject is required. He that thinks must think upon something. But tell me, ye that pierce deepest into nature, ye that take the widest surveys of life, inform me, kind shades of Malbranche and of Locke, what that something can be, which excites and continues thought in maiden aunts with small fortunes; in younger brothers that live upon annuities; in traders retired from business; in soldiers absent from their regiments; or in widows that have no children? Life is commonly considered as either active or contemplative; but surely this division, how long soever it has been received, is inadequate and fallacious. There are mortals whose life is certainly not active, for they do neither good nor evil; and whose life cannot be properly called contemplative, for they never attend either to the conduct of men, or the works of nature, but rise in the morning, look round them till night in careless stupidity, go to bed and sleep, and rise again in the morning. It has been lately a celebrated question in the schools of philosophy, _Whether the soul always thinks_! Some have defined the soul to be the _power of thinking_; concluded that its essence consists in act; that, if it should cease to act, it would cease to be; and that cessation of thought is but another name for extinction of mind. This argument is subtle, but not conclusive; because it supposes what cannot be proved, that the nature of mind is properly defined. Others affect to disdain subtilty, when subtilty will not serve their purpose, and appeal to daily experience. We spend many hours, they say, in sleep, without the least remembrance of any thoughts which then passed in our minds; and since we can only by our own consciousness be sure that we think, why should we imagine that we have had thought of which no consciousness remains? This argument, which appeals to experience, may from experience be confuted. We every day do something which we forget when it is done, and know to have been done only by consequence. The waking hours are not denied to have been passed in thought; yet he that shall endeavour to recollect on one day the ideas of the former, will only turn the eye of reflection upon vacancy; he will find that the greater part is irrevocably vanished, and wonder how the moments could come and go, and leave so little behind them. To discover only that the arguments on both sides are defective, and to throw back the tenet into its former uncertainty, is the sport of wanton or malevolent skepticism, delighting to see the sons of philosophy at work upon a task which never can be decided. I shall suggest an argument hitherto overlooked, which may perhaps determine the controversy. If it be impossible to think without materials, there must necessarily be minds that do not always think; and whence shall we furnish materials for the meditation of the glutton between his meals, of the sportsman in a rainy month, of the annuitant between the days of quarterly payment, of the politician when the mails are detained by contrary winds? But how frequent soever may be the examples of existence without thought, it is certainly a state not much to be desired. He that lives in torpid insensibility, wants nothing of a carcass but putrefaction. It is the part of every inhabitant of the earth to partake the pains and pleasures of his fellow-beings; and, as in a road through a country desert and uniform, the traveller languishes for want of amusement, so the passage of life will be tedious and irksome to him who does not beguile it by diversified ideas. No. 25. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I am a very constant frequenter of the playhouse, a place to which I suppose the _Idler_ not much a stranger, since he can have no where else so much entertainment with so little concurrence of his own endeavour. At all other assemblies, he that comes to receive delight, will be expected to give it; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to the amusement of two hours, but to sit down and be willing to be pleased. The last week has offered two new actors to the town. The appearance and retirement of actors are the great events of the theatrical world; and their first performances fill the pit with conjecture and prognostication, as the first actions of a new monarch agitate nations with hope or fear. What opinion I have formed of the future excellence of these candidates for dramatick glory, it is not necessary to declare. Their entrance gave me a higher and nobler pleasure than any borrowed character can afford. I saw the ranks of the theatre emulating each other in candour and humanity, and contending who should most effectually assist the struggles of endeavour, dissipate the blush of diffidence, and still the flutter of timidity. This behaviour is such as becomes a people, too tender to repress those who wish to please, too generous to insult those who can make no resistance. A publick performer is so much in the power of spectators, that all unnecessary severity is restrained by that general law of humanity, which forbids us to be cruel where there is nothing to be feared. In every new performer something must be pardoned. No man can, by any force of resolution, secure to himself the full possession of his own powers under the eye of a large assembly. Variation of gesture, and flexion of voice, are to be obtained only by experience. There is nothing for which such numbers think themselves qualified as for theatrical exhibition. Every human being has an action graceful to his own eye, a voice musical to his own ear, and a sensibility which nature forbids him to know that any other bosom can excel. An art in which such numbers fancy themselves excellent, and which the publick liberally rewards, will excite many competitors, and in many attempts there must be many miscarriages. The care of the critick should be to distinguish errour from inability, faults of inexperience from defects of nature. Action irregular and turbulent may be reclaimed; vociferation vehement and confused may be restrained and modulated; the stalk of the tyrant may become the gait of the man; the yell of inarticulate distress may be reduced to human lamentation. All these faults should be for a time overlooked, and afterwards censured with gentleness and candour. But if in an actor there appears an utter vacancy of meaning, a frigid equality, a stupid languor, a torpid apathy, the greatest kindness that can be shown him is a speedy sentence of expulsion. I am, Sir, &c. The plea which my correspondent has offered for young actors, I am very far from wishing to invalidate. I always considered those combinations which are sometimes formed in the playhouse, as acts of fraud or of cruelty; he that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the publick; he that hisses in malice or sport, is an oppressor and a robber. But surely this laudable forbearance might be justly extended to young poets. The art of the writer, like that of the player, is attained by slow degrees. The power of distinguishing and discriminating comick characters, or of filling tragedy with poetical images, must be the gift of nature, which no instruction nor labour can supply; but the art of dramatick disposition, the contexture of the scenes, the opposition of characters, the involution of the plot, the expedients of suspension, and the stratagems of surprise, are to be learned by practice; and it is cruel to discourage a poet for ever, because he has not from genius what only experience can bestow. Life is a stage. Let me likewise solicit candour for the young actor on the stage of life. They that enter into the world are too often treated with unreasonable rigour by those that were once as ignorant and heady as themselves; and distinction is not always made between the faults which require speedy and violent eradication, and those that will gradually drop away in the progression of life. Vicious solicitations of appetite, if not checked, will grow more importunate; and mean arts of profit or ambition will gather strength in the mind, if they are not early suppressed. But mistaken notions of superiority, desires of useless show, pride of little accomplishments, and all the train of vanity, will be brushed away by the wing of time. Reproof should not exhaust its power upon petty failings; let it watch diligently against the incursion of vice, and leave foppery and futility to die of themselves. No. 26 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1758. Mr. Idler, I never thought that I should write any thing to be printed; but having lately seen your first essay, which was sent down into the kitchen, with a great bundle of gazettes and useless papers, I find that you are willing to admit any correspondent, and therefore hope you will not reject me. If you publish my letter, it may encourage others, in the same condition with myself, to tell their stories, which may be, perhaps, as useful as those of great ladies. I am a poor girl. I was bred in the country at a charity-school, maintained by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or patronesses, visited us from time to time, examined how we were taught, and saw that our clothes were clean. We lived happily enough, and were instructed to be thankful to those at whose cost we were educated. I was always the favourite of my mistress; she used to call me to read and show my copybook to all strangers, who never dismissed me without commendation, and very seldom without a shilling. At last the chief of our subscribers, having passed a winter in London, came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole country. She held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write. They who are born to poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will work the harder the less they know. She told her friends, that London was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a wench was to be got for _all work_, since education had made such numbers of fine ladies; that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour window. But she was resolved, for her part, to spoil no more girls; those, who were to live by their hands, should neither read nor write out of her pocket; the world was bad enough already, and she would have no part in making it worse. She was for a short time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her notions, and withdrew her subscription. Few listen without a desire of conviction to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example and her arguments gained ground daily; and in less than a year the whole parish was convinced, that the nation would be ruined, if the children of the poor were taught to read and write. Our school was now dissolved: my mistress kissed me when we parted, and told me, that, being old and helpless, she could not assist me; advised me to seek a service, and charged me not to forget what I had learned. My reputation for scholarship, which had hitherto recommended me to favour, was, by the adherents to the new opinion, considered as a crime; and, when I offered myself to any mistress, I had no other answer than, "Sure, child, you would not work! hard work is not fit for a pen-woman; a scrubbing-brush would spoil your hand, child!" I could not live at home; and while I was considering to what I should betake me, one of the girls, who had gone from our school to London, came down in a silk gown, and told her acquaintance how well she lived, what fine things she saw, and what great wages she received. I resolved to try my fortune, and took my passage in the next week's waggon to London. I had no snares laid for me at my arrival, but came safe to a sister of my mistress, who undertook to get me a place. She knew only the families of mean tradesmen; and I, having no high opinion of my own qualifications, was willing to accept the first offer. My first mistress was wife of a working watch-maker, who earned more than was sufficient to keep his family in decency and plenty; but it was their constant practice to hire a chaise on Sunday, and spend half the wages of the week on Richmond Hill; of Monday he commonly lay half in bed, and spent the other half in merriment; Tuesday and Wednesday consumed the rest of his money; and three days every week were passed in extremity of want by us who were left at home, while my master lived on trust at an alehouse. You may be sure, that of the sufferers, the maid suffered most; and I left them, after three months, rather than be starved. I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There was no want to be dreaded, for they lived in perpetual luxury. My mistress was a diligent woman, and rose early in the morning to set the journeymen to work; my master was a man much beloved by his neighbours, and sat at one club or other every night. I was obliged to wait on my master at night, and on my mistress in the morning. He seldom came home before two, and she rose at five. I could no more live without sleep than without food, and therefore entreated them to look out for another servant. My next removal was to a linen-draper's, who had six children. My mistress, when I first entered the house, informed me, that I must never contradict the children, nor suffer them to cry. I had no desire to offend, and readily promised to do my best. But when I gave them their breakfast, I could not help all first; when I was playing with one in my lap, I was forced to keep the rest in expectation. That which was not gratified, always resented the injury with a loud outcry, which put my mistress in a fury at me, and procured sugar-plums to the child. I could not keep six children quiet, who were bribed to be clamorous; and was therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, but not good-natured. I then lived with a couple that kept a petty shop of remnants and cheap linen. I was qualified to make a bill, or keep a book; and being therefore often called, at a busy time, to serve the customers, expected that I should now be happy, in proportion as I was useful. But my mistress appropriated every day part of the profit to some private use, and, as she grew bolder in her thefts, at last deducted such sums, that my master began to wonder how he sold so much, and gained so little. She pretended to assist his inquiries, and began, very gravely, to hope that "Betty was honest, and yet those sharp girls were apt to be light-fingered." You will believe that I did not stay there much longer. The rest of my story I will tell you in another letter; and only beg to be informed, in some paper, for which of my places, except perhaps the last, I was disqualified by my skill in reading and writing. I am, Sir, Your very humble servant, BETTY BROOM. No. 27. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1758. It has been the endeavour of all those whom the world has reverenced for superior wisdom, to persuade man to be acquainted with himself, to learn his own powers and his own weakness, to observe by what evils he is most dangerously beset, and by what temptations most easily overcome. This counsel has been often given with serious dignity, and often received with appearance of conviction; but, as very few can search deep into their own minds without meeting what they wish to hide from themselves, scarcely any man persists in cultivating such disagreeable acquaintance, but draws the veil again between his eyes and his heart, leaves his passions and appetites as he found them, and advises others to look into themselves. This is the common result of inquiry even among those that endeavour to grow wiser or better: but this endeavour is far enough from frequency; the greater part of the multitudes that swarm upon the earth have never been disturbed by such uneasy curiosity, but deliver themselves up to business or to pleasure, plunge into the current of life, whether placid or turbulent, and pass on from one point or prospect to another, attentive rather to any thing than the state of their minds; satisfied, at an easy rate, with an opinion, that they are no worse than others, that every man must mind his own interest, or that their pleasures hurt only themselves, and are therefore no proper subjects of censure. Some, however, there are, whom the intrusion of scruples, the recollection of better notions, or the latent reprehension of good examples, will not suffer to live entirely contented with their own conduct; these are forced to pacify the mutiny of reason with fair promises, and quiet their thoughts with designs of calling all their actions to review, and planning a new scheme for the time to come. There is nothing which we estimate so fallaciously as the force of our own resolutions, nor any fallacy which we so unwillingly and tardily detect. He that has resolved a thousand times, and a thousand times deserted his own purpose, yet suffers no abatement of his confidence, but still believes himself his own master; and able, by innate vigour of soul, to press forward to his end, through all the obstructions that inconveniencies or delights can put in his way. That this mistake should prevail for a time, is very natural. When conviction is present, and temptation out of sight, we do not easily conceive how any reasonable being can deviate from his true interest. What ought to be done, while it yet hangs only on speculation, is so plain and certain, that there is no place for doubt; the whole soul yields itself to the predominance of truth, and readily determines to do what, when the time of action comes, will be at last omitted. I believe most men may review all the lives that have passed within their observation, without remembering one efficacious resolution, or being able to tell a single instance of a course of practice suddenly changed in consequence of a change of opinion, or an establishment of determination. Many, indeed, alter their conduct, and are not at fifty what they were at thirty; but they commonly varied imperceptibly from themselves, followed the train of external causes, and rather suffered reformation than made it. It is not uncommon to charge the difference between promise and performance, between profession and reality, upon deep design and studied deceit; but the truth is, that there is very little hypocrisy in the world; we do not so often endeavour or wish to impose on others, as on ourselves; we resolve to do right, we hope to keep our resolutions, we declare them to confirm our own hope, and fix our own inconstancy by calling witnesses of our actions; but at last habit prevails, and those whom we invited to our triumph laugh at our defeat. Custom is commonly too strong for the most resolute resolver, though furnished for the assault with all the weapons of philosophy. "He that endeavours to free himself from an ill habit," says Bacon, "must not change too much at a time, lest he should be discouraged by difficulty; nor too little, for then he will make but slow advances." This is a precept which may be applauded in a book, but will fail in the trial, in which every change will be found too great or too little. Those who have been able to conquer habit, are like those that are fabled to have returned from the realms of Pluto: --"Pauci, quos aequus amavit Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad aethera virtus." They are sufficient to give hope, but not security; to animate the contest, but not to promise victory. Those who are in the power of evil habits must conquer them as they can; and conquered they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness can be attained; but those who are not yet subject to their influence may, by timely caution, preserve their freedom; they may effectually resolve to escape the tyrant, whom they will very vainly resolve to conquer. No. 28. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, It is very easy for a man who sits idle at home, and has nobody to please but himself, to ridicule or to censure the common practices of mankind; and those who have no present temptation to break the rules of propriety, may applaud his judgment, and join in his merriment; but let the author or his readers mingle with common life, they will find themselves irresistibly borne away by the stream of custom, and must submit, after they have laughed at others, to give others the same opportunity of laughing at them. There is no paper published by the Idler which I have read with more approbation than that which censures the practice of recording vulgar marriages in the newspapers. I carried it about in my pocket, and read it to all those whom I suspected of having published their nuptials, or of being inclined to publish them, and sent transcripts of it to all the couples that transgressed your precepts for the next fortnight. I hoped that they were all vexed, and pleased myself with imagining their misery. But short is the triumph of malignity. I was married last week to Miss Mohair, the daughter of a salesman; and, at my first appearance after the wedding night, was asked, by my wife's mother, whether I had sent our marriage to the Advertiser? I endeavoured to show how unfit it was to demand the attention of the publick to our domestick affairs; but she told me, with great vehemence, "That she would not have it thought to be a stolen match; that the blood of the Mohairs should never be disgraced; that her husband had served all the parish offices but one; that she had lived five-and-thirty years at the same house, had paid every body twenty shillings in the pound, and would have me know, though she was not as fine and as flaunting as Mrs. Gingham, the deputy's wife, she was not ashamed to tell her name, and would show her face with the best of them; and since I had married her daughter--" At this instant entered my father-in-law, a grave man, from whom I expected succour; but upon hearing the case, he told me, "That it would be very imprudent to miss such an opportunity of advertising my shop; and that when notice was given of my marriage, many of my wife's friends would think themselves obliged to be my customers." I was subdued by clamour on one side, and gravity on the other, and shall be obliged to tell the town, that "three days ago Timothy Mushroom, an eminent oilman in Seacoal-lane, was married to Miss Polly Mohair of Lothbury, a beautiful young lady, with a large fortune." I am, Sir, &c. Sir, I am the unfortunate wife of the grocer whose letter you published about ten weeks ago, in which he complains, like a sorry fellow, that I loiter in the shop with my needle-work in my hand, and that I oblige him to take me out on Sundays, and keep a girl to look after the child. Sweet Mr. Idler, if you did but know all, you would give no encouragement to such an unreasonable grumbler. I brought him three hundred pounds, which set him up in a shop, and bought in a stock, on which, with good management, we might live comfortably; but now I have given him a shop, I am forced to watch him and the shop too. I will tell you, Mr. Idler, how it is. There is an alehouse over the way, with a ninepin alley, to which he is sure to run when I turn my back, and there he loses his money, for he plays at ninepins as he does every thing else. While he is at this favourite sport, he sets a dirty boy to watch his door, and call him to his customers; but he is so long in coming, and so rude when he comes, that our custom falls off every day. Those who cannot govern themselves, must be governed. I have resolved to keep him for the future behind his counter, and let him bounce at his customers if he dares. I cannot be above stairs and below at the same time, and have therefore taken a girl to look after the child, and dress the dinner; and, after all, pray who is to blame? On a Sunday, it is true, I make him walk abroad, and sometimes carry the child; I wonder who should carry it! But I never take him out till after church-time, nor would do it then, but that, if he is left alone, he will be upon the bed. On a Sunday, if he stays at home, he has six meals, and, when he can eat no longer, has twenty stratagems to escape from me to the alehouse; but I commonly keep the door locked, till Monday produces something for him to do. This is the true state of the case, and these are the provocations for which he has written his letter to you. I hope you will write a paper to show, that, if a wife must spend her whole time in watching her husband, she cannot conveniently tend her child, or sit at her needle. I am, Sir, &c. Sir, There is in this town a species of oppression which the law has not hitherto prevented or redressed. I am a chairman. You know, Sir, we come when we are called, and are expected to carry all who require our assistance. It is common for men of the most unwieldy corpulence to crowd themselves into a chair, and demand to be carried for a shilling as far as an airy young lady whom we scarcely feel upon our poles. Surely we ought to be paid, like all other mortals, in proportion to our labour. Engines should be fixed in proper places to weigh chairs as they weigh waggons; and those, whom ease and plenty have made unable to carry themselves, should give part of their superfluities to those who carry them. I am, Sir, &c. No. 29. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I have often observed, that friends are lost by discontinuance of intercourse without any offence on either part, and have long known, that it is more dangerous to be forgotten than to be blamed; I therefore make haste to send you the rest of my story, lest, by the delay of another fortnight, the name of Betty Broom might be no longer remembered by you or your readers. Having left the last place in haste, to avoid the charge or the suspicion of theft, I had not secured another service, and was forced to take a lodging in a back-street. I had now got good clothes. The woman who lived in the garret opposite to mine was very officious, and offered to take care of my room and clean it, while I went round to my acquaintance to inquire for a mistress. I knew not why she was so kind, nor how I could recompense her; but in a few days I missed some of my linen, went to another lodging, and resolved not to have another friend in the next garret. In six weeks I became under-maid at the house of a mercer in Cornhill, whose son was his apprentice. The young gentleman used to sit late at the tavern, without the knowledge of his father; and I was ordered by my mistress to let him in silently to his bed under the counter, and to be very careful to take away his candle. The hours which I was obliged to watch, whilst the rest of the family was in bed, I considered as supernumerary, and, having no business assigned for them, thought myself at liberty to spend them my own way: I kept myself awake with a book, and for some time liked my state the better for this opportunity of reading. At last, the upper-maid found my book, and showed it to my mistress, who told me, that wenches like me might spend their time better; that she never knew any of the readers that had good designs in their heads; that she could always find something else to do with her time, than to puzzle over books; and did not like that such a fine lady should sit up for her young master. This was the first time that I found it thought criminal or dangerous to know how to read. I was dismissed decently, lest I should tell tales, and had a small gratuity above my wages. I then lived with a gentlewoman of a small fortune. This was the only happy part of my life. My mistress, for whom publick diversions were too expensive, spent her time with books, and was pleased to find a maid who could partake her amusements. I rose early in the morning, that I might have time in the afternoon to read or listen, and was suffered to tell my opinion, or express my delight. Thus fifteen months stole away, in which I did not repine that I was born to servitude. But a burning fever seized my mistress, of whom I shall say no more, than that her servant wept upon her grave. I had lived in a kind of luxury, which made me very unfit for another place; and was rather too delicate for the conversation of a kitchen; so that when I was hired in the family of an East-India director, my behaviour was so different, as they said, from that of a common servant, that they concluded me a gentlewoman in disguise, and turned me out in three weeks, on suspicion of some design which they could not comprehend. I then fled for refuge to the other end of the town, where I hoped to find no obstruction from my new accomplishments, and was hired under the housekeeper in a splendid family. Here I was too wise for the maids, and too nice for the footmen; yet I might have lived on without much uneasiness, had not my mistress, the housekeeper, who used to employ me in buying necessaries for the family, found a bill which I had made of one day's expense. I suppose it did not quite agree with her own book, for she fiercely declared her resolution, that there should be no pen and ink in that kitchen but her own. She had the justice, or the prudence, not to injure my reputation; and I was easily admitted into another house in the neighbourhood, where my business was to sweep the rooms and make the beds. Here I was, for some time, the favourite of Mrs. Simper, my lady's woman, who could not bear the vulgar girls, and was happy in the attendance of a young woman of some education. Mrs. Simper loved a novel, though she could not read hard words, and therefore, when her lady was abroad, we always laid hold on her books. At last, my abilities became so much celebrated, that the house-steward used to employ me in keeping his accounts. Mrs. Simper then found out, that my sauciness was grown to such a height that nobody could endure it, and told my lady, that there never had been a room well swept, since Betty Broom came into the house. I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who wanted a maid that could read and write. I attended her four years, and though she was never pleased, yet when I declared my resolution to leave her, she burst into tears, and told me that I must bear the peevishness of a sick bed, and I should find myself remembered in her will. I complied, and a codicil was added in my favour; but in less than a week, when I set her gruel before her, I laid the spoon on the left side, and she threw her will into the fire. In two days she made another, which she burnt in the same manner, because she could not eat her chicken. A third was made, and destroyed because she heard a mouse within the wainscot, and was sure that I should suffer her to be carried away alive. After this I was for some time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon her, resentment and sullenness gave way to kinder sentiments. She died, and left me five hundred pounds; with this fortune I am going to settle in my native parish, where I resolve to spend some hours every day in teaching poor girls to read and write[1]. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, BETTY BROOM. [1] Mrs. Gardiner, a pious, sensible, and charitable woman, for whom Johnson entertained a high respect, is said to have afforded a hint for the story of Betty Broom, from her zealous support of a Ladies' Charity-school, confined to females. Boswell, vol. iv. No. 30. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1758. The desires of man increase with his acquisitions; every step which he advances brings something within his view, which he did not see before, and which, as soon as he sees it, he begins to want. Where necessity ends, curiosity begins; and no sooner are we supplied with every thing that nature can demand, than we sit down to contrive artificial appetites. By this restlessness of mind, every populous and wealthy city is filled with innumerable employments, for which the greater part of mankind is without a name; with artificers, whose labour is exerted in producing such petty conveniencies, that many shops are furnished with instruments, of which the use can hardly be found without inquiry, but which he that once knows them quickly learns to number among necessary things. Such is the diligence with which, in countries completely civilized, one part of mankind labours for another, that wants are supplied faster than they can be formed, and the idle and luxurious find life stagnate for want of some desire to keep it in motion. This species of distress furnishes a new set of occupations; and multitudes are busied, from day to day, in finding the rich and the fortunate something to do. It is very common to reproach those artists as useless, who produce only such superfluities as neither accommodate the body, nor improve the mind; and of which no other effect can be imagined, than that they are the occasions of spending money, and consuming time. But this censure will be mitigated, when it is seriously considered, that money and time are the heaviest burdens of life, and that the unhappiest of all mortals are those who have more of either than they know how to use. To set himself free from these incumbrances, one hurries to Newmarket; another travels over Europe; one pulls down his house and calls architects about him; another buys a seat in the country, and follows his hounds over hedges and through rivers; one makes collections of shells; and another searches the world for tulips and carnations. He is surely a publick benefactor who finds employment for those to whom it is thus difficult to find it for themselves. It is true, that this is seldom done merely from generosity or compassion; almost every man seeks his own advantage in helping others, and therefore it is too common for mercenary officiousness to consider rather what is grateful, than what is right. We all know that it is more profitable to be loved than esteemed; and ministers of pleasure will always be found, who study to make themselves necessary, and to supplant those who are practising the same arts. One of the amusements of idleness is reading without the fatigue of close attention, and the world therefore swarms with writers whose wish is not to be studied, but to be read. No species of literary men has lately been so much multiplied as the writers of news. Not many years ago the nation was content with one gazette; but now we have not only in the metropolis papers for every morning and every evening, but almost every large town has its weekly historian, who regularly circulates his periodical intelligence, and fills the villages of his district with conjectures on the events of war, and with debates on the true interest of Europe. To write news in its perfection requires such a combination of qualities, that a man completely fitted for the task is not always to be found. In Sir Henry Wotton's jocular definition, _An ambassador_ is said to be _a man of virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of his country_; a news-writer is _a man without virtue, who writes lies at home for his own profit_. To these compositions is required neither genius nor knowledge, neither industry nor sprightliness; but contempt of shame and indifference to truth are absolutely necessary. He who by a long familiarity with infamy has obtained these qualities, may confidently tell to-day what he intends to contradict to-morrow; he may affirm fearlessly what he knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to himself. In a time of war the nation is always of one mind, eager to hear something good of themselves and ill of the enemy. At this time the task of news-writers is easy: they have nothing to do but to tell that a battle is expected, and afterwards that a battle has been fought, in which we and our friends, whether conquering or conquered, did all, and our enemies did nothing. Scarcely any thing awakens attention like a tale of cruelty. The writer of news never fails in the intermission of action to tell how the enemies murdered children and ravished virgins; and, if the scene of action be somewhat distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a province. Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the love of truth, by the falsehoods which interest dictates, and credulity encourages. A peace will equally leave the warriour and relater of wars destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded from streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie. No. 31. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1758. Many moralists have remarked, that pride has of all human vices the widest dominion, appears in the greatest multiplicity of forms, and lies hid under the greatest variety of disguises; of disguises, which, like the moon's _veil of brightness_, are both its _lustre and its shade_, and betray it to others, though they hide it from ourselves. It is not my intention to degrade pride from this pre-eminence of mischief; yet I know not whether idleness may not maintain a very doubtful and obstinate competition. There are some that profess idleness in its full dignity, who call themselves the _Idle_, as Busiris in the play calls himself the _Proud_; who boast that they do nothing, and thank their stars that they have nothing to do; who sleep every night till they can sleep no longer, and rise only that exercise may enable them to sleep again; who prolong the reign of darkness by double curtains, and never see the sun but to _tell him how they hate his beams_; whose whole labour is to vary the posture of indolence, and whose day differs from their night, but as a couch or chair differs from a bed. These are the true and open votaries of idleness, for whom she weaves the garlands of poppies, and into whose cup she pours the waters of oblivion; who exist in a state of unruffled stupidity, forgetting and forgotten; who have long ceased to live, and at whose death the survivors can only say, that they have ceased to breathe. But idleness predominates in many lives where it is not suspected; for, being a vice which terminates in itself, it may be enjoyed without injury to others; and it is therefore not watched like fraud, which endangers property; or like pride, which naturally seeks its gratifications in another's inferiority. Idleness is a silent and peaceful quality, that neither raises envy by ostentation, nor hatred by opposition; and therefore nobody is busy to censure or detect it. As pride sometimes is hid under humility, idleness is often covered by turbulence and hurry. He that neglects his known duty and real employment, naturally endeavours to crowd his mind with something that may bar out the remembrance of his own folly, and does any thing but what he ought to do with eager diligence, that he may keep himself in his own favour. Some are always in a state of preparation, occupied in previous measures, forming plans, accumulating materials, and providing for the main affair. These are certainly under the secret power of idleness. Nothing is to be expected from the workman whose tools are for ever to be sought. I was once told by a great master, that no man ever excelled in painting, who was eminently curious about pencils and colours. There are others to whom idleness dictates another expedient, by which life may be passed unprofitably away without the tediousness of many vacant hours. The art is, to fill the day with petty business, to have always something in hand which may raise curiosity, but not solicitude, and keep the mind in a state of action, but not of labour. This art has for many years been practised by my old friend Sober with wonderful success. Sober is a man of strong desires and quick imagination, so exactly balanced by the love of ease, that they can seldom stimulate him to any difficult undertaking; they have, however, so much power, that they will not suffer him to lie quite at rest; and though they do not make him sufficiently useful to others, they make him at least weary of himself. Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conversation; there is no end of his talk or his attention; to speak or to hear is equally pleasing; for he still fancies that he is teaching or learning something, and is free for the time from his own reproaches. But there is one time at night when he must go home, that his friends may sleep; and another time in the morning, when all the world agrees to shut out interruption. These are the moments of which poor Sober trembles at the thought. But the misery of these tiresome intervals he has many means of alleviating. He has persuaded himself that the manual arts are undeservedly overlooked; he has observed in many trades the effects of close thought, and just ratiocination. From speculation he proceeded to practice, and supplied himself with the tools of a carpenter, with which he mended his coal-box very successfully, and which he still continues to employ, as he finds occasion. He has attempted at other times the crafts of the shoemaker, tinman, plumber, and potter; in all these arts he has failed, and resolves to qualify himself for them by better information. But his daily amusement is chymistry. He has a small furnace, which he employs in distillation, and which has long been the solace of his life. He draws oils and waters, and essences and spirits, which he knows to be of no use; sits and counts the drops, as they come from his retort, and forgets that, whilst a drop is falling, a moment flies away. Poor Sober! I have often teased him with reproof, and he has often promised reformation; for no man is so much open to conviction as the Idler, but there is none on whom it operates so little. What will be the effect of this paper I know not; perhaps, he will read it and laugh, and light the fire in his furnace; but my hope is, that he will quit his trifles, and betake himself to rational and useful diligence[1]. [1] In Mr. Sober, we may recognise traits of Dr. Johnson's own character. No. 67 of the Idler is another portrait of him. No. 32. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1758. Among the innumerable mortifications that waylay human arrogance on every side, may well be reckoned our ignorance of the most common objects and effects, a defect of which we become more sensible, by every attempt to supply it. Vulgar and inactive minds confound familiarity with knowledge, and conceive themselves informed of the whole nature of things when they are shown their form or told their use; but the speculatist, who is not content with superficial views, harasses himself with fruitless curiosity, and still as he inquires more, perceives only that he knows less. Sleep is a state in which a great part of every life is passed. No animal has been yet discovered, whose existence is not varied with intervals of insensibility; and some late philosophers have extended the empire of sleep over the vegetable world. Yet of this change, so frequent, so great, so general, and so necessary, no searcher has yet found either the efficient or final cause; or can tell by what power the mind and body are thus chained down in irresistible stupefaction; or what benefits the animal receives from this alternate suspension of its active powers. Whatever may be the multiplicity or contrariety of opinions upon this subject, nature has taken sufficient care that theory shall have little influence on practice. The most diligent inquirer is not able long to keep his eyes open; the most eager disputant will begin about midnight to desert his argument; and, once in four-and-twenty hours, the gay and the gloomy, the witty and the dull, the clamorous and the silent, the busy and the idle, are all overpowered by the gentle tyrant, and all lie down in the equality of sleep. Philosophy has often attempted to repress insolence, by asserting, that all conditions are levelled by death; a position which, however it may deject the happy, will seldom afford much comfort to the wretched. It is far more pleasing to consider, that, sleep is equally a leveller with death; that the time is never at a great distance, when the balm of rest shall be diffused alike upon every head, when the diversities of life shall stop their operation, and the high and the low shall lie down together[1]. It is somewhere recorded of Alexander, that in the pride of conquests, and intoxication of flattery, he declared that he only perceived himself to be a man by the necessity of sleep. Whether he considered sleep as necessary to his mind or body, it was indeed a sufficient evidence of human infirmity; the body which required such frequency of renovation, gave but faint promises of immortality; and the mind which, from time to time, sunk gladly into insensibility, had made no very near approaches to the felicity of the supreme and self-sufficient nature. I know not what can tend more to repress all the passions, that disturb the peace of the world, than the consideration that there is no height of happiness or honour, from which man does not eagerly descend to a state of unconscious repose; that the best condition of life is such, that we contentedly quit its good to be disentangled from its evils; that in a few hours splendour fades before the eye, and praise itself deadens in the ear; the senses withdraw from their objects, and reason favours the retreat. What then are the hopes and prospects of covetousness, ambition, and rapacity? Let him that desires most have all his desires gratified, he never shall attain a state which he can, for a day and a night, contemplate with satisfaction, or from which, if he had the power of perpetual vigilance, he would not long for periodical separations. All envy would be extinguished, if it were universally known that there are none to be envied, and surely none can be much envied who are not pleased with themselves. There is reason to suspect, that the distinctions of mankind have more show than value, when it is found that all agree to be weary alike of pleasures and of cares; that the powerful and the weak, the celebrated and obscure, join in one common wish, and implore from nature's hand the nectar of oblivion. Such is our desire of abstraction from ourselves, that very few are satisfied with the quantity of stupefaction which the needs of the body force upon the mind. Alexander himself added intemperance to sleep, and solaced with the fumes of wine the sovereignty of the world: and almost every man has some art by which he steals his thoughts away from his present state. It is not much of life that is spent in close attention to any important duty. Many hours of every day are suffered to fly away without any traces left upon the intellects. We suffer phantoms to rise up before us, and amuse ourselves with the dance of airy images, which, after a time, we dismiss for ever, and know not how we have been busied. Many have no happier moments than those that they pass in solitude, abandoned to their own imagination, which sometimes puts sceptres in their hands or mitres on their heads, shifts the scene of pleasure with endless variety, bids all the forms of beauty sparkle before them, and gluts them with every change of visionary luxury. It is easy in these semi-slumbers to collect all the possibilities of happiness, to alter the course of the sun, to bring back the past, and anticipate the future, to unite all the beauties of all seasons, and all the blessings of all climates, to receive and bestow felicity, and forget that misery is the lot of man. All this is a voluntary dream, a temporary recession from the realities of life to airy fictions; and habitual subjection of reason to fancy. Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse themselves by a perpetual succession of companions: but the difference is not great; in solitude we have our dreams to ourselves, and in company we agree to dream in concert. The end sought in both is forgetfulness of ourselves. [1] "For half their life," says Aristotle, "the happy differ not from the wretched.".--Nichom. Ethic, i. 13. [Greek: Hypn odunas adaaes, Hypne d algeon Euaaes haemin elthois, Euaion, euaion anax.] Soph. Philoct. 827. No. 33. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1758. [I hope the author of the following letter[1] will excuse the omission of some parts, and allow me to remark, that the Journal of the Citizen in the Spectator has almost precluded the attempt of any future writer.] --_Non ita Romuli Praescriptum, et intonsi Catonis Auspiciis, veterumque normâ_. HOR. Lib. ii. Ode xv. 10. Sir, You have often solicited correspondence. I have sent you the Journal of a Senior Fellow, or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cambridge by a facetious correspondent, and warranted to have been transcribed from the common-place book of the journalist. Monday, Nine o'Clock. Turned off my bed-maker for waking me at eight. Weather rainy. Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a ride before dinner. Ditto, Ten. After breakfast, transcribed half a sermon from Dr. Hickman. N.B. Never to transcribe any more from Calamy; Mrs. Pilcocks, at my curacy, having one volume of that author lying in her parlour-window. Ditto, Eleven. Went down into my cellar. Mem. My Mountain will be fit to drink in a month's time. N.B. To remove the five-year old port into the new bin on the left hand. Ditto, Twelve. Mended a pen. Looked at my weather-glass again. Quicksilver very low. Shaved. Barber's hand shakes. Ditto, One. Dined alone in my room on a sole. N.B. The shrimp-sauce not so good as Mr. H. of Peterhouse and I used to eat in London last winter at the Mitre in Fleet-street. Sat down to a pint of Madeira. Mr. H. surprised me over it. We finished two bottles of port together, and were very cheerful. Mem. To dine with Mr. H. at Peterhouse next Wednesday. One of the dishes a leg of pork and pease, by my desire. Ditto, Six. Newspaper in the common room. Ditto, Seven. Returned to my room. Made a tiff of warm punch, and to bed before nine; did not fall asleep till ten, a young fellow commoner being very noisy over my head. Tuesday, Nine, Rose squeamish. A fine morning. Weather-glass very high. Ditto, Ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to the five-mile stone on the Newmarket road. Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds, in full cry, crossed the road, and startled my horse. Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Found a letter on my table to be in London the 19th inst. Bespoke a new wig. Ditto, One. At dinner in the hall. Too much water in the soup. Dr. Dry always orders the beef to be salted too much for me. Ditto, Two. In the common room. Dr. Dry gave us an instance of a gentleman who kept the gout out of his stomach by drinking old Madeira. Conversation chiefly on the expeditions. Company broke up at four. Dr. Dry and myself played at backgammon for a brace of snipes. Won. Ditto, Five. At the coffee-house. Met Mr. H. there. Could not get a sight of the Monitor. Ditto, Seven. Returned home, and stirred my fire. Went to the common room, and supped on the snipes with Dr. Dry. Ditto, Eight. Began the evening in the common room. Dr. Dry told several stories. Were very merry. Our new fellow, that studies physick, very talkative toward twelve. Pretends he will bring the youngest Miss ---- to drink tea with me soon. Impertinent blockhead! Wednesday, Nine. Alarmed with a pain in my ankle. Q. The gout? Fear I can't dine at Peterhouse; but I hope a ride will set all to rights. Weather-glass below Fair. Ditto, Ten. Mounted my horse, though the weather suspicious. Pain in my ankle entirely gone. Caught in a shower coming back. Convinced that my weather-glass is the best in Cambridge. Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Sauntered up to the Fish-monger's hill. Met Mr. H. and went with him to Peterhouse. Cook made us wait thirty-six minutes beyond the time. The company, some of my Emmanuel friends. For dinner, a pair of soles, a leg of pork and pease, among other things. Mem. Pease-pudding not boiled enough. Cook reprimanded and sconced in my presence. Ditto, after Dinner. Pain in my ankle returns. Dull all the afternoon. Rallied for being no company. Mr. H.'s account of the accommodations on the road in his Bath journey. Ditto, Six. Got into spirits. Never was more chatty. We sat late at whist. Mr. H. and self agreed at parting to take a gentle ride, and dine at the old house on the London road to-morrow. Thursday, Nine. My sempstress. She has lost the measure of my wrist. Forced to be measured again. The baggage has got a trick of smiling. Ditto, Ten to Eleven. Made some rappee snuff. Read the magazines. Received a present of pickles from Miss Pilcocks. Mem. To send in return some collared eel, which I know both the old lady and miss are fond of. Ditto, Eleven. Glass very high. Mounted at the gate with Mr. H. Horse skittish, and wants exercise. Arrive at the old house. All the provisions bespoke by some rakish fellow-commoner in the next room, who had been on a scheme to Newmarket. Could get nothing but mutton-chops off the worst end. Port very new. Agree to try some other house to-morrow. Here the journal breaks off: for the next morning, as my friend informs me, our genial academick was waked with a severe fit of the gout; and, at present, enjoys all the dignity of that disease. But I believe we have lost nothing by this interruption: since a continuation of the remainder of the journal, through the remainder of the week, would most probably have exhibited nothing more than a repeated relation of the same circumstances of idling and luxury. I hope it will not be concluded, from this specimen of academick life, that I have attempted to decry our universities. If literature is not the essential requisite of the modern academick, I am yet persuaded, that Cambridge and Oxford, however degenerated, surpass the fashionable _academies_ of our metropolis, and the _gymnasia_ of foreign countries. The number of learned persons in these celebrated seats is still considerable, and more conveniencies and opportunities for study still subsist in them, than in any other place. There is at least one very powerful incentive to learning; I mean the GENIUS _of the place_. It is a sort of inspiring deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and ingenious disposition creates to himself, by reflecting, that he is placed under those venerable walls, where a HOOKER and a HAMMOND, a BACON and a NEWTON, once pursued the same course of science, and from whence they soared to the most elevated heights of literary fame. This is that incitement which Tully, according to his own testimony, experienced at Athens, when he contemplated the porticos where Socrates sat, and the laurel-groves where Plato disputed[2]. But there are other circumstances, and of the highest importance, which render our colleges superior to all other places of education. Their institutions, although somewhat fallen from their primaeval simplicity, are such as influence, in a particular manner, the moral conduct of their youth; and in this general depravity of manners and laxity of principles, pure religion is no where more strongly inculcated. The _academies_, as they are presumptuously styled, are too low to be mentioned; and foreign seminaries are likely to prejudice the unwary mind with Calvinism. But English universities render their students virtuous, at least by excluding all opportunities of vice; and, by teaching them the principles of the Church of England, confirm them in those of true Christianity. [1] Mr. Thomas Warton. [2] A rich assemblage of examples, of the "influence of perceptible objects in reviving former thoughts and former feelings," is collected in Dr. Brown's Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. 2, Lecture 38. No. 34. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1758. To illustrate one thing by its resemblance to another, has been always the most popular and efficacious art of instruction. There is indeed no other method of teaching that of which any one is ignorant, but by means of something already known; and a mind so enlarged by contemplation, and inquiry, that it has always many objects within its view, will seldom be long without some near and familiar image through which an easy transition may be made to truths more distant and obscure. Of the parallels which have been drawn by wit and curiosity, some are literal and real, as between poetry and painting, two arts which pursue the same end, by the operation of the same mental faculties, and which differ only as the one represents things by marks permanent and natural, the other by signs accidental and arbitrary. The one, therefore, is more easily and generally understood, since similitude of form is immediately perceived; the other is capable of conveying more ideas, for men have thought and spoken of many things which they do not see. Other parallels are fortuitous and fanciful, yet these have sometimes been extended to many particulars of resemblance by a lucky concurrence of diligence and chance. The animal body is composed of many members, united under the direction of one mind: any number of individuals, connected for some common purpose, is therefore called a body. From this participation of the same appellation arose the comparison of the body natural and body politick, of which, how far soever it has been deduced, no end has hitherto been found. In these imaginary similitudes, the same word is used at once in its primitive and metaphorical sense. Thus health, ascribed to the body natural, is opposed to sickness; but attributed to the body politick stands as contrary to adversity. These parallels therefore have more of genius, but less of truth; they often please, but they never convince. Of this kind is a curious speculation frequently indulged by a philosopher of my acquaintance, who had discovered, that the qualities requisite to conversation are very exactly represented by a bowl of punch. Punch, says this profound investigator, is a liquor compounded of spirit and acid juices, sugar and water. The spirit, volatile and fiery, is the proper emblem of vivacity and wit; the acidity of the lemon will very aptly figure pungency of raillery, and acrimony of censure; sugar is the natural representative of luscious adulation and gentle complaisance; and water is the proper hieroglyphick of easy prattle, innocent and tasteless. Spirit alone is too powerful for use. It will produce madness rather than merriment; and instead of quenching thirst will inflame the blood. Thus wit, too copiously poured out, agitates the hearer with emotions rather violent than pleasing; every one shrinks from the force of its oppression, the company sits entranced and overpowered; all are astonished, but nobody is pleased. The acid juices give this genial liquor all its power of stimulating the palate. Conversation would become dull and vapid, if negligence were not sometimes roused, and sluggishness quickened, by due severity of reprehension. But acids unmixed will distort the face and torture the palate; and he that has no other qualities than penetration and asperity, he whose constant employment is detection and censure, who looks only to find faults, and speaks only to punish them, will soon be dreaded, hated and avoided. The taste of sugar is generally pleasing, but it cannot long be eaten by itself. Thus meekness and courtesy will always recommend the first address, but soon pall and nauseate, unless they are associated with more sprightly qualities. The chief use of sugar is to temper the taste of other substances; and softness of behaviour, in the same manner, mitigates the roughness of contradiction, and allays the bitterness of unwelcome truth. Water is the universal vehicle by which are conveyed the particles necessary to sustenance and growth, by which thirst is quenched, and all the wants of life and nature are supplied. Thus all the business of the world is transacted by artless and easy talk, neither sublimed by fancy, nor discoloured by affectation, without either the harshness of satire, or the lusciousness of flattery. By this limpid vein of language, curiosity is gratified, and all the knowledge is conveyed which one man is required to impart for the safety or convenience of another. Water is the only ingredient in punch which can be used alone, and with which man is content till fancy has framed an artificial want. Thus while we only desire to have our ignorance informed, we are most delighted with the plainest diction; and it is only in the moments of idleness or pride, that we call for the gratifications of wit or flattery. He only will please long, who, by tempering the acidity of satire with the sugar of civility, and allaying the heat of wit with the frigidity of humble chat, can make the true punch of conversation; and, as that punch can be drunk in the greatest quantity which has the largest proportion of water, so that companion will be oftenest welcome, whose talk flows out with inoffensive copiousness, and unenvied insipidity. No. 35. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1758. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Idler, If it be difficult to persuade the idle to be busy, it is likewise, as experience has taught me, not easy to convince the busy that it is better to be idle. When you shall despair of stimulating sluggishness to motion, I hope you will turn your thoughts towards the means of stilling the bustle of pernicious activity. I am the unfortunate husband of a _buyer of bargains_. My wife has somewhere heard, that a good housewife _never_ has any thing to _purchase when it is wanted_. This maxim is often in her mouth, and always in her head. She is not one of those philosophical talkers that speculate without practice; and learn sentences of wisdom only to repeat them: she is always making additions to her stores; she never looks into a broker's shop, but she spies something that may be wanted some time; and it is impossible to make her pass the door of a house where she hears _goods selling by auction_. Whatever she thinks cheap, she holds it the duty of an economist to buy; in consequence of this maxim, we are encumbered on every side with useless lumber. The servants can scarcely creep to their beds through the chests and boxes that surround them. The carpenter is employed once a week in building closets, fixing cupboards, and fastening shelves; and my house has the appearance of a ship stored for a voyage to the colonies. I had often observed that advertisements set her on fire; and therefore, pretending to emulate her laudable frugality, I forbade the newspaper to be taken any longer; but my precaution is vain; I know not by what fatality, or by what confederacy, every catalogue of _genuine furniture_ comes to her hand, every advertisement of a warehouse newly opened, is in her pocketbook, and she knows before any of her neighbours when the stock of any man _leaving off trade_ is to be _sold cheap for ready money_. Such intelligence is to my dear-one the Syren's song. No engagement, no duty, no interest, can withhold her from a sale, from which she always returns congratulating herself upon her dexterity at a bargain; the porter lays down his burden in the hall; she displays her new acquisitions, and spends the rest of the day in contriving where they shall be put. As she cannot bear to have any thing uncomplete, one purchase necessitates another; she has twenty feather-beds more than she can use, and a late sale has supplied her with a proportionable number of Witney blankets, a large roll of linen for sheets, and five quilts for every bed, which she bought because the seller told her, that if she would clear his hands he would let her have a bargain. Thus by hourly encroachments my habitation is made narrower and narrower; the dining-room is so crowded with tables, that dinner scarcely can be served; the parlour is decorated with so many piles of china, that I dare not step within the door; at every turn of the stairs I have a clock, and half the windows of the upper floors are darkened, that shelves may be set before them. This, however, might be borne, if she would gratify her own inclinations without opposing mine. But I, who am idle, am luxurious, and she condemns me to live upon salt provisions. She knows the loss of buying in small quantities, we have, therefore, whole hogs and quarters of oxen. Part of our meat is tainted before it is eaten, and part is thrown away because it is spoiled; but she persists in her system, and will never buy any thing by single penny-worths. The common vice of those who are still grasping at more, is to neglect that which they already possess; but from this failing my charmer is free. It is the great care of her life that the pieces of beef should be boiled in the order in which they are bought; that the second bag of pease should not be opened till the first be eaten; that every feather-bed should be lain on in its turn; that the carpets should be taken out of the chests once a month and brushed, and the rolls of linen opened now and then before the fire. She is daily inquiring after the best traps for mice, and keeps the rooms always scented by fumigations to destroy the moths. She employs workmen, from time to time, to adjust six clocks that never go, and clean five jacks that rust in the garret; and a woman in the next alley lives by scouring the brass and pewter, which are only laid up to tarnish again. She is always imagining some distant time, in which she shall use whatever she accumulates: she has four looking-glasses which she cannot hang up in her house, but which will be handsome in more lofty rooms; and pays rent for the place of a vast copper in some warehouse, because, when we live in the country, we shall brew our own beer. Of this life I have long been weary, but know not how to change it: all the married men whom I consult advise me to have patience; but some old bachelors are of opinion that, since she loves sales so well, she should have a sale of her own; and I have, I think, resolved to open her hoards, and advertise an auction. I am, Sir, Your very humble servant, PETER PLENTY. No. 30. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1758. The great differences that disturb the peace of mankind are not about ends, but means. We have all the same general desires, but how those desires shall be accomplished will for ever be disputed. The ultimate purpose of government is temporal, and that of religion is eternal happiness. Hitherto we agree; but here we must part, to try, according to the endless varieties of passion and understanding combined with one another, every possible form of government, and every imaginable tenet of religion. We are told by Cumberland that _rectitude_, applied to action or contemplation, is merely metaphorical; and that as a _right_ line describes the shortest passage from point to point, so a _right_ action effects a good design by the fewest means; and so likewise a _right_ opinion is that which connects distant truths by the shortest train of intermediate propositions. To find the nearest way from truth to truth, or from purpose to effect, not to use more instruments where fewer will be sufficient; not to move by wheels and levers what will give way to the naked hand, is the great proof of a healthful and vigorous mind, neither feeble with helpless ignorance, nor overburdened with unwieldy knowledge. But there are men who seem to think nothing so much the characteristick of a genius, as to do common things in an uncommon manner; like Hudibras, to _tell the clock by algebra_; or like the lady in Dr. Young's satires, _to drink tea by stratagem_; to quit the beaten track, only because it is known, and take a new path, however crooked or rough, because the straight was found out before. Every man speaks and writes with intent to be understood; and it can seldom happen but he that understands himself, might convey his notions to another, if, content to be understood, he did not seek to be admired; but when once he begins to contrive how his sentiments may be received, not with most ease to his reader, but with most advantage to himself, he then transfers his consideration from words to sounds, from sentences to periods, and as he grows more elegant becomes less intelligible. It is difficult to enumerate every species of authors whose labours counteract themselves; the man of exuberance and copiousness, who diffuses every thought through so many diversities of expression, that it is lost like water in a mist; the ponderous dictator of sentences, whose notions are delivered in the lump, and are, like uncoined bullion, of more weight than use; the liberal illustrator, who shows by examples and comparisons what was clearly seen when it was first proposed; and the stately son of demonstration, who proves with mathematical formality what no man has yet pretended to doubt. There is a mode of style for which I know not that the masters of oratory have yet found a name; a style by which the most evident truths are so obscured that they can no longer be perceived, and the most familiar propositions so disguised that they cannot be known. Every other kind of eloquence is the dress of sense; but this is the mask by which a true master of his art will so effectually conceal it, that a man will as easily mistake his own positions, if he meets them thus transformed, as he may pass in a masquerade his nearest acquaintance. This style may be called the _terrifick_, for its chief intention is to terrify and amaze; it may be termed the _repulsive_, for its natural effect is to drive away the reader; or it may be distinguished, in plain English, by the denomination of the _bugbear style_, for it has more terrour than danger, and will appear less formidable as it is more nearly approached. A mother tells her infant, that _two and two make four_; the child remembers the proposition, and is able to count four to all the purposes of life, till the course of his education brings him among philosophers, who fright him from his former knowledge, by telling him, that four is a certain aggregate of units; that all numbers being only the repetition of an unit, which, though not a number itself, is the parent, root, or original of all number, _four_ is the denomination assigned to a certain number of such repetitions. The only danger is, lest, when he first hears these dreadful sounds, the pupil should run away; if he has but the courage to stay till the conclusion, he will find that, when speculation has done its worst, two and two still make four. An illustrious example of this species of eloquence may be found in "Letters concerning Mind." The author begins by declaring, that "the sorts of things are things that now are, have been, and shall be, and the things that strictly _are_." In this position, except the last clause, in which he uses something of the scholastick language, there is nothing but what every man has heard, and imagines himself to know. But who would not believe that some wonderful novelty is presented to his intellect, when he is afterwards told, in the true bugbear style, that "the _ares_, in the former sense, are things that lie between the _have-beens_ and _shall-bes_. The _have-beens_ are things that are past; the _shall-bes_ are things that are to come; and the things that _are_, in the latter sense, are things that have not been, nor shall be, nor stand in the midst of such as are before them, or shall be after them. The things that _have been_, and _shall be_, have respect to present, past, and future. "Those likewise that now _are_ have moreover place; that, for instance, which is here, that which is to the east, that which is to the west." All this, my dear reader, is very strange; but though it be strange, it is not new; survey these wonderful sentences again, and they will be found to contain nothing more than very plain truths, which, till this author arose, had always been delivered in plain language[1]. [1] These "Letters on Mind" were written by a Mr. Petvin, who after some years again astounded the literary public by sending forth, in diction equally terrific, another tract entitled a "Summary of the Soul's Perceptive Faculties," 1768. He was at that time compared to Duns Scotus, the subtle Doctor, who, in the weakness of old age, wept because he could not understand the subtleties of his earlier writings. No. 37. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1758. Those who are skilled in the extraction and preparation of metals declare, that iron is every where to be found; and that not only its proper ore is copiously treasured in the caverns of the earth, but that its particles are dispersed throughout all other bodies. If the extent of the human view could comprehend the whole frame of the universe, I believe it would be found invariably true, that Providence has given that in greatest plenty, which the condition of life makes of greatest use; and that nothing is penuriously imparted, or placed far from the reach of man, of which a more liberal distribution, or more easy acquisition, would increase real and rational felicity. Iron is common, and gold is rare. Iron contributes so much to supply the wants of nature, that its use constitutes much of the difference between savage and polished life, between the state of him that slumbers in European palaces, and him that shelters himself in the cavities of a rock from the chilness of the night, or the violence of the storm. Gold can never be hardened into saws or axes; it can neither furnish instruments of manufacture, utensils of agriculture, nor weapons of defence; its only quality is to shine, and the value of its lustre arises from its scarcity. Throughout the whole circle, both of natural and moral life, necessaries are as iron, and superfluities as gold. What we really need we may readily obtain; so readily, that far the greater part of mankind has, in the wantonness of abundance, confounded natural with artificial desires, and invented necessities for the sake of employment, because the mind is impatient of inaction, and life is sustained with so little labour, that the tediousness of idle time cannot otherwise be supported. Thus plenty is the original cause of many of our needs; and even the poverty, which is so frequent and distressful in civilized nations, proceeds often from that change of manners which opulence has produced. Nature makes us poor only when we want necessaries; but custom gives the name of poverty to the want of superfluities. When Socrates passed through shops of toys and ornaments, he cried out, "How many things are here which I do not need!" And the same exclamation may every man make who surveys the common accommodations of life. Superfluity and difficulty begin together. To dress food for the stomach is easy, the art is to irritate the palate when the stomach is sufficed. A rude hand may build walls, form roofs, and lay floors, and provide all that warmth and security require; we only call the nicer artificers to carve the cornice, or to paint the ceilings. Such dress as may enable the body to endure the different seasons, the most unenlightened nations have been able to procure; but the work of science begins in the ambition of distinction, in variations of fashion, and emulation of elegance. Corn grows with easy culture; the gardener's experiments are only employed to exalt the flavours of fruits, and brighten the colours of flowers. Even of knowledge, those parts are most easy which are generally necessary. The intercourse of society is maintained without the elegancies of language. Figures, criticisms, and refinements, are the work of those whom idleness makes weary of themselves. The commerce of the world is carried on by easy methods of computation. Subtilty and study are required only when questions are invented merely to puzzle, and calculations are extended to show the skill of the calculator. The light of the sun is equally beneficial to him whose eyes tell him that it moves, and to him whose reason persuades him that it stands still; and plants grow with the same luxuriance, whether we suppose earth or water the parent of vegetation. If we raise our thoughts to nobler inquiries, we shall still find facility concurring with usefulness. No man needs stay to be virtuous, till the moralists have determined the essence of virtue; our duty is made apparent by its proximate consequences, though the general and ultimate reason should never be discovered. Religion may regulate the life of him to whom the Scotists and Thomists are alike unknown; and the assertors of fate and free-will, however different in their talk, agree to act in the same manner. It is not my intention to depreciate the politer arts or abstruser studies. That curiosity which always succeeds ease and plenty, was undoubtedly given us as a proof of capacity which our present state is not able to fill, as a preparative for some better mode of existence, which shall furnish employment for the whole soul, and where pleasure shall be adequate to our powers of fruition. In the mean time, let us gratefully acknowledge that goodness which grants us ease at a cheap rate, which changes the seasons where the nature of heat and cold has not been yet examined, and gives the vicissitudes of day and night to those who never marked the tropicks, or numbered the constellations. No. 38. SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1759. Since the publication of the letter concerning the condition of those who are confined in gaols by their creditors, an inquiry is said to have been made, by which it appears that more than twenty thousand[1] are at this time prisoners for debt. We often look with indifference on the successive parts of that, which, if the whole were seen together, would shake us with emotion. A debtor is dragged to prison, pitied for a moment, and then forgotten; another follows him, and is lost alike in the caverns of oblivion; but when the whole mass of calamity rises up at once, when twenty thousand reasonable beings are heard all groaning in unnecessary misery, not by the infirmity of nature, but the mistake or negligence of policy, who can forbear to pity and lament, to wonder and abhor? There is here no need of declamatory vehemence: we live in an age of commerce and computation; let us, therefore, coolly inquire what is the sum of evil which the imprisonment of debtors brings upon our country. It seems to be the opinion of the later computists, that the inhabitants of England do not exceed six millions, of which twenty thousand is the three-hundredth part. What shall we say of the humanity or the wisdom of a nation, that voluntarily sacrifices one in every three hundred to lingering destruction? The misfortunes of an individual do not extend their influence to many; yet, if we consider the effects of consanguinity and friendship, and the general reciprocation of wants and benefits, which make one man dear or necessary to another, it may reasonably be supposed, that every man languishing in prison gives trouble of some kind to two others who love or need him. By this multiplication of misery we see distress extended to the hundredth part of the whole society. If we estimate at a shilling a day what is lost by the inaction, and consumed in the support of each man thus chained down to involuntary idleness, the publick loss will rise in one year to three hundred thousand pounds; in ten years to more than a sixth part of our circulating coin. I am afraid that those who are best acquainted with the state of our prisons will confess that my conjecture is too near the truth, when I suppose that the corrosion of resentment, the heaviness of sorrow, the corruption of confined air, the want of exercise, and sometimes of food, the contagion of diseases, from which there is no retreat, and the severity of tyrants, against whom there can be no resistance, and all the complicated horrours of a prison, put an end every year to the life of one in four of those that are shut up from the common comforts of human life. Thus perish yearly five thousand men overborne with sorrow, consumed by famine, or putrefied by filth; many of them in the most vigorous and useful part of life; for the thoughtless and imprudent are commonly young, and the active and busy are seldom old. According to the rule generally received, which supposes that one in thirty dies yearly, the race of man may be said to be renewed at the end of thirty years. Who would have believed till now, that of every English generation, a hundred and fifty thousand perish in our gaols? that in every century, a nation eminent for science, studious of commerce, ambitious of empire, should willingly lose, in noisome dungeons, five hundred thousand of its inhabitants; a number greater than has ever been destroyed in the same time by pestilence and the sword? A very late occurrence may show us the value of the number which we thus condemn to be useless; in the reestablishment of the trained bands, thirty thousand are considered as a force sufficient against all exigencies. While, therefore, we detain twenty thousand in prison, we shut up in darkness and uselessness two-thirds of an army which ourselves judge equal to the defence of our country. The monastick institutions have been often blamed, as tending to retard the increase of mankind. And, perhaps, retirement ought rarely to be permitted, except to those whose employment is consistent with abstraction, and who, though solitary, will not be idle; to those whom infirmity makes useless to the commonwealth, or to those who have paid their due proportion to society, and who, having lived for others, may be honourably dismissed to live for themselves. But whatever be the evil or the folly of these retreats, those have no right to censure them whose prisons contain greater numbers than the monasteries of other countries. It is, surely, less foolish and less criminal to permit inaction than compel it; to comply with doubtful opinions of happiness, than condemn to certain and apparent misery; to indulge the extravagancies of erroneous piety, than to multiply and enforce temptations to wickedness. The misery of gaols is not half their evil: they are filled with every corruption which poverty and wickedness can generate between them; with all the shameless and profligate enormities that can be produced by the impudence of ignominy, the rage of want, and the malignity of despair. In a prison the awe of the publick eye is lost, and the power of the law is spent; there are few fears, there are no blushes. The lewd inflame the lewd, the audacious harden the audacious. Every one fortifies himself as he can against his own sensibility, endeavours to practise on others the arts which are practised on himself; and gains the kindness of his associates by similitude of manners. Thus some sink amidst their misery, and others survive only to propagate villany. It may be hoped, that our lawgivers will at length take away from us this power of starving and depraving one another; but, if there be any reason why this inveterate evil should not be removed in our age, which true policy has enlightened beyond any former time, let those, whose writings form the opinions and the practices of their contemporaries, endeavour to transfer the reproach of such imprisonment from the debtor to the creditor, till universal infamy shall pursue the wretch whose wantonness of power, or revenge of disappointment, condemns another to torture and to ruin; till he shall be hunted through the world as an enemy to man, and find in riches no shelter from contempt. Surely, he whose debtor has perished in prison, although he may acquit himself of deliberate murder, must at least have his mind clouded with discontent, when he considers how much another has suffered from him; when he thinks on the wife bewailing her husband, or the children begging the bread which their father would have earned. If there are any made so obdurate by avarice or cruelty, as to revolve these consequences without dread or pity, I must leave them to be awakened by some other power, for I write only to human beings[2]. [1] This number was, at that time, confidently published; but the author has since found reason to question the calculation. [2] A series of Essays, entitled the Farrago, was published in 1792, for the benefit of the society for the discharge and relief of persons imprisoned for small debts. See Dr. Drake's Essays on the Rambler, &c. vol. ii. p. 427. The Congress of the United States passed a law in 1824, abolishing arrest and imprisonment for debt. The measure has yet to stand the test of practice and experience. See Idler 22. and note. No. 39. SATURDAY, JANUARY 13, 1759. _Nec genus ornatus unun est: quod quamque decebit, Eligat_--OVID. Ars. Am. iii. 135. TO THE IDLER. Sir, As none look more diligently about them than those who have nothing to do, or who do nothing, I suppose it has not escaped your observation, that the bracelet, an ornament of great antiquity, has been for some years revived among the English ladies. The genius of our nation is said, I know not for what reason, to appear rather in improvement than invention. The bracelet was known in the earliest ages; but it was formerly only a hoop of gold, or a cluster of jewels, and showed nothing but the wealth or vanity of the wearer, till our ladies, by carrying pictures on their wrists, made their ornaments works of fancy and exercises of judgment. This addition of art to luxury is one of the innumerable proofs that might be given of the late increase of female erudition; and I have often congratulated myself that my life has happened at a time when those, on whom so much of human felicity depends, have learned to think as well as speak, and when respect takes possession of the ear, while love is entering at the eye. I have observed, that, even by the suffrages of their own sex, those ladies are accounted wisest, who do not yet disdain to be taught; and, therefore, I shall offer a few hints for the completion of the bracelet, without any dread of the fate of Orpheus. To the ladies, who wear the pictures of their husbands or children, or any other relations, I can offer nothing more decent or more proper. It is reasonable to believe that she intends at least to perform her duty, who carries a perpetual excitement to recollection and caution, whose own ornaments must upbraid her with every failure, and who, by an open violation of her engagements, must for ever forfeit her bracelet. Yet I know not whether it is the interest of the husband to solicit very earnestly a place on the bracelet. If his image be not in the heart, it is of small avail to hang it on the hand. A husband encircled with diamonds and rubies may gain some esteem, but will never excite love. He that thinks himself most secure of his wife, should be fearful of persecuting her continually with his presence. The joy of life is variety; the tenderest love requires to be rekindled by intervals of absence; and Fidelity herself will be wearied with transferring her eye only from the same man to the same picture. In many countries the condition of every woman is known by her dress. Marriage is rewarded with some honourable distinction, which celibacy is forbidden to usurp. Some such information a bracelet might afford. The ladies might enrol themselves in distinct classes, and carry in open view the emblems of their order. The bracelet of the authoress may exhibit the Muses in a grove of laurel; the housewife may show Penelope with her web; the votaress of a single life may carry Ursula with her troop of virgins; the gamester may have Fortune with her wheel; and those women _that have no character at all_ may display a field of white enamel, as imploring help to fill up the vacuity. There is a set of ladies who have outlived most animal pleasures, and, having nothing rational to put in their place, solace with cards the loss of what time has taken away, and the want of what wisdom, having never been courted, has never given. For these I know not how to provide a proper decoration. They cannot be numbered among the gamesters; for though they are always at play, they play for nothing, and never rise to the dignity of hazard or the reputation of skill. They neither love nor are loved, and cannot be supposed to contemplate any human image with delight. Yet, though they despair to please, they always wish to be fine, and, therefore, cannot be without a bracelet. To this sisterhood I can recommend nothing more likely to please them than the king of clubs, a personage very comely and majestick, who will never meet their eyes without reviving the thought of some past or future party, and who may be displayed, in the act of dealing, with grace and propriety. But the bracelet which might be most easily introduced into general use is a small convex mirror, in which the lady may see herself whenever she shall lift her hand. This will be a perpetual source of delight. Other ornaments are of use only in publick, but this will furnish gratifications to solitude. This will show a face that must always please; she who is followed by admirers will carry about her a perpetual justification of the publick voice; and she who passes without notice may appeal from prejudice to her own eyes. But I know not why the privilege of the bracelet should be confined to women; it was in former ages worn by heroes in battle; and, as modern soldiers are always distinguished by splendour of dress, I should rejoice to see the bracelet added to the cockade. In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have spent some thoughts upon military bracelets. There is no passion more heroick than love; and, therefore, I should be glad to see the sons of England marching in the field, every man with the picture of a woman of honour bound upon his hand. But since in the army, as every where else, there will always be men who love nobody but themselves, or whom no woman of honour will permit to love her, there is a necessity of some other distinctions and devices. I have read of a prince who, having lost a town, ordered the name of it to be every morning shouted in his ear till it should be recovered. For the same purpose I think the prospect of Minorca might be properly worn on the hands of some of our generals: others might delight their countrymen, and dignify themselves, with a view of Rochfort as it appeared to them at sea: and those that shall return from the conquest of America, may exhibit the warehouse of Frontenac, with an inscription denoting, that it was taken in less than three years by less than twenty thousand men. I am, Sir, &c. TOM TOY. No. 40. SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1759. The practice of appending to the narratives of publick transactions more minute and domestick intelligence, and filling the newspapers with advertisements, has grown up by slow degrees to its present state. Genius is shown only by invention. The man who first took advantage of the general curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, to betray the readers of news into the knowledge of the shop where the best puffs and powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man of great sagacity, and profound skill in the nature of man. But when he had once shown the way, it was easy to follow him; and every man now knows a ready method of informing the publick of all that he desires to buy or sell; whether his wares be material or intellectual; whether he makes clothes, or teaches the mathematicks; whether he be a tutor that wants a pupil, or a pupil that wants a tutor. Whatever is common is despised. Advertisements are now so numerous that they are very negligently perused, and it is, therefore, become necessary to gain attention by magnificence of promises, and by eloquence sometimes sublime and sometimes pathetick. Promise, large promise, is the soul of an advertisement. I remember a _wash-ball_ that had a quality truly wonderful--it gave an _exquisite edge to the razor_. And there are now to be sold, _for ready money only_, some _duvets for bed-coverings, of down, beyond comparison superior to what is called otter-down_, and indeed such, that its _many excellencies cannot be here set forth_. With one excellence we are made acquainted--_it is warmer than four or five blankets, and lighter than one._ There are some, however, that know the prejudice of mankind in favour of modest sincerity. The vender of the _beautifying fluid_ sells a lotion that repels pimples, washes away freckles, smooths the skin, and plumps the flesh; and yet, with a generous abhorrence of ostentation, confesses, that it will not _restore the bloom of fifteen to a lady of fifty_. The true pathos of advertisements must have sunk deep into the heart of every man that remembers the zeal shown by the seller of the _anodyne necklace_, for the ease and safety of _poor teething infants_, and the affection with which he warned every mother, that _she would never forgive herself_, if her infant should perish without a necklace. I cannot but remark to the celebrated author who gave, in his notifications of the camel and dromedary, so many specimens of the genuine sublime, that there is now arrived another subject yet more worthy of his pen. _A famous Mohawk Indian warrior, who took_ Dieskaw _the French general prisoner, dressed in the same manner with the native Indians when they go to war, with his face and body painted, with his scalping-knife, tom-axe, and all other implements of war! a sight worthy the curiosity of every true Briton!_ This is a very powerful description; but a critick of great refinement would say, that it conveys rather _horrour_ than _terrour_. An Indian, dressed as he goes to war, may bring company together; but if he carries the scalping-knife and tom-axe, there are many true Britons that will never be persuaded to see him but through a grate. It has been remarked by the severer judges, that the salutary sorrow of tragick scenes is too soon effaced by the merriment of the epilogue; the same inconvenience arises from the improper disposition of advertisements. The noblest objects may be so associated as to be made ridiculous. The camel and dromedary themselves might have lost much of their dignity between _the true flower of mustard_ and the _original Daffy's elixir_; and I could not but feel some indignation when I found this illustrious Indian warrior immediately succeeded by _a fresh parcel of Dublin butter_. The trade of advertising is now so near to perfection, that it is not easy to propose any improvement. But as every art ought to be exercised in due subordination to the publick good, I cannot but propose it as a moral question to these masters of the publick ear, Whether they do not sometimes play too wantonly with our passions, as when the registrar of lottery-tickets invites us to his shop by an account of the prize which he sold last year; and whether the advertising controvertists do not indulge asperity of language without any adequate provocation; as in the dispute about _straps for razors_, now happily subsided, and in the altercation which at present subsists concerning _eau de luce_? In an advertisement it is allowed to every man to speak well of himself, but I know not why he should assume the privilege of censuring his neighbour. He may proclaim his own virtue or skill, but ought not to exclude others from the same pretensions. Every man that advertises his own excellence should write with some consciousness of a character which dares to call the attention of the publick. He should remember that his name is to stand in the same paper with those of the king of Prussia and the emperour of Germany, and endeavour to make himself worthy of such association. Some regard is likewise to be paid to posterity. There are men of diligence and curiosity who treasure up the papers of the day merely because others neglect them, and in time they will be scarce. When these collections shall be read in another century, how will numberless contradictions be reconciled? and how shall fame be possibly distributed among the tailors and bodice-makers of the present age? Surely these things deserve consideration. It is enough for me to have hinted my desire that these abuses may be rectified; but such is the state of nature, that what all have the right of doing, many will attempt without sufficient care or due qualifications[1]. [1] A history of newspapers, more diffuse than the chronological series in Nichols' Literary Anecdotes, Vol. iv. is desirable. See Preface. No. 41. SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1759. The following letter relates to an affliction perhaps not necessary to be imparted to the publick; but I could not persuade myself to suppress it, because I think, I know the sentiments to be sincere, and I feel no disposition to provide for this day any other entertainment. At, tu quisquis eris, miseri qui cruda poetae Credideris fletu funera digna tuo, Haec postrema tibi sit flendi causa, fluatque Lenis inoffenso vitaque morsque gradu. OVID. Mr. Idler, Notwithstanding the warnings of philosophers, and the daily examples of losses and misfortunes which life forces upon our observation, such is the absorption of our thoughts in the business of the present day, such the resignation of our reason to empty hopes of future felicity, or such our unwillingness to foresee what we dread, that every calamity comes suddenly upon us, and not only presses us as a burden, but crushes as a blow. There are evils which happen out of the common course of nature, against which it is no reproach not to be provided. A flash of lightning intercepts the traveller in his way. The concussion of an earthquake heaps the ruins of cities upon their inhabitants. But other miseries time brings, though silently yet visibly, forward by its even lapse, which yet approach us unseen, because we turn our eyes away, and seize us unresisted, because we could not arm ourselves against them but by setting them before us. That it is vain to shrink from what cannot be avoided, and to hide that from ourselves which must some time be found, is a truth which we all know, but which all neglect, and, perhaps, none more than the speculative reasoner, whose thoughts are always from home, whose eye wanders over life, whose fancy dances after meteors of happiness kindled by itself, and who examines every thing rather than his own state. Nothing is more evident than that the decays of age must terminate in death; yet there is no man, says Tully, who does not believe that he may yet live another year; and there is none who does not, upon the same principle, hope another year for his parent or his friend: but the fallacy will be in time detected; the last year, the last day, must come. It has come, and is past. The life which made my own life pleasant is at an end, and the gates of death are shut upon my prospects. The loss of a friend upon whom the heart was fixed, to whom every wish and endeavour tended, is a state of dreary desolation, in which the mind looks abroad impatient of itself, and finds nothing but emptiness and horrour. The blameless life, the artless tenderness, the pious simplicity, the modest resignation, the patient sickness, and the quiet death, are remembered only to add value to the loss, to aggravate regret for what cannot be amended, to deepen sorrow for what cannot be recalled. These are the calamities by which Providence gradually disengages us from the love of life. Other evils fortitude may repel, or hope may mitigate; but irreparable privation leaves nothing to exercise resolution or flatter expectation. The dead cannot return, and nothing is left us here but languishment and grief. Yet such is the course of nature, that whoever lives long must outlive those whom he loves and honours. Such is the condition of our present existence, that life must one time lose its associations, and every inhabitant of the earth must walk downward to the grave alone and unregarded, without any partner of his joy or grief, without any interested witness of his misfortunes or success. Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel; for where is the bottom of the misery of man? But what is success to him that has none to enjoy it? Happiness is not found in self-contemplation; it is perceived only when it is reflected from another. We know little of the state of departed souls, because such knowledge is not necessary to a good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of the grave, and can give no further intelligence. Revelation is not wholly silent. "There is joy in the angels of Heaven over one sinner that repenteth;" and, surely, this joy is not incommunicable to souls disentangled from the body, and made like angels. Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation does not confute, that the union of souls may still remain; and that we who are struggling with sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our part in the attention and kindness of those who have finished their course, and are now receiving their reward. These are the great occasions which force the mind to take refuge in religion: when we have no help in ourselves, what can remain but that we look up to a higher and a greater Power? and to what hope may we not raise our eyes and hearts, when we consider that the greatest POWER is the BEST? Surely there is no man who, thus afflicted, does not seek succour in the _gospel_, which has brought _life and immortality to light_. The precepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure what the laws of the universe make necessary, may silence, but not content us. The dictates of Zeno, who commands us to look with indifference on external things, may dispose us to conceal our sorrow, but cannot assuage it. Real alleviation of the loss of friends, and rational tranquillity, in the prospect of our own dissolution, can be received only from the promises of Him in whose hands are life and death, and from the assurance of another and better state, in which all tears will be wiped from the eyes, and the whole soul shall be filled with joy. Philosophy may infuse stubbornness, but Religion only can give patience[1]. I am, &c. [1] See Preface. No. 42. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1759. The subject of the following letter is not wholly unmentioned by the Rambler. The Spectator has also a letter containing a case not much different. I hope my correspondent's performance is more an effort of genius, than an effusion of the passions; and that she hath rather attempted to paint some possible distress, than really feels the evils which she has described. TO THE IDLER. Sir, There is a cause of misery, which, though certainly known both to you and your predecessors, has been little taken notice of in your papers; I mean the snares that the bad behaviour of parents extends over the paths of life which their children are to tread after them; and as I make no doubt but the Idler holds the shield for virtue, as well as the glass for folly; that he will employ his leisure hours as much to his own satisfaction in warning his readers against a danger, as in laughing them out of a fashion: for this reason I am tempted to ask admittance for my story in your paper, though it has nothing to recommend it but truth, and the honest wish of warning others to shun the track which, I am afraid, may lead me at last to ruin. I am the child of a father, who, having always lived in one spot in the country where he was born, and having had no genteel education himself, thought no qualifications in the world desirable but as they led up to fortune, and no learning necessary to happiness but such as might most effectually teach me to make the best market of myself. I was unfortunately born a beauty, to a full sense of which my father took care to flatter me; and having, when very young, put me to a school in the country, afterwards transplanted me to another in town, at the instigation of his friends, where his ill-judged fondness let me remain no longer than to learn just enough experience to convince me of the sordidness of his views, to give me an idea of perfections which my present situation will never suffer me to reach, and to teach me sufficient morals to dare to despise what is bad, though it be in a father. Thus equipped (as he thought completely) for life, I was carried back into the country, and lived with him and my mother in a small village, within a few miles of the county town; where I mixed, at first with reluctance, among company which, though I never despised, I could not approve, as they were brought up with other inclinations, and narrower views than my own. My father took great pains to show me every where, both at his own house, and at such publick diversions as the country afforded: he frequently told the people all he had was for his daughter; took care to repeat the civilities I had received from all his friends in London; told how much I was admired, and all his little ambition could suggest to set me in a stronger light. Thus have I continued tricked out for sale, as I may call it, and doomed, by parental authority, to a state little better than that of prostitution. I look on myself as growing cheaper every hour, and am losing all that honest pride, that modest confidence, in which the virgin dignity consists. Nor does my misfortune stop here: though many would be too generous to impute the follies of a father to a child whose heart has set her above them; yet I am afraid the most charitable of them will hardly think it possible for me to be a daily spectatress of his vices without tacitly allowing them, and at last consenting to them, as the eye of the frightened infant is, by degrees, reconciled to the darkness of which at first it was afraid. It is a common opinion, he himself must very well know, that vices, like diseases, are often hereditary; and that the property of the one is to infect the manners, as the other poisons the springs of life. Yet this, though bad, is not the worst; my father deceives himself in the hopes of the very child he has brought into the world; he suffers his house to be the seat of drunkenness, riot, and irreligion, who seduces, almost in my sight, the menial servant, converses with the prostitute, and corrupts the wife! Thus I, who from my earliest dawn of reason was taught to think that at my approach every eye sparkled with pleasure, or was dejected as conscious of superior charms, am excluded from society, through fear lest I should partake, if not of my father's crimes, at least of his reproach. Is a parent, who is so little solicitous for the welfare of a child, better than a pirate who turns a wretch adrift in a boat at sea, without a star to steer by, or an anchor to hold it fast? Am I not to lay all my miseries at those doors which ought to have been opened only for my protection? And if doomed to add at last one more to the number of those wretches whom neither the world nor its law befriends, may I not justly say that I have been awed by a parent into ruin? But though a parent's power is screened from insult and violation by the very words of Heaven, yet surely no laws, divine or human, forbid me to remove myself from the malignant shade of a plant that poisons all around it, blasts the bloom of youth, checks its improvements, and makes all its flowrets fade; but to whom can the wretched, can the dependant fly? For me to fly a father's house, is to be a beggar: I have only one comfort amidst my anxieties, a pious relation, who bids me appeal to Heaven for a witness to my just intentions, fly as a deserted wretch to its protection; and, being asked who my father is, point, like the ancient philosopher, with my finger to the heavens. The hope in which I write this is, that you will give it a place in your paper; and, as your essays sometimes find their way into the country, that my father may read my story there; and, if not for his own sake, yet for mine, spare to perpetuate that worst of calamities to me, the loss of character, from which all his dissimulation has not been able to rescue himself. Tell the world, Sir, that it is possible for virtue to keep its throne unshaken without any other guard than itself; that it is possible to maintain that purity of thought so necessary to the completion of human excellence, even in the midst of temptations; when they have no friend within, nor are assisted by the voluntary indulgence of vicious thoughts. If the insertion of a story like this does not break in on the plan of your paper, you have it in your power to be a better friend than her father to PERDITA[1]. [1]From an unknown correspondent. No. 43. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1759. The natural advantages which arise from the position of the earth which we inhabit with respect to the other planets, afford much employment to mathematical speculation; by which it has been discovered, that no other conformation of the system could have given such commodious distributions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to so great a part of a revolving sphere. It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal reason, that our globe seems particularly fitted for the residence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose task is to advance himself to a higher and happier state of existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and activity of virtue. The duties required of man are such as human nature does not willingly perform, and such as those are inclined to delay who yet intend some time to fulfil them. It was, therefore, necessary that this universal reluctance should be counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation wakened into resolve; that the danger of procrastination should he always in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected. To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly conspire. Whatever we see on every side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night succeed each other, the rotation of seasons diversifies the year, the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines, and sets; and the moon every night changes its form. The day has been considered as an image of the year, and the year as the representation of life. The morning answers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and youth; the noon corresponds to the summer, and the summer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an emblem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night with its silence and darkness shows the winter, in which all the powers of vegetation are benumbed; and the winter points out the time when life shall cease, with its hopes and pleasures. He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but by the variation of objects. If the wheel of life, which rolls thus silently along, passed on through undistinguishable uniformity, we should never mark its approaches to the end of the course. If one hour were like another; if the passage of the sun did not show that the day is wasting; if the change of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of the year; quantities of duration equal to days and years would glide unobserved. If the parts of time were not variously coloured, we should never discern their departure or succession, but should live thoughtless of the past, and careless of the future, without will, and perhaps without power, to compute the periods of life, or to compare the time which is already lost with that which may probably remain. But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is observed even by the birds of passage, and by nations who have raised their minds very little above animal instinct: there are human beings whose language does not supply them with words by which they can number five, but I have read of none, that have not names for day and night, for summer and winter. Yet it is certain, that these admonitions of nature, however forcible, however importunate, are too often vain; and that many who mark with such accuracy the course of time, appear to have little sensibility of the decline of life. Every man has something to do which he neglects; every man has faults to conquer which he delays to combat. So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the effects of time, that things necessary and certain often surprise us like unexpected contingencies. We leave the beauty in her bloom, and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, at our return, to find her faded. We meet those whom we left children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat them as men. The traveller visits in age those countries through which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for merriment at the old place. The man of business, wearied with unsatisfactory prosperity, retires to the town of his nativity, and expects to play away the last years with the companions of his childhood, and recover youth in the fields, where he once was young. From this inattention, so general and so mischievous, let it be every man's study to exempt himself. Let him that desires to see others happy make haste to give, while his gift can be enjoyed, and remember that every moment of delay takes away something from the value of his benefaction. And let him, who purposes his own happiness, reflect, that while he forms his purpose the day rolls on, and _the night cometh when no man can work_. No. 44. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1759. Memory is, among the faculties of the human mind, that of which we make the most frequent use, or rather that of which the agency is incessant, or perpetual. Memory is the primary and fundamental power, without which there could be no other intellectual operation. Judgment and ratiocination suppose something already known, and draw their decisions only from experience. Imagination selects ideas from the treasures of remembrance, and produces novelty only by varied combinations. We do not even form conjectures of distant, or anticipations of future events, but by concluding what is possible from what is past. The two offices of memory are collection and distribution; by one images are accumulated, and by the other produced for use. Collection is always the employment of our first years; and distribution commonly that of our advanced age. To collect and reposite the various forms of things, is far the most pleasing part of mental occupation. We are naturally delighted with novelty, and there is a time when all that we see is new. When first we enter into the world, whithersoever we turn our eyes, they meet knowledge with pleasure at her side; every diversity of nature pours ideas in upon the soul; neither search nor labour are necessary; we have nothing more to do than to open our eyes, and curiosity is gratified. Much of the pleasure which the first survey of the world affords, is exhausted before we are conscious of our own felicity, or able to compare our condition with some other possible state. We have, therefore, few traces of the joy of our earliest discoveries; yet we all remember a time, when nature had so many untasted gratifications, that every excursion gave delight which, can now be found no longer, when the noise of a torrent, the rustle of a wood, the song of birds, or the play of lambs, had power to fill the attention, and suspend all perception of the course of time. But these easy pleasures are soon at an end; we have seen in a very little time so much, that we call out for new objects of observation, and endeavour to find variety in books and life. But study is laborious, and not always satisfactory; and conversation has its pains as well pleasures; we are willing to learn, but not willing to be taught; we are pained by ignorance, but pained yet more by another's knowledge. From the vexation of pupilage men commonly set themselves free about the middle of life, by shutting up the avenues of intelligence, and resolving to rest in their present state; and they, whose ardour of inquiry continues longer, find themselves insensibly forsaken by their instructors. As every man advances in life, the proportion between those that are younger and that are older than himself is continually changing; and he that has lived half a century finds few that do not require from him that information which he once expected from those that went before him. Then it is, that the magazines of memory are opened, and the stores of accumulated knowledge are displayed by vanity or benevolence, or in honest commerce of mutual interest. Every man wants others, and is, therefore, glad when he is wanted by them. And as few men will endure the labour of intense meditation without necessity, he that has learned enough for his profit or his honour, seldom endeavours after further acquisitions. The pleasure of recollecting speculative notions would not be much less than that of gaining them, if they could be kept pure and unmingled with the passages of life; but such is the necessary concatenation of our thoughts, that good and evil are linked together, and no pleasure recurs but associated with pain. Every revived idea reminds us of a time when something was enjoyed that is now lost, when some hope was not yet blasted, when some purpose had yet not languished into sluggishness or indifference. Whether it be, that life has more vexations than comforts, or, what is in the event just the same, that evil makes deeper impression than good, it is certain that few can review the time past without heaviness of heart. He remembers many calamities incurred by folly, many opportunities lost by negligence. The shades of the dead rise up before him; and he laments the companions of his youth, the partners of his amusements, the assistants of his labours, whom the hand of death has snatched away. When an offer was made to Themistocles of teaching him the art of memory, he answered, that he would rather wish for the art of forgetfulness. He felt his imagination haunted by phantoms of misery which he was unable to suppress, and would gladly have calmed his thoughts with some _oblivious antidote_. In this we all resemble one another; the hero and the sage are, like vulgar mortals, overburdened by the weight of life; all shrink from recollection, and all wish for an art of forgetfulness[1]. [1] Read the sublime story of Sadak in search of the waters of oblivion the Tales of the Genii. Those who have seen Martin's picture on the subject, have failed almost to recognise the respective limits of poetry and of painting. No. 45. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1759. There is in many minds a kind of vanity exerted to the disadvantage of themselves; a desire to be praised for superior acuteness discovered only in the degradation of their species, or censure of their country. Defamation is sufficiently copious. The general lampooner of mankind may find long exercise for his zeal or wit, in the defects of nature, the vexations of life, the follies of opinion, and the corruptions of practice. But fiction is easier than discernment; and most of these writers spare themselves the labour of inquiry, and exhaust their virulence upon imaginary crimes, which, as they never existed, can never be amended. That the painters find no encouragement among the English for many other works than portraits, has been imputed to national selfishness. 'Tis vain, says the satirist, to set before, any Englishman the scenes of landscape, or the heroes of history; nature and antiquity are nothing in his eye; he has no value but for himself, nor desires any copy but of his own form. Whoever is delighted with his own picture must derive his pleasure from the pleasure of another. Every man is always present to himself, and has, therefore, little need of his own resemblance, nor can desire it, but for the sake of those whom he loves, and by whom he hopes to be remembered. This use of the art is a natural and reasonable consequence of affection; and though, like other human actions, it is often complicated with pride, yet even such pride is more laudable than that by which palaces are covered with pictures, that, however excellent, neither imply the owner's virtue, nor excite it. Genius is chiefly exerted in historical pictures; and the art of the painter of portraits is often lost in the obscurity of his subject. But it is in painting as in life; what is greatest is not always best. I should grieve to see Reynolds transfer to heroes and to goddesses, to empty splendour and to airy fiction, that art which is now employed in diffusing friendship, in reviving tenderness, in quickening the affections of the absent, and continuing the presence of the dead[1]. Yet in a nation great and opulent there is room, and ought to be patronage, for an art like that of painting through all its diversities; and it is to be wished, that the reward now offered for an historical picture may excite an honest emulation, and give beginning to an English school. It is not very easy to find an action or event that can be efficaciously represented by a painter. He must have an action not successive but instantaneous; for the time of a picture is a single moment. For this reason, the death of Hercules cannot well be painted, though, at the first view, it flatters the imagination with very glittering ideas: the gloomy mountain, overhanging the sea, and covered with trees, some bending to the wind, and some torn from their roots by the raging hero; the violence with which he rends from his shoulders the envenomed garment; the propriety with which his muscular nakedness may be displayed; the death of Lycas whirled from the promontory; the gigantick presence of Philoctetes; the blaze of the fatal pile, which the deities behold with grief and terrour from the sky. All these images fill the mind, but will not compose a picture, because they cannot be united in a single moment[2]. Hercules must have rent his flesh at one time, and tossed Lycas into the air at another; he must first tear up the trees, and then lie down upon the pile. The action must be circumstantial and distinct. There is a passage in the Iliad which cannot be read without strong emotions. A Trojan prince, seized by Achilles in the battle, falls at his feet, and in moving terms supplicates for life. "How can a wretch like thee," says the haughty Greek, "intreat to live, when thou knowest that the time must come when Achilles is to die?" This cannot be painted, because no peculiarity of attitude or disposition can so supply the place of language as to impress the sentiment. The event painted must be such as excites passion, and different passions in the several actors, or a tumult of contending passions in the chief. Perhaps the discovery of Ulysses by his nurse is of this kind. The surprise of the nurse mingled with joy; that of Ulysses checked by prudence, and clouded by solicitude; and the distinctness of the action by which the scar is found; all concur to complete the subject. But the picture, having only two figures, will want variety. A much nobler assemblage may be furnished by the death of Epaminondas. The mixture of gladness and grief in the face of the messenger who brings his dying general an account of the victory; the various passions of the attendants; the sublimity of composure in the hero, while the dart is by his own command drawn from his side, and the faint gleam of satisfaction that diffuses itself over the languor of death; are worthy of that pencil which yet I do not wish to see employed upon them. If the design were not too multifarious and extensive, I should wish that our painters would attempt the dissolution of the parliament by Cromwell[3]. The point of time may be chosen when Cromwell, looking round the Pandaemonium with contempt, ordered the bauble to be taken away; and Harrison laid hands on the Speaker to drag him from the chair. The various appearances which rage, and terrour, and astonishment, and guilt, might exhibit in the faces of that hateful assembly, of whom the principal persons may be faithfully drawn from portraits or prints; the irresolute repugnance of some, the hypocritical submissions of others, the ferocious insolence of Cromwell, the rugged brutality of Harrison, and the general trepidation of fear and wickedness, would, if some proper disposition could be contrived, make a picture of unexampled variety, and irresistible instruction. [1] Some judicious remarks on portrait painting may be found in Chalmers' Preface to Idler, Brit. Ess. 33. The difference between the French and English schools, in this department of the Art, well proves that mind has scope for its powers in portrait, and that genius alone can so generalize the details "as to identify the individual man with the dignity of his thinking powers." [2] Has that picture, which is considered the finest in the world, the transfiguration, this requisite? Could any human eye, at one and the same moment, have beheld the apostles baffled with the stubborn spirit which they had not faith to quell, and the glories on the Mount? [3] This subject has now been most successfully handled by West. Hall's exquisite engraving has rendered the picture familiar. No. 40. SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1759. _Fugit ad salices, sed, se cupit ante videri_. VIRGIL. Mr. Idler, I am encouraged, by the notice you have taken of Betty Broom, to represent the miseries which I suffer from a species of tyranny, which, I believe, is not very uncommon, though perhaps it may have escaped the observation of those who converse little with fine ladies, or see them only in their publick characters. To this method of venting my vexation I am the more inclined, because if I do not complain to you, I must burst in silence; for my mistress has teased me and teased me till I can hold no longer, and yet I must not tell her of her tricks. The girls that live in common services can quarrel, and give warning, and find other places; but we that live with great ladies, if we once offend them, have, nothing left but to return into the country. I am waiting-maid to a lady who keeps the best company, and is seen at every place of fashionable resort. I am envied by all the maids in the square, for few countesses leave off so many clothes as my mistress, and nobody shares with me: so that I supply two families in the country with finery for the assizes and horse-races, besides what I wear myself. The steward and housekeeper have joined against me to procure my removal, that they may advance a relation of their own; but their designs are found out by my lady, who says I need not fear them, for she will never have dowdies about her. You would think, Mr. Idler, like others, that I am very happy, and may well be contented with my lot. But I will tell you. My lady has an odd humour. She never orders any thing in direct words, for she loves a sharp girl that can take a hint. I would not have you suspect that she has any thing to hint which she is ashamed to speak at length; for none can have greater purity of sentiment, or rectitude of intention. She has nothing to hide, yet nothing will she tell. She always gives her directions obliquely and allusively, by the mention of something relative or consequential, without any other purpose than to exercise my acuteness and her own. It is impossible to give a notion of this style otherwise than by examples. One night, when she had sat writing letters till it was time to be dressed, _Molly_, said she, _the Ladies are all to be at Court to-night in white aprons_. When she means that I should send to order the chair, she says, _I think the streets are clean, I may venture to walk_. When she would have something put into its place, she bids me _lay it on the floor_. If she would have me snuff the candles, she asks _whether I think her eyes are like a cat's_? If she thinks her chocolate delayed, she talks of _the benefit of abstinence_. If any needle-work is forgotten, she supposes _that I have heard of the lady who died by pricking her finger_. She always imagines that I can recall every thing past from a single word. If she wants her head from the milliner, she only says, _Molly, you know Mrs. Tape_. If she would have the mantua-maker sent for, she remarks _that Mr. Taffety, the mercer, was here last week_. She ordered, a fortnight ago, that the first time she was abroad all day I should choose her a new set of coffee-cups at the china-shop: of this she reminded me yesterday, as she was going down stairs, by saying, _You can't find your way now to Pall-mall_. All this would never vex me, if, by increasing my trouble, she spared her own; but, dear Mr. Idler, is it not as easy to say _coffee-cups_, as _Pall-mall_? and to tell me in plain words what I am to do, and when it is to be done, as to torment her own head with the labour of finding hints, and mine with that of understanding them? When first I came to this lady, I had nothing like the learning that I have now; for she has many books, and I have much time to read; so that of late I seldom have missed her meaning: but when she first took me I was an ignorant girl; and she, who, as is very common, confounded want of knowledge with want of understanding, began once to despair of bringing me to any thing, because, when I came into her chamber at the call of her bell, she asked me, _Whether we lived in Zembla_; and I did not guess the meaning of her inquiry, but modestly answered, that _I could not tell_. She had happened to ring once when I did not hear her, and meant to put me in mind of that country where sounds are said to be congealed by the frost. Another time, as I was dressing her head, she began to talk on a sudden of _Medusa_, and _snakes_, and _men turned into stone, and maids that, if they were not watched, would let their mistresses be Gorgons_. I looked round me half frightened, and quite bewildered; till at last, finding that her literature was thrown away upon me, she bid me with great vehemence, reach the curling-irons. It is not without some indignation, Mr. Idler, that I discover, in these artifices of vexation, something worse than foppery or caprice; a mean delight in superiority, which knows itself in no danger of reproof or opposition; a cruel pleasure in seeing the perplexity of a mind obliged to find what is studiously concealed, and a mean indulgence of petty malevolence, in the sharp censure of involuntary, and very often of inevitable, failings. When, beyond her expectation, I hit upon her meaning, I can perceive a sudden cloud of disappointment spread over her face; and have sometimes been afraid, lest I should lose her favour by understanding her when she means to puzzle me. This day, however, she has conquered my sagacity. When she went out of her dressing-room, she said nothing, but, _Molly, you know_, and hastened to her chariot. What I am to know is yet a secret; but if I do not know before she comes back, what I yet have no means of discovering, she will make my dullness a pretence for a fortnight's ill humour, treat me as a creature devoid of the faculties necessary to the common duties of life, and perhaps give the next gown to the housekeeper. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, MOLLY QUICK. No. 47. SATURDAY, MARCH 10, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Idler, I am the unfortunate wife of a city wit, and cannot but think that my case may deserve equal compassion with any of those which have been represented in your paper. I married my husband within three months after the expiration of his apprenticeship; we put our money together, and furnished a large and splendid shop, in which he was for five years and a half diligent and civil. The notice which curiosity or kindness commonly bestows on beginners, was continued by confidence and esteem; one customer, pleased with his treatment and his bargain, recommended another; and we were busy behind the counter from morning to night. Thus every day increased our wealth and our reputation. My husband was often invited to dinner openly on the Exchange by hundred thousand pounds men; and whenever I went to any of the halls, the wives of the aldermen made me low courtesies. We always took up our notes before the day, and made all considerable payments by draughts upon our banker. You will easily believe that I was well enough pleased with my condition; for what happiness can be greater than that of growing every day richer and richer? I will not deny, that, imagining myself likely to be in a short time the sheriff's lady, I broke off my acquaintance with some of my neighbours; and advised my husband to keep good company, and not to be seen with men that were worth nothing. In time he found that ale disagreed with his constitution, and went every night to drink his pint at a tavern, where he met with a set of criticks, who disputed upon the merit of the different theatrical performers. By these idle fellows he was taken to the play, which at first he did not seem much to heed; for he owned, that he very seldom knew what they were doing, and that, while his companions would let him alone, he was commonly thinking on his last bargain. Having once gone, however, he went again and again, though I often told him that three shillings were thrown away: at last he grew uneasy if he missed a night, and importuned me to go with him. I went to a tragedy, which they called Macbeth; and, when I came home, told him, that I could not bear to see men and women make themselves such fools, by pretending to be witches and ghosts, generals and kings, and to walk in their sleep when they were as much awake, as those that looked at them. He told me that I must get higher notions, and that a play was the most rational of all entertainments, and most proper to relax the mind after the business of the day. By degrees he gained knowledge of some of the players: and, when the play was over, very frequently treated them with suppers; for which he was admitted to stand behind the scenes. He soon began to lose some of his morning hours in the same folly, and was for one winter very diligent in his attendance on the rehearsals; but of this species of idleness he grew weary, and said, that the play was nothing without the company. His ardour for the diversion of the evening increased; he bought a sword, and paid five shillings a night to sit in the boxes; he went sometimes into a place which he calls the green-room, where all the wits of the age assemble and, when he had been there, could do nothing, for two or three days, but repeat their jests, or tell their disputes. He has now lost his regard for every thing but the playhouse; he invites, three times a week, one or other to drink claret, and talk of the drama. His first care in the morning is to read the play-bills; and, if he remembers any lines of the tragedy which is to be represented, walks about the shop, repeating them so loud, and with such strange gestures, that the passengers gather round the door. His greatest pleasure, when I married him, was to hear the situation of his shop commended, and to be told how many estates have been got in it by the same trade; but of late he grows peevish at any mention of business, and delights in nothing so much as to be told that he speaks like Mossop. Among his new associates he has learned another language, and speaks in such a strain that his neighbours cannot understand him. If a customer talks longer than he is willing to hear, he will complain that he has been excruciated with unmeaning verbosity; he laughs at the letters of his friends for their tameness of expression, and often declares himself weary of attending to the minutiæ of a shop. It is well for me that I know how to keep a book, for of late he is scarcely ever in the way. Since one of his friends told him that he had a genius for tragick poetry, he has locked himself in an upper room six or seven hours a day; and, when I carry him any paper to be read or signed, I hear him talking vehemently to himself, sometimes of love and beauty, sometimes of friendship and virtue, but more frequently of liberty and his country. I would gladly, Mr. Idler, be informed what to think of a shopkeeper, who is incessantly talking about liberty; a word, which, since his acquaintance with polite life, my husband has always in his mouth: he is, on all occasions, afraid of our liberty, and declares his resolution to hazard all for liberty. What can the man mean? I am sure he has liberty enough; it were better for him and me if his liberty was lessened. He has a friend, whom he calls a critick, that comes twice a week to read what he is writing. This critick tells him that his piece is a little irregular, but that some detached scenes will shine prodigiously, and that in the character of Bombulus he is wonderfully great. My scribbler then squeezes his hand, calls him the best of friends, thanks him for his sincerity, and tells him that he hates to be flattered. I have reason to believe that he seldom parts with his dear friend without lending him two guineas, and am afraid that he gave bail for him three days ago. By this course of life our credit as traders is lessened; and I cannot forbear to suspect, that my husband's honour as a wit is not much advanced, for he seems to be always the lowest of the company, and is afraid to tell his opinion till the rest have spoken. When he was behind his counter, he used to be brisk, active, and jocular, like a man that knew what he was doing, and did not fear to look another in the face; but among wits and criticks he is timorous and awkward, and hangs down his head at his own table. Dear Mr. Idler, persuade him, if you can, to return once more to his native element. Tell him, that wit will never make him rich, but that there are places where riches will always make a wit. I am, Sir, &c. DEBORAH GINGER. No. 48. SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 1759. There is no kind of idleness, by which we are so easily seduced, as that which dignifies itself by the appearance of business; and, by making the loiterer imagine that he has something to do which must not be neglected, keeps him in perpetual agitation, and hurries him rapidly from place to place. He that sits still, or reposes himself upon a couch, no more deceives himself than he deceives others; he knows that he is doing nothing, and has no other solace of his insignificance than the resolution, which the lazy hourly make, of changing his mode of life. To do nothing every man is ashamed; and to do much almost every man is unwilling or afraid. Innumerable expedients have, therefore, been invented to produce motion without labour, and employment without solicitude. The greater part of those, whom the kindness of fortune has left to their own direction, and whom want does not keep chained to the counter or the plough, play throughout life with the shadows of business, and know not at last what they have been doing. These imitators of action are of all denominations. Some are seen at every auction without intention to purchase; others appear punctually at the Exchange, though they are known there only by their faces: some are always making parties to visit collections for which they have no taste; and some neglect every pleasure and every duty to hear questions, in which they have no interest, debated in parliament. These men never appear more ridiculous than in the distress which they imagine themselves to feel from some accidental interruption of those empty pursuits. A tiger newly imprisoned is indeed more formidable, but not more angry, than Jack Tulip, withheld from a florist's feast, or Tom Distich, hindered from seeing the first representation of a play. As political affairs are the highest and most extensive of temporal concerns, the mimick of a politician is more busy and important than any other trifler. Monsieur le Noir, a man who, without property or importance in any corner of the earth, has, in the present confusion of the world, declared himself a steady adherent to the French, is made miserable by a wind that keeps back the packet-boat, and still more miserable by every account of a Malouin privateer caught in his cruise; he knows well that nothing can be done or said by him which can produce any effect but that of laughter, that he can neither hasten nor retard good or evil, that his joys and sorrows have scarcely any partakers; yet such is his zeal, and such his curiosity, that he would run barefooted to Gravesend, for the sake of knowing first that the English had lost a tender, and would ride out to meet every mail from the continent, if he might be permitted to open it. Learning is generally confessed to be desirable, and there are some who fancy themselves always busy in acquiring it. Of these ambulatory students, one of the most busy is my friend Tom Restless. Tom has long had a mind to be a man of knowledge, but he does not care to spend much time among authors; for he is of opinion that few books deserve the labour of perusal, that they give the mind an unfashionable cast, and destroy that freedom of thought, and easiness of manners, indispensably requisite to acceptance in the world. Tom has, therefore, found another way to wisdom. When he rises he goes into a coffee-house, where he creeps so near to men whom he takes to be reasoners, as to hear their discourse, and endeavours to remember something which, when it has been strained through Tom's head, is so near to nothing, that what it once was cannot be discovered. This he carries round from friend to friend through a circle of visits, till, hearing what each says upon the question, he becomes able at dinner to say a little himself; and, as every great genius relaxes himself among his inferiors, meets with some who wonder how so young a man can talk so wisely. At night he has a new feast prepared for his intellects; he always runs to a disputing society, or a speaking club, where he half hears what, if he had heard the whole, be would but half understand; goes home pleased with the consciousness of a day well spent, lies down full of ideas, and rises in the morning empty as before. No. 49. SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1759. I supped three nights ago with my friend Will Marvel. His affairs obliged him lately to take a journey into Devonshire, from which he has just returned. He knows me to be a very patient hearer, and was glad of my company, as it gave him an opportunity of disburdening himself, by a minute relation of the casualties of his expedition. Will is not one of those who go out and return with nothing to tell. He has a story of his travels, which will strike a home-bred citizen with horrour, and has in ten days suffered so often the extremes of terrour and joy, that he is in doubt whether he shall ever again expose either his body or mind to such danger and fatigue. When he left London the morning was bright, and a fair day was promised. But Will is born to struggle with difficulties. That happened to him, which has sometimes, perhaps, happened to others. Before he had gone more than ten miles, it began to rain. What course was to be taken? His soul disdained to turn back. He did what the King of Prussia might have done; he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, and went forwards, fortifying his mind by the stoical consolation, that whatever is violent will be short. His constancy was not long tried; at the distance of about half a mile he saw an inn, which he entered wet and weary, and found civil treatment and proper refreshment. After a respite of about two hours, he looked abroad, and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, and passed the first stage without any other memorable accident. Will considered, that labour must be relieved by pleasure, and that the strength which great undertakings require must be maintained by copious nutriment; he, therefore, ordered himself an elegant supper, drank two bottles of claret, and passed the beginning of the night in sound sleep; but, waking before light, was forewarned of the troubles of the next day, by a shower beating against his windows with such violence, as to threaten the dissolution of nature. When he arose, he found what he expected, that the country was under water. He joined himself, however, to a company that was travelling the same way, and came safely to the place of dinner, though every step of his horse dashed the mud into the air. In the afternoon, having parted from his company, he set forward alone, and passed many collections of water, of which it was impossible to guess the depth, and which he now cannot review without some censure of his own rashness; but what a man undertakes he must perform, and Marvel hates a coward at his heart. Few that lie warm in their beds think what others undergo, who have, perhaps, been as tenderly educated, and have as acute sensations as themselves. My friend was now to lodge the second night almost fifty miles from home, in a house which he never had seen before, among people to whom he was totally a stranger, not knowing whether the next man he should meet would prove good or bad; but seeing an inn of a good appearance, he rode resolutely into the yard; and knowing that respect is often paid in proportion as it is claimed, delivered his injunctions to the ostler with spirit, and entering the house, called vigorously about him. On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. Marvel. His troubles and his dangers were now such as he wishes no other man ever to encounter. The ways were less frequented, and the country more thinly inhabited. He rode many a lonely hour through mire and water, and met not a single soul for two miles together, with whom he could exchange a word. He cannot deny that, looking round upon the dreary region, and seeing nothing but bleak fields and naked trees, hills obscured by fogs, and flats covered with inundations, he did, for some time, suffer melancholy to prevail upon him, and wished himself again safe at home. One comfort he had, which was, to consider that none of his friends were in the same distress, for whom, if they had been with him, he should have suffered more than for himself; he could not forbear sometimes to consider how happily the Idler is settled in an easier condition, who, surrounded like him with terrours, could have done nothing but lie down and die. Amidst these reflections he came to a town, and found a dinner which disposed him to more cheerful sentiments: but the joys of life are short, and its miseries are long; he mounted and travelled fifteen miles more through dirt and desolation. At last the sun set, and all the horrours of darkness came upon him. He then repented the weak indulgence in which he had gratified himself at noon with too long an interval of rest: yet he went forward along a path which he could no longer see, sometimes rushing suddenly into water, and sometimes incumbered with stiff clay, ignorant whither he was going, and uncertain whether his next step might not be the last. In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrination his horse unexpectedly stood still. Marvel had heard many relations of the instinct of horses, and was in doubt what danger might be at hand. Sometimes he fancied that he was on the bank of a river still and deep, and sometimes that a dead body lay across the track. He sat still awhile to recollect his thoughts; and as he was about to alight and explore the darkness, out stepped a man with a lantern, and opened the turnpike. He hired a guide to the town, arrived in safety, and slept in quiet. The rest of his journey was nothing but danger. He climbed and descended precipices on which vulgar mortals tremble to look; he passed marshes like the _Serbonian bog, where armies whole have sunk_; he forded rivers where the current roared like the Egre or the Severn; or ventured himself on bridges that trembled under him, from which he looked down on foaming whirlpools, or dreadful abysses; he wandered over houseless heaths, amidst all the rage of the elements, with the snow driving in his face, and the tempest howling in his ears. Such are the colours in which Marvel paints his adventures. He has accustomed himself to sounding words and hyperbolical images, till he has lost the power of true description. In a road, through which the heaviest carriages pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every day and night goes and returns, he meets with hardships like those which are endured in Siberian deserts, and misses nothing of romantick danger but a giant and a dragon. When his dreadful story is told in proper terms, it is only that the way was dirty in winter, and that he experienced the common vicissitudes of rain and sunshine. No. 50. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1759. The character of Mr. Marvel has raised the merriment of some and the contempt of others, who do not sufficiently consider how often they hear and practise the same arts of exaggerated narration. There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes of all conditions that swarm upon the earth, a single man who does not believe that he has something extraordinary to relate of himself; and who does not, at one time or other, summon the attention of his friends to the casualties of his adventures and the vicissitudes of his fortune; casualties and vicissitudes that happen alike in lives uniform and diversified; to the commander of armies and the writer at a desk; to the sailor who resigns himself to the wind and water, and the farmer whose longest journey is to the market. In the present state of the world man may pass through Shakespeare's seven stages of life, and meet nothing singular or wonderful. But such is every man's attention to himself, that what is common and unheeded, when it is only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar when we happen to feel it. It is well enough known to be according to the usual process of nature, that men should sicken and recover, that some designs should succeed and others miscarry, that friends should be separated and meet again, that some should be made angry by endeavours to please them, and some be pleased when no care has been used to gain their approbation; that men and women should at first come together by chance, like each other so well as to commence acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fondness, increase or extinguish fondness by marriage, and have children of different degrees of intellects and virtue, some of whom die before their parents, and others survive them. Yet let any man tell his own story, and nothing of all this has ever befallen him according to the common order of things; something has always discriminated his case; some unusual concurrence of events has appeared, which made him more happy or more miserable than other mortals; for in pleasures or calamities, however common, every one has comforts and afflictions of his own. It is certain that without some artificial augmentations, many of the pleasures of life, and almost all its embellishments, would fall to the ground. If no man was to express more delight than he felt, those who felt most would raise little envy. If travellers were to describe the most laboured performances of art with the same coldness as they survey them, all expectations of happiness from change of place would cease. The pictures of Raphaël would hang without spectators, and the gardens of Versailles might be inhabited by hermits. All the pleasure that is received ends in an opportunity of splendid falsehood, in the power of gaining notice by the display of beauties which the eye was weary of beholding, and a history of happy moments, of which, in reality, the most happy was the last. The ambition of superior sensibility and superior eloquence disposes the lovers of arts to receive rapture at one time, and communicate it at another; and each labours first to impose upon himself, and then to propagate the imposture. Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices of expression. The torments of disease, and the grief for irremediable misfortunes, sometimes are such as no words can declare, and can only be signified by groans, or sobs, or inarticulate ejaculations. Man has from nature a mode of utterance peculiar to pain, but he has none peculiar to pleasure, because he never has pleasure but in such degrees as the ordinary use of language may equal or surpass. It is nevertheless certain, that many pains, as well as pleasures, are heightened by rhetorical affectation, and that the picture is, for the most part, bigger than the life. When we describe our sensations of another's sorrows, either in friendly or ceremonious condolence, the customs of the world scarcely admit of rigid veracity. Perhaps, the fondest friendship would enrage oftener than comfort, were the tongue on such occasions faithfully to represent the sentiments of the heart; and I think the strictest moralists allow forms of address to be used without much regard to their literal acceptation, when either respect or tenderness requires them, because they are universally known to denote not the degree but the species of our sentiments. But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to him who aggravates dangers incurred, or sorrow endured, by himself, because he darkens the prospect of futurity, and multiplies the pains of our condition by useless terrour. Those who magnify their delights are less criminal deceivers, yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disappointed. It would be undoubtedly best, if we could see and hear every thing as it is, that nothing might be too anxiously dreaded, or too ardently pursued. No. 51. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1759. It has been commonly remarked, that eminent men are least eminent at home, that bright characters lose much of their splendour at a nearer view, and many, who fill the world with their fame, excite very little reverence among those that surround them in their domestick privacies. To blame or suspect is easy and natural. When the fact is evident, and the cause doubtful, some accusation is always engendered between idleness and malignity. This disparity of general and familiar esteem is, therefore, imputed to hidden vices, and to practices indulged in secret, but carefully covered from the publick eye. Vice will indeed always produce contempt. The dignity of Alexander, though nations fell prostrate before him, was certainly held in little veneration by the partakers of his midnight revels, who had seen him, in the madness of wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Persian palace at the instigation of a harlot; and it is well remembered among us, that the avarice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his wife, while he was dreaded by France as her conqueror, and honoured by the emperour as his deliverer. But though, where there is vice there must be want of reverence, it is not reciprocally true, that where there is want of reverence there is always vice. That awe which great actions or abilities impress will be inevitably diminished by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or criminal should be found. Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge according to our knowledge. When we see of a hero only his battles, or of a writer only his books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their greatness. We consider the one only as the guardian of his country, and the other only as the instructor of mankind. We have neither opportunity nor motive to examine the minuter parts of their lives, or the less apparent peculiarities of their characters; we name them with habitual respect, and forget, what we still continue to know, that they are men like other mortals. But such is the constitution of the world, that much of life must be spent in the same manner by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and the low. Men, however distinguished by external accidents or intrinsick qualities, have all the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as the senses are consulted, the same pleasures. The petty cares and petty duties are the same in every station to every understanding, and every hour brings some occasion on which we all sink to the common level. We are all naked till we are dressed, and hungry till we are fed; and the general's triumph, and sage's disputation, end, like the humble labours of the smith or ploughman, in a dinner or in sleep. Those notions which are to be collected by reason, in opposition to the senses, will seldom stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in the remoter repositories of memory, to be found only when they are sought. Whatever any man may have written or done, his precepts or his valour will scarcely overbalance the unimportant uniformity which runs through his time. We do not easily consider him as great, whom our own eyes show us to be little; nor labour to keep present to our thoughts the latent excellencies of him, who shares with us all our weaknesses and many of our follies; who, like us, is delighted with slight amusements, busied with trifling employments, and disturbed by little vexations. Great powers cannot be exerted, but when great exigencies make them necessary. Great exigencies can happen but seldom, and, therefore, those qualities which have a claim to the veneration of mankind, lie hid, for the most part, like subterranean treasures, over which the foot passes as on common ground, till necessity breaks open the golden cavern. In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave was placed on the triumphal car, by the side of the general, who reminded him by a short sentence, that he was a man[1]. Whatever danger there might be lest a leader, in his passage to the capitol, should forget the frailties of his nature, there was surely no need of such an admonition; the intoxication could not have continued long; he would have been at home but a few hours, before some of his dependants would have forgot his greatness, and shown him, that, notwithstanding his laurels, he was yet a man. There are some who try to escape this domestick degradation, by labouring to appear always wise or always great; but he that strives against nature, will for ever strive in vain. To be grave of mien and slow of utterrance; to look with solicitude and speak with hesitation, is attainable at will; but the show of wisdom is ridiculous when there is nothing to cause doubt, as that of valour where there is nothing to be feared. A man who has duly considered the condition of his being, will contentedly yield to the course of things; he will not pant for distinction where distinction would imply no merit; but though on great occasions he may wish to be greater than others, he will be satisfied in common occurrences not to be less. [1] --Sibi Consul Ne placeat, curru servus portatur eodem. JUV. Sat. x. 41. No 52. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1759. _Responsare cupidinibus_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. vii. 85. The practice of self-denial, or the forbearance of lawful pleasure, has been considered by almost every nation, from the remotest ages, as the highest exaltation of human virtue; and all have agreed to pay respect and veneration to those who abstained from the delights of life, even when they did not censure those who enjoy them. The general voice of mankind, civil and barbarous, confesses that the mind and body are at variance, and that neither can be made happy by its proper gratifications, but at the expense of the other; that a pampered body will darken the mind, and an enlightened mind will macerate the body. And none have failed to confer their esteem on those who prefer intellect to sense, who control their lower by their higher faculties, and forget the wants and desires of animal life for rational disquisitions or pious contemplations. The earth has scarcely a country, so far advanced towards political regularity as to divide the inhabitants into classes, where some orders of men or women are not distinguished by voluntary severities, and where the reputation of their sanctity is not increased in proportion to the rigour of their rules, and the exactness of their performance. When an opinion to which there is no temptation of interest spreads wide, and continues long, it may be reasonably presumed to have been infused by nature or dictated by reason. It has been often observed that the fictions of impostures and illusions of fancy, soon give way to time and experience; and that nothing keeps its ground but truth, which gains every day new influence by new confirmation. But truth, when it is reduced to practice, easily becomes subject to caprice and imagination; and many particular acts will be wrong, though their general principle be right. It cannot be denied that a just conviction of the restraint necessary to be laid upon the appetites has produced extravagant and unnatural modes of mortification, and institutions, which, however favourably considered, will be found to violate nature without promoting piety[1]. But the doctrine of self-denial is not weakened in itself by the errours of those who misinterpret or misapply it; the encroachment of the appetites upon the understanding is hourly perceived; and the state of those, whom sensuality has enslaved, is known to be in the highest degree despicable and wretched. The dread of such shameful captivity may justly raise alarms, and wisdom will endeavour to keep danger at a distance. By timely caution and suspicious vigilance those desires may be repressed, to which indulgence would soon give absolute dominion; those enemies may be overcome, which, when they have been a while accustomed to victory, can no longer be resisted. Nothing is more fatal to happiness or virtue, than that confidence which flatters us with an opinion of our own strength, and, by assuring us of the power of retreat, precipitates us into hazard. Some may safely venture farther than others into the regions of delight, lay themselves more open to the golden shafts of pleasure, and advance nearer to the residence of the Syrens; but he that is best armed with constancy and reason is yet vulnerable in one part or other, and to every man there is a point fixed, beyond which, if he passes, he will not easily return. It is certainly most wise, as it is most safe, to stop before he touches the utmost limit, since every step of advance will more and more entice him to go forward, till he shall at last enter into the recesses of voluptuousness, and sloth and despondency close the passage behind him. To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art of checking the importunity of desire, and of preserving quiet and innocence. Innocent gratifications must be sometimes withheld; he that complies with all lawful desires will certainly lose his empire over himself, and, in time, either submit his reason to his wishes, and think all his desires lawful, or dismiss his reason as troublesome and intrusive, and resolve to snatch what he may happen to wish, without inquiring about right and wrong. No man, whose appetites are his masters, can perform the duties of his nature with strictness and regularity; he that would be superior to external influences must first become superior to his own passions. When the Roman general, sitting at supper with a plate of turnips before him, was solicited by large presents to betray his trust, he asked the messengers whether he that could sup on turnips was a man likely to sell his own country. Upon him who has reduced his senses to obedience, temptation has lost its power; he is able to attend impartially to virtue, and execute her commands without hesitation. To set the mind above the appetites is the end of abstinence, which one of the Fathers observes to be not a virtue, but the ground-work of virtue. By forbearing to do what may innocently be done, we may add hourly new vigour to resolution, and secure the power of resistance when pleasure or interest shall lend their charms to guilt. [1] See Rambler 110 and Note. Read also the splendid passage on monastic seclusion in Adventurer 127. The recluses of the Certosa and Chartreuse forsook the world for abodes lordly as those of princes. No. 53. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I have a wife that keeps good company. You know that the word _good_ varies its meaning according to the value set upon different qualities in different places. To be a good man in a college, is to be learned; in a camp, to be brave; and in the city, to be rich. By good company in the place which I have the misfortune to inhabit, we understand not only those from whom any good can be learned, whether wisdom or virtue; or by whom any good can be conferred, whether profit or reputation:--good company is the company of those whose birth is high, and whose riches are great; or of those whom the rich and noble admit to familiarity. I am a gentleman of a fortune by no means exuberant, but more than equal to the wants of my family, and for some years equal to our desires. My wife, who had never been accustomed to splendour, joined her endeavours to mine in the superintendence of our economy; we lived in decent plenty, and were not excluded from moderate pleasures. But slight causes produce great effects. All my happiness has been destroyed by change of place: virtue is too often merely local; in some situations the air diseases the body, and in others poisons the mind. Being obliged to remove my habitation, I was led by my evil genius to a convenient house in a street where many of the nobility reside. We had scarcely ranged our furniture, and aired our rooms, when my wife began to grow discontented, and to wonder what the neighbours would think, when they saw so few chairs and chariots at her door. Her acquaintance, who came to see her from the quarter that we had left, mortified her without design, by continual inquiries about the ladies whose houses they viewed from our windows. She was ashamed to confess that she had no intercourse with them, and sheltered her distress under general answers, which always tended to raise suspicion that she knew more than she would tell; but she was often reduced to difficulties, when the course of talk introduced questions about the furniture or ornaments of their houses, which, when she could get no intelligence, she was forced to pass slightly over, as things which she saw so often that she never minded them. To all these vexations she was resolved to put an end, and redoubled her visits to those few of her friends who visited those who kept good company; and, if ever she met a lady of quality, forced herself into notice by respect and assiduity. Her advances were generally rejected; and she heard them, as they went down stairs, talk how some creatures put themselves forward. She was not discouraged, but crept forward from one to another; and, as perseverance will do great things, sapped her way unperceived, till, unexpectedly, she appeared at the card-table of lady Biddy Porpoise, a lethargick virgin of seventy-six, whom all the families in the next square visited very punctually when she was not at home. This was the first step of that elevation to which my wife has since ascended. For five months she had no name in her mouth but that of lady Biddy, who, let the world say what it would, had a fine understanding, and such a command of her temper, that, whether she won or lost, she slept over her cards. At lady Biddy's she met with lady Tawdry, whose favour she gained by estimating her ear-rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the value of real diamonds. When she had once entered two houses of distinction, she was easily admitted into more, and in ten weeks had all her time anticipated by parties and engagements. Every morning she is bespoke, in the summer, for the gardens, in the winter, for a sale; every afternoon she has visits to pay, and every night brings an inviolable appointment, or an assembly in which the best company in the town are to appear. You will easily imagine that much of my domestick comfort is withdrawn. I never see my wife but in the hurry of preparation, or the languor of weariness. To dress and to undress is almost her whole business in private, and the servants take advantage of her negligence to increase expense. But I can supply her omissions by my own diligence, and should not much regret this new course of life, if it did nothing more than transfer to me the care of our accounts. The changes which it has made are more vexatious. My wife has no longer the use of her understanding. She has no rule of action but the fashion. She has no opinion but that of the people of quality. She has no language but the dialect of her own set of company. She hates and admires in humble imitation; and echoes the words _charming_ and _detestable_ without consulting her own perceptions. If for a few minutes we sit down together, she entertains me with the repartees of lady Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler and Miss Quick, and wonders to find me receiving with indifference sayings which put all the company into laughter. By her old friends she is no longer very willing to be seen, but she must not rid herself of them all at once; and is sometimes surprised by her best visitants in company which she would not show, and cannot hide; but from the moment that a countess enters, she takes care neither to hear nor see them: they soon find themselves neglected, and retire; and she tells her ladyship that they are somehow related at a great distance, and that, as they are a good sort of people, she cannot be rude to them. As by this ambitious union with those that are above her, she is always forced upon disadvantageous comparisons of her condition with theirs, she has a constant source of misery within; and never returns from glittering assemblies and magnificent apartments but she growls out her discontent, and wonders why she was doomed to so indigent a state. When she attends the duchess to a sale, she always sees something that she cannot buy; and, that she may not seem wholly insignificant, she will sometimes venture to bid, and often make acquisitions which she did not want at prices which she cannot afford. What adds to all this uneasiness is, that this expense is without use, and this vanity without honour; she forsakes houses where she might be courted, for those where she is only suffered; her equals are daily made her enemies, and her superiors will never be her friends. I am, Sir, yours, &c. No. 54. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, You have lately entertained your admirers with the case of an unfortunate husband, and, thereby, given a demonstrative proof you are not averse even to hear appeals and terminate differences between man and wife; I, therefore, take the liberty to present you with the case of an injured lady, which, as it chiefly relates to what I think the lawyers call a point of law, I shall do in as juridical a manner as I am capable, and submit it to the consideration of the learned gentlemen of that profession. _Imprimis_. In the style of my marriage articles, a marriage was _had and solemnized_ about six months ago, between me and Mr. Savecharges, a gentleman possessed of a plentiful fortune of his own, and one who, I was persuaded, would improve, and not spend, mine. Before our marriage, Mr. Savecharges had all along preferred the salutary exercise of walking on foot to the distempered ease, as he terms it, of lolling in a chariot; but, notwithstanding his fine panegyricks on walking, the great advantages the infantry were in the sole possession of, and the many dreadful dangers they escaped, he found I had very different notions of an equipage, and was not easily to be converted, or gained over to his party. An equipage I was determined to have, whenever I married. I too well knew the disposition of my intended consort to leave the providing one entirely to his honour, and flatter myself Mr. Savecharges has, in the articles made previous to our marriage, _agreed to keep me a coach_; but lest I should be mistaken, or the attorneys should not have done me justice in methodizing or legalizing these half dozen words, I will set about and transcribe that part of the agreement, which will explain the matter to you much better than can be done by one who is so deeply interested in the event; and show on what foundation I build my hopes of being soon under the transporting, delightful denomination of a fashionable lady, who enjoys the exalted and much-envied felicity of bowling about in her own coach. "And further the said Solomon Savecharges, for divers good causes and considerations him hereunto moving, hath agreed, and doth hereby agree, that the said Solomon Savecharges shall and will, so soon as conveniently may be after the solemnization of the said intended marriage, at his own proper cost and charges, find and provide a _certain vehicle, or four-wheel-carriage, commonly called or known by the name of a coach_; which said vehicle, or wheel-carriage, so called or known by the name of a coach, shall be _used and enjoyed_ by the said Sukey Modish, his intended wife," [pray mind that, Mr. Idler,] "at such times and in such manner as she, the said Sukey Modish, shall think fit and convenient." Such, Mr. Idler, is the agreement my passionate admirer entered into; and what the dear, frugal husband calls a performance of it, remains to be described. Soon after the ceremony of signing and sealing was over, our wedding-clothes being sent home, and, in short, every thing in readiness except the coach, my own shadow was scarcely more constant than my passionate lover in his attendance on me: wearied by his perpetual importunities for what he called a completion of his bliss, I consented to make him happy; in a few days I gave him my hand, and, attended by Hymen in his saffron robes, retired to a country-seat of my husband's, where the honey-moon flew over our heads ere we had time to recollect ourselves, or think of our engagements in town. Well, to town we came, and you may be sure, Sir, I expected to step into my coach on my arrival here; but, what was my surprise and disappointment, when, instead of this, he began to sound in my ears? "that the interest of money was low, very low; and what a terrible thing it was to be encumbered with a little regiment of servants in these hard times!" I could easily perceive what all this tended to, but would not seem to understand him; which made it highly necessary for Mr. Savecharges to explain himself more intelligibly; to harp upon and protest he dreaded the expense of keeping a coach. And truly, for his part, he could not conceive how the pleasure resulting from such a convenience could be any way adequate to the heavy expense attending it. I now thought it high time to speak with equal plainness, and told him, as the fortune I brought fairly entitled me to ride in my own coach, and as I was sensible his circumstances would very well afford it, he must pardon me if I insisted on a performance of his agreement. I appeal to you, Mr. Idler, whether any thing could be more civil, more complaisant, than this? And, would you believe it, the creature in return, a few days after, accosted me, in an offended tone, with, "Madam, I can now tell you, your coach is ready; and since you are so passionately fond of one, I intend you the honour of keeping a pair of horses.--You insisted upon having an article of pin-money, and horses are no part of my agreement." Base, designing wretch!--I beg your pardon, Mr. Idler, the very recital of such mean, ungentleman-like behaviour fires my blood, and lights up a flame within me. But hence, thou worst of monsters, ill-timed Rage! and let me not spoil my cause for want of temper. Now, though I am convinced I might make a worse use of part of the pin-money, than by extending my bounty towards the support of so useful a part of the brute creation; yet, like a true-born Englishwoman, I am so tenacious of my rights and privileges, and moreover so good a friend to the gentlemen of the law, that I protest, Mr. Idler, sooner than tamely give up the point, and be quibbled out of my right, I will receive my pin-money, as it were, with one hand, and pay it to them with the other; provided they will give me, or, which is the same thing, my trustees, encouragement to commence a suit against this dear, frugal husband of mine. And of this I can't have the least shadow of doubt, inasmuch as I have been told by very good authority, it is somewhere or other laid down as a rule "_That whenever_ the law doth give any thing to one, it giveth impliedly whatever is necessary for taking and enjoying the same[1]." Now, I would gladly know what enjoyment I, or any lady in the kingdom, can have of a coach without horses? The answer is obvious--None at all! For, as Serjeant Catlyne very wisely observes, "though a coach has wheels, to the end it may thereby and by virtue thereof be enabled to move; yet in point of utility it may as well have none, if they are not put in motion by means of its vital parts, that is, the horses." And, therefore, Sir, I humbly hope you and the learned in the law will be of opinion, that two certain animals, or quadruped creatures, commonly called or known by the name of horses, ought to be annexed to, and go along with, the coach. SUKEY SAVECHARGES[2] [1] Quando lex aliquid alicui concedit, concedere videtur et id, sine quo res ipsa esse non potest. Coke on Littleton, 56. a.--ED. [2] An unknown correspondent. No. 55. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Idler, I have taken the liberty of laying before you my complaint, and of desiring advice or consolation with the greater confidence, because I believe many other writers have suffered the same indignities with myself, and hope my quarrel will be regarded by you and your readers as the common cause of literature. Having been long a student, I thought myself qualified in time to become an author. My inquiries have been much diversified and far extended, and not finding my genius directing me by irresistible impulse to any particular subject, I deliberated three years which part of knowledge to illustrate by my labours. Choice is more often determined by accident than by reason: I walked abroad one morning with a curious lady, and, by her inquiries and observations, was incited to write the natural history of the country in which I reside. Natural history is no work for one that loves his chair or his bed. Speculation may be pursued on a soft couch, but nature must be observed in the open air. I have collected materials with indefatigable pertinacity. I have gathered glow-worms in the evening, and snails in the morning; I have seen the daisy close and open, I have heard the owl shriek at midnight, and hunted insects in the heat of noon. Seven years I was employed in collecting animals and vegetables, and then found that my design was yet imperfect. The subterranean treasures of the place had been passed unobserved, and another year was to be spent in mines and coal-pits. What I had already done supplied a sufficient motive to do more. I acquainted myself with the black inhabitants of metallick caverns, and, in defiance of damps and floods, wandered through the gloomy labyrinths, and gathered fossils from every fissure, At last I began to write, and as I finished any section of my book, read it to such of my friends, as were most skilful in the matter which it treated. None of them were satisfied; one disliked the disposition of the parts, another the colours of the style; one advised me to enlarge, another to abridge. I resolved to read no more, but to take my own way and write on, for by consultation I only perplexed my thoughts and retarded my work. The book was at last finished, and I did not doubt but my labour would be repaid by profit, and my ambition satisfied with honours. I considered that natural history is neither temporary nor local, and that though I limited my inquiries to my own country, yet every part of the earth has productions common to all the rest. Civil history may be partially studied, the revolutions of one nation may be neglected by another; but after that in which all have an interest, all must be inquisitive. No man can have sunk so far into stupidity as not to consider the properties of the ground on which he walks, of the plants on which he feeds, or the animals that delight his ear, or amuse his eye; and, therefore, I computed that universal curiosity would call for many editions of my book, and that in five years I should gain fifteen thousand pounds by the sale of thirty thousand copies. When I began to write, I insured the house; and suffered the utmost solicitude when I entrusted my book to the carrier, though I had secured it against mischances by lodging two transcripts in different places. At my arrival, I expected that the patrons of learning would contend for the honour of a dedication, and resolved to maintain the dignity of letters, by a haughty contempt of pecuniary solicitations. I took my lodgings near the house of the Royal Society, and expected every morning a visit from the president. I walked in the Park, and wondered that I overheard no mention of the great naturalist. At last I visited a noble earl, and told him of my work: he answered, that he was under an engagement never to subscribe. I was angry to have that refused which I did not mean to ask, and concealed my design of making him immortal. I went next day to another, and, in resentment of my late affront, offered to prefix his name to my new book. He said, coldly, that _he did not understand those things_; another thought, _there were too many books_; and another would _talk with me when the races were over_. Being amazed to find a man of learning so indecently slighted, I resolved to indulge the philosophical pride of retirement and independence. I then sent to some of the principal booksellers the plan of my book, and bespoke a large room in the next tavern, that I might more commodiously see them together, and enjoy the contest, while they were outbidding one another. I drank my coffee, and yet nobody was come; at last I received a note from one, to tell me that he was going out of town; and from another, that natural history was out of his way. At last there came a grave man, who desired to see the work, and, without opening it, told me, that a book of that size _would never do_. I then condescended to step into shops, and mentioned my work to the masters. Some never dealt with authors; others had their hands full; some never had known such a dead time; others had lost by all that they had published for the last twelvemonth. One offered to print my work, if I could procure subscriptions for five hundred, and would allow me two hundred copies for my property. I lost my patience, and gave him a kick; for which he has indicted me. I can easily perceive, that there is a combination among them to defeat my expectations; and I find it so general, that I am sure it must have been long concerted. I suppose some of my friends, to whom I read the first part, gave notice of my design, and, perhaps, sold the treacherous intelligence at a higher price than the fraudulence of trade will now allow me for my book. Inform me, Mr. Idler, what I must do; where must knowledge and industry find their recompense, thus neglected by the high, and cheated by the low? I sometimes resolve to print my book at my own expense, and, like the Sibyl, double the price; and sometimes am tempted, in emulation of Raleigh, to throw it into the fire, and leave this sordid generation to the curses of posterity. Tell me, dear Idler, what I shall do. I am, Sir, &c. No. 56. SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1759. There is such difference between the pursuits of men, that one part of the inhabitants of a great city lives to little other purpose than to wonder at the rest. Some have hopes and fears, wishes and aversions, which never enter into the thoughts of others, and inquiry is laboriously exerted to gain that which those who possess it are ready to throw away. To those who are accustomed to value every thing by its use, and have no such superfluity of time or money, as may prompt them to unnatural wants or capricious emulations, nothing appears more improbable or extravagant than the love of curiosities, or that desire of accumulating trifles, which distinguishes many by whom no other distinction could have ever been obtained. He that has lived without knowing to what height desire may be raised by vanity, with what rapture baubles are snatched out of the hands of rival collectors, how the eagerness of one raises eagerness in another, and one worthless purchase makes a second necessary, may, by passing a few hours at an auction, learn more than can be shown by many volumes of maxims or essays. The advertisement of a sale is a signal which, at once, puts a thousand hearts in motion, and brings contenders from every part to the scene of distribution. He that had resolved to buy no more, feels his constancy subdued; there is now something in the catalogue which completes his cabinet, and which he was never before able to find. He whose sober reflections inform him, that of adding collection to collection there is no end, and that it is wise to leave early that which must be left imperfect at last, yet cannot withhold himself from coming to see what it is that brings so many together, and when he comes is soon overpowered by his habitual passion; he is attracted by rarity, seduced by example, and inflamed by competition. While the stores of pride and happiness are surveyed, one looks with longing eyes and gloomy countenance on that which he despairs to gain from a richer bidder; another keeps his eye with care from settling too long on that which he most earnestly desires; and another, with more art than virtue, depreciates that which he values most, in hope to have it at an easy rate. The novice is often surprised to see what minute and unimportant discriminations increase or diminish value. An irregular contortion of a turbinated shell, which common eyes pass unregarded, will ten times treble its price in the imagination of philosophers. Beauty is far from operating upon collectors as upon low and vulgar minds, even where beauty might be thought the only quality that could deserve notice. Among the shells that please by their variety of colours, if one can be found accidentally deformed by a cloudy spot, it is boasted as the pride of the collection. China is sometimes purchased for little less than its weight in gold, only because it is old, though neither less brittle, nor better painted, than the modern; and brown china is caught up with ecstasy, though no reason can be imagined for which it should be preferred to common vessels of common clay. The fate of prints and coins is equally inexplicable. Some prints are treasured up as inestimably valuable, because the impression was made before the plate was finished. Of coins the price rises not from the purity of the metal, the excellence of the workmanship, the elegance of the legend, or the chronological use. A piece, of which neither the inscription can be read, nor the face distinguished, if there remain of it but enough to show that it is rare, will be sought by contending nations, and dignify the treasury in which it shall be shown. Whether this curiosity, so barren of immediate advantage, and so liable to depravation, does more harm or good, is not easily decided. Its harm is apparent at first view. It fills the mind with trifling ambition; fixes the attention upon things which have seldom any tendency towards virtue or wisdom; employs in idle inquiries the time that is given for better purposes; and often ends in mean and dishonest practices, when desire increases by indulgence beyond the power of honest gratification. These are the effects of curiosity in excess; but what passion in excess will not become vicious? All indifferent qualities and practices are bad, if they are compared with those which are good, and good, if they are opposed to those that are bad. The pride or the pleasure of making collections, if it be restrained by prudence and morality, produces a pleasing remission after more laborious studies; furnishes an amusement not wholly unprofitable for that part of life, the greater part of many lives, which would otherwise be lost in idleness or vice; it produces an useful traffick between the industry of indigence and the curiosity of wealth; it brings many things to notice that would be neglected, and, by fixing the thoughts upon intellectual pleasures, resists the natural encroachments of sensuality, and maintains the mind in her lawful superiority. No. 57. SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1759. Prudence is of more frequent use than any other intellectual quality; it is exerted on slight occasions, and called into act by the cursory business of common life. Whatever is universally necessary, has been granted to mankind on easy terms. Prudence, as it is always wanted, is without great difficulty obtained. It requires neither extensive view nor profound search, but forces itself, by spontaneous impulse, upon a mind neither great nor busy, neither engrossed by vast designs, nor distracted by multiplicity of attention. Prudence operates on life in the same manner as rules on composition: it produces vigilance rather than elevation, rather prevents loss than procures advantage; and often escapes miscarriages, but seldom reaches either power or honour. It quenches that ardour of enterprise, by which every thing is done that can claim praise or admiration; and represses that generous temerity which often fails, and often succeeds. Rules may obviate faults, but can never confer beauties; and prudence keeps life safe, but does not often make it happy. The world is not amazed with prodigies of excellence, but when wit tramples upon rules, and magnanimity breaks the chains of prudence. One of the most prudent of all that have fallen within my observation, is my old companion Sophron, who has passed through the world in quiet, by perpetual adherence to a few plain maxims, and wonders how contention and distress can so often happen. The first principle of Sophron is, _to run no hazards_. Though he loves money, he is of opinion that frugality is a more certain source of riches than industry. It is to no purpose that any prospect of large profit is set before him; he believes little about futurity, and does not love to trust his money out of his sight, for _nobody knows what may happen_. He has a small estate, which he lets at the old rent, because _it is better to have a little than nothing_; but he rigorously demands payment on the stated day, for _he that cannot pay one quarter cannot pay two_. If he is told of any improvements in agriculture, he likes the old way, has observed that changes very seldom answer expectation, is of opinion that our forefathers knew how to till the ground as well as we; and concludes with an argument that nothing can overpower, that the expense of planting and fencing is immediate, and the advantage distant, and that _he is no wise man who will quit a certainty for an uncertainty_. Another of Sophron's rules is, _to mind no business but his own_. In the state, he is of no party; but hears and speaks of publick affairs with the same coldness as of the administration of some ancient republick. If any flagrant act of fraud or oppression is mentioned, he hopes that _all is not true that is told_: if misconduct or corruption puts the nation in a flame, he hopes _every man means well_. At elections he leaves his dependants to their own choice, and declines to vote himself, for every candidate is a good man, whom he is unwilling to oppose or offend. If disputes happen among his neighbours, he observes an invariable and cold neutrality. His punctuality has gained him the reputation of honesty, and his caution that of wisdom; and few would refuse to refer their claims to his award. He might have prevented many expensive law-suits, and quenched many a feud in its first smoke; but always refuses the office of arbitration, because he must decide against one or the other. With the affairs of other families he is always unacquainted. He sees estates bought and sold, squandered and increased, without praising the economist, or censuring the spendthrift. He never courts the rising, lest they should fall; nor insults the fallen, lest they should rise again. His caution has the appearance of virtue, and all who do not want his help praise his benevolence; but, if any man solicits his assistance, he has just sent away all his money; and, when the petitioner is gone, declares to his family that he is sorry for his misfortunes, has always looked upon him with particular kindness, and, therefore, could not lend him money, lest he should destroy their friendship by the necessity of enforcing payment. Of domestick misfortunes he has never heard. When he is told the hundredth time of a gentleman's daughter who has married the coachman, he lifts up his hands with astonishment, for he always thought her a sober girl. When nuptial quarrels, after having filled the country with talk and laughter, at last end in separation, he never can conceive how it happened, for he looked upon them as a happy couple. If his advice is asked, he never gives any particular direction, because events are uncertain, and he will bring no blame upon himself; but he takes the consulter tenderly by the hand, tells him he makes his case his own, and advises him not to act rashly, but to weigh the reasons on both sides; observes, that a man may be as easily too hasty as too slow; and that as many fail by doing too much as too little; that _a wise man has two ears and one tongue_; and that _little said is soon mended_; that he could tell him this and that, but that after all every man is the best judge of his own affairs. With this some are satisfied, and go home with great reverence of Sophron's wisdom; and none are offended, because every one is left in full possession of his own opinion. Sophron gives no characters. It is equally vain to tell him of vice and virtue; for he has remarked, that no man likes to be censured, and that very few are delighted with the praises of another. He has a few terms which he uses to all alike. With respect to fortune, he believes every one to be in good circumstances; he never exalts any understanding by lavish praise, yet he meets with none but very sensible people. Every man is honest and hearty; and every woman is a good creature. Thus Sophron creeps along, neither loved nor hated, neither favoured nor opposed: he has never attempted to grow rich, for fear of growing poor; and has raised no friends, for fear of making enemies. No. 58. SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1759. Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought. Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks. The flowers which scatter their odours, from time to time, in the paths of life, grow up without culture from seeds scattered by chance. Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of merriment. Wits and humourists are brought together from distant quarters by preconcerted invitations; they come, attended by their admirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud; they gaze awhile on each other, ashamed to be silent, and afraid to speak; every man is discontented with himself, grows angry with those that give him pain, and resolves that he will contribute nothing to the merriment of such worthless company. Wine inflames the general malignity, and changes sullenness to petulance, till at last none can bear any longer the presence of the rest. They retire to vent their indignation in safer places, where they are heard with attention; their importance is restored, they recover their good humour, and gladden the night with wit and jocularity. Merriment is always the effect of a sudden impression. The jest which is expected is already destroyed. The most active imagination will be sometimes torpid, under the frigid influence of melancholy, and sometimes occasions will be wanting to tempt the mind, however volatile, to sallies and excursions. Nothing was ever said with uncommon felicity, but by the co-operation of chance; and, therefore, wit, as well as valour, must be content to share its honours with fortune. All other pleasures are equally uncertain; the general remedy of uneasiness is change of place; almost every one has some journey of pleasure in his mind, with which he flatters his expectation. He that travels in theory has no inconvenience; he has shade and sunshine at his disposal, and wherever he alights finds tables of plenty and looks of gaiety. These ideas are indulged till the day of departure arrives, the chaise is called, and the progress of happiness begins. A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagination. The road is dusty, the air is sultry, the horses are sluggish, and the postillion brutal. He longs for the time of dinner, that he may eat and rest. The inn is crowded, his orders are neglected, and nothing remains but that he devour in haste what the cook has spoiled, and drive on in quest of better entertainment. He finds at night a more commodious house, but the best is always worse than he expected. He at last enters his native province, and resolves to feast his mind with the conversation of his old friends, and the recollection of juvenile frolicks. He stops at the house of his friend, whom he designs to overpower with pleasure by the unexpected interview. He is not known till he tells his name, and revives the memory of himself by a gradual explanation. He is then coldly received, and ceremoniously feasted. He hastes away to another, whom his affairs have called to a distant place, and, having seen the empty house, goes away disgusted by a disappointment which could not be intended, because it could not be foreseen. At the next house he finds every face clouded with misfortune, and is regarded with malevolence as an unreasonable intruder, who comes not to visit but to insult them. It is seldom that we find either men or places such as we expect them. He that has pictured a prospect upon his fancy, will receive little pleasure from his eyes; he that has anticipated the conversation of a wit, will wonder to what prejudice he owes his reputation. Yet it is necessary to hope, though hope should always be deluded; for hope itself is happiness, and its frustrations, however frequent, are less dreadful than its extinction. No. 59. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1759. In the common enjoyments of life, we cannot very liberally indulge the present hour, but by anticipating part of the pleasure which might have relieved the tediousness of another day; and any uncommon exertion of strength, or perseverance in labour, is succeeded by a long interval of languor and weariness. Whatever advantage we snatch beyond the certain portion allotted us by nature, is like money spent before it is due, which, at the time of regular payment, will be missed and regretted. Fame, like all other things which are supposed to give or to increase happiness, is dispensed with the same equality of distribution. He that is loudly praised will be clamorously censured; he that rises hastily into fame will be in danger of sinking suddenly into oblivion. Of many writers who filled their age with wonder, and whose names we find celebrated in the books of their contemporaries, the works are now no longer to be seen, or are seen only amidst the lumber of libraries which are seldom visited, where they lie only to show the deceitfulness of hope, and the uncertainty of honour. Of the decline of reputation many causes may be assigned. It is commonly lost because it never was deserved; and was conferred at first, not by the suffrage of criticism, but by the fondness of friendship, or servility of flattery. The great and popular are very freely applauded; but all soon grow weary of echoing to each other a name which has no other claim to notice, but that many mouths are pronouncing it at once. But many have lost the final reward of their labours, because they were too hasty to enjoy it. They have laid hold on recent occurrences, and eminent names, and delighted their readers with allusions and remarks, in which all were interested, and to which all, therefore, were attentive. But the effect ceased with its cause; the time quickly came when new events drove the former from memory, when the vicissitudes of the world brought new hopes and fears, transferred the love and hatred of the publick to other agents; and the writer, whose works were no longer assisted by gratitude or resentment, was left to the cold regard of idle curiosity. He that writes upon general principles, or delivers universal truths, may hope to be often read, because his work will be equally useful at all times and in every country; but he cannot expect it to be received with eagerness, or to spread with rapidity, because desire can have no particular stimulation: that which is to be loved long, must be loved with reason rather than with passion. He that lays his labours out upon temporary subjects, easily finds readers, and quickly loses them; for what should make the book valued when the subject is no more? These observations will show the reason why the poem of Hudibras is almost forgotten, however embellished with sentiments and diversified with allusions, however bright with wit, and however solid with truth. The hypocrisy which it detected, and the folly which it ridiculed, have long vanished from publick notice. Those who had felt the mischief of discord, and the tyranny of usurpation, read it with rapture; for every line brought back to memory something known, and gratified resentment by the just censure of something hated. But the book, which was once quoted by princes, and which supplied conversation to all the assemblies of the gay and witty, is now seldom mentioned, and even by those that affect to mention it, is seldom read. So vainly is wit lavished upon fugitive topicks; so little can architecture secure duration when the ground is false. No. 60. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1759. Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at a very small expense. The power of invention has been conferred by nature upon few, and the labour of learning those sciences, which may by mere labour be obtained, is too great to be willingly endured; but every man can exert such judgment as he has upon the works of others; and he whom nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his vanity by the name of a Critick. I hope it will give comfort to great numbers who are passing through the world in obscurity, when I inform them how easily distinction may be obtained. All the other powers of literature are coy and haughty, they must be long courted, and at last are not always gained; but Criticism is a goddess easy of access and forward of advance, who will meet the slow, and encourage the timorous; the want of meaning she supplies with words, and the want of spirit she recompenses with malignity. This profession has one recommendation peculiar to itself, that it gives vent to malignity without real mischief. No genius was ever blasted by the breath of criticks. The poison which, if confined, would have burst the heart, fumes away in empty hisses, and malice is set at ease with very little danger to merit. The critick is the only man whose triumph is without another's pain, and whose greatness does not rise upon another's ruin. To a study at once so easy and so reputable, so malicious and so harmless, it cannot be necessary to invite my readers by a long or laboured exhortation; it is sufficient, since all would be criticks if they could, to show, by one eminent example, that all can be criticks if they will. Dick Minim, after the common course of puerile studies, in which he was no great proficient, was put an apprentice to a brewer, with whom he had lived two years, when his uncle died in the city, and left him a large fortune in the stocks. Dick had for six months before used the company of the lower players, of whom he had learned to scorn a trade, and, being now at liberty to follow his genius, he resolved to be a man of wit and humour. That he might be properly initiated in his new character, he frequented the coffee-houses near the theatres, where he listened very diligently, day after day, to those who talked of language and sentiments, and unities and catastrophes, till, by slow degrees, he began to think that be understood something of the stage, and hoped in time to talk himself. But he did not trust so much to natural sagacity as wholly to neglect the help of books. When the theatres were shut, he retired to Richmond with a few select writers, whose opinions he impressed upon his memory by unwearied diligence; and, when he returned with other wits to the town, was able to tell, in very proper phrases, that the chief business of art is to copy nature; that a perfect writer is not to be expected, because genius decays as judgment increases; that the great art is the art of blotting; and that, according to the rule of Horace, every piece should be kept nine years. Of the great authors he now began to display the characters, laying down as an universal position, that all had beauties and defects. His opinion was, that Shakespeare, committing himself wholly to the impulse of nature, wanted that correctness which learning would have given him; and that Jonson, trusting to learning, did not sufficiently cast his eyes on nature. He blamed the stanzas of Spenser, and could not bear the hexameters of Sidney. Denham and Waller he held the first reformers of English numbers; and thought that if Waller could have obtained the strength of Denham, or Denham the sweetness of Waller, there had been nothing wanting to complete a poet. He often expressed his commiseration of Dryden's poverty, and his indignation at the age which suffered him to write for bread; he repeated with rapture the first lines of All for Love, but wondered at the corruption of taste which could bear any thing so unnatural as rhyming tragedies. In Otway he found uncommon powers of moving the passions, but was disgusted by his general negligence, and blamed him for making a conspirator his hero; and never concluded his disquisition, without remarking how happily the sound of the clock is made to alarm the audience. Southern would have been his favourite, but that he mixes comick with tragick scenes, intercepts the natural course of the passions, and fills the mind with a wild confusion of mirth and melancholy. The versification of Rowe he thought too melodious for the stage, and too little varied in different passions. He made it the great fault of Congreve, that all his persons were wits, and that he always wrote with more art than nature. He considered Cato rather as a poem than a play, and allowed Addison to be the complete master of allegory and grave humour, but paid no great deference to him as a critick. He thought the chief merit of Prior was in his easy tales and lighter poems, though he allowed that his Solomon had many noble sentiments elegantly expressed. In Swift he discovered an inimitable vein of irony, and an easiness which all would hope and few would attain. Pope he was inclined to degrade from a poet to a versifier, and thought his numbers rather luscious than sweet. He often lamented the neglect of Phaedra and Hippolytus, and wished to see the stage under better regulations. These assertions passed commonly uncontradicted; and if now and then an opponent started up, he was quickly repressed by the suffrages of the company, and Minim went away from every dispute with elation of heart and increase of confidence. He now grew conscious of his abilities, and began to talk of the present state of dramatick poetry; wondered what had become of the comick genius which supplied our ancestors with wit and pleasantry, and why no writer could be found that durst now venture beyond a farce. He saw no reason for thinking that the vein of humour was exhausted, since we live in a country, where liberty suffers every character to spread itself to its utmost bulk, and which, therefore, produces more originals than all the rest of the world together. Of tragedy he concluded business to be the soul, and yet often hinted that love predominates too much upon the modern stage. He was now an acknowledged critick, and had his own seat in a coffee-house, and headed a party in the pit. Minim has more vanity than ill-nature, and seldom desires to do much mischief; he will, perhaps, murmur a little in the ear of him that sits next him, but endeavours to influence the audience to favour, by clapping when an actor exclaims, _Ye gods!_ or laments the misery of his country. By degrees he was admitted to rehearsals; and many of his friends are of opinion, that our present poets are indebted to him for their happiest thoughts; by his contrivance the bell was rung twice in Barbarossa, and by his persuasion the author of Cleone concluded his play without a couplet; for what can be more absurd, said Minim, than that part of a play should be rhymed, and part written in blank verse? and by what acquisition of faculties is the speaker, who never could find rhymes before, enabled to rhyme at the conclusion of an act? He is the great investigator of hidden beauties, and is particularly delighted when he finds "the sound an echo to the sense." He has read all our poets, with particular attention to this delicacy of versification, and wonders at the supineness with which their works have been hitherto perused, so that no man has found the sound of a drum in this distich: "When pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist instead of a stick;" and that the wonderful lines upon honour and a bubble have hitherto passed without notice: "Honour is like the glassy bubble, Which costs philosophers such trouble; Where, one part crack'd, the whole does fly, And wits are crack'd to find out why." In these verses, says Minim, we have two striking accommodations of the sound to the sense. It is impossible to utter the first two lines emphatically without an act like that which they describe; _bubble_ and _trouble_ causing a momentary inflation of the cheeks by the retention of the breath, which is afterwards forcibly emitted, as in the practice of _blowing bubbles_. But the greatest excellence is in the third line, which is _crack'd_ in the middle to express a crack, and then shivers into monosyllables. Yet has this diamond lain neglected with common stones, and among the innumerable admirers of Hudibras the observation of this superlative passage has been reserved for the sagacity of Minim. No. 61. SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1759. Mr. Minim had now advanced himself to the zenith of critical reputation; when he was in the pit, every eye in the boxes was fixed upon him; when he entered his coffee-house, he was surrounded by circles of candidates, who passed their noviciate of literature under his tuition: his opinion was asked by all who had no opinion of their own, and yet loved to debate and decide; and no composition was supposed to pass in safety to posterity, till it had been secured by Minim's approbation. Minim professes great admiration of the wisdom and munificence by which the academies of the continent were raised; and often wishes for some standard of taste, for some tribunal, to which merit may appeal from caprice, prejudice and malignity. He has formed a plan for an academy of criticism, where every work of imagination may be read before it is printed, and which shall authoritatively direct the theatres what pieces to receive or reject, to exclude or to revive. Such an institution would, in Dick's opinion, spread the fame of English literature over Europe, and make London the metropolis of elegance and politeness, the place to which the learned and ingenious of all countries would repair for instruction and improvement, and where nothing would any longer be applauded or endured that was not conformed to the nicest rules, and finished with the highest elegance. Till some happy conjunction of the planets shall dispose our princes or ministers to make themselves immortal by such an academy, Minim contents himself to preside four nights in a week in a critical society selected by himself, where he is heard without contradiction, and whence his judgment is disseminated through the great vulgar and the small. When he is placed in the chair of criticism, he declares loudly for the noble simplicity of our ancestors, in opposition to the petty refinements, and ornamental luxuriance. Sometimes he is sunk in despair, and perceives false delicacy daily gaining ground, and sometimes brightens his countenance with a gleam of hope, and predicts the revival of the true sublime. He then fulminates his loudest censures against the monkish barbarity of rhyme; wonders how beings that pretend to reason can be pleased with one line always ending like another; tells how unjustly and unnaturally sense is sacrificed to sound; how often the best thoughts are mangled by the necessity of confining or extending them to the dimensions of a couplet; and rejoices that genius has, in our days, shaken off the shackles which had encumbered it so long. Yet he allows that rhyme may sometimes be borne, if the lines be often broken, and the pauses judiciously diversified. From blank verse he makes an easy transition to Milton, whom he produces as an example of the slow advance of lasting reputation. Milton is the only writer in whose books Minim can read for ever without weariness. What cause it is that exempts this pleasure from satiety he has long and diligently inquired, and believes it to consist in the perpetual variation of the numbers, by which the ear is gratified and the attention awakened. The lines that are commonly thought rugged and unmusical, he conceives to have been written to temper the melodious luxury of the rest, or to express things by a proper cadence: for he scarcely finds a verse that has not this favourite beauty; he declares that he could shiver in a hot-house when he reads that "the ground Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire;" and that, when Milton bewails his blindness, the verse, "So thick a drop serene has quench'd these orbs," has, he knows not how, something that strikes him with an obscure sensation like that which he fancies would be felt from the sound of darkness. Minim is not so confident of his rules of judgment as not very eagerly to catch new light from the name of the author. He is commonly so prudent as to spare those whom he cannot resist, unless, as will sometimes happen, he finds the publick combined against them. But a fresh pretender to fame he is strongly inclined to censure, till his own honour requires that he commend him. Till he knows the success of a composition, he intrenches himself in general terms; there are some new thoughts and beautiful passages, but there is likewise much which he would have advised the author to expunge. He has several favourite epithets, of which he has never settled the meaning, but which are very commodiously applied to books which he has not read, or cannot understand. One is _manly_, another is _dry_, another _stiff_, and another _flimsy_; sometimes he discovers delicacy of style, and sometimes meets with _strange expressions_. He is never so great, or so happy, as when a youth of promising parts is brought to receive his directions for the prosecution of his studies. He then puts on a very serious air; he advises the pupil to read none but the best authors; and when he finds one congenial to his own mind, to study his beauties, but avoid his faults; and, when he sits down to write, to consider how his favourite author would think at the present time on the present occasion. He exhorts him to catch those moments when he finds his thoughts expanded and his genius exalted, but to take care lest imagination hurry him beyond the bounds of nature. He holds diligence the mother of success; yet enjoins him, with great earnestness, not to read more than he can digest, and not to confuse his mind by pursuing studies of contrary tendencies. He tells him, that every man has his genius, and that Cicero could never be a poet. The boy retires illuminated, resolves to follow his genius, and to think how Milton would have thought: and Minim feasts upon his own beneficence till another day brings another pupil. No. 62. SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1759. _Quid faciam, proescribe. Quiescas_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. i. 5. TO THE IDLER. Sir, An opinion prevails almost universally in the world, that he who has money has every thing. This is not a modern paradox, or the tenet of a small and obscure sect, but a persuasion which appears to have operated upon most minds in all ages, and which is supported by authorities so numerous and so cogent, that nothing but long experience could have given me confidence to question its truth. But experience is the test by which all the philosophers of the present age agree, that speculation must be tried; and I may be, therefore, allowed to doubt the power of money, since I have been a long time rich, and have not yet found that riches can make me happy. My father was a farmer neither wealthy nor indigent, who gave me a better education than was suitable to my birth, because my uncle in the city designed me for his heir, and desired that I might be bred a gentleman. My uncle's wealth was the perpetual subject of conversation in the house; and when any little misfortune befell us, or any mortification dejected us, my father always exhorted me to hold up my head, for my uncle would never marry. My uncle, indeed, kept his promise. Having his mind completely busied between his warehouse and the 'Change, he felt no tediousness of life, nor any want of domestick amusements. When my father died, he received me kindly; but, after a few months, finding no great pleasure in the conversation of each other, we parted; and he remitted me a small annuity, on which I lived a quiet and studious life, without any wish to grow great by the death of my benefactor. But though I never suffered any malignant impatience to take hold on my mind, I could not forbear sometimes to imagine to myself the pleasure of being rich; and, when I read of diversions and magnificence, resolved to try, when time should put the trial in my power, what pleasure they could afford. My uncle, in the latter spring of his life, when his ruddy cheek and his firm nerves promised him a long and healthy age, died of an apoplexy. His death gave me neither joy nor sorrow. He did me good, and I regarded him with gratitude; but I could not please him, and, therefore, could not love him. He had the policy of little minds, who love to surprise; and, having always represented his fortune as less than it was, had, I suppose, often gratified himself with thinking, how I should be delighted to find myself twice as rich as I expected. My wealth was such as exceeded all the schemes of expense which I had formed; and I soon began to expand my thoughts, and look round for some purchase of felicity. The most striking effect of riches is the splendour of dress, which every man has observed to enforce respect, and facilitate reception; and my first desire was to be fine. I sent for a tailor who was employed by the nobility, and ordered such a suit of clothes as I had often looked on with involuntary submission, and am ashamed to remember with what flutters of expectation I waited for the hour, when I should issue forth in all the splendour of embroidery. The clothes were brought, and for three days I observed many eyes turned towards me as I passed: but I felt myself obstructed in the common intercourse of civility by an uneasy consciousness of my new appearance; as I thought myself more observed, I was more anxious about my mien and behaviour; and the mien which is formed by care is commonly ridiculous. A short time accustomed me to myself, and my dress was without pain, and without pleasure. For a little while I tried to be a rake, but I began too late; and having by nature no turn for a frolick, was in great danger of ending in a drunkard. A fever, in which not one of my companions paid me a visit, gave me time for reflection. I found that there was no great pleasure in breaking windows and lying in the round-house; and resolved to associate no longer with those whom, though I had treated and bailed them, I could not make friends. I then changed my measures, kept running horses, and had the comfort of seeing my name very often in the news. I had a chesnut horse, the grandson of Childers, who won four plates, and ten by-matches; and a bay filly, who carried off the five years' old plate, and was expected to perform much greater exploits, when my groom broke her wind, because I happened to catch him selling oats for beer. This happiness was soon at an end; there was no pleasure when I lost, and, when I won, I could not much exalt myself by the virtues of my horse. I grew ashamed of the company of jockey-lords, and resolved to spend no more of my time in the stable. It was now known that I had money, and would spend it, and I passed four months in the company of architects, whose whole business was to persuade me to build a house. I told them that I had more room than I wanted, but could not get rid of their importunities. A new plan was brought me every morning; till at last my constancy was overpowered, and I began to build. The happiness of building lasted but a little while, for though I love to spend, I hate to be cheated; and I soon found, that to build is to be robbed. How I proceed in the pursuit of happiness, you shall hear when I find myself disposed to write. I am, Sir, &c. TIM. RANGER. No. 63. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1759. The natural progress of the works of men is from rudeness to convenience, from convenience to elegance, and from elegance to nicety. The first labour is enforced by necessity. The savage finds himself incommoded by heat and cold, by rain and wind; he shelters himself in the hollow of a rock, and learns to dig a cave where there was none before. He finds the sun and the wind excluded by the thicket; and when the accidents of the chase, or the convenience of pasturage, leads him into more open places, he forms a thicket for himself, by planting stakes at proper distances, and laying branches from one to another. The next gradation of skill and industry produces a house closed with doors, and divided by partitions; and apartments are multiplied and disposed according to the various degrees of power or invention; improvement succeeds improvement, as he that is freed from a greater evil grows impatient of a less, till ease in time is advanced to pleasure. The mind, set free from the importunities of natural want, gains leisure to go in search of superfluous gratifications, and adds to the uses of habitation the delights of prospect. Then begins the reign of symmetry; orders of architecture are invented, and one part of the edifice is conformed to another, without any other reason, than that the eye may not be offended. The passage is very short from elegance to luxury, Ionick and Corinthian columns are soon succeeded by gilt cornices, inlaid floors and petty ornaments, which show rather the wealth than the taste of the possessour. Language proceeds, like every thing else, through improvement to degeneracy. The rovers who first took possession of a country, having not many ideas, and those not nicely modified or discriminated, were contented, if by general terms and abrupt sentences they could make their thoughts known to one another: as life begins to be more regulated, and property to become limited, disputes must be decided, and claims adjusted; the differences of things are noted, and distinctness and propriety of expression become necessary. In time, happiness and plenty give rise to curiosity, and the sciences are cultivated for ease and pleasure; to the arts, which are now to be taught, emulation soon adds the art of teaching; and the studious and ambitious contend not only who shall think best, but who shall tell their thoughts in the most pleasing manner. Then begin the arts of rhetorick and poetry, the regulation of figures, the selection of words, the modulation of periods, the graces of transition, the complication of clauses, and all the delicacies of style and subtilties of composition, useful while they advance perspicuity, and laudable while they increase pleasure, but easy to be refined by needless scrupulosity till they shall more embarrass the writer than assist the reader or delight him. The first state is commonly antecedent to the practice of writing; the ignorant essays of imperfect diction pass away with the savage generation that uttered them. No nation can trace their language beyond the second period, and even of that it does not often happen that many monuments remain. The fate of the English tongue is like that of others. We know nothing of the scanty jargon of our barbarous ancestors; but we have specimens of our language when it began to be adapted to civil and religious purposes, and find it such as might naturally be expected, artless and simple, unconnected and concise. The writers seem to have desired little more than to be understood, and, perhaps, seldom aspired to the praise of pleasing. Their verses were considered chiefly as memorial, and, therefore, did not differ from prose but by the measure or the rhyme. In this state, varied a little according to the different purposes or abilities of writers, our language may be said to have continued to the time of Gower, whom Chaucer calls his master, and who, however obscured by his scholar's popularity, seems justly to claim the honour which has been hitherto denied him, of showing his countrymen that something more was to be desired, and that English verse might be exalted into poetry. From the time of Gower and Chaucer, the English writers have studied elegance, and advanced their language, by successive improvements, to as much harmony as it can easily receive, and as much copiousness as human knowledge has hitherto required. These advances have not been made at all times with the same diligence or the same success. Negligence has suspended the course of improvement, or affectation turned it aside; time has elapsed with little change, or change has been made without amendment. But elegance has been long kept in view with attention as near to constancy as life permits, till every man now endeavours to excel others in accuracy, or outshine them in splendour of style, and the danger is, lest care should too soon pass to affectation. No. 64. SATURDAY, JULY 1, 1759. _Quid faciam, praescribe. Quiescas_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. i. 5. TO THE IDLER. Sir, As nature has made every man desirous of happiness, I flatter myself, that you and your readers cannot but feel some curiosity to know the sequel of my story; for though, by trying the different schemes of pleasure, I have yet found nothing in which I could finally acquiesce; yet the narrative of my attempts will not be wholly without use, since we always approach nearer to truth as we detect more and more varieties of errour. When I had sold my racers, and put the orders of architecture out of my head, my next resolution was to be a _fine gentleman_. I frequented the polite coffee-houses, grew acquainted with all the men of humour, and gained the right of bowing familiarly to half the nobility. In this new scene of life my great labour was to learn to laugh. I had been used to consider laughter as the effect of merriment; but I soon learned that it is one of the arts of adulation, and, from laughing only to show that I was pleased, I now began to laugh when I wished to please. This was at first very difficult. I sometimes heard the story with dull indifference, and, not exalting myself to merriment by due gradations, burst out suddenly into an awkward noise, which was not always favourably interpreted. Sometimes I was behind the rest of the company, and lost the grace of laughing by delay, and sometimes, when I began at the right time, was deficient in loudness or in length. But, by diligent imitation of the best models, I attained at last such flexibility of muscles, that I was always a welcome auditor of a story, and got the reputation of a good-natured fellow. This was something; but much more was to be done, that I might be universally allowed to be a fine gentleman. I appeared at court on all publick days; betted at gaming-tables; and played at all the routs of eminence. I went every night to the opera, took a fiddler of disputed merit under my protection, became the head of a musical faction, and had sometimes concerts at my own house. I once thought to have attained the highest rank of elegance, by taking a foreign singer into keeping. But my favourite fiddler contrived to be arrested, on the night of a concert, for a finer suit of clothes than I had ever presumed to wear, and I lost all the fame of patronage by refusing to bail him. My next ambition was to sit for my picture. I spent a whole winter in going from painter to painter, to bespeak a whole length of one, and a half length of another; I talked of nothing but attitudes, draperies and proper lights; took my friends to see the pictures after every sitting; heard every day of a wonderful performer in crayons and miniature, and sent my pictures to be copied; was told by the judges that they were not like, and was recommended to other artists. At length, being not able to please my friends, I grew less pleased myself, and at last resolved to think no more about it. It was impossible to live in total idleness: and wandering about in search of something to do, I was invited to a weekly meeting of virtuosos, and felt myself instantaneously seized with an unextinguishable ardour for all natural curiosities. I ran from auction to auction, became a critick in shells and fossils, bought a _Hortus siccus_ of inestimable value, and purchased a secret art of preserving insects, which made my collection the envy of the other philosophers. I found this pleasure mingled with much vexation. All the faults of my life were for nine months circulated through the town with the most active malignity, because I happened to catch a moth of peculiar variegation; and because I once out-bid all the lovers of shells, and carried off a nautilus, it was hinted that the validity of my uncle's will ought to be disputed. I will not deny that I was very proud both of the moth and of the shell, and gratified myself with the envy of my companions, perhaps, more than became a benevolent being. But in time I grew weary of being hated for that which produced no advantage, gave my shells to children that wanted play-things, and suppressed the art of drying butterflies, because I would not tempt idleness and cruelty to kill them. I now began to feel life tedious, and wished to store myself with friends, with whom I might grow old in the interchange of benevolence. I had observed that popularity was most easily gained by an open table, and, therefore, hired a French cook, furnished my sideboard with great magnificence, filled my cellar with wines of pompous appellations, bought every thing that was dear before it was good, and invited all those who were most famous for judging of a dinner. In three weeks my cook gave me warning, and, upon inquiry, told me that Lord Queasy, who dined with me the day before, had sent him an offer of double wages. My pride prevailed; I raised his wages, and invited his lordship to another feast. I love plain meat, and was, therefore, soon weary of spreading a table of which I could not partake. I found that my guests, when they went away, criticised their entertainment, and censured my profusion; my cook thought himself necessary, and took upon him the direction of the house; and I could not rid myself of flatterers, or break from slavery, but by shutting up my house, and declaring my resolution to live in lodgings. After all this, tell me, dear Idler, what I must do next; I have health, I have money, and I hope that I have understanding; yet, with all these, I have never been able to pass a single day which I did not wish at an end before sun-set. Tell me, dear Idler, what I shall do. I am Your humble servant, TIM. RANGER. No. 65. SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1759. This sequel of Clarendon's history, at last happily published, is an accession to English literature equally agreeable to the admirers of elegance and the lovers of truth; many doubtful facts may now be ascertained, and many questions, after long debate, may be determined by decisive authority. He that records transactions in which himself was engaged, has not only an opportunity of knowing innumerable particulars which escape spectators, but has his natural powers exalted by that ardour which always rises at the remembrance of our own importance, and by which every man is enabled to relate his own actions better than another's. The difficulties through which this work has struggled into light, and the delays with which our hopes have been long mocked, naturally lead the mind to the consideration of the common fate of posthumous compositions. He who sees himself surrounded by admirers, and whose vanity is hourly feasted with all the luxuries of studied praise, is easily persuaded that his influence will be extended beyond his life; that they who cringe in his presence will reverence his memory, and that those who are proud to be numbered among his friends, will endeavour to vindicate his choice by zeal for his reputation. With hopes like these, to the executors of Swift was committed the history of the last years of queen Anne, and to those of Pope, the works which remained unprinted in his closet. The performances of Pope were burnt by those whom he had, perhaps, selected from all mankind as most likely to publish them; and the history had likewise perished, had not a straggling transcript fallen into busy hands. The papers left in the closet of Pieresc supplied his heirs with a whole winter's fuel; and many of the labours of the learned Bishop Lloyd were consumed in the kitchen of his descendants. Some works, indeed, have escaped total destruction, but yet have had reason to lament the fate of orphans exposed to the frauds of unfaithful guardians. How Hale would have borne the mutilations which his Pleas of the Crown have suffered from the editor, they who know his character will easily conceive[1]. The original copy of Burnet's history, though promised to some publick library[2], has been never given; and who then can prove the fidelity of the publication, when the authenticity of Clarendon's history, though printed with the sanction of one of the first universities of the world, had not an unexpected manuscript been happily discovered, would, with the help of factious credulity, have been brought into question by the two lowest of all human beings, a scribbler for a party, and a commissioner of excise[3]? Vanity is often no less mischievous than negligence or dishonesty. He that possesses a valuable manuscript, hopes to raise its esteem by concealment, and delights in the distinction which he imagines himself to obtain by keeping the key of a treasure which he neither uses nor imparts. From him it falls to some other owner, less vain but more negligent, who considers it as useless lumber, and rids himself of the encumbrance. Yet there are some works which the authors must consign unpublished to posterity, however uncertain be the event, however hopeless be the trust. He that writes the history of his own times, if he adheres steadily to truth, will write that which his own times will not easily endure. He must be content to reposite his book, till all private passions shall cease, and love and hatred give way to curiosity. But many leave the labours of half their life to their executors and to chance, because they will not send them abroad unfinished, and are unable to finish them, having prescribed to themselves such a degree of exactness as human diligence can scarcely attain. "Lloyd", says Burnet, "did not lay out his learning with the same diligence as he laid it in." He was always hesitating and inquiring, raising objections and removing them, and waiting for clearer light and fuller discovery. Baker, after many years passed in biography, left his manuscripts to be buried in a library, because that was imperfect which could never be perfected. Of these learned men, let those who aspire to the same praise imitate the diligence, and avoid the scrupulosity. Let it be always remembered that life is short, that knowledge is endless, and that many doubts deserve not to be cleared. Let those whom nature and study have qualified to teach mankind, tell us what they have learned while they are yet able to tell it, and trust their reputation only to themselves. [1] See Preface. [2] It would be proper to reposite, in some public place, the manuscript of Clarendon, which has not escaped all suspicion of unfaithful publication. The manuscript of Clarendon is now in the Bodleian library at Oxford, and the editor of the present edition has it before him while writing this note. He may likewise add, that a new and emended edition is now printing from the original MS. at the Clarendon press. December, 1824. [3] See Preface. Dr. Johnson's hatred of the excise reminds us of John Wesley's wailing philippic against turnpike gates, which he denounced as the most cruel of impositions on the way-faring man. No. 66. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1759. No complaint is more frequently repeated among the learned, than that of the waste made by time among the labours of antiquity. Of those who once filled the civilized world with their renown, nothing is now left but their names, which are left only to raise desires that never can be satisfied, and sorrow which never can be comforted. Had all the writings of the ancients been faithfully delivered down from age to age, had the Alexandrian library been spared, and the Palatine repositories remained unimpaired, how much might we have known of which we are now doomed to be ignorant! how many laborious inquiries, and dark conjectures; how many collations of broken hints and mutilated passages might have been spared! We should have known the successions of princes, the revolutions of empires, the actions of the great, and opinions of the wise, the laws and constitutions of every state, and the arts by which publick grandeur and happiness are acquired and preserved; we should have traced the progress of life, seen colonies from distant regions take possession of European deserts, and troops of savages settled into communities by the desire of keeping what they had acquired; we should have traced the gradations of civility, and travelled upward to the original of things by the light of history, till in remoter times it had glimmered in fable, and at last sunk into darkness. If the works of imagination had been less diminished, it is likely that all future times might have been supplied with inexhaustible amusement by the fictions of antiquity. The tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides would all have shown the stronger passions in all their diversities; and the comedies of Menander would have furnished all the maxims of domestick life. Nothing would have been necessary to moral wisdom but to have studied these great masters, whose knowledge would have guided doubt, and whose authority would have silenced cavils. Such are the thoughts that rise in every student, when his curiosity is eluded, and his searches are frustrated; yet it may, perhaps, be doubted, whether our complaints are not sometimes inconsiderate, and whether we do not imagine more evil than we feel. Of the ancients, enough remains to excite our emulation and direct our endeavours. Many of the works which time has left us, we know to have been these that were most esteemed, and which antiquity itself considered as models; so that, having the originals, we may without much regret lose the imitations. The obscurity which the want of contemporary writers often produces, only darkens single passages, and those commonly of slight importance. The general tendency of every piece may be known; and though that diligence deserves praise which leaves nothing unexamined, yet its miscarriages are not much to be lamented; for the most useful truths are always universal, and unconnected with accidents and customs. Such is the general conspiracy of human nature against contemporary merit, that, if we had inherited from antiquity enough to afford employment for the laborious, and amusement for the idle, I know not what room would have been left for modern genius or modern industry; almost every subject would have been pre-occupied, and every style would have been fixed by a precedent from which few would have ventured to depart. Every writer would have had a rival, whose superiority was already acknowledged, and to whose fame his work would, even before it was seen, be marked out for a sacrifice. We see how little the united experience of mankind hath been able to add to the heroick characters displayed by Homer, and how few incidents the fertile imagination of modern Italy has yet produced, which may not be found in the Iliad and Odyssey. It is likely, that if all the works of the Athenian philosophers had been extant, Malbranche and Locke would have been condemned to be silent readers of the ancient metaphysicians; and it is apparent, that, if the old writers had all remained, the Idler could not have written a disquisition on the loss[1]. [1] There was a weighty meaning in that fiction of the Stoics, of a grand periodic year, in which all events should be re-acted in the same mode and order as before. There is nothing new under the sun. Whatever is, or shall be, is only an imitation, or, at best, a re-production of something that has been. The moralist who speculates on the contingencies of human conduct can only divine the future from what has already been acted on the earth. The philosopher, leaning on principles which Science styles immutable, is confined within the narrow bounds of created matter. Why then should Reason make us undervalue that Revelation which carries us upwards to Creation's birth, and bears us downward to a period when time shall be no longer? ED. No. 67. SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, In the observations which you have made on the various opinions and pursuits of mankind, you must often, in literary conversations, have met with men who consider dissipation as the great enemy of the intellect; and maintain, that, in proportion as the student keeps himself within the bounds of a settled plan, he will more certainly advance in science. This opinion is, perhaps, generally true; yet, when we contemplate the inquisitive nature of the human mind, and its perpetual impatience of all restraint, it may be doubted whether the faculties may not be contracted by confining the attention; and whether it may not sometimes be proper to risk the certainty of little for the chance of much. Acquisitions of knowledge, like blazes of genius, are often fortuitous. Those who had proposed to themselves a methodical course of reading, light by accident on a new book, which seizes their thoughts and kindles their curiosity, and opens an unexpected prospect, to which the way which they had prescribed to themselves would never have conducted them. To enforce and illustrate my meaning, I have sent you a journal of three days' employment, found among the papers of a late intimate acquaintance; who, as will plainly appear, was a man of vast designs, and of vast performances, though he sometimes designed one thing, and performed another. I allow that the Spectator's inimitable productions of this kind may well discourage all subsequent journalists; but, as the subject of this is different from that of any which the Spectator has given us, I leave it to you to publish or suppress it. Mem. The following three days I purpose to give up to reading; and intend, after all the delays which have obtruded themselves upon me, to finish my Essay on the Extent of the Mental powers; to revise my Treatise on Logick; to begin the Epick which I have long projected; to proceed in my perusal of the Scriptures with Grotius's Comment; and at my leisure to regale myself with the works of classicks, ancient and modern, and to finish my Ode to Astronomy. Monday.] Designed to rise at six, but, by my servant's laziness, my fire was not lighted before eight, when I dropped into a slumber that lasted till nine; at which time I arose, and, after breakfast, at ten, sat down to study, purposing to begin upon my Essay; but, finding occasion to consult a passage in Plato, was absorbed in the perusal of the Republick till twelve. I had neglected to forbid company, and now enters Tom Careless, who, after half an hour's chat, insisted upon my going with him to enjoy an absurd character, that he had appointed, by an advertisement, to meet him at a particular coffee-house. After we had for some time entertained ourselves with him, we sallied out, designing each to repair to his home; but, as it fell out, coming up in the street to a man whose steel by his side declared him a butcher, we overheard him opening an address to a genteelish sort of young lady, whom he walked with: "Miss, though your father is master of a coal-lighter, and you will be a great fortune, 'tis true; yet I wish I may be cut into quarters if it is not only love, and not lucre of gain, that is my motive for offering terms of marriage." As this lover proceeded in his speech, he misled us the length of three streets, in admiration at the unlimited power of the tender passion, that could soften even the heart of a butcher. We then adjourned to a tavern, and from thence to one of the publick gardens, where I was regaled with a most amusing variety of men possessing great talents, so discoloured by affectation, that they only made them eminently ridiculous; shallow things, who, by continual dissipation, had annihilated the few ideas nature had given them, and yet were celebrated for wonderful pretty gentlemen; young ladies extolled for their wit, because they were handsome; illiterate empty women as well as men, in high life, admired for their knowledge, from their being resolutely positive; and women of real understanding so far from pleasing the polite million, that they frightened them away, and were left solitary. When we quitted this entertaining scene, Tom pressed me, irresistibly, to sup with him. I reached home at twelve, and then reflected, that, though indeed I had, by remarking various characters, improved my insight into human nature, yet still I had neglected the studies proposed, and accordingly took up my Treatise on Logick, to give it the intended revisal, but found my spirits too much agitated, and could not forbear a few satirical lines, under the title of The Evening's Walk. Tuesday.] At breakfast, seeing my Ode to Astronomy lying on my desk, I was struck with a train of ideas, that I thought might contribute to its improvement. I immediately rang my bell to forbid all visitants, when my servant opened the door, with, "Sir, Mr. Jeffery Gape." My cup dropped out of one hand, and my poem out of the other. I could scarcely ask him to sit; he told me he was going to walk, but, as there was a likelihood of rain, he would sit with me; he said, he intended at first to have called at Mr. Vacant's, but as he had not seen me a great while, he did not mind coming out of his way to wait on me; I made him a bow, but thanks for the favour stuck in my throat. I asked him if he had been to the coffee-house; he replied, Two hours. Under the oppression of this dull interruption, I sat looking wishfully at the clock; for which, to increase my satisfaction, I had chosen the inscription, "Art is long, and life is short;" exchanging questions and answers at long intervals, and not without some hints that the weather-glass promised fair weather. At half an hour after three he told me he would trespass on me for a dinner, and desired me to send to his house for a bundle of papers, about inclosing a common upon his estate, which he would read to me in the evening. I declared myself busy, and Mr. Gape went away. Having dined, to compose my chagrin I took up Virgil, and several other classicks, but could not calm my mind, or proceed in my scheme. At about five I laid my hand on a Bible that lay on my table, at first with coldness and insensibility; but was imperceptibly engaged in a close attention to its sublime morality, and felt my heart expanded by warm philanthropy, and exalted to dignity of sentiment. I then censured my too great solicitude, and my disgust conceived at my acquaintance, who had been so far from designing to offend, that he only meant to show kindness and respect. In this strain of mind I wrote An Essay on Benevolence, and An Elegy on Sublunary Disappointments. When I had finished these, at eleven, I supped, and recollected how little I had adhered to my plan, and almost questioned the possibility of pursuing any settled and uniform design; however, I was not so far persuaded of the truth of these suggestions, but that I resolved to try once more at my scheme. As I observed the moon shining through my window, from a calm and bright sky spangled with innumerable stars, I indulged a pleasing meditation on the splendid scene, and finished my Ode to Astronomy. Wednesday.] Rose at seven, and employed three hours in perusal of the Scriptures with Grotius's Comment; and after breakfast fell into meditation concerning my projected Epick; and being in some doubt as to the particular lives of some heroes, whom I proposed to celebrate, I consulted Bayle and Moreri, and was engaged two hours in examining various lives and characters, but then resolved to go to my employment. When I was seated at my desk, and began to feel the glowing succession of poetical ideas, my servant brought me a letter from a lawyer, requiring my instant attendance at Gray's Inn for half an hour. I went full of vexation, and was involved in business till eight at night; and then, being too much fatigued to study, supped, and went to bed. Here my friend's Journal concludes, which, perhaps, is pretty much a picture of the manner in which many prosecute their studies. I therefore resolved to send it you, imagining, that, if you think it worthy of appearing in your paper, some of your readers may receive entertainment by recognising a resemblance between my friend's conduct and their own. It must be left to the Idler accurately to ascertain the proper methods of advancing in literature; but this one position, deducible from what has been said above, may, I think, be reasonably asserted, that he who finds himself strongly attracted to any particular study, though it may happen to be out of his proposed scheme, if it is not trifling or vicious, had better continue his application to it, since it is likely that he will, with much more ease and expedition, attain that which a warm inclination stimulates him to pursue, than that at which a prescribed law compels him to toil.[1] I am, &c. [1] This paper, which is evidently throughout allusive to the Idler's own broken resolutions, was the composition of Bennet Langton, for whom Johnson cherished the fondest regard. In his admiration he ventured even to exclaim, "Sit anima mea cum Langtono." Boswell, iv.--ED. No. 68. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1759. Among the studies which have exercised the ingenious and the learned for more than three centuries, none has been more diligently or more successfully cultivated than the art of translation; by which the impediments which bar the way to science are, in some measure, removed, and the multiplicity of languages become less incommodious. Of every other kind of writing the ancients have left us models which all succeeding ages have laboured to imitate; but translation may justly be claimed by the moderns as their own. In the first ages of the world instruction was commonly oral, and learning traditional, and what was not written could not be translated. When alphabetical writing made the conveyance of opinions and the transmission of events more easy and certain, literature did not flourish in more than one country at once, or distant nations had little commerce with each other; and those few whom curiosity sent abroad in quest of improvement, delivered their acquisitions in their own manner, desirous, perhaps, to be considered as the inventors of that which they had learned from others. The Greeks for a time travelled into Egypt, but they translated no books from the Egyptian language; and when the Macedonians had overthrown the empire of Persia, the countries that became subject to Grecian dominion studied only the Grecian literature. The books of the conquered nations, if they had any among them, sunk into oblivion; Greece considered herself as the mistress, if not as the parent of arts, her language contained all that was supposed to be known, and, except the sacred writings of the Old Testament, I know not that the library of Alexandria adopted any thing from a foreign tongue. The Romans confessed themselves the scholars of the Greeks, and do not appear to have expected, what has since happened, that the ignorance of succeeding ages would prefer them to their teachers. Every man, who in Rome aspired to the praise of literature, thought it necessary to learn Greek, and had no need of versions when they could study the originals. Translation, however, was not wholly neglected. Dramatick poems could be understood by the people in no language but their own, and the Romans were sometimes entertained with the tragedies of Euripides and the comedies of Menander. Other works were sometimes attempted; in an old scholiast there is mention of a Latin Iliad; and we have not wholly lost Tully's version of the poem of Aratus; but it does not appear that any man grew eminent by interpreting another, and perhaps it was more frequent to translate for exercise or amusement, than for fame. The Arabs were the first nation who felt the ardour of translation: when they had subdued the eastern provinces of the Greek empire, they found their captives wiser than themselves, and made haste to relieve their wants by imparted knowledge. They discovered that many might grow wise by the labour of a few, and that improvements might be made with speed, when they had the knowledge of former ages in their own language. They, therefore, made haste to lay hold on medicine end philosophy, and turned their chief authors into Arabick[1]. Whether they attempted the poets is not known; their literary zeal was vehement, but it was short, and probably expired before they had time to add the arts of elegance to those of necessity. The study of ancient literature was interrupted in Europe by the irruption of the Northern nations, who subverted the Roman empire, and erected new kingdoms with new languages. It is not strange that such confusion should suspend literary attention; those who lost, and those who gained dominion, had immediate difficulties to encounter, and immediate miseries to redress, and had little leisure, amidst the violence of war, the trepidation of flight, the distresses of forced migration, or the tumults of unsettled conquest, to inquire after speculative truth, to enjoy the amusement of imaginary adventures, to know the history of former ages, or study the events of any other lives. But no sooner had this chaos of dominion sunk into order, than learning began again to flourish in the calm of peace. When life and possessions were secure, convenience and enjoyment were soon sought, learning was found the highest gratification of the mind, and translation became one of the means by which it was imparted. At last, by a concurrence of many causes, the European world was roused from its lethargy; those arts which had been long obscurely studied in the gloom of monasteries became the general favourites of mankind; every nation vied with its neighbour for the prize of learning; the epidemical emulation spread from south to north, and curiosity and translation found their way to Britain. [1] Some popular information on the interesting subject of Arabian Literature, is collected in the third part of Harris's Philological Inquiries. Mr. Hallam's History of the Middle Ages is a rich storehouse for these points.--ED. No. 69. SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1759. He that reviews the progress of English literature, will find that translation was very early cultivated among us, but that some principles, either wholly erroneous or too far extended, hindered our success from being always equal to our diligence. Chaucer, who is generally considered as the father of our poetry, has left a version of Boethius on the Comforts of Philosophy, the book which seems to have been the favourite of the middle ages, which had been translated into Saxon by King Alfred, and illustrated with a copious comment ascribed to Aquinas. It may be supposed that Chaucer would apply more than common attention to an author of so much celebrity, yet he has attempted nothing higher than a version strictly literal, and has degraded the poetical parts to prose, that the constraint of versification might not obstruct his zeal for fidelity. Caxton taught us typography about the year 1474. The first book printed in English was a translation. Caxton was both the translator and printer of the Destruction of Troye; a book which, in that infancy of learning, was considered as the best account of the fabulous ages, and which, though now driven out of notice by authors of no greater use or value, still continued to be read in Caxton's English to the beginning of the present century. Caxton proceeded as he began, and, except the poems of Gower and Chaucer, printed nothing but translations from the French, in which the original is so scrupulously followed, that they afford us little knowledge of our own language: though the words are English, the phrase is foreign. As learning advanced, new works were adopted into our language, but I think with little improvement of the art of translation, though foreign nations and other languages offered us models of a better method; till in the age of Elizabeth we began to find that greater liberty was necessary to elegance, and that elegance was necessary to general reception; some essays were then made upon the Italian poets, which deserve the praise and gratitude of posterity. But the old practice was not suddenly forsaken: Holland filled the nation with literal translation; and, what is yet more strange, the same exactness was obstinately practised in the versions of the poets. This absurd labour of construing into rhyme was countenanced by Jonson in his version of Horace; and whether it be that more men have learning than genius, or that the endeavours of that time were more directed towards knowledge than delight, the accuracy of Jonson found more imitators than the elegance of Fairfax; and May, Sandys and Holiday, confined themselves to the toil of rendering line for line, not indeed with equal felicity, for May and Sandys were poets, and Holiday only a scholar and a critick. Feltham appears to consider it as the established law of poetical translation, that the lines should be neither more nor fewer than those of the original; and so long had this prejudice prevailed, that Denham praises Fanshaw's version of Guarini as the example of a _new and noble way_, as the first attempt to break the boundaries of custom, and assert the natural freedom of the Muse. In the general emulation of wit and genius which the festivity of the Restoration produced, the poets shook off their constraint, and considered translation as no longer confined to servile closeness. But reformation is seldom the work of pure virtue or unassisted reason. Translation was improved more by accident than conviction. The writers of the foregoing age had at least learning equal to their genius; and, being often more able to explain the sentiments or illustrate the allusions of the ancients, than to exhibit their graces and transfuse their spirit, were, perhaps, willing sometimes to conceal their want of poetry by profusion of literature, and, therefore, translated literally, that their fidelity might shelter their insipidity or harshness. The wits of Charles's time had seldom more than slight and superficial views; and their care was to hide their want of learning behind the colours of a gay imagination; they, therefore, translated always with freedom, sometimes with licentiousness, and, perhaps, expected that their readers should accept sprightliness for knowledge, and consider ignorance and mistake as the impatience and negligence of a mind too rapid to stop at difficulties, and too elevated to descend to minuteness. Thus was translation made more easy to the writer, and more delightful to the reader; and there is no wonder if ease and pleasure have found their advocates. The paraphrastick liberties have been almost universally admitted; and Sherbourn, whose learning was eminent, and who had no need of any excuse to pass slightly over obscurities, is the only writer who, in later times, has attempted to justify or revive the ancient severity. There is undoubtedly a mean to be observed. Dryden saw very early that closeness best preserved an author's sense, and that freedom best exhibited his spirit; he, therefore, will deserve the highest praise, who can give a representation at once faithful and pleasing, who can convey the same thoughts with the same graces, and who, when he translates, changes nothing but the language[1]. [1] Much research on this branch of literature is exhibited in Lord Woodhouselee's Principles of Translation. No. 70. SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1759. Few faults of style, whether real or imaginary, excite the malignity of a more numerous class of readers, than the use of hard words. If an author be supposed to involve his thoughts in voluntary obscurity, and to obstruct, by unnecessary difficulties, a mind eager in pursuit of truth; if he writes not to make others learned, but to boast the learning which he possesses himself, and wishes to be admired rather than understood, he counteracts the first end of writing, and justly suffers the utmost severity of censure, or the more afflictive severity of neglect. But words are hard only to those who do not understand them; and the critick ought always to inquire, whether he is incommoded by the fault of the writer or by his own. Every author does not write for every reader; many questions are such as the illiterate part of mankind can have neither interest nor pleasure in discussing, and which, therefore, it would be an useless endeavour to level with common minds, by tiresome circumlocutions or laborious explanations; and many subjects of general use may be treated in a different manner, as the book is intended for the learned or the ignorant. Diffusion and explication are necessary to the instruction of those who, being neither able nor accustomed to think for themselves, can learn only what is expressly taught; but they who can form parallels, discover consequences, and multiply conclusions, are best pleased with involution of argument and compression of thought; they desire only to receive the seeds of knowledge which they may branch out by their own power, to have the way to truth pointed out, which they can then follow without a guide. The Guardian directs one of his pupils, "to think with the wise, but speak with the vulgar." This is a precept specious enough, but not always practicable. Difference of thoughts will produce difference of language. He that thinks with more extent than another will want words of larger meaning; he that thinks with more subtilty will seek for terms of more nice discrimination; and where is the wonder, since words are but the images of things, that he who never knew the original should not know the copies? Yet vanity inclines us to find faults any where rather than in ourselves. He that reads and grows no wiser, seldom suspects his own deficiency; but complains of hard words and obscure sentences, and asks why books are written which cannot be understood? Among the hard words which are no longer to be used, it has been long the custom to number terms of art. "Every man," says Swift, "is more able to explain the subject of an art than its professors; a farmer will tell you, in two words, that he has broken his leg; but a surgeon, after a long discourse, shall leave you as ignorant as you were before." This could only have been said, by such an exact observer of life, in gratification of malignity, or in ostentation of acuteness. Every hour produces instances of the necessity of terms of art. Mankind could never conspire in uniform affectation; it is not but by necessity that every science and every trade has its peculiar language. They that content themselves with general ideas may rest in general terms; but those, whose studies or employments force them upon closer inspection, must have names for particular parts, and words by which they may express various modes of combination, such as none but themselves have occasion to consider. Artists are indeed sometimes ready to suppose that none can be strangers to words to which themselves are familiar, talk to an incidental inquirer as they talk to one another, and make their knowledge ridiculous by injudicious obtrusion. An art cannot be taught but by its proper terms, but it is not always necessary to teach the art. That the vulgar express their thoughts clearly, is far from true; and what perspicuity can be found among them proceeds not from the easiness of their language, but the shallowness of their thoughts. He that sees a building as a common spectator, contents himself with relating that it is great or little, mean or splendid, lofty or low; all these words are intelligible and common, but they convey no distinct or limited ideas; if he attempts, without the terms of architecture, to delineate the parts, or enumerate the ornaments, his narration at once becomes unintelligible. The terms, indeed, generally displease, because they are understood by few; but they are little understood, only because few that look upon an edifice examine its parts, or analyze its columns into their members. The state of every other art is the same; as it is cursorily surveyed or accurately examined, different forms of expression become proper. In morality it is one thing to discuss the niceties of the casuist, and another to direct the practice of common life. In agriculture, he that instructs the farmer to plough and sow, may convey his notions without the words which he would find necessary in explaining to philosophers the process of vegetation; and if he, who has nothing to do but to be honest by the shortest way, will perplex his mind with subtile speculations; or if he, whose task is to reap and thrash, will not be contented without examining the evolution of the seed and circulation of the sap; the writers whom either shall consult are very little to be blamed, though it should sometimes happen that they are read in vain. No. 71. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1759. Celan le selve angui, leoni, ed orsi Dentro il lor verde. TASSO, L'AMINTA. Dick Shifter was born in Cheapside, and, having passed reputably through all the classes of St. Paul's school, has been for some years a student in the Temple. He is of opinion, that intense application dulls the faculties, and thinks it necessary to temper the severity of the law by books that engage the mind, but do not fatigue it. He has, therefore, made a copious collection of plays, poems, and romances, to which he has recourse when he fancies himself tired with statutes and reports; and he seldom inquires very nicely whether he is weary or idle. Dick has received from his favourite authors very strong impressions of a country life; and though his furthest excursions have been to Greenwich on one side, and Chelsea on the other, he has talked for several years, with great pomp of language and elevation of sentiments, about a state too high for contempt and too low for envy, about homely quiet and blameless simplicity, pastoral delights and rural innocence. His friends, who, had estates in the country, often invited him to pass the summer among them, but something or other had always hindered him; and he considered, that to reside in the house of another man was to incur a kind of dependence inconsistent with that laxity of life which he had imaged as the chief good. This summer he resolved to be happy, and procured a lodging to be taken for him at a solitary house, situated about thirty miles from London, on the banks of a small river, with corn-fields before it and a hill on each side covered with wood. He concealed the place of his retirement, that none might violate his obscurity, and promised himself many a happy day when he should hide himself among the trees, and contemplate the tumults and vexations of the town. He stepped into the post-chaise with his heart beating and his eyes sparkling, was conveyed through many varieties of delightful prospects, saw hills and meadows, cornfields and pasture, succeed each other, and for four hours charged none of his poets with fiction or exaggeration. He was now within six miles of happiness, when, having never felt so much agitation before, he began to wish his journey at an end, and the last hour was passed in changing his posture and quarrelling with his driver. An hour may be tedious, but cannot be long. He at length alighted at his new dwelling, and was received as he expected; he looked round upon the hills and rivulets, but his joints were stiff and his muscles sore, and his first request was to see his bed-chamber. He rested well, and ascribed the soundness of his sleep to the stillness of the country. He expected from that time nothing but nights of quiet and days of rapture, and, as soon as he had risen, wrote an account of his new state to one of his friends in the Temple. "Dear Frank, "I never pitied thee before. I am now, as I could wish every man of wisdom and virtue to be, in the regions of calm content and placid meditation; with all the beauties of nature soliciting my notice, and all the diversities of pleasure courting my acceptance; the birds are chirping in the hedges, and the flowers blooming in the mead; the breeze is whistling in the wood, and the sun dancing on the water. I can now say, with truth, that a man, capable of enjoying the purity of happiness, is never more busy than in his hours of leisure, nor ever less solitary than in a place of solitude. I am, dear Frank, &c." When he had sent away his letter, he walked into the wood, with some inconvenience, from the furze that pricked his legs, and the briars that scratched his face. He at last sat down under a tree, and heard with great delight a shower, by which he was not wet, rattling among the branches: This, said he, is the true image of obscurity; we hear of troubles and commotions, but never feel them. His amusement did not overpower the calls of nature, and he, therefore, went back to order his dinner. He knew that the country produces whatever is eaten or drunk, and, imagining that he was now at the source of luxury, resolved to indulge himself with dainties which he supposed might be procured at a price next to nothing, if any price at all was expected; and intended to amaze the rusticks with his generosity, by paying more than they would ask. Of twenty dishes which he named, he was amazed to find that scarcely one was to be had; and heard, with astonishment and indignation, that all the fruits of the earth were sold at a higher price than in the streets of London. His meal was short and sullen; and he retired again to his tree, to inquire how dearness could be consistent with abundance, or how fraud should be practised by simplicity. He was not satisfied with his own speculations, and, returning home early in the evening, went a while from window to window, and found that he wanted something to do. He inquired for a newspaper, and was told that farmers never minded news, but that they could send for it from the alehouse. A messenger was despatched, who ran away at full speed, but loitered an hour behind the hedges, and at last coming back with his feet purposely bemired, instead of expressing the gratitude which Mr. Shifter expected for the bounty of a shilling, said, that the night was wet, and the way dirty, and he hoped that his worship would not think it much to give him half-a-crown. Dick now went to bed with some abatement of his expectations; but sleep, I know not how, revives our hopes, and rekindles our desires. He rose early in the morning, surveyed the landscape, and was pleased. He walked out, and passed from field to field, without observing any beaten path, and wondered that he had not seen the shepherdesses dancing, nor heard the swains piping to their flocks. At last he saw some reapers and harvest-women at dinner. Here, said he, are the true Arcadians; and advanced courteously towards them, as afraid of confusing them by the dignity of his presence. They acknowledged his superiority by no other token than that of asking him for something to drink. He imagined that he had now purchased the privilege of discourse, and began to descend to familiar questions, endeavouring to accommodate his discourse to the grossness of rustick understandings. The clowns soon found, that he did not know wheat from rye, and began to despise him; one of the boys, by pretending to show him a bird's nest, decoyed him into a ditch; and one of the wenches sold him a bargain. This walk had given him no great pleasure; but he hoped to find other rusticks less coarse of manners, and less mischievous of disposition. Next morning he was accosted by an attorney, who told him that, unless he made farmer Dobson satisfaction for trampling his grass, he had orders to indict him. Shifter was offended, but not terrified; and, telling the attorney that he was himself a lawyer, talked so volubly of pettyfoggers and barrators, that he drove him away. Finding his walks thus interrupted, he was inclined to ride, and, being pleased with the appearance of a horse that was grazing in a neighbouring meadow, inquired the owner, who warranted him sound, and would not sell him, but that he was too fine for a plain man. Dick paid down the price, and, riding out to enjoy the evening, fell with his new horse into a ditch; they got out with difficulty, and, as he was going to mount again, a countryman looked at the horse, and perceived him to be blind. Dick went to the seller, and demanded back his money; but was told, that a man who rented his ground must do the best for himself; that his landlord had his rent though the year was barren; and that, whether horses had eyes or no, he should sell them to the highest bidder. Shifter now began to be tired with rustick simplicity, and on the fifth day took possession again of his chambers, and bade farewell to the regions of calm content and placid meditation. No. 72. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1759. Men complain of nothing more frequently than of deficient memory; and, indeed, every one finds that many of the ideas which he desired to retain have slipped irretrievably away; that the acquisitions of the mind are sometimes equally fugitive with the gifts of fortune; and that a short intermission of attention more certainly lessens knowledge than impairs an estate. To assist this weakness of our nature, many methods have been proposed, all of which may be justly suspected of being ineffectual; for no art of memory, however its effects have been boasted or admired, has been ever adopted into general use, nor have those who possessed it appeared to excel others in readiness of recollection or multiplicity of attainments. There is another art of which all have felt the want, though Themistocles only confessed it. We suffer equal pain from the pertinacious adhesion of unwelcome images, as from the evanescence of those which are pleasing and useful; and it may be doubted whether we should be more benefited by the art of memory or the art of forgetfulness. Forgetfulness is necessary to remembrance. Ideas are retained by renovation of that impression which time is always wearing away, and which new images are striving to obliterate. If useless thoughts could be expelled from the mind, all the valuable parts of our knowledge would more frequently recur, and every recurrence would reinstate them in their former place. It is impossible to consider, without some regret, how much might have been learned, or how much might have been invented, by a rational and vigorous application of time, uselessly or painfully passed in the revocation of events, which have left neither good nor evil behind them, in grief for misfortunes either repaired or irreparable, in resentment of injuries known only to ourselves, of which death has put the authors beyond our power. Philosophy has accumulated precept upon precept, to warn us against the anticipation of future calamities. All useless misery is certainly folly, and he that feels evils before they come may be deservedly censured; yet surely to dread the future is more reasonable than to lament the past. The business of life is to go forwards: he who sees evil in prospect meets it in his way; but he who catches it by retrospection turns back to find it. That which is feared may sometimes be avoided, but that which is regretted to-day may be regretted again to-morrow. Regret is indeed useful and virtuous, and not only allowable but necessary, when it tends to the amendment of life, or to admonition of errour which we may be again in danger of committing. But a very small part of the moments spent in meditation on the past, produce any reasonable caution or salutary sorrow. Most of the mortifications that we have suffered, arose from the concurrence of local and temporary circumstances, which can never meet again; and most of our disappointments have succeeded those expectations, which life allows not to be formed a second time. It would add much to human happiness, if an art could be taught of forgetting all of which the remembrance is at once useless and afflictive; if that pain which never can end in pleasure could be driven totally away, that the mind might perform its functions without incumbrance, and the past might no longer encroach upon the present. Little can be done well to which the whole mind is not applied; the business of every day calls for the day to which it is assigned; and he will have no leisure to regret yesterday's vexations who resolves not to have a new subject of regret to-morrow. But to forget or to remember at pleasure, are equally beyond the power of man. Yet as memory may be assisted by method, and the decays of knowledge repaired by stated times of recollection, so the power of forgetting is capable of improvement. Reason will, by a resolute contest, prevail over imagination, and the power may be obtained of transferring the attention as judgment shall direct. The incursions of troublesome thoughts are often violent and importunate; and it is not easy to a mind accustomed to their inroads to expel them immediately by putting better images into motion; but this enemy of quiet is above all others weakened by every defeat; the reflection which has been once overpowered and ejected, seldom returns with any formidable vehemence. Employment is the great instrument of intellectual dominion. The mind cannot retire from its enemy into total vacancy, or turn aside from one object but by passing to another. The gloomy and the resentful are always found among those who have nothing to do, or who do nothing. We must be busy about good or evil, and he to whom the present offers nothing will often be looking backward on the past. No. 73. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1759. That every man would be rich if a wish could obtain riches, is a position which I believe few will contest, at least in a nation like ours, in which commerce has kindled an universal emulation of wealth, and in which money receives all the honours which are the proper right of knowledge and of virtue. Yet, though we are all labouring for gold as for the chief good, and, by the natural effort of unwearied diligence, have found many expeditious methods of obtaining it, we have not been able to improve the art of using it, or to make it produce more happiness than it afforded in former times, when every declaimer expatiated on its mischiefs, and every philosopher taught his followers to despise it. Many of the dangers imputed of old to exorbitant wealth, are now at an end. The rich are neither waylaid by robbers, nor watched by informers; there is nothing to be dreaded from proscriptions, or seizures. The necessity of concealing treasure has long ceased; no man now needs counterfeit mediocrity, and condemn his plate and jewels to caverns and darkness, or feast his mind with the consciousness of clouded splendour, of finery which is useless till it is shown, and which he dares not show. In our time, the poor are strongly tempted to assume the appearance of wealth, but the wealthy very rarely desire to be thought poor; for we are all at full liberty to display riches by every mode of ostentation. We fill our houses with useless ornaments, only to show that we can buy them; we cover our coaches with gold, and employ artists in the discovery of new fashions of expense; and yet it cannot be found that riches produce happiness. Of riches, as of every thing else, the hope is more than the enjoyment: while we consider them as the means to be used, at some future time, for the attainment of felicity, we press on our pursuit ardently and vigorously, and that ardour secures us from weariness of ourselves; but no sooner do we sit down to enjoy our acquisitions, than we find them insufficient to fill up the vacuities of life. One cause which is not always observed of the insufficiency of riches is, that they very seldom make their owner rich. To be rich, is to have more than is desired, and more than is wanted, to have something which may be spent without reluctance, and scattered without care, with which the sudden demands of desire may be gratified, the casual freaks of fancy indulged, or the unexpected opportunities of benevolence improved. Avarice is always poor, but poor by her own fault. There is another poverty to which the rich are exposed with less guilt by the officiousness of others. Every man, eminent for exuberance of fortune, is surrounded from morning to evening, and from evening to midnight, by flatterers, whose art of adulation consists in exciting artificial wants, and in forming new schemes of profusion. Tom Tranquil, when he came to age, found himself in possession of a fortune, of which the twentieth part might perhaps have made him rich. His temper is easy, and his affections soft; he receives every man with kindness, and hears him with credulity. His friends took care to settle him by giving him a wife, whom, having no particular inclination, he rather accepted than chose, because he was told that she was proper for him. He was now to live with dignity proportionate to his fortune. What his fortune requires or admits Tom does not know, for he has little skill in computation, and none of his friends think it their interest to improve it. If he was suffered to live by his own choice, he would leave every thing as he finds it, and pass through the world distinguished only by inoffensive gentleness. But the ministers of luxury have marked him out as one at whose expense they may exercise their arts. A companion, who had just learned the names of the Italian masters, runs from sale to sale, and buys pictures, for which Mr. Tranquil pays, without inquiring where they shall be hung. Another fills his garden with statues, which Tranquil wishes away, but dares not remove. One of his friends is learning architecture by building him a house, which he passed by, and inquired to whom it belonged; another has been for three years digging canals and raising mounts, cutting trees down in one place, and planting them in another, on which Tranquil looks with a serene indifference, without asking what will be the cost. Another projector tells him that a waterwork, like that of Versailles, will complete the beauties of his seat, and lays his draughts before him: Tranquil turns his eyes upon them, and the artist begins his explanations; Tranquil raises no objections, but orders him to begin the work, that he may escape from talk which he does not understand. Thus a thousand hands are busy at his expense, without adding to his pleasures. He pays and receives visits, and has loitered in publick or in solitude, talking in summer of the town, and in winter of the country, without knowing that his fortune is impaired, till his steward told him this morning, that he could pay the workmen no longer but by mortgaging a manor. No. 74. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1759. In the mythological pedigree of learning, memory is made the mother of the muses, by which the masters of ancient wisdom, perhaps, meant to show the necessity of storing the mind copiously with true notions, before the imagination should be suffered to form fictions or collect embellishments; for the works of an ignorant poet can afford nothing higher than pleasing sound, and fiction is of no other use than to display the treasures of memory. The necessity of memory to the acquisition of knowledge is inevitably felt and universally allowed, so that scarcely any other of the mental faculties are commonly considered as necessary to a student: he that admires the proficiency of another, always attributes it to the happiness of his memory; and he that laments his own defects, concludes with a wish that his memory was better. It is evident, that when the power of retention is weak, all the attempts at eminence of knowledge must be vain; and as few are willing to be doomed to perpetual ignorance, I may, perhaps, afford consolation to some that have fallen too easily into despondence, by observing that such weakness is, in my opinion, very rare, and that few have reason to complain of nature as unkindly sparing of the gifts of memory. In the common business of life, we find the memory of one like that of another, and honestly impute omissions not to involuntary forgetfulness, but culpable inattention; but in literary inquiries, failure is imputed rather to want of memory than of diligence. We consider ourselves as defective in memory, either because we remember less than we desire, or less than we suppose others to remember. Memory is like all other human powers, with which no man can be satisfied who measures them by what he can conceive, or by what he can desire. He whose mind is most capacious, finds it much too narrow for his wishes; he that remembers most, remembers little compared with what he forgets. He, therefore, that, after the perusal of a book, finds few ideas remaining in his mind, is not to consider the disappointment as peculiar to himself, or to resign all hopes of improvement, because he does not retain what even the author has, perhaps, forgotten. He who compares his memory with that of others, is often too hasty to lament the inequality. Nature has sometimes, indeed, afforded examples of enormous, wonderful and gigantick memory. Scaliger reports of himself, that, in his youth, he could repeat above a hundred verses, having once read them; and Barthicus declares, that he wrote his comment upon Claudian without consulting the text. But not to have such degrees of memory is no more to be lamented, than not to have the strength of Hercules, or the swiftness of Achilles. He that, in the distribution of good, has an equal share with common men, may justly be contented. Where there is no striking disparity, it is difficult to know of two which remembers most, and still more difficult to discover which reads with greater attention, which has renewed the first impression by more frequent repetitions, or by what accidental combination of ideas either mind might have united any particular narrative or argument to its former stock. But memory, however impartially distributed, so often deceives our trust, that almost every man attempts, by some artifice or other, to secure its fidelity. It is the practice of many readers to note, in the margin of their books, the most important passages, the strongest arguments, or the brightest sentiments. Thus they load their minds with superfluous attention, repress the vehemence of curiosity by useless deliberation, and by frequent interruption break the current of narration or the chain of reason, and at last close the volume, and forget the passages and marks together. Others I have found unalterably persuaded, that nothing is certainly remembered but what is transcribed; and they have, therefore, passed weeks and months in transferring large quotations to a commonplace-book. Yet, why any part of a book, which can be consulted at pleasure, should be copied, I was never able to discover. The hand has no closer correspondence with the memory than the eye. The act of writing itself distracts the thoughts, and what is read twice is commonly better remembered than what is transcribed. This method, therefore, consumes time without assisting memory. The true art of memory is the art of attention. No man will read with much advantage, who is not able, at pleasure, to evacuate his mind, or who brings not to his author an intellect defecated and pure, neither turbid with care, nor agitated by pleasure. If the repositories of thought are already full, what can they receive? If the mind is employed on the past or future, the book will be held before the eyes in vain. What is read with delight is commonly retained, because pleasure always secures attention; but the books which are consulted by occasional necessity, and perused with impatience, seldom leave any traces on the mind. No. 75. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1759. In the time when Bassora was considered as the school of Asia, and flourished by the reputation of its professors and the confluence of its students, among the pupils that listened round the chair of Albumazar was Gelaleddin, a native of Tauris, in Persia, a young man amiable in his manners and beautiful in his form, of boundless curiosity, incessant diligence, and irresistible genius, of quick apprehension and tenacious memory, accurate without narrowness, and eager for novelty without inconstancy. No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, than his virtues and abilities raised him to distinction. He passed from class to class rather admired than envied by those whom the rapidity of his progress left behind; he was consulted by his fellow-students as an oraculous guide, and admitted as a competent auditor to the conferences of the sages. After a few years, having passed through all the exercises of probation, Gelaleddin was invited to a professor's seat, and entreated to increase the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin affected to deliberate on the proposal, with which, before he considered it, he resolved to comply; and next morning retired to a garden planted for the recreation of the students, and, entering a solitary walk, began to meditate upon his future life. "If I am thus eminent," said he, "in the regions of literature, I shall be yet more conspicuous in any other place; if I should now devote myself to study and retirement, I must pass my life in silence, unacquainted with the delights of wealth, the influence of power, the pomp of greatness, and the charms of elegance, with all that man envies and desires, with all that keeps the world in motion, by the hope of gaining or the fear of losing it. I will, therefore, depart to Tauris, where the Persian monarch resides in all the splendour of absolute dominion: my reputation will fly before me, my arrival will be congratulated by my kinsmen and my friends; I shall see the eyes of those who predict my greatness sparkling with exultation, and the faces of those that once despised me clouded with envy, or counterfeiting kindness by artificial smiles. I will show my wisdom by my discourse, and my moderation by my silence; I will instruct the modest with easy gentleness, and repress the ostentatious by seasonable superciliousness. My apartments will be crowded by the inquisitive and the vain, by those that honour and those that rival me; my name will soon reach the court; I shall stand before the throne of the emperour: the judges of the law will confess my wisdom, and the nobles will contend to heap gifts upon me. If I shall find that my merit, like that of others, excites malignity, or feel myself tottering on the seat of elevation, I may at last retire to academical obscurity, and become, in my lowest state, a professor of Bassora." Having thus settled his determination, he declared to his friends his design of visiting Tauris, and saw with more pleasure than he ventured to express, the regret with which he was dismissed. He could not bear to delay the honours to which he was destined, and, therefore, hastened away, and in a short time entered the capital of Persia. He was immediately immersed in the crowd, and passed unobserved to his father's house. He entered, and was received, though not unkindly, yet without any excess of fondness or exclamations of rapture. His father had, in his absence, suffered many losses, and Gelaleddin was considered as an additional burden to a falling family. When he recovered from his surprise, he began to display his acquisitions, and practised all the arts of narration and disquisition: but the poor have no leisure to be pleased with eloquence; they heard his arguments without reflection, and his pleasantries without a smile. He then applied himself singly to his brothers and sisters, but found them all chained down by invariable attention to their own fortunes, and insensible of any other excellence than that which could bring some remedy for indigence. It was now known in the neighbourhood that Gelaleddin was returned, and he sat for some days in expectation that the learned would visit him for consultation, or the great for entertainment. But who will be pleased or instructed in the mansions of poverty? He then frequented places of publick resort, and endeavoured to attract notice by the copiousness of his talk. The sprightly were silenced, and went away to censure, in some other place, his arrogance and his pedantry; and the dull listened quietly for a while, and then wondered why any man should take pains to obtain so much knowledge which would never do him good. He next solicited the visiers for employment, not doubting but his service would be eagerly accepted. He was told by one that there was no vacancy in his office; by another, that his merit was above any patronage but that of the emperour; by a third, that he would not forget him; and by the chief visier, that he did not think literature of any great use in publick business. He was sometimes admitted to their tables, where he exerted his wit and diffused his knowledge; but he observed, that where, by endeavour or accident, he had remarkably excelled, he was seldom invited a second time. He now returned to Bassora, wearied and disgusted, but confident of resuming his former rank, and revelling again in satiety of praise. But he who had been neglected at Tauris, was not much regarded at Bassora; he was considered as a fugitive, who returned only because he could live in no other place; his companions found that they had formerly overrated his abilities, and he lived long without notice or esteem. No. 76. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1759. TO THE IDLER, Sir, I was much pleased with your ridicule of those shallow criticks, whose judgment, though often right as far as it goes, yet reaches only to inferior beauties, and who, unable to comprehend the whole, judge only by parts, and from thence determine the merit of extensive works. But there is another kind of critick still worse, who judges by narrow rules, and those too often false, and which, though they should be true, and founded on nature, will lead him but a very little way toward the just estimation of the sublime beauties in works of genius; for whatever part of an art can be executed or criticised by rules, that part is no longer the work of genius, which implies excellence out of the reach of rules. For my own part, I profess myself an Idler, and love to give my judgment, such as it is, from my immediate perceptions, without much fatigue of thinking; and I am of opinion that, if a man has not those perceptions right, it will be vain for him to endeavour to supply their place by rules, which may enable him to talk more learnedly, but not to distinguish more acutely. Another reason which has lessened my affection for the study of criticism is, that criticks, so far as I have observed, debar themselves from receiving any pleasure from the polite arts, at the same time, that they profess to love and admire them: for these rules, being always uppermost, give them such a propensity to criticise, that, instead of giving up the reins of their imagination into their author's hands, their frigid minds are employed in examining whether the performance be according to the rules of art. To those who are resolved to be criticks in spite of nature, and, at the same time, have no great disposition to much reading and study, I would recommend to them to assume the character of connoisseur, which may be purchased at a much cheaper rate than that of a critick in poetry. The remembrance of a few names of painters, with their general characters, with a few rules of the academy, which they may pick up among the painters, will go a great way towards making a very notable connoisseur. With a gentleman of this cast, I visited last week the Cartoons at Hampton-court; he was just returned from Italy, a connoisseur of course, and of course his mouth full of nothing but the grace of Raffaelle, the purity of Domenichino, the learning of Poussin, the air of Guido, the greatness of taste of the Carraccis, and the sublimity and grand contorno of Michael Angelo; with all the rest of the cant of criticism, which he emitted with that volubility which generally those orators have who annex no ideas to their words. As we were passing through the rooms, in our way to the gallery, I made him observe a whole length of Charles the First by Vandyke, as a perfect representation of the character as well as the figure of the man. He agreed it was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast, and had not the flowing line, without which a figure could not possibly be graceful. When we entered the gallery, I thought I could perceive him recollecting his rules by which he was to criticise Raffaelle. I shall pass over his observation of the boats being too little, and other criticisms of that kind, till we arrive at St. Paul preaching. "This," says he, "is esteemed the most excellent of all the cartoons; what nobleness, what dignity, there is in that figure of St. Paul! and yet what an addition to that nobleness could Raffaelle have given, had the art of contrast been known in his time! but, above all, the flowing line which constitutes grace and beauty! You would not have then seen an upright figure standing equally on both legs, and both hands stretched forward in the same direction, and his drapery, to all appearance, without the least art of disposition." The following picture is the Charge to Peter. "Here," says he, "are twelve upright figures; what a pity it is that Raffaelle was not acquainted with the pyramidal principle! He would then have contrived the figures in the middle to have been on higher ground, or the figures at the extremities stooping or lying, which would not only have formed the group into the shape of a pyramid, but likewise contrasted the standing figures. Indeed," added he, "I have often lamented that so great a genius as Raffaelle had not lived in this enlightened age, since the art has been reduced to principles, and had had his education in one of the modern academies; what glorious works might we have then expected from his divine pencil!" I shall trouble you no longer with my friend's observations, which, I suppose, you are now able to continue by yourself. It is curious to observe, that, at the same time that great admiration is pretended for a name of fixed reputation, objections are raised against those very qualities by which that great name was acquired. Those criticks are continually lamenting that Raffaelle had not the colouring and harmony of Rubens, or the light and shadow of Rembrant, without considering how much the gay harmony of the former, and affectation of the latter, would take from the dignity of Raffaelle; and yet Rubens had great harmony, and Rembrant understood light and shadow: but what may be an excellence in a lower class of painting, becomes a blemish in a higher; as the quick, sprightly turn, which is the life and beauty of epigrammatick compositions, would but ill suit with the majesty of heroick poetry. To conclude; I would not be thought to infer, from any thing that has been said, that rules are absolutely unnecessary; but to censure scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute exactness, which is sometimes inconsistent with higher excellency, and is lost in the blaze of expanded genius. I do not know whether you will think painting a general subject. By inserting this letter, perhaps, you will incur the censure a man would deserve, whose business being to entertain a whole room, should turn his back to the company, and talk to a particular person[1]. I am, Sir, &c. [1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds. No. 77. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1759. Easy poetry is universally admired; but I know not whether any rule has yet been fixed, by which it may be decided when poetry can be properly called easy. Horace has told us, that it is such as "every reader hopes to equal, but after long labour finds unattainable." This is a very loose description, in which only the effect is noted; the qualities which produce this effect remain to be investigated. Easy poetry is that in which natural thoughts are expressed without violence to the language. The discriminating character of ease consists principally in the diction; for all true poetry requires that the sentiments be natural. Language suffers violence by harsh or by daring figures, by transposition, by unusual acceptations of words, and by any licence, which would be avoided by a writer of prose. Where any artifice appears in the construction of the verse, that verse is no longer easy. Any epithet which can be ejected without diminution of the sense, any curious iteration of the same word, and all unusual, though not ungrammatical structure of speech, destroy the grace of easy poetry. The first lines of Pope's Iliad afford examples of many licences which an easy writer must decline: Achilles' _wrath_, to Greece the _direful spring_ Of woes unnumber'd, _heav'nly_ Goddess sing; The wrath which _hurl'd_ to Pluto's _gloomy reign_ The souls of _mighty_ chiefs untimely slain. In the first couplet the language is distorted by inversions, clogged with superfluities, and clouded by a harsh metaphor; and in the second there are two words used in an uncommon sense, and two epithets inserted only to lengthen the line; all these practices may in a long work easily be pardoned, but they always produce some degree of obscurity and ruggedness. Easy poetry has been so long excluded by ambition of ornament, and luxuriance of imagery, that its nature seems now to be forgotten. Affectation, however opposite to ease, is sometimes mistaken for it; and those who aspire to gentle elegance, collect female phrases and fashionable barbarisms, and imagine that style to be easy which custom has made familiar. Such was the idea of the poet who wrote the following verses to a _countess cutting paper_: Pallas grew _vap'rish once and odd_, She would not _do the least right thing_ Either for Goddess or for God, Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing. Jove frown'd, and "Use (he cried) those eyes So skilful, and those hands so taper; Do something exquisite and wise"-- She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper. This vexing him who gave her birth, Thought by all Heaven a _burning shame_, _What does she next_, but bids on earth Her Burlington do just the same? Pallas, you give yourself _strange airs_; But sure you'll find it hard to spoil The sense and taste of one that bears The name of Savile and of Boyle. Alas! one bad example shown, How quickly all the sex pursue! See, madam! see the arts o'erthrown Between John Overton and _you_. It is the prerogative of easy poetry to be understood as long as the language lasts; but modes of speech, which owe their prevalence only to modish folly, or to the eminence of those that use them, die away with their inventors, and their meaning, in a few years, is no longer known. Easy poetry is commonly sought in petty compositions upon minute subjects; but ease, though it excludes pomp, will admit greatness. Many lines in Cato's soliloquy are at once easy and sublime: 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. --If there's a Power above us, And that there is all Nature cries aloud Through all her works, he must delight in virtue, And that which he delights in must be happy. Nor is ease more contrary to wit than to sublimity; the celebrated stanza of Cowley, on a lady elaborately dressed, loses nothing of its freedom by the spirit of the sentiment: Th' adorning thee with so much art Is but a barb'rous skill; 'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart, Too apt before to kill. Cowley seems to have possessed the power of writing easily beyond any other of our poets; yet his pursuit of remote thought led him often into harshness of expression. Waller often attempted, but seldom attained it; for he is too frequently driven into transpositions. The poets, from the time of Dryden, have gradually advanced in embellishment, and consequently departed from simplicity and ease. To require from any author many pieces of easy poetry, would be indeed to oppress him with too hard a task. It is less difficult to write a volume of lines swelled with epithets, brightened by figures, and stiffened by transpositions, than to produce a few couplets graced only by naked elegance and simple purity, which require so much care and skill, that I doubt whether any of our authors have yet been able, for twenty lines together, nicely to observe the true definition of easy poetry. No. 78. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1759. I have passed the summer in one of those places to which a mineral spring gives the idle and luxurious an annual reason for resorting, whenever they fancy themselves offended by the heat of London. What is the true motive of this periodical assembly, I have never yet been able to discover. The greater part of the visitants neither feel diseases nor fear them. What pleasure can be expected more than the variety of the journey, I know not, for the numbers are too great for privacy, and too small for diversion. As each is known to be a spy upon the rest, they all live in continual restraint; and having but a narrow range for censure, they gratify its cravings by preying on one another. But every condition has some advantages. In this confinement, a smaller circle affords opportunities for more exact observation. The glass that magnifies its object contracts the sight to a point; and the mind must be fixed upon a single character to remark its minute peculiarities. The quality or habit which passes unobserved in the tumult of successive multitudes, becomes conspicuous when it is offered to the notice day after day; and, perhaps, I have, without any distinct notice, seen thousands like my late companions; for when the scene can be varied at pleasure, a slight disgust turns us aside before a deep impression can be made upon the mind. There was a select set, supposed to be distinguished by superiority of intellects, who always passed the evening together. To be admitted to their conversation was the highest honour of the place; many youths aspired to distinction, by pretending to occasional invitations; and the ladies were often wishing to be men, that they might partake the pleasures of learned society. I know not whether by merit or destiny, I was, soon after my arrival, admitted to this envied party, which I frequented till I had learned the art by which each endeavoured to support his character. Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of uncontroverted truth; and by keeping himself out of the reach of contradiction had acquired all the confidence which the consciousness of irresistible abilities could have given. I was once mentioning a man of eminence, and, after having recounted his virtues, endeavoured to represent him fully, by mentioning his faults. "Sir," said Mr. Steady, "that he has faults I can easily believe, for who is without them? No man, Sir, is now alive, among the innumerable multitudes that swarm upon the earth, however wise, or however good, who has not, in some degree, his failings and his faults. If there be any man faultless, bring him forth into publick view, show him openly, and let him be known; but I will venture to affirm, and, till the contrary be plainly shown, shall always maintain, that no such man is to be found. Tell not me, Sir, of impeccability and perfection; such talk is for those that are strangers in the world: I have seen several nations, and conversed with all ranks of people; I have known the great and the mean, the learned and the ignorant, the old and the young, the clerical and the lay; but I have never found a man without a fault; and I suppose shall die in the opinion, that to be human is to be frail." To all this nothing could be opposed. I listened with a hanging head; Mr. Steady looked round on the hearers with triumph, and saw every eye congratulating his victory; he departed, and spent the next morning in following those who retired from the company, and telling them, with injunctions of secrecy, how poor Spritely began to take liberties with men wiser than himself; but that he suppressed him by a decisive argument, which put him totally to silence. Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy sententiousness: he never immerges himself in the stream of conversation, but lies to catch his companions in the eddy: he is often very successful in breaking narratives and confounding eloquence. A gentleman, giving the history of one of his acquaintance, made mention of a lady that had many lovers: "Then," said Dick, "she was either handsome or rich." This observation being well received, Dick watched the progress of the tale; and, hearing of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, that "no man was ever drowned upon dry land." Will Startle is a man of exquisite sensibility, whose delicacy of frame and quickness of discernment subject him to impressions from the slightest causes; and who, therefore, passes his life between rapture and horrour, in quiverings of delight, or convulsions of disgust. His emotions are too violent for many words; his thoughts are always discovered by exclamations. _Vile, odious, horrid, detestable_, and _sweet, charming, delightful, astonishing_, compose almost his whole vocabulary, which he utters with various contortions and gesticulations, not easily related or described. Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who utters nothing but quotations; but having been, I suppose, too confident of his memory, he has for some time neglected his books, and his stock grows every day more scanty. Mr. Solid has found an opportunity every night to repeat, from Hudibras, Doubtless the pleasure is as great Of being cheated, as to cheat; and from Waller, Poets lose half the praise they would have got, Were it but known what they discreetly blot. Dick Misty is a man of deep research, and forcible penetration. Others are content with superficial appearances; but Dick holds, that there is no effect without a cause, and values himself upon his power of explaining the difficult and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dispute among us, which of two young strangers was more beautiful, "You," says Mr. Misty, turning to me, "like Amaranthia better than Chloris. I do not wonder at the preference, for the cause is evident: there is in man a perception of harmony, and a sensibility of perfection, which touches the finer fibres of the mental texture; and before reason can descend from her throne, to pass her sentence upon the things compared, drives us towards the object proportioned to our faculties, by an impulse gentle, yet irresistible; for the harmonick system of the Universe, and the reciprocal magnetism of similar natures, are always operating towards conformity and union; nor can the powers of the soul cease from agitation, till they find something on which they can repose." To this nothing was opposed; and Amaranthia was acknowledged to excel Chloris. Of the rest you may expect an account from, Sir, yours, ROBIN SPRITELY. No. 79. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, Your acceptance of a former letter on painting gives me encouragement to offer a few more sketches on the same subject. Amongst the painters, and the writers on painting, there is one maxim universally admitted and continually inculcated. _Imitate nature_ is the invariable rule; but I know none who have explained in what manner this rule is to be understood; the consequence of which is, that every one takes it in the most obvious sense, that objects are represented naturally when they have such relief that they seem real. It may appear strange, perhaps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed; but it must be considered, that, if the excellency of a painter consisted only in this kind of imitation, painting must lose its rank, and be no longer considered as a liberal art, and sister to poetry, this imitation being merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect is always sure to succeed best: for the painter of genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in which the understanding has no part; and what pretence has the art to claim kindred with poetry, but by its powers over the imagination? To this power the painter of genius directs his aim; in this sense he studies nature, and often arrives at his end, even by being unnatural in the confined sense of the word. The grand style of painting requires this minute attention to be carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the style of poetry from that of history. Poetical ornaments destroy that air of truth and plainness which ought to characterize history; but the very being of poetry consists in departing from this plain narration, and adopting every ornament that will warm the imagination. To desire to see the excellencies of each style united, to mingle the Dutch with the Italian school, is to join contrarieties which cannot subsist together, and which destroy the efficacy of each other. The Italian attends only to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and inherent in universal nature; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal truth and a minute exactness in the detail, as I may say, of nature modified by accident. The attention to these petty peculiarities is the very cause of this naturalness so much admired in the Dutch pictures, which, if we suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a lower order, which ought to give place to a beauty of a superior kind, since one cannot be obtained but by departing from the other. If my opinion was asked concerning the works of Michael Angelo, whether they would receive any advantage from possessing this mechanical merit, I should not scruple to say, they would not only receive no advantage, but would lose, in a great measure, the effect which they now have on every mind susceptible of great and noble ideas. His works may be said to be all genius and soul; and why should they be loaded with heavy matter, which can only counteract his purpose by retarding the progress of the imagination? If this opinion should be thought one of the wild extravagancies of enthusiasm, I shall only say, that those who censure it are not conversant in the works of the great masters. It is very difficult to determine the exact degree of enthusiasm that the arts of painting and poetry may admit. There may, perhaps, be too great an indulgence, as well as too great a restraint of imagination; and if the one produces incoherent monsters, the other produces what is full as bad, lifeless insipidity. An intimate knowledge of the passions, and good sense, but not common sense, must at last determine its limits. It has been thought, and I believe with reason, that Michael Angelo sometimes trangressed those limits; and I think I have seen figures of him of which it was very difficult to determine whether they were in the highest degree sublime or extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said to be the ebullitions of genius; but at least he had this merit, that he never was insipid, and whatever passion his works may excite, they will always escape contempt. What I have had under consideration is the sublimest style, particularly that of Michael Angelo, the Homer of painting. Other kinds may admit of this naturalness, which of the lowest kind is the chief merit; but in painting, as in poetry, the highest style has the least of common nature. One may very safely recommend a little more enthusiasm to the modern painters; too much is certainly not the vice of the present age. The Italians seem to have been continually declining, in this respect, from the time of Michael Angelo to that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to the very bathos of insipidity to which they are now sunk; so that there is no need of remarking, that, where I mentioned the Italian painters in opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the moderns, but the heads of the old Roman and Bolognian schools; nor did I mean to include in my idea of an Italian painter, the Venetian school, which may be said to be the Dutch part of the Italian genius. I have only to add a word of advice to the painters, that, however excellent they may be in painting naturally, they would not flatter themselves very much upon it, and to the connoisseurs, that when they see a cat or fiddle painted so finely, that, as the phrase is, "it looks as if you could take it up," they would not for that reason immediately compare the painter to Raffaelle and Michael Angelo.[1] [1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds. No. 80. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1759. That every day has its pains and sorrows is universally experienced, and almost universally confessed; but let us not attend only to mournful truths; if we look impartially about us, we shall find that every day has likewise its pleasures and its joys. The time is now come when the town is again beginning to be full, and the rusticated beauty sees an end of her banishment. Those whom the tyranny of fashion had condemned to pass the summer among shades and brooks, are now preparing to return to plays, balls and assemblies, with health restored by retirement, and spirits kindled by expectation. Many a mind, which has languished some months without emotion or desire, now feels a sudden renovation of its faculties. It was long ago observed by Pythagoras, that ability and necessity dwell near each other. She that wandered in the garden without sense of its fragrance, and lay day after day stretched upon a couch behind a green curtain, unwilling to wake, and unable to sleep, now summons her thoughts to consider which of her last year's clothes shall be seen again, and to anticipate the raptures of a new suit; the day and the night are now filled with occupation; the laces, which were too fine to be worn among rusticks, are taken from the boxes and reviewed; and the eye is no sooner closed after its labours, than whole shops of silk busy the fancy. But happiness is nothing, if it is not known, and very little, if it is not envied. Before the day of departure a week is always appropriated to the payment and reception of ceremonial visits, at which nothing can be mentioned but the delights of London. The lady who is hastening to the scene of action flutters her wings, displays her prospects of felicity, tells how she grudges every moment of delay, and, in the presence of those whom she knows condemned to stay at home, is sure to wonder by what arts life can be made supportable through a winter in the country, and to tell how often, amidst the ecstasies of an opera, she shall pity those friends whom she has left behind. Her hope of giving pain is seldom disappointed; the affected indifference of one, the faint congratulations of another, the wishes of some openly confessed, and the silent dejection of the rest, all exalt her opinion of her own superiority. But, however we may labour for our own deception, truth, though unwelcome, will sometimes intrude upon the mind. They who have already enjoyed the crowds and noise of the great city, know that their desire to return is little more than the restlessness of a vacant mind, that they are not so much led by hope as driven by disgust, and wish rather to leave the country than to see the town. There is commonly in every coach a passenger enwrapped in silent expectation, whose joy is more sincere, and whose hopes are more exalted. The virgin whom the last summer released from her governess, and who is now going between her mother and her aunt to try the fortune of her wit and beauty, suspects no fallacy in the gay representation. She believes herself passing into another world, and images London as an elysian region, where every hour has its proper pleasure, where nothing is seen but the blaze of wealth, and nothing heard but merriment and flattery; where the morning always rises on a show, and the evening closes on a ball; where the eyes are used only to sparkle, and the feet only to dance. Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves on the road, with telling her of dangers to be dreaded, and cautions to be observed. She hears them as they heard their predecessors, with incredulity or contempt. She sees that they have ventured and escaped; and one of the pleasures which she promises herself is to detect their falsehoods, and be freed from their admonitions. We are inclined to believe those whom we do not know, because they have never deceived us. The fair adventurer may, perhaps, listen to the Idler, whom she cannot suspect of rivalry or malice; yet he scarcely expects to be credited when he tells her, that her expectations will likewise end in disappointment. The uniform necessities of human nature produce, in a great measure, uniformity of life, and for part of the day make one place like another; to dress and to undress, to eat and to sleep, are the same in London as in the country. The supernumerary hours have, indeed, a great variety both of pleasure and of pain. The stranger, gazed on by multitudes at her first appearance in the Park, is, perhaps, on the highest summit of female happiness; but how great is the anguish when the novelty of another face draws her worshippers away! The heart may leap for a time under a fine gown; but the sight of a gown yet finer puts an end to rapture. In the first row at an opera, two hours may be happily passed in listening to the musick on the stage, and watching the glances of the company; but how will the night end in despondency when she, that imagined herself the sovereign of the place, sees lords contending to lead Iris to her chair! There is little pleasure in conversation, to her whose wit is regarded but in the second place; and who can dance with ease or spirit that sees Amaryllis led out before her? She that fancied nothing but a succession of pleasures, will find herself engaged without design in numberless competitions, and mortified, without provocation, with numberless afflictions. But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour which I wish to moderate, or to discourage those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. To know the world is necessary, since we were born for the help of one another; and to know it early is convenient, if it be only that we may learn early to despise it. She that brings to London a mind well prepared for improvement, though she misses her hope of uninterrupted happiness, will gain in return an opportunity of adding knowledge to vivacity, and enlarging innocence to virtue. No. 81. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1759. As the English army was passing towards Quebec along a soft savanna between a mountain and a lake, one of the petty chiefs of the inland regions stood upon a rock surrounded by his clan, and from behind the shelter of the bushes contemplated the art and regularity of European war. It was evening, the tents were pitched: he observed the security with which the troops rested in the night, and the order with which the march was renewed in the morning. He continued to pursue them with his eye till they could be seen no longer, and then stood for some time silent and pensive. Then turning to his followers, "My children," said he, "I have often heard from men hoary with long life, that there was a time when our ancestors were absolute lords of the woods, the meadows and the lakes, wherever the eye can reach or the foot can pass. They fished and hunted, feasted and danced, and when they were weary lay down under the first thicket, without danger and without fear. They changed their habitations, as the seasons required, convenience prompted, or curiosity allured them; and sometimes gathered the fruits of the mountain, and sometimes sported in canoes along the coast. "Many years and ages are supposed to have been thus passed in plenty and security; when, at last, a new race of men entered our country from the great ocean. They inclosed themselves in habitations of stone, which our ancestors could neither enter by violence, nor destroy by fire. They issued from those fastnesses, sometimes covered, like the armadillo, with shells, from which the lance rebounded on the striker, and sometimes carried by mighty beasts which had never been seen in our vales or forests, of such strength and swiftness, that flight and opposition were vain alike. Those invaders ranged over the continent slaughtering, in their rage, those that resisted, and those that submitted, in their mirth. Of those that remained, some were buried in caverns, and condemned to dig metals for their masters; some were employed in tilling the ground, of which foreign tyrants devour the produce; and, when the sword and the mines have destroyed the natives, they supply their place by human beings of another colour, brought from some distant country to perish here under toil and torture. "Some there are who boast their humanity, and content themselves to seize our chases and fisheries, who drive us from every tract of ground where fertility and pleasantness invite them to settle, and make no war upon us except when we intrude upon our own lands. "Others pretend to have purchased a right of residence and tyranny; but surely the insolence of such bargains is more offensive than the avowed and open dominion of force. What reward can induce the possessour of a country to admit a stranger more powerful than himself? Fraud or terrour must operate in such contracts; either they promised protection which they never have afforded, or instruction which they never imparted. We hoped to be secured by their favour from some other evil, or to learn the arts of Europe, by which we might be able to secure ourselves. Their power they never have exerted in our defence, and their arts they have studiously concealed from us. Their treaties are only to deceive, and their traffick only to defraud us. They have a written law among them, of which they boast, as derived from Him who made the earth and sea, and by which they profess to believe that man will be made happy when life shall forsake him. Why is not this law communicated to us? It is concealed because it is violated. For how can they preach it to an Indian nation, when I am told that one of its first precepts forbids them to do to others what they would not that others should do to them? "But the time, perhaps, is now approaching, when the pride of usurpation shall be crushed, and the cruelties of invasion shall be revenged. The sons of rapacity have now drawn their swords upon each other, and referred their claims to the decision of war; let us look unconcerned upon the slaughter, and remember that the death of every European delivers the country from a tyrant and a robber; for what is the claim of either nation, but the claim of the vulture to the leveret, of the tiger to the fawn? Let them then continue to dispute their title to regions which they cannot people, to purchase by danger and blood the empty dignity of dominion over mountains which they will never climb, and rivers which they will never pass. Let us endeavour, in the mean time, to learn their discipline, and to forge their weapons; and, when they shall be weakened with mutual slaughter, let us rush down upon them, force their remains to take shelter in their ships, and reign once more in our native country[1]." [1] "How far the seizing on countries already peopled, and driving out or massacring the innocent and defenceless natives, merely because they differed from their invaders in language, in religion, in customs, in government or in colour; how far such a conduct was consonant to nature, to reason or to Christianity, deserved well to be considered by those who have rendered their names immortal by thus civilizing mankind." Blackstone, Com. ii. 7. I love the University of Salamanca, said Johnson, with warm emotion, for when the Spaniards were in doubt as to the lawfulness of their conquering America, the University of Salamanca gave it as their opinion, that it was not lawful. Boswell, i. 434. The untaught eloquence of Indian feeling is well preserved in the language of Gertrude of Wyoming. No. 82. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, Discoursing in my last letter on the different practice of the Italian and Dutch painters, I observed, that "the Italian painter attends only to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and inherent in universal nature." I was led into the subject of this letter by endeavouring to fix the original cause of this conduct of the Italian masters. If it can be proved that by this choice they selected the most beautiful part of the creation, it will show how much their principles are founded on reason, and, at the same time, discover the origin of our ideas of beauty. I suppose it will be easily granted, that no man can judge whether any animal be beautiful in its kind, or deformed, who has seen only one of that species: this is as conclusive in regard to the human figure; so that if a man, born blind, was to recover his sight, and the most beautiful woman was brought before him, he could not determine whether she was handsome or not; nor, if the most beautiful and most deformed were produced, could he any better determine to which he should give the preference, having seen only those two. To distinguish beauty, then, implies the having seen many individuals of that species. If it is asked, how is more skill acquired by the observation of greater numbers? I answer that, in consequence of having seen many, the power is acquired, even without seeking after it, of distinguishing between accidental blemishes and excrescences which are continually varying the surface of Nature's works, and the invariable general form which Nature most frequently produces, and always seems to intend in her productions. Thus, amongst the blades of grass or leaves of the same tree, though no two can be found exactly alike, yet the general form is invariable: a naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, would examine many, since, if he took the first that occurred, it might have, by accident or otherwise, such a form as that it would scarcely be known to belong to that species; he selects, as the painter does, the most beautiful, that is, the most general form of nature. Every species of the animal, as well as the vegetable creation, may be said to have a fixed or determinate form towards which nature is continually inclining, like various lines terminating in the centre; or it may be compared to pendulums vibrating in different directions over one central point; and as they all cross the centre, though only one passes through any other point, so it will be found that perfect beauty is oftener produced by nature than deformity; I do not mean than deformity in general, but than any one kind of deformity. To instance in a particular part of a feature: the line that forms the ridge of the nose is beautiful when it is straight; this then is the central form, which is oftener found than either concave, convex or any other irregular form that shall be proposed. As we are then more accustomed to beauty than deformity, we may conclude that to be the reason why we approve and admire it, as we approve and admire customs and fashions of dress for no other reason than that we are used to them; so that, though habit and custom cannot be said to be the cause of beauty, it is certainly the cause of our liking it; and I have no doubt but that, if we were more used to deformity than beauty, deformity would then lose the idea now annexed to it, and take that of beauty; as, if the whole world should agree that _yes_ and _no_ should change their meanings, _yes_ would then deny, and _no_ would affirm. Whoever undertakes to proceed further in this argument, and endeavours to fix a general criterion of beauty respecting different species, or to show why one species is more beautiful than another, it will be required from him first to prove that one species is really more beautiful than another. That we prefer one to the other, and with very good reason, will be readily granted; but it does not follow from thence that we think it a more beautiful form; for we have no criterion of form by which to determine our judgment. He who says a swan is more beautiful than a dove, means little more than that he has more pleasure in seeing a swan than a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, or its being a more rare bird; and he who gives the preference to the dove, does it from some association of ideas of innocence that he always annexes to the dove; but, if he pretends to defend the preference he gives to one or the other by endeavouring to prove that this more beautiful form proceeds from a particular gradation of magnitude, undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, or whatever other conceit of his imagination he shall fix on as a criterion of form, he will be continually contradicting himself, and find at last, that the great Mother of Nature will not be subjected to such narrow rules. Among the various reasons why we prefer one part of her works to another, the most general, I believe, is habit and custom; custom makes, in a certain sense, white black, and black white; it is custom alone determines our preference of the colour of the Europeans to the Aethiopians; and they, for the same reason, prefer their own colour to ours. I suppose nobody will doubt, if one of their painters were to paint the goddess of beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat nose, and woolly hair; and, it seems to me, he would act very unnaturally if he did not; for by what criterion will any one dispute the propriety of his idea? We, indeed, say, that the form and colour of the European is preferable to that of the Aethiopian; but I know of no reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it. It is absurd to say, that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, which irresistibly seize the corresponding mind with love and admiration, since that argument is equally conclusive in favour of the white and the black philosopher. The black and white nations must, in respect of beauty, be considered as of different kinds, at least a different species of the same kind; from one of which to the other, as I observed, no inference can be drawn. Novelty is said to be one of the causes of beauty: that novelty is a very sufficient reason why we should admire, is not denied; but, because it is uncommon, is it, therefore, beautiful? The beauty that is produced by colour, as when we prefer one bird to another, though of the same form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do with this argument, which reaches only to form. I have here considered the word _beauty_ as being properly applied to form alone. There is a necessity of fixing this confined sense; for there can be no argument, if the sense of the word is extended to every thing that is approved. A rose may as well be said to be beautiful, because it has a fine smell, as a bird because of its colour. When we apply the word _beauty_ we do not mean always by it a more beautiful form, but something valuable on account of its rarity, usefulness, colour, or any other property. A horse is said to be a beautiful animal; but, had a horse as few good qualities as a tortoise, I do not imagine that he would be then esteemed beautiful. A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be another cause of beauty; but supposing we were proper judges of what form is the most proper in an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, we always determine concerning its beauty, before we exert our understanding to judge of its fitness. From what has been said, it may be inferred, that the works of nature, if we compare one species with another, are all equally beautiful; and that preference is given from custom, or some association of ideas: and that, in creatures of the same species, beauty is the medium or centre of all various forms. To conclude, then, by way of corollary: If it has been proved, that the painter, by attending to the invariable and general ideas of nature, produces beauty, he must, by regarding minute particularities and accidental discriminations, deviate from the universal rule, and pollute his canvass with deformity[1]. [1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds. No. 83. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I suppose you have forgotten that many weeks ago I promised to send you an account of my companions at the Wells. You would not deny me a place among the most faithful votaries of idleness, if you knew how often I have recollected my engagement, and contented myself to delay the performance for some reason which I durst not examine because I knew it to be false; how often I have sat down to write, and rejoiced at interruption; and how often I have praised the dignity of resolution, determined at night to write in the morning, and deferred it in the morning to the quiet hours of night. I have at last begun what I have long wished at an end, and find it more easy than I expected to continue my narration. Our assembly could boast no such constellation of intellects as Clarendon's band of associates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland or Waller; but we had men not less important in their own eyes, though less distinguished by the publick; and many a time have we lamented the partiality of mankind, and agreed that men of the deepest inquiry sometimes let their discoveries die away in silence, that the most comprehensive observers have seldom opportunities of imparting their remarks, and that modest merit passes in the crowd unknown and unheeded. One of the greatest men of the society was Sim Scruple, who lives in a continual equipoise of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidence and dogmatism. Sim's favourite topick of conversation is the narrowness of the human mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the prevalence of early prejudice, and the uncertainty of appearances. Sim has many doubts about the nature of death, and is sometimes inclined to believe that sensation may survive motion, and that a dead man may feel though he cannot stir. He has sometimes hinted that man might, perhaps, have been naturally a quadruped; and thinks it would be very proper, that at the Foundling Hospital some children should be inclosed in an apartment in which the nurses should be obliged to walk half upon four and half upon two legs, that the younglings, being bred without the prejudice of example, might have no other guide than nature, and might at last come forth into the world as genius should direct, erect or prone, on two legs or on four. The next, in dignity of mien and fluency of talk, was Dick Wormwood, whose sole delight is to find every thing wrong. Dick never enters a room but he shows that the door and the chimney are ill-placed. He never walks into the fields but he finds ground ploughed which is fitter for pasture. He is always an enemy to the present fashion. He holds that all the beauty and virtue of women will soon be destroyed by the use of tea[1]. He triumphs when he talks on the present system of education, and tells us, with great vehemence, that we are learning words when we should learn things. He is of opinion that we suck in errours at the nurse's breast, and thinks it extremely ridiculous that children should be taught to use the right hand rather than the left. Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour to say again what he has once said, and wonders how any man, that has been known to alter his opinion, can look his neighbours in the face. Bob is the most formidable disputant of the whole company; for, without troubling himself to search for reasons, he tires his antagonist with repeated affirmations. When Bob has been attacked for an hour with all the powers of eloquence and reason, and his position appears to all but himself utterly untenable, he always closes the debate with his first declaration, introduced by a stout preface of contemptuous civility. "All this is very judicious; you may talk, Sir, as you please; but I will still say what I said at first." Bob deals much in universals, which he has now obliged us to let pass without exceptions. He lives on an annuity, and holds that _there are as many thieves as traders_; he is of loyalty unshaken, and always maintains, that _he who sees a Jacobite sees a rascal_. Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of contradiction and the turbulence of debate. Phil has no notions of his own, and, therefore, willingly catches from the last speaker such as he shall drop. This flexibility of ignorance is easily accommodated to any tenet; his only difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, how to be of two contrary opinions at once. If no appeal is made to his judgment, he has the art of distributing his attention and his smiles in such a manner, that each thinks him of his own party; but if he is obliged to speak, he then observes that the question is difficult; that he never received so much pleasure from a debate before; that neither of the controvertists could have found his match in any other company; that Mr. Wormwood's assertion is very well supported, and yet there is great force in what Mr. Scruple advanced against it. By this indefinite declaration both are commonly satisfied; for he that has prevailed is in good humour; and he that has felt his own weakness is very glad to have escaped so well. I am, Sir, yours, &c. ROBIN SPRITELY. [1] Dr. Johnson was, as he has humorously described himself, "a hardened and shameless tea-drinker." See his amusing Review of a Journal of Eight Days' Journey and his Reply to a paper in the Gazetteer, May 26, 1757. No. 84. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1759. Biography is, of the various kinds of narrative writing, that which is most eagerly read, and most easily applied to the purposes of life. In romances, when the wide field of possibility lies open to invention, the incidents may easily be made more numerous, the vicissitudes more sudden, and the events more wonderful; but from the time of life when fancy begins to be overruled by reason and corrected by experience, the most artful tale raises little curiosity when it is known to be false[1]; though it may, perhaps, be sometimes read as a model of a neat or elegant style, not for the sake of knowing what it contains, but how it is written; or those that are weary of themselves, may have recourse to it as a pleasing dream, of which, when they awake, they voluntarily dismiss the images from their minds. The examples and events of history press, indeed, upon the mind with the weight of truth; but when they are reposited in the memory, they are oftener employed for show than use, and rather diversify conversation than regulate life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give them opportunities of growing wiser by the downfal of statesmen or the defeat of generals. The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of courts, are read by far the greater part of mankind with the same indifference as the adventures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a fairy region. Between falsehood and useless truth there is little difference. As gold which he cannot spend will make no man rich, so knowledge which he cannot apply will make no man wise. The mischievous consequences of vice and folly, of irregular desires and predominant passions, are best discovered by those relations which are levelled with the general surface of life, which tell not how any man became great, but how he was made happy; not how he lost the favour of his prince, but how he became discontented with himself. Those relations are, therefore, commonly of most value in which the writer tells his own story. He that recounts the life of another, commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, lessens the familiarity of his tale to increase its dignity, shows his favourite at a distance, decorated and magnified like the ancient actors in their tragick dress, and endeavours to hide the man that he may produce a hero. But if it be true, which was said by a French prince, "that no man was a hero to the servants of his chamber," it is equally true, that every man is yet less a hero to himself. He that is most elevated above the crowd by the importance of his employments, or the reputation of his genius, feels himself affected by fame or business but as they influence his domestick life. The high and low, as they have the same faculties and the same senses, have no less similitude in their pains and pleasures. The sensations are the same in all, though produced by very different occasions. The prince feels the same pain when an invader seizes a province, as the farmer when a thief drives away his cow. Men thus equal in themselves will appear equal in honest and impartial biography; and those whom fortune or nature places at the greatest distance may afford instruction to each other. The writer of his own life has, at least, the first qualification of an historian, the knowledge of the truth; and though it may be plausibly objected that his temptations to disguise it are equal to his opportunities of knowing it, yet I cannot but think that impartiality may be expected with equal confidence from him that relates the passages of his own life, as from him that delivers the transactions of another. Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mistake, but fortifies veracity. What we collect by conjecture, and by conjecture only, can one man judge of another's motives or sentiments, is easily modified by fancy or by desire; as objects imperfectly discerned take forms from the hope or fear of the beholder. But that which is fully known cannot be falsified but with reluctance of understanding, and alarm of conscience: of understanding, the lover of truth; of conscience, the sentinel of virtue. He that writes the life of another is either his friend or his enemy, and wishes either to exalt his praise or aggravate his infamy: many temptations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of passions, too specious to fear much resistance. Love of virtue will animate panegyrick, and hatred of wickedness imbitter censure. The zeal of gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or fidelity to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance of a mind habitually well disposed, and prevail over unassisted and unfriended veracity. But he that speaks of himself has no motive to falsehood or partiality except self-love, by which all have so often been betrayed, that all are on the watch against its artifices. He that writes an apology for a single action, to confute an accusation, to recommend himself to favour, is, indeed, always to be suspected of favouring his own cause; but he that sits down calmly and voluntarily to review his life for the admonition of posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this account unpublished, may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since falsehood cannot appease his own mind, and fame will not be heard beneath the tomb. [1] It is somewhere recorded of a retired citizen, that he was in the habit of again and again perusing the incomparable story of Robinson Crusoe without a suspicion of its authenticity. At length a friend assured him of its being a work of fiction. What you say, replied the old man mournfully, may be true; but your information has taken away the only comfort of my age. --Pol, me occidistis, amici, Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas, Et demtus per vim mentis gratissimus error. HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. ii. 138. No. 85. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1759. One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the multiplication of books. Every day brings new advertisements of literary undertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing wise on easier terms than our progenitors. How much either happiness or knowledge is advanced by this multitude of authors, it is not very easy to decide. He that teaches us any thing which we knew not before, is undoubtedly to be reverenced as a master. He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing ways, may very properly be loved as a benefactor; and he that supplies life with innocent amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleasing companion. But few of those who fill the world with books have any pretensions to the hope either of pleasing or instructing. They have often no other task than to lay two books before them, out of which they compile a third, without any new materials of their own, and with very little application of judgment to those which former authors have supplied. That all compilations are useless, I do not assert. Particles of science are often very widely scattered. Writers of extensive comprehension have incidental remarks upon topicks very remote from the principal subject, which are often more valuable than formal treatises, and which yet are not known because they are not promised in the title. He that collects those under proper heads is very laudably employed, for, though he exerts no great abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress of others, and by making that easy of attainment which is already written, may give some mind, more vigorous or more adventurous than his own, leisure for new thoughts and original designs. But the collections poured lately from the press have been seldom made at any great expense of time or inquiry, and, therefore, only serve to distract choice without supplying any real want. It is observed that "a corrupt society has many laws;" I know not whether it is not equally true, that "an ignorant age has many books." When the treasures of ancient knowledge lie unexamined, and original authors are neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagiaries are encouraged, who give us again what we had before, and grow great by setting before us what our own sloth had hidden from our view. Yet are not even these writers to be indiscriminately censured and rejected. Truth like beauty varies its fashions, and is best recommended by different dresses to different minds; and he that recalls the attention of mankind to any part of learning which time has left behind it, may be truly said to advance the literature of his own age. As the manners of nations vary, new topicks of persuasion become necessary, and new combinations of imagery are produced; and he that can accommodate himself to the reigning taste, may always have readers who, perhaps, would not have looked upon better performances. To exact of every man who writes, that he should say something new, would be to reduce authors to a small number; to oblige the most fertile genius to say only what is new would be to contract his volumes to a few pages. Yet, surely, there ought to be some bounds to repetition; libraries ought no more to be heaped for ever with the same thoughts differently expressed, than with the same books differently decorated. The good or evil which these secondary writers produce is seldom of any long duration. As they owe their existence to change of fashion, they commonly disappear when a new fashion becomes prevalent. The authors that in any nation last from age to age are very few, because there are very few that have any other claim to notice than that they catch hold on present curiosity, and gratify some accidental desire, or produce some temporary conveniency. But however the writers of the day may despair of future fame, they ought at least to forbear any present mischief. Though they cannot arrive at eminent heights of excellence, they might keep themselves harmless. They might take care to inform themselves before they attempt to inform others, and exert the little influence which they have for honest purposes. But such is the present state of our literature, that the ancient sage, who thought _a great book a great evil_, would now think the multitude of books a multitude of evils. He would consider a bulky writer who engrossed a year, and a swarm of pamphleteers who stole each an hour, as equal wasters of human life, and would make no other difference between them, than between a beast of prey and a flight of locusts. No. 86. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1759. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I am a young lady newly married to a young gentleman. Our fortune is large, our minds are vacant, our dispositions gay, our acquaintances numerous, and our relations splendid. We considered that marriage, like life, has its youth; that the first year is the year of gaiety and revel, and resolved to see the shows and feel the joys of London, before the increase of our family should confine us to domestick cares and domestick pleasures. Little time was spent in preparation; the coach was harnessed, and a few days brought us to London, and we alighted at a lodging provided for us by Miss Biddy Trifle, a maiden niece of my husband's father, where we found apartments on a second floor, which my cousin told us would serve us till we could please ourselves with a more commodious and elegant habitation, and which she had taken at a very high price, because it was not worth the while to make a hard bargain for so short a time. Here I intended to lie concealed till my new clothes were made, and my new lodging hired; but Miss Trifle had so industriously given notice of our arrival to all her acquaintance, that I had the mortification next day of seeing the door thronged with painted coaches and chairs with coronets, and was obliged to receive all my husband's relations on a second floor. Inconveniencies are often balanced by some advantage: the elevation of my apartments furnished a subject for conversation, which, without some such help, we should have been in danger of wanting. Lady Stately told us how many years had passed since she climbed so many steps. Miss Airy ran to the window, and thought it charming to see the walkers so little in the street; and Miss Gentle went to try the same experiment, and screamed to find herself so far above the ground. They all knew that we intended to remove, and, therefore, all gave me advice about a proper choice. One street was recommended for the purity of its air, another for its freedom from noise, another for its nearness to the Park, another because there was but a step from it to all places of diversion, and another because its inhabitants enjoyed at once the town and country. I had civility enough to hear every recommendation with a look of curiosity, while it was made, and of acquiescence, when it was concluded, but in my heart felt no other desire than to be free from the disgrace of a second floor, and cared little where I should fix, if the apartments were spacious and splendid. Next day a chariot was hired, and Miss Trifle was despatched to find a lodging. She returned in the afternoon, with an account of a charming place, to which my husband went in the morning to make the contract. Being young and unexperienced, he took with him his friend Ned Quick, a gentleman of great skill in rooms and furniture, who sees, at a single glance, whatever there is to be commended or censured. Mr. Quick, at the first view of the house, declared that it could not be inhabited, for the sun in the afternoon shone with full glare on the windows of the dining-room. Miss Trifle went out again, and soon discovered another lodging, which Mr. Quick went to survey, and found, that, whenever the wind should blow from the, east, all the smoke of the city would be driven upon it. A magnificent set of rooms was then found in one of the streets near Westminster-Bridge, which Miss Trifle preferred to any which she had yet seen; but Mr. Quick, having mused upon it for a time, concluded that it would be too much exposed in the morning to the fogs that rise from the river. Thus Mr. Quick proceeded to give us every day new testimonies of his taste and circumspection; sometimes the street was too narrow for a double range of coaches; sometimes it was an obscure place, not inhabited by persons of quality. Some places were dirty, and some crowded; in some houses the furniture was ill-suited, and in others the stairs were too narrow. He had such fertility of objections that Miss Trifle was at last tired, and desisted from all attempts for our accommodation. In the mean time I have still continued to see my company on a second floor, and am asked twenty times a day when I am to leave those odious lodgings, in which I live tumultuously without pleasure, and expensively without honour. My husband thinks so highly of Mr. Quick, that he cannot be persuaded to remove without his approbation; and Mr. Quick thinks his reputation raised by the multiplication of difficulties. In this distress to whom can I have recourse? I find my temper vitiated by daily disappointment, by the sight of pleasures which I cannot partake, and the possession of riches which I cannot enjoy. Dear Mr. Idler, inform my husband that he is trifling away, in superfluous vexation, the few months which custom has appropriated to delight; that matrimonial quarrels are not easily reconciled between those that have no children; that wherever we settle he must always find some inconvenience; but nothing is so much to be avoided as a perpetual state of inquiry and suspense. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, PEGGY HEARTLESS. No. 87. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1759. Of what we know not, we can only judge by what we know. Every novelty appears more wonderful as it is more remote from any thing with which experience or testimony has hitherto acquainted us; and, if it passes further beyond the notions that we have been accustomed to form, it becomes at last incredible. We seldom consider that human knowledge is very narrow, that national manners are formed by chance, that uncommon conjunctures of causes produce rare effects, or that what is impossible at one time or place may yet happen in another. It is always easier to deny than to inquire. To refuse credit confers for a moment an appearance of superiority, which every little mind is tempted to assume when it may be gained so cheaply as by withdrawing attention from evidence, and declining the fatigue of comparing probabilities. The most pertinacious and vehement demonstrator may be wearied in time by continual negation; and incredulity, which an old poet, in his address to Raleigh, calls _the wit of fools_, obtunds the argument which it cannot answer, as woolsacks deaden arrows though they cannot repel them. Many relations of travellers have been slighted as fabulous, till more frequent voyages have confirmed their veracity; and it may reasonably be imagined, that many ancient historians are unjustly suspected of falsehood, because our own times afford nothing that resembles what they tell[1]. Had only the writers of antiquity informed us, that there was once a nation in which the wife lay down upon the burning pile only to mix her ashes with those of her husband, we should have thought it a tale to be told with that of Endymion's commerce with the moon. Had only a single traveller related, that many nations of the earth were black, we should have thought the accounts of the Negroes and of the Phoenix equally credible. But of black men the numbers are too great who are now repining under English cruelty; and the custom of voluntary cremation is not yet lost among the ladies of India. Few narratives will either to men or women appear more incredible than the histories of the Amazons; of female nations of whose constitution it was the essential and fundamental law to exclude men from all participation, either of publick affairs or domestick business; where female armies marched under female captains, female farmers gathered the harvest, female partners danced together, and female wits diverted one another. Yet several ages of antiquity have transmitted accounts of the Amazons of Caucasus; and of the Amazons of America, who have given their name to the greatest river in the world, Condamine lately found such memorials, as can be expected among erratick and unlettered nations, where events are recorded only by tradition, and new settling in the country from time to time, confuse and efface all traces of former times. To die with husbands, or to live without them, are the two extremes which the prudence and moderation of European ladies have, in all ages, equally declined; they have never been allured to death by the kindness or civility of the politest nations, nor has the roughness and brutality of more savage countries ever provoked them to doom their male associates to irrevocable banishment. The Bohemian matrons are said to have made one short struggle for superiority; but, instead of banishing the men, they contented themselves with condemning them to servile offices; and their constitution, thus left imperfect, was quickly overthrown. There is, I think, no class of English women from whom we are in any danger of Amazonian usurpation. The old maids seem nearest to independence, and most likely to be animated by revenge against masculine authority; they often speak of men with acrimonious vehemence, but it is seldom found that they have any settled hatred against them, and it is yet more rarely observed that they have any kindness for each other. They will not easily combine in any plot; and if they should ever agree to retire and fortify themselves in castles or in mountains, the sentinel will betray the passes in spite, and the garrison will capitulate upon easy terms, if the besiegers have handsome swordknots, and are well supplied with fringe and lace. The gamesters, if they were united, would make a formidable body; and, since they consider men only as beings that are to lose their money, they might live together without any wish for the officiousness of gallantry or the delights of diversified conversation. But as nothing would hold them together but the hope of plundering one another, their government would fail from the defect of its principles; the men would need only to neglect them, and they would perish in a few weeks by a civil war. I do not mean to censure the ladies of England as defective in knowledge or in spirit, when I suppose them unlikely to revive the military honours of their sex. The character of the ancient Amazons was rather terrible than lovely; the hand could not be very delicate that was only employed in drawing the bow and brandishing the battle-axe; their power was maintained by cruelty, their courage was deformed by ferocity, and their example only shows that men and women live best together. [1] _Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisemblable._ The researches of Gibbon, Rennel and Mitford, the travels of Bruce and Belzoni have fully proved the truth of this maxim in the case of Herodotus. No. 88. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1759. _Hodie quid egisti?_ When the philosophers of the last age were first congregated into the Royal Society, great expectations were raised of the sudden progress of useful arts; the time was supposed to be near, when engines should turn by a perpetual motion, and health be secured by the universal medicine; when learning should be facilitated by a real character, and commerce extended by ships which could reach their ports in defiance of the tempest. But improvement is naturally slow. The society met and parted without any visible diminution of the miseries of life. The gout and stone were still painful, the ground that was not ploughed brought no harvest, and neither oranges nor grapes would grow upon the hawthorn. At last, those who were disappointed began to be angry; those likewise who hated innovation were glad to gain an opportunity of ridiculing men who had depreciated, perhaps with too much arrogance, the knowledge of antiquity. And it appears, from some of their earliest apologies, that the philosophers felt with great sensibility the unwelcome importunities of those who were daily asking, "What have ye done?" The truth is, that little had been done compared with what fame had been suffered to promise; and the question could only be answered by general apologies and by new hopes, which, when they were frustrated, gave a new occasion to the same vexatious inquiry. This fatal question has disturbed the quiet of many other minds. He that in the latter part of his life too strictly inquires what he has done, can very seldom receive from his own heart such an account as will give him satisfaction. We do not indeed so often disappoint others as ourselves. We not only think more highly than others of our own abilities, but allow ourselves to form hopes which we never communicate, and please our thoughts with employments which none ever will allot us, and with elevations to which we are never expected to rise; and when our days and years have passed away in common business or common amusements, and we find at last that we have suffered our purposes to sleep till the time of action is past, we are reproached only by our own reflections; neither our friends nor our enemies wonder that we live and die like the rest of mankind; that we live without notice, and die without memorial; they know not what task we had proposed, and, therefore, cannot discern whether it is finished. He that compares what he has done with what he has left undone, will feel the effect which must always follow the comparison of imagination with reality; he will look with contempt on his own unimportance, and wonder to what purpose he came into the world; he will repine that he shall leave behind him no evidence of his having been, that he has added nothing to the system of life, but has glided from youth to age among the crowd, without any effort for distinction. Man is seldom willing to let fall the opinion of his own dignity, or to believe that he does little only because every individual is a very little being. He is better content to want diligence than power, and sooner confesses the depravity of his will than the imbecility of his nature. From this mistaken notion of human greatness it proceeds, that many who pretend to have made great advances in wisdom so loudly declare that they despise themselves. If I had ever found any of the self-contemners much irritated or pained by the consciousness of their meanness, I should have given them consolation by observing, that a little more than nothing is as much as can be expected from a being, who, with respect to the multitudes about him, is himself little more than nothing. Every man is obliged by the Supreme Master of the universe to improve all the opportunities of good which are afforded him, and to keep in continual activity such abilities as are bestowed upon him. But he has no reason to repine, though his abilities are small and his opportunities few. He that has improved the virtue, or advanced the happiness of one fellow-creature, he that has ascertained a single moral proposition, or added one useful experiment to natural knowledge, may be contented with his own performance, and, with respect to mortals like himself, may demand, like Augustus, to be dismissed at his departure with applause. No. 89. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1759. [Greek: Anechou kai apechou.] EPICT. How evil came into the world; for what reason it is that life is overspread with such boundless varieties of misery; why the only thinking being of this globe is doomed to think merely to be wretched, and to pass his time from youth to age in fearing or in suffering calamities, is a question which philosophers have long asked, and which philosophy could never answer. Religion informs us that misery and sin were produced together. The depravation of human will was followed by a disorder of the harmony of nature; and by that providence which often places antidotes in the neighbourhood of poisons, vice was checked by misery, lest it should swell to universal and unlimited dominion. A state of innocence and happiness is so remote from all that we have ever seen, that though we can easily conceive it possible, and may, therefore, hope to attain it, yet our speculations upon it must be general and confused. We can discover that where there is universal innocence, there will probably be universal happiness; for, why should afflictions be permitted to infest beings who are not in danger of corruption from blessings, and where there is no use of terrour nor cause of punishment? But in a world like ours, where our senses assault us, and our hearts betray us, we should pass on from crime to crime, heedless and remorseless, if misery did not stand in our way, and our own pains admonish us of our folly. Almost all the moral good, which is left among us, is the apparent effect of physical evil. Goodness is divided by divines into soberness, righteousness and godliness. Let it be examined how each of these duties would be practised, if there were no physical evil to enforce it. Sobriety, or temperance, is nothing but the forbearance of pleasure; and if pleasure was not followed by pain, who would forbear it? We see every hour those in whom the desire of present indulgence overpowers all sense of past and all foresight of future misery. In a remission of the gout, the drunkard returns to his wine, and the glutton to his feast; and if neither disease nor poverty were felt or dreaded, every one would sink down in idle sensuality, without any care of others, or of himself. To eat and drink, and lie down to sleep, would be the whole business of mankind. Righteousness, or the system of social duty, may be subdivided into justice and charity. Of justice one of the Heathen sages has shown, with great acuteness, that it was impressed upon mankind only by the inconveniencies which injustice had produced. "In the first ages," says he, "men acted without any rule but the impulse of desire; they practised injustice upon others, and suffered it from others in their turn; but in time it was discovered, that the pain of suffering wrong was greater than the pleasure of doing it; and mankind, by a general compact, submitted to the restraint of laws, and resigned the pleasure to escape the pain." Of charity it is superfluous to observe, that it could have no place if there were no want; for of a virtue which could not be practised, the omission could not be culpable. Evil is not only the occasional, but the efficient cause of charity; we are incited to the relief of misery by the consciousness that we have the same nature with the sufferer, that we are in danger of the same distresses, and may sometimes implore the same assistance. Godliness, or piety, is elevation of the mind towards the Supreme Being, and extension of the thoughts to another life. The other life is future, and the Supreme Being is invisible. None would have recourse to an invisible power, but that all other subjects have eluded their hopes. None would fix their attention upon the future, but that they are discontented with the present. If the senses were feasted with perpetual pleasure, they would always keep the mind in subjection. Reason has no authority over us, but by its power to warn us against evil. In childhood, while our minds are yet unoccupied, religion is impressed upon them, and the first years of almost all who have been well educated are passed in a regular discharge of the duties of piety. But as we advance forward into the crowds of life, innumerable delights solicit our inclinations, and innumerable cares distract our attention; the time of youth is passed in noisy frolicks; manhood is led on from hope to hope, and from project to project; the dissoluteness of pleasure, the inebriation of success, the ardour of expectation, and the vehemence of competition, chain down the mind alike to the present scene, nor is it remembered how soon this mist of trifles must be scattered, and the bubbles that float upon the rivulet of life be lost for ever in the gulph of eternity. To this consideration scarcely any man is awakened but by some pressing and resistless evil. The death of those from whom he derived his pleasures, or to whom he destined his possessions, some disease which shows him the vanity of all external acquisitions, or the gloom of age, which intercepts his prospects of long enjoyment, forces him to fix his hopes upon another state; and when he has contended with the tempests of life till his strength fails him, he flies at last to the shelter of religion. That misery does not make all virtuous, experience too certainly informs us; but it is no less certain that of what virtue there is, misery produces far the greater part. Physical evil may be, therefore, endured with patience, since it is the cause of moral good; and patience itself is one virtue by which we are prepared for that state in which evil shall be no more[1]. [1] For a fuller exposition of Johnson's sentiments on this dark and deep subject, see his Review of Soame Jenyns' Nature and Origin of Evil. No. 90. SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1760. It is a complaint which has been made from time to time, and which seems to have lately become more frequent, that English oratory, however forcible in argument, or elegant in expression, is deficient and inefficacious, because our speakers want the grace and energy of action. Among the numerous projectors who are desirous to refine our manners, and improve our faculties, some are willing to supply the deficiency of our speakers[1]. We have had more than one exhortation to study the neglected art of moving the passions, and have been encouraged to believe that our tongues, however feeble in themselves, may, by the help of our hands and legs, obtain an uncontroulable dominion over the most stubborn audience, animate the insensible, engage the careless, force tears from the obdurate, and money from the avaricious. If by sleight of hand, or nimbleness of foot, all these wonders can be performed, he that shall neglect to attain the free use of his limbs may be justly censured as criminally lazy. But I am afraid that no specimen of such effects will easily be shown. If I could once find a speaker in 'Change-Alley raising the price of stocks by the power of persuasive gestures, I should very zealously recommend the study of his art; but having never seen any action by which language was much assisted, I have been hitherto inclined to doubt whether my countrymen are not blamed too hastily for their calm and motionless utterance. Foreigners of many nations accompany their speech with action; but why should their example have more influence upon us than ours upon them? Customs are not to be changed but for better. Let those who desire to reform us show the benefits of the change proposed. When the Frenchman waves his hands and writhes his body in recounting the revolutions of a game at cards, or the Neapolitan, who tells the hour of the day, shows upon his fingers the number which he mentions; I do not perceive that their manual exercise is of much use, or that they leave any image more deeply impressed by their bustle and vehemence of communication. Upon the English stage there is no want of action; but the difficulty of making it at once various and proper, and its perpetual tendency to become ridiculous, notwithstanding all the advantages which art and show, and custom and prejudice can give it, may prove how little it can be admitted into any other place, where it can have no recommendation but from truth and nature. The use of English oratory is only at the bar, in the parliament, and in the church. Neither the judges of our laws nor the representatives of our people would be much affected by laboured gesticulation, or believe any man the more because he rolled his eyes, or puffed his cheeks, or spread abroad his arms, or stamped the ground, or thumped his breast, or turned his eyes sometimes to the ceiling and sometimes to the floor. Upon men intent only upon truth, the arm of an orator has little power; a credible testimony, or a cogent argument will overcome all the art of modulation, and all the violence of contortion. It is well known that, in the city which may be called the parent of oratory, all the arts of mechanical persuasion were banished from the court of supreme judicature. The judges of the Areopagus considered action and vociferation as a foolish appeal to the external senses, and unworthy to be practised before those who had no desire of idle amusement, and whose only pleasure was to discover right. Whether action may not be yet of use in churches, where the preacher addresses a mingled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is certain that the senses are more powerful as the reason is weaker; and that he whose ears convey little to his mind, may sometimes listen with his eyes till truth may gradually take possession of his heart. If there be any use of gesticulation, it must be applied to the ignorant and rude, who will be more affected by vehemence than delighted by propriety. In the pulpit little action can be proper, for action can illustrate nothing but that to which it may be referred by nature or by custom. He that imitates by his hand a motion which he describes, explains it by natural similitude; he that lays his hand on his breast, when he expresses pity, enforces his words by a customary allusion. But theology has few topicks to which action can be appropriated; that action which is vague and indeterminate will at last settle into habit, and habitual peculiarities are quickly ridiculous. It is, perhaps, the character of the English to despise trifles; and that art may surely be accounted a trifle which is at once useless and ostentatious, which can seldom be practised with propriety, and which, as the mind is more cultivated, is less powerful. Yet as all innocent means are to be used for the propagation of truth, I would not deter those who are employed in preaching to common congregations from any practice which they may find persuasive: for, compared with the conversion of sinners, propriety and elegance are less than nothing. [1] Johnson might here be glancing at the oratorical lectures of the modern _Rhetor_ Sheridan, whose plans he delighted incessantly to ridicule. See Boswell. Many acute remarks occur in Hume's Essay on Eloquence. No. 91. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1760. It is common to overlook what is near, by keeping the eye fixed upon something remote. In the same manner present opportunities are neglected, and attainable good is slighted, by minds busied in extensive ranges, and intent upon future advantages. Life, however short, is made still shorter by waste of time, and its progress towards happiness, though naturally slow, is yet retarded by unnecessary labour. The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is universally confessed. To fix deeply in the mind the principles of science, to settle their limitations, and deduce the long succession of their consequences; to comprehend the whole compass of complicated systems, with all the arguments, objections and solutions, and to reposite in the intellectual treasury the numberless facts, experiments, apophthegms and positions, which must stand single in the memory, and of which none has any perceptible connexion with the rest, is a task which, though undertaken with ardour and pursued with diligence, must at last be left unfinished by the frailty of our nature. To make the way to learning either less short or less smooth, is certainly absurd; yet this is the apparent effect of the prejudice which seems to prevail among us in favour of foreign authors, and of the contempt of our native literature, which this excursive curiosity must necessarily produce. Every man is more speedily instructed by his own language, than by any other; before we search the rest of the world for teachers, let us try whether we may not spare our trouble by finding them at home. The riches of the English language are much greater than they are commonly supposed. Many useful and valuable books lie buried in shops and libraries, unknown and unexamined, unless some lucky compiler opens them by chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit and learning. I am far from intending to insinuate, that other languages are not necessary to him who aspires to eminence, and whose whole life is devoted to study; but to him who reads only for amusement, or whose purpose is not to deck himself with the honours of literature, but to be qualified for domestick usefulness, and sit down content with subordinate reputation, we have authors sufficient to fill up all the vacancies of his time, and gratify most of his wishes for information. Of our poets I need say little, because they are, perhaps, the only authors to whom their country has done justice. We consider the whole succession from Spenser to Pope as superior to any names which the continent can boast; and, therefore, the poets of other nations, however familiarly they may be sometimes mentioned, are very little read, except by those who design to borrow their beauties. There is, I think, not one of the liberal arts which may not be competently learned in the English language. He that searches after mathematical knowledge may busy himself among his own countrymen, and will find one or other able to instruct him in every part of those abstruse sciences. He that is delighted with experiments, and wishes to know the nature of bodies from certain and visible effects, is happily placed where the mechanical philosophy was first established by a publick institution, and from which it was spread to all other countries. The more airy and elegant studies of philology and criticism have little need of any foreign help. Though our language, not being very analogical, gives few opportunities for grammatical researches, yet we have not wanted authors who have considered the principles of speech; and with critical writings we abound sufficiently to enable pedantry to impose rules which can seldom be observed, and vanity to talk of books which are seldom read. But our own language has, from the Reformation to the present time, been chiefly dignified and adorned by the works of our divines, who, considered as commentators, controvertists, or preachers, have undoubtedly left all other nations far behind them. No vulgar language can boast such treasures of theological knowledge, or such multitudes of authors at once learned, elegant and pious. Other countries and other communions have authors, perhaps, equal in abilities and diligence to ours; but if we unite number with excellence, there is certainly no nation which must not allow us to be superior. Of morality little is necessary to be said, because it is comprehended in practical divinity, and is, perhaps, better taught in English sermons than in any other books, ancient and modern. Nor shall I dwell on our excellence in metaphysical speculations, because he that reads the works of our divines will easily discover how far human subtilty has been able to penetrate. Political knowledge is forced upon us by the form of our constitution; and all the mysteries of government are discovered in the attack or defence of every minister. The original law of society, the rights of subjects and the prerogatives of kings, have been considered with the utmost nicety, sometimes profoundly investigated, and sometimes familiarly explained. Thus copiously instructive is the English language; and thus needless is all recourse to foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make our neighbours proud by soliciting help which we do not want, nor discourage our own industry by difficulties which we need not suffer. No. 92. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1760. Whatever is useful or honourable will be desired by many who never can obtain it; and that which cannot be obtained when it is desired, artifice or folly will be diligent to counterfeit. Those to whom fortune has denied gold and diamonds decorate themselves with stones and metals, which have something of the show, but little of the value; and every moral excellence or intellectual faculty has some vice or folly which imitates its appearance. Every man wishes to be wise, and they who cannot be wise are almost always cunning. The less is the real discernment of those whom business or conversation brings together, the more illusions are practised; nor is caution ever so necessary as with associates or opponents of feeble minds. Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight from open day. He that walks in the sunshine goes boldly forward by the nearest way; he sees that where the path is straight and even, he may proceed in security, and where it is rough and crooked he easily complies with the turns, and avoids the obstructions. But the traveller in the dusk fears more as he sees less; he knows there may be danger, and, therefore, suspects that he is never safe, tries every step before he fixes his foot, and shrinks at every noise lest violence should approach him. Wisdom comprehends at once the end and the means, estimates easiness or difficulty, and is cautious or confident in due proportion. Cunning discovers little at a time, and has no other means of certainty than multiplication of stratagems and superfluity of suspicion. The man of cunning always considers that he can never be too safe, and, therefore, always keeps himself enveloped in a mist, impenetrable, as he hopes, to the eye of rivalry or curiosity. Upon this principle Tom Double has formed a habit of eluding the most harmless question. What he has no inclination to answer, he pretends sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to divert the inquirer's attention by some other subject; but if he be pressed hard by repeated interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. Ask him whom he likes best on the stage; he is ready to tell that there are several excellent performers. Inquire when he was last at the coffee-house; he replies, that the weather has been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of any of his acquaintance; he immediately mentions another who is older or younger. Will Puzzle values himself upon a long reach. He foresees every thing before it will happen, though he never relates his prognostications till the event is past. Nothing has come to pass for these twenty years of which Mr. Puzzle had not given broad hints, and told at least that it was not proper to tell. Of those predictions, which every conclusion will equally verify, he always claims the credit, and wonders that his friends did not understand them. He supposes very truly that much may be known which he knows not, and, therefore, pretends to know much of which he and all mankind are equally ignorant. I desired his opinion yesterday of the German war, and was told, that if the Prussians were well supported, something great may be expected; but that they have very powerful enemies to encounter; that the Austrian general has long experience, and the Russians are hardy and resolute; but that no human power is invincible. I then drew the conversation to our own affairs, and invited him to balance the probabilities of war and peace. He told me that war requires courage, and negociation judgment, and that the time will come when it will be seen, whether our skill in treaty is equal to our bravery in battle. To this general prattle he will appeal hereafter, and will demand to have his foresight applauded, whoever shall at last be conquered or victorious. With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He believes himself watched by observation and malignity on every side, and rejoices in the dexterity by which he has escaped snares that never were laid. Ned holds that a man is never deceived if he never trusts, and, therefore, will not tell the name of his tailor or his hatter. He rides out every morning for the air, and pleases himself with thinking that nobody knows where he has been. When he dines with a friend, he never goes to his house the nearest way, but walks up a by-street to perplex the scent. When he has a coach called, he never tells him at the door the true place to which he is going, but stops him in the way that he may give him directions where nobody can hear him. The price of what he buys or sells is always concealed. He often takes lodgings in the country by a wrong name, and thinks that the world is wondering where he can be hid. All these transactions he registers in a book, which, he says, will some time or other amaze posterity. It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try to procure reputation only by objections, of which, if they are once admitted, the nullity never appears, because the design is laid aside. "This false feint of wisdom," says he, "is the ruin of business." The whole power of cunning is privative; to say nothing, and to do nothing, is the utmost of its reach. Yet men thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, are sometimes able to rise by the miscarriages of bravery and the openness of integrity; and by watching failures and snatching opportunities, obtain advantages which belong properly to higher characters. No. 93. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1760. Sam Softly was bred a sugar-baker; but succeeding to a considerable estate on the death of his elder brother, he retired early from business, married a fortune, and settled in a country-house near Kentish-town, Sam, who formerly was a sportsman, and in his apprenticeship used to frequent Barnet races, keeps a high chaise, with a brace of seasoned geldings. During the summer months, the principal passion and employment of Sam's life is to visit, in this vehicle, the most eminent seats of the nobility and gentry in different parts of the kingdom, with his wife and some select friends. By these periodical excursions Sam gratifies many important purposes. He assists the several pregnancies of his wife; he shows his chaise to the best advantage; he indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, which, since he has turned gentleman, has grown upon him to an extraordinary degree; he discovers taste and spirit, and, what is above all, he finds frequent opportunities of displaying to the party, at every house he sees, his knowledge of family connexion. At first, Sam was contented with driving a friend between London and his villa. Here he prided himself in pointing out the boxes of the citizens on each side of the road, with an accurate detail of their respective failures or successes in trade; and harangued on the several equipages that were accidentally passing. Here, too, the seats, interspersed on the surrounding hills, afforded ample matter for Sam's curious discoveries. For one, he told his companion, a rich Jew had offered money; and that a retired widow was courted at another, by an eminent dry-salter. At the same time he discussed the utility, and enumerated the expenses, of the Islington turnpike. But Sam's ambition is at present raised to nobler undertakings. When the happy hour of the annual expedition arrives, the seat of the chaise is furnished with Ogilvy's Book of Roads, and a choice quantity of cold tongues. The most alarming disaster which can happen to our hero, who thinks he _throws a whip_ admirably well, is to be overtaken in a road which affords no _quarter_ for wheels. Indeed, few men possess more skill or discernment for concerting and conducting a _party of pleasure_. When a seat is to be surveyed, he has a peculiar talent in selecting some shady bench in the park, where the company may most commodiously refresh themselves with cold tongue, chicken and French rolls; and is very sagacious in discovering what cool temple in the garden will be best adapted for drinking tea, brought for this purpose, in the afternoon, and from which the chaise may be resumed with the greatest convenience. In viewing the house itself, he is principally attracted by the chairs and beds, concerning the cost of which his minute inquiries generally gain the clearest information. An agate table easily diverts his eyes from the most capital strokes of Rubens, and a Turkey carpet has more charms than a Titian. Sam, however, dwells with some attention on the family portraits, particularly the most modern ones; and as this is a topick on which the housekeeper usually harangues in a more copious manner, he takes this opportunity of improving his knowledge of intermarriages. Yet, notwithstanding this appearance of satisfaction, Sam has some objection to all he sees. One house has too much gilding; at another, the chimney-pieces are all monuments; at a third, he conjectures that the beautiful canal must certainly be dried up in a hot summer. He despises the statues at Wilton, because he thinks he can see much better carving in Westminster Abbey. But there is one general objection which he is sure to make at almost every house, particularly at those which are most distinguished. He allows that all the apartments are extremely fine, but adds, with a sneer, that they are too fine to be inhabited. Misapplied genius most commonly proves ridiculous. Had Sam, as Nature intended, contentedly continued in the calmer and less conspicuous pursuits of sugar-baking, he might have been a respectable and useful character. At present he dissipates his life in a specious idleness, which neither improves himself nor his friends. Those talents, which might have benefited society, he exposes to contempt by false pretensions. He affects pleasures which he cannot enjoy, and is acquainted only with those subjects on which he has no right to talk, and which it is no merit to understand[1]. [1] This humorous paper was written by Mr. Thomas Warton, who is said to have sketched from a character in real life, distantly related to himself.--Drake's Essays, Vol. II. No. 94. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1760. It is common to find young men ardent and diligent in the pursuit of knowledge; but the progress of life very often produces laxity and indifference; and not only those who are at liberty to choose their business and amusements, but those likewise whose professions engage them in literary inquiries, pass the latter part of their time without improvement, and spend the day rather in any other entertainment than that which they might find among their books. This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is sometimes imputed to the insufficiency of learning. Men are supposed to remit their labours, because they find their labours to have been vain; and to search no longer after truth and wisdom, because they at last despair of finding them. But this reason is, for the most part, very falsely assigned. Of learning, as of virtue, it may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured and neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for ever look after it with longing, lament the loss which he does not endeavour to repair, and desire the good which he wants resolution to seize and keep. The Idler never applauds his own idleness, nor does any man repent of the diligence of his youth. So many hindrances may obstruct the acquisition of knowledge, that there is little reason for wondering that it is in a few hands. To the greater part of mankind the duties of life are inconsistent with much study; and the hours which they would spend upon letters must be stolen from their occupations and their families. Many suffer themselves to be lured by more sprightly and luxurious pleasures from the shades of contemplation, where they find seldom more than a calm delight, such as, though greater than all others, its certainty and its duration being reckoned with its power of gratification, is yet easily quitted for some extemporary joy, which the present moment offers, and another, perhaps, will put out of reach. It is the great excellence of learning, that it borrows very little from time or place; it is not confined to season or to climate, to cities or to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other pleasure can be obtained. But this quality, which constitutes much of its value, is one occasion of neglect; what may be done at all times with equal propriety, is deferred from day to day, till the mind is gradually reconciled to the omission, and the attention is turned to other objects. Thus habitual idleness gains too much power to be conquered, and the soul shrinks from the idea of intellectual labour and intenseness of meditation. That those who profess to advance learning sometimes obstruct it, cannot be denied; the continual multiplication of books not only distracts choice, but disappoints inquiry. To him that has moderately stored his mind with images, few writers afford any novelty, or what little they have to add to the common stock of learning, is so buried in the mass of general notions, that, like silver mingled with the ore of lead, it is too little to pay for the labour of separation; and he that has often been deceived by the promise of a title, at last grows weary of examining, and is tempted to consider all as equally fallacious. There are indeed some repetitions always lawful, because they never deceive. He that writes the history of past times, undertakes only to decorate known facts by new beauties of method or of style, or at most to illustrate them by his own reflections. The author of a system, whether moral or physical, is obliged to nothing beyond care of selection and regularity of disposition. But there are others who claim the name of authors merely to disgrace it, and fill the world with volumes only to bury letters in their own rubbish. The traveller, who tells, in a pompous folio, that he saw the Pantheon at Rome, and the Medicean Venus at Florence; the natural historian, who, describing the productions of a narrow island, recounts all that it has in common with every other part of the world; the collector of antiquities, that accounts every thing a curiosity which the ruins of Herculaneum happen to emit, though an instrument already shown in a thousand repositories, or a cup common to the ancients, the moderns and all mankind; may be justly censured as the persecutors of students, and the thieves of that time which never can be restored. No. 95. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1760. TO THE IDLER. Mr. Idler, It is, I think, universally agreed, that seldom any good is gotten by complaint; yet we find that few forbear to complain, but those who are afraid of being reproached as the authors of their own miseries. I hope, therefore, for the common permission to lay my case before you and your readers, by which I shall disburden my heart, though I cannot hope to receive either assistance or consolation. I am a trader, and owe my fortune to frugality and industry. I began with little; but by the easy and obvious method of spending less than I gain, I have every year added something to my stock, and expect to have a seat in the common-council at the next election. My wife, who was as prudent as myself, died six years ago, and left me one son and one daughter, for whose sake I resolved never to marry again, and rejected the overtures of Mrs. Squeeze, the broker's widow, who had ten thousand pounds at her own disposal. I bred my son at a school near Islington; and when he had learned arithmetick, and wrote a good hand, I took him into the shop, designing, in about ten years, to retire to Stratford or Hackney, and leave him established in the business. For four years he was diligent and sedate, entered the shop before it was opened, and when it was shut, always examined the pins of the window. In any intermission of business it was his constant practice to peruse the leger. I had always great hopes of him, when I observed how sorrowfully he would shake his head over a bad debt, and how eagerly he would listen to me when I told him that he might at one time or other become an alderman. We lived together with mutual confidence, till, unluckily, a visit was paid him by two of his school-fellows, who were placed, I suppose, in the army, because they were fit for nothing better: they came glittering in their military dress, accosted their old acquaintance, and invited him to a tavern, where, as I have been since informed, they ridiculed the meanness of commerce, and wondered how a youth of spirit could spend the prime of life behind a counter. I did not suspect any mischief. I knew my son was never without money in his pocket, and was better able to pay his reckoning than his companions; and expected to see him return triumphing in his own advantages, and congratulating himself that he was not one of those who expose their heads to a musket bullet for three shillings a day. He returned sullen and thoughtful; I supposed him sorry for the hard fortune of his friends; and tried to comfort him, by saying that the war would soon be at an end, and that, if they had any honest occupation, half-pay would be a pretty help. He looked at me with indignation; and snatching up his candle, told me, as he went up stairs, that _he hoped to see a battle yet_. Why he should hope to see a battle, I could not conceive, but let him go quietly to sleep away his folly. Next day he made two mistakes in the first bill, disobliged a customer by surly answers, and dated all his entries in the journal in a wrong month. At night he met his military companions again, came home late, and quarrelled with the maid. From this fatal interview he has gradually lost all his laudable passions and desires. He soon grew useless in the shop, where, indeed, I did not willingly trust him any longer; for he often mistook the price of goods to his own loss, and once gave a promissory note instead of a receipt. I did not know to what degree he was corrupted, till an honest tailor gave me notice that he had bespoke a laced suit, which was to be left for him at a house kept by the sister of one of my journeymen. I went to this clandestine lodging, and found, to my amazement, all the ornaments of a fine gentleman, which I know not whether he has taken upon credit, or purchased with money subducted from the shop. This detection has made him desperate. He now openly declares his resolution to be a gentleman; says that his soul is too great for a counting-house; ridicules the conversation of city taverns; talks of new plays, and boxes and ladies; gives duchesses for his toasts; carries silver, for readiness, in his waistcoat-pocket; and comes home at night in a chair, with such thunders at the door, as have more than once brought the watchmen from their stands. Little expenses will not hurt us; and I could forgive a few juvenile frolicks, if he would be careful of the main; but his favourite topick is contempt of money, which, he says, is of no use but to be spent. Riches, without honour, he holds empty things; and once told me to my face, that wealthy plodders were only purveyors to men of spirit. He is always impatient in the company of his old friends, and seldom speaks till he is warmed with wine; he then entertains us with accounts that we do not desire to hear, of intrigues among lords and ladies, and quarrels between officers of the guards; shows a miniature on his snuff-box, and wonders that any man can look upon the new dancer without rapture. All this is very provoking; and yet all this might be borne, if the boy could support his pretensions. But, whatever he may think, he is yet far from the accomplishments which he has endeavoured to purchase at so dear a rate. I have watched him in publick places. He sneaks in like a man that knows he is where he should not be; he is proud to catch the slightest salutation, and often claims it when it is not intended. Other men receive dignity from dress, but my booby looks always more meanly for his finery. Dear Mr. Idler, tell him what must at last become of a fop, whom pride will not suffer to be a trader, and whom long habits in a shop forbid to be a gentleman. I am, Sir, &c. TIM WAINSCOT. No. 96. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1760. _Qui se volet esse potentem, Animos domet ille feroces: Nec victa libidine colla Foedis submittat habenis._ BOETHIUS. Hacho, a king of Lapland, was in his youth the most renowned of the Northern warriors. His martial achievements remain engraved on a pillar of flint in the rocks of Hanga, and are to this day solemnly carolled to the harp by the Laplanders, at the fires with which, they celebrate their nightly festivities. Such was his intrepid spirit, that he ventured to pass the lake Vether to the isle of Wizards, where he descended alone into the dreary vault in which a magician had been kept bound for six ages, and read the Gothick characters inscribed on his brazen mace. His eye was so piercing, that, as ancient chronicles report, he could blunt the weapons of his enemies only by looking at them. At twelve years of age he carried an iron vessel of a prodigious weight, for the length of five furlongs, in the presence of all the chiefs of his father's castle. Nor was he less celebrated for his prudence and wisdom. Two of his proverbs are yet remembered and repeated among Laplanders. To express the vigilance of the Supreme Being, he was wont to say, "Odin's belt is always buckled." To show that the most prosperous condition of life is often hazardous, his lesson was, "When you slide on the smoothest ice, beware of pits beneath." He consoled his countrymen, when they were once preparing to leave the frozen deserts of Lapland, and resolved to seek some warmer climate, by telling them, that the Eastern nations, notwithstanding their boasted fertility, passed every night amidst the horrours of anxious apprehension, and were inexpressibly affrighted, and almost stunned, every morning, with the noise of the sun while he was rising. His temperance and severity of manners were his chief praise. In his early years he never tasted wine; nor would he drink out of a painted cup. He constantly slept in his armour, with his spear in his hand; nor would he use a battle-axe whose handle was inlaid with brass. He did not, however, persevere in this contempt of luxury; nor did he close his days with honour. One evening, after hunting the gulos or wild-dog, being bewildered in a solitary forest, and having passed the fatigues of the day without any interval of refreshment, he discovered a large store of honey in the hollow of a pine. This was a dainty which he had never tasted before; and being at once faint and hungry, he fed greedily upon it. From this unusual and delicious repast he received so much satisfaction, that, at his return home, he commanded honey to be served up at his table every day. His palate, by degrees, became refined and vitiated; he began to lose his native relish for simple fare, and contracted a habit of indulging himself in delicacies; he ordered the delightful gardens of his castle to be thrown open, in which the most luscious fruits had been suffered to ripen and decay, unobserved and untouched, for many revolving autumns, and gratified his appetite with luxurious desserts. At length he found it expedient to introduce wine, as an agreeable improvement, or a necessary ingredient, to his new way of living; and having once tasted it, he was tempted, by little and little, to give a loose to the excesses of intoxication. His general simplicity of life was changed; he perfumed his apartments by burning the wood of the most aromatick fir, and commanded his helmet to be ornamented with beautiful rows of the teeth of the raindeer. Indolence and effeminacy stole upon him by pleasing and imperceptible gradations, relaxed the sinews of his resolution, and extinguished his thirst of military glory. While Hacho was thus immersed in pleasure and in repose, it was reported to him, one morning, that the preceding night, a disastrous omen had been discovered, and that bats and hideous birds had drunk up the oil which nourished the perpetual lamp in the temple of Odin. About the same time, a messenger arrived to tell him, that the king of Norway had invaded his kingdom with a formidable army. Hacho, terrified as he was with the omen of the night, and enervated with indulgence, roused himself from his voluptuous lethargy, and, recollecting some faint and few sparks of veteran valour, marched forward to meet him. Both armies joined battle in the forest where Hacho had been lost after hunting; and it so happened, that the king of Norway challenged him to single combat, near the place where he had tasted the honey. The Lapland chief, languid and long disused to arms, was soon overpowered; he fell to the ground; and before his insulting adversary struck his head from his body, uttered this exclamation, which the Laplanders still use as an early lesson to their children: "The vicious man should date his destruction from the first temptation. How justly do I fall a sacrifice to sloth and luxury, in the place where I first yielded to those allurements which seduced me to deviate from temperance and innocence! The honey which I tasted in this forest, and not the hand of the king of Norway, conquers Hacho[1]." [1] By Mr. Thomas Warton. No. 97. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1760. It may, I think, be justly observed, that few books disappoint their readers more than the narrations of travellers. One part of mankind is naturally curious to learn the sentiments, manners, and condition of the rest; and every mind that has leisure or power to extend its views, must be desirous of knowing in what proportion Providence has distributed the blessings of nature, or the advantages of art, among the several nations of the earth. This general desire easily procures readers to every book from which it can expect gratification. The adventurer upon unknown coasts, and the describer of distant regions, is always welcomed as a man who has laboured for the pleasure of others, and who is able to enlarge our knowledge and rectify our opinions; but when the volume is opened, nothing is found but such general accounts as leave no distinct idea behind them, or such minute enumerations as few can read with either profit or delight. Every writer of travels should consider, that, like all other authors, he undertakes either to instruct or please, or to mingle pleasure with instruction. He that instructs must offer to the mind something to be imitated, or something to be avoided; he that pleases must offer new images to his reader, and enable him to form a tacit comparison of his own state with that of others. The greater part of travellers tell nothing, because their method of travelling supplies them with nothing to be told. He that enters a town at night, and surveys it in the morning, and then hastens away to another place, and guesses at the manners of the inhabitants by the entertainment which his inn afforded him, may please himself for a time with a hasty change of scenes, and a confused remembrance of palaces and churches; he may gratify his eye with a variety of landscapes, and regale his palate with a succession of vintages; but let him be contented to please himself without endeavouring to disturb others. Why should he record excursions by which nothing could be learned, or wish to make a show of knowledge, which, without some power of intuition unknown to other mortals, he never could attain? Of those who crowd the world with their itineraries, some have no other purpose than to describe the face of the country; those who sit idle at home, and are curious to know what is done or suffered in distant countries, may be informed by one of these wanderers, that on a certain day he set out early with the caravan, and in the first hour's march saw, towards the south, a hill covered with trees, then passed over a stream, which ran northward with a swift course, but which is probably dry in the summer months; that an hour after he saw something to the right which looked at a distance like a castle with towers, but which he discovered afterwards to be a craggy rock; that he then entered a valley, in which he saw several trees tall and flourishing, watered by a rivulet not marked in the maps, of which he was not able to learn the name; that the road afterward grew stony, and the country uneven, where he observed among the hills many hollows worn by torrents, and was told that the road was passable only part of the year; that going on they found the remains of a building, once, perhaps, a fortress to secure the pass, or to restrain the robbers, of which the present inhabitants can give no other account than that it is haunted by fairies; that they went to dine at the foot of a rock, and travelled the rest of the day along the banks of a river, from which the road turned aside towards evening, and brought them within sight of a village, which was once a considerable town, but which afforded them neither good victuals nor commodious lodging. Thus he conducts his reader through wet and dry, over rough and smooth, without incidents, without reflection; and, if he obtains his company for another day, will dismiss him again at night, equally fatigued with a like succession of rocks and streams, mountains and ruins. This is the common style of those sons of enterprise, who visit savage countries, and range through solitude and desolation; who pass a desert, and tell that it is sandy; who cross a valley, and find that it is green. There are others of more delicate sensibility, that visit only the realms of elegance and softness; that wander through Italian palaces, and amuse the gentle reader with catalogues of pictures; that hear masses in magnificent churches, and recount the number of the pillars or variegations of the pavement. And there are yet others, who, in disdain of trifles, copy inscriptions elegant and rude, ancient and modern; and transcribe into their book the walls of every edifice, sacred or civil. He that reads these books must consider his labour as its own reward; for he will find nothing on which attention can fix, or which memory can retain. He that would travel for the entertainment of others, should remember that the great object of remark is human life. Every nation has something peculiar in its manufactures, its works of genius, its medicines, its agriculture, its customs and its policy. He only is a useful traveller, who brings home something by which his country may be benefited; who procures some supply of want, or some mitigation of evil, which may enable his readers to compare their condition with that of others, to improve it whenever it is worse, and whenever it is better to enjoy it. No. 98. SATURDAY, MARCH 1, 1760. TO THE IDLER. Sir, I am the daughter of a gentleman, who during his lifetime enjoyed a small income which arose from a pension from the court, by which he was enabled to live in a genteel and comfortable manner. By the situation of life in which he was placed, he was frequently introduced into the company of those of much greater fortunes than his own, among whom he was always received with complaisance, and treated with civility. At six years of age I was sent to a boarding-school in the country, at which I continued till my father's death. This melancholy event happened at a time when I was by no means of sufficient age to manage for myself, while the passions of youth continued unsubdued, and before experience could guide my sentiments or my actions. I was then taken from school by an uncle, to the care of whom my father had committed me on his dying-bed. With him I lived several years; and, as he was unmarried, the management of his family was committed to me. In this character I always endeavoured to acquit myself, if not with applause, at least without censure. At the age of twenty-one, a young gentleman of some fortune paid his addresses to me, and offered me terms of marriage. This proposal I should readily have accepted, because from vicinity of residence, and from many opportunities of observing his behaviour, I had, in some sort, contracted an affection for him. My uncle, for what reason I do not know, refused his consent to this alliance, though it would have been complied with by the father of the young gentleman; and, as the future condition of my life was wholly dependant on him, I was not willing to disoblige him, and, therefore, though unwillingly, declined the offer. My uncle, who possessed a plentiful fortune, frequently hinted to me in conversation, that at his death I should be provided for in such a manner that I should be able to make my future life comfortable and happy. As this promise was often repeated, I was the less anxious about any provision for myself. In a short time my uncle was taken ill, and though all possible means were made use of for his recovery, in a few days he died. The sorrow arising from the loss of a relation, by whom I had been always treated with the greatest kindness, however grievous, was not the worst of my misfortunes. As he enjoyed an almost uninterrupted state of health, he was the less mindful of his dissolution, and died intestate; by which means his whole fortune devolved to a nearer relation, the heir at law. Thus excluded from all hopes of living in the manner with which I have so long flattered myself, I am doubtful what method I shall take to procure a decent maintenance. I have been educated in a manner that has set me above a state of servitude, and my situation renders me unfit for the company of those with whom I have hitherto conversed. But, though disappointed in my expectations, I do not despair. I will hope that assistance may still be obtained for innocent distress, and that friendship, though rare, is yet not impossible to be found. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, SOPHIA HEEDFUL.[1] [1] By an unknown correspondent. No. 99. SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1760. As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of merchandise which the shops offered to his view, and observing the different occupations which busied the multitudes on every side, he was awakened from the tranquillity of meditation by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes, and saw the chief visier, who, having returned from the divan, was entering his palace. Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and being supposed to have some petition for the visier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets, and despised the simple neatness of his own little habitation. Surely, said he to himself, this palace is the seat of happiness, where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever Nature has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover his table, the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes, and his wish is gratified; all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he hears flatter him. How different, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire, and who hast no amusement in thy power that can withhold thee from thy own reflections! They tell thee that thou art wise; but what does wisdom avail with poverty? None will flatter the poor, and the wise have very little power of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and follies always before him, and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and veneration. I have long sought content, and have not found it; I will from this moment endeavour to be rich. Full of this new resolution, he shut himself up in his chamber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich; he sometimes proposed to offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India, and sometimes resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. One day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair; he dreamed that he was ranging a desert country in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich; and as he stood on the top of a hill shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden standing before him. Ortogrul, said the old man, I know thy perplexity; listen to thy father; turn thine eye on the opposite mountain. Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, and scattering its foam on the impending woods. Now, said his father, behold the valley that lies between the hills. Ortogrul looked, and espied a little well, out of which issued a small rivulet. Tell me now, said his father, dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour upon thee like the mountain torrent, or for a slow and gradual increase, resembling the rill gliding from the well? Let me be quickly rich, said Ortogrul; let the golden stream be quick and violent. Look round thee, said his father, once again. Ortogrul looked, and perceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty; but following the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He waked, and determined to grow rich by silent profit and persevering industry. Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise, and in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in sumptuousness to that of the visier, to which he invited all the ministers of pleasure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy. He was courteous and liberal; he gave all that approached him hopes of pleasing him, and all who should please him hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he found himself unable to believe them. His own heart told him its frailties, his own understanding reproached him with his faults. How long, said he, with a deep sigh, have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth which at last is useless! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too wise to be flattered. No. 100. SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 1760, TO THE IDLER. Sir, The uncertainty and defects of language have produced very frequent complaints among the learned; yet there still remain many words among us undefined, which are very necessary to be rightly understood, and which produce very mischievous mistakes when they are erroneously interpreted. I lived in a state of celibacy beyond the usual time. In the hurry first of pleasure, and afterwards of business, I felt no want of a domestick companion; but becoming weary of labour, I soon grew more weary of idleness, and thought it reasonable to follow the custom of life, and to seek some solace of my cares in female tenderness, and some amusement of my leisure in female cheerfulness. The choice which has been long delayed is commonly made at last with great caution. My resolution was, to keep my passions neutral, and to marry only in compliance with my reason. I drew upon a page of my pocket-book a scheme of all female virtues and vices, with the vices which border upon every virtue, and the virtues which are allied to every vice. I considered that wit was sarcastick, and magnanimity imperious; that avarice was economical, and ignorance obsequious; and having estimated the good and evil of every quality, employed my own diligence, and that of my friends, to find the lady in whom nature and reason had reached that happy mediocrity which is equally remote from exuberance and deficience. Every woman had her admirers and her censurers; and the expectations which one raised were by another quickly depressed; yet there was one in whose favour almost all suffrages concurred. Miss Gentle was universally allowed to be a good sort of woman. Her fortune was not large, but so prudently managed, that she wore finer clothes, and saw more company, than many who were known to be twice as rich. Miss Gentle's visits were every where welcome; and whatever family she favoured with her company, she always left behind her such a degree of kindness as recommended her to others. Every day extended her acquaintance; and all who knew her declared, that they never met with a better sort of woman. To Miss Gentle I made my addresses, and was received with great equality of temper. She did not in the days of courtship assume the privilege of imposing rigorous commands, or resenting slight offences. If I forgot any of her injunctions, I was gently reminded; if I missed the minute of appointment, I was easily forgiven. I foresaw nothing in marriage but a halcyon calm, and longed for the happiness which was to be found in the inseparable society of a good sort of woman. The jointure was soon settled by the intervention of friends, and the day came in which Miss Gentle was made mine for ever. The first month was passed easily enough in receiving and repaying the civilities of our friends. The bride practised with great exactness all the niceties of ceremony, and distributed her notice in the most punctilious proportions to the friends who surrounded us with their happy auguries. But the time soon came when we were left to ourselves, and were to receive our pleasures from each other; and I then began to perceive that I was not formed to be much delighted by a good sort of woman. Her great principle is, that the orders of a family must not be broken. Every hour of the day has its employment inviolably appropriated; nor will any importunity persuade her to walk in the garden at the time which she has devoted to her needlework, or to sit up stairs in that part of the forenoon which she has accustomed herself to spend in the back parlour. She allows herself to sit half an hour after breakfast, and an hour after dinner; while I am talking or reading to her, she keeps her eye upon her watch, and when the minute of departure comes, will leave an argument unfinished, or the intrigue of a play unravelled. She once called me to supper when I was watching an eclipse, and summoned me at another time to bed when I was going to give directions at a fire. Her conversation is so habitually cautious, that she never talks to me but in general terms, as to one whom it is dangerous to trust. For discriminations of character she has no names: all whom she mentions are honest men and agreeable women. She smiles not by sensation, but by practice. Her laughter is never excited but by a joke, and her notion of a joke is not very delicate. The repetition of a good joke does not weaken its effect; if she has laughed once, she will laugh again. She is an enemy to nothing but ill-nature and pride; but she has frequent reason to lament that they are so frequent in the world. All who are not equally pleased with the good and the bad, with the elegant and gross, with the witty and the dull, all who distinguish excellence from defect, she considers as ill-natured; and she condemns as proud all who repress impertinence or quell presumption, or expect respect from any other eminence than that of fortune, to which she is always willing to pay homage. There are none whom she openly hates, for if once she suffers, or believes herself to suffer, any contempt or insult, she never dismisses it from her mind, but takes all opportunities to tell how easily she can forgive. There are none whom she loves much better than others; for when any of her acquaintance decline in the opinion of the world, she always finds it inconvenient to visit them; her affection continues unaltered, but it is impossible to be intimate with the whole town. She daily exercises her benevolence by pitying every misfortune that happens to every family within her circle of notice; she is in hourly terrours lest one should catch cold in the rain, and another be frighted by the high wind. Her charity she shows by lamenting that so many poor wretches should languish in the streets, and by wondering what the great can think on that they do so little good with such large estates. Her house is elegant, and her table dainty, though she has little taste of elegance, and is wholly free from vicious luxury; but she comforts herself that nobody can say that her house is dirty, or that her dishes are not well drest. This, Mr. Idler, I have found, by long experience, to be the character of a good sort of woman, which I have sent you for the information of those by whom a _good sort of woman_ and a _good woman_, may happen to be used as equivalent terms, and who may suffer by the mistake, like Your humble servant, TIM WARNER. No. 101. SATURDAY, MARCH 22, 1760. _Carpe hilaris: fuget heu! non revocanda dies._ Omar, the son of Hussan, had passed seventy-five years in honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive califs had filled his house with gold and silver; and, whenever he appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage. Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail, the curls of beauty fell from his head, strength departed from his hands, and agility from his feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust and the seals of secrecy; and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life than the converse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good. The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and eloquent; Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility. Tell me, said Caled, thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which you have gained power and preserved it, are to you no longer necessary or useful; impart to me the secret of your conduct, and teach me the plan upon which your wisdom has built your fortune. Young man, said Omar, it is of little use to form plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twentieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar which spread its branches over my head: Seventy years are allowed to man; I have yet fifty remaining: ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries; I shall be learned, and, therefore, shall be honoured; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed will store my mind with images, which I shall be busy through the rest of my life in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleasures for every moment, and shall never more be weary of myself. I will, however, not deviate too far from the beaten track of life, but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide; with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase and fancy can invent. I will then retire to a rural dwelling, pass my last days in obscurity and contemplation, and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I will never depend upon the smile of princes; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts; I will never pant for publick honours, nor disturb my quiet with affairs of state. Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory. The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge; and I know not how I was diverted from my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest honour and the most engaging pleasure; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing behind them. I now postponed my purpose of travelling; for why should I go abroad while so much remained to be learned at home? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges; I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions, and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with attention, I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my heart. I still wished to see distant countries, listened with rapture to the relations of travellers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty; but my presence was always necessary, and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but I still proposed to travel, and, therefore, would, not confine myself by marriage. In my fiftieth year I began to suspect that the time of travelling was past, and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestick pleasures. But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of gazing upon girls. I had now nothing left but retirement, and for retirement I never found a time, till disease forced me from publick employment. Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improvement; with a restless desire of seeing different countries, I have always resided in the same city; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried; and with unalterable resolutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat. No. 102. SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1760. It very seldom happens to man that his business is his pleasure. What is done from necessity is so often to be done when against the present inclination, and so often fills the mind with anxiety, that an habitual dislike steals upon us, and we shrink involuntarily from the remembrance of our task. This is the reason why almost every one wishes to quit his employment; he does not like another state, but is disgusted with his own. From this unwillingness to perform more than is required of that which is commonly performed with reluctance, it proceeds that few authors write their own lives. Statesmen, courtiers, ladies, generals and seamen have given to the world their own stories, and the events with which their different stations have made them acquainted. They retired to the closet as to a place of quiet and amusement, and pleased themselves with writing, because they could lay down the pen whenever they were weary. But the author, however conspicuous, or however important, either in the publick eye or in his own, leaves his life to be related by his successors, for he cannot gratify his vanity but by sacrificing his ease. It is commonly supposed that the uniformity of a studious life affords no matter for a narration: but the truth is, that of the most studious life a great part passes without study. An author partakes of the common condition of humanity; he is born and married like another man; he has hopes and fears, expectations and disappointments, griefs and joys, and friends and enemies, like a courtier or a statesman; nor can I conceive why his affairs should not excite curiosity as much as the whisper of a drawing-room or the factions of a camp. Nothing detains the reader's attention more powerfully than deep involutions of distress, or sudden vicissitudes of fortune; and these might be abundantly afforded by memoirs of the sons of literature. They are entangled by contracts which they know not how to fulfil, and obliged to write on subjects which they do not understand. Every publication is a new period of time, from which some increase or declension of fame is to be reckoned. The gradations of a hero's life are from battle to battle, and of an author's from book to book. Success and miscarriage have the same effects in all conditions. The prosperous are feared, hated and flattered; and the unfortunate avoided, pitied and despised. No sooner is a book published than the writer may judge of the opinion of the world. If his acquaintance press round him in publick places, or salute him from the other side of the street; if invitations to dinner come thick upon him, and those with whom he dines keep him to supper; if the ladies turn to him when his coat is plain, and the footmen serve him with attention and alacrity; he may be sure that his work has been praised by some leader of literary fashions. Of declining reputation the symptoms are not less easily observed. If the author enters a coffee-house, he has a box to himself; if he calls at a bookseller's, the boy turns his back and, what is the most fatal of all prognosticks, authors will visit him in a morning, and talk to him hour after hour of the malevolence of criticks, the neglect of merit, the bad taste of the age and the candour of posterity. All this, modified and varied by accident and custom, would form very amusing scenes of biography, and might recreate many a mind which is very little delighted with conspiracies or battles, intrigues of a court, or debates of a parliament; to this might be added all the changes of the countenance of a patron, traced from the first glow which flattery raises in his cheek, through ardour of fondness, vehemence of promise, magnificence of praise, excuse of delay, and lamentation of inability, to the last chill look of final dismission, when the one grows weary of soliciting, and the other of hearing solicitation. Thus copious are the materials which have been hitherto suffered to lie neglected, while the repositories of every family that has produced a soldier or a minister are ransacked, and libraries are crowded with useless folios of state-papers which will never be read, and which contribute nothing to valuable knowledge. I hope the learned will be taught to know their own strength and their value, and, instead of devoting their lives to the honour of those who seldom thank them for their labours, resolve at last to do justice to themselves. No. 103. SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1760. _Respicere ad longae jussit spatia ultima vitae_. JUV. Sat. x. 275. Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind arises from the conjectures which every one makes of the thoughts of others; we all enjoy praise which we do not hear, and resent contempt which we do not see. The Idler may, therefore, be forgiven, if he suffers his imagination to represent to him what his readers will say or think when they are informed that they have now his last paper in their hands. Value is more frequently raised by scarcity than by use. That which lay neglected when it was common, rises in estimation as its quantity becomes less. We seldom learn the true want of what we have till it is discovered that we can have no more. This essay will, perhaps, be read with care even by those who have not yet attended to any other; and he that finds this late attention recompensed, will not forbear to wish that he had bestowed it sooner. Though the Idler and his readers have contracted no close friendship, they are, perhaps, both unwilling to part. There are few things not purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness, _this is the last_. Those who never could agree together, shed tears when mutual discontent has determined them to final separation; of a place which has been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the last look is taken with heaviness of heart; and the Idler, with all his chilness of tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the thought that his last essay is now before him. The secret horrour of the last is inseparable from a thinking being, whose life is limited, and to whom death is dreadful. We always make a secret comparison between a part and the whole; the termination of any period of life reminds us that life itself has likewise its termination; when we have done any thing for the last time, we involuntarily reflect that a part of the days allotted us is past, and that as more is past there is less remaining. It is very happily and kindly provided, that in every life there are certain pauses and interruptions, which force consideration upon the careless, and seriousness upon the light; points of time where one course of action ends, and another begins; and by vicissitudes of fortune or alteration of employment, by change of place or loss of friendship, we are forced to say of something, _this is the last_. An even and unvaried tenour of life always hides from our apprehension the approach of its end. Succession is not perceived but by variation; he that lives to-day as he lived yesterday, and expects that, as the present day is, such will be the morrow, easily conceives time as running in a circle and returning to itself. The uncertainty of our duration is impressed commonly by dissimilitude of condition; it is only by finding life changeable that we are reminded of its shortness. This conviction, however forcible at every new impression, is every moment fading from the mind; and partly by the inevitable incursion of new images, and partly by voluntary exclusion of unwelcome thoughts, we are again exposed to the universal fallacy; and we must do another thing for the last time, before we consider that the time is nigh when we shall do no more. As the last Idler is published in that solemn week which the Christian world has always set apart for the examination of the conscience, the review of life, the extinction of earthly desires, and the renovation of holy purposes; I hope that my readers are already disposed to view every incident with seriousness, and improve it by meditation; and that, when they see this series of trifles brought to a conclusion, they will consider that, by out-living the Idler, they have passed weeks, months and years, which are now no longer in their power; that an end must in time be put to every thing great as to every thing little; that to life must come its last hour, and to this system of being its last day, the hour at which probation ceases, and repentance will be vain; the day in which every work of the hand, and imagination of the heart shall be brought to judgment, and an everlasting futurity shall be determined by the past[1]. [1] This most solemn and impressive paper may be profitably compared with the introduction of Bishop Heber's first Bampton-Lecture. THE IDLER. No. 22[1] Many naturalists are of opinion, that the animals which we commonly consider as mute, have the power of imparting their thoughts to one another. That they can express general sensations is very certain; every being that can utter sounds, has a different voice for pleasure and for pain. The hound informs his fellows when he scents his game; the hen calls her chickens to their food by her cluck, and drives them from danger by her scream. Birds have the greatest variety of notes; they have, indeed, a variety, which seems almost sufficient to make a speech adequate to the purposes of a life which is regulated by instinct, and can admit little change or improvement. To the cries of birds, curiosity or superstition has been always attentive; many have studied the language of the feathered tribes, and some have boasted that they understood it. The most skilful or most confident interpreters of the sylvan dialogues have been commonly found among the philosophers of the east, in a country where the calmness of the air, and the mildness of the seasons, allow the student to pass a great part of the year in groves and bowers. But what may be done in one place by peculiar opportunities, may be performed in another by peculiar diligence. A shepherd of Bohemia has, by long abode in the forests, enabled himself to understand the voice of birds; at least he relates with great confidence a story, of which the credibility is left to be considered by the learned. "As I was sitting" said he, "within a hollow rock, and watching my sheep that fed in the valley, I heard two vultures interchangeably crying on the summit of the cliff. Both voices were earnest and deliberate. My curiosity prevailed over my care of the flock; I climbed slowly and silently from crag to crag, concealed among the shrubs, till I found a cavity where I might sit and listen without suffering or giving disturbance." "I soon perceived, that my labour would be well repaid; for an old vulture was sitting on a naked prominence, with her young about her, whom she was instructing in the arts of a vulture's life, and preparing, by the last lecture, for their final dismission to the mountains and the skies." "My children," said the old vulture, "you will the less want my instructions, because you have had my practice before your eyes; you have seen me snatch from the farm the household fowl; you have seen me seize the leveret in the bush, and the kid in the pasture; you know how to fix your talons, and how to balance your flight when you are laden with your prey. But you remember the taste of more delicious food; I have often regaled you with the flesh of man." "Tell us," said the young vultures, "where man may be found, and how he may be known; his flesh is surely the natural food of a vulture. Why have you never brought a man in your talons to the nest?" "He is too bulky," said the mother; "when we find a man, we can only tear away his flesh, and leave his bones upon the ground." "Since man is so big," said the young ones, "how do you kill him? You are afraid of the wolf and of the bear, by what power are vultures superior to man? is man more defenceless than a sheep?" "We have not the strength of man," returned the mother, "and I am sometimes in doubt whether we have the subtilty; and the vultures would seldom feast upon his flesh, had not nature, that devoted him to our uses, infused into him a strange ferocity, which I have never observed in any other being that feeds upon the earth. Two herds of men will often meet and shake the earth with noise, and fill the air with fire. When you hear noise and see fire, with flashes along the ground, hasten to the place with your swiftest wing, for men are surely destroying one another; you will then find the ground smoking with blood, and covered with carcasses, of which many are dismembered and mangled for the convenience of the vulture." "But when men have killed their prey," said the pupil, "why do they not eat it? When the wolf has killed a sheep, he suffers not the vulture to touch it till he has satisfied himself. Is not man another kind of wolf?" "Man," said the mother, "is the only beast who kills that which he does not devour, and this quality makes him so much a benefactor to our species." "If men kill our prey and lay it in our way," said the young one, "what need shall we have of labouring for ourselves?" "Because man will, sometimes," replied the mother, "remain for a long time quiet in his den. The old vultures will tell you when you are to watch his motions. When you see men in great numbers moving close together, like a flock of storks, you may conclude that they are hunting, and that you will soon revel in human blood." "But still," said the young one, "I would gladly know the reason of this mutual slaughter. I could never kill what I could not eat." "My child," said the mother, "this is a question which I cannot answer, though I am reckoned the most subtle bird of the mountain. When I was young, I used frequently to visit the aerie of an old vulture, who dwelt upon the Carpathian rocks; he had made many observations; he knew the places that afforded prey round his habitation; as far in every direction as the strongest wing can fly between the rising and setting of the summer sun; he had fed year after year on the entrails of men. His opinion was, that men had only the appearance of animal life, being really vegetables with a power of motion; and that as the boughs of an oak are dashed together by the storm, that swine may fatten upon the fallen acorns, so men are by some unaccountable power driven one against another, till they lose their motion, that vultures may be fed. Others think they have observed something of contrivance and policy among these mischievous beings; and those that hover more closely round them, pretend, that there is, in every herd, one that gives directions to the rest, and seems to be more eminently delighted with a wide carnage. What it is that entitles him to such preeminence we know not; he is seldom the biggest or the swiftest, but he shows by his eagerness and diligence that he is, more than any of the others, a friend to the vultures." [1] This was the original No. 22, but on the republication of the work in volumes, Dr. Johnson substituted what now stands under that head. END OF VOL. IV. 
10350	----	Proofreading Team. DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS. REVIEWS, POLITICAL TRACTS, AND LIVES OF EMINENT PERSONS. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. IN NINE VOLUMES. VOLUME THE SIXTH. MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS OF THE SIXTH VOLUME. REVIEWS. Letter on Du Halde's history of China. Review of the account of the conduct of the dutchess of Marlborough. Review of memoirs of the court of Augustus. Review of four letters from sir Isaac Newton. Review of a journal of eight days' journey. Reply to a paper in the Gazetteer. Review of an essay on the writings and genius of Pope. Review of a free enquiry into the nature and origin of evil. Review of the history of the Royal Society of London, &c. Review of the general history of Polybius. Review of miscellanies on moral and religious subjects. Account of a book entitled an historical and critical enquiry into the evidence produced by the earls of Moray and Morton against Mary queen of Scots, &c. Marmor Norfolciense; or, an essay on an ancient prophetical inscription in monkish rhyme, lately discovered near Lynn, in Norfolk. Observations on the state of affairs in 1756. An introduction to the political state of Great Britain. Observations on the treaty between his Britannic majesty and his imperial majesty of all the Russias, &c. Introduction to the proceedings of the committee appointed to manage the contributions for clothing French prisoners of war. On the bravery of the English common soldiers. POLITICAL TRACTS. Prefatory observations to political tracts. The False Alarm. 1770. Prefatory observations on Falkland's islands. Thoughts on the late transactions respecting Falkland's islands. The Patriot. Taxation no tyranny; an answer to the resolutions and address of the American congress. 1775. LIVES OF EMINENT PERSONS. Father Paul Sarpi. Boerhaave. Blake. Sir Francis Drake. Barretier. Additional account of the life of Barretier in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1742. Morin. Burman. Sydenham. Cheynel. Cave. King of Prussia. Browne. Ascham. REVIEWS. LETTER ON DU HALDE'S HISTORY OF CHINA, 1738. There are few nations in the world more talked of, or less known, than the Chinese. The confused and imperfect account which travellers have given of their grandeur, their sciences, and their policy, have, hitherto, excited admiration, but have not been sufficient to satisfy even a superficial curiosity. I, therefore, return you my thanks for having undertaken, at so great an expense, to convey to English readers the most copious and accurate account, yet published, of that remote and celebrated people, whose antiquity, magnificence, power, wisdom, peculiar customs, and excellent constitution, undoubtedly deserve the attention of the publick. As the satisfaction found in reading descriptions of distant countries arises from a comparison which every reader naturally makes, between the ideas which he receives from the relation, and those which were familiar to him before; or, in other words, between the countries with which he is acquainted, and that which the author displays to his imagination; so it varies according to the likeness or dissimilitude of the manners of the two nations. Any custom or law, unheard and unthought of before, strikes us with that surprise which is the effect of novelty; but a practice conformable to our own pleases us, because it flatters our self-love, by showing us that our opinions are approved by the general concurrence of mankind. Of these two pleasures, the first is more violent, the other more lasting; the first seems to partake more of instinct than reason, and is not easily to be explained, or defined; the latter has its foundation in good sense and reflection, and evidently depends on the same principles with most human passions. An attentive reader will frequently feel each of these agreeable emotions in the perusal of Du Halde. He will find a calm, peaceful satisfaction, when he reads the moral precepts and wise instructions of the Chinese sages; he will find that virtue is in every place the same; and will look with new contempt on those wild reasoners, who affirm, that morality is merely ideal, and that the distinctions between good and ill are wholly chimerical. But he will enjoy all the pleasure that novelty can afford, when he becomes acquainted with the Chinese government and constitution; he will be amazed to find that there is a country where nobility and knowledge are the same, where men advance in rank as they advance in learning, and promotion is the effect of virtuous industry; where no man thinks ignorance a mark of greatness, or laziness the privilege of high birth. His surprise will be still heightened by the relations he will there meet with, of honest ministers, who, however incredible it may seem, have been seen more than once in that monarchy, and have adventured to admonish the emperours of any deviation from the laws of their country, or any errour in their conduct, that has endangered either their own safety, or the happiness of their people. He will read of emperours, who, when they have been addressed in this manner, have neither stormed, nor threatened, nor kicked their ministers, nor thought it majestick to be obstinate in the wrong; but have, with a greatness of mind worthy of a Chinese monarch, brought their actions willingly to the test of reason, law, and morality, and scorned to exert their power in defence of that which they could not support by argument. I must confess my wonder at these relations was very great, and had been much greater, had I not often entertained my imagination with an instance of the like conduct in a prince of England, on an occasion that happened not quite a century ago, and which I shall relate, that so remarkable an example of spirit and firmness in a subject, and of conviction and compliance in a prince, may not be forgotten. And I hope you will look upon this letter as intended to do honour to my country, and not to serve your interest by promoting your undertaking. The prince, at the christening of his first son, had appointed a noble duke to stand as proxy for the father of the princess, without regard to the claim of a marquis, (heir apparent to a higher title,) to whom, as lord of the bedchamber, then in waiting, that honour properly belonged. --The marquis was wholly unacquainted with the affair, till he heard, at dinner, the duke's health drunk, by the name of the prince he was that evening to represent. This he took an opportunity, after dinner, of inquiring the reason of, and was informed, by the prince's treasurer, of his highness's intention. The marquis immediately declared, that he thought his right invaded, and his honour injured, which he could not bear without requiring satisfaction from the usurper of his privileges; nor would he longer serve a prince who paid no regard to his lawful pretensions. The treasurer could not deny that the marquis's claim was incontestable, and, by his permission, acquainted the prince with his resolution. The prince, thereupon, sending for the marquis, demanded, with a resentful and imperious air, how he could dispute his commands, and by what authority he presumed to control him in the management of his own family, and the christening of his own son. The marquis answered, that he did not encroach upon the prince's right, but only defended his own: that he thought his honour concerned, and, as he was a young man, would not enter the world with the loss of his reputation. The prince, exasperated to a very high degree, repeated his commands; but the marquis, with a spirit and firmness not to be depressed or shaken, persisted in his determination to assert his claim, and concluded with declaring that he would do himself the justice that was denied him; and that not the prince himself should trample on his character. He was then ordered to withdraw, and the duke coming to him, assured him, that the honour was offered him unasked; that when he accepted it, he was not informed of his lordship's claim, and that now he very willingly resigned it. The marquis very gracefully acknowledged the civility of the duke's expressions, and declared himself satisfied with his grace's conduct; but thought it inconsistent with his honour to accept the representation as a cession of the duke, or on any other terms than as his own acknowledged right. The prince, being informed of the whole conversation, and having, upon inquiry, found all the precedents on the marquis's side, thought it below his dignity to persist in an errour, and, restoring the marquis to his right upon his own conditions, continued him in his favour, believing that he might safely trust his affairs in the hands of a man, who had so nice a sense of honour, and so much spirit to assert it. REVIEW OF THE ACCOUNT OF THE CONDUCT OF THE DUTCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH [1]. The universal regard, which is paid by mankind to such accounts of publick transactions as have been written by those who were engaged in them, may be, with great probability, ascribed to that ardent love of truth, which nature has kindled in the breast of man, and which remains even where every other laudable passion is extinguished. We cannot but read such narratives with uncommon curiosity, because we consider the writer as indubitably possessed of the ability to give us just representations, and do not always reflect, that, very often, proportionate to the opportunities of knowing the truth, are the temptations to disguise it. Authors of this kind have, at least, an incontestable superiority over those whose passions are the same, and whose knowledge is less. It is evident that those who write in their own defence, discover often more impartiality, and less contempt of evidence, than the advocates which faction or interest have raised in their favour. It is, however, to be remembered, that the parent of all memoirs, is the ambition of being distinguished from the herd of mankind, and the fear of either infamy or oblivion, passions which cannot but have some degree of influence, and which may, at least, affect the writer's choice of facts, though they may not prevail upon him to advance known falsehoods. He may aggravate or extenuate particular circumstances, though he preserves the general transaction; as the general likeness may be preserved in painting, though a blemish is hid or a beauty improved. Every man that is solicitous about the esteem of others, is, in a great degree, desirous of his own, and makes, by consequence, his first apology for his conduct to himself; and when he has once deceived his own heart, which is, for the greatest part, too easy a task, he propagates the deceit in the world, without reluctance or consciousness of falsehood. But to what purpose, it may be asked, are such reflections, except to produce a general incredulity, and to make history of no use? The man who knows not the truth cannot, and he who knows it, will not tell it; what then remains, but to distrust every relation, and live in perpetual negligence of past events; or, what is still more disagreeable, in perpetual suspense? That by such remarks some incredulity is, indeed, produced, cannot be denied; but distrust is a necessary qualification of a student in history. Distrust quickens his discernment of different degrees of probability, animates his search after evidence, and, perhaps, heightens his pleasure at the discovery of truth; for truth, though not always obvious, is generally discoverable; nor is it any where more likely to be found than in private memoirs, which are generally published at a time when any gross falsehood may be detected by living witnesses, and which always contain a thousand incidents, of which the writer could not have acquired a certain knowledge, and which he has no reason for disguising. Such is the account lately published by the dutchess of Marlborough, of her own conduct, by which those who are very little concerned about the character which it is principally intended to preserve or to retrieve, may be entertained and instructed. By the perusal of this account, the inquirer into human nature may obtain an intimate acquaintance with the characters of those whose names have crowded the latest histories, and discover the relation between their minds and their actions. The historian may trace the progress of great transactions, and discover the secret causes of important events. And, to mention one use more, the polite writer may learn an unaffected dignity of style, and an artful simplicity of narration. The method of confirming her relation, by inserting, at length, the letters that every transaction occasioned, has not only set the greatest part of the work above the danger of confutation, but has added to the entertainment of the reader, who has now the satisfaction of forming to himself the characters of the actors, and judging how nearly such, as have hitherto been given of them, agree with those which they now give of themselves. Even of those whose letters could not be made publick, we have a more exact knowledge than can be expected from general histories, because we see them in their private apartments, in their careless hours, and observe those actions in which they indulged their own inclinations, without any regard to censure or applause. Thus it is, that we are made acquainted with the disposition of king William, of whom it may be collected, from various instances, that he was arbitrary, insolent, gloomy, rapacious, and brutal; that he was, at all times, disposed to play the tyrant; that he had, neither in great things, nor in small, the manners of a gentleman; that he was capable of gaining money by mean artifices, and that he only regarded his promise when it was his interest to keep it. There are, doubtless, great numbers who will be offended with this delineation of the mind of the immortal William, but they whose honesty or sense enables them to consider impartially the events of his reign, will now be enabled to discover the reason of the frequent oppositions which he encountered, and of the personal affronts which he was, sometimes, forced to endure. They will observe, that it is not always sufficient to do right, and that it is often necessary to add gracefulness to virtue. They will recollect how vain it is to endeavour to gain men by great qualities, while our cursory behaviour is insolent and offensive; and that those may be disgusted by little things, who can scarcely be pleased with great. Charles the second, by his affability and politeness, made himself the idol of the nation, which he betrayed and sold. William the third was, for his insolence and brutality, hated by that people, which he protected and enriched:--had the best part of these two characters been united in one prince, the house of Bourbon had fallen before him. It is not without pain, that the reader observes a shade encroaching upon the light with which the memory of queen Mary has been hitherto invested--the popular, the beneficent, the pious, the celestial queen Mary, from whose presence none ever withdrew without an addition to his happiness. What can be charged upon this delight of human kind? Nothing less than that _she wanted bowels_, and was insolent with her power; that she was resentful, and pertinacious in her resentment; that she descended to mean acts of revenge, when heavier vengeance was not in her power; that she was desirous of controlling where she had no authority, and backward to forgive, even when she had no real injury to complain of. This is a character so different from all those that have been, hitherto, given of this celebrated princess, that the reader stands in suspense, till he considers the inconsistencies in human conduct, remembers that no virtue is without its weakness, and considers that queen Mary's character has, hitherto, had this great advantage, that it has only been compared with those of kings. The greatest number of the letters inserted in this account, were written by queen Anne, of which it may be truly observed, that they will be equally useful for the, confutation of those who have exalted or depressed her character. They are written with great purity and correctness, without any forced expressions, affected phrases, or unnatural sentiments; and show uncommon clearness of understanding, tenderness of affection, and rectitude of intention; but discover, at the same time, a temper timorous, anxious, and impatient of misfortune; a tendency to burst into complaints, helpless dependance on the affection of others, and a weak desire of moving compassion. There is, indeed, nothing insolent or overbearing; but then there is nothing great, or firm, or regal; nothing that enforces obedience and respect, or which does not rather invite opposition and petulance. She seems born for friendship, not for government; and to be unable to regulate the conduct of others, otherwise than by her own example. That this character is just, appears from the occurrences in her reign, in which the nation was governed, for many years, by a party whose principles she detested, but whose influence she knew not how to obviate, and to whose schemes she was subservient against her inclination. The charge of tyrannising over her, which was made, by turns, against each party, proves that, in the opinion of both, she was easily to be governed; and though it may be supposed, that the letters here published were selected with some regard to respect and ceremony, it appears, plainly enough, from them, that she was what she has been represented, little more than the slave of the Marlborough family. The inferiour characters, as they are of less importance, are less accurately delineated; the picture of Harley is, at least, partially drawn: all the deformities are heightened, and the beauties, for beauties of mind he certainly had, are entirely omitted. REVIEW OF MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF AUGUSTUS; BY THOMAS BLACKWELL, J.U.D. PRINCIPAL OF MARISCHAL COLLEGE, IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ABERDEEN [2]. The first effect, which this book has upon the reader, is that of disgusting him with the author's vanity. He endeavours to persuade the world, that here are some new treasures of literature spread before his eyes; that something is discovered, which, to this happy day, had been concealed in darkness; that, by his diligence, time has been robbed of some valuable monument which he was on the point of devouring; and that names and facts, doomed to oblivion, are now restored to fame. How must the unlearned reader be surprised, when he shall be told that Mr. Blackwell has neither digged in the ruins of any demolished city, nor found out the way to the library of Fez; nor had a single book in his hands, that has not been in the possession of every man that was inclined to read it, for years and ages; and that his book relates to a people, who, above all others, have furnished employment to the studious, and amusements to the idle; who have scarcely left behind them a coin or a stone, which has not been examined and explained a thousand times; and whose dress, and food, and household stuff, it has been the pride of learning to understand. A man need not fear to incur the imputation of vicious diffidence or affected humility, who should have forborne to promise many novelties, when he perceived such multitudes of writers possessed of the same materials, and intent upon the same purpose. Mr. Blackwell knows well the opinion of Horace, concerning those that open their undertakings with magnificent promises; and he knows, likewise, the dictates of common sense and common honesty, names of greater authority than that of Horace, who direct, that no man should promise what he cannot perform. I do not mean to declare, that this volume has nothing new, or that the labours of those who have gone before our author, have made his performance an useless addition to the burden of literature. New works may be constructed with old materials; the disposition of the parts may show contrivance; the ornaments interspersed may discover elegance. It is not always without good effect, that men, of proper qualifications, write, in succession, on the same subject, even when the latter add nothing to the information given by the former; for the same ideas may be delivered more intelligibly or more delightfully by one than by another, or with attractions that may lure minds of a different form. No writer pleases all, and every writer may please some. But, after all, to inherit is not to acquire; to decorate is not to make; and the man, who had nothing to do but to read the ancient authors, who mention the Roman affairs, and reduce them to common places, ought not to boast himself as a great benefactor to the studious world. After a preface of boast, and a letter of flattery, in which he seems to imitate the address of Horace, in his "vile potabis modicis Sabinum"--he opens his book with telling us, that the "Roman republic, after the horrible proscription, was no more at _bleeding Rome_. The regal power of her consuls, the authority of her senate, and the majesty of her people, were now trampled under foot; these [for those] divine laws and hallowed customs, that had been the essence of her constitution--were set at nought, and her best friends were lying exposed in their blood." These were surely very dismal times to those who suffered; but I know not, why any one but a schoolboy, in his declamation, should whine over the commonwealth of Rome, which grew great only by the misery of the rest of mankind. The Romans, like others, as soon as they grew rich, grew corrupt, and, in their corruption, sold the lives and freedoms of themselves, and of one another. "About this time, Brutus had his patience put to the _highest_ trial: he had been married to Clodia; but whether the family did not please him, or whether he was dissatisfied with the lady's behaviour during his absence, he soon entertained thoughts of a separation. _This raised a good deal of talk_, and the women of the Clodian family inveighed bitterly against Brutus--but he married Portia, who was worthy of such a father as M. Cato, and such a husband as M. Brutus. She had a soul capable of an _exalted passion_, and found a proper object to raise and give it a sanction; she did not only love but adored her husband; his worth, his truth, his every shining and heroic quality, made her gaze on him like a god, while the endearing returns of esteem and tenderness she met with, brought her joy, her pride, her every wish to centre in her beloved Brutus." When the reader has been awakened by this rapturous preparation, he hears the whole story of Portia in the same luxuriant style, till she breathed out her last, a little before the _bloody proscription_, and "Brutus complained heavily of his friends at Rome, as not having paid due attention to his lady in the declining state of her health." He is a great lover of modern terms. His senators and their wives are _gentlemen and ladies_. In this review of Brutus's army, _who was under the command of gallant men, not braver officers than true patriots_, he tells _us_, "that Sextus, the questor, was _paymaster, secretary at war, and commissary general_; and that the _sacred discipline_ of the Romans required the closest connexion, like that of father and son, to subsist between the general of an army and his questor. Cicero was _general of the cavalry_, and the next _general officer_ was Flavius, _master of Ihe artillery_, the elder Lentulus was _admiral_, and the younger _rode_ in the _band of volunteers_; under these the tribunes, _with many others, too tedious to name_." Lentulus, however, was but a subordinate officer; for we are informed afterwards, that the Romans had made Sextus Pompeius lord high admiral in all the seas of their dominions. Among other affectations of this writer, is a furious and unnecessary zeal for liberty; or rather, for one form of government as preferable to another. This, indeed, might be suffered, because political institution is a subject in which men have always differed, and, if they continue to obey their lawful governours, and attempt not to make innovations, for the sake of their favourite schemes, they may differ for ever, without any just reproach from one another. But who can bear the hardy champion, who ventures nothing? who, in full security, undertakes the defence of the assassination of Cassar, and declares his resolution to speak plain? Yet let not just sentiments be overlooked: he has justly observed, that the greater part of mankind will be naturally prejudiced against Brutus, for all feel the benefits of private friendship; but few can discern the advantages of a well-constituted government [3]. We know not whether some apology may not be necessary for the distance between the first account of this book and its continuation. The truth is, that this work, not being forced upon our attention by much publick applause or censure, was sometimes neglected, and sometimes forgotten; nor would it, perhaps, have been now resumed, but that we might avoid to disappoint our readers by an abrupt desertion of any subject. It is not our design to criticise the facts of this history, but the style; not the veracity, but the address of the writer; for, an account of the ancient Romans, as it cannot nearly interest any present reader, and must be drawn from writings that have been long known, can owe its value only to the language in which it is delivered, and the reflections with which it is accompanied. Dr. Blackwell, however, seems to have heated his imagination, so as to be much affected with every event, and to believe that he can affect others. Enthusiasm is, indeed, sufficiently contagious; but I never found any of his readers much enamoured of the _glorious Pompey, the patriot approv'd_, or much incensed against the _lawless Caesar_, whom this author, probably, stabs every day and night in his sleeping or waking dreams. He is come too late into the world with his fury for freedom, with his Brutus and Cassius. We have all, on this side of the Tweed, long since settled our opinions: his zeal for Roman liberty and declamations against the violators of the republican constitution, only stand now in the reader's way, who wishes to proceed in the narrative without the interruption of epithets and exclamations. It is not easy to forbear laughter at a man so bold in fighting shadows, so busy in a dispute two thousand years past, and so zealous for the honour of a people, who, while they were poor, robbed mankind, and, as soon as they became rich, robbed one another. Of these robberies our author seems to have no very quick sense, except when they are committed by Caesar's party, for every act is sanctified by the name of a patriot. If this author's skill in ancient literature were less generally acknowledged, one might sometimes suspect, that he had too frequently consulted the French writers. He tells us, that Archelaus, the Rhodian, made a speech to Cassius, and, _in so saying_, dropt some tears; and that Cassius, after the reduction of Rhodes, was _covered with glory_.--Deiotarus was a keen and happy spirit--the ingrate Castor kept his court. His great delight is to show his universal acquaintance with terms of art, with words that every other polite writer has avoided and despised. When Pompey conquered the pirates, he destroyed fifteen hundred ships of the line.--The Xanthian parapets were tore down.--Brutus, suspecting that his troops were plundering, commanded the trumpets to sound to their colours.--Most people understood the act of attainder passed by the senate.--The Numidian troopers were unlikely in their appearance.-- The Numidians beat up one quarter after another.--Salvidienus resolved to pass his men over, in boats of leather, and he gave orders for equipping a sufficient number of that sort of small craft.--Pompey had light, agile frigates, and fought in a strait, where the current and caverns occasion swirls and a roll.--A sharp out-look was kept by the admiral.--It is a run of about fifty Roman miles.--Brutus broke Lipella in the sight of the army.--Mark Antony garbled the senate. He was a brave man, well qualified for a commodore. In his choice of phrases he frequently uses words with great solemnity, which every other mouth and pen has appropriated to jocularity and levity! The Rhodians gave up the contest, and, in poor plight, fled back to Rhodes.--Boys and girls were easily kidnapped.--Deiotarus was a mighty believer of augury.--Deiotarus destroyed his ungracious progeny.--The regularity of the Romans was their mortal aversion.--They desired the consuls to curb such heinous doings.--He had such a shrewd invention, that no side of a question came amiss to him.--Brutus found his mistress a coquettish creature. He sometimes, with most unlucky dexterity, mixes the grand and the burlesque together; _the violation of faith, sir_, says Cassius, _lies at the door of the Rhodians by reite-rated acts of perfidy_.--The iron grate fell down, crushed those under it to death, and catched the rest as in a trap.--When the Xanthians heard the military shout, and saw the flame mount, they concluded there would be no mercy. It was now about sunset, and they had been at hot work since noon. He has, often, words, or phrases, with which our language has hitherto had no knowledge.--One was a heart-friend to the republic--A deed was expeded.--The Numidians begun to reel, and were in hazard of falling into confusion.--The tutor embraced his pupil close in his arms.--Four hundred women were taxed, who have, no doubt, been the wives of the best Roman citizens.--Men not born to action are inconsequential in government.--Collectitious troops.--The foot, by their violent attack, began the fatal break in the Pharsaliac field.--He and his brother, with a politic, common to other countries, had taken opposite sides. His epithets are of the gaudy or hyperbolical kind. The glorious news--eager hopes and dismal fears--bleeding Rome--divine laws and hallowed customs--merciless war--intense anxiety. Sometimes the reader is suddenly ravished with a sonorous sentence, of which, when the noise is past, the meaning does not long remain. When Brutus set his legions to fill a moat, instead of heavy dragging and slow toil, they set about it with huzzas and racing, as if they had been striving at the Olympic games. They hurled impetuous down the huge trees and stones, and, with shouts, forced them into the water; so that the work, expected to continue half the campaign, was, with rapid toil, completed in a few days. Brutus's soldiers fell to the gate with resistless fury; it gave way, at last, with hideous crash.--This great and good man, doing his duty to his country, received a mortal wound, and glorious fell in the cause of Rome; may his memory be ever dear to all lovers of liberty, learning, and humanity! This promise ought ever to embalm his memory.--The queen of nations was torn by no foreign invader.--Rome fell a sacrifice to her own sons, and was ravaged by her unnatural offspring: all the great men of the state, all the good, all the holy, were openly murdered by the wickedest and worst.--Little islands cover the harbour of Brindisi, and form the narrow outlet from the numerous creeks that compose its capacious port.--At the appearance of Brutus and Cassius, a shout of joy rent the heavens from the surrounding multitudes. Such are the flowers which may be gathered, by every hand, in every part of this garden of eloquence. But having thus freely mentioned our author's faults, it remains that we acknowledge his merit; and confess, that this book is the work of a man of letters, that it is full of events displayed with accuracy, and related with vivacity; and though it is sufficiently defective to crush the vanity of its author, it is sufficiently entertaining to invite readers. REVIEW OF FOUR LETTERS FROM SIR ISAAC NEWTON TO DR BENTLEY, Containing some arguments in proof of a Deity [4]. It will certainly be required, that notice should be taken of a book, however small, written on such a subject, by such an author. Yet I know not whether these letters will be very satisfactory; for they are answers to inquiries not published; and, therefore, though they contain many positions of great importance, are, in some parts, imperfect and obscure, by their reference to Dr. Bentley's letters. Sir Isaac declares, that what he has done is due to nothing but industry and patient thought; and, indeed, long consideration is so necessary in such abstruse inquiries, that it is always dangerous to publish the productions of great men, which are not known to have been designed for the press, and of which it is uncertain, whether much patience and thought have been bestowed upon them. The principal question of these letters gives occasion to observe, how even the mind of Newton gains ground, gradually, upon darkness. "As to your first query," says he, "it seems to me, that if the matter of our sun and planets, and all the matter of the universe, were evenly scattered, throughout all the heavens, and every particle had an innate gravity towards all the rest, and the whole space, throughout which this matter was scattered, was but finite, the matter on the outside of this space would, by its gravity, tend towards all the matter on the inside, and, by consequence, fall down into the middle of the whole space, and there compose one great spherical mass. But if the matter was evenly disposed throughout an infinite space, it could never convene into one mass, but some of it would convene into one mass, and some into another, so as to make an infinite number of great masses, scattered, at great distances, from one to another, throughout all that infinite space. And thus might the sun and fixed stars be formed, supposing the matter were of a lucid nature. But how the matter should divide itself into two sorts, and that part of it, which is fit to compose a shining body, should fall down into one mass, and make a sun, and the rest, which is fit to compose an opaque body, should coalesce, not into one great body, like the shining matter, but into many little ones; or, if the sun, at first, were an opaque body, like the planets, or the planets lucid bodies, like the sun, how he alone should be changed into a shining body, whilst all they continue opaque, or all they be changed into opaque ones, whilst he remains unchanged, I do not think more explicable by mere natural causes, but am forced to ascribe it to the counsel and contrivance of a voluntary agent." The hypothesis of matter evenly disposed through infinite space, seems to labour with such difficulties, as makes it almost a contradictory supposition, or a supposition destructive of itself. "Matter evenly disposed through infinite space," is either created or eternal; if it was created, it infers a creator; if it was eternal, it had been from eternity "evenly spread through infinite space;" or it had been once coalesced in masses, and, afterwards, been diffused. Whatever state was first must have been from eternity, and what had been from eternity could not be changed, but by a cause beginning to act, as it had never acted before, that is, by the voluntary act of some external power. If matter, infinitely and evenly diffused, was a moment without coalition, it could never coalesce at all by its own power. If matter originally tended to coalesce, it could never be evenly diffused through infinite space. Matter being supposed eternal, there never was a time, when it could be diffused before its conglobation, or conglobated before its diffusion. This sir Isaac seems, by degrees, to have understood; for he says, in his second letter: "The reason why matter, evenly scattered through a finite space, would convene in the midst, you conceive the same with me; but, that there should be a central particle, so accurately placed in the middle, as to be always equally attracted on all sides, and, thereby, continue without motion, seems to me a supposition fully as hard as to make the sharpest needle stand upright upon its point on a looking-glass. For, if the very mathematical centre of the central particle be not accurately in the very mathematical centre of the attractive power of the whole mass, the particle will not be attracted equally on all sides. And much harder is it to suppose all the particles, in an infinite space, should be so accurately poised, one among another, as to stand still in a perfect equilibrium. For I reckon this as hard as to make not one needle only, but an infinite number of them, (so many as there are particles in an infinite space,) stand accurately poised upon their points. Yet I grant it possible, at least, by a divine power; and, if they were once to be placed, I agree with you, that they would continue in that posture without motion, for ever, unless put into new motion by the same power. When, therefore, I said, that matter evenly spread through all space, would convene, by its gravity, into one or more great masses, I understand it of matter not resting in an accurate poise." Let not it be thought irreverence to this great name, if I observe, that by "matter evenly spread" through infinite space, he now finds it necessary to mean "matter not evenly spread." Matter not evenly spread will, indeed, convene, but it will convene as soon as it exists. And, in my opinion, this puzzling question about matter, is only, how that could be that never could have been, or what a man thinks on when he thinks on nothing. Turn matter on all sides, make it eternal, or of late production, finite or infinite, there can be no regular system produced, but by a voluntary and meaning agent. This the great Newton always asserted, and this he asserts in the third letter; but proves, in another manner, in a manner, perhaps, more happy and conclusive. "The hypothesis of deriving the frame of the world, by mechanical principles, from matter evenly spread through the heavens, being inconsistent with my system, I had considered it very little, before your letter put me upon it, and, therefore, trouble you with a line or two more about it, if this comes not too late for your use. "In my former, I represented, that the diurnal rotations of the planets could not be derived from gravity, but required a divine arm to impress them. And though gravity might give the planets a motion of descent towards the sun, either directly, or with some little obliquity, yet the transverse motions, by which they revolve in their several orbs, required the divine arm to impress them, according to the tangents of their orbs. I would now add, that the hypothesis of matter's being, at first, evenly spread through the heavens, is, in my opinion, inconsistent with the hypothesis of innate gravity, without a supernatural power to reconcile them, and, therefore, it infers a deity. For, if there be innate gravity, it is impossible now for the matter of the earth, and all the planets and stars, to fly up from them, and become evenly spread throughout all the heavens, without a supernatural power; and, certainly, that which can never be hereafter, without a supernatural power, could never be heretofore, without the same power." REVIEW OF A JOURNAL OF EIGHT DAYS' JOURNEY, From Portsmouth to Kingston upon Thames, through Southampton, Wiltshire, &c. with miscellaneous thoughts, moral and religious; in sixty-four letters: addressed to two ladies of the partie. To which is added, an Essay On Tea, considered as pernicious to health, obstructing industry, and impoverishing the nation; with an account of its growth, and great consumption in these kingdoms; with several political reflections; and thoughts on publick love: in thirty-two letters to two ladies. By Mr. H. -----. [From the Literary Magazine, vol. ii. No. xiii. 1757.] Our readers may, perhaps, remember, that we gave them a short account of this book, with a letter, extracted from it, in November, 1756. The author then sent us an injunction, to forbear his work, till a second edition should appear: this prohibition was rather too magisterial; for an author is no longer the sole master of a book, which he has given to the publick; yet he has been punctually obeyed; we had no desire to offend him; and, if his character may be estimated by his book, he is a man whose failings may well be pardoned for his virtues. The second edition is now sent into the world, corrected and enlarged, and yielded up, by the author, to the attacks of criticism. But he shall find in us, no malignity of censure. We wish, indeed, that, among other corrections, he had submitted his pages to the inspection of a grammarian, that the elegancies of one line might not have been disgraced by the improprieties of another; but, with us, to mean well is a degree of merit, which overbalances much greater errours than impurity of style. We have already given, in our collections, one of the letters, in which Mr. Hanway endeavours to show, that the consumption of tea is injurious to the interest of our country. We shall now endeavour to follow him, regularly, through all his observations on this modern luxury; but, it can scarcely be candid not to make a previous declaration, that he is to expect little justice from the author of this extract, a hardened and shameless tea-drinker, who has, for twenty years, diluted his meals with only the infusion of this fascinating plant; whose kettle has scarcely time to cool; who with tea amuses the evening, with tea solaces the midnight, and, with tea, welcomes the morning. He begins by refuting a popular notion, that bohea and green tea are leaves of the same shrub, gathered at different times of the year. He is of opinion, that they are produced by different shrubs. The leaves of tea are gathered in dry weather; then dried and curled over the fire, in copper pans. The Chinese use little green tea, imagining, that it hinders digestion, and excites fevers. How it should have either effect, is not easily discovered; and, if we consider the innumerable prejudices, which prevail concerning our own plants, we shall very little regard these opinions of the Chinese vulgar, which experience does not confirm. When the Chinese drink tea, they infuse it slightly, and extract only the more volatile parts; but though this seems to require great quantities at a time, yet the author believes, perhaps, only because he has an inclination to believe it, that the English and Dutch use more than all the inhabitants of that extensive empire. The Chinese drink it, sometimes, with acids, seldom with sugar; and this practice our author, who has no intention to find anything right at home, recommends to his countrymen. The history of the rise and progress of tea-drinking is truly curious. Tea was first imported, from Holland, by the earls of Arlington and Ossory, in 1666; from their ladies the women of quality learned its use. Its price was then three pounds a pound, and continued the same to 1707. In 1715, we began to use green tea, and the practice of drinking it descended to the lower class of the people. In 1720, the French began to send it hither by a clandestine commerce. From 1717 to 1726, we imported, annually, seven hundred thousand pounds. From 1732 to 1742, a million and two hundred thousand pounds were every year brought to London; in some years afterwards three millions; and in 1755, near four millions of pounds, or two thousand tons, in which we are not to reckon that which is surreptitiously introduced, which, perhaps, is nearly as much. Such quantities are, indeed, sufficient to alarm us; it is, at least, worth inquiry, to know what are the qualities of such a plant, and what the consequences of such a trade. He then proceeds to enumerate the mischiefs of tea, and seems willing to charge upon it every mischief that he can find. He begins, however, by questioning the virtues ascribed to it, and denies that the crews of the Chinese ships are preserved, in their voyage homewards, from the scurvy by tea. About this report I have made some inquiry, and though I cannot find that these crews are wholly exempt from scorbutick maladies, they seem to suffer them less than other mariners, in any course of equal length. This I ascribe to the tea, not as possessing any medicinal qualities, but as tempting them to drink more water, to dilute their salt food more copiously, and, perhaps, to forbear punch, or other strong liquors. He then proceeds, in the pathetick strain, to tell the ladies how, by drinking tea, they injure their health, and, what is yet more dear, their beauty. "To what can we ascribe the numerous complaints which prevail? How many sweet creatures of your sex languish with a weak digestion, low spirits, lassitudes, melancholy, and twenty disorders, which, in spite of the faculty, have yet no names, except the general one of nervous complaints? Let them change their diet, and, among other articles, leave off drinking tea, it is more than probable, the greatest part of them will be restored to health." "Hot water is also very hurtful to the teeth. The Chinese do not drink their tea so hot as we do, and yet they have bad teeth. This cannot be ascribed entirely to sugar, for they use very little, as already observed; but we all know, that hot or cold things, which pain the teeth, destroy them also. If we drank less tea, and used gentle acids for the gums and teeth, particularly sour oranges, though we had a less number of French dentists, I fancy this essential part of beauty would be much better preserved. "The women in the United Provinces, who sip tea from morning till night, are also as remarkable for bad teeth. They also look pallid, and many are troubled with certain feminine disorders, arising from a relaxed habit. The Portuguese ladies, on the other hand, entertain with sweetmeats, and yet they have very good teeth; but their food, in general, is more of a farinaceous and vegetable kind than ours. They also drink cold water, instead of sipping hot, and never taste any fermented liquors; for these reasons, the use of sugar does not seem to be at all pernicious to them." "Men seem to have lost their stature and comeliness, and women their beauty. I am not young, but, methinks, there is not quite so much beauty in this land as there was. Your very chambermaids have lost their bloom, I suppose, by sipping tea. Even the agitations of the passions at cards are not so great enemies to female charms. What Shakespeare ascribes to the concealment of love, is, in this age, more frequently occasioned by the use of tea." To raise the fright still higher, he quotes an account of a pig's tail, scalded with tea, on which, however, he does not much insist. Of these dreadful effects, some are, perhaps, imaginary, and some may have another cause. That there is less beauty in the present race of females, than in those who entered the world with us, all of us are inclined to think, on whom beauty has ceased to smile; but our fathers and grandfathers made the same complaint before us; and our posterity will still find beauties irresistibly powerful. That the diseases, commonly called nervous, tremours, fits, habitual depression, and all the maladies which proceed from laxity and debility, are more frequent than in any former time, is, I believe, true, however deplorable. But this new race of evils will not be expelled by the prohibition of tea. This general languor is the effect of general luxury, of general idleness. If it be most to be found among tea-drinkers, the reason is, that tea is one of the stated amusements of the idle and luxurious. The whole mode of life is changed; every kind of voluntary labour, every exercise that strengthened the nerves, and hardened the muscles, is fallen into disuse. The inhabitants are crowded together in populous cities, so that no occasion of life requires much motion; every one is near to all that he wants; and the rich and delicate seldom pass from one street to another, but in carriages of pleasure. Yet we eat and drink, or strive to eat and drink, like the hunters and huntresses, the farmers and the housewives, of the former generation; and they that pass ten hours in bed, and eight at cards, and the greater part of the other six at the table, are taught to impute to tea all the diseases which a life, unnatural in all its parts, may chance to bring upon them. Tea, among the greater part of those who use it most, is drunk in no great quantity. As it neither exhilarates the heart, nor stimulates the palate, it is commonly an entertainment merely nominal, a pretence for assembling to prattle, for interrupting business, or diversifying idleness. They, who drink one cup, and, who drink twenty, are equally punctual in preparing or partaking it; and, indeed, there are few but discover, by their indifference about it, that they are brought together not by the tea, but the tea-table. Three cups make the common quantity, so slightly impregnated, that, perhaps, they might be tinged with the Athenian cicuta, and produce less effects than these letters charge upon tea. Our author proceeds to show yet other bad qualities of this hated leaf. "Green tea, when made strong, even by infusion, is an emetick; nay, I am told, it is used as such in China; a decoction of it certainly performs this operation; yet, by long use, it is drunk by many without such an effect. The infusion also, when it is made strong, and stands long to draw the grosser particles, will convulse the bowels: even in the manner commonly used, it has this effect on some constitutions, as I have already remarked to you from my own experience. "You see I confess my weakness without reserve; but those who are very fond of tea, if their digestion is weak, and they find themselves disordered, they generally ascribe it to any cause, except the true one. I am aware that the effect, just mentioned, is imputed to the hot water; let it be so, and my argument is still good: but who pretends to say, it is not partly owing to particular kinds of tea? perhaps, such as partake of copperas, which, there is cause to apprehend, is sometimes the case: if we judge from the manner in which it is said to be cured, together with its ordinary effects, there is some foundation for this opinion. Put a drop of strong tea, either green or bohea, but chiefly the former, on the blade of a knife, though it is not corrosive, in the same manner as vitriol, yet there appears to be a corrosive quality in it, very different from that of fruit, which stains the knife." He afterwards quotes Paulli, to prove, that tea is a "desiccative, and ought not to be used after the fortieth year." I have, then, long exceeded the limits of permission, but I comfort myself, that all the enemies of tea cannot be in the right. If tea be a desiccative, according to Paulli, it cannot weaken the fibres, as our author imagines; if it be emetick, it must constringe the stomach, rather than relax it. The formidable quality of tinging the knife, it has in common with acorns, the bark, and leaves of oak, and every astringent bark or leaf: the copperas, which is given to the tea, is really in the knife. Ink may be made of any ferruginous matter, and astringent vegetable, as it is generally made of galls and copperas. From tea, the writer digresses to spirituous liquors, about which he will have no controversy with the Literary Magazine; we shall, therefore, insert almost his whole letter, and add to it one testimony, that the mischiefs arising, on every side, from this compendious mode of drunkenness, are enormous and insupportable; equally to be found among the great and the mean; filling palaces with disquiet, and distraction, harder to be borne, as it cannot be mentioned; and overwhelming multitudes with incurable diseases, and unpitied poverty. "Though tea and gin have spread their baneful influence over this island, and his majesty's other dominions, yet, you may be well assured, that the governors of the Foundling Hospital will exert their utmost skill and vigilance, to prevent the children, under their care, from being poisoned, or enervated by one or the other. This, however, is not the case of workhouses: it is well known, to the shame of those who are charged with the care of them, that gin has been too often permitted to enter their gates;--and the debauched appetites of the people, who inhabit these houses, has been urged as a reason for it. "Desperate diseases require desperate remedies: if laws are rigidly executed against murderers in the highway, those who provide a draught of gin, which we see is murderous, ought not to be countenanced. I am now informed, that in certain hospitals, where the number of the sick used to be about 5600 in 14 years, From 1704 to 1718, they increased to 8189; From 1718 to 1734, still augmented to 12,710; And from 1734 to 1749, multiplied to 38,147. "What a dreadful spectre does this exhibit! nor must we wonder, when satisfactory evidence was given, before the great council of the nation, that near eight millions of gallons of distilled spirits, at the standard it is commonly reduced to for drinking, was actually consumed annually in drams! the shocking difference in the numbers of the sick, and, we may presume, of the dead also, was supposed to keep pace with gin; and the most ingenious and unprejudiced physicians ascribed it to this cause. What is to be done under these melancholy circumstances? shall we still countenance the distillery, for the sake of the revenue; out of tenderness to the few, who will suffer by its being abolished; for fear of the madness of the people; or that foreigners will run it in upon us? There can be no evil so great as that we now suffer, except the making the same consumption, and paying for it to foreigners in money, which I hope never will be the case. "As to the revenue, it certainly may be replaced by taxes upon the necessaries of life, even upon the bread we eat, or, in other words, upon the land, which is the great source of supply to the public, and to individuals. Nor can I persuade myself, but that the people may be weaned from the habit of poisoning themselves. The difficulty of smuggling a bulky liquid, joined to the severity which ought to be exercised towards smugglers, whose illegal commerce is of so infernal a nature, must, in time, produce the effect desired. Spirituous liquors being abolished, instead of having the most undisciplined and abandoned poor, we might soon boast a race of men, temperate, religious, and industrious, even to a proverb. We should soon see the ponderous burden of the poor's rate decrease, and the beauty and strength of the land rejuvenate. Schools, workhouses, and hospitals, might then be sufficient to clear our streets of distress and misery, which never will be the case, whilst the love of poison prevails, and the means of ruin is sold in above one thousand houses in the city of London, in two thousand two hundred in Westminster, and one thousand nine hundred and thirty in Holborn and St. Giles's. "But if other uses still demand liquid fire, I would really propose, that it should be sold only in quart bottles, sealed up, with the king's seal, with a very high duty, and none sold without being mixed with a strong emetic. "Many become objects of charity by their intemperance, and this excludes others, who are such by the unavoidable accidents of life, or who cannot, by any means, support themselves. Hence it appears, that the introducing new habits of life, is the most substantial charity; and that the regulation of charity-schools, hospitals, and workhouses, not the augmentation of their number, can make them answer the wise ends, for which they were instituted. "The children of beggars should be also taken from them, and bred up to labour, as children of the public. Thus the distressed might be relieved, at a sixth part of the present expense; the idle be compelled to work or starve; and the mad be sent to Bedlam. We should not see human nature disgraced by the aged, the maimed, the sickly, and young children, begging their bread; nor would compassion be abused by those, who have reduced it to an art to catch the unwary. Nothing is wanting but common sense and honesty in the execution of laws. "To prevent such abuse in the streets, seems more practicable than to abolish bad habits within doors, where greater numbers perish. We see, in many familiar instances, the fatal effects of example. The careless spending of time among servants, who are charged with the care of infants, is often fatal: the nurse frequently destroys the child! the poor infant, being left neglected, expires whilst she is sipping her tea! This may appear to you as rank prejudice, or jest; but, I am assured, from the most indubitable evidence, that many very extraordinary cases of this kind have really happened, among those whose duty does not permit of such kind of habits. "It is partly from such causes, that nurses of the children of the public often forget themselves, and become impatient when infants cry; the next step to this is using extraordinary means to quiet them. I have already mentioned the term killing nurse, as known in some workhouses: Venice treacle, poppy water, and Godfrey's cordial, have been the kind instruments of lulling the child to his everlasting rest. If these pious women could send up an ejaculation, when the child expired, all was well, and no questions asked by the superiors. An ingenious friend of mine informs me, that this has been so often the case, in some workhouses, that Venice treacle has acquired the appellation of 'the Lord have mercy upon me,' in allusion to the nurses' hackneyed expression of pretended grief, when infants expire! Farewell." I know not upon what observation Mr. Hanway founds his confidence in the governours of the Foundling Hospital, men of whom I have not any knowledge, but whom I entreat to consider a little the minds, as well as bodies, of the children. I am inclined to believe irreligion equally pernicious with gin and tea, and, therefore, think it not unseasonable to mention, that, when, a few months ago, I wandered through the hospital, I found not a child that seemed to have heard of his creed, or the commandments. To breed up children in this manner, is to rescue them from an early grave, that they may find employment for the gibbet; from dying in innocence, that they may perish by their crimes. Having considered the effects of tea upon the health of the drinker, which, I think, he has aggravated in the vehemence of his zeal, and which, after soliciting them by this watery luxury, year after year, I have not yet felt, he proceeds to examine, how it may be shown to affect our interest; and first calculates the national loss, by the time spent in drinking tea. I have no desire to appear captious, and shall, therefore, readily admit, that tea is a liquor not proper for the lower classes of the people, as it supplies no strength to labour, or relief to disease, but gratifies the taste, without nourishing the body. It is a barren superfluity, to which those who can hardly procure what nature requires, cannot prudently habituate themselves. Its proper use is to amuse the idle, and relax the studious, and dilute the full meals of those who cannot use exercise, and will not use abstinence. That time is lost in this insipid entertainment cannot be denied; many trifle away, at the tea-table, those moments which would be better spent; but that any national detriment can be inferred from this waste of time, does not evidently appear, because I know not that any work remains undone, for want of hands. Our manufactures seem to be limited, not by the possibility of work, but by the possibility of sale. His next argument is more clear. He affirms, that one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, in silver, are paid to the Chinese, annually, for three millions of pounds of tea, and, that for two millions more, brought clandestinely from the neighbouring coasts, we pay, at twenty-pence a pound, one hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six pounds. The author justly conceives, that this computation will waken us; for, says he: "the loss of health, the loss of time, the injury of morals, are not very sensibly felt by some, who are alarmed when you talk of the loss of money." But he excuses the East India company, as men not obliged to be political arithmeticians, or to inquire so much, what the nation loses, as how themselves may grow rich. It is certain, that they, who drink tea, have no right to complain of those that import it; but if Mr. Hanway's computation be just, the importation, and the use of it, ought, at once, to be stopped by a penal law. The author allows one slight argument in favour of tea, which, in my opinion, might be, with far greater justice, urged both against that and many other parts of our naval trade. "The tea-trade employs," he tells us, "six ships, and five or six hundred seamen, sent annually to China. It, likewise, brings in a revenue of three hundred and sixty thousand pounds, which, as a tax on luxury, may be considered as of great utility to the state." The utility of this tax I cannot find: a tax on luxury is no better than another tax, unless it hinders luxury, which cannot be said of the impost upon tea, while it is thus used by the great and the mean, the rich and the poor. The truth is, that, by the loss of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, we procure the means of shifting three hundred and sixty thousand, at best, only from one hand to another; but, perhaps, sometimes into hands by which it is not very honestly employed. Of the five or six hundred seamen, sent to China, I am told, that sometimes half, commonly a third part, perish in the voyage; so that, instead of setting this navigation against the inconveniencies already alleged, we may add to them, the yearly loss of two hundred men, in the prime of life; and reckon, that the trade of China has destroyed ten thousand men, since the beginning of this century. If tea be thus pernicious, if it impoverishes our country, if it raises temptation, and gives opportunity to illicit commerce, which I have always looked on, as one of the strongest evidences of the inefficacy of our law, the weakness of our government, and the corruption of our people, let us, at once, resolve to prohibit it for ever. "If the question was, how to promote industry most advantageously, in lieu of our tea-trade, supposing every branch of our commerce to be already fully supplied with men and money? If a quarter the sum, now spent in tea, were laid out, annually, in plantations, in making public gardens, in paving and widening streets, in making roads, in rendering rivers navigable, erecting palaces, building' bridges, or neat and convenient houses, where are now only huts; draining lands, or rendering those, which are now barren, of some use; should we not be gainers, and provide more for health, pleasure, and long life, compared with the consequences of the tea-trade?" Our riches would be much better employed to these purposes; but if this project does not please, let us first resolve to save our money, and we shall, afterwards, very easily find ways to spend it. REPLY TO A PAPER IN THE GAZETTEER OF MAY 26, 1757 [5]. It is observed, in Le Sage's Gil Bias, that an exasperated author is not easily pacified. I have, therefore, very little hope of making my peace with the writer of the Eight Days' Journey; indeed so little, that I have long deliberated, whether I should not rather sit silently down, under his displeasure, than aggravate my misfortune, by a defence, of which my heart forbodes the ill success. Deliberation is often useless. I am afraid, that I have, at last, made the wrong choice, and that I might better have resigned my cause, without a struggle, to time and fortune, since I shall run the hazard of a new oifence, by the necessity of asking him, why he is angry. Distress and terrour often discover to us those faults, with which we should never have reproached ourselves in a happy state. Yet, dejected as I am, when I review the transaction between me and this writer, I cannot find, that I have been deficient in reverence. When his book was first printed, he hints, that I procured a sight of it before it was published. How the sight of it was procured, I do not now very exactly remember; but, if my curiosity was greater than my prudence, if I laid rash hands on the fatal volume, I have surely suffered, like him who burst the box, from which evil rushed into the world. I took it, however, and inspected it, as the work of an author not higher than myself; and was confirmed in my opinion, when I found, that these letters were _not written to be printed_. I concluded, however, that, though not _written_ to be _printed_, they were _printed_ to be _read_, and inserted one of them in the collection of November last. Not many days after, I received a note, informing me, that I ought to have waited for a more correct edition. This injunction was obeyed. The edition appeared, and I supposed myself at liberty to tell my thoughts upon it, as upon any other book, upon a royal manifesto, or an act of parliament. But see the fate of ignorant temerity! I now find, but find too late, that, instead of a writer, whose only power is in his pen, I have irritated an important member of an important corporation; a man, who, as he tells us in his letters, puts horses to his chariot. It was allowed to the disputant of old to yield up the controversy, with little resistance, to the master of forty legions. Those who know how weakly naked truth can defend her advocates, would forgive me, if I should pay the same respect to a governour of the foundlings. Yets the consciousness of my own rectitude of intention incites me to ask once again, how I have offended. There are only three subjects upon which my unlucky pen has happened to venture: tea; the author of the journal; and the foundling-hospital. Of tea, what have I said? That I have drank it twenty years, without hurt, and, therefore, believe it not to be poison; that, if it dries the fibres, it cannot soften them; that, if it constringes, it cannot relax. I have modestly doubted, whether it has diminished the strength of our men, or the beauty of our women; and whether it much hinders the progress of our woollen or iron manufactures; but I allowed it to be a barren superfluity, neither medicinal nor nutritious, that neither supplied strength nor cheerfulness, neither relieved weariness, nor exhilarated sorrow: I inserted, without charge or suspicion of falsehood, the sums exported to purchase it; and proposed a law to prohibit it for ever. Of the author I unfortunately said, that his injunction was somewhat too magisterial. This I said, before I knew that he was a governour of the foundlings; but he seems inclined to punish this failure of respect, as the czar of Muscovy made war upon Sweden, because he was not treated with sufficient honours, when he passed through the country in disguise. Yet, was not this irreverence without extenuation. Something was said of the merit of _meaning well_, and the journalist was declared to be a man, _whose failings might well be pardoned for his virtues_. This is the highest praise which human gratitude can confer upon human merit; praise that would have more than satisfied Titus or Augustus, but which I must own to be inadequate and penurious, when offered to the member of an important corporation. I am asked, whether I meant to satirize the man, or criticise the writer, when I say, that "he believes, only, perhaps, because he has inclination to believe it, that the English and Dutch consume more tea than the vast empire of China." Between the writer and the man, I did not, at that time, consider the distinction. The writer I found not of more than mortal might, and I did not immediately recollect, that the man put horses to his chariot. But I did not write wholly without consideration. I knew but two causes of belief, evidence and inclination. What evidence the journalist could have of the Chinese consumption of tea, I was not able to discover. The officers of the East India company are excluded, they best know why, from the towns and the country of China; they are treated, as we treat gipsies and vagrants, and obliged to retire, every night, to their own hovel. What intelligence such travellers may bring, is of no great importance. And, though the missionaries boast of having once penetrated further, I think, they have never calculated the tea drunk by the Chinese. There being thus no evidence for his opinion, to what could I ascribe it but inclination. I am yet charged, more heavily, for having said, that "he has no intention to find any thing right at home." I believe every reader restrained this imputation to the subject which produced it, and supposed me to insinuate only, that he meant to spare no part of the tea-table, whether essence or circumstance. But this line he has selected, as an instance of virulence and acrimony, and confutes it by a lofty and splendid panegyrick on himself. He asserts, that he finds many things right at home, and that he loves his oountrv almost to enthusiasm. I had not the least doubt, that he found, in his country, many things to please him; nor did I suppose, that he desired the same inversion of every part of life, as of the use of tea. The proposal of drinking tea sour showed, indeed, such a disposition to practical paradoxes, that there was reason to fear, lest some succeeding letter should recommend the dress of the Picts, or the cookery of the Eskimaux. However, I met with no other innovations, and, therefore, was willing to hope, that he found something right at home. But his love of his country seemed not to rise quite to enthusiasm, when, amidst his rage against tea, he made a smooth apology for the East India company, as men who might not think themselves obliged to be political arithmeticians. I hold, though no enthusiastick patriot, that every man, who lives and trades under the protection of a community, is obliged to consider, whether he hurts or benefits those who protect him; and that the most which can be indulged to private interest, is a neutral traffick, if any such can be, by which our country is not injured, though it may not be benefited. But he now renews his declamation against tea, notwithstanding the greatness or power of those that have interest or inclination to support it. I know not of what power or greatness he may dream. The importers only have an interest in defending it. I am sure, they are not great, and, I hope, they are not powerful. Those, whose inclination leads them to continue this practice, are too numerous; but, I believe their power is such, as the journalist may defy, without enthusiasm. The love of our country, when it rises to enthusiasm, is an ambiguous and uncertain virtue: when a man is enthusiastick, he ceases to be reasonable; and, when he once departs from reason, what will he do, but drink sour tea? As the journalist, though enthusiastically zealous for his country, has, with regard to smaller things, the placid happiness of philosophical indifference, I can give him no disturbance, by advising him to restrain, even the love of his country, within due limits, lest it should, sometimes, swell too high, fill the whole capacity of his soul, and leave less room for the love of truth. Nothing now remains, but that I review my positions concerning the foundling hospital. What I declared last month, I declare now, once more, that I found none of the children that appeared to have heard of the catechism. It is inquired, how I wandered, and how I examined. There is, doubtless, subtlety in the question; I know not well how to answer it. Happily, I did not wander alone; I attended some ladies, with another gentleman, who all heard and assisted the inquiry, with equal grief and indignation. I did not conceal my observations. Notice was given of this shameful defect soon after, at my request, to one of the highest names of the society. This, I am now told, is incredible; but, since it is true, and the past is out of human power, the most important corporation cannot make it false. But, why is it incredible? Because, in the rules of the hospital, the children are ordered to learn the rudiments of religion. Orders are easily made, but they do not execute themselves. They say their catechism, at stated times, under an able master. But this able master was, I think, not elected before last February; and my visit happened, if I mistake not, in November. The children were shy, when interrogated by a stranger. This may be true, but the same shiness I do not remember to have hindered them from answering other questions; and I wonder, why children, so much accustomed to new spectators, should be eminently shy. My opponent, in the first paragraph, calls the inference that I made from this negligence, a hasty conclusion: to the decency of this expression I had nothing to object; but, as he grew hot in his career, his enthusiasm began to sparkle; and, in the vehemence of his postscript, he charges my assertions, and my reasons for advancing them, with folly and malice. His argumentation, being somewhat enthusiastical, I cannot fully comprehend, but it seems to stand thus: my insinuations are foolish or malicious, since I know not one of the governours of the hospital; for, he that knows not the governours of the hospital, must be very foolish or malicious. He has, however, so much kindness for me, that he advises me to consult my safety, when I talk of corporations. I know not what the most important corporation can do, becoming manhood, by which my safety is endangered. My reputation is safe, for I can prove the fact; my quiet is safe, for I meant well; and for any other safety, I am not used to be very solicitous. I am always sorry, when I see any being labouring in vain; and, in return for the journalist's attention to my safety, I will confess some compassion for his tumultuous resentment; since all his invectives fume into the air, with so little effect upon me, that I still esteem him, as one that has the _merit of meaning well_; and still believe him to be a man, whose _failings may be justly pardoned for his virtues_ [6]. REVIEW [7] OF AN ESSAY ON THE WRITINGS AND GENIUS OF POPE. This is a very curious and entertaining miscellany of critical remarks and literary history. Though the book promises nothing but observations on the writings of Pope, yet no opportunity is neglected of introducing the character of any other writer, or the mention of any performance or event, in which learning is interested. From Pope, however, he always takes his hint, and to Pope he returns again from his digressions. The facts, which he mentions, though they are seldom anecdotes, in a rigorous sense, are often such as are very little known, and such as will delight more readers than naked criticism. As he examines the works of this great poet, in an order nearly chronological, he necessarily begins with his pastorals, which, considered as representations of any kind of life, he very justly censures; for there is in them a mixture of Grecian and English, of ancient and modern images. Windsor is coupled with Hybla, and Thames with Pactolus. He then compares some passages, which Pope has imitated, or translated, with the imitation, or version, and gives the preference to the originals, perhaps, not always upon convincing arguments. Theocritus makes his lover wish to be a bee, that he might creep among the leaves that form the chaplet of his mistress. Pope's enamoured swain longs to be made the captive bird that sings in his fair one's bower, that she might listen to his songs, and reward him with her kisses. The critick prefers the image of Theocritus, as more wild, more delicate, and more uncommon. It is natural for a lover to wish, that he might be any thing that could come near to his lady. But we more naturally desire to be that which she fondles and caresses, than that which she would avoid, at least would neglect. The snperiour delicacy of Theocritus I cannot discover, nor can, indeed, find, that either in the one or the other image there is any want of delicacy. Which of the two images was less common in the time of the poet who used it, for on that consideration the merit of novelty depends, I think it is now out of any critick's power to decide. He remarks, I am afraid, with too much justice, that there is not a single new thought in the pastorals; and, with equal reason, declares, that their chief beauty consists in their correct and musical versification, which has so influenced the English ear, as to render every moderate rhymer harmonious. In his examination of the Messiah, he justly observes some deviations from the inspired author, which weaken the imagery, and dispirit the expression. On Windsor Forest, he declares, I think without proof, that descriptive poetry was by no means the excellence of Pope; he draws this inference from the few images introduced in this poem, which would not equally belong to any other place. He must inquire, whether Windsor forest has, in reality, any thing peculiar. The Stag-chase is not, he says, so full, so animated, and so circumstantiated, as Somerville's. Barely to say, that one performance is not so good as another, is to criticise with little exactness. But Pope has directed, that we should, in every work, regard the author's end. The stag-chase is the main subject of Somerville, and might, therefore, be properly dilated into all its circumstances; in Pope, it is only incidental, and was to be despatched in a few lines. He makes a just observation, "that the description of the external beauties of nature, is usually the first effort of a young genius, before he hath studied nature and passions. Some of Milton's most early, as well as mos't exquisite pieces, are his Lycidas, l'Allegro, and il Penseroso, if we may except his ode on the Nativity of Christ, which is, indeed, prior in order of time, and in which a penetrating critick might have observed the seeds of that boundless imagination, which was, one day, to produce the Paradise Lost." Mentioning Thomson, and other descriptive poets, he remarks, that writers fail in their copies, for want of acquaintance with originals, and justly ridicules those who think they can form just ideas of valleys, mountains, and rivers, in a garret in the Strand. For this reason, I cannot regret, with this author, that Pope laid aside his design of writing American pastorals; for, as he must have painted scenes, which he never saw, and manners, which he never knew, his performance, though it might have been a pleasing amusement of fancy, would have exhibited no representation of nature or of life. After the pastorals, the critick considers the lyrick poetry of Pope, and dwells longest on the ode on St. Cecilia's day, which he, like the rest of mankind, places next to that of Dryden, and not much below it. He remarks, after Mr. Spence, that the first stanza is a perfect concert: the second he thinks a little flat; he justly commends the fourth, but without notice of the best line in that stanza, or in the poem: "Transported demi-gods stood round, And men grew heroes at the sound." In the latter part of the ode, he objects to the stanza of triumph: "Thus song could prevail," &c. as written in a measure ridiculous and burlesque, and justifies his answer, by observing, that Addison uses the same numbers in the scene of Rosamond, between Grideline and sir Trusty: "How unhappy is he," &c. That the measure is the same in both passages, must be confessed, and both poets, perhaps, chose their numbers properly; for they both meant to express a kind of airy hilarity. The two passions of merriment and exultation are, undoubtedly, different; they are as different as a gambol and a triumph, but each is a species of joy; and poetical measures have not, in any language, been so far refined, as to provide for the subdivisions of passion. They can only be adapted to general purposes; but the particular and minuter propriety must be sought only in the sentiment and language. Thus the numbers are the same in Colin's Complaint, and in the ballad of Darby and Joan, though, in one, sadness is represented, and, in the other, tranquillity; so the measure is the same of Pope's Unfortunate Lady, and the Praise of Voiture. He observes, very justly, that the odes, both of Dryden and Pope, conclude, unsuitably and unnaturally, with epigram. He then spends a page upon Mr. Handel's musick to Dryden's ode, and speaks of him with that regard which he has generally obtained among the lovers of sound. He finds something amiss in the air "With ravished ears," but has overlooked, or forgotten, the grossest fault in that composition, which is that in this line: "Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries," He has laid much stress upon the two latter words, which are merely words of connexion, and ought, in musick, to be considered as parenthetical. From this ode is struck out a digression on the nature of odes, and the comparative excellence of the ancients and moderns. He mentions the chorus which Pope wrote for the duke of Buckingham; and thence takes occasion to treat of the chorus of the ancients. He then comes to another ode, of "The dying Christian to his Soul;" in which, finding an apparent imitation of Flatman, he falls into a pleasing and learned speculation, on the resembling passages to be found in different poets. He mentions, with great regard, Pope's ode on Solitude, written when he was but twelve years old, but omits to mention the poem on Silence, composed, I think, as early, with much greater elegance of diction, musick of numbers, extent of observation, and force of thought. If he had happened to think on Baillet's chapter of Enfans célèbres, he might have made, on this occasion, a very entertaining dissertation on early excellence. He comes next to the Essay on Criticism, the stupendous performance of a youth, not yet twenty years old; and, after having detailed the felicities of condition, to which he imagines Pope to have owed his wonderful prematurity of mind, he tells us, that he is well informed this essay was first written in prose. There is nothing improbable in the report, nothing, indeed, but what is more likely than the contrary; yet I [8] cannot forbear to hint to this writer, and all others, the danger and weakness of trusting too readily to information. Nothing but experience could evince the frequency of false information, or enable any man to conceive, that so many groundless reports should be propagated, as every man of eminence may hear of himself. Some men relate what they think, as what they know; some men, of confused memories and habitual inaccuracy, ascribe to one man, what belongs to another; and some talk on, without thought or care. A few men are sufficient to broach falsehoods, which are afterwards innocently diffused by successive relaters. He proceeds on, examining passage after passage of this essay; but we must pass over all these criticisms, to which we have not something to add or to object, or where this author does not differ from the general voice of mankind. We cannot agree with him in his censure of the comparison of a student advancing in science, with a traveller passing the Alps, which is, perhaps, the best simile in our language; that, in which the most exact resemblance is traced between things, in appearance, utterly unrelated to each other. That the last line conveys no new _idea_, is not true; it makes particular, what was before general. Whether the description, which he adds from another author, be, as he says, more full and striking than that of Pope, is not to be inquired. Pope's description is relative, and can admit no greater length than is usually allowed to a simile, nor any other particulars than such as form the correspondence. Unvaried rhymes, says this writer, highly disgust readers of a good ear. It is, surely, not the ear, but the mind that is offended. The fault, arising from the use of common rhymes, is, that by reading the past line, the second may be guessed, and half the composition loses the grace of novelty. On occasion of the mention of an alexandrine, the critick observes, that "the alexandrine may be thought a modern measure, but that _Robert of Gloucester's Wife_ is an alexandrine, with the addition of two syllables; and that Sternhold and Hopkins translated the Psalms in the same measure of fourteen syllables, though they are printed otherwise." This seems not to be accurately conceived or expressed: an alexandrine, with the addition of two syllables, is no more an alexandrine, than with the detraction of two syllables. Sternhold and Hopkins did, generally, write in the alternate measure of eight and six syllables; but Hopkins commonly rhymed the first and third; Sternhold, only the second and fourth: so that Sternhold may be considered, as writing couplets of long lines; but Hopkins wrote regular stanzas. From the practice of printing the long lines of fourteen syllables in two short lines, arose the license of some of our poets, who, though professing to write in stanzas, neglect the rhymes of the first and third lines. Pope has mentioned Petronius, among the great names of criticism, as the remarker justly observes, without any critical merit. It is to be suspected, that Pope had never read his book, and mentioned him on the credit of two or three sentences which he had often seen quoted, imagining, that where there was so much, there must necessarily be more. Young men, in haste to be renowned, too frequently talk of books which they have scarcely seen. The revival of learning, mentioned in this poem, affords an opportunity of mentioning the chief periods of literary history, of which this writer reckons five: that of Alexander, of Ptolemy Philadelphus, of Augustus, of Leo the tenth, of queen Anne. These observations are concluded with a remark, which deserves great attention: "In no polished nation, after criticism has been much studied, and the rules of writing established, has any very extraordinary book ever appeared." The Rape of the Lock was always regarded, by Pope, as the highest production of his genius. On occasion of this work, the history of the comick-heroick is given; and we are told, that it descended from Fassoni to Boileau, from Boileau to Garth, and from Garth to Pope. Garth is mentioned, perhaps, with too much honour; but all are confessed to be inferiour to Pope. There is, in his remarks on this work, no discovery of any latent beauty, nor any thing subtle or striking; he is, indeed, commonly right, but has discussed no difficult question. The next pieces to be considered are, the Verses to the Memory of an unfortunate Lady, the Prologue to Cato, and Epilogue to Jane Shore. The first piece he commends. On occasion of the second, he digresses, according to his custom, into a learned dissertation on tragedies, and compares the English and French with the Greek stage. He justly censures Cato, for want of action and of characters; but scarcely does justice to the sublimity of some speeches, and the philosophical exactness in the sentiments. "The simile of mount Atlas, and that of the Numidian traveller, smothered in the sands, are, indeed, in character," says the critick, "but sufficiently obvious." The simile of the mountain is, indeed, common; but that of the traveller, I do not remember. That it is obvious is easy to say, and easy to deny. Many things are obvious, when they are taught. He proceeds to criticise the other works of Addison, till the epilogue calls his attention to Rowe, whose character he discusses in the same manner, with sufficient freedom and sufficient candour. The translation of the epistle of Sappho to Phaon is next considered; but Sappho and Ovid are more the subjects of this disquisition, than Pope. We shall, therefore, pass over it to a piece of more importance, the epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, which may justly be regarded, as one of the works on which the reputation of Pope will stand in future times. The critick pursues Eloisa through all the changes of passion, produces the passages of her letters, to which any allusion is made, and intersperses many agreeable particulars and incidental relations. There is not much profundity of criticism, because the beauties are sentiments of nature, which the learned and the ignorant feel alike. It is justly remarked by him, that the wish of Eloisa, for the happy passage of Abelard into the other world, is formed according to the ideas of mystick devotion. These are the pieces examined in this volume: whether the remaining part of the work will be one volume, or more, perhaps the writer himself cannot yet inform us [9]. This piece is, however, a complete work, so far as it goes; and the writer is of opinion, that he has despatched the chief part of his task; for he ventures to remark, that the reputation of Pope, as a poet, among posterity, will be principally founded on his Windsor Forest, Rape of the Lock, and Eloisa to Abelard; while the facts and characters, alluded to in his late writings, will be forgotten and unknown, and their poignancy and propriety little relished; for wit and satire are transitory and perishable, but nature and passion are eternal. He has interspersed some passages of Pope's life, with which most readers will be pleased. When Pope was yet a child, his father, who had been a merchant in London, retired to Binfield. He was taught to read by an aunt; and learned to write, without a master, by copying printed books. His father used to order him to make English verses, and would oblige him to correct and retouch them over and over, and, at last, could say, "These are good rhymes." At eight years of age, he was committed to one Taverner, a priest, who taught him the rudiments of the Latin and Greek. At this time, he met with Ogleby's Homer, which seized his attention; he fell next upon Sandys's Ovid, and remembered these two translations, with pleasure, to the end of his life. About ten, being at school, near Hyde-park corner, he was taken to the playhouse, and was so struck with the splendour of the drama, that he formed a kind of play out of Ogleby's Homer, intermixed with verses of his own. He persuaded the head boys to act this piece, and Ajax was performed by his master's gardener. They were habited according to the pictures in Ogleby. At twelve, he retired, with his father, to Windsor forest, and formed himself by study in the best English poets. In this extract, it was thought convenient to dwell chiefly upon such observations, as relate immediately to Pope, without deviating, with the author, into incidental inquiries. We intend to kindle, not to extinguish, curiosity, by this slight sketch of a work, abounding with curious quotations and pleasing disquisitions. He must be much acquainted with literary history, both of remote and late times, who does not find, in this essay, many things which he did not know before; and, if there be any too learned to be instructed in facts or opinions, he may yet properly read this book, as a just specimen of literary moderation. REVIEW OF A FREE ENQUIRY INTO THE NATURE AND ORIGIN OF EVIL [10]. This is a treatise, consisting of six letters, upon a very difficult and important question, which, I am afraid, this author's endeavours will not free from the perplexity which has entangled the speculatists of all ages, and which must always continue while _we see_ but _in part_. He calls it a _Free Enquiry_, and, indeed, his _freedom_ is, I think, greater than his modesty. Though he is far from the contemptible arrogance, or the impious licentiousness of Bolingbroke, yet he decides, too easily, upon questions out of the reach of human determination, with too little consideration of mortal weakness, and with too much vivacity for the necessary caution. In the first letter, on evil in general, he observes, that, "it is the solution of this important question, whence came _evil_? alone, that can ascertain the moral characteristic of God, without which there is an end of all distinction between good and evil." Yet he begins this inquiry by this declaration: "That there is a supreme being, infinitely powerful, wise, and benevolent, the great creator and preserver of all things, is a truth so clearly demonstrated, that it shall be here taken for granted." What is this, but to say, that we have already reason to grant the existence of those attributes of God, which the present inquiry is designed to prove? The present inquiry is, then, surely made to no purpose. The attributes, to the demonstration of which the solution of this great question is necessary, have been demonstrated, without any solution, or by means of the solution of some former writer. He rejects the Manichean system, but imputes to it an absurdity, from which, amidst all its absurdities, it seems to be free, and adopts the system of Mr. Pope. "That pain is no evil, if asserted with regard to the individuals who suffer it, is downright nonsense; but if considered as it affects the universal system, is an undoubted truth, and means only, that there is no more pain in it, than what is necessary to the production of happiness. How many soever of these evils, then, force themselves into the creation, so long as the good preponderates, it is a work well worthy of infinite wisdom and benevolence; and, notwithstanding the imperfections of its parts, the whole is, most undoubtedly, perfect." And, in the former part of the letter, he gives the principle of his system in these words: "Omnipotence cannot work contradictions; it can only effect all possible things. But so little are we acquainted with the whole system of nature, that we know not what are possible, and what are not; but if we may judge from that constant mixture of pain with pleasure, and inconveniency with advantage, which we must observe in every thing around us, we have reason to conclude, that, to endue created beings with perfection, that is, to produce good, exclusive of evil, is one of those impossibilities, which even infinite power cannot accomplish." This is elegant and acute, but will by no means calm discontent, or silence curiosity; for, whether evil can be wholly separated from good or not, it is plain, that they may be mixed, in various degrees, and, as far as human eyes can judge, the degree of evil might have been less, without any impediment to good. The second letter, on the evils of imperfection, is little more than a paraphrase of Pope's epistles, or, yet less than a paraphrase, a mere translation of poetry into prose. This is, surely, to attack difficulty with very disproportionate abilities, to cut the Gordian knot with very blunt instruments. When we are told of the insufficiency of former solutions, why is one of the latest, which no man can have forgotten, given us again? I am told, that this pamphlet is not the effort of hunger; what can it be, then, but the product of vanity? and yet, how can vanity be gratified by plagiarism or transcription? When this speculatist finds himself prompted to another performance, let him consider, whether he is about to disburden his mind, or employ his fingers; and, if I might venture to offer him a subject, I should wish, that he would solve this question: Why he, that has nothing to write, should desire to be a writer? Yet is not this letter without some sentiments, which, though not new, are of great importance, and may be read, with pleasure, in the thousandth repetition. "Whatever we enjoy, is purely a free gift from our creator; but, that we enjoy no more, can never, sure, be deemed an injury, or a just reason to question his infinite benevolence. All our happiness is owing to his goodness; but, that it is no greater, is owing only to ourselves; that is, to our not having any inherent right to any happiness, or even to any existence at all. This is no more to be imputed to God, than the wants of a beggar to the person who has relieved him: that he had something, was owing to his benefactor; but that he had no more, only to his own original poverty." Thus far he speaks what every man must approve, and what every wise man has said before him. He then gives us the system of subordination, not invented, for it was known, I think, to the Arabian metaphysicians, but adopted by Pope, and, from him, borrowed by the diligent researches of this great investigator. "No system can possibly be formed, even in imagination, without a subordination of parts. Every animal body must have different members, subservient to each other; every picture must be composed of various colours, and of light and shade; all harmony must be formed of trebles, tenours, and bases; every beautiful and useful edifice must consist of higher and lower, more and less magnificent apartments. This is in the very essence of all created things, and, therefore, cannot be prevented, by any means whatever, unless by not creating them at all." These instances are used, instead of Pope's oak and weeds, or Jupiter and his satellites; but neither Pope, nor this writer, have much contributed to solve the difficulty. Perfection, or imperfection, of unconscious beings has no meaning, as referred to themselves; the base and the treble are equally perfect; the mean and magnificent apartments feel no pleasure or pain from the comparison. Pope might ask the weed, why it was less than the oak? but the weed would never ask the question for itself. The base and treble differ only to the hearer, meanness and magnificence only to the inhabitant. There is no evil but must inhere in a conscious being, or be referred to it; that is, evil must be felt, before it is evil. Yet, even on this subject, many questions might be offered, which human understanding has not yet answered, and which the present haste of this extract will not suffer me to dilate. He proceeds to an humble detail of Pope's opinion: "The universe is a system, whose very essence consists in subordination; a scale of beings descending, by insensible degrees, from infinite perfection to absolute nothing; in which, though we may justly expect to find perfection in the whole, could we possibly comprehend it; yet would it be the highest absurdity to hope for it in all its parts, because the beauty and happiness of the whole depend altogether on the just inferiority of its parts; that is, on the comparative imperfections of the several beings of which it is composed. "It would have been no more an instance of God's wisdom to have created no beings, but of the highest and most perfect order, than it would be of a painter's art to cover his whole piece with one single colour, the most beautiful he could compose. Had he confined himself to such, nothing could have existed but demi-gods, or archangels, and, then, all inferior orders must have been void and uninhabited; but as it is, surely, more agreeable to infinite benevolence, that all these should be filled up with beings capable of enjoying happiness themselves, and contributing to that of others, they must, necessarily, be filled with inferior beings; that is, with such as are less perfect, but from whose existence, notwithstanding that less perfection, more felicity, upon the whole, accrues to the universe, than if no such had been created. It is, moreover, highly probable, that there is such a connexion between all ranks and orders, by subordinate degrees, that they mutually support each other's existence, and every one, in its place, is absolutely necessary towards sustaining the whole vast and magnificent fabric. "Our pretences for complaint could be of this only, that we are not so high in the scale of existence as our ignorant ambition may desire; a pretence which must eternally subsist, because, were we ever so much higher, there would be still room for infinite power to exalt us; and, since no link in the chain can be broke, the same reason for disquiet must remain to those who succeed to that chasm, which must be occasioned by our preferment. A man can have no reason to repine, that he is not an angel; nor a horse, that he is not a man; much less, that, in their several stations, they possess not the faculties of another; for this would be an insufferable misfortune." This doctrine of the regular subordination of beings, the scale of existence, and the chain of nature, I have often considered, but always left the inquiry in doubt and uncertainty. That every being not infinite, compared with infinity, must be imperfect, is evident to intuition; that, whatever is imperfect must have a certain line which it cannot pass, is equally certain. But the reason which determined this limit, and for which such being was suffered to advance thus far, and no farther, we shall never be able to discern. Our discoverers tell us, the creator has made beings of all orders, and that, therefore, one of them must be such as man; but this system seems to be established on a concession, which, if it be refused, cannot be extorted. Every reason which can be brought to prove, that there are beings of every possible sort, will prove, that there is the greatest number possible of every sort of beings; but this, with respect to man, we know, if we know any thing, not to be true. It does not appear, even to the imagination, that of three orders of being, the first and the third receive any advantage from the imperfection of the second, or that, indeed, they may not equally exist, though the second had never been, or should cease to be; and why should that be concluded necessary, which cannot be proved even to be useful? The scale of existence, from infinity to nothing, cannot possibly have being. The highest being not infinite, must be, as has been often observed, at an infinite distance below infinity. Cheyne, who, with the desire inherent in mathematicians to reduce every thing to mathematical images, considers all existence as a cone; allows that the basis is at an infinite distance from the body; and in this distance between finite and infinite, there will be room, for ever, for an infinite series of indefinable existence. Between the lowest positive existence and nothing, wherever we suppose positive existence to cease, is another chasm infinitely deep; where there is room again for endless orders of subordinate nature, continued for ever and for ever, and yet infinitely superiour to nonexistence. To these meditations humanity is unequal. But yet we may ask, not of our maker, but of each other, since, on the one side, creation, wherever it stops, must stop infinitely below infinity, and on the other, infinitely above nothing, what necessity there is, that it should proceed so far, either way, that beings so high or so low should ever have existed? We may ask; but, I believe, no created wisdom can give an adequate answer. Nor is this all. In the scale, wherever it begins or ends, are infinite vacuities. At whatever distance we suppose the next order of beings to be above man, there is room for an intermediate order of beings between them; and if for one order, then for infinite orders; since every thing that admits of more or less, and consequently all the parts of that which admits them, may be infinitely divided. So that, as far as we can judge, there may be room in the vacuity between any two steps of the scale, or between any two points of the cone of being, for infinite exertion of infinite power. Thus it appears, how little reason those, who repose their reason upon the scale of being, have to triumph over them who recur to any other expedient of solution, and what difficulties arise, on every side, to repress the rebellions of presumptuous decision: "Qui pauca considerat, facile pronunciat." In our passage through the boundless ocean of disquisition, we often take fogs for land, and, after having long toiled to approach them, find, instead of repose and harbours, new storms of objection, and fluctuations of uncertainty. We are next entertained with Pope's alleviations of those evils which we are doomed to suffer. "Poverty, or the want of riches, is generally compensated by having more hopes, and fewer fears, by a greater share of health, and a more exquisite relish of the smallest enjoyments, than those who possess them are usually blessed with. The want of taste and genius, with all the pleasures that arise from them, are commonly recompensed by a more useful kind of common sense, together with a wonderful delight, as well as success, in the busy pursuits of a scrambling world. The sufferings of the sick are greatly relieved by many trifling gratifications, imperceptible to others, and, sometimes, almost repaid by the inconceivable transports occasioned by the return of health and vigour. Folly cannot be very grievous, because imperceptible; and I doubt not but there is some truth in that rant of a mad poet, that there is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know. Ignorance, or the want of knowledge and literature, the appointed lot of all born to poverty and the drudgeries of life, is the only opiate capable of infusing that insensibility, which can enable them to endure the miseries of the one, and the fatigues of the other. It is a cordial, administered by the gracious hand of providence, of which they ought never to be deprived by an ill-judged and improper education. It is the basis of all subordination, the support of society, and the privilege of individuals; and I have ever thought it a most remarkable instance of the divine wisdom, that, whereas in all animals, whose individuals rise little above the rest of their species, knowledge is instinctive; in man, whose individuals are so widely different, it is acquired by education; by which means the prince and the labourer, the philosopher and the peasant, are, in some measure, fitted for their respective situations." Much of these positions is, perhaps, true; and the whole paragraph might well pass without censure, were not objections necessary to the establishment of knowledge. Poverty is very gently paraphrased by want of riches. In that sense, almost every man may, in his own opinion, be poor. But there is another poverty, which is want of competence of all that can soften the miseries of life, of all that can diversify attention, or delight imagination. There is yet another poverty, which is want of necessaries, a species of poverty which no care of the publick, no charity of particulars, can preserve many from feeling openly, and many secretly. That hope and fear are inseparably, or very frequently, connected with poverty and riches, my surveys of life have not informed me. The milder degrees of poverty are, sometimes, supported by hope; but the more severe often sink down in motionless despondence. Life must be seen, before it can be known. This author and Pope, perhaps, never saw the miseries which they imagine thus easy to be borne. The poor, indeed, are insensible of many little vexations, which sometimes imbitter the possessions, and pollute the enjoyments, of the rich. They are not pained by casual incivility, or mortified by the mutilation of a compliment; but this happiness is like that of a malefactor, who ceases to feel the cords that bind him, when the pincers are tearing his flesh. That want of taste for one enjoyment is supplied by the pleasures of some other, may be fairly allowed; but the compensations of sickness I have never found near to equivalence, and the transports of recovery only prove the intenseness of the pain. With folly, no man is willing to confess himself very intimately acquainted, and, therefore, its pains and pleasures are kept secret. But what the author says of its happiness, seems applicable only to fatuity, or gross dulness; for that inferiority of understanding, which makes one man, without any other reason, the slave, or tool, or property of another, which makes him sometimes useless, and sometimes ridiculous, is often felt with very quick sensibility. On the happiness of madmen, as the case is not very frequent, it is not necessary to raise a disquisition, but I cannot forbear to observe, that I never yet knew disorders of mind increase felicity: every madman is either arrogant and irascible, or gloomy and suspicious, or possessed by some passion, or notion, destructive to his quiet. He has always discontent in his look, and malignity in his bosom. And, if he had the power of choice, he would soon repent who should resign his reason to secure his peace. Concerning the portion of ignorance necessary to make the condition of the lower classes of mankind safe to the publick, and tolerable to themselves, both morals and policy exact a nicer inquiry than will be very soon or very easily made. There is, undoubtedly, a degree of knowledge which will direct a man to refer all to providence, and to acquiesce in the condition with which omniscient goodness has determined to allot him; to consider this world as a phantom, that must soon glide from before his eyes, and the distresses and vexations that encompass him, as dust scattered in his path, as a blast that chills him for a moment, and passes off for ever. Such wisdom, arising from the comparison of a part with the whole of our existence, those that want it most cannot possibly obtain from philosophy; nor, unless the method of education, and the general tenour of life are changed, will very easily receive it from religion. The bulk of mankind is not likely to be very wise or very good; and I know not, whether there are not many states of life, in which all knowledge, less than the highest wisdom, will produce discontent and danger. I believe it may be sometimes found, that a _little learning_ is, to a poor man, a _dangerous thing_. But such is the condition of humanity, that we easily see, or quickly feel the wrong, but cannot always distinguish the right. Whatever knowledge is superfluous, in irremediable poverty, is hurtful, but the difficulty is to determine when poverty is irremediable, and at what point superfluity begins. Gross ignorance every man has found equally dangerous with perverted knowledge. Men, left wholly to their appetites and their instincts, with little sense of moral or religious obligation, and with very faint distinctions of right and wrong, can never be safely employed, or confidently trusted; they can be honest only by obstinacy, and diligent only by compulsion or caprice. Some instruction, therefore, is necessary, and much, perhaps, may be dangerous. Though it should be granted, that those who are _born to poverty and drudgery_, should not be _deprived_, by an _improper education_, of the _opiate of ignorance_; even this concession will not be of much use to direct our practice, unless it be determined, who are those that are _born to poverty_. To entail irreversible poverty upon generation after generation, only because the ancestor happened to be poor, is, in itself, cruel, if not unjust, and is wholly contrary to the maxims of a commercial nation, which always suppose and promote a rotation of property, and offer every individual a chance of mending his condition by his diligence. Those, who communicate literature to the son of a poor man consider him, as one not born to poverty, but to the necessity of deriving a better fortune from himself. In this attempt, as in others, many fail and many succeed. Those that fail, will feel their misery more acutely; but since poverty is now confessed to be such a calamity, as cannot be borne without the opiate of insensibility, I hope the happiness of those whom education enables to escape from it, may turn the balance against that exacerbation which the others suffer. I am always afraid of determining on the side of envy or cruelty. The privileges of education may, sometimes, be improperly bestowed, but I shall always fear to withhold them, lest I should be yielding to the suggestions of pride, while I persuade myself that I am following the maxims of policy; and, under the appearance of salutary restraints, should be indulging the lust of dominion, and that malevolence which delights in seeing others depressed. Pope's doctrine is, at last, exhibited in a comparison, which, like other proofs of the same kind, is better adapted to delight the fancy than convince the reason. "Thus the universe resembles a large and well-regulated family, in which all the officers and servants, and even the domestic animals, are subservient to each other, in a proper subordination: each enjoys the privileges and perquisites peculiar to his place, and, at the same time, contributes, by that just subordination, to the magnificence and happiness of the whole." The magnificence of a house is of use or pleasure always to the master, and sometimes to the domesticks. But the magnificence of the universe adds nothing to the supreme being; for any part of its inhabitants, with which human knowledge is acquainted, an universe much less spacious or splendid would have been sufficient; and of happiness it does not appear, that any is communicated from the beings of a lower world to those of a higher. The inquiry after the cause of natural evil is continued in the third letter, in which, as in the former, there is mixture of borrowed truth, and native folly, of some notions, just and trite, with others uncommon and ridiculous. His opinion of the value and importance of happiness is certainly just, and I shall insert it; not that it will give any information to any reader, but it may serve to show, how the most common notion may be swelled in sound, and diffused in bulk, till it shall, perhaps, astonish the author himself. "Happiness is the only thing of real value in existence, neither riches, nor power, nor wisdom, nor learning, nor strength, nor beauty, nor virtue, nor religion, nor even life itself, being of any importance, but as they contribute to its production. All these are, in themselves, neither good nor evil: happiness alone is their great end, and they are desirable only as they tend to promote it." Success produces confidence. After this discovery of the value of happiness, he proceeds, without any distrust of himself, to tell us what has been hid from all former inquirers. "The true solution of this important question, so long and so vainly searched for by the philosophers of all ages and all countries, I take to be, at last, no more than this, that these real evils proceed from the same source as those imaginary ones of imperfection, before treated of, namely, from that subordination, without which no created system can subsist; all subordination implying imperfection, all imperfection evil, and all evil some kind of inconveniency or suffering: so that there must, be particular inconvenieucies and sufferings annexed to every particular rank of created beings by the circumstances of things, and their modes of existence. "God, indeed, might have made us quite other creatures, and placed us in a world quite differently constituted; but then we had been no longer men, and whatever beings had occupied our stations in the universal system, they must have been liable to the same inconveniencies." In all this, there is nothing that can silence the inquiries of curiosity, or culm the perturbations of doubt. Whether subordination implies imperfection may be disputed. The means respecting themselves may be as perfect as the end. The weed, as a weed, is no less perfect than the oak, as an oak. That _imperfection implies evil, and evil suffering_, is by no means evident. Imperfection may imply privative evil, or the absence of some good, but this privation produces no suffering, but by the help of knowledge. An infant at the breast is yet an imperfect man, but there is no reason for belief, that he is unhappy by his immaturity, unless some positive pain be superadded. When this author presumes to speak of the universe, I would advise him a little to distrust his own faculties, however large and comprehensive. Many words, easily understood on common occasions, become uncertain and figurative, when applied to the works of omnipotence. Subordination, in human affairs, is well understood; but, when it is attributed to the universal system, its meaning grows less certain, like the petty distinctions of locality, which are of good use upon our own globe, but have no meaning with regard to infinite space, in which nothing is _high_ or _low_. That, if man, by exaltation to a higher nature, were exempted from the evils which he now suffers, some other being must suffer them; that, if man were not man, some other being must be man, is a position arising from his established notion of the scale of being. A notion to which Pope has given some importance, by adopting it, and of which I have, therefore, endeavoured to show the uncertainty and inconsistency. This scale of being I have demonstrated to be raised by presumptuous imagination, to rest on nothing at the bottom, to lean on nothing at the top, and to have vacuities, from step to step, through which any order of being may sink into nihility without any inconvenience, so far as we can judge, to the next rank above or below it. We are, therefore, little enlightened by a writer who tells us, that any being in the state of man must suffer what man suffers, when the only question that requires to be resolved is: Why any being is in this state. Of poverty and labour he gives just and elegant representations, which yet do not remove the difficulty of the first and fundamental question, though supposing the present state of man necessary, they may supply some motives to content. "Poverty is what all could not possibly have been exempted from, not only by reason of the fluctuating nature of human possessions, but because the world could not subsist without it; for, had all been rich, none could have submitted to the commands of another, or the necessary drudgeries of life; thence all governments must have been dissolved, arts neglected, and lands uncultivated, and so an universal penury have overwhelmed all, instead of now and then pinching a few. Hence, by the by, appears the great excellence of charity, by which men are enabled, by a particular distribution of the blessings and enjoyments of life, on proper occasions, to prevent that poverty, which, by a general one, omnipotence itself could never have prevented; so that, by enforcing this duty, God, as it were, demands our assistance to promote universal happiness, and to shut out misery at every door, where it strives to intrude itself. "Labour, indeed, God might easily have excused us from, since, at his command, the earth would readily have poured forth all her treasures, without our inconsiderable assistance; but, if the severest labour cannot sufficiently subdue the malignity of human nature, what plots and machinations, what wars, rapine, and devastation, what profligacy and licentiousness, must have been the consequences of universal idleness! So that labour ought only to be looked upon, as a task kindly imposed upon us by our indulgent creator, necessary to preserve our health, our safety, and our innocence." I am afraid, that "the latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning." If God _could easily have excused us from labour_, I do not comprehend why _he could not possibly have exempted all from poverty_. For poverty, in its easier and more tolerable degree, is little more than necessity of labour; and, in its more severe and deplorable state, little more than inability for labour. To be poor is to work for others, or to want the succour of others, without work. And the same exuberant fertility, which would make work unnecessary, might make poverty impossible. Surely, a man who seems not completely master of his own opinion, should have spoken more cautiously of omnipotence, nor have presumed to say what it could perform, or what it could prevent. I am in doubt, whether those, who stand highest in the _scale of being_, speak thus confidently of the dispensations of their maker: "For fools rush in, where angels fear to tread." Of our inquietudes of mind, his account is still less reasonable: "Whilst men are injured, they must be inflamed with anger; and, whilst they see cruelties, they must be melted with pity; whilst they perceive danger, they must be sensible of fear." This is to give a reason for all evil, by showing, that one evil produces another. If there is danger, there ought to be fear; but, if fear is an evil, why should there be danger? His vindication of pain is of the same kind: pain is useful to alarm us, that we may shun greater evils, but those greater evils must be pre-supposed, that the fitness of pain may appear. Treating on death, he has expressed the known and true doctrine with sprightliness of fancy, and neatness of diction. I shall, therefore, insert it. There are truths which, as they are always necessary, do not grow stale by repetition "Death, the last and most dreadful of all evils, is so far from being one, that it is the infallible cure for all others. To die, is landing on some silent shore, Where billows never beat, nor tempests roar. Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er. GARTH. For, abstracted from the sickness and sufferings usually attending it, it is no more than the expiration of that term of life God was pleased to bestow on us, without any claim or merit on our part. But was it an evil ever so great, it could not be remedied, but by one much greater, which is, by living for ever; by which means, our wickedness, unrestrained by the prospect of a future state, would grow so insupportable, our sufferings so intolerable by perseverance, and our pleasures so tiresome by repetition, that no being in the universe could be so completely miserable, as a species of immortal men. We have no reason, therefore, to look upon death as an evil, or to fear it as a punishment, even without any supposition of a future life: but, if we consider it, as a passage to a more perfect state, or a remove only in an eternal succession of still-improving states, (for which we have the strongest reasons,) it will then appear a new favour from the divine munificence; and a man must be as absurd to repine at dying, as a traveller would be, who proposed to himself a delightful tour through various unknown countries, to lament, that he cannot take up his residence at the first dirty inn, which he baits at on the road. "The instability of human life, or of the changes of its successive periods, of which we so frequently complain, are no more than the necessary progress of it to this necessary conclusion; and are so far from being evils, deserving these complaints, that they are the source of our greatest pleasures, as they are the source of all novelty, from which our greatest pleasures are ever derived. The continual succession of seasons in the human life, by daily presenting to us new scenes, render it agreeable, and, like those of the year, afford us delights by their change, which the choicest of them could not give us by their continuance. In the spring of life, the gilding of the sunshine, the verdure of the fields, and the variegated paintings of the sky, are so exquisite in the eyes of infants, at their first looking abroad into a new world, as nothing, perhaps, afterwards can equal: the heat and vigour of the succeeding summer of youth, ripens for us new pleasures, the blooming maid, the nightly revel, and the jovial chase: the serene autumn of complete manhood feasts us with the golden harvests of our worldly pursuits: nor is the hoary winter of old age destitute of its peculiar comforts and enjoyments, of which the recollection and relation of those past, are, perhaps, none of the least: and, at last, death opens to us a new prospect, from whence we shall, probably, look back upon the diversions and occupations of this world, with the same contempt we do now on our tops and hobby horses, and with the same surprise, that they could ever so much entertain or engage us." I would not willingly detract from the beauty of this paragraph; and, in gratitude to him who has so well inculcated such important truths, I will venture to admonish him, since the chief comfort of the old is the recollection of the past, so to employ his time and his thoughts, that, when the imbecility of age shall come upon him, he may be able to recreate its languors, by the remembrance of hours spent, not in presumptuous decisions, but modest inquiries; not in dogmatical limitations of omnipotence, but in humble acquiescence, and fervent adoration. Old age will show him, that much of the book, now before us, has no other use than to perplex the scrupulous, and to shake the weak, to encourage impious presumption, or stimulate idle curiosity. Having thus despatched the consideration of particular evils, he comes, at last, to a general reason, for which _evil_ may be said to be _our good_. He is of opinion, that there is some inconceivable benefit in pain, abstractedly considered; that pain, however inflicted, or wherever felt, communicates some good to the general system of being, and, that every animal is, some way or other, the better for the pain of every other animal. This opinion he carries so far, as to suppose, that there passes some principle of union through all animal life, as attraction is communicated to all corporeal nature; and, that the evils suffered on this globe, may, by some inconceivable means, contribute to the felicity of the inhabitants of the remotest planet. How the origin of evil is brought nearer to human conception, by any _inconceivable_ means, I am not able to discover. We believed, that the present system of creation was right, though we could not explain the adaptation of one part to the other, or for the whole succession of causes and consequences. Where has this inquirer added to the little knowledge that we had before? He has told us of the benefits of evil, which no man feels, and relations between distant parts of the universe, which he cannot himself conceive. There was enough in this question inconceivable before, and we have little advantage from a new inconceivable solution. I do not mean to reproach this author for not knowing what is equally hidden from learning and from ignorance. The shame is, to impose words, for ideas, upon ourselves or others. To imagine, that we are going forward, when we are only turning round. To think, that there is any difference between him that gives no reason, and him that gives a reason, which, by his own confession, cannot be conceived. But, that he may not be thought to conceive nothing but things inconceivable, he has, at last, thought on a way, by which human sufferings may produce good effects. He imagines, that as we have not only animals for food, but choose some for our diversion, the same privilege may be allowed to some beings above us, _who may deceive, torment, or destroy us, for the ends, only, of their own pleasure or utility_. This he again finds impossible to be conceived, _but that impossibility lessens not the probability of the conjecture, which, by analogy, is so strongly confirmed_. I cannot resist the temptation of contemplating this analogy, which, I think, he might have carried further, very much to the advantage of his argument. He might have shown, that these "hunters, whose game is man," have many sports analogous to our own. As we drown whelps and kittens, they amuse themselves, now and then, with sinking a ship, and stand round the fields of Blenheim, or the walls of Prague, as we encircle a cockpit. As we shoot a bird flying, they take a man in the midst of his business or pleasure, and knock him down with an apoplexy. Some of them, perhaps, are virtuosi, and delight in the operations of an asthma, as a human philosopher in the effects of the air-pump. To swell a man with a tympany is as good sport as to blow a frog. Many a merry bout have these frolick beings at the vicissitudes of an ague, and good sport it is to see a man tumble with an epilepsy, and revive and tumble again, and all this he knows not why. As they are wiser and more powerful than we, they have more exquisite diversions; for we have no way of procuring any sport so brisk and so lasting, as the paroxysms of the gout and stone, which, undoubtedly, must make high mirth, especially if the play be a little diversified with the blunders and puzzles of the blind and deaf. We know not how far their sphere of observation may extend. Perhaps, now and then, a merry being may place himself in such a situation, as to enjoy, at once, all the varieties of an epidemical disease, or amuse his leisure with the tossings and contortions of every possible pain, exhibited together. One sport the merry malice of these beings has found means of enjoying, to which we have nothing equal or similar. They now and then catch a mortal, proud of his parts, and flattered either by the submission of those who court his kindness, or the notice of those who suffer him to court theirs. A head, thus prepared for the reception of false opinions, and the projection of vain designs, they easily fill with idle notions, till, in time, they make their plaything an author; their first diversion commonly begins with an ode or an epistle, then rises, perhaps, to a political irony, and is, at last, brought to its height, by a treatise of philosophy. Then begins the poor animal to entangle himself in sophisms, and flounder in absurdity, to talk confidently of the scale of being, and to give solutions which himself confesses impossible to be understood. Sometimes, however, it happens, that their pleasure is without much mischief. The author feels no pain, but while they are wondering at the extravagance of his opinion, and pointing him out to one another, as a new example of human folly, he is enjoying his own applause and that of his companions, and, perhaps, is elevated with the hope of standing at the head of a new sect. Many of the books which now crowd the world, may be justly suspected to be written for the sake of some invisible order of beings, for surely they are of no use to any of the corporeal inhabitants of the world. Of the productions of the last bounteous year, how many can be said to serve any purpose of use or pleasure! The only end of writing is to enable the readers better to enjoy life, or better to endure it; and how will either of those be put more in our power, by him who tells us, that we are puppets, of which some creature, not much wiser than ourselves, manages the wires! That a set of beings, unseen and unheard, are hovering about us, trying experiments upon our sensibility, putting us in agonies, to see our limbs quiver; torturing us to madness, that they may laugh at our vagaries; sometimes obstructing the bile, that they may see how a man looks, when he is yellow; sometimes breaking a traveller's bones, to try how he will get home; sometimes wasting a man to a skeleton, and sometimes killing him fat, for the greater elegance of his hide. This is an account of natural evil, which though, like the rest, not quite new, is very entertaining, though I know not how much it may contribute to patience. The only reason why we should contemplate evil is, that we may bear it better; and I am afraid nothing is much more placidly endured, for the sake of making others sport. The first pages of the fourth letter are such, as incline me both to hope and wish that I shall find nothing to blame in the succeeding part. He offers a criterion of action, on account of virtue and vice, for which I have often contended, and which must be embraced by all who are willing to know, why they act, or why they forbear to give any reason of their conduct to themselves or others. "In order to find out the true origin of moral evil, it will be necessary, in the first place, to enquire into its nature and essence; or, what it is that constitutes one action evil, and another good. Various have been the opinions of various authors on this criterion of virtue; and this variety has rendered that doubtful, which must, otherwise, have been clear and manifest to the meanest capacity. Some, indeed, have denied, that there is any such thing, because different ages and nations have entertained different sentiments concerning it; but this is just as reasonable, as to assert, that there are neither sun, moon, nor stars, because astronomers have supported different systems of the motions and magnitudes of these celestial bodies. Some have placed it in conformity to truth, some to the fitness of things, and others to the will of God: but all this is merely superficial: they resolve us not, why truth, or the fitness of things, are either eligible or obligatory, or why God should require us to act in one manner rather than another. The true reason of which can possibly be no other than this, because some actions produce happiness, and others misery; so that all moral good and evil are nothing more than the production of natural. This alone it is that makes truth preferable to falsehood, this, that determines the fitness of things, and this that induces God to command some actions, and forbid others. They who extol the truth, beauty, and harmony of virtue, exclusive of its consequences, deal but in pompous nonsense; and they, who would persuade us, that good and evil are things indifferent, depending wholly on the will of God, do but confound the nature of things, as well as all our notions of God himself, by representing him capable of willing contradictions; that is, that we should be, and be happy, and, at the same time, that we should torment and destroy each other; for injuries cannot be made benefits, pain cannot be made pleasure, and, consequently, vice cannot be made virtue, by any power whatever. It is the consequences, therefore, of all human actions that must stamp their value. So far as the general practice of any action tends to produce good, and introduce happiness into the world, so far we may pronounce it virtuous; so much evil as it occasions, such is the degree of vice it contains. I say the general practice, because we must always remember, in judging by this rule, to apply it only to the general species of actions, and not to particular actions; for the infinite wisdom of God, desirous to set bounds to the destructive consequences, which must, otherwise, have followed from the universal depravity of mankind, has so wonderfully contrived the nature of things, that our most vitious actions may, sometimes, accidentally and collaterally, produce good. Thus, for instance, robbery may disperse useless hoards to the benefit of the public; adultery may bring heirs, and good humour too, into many families, where they would otherwise have been wanting; and murder, free the world from tyrants and oppressors. Luxury maintains its thousands, and vanity its ten thousands. Superstition and arbitrary power contribute to the grandeur of many nations, and the liberties of others are preserved by the perpetual contentions of avarice, knavery, selfishness, and ambition; and thus the worst of vices, and the worst of men, are often compelled, by providence, to serve the most beneficial purposes, contrary to their own malevolent tendencies and inclinations; and thus private vices become public benefits, by the force only of accidental circumstances. But this impeaches not the truth of the criterion of virtue, before mentioned, the only solid foundation on which any true system of ethics can be built, the only plain, simple, and uniform rule, by which we can pass any judgment on our actions; but by this we may be enabled, not only to determine which are good, and which are evil, but, almost mathematically, to demonstrate the proportion of virtue or vice which belongs to each, by comparing them with the degrees of happiness or misery which they occasion. But, though the production of happiness is the essence of virtue, it is by no means the end; the great end is the probation of mankind, or the giving them an opportunity of exalting or degrading themselves, in another state, by their behaviour in the present. And thus, indeed, it answers two most important purposes: those are, the conservation of our happiness, and the test of our obedience; or, had not such a test seemed necessary to God's infinite wisdom, and productive of universal good, he would never have permitted the happiness of men, even in this life, to have depended on so precarious a tenure, as their mutual good behaviour to each other. For it is observable, that he, who best knows our formation, has trusted no one thing of importance to our reason or virtue: he trusts only to our appetites for the support of the individual, and the continuance of our species; to our vanity, or compassion, for our bounty to others; and to our fears, for the preservation of ourselves; often to our vices, for the support of government, and, sometimes, to our follies, for the preservation of our religion. But, since some test of our obedience was necessary, nothing, sure, could have been commanded for that end, so fit, and proper, and, at the same time, so useful, as the practice of virtue; nothing could have been so justly rewarded with happiness, as the production of happiness, in conformity to the will of God. It is this conformity, alone, which adds merit to virtue, and constitutes the essential difference between morality and religion. Morality obliges men to live honestly and soberly, because such behaviour is most conducive to public happiness, and, consequently, to their own; religion, to pursue the same course, because conformable to the will of their creator. Morality induces them to embrace virtue, from prudential considerations; religion, from those of gratitude and obedience. Morality, therefore, entirely abstracted from religion, can have nothing meritorious in it; it being but wisdom, prudence, or good economy, which, like health, beauty, or riches, are rather obligations conferred upon us by God, than merits in us towards him; for, though we may be justly punished for injuring ourselves, we can claim no reward for self-preservation; as suicide deserves punishment and infamy, but a man deserves no reward or honours for not being guilty of it. This I take to be the meaning of all those passages in our scriptures, in which works are represented to have no merit without faith; that is, not without believing in historical facts, in creeds, and articles, but, without being done in pursuance of our belief in God, and in obedience to his commands. And now, having mentioned scripture, I cannot omit observing, that the christian is the only religious or moral institution in the world, that ever set, in a right light, these two material points, the essence and the end of virtue, that ever founded the one in the production of happiness, that is, in universal benevolence, or, in their language, charity to all men; the other, in the probation of man, and his obedience to his creator. Sublime and magnificent as was the philosophy of the ancients, all their moral systems were deficient in these two important articles. They were all built on the sandy foundations of the innate beauty of virtue, or enthusiastic patriotism; and their great point in view was the contemptible reward of human glory; foundations, which were, by no means, able to support the magnificent structures which they erected upon them; for the beauty of virtue, independent of its effects, is unmeaning nonsense; patriotism, which injures mankind in general, for the sake of a particular country, is but a more extended selfishness, and really criminal; and all human glory, but a mean and ridiculous delusion. "The whole affair, then, of religion and morality, the subject of so many thousand volumes, is, in short, no more than this: the supreme being, infinitely good, as well as powerful, desirous to diffuse happiness by all possible means, has created innumerable ranks and orders of beings, all subservient to each other by proper subordination. One of these is occupied by man, a creature endued with such a certain degree of knowledge, reason, and freewill, as is suitable to his situation, and placed, for a time, on this globe, as in a school of probation and education. Here he has an opportunity given him of improving or debasing his nature, in such a manner, as to render himself fit for a rank of higher perfection and happiness, or to degrade himself to a state of greater imperfection and misery; necessary, indeed, towards carrying on the business of the universe, but very grievous and burdensome to those individuals who, by their own misconduct, are obliged to submit to it. The test of this his behaviour is doing good, that is, cooperating with his creator, as far as his narrow sphere of action will permit, in the production of happiness. And thus the happiness and misery of a future state will be the just reward or punishment of promoting or preventing happiness in this. So artificially, by this means, is the nature of all human virtue and vice contrived, that their rewards and punishments are woven, as it were, in their very essence; their immediate effects give us a foretaste of their future, and their fruits, in the present life, are the proper samples of what they must unavoidably produce in another. We have reason given us to distinguish these consequences, and regulate our conduct; and, lest that should neglect its post, conscience also is appointed, as an instinctive kind of monitor, perpetually to remind us both of our interest and our duty." "Si sic omnia dixisset!" To this account of the essence of vice and virtue, it is only necessary to add, that the consequences of human actions being sometimes uncertain, and sometimes remote, it is not possible, in many cases, for most men, nor in all cases, for any man, to determine what actions will ultimately produce happiness, and, therefore, it was proper that revelation should lay down a rule to be followed, invariably, in opposition to appearances, and, in every change of circumstances, by which we may be certain to promote the general felicity, and be set free from the dangerous temptation of _doing evil that good may come_. Because it may easily happen, and, in effect, will happen, very frequently, that our own private happiness may be promoted by an act injurious to others, when yet no man can be obliged, by nature, to prefer, ultimately, the happiness of others to his own; therefore, to the instructions of infinite wisdom, it was necessary that infinite power should add penal sanctions. That every man, to whom those instructions shall be imparted, may know, that he can never, ultimately, injure himself by benefiting others, or, ultimately, by injuring others benefit himself; but that, however the lot of the good and bad may be huddled together in the seeming confusion of our present state, the time shall undoubtedly come, when the most virtuous will be most happy. I am sorry, that the remaining part of this letter is not equal to the first. The author has, indeed, engaged in a disquisition, in which we need not wonder if he fails, in the solution of questions on which philosophers have employed their abilities from the earliest times, "And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost." He denies, that man was created _perfect_, because the system requires subordination, and because the power of losing his perfection, of "rendering himself wicked and miserable, is the highest imperfection imaginable." Besides, the regular gradations of the scale of being required, somewhere, "such a creature as man, with all his infirmities about him; and the total removal of those would be altering his nature, and, when he became perfect, he must cease to be man." I have already spent some considerations on the _scale of being_, of which, yet, I am obliged to renew the mention, whenever a new argument is made to rest upon it; and I must, therefore, again remark, that consequences cannot have greater certainty than the postulate from which they are drawn, and that no system can be more hypothetical than this, and, perhaps, no hypothesis more absurd. He again deceives himself with respect to the perfection with which _man_ is held to be originally vested. "That man came perfect, that is, endued with all possible perfection, out of the hands of his creator, is a false notion derived from the philosophers.--The universal system required subordination, and, consequently, comparative imperfection." That _man was ever endued with all possible perfection_, that is, with all perfection, of which the idea is not contradictory, or destructive of itself, is, undoubtedly, _false_. But it can hardly be called _a false notion_, because no man ever thought it, nor can it be derived from the _philosophers_; for, without pretending to guess what philosophers he may mean, it is very safe to affirm, that no philosopher ever said it. Of those who now maintain that _man_ was once perfect, who may very easily be found, let the author inquire, whether _man_ was ever omniscient, whether he was ever omnipotent; whether he ever had even the lower power of archangels or angels. Their answers will soon inform him, that the supposed perfection of _man_ was not absolute, but respective; that he was perfect, in a sense consistent enough with subordination, perfect, not as compared with different beings, but with himself in his present degeneracy; not perfect, as an angel, but perfect, as man. From this perfection, whatever it was, he thinks it necessary that man should be debarred, because pain is necessary to the good of the universe; and the pain of one order of beings extending its salutary influence to innumerable orders above and below, it was necessary that man should suffer; but, because it is not suitable to justice, that pain should be inflicted on innocence, it was necessary that man should be criminal. This is given as a satisfactory account of the original of moral evil, which amounts only to this, that God created beings, whose guilt he foreknew, in order that he might have proper objects of pain, because the pain of part is, no man knows how or why, necessary to the felicity of the whole. The perfection which man once had, may be so easily conceived, that, without any unusual strain of imagination, we can figure its revival. All the duties to God or man, that are neglected, we may fancy performed; all the crimes, that are committed, we may conceive forborne. Man will then be restored to his moral perfections; and into what head can it enter, that, by this change, the universal system would be shaken, or the condition of any order of beings altered for the worse? He comes, in the fifth letter, to political, and, in the sixth, to religious evils. Of political evil, if we suppose the origin of moral evil discovered, the account is by no means difficult; polity being only the conduct of immoral men in publick affairs. The evils of each particular kind of government are very clearly and elegantly displayed, and, from their secondary causes, very rationally deduced; but the first cause lies still in its ancient obscurity. There is, in this letter, nothing new, nor any thing eminently instructive; one of his practical deductions, that "from government, evils cannot be eradicated, and their excess only can be prevented," has been always allowed; the question, upon which all dissension arises, is, when that excess begins, at what point men shall cease to bear, and attempt to remedy. Another of his precepts, though not new, well deserves to be transcribed, because it cannot be too frequently impressed. "What has here been said of their imperfections and abuses, is, by no means, intended as a defence of them: every wise man ought to redress them to the utmost of his power; which can be effected by one method only, that is, by a reformation of manners; for, as all political evils derive their original from moral, these can never be removed, until those are first amended. He, therefore, who strictly adheres to virtue and sobriety in his conduct, and enforces them by his example, does more real service to a state, than he who displaces a minister, or dethrones a tyrant: this gives but a temporary relief, but that exterminates the cause of the disease. No immoral man, then, can possibly be a true patriot; and all those who profess outrageous zeal for the liberty and prosperity of their country, and, at the same time, infringe her laws, affront her religion, and debauch her people, are but despicable quacks, by fraud or ignorance increasing the disorders they pretend to remedy." Of religion he has said nothing but what he has learned, or might have learned, from the divines; that it is not universal, because it must be received upon conviction, and successively received by those whom conviction reached; that its evidences and sanctions are not irresistible, because it was intended to induce, not to compel; and that it is obscure, because we want faculties to comprehend it. What he means by his assertion, that it wants policy, I do not well understand; he does not mean to deny, that a good christian will be a good governour, or a good subject; and he has before justly observed, that the good man only is a patriot. Religion has been, he says, corrupted by the wickedness of those to whom it was communicated, and has lost part of its efficacy, by its connexion with temporal interest and human passion. He justly observes, that from all this no conclusion can be drawn against the divine original of christianity, since the objections arise not from the nature of the revelation, but of him to whom it is communicated. All this is known, and all this is true; but why, we have not yet discovered. Our author, if I understand him right, pursues the argument thus: the religion of man produces evils, because the morality of man is imperfect; his morality is imperfect, that he may be justly a subject of punishment; he is made subject to punishment, because the pain of part is necessary to the happiness of the whole; pain is necessary to happiness, no mortal can tell why, or how. Thus, after having clambered, with great labour, from one step of argumentation to another, instead of rising into the light of knowledge, we are devolved back into dark ignorance; and all our effort ends in belief, that for the evils of life there is some good reason, and in confession, that the reason cannot be found. This is all that has been produced by the revival of Chrysippus's untractableness of matter, and the Arabian scale of existence. A system has been raised, which is so ready to fall to pieces of itself, that no great praise can be derived from its destruction. To object, is always easy, and, it has been well observed by a late writer, that "the hand which cannot build a hovel, may demolish a temple [11]." REVIEW OF THE HISTORY OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF LONDON, FOR IMPROVING OF NATURAL KNOWLEDGE, FROM ITS FIRST RISE; In which the most considerable papers communicated to the society, which have, hitherto, not been published, are inserted, in their proper order, as a supplement to the Philosophical Transactions. By Thomas Birch, D. D. secretary to the Royal society, 2 vols. 4to. This book might, more properly, have been entitled by the author, a diary than a history, as it proceeds regularly from day to day, so minutely, as to number over the members present at each committee, and so slowly, that two large volumes contain only the transactions of the eleven first years from the institution of the society. I am, yet, far from intending to represent this work as useless. Many particularities are of importance to one man, though they appear trifling to another; and it is always more safe to admit copiousness, than to affect brevity. Many informations will be afforded by this book to the biographer. I know not where else it can be found, but here, and in Ward, that Cowley was doctor in physick. And, whenever any other institution, of the same kind, shall be attempted, the exact relation of the progress of the Royal society may furnish precedents. These volumes consist of an exact journal of the society; of some papers delivered to them, which, though registered and preserved, had been never printed; and of short memoirs of the more eminent members, inserted at the end of the year in which each died. The original of the society is placed earlier in this history than in that of Dr. Sprat. Theodore Haak, a German of the Palatinate, in 1645, proposed, to some inquisitive and learned men, a weekly meeting, for the cultivation of natural knowledge. The first associates, whose names ought, surely, to be preserved, were Dr. Wilkins, Dr. Wallis, Dr. Goddard, Dr. Ent, Dr. Glisson, Dr. Merret, Mr. Foster of Gresham, and Mr. Haak. Sometime afterwards, Wilkins, Wallis, and Goddard, being removed to Oxford, carried on the same design there by stated meetings, and adopted into their society Dr. Ward, Dr. Bathurst, Dr. Petty, and Dr. Willis. The Oxford society coming to London, in 1659, joined their friends, and augmented their number, and, for some time, met in Gresham college. After the restoration, their number was again increased, and on the 28th of November, 1660, a select party happening to retire for conversation, to Mr. Rooke's apartment in Gresham college, formed the first plan of a regular society. Here Dr. Sprat's history begins, and, therefore, from this period, the proceedings are well known [12]. REVIEW OF THE GENERAL HISTORY OP POLYBIUS, IN FIVE BOOKS, TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK, BY MR. HAMPTON. This appears to be one of the books, which will long do honour to the present age. It has been, by some remarker, observed, that no man ever grew immortal by a translation; and, undoubtedly, translations into the prose of a living language must be laid aside, whenever the language changes, because the matter being always to be found in the original, contributes nothing to the preservation of the form superinduced by the translator. But such versions may last long, though they can scarcely last always; and there is reason to believe that this will grow in reputation, while the English tongue continues in its present state. The great difficulty of a translator is to preserve the native form of his language, and the unconstrained manner of an original writer. This Mr. Hampton seems to have attained, in a degree of which there are few examples. His book has the dignity of antiquity, and the easy flow of a modern composition. It were, perhaps, to be desired, that he had illustrated, with notes, an author which must have many difficulties to an English reader, and, particularly, that he had explained the ancient art of war; but these omissions may be easily supplied, by an inferiour hand, from the antiquaries and commentators. To note omissions, where there is so much performed, would be invidious, and to commend is unnecessary, where the excellence of the work may be more easily and effectually shown, by exhibiting a specimen [13]. REVIEW OF MISCELLANIES ON MORAL AND RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS, IN PROSE AND VERSE; BY ELIZABETH HARRISON. This volume, though only one name appears upon the first page, has been produced by the contribution of many hands, and printed by the encouragement of a numerous subscription, both which favours seem to be deserved by the modesty and piety of her on whom they were bestowed. The authors of the esssays in prose seem, generally, to have imitated, or tried to imitate, the copiousness and luxunance of Mrs. Rowe; this, however, is not all their praise, they have laboured to add to her brightness of imagery, her purity of sentiments. The poets have had Dr. Watts before their eyes, a writer who, if he stood not in the first class of genius, compensated that defect, by a ready application of his powers to the promotion of piety. The attempt to employ the ornaments of romance in the decoration of religion was, I think, first made by Mr. Boyle's Martyrdom of Theodora; but Boyle's philosophical studies did not allow him time for the cultivation of style, and the completion of the great design was reserved for Mrs. Rowe. Dr. Watts was one of the first who taught the dissenters to write and speak like other men, by showing them, that elegance might consist with piety. They would have both clone honour to a better society, for they had that charity which might well make their failings forgotten, and with which the whole Christian world might wish for communion. They were pure from all the heresies of an age, to which every opinion is become a favourite, that the universal church has, hitherto, detested. This praise the general interest of mankind requires to be given to writers who please, and do not corrupt, who instruct, and do not weary. But to them all human eulogies are vain, whom, I believe applauded by angels and numbered with the just [14]. ACCOUNT OF A BOOK ENTITLED AN HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL ENQUIRY Into the evidence produced by the earls of MORAY and MORTON against MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS [15]. With an examination of the reverend Dr. Robertson's Dissertation, and Mr. Hume's History, with respect to that evidence [16]. We live in an age, in which there is much talk of independence, of private judgment, of liberty of thought, and liberty of press. Our clamorous praises of liberty sufficiently prove that we enjoy it; and if, by liberty, nothing else be meant, than security from the persecutions of power, it is so fully possessed by us, that little more is to be desired, except that one should talk of it less, and use it better. But a social being can scarcely rise to complete independence; he that has any wants, which others can supply, must study the gratification of them, whose assistance he expects; this is equally true, whether his wants be wants of nature, or of vanity. The writers of the present time are not always candidates for preferment, nor often the hirelings of a patron. They profess to serve no interest, and speak with loud contempt of sycophants and slaves. There is, however, a power, from whose influence neither they, nor their predecessors, have ever been free. Those, who have set greatness at defiance, have yet been the slaves of fashion. When an opinion has once become popular, very few are willing to oppose it. Idleness is more willing to credit than inquire; cowardice is afraid of controversy, and vanity of answer; and he that writes merely for sale, is tempted to court purchasers by flattering the prejudices of the publick. It has now been fashionable, for near half a century, to defame and vilify the house of Stuart, and to exalt and magnify the reign of Elizabeth. The Stuarts have found few apologists, for the dead cannot pay for praise; and who will, without reward, oppose the tide of popularity? yet there remains, still, among us, not wholly extinguished, a zeal for truth, a desire of establishing right, in opposition to fashion. The author, whose work is now before as, has attempted a vindication of Mary of Scotland, whose name has, for some years, been generally resigned to infamy, and who has been considered, as the murderer of her husband, and condemned by her own letters. Of these letters, the author of this vindication confesses the importance to be such, that, "if they be genuine, the queen was guilty; and, if they be spurious, she was innocent." He has, therefore, undertaken to prove them spurious, and divided his treatise into six parts. In the first is contained the history of the letters from their discovery by the earl of Morton, their being produced against queen Mary, and their several appearances in England, before queen Elizabeth and her commissioners, until they were finally delivered back again to the earl of Morton. The second contains a short abstract of Mr. Goodall's arguments for proving the letters to be spurious and forged; and of Dr. Robertson and Mr. Hume's objections, by way of answer to Mr. Goodall, with critical observations on these authors. The third contains an examination of the arguments of Dr. Robertson and Mr. Hume, in support of the authenticity of the letters. The fourth contains an examination of the confession of Nicholas Hubert, commonly called _French Paris_, with observations, showing the same to be a forgery. The fifth contains a short recapitulation, or summary, of the arguments on both sides of the question. The last is an historical collection of the direct or positive evidence still on record, tending to show what part the earls of Murray and Morton, and secretary Lethington, had in the murder of the lord Darnley. The author apologizes for the length of this book, by observing, that it necessarily comprises a great number of particulars, which could not easily be contracted: the same plea may be made for the imperfection of our extract, which will naturally fall below the force of the book, because we can only select parts of that evidence, which owes its strength to its concatenation, and which will be weakened, whenever it is disjoined. The account of the seizure of these controverted letters is thus given by the queen's enemies. "That in the castell of Edinburgh, thair was left be the erle of Bothwell, before his fleeing away, and was send for be ane George Dalgleish, his servand, who was taken be the erle of Mortoun, ane small gylt coffer, not fully ane fute lang, garnisht in sindrie places with the roman letter F. under ane king's crowne; wharin were certane letteris and writings weel knawin, and be aithis to be affirmit to have been written with the quene of Scottis awn hand to the erle." The papers in the box were said to be eight letters, in French, some love-sonnets in French also, and a promise of marriage by the queen to Bothwell. To the reality of these letters our author makes some considerable objections, from the nature of things; but, as such arguments do not always convince, we will pass to the evidence of facts. On June 15, 1567, the queen delivered herself to Morton, and his party, who imprisoned her. June 20, 1567, Dalgleish was seized, and, six days after, was examined by Morton; his examination is still extant, and there is no mention of this fatal box. Dec. 4, 1567, Murray's secret council published an act, in which is the first mention of these letters, and in which they are said to be _written and subscrivit with her awin hand_. Ten days after, Murray's first parliament met, and passed an act, in which they mention _previe letters written halelie_ [wholly] _with her awin hand_. The difference between _written and subscribed_, and _wholly written_, gives the author just reason to suspect, first, a forgery, and then a variation of the forgery. It is, indeed, very remarkable, that the first account asserts more than the second, though the second contains all the truth; for the letters, whether _written_ by the queen or not, were not _subscribed_. Had the second account differed from the first only by something added, the first might have contained truth, though not all the truth; but as the second corrects the first by diminution, the first cannot be cleared from falsehood. In October, 1568, these letters were shown at York to Elisabeth's commissioners, by the agents of Murray, but not in their publick character, as commissioners, but by way of private information, and were not, therefore, exposed to Mary's commissioners. Mary, however, hearing that some letters were intended to be produced against her, directed her commissioners to require them for her inspection, and, in the mean time, to declare them _false and feigned, forged and invented_, observing, that there were many that could counterfeit her hand. To counterfeit a name is easy, to counterfeit a hand, through eight letters very difficult. But it does not appear that the letters were ever shown to those who would desire to detect them; and, to the English commissioners, a rude and remote imitation might be sufficient, since they were not shown as judicial proofs; and why they were not shown as proofs, no other reason can be given, than they must have then been examined, and that examination would have detected the forgery. These letters, thus timorously and suspiciously communicated, were all the evidence against Mary; for the servants of Bothwell, executed for the murder of the king, acquitted the queen, at the hour of death. These letters were so necessary to Murray, that he alleges them, as the reason of the queen's imprisonment, though he imprisoned her on the 16th, and pretended not to have intercepted the letters before the 20th of June. Of these letters, on which the fate of princes and kingdoms was suspended, the authority should have been put out of doubt; yet that such letters were ever found, there is no witness but Morton who accused the queen, and Crawfurd, a dependent on Lennox, another of her accusers. Dalgleish, the bearer, was hanged without any interrogatories concerning them; and Hulet, mentioned in them, though then in prison, was never called to authenticate them, nor was his confession produced against Mary, till death had left him no power to disown it. Elizabeth, indeed, was easily satisfied; she declared herself ready to receive the proofs against Mary, and absolutely refused Mary the liberty of confronting her accusers, and making her defence. Before such a judge, a very little proof would be sufficient. She gave the accusers of Mary leave to go to Scotland, and the box and letters were seen no more. They have been since lost, and the discovery, which comparison of writing might have made, is now no longer possible. Hume has, however, endeavoured to palliate the conduct of Elizabeth, but "his account," says our author, "is contradicted, almost in every sentence, by the records, which, it appears, he has himself perused." In the next part, the authenticity of the letters is examined; and it seems to be proved, beyond contradiction, that the French letters, supposed to have been written by Mary, are translated from the Scotch copy, and, if originals, which it was so much the interest of such numbers to preserve, are wanting, it is much more likely that they never existed, than that they have been lost. The arguments used by Dr. Robertson, to prove the genuineness of the letters, are next examined. Robertson makes use, principally, of what he calls the _internal evidence_, which, amounting, at most, to conjecture, is opposed by conjecture equally probable. In examining the confession of Nicholas Hubert, or French Paris, this new apologist of Mary seems to gain ground upon her accuser. Paris is mentioned, in the letters, as the bearer of them to Bothwell; when the rest of Bothwell's servants were executed, clearing the queen in the last moment, Paris, instead of suffering his trial, with the rest, at Edinburgh, was conveyed to St. Andrew's, where Murray was absolute; put into a dungeon of Murray's citadel; and, two years after, condemned by Murray himself, nobody knew how. Several months after his death, a confession in his name, without the regular testifications, was sent to Cecil, at what exact time, nobody can tell. Of this confession, Leslie, bishop of Ross, openly denied the genuineness, in a book printed at London, and suppressed by Elizabeth; and another historian of that time declares, that Paris died without any confession; and the confession itself was never shown to Mary, or to Mary's commissioners. The author makes this reflection: "From the violent presumptions that arise from their carrying this poor ignorant stranger from Edinburgh, the ordinary seat of justice; their keeping him hid from all the world, in a remote dungeon, and not producing him, with their other evidences, so as he might have been publickly questioned; the positive and direct testimony of the author of Crawfurd's manuscript, then living, and on the spot at the time; with the publick affirmation of the bishop of Ross, at the time of Paris's death, that he had vindicated the queen with his dying breath; the behaviour of Murray, Morton, Buchanan, and even of Hay, the attester of this pretended confession, on that occasion; their close and reserved silence, at the time when they must have had this confession of Paris in their pocket; and their publishing every other circumstance that could tend to blacken the queen, and yet omitting this confession, the only direct evidence of her supposed guilt; all this duly and dispassionately considered, I think, one may safely conclude, that it was judged not fit to expose, so soon, to light this piece of evidence against the queen; which a cloud of witnesses, living, and present at Paris's execution, would, surely, have given clear testimony against, as a notorious imposture." Mr. Hume, indeed, observes: "It is in vain, at present, to seek for improbabilities in Nicholas Hubert's dying confession, and to magnify the smallest difficulties into a contradiction. It was certainly a regular judicial paper, given in regularly and judicially, and ought to have been canvassed at the time, if the persons, whom it concerned, had been assured of their innocence." To which our author makes a reply, which cannot be shortened without weakening it: "Upon what does this author ground his sentence? Upon two very plain reasons, first, that the confession was a judicial one, that is, taken in presence, or by authority of a judge. And secondly, that it was regularly and judicially given in; that must be understood during the time of the conferences before queen Elizabeth and her council, in presence of Mary's commissioners; at which time she ought to have canvassed it," says our author, "if she knew her innocence. "That it was not a judicial confession, is evident: the paper itself does not bear any such mark; nor does it mention, that it was taken in presence of any person, or by any authority whatsoever; and, by comparing it with the judicial examinations of Dalgleish, Hay, and Hepburn, it is apparent, that it is destitute of every formality, requisite in a judicial evidence. In what dark corner, then, this strange production was generated, our author may endeavour to find out, if he can. "As to his second assertion, that it was regularly and judicially given in, and, therefore, ought to have been canvassed, by Mary during the conferences; we have already seen, that this, likewise, is not fact: the conferences broke up in February, 1569: Nicholas Hubert was not hanged till August thereafter, and his dying confession, as Mr. Hume calls it, is only dated the 10th of that month. How, then, can this gentleman gravely tell us, that this confession was judicially given in, and ought to have been, at that very time, canvassed by queen Mary and her commissioners? Such positive assertions, apparently contrary to fact, are unworthy the character of an historian, and may, very justly, render his decision, with respect to evidences of a higher nature, very dubious. In answer, then, to Mr. Hume: As the queen's accusers did not choose to produce this material witness, Paris, whom they had alive and in their hands, nor any declaration or confession, from him, at the critical and proper time for having it canvassed by the queen, I apprehend our author's conclusion may fairly be used against himself; that it is in vain, at present, to support the improbabilities and absurdities in a confession, taken in a clandestine way, nobody knows how, and produced, after Paris's death, by nobody knows whom, and, from every appearance, destitute of every formality, requisite and common to such sort of evidence: for these reasons, I am under no sort of hesitation to give sentence against Nicholas Hubert's confession, as a gross imposture and forgery." The state of the evidence relating to the letters is this: Morton affirms, that they were taken in the hands of Dalgleish. Hie examination of Dalgleish is still extant, and he appears never to have been once interrogated concerning the letters. Morton and Murray affirm, that they were written by the queen's hand; they were carefully concealed from Mary and her commissioners, and were never collated by one man, who could desire to disprove them. Several of the incidents mentioned in the letters are confirmed by the oath of Crawfurd, one of Lennox's defendants, and some of the incidents are so minute, as that they could scarcely be thought on by a forger. Crawfurd's testimony is not without suspicion. Whoever practises forgery, endeavours to make truth the vehicle of falsehood. Of a prince's life very minute incidents are known; and if any are too slight to be remarked, they may be safely feigned, for they are, likewise, too slight to be contradicted. But there are still more reasons for doubting the genuineness of these letters. They had no date of time or place, no seal, no direction, no superscription. The only evidences that could prove their authenticity were Dalgleish and Paris; of which Dalgleish, at his trial, was never questioned about them; Paris was never publickly tried, though he was kept alive through the time of the conference. The servants of Bothwell, who were put to death for the king's murder, cleared Mary with their last words. The letters were first declared to be subscribed, and were then produced without subscription. They were shown, during the conferences at York, privately, to the English commissioners, but were concealed from the commissioners of Mary. Mary always solicited the perusal of these letters, and was always denied it. She demanded to be heard, in person, by Elizabeth, before the nobles of England and the ambassadours of other princes, and was refused. When Mary persisted in demanding copies of the letters, her commissioners were dismissed with their box to Scotland, and the letters were seen no more. The French letters, which, for almost two centuries, have been considered as originals, by the enemies of Mary's memory, are now discovered to be forgeries, and acknowledged to be translations, and, perhaps, French translations of a Latin translation. And the modern accusers of Mary are forced to infer, from these letters, which now exist, that other letters existed formerly, which have been lost, in spite of curiosity, malice, and interest. The rest of this treatise is employed in an endeavour to prove, that Mary's accusers were the murderers of Darnly: through this inquiry it is hot necessary to follow him; only let it be observed, that, if these letters were forged by them, they may easily be thought capable of other crimes. That the letters were forged, is now made so probable, that, perhaps, they will never more be cited as testimonies. MARMOR NORFOLCIENSE: Or, an essay on an ancient prophetical inscription, in monkish rhyme, lately discovered near Lynn, in Norfolk. By Probus Britannicus [17]. In Norfolk, near the town of Lynn, in a field, which an ancient tradition of the country affirms to have been once a deep lake, or meer, and which appears, from authentick records, to have been called, about two hundred years ago, _Palus_, or the marsh, was discovered, not long since, a large square stone, which is found, upon an exact inspection, to be a kind of coarse marble of a substance not firm enough to admit of being polished, yet harder than our common quarries afford, and not easily susceptible of injuries from weather or outward accidents. It was brought to light by a farmer, who, observing his plough obstructed by something, through which the share could not make its way, ordered his servants to remove it. This was not effected without some difficulty, the stone being three feet four inches deep, and four feet square in the superficies; and, consequently, of a weight not easily manageable. However, by the application of levers, it was, at length, raised, and conveyed to a corner of the field, where it lay, for some months, entirely unregarded; nor, perhaps, had we ever been made acquainted with this venerable relick of antiquity, had not our good fortune been greater than our curiosity. A gentleman, well known to the learned world, and distinguished by the patronage of the Maecenas of Norfolk, whose name, was I permitted to mention it, would excite the attention of my reader, and add no small authority to my conjectures, observing, as he was walking that way, that the clouds began to gather, and threaten him with a shower, had recourse, for shelter, to the trees under which this stone happened to lie, and sat down upon it, in expectation of fair weather. At length he began to amuse himself, in his confinement, by clearing the earth from his seat with the point of his cane; and had continued this employment some time, when he observed several traces of letters, antique and irregular, which, by being very deeply engraven, were still easily distinguishable. This discovery so far raised his curiosity, that, going home immediately, he procured an instrument proper for cutting out the clay, that filled up the spaces of the letters; and, with very little labour, made the inscription legible, which is here exhibited to the publick: POST-GENITIS. Cum lapidem hunc, magni Qui nunc jacet incola stagni, Vel pede equus tanget, Vel arator vomere franget, Sentiet aegra metus, Effundet patria fletus, Littoraque ut fluctu, Resonabunt oppida luctu: Nam foecunda rubri Serpent per prata colubri, Gramina vastantes, Flores fructusque vorantes. Omnia foedantes, Vitiantes, et spoliantes; Quanquam haud pugnaces, Ibunt per cuncta minaces, Fures absque timore, Et pingues absque labore. Horrida dementes Rapiet discordia gentes; Plurima tunc leges Mutabit, plurima reges Natio; conversa In rabiem tunc contremet ursa MARMOR NORFOLCIENSE Cynthia, tunc latis Florebunt lilia pratis; Nec fremere audebit Leo, sed violare timebit, Omnia consuetus Populari pascua lætus. Ante oculos natos Calceatos et cruciatos Jam feret ignavus, Vetitaque libidine pravus. En quoque quod mirum, Quod dicas denique dirum, Sanguinem equus sugit, Neque bellua victa remugit! These lines he carefully copied, accompanied, in his letter of July 19, with the following translation. TO POSTERITY. Whene'er this stone, now hid beneath the lake, The horse shall trample, or the plough shall break, Then, O my country! shalt thou groan distrest, Grief swell thine eyes, and terrour chill thy breast. Thy streets with violence of woe shall sound, Loud as the billows bursting on the ground. Then through thy fields shall scarlet reptiles stray, And rapine and pollution mark their way. Their hungry swarms the peaceful vale shall fright, Still fierce to threaten, still afraid to fight; The teeming year's whole product shall devour, Insatiate pluck the fruit, and crop the flow'r; Shall glutton on the industrious peasants' spoil, Rob without fear, and fatten without toil; Then o'er the world shall discord stretch her wings; Kings change their laws, and kingdoms change their kings. The bear, enrag'd, th' affrighted moon shall dread; The lilies o'er the vales triumphant spread; Nor shall the lion, wont of old to reign Despotick o'er the desolated plain, Henceforth th' inviolable bloom invade, Or dare to murmur in the flow'ry glade; His tortur'd sons shall die before his face, While he lies melting in a lewd embrace; And, yet more strange! his veins a horse shall drain, Nor shall the passive coward once complain. I make not the least doubt, but that this learned person has given us, as an antiquary, a true and uncontrovertible representation of the writer's meaning; and, am sure, he can confirm it by innumerable quotations from the authors of the middle age, should he be publickly called upon by any man of eminent rank in the republick of letters; nor will he deny the world that satisfaction, provided the animadverter proceeds with that sobriety and modesty, with which it becomes every learned man to treat a subject of such importance. Yet, with all proper deference to a name so justly celebrated, I will take the freedom of observing, that he has succeeded better as a scholar than a poet; having fallen below the strength, the conciseness, and, at the same time, below the perspicuity of his author. I shall not point out the particular passages in which this disparity is remarkable, but content myself with saying, in general, that the criticisms, which there is room for on this translation, may be almost an incitement to some lawyer, studious of antiquity, to learn Latin. The inscription, which I now proceed to consider, wants no arguments to prove its antiquity to those among the learned, who are versed in the writers of the darker ages, and know that the Latin poetry of those times was of a peculiar cast and air, not easy to be understood, and very difficult to be imitated; nor can it be conceived, that any man would lay out his abilities on a way of writing, which, though attained with much study, could gain him no reputation; and engrave his chimeras on a stone, to astonish posterity. Its antiquity, therefore, is out of dispute; but how high a degree of antiquity is to be assigned it, there is more ground for inquiry than determination. How early Latin rhymes made their appearance in the world, is yet undecided by the criticks. Verses of this kind were called leonine; but whence they derived that appellation, the learned Camden [18] confesses himself ignorant; so that the style carries no certain marks of its age. I shall only observe farther, on this head, that the characters are nearly of the same form with those on king Arthur's coffin; but whether, from their similitude, we may venture to pronounce them of the same date, I must refer to the decision of better judges. Our inability to fix the age of this inscription, necessarily infers our ignorance of its author, with relation to whom, many controversies may be started, worthy of the most profound learning, and most indefatigable diligence. The first question that naturally arises is: Whether he was a Briton or a Saxon? I had, at first, conceived some hope that, in this question, in which not only the idle curiosity of virtuosos, but the honour of two mighty nations, is concerned, some information might be drawn from the word _patria_, my country, in the third line; England being not, in propriety of speech, the country of the Saxons; at least, not at their first arrival. But, upon farther reflection, this argument appeared not conclusive, since we find that, in all ages, foreigners have affected to call England their country, even when, like the Saxons of old, they came only to plunder it. An argument in favour of the Britons may, indeed, be drawn from the tenderness, with which the author seems to lament his country, and the compassion he shows for its approaching calamities. I, who am a descendant from the Saxons, and, therefore, unwilling to say any thing derogatory from the reputation of my forefathers, must yet allow this argument its full force; for it has been rarely, very rarely, known, that foreigners, however well treated, caressed, enriched, flattered, or exalted, have regarded this country with the least gratitude or affection, till the race has, by long continuance, after many generations, been naturalized and assimilated. They have been ready, upon all occasions, to prefer the petty interests of their own country, though, perhaps, only some desolate and worthless corner of the world. They have employed the wealth of England, in paying troops to defend mud-wall towns, and uninhabitable rocks, and in purchasing barriers for territories, of which the natural sterility secured them from invasion. This argument, which wants no particular instances to confirm it, is, I confess, of the greatest weight in this question, and inclines me strongly to believe, that the benevolent author of this prediction must have been born a Briton. The learned discoverer of the inscription was pleased to insist, with great warmth, upon the etymology of the word _patria_, which signifying, says he, _the land of my father_, could be made use of by none, but such whose ancestors had resided here; but, in answer to this demonstration, as he called it, I only desired him to take notice, how common it is for intruders of yesterday to pretend the same title with the ancient proprietors, and, having just received an estate, by voluntary grant, to erect a claim of _hereditary right_. Nor is it less difficult to form any satisfactory conjecture, concerning the rank or condition of the writer, who, contented with a consciousness of having done his duty, in leaving this solemn warning to his country, seems studiously to have avoided that veneration, to which his knowledge of futurity, undoubtedly, entitled him, and those honours, which his memory might justly claim from the gratitude of posterity; and has, therefore, left no trace, by which the most sagacious and diligent inquirer can hope to discover him. This conduct, alone, ought to convince us, that the prediction is of no small importance to mankind, since the author of it appears not to have been influenced by any other motive, than that noble and exalted philanthropy, which is above the narrow views of recompense or applause. That interest had no share in this inscription, is evident beyond dispute, since the age in which he lived received neither pleasure nor instruction from it. Nor is it less apparent, from the suppression of his name, that he was equally a stranger to that wild desire of fame, which has, sometimes, infatuated the noblest minds. His modesty, however, has not been able wholly to extinguish that curiosity, which so naturally leads us, when we admire a performance, to inquire after the author. Those, whom I have consulted on this occasion; and my zeal for the honour of this benefactor of my country has not suffered me to forget a single antiquary of reputation, have, almost unanimously, determined, that it was written by a king. For where else, said they, are we to expect that greatness of mind, and that dignity of expression, so eminently conspicuous in this inscription! It is with a proper sense of the weakness of my own abilities, that I venture to lay before the publick the reasons which hinder me from concurring with this opinion, which I am not only inclined to favour by my respect for the authors of it, but by a natural affection for monarchy, and a prevailing inclination to believe, that every excellence is inherent in a king. To condemn an opinion so agreeable to the reverence due to the regal dignity, and countenanced by so great authorities, without a long and accurate discussion, would be a temerity justly liable to the severest censures. A. supercilious and arrogant determination of a controversy of such importance, would, doubtless, be treated by the impartial and candid with the utmost indignation. But as I have too high an idea of the learning of my contemporaries, to obtrude any crude, hasty, or indigested notions on the publick, I have proceeded with the utmost degree of diffidence and caution; I have frequently reviewed all my arguments, traced them backwards to their first principles, and used every method of examination to discover, whether all the deductions were natural and just, and whether I was not imposed on by some specious fallacy; but the farther I carried my inquiries, and the longer I dwelt upon this great point, the more was I convinced, in spite of all my prejudices, that this wonderful prediction was not written by a king. For, after a laborious and attentive perusal of histories, memoirs, chronicles, lives, characters, vindications, panegyricks and epitaphs, I could find no sufficient authority for ascribing to any of our English monarchs, however gracious or glorious, any prophetical knowledge or prescience of futurity; which, when we consider how rarely regal virtues are forgotten, how soon they are discovered, and how loudly they are celebrated, affords a probable argument, at least, that none of them have laid any claim to this character. For why should historians have omitted to embellish their accounts with such a striking circumstance? or, if the histories of that age are lost, by length of time, why was not so uncommon an excellence transmitted to posterity, in the more lasting colours of poetry? Was that unhappy age without a laureate? Was there then no Young [19] or Philips [20], no Ward [21] or Mitchell [22], to snatch such wonders from oblivion, and immortalize a prince of such capacities? If this was really the case, let us congratulate ourselves upon being reserved for better days; days so fruitful of happy writers, that no princely virtue can shine in vain. Our monarchs are surrounded with refined spirits, so penetrating, that they frequently discover, in their masters, great qualities, invisible to vulgar eyes, and which, did not they publish them to mankind, would be unobserved for ever. Nor is it easy to find, in the lives of our monarchs, many instances of that regard for posterity, which seems to have been the prevailing temper of this venerable man. I have seldom, in any of the gracious speeches delivered from the throne, and received, with the highest gratitude and satisfaction, by both houses of parliament, discovered any other concern than for the current year, for which supplies are generally demanded in very pressing terms, and, sometimes, such as imply no remarkable solicitude for posterity. Nothing, indeed, can be more unreasonable and absurd, than to require, that a monarch, distracted with cares and surrounded with enemies, should involve himself in superfluous anxieties, by an unnecessary concern about future generations. Are not pretenders, mock-patriots, masquerades, operas, birthnights, treaties, conventions, reviews, drawing-rooms, the births of heirs, and the deaths of queens, sufficient to overwhelm any capacity but that of a king? Surely, he that acquits himself successfully of such affairs may content himself with the glory he acquires, and leave posterity to his successours. That this has been the conduct of most princes, is evident from the accounts of all ages and nations; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought that I have, without just reasons, deprived this inscription of the veneration it might demand, as the work of a king. With what laborious struggles against prejudice and inclination, with what efforts of reasoning, and pertinacity of self-denial, I have prevailed upon myself to sacrifice the honour of this monument to the love of truth, none, who are unacquainted with the fondness of a commentator, will be able to conceive. But this instance will be, I hope, sufficient to convince the publick, that I write with sincerity, and that, whatever my success may be, my intentions are good. Where we are to look for our author, it still remains to be considered; whether in the high road of publick employments, or the by-paths of private life. It has always been observed of those that frequent a court, that they soon, by a kind of contagion, catch the regal spirit of neglecting futurity. The minister forms an expedient to suspend, or perplex, an inquiry into his measures, for a few months, and applauds and triumphs in his own dexterity. The peer puts off his creditor for the present day, and forgets that he is ever to see him more. The frown of a prince, and the loss of a pension, have, indeed, been found of wonderful efficacy to abstract men's thoughts from the present time, and fill them with zeal for the liberty and welfare of ages to come. But, I am inclined to think more favourably of the author of this prediction, than that he was made a patriot by disappointment or disgust. If he ever saw a court, I would willingly believe, that he did not owe his concern for posterity to his ill reception there, but his ill reception there to his concern for posterity. However, since truth is the same in the mouth of a hermit, or a prince, since it is not reason, but weakness, that makes us rate counsel by our esteem for the counsellor, let us, at length, desist from this inquiry, so useless in itself, in which we have room to hope for so little satisfaction. Let us show our gratitude to the author, by answering his intentions, by considering minutely the lines which he has left us, and examining their import without heat, precipitancy, or party-prejudices; let us endeavour to keep the just mean, between searching, ambitiously, for far-fetched interpretations, and admitting such low meaning, and obvious and low sense, as is inconsistent with those great and extensive views, which it is reasonable to ascribe to this excellent man. It may be yet further asked, whether this inscription, which appears in the stone, be an original, and not rather a version of a traditional prediction, in the old British tongue, which the zeal of some learned man prompted him to translate and engrave, in a more known language, for the instruction of future ages: but, as the lines carry, at the first view, a reference both to the stone itself, and, very remarkably, to the place where it was found, I cannot see any foundation for such a suspicion. It remains, now, that we examine the sense and import of the inscription, which, after having long dwelt upon it, with the closest and most laborious attention, I must confess myself not yet able fully to comprehend. The following explications, therefore, are, by no means, laid down as certain and indubitable truths, but as conjectures not always wholly satisfactory, even to myself, and which I had not dared to propose to so enlightened an age, an age which abounds with those great ornaments of human nature, skepticks, antimoralists, and infidels, but with hopes that they would excite some person of greater abilities, to penetrate further into the oraculous obscurity of this wonderful prediction. Not even the four first lines are without their difficulties, in which the time of the discovery of the stone seems to be the time assigned for the events foretold by it: "Cum lapidem hunc, magni Qui nunc jacet incola stagni, Vel pede equus tanget, Vel arator vomere franget, Sentiet ægra metus, Effundet patria fletus, Littoraque ut fluctu, Resonabunt oppida luctu." "Whene'er this stone, now hid beneath the lake, The horse shall trample, or the plough shall break, Then, O my country, shall thou groan distrest, Grief in thine eyes, and terrour in thy breast. Thy streets with violence of woe shall sound, Loud as the billows bursting on the ground." "When this stone," says he, "which now lies hid beneath the waters of a deep lake, shall be struck upon by the horse, or broken by the plough, then shalt thou, my country, be astonished with terrours, and drowned in tears; then shall thy towns sound with lamentations, as thy shores with the roarings of the waves." These are the words literally rendered, but how are they verified! The lake is dry, the stone is turned up, but there is no appearance of this dismal scene. Is not all, at home, satisfaction and tranquillity? all, abroad, submission and compliance? Is it the interest, or inclination, of any prince, or state, to draw a sword against us? and are we not, nevertheless, secured by a numerous standing army, and a king who is, himself, an army? Have our troops any other employment than to march to a review? Have our fleets encountered any thing but winds and worms? To me the present state of the nation seems so far from any resemblance to the noise and agitation of a tempestuous sea, that it may be much more properly compared to the dead stillness of the waves before a storm. "Nam foecunda rubri Serpent per prata colubri, Gramina vastantes, Flores fructusque vorantes, Omnia foedantes, Vitiantes, et spoliantes; Quanquam haud pugnaces, Ibunt per cuncta minaces, Fures absque timore, Et pingues absque labore." "Then through thy fields shall scarlet reptiles stray, And rapine and pollution mark their way; Their hungry swarms the peaceful vale shall fright, Still fierce to threaten, still afraid to fight; The teeming year's whole product shall devour, Insatiate pluck the fruit, and crop the flow'r; Shall glutton on the industrious peasants' spoil, Rob without fear, and fatten without toil." He seems, in these verses, to descend to a particular account of this dreadful calamity; but his description is capable of very different senses, with almost equal probability: "Red serpents," says he, (_rubri colubri_ are the Latin words, which the poetical translator has rendered _scarlet reptiles_, using a general term for a particular, in my opinion, too licentiously,) "Red serpents shall wander o'er her meadows, and pillage, and pollute," &c. The particular mention of the colour of this destructive viper may be some guide to us in this labyrinth, through which, I must acknowledge, I cannot yet have any certain path. I confess, that, when a few days after my perusal of this passage, I heard of the multitude of lady-birds seen in Kent, I began to imagine that these were the fatal insects, by which the island was to be laid waste, and, therefore, looked over all accounts of them with uncommon concern. But, when my first terrours began to subside, I soon recollected that these creatures, having both wings and feet, would scarcely have been called serpents; and was quickly convinced, by their leaving the country, without doing any hurt, that they had no quality, but the colour, in common with the ravagers here described. As I am not able to determine any thing on this question, I shall content myself with collecting, into one view, the several properties of this pestiferous brood, with which we are threatened, as hints to more sagacious and fortunate readers, who, when they shall find any red animal, that ranges uncontrouled over the country, and devours the labours of the trader and the husbandman; that carries with it corruption, rapine, pollution, and devastation; that threatens without courage, robs without fear, and is pampered without labour, they may know that the prediction is completed. Let me only remark further, that if the style of this, as of all other predictions, is figurative, the serpent, a wretched animal that crawls upon the earth, is a proper emblem of low views, self-interest, and base submission, as well as of cruelty, mischief, and malevolence. I cannot forbear to observe, in this place, that, as it is of no advantage to mankind to be forewarned of inevitable and insurmountable misfortunes, the author, probably, intended to hint to his countrymen the proper remedies for the evils he describes. In this calamity, on which he dwells longest, and which he seems to deplore with the deepest sorrow, he points out one circumstance, which may be of great use to disperse our apprehensions, and awaken us from that panick which the reader must necessarily feel, at the first transient view of this dreadful description. These serpents, says the original, are "haud pugnaces," of no fighting race; they will threaten, indeed, and hiss, and terrify the weak, and timorous, and thoughtless, but have no real courage or strength. So that the mischief done by them, their ravages, devastations, and robberies, must be only the consequences of cowardice in the sufferers, who are harassed and oppressed, only because they suffer it without resistance. We are, therefore, to remember, whenever the pest, here threatened, shall invade us, that submission and tameness will be certain ruin, and that nothing but spirit, vigilance, activity, and opposition, can preserve us from the most hateful and reproachful misery, that of being plundered, starved, and devoured by vermin and by reptiles. "Horrida dementes Rapiet discordia gentes; Plurima tunc leges Mutabit, plurima reges Natio." "Then o'er the world shall discord stretch her wings, Kings change their laws, and kingdoms change their kings." Here the author takes a general survey of the state of the world, and the changes that were to happen, about the time of the discovery of this monument, in many nations. As it is not likely that he intended to touch upon the affairs of other countries, any farther than the advantage of his own made it necessary, we may reasonably conjecture, that he had a full and distinct view of all the negotiations, treaties, confederacies, of all the triple and quadruple alliances, and all the leagues offensive and defensive, in which we were to be engaged, either as principals, accessaries, or guarantees, whether by policy, or hope, or fear, or our concern for preserving the balance of power, or our tenderness for the liberties of Europe. He knew that our negotiators would interest us in the affairs of the whole earth, and that no state could either rise or decline in power, either extend or lose its dominions, without affecting politicks, and influencing our councils. This passage will bear an easy and natural application to the present time, in which so many revolutions have happened, so many nations have changed their masters, and so many disputes and commotions are embroiling, almost in every part of the world. That almost every state in Europe and Asia, that is, almost every country, then known, is comprehended in this prediction, may be easily conceived, but whether it extends to regions at that time undiscovered, and portends any alteration of government in Carolina and Georgia, let more able or more daring expositors determine: "Conversa In rabiem tunc contremet ursa Cynthia." "The bear, enrag'd, th' affrighted moon shall dread." The terrour created to the moon by the anger of the bear, is a strange expression, but may, perhaps, relate to the apprehensions raised in the Turkish empire, of which a crescent, or new moon, is the imperial standard, by the increasing power of the emperess of Russia, whose dominions lie under the northern constellation, called the Bear. "Tunc latis Florebunt lilia pratis." "The lilies o'er the vales triumphant spread." The lilies borne by the kings of France are an apt representation of that country; and their flourishing over wide-extended valleys, seems to regard the new increase of the French power, wealth, and dominions by the advancement of their trade, and the accession of Lorrain. This is, at first view, an obvious, but, perhaps, for that very reason not the true sense of the inscription. How can we reconcile it with the following passage: "Nec fremere audebit Leo, sed violare timebit, Omnia consuetus Populari pascua laetus." "Nor shall the lion, wont of old to reign Despotick o'er the desolated plain, Henceforth, th' inviolable bloom invade, Or dare to murmur in the flow'ry glade," in which the lion that used, at pleasure, to lay the pastures waste, is represented, as not daring to touch the lilies, or murmur at their growth! The lion, it is true, is one of the supporters of the arms of England, and may, therefore, figure our countrymen, who have, in ancient times, made France a desert. But can it be said, that the lion dares not murmur or rage, (for _fremere_ may import both,) when it is evident, that, for many years, this whole kingdom has murmured, however, it may be, at present, calm and secure, by its confidence in the wisdom of our politicians, and the address of our negotiators: "Ante oculos natos Calceatos et cruciatos Jam feret ignavus, Vetitaque libidine pravus." "His tortur'd sons shall die before his face, While he lies melting in a lewd embrace." Here are other things mentioned of the lion, equally unintelligible, if we suppose them to be spoken of our nation, as that he lies sluggish, and depraved with unlawful lusts, while his offspring is trampled and tortured before his eyes. But in what place can the English be said to be trampled or tortured? Where are they treated with injustice or contempt? What nation is there, from pole to pole, that does not reverence the nod of the British king? Is not our commerce unrestrained? Are not the riches of the world our own? Do not our ships sail unmolested, and our merchants traffick in perfect security? Is not the very name of England treated by foreigners in a manner never known before? Or if some slight injuries have been offered; if some of our petty traders have been stopped, our possessions threatened; our effects confiscated; our flag insulted; or our ears cropped, have we lain sluggish and unactive? Have not our fleets been seen in triumph at Spithead? Did not Hosier visit the Bastimentos, and is not Haddock now stationed at Port Mahon? "En quoque quod mirum, Quod dicas denique dirum, Sanguinem equus sugit, Neque bellua victa remugit!" "And, yet more strange! his veins a horse shall drain, Nor shall the passive coward once complain!" It is farther asserted, in the concluding lines, that the horse shall suck the lion's blood. This is still more obscure than any of the rest; and, indeed, the difficulties I have met with, ever since the first mention of the lion, are so many and great, that I had, in utter despair of surmounting them, once desisted from my design of publishing any thing upon this subject; but was prevailed upon by the importunity of some friends, to whom I can deny nothing, to resume my design; and I must own, that nothing animated me so much as the hope, they flattered me with, that my essay might be inserted in the Gazetteer, and, so, become of service to my country. That a weaker animal should suck the blood of a stronger, without resistance, is wholly improbable, and inconsistent with the regard for self-preservation, so observable in every order and species of beings. We must, therefore, necessarily endeavour after some figurative sense, not liable to so insuperable an objection. Were I to proceed in the same tenour of interpretation, by which I explained the moon and the lilies, I might observe, that a horse is the arms of H----. But how, then, does the horse suck the lion's blood! Money is the blood of the body politick.--But my zeal for the present happy establishment will not suffer me to pursue a train of thought, that leads to such shocking conclusions. The idea is detestable, and such as, it ought to be hoped, can enter into the mind of none but a virulent republican, or bloody jacobite. There is not one honest man in the nation unconvinced, how weak an attempt it would be to endeavour to confute this insinuation; an insinuation which no party will dare to abet, and of so fatal and destructive a tendency, that it may prove equally dangerous to the author, whether true or false. As, therefore, I can form no hypothesis, on which a consistent interpretation may be built, I must leave these loose and unconnected hints entirely to the candour of the reader, and confess, that I do not think my scheme of explication just, since I cannot apply it, throughout the whole, without involving myself in difficulties, from which the ablest interpreter would find it no easy matter to get free. Being, therefore, convinced, upon an attentive and deliberate review of these observations, and a consultation with my friends, of whose abilities I have the highest esteem, and whose impartiality, sincerity, and probity, I have long known, and frequently experienced, that my conjectures are, in general, very uncertain, often improbable, and, sometimes, little less than apparently false, I was long in doubt, whether I ought not entirely to suppress them, and content myself with publishing in the Gazetteer the inscription, as it stands engraven on the stone, without translation or commentary, unless that ingenious and learned society should favour the world with their own remarks. To this scheme, which I thought extremely well calculated for the publick good, and, therefore, very eagerly communicated to my acquaintance and fellow-students, some objections were started, which, as I had not foreseen, I was unable to answer. It was observed, first, that the daily dissertations, published by that fraternity, are written with such profundity of sentiment, and filled with such uncommon modes of expression, as to be themselves sufficiently unintelligible to vulgar readers; and that, therefore, the venerable obscurity of this prediction, would much less excite the curiosity, and awaken the attention of mankind, than if it were exhibited in any other paper, and placed in opposition to the clear and easy style of an author generally understood. To this argument, formidable as it was, I answered, after a short pause, that, with all proper deference to the great sagacity and advanced age of the objector, I could not but conceive, that his position confuted itself, and that a reader of the Gazetteer, being, by his own confession, accustomed to encounter difficulties, and search for meaning, where it was not easily to be found, must be better prepared, than any other man, for the perusal of these ambiguous expressions; and that, besides, the explication of this stone, being a task which nothing could surmount but the most acute penetration, joined with indefatigable patience, seemed, in reality, reserved for those who have given proofs of both, in the highest degree, by reading and understanding the Gazetteer. This answer satisfied every one but the objector, who, with an obstinacy not very uncommon, adhered to his own opinion, though he could not defend it; and, not being able to make any reply, attempted to laugh away my argument, but found the rest of my friends so little disposed to jest upon this important question, that he was forced to restrain his mirth, and content himself with a sullen and contemptuous silence. Another of my friends, whom I had assembled on this occasion, having owned the solidity of my answer to the first objection, offered a second, which, in his opinion, could not be so easily defeated. "I have observed," says he, "that the essays in the Gazetteer, though written on very important subjects, by the ablest hands which ambition can incite, friendship engage, or money procure, have never, though circulated through the kingdom with the utmost application, had any remarkable influence upon the people. I know many persons, of no common capacity, that hold it sufficient to peruse these papers four times a year; and others, who receive them regularly, and, without looking upon them, treasure them under ground for the benefit of posterity. So that the inscription may, by being inserted there, sink, once more, into darkness and oblivion, instead of informing the age, and assisting our present ministry in the regulation of their measures." Another observed, that nothing was more unreasonable than my hope, that any remarks or elucidations would be drawn up by that fraternity, since their own employments do not allow them any leisure for such attempts. Every one knows that panegyrick is, in its own nature, no easy task, and that to defend is much more difficult than to attack; consider, then, says he, what industry, what assiduity it must require, to praise and vindicate a ministry like ours. It was hinted, by another, that an inscription, which had no relation to any particular set of men amongst us, but was composed many ages before the parties, which now divide the nation, had a being, could not be so properly conveyed to the world, by means of a paper dedicated to political debates. Another, to whom I had communicated my own observations, in a more private manner, and who had inserted some of his own arguments, declared it, as his opinion, that they were, though very controvertible and unsatisfactory, yet too valuable to be lost; and that though to insert the inscription in a paper, of which such numbers are daily distributed at the expense of the publick, would, doubtless, be very agreeable to the generous design of the author; yet he hoped, that as all the students, either of politicks or antiquities, would receive both pleasure and improvement from the dissertation with which it is accompanied, none of them would regret to pay for so agreeable an entertainment. It cannot be wondered, that I have yielded, at last, to such weighty reasons, and such insinuating compliments, and chosen to gratify, at once, the inclinations of friends, and the vanity of an author. Yet, I should think, I had very imperfectly discharged my duty to my country, did I not warn all, whom either interest or curiosity shall incite to the perusal of this treatise, not to lay any stress upon my explications. How a more complete and indisputable interpretation may be obtained, it is not easy to say. This will, I suppose, be readily granted, that it is not to be expected from any single hand, but from the joint inquiries, and united labours, of a numerous society of able men, instituted by authority, selected with great discernment and impartiality, and supported at the charge of the nation. I am very far from apprehending, that any proposal for the attainment of so desirable an end, will be rejected by this inquisitive and enlightened age, and shall, therefore, lay before the publick the project which I have formed, and matured by long consideration, for the institution of a society of commentators upon this inscription. I humbly propose, that thirty of the most distinguished genius be chosen for this employment, half from the inns of court, and half from the army, and be incorporated into a society for five years, under the name of the Society of Commentators. That great undertakings can only be executed by a great number of hands, is too evident to require any proof; and, I am afraid, all that read this scheme will think, that it is chiefly defective in this respect, and that when they reflect how many commissaries were thought necessary at Seville, and that even their negotiations entirely miscarried, probably for want of more associates, they will conclude, that I have proposed impossibilities, and that the ends of the institution will be defeated by an injudicious and ill timed frugality. But if it be considered, how well the persons, I recommend, must have been qualified, by their education and profession, for the provinces assigned them, the objection will grow less weighty than it appears. It is well known to be the constant study of the lawyers to discover, in acts of parliament, meanings which escaped the committees that drew them up, and the senates that passed them into laws, and to explain wills, into a sense wholly contrary to the intention of the testator. How easily may an adept in these admirable and useful arts, penetrate into the most hidden import of this prediction? A man, accustomed to satisfy himself with the obvious and natural meaning of a sentence, does not easily shake off his habit; but a true-bred lawyer never contents himself with one sense, when there is another to be found. Nor will the beneficial consequences of this scheme terminate in the explication of this monument: they will extend much further; for the commentators, having sharpened and improved their sagacity by this long and difficult course of study, will, when they return into publick life, be of wonderful service to the government, in examining pamphlets, songs, and journals, and in drawing up informations, indictments, and instructions for special juries. They will be wonderfully fitted for the posts of attorney and solicitor general, but will excel, above all, as licensers for the stage. The gentlemen of the army will equally adorn the province to which I have assigned them, of setting the discoveries and sentiments of their associates in a clear and agreeable light. The lawyers are well known not to be very happy in expressing their ideas, being, for the most part, able to make themselves understood by none but their own fraternity. But the geniuses of the army have sufficient opportunities, by their free access to the levee and the toilet, their constant attendance on balls and assemblies, and that abundant leisure which they enjoy, beyond any other body of men, to acquaint themselves with every new word, and prevailing mode of expression, and to attain the utmost nicety, and most polished prettiness of language. It will be necessary, that, during their attendance upon the society, they be exempt from any obligation to appear on Hyde park; and that upon no emergency, however pressing, they be called away from their studies, unless the nation be in immediate danger, by an insurrection of weavers, colliers, or smugglers. There may not, perhaps, be found in the army such a number of men, who have ever condescended to pass through the labours, and irksome forms of education in use, among the lower classes of people, or submitted to learn the mercantile and plebeian arts of writing and reading. I must own, that though I entirely agree with the notions of the uselessness of any such trivial accomplishments in the military profession, and of their inconsistency with more valuable attainments; though I am convinced, that a man who can read and write becomes, at least, a very disagreeable companion to his brother soldiers, if he does not absolutely shun their acquaintance; that he is apt to imbibe, from his books, odd notions of liberty and independency, and even, sometimes, of morality and virtue, utterly inconsistent, with the desirable character of a pretty gentleman; though writing frequently stains the whitest finger, and reading has a natural tendency to cloud the aspect, and depress that airy and thoughtless vivacity, which is the distinguishing characteristick of a modern warriour; yet, on this single occasion, I cannot but heartily wish, that, by a strict search, there may be discovered, in the army, fifteen men who can write and read. I know that the knowledge of the alphabet is so disreputable among these gentlemen, that those who have, by ill fortune, formerly been taught it, have partly forgot it by disuse, and partly concealed it from the world, to avoid the railleries and insults to which their education might make them liable: I propose, therefore, that all the officers of the army may be examined upon oath, one by one, and that if fifteen cannot be selected, who are, at present, so qualified, the deficiency may be supplied out of those who, having once learned to read, may, perhaps, with the assistance of a master, in a short time, refresh their memories. It may be thought, at the first sight of this proposal, that it might not be improper to assign, to every commentator, a reader and secretary; but, it may be easily conceived, that not only the publick might murmur at such an addition of expense, but that, by the unfaithfulness or negligence of their servants, the discoveries of the society may be carried to foreign courts, and made use of to the disadvantage of our own country. For the residence of this society, I cannot think any place more proper than Greenwich hospital, in which they may have thirty apartments fitted up for them, that they may make their observations in private, and meet, once a day, in the painted hall to compare them. If the establishment of this society be thought a matter of too much importance to be deferred till the new buildings are finished, it will be necessary to make room for their reception, by the expulsion of such of the seamen as have no pretensions to the settlement there, but fractured limbs, loss of eyes, or decayed constitutions, who have lately been admitted in such numbers, that it is now scarce possible to accommodate a nobleman's groom, footman, or postilion, in a manner suitable to the dignity of his profession, and the original design of the foundation. The situation of Greenwich will naturally dispose them to reflection and study: and particular caution ought to be used, lest any interruption be suffered to dissipate their attention, or distract their meditations: for this reason, all visits and letters from ladies are strictly to be prohibited; and if any of the members shall be detected with a lapdog, pack of cards, box of dice, draught-table, snuffbox, or looking-glass, he shall, for the first offence, be confined for three months to water gruel, and, for the second, be expelled the society. Nothing now remains, but that an estimate be made of the expenses necessary for carrying on this noble and generous design. The salary to be allowed each professor cannot be less than 2,000_l_. a year, which is, indeed, more than the regular stipend of a commissioner of excise; but, it must be remembered, that the commentators have a much more difficult and important employment, and can expect their salaries but for the short space of five years; whereas a commissioner (unless he imprudently suffers himself to be carried away by a whimsical tenderness for his country) has an establishment for life. It will be necessary to allow the society, in general, 30,000_l_. yearly, for the support of the publick table, and 40,000_l_. for secret service. Thus will the ministry have a fair prospect of obtaining the full sense and import of the prediction, without burdening the publick with more than 650,000_l_. which may be paid out of the sinking fund; or, if it be not thought proper to violate that sacred treasure, by converting any part of it to uses not primarily intended, may be easily raised by a general poll-tax, or excise upon bread. Having now completed my scheme, a scheme calculated for the publick benefit, without regard to any party, I entreat all sects, factions, and distinctions of men among us, to lay aside, for a time, their party-feuds and petty animosities; and, by a warm concurrence on this urgent occasion, teach posterity to sacrifice every private interest to the advantage of their country. [In this performance, which was first printed in the year 1739, Dr. Johnson, "in a feigned inscription, supposed to have been found in Norfolk, the country of sir Robert Walpole, then the obnoxious prime minister of this country, inveighs against the Brunswick succession, and the measures of government consequent upon it. To this supposed prophecy, he added a commentory, making each expression apply to the times, with warm anti-Hanoverian zeal."--Boswell's Life, i.] OBSERVATIONS ON THE STATE OF AFFAIRS IN 1756 [23]. The time is now come, in which every Englishman expects to be informed of the national affairs, and in which he has a right to have that expectation gratified. For whatever may be urged by ministers, or those whom vanity or interest make the followers of ministers, concerning the necessity of confidence in our governours, and the presumption of prying, with profane eyes, into the recesses of policy, it is evident, that this reverence can be claimed only by counsels yet unexecuted, and projects suspended in deliberation. But when a design has ended in miscarriage or success, when every eye, and every ear, is witness to general discontent, or general satisfaction, it is then a proper time to disentangle confusion, and illustrate obscurity; to show by what causes every event was produced, and in what effects it is likely to terminate; to lay down, with distinct particularity, what rumour always huddles in general exclamations, or perplexes by undigested narratives; to show whence happiness or calamity is derived, and whence it may be expected; and honestly to lay before the people, what inquiry can gather of the past, and conjecture can estimate of the future. The general subject of the present war is sufficiently known. It is allowed, on both sides, that hostilities began in America, and that the French and English quarrelled about the boundaries of their settlements, about grounds and rivers, to which, I am afraid, neither can show any other right than that of power, and which neither can occupy but by usurpation, and the dispossession of the natural lords and original inhabitants. Such is the contest, that no honest man can heartily wish success to either party. It may, indeed, be alleged, that the Indians have granted large tracts of land both to one and to the other; but these grants can add little to the validity of our titles, till it be experienced, how they were obtained; for, if they were extorted by violence, or induced by fraud; by threats, which the miseries of other nations had shown not to be vain; or by promises, of which no performance was ever intended, what are they but new modes of usurpation, but new instances of crueltv and treachery? And, indeed, what but false hope, or resistless terrour, can prevail upon a weaker nation to invite a stronger into their country, to give their lands to strangers, whom no affinity of manners, or similitude of opinion, can be said to recommend, to permit them to build towns, from which the natives are excluded, to raise fortresses, by which they are intimidated, to settle themselves with such strength, that they cannot afterwards be expelled, but are, for ever, to remain the masters of the original inhabitants, the dictators of their conduct, and the arbiters of their fate? When we see men acting thus against the precepts of reason, and the instincts of nature, we cannot hesitate to determine, that, by some means or other, they were debarred from choice; that they were lured or frighted into compliance; that they either granted only what they found impossible to keep, or expected advantages upon the faith of their new inmates, which there was no purpose to confer upon them. It cannot be said, that the Indians originally invited us to their coasts; we went, uncalled and unexpected, to nations who had no imagination that the earth contained any inhabitants, so distant and so different from themselves. We astonished them with our ships, with our arms, and with our general superiority. They yielded to us, as to beings of another and higher race, sent among them from some unknown regions, with power which naked Indians could not resist and, which they were, therefore, by every act of humility, to propitiate, that they, who could so easily destroy, might be induced to spare. To this influence, and to this only, are to be attributed all the cessions and submissions of the Indian princes, if, indeed, any such cessions were ever made, of which we have no witness, but those who claim from them; and there is no great malignity in suspecting, that those who have robbed have also lied. Some colonies, indeed, have been established more peaceably than others. The utmost extremity of wrong has not always been practised; but those that have settled in the new world, on the fairest terms, have no other merit than that of a scrivener, who ruins in silence, over a plunderer that seizes by force; all have taken what had other owners, and all have had recourse to arms, rather than quit the prey on which they had fastened. The American dispute, between the French and us, is, therefore, only the quarrel of two robbers for the spoils of a passenger; but, as robbers have terms of confederacy, which they are obliged to observe, as members of the gang, so the English and French may have relative rights, and do injustice to each other, while both are injuring the Indians. And such, indeed, is the present contest: they have parted the northern continent of America between them, and are now disputing about their boundaries, and each is endeavouring the destruction of the other, by the help of the Indians, whose interest it is that both should be destroyed. Both nations clamour, with great vehemence, about infractions of limits, violation of treaties, open usurpation, insidious artifices, and breach of faith. The English rail at the perfidious French, and the French at the encroaching English: they quote treaties on each side, charge each other with aspiring to universal monarchy, and complain, on either part, of the insecurity of possession near such turbulent neighbours. Through this mist of controversy, it can raise no wonder, that the truth is not easily discovered. When a quarrel has been long carried on between individuals, it is often very hard to tell by whom it was begun. Every fact is darkened by distance, by interest, and by multitudes. Information is not easily procured from far; those whom the truth will not favour, will not step, voluntarily, forth to tell it; and where there are many agents, it is easy for every single action to be concealed. All these causes concur to the obscurity of the question: By whom were hostilities in America commenced? Perhaps there never can be remembered a time, in which hostilities had ceased. Two powerful colonies, inflamed with immemorial rivalry, and placed out of the superintendence of the mother nations, were not likely to be long at rest. Some opposition was always going forward, some mischief was every day done or meditated, and the borderers were always better pleased with what they could snatch from their neighbours, than what they had of their own. In this disposition to reciprocal invasion, a cause of dispute never could be wanting. The forests and deserts of America are without landmarks, and, therefore, cannot be particularly specified in stipulations; the appellations of those wide-extended regions have, in every mouth, a different meaning, and are understood, on either side, as inclination happens to contract or extend them. Who has yet pretended to define, how much of America is included in Brazil, Mexico, or Peru? It is almost as easy to divide the Atlantick ocean by a line, as clearly to ascertain the limits of those uncultivated, uninhabitable, unmeasured regions. It is, likewise, to be considered, that contracts concerning boundaries are often left vague and indefinite, without necessity, by the desire of each party, to interpret the ambiguity to its own advantage, when a fit opportunity shall be found. In forming stipulations, the commissaries are often ignorant, and often negligent; they are, sometimes, weary with debate, and contract a tedious discussion into general terms, or refer it to a former treaty, which was never understood. The weaker part is always afraid of requiring explanations, and the stronger always has an interest in leaving the question undecided: thus it will happen, without great caution on either side, that, after long treaties, solemnly ratified, the rights that had been disputed are still equally open to controversy. In America, it may easily be supposed, that there are tracts of land not yet claimed by either party, and, therefore, mentioned in no treaties; which yet one, or the other, may be afterwards inclined to occupy; but to these vacant and unsettled countries each nation may pretend, as each conceives itself entitled to all that is not expressly granted to the other. Here, then, is a perpetual ground of contest; every enlargement of the possessions of either will be considered as something taken from the other, and each will endeavour to regain what had never been claimed, but that the other occupied it. Thus obscure in its original is the American contest. It is difficult to find the first invader, or to tell where invasion properly begins; but, I suppose, it is not to be doubted, that after the last war, when the French had made peace with such apparent superiority, they naturally began to treat us with less respect in distant parts of the world, and to consider us, as a people from whom they had nothing to fear, and who could no longer presume to contravene their designs, or to check their progress. The power of doing wrong with impunity seldom waits long for the will; and, it is reasonable to believe, that, in America, the French would avow their purpose of aggrandizing themselves with, at least, as little reserve as in Europe. We may, therefore, readily believe, that they were unquiet neighbours, and had no great regard to right, which they believed us no longer able to enforce. That in forming a line of forts behind our colonies, if in no other part of their attempt, they had acted against the general intention, if not against the literal terms of treaties, can scarcely be denied; for it never can be supposed, that we intended to be inclosed between the sea and the French garrisons, or preclude ourselves from extending our plantations backwards, to any length that our convenience should require. With dominion is conferred every thing that can secure dominion. He that has the coast, has, likewise, the sea, to a certain distance; he that possesses a fortress, has the right of prohibiting another fortress to be built within the command of its cannon. When, therefore, we planted the coast of North America, we supposed the possession of the inland region granted to an indefinite extent; and every nation that settled in that part of the world, seems, by the permission of every other nation, to have made the same supposition in its own favour. Here, then, perhaps, it will be safest to fix the justice of our cause; here we are apparently and indisputably injured, and this injury may, according to the practice of nations, be justly resented. Whether we have not, in return, made some encroachments upon them, must be left doubtful, till our practices on the Ohio shall be stated and vindicated. There are no two nations, confining on each other, between whom a war may not always be kindled with plausible pretences on either part, as there is always passing between them a reciprocation of injuries, and fluctuation of encroachments. From the conclusion of the last peace, perpetual complaints of the supplantations and invasions of the French have been sent to Europe, from our colonies, and transmitted to our ministers at Paris, where good words were, sometimes, given us, and the practices of the American commanders were, sometimes, disowned; but no redress was ever obtained, nor is it probable, that any prohibition was sent to America. We were still amused with such doubtful promises, as those who are afraid of war are ready to interpret in their own favour, and the French pushed forward their line of fortresses, and seemed to resolve, that before our complaints were finally dismissed, all remedy should be hopeless. We, likewise, endeavoured, at the same time, to form a barrier against the Canadians, by sending a colony to New Scotland, a cold uncomfortable tract of ground; of which we had long the nominal possession, before we really began to occupy it. To this, those were invited whom the cessation of war deprived of employment, and made burdensome to their country; and settlers were allured thither by many fallacious descriptions of fertile valleys and clear skies. What effects these pictures of American happiness had upon my countrymen, I was never informed, but, I suppose, very few sought provision in those frozen regions, whom guilt, or poverty, did not drive from their native country. About the boundaries of this new colony there were some disputes; but, as there was nothing yet worth a contest, the power of the French was not much exerted on that side; some disturbance was, however, given, and some skirmishes ensued. But, perhaps, being peopled chiefly with soldiers, who would rather live by plunder than by agriculture, and who consider war as their best trade, New Scotland would be more obstinately defended than some settlements of far greater value; and the French are too well informed of their own interest, to provoke hostility for no advantage, or to select that country for invasion, where they must hazard much and can win little. They, therefore, pressed on southward, behind our ancient and wealthy settlements, and built fort after fort, at such distances that they might conveniently relieve one another, invade our colonies with sudden incursions, and retire to places of safety, before our people could unite to oppose them. This design of the French has been long formed, and long known, both in America and Europe, and might, at first, have been easily repressed, had force been used instead of expostulation. When the English attempted a settlement upon the island of St. Lucia, the French, whether justly or not, considering it as neutral, and forbidden to be occupied by either nation, immediately landed upon it, and destroyed the houses, wasted the plantations, and drove, or carried away, the inhabitants. This was done in the time of peace, when mutual professions of friendship were daily exchanged by the two courts, and was not considered as any violation of treaties, nor was any more than a very soft remonstrance made on our part. The French, therefore, taught us how to act; but an Hanoverian quarrel with the house of Austria, for some time, induced us to court, at any expense, the alliance of a nation, whose very situation makes them our enemies. We suffered them to destroy our settlements, and to advance their own, which we had an equal right to attack. The time, however, came, at last, when we ventured to quarrel with Spain, and then France no longer suffered the appearance of peace to subsist between us, but armed in defence of her ally. The events of the war are well known: we pleased ourselves with a victory at Dettingen, where we left our wounded men to the care of our enemies, but our army was broken at Fontenoy and Val; and though, after the disgrace which we suffered in the Mediterranean, we had some naval success, and an accidental dearth made peace necessary for the French, yet they prescribed the conditions, obliged us to give hostages, and acted as conquerors, though as conquerors of moderation. In this war the Americans distinguished themselves in a manner unknown and unexpected. The New English raised an army, and, under the command of Pepperel, took cape Breton, with the assistance of the fleet. This is the most important fortress in America. We pleased ourselves so much with the acquisition, that we could not think of restoring it; and, among the arguments used to inflame the people against Charles Stuart, it was very clamorously urged, that if he gained the kingdom, he would give cape Breton back to the French. The French, however, had a more easy expedient to regain cape Breton, than by exalting Charles Stuart to the English throne. They took, in their turn, fort St. George, and had our East India company wholly in their power, whom they restored, at the peace, to their former possessions, that they may continue to export our silver. Cape Breton, therefore, was restored, and the French were reestablished in America, with equal power and greater spirit, having lost nothing by the war, which they had before gained. To the general reputation of their arms, and that habitual superiority which they derive from it, they owe their power in America, rather than to any real strength or circumstances of advantage. Their numbers are yet not great; their trade, though daily improved, is not very extensive; their country is barren; their fortresses, though numerous, are weak, and rather shelters from wild beasts, or savage nations, than places built for defence against bombs or cannons. Cape Breton has been found not to be impregnable; nor, if we consider the state of the places possessed by the two nations in America, is there any reason upon which the French should have presumed to molest us, but that they thought our spirit so broken, that we durst not resist them; and in this opinion our long forbearance easily confirmed them. We forgot, or rather avoided to think, that what we delayed to do, must be done at last, and done with more difficulty, as it was delayed longer; that while we were complaining, and they were eluding, or answering our complaints, fort was rising upon fort, and one invasion made a precedent for another. This confidence of the French is exalted by some real advantages. If they possess, in those countries, less than we, they have more to gain, and less to hazard; if they are less numerous, they are better united. The French compose one body with one head. They have all the same interest, and agree to pursue it by the same means. They are subject to a governour, commissioned by an absolute monarch, and participating the authority of his master. Designs are, therefore, formed without debate, and executed without impediment. They have yet more martial than mercantile ambition, and seldom suffer their military schemes to be entangled with collateral projects of gain: they have no wish but for conquest, of which they justly consider riches as the consequence. Some advantages they will always have, as invaders. They make war at the hazard of their enemies: the contest being carried on in our territories, we must lose more by a victory, than they will suffer by a defeat. They will subsist, while they stay, upon our plantations; and, perhaps, destroy them, when they can stay no longer. If we pursue them, and carry the war into their dominions, our difficulties will increase every step as we advance, for we shall leave plenty behind us, and find nothing in Canada, but lakes and forests, barren and trackless; our enemies will shut themselves up in their forts, against which it is difficult to bring cannon through so rough a country, and which, if they are provided with good magazines, will soon starve those who besiege them. All these are the natural effects of their government and situation; they are accidentally more formidable, as they are less happy. But the favour of the Indians, which they enjoy, with very few exceptions, among all the nations of the northern continent, we ought to consider with other thoughts; this favour we might have enjoyed, if we had been careful to deserve it. The French, by having these savage nations on their side, are always supplied with spies and guides, and with auxiliaries, like the Tartars to the Turks, or the Hussars to the Germans, of no great use against troops ranged in order of battle, but very well qualified to maintain a war among woods and rivulets, where much mischief may be done by unexpected onsets, and safety be obtained by quick retreats. They can waste a colony by sudden inroads, surprise the straggling planters, frighten the inhabitants into towns, hinder the cultivation of lands, and starve those whom they are not able to conquer [24]. AN INTRODUCTION TO THE POLITICAL STATE OF GREAT BRITAIN. Written in the year 1756 [25]. The present system of English politicks may properly be said to have taken rise in the reign of queen Elizabeth. At this time the protestant religion was established, which naturally allied us to the reformed state, and made all the popish powers our enemies. We began in the same reign to extend our trade, by which we made it necessary to ourselves to watch the commercial progress of our neighbours; and if not to incommode and obstruct their traffick, to hinder them from impairing ours. We then, likewise, settled colonies in America, which was become the great scene of European ambition; for, seeing with what treasures the Spaniards were annually enriched from Mexico and Peru, every nation imagined, that an American conquest, or plantation, would certainly fill the mother country with gold and silver. This produced a large extent of very distant dominions, of which we, at this time, neither knew nor foresaw the advantage or incumbrance; we seem to have snatched them into our hands, upon no very just principles of policy, only because every state, according to a prejudice of long continuance, concludes itself more powerful, as its territories become larger. The discoveries of new regions, which were then every day made, the profit of remote traffick, and the necessity of long voyages, produced, in a few years, a great multiplication of shipping. The sea was considered as the wealthy element; and, by degrees, a new kind of sovereignty arose, called naval dominion. As the chief trade of the world, so the chief maritime power was at first in the hands of the Portuguese and Spaniards, who, by a compact, to which the consent of other princes was not asked, had divided the newly discovered countries between them; but the crown of Portugal having fallen to the king of Spain, or being seized by him, he was master of the ships of the two nations, with which he kept all the coasts of Europe in alarm, till the armada, which he had raised, at a vast expense, for the conquest of England, was destroyed, which put a stop, and almost an end, to the naval power of the Spaniards. At this time, the Dutch, who were oppressed by the Spaniards, and feared yet greater evils than they felt, resolved no longer to endure the insolence of their masters: they, therefore, revolted; and, after a struggle, in which they were assisted by the money and forces of Elizabeth, erected an independent and powerful commonwealth. When the inhabitants of the Low Countries had formed their system of government, and some remission of the war gave them leisure to form schemes of future prosperity, they easily perceived, that, as their territories were narrow, and their numbers small, they could preserve themselves only by that power which is the consequence of wealth; and that, by a people whose country produced only the necessaries of life, wealth was not to be acquired, but from foreign dominions, and by the transportation of the products of one country into another. From this necessity, thus justly estimated, arose a plan of commerce, which was, for many years, prosecuted with industry and success, perhaps never seen in the world before, and by which the poor tenants of mud-walled villages, and impassable bogs, erected themselves into high and mighty states, who put the greatest monarchs at defiance, whose alliance was courted by the proudest, and whose power was dreaded by the fiercest nation. By the establishment of this state, there arose, to England, a new ally, and a new rival. At this time, which seems to be the period destined for the change of the face of Europe, France began first to rise into power, and, from defending her own provinces with difficulty and fluctuating success, to threaten her neighbours with encroachments and devastations. Henry the fourth having, after a long struggle, obtained the crown, found it easy to govern nobles, exhausted and wearied with a long civil war, and having composed the disputes between the protestants and papists, so as to obtain, at least, a truce for both parties, was at leisure to accumulate treasure, and raise forces, which he purposed to have employed in a design of settling for ever the balance of Europe. Of this great scheme he lived not to see the vanity, or to feel the disappointment; for he was murdered in the midst of his mighty preparations. The French, however, were, in this reign, taught to know their own power; and the great designs of a king, whose wisdom they had so long experienced, even though they were not brought to actual experiment, disposed them to consider themselves as masters of the destiny of their neighbours; and, from that time, he that shall nicely examine their schemes and conduct, will, I believe, find that they began to take an air of superiority, to which they had never pretended before; and that they have been always employed, more or less openly, upon schemes of dominion, though with frequent interruptions from domestick troubles, and with those intermissions which human counsels must always suffer, as men intrusted with great affairs are dissipated in youth, and languid in age; are embarrassed by competitors, or, without any external reason, change their minds. France was now no longer in dread of insults, and invasions from England. She was not only able to maintain her own territories, but prepared, on all occasions, to invade others; and we had now a neighbour, whose interest it was to be an enemy, and who has disturbed us, from that time to this, with open hostility, or secret machinations. Such was the state of England, and its neighbours, when Elizabeth left the crown to James of Scotland. It has not, I think, been frequently observed, by historians, at how critical a time the union of the two kingdoms happened. Had England and Scotland continued separate kingdoms, when France was established in the full possession of her natural power, the Scots, in continuance of the league, which it would now have been more than ever their interest to observe, would, upon every instigation of the French court, have raised an army with French money, and harassed us with an invasion, in which they would have thought themselves successful, whatever numbers they might have left behind them. To a people warlike and indigent, an incursion into a rich country is never hurtful. The pay of France, and the plunder of the northern countries, would always have tempted them to hazard their lives, and we should have been under a necessity of keeping a line of garrisons along our border. This trouble, however, we escaped, by the accession of king James; but it is uncertain, whether his natural disposition did not injure us more than this accidental condition happened to benefit us. He was a man of great theoretical knowledge, but of no practical wisdom; he was very well able to discern the true interest of himself, his kingdom, and his posterity, but sacrificed it, upon all occasions, to his present pleasure or his present ease; so conscious of his own knowledge and abilities, that he would not suffer a minister to govern, and so lax of attention, and timorous of opposition, that he was not able to govern for himself. With this character, James quietly saw the Dutch invade our commerce; the French grew every day stronger and stronger; and the protestant interest, of which he boasted himself the head, was oppressed on every side, while he writ, and hunted, and despatched ambassadours, who, when their master's weakness was once known, were treated, in foreign courts, with very little ceremony. James, however, took care to be flattered at home, and was neither angry nor ashamed at the appearance that he made in other countries. Thus England grew weaker, or, what is, in political estimation, the same thing, saw her neighbours grow stronger, without receiving proportionable additions to her own power. Not that the mischief was so great as it is generally conceived or represented; for, I believe, it may be made to appear, that the wealth of the nation was, in this reign, very much increased, though, that of the crown was lessened. Our reputation for war was impaired; but commerce seems to have been carried on with great industry and vigour, and nothing was wanting, but that we should have defended ourselves from the encroachments of our neighbours. The inclination to plant colonies in America still continued, and this being the only project in which men of adventure and enterprise could exert their qualities, in a pacifick reign, multitudes, who were discontented with their condition in their native country, and such multitudes there will always be, sought relief, or, at least, a change, in the western regions, where they settled, in the northern part of the continent, at a distance from the Spaniards, at that time almost the only nation that had any power or will to obstruct us. Such was the condition of this country, when the unhappy Charles inherited the crown. He had seen the errours of his father, without being able to prevent them, and, when he began his reign, endeavoured to raise the nation to its former dignity. The French papists had begun a new war upon the protestants: Charles sent a fleet to invade Rhée and relieve Rochelle, but his attempts were defeated, and the protestants were subdued. The Dutch, grown wealthy and strong, claimed the right of fishing in the British seas: this claim the king, who saw the increasing power of the states of Holland, resolved to contest. But, for this end, it was necessary to build a fleet, and a fleet could not be built without expense: he was advised to levy ship-money, which gave occasion to the civil war, of which the events and conclusion are too well known. While the inhabitants of this island were embroiled among themselves, the power of France and Holland was every day increasing. The Dutch had overcome the difficulties of their infant commonwealth; and, as they still retained their vigour and industry, from rich grew continually richer, and from powerful more powerful. They extended their traffick, and had not yet admitted luxury; so that they had the means and the will to accumulate wealth, without any incitement to spend it. The French, who wanted nothing to make them powerful, but a prudent regulation of their revenues, and a proper use of their natural advantages, by the successive care of skilful ministers, became, every day, stronger, and more conscious of their strength. About this time it was, that the French first began to turn their thoughts to traffick and navigation, and to desire, like other nations, an American territory. All the fruitful and valuable parts of the western world were, already, either occupied, or claimed; and nothing remained for France, but the leavings of other navigators, for she was not yet haughty enough to seize what the neighbouring powers had already appropriated. The French, therefore, contented themselves with sending a colony to Canada, a cold, uncomfortable, uninviting region, from which nothing but furs and fish were to be had, and where the new inhabitants could only pass a laborious and necessitous life, in perpetual regret of the deliciousness and plenty of their native country. Notwithstanding the opinion which our countrymen have been taught to entertain of the comprehension and foresight of French politicians, I am not able to persuade myself, that when this colony was first planted, it was thought of much value, even by those that encouraged it; there was, probably, nothing more intended, than to provide a drain, into which the waste of an exuberant nation might be thrown, a place where those who could do no good might live without the power of doing mischief. Some new advantage they, undoubtedly, saw, or imagined themselves to see, and what more was necessary to the establishment of the colony, was supplied by natural inclination to experiments, and that impatience of doing nothing, to which mankind, perhaps, owe much of what is imagined to be effected by more splendid motives. In this region of desolate sterility they settled themselves, upon whatever principle; and, as they have, from that time, had the happiness of a government, by which no interest has been neglected, nor any part of their subjects overlooked, they have, by continual encouragement and assistance from France, been perpetually enlarging their bounds, and increasing their numbers. These were, at first, like other nations who invaded America, inclined to consider the neighbourhood of the natives, as troublesome and dangerous, and are charged with having destroyed great numbers; but they are now grown wiser, if not honester, and, instead of endeavouring to frighten the Indians away, they invite them to inter-marriage and cohabitation, and allure them, by all practicable methods, to become the subjects of the king of France. If the Spaniards, when they first took possession of the newly discovered world, instead of destroying the inhabitants by thousands, had either had the urbanity or the policy to have conciliated them by kind treatment, and to have united them, gradually, to their own people, such an accession might have been made to the power of the king of Spain, as would have made him far the greatest monarch that ever yet ruled in the globe; but the opportunity was lost by foolishness and cruelty, and now can never be recovered. When the parliament had finally prevailed over our king, and the army over the parliament, the interests of the two commonwealths of England and Holland soon appeared to be opposite, and a new government declared war against the Dutch. In this contest was exerted the utmost power of the two nations, and the Dutch were finally defeated, yet not with such evidence of superiority, as left us much reason to boast our victory: they were obliged, however, to solicit peace, which was granted them on easy conditions; and Cromwell, who was now possessed of the supreme power, was left at leisure to pursue other designs. The European powers had not yet ceased to look with envy on the Spanish acquisitions in America, and, therefore, Cromwell thought, that if he gained any part of these celebrated regions, he should exalt his own reputation, and enrich the country. He, therefore, quarrelled with the Spaniards upon some such subject of contention, as he that is resolved upon hostility may always find; and sent Penn and Venables into the western seas. They first landed in Hispaniola, whence they were driven off, with no great reputation to themselves; and that they might not return without having done something, they afterwards invaded Jamaica, where they found less resistance, and obtained that island, which was afterwards consigned to us, being probably of little value to the Spaniards, and continues, to this day, a place of great wealth and dreadful wickedness, a den of tyrants and a dungeon of slaves. Cromwell, who, perhaps, had not leisure to study foreign politicks, was very fatally mistaken with regard to Spain and France. Spain had been the last power in Europe which had openly pretended to give law to other nations, and the memory of this terrour remained, when the real cause was at an end. We had more lately been frighted by Spain than by France; and though very few were then alive of the generation that had their sleep broken by the armada, yet the name of the Spaniards was still terrible and a war against them was pleasing to the people. Our own troubles had left us very little desire to look out upon the continent; an inveterate prejudice hindered us from perceiving, that, for more than half a century, the power of France had been increasing, and that of Spain had been growing less; nor does it seem to have been remembered, which yet required no great depth of policy to discern, that of two monarchs, neither of which could be long our friend, it was our interest to have the weaker near us; or, that if a war should happen, Spain, however wealthy or strong in herself, was, by the dispersion of her territories, more obnoxious to the attacks of a naval power, and, consequently, had more to fear from us, and had it less in her power to hurt us. All these considerations were overlooked by the wisdom of that age; and Cromwell assisted the French to drive the Spaniards out of Flanders, at a time when it was our interest to have supported the Spaniards against France, as formerly the Hollanders against Spain, by which we might, at least, have retarded the growth of the French power, though, I think, it must have finally prevailed. During this time our colonies, which were less disturbed by our commotions than the mother-country, naturally increased; it is probable that many, who were unhappy at home, took shelter in those remote regions, where, for the sake of inviting greater numbers, every one was allowed to think and live his own way. The French settlement, in the mean time, went slowly forward, too inconsiderable to raise any jealousy, and too weak to attempt any encroachments. When Cromwell died, the confusions that followed produced the restoration of monarchy, and some time was employed in repairing the ruins of our constitution, and restoring the nation to a state of peace. In every change, there will be many that suffer real or imaginary grievances, and, therefore, many will be dissatisfied. This was, perhaps, the reason why several colonies had their beginning in the reign of Charles the second. The quakers willingly sought refuge in Pennsylvania; and it is not unlikely that Carolina owed its inhabitants to the remains of that restless disposition, which had given so much disturbance to our country, and had now no opportunity of acting at home. The Dutch, still continuing to increase in wealth and power, either kindled the resentment of their neighbours by their insolence, or raised their envy by their prosperity. Charles made war upon them without much advantage; but they were obliged, at last, to confess him the sovereign of the narrow seas. They were reduced almost to extremities by an invasion from France; but soon recovered from their consternation, and, by the fluctuation of war, regained their cities and provinces with the same speed as they had lost them. During the time of Charles the second, the power of France was every day increasing; and Charles, who never disturbed himself with remote consequences, saw the progress of her arms and the extension of her dominions, with very little uneasiness. He was, indeed, sometimes driven, by the prevailing faction, into confederacies against her; but as he had, probably, a secret partiality in her favour, he never persevered long in acting against her, nor ever acted with much vigour; so that, by his feeble resistance, he rather raised her confidence than hindered her designs. About this time the French first began to perceive the advantage of commerce, and the importance of a naval force; and such encouragement was given to manufactures, and so eagerly was every project received, by which trade could be advanced, that, in a few years, the sea was filled with their ships, and all the parts of the world crowded with their merchants. There is, perhaps, no instance in human story, of such a change produced in so short a time, in the schemes and manners of a people, of so many new sources of wealth opened, and such numbers of artificers and merchants made to start out of the ground, as was seen in the ministry of Colbert. Now it was that the power of France became formidable to England. Her dominions were large before, and her armies numerous; but her operations were necessarily confined to the continent. She had neither ships for the transportation of her troops, nor money for their support in distant expeditions. Colbert saw both these wants, and saw that commerce only would supply them. The fertility of their country furnishes the French with commodities; the poverty of the common people keeps the price of labour low. By the obvious practice of selling much and buying little, it was apparent, that they would soon draw the wealth of other countries into their own; and, by carrying out their merchandise in their own vessels, a numerous body of sailors would quickly be raised. This was projected, and this was performed. The king of France was soon enabled to bribe those whom he could not conquer, and to terrify, with his fleets, those whom his armies could not have approached. The influence of France was suddenly diffused all over the globe; her arms were dreaded, and her pensions received in remote regions, and those were almost ready to acknowledge her sovereignty, who, a few years before, had scarcely heard her name. She thundered on the coasts of Africa, and received ambassadours from Siam. So much may be done by one wise man endeavouring, with honesty, the advantage of the publick. But that we may not rashly condemn all ministers, as wanting wisdom or integrity, whose counsels have produced no such apparent benefits to their country, it must be considered, that Colbert had means of acting, which our government does not allow. He could enforce all his orders by the power of an absolute monarch; he could compel individuals to sacrifice their private profit to the general good; he could make one understanding preside over many hands, and remove difficulties by quick and violent expedients. Where no man thinks himself under any obligation to submit to another, and, instead of cooperating in one great scheme, every one hastens through by-paths to private profit, no great change can suddenly be made; nor is superiour knowledge of much effect, where every man resolves to use his own eyes and his own judgment, and every one applauds his own dexterity and diligence, in proportion as he becomes rich sooner than his neighbour. Colonies are always the effects and causes of navigation. They who visit many countries find some, in which pleasure, profit, or safety invite them to settle; and these settlements, when they are once made, must keep a perpetual correspondence with the original country to which they are subject, and on which they depend for protection in danger, and supplies in necessity. So that a country, once discovered and planted, must always find employment for shipping, more certainly than any foreign commerce, which, depending on casualties, may be sometimes more, and sometimes less, and which other nations may contract or suppress. A trade to colonies can never be much impaired, being, in reality, only an intercourse between distant provinces of the same empire, from which intruders are easily excluded; likewise the interest and affection of the correspondent parties, however distant, is the same. On this reason all nations, whose power has been exerted on the ocean, have fixed colonies in remote parts of the world; and while those colonies subsisted, navigation, if it did not increase, was always preserved from total decay. With this policy the French were well acquainted, and, therefore, improved and augmented the settlements in America and other regions, in proportion as they advanced their schemes of naval greatness. The exact time, in which they made their acquisitions in America, or other quarters of the globe, it is not necessary to collect. It is sufficient to observe, that their trade and their colonies increased together; and, if their naval armaments were carried on, as they really were, in greater proportion to their commerce, than can be practised in other countries, it must be attributed to the martial disposition at that time prevailing in the nation, to the frequent wars which Lewis the fourteenth made upon his neighbours, and to the extensive commerce of the English and Dutch, which afforded so much plunder to privateers, that war was more lucrative than traffick. Thus the naval power of France continued to increase during the reign of Charles the second, who, between his fondness of ease and pleasure, the struggles of faction, which he could not suppress, and his inclination to the friendship of absolute monarchy, had not much power or desire to repress it. And of James the second it could not be expected, that he should act against his neighbours with great vigour, having the whole body of his subjects to oppose. He was not ignorant of the real interest of his country; he desired its power and its happiness, and thought rightly, that there is no happiness without religion; but he thought very erroneously and absurdly, that there is no religion without popery. When the necessity of self-preservation had impelled the subjects of James to drive him from the throne, there came a time in which the passions, as well as interest of the government, acted against the French, and in which it may, perhaps, be reasonably doubted, whether the desire of humbling France was not stronger, than that of exalting England: of this, however, it is not necessary to inquire, since, though the intention may be different, the event will be the same. All mouths were now open to declare what every eye had observed before, that the arms of France were become dangerous to Europe; and that, if her encroachments were suffered a little longer, resistance would be too late. It was now determined to reassert the empire of the sea; but it was more easily determined than performed: the French made a vigorous defence against the united power of England and Holland, and were sometimes masters of the ocean, though the two maritime powers were united against them. At length, however, they were defeated at La Hogue; a great part of their fleet was destroyed, and they were reduced to carry on the war only with their privateers, from whom there was suffered much petty mischief, though there was no danger of conquest or invasion. They distressed our merchants, and obliged us to the continual expense of convoys and fleets of observation; and, by skulking in little coves and shallow waters, escaped our pursuit. In this reign began our confederacy with the Dutch, which mutual interest has now improved into a friendship, conceived by some to be inseparable; and, from that time, the states began to be termed, in the style of politicians, our faithful friends, the allies which nature has given us, our protestant confederates, and by many other names of national endearment. We have, it is true, the same interest, as opposed to France, and some resemblance of religion, as opposed to popery; but we have such a rivalry, in respect of commerce, as will always keep us from very close adherence to each other. No mercantile man, or mercantile nation, has any friendship but for money, and alliance between them will last no longer, than their common safety, or common profit is endangered; no longer than they have an enemy, who threatens to take from each more than either can steal from the other. We were both sufficiently interested in repressing the ambition, and obstructing the commerce of France; and, therefore, we concurred with as much fidelity, and as regular cooperation, as is commonly found. The Dutch were in immediate danger, the armies of their enemies hovered over their country, and, therefore, they were obliged to dismiss, for a time, their love of money, and their narrow projects of private profit, and to do what a trader does not willingly, at any time, believe necessary, to sacrifice a part for the preservation of the whole. A peace was at length made, and the French, with their usual vigour and industry, rebuilt their fleets, restored their commerce, and became, in a very few years, able to contest again the dominion of the sea. Their ships were well built, and always very numerously manned; their commanders, having no hopes but from their bravery, or their fortune, were resolute, and, being very carefully educated for the sea, were eminently skilful. All this was soon perceived, when queen Anne, the then darling of England, declared war against France. Our success by sea, though sufficient to keep us from dejection, was not such as dejected our enemies. It is, indeed, to be confessed, that we did not exert our whole naval strength; Marlborough was the governour of our counsels, and the great view of Marlborough was a war by land, which he knew well how to conduct, both to the honour of his country and his own profit. The fleet was, therefore, starved, that the army might be supplied, and naval advantages were neglected, for the sake of taking a town in Flanders, to be garrisoned by our allies. The French, however, were so weakened by one defeat after another, that, though their fleet was never destroyed by any total overthrow, they at last retained it in their harbours, and applied their whole force to the resistance of the confederate army, that now began to approach their frontiers, and threatened to lay waste their provinces and cities. In the latter years of this war, the danger of their neighbourhood in America, seems to have been considered, and a fleet was fitted out, and supplied with a proper number of land forces, to seize Quebec, the capital of Canada, or New France; but this expedition miscarried, like that of Anson against the Spaniards, by the lateness of the season, and our ignorance of the coasts on which we were to act. We returned with loss, and only excited our enemies to greater vigilance, and, perhaps, to stronger fortifications. When the peace of Utrecht was made, which those, who clamoured among us most loudly against it, found it their interest to keep, the French applied themselves, with the utmost industry, to the extension of their trade, which we were so far from hindering, that, for many years, our ministry thought their friendship of such value, as to be cheaply purchased by whatever concession. Instead, therefore, of opposing, as we had hitherto professed to do, the boundless ambition of the house of Bourbon, we became, on a sudden, solicitous for its exaltation, and studious of its interest. We assisted the schemes of France and Spain with our fleets, and endeavoured to make these our friends by servility, whom nothing but power will keep quiet, and who must always be our enemies, while they are endeavouring to grow greater, and we determine to remain free. That nothing might be omitted, which could testify our willingness to continue, on any terms, the good friends of France, we were content to assist, not only their conquests, but their traffick; and, though we did not openly repeal the prohibitory laws, we yet tamely suffered commerce to be carried on between the two nations, and wool was daily imported, to enable them to make cloth, which they carried to our markets, and sold cheaper than we. During all this time they were extending and strengthening their settlements in America, contriving new modes of traffick, and framing new alliances with the Indian nations. They began now to find these northern regions, barren and desolate as they are, sufficiently valuable to desire, at least, a nominal possession, that might furnish a pretence for the exclusion of others; they, therefore, extended their claim to tracts of land, which they could never hope to occupy, took care to give their dominions an unlimited magnitude, have given, in their maps, the name of Louisiana to a country, of which part is claimed by the Spaniards, and part by the English, without any regard to ancient boundaries, or prior discovery. When the return of Columbus from his great voyage had filled all Europe with wonder and curiosity, Henry the seventh sent Sebastian Cabot to try what could be found for the benefit of England: he declined the track of Columbus, and, steering to the westward, fell upon the island, which, from that time, was called by the English Newfoundland. Our princes seem to have considered themselves as entitled, by their right of prior seizure, to the northern parts of America, as the Spaniards were allowed, by universal consent, their claim to the southern region for the same reason; and we, accordingly, made our principal settlements within the limits of our own discoveries, and, by degrees, planted the eastern coast, from Newfoundland to Georgia. As we had, according to the European principles, which allow nothing to the natives of these regions, our choice of situation in this extensive country, we naturally fixed our habitations along the coast, for the sake of traffick and correspondence and all the conveniencies of navigable rivers. And when one port or river was occupied, the next colony, instead of fixing themselves in the inland parts behind the former, went on southward, till they pleased themselves with another maritime situation. For this reason our colonies have more length than depth; their extent, from east to west, or from the sea to the interior country, bears no proportion to their reach along the coast, from north to south. It was, however, understood, by a kind of tacit compact among the commercial powers, that possession of the coast included a right to the inland; and, therefore, the charters granted to the several colonies, limit their districts only from north to south, leaving their possessions from east to west unlimited and discretional, supposing that, as the colony increases, they may take lands as they shall want them, the possession of the coasts, excluding other navigators, and the unhappy Indians having no right of nature or of nations. This right of the first European possessour was not disputed, till it became the interest of the French to question it. Canada, or New France, on which they made their first settlement, is situated eastward of our colonies, between which they pass up the great river of St. Lawrence, with Newfoundland on the north, and Nova Scotia on the south. Their establishment in this country was neither envied nor hindered; and they lived here, in no great numbers, a long time, neither molesting their European neighbours, nor molested by them. But when they grew stronger and more numerous, they began to extend their territories; and, as it is natural for men to seek their own convenience, the desire of more fertile and agreeable habitations tempted them southward. There is land enough to the north and west of their settlements, which they may occupy with as good right as can be shown by the other European usurpers, and which neither the English nor Spaniards will contest; but of this cold region, they have enough already, and their resolution was to get a better country. This was not to be had, but by settling to the west of our plantations, on ground which has been, hitherto, supposed to belong to us. Hither, therefore, they resolved to remove, and to fix, at their own discretion, the western border of our colonies, which was, heretofore, considered as unlimited. Thus by forming a line of forts, in some measure parallel to the coast, they inclose us between their garrisons, and the sea, and not only hinder our extension westward, but, whenever they have a sufficient navy in the sea, can harass us on each side, as they can invade us, at pleasure, from one or other of their forts. This design was not, perhaps, discovered as soon as it was formed, and was certainly not opposed so soon as it was discovered: we foolishly hoped, that their encroachments would stop; that they would be prevailed on, by treaty and remonstrance, to give up what they had taken, or to put limits to themselves. We suffered them to establish one settlement after another, to pass boundary after boundary, and add fort to fort, till, at last, they grew strong enough to avow their designs, and defy us to obstruct them. By these provocations, long continued, we are, at length, forced into a war, in which we have had, hitherto, very ill fortune. Our troops, under Braddock, were dishonourably defeated; our fleets have yet done nothing more than taken a few merchant ships, and have distressed some private families, but have very little weakened the power of France. The detention of their seamen makes it, indeed, less easy for them to fit out their navy; but this deficiency will be easily supplied by the alacrity of the nation, which is always eager for war. It is unpleasing to represent our affairs to our own disadvantage; yet it is necessary to show the evils which we desire to be removed; and, therefore, some account may very properly be given of the measures which have given them their present superiority. They are said to be supplied from France with better governours than our colonies have the fate to obtain from England. A French governour is seldom chosen for any other reason than his qualifications for his trust. To be a bankrupt at home, or to be so infamously vitious, that he cannot be decently protected in his own country, seldom recommends any man to the government of a French colony. Their officers are commonly skilful, either in war or commerce, and are taught to have no expectation of honour or preferment, but from the justice and vigour of their administration. Their great security is the friendship of the natives, and to this advantage they have certainly an indubitable right; because it is the consequence of their virtue. It is ridiculous to imagine, that the friendship of nations, whether civil or barbarous, can be gained and kept but by kind treatment; and, surely, they who intrude, uncalled, upon the country of a distant people, ought to consider the natives as worthy of common kindness, and content themselves to rob, without insulting them. The French, as has been already observed, admit the Indians, by intermarriage, to an equality with themselves; and those nations, with which they have no such near intercourse, they gain over to their interest by honesty in their dealings. Our factors and traders, having no other purpose in view than immediate profit, use all the arts of an European counting-house, to defraud the simple hunter of his furs. These are some of the causes of our present weakness; our planters are always quarrelling with their governour, whom they consider as less to be trusted than the French; and our traders hourly alienate the Indians by their tricks and oppressions, and we continue every day to show, by new proofs; that no people can be great, who have ceased to be virtuous. OBSERVATIONS ON THE TREATY Between his Britannick majesty and imperial majesty of all the Russias, signed at Moscow, Dec. 11, 1742; the treaty between his Britannick majesty and the Landgrave of Hesse Cassel, signed June 18, 1755; and the treaty between his Britannick majesty and her imperial majesty of all the Russias, signed at St. Petersburg, Sept. 19/20, 1755 [26]. These are the treaties which, for many months, filled the senate with debates, and the kingdom with clamours; which were represented, on one part, as instances of the most profound policy and the most active care of the publick welfare, and, on the other, as acts of the most contemptible folly and most flagrant corruption, as violations of the great trust of government, by which the wealth of Britain is sacrificed to private views and to a particular province. What honours our ministers and negotiators may expect to be paid to their wisdom; it is hard to determine, for the demands of vanity are not easily estimated. They should consider, before they call too loudly for encomiums, that they live in an age, when the power of gold is no longer a secret, and in which no man finds much difficulty in making a bargain, with money in his hand. To hire troops is very easy to those who are willing to pay their price. It appears, therefore, that whatever has been done, was done by means which every man knows how to use, if fortune is kind enough to put them in his power. To arm the nations of the north in the cause of Britain, to bring down hosts against France, from the polar circle, has, indeed, a sound of magnificence, which might induce a mind unacquainted with publick affairs to imagine, that some effort of policy, more than human, had been exerted, by which distant nations were armed in our defence, and the influence of Britain was extended to the utmost limits of the world. But when this striking phenomenon of negotiation is more nearly inspected, it appears a bargain, merely mercantile, of one power that wanted troops more than money, with another that wanted money, and was burdened with troops; between whom their mutual wants made an easy contract, and who have no other friendship for each other, than reciprocal convenience happens to produce. We shall, therefore, leave the praises of our ministers to others, yet not without this acknowledgment, that if they have done little, they do not seem to boast of doing much; and, that whether influenced by modesty or frugality, they have not wearied the publick with mercenary panegyrists, but have been content with the concurrence of the parliament, and have not much solicited the applauses of the people. In publick, as in private transactions, men more frequently deviate from the right, for want of virtue, than of wisdom; and those who declare themselves dissatisfied with these treaties, impute them not to folly, but corruption. By these advocates for the independence of Britain, who, whether their arguments be just, or not, seem to be most favourably heard by the people, it is alleged, that these treaties are expensive, without advantage; that they waste the treasure, which we want for our own defence, upon a foreign interest; and pour the gains of our commerce into the coffers of princes, whose enmity cannot hurt, nor friendship help us; who set their subjects to sale, like sheep or oxen, without any inquiry after the intentions of the buyer; and will withdraw the troops, with which they have supplied us, whenever a higher bidder shall be found. This, perhaps, is true; but whether it be true, or false, is not worth inquiry. We did not expect to buy their friendship, but their troops; nor did we examine upon what principle we were supplied with assistance; it was sufficient that we wanted forces, and that they were willing to furnish them. Policy never pretended to make men wise and good; the utmost of her power is to make the best use of men, such as they are, to lay hold on lucky hours, to watch the present wants, and present interests of others, and make them subservient to her own convenience. It is further urged, with great vehemence, that these troops of Russia and Hesse are not hired in defence of Britain; that we are engaged, in a naval war, for territories on a distant continent; and that these troops, though mercenaries, can never be auxiliaries; that they increase the burden of the war, without hastening its conclusion, or promoting its success; since they can neither be sent into America, the only part of the world where England can, on the present occasion, have any employment for land-forces, nor be put into our ships, by which, and by which only, we are now to oppose and subdue our enemies. Nature has stationed us in an island, inaccessible but by sea; and we are now at war with an enemy, whose naval power is inferiour to our own, and from whom, therefore, we are in no danger of invasion: to what purpose, then, are troops hired in such uncommon numbers? To what end do we procure strength, which we cannot exert, and exhaust the nation with subsidies, at a time when nothing is disputed, which the princes, who receive our subsidies, can defend? If we had purchased ships, and hired seamen, we had apparently increased our power, and made ourselves formidable to our enemies, and, if any increase of security be possible, had secured ourselves still better from invasions: but what can the regiments of Russia, or of Hesse, contribute to the defence of the coasts of England; or, by what assistance can they repay us the sums, which we have stipulated to pay for their costly friendship? The king of Great Britain has, indeed, a territory on the continent, of which the natives of this island scarcely knew the name, till the present family was called to the throne, and yet know little more than that our king visits it from time to time. Yet, for the defence of this country, are these subsidies apparently paid, and these troops evidently levied. The riches of our nation are sent into distant countries, and the strength, which should be employed in our own quarrel, consequently impaired, for the sake of dominions, the interest of which has no connexion with ours, and which, by the act of succession, we took care to keep separate from the British kingdoms. To this the advocates for the subsidies say, that unreasonable stipulations, whether in the act of settlement, or any other contract, are, in themselves, void; and that if a country connected with England, by subjection to the same sovereign, is endangered by an English quarrel, it must be defended by English force; and that we do not engage in a war, for the sake of Hanover, but that Hanover is, for our sake, exposed to danger. Those who brought in these foreign troops have still something further to say in their defence, and of no honest plea is it our intention to defraud them. They grant, that the terrour of invasion may, possibly, be groundless; that the French may want the power, or the courage, to attack us in our own country; but they maintain, likewise, that an invasion is possible, that the armies of France are so numerous, that she may hazard a large body on the ocean, without leaving herself exposed; that she is exasperated to the utmost degree of acrimony, and would be willing to do us mischief, at her own peril. They allow, that the invaders may be intercepted at sea, or that, if they land, they may be defeated by our native troops. But they say, and say justly, that danger is better avoided than encountered; that those ministers consult more the good of their country, who prevent invasion, than repel it; and that, if these auxiliaries have only saved us from the anxiety of expecting an enemy at our doors, or from the tumult and distress which an invasion, how soon soever repressed, would have produced, the publick money is not spent in vain. These arguments are admitted by some, and by others rejected. But even those that admit them, can admit them only as pleas of necessity; for they consider the reception of mercenaries into our country, as the desperate "remedy of desperate distress;" and think, with great reason, that all means of prevention should be tried, to save us from any second need of such doubtful succours. That we are able to defend our own country, that arms are most safely entrusted to our own hands, and that we have strength, and skill, and courage, equal to the best of the nations of the continent, is the opinion of every Englishman, who can think without prejudice, and speak without influence; and, therefore, it will not be easy to persuade the nation, a nation long renowned for valour, that it can need the help of foreigners to defend it from invasion. We have been long without the need of arms by our good fortune, and long without the use by our negligence; so long, that the practice, and almost the name, of our old trained bands is forgotten; but the story of ancient times will tell us, that the trained bands were once able to maintain the quiet and safety of their country; and reason, without history, will inform us, that those men are most likely to fight bravely, or, at least, to fight obstinately, who fight for their own houses and farms, for their own wives and children. A bill was, therefore, offered for the prevention of any future danger or invasion, or necessity of mercenary forces, by reestablishing and improving the militia. It was passed by the commons, but rejected by the lords. That this bill, the first essay of political consideration, as a subject long forgotten, should be liable to objection, cannot be strange; but surely, justice, policy, common reason, require, that we should be trusted with our own defence, and be kept, no longer in such a helpless state as, at once, to dread our enemies and confederates. By the bill, such as it was formed, sixty thousand men would always be in arms. We have shown [27] how they may be, upon any exigence, easily increased to a hundred and fifty thousand; and, I believe, neither our friends nor enemies will think it proper to insult our coasts, when they expect to find upon them a hundred and fifty thousand Englishmen, with swords in their hands. INTRODUCTION TO THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE COMMITTEE, Appointed to manage the contributions begun at London, December 18, 1758, for clothing French prisoners of war. The committee intrusted with the money, contributed to the relief of the subjects of France, now prisoners in the British dominions, here lay before the publick an exact account of all the sums received and expended, that the donors may judge how properly their benefactions have been applied. Charity would lose its name, were it influenced by so mean a motive as human praise; it is, therefore, not intended to celebrate, by any particular memorial, the liberality of single persons, or distinct societies; it is sufficient, that their works praise them. Yet he, who is far from seeking honour, may very justly obviate censure. If a good example has been set, it may lose its influence by misrepresentation; and, to free charity from reproach is itself a charitable action. Against the relief of the French only one argument has been brought; but that one is so popular and specious, that, if it were to remain unexamined, it would, by many, be thought irrefragable. It has been urged, that charity, like other virtues, may be improperly and unseasonably exerted; that, while we are relieving Frenchmen, there remain many Englishmen unrelieved; that, while we lavish pity on our enemies, we forget the misery of our friends. Grant this argument all it can prove, and what is the conclusion?--That to relieve the French is a good action, but that a better may be conceived. This is all the result, and this all is very little. To do the best can seldom be the lot of man: it is sufficient if, when opportunities are presented, he is ready to do good. How little virtue could be practised, if beneficence were to wait always for the most proper objects, and the noblest occasions; occasions that may never happen, and objects that may never be found. It is far from certain, that a single Englishman will suffer by the charity to the French. New scenes of misery make new impressions; and much of the charity, which produced these donations, may be supposed to have been generated by a species of calamity never known among us before. Some imagine, that the laws have provided all necessary relief, in common cases, and remit the poor to the care of the publick; some have been deceived by fictitious misery, and are afraid of encouraging imposture; many have observed want to be the effect of vice, and consider casual alms-givers as patrons of idleness. But all these difficulties vanish in the present case: we know, that for the prisoners of war there is no legal provision; we see their distress, and are certain of its cause; we know that they are poor and naked, and poor and naked without a crime. But it is not necessary to make any concessions. The opponents of this charity must allow it to be good, and will not easily prove it not to be the best. That charity is best, of which the consequences are most extensive: the relief of enemies has a tendency to unite mankind in fraternal affection; to soften the acrimony of adverse nations, and dispose them to peace and amity; in the mean time, it alleviates captivity, and takes away something from the miseries of war. The rage of war, however mitigated, will always fill the world with calamity and horrour; let it not, then, be unnecessarily extended; let animosity and hostility cease together; and no man be longer deemed an enemy, than while his sword is drawn against us. The effects of these contributions may, perhaps, reach still further. Truth is best supported by virtue: we may hope, from those who feel, or who see, our charity, that they shall no longer detest, as heresy, that religion, which makes its professors the followers of him, who has commanded us to "do good to them that hate us." ON THE BRAVERY OF THE ENGLISH COMMON SOLDIERS [28], By those who have compared the military genius of the English with that of the French nation, it is remarked, that "the French officers will always lead, if the soldiers will follow;" and that "the English soldiers will always follow, if their officers will lead." In all pointed sentences, some degree of accuracy must be sacrificed to conciseness; and, in this comparison, our officers seem to lose what our soldiers gain. I know not any reason for supposing that the English officers are less willing than the French to lead; but it is, I think, universally allowed, that the English soldiers are more willing to follow. Our nation may boast, beyond any other people in the world, of a kind of epidemick bravery, diffused equally through all its ranks. We can show a peasantry of heroes, and fill our armies with clowns, whose courage may vie with that of their general. There may be some pleasure in tracing the causes of this plebeian magnanimity. The qualities which, commonly, make an army formidable, are long habits of regularity, great exactness of discipline, and great confidence in the commander. Regularity may, in time, produce a kind of mechanical obedience to signals and commands, like that which the perverse cartesians impute to animals; discipline may impress such an awe upon the mind, that any danger shall be less dreaded, than the danger of punishment; and confidence in the wisdom, or fortune, of the general may induce the soldiers to follow him blindly to the most dangerous enterprise. What may be done by discipline and regularity, may be seen in the troops of the Russian emperess, and Prussian monarch. We find, that they may be broken without confusion, and repulsed without flight. But the English troops have none of these requisites, in any eminent degree. Regularity is, by no means, part of their character: they are rarely exercised, and, therefore, show very little dexterity in their evolutions, as bodies of men, or in the manual use of their weapons, as individuals; they neither are thought by others, nor by themselves, more active, or exact, than their enemies, and, therefore, derive none of their courage from such imaginary superiority. The manner in which they are dispersed in quarters, over the country, during times of peace, naturally produces laxity of discipline: they are very little in sight of their officers; and, when they are not engaged in the slight duty of the guard, are suffered to live, every man his own way. The equality of English privileges, the impartiality of our laws, the freedom of our tenures, and the prosperity of our trade, dispose us very little to reverence superiours. It is not to any great esteem of the officers, that the English soldier is indebted for his spirit in the hour of battle; for, perhaps, it does not often happen, that he thinks much better of his leader than of himself. The French count, who has lately published the Art of War, remarks, how much soldiers are animated, when they see all their dangers shared by those who were born to be their masters, and whom they consider, as beings of a different rank. The Englishman despises such motives of courage: he was born without a master; and looks not on any man, however dignified by lace or titles, as deriving, from nature, any claims to his respect, or inheriting any qualities superiour to his own. There are some, perhaps, who would imagine, that every Englishman fights better than the subjects of absolute governments, because he has more to defend. But what has the English more than the French soldier? Property they are both, commonly, without. Liberty is, to the lowest rank of every nation, little more than the choice of working or starving; and this choice is, I suppose, equally allowed in every country. The English soldier seldom has his head very full of the constitution; nor has there been, for more than a century, any war that put the property or liberty of a single Englishman in danger. Whence, then, is the courage of the English vulgar? It proceeds, in my opinion, from that dissolution of dependence, which obliges every man to regard his own character. While every man is fed by his own hands, he has no need of any servile arts; he may always have wages for his labour; and is no less necessary to his employer, than his employer is to him. While he looks for no protection from others, he is naturally roused to be his own protector; and having nothing to abate his esteem of himself, he, consequently, aspires to the esteem of others. Thus every man that crowds our streets is a man of honour, disdainful of obligation, impatient of reproach, and desirous of extending his reputation among those of his own rank; and, as courage is in most frequent use, the fame of courage is most eagerly pursued. From this neglect of subordination, I do not deny, that some inconveniencies may, from time to time, proceed: the power of the law does not, always, sufficiently supply the want of reverence, or maintain the proper distinction between different ranks; but good and evil will grow up in this world together; and they who complain, in peace, of the insolence of the populace, must remember, that their insolence in peace is bravery in war. POLITICAL TRACTS. Fallitur, egregio quisquis sub principe credit Servitium, nunquam libertas gratior extat Quam sub rege pio. CLAUDIANUS. PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS TO POLITICAL TRACTS. On Johnson's character, as a political writer, we cannot dwell with pleasure, since we cannot speak of it with praise. In the following pamphlets, however, though we cannot honestly subscribe to their doctrines, we must admire the same powers of composition, the same play of imagination, the same keen sarcasm and indignant reproof, that embellish his other productions. He might, and did, think wrongly on these subjects, but he never wrote what he did not believe to be true, and, therefore, must be acquitted of all charges of servility or dishonesty. The False Alarm was published in 1770, and "intended," says Mr. Boswell, "to justify the conduct of the ministry, and their majority in the house of commons, for having virtually assumed it as an axiom, that the expulsion of a member of parliament was equivalent to exclusion, and thus having declared colonel Lutterel to be duly elected for the county of Middlesex, notwithstanding Mr. Wilkes had a great majority of votes. This being justly considered as a gross violation of the right of election, an alarm for the constitution extended itself all over the kingdom. To prove this alarm to be false, was the purpose of Johnson's pamphlet; but even his vast powers are inadequate to cope with constitutional truth and reason, and his argument failed of effect; and the house of commons have since expunged the offensive resolution from their journals. That the house of commons might have expelled Mr. Wilkes repeatedly, and as often as he should be rechosen, was not to be denied; but incapacitation cannot be but by an act of the whole legislature. It was wonderful to see how a prejudice in favour of government in general, and an aversion to popular clamour, could blind and contract such an understanding as Johnson's in this particular case." Where Boswell expresses himself with regard to Johnson, in terms so reprehensive as the above, we cannot be accused of severity in repeating his just censure. Several answers appeared, but, perhaps, all of them, in compliance with the excited feelings of the times, dealt rather in personal abuse of Johnson, as a pensioner and hireling, than in fair and manly argument. The chief were, the Crisis; a Letter to Dr. Samuel Johnson; and, the Constitution Defender and Pensioner exposed, in Remarks on the False Alarm. THE FALSE ALARM. 1770. One of the chief advantages derived by the present generation from the improvement and diffusion of philosophy, is deliverance from unnecessary terrours, and exemption from false alarms. The unusual appearances, whether regular or accidental, which once spread consternation over ages of ignorance, are now the recreations of inquisitive security. The sun is no more lamented when it is eclipsed, than when it sets; and meteors play their coruscations without prognostick or prediction. The advancement of political knowledge may be expected to produce, in time, the like effects. Causeless discontent, and seditious violence, will grow less frequent and less formidable, as the science of government is better ascertained, by a diligent study of the theory of man. It is not, indeed, to be expected, that physical and political truth should meet with equal acceptance, or gain ground upon the world with equal facility. The notions of the naturalist find mankind in a state of neutrality, or, at worst, have nothing to encounter but prejudice and vanity; prejudice without malignity, and vanity without interest. But the politician's improvements are opposed by every passion that can exclude conviction or suppress it; by ambition, by avarice, by hope, and by terrour, by publick faction, and private animosity. It is evident, whatever be the cause, that this nation, with all its renown for speculation and for learning, has yet made little proficiency in civil wisdom. We are still so much unacquainted with our own state, and so unskilful in the pursuit of happiness, that we shudder without danger, complain without grievances, and suffer our quiet to be disturbed, and our commerce to be interrupted, by an opposition to the government, raised only by interest, and supported only by clamour, which yet has so far prevailed upon ignorance and timidity, that many favour it, as reasonable, and many dread it, as powerful. What is urged by those who have been so industrious to spread suspicion, and incite fury, from one end of the kingdom to the other, may be known, by perusing the papers which have been, at once, presented as petitions to the king, and exhibited in print as remonstrances to the people. It may, therefore, not be improper to lay before the publick the reflections of a man, who cannot favour the opposition, for he thinks it wicked, and cannot fear it, for he thinks it weak. The grievance which has produced all this tempest of outrage, the oppression in which all other oppressions are included, the invasion which has left us no property, the alarm that suffers no patriot to sleep in quiet, is comprised in a vote of the house of commons, by which the freeholders of Middlesex are deprived of a Briton's birthright--representation in parliament. They have, indeed, received the usual writ of election; but that writ, alas! was malicious mockery: they were insulted with the form, but denied the reality, for there was one man excepted from their choice: "Non de vi, neque cæde, nec veneno, Sed lis est mihi de tribus capellis." The character of the man, thus fatally excepted, I have no purpose to delineate. Lampoon itself would disdain to speak ill of him, of whom no man speaks well. It is sufficient, that he is expelled the house of commons, and confined in gaol, as being legally convicted of sedition and impiety. That this man cannot be appointed one of the guardians and counsellors of the church and state, is a grievance not to be endured. Every lover of liberty stands doubtful of the fate of posterity, because the chief county in England cannot take its representative from a gaol. Whence Middlesex should obtain the right of being denominated the chief county cannot easily be discovered; it is, indeed, the county where the chief city happens to stand, but, how that city treated the favourite of Middlesex, is not yet forgotten. The county, as distinguished from the city, has no claim to particular consideration. That a man was in gaol for sedition and impiety, would, I believe, have been, within memory, a sufficient reason why he should not come out of gaol a legislator. This reason, notwithstanding the mutability of fashion, happens still to operate on the house of commons. Their notions, however strange, may be justified by a common observation, that few are mended by imprisonment, and that he, whose crimes have made confinement necessary, seldom makes any other use of his enlargement, than to do, with greater cunning, what he did before with less. But the people have been told, with great confidence, that the house cannot control the right of constituting representatives; that he who can persuade lawful electors to choose him, whatever be his character, is lawfully chosen, and has a claim to a seat in parliament, from which no human authority can depose him. Here, however, the patrons of opposition are in some perplexity. They are forced to confess, that, by a train of precedents, sufficient to establish a custom of parliament, the house of commons has jurisdiction over its own members; that the whole has power over individuals; and that this power has been exercised sometimes in imprisonment, and often in expulsion. That such power should reside in the house of commons, in some cases, is inevitably necessary; since it is required, by every polity, that where there is a possibility of offence, there should be a possibility of punishment. A member of the house cannot be cited for his conduct in parliament before any other court; and, therefore, if the house cannot punish him, he may attack, with impunity, the rights of the people, and the title of the king. This exemption from the authority of other courts was, I think, first established in favour of the five members in the long parliament. It is not to be considered as an usurpation, for it is implied in the principles of government. If legislative powers are not coordinate, they cease, in part, to be legislative; and if they be coordinate, they are unaccountable; for to whom must that power account, which has no superiour? The house of commons is, indeed, dissoluble by the king, as the nation has, of late, been very clamorously told; but while it subsists it is coordinate with the other powers, and this coordination ceases only, when the house, by dissolution, ceases to subsist. As the particular representatives of the people are, in their publick character, above the control of the courts of law, they must be subject to the jurisdiction of the house; and as the house, in the exercise of its authority, can be neither directed nor restrained, its own resolutions must be its laws, at least, if there is no antecedent decision of the whole legislature. This privilege, not confirmed by any written law or positive compact, but by the resistless power of political necessity, they have exercised, probably, from their first institution, but certainly, as their records inform us, from the 23rd of Elizabeth, when they expelled a member for derogating from their privileges. It may, perhaps, be doubted, whether it was originally necessary, that this right of control and punishment should extend beyond offences in the exercise of parliamentary duty, since all other crimes are cognizable by other courts. But they who are the only judges of their own rights, have exerted the power of expulsion on other occasions, and when wickedness arrived at a certain magnitude, have considered an offence against society, as an offence against the house. They have, therefore, divested notorious delinquents of their legislative character, and delivered them up to shame or punishment, naked and unprotected, that they might not contaminate the dignity of parliament. It is allowed, that a man attainted of felony cannot sit in parliament, and the commons probably judged, that, not being bound to the forms of law, they might treat these as felons, whose crimes were, in their opinion, equivalent to felony; and that, as a known felon could not be chosen, a man, so like a felon that he could not easily be distinguished, ought to be expelled. The first laws had no law to enforce them; the first authority was constituted by itself. The power exercised by the house of commons is of this kind; a power rooted in the principles of government, and branched out by occasional practice; a power which necessity made just, and precedents have made legal. It will occur, that authority thus uncontroulable may, in times of heat and contest, be oppressively and injuriously exerted, and that he who suffers injustice is without redress, however innocent, however miserable. The position is true, but the argument is useless. The commons must be controlled, or be exempt from control. If they are exempt, they may do injury which cannot be redressed, if they are controlled, they are no longer legislative. If the possibility of abuse be an argument against authority, no authority ever can be established: if the actual abuse destroys its legality, there is no legal government now in the world. This power, which the commons have so long exercised, they ventured to use once more against Mr. Wilkes, and, on the 3rd of February, 1769, expelled him the house, "for having printed and published a seditious libel, and three obscene and impious libels." If these imputations were just, the expulsion was, surely, seasonable; and that they were just, the house had reason to determine, as he had confessed himself, at the bar, the author of the libel which they term seditious, and was convicted, in the King's Bench, of both the publications. But the freeholders of Middlesex were of another opinion. They either thought him innocent, or were not offended by his guilt. When a writ was issued for the election of a knight for Middlesex, in the room of John Wilkes, esq. expelled the house, his friends, on the sixteenth of February, chose him again. On the 17th, it was resolved, "that John Wilkes, esq. having been, in this session of parliament, expelled the house, was, and is, incapable of being elected a member to serve in this present parliament." As there was no other candidate, it was resolved, at the same time, that the election of the sixteenth was a void election. The freeholders still continued to think, that no other man was fit to represent them, and, on the sixteenth of March, elected him once more. Their resolution was now so well known, that no opponent ventured to appear. The commons began to find, that power, without materials for operation, can produce no effect. They might make the election void for ever, but if no other candidate could be found, their determination could only be negative. They, however, made void the last election, and ordered a new writ. On the 13th of April was a new election, at which Mr. Lutterel, and others, offered themselves candidates. Every method of intimidation was used, and some acts of violence were done, to hinder Mr. Lutterel from appearing. He was not deterred, and the poll was taken, which exhibited, for Mr. Wilkes 1143 Mr. Lutterel 296 The sheriff returned Mr. Wilkes; but the house, on April the fifteenth, determined that Mr. Lutterel was lawfully elected. From this day began the clamour, which has continued till now. Those who had undertaken to oppose the ministry, having no grievance of greater magnitude, endeavoured to swell this decision into bulk, and distort it into deformity, and then held it out to terrify the nation. Every artifice of sedition has been since practised to awaken discontent and inflame indignation. The papers of every day have been filled with exhortations and menaces of faction. The madness has spread through all ranks, and through both sexes; women and children have clamoured for Mr. Wilkes; honest simplicity has been cheated into fury, and only the wise have escaped infection. The greater part may justly be suspected of not believing their own position, and with them it is not necessary to dispute. They cannot be convinced who are convinced already, and it is well known that they will not be ashamed. The decision, however, by which the smaller number of votes was preferred to the greater, has perplexed the minds of some, whose opinions it were indecent to despise, and who, by their integrity, well deserve to have their doubts appeased. Every diffuse and complicated question may be examined by different methods, upon different principles; and that truth, which is easily found by one investigator, may be missed by another, equally honest and equally diligent. Those who inquire, whether a smaller number of legal votes can elect a representative in opposition to a greater, must receive, from every tongue, the same answer. The question, therefore, must be, whether a smaller number of legal votes shall not prevail against a greater number of votes not legal. It must be considered, that those votes only are legal which are legally given, and that those only are legally given, which are given for a legal candidate. It remains, then, to be discussed, whether a man expelled can be so disqualified by a vote of the house, as that he shall be no longer eligible by lawful electors. Here we must again recur, not to positive institutions, but to the unwritten law of social nature, to the great and pregnant principle of political necessity. All government supposes subjects; all authority implies obedience: to suppose in one the right to command what another has the right to refuse, is absurd and contradictory; a state, so constituted, must rest for ever in motionless equipoise, with equal attractions of contrary tendency, with equal weights of power balancing each other. Laws which cannot be enforced can neither prevent nor rectify disorders. A sentence which cannot be executed can have no power to warn or to reform. If the commons have only the power of dismissing, for a few days, the man whom his constituents can immediately send back; if they can expel, but cannot exclude, they have nothing more than nominal authority, to which, perhaps, obedience never may be paid. The representatives of our ancestors had an opinion very different: they fined and imprisoned their members; on great provocation, they disabled them for ever; and this power of pronouncing perpetual disability is maintained by Selden himself. These claims seem to have been made and allowed, when the constitution of our government had not yet been sufficiently studied. Such powers are not legal, because they are not necessary; and of that power which only necessity justifies, no more is to be admitted than necessity obtrudes. The commons cannot make laws; they can only pass resolutions, which, like all resolutions, are of force only to those that make them, and to those, only while they are willing to observe them. The vote of the house of commons has, therefore, only so far the force of a law, as that force is necessary to preserve the vote from losing its efficacy; it must begin by operating upon themselves, and extend its influence to others, only by consequences arising from the first intention. He that starts game on his own manor, may pursue it into another. They can properly make laws only for themselves: a member, while he keeps his seat, is subject to these laws; but when he is expelled, the jurisdiction ceases, for he is now no longer within their dominion. The disability, which a vote can superinduce to expulsion, is no more than was included in expulsion itself; it is only a declaration of the commons, that they will permit no longer him, whom they thus censure, to sit with them in parliament; a declaration made by that right, which they necessarily possess, of regulating their own house, and of inflicting punishment on their own delinquents. They have, therefore, no other way to enforce the sentence of incapacity, than that of adhering to it. They cannot otherwise punish the candidate so disqualified for offering himself, nor the electors for accepting him. But if he has any competitor, that competitor must prevail, and if he has none, his election will be void; for the right of the house to reject annihilates, with regard to the man so rejected, the right of electing. It has been urged, that the power of the house terminates with their session; since a prisoner, committed by the speaker's warrant, cannot be detained during the recess. That power, indeed, ceases with the session, which must operate by the agency of others; because, when they do not sit, they can employ no agent, having no longer any legal existence; but that which is exercised on themselves revives at their meeting, when the subject of that power still subsists: they can, in the next session, refuse to re-admit him, whom, in the former session, they expelled. That expulsion inferred exclusion, in the present case, must be, I think, easily admitted. The expulsion, and the writ issued for a new election were in the same session, and, since the house is, by the rule of parliament, bound for the session by a vote once passed, the expelled member cannot be admitted. He that cannot be admitted, cannot be elected; and the votes given to a man ineligible being given in vain, the highest number for an eligible candidate becomes a majority. To these conclusions, as to most moral, and to all political positions, many objections may be made. The perpetual subject of political disquisition is not absolute, but comparative good. Of two systems of government, or two laws relating to the same subject, neither will ever be such as theoretical nicety would desire, and, therefore, neither can easily force its way against prejudice and obstinacy; each will have its excellencies and defects; and every man, with a little help from pride, may think his own the best. It seems to be the opinion of many, that expulsion is only a dismission of the representative to his constituents, with such a testimony against him, as his sentence may comprise; and that, if his constituents, notwithstanding the censure of the house, thinking his case hard, his fault trifling, or his excellencies such as overbalance it, should again choose him, as still worthy of their trust, the house cannot refuse him, for his punishment has purged his fault, and the right of electors must not be violated. This is plausible, but not cogent. It is a scheme of representation, which would make a specious appearance in a political romance, but cannot be brought into practice among us, who see every day the towering head of speculation bow down unwillingly to groveling experience. Governments formed by chance, and gradually improved by such expedients, as the successive discovery of their defects happened to suggest, are never to be tried by a regular theory. They are fabricks of dissimilar materials, raised by different architects, upon different plans. We must be content with them, as they are; should we attempt to mend their disproportions, we might easily demolish, and difficultly rebuild them. Laws are now made, and customs are established; these are our rules, and by them we must be guided. It is uncontrovertibly certain, that the commons never intended to leave electors the liberty of returning them an expelled member; for they always require one to be chosen in the room of him that is expelled, and I see not with what propriety a man can be rechosen in his own room. Expulsion, if this were its whole effect, might very often be desirable. Sedition, or obscenity, might be no greater crimes in the opinion of other electors, than in that of the freeholders of Middlesex; and many a wretch, whom his colleagues should expel, might come back persecuted into fame, and provoke, with harder front, a second expulsion. Many of the representatives of the people can hardly be said to have been chosen at all. Some, by inheriting a borough, inherit a seat; and some sit by the favour of others, whom, perhaps, they may gratify by the act which provoked the expulsion. Some are safe by their popularity, and some by their alliances. None would dread expulsion, if this doctrine were received, but those who bought their elections, and who would be obliged to buy them again at a higher price. But as uncertainties are to be determined by things certain, and customs to be explained, where it is possible, by written law, the patriots have triumphed with a quotation from an act of the fourth and fifth of Anne, which permits those to be rechosen, whose seats are vacated by the acceptance of a place of profit. This they wisely consider as an expulsion, and from the permission, in this case, of a reelection, infer, that every other expulsion leaves the delinquent entitled to the same indulgence. This is the paragraph: "If any person, being chosen a member of the house of commons, shall accept of any office from the crown, during such time as he shall continue a member, his election shall be, and is hereby declared to be void; and a new writ shall issue for a new election, as if such person, so accepting, was naturally dead. Nevertheless such person shall be capable of being again elected, as if his place had not become void as aforesaid." How this favours the doctrine of readmission, by a second choice, I am not able to discover. The statute of the thirtieth of Charles the second had enacted, that "he who should sit in the house of commons, without taking the oaths, and subscribing the test, should be disabled to sit in the house during that parliament, and a writ should issue for the election of a new member, in place of the member so disabled, as if such member had naturally died." This last clause is, apparently, copied in the act of Anne, but with the common fate of imitators. In the act of Charles, the political death continued during the parliament; in that of Anne it was hardly worth the while to kill the man whom the next breath was to revive. It is, however, apparent, that in the opinion of the parliament, the dead-doing lines would have kept him motionless, if he had not been recovered by a kind exception. A seat vacated could not be regained, without express permission of the same statute. The right of being chosen again to a seat thus vacated, is not enjoyed by any general right, but required a special clause and solicitous provision. But what resemblance can imagination conceive between one man vacating his seat by a mark of favour from the crown, and another driven from it for sedition and obscenity? The acceptance of a place contaminates no character; the crown that gives it, intends to give with it always dignity, sometimes authority. The commons, it is well known, think not worse of themselves, or others, for their offices of profit; yet profit implies temptation, and may expose a representative to the suspicion of his constituents; though, if they still think him worthy of their confidence, they may again elect him. Such is the consequence. When a man is dismissed by law to his constituents, with new trust and new dignity, they may, if they think him incorruptible, restore him to his seat; what can follow, therefore, but that, when the house drives out a varlet, with publick infamy, he goes away with the like permission to return? If infatuation be, as the proverb tells us, the forerunner of destruction, how near must be the ruin of a nation that can be incited against its governours by sophistry like this! I may be excused, if I catch the panick, and join my groans, at this alarming crisis, with the general lamentation of weeping patriots. Another objection is, that the commons, by pronouncing the sentence of disqualification, make a law, and take upon themselves the power of the whole legislature. Many quotations are then produced to prove, that the house of commons can make no laws. Three acts have been cited, disabling members, for different terms, on different occasions; and it is profoundly remarked, that if the commons could, by their own privilege, have made a disqualification, their jealousy of their privileges would never have admitted the concurrent sanction of the other powers. I must for ever remind these puny controvertists, that those acts are laws of permanent obligation; that two of them are now in force, and that the other expired only when it had fulfilled its end. Such laws the commons cannot make; they could, perhaps, have determined for themselves, that they would expel all who should not take the test, but they could leave no authority behind them, that should oblige the next parliament to expel them. They could refuse the South sea directors, but they could not entail the refusal. They can disqualify by vote, but not by law; they cannot know that the sentence of disqualification pronounced to-day may not become void to-morrow, by the dissolution of their own house. Yet, while the same parliament sits, the disqualification continues, unless the vote be rescinded; and, while it so continues, makes the votes, which freeholders may give to the interdicted candidate, useless and dead, since there cannot exist, with respect to the same subject, at the same time, an absolute power to choose and an absolute power to reject. In 1614, the attorney general was voted incapable of a seat in the house of commons; and the nation is triumphantly told, that, though the vote never was revoked, the attorney general is now a member. He, certainly, may now be a member, without revocation of the vote. A law is of perpetual obligation; but a vote is nothing, when the voters are gone. A law is a compact reciprocally made by the legislative powers, and, therefore, not to be abrogated but by all the parties. A vote is simply a resolution, which binds only him that is willing to be bound. I have thus punctiliously and minutely pursued this disquisition, because I suspect, that these reasoners, whose business is to deceive others, have sometimes deceived themselves, and I am willing to free them from their embarrassment, though I do not expect much gratitude for my kindness. Other objections are yet remaining, for of political objections there cannot easily be an end. It has been observed, that vice is no proper cause of expulsion; for if the worst man in the house were always to be expelled, in time none would be left; but no man is expelled for being worst, he is expelled for being enormously bad; his conduct is compared, not with that of others, but with the rule of action. The punishment of expulsion, being in its own nature uncertain, may be too great or too little for the fault. This must be the case of many punishments. Forfeiture of chattels is nothing to him that has no possessions. Exile itself may be accidentally a good; and, indeed, any punishment, less than death, is very different to different men. But, if this precedent be admitted and established, no man can, hereafter, be sure that he shall be represented by him whom he would choose. One half of the house may meet early in the morning, and snatch an opportunity to expel the other, and the greater part of the nation may, by this stratagem, be without its lawful representatives. He that sees all this, sees very far. But I can tell him of greater evils yet behind. There is one possibility of wickedness, which, at this alarming crisis, has not yet been mentioned. Every one knows the malice, the subtlety, the industry, the vigilance, and the greediness of the Scots. The Scotch members are about the number sufficient to make a house. I propose it to the consideration of the supporters of the bill of rights, whether there is not reason to suspect that these hungry intruders from the north are now contriving to expel all the English. We may then curse the hour in which it was determined, that expulsion and exclusion are the same; for who can guess what may be done, when the Scots have the whole house to themselves? Thus agreeable to custom and reason, notwithstanding all objections, real or imaginary, thus consistent with the practice of former times, and thus consequential to the original principles of government, is that decision, by which so much violence of discontent has been excited, which has been so dolorously bewailed, and so outrageously resented. Let us, however, not be seduced to put too much confidence in justice or in truth: they have often been found inactive in their own defence, and give more confidence than help to their friends and their advocates. It may, perhaps, be prudent to make one momentary concession to falsehood, by supposing the vote in Mr. Lutterel's favour to be wrong. All wrong ought to be rectified. If Mr. Wilkes is deprived of a lawful seat, both he and his electors have reason to complain; but it will not be easily found, why, among the innumerable wrongs of which a great part of mankind are hourly complaining, the whole care of the publick should be transferred to Mr. Wilkes and the freeholders of Middlesex, who might all sink into nonexistence, without any other effect, than that there would be room made for a new rabble, and a new retailer of sedition and obscenity. The cause of our country would suffer little; the rabble, whencesoever they come, will be always patriots, and always supporters of the bill of rights. The house of commons decides the disputes arising from elections. Was it ever supposed, that in all cases their decisions were right? Every man, whose lawful election is defeated, is equally wronged with Mr. Wilkes, and his constituents feel their disappointment, with no less anguish than the freeholders of Middlesex. These decisions have often been apparently partial, and, sometimes, tyrannically oppressive. A majority has been given to a favourite candidate, by expunging votes which had always been allowed, and which, therefore, had the authority by which all votes are given, that of custom uninterrupted. When the commons determine who shall be constituents, they may, with some propriety, be said to make law, because those determinations have, hitherto, for the sake of quiet, been adopted by succeeding parliaments. A vote, therefore, of the house, when it operates as a law, is to individuals a law only temporary, but to communities perpetual. Yet, though all this has been done, and though, at every new parliament, much of this is expected to be done again, it has never produced, in any former time, such an alarming crisis. We have found, by experience, that though a squire has given ale and venison in vain, and a borough has been compelled to see its dearest interest in the hands of him whom it did not trust, yet the general state of the nation has continued the same. The sun has risen, and the corn has grown, and, whatever talk has been of the danger of property, yet he that ploughed the field commonly reaped it; and he that built a house was master of the door; the vexation excited by injustice suffered, or supposed to be suffered, by any private man, or single community, was local and temporary, it neither spread far, nor lasted long. The nation looked on with little care, because there did not seem to be much danger. The consequence of small irregularities was not felt, and we had not yet learned to be terrified by very distant enemies. But quiet and security are now at an end. Our vigilance is quickened, and our comprehension is enlarged. We not only see events in their causes, but before their causes; we hear the thunder while the sky is clear, and see the mine sprung before it is dug. Political wisdom has, by the force of English genius, been improved, at last, not only to political intuition, but to political prescience. But it cannot, I am afraid, be said, that as we are grown wise, we are made happy. It is said of those who have the wonderful power called second sight, that they seldom see any thing but evil: political second sight has the same effect; we hear of nothing but of an alarming crisis, of violated rights, and expiring liberties. The morning rises upon new wrongs, and the dreamer passes the night in imaginary shackles. The sphere of anxiety is now enlarged; he that hitherto cared only for himself, now cares for the publick; for he has learned, that the happiness of individuals is comprised in the prosperity of the whole; and that his country never suffers, but he suffers with it, however it happens that he feels no pain. Fired with this fever of epidemick patriotism, the tailor slips his thimble, the draper drops his yard, and the blacksmith lays down his hammer; they meet at an honest ale-house, consider the state of the nation, read or hear the last petition, lament the miseries of the time, are alarmed at the dreadful crisis, and subscribe to the support of the bill of rights. It sometimes, indeed, happens, that an intruder, of more benevolence than prudence, attempts to disperse their cloud of dejection, and ease their hearts by seasonable consolation. He tells them, that though the government cannot be too diligently watched, it may be too hastily accused; and that, though private judgment is every man's right, yet we cannot judge of what we do not know; that we feel at present no evils which government can alleviate, and that the publick business is committed to men, who have as much right to confidence as their adversaries; that the freeholders of Middlesex, if they could not choose Mr. Wilkes, might have chosen any other man, and that "he trusts we have within the realm, five hundred as good as he;" that even if this, which has happened to Middlesex, had happened to every other county, that one man should be made incapable of being elected, it could produce no great change in the parliament, nor much contract the power of election; that, what has been done is, probably, right; and that if it be wrong, it is of little consequence, since a like case cannot easily occur; that expulsions are very rare, and if they should, by unbounded insolence of faction, become more frequent, the electors may easily provide a second choice. All this he may say, but not half of this will be heard; his opponents will stun him and themselves with a confused sound of pensions and places, venality and corruption, oppression and invasion, slavery and ruin. Outcries, like these, uttered by malignity, and echoed by folly; general accusations of indeterminate wickedness; and obscure hints of impossible designs, dispersed among those that do not know their meaning, by those that know them to be false, have disposed part of the nation, though but a small part, to pester the court with ridiculous petitions. The progress of a petition is well known. An ejected placeman goes down to his county or his borough, tells his friends of his inability to serve them, and his constituents of the corruption of the government. His friends readily understand that he who can get nothing, will have nothing to give. They agree to proclaim a meeting; meat and drink are plentifully provided; a crowd is easily brought together, and those who think that they know the reason of their meeting, undertake to tell those who know it not; ale and clamour unite their powers; the crowd, condensed and heated, begins to ferment with the leaven of sedition: all see a thousand evils, though they cannot show them; and grow impatient for a remedy, though they know not what. A speech is then made by the _Cicero_ of the day; he says much, and suppresses more; and credit is equally given to what he tells, and what he conceals. The petition is read, and universally approved. Those who are sober enough to write, add their names, and the rest would sign it, if they could. Every man goes home and tells his neighbour of the glories of the day; how he was consulted, and what he advised; how he was invited into the great room, where his lordship called him by his name; how he was caressed by sir Francis, sir Joseph, or sir George; how he eat turtle and venison, and drank unanimity to the three brothers. The poor loiterer, whose shop had confined him, or whose wife had locked him up, hears the tale of luxury with envy, and, at last, inquires what was their petition. Of the petition nothing is remembered by the narrator, but that it spoke much of fears and apprehensions, and something very alarming, and that he is sure it is against the government; the other is convinced that it must be right, and wishes he had been there, for he loves wine and venison, and is resolved, as long as he lives, to be against the government. The petition is then handed from town to town, and from house to house; and, wherever it comes, the inhabitants flock together, that they may see that which must be sent to the king. Names are easily collected. One man signs, because he hates the papists; another, because he has vowed destruction to the tumpikes; one, because it will vex the parson; another, because he owes his landlord nothing; one, because he is rich; another, because he is poor; one, to show that he is not afraid; and another, to show that he can write. The passage, however, is not always smooth. Those who collect contributions to sedition, sometimes apply to a man of higher rank and more enlightened mind, who, instead of lending them his name, calmly reproves them for being seducers of the people. You who are here, says he, complaining of venality, are yourselves the agents of those who having estimated themselves at too high a price, are only angry that they are not bought. You are appealing from the parliament to the rabble, and inviting those who, scarcely, in the most common affairs, distinguish right from wrong, to judge of a question complicated with law written and unwritten, with the general principles of government, and the particular customs of the house of commons; you are showing them a grievance, so distant that they cannot see it, and so light that they cannot feel it; for how, but by unnecessary intelligence and artificial provocation, should the farmers and shopkeepers of Yorkshire and Cumberland know or care how Middlesex is represented? Instead of wandering thus round the county to exasperate the rage of party, and darken the suspicions of ignorance, it is the duty of men like you, who have leisure for inquiry, to lead back the people to their honest labour; to tell them, that submission is the duty of the ignorant, and content the virtue of the poor; that they have no skill in the art of government, nor any interest in the dissensions of the great; and when you meet with any, as some there are, whose understandings are capable of conviction, it will become you to allay this foaming ebullition, by showing them, that they have as much happiness as the condition of life will easily receive; and that a government, of which an erroneous or unjust representation of Middlesex is the greatest crime that interest can discover, or malice can upbraid, is government approaching nearer to perfection, than any that experience has known, or history related. The drudges of sedition wish to change their ground; they hear him with sullen silence, feel conviction without repentance, and are confounded, but not abashed; they go forward to another door, and find a kinder reception from a man enraged against the government, because he has just been paying the tax upon his windows. That a petition for a dissolution of the parliament will, at all times, have its favourers, may be easily imagined. The people, indeed, do not expect that one house of commons will be much honester or much wiser than another; they do not suppose that the taxes will be lightened; or, though they have been so often taught to hope it, that soap and candles will be cheaper; they expect no redress of grievances, for of no grievances, but taxes, do they complain; they wish not the extension of liberty, for they do not feel any restraint; about the security of privilege or property they are totally careless, for they see no property invaded, nor know, till they are told, that any privilege has suffered violation. Least of all do they expect, that any future parliament will lessen its own powers, or communicate to the people that authority which it has once obtained. Yet a new parliament is sufficiently desirable. The year of election is a year of jollity; and, what is still more delightful, a year of equality: the glutton now eats the delicacies for which he longed when he could not purchase them, and the drunkard has the pleasure of wine, without the cost: the drone lives awhile without work, and the shopkeeper, in the flow of money, raises his price: the mechanick, that trembled at the presence of sir Joseph, now bids him come again for an answer: and the poacher, whose gun has been seized, now finds an opportunity to reclaim it. Even the honest man is not displeased to see himself important, and willingly resumes, in two years, that power which he had resigned for seven. Few love their friends so well as not to desire superiority by unexpensive benefaction. Yet, notwithstanding all these motives to compliance, the promoters of petitions have not been successful. Few could be persuaded to lament evils which they did not suffer, or to solicit for redress which they do not want. The petition has been, in some places, rejected; and, perhaps, in all but one, signed only by the meanest and grossest of the people. Since this expedient, now invented or revived, to distress the government, and equally practicable, at all times, by all who shall be excluded from power and from profit, has produced so little effect, let us consider the opposition as no longer formidable. The great engine has recoiled upon them. They thought, that _the terms_, they _sent, were terms of weight_, which would have _amazed all, and stumbled many_; but the consternation is now over, and their foes _stand upright_, as before. With great propriety and dignity the king has, in his speech, neglected or forgotten them. He might easily know, that what was presented, as the sense of the people, is the sense only of the profligate and dissolute; and, that whatever parliament should be convened, the same petitioners would be ready, for the same reason, to request its dissolution. As we once had a rebellion of the clowns, we have now an opposition of the pedlers. The quiet of the nation has been, for years, disturbed by a faction, against which all factions ought to conspire; for its original principle is the desire of leveling; it is only animated, under the name of zeal, by the natural malignity of the mean against the great. When, in the confusion which the English invasions produced in France, the villains, imagining that they had found the golden hour of emancipation, took arms in their hands, the knights of both nations considered the cause as common, and suspending the general hostility, united to chastise them. The whole conduct of this despicable faction is distinguished by plebeian grossness, and savage indecency. To misrepresent the actions and the principles of their enemies is common to all parties; but the insolence of invective, and brutality of reproach, which have lately prevailed, are peculiar to this. An infallible characteristick of meanness is cruelty. This is the only faction, that has shouted at the condemnation of a criminal, and that, when his innocence procured his pardon, has clamoured for his blood. All other parties, however enraged at each other, have agreed to treat the throne with decency; but these low-born railers have attacked not only the authority, but the character of their sovereign, and have endeavoured, surely without effect, to alienate the affections of the people from the only king, who, for almost a century, has much appeared to desire, or much endeavoured to deserve them. They have insulted him with rudeness, and with menaces, which were never excited by the gloomy sullenness of William, even when half the nation denied him their allegiance; nor by the dangerous bigotry of James, unless, when he was finally driven from his palace; and with which scarcely the open hostilities of rebellion ventured to vilify the unhappy Charles, even in the remarks on the cabinet of Naseby. It is surely not unreasonable to hope, that the nation will consult its dignity, if not its safety, and disdain to be protected or enslaved by the declaimers, or the plotters of a city tavern. Had Rome fallen by the Catilinarian conspiracy, she might have consoled her fate by the greatness of her destroyers; but what would have alleviated the disgrace of England, had her government been changed by Tiler or by Ket? One part of the nation has never before contended with the other, but for some weighty and apparent interest. If the means were violent, the end was great. The civil war was fought for what each army called, and believed, the best religion and the best government. The struggle in the reign of Anne, was to exclude or restore an exile king. We are now disputing, with almost equal animosity, whether Middlesex shall be represented, or not, by a criminal from a gaol. The only comfort left, in such degeneracy, is, that a lower state can be no longer possible. In this contemptuous censure, I mean not to include every single man. In all lead, says the chymist, there is silver; and in all copper there is gold. But mingled masses are justly denominated by the greater quantity, and when the precious particles are not worth extraction, a faction and a pig must be melted down together to the forms and offices that chance allots them: "Fiunt urceoli, pelves, sartago, patellæ." A few weeks will now show, whether the government can be shaken by empty noise, and whether the faction, which depends upon its influence, has not deceived, alike, the publick and itself. That it should have continued till now, is sufficiently shameful. None can, indeed, wonder that it has been supported by the sectaries, the natural fomenters of sedition, and confederates of the rabble, of whose religion little now remains but hatred of establishments, and who are angry to find separation now only tolerated, which was once rewarded; but every honest man must lament, that it has been regarded with frigid neutrality by the tories, who, being long accustomed to signalize their principles by opposition to the court, do not yet consider, that they have, at last, a king, who knows not the name of party, and who wishes to be the common father of all his people. As a man inebriated only by vapours soon recovers in the open air; a nation discontented to madness, without any adequate cause, will return to its wits and its allegiance, when a little pause has cooled it to reflection. Nothing, therefore, is necessary, at this alarming crisis, but to consider the alarm as false. To make concessions is to encourage encroachment. Let the court despise the faction, and the disappointed people will soon deride it. PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS ON FALKLAND'S ISLANDS. The following thoughts were published in 1771; from materials furnished to the author by the ministry. His description of the miseries of war is most eloquently persuasive, and his invectives against the opposition, and their mysterious champion, abound with the most forcible and poignant satire. In a letter to Mr. Langton, from Johnson, we find that lord North stopped the sale, before many copies had been dispersed. Johnson avowed to his friend, that he did not distinctly know the reason of the minister's conduct; but, in all probability, it was dictated by a dread of the effects of unqualified asperity, and, accordingly, in the second edition, many of the more violent expressions were softened down or expunged. It has been thought, by some, that Dr. Johnson rated the value of the Falkland islands to England too low.--ED. THOUGHTS ON THE LATE TRANSACTIONS RESPECTING FALKLAND'S ISLANDS. 1771. To proportion the eagerness of contest to its importance seems too hard a task for human wisdom. The pride of wit has kept ages busy in the discussion of useless questions, and the pride of power has destroyed armies, to gain or to keep unprofitable possessions. Not, many years have passed, since the cruelties of war were filling the world with terrour and with sorrow; rage was at last appeased, or strength exhausted, and, to the harassed nations peace was restored with its pleasures and its benefits. Of this state all felt the happiness, and all implored the continuance; but what continuance of happiness can be expected, when the whole system of European empire can be in danger of a new concussion, by a contention for a few spots of earth, which, in the deserts of the ocean, had almost escaped human notice, and which, if they had not happened to make a seamark, had, perhaps, never had a name! Fortune often delights to dignify what nature has neglected; and that renown which cannot be claimed by intrinsick excellence or greatness, is, sometimes, derived from unexpected accidents. The Rubicon was ennobled by the passage of Caesar, and the time is now come, when Falkland's islands demand their historian. But the writer, to whom this employment shall be assigned, will have few opportunities of descriptive splendour, or narrative elegance. Of other countries it is told, how often they have changed their government; these islands have, hitherto, changed only their name. Of heroes to conquer, or legislators to civilize, here has been no appearance; nothing has happened to them, but that they have been, sometimes, seen by wandering navigators, who passed by them in search of better habitations. When the Spaniards, who, under the conduct of Columbus, discovered America, had taken possession of its most wealthy regions, they surprised and terrified Europe, by a sudden and unexampled influx of riches. They were made, at once, insupportably insolent, and might, perhaps, have become irresistibly powerful, had not their mountainous treasures been scattered in the air, with the ignorant profusion of unaccustomed opulence. The greater part of the European potentates saw this stream of riches flowing into Spain, without attempting to dip their own hands in the golden fountain. France had no naval skill or power; Portugal was extending her dominions in the east, over regions formed in the gaiety of nature; the Hanseatick league, being planned only for the security of traffick, had no tendency to discovery or invasion; and the commercial states of Italy, growing rich by trading between Asia and Europe, and not lying upon the ocean, did not desire to seek, by great hazards, at a distance, what was, almost at home, to be found with safety. The English, alone, were animated by the success of the Spanish navigators, to try if any thing was left that might reward adventure, or incite appropriation. They sent Cabot into the north, but in the north there was no gold or silver to be found. The best regions were pre-occupied, yet they still continued their hopes and their labours. They were the second nation that dared the extent of the Pacifick ocean, and the second circumnavigators of the globe. By the war between Elizabeth and Philip, the wealth of America became lawful prize, and those who were less afraid of danger than of poverty, supposed that riches might easily be obtained by plundering the Spaniards. Nothing is difficult, when gain and honour unite their influence; the spirit and vigour of these expeditions enlarged our views of the new world, and made us first acquainted with its remoter coasts. In the fatal voyage of Cavendish, (1592,) captain Davis, who, being sent out as his associate, was afterwards parted from him, or deserted him, as he was driven, by violence of weather, about the straits of Magellan, is supposed to have been the first who saw the lands now called Falkland's islands, but his distress permitted him not to make any observation; and he left them, as he found them, without a name. Not long afterwards, (1594,) sir Richard Hawkins being in the same seas, with the same designs, saw these islands again, if they are, indeed, the same islands, and, in honour of his mistress, called them Hawkins's maiden land. This voyage was not of renown sufficient to procure a general reception to the new name; for when the Dutch, who had now become strong enough not only to defend themselves, but to attack their masters, sent (1598) Verhagen and Sebald de Wert into the South seas, these islands, which were not supposed to have been known before, obtained the denomination of Sebald's islands, and were, from that time, placed in the charts; though Frezier tells us, that they were yet considered as of doubtful existence. Their present English name was, probably, given them (1689) by Strong, whose journal, yet unprinted, may be found in the Museum. This name was adopted by Halley, and has, from that time, I believe, been received into our maps. The privateers, which were put into motion by the wars of William and Anne, saw those islands, and mention them; but they were yet not considered as territories worth a contest. Strong affirmed that there was no wood; and Dampier suspected that they had no water. Frezier describes their appearance with more distinctness, and mentions some ships of St. Malo's, by which they had been visited, and to which he seems willing enough to ascribe the honour of discovering islands, which yet he admits to have been seen by Hawkins, and named by Sebald de Wert. He, I suppose, in honour of his countrymen, called them the Malouines, the denomination now used by the Spaniards, who seem not, till very lately, to have thought them important enough to deserve a name. Since the publication of Anson's voyage, they have very much changed their opinion, finding a settlement in Pepys's, or Falkland's island, recommended by the author as necessary to the success of our future expeditions against the coast of Chili, and as of such use and importance, that it would produce many advantages in peace, and, in war, would make us masters of the South sea. Scarcely any degree of judgment is sufficient to restrain the imagination from magnifying that on which it is long detained. The relater of Anson's voyage had heated his mind with its various events; had partaken the hope with which it was begun, and the vexation suffered by its various miscarriages, and then thought nothing could be of greater benefit to the nation, than that which might promote the success of such another enterprise. Had the heroes of that history even performed and attained all that, when they first spread their sails, they ventured to hope, the consequence would yet have produced very little hurt to the Spaniards, and very little benefit to the English. They would have taken a few towns; Anson and his companions would have shared the plunder or the ransome; and the Spaniards, finding their southern territories accessible, would, for the future, have guarded them better. That such a settlement may be of use in war, no man, that considers its situation, will deny. But war is not the whole business of life; it happens but seldom, and every man, either good or wise, wishes that its frequency were still less. That conduct which betrays designs of future hostility, if it does not excite violence, will always generate malignity; it must for ever exclude confidence and friendship, and continue a cold and sluggish rivalry, by a sly reciprocation of indirect injuries, without the bravery of war or the security of peace. The advantage of such a settlement, in time of peace, is, I think, not easily to be proved. For what use can it have, but of a station for contraband traders, a nursery of fraud, and a receptacle of theft! Narborough, about a century ago, was of opinion, that no advantage could be obtained in voyages to the South sea, except by such an armament as, with a sailor's morality, _might trade by force_. It is well known, that the prohibitions of foreign commerce, are, in these countries, to the last degree, rigorous, and that no man, not authorized by the king of Spain, can trade there but by force or stealth. Whatever profit is obtained must be gained by the violence of rapine, or dexterity of fraud. Government will not, perhaps, soon arrive at such purity and excellence, but that some connivance, at least, will be indulged to the triumphant robber and successful cheat. He that brings wealth home is seldom interrogated by what means it was obtained. This, however, is one of those modes of corruption with which mankind ought always to struggle, and which they may, in time, hope to overcome. There is reason to expect, that, as the world is more enlightened, policy and morality will, at last, be reconciled, and that nations will learn not to do what they would not suffer. But the silent toleration of suspected guilt is a degree of depravity far below that which openly incites, and manifestly protects it. To pardon a pirate may be injurious to mankind; but how much greater is the crime of opening a port, in which all pirates shall be safe! The contraband trader is not more worthy of protections; if, with Narborough, he trades by force, he is a pirate; if he trade secretly, he is only a thief. Those who honestly refuse his traffick, he hates, as obstructers of his profit; and those, with whom he deals, he cheats, because he knows that they dare not complain. He lives with a heart full of that malignity, which fear of detection always generates in those, who are to defend unjust acquisitions against lawful authority; and when he comes home, with riches thus acquired, he brings a mind hardened in evil, too proud for reproof, and too stupid for reflection; he offends the high by his insolence, and corrupts the low by his example. Whether these truths were forgotten, or despised; or, whether some better purpose was then in agitation, the representation made in Anson's voyage had such effect upon the statesmen of that time, that, in 1748, some sloops were fitted out for the fuller knowledge of Pepys's and Falkland's islands, and for further discoveries in the South sea. This expedition, though, perhaps, designed to be secret, was not long concealed from Wall, the Spanish ambassadour, who so vehemently opposed it, and so strongly maintained the right of the Spaniards to the exclusive dominion of the South sea, that the English ministry relinquished part of their original design, and declared, that the examination of those two islands was the utmost that their orders should comprise. This concession was sufficiently liberal or sufficiently submissive; yet the Spanish court was neither gratified by our kindness, nor softened by our humility. Sir Benjamin Keene, who then resided at Madrid, was interrogated by Carvajal, concerning the visit intended to Pepys's and Falkland's islands, in terms of great jealousy and discontent; and the intended expedition was represented, if not as a direct violation of the late peace, yet as an act inconsistent with amicable intentions, and contrary to the professions of mutual kindness, which then passed between Spain and England. Keene was directed to protest, that nothing more than mere discovery was intended, and that no settlement was to be established. The Spaniard readily replied, that, if this was a voyage of wanton curiosity, it might be gratified with less trouble, for he was willing to communicate whatever was known; that to go so far only to come back was no reasonable act; and it would be a slender sacrifice to peace and friendship to omit a voyage, in which nothing was to be gained; that if we left the, places as we found them, the voyage was useless; and if we took possession, it was a hostile armament; nor could we expect that the Spaniards would suppose us to visit the southern parts of America only from curiosity, after the scheme proposed by the author of Anson's voyage. When once we had disowned all purpose of settling, it is apparent, that we could not defend the propriety of our expedition by arguments equivalent to Carvajal's objections. The ministry, therefore, dismissed the whole design, but no declaration was required, by which our right to pursue it, hereafter, might be annulled. From this time Falkland's island was forgotten or neglected, till the conduct of naval affairs was intrusted to the earl of Egmont, a man whose mind was vigorous and ardent, whose knowledge was extensive, and whose designs were magnificent; but who had somewhat vitiated his judgment by too much indulgence of romantick projects and airy speculations. Lord Egmont's eagerness after something new determined him to make inquiry after Falkland's island, and he sent out captain Byron, who, in the beginning of the year 1765, took, he says, a formal possession, in the name of his Britannick majesty. The possession of this place is, according to Mr. Byron's representation, no despicable acquisition. He conceived the island to be six or seven hundred miles round, and represented it, as a region naked indeed of wood, but which, if that defect were supplied, would have all that nature, almost all that luxury could want. The harbour he found capacious and secure, and, therefore, thought it worthy of the name of Egmont. Of water there was no want, and the ground he described, as having all the excellencies of soil, and as covered with antiscorbutick herbs, the restoratives of the sailor. Provision was easily to be had, for they killed, almost every day, a hundred geese to each ship, by pelting them with stones. Not content with physick and with food, he searched yet deeper for the value of the new dominion. He dug in quest of ore; found iron in abundance, and did not despair of nobler metals. A country thus fertile and delightful, fortunately found where none would have expected it, about the fiftieth degree of southern latitude, could not, without great supineness, be neglected. Early in the next year, (January 8, 1766,) captain Macbride arrived at port Egmont, where he erected a small block-house, and stationed a garrison; His description was less flattering. He found what he calls a mass of islands and broken lands, of which the soil was nothing but a bog, with no better prospect than that of barren mountains, beaten by storms almost perpetual. Yet this, says he, is summer, and if the winds of winter hold their natural proportion, those who lie but two cables' length from the shore, must pass weeks without any communication with it. The plenty which regaled Mr. Byron, and which might have supported not only armies, but armies of Patagons, was no longer to be found. The geese were too wise to stay, when men violated their haunts, and Mr. Macbride's crew could only now and then kill a goose, when the weather would permit. All the quadrupeds which he met there were foxes, supposed by him to have been brought upon the ice; but of useless animals, such as sea lions and penguins, which he calls vermin, the number was incredible. He allows, however, that those who touch at these islands may find geese and snipes, and, in the summer months, wild celery and sorrel. No token was seen, by either, of any settlement ever made upon this island; and Mr. Macbride thought himself so secure from hostile disturbance, that, when he erected his wooden block-house, he omitted to open the ports and loopholes. When a garrison was stationed at port Egmont, it was necessary to try what sustenance the ground could be, by culture, excited to produce. A garden was prepared; but the plants that sprung up withered away in immaturity: some fir seeds were sown; but, though this be the native tree of rugged climates, the young firs, that rose above the ground, died like weaker herbage: the cold continued long, and the ocean seldom was at rest. Cattle succeeded better than vegetables. Goats, sheep, and hogs, that were carried thither, were found to thrive and increase, as in other places. "Nil mortalibus arduum est:" there is nothing which human courage will not undertake, and little that human, patience will not endure. The garrison lived upon Falkland's island, shrinking from the blast, and shuddering at the billows. This was a colony which could never become independent, for it never could be able to maintain itself. The necessary supplies were annually sent from England, at an expense which the admiralty began to think would not quickly be repaid. But shame of deserting a project, and unwillingness to contend with a projector that meant well, continued the garrison, and supplied it with regular remittances of stores and provision. That of which we were almost weary ourselves, we did not expect any one to envy; and, therefore, supposed that we should be permitted to reside in Falkland's island, the undisputed lords of tempest-beaten barrenness. But, on the 28th of November, 1769, captain Hunt, observing a Spanish schooner hovering about the island, and surveying it, sent the commander a message, by which he required him to depart. The Spaniard made an appearance of obeying, but, in two days, came back with letters, written by the governour of port Solidad, and brought by the chief officer of a settlement, on the east part of Falkland's island. In this letter, dated Malouina, November 30, the governour complains, that captain Hunt, when he ordered the schooner to depart, assumed a power to which he could have no pretensions, by sending an imperious message to the Spaniards, in the king of Spain's own dominions. In another letter, sent at the same time, he supposes the English to be in that part only by accident, and to be ready to depart, at the first warning. This letter was accompanied by a present, of which, says he, "If it be neither equal to my desire nor to your merit, you must impute the deficiency to the situation of us both." In return to this hostile civility, captain Hunt warned them from the island, which he claimed in the name of the king, as belonging to the English, by right of the first discovery and the first settlement. This was an assertion of more confidence than certainty. The right of discovery, indeed, has already appeared to be probable, but the right which priority of settlement confers, I know not whether we yet can establish. On December 10, the officer, sent by the governour of port Solidad, made three protests against captain Hunt, for threatening to fire upon him; for opposing his entrance into port Egmont; and for entering himself into port Solidad. On the 12th, the governour of port Solidad formally warned captain Hunt to leave port Egmont, and to forbear the navigation of these seas, without permission from the king of Spain. To this captain Hunt replied, by repeating his former claim; by declaring that his orders were to keep possession; and by once more warning the Spaniards to depart. The next month produced more protests and more replies, of which the tenour was nearly the same. The operations of such harmless enmity having produced no effect, were then reciprocally discontinued, and the English were left, for a time, to enjoy the pleasures of Falkland's island, without molestation. This tranquillity, however, did not last long. A few months afterwards, (June 4, 1770,) the Industry, a Spanish frigate, commanded by an officer, whose name was Madariaga, anchored in port Egmont, bound, as was said, for port Solidad, and reduced, by a passage from Buenos Ayres of fifty-three days, to want of water. Three days afterwards, four other frigates entered the port, and a broad pendant, such as is borne by the commander of a naval armament, was displayed from the Industry. Captain Farmer, of the Swift frigate, who commanded the garrison, ordered the crew of the Swift to come on shore, and assist in its defence; and directed captain Maltby to bring the Favourite frigate, which he commanded, nearer to the land. The Spaniards easily discovering the purpose of his motion, let him know, that if he weighed his anchor, they would fire upon his ship; but, paying no regard to these menaces, he advanced toward the shore. The Spanish fleet followed, and two shots were fired, which fell at a distance from him. He then sent to inquire the reason of such hostility, and was told, that the shots were intended only as signals. Both the English captains wrote, the next day, to Madariaga, the Spanish commodore, warning him from the island, as from a place which the English held by right of discovery. Madariaga, who seems to have had no desire of unnecessary mischief, invited them (June 9) to send an officer, who should take a view of his forces, that they might be convinced of the vanity of resistance, and do that, without compulsion, which he was, upon refusal, prepared to enfcrce. An officer was sent, who found sixteen hundred men, with a train of twenty-seven cannon, four mortars, and two hundred bombs. The fleet consisted of five frigates, from twenty to thirty guns, which were now stationed opposite to the block-house. He then sent them a formal memorial, in which he maintained his master's right to the whole Magellanick region, and exhorted the English to retire quietly from the settlement, which they could neither justify by right, nor maintain by power. He offered them the liberty of carrying away whatever they were desirous to remove, and promised his receipt for what should be left, that no loss might be suffered by them. His propositions were expressed in terms of great civility; but he concludes with demanding an answer in fifteen minutes. Having, while he was writing, received the letters of warning, written the day before by the English captains, he told them, that he thought himself able to prove the king of Spain's title to all those countries, but that this was no time for verbal altercations. He persisted in his determination, and allowed only fifteen minutes for an answer. To this it was replied, by captain Farmer, that though there had been prescribed yet a shorter time, he should still resolutely defend his charge; that this, whether menace or force, would be considered as an insult on the British flag, and that satisfaction would certainly be required. On the next day, June 10, Madariaga landed his forces, and it may be easily imagined, that he had no bloody conquest. The English had only a wooden block-house, built at Woolwich, and carried in pieces to the island, with a small battery of cannon. To contend with obstinacy had been only to lavish life without use or hope, After the exchange of a very few shots, a capitulation was proposed. The Spanish commander acted with moderation; he exerted little of the conqueror; what he had offered before the attack, he granted after the victory; the English were allowed to leave the place with every honour, only their departure was delayed, by the terms of the capitulation, twenty days; and, to secure their stay, the rudder of the Favourite was taken off. What they desired to carry away they removed without molestation; and of what they left, an inventory was drawn, for which the Spanish officer, by his receipt, promised to be accountable. Of this petty revolution, so sudden and so distant, the English ministry could not possibly have such notice, as might enable them to prevent it. The conquest, if such it may be called, cost but three days; for the Spaniards, either supposing the garrison stronger than it was, or resolving to trust nothing to chance, or considering that, as their force was greater, there was less dariger of bloodshed, came with a power that made resistance ridiculous, and, at once, demanded and obtained possession. The first account of any discontent expressed by the Spaniards, was brought by captain Hunt, who arriving at Plymouth, June 3, 1770, informed the admiralty, that the island had been claimed in December, by the governour of port Solidad. This claim, made by an officer of so little dignity, without any known direction from his superiours, could be considered only as the zeal or officiousness of an individual, unworthy of publick notice, or the formality of remonstrance. In August, Mr. Harris, the resident at Madrid, gave notice to lord Weymouth, of an account newly brought to Cadiz, that the English were in possession of port Cuizada, the same which we call port Egmont, in the Magellanick sea; that in January, they had warned away two Spanish ships; and that an armament was sent out in May, from Buenos Ayres, to dislodge them. It was, perhaps, not yet certain, that this account was true; but the information, however faithful, was too late for prevention. It was easily known, that a fleet despatched in May, had, before August, succeeded or miscarried. In October, captain Maltby came to England, and gave the account which I have now epitomised, of his expulsion from Falkland's islands. From this moment, the whole nation can witness, that no time was lost. The navy was surveyed, the ships refitted, and commanders appointed; and a powerful fleet was assembled, well manned and well stored, with expedition, after so long a peace, perhaps, never known before, and with vigour, which, after the waste of so long a war, scarcely any other nation had been capable of exerting. This preparation, so illustrious in the eyes of Europe, and so efficacious in its event, was obstructed by the utmost power of that noisy faction, which has too long filled the kingdom, sometimes with the roar of empty menace, and sometimes with the yell of hypocritical lamentation. Every man saw, and every honest man saw with detestation, that they who desired to force their sovereign into war, endeavoured, at the same time, to disable him from action. The vigour and spirit of the ministry easily broke through all the machinations of these pygmy rebels, and our armament was quickly such as was likely to make our negotiations effectual. The prince of Masseran, in his first conference with the English ministers on this occasion, owned that he had from Madrid received intelligence, that the English had been forcibly expelled from Falkland's island, by Buccarelli, the governour of Buenos Ayres, without any particular orders from the king of Spain. But being asked, whether, in his master's name, he disavowed Buccarelli's violence, he refused to answer, without direction. The scene of negotiation was now removed to Madrid, and, in September, Mr. Harris was directed to demand, from Grimaldi, the Spanish minister, the restitution of Falkland's island, and a disavowal of Buccarelli's hostilities. It was to be expected that Grimaldi would object to us our own behaviour, who had ordered the Spaniards to depart from the same island. To this it was replied, that the English forces were, indeed, directed to warn other nations away; but, if compliance were refused, to proceed quietly in making their settlement, and suffer the subjects, of whatever power, to remain there without molestation. By possession thus taken, there was only a disputable claim advanced, which might be peaceably and regularly decided, without insult and without force; and, if the Spaniards had complained at the British court, their reasons would have been heard, and all injuries redressed; but that, by presupposing the justice of their own title, and having recourse to arms, without any previous notice or remonstrance, they had violated the peace, and insulted the British government; and, therefore, it was expected, that satisfaction should be made by publick disavowal, and immediate restitution. The answer of Grimaldi was ambiguous and cold. He did not allow that any particular orders had been given for driving the English from their settlement; but made no scruple of declaring, that such an ejection was nothing more than the settlers might have expected; and that Buccarelli had not, in his opinion, incurred any blame, as the general injunctions to the American governours were to suffer no encroachments on the Spanish dominions. In October, the prince of Masseran proposed a convention, for the accommodation of differences by mutual concessions, in which the warning given to the Spaniards, by Hunt, should be disavowed on one side, and the violence used by Buccarelli, on the other. This offer was considered, as little less than a new insult, and Grimaldi was told, that injury required reparation; that when either party had suffered evident wrong, there was not the parity subsisting, which is implied in conventions and contracts; that we considered ourselves as openly insulted, and demanded satisfaction, plenary and unconditional. Grimaldi affected to wonder, that we were not yet appeased by their concessions. They had, he said, granted all that was required; they had offered to restore the island in the state in which they found it; but he thought that they, likewise, might hope for some regard, and that the warning, sent by Hunt, would be disavowed. Mr. Harris, our minister at Madrid, insisted, that the injured party had a right to unconditional reparation, and Grimaldi delayed his answer, that a council might be called. In a few days, orders were despatched to prince Masseran, by which he was commissioned to declare the king of Spain's readiness to satisfy the demands of the king of England, in expectation of receiving from him reciprocal satisfaction, by the disavowal, so often required, of Hunt's warning. Finding the Spaniards disposed to make no other acknowledgments, the English ministry considered a war as not likely to be long avoided. In the latter end of November, private notice was given of their danger to the merchants at Cadiz, and the officers, absent from Gibraltar, were remanded to their posts. Our naval force was every day increased, and we made no abatement of our original demand. The obstinacy of the Spanish court still continued, and, about the end of the year, all hope of reconciliation was so nearly extinguished, that Mr. Harris was directed to withdraw, with the usual forms, from his residence at Madrid. Moderation is commonly firm, and firmness is commonly successful; having not swelled our first requisition with any superfluous appendages, we had nothing to yield, we, therefore, only repeated our first proposition, prepared for war, though desirous of peace. About this time, as is well known, the king of France dismissed Choiseul from his employments. What effect this revolution of the French court had upon the Spanish counsels, I pretend not to be informed. Choiseul had always professed pacifick dispositions; nor is it certain, however it may be suspected, that he talked in different strains to different parties. It seems to be almost the universal errour of historians to suppose it politically, as it is physically true, that every effect has a proportionate cause. In the inanimate action of matter upon matter, the motion produced can be but equal to the force of the moving power; but the operations of life, whether private or publick, admit no such laws. The caprices of voluntary agents laugh at calculation. It is not always that there is a strong reason for a great event. Obstinacy and flexibility, malignity and kindness, give place, alternately, to each other; and the reason of these vicissitudes, however important may be the consequences, often escapes the mind in which the change is made. Whether the alteration, which began in January to appear in the Spanish counsels, had any other cause than conviction of the impropriety of their past conduct, and of the danger of a new war, it is not easy to decide; but they began, whatever was the reason, to relax their haughtiness, and Mr. Harris's departure was countermanded. The demands first made by England were still continued, and on January 22d, the prince of Masseran delivered a declaration, in which the king of Spain "disavows the violent enterprise of Buccarelli," and promises "to restore the port and fort called Egmont, with all the artillery and stores, according to the inventory." To this promise of restitution is subjoined, that "this engagement to restore port Egmont cannot, nor ought, in any wise, to affect the question of the prior right of sovereignty of the _Malouine_, otherwise called Falkland's islands." This concession was accepted by the earl of Rochford, who declared, on the part of his master, that the prince of Masseran, being authorized by his catholick majesty, "to offer, in his majesty's name, to the king of Great Britain, a satisfaction for the injury done him, by dispossessing him of port Egmont;" and, having signed a declaration, expressing that his catholick majesty "disavows the expedition against port Egmont, and engages to restore it, in the state in which it stood before the 10th of June, 1770, his Britannick majesty will look upon the said declaration, together with the full performance of the engagement on the part of his catholick majesty, as a satisfaction for the injury done to the crown of Great Britain." This is all that was originally demanded. The expedition is disavowed, and the island is restored. An injury is acknowledged by the reception of lord Rochford's paper, who twice mentions the word _injury_, and twice the word _satisfaction_. The Spaniards have stipulated, that the grant of possession shall not preclude the question of prior right, a question which we shall probably make no haste to discuss, and a right, of which no formal resignation was ever required. This reserve has supplied matter for much clamour, and, perhaps the English ministry would have been better pleased had the declaration been without it. But when we have obtained all that was asked, why should we complain that we have not more? When the possession is conceded, where is the evil that the right, which that concession supposes to be merely hypothetical, is referred to the Greek calends for a future disquisition? Were the Switzers less free, or less secure, because, after their defection from the house of Austria, they had never been declared independent before the treaty of Westphalia? Is the king of France less a sovereign, because the king of England partakes his title? If sovereignty implies undisputed right, scarce any prince is a sovereign through his whole dominions; if sovereignty consists in this, that no superiour is acknowledged, our king reigns at port Egmont with sovereign authority. Almost every new-acquired territory is, in some degree, controvertible, and till the controversy is decided, a term very difficult to be fixed, all that can be had is real possession and actual dominion. This, surely, is a sufficient answer to the feudal gabble of a man, who is every day lessening that splendour of character which once illuminated the kingdom, then dazzled, and afterwards inflamed it; and for whom it will be happy if the nation shall, at last, dismiss him to nameless obscurity, with that equipoise of blame and praise which Corneille allows to Richelieu, a man who, I think, had much of his merit, and many of his faults: "Chacun parle à son gré de ce grand cardinal; Mais, pour moi, je n'en dirai rien: Il m'a fait trop de bien pour en dire du mal; Il m'a fait trop de mal pour en dire du bien." To push advantages too far is neither generous nor just. Had we insisted on a concession of antecedent right, it may not misbecome us, either as moralists or politicians, to consider what Grimaldi could have answered. We have already, he might say, granted you the whole effect of right, and have not denied you the name. We have not said, that the right was ours before this concession, but only that what right we had, is not, by this concession, vacated. We have now, for more than two centuries, ruled large tracts of the American continent, by a claim which, perhaps, is valid only upon this consideration, that no power can produce a better; by the right of discovery, and prior settlement. And by such titles almost all the dominions of the earth are holden, except that their original is beyond memory, and greater obscurity gives them greater veneration. Should we allow this plea to be annulled, the whole fabrick of our empire shakes at the foundation. When you suppose yourselves to have first descried the disputed island, you suppose what you can hardly prove. We were, at least, the general discoverers of the Magellanick region, and have hitherto held it with all its adjacencies. The justice of this tenure the world has, hitherto, admitted, and yourselves, at least, tacitly allowed it, when, about twenty years ago, you desisted from your purposed expedition, and expressly disowned any design of settling, where you are now not content to settle and to reign, without extorting such a confession of original right, as may invite every other nation to follow you. To considerations such as these, it is reasonable to impute that anxiety of the Spaniards, from which the importance of this island is inferred by Junius, one of the few writers of his despicable faction, whose name does not disgrace the page of an opponent. The value of the thing disputed may be very different to him that gains and him that loses it. The Spaniards, by yielding Falkland's island, have admitted a precedent of what they think encroachment; have suffered a breach to be made in the outworks of their empire; and, notwithstanding the reserve of prior right, have suffered a dangerous exception to the prescriptive tenure of their American territories. Such is the loss of Spain; let us now compute the profit of Britain. We have, by obtaining a disavowal of Buccarelli's expedition, and a restitution of our settlement, maintained the honour of the crown, and the superiority of our influence. Beyond this what have we acquired? What, but a bleak and gloomy solitude, an island, thrown aside from human use, stormy in winter, and barren in summer; an island, which not the southern savages have dignified with habitation; where a garrison must be kept in a state that contemplates with envy the exiles of Siberia; of which the expense will be perpetual, and the use only occasional; and which, if fortune smile upon our labours, may become a nest of smugglers in peace, and in war the refuge of future bucaniers. To all this the government has now given ample attestation, for the island has been since abandoned, and, perhaps, was kept only to quiet clamours, with an intention, not then wholly concealed, of quitting it in a short time. This is the country of which we have now possession, and of which a numerous party pretends to wish that we had murdered thousands for the titular sovereignty. To charge any men with such madness approaches to an accusation defeated by its own incredibility. As they have been long accumulating falsehoods, it is possible that they are now only adding another to the heap, and that they do not mean all that they profess. But of this faction what evil may not be credited? They have hitherto shown no virtue, and very little wit, beyond that mischievous cunning for which it is held, by Hale, that children may be hanged! As war is the last of remedies, "cuncta prius tentanda," all lawful expedients must be used to avoid it. As war is the extremity of evil, it is, surely, the duty of those, whose station intrusts them with the care of nations, to avert it from their charge. There are diseases of animal nature, which nothing but amputation can remove; so there may, by the depravation of human passions, be sometimes a gangrene in collective life, for which fire and the sword are the necessary remedies; but in what can skill or caution be better shown, than preventing such dreadful operations, while there is yet room for gentler methods! It is wonderful with what coolness and indifference the greater part of mankind see war commenced. Those that hear of it at a distance, or read of it in books, but have never presented its evils to their minds, consider it as little more than a splendid game, a proclamation, an army, a battle, and a triumph. Some, indeed, must perish in the most successful field, but they die upon the bed of honour, "resign their lives amidst the joys of conquest, and, filled with England's glory, smile in death." The life of a modern soldier is ill represented by heroick fiction. War has means of destruction more formidable than the cannon and the sword. Of the thousands and ten thousands, that perished in our late contests with France and Spain, a very small part ever felt the stroke of an enemy; the rest languished in tents and ships, amidst damps and putrefaction; pale, torpid, spiritless, and helpless; gasping and groaning, unpitied among men, made obdurate by long continuance of hopeless misery; and were, at last, whelmed in pits, or heaved into the ocean, without notice and without remembrance. By incommodious encampments and unwholesome stations, where courage is useless, and enterprise impracticable, fleets are silently dispeopled, and armies sluggishly melted away. Thus is a people gradually exhausted, for the most part, with little effect. The wars of civilized nations make very slow changes in the system of empire. The publick perceives scarcely any alteration, but an increase of debt; and the few individuals who are benefited are not supposed to have the clearest right to their advantages. If he that shared the danger enjoyed the profit, and, after bleeding in the battle, grew rich by the victory, he might show his gains without envy. But, at the conclusion of a ten years' war, how are we recompensed for the death of multitudes, and the expense of millions, but by contemplating the sudden glories of paymasters and agents, contractors and commissaries, whose equipages shine like meteors, and whose palaces rise like exhalations! These are the men who, without virtue, labour, or hazard, are growing rich, as their country is impoverished; they rejoice, when obstinacy or ambition adds another year to slaughter and devastation; and laugh, from their desks, at bravery and science, while they are adding figure to figure, and cipher to cipher, hoping for a new contract from a new armament, and computing the profits of a siege or tempest. Those who suffer their minds to dwell on these considerations, will think it no great crime in the ministry, that they have not snatched, with eagerness, the first opportunity of rushing into the field, when they were able to obtain, by quiet negotiation, all the real good that victory could have brought us. Of victory, indeed, every nation is confident before the sword is drawn; and this mutual confidence produces that wantonness of bloodshed, that has so often desolated the world. But it is evident, that of contradictory opinions, one must be wrong; and the history of mankind does not want examples, that may teach caution to the daring, and moderation to the proud. Let us not think our laurels blasted by condescending to inquire, whether we might not possibly grow rather less than greater by attacking Spain. Whether we should have to contend with Spain alone, whatever has been promised by our patriots, may very reasonably be doubted. A war declared for the empty sound of an ancient title to a Magellanick rock, would raise the indignation of the earth against us. These encroachers on the waste of nature, says our ally the Russian, if they succeed in their first effort of usurpation, will make war upon us for a title to Kamtschatka. These universal settlers, says our ally the Dane, will, in a short time, settle upon Greenland, and a fleet will batter Copenhagen, till we are willing to confess, that it always was their own. In a quarrel, like this, it is not possible that any power should favour us, and it is very likely that some would oppose us. The French, we are told, are otherwise employed: the contests between the king of France, and his own subjects, are sufficient to withhold him from supporting Spain. But who does not know that a foreign war has often put a stop to civil discords? It withdraws the attention of the publick from domestick grievances, and affords opportunities of dismissing the turbulent and restless to distant employments. The Spaniards have always an argument of irresistible persuasion: if France will not support them against England, they will strengthen England against France. But let us indulge a dream of idle speculation, and suppose that we are to engage with Spain, and with Spain alone; it is not even yet very certain that much advantage will be gained. Spain is not easily vulnerable; her kingdom, by the loss or cession of many fragments of dominion, is become solid and compact. The Spaniards have, indeed, no fleet able to oppose us, but they will not endeavour actual opposition: they will shut themselves up in their own territories, and let us exhaust our seamen in a hopeless siege: they will give commissions to privateers of every nation, who will prey upon our merchants without possibility of reprisal. If they think their Plata fleet in danger, they will forbid it to set sail, and live awhile upon the credit of treasure which all Europe knows to be safe; and which, if our obstinacy should continue till they can no longer be without it, will be conveyed to them with secrecy and security, by our natural enemies the French, or by the Dutch our natural allies. But the whole continent of Spanish America will lie open to invasion; we shall have nothing to do but march into these wealthy regions, and make their present masters confess, that they were always ours by ancient right. We shall throw brass and iron out of our houses, and nothing but silver will be seen among us. All this is very desirable, but it is not certain that it can be easily attained. Large tracts of America were added, by the last war, to the British dominions; but, if the faction credit their own Apollo, they were conquered in Germany. They, at best, are only the barren parts of the continent, the refuse of the earlier adventurers, which the French, who came last, had taken only as better than nothing. Against the Spanish dominions we have never, hitherto, been able to do much. A few privateers have grown rich at their expense, but no scheme of conquest has yet been successful. They are defended, not by walls mounted with cannons, which by cannons may be battered, but by the storms of the deep, and the vapours of the land, by the flames of calenture and blasts of pestilence. In the reign of Elizabeth, the favourite period of English greatness, no enterprises against America had any other consequence than that of extending English navigation. Here Cavendish perished, after all his hazards; and here Drake and Hawkins, great as they were in knowledge and in fame, having promised honour to themselves, and dominion to the country, sunk by desperation and misery in dishonourable graves. During the protectorship of Cromwell, a time of which the patriotick tribes still more ardently desire the return, the Spanish dominions were again attempted; but here, and only here, the fortune of Cromwell made a pause. His forces were driven from Hispaniola; his hopes of possessing the West Indies vanished; and Jamaica was taken, only that the whole expedition might not grow ridiculous. The attack of Carthagena is yet remembered, where the Spaniards, from the ramparts, saw their invaders destroyed by the hostility of the elements, poisoned by the air, and crippled by the dews; where every hour swept away battalions; and, in the three days that passed between the descent and reembarkation, half an army perished. In the last war the Havanna was taken; at what expense is too well remembered. May my country be never cursed with such another conquest! These instances of miscarriage, and these arguments of difficulty, may, perhaps, abate the military ardour of the publick. Upon the opponents of the government their operation will be different; they wish for war, but not for conquest; victory would defeat their purposes equally with peace, because prosperity would naturally continue the trust in those hands which had used it fortunately. The patriots gratified themselves with expectations that some sinistrous accident, or erroneous conduct, might diffuse discontent, and inflame malignity. Their hope is malevolence, and their good is evil. Of their zeal for their country we have already had a specimen. While they were terrifying the nation with doubts, whether it was any longer to exist; while they represented invasive armies as hovering in the clouds, and hostile fleets, as emerging from the deeps; they obstructed our levies of seamen, and embarrassed our endeavours of defence. Of such men he thinks with unnecessary candour who does not believe them likely to have promoted the miscarriage, which they desired, by intimidating our troops, or betraying our counsels. It is considered as an injury to the publick, by those sanguinary statesmen, that though the fleet has been refitted and manned, yet no hostilities have followed; and they, who sat wishing for misery and slaughter, are disappointed of their pleasure. But as peace is the end of war, it is the end, likewise, of preparations for war; and he may be justly hunted down, as the enemy of mankind, that can choose to snatch, by violence and bloodshed, what gentler means can equally obtain. The ministry are reproached, as not daring to provoke an enemy, lest ill success should discredit and displace them. I hope that they had better reasons; that they paid some regard to equity and humanity; and considered themselves as intrusted with the safety of their fellow-subjects, and as the destroyers of all that should be superfluously slaughtered. But let us suppose, that their own safety had some influence on their conduct, they will not, however, sink to a level with their enemies. Though the motive might be selfish, the act was innocent. They, who grow rich by administering physick, are not to be numbered with them that get money by dispensing poison. If they maintain power by harmlessness and peace, they must for ever be at a great distance from ruffians, who would gain it by mischief and confusion. The watch of a city may guard it for hire; but are well employed in protecting it from those, who lie in wait to fire the streets, and rob the houses, amidst the conflagration. An unsuccessful war would, undoubtedly, have had the effect which the enemies of the ministry so earnestly desire; for who could have sustained the disgrace of folly ending in misfortune? But had wanton invasion undeservedly prospered, had Falkland's island been yielded unconditionally, with every right, prior and posterior; though the rabble might have shouted, and the windows have blazed, yet those who know the value of life, and the uncertainty of publick credit, would have murmured, perhaps unheard, at the increase of our debt, and the loss of our people. This thirst of blood, however the visible promoters of sedition may think it convenient to shrink from the accusation, is loudly avowed by Junius, the writer to whom his party owes much of its pride, and some of its popularity. Of Junius it cannot be said, as of Ulysses, that he scatters ambiguous expressions among the vulgar; for he cries havock, without reserve, and endeavours to let slip the dogs of foreign or of civil war, ignorant whither they are going, and careless what may be their prey. Junius has sometimes made his satire felt, but let not injudicious admiration mistake the venom of the shaft for the vigour of the bow. He has sometimes sported with lucky malice; but to him that knows his company, it is not hard to be sarcastick in a mask. While he walks, like Jack the giant-killer, in a coat of darkness, he may do much mischief with little strength. Novelty captivates the superficial and thoughtless; vehemence delights the discontented and turbulent. He that contradicts acknowledged truth will always have an audience; he that vilifies established authority will always find abettors. Junius burst into notice with a blaze of impudence which has rarely glared upon the world before, and drew the rabble after him, as a monster makes a show. When he had once provided for his safety, by impenetrable secrecy, he had nothing to combat but truth and justice, enemies whom he knows to be feeble in the dark. Being then at liberty to indulge himself in all the immunities of invisibility; out of the reach of danger, he has been bold; out of the reach of shame, he has been confident. As a rhetorician, he has had the art of persuading, when he seconded desire; as a reasoner, he has convinced those who had no doubt before; as a moralist, he has taught, that virtue may disgrace; and, as a patriot, he has gratified the mean by insults on the high. Finding sedition ascendant, he has been able to advance it; finding the nation combustible, he has been able to inflame it. Let us abstract from his wit the vivacity of insolence, and withdraw from his efficacy the sympathetick favour of plebeian malignity; I do not say that we shall leave him nothing; the cause that I defend, scorns the help of falsehood; but if we leave him only his merit, what will be his praise? It is not by his liveliness of imagery, his pungency of periods, or his fertility of allusion, that he detains the cits of London, and the boors of Middlesex. Of style and sentiment they take no cognizance. They admire him, for virtues like their own, for contempt of order, and violence of outrage; for rage of defamation, and audacity of falsehood. The supporters of the bill of rights feel no niceties of composition, nor dexterities of sophistry; their faculties are better proportioned to the bawl of Bellas, or barbarity of Beckford; but they are told, that Junius is on their side, and they are, therefore, sure that Junius is infallible. Those who know not whither he would lead them, resolve to follow him; and those who cannot find his meaning, hope he means rebellion. Junius is an unusual phenomenon, on which some have gazed with wonder, and some with terrour, but wonder and terrour are transitory passions. He will soon be more closely viewed, or more attentively examined; and what folly has taken for a comet, that from its flaming hair shook pestilence and war, inquiry will find to be only a meteor, formed by the vapours of putrefying democracy, and kindled into flame by the effervescence of interest, struggling with conviction; which, after having plunged its followers in a bog, will leave us, inquiring why we regard it. Yet, though I cannot think the style of Junius secure from criticism, though his expressions are often trite, and his periods feeble, I should never have stationed him where he has placed himself, had I not rated him by his morals rather than his faculties. What, says Pope, must be the priest, where a monkey is the god? What must be the drudge of a party, of which the heads are Wilkes and Crosby, Sawbridge and Townsend? Junius knows his own meaning, and can, therefore, tell it. He is an enemy to the ministry; he sees them growing hourly stronger. He knows that a war, at once unjust and unsuccessful, would have certainly displaced them, and is, therefore, in his zeal for his country, angry that war was not unjustly made, and unsuccessfully conducted. But there are others whose thoughts are less clearly expressed, and whose schemes, perhaps, are less consequentially digested; who declare that they do not wish for a rupture, yet condemn the ministry for not doing that, by which a rupture would naturally have been made. If one party resolves to demand what the other resolves to refuse, the dispute can be determined only by arbitration; and between powers who have no common superiour, there is no other arbitrator than the sword. Whether the ministry might not equitably have demanded more is not worth a question. The utmost exertion of right is always invidious, and, where claims are not easily determinable, is always dangerous. We asked all that was necessary, and persisted in our first claim, without mean recession, or wanton aggravation. The Spaniards found us resolute, and complied, after a short struggle. The real crime of the ministry is, that they have found the means of avoiding their own ruin; but the charge against them is multifarious and confused, as will happen, when malice and discontent are ashamed of their complaint. The past and the future are complicated in the censure. We have heard a tumultuous clamour about honour and rights, injuries and insults, the British flag and the Favourite's rudder, Buccarelli's conduct and Grimaldi's declarations, the Manilla ransome, delays and reparation. Through the whole argument of the faction runs the general errour, that our settlement on Falkland's island was not only lawful, but unquestionable; that our right was not only certain, but acknowledged; and that the equity of our conduct was such, that the Spaniards could not blame or obstruct it, without combating their own conviction, and opposing the general opinion of mankind. If once it be discovered that, in the opinion of the Spaniards, our settlement was usurped, our claim arbitrary, and our conduct insolent, all that has happened will appear to follow by a natural concatenation. Doubts will produce disputes and disquisition; disquisition requires delay, and delay causes inconvenience. Had the Spanish government immediately yielded, unconditionally, all that was required, we might have been satisfied; but what would Europe have judged of their submission? that they shrunk before us, as a conquered people, who, having lately yielded to our arms, were now compelled to sacrifice to our pride. The honour of the publick is, indeed, of high importance; but we must remember, that we have had to transact with a mighty king and a powerful nation, who have unluckily been taught to think, that they have honour to keep or lose, as well as ourselves. When the admiralty were told, in June, of the warning given to Hunt, they were, I suppose, informed that Hunt had first provoked it by warning away the Spaniards, and naturally considered one act of insolence as balanced by another, without expecting that more would be done on either side. Of representations and remonstrances there would be no end, if they were to be made whenever small commanders are uncivil to each other; nor could peace ever be enjoyed, if, upon such transient provocations, it be imagined necessary to prepare for war. We might then, it is said, have increased our force with more leisure and less inconvenience; but this is to judge only by the event. We omitted to disturb the publick, because we did not suppose that an armament would be necessary. Some months afterwards, as has been told, Buccarelli, the governour of Buenos Ayres, sent against the settlement of port Egmont a force which ensured the conquest. The Spanish commander required the English captains to depart, but they, thinking that resistance necessary, which they knew to be useless, gave the Spaniards the right of prescribing terms of capitulation. The Spaniards imposed no new condition, except that the sloop should not sail under twenty days; and of this they secured the performance by taking off the rudder. To an inhabitant of the land there appears nothing in all this unreasonable or offensive. If the English intended to keep their stipulation, how were they injured by the detention of the rudder? If the rudder be to a ship, what his tail is in fables to a fox, the part in which honour is placed, and of which the violation is never to be endured, I am sorry that the Favourite suffered an indignity, but cannot yet think it a cause for which nations should slaughter one another. When Buccarelli's invasion was known, and the dignity of the crown infringed, we demanded reparation and prepared for war, and we gained equal respect by the moderation of our terms, and the spirit of our exertion. The Spanish minister immediately denied that Buccarelli had received any particular orders to seize port Egmont, nor pretended that he was justified, otherwise than by the general instructions by which the American governours are required to exclude the subjects of other powers. To have inquired whether our settlement at port Egmont was any violation of the Spanish rights, had been to enter upon a discussion, which the pertinacity of political disputants might have continued without end. We, therefore, called for restitution, not as a confession of right, but as a reparation of honour, which required that we should be restored to our former state upon the island, and that the king of Spain should disavow the action of his governour. In return to this demand, the Spaniards expected from us a disavowal of the menaces, with which they had been first insulted by Hunt; and if the claim to the island be supposed doubtful, they certainly expected it with equal reason. This, however, was refused, and our superiority of strength gave validity to our arguments. But we are told, that the disavowal of the king of Spain is temporary and fallacious; that Buccarelli's armament had all the appearance of regular forces and a concerted expedition; and that he is not treated at home as a man guilty of piracy, or as disobedient to the orders of his master. That the expedition was well planned, and the forces properly supplied, affords no proof of communication between the governour and his court. Those who are intrusted with the care of kingdoms in another hemisphere, must always be trusted with power to defend them. As little can be inferred from his reception at the Spanish court. He is not punished, indeed; for what has he done that deserves punishment? He was sent into America to govern and defend the dominions of Spain. He thought the English were encroaching, and drove them away. No Spaniard thinks that he has exceeded his duty, nor does the king of Spain charge him with excess. The boundaries of dominion, in that part of the world, have not yet been settled; and he mistook, if a mistake there was, like a zealous subject, in his master's favour. But all this inquiry is superfluous. Considered as a reparation of honour, the disavowal of the king of Spain, made in the sight of all Europe, is of equal value, whether true or false. There is, indeed, no reason to question its veracity; they, however, who do not believe it, must allow the weight of that influence, by which a great prince is reduced to disown his own commission. But the general orders, upon which the governour is acknowledged to have acted, are neither disavowed _nor_ explained. Why the Spaniards should disavow the defence of their own territories, the warmest disputant will find it difficult to tell; and, if by an explanation is meant an accurate delineation of the southern empire, and the limitation of their claims beyond the line, it cannot be imputed to any very culpable remissness, that what has been denied for two centuries to the European powers, was not obtained in a hasty wrangle about a petty settlement. The ministry were too well acquainted with negotiation to fill their heads with such idle expectations. The question of right was inexplicable and endless. They left it, as it stood. To be restored to actual possession was easily practicable. This restoration they required and obtained. But they should, say their opponents, have insisted upon more; they should have exacted not only, reparation of our honour, but repayment of our expense. Nor are they all satisfied with the recovery of the costs and damages of the present contest; they are for taking this opportunity of calling in old debts, and reviving our right to the ransome of Manilla. The Manilla ransome has, I think, been most mentioned by the inferiour bellowers of sedition. Those who lead the faction know that it cannot be remembered much to their advantage. The followers of lord Rockingham remember, that his ministry began and ended without obtaining it; the adherents to Grenville would be told, that he could never be taught to understand our claim. The law of nations made little of his knowledge. Let him not, however, be depreciated in his grave. If he was sometimes wrong, he was often right. [29] Of reimbursement the talk has been more confident, though not more reasonable. The expenses of war have been often desired, have been sometimes required, but were never paid; or never, but when resistance was hopeless, and there remained no choice between submission and destruction. Of our late equipments, I know not from whom the charge can be very properly expected. The king of Spain disavows the violence which provoked us to arm, and for the mischiefs, which he did not do, why should he pay? Buccarelli, though he had learned all the arts of an East Indian governour, could hardly have collected, at Buenos Ayres, a sum sufficient to satisfy our demands. If he be honest, he is hardly rich; and if he be disposed to rob, he has the misfortune of being placed, where robbers have been before him. The king of Spain, indeed, delayed to comply with our proposals, and our armament was made necessary by unsatisfactory answers and dilatory debates. The delay certainly increased our expenses, and, it is not unlikely, that the increase of our expenses put an end to the delay. But this is the inevitable process of human affairs. Negotiation requires time, What is not apparent to intuition must be found by inquiry. Claims that have remained doubtful for ages cannot be settled in a day. Reciprocal complaints are not easily adjusted, but by reciprocal compliance. The Spaniards, thinking themselves entitled to the island, and injured by captain Hunt, in their turn demanded satisfaction, which was refused; and where is the wonder, if their concessions were delayed! They may tell us, that an independent nation is to be influenced not by command, but by persuasion; that, if we expect our proposals to be received without deliberation, we assume that sovereignty which they do not grant us; and that if we arm, while they are deliberating, we must indulge our martial ardour at our own charge. The English ministry asked all that was reasonable, and enforced all that they asked. Our national honour is advanced, and our interest, if any interest we have, is sufficiently secured. There can be none amongst us, to whom this transaction does not seem happily concluded, but those who, having fixed their hopes on publick calamities, sat, like vultures, waiting for a day of carnage. Having worn out all the arts of domestick sedition, having wearied violence, and exhausted falsehood, they yet flattered themselves with some assistance from the pride or malice of Spain; and when they could no longer make the people complain of grievances, which they did not feel, they had the comfort yet of knowing, that real evils were possible, and their resolution is well known of charging all evil on their governours. The reconciliation was, therefore, considered as the loss of their last anchor; and received not only with the fretfulness of disappointment, but the rage of desperation. When they found that all were happy, in spite of their machinations, and the soft effulgence of peace shone out upon the nation, they felt no motion but that of sullen envy; they could not, like Milton's prince of hell, abstract themselves a moment from their evil; as they have not the wit of Satan, they have not his virtue; they tried, once again, what could be done by sophistry without art, and confidence without credit. They represented their sovereign as dishonoured, and their country as betrayed, or, in their fiercer paroxysms of fury, reviled their sovereign as betraying it. Their pretences I have here endeavoured to expose, by showing, that more than has been yielded, was not to be expected, that more, perhaps, was not to be desired, and that, if all had been refused, there had scarcely been an adequate reason for a war. There was, perhaps, never much danger of war, or of refusal, but what danger there was, proceeded from the faction. Foreign nations, unacquainted with the insolence of common councils, and unaccustomed to the howl of plebeian patriotism, when they heard of rabbles and riots, of petitions and remonstrances, of discontent in Surrey, Derbyshire, and Yorkshire; when they saw the chain of subordination broken, and the legislature threatened and defied, naturally imagined, that such a government had little leisure for Falkland's island; they supposed that the English, when they returned ejected from port Egmont, would find Wilkes invested with the protectorate, or see the mayor of London, what the French have formerly seen their mayors of the palace, the commander of the army, and tutor of the king; that they would be called to tell their tale before the common council; and that the world was to expect war or peace from a vote of the subscribers to the bill of rights. But our enemies have now lost their hopes, and our friends, I hope, are recovered from their fears. To fancy that our government can be subverted by the rabble, whom its lenity has pampered into impudence, is to fear that a city may be drowned by the overflowing of its kennels. The distemper which cowardice or malice thought either decay of the vitals, or resolution of the nerves, appears, at last, to have been nothing more than a political _phtheiriasis_, a disease too loathsome for a plainer name, but the effect of negligence rather than of weakness, and of which the shame is greater than the danger. Among the disturbers of our quiet are some animals of greater bulk, whom their power of roaring persuaded us to think formidable; but we now perceive that sound and force do not always go together. The noise of a savage proves nothing but his hunger. After all our broils, foreign and domestick, we may, at last, hope to remain awhile in quiet, amused with the view of our own success. We have gained political strength, by the increase of our reputation; we have gained real strength, by the reparation of our navy; we have shown Europe, that ten years of war have not yet exhausted us; and we have enforced our settlement on an island on which, twenty years ago, we durst not venture to look. These are the gratifications only of honest minds; but there is a time, in which hope comes to all. From the present happiness of the publick, the patriots themselves may derive advantage. To be harmless, though by impotence, obtains some degree of kindness: no man hates a worm as he hates a viper; they were once dreaded enough to be detested, as serpents that could bite; they have now shown that they can only hiss, and may, therefore, quietly slink into holes, and change their slough, unmolested and forgotten. THE PATRIOT. [30] ADDRESSED TO THE ELECTORS OF GREAT BRITAIN. 1774. They bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, Yet still revolt when truth would set them free; License they mean, when they cry liberty, For who loves that must first be wise and good. MILTON. To improve the golden moment of opportunity, and catch the good that is within our reach, is the great art of life. Many wants are suffered, which might once have been supplied; and much time is lost in regretting the time which had been lost before. At the end of every seven years comes the saturnalian season, when the freemen of great Britain may please themselves with the choice of their representatives. This happy day has now arrived, somewhat sooner than it could be claimed. To select and depute those, by whom laws are to be made, and taxes to be granted, is a high dignity, and an important trust; and it is the business of every elector to consider, how this dignity may be well sustained, and this trust faithfully discharged. It ought to be deeply impressed on the minds of all who have voices in this national deliberation, that no man can deserve a seat in parliament, who is not a patriot. No other man will protect our rights: no other man can merit our confidence. A patriot is he whose publick conduct is regulated by one single motive, the love of his country; who, as an agent in parliament, has, for himself, neither hope nor fear, neither kindness nor resentment, but refers every thing to the common interest. That of five hundred men, such as this degenerate age affords, a majority can be found thus virtuously abstracted, who will affirm? Yet there is no good in despondence: vigilance and activity often effect more than was expected. Let us take a patriot, where we can meet him; and, that we may not flatter ourselves by false appearances, distinguish those marks which are certain, from those which may deceive; for a man may have the external appearance of a patriot, without the constituent qualities; as false coins have often lustre, though they want weight. Some claim a place in the list of patriots, by an acrimonious and unremitting opposition to the court. This mark is by no means infallible. Patriotism is not necessarily included in rebellion. A man may hate his king, yet not love his country. He that has been refused a reasonable, or unreasonable request, who thinks his merit underrated, and sees his influence declining, begins soon to talk of natural equality, the absurdity of "many made for one," the original compact, the foundation of authority, and the majesty of the people. As his political melancholy increases, he tells, and, perhaps, dreams, of the advances of the prerogative, and the dangers of arbitrary power; yet his design, in all his declamation, is not to benefit his country, but to gratify his malice. These, however, are the most honest of the opponents of government; their patriotism is a species of disease; and they feel some part of what they express. But the greater, far the greater number of those who rave and rail, and inquire and accuse, neither suspect nor fear, nor care for the publick; but hope to force their way to riches, by virulence and invective, and are vehement and clamorous, only that they may be sooner hired to be silent. A man sometimes starts up a patriot, only by disseminating discontent, and propagating reports of secret influence, of dangerous counsels, of violated rights, and encroaching usurpation. This practice is no certain note of patriotism. To instigate the populace with rage beyond the provocation, is to suspend publick happiness, if not to destroy it. He is no lover of his country, that unnecessarily disturbs its peace. Few errours and few faults of government, can justify an appeal to the rabble; who ought not to judge of what they cannot understand, and whose opinions are not propagated by reason, but caught by contagion. The fallaciousness of this note of patriotism is particularly apparent, when the clamour continues after the evil is past. They who are still filling our ears with Mr. Wilkes, and the freeholders of Middlesex, lament a grievance that is now at an end. Mr. Wilkes may be chosen, if any will choose him, and the precedent of his exclusion makes not any honest, or any decent man, think himself in clanger. It may be doubted, whether the name of a patriot can be fairly given, as the reward of secret satire, or open outrage. To fill the newspapers with sly hints of corruption and intrigue, to circulate the Middlesex Journal, and London Pacquet, may, indeed, be zeal; but it may, likewise, be interest and malice. To offer a petition, not expected to be granted; to insult a king-with a rude remonstrance, only because there is no punishment for legal insolence, is not courage, for there is no danger; nor patriotism, for it tends to the subversion of order, and lets wickedness loose upon the land, by destroying the reverence due to sovereign authority. It is the quality of patriotism to be jealous and watchful, to observe all secret machinations, and to see publick dangers at a distance. The true lover of his country is ready to communicate his fears, and to sound the alarm, whenever he perceives the approach of mischief. But he sounds no alarm, when there is no enemy; he never terrifies his countrymen till he is terrified himself. The patriotism, therefore, may be justly doubted of him, who professes to be disturbed by incredibilities; who tells, that the last peace was obtained by bribing the princess of Wales; that the king is grasping at arbitrary power; and, that because the French, in the new conquests, enjoy their own laws, there is a design at court of abolishing, in England, the trial by juries. Still less does the true patriot circulate opinions which he knows to be false. No man, who loves his country, fills the nation with clamorous complaints, that the protestant religion is in danger, because "popery is established in the extensive province of Quebec," a falsehood so open and shameless, that it can need no confutation among those who know that of which it is almost impossible for the most unenlightened zealot to be ignorant: That Quebec is on the other side of the Atlantick, at too great a distance to do much good or harm to the European world: That the inhabitants, being French, were always papists, who are certainly more dangerous as enemies than as subjects: That though the province be wide, the people are few, probably not so many as may be found in one of the larger English counties: That persecution is not more virtuous in a protestant than a papist; and that, while we blame Lewis the fourteenth, for his dragoons and his galleys, we ought, when power comes into our hands, to use it with greater equity: That when Canada, with its inhabitants, was yielded, the free enjoyment of their religion was stipulated; a condition, of which king William, who was no propagator of popery, gave an example nearer home, at the surrender of Limerick: That in an age, where every mouth is open for _liberty of conscience_, it is equitable to show some regard to the conscience of a papist, who may be supposed, like other men, to think himself safest in his own religion; and that those, at least, who enjoy a toleration, ought not to deny it to our new subjects. If liberty of conscience be a natural right, we have no power to withhold it; if it be an indulgence, it may be allowed to papists, while it is not denied to other sects. A patriot is necessarily and invariably a lover of the people. But even this mark may sometimes deceive us. The people is a very heterogeneous and confused mass of the wealthy and the poor, the wise and the foolish, the good and the bad. Before we confer on a man, who caresses the people, the title of patriot, we must examine to what part of the people he directs his notice. It is proverbially said, that he who dissembles his own character, may be known by that of his companions. If the candidate of patriotism endeavours to infuse right opinions into the higher ranks, and, by their influence, to regulate the lower; if he consorts chiefly with the wise, the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, his love of the people may be rational and honest. But if his first or principal application be to the indigent, who are always inflammable; to the weak, who are naturally suspicious; to the ignorant, who are easily misled; and to the profligate, who have no hope but from mischief and confusion; let his love of the people be no longer boasted. No man can reasonably be thought a lover of his country, for roasting an ox, or burning a boot, or attending the meeting at Mile-end, or registering his name in the lumber troop. He may, among the drunkards, be a hearty fellow, and, among sober handicraftsmen, a free-spoken gentleman; but he must have some better distinction, before he is a patriot. A patriot is always ready to countenance the just claims, and animate the reasonable hopes of the people; he reminds them, frequently, of their rights, and stimulates them to resent encroachments, and to multiply securities. But all this may be done in appearance, without real patriotism. He that raises false hopes to serve a present purpose, only makes a way for disappointment and discontent. He who promises to endeavour, what he knows his endeavours unable to effect, means only to delude his followers by an empty clamour of ineffectual zeal. A true patriot is no lavish promiser: he undertakes not to shorten parliaments; to repeal laws; or to change the mode of representation, transmitted by our ancestors; he knows that futurity is not in his power, and that all times are not alike favourable to change. Much less does he make a vague and indefinite promise of obeying the mandates of his constituents. He knows the prejudices of faction, and the inconstancy of the multitude. He would first inquire, how the opinion of his constituents shall be taken. Popular instructions are, commonly, the work, not of the wise and steady, but the violent and rash; meetings held for directing representatives are seldom attended but by the idle and the dissolute; and he is not without suspicion, that of his constituents, as of other numbers of men, the smaller part may often be the wiser. He considers himself as deputed to promote the publick good, and to preserve his constituents, with the rest of his countrymen, not only from being hurt by others, but from hurting themselves. The common marks of patriotism having been examined, and shown to be such as artifice may counterfeit, or folly misapply, it cannot be improper to consider, whether there are not some characteristical modes of speaking or acting, which may prove a man to be not a patriot. In this inquiry, perhaps, clearer evidence may be discovered, and firmer persuasion attained; for it is, commonly, easier to know what is wrong than what is right; to find what we should avoid, than what we should pursue. As war is one of the heaviest of national evils, a calamity in which every species of misery is involved; as it sets the general safety to hazard, suspends commerce, and desolates the country; as it exposes great numbers to hardships, dangers, captivity, and death; no man, who desires the publick prosperity, will inflame general resentment by aggravating minute injuries, or enforcing disputable rights of little importance. It may, therefore, be safely pronounced, that those men are no patriots, who, when the national honour was vindicated in the sight of Europe, and the Spaniards having invaded what they call their own, had shrunk to a disavowal of their attempt, and a relaxation of their claim, would still have instigated us to a war, for a bleak and barren spot in the Magellanick ocean, of which no use could be made, unless it were a place of exile for the hypocrites of patriotism. Yet let it not be forgotten, that, by the howling violence of patriotick rage, the nation was, for a time, exasperated to such madness, that, for a barren rock under a stormy sky, we might have now been fighting and dying, had not our competitors been wiser than ourselves; and those who are now courting the favour of the people, by noisy professions of publick spirit, would, while they were counting the profits of their artifice, have enjoyed the patriotick pleasure of hearing, sometimes, that thousands had been slaughtered in a battle, and, sometimes, that a navy had been dispeopled by poisoned air and corrupted food. He that wishes to see his country robbed of its rights cannot be a patriot. That man, therefore, is no patriot, who justifies the ridiculous claims of American usurpation; who endeavours to deprive the nation of its natural and lawful authority over its own colonies; those colonies, which were settled under English protection; were constituted by an English charter; and have been defended by English arms. To suppose, that by sending out a colony, the nation established an independent power; that when, by indulgence and favour, emigrants are become rich, they shall not contribute to their own defence, but at their own pleasure; and that they shall not be included, like millions of their fellow-subjects, in the general system of representation; involves such an accumulation of absurdity, as nothing but the show of patriotism could palliate. He that accepts protection, stipulates obedience. We have always protected the Americans; we may, therefore, subject them to government. The less is included in the greater. That power which can take away life, may seize upon property. The parliament may enact, for America, a law of capital punishment; it may, therefore, establish a mode and proportion of taxation. But there are some who lament the state of the poor Bostonians, because they cannot all be supposed to have committed acts of rebellion, yet all are involved in the penalty imposed. This, they say, is to violate the first rule of justice, by condemning the innocent to suffer with the guilty. This deserves some notice, as it seems dictated by equity and humanity, however it may raise contempt by the ignorance which it betrays of the state of man, and the system of things. That the innocent should be confounded with the guilty, is, undoubtedly, an evil; but it is an evil which no care or caution can prevent. National crimes require national punishments, of which many must necessarily have their part, who have not incurred them by personal guilt. If rebels should fortify a town, the cannon of lawful authority will endanger, equally, the harmless burghers and the criminal garrison. In some cases, those suffer most who are least intended to be hurt. If the French, in the late war, had taken an English city, and permitted the natives to keep their dwellings, how could it have been recovered, but by the slaughter of our friends? A bomb might as well destroy an Englishman as a Frenchman; and, by famine, we know that the inhabitants would be the first that should perish. This infliction of promiscuous evil may, therefore, be lamented, but cannot be blamed. The power of lawful government must be maintained; and the miseries which rebellion produces, can be charged only on the rebels. That man, likewise, is not a patriot, who denies his governours their due praise, and who conceals from the people the benefits which they receive. Those, therefore, can lay no claim to this illustrious appellation, who impute want of publick spirit to the late parliament; an assembly of men, whom, notwithstanding some fluctuation of counsel, and some weakness of agency, the nation must always remember with gratitude, since it is indebted to them for a very ample concession, in the resignation of protections, and a wise and honest attempt to improve the constitution, in the new judicature instituted for the trial of elections. The right of protection, which might be necessary, when it was first claimed, and was very consistent with that liberality of immunities, in which the feudal constitution delighted, was, by its nature, liable to abuse, and had, in reality, been sometimes misapplied to the evasion of the law, and the defeat of justice. The evil was, perhaps, not adequate to the clamour; nor is it very certain, that the possible good of this privilege was not more than equal to the possible evil. It is, however, plain, that, whether they gave any thing or not to the publick, they, at least, lost something from themselves. They divested their dignity of a very splendid distinction, and showed that they were more willing than their predecessors to stand on a level with their fellow-subjects. The new mode of trying elections, if it be found effectual, will diffuse its consequences further than seems yet to be foreseen. It is, I believe, generally considered as advantageous only to those who claim seats in parliament; but, if to choose representatives be one of the most valuable rights of Englishmen, every voter must consider that law as adding to his happiness, which makes his suffrage efficacious; since it was vain to choose, while the election could be controlled by any other power. With what imperious contempt of ancient rights, and what audaciousness of arbitrary authority former parliaments have judged the disputes about elections, it is not necessary to relate. The claim of a candidate, and the right of electors, are said scarcely to have been, even in appearance, referred to conscience; but to have been decided by party, by passion, by prejudice, or by frolick. To have friends in the borough was of little use to him, who wanted friends in the house; a pretence was easily found to evade a majority, and the seat was, at last, his, that was chosen, not by his electors, but his fellow-senators. Thus the nation was insulted with a mock election, and the parliament was filled with spurious representatives one of the most important claims, that of right to sit in the supreme council of the kingdom, was debated in jest, and no man could be confident of success from the justice of his cause. A disputed election is now tried with the same scrupulousness and solemnity, as any other title. The candidate that has deserved well of his neighbours, may now be certain of enjoying the effect of their approbation; and the elector, who has voted honestly for known merit, may be certain, that he has not voted in vain. Such was the parliament, which some of those, who are now aspiring to sit in another, have taught the rabble to consider as an unlawful convention of men, worthless, venal, and prostitute, slaves of the court, and tyrants of the people. That the next house of commons may act upon the principles of the last, with more constancy and higher spirit, must be the wish of all who wish well to the publick; and, it is surely not too much to expect, that the nation will recover from its delusion, and unite in a general abhorrence of those, who, by deceiving the credulous with fictitious mischiefs, overbearing the weak by audacity of falsehood, by appealing to the judgment of ignorance, and flattering the vanity of meanness, by slandering honesty, and insulting dignity, have gathered round them whatever the kingdom can supply of base, and gross, and profligate; and "raised by merit to this bad eminence," arrogate to themselves the name of patriots. TAXATION NO TYRANNY; An answer [31] to the resolutions and address of the American congress. 1775. In all the parts of human knowledge, whether terminating in science merely speculative, or operating upon life, private or civil, are admitted some fundamental principles, or common axioms, which, being-generally received, are little doubted, and, being little doubted, have been rarely proved. Of these gratuitous and acknowledged truths, it is often the fate to become less evident by endeavours to explain them, however necessary such endeavours may be made by the misapprehensions of absurdity, or the sophistries of interest. It is difficult to prove the principles of science; because notions cannot always be found more intelligible than those which are questioned. It is difficult to prove the principles of practice, because they have, for the most part, not been discovered by investigation, but obtruded by experience; and the demonstrator will find, after an operose deduction, that he has been trying to make that seen, which can be only felt. Of this kind is the position, that "the supreme power of every community has the right of requiring, from all its subjects, such contributions as are necessary to the publick safety or publick prosperity," which was considered, by all mankind, as comprising the primary and essential condition of all political society, till it became disputed by those zealots of anarchy, who have denied, to the parliament of Britain the right of taxing the American colonies. In favour of this exemption of the Americans from the authority of their lawful sovereign, and the dominion of their mother-country, very loud clamours have been raised, and many wild assertions advanced, which, by such as borrow their opinions from the reigning fashion, have been admitted as arguments; and, what is strange, though their tendency is to lessen English honour and English power, have been heard by Englishmen, with a wish to find them true. Passion has, in its first violence, controlled interest, as the eddy for awhile runs against the stream. To be prejudiced is always to be weak; yet there are prejudices so near to laudable, that they have been often praised, and are always pardoned. To love their country has been considered as virtue in men, whose love could not be otherwise than blind, because their preference was made without a comparison; but it has never been my fortune to find, either in ancient or modern writers, any honourable mention of those, who have, with equal blindness, hated their country. These antipatriotick prejudices are the abortions of folly impregnated by faction, which, being produced against the standing order of nature, have not strength sufficient for long life. They are born only to scream and perish, and leave those to contempt or detestation, whose kindness was employed to nurse them into mischief. To perplex the opinion of the publick many artifices have been used, which, as usually happens, when falsehood is to be maintained by fraud, lose their force by counteracting one another. The nation is, sometimes, to be mollified by a tender tale of men, who fled from tyranny to rocks and deserts, and is persuaded to lose all claims of justice, and all sense of dignity, in compassion for a harmless people, who, having worked hard for bread in a wild country, and obtained, by the slow progression of manual industry, the accommodations of life, are now invaded by unprecedented oppression, and plundered of their properties by the harpies of taxation. We are told how their industry is obstructed by unnatural restraints, and their trade confined by rigorous prohibitions; how they are forbidden to enjoy the products of their own soil, to manufacture the materials which nature spreads before them, or to carry their own goods to the nearest market; and surely the generosity of English virtue will never heap new weight upon those that are already overladen; will never delight in that dominion, which cannot be exercised, but by cruelty and outrage. But, while we are melting in silent sorrow, and, in the transports of delirious pity, dropping both the sword and balance from our hands, another friend of the Americans thinks it better to awaken another passion, and tries to alarm our interest, or excite our veneration, by accounts of their greatness and their opulence, of the fertility of their land, and the splendour of their towns. We then begin to consider the question with more evenness of mind, are ready to conclude that those restrictions are not very oppressive, which have been found consistent with this speedy growth of prosperity; and begin to think it reasonable, that they who thus flourish under the protection of our government, should contribute something towards its expense. But we are soon told, that the Americans, however wealthy, cannot be taxed; that they are the descendants of men who left all for liberty, and that they have constantly preserved the principles and stubbornness of their progenitors; that they are too obstinate for persuasion, and too powerful for constraint; that they will laugh at argument, and defeat violence; that the continent of North America contains three millions, not of men merely, but of whigs, of whigs fierce for liberty, and disdainful of dominion; that they multiply with the fecundity of their own rattlesnakes, so that every quarter of a century doubles their numbers. Men accustomed to think themselves masters do not love to be threatened. This talk is, I hope, commonly thrown away, or raises passions different from those which it was intended to excite. Instead of terrifying the English hearer to tame acquiescence, it disposes him to hasten the experiment of bending obstinacy, before it is become yet more obdurate, and convinces him that it is necessary to attack a nation thus prolifick, while we may yet hope to prevail. When he is told, through what extent of territory we must travel to subdue them, he recollects how far, a few years ago, we travelled in their defence. When it is urged, that they will shoot up, like the hydra, he naturally considers how the hydra was destroyed. Nothing dejects a trader like the interruption of his profits. A commercial people, however magnanimous, shrinks at the thought of declining traffick and an unfavourable balance. The effect of this terrour has been tried. We have been stunned with the importance of our American commerce, and heard of merchants, with warehouses that are never to be emptied, and of manufacturers starving for want of work. That our commerce with America is profitable, however less than ostentatious or deceitful estimates have made it, and that it is our interest to preserve it, has never been denied; but, surely, it will most effectually be preserved, by being kept always in our own power. Concessions may promote it for a moment, but superiority only can ensure its continuance. There will always be a part, and always a very large part of every community, that have no care but for themselves, and whose care for themselves reaches little further than impatience of immediate pain, and eagerness for the nearest good. The blind are said to feel with peculiar nicety. They who look but little into futurity, have, perhaps, the quickest sensation of the present. A merchant's desire is not of glory, but of gain; not of publick wealth, but of private emolument; he is, therefore, rarely to be consulted about war and peace, or any designs of wide extent and distant consequence. Yet this, like other general characters, will sometimes fail. The traders of Birmingham have rescued themselves from all imputation of narrow selfishness, by a manly recommendation to parliament of the rights and dignity of their native country. To these men I do not intend to ascribe an absurd and enthusiastick contempt of interest, but to give them the rational and just praise of distinguishing real from seeming good; of being able to see through the cloud of interposing difficulties, to the lasting and solid happiness of victory and settlement. Lest all these topicks of persuasion should fail, the greater actor of patriotism has tried another, in which terrour and pity are happily combined, not without a proper superaddition of that admiration which latter ages have brought into the drama. The heroes of Boston, he tells us, if the stamp act had not been repealed, would have left their town, their port, and their trade, have resigned the splendour of opulence, and quitted the delights of neighbourhood, to disperse themselves over the country, where they would till the ground, and fish in the rivers, and range the mountains, and be free. These, surely, are brave words. If the mere sound of freedom can operate thus powerfully, let no man, hereafter, doubt the story of the Pied Piper. The removal of the people of Boston into the country, seems, even to the congress, not only difficult in its execution, but important in its consequences. The difficulty of execution is best known to the Bostonians themselves; the consequence alas! will only be, that they will leave good houses to wiser men. Yet, before they quit the comforts of a warm home, for the sounding something which they think better, he cannot be thought their enemy who advises them, to consider well whether they shall find it. By turning fishermen or hunters, woodmen or shepherds, they may become wild, but it is not so easy to conceive them free; for who can be more a slave than he that is driven, by force, from the comforts of life, is compelled to leave his house to a casual comer, and, whatever he does, or wherever he wanders, finds, every moment, some new testimony of his own subjection? If choice of evil be freedom, the felon in the galleys has his option of labour or of stripes. The Bostonian may quit his house to starve in the fields; his dog may refuse to set, and smart under the lash, and they may then congratulate each other upon the smiles of liberty, "profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight." To treat such designs as serious, would be to think too contemptuously of Bostonian understandings. The artifice, indeed, is not new: the blusterer, who threatened in vain to destroy his opponent, has, sometimes, obtained his end, by making it believed, that he would hang himself. But terrours and pity are not the only means by which the taxation of the Americans is opposed. There are those, who profess to use them only as auxiliaries to reason and justice; who tell us, that to tax the colonies is usurpation and oppression, an invasion of natural and legal rights, and a violation of those principles which support the constitution of English government. This question is of great importance. That the Americans are able to bear taxation, is indubitable; that their refusal may be overruled, is highly probable; but power is no sufficient evidence of truth. Let us examine our own claim, and the objections of the recusants, with caution proportioned to the event of the decision, which must convict one part of robbery, or the other of rebellion. A tax is a payment, exacted by authority, from part of the community, for the benefit of the whole. From whom, and in what proportion such payment shall be required, and to what uses it shall be applied, those only are to judge to whom government is intrusted. In the British dominions taxes are apportioned, levied, and appropriated by the states assembled in parliament. Of every empire all the subordinate communities are liable to taxation, because they all share the benefits of government, and, therefore, ought all to furnish their proportion of the expense. This the Americans have never openly denied. That it is their duty to pay the costs of their own safety, they seem to admit; nor do they refuse their contribution to the exigencies, whatever they may be, of the British empire; but they make this participation of the publick burden a duty of very uncertain extent, and imperfect obligation, a duty temporary, occasional, and elective, of which they reserve to themselves the right of settling the degree, the time, and the duration; of judging when it may be required, and when it has been performed. They allow to the supreme power nothing more than the liberty of notifying to them its demands or its necessities. Of this notification they profess to think for themselves, how far it shall influence their counsels; and of the necessities alleged, how far they shall endeavour to relieve them. They assume the exclusive power of settling not only the mode, but the quantity, of this payment. They are ready to cooperate with all the other dominions of the king; but they will cooperate by no means which they do not like, and at no greater charge than they are willing to bear. This claim, wild as it may seem; this claim, which supposes dominion without authority, and subjects without subordination, has found among the libertines of policy, many clamorous and hardy vindicators. The laws of nature, the rights of humanity, the faith of charters, the danger of liberty, the encroachments of usurpation, have been thundered in our ears, sometimes by interested faction, and sometimes by honest stupidity. It is said by Fontenelle, that if twenty philosophers shall resolutely deny that the presence of the sun makes the day, he will not despair but whole nations may adopt the opinion. So many political dogmatists have denied to the mother-country the power of taxing the colonies, and have enforced their denial with so much violence of outcry, that their sect is already very numerous, and the publick voice suspends its decision. In moral and political questions, the contest between interest and justice has been often tedious and often fierce, but, perhaps, it never happened before, that justice found much opposition, with interest on her side. For the satisfaction of this inquiry, it is necessary to consider, how a colony is constituted; what are the terms of migration, as dictated by nature, or settled by compact; and what social or political rights the man loses or acquires, that leaves his country to establish himself hi a distant plantation. Of two modes of migration the history of mankind informs us, and so far as I can yet discover, of two only. In countries where life was yet unadjusted, and policy unformed, it sometimes happened, that, by the dissensions of heads of families, by the ambition of daring adventurers, by some accidental pressure of distress, or by the mere discontent of idleness, one part of the community broke off from the rest, and numbers, greater or smaller, forsook their habitations, put themselves under the command of some favourite of fortune, and with, or without the consent of their countrymen or governours, went out to see what better regions they could occupy, and in what place, by conquest or by treaty, they could gain a habitation. Sons of enterprise, like these, who committed to their own swords their hopes and their lives, when they left their country, became another nation, with designs, and prospects, and interests, of their own. They looked back no more to their former home; they expected no help from those whom they had left behind; if they conquered, they conquered for themselves; if they were destroyed, they were not by any other power either lamented or revenged. Of this kind seem to have been all the migrations of the early world, whether historical or fabulous, and of this kind were the eruptions of those nations, which, from the north, invaded the Roman empire, and filled Europe with new sovereignties. But when, by the gradual admission of wiser laws and gentler manners, society became more compacted and better regulated, it was found, that the power of every people consisted in union, produced by one common interest, and operating in joint efforts and consistent counsels. From this time independence perceptibly wasted away. No part of the nation was permitted to act for itself. All now had the same enemies and the same friends; the government protected individuals, and individuals were required to refer their designs to the prosperity of the government. By this principle it is, that states are formed and consolidated. Every man is taught to consider his own happiness, as combined with the publick prosperity, and to think himself great and powerful, in proportion to the greatness and power of his governours. Had the western continent been discovered between the fourth and tenth century, when all the northen world was in motion; and had navigation been, at that time, sufficiently advanced to make so long a passage easily practicable, there is little reason for doubting, but the intumescence of nations would have found its vent, like all other expansive violence, where there was least resistance; and that Huns and Vandals, instead of fighting their way to the south of Europe, would have gone, by thousands and by myriads, under their several chiefs, to take possession of regions smiling with pleasure, and waving with fertility, from which the naked inhabitants were unable to repel them. Every expedition would, in those days of laxity, have produced a distinct and independent state. The Scandinavian heroes might have divided the country among them, and have spread the feudal subdivision of regality from Hudson's bay to the Pacifick ocean. But Columbus came five or six hundred years too late for the candidates of sovereignty. When he formed his project of discovery, the fluctuations of military turbulence had subsided, and Europe began to regain a settled form, by established government and regular subordination. No man could any longer erect himself into a chieftain, and lead out his fellow-subjects, by his own authority, to plunder or to war. He that committed any act of hostility, by land or sea, without the commission of some acknowledged sovereign, was considered, by all mankind, as a robber or pirate, names which were now of little credit, and of which, therefore, no man was ambitious. Columbus, in a remoter time, would have found his way to some discontented lord, or some younger brother of a petty sovereign, who would have taken fire at his proposal, and have quickly kindled, with equal heat, a troop of followers: they would have built ships, or have seized them, and have wandered with him, at all adventures, as far as they could keep hope in their company. But the age being now past of vagrant excursion and fortuitous hostility, he was under the necessity of travelling from court to court, scorned and repulsed as a wild projector, an idle promiser of kingdoms in the clouds; nor has any part of the world yet had reason to rejoice that he found, at last, reception and employment. In the same year, in a year hitherto disastrous to mankind, by the Portuguese was discovered the passage of the Indies, and by the Spaniards the coast of America. The nations of Europe were fired with boundless expectations, and the discoverers, pursuing their enterprise, made conquests in both hemispheres of wide extent. But the adventurers were not contented with plunder: though they took gold and silver to themselves, they seized islands and kingdoms in the name of their sovereigns. When a new region was gained, a governour was appointed by that power, which had given the commission to the conqueror; nor have I met with any European, but Stukely, of London, that formed a design of exalting himself in the newly found countries to independent dominion. To secure a conquest, it was always necessary to plant a colony, and territories, thus occupied and settled, were rightly considered, as mere extensions, or processes of empire; as ramifications which, by the circulation of one publick interest, communicated with the original source of dominion, and which were kept flourishing and spreading by the radical vigour of the mother-country. The colonies of England differ no otherwise from those of other nations, than as the English constitution differs from theirs. All government is ultimately and essentially absolute, but subordinate societies may have more immunities, or individuals greater liberty, as the operations of government are differently conducted. An Englishman in the common course of life and action feels no restraint. An English colony has very liberal powers of regulating its own manners, and adjusting its own affairs. But an English individual may, by the supreme authority, be deprived of liberty, and a colony divested of its powers, for reasons of which that authority is the only judge. In sovereignty there are no gradations. There may be limited royalty, there may be limited consulship; but there can be no limited government. There must, in every society, be some power or other, from which there is no appeal, which admits no restrictions, which pervades the whole mass of the community, regulates and adjusts all subordination, enacts laws or repeals them, erects or annuls judicatures, extends or contracts privileges, exempt itself from question or control, and bounded only by physical necessity. By this power, wherever it subsists, all legislation and jurisdiction is animated and maintained. From this all legal rights are emanations, which, whether equitably or not, may be legally recalled. It is not infallible, for it may do wrong; but it is irresistible, for it can be resisted only by rebellion, by an act which makes it questionable, what shall be thenceforward the supreme power. An English colony is a number of persons, to whom the king grants a charter, permitting them to settle in some distant country, and enabling them to constitute a corporation enjoying such powers as the charter grants, to be administered in such forms as the charter prescribes. As a corporation, they make laws for themselves; but as a corporation, subsisting by a grant from higher authority, to the control of that authority they continue subject. As men are placed at a greater distance from the supreme council of the kingdom, they must be intrusted with ampler liberty of regulating their conduct by their own wisdom. As they are more secluded from easy recourse to national judicature, they must be more extensively commissioned to pass judgment on each other. For this reason our more important and opulent colonies see the appearance, and feel the effect, of a regular legislature, which, in some places, has acted so long with unquestioned authority, that it has forgotten whence that authority was originally derived. To their charters the colonies owe, like other corporations, their political existence. The solemnities of legislation, the administration of justice, the security of property, are all bestowed upon them by the royal grant. Without their charter, there would be no power among them, by which any law could be made, or duties enjoined; any debt recovered, or criminal punished. A charter is a grant of certain powers or privileges, given to a part of the community for the advantage of the whole, and is, therefore, liable, by its nature, to change or to revocation. Every act of government aims at publick good. A charter, which experience has shown to be detrimental to the nation, is to be repealed; because general prosperity must always be preferred to particular interest. If a charter be used to evil purposes, it is forfeited, as the weapon is taken away which is injuriously employed. The charter, therefore, by which provincial governments are constituted, may be always legally, and, where it is either inconvenient in its nature, or misapplied in its use, may be equitably repealed; by such repeal the whole fabrick of subordination is immediately destroyed, and the constitution sunk at once into a chaos; the society is dissolved into a tumult of individuals, without authority to command, or obligation to obey, without any punishment of wrongs, but by personal resentment, or any protection of right, but by the hand of the possessor. A colony is to the mother-country, as a member to the body, deriving its action and its strength from the general principle of vitality; receiving from the body, and communicating to it, all the benefits and evils of health and disease; liable, in dangerous maladies, to sharp applications, of which the body, however, must partake the pain; and exposed, if incurably tainted, to amputation, by which the body, likewise, will be mutilated. The mother-country always considers the colonies, thus connected, as parts of itself; the prosperity or unhappiness of either, is the prosperity or unhappiness of both; not, perhaps, of both in the same degree, for the body may subsist, though less commodiously, without a limb, but the limb must perish, if it be parted from the body. Our colonies, therefore, however distant, have been, hitherto, treated as constituent parts of the British empire. The inhabitants incorporated by English charters are entitled to all the rights of Englishmen. They are governed by English laws, entitled to English dignities, regulated by English counsels, and protected by English arms; and it seems to follow, by consequence not easily avoided, that they are subject to English government, and chargeable by English taxation. To him that considers the nature, the original, the progress, and the constitution of the colonies, who remembers that the first discoverers had commissions from the crown, that the first settlers owe to a charter their civil forms and regular magistracy, and that all personal immunities and legal securities, by which the condition of the subject has been, from time to time, improved, have been extended to the colonists, it will not be doubted, but the parliament of England has a right to bind them by statutes, and to bind them in all cases whatsoever; and has, therefore, a natural and constitutional power of laying upon them any tax or impost, whether external or internal, upon the product of land, or the manufactures of industry, in the exigencies of war, or in the time of profound peace, for the defence of America, for the purpose of raising a revenue, or for any other end beneficial to the empire. There are some, and those not inconsiderable for number, nor contemptible for knowledge, who except the power of taxation from the general dominion of parliament, and hold, that whatever degress of obedience may be exacted, or whatever authority may be exercised in other acts of government, there is still reverence to be paid to money, and that legislation passes its limits when it violates the purse. Of this exception, which, by a head not fully impregnated with politicks, is not easily comprehended, it is alleged, as an unanswerable reason, that the colonies send no representatives to the house of commons. It is, say the American advocates, the natural distinction of a freeman, and the legal privilege of an Englishman, that he is able to call his possessions his own, that he can sit secure in the enjoyment of inheritance or acquisition, that his house is fortified by the law, and that nothing can be taken from him, but by his own consent. This consent is given for every man by his representative in parliament. The Americans, unrepresented, cannot consent to English taxations, as a corporation, and they will not consent, as individuals. Of this argument, it has been observed by more than one, that its force extends equally to all other laws, for a freeman is not to be exposed to punishment, or be called to any onerous service, but by his own consent. The congress has extracted a position from the fanciful Montesquieu that, "in a free state, every man, being a free agent, ought to be concerned in his own government." Whatever is true of taxation, is true of every other law, that he who is bound by it, without his consent, is not free, for he is not concerned in his own government. He that denies the English parliament the right of taxation, denies it, likewise, the right of making any other laws, civil or criminal, yet this power over the colonies was never yet disputed by themselves. They have always admitted statutes for the punishment of offences, and for the redress or prevention of inconveniencies; and the reception of any law draws after it, by a chain which cannot be broken, the unwelcome necessity of submitting to taxation. That a freeman is governed by himself, or by laws to which he has consented, is a position of mighty sound; but every man that utters it, with whatever confidence, and every man that hears it, with whatever acquiescence, if consent be supposed to imply the power of refusal, feels it to be false. We virtually and implicitly allow the institutions of any government, of which we enjoy the benefit, and solicit the protection. In wide extended dominions, though power has been diffused with the most even hand, yet a very small part of the people are either primarily or secondarily consulted in legislation. The business of the publick must be done by delegation. The choice of delegates is made by a select number, and those who are not electors stand idle and helpless spectators of the commonweal, "wholly unconcerned in the government of themselves." Of the electors the hap is but little better. They are often far from unanimity in their choice; and where the numbers approach to equality, almost half must be governed not only without, but against their choice. How any man can have consented to institutions established in distant ages, it will be difficult to explain. In the most favourite residence of liberty, the consent of individuals is merely passive; a tacit admission, in every community, of the terms which that community grants and requires. As all are born the subjects of some state or other, we may be said to have been all born consenting to some system of government. Other consent than this the condition of civil life does not allow. It is the unmeaning clamour of the pedants of policy, the delirious dream of republican fanaticism. But hear, ye sons and daughters of liberty, the sounds which the winds are wafting from the western continent. The Americans are telling one another, what, if we may judge from their noisy triumph, they have but lately discovered, and what yet is a very important truth: "That they are entitled to life, liberty, and property; and that they have never ceded to any sovereign power whatever a right to dispose of either without their consent." While this resolution stands alone, the Americans are free from singularity of opinion; their wit has not yet betrayed them to heresy. While they speak as the naked sons of nature, they claim but what is claimed by other men, and have withheld nothing but what all withhold. They are here upon firm ground, behind entrenchments which never can be forced. Humanity is very uniform. The Americans have this resemblance to Europeans, that they do not always know when they are well. They soon quit the fortress, that could neither have been ruined by sophistry, nor battered by declamation. Their next resolution declares, that "Their ancestors, who first settled the colonies, were, at the time of their emigration from the mother-country, entitled to all the rights, liberties, and immunities of free and natural-born subjects within the realm of England." This, likewise, is true; but when this is granted, their boast of original rights is at an end; they are no longer in a state of nature. These lords of themselves, these kings of ME, these demigods of independence sink down to colonists, governed by a charter. If their ancestors were subjects, they acknowledged a sovereign; if they had a right to English privileges, they were accountable to English laws; and, what must grieve the lover of liberty to discover, had ceded to the king and parliament, whether the right or not, at least, the power of disposing, "without their consent, of their lives, liberties, and properties." It, therefore, is required of them to prove, that the parliament ever ceded to them a dispensation from that obedience, which they owe as natural-born subjects, or any degree of independence or immunity, not enjoyed by other Englishmen. They say, that by such emigration, they by no means forfeited, surrendered, or lost any of those rights; but, that "they were, and their descendants now are, entitled to the exercise and enjoyment of all such of them, as their local and other circumstances enable them to exercise and enjoy." That they who form a settlement by a lawful charter, having committed no crime, forfeit no privileges, will be readily confessed; but what they do not forfeit by any judicial sentence, they may lose by natural effects. As man can be but in one place, at once, he cannot have the advantages of multiplied residence. He that will enjoy the brightness of sunshine, must quit the coolness of the shade. He who goes voluntarily to America, cannot complain of losing what he leaves in Europe. He, perhaps, had a right to vote for a knight or burgess; by crossing the Atlantick, he has not nullified his right; but he has made its exertion no longer possible. [32] By his own choice he has left a country, where he had a vote and little property, for another, where he has great property, but no vote. But as this preference was deliberate and unconstrained, he is still "concerned in the government of himself;" he has reduced himself from a voter, to one of the innumerable multitude that have no vote. He has truly "ceded his right," but he still is governed by his own consent; because he has consented to throw his atom of interest into the general mass of the community. Of the consequences of his own act he has no cause to complain; he has chosen, or intended to choose, the greater good; he is represented, as himself desired, in the general representation. But the privileges of an American scorn the limits of place; they are part of himself, and cannot be lost by departure from his country; they float in the air, or glide under the ocean: "Doris amara suam non intermisceat undam." A planter, wherever he settles, is not only a freeman, but a legislator: "ubi imperator, ibi Roma." "As the English colonists are not represented in the British parliament, they are entitled to a free and exclusive power of legislation in their several legislatures, in all cases of taxation and internal polity, subject only to the negative of the sovereign, in such manner as has been heretofore used and accustomed. We cheerfully consent to the operation of such acts of the British parliament, as are, bona fide, restrained to the regulation of our external commerce--excluding every idea of taxation, internal or external, for raising a revenue on the subjects of America, without their consent." Their reason for this claim is, "that the foundation of English liberty, and of all government, is a right in the people to participate in their legislative council." "They inherit," they say, "from their ancestors, the right which their ancestors possessed, of enjoying all the privileges of Englishmen." That they inherit the right of their ancestors is allowed; but they can inherit no more. Their ancestors left a country, where the representatives of the people were elected by men particularly qualified, and where those who wanted qualifications, or who did not use them, were bound by the decisions of men, whom they had not deputed. The colonists are the descendants of men, who either had no vote in elections, or who voluntarily resigned them for something, in their opinion, of more estimation; they have, therefore, exactly what their ancestors left them, not a vote in making laws, or in constituting legislators, but the happiness of being protected by law, and the duty of obeying it. What their ancestors did not carry with them, neither they nor their descendants have since acquired. They have not, by abandoning their part in one legislature, obtained the power of constituting another, exclusive and independent, any more than the multitudes, who are now debarred from voting, have a right to erect a separate parliament for themselves. Men are wrong for want of sense, but they are wrong by halves for want of spirit. Since the Americans have discovered that they can make a parliament, whence comes it that they do not think themselves equally empowered to make a king? If they are subjects, whose government is constituted by a charter, they can form no body of independent legislature. If their rights are inherent and underived, they may, by their own suffrages, encircle, with a diadem, the brows of Mr. Cushing. It is further declared, by the congress of Philadelphia, "that his majesty's colonies are entitled to all the privileges and immunities granted and confirmed to them by royal charters, or secured to them by their several codes of provincial laws." The first clause of this resolution is easily understood, and will be readily admitted. To all the privileges which a charter can convey, they are, by a royal charter, evidently entitled. The second clause is of greater difficulty; for how can a provincial law secure privileges or immunities to a province? Provincial laws may grant, to certain individuals of the province, the enjoyment of gainful, or an immunity from onerous offices; they may operate upon the people to whom they relate; but no province can confer provincial privileges on itself. They may have a right to all which the king has given them; but it is a conceit of the other hemisphere, that men have a right to all which they have given to themselves. A corporation is considered, in law, as an individual, and can no more extend its own immunities, than a man can, by his own choice, assume dignities or titles. The legislature of a colony (let not the comparison be too much disdained) is only the vestry of a larger parish, which may lay a cess on the inhabitants, and enforce the payment; but can extend no influence beyond its own district, must modify its particular regulations by the general law, and, whatever may be its internal expenses, is still liable to taxes laid by superiour authority. The charters given to different provinces are different, and no general right can be extracted from them. The charter of Pennsylvania, where this congress of anarchy has been impudently held, contains a clause admitting, in express terms, taxation by the parliament. If, in the other charters, no such reserve is made, it must have been omitted, as not necessary, because it is implied in the nature of subordinate government. They who are subject to laws, are liable to taxes. If any such immunity had been granted, it is still revocable by the legislature, and ought to be revoked, as contrary to the publick good, which is, in every charter, ultimately intended. Suppose it true, that any such exemption is contained in the charter of Maryland, it can be pleaded only by the Marylanders. It is of no use for any other province; and, with regard even to them, must have been considered as one of the grants in which the king has been deceived; and annulled, as mischievous to the publick, by sacrificing to one little settlement the general interest of the empire; as infringing the system of dominion, and violating the compact of government. But Dr. Tucker has shown, that even this charter promises no exemption from parliamentary taxes. In the controversy agitated about the beginning of this century, whether the English laws could bind Ireland, Davenant, who defended against Molyneux the claims of England, considered it as necessary to prove nothing more, than that the present Irish must be deemed a colony. The necessary connexion of representatives with taxes, seems to have sunk deep into many of those minds, that admit sounds, without their meaning. Our nation is represented in parliament by an assembly as numerous as can well consist with order and despatch, chosen by persons so differently qualified in different places, that the mode of choice seems to be, for the most part, formed by chance, and settled by custom. Of individuals, far the greater part have no vote, and, of the voters, few have any personal knowledge of him to whom they intrust their liberty and fortune. Yet this representation has the whole effect expected or desired, that of spreading so wide the care of general interest, and the participation of publick counsels, that the advantage or corruption of particular men can seldom operate with much injury to the publick. For this reason many populous and opulent towns neither enjoy nor desire particular representatives: they are included in the general scheme of publick administration, and cannot suffer but with the rest of the empire. It is urged, that the Americans have not the same security, and that a British legislator may wanton with their property; yet, if it be true, that their wealth is our wealth, and that their ruin will be our ruin, the parliament has the same interest in attending to them, as to any other part of the nation. The reason why we place any confidence in our representatives is, that they must share in the good or evil which their counsels shall produce. Their share is, indeed, commonly consequential and remote; but it is not often possible that any immediate advantage can be extended to such numbers as may prevail against it. We are, therefore, as secure against intentional depravations of government, as human wisdom can make us, and upon this security the Americans may venture to repose. It is said, by the old member who has written an appeal against the tax, that "as the produce of American labour is spent in British manufactures, the balance of trade is greatly against them; whatever you take directly in taxes is, in effect, taken from your own commerce. If the minister seizes the money, with which the American should pay his debts, and come to market, the merchant cannot expect him as a customer, nor can the debts, already contracted, be paid.--Suppose we obtain from America a million, instead of one hundred thousand pounds, it would be supplying one personal exigence by the future ruin of our commerce." Part of this is true; but the old member seems not to perceive, that, if his brethren of the legislature know this as well as himself, the Americans are in no danger of oppression, since by men commonly provident they must be so taxed, as that we may not lose one way, what we gain another. The same old member has discovered, that the judges formerly thought it illegal to tax Ireland, and declares that no cases can be more alike than those of Ireland and America; yet the judges whom he quotes have mentioned a difference. Ireland, they say, "hath a parliament of its own." When any colony has an independent parliament, acknowledged by the parliament of Britain, the cases will differ less. Yet, by the sixth of George the first, chapter fifth, the acts of the British parliament bind Ireland. It is urged, that when Wales, Durham, and Chester were divested of their particular privileges, or ancient government, and reduced to the state of English counties, they had representatives assigned them. To those from whom something had been taken, something in return might properly be given. To the Americans their charters are left, as they were, nor have they lost any thing, except that of which their sedition has deprived them. If they were to be represented in parliament, something would be granted, though nothing is withdrawn. The inhabitants of Chester, Durham, and Wales were invited to exchange their peculiar institutions for the power of voting, which they wanted before. The Americans have voluntarily resigned the power of voting, to live in distant and separate governments; and what they have voluntarily quitted, they have no right to claim. It must always be remembered, that they are represented by the same virtual representation as the greater part of Englishmen; and that, if by change of place, they have less share in the legislature than is proportionate to their opulence, they, by their removal, gained that opulence, and had originally, and have now, their choice of a vote at home, or riches at a distance. We are told, what appears to the old member and to others, a position that must drive us into inextricable absurdity: that we have either no right, or the sole right, of taxing the colonies. The meaning is, that if we can tax them, they cannot tax themselves; and that if they can tax themselves, we cannot tax them. We answer, with very little hesitation, that, for the general use of the empire, we have the sole right of taxing them. If they have contributed any thing in their own assemblies, what they contributed was not paid, but given; it was not a tax or tribute, but a present. Yet they have the natural and legal power of levying money on themselves for provincial purposes, of providing for their own expense at their own discretion. Let not this be thought new or strange; it is the state of every parish in the kingdom. The friends of the Americans are of different opinions. Some think, that, being unrepresented, they ought to tax themselves; and others, that they ought to have representatives in the British parliament. If they are to tax themselves, what power is to remain in the supreme legislature? That they must settle their own mode of levying their money is supposed. May the British parliament tell them how much they shall contribute? If the sum may be prescribed, they will return few thanks for the power of raising it; if they are at liberty to grant or to deny, they are no longer subjects. If they are to be represented, what number of these western orators are to be admitted? This, I suppose, the parliament must settle; yet, if men have a natural and unalienable right to be represented, who shall determine the number of their delegates? Let us, however, suppose them to send twenty-three, half as many as the kingdom of Scotland, what will this representation avail them? To pay taxes will be still a grievance. The love of money will not be lessened, nor the power of getting it increased. Whither will this necessity of representation drive us? Is every petty settlement to be out of the reach of government, till it has sent a senator to parliament; or may two of them, or a greater number, be forced to unite in a single deputation? What, at last, is the difference between him that is taxed, by compulsion, without representation, and him that is represented, by compulsion, in order to be taxed? For many reigns the house of commons was in a state of fluctuation: new burgesses were added, from time to time, without any reason now to be discovered; but the number has been fixed for more than a century and a half, and the king's power of increasing it has been questioned. It will hardly be thought fit to new-model the constitution in favour of the planters, who, as they grow rich, may buy estates in England, and, without any innovation, effectually represent their native colonies. The friends of the Americans, indeed, ask for them what they do not ask for themselves. This inestimable right of representation they have never solicited. They mean not to exchange solid money for such airy honour. They say, and say willingly, that they cannot conveniently be represented; because their inference is, that they cannot be taxed. They are too remote to share the general government, and, therefore, claim the privilege of governing themselves. Of the principles contained in the resolutions of the congress, however wild, indefinite, and obscure, such has been the influence upon American understanding, that, from New England to South Carolina, there is formed a general combination of all the provinces against their mother-country. The madness of independence has spread from colony to colony, till order is lost, and government despised; and all is filled with misrule, uproar, violence, and confusion. To be quiet is disaffection, to be loyal is treason. The congress of Philadelphia, an assembly convened by its own authority, has promulgated a declaration, in compliance with which the communication between Britain and the greatest part of North America, is now suspended. They ceased to admit the importation of English goods, in December, 1774, and determine to permit the exportation of their own no longer than to November, 1775. This might seem enough; but they have done more: they have declared, that they shall treat all as enemies who do not concur with them in disaffection and perverseness; and that they will trade with none that shall trade with Britain. They threaten to stigmatize, in their gazette, those who shall consume the products or merchandise of their mother-country, and are now searching suspected houses for prohibited goods. These hostile declarations they profess themselves ready to maintain by force. They have armed the militia of their provinces, and seized the publick stores of ammunition. They are, therefore, no longer subjects, since they refuse the laws of their sovereign, and, in defence of that refusal, are making open preparations for war. Being now, in their own opinion, free states, they are not only raising armies, but forming alliances, not only hastening to rebel themselves, but seducing their neighbours to rebellion. They have published an address to the inhabitants of Quebec, in which discontent and resistance are openly incited, and with very respectful mention of "the sagacity of Frenchmen," invite them to send deputies to the congress of Philadelphia; to that seat of virtue and veracity, whence the people of England are told, that to establish popery, "a religion fraught with sanguinary and impious tenets," even in Quebec, a country of which the inhabitants are papists, is so contrary to the constitution, that it cannot be lawfully done by the legislature itself; where it is made one of the articles of their association, to deprive the conquered French of their religious establishment; and whence the French of Quebec are, at the same time, flattered into sedition, by professions of expecting "from the liberality of sentiment distinguishing their nation, that difference of religion will not prejudice them against a hearty amity, because the transcendant nature of freedom elevates all, who unite in the cause, above such low-minded infirmities." Quebec, however, is at a great distance. They have aimed a stroke, from which they may hope for greater and more speedy mischief. They have tried to infect the people of England with the contagion of disloyalty. Their credit is, happily, not such as gives them influence proportionate to their malice. When they talk of their pretended immunities "guaranteed by the plighted faith of government, and the most solemn compacts with English sovereigns," we think ourselves at liberty to inquire, when the faith was plighted, and the compact made; and, when we can only find, that king James and king Charles the first promised the settlers in Massachusetts bay, now famous by the appellation of Bostonians, exemption from taxes for seven years, we infer, with Mr. Mauduit, that, by this "solemn compact," they were, after expiration of the stipulated term, liable to taxation. When they apply to our compassion, by telling us, that they are to be carried from their own country to be tried for certain offences, we are not so ready to pity them, as to advise them not to offend. While they are innocent they are safe. When they tell of laws made expressly for their punishment, we answer, that tumults and sedition were always punishable, and that the new law prescribes only the mode of execution. When it is said, that the whole town of Boston is distressed for a misdemeanor of a few, we wonder at their shamelessness; for we know that the town of Boston and all the associated provinces, are now in rebellion to defend or justify the criminals. If frauds in the imposts of Boston are tried by commission without a jury, they are tried here in the same mode; and why should the Bostonians expect from us more tenderness for them than for ourselves? If they are condemned unheard, it is because there is no need of a trial. The crime is manifest and notorious. All trial is the investigation of something doubtful. An Italian philosopher observes, that no man desires to hear what he has already seen. If their assemblies have been suddenly dissolved, what was the reason? Their deliberations were indecent, and their intentions seditious. The power of dissolution is granted and reserved for such times of turbulence. Their best friends have been lately soliciting the king to dissolve his parliament; to do what they so loudly complain of suffering. That the same vengeance involves the innocent and guilty, is an evil to be lamented; but human caution cannot prevent it, nor human power always redress it. To bring misery on those who have not deserved it, is part of the aggregated guilt of rebellion. That governours have been sometimes given them, only that a great man might get ease from importunity, and that they have had judges, not always of the deepest learning, or the purest integrity, we have no great reason to doubt, because such misfortunes happen to ourselves. Whoever is governed, will, sometimes, be governed ill, even when he is most "concerned in his own government." That improper officers or magistrates are sent, is the crime or folly of those that sent them. When incapacity is discovered, it ought to be removed; if corruption is detected, it ought to be punished. No government could subsist for a day, if single errours could justify defection. One of their complaints is not such as can claim much commiseration from the softest bosom. They tell us, that we have changed our conduct, and that a tax is now laid, by parliament, on those who were never taxed by parliament before. To this, we think, it may be easily answered, that the longer they have been spared, the better they can pay. It is certainly not much their interest to represent innovation as criminal or invidious; for they have introduced into the history of mankind a new mode of disaffection, and have given, I believe, the first example of a proscription published by a colony against the mother-country. To what is urged of new powers granted to the courts of admiralty, or the extension of authority conferred on the judges, it may be answered, in a few words, that they have themselves made such regulations necessary; that they are established for the prevention of greater evils; at the same time, it must be observed, that these powers have not been extended since the rebellion in America. One mode of persuasion their ingenuity has suggested, which it may, perhaps, be less easy to resist. That we may not look with indifference on the American contest, or imagine that the struggle is for a claim, which, however decided, is of small importance and remote consequence, the Philadelphian congress has taken care to inform us, that they are resisting the demands of parliament, as well for our sakes as their own. Their keenness of perspicacity has enabled them to pursue consequences to a greater distance; to see through clouds impervious to the dimness of European sight; and to find, I know not how, that when they are taxed, we shall be enslaved. That slavery is a miserable state we have been often told, and, doubtless, many a Briton will tremble to find it so near as in America; but how it will be brought hither the congress must inform us. The question might distress a common understanding; but the statesmen of the other hemisphere can easily resolve it. "Our ministers," they say, "axe our enemies, and if they should carry the point of taxation, may, with the same army, enslave us. It may be said, we will not pay them; but remember," say the western sages, "the taxes from America, and, we may add, the men, and particularly the Roman catholicks of this vast continent, will then be in the power of your enemies. Nor have you any reason to expect, that, after making slaves of us, many of us will refuse to assist in reducing you to the same abject state." These are dreadful menaces; but suspecting that they have not much the sound of probability, the congress proceeds: "Do not treat this as chimerical. Know, that in less than half a century, the quitrents reserved to the crown, from the numberless grants of this vast continent, will pour large streams of wealth into the royal coffers. If to this be added the power of taxing America, at pleasure, the crown will possess more treasure than may be necessary to purchase the remains of liberty in your island." All this is very dreadful; but, amidst the terrour that shakes my frame, I cannot forbear to wish, that some sluice were opened for these streams of treasure. I should gladly see America return half of what England has expended in her defence; and of the stream that will "flow so largely in less than half a century," I hope a small rill, at least, may be found to quench the thirst of the present generation, which seems to think itself in more danger of wanting money, than of losing liberty. It is difficult to judge with what intention such airy bursts of malevolence are vented; if such writers hope to deceive, let us rather repel them with scorn, than refute them by disputation. In this last terrifick paragraph are two positions, that, if our fears do not overpower our reflection, may enable us to support life a little longer. We are told by these croakers of calamity, not only that our present ministers design to enslave us, but that the same malignity of purpose is to descend through all their successors; and that the wealth to be poured into England by the Pactolus of America, will, whenever it comes, be employed to purchase the "remains of liberty." Of those who now conduct the national affairs, we may, without much arrogance, presume to know more than themselves; and of those who shall succeed them, whether minister or king, not to know less. The other position is, that "the crown," if this laudable opposition should not be successful, "will have the power of taxing America at pleasure." Surely they think rather too meanly of our apprehensions, when they suppose us not to know what they well know themselves, that they are taxed, like all other British subjects, by parliament; and that the crown has not, by the new imposts, whether right or wrong, obtained any additional power over their possessions. It were a curious, but an idle speculation, to inquire, what effect these dictators of sedition expect from the dispersion of their letter among us. If they believe their own complaints of hardship, and really dread the danger which they describe, they will naturally hope to communicate the same perceptions to their fellow-subjects. But, probably, in America, as in other places, the chiefs are incendiaries, that hope to rob in the tumults of a conflagration, and toss brands among a rabble passively combustible. Those who wrote the address, though they have shown no great extent or profundity of mind, are yet, probably, wiser than to believe it: but they have been taught, by some master of mischief, how to put in motion the engine of political electricity; to attract, by the sounds of liberty and property; to repel, by those of popery and slavery; and to give the great stroke, by the name of Boston. When subordinate communities oppose the decrees of the general legislature with defiance thus audacious, and malignity thus acrimonious, nothing remains but to conquer or to yield; to allow their claim of independence, or to reduce them, by force, to submission and allegiance. It might be hoped, that no Englishman could be found, whom the menaces of our own colonists, just rescued from the French, would not move to indignation, like that of the Scythians, who, returning from war, found themselves excluded from their own houses by their slaves. That corporations, constituted by favour, and existing by sufferance, should dare to prohibit commerce with their native country, and threaten individuals by infamy, and societies with, at least, suspension of amity, for daring to be more obedient to government than themselves, is a degree of insolence which not only deserves to be punished, but of which the punishment is loudly demanded by the order of life and the peace of nations. Yet there have risen up, in the face of the publick, men who, by whatever corruptions, or whatever infatuation, have undertaken to defend the Americans, endeavour to shelter them from resentment, and propose reconciliation without submission. As political diseases are naturally contagious, let it be supposed, for a moment, that Cornwall, seized with the Philadelphian phrensy, may resolve to separate itself from the general system of the English constitution, and judge of its own rights in its own parliament. A congress might then meet at Truro, and address the other counties in a style not unlike the language of the American patriots: "FRIENDS AND FELLOW-SUBJECTS,--We, the delegates of the several towns and parishes of Cornwall, assembled to deliberate upon our own state, and that of our constituents, having, after serious debate and calm consideration, settled the scheme of our future conduct, hold it necessary to declare the resolutions which we think ourselves entitled to form, by the unalienable rights of reasonable beings, and into which we have been compelled by grievances and oppressions, long endured by us in patient silence, not because we did not feel, or could not remove them, but because we were unwilling to give disturbance to a settled government, and hoped that others would, in time, find, like ourselves, their true interest and their original powers, and all cooperate to universal happiness. "But since, having long indulged the pleasing expectation, we find general discontent not likely to increase, or not likely to end in general defection, we resolve to erect alone the standard of liberty. "Know then, that you are no longer to consider Cornwall as an English county, visited by English judges, receiving law from an English parliament, or included in any general taxation of the kingdom; but as a state, distinct and independent, governed by its own institutions, administered by its own magistrates, and exempt from any tax or tribute, but such as we shall impose upon ourselves. "We are the acknowledged descendants of the earliest inhabitants of Britain, of men, who, before the time of history, took possession of the island desolate and waste, and, therefore, open to the first occupants. Of this descent, our language is a sufficient proof, which, not quite a century ago, was different from yours. "Such are the Cornishmen; but who are you? who, but the unauthorised and lawless children of intruders, invaders, and oppressors? who, but the transmitters of wrong, the inheritors of robbery? In claiming independence, we claim but little. We might require you to depart from a land which you possess by usurpation, and to restore all that you have taken from us. "Independence is the gift of nature. No man is born the master of another. Every Cornishman is a freeman; for we have never resigned the rights of humanity: and he only can be thought free, who is 'not governed but by his own consent. "You may urge, that the present system of government has descended through many ages, and that we have a larger part in the representation of the kingdom than any other county. "All this is true, but it is neither cogent nor persuasive. We look to the original of things. Our union with the English counties was either compelled by force, or settled by compact. "That which was made by violence, may by violence be broken. If we were treated as a conquered people, our rights might be obscured, but could never be extinguished. The sword can give nothing but power, which a sharper sword can take away. "If our union was by compact, whom could the compact bind, but those that concurred in the stipulations? We gave our ancestors no commission to settle the terms of future existence. They might be cowards that were frighted, or blockheads that were cheated; but, whatever they were, they could contract only for themselves. What they could establish, we can annul. "Against our present form of government, it shall stand in the place of all argument, that we do not like it. While we are governed as we do not like, where is our liberty? We do not like taxes, we will, therefore, not be taxed: we do not like your laws, and will not obey them. "The taxes laid by our representatives, are laid, you tell us, by our own consent; but we will no longer consent to be represented. Our number of legislators was originally a burden, and ought to have been refused; it is now considered as a disproportionate advantage; who, then, will complain if we resign it? "We shall form a senate of our own, under a president whom the king shall nominate, but whose authority we will limit, by adjusting his salary to his merit. We will not withhold a proper share of contribution to the necessary expense of lawful government, but we will decide for ourselves what share is proper, what expense is necessary, and what government is lawful. "Till our counsel is proclaimed independent and unaccountable, we will, after the tenth day of September, keep our tin in our own hands: you can be supplied from no other place, and must, therefore, comply, or be poisoned with the copper of your own kitchens. "If any Cornishman shall refuse his name to this just and laudable association, he shall be tumbled from St. Michael's mount, or buried alive in a tin-mine; and if any emissary shall be found seducing Cornishmen to their former state, he shall be smeared with tar, and rolled in feathers, and chased with dogs out of our dominions. "From the Cornish congress at Truro." Of this memorial, what could be said, but that it was written in jest, or written by a madman? Yet I know not whether the warmest admirers of Pennsylvanian eloquence, can find any argument in the addresses of the congress, that is not, with greater strength, urged by the Cornishman. The argument of the irregular troops of controversy, stripped of its colours, and turned out naked to the view, is no more than this. Liberty is the birthright of man, and where obedience is compelled, there is no liberty. The answer is equally simple. Government is necessary to man, and where obedience is not compelled, there is no government. If the subject refuses to obey, it is the duty of authority to use compulsion. Society cannot subsist but by the power, first of making laws, and then of enforcing them. To one of the threats hissed out by the congress, I have put nothing similar into the Cornish proclamation; because it is too wild for folly, and too foolish for madness. If we do not withhold our king and his parliament from taxing them, they will cross the Atlantick, and enslave us. How they will come, they have not told us; perhaps they will take wing, and light upon our coasts. When the cranes thus begin to flutter, it is time for pygmies to keep their eyes about them. The great orator observes, that they will be very fit, after they have been taxed, to impose chains upon us. If they are so fit as their friend describes them, and so willing as they describe themselves, let us increase our army, and double our militia. It has been, of late, a very general practice to talk of slavery among those who are setting at defiance every power that keeps the world in order. If the learned author of the Reflections on Learning has rightly observed, that no man ever could give law to language, it will be vain to prohibit the use of the word slavery; but I could wish it more discreetly uttered: it is driven, at one time, too hard into our ears by the loud hurricane of Pennsylvanian eloquence, and, at another, glides too cold into our hearts by the soft conveyance of a female patriot, bewailing the miseries of her friends and fellow-citizens. Such has been the progress of sedition, that those who, a few years ago, disputed only our right of laying taxes, now question the validity of every act of legislation. They consider themselves as emancipated from obedience, and as being no longer the subjects of the British crown. They leave us no choice, but of yielding or conquering, of resigning our dominion or maintaining it by force. From force many endeavours have been used, either to dissuade, or to deter us. Sometimes the merit of the Americans is exalted, and sometimes their sufferings are aggravated. We are told of their contributions to the last war; a war incited by their outcries, and continued for their protection; a war by which none but themselves were gainers. All that they can boast is, that they did something for themselves, and did not wholly stand inactive, while the sons of Britain were fighting in their cause. If we cannot admire, we are called to pity them; to pity those that show no regard to their mother-country; have obeyed no law, which they could violate; have imparted no good, which they could withhold; have entered into associations of fraud to rob their creditors; and into combinations to distress all who depended on their commerce. We are reproached with the cruelty of shutting one port, where every port is shut against us. We are censured as tyrannical, for hindering those from fishing, who have condemned our merchants to bankruptcy, and our manufacturers to hunger. Others persuade us to give them more liberty, to take off restraints, and relax authority; and tell us what happy consequences will arise from forbearance; how their affections will be conciliated, and into what diffusions of beneficence their gratitude will luxuriate. They will love their friends. They will reverence their protectors. They will throw themselves into our arms, and lay their property at our feet; they will buy from no other what we can sell them; they will sell to no other what we wish to buy. That any obligations should overpower their attention to profit, we have known them long enough not to expect. It is not to be expected from a more liberal people. With what kindness they repay benefits, they are now showing us, who, as soon as we have delivered them from France, are defying and proscribing us. But if we will permit them to tax themselves, they will give us more than we require. If we proclaim them independent, they will, during pleasure, pay us a subsidy. The contest is not now for money, but for power. The question is not, how much we shall collect, but, by what authority the collection shall be made. Those who find that the Americans cannot be shown, in any form, that may raise love or pity, dress them in habiliments of terrour, and try to make us think them formidable. The Bostonians can call into the field ninety thousand men. While we conquer all before us, new enemies will rise up behind, and our work will be always to begin. If we take possession of the towns, the colonists will retire into the inland regions, and the gain of victory will be only empty houses, and a wide extent of waste and desolation. If we subdue them for the present, they will universally revolt in the next war, and resign us, without pity, to subjection and destruction. To all this it may be answered, that between losing America, and resigning it, there is no great difference; that it is not very reasonable to jump into the sea, because the ship is leaky. All those evils may befall us, but we need not hasten them. The dean of Gloucester has proposed, and seems to propose it seriously, that we should, at once, release our claims, declare them masters of themselves, and whistle them down the wind. His opinion is, that our gain from them will be the same, and our expense less. What they can have most cheaply from Britain, they will still buy; what they can sell to us at the highest price, they will still sell. It is, however, a little hard, that, having so lately fought and conquered for their safety, we should govern them no longer. By letting them loose before the war, how many millions might have been saved. One wild proposal is best answered by another. Let us restore to the French what we have taken from them. We shall see our colonists at our feet, when they have an enemy so near them. Let us give the Indians arms, and teach them discipline, and encourage them, now and then, to plunder a plantation. Security and leisure are the parents of sedition. While these different opinions are agitated, it seems to be determined, by the legislature, that force shall be tried. Men of the pen have seldom any great skill in conquering kingdoms, but they have strong inclination to give advice. I cannot forbear to wish, that this commotion may end without bloodshed, and that the rebels may be subdued by terrour rather than by violence; and, therefore, recommend such a force as may take away, not only the power, but the hope of resistance, and, by conquering without a battle, save many from the sword. If their obstinacy continues, without actual hostilities, it may, perhaps, be mollified, by turning out the soldiers to free quarters, forbidding any personal cruelty or hurt. It has been proposed, that the slaves should be set free, an act which, surely, the lovers of liberty cannot but commend. If they are furnished with firearms for defence, and utensils for husbandry, and settled in some simple form of government within the country, they may be more grateful and honest than their masters. Far be it from any Englishman, to thirst for the blood of his fellow-subjects. Those who most deserve our resentment are, unhappily, at less distance. The Americans, when the stamp act was first proposed, undoubtedly disliked it, as every nation dislikes an impost; but they had no thought of resisting it, till they were encouraged and incited by European intelligence, from men whom they thought their friends, but who were friends only to themselves. On the original contrivers of mischief let an insulted nation pour out its vengeance. With whatever design they have inflamed this pernicious contest, they are, themselves, equally detestable. If they wish success to the colonies, they are traitors to this country; if they wish their defeat, they are traitors, at once, to America and England. To them, and them only, must be imputed the interruption of commerce, and the miseries of war, the sorrow of those that shall be ruined, and the blood of those that shall fall. Since the Americans have made it necessary to subdue them, may they be subdued with the least injury possible to their persons and their possessions! When they are reduced to obedience, may that obedience be secured by stricter laws and stronger obligations! Nothing can be more noxious to society, than that erroneous clemency, which, when a rebellion is suppressed, exacts no forfeiture, and establishes no securities, but leaves the rebels in their former state. Who would not try the experiment, which promises advantage without expense? If rebels once obtain a victory, their wishes are accomplished; if they are defeated, they suffer little, perhaps less than their conquerors; however often they play the game, the chance is always in their favour. In the mean time, they are growing rich by victualling the troops that we have sent against them, and, perhaps, gain more by the residence of the army than they lose by the obstruction of their port. Their charters being now, I suppose, legally forfeited, may be modelled, as shall appear most commodious to the mother-country. Thus the privileges which are found, by experience, liable to misuse, will be taken away, and those who now bellow as patriots, bluster as soldiers, and domineer as legislators, will sink into sober merchants and silent planters, peaceably diligent, and securely rich. But there is one writer, and, perhaps, many who do not write, to whom the contraction of these pernicious privileges appears very dangerous, and who startle at the thoughts of "England free, and America in chains." Children fly from their own shadow, and rhetoricians are frighted by their own voices. Chains is, undoubtedly, a dreadful word; but, perhaps, the masters of civil wisdom may discover some gradations between chains and anarchy. Chains need not be put upon those who will be restrained without them. This contest may end in the softer phrase of English superiority and American obedience. We are told, that the subjection of Americans may tend to the diminution of our own liberties; an event, which none but very perspicacious politicians are able to foresee. If slavery be thus fatally contagious, how is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of negroes? But let us interrupt awhile this dream of conquest, settlement, and supremacy. Let us remember, that being to contend, according to one orator, with three millions of whigs, and, according to another, with ninety thousand patriots of Massachusetts bay, we may possibly be checked in our career of reduction. We may be reduced to peace upon equal terms, or driven from the western continent, and forbidden to violate, a second time, the happy borders of the land of liberty. The time is now, perhaps, at hand, which sir Thomas Browne predicted, between jest and earnest: "When America should no more send out her treasure, But spend it at home in American pleasure." If we are allowed, upon our defeat, to stipulate conditions, I hope the treaty of Boston will permit us to import into the confederated cantons such products as they do not raise, and such manufactures as they do not make, and cannot buy cheaper from other nations, paying, like others, the appointed customs; that, if an English ship salutes a fort with four guns, it shall be answered, at least, with two; and that, if an Englishman be inclined to hold a plantation, he shall only take an oath of allegiance to the reigning powers, and be suffered, while he lives inoffensively, to retain his own opinion of English rights, unmolested in his conscience by an oath of abjuration. LIVES OF EMINENT PERSONS. FATHER PAUL SARPI [33]. Father Paul, whose name, before he entered into the monastick life, was Peter Sarpi, was born at Venice, August 14, 1552. His father followed merchandise, but with so little success, that, at his death, he left his family very ill provided for; but under the care of a mother, whose piety was likely to bring the blessings of providence upon them, and whose wise conduct supplied the want of fortune by advantages of greater value. Happily for young Sarpi, she had a brother, master of a celebrated school, under whose direction he was placed by her. Here he lost no time; but cultivated his abilities, naturally of the first rate, with unwearied application. He was born for study, having a natural aversion to pleasure and gaiety, and a memory so tenacious, that he could repeat thirty verses upon once hearing them. Proportionable to his capacity was his progress in literature: at thirteen, having made himself master of school-learning, he turned his studies to philosophy and the mathematicks; and entered upon logick, under Capella, of Cremona; who, though a celebrated master of that science, confessed himself, in a very little time, unable to give his pupil further instructions. As Capella was of the order of the Servites, his scholar was induced, by his acquaintance with him, to engage in the same profession, though his uncle and his mother represented to him the hardships and austerities of that kind of life, and advised him, with great zeal, against it. But he was steady in his resolutions, and, in 1566, took the habit of the order, being then only in his fourteenth year, a time of life, in most persons, very improper for such engagements; but, in him, attended with such maturity of thought, and such a settled temper, that he never seemed to regret the choice he then made, and which he confirmed by a solemn publick profession, in 1572. At a general chapter of the Servites, held at Mantua, Paul, for so we shall now call him, being then only twenty years old, distinguished himself so much, in a publick disputation, by his genius and learning, that William, duke of Mantua, a great patron of letters, solicited the consent of his superiours to retain him at his court; and not only made him publick professor of divinity in the cathedral, but honoured him with many proofs of his esteem. But father Paul, finding a court life not agreeable to his temper, quitted it two years afterwards, and retired to his beloved privacies, being then not only acquainted with the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Chaldee languages, but with philosophy, the mathematicks, canon and civil law, all parts of natural philosophy, and chymistry itself; for his application was unremitted, his head clear, his apprehension quick, and his memory retentive. Being made a priest, at twenty-two, he was distinguished by the illustrious cardinal Borromeo with his confidence, and employed by him, on many occasions, not without the envy of persons of less merit, who were so far exasperated as to lay a charge against him, before the inquisition, for denying that the trinity could be proved from the first chapter of Genesis; but the accusation was too ridiculous to be taken notice of. After this, he passed successively through the dignities of his order, and, in the intervals of his employment, applied himself to his studies with so extensive a capacity, as left no branch of knowledge untouched. By him Acquapendente, the great anatomist, confesses, that he was informed how vision is performed; and there are proofs, that he was not a stranger to the circulation of the blood. He frequently conversed upon astronomy with mathematicians; upon anatomy with surgeons; upon medicine with physicians; and with chymists upon the analysis of metals, not as a superficial inquirer, but as a complete master. But the hours of repose, that he employed so well, were interrupted by a new information in the inquisition, where a former acquaintance produced a letter, written by him, in ciphers, in which he said, "that he detested the court of Rome, and that no preferment was obtained there, but by dishonest means." This accusation, however dangerous, was passed over, on account of his great reputation, but made such impression on that court, that he was afterward denied a bishoprick by Clement the eighth. After these difficulties were surmounted, father Paul again retired to his solitude, where he appears, by some writings drawn up by him at that time, to have turned his attention more to improvements in piety than learning. Such was the care with which he read the scriptures, that, it being his custom to draw a line under any passage which he intended more nicely to consider, there was not a single word in his New Testament but was underlined; the same marks of attention appeared in his Old Testament, Psalter, and Breviary. But the most active scene of his life began about the year 1615, when pope Paul the fifth, exasperated by some decrees of the senate of Venice, that interfered with the pretended rights of the church, laid the whole state under an interdict. The senate, filled with indignation at this treatment, forbade the bishops to receive or publish the pope's bull; and, convening the rectors of the churches, commanded them to celebrate divine service in the accustomed manner, with which most of them readily complied; but the jesuits, and some others, refusing, were, by a solemn edict, expelled the state. Both parties having proceeded to extremities, employed their ablest writers to defend their measures: on the pope's side, among others, cardinal Bellarmine entered the lists, and, with his confederate authors, defended the papal claims, with great scurrility of expression, and very sophistical reasonings, which were confuted by the Venetian apologists, in much more decent language, and with much greater solidity of argument. On this occasion father Paul was most eminently distinguished, by his Defence of the Rights of the Supreme Magistrate; his treatise of Excommunications, translated from Gerson, with an Apology, and other writings, for which he was cited before the inquisition at Rome; but it may be easily imagined that he did not obey the summons. The Venetian writers, whatever might be the abilities of their adversaries, were, at least, superiour to them in the justice of their cause. The propositions maintained on the side of Rome were these: that the pope is invested with all the authority of heaven and earth: that all princes are his vassals, and that he may annul their laws at pleasure: that kings may appeal to him, as he is temporal monarch of the whole earth: that he can discharge subjects from their oaths of allegiance, and make it their duty to take up arms against their sovereign: that he may depose kings without any fault committed by them, if the good of the church requires it: that the clergy are exempt from all tribute to kings, and are not accountable to them, even in cases of high treason: that the pope cannot err; that his decisions are to be received and obeyed on pain of sin, though all the world should judge them to be false; that the pope is God upon earth; that his sentence and that of God are the same; and that to call his power in question, is to call in question the power of God; maxims equally shocking, weak, pernicious, and absurd; which did not require the abilities or learning of father Paul, to demonstrate their falsehood, and destructive tendency. It may be easily imagined, that such principles were quickly overthrown, and that no court, but that of Rome, thought it for its interest to favour them. The pope, therefore, finding his authors confuted, and his cause abandoned, was willing to conclude the affair by treaty, which, by the mediation of Henry the fourth of France, was accommodated upon terms very much to the honour of the Venetians. But the defenders of the Venetian rights were, though comprehended in the treaty, excluded by the Romans from the benefit of it; some, upon different pretences, were imprisoned, some sent to the galleys, and all debarred from preferment. But their malice was chiefly aimed against father Paul, who soon found the effects of it; for, as he was going one night to his convent, about six months after the accommodation, he was attacked by five ruffians, armed with stilettoes, who gave him no less than fifteen stabs, three of which wounded him in such a manner, that he was left for dead. The murderers fled for refuge to the nuncio, and were afterwards received into the pope's dominions, but were pursued by divine justice, and all, except one man who died in prison, perished by violent deaths. This and other attempts upon his life, obliged him to confine himself to his convent, where he engaged in writing the history of the council of Trent, a work unequalled for the judicious disposition of the matter, and artful texture of the narration, commended by Dr. Burnet, as the completest model of historical writing, and celebrated by Mr. Wotton, as equivalent to any production of antiquity; in which the reader finds "liberty without licentiousness, piety without hypocrisy, freedom of speech without neglect of decency, severity without rigour, and extensive learning without ostentation." In this and other works of less consequence, he spent the remaining part of his life, to the beginning of the year 1622, when he was seized with a cold and fever, which he neglected, till it became incurable. He languished more than twelve months, which he spent almost wholly in a preparation for his passage into eternity; and, among his prayers and aspirations, was often heard to repeat, "Lord! now let thy servant depart in peace." On Sunday, the eighth of January of the next year, he rose, weak as he was, to mass, and went to take his repast with the rest; but, on Monday, was seized with a weakness that threatened immediate death; and, on Thursday, prepared for his change, by receiving the viaticum with such marks of devotion, as equally melted and edified the beholders. Through the whole course of his illness, to the last hour of his life, he was consulted by the senate in publick affairs, and returned answers, in his greatest weakness, with such presence of mind, as could only arise from the consciousness of innocence. On Sunday, the day of his death, he had the passion of our blessed saviour read to him out of St. John's gospel, as on every other day of that week, and spoke of the mercy of his redeemer, and his confidence in his merits. As his end evidently approached, the brethren of the convent came to pronounce the last prayers, with which he could only join in his thoughts, being able to pronounce no more than these words, "Esto perpetua," mayst thou last for ever; which was understood to be a prayer for the prosperity of his country. Thus died father Paul, in the seventy-first year of his age; hated by the Romans, as their most formidable enemy, and honoured by all the learned for his abilities, and by the good for his integrity. His detestation of the corruption of the Roman church appears in all his writings, but particularly in this memorable passage of one of his letters: "There is nothing more essential than to ruin the reputation of the jesuits; by the ruin of the jesuits, Rome will be ruined; and if Rome is ruined, religion will reform of itself." He appears, by many passages of his life, to have had a high esteem of the church of England; and his friend, father Fulgentio, who had adopted all his notions, made no scruple of administering to Dr. Duncomb, an English gentleman that fell sick at Venice, the communion in both kinds, according to the Common Prayer, which he had with him in Italian. He was buried with great pomp, at the publick charge, and a magnificent monument was erected, to his memory. BOERHAAVE. The following account of the late Dr. Boerhaave, so loudly celebrated, and so universally lamented through the whole learned world, will, we hope, be not unacceptable to our readers: we could have made it much larger, by adopting flying reports, and inserting unattested facts: a close adherence to certainty has contracted our narrative, and hindered it from swelling to that bulk, at which modern histories generally arrive. Dr. Herman Boerhaave was born on the last day of December, 1668, about one in the morning, at Voorhout, a village two miles distant from Leyden: his father, James Boerhaave, was minister of Voorhout, of whom his son [34], in a small account of his own life, has given a very amiable character, for the simplicity and openness of his behaviour, for his exact frugality in the management of a narrow fortune, and the prudence, tenderness, and diligence, with which he educated a numerous family of nine children: he was eminently skilled in history and genealogy, and versed in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages. His mother was Hagar Daelder, a tradesman's daughter of Amsterdam, from whom he might, perhaps, derive an hereditary inclination to the study of physick, in which she was very inquisitive, and had obtained a knowledge of it, not common in female students. This knowledge, however, she did not live to communicate to her son; for she died, in 1673, ten years after her marriage. His father, finding himself encumbered with the care of seven children, thought it necessary to take a second wife, and in July, 1674, was married to Eve du Bois, daughter of a minister of Leyden, who, by her prudent and impartial conduct, so endeared herself to her husband's children, that they all regarded her as their own mother. Herman Boerhaave was always designed, by his father, for the ministry, and, with that view, instructed by him in grammatical learning, and the first elements of languages; in which he made such a proficiency, that he was, at the age of eleven years, not only master of the rules of grammar, but capable of translating with tolerable accuracy, and not wholly ignorant of critical niceties. At intervals, to recreate his mind and strengthen his constitution, it was his father's custom to send him into the fields, and employ him in agriculture, and such kind of rural occupations, which he continued, through all his life, to love and practise; and, by this vicissitude of study and exercise, preserved himself, in a great measure, from those distempers and depressions, which are frequently the consequences of indiscreet diligence and uninterrupted application; and from which students, not well acquainted with the constitution of the human body, sometimes fly for relief, to wine instead of exercise, and purchase temporary ease, by the hazard of the most dreadful consequences. The studies of young Boerhaave were, about this time, interrupted by an accident, which deserves a particular mention, as it first inclined him to that science, to which he was, by nature, so well adapted, and which he afterwards carried to so great perfection. In the twelfth year of his age, a stubborn, painful, and malignant ulcer, broke out upon his left thigh; which, for near five years, defeated all the art of the surgeons and physicians, and not only afflicted him with most excruciating pains, but exposed him to such sharp and tormenting applications, that the disease and remedies were equally insufferable. Then it was, that his own pain taught him to compassionate others, and his experience of the inefficacy of the methods then in use, incited him to attempt the discovery of others more certain. He began to practise, at least, honestly, for he began upon himself; and his first essay was a prelude to his future success, for having laid aside all the prescriptions of his physicians, and all the applications of his surgeons, he at last, by tormenting the part with salt and urine, effected a cure. That he might, on this occasion, obtain the assistance of surgeons with less inconvenience and expense, he was brought, by his father, at fourteen, to Leyden, and placed in the fourth class of the publick school, after being examined by the master: here his application and abilities were equally conspicuous. In six months, by gaining the first prize in the fourth class, he was raised to the fifth; and, in six months more, upon the same proof of the superiority of his genius, rewarded with another prize, and translated to the sixth; from whence it is usual, in six months more, to be removed to the university. Thus did our young student advance in learning and reputation, when, as he was within view of the university, a sudden and unexpected blow threatened to defeat all his expectations. On the 12th of November, in 1682, his father died, and left behind him a very slender provision for his widow, and nine children, of which the eldest was not yet seventeen years old. This was a most afflicting loss to the young scholar, whose fortune was by no means sufficient to bear the expenses of a learned education, and who, therefore, seemed to be now summoned, by necessity, to some way of life more immediately and certainly lucrative; but, with a resolution equal to his abilities, and a spirit not so depressed and shaken, he determined to break through the obstacles of poverty, and supply, by diligence, the want of fortune. He, therefore, asked, and obtained the consent of his guardians, to prosecute his studies, so long as his patrimony would support him; and, continuing his wonted industry, gained another prize. He was now to quit the school for the university, but on account of the weakness yet remaining in his thigh, was, at his own entreaty, continued six months longer under the care of his master, the learned Winschotan, where he was once more honoured with the prize. At his removal to the university, the same genius and industry met with the same encouragement and applause. The learned Triglandius, one of his father's friends, made soon after professor of divinity at Leyden, distinguished him in a particular manner, and recommended him to the friendship of Mr. Van Apphen, in whom he found a generous and constant patron. He became now a diligent hearer of the most celebrated professors, and made great advances in all the sciences, still regulating his studies with a view, principally, to divinity, for which he was originally intended by his father; and, for that reason, exerted his utmost application to attain an exact knowledge of the Hebrew tongue. Being convinced of the necessity of mathematical learning, he began to study those sciences in 1687, but without that intense industry with which the pleasure he found in that kind of knowledge, induced him afterwards to cultivate them. In 1690, having performed the exercises of the university with uncommon reputation, he took his degree in philosophy; and, on that occasion, discussed the important and arduous subject of the distinct natures of the soul and body, with such-accuracy, perspicuity, and subtilty, that he entirely confuted all the sophistry of Epicurus, Hobbes, and Spinosa, and equally raised the characters of his piety and erudition. Divinity was still his great employment, and the chief aim of all his studies. He read the scriptures in their original languages; and when difficulties occurred, consulted the interpretations of the most ancient fathers, whom he read in order of time, beginning with Clemens Romanus. In the perusal of those early writers [35], he was struck with the profoundest veneration of the simplicity and purity of their doctrines, the holiness of their lives, and the sanctity of the discipline practised by them; but, as he descended to the lower ages, found the peace of Christianity broken by useless controversies, and its doctrines sophisticated by the subtilties of the schools: he found the holy writers interpreted according to the notions of philosophers, and the chimeras of metaphysicians adopted as articles of faith: he found difficulties raised by niceties, and fomented to bitterness and rancour: he saw the simplicity of the christian doctrine corrupted by the private fancies of particular parties, while each adhered to its own philosophy, and orthodoxy was confined to the sect in power. Having now exhausted his fortune in the pursuit of his studies, he found the necessity of applying to some profession, that, without engrossing all his time, might enable him to support himself; and having obtained a very uncommon knowledge of the mathematicks, he read lectures in those sciences to a select number of young gentlemen in the university. At length, his propension to the study of physick grew too violent to be resisted; and, though he still intended to make divinity the great employment of his life, he could not deny himself the satisfaction of spending some time upon the medical writers, for the perusal of which he was so well qualified by his acquaintance with the mathematicks and philosophy. But this science corresponded so much with his natural genius, that he could not forbear making that his business, which he intended only as his diversion; and still growing more eager, as he advanced further, he at length determined wholly to master that profession, and to take his degree in physick, before he engaged in the duties of the ministry. It is, I believe, a very just observation, that men's ambition is, generally, proportioned to their capacity. Providence seldom sends any into the world with an inclination to attempt great things, who have not abilities, likewise, to perform them. To have formed the design of gaining a complete knowledge of medicine, by way of digression from theological studies, would have been little less than madness in most men, and would have only exposed them to ridicule and contempt. But Boerhaave was one of those mighty geniuses, to whom scarce any thing appears impossible, and who think nothing worthy of their efforts, but what appears insurmountable to common understandings. He began this new course of study by a diligent perusal of Vesalius, Bartholine, and Fallopius; and, to acquaint himself more fully with the structure of bodies, was a constant attendant upon Nuck's publick dissections in the theatre, and himself very accurately inspected the bodies of different animals. Having furnished himself with this preparatory knowledge, he began to read the ancient physicians, in the order of time, pursuing his inquiries downwards, from Hippocrates through all the Greek and Latin writers. Finding, as he tells us himself, that Hippocrates was the original source of all medical knowledge, and that all the later writers were little more than transcribers from him, he returned to him with more attention, and spent much time in making extracts from him, digesting his treatises into method, and fixing them in his memory. He then descended to the moderns, among whom none engaged him longer, or improved him more, than Sydenham, to whose merit he has left this attestation, "that he frequently perused him, and always with greater eagerness." His insatiable curiosity after knowledge engaged him now in the practice of chymistry, which he prosecuted with all the ardour of a philosopher, whose industry was not to be wearied, and whose love of truth was too strong to suffer him to acquiesce in the reports of others. Yet did he not suffer one branch of science to withdraw his attention from others: anatomy did not withhold him from chymistry, nor chymistry, enchanting as it is, from the study of botany, in which he was no less skilled than in other parts of physick. He was not only a careful examiner of all the plants in the garden of the university, but made excursions, for his further improvement, into the woods and fields, and left no place unvisited, where any increase of botanical knowledge could be reasonably hoped for. In conjunction with all these inquiries, he still pursued his theological studies, and still, as we are informed by himself, "proposed, when he had made himself master of the whole art of physick, and obtained the honour of a degree in that science, to petition regularly for a license to preach, and to engage in the cure of souls;" and intended, in his theological exercise, to discuss this question, "why so many were formerly converted to Christianity by illiterate persons, and so few at present by men of learning." In pursuance of this plan he went to Hardewich, in order to take the degree of doctor in physick, which he obtained in July, 1693, having performed a publick disputation, "de utilitate explorandorum excrementorum in aegris, ut signorum." Then returning to Leyden, full of his pious design of undertaking the ministry, he found, to his surprise, unexpected obstacles thrown in his way, and an insinuation dispersed through the university, that made him suspected, not of any slight deviation from received opinions, not of any pertinacious adherence to his own notions in doubtful and disputable matters, but of no less than Spinosism, or, in plainer terms, of atheism itself. How so injurious a report came to be raised, circulated, and credited, will be, doubtless, very eagerly inquired; we shall, therefore, give the relation, not only to satisfy the curiosity of mankind, but to show that no merit, however exalted, is exempt from being not only attacked, but wounded, by the most contemptible whispers. Those who cannot strike with force, can, however, poison their weapon, and, weak as they are, give mortal wounds, and bring a hero to the grave; so true is that observation, that many are able to do hurt, but few to do good. This detestable calumny owed its rise to an incident, from which no consequence of importance could be possibly apprehended. As Boerhaave was sitting in a common boat, there arose a conversation among the passengers, upon the impious and pernicious doctrine of Spinosa, which, as they all agreed, tends to the utter overthrow of all religion. Boerhaave sat, and attended silently to this discourse for some time, till one of the company, willing to distinguish himself by his zeal, instead of confuting the positions of Spinosa by argument, began to give a loose to contumelious language, and virulent invectives, which Boerhaave was so little pleased with, that, at last, he could not forbear asking him, whether he had ever read the author he declaimed against. The orator, not being able to make much answer, was checked in the midst of his invectives, but not without feeling a secret resentment against the person who had, at once, interrupted his harangue, and exposed his ignorance. This was observed by a stranger who was in the boat with them; he inquired of his neighbour the name of the young man, whose question had put an end to the discourse, and having learned it, set it down in his pocket-book, as it appears, with a malicious design, for in a few days it was the common conversation at Leyden, that Boerhaave had revolted to Spinosa. It was in vain that his advocates and friends pleaded his learned and unanswerable confutation of all atheistical opinions, and particularly of the system of Spinosa, in his discourse of the distinction between soul and body. Such calumnies are not easily suppressed, when they are once become general. They are kept alive and supported by the malice of bad, and, sometimes, by the zeal of good men, who, though they do not absolutely believe them, think it yet the securest method to keep not only guilty, but suspected men out of publick employments, upon this principle, that the safety of many is to be preferred before the advantage of few. Boerhaave, finding this formidable opposition raised against his pretensions to ecclesiastical honours or preferments, and even against his design of assuming the character of a divine, thought it neither necessary nor prudent to struggle with the torrent of popular prejudice, as he was equally qualified for a profession, not, indeed, of equal dignity or importance, but which must, undoubtedly, claim the second place among those which are of the greatest benefit to mankind. He, therefore, applied himself to his medical studies with new ardour and alacrity, reviewed all his former observations and inquiries, and was continually employed in making new acquisitions. Having now qualified himself for the practice of physick, he began to visit patients, but without that encouragement which others, not equally deserving, have sometimes met with. His business was, at first, not great, and his circumstances by no means easy; but still, superiour to any discouragement, he continued his search after knowledge, and determined that prosperity, if ever he was to enjoy it, should be the consequence not of mean art, or disingenuous solicitations, but of real merit, and solid learning. His steady adherence to his resolutions appears yet more plainly from this circumstance: he was, while he yet remained in this unpleasing situation, invited by one of the first favourites of king William the third, to settle at the Hague, upon very advantageous conditions; but declined the offer; for having no ambition but after knowledge, he was desirous of living at liberty, without any restraint upon his looks, his thoughts, or his tongue, and at the utmost distance from all contentions and state-parties. His time was wholly taken up in visiting the sick, studying, ntaking chymical experiments, searching into every part of medicine with the utmost diligence, teaching the mathematicks, and reading the scriptures, and those authors who profess to teach a certain method of loving God [36]. This was his method of living to the year 1701, when he was recommended, by Van Berg, to the university, as a proper person to succeed Drelincurtius in the professorship of physick, and elected, without any solicitations on his part, and almost without his consent, on the 18th of May. On this occasion, having observed, with grief, that Hippocrates, whom he regarded not only as the father, but as the prince of physicians, was not sufficiently read or esteemed by young students, he pronounced an oration, "de commendando studio Hippocratico;" by which he restored that great author to his just and ancient reputation. He now began to read publick lectures with great applause, and was prevailed upon, by his audience, to enlarge his original design, and instruct them in chymistry. This he undertook, not only to the great advantage of his pupils, but to the great improvement of the art itself, which had, hitherto, been treated only in a confused and irregular manner, and was little more than a history of particular experiments, not reduced to certain principles, nor connected one with another: this vast chaos he reduced to order, and made that clear and easy, which was before, to the last degree, difficult and obscure. His reputation now began to bear some proportion to his merit, and extended itself to distant universities; so that, in 1703, the professorship of physick being vacant at Groningen, he was invited thither; but he refused to leave Leyden, and chose to continue his present course of life. This invitation and refusal being related to the governours of the university of Leyden, they had so grateful a sense of his regard for them, that they immediately voted an honorary increase of his salary, and promised him the first professorship that should be vacant. On this occasion he pronounced an oration upon the use of mechanicks in the science of physick, in which he endeavoured to recommend a rational and mathematical inquiry into the causes of diseases, and the structure of bodies; and to show the follies and weaknesses of the jargon introduced by Paracelsus, Helmont, and other chymical enthusiasts, who have obtruded upon the world the most airy dreams, and, instead of enlightening their readers with explications of nature, have darkened the plainest appearances, and bewildered mankind in errour and obscurity. Boerhaave had now for nine years read physical lectures, but without the title or dignity of a professor, when, by the death of professor Hotten, the professorship of physick and botany fell to him of course. On this occasion he asserted the simplicity and facility of the science of physick, in opposition to those that think obscurity contributes to the dignity of learning, and that to be admired it is necessary not to be understood. His profession of botany made it part of his duty to superintend the physical garden, which improved so much by the immense number of new plants which he procured, that it was enlarged to twice its original extent. In 1714, he was deservedly advanced to the highest dignities of the university, and, in the same year, made physician of St. Augustin's hospital in Leyden, into which the students are admitted twice a week, to learn the practice of physick. This was of equal advantage to the sick and to the students, for the success of his practice was the best demonstration of the soundness of his principles. When he laid down his office of governour of the university, in 1715, he made an oration upon the subject of "attaining to certainty in natural philosophy;" in which he declares, in the strongest terms, in favour of experimental knowledge; and reflects, with just severity, upon those arrogant philosophers, who are too easily disgusted with the slow methods of obtaining true notions by frequent experiments; and who, possessed with too high an opinion of their own abilities, rather choose to consult their own imaginations, than inquire into nature, and are better pleased with the charming amusement of forming hypotheses, than the toilsome drudgery of making observations. The emptiness and uncertainty of all those systems, whether venerable for their antiquity, or agreeable for their novelty, he has evidently shown; and not only declared, but proved, that we are entirely ignorant of the principles of things, and that all the knowledge we have, is of such qualities alone as are discoverable by experience, or such as may be deduced from them by mathematical demonstration. This discourse, filled as it was with piety, and a true sense of the greatness of the supreme being, and the incomprehensibility of his works, gave such offence to a professor of Franeker, who professed the utmost esteem for Des Cartes, and considered his principles as the bulwark of orthodoxy, that he appeared in vindication of his darling author, and spoke of the injury done him with the utmost vehemence, declaring little less than that the cartesian system and the Christian must inevitably stand and fall together; and that to say that we were ignorant of the principles of things, was not only to enlist among the skepticks, but to sink into atheism itself. So far can prejudice darken the understanding, as to make it consider precarious systems as the chief support of sacred and invariable truth. This treatment of Boerhaave was so far resented by the governours of his university, that they procured from Franeker a recantation of the invective that had been thrown out against him: this was not only complied with, but offers were made him of more ample satisfaction; to which he returned an answer not less to his honour than the victory he gained, "that he should think himself sufficiently compensated, if his adversary received no further molestation on his account." So far was this weak and injudicious attack from shaking a reputation not casually raised by fashion or caprice, but founded upon solid merit, that the same year his correspondence was desired upon botany and natural philosophy by the academy of sciences at Paris, of which he was, upon the death of count Marsigli, in the year 1728, elected a member. Nor were the French the only nation by which this great man was courted and distinguished; for, two years after, he was elected fellow of our Royal society. It cannot be doubted but, thus caressed and honoured with the highest and most publick marks of esteem by other nations, he became more celebrated in the university; for Boerhaave was not one of those learned men, of whom the world has seen too many, that disgrace their studies by their vices, and, by unaccountable weaknesses, make themselves ridiculous at home, while their writings procure them the veneration of distant countries, where their learning is known, but not their follies. Not that his countrymen can be charged with being insensible of his excellencies, till other nations taught them to admire him; for, in 1718, he was chosen to succeed Le Mort in the professorship of chymistry; on which occasion he pronounced an oration, "De chemia errores suos expurgante," in which he treated that science with an elegance of style not often to be found in chymical writers, who seem generally to have affected, not only a barbarous, but unintelligible phrase, and to have, like the Pythagoreans of old, wrapt up their secrets in symbols and enigmatical expressions, either because they believed that mankind would reverence most what they least understood, or because they wrote not from benevolence, but vanity, and were desirous to be praised for their knowledge, though they could not prevail upon themselves to communicate it. In 1722, his course, both of lectures and practice, was interrupted by the gout, which, as he relates it in his speech after his recovery, he brought upon himself, by an imprudent confidence in the strength of his own constitution, and by transgressing those rules which he had a thousand times inculcated to his pupils and acquaintance. Rising in the morning before day, he went immediately, hot and sweating, from his bed into the open air, and exposed himself to the cold dews. The history of his illness can hardly be read without horrour: he was for five months confined to his bed, where he lay upon his back without daring to attempt the least motion, because any effort renewed his torments, which were so exquisite, that he was, at length, not only deprived of motion but of sense. Here art was at a stand; nothing could be attempted, because nothing-could be proposed with the least prospect of success. At length, having, in the sixth month of his illness, obtained some remission, he took simple medicines [37] in large quantities, and, at length, wonderfully recovered. His recovery, so much desired, and so unexpected, was celebrated on Jan. 11, 1723, when he opened his school again, with general joy and publick illuminations. It would be an injury to the memory of Boerhaave, not to mention what was related by himself to one of his friends, that when he lay whole days and nights without sleep, he found no method of diverting his thoughts so effectual, as meditation upon his studies, and that he often relieved and mitigated the sense of his torments, by the recollection of what he had read, and by reviewing those stores of knowledge, which he had reposited in his memory. This is, perhaps, an instance of fortitude and steady composure of mind, which would have been for ever the boast of the stoick schools, and increased the reputation of Seneca or Cato. The patience of Boerhaave, as it was more rational, was more lasting than theirs; it was that "patientia Christiana," which Lipsius, the great master of the stoical philosophy, begged of God in his last hours; it was founded on religion, not vanity, not on vain reasonings, but on confidence in God. In 1727, he was seized with a violent burning fever, which continued so long, that he was once more given up by his friends. From this time he was frequently afflicted with returns of his distemper, which yet did not so far subdue him, as to make him lay aside his studies or his lectures, till, in 1726, he found himself so worn out, that it was improper for him to continue any longer the professorships of botany or chymistry, which he, therefore, resigned, April 28, and, upon his resignation, spoke a "Sermo academicus," or oration, in which he asserts the power and wisdom of the creator from the wonderful fabrick of the human body; and confutes all those idle reasoners, who pretend to explain the formation of parts, or the animal operations, to which he proves, that art can produce nothing equal, nor any thing parallel. One instance I shall mention, which is produced by him, of the vanity of any attempt to rival the work of God. Nothing is more boasted by the admirers of chymistry, than that they can, by artificial heats and digestion, imitate the productions of nature. "Let all these heroes of science meet together," says Boerhaave; "let them take bread and wine, the food that forms the blood of man, and, by assimilation, contributes to the growth of the body: let them try all their arts, they shall not be able, from these materials, to produce a single drop of blood. So much is the most common act of nature beyond the utmost efforts of the most extended science!" From this time Boerhaave lived with less publick employment, indeed, but not an idle or an useless life; for, besides his hours spent in instructing his scholars, a great part of his time was taken up by patients, which came, when the distemper would admit it, from all parts of Europe to consult him, or by letters which, in more urgent cases, were continually sent to inquire his opinion and ask his advice. Of his sagacity, and the wonderful penetration with which he often discovered and described, at first sight of a patient, such distempers as betray themselves by no symptoms to common eyes, such wonderful relations have been spread over the world, as, though attested beyond doubt, can scarcely be credited. I mention none of them, because I have no opportunity of collecting testimonies, or distinguishing between those accounts which are well proved, and those which owe their rise to fiction and credulity. Yet I cannot but implore, with the greatest earnestness, such as have been conversant with this great man, that they will not so far neglect the common interest of mankind, as to suffer any of these circumstances to be lost to posterity. Men are generally idle, and ready to satisfy themselves, and intimidate the industry of others, by calling that impossible which is only difficult. The skill to which Boerhaave attained, by a long and unwearied observation of nature, ought, therefore, to be transmitted, in all its particulars, to future ages, that his successors may be ashamed to fall below him, and that none may hereafter excuse his ignorance, by pleading the impossibility of clearer knowledge. Yet so far was this great master from presumptuous confidence in his abilities, that, in his examinations of the sick, he was remarkably circumstantial and particular. He well knew that the originals of distempers are often at a distance from their visible effects; that to conjecture, where certainty may be obtained, is either vanity or negligence; and that life is not to be sacrificed, either to an affectation of quick discernment, or of crowded practice, but may be required, if trifled away, at the hand of the physician. About the middle of the year 1737, he felt the first approaches of that fatal illness that brought him to the grave, of which we have inserted an account, written by himself, Sept. 8, 1738, to a friend at London [38]; which deserves not only to be preserved, as an historical relation of the disease which deprived us of so great a man, but as a proof of his piety and resignation to the divine will. In this last illness, which was, to the last degree, lingering, painful, and afflictive, his constancy and firmness did not forsake him. He neither intermitted the necessary cares of life, nor forgot the proper preparations for death. Though dejection and lowness of spirits was, as he himself tells us, part of his distemper, yet even this, in some measure, gave way to that vigour, which the soul receives from a consciousness of innocence. About three weeks before his death he received a visit, at his country house, from the reverend Mr. Schultens, his intimate friend, who found him sitting without-door, with his wife, sister, and daughter: after the compliments of form, the ladies withdrew, and left them to private conversation; when Boerhaave took occasion to tell him what had been, during his illness, the chief subject of his thoughts. He had never doubted of the spiritual and immaterial nature of the soul; but declared that he had lately had a kind of experimental certainty of the distinction between corporeal and thinking substances, which mere reason and philosophy cannot afford, and opportunities of contemplating the wonderful and inexplicable union of soul and body, which nothing but long sickness can give. This he illustrated by a description of the effects which the infirmities of his body had upon his faculties, which yet they did not so oppress or vanquish, but his soul was always master of itself, and always resigned to the pleasure of its maker. He related, with great concern, that once his patience so far gave way to extremity of pain, that, after having lain fifteen hours in exquisite tortures, he prayed to God that he might be set free by death. Mr. Schultens, by way of consolation, answered, that he thought such wishes, when forced by continued and excessive torments, unavoidable in the present state of human nature; that the best men, even Job himself, were not able to refrain from such starts of impatience. This he did not deny; but said, "he that loves God, ought to think nothing desirable, but what is most pleasing to the supreme goodness." Such were his sentiments, and such his conduct, in this state of weakness and pain: as death approached nearer, he was so far from terrour or confusion, that he seemed even less sensible of pain, and more cheerful under his torments, which continued till the 23rd day of September, 1738, on which he died, between four and five in the morning, in the 70th year of his age. Thus died Boerhaave, a man formed by nature for great designs, and guided by religion in the exertion of his abilities. He was of a robust and athletick constitution of body, so hardened by early severities, and wholesome fatigue, that he was insensible of any sharpness of air, or inclemency of weather. He was tall, and remarkable for extraordinary strength. There was, in his air and motion, something rough and artless, but so majestick and great, at the same time, that no man ever looked upon him without veneration, and a kind of tacit submission to the superiority of his genius. The vigour and activity of his mind sparkled visibly in his eyes; nor was it ever observed, that any change of his fortune, or alteration in his affairs, whether happy or unfortunate, affected his countenance. He was always cheerful, and desirous of promoting mirth by a facetious and humorous conversation; he was never soured by calumny and detraction, nor ever thought it necessary to confute them; "for they are sparks," said he, "which, if you do not blow them, will go out of themselves." Yet he took care never to provoke enemies by severity of censure, for he never dwelt on the faults or defects of others, and was so far from inflaming the envy of his rivals, by dwelling on his own excellencies, that he rarely mentioned himself or his writings. He was not to be overawed or depressed by the presence, frowns, or insolence of great men, but persisted, on all occasions, in the right, with a resolution always present and always calm. He was modest, but not timorous, and firm without rudeness. He could, with uncommon readiness and certainty, make a conjecture of men's inclinations and capacity by their aspect. His method of life was to study in the morning and evening, and to allot the middle of the day to his publick business. His usual exercise was riding, till, in his latter years, his distempers made it more proper for him to walk: when he was weary, he amused himself with playing on the violin. His greatest pleasure was to retire to his house in the country, where he had a garden stored with all the herbs and trees which the climate would bear; here he used to enjoy his hours unmolested, and prosecute his studies without interruption. The diligence with which he pursued his studies, is sufficiently evident from his success. Statesmen and generals may grow great by unexpected accidents, and a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, neither procured nor foreseen by themselves; but reputation in the learned world must be the effect of industry and capacity. Boerhaave lost none of his hours, but, when he had attained one science, attempted another; he added physick to divinity, chymistry to the mathematicks, and anatomy to botany. He examined systems by experiments, and formed experiments into systems. He neither neglected the observations of others, nor blindly submitted to celebrated names. He neither thought so highly of himself, as to imagine he could receive no light from books, nor so meanly, as to believe he could discover nothing but what was to be learned from them. He examined the observations of other men, but trusted only to his own. Nor was he unacquainted with the art of recommending truth by elegance, and embellishing the philosopher with polite literature: he knew that but a small part of mankind will sacrifice their pleasure to their improvement, and those authors who would find many readers, must endeavour to please while they instruct. He knew the importance of his own writings to mankind, and lest he might, by a roughness and barbarity of style, too frequent among men of great learning, disappoint his own intentions, and make his labours less useful, he did not neglect the politer arts of eloquence and poetry. Thus was his learning, at once, various and exact, profound and agreeable. But his knowledge, however uncommon, holds, in his character, but the second place; his virtue was yet much more uncommon than his learning. He was an admirable example of temperance, fortitude, humility, and devotion. His piety, and a religious sense of his dependance on God, was the basis of all his virtues, and the principle of his whole conduct. He was too sensible of his weakness to ascribe any thing to himself, or to conceive that he could subdue passion, or withstand temptation, by his own natural power; he attributed every good thought, and every laudable action, to the father of goodness. Being once asked by a friend, who had often admired his patience under great provocations, whether he knew what it was to be angry, and by what means he had so entirely suppressed that impetuous and ungovernable passion, he answered, with the utmost frankness and sincerity, that he was naturally quick of resentment, but that he had, by daily prayer and meditation, at length attained to this mastery over himself. As soon as he arose in the morning, it was, throughout his whole life, his daily practice to retire for an hour to private prayer and meditation; this, he often told his friends, gave him spirit and vigour in the business of the day, and this he, therefore, commended, as the best rule of life; for nothing, he knew, could support the soul, in all distresses, but a confidence in the supreme being; nor can a steady and rational magnanimity flow from any other source than a consciousness of the divine favour. He asserted, on all occasions, the divine authority and sacred efficacy of the holy scriptures; and maintained that they alone taught the way of salvation, and that they only could give peace of mind. The excellency of the Christian religion was the frequent subject of his conversation. A strict obedience to the doctrine, and a diligent imitation of the example of our blessed saviour, he often declared to be the foundation of true tranquillity. He recommended to his friends a careful observation of the precept of Moses, concerning the love of God and man. He worshipped God as he is in himself, without attempting to inquire into his nature. He desired only to think of God, what God knows of himself. There he stopped, lest, by indulging his own ideas, he should form a deity from his own imagination, and sin by falling down before him. To the will of God he paid an absolute submission, without endeavouring to discover the reason of his determinations; and this he accounted the first and most inviolable duty of a Christian. When he heard of a criminal condemned to die, he used to think: Who can tell whether this man is not better than I? or, if I am better, it is not to be ascribed to myself, but to the goodness of God. Such were the sentiments of Boerhaave, whose words we have added in the note [39]. So far was this man from being made impious by philosophy, or vain by knowledge, or by virtue, that he ascribed all his abilities to the bounty, and all his goodness to the grace of God. May his example extend its influence to his admirers and followers! May those who study his writings imitate his life! and those who endeavour after his knowledge, aspire likewise to his piety! He married, September 17, 1710, Mary Drolenveaux, the only daughter of a burgomaster of Leyden, by whom he had Joanna Maria, who survived her father, and three other children, who died in their infancy. The works of this great writer are so generally known, and so highly esteemed, that, though it may not be improper to enumerate them in the order of time, in which they were published, it is wholly unnecessary to give any other account of them. He published, in 1707, Institutiones medicae; to which he added, in 1708, Aphorismi de cognoscendis et curandis morbis. 1710, Index stirpium in horto academico. 1719, De materia medica, et remediorum formulis liber; and, in 1727, a second edition. 1720, Alter index stirpium, &c. adorned with plates, and containing twice the number of plants as the former. 1722, Epistola ad cl. Ruischium, qua sententiam Malpighianam de glandulis defendit. 1724, Atrocis nee prius descripti morbi historia illustrissimi baronis Wassenariae. 1725, Opera anatomica et chirurgica Andreae Vesalii; with the life of Vesalius. 1728, Altera atrocis rarissimique morbi marchionis de Sancto Albano historia. Auctores de lue Aphrodisiaca, cum tractatu praefixo. 1731, Aretaei Cappadocis nova editio. 1732, Elementa Chemiae. 1734, Observata de argento vivo, ad Reg. Soc. et Acad. Scient. These are the writings of the great Boerhaave, which have made all encomiums useless and vain, since no man can attentively peruse them, without admiring the abilities, and reverencing the virtue of the author. [40] BLAKE. At a time when a nation is engaged in a war with an enemy, whose insults, ravages, and barbarities have long called for vengeance, an account of such English commanders as have merited the acknowledgments of posterity, by extending the powers, and raising the honour of their country, seems to be no improper entertainment for our readers [41]. We shall, therefore, attempt a succinct narration of the life and actions of admiral Blake, in which we have nothing further in view, than to do justice to his bravery and conduct, without intending any parallel between his achievements, and those of our present admirals. Robert Blake was born at Bridgewater, in Somersetshire, in August, 1598; his father being a merchant of that place, who had acquired a considerable fortune by the Spanish trade. Of his earliest years we have no account, and, therefore, can amuse the reader with none of those prognosticks of his future actions, so often met with in memoirs. In 1615, he entered into the university of Oxford, where he continued till 1623, though without being much countenanced or caressed by his superiours, for he was more than once disappointed in his endeavours after academical preferments. It is observable, that Mr. Wood, in his Athenæ Oxonieuses, ascribes the repulse he met with at Wadham college, where he was competitor for a fellowship, either to want of learning, or of stature. With regard to the first objection, the same writer had before informed us, that he was an early riser and studious, though he sometimes relieved his attention by the amusements of fowling and fishing. As it is highly probable that he did not want capacity, we may, therefore, conclude, upon this confession of his diligence, that he could not fail of being learned, at least, in the degree requisite to the enjoyment of a fellowship; and may safely ascribe his disappointment to his want of stature, it being the custom of sir Henry Savil [42], then warden of that college, to pay much regard to the outward appearance of those who solicited preferment in that society. So much do the greatest events owe sometimes to accident or folly! He afterwards retired to his native place, where "he lived," says Clarendon, "without any appearance of ambition to be a greater man than he was, but inveighed with great freedom against the license of the times, and power of the court." In 1640, he was chosen burgess for Bridgewater by the puritan party, to whom he had recommended himself by the disapprobation of bishop Laud's violence and severity, and his non-compliance with those new ceremonies, which he was then endeavouring to introduce. When the civil war broke out, Blake, in conformity with his avowed principles, declared for the parliament; and, thinking a bare declaration for right not all the duty of a good man, raised a troop of dragoons for his party, and appeared in the field with so much bravery, that he was, in a short time, advanced, without meeting any of those obstructions which he had encountered in the university. In 1645, he was governour of Tauntou, when the lord Goring came before it with an army of ten thousand men. The town was ill fortified, and unsupplied with almost every thing necessary for supporting a siege. The state of this garrison encouraged colonel Windham, who was acquainted with Blake, to propose a capitulation, which was rejected by Blake, with indignation and contempt; nor were either menaces or persuasions of any effect, for he maintained the place, under all its disadvantages, till the siege was raised by the parliament's army. He continued, on many other occasions, to give proofs of an insuperable courage, and a steadiness of resolution not to be shaken; and, as a proof of his firm adherence to the parliament, joined with the borough of Taunton, in returning thanks for their resolution to make no more addresses to the king. Yet was he so far from approving the death of Charles the first, that he made no scruple of declaring, that he would venture his life to save him, as willingly as he had done to serve the parliament. In February, 1648-9, he was made a commissioner of the navy, and appointed to serve on that element, for which he seems by nature to have been designed. He was soon afterwards sent in pursuit of prince Rupert, whom he shut up in the harbour of Kinsale, in Ireland, for several months, till want of provisions, and despair of relief, excited the prince to make a daring effort for his escape, by forcing through the parliament's fleet: this design he executed with his usual intrepidity, and succeeded in it, though with the loss of three ships. He was pursued by Blake to the coast of Portugal, where he was received into the Tagus, and treated with great distinction by the Portuguese. Blake, coming to the mouth of that river, sent to the king a messenger, to inform him, that the fleet, in his port, belonging to the publick enemies of the commonwealth of England, he demanded leave to fall upon it. This being refused, though the refusal was in very soft terms, and accompanied with declarations of esteem, and a present of provisions, so exasperated the admiral, that, without any hesitation, he fell upon the Portuguese fleet, then returning from Brasil, of which he took seventeen ships, and burnt three. It was to no purpose that the king of Portugal, alarmed at so unexpected a destruction, ordered prince Rupert to attack him, and retake the Brasil ships. Blake carried home his prizes without molestation, the prince not having force enough to pursue him, and well pleased with the opportunity of quitting a port, where he could no longer be protected. Blake soon supplied his fleet with provision, and received orders to make reprisals upon the French, who had suffered their privateers to molest the English trade; an injury which, in those days, was always immediately resented, and if not repaired, certainly punished. Sailing with this commission, he took in his way a French man of war, valued at a million. How this ship happened to be so rich, we are not informed; but as it was a cruiser, it is probable the rich lading was the accumulated plunder of many prizes. Then following the unfortunate Rupert, whose fleet, by storms and battles, was now reduced to five ships, into Carthagena, he demanded leave of the Spanish governour to attack him in the harbour, but received the same answer which had been returned before by the Portuguese: "That they had a right to protect all ships that came into their dominions; that, if the admiral were forced in thither, he should find the same security; and that he required him not to violate the peace of a neutral port." Blake withdrew, upon this answer, into the Mediterranean; and Rupert, then leaving Carthagena, entered the port of Malaga, where he burnt and sunk several English merchant ships. Blake, judging this to be an infringement of the neutrality professed by the Spaniards, now made no scruple to fall upon Rupert's fleet in the harbour of Malaga, and, having destroyed three of his ships, obliged him to quit the sea, and take sanctuary at the Spanish court. In February, 1650-1, Blake, still continuing to cruise in the Mediterranean, met a French ship of considerable force, and commanded the captain to come on board, there being no war declared between the two nations. The captain, when he came, was asked by him, "whether he was willing to lay down his sword, and yield," which he gallantly refused, though in his enemy's power. Blake, scorning to take advantage of an artifice, and detesting the appearance of treachery, told him, "that he was at liberty to go back to his ship, and defend it, as long as he could." The captain willingly accepted his offer, and, after a fight of two hours, confessed himself conquered, kissed his sword, and surrendered it. In 1652, broke out the memorable war between the two commonwealths of England and Holland; a war, in which the greatest admirals that, perhaps, any age has produced, were engaged on each side; in which nothing less was contested than the dominion of the sea, and which was carried on with vigour, animosity, and resolution, proportioned to the importance of the dispute. The chief commanders of the Dutch fleets were Van Trump, De Ruyter, and De Witt, the most celebrated names of their own nation, and who had been, perhaps, more renowned, had they been opposed by any other enemies. The states of Holland, having carried on their trade without opposition, and almost without competition, not only during the unactive reign of James the first, but during the commotions of England, had arrived to that height of naval power, and that affluence of wealth, that, with the arrogance which a long-continued prosperity naturally produces, they began to invent new claims, and to treat other nations with insolence, which nothing can defend, but superiority of force. They had for some time made uncommon preparations, at a vast expense, and had equipped a large fleet, without any apparent danger threatening them, or any avowed design of attacking their neighbours. This unusual armament was not beheld by the English without some jealousy, and care was taken to fit out such a fleet as might secure the trade from interruption, and the coasts from insults; of this Blake was constituted admiral for nine months. In this situation the two nations remained, keeping a watchful eye upon each other, without acting hostilities on either side, till the 18th of May, 1652, when Van Trump appeared in the Downs, with a fleet of forty-five men of war. Blake, who had then but twenty ships, upon the approach of the Dutch admiral, saluted him with three single shots, to require that he should, by striking his flag, show that respect to the English, which is due to every nation in their own dominions; to which the Dutchman answered with a broadside; and Blake, perceiving that he intended to dispute the point of honour, advanced with his own ship before the rest of his fleet, that, if it were possible, a general battle might be prevented. But the Dutch, instead of admitting him to treat, fired upon him from their whole fleet, without any regard to the customs of war, or the law of nations. Blake, for some time, stood alone against their whole force, till the rest of his squadron coming up, the fight was continued from between four and five in the afternoon, till nine at night, when the Dutch retired with the loss of two ships, having not destroyed a single vessel, nor more than fifteen men, most of which were on board the admiral, who, as he wrote to the parliament, was himself engaged for four hours with the main body of the Dutch fleet, being the mark at which they aimed; and, as Whitlock relates, received above a thousand shot. Blake, in his letter, acknowledges the particular blessing and preservation of God, and ascribes his success to the justice of his cause, the Dutch having first attacked him upon the English coast. It is, indeed, little less than miraculous, that a thousand great shot should not do more execution; and those who will not admit the interposition of providence, may draw, at least, this inference from it, that the bravest man is not always in the greatest danger. In July, he met the Dutch fishery fleet, with a convoy of twelve men of war, all which he took, with one hundred of their herring-busses. And, in September, being stationed in the Downs, with about sixty sail, he discovered the Dutch admirals, De Witt and De Ruyter, with near the same number, and advanced towards them; but the Dutch being obliged, by the nature of their coast, and shallowness of their rivers, to build their ships in such a manner, that they require less depth of water than the English vessels, took advantage of the form of their shipping, and sheltered themselves behind a flat, called Kentish Knock; so that the English, finding some of their ships aground, were obliged to alter their course; but perceiving, early the next morning, that the Hollanders had forsaken their station, they pursued them with all the speed that the wind, which was weak and uncertain, allowed, but found themselves unable to reach them with the bulk of their fleet, and, therefore, detached some of the lightest frigates to chase them. These came so near, as to fire upon them about three in the afternoon; but the Dutch, instead of tacking about, hoisted their sails, steered toward their own coast, and finding themselves, the next day, followed by the whole English fleet, retired into Goree. The sailors were eager to attack them in their own harbours; but a council of war being convened, it was judged imprudent to hazard the fleet upon the shoals, or to engage in any important enterprise, without a fresh supply of provisions. That, in this engagement, the victory belonged to the English, is beyond dispute, since, without the loss of one ship, and with no more than forty men killed, they drove the enemy into their own ports, took the rearadmiral and another vessel, and so discouraged the Dutch admirals, who had not agreed in their measures, that De Ruyter, who had declared against hazarding a battle, desired to resign his commission, and De Witt, who had insisted upon fighting, fell sick, as it was supposed, with vexation. But how great the loss of the Dutch was is not certainly known; that two ships were taken, they are too wise to deny, but affirm that those two were all that were destroyed. The English, on the other side, affirm, that three of their vessels were disabled at the first encounter, that their numbers on the second day were visibly diminished, and that on the last day they saw three or four ships sink in their flight. De Witt being now discharged by the Hollanders, as unfortunate, and the chief command restored to Van Trump, great preparations were made for retrieving their reputation, and repairing those losses. Their endeavours were assisted by the English themselves, now made factious by success; the men, who were intrusted with the civil administration, being jealous of those whose military commands had procured so much honour, lest they who raised them should be eclipsed by them. Such is the general revolution of affairs in every state; danger and distress produce unanimity and bravery, virtues which are seldom unattended with success; but success is the parent of pride, and pride of jealousy and faction; faction makes way for calamity, and happy is that nation whose calamities renew their unanimity. Such is the rotation of interests, that equally tend to hinder the total destruction of a people, and to obstruct an exorbitant increase of power. Blake had weakened his fleet by many detachments, and lay with no more than forty sail in the Downs, very ill provided both with men and ammunition, and expecting new supplies from those whose animosity hindered them from providing them, and who chose rather to see the trade of their country distressed, than the sea officers exalted by a new acquisition of honour and influence. Van Trump, desirous of distinguishing himself, at the resumption of his command, by some remarkable action, had assembled eighty ships of war, and ten fireships, and steered towards the Downs, where Blake, with whose condition and strength he was probably acquainted, was then stationed. Blake, not able to restrain his natural ardour, or, perhaps, not fully informed of the superiority of his enemies, put out to encounter them, though his fleet was so weakly manned, that half of his ships were obliged to lie idle without engaging, for want of sailors. The force of the whole Dutch fleet was, therefore, sustained by about twenty-two ships. Two of the English frigates, named the Vanguard and the Victory, after having, for a long time, stood engaged amidst the whole Dutch fleet, broke through without much injury, nor did the English lose any ships till the evening, when the Garland, carrying forty guns, was boarded, at once, by two great ships, which were opposed by the English, till they had scarcely any men left to defend the decks; then retiring into the lower part of the vessel, they blew up their decks, which were now possessed by the enemy, and, at length, were overpowered and taken. The Bonaventure, a stout well-built merchant ship, going to relieve the Garland, was attacked by a man of war, and, after a stout resistance, in which the captain, who defended her with the utmost bravery, was killed, was likewise carried off by the Dutch. Blake, in the Triumph, seeing the Garland in distress, pressed forward to relieve her, but in his way had his foremast shattered, and was himself boarded; but, beating off the enemies, he disengaged himself, and retired into the Thames, with the loss only of two ships of force, and four small frigates, but with his whole fleet much shattered. Nor was the victory gained at a cheap rate, notwithstanding the unusual disproportion of strength; for of the Dutch flagships, one was blown up, and the other two disabled; a proof of the English bravery, which should have induced Van Trump to have spared the insolence of carrying a broom at his top-mast, in his triumphant passage through the Channel, which he intended as a declaration, that he would sweep the seas of the English shipping; this, which he had little reason to think of accomplishing, he soon after perished in attempting. There are, sometimes, observations and inquiries, which all historians seem to decline by agreement, of which this action may afford us an example: nothing appears, at the first view, more to demand our curiosity, or afford matter for examination, than this wild encounter of twenty-two ships, with a force, according to their accounts who favour the Dutch, three times superiour. Nothing can justify a commander in fighting under such disadvantages, but the impossibility of retreating. But what hindered Blake from retiring, as well before the fight, as after it? To say he was ignorant of the strength of the Dutch fleet, is to impute to him a very criminal degree of negligence; and, at least, it must be confessed, that from the time he saw them, he could not but know that they were too powerful to be opposed by him, and even then there was time for retreat. To urge the ardour of his sailors, is to divest him of the authority of a commander, and to charge him with the most reproachful weakness that can enter into the character of a general. To mention the impetuosity of his own courage, is to make the blame of his temerity equal to the praise of his valour; which seems, indeed, to be the most gentle censure that the truth of history will allow. We must then admit, amidst our eulogies and applauses, that the great, the wise, and the valiant Blake, was once betrayed to an inconsiderate and desperate enterprise, by the resistless ardour of his own spirit, and a noble jealousy of the honour of his country. It was not long, before he had an opportunity of revenging his loss, and restraining the insolence of the Dutch. On the 18th of February, 1652-3, Blake, being at the head of eighty sail, and assisted, at his own request, by colonels Monk and Dean, espied Van Trump, with a fleet of above one hundred men of war, as Clarendon relates, of seventy by their own publick accounts, and three hundred merchant ships under his convoy. The English, with their usual intrepidity, advanced towards them; and Blake, in the Triumph, in which he always led his fleet, with twelve ships more, came to an engagement with the main body of the Dutch fleet, and by the disparity of their force was reduced to the last extremity, having received in his hull no fewer than seven hundred shots, when Lawson, in the Fairfax, came to his assistance. The rest of the English fleet now came in, and the fight was continued with the utmost degree of vigour and resolution, till the night gave the Dutch an opportunity of retiring, with the loss of one flagship, and six other men of war. The English had many vessels damaged, but none lost. On board Lawson's ship were killed one hundred men, and as many on board Blake's, who lost his captain and secretary, and himself received a wound in the thigh. Blake, having set ashore his wounded men, sailed in pursuit of Van Trump, who sent his convoy before, and himself retired fighting towards Bulloign. Blake ordered his light frigates to follow the merchants; still continued to harass Van Trump; and, on the third day, the 20th of February, the two fleets came to another battle, in which Van Trump once more retired before the English, and, making use of the peculiar form of his shipping, secured himself in the shoals. The accounts of this fight, as of all the others, are various; but the Dutch writers themselves confess, that they lost eight men of war, and more than twenty merchant ships; and, it is probable, that they suffered much more than they are willing to allow, for these repeated defeats provoked the common people to riots and insurrections, and obliged the states to ask, though ineffectually, for peace. In April following, the form of government in England was changed, and the supreme authority assumed by Cromwell; upon which occasion Blake, with his associates, declared that, notwithstanding the change in the administration, they should still be ready to discharge their trust, and to defend the nation from insults, injuries, and encroachments. "It is not," said Blake, "the business of a sea-man to mind state affairs, but to hinder foreigners from fooling us." This was the principle from which he never deviated, and which he always endeavoured to inculcate in the fleet, as the surest foundation of unanimity and steadiness. "Disturb not one another with domestick disputes, but remember that we are English, and our enemies are foreigners. Enemies! which, let what party soever prevail, it is equally the interest of our country to humble and restrain." After the 30th of April, 1653, Blake, Monk, and Dean sailed out of the English harbours with one hundred men of war, and finding the Dutch with seventy sail on their own coasts, drove them to the Texel, and took fifty doggers. Then they sailed northward in pursuit of Van Trump, who, having a fleet of merchants under his convoy, durst not enter the Channel, but steered towards the Sound, and, by great dexterity and address, escaped the three English admirals, and brought all his ships into their harbour; then, knowing that Blake was still in the north, came before Dover, and fired upon that town, but was driven off by the castle. Monk and Dean stationed themselves again at the mouth of the Texel, and blocked up the Dutch in their own ports with eighty sail; but hearing that Van Trump was at Goree, with one hundred and twenty men of war, they ordered all ships of force in the river and ports to repair to them. On June the 3rd, the two fleets came to an engagement, in the beginning of which Dean was carried off by a cannon-ball; yet the fight continued from about twelve to six in the afternoon, when the Dutch gave way, and retreated fighting. On the 4th, in the afternoon, Blake came up with eighteen fresh ships, and procured the English a complete victory; nor could the Dutch any otherwise preserve their ships than by retiring, once more, into the flats and shallows, where the largest of the English vessels could not approach. In this battle Van Trump boarded viceadmiral Penn; but was beaten off, and himself boarded, and reduced to blow up his decks, of which the English had got possession. He was then entered, at once, by Penn and another; nor could possibly have escaped, had not De Ruyter and De Witt arrived at that instant, and rescued him. However the Dutch may endeavour to extenuate their loss in this battle, by admitting no more than eight ships to have been taken or destroyed, it is evident that they must have received much greater damages, not only by the accounts of more impartial historians, but by the remonstrances and exclamations of their admirals themselves; Van Trump declaring before the states, that "without a numerous reinforcement of large men of war, he could serve them no more;" and De Witt crying out before them, with the natural warmth of his character: "Why should I be silent before my lords and masters? The English are our masters, and by consequence masters of the sea." In November, 1654, Blake was sent by Cromwell into the Mediterranean, with a powerful fleet, and may be said to have received the homage of all that part of the world, being equally courted by the haughty Spaniards, the surly Dutch, and the lawless Algerines. In March, 1656, having forced Algiers to submission, he entered the harbour of Tunis, and demanded reparation for the robberies practised upon the English by the pirates of that place, and insisted that the captives of his nation should be set at liberty. The governour, having planted batteries along the shore, and drawn up his ships under the castles, sent Blake an haughty and insolent answer: "there are our castles of Goletta and Porto Ferino," said he, "upon which you may do your worst;" adding other menaces and insults, and mentioning, in terms of ridicule, the inequality of a fight between ships and castles. Blake had, likewise, demanded leave to take in water, which was refused him. Fired with this inhuman and insolent treatment, he curled his whiskers, as was his custom when he was angry, and, entering Porto Ferino with his great ships, discharged his shot so fast upon the batteries and castles, that in two hours the guns were dismounted, and the works forsaken, though he was, at first, exposed to the fire of sixty cannon. He then ordered his officers to send out their long boats, well manned, to seize nine of the piratical ships lying in the road, himself continuing to fire upon the castle. This was so bravely executed, that, with the loss of only twenty-five men killed, and forty-eight wounded, all the ships were fired in the sight of Tunis. Thence sailing to Tripoli, he concluded a peace with that nation; then returning to Tunis, he found nothing but submission. And such, indeed, was his reputation, that he met with no further opposition, but collected a kind of tribute from the princes of those countries, his business being to demand reparation for all the injuries offered to the English during the civil wars. He exacted from the duke of Tuscany 60,000_l_. and, as it is said, sent home sixteen ships laden with the effects which he had received from several states. The respect with which he obliged all foreigners to treat his countrymen, appears from a story related by bishop Burnet. When he lay before Malaga, in a time of peace with Spain, some of his sailors went ashore, and meeting a procession of the host, not only refused to pay any respect to it, but laughed at those that did. The people, being put, by one of the priests, upon resenting this indignity, fell upon them and beat them severely. When they returned to their ship, they complained of their ill treatment; upon which Blake sent to demand the priest who had procured it. The viceroy answered that, having no authority over the priests, he could not send him: to which Blake replied, "that he did not inquire into the extent of the viceroy's authority, but that, if the priest were not sent within three hours, he would burn the town." The viceroy then sent the priest to him, who pleaded the provocation given by the seamen. Blake bravely and rationally answered, that if he had complained to him, he would have punished them severely, for he would not have his men affront the established religion of any place; but that he was angry that the Spaniards should assume that power, for he would have all the world know, "that an Englishman was only to be punished by an Englishman." So, having used the priest civilly, he sent him back, being satisfied that he was in his power. This conduct so much pleased Cromwell, that he read the letter in council with great satisfaction, and said, "he hoped to make the name of an Englishman as great as ever that of a Roman had been." In 1650, the protector, having declared war against Spain, despatched Blake, with twenty-five men of war, to infest their coasts, and intercept their shipping. In pursuance of these orders he cruised all winter about the straits, and then lay at the mouth of the harbour of Cales, where he received intelligence, that the Spanish Plata fleet lay at anchor in the bay of Santa Cruz, in the isle of Teneriffe. On the 13th of April, 1657, he departed from Cales, and, on the 20th, arrived at Santa Cruz, where he found sixteen Spanish vessels. The bay was defended on the north side by a castle, well mounted with cannon, and in other parts with seven forts, with cannon proportioned to the bigness, all united by a line of communication manned with musketeers. The Spanish admiral drew up his small ships under the cannon of the castle, and stationed six great galleons with their broadsides to the sea: an advantageous and prudent disposition, but of little effect against the English commander; who, determining to attack them, ordered Stayner to enter the bay with his squadron: then posting some of his larger ships to play upon the fortifications, himself attacked the galleons, which, after a gallant resistance, were, at length, abandoned by the Spaniards, though the least of them was bigger than the biggest of Blake's ships. The forts and smaller vessels being now shattered and forsaken, the whole fleet was set on fire, the galleons by Blake, and the smaller vessels by Stayner, the English vessels being too much shattered in the fight to bring them away. Thus was the whole Plata fleet destroyed, "and the Spaniards," according to Rapin's remark, "sustained a great loss of ships, money, men, and merchandise, while the English gained nothing but glory;" as if he that increases the military reputation of a people, did not increase their power, and he that weakens his enemy, in effect, strengthens himself. "The whole action," says Clarendon, "was so incredible, that all men, who knew the place, wondered that any sober man, with what courage soever endowed, would ever have undertaken it, and they could hardly persuade themselves to believe what they had done; while the Spaniards comforted themselves with the belief, that they were devils, and not men, who had destroyed them in such a manner. So much a strong resolution of bold and courageous men can bring to pass, that no resistance or advantage of ground can disappoint them; and it can hardly be imagined bow small a loss the English sustained in this unparalleled action, not one ship being left behind, and the killed and wounded not exceeding two hundred men; when the slaughter, on board the Spanish ships and on shore, was incredible." The general cruised, for some time afterwards, with his victorious fleet, at the mouth of Cales, to intercept the Spanish shipping; but, finding his constitution broken, by the fatigue of the last three years, determined to return home, and died before he came to land. His body was embalmed, and having lain some time in state at Greenwich house, was buried in Henry the seventh's chapel, with all the funeral solemnity due to the remains of a man so famed for his bravery, and so spotless in his integrity; nor is it without regret, that I am obliged to relate the treatment his body met, a year after the restoration, when it was taken up by express command, and buried in a pit in St. Margaret's church-yard. Had he been guilty of the murder of Charles the first, to insult his body had been a mean revenge; but, as he was innocent, it was, at least, inhumanity, and, perhaps, ingratitude. "Let no man," says the oriental proverb, "pull a dead lion by the beard." But that regard which was denied his body, has been paid to his better remains, his name and his memory. Nor has any writer dared to deny him the praise of intrepidity, honesty, contempt of wealth, and love of his country. "He was the first man," says Clarendon, "that declined the old track, and made it apparent that the sciences might be attained in less time than was imagined. He was the first man that brought ships to contemn castles on shore, which had ever been thought very formidable, but were discovered by him to make a noise only, and to fright those who could rarely be hurt by them. He was the first that infused that proportion of courage into seamen, by making them see, by experience, what mighty things they could do, if they were resolved; and taught them to fight in fire, as well as upon the water; and, though he has been very well imitated and followed, was the first that gave the example of that kind of naval courage, and bold and resolute achievements." To this attestation of his military excellence, it may be proper to subjoin an account of his moral character, from the author of Lives, English and Foreign. "He was jealous," says that writer, "of the liberty of the subject, and the glory of his nation; and as he made use of no mean artifices to raise himself to the highest command at sea, so he needed no interest but his merit to support him in it. He scorned nothing more than money, which, as fast as it came in, was laid out by him in the service of the state, and to show that he was animated by that brave, publick spirit, which has since been reckoned rather romantick than heroick. And he was so disinterested, that though no man had more opportunities to enrich himself than he, who had taken so many millions from the enemies of England, yet he threw it all into the publick treasury, and did not die five hundred pounds richer than his father left him; which the author avers, from his personal knowledge of his family and their circumstances, having been bred up in it, and often heard his brother give this account of him. He was religious, according to the pretended purity of these times, but would frequently allow himself to be merry with his officers, and, by his tenderness and generosity to the seamen, had so endeared himself to them, that, when he died, they lamented his loss, as that of a common father." Instead of more testimonies, his character may be properly concluded with one incident of his life, by which it appears how much the spirit of Blake was superiour to all private views. His brother, in the last action with the Spaniards, having not done his duty, was, at Blake's desire, discarded, and the ship was given to another; yet was he not less regardful of him as a brother, for, when he died, he left him his estate, knowing him well qualified to adorn or enjoy a private fortune, though he had found him unfit to serve his country in a publick character, and had, therefore, not suffered him to rob it. * * * * * The following brief synopsis of Blake's life, differing, in some slight particulars, from Johnson's memoir, is taken from Aubrey's Letters, ii. p. 241. ADMIRALL BLAKE. Was borne at ... in com. Somerset, was of Albon hall, in Oxford. He was there a young man of strong body, and good parts. He was an early riser, and studyed well, but also took his robust pleasures of fishing and fowling, &c. He would steale swannes [43]--He served in the house of comons for.... A°. Dni ... he was made admiral! He did the greatest actions at sea that ever were done. He died A°. Dni ... and was buried in K.H. 7th's chapell; but upon the returne of the kinge, his body was taken up again and removed by Mr. Wells' occasion, and where it is now, I know not. Qu. Mr. Wells of Bridgewater?--Ed. SIR FRANCIS DRAKE [44]. Francis Drake was the son of a clergyman, in Devonshire, who being inclined to the doctrine of the protestants, at that time much opposed by Henry the eighth, was obliged to fly from his place of residence into Kent, for refuge, from the persecution raised against him, and those of the same opinion, by the law of the six articles. How long he lived there, or how he was supported, was not known; nor have we any account of the first years of sir Francis Drake's life, of any disposition to hazards and adventures which might have been discovered in his childhood, or of the education which qualified him for such wonderful attempts. We are only informed, that he was put apprentice, by his father, to the master of a small vessel, that traded to France and the Low Countries, under whom he, probably, learned the rudiments of navigation, and familiarized himself to the dangers and hardships of the sea. But how few opportunities soever he might have, in this part of his life, for the exercise of his courage, he gave so many proofs of diligence and fidelity, that his master, dying unmarried, left him his little vessel, in reward of his services; a circumstance that deserves to be remembered, not only as it may illustrate the private character of this brave man, but as it may hint, to all those, who may hereafter propose his conduct for their imitation, that virtue is the surest foundation both of reputation and fortune, and that the first step to greatness is to be honest. If it were not improper to dwell longer on an incident, at the first view so inconsiderable, it might be added, that it deserves the reflection of those, who, when they are engaged in affairs not adequate to their abilities, pass them over with a contemptuous neglect, and while they amuse themselves with chimerical schemes, and plans of future undertakings, suffer every opportunity of smaller advantage to slip away, as unworthy their regard. They may learn, from the example of Drake, that diligence in employments of less consequence, is the most successful introduction to greater enterprises. After having followed, for some time, his master's profession, he grew weary of so narrow a province, and, having sold his little vessel, ventured his effects in the new trade to the West Indies, which, having not been long discovered, and very little frequented by the English, till that time, were conceived so much to abound in wealth, that no voyage thither could fail of being recompensed by great advantages. Nothing was talked of among the mercantile or adventurous part of mankind, but the beauty and riches of the new world. Fresh discoveries were frequently made, new countries and nations never heard of before, were daily described, and it may easily be concluded, that the relaters did not diminish the merit of their attempts, by suppressing or diminishing any circumstance that might produce wonder, or excite curiosity. Nor was their vanity only engaged in raising admirers, but their interest, likewise, in procuring adventurers, who were, indeed, easily gained by the hopes which naturally arise from new prospects, though, through ignorance of the American seas, and by the malice of the Spaniards, who, from the first discovery of those countries, considered every other nation that attempted to follow them, as invaders of their rights, the best concerted designs often miscarried. Among those who suffered most from the Spanish injustice, was captain John Hawkins, who, having been admitted, by the viceroy, to traffick in the bay of Mexico, was, contrary to the stipulation then made between them, and in violation of the peace between Spain and England, attacked without any declaration of hostilities, and obliged, after an obstinate resistance, to retire with the loss of four ships, and a great number of his men, who were either destroyed or carried into slavery. In this voyage Drake had adventured almost all his fortune, which he in vain endeavoured to recover, both by his own private interest, and by obtaining letters from queen Elizabeth; for the Spaniards, deaf to all remonstrances, either vindicated the injustice of the viceroy, or, at least, forbore to redress it. Drake, thus oppressed and impoverished, retained, at least, his courage and his industry, that ardent spirit that prompted him to adventures, and that indefatigable patience that enabled him to surmount difficulties. He did not sit down idly to lament misfortunes which heaven had put it in his power to remedy, or to repine at poverty, while the wealth of his enemies was to be gained. But having made two voyages to America, for the sake of gaining intelligence of the state of the Spanish settlements, and acquainted himself with the seas and coasts, he determined on a third expedition of more importance, by which the Spaniards should find how imprudently they always act, who injure and insult a brave man. On the 24th of May, 1572, Francis Drake set sail from Plymouth, in the Pascha, of seventy tons, accompanied by the Swan, of twenty-five tons, commanded by his brother John Drake, having, in both the vessels, seventy-three men and boys, with a year's provision, and such artillery and ammunition, as was necessary for his undertaking, which, however incredible it may appear to such as consider rather his force than his fortitude, was no less than to make reprisals upon the most powerful nation in the world. The wind continuing favourable, they entered, June 29th, between Guadaloupe and Dominica, and, on July 6th, saw the highland of Santa Martha; then continuing their course, after having been becalmed for some time, they arrived at port Pheasant, so named by Drake, in a former voyage to the east of Nombre de Dios. Here he proposed to build his pinnaces, which he had brought in pieces ready framed from Plymouth, and was going ashore, with a few men unarmed, but, discovering a smoke at a distance, ordered the other boat to follow him with a greater force. Then marching towards the fire, which was in the top of a high tree, he found a plate of lead nailed to another tree, with an inscription engraved upon it by one Garret, an Englishman, who had left that place but five days before, and had taken this method of informing him, that the Spaniards had been advertised of his intention to anchor at that place, and that it, therefore, would be prudent to make a very short stay there. But Drake, knowing how convenient this place was for his designs, and considering that the hazard and waste of time, which could not be avoided, in seeking another station, was equivalent to any other danger which was to be apprehended from the Spaniards, determined to follow his first resolution; only, for his greater security, he ordered a kind of palisade, or fortification, to be made, by felling large trees, and laying the trunks and branches, one upon another, by the side of the river. On July 20th, having built their pinnaces, and being joined by one captain Rause, who happened to touch at the same place, with a bark of fifty men, they set sail towards Nombre de Dios, and, taking two frigates at the island of Pines, were informed by the negroes, which they found in them, that the inhabitants of that place were in expectation of some soldiers, which the governour of Panama had promised, to defend them from the Symerons, or fugitive negroes, who, having escaped from the tyranny of their masters, in great numbers, had settled themselves under two kings, or leaders, on each side of the way between Nombre de Dios and Panama, and not only asserted their natural right to liberty and independence, but endeavoured to revenge the cruelties they had suffered, and had lately put the inhabitants of Nombre de Dios into the utmost consternation. These negroes the captain set on shore on the mainland, so that they might, by joining the Symerons, recover their liberty, or, at least, might not have it in their power to give the people of Nombre de Dios any speedy information of his intention to invade them. Then selecting fifty-three men from his own company, and twenty from the crew of his new associate, captain Rause, he embarked with them, in his pinnaces, and set sail for Nombre de Dios. On July the 28th, at night, he approached the town, undiscovered, and dropt his anchors under the shore, intending, after his men were refreshed, to begin the attack; but finding that they were terrifying each other with formidable accounts of the strength of the place, and the multitude of the inhabitants, he determined to hinder the panick from spreading further by leading them immediately to action; and, therefore, ordering them to their pars, he landed without any opposition, there being only one gunner upon the bay, though it was secured with six brass cannons of the largest size, ready mounted. But the gunner, while they were throwing the cannons from their carriages, alarmed the town, as they soon discovered by the bell, the drums, and the noise of the people. Drake, leaving twelve men to guard the pinnaces, marched round the town, with no great opposition, the men being more hurt by treading on the weapons, left on the ground by the flying enemy, than by the resistance which they encountered. At length, having taken some of the Spaniards, Drake commanded them to show him the governour's house, where the mules that bring the silver from Panama were unloaded; there they found the door open, and, entering the room where the silver was reposited, found it heaped up in bars, in such quantities as almost exceed belief, the pile being, they conjectured, seventy feet in length, ten in breadth, and twelve in height, each bar weighing between thirty and forty-five pounds. It is easy to imagine, that, at the sight of this treasure, nothing was thought on by the English, but by what means they might best convey it to their boats; and, doubtless, it was not easy for Drake, who, considering their distance from the shore and the number of their enemies, was afraid of being intercepted in his retreat, to hinder his men from encumbering themselves with so much silver as might have retarded their march and obstructed the use of their weapons; however, by promising to lead them to the king's treasurehouse, where there was gold and jewels to a far greater value, and where the treasure was not only more portable, but nearer the coast, he persuaded them to follow him, and rejoin the main body of his men, then drawn up under the command of his brother in the market-place. Here he found his little troop much discouraged by the imagination, that, if they stayed any longer, the enemy would gain possession of their pinnaces, and that they should then, without any means of safety, be left to stand alone against the whole power of that country. Drake, not, indeed, easily terrified, but sufficiently cautious, sent to the coast to inquire the truth, and see if the same terrour had taken possession of the men whom he had left to guard his boats; but, finding no foundation for these dreadful apprehensions, he persisted in his first design, and led the troop forward to the treasurehouse. In their way, there fell a violent shower of rain, which wet some of their bowstrings, and extinguished many of their matches; a misfortune which might soon have been repaired, and which, perhaps, the enemy might suffer in common with them, but which, however, on this occasion, very much embarrassed them, as the delay produced by it repressed that ardour which, sometimes, is only to be kept up by continued action, and gave time to the timorous and slothful to spread their insinuations and propagate their cowardice. Some, whose fear was their predominant passion, were continually magnifying the numbers and courage of their enemies, and represented whole nations as ready to rush upon them; others, whose avarice mingled with their concern for their own safety, were more solicitous to preserve what they had already gained, than to acquire more; and others, brave in themselves and resolute, began to doubt of success in an undertaking, in which they were associated with such cowardly companions. So that scarcely any man appeared to proceed in their enterprise with that spirit and alacrity which could give Drake a prospect of success. This he perceived, and, with some emotion, told them, that if, after having had the chief treasure of the world within their reach, they should go home and languish in poverty, they could blame nothing but their own cowardice; that he had performed his part, and was still desirous to lead them on to riches and to honour. Then finding that either shame or conviction made them willing to follow him, he ordered the treasurehouse to be forced, and commanding his brother, and Oxenham, of Plymouth, a man known afterwards for his bold adventures in the same parts, to take charge of the treasure, he commanded the other body to follow him to the market-place, that he might be ready to oppose any scattered troops of the Spaniards, and hinder them from uniting into one body. But, as he stepped forward, his strength failed him on a sudden, and he fell down speechless. Then it was that his companions perceived a wound in his leg, which he had received in the first encounter, but hitherto concealed, lest his men, easily discouraged, should make their concern for his life a pretence for returning to their boats. Such had been his loss of blood, as was discovered upon nearer observation, that it had filled the prints of his footsteps, and it appeared scarce credible that, after such effusion of blood, life should remain. The bravest were now willing to retire: neither the desire of honour nor of riches, was thought enough to prevail in any man over his regard for his leader. Drake, whom cordials had now restored to his speech, was the only man who could not be prevailed on to leave the enterprise unfinished. It was to no purpose that they advised him to submit to go on board to have his wound dressed, and promised to return with him and complete their design; he well knew how impracticable it was to regain the opportunity, when it was once lost; and could easily foresee, that a respite, but of a few hours, would enable the Spaniards to recover from their consternation, to assemble their forces, refit their batteries, and remove their treasure. What he had undergone so much danger to obtain was now in his hands, and the thought of leaving it untouched was too mortifying to be patiently borne. However, as there was little time for consultation, and the same danger attended their stay, in that perplexity and confusion, as their return, they bound up his wound with his scarf, and partly by force, partly by entreaty, carried him to the boats, in which they all embarked by break of day. Then taking with them, out of the harbour, a ship loaded with wines, they went to the Bastimentes, an island about a league from the town, where they stayed two days to repose the wounded men, and to regale themselves with the fruits, which grew in great plenty in the gardens of that island. During their stay here, there came over, from the mainland, a Spanish gentleman, sent by the governour, with instructions to inquire whether the captain was that Drake who had been before on their coast; whether the arrows with which many of their men were wounded were not poisoned; and whether they wanted provisions or other necessaries. The messenger, likewise, extolled their courage with the highest encomiums, and expressed his admiration of their daring undertaking. Drake, though he knew the civilities of an enemy are always to be suspected, and that the messenger, amidst all his professions of regard, was no other than a spy, yet knowing that he had nothing to apprehend, treated him with the highest honours that his condition admitted of. In answer to his inquiries, he assured him that he was the same Drake with whose character they were before acquainted, that he was a rigid observer of the laws of war, and never permitted his arrows to be poisoned: he then dismissed him with considerable presents, and told him that, though he had unfortunately failed in this attempt, he would never desist from his design till he had shared with Spain the treasures of America. They then resolved to return to the isle of Pines, where they had left their ships, and consult about the measures they were now to take; and having arrived, August 1st, at their former station, they dismissed captain Rause, who, judging it unsafe to stay any longer on the coast, desired to be no longer engaged in their designs. But Drake, not to be discouraged from his purpose by a single disappointment, after having inquired of a negro, whom he took on board at Nombre de Dios, the most wealthy settlements, and weakest parts of the coast, resolved to attack Carthagena; and, setting sail without loss of time, came to anchor, August 13th, between Charesha and St. Barnards, two islands at a little distance from the harbour of Carthagena; then passing with his boats round the island, he entered the harbour, and, in the mouth of it, found a frigate with only an old man in it, who voluntarily informed them, that about an hour before a pinnace had passed by with sails and oars, and all the appearance of expedition and importance; that, as she passed, the crew on board her bid them take care of themselves; and that, as soon as she touched the shore, they heard the noise of cannon fired as a warning, and saw the shipping in the port drawn up under the guns of the castle. The captain, who had himself heard the discharge of the artillery, was soon convinced that he was discovered, and that, therefore, nothing could be attempted with any probability of success. He, therefore, contented himself with taking a ship of Seville, of two hundred and forty tons, which the relater of this voyage mentions as a very large ship, and two small frigates, in which he found letters of advice from Nombre de Dios, intended to alarm that part of the coast. Drake, now finding his pinnaces of great use, and not having a sufficient number of sailors for all his vessels, was desirous of destroying one of his ships, that his pinnaces might be better manned: this, necessary as it was, could not easily be done without disgusting his company, who, having made several prosperous voyages in that vessel, would be unwilling to have it destroyed. Drake well knew that nothing but the love of their leaders could animate his followers to encounter such hardships as he was about to expose them to, and, therefore, rather chose to bring his designs to pass by artifice than authority. He sent for the carpenter of the Swan, took him into his cabin, and, having first engaged him to secrecy, ordered him, in the middle of the night, to go down into the well of the ship, and bore three holes through the bottom, laying something against them that might hinder the bubbling of the water from being heard. To this the carpenter, after some expostulation, consented, and the next night performed his promise. In the morning, August 15, Drake, going out with his pinnace a fishing, rowed up to the Swan, and having invited his brother to partake of his diversions, inquired, with a negligent air, why their bark was so deep in the water; upon which the steward going down, returned immediately with an account that the ship was leaky, and in danger of sinking in a little time. They had recourse immediately to the pump; but, having laboured till three in the afternoon, and gained very little upon the water, they willingly, according to Drake's advice, set the vessel on fire, and went on board the pinnaces. Finding it now necessary to lie concealed for some time, till the Spaniards should forget their danger, and remit their vigilance, they set sail for the sound of Darien, and without approaching the coast, that their course might not be observed, they arrived there in six days. This being a convenient place for their reception, both on account of privacy, as it was out of the road of all trade, and as it was well supplied with wood, water, wild fowl, hogs, deer, and all kinds of provisions, he stayed here fifteen days to clean his vessels, and refresh his men, who worked interchangeably, on one day the one half, and on the next the other. On the 5th day of September, Drake left his brother with the ship at Darien, and set out with two pinnaces towards the Rio Grande, which they reached in three days, and, on the 9th, were discovered by a Spaniard from the bank, who believing them to be his countrymen, made a signal to them to come on shore, with which they very readily complied; but he, soon finding his mistake, abandoned his plantation, where they found great plenty of provisions, with which, having laden their vessels, they departed. So great was the quantity of provisions which they amassed here and in other places, that in different parts of the coast they built four magazines or storehouses, which they filled with necessaries for the prosecution of their voyage. These they placed at such a distance from each other, that the enemy, if he should surprise one, might yet not discover the rest. In the mean time, his brother, captain John Drake, went, according to the instructions that had been left him, in search of the Symerons, or fugitive negroes, from whose assistance alone they had now any prospect of a successful voyage; and touching upon the mainland, by means of the negro whom they had taken from Nombre de Dios, engaged two of them to come on board his pinnace, leaving two of their own men as hostages for their returning. These men, having assured Drake of the affection of their nation, appointed an interview between him and their leaders. So leaving port Plenty, in the isle of Pines, so named by the English from the great stores of provisions which they had amassed at that place, they came, by the direction of the Symerons, into a secret bay, among beautiful islands covered with trees, which concealed their ship from observation, and where the channel was so narrow and rocky, that it was impossible to enter it by night, so that there was no danger of a sudden attack. Here they met, and entered into engagements, which common enemies and common dangers preserved from violation. But the first conversation informed the English, that their expectations were not immediately to be gratified; for, upon their inquiries after the most probable means of gaining gold and silver, the Symerons told them, that had they known sooner the chief end of their expedition, they could easily have gratified them; but that during the rainy season, which was now begun, and which continues six months, they could not recover the treasure, which they had taken from the Spaniards, out of the rivers in which they had concealed it. Drake, therefore, proposing to wait in this place, till the rains were past, built, with the assistance of the Symerons, a fort of earth and timber, and leaving part of his company with the Symerons, set out with three pinnaces towards Carthagena, being of a spirit too active to lie still patiently, even in a state of plenty and security, and with the most probable expectations of immense riches. On the 16th of October, he anchored within sight of Carthagena, without landing; and on the 17th, going out to sea, took a Spanish bark, with which they entered the harbour, where they were accosted by a Spanish gentleman, whom they had some time before taken and set at liberty, who coming to them in a boat, as he pretended, without the knowledge of the governour, made them great promises of refreshment and professions of esteem; but Drake, having waited till the next morning, without receiving the provisions he had been prevailed upon to expect, found that all this pretended kindness was no more than a stratagem to amuse him, while the governour was raising forces for his destruction. October 20, they took two frigates coming out of Carthagena, without lading. Why the Spaniards, knowing Drake to lie at the mouth of the harbour, sent out their vessels on purpose to be taken, does not appear. Perhaps they thought that, in order to keep possession of his prizes, he would divide his company, and by that division be more easily destroyed. In a few hours afterwards they sent out two frigates well manned, which Drake soon forced to retire, and, having sunk one of his prizes, and burnt the other in their sight, leaped afterwards ashore, single, in defiance of their troops, which hovered at a distance in the woods and on the hills, without ever venturing to approach within reach of the shot from the pinnaces. To leap upon an enemy's coast in sight of a superiour force, only to show how little they were feared, was an act that would, in these times, meet with little applause, nor can the general be seriously commended, or rationally vindicated, who exposes his person to destruction, and, by consequence, his expedition to miscarriage, only for the pleasure of an idle insult, an insignificant bravado. All that can be urged in his defence is, that, perhaps, it might contribute to heighten the esteem of his followers, as few men, especially of that class, are philosophical enough to state the exact limits of prudence and bravery, or not to be dazzled with an intrepidity, how improperly soever exerted. It may be added, that, perhaps, the Spaniards, whose notions of courage are sufficiently romantick, might look upon him as a more formidable enemy, and yield more easily to a hero, of whose fortitude they had so high an idea. However, finding the whole country advertised of his attempts, and in arms to oppose him, he thought it not proper to stay longer, where there was no probability of success, and where he might, in time, be overpowered by multitudes, and, therefore, determined to go forward to Rio de Heha. This resolution, when it was known by his followers, threw them into astonishment; and the company of one of his pinnaces remonstrated to him, that, though they placed the highest confidence in his conduct, they could not think of undertaking such a voyage without provisions, having only a gammon of bacon and a small quantity of bread for seventeen men. Drake answered them, that there was on board his vessel even a greater scarcity; but yet, if they would adventure to share his fortune, he did not doubt of extricating them from all their difficulties. Such was the heroick spirit of Drake, that he never suffered himself to be diverted from his designs by any difficulties, nor ever thought of relieving his exigencies, but at the expense of his enemies. Resolution and success reciprocally produce each other. He had not sailed more than three leagues, before they discovered a large ship, which they attacked with all the intrepidity that necessity inspires, and, happily, found it laden with excellent provisions. But finding his crew growing faint and sickly, with their manner of living in the pinnaces, which was less commodious than on board the ships, he determined to go back to the Symerons, with whom he left his brother and part of his force, and attempt, by their conduct, to make his way over, and invade the Spaniards in the inland parts, where they would, probably, never dream of an enemy. When they arrived at port Diego, so named from the negro who had procured them their intercourse with the Symerons, they found captain John Drake, and one of his company, dead, being killed in attempting, almost unarmed, to board a frigate well provided with all things necessary for its defence. The captain was unwilling to attack it, and represented to them the madness of their proposal; but, being overborne by their clamours and importunities, to avoid the imputation of cowardice, complied to his destruction. So dangerous is it for the chief commander to be absent. Nor was this their only misfortune, for, in a very short time, many of them were attacked by the calenture, a malignant fever, very frequent in the hot climates, which carried away, among several others, Joseph Drake, another brother of the commander. While Drake was employed in taking care of the sick men, the Symerons, who ranged the country for intelligence, brought him an account, that the Spanish fleet was arrived at Nombre de Dios; the truth of which was confirmed by a pinnace, which he sent out to make observations. This, therefore, was the time for their journey, when the treasures of the American mines were to be transported from Panama over land to Nombre de Dios. He, therefore, by the direction of the Symerons, furnished himself with all things necessary, and, on February 3, set out from port Diego. Having lost, already, twenty-eight of his company, and being under the necessity of leaving some to guard his ship, he took with him only eighteen English, and thirty Symerons, who not only served as guides to show the way, but as purveyors to procure provisions. They carried not only arrows for war, but for hunting and fowling; the heads of which are proportioned in size to the game which they are pursuing: for oxen, stags, or wild boars, they have arrows or javelins, with heads weighing a pound and half, which they discharge near hand, and which scarcely ever fail of being mortal. The second sort are about half as heavy as the other, and are generally shot from their bows; these are intended for smaller beasts. With the third sort, of which the heads are an ounce in weight, they kill birds. As this nation is in a state that does not set them above continual cares for the immediate necessaries of life, he that can temper iron best, is, among them, most esteemed; and, perhaps, it would be happy for every nation, if honours and applauses were as justly distributed, and he were most distinguished whose abilities were most useful to society. How many chimerical titles to precedence, how many false pretences to respect, would this rule bring to the ground! Every day, by sunrising, they began to march, and, having travelled till ten, rested near some river till twelve, then travelling again till four, they reposed all night in houses, which the Symerons had either left standing in their former marches, or very readily erected for them, by setting up three or four posts in the ground, and laying poles from one to another in form of a roof, which they thatched with palmetto boughs and plantain leaves. In the valleys, where they were sheltered from the winds, they left three or four feet below open; but on the hills, where they were more exposed to the chill blasts of the night, they thatched them close to the ground, leaving only a door for entrance, and a vent in the middle of the room for the smoke of three fires, which they made in every house. In their march they met not only with plenty of fruits upon the banks of the rivers, but with wild swine in great abundance, of which the Symerons, without difficulty, killed, for the most part, as much as was wanted. One day, however, they found an otter, and were about to dress it; at which Drake expressing his wonder, was asked by Pedro, the chief Symeron: "Are you a man of war and in want, and yet doubt whether this be meat that hath blood in it?" For which Drake in private rebuked him, says the relater; whether justly or not, it is not very important to determine. There seems to be in Drake's scruple somewhat of superstition, perhaps, not easily to be justified; and the negro's answer was, at least martial, and will, I believe, be generally acknowledged to be rational. On the third day of their march, Feb. 6, they came to a town of the Symerons, situated on the side of a hill, and encompassed with a ditch and a mudwall, to secure it from a sudden surprise: here they lived with great neatness and plenty, and some observation of religion, paying great reverence to the cross; a practice which Drake prevailed upon them to change for the use of the Lord's prayer. Here they importuned Drake to stay for a few days, promising to double his strength; but he, either thinking greater numbers unnecessary, or, fearing that, if any difference should arise, he should be overborne by the number of Symerons; or that they would demand to share the plunder that should be taken in common; or for some other reason that might easily occur, refused any addition to his troop, endeavouring to express his refusal in such terms as might heighten their opinion of his bravery. He then proceeded on his journey through cool shades and lofty woods, which sheltered them so effectually from the sun, that their march was less toilsome than if they had travelled in England during the heat of the summer. Four of the Symerons, that were acquainted with the way, went about a mile before the troop, and scattered branches to direct them; then followed twelve Symerons, after whom came the English, with the two leaders, and the other Symerons closed the rear. On February 11, they arrived at the top of a very high hill, on the summit of which grew a tree of wonderful greatness, in which they had cut steps for the more easy ascent to the top, where there was a kind of tower, to which they invited Drake, and from thence showed him not only the north sea, from whence they came, but the great south sea, on which no English vessel had ever sailed. This prospect exciting his natural curiosity, and ardour for adventures and discoveries, he lifted up his hands to God, and implored his blessing upon the resolution, which he then formed, of sailing in an English ship on that sea. Then continuing their march, they came, after two days, into an open, level country, where their passage was somewhat incommoded with the grass, which is of a peculiar kind, consisting of a stalk like that of wheat, and a blade on which the oxen and other cattle feed till it grows too high for them to reach; then the inhabitants set it on fire, and in three days it springs up again; this they are obliged to do thrice a year, so great is the fertility of the soil. At length, being within view of Panama, they left all frequented roads, for fear of being discovered, and posted themselves in a grove near the way between Panama and Nombre de Dios; then they sent a Symeron in the habit of a negro of Panama, to inquire on what night the recoes, or drivers of mules, by which the treasure is carried, were to set forth. The messenger was so well qualified for his undertaking, and so industrious in the prosecution of it, that he soon returned, with an account that the treasurer of Lima, intending to return to Europe, would pass that night, with eight mules laden with gold, and one with jewels. Having received this information, they immediately marched towards Venta Cruz, the first town on the way to Nombre de Dios; sending, for security, two Symerons before, who, as they went, perceived, by the scent of a match, that some Spaniard was before them, and, going silently forward, surprised a soldier asleep upon the ground. They immediately bound him, and brought him to Drake, who, upon inquiry, found that their spy had not deceived them in his intelligence. The soldier, having informed himself of the captain's name, conceived such a confidence in his well known clemency, that, after having made an ample discovery of the treasure that was now at hand, he petitioned not only that he would command the Symerons to spare his life, but that, when the treasure should fall into his hands, he would allow him as much as might maintain him and his mistress, since they were about to gain more than their whole company could carry. Drake then ordered his men to lie down in the long grass, about fifty paces from the road, half on one side, with himself, and half on the other, with Oxenham and the captain of the Symerons, so much behind, that one company might seize the foremost recoe, and the other the hindermost; for the mules of these recoes, or drivers, being tied together, travel on a line, and are all guided by leading the first. When they had lain about an hour in this place, they began to hear the bells of the mules on each hand; upon which orders were given, that the drove which came from Venta Cruz should pass unmolested, because they carried nothing of great value, and those only be intercepted which were travelling thither; and that none of the men should rise up, till the signal should be given. But one Robert Pike, heated with strong liquor, left his company, and prevailed upon one of the Symerons to creep with him to the wayside, that they might signalize themselves by seizing the first mule; and hearing the trampling of a horse, as he lay, could not be restrained by the Symeron from rising up to observe who was passing by. This he did so imprudently, that he was discovered by the passenger; for, by Drake's order, the English had put their shirts on over their coats, that the night and tumult might not hinder them from knowing one another. The gentleman was immediately observed by Drake to change his trot into a gallop; but, the reason of it not appearing, it was imputed to his fear of the robbers that usually infest that road, and the English still continued to expect the treasure. In a short time, one of the recoes, that were passing towards Venta Cruz, came up, and was eagerly seized by the English, who expected nothing less than half the revenue of the Indies; nor is it easy to imagine their mortification and perplexity, when they found only two mules laden with silver, the rest having no other burden than provisions. The driver was brought immediately to the captain, and informed him that the horseman, whom he had observed pass by with so much precipitation, had informed the treasurer of what he had observed, and advised him to send back the mules that carried his gold and jewels, and suffer only the rest to proceed, that he might, by that cheap experiment, discover whether there was any ambush on the way. That Drake was not less disgusted than his followers at the disappointment, cannot be doubted; but there was now no time to be spent in complaints. The whole country was alarmed, and all the force of the Spaniards was summoned to overwhelm him. He had no fortress to retire to; every man was his enemy; and every retreat better known to the Spaniards than to himself. This was an occasion that demanded all the qualities of an hero, an intrepidity never to be shaken, and a judgment never to be perplexed. He immediately considered all the circumstances of his present situation, and found that it afforded him only the choice of marching back the same way through which he came, or of forcing his passage to Venta Cruz. To march back, was to confess the superiority of his enemies, and to animate them to the pursuit; the woods would afford opportunities of ambush, and his followers must often disperse themselves in search of provisions, who would become an easy prey, dispirited by their disappointment, and fatigued by their march. On the way to Venta Cruz, he should have nothing to fear but from open attacks, and expected enemies. Determining, therefore, to pass forward to Venta Cruz, he asked Pedro, the leader of the Symerons, whether he was resolved to follow him; and, having received from him the strongest assurances that nothing should separate them, commanded his men to refresh themselves, and prepare to set forward. When they came within a mile of the town, they dismissed the mules, which they had made use of for their more easy and speedy passage, and continued their march along a road cut through thick woods, in which a company of soldiers, who were quartered in the place to defend it against the Symerons, had posted themselves, together with a convent of friars headed by one of their brethren, whose zeal against the northern heresy had incited him to hazard his person, and assume the province of a general. Drake, who was advertised by two Symerons, whom he sent before, of the approach of the Spaniards, commanded his followers to receive the first volley without firing. In a short time, he heard himself summoned by the Spanish captain to yield, with a promise of protection and kind treatment; to which he answered with defiance, contempt, and the discharge of his pistol. Immediately the Spaniards poured in their shot, by which only one man was killed, and Drake, with some others, slightly wounded; upon which the signal was given by Drake's whistle to fall upon them. The English, after discharging their arrows and shot, pressed furiously forward, and drove the Spaniards before them; which the Symerons, whom the terrour of the shot had driven to some distance, observed, and recalling their courage, animated each other with songs in their own language, and rushed forward with such impetuosity, that they overtook them near the town, and, supported by the English, dispersed them with the loss of only one man, who, after he had received his wound, had strength and resolution left to kill his assailant. They pursued the enemy into the town, in which they met with some plunder, which was given to the Symerons; and treated the inhabitants with great clemency, Drake himself going to the Spanish ladies, to assure them that no injuries should be offered them; so inseparable is humanity from true courage. Having thus broken the spirits, and scattered the forces of the Spaniards, he pursued his march to his ship, without any apprehension of danger, yet with great speed, being very solicitous about the state of the crew; so that he allowed his men, harassed as they were, but little time for sleep or refreshment, but by kind exhortations, gentle authority, and a cheerful participation of all their hardships, prevailed upon them to bear, without murmurs, not only the toil of travelling, but, on some days, the pain of hunger. In this march, he owed much of his expedition to the assistance of the Symerons, who being accustomed to the climate, and naturally robust, not only brought him intelligence, and showed the way, but carried necessaries, provided victuals, and built lodgings, and, when any of the English fainted in the way, two of them would carry him between them for two miles together; nor was their valour less than their industry, after they had learned from their English companions to despise the firearms of the Spaniards. When they were within five leagues of the ships, they found a town built in their absence by the Symerons, at which Drake consented to halt, sending a Symeron to the ship, with his gold toothpick, as a token, which, though the master knew it, was not sufficient to gain the messenger credit, till, upon examination, he found that the captain, having ordered him to regard no messenger without his handwriting, had engraven his name upon it with the point of his knife. He then sent the pinnace up the river, which they met, and afterwards sent to the town for those whose weariness had made them unable to march further. On February 23, the whole company was reunited; and Drake, whose good or ill success never prevailed over his piety, celebrated their meeting with thanks to God. Drake, not yet discouraged, now turned his thoughts to new prospects, and, without languishing in melancholy reflections upon his past miscarriages, employed himself in forming schemes for repairing them. Eager of action, and acquainted with man's nature, he never suffered idleness to infect his followers with cowardice, but kept them from sinking under any disappointment, by diverting their attention to some new enterprise. Upon consultation with his own men and the Symerons, he found them divided in their opinions; some declaring, that, before they engaged in any new attempt, it was necessary to increase their stores of provisions; and others urging, that the ships, in which the treasure was conveyed, should be immediately attacked. The Symerons proposed a third plan, and advised him to undertake another march over land to the house of one Pezoro, near Veragua, whose slaves brought him, every day, more than two hundred pounds sterling from the mines, which he heaped together in a strong stone house, which might, by the help of the English, be easily forced. Drake, being unwilling to fatigue his followers with another journey, determined to comply with both the other opinions; and, manning his two pinnaces, the Bear and the Minion, he sent John Oxenham, in the Bear, towards Tolu, to seize upon provisions; and went himself, in the Minion, to the Cabezas, to intercept the treasure that was to be transported from Veragua and that coast, to the fleet at Nombre de Dios, first dismissing, with presents, those Symerons that desired to return to their wives, and ordering those that chose to remain to be entertained in the ship. Drake took, at the Cabezas, a frigate of Nicaragua, the pilot of which informed him that there was, in the harbour of Veragua, a ship freighted with more than a million of gold, to which he offered to conduct him, being well acquainted with the soundings, if he might be allowed his share of the prize; so much was his avarice superiour to his honesty. Drake, after some deliberation, complying with the pilot's importunities, sailed towards the harbour, but had no sooner entered the mouth of it than he heard the report of artillery, which was answered by others at a greater distance; upon which the pilot told him, that they wero discovered, this being the signal appointed by the governour to alarm the coast. Drake now thought it convenient to return to the ship, that he might inquire the success of the other pinnace, which he found, with a frigate that she had taken, with twenty-eight fat hogs, two hundred hens, and great store of maize or Indian corn. The vessel itself was so strong and well built, that he fitted it out for war, determining to attack the fleet at Nombre de Dios. On March the 21st, he set sail, with the new frigate and the Bear, towards the Cabezas, at which he arrived in about two days, and found there Tètu, a Frenchman, with a ship of war, who, after having received from him a supply of water and other necessaries, entreated that he might join with him in his attempt; which Drake consenting to, admitted him to accompany him with twenty of his men, stipulating to allow them an equal share of whatever booty they should gain. Yet were they not without some suspicions of danger from this new ally, he having eighty men, and they being now reduced to thirty-one. Then manning the frigate and two pinnaces, they set sail for the Cabezas, where they left the frigate, which was too large for the shallows over which they were to pass, and proceeded to Rio Francisco. Here they landed, and, having ordered the pinnaces to return to the same place on the fourth day following, travelled through the woods towards Nombre de Dios, with such silence and regularity as surprised the French, who did not imagine the Symerons so discreet or obedient as they appeared, and were, therefore, in perpetual anxiety about the fidelity of their guides, and the probability of their return. Nor did the Symerons treat them with that submission and regard which they paid to the English, whose bravery and conduct they had already tried. At length, after a laborious march of more than seven leagues, they began to hear the hammers of the carpenters in the bay, it being the custom, in that hot season, to work in the night; and, in a short time, they perceived the approach of the recoes, or droves of mules, from Panama. They now no longer doubted that their labours would be rewarded, and every man imagined himself secure from poverty and labour for the remaining part of his life. They, therefore, when the mules came up, rushed out and seized them, with an alacrity proportioned to their expectations. The three droves consisted of one hundred and nine mules, each of which carried three hundred pounds' weight of silver. It was to little purpose that the soldiers, ordered to guard the treasure, attempted resistance. After a short combat, in which the French captain and one of the Symerons were wounded, it appeared with how much greater ardour men are animated by interest than fidelity. As it was possible for them to carry away but a small part of this treasure, after having wearied themselves with hiding it in holes and shallow waters, they determined to return by the same way, and, without being pursued, entered the woods, where the French captain, being disabled by his wound, was obliged to stay, two of his company continuing with him. When they had gone forward about two leagues, the Frenchmen missed another of their company, who, upon inquiry, was known to be intoxicated with wine, and supposed to have lost himself in the woods, by neglecting to observe the guides. But common prudence not allowing them to hazard the whole company by too much solicitude for a single life, they travelled on towards Rio Francisco, at which they arrived, April the 3rd; but, looking out for their pinnaces, were surprised with the sight of seven Spanish shallops, and immediately concluded, that some intelligence of their motions had been carried to Nombre de Dios, and that these vessels had been fitted out to pursue them, which might, undoubtedly, have overpowered the pinnaces and their feeble crew. Nor did their suspicion stop here; but immediately it occurred to them, that their men had been compelled, by torture, to discover where their frigate and ship were stationed, which, being weakly manned, and without the presence of the chief commander, would fall into their hands, almost without resistance, and all possibility of escaping be entirely cut off. These reflections sunk the whole company into despair; and every one, instead of endeavouring to break through the difficulties that surrounded him, resigned up himself to his ill fortune; when Drake, whose intrepidity was never to be shaken, and whose reason was never to be surprised or embarrassed, represented to them that, though the Spaniards should have made themselves masters of their pinnaces, they might yet be hindered from discovering the ships. He put them in mind, that the pinnaces could not be taken, the men examined, their examinations compared, the resolutions formed, their vessels sent out, and the ships taken in an instant. Some time must, necessarily, be spent, before the last blow could be struck; and, if that time were not negligently lost, it might be possible for some of them to reach the ships before the enemy, and direct them to change their station. They were animated with this discourse, by which they discovered that their leader was not without hope; but when they came to look more nearly into their situation, they were unable to conceive upon what it was founded. To pass by land was impossible, as the way lay over high mountains, through thick woods and deep rivers; and they had not a single boat in their power, so that a passage by water seemed equally impracticable. But Drake, whose penetration immediately discovered all the circumstances and inconveniencies of every scheme, soon determined upon the only means of success which their condition afforded them; and ordering his men to make a raft out of the trees that were then floating on the river, offered himself to put off to sea upon it, and cheerfully asked who would accompany him. John Owen, John Smith, and two Frenchmen, who were willing to share his fortune, embarked with him on the raft, which was fitted out with a sail made of a biscuit-sack, and an oar, to direct its course, instead of a rudder. Then having comforted the rest, with assurances of his regard for them, and resolution to leave nothing unattempted for their deliverance, he put off, and after having, with much difficulty, sailed three leagues, descried two pinnaces hasting towards him, which, upon a nearer approach, he discovered to be his own, and perceiving that they anchored behind a point that jutted out into the sea, he put to shore, and, crossing the land on foot, was received, by his company, with that satisfaction, which is only known to those that have been acquainted with dangers and distresses. The same night they rowed to Rio Francisco, where they took in the rest, with what treasure they had been able to carry with them through the woods; then sailing back with the utmost expedition, they returned to their frigate, and soon after to their ship, where Drake divided the gold and silver equally between the French and the English. Here they spent about fourteen days in fitting out their frigate more completely, and then dismissing the Spaniards with their ship, lay a few days among the Cabezas; while twelve English and sixteen Symerons travelled, once more, into the country, as well to recover the French captain, whom they had left wounded, as to bring away the treasure which they had hidden in the sands. Drake, whom his company would not suffer to hazard his person in another land expedition, went with them to Rio Francisco, where he found one of the Frenchmen, who had stayed to attend their captain, and was informed by him, upon his inquiries after his fortune, that, half an hour after their separation, the Spaniards came upon them, and easily seized upon the wounded captain; but that his companion might have escaped with him, had he not preferred money to life; for, seeing him throw down a box of jewels that retarded him, he could not forbear taking it up, and with that, and the gold which he had already, was so loaded that he could not escape. With regard to the bars of gold and silver, which they had concealed in the ground, he informed them that two thousand men had been employed in digging for them. The men, however, either mistrusting the informer's veracity, or confident that what they had hidden could not be found, pursued their journey, but, upon their arrival at the place, found the ground turned up for two miles round, and were able to recover no more than thirteen bars' of silver, and a small quantity of gold. They discovered afterwards, that the Frenchman who was left in the woods, falling afterwards into the hands of the Spaniards, was tortured by them, till he confessed where Drake had concealed his plunder. So fatal to Drake's expedition was the drunkenness of his followers. Then, dismissing the French, they passed by Carthagena with their colours flying, and soon after took a frigate laden with provisions and honey, which they valued as a great restorative, and then sailed away to the Cabezas. Here they stayed about a week to clean their vessels, and fit them for a long voyage, determining to set sail for England; and, that the faithful Symerons might not go away unrewarded, broke up their pinnaces, and gave them the iron, the most valuable present in the world, to a nation whose only employments were war and hunting, and amongst whom show and luxury had no place. Pedro, their captain, being desired by Drake to go through the ship, and to choose what he most desired, fixed his eye upon a cimetar, set with diamonds, which the French captain had presented to Drake; and, being unwilling to ask for so valuable a present, offered for it four large quoits, or thick plates of gold, which he had, hitherto, concealed; but Drake, desirous to show him that fidelity is seldom without a recompense, gave it him with the highest professions of satisfaction and esteem. Pedro, receiving it with the utmost gratitude, informed him, that, by bestowing it he had conferred greatness and honour upon him; for, by presenting it to his king, he doubted not of obtaining the highest rank amongst the Symerons. He then persisted in his resolution of leaving the gold, which was generously thrown by Drake into the common stock; for he said, that those, at whose expenses he had been sent out, ought to share in all the gain of the expedition, whatever pretence cavil and chicanery might supply for the appropriation of any part of it. Thus was Drake's character consistent with itself; he was equally superiour to avarice and fear, and through whatever danger he might go in quest of gold, he thought it not valuable enough to be obtained by artifice or dishonesty. They now forsook the coast of America, which for many months they had kept in perpetual alarms, having taken more than two hundred ships, of all sizes, between Carthagena and Nombre de Dios, of which they never destroyed any, unless they were fitted out against them; nor ever detained the prisoners longer than was necessary for their own security or concealment, providing for them in the same manner as for themselves, and protecting them from the malice of the Symerous; a behaviour which humanity dictates, and which, perhaps, even policy cannot disapprove. He must certainly meet with obstinate opposition, who makes it equally dangerous to yield as to resist, and who leaves his enemies no hopes but from victory. What riches they acquired is not particularly related; but it is not to be doubted, that the plunder of so many vessels, together with the silver which they seized at Nombre de Dios, must amount to a very large sum, though the part that was allotted to Drake was not sufficient to lull him in effeminacy, or to repress his natural inclination to adventures. They arrived at Plymouth on the 9th of August, 1573, on Sunday, in the afternoon; and so much were the people delighted with the news of their arrival, that they left the preacher, and ran in crowds to the quay, with shouts and congratulations. Drake having, in his former expedition, had a view of the south sea, and formed a resolution to sail upon it, did not suffer himself to be diverted from his design by the prospect of any difficulties that might obstruct the attempt, nor any dangers that might attend the execution; obstacles which brave men often find it much more easy to overcome, than secret envy and domestick treachery. Drake's reputation was now sufficiently advanced to incite detraction and opposition; and it is easy to imagine, that a man by nature superiour to mean artifices, and bred, from his earliest years, to the labour and hardships of a sea-life, was very little acquainted with policy and intrigue, very little versed in the methods of application to the powerful and great, and unable to obviate the practices of those whom his merit had made his enemies. Nor are such the only opponents of great enterprises: there are some men, of narrow views and grovelling conceptions, who, without the instigation of personal malice, treat every new attempt, as wild and chimerical, and look upon every endeavour to depart from the beaten track, as the rash effort of a warm imagination, or the glittering speculation of an exalted mind, that may please and dazzle for a time, but can produce no real or lasting advantage. These men value themselves upon a perpetual skepticism, upon believing nothing but their own senses, upon calling for demonstration where it cannot possibly be obtained, and, sometimes, upon holding out against it, when it is laid before them; upon inventing arguments against the success of any new undertaking, and, where arguments cannot be found, upon treating it with contempt and ridicule. Such have been the most formidable enemies of the great benefactors to mankind, and to these we can hardly doubt, but that much of the opposition which Drake met with, is to be attributed; for their notions and discourse are so agreeable to the lazy, the envious, and the timorous, that they seldom fail of becoming popular, and directing the opinions of mankind. Whatsoever were his obstacles, and whatsoever the motives that produced them, it was not till the year 1577, that he was able to assemble a force proportioned to his design, and to obtain a commission from the queen, by which he was constituted captain-general of a fleet, consisting of five vessels, of which the Pelican, admiral, of a hundred tons, was commanded by himself; the Elizabeth, viceadmiral, of eighty tons, by John Winter; the Marigold, of thirty tons, by John Thomas; the Swan, fifty tons, by John Chester; the Christopher, of fifteen tons, by Thomas Moche, the same, as it seems, who was carpenter in the former voyage, and destroyed one of the ships by Drake's direction. These ships, equipped partly by himself, and partly by other private adventurers, he manned with one hundred and sixty-four stout sailors, and furnished with such provisions as he judged necessary for the long voyage in which he was engaged. Nor did he confine his concern to naval stores, or military preparations; but carried with him whatever he thought might contribute to raise in those nations, with which he should have any intercourse, the highest ideas of the politeness and magnificence of his native country. He, therefore, not only procured a complete service of silver, for his own table, and furnished the cook-room with many vessels of the same metal, but engaged several musicians to accompany him; rightly judging, that nothing would more excite the admiration of any savage and uncivilized people. Having been driven back by a tempest in their first attempt, and obliged to return to Plymouth, to repair the damages which they had suffered, they set sail again from thence on the 13th of December, 1577, and, on the 25th, had sight of cape Cantin, in Barbary, from whence they coasted on southward to the island of Mogador, which Drake had appointed for the first place of rendezvous, and on the 27th, brought the whole fleet to anchor, in a harbour on the mainland. They were, soon after their arrival, discovered by the Moors that inhabited those coasts, who sent two of the principal men amongst them on board Drake's ship, receiving, at the same time, two of his company as hostages. These men he not only treated in the most splendid manner, but presented with such things as they appeared most to admire; it being with him an established maxim, to endeavour to secure, in every country, a kind reception to such Englishmen as might come after him, by treating the inhabitants with kindness and generosity; a conduct, at once just and politick, to the neglect of which may be attributed many of the injuries suffered by our sailors in distant countries, which are generally ascribed, rather to the effects of wickedness and folly of our own commanders, than the barbarity of the natives, who seldom fall upon any, unless they have been first plundered or insulted; and, in revenging the ravages of one crew upon another of the same nation, are guilty of nothing but what is countenanced by the example of the Europeans themselves. But this friendly intercourse was, in appearance, soon broken; for, on the next day, observing the Moors making signals from the land, they sent out their boat, as before, to fetch them to the ship, and one John Fry leaped ashore, intending to become a hostage, as on the former day, when immediately he was seized by the Moors; and the crew, observing great numbers to start up from behind the rock, with weapons in their hands, found it madness to attempt his rescue, and, therefore, provided for their own security by returning to the ship. Fry was immediately carried to the king, who, being then in continual expectation of an invasion from Portugal, suspected that these ships were sent only to observe the coast, and discover a proper harbour for the main fleet; but being informed who they were, and whither they were bound, not only dismissed his captive, but made large offers of friendship and assistance, which Drake, however, did not stay to receive, but, being disgusted at this breach of the laws of commerce, and afraid of further violence, after having spent some days in searching for his man, in which he met with no resistance, left the coast on December 31, some time before Fry's return, who, being obliged by this accident to somewhat a longer residence among the Moors, was afterwards sent home in a merchant's ship. On January 16, they arrived at cape Blanc, having in their passage taken several Spanish vessels. Here, while Drake was employing his men in catching fish, of which this coast affords great plenty, and various kinds, the inhabitants came down to the seaside with their alisorges, or leather bottles, to traffick for water, which they were willing to purchase with ambergris and other gums. But Drake, compassionating the misery of their condition, gave them water, whenever they asked for it, and left them their commodities to traffick with, when they should be again reduced to the same distress, without finding the same generosity to relieve them. Here, having discharged some Spanish ships, which they had taken, they set sail towards the isles of cape Verd, and, on January 28, came to anchor before Mayo, hoping to furnish themselves with fresh water; but having landed, they found the town by the waterside entirely deserted, and, marching further up the country, saw the valleys extremely fruitful, and abounding with ripe figs, cocoas, and plantains, but could by no means prevail upon the inhabitants to converse or traffick with them; however, they were suffered by them to range the country without molestation, but found no water, except at such a distance from the sea, that the labour of conveying it to the ships was greater than it was, at that time, necessary for them to undergo. Salt, had they wanted it, might have been obtained with less trouble, being left by the sea upon the sand, and hardened by the sun during the ebb, in such quantities, that the chief traffick of their island is carried on with it. January 31, they passed by St. Jago an island at that time divided between the natives and the Portuguese, who, first entering these islands under the show of traffick, by degrees established themselves;--claimed a superiority over the original inhabitants; and harassed them with such cruelty, that they obliged them either to fly to the woods and mountains, and perish with hunger, or to take up arms against their oppressors, and, under the insuperable disadvantages with which they contended, to die, almost without a battle, in defence of their natural rights and ancient possessions. Such treatment had the natives of St. Jago received, which had driven them into the rocky parts of the island, from whence they made incursions into the plantations of the Portuguese, sometimes with loss, but generally with that success which desperation naturally procures; so that the Portuguese were in continual alarms, and, lived, with the natural consequences of guilt, terrour, and anxiety. They were wealthy, but not happy, and possessed the island, but not enjoyed it. They then sailed on within sight of Fuego, an island so called from a mountain, about the middle of it, continually burning, and, like the rest, inhabited by the Portuguese; two leagues to the south of which lies Brava, which has received its name from its fertility, abounding, though uninhabited, with all kinds of fruits, and watered with great numbers of springs and brooks, which would easily invite the possessours of the adjacent islands to settle in it, but that it affords neither harbour nor anchorage. Drake, after having sent out his boats with plummets, was not able to find any ground about it; and it is reported, that many experiments have been made with the same success; however, he took in water sufficient, and, on the 2nd of February, set sail for the straits of Magellan. On February 17, they passed the equator, and continued their voyage, with sometimes calms, and sometimes contrary winds, but without any memorable accident, to March 28, when one of their vessels, with twenty-eight men, and the greatest part of their fresh water on board, was, to their great discouragement, separated from them; but their perplexity lasted not long, for on the next day they discovered and rejoined their associates. In their long course, which gave them opportunities of observing several animals, both in the air and water, at that time very little known, nothing entertained or surprised them more than the flying fish, which is near of the same size with a herring, and has fins of the length of his whole body, by the help of which, when he is pursued by the bonito or great mackerel, as soon as he finds himself upon the point of being taken, he springs up into the air, and flies forward, as long as his wings continue wet, moisture being, as it seems, necessary to make them pliant and moveable; and when they become dry and stiff, he falls down into the water, unless some bark or ship intercept him, and dips them again for a second flight. This unhappy animal is not only pursued by fishes in his natural element, but attacked in the air, where he hopes for security, by the don, or sparkite, a great bird that preys upon fish; and their species must surely be destroyed, were not their increase so great, that the young fry, in one part of the year, covers the sea. There is another fish, named the cuttle, of which whole shoals will sometimes rise at once out of the water, and of which a great multitude fell into their ship. At length, having sailed without sight of land for sixty-three days, they arrived, April 5, at the coast of Brasil, where, on the 7th, the Christopher was separated again from them by a storm; after which they sailed near the land to the southward, and, on the 14th, anchored under a cape, which they afterwards called cape Joy, because in two days the vessel which they had lost returned to them. Having spent a fortnight in the river of Plata, to refresh his men, after their long voyage, and then standing out to sea, he was again surprised by a sudden storm, in which they lost sight of the Swan. This accident determined Drake to contract the number of his fleet, that he might not only avoid the inconvenience of such frequent separations, but ease the labour of his men, by having more hands in each vessel. For this purpose he sailed along the coast, in quest of a commodious harbour, and, on May 13, discovered a bay, which seemed not improper for their purpose, but which they durst not enter, till it was examined; an employment in which Drake never trusted any, whatever might be his confidence in his followers on other occasions. He well knew how fatal one moment's inattention might be, and how easily almost every man suffers himself to be surprised by indolence and security. He knew the same credulity, that might prevail upon him to trust another, might induce another to commit the same office to a third; and it must be, at length, that some of them would be deceived. He, therefore, as at other times, ordered the boat to be hoisted out, and, taking the line into his hand, went on sounding the passage, till he was three leagues from his ship; when, on a sudden, the weather changed, the skies blackened, the winds whistled, and all the usual forerunners of a storm began to threaten them; nothing was now desired but to return to the ship, but the thickness of the fog intercepting it from their sight, made the attempt little other than desperate. By so many unforeseen accidents is prudence itself liable to be embarrassed! So difficult is it, sometimes, for the quickest sagacity, and most enlightened experience, to judge what measures ought to be taken! To trust another to sound an unknown coast, appeared to Drake folly and presumption; to be absent from his fleet, though but for an hour, proved nothing less than to hazard the success of all their labours, hardships, and dangers. In this perplexity, which Drake was not more sensible of than those whom he had left in the ships, nothing was to be omitted, however dangerous, that might contribute to extricate them from it, as they could venture nothing of equal value with the life of their general. Captain Thomas, therefore, having the lightest vessel, steered boldly into the bay, and taking the general aboard, dropped anchor, and lay out of danger, while the rest, that were in the open sea, suffered much from the tempest, and the Mary, a Portuguese prize, was driven away before the wind; the others, as soon as the tempest was over, discovering, by the fires which were made on shore, where Drake was, repaired to him. Here, going on shore, they met with no inhabitants, though there were several houses or huts standing, in which they found a good quantity of dried fowls, and among them a great number of ostriches, of which the thighs were as large as those of a sheep. These birds are too heavy and unwieldy to rise from the ground, but with the help of their wings run so swiftly, that the English could never come near enough to shoot at them. The Indians, commonly, by holding a large plume of feathers before them, and walking gently forward, drive the ostriches into some narrow neck, or point of land, then, spreading a strong net from one side to the other, to hinder them from returning back to the open fields, set their dogs upon them, thus confined between the net and the water, and when they are thrown on their backs, rush in and take them. Not finding this harbour convenient, or well stored with wood and water, they left it on the 15th of May, and, on the 18th, entered another much safer, and more commodious, which they no sooner arrived at, than Drake, whose restless application never remitted, sent Winter to the southward, in quest of those ships which were absent, and immediately after sailed himself to the northward, and, happily meeting with the Swan, conducted it to the rest of the fleet; after which, in pursuance of his former resolution, he ordered it to be broken up, reserving the iron-work for a future supply. The other vessel, which they lost in the late storm, could not be discovered. While they were thus employed upon an island about a mile from the mainland, to which, at low water, there was a passage on foot, they were discovered by the natives, who appeared upon a hill at a distance, dancing and holding up their hands, as beckoning the English to them; which Drake observing, sent out a boat, with knives, bells, and bugles, and such things as, by their usefulness or novelty, he imagined would be agreeable. As soon as the English landed, they observed two men running towards them, as deputed by the company, who came within a little distance, and then standing still could not be prevailed upon to come nearer. The English, therefore, tied their presents to a pole, which they fixed in the ground, and then retiring, saw the Indians advance, who, taking what they found upon the pole, left in return such feathers as they wear upon their heads, with a small bone about six inches in length, carved round the top, and burnished. Drake, observing their inclination to friendship and traffick, advanced, with some of his company, towards the hill, upon sight of whom the Indians ranged themselves in a line from east to west, and one of them running from one end of the rank to the other, backwards and forwards, bowed himself towards the rising and setting of the sun, holding his hands over his head, and frequently stopping in the middle of the rank, leaping up towards the moon, which then shone directly over their heads; thus calling the sun and moon, the deities they worship, to witness the sincerity of their professions of peace and friendship. While this ceremony was performed, Drake and his company ascended the hill, to the apparent terrour of the Indians, whose apprehensions, when the English perceived, they peaceably retired, which gave the natives so much encouragement, that they came forward immediately, and exchanged their arrows, feathers, and bones, for such trifles as were offered them. Thus they traded for some time; but, by frequent intercourse, finding that no violence was intended, they became familiar, and mingled with the English without the least distrust. They go quite naked, except a skin of some animal, which they throw over their shoulders when they lie in the open air. They knit up their hair, which is very long, with a roll of ostrich feathers, and usually carry their arrows wrapped up brit, that they may not encumber them, they being made with reeds, headed with flint, and, therefore, not heavy. Their bows are about an ell long. Their chief ornament is paint, which they use of several kinds, delineating generally upon their bodies, the figures of the sun and moon, in honour of their deities. It is observable, that most nations, amongst whom the use of clothes is unknown, paint their bodies. Such was the practice of the first inhabitants of our own country. From this custom did our earliest enemies, the Picts, owe their denomination. As it is not probable that caprice or fancy should be uniform, there must be, doubtless, some reason for a practice so general and prevailing in distant parts of the world, which have no communication with each other. The original end of painting their bodies was, probably, to exclude the cold; an end which, if we believe some relations, is so effectually produced by it, that the men thus painted never shiver at the most piercing blasts. But, doubtless, any people, so hardened by continual severities, would, even without paint, be less sensible of the cold than the civilized inhabitants of the same climate. However, this practice may contribute, in some degree, to defend them from the injuries of winter; and, in those climates where little evaporates by the pores, may be used with no great inconvenience; but in hot countries, where perspiration in greater degree is necessary, the natives only use unction to preserve them from the other extreme of weather: so well do either reason or experience supply the place of science in savage countries. They had no canoes, like the other Indians, nor any method of crossing the water, which was, probably, the reason why the birds, in the adjacent islands, were so tame that they might be taken with the hand, having never been before frighted or molested. The great plenty of fowls and seals, which crowded the shallows in such numbers that they killed, at their first arrival, two hundred of them in an hour, contributed much to the refreshment of the English, who named the place Seal bay, from that animal. These seals seem to be the chief food of the natives, for the English often found raw pieces of their flesh half eaten, and left, as they supposed, after a full meal, by the Indians, whom they never knew to make use of fire, or any art, in dressing or preparing their victuals. Nor were their other customs less wild or uncouth than their way of feeding; one of them having received a cap off the general's head, and being extremely pleased, as well with the honour as the gift, to express his gratitude, and confirm the alliance between them, retired to a little distance, and thrusting an arrow into his leg, let the blood run upon the ground, testifying, as it is probable, that he valued Drake's friendship above life. Having stayed fifteen days among these friendly savages, in 47 deg. 30 min. s. lat. on June 3 they set sail towards the south sea, and, six days afterwards, stopped at another little bay, to break up the Christopher. Then passing on, they cast anchor in another bay, not more than twenty leagues distant from the straits of Magellan. It was now time seriously to deliberate in what manner they should act with regard to the Portuguese prize, which, having been separated from them by the storm, had not yet rejoined them. To return in search of it, was sufficiently mortifying; to proceed without it, was not only to deprive themselves of a considerable part of their force, but to expose their friends and companions, whom common hardships and dangers had endeared to them, to certain death or captivity. This consideration prevailed; and, therefore, on the 18th, after prayers to God, with which Drake never forgot to begin an enterprise, he put to sea, and, the next day, near port Julian, discovered their associates, whose ship was now grown leaky, having suffered much, both in the first storm, by which they were dispersed, and, afterwards, in fruitless attempts to regain the fleet. Drake, therefore, being desirous to relieve their fatigues, entered port Julian, and, as it was his custom always to attend in person, when any important business was in hand, went ashore, with some of the chief of his company, to seek for water, where he was immediately accosted by two natives, of whom Magellan left a very terrible account, having described them, as a nation of giants and monsters; nor is his narrative entirely without foundation, for they are of the largest size, though not taller than some Englishmen; their strength is proportioned to their bulk, and their voice loud, boisterous, and terrible. What were their manners before the arrival of the Spaniards, it is not possible to discover; but the slaughter made of their countrymen, perhaps without provocation, by these cruel intruders, and the general massacre with which that part of the world had been depopulated, might have raised in them a suspicion of all strangers, and, by consequence, made them inhospitable, treacherous, and bloody. The two who associated themselves with the English appeared much pleased with their new guests, received willingly what was given them, and very exactly observed every thing that passed, seeming more particularly delighted with seeing Oliver, the master-gunner, shoot an English arrow. They shot themselves, likewise, in emulation, but their arrows always fell to the ground far short of his. Soon after this friendly contest came another, who, observing the familiarity of his countrymen with the strangers, appeared much displeased, and, as the Englishmen perceived, endeavoured to dissuade them from such an intercourse. What effect his arguments had was soon after apparent, for another of Drake's companions, being desirous to show the third Indian a specimen of the English valour and dexterity, attempted, likewise, to shoot an arrow, but drawing it with his full force, burst the bowstring; upon which the Indians, who were unacquainted with their other weapons, imagined him disarmed, followed the company, as they were walking negligently down towards their boat, and let fly their arrows, aiming particularly at Winter, who had the bow in his hand. He, finding himself wounded in the shoulder, endeavoured to refit his bow, and, turning about, was pierced with a second arrow in the breast. Oliver, the gunner, immediately presented his piece at the insidious assailants, which failing to take fire, gave them time to level another flight of arrows by which he was killed; nor, perhaps, had any of them escaped, surprised and perplexed as they were, had not Drake, with his usual presence of mind, animated their courage, and directed their motions, ordering them, by perpetually changing their places, to elude, as much as they could, the aim of their enemies, and to defend their bodies with their targets; and instructing them, by his own example, to pick up, and break the arrows as they fell; which they did with so much diligence, that the Indians were soon in danger of being disarmed. Then Drake himself taking the gun, which Oliver had so unsuccessfully attempted to make use of, discharged it at the Indian that first began the fray and had killed the gunner, aiming it so happily, that the hailshot, with which it was loaded, tore open his belly, and forced him to such terrible outcries, that the Indians, though their numbers increased, and many of their countrymen showed themselves from different parts of the adjoining wood, were too much terrified to renew the assault, and suffered Drake, without molestation, to withdraw his wounded friend, who, being hurt in his lungs, languished two days, and then dying, was interred with his companion, with the usual ceremony of a military funeral. They stayed here two months afterwards, without receiving any other injuries from the natives, who, finding the danger to which they exposed themselves by open hostilities, and, not being able any more to surprise the vigilance of Drake, preferred their safety to revenge. But Drake had other enemies to conquer or escape far more formidable than these barbarians, and insidious practices to obviate, more artful and dangerous than the ambushes of the Indians; for in this place was laid open a design formed by one of the gentlemen of the fleet, not only to defeat the voyage, but to murder the general. This transaction is related in so obscure and confused a manner, that it is difficult to form any judgment upon it. The writer who gives the largest account of it, has suppressed the name of the criminal, which we learn, from a more succinct narrative, published in a collection of travels near that time, to have been Thomas Doughtie. What were his inducements to attempt the destruction of his leader, and the ruin of the expedition, or what were his views, if his design had succeeded, what measures he had hitherto taken, whom he had endeavoured to corjupt, with what arts, or what success, we are nowhere told. The plot, as the narrative assures us, was laid before their departure from England, and discovered, in its whole extent, to Drake himself, in his garden at Plymouth, who, nevertheless, not only entertained the person so accused, as one of his company, but this writer very particularly relates, treated him with remarkable kindness and regard, setting him always at his own table, and lodged him in the same cabin with himself. Nor did ever he discover the least suspicion of his intentions, till they arrived at this place, but appeared, by the authority with which he invested him, to consider him, as one to whom, in his absence, he could most securely intrust the direction of his affairs. At length, in this remote corner of the world, he found out a design formed against his life, called together all his officers, laid before them the evidence on which he grounded the accusation, and summoned the criminal, who, full of all the horrours of guilt, and confounded at so clear a detection of his whole scheme, immediately confessed his crimes, and acknowledged himself unworthy of longer life; upon which the whole assembly, consisting of thirty persons, after having considered the affair with the attention which it required, and heard all that could be urged in extenuation of his offence, unanimously signed the sentence by which he was condemned to suffer death. Drake, however, unwilling, as it seemed, to proceed to extreme severities, offered him his choice, either of being executed on the island, or set ashore on the mainland, or being sent to England to be tried before the council; of which, after a day's consideration, he chose the first, alleging the improbability of persuading any to leave the expedition, for the sake of transporting a criminal to England, and the danger of his future state among savages and infidels. His choice, I believe, few will approve: to be set ashore on the mainland, was, indeed, only to be executed in a different manner; for what mercy could be expected from the natives so incensed, but the most cruel and lingering death! But why he should not rather have requested to be sent to England, it is not so easy to conceive. In so long a voyage he might have found a thousand opportunities of escaping, perhaps with the connivance of his keepers, whose resentment must probably in time have given way to compassion, or, at least, by their negligence, as it is easy to believe they would, in times of ease and refreshment, have remitted their vigilance; at least he would have gained longer life; and, to make death desirable, seems not one of the effects of guilt. However, he was, as it is related, obstinately deaf to all persuasions, and, adhering to his first choice, after having received the communion, and dined cheerfully with the general, was executed in the afternoon, with many proofs of remorse, but none of fear. How far it is probable that Drake, after having been acquainted with this man's designs, should admit him into his fleet, and afterwards caress, respect, and trust him; or that Doughtie, who is represented as a man of eminent abilities, should engage in so long and hazardous a voyage, with no other view than that of defeating it; is left to the determination of the reader. What designs he could have formed, with any hope of success, or to what actions, worthy of death, he could have proceeded without accomplices, for none are mentioned, is equally difficult to imagine. Nor, on the other hand, though the obscurity of the account, and the remote place chosen for the discovery of this wicked project, seem to give some reason for suspicion, does there appear any temptation, from either hope, fear, or interest, that might induce Drake, or any commander in his state, to put to death an innocent man upon false pretences. After the execution of this man, the whole company, either convinced of the justice of the proceeding, or awed by the severity, applied themselves, without any murmurs, or appearance of discontent, to the prosecution of the voyage; and, having broken up another vessel, and reduced the number of their ships to three, they left the port, and, on August the 20th, entered the straits of Magellan, in which they struggled with contrary winds, and the various dangers to which the intricacy of that winding passage exposed them, till night, and then entered a more open sea, in which they discovered an island with a burning mountain. On the 24th they fell in with three more islands, to which Drake gave names, and, landing to take possession of them in the name of his sovereign, found in the largest so prodigious a number of birds, that they killed three thousand of them in one day. This bird, of which they knew not the name, was somewhat less than a wild goose, without feathers, and covered with a kind of down, unable to fly or rise from the ground, but capable of running and swimming with amazing celerity; they feed on the sea, and come to land only to rest at night, or lay their eggs, which they deposit in holes like those of conies. From these islands to the south sea, the strait becomes very crooked and narrow, so that sometimes, by the interposition of headlands, the passage seems shut up, and the voyage entirely stopped. To double these capes is very difficult, on account of the frequent alterations to be made in the course. There are, indeed, as Magellan observes, many harbours, but in most of them no bottom is to be found. The land, on both sides, rises into innumerable mountains; the tops of them are encircled with clouds and vapours, which, being congealed, fall down in snow, and increase their height by hardening into ice, which is never dissolved; but the valleys are, nevertheless, green, fruitful, and pleasant. Here Drake, finding the strait, in appearance, shut up, went in his boat to make further discoveries; and having found a passage towards the north, was returning to his ships; but curiosity soon prevailed upon him to stop, for the sake of observing a canoe or boat, with several natives of the country in it. He could not, at a distance, forbear admiring the form of this little vessel, which seemed inclining to a semicircle, the stern and prow standing up, and the body sinking inward; but much greater was his wonder, when, upon a nearer inspection, he found it made only of the barks of trees, sewed together with thongs of sealskin, so artificially, that scarcely any water entered the seams. The people were well shaped and painted, like those which have been already described. On the land they had a hut built with poles, and covered with skins, in which they had water-vessels, and other utensils, made likewise of the barks of trees. Among these people they had an opportunity of remarking, what is frequently observable in savage countries, how natural sagacity and unwearied industry may supply the want of such manufactures or natural productions, as appear to us absolutely necessary for the support of life. The inhabitants of these islands are wholly strangers to iron and its use, but, instead of it, make use of the shell of a muscle of prodigious size, found upon their coasts; this they grind upon a stone to an edge, which is so firm and solid, that neither wood nor stone is able to resist it. September 6, they entered the great south sea, on which no English vessel had ever been navigated before, and proposed to have directed their course towards the line, that their men, who had suffered by the severity of the climate, might recover their strength in a warmer latitude. But their designs were scarce formed, before they were frustrated; for, on Sept. 7, after an eclipse of the moon, a storm arose, so violent, that it left them little hopes of surviving it; nor was its fury so dreadful as its continuance; for it lasted, with little intermission, till October 28, fifty-two days, during which time they were tossed incessantly from one part of the ocean to another, without any power of spreading their sails, or lying upon their anchors, amidst shelving shores, scattered rocks, and unknown islands, the tempest continually roaring, and the waves dashing over them. In this storm, on the 30th of September, the Marigold, commanded by captain Thomas, was separated from them. On the 7th of October, having entered a harbour, where they hoped for some intermission of their fatigues, they were, in a few hours, forced out to sea by a violent gust, which broke the cable, at which time they lost sight of the Elizabeth, the viceadmiral, whose crew, as was afterwards discovered, wearied with labour, and discouraged by the prospect of future dangers, recovered the straits on the next day, and, returning by the same passage through which they came, sailed along the coast of Brasil, and on the 2nd of June, in the year following, arrived at England. From this bay they were driven southward to fifty-five degrees, where, among some islands, they stayed two days, to the great refreshment of the crew; but, being again forced into the main sea, they were tossed about with perpetual expectation of perishing, till, soon after, they again came to anchor near the same place, where they found the natives, whom the continuance of the storm had probably reduced to equal distress, rowing from one island to another, and providing the necessaries of life. It is, perhaps, a just observation, that, with regard to outward circumstances, happiness and misery are equally diffused through all states of human life. In civilized countries, where regular policies have secured the necessaries of life, ambition, avarice, and luxury, find the mind at leisure for their reception, and soon engage it in new pursuits; pursuits that are to be carried on by incessant labour, and, whether vain or successful, produce anxiety and contention. Among savage nations, imaginary wants find, indeed, no place; but their strength is exhausted by necessary toils, and their passions agitated not by contests about superiority, affluence, or precedence, but by perpetual care for the present day, and by fear of perishing for want of food. But for such reflections as these they had no time; for, having spent three days in supplying themselves with wood and water, they were, by a new storm, driven to the latitude of fifty-six degrees, where they beheld the extremities of the American coast, and the confluence of the Atlantick and southern ocean. Here they arrived on the 28th of October, and, at last, were blessed with the sight of a calm sea, having, for almost two months, endured such a storm as no traveller has given an account of, and such as, in that part of the world, though accustomed to hurricanes, they were before unacquainted with. On the 30th of October, they steered away towards the place appointed for the rendezvous of the fleet, which was in thirty degrees; and, on the next day, discovered two islands, so well stocked with fowls, that they victualled their ships with them, and then sailed forward along the coast of Peru, till they came to thirty-seven degrees, where, finding neither of their ships, nor any convenient port, they came to anchor, November the 25th, at Mucho, an island inhabited by such Indians, as the cruelty of the Spanish conquerors had driven from the continent, to whom they applied for water and provisions, offering them, in return, such things as they imagined most likely to please them. The Indians seemed willing to traffick, and having presented them with fruits, and two fat sheep, would have showed them a place whither they should come for water. The next morning, according to agreement, the English landed with their water-vessels, and sent two men forward towards the place appointed, who, about the middle of the way, were suddenly attacked by the Indians, and immediately slain. Nor were the rest of the company out of danger; for behind the rocks was lodged an ambush of five hundred men, who, starting up from their retreat, discharged their arrows into the boat with such dexterity, that every one of the crew was wounded by them, the sea being then high, and hindering them from either retiring or making use of their weapons. Drake himself received an arrow under his eye, which pierced him almost to the brain, and another in his head. The danger of these wounds was much increased by the absence of their surgeon, who was in the viceadmiral, so that they had none to assist them but a boy, whose age did not admit of much experience or skill; yet so much were they favoured by providence, that they all recovered. No reason could be assigned for which the Indians should attack them with so furious a spirit of malignity, but that they mistook them for Spaniards, whose cruelties might very reasonably incite them to revenge, whom they had driven by incessant persecution from their country, wasting immense tracts of land by massacre and devastation. On the afternoon of the same day, they set sail, and, on the 30th of November, dropped anchor in Philips bay, where their boat, having been sent out to discover the country, returned with an Indian in his canoe, whom they had intercepted. He was of a graceful stature, dressed in a white coat or gown, reaching almost to his knees, very mild, humble, and docile, such as, perhaps, were all the Indians, till the Spaniards taught them revenge, treachery, and cruelty. This Indian, having been kindly treated, was dismissed with presents, and informed, as far as the English could make him understand, what they chiefly wanted, and what they were willing to give in return, Drake ordering his boat to attend him in his canoe, and to set him safe on the land. When he was ashore, he directed them to wait till his return, and meeting some of his countrymen, gave them such an account of his reception, that, within a few hours, several of them repaired with him to the boat with fowls, eggs, and a hog, and with them one of their captains, who willingly came into the boat, and desired to be conveyed by the English to the ship. By this man Drake was informed, that no supplies were to be expected here, but that southward, in a place to which he offered to be his pilot, there was great plenty. This proposal was accepted, and, on the 5th of December, under the direction of the good-natured Indian, they came to anchor in the harbour called, by the Spaniards, Valparaiso, near the town of St. James of Chiuli, where they met not only with sufficient stores of provision, and with storehouses full of the wines of Chili, but with a ship called the Captain of Morial, richly laden, having, together with large quantities of the same wines, some of the fine gold of Baldivia, and a great cross of gold set with emeralds. Having spent three days in storing their ships with all kinds of provision in the utmost plenty, they departed, and landed their Indian pilot where they first received him, after having rewarded him much above his expectations or desires. They had now little other anxiety than for their friends who had been separated from them, and whom they now determined to seek; but considering that, by entering every creek and harbour with their ship, they exposed themselves to unnecessary dangers, and that their boat would not contain such a number as might defend themselves against, the Spaniards, they determined to station their ship at some place, where they might commodiously build a pinnace, which, being of light burden, might easily sail where the ship was in danger of being stranded, and, at the same time, might carry a sufficient force to resist the enemy, and afford better accommodation than could be expected in the boat. To this end, on the 19th of December, they entered a bay near Cippo, a town inhabited by Spaniards, who, discovering them, immediately issued out, to the number of a hundred horsemen, with about two hundred naked Indians running by their sides. The English, observing their approach, retired to their boat, without any loss, except of one man, whom no persuasions or entreaties could move to retire with the rest, and who, therefore, was shot by the Spaniards, who, exulting at the victory, commanded the Indians to draw the dead carcass from the rock on which he fell, and, in the sight of the English, beheaded it, then cut off the right hand, and tore out the heart, which they carried away, having first commanded the Indians to shoot their arrows all over the body. The arrows of the Indians were made of green wood, for the immediate service of the day; the Spaniards, with the fear that always harasses oppressors, forbidding them to have any weapons, when they do not want their present assistance. Leaving this place, they soon found a harbour more secure and convenient, where they built their pinnace, in which Drake went to seek his companions; but, finding the wind contrary, he was obliged to return in two days. Leaving this place soon after, they sailed along the coast in search of fresh water, and landing at Turapaca, they found a Spaniard asleep, with silver bars lying by him, to the value of three thousand ducats: not all the insults which they had received from his countrymen could provoke them to offer any violence to his person, and, therefore, they carried away his treasure, without doing him any further harm. Landing in another place, they found a Spaniard driving eight Peruvian sheep, which are the beasts of burden in that country, each laden with a hundred pounds weight of silver, which they seized, likewise, and drove to their boats. Further along the coast lay some Indian towns, from which the inhabitants repaired to the ship, on floats made of sealskins, blown full of wind, two of which they fasten together, and, sitting between them, row with great swiftness, and carry considerable burdens. They very readily traded for glass and such trifles, with which the old and the young seemed equally delighted. Arriving at Mormorena, on the 26th of January, Drake invited the Spaniards to traffick with him, which they agreed to, and supplied him with necessaries, selling to him, among other provisions, some of those sheep which have been mentioned, whose bulk is equal to that of a cow, and whose strength is such, that one of them can carry three tall men upon his back; their necks are like a camel's, and their heads like those of our sheep. They are the most useful animals of this country, not only affording excellent fleeces and wholesome flesh, but serving as carriages over rocks and mountains, where no other beast can travel, for their foot is of a peculiar form, which enables them to tread firm in the most steep and slippery places. On all this coast, the whole soil is so impregnated with silver, that five ounces may be separated from a hundred pound weight of common earth. Still coasting, in hopes of meeting their friends, they anchored, on the 7th of February, before Aria, where they took two barks, with about eight hundred pound weight of silver, and, pursuing their course, seized another vessel, laden with linens. On the 15th of February, 1578, they arrived at Lima, and entered the harbour without resistance, though thirty ships were stationed there, of which seventeen were equipped for their voyage, and many of them are represented in the narrative as vessels of considerable force; so that their security seems to have consisted, not in their strength, but in their reputation, which had so intimidated the Spaniards, that the sight of their own superiority could not rouse them to opposition. Instances of such panick terrours are to be met with in other relations; but as they are, for the most part, quickly dissipated by reason and reflection, a wise commander will rarely found his hopes of success on them; and, perhaps, on this occasion, the Spaniards scarcely deserve a severer censure for their cowardice, than Drake for his temerity. In one of these ships they found fifteen hundred bars of silver; in another a chest of money; and very rich lading in many of the rest, of which the Spaniards tamely suffered them to carry the most valuable part away, and would have permitted them no less peaceably to burn their ships; but Drake never made war with a spirit of cruelty or revenge, or carried hostilities further than was necessary for his own advantage or defence. They set sail the next morning towards Panama, in quest of the Caca Fuego, a very rich ship, which had sailed fourteen days before, bound thither from Lima, which they overtook, on the 1st of March, near cape Francisco, and, boarding it, found not only a quantity of jewels, and twelve chests of ryals of plate, but eighty pounds weight of gold, and twenty-six tons of uncoined silver, with pieces of wrought plate to a great value. In unlading this prize they spent six days, and then, dismissing the Spaniards, Stood off to sea. Being now sufficiently enriched, and having lost all hopes of finding their associates, and, perhaps, beginning to be infected with that desire of ease and pleasure, which is the natural consequence of wealth obtained by dangers and fatigues, they began to consult about their return home, and, in pursuance of Drake's advice, resolved first to find out some convenient harbour, where they might supply themselves with wood and water, and then endeavour to discover a passage from the south sea into the Atlantick ocean; a discovery, which would not only enable them to return home with less danger, and in a shorter time, but would much facilitate the navigation in those parts of the world. For this purpose they had recourse to a port in the island of Caines, where they met with fish, wood, and fresh water; and, in their course, took a ship, laden with silk and linen, which was the last that they met with on the coast of America. But being desirous of storing themselves for a long course, they touched, April the 15th, at Guatulco, a Spanish island, where they supplied themselves with provisions, and seized a bushel of ryals of silver. From Guatulco, which lies in 15 deg. 40 min. they stood out to sea, and, without approaching any land, sailed forward, till, on the night following, the 3rd of June, being then in the latitude of thirty-eight degrees, they were suddenly benumbed with such cold blasts, that they were scarcely able to handle the ropes. This cold increased upon them, as they proceeded, to such a degree, that the sailors were discouraged from mounting upon the deck; nor were the effects of the climate to be imputed to the warmth of the regions to which they had been lately accustomed, for the ropes were stiff with frost, and the meat could scarcely be conveyed warm to the table. On June 17th, they came to anchor in 38 deg. 30 min. when they saw the land naked, and the trees without leaves, and in a short time had opportunities of observing, that the natives of that country were not less sensible of the cold than themselves; for the next day came a man rowing in his canoe towards the ship, and at a distance from it made a long oration, with very extraordinary gesticulations, and great appearance of vehemence, and, a little time afterwards, made a second visit, in the same manner, and then returning a third time, he presented them, after his harangue was finished, with a kind of crown of black feathers, such as their kings wear upon their heads, and a basket of rushes, filled with a particular herb, both which he fastened to a short stick, and threw into the boat; nor could he be prevailed upon to receive any thing in return, though pushed towards him upon a board; only he took up a hat, which was flung into the water. Three days afterwards, their ship, having received some damage at sea, was brought nearer to land, that the lading might be taken out. In order to which, the English, who had now learned not too negligently to commit their lives to the mercy of savage nations, raised a kind of fortification with stones, and built their tents within it. All this was not beheld by the inhabitants without the utmost astonishment, which incited them to come down in crowds to the coast, with no other view, as it appeared, than to worship the new divinities that had condescended to touch upon their country. Drake was far from countenancing their errours, or taking advantage of their weakness, to injure or molest them; and, therefore, having directed them to lay aside their bows and arrows, he presented them with linen, and other necessaries, of which he showed them the use. They then returned to their habitations, about three quarters of a mile from the English camp, where they made such loud and violent outcries, that they were heard by the English, who found that they still persisted in their first notions, and were paying them their kind of melancholy adoration. Two days afterwards they perceived the approach of a far more numerous company, who stopped at the top of a hill, which overlooked the English settlement, while one of them made a long oration, at the end of which all the assembly bowed their bodies, and pronounced the syllable _oh_, with a solemn tone, as by way of confirmation of what had been said by the orator. Then the men, laying down their bows, and leaving the women and children on the top of the hill, came down towards the tents, and seemed transported, in the highest degree, at the kindness of the general, who received their gifts, and admitted them to his presence. The women at a distance appeared seized with a kind of phrensy, such as that of old among the pagans in some of their religious ceremonies, and in honour, as it seemed, of their guests, tore their cheeks and bosoms with their nails, and threw themselves upon the stones with their naked bodies, till they were covered with blood. These cruel rites, and mistaken honours, were by no means agreeable to Drake, whose predominant sentiments were notions of piety, and, therefore, not to make that criminal in himself by his concurrence, which, perhaps, ignorance might make guiltless in them, he ordered his whole company to fall upon their knees, and, with their eyes lifted up to heaven, that the savages might observe that their worship was addressed to a being residing there, they all joined in praying that this harmless and deluded people might be brought to the knowledge of the true religion, and the doctrines of our blessed Saviour; after which they sung psalms, a performance so pleasing to their wild audience, that, in all their visits, they generally first accosted them with a request that they would sing. They then returned all the presents which they had received, and retired. Three days after this, on June 25, 1579, our general received two ambassadours from the hioh, or king of the country, who, intending to visit the camp, required that some token might be sent him of friendship and peace; this request was readily complied with, and soon after came the king, attended by a guard of about a hundred tall men, and preceded by an officer of state, who carried a sceptre made of black wood, adorned with chains of a kind of bone or horn, which are marks of the highest honour among them, and having two crowns, made as before, with feathers fastened to it, with a bag of the same herb, which was presented to Drake at his first arrival. Behind him was the king himself, dressed in a coat of cony-skins, with a caul, woven with feathers, upon his head, an ornament so much in estimation there, that none but the domesticks of the king are allowed to wear it; his attendants followed him, adorned nearly in the same manner; and after them came the common people, with baskets plaited so artificially that they held water, in which, by way of sacrifice, they brought roots and fish. Drake, not lulled into security, ranged his men in order of battle, and waited their approach, who, coming nearer, stood still, while the sceptre-bearer made an oration, at the conclusion of which they again came forward to the foot of the hill, and then the sceptre-bearer began a song, which he accompanied with a dance, in both which the men joined, but the women danced without singing. Drake now, distrusting them no longer, admitted them into his fortification, where they continued their song and dance a short time; and then both the king, and some others of the company, made long harangues, in which it appeared, by the rest of their behaviour, that they entreated him to accept of their country, and to take the government of it into his own hands; for the king, with the apparent concurrence of the rest, placed the crown upon his head, graced him with the chains and other signs of authority, and saluted him with the title of hioh. The kingdom thus offered, though of no further value to him than as it furnished him with present necessaries, Drake thought it not prudent to refuse; and, therefore, took possession of it in the name of queen Elizabeth, not without ardent wishes, that this acquisition might have been of use to his native country, and that so mild and innocent a people might have been united to the church of Christ. The kingdom being thus consigned, and the grand affair at an end, the common people left their king and his domesticks with Drake, and dispersed themselves over the camp; and when they saw any one that pleased them by his appearance more than the rest, they tore their flesh, and vented their outcries as before, in token of reverence and admiration. They then proceeded to show them their wounds and diseases, in hopes of a miraculous and instantaneous cure; to which the English, to benefit and undeceive them at the same time, applied such remedies as they used on the like occasions. They were now grown confident and familiar, and came down to the camp every day, repeating their ceremonies and sacrifices, till they were more fully informed how disagreeable they were to those whose favour they were so studious of obtaining: they then visited them without adoration, indeed, but with a curiosity so ardent, that it left them no leisure to provide the necessaries of life, with which the English were, therefore, obliged to supply them. They had then sufficient opportunity to remark the customs and dispositions of these new allies, whom they found tractable and benevolent, strong of body, far beyond the English, yet unfurnished with weapons, either for assault or defence, their bows being too weak for any thing but sport. Their dexterity in taking fish was such, that, if they saw them so near the shore that they could come to them without swimming, they never missed them. The same curiosity that had brought them in such crowds to the shore, now induced Drake, and some of his company, to travel up into the country, which they found, at some distance from the coast, very fruitful, filled with large deer, and abounding with a peculiar kind of conies, smaller than ours, with tails like that of a rat, and paws such as those of a mole; they have bags under their chin, in which they carry provisions to their young. The houses of the inhabitants are round holes dug in the ground, from the brink of which they raise rafters, or piles, shelving towards the middle, where they all meet, and are crammed together; they lie upon rushes, with the fire in the midst, and let the smoke fly out at the door. The men are generally naked; but the women make a kind of petticoat of bulrushes, which they comb like hemp, and throw the skin of a deer over their shoulders. They are very modest, tractable, and obedient to their husbands. Such is the condition of this people; and not very different is, perhaps, the state of the greatest part of mankind. Whether more enlightened nations ought to look upon them with pity, as less happy than themselves, some skepticks have made, very unnecessarily, a difficulty of determining. More, they say, is lost by the perplexities than gained by the instruction of science; we enlarge our vices with our knowledge, and multiply our wants with our attainments, and the happiness of life is better secured by the ignorance of vice, than by the knowledge of virtue. The fallacy by which such reasoners have imposed upon themselves, seems to arise from the comparison which they make, not between two men equally inclined to apply the means of happiness in their power to the end for which providence conferred them, but furnished in unequal proportions with the means of happiness, which is the true state of savage and polished nations; but between two men, of which he to whom providence has been most bountiful, destroys the blessings by negligence or obstinate misuse; while the other, steady, diligent, and virtuous, employs his abilities and conveniences to their proper end. The question is not, whether a good Indian or bad Englishman be most happy; but, which state is most desirable, supposing virtue and reason the same in both. Nor is this the only mistake which is generally admitted in this controversy, for these reasoners frequently confound innocence with the mere incapacity of guilt. He that never saw, or heard, or thought of strong liquors, cannot be proposed as a pattern of sobriety. This land was named, by Drake, Albion, from its white cliffs, in which it bore some resemblance to his native country; and the whole history of the resignation of it to the English was engraven on a piece of brass, then nailed on a post, and fixed up before their departure, which being now discovered by the people to be near at hand, they could not forbear perpetual lamentations. When the English, on the 23rd of July, weighed anchor, they saw them climbing to the tops of hills, that they might keep them in sight, and observed fires lighted up in many parts of the country, on which, as they supposed, sacrifices were offered. Near this harbour they touched at some islands, where they found great numbers of seals; and, despairing now to find any passage through the northern parts, he, after a general consultation, determined to steer away to the Moluccas, and setting sail July 25th, he sailed for sixty-eight days without sight of land; and, on September 30th, arrived within view of some islands, situate about eight degrees northward from the line, from whence the inhabitants resorted to them in canoes, hollowed out of the solid trunk of a tree, and raised at both ends so high above the water, that they seemed almost a semicircle; they were burnished in such a manner that they shone like ebony, and were kept steady by a piece of timber, fixed on each side of them, with strong canes, that were fastened at one end to the boat, and at the other to the end of the timber. The first company that came brought fruits, potatoes, and other things of no great value, with an appearance of traffick, and exchanged their lading for other commodities, with great show of honesty and friendship; but having, as they imagined, laid all suspicion asleep, they soon sent another fleet of canoes, of which the crews behaved with all the insolence of tyrants, and all the rapacity of thieves; for, whatever was suffered to come into their hands, they seemed to consider as their own, and would neither pay for it, nor restore it; and, at length, finding the English resolved to admit them no longer, they discharged a shower of stones from their boats, which insult Drake prudently and generously returned, by ordering a piece of ordnance to be fired without hurting them, at which they were so terrified, that they leaped into the water, and hid themselves under the canoes. Having, for some time, but little wind, they did not arrive at the Moluccas till the 3rd of November, and then, designing to touch at Tidore, they were visited, as they sailed by a little island belonging to the king of Ternate, by the viceroy of the place, who informed them, that it would be more advantageous for them to have recourse to his master, for supplies and assistance, than to the king of Ternate, who was, in some degree, dependent on the Portuguese, and that he would himself carry the news of their arrival, and prepare for their reception. Drake was, by the arguments of the viceroy, prevailed upon to alter his resolution, and, on November 5, cast anchor before Ternate; and scarce was he arrived, before the viceroy, with others of the chief nobles, came out in three large boats, rowed by forty men on each side, to conduct the ship into a safe harbour; and soon after the king himself, having received a velvet cloak by a messenger from Drake, as a token of peace, came with such a retinue and dignity of appearance, as was not expected in those remote parts of the world. He was received with discharges of cannons and every kind of musick, with which he was so much delighted, that, desiring the musicians to come down into the boat, he was towed along in it at the stern of the ship. The king was of a graceful stature, and regal carriage, of a mild aspect, and low voice; his attendants were dressed in white cotton or calico, of whom some, whose age gave them a venerable appearance, seemed his counsellors, and the rest officers or nobles; his guards were not ignorant of firearms, but had not many among them, being equipped, for the most part, with bows and darts. The king, having spent some time in admiring the multitude of new objects that presented themselves, retired as soon as the ship was brought to anchor, and promised to return on the day following; and, in the mean time, the inhabitants, having leave to traffick, brought down provisions in great abundance. At the time when the king was expected, his brother came on board, to request of Drake that he would come to the castle, proposing to stay himself as a hostage for his return. Drake refused to go, but sent some gentlemen, detaining the king's brother in the mean time. These gentlemen were received by another of the king's brothers, who conducted them to the council-house, near the castle, in which they were directed to walk: there they found threescore old men, privy counsellors to the king, and on each side of the door without stood four old men of foreign countries, who served as interpreters in commerce. In a short time the king came from the castle, dressed in cloth of gold, with his hair woven into gold rings, a chain of gold upon his neck, and on his hands rings very artificially set with diamonds and jewels of great value; over his head was borne a rich canopy; and by his chair of state, on which he sat down when he had entered the house, stood a page with a fan set with sapphires, to moderate the excess of the heat. Here he received the compliments of the English, and then honourably dismissed them. The castle, which they had some opportunity of observing, seemed of no great force; it was built by the Portuguese, who, attempting to reduce this kingdom into an absolute subjection, murdered the king, and intended to pursue their scheme by the destruction of all his sons; but the general abhorrence which cruelty and perfidy naturally excite, armed all the nation against them, and procured their total expulsion from all the dominions of Ternate, which, from that time, increasing in power, continued to make new conquests, and to deprive them of other acquisitions. While they lay before Ternate, a gentleman came on board, attended by his interpreter. He was dressed somewhat in the European manner, and soon distinguished himself from the natives of Ternate, or any other country that they had seen, by his civility and apprehension. Such a visitant may easily be imagined to excite their curiosity, which he gratified by informing them, that he was a native of China, of the family of the king then reigning; and that being accused of a capital crime, of which, though he was innocent, he had not evidence to clear himself, he had petitioned the king that he might not be exposed to a trial, but that his cause might be referred to divine providence, and that he might be allowed to leave his country, with a prohibition against returning, unless heaven, in attestation of his innocence, should enable him to bring back to the king some intelligence that might be to the honour and advantage of the empire of China. In search of such information he had now spent three years, and had left Tidore for the sake of conversing with the English general, from whom he hoped to receive such accounts as would enable him to return with honour and safety. Drake willingly recounted all his adventures and observations, to which the Chinese exile listened with the utmost attention and delight, and, having fixed them in his mind, thanked God for the knowledge he had gained. He then proposed to the English general to conduct him to China, recounting, by way of invitation, the wealth, extent, and felicity of that empire; but Drake could not be induced to prolong his voyage. He, therefore, set sail on the 9th of November, in quest of some convenient harbour, in a desert island, to refit his ship, not being willing, as it seems, to trust to the generosity of the king of Ternate. Five days afterwards he found a very commodious harbour, in an island overgrown with wood, where he repaired his vessel and refreshed his men, without danger or interruption. Leaving this place the 12th of December, they sailed towards the Celebes; but, having a wind not very favourable, they were detained among a multitude of islands, mingled with dangerous shallows, till January 9, 1580. When they thought themselves clear, and were sailing forward with a strong gale, they were, at the beginning of the night, surprised in their course by a sudden shock, of which the cause was easily discovered, for they were thrown upon a shoal, and, by the speed of their course, fixed too fast for any hope of escaping. Here even the intrepidity of Drake was shaken, and his dexterity baffled; but his piety, however, remained still the same, and what he could not now promise himself from his own ability, he hoped from the assistance of providence. The pump was plied, and the ship found free from new leaks. The next attempt was to discover towards the sea some place where they might fix their boat, and from thence drag the ship into deep water; but, upon examination, it appeared that the rock, on which they had struck, rose perpendicularly from the water, and that there was no anchorage, nor any bottom to be found a boat's length from the ship. But this discovery, with its consequences, was, by Drake, wisely concealed from the common sailors, lest they should abandon themselves to despair, for which there was indeed cause; there being no prospect left, but that they must there sink with the ship, which must, undoubtedly, be soon dashed to pieces, or perish in attempting to reach the shore in their boat, or be cut in pieces by barbarians, if they should arrive at land. In the midst of this perplexity and distress, Drake directed that the sacrament should be administered, and his men fortified with all the consolation which religion affords; then persuaded them to lighten the vessel, by throwing into the sea part of their lading, which was cheerfully complied with, but without effect. At length, when their hopes had forsaken them, and no new struggles could be made, they were on a sudden relieved by a remission of the wind, which, having hitherto blown strongly against the side of the ship which lay towards the sea, held it upright against the rock; but when the blast slackened, being then low water, the ship lying higher with that part which rested on the rock than with the other, and being borne up no longer by the wind, reeled into the deep water, to the surprise and joy of Drake and his companions. This was the greatest and most inextricable distress which they had ever suffered, and made such an impression upon their minds, that, for some time afterwards, they durst not adventure to spread their sails, but went slowly forward with the utmost circumspection. They thus continued their course without any observable occurrence, till, on the 11th of March, they came to an anchor, before the island of Java, and sending to the king a present of cloth and silks, received from him, in return, a large quantity of provisions; and, the day following, Drake went himself on shore, and entertained the king with his musick, and obtained leave to store his ship with provisions. The island is governed by a great number of petty kings, or raias, subordinate to one chief; of these princes three came on board together, a few days after their arrival; and having, upon their return, recounted the wonders which they had seen, and the civility with which they had been treated, incited others to satisfy their curiosity in the same manner; and raia Donan, the chief king, came himself to view the ship, with the warlike armaments and instruments of navigation. This intercourse of civilities somewhat retarded the business for which they came; but, at length, they not only victualled their ship, but cleansed the bottom, which, in the long course, was overgrown with a kind of shellfish that impeded her passage. Leaving Java, on March 26 they sailed homewards by the cape of Good Hope, which they saw on June the 5th; on the 15th of August passed the tropick; and on the 26th of September arrived at Plymouth, where they found that, by passing through so many different climates, they had lost a day in their account of time, it being Sunday by their journal, but Monday by the general computation. In this hazardous voyage they had spent two years, ten months, and some odd days; but were recompensed for their toils by great riches, and the universal applause of their countrymen. Drake afterwards brought his ship up to Deptford, where queen Elizabeth visited him on board his ship, and conferred the honour of knighthood upon him; an honour, in that illustrious reign, not made cheap by prostitution, nor even bestowed without uncommon merit. It is not necessary to give an account, equally particular, of the remaining part of his life, as he was no longer a private man, but engaged in publick affairs, and associated in his expeditions with other generals, whose attempts, and the success of them, are related in the histories of those times. In 1585, on the 12th of September, sir Francis Drake set sail from Plymouth with a fleet of five-and-twenty ships and pinnaces, of which himself was admiral, captain Martiu Forbisher, viceadmiral, and captain Francis Knollis, rearadmiral; they were fitted out to cruise upon the Spaniards; and having touched at the isle of Bayonne, and plundered Vigo, put to sea again, and on the 16th of November arrived before St. Jago, which they entered without resistance, and rested there fourteen days, visiting, in the mean time, San Domingo, a town within the land, which they found likewise deserted; and, carrying off what they pleased of the produce of the island, they, at their departure, destroyed the town and villages, in revenge of the murder of one of their boys, whose body they found mangled in a most inhuman manner. From this island they pursued their voyage to the West Indies, determining to attack St. Domingo in Hispaniola, as the richest place in that part of the world; they, therefore, landed a thousand men, and with small loss entered the town, of which they kept possession for a month without interruption or alarm; during which time a remarkable accident happened, which deserves to be related. Drake, having some intention of treating with the Spaniards, sent to them a negro boy with a flag of truce, which one of the Spaniards so little regarded, that he stabbed him through the body with a lance. The boy, notwithstanding his wound, came back to the general, related the treatment which he had found, and died in his sight. Drake was so incensed at this outrage, that he ordered two friars, then his prisoners, to be conveyed with a guard to the place where the crime was committed, and hanged up in the sight of the Spaniards, declaring that two Spanish prisoners should undergo the same death every day, till the offender should be delivered up by them: they were too well acquainted with the character of Drake not to bring him on the day following, when, to impress the shame of such actions more effectually upon them, he compelled them to execute him with their own hands. Of this town, at their departure, they demolished part, and admitted the rest to be ransomed for five and twenty thousand ducats. From thence they sailed to Carthagena, where the enemy having received intelligence of the fate of St. Domingo, had strengthened their fortifications, and prepared to defend themselves with great obstinacy; but the English, landing in the night, came upon them by a way which they did not suspect, and being better armed, partly by surprise, and partly by superiority of order and valour, became masters of the place, where they stayed without fear or danger six weeks, and, at their departure, received a hundred and ten thousand ducats, for the ransome of the town. They afterwards took St. Augustin, and, touching at Virginia, took on board the governour, Mr. Lane, with the English that had been left there, the year before, by sir Walter Raleigh, and arrived at Portsmouth on July 28, 1586, having lost in the voyage seven hundred and fifty men. The gain of this expedition amounted to sixty thousand pounds, of which forty were the share of the adventurers who fitted out the ships, and the rest, distributed among the several crews, amounted to six pounds each man. So cheaply is life sometimes hazarded. The transactions against the armada, 1588, are, in themselves, far more memorable, but less necessary to be recited in this succinct narrative; only let it be remembered, that the post of viceadmiral of England, to which sir Francis Drake was then raised, is a sufficient proof, that no obscurity of birth, or meanness of fortune, is unsurmountable to bravery and diligence. In 1595, sir Francis Drake and sir John Hawkins were sent with a fleet to the West Indies, which expedition was only memorable for the destruction of Nombre de Dios, and the death of the two commanders, of whom sir Francis Drake died January 9, 1597, and was thrown into the sea in a leaden coffin, with all the pomp of naval obsequies. It is reported by some, that the ill success of this voyage hastened his death. Upon what this conjecture is grounded does not appear; and we may be allowed to hope, for the honour of so great a man, that it is without foundation; and that he, whom no series of success could ever betray to vanity or negligence, could have supported a change of fortune without impatience or dejection. BARRETIER [45]. Having not been able to procure materials for a complete life of Mr. Barretier, and being, nevertheless, willing to gratify the curiosity justly raised in the publick by his uncommon attainments, we think the following extracts of letters written by his father, proper to be inserted in our collection, as they contain many remarkable passages, and exhibit a general view of his genius and learning. John Philip Barretier was born at Schwabach, January 19, 1720-21. His father was a calvinist minister of that place, who took upon himself the care of his education. What arts of instruction he used, or by what method he regulated the studies of his son, we are not able to inform the publick; but take this opportunity of intreating those, who have received more complete intelligence, not to deny mankind so great a benefit as the improvement of education. If Mr. le Fêvre thought the method in which he taught his children, worthy to be communicated to the learned world, how justly may Mr. Barretier claim the universal attention of mankind to a scheme of education that has produced such a stupendous progress! The authors, who have endeavoured to teach certain and unfailing rules for obtaining a long life, however they have failed in their attempts, are universally confessed to have, at least, the merit of a great and noble design, and to have deserved gratitude and honour. How much more then is due to Mr. Barretier, who has succeeded in what they have only attempted? for to prolong life, and improve it, are nearly the same. If to have all that riches can purchase, is to be rich; if to do all that can be done in a long time, is to live long; he is equally a benefactor to mankind, who teaches them to protract the duration, or shorten the business of life. That there are few things more worthy our curiosity than this method, by which the father assisted the genius of the son, every man will be convinced, that considers the early proficiency at which it enabled him to arrive; such a proficiency as no one has yet reached at the same age, and to which it is, therefore, probable, that every advantageous circumstance concurred. _At the age of nine years he not only was master of five languages_, an attainment in itself almost incredible, but understood, says his father, the holy writers, better in their original tongues, than in his own. If he means, by this assertion, that he knew the sense of many passages in the original, which were obscure in the translation, the account, however wonderful, may be admitted; but if he intends to tell his correspondent, that his son was better acquainted with the two languages of the Bible than with his own, he must be allowed to speak hyperbolically, or to admit, that his son had somewhat neglected the study of his native language; or we must own, that the fondness of a parent has transported him into some natural exaggerations. Part of this letter I am tempted to suppress, being unwilling to demand the belief of others to that which appears incredible to myself; but as my incredulity may, perhaps, be the product rather of prejudice than reason, as envy may beget a disinclination to admit so immense a superiority, and as an account is not to be immediately censured as false, merely because it is wonderful, I shall proceed to give the rest of his father's relation, from his letter of the 3rd of March, 1729-30. He speaks, continues he, German, Latin, and French, equally well. He can, by laying before him a translation, read any of the books of the Old or New Testament, in its original language, without hesitation or perplexity. _He is no stranger to biblical criticism_ or philosophy, nor unacquainted with ancient and modern geography, and is qualified to support a conversation with learned men, who frequently visit and correspond with him. In his eleventh year, he not only published a learned letter in Latin, but translated the travels of rabbi Benjamin from the Hebrew into French, which he illustrated with notes, and accompanied with dissertations; a work in which his father, as he himself declares, could give him little assistance, as he did not understand the rabbinical dialect. The reason for which his father engaged him in this work, was only to prevail upon him to write a fairer hand than he had hitherto accustomed himself to do, by giving him hopes, that, if he should translate some little author, and offer a fair copy of his version to some bookseller, he might, in return for it, have other books which he wanted and could not afford to purchase. Incited by this expectation, he fixed upon the travels of rabbi Benjamin, as most proper for his purpose, being a book neither bulky nor common, and in one month completed his translation, applying only one or two hours a day to that particular task. In another month, he drew up the principal notes; and, in the third, wrote some dissertations upon particular passages which seemed to require a larger examination. These notes contain so many curious remarks and inquiries, out of the common road of learning, and afford so many instances of penetration, judgment, and accuracy, that the reader finds, in every page, some reason to persuade him that they cannot possibly be the work of a child, but of a man long accustomed to these studies, enlightened by reflection, and dextrous, by long practice, in the use of books. Yet, that it is the performance of a boy thus young, is not only proved by the testimony of his father, but by the concurrent evidence of Mr. le Maître, his associate in the church of Schwabach, who not only asserts his claim to this work, but affirms, that he heard him, at six years of age, explain the Hebrew text, as if it had been his native language; so that the fact is not to be doubted without, a degree of incredulity, which it will not be very easy to defend. This copy was, however, far from being written with the neatness which his father desired; nor did the booksellers, to whom it was offered, make proposals very agreeable to the expectations of the young translator; but, after having examined the performance in their manner, and determined to print it upon conditions not very advantageous, returned it to be transcribed, that the printers might not be embarrassed with a copy so difficult to read. Barretier was now advanced to the latter end of his twelfth year, and had made great advances in his studies, notwithstanding an obstinate tumour in his left hand, which gave him great pain, and obliged him to a tedious and troublesome method of cure; and reading over his performance, was so far from contenting himself with barely transcribing it, that he altered the greatest part of the notes, new-modelled the dissertations, and augmented the book to twice its former bulk. The few touches which his father bestowed upon the revisal of the book, though they are minutely set down by him in the preface, are so inconsiderable, that it is not necessary to mention them; and it may be much more agreeable, as well as useful, to exhibit the short account which he there gives of the method by which he enabled his son to show, so early, how easy an attainment is the knowledge of the languages, a knowledge which some men spend their lives in cultivating, to the neglect of more valuable studies, and which they seem to regard as the highest perfection of human nature. What applauses are due to an old age, wasted in a scrupulous attention to particular accents and etymologies, may appear, says his father, by seeing how little time is required to arrive at such an eminence in these studies as many, even of these venerable doctors, have not attained, for want of rational methods and regular application. This censure is, doubtless, just, upon those who spend too much of their lives upon useless niceties, or who appear to labour without making any progress; but, as the knowledge of language is necessary, and a minute accuracy sometimes requisite, they are by no means to be blamed, who, in compliance with the particular bent of their own minds, make the difficulties of dead languages their chief study, and arrive at excellence proportionate to their application, since it was to the labour of such men that his son was indebted for his own learning. The first languages which Barretier learned were the French, German, and Latin, which he was taught, not in the common way, by a multitude of definitions, rules, and exceptions, which fatigue the attention and burden the memory, without any use proportionate to the time which they require, and the disgust which they create. The method by which he was instructed was easy and expeditious, and, therefore, pleasing. He learned them all in the same manner, and almost at the same time, by conversing in them indifferently with his father. The other languages, of which he was master, he learned by a method yet more uncommon. The only book which he made use of was the Bible, which his father laid before him in the language that he then proposed to learn, accompanied with a translation, being taught, by degrees, the inflections of nouns and verbs. This method, says his father, made the Latin more familiar to him, in his fourth year, than any other language. When he was near the end of his sixth year, he entered upon the study of the Old Testament, in its original language, beginning with the book of Genesis, to which his father confined him for six months; after which he read cursorily over the rest of the historical books, in which he found very little difficulty, and then applied himself to the study of the poetical writers, and the prophets, which he read over so often, with so close an attention, and so happy a memory, that he could not only translate them, without a moment's hesitation, into Latin or French, but turn, with the same facility, the translations into the original language in his tenth year. Growing, at length, weary of being confined to a book which he could almost entirely repeat, he deviated, by stealth, into other studies, and, as his translation of Benjamin is a sufficient evidence, he read a multitude of writers, of various kinds. _In his twelfth year he applied more particularly to the study of the fathers_, and councils of the six first centuries, and began to make a regular collection of their canons. He read every author in the original, having discovered so much negligence or ignorance in most translations, that he paid no regard to their authority. Thus he continued his studies, neither drawn aside by pleasures nor discouraged by difficulties. The greatest obstacle to his improvement was want of books, with which his narrow fortune could not liberally supply him; so that he was obliged to borrow the greatest part of those which his studies required, and to return them when he had read them, without being able to consult them occasionally, or to recur to them when his memory should fail him. It is observable, that neither his diligence, unintermitted as it was, nor his want of books, a want of which he was, in the highest degree, sensible, ever produced in him that asperity, which a long and recluse life, without any circumstance of disquiet, frequently creates. He was always gay, lively, and facetious; a temper which contributed much to recommend his learning, and which some students, much superiour in age, would consult their ease, their reputation, and their interest, by copying from him. In the year 1735 he published Anti-Artemonius; sive, initium evangelii S. Joannis adversus Artemonium vindicatum; and attained such a degree of reputation, that not only the publick, but _princes, who are commonly the last_ by whom merit is distinguished, began to interest themselves in his success; for, the same year, the king of Prussia, who had heard of his early advances in literature, on account of a scheme for discovering the longitude, which had been sent to the Royal society of Berlin, and which was transmitted afterwards by him to Paris and London, engaged to take care of his fortune, having received further proofs of his abilities at his own court. Mr. Barretier, being promoted to the cure of the church of Stetin, was obliged to travel with his son thither, from Schwabach, through Leipsic and Berlin, a journey very agreeable to his son, as it would furnish him with new opportunities of improving his knowledge, and extending his acquaintance among men of letters. For this purpose they stayed some time at Leipsic, and then travelled to Halle, where young Barretier so distinguished himself in his conversation with the professors of the university, that they offered him his degree of doctor in philosophy, a dignity correspondent to that of master of arts among us. Barretier drew up, that night, some positions in philosophy, and the mathematicks, which he sent immediately to the press, and defended, the next day, in a crowded auditory, with so much wit, spirit, presence of thought, and strength of reason, that the whole university was delighted and amazed; he was then admitted to his degree, and attended by the whole concourse to his lodgings, with compliments and acclamations. His theses, or philosophical positions, which he printed in compliance with the practice of that university, ran through several editions in a few weeks, and no testimony of regard was wanting, that could contribute to animate him in his progress. When they arrived at Berlin, the king ordered him to be brought into his presence, and was so much pleased with his conversation, that he sent for him almost every day during his stay at Berlin; and diverted himself with engaging him in conversations upon a multitude of subjects, and in disputes with learned men; on all which occasions he acquitted himself so happily, that the king formed the highest ideas of his capacity, and future eminence. And thinking, perhaps with reason, that active life was the noblest sphere of a great genius, he recommended to him the study of modern history, the customs of nations, and those parts of learning, that are of use in publick transactions and civil employments, declaring, that such abilities, properly cultivated, might exalt him, in ten years, to be the greatest minister of state in Europe. Barretier, whether we attribute it to his moderation or inexperience, was not dazzled by the prospect of such high promotion, but answered, that _he was too much pleased with science and quiet_, to leave them for such inextricable studies, or such harassing fatigues. A resolution so unpleasing to the king, that his father attributes to it the delay of those favours which they had hopes of receiving, the king having, as he observes, determined to employ him in the ministry. It is not impossible that paternal affection might suggest to Mr. Barretier some false conceptions of the king's design; for he infers, from the introduction of his son to the young princes, and the caresses which he received from them, that the king intended him for their preceptor; a scheme, says he, which some other resolution happily destroyed. Whatever was originally intended, and by whatever means these intentions were frustrated, Barretier, after having been treated with the highest regard by the whole royal family, was dismissed with a present of two hundred crowns; and his father, instead of being fixed at Stetin, was made pastor of the French church at Halle; a place more commodious for study, to which they retired; Barretier being first admitted into the Royal society at Berlin, and recommended, by the king, to the university at Halle. _At Halle he continued his studies_ with his usual application and success, and, either by his own reflections, or the persuasions of his father, was prevailed upon to give up his own inclinations to those of the king, and direct his inquiries to those subjects that had been recommended by him. He continued to add new acquisitions to his learning, and to increase his reputation by new performances, till, in the beginning of his nineteenth year, his health began to decline, and his indisposition, which, being not alarming or violent, was, perhaps, not at first sufficiently regarded, increased by slow degrees for eighteen months, during which he spent days among his books, and neither neglected his studies, nor left his gaiety, till his distemper, ten days before his death, deprived him of the use of his limbs: he then prepared himself for his end, without fear or emotion, and, on the 5th of October, 1740, resigned his soul into the hands of his saviour, with _confidence and tranquillity_. In the Magazine for 1742 appeared the following ADDITIONAL ACCOUNT of the LIFE OF JOHN PHILIP BARRETIER [46]. "As the nature of our collections requires that our accounts of remarkable persons and transactions should be early, our readers must necessarily pardon us, if they are often not complete, and allow us to be sufficiently studious of their satisfaction, if we correct our errours, and supply our defects from subsequent intelligence, where the importance of the subject merits an extraordinary attention, or when we have any peculiar opportunities of procuring information. The particulars here inserted we thought proper to annex, by way of note, to the following passages, quoted from the magazine for December, 1740, and for February, 1741." P. 377. _At the age of nine years he not only was master of five languages._ French, which was the native language of his mother, was that which he learned first, mixed, by living in Germany, with some words of the language of the country. After some time, his father took care to introduce, in his conversation with him, some words of Latin, in such a manner that he might discover the meaning of them by the connexion of the sentence, or the occasion on which they were used, without discovering that he had any intention of instructing him, or that any new attainment was proposed. By this method of conversation, in which new words were every day introduced, his ear had been somewhat accustomed to the inflections and variations of the Latin tongue, he began to attempt to speak like his father, and was in a short time drawn on, by imperceptible degrees, to speak Latin, intermixed with other languages. Thus, when he was but four years old, he spoke every day French to his mother, Latin to his father, and high Dutch to the maid, without any perplexity to himself, or any confusion of one language with another. P. 377. _He is no stranger to biblical criticism._ Having now gained such a degree of skill in the Hebrew language, as to be able to compose in it, both in prose and verse, he was extremely desirous of reading the rabbins; and having borrowed of the neighbouring clergy, and the jews of Schwabach, all the books which they could supply him, he prevailed on his father to buy him the great rabbinical Bible, published at Amsterdam, in four tomes, folio, 1728, and read it with that accuracy and attention which appears, by the account of it written by him to his favourite M. le Maitre, inserted in the beginning of the twenty-sixth volume of the Bibliothéque germanique. These writers were read by him, as other young persons peruse romances or novels, only from a puerile desire of amusement; for he had so little veneration for them, even while he studied them with most eagerness, that he often diverted his parents with recounting their fables and chimeras. P. 381. _In his twelfth year he applied more particularly to the study of the fathers._ His father being somewhat uneasy to observe so much time spent by him on rabbinical trifles, thought it necessary now to recall him to the study of the Greek language, which he had of late neglected, but to which he returned with so much ardour, that, in a short time, he was able to read Greek with the same facility as French or Latin. He then engaged in the perusal of the Greek fathers, and councils of the first three or four centuries; and undertook, at his father's desire, to confute a treatise of Samuel Crellius, in which, under the name of Artemonius, he has endeavoured to substitute, in the beginning of St. John's gospel, a reading different from that which is at present received, and less favourable to the orthodox doctrine of the divinity of our Saviour. This task was undertaken by Barretier with great ardour, and prosecuted by him with suitable application, for he not only drew up a formal confutation of Artemonius, but made large collections from the earliest writers, relating to the history of heresies, which he proposed at first to have published as preliminaries to his book, but, finding the introduction grew at last to a greater bulk than the book itself, he determined to publish it apart. While he was engrossed by these inquiries, accident threw a pair of globes into his hands, in October, 1734, by which his curiosity was so much exalted, that he laid aside his Artemonius, and applied himself to geography and astronomy. In ten days he was able to solve all the problems in the doctrine of the globes, and had attained ideas so clear and strong of all the systems, as well ancient as modern, that he began to think of making new discoveries; and for that purpose, laying aside, for a time, all searches into antiquity, he employed his utmost interest to procure books of astronomy and of mathematicks, and made such a progress in three or four months, that he seemed to have spent his whole life upon that study; for he not only made an astrolabe, and drew up astronomical tables, but invented new methods of calculation, or such at least as appeared new to him, because they were not mentioned in the books which he had then an opportunity of reading; and it is a sufficient proof, both of the rapidity of his progress, and the extent of his views, that in three months after his first sight of a pair of globes, he formed schemes for finding the longitude, which he sent, in January, 1735, to the Royal society at London. His scheme, being recommended to the society by the queen, was considered by them with a degree of attention which, perhaps, would not have been bestowed upon the attempt of a mathematician so young, had he not been dignified with so illustrious a patronage. But it was soon found, that, for want of books, he had imagined himself the inventor of methods already in common use, and that he proposed no means of discovering the longitude, but such as had been already tried and found insufficient. Such will be very frequently the fate of those, whose fortune either condemns them to study without the necessary assistance from libraries, or who, in too much haste, publish their discoveries. This attempt exhibited, however, such a specimen of his capacity for mathematical learning, and such a proof of an early proficiency, that the Royal society of Berlin admitted him as one of their members in 1735. P. 381. _Princes, who are commonly the last_. Barretier, had been distinguished much more early by the margravin of Anspach, who, in 1726, sent for his father and mother to the court, where their son, whom they carried with them, presented her with a letter in French, and addressed another in Latin to the young prince; who afterwards, in 1734, granted him the privilege of borrowing books from the libraries of Anspach, together with an annual pension of fifty florins, which he enjoyed for four years. In this place it may not be improper to recount some honours conferred upon him, which, if distinctions are to be rated by the knowledge of those who bestow them, may be considered as more valuable than those which he received from princes. In June, 1731, he was initiated in the university of Altdorft, and at the end of the year 1732, the synod of the reformed churches, held at Christian Erlang, admitted him to be present at their consultations, and to preserve the memory of so extraordinary a transaction, as the reception of a boy of eleven years into an ecclesiastical council, recorded it in a particular article of the acts of the synod. P. 383. _He was too much pleased with science and quiet_. Astronomy was always Barretier's favourite study, and so much engrossed his thoughts, that he did not willingly converse on any other subject; nor was he so well pleased with the civilities of the greatest persons, as with the conversation of the mathematicians. An astronomical observation was sufficient to withhold him from court, or to call him away abruptly from the most illustrious assemblies; nor was there any hope of enjoying his company, without inviting some professor to keep him in temper, and engage him in discourse; nor was it possible, without this expedient, to prevail upon him to sit for his picture. Ibid. _At Halle he continued his studies._ Mr. Barretier returned, on the 28th of April, 1735, to Halle, where he continued the remaining part of his life, of which it may not be improper to give a more particular account. At his settlement in the university, he determined to exert his privileges as master of arts, and to read publick lectures to the students; a design from which his father could not dissuade him, though he did not approve it; so certainly do honours or preferments, too soon conferred, infatuate the greatest capacities. He published an invitation to three lectures; one critical on the book of Job, another on astronomy, and a third upon ancient ecclesiastical history. But of this employment he was soon made weary by the petulance of his auditors, the fatigue which it occasioned, and the interruption of his studies which it produced, and, therefore, in a fortnight, he desisted wholly from his lectures, and never afterwards resumed them. He then applied himself to the study of the law, almost against his own inclination, which, however, he conquered so far as to become a regular attendant on the lectures on that science, but spent all his other time upon different studies. The first year of his residence at Halle was spent upon natural philosophy and mathematicks; and scarcely any author, ancient or modern, that has treated on those parts of learning was neglected by him, nor was he satisfied with the knowledge of what had been discovered by others, but made new observations, and drew up immense calculations for his own use. He then returned to ecclesiastical history, and began to retouch his Account of Heresies, which he had begun at Schwabach: on this occasion he read the primitive writers with great accuracy, and formed a project of regulating the chronology of those ages; which produced a Chrono-logical Dissertation on the succession of the Bishops of Rome, from St. Peter to Victor, printed in Latin at Utrecht, 1740. He afterwards was wholly absorbed in application to polite literature, and read not only a multitude of writers in the Greek and Latin, but in the German, Dutch, French, Italian, English, and Arabick languages, and, in the last year of his life, he was engrossed by the study of inscriptions, medals, and antiquities of all nations. In 1737 he resumed his design of finding a certain method of discovering the longitude, which he imagined himself to have attained by exact observations of the declination and inclination of the needle, and sent to the academy of sciences, and to the Royal society of London, at the same time, an account of his schemes; to which it was first answered by the Royal society, that it appeared the same with one which Mr. Whiston had laid before them; and afterwards by the academy of sciences, that his method was but very little different from one that had been proposed by M. de la Croix, and which was ingenious, but ineffectual. Mr. Barretier, finding his invention already in the possession of two men eminent for mathematical knowledge, desisted from all inquiries after the longitude, and engaged in an examination of the Egyptian antiquities, which he proposed to free from their present obscurity, by deciphering the hieroglyphicks, and explaining their astronomy; but this design was interrupted by his death. P. 384. _Confidence and tranquillity_. Thus died Barretier, in the 20th year of his age, having given a proof how much may be performed in so short a time by indefatigable diligence. He was not only master of many languages, but skilled almost in every science, and capable of distinguishing himself in every profession, except that of physick, from which he had been discouraged by remarking the diversity of opinions among those who had been consulted concerning his own disorders. His learning, however vast, had not depressed or overburdened his natural faculties, for his genius always appeared predominant; and when he inquired into the various opinions of the writers of all ages, he reasoned and determined for himself, having a mind at once comprehensive and delicate, active and attentive. He was able to reason with the metaphysicians on the most abstruse questions, or to enliven the most unpleasing subjects by the gaiety of his fancy. He wrote with great elegance and dignity of style, and had the peculiar felicity of readiness and facility in every thing that he undertook, being able, without premeditation, to translate one language into another. He was no imitator, but struck out new tracks, and formed original systems. He had a quickness of apprehension, and firmness of memory, which enabled him to read with incredible rapidity, and, at the same time, to retain what he read, so as to be able to recollect and apply it. He turned over volumes in an instant, and selected what was useful for his purpose. He seldom made extracts, except of books which he could not procure when he might want them a second time, being always able to find in any author, with great expedition, what he had once read. He read over, in one winter, twenty vast folios; and the catalogue of books which he had borrowed, comprised forty-one pages in quarto, the writing close, and the titles abridged. He was a constant reader of literary journals. With regard to common life he had some peculiarities. He could not bear musick, and if he was ever engaged at play could not attend to it. He neither loved wine nor entertainments, nor dancing, nor the sports of the field, nor relieved his studies with any other diversion than that of walking and conversation. He eat little flesh, and lived almost wholly upon milk, tea, bread, fruits, and sweetmeats. He had great vivacity in his imagination, and ardour in his desires, which the easy method of his education had never repressed; he, therefore, conversed among those who had gained his confidence with great freedom, but his favourites were not numerous, and to others he was always reserved and silent, without the least inclination to discover his sentiments, or display his learning. He never fixed his choice upon any employment, nor confined his views to any profession, being desirous of nothing but knowledge, and entirely untainted with avarice or ambition. He preserved himself always independent, and was never known to be guilty of a lie. His constant application to learning suppressed those passions which betray others of his age to irregularities, and excluded all those temptations to which men are exposed by idleness or common amusements. MORIN [47]. Lewis Morin was born at Mans, on the 11th of July, 1635, of parents eminent for their piety. He was the eldest of sixteen children; a family to which their estate bore no proportion, and which, in persons less resigned to providence, would have caused great uneasiness and anxiety. His parents omitted nothing in his education, which religion requires, and which their fortune could supply. Botany was the study that appeared to have taken possession of his inclination, as soon as the bent of his genius could be discovered. A countryman, who supplied the apothecaries of the place, was his first master, and was paid by him for his instructions with the little money that he could procure, or that which was given him to buy something to eat after dinner. Thus abstinence and generosity discovered themselves with his passion for botany, and the gratification of a desire indifferent in itself, was procured by the exercise of two virtues. He was soon master of all his instructer's knowledge, and was obliged to enlarge his acquaintance with plants, by observing them himself in the neighbourhood of Mans. Having finished his grammatical studies, he was sent to learn philosophy at Paris, whither he travelled on foot like a student in botany, and was careful not to lose such an opportunity of improvement. When his course of philosophy was completed, he was determined, by his love of botany, to the profession of physick, and, from that time, engaged in a course of life, which was never exceeded, either by the ostentation of a philosopher, or the severity of an anchoret; for he confined himself to bread and water, and, at most, allowed himself no indulgence beyond fruits. By this method, he preserved a constant freedom and serenity of spirits, always equally proper for study; for his soul had no pretences to complain of being overwhelmed with matter. This regimen, extraordinary as it was, had many advantages; for it preserved his health, an advantage which very few sufficiently regard; it gave him an authority to preach diet and abstinence to his patients; and it made him rich without the assistance of fortune; rich, not for himself, but for the poor, who were the only persons benefited by that artificial affluence, which, of all others, is most difficult to acquire. It is easy to imagine, that, while he practised in the midst of Paris the severe temperance of a hermit, Paris differed no otherwise, with regard to him, from a hermitage, than as it supplied him with books and the conversation of learned men. In 1662, he was admitted doctor of physick. About that time Dr. Fagon, Dr. Longuet, and Dr. Galois, all eminent for their skill in botany, were employed in drawing up a catalogue of the plants in the Royal garden, which was published in 1665, under the name of Dr. Vallot, then first physician: during the prosecution of this work, Dr. Morin was often consulted, and from those conversations it was that Dr. Fagon conceived a particular esteem of him, which he always continued to retain. After having practised physick some years, he was admitted _expectant_ at the Hôtel-Dieu, where he was regularly to have been made pensionary physician upon the first vacancy; but mere unassisted merit advances slowly, if, what is not very common, it advances at all. Morin had no acquaintance with the arts necessary to carry on schemes of preferment; the moderation of his desires preserved him from the necessity of studying them, and the privacy of his life debarred him from any opportunity. At last, however, justice was done him, in spite of artifice and partiality; but his advancement added nothing to his condition, except the power of more extensive charity; for all the money which he received, as a salary, he put into the chest of the hospital, always, as he imagined, without being observed. Not content with serving the poor for nothing, he paid them for being served. His reputation rose so high in Paris, that mademoiselle de Guise was desirous to make him her physician; but it was not without difficulty that he was prevailed upon by his friend, Dr. Dodart, to accept the place. He was by this new advancement laid under the necessity of keeping a chariot, an equipage very unsuitable to his temper; but while he complied with those exterior appearances, which the publick had a right to demand from him, he remitted nothing of his former austerity, in the more private and essential parts of his life, which he had always the power of regulating according to his own disposition. In two years and a half the princess fell sick, and was despaired of by Morin, who was a great master of prognosticks. At the time when she thought herself in no danger he pronounced her death inevitable; a declaration to the highest degree disagreeable, but which was made more easy to him than to any other, by his piety and artless simplicity. Nor did his sincerity produce any ill consequences to himself; for the princess, affected by his zeal, taking a ring from her finger, gave it him, as the last pledge of her affection, and rewarded him still more to his satisfaction, by preparing for death with a true Christian piety. She left him, by will, a yearly pension of two thousand livres, which was always regularly paid him. No sooner was the princess dead, but he freed himself from the encumbrance of his chariot, and retired to St. Victor, without a servant; having, however, augmented his daily allowance with a little rice, boiled in water. Dodart, who had undertaken the charge of being ambitious on his account, procured him, at the restoration of the academy, in 1699, to be nominated associate botanist; not knowing, what he would doubtless have been pleased with the knowledge of, that he introduced into that assembly the man that was to succeed him in his place of _pensionary_. Dr. Morin was not one who had upon his hands the labour of adapting himself to the duties of his condition, but always found himself naturally adapted to them. He had, therefore, no difficulty in being constant at the assemblies of the academy, notwithstanding the distance of places, while he had strength enough to support the journey. But his regimen was not equally effectual to produce vigour as to prevent distempers; and, being sixty-four years old at his admission, he could not continue his assiduity more than a year after the death of Dodart, whom he succeeded in 1707. When Mr. Tournefort went to pursue his botanical inquiries in the Levant, he desired Dr. Morin to supply his place of demonstrator of the plants in the Royal garden, and rewarded him for the trouble, by inscribing to him a new plant, which he brought from the east, by the name of Morina orientalis, as he named others the Do-darto, the Fagonne, the Bignonne, the Phelipée. These are compliments proper to be made by the botanists, not only to those of their own rank, but to the greatest persons; for a plant is a monument of a more durable nature than a medal or an obelisk; and yet, as a proof that even these vehicles are not always sufficient to transmit to futurity the name conjoined with them, the Nicotiana is now scarcely known by any other name than that of tobacco. Dr. Morin, advancing far in age, was now forced to take a servant, and, what was yet a more essential alteration, prevailed upon himself to take an ounce of wine a day, which he measured with the same exactness as a medicine bordering upon poison. He quitted, at the same time, all his practice in the city, and confined it to the poor of his neighbourhood, and his visits to the Hôtel-Dieu; but his weakness increasing, he was forced to increase his quantity of wine, which yet he always continued to adjust by weight [48]. At seventy-eight his legs could carry him no longer, and he scarcely left his bed; but his intellects continued unimpaired, except in the last six months of his life. He expired, or, to use a more proper term, went out, on the 1st of March, 1714, at the age of eighty years, without any distemper, and merely for want of strength, having enjoyed, by the benefit of his regimen, a long and healthy life, and a gentle and easy death. This extraordinary regimen was but part of the daily regulation of his life, of which all the offices were carried on with a regularity and exactness nearly approaching to that of the planetary motions. He went to bed at seven, and rose at two, throughout the year. He spent, in the morning, three hours at his devotions, and went to the Hôtel-Dieu, in the summer, between five and six, and, in the winter, between six and seven, hearing mass, for the most part, at Notre Dame. After his return he read the holy scripture, dined at eleven, and, when it was fair weather, walked till two in the Royal garden, where he examined the new plants, and gratified his earliest and strongest passion. For the remaining part of the day, if he had no poor to visit, he shut himself up, and read books of literature or physick, but chiefly physick, as the duty of his profession required. This, likewise, was the time he received visits, if any were paid him. He often used this expression: "Those that come to see me, do me honour; those that stay away, do me a favour." It is easy to conceive, that a man of this temper was not crowded with salutations: there was only now and then an Antony that would pay Paul a visit. Among his papers was found a Greek and Latin index to Hippocrates, more copious and exact than that of Pini, which he had finished only a year before his death. Such a work required the assiduity and patience of a hermit [49]. There is, likewise, a journal of the weather, kept without interruption, for more than forty years, in which he has accurately set down the state of the barometer and thermometer, the dryness and moisture of the air, the variations of the wind in the course of the day, the rain, the thunders, and even the sudden storms, in a very commodious and concise method, which exhibits, in a little room, a great train of different observations. What numbers of such remarks had escaped a man less uniform in his life, and whose attention had been extended to common objects! All the estate which he left is a collection of medals, another of herbs, and a library rated at two thousand crowns; which make it evident that he spent much more upon his mind than upon his body. BURMAN [50]. Peter Burman was born at Utrecht, on the 26th day of June, 1668. The family from which he descended has, for several generations, produced men of great eminence for piety and learning; and his father, who was professor of divinity in the university, and pastor of the city of Utrech't, was equally celebrated for the strictness of his life, the efficacy and orthodoxy of his sermons, and the learning and perspicuity of his academical lectures. From the assistance and instruction which such a father would doubtless have been encouraged by the genius of this son not to have omitted, he was unhappily cut off at eleven years of age, being at that time, by his father's death, thrown entirely under the care of his mother, by whose diligence, piety, and prudence, his education was so regulated, that he had scarcely any reason, but filial tenderness, to regret the loss of his father. He was, about this time, sent to the publick school of Utrecht, to be instructed in the learned languages; and it will convey no common idea of his capacity and industry to relate, that he had passed through the classes, and was admitted into the university in his thirteenth year. This account of the rapidity of his progress in the first part of his studies is so stupendous, that, though it is attested by his friend, Dr. Osterdyke, of whom it cannot be reasonably suspected that he is himself deceived, or that he can desire to deceive others, it must be allowed far to exceed the limits of probability, if it be considered, with regard to the methods of education practised in our country, where it is not uncommon for the highest genius, and most comprehensive capacity, to be entangled for ten years, in those thorny paths of literature, which Burman is represented to have passed in less than two; and we must, doubtless, confess the most skilful of our masters much excelled by the address of the Dutch teachers, or the abilities of our greatest scholars far surpassed by those of Burinan. But, to reduce this narrative to credibility, it is necessary that admiration should give place to inquiry, and that it be discovered what proficiency in literature is expected from a student, requesting to be admitted into a Dutch university. It is to be observed, that in the universities of foreign countries, they have professors of philology, or humanity, whose employment is to instruct the younger classes in grammar, rhetorick, and languages; nor do they engage in the study of philosophy, till they have passed through a course of philological lectures and exercises, to which, in some places, two years are commonly allotted. The English scheme of education, which, with regard to academical studies, is more rigorous, and sets literary honours at a higher price than that of any other country, exacts from the youth, who are initiated in our colleges, a degree of philological knowledge sufficient to qualify them for lectures in philosophy, which are read to them in Latin, and to enable them to proceed in other studies without assistance; so that it may be conjectured, that Burman, at his entrance into the university, had no such skill in languages, nor such ability of composition, as are frequently to be met with in the higher classes of an English school; nor was, perhaps, more than moderately skilled in Latin, and taught the first rudiments of Greek. In the university he was committed to the care of the learned Grævius, whose regard for his father inclined him to superintend his studies with more than common attention, which was soon confirmed and increased by his discoveries of the genius of his pupil, and his observation of his diligence. One of the qualities which contributed eminently to qualify Grævius for an instructor of youth, was the sagacity by which he readily discovered the predominant faculty of each pupil, and the peculiar designation by which nature had allotted him to any species of literature, and by which he was soon able to determine, that Burman was remarkably adapted to classical studies, and predict the great advances that he would make, by industriously pursuing the direction of his genius. Animated by the encouragement of a tutor so celebrated, he continued the vigour of his application, and, for several years, not only attended the lectures of Grævius, but made use of every other opportunity of improvement, with such diligence as might justly be expected to produce an uncommon proficiency. Having thus attained a sufficient degree of classical knowledge to qualify him for inquiries into other sciences, he applied himself to the study of the law, and published a dissertation, de Vicesima Hæreditatum, which he publickly defended, under the professor Van Muyden, with such learning and eloquence, as procured him great applause. Imagining, then, that the conversation of other men of learning might be of use towards his further improvement, and rightly judging that notions formed in any single seminary are, for the greatest part, contracted and partial, he went to Leyden, where he studied philosophy for a year, under M. de Volder, whose celebrity was so great, that the schools assigned to the sciences, which it was his province to teach, were not sufficient, though very spacious, to contain the audience that crowded his lectures from all parts of Europe. Yet he did not suffer himself to be engrossed by philosophical disquisitions, to the neglect of those studies in which he was more early engaged, and to which he was, perhaps, by nature better adapted; for he attended at the same time Ryckius's explanations of Tacitus, and James Gronovius's lectures on the Greek writers, and has often been heard to acknowledge, at an advanced age, the assistance which he received from them. Having thus passed a year at Leyden with great advantage, he returned to Utrecht, and once more applied himself to philological studies, by the assistance of Grævius, whose early hopes of his genius were now raised to a full confidence of that excellence, at which he afterwards arrived. At Utrecht, in March, 1688, in the twentieth year of his age, he was advanced to the degree of doctor of laws; on which occasion he published a learned dissertation, de Transactionibus, and defended it with his usual eloquence, learning, and success. The attainment of this honour was far from having upon Burman that effect which has been too often observed to be produced in others, who, having in their own opinion no higher object of ambition, have relapsed into idleness and security, and spent the rest of their lives in a lazy enjoyment of their academical dignities. Burman aspired to further improvements, and, not satisfied with the opportunities of literary conversation which Utrecht afforded, travelled into Switzerland and Germany, where he gained an increase both of fame and learning. At his return from this excursion, he engaged in the practice of the law, and pleaded several causes with such reputation, as might be hoped by a man who had joined to his knowledge of the law, the embellishments of polite literature, and the strict ratiocination of true philosophy; and who was able to employ, on every occasion, the graces of eloquence and the power of argumentation. While Burman was hastening to high reputation in the courts of justice, and to those riches and honours which always follow it, he was summoned, in 1691, by the magistrates of Utrecht, to undertake the charge of collector of the tenths, an office, in that place, of great honour, and which he accepted, therefore, as a proof of their confidence and esteem. While he was engaged in this employment, he married Eve Clotterboke, a young lady of a good family, and uncommon genius and beauty, by whom he had ten children, of which eight died young; and only two sons, Francis and Caspar, lived to console their mother for their father's death. Neither publick business nor domestick cares detained Burman from the prosecution of his literary inquiries; by which he so much endeared himself to Grævius, that he Was recommended by him to the regard of the university of Utrecht, and, accordingly, in 1696, was chosen professor of eloquence and history, to which was added, after some time, the professorship of the Greek language, and afterwards that of politicks; so various did they conceive his abilities, and so extensive his knowledge. At his entrance upon this new province, he pronounced an oration upon eloquence and poetry. Having now more frequent opportunities of displaying his learning, he arose, in a short time, to a high reputation, of which the great number of his auditors was a sufficient proof, and which the proficiency of his pupils showed not to be accidental or undeserved. In 1714, he formed a resolution of visiting Paris, not only for the sake of conferring, in person, upon questions of literature, with the learned men of that place, and of gratifying his curiosity with a more familiar knowledge of those writers whose works he admired, but with a view more important, of visiting the libraries, and making those inquiries which might be of advantage to his darling study. The vacation of the university allowed him to stay at Paris but six weeks, which he employed with so much dexterity and industry, that he had searched the principal libraries, collated a great number of manuscripts and printed copies, and brought back a great treasure of curious observations. In this visit to Paris he contracted an acquaintance, among other learned men, with the celebrated father Montfaucon; with whom he conversed, at his first interview, with no other character but that of a traveller; but, their discourse turning upon ancient learning, the stranger soon gave such proofs of his attainments, that Montfaucon declared him a very uncommon traveller, and confessed his curiosity to know his name; which he no sooner heard, than he rose from his seat, and, embracing him with the utmost ardour, expressed his satisfaction at having seen the man whose productions of various kinds he had so often praised; and, as a real proof of his regard, offered not only to procure him an immediate admission to all the libraries of Paris, but to those in remoter provinces, which are not generally open to strangers, and undertook to ease the expenses of his journey, by procuring him entertainment in all the monasteries of his order. This favour Burman was hindered from accepting, by the necessity of returning to Utrecht at the usual time of beginning a new course of lectures, to which there was always so great a concourse of students, as much increased the dignity and fame of the university in which he taught. He had already extended to distant parts his reputation for knowledge of ancient history, by a treatise, de Vectigalibus Populi Romani, on the revenues of the Romans; and for his skill in Greek learning, and in ancient coins, by a tract called Jupiter Fulgurator; and after his return from Paris, he published Plædrus, first with the notes of various commentators, and afterwards with his own. He printed many poems, made many orations upon different subjects, and procured an impression of the epistles of Gudius and Sanavius. While he was thus employed, the professorships of history, eloquence, and the Greek language, became vacant at Leyden, by the death of Perizonius, which Burman's reputation incited the curators of the university to offer him upon very generous terms, and which, after some struggles with his fondness for his native place, his friends, and his colleagues, he was prevailed on to accept, finding the solicitations from Leyden warm and urgent, and his friends at Utrecht, though unwilling to be deprived of him, yet not zealous enough for the honour and advantage of their university, to endeavour to detain him by great liberality. At his entrance upon this new professorship, which was conferred upon him in 1715, he pronounced an oration upon the duty and office of a professor of polite literature; de publici humanioris disciplinæ professoris proprio officio et munere; and showed, by the usefulness and perspicuity of his lectures, that he was not confined to speculative notions on that subject, having a very happy method of accommodating his instructions to the different abilities and attainments of his pupils. Nor did he suffer the publick duties of this station to hinder him from promoting learning by labours of a different kind; for, besides many poems and orations, which he recited on different occasions, he wrote several prefaces to the works of others, and published many useful editions of the best Latin writers, with large collections of notes from various commentators. He was twice rector, or chief governour of the university, and discharged that important office with equal equity and ability, and gained, by his conduct in every station, so much esteem, that when the professorship of history of the United Provinces became vacant, it was conferred on him, as an addition to his honours and revenues, which he might justly claim; and afterwards, as a proof of the continuance of their regard, and a testimony that his reputation was still increasing, they made him chief librarian, an office which was the more acceptable to him, as it united his business with his pleasure, and gave him an opportunity, at the same time, of superintending the library, and carrying on his studies. Such was the course of his life, till, in his old age, leaving off his practice of walking, and other exercises, he began to be afflicted with the scurvy, which discovered itself by very tormenting symptoms of various kinds; sometimes disturbing his head with vertigos, sometimes causing faintness in his limbs, and sometimes attacking his legs with anguish so excruciating, that all his vigour was destroyed, and the power of walking entirely taken away, till, at length, his left foot became motionless. The violence of his pain produced irregular fevers, deprived him of rest, and entirely debilitated his whole frame. This tormenting disease he bore, though not without some degree of impatience, yet without any unbecoming or irrational despondency, and applied himself in the intermission of his pains to seek for comfort in the duties of religion. While he lay in this state of misery he received an account of the promotion of two of his grandsons, and a catalogue of the king of France's library, presented to him by the command of the king himself, and expressed some satisfaction on all these occasions; but soon diverted his thoughts to the more important consideration of his eternal state, into which he passed on the 31st of March, 1741, in the seventy-third year of his age. He was a man of moderate stature, of great strength and activity, which he preserved by temperate diet, without medical exactness, and by allotting proportions of his time to relaxation and amusement, not suffering his studies to exhaust his strength, but relieving them by frequent intermissions; a practice consistent with the most exemplary diligence, and which he that omits will find at last, that time may be lost, like money, by unseasonable avarice. In his hours of relaxation he was gay, and sometimes gave way so far to his temper, naturally satirical, that he drew upon himself the ill-will of those who had been unfortunately the subjects of his mirth; but enemies so provoked, he thought it beneath him to regard or to pacify; for he was fiery, but not malicious, disdained dissimulation, and in his gay or serious hours, preserved a settled detestation of falsehood. So that he was an open and undisguised friend or enemy, entirely unacquainted with the artifices of flatterers, but so judicious in the choice of friends, and so constant in his affection to them, that those with whom he had contracted familiarity in his youth, had, for the greatest part, his confidence in his old age. His abilities, which would probably have enabled him to have excelled in any kind of learning, were chiefly employed, as his station required, on polite literature, in which he arrived at very uncommon knowledge; which, however, appears rather from judicious compilations, than original productions. His style is lively and masculine, but not without harshness and constraint, nor, perhaps, always polished to that purity, which some writers have attained. He was at least instrumental to the instruction of mankind, by the publication of many valuable performances, which lay neglected by the greatest part of the learned world; and, if reputation be estimated by usefulness, he may claim a higher degree in the ranks of learning, than some others of happier elocution, or more vigorous imagination. The malice or suspicion of those who either did not know, or did not love him, had given rise to some doubts about his religion, which he took an opportunity of removing on his death-bed, by a voluntary declaration of his faith, his hope of everlasting salvation from the revealed promises of God, and his confidence in the merits of our Redeemer, of the sincerity of which declaration his whole behaviour in his long illness was an incontestable proof; and he concluded his life, which had been illustrious for many virtues, by exhibiting an example of true piety. Of his works we have not been able to procure a complete catalogue: he published, Quintilianus, 2 vols. 4to; Valerius Flaccus; Ovidius, 4 vols. 4to; Poetæ Latini Minores, 2 vols. 4to; cum notis variorum. Buchanani Opera, 2 vols. 4to [51]. SYDENHAM [52]. Thomas Sydenham was born in the year 1624, at Windford Eagle, in Dorsetshire, where his father, William Sydenham, esq. had a large fortune. Under whose care he was educated, or in what manner he passed his childhood, whether he made any early discoveries of a genius peculiarly adapted to the study of nature, or gave any presages of his future eminence in medicine, no information is to be obtained. We must, therefore, repress that curiosity, which would naturally incline us to watch the first attempts of so vigorous a mind, to pursue it in its childish inquiries, and see it struggling with rustick prejudices, breaking, on trifling occasions, the shackles of credulity, and giving proofs, in its casual excursions, that it was formed to shake off the yoke of prescription, and dispel the phantoms of hypothesis. That the strength of Sydenham's understanding, the accuracy of his discernment, and ardour of his curiosity, might have been remarked from his infancy by a diligent observer, there is no reason to doubt; for there is no instance of any man, whose history has been minutely related, that did not, in every part of life, discover the same proportion of intellectual vigour; but it has been the lot of the greatest part of those who have excelled in science, to be known only by their own writings, and to have left behind them no remembrance of their domestick life, or private transactions, or only such memorials of particular passages as are, on certain occasions, necessarily recorded in publick registers. From these it is discovered, that, at the age of eighteen, in 1642, he commenced a commoner of Magdalen hall, in Oxford, where it is not probable that he continued long; for he informs us himself, that he was withheld from the university by the commencement of the war; nor is it known in what state of life he engaged, or where he resided during that long series of publick commotion. It is, indeed, reported, that he had a commission in the king's army, but no particular account is given of his military conduct; nor are we told what rank he obtained, when he entered into the army, or when, or on what occasion, he retired from it. It is, however, certain, that if ever he took upon him the profession of arms, he spent but few years in the camp; for, in 1648, he obtained, at Oxford, the degree of bachelor of physick, for which, as some medicinal knowledge is necessary, it may be imagined that he spent some time in qualifying himself. His application to the study of physick was, as he himself relates, produced by an accidental acquaintance with Dr. Cox, a physician, eminent at that time in London, who in some sickness prescribed to his brother, and attending him frequently on that occasion, inquired of him what profession he designed to follow. The young man answering that he was undetermined, the doctor recommended physick to him, on what account, or with what arguments, it is not related; but his persuasions were so effectual, that Sydenham determined to follow his advice, and retired to Oxford for leisure and opportunity to pursue his studies. It is evident that this conversation must have happened before his promotion to any degree in physick, because he himself fixes it in the interval of his absence from the university, a circumstance which will enable us to confute many false reports relating to Dr. Sydenham, which have been confidently inculcated, and implicitly believed. It is the general opinion, that he was made a physician by accident and necessity, and sir Richard Blackmore reports, in plain terms, [preface to his Treatise on the Small Pox,] that he engaged in practice, without any preparatory study, or previous knowledge, of the medicinal sciences; and affirms, that when he was consulted by him what books he should read to qualify him for the same profession, he recommended Don Quixote. That he recommended Don Quixote to Blackmore, we are not allowed to doubt; but the relater is hindered by that self-love, which dazzles all mankind, from discovering that he might intend a satire very different from a general censure of all the ancient and modern writers on medicine, since he might, perhaps, mean, either seriously or in jest, to insinuate, that Blackmore was not adapted by nature to the study of physick, and that, whether he should read Cervantes or Hippocrates, he would be equally unqualified for practice, and equally unsuccessful in it. Whatsoever was his meaning, nothing is more evident, than that it was a transient sally of an imagination warmed with gaiety, or the negligent effusion of a mind intent upon some other employment, and in haste to dismiss a troublesome intruder; for it is certain that Sydenham did not think it impossible to write usefully on medicine, because he has himself written upon it; and it is not probable that he carried his vanity so far, as to imagine that no man had ever acquired the same qualifications besides himself. He could not but know that he rather restored, than invented most of his principles, and, therefore, could not but acknowledge the value of those writers whose doctrines he adopted and enforced. That he engaged in the practice of physick without any acquaintance with the theory, or knowledge of the opinions or precepts of former writers, is undoubtedly false; for he declares, that, after he had, in pursuance of his conversation with Dr. Cox, determined upon the profession of physick, he "applied himself in earnest to it, and spent several years in the university," (aliquot annos in academica palæstra,) before he began to practise in London. Nor was he satisfied with the opportunities of knowledge which Oxford afforded, but travelled to Montpellier, as Désault relates, [Dissertation on Consumptions,] in quest of further information; Montpellier, being at that time, the most celebrated school of physick: so far was Sydenham from any contempt of academical institutions, and so far from thinking it reasonable to learn physick by experiments alone, which must necessarily be made at the hazard of life. What can be demanded beyond this by the most zealous advocate for regular education? What can be expected from the most cautious and most industrious student, than that he should dedicate several years to the rudiments of his art, and travel for further instructions from one university to another? It is likewise a common opinion, that Sydenham was thirty years old, before he formed his resolution of studying physick, for which I can discover no other foundation than one expression in his dedication to Dr. Mapletoft, which seems to have given rise to it, by a gross misinterpretation; for he only observes, that from his conversation with Dr. Cox to the publication of that treatise, thirty years had intervened. Whatever may have produced this notion, or how long soever it may have prevailed, it is now proved, beyond controversy, to be false; since it appears that Sydenham, having been for some time absent from the university, returned to it, in order to pursue his physical inquiries, before he was twenty-four years old; for, in 1648, he was admitted to the degree of bachelor of physick. That such reports should be confidently spread, even among the contemporaries of the author to whom they relate, and obtain, in a few years, such credit as to require a regular confutation; that it should be imagined that the greatest physician of the age arrived at so high a degree of skill, without any assistance from his predecessors; and that a man, eminent for integrity, practised medicine by chance, and grew wise only by murder; is not to be considered without astonishment. But if it be, on the other part, remembered, how much this opinion favours the laziness of some, and the pride of others; how readily some men confide in natural sagacity; and how willingly most would spare themselves the labour of accurate reading and tedious inquiry; it will be easily discovered, how much the interest of multitudes was engaged in the production and continuance of this opinion, and how cheaply those, of whom it was known that they practised physick before they studied it, might satisfy themselves and others with the example of the illustrious Sydenham. It is, therefore, in an uncommon degree useful to publish a true account of this memorable man, that pride, temerity, and idleness, may be deprived of that patronage which they have enjoyed too long; that life may be secured from the dangerous experiments of the ignorant and presumptuous; and that those, who shall, hereafter, assume the important province of superintending the health of others, may learn, from this great master of the art, that the only means of arriving at eminence and success are labour and study. From these false reports it is probable that another arose, to which, though it cannot be with equal certainty confuted, it does not appear that entire credit ought to be given. The acquisition of a Latin style did not seem consistent with the manner of life imputed to him; nor was it probable, that he, who had so diligently cultivated the ornamental parts of general literature, would have neglected the essential studies of his own profession. Those, therefore, who were determined, at whatever price, to retain him in their own party, and represent him equally ignorant and daring with themselves, denied him the credit of writing his own works in the language in which they were published, and asserted, but without proof, that they were composed by him in English, and translated into Latin by Dr. Mapletoft. Whether Dr. Mapletoft lived and was familiar with him, during the whole time in which these several treatises were printed, treatises written on particular occasions, and printed at periods considerably distant from each other, we have had no opportunity of inquiring, and, therefore, cannot demonstrate the falsehood of this report; but if it be considered how unlikely it is, that any man should engage in a work so laborious and so little necessary, only to advance the reputation of another, or that he should have leisure to continue the same office upon all following occasions; if it be remembered how seldom such literary combinations are formed, and how soon they are, for the greatest part, dissolved, there will appear no reason for not allowing Dr. Sydenham the laurel of eloquence, as well as physick [53]. It is observable, that his Processus Integri, published after his death, discovers alone more skill in the Latin language than is commonly ascribed to him; and it surely will not be suspected, that the officiousness of his friends was continued after his death, or that he procured the book to be translated, only that, by leaving it behind him, he might secure his claim to his other writings. It is asserted by sir Hans Sloane, that Dr. Sydenham, with whom he was familiarly acquainted, was particularly versed in the writings of the great Roman orator and philosopher; and there is evidently such a luxuriance in his style, as may discover the author which gave him most pleasure, and most engaged his imitation. About the same time that he became bachelor of physick, he obtained, by the interest of a relation, a fellowship of All Souls' college, having submitted, by the subscription required, to the authority of the visitors appointed by the parliament, upon what principles, or how consistently with his former conduct, it is now impossible to discover. When he thought himself qualified for practice, he fixed his residence in Westminster, became doctor of physick at Cambridge, received a license from the college of physicians, and lived in the first degree of reputation, and the greatest affluence of practice, for many years, without any other enemies than those which he raised by the superiour merit of his conduct, the brighter lustre of his abilities, or his improvements of his science, and his contempt of pernicious methods, supported only by authority, in opposition to sound reason and indubitable experience. These men are indebted to him for concealing their names, when he records their malice, since they have, thereby, escaped the contempt and detestation of posterity. It is a melancholy reflection, that they who have obtained the highest reputation, by preserving or restoring the health of others, have often been hurried away before the natural decline of life, or have passed many of their years under the torments of those distempers which they profess to relieve. In this number was Sydenham, whose health began to fail in the fifty-second year of his age, by the frequent attacks of the gout, to which he was subject for a great part of his life, and which was afterwards accompanied with the stone in the kidneys, and, its natural consequence, bloody urine. These were distempers which even the art of Sydenham could only palliate, without hope of a perfect cure, but which, if he has not been able by his precepts to instruct us to remove, he has, at least, by his example, taught us to bear; for he never betrayed any indecent impatience, or unmanly dejection, under his torments, but supported himself by the reflections of philosophy, and the consolations of religion; and in every interval of ease applied himself to the assistance of others with his usual assiduity. After a life thus usefully employed, he died at his house in Pall-mall, on the 29th of December, 1689, and was buried in the aisle, near the south door of the church of St. James, in Westminster. What was his character, as a physician, appears from the treatises which he has left, which it is not necessary to epitomise or transcribe; and from them it may likewise be collected, that his skill in physick was not his highest excellence; that his whole character was amiable; that his chief view was the benefit of mankind, and the chief motive of his actions, the will of God, whom he mentions with reverence, well becoming the most enlightened and most penetrating mind. He was benevolent, candid, and communicative, sincere, and religious; qualities, which it were happy, if they could copy from him, who emulate his knowledge, and imitate his methods. CHEYNEL [54]. There is always this advantage in contending with illustrious adversaries, that the combatant is equally immortalized by conquest or defeat. He that dies by the sword of a hero will always be mentioned, when the acts of his enemy are mentioned. The man, of whose life the following account is offered to the publick, was, indeed, eminent among his own party, and had qualities, which, employed in a good cause, would have given him some claim to distinction; but no one is now so much blinded with bigotry, as to imagine him equal either to Hammond or Chillingworth; nor would his memory, perhaps, have been preserved, had he not, by being conjoined with illustrious names, become the object of publick curiosity. Francis Cheynel was born in 1608, at Oxford [55], where his father, Dr. John Cheynel, who had been fellow of Corpus Christi college, practised physick with great reputation. He was educated in one of the grammar schools of his native city, and, in the beginning of the year 1623, became a member of the university. It is probable, that he lost his father when he was very young; for it appears, that before 1629, his mother had married Dr. Abbot, bishop of Salisbury, whom she had likewise buried. From this marriage he received great advantage; for his mother, being now allied to Dr. Brent, then warden of Merton college, exerted her interest so vigorously, that he was admitted there a probationer, and afterwards obtained a fellowship [56]. Having taken the degree of master of arts, he was admitted to orders, according to the rites of the church of England, and held a curacy near Oxford, together with his fellowship. He continued in his college, till he was qualified, by his years of residence, for the degree of bachelor of divinity, which he attempted to take in 1641, but was denied his grace [57], for disputing concerning predestination, contrary to the king's injunctions. This refusal of his degree he mentions in his dedication to his account of Mr. Chillingworth: "Do not conceive that I snatch up my pen in an angry mood, that I might vent my dangerous wit, and ease my overburdened spleen; no, no, I have almost forgotten the visitation of Merton college, and the denial of my grace, the plundering of my house, and little library: I know when, and where, and of whom, to demand satisfaction for all these injuries and indignities. I have learnt 'centum plagas Spartana nobilitate concoquere.' I have not learnt how to plunder others of goods, or living, and make myself amends by force of arms. I will not take a living which belonged to any civil, studious, learned delinquent; unless it be the much-neglected _commendam_ of some lordly prelate, condemned by the known laws of the land, and the highest court of the kingdom, for some offence of the first magnitude." It is observable, that he declares himself to have almost forgot his injuries and indignities, though he recounts them with an appearance of acrimony, which is no proof that the impression is much weakened; and insinuates his design of demanding, at a proper time, satisfaction for them. These vexations were the consequence rather of the abuse of learning, than the want of it; no one that reads his works can doubt that he was turbulent, obstinate, and petulant; and ready to instruct his superiours, when he most needed instruction from them. Whatever he believed (and the warmth of his imagination naturally made him precipitate in forming his opinions) he thought himself obliged to profess; and what he professed he was ready to defend, without that modesty which is always prudent, and generally necessary, and which, though it was not agreeable to Mr. Cheynel's temper, and, therefore, readily condemned by him, is a very useful associate to truth, and often introduces her, by degrees, where she never could have forced her way by argument or declamation. A temper of this kind is generally inconvenient and offensive in any society, but in a place of education is least to be tolerated; for, as authority is necessary to instruction, whoever endeavours to destroy subordination, by weakening that reverence which is claimed by those to whom the guardianship of youth is committed by their country, defeats, at once, the institution; and may be justly driven from a society, by which he thinks himself too wise to be governed, and in which he is too young to teach, and too opinionative to learn. This may be readily supposed to have been the case of Cheynel; and I know not how those can be blamed for censuring his conduct, or punishing his disobedience, who had a right to govern him, and who might certainly act with equal sincerity, and with greater knowledge. With regard to the visitation of Merton college, the account is equally obscure. Visitors are well known to be generally called to regulate the affairs of colleges, when the members disagree with their head, or with one another; and the temper that Dr. Cheynel discovers will easily incline his readers to suspect, that he could not long live in any place, without finding some occasion for debate; nor debate any question, without carrying opposition to such a length as might make a moderator necessary. Whether this was his conduct at Merton, or whether an appeal to the visiter's authority was made by him, or his adversaries, or any other member of the college, is not to be known; it appears only, that there was a visitation, that he suffered by it, and resented his punishment. He was afterwards presented to a living of great value, near Banbury, where he had some dispute with archbishop Laud. Of this dispute I have found no particular account. Calamy only says, he had a ruffle with bishop Laud, while at his height. Had Cheynel been equal to his adversary in greatness and learning, it had not been easy to have found either a more proper opposite; for they were both, to the last degree, zealous, active, and pertinacious, and would have afforded mankind a spectacle of resolution and boldness not often to be seen. But the amusement of beholding the struggle would hardly have been without danger, as they were too fiery not to have communicated their heat, though it should have produced a conflagration of their country. About the year 1641, when the whole nation was engaged in the controversy about the rights of the church, and necessity of episcopacy, he declared himself a presbyterian, and an enemy to bishops, liturgies, ceremonies; and was considered, as one of the most learned and acute of his party; for, having spent much of his life in a college, it cannot be doubted that he had a considerable knowledge of books, which the vehemence of his temper enabled him often to display, when a more timorous man would have been silent, though in learning not his inferiour. When the war broke out, Mr. Cheynel, in consequence of his principles, declared himself for the parliament; and, as he appears to have held it as a first principle, that all great and noble spirits abhor neutrality, there is no doubt but that he exerted himself to gain proselytes, and to promote the interest of that party, which he had thought it his duty to espouse. These endeavours were so much regarded by the parliament, that, having taken the covenant, he was nominated one of the assembly of divines, who were to meet at Westminster for the settlement of the new discipline. This distinction drew, necessarily, upon him the hatred of the cavaliers; and his living being not far distant from the king's head-quarters, he received a visit from some of the troops, who, as he affirms, plundered his house, and drove him from it. His living, which was, I suppose, considered as forfeited by his absence, though he was not suffered to continue upon it, was given to a clergyman, of whom he says, that he would become a stage better than a pulpit; a censure which I can neither confute nor admit, because I have not discovered who was his successour. He then retired into Sussex, to exercise his ministry among his friends, in a place where, as he observes, there had been little of the power of religion either known or practised. As no reason can be given why the inhabitants of Sussex should have less knowledge or virtue than those of other places, it may be suspected that he means nothing more than a place where the presbyterian discipline or principles had never been received. We now observe, that the methodists, where they scatter their opinions, represent themselves, as preaching the gospel to unconverted nations; and enthusiasts of all kinds have been inclined to disguise their particular tenets with pompous appellations, and to imagine themselves the great instruments of salvation; yet it must be confessed, that all places are not equally enlightened; that in the most civilized nations there are many corners which may be called barbarous, where neither politeness, nor religion, nor the common arts of life, have yet been cultivated; and it is likewise certain, that the inhabitants of Sussex huve been sometimes mentioned as remarkable for brutality. From Sussex he went often to London, where, in 1643, he preached three times before the parliament; and, returning in November to Colchester, to keep the monthly fast there, as was his custom, he obtained a convoy of sixteen soldiers, whose bravery or good fortune was such, that they faced, and put to flight, more than two hundred of the king's forces. In this journey he found Mr. Chillingworth in the hands of the parliament's troops, of whose sickness and death he gave the account, which has been sufficiently made known to the learned world by Mr. Maizeaux, in his Life of Chillingworth. With regard to this relation, it may be observed, that it is written with an air of fearless veracity, and with the spirit of a man who thinks his cause just, and his behaviour without reproach; nor does there appear any reason for doubting that Cheynel spoke and acted as he relates; for he does not publish an apology, but a challenge, and writes not so much to obviate calumnies, as to gain from others that applause which he seems to have bestowed very liberally upon himself, for his behaviour on that occasion. Since, therefore, this relation is credible, a great part of it being supported by evidence which cannot be refuted, Mr. Maizeaux seems very justly, in his Life of Mr. Chillingworth, to oppose the common report, that his life was shortened by the inhumanity of those to whom he was a prisoner; for Cheynel appears to have preserved, amidst all his detestation of the opinions which he imputed to him, a great kindness to his person, and veneration for his capacity; nor does he appear to have been cruel to him, otherwise than by that incessant importunity of disputation, to which he was doubtless incited by a sincere belief of the danger of his soul, if he should die without renouncing some of his opinions. The same kindness which made him desirous to convert him before his death, would incline him to preserve him from dying before he was converted; and accordingly we find, that, when the castle was yielded, he took care to procure him a commodious lodging; when he was to have been unseasonably removed, he attempted to shorten his journey, which he knew would be dangerous; when the physician was disgusted by Chillingworth's distrust, he prevailed upon him, as the symptoms grew more dangerous, to renew his visits; and when death left no other act of kindness to be practised, procured him the rites of burial, which some would have denied him. Having done thus far justice to the humanity of Cheynel, it is proper to inquire, how far he deserves blame. He appears to have extended none of that kindness to the opinions of Chillingworth, which he showed to his person; for he interprets every word in the worst sense, and seems industrious to discover, in every line, heresies, which might have escaped for ever any other apprehension: he appears always suspicious of some latent malignity, and ready to persecute what he only suspects, with the same violence, as if it had been openly avowed: in all his procedure he shows himself sincere, but without candour. About this time Cheynel, in pursuance of his natural ardour, attended the army under the command of the earl of Essex, and added the praise of valour to that of learning; for he distinguished himself so much by his personal bravery, and obtained so much skill in the science of war, that his commands were obeyed by the colonels with as much respect as those of the general. He seems, indeed, to have been born a soldier; for he had an intrepidity which was never to be shaken by any danger, and a spirit of enterprise not to be discouraged by difficulty, which were supported by an unusual degree of bodily strength. His services of all kinds were thought of so much importance ty the parliament, that they bestowed upon him the living of Petworth, in Sussex. This living was of the value of seven hundred pounds per annum, from which they had ejected a man remarkable for his loyalty, and, therefore, in their opinion, not worthy of such revenues. And it may be inquired, whether, in accepting this preferment, Cheynel did not violate the protestation which he makes in the passage already recited, and whether he did not suffer his resolutions to be overborne by the temptations of wealth. In 1646, when Oxford was taken by the forces of the parliament, and the reformation of the university was resolved, Mr. Cheynel was sent, with six others, to prepare the way for a visitation; being authorized by the parliament to preach in any of the churches, without regard to the right of the members of the university, that their doctrine might prepare their hearers for the changes which were intended. When they arrived at Oxford, they began to execute their commission, by possessing themselves of the pulpits; but, if the relation of Wood [58] is to be regarded, were heard with very little veneration. Those who had been accustomed to the preachers of Oxford, and the liturgy of the church of England, were offended at the emptiness of their discourses, which were noisy and unmeaning; at the unusual gestures, the wild distortions, and the uncouth tone with which they were delivered; at the coldness of their prayers for the king, and the vehemence and exuberance of those which they did not fail to utter for _the blessed councils_ and actions of the parliament and army; and at, what was surely not to be remarked without indignation, their omission of the Lord's prayer. But power easily supplied the want of reverence, and they proceeded in their plan of reformation; and thinking sermons not so efficacious to conversion as private interrogatories and exhortations, they established a weekly meeting for _freeing tender consciences from scruple_, at a house that, from the business to which it was appropriated, was called the _scruple-shop_. With this project they were so well pleased, that they sent to the parliament an account of it, which was afterwards printed, and is ascribed, by Wood, to Mr. Cheynel. They continued for some weeks to hold their meetings regularly, and to admit great numbers, whom curiosity, or a desire of conviction, or a compliance with the prevailing party, brought thither. But their tranquillity was quickly disturbed by the turbulence of the independents, whose opinions then prevailed among the soldiers, and were very industriously propagated by the discourses of William Earbury, a preacher of great reputation among them, who one day gathering a considerable number of his most zealous followers, went to the house appointed for the resolution of scruples, on a day which was set apart for the disquisition of the dignity and office of a minister, and began to dispute, with great vehemence, against the presbyterians, whom he denied to have any true ministers among them, and whose assemblies he affirmed not to be the true church. He was opposed with equal heat by the presbyterians, and, at length, they agreed to examine the point another day, in a regular disputation. Accordingly, they appointed the 12th of November for an inquiry: "Whether, in the christian church, the office of minister is committed to any particular persons?" On the day fixed, the antagonists appeared, each attended by great numbers; but, when the question was proposed, they began to wrangle, not about the doctrine which they had engaged to examine, but about the terms of the proposition, which the independents alleged to be changed since their agreement; and, at length, the soldiers insisted that the question should be, "Whether those who call themselves ministers, have more right or power to preach the gospel, than any other man that is a christian?" This question was debated, for some time, with great vehemence and confusion, but without any prospect of a conclusion. At length, one of the soldiers, who thought they had an equal right with the rest to engage in the controversy, demanded of the presbyterians, whence they themselves received their orders, whether from bishops, or any other persons. This unexpected interrogatory put them to great difficulties; for it happened that they were all ordained by the bishops, which they durst not acknowledge, for fear of exposing themselves to a general censure, and being convicted from their own declarations, in which they had frequently condemned episcopacy, as contrary to Christianity; nor durst they deny it, because they might have been confuted, and must, at once, have sunk into contempt. The soldiers, seeing their perplexity, insulted them; and went away, boasting of their victory; nor did the presbyterians, for some time, recover spirit enough to renew their meetings, or to proceed in the work of easing consciences. Earbury, exulting at the victory, which, not his own abilities, but the subtlety of the soldier had procured him, began to vent his notions of every kind, without scruple, and, at length, asserted, that "the saints had an equal measure of the divine nature with our Saviour, though not equally manifest." At the same time he took upon him the dignity of a prophet, and began to utter predictions relating to the affairs of England and Ireland. His prophecies were not much regarded, but his doctrine was censured by the presbyterians in their pulpits; and Mr. Cheynel challenged him to a disputation, to which he agreed, and, at his first appearance in St. Mary's church, addressed his audience in the following manner: "Christian friends, kind fellow-soldiers, and worthy students, I, the humble servant of all mankind, am this day drawn, against my will, out of my cell into this publick assembly, by the double chain of accusation and a challenge from the pulpit. I have been charged with heresy; I have been challenged to come hither, in a letter written by Mr. Francis Cheynel. Here, then, I stand in defence of myself and my doctrine, which I shall introduce with only this declaration, that I claim not the office of a minister on account of any outward call, though I formerly received ordination, nor do I boast of illumination, or the knowledge of our Saviour, though I have been held in esteem by others, and formerly by myself; for I now declare, that I know nothing, and am nothing, nor would I be thought of otherwise than as an inquirer and seeker." He then advanced his former position in stronger terms, and with additions equally detestable, which Cheynel attacked with the vehemence which, in so warm a temper, such horrid assertions might naturally excite. The dispute, frequently interrupted by the clamours of the audience, and tumults raised to disconcert Cheynel, who was very unpopular, continued about four hours, and then both the controvertists grew weary, and retired. The presbyterians afterwards thought they should more speedily put an end to the heresies of Earbury by power than by argument; and, by soliciting general Fairfax, procured his removal. Mr. Cheynel published an account of this dispute, under the title of, Faith triumphing over Errour and Heresy, in a Revelation, &c.; nor can it be doubted but he had the victory, where his cause gave him so great superiority. Somewhat before this, his captious and petulant disposition engaged him in a controversy, from which he could not expect to gain equal reputation. Dr. Hammond had, not long before, published his Practical Catechism, in which Mr. Cheynel, according to his custom, found many errours implied, if not asserted; and, therefore, as it was much read, thought it convenient to censure it in the pulpit. Of this Dr. Hammond being informed, desired him, in a letter, to communicate his objections; to which Mr. Cheynel returned an answer, written with his usual temper, and, therefore, somewhat perverse. The controversy was drawn out to a considerable length; and the papers, on both sides, were afterwards made publick by Dr. Hammond. In 1647, it was determined by parliament, that the reformation of Oxford should be more vigorously carried on; and Mr. Cheynel was nominated one of the visiters. The general process of the visitation, the firmness and fidelity of the students, the address by which the inquiry was delayed, and the steadiness with which it was opposed, which are very particularly related by Wood, and after him by Walker, it is not necessary to mention here, as they relate not more to Mr. Cheynel's life than to those of his associates. There is, indeed, some reason to believe that he was more active and virulent than the rest, because he appears to have been charged, in a particular manner, with some of their most unjustifiable measures. He was accused of proposing, that the members of the university should be denied the assistance of counsel, and was lampooned by name, as a madman, in a satire written on the visitation. One action, which shows the violence of his temper, and his disregard, both of humanity and decency, when they came in competition with his passions, must not be forgotten. The visiters, being offended at the obstinacy of Dr. Fell, dean of Christchurch, and vicechancellor of the university, having first deprived him of his vicechancellorship, determined afterwards to dispossess him of his deanery; and, in the course of their proceedings, thought it proper to seize upon his chambers in the college. This was an act which most men would willingly have referred to the officers to whom the law assigned it; but Cheynel's fury prompted him to a different conduct. He, and three more of the visiters, went and demanded admission; which, being steadily refused them, they obtained by the assistance of a file of soldiers, who forced the doors with pick-axes. Then entering, they saw Mrs. Fell in the lodgings, Dr. Fell being in prison at London, and ordered her to quit them, but found her not more obsequious than her husband. They repeated their orders with menaces, but were not able to prevail upon her to remove. They then retired, and left her exposed to the brutality of the soldiers, whom they commanded to keep possession, which Mrs. Fell, however, did not leave. About nine days afterwards, she received another visit of the same kind from the new chancellor, the earl of Pembroke; who having, like the others, ordered her to depart without effect, treated her with reproachful language, and, at last, commanded the soldiers to take her up in her chair, and carry her out of doors. Her daughters, and some other gentlewomen that were with her, were afterwards treated in the same manner; one of whom predicted, without dejection, that she should enter the house again with less difficulty, at some other time; nor was she mistaken in her conjecture, for Dr. Fell lived to be restored to his deanery. At the reception of the chancellor, Cheynel, as the most accomplished of the visiters, had the province of presenting him with the ensigns of his office, some of which were counterfeit, and addressing him with a proper oration. Of this speech, which Wood has preserved, I shall give some passages, by which a judgment may be made of his oratory. Of the staves of the beadles he observes, that "some are stained with double guilt, that some are pale with fear, and that others have been made use of as crutches, for the support of bad causes and desperate fortunes;" and he remarks of the book of statutes which he delivers, that "the ignorant may, perhaps, admire the splendour of the cover, but the learned know that the real treasure is within." Of these two sentences it is easily discovered, that the first is forced and unnatural, and the second trivial and low. Soon afterwards Mr. Cheynel was admitted to the degree of bachelor of divinity, for which his grace had been denied him in 1641, and, as he then suffered for an ill-timed assertion of the presbyterian doctrines, he obtained that his degree should be dated from the time at which he was refused it; an honour which, however, did not secure him from being soon after publickly reproached as a madman. But the vigour of Cheynel was thought, by his companions, to deserve profit, as well as honour; and Dr. Bailey, the president of St. John's college, being not more obedient to the authority of the parliament than the rest, was deprived of his revenues and authority, with which Mr. Cheynel was immediately invested; who, with his usual coolness and modesty, took possession of the lodgings soon after by breaking open the doors. This preferment being not thought adequate to the deserts or abilities of Mr. Cheynel, it was, therefore, desired, by the committee of parliament, that the visiters would recommend him to the lectureship of divinity, founded by the lady Margaret. To recommend him, and to choose, was, at that time, the same; and he had now the pleasure of propagating his darling doctrine of predestination, without interruption, and without danger. Being thus flushed with power and success, there is little reason for doubting that he gave way to his natural vehemence, and indulged himself in the utmost excesses of raging zeal, by which he was, indeed, so much distinguished, that, in a satire mentioned by Wood, he is dignified by the title of archvisiter; an appellation which he seems to have been industrious to deserve by severity and inflexibility; for, not contented with the commission which he and his colleagues had already received, he procured six or seven of the members of parliament to meet privately in Mr. Rouse's lodgings, and assume the style and authority of a committee, and from them obtained a more extensive and tyrannical power, by which the visitors were enabled to force the _solemn league and covenant_, and the _negative oath_ upon all the members of the university, and to prosecute those for a contempt who did not appear to a citation, at whatever distance they might be, and whatever reasons they might assign for their absence. By this method he easily drove great numbers from the university, whose places he supplied with men of his own opinion, whom he was very industrious to draw from other parts, with promises of making a liberal provision for them out of the spoils of hereticks and malignants. Having, in time, almost extirpated those opinions which he found so prevalent at his arrival, or, at least, obliged those, who would not recant, to an appearance of conformity, he was at leisure for employments which deserve to be recorded with greater commendation. About this time, many socinian writers began to publish their notions with great boldness, which the presbyterians, considering as heretical and impious, thought it necessary to confute; and, therefore, Cheynel, who had now obtained his doctor's degree, was desired, in 1649, to write a vindication of the doctrine of the Trinity, which he performed, and published the next year. He drew up, likewise, a confutation of some socinian tenets advanced by John Fry, a man who spent great part of his life in ranging from one religion to another, and who sat as one of the judges on the king, but was expelled afterwards from the house of commons, and disabled from sitting in parliament. Dr. Cheynel is said to have shown himself evidently superiour to him in the controversy, and was answered by him only with an opprobrious book against the presbyterian clergy. Of the remaining part of his life, there is found only an obscure and confused account. He quitted the presidentship of St. John's, and the professorship, in 1650, as Calamy relates, because he would not take the engagement; and gave a proof that he could suffer, as well as act, in a cause which he believed just. We have, indeed, no reason to question his resolution, whatever occasion might be given to exert it; nor is it probable that he feared affliction more than danger, or that he would not have borne persecution himself for those opinions which inclined him to persecute others. He did not suffer much upon this occasion; for he retained the living of Petworth, to which he, thenceforward, confined his labours, and where he was very assiduous, and, as Calamy affirms, very successful in the exercise of his ministry, it being his peculiar character to be warm and zealous in all his undertakings. This heat of his disposition, increased by the uncommon turbulence of the times in which he lived, and by the opposition to which the unpopular nature of some of his employments exposed him, was, at last, heightened to distraction, so that he was, for some years, disordered in his understanding, as both Wood and Calamy relate, but with such difference as might be expected from their opposite principles. Wood appears to think, that a tendency to madness was discoverable in a great part of his life; Calamy, that it was only transient and accidental, though, in his additions to his first narrative, he pleads it, as an extenuation of that fury with which his kindest friends confess him to have acted on some occasions. Wood declares, that he died little better than distracted; Calamy, that he was perfectly recovered to a sound mind, before the restoration, at which time he retired to Preston, a small village in Sussex, being turned out of his living at Petworth. It does not appear that he kept his living till the general ejection of the nonconformists; and it is not unlikely that the asperity of his carriage, and the known virulence of his temper, might have raised him enemies, who were willing to make him feel the effects of persecution, which he had so furiously incited against others; but of this incident of his life there is no particular account. After his deprivation, he lived, till his death, which happened in 1665, at a small village near Chichester, upon a paternal estate, not augmented by the large preferments wasted upon him in the triumphs of his party; having been remarkable, throughout his life, for hospitality and contempt of money. CAVE [59]. The curiosity of the publick seems to demand the history of every man who has, by whatever means, risen to eminence; and few lives would have more readers than that of the compiler of the Gentleman's Magazine, if all those who received improvement or entertainment from him should retain so much kindness for their benefactor, as to inquire after his conduct and character. Edward Cave was born at Newton, in Warwickshire, Feb. 29, 1691. His father (Joseph) was the younger son of Mr. Edward Cave, of Cave's-in-the-Hole, a lone house, on the Street road, in the same county, which took its name from the occupier; but having concurred with his elder brother in cutting off the entail of a small hereditary estate, by which act it was lost from the family, he was reduced to follow, in Rugby, the trade of a shoemaker. He was a man of good reputation in his narrow circle, and remarkable for strength and rustick intrepidity. He lived to a great age, and was, in his latter years, supported by his son. It was fortunate for Edward Cave, that, having a disposition to literary attainments, he was not cut off by the poverty of his parents from opportunities of cultivating his faculties. The school of Rugby, in which he had, by the rules of its foundation, a right to be instructed, was then in high reputation under the reverend Mr. Holyock, to whose care most of the neighbouring families, even of the highest rank, intrusted their sons. He had judgment to discover, and, for some time, generosity to encourage, the genius of young Cave; and was so well pleased with his quick progress in the school, that he declared his resolution to breed him for the university, and recommended him, as a servitor, to some of his scholars of high rank. But prosperity which depends upon the caprice of others, is of short duration. Cave's superiority in literature exalted him to an invidious familiarity with boys who were far above him in rank and expectations; and, as in unequal associations it always happens, whatever unlucky prank was played was imputed to Cave. When any mischief, great or small, was done, though, perhaps, others boasted of the stratagem, when it was successful, yet, upon detection, or miscarriage the fault was sure to fall upon poor Cave. At last, his mistress, by some invisible means, lost a favourite cock. Cave was, with little examination, stigmatised as the thief and murderer; not because he was more apparently criminal than others, but because he was more easily reached by vindictive justice. From that time, Mr. Holyock withdrew his kindness visibly from him, and treated him with harshness, which the crime, in its utmost aggravation, could scarcely deserve; and which, surely, he would have forborne, had he considered how hardly the habitual influence of birth and fortune is resisted; and how frequently men, not wholly without sense of virtue, are betrayed to acts more atrocious than the robbery of a hen-roost, by a desire of pleasing their superiours. Those reflections his master never made, or made without effect; for, under pretence that Cave obstructed the discipline of the school, by selling clandestine assistance, and supplying exercises to idlers, he was oppressed with unreasonable tasks, that there might be an opportunity of quarrelling with his failure; and when his diligence had surmounted them, no regard was paid to the performance. Cave bore this persecution awhile, and then left the school, and the hope of a literary education, to seek some other means of gaining a livelihood. He was first placed with a collector of the excise. He used to recount, with some pleasure, a journey or two which he rode with him as his clerk, and relate the victories that he gained over the excisemen in grammatical disputations. But the insolence of his mistress, who employed him in servile drudgery, quickly disgusted him, and he went up to London in quest of more suitable employment. He was recommended to a timber-merchant at the Bankside, and, while he was there on liking, is said to have given hopes of great mercantile abilities; but this place he soon left, I know not for what reason, and was bound apprentice to Mr. Collins, a printer of some reputation, and deputy alderman. This was a trade for which men were formerly qualified by a literary education, and which was pleasing to Cave, because it furnished some employment for his scholastick attainments. Here, therefore, he resolved to settle, though his master and mistress lived in perpetual discord, and their house was, therefore, no comfortable habitation. From the inconveniencies of these domestick tumults he was soon released, having, in only two years, attained so much skill in his art, and gained so much the confidence of his master, that he was sent, without any superintendant, to conduct a printing-office at Norwich, and publish a weekly paper. In this undertaking he met with some opposition, which produced a publick controversy, and procured young Cave the reputation of a writer. His master died before his apprenticeship was expired, and he was not able to bear the perverseness of his mistress. He, therefore, quitted her house upon a stipulated allowance, and married a young widow, with whom he lived at Bow. When his apprenticeship was over, he worked, as a journeyman, at the printing-house of Mr. Barber, a man much distinguished, and employed by the tories, whose principles had, at that time, so much prevalence with Cave, that he was, for some years, a writer in Mist's Journal; which, though he afterwards obtained, by his wife's interest, a small place in the post-office, he for some time continued. But, as interest is powerful, and conversation, however mean, in time persuasive, he, by degrees, inclined to another party; in which, however, he was always moderate, though steady and determined. When he was admitted into the post-office, he still continued, at his intervals of attendance, to exercise his trade, or to employ himself with some typographical business. He corrected the Gradus ad Parnassum; and was liberally rewarded by the company of stationers. He wrote an account of the criminals, which had, for some time, a considerable sale; and published many little pamphlets, that accident brought into his hands, of which it would be very difficult to recover the memory. By the correspondence which his place in the post-office facilitated, he procured country newspapers, and sold their intelligence to a journalist in London, for a guinea a week. He was afterwards raised to the office of clerk of the franks, in which he acted with great spirit and firmness; and often stopped franks, which were given by members of parliament to their friends, because he thought such extension of a peculiar right illegal. This raised many complaints, and having stopped, among others, a frank given to the old dutchess of Marlborough by Mr. Walter Plummer, he was cited before the house, as for a breach of privilege, and accused, I suppose very unjustly, of opening letters to detect them. He was treated with great harshness and severity, but, declining their questions, by pleading his oath of secrecy, was at last dismissed. And it must be recorded to his honour, that, when he was ejected from his office, he did not think himself discharged from his trust, but continued to refuse, to his nearest friends, any information about the management of the office. By this constancy of diligence and diversification of employment, he in time collected a sum sufficient for the purchase of a small printing-office, and began the Gentleman's Magazine, a periodical pamphlet, of which the scheme is known wherever the English language is spoken. To this undertaking he owed the affluence in which he passed the last twenty years of his life, and the fortune which he left behind him, which, though large, had been yet larger, had he not rashly and wantonly impaired it, by innumerable projects, of which I know not that ever one succeeded. The Gentleman's Magazine, which has now subsisted fifty years, and still continues to enjoy the favour of the world [60], is one of the most successful and lucrative pamphlets which literary history has upon record, and therefore deserves, in this narrative, particular notice. Mr. Cave, when he formed the project, was far from expecting the success which he found; and others had so little prospect of its consequence, that though he had, for several years, talked of his plan among printers and booksellers, none of them thought it worth the trial. That they were not restrained by virtue from the execution of another man's design, was sufficiently apparent, as soon as that design began to be gainful; for, in a few years, a multitude of magazines arose and perished: only the London Magazine, supported by a powerful association of booksellers, and circulated with all the art and all the cunning of trade, exempted itself from the general fate of Cave's invaders, and obtained, though not an equal, yet a considerable sale [61]. Cave now began to aspire to popularity; and being a greater lover of poetry than any other art, he sometimes offered subjects for poems, and proposed prizes for the best performers. The first prize was fifty pounds, for which, being but newly acquainted with wealth, and thinking the influence of fifty pounds extremely great, he expected the first authors of the kingdom to appear as competitors; and offered the allotment of the prize to the universities. But, when the time came, no name was seen among the writers that had ever been seen before; the universities and several private men rejected the province of assigning the prize. At all this Mr. Cave wondered for awhile; but his natural judgment, and a wider acquaintance with the world, soon cured him of his astonishment, as of many other prejudices and errours. Nor have many men been seen raised by accident or industry to sudden riches, that retained less of the meanness of their former state. He continued to improve his magazine, and had the satisfaction of seeing its success proportionate to his diligence, till, in 1751, his wife died of an asthma. He seemed not at first much affected by her death, but in a few days lost his sleep and his appetite, which he never recovered; but, after having lingered about two years, with many vicissitudes of amendment and relapse, fell, by drinking acid liquors, into a diarrhoea, and afterwards into a kind of lethargick insensibility, in which one of the last acts of reason, which he exerted, was fondly to press the hand that is now writing this little narrative. He died on the 10th of January, 1754, having just concluded the twenty-third annual collection [62]. He was a man of a large stature, not only tall but bulky, and was, when young, of remarkable strength and activity. He was, generally, healthful, and capable of much labour and long application; but in the latter years of his life was afflicted with the gout, which he endeavoured to cure or alleviate by a total abstinence both from strong liquors and animal food. From animal food he abstained about four years, and from strong liquors much longer; but the gout continued unconquered, perhaps unabated. His resolution and perseverance were very uncommon; in whatever he undertook, neither expense nor fatigue were able to repress him; but his constancy was calm, and to those who did not know him appeared faint and languid; but he always went forward, though he moved slowly. The same chilness of mind was observable in his conversation; he was watching the minutest accent of those Assisted only by a classical education, Which he received at the Grammar school Of this Town, Planned, executed, and established A literary work, called THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, Whereby he acquired an ample fortune, The whole of which devolved to his family, Here also lies The body of WILLIAM CAVE, Second son of the said JOSEPH CAVE, Who died May 2, 1757, aged 62 years; And who, having survived his elder brother, EDWARD CAVE, Inherited from him a competent estate; And, in gratitude to his benefactor, Ordered this monument to perpetuate his memory. He liv'd a patriarch in his numerous race, And show'd in charity a Christian's grace: Whate'er a friend or parent feels, he knew; His hand was open, and his heart was true; In what he gain'd and gave, he taught mankind, A grateful always is a generous mind. Here rest his clay! his soul must ever rest; Who bless'd when living, dying must be blest. whom he disgusted by seeming inattention; and his visitant was surprised when he came a second time, by preparations to execute the scheme which he supposed never to have been heard. He was, consistently with this general tranquillity of mind, a tenacious maintainer, though not a clamorous demander, of his right. In his youth, having summoned his fellow-journeymen to concert measures against the oppression of their masters, he mounted a kind of rostrum, and harangued them so efficaciously, that they determined to resist all future invasions; and when the stamp-offices demanded to stamp the last half-sheet of the magazines, Mr. Cave alone defeated their claim, to which the proprietors of the rival magazines would meanly have submitted. He was a friend rather easy and constant, than zealous an'd active; yet many instances might be given, where both his money and his diligence were employed liberally for others. His enmity was, in like manner, cool and deliberate; but though cool, it was not insidious, and though deliberate, not pertinacious. His mental faculties were slow. He saw little at a time, but that little he saw with great exactness. He was long in finding the right, but seldom failed to find it at last. His affections were not easily gained, and his opinions not quickly discovered. His reserve, as it might hide his faults, concealed his virtues; but such he was, as they who best knew him have most lamented. KING OF PRUSSIA [63]. Charles Frederick, the present king of Prussia, whose actions and designs now keep Europe in attention, is the eldest son of Frederick William, by Sophia Dorothea, daughter of George the first, king of England. He was born January 24, 1711-12. Of his early years nothing remarkable has been transmitted to us. As he advanced towards manhood, he became remarkable by his disagreement with his father. The late king of Prussia was of a disposition violent and arbitrary, of narrow views, and vehement passions, earnestly engaged in little pursuits, or in schemes terminating in some speedy consequence, without any plan of lasting advantage to himself or his subjects, or any prospect of distant events. He was, therefore, always busy, though no effects of his activity ever appeared, and always eager, though he had nothing to gain. His behaviour was, to the last degree, rough and savage. The least provocation, whether designed or accidental, was returned by blows, which he did not always forbear to the queen and princesses. From such a king and such a father it was not any enormous violation of duty in the immediate heir of a kingdom, sometimes to differ in opinion, and to maintain that difference with decent pertinacity. A prince of a quick sagacity and comprehensive knowledge, must find many practices in the conduct of affairs which he could not approve, and some which he could scarcely forbear to oppose. The chief pride of the old king was to be master of the tallest regiment in Europe. He, therefore, brought together, from all parts, men above the common military standard. To exceed the height of six feet, was a certain recommendation to notice, and to approach that of seven, a claim to distinction. Men will readily go where they are sure to be caressed; and he had, therefore, such a collection of giants, as, perhaps, was never seen in the world before. To review this towering regiment was his daily pleasure, and to perpetuate it was so much his care, that when he met a tall woman, he immediately commanded one of his Titanian retinue to marry her, that they might propagate procerity, and produce heirs to the father's habiliments. In all this there was apparent folly, but there was no crime. The tall regiment made a fine show at an expense not much greater, when once it was collected, than would have been bestowed upon common men. But the king's military pastimes were sometimes more pernicious. He maintained a numerous army, of which he made no other use than to review and to talk of it; and when he, or perhaps his emissaries, saw a boy, whose form and sprightliness promised a future soldier, he ordered a kind of badge to be put about his neck, by which he was marked out for the service, like the sons of Christian captives in Turkey; and his parents were forbidden to destine him to any other mode of life. This was sufficiently oppressive, but this was not the utmost of his tyranny. He had learned, though otherwise perhaps no very great politician, that to be rich was to be powerful; but that the riches of a king ought to be seen in the opulence of his subjects, he wanted either ability or benevolence to understand. He, therefore, raised exorbitant taxes from every kind of commodity and possession, and piled up the money in his treasury, from which it issued no more. How the land which had paid taxes once, was to pay them a second time, how imposts could be levied without commerce, or commerce continued without money, it was not his custom to inquire. Eager to snatch at money, and delighted to count it, he felt new joy at every receipt, and thought himself enriched by the impoverishment of his dominions. By which of these freaks of royalty the prince was offended, or whether, as perhaps more frequently happens, the offences of which he complains were of a domestick and personal kind, it is not easy to discover. But his resentment, whatever was its cause, rose so high, that he resolved not only to leave his father's court, but his territories, and to seek a refuge among the neighbouring or kindred princes. It is generally believed that his intention was to come to England, and live under the protection of his uncle, till his father's death, or change of conduct, should give him liberty to return. His design, whatever it was, he concerted with an officer in the army, whose name was Kat, a man in whom he placed great confidence, and whom, having chosen him for the companion of his flight, he necessarily trusted with the preparatory measures. A prince cannot leave his country with the speed of a meaner fugitive. Something was to be provided, and something to be adjusted. And, whether Kat found the agency of others necessary, and, therefore, was constrained to admit some partners of the secret; whether levity or vanity incited him to disburden himself of a trust that swelled in his bosom, or to show to a friend or mistress his own importance; or whether it be in itself difficult for princes to transact any thing in secret; so it was, that the king was informed of the intended flight, and the prince, and his favourite, a little before the time settled for their departure, were arrested, and confined in different places. The life of princes is seldom in danger, the hazard of their irregularities falls only on those whom ambition or affection combines with them. The king, after an imprisonment of some time, set his son at liberty; but poor Kat was ordered to be tried for a capital crime. The court examined the cause, and acquitted him: the king remanded him to a second trial, and obliged his judges to condemn him. In consequence of the sentence thus tyrannically extorted, he was publickly beheaded, leaving behind him some papers of reflections made in the prison, which were afterwards printed, and among others an admonition to the prince, for whose sake he suffered, not to foster in himself the opinion of destiny, for that a providence is discoverable in every thing round us. This cruel prosecution of a man who had committed no crime, but by compliance with influence not easily to be resisted, was not the only act by which the old king irritated his son. A lady with whom the prince was suspected of intimacy, perhaps more than virtue allowed, was seized, I know not upon what accusation, and, by the king's order, notwithstanding all the reasons of decency and tenderness that operate in other countries, and other judicatures, was publickly whipped in the streets of Berlin. At last, that the prince might feel the power of a king and a father in its utmost rigour, he was, in 1733, married against his will to the princess Elizabetha Christina of Brunswick Luneburg Beveren. He married her indeed at his father's command, but without professing for her either esteem or affection, and considering the claim of parental authority fully satisfied by the external ceremony, obstinately and perpetually, during the life of his father, refrained from her bed. The poor princess lived about seven years in the court of Berlin, in a state which the world has not often seen, a wife without a husband, married so far as to engage her person to a man who did not desire her affection, and of whom it was doubtful, whether he thought himself restrained from the power of repudiation by an act performed under evident compulsion. Thus he lived secluded from publick business, in contention with his father, in alienation from his wife. This state of uneasiness he found the only means of softening. He diverted his mind from the scenes about him, by studies and liberal amusements. The studies of princes seldom produce great effects, for princes draw with meaner mortals the lot of understanding; and since of many students not more than one can be hoped to advance far towards perfection, it is scarcely to be expected that we should find that one a prince; that the desire of science should overpower in any mind the love of pleasure, when it is always present, or always within call; that laborious meditation should be preferred in the days of youth to amusements and festivity; or that perseverance should press forward in contempt of flattery; and that he, in whom moderate acquisitions would be extolled as prodigies, should exact from himself that excellence of which the whole world conspires to spare him the necessity. In every great performance, perhaps in every great character, part is the gift of nature, part the contribution of accident, and part, very often not the greatest part, the effect of voluntary election, and regular design. The king of Prussia was undoubtedly born with more than common abilities; but that he has cultivated them with more than common diligence, was probably the effect of his peculiar condition, of that which he then considered as cruelty and misfortune. In this long interval of unhappiness and obscurity, he acquired skill in the mathematical sciences, such as is said to have put him on the level with those who have made them the business of their lives. This is, probably, to say too much: the acquisitions of kings are always magnified. His skill in poetry and in the French language has been loudly praised by Voltaire, a judge without exception, if his honesty were equal to his knowledge. Musick he not only understands, but practises on the German flute, in the highest perfection; so that, according to the regal censure of Philip of Macedon, he may be ashamed to play so well. He may be said to owe to the difficulties of his youth an advantage less frequently obtained by princes than literature and mathematicks. The necessity of passing his time without pomp, and of partaking of the pleasures and labours of a lower station, made him acquainted with the various forms of life, and with the genuine passions, interests, desires, and distresses, of mankind. Kings, without this help from temporary infelicity, see the world in a mist, which magnifies every thing near them, and bounds their view to a narrow compass, which few are able to extend by the mere force of curiosity. I have always thought that what Cromwell had more than our lawful kings, he owed to the private condition in which he first entered the world, and in which he long continued: in that state he learned his art of secret transaction, and the knowledge by which he was able to oppose zeal to zeal, and make one enthusiast destroy another. The king of Prussia gained the same arts, and, being born to fairer opportunities of using them, brought to the throne the knowledge of a private man, without the guilt of usurpation. Of this general acquaintance with the world there may be found some traces in his whole life. His conversation is like that of other men upon common topicks, his letters have an air of familiar elegance, and his whole conduct is that of a man who has to do with men, and who is not ignorant what motives will prevail over friends or enemies. In 1740, the old king fell sick, and spoke and acted in his illness with his usual turbulence and roughness, reproaching his physicians, in the grossest terms, with their unskilfulness and impotence, and imputing to their ignorance or wickedness the pain which their prescriptions failed to relieve. These insults they bore with the submission which is commonly paid to despotick monarchs; till at last the celebrated Hoffman was consulted, who failing, like the rest, to give ease to his majesty, was, like the rest, treated with injurious language. Hoffman, conscious of his own merit, replied, that he could not bear reproaches which he did not deserve; that he had tried all the remedies that art could supply, or nature could admit; that he was, indeed, a professor by his majesty's bounty; but that, if his abilities or integrity were doubted, he was willing to leave, not only the university, but the kingdom; and that he could not be driven into any place where the name of Hoffman would want respect. The king, however unaccustomed to such returns, was struck with conviction of his own indecency, told Hoffman, that he had spoken well, and requested him to continue his attendance. The king, finding his distemper gaining upon his strength, grew at last sensible that his end was approaching, and, ordering the prince to be called to his bed, laid several injunctions upon him, of which one was to perpetuate the tall regiment by continual recruits, and another, to receive his espoused wife. The prince gave him a respectful answer, but wisely avoided to diminish his own right or power by an absolute promise; and the king died uncertain of the fate of the tall regiment. The young king began his reign with great expectations, which he has yet surpassed. His father's faults produced many advantages to the first years of his reign. He had an army of seventy thousand men well disciplined, without any imputation of severity to himself, and was master of a vast treasure without the crime or reproach of raising it. It was publickly said in our house of commons, that he had eight millions sterling of our money; but, I believe, he that said it had not considered how difficultly eight millions would be found in all the Prussian dominions. Men judge of what they do not see by that which they see. We are used to talk in England of millions with great familiarity, and imagine that there is the same affluence of money in other countries, in countries whose manufactures are few, and commerce little. Every man's first cares are necessarily domestick. The king, being now no longer under influence, or its appearance, determined how to act towards the unhappy lady who had possessed, for seven years, the empty title of the princess of Prussia. The papers of those times exhibited the conversation of their first interview; as if the king, who plans campaigns in silence, would not accommodate a difference with his wife, but with writers of news admitted as witnesses. It is certain that he received her as queen, but whether he treats her as a wife is yet in dispute. In a few days his resolution was known with regard to the tall regiment; for some recruits being offered him, he rejected them; and this body of giants, by continued disregard, mouldered away. He treated his mother with great respect, ordered that she should bear the title of _queen mother_, and that, instead of addressing him as _his majesty_, she should only call him _son_. As he was passing soon after between Berlin and Potsdam, a thousand boys, who had been marked out for military service, surrounded his coach, and cried out: "merciful king! deliver us from our slavery." He promised them their liberty, and ordered, the next day, that the badge should be taken off. He still continued that correspondence with learned men which he began when he was prince; and the eyes of all scholars, a race of mortals formed for dependence, were upon him, as a man likely to renew the times of patronage, and to emulate the bounties of Lewis the fourteenth. It soon appeared that he was resolved to govern with very little ministerial assistance: he took cognizance of every thing with his own eyes; declared, that in all contrarieties of interest between him and his subjects, the publick good should have the preference; and, in one of the first exertions of regal power, banished the prime minister and favourite of his father, as one that had "betrayed his master, and abused his trust." He then declared his resolution to grant a general toleration of religion, and, among other liberalities of concession, allowed the profession of free-masonry. It is the great taint of his character, that he has given reason to doubt, whether this toleration is the effect of charity or indifference, whether he means to support good men of every religion, or considers all religions as equally good. There had subsisted, for some time, in Prussia, an order called the "order for favour," which, according to its denomination, had been conferred with very little distinction. The king instituted the "order for merit," with which he honoured those whom he considered as deserving. There were some who thought their merit not sufficiently recompensed by this new title; but he was not very ready to grant pecuniary rewards. Those who were most in his favour he sometimes presented with snuffboxes, on which was inscribed, "Amitié augmente le prix." He was, however, charitable, if not liberal, for he ordered the magistrates of the several districts to be very attentive to the relief of the poor; and, if the funds established for that use were not sufficient, permitted that the deficiency should be supplied out of the revenues of the town. One of his first cares was the advancement of learning. Immediately upon his accession, he wrote to Rollin and Voltaire, that he desired the continuance of their friendship; and sent for Mr. Maupertuis, the principal of the French academicians, who passed a winter in Lapland, to verify, by the mensuration of a degree near the pole, the Newtonian doctrine of the form of the earth. He requested of Maupertuis to come to Berlin, to settle an academy, in terms of great ardour and great condescension. At the same time, he showed the world that literary amusements were not likely, as has more than once happened to royal students, to withdraw him from the care of the kingdom, or make him forget his interest. He began by reviving a claim to Herstal and Hermal, two districts in the possession of the bishop of Liege. When he sent his commissary to demand the homage of the inhabitants, they refused him admission, declaring that they acknowledged no sovereign but the bishop. The king then wrote a letter to the bishop, in which he complained of the violation of his right, and the contempt of his authority, charged the prelate with countenancing the late act of disobedience, and required an answer in two days. In three days the answer was sent, in which the bishop founds his claim to the two lordships, upon a grant of Charles the fifth, guaranteed by France and Spain; alleges that his predecessors had enjoyed this grant above a century, and that he never intended to infringe the rights of Prussia; but as the house of Brandenburgh had always made some pretensions to that territory, he was willing to do what other bishops had offered, to purchase that claim for a hundred thousand crowns. To every man that knows the state of the feudal countries, the intricacy of their pedigrees, the confusion of their alliances, and the different rules of inheritance that prevail in different places, it will appear evident, that of reviving antiquated claims there can be no end, and that the possession of a century is a better title than can commonly be produced. So long a prescription supposes an acquiescence in the other claimants; and that acquiescence supposes also some reason, perhaps now unknown, for which the claim was forborne. Whether this rule could be considered as valid in the controversy between these sovereigns, may, however, be doubted, for the bishop's answer seems to imply, that the title of the house of Brandenburg had been kept alive by repeated claims, though the seizure of the territory had been hitherto forborne. The king did not suffer his claim to be subjected to any altercations, but, having published a declaration, in which he charged the bishop with violence and injustice, and remarked that the feudal laws allowed every man, whose possession was withheld from him, to enter it with an armed force, he immediately despatched two thousand soldiers into the controverted countries, where they lived without control, exercising every kind of military tyranny, till the cries of the inhabitants forced the bishop to relinquish them to the quiet government of Prussia. This was but a petty acquisition; the time was now come when the king of Prussia was to form and execute greater designs. On the 9th of October, 1740, half Europe was thrown into confusion by the death of Charles the sixth, emperour of Germany, by whose death all the hereditary dominions of the house of Austria descended, according to the pragmatick sanction, to his eldest daughter, who was married to the duke of Lorrain, at the time of the emperour's death, duke of Tuscany. By how many securities the pragmatick sanction was fortified, and how little it was regarded when those securities became necessary; how many claimants started up at once to the several dominions of the house of Austria; how vehemently their pretensions were enforced, and how many invasions were threatened or attempted; the distresses of the emperour's daughter, known for several years by the title only of the queen of Hungary, because Hungary was the only country to which her claim had not been disputed: the firmness with which she struggled with her difficulties, and the good fortune by which she surmounted them; the narrow plan of this essay will not suffer me to relate. Let them be told by some other writer of more leisure and wider intelligence. Upon the emperour's death, many of the German princes fell upon the Austrian territories, as upon a dead carcass, to be dismembered among them without resistance. Among these, with whatever justice, certainly with very little generosity, was the king of Prussia, who, having assembled his troops, as was imagined, to support the pragmatick sanction, on a sudden entered Silesia with thirty thousand men, publishing a declaration, in which he disclaims any design of injuring the rights of the house of Austria, but urges his claim to Silesia, as rising "from ancient conventions of family and confraternity between the house of Brandenburg and the princes of Silesia, and other honourable titles." He says, the fear of being defeated by other pretenders to the Austrian dominions, obliged him to enter Silesia without any previous expostulation with the queen, and that he shall "strenuously espouse the interests of the house of Austria." Such a declaration was, I believe, in the opinion of all Europe, nothing less than the aggravation of hostility by insult, and was received by the Austrians with suitable indignation. The king pursued his purpose, marched forward, and in the frontiers of Silesia made a speech to his followers, in which he told them, that he considered them rather "as friends than subjects, that the troops of Brandenburg had been always eminent for their bravery, that they would always fight in his presence, and that he would recompense those who should distinguish themselves in his service, rather as a father than as a king." The civilities of the great are never thrown away. The soldiers would naturally follow such a leader with alacrity; especially because they expected no opposition: but human expectations are frequently deceived. Entering thus suddenly into a country which he was supposed rather likely to protect than to invade, he acted for some time with absolute authority; but, supposing that this submission would not always last, he endeavoured to persuade the queen to a cession of Silesia, imagining that she would easily be persuaded to yield what was already lost. He, therefore, ordered his minister to declare, at Vienna, "that he was ready to guarantee all the German dominions of the house of Austria; that he would conclude a treaty with Austria, Russia, and the maritime powers; that he would endeavour that the duke of Lorrain should be elected emperour, and believed that he could accomplish it; that he would immediately advance to the queen two millions of florins; that, in recompense for all this, he required Silesia to be yielded to him." These seem not to be the offers of a prince very much convinced of his own right. He afterwards moderated his claim, and ordered his minister to hint at Vienna, that half of Silesia would content him. The queen answered, that though the king alleged, as his reason for entering Silesia, the danger of the Austrian territories from other pretenders, and endeavoured to persuade her to give up part of her possessions for the preservation of the rest, it was evident that he was the first and only invader, and that, till he entered in a hostile manner, all her estates were unmolested. To his promises of assistance she replied, "that she set a high value on the king of Prussia's friendship; but that he was already obliged to assist her against her invaders, both by the golden bull, and the pragmatick sanction, of which he was a guarantee, and that, if these ties were of no force she knew not what to hope from other engagements." Of his offers of alliances with Russia and the maritime powers, she observed, that it could be never fit to alienate her dominions for the consolidation of an alliance formed only to keep them entire. With regard to his interest in the election of an emperour, she expressed her gratitude in strong terms; but added, that the election ought to be free, and that it must be necessarily embarrassed by contentions thus raised in the heart of the empire. Of the pecuniary assistance proposed, she remarks, that no prince ever made war to oblige another to take money, and that the contributions already levied in Silesia exceed the two millions, offered as its purchase. She concluded, that as she values the king's friendship, she was willing to purchase it by any compliance but the diminution of her dominions, and exhorted him to perform his part in support of the pragmatick sanction. The king, finding negotiation thus ineffectual, pushed forward his inroads, and now began to show how secretly he could take his measures. When he called a council of war, he proposed the question in a few words: all his generals wrote their opinions in his presence upon separate papers, which he carried away, and, examining them in private, formed his resolution, without imparting it otherwise than by his orders. He began not without policy, to seize first upon the estates of the clergy, an order every where necessary, and every where envied. He plundered the convents of their stores of provision; and told them, that he never had heard of any magazines erected by the apostles. This insult was mean, because it was unjust; but those who could not resist were obliged to bear it. He proceeded in his expedition; and a detachment of his troops took Jablunca, one of the strong places of Silesia, which was soon after abandoned, for want of provisions, which the Austrian hussars, who were now in motion, were busy to interrupt. One of the most remarkable events of the Silesia war, was the conquest of great Glogau, which was taken by an assault in the dark, headed by prince Leopold of Anhalt Dessau. They arrived at the foot of the fortifications about twelve at night, and in two hours were masters of the place. In attempts of this kind many accidents happen which cannot be heard without surprise. Four Prussian grenadiers, who had climbed the ramparts, missing their own company, met an Austrian captain with fifty-two men: they were at first frighted, and were about to retreat; but, gathering courage, commanded the Austrians to lay down their arms, and in the terrour of darkness and confusion were unexpectedly obeyed. At the same time a conspiracy to kill or carry away the king of Prussia, was said to be discovered. The Prussians published a memorial, in which the Austrian court was accused of employing emissaries and assassins against the king; and it was alleged, in direct terms, that one of them had confessed himself obliged, by oath, to destroy him, which oath had been given him in an Aulick council, in the presence of the duke of Lorrain. To this the Austrians answered, "that the character of the queen and duke was too well known not to destroy the force of such an accusation; that the tale of the confession was an imposture, and that no such attempt was ever made." Each party was now inflamed, and orders were given to the Austrian general to hazard a battle. The two armies met at Molwitz, and parted without a complete victory on either side. The Austrians quitted the field in good order; and the king of Prussia rode away upon the first disorder of his troops, without waiting for the last event. This attention to his personal safety has not yet been forgotten. After this, there was no action of much importance. But the king of Prussia, irritated by opposition, transferred his interest in the election to the duke of Bavaria; and the queen of Hungary, now attacked by France, Spain, and Bavaria, was obliged to make peace with him at the expense of half Silesia, without procuring those advantages which were once offered her. To enlarge dominions has been the boast of many princes; to diffuse happiness and security through wide regions has been granted to few. The king of Prussia has aspired to both these honours, and endeavoured to join the praise of legislator to that of conqueror. To settle property, to suppress false claims, and to regulate the administration of civil and criminal justice are attempts so difficult and so useful, that I shall willingly suspend or contract the history of battles and sieges, to give a larger account of this pacifick enterprise. That the king of Prussia has considered the nature and the reasons of laws, with more attention than is common to princes, appears from his dissertation on the Reasons for enacting and repealing Laws: a piece which yet deserves notice, rather as a proof of good inclination than of great ability; for there is nothing to be found in it more than the most obvious books may supply, or the weakest intellect discover. Some of his observations are just and useful; but upon such a subject who can think without often thinking right? It is, however, not to be omitted, that he appears always propense towards the side of mercy. "If a poor man," says he, "steals in his want a watch, or a few pieces, from one to whom the loss is inconsiderable, is this a reason for condemning him to death?" He regrets that the laws against duels have been ineffectual; and is of opinion, that they can never attain their end, unless the princes of Europe shall agree not to afford an asylum to duellists, and to punish all who shall insult their equals, either by word, deed, or writing. He seems to suspect this scheme of being chimerical. "Yet why," says he, "should not personal quarrels be submitted to judges, as well as questions of possession? and why should not a congress be appointed for the general good of mankind, as well as for so many purposes of less importance?" He declares himself with great ardour against the use of torture, and by some misinformation charges the English that they still retain it. It is, perhaps, impossible to review the laws of any country without discovering many defects and many superfluities. Laws often continue, when their reasons have ceased. Laws made for the first state of the society continue unabolished, when the general form of life is changed. Parts of the judicial procedure, which were, at first, only accidental, become, in time, essential; and formalities are accumulated on each other, till the art of litigation requires more study than the discovery of right. The king of Prussia, examining the institutions of his own country, thought them such as could only be amended by a general abrogation, and the establishment of a new body of law, to which he gave the name of the Code Frédérique, which is comprised in one volume of no great bulk, and must, therefore, unavoidably contain general positions to be accommodated to particular cases by the wisdom and integrity of the courts. To embarrass justice by multiplicity of laws, or to hazard it by confidence in judges, seem to be the opposite rocks on which all civil institutions have been wrecked, and between which legislative wisdom has never yet found an open passage. Of this new system of laws, contracted as it is, a full account cannot be expected in these memoirs; but, that curiosity may not be dismissed without some gratification, it has been thought proper to epitomise the king's plan for the reformation of his courts. "The differences which arise between members of the same society, may be terminated by a voluntary agreement between the parties, by arbitration, or by a judicial process. "The two first methods produce, more frequently, a temporary suspension of disputes than a final termination. Courts of justice are, therefore, necessary, with a settled method of procedure, of which the most simple is to cite the parties, to hear their pleas, and dismiss them with immediate decision. "This, however, is, in many cases, impracticable, and in others is so seldom practised, that it is frequent rather to incur loss than to seek for legal reparation, by entering a labyrinth of which there is no end. "This tediousness of suits keeps the parties in disquiet and perturbation, rouses and perpetuates animosities, exhausts the litigants by expense, retards the progress of their fortune, and discourages strangers from settling. "These inconveniencies, with which the best-regulated polities of Europe are embarrassed, must be removed, not by the total prohibition of suits, which is impossible, but by contraction of processes; by opening an easy way for the appearance of truth, and removing all obstructions by which it is concealed. "The ordonnance of 1667, by which Lewis the fourteenth established an uniformity of procedure through all his courts, has been considered as one of the greatest benefits of his reign. "The king of Prussia, observing that each of his provinces had a different method of judicial procedure, proposed to reduce them all to one form; which being tried with success in Pomerania, a province remarkable for contention, he afterwards extended to all his dominions, ordering the judges to inform him of any difficulties which arose from it. "Some settled method is necessary in judicial procedures. Small and simple causes might be decided upon the oral pleas of the two parties appearing before the judge; but many cases are so entangled and perplexed as to require all the skill and abilities of those who devote their lives to the study of the law. "Advocates, or men who can understand and explain the question to be discussed, are, therefore, necessary. But these men, instead of endeavouring to promote justice and discover truth, have exerted their wits in the defence of bad causes, by forgeries of facts, and fallacies of argument. "To remedy this evil, the king has ordered an inquiry into the qualifications of the advocate. All those who practise without a regular admission, or who can be convicted of disingenuous practice, are discarded. And the judges are commanded to examine which of the causes now depending have been protracted by the crimes and ignorance of the advocates, and to dismiss those who shall appear culpable. "When advocates are too numerous to live by honest practice, they busy themselves in exciting disputes, and disturbing the community: the number of these to be employed in each court is, therefore, fixed. "The reward of the advocates is fixed with due regard to the nature of the cause, and the labour required; but not a penny is received by them till the suit is ended, that it may be their interest, as well as that of the clients, to shorten the process. "No advocate is admitted in petty courts, small towns, or villages; where the poverty of the people, and, for the most part, the low value of the matter contested, make despatch absolutely necessary. In those places the parties shall appear in person, and the judge make a summary decision. "There must, likewise, be allowed a subordination of tribunals, and a power of appeal. No judge is so skilful and attentive as not sometimes to err. Few are so honest as not sometimes to be partial. Petty judges would become insupportably tyrannical if they were not restrained by the fear of a superiour judicature; and their decisions would be negligent or arbitrary if they were not in danger of seeing them examined and cancelled. "The right of appeal must be restrained, that causes may not be transferred without end from court to court; and a peremptory decision must, at last, be made. "When an appeal is made to a higher court, the appellant is allowed only four weeks to frame his bill, the judge of the lower court being to transmit to the higher all the evidences and informations. If, upon the first view of the cause thus opened, it shall appear that the appeal was made without just cause, the first sentence shall be confirmed without citation of the defendant. If any new evidence shall appear, or any doubts arise, both the parties shall be heard. "In the discussion of causes altercation must be allowed; yet to altercation some limits must be put. There are, therefore, allowed a bill, an answer, a reply, and a rejoinder, to be delivered in writing. "No cause is allowed to be heard in more than three different courts. To further the first decision, every advocate is enjoined, under severe penalties, not to begin a suit till he has collected all the necessary evidence. If the first court has decided in an unsatisfactory manner, an appeal may be made to the second, and from the second to the third. The process in each appeal is limited to six months. The third court may, indeed, pass an erroneous judgment; and then the injury is without redress. But this objection is without end, and, therefore, without force. No method can be found of preserving humanity from errour; but of contest there must sometime be an end; and he, who thinks himself injured for want of an appeal to a fourth court, must consider himself as suffering for the publick. "There is a special advocate appointed for the poor. "The attorneys, who had formerly the care of collecting evidence, and of adjusting all the preliminaries of a suit, are now totally dismissed; the whole affair is put into the hands of the advocates, and the office of an attorney is annulled for ever. "If any man is hindered by some lawful impediment from attending his suit, time will be granted him upon the representation of his case." Such is the order according to which civil justice is administered through the extensive dominions of the king of Prussia; which, if it exhibits nothing very subtle or profound, affords one proof more that the right is easily discovered, and that men do not so often want ability to find, as willingness to practise it. We now return to the war. The time at which the queen of Hungary was willing to purchase peace by the resignation of Silesia, though it came at last, was not come yet. She had all the spirit, though not all the power of her ancestors, and could not bear the thought of losing any part of her patrimonial dominions to the enemies which the opinion of her weakness raised every where against her. In the beginning of the year 1742, the elector of Bavaria was invested with the imperial dignity, supported by the arms of France, master of the kingdom of Bohemia; and confederated with the elector Palatine, and the elector of Saxony, who claimed Moravia; and with the king of Prussia, who was in possession of Silesia. Such was the state of the queen of Hungary, pressed on every side, and on every side preparing for resistance: she yet refused all offers of accommodation, for every prince set peace at a price which she was not yet so far humbled as to pay. The king of Prussia was among the most zealous and forward in the confederacy against her. He promised to secure Bohemia to the emperour, and Moravia to the elector of Saxony; and, finding no enemy in the field able to resist him, he returned to Berlin, and left Schwerin, his general, to prosecute the conquest. The Prussians, in the midst of winter, took Olmutz, the capital of Moravia, and laid the whole country under contribution. The cold then hindered them from action, and they only blocked up the fortresses of Brinn, and Spielberg. In the spring, the king of Prussia came again into the field, and undertook the siege of Brinn; but, upon the approach of prince Charles of Lorrain, retired from before it, and quitted Moravia, leaving only a garrison in the capital. The condition of the queen of Hungary was now changed. She was, a few months before, without money, without troops, encircled with enemies. The Bavarians had entered Austria, Vienna was threatened with a siege, and the queen left it to the fate of war, and retired into Hungary, where she was received with zeal and affection, not unmingled, however, with that neglect which must always be borne by greatness in distress. She bore the disrespect of her subjects with the same firmness as the outrages of her enemies; and, at last, persuaded the English not to despair of her preservation, by not despairing herself. Voltaire, in his late history, has asserted, that a large sum was raised for her succour, by voluntary subscriptions of the English ladies. It is the great failing of a strong imagination to catch greedily at wonders. He was misinformed, and was, perhaps, unwilling to learn, by a second inquiry, a truth less splendid and amusing. A contribution was, by news-writers, upon their own authority, fruitlessly, and, I think, illegally proposed. It ended in nothing. The parliament voted a supply, and five hundred thousand pounds were remitted to her. It has been always the weakness of the Austrian family to spend in the magnificence of empire, those revenues which should be kept for its defence. The court is splendid, but the treasury is empty; and, at the beginning of every war, advantages are gained against them, before their armies can be assembled and equipped. The English money was to the Austrians, as a shower to a field, where all the vegetative powers are kept unactive by a long continuance of drought. The armies, which had hitherto been hid in mountains and forests, started out of their retreats; and, wherever the queen's standard was erected, nations scarcely known by their names, swarmed immediately about it. An army, especially a defensive army, multiplies itself. The contagion of enterprise spreads from one heart to another. Zeal for a native, or detestation of a foreign sovereign, hope of sudden greatness or riches, friendship or emulation between particular men, or, what are perhaps more general and powerful, desire of novelty and impatience of inactivity, fill a camp with adventurers, add rank to rank, and squadron to squadron. The queen had still enemies on every part, but she now, on every part, had armies ready to oppose them. Austria was immediately recovered; the plains of Bohemia were filled with her troops, though the fortresses were garrisoned by the French. The Bavarians were recalled to the defence of their own country, now wasted by the incursions of troops that were called barbarians, greedy enough of plunder, and daring, perhaps, beyond the rules of war, but otherwise not more cruel than those whom they attacked. Prince Lobkowitz, with one army, observed the motions of Broglio, the French general, in Bohemia; and prince Charles with another, put a stop to the advances of the king of Prussia. It was now the turn of the Prussians to retire. They abandoned Olmutz, and left behind them part of their cannon and their magazines. And the king, finding that Broglio could not long oppose prince Lobkowitz, hastened into Bohemia to his assistance; and having received a reinforcement of twenty-three thousand men, and taken the castle of Glatz, which, being built upon a rock scarcely accessible, would have defied all his power, had the garrison been furnished with provisions, he purposed to join his allies, and prosecute his conquests. Prince Charles, seeing Moravia thus evacuated by the Prussians, determined to garrison the towns which he had just recovered, and pursue the enemy, who, by the assistance of the French, would have been too powerful for prince Lobkowitz. Success had now given confidence to the Austrians, and had proportionably abated the spirit of their enemies. The Saxons, who had cooperated with the king of Prussia in the conquest of Moravia, of which they expected the perpetual possession, seeing all hopes of sudden acquisition defeated, and the province left again to its former masters, grew weary of following a prince, whom they considered as no longer acting the part of their confederate; and when they approached the confines of Bohemia took a different road, and left the Prussians to their own fortune. The king continued his march, and Charles his pursuit. At Czaslau the two armies came in sight of one another, and the Austrians resolved on a decisive day. On the 6th of May, about seven in the morning, the Austrians began the attack: their impetuosity was matched by the firmness of the Prussians. The animosity of the two armies was much inflamed: the Austrians were fighting for their country, and the Prussians were in a place, where defeat must inevitably end in death or captivity. The fury of the battle continued four hours: the Prussian horse were, at length, broken, and the Austrians forced their way to the camp, where the wild troops, who had fought with so much vigour and constancy, at the sight of plunder forgot their obedience, nor had any man the least thought but how to load himself with the richest spoils. While the right wing of the Austrians was thus employed, the main body was left naked: the Prussians recovered from their confusion, and regained the day. Charles was, at last, forced to retire, and carried with him the standards of his enemies, the proofs of a victory, which, though so nearly gained, he had not been able to keep. The victory, however, was dearly bought; the Prussian army was much weakened, and the cavalry almost totally destroyed. Peace is easily made when it is necessary to both parties; and the king of Prussia had now reason to believe that the Austrians were not his only enemies. When he found Charles advancing, he sent to Broglio for assistance, and was answered, that "he must have orders from Versailles." Such a desertion of his most powerful ally disconcerted him, but the battle was unavoidable. When the Prussians were returned to the camp, the king, hearing that an Austrian officer was brought in mortally wounded, had the condescension to visit him. The officer, struck with this act of humanity, said, after a short conversation: "I should die, sir, contentedly after this honour, if I might first show my gratitude to your majesty by informing you with what allies you are now united, allies that have no intention but to deceive you." The king appearing to suspect this intelligence; "Sir," said the Austrian, "if you will permit me to send a messenger to Vienna, I believe the queen will not refuse to transmit an intercepted letter now in her hands, which will put my report beyond all doubt." The messenger was sent, and the letter transmitted, which contained the order sent to Broglio, who was, first, forbidden to mix his troops on any occasion with the Prussians. Secondly, he was ordered to act always at a distance from the king. Thirdly, to keep always a body of twenty thousand men to observe the Prussian army. Fourthly, to observe very closely the motions of the king, for important reasons. Fifthly, to hazard nothing; but to pretend want of reinforcements, or the absence of Bellisle. The king now, with great reason, considered himself as disengaged from the confederacy, being deserted by the Saxons, and betrayed by the French; he, therefore, accepted the mediation of king George, and, in three weeks after the battle of Czaslaw, made peace with the queen of Hungary, who granted to him the whole province of Silesia, a country of such extent and opulence, that he is said to receive from it one third part of his revenues. By one of the articles of this treaty it is stipulated, "that neither should assist the enemies of the other." The queen of Hungary, thus disentangled on one side, and set free from the most formidable of her enemies, soon persuaded the Saxons to peace; took possession of Bavaria; drove the emperour, after all his imaginary conquests, to the shelter of a neutral town, where he was treated as a fugitive; and besieged the French in Prague, in the city which they had taken from her. Having thus obtained Silesia, the king of Prussia returned to his own capital, where he reformed his laws, forbade the torture of criminals, concluded a defensive alliance with England, and applied himself to the augmentation of his army. This treaty of peace with the queen of Hungary was one of the first proofs given by the king of Prussia, of the secrecy of his counsels. Bellisle, the French general, was with him in the camp, as a friend and coadjutor in appearance, but in truth a spy, and a writer of intelligence. Men who have great confidence in their own penetration are often by that confidence deceived; they imagine that they can pierce through all the involutions of intrigue, without the diligence necessary to weaker minds, and, therefore, sit idle and secure; they believe that none can hope to deceive them, and, therefore, that none will try. Bellisle, with all his reputation of sagacity, though he was in the Prussian camp, gave, every day, fresh assurances of the king's adherence to his allies; while Broglio, who commanded the army at a distance, discovered sufficient reason to suspect his desertion. Broglio was slighted, and Bellisle believed, till, on the 11th of June, the treaty was signed, and the king declared his resolution to keep a neutrality. This is one of the great performances of polity which mankind seem agreed to celebrate and admire; yet, to all this nothing was necessary but the determination of a very few men to be silent. From this time the queen of Hungary proceeded with an uninterrupted torrent of success. The French, driven from station to station, and deprived of fortress after fortress, were, at last, enclosed with their two generals, Bellisle and Broglio, in the walls of Prague, which they had stored with all provisions necessary to a town besieged, and where they defended themselves three months before any prospect appeared of relief. The Austrians, having been engaged chiefly in the field, and in sudden and tumultuary excursions, rather than a regular war, had no great degree of skill in attacking or defending towns. They, likewise, would naturally consider all the mischiefs done to the city, as falling, ultimately, upon themselves; and, therefore, were willing to gain it by time rather than by force. It was apparent that, how long soever Prague might be defended, it must be yielded at last, and, therefore, all arts were tried to obtain an honourable capitulation. The messengers from the city were sent back, sometimes unheard, but always with this answer: "That no terms would be allowed, but that they should yield themselves prisoners of war." The condition of the garrison was, in the eyes of all Europe, desperate; but the French, to whom the praise of spirit and activity cannot be denied, resolved to make an effort for the honour of their arms. Maillebois was at that time encamped with his army in Westphalia. Orders were sent him to relieve Prague. The enterprise was considered as romantick. Maillebois was a march of forty days distant from Bohemia, the passes were narrow, and the ways foul; and it was likely that Prague would be taken before he could reach it. The march was, however, begun: the army, being joined by that of count Saxe, consisted of fifty thousand men, who, notwithstanding all the difficulties which two Austrian armies could put in their way, at last entered Bohemia. The siege of Prague, though not raised, was remitted, and a communication was now opened to it with the country. But the Austrians, by perpetual intervention, hindered the garrison from joining their friends. The officers of Maillebois incited him to a battle, because the army was hourly lessening by the want of provisions; but, instead of pressing on to Prague, he retired into Bavaria, and completed the ruin of the emperour's territories. The court of France, disappointed and offended, conferred the chief command upon Broglio, who escaped from the besiegers with very little difficulty, and kept the Austrians employed till Bellisle, by a sudden sally, quitted Prague, and without any great loss joined the main army. Broglio then retired over the Rhine into the French dominions, wasting, in his retreat, the country which he had undertaken to protect, and burning towns, and destroying magazines of corn, with such wantonness, as gave reason to believe that he expected commendation from his court for any mischiefs done, by whatever means. The Austrians pursued their advantages, recovered all their strong places, in some of which French garrisons had been left, and made themselves masters of Bavaria, by taking not only Munich, the capital, but Ingolstadt, the strongest fortification in the elector's dominions, where they found a great number of cannon and a quantity of ammunition, intended, in the dreams of projected greatness, for the siege of Vienna, all the archives of the state, the plate and ornaments of the electoral palace, and what had been considered as most worthy of preservation. Nothing but the warlike stores were taken away. An oath of allegiance to the queen was required of the Bavarians, but without any explanation, whether temporary or perpetual. The emperour lived at Frankfort, in the security that was allowed to neutral places, but without much respect from the German princes, except that, upon some objections made by the queen to the validity of his election, the king of Prussia declared himself determined to support him in the imperial dignity, with all his power. This may be considered as a token of no great affection to the queen of Hungary, but it seems not to have raised much alarm. The German princes were afraid of new broils. To contest the election of an emperour, once invested and acknowledged, would be to overthrow the whole Germanick constitution. Perhaps no election by plurality of suffrages was ever made among human beings, to which it might not be objected, that voices were procured by illicit influence. Some suspicions, however, were raised by the king's declaration, which he endeavoured to obviate by ordering his ministers to declare at London and at Vienna, that he was resolved not to violate the treaty of Breslaw. This declaration was sufficiently ambiguous, and could not satisfy those whom it might silence. But this was not a time for nice disquisitions; to distrust the king of Prussia might have provoked him, and it was most convenient to consider him as a friend, till he appeared openly as an enemy. About the middle of the year 1744, he raised new alarms by collecting his troops and putting them in motion. The earl of Hindford about this time demanded the troops stipulated for the protection of Hanover; not, perhaps, because they were thought necessary, but that the king's designs might be guessed from his answer, which was, that troops were not granted for the defence of any country till that country was in danger, and that he could not believe the elector of Hanover to be in much dread of an invasion, since he had withdrawn the native troops, and put them into the pay of England. He had, undoubtedly, now formed designs which made it necessary that his troops should be kept together, and the time soon came when the scene was to be opened. Prince Charles of Lorrain, having chased the French out of Bavaria, lay, for some months, encamped on the Rhine, endeavouring to gain a passage into Alsace. His attempts had long been evaded by the skill and vigilance of the French general, till, at last, June 21, 1744, he executed his design, and lodged his army in the French dominions, to the surprise and joy of a great part of Europe. It was now expected that the territories of France would, in their turn, feel the miseries of war; and the nation, which so long kept the world in alarm, be taught, at last, the value of peace. The king of Prussia now saw the Austrian troops at a great distance from him, engaged in a foreign country against the most powerful of all their enemies. Now, therefore, was the time to discover that he had lately made a treaty at Frankfort with the emperour, by which he had engaged, "that as the court of Vienna and its allies appeared backward to reestablish the tranquillity of the empire, and more cogent methods appeared necessary; he, being animated with a desire of cooperating towards the pacification of Germany, should make an expedition for the conquest of Bohemia, and to put it into the possession of the emperour, his heirs and successours, for ever; in gratitude for which the emperour should resign to him and his successours a certain number of lordships, which are now part of the kingdom of Bohemia. His imperial majesty likewise guaranties to the king of Prussia the perpetual possession of upper Silesia; and the king guaranties to the emperour the perpetual possession of upper Austria, as soon as he shall have occupied it by conquest." It is easy to discover that the king began the war upon other motives than zeal for peace; and that, whatever respect he was willing to show to the emperour, he did not purpose to assist him without reward. In prosecution of this treaty he put his troops in motion; and, according to his promise, while the Austrians were invading France, he invaded Bohemia. Princes have this remaining of humanity, that they think themselves obliged not to make war without a reason. Their reasons are, indeed, not always very satisfactory. Lewis the fourteenth seemed to think his own glory a sufficient motive for the invasion of Holland. The czar attacked Charles of Sweden, because he had not been treated with sufficient respect when he made a journey in disguise. The king of Prussia, having an opportunity of attacking his neighbour, was not long without his reasons. On July 30th, he published his declaration, in which he declares: "That he can no longer stand an idle spectator of the troubles in Germany, but finds himself obliged to make use of force to restore the power of the laws, and the authority of the emperour. "That the queen of Hungary has treated the emperour's hereditary dominions with inexpressible cruelty. "That Germany has been overrun with foreign troops which have marched through neutral countries without the customary requisitions. "That the emperour's troops have been attacked under neutral fortresses, and obliged to abandon the empire, of which their master is the head. "That the imperial dignity has been treated with indecency by the Hungarian troops. "The queen, declaring the election of the emperour void, and the diet of Frankfort illegal, had not only violated the imperial dignity, but injured all the princes who have the right of election. "That he had no particular quarrel with the queen of Hungary; and that he desires nothing for himself, and only enters as an auxiliary into a war for the liberties of Germany. "That the emperour had offered to quit his pretension to the dominions of Austria, on condition that his hereditary countries be restored to him. "That this proposal had been made to the king of England at Hanau, and rejected in such a manner as showed, that the king of England had no intention to restore peace, but rather to make his advantage of the troubles. "That the mediation of the Dutch had been desired; but that they declined to interpose, knowing the inflexibility of the English and Austrian courts. "That the same terms were again offered at Vienna, and again rejected; that, therefore, the queen must impute it to her own councils, that her enemies find new allies. "That he is not fighting for any interest of his own, that he demands nothing for himself; but is determined to exert all his powers in defence of the emperour, in vindication of the right of election, and in support of the liberties of Germany, which the queen of Hungary would enslave." When this declaration was sent to the Prussian minister in England, it was accompanied with a remonstrance to the king, in which many of the foregoing positions were repeated; the emperour's candour and disinterestedness were magnified; the dangerous designs of the Austrians were displayed; it was imputed to them, as the most flagrant violation of the Germanick constitution, that they had driven the emperour's troops out of the empire; the publick spirit and generosity of his Prussian majesty were again heartily declared; and it was said, that this quarrel having no connexion with English interests, the English ought not to interpose. Austria and all her allies were put into amazement by this declaration, which, at once, dismounted them from the summit of success, and obliged them to fight through the war a second time. What succours, or what promises, Prussia received from France, was never publickly known; but it is not to be doubted that a prince, so watchful of opportunity, sold assistance, when it was so much wanted, at the highest rate; nor can it be supposed that he exposed himself to so much hazard only for the freedom of Germany, and a few petty districts in Bohemia. The French, who, from ravaging the empire at discretion, and wasting whatever they found either among enemies or friends, were now driven into their own dominions, and, in their own dominions, were insulted and pursued, were, on a sudden, by this new auxiliary, restored to their former superiority, at least were disburdened of their invaders, and delivered from their terrours. And all the enemies of the house of Bourbon saw, with indignation and amazement, the recovery of that power which they had, with so much cost and bloodshed, brought low, and which their animosity and elation had disposed them to imagine yet lower than it was. The queen of Hungary still retained her firmness. The Prussian declaration was not long without an answer, which was transmitted to the European princes, with some observations on the Prussian minister's remonstrance to the court of Vienna, which he was ordered by his master to read to the Austrian council, but not to deliver. The same caution was practised before, when the Prussians, after the emperour's death, invaded Silesia. This artifice of political debate may, perhaps, be numbered by the admirers of greatness among the refinements of conduct; but, as it is a method of proceeding not very difficult to be contrived or practised, as it can be of very rare use to honesty or wisdom, and as it has been long known to that class of men whose safety depends upon secrecy, though hitherto applied chiefly in petty cheats and slight transactions; I do not see that it can much advance the reputation of regal understanding, or, indeed, that it can add more to the safety, than it takes away from the honour of him that shall adopt it. The queen, in her answer, after charging the king of Prussia with breach of the treaty of Breslaw, and observing how much her enemies will exult to see the peace now the third time broken by him, declares: "That she had no intention to injure the rights of the electors, and that she calls in question not the event, but the manner of the election. "That she had spared the emperour's troops with great tenderness, and that they were driven out of the empire, only because they were in the service of France. "That she is so far from disturbing the peace of the empire, that the only commotions now raised in it are the effect of the armaments of the king of Prussia." Nothing is more tedious than publick records, when they relate to affairs which, by distance of time or place, lose their power to interest the reader. Every thing grows little, as it grows remote; and of things thus diminished, it is sufficient to survey the aggregate without a minute examination of the parts. It is easy to perceive, that, if the king of Prussia's reasons be sufficient, ambition or animosity can never want a plea for violence and invasion. What he charges upon the queen of Hungary, the waste of country, the expulsion of the Bavarians, and the employment of foreign troops, is the unavoidable consequence of a war inflamed on either side to the utmost violence. All these grievances subsisted when he made the peace, and, therefore, they could very little justify its breach. It is true, that every prince of the empire is obliged to support the imperial dignity, and assist the emperour, when his rights are violated. And every subsequent contract must be understood in a sense consistent with former obligations. Nor had the king power to make a peace on terms contrary to that constitution by which he held a place among the Germanick electors. But he could have easily discovered, that not the emperour, but the duke of Bavaria, was the queen's enemy; not the administrator of the imperial power, but the claimant of the Austrian dominions. Nor did his allegiance to the emperour, supposing the emperour injured, oblige him to more than a succour of ten thousand men. But ten thousand men could not conquer Bohemia, and without the conquest of Bohemia he could receive no reward for the zeal and fidelity which he so loudly professed. The success of this enterprise he had taken all possible precaution to secure. He was to invade a country guarded only by the faith of treaties, and, therefore, left unarmed, and unprovided of all defence. He had engaged the French to attack prince Charles, before he should repass the Rhine, by which the Austrians would, at least, have been hindered from a speedy march into Bohemia: they were, likewise, to yield him such other assistance as he might want. Relying, therefore, upon the promises of the French, he resolved to attempt the ruin of the house of Austria, and, in August, 1744, broke into Bohemia, at the head of a hundred and four thousand men. When he entered the country, he published a proclamation, promising, that his army should observe the strictest discipline, and that those who made no resistance should be suffered to remain in quiet in their habitations. He required that all arms, in the custody of whomsoever they might be placed, should be given up, and put into the hands of publick officers. He still declared himself to act only as an auxiliary to the emperour, and with no other design than to establish peace and tranquillity throughout Germany, his dear country. In this proclamation there is one paragraph, of which I do not remember any precedent. He threatens, that, if any peasant should be found with arms, he shall be hanged without further inquiry; and that, if any lord shall connive at his vassals keeping arms in their custody, his village shall be reduced to ashes. It is hard to find upon what pretence the king of Prussia could treat the Bohemians as criminals, for preparing to defend their native country, or maintaining their allegiance to their lawful sovereign against an invader, whether he appears principal or auxiliary, whether he professes to intend tranquillity or confusion. His progress was such as gave great hopes to the enemies of Austria: like Caesar, he conquered as he advanced, and met with no opposition, till he reached the walls of Prague. The indignation and resentment of the queen of Hungary may be easily conceived; the alliance of Frankfort was now laid open to all Europe; and the partition of the Austrian dominions was again publickly projected. They were to be shared among the emperour, the king of Prussia, the elector Palatine, and the landgrave of Hesse. All the powers of Europe who had dreamed of controlling France, were awakened to their former terrours; all that had been done was now to be done again; and every court, from the straits of Gibraltar to the Frozen sea, was filled with exultation or terrour, with schemes of conquest, or precautions for defence. The king, delighted with his progress, and expecting, like other mortals elated with success, that his prosperity could not be interrupted, continued his march, and began, in the latter end of September, the siege of Prague. He had gained several of the outer posts, when he was informed that the convoy, which attended his artillery, was attacked by an unexpected party of the Austrians. The king went immediately to their assistance, with the third part of his army, and found his troops put to flight, and the Austrians hasting away with his cannons: such a loss would have disabled him at once. He fell upon the Austrians, whose number would not enable them to withstand him, recovered his artillery, and, having also defeated Bathiani, raised his batteries; and, there being no artillery to be placed against him, he destroyed a great part of the city. He then ordered four attacks to be made at once, and reduced the besieged to such extremities, that in fourteen days the governour was obliged to yield the place. At the attack, commanded by Schwerin, a grenadier is reported to have mounted the bastion alone, and to have defended himself, for some time, with his sword, till his followers mounted after him; for this act of bravery, the king made him a lieutenant, and gave him a patent of nobility. Nothing now remained but that the Austrians should lay aside all thought of invading France, and apply their whole power to their own defence. Prince Charles, at the first news of the Prussian invasion, prepared to repass the Rhine. This the French, according to their contract with the king of Prussia, should have attempted to hinder; but they knew, by experience, the Austrians would not be beaten without resistance, and that resistance always incommodes an assailant. As the king of Prussia rejoiced in the distance of the Austrians, whom he considered as entangled in the French territories; the French rejoiced in the necessity of their return, and pleased themselves with the prospect of easy conquests, while powers, whom they considered with equal malevolence, should be employed in massacring each other. Prince Charles took the opportunity of bright moonshine to repass the Rhine; and Noailles, who had early intelligence of his motions, gave him very little disturbance, but contented himself with attacking the rearguard, and, when they retired to the main body, ceased his pursuit. The king, upon the reduction of Prague, struck a medal, which had on one side a plan of the town, with this inscription: "Prague taken by the king of Prussia, September 16, 1744; For the third time in three years." On the other side were two verses, in which he prayed, "that his conquests might produce peace." He then marched forward with the rapidity which constitutes his military character; took possession of almost all Bohemia, and began to talk of entering Austria and besieging Vienna. The queen was not yet wholly without resource. The elector of Saxony, whether invited or not, was not comprised in the union of Frankfort; and, as every sovereign is growing less as his next neighbour is growing greater, he could not heartily wish success to a confederacy which was to aggrandize the other powers of Germany. The Prussians gave him, likewise, a particular and immediate provocation to oppose them; for, when they departed to the conquest of Bohemia, with all the elation of imaginary success, they passed through his dominions with unlicensed and contemptuous disdain of his authority. As the approach of prince Charles gave a new prospect of events, he was easily persuaded to enter into an alliance with the queen, whom he furnished with a very large body of troops. The king of Prussia having left a garrison in Prague, which he commanded to put the burghers to death, if they left their houses in the night, went forward to take the other towns and fortresses, expecting, perhaps, that prince Charles would be interrupted in his march; but the French, though they appeared to follow him, either could not, or would not, overtake him. In a short time, by marches pressed on with the utmost eagerness, Charles reached Bohemia, leaving the Bavarians to regain the possession of the wasted plains of their country, which their enemies, who still kept the strong places, might again seize at will. At the approach of the Austrian army, the courage of the king of Prussia seemed to have failed him. He retired from post to post, and evacuated town after town, and fortress after fortress, without resistance, or appearance of resistance, as if he was resigning them to the rightful owners. It might have been expected, that he should have made some effort to rescue Prague; but, after a faint attempt to dispute the passage of the Elbe, he ordered his garrison of eleven thousand men to quit the place. They left behind them their magazines and heavy artillery, among which were seven pieces of remarkable excellence, called "the seven electors." But they took with them their field cannon, and a great number of carriages, laden with stores and plunder, which they were forced to leave, in their way, to the Saxons and Austrians that harassed their march. They, at last, entered Silesia, with the loss of about a third part. The king of Prussia suffered much in his retreat; for, besides the military stores, which he left every where behind him, even to the clothes of his troops, there was a want of provisions in his army, and, consequently, frequent desertions and many diseases; and a soldier sick or killed was equally lost to a flying army. At last he reentered his own territories, and, having stationed his troops in places of security, returned, for a time, to Berlin, where he forbade all to speak either ill or well of the campaign. To what end such a prohibition could conduce, it is difficult to discover: there is no country in which men can be forbidden to know what they know, and what is universally known may as well be spoken. It is true, that in popular governments seditious discourses may inflame the vulgar; but in such governments they cannot be restrained, and in absolute monarchies they are of little effect. When the Prussians invaded Bohemia, and this whole nation was fired with resentment, the king of England gave orders in his palace, that none should mention his nephew with disrespect; by this command he maintained the decency necessary between princes, without enforcing, and, probably, without expecting obedience, but in his own presence. The king of Prussia's edict regarded only himself, and, therefore, it is difficult to tell what was his motive, unless he intended to spare himself the mortification of absurd and illiberal flattery, which, to a mind stung with disgrace, must have been in the highest degree painful and disgusting. Moderation in prosperity is a virtue very difficult to all mortals; forbearance of revenge, when revenge is within reach, is scarcely ever to be found among princes. Now was the time when the queen of Hungary might, perhaps, have made peace on her own terms; but keenness of resentment, and arrogance of success, withheld her from the due use of the present opportunity. It is said, that the king of Prussia, in his retreat, sent letters to prince Charles, which were supposed to contain ample concessions, but were sent back unopened. The king of England offered, likewise, to mediate between them; but his propositions were rejected at Vienna, where a resolution was taken, not only to revenge the interruption of their success on the Rhine, by the recovery of Silesia, but to reward the Saxons for their seasonable help, by giving them part of the Prussian dominions. In the beginning of the year 1745, died the emperour Charles of Bavaria; the treaty of Frankfort was consequently at an end; and the king of Prussia, being no longer able to maintain the character of auxiliary to the emperour, and having avowed no other reason for the war, might have honourably withdrawn his forces, and, on his own principles, have complied with terms of peace; but no terms were offered him; the queen pursued him with the utmost ardour of hostility, and the French left him to his own conduct and his own destiny. His Bohemian conquests were already lost; and he was now chased back into Silesia, where, at the beginning of the year, the war continued in an equilibration by alternate losses and advantages. In April, the elector of Bavaria, seeing his dominions overrun by the Austrians, and receiving very little succour from the French, made a peace with the queen of Hungary upon easy conditions, and the Austrians had more troops to employ against Prussia. But the revolutions of war will not suffer human presumption to remain long unchecked. The peace with Bavaria was scarcely concluded when, the battle of Fontenoy was lost, and all the allies of Austria called upon her to exert her utmost power for the preservation of the Low Countries; and, a few days after the loss at Fontenoy, the first battle between the Prussians and the combined army of Austrians and Saxons, was fought at Niedburg in Silesia. The particulars of this battle were variously reported by the different parties, and published in the journals of that time; to transcribe them would be tedious and useless, because accounts of battles are not easily understood, and because there are no means of determining to which of the relations credit should be given. It is sufficient that they all end in claiming or allowing a complete victory to the king of Prussia, who gained all the Austrian artillery, killed four thousand, took seven thousand prisoners, with the loss, according to the Prussian narrative, of only sixteen hundred men. He now advanced again into Bohemia, where, however, he made no great progress. The queen of Hungary, though defeated, was not subdued. She poured in her troops from all parts to the reinforcement of prince Charles, and determined to continue the struggle with all her power. The king saw that Bohemia was an unpleasing and inconvenient theatre of war, in which he should be ruined by a miscarriage, and should get little by a victory. Saxony was left defenceless, and, if it was conquered, might be plundered. He, therefore, published a declaration against the elector of Saxony, and, without waiting for reply, invaded his dominions. This invasion produced another battle at Standentz, which ended, as the former, to the advantage of the Prussians. The Austrians had some advantage in the beginning; and their irregular troops, who are always daring, and are always ravenous, broke into the Prussian camp, and carried away the military chest. But this was easily repaired by the spoils of Saxony. The queen of Hungary was still inflexible, and hoped that fortune would, at last, change. She recruited once more her army, and prepared to invade the territories of Brandenburg; but the king of Prussia's activity prevented all her designs. One part of his forces seized Leipsic, and the other once more defeated the Saxons; the king of Poland fled from his dominions; prince Charles retired into Bohemia. The king of Prussia entered Dresden as a conqueror, exacted very severe contributions from the whole country, and the Austrians and Saxons were, at last, compelled to receive from him such a peace as he would grant. He imposed no severe conditions, except the payment of the contributions, made no new claim of dominions, and, with the elector Palatine, acknowledged the duke of Tuscany for emperour. The lives of princes, like the histories of nations, have their periods. We shall here suspend our narrative of the king of Prussia, who was now at the height of human greatness, giving laws to his enemies, and courted by all the powers of Europe. BROWNE. Though the writer of the following essays [64] seems to have had the fortune, common among men of letters, of raising little curiosity after his private life, and has, therefore, few memorials preserved of his felicities and misfortunes; yet, because an edition of a posthumous work appears imperfect and neglected, without some account of the author, it was thought necessary to attempt the gratification of that curiosity which naturally inquires by what peculiarities of nature or fortune eminent men have been distinguished, how uncommon attainments have been gained, and what influence learning had on its possessours, or virtue on its teachers. Sir Thomas Browne was born at London, in the parish of St. Michael in Cheapside, on the 19th of October, 1605 [65]. His father was a merchant, of an ancient family at Upton, in Cheshire. Of the name or family of his mother I find no account. Of his childhood or youth there is little known, except that he lost his father very early; that he was, according to the common fate of orphans [66], defrauded by one of his guardians; and that he was placed, for his education, at the school of Winchester. His mother, having taken three thousand pounds [67], as the third part of her husband's property, left her son, by consequence, six thousand, a large fortune for a man destined to learning, at that time, when commerce had not yet filled the nation with nominal riches. But it happened to him, as to many others, to be made poorer by opulence; for his mother soon married sir Thomas Dutton, probably by the inducement of her fortune; and he was left to the rapacity of his guardian, deprived now of both his parents, and, therefore, helpless, and unprotected. He was removed in the beginning of the year 1623, from Winchester to Oxford [68], and entered a gentleman-commoner of Broadgate hall, which was soon afterwards endowed, and took the name of Pembroke college, from the earl of Pembroke, then chancellor of the university. He was admitted to the degree of bachelor of arts, January 31, 1626-7; being, as Wood remarks, the first man of eminence graduated from the new college, to which the zeal or gratitude of those that love it most, can wish little better than that it may long proceed as it began. Having afterwards taken his degree of master of arts, he turned his studies to physick [69], and practised it for some time in Oxfordshire; but soon afterwards, either induced by curiosity, or invited by promises, he quitted his settlement, and accompanied his father-in-law [70], who had some employment in Ireland, in a visitation of the forts and castles, which the state of Ireland then made necessary. He that has once prevailed on himself to break his connexions of acquaintance, and begin a wandering life, very easily continues it. Ireland had, at that time, very little to offer to the observation of a man of letters; he, therefore, passed into France and Italy [71]; made some stay at Montpellier and Padua, which were then the celebrated schools of physick; and, returning home through Holland, procured himself to be created doctor of physick at Leyden. When he began his travels, or when be concluded them, there is no certain account; nor do there remain any observations made by him in his passage through those countries which he visited. To consider, therefore, what pleasure or instruction might have been received from the remarks of a man so curious and diligent, would be voluntarily to indulge a painful reflection, and load the imagination with a wish, which, while it is formed, is known to be vain. It is, however, to be lamented, that those who are most capable of improving mankind, very frequently neglect to communicate their knowledge; either because it is more pleasing to gather ideas than to impart them, or because, to minds naturally great, few things appear of so much importance as to deserve the notice of the publick. About the year 1634 [72], he is supposed to have returned to London; and the next year to have written his celebrated treatise, called Religio Medici, "the religion of a physician [73]," which he declares himself never to have intended for the press, having composed it only for his own exercise and entertainment. It, indeed, contains many passages, which, relating merely to his own person, can be of no great importance to the publick; but when it was written, it happened to him as to others, he was too much pleased with his performance, not to think that it might please others as much; he, therefore, communicated it to his friends, and receiving, I suppose, that exuberant applause with which every man repays the grant of perusing a manuscript, he was not very diligent to obstruct his own praise by recalling his papers, but suffered them to wander from hand to hand, till, at last, without his own consent, they were, in 1642, given to a printer. This has, perhaps, sometimes befallen others; and this, I am willing to believe, did really happen to Dr. Browne: but there is, surely, some reason to doubt the truth of the complaint so frequently made of surreptitious editions. A song, or an epigram, may be easily printed without the author's knowledge; because it may be learned when it is repeated, or may be written out with very little trouble; but a long treatise, however elegant, is not often copied by mere zeal or curiosity, but may be worn out in passing from hand to hand, before it is multiplied by a transcript. It is easy to convey an imperfect book, by a distant hand, to the press, and plead the circulation of a false copy, as an excuse for publishing the true, or to correct what is found faulty or offensive, and charge the errours on the transcriber's depravations. This is a stratagem, by which an author, panting for fame, and yet afraid of seeming to challenge it, may at once gratify his vanity, and preserve the appearance of modesty; may enter the lists, and secure a retreat; and this candour might suffer to pass undetected, as an innocent fraud, but that, indeed, no fraud is innocent; for the confidence which makes the happiness of society is, in some degree, diminished by every man whose practice is at variance with his words. The Religio Medici was no sooner published than it excited the attention of the publick, by the novelty of paradoxes, the dignity of sentiment, the quick succession of images, the multitude of abstruse allusions, the subtilty of disquisition, and the strength of language. What is much read will be much criticised. The earl of Dorset recommended this book to the perusal of sir Kenelm Digby, who returned his judgment upon it, not in a letter, but a book; in which, though mingled with some positions fabulous and uncertain, there are acute remarks, just censures, and profound speculations; yet its principal claim to admiration is, that it was written in twenty-four hours [74], of which part was spent in procuring Browne's book, and part in reading it. Of these animadversions, when they were yet not all printed, either officiousness or malice informed Dr. Browne; who wrote to sir Kenelm, with much softness and ceremony, declaring the unworthiness of his work to engage such notice, the intended privacy of the composition, and the corruptions of the impression; and received an answer equally genteel and respectful, containing high commendations of the piece, pompous professions of reverence, meek acknowledgments of inability, and anxious apologies for the hastiness of his remarks. The reciprocal civility of authors is one of the most risible scenes in the farce of life. Who would not have thought, that these two luminaries of their age had ceased to endeavour to grow bright by the obscuration of each other? yet the animadversions thus weak, thus precipitate, upon a book thus injured in the transcription, quickly passed the press; and Religio Medici was more accurately published, with an admonition prefixed, "to those who have or shall peruse the observations upon a former corrupt copy;" in which there is a severe censure, not upon Digby, who was to be used with ceremony, but upon the observator who had usurped his name; nor was this invective written by Dr. Browne, who was supposed to be satisfied with his opponent's apology; but by some officious friend, zealous for his honour, without his consent. Browne has, indeed, in his own preface, endeavoured to secure himself from rigorous examination, by alleging, that "many things are delivered rhetorically, many expressions merely tropical, and, therefore, many things to be taken in a soft and flexible sense, and not to be called unto the rigid test of reason." The first glance upon his book will, indeed, discover examples of this liberty of thought and expression: "I could be content," says he, "to be nothing almost to eternity, if I might enjoy my Saviour at the last." He has little acquaintance with the acuteness of Browne, who suspects him of a serious opinion, that any thing can be "almost eternal," or that any time beginning and ending is not infinitely less than infinite duration. In this book he speaks much, and, in the opinion of Digby, too much of himself; but with such generality and conciseness, as affords very little light to his biographer: he declares, that, besides the dialects of different provinces, he understood six languages; that he was no stranger to astronomy; and that he had seen several countries; but what most awakens curiosity is, his solemn assertion, that "his life has been a miracle of thirty years; which to relate were not history, but a piece of poetry, and would sound like a fable." There is, undoubtedly, a sense in which all life is miraculous; as it is an union of powers of which we can image no connexion, a succession of motions, of which the first cause must be supernatural; but life, thus explained, whatever it may have of miracle, will have nothing of fable; and, therefore, the author undoubtedly had regard to something, by which he imagined himself distinguished from the rest of mankind. Of these wonders, however, the view that can be now taken of his life offers no appearance. The course of his education was like that of others, such as put him little in the way of extraordinary casualties. A scholastick and academical life is very uniform; and has, indeed, more safety than pleasure. A traveller has greater opportunities of adventure; but Browne traversed no unknown seas, or Arabian deserts; and, surely, a man may visit France and Italy, reside at Montpellier and Padua, and, at last, take his degree at Leyden, without any thing miraculous. What it was that would, if it was related, sound so poetical and fabulous, we are left to guess; I believe without hope of guessing rightly. The wonders, probably, were transacted in his own mind; self-love, cooperating with an imagination vigorous and fertile as that of Browne, will find or make objects of astonishment in every man's life; and, perhaps, there is no human being, however bid in the crowd from the observation of his fellow-mortals, who, if he has leisure and disposition to recollect his own thoughts and actions, will not conclude his life in some sort a miracle, and imagine himself distinguished from all the rest of his species by many discriminations of nature or of fortune. The success of this performance was such as might naturally encourage the author to new undertakings. A gentleman of Cambridge [75], whose name was Merryweather, turned it not inelegantly into Latin; and from his version it was again translated into Italian, German, Dutch, and French; and, at Strasburg, the Latin translation was published with large notes, by Levinus Nicolaus Moltkenius. Of the English annotations, which in all the editions, from 1644, accompany the book, the author is unknown. Of Merryweather, to whose zeal Browne was so much indebted for the sudden extension of his renown, I know nothing, but that he published a small treatise for the instruction of young-persons in the attainment of a Latin style. He printed his translation in Holland with some difficulty [76]. The first printer to whom he offered it, carried it to Salmasius, "who laid it by," says he, "in state for three months," and then discouraged its publication: it was afterwards rejected by two other printers, and, at last, was received by Hackius. The peculiarities of this book raised the author, as is usual, many admirers and many enemies; but we know not of more than one professed answer, written under the title of Medicus Medicatus [77], by Alexander Ross, which was universally neglected by the world. At the time when this book was published, Dr. Browne resided at Norwich, where he had settled in 1636, by the persuasion of Dr. Lushington [78], his tutor, who was then rector of Barnham Westgate, in the neighbourhood. It is recorded by Wood, that his practice was very extensive, and that many patients resorted to him. In 1637 he was incorporated doctor of physick in Oxfordf [79]. He married, in 1641, Mrs. Mileham [80], of a good family in Norfolk; "a lady," says Whitefoot, "of such symmetrical proportion to her worthy husband, both in the graces of her body and mind, that they seemed to come together by a kind of natural magnetism." This marriage could not but draw the raillery of contemporary wits [81] upon a man who had just been wishing, in his new book, "that we might procreate, like trees, without conjunction," and had lately declared [82], that "the whole world was made for man, but only the twelfth part of man for woman;" and, that "man is the whole world, but woman only the rib or crooked part of man." Whether the lady had been yet informed of these contemptuous positions, or whether she was pleased with the conquest of so formidable a rebel, and considered it as a double triumph, to attract so much merit, and overcome so powerful prejudices; or whether, like most others, she married upon mingled motives, between convenience and inclination; she had, however, no reason to repent, for she lived happily with him one-and-forty years, and bore him ten children, of whom one son and three daughters outlived their parents: she survived him two years, and passed her widowhood in plenty, if not in opulence. Browne having now entered the world as an author, and experienced the delights of praise and molestations of censure, probably found his dread of the publick eye diminished; and, therefore, was not long before he trusted his name to the criticks a second time; for, in 1646 [83], he printed Inquiries into vulgar and common Errours; a work, which, as it arose not from fancy and invention, but from observation and books, and contained not a single discourse of one continued tenour, of which the latter part arose from the former, but an enumeration of many unconnected particulars, must have been the collection of years, and the effect of a design early formed and long pursued, to which his remarks had been continually referred, and which arose gradually to its present bulk by the daily aggregation of new particles of knowledge. It is, indeed, to be wished, that he had longer delayed the publication, and added what the remaining part of his life might have furnished: the thirty-six years which he spent afterwards in study and experience, would, doubtless, have made large additions to an inquiry into vulgar errours. He published, in 1673, the sixth edition, with some improvements; but I think rather with explication of what he had already written, than any new heads of disquisition. But with the work, such as the author, whether hindered from continuing it by eagerness of praise, or weariness of labour, thought fit to give, we must be content; and remember, that in all sublunary things there is something to be wished which we must wish in vain. This book, like his former, was received with great applause, was answered by Alexander Ross, and translated into Dutch and German, and, not many years ago, into French. It might now be proper, had not the favour with which it was at first received filled the kingdom with copies, to reprint it with notes, partly supplemental, and partly emendatory, to subjoin those discoveries which the industry of the last age has made, and correct those mistakes which the author has committed, not by idleness or negligence, but for want of Boyle's and Newton's philosophy. He appears, indeed, to have been willing to pay labour for truth. Having heard a flying rumour of sympathetick needles, by which, suspended over a circular alphabet, distant friends or lovers might correspond, he procured two such alphabets to be made, touched his needles with the same magnet, and placed them upon proper spindles: the result was, that when he moved one of his needles, the other, instead of taking, by sympathy, the same direction, "stood like the pillars of Hercules." That it continued motionless, will be easily believed; and most men would have been content to believe it, without the labour of so hopeless an experiment. Browne might himself have obtained the same conviction by a method less operose, if he had thrust his needles through corks, and set them afloat in two basins of water. Notwithstanding his zeal to detect old errours, he seems not very easy to admit new positions, for he never mentions the motion of the earth but with contempt and ridicule, though the opinion which admits it was then growing popular, and was surely plausible, even before it was confirmed by later observations. The reputation of Browne encouraged some low writer to publish, under his name, a book called [84] Nature's Cabinet unlocked,--translated, according to Wood, from the physicks of Magirus; of which Browne took care to clear himself, by modestly advertising, that "if any man had been benefited by it, he was not so ambitious as to challenge the honour thereof, as having no hand in that work [85]." In 1658, the discovery of some ancient urns in Norfolk gave him occasion to write Hydriotaphia, Urn-Burial, or a Discourse of sepulchral Urns; in which he treats, with his usual learning, on the funeral rites of the ancient nations; exhibits their various treatment of the dead; and examines the substances found in his Norfolcian urns. There is, perhaps, none of his works which better exemplifies his reading or memory. It is scarcely to be imagined, how many particulars he has amassed together, in a treatise which seems to have been occasionally written; and for which, therefore, no materials could have been previously collected. It is, indeed, like other treatises of antiquity, rather for curiosity than use; for it is of small importance to know which nation buried their dead in the ground, which threw them into the sea, or which gave them to birds and beasts; when the practice of cremation began, or when it was disused; whether the bones of different persons were mingled in the same urn; what oblations were thrown into the pyre; or how the ashes of the body were distinguished from those of other substances. Of the uselessness of these inquiries, Browne seems not to have been ignorant; and, therefore, concludes them with an observation which can never be too frequently recollected: "All, or most apprehensions, rested in opinions of some future being, which, ignorantly or coldly believed, begat those perverted conceptions, ceremonies, sayings, which christians pity or laugh at. Happy are they, which live not in that disadvantage of time, when men could say little for futurity, but from reason; whereby the noblest mind fell often upon doubtful deaths, and melancholy dissolutions: with these hopes Socrates warmed his doubtful spirits against the cold potion; and Cato, before he durst give the fatal stroke, spent part of the night in reading the immortality of Plato, thereby confirming his wavering hand unto the animosity of that attempt. "It is the heaviest stone that melancholy can throw at a man, to tell him he is at the end of his nature; or that there is no further state to come, unto which this seems progressional, and otherwise made in vain: without this accomplishment, the natural expectation and desire of such a state were but a fallacy in nature: unsatisfied considerators would quarrel at the justness of the constitution, and rest content that Adam had fallen lower, whereby, by knowing no other original, and deeper ignorance of themselves, they might have enjoyed the happiness of inferiour creatures, who in tranquillity possess their constitutions, as having not the apprehension to deplore their own natures; and being framed below the circumference of these hopes of cognition of better things, the wisdom of God hath necessitated their contentment. But the superiour ingredient and obscured part of ourselves, whereto all present felicities afford no resting contentment, will be able, at last, to tell us we are more than our present selves; and evacuate such hopes in the fruition of their own accomplishments." To his treatise on urn-burial, was added the Garden of Cyrus, or the quincunxial Lozenge, or network Plantation of the Ancients, artificially, naturally, mystically, considered. This discourse he begins with the Sacred Garden, in which the first man was placed; and deduces the practice of horticulture, from the earliest accounts of antiquity to the time of the Persian Cyrus, the first man whom we actually know to have planted a quincunx; which, however, our author is inclined to believe of longer date, and not only discovers it in the description of the hanging gardens of Babylon, but seems willing to believe, and to persuade his reader, that it was practised by the feeders on vegetables before the flood. Some of the most pleasing performances have been produced by learning and genius, exercised upon subjects of little importance. It seems to have been, in all ages, the pride of wit, to show how it could exalt the low, and amplify the little. To speak not inadequately of things really and naturally great, is a task not only diflicult but disagreeable; because the writer is degraded in his own eyes, by standing in comparison with his subject, to which he can hope to add nothing from his imagination: but it is a perpetual triumph of fancy to expand a scanty theme, to raise glittering ideas from obscure properties, and to produce to the world an object of wonder, to which nature had contributed little. To this ambition, perhaps, we owe the frogs of Homer, the gnat and the bees of Virgil, the butterfly of Spenser, the shadow of Wowerus, and the quincunx of Browne. In the prosecution of this sport of fancy, he considers every production of art and nature, in which he could find any decussation or approaches to the form of a quincunx; and, as a man once resolved upon ideal discoveries seldom searches long in vain, he finds his favourite figure in almost every thing, whether natural or invented, ancient or modern, rude or artificial, sacred or civil; so that a reader, not watchful against the power of his infusions, would imagine that decussation was the great business of the world, and that nature and art had no other purpose than to exemplify and imitate a quincunx. To show the excellence of this figure, he enumerates all its properties; and finds it in almost every thing of use or pleasure: and to show how readily he supplies what he cannot find, one instance may be sufficient: "though therein," says he, "we meet not with right angles, yet every rhombus containing four angles equal unto two right, it virtually contains two right in every one." The fanciful sports of great minds are never without some advantage to knowledge. Browne has interspersed many curious observations on the form of plants, and the laws of vegetation; and appears to have been a very accurate observer of the modes of germination, and to have watched, with great nicety, the evolution of the parts of plants from their seminal principles. He is then naturally led to treat of the number five; and finds, that by this number many things are circumscribed; that there are five kinds of vegetable productions, five sections of a cone, five orders of architecture, and five acts of a play. And observing that five was the ancient conjugal, or wedding number, he proceeds to a speculation, which I shall give in his own words: "the ancient numerists made out the conjugal number by two and three, the first parity and imparity, the active and passive digits, the material and formal principles in generative societies." These are all the tracts which he published. But many papers were found in his closet: "some of them," says Whitefoot, "designed for the press, were often transcribed and corrected by his own hand, after the fashion of great and curious writers." Of these, two collections have been published; one by Dr. Tenison, the other, in 1722, by a nameless editor. Whether the one or the other selected those pieces, which the author would have preferred, cannot be known; but they have both the merit of giving to mankind what was too valuable to be suppressed; and what might, without their interposition, have, perhaps, perished among other innumerable labours of learned men, or have been burnt in a scarcity of fuel, like the papers of Pierescius. The first of these posthumous treatises contains Observations upon several Plants mentioned in Scripture: these remarks, though they do not immediately either rectify the faith, or refine the morals of the reader, yet are by no means to be censured as superfluous niceties, or useless speculations; for they often show some propriety of description, or elegance of allusion, utterly undiscoverable to readers not skilled in oriental botany; and are often of more important use, as they remove some difficulty from narratives, or some obscurity from precepts. The next is, of Garlands, or coronary and garland Plants; a subject merely of learned curiosity, without any other end than the pleasure of reflecting on ancient customs, or on the industry with which studious men have endeavoured to recover them. The next is a letter, on the Fishes eaten by our Saviour with his Disciples, after his Resurrection from the Dead: which contains no determinate resolution of the question, what they were, for, indeed, it cannot be determined. All the information that diligence or learning could supply, consists in an enumeration of the fishes produced in the waters of Judea. Then follow, Answers to certain Queries about Fishes, Birds, Insects; and a Letter of Hawks and Falconry, ancient and modern; in the first of which he gives the proper interpretation of some ancient names of animals, commonly mistaken; and in the other, has some curious observations on the art of hawking, which he considers as a practice unknown to the ancients. I believe all our sports of the field are of Gothick original; the ancients neither hunted by the scent, nor seemed much to have practised horsemanship, as an exercise; and though in their works there is mention of _aucupium_ and _piscatio_, they seemed no more to have been considered as diversions, than agriculture, or any other manual labour. In two more letters, he speaks of the cymbals of the Hebrews, but without any satisfactory determination; and of _rhopalick_, or gradual verses, that is, of verses beginning with a word of one syllable, and proceeding by words of which each has a syllable more than the former; as, "O deus, aeterne stationis conciliator." AUSONIUS. And after this manner pursuing the hint, he mentions many other restrained methods of versifying, to which industrious ignorance has sometimes voluntarily subjected itself. His next attempt is, on Languages, and particularly the Saxon Tongue. He discourses with great learning, and generally with great justness, of the derivation and changes of languages; but, like other men of multifarious learning, he receives some notions without examination. Thus he observes, according to the popular opinion, that the Spaniards have retained so much Latin as to be able to compose sentences that shall be, at once, grammatically Latin and Castilian: this will appear very unlikely to a man that considers the Spanish terminations; and Howell, who was eminently skilful in the three provincial languages, declares, that, after many essays, he never could effect it [86]. The principal design of this letter, is to show the affinity between the modern English, and the ancient Saxon; and he observes, very rightly, that "though we have borrowed many substantives, adjectives, and some verbs, from the French; yet the great body of numerals, auxiliary verbs, articles, pronouns, adverbs, conjunctions, and prepositions, which are the distinguishing and lasting parts of a language, remain with us from the Saxon." To prove this position more evidently, he has drawn up a short discourse of six paragraphs, in Saxon and English; of which every word is the same in both languages, excepting the terminations and orthography. The words are, indeed, Saxon, but the phraseology is English; and, I think, would not have been understood by Bede or Elfric, notwithstanding the confidence of our author. He has, however, sufficiently proved his position, that the English resembles its paternal language more than any modern European dialect. There remain five tracts of this collection yet unmentioned; one, of artificial Hills, Mounts, or Barrows, in England; in reply to an interrogatory letter of E. D. whom the writers of the Biographia Britannica suppose to be, if rightly printed, W. D. or sir William Dugdale, one of Browne's correspondents. These are declared by Browne, in concurrence, I think, with all other antiquaries, to be, for the most part, funeral monuments. He proves, that both the Danes and Saxons buried their men of eminence under piles of earth, "which admitting," says he "neither ornament, epitaph, nor inscription, may, if earthquakes spare them, outlast other monuments: obelisks have their term, and pyramids will tumble; but these mountainous monuments may stand, and are like to have the same period with the earth." In the next, he answers two geographical questions; one concerning Troas, mentioned in the acts and epistles of St. Paul, which he determines to be the city built near the ancient Ilium; and the other concerning the Dead sea, of which he gives the same account with other writers. Another letter treats of the Answers of the Oracle of Apollo, at Delphos, to Croesus, king of Lydia. In this tract nothing deserves notice, more than that Browne considers the oracles as evidently and indubitably supernatural, and founds all his disquisition upon that postulate. He wonders why the physiologists of old, having such means of instruction, did not inquire into the secrets of nature: but judiciously concludes, that such questions would probably have been vain; "for in matters cognoscible, and formed for our disquisition, our industry must be our oracle, and reason our Apollo." The pieces that remain are, a Prophecy concerning the future State of several Nations; in which Browne plainly discovers his expectation to be the same with that entertained lately, with more confidence, by Dr. Berkeley, "that America will be the seat of the fifth empire;" and, Museum clausum, sive Bibliotheca abscondita: in which the author amuses himself with imagining the existence of books and curiosities, either never in being or irrecoverably lost. These pieces I have recounted, as they are ranged in Tenison's collection, because the editor has given no account of the time at which any of them were written. Some of them are of little value, more than as they gratify the mind with the picture of a great scholar, turning his learning into amusement; or show upon how great a variety of inquiries, the same mind has been successfully employed. The other collection of his posthumous pieces, published in octavo, London, 1722, contains Repertorium; or some account of the Tombs and Monuments in the Cathedral of Norwich; where, as Tenison observes, there is not matter proportionate to the skill of the antiquary. The other pieces are, Answers to sir William Dugdale's Inquiries about the Fens; a letter concerning Ireland; another relating to urns newly discovered; some short strictures on different subjects; and a Letter to a Friend on the Death of his intimate Friend, published singly by the author's son, in 1690. There is inserted in the Biographia Britannica, a Letter containing Instructions for the Study of Physick: which, with the essays here offered to the publick, completes the works of Dr. Browne. To the life of this learned man, there remains little to be added, but that, in 1665, he was chosen honorary fellow of the college of physicians, as a man, "virtute et literis ornatissimus," eminently embellished with literature and virtue; and in 1671, received, at Norwich, the honour of knighthood from Charles the second, a prince, who, with many frailties and vices, had yet skill to discover excellence, and virtue to reward it with such honorary distinctions, at least, as cost him nothing, yet, conferred by a king so judicious and so much beloved, had the power of giving merit new lustre and greater popularity. Thus he lived in high reputation, till, in his seventy-sixth year, he was seized with a colick, which, after having tortured him about a week, put an end to his life at Norwich, on his birthday, October, 19, 1682 [87]. Some of his last words were expressions of submission to the will of God, and fearlessness of death. He lies buried in the church of St. Peter Mancroft, in Norwich, with this inscription on a mural monument, placed on the south pillar of the altar: M. S. Hic situs est THOMAS BROWNE, M.D. Et miles. Anno 1605, Londini natus; Generosa familia apud Upton In agro Cestriensi oriundus. Schola pritnum Wintoniensi, postea In Coll. Pembr. Apud Oxonienses bonis literis Haud leviter imbutus; In urbe hac Nordovicensi medicinam Arte egregia, et foelici successu professus; Scriptis quibus tituli, RELIGIO MEDICI Et PSEUDODOXIA EPIDEMICA, aliisque Per orbem notissimus. Vir prudentissimus, integerrimus, doctissimus; Obijt Octob. 19, 1682. Pie posuit moestissima conjux Da. Doroth. Br. Near the foot of this pillar Lies Sir Thomas Browne, knt. and doctor in physick, Author of Religio Medici, and other learned books, Who practised physick in this city 46 years, And died Oct. 1682, in the 77th year of his age. In memory of whom, Dame Dorothy Browne, who had been his affectionate Wife 47 years, caused this monument to be Erected. Besides this lady, who died in 1685, he left a son and three daughters. Of the daughters nothing very remarkable is known; but his son, Edward Browne, requires a particular mention. He was born about the year 1642; and, after having passed through the classes of the school at Norwich, became bachelor of physick at Cambridge; and afterwards removing to Merton college in Oxford, was admitted there to the same degree, and afterwards made a doctor. In 1668 he visited part of Germany; and in the year following made a wider excursion into Austria, Hungary, and Thessaly; where the Turkish sultan then kept his court at Larissa. He afterwards passed through Italy. His skill in natural history made him particularly attentive to mines and metallurgy. Upon his return, he published an account of the countries through which he had passed; which I have heard commended by a learned traveller, who has visited many places after him, as written with scrupulous and exact veracity, such as is scarcely to be found in any other book of the same kind. But whatever it may contribute to the instruction of a naturalist, I cannot recommend it, as likely to give much pleasure to common readers; for, whether it be that the world is very uniform, and, therefore, he who is resolved to adhere to truth will have few novelties to relate; or, that Dr. Browne was, by the train of his studies, led to inquire most after those things by which the greatest part of mankind is little affected; a great part of his book seems to contain very unimportant accounts of his passage from one place where he saw little, to another where he saw no more. Upon his return, he practised physick in London; was made physician first to Charles the second, and afterwards, in 1682, to St. Bartholomew's hospital. About the same time, he joined his name to those of many other eminent men, in a translation of Plutarch's lives. He was first censor, then elect, and treasurer of the college of physicians; of which, in 1705, he was chosen president, and held his office till, in 1708, he died, in a degree of estimation suitable to a man so variously accomplished, that king Charles had honoured him with this panegyrick, that "he was as learned as any of the college, and as well bred as any of the court." Of every great and eminent character, part breaks forth into publick view, and part lies hid in domestick privacy. Those qualities, which have been exerted in any known and lasting performances, may, at any distance of time, be traced and estimated; but silent excellencies are soon forgotten; and those minute peculiarities which discriminate every man from all others, if they are not recorded by those whom personal knowledge enables to observe them, are irrecoverably lost. This mutilation of character must have happened, among many others, to sir Thomas Browne, had it not been delineated by his friend Mr. Whitefoot, "who esteemed it an especial favour of providence, to have had a particular acquaintance with him for two-thirds of his life." Part of his observations I shall therefore copy. "For a character of his person, his complexion and hair was answerable to his name; his stature was moderate, and a habit of body neither fat nor lean, but [Greek: eusarkos]. "In his habit of clothing, he had an aversion to all finery, and affected plainness, both in the fashion and ornaments. He ever wore a cloak, or boots, when few others did. He kept himself always very warm, and thought it most safe so to do, though he never loaded himself with such a multitude of garments, as Suetonius reports of Augustus, enough to clothe a good family. "The horizon of his understanding was much larger than the hemisphere of the world: all that was visible in the heavens he comprehended so well, that few that are under them knew so much: he could tell the number of the visible stars in his horizon, and call them all by their names that had any; and of the earth he had such a minute and exact geographical knowledge, as if he had been by divine providence ordained surveyor-general of the whole terrestrial orb, and its products, minerals, plants, and animals. He was so curious a botanist, that, besides the specifical distinctions, he made nice and elaborate observations, equally useful as entertaining. "His memory, though not so eminent as that of Seneca or Scaliger, was capacious and tenacious, insomuch as he remembered all that was remarkable in any book that he had read; and not only knew all person's again that he had ever seen, at any distance of time, but remembered the circumstances of their bodies, and their particular discourses and speeches. "In the Latin poets he remembered every thing that was acute and pungent; he had read most of the historians, ancient and modern, wherein his observations were singular, not taken notice of by common readers; he was excellent company when he was at leisure, and expressed more light than heat in the temper of his brain. "He had no despotical power over his affections and passions, (that was a privilege of original perfection, forfeited by the neglect of the use of it,) but as large a political power over them, as any stoick, or man of his time; whereof he gave so great experiment, that he hath very rarely been known to have been overcome with any of them. The strongest that were found in him, both of the irascible and concupiscible, were under the control of his reason. Of admiration, which is one of them, being the only product either of ignorance or uncommon knowledge, he had more and less than other men, upon the same account of his knowing more than others; so that though he met with many rarities, he admired them not so much as others do. "He was never seen to be transported with mirth, or dejected with sadness; always cheerful, but rarely merry, at any sensible rate; seldom heard to break a jest; and when he did, he would be apt to blush at the levity of it: his gravity was natural, without affectation. "His modesty was visible in a natural habitual blush, which was increased upon the least occasion, and oft discovered without any observable cause. "They that knew no more of him than by the briskness of his writings, found themselves deceived in their expectation, when they came in his company, noting the gravity and sobriety of his aspect and conversation; so free from loquacity or much talkativeness, that he was sometimes difficult to be engaged in any discourse; though when he was so, it was always singular, and never trite or vulgar. Parsimonious in nothing but his time, whereof he made as much improvement, with as little loss as any man in it: when he had any to spare from his drudging practice, he was scarce patient of any diversion from his study; so impatient of sloth and idleness, that he would say, he could not do nothing. "Sir Thomas understood most of the European languages; viz. all that are in Hutter's Bible, which he made use of. The Latin and Greek he understood critically; the oriental languages, which never were vernacular in this part of the world, he thought the use of them would not answer the time and pains of learning them; yet had so great a veneration for the matrix of them, viz. the Hebrew, consecrated to the oracles of God, that he was not content to be totally ignorant of it; though very little of his science is to be found in any books of that primitive language. And though much is said to be written in the derivative idioms of that tongue, especially the Arabick, yet he was satisfied with the translations, wherein he found nothing admirable. "In his religion he continued in the same mind which he had declared in his first book, written when he was but thirty years old, his Religio Medici, wherein he fully assented to that of the church of England, preferring it before any in the world, as did the learned Grotius. He attended the publick service very constantly, when he was not withheld by his practice; never missed the sacrament in his parish, if he were in town; read the best English sermons he could hear of, with liberal applause; and delighted not in controversies. In his last sickness, wherein he continued about a week's time, enduring great pain of the colick, besides a continual fever, with as much patience as hath been seen in any man, without any pretence of stoical apathy, animosity, or vanity of not being concerned thereat, or suffering no impeachment of happiness: 'Nihil agis, dolor.' "His patience was founded upon the Christian philosophy, and a sound faith of God's providence, and a meek and holy submission thereunto, which he expressed in few words. I visited him near his end, when he had not strength to hear or speak much; the last words which I heard from him were, besides some expressions of dearness, that he did freely submit to the will of God, being without fear; he had often triumphed over the king of terrours in others, and given many repulses in the defence of patients; but, when his own turn came, he submitted with a meek, rational, and religious courage. "He might have made good the old saying of 'dat Galenus opes,' had he lived in a place that could have afforded it. But his indulgence and liberality to his children, especially in their travels, two of his sons in divers countries, and two of his daughters in France, spent him more than a little. He was liberal in his house entertainments and in his charity: he left a comfortable, but no great estate, both to his lady and children, gained by his own industry. "Such was his sagacity and knowledge of all history, ancient and modern, and his observations thereupon so singular, that, it hath been said, by them that knew him best, that, if his profession, and place of abode, would have suited, his ability, he would have made an extraordinary man for the privy council, not much inferiour to the famous Padre Paulo, the late oracle of the Venetian state. "Though he were no prophet, nor son of a prophet, yet in that faculty which comes nearest it, he excelled, i.e. the stochastick, wherein he was seldom mistaken, as to future events, as well publick as private; but not apt to discover any presages or superstition." It is observable, that he, who, in his earlier years, had read all the books against religion, was, in the latter part of his life, averse from controversies. To play with important truths, to disturb the repose of established tenets, to subtilize objections, and elude proof, is too often the sport of youthful vanity, of which maturer experience commonly repents. There is a time when every man is weary of raising difficulties only to task himself with the solution, and desires to enjoy truth without the labour or hazard of contest. There is, perhaps, no better method of encountering these troublesome irruptions of skepticism, with which inquisitive minds are frequently harassed, than that which Browne declares himself to have taken: "If there arise any doubts in my way, I do forget them; or, at least, defer them, till my better settled judgment, and more manly reason, be able to resolve them: for I perceive every man's reason is his best Oedipus, and will, upon a reasonable truce, find a way to loose those bonds, wherewith the subtilties of errour have enchained our more flexible and tender judgments." The foregoing character may be confirmed and enlarged by many passages in the Religio Medici; in which it appears, from Whitefoot's testimony, that the author, though no very sparing panegyrist of himself, had not exceeded the truth, with respect to his attainments or visible qualities. There are, indeed, some interiour and secret virtues, which a man may, sometimes, have without the knowledge of others; and may, sometimes, assume to himself, without sufficient reasons for his opinion. It is charged upon Browne, by Dr. Watts, as an instance of arrogant temerity, that, after a long detail of his attainments, he declares himself to have escaped "the first and father-sin of pride." A perusal of the Religio Medici will not much contribute to produce a belief of the author's exemption from this father-sin; pride is a vice, which pride itself inclines every man to find in others, and to overlook in himself. As easily may we be mistaken in estimating our own courage, as our own humility; and, therefore, when Browne shows himself persuaded, that "he could lose an arm without a tear, or, with a few groans, be quartered to pieces," I am not sure that he felt in himself any uncommon powers of endurance; or, indeed, any thing more than a sudden effervescence of imagination, which, uncertain and involuntary as it is, he mistook for settled resolution. "That there were not many extant, that, in a noble way, feared the face of death less than himself," he might, likewise, believe at a very easy expense, while death was yet at a distance; but the time will come, to every human being, when it must be known how well he can bear to die; and it has appeared that our author's fortitude did not desert him in the great hour of trial. It was observed, by some of the remarkers on the Religio Medici, that "the author was yet alive, and might grow worse as well as better:" it is, therefore, happy, that this suspicion can be obviated by a testimony given to the continuance of his virtue, at a time when death had set him free from danger of change, and his panegyrist from temptation to flattery. But it is not on the praises of others, but on his own writings, that he is to depend for the esteem of posterity; of which he will not easily be deprived, while learning shall have any reverence among men; for there is no science in which he does not discover some skill; and scarce any kind of knowledge, profane or sacred, abstruse or elegant, which he does not appear to have cultivated with success. His exuberance of knowledge, and plenitude of ideas, sometimes obstruct the tendency of his reasoning and the clearness of his decisions: on whatever subject he employed his mind, there started up immediately so many images before him, that he lost one by grasping another. His memory supplied him with so many illustrations, parallel or dependent notions, that he was always starting into collateral considerations; but the spirit and vigour of his pursuit always gives delight; and the reader follows him, without reluctance, through his mazes, in themselves flowery and pleasing, and ending at the point originally in view. "To have great excellencies and great faults, 'magnae; virtutes nee minora vitia,' is the poesy," says our author, "of the best natures." This poesy may be properly applied to the style of Browne; it is vigorous, but rugged; it is learned, but pedantick; it is deep, but obscure; it strikes, but does not please; it commands, but does not allure; his tropes are harsh, and his combinations uncouth. He fell into an age in which our language began to lose the stability which it had obtained in the time of Elizabeth; and was considered by every writer as a subject on which he might try his plastick skill, by moulding it according to his own fancy. Milton, in consequence of this encroaching license, began to introduce the Latin idiom: and Browne, though he gave less disturbance to our structures in phraseology, yet poured in a multitude of exotick words; many, indeed, useful and significant, which, if rejected, must be supplied by circumlocution, such as _commensality_, for the state of many living at the same table; but many superfluous, as a _paralogical_, for an unreasonable doubt; and some so obscure, that they conceal his meaning rather than explain it, as _arthritical analogies_, for parts that serve some animals in the place of joints. His style is, indeed, a tissue of many languages; a mixture of heterogeneous words, brought together from distant regions, with terms originally appropriated to one art, and drawn by violence into the service of another. He must, however, be confessed to have augmented our philosophical diction; and, in defence of his uncommon words and expressions, we must consider, that he had uncommon sentiments, and was not content to express, in many words, that idea for which any language could supply a single term. But his innovations are sometimes pleasing, and his temerities happy: he has many "verba ardentia" forcible expressions, which he would never have found, but by venturing to the utmost verge of propriety; and flights which would never have been reached, but by one who had very little fear of the shame of falling. There remains yet an objection against the writings of Browne, more formidable than the animadversions of criticism. There are passages from which some have taken occasion to rank him among deists, and others among atheists. It would be difficult to guess how any such conclusion should be formed, had not experience shown that there are two sorts of men willing to enlarge the catalogue of infidels. It has been long observed, that an atheist has no just reason for endeavouring conversions; and yet none harass those minds which they can influence, with more importunity of solicitation to adopt their opinions. In proportion as they doubt the truth of their own doctrines, they are desirous to gain the attestation of another understanding: and industriously labour to win a proselyte, and eagerly catch at the slightest pretence to dignify their sect with a celebrated name [88]. The others become friends to infidelity only by unskilful hostility; men of rigid orthodoxy, cautious conversation, and religious asperity. Among these, it is, too frequently, the practice to make in their heat concessions to atheism or deism, which their most confident advocates had never dared to claim, or to hope. A sally of levity, an idle paradox, an indecent jest, an unreasonable objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of these men, to efface a name from the lists of christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, to set the general tenour of life against single failures, or to know how soon any slip of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retraction; but let fly their fulminations, without mercy or prudence, against slight offences or casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repented. The infidel knows well what he is doing. He is endeavouring to supply, by authority, the deficiency of his arguments, and to make his cause less invidious, by showing numbers on his side; he will, therefore, not change his conduct, till he reforms his principles. But the zealot should recollect, that he is labouring by this frequency of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength to the enemies of truth. It must always be the condition of a great part of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom they think wiser than themselves; and, therefore, the addition of every name to infidelity, in some degree, invalidates that argument upon which the religion of multitudes is necessarily founded. Men may differ from each other in many religious opinions, and yet all may retain the essentials of christianity; men may sometimes eagerly dispute, and yet not differ much from one another: the rigorous persecutors of errour should, therefore, enlighten their zeal with knowledge, and temper their orthodoxy with charity; that charity, without which orthodoxy is vain; charity that "thinketh no evil," but "hopeth all things," and "endureth all things." Whether Browne has been numbered among the contemners of religion, by the fury of its friends, or the artifice of its enemies, it is no difficult task to replace him among the most zealous professors of christianity. He may, perhaps, in the ardour of his imagination, have hazarded an expression, which a mind intent upon faults may interpret into heresy, if considered apart from the rest of his discourse; but a phrase is not to be opposed to volumes; there is scarcely a writer to be found, whose profession was not divinity, that has so frequently testified his belief of the sacred writings, has appealed to them with such unlimited submission, or mentioned them with such unvaried reverence. It is, indeed, somewhat wonderful, that he should be placed without the pale of christianity, who declares, "that he assumes the honourable style of a christian," not because it is "the religion of his country," but because "having in his riper years and confirmed judgment seen" and examined all, he finds himself obliged, by the principles of grace, and the law of his own reason, to embrace "no other name but this;" who, to specify his persuasion yet more, tells us, that "he is of the reformed religion; of the same belief our Saviour taught, the apostles disseminated, the fathers authorized, and the martyrs confirmed;" who, though "paradoxical in philosophy, loves in divinity to keep the beaten road; and pleases himself that he has no taint of heresy, schism, or errour:" to whom, "where the scripture is silent, the church is a text; where that speaks, 'tis but a comment;" and who uses not "the dictates of his own reason, but where there is a joint silence of both: who blesses himself, that he lived not in the days of miracles, when faith had been thrust upon him; but enjoys that greater blessing, pronounced to all that believe and saw not." He cannot surely be charged with a defect of faith, who "believes that our Saviour was dead, and buried, and rose again, and desires to see him in his glory:" and who affirms that "this is not much to believe;" that "we have reason to owe this faith unto history;" and that "they only had the advantage of a bold and noble faith, who lived before his coming; and, upon obscure prophecies, and mystical types, could raise a belief." Nor can contempt of the positive and ritual parts of religion be imputed to him, who doubts, whether a good man would refuse a poisoned eucharist; and "who would violate his own arm, rather than a church." The opinions of every man must be learned from himself: concerning his practice, it is safest to trust the evidence of others. Where these testimonies concur, no higher degree of historical certainty can be obtained; and they apparently concur to prove, that Browne was a zealous adherent to the faith of Christ; that he lived in obedience to his laws, and died in confidence of his mercy. ASCHAM [89]. It often happens to writers, that they are known only by their works; the incidents of a literary life are seldom observed, and, therefore, seldom recounted: but Ascham has escaped the common fate by the friendship of Edward Grauut, the learned master of Westminster school, who devoted an oration to his memory, and has marked the various vicissitudes of his fortune. Graunt either avoided the labour of minute inquiry, or thought domestick occurrences unworthy of his notice; or, preferring the character of an orator to that of an historian, selected only such particulars as he could best express or most happily embellish. His narrative is, therefore, scanty, and I know not by what materials it can now be amplified. Roger Ascham was born in the year 1515, at Kirby Wiske, (or Kirby Wicke,) a village near Northallerton, in Yorkshire, of a family above the vulgar. His father, John Ascham, was house-steward in the family of Scroop; and, in that age, when the different orders of men were at a greater distance from each other, and the manners of gentlemen were regularly formed by menial services in great houses, lived with a very conspicuous reputation. Margaret Ascham, his wife, is said to have been allied to many considerable families, but her maiden name is not recorded. She had three sons, of whom Roger was the youngest, and some daughters; but who can hope, that of any progeny more than one shall deserve to be mentioned? They lived married sixty-seven years, and, at last, died together almost on the same hour of the same day. Roger, having passed his first years under the care of his parents, was adopted into the family of Antony Wingfield, who maintained him, and committed his education, with that of his own sons, to the care of one Bond, a domestick tutor. He very early discovered an unusual fondness for literature by an eager perusal of English books; and, having passed happily through the scholastick rudiments, was put, in 1530, by his patron Wingfield, to St. John's college in Cambridge. Ascham entered Cambridge at a time when the last great revolution of the intellectual world was filling every academical mind with ardour or anxiety. The destruction of the Constantinopolitan empire had driven the Greeks, with their language, into the interiour parts of Europe, the art of printing had made the books easily attainable, and Greek now began to be taught in England. The doctrines of Luther had already filled all the nations of the Romish communion with controversy and dissension. New studies of literature, and new tenets of religion, found employment for all who were desirous of truth, or ambitious of fame. Learning was, at that time, prosecuted with that eagerness and perseverance, which, in this age of indifference and dissipation, it is not easy to conceive. To teach or to learn, was, at once, the business and the pleasure of the academical life; and an emulation of study was raised by Cheke and Smith, to which even the present age, perhaps, owes many advantages, without remembering, or knowing, its benefactors. Ascham soon resolved to unite himself to those who were enlarging the bounds of knowledge, and, immediately upon his admission into the college, applied himself to the study of Greek. Those who were zealous for the new learning, were often no great friends to the old religion; and Ascham, as he became a Grecian, became a protestant. The reformation was not yet begun; disaffection to popery was considered as a crime justly punished by exclusion from favour and preferment, and was not yet openly professed, though superstition was gradually losing its hold upon the publick. The study of Greek was reputable enough, and Ascham pursued it with diligence and success, equally conspicuous. He thought a language might be most easily learned by teaching it; and, when he had obtained some proficiency in Greek, read lectures, while he was yet a boy, to other boys, who were desirous of instruction. His industry was much encouraged by Pember, a man of great eminence at that time, though I know not that he has left any monuments behind him, but what the gratitude of his friends and scholars has bestowed. He was one of the great encouragers of Greek learning, and particularly applauded Ascham's lectures, assuring him in a letter, of which Graunt has preserved an extract, that he would gain more knowledge by explaining one of �sop's fables to a boy, than by hearing one of Homer's poems explained by another. Ascham took his bachelor's degree in 1534, February 18, in the eighteenth year of his age; a time of life at which it is more common now to enter the universities, than to take degrees, but which, according to the modes of education then in use, had nothing of remarkable prematurity. On the 23rd of March following, he was chosen fellow of the college, which election he considered as a second birth. Dr. Metcalf, the master of the college, a man, as Ascham tells us, "meanly learned himself, but no mean encourager of learning in others," clandestinely promoted his election, though he openly seemed first to oppose it, and afterwards to censure it, because Ascham was known to favour the new opinions; and the master himself was accused of giving an unjust preference to the northern men, one of the factions into which this nation was divided, before we could find any more important reason of dissension, than that some were born on the northern, and some on the southern side of Trent. Any cause is sufficient for a quarrel; and the zealots of the north and south lived long in such animosity, that it was thought necessary at Oxford to keep them quiet, by choosing one proctor every year from each. He seems to have been, hitherto, supported by the bounty of Wingfield, which his attainment of a fellowship now freed him from the necessity of receiving. Dependance, though in those days it was more common and less irksome, than in the present state of things, can never have been free from discontent; and, therefore, he that was released from it must always have rejoiced. The danger is, lest the joy of escaping from the patron may not leave sufficient memory of the benefactor. Of this forgetfulness, Ascham cannot be accused; for he is recorded to have preserved the most grateful and affectionate reverence for Wingfield, and to have never grown weary of recounting his benefits. His reputation still increased, and many resorted to his chamber to hear the Greek writers explained. He was, likewise, eminent for other accomplishments. By the advice of Pember, he had learned to play on musical instruments, and he was one of the few who excelled in the mechanical art of writing, which then began to be cultivated among us, and in which we now surpass all other nations. He not only wrote his pages with neatness, but embellished them with elegant draughts and illuminations; an art at that time so highly valued, that it contributed much both to his fame and his fortune. He became master of arts in March, 1537, in his twenty-first year, and then, if not before, commenced tutor, and publickly undertook the education of young men. A tutor of one-and-tweuty, however accomplished with learning, however exalted by genius, would now gain little reverence or obedience; but in those days of discipline and regularity, the authority of the statutes easily supplied that of the teacher; all power that was lawful was reverenced. Besides, young tutors had still younger pupils. Ascham is said to have courted his scholars to study by every incitement, to have treated them with great kindness, and to have taken care, at once, to instil learning and piety, to enlighten their minds, and to form their manners. Many of his scholars rose to great eminence; and among them William Grindal was so much distinguished, that, by Cheke's recommendation, he was called to court, as a proper master of languages for the lady Elizabeth. There was yet no established lecturer of Greek; the university, therefore, appointed Ascham to read in the open schools, and paid him out of the publick purse an honorary stipend, such as was then reckoned sufficiently liberal. A lecture was afterwards founded by king Henry, and he then quitted the schools, but continued to explain Greek authors in his own college. He was at first an opponent of the new pronunciation introduced, or rather of the ancient restored, about this time, by Cheke and Smith, and made some cautious struggles for the common practice, which the credit and dignity of his antagonists did not permit him to defend very publickly, or with much vehemence: nor were they long his antagonists; for either his affection for their merit, or his conviction of the cogency of their arguments, soon changed his opinion and his practice, and he adhered ever after to their method of utterance. Of this controversy it is not necessary to give a circumstantial account; something of it may be found in Strype's Life of Smith, and something in Baker's Reflections upon Learning; it is sufficient to remark here, that Cheke's pronunciation was that which now prevails in the schools of England. Disquisitions not only verbal, but merely literal, are too minute for popular narration. He was not less eminent, as a writer of Latin, than as a teacher of Greek. All the publick letters of the university were of his composition; and, as little qualifications must often bring great abilities into notice, he was recommended to this honourable employment, not less by the neatness of his hand, than the elegance of his style. However great was his learning, he was not always immured in his chamber; but, being valetudinary, and weak of body, thought it necessary to spend many hours in such exercises as might best relieve him after the fatigue of study. His favourite amusement was archery, in which he spent, or, in the opinion of others, lost so much time, that those whom either his faults or virtues made his enemies, and, perhaps, some whose kindness wished him always worthily employed, did not scruple to censure his practice, as unsuitable to a man professing learning, and, perhaps, of bad example in a place of education. To free himself from this censure was one of the reasons for which he published, in 1544, his Toxophilus, or the Schole or Partitions of Shooting, in which he joins the praise with the precepts of archery. He designed not only to teach the art of shooting, but to give an example of diction more natural and more truly English than was used by the common writers of that age, whom he censures for mingling exotick terms with their native language, and of whom he complains, that they were made authors, not by skill or education, but by arrogance and temerity. He has not failed in either of his purposes. He has sufficiently vindicated archery as an innocent, salutary, useful, and liberal diversion; and if his precepts are of no great use, he has only shown, by one example among many, how little the hand can derive from the mind, how little intelligence can conduce to dexterity. In every art, practice is much; in arts manual, practice is almost the whole: precept can, at most, but warn against errour; it can never bestow excellence. The bow has been so long disused, that most English readers have forgotten its importance, though it was the weapon by which we gained the battle of Agincourt; a weapon which, when handled by English yeomen, no foreign troops were able to resist. We were not only abler of body than the French, and, therefore, superiour in the use of arms, which are forcible only in proportion to the strength with which they are handled, but the national practice of shooting for pleasure or for prizes, by which every man was inured to archery from his infancy, gave us insuperable advantage, the bow requiring more practice to skilful use than any other instrument of offence. Firearms were then in their infancy; and though battering-pieces had been some time in use, I know not whether any soldiers were armed with hand-guns when the Toxophilus was first published. They were soon after used by the Spanish troops, whom other nations made haste to imitate; but how little they could yet effect, will be understood from the account given by the ingenious author of the Exercise for the Norfolk Militia. "The first muskets were very heavy, and could not be fired without a rest; they had matchlocks, and barrels of a wide bore, that carried a large ball and charge of powder, and did execution at a greater distance. "The musketeers on a march carried only their rests and ammunition, and had boys to bear their muskets after them, for which they were allowed great additional pay. "They were very slow in loading, not only by reason of the unwieldiness of the pieces, and because they carried the powder and balls separate, but from the time it took to prepare and adjust the match; so that their fire was not near so brisk as ours is now. Afterwards a lighter kind of matchlock musket came into use, and they carried their ammunition in bandeliers, which were broad belts that came over the shoulder, to which were hung several little cases of wood covered with leather, each containing a charge of powder; the balls they carried loose in a pouch; and they had also a priming-horn hanging by their side. "The old English writers call those large muskets calivers; the harquebuss was a lighter piece, that could be fired without a rest. The matchlock was fired by a match fixed by a kind of tongs in the serpentine or cock, which, by pulling the trigger, was brought down with great quickness upon the priming in the pan, over which there was a sliding cover, which was drawn back by the hand just at the time of firing. There was a great deal of nicety and care required to fit the match properly to the cock, so as to come down exactly true on the priming, to blow the ashes from the coal, and to guard the pan from the sparks that fell from it. A great deal of time was also lost in taking it out of the cock, and returning it between the fingers of the left hand every time that the piece was fired; and wet weather often rendered the matches useless." While this was the state of firearms, and this state continued among us to the civil war, with very little improvement, it is no wonder that the long-bow was preferred by sir Thomas Smith, who wrote of the choice of weapons in the reign of queen Elizabeth, when the use of the bow still continued, though the musket was gradually prevailing. Sir John Haward, a writer yet later, has, in his History of the Norman Kings, endeavoured to evince the superiority of the archer to the musketeer: however, in the long peace of king James, the bow was wholly forgotten. Guns have from that time been the weapons of the English, as of other nations, and, as they are now improved, are certainly more efficacious. Ascham had yet another reason, if not for writing his book, at least for presenting it to king Henry. England was not then, what it may be now justly termed, the capital of literature; and, therefore, those who aspired to superiour degrees of excellence, thought it necessary to travel into other countries. The purse of Ascham was not equal to the expense of peregrination; and, therefore, he hoped to have it augmented by a pension. Nor was he wholly disappointed; for the king rewarded him with a yearly payment of ten pounds. A pension of ten pounds granted by a king of England to a man of letters, appears, to modern readers, so contemptible a benefaction, that it is not unworthy of inquiry what might be its value at that time, and how much Ascham might be enriched by it. Nothing is more uncertain than the estimation of wealth by denominated money; the precious metals never retain long the same proportion to real commodities, and the same names in different ages do not imply the same quantity of metal; so that it is equally difficult to know how much money was contained in any nominal sum, and to find what any supposed quantity of gold or silver would purchase; both which are necessary to the commensuration of money, or the adjustment of proportion between the same sums at different periods of time. A numeral pound, in king Henry's time, contained, as now, twenty shillings; and, therefore, it must be inquired what twenty shillings could perform. Bread-corn is the most certain standard of the necessaries of life. Wheat was generally sold, at that time for one shilling, the bushel; if, therefore, we take five shillings the bushel for the current price, ten pounds were equivalent to fifty. But here is danger of a fallacy. It may be doubted whether wheat was the general bread-corn of that age; and if rye, barley, or oats, were the common food, and wheat, as I suspect, only a delicacy, the value of wheat will not regulate the price of other things. This doubt, however, is in favour of Ascham; for if we raise the worth of wheat, we raise that of his pension. But the value of money has another variation, which we are still less able to ascertain: the rules of custom, or the different needs of artificial life, make that revenue little at one time which is great at another. Men are rich and poor, not only in proportion to what they have, but to what they want. In some ages, not only necessaries are cheaper, but fewer things are necessary. In the age of Ascham, most of the elegancies and expenses of our present fashions were unknown: commerce had not yet distributed superfluity through the lower classes of the people, and the character of a student implied frugality, and required no splendour to support it. His pension, therefore, reckoning together the wants which he could supply, and the wants from which he was exempt, may be estimated, in my opinion, at more than one hundred pounds a year; which, added to the income of his fellowship, put him far enough above distress. This was a year of good fortune to Ascham. He was chosen orator to the university on the removal of sir John Cheke to court, where he was made tutor to prince Edward. A man once distinguished soon gains admirers. Ascham was now received to notice by many of the nobility, and by great ladies, among whom it was then the fashion to study the ancient languages. Lee, archbishop of York, allowed him a yearly pension; how much we are not told. He was, probably, about this time, employed in teaching many illustrious persons to write a fine hand; and, among others, Henry and Charles, dukes of Suffolk, the princess Elizabeth, and prince Edward. Henry the eighth died two years after, and a reformation of religion being now openly prosecuted by king Edward and his council, Ascham, who was known to favour it, had a new grant of his pension, and continued at Cambridge, where he lived in great familiarity with Bucer, who had been called from Germany to the professorship of divinity. But his retirement was soon at an end; for, in 1548, his pupil Grindal, the master of the princess Elizabeth, died, and the princess, who had already some acquaintance with Ascham, called him from his college to direct her studies. He obeyed the summons, as we may easily believe, with readiness, and, for two years, instructed her with great diligence; but then, being disgusted either at her, or her domesticks, perhaps eager for another change of life, he left her, without her consent, and returned to the university. Of this precipitation he long repented; and, as those who are not accustomed to disrespect cannot easily forgive it, he probably felt the effects of his imprudence to his death. After having visited Cambridge, he took a journey into Yorkshire, to see his native place, and his old acquaintance, and there received a letter from the court, informing him, that he was appointed secretary to sir Richard Morisine, who was to be despatched as ambassadour into Germany. In his return to London he paid that memorable visit to lady Jane Gray, in which he found her reading the Phasdo in Greek, as he has related in his Schoolmaster. In September, 1550, he attended Morisine to Germany, and wandered over great part of the country, making observations upon all that appeared worthy of his curiosity, and contracting acquaintance with men of learning. To his correspondent, Sturmius, he paid a visit, but Sturmius was not at home, and those two illustrious friends never saw each other. During the course of this embassy, Ascham undertook to improve Morisine in Greek, and, for four days in the week, explained some passages in Herodotus every morning, and more than two hundred verses of Sophocles, or Euripides, every afternoon. He read with him, likewise, some of the orations of Demosthenes. On the other days he compiled the letters of business, and in the night filled up his diary, digested his remarks, and wrote private letters to his friends in England, and particularly to those of his college, whom he continually exhorted to perseverance in study. Amidst all the pleasures of novelty which his travels supplied, and in the dignity of his publick station, he preferred the tranquillity of private study, and the quiet of academical retirement. The reasonableness of this choice has been always disputed; and in the contrariety of human interests and dispositions, the controversy will not easily be decided. He made a short excursion into Italy, and mentions in his Schoolmaster, with great severity, the vices of Venice. He was desirous of visiting Trent, while the council were sitting; but the scantiness of his purse defeated his curiosity. In this journey he wrote his Report and Discourse of the Affairs in Germany, in which he describes the dispositions and interests of the German princes, like a man inquisitive and judicious, and recounts many particularities, which are lost in the mass of general history, in a style, which, to the ears of that age, was undoubtedly mellifluous, and which is now a very valuable specimen of genuine English. By the death of king Edward, in 1553, the reformation was stopped, Morisine was recalled, and Ascham's pension and hopes were at an end. He, therefore, retired to his fellowship in a state of disappointment and despair, which his biographer has endeavoured to express in the deepest strain of plaintive declamation. "He was deprived of all his support," says Graunt, "stripped of his pension, and cut off from the assistance of his friends, who had now lost their influence: so that he had nec praemia nec praedia, neither pension nor estate to support him at Cambridge." There is no credit due to a rhetorician's account either of good or evil. The truth is, that Ascham still had, in his fellowship, all that in the early part of his life had given him plenty, and might have lived like the other inhabitants of the college, with the advantage of more knowledge and higher reputation. But, notwithstanding his love of academical retirement, he had now too long enjoyed the pleasures and festivities of publick life, to return with a good will to academical poverty. He had, however, better fortune than he expected; and, if he lamented his condition, like his historian, better than he deserved. He had, during his absence in Germany, been appointed Latin secretary to king Edward; and, by the interest of Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, he was instated in the same office under Philip and Mary, with a salary of twenty pounds a year. Soon after his admission to his new employment, he gave an extraordinary specimen of his abilities and diligence, by composing and transcribing, with his usual elegance, in three days, forty-seven letters to princes and personages, of whom cardinals were the lowest. How Ascham, who was known to be a protestant, could preserve the favour of Gardiner, and hold a place of honour and profit in queen Mary's court, it must be very natural to inquire. Cheke, as is well known, was compelled to a recantation; and why Ascham was spared, cannot now be discovered. Graunt, at a time when the transactions of queen Mary's reign must have been well enough remembered, declares, that Ascham always made open profession of the reformed religion, and that Englesfield and others often endeavoured to incite Gardiner against him, but found their accusations rejected with contempt: yet he allows, that suspicions and charges of temporization and compliance, had somewhat sullied his reputation. The author of the Biographia Britannica conjectures, that he owed his safety to his innocence and usefulness; that it would have been unpopular to attack a man so little liable to censure, and that the loss of his pen could not have been easily supplied. But the truth is, that morality was never suffered, in the days of persecution, to protect heresy: nor are we sure that Ascham was more clear from common failings than those who suffered more; and, whatever might be his abilities, they were not so necessary, but Gardiner could have easily filled his place with another secretary. Nothing is more vain, than, at a distant time, to examine the motives of discrimination and partiality; for the inquirer, having considered interest and policy, is obliged, at last, to admit more frequent and more active motives of human conduct, caprice, accident, and private affections. At that time, if some were punished, many were forborne; and of many why should not Ascham happen to be one? He seems to have been calm and prudent, and content with that peace which he was suffered to enjoy: a mode of behaviour that seldom fails to produce security. He had been abroad in the last years of king Edward, and had, at least, given no recent offence. He was certainly, according to his own opinion, not much in danger; for in the next year he resigned his fellowship, which, by Gardiner's favour, he had continued to hold, though not resident; and married Margaret Howe, a young gentle-woman of a good family. He was distinguished in this reign by the notice of cardinal Pole, a man of great candour, learning, and gentleness of manners, and particularly eminent for his skill in Latin, who thought highly of Ascham's style; of which it is no inconsiderable proof, that when Pole was desirous of communicating a speech made by himself as legate, in parliament, to the pope, he employed Ascham to translate it. He is said to have been not only protected by the officers of state, but favoured and countenanced by the queen herself, so that he had no reason of complaint in that reign of turbulence and persecution: nor was his fortune much mended, when, in 1558, his pupil, Elizabeth, mounted the throne. He was continued in his former employment, with the same stipend; but though he was daily admitted to the presence of the queen, assisted her private studies, and partook of her diversions; sometimes read to her in the learned languages, and sometimes played with her at draughts and chess; he added nothing to his twenty pounds a year but the prebend of Westwang, in the church of York, which was given him the year following. His fortune was, therefore, not proportionate to the rank which his offices and reputation gave him, or to the favour in which he seemed to stand with his mistress. Of this parsimonious allotment it is again a hopeless search to inquire the reason. The queen was not naturally bountiful, and, perhaps, did not think it necessary to distinguish, by any prodigality of kindness, a man who had formerly deserted her, and whom she might still suspect of serving rather for interest than affection. Graunt exerts his rhetorical powers in praise of Ascham's disinterestedness and contempt of money; and declares, that, though he was often reproached by his friends with neglect of his own interest, he never would ask any thing, and inflexibly refused all presents which his office or imagined interest induced any to offer him. Camden, however, imputes the narrowness of his condition to his love of dice and cockfights: and Graunt, forgetting himself, allows that Ascham was sometimes thrown into agonies by disappointed expectations. It may be easily discovered, from his Schoolmaster, that he felt his wants, though he might neglect to supply them; and we are left to suspect, that he showed his contempt of money only by losing at play. If this was his practice, we may excuse Elizabeth, who knew the domestick character of her servants, if she did not give much to him who was lavish of a little. However he might fail in his economy, it were indecent to treat with wanton levity the memory of a man who shared his frailties with all, but whose learning or virtues few can attain, and by whose excellencies many may be improved, while himself only suffered by his faults. In the reign of Elizabeth, nothing remarkable is known to have befallen him, except that, in 1563, he was invited, by sir Edward Sackville, to write the Schoolmaster, a treatise on education, upon an occasion which he relates in the beginning of the book. This work, though begun with alacrity, in hopes of a considerable reward, was interrupted by the death of the patron, and afterwards sorrowfully and slowly finished, in the gloom of disappointment, under the pressure of distress. But of the author's disinclination or dejection there can be found no tokens in the work, which is conceived with great vigour, and finished with great accuracy; and, perhaps, contains the best advice that was ever given for the study of languages. This treatise he completed, but did not publish; for that poverty which, in our days, drives authors so hastily in such numbers to the press, in the time of Ascham, I believe, debarred them from it. The printers gave little for a copy, and, if we may believe the tale of Raleigh's history, were not forward to print what was offered them for nothing. Ascham's book, therefore, lay unseen in his study, and was, at last, dedicated to lord Cecil by his widow. Ascham never had a robust or vigorous body, and his excuse for so many hours of diversion was his inability to endure a long continuance of sedentary thought. In the latter part of his life he found it necessary to forbear any intense application of the mind from dinner to bedtime, and rose to read and write early in the morning. He was, for some years, hectically feverish; and, though he found some alleviation of his distemper, never obtained a perfect recovery of his health. The immediate cause of his last sickness was too close application to the composition of a poem, which he purposed to present to the queen, on the day of her accession. To finish this, he forbore to sleep at his accustomed hours, till, in December, 1568, he fell sick of a kind of lingering disease, which Graunt has not named, nor accurately described. The most afflictive symptom was want of sleep, which he endeavoured to obtain by the motion of a cradle. Growing every day weaker, he found it vain to contend with his distemper, and prepared to die with the resignation and piety of a true Christian. He was attended on his death-bed by Gravet, vicar of St. Sepulchre, and Dr. Nowel, the learned dean of St. Paul's, who gave ample testimony to the decency and devotion of his concluding life. He frequently testified his desire of that dissolution which he soon obtained. His funeral sermon was preached by Dr. Nowel. Roger Ascham died in the fifty-third year of his age, at a time when, according to the general course of life, much might yet have been expected from him, and when he might have hoped for much from others: but his abilities and his wants were at an end together; and who can determine, whether he was cut off from advantages, or rescued from calamities? He appears to have been not much qualified for the improvement of his fortune. His disposition was kind and social; he delighted in the pleasures of conversation, and was probably not much inclined to business. This may be suspected from the paucity of his writings. He has left little behind him; and of that little, nothing was published by himself but the Toxophilus, and the account of Germany. The Schoolmaster was printed by his widow; and the epistles were collected by Graunt, who dedicated them to queen Elizabeth, that he might have an opportunity of recommending his son, Giles Ascham, to her patronage. The dedication was not lost: the young man was made, by the queen's mandate, fellow of a college in Cambridge, where he obtained considerable reputation. What was the effect of his widow's dedication to Cecil, is not known: it may be hoped that Ascham's works obtained for his family, after his decease, that support which he did not, in his life, very plenteously procure them. Whether he was poor by his own fault, or the fault of others, cannot now be decided; but it is certain that many have been rich with less merit. His philological learning would have gained him honour in any country; and, among us, it may justly call for that reverence which all nations owe to those who first rouse them from ignorance, and kindle among them the light of literature. Of his manners, nothing can be said but from his own testimony, and that of his contemporaries. Those who mention him allow him many virtues. His courtesy, benevolence, and liberality, are celebrated; and of his piety, we have not only the testimony of his friends, but the evidence of his writings. That his English works have been so long neglected, is a proof of the uncertainty of literary fame. He was scarcely known, as an author, in his own language, till Mr. Upton published his Schoolmaster, with learned notes. His other pieces were read only by those few who delight in obsolete books; but as they are now collected into one volume, with the addition of some letters never printed before, the publick has an opportunity of recompensing the injury, and allotting Ascham the reputation due to his knowledge and his eloquence. [1] From the Gentleman's Magazine, 1742. [2] Literary Magazine, vol. i. p. 41. 1756. [3] The first part of this review closed here. What follows did not appear until seven months after. To which delay the writer alludes with provoking severity. [4] Literary Magazine, vol. i. p, 89. 1756. [5] From the Literary Magazine, vol. ii. p. 253. [6] And of such a man, it is to be regretted, that Dr. Johnson was, by whatever motive, induced to speak with acrimony; but, it is probable, that he took up the subject, at first, merely to give play to his fancy. This answer, however, to Mr. Hanway's letter, is, as Mr. Boswell has remarked, the only instance, in the whole course of his life, when he condescended to oppose any thing that was written against him. C. [7] From the Literary Magazine, 1756. [8] In all the papers and criticisms Dr. Johnson wrote for the Literary Magazine, he frequently departs from the customary we of anonymous writers. This, with his inimitable style, soon pointed him out, as the principal person concerned in that publication. [9] The second volume of Dr. Warton's Essay was not published until the year 1782. [10] This Enquiry, published in 1757, was the production of Soame Jenyns, esq. who never forgave the author of the review. It is painful to relate, that, after he had suppressed his resentment during Dr. Johnson's life, he gave it vent, in a petulant and illiberal mock-epitaph, which would not have deserved notice, had it not been admitted into the edition of his works, published by Mr. Cole. When this epitaph first appeared in the newspapers, Mr. Boswell answered it by another upon Mr. Jenyns, equal, at least, in illiberality. This review is justly reckoned one of the finest specimens of criticism in our language, and was read with such eagerness, when published in the Literary Magazine, that the author was induced to reprint it in a small volume by itself; a circumstance which appears to have escaped Mr. Boswell's research. [11] New Practice of Physick. [12] From the Literary Magazine, 1756. [13] From the Literary Magazine, 1756. [14] From the Literary Magazine, 1756.--There are other reviews of books by Dr. Johnson, in this magazine, but, in general, very short, and consisting chiefly of a few introductory remarks, and an extract. That on Mrs. Harrison's Miscellanies maybe accounted somewhat interesting, from the notice of Dr. Watts. [15] Written by Mr. Tytler, of Edinburgh. [16] Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, October, 1760. [17] First printed in the year 1739. [18] See his Remains, 1614, p. 337, "Riming verses, which are called _versus leonini_, I know not wherefore, (for a lyon's taile doth not answer to the middle parts as these verses doe,) began in the time of Carolus Magnus, and were only in request then, and in many ages following, which delighted in nothing more than in this minstrelsie of meeters." [19] Dr. Edward Young. [20] Ambrose Philips, author of the Distrest Mother, &c. [21] Edward Ward. See Dunciad, and Biographia Dramatica. [22] Joseph Mitchell. See Biographia Dramatica. [23] Published first in the Literary Magazine, No. iv. from July 15, to Aug. 15, 1756. This periodical work was published by Richardson, in Paternoster row, but was discontinued about two years after. Dr. Johnson wrote many articles, which have been enumerated by Mr. Boswell, and there are others which I should be inclined to attribute to him, from internal evidence. [24] In the magazine, this article is promised "to be continued;" but the author was, by whatever means, diverted from it, and no continuation appears. [25] This was the introductory article to the Literary Magazine, No. i. [26] From the Literary Magazine, for July, 1756. [27] See Literary Magazine, No. ii. p. 63. [28] This short paper was added to some editions of the Idler, when collected into volumes, but not by Dr. Johnson, as Mr. Boswell asserts, nor to the early editions of that work. [29] In the first edition, this passage stood thus: "Let him not, however, be depreciated in his grave. He had powers not universally possessed; could he have enforced payment of the Manilla ransome, _he could have counted it_." There were some other alterations suggested, it would appear, by lord North. [30] The Patriot is of the same cast with Johnson's other political writings. It endeavours to justify the outrages of the house of commons, in the case of the Middlesex election, and to vindicate the harsh measures then in agitation against America: it can only, therefore, be admired as a clever, sophistical composition.--Eb. [31] For arguments on the opposite side of this question, see the Abbé Raynal's Revolution of America, and Edin. Rev. xl. p. 451.--Ed. [32] Of this reasoning I owe part to a conversation with sir John Hawkins. [33] Written for the Gentleman's Magazine, for 1738. [34] "Erat Hermanni genitor Latine, Græce, Hebraice sciens: peritus valde historiarum et gentium. Vir apertus, candidus, simplex; paterfamilias optimus amore, cura, diligentia, frugalitate, prudentia. Qui non magna in re, sed plenus virtutis, novem liberis educandis exemplum praebuit singulare, quid exacta parsimonia polleat, et frugalitas." _Orig. Edit._ [35] "Jungebat his exercitiis quotidianam patrum lectionem, secundum chronologiam, a Clemente Romano exorsus, et juxta seriem seculorum descendens: ut Jesu Christi doctrinam in N. T. traditam, primis patribus interpretantibus, addisceret. "Horum simplicitatem sincerae doctrinae, disciplinae sanctitatem, vitae Deo Jicatae integritatem adorabat. Subtilitatem scholarum divina postmodum inquinasse dolebat. Aegerrime tulit sacrorum interpretationem ex sectis sophistarum peti; et Platonis, Aristotelis, Thomas Aquinatis, Scoti; suoque tempore Cartesii, cogitata metaphysica adhiberi pro legibus, ad quas eastigarentur sacrorum scriptorum de Deo sentential. Experiebatur acerba dissidia, ingeniorumque subtilissimorum acerrima certamina, odia, ambitiones, inde cieri, foveri; adeo contraria paci cum Deo et homine. Nihil hic magis illi obstabat; quam quod omnes asserant sacram scripturam [Greek: anthropopathos] loquentem, [Greek: theoprepos] explicandam; et [Greek: theoprepouan] singuli definiant ex placitis suae metaphysices. Horrebat inde dominantis sectae praevalentem opinionem, orthodoxiae modum, et regulas, unice dare juxta dictata metaphysicorum, non sacrarum literarum; unde tam variae; sententiae de doctrina simplicissima." --_Orig. Edit._ [36] "Circa hoc tempus, lautis conditionibus, lautioribus promissis, invitatus, plus vice simplici, a viro primariae dignationis, qui gratia flagrantissima florebat regis Gulielmi III. ut Hagamcomitum sedem caperet fortunarum, declinavit constans. Contentus videlicet vita libera, remota a turbis, studiisque porro percolendis unice impensa, ubi non cogeretur alia dicere et simulare, alia sentire et dissimulare: affectuum studiis rapi, regi. Sic turn vita erat, aegros visere, mox domi in musaeo se condere, officinam Vulcaniam exercere; omnes medicinae partes acerrime persequi; mathematica etiam aliis tradere; sacra legere, et auctores qui profitentur docere rationem certam amandi Deum."--_Orig. Edit._ [37] "Succos pressos bibit noster herbarum cichoreæ, endiviæ; fumariæ; nasturtii aquatici, veronicæ aquatics latifoliæ; copia ingenti; simul deglutiens abundantissime gummi ferulacea Asiatica."--_Orig. Edit._ [38] "Aetas, labor, corporisque opima pinguetudo, effecerant, ante annum, ut inertibus refertum, grave, hebes, plenitudine turgens corpus, anhelum ad motus minimos, cum sensu suffocationis, pulsu mirifice anomalo, ineptum evaderet ad ullum motum. Urgebat praecipue subsistens prorsus et intercepta respiratio ad prima somni initia; unde somnus prorsus prohibebatur, cum formidabili strangulationis molestia. Hinc hydrops pedum, crurum, femorum, scroti, praeputii, et abdominis. Quae tamen omnia sublata. Sed dolor manet in abdomine, cum anxietate summa, anhelitu suffocante, et debilitate incredibili; somno pauco, eoque vago, per somnia turbatissimo; animus vero rebus agendis impar. Cum his luctor fessus nec emergo; patienter expectans Dei jussa, quibus resigno data, quae sola amo, et honoro unice."--_Orig. Edit._ [39] Doctrinam sacris literis Hebraice et Graece traditarn, solam animae salutarem et agnovit et sensit. Omni opportunitate profitebatur disciplinam, quam Jesus Christus ore et vita expressit, unice tranquillitatem dare menti. Semperque dixit amicis, pacem animi baud reperiundam, nisi in magno Mosis praecepto de sincere amore Dei et hominis bene observato. Neque extra sacra monumenta uspiam inveniri, quod mentem serenet. Deum pius adoravit, qui est. Intelligere de Deo, unice, volebat id, quod Deus de se intelligit. Eo contentus ultra nihil requisivit, ne idolatria erraret. In voluntate Dei sic requiescebat, ut illius nullam omnino rationem indagandam putaret. Hanc unice supremam omnium legem esse contendebat; deliberata constautia perfectissime colendam. De aliis et seipso sentiebat: ut quoties criminis reos ad poenas letales damnatos audiret, semper cogitaret, saspe diceret: "Quis dixerat annon me sint melioresi Utique, si ipse melior, id non mihi auctori tribuendum esse, palam aio, confiteor; sed ita largienti Deo."--_Orig. Edit._ [40] This life first appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1739, vol. ix. p. 176. It, throughout, exhibits that ardent fondness for chemistry, which Johnson cherished, and that respect for physicians, which his numerous memoirs of members of that profession, and his attachment to Dr. Bathurst and the amiable and single-hearted Level, evinced.--ED. [41] This life was first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for the year 1740. [42] The name of sir Henry Savil does not occur in the list of the wardens of Wadham college. [43] From H. Norhone, B.D. his contemporary there. [44] This life was first printed in the Gent. Mag. for 1740, and Johnson's unceasing abhorrence of Spanish encroachment and oppression is remarkable throughout. See his London, and Idler, 81.--Ed. [45] This article was first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1740. The proper spelling is Baratier. [46] The passages referred to in the preceding pages we have printed in italics, for the more easy reference. [47] Translated from an éloge by Fontenelle, and first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1741. [48] The practice of Dr. Morin is forbidden, I believe, by every writer that has left rules for the preservation of health, and is directly opposite to that of Cornaro, who, by his regimen, repaired a broken constitution, and protracted his life, without any painful infirmities, or any decay of his intellectual abilities, to more than a hundred years; it is generally agreed that, as men advance in years, they ought to take lighter sustenance, and in less quantities; and reason seems easily to discover, that as the concoctive powers grow weaker, they ought to labour less.--_Orig. Edit._ [49] This is an instance of the disposition generally found in writers of lives, to exalt every common occurrence and action into wonder. Are not indexes daily written by men, who neither receive nor expect any loud applauses for their labours?--_Orig. Edit._ [50] First printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1742. [51] A more full list is given in the last edition of the Biographical Dictionary, vol. vii. [52] Originally prefixed to the new translation of Dr. Sydenham's works, by John Swan, M.D. of Newcastle, in Staffordshire, 1742. [53] Since the foregoing was written, we have seen Mr. Ward's Lives of the Professors of Gresham college; who, in the life of Dr. Mapletoft, says, that, in 1676, Dr. Sydenham published his Observationes medicæ circa morborum acutorum historiam et curationem, which he dedicated to Dr. Mapletoft, who, at the desire of the author, had translated them into Latin; and that the other pieces of that excellent physician were translated into that language by Mr. Gilbert Havers, of Trinity college, Cambridge, a student in physick, and friend of Dr. Mapletolt. But, as Mr. Ward, like others, neglects to bring any proof of his assertion, the question cannot fairly be decided by his authority.-- _Orig. Edit_. [54] First printed in The Student, 1751. [55] Vide Wood's Ath. Ox.--_Orig. Edit._ [56] Vide Wood's Ath. Ox.--_Orig. Edit._ [57] Vide Wood's Hist. Univ. Ox.--_Orig. Edit._ [58] Vide Wood's Hist. Antiq. Oxon.--_Orig. Edit._ [59] This life first appeared in the Gentleman's magazine for 1754, and is now printed from a copy revised by the author, at my request, in 1781. N.--It was, in the magazine, introduced by a general remark, which we have again prefixed. [60] This was said in the beginning of the year 1781; and may with truth be now repeated. N. [61] The London Magazine ceased to exist in 1785. N. [62] Mr. Cave was buried in the church of St. James, Clerkenwell, without an epitaph; but the following inscription at Rugby, from the pen of Dr. Hawkesworth, is here transcribed from the Anecdotes of Mr. Bowyer, p. 88. Near this place lies The body of JOSEPH CAVE, Late of this parish: Who departed this Life, Nov. 18, 1747, Aged 79 years. Me was placed by Providence in a humble station; But Industry abundantly supplied the wants of Nature, And Temperance blest him with Content and Wealth. As he was an affectionate Father, He was made happy in the decline of life By the deserved eminence of his eldest Son, EDWARD CAVE, Who, without interest, fortune, or connexion, By the native force of his own genius, [63] First printed in the Literary Magazine for 1756. [64] Christian Morals, first printed in 1756. [65] Life of sir Thomas Browne, prefixed to the Antiquities of Norwich. [66] Whitefoot's character of sir Thomas Browne, in a marginal note. [67] Life of sir Thomas Browne. [68] Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses. [69] Wood. [70] Life of sir Thomas Browne. [71] Life of sir Thomas Browne. [72] Biographia Britannica. [73] Letter to sir Kenelm Digby, prefixed to the Religio Medici, fol. edit. [74] Digby's Letter to Browne, prefixed to the Religio Medici, fol. edit. [75] Life of sir Thomas Browne. [76] Merryweather's letter, inserted in the Life of sir Thomas Browne. [77] Life of sir Thomas Browne. [78] Wood's Athenae Oxonienses. [79] Wood. [80] Whitefoot. [81] Howell's Letters. [82] Religio Medici. [83] Life of sir Thomas Browne. [84] Wood, and Life of sir Thomas Browne. [85] the end of Hydriotaphia. [86] Johnson, by trusting; to his memory, has here fallen into an error. Howell, in his instructions for Foreign Travell, has said directly the reverse of what is ascribed to him: "I have beaten my brains," he tells us, "to make one sentence good Italian and congruous Latin, but could never do it; but in Spanish it is very feasible, as, for example, in this stanza: Infausta Graecia, tu paris gentes Lubricas, sed amicitias dolosas, Machinando fraudes cautilosas, Ruinando animas innocentes: which is good Latin enough; and yet is vulgar Spanish, intelligible to every plebeian."--J. B. [87] Browne's Remains.--Whitefoot. [88] Therefore no hereticks desire to spread Their wild opinions like these epicures. For so their staggering thoughts are computed, And other men's assent their doubt assures. DAVIES. [89] First printed before his Works in 4to. published by Bennet, 1763. END OF VOL. VI. [Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been numbered and relocated to the end of the work.] 
11768	----	Oxford English Classics * * * * * DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS. * * * * * MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. IN NINE VOLUMES. VOLUME THE FIFTH. MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS OF THE FIFTH VOLUME. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. The plan of an English dictionary Preface to the English dictionary Advertisement to the fourth edition of the English dictionary Preface to the octavo edition of the English dictionary Observations on the tragedy of Macbeth Proposals for printing the works of Shakespeare Preface to Shakespeare General observations on the plays of Shakespeare Account of the Harleian library Essay on the importance of small tracts Preface to the catalogue of the Harleian library, vol. iii Controversy between Crousaz and Warburton Preliminary discourse to the London Chronicle Introduction to the World Displayed Preface to the Preceptor, containing a general plan of education ----to Rolt's dictionary ----to the translation of father Lobo's voyage to Abyssinia An essay on epitaphs Preface to an Essay on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns in his Paradise Lost Letter to the Rev. Mr. Douglas, occasioned by his vindication of Milton, &c. By William Lauder, A.M. Testimonies concerning Mr. Lauder Account of an attempt to ascertain the longitude Considerations on the plans offered for the construction of Blackfriars bridge Some thoughts on agriculture, both ancient and modern; with an account of the honour due to an English farmer Further thoughts on agriculture Considerations on the corn laws A complete vindication of the licensers of the stage from the malicious and scandalous aspersions of Mr. Brooke Preface to the Gentleman's Magazine, 1738 An appeal to the publick. From the Gentleman's Magazine, March, 1739 Letter on fire-works Proposals for printing, by subscription, Essays in Verse and Prose, by Anna Williams A project for the employment of authors Preface to the Literary Magazine, 1756 A dissertation upon the Greek comedy, translated from Brumoy General conclusion to Brumoy's Greek theatre DEDICATIONS Preface to Payne's New Tables of Interest Thoughts on the coronation of his majesty king George the third Preface to the Artists' Catalogue for 1762 OPINIONS ON QUESTIONS OF LAW Considerations on the case of Dr. T[rapp]'s [Transcriber's note: sic] On school chastisement On vitious intromission On lay patronage in the church of Scotland On pulpit censure THE PLAN OF AN ENGLISH DICTIONARY. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP DORMER, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, One of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State. MY LORD, When first I undertook to write an English Dictionary, I had no expectation of any higher patronage than that of the proprietors of the copy, nor prospect of any other advantage than the price of my labour. I knew that the work in which I engaged is generally considered as drudgery for the blind, as the proper toil of artless industry; a task that requires neither the light of learning, nor the activity of genius, but maybe successfully performed without any higher quality than that of bearing burdens with dull patience, and beating the track of the alphabet with sluggish resolution. Whether this opinion, so long transmitted, and so widely propagated, had its beginning from truth and nature, or from accident and prejudice; whether it be decreed by the authority of reason or the tyranny of ignorance, that, of all the candidates for literary praise, the unhappy lexicographer holds the lowest place, neither vanity nor interest incited me to inquire. It appeared that the province allotted me was, of all the regions of learning, generally confessed to be the least delightful, that it was believed to produce neither fruits nor flowers; and that, after a long and laborious cultivation, not even the barren laurel[1] had been found upon it. Yet on this province, my Lord, I entered, with the pleasing hope, that, as it was low, it likewise would be safe. I was drawn forward with the prospect of employment, which, though not splendid, would be useful; and which, though it could not make my life envied, would keep it innocent; which would awaken no passion, engage me in no contention, nor throw in my way any temptation to disturb the quiet of others by censure, or my own by flattery. I had read, indeed, of times, in which princes and statesmen thought it part of their honour to promote the improvement of their native tongues; and in which dictionaries were written under the protection of greatness. To the patrons of such undertakings I willingly paid the homage of believing that they, who were thus solicitous for the perpetuity of their language, had reason to expect that their actions would be celebrated by posterity, and that the eloquence which they promoted would be employed in their praise. But I considered such acts of beneficence as prodigies, recorded rather to raise wonder than expectation; and, content with the terms that I had stipulated, had not suffered my imagination to flatter me with any other encouragement, when I found that my design had been thought by your Lordship of importance sufficient to attract your favour. How far this unexpected distinction can be rated among the happy incidents of life, I am not yet able to determine. Its first effect has been to make me anxious, lest it should fix the attention of the publick too much upon me; and, as it once happened to an epick poet of France, by raising the reputation of the attempt, obstruct the reception of the work. I imagine what the world will expect from a scheme, prosecuted under your Lordship's influence; and I know that expectation, when her wings are once expanded, easily reaches heights which performance never will attain; and when she has mounted the summit of perfection, derides her follower, who dies in the pursuit. Not, therefore, to raise expectation, but to repress it, I here lay before your Lordship the plan of my undertaking, that more may not be demanded than I intend; and that, before it is too far advanced to be thrown into a new method, I may be advertised of its defects or superfluities. Such informations I may justly hope, from the emulation with which those, who desire the praise of elegance or discernment, must contend in the promotion of a design that you, my Lord, have not thought unworthy to share your attention with treaties and with wars. In the first attempt to methodise my ideas I found a difficulty, which extended itself to the whole work. It was not easy to determine by what rule of distinction the words of this dictionary were to be chosen. The chief intent of it is to preserve the purity, and ascertain the meaning of our English idiom; and this seems to require nothing more than that our language be considered, so far as it is our own; that the words and phrases used in the general intercourse of life, or found in the works of those whom we commonly style polite writers, be selected, without including the terms of particular professions; since, with the arts to which they relate, they are generally derived from other nations, and are very often the same in all the languages of this part of the world. This is, perhaps, the exact and pure idea of a grammatical dictionary; but in lexicography, as in other arts, naked science is too delicate for the purposes of life. The value of a work must be estimated by its use; it is not enough that a dictionary delights the critick, unless, at the same time, it instructs the learner; as it is to little purpose that an engine amuses the philosopher by the subtilty of its mechanism, if it requires so much knowledge in its application as to be of no advantage to the common workman. The title which I prefix to my work has long conveyed a very miscellaneous idea, and they that take a dictionary into their hands, have been accustomed to expect from it a solution of almost every difficulty. If foreign words, therefore, were rejected, it could be little regarded, except by criticks, or those who aspire to criticism; and however it might enlighten those that write, would be all darkness to them that only read. The unlearned much oftener consult their dictionaries for the meaning of words, than for their structures or formations; and the words that most want explanation are generally terms of art; which, therefore, experience has taught my predecessors to spread with a kind of pompous luxuriance over their productions. The academicians of France, indeed, rejected terms of science in their first essay, but found afterwards a necessity of relaxing the rigour of their determination; and, though they would not naturalize them at once by a single act, permitted them by degrees to settle themselves among the natives, with little opposition; and it would surely be no proof of judgment to imitate them in an errour which they have now retracted, and deprive the book of its chief use, by scrupulous distinctions. Of such words, however, all are not equally to be considered as parts of our language; for some of them are naturalized and incorporated; but others still continue aliens, and are rather auxiliaries than subjects. This naturalization is produced either by an admission into common speech, in some metaphorical signification, which is the acquisition of a kind of property among us; as we say, the _zenith_ of advancement, the _meridian_ of life, the _cynosure_[2] of neighbouring eyes; or it is the consequence of long intermixture and frequent use, by which the ear is accustomed to the sound of words, till their original is forgotten, as in _equator, satellites_; or of the change of a foreign to an English termination, and a conformity to the laws of the speech into which they are adopted; as in _category, cachexy, peripneumony_. Of those which still continue in the state of aliens, and have made no approaches towards assimilation, some seem necessary to be retained, because the purchasers of the Dictionary will expect to find them. Such are many words in the common law, as _capias, habeas corpus, praemunire, nisi prius_: such are some terms of controversial divinity, as _hypostasis_; and of physick, as the names of diseases; and, in general, all terms which can be found in books not written professedly upon particular arts, or can be supposed necessary to those who do not regularly study them. Thus, when a reader not skilled in physick happens in Milton upon this line, --pining atrophy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence, he will, with equal expectation, look into his dictionary for the word _marasmus_, as for _atrophy_, or _pestilence_; and will have reason to complain if he does not find it. It seems necessary to the completion of a dictionary, designed not merely for criticks, but for popular use, that it should comprise, in some degree, the peculiar words of every profession; that the terms of war and navigation should be inserted, so far as they can be required by readers of travels, and of history; and those of law, merchandise, and mechanical trades, so far as they can be supposed useful in the occurrences of common life. But there ought, however, to be some distinction made between the different classes of words; and, therefore, it will be proper to print those which are incorporated into the language in the usual character, and those which are still to be considered as foreign, in the Italick letter. Another question may arise with regard to appellatives, or the names of species. It seems of no great use to set down the words _horse, dog, cat, willow, alder, daisy, rose_, and a thousand others, of which it will be hard to give an explanation, not more obscure than the word itself. Yet it is to be considered, that, if the names of animals be inserted, we must admit those which are more known, as well as those with which we are, by accident, less acquainted; and if they are all rejected, how will the reader be relieved from difficulties produced by allusions to the crocodile, the chameleon, the ichneumon, and the hyaena? If no plants are to be mentioned, the most pleasing part of nature will be excluded, and many beautiful epithets be unexplained. If only those which are less known are to be mentioned, who shall fix the limits of the reader's learning? The importance of such explications appears from the mistakes which the want of them has occasioned: had Shakespeare had a dictionary of this kind, he had not made the _woodbine_ entwine the _honeysuckle_; nor would Milton, with such assistance, have disposed so improperly of his _ellops_ and his _scorpion_. Besides, as such words, like others, require that their accents should be settled, their sounds ascertained, and their etymologies deduced, they cannot be properly omitted in the Dictionary. And though the explanations of some may be censured as trivial, because they are almost universally understood, and those of others as unnecessary, because they will seldom occur, yet it seems not proper to omit them; since it is rather to be wished that many readers should find more than they expect, than that one should miss what he might hope to find. When all the words are selected and arranged, the first part of the work to be considered is the orthography, which was long vague and uncertain; which at last, when its fluctuation ceased, was in many cases settled but by accident; and in which, according to your Lordship's observation, there is still great uncertainty among the best criticks; nor is it easy to state a rule by which we may decide between custom and reason, or between the equiponderant authorities of writers alike eminent for judgment and accuracy. The great orthographical contest has long subsisted between etymology and pronunciation. It has been demanded, on one hand, that men should write as they speak; but, as it has been shown that this conformity never was attained in any language, and that it is not more easy to persuade men to agree exactly in speaking than in writing, it may be asked, with equal propriety, why men do not rather speak as they write. In France, where this controversy was at its greatest height, neither party, however ardent, durst adhere steadily to their own rule; the etymologist was often forced to spell with the people; and the advocate for the authority of pronunciation found it sometimes deviating so capriciously from the received use of writing, that he was constrained to comply with the rule of his adversaries, lest he should lose the end by the means, and be left alone by following the crowd. When a question of orthography is dubious, that practice has, in my opinion, a claim to preference which preserves the greatest number of radical letters, or seems most to comply with the general custom of our language. But the chief rule which I propose to follow is, to make no innovation without a reason sufficient to balance the inconvenience of change; and such reasons I do not expect often to find. All change is of itself an evil, which ought not to be hazarded but for evident advantage; and as inconstancy is in every case a mark of weakness, it will add nothing to the reputation of our tongue. There are, indeed, some who despise the inconveniencies of confusion, who seem to take pleasure in departing from custom, and to think alteration desirable for its own sake; and the reformation of our orthography, which these writers have attempted, should not pass without its due honours, but that I suppose they hold singularity its own reward, or may dread the fascination of lavish praise. The present usage of spelling, where the present usage can be distinguished, will, therefore, in this work, be generally followed; yet there will be often occasion to observe, that it is in itself inaccurate, and tolerated rather than chosen; particularly when, by the change of one letter or more, the meaning of a word is obscured, as in _farrier_ for _ferrier_, as it was formerly written, from _ferrum_, or _fer_; in _gibberish_ for _gebrish_, the jargon of Geber, and his chymical followers, understood by none but their own tribe. It will be likewise sometimes proper to trace back the orthography of different ages, and show by what gradations the word departed from its original. Closely connected with orthography is pronunciation, the stability of which is of great importance to the duration of a language, because the first change will naturally begin by corruptions in the living speech. The want of certain rules for the pronunciation of former ages, has made us wholly ignorant of the metrical art of our ancient poets; and since those who study their sentiments regret the loss of their numbers, it is surely time to provide that the harmony of the moderns may be more permanent. A new pronunciation will make almost a new speech; and, therefore, since one great end of this undertaking is to fix the English language, care will be taken to determine the accentuation of all polysyllables by proper authorities, as it is one of those capricious phaenomena which cannot be easily reduced to rules. Thus there is no antecedent reason for difference of accent in the two words _dolorous_ and _sonorous_; yet of the one Milton gives the sound in this line, He pass'd o'er many a region _dolorous_; and that of the other in this, _Sonorous_ metal blowing martial sounds. It may be likewise proper to remark metrical licenses, such as contractions, _generous, gen'rous; reverend, rev'rend_; and coalitions, as _region, question_. But still it is more necessary to fix the pronunciation of monosyllables, by placing with them words of correspondent sound, that one may guard the other against the danger of that variation, which, to some of the most common, has already happened; so that the words _wound_ and _wind_, as they are now frequently pronounced, will not rhyme to _sound_ and _mind_. It is to be remarked, that many words written alike are differently pronounced, as _flow_, and _brow_: which may be thus registered, _flow, woe; brow, now_; or of which the exemplification may be generally given by a distich: thus the words _tear_, or lacerate and _tear_, the water of the eye, have the same letters, but may be distinguished thus, _tear, dare; tear, peer_. Some words have two sounds, which may be equally admitted, as being equally defensible by authority. Thus _great_ is differently used: For Swift and him despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and _great_. POPE. As if misfortune made the throne her seat, And none could be unhappy but the _great_. ROWE. The care of such minute particulars may be censured as trifling; but these particulars have not been thought unworthy of attention in more polished languages. The accuracy of the French, in stating the sounds of their letters, is well known; and, among the Italians, Crescembeni has not thought it unnecessary to inform his countrymen of the words which, in compliance with different rhymes, are allowed to be differently spelt, and of which the number is now so fixed, that no modern poet is suffered to increase it. When the orthography and pronunciation are adjusted, the etymology or derivation is next to be considered, and the words are to be distinguished according to the different classes, whether simple, as _day, light_, or compound, as _day-light_; whether primitive, as, to _act_, or derivative, as _action, actionable; active, activity_. This will much facilitate the attainment of our language, which now stands in our dictionaries a confused heap of words without dependence, and without relation. When this part of the work is performed, it will be necessary to inquire how our primitives are to be deduced from foreign languages, which may be often very successfully performed by the assistance of our own etymologists. This search will give occasion to many curious disquisitions, and sometimes, perhaps, to conjectures, which to readers unacquainted with this kind of study, cannot but appear improbable and capricious. But it may be reasonably imagined, that what is so much in the power of men as language, will very often be capriciously conducted. Nor are these disquisitions and conjectures to be considered altogether as wanton sports of wit, or vain shows of learning; our language is well known not to be primitive or self-originated, but to have adopted words of every generation, and, either for the supply of its necessities, or the increase of its copiousness, to have received additions from very distant regions; so that in search of the progenitors of our speech, we may wander from the tropick to the frozen zone, and find some in the valleys of Palestine, and some upon the rocks of Norway. Beside the derivation of particular words, there is likewise an etymology of phrases. Expressions are often taken from other languages; some apparently, as to _run a risk, courir un risque_; and some even when we do not seem to borrow their words; thus, to _bring about_, or accomplish, appears an English phrase, but in reality our native word _about_ has no such import, and is only a French expression, of which we have an example in the common phrase _venir à bout d'une affaire_. In exhibiting the descent of our language, our etymologists seem to have been too lavish of their learning, having traced almost every word through various tongues, only to show what was shown sufficiently by the first derivation. This practice is of great use in synoptical lexicons, where mutilated and doubtful languages are explained by their affinity to others more certain and extensive, but is generally superfluous in English etymologies. When the word is easily deduced from a Saxon original, I shall not often inquire further, since we know not the parent of the Saxon dialect; but when it is borrowed from the French, I shall show whence the French is apparently derived. Where a Saxon root cannot be found, the defect may be supplied from kindred languages, which will be generally furnished with much liberality by the writers of our glossaries; writers who deserve often the highest praise, both of judgment and industry, and may expect at least to be mentioned with honour by me, whom they have freed from the greatest part of a very laborious work, and on whom they have imposed, at worst, only the easy task of rejecting superfluities. By tracing in this manner every word to its original, and not admitting, but with great caution, any of which no original can be found, we shall secure our language from being overrun with _cant_, from being crowded with low terms, the spawn of folly or affectation, which arise from no just principles of speech, and of which, therefore, no legitimate derivation can be shown. When the etymology is thus adjusted, the analogy of our language is next to be considered; when we have discovered whence our words are derived, we are to examine by what rules they are governed, and how they are inflected through their various terminations. The terminations of the English are few, but those few have hitherto remained unregarded by the writers of our dictionaries. Our substantives are declined only by the plural termination, our adjectives admit no variation but in the degrees of comparison, and our verbs are conjugated by auxiliary words, and are only changed in the preter tense. To our language may be, with great justness, applied the observation of Quintilian, that speech was not formed by an analogy sent from heaven. It did not descend to us in a state of uniformity and perfection, but was produced by necessity, and enlarged by accident, and is, therefore, composed of dissimilar parts, thrown together by negligence, by affectation, by learning or by ignorance. Our inflections, therefore, are by no means constant, but admit of numberless irregularities, which in this Dictionary will be diligently noted. Thus _fox_ makes in the plural _foxes_, but _ox_ makes _oxen_. _Sheep_ is the same in both numbers. Adjectives are sometimes compared by changing the last syllable, as _proud, prouder, proudest_; and sometimes by particles prefixed, as _ambitious, more_ ambitious, _most_ ambitious. The forms of our verbs are subject to great variety; some end their preter tense in _ed_, as I _love_, I _loved_, I have _loved_; which may be called the regular form, and is followed by most of our verbs of southern original. But many depart from this rule, without agreeing in any other, as I _shake_, I _shook_, I have _shaken_ or _shook_, as it is sometimes written in poetry; I _make_, I _made_, I have _made_; I _bring_, I _brought_; I _wring_, I _wrung_; and many others, which, as they cannot be reduced to rules, must be learned from the dictionary rather than the grammar. The verbs are likewise to be distinguished according to their qualities, as actives from neuters; the neglect of which has already introduced some barbarities in our conversation, which, if not obviated by just animadversions, may in time creep into our writings. Thus, my Lord, will our language be laid down, distinct in its minutest subdivisions, and resolved into its elemental principles. And who upon this survey can forbear to wish, that these fundamental atoms of our speech might obtain the firmness and immutability of the primogenial and constituent particles of matter, that they might retain their substance while they alter their appearance, and be varied and compounded, yet not destroyed? But this is a privilege which words are scarcely to expect: for, like their author, when they are not gaining strength, they are generally losing it. Though art may sometimes prolong their duration, it will rarely give them perpetuity; and their changes will be almost always informing us, that language is the work of man, of a being from whom permanence and stability cannot be derived. Words having been hitherto considered as separate and unconnected, are now to be likewise examined as they are ranged in their various relations to others by the rules of syntax or construction, to which I do not know that any regard has been yet shown in English dictionaries, and in which the grammarians can give little assistance. The syntax of this language is too inconstant to be reduced to rules, and can be only learned by the distinct consideration of particular words as they are used by the best authors. Thus, we say, according to the present modes of speech, The soldier died _of_ his wounds, and the sailor perished _with_ hunger; and every man acquainted with our language would be offended with a change of these particles, which yet seem originally assigned by chance, there being no reason to be drawn from grammar why a man may not, with equal propriety, be said to die _with_ a wound or perish _of_ hunger. Our syntax, therefore, is not to be taught by general rules, but by special precedents; and in examining whether Addison has been with justice accused of a solecism in this passage, The poor inhabitant-- Starves in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaden vineyard _dies for thirst_--. it is not in our power to have recourse to any established laws of speech; but we must remark how the writers of former ages have used the same word, and consider whether he can be acquitted of impropriety, upon the testimony of Davies, given in his favour by a similar passage: She loaths the wat'ry glass wherein she gaz'd, And shuns it still, although for thirst she dye. When the construction of a word is explained, it is necessary to pursue it through its train of phraseology, through those forms where it is used in a manner peculiar to our language, or in senses not to be comprised in the general explanations; as from the verb _make_ arise these phrases, to _make love_, to _make an end_, to _make way_; as, he _made way_ for his followers, the ship _made way_ before the wind; to _make a bed_, to _make merry_, to _make a mock_, to _make presents_, to _make a doubt_, to _make out an assertion_, to _make good_ a breach, to _make good_ a cause, to _make nothing_ of an attempt, to _make lamentation_, to _make a merit_, and many others which will occur in reading with that view, and which only their frequency hinders from being generally remarked. The great labour is yet to come, the labour of interpreting these words and phrases with brevity, fulness, and perspicuity; a task of which the extent and intricacy is sufficiently shown by the miscarriage of those who have generally attempted it. This difficulty is increased by the necessity of explaining the words in the same language; for there is often only one word for one idea; and though it be easy to translate the words _bright, sweet, salt, bitter_, into another language, it is not easy to explain them. With regard to the interpretation, many other questions have required consideration. It was some time doubted whether it be necessary to explain the things implied by particular words; as under the term _baronet_, whether, instead of this explanation, _a title of honour next in degree to that of baron_, it would be better to mention more particularly the creation, privileges, and rank of baronets; and whether, under the word _barometer_, instead of being satisfied with observing that it is _an instrument to discover the weight of the air_, it would be fit to spend a few lines upon its invention, construction, and principles. It is not to be expected, that with the explanation of the one the herald should be satisfied, or the philosopher with that of the other; but since it will be required by common readers, that the explications should be sufficient for common use; and since, without some attention to such demands, the Dictionary cannot become generally valuable, I have determined to consult the best writers for explanations real as well as verbal; and, perhaps, I may at last have reason to say, after one of the augmenters of Furetier, that my book is more learned than its author. In explaining the general and popular language, it seems necessary to sort the several senses of each word, and to exhibit first its natural and primitive signification; as, To _arrive_, to reach the shore in a voyage: he _arrived_ at a safe harbour. Then to give its consequential meaning, to _arrive_, to reach any place, whether by land or sea; as, he _arrived_ at his country-seat. Then its metaphorical sense, to obtain any thing desired; as, he _arrived_ at a peerage. Then to mention any observation that arises from the comparison of one meaning with another; as, it may be remarked of the word _arrive_, that, in consequence of its original and etymological sense, it cannot be properly applied but to words signifying something desirable; thus we say, a man _arrived_ at happiness; but cannot say, without a mixture of irony, he _arrived_ at misery. _Ground_, the earth, generally as opposed to the air or water. He swam till he reached _ground_. The bird fell to the _ground_. Then follows the accidental or consequential signification in which _ground_ implies any thing that lies under another; as, he laid colours upon a rough _ground_. The silk had blue flowers on a red _ground_. Then the remoter or metaphorical signification; as, the _ground_ of his opinion was a false computation. The _ground_ of his work was his father's manuscript. After having gone through the natural and figurative senses, it will be proper to subjoin the poetical sense of each word, where it differs from that which is in common use; as _wanton_, applied to any thing of which the motion is irregular without terrour; as, In _wanton_ ringlets curl'd her hair. To the poetical sense may succeed the familiar; as of _toast_, used to imply the person whose health is drunk; as, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's _toast_. POPE. The familiar may be followed by the burlesque; as of _mellow_, applied to good fellowship: In all thy humours, whether grave or _mellow_. ADDISON. Or of _bite_, used for _cheat_: --More a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was _bit_. POPE. And, lastly, may be produced the peculiar sense, in which a word is found in any great author: as _faculties_, in Shakespeare, signifies the powers of authority: --This Duncan Has borne his _faculties_ so meek, has been So clear in his great office, that, &c. The signification of adjectives may be often ascertained by uniting them to substantives; as, _simple swain, simple sheep_. Sometimes the sense of a substantive may be elucidated by the epithets annexed to it in good authors; as, the _boundless ocean_, the _open lawns_: and where such advantage can be gained by a short quotation, it is not to be omitted. The difference of signification in words generally accounted synonymous, ought to be carefully observed; as in _pride, haughtiness, arrogance_: and the strict and critical meaning ought to be distinguished from that which is loose and popular; as in the word _perfection_, which, though in its philosophical and exact sense it can be of little use among human beings, is often so much degraded from its original signification, that the academicians have inserted in their work, _the perfection of a language_, and, with a little more licentiousness, might have prevailed on themselves to have added the _perfection of a dictionary_. There are many other characters of words which it will be of use to mention. Some have both an active and passive signification; as _fearful_, that which gives or which feels terrour; a _fearful prodigy_, a _fearful hare_. Some have a personal, some a real meaning; as, in opposition to _old_, we use the adjective _young_ of animated beings, and new of other things. Some are restrained to the sense of praise, and others to that of disapprobation; so commonly, though not always, we _exhort_ to good actions, we _instigate_ to ill; we _animate, incite_ and _encourage_ indifferently to good or bad. So we usually _ascribe_ good, but _impute_ evil; yet neither the use of these words, nor, perhaps, of any other in our licentious language, is so established as not to be often reversed by the correctest writers. I shall, therefore, since the rules of style, like those of law, arise from precedents often repeated, collect the testimonies on both sides, and endeavour to discover and promulgate the decrees of custom, who has so long possessed, whether by right or by usurpation, the sovereignty of words. It is necessary, likewise, to explain many words by their opposition to others; for contraries are best seen when they stand together. Thus the verb _stand_ has one sense, as opposed to _fall_, and another, as opposed to _fly_; for want of attending to which distinction, obvious as it is, the learned Dr. Bentley has squandered his criticism to no purpose, on these lines of Paradise Lost: --In heaps Chariot and charioteer lay overturn'd, And fiery foaming steeds. What _stood, recoil'd_ O'erwearied, through the faint Satanic host, Defensive scarce, or with pale fear surpris'd, _Fled_ ignominious.-- "Here," says the critick, "as the sentence is now read, we find that what _stood, fled_:" and, therefore, he proposes an alteration, which he might have spared, if he had consulted a dictionary, and found that nothing more was affirmed than, that those _fled_ who did not _fall_. In explaining such meanings as seem accidental and adventitious, I shall endeavour to give an account of the means by which they were introduced. Thus, to _eke out_ any thing, signifies to lengthen it beyond its just dimensions, by some low artifice; because the word _eke_ was the usual refuge of our old writers, when they wanted a syllable. And _buxom_, which means only _obedient_, is now made, in familiar phrases, to stand for _wanton_; because in an ancient form of marriage, before the Reformation, the bride promised complaisance and obedience, in these terms: "I will be bonair and _buxom_ in bed and at board." I know well, my Lord, how trifling many of these remarks will appear, separately considered, and how easily they may give occasion to the contemptuous merriment of sportive idleness, and the gloomy censures of arrogant stupidity; but dulness it is easy to despise, and laughter it is easy to repay. I shall not be solicitous what is thought of my work, by such as know not the difficulty or importance of philological studies; nor shall think those that have done nothing, qualified to condemn me for doing little. It may not, however, be improper to remind them, that no terrestrial greatness is more than an aggregate of little things; and to inculcate, after the Arabian proverb, that drops added to drops constitute the ocean. There remains yet to be considered the distribution of words into their proper classes, or that part of lexicography which is strictly critical. The popular part of the language, which includes all words not appropriated to particular sciences, admits of many distinctions and subdivisions; as, into words of general use; words employed chiefly in poetry; words obsolete; words which are admitted only by particular writers, yet not in themselves improper; words used only in burlesque writing; and words impure and barbarous. Words of general use will be known by having no sign of particularity, and their various senses will be supported by authorities of all ages. The words appropriated to poetry will be distinguished by some mark prefixed, or will be known by having no authorities but those of poets. Of antiquated or obsolete words, none will be inserted, but such as are to be found in authors, who wrote since the accession of Elizabeth, from which we date the golden age of our language; and of these many might be omitted, but that the reader may require, with an appearance of reason, that no difficulty should be left unresolved in books which he finds himself invited to read, as confessed and established models of style. These will be likewise pointed out by some note of exclusion, but not of disgrace. The words which are found only in particular books, will be known by the single name of him that has used them; but such will be omitted, unless either their propriety, elegance or force, or the reputation of their authors, affords some extraordinary reason for their reception. Words used in burlesque and familiar compositions, will be likewise mentioned with their proper authorities; such as _dudgeon_, from Butler, and _leasing_, from Prior; and will be diligently characterised by marks of distinction. Barbarous, or impure, words and expressions, may be branded with some note of infamy, as they are carefully to be eradicated wherever they are found; and they occur too frequently, even in the best writers: as in Pope, --_in_ endless error _hurl'd_. '_Tis these_ that early taint the female soul. In Addison: Attend to what a _lesser_ muse indites. And in Dryden: A dreadful quiet felt, and _worser_ far Than arms.-- If this part of the work can be well performed, it will be equivalent to the proposal made by Boileau to the academicians, that they should review all their polite writers, and correct such impurities as might be found in them, that their authority might not contribute, at any distant time, to the depravation of the language. With regard to questions of purity or propriety, I was once in doubt whether I should not attribute too much to myself, in attempting to decide them, and whether my province was to extend beyond the proposition of the question, and the display of the suffrages on each side; but I have been since determined, by your Lordship's opinion, to interpose my own judgment, and shall, therefore, endeavour to support what appears to me most consonant to grammar and reason. Ausonius thought that modesty forbad him to plead inability for a task to which Cæsar had judged him equal: Cur me posse negem posse quod ille putat? And I may hope, my Lord, that since you, whose authority in our language is so generally acknowledged, have commissioned me to declare my own opinion, I shall be considered as exercising a kind of vicarious jurisdiction, and that the power which might have been denied to my own claim, will be readily allowed me as the delegate of your Lordship. In citing authorities, on which the credit of every part of this work must depend, it will be proper to observe some obvious rules; such as of preferring writers of the first reputation to those of an inferiour rank; of noting the quotations with accuracy; and of selecting, when it can be conveniently done, such sentences, as, besides their immediate use, may give pleasure or instruction, by conveying some elegance of language, or some precept of prudence or piety. It has been asked, on some occasions, who shall judge the judges? And since, with regard to this design, a question may arise by what authority the authorities are selected, it is necessary to obviate it, by declaring that many of the writers whose testimonies will be alleged, were selected by Mr. Pope; of whom I may be justified in affirming, that were he still alive, solicitous as he was for the success of this work, he would not be displeased that I have undertaken it. It will be proper that the quotations be ranged according to the ages of their authors; and it will afford an agreeable amusement, if to the words and phrases which are not of our own growth, the name of the writer who first introduced them can be affixed; and if, to words which are now antiquated, the authority be subjoined of him who last admitted them. Thus, for _scathe_ and _buxom_, now obsolete, Milton may be cited: --The mountain oak Stands _scath'd_ to heaven.-- --He with broad sails Winnow'd the _buxom_ air.-- By this method every word will have its history, and the reader will be informed of the gradual changes of the language, and have before his eyes the rise of some words, and the fall of others. But observations so minute and accurate are to be desired, rather than expected; and if use be carefully supplied, curiosity must sometimes bear its disappointments. This, my Lord, is my idea of an English dictionary; a dictionary by which the pronunciation of our language may be fixed, and its attainment facilitated; by which its purity may be preserved, its use ascertained, and its duration lengthened. And though, perhaps, to correct the language of nations by books of grammar, and amend their manners by discourses of morality, may be tasks equally difficult, yet, as it is unavoidable to wish, it is natural likewise to hope, that your Lordship's patronage may not be wholly lost; that it may contribute to the preservation of ancient, and the improvement of modern writers; that it may promote the reformation of those translators, who, for want of understanding the characteristical difference of tongues, have formed a chaotick dialect of heterogeneous phrases; and awaken to the care of purer diction some men of genius, whose attention to argument makes them negligent of style, or whose rapid imagination, like the Peruvian torrents, when it brings down gold, mingles it with sand. When I survey the Plan which I have laid before you, I cannot, my Lord, but confess, that I am frighted at its extent, and, like the soldiers of Cæsar, look on Britain as a new world, which it is almost madness to invade. But I hope, that though I should not complete the conquest, I shall, at least, discover the coast, civilize part of the inhabitants, and make it easy for some other adventurer to proceed further, to reduce them wholly to subjection, and settle them under laws. We are taught by the great Roman orator, that every man should propose to himself the highest degree of excellence, but that he may stop with honour at the second or third: though, therefore, my performance should fall below the excellence of other dictionaries, I may obtain, at least, the praise of having endeavoured well; nor shall I think it any reproach to my diligence, that I have retired without a triumph, from a contest with united academies, and long successions of learned compilers. I cannot hope, in the warmest moments, to preserve so much caution through so long a work, as not often to sink into negligence, or to obtain so much knowledge of all its parts, as not frequently to fail by ignorance. I expect that sometimes the desire of accuracy will urge me to superfluities, and sometimes the fear of prolixity betray me to omissions; that in the extent of such variety, I shall be often bewildered, and, in the mazes of such intricacy, be frequently entangled; that in one part refinement will be subtilized beyond exactness, and evidence dilated in another beyond perspicuity. Yet I do not despair of approbation from those who, knowing the uncertainty of conjecture, the scantiness of knowledge, the fallibility of memory, and the unsteadiness of attention, can compare the causes of errour with the means of avoiding it, and the extent of art with the capacity of man: and whatever be the event of my endeavours, I shall not easily regret an attempt, which has procured me the honour of appearing thus publickly, MY LORD, Your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble servant, SAM. JOHNSON.[3] FOOTNOTES: [1] Lord Orrery, in a letter to Dr. Birch, mentions this as one of the very few inaccuracies in this admirable address, the _laurel_ not being _barren_ in any sense, but bearing fruits and flowers. Boswell's Life, vol. i. p. 160. EDIT. 1804. [2] Milton. [3] Written in the year 1747. PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH DICTIONARY. It is the fate of those, who toil at the lower employments of life, to be rather driven by the fear of evil, than attracted by the prospect of good; to be exposed to censure, without hope of praise; to be disgraced by miscarriage, or punished for neglect, where success would have been without applause, and diligence without reward. Among these unhappy mortals is the writer of dictionaries; whom mankind have considered, not as the pupil, but the slave of science, the pioneer of literature, doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths, through which Learning and Genius press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress. Every other author may aspire to praise; the lexicographer can only hope to escape reproach, and even this negative recompense has been yet granted to very few. I have, notwithstanding this discouragement, attempted a Dictionary of the English language, which, while it was employed in the cultivation of every species of literature, has itself been hitherto neglected; suffered to spread, under the direction of chance, into wild exuberance; resigned to the tyranny of time and fashion; and exposed to the corruptions of ignorance, and caprices of innovation. When I took the first survey of my undertaking, I found our speech copious without order, and energetick without rules: wherever I turned my view, there was perplexity to be disentangled, and confusion to be regulated; choice was to be made out of boundless variety, without any established principle of selection; adulterations were to be detected, without a settled test of purity; and modes of expression to be rejected or received, without the suffrages of any writers of classical reputation or acknowledged authority. Having, therefore, no assistance but from general grammar, I applied myself to the perusal of our writers; and, noting whatever might be of use to ascertain or illustrate any word or phrase, accumulated in time the materials of a dictionary, which, by degrees, I reduced to method, establishing to myself, in the progress of the work, such rules as experience and analogy suggested to me: experience, which practice and observation were continually increasing; and analogy, which, though in some words obscure, was evident in others. In adjusting the ORTHOGRAPHY, which has been to this time unsettled and fortuitous, I found it necessary to distinguish those irregularities that are inherent in our tongue, and, perhaps, coeval with it, from others, which the ignorance or negligence of later writers has produced. Every language has its anomalies, which, though inconvenient, and in themselves once unnecessary, must be tolerated among the imperfections of human things; and which require only to be registered, that they may not be increased, and ascertained, that they may not be confounded: but every language has likewise its improprieties and absurdities, which it is the duty of the lexicographer to correct or proscribe. As language was at its beginning merely oral, all words of necessary or common use were spoken, before they were written; and while they were unfixed by any visible signs, must have been spoken with great diversity, as we now observe those, who cannot read, catch sounds imperfectly, and utter them negligently. When this wild and barbarous jargon was first reduced to an alphabet, every penman endeavoured to express, as he could, the sounds which he was accustomed to pronounce or to receive, and vitiated in writing such words as were already vitiated in speech. The powers of the letters, when they were applied to a new language, must have been vague and unsettled, and, therefore, different hands would exhibit the same sound by different combinations. From this uncertain pronunciation arise, in a great part, the various dialects of the same country, which will always be observed to grow fewer and less different, as books are multiplied; and from this arbitrary representation of sounds by letters proceeds that diversity of spelling, observable in the Saxon remains, and, I suppose, in the first books of every nation, which perplexes or destroys analogy, and produces anomalous formations, that being once incorporated, can never be afterwards dismissed or reformed. Of this kind are the derivatives _length_ from _long_, _strength_ from _strong_, _darling_ from _dear_, _breadth_ from _broad_, from _dry_, _drought_, and from _high_, _height_, which Milton, in zeal for analogy, writes _highth_: "Quid te exempta juvat spinis de pluribus una?" to change all would be too much, and to change one is nothing. This uncertainty is most frequent in the vowels, which are so capriciously pronounced, and so differently modified, by accident or affectation, not only in every province, but in every mouth, that to them, as is well known to etymologists, little regard is to be shown in the deduction of one language from another. Such defects are not errours in orthography, but spots of barbarity impressed so deep in the English language, that criticism can never wash them away: these, therefore, must be permitted to remain untouched: but many words have likewise been altered by accident, or depraved by ignorance, as the pronunciation of the vulgar has been weakly followed; and some still continue to be variously written, as authors differ in their care or skill: of these it was proper to inquire the true orthography, which I have always considered as depending on their derivation, and have, therefore, referred them to their original languages: thus I write _enchant_, _enchantment_, _enchanter_, after the French, and _incantation_ after the Latin; thus _entire_ is chosen rather than _intire_, because it passed to us not from the Latin _integer_, but from the French _entier_. Of many words it is difficult to say, whether they were immediately received from the Latin or the French, since at the time when we had dominions in France, we had Latin service in our churches. It is, however, my opinion, that the French generally supplied us; for we have few Latin words, among the terms of domestick use, which are not French; but many French, which are very remote from Latin. Even in words of which the derivation is apparent, I have been often obliged to sacrifice uniformity to custom; thus I write, in compliance with a numberless majority, _convey_ and _inveigh_, _deceit_ and _receipt_, _fancy_ and _phantom_; sometimes the derivative varies from the primitive, as _explain_ and _explanation_, _repeat_ and _repetition_. Some combinations of letters, having the same power, are used indifferently without any discoverable reason of choice, as in _choak_, _choke_; _soap_, _sape_; _fewel_, _fuel_, and many others; which I have sometimes inserted twice, that those, who search for them under either form, may not search in vain. In examining the orthography of any doubtful word, the mode of spelling by which it is inserted in the series of the Dictionary, is to be considered as that to which I give, perhaps, not often rashly, the preference. I have left, in the examples, to every author his own practice unmolested, that the reader may balance suffrages, and judge between us: but this question is not always to be determined by reputed or by real learning: some men, intent upon greater things, have thought little on sounds and derivations; some, knowing in the ancient tongues, have neglected those in which our words are commonly to be sought. Thus Hammond writes _fecibleness_ for _feasibleness_, because, I suppose, he imagined it derived immediately from the Latin; and some words, such as _dependant, dependent, dependance, dependence_, vary their final syllable, as one or another language is present to the writer. In this part of the work, where caprice has long wantoned without control, and vanity sought praise by petty reformation, I have endeavoured to proceed with a scholar's reverence for antiquity, and a grammarian's regard to the genius of our tongue. I have attempted few alterations, and among those few, perhaps, the greater part is from the modern to the ancient practice; and, I hope, I may be allowed to recommend to those, whose thoughts have been, perhaps, employed too anxiously on verbal singularities, not to disturb, upon narrow views, or for minute propriety, the orthography of their fathers. It has been asserted, that for the law to be _known_, is of more importance than to be _right_. "Change," says Hooker, "is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better." There is in constancy and stability a general and lasting advantage, which will always overbalance the slow improvements of gradual correction. Much less ought our written language to comply with the corruptions of oral utterance, or copy that which every variation of time or place makes different from itself, and imitate those changes which will again be changed, while imitation is employed in observing them. This recommendation of steadiness and uniformity does not proceed from an opinion, that particular combinations of letters have much influence on human happiness; or that truth may not be successfully taught by modes of spelling fanciful and erroneous: I am not yet so lost in lexicography, as to forget that _words are the daughters of earth, and that things are the sons of heaven_. Language is only the instrument of science, and words are but the signs of ideas: I wish, however, that the instrument might be less apt to decay, and that signs might be permanent, like the things which they denote. In settling the orthography, I have not wholly neglected the pronunciation, which I have directed, by printing an accent upon the acute or elevated syllable. It will sometimes be found, that the accent is placed, by the author quoted, on a different syllable from that marked in the alphabetical series; it is then to be understood, that custom has varied, or that the author has, in my opinion, pronounced wrong. Short directions are sometimes given, where the sound of letters is irregular; and if they are sometimes omitted, defect in such minute observations will be more easily excused, than superfluity. In the investigation both of the orthography and signification of words, their ETYMOLOGY was necessarily to be considered, and they were, therefore, to be divided into primitives and derivatives. A primitive word is that which can be traced no further to any English root; thus _circumspect, circumvent, circumstance, delude, concave_, and _complicate_, though compounds in the Latin, are to us primitives. Derivatives are all those that can be referred to any word in English of greater simplicity. The derivatives I have referred to their primitives, with an accuracy sometimes needless; for who does not see that _remoteness_ comes from _remote, lovely_ from _love, concavity_ from _concave_, and _demonstrative_ from _demonstrate_? But this grammatical exuberance the scheme of my work did not allow me to repress. It is of great importance, in examining the general fabrick of a language, to trace one word from another, by noting the usual modes of derivation and inflection; and uniformity must be preserved in systematical works, though sometimes at the expense of particular propriety. Among other derivatives, I have been careful to insert and elucidate the anomalous plurals of nouns and preterites of verbs, which in the Teutonick dialects are very frequent, and, though familiar to those who have always used them, interrupt and embarrass the learners of our language. The two languages from which our primitives have been derived are the Roman and Teutonick: under the Roman I comprehend the French and provincial tongues; and under the Teutonick range the Saxon, German, and all their kindred dialects. Most of our polysyllables are Roman, and our words of one syllable are very often Teutonick. In assigning the Roman original, it has, perhaps, sometimes happened that I have mentioned only the Latin, when the word was borrowed from the French; and, considering myself as employed only in the illustration of my own language, I have not been very careful to observe whether the Latin word be pure or barbarous, or the French elegant or obsolete. For the Teutonick etymologies, I am commonly indebted to Junius and Skinner, the only names which I have forborne to quote when I copied their books; not that I might appropriate their labours or usurp their honours, but that I might spare a perpetual repetition by one general acknowledgment. Of these, whom I ought not to mention but with the reverence due to instructers and benefactors, Junius appears to have excelled in extent of learning, and Skinner in rectitude of understanding. Junius was accurately skilled in all the northern languages; Skinner probably examined the ancient and remoter dialects only by occasional inspection into dictionaries; but the learning of Junius is often of no other use than to show him a track, by which he may deviate from his purpose, to which Skinner always presses forward by the shortest way. Skinner is often ignorant, but never ridiculous: Junius is always full of knowledge, but his variety distracts his judgment, and his learning is very frequently disgraced by his absurdities. The votaries of the northern muses will not, perhaps, easily restrain their indignation, when they find the name of Junius thus degraded by a disadvantageous comparison; but whatever reverence is due to his diligence, or his attainments, it can be no criminal degree of censoriousness to charge that etymologist with want of judgment, who can seriously derive _dream_ from _drama_, because _life is a drama, and a drama is a dream_; and who declares with a tone of defiance, that no man can fail to derive _moan_ from [Greek: monos], (monos,) _single_ or _solitary_, who considers that grief naturally loves to be alone[1]. Our knowledge of the northern literature is so scanty, that of words undoubtedly Teutonick, the original is not always to be found in any ancient language; and I have, therefore, inserted Dutch or German substitutes, which I consider not as radical, but parallel, not as the parents, but sisters of the English. The words, which are represented as thus related by descent or cognation, do not always agree in sense; for it is incident to words, as to their authors, to degenerate from their ancestors, and to change their manners when they change their country. It is sufficient, in etymological inquiries, if the senses of kindred words be found such as may easily pass into each other, or such as may both be referred to one general idea. The etymology, so far as it is yet known, was easily found in the volumes, where it is particularly and professedly delivered; and, by proper attention to the rules of derivation, the orthography was soon adjusted. But to COLLECT the WORDS of our language was a task of greater difficulty: the deficiency of dictionaries was immediately apparent; and when they were exhausted, what was yet wanting must be sought by fortuitous and unguided excursions into books, and gleaned as industry should find, or chance should offer it, in the boundless chaos of a living speech. My search, however, has been either skilful or lucky; for I have much augmented the vocabulary. As my design was a dictionary, common or appellative, I have omitted all words which have relation to proper names; such as _Arian, Socinian, Calvinist, Benedictine, Mahometan_; but have retained those-of a more general nature, as _Heathen, Pagan_. Of the terms of art I have received such as could be found either in books of science or technical dictionaries; and have often inserted, from philosophical writers, words which are supported, perhaps, only by a single authority, and which, being not admitted into general use, stand yet as candidates or probationers, and must depend for their adoption on the suffrage of futurity. The words which our authors have introduced by their knowledge of foreign languages, or ignorance of their own, by vanity or wantonness, by compliance with fashion or lust of innovation, I have registered as they occurred, though commonly only to censure them, and warn others against the folly of naturalizing useless foreigners to the injury of the natives. I have not rejected any by design, merely because they were unnecessary or exuberant; but have received those which by different writers have been differently formed, as _viscid_, and _viscidity, viscous_, and _viscosity_. Compounded or double words I have seldom noted, except when they obtain a signification different from that which the components have in their simple state. Thus _highwayman, woodman_, and _horsecourser_, require an explanation; but of _thieflike_ or _coachdriver_, no notice was needed, because the primitives contain the meaning of the compounds. Words arbitrarily formed by a constant and settled analogy, like diminutive adjectives in _ish_, as _greenish, bluish_; adverbs in _ly_, as _dully, openly_; substantives in _ness_, as _vileness, faultiness_; were less diligently sought, and sometimes have been omitted, when I had no authority that invited me to insert them; not that they are not genuine and regular offsprings of English roots, but, because their relation to the primitive being always the same, their significations cannot be mistaken. The verbal nouns in _ing_, such as the _keeping_ of the _castle_, the _leading_ of the _army_, are always neglected, or placed only to illustrate the sense of the verb, except when they signify things as well as actions, and have, therefore, a plural number, as _dwelling, living_; or have an absolute and abstract signification, as _colouring, painting, learning_. The participles are likewise omitted, unless, by signifying rather habit or quality than action, they take the nature of adjectives; as a _thinking_ man, a man of prudence; a _pacing_ horse, a horse that can pace: these I have ventured to call _participial adjectives_. But neither are these always inserted, because they are commonly to be understood without any danger of mistake, by consulting the verb. Obsolete words are admitted, when they are found in authors not obsolete, or when they have any force or beauty that may deserve revival. As composition is one of the chief characteristicks of a language, I have endeavoured to make some reparation for the universal negligence of my predecessors, by inserting great numbers of compounded words, as may be found under _after, fore, new, night, fair_, and many more. These, numerous as they are, might be multiplied, but that use and curiosity are here satisfied, and the frame of our language and modes of our combination amply discovered. Of some forms of composition, such as that by which _re_ is prefixed to note _repetition_, and _un_ to signify _contrariety_ or _privation_, all the examples cannot be accumulated, because the use of these particles, if not wholly arbitrary, is so little limited, that they are hourly affixed to new words, as occasion requires, or is imagined to require them. There is another kind of composition more frequent in our language than, perhaps, in any other, from which arises to foreigners the greatest difficulty. We modify the signification of many verbs by a particle subjoined; as to _come off_, to escape by a fetch; to _fall on_, to attack; to _fall off_, to apostatize; to _break off_, to stop abruptly; to _bear out_, to justify; to _fall in_, to comply; to _give over_, to cease; to _set off_, to embellish; to _set in_, to begin a continual tenour; to _set out_, to begin a course or journey; to _take off_, to copy; with innumerable expressions of the same kind, of which some appear wildly irregular, being so far distant from the sense of the simple words, that no sagacity will be able to trace the steps by which they arrived at the present use. These I have noted with great care; and though I cannot flatter myself that the collection is complete, I believe I have so far assisted the students of our language, that this kind of phraseology will be no longer insuperable; and the combinations of verbs and particles, by chance omitted, will be easily explained by comparison with those that may be found. Many words yet stand supported only by the name of Bailey, Ainsworth, Philips, or the contracted Dict, for _Dictionaries_ subjoined; of these I am not always certain, that they are read in any book but the works of lexicographers. Of such I have omitted many, because I had never read them; and many I have inserted, because they may, perhaps, exist, though they have escaped my notice: they are, however, to be yet considered as resting only upon the credit of former dictionaries. Others, which I considered as useful, or know to be proper, though I could not at present support them by authorities, I have suffered to stand upon my own attestation, claiming the same privilege with my predecessors, of being sometimes credited without proof. The words, thus selected and disposed, are grammatically considered; they are referred to the different parts of speech; traced, when they are irregularly inflected, through their various terminations; and illustrated by observations, not, indeed, of great or striking importance, separately considered, but necessary to the elucidation of our language, and hitherto neglected or forgotten by English grammarians. That part of my work on which I expect malignity most frequently to fasten is, the _Explanation_; in which I cannot hope to satisfy those, who are, perhaps, not inclined to be pleased, since I have not always been able to satisfy myself. To interpret a language by itself is very difficult; many words cannot be explained by synonymes, because the idea signified by them has not more than one appellation; nor by paraphrase, because simple ideas cannot be described. When the nature of things is unknown, or the notion unsettled and indefinite, and various in various minds, the words by which such notions are conveyed, or such things denoted, will be ambiguous and perplexed. And such is the fate of hapless lexicography, that not only darkness, but light, impedes and distresses it; things may be not only too little, but too much known, to be happily illustrated. To explain, requires the use of terms less abstruse than that which is to be explained, and such terms cannot always be found; for as nothing can be proved but by supposing something intuitively known, and evident without proof, so nothing can be defined but by the use of words too plain to admit a definition. Other words there are, of which the sense is too subtile and evanescent to be fixed in a paraphrase; such are all those which are by the grammarians termed expletives, and, in dead languages, are suffered to pass for empty sounds, of no other use than to fill a verse, or to modulate a period, but which are easily perceived in living tongues to have power and emphasis, though it be sometimes such as no other form of expression can convey. My labour has likewise been much increased by a class of verbs too frequent in the English language, of which the signification is so loose and general, the use so vague and indeterminate, and the senses detorted so widely from the first idea, that it is hard to trace them through the maze of variation, to catch them on the brink of utter inanity, to circumscribe them by any limitations, or interpret them by any words of distinct and settled meaning; such are _bear, break, come, cast, fall, get, give, do, put, set, go, run, make, take, turn, throw_. If of these the whole power is not accurately delivered, it must be remembered, that while our language is yet living, and variable by the caprice of every one that speaks it, these words are hourly shifting their relations, and can no more be ascertained in a dictionary, than a grove, in the agitation of a storm, can be accurately delineated from its picture in the water. The particles are among all nations applied with so great latitude, that they are not easily reducible under any regular scheme of explication: this difficulty is not less, nor, perhaps, greater, in English, than in other languages. I have laboured them with diligence, I hope with success; such at least as can be expected in a task, which no man, however learned or sagacious, has yet been able to perform. Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them; these might have been omitted very often with little inconvenience, but I would not so far indulge my vanity, as to decline this confession; for when Tully owns himself ignorant whether _lessus_, in the twelve tables, means a _funeral song_, or _mourning garment_; and Aristotle doubts whether [Greek: oureus] in the Iliad, signifies a _mule_, or _muleteer_, I may surely, without shame, leave some obscurities to happier industry, or future information. The rigour of interpretative lexicography requires that _the explanation_, and _the word explained, should be always reciprocal_; this I have always endeavoured, but could not always attain. Words are seldom exactly synonymous; a new term was not introduced, but because the former was thought inadequate: names, therefore, have often many ideas, but few ideas have many names. It was then necessary to use the proximate word, for the deficiency of single terms can very seldom be supplied by circumlocution; nor is the inconvenience great of such mutilated interpretations, because the sense may easily be collected entire from the examples. In every word of extensive use, it was requisite to mark the progress of its meaning, and show by what gradations of intermediate sense it has passed from its primitive to its remote and accidental signification; so that every foregoing explanation should tend to that which follows, and the series be regularly concatenated from the first notion to the last. This is specious, but not always practicable; kindred senses may be so interwoven, that the perplexity cannot be disentangled, nor any reason be assigned why one should be ranged before the other. When the radical idea branches out into parallel ramifications, how can a consecutive series be formed of senses in their nature collateral? The shades of meaning sometimes pass imperceptibly into each other, so that though on one side they apparently differ, yet it is impossible to mark the point of contact. Ideas of the same race, though not exactly alike, are sometimes so little different, that no words can express the dissimilitude, though the mind easily perceives it, when they are exhibited together; and sometimes there is such a confusion of acceptations, that discernment is wearied and distinction puzzled, and perseverance herself hurries to an end, by crowding together what she cannot separate. These complaints of difficulty will, by those that have never considered words beyond their popular use, be thought only the jargon of a man willing to magnify his labours, and procure veneration to his studies by involution and obscurity. But every art is obscure to those that have not learned it: this uncertainty of terms, and commixture of ideas, is well known to those who have joined philosophy with grammar; and, if I have not expressed them very clearly, it must be remembered that I am speaking of that which words are insufficient to explain. The original sense of words is often driven out of use by their metaphorical acceptations, yet must be inserted for the sake of a regular origination. Thus I know not whether _ardour_ is used for _material heat_, or whether _flagrant_, in English, ever signifies the same with _burning_; yet such are the primitive ideas of these words, which are, therefore, set first, though without examples, that the figurative senses may be commodiously deduced. Such is the exuberance of signification which many words have obtained, that it was scarcely possible to collect all their senses; sometimes the meaning of derivatives must be sought in the mother term, and sometimes deficient explanations of the primitive may be supplied in the train of derivation. In any case of doubt or difficulty, it will be always proper to examine all the words of the same race; for some words are slightly passed over to avoid repetition; some admitted easier and clearer explanation than others; and all will be better understood, as they are considered in greater variety of structures and relations. All the interpretations of words are not written with the same skill, or the same happiness: things, equally easy in themselves, are not all equally easy to any single mind. Every writer of a long work commits errours, where there appears neither ambiguity to mislead, nor obscurity to confound him: and, in a search like this, many felicities of expression will be casually overlooked, many convenient parallels will be forgotten, and many particulars will admit improvement from a mind utterly unequal to the whole performance. But many seeming faults are to be imputed rather to the nature of the undertaking, than the negligence of the performer. Thus some explanations are unavoidably reciprocal or circular, as _hind, the female of the stag_; _stag, the male of the hind_: sometimes easier words are changed into harder, as _burial_ into _sepulture_, or _interment_, _drier_ into _desiccative_, _dryness_ into _siccity_ or _aridity_, _fit_ into _paroxysm_; for the easiest word, whatever it be, can never be translated into one more easy. But easiness and difficulty are merely relative; and, if the present prevalence of our language should invite foreigners to this Dictionary, many will be assisted by those words, which now seem only to increase or produce obscurity. For this reason I have endeavoured frequently to join a Teutonick and Roman interpretation, as to _cheer_, to _gladden_ or _exhilarate_, that every learner of English may be assisted by his own tongue. The solution of all difficulties, and the supply of all defects, must be sought in the examples, subjoined to the various senses of each word, and ranged according to the time of their authors. When I first collected these authorities, I was desirous that every quotation should be useful to some other end than the illustration of a word; I, therefore, extracted from philosophers principles of science; from historians remarkable facts; from chymists complete processes; from divines striking exhortations; and from poets beautiful descriptions. Such is design, while it is yet at a distance from execution. When the time called upon me to range this accumulation of elegance and wisdom into an alphabetical series, I soon discovered that the bulk of my volumes would fright away the student, and was forced to depart from my scheme of including all that was pleasing or useful in English literature, and reduce my transcripts very often to clusters of words, in which scarcely any meaning is retained: thus to the weariness of copying, I was condemned to add the vexation of expunging. Some passages I have yet spared, which may relieve the labour of verbal searches, and intersperse with verdure and flowers the dusty deserts of barren philology. The examples, thus mutilated, are no longer to be con sidered as conveying the sentiments or doctrine of their authors; the word, for the sake of which they are inserted, with all its appendant clauses, has been carefully preserved; but it may sometimes happen, by hasty detruncation, that the general tendency of the sentence may be changed: the divine may desert his tenets, or the philosopher his system. Some of the examples have been taken from writers who were never mentioned as masters of elegance, or models of style; but words must be sought where they are used; and in what pages, eminent for purity, can terms of manufacture or agriculture be found? Many quotations serve no other purpose, than that of proving the bare existence of words, and are, therefore, selected with less scrupulousness than those which are to teach their structures and relations. My purpose was to admit no testimony of living authors, that I might not be misled by partiality, and that none of my contemporaries might have reason to complain; nor have I departed from this resolution, but when some performance of uncommon excellence excited my veneration, when my memory supplied me from late books with an example that was wanting, or when my heart, in the tenderness of friendship, solicited admission for a favourite name. So far have I been from any care to grace my pages with modern decorations, that I have studiously endeavoured to collect examples and authorities from the writers before the Restoration, whose works I regard as _the wells of English undefiled_, as the pure sources of genuine diction. Our language, for almost a century, has, by the concurrence of many causes, been gradually departing from its original Teutonick character, and deviating towards a Gallick structure and phraseology[2], from which it ought to be our endeavour to recall it, by making our ancient volumes the ground-work of style, admitting among the additions of later times only such as may supply real deficiencies, such as are readily adopted by the genius of our tongue, and incorporate easily with our native idioms. But as every language has a time of rudeness antecedent to perfection, as well as of false refinement and declension, I have been cautious lest my zeal for antiquity might drive me into times too remote, and crowd my book with words now no longer understood. I have fixed Sidney's work for the boundary, beyond which I make few excursions. From the authors which rose in the time of Elizabeth, a speech might be formed adequate to all the purposes of use and elegance. If the language of theology were extracted from Hooker and the translation of the Bible; the terms of natural knowledge from Bacon; the phrases of policy, war, and navigation from Raleigh; the dialect of poetry and fiction from Spenser and Sidney; and the diction of common life from Shakespeare, few ideas would be lost to mankind, for want of English words, in which they might be expressed. It is not sufficient that a word is found, unless it be so combined as that its meaning is apparently determined by the tract and tenour of the sentence; such passages I have, therefore, chosen, and when it happened that any author gave a definition of a term, or such an explanation as is equivalent to a definition, I have placed his authority as a supplement to my own, without regard to the chronological order, that is otherwise observed. Some words, indeed, stand unsupported by any authority, but they are commonly derivative nouns or adverbs, formed from their primitives by regular and constant analogy, or names of things seldom occurring in books, or words of which I have reason to doubt the existence. There is more danger of censure from the multiplicity than paucity of examples; authorities will sometimes seem to have been accumulated without necessity or use, and, perhaps, some will be found, which might, without loss, have been omitted. But a work of this kind is not hastily to be charged with superfluities: those quotations, which to careless or unskilful perusers appear only to repeat the same sense, will often exhibit, to a more accurate examiner, diversities of significations, or, at least, afford different shades of the same meaning: one will show the word applied to persons, another to things; one will express an ill, another a good, and a third a neutral sense; one will prove the expression genuine from an ancient author; another will show it elegant from a modern: a doubtful authority is corroborated by another of more credit; an ambiguous sentence is ascertained by a passage clear and determinate: the word, how often soever repeated, appears with new associates, and in different combinations, and every quotation contributes something to the stability or enlargement of the language. When words are used equivocally, I receive them in either sense; when they are metaphorical, I adopt them in their primitive acceptation. I have sometimes, though rarely, yielded to the temptation of exhibiting a genealogy of sentiments, by showing how one author copied the thoughts and diction of another: such quotations are, indeed, little more than repetitions, which might justly be censured, did they not gratify the mind, by affording a kind of intellectual history. The various syntactical structures occurring in the examples have been carefully noted; the license or negligence, with which many words have been hitherto used, has made our style capricious and indeterminate; when the different combinations of the same word are exhibited together, the preference is readily given to propriety, and I have often endeavoured to direct the choice. Thus I have laboured, by settling the orthography, displaying the analogy, regulating the structures, and ascertaining the signification of English words, to perform all the parts of a faithful lexicographer: but I have not always executed my own scheme, or satisfied my own expectations. The work, whatever proofs of diligence and attention it may exhibit, is yet capable of many improvements: the orthography which I recommend is still controvertible; the etymology which I adopt is uncertain, and, perhaps, frequently erroneous; the explanations are sometimes too much contracted, and sometimes too much diffused; the significations are distinguished rather with subtilty than skill, and the attention is harassed with unnecessary minuteness. The examples are too often injudiciously truncated, and perhaps sometimes, I hope very rarely, alleged in a mistaken sense; for in making this collection I trusted more to memory, than, in a state of disquiet and embarrassment, memory can contain, and purposed to supply, at the review, what was left incomplete in the first transcription. Many terms, appropriated to particular occupations, though necessary and significant, are undoubtedly omitted; and, of the words most studiously considered and exemplified, many senses have escaped observation. Yet these failures, however frequent, may admit extenuation and apology. To have attempted much is always laudable, even when the enterprise is above the strength that undertakes it: To rest below his own aim is incident to every one whose fancy is active, and whose views are comprehensive; nor is any man satisfied with himself, because he has done much, but because he can conceive little. When first I engaged in this work, I resolved to leave neither words nor things unexamined, and pleased myself with a prospect of the hours which I should revel away in feasts of literature, with the obscure recesses of northern learning which I should enter and ransack, the treasures with which I expected every search into those neglected mines to reward my labour, and the triumph with which I should display my acquisitions to mankind. When I had thus inquired into the original of words, I resolved to show likewise my attention to things; to pierce deep into every science, to inquire the nature of every substance of which I inserted the name, to limit every idea by a definition strictly logical, and exhibit every production of art or nature in an accurate description, that my book might be in place of all other dictionaries, whether appellative or technical. But these were the dreams of a poet, doomed at last to wake a lexicographer. I soon found that it is too late to look for instruments, when the work calls for execution, and that whatever abilities I had brought to my task, with those I must finally perform it. To deliberate whenever I doubted, to inquire whenever I was ignorant, would have protracted the undertaking without end, and, perhaps, without much improvement; for I did not find by my first experiments, that what I had not of my own was easily to be obtained: I saw that one inquiry only gave occasion to another, that book referred to book, that to search was not always to find, and to find was not always to be informed; and that thus to pursue perfection, was, like the first inhabitants of Arcadia, to chase the sun, which, when they had reached the hill where he seemed to rest, was still beheld at the same distance from them. I then contracted my design, determining to confide in myself, and no longer to solicit auxiliaries, which produced more incumbrance than assistance; by this I obtained at least one advantage, that I set limits to my work, which would in time be ended, though not completed. Despondency has never so far prevailed as to depress me to negligence; some faults will at last appear to be the effects of anxious diligence and persevering activity. The nice and subtile ramifications of meaning were not easily avoided by a mind intent upon accuracy, and convinced of the necessity of disentangling combinations, and separating similitudes. Many of the distinctions which to common readers appear useless and idle, will be found real and important by men versed in the school philosophy, without which no dictionary can ever be accurately compiled, or skilfully examined. Some senses however there are, which, though not the same, are yet so nearly allied, that they are often confounded. Most men think indistinctly, and, therefore, cannot speak with exactness; and, consequently, some examples might be indifferently put to either signification: this uncertainty is not to be imputed to me, who do not form, but register the language; who do not teach men how they should think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed their thoughts. The imperfect sense of some examples I lamented, but could not remedy, and hope they will be compensated by innumerable passages selected with propriety, and preserved with exactness; some shining with sparks of imagination, and some replete with treasures of wisdom. The orthography and etymology, though imperfect, are not imperfect for want of care, but because care will not always be successful, and recollection or information come too late for use. That many terms of art and manufacture are omitted, must be frankly acknowledged; but for this defect I may boldly allege that it was unavoidable: I could not visit caverns to learn the miner's language, nor take a voyage to perfect my skill in the dialect of navigation, nor visit the warehouses of merchants, and shops of artificers, to gain the names of wares, tools, and operations, of which no mention is found in books; what favourable accident or easy inquiry brought within my reach, has not been neglected; but it had been a hopeless labour to glean up words, by courting living information, and contesting with the sullenness of one, and the roughness of another. To furnish the academicians _della Crusca_ with words of this kind, a series of comedies called _la Fiera_, or the Fair, was professedly written by Buonarotti; but I had no such assistant, and, therefore, was content to want what they must have wanted likewise, had they not luckily been so supplied. Nor are all words, which are not found in the vocabulary, to be lamented as omissions. Of the laborious and mercantile part of the people, the diction is in a great measure casual and mutable; many of their terms are formed for some temporary or local convenience, and though current at certain times and places, are in others utterly unknown. This fugitive cant, which is always in a state of increase or decay, cannot be regarded as any part of the durable materials of a language, and, therefore, must be suffered to perish with other things unworthy of preservation. Care will sometimes betray to the appearance of negligence. He that is catching opportunities which seldom occur, will suffer those to pass by unregarded, which he expects hourly to return; he that is searching for rare and remote things, will neglect those that are obvious and familiar: thus many of the most common and cursory words have been inserted with little illustration, because in gathering the authorities, I forbore to copy those which I thought likely to occur, whenever they were wanted. It is remarkable that, in reviewing my collection, I found the word SEA unexemplified. Thus it happens, that in things difficult there is danger from ignorance, and in things easy from confidence; the mind, afraid of greatness, and disdainful of littleness, hastily withdraws herself from painful searches, and passes with scornful rapidity over tasks not adequate to her powers; sometimes too secure for caution, and again too anxious for vigorous effort; sometimes idle in a plain path, and sometimes distracted in labyrinths, and dissipated by different intentions. A large work is difficult, because it is large, even though all its parts might singly be performed with facility; where there are many things to be done, each must be allowed its share of time and labour, in the proportion only which it bears to the whole; nor can it be expected, that the stones which form the dome of a temple, should be squared and polished like the diamond of a ring. Of the event of this work, for which, having laboured it with so much application, I cannot but have some degree of parental fondness, it is natural to form conjectures. Those who have been persuaded to think well of my design, will require that it should fix our language, and put a stop to those alterations which time and chance have hitherto been suffered to make in it without opposition. With this consequence I will confess that I flattered myself for a while; but now begin to fear, that I have indulged expectation which neither reason nor experience can justify. When we see men grow old and die at a certain time one after another, from century to century, we laugh at the elixir that promises to prolong life to a thousand years; and with equal justice may the lexicographer be derided, who being able to produce no example of a nation that has preserved their words and phrases from mutability, shall imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language, and secure it from corruption and decay, that it is in his power to change sublunary nature, and clear the world at once from folly, vanity and affectation. With this hope, however, academies have been instituted, to guard the avenues of their languages, to retain fugitives, and repulse intruders; but their vigilance and activity have hitherto been vain; sounds are too volatile and subtile for legal restraints; to enchain syllables, and to lash the wind, are equally the undertakings of pride, unwilling to measure its desires by its strength. The French language has visibly changed under the inspection of the academy; the style of Amelot's translation of father Paul is observed by Le Courayer to be _un pen passé_; and no Italian will maintain, that the diction of any modern writer is not perceptibly different from that of Boccace, Machiavel, or Caro. Total and sudden transformations of a language seldom happen; conquests and migrations are now very rare; but there are other causes of change, which, though slow in their operation, and invisible in their progress, are, perhaps, as much superiour to human resistance, as the revolutions of the sky, or intumescence of the tide. Commerce, however necessary, however lucrative, as it depraves the manners, corrupts the language; they that have frequent intercourse with strangers, to whom they endeavour to accommodate themselves, must in time learn a mingled dialect, like the jargon which serves the traffickers on the Mediterranean and Indian coasts. This will not always be confined to the exchange, the warehouse, or the port, but will be communicated by degrees to other ranks of the people, and be at last incorporated with the current speech. There are likewise internal causes equally forcible. The language most likely to continue long without alteration, would be that of a nation raised a little, and but a little, above barbarity, secluded from strangers, and totally employed in procuring the conveniencies of life; either without books, or, like some of the Mahometan countries, with very few: men thus busied and unlearned, having only such words as common use requires, would, perhaps, long continue to express the same notions by the same signs. But no such constancy can be expected in a people polished by arts, and classed by subordination, where one part of the community is sustained and accommodated by the labour of the other. Those who have much leisure to think, will always be enlarging the stock of ideas; and every increase of knowledge, whether real or fancied, will produce new words, or combinations of words. When the mind is unchained from necessity, it will range after convenience; when it is left at large in the fields of speculation, it will shift opinions; as any custom is disused, the words that expressed it must perish with it; as any opinion grows popular, it will innovate speech in the same proportion as it alters practice. As by the cultivation of various sciences, a language is amplified, it will be more furnished with words deflected from their original sense; the geometrician will talk of a "courtier's zenith, or the eccentrick virtue of a wild hero;" and the physician of "sanguine expectations and phlegmatick delays." Copiousness of speech will give opportunities to capricious choice, by which some words will be preferred, and others degraded; vicissitudes of fashion will enforce the use of new, or extend the signification of known terms. The tropes of poetry will make hourly encroachments, and the metaphorical will become the current sense: pronunciation will be varied by levity or ignorance, and the pen must at length comply with the tongue; illiterate writers will, at one time or other, by publick infatuation, rise into renown, who, not knowing the original import of words, will use them with colloquial licentiousness, confound distinction, and forget propriety. As politeness increases, some expressions will be considered as too gross and vulgar for the delicate, others as too formal and ceremonious for the gay and airy; new phrases are, therefore, adopted, which must, for the same reasons, be in time dismissed. Swift, in his petty treatise on the English language, allows that new words must sometimes be introduced, but proposes that none should be suffered to become obsolete. But what makes a word obsolete, more than general agreement to forbear it? and how shall it be continued, when it conveys an offensive idea, or recalled again into the mouths of mankind, when it has once become unfamiliar by disuse, and unpleasing by unfamiliarity? There is another cause of alteration more prevalent than any other, which yet in the present state of the world cannot be obviated. A mixture of two languages will produce a third distinct from both; and they will always be mixed, where the chief part of education, and the most conspicuous accomplishment, is skill in ancient or in foreign tongues. He that has long cultivated another language, will find its words and combinations crowd upon his memory; and haste and negligence, refinement and affectation, will obtrude borrowed terms and exotick expressions. The great pest of speech is frequency of translation. No book was ever turned from one language into another, without imparting something of its native idiom; this is the most mischievous and comprehensive innovation; single words may enter by thousands, and the fabrick of the tongue continue the same; but new phraseology changes much at once; it alters not the single stones of the building, but the order of the columns. If an academy should be established for the cultivation of our style; which I, who can never wish to see dependance multiplied, hope the spirit of English liberty will hinder or destroy, let them, instead of compiling grammars and dictionaries, endeavour, with all their influence, to stop the license of translators, whose idleness and ignorance, if it be suffered to proceed, will reduce us to babble a dialect of France. If the changes, that we fear, be thus irresistible, what remains but to acquiesce with silence, as in the other insurmountable distresses of humanity? It remains that we retard what we cannot repel, that we palliate what we cannot cure. Life may be lengthened by care, though death cannot be ultimately defeated: tongues, like governments, have a natural tendency to degeneration; we have long preserved our constitution, let us make some struggles for our language.[3] In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of years, to the honour of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of every people arises from its authors: whether I shall add any thing by my own writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left to time: much of my life has been lost under the pressures of disease; much has been trifled away; and much has always been spent in provision for the day that was passing over me; but I shall not think my employment useless or ignoble, if, by my assistance, foreign nations, and distant ages, gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand the teachers of truth; if my labours afford light to the repositories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and to Boyle. When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that has endeavoured well. That it will immediately become popular I have not promised to myself: a few wild blunders, and risible absurdities, from which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, may, for a time, furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance into contempt; but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there never can be wanting some who distinguish desert; who will consider that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since, while it is hastening to publication, some words are budding, and some falling away; that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and that even a whole life would not be sufficient; that he, whose design includes whatever language can express, must often speak of what he does not understand; that a writer will sometimes be hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint with weariness under a task, which Scaliger compares to the labours of the anvil and the mine; that what is obvious is not always known, and what is known is not always present; that sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise vigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, and casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning; and that the writer shall often in vain trace his memory, at the moment of need, for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive readiness, and which will come uncalled into his thoughts to-morrow. In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let it not be forgotten that much likewise is performed; and though no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the author, and the world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of that which it condemns; yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it, that the English Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academick bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow. It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to observe, that if our language is not here fully displayed, I have only failed in an attempt, which no human powers have hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive; if the aggregated knowledge, and co-operating diligence of the Italian academicians, did not secure them from the censure of Beni; if the embodied criticks of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second edition another form, I may surely be contented without the praise of perfection, which, if I could obtain, in this gloom of solitude, what would it avail me? I have protracted my work till most of those, whom I wished to please, have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds: I, therefore, dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from censure or from praise[4]. FOOTNOTES: [1] That I may not appear to have spoken too irreverently of Junius, I have here subjoined a few specimens of his etymological extravagance. BANISH, _religare, ex banno vel territorio exigere, in exitium agere_. Gal. _bannir_. It. _bandire, bandeggiare_. H. _bandir_. B. _bannen_. Aevi medii scriptores bannire dicebant. V. Spelm. in Bannum & in Banleuga. Quoniam vero regionum urbiumq; limites arduis plerumq; montibus, altis fluminibus, longis deniq; flexuosisq; angustissimarum viarum anfractibus includebantur, fieri potest id genus limites _ban_ dici ab eo quod [Greek: Bannatai] et [Greek: Bannatroi] Tarentinis olim, sicuti tradit Hesychius, vocabantur [Greek: ahi loxoi kai mae ithuteneis hodoi], "obliquae ac minime in rectum tendentes viae." Ac fortasse quoque huc facit quod [Greek: Banous], eodem Hesychio teste, dicebant [Greek: horae strangulae], montes arduos. EMPTY, emtie, _vacuus, inanis_. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon: Aemtig]. Nescio an sint ab [Greek: emeo] vel [Greek: emetuio]. Vomo, evomo, vomitu evacue. Videtur interim etymologiam hanc non obscure firmare codex Rush. Mat. xii. 22. ubi antique scriptum invenimus [Anglo-Saxon: gemoeted hit emetig]. "Invenit eam vacantem." HILL, _mons, collis_. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon: hyll]. Quod videri potest abscissum ex [Greek: kolonae] vel [Greek: kolonos]. Collis, tumulus, locus in plano editior. Hom. II. B. v. 811. [Greek: esti de tis proparoithe poleos aipeia kolonae]. Ubi authori brevium scholiorum [Greek: kolonae] exp. [Greek: topos eis hupsos anaekon geolofos exochae]. NAP, _to take a nap. Dormire, condormiscere_. Cym. _heppian_. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon: hnaeppan]. Quod postremum videri potest desumptum ex [Greek: knephas], obscuritas, tenebrae: nihil enim aeque solet conciliare somnum, quam caliginosa profundae noctis obscuritas. STAMMERER, Balbus, blaesus. Goth. [Gothic: STAMMS]. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon: stamer, stamur]. D. _stam_. B. _stameler_. Su. _stamma_. Isl. _stamr_. Sunt a [Greek: stomulein] vel [Greek: stomullein], nimia loquacitate alios offendere; quod impedite loquentes libentissime garrire soleant; vel quod aliis nimii semper videantur, etiam parcissime loquentes. [2] The structure of Hume's sentences is French. For Johnson's opinion of it, see Boswell, i. 420. Edit. 1816. [3] Blackstone very frequently denounces the use of Norman French in our law proceedings, and in Parliament as a badge of slavery, which he could have wished to see "fall into total oblivion, unless it be reserved as a solemn memento to remind us that our liberties are mortal, having once been destroyed by a foreign force." Much amusing and interesting research on the once prevalent use of French in England, is exhibited in Barrington's Observations on the more Antient Statutes. And Frenche she spake full fetously; After the schole of _Stratforde at Bowe_, For Frenche of Paris was to her unknowne. Chaucer's Prologue to the Prioress' Tale. [4] Dr. Johnson's Dictionary was published on the fifteenth day of April 1755, in two vols. folio, price 4_l_. 10_s._ bound. The booksellers who engaged in this national work were the Knaptons, Longman, Hitch and Co. Millar, and Dodsley. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FOURTH EDITION OF THE ENGLISH DICTIONARY[1]. Many are the works of human industry, which to begin and finish are hardly granted to the same man. He that undertakes to compile a dictionary, undertakes that, which, if it comprehends the full extent of his design, he knows himself unable to perform. Yet his labours, though deficient, may be useful, and with the hope of this inferiour praise, he must incite his activity, and solace his weariness. Perfection is unattainable, but nearer and nearer approaches may be made; and, finding my Dictionary about to be reprinted, I have endeavoured, by a revisal, to make it less reprehensible. I will not deny that I found many parts requiring emendation, and many more capable of improvement. Many faults I have corrected, some superfluities I have taken away, and some deficiencies I have supplied. I have methodised some parts that were disordered, and illuminated some that were obscure. Yet the changes or additions bear a very small proportion to the whole. The critick will now have less to object, but the student who has bought any of the former copies needs not repent; he will not, without nice collation, perceive how they differ; and usefulness seldom depends upon little things. For negligence or deficience, I have, perhaps, not need of more apology than the nature of the work will furnish: I have left that inaccurate which never was made exact, and that imperfect which never was completed. [1] Published in folio, 1773. PREFACE TO THE OCTAVO EDITION OF THE ENGLISH DICTIONARY[1]. Having been long employed in the study and cultivation of the English language, I lately published a dictionary, like those compiled by the academies of Italy and France, for the use of such as aspire to exactness of criticism or elegance of style. But it has been since considered that works of that kind are by no means necessary to the greater number of readers, who, seldom intending to write or presuming to judge, turn over books only to amuse their leisure, and to gain degrees of knowledge suitable to lower characters, or necessary to the common business of life: these know not any other use of a dictionary than that of adjusting orthography, or explaining terms of science, or words of infrequent occurrence or remote derivation. For these purposes many dictionaries have been written by different authors, and with different degrees of skill; but none of them have yet fallen into my hands by which even the lowest expectations could be satisfied. Some of their authors wanted industry, and others literature: some knew not their own defects, and others were too idle to supply them. For this reason a small dictionary appeared yet to be wanting to common readers; and, as I may without arrogance claim to myself a longer acquaintance with the lexicography of our language than any other writer has had, I shall hope to be considered as having more experience at least than most of my predecessors, and as more likely to accommodate the nation with a vocabulary of daily use. I, therefore, offer to the publick an abstract or epitome of my former work. In comparing this with other dictionaries of the same kind, it will be found to have several advantages. 1. It contains many words not to be found in any other. 2. Many barbarous terms and phrases, by which other dictionaries may vitiate the style, are rejected from this. 3. The words are more correctly spelled, partly by attention to their etymology, and partly by observation of the practice of the best authors. 4. The etymologies and derivations, whether from foreign languages or from native roots, are more diligently traced, and more distinctly noted. 5. The senses of each word are more copiously enumerated, and more clearly explained. 6. Many words occurring in the elder authors, such as Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, which had been hitherto omitted, are here carefully inserted; so that this book may serve as a glossary or expository index to the poetical writers. 7. To the words, and to the different senses of each word, are subjoined from the large dictionary the names of those writers by whom they have been used; so that the reader who knows the different periods of the language, and the time of its authors, may judge of the elegance or prevalence of any word, or meaning of a word; and without recurring to other books, may know what are antiquated, what are unusual, and what are recommended by the best authority. The words of this Dictionary, as opposed to others, are more diligently collected, more accurately spelled, more faithfully explained, and more authentically ascertained. Of an abstract it is not necessary to say more; and I hope, it will not be found that truth requires me to say less. [1] Published in 2 vols. 1756. MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS ON THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH: WITH REMARKS ON SIR T. HANMER'S EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE. FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1745. [Transcriber's note: There are two footnote systems in use in this section. The numbered footnotes in square brackets, [1], [2], etc, are those of the editor, and are to be found at the end of the section. The lettered footnotes in round brackets, (a), (b), etc, are Johnson's, and are to be found at the end of each Note.] NOTE I. ACT I. SCENE I. _Enter three Witches._ In order to make a true estimate of the abilities and merit of a writer, it is always necessary to examine the genius of his age, and the opinions of his contemporaries. A poet, who should now make the whole action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment, and produce the chief events by the assistance of supernatural agents, would be censured as transgressing the bounds of probability; he would be banished from the theatre to the nursery, and condemned to write fairy tales instead of tragedies; but a survey of the notions, that prevailed at the time when this play was written, will prove, that Shakespeare was in no danger of such censures, since he only turned the system that was then universally admitted to his advantage, and was far from over-burdening the credulity of his audience. The reality of witchcraft or enchantment, which, though not strictly the same, are confounded in this play, has in all ages and countries been credited by the common people, and in most by the learned themselves[1]. These phantoms have indeed appeared more frequently, in proportion as the darkness of ignorance has been more gross; but it cannot be shown, that the brightest gleams of knowledge have at any time been sufficient to drive them out of the world. The time, in which this kind of credulity was at its height, seems to have been that of the holy war, in which the Christians imputed all their defeats to enchantment or diabolical opposition, as they ascribe their success to the assistance of their military saints; and the learned Dr. Warburton appears to believe (Supplement to the Introduction to Don Quixote) that the first accounts of enchantments were brought into this part of the world by those who returned from their eastern expeditions. But there is always some distance between the birth and maturity of folly, as of wickedness: this opinion had long existed, though, perhaps, the application of it had in no foregoing age been so frequent, nor the reception so general. Olympiodorus, in Photius's Extracts, tells us of one Libanius, who practised this kind of military magick, and having promised [Greek: choris hopliton kata barbaron energein], _to perform great things against the barbarians without soldiers_, was, at the instances of the emperess Placidia, put to death, when he was about to have given proofs of his abilities. The emperess showed some kindness in her anger by cutting him off at a time so convenient for his reputation. But a more remarkable proof of the antiquity of this notion may be found in St. Chrysostom's book de Sacerdotio, which exhibits a scene of enchantments, not exceeded by any romance of the middle age; he supposes a spectator, overlooking a field of battle, attended by one that points out all the various objects of horrour, the engines of destruction, and the arts of slaughter. [Greek: Deiknuto de eti para tois enantiois kai petomenous hippous dia tinos manganeias kai hoplitas di aeros pheromenous, kai pasaen goaeteias dunamin kai hidean.]_Let him then proceed to show him in the opposite armies horses flying by enchantment, armed men transported through the air, and every power and form of magick_. Whether St. Chrysostom believed that such performances were really to be seen in a day of battle, or only endeavoured to enliven his description, by adopting the notions of the vulgar, it is equally certain, that such notions were in his time received, and that, therefore, they were not imported from the Saracens in a later age; the wars with the Saracens, however, gave occasion to their propagation, not only as bigotry naturally discovers prodigies, but as the scene of action was removed to a greater distance, and distance, either of time or place, is sufficient to reconcile weak minds to wonderful relations. The reformation did not immediately arrive at its meridian, and though day was gradually increasing upon us, the goblins of witchcraft still continued to hover in the twilight. In the time of queen Elizabeth was the remarkable trial of the witches of Warbois, whose conviction is still commemorated in an annual sermon at Huntingdon. But in the reign of king James, in which this tragedy was written, many circumstances concurred to propagate and confirm this opinion. The king, who was much celebrated for his knowledge, had, before his arrival in England, not only examined in person a woman accused of witchcraft, but had given a very formal account of the practices and illusions of evil spirits, the compacts of witches, the ceremonies used by them, the manner of detecting them, and the justice of punishing them, in his dialogues of _Daemonologie_, written in the Scottish dialect, and published at Edinburgh. This book was, soon after his accession, reprinted at London; and, as the ready way to gain king James's favour was to flatter his speculations, the system of _Daemonologie_ was immediately adopted by all who desired either to gain preferment or not to lose it. Thus the doctrine of witchcraft was very powerfully inculcated; and as the greatest part of mankind have no other reason for their opinions than that they are in fashion, it cannot be doubted but this persuasion made a rapid progress, since vanity and credulity co-operated in its favour, and it had a tendency to free cowardice from reproach. The infection soon reached the parliament, who, in the first year of king James, made a law, by which it was enacted, chap. xii. That, "if any person shall use any invocation or conjuration of any evil or wicked spirit; 2. or shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any evil or cursed spirit to or for any intent or purpose; 3. or take up any dead man, woman or child out of the grave,--or the skin, bone or any part of the dead person, to be employed or used in any manner of witchcraft, sorcery, charm or enchantment; 4. or shall use, practise or exercise any sort of witchcraft, sorcery, charm or enchantment; 5. whereby any person shall be destroyed, killed, wasted, consumed, pined or lamed in any part of the body; 6. That every such person, being convicted, shall suffer death." This law was repealed in our time. Thus, in the time of Shakespeare, was the doctrine of witchcraft at once established by law and by the fashion, and it became not only unpolite, but criminal, to doubt it; and as prodigies are always seen in proportion as they are expected, witches were every day discovered, and multiplied so fast in some places, that bishop Hall mentions a village in Lancashire, where their number was greater than that of the houses[2]. The Jesuits and Sectaries took advantage of this universal errour, and endeavoured to promote the interest of their parties by pretended cures of persons afflicted by evil spirits; but they were detected and exposed by the clergy of the established church. Upon this general infatuation Shakespeare might be easily allowed to found a play, especially since he has followed with great exactness such histories as were then thought true; nor can it be doubted that the scenes of enchantment, however they may now be ridiculed, were both by himself and his audience thought awful and affecting[3]. NOTE III. [Transcriber's note: sic] ACT I. SCENE II. --The merciless Macdonal,--from the western isles Of _Kernes_ and _Gallowglasses_ was supply'd; And fortune on his damned _quarry_ smiling, Shew'd like a rebel's whore.-- _Kernes_ are light-armed, and _Gallowglasses_ heavy-armed soldiers. The word _quarry_ has no sense that is properly applicable in this place, and, therefore, it is necessary to read, And fortune on his damned _quarrel_ smiling. _Quarrel_ was formerly used for _cause_, or for _the occasion of a quarrel_, and is to be found in that sense in Hollingshed's account of the story of Macbeth, who, upon the creation of the prince of Cumberland, thought, says the historian, that he had _a just quarrel_ to endeavour after the crown. The sense, therefore, is, _fortune smiling on his execrable cause, &c_. NOTE III. If I say sooth, I must report, they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks. So they redoubled strokes upon the foe. Mr. Theobald has endeavoured to improve the sense of this passage by altering the punctuation thus: --They were As cannons overcharg'd; with double cracks So they redoubled strokes.-- He declares, with some degree of exultation, that he has no idea of _a cannon charged with double cracks_; but, surely, the great author will not gain much by an alteration which makes him say of a hero, that he _redoubles strokes with double cracks_, an expression not more loudly to be applauded, or more easily pardoned, than that which is rejected in its favour. That a _cannon is charged with thunder_ or _with double thunders_ may be written, not only without nonsense, but with elegance: and nothing else is here meant by _cracks_, which in the time of this writer was a word of such emphasis and dignity, that in this play he terms the general dissolution of nature the _crack of doom_. There are among Mr. Theobald's alterations others which I do not approve, though I do not always censure them; for some of his amendments are so excellent, that, even when he has failed, he ought to be treated with indulgence and respect. NOTE IV. _King_. But who comes here? _Mal_. The worthy Thane of Rosse. _Len_. What haste looks through his eyes? So should he look, that _seems_ to speak things strange. The meaning of this passage, as it now stands, is, _so should he look, that looks as if he told things strange_. But Rosse neither yet told strange things, nor could look as if he told them; Lenox only conjectured from his air that he had strange things to tell, and, therefore, undoubtedly said, --What haste looks through his eyes? So should he look, that _teems_ to speak things strange. He looks like one that _is big_ with something of importance; a metaphor so natural, that it is every day used in common discourse. NOTE V. SCENE III. _Thunder. Enter the three Witches_. _1 Witch_. Where hast thou been, sister? _2 Witch_. Killing swine. _3 Witch_. Sister, where thou? _1 Witch_. A sailor's wife had chesnuts in her lap, And mouncht, and mouncht, and mouncht. Give me, quoth I. (a) Aroint thee, witch!--the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' th' Tyger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And like a rat without a tail, I'll do--I'll do--and I'll do. _2 Witch_. I'll give thee a wind. _1 Witch_. Thou art kind. _3 Witch_. And I another. _1 Witch_. I myself have all the other. And the (b) very points they blow; All the quarters that they know, I' th' ship-man's card.-- I will drain him dry as hay, Sleep shall neither night nor day, Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man (c) forbid; Weary sev'n nights, nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak and pine; Tho' his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look, what I have. _2 Witch_. Shew me, Shew me. (a) Aroint thee, witch! In one of the folio editions the reading is _anoint thee_, in a sense very consistent with the common accounts of witches, who are related to perform many supernatural acts by the means of unguents, and particularly to fly through the air to the place where they meet at their hellish festivals. In this sense _anoint thee, witch_, will mean, _away, witch, to your infernal assembly_. This reading I was inclined to favour, because I had met with the word _aroint_ in no other author; till looking into Hearne's Collections, I found it in a very old drawing, that he has published, in which St. Patrick is represented visiting hell, and putting the devils into great confusion by his presence, of whom one that is driving the damned before him with a prong, has a label issuing out from his mouth with these words, "OUT OUT ARONGT," of which the last is evidently the same with _aroint_, and used in the same sense as in this passage. (b) And the _very_ points they blow. As the word _very_ is here of no other use than to fill up the verse, it is likely that Shakespeare wrote _various_, which might be easily mistaken for _very_, being either negligently read, hastily pronounced, or imperfectly heard. (c) He shall live a man _forbid_. Mr. Theobald has very justly explained _forbid_ by _accursed_, but without giving any reason of his interpretation. To _bid_ is originally _to pray_, as in this Saxon fragment: [Anglo-Saxon: He is wis thaet bit g bote,] &c. He is wise that _prays_ and makes amends. As to _forbid_, therefore, implies to _prohibit_, in opposition to the word _bid_, in its present sense, it signifies by the same kind of opposition to _curse_, when it is derived from the same word in its primitive meaning. NOTE VI. SCENE V The incongruity of all the passages, in which the Thane of Cawdor is mentioned, is very remarkable; in the second scene the Thanes of Rosse and Angus bring the king an account of the battle, and inform him that Norway, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, 'gan a dismal conflict. It appears that Cawdor was taken prisoner, for the king says, in the same scene, --Go, pronounce his death; And with his former title greet Macbeth. Yet though Cawdor was thus taken by Macbeth, in arms against his king, when Macbeth is saluted, in the fourth scene, _Thane of Cawdor_, by the Weird Sisters, he asks, But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor lives. A prosp'rous gentleman;-- And in the next line considers the promises, that he should be Cawdor and King, as equally unlikely to be accomplished. How can Macbeth be ignorant of the state of the Thane of Cawdor, whom he has just defeated and taken prisoner, or call him a _prosperous gentleman_ who has forfeited his title and life by open rebellion? Or why should he wonder that the title of the rebel whom he has overthrown should be conferred upon him? He cannot be supposed to dissemble his knowledge of the condition of Cawdor, because he inquires with all the ardour of curiosity, and the vehemence of sudden astonishment; and because nobody is present but Banquo, who had an equal part in the battle, and was equally acquainted with Cawdor's treason. However, in the next scene, his ignorance still continues; and when Rosse and Angus present him from the king with his new title, he cries out, --The Thane of Cawdor lives; Why do you dress me in his borrow'd robes? Rosse and Angus, who were the messengers that, in the second scene, informed the king of the assistance given by Cawdor to the invader, having lost, as well as Macbeth, all memory of what they had so lately seen and related, make this answer, --Whether he was Combin'd with Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and 'vantage, or with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not. Neither Rosse knew what he had just reported, nor Macbeth what he had just done. This seems not to be one of the faults that are to be imputed to the transcribers, since, though the inconsistency of Rosse and Angus might be removed, by supposing that their names are erroneously inserted, and that only Rosse brought the account of the battle, and only Angus was sent to compliment Macbeth, yet the forgetfulness of Macbeth cannot be palliated, since what he says could not have been spoken by any other. NOTE VII. My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man,-- The _single state of man_ seems to be used by Shakespeare for an _individual_, in opposition to a _commonwealth_, or _conjunct body_ of men. NOTE VIII. _Macbeth._--Come what come may, _Time and the hour_ runs through the roughest day. I suppose every reader is disgusted at the tautology in this passage, _time and the hour_, and will, therefore, willingly believe that Shakespeare wrote it thus, --Come what come may, Time! on!--the hour runs thro' the roughest day. Macbeth is deliberating upon the events which are to befall him; but finding no satisfaction from his own thoughts, he grows impatient of reflection, and resolves to wait the close without harassing himself with conjectures: --Come what come may. But, to shorten the pain of suspense, he calls upon time, in the usual style of ardent desire, to quicken his motion, Time! on!-- He then comforts himself with the reflection that all his perplexity must have an end, --The hour runs thro' the roughest day. This conjecture is supported by the passage in the letter to his lady, in which he says, _They referr'd me to the_ coming on of time _with, Hail, King that shall be._ NOTE IX. SCENE VI. _Malcolm._--Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it. He dy'd, As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he _ow'd_, As 'twere a careless trifle. As the word _ow'd_ affords here no sense, but such as is forced and unnatural, it cannot be doubted that it was originally written, The dearest thing he _own'd_; a reading which needs neither defence nor explication. NOTE X. _King._--There's no art, To find the mind's construction in the face: The _construction of the mind_ is, I believe, a phrase peculiar to Shakespeare; it implies the _frame_ or _disposition_ of the mind, by which it is determined to good or ill. NOTE XI. _Macbeth._ The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties; and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing _every thing Safe tow'rd your love and honour_. Of the last line of this speech, which is certainly, as it is now read, unintelligible, an emendation has been attempted, which Dr. Warburton and Mr. Theobald have admitted as the true reading: --our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants, Which do but what they should, in doing every thing _Fiefs_ to your love and honour. My esteem for these criticks, inclines me to believe, that they cannot be much pleased with the expressions, _Fiefs to love_, or _Fiefs to honour_; and that they have proposed this alteration, rather because no other occurred to them, than because they approved it. I shall, therefore, propose a bolder change, perhaps, with no better success, but "sua cuique placent." I read thus, --our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants, Which do but what they should, in doing _nothing, Save_ tow'rd _your love and honour_. We do but perform our duty, when we contract all our views to your service, when we act with _no other_ principle than regard to _your love and honour_. It is probable that this passage was first corrupted by writing _safe_ for _save_, and the lines then stood thus: --doing nothing Safe tow'rd your love and honour. Which the next transcriber observing to be wrong, and yet not being able to discover the real fault, altered to the present reading. NOTE XII. SCENE VII. --Thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "thus thou must do, if thou have _it_; And that," &c. As the object of Macbeth's desire is here introduced speaking of itself, it is necessary to read, --thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "thus thou must do, if thou have _me_." NOTE XIII. --Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth _seem_ To have thee crown'd withal. For _seem_, the sense evidently directs us to read _seek_. The crown to which fate destines thee, and which preternatural agents _endeavour_ to bestow upon thee. The _golden round_ is the _diadem_. NOTE XIV. _Lady Macbeth_.--Come, all you spirits That tend on _mortal thoughts_, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to th' toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th' access and passage to remorse; That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor _keep peace_ between Th' effect and it! --Mortal thoughts,-- This expression signifies not _the thoughts of mortals_, but _murderous, deadly_, or _destructive designs_. So in Act v. Hold fast the _mortal_ sword. And in another place, With twenty _mortal_ murthers. --Nor keep _peace_ between Th' effect and it!-- The intent of Lady Macbeth evidently is to wish that no womanish tenderness, or conscientious remorse, may hinder her purpose from proceeding to effect; but neither this, nor indeed any other sense, is expressed by the present reading, and, therefore, it cannot be doubted that Shakespeare wrote differently, perhaps, thus: That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor _keep pace_ between Th' effect and it. To _keep pace between_, may signify to _pass between_, to _intervene_. Pace is, on many occasions, a favourite of Shakespeare. This phrase, is indeed, not usual in this sense; but was it not its novelty that gave occasion to the present corruption? NOTE XV. SCENE VIII. _King_. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. _Ban_. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his lov'd mansionry, that heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty frieze, Buttrice, nor coigne of 'vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, The air is delicate. In this short scene, I propose a slight alteration to be made, by substituting _site_ for _seat_, as the ancient word for situation; and _sense_ for _senses_, as more agreeable to the measure; for which reason likewise I have endeavoured to adjust this passage, --heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty frieze, by changing the punctuation and adding the syllable thus, --heaven's breath Smells wooingly. Here is no jutty frieze. Those who have perused books, printed at the time of the first editions of Shakespeare, know that greater alterations than these are necessary almost in every page, even where it is not to be doubted, that the copy was correct. NOTE XVI. SCENE. X. The arguments by which Lady Macbeth persuades her husband to commit the murder, afford a proof of Shakespeare's knowledge of human nature. She urges the excellence and dignity of courage, a glittering idea which has dazzled mankind from age to age, and animated sometimes the housebreaker, and sometimes the conqueror; but this sophism Macbeth has for ever destroyed, by distinguishing true from false fortitude, in a line and a half; of which it may almost be said, that they ought to bestow immortality on the author, though all his other productions had been lost: I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. This topick, which has been always employed with too much success, is used in this scene, with peculiar propriety, to a soldier by a woman. Courage is the distinguishing virtue of a soldier, and the reproach of cowardice cannot be borne by any man from a woman, without great impatience. She then urges the oaths by which he had bound himself to murder Duncan, another art of sophistry by which men have sometimes deluded their consciences, and persuaded themselves that what would be criminal in others is virtuous in them: this argument Shakespeare, whose plan obliged him to make Macbeth yield, has not confuted, though he might easily have shown that a former obligation could not be vacated by a latter. NOTE XVII. Letting I dare not wait upon I would, Like the poor cat i' th' adage. The adage alluded to is, The cat loves fish but dares not wet her foot. Catus amat pisces, sed non vult tingere plantas. NOTE XVIII. Will I with wine and wassel so convince. To convince is, in Shakespeare, to _overpower_ or _subdue_, as in this play: --Their malady _convinces_ The great assay of art. NOTE XIX. --Who shall bear the guilt Of our great _quell_? _Quell_ is _murder, manquellers_ being, in the old language, the term for which _murderers_ is now used. NOTE XX. ACT II. SCENE II. --Now o'er one half the world (a)_Nature seems dead_, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecat's offerings: and wither'd murther, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, _With (b)Tarquin's ravishing sides_ tow'rds his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sound and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about; _And (c)take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it_.-- (a)--Now o'er one half the world Nature seems dead. That is, _over our hemisphere all action and motion seem to have ceased_. This image, which is, perhaps, the most striking that poetry can produce, has been adopted by Dryden, in his Conquest of Mexico. All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead, The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head: The little birds in dreams their songs repeat, And sleeping flowers beneath the night dews sweat. Even lust and envy sleep! These lines, though so well known, I have transcribed, that the contrast between them and this passage of Shakespeare may be more accurately observed. Night is described by two great poets, but one describes a night of quiet, the other of perturbation. In the night of Dryden, all the disturbers of the world are laid asleep; in that of Shakespeare, nothing but sorcery, lust, and murder, is awake. He that reads Dryden, finds himself lulled with serenity, and disposed to solitude and contemplation. He that peruses Shakespeare, looks round alarmed, and starts to find himself alone. One is the night of a lover; the other, that of a murderer. (b)--Wither'd murder, --thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing _sides_ tow'rds his design, Moves like a ghost.-- This was the reading of this passage in all the editions before that of Mr. Pope, who for _sides_, inserted in the text _strides_, which Mr. Theobald has tacitly copied from him, though a more proper alteration might, perhaps, have been made. A _ravishing stride_ is an action of violence, impetuosity, and tumult, like that of a savage rushing on his prey; whereas the poet is here attempting to exhibit an image of secrecy and caution, of anxious circumspection and guilty timidity, the _stealthy pace_ of a _ravisher_ creeping into the chamber of a virgin, and of an assassin approaching the bed of him whom he proposes to murder, without awaking him; these he describes as _moving like ghosts_, whose progression is so different from _strides_, that it has been in all ages represented to be, as Milton expresses it, Smooth sliding without step. This hemistich will afford the true reading of this place, which is, I think, to be corrected thus: --and wither'd murder, --thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin ravishing, _slides_ tow'rds his design, Moves like a ghost. Tarquin is, in this place, the general name of a ravisher, and the sense is: Now is the time in which every one is asleep, but those who are employed in wickedness, the witch who is sacrificing to Hecate, and the ravisher, and the murderer, who, like me, are stealing upon their prey. When the reading is thus adjusted, he wishes with great propriety, in the following lines, that the _earth_ may not _hear his steps_. (c) And take the present horror from the time. Which now suits with it.-- I believe every one that has attentively read this dreadful soliloquy is disappointed at the conclusion, which, if not wholly unintelligible, is at least obscure, nor can be explained into any sense worthy of the author. I shall, therefore, propose a slight alteration, --Thou sound and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And _talk_--the present horror of the time!-- That now suits with it.-- Macbeth has, in the foregoing lines, disturbed his imagination by enumerating all the terrours of the night; at length he is wrought up to a degree of frenzy, that makes him afraid of some supernatural discovery of his design, and calls out to the stones not to betray him, not to declare where he walks, nor _to talk_.--As he is going to say of what, he discovers the absurdity of his suspicion, and pauses, but is again overwhelmed by his guilt, and concludes that such are the horrours of the present night, that the stones may be expected to cry out against him: _That_ now suits with it. He observes in a subsequent passage, that on such occasions _stones have been known to move_. It is now a very just and strong picture of a man about to commit a deliberate murder, under the strongest convictions of the wickedness of his design. NOTE XXI. SCENE IV. _Len_. The night has been unruly; where we lay Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i'th'air, strange screams of death, And prophesying with accents terrible Of dire combustion, and confused events, _New-hatch'd to the woeful time_. The obscure bird clamour'd the live-long night: Some say, the earth was fev'rous, and did shake. These lines, I think, should be rather regulated thus: --prophesying with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confused events. New-hatch'd to th'woeful time, the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night. Some say, the earth Was fev'rous and did shake. A _prophecy_ of an _event new-hatch'd_, seems to be _a prophecy_ of an _event past_. The term _new-hatch'd_ is properly applicable to a _bird_, and that birds of ill omen should be _new-hatch'd to the woeful time_ is very consistent with the rest of the prodigies here mentioned, and with the universal disorder into which nature is described as thrown, by the perpetration of this horrid murder. NOTE XXII. --Up, up, and see The great doom's image, Malcolm, Banquo, As from your graves rise up.-- The second line might have been so easily completed, that it cannot be supposed to have been left imperfect by the author, who probably wrote, --Malcolm! Banquo! rise! As from your graves rise up.-- Many other emendations, of the same kind, might be made, without any greater deviation from the printed copies, than is found in each of them from the rest. NOTE XXIII. _Macbeth_.--Here, lay Duncan, His silver skin laced with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature, For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murtherers Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers _Unmannerly breech'd with gore_.-- An _unmannerly dagger_, and a _dagger breech'd_, or as in some editions _breach'd with gore_, are expressions not easily to be understood, nor can it be imagined that Shakespeare would reproach the murderer of his king only with _want of manners_. There are, undoubtedly, two faults in this passage, which I have endeavoured to take away by reading, --Daggers _Unmanly drench'd_ with gore.-- _I saw_ drench'd _with the king's Mood the fatal daggers, not only instruments of murder but evidences of_ cowardice. Each of these words might easily be confounded with that which I have substituted for it by a hand not exact, a casual blot, or a negligent inspection. Mr. Pope has endeavoured to improve one of these lines, by substituting _goary blood_ for _golden blood_, but it may easily be admitted, that he who could on such an occasion talk of _lacing the silver skin_, would _lace it_ with _golden blood_. No amendment can be made to this line, of which every word is equally faulty, but by a general blot. It is not improbable, that Shakespeare put these forced and unnatural metaphors into the mouth of Macbeth, as a mark of artifice and dissimulation, to show the difference between the studied language of hypocrisy, and the natural outcries of sudden passion. This whole speech, considered in this light, is a remarkable instance of judgment, as if consists entirely of antitheses and metaphors. NOTE XXIV. ACT III. SCENE II. _Macbeth_.--Our fears in Banquo Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that, which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares, And to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he, Whose being I do fear: and, under him, My genius is rebuk'd; (a)_as, it is said, Anthony's was by Cæsar_. He chid the sisters, When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If 'tis so, For Banquo's issue have I 'fil'd my mind; For them, the gracious Duncan have I murther'd, Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the (b)_common enemy of man_, To make them kings,--the seed of Banquo kings. Rather than so, come fate into the list, (c)And champion me to th' _utterance_!-- (a)--As, it is said, Anthony's was by Cæsar. Though I would not often assume the critick's privilege, of being confident where certainty cannot be obtained, nor indulge myself too far, in departing from the established reading; yet I cannot but propose the rejection of this passage, which, I believe, was an insertion of some player, that, having so much learning as to discover to what Shakespeare alluded, was not willing that his audience should be less knowing than himself, and has, therefore, weakened the author's sense by the intrusion of a remote and useless image into a speech bursting from a man wholly possessed with his own present condition, and, therefore, not at leisure to explain his own allusions to himself. If these words are taken away, by which not only the thought but the numbers are injured, the lines of Shakespeare close together without any traces of a breach. My genius is rebuk'd. He chid the sisters. (b)--The common enemy of man. It is always an entertainment to an inquisitive reader, to trace a sentiment to its original source, and, therefore, though the term enemy of man, applied to the devil, is in itself natural and obvious, yet some may be pleased with being informed, that Shakespeare probably borrowed it from the first lines of the Destruction of Troy, a book which he is known to have read. That this remark may not appear too trivial, I shall take occasion from it to point out a beautiful passage of Milton, evidently copied from a book of no greater authority: in describing the gates of hell, Book ii. v.879, he says, --On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder. In the history of Don Bellianis, when one of the knights approaches, as I remember, the castle of Brandezar, the gates are said to open, _grating harsh thunder upon their brazen hinges_. (c)--Come fate into the list, And champion me to th' utterance.-- This passage will be best explained by translating it into the language from whence the only word of difficulty in it is borrowed. _Que la destinée se rende en lice, et qu'elle me donne un défi_ à l'outrance. A challenge or a combat _a l'outrance, to extremity_, was a fixed term in the law of arms, used when the combatants engaged with an _odium internecinum, an intention to destroy each other_, in opposition to trials of skill at festivals, or on other occasions, where the contest was only for reputation or a prize. The sense, therefore, is, Let fate, that has fore-doomed the exaltation of the sons of Banquo, enter the lists against me, with the utmost animosity, in defence of its own decrees, which I will endeavour to invalidate, whatever be the danger. NOTE XXV. _Macbeth_. Ay, in the catalogue, ye go for men; As hounds, and grey-hounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demy-wolves are cleped All by the name of dogs. Though this is not the most sparkling passage in the play, and though the name of a dog is of no great importance, yet it may not be improper to remark, that there is no such species of dogs as _shoughs_ mentioned by Caius De Canibus Britannicis, or any other writer that has fallen into my hands, nor is the word to be found in any dictionary which I have examined. I, therefore, imagined that it is falsely printed for _slouths_, a kind of slow hound bred in the southern parts of England, but was informed by a lady, that it is more probably used, either by mistake, or according to the orthography of that time, for _shocks_. NOTE XXVI. _Macbeth_.--In this hour, at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves; Acquaint you with the perfect spy o'th'time, The moment on't; for't must be done to-night, And something from the palace.-- What is meant by _the spy of the time_, it will be found difficult to explain; and, therefore, sense will be cheaply gained by a slight alteration.--Macbeth is assuring the assassins that they shall not want directions to find Banquo, and, therefore, says, I will-- _Acquaint you with_ a perfect spy _o'th'time_. Accordingly a third murderer joins them afterwards at the place of action. _Perfect_ is _well instructed_, or _well informed_, as in this play, Though in your state of honour I am _perfect_. _Though I am_ well acquainted _with your quality and rank_. NOTE XXVII. SCENE IV. _2 Murderer_. He needs not to mistrust, since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do, To the direction just. Mr. Theobald has endeavoured unsuccessfully to amend this passage, in which nothing is faulty but the punctuation. The meaning of this abrupt dialogue is this: The _perfect spy_, mentioned by Macbeth in the foregoing scene, has, before they enter upon the stage, given them the directions which were promised at the time of their agreement; and, therefore, one of the murderers observes, that, since _he has given them such exact information, he needs not doubt of their performance_. Then, by way of exhortation to his associates, he cries out, --To the direction just. _Now nothing remains but that we conform exactly to Macbeth's directions_. NOTE XXVIII. SCENE V. _Macbeth_. You know your own degrees, sit down: At first and last, the hearty welcome. As this passage stands, not only the numbers are very imperfect, but the sense, if any can be found, weak and contemptible. The numbers will be improved by reading, --sit down at first, And last a hearty welcome. But for _last_ should then be written _next_. I believe the true reading is, You know your own degrees, sit down--_To_ first And last the hearty welcome. _All of whatever degree, from the highest to the lowest, may be assured that their visit is well received_. NOTE XXIX _Macbeth._--There's blood upon thy face. [--_To the murderer, aside at the door_.] _Murderer_. 'Tis Banquo's then. _Macbeth_. 'Tis better thee without, than _he_ within. The sense apparently requires that this passage should be read thus: 'Tis better thee without, than _him_ within. That is, _I am more pleased that the blood of Banquo should be on thy face, than in his body_. NOTE XXX. _Lady Macbeth_. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: [_Aside to Macbeth_. This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said, Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts, _Impostures to true fear_, would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. As _starts_ can neither with propriety nor sense be called _impostures to true fear_, something else was undoubtedly intended by the author, who, perhaps, wrote, --These flaws and starts, _Impostures true to fear_, would well become A woman's story.-- These symptoms of terrour and amazement might better become _impostors true_ only _to fear, might become a coward at the recital of such falsehoods, as no man could credit, whose understanding was not weakened by his terrours; tales, told by a woman over a fire on the authority of her grandam_. NOTE XXXI. _Macbeth_.--Love and health to all! Then I'll sit down: give me some wine, fill full:-- I drink to the general joy of the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss; Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, _And all to all_.-- Though this passage is, as it now stands, capable of more meanings than one, none of them are very satisfactory; and, therefore, I am inclined to read it thus: --to all, and him, we thirst, _And hail to all_. Macbeth, being about to salute his company with a bumper, declares that he includes Banquo, though absent, in this act of kindness, and wishes _health_ to all. _Hail_ or _heil_ for _health_ was in such continual use among the good-fellows of ancient times, that a drinker was called a _was-heiler_, or a _wisher of health_, and the liquor was termed _was-heil_, because _health_ was so often _wished_ over it. Thus in the lines of Hanvil the monk, Jamque vagante scypho, discincto gutture _was-heil_ Ingeminant _was-heil_: labor est plus perdere vini Quam sitis.-- These words were afterwards corrupted into _wassail_ and _wassailer_. NOTE XXXII. _Macbeth_.--Can such things be, And overcome us, like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I _owe_, When now I think, you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheek, When mine is blanched with fear. This passage, as it now stands, is unintelligible, but may be restored to sense by a very slight alteration: --You make me strange Ev'n to the disposition that I _know_. _Though I had before seen many instances of your courage, yet it now appears in a degree altogether_ new. _So that my long_ acquaintance _with your_ disposition _does not hinder me from that astonishment which_ novelty _produces_. NOTE XXXIII. It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood, Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, that understand relations, have By magpies, and by choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.-- In this passage the first line loses much of its force by the present punctuation. Macbeth having considered the prodigy which has just appeared, infers justly from it, that the death of Duncan cannot pass unpunished; It will have blood:-- then, after a short pause, declares it as the general observation of mankind, that murderers cannot escape: --they say, blood will have blood. Murderers, when they have practised all human means of security, are detected by supernatural directions: Augurs, that understand relations, &c. By the word _relation_ is understood the _connexion_ of effects with causes; to _understand relations_ as _an augur_, is to know how those things _relate_ to each other, which have no visible combination or dependence. NOTE XXXIV. SCENE VII. _Enter Lenox and another Lord_. As this tragedy, like the rest of Shakespeare's, is, perhaps, overstocked with personages, it is not easy to assign a reason, why a nameless character should be introduced here, since nothing is said that might not, with equal propriety, have been put into the mouth of any other disaffected man. I believe, therefore, that in the original copy, it was written, with a very common form of contraction, _Lenox and An_. for which the transcriber, instead of Lenox and Angus, set down, Lenox and _another Lord_. The author had, indeed, been more indebted to the transcriber's fidelity and diligence, had he committed no errours of greater importance. NOTE XXXV. As this is the chief scene of enchantment in the play, it is proper, in this place, to observe, with how much judgment Shakespeare has selected all the circumstances of his infernal ceremonies, and how exactly he has conformed to common opinions and traditions: Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. The usual form in which familiar spirits are reported to converse with witches, is that of a cat. A witch, who was tried about half a century before the time of Shakespeare, had a cat named Rutterkin, as the spirit of one of those witches was Grimalkin; and when any mischief was to be done, she used to bid Rutterkin _go and fly_; but once, when she would have sent Rutterkin to torment a daughter of the countess of Rutland, instead of _going_ or _flying_, he only cried _mew_, from whence she discovered that the lady was out of his power, the power of witches being not universal, but limited, as Shakespeare has taken care to inculcate: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. The common afflictions which the malice of witches produced, were melancholy, fits, and loss of flesh, which are threatened by one of Shakespeare's witches: Weary sev'n nights, nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine. It was, likewise, their practice to destroy the cattle of their neighbours, and the farmers have, to this day, many ceremonies to secure their cows and other cattle from witchcraft; but they seem to have been most suspected of malice against swine. Shakespeare has, accordingly, made one of his witches declare that she has been _killing swine_; and Dr. Harsenet observes, that, about that time, "a sow could not be ill of the measles, nor a girl of the sullens, but some old woman was charged with witchcraft." Toad, that under the cold stone, Days and nights hast thirty-one, Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. Toads have, likewise, long lain under the reproach of being by some means accessary to witchcraft, for which reason Shakespeare, in the first scene of this play, calls one of the spirits Padocke, or Toad, and now takes care to put a toad first into the pot. When Vaninus was seized at Tholouse, there was found at his lodgings, "ingens bufo vitro inclusus," _a great toad shut in a vial_, upon which those that prosecuted him "veneficium exprobrabant," _charged him_, I suppose, _with witchcraft_. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake: Eye of newt, and toe of frog;--For a charm, &c. The propriety of these ingredients may be known by consulting the books De Viribus Animalium and De Mirabilibus Mundi, ascribed to Albertus Magnus, in which the reader, who has time and credulity, may discover very wonderful secrets. Finger of birth-strangled babe, Ditch-deliver'd by a drab-- It has been already mentioned, in the law against witches, that they are supposed to take up dead bodies to use in enchantments, which was confessed by the woman whom king James examined, and who had of a dead body, that was divided in one of their assemblies, two fingers for her share. It is observable, that Shakespeare, on this great occasion, which involves the fate of a king, multiplies all the circumstances of horrour. The babe, whose finger is used, must be strangled in its birth; the grease must not only be human, but must have dropped from a gibbet, the gibbet of a murderer; and even the sow, whose blood is used, must have offended nature by devouring her own farrow. These are touches of judgment and genius. And now about the cauldron sing-- Black spirits and white, Red spirits and grey, Mingle, mingle, mingle, You that mingle may. And, in a former part: --weird sisters hand in hand,-- Thus do go about, about; Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine; These two passages I have brought together, because they both seem subject to the objection of too much levity for the solemnity of enchantment, and may both be shown, by one quotation from Camden's account of Ireland, to be founded upon a practice really observed by the uncivilized natives of that country. "When any one gets a fall," says the informer of Camden, "he starts up, and, _turning three times to the right_, digs a hole in the earth; for they imagine that there is a spirit in the ground, and if he falls sick in two or three days, they send one of their women that is skilled in that way to the place, where she says, I call thee from the east, west, north, and south, from the groves, the woods, the rivers, and the fens, from the _fairies, red, black, white_." There was, likewise, a book written before the time of Shakespeare, describing, amongst other properties, the _colours_ of spirits. Many other circumstances might be particularized, in which Shakespeare has shown his judgment and his knowledge[4]. NOTE XXXVI. SCENE II. _Macbeth_. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does (a)sear mine eye-balls:--and thy (b)_hair_, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:-- A third is like the former. (a) The expression of Macbeth, that the _crown sears_ his eye-balls, is taken from the method formerly practised of destroying the sight of captives or competitors, by holding a burning bason before the eye, which dried up its humidity. Whence the Italian, _abacinare, to blind_. (b) As Macbeth expected to see a train of kings, and was only inquiring from what race they would proceed, he could not be surprised that the _hair_ of the second was _bound with gold_, like that of the first; he was offended only that the second resembled the first, as the first resembled Banquo, and, therefore, said: --and thy _air_, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. NOTE XXXVII. I will--give to the edge o' th' sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That _trace him in his line_.--No boasting like a fool: This deed I'll do before my purpose cool. Both the sense and measure of the third line, which, as it rhymes, ought, according to the practice of this author, to be regular, are, at present, injured by two superfluous syllables, which may easily be removed by reading, --souls That trace his line:--No boasting like a fool. NOTE XXXVIII. SCENE III. _Rosse_. My dearest cousin, I pray you, school yourself: But for your husband, He's noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o'th'time, I dare not speak much further, But cruel are the times when we are traitors, And do not know't ourselves, when we (a)_hold rumour From what we fear_, yet know not what we fear; But float upon a wild and violent sea, Each way, and (b)_move_. I'll take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I'll be here again: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before: my pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! (a)--When we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear. The present reading seems to afford no sense; and, therefore, some critical experiments may be properly tried upon it, though, the verses being without any connexion, there is room for suspicion, that some intermediate lines are lost, and that the passage is, therefore, irretrievable. If it be supposed that the fault arises only from the corruption of some words, and that the traces of the true reading are still to be found, the passage may be changed thus: --when we _bode ruin_ From what we fear, yet know not what we fear. Or, in a sense very applicable to the occasion of the conference: --when the _bold, running_ From what they fear, yet know not what they fear. (b) But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way, and move. That he who _floats_ upon a _rough sea_ must move, is evident, too evident for Shakespeare so emphatically to assert. The line, therefore, is to be written thus: Each way, and move--I'll take my leave of you. Rosse is about to proceed, but, finding himself overpowered by his tenderness, breaks off abruptly, for which he makes a short apology, and retires. NOTE XXXIX. SCENE IV. _Malcolm_. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. _Macduff_. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men, Bestride our _downfal birth-doom_: each new morn, New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllables of dolour. He who can discover what is meant by him that earnestly exhorts him to _bestride_ his _downfal birth-doom_, is at liberty to adhere to the present text; but those who are willing to confess that such counsel would to them be unintelligible, must endeavour to discover some reading less obscure. It is probable that Shakespeare wrote: --like good men, Bestride our _downfall'n birthdom_-- The allusion is to a man from whom something valuable is about to be taken by violence, and who, that he may defend it without encumbrance, lays it on the ground, and stands over it with his weapon in his hand. Our birthdom, or birthright, says he, lies on the ground, let us, like men who are to fight for what is dearest to them, not abandon it, but stand over it and defend it. This is a strong picture of obstinate resolution. _Birthdom_ for _birthright_ is formed by the same analogy with _masterdom_ in this play, signifying the _privileges_ or _rights of a master_. Perhaps it might be _birth-dame_ for _mother_; let us stand over our mother that lies bleeding on the ground. NOTE XL. _Malcolm_. Now we'll together; and the _chance of goodness_ Be like our warranted quarrel! The _chance of goodness_, as it is commonly read, conveys no sense. If there be not some more important errour in the passage, it should, at least, be pointed thus: --And the chance, of goodness, Be like our warranted quarrel! That is, may the event be, of the goodness of heaven, [_pro justicia divina_,] answerable to the cause. But I am inclined to believe that Shakespeare wrote, --and the chance, O goodness, Be like our warranted quarrel! This some of his transcribers wrote with a small _o_, which another imagined to mean _of_. If we adopt this reading, the sense will be, _and O! thou sovereign goodness, to whom we now appeal, may our fortune answer to our cause._ NOTE XLI. ACT V. SCENE III. _Macbeth_. Bring me no more reports, let them fly all, Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman?-- --fly false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures. In the first line of this speech, the proper pauses are not observed in the present editions. Bring me no more reports--let them fly all-- _Tell me not any more of desertions--Let all my subjects leave me--I am safe till, &c._ The reproach of epicurism, on which Mr. Theobald has bestowed a note, is nothing more than a natural invective, uttered by an inhabitant of a barren country, against those who have more opportunities of luxury. NOTE XLII. _Macbeth_. I have liv'd long enough: my _way_ of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf. As there is no relation between the _way of life_, and _fallen into the sear_, I am inclined to think, that the _W_ is only an _M_ inverted, and that it was originally written, my _May_ of life. _I am now passed from the spring to the autumn of my days, but I am without those comforts that should succeed the sprightliness of bloom, and support me in this melancholy season._ NOTE XLIII. SCENE IV. _Malcolm_. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is _advantage to be given_, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. The impropriety of the expression _advantage to be given_, instead of _advantage given_, and the disagreeable repetition of the word _given_ in the next line incline me to read, --where there is _a'vantage_ to be _gone_, Both more and less have given him the revolt. _Advantage_ or _'vantage_, in the time of Shakespeare, signified _opportunity_. _More and less_ is the same with _greater and less_. So in the interpolated Mandeville, a book of that age, there is a chapter of India the more and the less. NOTE XLIV. SCENE V. _Macbeth_.--Wherefore was that cry? _Seyton_. The queen, my lord, is dead. _Macbeth_. She should (a)have, died hereafter: There would have been a time for such a _word_. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of (b)recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.-- (a) She should have died hereafter, There would have been a time for such a _word_. This passage has very justly been suspected of being corrupt. It is not apparent for what _word_ there would have been a _time_, and that there would or would not be a _time_ for any _word_, seems not a consideration of importance sufficient to transport Macbeth into the following exclamation. I read, therefore: She should have died hereafter, There would have been a time for--such a _world!_-- To-morrow, &c. It is a broken speech, in which only part of the thought is expressed, and may be paraphrased thus: The queen is dead. _Macbeth_. Her death should have been deferred to some more peaceful hour; had she lived longer, _there would at length have been a time for_ the honours due to her as a queen, and that respect which I owe her for her fidelity and love. Such is the _world_--such is the condition of human life, that we always think _to-morrow_ will be happier than to-day; but to-morrow and to-morrow steals over us unenjoyed and unregarded, and we still linger in the same expectation to the moment appointed for our end. All these days, which have thus passed away, have sent multitudes of fools to the grave, who were engrossed by the same dream of future felicity, and, when life was departing from them, were, like me, reckoning on to- morrow. (b) To the last syllable of recorded time. _Recorded time_ seems to signify the time fixed in the decrees of heaven for the period of life. The _record_ of _futurity_ is, indeed, no accurate expression, but as we only know transactions past or present, the language of men affords no term for the volumes of prescience, in which future events may be supposed to be written. NOTE XLV. _Macbeth_. If thou speak'st false. Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I _pull_ in resolution; and begin To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth: "Fear not till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane," and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane. I _pull_ in resolution.-- Though this is the reading of all the editions, yet as it is a phrase without either example, elegance, or propriety, it is surely better to read: I _pall_ in resolution.-- _I languish in my constancy, my confidence begins to forsake me._ It is scarcely necessary to observe how easily _pall_ might be changed into _pull_ by a negligent writer, or mistaken for it by an unskilful printer. NOTE XLVI. SCENE VIII. _Siward_ Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And so his knell is knoll'd. This incident is thus related from Henry of Huntingdon, by Camden, in his Remains, from which our author probably copied it. When Siward, the martial Earl of Northumberland, understood that his son, whom he had sent in service against the Scotchmen, was slain, he demanded whether his wound were in the fore part or hinder part of his body. When it was answered in the fore part, he replied, "I am right glad; neither wish I any other death to me or mine." * * * * * After the foregoing pages were printed, the late edition of Shakespeare, ascribed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, fell into my hands; and it was, therefore, convenient for me to delay the publication of my remarks, till I had examined whether they were not anticipated by similar observations, or precluded by better. I, therefore, read over this tragedy, but found that the editor's apprehension is of a cast so different from mine, that he appears to find no difficulty in most of those passages which I have represented as unintelligible, and has, therefore, passed smoothly over them, without any attempt to alter or explain them. Some of the lines with which I had been perplexed, have been, indeed, so fortunate as to attract his regard; and it is not without all the satisfaction which it is usual to express on such occasions, that I find an entire agreement between us in substituting [see Note II.] _quarrel_ for _quarry_, and in explaining the adage of the cat, [Note XVII.] But this pleasure is, like most others, known only to be regretted; for I have the unhappiness to find no such conformity with regard to any other passage. The line which I have endeavoured to amend, Note XI. is, likewise, attempted by the new editor, and is, perhaps, the only passage in the play in which he has not submissively admitted the emendations of foregoing criticks. Instead of the common reading, --Doing every thing _Safe_ towards your love and honour, he has published, --Doing every thing _Shap'd_ towards your love and honour. This alteration, which, like all the rest attempted by him, the reader is expected to admit, without any reason alleged in its defence, is, in my opinion, more plausible than that of Mr. Theobald: whether it is right, I am not to determine. In the passage which I have altered in Note XL. an emendation is, likewise, attempted in the late edition, where, for, --and the chance _of_ goodness Be like our warranted quarrel, is substituted--and the chance _in_ goodness--whether with more or less elegance, dignity, and propriety, than the reading which I have offered, I must again decline the province of deciding. Most of the other emendations which he has endeavoured, whether with good or bad fortune, are too trivial to deserve mention. For surely the weapons of criticism ought not to be blunted against an editor, who can imagine that he is restoring poetry, while he is amusing himself with alterations like these: for, --This is the sergeant, Who like a good and hardy soldier fought; --This is the sergeant, who Like a _right_ good and hardy soldier fought. For, --Dismay'd not this Our captains Macbeth and Banquo?--Yes; --Dismay'd not this Our captains _brave_ Macbeth and Banquo?--Yes. Such harmless industry may, surely, be forgiven, if it cannot be praised: may he, therefore, never want a monosyllable, who can use it with such wonderful dexterity. Rumpatur quisquis rumpitur invidia! The rest of this edition I have not read, but, from the little that I have seen, think it not dangerous to declare that, in my opinion, its pomp recommends it more than its accuracy. There is no distinction made between the ancient reading, and the innovations of the editor; there is no reason given for any of the alterations which are made; the emendations of former criticks are adopted without any acknowledgment, and few of the difficulties are removed which have hitherto embarrassed the readers of Shakespeare. I would not, however, be thought to insult the editor, nor to censure him with too much petulance, for having failed in little things, of whom I have been told, that he excels in greater. But I may, without indecency, observe, that no man should attempt to teach others what he has never learned himself; and that those who, like Themistocles, have studied the arts of policy, and "can teach a small state how to grow great," should, like him, disdain to labour in trifles, and consider petty accomplishments as below their ambition.[5] FOOTNOTES: [1] "To deny the possibility, nay, the actual existence of witchcraft and sorcery, is, at once flatly to contradict the revealed word of God, in various passages both of the Old and New Testament: and the thing itself is a truth to which every nation in the world hath, in its turn, borne testimony, either by examples seemingly well-attested, or by prohibitory laws, which, at least, suppose the possibility of commerce with evil spirits." Blackstone, Commentaries iv. 60. The learned judge, however, concludes with calling it a "dubious crime," and approves the maxim of the philosophic Montesquieu, whom no one would lightly accuse of superstition, that "il faut être très circonspect dans la poursuite de la magie et de l'hérésie." Esprit des Lois, xii. 5. Selden attempted to justify the punishing of witchcraft capitally. Works, iii. 2077. See Spectator, 117. Barrington's Ancient Statutes, 407. [2] In Nashe's Lenten Stuff, 1599, it is said, that no less than six hundred witches were executed at one time. Reed.--Boswell's Shakespeare, xi. 5. Dr. Grey, in his notes on Hudibras, mentions, that Hopkins the noted witch-finder hanged sixty suspected witches in one year. He also cites Hutchinson on Witchcraft for thirty thousand having been burnt in 150 years. _See Barrington on Ancient Statutes_. [3] Johnson's apprehensions here are surely unfounded. The region of Fancy, however, in his mind, was very circumscribed. Mrs. Montague's chapter on Shakespeare's Preternatural Beings, in her excellent Essay, will repay perusal. See too Schlegel on Dramatic Literature. [4] Compare the Incantations of the Erichtho of Lucan, the Canidie of Horace, the Cantata of Salvator Rosa, "all' incanto all' incante," and the Eumenides of �schylus. The Gothic wildness of Shakespeare's "weird sisters" will thence be better appreciated.--Ed. [5] These excellent observations extorted praise from the supercilious Warburton himself. In the Preface to his Shakespeare, published two years after the appearance of Johnson's anonymous pamphlet, he thus alludes to it: "As to all those things which have been published under the titles of Essays, Remarks, Observations, &c. on Shakespeare, (if you except some critical notes on Macbeth, given as a specimen of a projected edition, and written, as appears, by a man of parts and genius,) the rest are absolutely below a serious notice." According to Boswell, Johnson ever retained a grateful remembrance of this distinguished compliment; "He praised me," said he, "at a time when praise was of value to me." Boswell, I. Johnson affixed to this tract, proposals for a Shakespeare in 10 volumes, 18mo. price, to subscribers, 1_l_ 5_s_. in sheets, half-a-guinea of which moderate sum was to be deposited at the time of subscription. The following fuller proposals were published in 1756; but they were not realized until the lapse of nine years from that period. Boswell, I.--Ed. PROPOSALS FOR PRINTING THE DRAMATICK WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1756. When the works of Shakespeare are, after so many editions, again offered to the publick, it will, doubtless, be inquired, why Shakespeare stands in more need of critical assistance than any other of the English writers, and what are the deficiencies of the late attempts, which another editor may hope to supply? The business of him that republishes an ancient book is, to correct what is corrupt, and to explain what is obscure. To have a text corrupt in many places, and in many doubtful, is, among the authors that have written since the use of types, almost peculiar to Shakespeare. Most writers, by publishing their own works, prevent all various readings, and preclude all conjectural criticism. Books, indeed, are sometimes published after the death of him who produced them; but they are better secured from corruption than these unfortunate compositions. They subsist in a single copy, written or revised by the author; and the faults of the printed volume can be only faults of one descent. But of the works of Shakespeare the condition has been far different: he sold them, not to be printed, but to be played. They were immediately copied for the actors, and multiplied by transcript after transcript, vitiated by the blunders of the penman, or changed by the affectation of the player; perhaps enlarged to introduce a jest, or mutilated to shorten the representation; and printed at last without the concurrence of the author, without the consent of the proprietor, from compilations made by chance or by stealth out of the separate parts written for the theatre; and thus thrust into the world surreptitiously and hastily, they suffered another depravation from the ignorance and negligence of the printers, as every man who knows the state of the press, in that age, will readily conceive. It is not easy for invention to bring together so many causes concurring to vitiate the text. No other author ever gave up his works to fortune and time with so little care: no books could be left in hands so likely to injure them, as plays frequently acted, yet continued in manuscript: no other transcribers were likely to be so little qualified for their task as those who copied for the stage, at a time when the lower ranks of the people were universally illiterate: no other editions were made from fragments so minutely broken, and so fortuitously reunited; and in no other age was the art of printing in such unskilful hands[1]. With the causes of corruption that make the revisal of Shakespeare's dramatick pieces necessary, may be enumerated the causes of obscurity, which may be partly imputed to his age, and partly to himself. When a writer outlives his contemporaries, and remains almost the only unforgotten name of a distant time, he is necessarily obscure. Every age has its modes of speech, and its cast of thought; which, though easily explained when there are many books to be compared with each other, become sometimes unintelligible and always difficult, when there are no parallel passages that may conduce to their illustration. Shakespeare is the first considerable author of sublime or familiar dialogue in our language. Of the books which he read, and from which he formed his style, some, perhaps, have perished, and the rest are neglected. His imitations are, therefore, unnoted, his allusions are undiscovered, and many beauties, both of pleasantry and greatness, are lost with the objects to which they were united, as the figures vanish when the canvass has decayed. It is the great excellence of Shakespeare, that he drew his scenes from nature, and from life. He copied the manners of the world, then passing before him, and has more allusions than other poets to the traditions and superstition of the vulgar; which must, therefore, be traced, before he can be understood. He wrote at a time when our poetical language was yet unformed, when the meaning of our phrases was yet in fluctuation, when words were adopted at pleasure from the neighbouring languages, and while the Saxon was still visibly mingled in our diction. The reader is, therefore, embarrassed at once with dead and with foreign languages, with obsoleteness and innovation. In that age, as in all others, fashion produced phraseology, which succeeding fashion swept away before its meaning was generally known, or sufficiently authorised: and in that age, above all others, experiments were made upon our language, which distorted its combinations, and disturbed its uniformity. If Shakespeare has difficulties above other writers, it is to be imputed to the nature of his work, which required the use of the common colloquial language, and consequently admitted many phrases allusive, elliptical, and proverbial, such as we speak and hear every hour without observing them; and of which, being now familiar, we do not suspect that they can ever grow uncouth, or that, being now obvious, they can ever seem remote. These are the principal causes of the obscurity of Shakespeare; to which might be added the fulness of idea, which might sometimes load his words with more sentiment than they could conveniently convey, and that rapidity of imagination which might hurry him to a second thought before he had fully explained the first. But my opinion is, that very few of his lines were difficult to his audience, and that he used such expressions as were then common, though the paucity of contemporary writers makes them now seem peculiar. Authors are often praised for improvement, or blamed for innovation, with very little justice, by those who read few other books of the same age. Addison, himself, has been so unsuccessful in enumerating the words with which Milton has enriched our language, as, perhaps, not to have named one of which Milton was the author; and Bentley has yet more unhappily praised him as the introducer of those elisions into English poetry, which had been used from the first essays of versification among us, and which Milton was, indeed, the last that practised. Another impediment, not the least vexatious to the commentator, is the exactness with which Shakespeare followed his authors. Instead of dilating his thoughts into generalities, and expressing incidents with poetical latitude, he often combines circumstances unnecessary to his main design, only because he happened to find them together. Such passages can be illustrated only by him who has read the same story, in the very book which Shakespeare consulted. He that undertakes an edition of Shakespeare, has all these difficulties to encounter, and all these obstructions to remove. The corruptions of the text will be corrected by a careful collation of the oldest copies, by which it is hoped that many restorations may yet be made: at least it will be necessary to collect and note the variation as materials for future criticks; for it very often happens that a wrong reading has affinity to the right. In this part all the present editions are apparently and intentionally defective. The criticks did not so much as wish to facilitate the labour of those that followed them. The same books are still to be compared; the work that has been done, is to be done again; and no single edition will supply the reader with a text, on which he can rely, as the best copy of the works of Shakespeare. The edition now proposed will, at least, have this advantage over others. It will exhibit all the observable varieties of all the copies that can be found; that, if the reader is not satisfied with the editor's determination, he may have the means of choosing better for himself. Where all the books are evidently vitiated, and collation can give no assistance, then begins the task of critical sagacity: and some changes may well be admitted in a text never settled by the author, and so long exposed to caprice and ignorance. But nothing shall be imposed, as in the Oxford edition, without notice of the alteration; nor shall conjecture be wantonly or unnecessarily indulged. It has been long found, that very specious emendations do not equally strike all minds with conviction, nor even the same mind, at different times; and, therefore, though, perhaps, many alterations may be proposed as eligible, very few will be obtruded as certain. In a language so ungrammatical as the English, and so licentious as that of Shakespeare, emendatory criticism is always hazardous, nor can it be allowed to any man who is not particularly versed in the writings of that age, and particularly studious of his author's diction. There is danger lest peculiarities should be mistaken for corruptions, and passages rejected as unintelligible, which a narrow mind happens not to understand. All the former criticks have been so much employed on the corrections of the text, that they have not sufficiently attended to the elucidation of passages obscured by accident or time. The editor will endeavour to read the books which the author read, to trace his knowledge to its source, and compare his copies with their originals. If, in this part of his design, he hopes to attain any degree of superiority to his predecessors, it must be considered, that he has the advantage of their labours; that, part of the work being already done, more care is naturally bestowed on the other part; and that, to declare the truth, Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope were very ignorant of the ancient English literature; Dr. Warburton was detained by more important studies; and Mr. Theobald, if fame be just to his memory, considered learning only as an instrument of gain, and made no further inquiry after his author's meaning, when once he had notes sufficient to embellish his page with the expected decorations. With regard to obsolete or peculiar diction, the editor may, perhaps, claim some degree of confidence, having had more motives to consider the whole extent of our language than any other man from its first formation. He hopes that, by comparing the works of Shakespeare with those of writers who lived at the same time, immediately preceded, or immediately followed him, he shall be able to ascertain his ambiguities, disentangle his intricacies, and recover the meaning of words now lost in the darkness of antiquity. When, therefore, any obscurity arises from an allusion to some other book, the passage will be quoted. When the diction is entangled, it will be cleared by a paraphrase or interpretation. When the sense is broken by the suppression of part, of the sentiment in pleasantry or passion, the connexion will be supplied. When any forgotten custom is hinted, care will be taken to retrieve and explain it. The meaning assigned to doubtful words will be supported by the authorities of other writers, or by parallel passages of Shakespeare himself. The observation of faults and beauties is one of the duties of an annotator, which some of Shakespeare's editors have attempted, and some have neglected.--For this part of his task, and for this only, was Mr. Pope eminently and indisputably qualified; nor has Dr. Warburton[2] followed him with less diligence or less success. But I have never observed that mankind was much delighted or improved by their asterisks, commas, or double commas; of which the only effect is, that they preclude the pleasure of judging for ourselves; teach the young and ignorant to decide without principles; defeat curiosity and discernment, by leaving them less to discover; and at last show the opinion of the critick, without the reasons on which it was founded, and without affording any light by which it may be examined. The editor, though he may less delight his own vanity, will, probably, please his reader more, by supposing him equally able with himself to judge of beauties and faults, which require no previous acquisition of remote knowledge. A description of the obvious scenes of nature, a representation of general life, a sentiment of reflection or experience, a deduction of conclusive arguments, a forcible eruption of effervescent passion, are to be considered as proportionate to common apprehension, unassisted by critical officiousness; since, to conceive them, nothing more is requisite than acquaintance with the general state of the world, and those faculties which he must almost bring with him who would read Shakespeare. But when the beauty arises from some adaptation of the sentiment to customs worn out of use, to opinions not universally prevalent, or to any accidental or minute particularity, which cannot be supplied by common understanding, or common observation, it is the duty of a commentator to lend his assistance. The notice of beauties and faults, thus limited, will make no distinct part of the design, being reducible to the explanation of some obscure passages. The editor does not, however, intend to preclude himself from the comparison of Shakespeare's sentiments or expression with those of ancient or modern authors, or from the display of any beauties not obvious to the students of poetry; for, as he hopes to leave his author better understood, he wishes, likewise, to procure him more rational approbation. The former editors have affected to slight their predecessors: but in this edition all that is valuable will be adopted from every commentator, that posterity may consider it as including all the rest, and exhibiting whatever is hitherto known of the great, father of the English drama. FOOTNOTES: [1] It is not true, that the plays of this author were more incorrectly printed than those of any of his contemporaries: for in the plays of Massinger, Marlowe, Marston, Fletcher, and others, as many errors may be found. It is not true, that the art of printing was in no other age in such unskilful hands. Nor is it true, in the latitude in which it is stated, that "these plays were printed from compilations made by chance or by stealth, out of the separate parts written for the theatre:" two only of all his dramas, The Merry Wives of Windsor, and King Henry V. appear to have been thus thrust into the world; and of the former it is yet a doubt, whether it is a first sketch, or an imperfect copy. See Malone's Preface throughout. --Ed. [2] See how this respectful reference to his labours was rewarded by this "meek and modest ecclesiastic" in his Letters, 410, 272, 273. Also Edinburgh Review for January, 1809. PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE. PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR 1768[1]. That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that the honours due only to excellence are paid to antiquity, is a complaint likely to be always continued by those, who, being able to add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the heresies of paradox; or those, who, being forced by disappointment upon consolatory expedients, are willing to hope from posterity what the present age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard, which is yet denied by envy, will be at last bestowed by time. Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the notice of mankind, has undoubtedly votaries that reverence it, not from reason, but from prejudice. Some seem to admire indiscriminately whatever has been long preserved, without considering that time has sometimes co-operated with chance; all, perhaps, are more willing to honour past than present excellence; and the mind contemplates genius through the shades of age, as the eye surveys the sun through artificial opacity. The great contention of criticism is to find the faults of the moderns, and the beauties of the ancients. While an author is yet living, we estimate his powers by his worst performance, and when he is dead we rate them by his best. To works, however, of which the excellence is not absolute and definite, but gradual and comparative; to works not raised upon principles demonstrative and scientifick, but appealing wholly to observation and experience, no other test can be applied than length of duration and continuance of esteem. What mankind have long possessed they have often examined and compared; and if they persist to value the possession, it is because frequent comparisons have confirmed opinion in its favour. As, among the works of nature, no man can properly call a river deep, or a mountain high, without the knowledge of many mountains, and many rivers; so, in the productions of genius, nothing can be styled excellent till it has been compared with other works of the same kind. Demonstration immediately displays its power, and has nothing to hope or fear from the flux of years; but works tentative and experimental must be estimated by their proportion to the general and collective ability of man, as it is discovered in a long succession of endeavours. Of the first building that was raised, it might be, with certainty, determined that it was round or square; but whether it was spacious or lofty must have been referred to time. The Pythagorean scale of numbers was at once discovered to be perfect; but the poems of Homer we yet know not to transcend the common limits of human intelligence, but by remarking, that nation after nation, and century after century, has been able to do little more than transpose his incidents, new name his characters, and paraphrase his sentiments. The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted, arises, therefore, not from any credulous confidence in the superiour wisdom of past ages, or gloomy persuasion of the degeneracy of mankind, but is the consequence of acknowledged and indubitable positions, that what has been longest known has been most considered, and what is most considered is best understood. The poet, of whose works I have undertaken the revision, may now begin to assume the dignity of an ancient, and claim the privilege of established fame and prescriptive veneration. He has long outlived his century, the term commonly fixed as the test of literary merit[2]. Whatever advantages he might once derive from personal allusions, local customs, or temporary opinions, have for many years been lost; and every topick of merriment, or motive of sorrow, which the modes of artificial life afforded him, now only obscure the scenes which they once illuminated. The effects of favour and competition are at an end; the tradition of his friendships and his enmities has perished; his works support no opinion with arguments, nor supply any faction with invectives; they can neither indulge vanity, nor gratify malignity; but are read without any other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are, therefore, praised only as pleasure is obtained; yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they have passed through variations of taste and changes of manners, and, as they devolved from one generation to another, have received new honours at every transmission. But because human judgment, though it be gradually gaining upon certainty, never becomes infallible; and approbation, though long continued, may yet be only the approbation of prejudice or fashion; it is proper to inquire, by what peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare has gained, and kept the favour of his countrymen. Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of general nature. Particular manners can be known to few, and, therefore, few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful invention may delight awhile, by that novelty of which the common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only repose on the stability of truth. Shakespeare is, above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or professions, which can operate but upon small numbers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions: they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply, and observation will always find. His persons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a character is too often an individual: in those of Shakespeare it is commonly a species. It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakespeare with practical axioms and domestick wisdom. It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept; and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil and economical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown in the splendour of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable, and the tenour of his dialogue; and he that tries to recommend him by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen. It will not easily be imagined how much Shakespeare excels in accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him with other authors. It was observed of the ancient schools of declamation, that the more diligently they were frequented, the more was the student disqualified for the world, because he found nothing there which he should ever meet in any other place. The same remark may be applied to every stage but that of Shakespeare. The theatre, when it is under any other direction, is peopled by such characters as were never seen, conversing in a language which was never heard, upon topicks which will never arise in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this author is often so evidently determined by the incident which produces it, and is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned, by diligent selection, out of common conversation and common occurrences. Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose power all good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable; to entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest, and harass them with violence of desires inconsistent with each other; to make them meet in rapture, and part in agony; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was distressed; to deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered; is the business of a modern dramatist. For this, probability is violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love is only one of many passions; and, as it has no great influence upon the sum of life[3], it has little operation in the dramas of a poet, who caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited only what he saw before him. He knew that any other passion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity. Characters thus ample and general were not easily discriminated and preserved, yet, perhaps, no poet ever kept his personages more distinct from each other. I will not say, with Pope, that every speech may be assigned to the proper speaker, because many speeches there are which have nothing characteristical; but, perhaps, though some may be equally adapted to every person, it will be difficult to find any that can be properly transferred from the present possessor to another claimant. The choice is right, when there is reason for choice. Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical or aggravated characters, by fabulous and unexampled excellence or depravity, as the writers of barbarous romances invigorated the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that should form his expectations of human affairs from the play, or from the tale, would be equally deceived. Shakespeare has no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men, who act and speak as the reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the same occasion: even where the agency is supernatural, the dialogue is level with life. Other writers disguise the most natural passions and most frequent incidents; so that he who contemplates them in the book will not know them in the world: Shakespeare approximates the remote, and familiarizes the wonderful; the event which he represents will not happen, but, if it were possible, its effects would, probably, be such as he has assigned[4]; and it may be said, that he has not only shown human nature as it acts in real exigencies, but as it would be found in trials, to which it cannot be exposed. This, therefore, is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of his delirious ecstacies, by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions. His adherence to general nature has exposed him to the censure of criticks, who form their judgments upon narrower principles. Dennis and Rymer think his Romans not sufficiently Roman; and Voltaire censures his kings as not completely royal[5]. Dennis is offended, that Menenius, a senator of Rome, should play the buffoon; and Voltaire, perhaps, thinks decency violated when the Danish usurper is represented as a drunkard. But Shakespeare always makes nature predominate over accident; and, if he preserves the essential character, is not very careful of distinctions superinduced and adventitious. His story requires Romans or kings, but he thinks only on men. He knew that Rome, like every other city, had men of all dispositions; and, wanting a buffoon, he went into the senate-house for that which the senate-house would certainly have afforded him. He was inclined to show an usurper and a murderer, not only odious, but despicable; he, therefore, added drunkenness to his other qualities, knowing that kings love wine like other men, and that wine exerts its natural power upon kings. These are the petty cavils of petty minds; a poet overlooks the casual distinction of country and condition, as a painter, satisfied with the figure, neglects the drapery. The censure which he has incurred by mixing comick and tragick scenes, as it extends to all his works, deserves more consideration. Let the fact be first stated, and then examined. Shakespeare's plays are not, in the rigorous or critical sense, either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind; exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of proportion and innumerable modes of combination; and expressing the course of the world, in which the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at the same time, the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in which the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolick of another; and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without design. Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties the ancient poets, according to the laws which custom had prescribed, selected some the crimes of men, and some their absurdities; some the momentous vicissitudes of life, and some the lighter occurrences; some the terrours of distress and some the gaieties of prosperity. Thus rose the two modes of imitation, known by the names of _tragedy_ and _comedy_, compositions intended to promote different ends by contrary means, and considered as so little allied, that I do not recollect among the Greeks or Romans a single writer who attempted both[6]. Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow, not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open from criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be denied, because it includes both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches nearer than either to the appearance of life, by showing how great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation. It is objected, that by this change of scenes the passions are interrupted in their progression, and that the principal event, being not advanced by a due gradation of preparatory incidents, wants, at last, the power to move, which constitutes the perfection of dramatick poetry. This reasoning is so specious, that it is received as true even by those who, in daily experience, feel it to be false. The interchanges of mingled scenes seldom fail to produce the intended vicissitudes of passion. Fiction cannot move so much, but that the attention may be easily transferred; and though it must be allowed that pleasing melancholy may be sometimes interrupted by unwelcome levity, yet let it be considered, likewise, that melancholy is often not pleasing, and that the disturbance of one man may be the relief of another; that different auditors have different habitudes; and that, upon the whole, all pleasure consists in variety. The players, who, in their edition, divided our author's works into comedies, histories and tragedies, seem not to have distinguished the three kinds by any very exact or definite ideas. An action which ended happily to the principal persons, however serious or distressful through its intermediate incidents, in their opinion, constituted a comedy. This idea of a comedy continued long amongst us; and plays were written, which, by changing the catastrophe, were tragedies to-day, and comedies to-morrow[7]. Tragedy was not in those times a poem of more general dignity or elevation than comedy; it required only a calamitous conclusion, with which the common criticism of that age was satisfied, whatever lighter pleasure it afforded in its progress. History was a series of actions, with no other than chronological succession, independent of each other, and without any tendency to introduce or regulate the conclusion. It is not always very nicely distinguished from tragedy. There is not much nearer approach to unity of action in the tragedy of Anthony and Cleopatra, than in the history of Richard the second. But a history might be continued through many plays, as it had no plan, it had no limits. Through all these denominations of the drama, Shakespeare's mode of composition is the same; an interchange of seriousness and merriment, by which the mind is softened at one time, and exhilarated at another. But whatever be his purpose, whether to gladden or depress, or to conduct the story, without vehemence or emotion, through tracts of easy and familiar dialogue, he never fails to attain his purpose; as he commands us, we laugh or mourn, or sit silent with quiet expectation, in tranquillity without indifference. When Shakespeare's plan is understood, most of the criticisms of Rymer and Voltaire vanish away. The play of Hamlet is opened, without impropriety, by two centinels; Iago bellows at Brabantio's window, without injury to the scheme of the play, though in terms which a modern audience would not easily endure; the character of Polonius is seasonable and useful; and the Gravediggers themselves may be heard with applause. Shakespeare engaged in dramatick poetry with the world open before him; the rules of the ancients were yet known to few; the publick judgment was unformed; he had no example of such fame as might force him upon imitation, nor criticks of such authority as might restrain his extravagance: he, therefore, indulged his natural disposition, and his disposition, as Rymer has remarked, led him to comedy. In tragedy he often writes, with great appearance of toil and study, what is written at last with little felicity; but, in his comick scenes, he seems to produce, without labour, what no labour can improve. In tragedy he is always struggling after some occasion to be comick; but in comedy he seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of thinking congenial to his nature. In his tragick scenes there is always something wanting, but his comedy often surpasses expectation or desire. His comedy pleases by the thoughts and the language, and his tragedy, for the greater part, by incident and action. His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be instinct[8]. The force of his comick scenes has suffered little diminution from the changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in words. As his personages act upon principles arising from genuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all places; they are natural, and, therefore, durable; the adventitious peculiarities of personal habits are only superficial dies, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the discriminations of true passion are the colours of nature; they pervade the whole mass, and can only perish with the body that exhibits them. The accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by the chance that combined them; but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another, but the rock always continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabricks of other poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of Shakespeare[9]. If there be, what I believe there is, in every nation, a style which never becomes obsolete, a certain mode of phraseology so consonant and congenial to the analogy and principles of its respective language, as to remain settled and unaltered; this style is probably to be sought in the common intercourse of life, among those who speak only to be understood, without ambition of elegance. The polite are always catching modish innovations, and the learned depart from established forms of speech, in hope of finding or making better; those who wish for distinction forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is right; but there is a conversation above grossness and below refinement, where propriety resides, and where this poet seems to have gathered his comick dialogue. He is, therefore, more agreeable to the ears of the present age than any other author equally remote, and among his other excellencies deserves to be studied as one of the original masters of our language. These observations are to be considered not as unexceptionably constant, but as containing general and predominant truth. Shakespeare's familiar dialogue is affirmed to be smooth and clear, yet not wholly without ruggedness or difficulty; as a country may be eminently fruitful, though it has spots unfit for cultivation: his characters are praised as natural, though their sentiments are sometimes forced, and their actions improbable; as the earth upon the whole is spherical, though its surface is varied with protuberances and cavities. Shakespeare with his excellencies has likewise faults, and faults sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit. I shall show them in the proportion in which they appear to me, without envious malignity or superstitious veneration. No question can be more innocently discussed than a dead poet's pretensions to renown; and little regard is due to that bigotry which sets candour higher than truth. His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of the evil in books or in men. He sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much more careful to please than to instruct, that he seems to write without any moral purpose. From his writings, indeed, a system of social duty may be selected, for he that thinks reasonably must think morally; but his precepts and axioms drop casually from him; he makes no just distribution of good or evil, nor is always careful to show in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he carries his persons indifferently through right and wrong, and, at the close, dismisses them without further care, and leaves their examples to operate by chance. This fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always a writer's duty to make the world better, and justice is a virtue independent on time or place. The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight consideration may improve them, and so carelessly pursued, that he seems, not always fully to comprehend his own design. He omits opportunities of instructing or delighting, which the train of his story seems to force upon him, and apparently rejects those exhibitions which would be more affecting, for the sake of those which are more easy. It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter part is evidently neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and in view of his reward, he shortened the labour to snatch the profit. He, therefore, remits his efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his catastrophe is improbably produced or imperfectly represented. He had no regard to distinction of time or place, but gives to one age or nation, without scruple, the customs, institutions, and opinions of another, at the expense not only of likelihood, but of possibility. These faults Pope has endeavoured, with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to his imagined interpolators. We need not wonder to find Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see the loves of Theseus and Hippolyta combined with the Gothick mythology of fairies. Shakespeare, indeed, was not the only violator of chronology, for in the same age Sidney, who wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in his Arcadia, confounded the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of innocence, quiet, and security, with those of turbulence, violence, and adventure[10]. In his comick scenes he is seldom very successful, when he engages his characters in reciprocations of smartness and contests of sarcasm; their jests are commonly gross, and their pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor his ladies have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished from his clowns by any appearance of refined manners. Whether he represented the real conversation of his time is not easy to determine; the reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed to have been a time of stateliness, formality, and reserve; yet, perhaps, the relaxations of that severity were not very elegant[11]. There must, however, have been always some modes of gaiety preferable to others, and a writer ought to choose the best. In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse, as his labour is more. The effusions of passion, which exigence forces out, are, for the most part, striking and energetick; but whenever he solicits his invention, or strains his faculties, the offspring of his throes is tumour, meanness, tediousness, and obscurity. In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction, and a wearisome train of circumlocution, and tells the incident imperfectly in many words, which might have been more plainly delivered in few. Narration in dramatick poetry is naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive, and obstructs the progress of the action; it should, therefore, always be rapid, and enlivened by frequent interruption. Shakespeare found it an incumbrance, and instead of lightening it by brevity, endeavoured to recommend it by dignity and splendour. His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and weak, for his power was the power of nature; when he endeavoured, like other tragick writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, and instead of inquiring what the occasion demanded, to show how much his stores of knowledge could supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of his reader. It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an unwieldy sentiment, which he cannot well express, and will not reject; he struggles with it a while, and, if it continues stubborn, comprises it in words such as occur, and leaves it to be disentangled and evolved by those who have more leisure to bestow upon it. Not that always where the language is intricate, the thought is subtile, or the image always great where the line is bulky; the equality of words to things is very often neglected, and trivial sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint the attention, to which they are recommended by sonorous epithets and swelling figures. But the admirers of this great poet have most reason to complain when he approaches nearest to his highest excellence, and seems fully resolved to sink them in dejection, and mollify them with tender emotions, by the fall of greatness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of love. What he does best, he soon ceases to do. He is not long soft and pathetick without some idle conceit, or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to move, than he counteracts himself; and terrour and pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden frigidity. A quibble is to Shakespeare, what luminous vapours are to the traveller; he follows it at all adventures it is sure to lead him out of his way, and sure to ingulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisitions, whether he be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be amusing attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense, let but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his work unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content to purchase it, by the sacrifice of reason, propriety and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it. It will be thought strange, that, in enumerating the defects of this writer, I have not yet mentioned his neglect of the unities; his violation of those laws which have been instituted and established by the joint authority of poets and of criticks. For his other deviations from the art of writing, I resign him to critical justice, without making any other demand in his favour, than that which must be indulged to all human excellence; that his virtues be rated with his failings: but, from the censure which this irregularity may bring upon him, I shall, with due reverence to that learning which I must oppose, adventure to try how I can defend him. His histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies, are not subject to any of their laws; nothing more is necessary to all the praise which they expect, than that the changes of action be so prepared as to be understood; that the incidents be various and affecting, and the characters consistent, natural and distinct. No other unity is intended, and, therefore, none is to be sought. In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity of action. He has not, indeed, an intrigue regularly perplexed and regularly unravelled: he does not endeavour to hide his design only to discover it, for this is seldom the order of real events, and Shakespeare is the poet of nature: but his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end; one event is concatenated with another, and the conclusion follows by easy consequence. There are, perhaps, some incidents that might be spared, as in other poets there is much talk that only fills up time upon the stage; but the general system makes gradual advances, and the end of the play is the end of expectation. To the unities of time and place he has shown no regard; and, perhaps, a nearer view of the principles on which they stand will diminish their value, and withdraw from them the veneration which, from the time of Corneille, they have generally received, by discovering that they have given more trouble to the poet, than pleasure to the auditor. The necessity of observing the unities of time and place arises from the supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The criticks hold it impossible, that an action of months or years can be possibly believed to pass in three hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the theatre, while ambassadors go and return between distant kings, while armies are levied and towns besieged, while an exile wanders and returns, or till he whom they saw courting his mistress, shall lament the untimely fall of his son. The mind revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction loses its force when it departs from the resemblance of reality. From the narrow limitation of time necessarily arises the contraction of place. The spectator, who knows that he saw the first act at Alexandria, cannot suppose that he sees the next at Rome, at a distance to which not the dragons of Medea could, in so short a time, have transported him; he knows with certainty that he has not changed his place; and he knows that place cannot change itself; that what was a house cannot become a plain; that what was Thebes can never be Persepolis. Such is the triumphant language with which a critick exults over the misery of an irregular poet, and exults commonly without resistance or reply. It is time, therefore, to tell him, by the authority of Shakespeare, that he assumes, as an unquestionable principle, a position, which, while his breath is forming it into words, his understanding pronounces to be false. It is false, that any representation is mistaken for reality; that any dramatick fable in its materiality was ever credible, or, for a single moment, was ever credited. The objection arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes, that when the play opens, the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theatre has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of Anthony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may imagine more. He that can take the stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium. Delusion, if delusion be admitted, has no certain limitation; if the spectator can be once persuaded, that his old acquaintance are Alexander and Cæsar, that a room illuminated with candles is the plain of Pharsalia, or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of elevation above the reach of reason, or of truth, and from the heights of empyrean poetry, may despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial nature. There is no reason why a mind thus wandering in ecstacy should count the clock, or why an hour should not be a century in that calenture of the brains that can make the stage a field. The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses, and know, from the first act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, and that the players are only players. They come to hear a certain number of lines recited with just gesture and elegant modulation. The lines relate to some action, and an action must be in some place; but the different actions that complete a story may be in places very remote from each other; and where is the absurdity of allowing that space to represent first Athens, and then Sicily, which was always known to be neither Sicily nor Athens, but a modern theatre? By supposition, as place is introduced, time may be extended; the time required by the fable elapses, for the most part, between the acts; for, of so much of the action as is represented, the real and poetical duration is the same. If, in the first act, preparations for war against Mithridates are represented to be made in Rome, the event of the war may, without absurdity, be represented, in the catastrophe, as happening in Pontus; we know that there is neither war, nor preparation for war; we know that we are neither in Rome nor Pontus; that neither Mithridates nor Lucullus are before us. The drama exhibits successive imitations of successive actions; and why may not the second imitation represent an action that happened years after the first, if it be so connected with it, that nothing but time can be supposed to intervene? Time is, of all modes of existence, most obsequious to the imagination; a lapse of years is as easily conceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation we easily contract the time of real actions, and, therefore, willingly permit it to be contracted when we only see their imitation. It will be asked, how the drama moves, if it is not credited. It is credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited, whenever it moves, as a just picture of a real original; as representing to the auditor what he would himself feel, if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflection that strikes the heart is not, that the evils before us are real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed. If there be any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the players, but that we fancy ourselves unhappy for a moment; but we rather lament the possibility than suppose the presence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe, when she remembers that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction; if we thought murders and treasons real, they would please no more. Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to mind. When the imagination is recreated by a painted landscape, the trees are not supposed capable to give us shade, or the fountains coolness; but we consider how we should be pleased with such fountains playing beside us, and such woods waving over us. We are agitated in reading the history of Henry the fifth, yet no man takes his book for the field of Agincourt. A dramatick exhibition is a book recited with concomitants that increase or diminish its effect. Familiar comedy is often more powerful on the theatre, than in the page; imperial tragedy is always less. The humour of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace; but what voice or what gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the soliloquy of Cato? A play read, affects the mind like a play acted. It is, therefore, evident, that the action is not supposed to be real; and it follows, that between the acts a longer or shorter time may be allowed to pass, and that no more account of space or duration is to be taken by the auditor of a drama, than by the reader of a narrative, before whom may pass in an hour the life of a hero, or the revolutions of an empire. Whether Shakespeare knew the unities, and rejected them by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to decide, and useless to inquire. We may reasonably suppose, that, when he rose to notice, he did not want the counsels and admonitions of scholars and criticks, and that he, at last, deliberately persisted in a practice, which he might have begun by chance. As nothing is essential to the fable but unity of action, and as the unities of time and place arise evidently from false assumptions, and, by circumscribing the extent of the drama, lessen its variety, I cannot think it much to be lamented, that they were not known by him, or not observed: nor, if such another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach him, that his first act passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. Such violations of rules merely positive, become the comprehensive genius of Shakespeare, and such censures are suitable to the minute and slender criticism of Voltaire. Non usque adeo permiscuit imis Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli Serventur leges, malint a Cæsare tolli. Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatick rules, I cannot but recollect how much wit and learning may be produced against me; before such authorities I am afraid to stand, not that I think the present question one of those that are to be decided by mere authority, but because it is to be suspected, that these precepts have not been so easily received, but for better reasons than I have yet been able to find. The result of my inquiries, in which it would be ludicrous to boast of impartiality, is, that the unities of time and place are not essential to a just drama; that though they may sometimes conduce to pleasure, they are always to be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of variety and instruction; and that a play written with nice observation of critical rules, is to be contemplated as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of superfluous and ostentatious art, by which is shown, rather what is possible, than what is necessary. He that, without diminution of any other excellence, shall preserve all the unities unbroken, deserves the like applause with the architect, who shall display all the orders of architecture in a citadel, without any deduction from its strength; but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy; and the greatest graces of a play are to copy nature, and instruct life. Perhaps, what I have here not dogmatically but deliberately written, may recall the principles of the drama to a new examination. I am almost frighted at my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame and the strength of those that maintain the contrary opinion, am ready to sink down in reverential silence; as �neas withdrew from the defence of Troy, when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the besiegers. Those whom my arguments cannot persuade to give their approbation to the judgment of Shakespeare, will easily, if they consider the condition of his life, make some allowance for his ignorance. Every man's performances, to be rightly estimated, must be compared with the state of the age in which he lived, and with his own particular opportunities; and though to the reader a book be not worse or better for the circumstances of the author, yet, as there is always a silent reference of human works to human abilities, and as the inquiry, how far man may extend his designs, or how high he may rate his native force, is of far greater dignity than in what rank we shall place any particular performance, curiosity is always busy to discover the instruments, as well as to survey the workmanship, to know how much is to be ascribed to original powers, and how much to casual and adventitious help. The palaces of Peru or Mexico were certainly mean and incommodious habitations, if compared to the houses of European monarchs; yet who could forbear to view them with astonishment, who remembered that they were built without the use of iron? The English nation, in the time of Shakespeare, was yet struggling to emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted hither in the reign of Henry the eighth; and the learned languages had been successfully cultivated by Lilly, Linacre, and More; by Pole, Cheke, and Gardiner; and afterwards by Smith, Clerk, Haddon, and Ascham. Greek was now taught to boys in the principal schools; and those who united elegance with learning, read, with great diligence, the Italian and Spanish poets. But literature was yet confined to professed scholars, or to men and women of high rank. The publick was gross and dark; and to be able to read and write, was an accomplishment still valued for its rarity. Nations, like individuals, have their infancy. A people newly awakened to literary curiosity, being yet unacquainted with the true state of things, knows not how to judge of that which is proposed as its resemblance. Whatever is remote from common appearances is always welcome to vulgar, as to childish credulity; and of a country unenlightened by learning, the whole people is the vulgar. The study of those who then aspired to plebeian learning was laid out upon adventures, giants, dragons, and enchantments. The Death of Arthur was the favourite volume. The mind, which has feasted on the luxurious wonders of fiction, has no taste of the insipidity of truth. A play, which imitated only the common occurrences of the world, would, upon the admirers of Palmerin and Guy of Warwick, have made little impression; he that wrote for such an audience was under the necessity of looking round for strange events and fabulous transactions; and that incredibility, by which maturer knowledge is offended, was the chief recommendation of writings to unskilful curiosity. Our author's plots are generally borrowed from novels; and it is reasonable to suppose, that he chose the most popular, such as were read by many, and related by more; for his audience could not have followed him through the intricacies of the drama, had they not held the thread of the story in their hands. The stories, which we now find only in remoter authors, were, in his time, accessible and familiar. The fable of As You Like It, which is supposed to be copied from Chaucer's Gamelyn, was a little pamphlet of those times; and old Mr. Cibber remembered the tale of Hamlet in plain English prose, which the criticks have now to seek in Saxo Grammaticus. His English histories he took from English chronicles and English ballads; and as the ancient writers were made known to his countrymen by versions, they supplied him with new subjects; he dilated some of Plutarch's lives into plays, when they had been translated by North. His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are always crowded with incidents, by which the attention of a rude people was more easily caught than by sentiment or argumentation; and such is the power of the marvellous, even over those who despise it, that every man finds his mind more strongly seized by the tragedies of Shakespeare than of any other writer: others please us by particular speeches; but he always makes us anxious for the event, and has, perhaps, excelled all but Homer in securing the first purpose of a writer, by exciting restless and unquenchable curiosity, and compelling him that reads his work to read it through. The shows and bustle with which his plays abound have the same original. As knowledge advances, pleasure passes from the eye to the ear, but returns, as it declines, from the ear to the eye. Those to whom our author's labours were exhibited had more skill in pomps or processions than in poetical language, and, perhaps, wanted some visible and discriminated events, as comments on the dialogue. He knew how he should most please; and whether his practice is more agreeable to nature, or whether his example has prejudiced the nation, we still find that on our stage something must be done as well as said, and inactive declamation is very coldly heard, however musical or elegant, passionate or sublime. Voltaire expresses his wonder, that our author's extravagancies are endured by a nation, which has seen the tragedy of Cato. Let him be answered, that Addison speaks the language of poets, and Shakespeare of men. We find in Cato innumerable beauties, which enamour us of its author, but we see nothing that acquaints us with human sentiments or human actions; we place it with the fairest and the noblest progeny which judgment propagates by conjunction with learning; but Othello is the vigorous and vivacious offspring of observation impregnated by genius. Cato affords a splendid exhibition of artificial and fictitious manners, and delivers just and noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated, and harmonious, but its hopes and fears communicate no vibration to the heart; the composition refers us only to the writer; we pronounce the name of Cato, but we think on Addison. The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades, and scented with flowers; the composition of Shakespeare is a forest, in which oaks extend their branches, and pines tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and brambles, and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling the eye with awful pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless diversity. Other poets display cabinets of precious rarities, minutely finished, wrought into shape, and polished into brightness. Shakespeare opens a mine which contains gold and diamonds in unexhaustible plenty, though clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and mingled with a mass of meaner minerals. It has been much disputed, whether Shakespeare owed his excellence to his own native force, or whether he had the common helps of scholastick education, the precepts of critical science, and the examples of ancient authors. There has always prevailed a tradition, that Shakespeare wanted learning, that he had no regular education, nor much skill in the dead languages. Jonson, his friend, affirms, that "he had small Latin and less Greek;" who, besides that he had no imaginable temptation to falsehood, wrote at a time when the character and acquisitions of Shakespeare were known to multitudes. His evidence ought, therefore, to decide the controversy, unless some testimony of equal force could be opposed[12]. Some have imagined, that they have discovered deep learning in many imitations of old writers; but the examples which I have known urged were drawn from books translated in his time; or were such easy coincidences of thought, as will happen to all who consider the same subjects; or such remarks on life, or axioms of morality, as float in conversation, and are transmitted through the world in proverbial sentences. I have found it remarked, that, in this important sentence, "Go before, I'll follow," we read a translation of, _I prae, sequar_. I have been told, that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream, says, "I cry'd to sleep again," the author imitates Anacreon[13], who had, like every other man, the same wish on the same occasion. There are a few passages which may pass for imitations, but so few, that the exception only confirms the rule; he obtained them from accidental quotations, or by oral communication, and as he used what he had, would have used more if he had obtained it. The Comedy of Errors is confessedly taken from the Menaechmi of Plautus[14]; from the only play of Plautus which was then in English. What can be more probable, than that he who copied that, would have copied more; but that those which were not translated were inaccessible? Whether he knew the modern languages is uncertain. That his plays have some French scenes proves but little; he might easily procure them to be written, and probably, even though he had known the language in the common degree, he could not have written it without assistance. In the story of Romeo and Juliet, he is observed to have followed the English translation, where it deviates from the Italian: but this, on the other part, proves nothing against his knowledge of the original. He was to copy, not what he knew himself, but what was known to his audience. It is most likely that he had learned Latin sufficiently to make him acquainted with construction, but that he never advanced to an easy perusal of the Roman authors. Concerning his skill in modern languages, I can find no sufficient ground of determination; but as no imitations of French or Italian authors have been discovered, though the Italian poetry was then high in esteem, I am inclined to believe, that he read little more than English, and chose for his fables only such tales as he found translated. That much knowledge is scattered over his works is very justly observed by Pope; but it is often such knowledge as books did not supply. He that will understand Shakespeare, must not be content to study him in the closet; he must look for his meaning sometimes among the sports of the field, and sometimes among the manufactures of the shop. There is, however, proof enough that he was a very diligent reader; nor was our language then so indigent of books, but that he might very liberally indulge his curiosity without excursion into foreign literature. Many of the Roman authors were translated, and some of the Greek[15]; the Reformation had filled the kingdom with theological learning; most of the topicks of human disquisition had found English writers; and poetry had been cultivated, not only with diligence, but success. This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so capable of appropriating and improving it. But the greater part of his excellence was the product of his own genius. He found the English stage in a state of the utmost rudeness; no essays, either in tragedy or comedy, had appeared, from which it could be discovered to what degree of delight either one or other might be carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet understood. Shakespeare may be truly said to have introduced them both amongst us, and in some of his happier scenes to have carried them both to the utmost height. By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not easily known; for the chronology of his works is yet unsettled. Rowe is of opinion, that "perhaps we are not to look for his beginning, like those of other writers, in his least perfect works; art had so little, and nature so large a share in what he did, that for aught I know," says he, "the performances of his youth, as they were the most vigorous, were the best." But the power of nature is only the power of using to any certain purpose the materials which diligence procures, or opportunity supplies. Nature gives no man knowledge, and, when images are collected by study and experience, can only assist in combining or applying them. Shakespeare, however favoured by nature, could impart only what he had learned; and, as he must increase his ideas, like other mortals, by gradual acquisition, he, like them, grew wiser, as he grew older, could display life better, as he knew it more, and instruct with more efficacy, as he was himself more amply instructed. There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of distinction which books and precepts cannot confer; from this almost all original and native excellence proceeds. Shakespeare must have looked upon mankind with perspicacity, in the highest degree curious and attentive. Other writers borrow their characters from preceding writers, and diversify them only by the accidental appendages of present manners; the dress is a little varied, but the body is the same. Our author had both matter and form to provide; for, except the characters of Chaucer, to whom I think he is not much indebted, there were no writers in English, and, perhaps, not many in other modern languages, which showed life in its native colours. The contest about the original benevolence or malignity of man had not yet commenced. Speculation had not yet attempted to analyze the mind, to trace the passions to their sources, to unfold the seminal principles of vice and virtue, or sound the depths of the heart for the motives of action. All those inquiries, which from that time that human nature became the fashionable study, have been made sometimes with nice discernment, but often with idle subtilty, were yet unattempted. The tales, with which the infancy of learning was satisfied, exhibited only the superficial appearances of action, related the events, but omitted the causes, and were formed for such as delighted in wonders rather than in truth. Mankind was not then to be studied in the closet; he that would know the world, was under the necessity of gleaning his own remarks, by mingling as he could in its business and amusements. Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, because it favoured his curiosity, by facilitating his access. Shakespeare had no such advantage: he came to London a needy adventurer, and lived for a time by very mean employments. Many works of genius and learning have been performed in states of life that appear very little favourable to thought or to inquiry; so many, that he who considers them is inclined to think that he sees enterprize and perseverance predominating over all external agency, and bidding help and hindrance vanish before them. The genius of Shakespeare was not to be depressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited by the narrow conversation to which men in want are inevitably condemned; the encumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his mind, "as dewdrops from a lion's mane". Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and so little assistance to surmount them, he has been able to obtain an exact knowledge of many modes of life, and many casts of native dispositions; to vary them with great multiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions; and to show them in full view by proper combinations. In this part of his performances he had none to imitate, but has himself been imitated by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted, whether from all his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of practical prudence, can be collected, than he alone has given to his country. Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; he was an exact surveyor of the inanimate world; his descriptions have always some peculiarities, gathered by contemplating things as they really exist. It may be observed, that the oldest poets of many nations preserve their reputation, and that the following generations of wit, after a short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The first, whoever they be, must take their sentiments and descriptions immediately from knowledge; the resemblance is, therefore, just, their descriptions are verified by every eye, and their sentiments acknowledged by every breast. Those whom their fame invites to the same studies, copy partly them and partly nature, till the books of one age gain such authority, as to stand in the place of nature to another, and imitation, always deviating a little, becomes at last capricious and casual. Shakespeare, whether life or nature be his subject, shows plainly that he has seen with his own eyes; he gives the image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel his representations to be just, and the learned see that they are complete. Perhaps it would not be easy to find any author, except Homer, who invented so much as Shakespeare, who so much advanced the studies which he cultivated, or effused so much novelty upon his age or country. The form, the characters, the language, and the shows of the English drama are his. "He seems," says Dennis, "to have been the very original of our English tragical harmony, that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified often by dissyllable and trisyllable terminations. For the diversity distinguishes it from heroick harmony, and by bringing it nearer to common use makes it more proper to gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. Such verse we make when we are writing prose; we make such verse in common conversation.[16]" I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The dissyllable termination, which the critick rightly appropriates to the drama, is to be found, though, I think, not in Gorboduc, which is confessedly before our author; yet in Hieronymo[17] of which the date is not certain, but which there is reason to believe, at least, as old as his earliest plays. This, however, is certain, that he is the first who taught either tragedy or comedy to please, there being no theatrical piece of any older writer, of which the name is known, except to antiquaries and collectors of books, which are sought because they are scarce, and would not have been scarce, had they been much esteemed. To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser may divide it with him, of having first discovered to how much smoothness and harmony the English language could be softened. He has speeches, perhaps, sometimes scenes, which have all the delicacy of Rowe, without his effeminacy. He endeavours, indeed, commonly to strike by the force and vigour of his dialogue, but he never executes his purpose better, than when he tries to sooth by softness. Yet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe every thing to him, he owes something to us; that, if much of his praise is paid by perception and judgment, much is, likewise, given by custom and veneration. We fix our eyes upon his graces, and turn them from his deformities, and endure in him what we should in another loathe or despise. If we endured without praising, respect for the father of our drama might excuse us; but I have seen, in the book of some modern critick, a collection of anomalies, which show that he has corrupted language by every mode of depravation, but which his admirer has accumulated as a monument of honour. He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence; but, perhaps, not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to the conclusion. I am, indeed, far from thinking that his works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection; when they were such as would satisfy the audience, they satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authors, though more studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much above the standard of their own age; to add a little to what is best will always be sufficient for present praise; and those who find themselves exalted into fame, are willing to credit their encomiasts, and to spare the labour of contending with themselves. It does not appear, that Shakespeare thought his works worthy of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, or had any further prospect, than of present popularity and present profit. When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an end; he solicited no addition of honour from the reader. He, therefore, made no scruple to repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to entangle different plots by the same knot of perplexity; which may be at least forgiven him, by those who recollect that of Congreve's four comedies, two are concluded by a marriage in a mask, by a deception, which, perhaps, never happened, and which, whether likely or not, he did not invent. So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little _declined into the vale of years_, before he could be disgusted with fatigue, or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue those that had been already published from the depravations that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine state. Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in the late editions, the greater part were not published till about seven years after his death; and the few which appeared in his life are apparently thrust into the world without the care of the author, and, therefore, probably without his knowledge. Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, the negligence and unskilfulness has, by the late revisers, been sufficiently shown. The faults of all are, indeed, numerous and gross, and have not only corrupted many passages, perhaps, beyond recovery, but have brought others into suspicion, which are only obscured by obsolete phraseology, or by the writer's unskilfulness and affectation. To alter is more easy than to explain, and temerity is a more common quality than diligence. Those who saw that they must employ conjecture to a certain degree, were willing to indulge it a little further. Had the author published his own works, we should have sat quietly down to disentangle his intricacies, and clear his obscurities; but now we tear what we cannot loose, and eject what we happen not to understand. The faults are more than could have happened without the concurrence of many causes. The style of Shakespeare was in itself ungrammatical, perplexed, and obscure; his works were transcribed for the players by those who may be supposed to have seldom understood them; they were transmitted by copiers equally unskilful, who still multiplied errours; they were, perhaps, sometimes mutilated by the actors, for the sake of shortening the speeches; and were at last printed without correction of the press[18]. In this state they remained, not, as Dr. Warburton supposes, because they were unregarded, but because the editor's art was not yet applied to modern languages, and our ancestors were accustomed to so much negligence of English printers, that they could very patiently endure it. At last an edition was undertaken by Rowe; not because a poet was to be published by a poet, for Rowe seems to have thought very little on correction or explanation; but that our author's works might appear like those of his fraternity, with the appendages of a life and recommendatory preface. Rowe has been clamorously blamed for not performing what he did not undertake; and it is time that justice be done him, by confessing, that, though he seems to have had no thought of corruption beyond the printer's errours, yet he has made many emendations, if they were not made before, which his successors have received without acknowledgment, and which, if they had produced them, would have filled pages and pages with censures of the stupidity by which the faults were committed, with displays of the absurdities which they involved, with ostentatious expositions of the new reading, and self-congratulations on the happiness of discovering it. As of the other editors I have preserved the prefaces, I have likewise borrowed the author's life from Howe, though not written with much elegance or spirit; it relates, however, what is now to be known, and, therefore, deserves to pass through all succeeding publications. The nation had been for many years content enough with Mr. Rowe's performance, when Mr. Pope made them acquainted with the true state of Shakespeare's text, showed that it was extremely corrupt, and gave reason to hope that there were means of reforming it. He collated the old copies, which none had thought to examine before, and restored many lines to their integrity; but, by a very compendious criticism, he rejected whatever he disliked, and thought more of amputation than of cure. I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburton for distinguishing the genuine from the spurious plays. In this choice he exerted no judgment of his own; the plays which he received were given by Hemings and Condel, the first editors; and those which he rejected, though, according to the licentiousness of the press in those times, they were printed during Shakespeare's life, with his name, had been omitted by his friends, and were never added to his works before the edition of 1664, from which they were copied by the later printers. This was a work which Pope seems to have thought unworthy of his abilities, being not able to suppress his contempt of _the dull duty of an editor_. He understood but half his undertaking. The duty of a collator is, indeed, dull, yet, like other tedious tasks, is very necessary; but an emendatory critick would ill discharge his duty, without qualities very different from dulness. In perusing a corrupted piece, he must have before him all possibilities of meaning, with all possibilities of expression. Such must be his comprehension of thought, and such his copiousness of language. Out of many readings possible, he must be able to select that which best suits with the state, opinions, and modes of language prevailing in every age, and with his author's particular cast of thought, and turn of expression. Such must be his knowledge, and such his taste. Conjectural criticism demands more than humanity possesses, and he that exercises it with most praise, has very frequent need of indulgence. Let us now be told no more of the dull duty of an editor. Confidence is the common consequence of success. They whose excellence of any kind has been loudly celebrated, are ready to conclude that their powers are universal. Pope's edition fell below his own expectations, and he was so much offended when he was found to have left any thing for others to do, that he passed the latter part of his life in a state of hostility with verbal criticism. I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great a writer may be lost; his preface, valuable alike for elegance of composition and justness of remark, and containing a general criticism on his author, so extensive that little can be added, and so exact that little can be disputed, every editor has an interest to suppress, but that every reader would demand its insertion. Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow comprehension, and small acquisitions, with no native and intrinsick splendour of genius, with little of the artificial light of learning, but zealous for minute accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing it. He collated the ancient copies, and rectified many errours. A man so anxiously scrupulous might have been expected to do more, but what little he did was commonly right. In his reports of copies and editions he is not to be trusted without examination. He speaks sometimes indefinitely of copies, when he has only one. In his enumeration of editions, he mentions the two first folios as of high, and the third folio as of middle authority; but the truth is, that the first is equivalent to all others, and that the rest only deviate from it by the printer's negligence. Whoever has any of the folios has all, excepting those diversities which mere reiteration of editions will produce[19]. I collated them all, at the beginning, but afterwards used only the first. Of his notes I have generally retained those which he retained himself in his second edition, except when they were confuted by subsequent annotators, or were too minute to merit preservation. I have sometimes adopted his restoration of a comma, without inserting the panegyrick in which he celebrated himself for his achievement. The exuberant excrescence of his diction I have often lopped, his triumphant exultations over Pope and Howe I have sometimes suppressed, and his contemptible ostentation I have frequently concealed; but I have in some places shown him, as he would have shown himself, for the reader's diversion, that the inflated emptiness of some notes may justify or excuse the contraction of the rest. Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faithless, thus petulant and ostentatious, by the good luck of having Pope for his enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with reputation, from this undertaking. So willingly does the world support those who solicit favour against those who command reverence; and so easily is he praised whom no man can envy. Our author fell then into the hands of Sir Thomas Hanmer, the Oxford editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently qualified by nature for such studies. He had, what is the first requisite to emendatory criticism, that intuition by which the poet's intention is immediately discovered, and that dexterity of intellect which despatches its work by the easiest means. He had undoubtedly read much; his acquaintance with customs, opinions, and traditions, seems to have been large; and he is often learned without show. He seldom passes what he does not understand, without an attempt to find or to make a meaning, and sometimes hastily makes what a little more attention would have found. He is solicitous to reduce to grammar what he could not be sure that his author intended to be grammatical. Shakespeare regarded more the series of ideas, than of words; and his language, not being designed for the reader's desk, was all that he desired it to be, if it conveyed his meaning to the audience. Hanmer's care of the metre has been too violently censured. He found the measure reformed in so many passages by the silent labours of some editors, with the silent acquiescence of the rest, that he thought himself allowed to extend a little further the license, which had already been carried so far without reprehension; and, of his corrections in general, it must be confessed, that they are often just, and made commonly with the least possible violation of the text. But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or borrowed, into the page, without any notice of varying copies, he has appropriated the labour of his predecessors, and made his own edition of little authority. His confidence indeed, both in himself and others, was too great; he supposes all to be right that was done by Pope and Theobald; he seems not to suspect a critick of fallibility; and it was but reasonable that he should claim what he so liberally granted. As he never writes without careful inquiry and diligent consideration, I have received all his notes, and believe that every reader will wish for more. Of the last editor it is more difficult to speak. Respect is due to high place, tenderness to living reputation, and veneration to genius and learning; but he cannot be justly offended at that liberty of which he has himself so frequently given an example, nor very solicitous what is thought of notes, which he ought never to have considered as part of his serious employments, and which, I suppose, since the ardour of composition is remitted, he no longer numbers among his happy effusions. The original and predominant errour of his commentary is acquiescence in his first thoughts; that precipitation which is produced by consciousness of quick discernment; and that confidence which presumes to do, by surveying the surface, what labour only can perform, by penetrating the bottom. His notes exhibit sometimes perverse interpretations, and sometimes improbable conjectures; he at one time gives the author more profundity of meaning than the sentence admits, and at another discovers absurdities, where the sense is plain to every other reader. But his emendations are likewise often happy and just; and his interpretation of obscure passages learned and sagacious. Of his notes, I have commonly rejected, those against which the general voice of the publick has exclaimed, or which their own incongruity immediately condemns, and which, I suppose, the author himself would desire to be forgotten. Of the rest, to part I have given the highest approbation, by inserting the offered reading in the text; part I have left to the judgment of the reader, as doubtful, though specious; and part I have censured without reserve, but, I am sure, without bitterness of malice, and, I hope, without wantonness of insult. It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observe how much paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever considers the revolutions of learning, and the various questions of greater or less importance, upon which wit and reason have exercised their powers, must lament the unsuccessfulness of inquiry, and the slow advances of truth, when he reflects that great part of the labour of every writer is only the destruction of those that went before him. The first care of the builder of a new system, is to demolish the fabricks which are standing. The chief desire of him that comments an author, is to show how much other commentators have corrupted and obscured him. The opinions prevalent in one age, as truths above the reach of controversy, are confuted and rejected in another, and rise again to reception in remoter times. Thus the human mind is kept in motion without progress. Thus sometimes truth and errour, and sometimes contrarieties of errour, take each other's place by reciprocal invasion. The tide of seeming knowledge, which is poured over one generation, retires and leaves another naked and barren; the sudden meteors of intelligence, which for awhile appear to shoot their beams into the regions of obscurity, on a sudden withdraw their lustre, and leave mortals again to grope their way. These elevations and depressions of renown, and the contradictions to which all improvers of knowledge must for ever be exposed, since they are not escaped by the highest and brightest of mankind, may, surely, be endured with patience by criticks and annotators, who can rank themselves but as the satellites of their authors. How canst thou beg for life, says Homer's hero to his captive, when thou knowest that thou art now to suffer only what must another day be suffered by Achilles? Dr. Warburton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity on those who could exalt themselves into antagonists, and his notes have raised a clamour too loud to be distinct. His chief assailants are the authors of The Canons of Criticism, and of The Revisal of Shakespeare's Text; of whom one ridicules his errours with airy petulance, suitable enough to the levity of the controversy; the other attacks them with gloomy malignity, as if he were dragging to justice an assassin or incendiary. The one stings like a fly, sucks a little blood, takes a gay flutter, and returns for more; the other bites like a viper, and would be glad to leave inflammations and gangrene behind him. When I think on one, with his confederates, I remember the danger of Coriolanus, who was afraid that "girls with spits, and boys with stones, should slay him in puny battle;" when the other crosses my imagination, I remember the prodigy in Macbeth: A falcon tow'ring in his pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. Let me, however, do them justice. One is a wit, and one a scholar[20]. They have both shown acuteness sufficient in the discovery of faults, and have both advanced some probable interpretations of obscure passages; but when they aspire to conjecture and emendation, it appears how falsely we all estimate our own abilities, and the little which they have been able to perform might have taught them more candour to the endeavours of others. Before Dr. Warburton's edition, Critical Observations on Shakespeare had been published by Mr. Upton[21], a man skilled in languages, and acquainted with books, but who seems to have had no great vigour of genius or nicety of taste. Many of his explanations are curious and useful, but he, likewise, though he professed to oppose the licentious confidence of editors, and adhere to the old copies, is unable to restrain the rage of emendation, though his ardour is ill seconded by his skill. Every cold empirick, when his heart is expanded by a successful experiment, swells into a theorist, and the laborious collator at some unlucky moment frolicks in conjecture. Critical, historical, and explanatory notes have been, likewise, published upon Shakespeare by Dr. Grey, whose diligent perusal of the old English writers has enabled him to make some useful observations. What he undertook he has well enough performed; but as he neither attempts judicial or emendatory criticism, he employs rather his memory than his sagacity. It were to be wished that all would endeavour to imitate his modesty, who have not been able to surpass his knowledge. I can say, with great sincerity, of all my predecessors, what I hope will hereafter be said of me, that not one has left Shakespeare without improvement; nor is there one to whom I have not been indebted for assistance and information. Whatever I have taken from them, it was my intention to refer to its original author, and it is certain, that what I have not given to another, I believed when I wrote it to be my own. In some, perhaps, I have been anticipated; but if I am ever found to encroach upon the remarks of any other commentators, I am willing that the honour, be it more or less, should be transferred to the first claimant, for his right, and his alone, stands above dispute; the second can prove his pretensions only to himself, nor can himself always distinguish invention, with sufficient certainty, from recollection. They have all been treated by me with candour, which they have not been careful of observing to one another. It is not easy to discover from what cause the acrimony of a scholiast can naturally proceed. The subjects to be discussed by him are of very small importance; they involve neither property nor liberty; nor favour the interest of sect or party. The various readings of copies, and different interpretations of a passage, seem to be questions that might exercise the wit, without engaging the passions. But whether it be that "small things make mean men proud," and vanity catches small occasions; or that all contrariety of opinion, even in those that can defend it no longer, makes proud men angry; there is often found in commentaries a spontaneous strain of invective and contempt, more eager and venomous than is vented by the most furious controvertist in politicks against those whom he is hired to defame. Perhaps the lightness of the matter may conduce to the vehemence of the agency; when the truth to be investigated is so near to inexistence, as to escape attention, its bulk is to be enlarged by rage and exclamation: that to which all would be indifferent in its original state, may attract notice when the fate of a name is appended to it. A commentator has, indeed, great temptations to supply by turbulence what he wants of dignity, to beat his little gold to a spacious surface, to work that to foam which no art or diligence can exalt to spirit. The notes which I have borrowed or written are either illustrative, by which difficulties are explained; or judicial, by which faults and beauties are remarked; or emendatory, by which depravations are corrected. The explanations transcribed from others, if I do not subjoin any other interpretation, I suppose commonly to be right, at least I intend by acquiescence to confess, that I have nothing better to propose. After the labours of all the editors, I found many passages which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage. It is impossible for an expositor not to write too little for some, and too much for others. He can only judge what is necessary by his own experience; and how long soever he may deliberate, will at last explain many lines which the learned will think impossible to be mistaken, and omit many for which the ignorant will want his help. These are censures merely relative, and must be quietly endured. I have endeavoured to be neither superfluously copious, nor scrupulously reserved, and hope that I have made my author's meaning accessible to many, who before were frighted from perusing him, and contributed something to the publick, by diffusing innocent and rational pleasure. The complete explanation of an author not systematick and consequential, but desultory and vagrant, abounding in casual allusions and light hints, is not to be expected from any single scholiast. All personal reflections, when names are suppressed, must be in a few years irrecoverably obliterated; and customs, too minute to attract the notice of law, such as modes of dress, formalities of conversation, rules of visits, disposition of furniture, and practices of ceremony, which naturally find places in familiar dialogue, are so fugitive and unsubstantial, that they are not easily retained or recovered. What can be known will be collected by chance, from the recesses of obscure and obsolete papers, perused commonly with some other view. Of this knowledge every man has some, and none has much; but when an author has engaged the publick attention, those who can add any thing to his illustration, communicate their discoveries, and time produces what had eluded diligence. To time I have been obliged to resign many passages, which, though I did not understand them, will, perhaps, hereafter be explained; having, I hope, illustrated some, which others have neglected or mistaken, sometimes by short remarks, or marginal directions, such as every editor has added at his will, and often by comments more laborious than the matter will seem to deserve; but that which is most difficult is not always most important, and to an editor nothing is a trifle by which his author is obscured. The poetical beauties or defects I have not been very diligent to observe. Some plays have more, and some fewer judicial observations, not in proportion to their difference of merit, but because I gave this part of my design to chance and to caprice. The reader, I believe, is seldom pleased to find his opinion anticipated; it is natural to delight more in what we find or make, than in what we receive. Judgment, like other faculties, is improved by practice, and its advancement is hindered by submission to dictatorial decisions, as the memory grows torpid by the use of a table-book. Some initiation is, however, necessary; of all skill, part is infused by precept, and part is obtained by habit; I have, therefore, shown so much as may enable the candidate of criticism to discover the rest. To the end of most plays I have added short strictures, containing a general censure of faults, or praise of excellence; in which I know not how much I have concurred with the current opinion; but I have not, by any affectation of singularity, deviated from it. Nothing is minutely and particularly examined, and, therefore, it is to be supposed, that in the plays which are condemned there is much to be praised, and in those which are praised much to be condemned. The part of criticism in which the whole succession of editors has laboured with the greatest diligence, which has occasioned the most arrogant ostentation, and excited the keenest acrimony, is the emendation of corrupted passages, to which the publick attention, having been first drawn by the violence of the contention between Pope and Theobald, has been continued by the persecution, which, with a kind of conspiracy, has been since raised against all the publishers of Shakespeare. That many passages have passed in a state of depravation through all the editions, is indubitably certain; of these the restoration is only to be attempted by collation of copies, or sagacity of conjecture. The collator's province is safe and easy, the conjecturer's perilous and difficult. Yet, as the greater part of the plays are extant only in one copy, the peril must not be avoided, nor the difficulty refused. Of the readings which this emulation of amendment has hitherto produced, some from the labours of every publisher I have advanced into the text; those are to be considered as, in my opinion, sufficiently supported; some I have rejected without mention, as evidently erroneous; some I have left in the notes without censure or approbation, as resting in equipoise between objection and defence; and some, which seemed specious but not right, I have inserted with a subsequent animadversion. Having classed the observations of others, I was at last to try what I could substitute for their mistakes, and how I could supply their omissions. I collated such copies as I could procure, and wished for more, but have not found the collectors of these rarities very communicative. Of the editions which chance or kindness put into my hands I have given an enumeration, that I may not be blamed for neglecting what T had not the power to do. By examining the old copies, I soon found that the later publishers, with all their boasts of diligence, suffered many passages to stand unauthorised, and contented themselves with Rowe's regulation of the text, even where they knew it to be arbitrary, and with a little consideration might have found it to be wrong. Some of these alterations are only the ejection of a word for one that appeared to him more elegant or more intelligible. These corruptions I have often silently rectified; for the history of our language, and the true force of our words, can only be preserved, by keeping the text of authors free from adulteration. Others, and those very frequent, smoothed the cadence, or regulated the measure: on these I have not exercised the same rigour; if only a word was transposed, or a particle inserted or omitted, I have sometimes suffered the line to stand; for the inconstancy of the copies is such, as that some liberties may be easily permitted. But this practice I have not suffered to proceed far, having restored the primitive diction wherever it could for any reason be preferred. The emendations, which comparison of copies supplied, I have inserted in the text: sometimes, where the improvement was slight, without notice, and sometimes with an account of the reasons of the change. Conjecture, though it be sometimes unavoidable, I have not wantonly nor licentiously indulged. It has been my settled principle, that the reading of the ancient books is probably true, and, therefore, is not to be disturbed for the sake of elegance, perspicuity, or mere improvement of the sense. For though much credit is not due to the fidelity, nor any to the judgment of the first publishers, yet they who had the copy before their eyes were more likely to read it right, than we, who read it only by imagination. But it is evident that they have often made strange mistakes by ignorance or negligence, and that, therefore, something may be properly attempted by criticism, keeping the middle way between presumption and timidity. Such criticism I have attempted to practise, and, where any passage appeared inextricably perplexed have endeavoured to discover how it may be recalled to sense, with least violence. But my first labour is, always to turn the old text on every side, and try if there be any interstice, through which light can find its way; nor would Huetius himself condemn me, as refusing the trouble of research, for the ambition of alteration. In this modest industry I have not been unsuccessful. I have rescued many lines from the violations of temerity, and secured many scenes from the inroads of correction. I have adopted the Roman sentiment, that it is more honourable to save a citizen than to kill an enemy, and have been more careful to protect than to attack. I have preserved the common distribution of the plays into acts, though I believe it to be in almost all the plays void of authority. Some of those which are divided in the later editions have no division in the first folio, and some that are divided in the folio have no division in the preceding copies. The settled mode of the theatre requires four intervals in the play; but few, if any, of our author's compositions can be properly distributed in that manner. An act is so much of the drama as passes without intervention of time, or change of place. A pause makes a new act. In every real, and, therefore, in every imitative action, the intervals may be more or fewer, the restriction of five acts being accidental and arbitrary. This Shakespeare knew, and this he practised; his plays were written, and, at first, printed in one unbroken continuity, and ought now to be exhibited with short pauses, interposed as often as the scene is changed, or any considerable time is required to pass. This method would at once quell a thousand absurdities. In restoring the author's works to their integrity, I have considered the punctuation as wholly in my power; for what could be their care of colons and commas, who corrupted words and sentences? Whatever could be done by adjusting points, is, therefore, silently performed, in some plays with much diligence, in others with less; it is hard to keep a busy eye steadily fixed upon evanescent atoms, or a discursive mind upon evanescent truth. The same liberty has been taken with a few particles, or other words of slight effect. I have sometimes inserted or omitted them without notice. I have done that sometimes, which the other editors have done always, and which, indeed, the state of the text may sufficiently justify. The greater part of readers, instead of blaming us for passing trifles, will wonder that on mere trifles so much labour is expended, with such importance of debate, and such solemnity of diction. To these I answer with confidence, that they are judging of an art which they do not understand; yet cannot much reproach them with their ignorance, nor promise that they would become in general, by learning criticism, more useful, happier, or wiser. As I practised conjecture more, I learned to trust it less; and after I had printed a few plays, resolved to insert none of my own readings in the text. Upon this caution I now congratulate myself, for every day increases my doubt of my emendations. Since I have confined my imagination to the margin, it must not be considered as very reprehensible, if I have suffered it to play some freaks in its own dominion. There is no danger in conjecture, if it be proposed as conjecture; and while the text remains uninjured, those changes may be safely offered, which are not considered, even by him that offers them, as necessary or safe. If my readings are of little value, they have not been ostentatiously displayed or importunately obtruded. I could have written longer notes, for the art of writing notes is not of difficult attainment. The work is performed, first by railing at the stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and asinine tastelessness of the former editors, and showing, from all that goes before and all that follows, the inelegance and absurdity of the old reading; then by proposing something, which to superficial readers would seem specious, but which the editor rejects with indignation; then by producing the true reading, with a long paraphrase, and concluding with loud acclamations on the discovery, and a sober wish for the advancement and prosperity of genuine criticism. All this may be done, and, perhaps, done sometimes without impropriety. But I have always suspected that the reading is right, which requires many words to prove it wrong; and the emendation wrong, that cannot without so much labour appear to be right. The justness of a happy restoration strikes at once, and the moral precept may be well applied to criticism, "quod dubitas ne feceris." To dread the shore which he sees spread with wrecks, is natural to the sailor. I had before my eye so many critical adventures ended in miscarriage, that caution was forced upon me. I encountered in every page, wit struggling with its own sophistry, and learning confused by the multiplicity of its views. I was forced to censure those whom I admired, and could not but reflect, while I was dispossessing their emendations, how soon the same fate might happen to my own, and how many of the readings which I have corrected may be, by some other editor, defended and established. Critics I saw, that others' names efface, And fix their own, with labour, in the place; Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, Or disappear'd, and left the first behind. POPE. That a conjectural critick should often be mistaken, cannot be wonderful, either to others or himself, if it be considered, that in his art there is no system, no principal and axiomatical truth that regulates subordinate positions. His chance of errour is renewed at every attempt; an oblique view of the passage, a slight misapprehension of a phrase, a casual inattention to the parts connected, is sufficient to make him not only fail, but fail ridiculously; and when he succeeds best, he produces, perhaps, but one reading of many probable, and he that suggests another will always be able to dispute his claims. It is an unhappy state, in which danger is hid under pleasure. The allurements of emendation are scarcely resistible. Conjecture has all the joy and all the pride of invention, and he that has once started a happy change, is too much delighted to consider what objections may rise against it. Yet conjectural criticism has been of great use in the learned world; nor is it my intention to depreciate a study, that has exercised so many mighty minds, from the revival of learning to our own age, from the bishop of Aleria[22] to English Bentley. The criticks on ancient authors have, in the exercise of their sagacity, many assistances, which the editor of Shakespeare is condemned to want. They are employed upon grammatical and settled languages, whose construction contributes so much to perspicuity, that Homer has fewer passages unintelligible than Chaucer. The words have not only a known regimen, but invariable quantities, which direct and confine the choice. There are commonly more manuscripts than one; and they do not often conspire in the same mistakes. Yet Scaliger could confess to Salmasius how little satisfaction his emendations gave him: "Illudunt nobis conjecturæ nostræ, quarum nos pudet, posteaquam in meliores codices incidimus." And Lipsius could complain that criticks were making faults, by trying to remove them: "Ut olim vitiis, ita nunc remediis laboratur." And, indeed, where mere conjecture is to be used, the emendations of Scaliger and Lipsius, notwithstanding their wonderful sagacity and erudition, are often vague and disputable, like mine or Theobald's. Perhaps I may not be more censured for doing wrong, than for doing little; for raising in the publick expectations which at last I have not answered. The expectation of ignorance is indefinite, and that of knowledge is often tyrannical. It is hard to satisfy those who know not what to demand, or those who demand by design what they think impossible to be done. I have, indeed, disappointed no opinion more than my own; yet I have endeavoured to perform my task with no slight solicitude. Not a single passage in the whole work has appeared to me corrupt, which I have not attempted to restore; or obscure, which I have not endeavoured to illustrate. In many I have failed, like others; and from many, after all my efforts, I have retreated, and confessed the repulse. I have not passed over, with affected superiority, what is equally difficult to the reader and to myself, but, where I could not instruct him, have owned my ignorance. I might easily have accumulated a mass of seeming learning upon easy scenes; but it ought not to be imputed to negligence, that, where nothing was necessary, nothing has been done, or that, where others have said enough, I have said no more. Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils. Let him, that is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shakespeare, and who desires to feel the highest pleasure that the drama can give, read every play, from the first scene to the last, with utter negligence of all his commentators. When his fancy is once on the wing, let it not stoop at correction or explanation. When his attention is strongly engaged, let it disdain alike to turn aside to the name of Theobald and of Pope. Let him read on through brightness and obscurity, through integrity and corruption; let him preserve his comprehension of the dialogue and his interest in the fable. And when the pleasures of novelty have ceased, let him attempt exactness, and read the commentators. Particular passages are cleared by notes, but the general effect of the work is weakened. The mind is refrigerated by interruption; the thoughts are diverted from the principal subject; the reader is weary, he suspects not why; and at last throws away the book which he has too diligently studied. Parts are not to be examined till the whole has been surveyed; there is a kind of intellectual remoteness necessary for the comprehension of any great work in its full design and in its true proportions; a close approach shows the smaller niceties, but the beauty of the whole is discerned no longer. It is not very grateful to consider how little the succession of editors has added to this author's power of pleasing. He was read, admired, studied, and imitated, while he was yet deformed with all the improprieties which ignorance and neglect could accumulate upon him; while the reading was yet not rectified, nor his allusions understood; yet then did Dryden pronounce "that Shakespeare was the man, who, of all modern and, perhaps, ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those, who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learned: he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comick wit degenerating into clinches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets, Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi." It is to be lamented that such a writer should want a commentary; that his language should become obsolete, or his sentiments obscure. But it is vain to carry wishes beyond the condition of human things; that which must happen to all, has happened to Shakespeare, by accident and time; and more than has been suffered by any other writer since the use of types[23], has been suffered by him through his own negligence of fame, or, perhaps, by that superiority of mind, which despised its own performances, when it compared them with its powers, and judged those works unworthy to be preserved, which the criticks of following ages were to contend for the fame of restoring and explaining. Among these candidates of inferiour fame, I am now to stand the judgment of the publick; and wish that I could confidently produce my commentary as equal to the encouragement which I have had the honour of receiving. Every work of this kind is by its nature deficient, and I should feel little solicitude about the sentence, were it to be pronounced only by the skilful and the learned. FOOTNOTES: [1] Dr. Johnson's Preface first appeared in 1765. Malone's Shakespeare, i. 108. and Boswell's Life of Johnson, i. [2] Est vetus atque probus, centum qui perficit annos. Hon. Ep. II. 1. v. 39. [3] With all respect for our great critic's memory we must maintain, that love has the _greatest_ influence on the sum of life: and every popular tale or poem derives its main charm and power of pleasing from the incidents of this universal passion. Other passions have, undoubtedly, their sway, but love, when it does prevail, like Aaron's rod, swallows up every feeling beside. It is one thing to introduce the fulsome _badinage_ of compliment with which French tragedy abounds, and another to exhibit the --"very ecstacy of love: Whose violent property foredoes itself, And leads the will to desperate undertakings, _As oft as any passion under heaven_, That does afflict our natures."-- HAMLET. Act ii. Sc. i. [4] Quaerit quod nusquam est gentium, repent tamen. Facit illud verisimile, quod mendacrium est. PLAUTI PSEUDOLUS, Act i. Sc. 4. Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris. HOR. ARS POET, 338. See too the celebrated passage of Shakespeare himself-- Midsummer-night's Dream, Act v. Sc. 1; and Idler, 84.--Ed. [5] The judgment of French poets on these points may be inferred from the tenour of Boileau's admonitions: Gardez donc de donner, ainsi que dans Clélie, L'air ni l'esprit françois à l'antique Italie; Et, sous des noms romains faisant notre portrait, Peindre Caton galant, et Brutus dameret. Art Poétique, iii.--Ed. [6] The critic must, when he wrote this, have forgotten the Cyclops of Euripides, and also the fact, that when an Athenian dramatist brought out his _three_ tragedies at the Dionysiac festival, he added, as a fourth, a sort of farce; a specimen of which Schlegel considers the Cyclops. Mr. Twining, in his amusing and instructive notes on Aristotle's Poetics, refers to the drunken jollity of Hercules in the Alcestis, and to the ludicrous dialogue between Ulysses and Minerva, in the first scene of the Ajax of Sophocles, as instances of Greek tragi-comedy. We may add the Electra of Euripides; for if the poet did not intend to burlesque the rules of tragic composition in many of the scenes of that play, and to make his audience laugh, he calculated on more dull gravity in Athens, than we are accustomed to give that city of song the credit for. The broad ridicule which Aristophanes casts against the tragedians is not half so laughable. [7] Thus, says Dowries the Prompter, p. 22: "The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet was made some time after [1662] into a tragi-comedy, by Mr. James Howard, he preserving Romeo and Juliet alive; so that when the tragedy was revived again, 'twas played alternately, tragical one day, and tragi-comical another, for several days together." STEEVENS. [8] This opinion is controverted, and its effects deplored, by Dr. J. Warton, in a note to Malone's Shakespeare, i. p. 71.--Ed. [9] Dr. Drake conceives that Dr. Wolcot was indebted to the above noble passage for the _prima stamina_ of the following stanza: Thus, while I wond'ring pause o'er Shakespeare's page I mark, in visions of delight, the sage High o'er the wrecks of man who stands sublime, A column in the melancholy waste, (Its cities humbled, and its glories past,) Majestic 'mid the solitude of time.--Ed. [10] The poets and painters before and of Shakespeare's time were all guilty of the same fault. The former "combined the Gothic mythology of fairies" with the fables and traditions of Greek and Roman lore; while the latter dressed out the heroes of antiquity in the arms and costume of their own day. The grand front of Rouen cathedral affords ample and curious illustration of what we state. Mr. Steevens, in his Shakespeare, adds, "that in Arthur Hall's version of the fourth Iliad, Juno says to Jupiter: "The time will come that _Totnam French_ shall turn." And in the tenth Book we hear of "The Bastile": "Lemster wool," and "The Byble." [11] The relaxations of "England's queen" with her maids of honour were not, if we may credit the existing memoirs of her court, precisely such as modern fastidiousness would assign to the "fair vestal throned by the west." [12] A very full and satisfactory essay on the learning of Shakespeare, may be found in Mr. Malone's Edition of Shakespeare, i. 300. [13] [Greek: Memonomenos d' o tlaemon Aealin aethelon katheudein.] Anac. 8. [14] The Comedy of Errors, which has been partly taken by some wretched playwright from the Menaechmi of Plautus, is intolerably stupid: that it may occasionally display the touch of Shakespeare, cannot be denied; but these _purpurei panni_ are lamentably infrequent; and, to adopt the language of Mr. Stevens, "that the entire play was no work of his, is an opinion which (as Benedick says) fire cannot melt out of me; I will die in it at the stake." Dr. Drake's Literary Life of Johnson.--Ed. [15] A list of these translations may be seen in Malone's Shakespeare, i. 371. It was originally drawn up by Mr. Steevens.--Ed. [16] See Dryden in the Epistle Dedicatory to his Rival Ladies.--Ed. [17] It appears, from the induction of Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," to have been acted before the year 1590.--STEEVENS. [18] The errors of the promoter's books of the present day excite the violent invective of Mr. Steevens, in his notes on Johnson's Preface.--Ed. [19] This assertion is contradicted by Steevens and Malone, as regards the second edition 1632. The former editor says, that it has the advantage of various readings which are not merely such as reiteration of copies will produce. The curious examiner of Shakespeare's text, who possesses the first of these folio editions, ought not to be unfurnished with the second. See Malone's List of Early Editions in his Shakespeare, ii. 656.--Ed. [20] It is extraordinary that this gentleman should attempt so voluminous a work, as the Revisal of Shakespeare's text, when he tells us in his preface, "he was not so fortunate as to be furnished with either of the folio editions, much less any of the ancient quartos: and even Sir Thomas Hanmer's performance was known to him only by Dr. Warburton's representation."--FARMER. [21] Republished by him in 1748, after Dr. Warburton's edition, with alterations, &c.--STEEVENS. [22] John Andreas. He was secretary to the Vatican library during the papacies of Paul the second and Sixtus the fourth. By the former, he was employed to superintend such works as were to be multiplied by the new art of printing, at that time brought into Rome. He published Herodotus, Strabo, Livy, Aulus Gellius, &c. His schoolfellow, Cardinal de Cusa, procured him the bishopric of Arcia, a province in Corsica; and Paul the second afterwards appointed him to that of Aleria, in the same island, where he died in 1493. See Fabric. Bibl. Lat. iii. 894, and Steevens, in Malone's Shak. i. 106. [23] See this assertion refuted by examples in a former note.--Ed. GENERAL OBSERVATIONS ON THE PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE. TEMPEST. It is observed of The Tempest, that its plan is regular; this the author of The Revisal[1] thinks, what I think too, an accidental effect of the story, not intended or regarded by our author. But whatever might be Shakespeare's intention in forming or adopting the plot, he has made it instrumental to the production of many characters, diversified with boundless invention, and preserved with profound skill in nature, extensive knowledge of opinions, and accurate observation of life. In a single drama are here exhibited princes, courtiers, and sailors, all speaking in their real characters. There is the agency of airy spirits, and of an earthly goblin; the operations of magick, the tumults of a storm, the adventures of a desert island, the native effusion of untaught affection, the punishment of guilt, and the final happiness of the pair for whom our passions and reason are equally interested. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. In this play there is a strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance, of care and negligence. The versification is often excellent, the allusions are learned and just; but the author conveys his heroes by sea from one inland town to another in the same country; he places the emperour at Milan, and sends his young men to attend him, but never mentions him more; he makes Protheus, after an interview with Silvia, say he has only seen her picture;[2] and, if we may credit the old copies, he has, by mistaking places, left his scenery inextricable. The reason of all this confusion seems to be, that he took his story from a novel, which he sometimes followed, and sometimes forsook, sometimes remembered, and sometimes forgot. That this play is rightly attributed to Shakespeare, I have little doubt. If it be taken from him, to whom shall it be given? This question may be asked of all the disputed plays, except Titus Andronicus; and it will be found more credible that Shakespeare might sometimes sink below his highest flights, than that any other should rise up to his lowest. MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. Of this play there is a tradition preserved by Mr. Rowe, that it was written at the command of queen Elizabeth, who was so delighted with the character of Falstaff, that she wished it to be diffused through more plays; but, suspecting that it might pall by continued uniformity, directed the poet to diversify his manner, by showing him in love. No task is harder than that of writing to the ideas of another. Shakespeare knew what the queen, if the story be true, seems not to have known, that by any real passion of tenderness, the selfish craft, the careless jollity, and the lazy luxury of Falstaff must have suffered so much abatement, that little of his former cast would have remained. Falstaff could not love, but by ceasing to be Falstaff. He could only counterfeit love, and his professions could be prompted, not by the hope of pleasure, but of money. Thus the poet approached as near as he could to the work enjoined him; yet having, perhaps, in the former plays, completed his own idea, seems not to have been able to give Falstaff all his former power of entertainment. This comedy is remarkable for the variety and number of the personages, who exhibit more characters appropriated and discriminated, than, perhaps, can be found in any other play. Whether Shakespeare was the first that produced upon the English stage the effect of language distorted and depraved by provincial or foreign pronunciation, I cannot certainly decide[3]. This mode of forming ridiculous characters can confer praise only on him who originally discovered it, for it requires not much of either wit or judgment; its success must be derived almost wholly from the player, but its power in a skilful mouth even he that despises it is unable to resist. The conduct of this drama is deficient; the action begins and ends often before the conclusion, and the different parts might change places without inconvenience; but its general power, that power by which all works of genius shall finally be tried, is such, that, perhaps, it never yet had reader or spectator, who did not think it too soon at an end. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. There is, perhaps, not one of Shakespeare's plays more darkened than this, by the peculiarities of its author, and the unskilfulness of its editors, by distortions of phrase, or negligence of transcription. The novel of Giraldi Cynthio, from which Shakespeare is supposed to have borrowed this fable, may be read in Shakespeare Illustrated, elegantly translated, with remarks, which will assist the inquirer to discover how much absurdity Shakespeare has admitted or avoided. I cannot but suspect that some other had new modelled the novel of Cynthio, or written a story which, in some particulars, resembled it, and that Cynthio was not the author whom Shakespeare immediately followed. The emperour, in Cynthio, is named Maximine; the duke, in Shakespeare's enumeration of the persons of the drama, is called Vincentio. This appears a very slight remark; but since the duke has no name in the play, nor is ever mentioned but by his title, why should he be called Vincentio among the persons, but because the name was copied from the story, and placed superfluously at the head of the list, by the mere habit of transcription? It is, therefore, likely that there was then a story of Vincentio duke of Vienna, different from that of Maximine emperour of the Romans. Of this play, the light or comick part is very natural and pleasing, but the grave scenes, if a few passages be excepted, have more labour than elegance. The plot is rather intricate than artful. The time of the action is indefinite; some time, we know not how much, must have elapsed between the recess of the duke and the imprisonment of Claudio; for he must have learned the story of Mariana in his disguise, or he delegated his power to a man already known to be corrupted. The unities of action and place are sufficiently preserved. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. In this play, which all the editors have concurred to censure, and some have rejected as unworthy of our poet, it must be confessed that there are many passages mean, childish and vulgar; and some which ought not to have been exhibited, as we are told they were, to a maiden queen. But there are scattered through the whole many sparks of genius; nor is there any play that has more evident marks of the hand of Shakespeare[4]. MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. Wild and fantastical as this play is, all the parts, in their various modes, are well written, and give the kind of pleasure which the author designed. Fairies in his time were much in fashion; common tradition had made them familiar, and Spenser's poem had made them great[5]. MERCHANT OF VENICE. It has been lately discovered, that this fable is taken from a story in the Pecorone[6] of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino, a novelist, who wrote in 1378. The story has been published in English, and I have epitomized the translation. The translator is of opinion that the choice of the caskets is borrowed from a tale of Boccace, which I have, likewise, abridged, though I believe that Shakespeare must have had some other novel in view. Of The Merchant of Venice the style is even and easy, with few peculiarities of diction, or anomalies of construction. The comick part raises laughter, and the serious fixes expectation. The probability of either one or the other story cannot be maintained. The union of two actions in one event is, in this drama, eminently happy. Dryden was much pleased with his own address in connecting the two plots of his Spanish Friar, which yet, I believe, the critick will find excelled by this play. AS YOU LIKE IT. Of this play the fable is wild and pleasing. I know not how the ladies will approve the facility with which both Rosalind and Celia give away their hearts. To Celia much may be forgiven for the heroism of her friendship. The character of Jaques is natural and well preserved. The comick dialogue is very sprightly, with less mixture of low buffoonery than in some other plays; and the graver part is elegant and harmonious. By hastening to the end of his work, Shakespeare suppressed the dialogue between the usurper and the hermit, and lost an opportunity of exhibiting a moral lesson, in which he might have found matter worthy of his highest powers. TAMING OF THE SHREW. Of this play the two plots are so well united, that they can hardly be called two, without injury to the art with which they are interwoven. The attention is entertained with all the variety of a double plot, yet is not distracted by unconnected incidents. The part between Catharine and Petruchio is eminently sprightly and diverting. At the marriage of Bianca, the arrival of the real father, perhaps, produces more perplexity than pleasure. The whole play is very popular and diverting. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. This play has many delightful scenes, though not sufficiently probable, and some happy characters, though not new, nor produced by any deep knowledge of human nature. Parolles is a boaster and a coward, such as has always been the sport of the stage, but, perhaps, never raised more laughter or contempt than in the hands of Shakespeare. I cannot reconcile my heart to Bertram; a man noble without generosity, and young without truth; who marries Helen as a coward, and leaves her as a profligate: when she is dead by his unkindness, sneaks home to a second marriage, is accused by a woman whom he has wronged, defends himself by falsehood, and is dismissed to happiness[7]. The story of Bertram and Diana had been told before of Mariana and Angelo, and, to confess the truth, scarcely merited to be heard a second time. TWELFTH NIGHT. This play is, in the graver part, elegant and easy, and, in some of the lighter scenes, exquisitely humorous. Aguecheek is drawn with great propriety, but his character is, in a great measure, that of natural fatuity, and is, therefore, not the proper prey of a satirist. The soliloquy of Malvolio is truly comick; he is betrayed to ridicule merely by his pride. The marriage of Olivia, and the succeeding perplexity, though well enough contrived to divert on the stage, wants credibility, and fails to produce the proper instruction required in the drama, as it exhibits no just picture of life. WINTER'S TALE. The story of this play is taken from The Pleasant History of Dorastus and Fawnia, written by Robert Greene. This play, as Dr. Warburton justly observes, is, with all its absurdities, very entertaining. The character of Autolycus is very naturally conceived, and strongly represented. MACBETH. This play is deservedly celebrated for the propriety of its fictions, and solemnity, grandeur, and variety of its action; but it has no nice discriminations of character; the events are too great to admit the influence of particular dispositions, and the course of the action necessarily determines the conduct of the agents. The danger of ambition is well described; and I know not whether it may not be said, in defence of some parts which now seem improbable, that, in Shakespeare's time, it was necessary to warn credulity against vain and illusive predictions. The passions are directed to their true end. Lady Macbeth is merely detested; and though the courage of Macbeth preserves some esteem, yet every reader rejoices at his fall. KING JOHN. The tragedy of King John, though not written with the utmost power of Shakespeare, is varied with a very pleasing interchange of incidents and characters. The lady's grief is very affecting, and the character of the bastard contains that mixture of greatness and levity which this author delighted to exhibit. KING RICHARD II. This play is extracted from the Chronicle of Holinshed, in which many passages may be found which Shakespeare has, with very little alteration, transplanted into his scenes; particularly a speech of the bishop of Carlisle in defence of King Richard's unalienable right, and immunity from human jurisdiction. Jonson, who, in his Catiline and Sejanus, has inserted many speeches from the Roman historians, was, perhaps, induced to that practice by the example of Shakespeare, who had condescended sometimes to copy more ignoble writers. But Shakespeare had more of his own than Jonson, and, if he sometimes was willing to spare his labour, showed by what he performed at other times, that his extracts were made by choice or idleness rather than necessity. This play is one of those which Shakespeare has apparently revised[8]; but as success in works of invention is not always proportionate to labour, it is not finished at last with the happy force of some other of his tragedies, nor can be said much to affect the passions or enlarge the understanding. KING HENRY IV. PART II. I fancy every reader, when he ends this play, cries out with Desdemona, "O most lame and impotent conclusion!" As this play was not, to our knowledge, divided into acts by the author, I could be content to conclude it with the death of Henry the Fourth. "In that Jerusalem shall Harry die." These scenes, which now make the fifth act of Henry IV. might then be the first of Henry V. but the truth is, that they do not unite very commodiously to either play. When these plays were represented, I believe they ended as they are now ended in the books; but Shakespeare seems to have designed that the whole series of action, from the beginning of Richard II. to the end of Henry V. should be considered by the reader as one work, upon one plan, only broken into parts by the necessity of exhibition. None of Shakespeare's plays are more read than the first and second parts of Henry IV. Perhaps no author has ever in two plays afforded so much delight. The great events are interesting, for the fate of kingdoms depends upon them; the slighter occurrences are diverting, and, except one or two, sufficiently probable; the incidents are multiplied with wonderful fertility of invention, and the characters diversified with the utmost nicety of discernment, and the profoundest skill in the nature of man. The prince, who is the hero both of the comick and tragick part, is a young man of great abilities and violent passions, whose sentiments are right, though his actions are wrong; whose virtues are obscured by negligence, and whose understanding is dissipated by levity. In his idle hours he is rather loose than wicked; and when the occasion forces out his latent qualities, he is great without effort, and brave without tumult. The trifler is roused into a hero, and the hero again reposes in the trifler. This character is great, original and just. Percy is a rugged soldier, cholerick and quarrelsome, and has only the soldier's virtues, generosity and courage. But Falstaff, unimitated, unimitable Falstaff, how shall I describe thee! thou compound of sense and vice; of sense which may be admired, but not esteemed; of vice which may be despised, but hardly detested. Falstaff is a character loaded with faults, and with those faults which naturally produce contempt. He is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a boaster, always ready to cheat the weak, and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous, and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirizes in their absence those whom he lives by flattering. He is familiar with the prince only as an agent of vice, but of this familiarity he is so proud, as not only to be supercilious and haughty with common men, but to think his interest of importance to the duke of Lancaster. Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the prince that despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety, by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy scapes and sallies of levity, which make sport, but raise no envy. It must be observed, that he is stained with no enormous or sanguinary crimes, so that his licentiousness is not so offensive but that it may be borne for his mirth. The moral to be drawn from this representation is, that no man is more dangerous than he that, with a will to corrupt, hath the power to please; and that neither wit nor honesty ought to think themselves safe with such a companion, when they see Henry seduced by Falstaff. KING HENRY V. This play has many scenes of high dignity, and many of easy merriment. The character of the king is well supported, except in his courtship, where he has neither the vivacity of Hal, nor the grandeur of Henry. The humour of Pistol is very happily continued; his character has, perhaps, been the model of all the bullies that have yet appeared on the English stage. The lines given to the chorus have many admirers; but the truth is, that in them a little may be praised, and much must be forgiven: nor can it be easily discovered why the intelligence given by the chorus is more necessary in this play than in many others where it is omitted. The great defect of this play is the emptiness and narrowness of the last act, which a very little diligence might have easily avoided. KING HENRY VI. PART I. Of this play there is no copy earlier than that of the folio in 1623, though the two succeeding parts are extant in two editions in quarto. That the second and third parts were published without the first, may be admitted, as no weak proof that the copies were surreptitiously obtained, and that the printers of that time gave the publick those plays, not such as the author designed, but such as they could get them. That this play was written before the two others is indubitably collected from the series of events; that it was written and played before Henry V. is apparent, because in the epilogue there is mention made of this play, and not of the other parts: Henry the sixth in swaddling bands crown'd king, Whose state so many had i' the managing That they lost France, and made all England rue, Which oft our stage hath shown. France is lost in this play. The two following contain, as the old title imports, the contention of the houses of York and Lancaster. The two first parts of Henry VI. were printed in 1600. When Henry V. was written, we know not, but it was printed likewise in 1600, and, therefore, before the publication of the first and second parts: the first part of Henry VI. had been often shown on the stage, and would certainly have appeared in its place had the author been the publisher. KING HENRY VI. PART III. The three parts of Henry VI. are suspected, by Mr. Theobald, of being supposititious, and are declared, by Dr. Warburton, to be certainly not Shakespeare's[9]. Mr. Theobald's suspicion arises from some obsolete words; but the phraseology is like the rest of our author's style, and single words, of which, however, I do not observe more than two, can conclude little. Dr. Warburton gives no reason, but I suppose him to judge upon deeper principles and more comprehensive views, and to draw his opinion from the general effect and spirit of the composition, which he thinks inferiour to the other historical plays. From mere inferiority nothing can be inferred; in the productions of wit there will be inequality. Sometimes judgment will err, and sometimes the matter itself will defeat the artist. Of every author's works one will be the best, and one will be the worst. The colours are not equally pleasing, nor the attitudes equally graceful, in all the pictures of Titian or Reynolds. Dissimilitude of style, and heterogeneousness of sentiment, may sufficiently show that a work does not really belong to the reputed author. But in these plays no such marks of spuriousness are found. The diction, the versification, and the figures, are Shakespeare's. These plays, considered without regard to characters and incidents, merely as narratives in verse, are more happily conceived, and more accurately finished, than those of King John, Richard II. or the tragick scenes of Henry IV. and V. If we take these plays from Shakespeare, to whom shall they be given? What author of that age had the same easiness of expression and fluency of numbers? Having considered the evidence given by the plays themselves, and found it in their favour, let us now inquire what corroboration can be gained from other testimony. They are ascribed to Shakespeare by the first editors, whose attestation may be received in questions of fact, however unskilfully they superintended their edition. They seem to be declared genuine by the voice of Shakespeare himself, who refers to the second play in his epilogue to Henry V. and apparently connects the first act of Richard III. with the last of the third part of Henry VI. If it be objected that the plays were popular, and that, therefore, he alluded to them as well known; it may be answered, with equal probability, that the natural passions of a poet would have disposed him to separate his own works from those of an inferiour hand. And, indeed, if an author's own testimony is to be overthrown by speculative criticism, no man can be any longer secure of literary reputation. Of these three plays I think the second the best. The truth is, that they have not sufficient variety of action, for the incidents are too often of the same kind; yet many of the characters are well discriminated. King Henry and his queen, king Edward, the duke of Gloucester, and the earl of Warwick, are very strongly and distinctly painted. The old copies of the two latter parts of Henry VI. and of Henry V. are so apparently imperfect and mutilated, that there is no reason for supposing them the first draughts of Shakespeare. I am inclined to believe them copies taken by some auditor who wrote down, during the representation, what the time would permit, then, perhaps, filled up some of his omissions at a second or third hearing, and when he had by this method formed something like a play, sent it to the printer[10]. KING RICHARD III. This is one of the most celebrated of our author's performances; yet I know not whether it has not happened to him as to others, to be praised most, when praise is not most deserved. That this play has scenes noble in themselves, and very well contrived to strike in the exhibition, cannot be denied. But some parts are trifling, others shocking, and some improbable. I have nothing to add to the observations of the learned criticks, but that some traces of this antiquated exhibition are still retained in the rustick puppet-plays, in which I have seen the Devil very lustily belaboured by Punch, whom I hold to be the legitimate successor of the old Vice[11]. KING HENRY VIII. The play of Henry VIII. is one of those which still keeps possession of the stage by the splendour of its pageantry. The coronation, about forty years ago, drew the people together in multitudes for a great part of the winter[12]. Yet pomp is not the only merit of this play. The meek sorrows and virtuous distress of Catharine have furnished some scenes which may be justly numbered among the greatest efforts of tragedy. But the genius of Shakespeare comes in and goes out with Catharine[13]. Every other part may be easily conceived, and easily written. The historical dramas are now concluded, of which the two parts of Henry IV. and Henry V. are among the happiest of our author's compositions; and King John, Richard III. and Henry VIII. deservedly stand in the second class. Those whose curiosity would refer the historical scenes to their original, may consult Holinshed, and sometimes Hall: from Holinshed, Shakespeare has often inserted whole speeches, with no more alteration than was necessary to the numbers of his verse. To transcribe them into the margin was unnecessary, because the original is easily examined, and they are seldom less perspicuous in the poet than in the historian. To play histories, or to exhibit a succession of events by action and dialogue, was a common entertainment among our rude ancestors upon great festivities. The parish clerks once performed at Clerkenwell a play, which lasted three days, containing the History of the World. CORIOLANUS. The tragedy of Coriolanus is one of the most amusing of our author's performances. The old man's merriment in Menenius; the lofty lady's dignity in Volumnia; the bridal modesty in Virgilia; the patrician and military haughtiness in Coriolanus; the plebeian malignity, and tribunitian insolence in Brutus and Sicinius, make a very pleasing and interesting variety: and the various revolutions of the hero's fortune fill the mind with anxious curiosity. There is, perhaps, too much bustle in the first act, and too little in the last. JULIUS CAESAR. Of this tragedy many particular passages deserve regard, and the contention and reconcilement of Brutus and Cassius is universally celebrated; but I have never been strongly agitated in perusing it, and think it somewhat cold and unaffecting, compared with some other of Shakespeare's plays; his adherence to the real story, and to Roman manners, seems to have impeded the natural vigour of his genius. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. This play keeps curiosity always busy, and the passions always interested. The continual hurry of the action, the variety of incidents, and the quick succession of one personage to another, call the mind forward, without intermission, from the first act to the last. But the power of delighting is derived principally from the frequent changes of the scene; for, except the feminine arts, some of which are too low, which distinguish Cleopatra, no character is very strongly discriminated. Upton, who did not easily miss what he desired to find, has discovered that the language of Antony is, with great skill and learning, made pompous and superb, according to his real practice. But I think his diction not distinguishable from that of others: the most tumid speech in the play is that which Cæsar makes to Octavia. The events, of which the principal are described according to history, are produced without any art of connexion or care of disposition. TIMON OF ATHENS. The play of Timon is a domestick tragedy, and, therefore, strongly fastens on the attention of the reader. In the plan there is not much art, but the incidents are natural, and the characters various and exact. The catastrophe affords a very powerful warning against that ostentatious liberality, which scatters bounty, but confers no benefits, and buys flattery, but not friendship. In this tragedy are many passages perplexed, obscure, and probably corrupt, which I have endeavoured to rectify or explain, with due diligence; but having only one copy, cannot promise myself that my endeavours will be much applauded. TITUS ANDRONICUS. All the editors and criticks agree with Mr. Theobald in supposing this play spurious. I see no reason for differing from them; for the colour of the style is wholly different from that of the other plays, and there is an attempt at regular versification and artificial closes, not always inelegant, yet seldom pleasing. The barbarity of the spectacles, and the general massacre, which are here exhibited, can scarcely be conceived tolerable to any audience; yet we are told by Jonson, that they were not only borne, but praised. That Shakespeare wrote any part, though Theobald declares it incontestable, I see no reason for believing. The testimony produced at the beginning of this play, by which it is ascribed to Shakespeare, is by no means equal to the argument against its authenticity, arising from the total difference of conduct, language and sentiments, by which it stands apart from all the rest. Meres had probably no other evidence than that of a title-page, which, though in our time it be sufficient, was then of no great authority; for all the plays which were rejected by the first collectors of Shakespeare's works, and admitted in later editions, and again rejected by the critical editors, had Shakespeare's name on the title[14], as we must suppose, by the fraudulence of the printers, who, while there were yet no gazettes, nor advertisements, nor any means of circulating literary intelligence, could usurp at pleasure any celebrated name. Nor had Shakespeare any interest in detecting the imposture, as none of his fame or profit was produced by the press. The chronology of this play does not prove it not to be Shakespeare's. If it had been written twenty-five years in 1614, it might have been written when Shakespeare was twenty-five years old. When he left Warwickshire I know not; but at the age of twenty-five it was rather too late to fly for deer-stealing. Ravenscroft, who in the reign of Charles II. revised this play, and restored it to the stage, tells us, in his preface, from a theatrical tradition, I suppose, which in his time might be of sufficient authority, that this play was touched, in different parts, by Shakespeare, but written by some other poet. I do not find Shakespeare's touches very discernible. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. This play is more correctly written than most of Shakespeare's compositions, but it is not one of those in which either the extent of his views or elevation of his fancy is fully displayed. As the story abounded with materials, he has exerted little invention; but he has diversified his characters with great variety, and preserved them with great exactness. His vicious characters sometimes disgust, but cannot corrupt, for both Cressida and Pandarus are detested and contemned. The comick characters seem to have been the favourites of the writer; they are of the superficial kind, and exhibit more of manners than nature; but they are copiously filled, and powerfully impressed. Shakespeare has in his story followed, for the greater part, the old book of Caxton, which was then very popular; but the character of Thersites, of which it makes no mention, is a proof that this play was written after Chapman had published his version of Homer[15]. CYMBELINE. This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expense of much incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion of the names and manners of different times, and the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too gross for aggravation. KING LEAR. The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakespeare. There is, perhaps, no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions, and interests our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking oppositions of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity and hope. There is no scene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the distress or conduct of the action, and scarce a line which does not conduce to the progress of the scene. So powerful is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind, which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along. On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct, it may be observed, that he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly received as true. And, perhaps, if we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and ignorance of the age to which this story is referred, it will appear not so unlikely as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. Such preference of one daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on such conditions, would be yet credible, if told of a petty prince of Guinea or Madagascar. Shakespeare, indeed, by the mention of his earls and dukes, has given us the idea of times more civilized, and of life regulated by softer manners; and the truth is, that though he so nicely discriminates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he commonly neglects and confounds the characters of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, English and foreign. My learned friend Mr. Warton, who has, in the Adventurer, very minutely criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too savage and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the simplicity of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a series by dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologize with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Gloster's eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatick exhibition, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our author well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote. The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief design, and the opportunity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked son with the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that villany is never at a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin. But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Shakespeare has suffered the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader, and, what is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by the Spectator, who blames Tate for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares, that, in his opinion, "the tragedy has lost half its beauty." Dennis has remarked, whether justly or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of Cato, "the town was poisoned with much false and abominable criticism," and that endeavours had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in which the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless be good, because it is a just representation of the common events of human life: but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or that, if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue. In the present case the publick has decided[16]. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might relate, I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor. There is another controversy among the criticks concerning this play. It is disputed whether the predominant image in Lear's disordered mind be the loss of his kingdom or the cruelty of his daughters. Mr. Murphy, a very judicious critick, has evinced by induction of particular passages, that the cruelty of his daughters is the primary source of his distress, and that the loss of royalty affects him only as a secondary and subordinate evil. He observes, with great justness, that Lear would move our compassion but little, did we not rather consider the injured father than the degraded king. The story of this play, except the episode of Edmund, which is derived, I think, from Sidney, is taken originally from Geoffry of Monmouth, whom Holinshed generally copied; but, perhaps, immediately from an old historical ballad. My reason for believing that the play was posterior to the ballad, rather than the ballad to the play, is, that the ballad has nothing of Shakespeare's nocturnal tempest, which is too striking to have been omitted, and that it follows the chronicle; it has the rudiments of the play, but none of its amplifications: it first hinted Lear's madness, but did not array it in circumstances. The writer of the ballad added something to the history, which is a proof that he would have added more, if more had occurred to his mind, and more must have occurred if he had seen Shakespeare. ROMEO AND JULIET. This play is one of the most pleasing of our author's performances. The scenes are busy and various, the incidents numerous and important, the catastrophe irresistibly affecting, and the process of the action carried on with such probability, at least with such congruity to popular opinions, as tragedy requires. Here is one of the few attempts of Shakespeare to exhibit the conversation of gentlemen, to represent the airy sprightliness of juvenile elegance. Mr. Dryden mentions a tradition, which might easily reach his time, of a declaration made by Shakespeare, that "he was obliged to kill Mercutio in the third act, lest he should have been killed by him." Yet he thinks him "no such formidable person, but that he might have lived through the play, and died in his bed," without danger to the poet. Dryden well knew, had he been in quest of truth, that, in a pointed sentence, more regard is commonly had to the words than the thought, and that it is very seldom to be rigorously understood. Mercutio's wit, gaiety and courage, will always procure him friends that wish him a longer life; but his death is not precipitated, he has lived out the time allotted him in the construction of the play; nor do I doubt the ability of Shakespeare to have continued his existence, though some of his sallies are, perhaps, out of the reach of Dryden; whose genius was not very fertile of merriment, nor ductile to humour, but acute, argumentative, comprehensive and sublime. The nurse is one of the characters in which the author delighted; he has, with great subtilty of distinction, drawn her at once loquacious and secret, obsequious and insolent, trusty and dishonest. His comick scenes are happily wrought, but his pathetick strains are always polluted with some unexpected depravations. His persons, however distressed, have a conceit left them in their misery, a miserable conceit. HAMLET. If the dramas of Shakespeare were to be characterized, each by the particular excellence which distinguishes it from the rest, we must allow to the tragedy of Hamlet the praise of variety. The incidents are so numerous, that the argument of the play would make a long tale. The scenes are interchangeably diversified with merriment and solemnity; with merriment, that includes judicious and instructive observations; and solemnity, not strained by poetical violence above the natural sentiments of man. New characters appear from time to time in continual succession, exhibiting various forms of life and particular modes of conversation. The pretended madness of Hamlet causes much mirth, the mournful distraction of Ophelia fills the heart with tenderness, and every personage produces the effect intended, from the apparition that, in the first act, chills the blood with horrour, to the fop, in the last, that exposes affectation to just contempt. The conduct is, perhaps, not wholly secure against objections. The action is, indeed, for the most part, in continual progression, but there are some scenes which neither forward nor retard it. Of the feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause[17], for he does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity. He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty. Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather an instrument than an agent. After he has, by the stratagem of the play, convicted the king, he makes no attempt to punish him; and his death is at last effected by an incident which Hamlet had no part in producing. The catastrophe is not very happily produced; the exchange of weapons is rather an expedient of necessity, than a stroke of art. A scheme might easily have been formed to kill Hamlet with the dagger, and Laertes with the bowl. The poet is accused of having shown little regard to poetical justice, and may be charged with equal neglect of poetical probability. The apparition left the regions of the dead to little purpose; the revenge which he demands is not obtained, but by the death of him that was required to take it; and the gratification, which would arise from the destruction of an usurper and a murderer, is abated by the untimely death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the harmless, and the pious. OTHELLO. The beauties of this play impress themselves so strongly upon the attention of the reader, that they can draw no aid from critical illustration. The fiery openness of Othello, magnanimous, artless, and credulous, boundless in his confidence, ardent in his affection, inflexible in his resolution, and obdurate in his revenge; the cool malignity of Iago, silent in his resentment, subtle in his designs, and studious at once of his interest and his vengeance; the soft simplicity of Desdemona, confident of merit, and conscious of innocence, her artless perseverance in her suit, and her slowness to suspect that she can be suspected, are such proofs of Shakespeare's skill in human nature, as, I suppose, it is vain to seek in any modern writer. The gradual progress which Iago makes in the Moor's conviction, and the circumstances which he employs to inflame him, are so artfully natural, that, though it will, perhaps, not be said of him as he says of himself, that he is "a man not easily jealous," yet we cannot but pity him, when at last we find him "perplexed in the extreme." There is always danger, lest wickedness, conjoined with abilities, should steal upon esteem, though it misses of approbation; but the character of Iago is so conducted, that he is, from the first scene to the last, hated and despised. Even the inferiour characters of this play would be very conspicuous in any other piece, not only for their justness, but their strength. Cassio is brave, benevolent and honest, ruined only by his want of stubbornness to resist an insidious invitation. Roderigo's suspicious credulity, and impatient submission to the cheats which he sees practised upon him, and which, by persuasion, he suffers to be repeated, exhibit a strong picture of a weak mind betrayed by unlawful desires to a false friend; and the virtue of Aemilia is such as we often find, worn loosely, but not cast off, easy to commit small crimes, but quickened and alarmed at atrocious villanies. The scenes, from the beginning to the end, are busy, varied by happy interchanges, and regularly promoting the progression of the story; and the narrative, in the end, though it tells but what is known already, yet is necessary to produce the death of Othello. Had the scene opened in Cyprus, and the preceding incidents been occasionally related, there had been little wanting to a drama of the most exact and scrupulous regularity. FOOTNOTES: [1] Mr. Heath, who wrote a Revisal of Shakespeare's text, published in 8vo. circa 1760. [2] This is not a blunder of Shakespeare's, but a mistake of Johnson's, who considers the passage alluded to in a more literal sense than the author intended it. Sir Proteus, it is true, had seen Silvia for a few moments; but though he could form from thence some idea of her person, he was still unacquainted with her temper, manners, and the qualities of her mind. He, therefore, considers himself as having seen her picture only. The thought is just and elegantly expressed. So in the Scornful Lady, the elder Loveless says to her, "I was mad once when I loved pictures. For what are _shape_ and _colours_ else but _pictures?_"--Mason in Malone's Shak. iv. 137.--Ed. [3] In the Three Ladies of London, 1584, is the character of an Italian merchant, very strongly marked by foreign pronunciation. Dr. Dodypoll, in the Comedy which bears his name, is, like Caius, a French physician. This piece appeared, at least, a year before The Merry Wives of Windsor. The hero of it speaks such another jargon as the antagonist of Sir Hugh, and, like him, is cheated of his mistress. In several other pieces, more ancient than the earliest of Shakespeare's, provincial characters are introduced--Steevens. In the old play of Henry V. French soldiers are introduced speaking broken English.--Boswell. [4] See, however, Dr. Drake's Essays on Rambler &c. ii. 392.--Ed. [5] Johnson's concluding observation on this play, is not conceived with his usual judgment. There is no analogy or resemblance whatever between the fairies of Spenser, and those of Shakespeare. The fairies of Spenser, as appears from his description of them in the second book of the Faerie Queene, Canto 10. were a race of mortals created by Prometheus, of the human size, shape, and affections, and subject to death. But those of Shakespeare, and of common tradition, as Johnson calls them, were a diminutive race of sportful beings, endowed with immortality and supernatural power, totally different from those of Spenser.--M. MASON. [6] The first novel of the fourth day. An epitome of the novels, from which the story of this play is supposed to be taken, is appended to it in Malone's edition, v. 154. [7] This opinion of the character of Bertram is examined at considerable length in the New Monthly Magazine, iv. 481.--Ed. [8] The notion that Shakespeare revised this play, though it has long prevailed, appears to me extremely doubtful; or to speak more plainly, I do not believe it. MALONE. See too the Essay on the Chronological order of Shakespeare's plays, Malone's edition, ii. [9] For a full discussion of this point, see the Dissertation on the three parts of King Henry VI. tending to show that those plays were not written originally by Shakespeare. The dissertation was written by Malone, and pronounced by Porson to be one of the most convincing pieces of criticism he had ever met with. Malone's Shakespeare, xviii. 557. [10] See this opinion controverted. Malone's Shakespeare, xviii. 550. --Ed. [11] This paragraph, apparently so unconnected with the preceding, refers to some critical dissertations on the character of Vice. They may be found in Malone's Shakespeare, xix. 244. See likewise Pursuits of Literature, Dialogue the First.--Ed. [12] Chetwood says, that during one season it was exhibited 75 times. See his History of the Stage, p. 68.--Ed. [13] Dr. Johnson told Mrs. Siddons that he admired her most in this character.--Mrs. Piozzi. [14] This statement is not quite accurate concerning the seven spurious plays, which the printer of the folio in 1664 improperly admitted into his volume. The name of Shakespeare appears only in the title-pages of four of them: Pericles, Sir John Oldcastle, the London Prodigal, and the Yorkshire Tragedy. Malone's Shak. xxi. 382. [15] The first seven books of Chapman's Homer were published in the year 1596, and again in 1598. The whole twenty-four of the Iliad appeared in 1611.--STEEVENS. [16] Dr. Johnson should rather have said that the managers of the theatres-royal have decided, and that the public has been obliged to acquiesce in their decision. The altered play has the upper gallery on its side; the original drama was patronized by Addison: Victrix causa _Diis_ placuit, sed victa _Catomi_. LUCAN. Malone's Shak. x. 290. [17] See, however, Mr. Boswell's long and erudite note in his Shakespeare, vii. 536. "Il me semble," says Madame De Staël, "cu'en lisant cette tragédie, on distingue parfaitement dans Hamlet l'égarement réel à travers l'égarement affecté."--Mme. De Staël de la Littérature, c. xiii. See also Schlegel in his Dramatic literature, ii.--Ed. AN ACCOUNT OF THE HARLEIAN LIBRARY. To solicit a subscription for a catalogue of books exposed to sale, is an attempt for which some apology cannot but be necessary; for few would willingly contribute to the expense of volumes, by which neither instruction nor entertainment could be afforded, from which only the bookseller could expect advantage, and of which the only use must cease, at the dispersion of the library[1]. Nor could the reasonableness of an universal rejection of our proposal be denied, if this catalogue were to be compiled with no other view, than that of promoting the sale of the books which it enumerates, and drawn up with that inaccuracy and confusion which may be found in those that are daily published. But our design, like our proposal, is uncommon, and to be prosecuted at a very uncommon expense: it being intended, that the books shall be distributed into their distinct classes, and every class ranged with some regard to the age of the writers; that every book shall be accurately described; that the peculiarities of editions shall be remarked, and observations from the authors of literary history occasionally interspersed; that, by this catalogue, we may inform posterity of the excellence and value of this great collection, and promote the knowledge of scarce books, and elegant editions. For this purpose, men of letters are engaged, who cannot even be supplied with amanuenses, but at an expense above that of a common catalogue. To show that this collection deserves a particular degree of regard from the learned and the studious, that it excels any library that was ever yet offered to publick sale, in the value, as well as number, of the volumes, which it contains; and that, therefore, this catalogue will not be of less use to men of letters, than those of the Thuaniau, Heinsian, or Barberinian libraries, it may not be improper to exhibit a general account of the different classes, as they are naturally divided by the several sciences. By this method we can, indeed, exhibit only a general idea, at once magnificent and confused; an idea of the writings of many nations, collected from distant parts of the world, discovered sometimes by chance, and sometimes by curiosity, amidst the rubbish of forsaken monasteries, and the repositories of ancient families, and brought hither from every part, as to the universal receptacle of learning. It will be no unpleasing effect of this account, if those that shall happen to peruse it, should be inclined by it to reflect on the character of the late proprietors, and to pay some tribute of veneration to their ardour for literature, to that generous and exalted curiosity which they gratified with incessant searches and immense expense, and to which they dedicated that time, and that superfluity of fortune, which many others of their rank employ in the pursuit of contemptible amusements, or the gratification of guilty passions. And, surely, every man, who considers learning as ornamental and advantageous to the community, must allow them the honour of publick benefactors, who have introduced amongst us authors, not hitherto well known, and added to the literary treasures of their native country. That our catalogue will excite any other man to emulate the collectors of this library, to prefer books and manuscripts to equipage and luxury, and to forsake noise and diversion for the conversation of the learned, and the satisfaction of extensive knowledge, we are very far from presuming to hope; but shall make no scruple to assert, that, if any man should happen to be seized with such laudable ambition, he may find in this catalogue hints and informations which are not easily to be met with; he will discover, that the boasted Bodleian library is very far from a perfect model, and that even the learned Fabricius cannot completely instruct him in the early editions of the classick writers. But the collectors of libraries cannot be numerous; and, therefore, catalogues could not very properly be recommended to the publick, if they had not a more general and frequent use, an use which every student has experienced, or neglected to his loss. By the means of catalogues only, can it be known what has been written on every part of learning, and the hazard avoided of encountering difficulties which have already been cleared, discussing questions which have already been decided, and digging in mines of literature which former ages have exhausted. How often this has been the fate of students, every man of letters can declare; and, perhaps, there are very few who have not sometimes valued as new discoveries, made by themselves, those observations, which have long since been published, and of which the world, therefore, will refuse them the praise; nor can the refusal be censured as any enormous violation of justice; for, why should they not forfeit by their ignorance, what they might claim by their sagacity? To illustrate this remark, by the mention of obscure names, would not much confirm it; and to vilify, for this purpose, the memory of men truly great, would be to deny them the reverence which they may justly claim from those whom their writings have instructed. May the shade, at least, of one great English critick[2] rest without disturbance; and may no man presume to insult his memory, who wants his learning, his reason, or his wit. From the vexatious disappointment of meeting reproach, where praise is expected, every man will certainly desire to be secured; and, therefore, that book will have some claim to his regard, from which he may receive informations of the labours of his predecessors, such as a catalogue of the Harleian library will copiously afford him. Nor is the use of catalogues of less importance to those whom curiosity has engaged in the study of literary history, and who think the intellectual revolutions of the world more worthy of their attention, than the ravages of tyrants, the desolation of kingdoms, the rout of armies, and the fall of empires. Those who are pleased with observing the first birth of new opinions, their struggles against opposition, their silent progress under persecution, their general reception, and their gradual decline, or sudden extinction; those that amuse themselves with remarking the different periods of human knowledge, and observe how darkness and light succeed each other; by what accident the most gloomy nights of ignorance have given way to the dawn of science; and how learning has languished and decayed, for want of patronage and regard, or been overborne by the prevalence of fashionable ignorance, or lost amidst the tumults of invasion, and the storms of violence. All those who desire any knowledge of the literary transactions of past ages, may find in catalogues, like this at least, such an account as is given by annalists, and chronologers of civil history. How the knowledge of the sacred writings has been diffused, will be observed from the catalogue of the various editions of the Bible, from the first impression by Fust, in 1462, to the present time; in which will be contained the polyglot editions of Spain, France, and England, those of the original Hebrew, the Greek Septuagint, and the Latin Vulgate; with the versions which are now used in the remotest parts of Europe, in the country of the Grisons, in Lithuania, Bohemia, Finland, and Iceland. With regard to the attempts of the same kind made in our own country, there are few whose expectations will not be exceeded by the number of English Bibles, of which not one is forgotten, whether valuable for the pomp and beauty of the impression, or for the notes with which the text is accompanied, or for any controversy or persecution that it produced, or for the peculiarity of any single passage. With the same care have the various editions of the book of Common Prayer been selected, from which all the alterations which have been made in it may be easily remarked. Amongst a great number of Roman missals and breviaries, remarkable for the beauty of their cuts and illuminations, will be found the Mosarabick missal and breviary, that raised such commotions in the kingdom of Spain. The controversial treatises written in England, about the time of the Reformation, have been diligently collected, with a multitude of remarkable tracts, single sermons, and small treatises; which, however worthy to be preserved, are, perhaps, to be found in no other place. The regard which was always paid, by the collectors of this library, to that remarkable period of time, in which the art of printing was invented, determined them to accumulate the ancient impressions of the fathers of the church; to which the later editions are added, lest antiquity should have seemed more worthy of esteem than accuracy. History has been considered with the regard due to that study by which the manners are most easily formed, and from which the most efficacious instruction is received; nor will the most extensive curiosity fail of gratification in this library, from which no writers have been excluded, that relate either the religious, or civil affairs of any nation. Not only those authors of ecclesiastical history have been procured, that treat of the state of religion in general, or deliver accounts of sects or nations, but those, likewise, who have confined themselves to particular orders of men in every church; who have related the original, and the rules of every society, or recounted the lives of its founder and its members; those who have deduced in every country the succession of bishops, and those who have employed their abilities in celebrating the piety of particular saints, or martyrs, or monks, or nuns. The civil history of all nations has been amassed together; nor is it easy to determine which has been thought most worthy of curiosity. Of France, not only the general histories and ancient chronicles, the accounts of celebrated reigns, and narratives of remarkable events, but even the memorials of single families, the lives of private men, the antiquities of particular cities, churches, and monasteries, the topography of provinces, and the accounts of laws, customs, and prescriptions, are here to be found. The several states of Italy have, in this treasury, their particular historians, whose accounts are, perhaps, generally more exact, by being less extensive; and more interesting, by being more particular. Nor has less regard been paid to the different nations of the Germanick empire, of which neither the Bohemians, nor Hungarians, nor Austrians, nor Bavarians, have been neglected; nor have their antiquities, however generally disregarded, been less studiously searched, than their present state. The northern nations have supplied this collection, not only with history, but poetry, with Gothick antiquities and Runick inscriptions; which, at least, have this claim to veneration, above the remains of the Roman magnificence, that they are the works of those heroes by whom the Roman empire was destroyed; and which may plead, at least in this nation, that they ought not to be neglected by those that owe to the men whose memories they preserve, their constitution, their properties, and their liberties. The curiosity of these collectors extended equally to all parts of the world; nor did they forget to add to the northern the southern writers, or to adorn their collection with chronicles of Spain, and the conquest of Mexico. Even of those nations with which we have less intercourse, whose customs are less accurately known, and whose history is less distinctly recounted, there are in this library reposited such accounts as the Europeans have been hitherto able to obtain; nor are the Mogul, the Tartar, the Turk, and the Saracen, without their historians. That persons, so inquisitive with regard to the transactions of other nations, should inquire yet more ardently after the history of their own, may be naturally expected; and, indeed, this part of the library is no common instance of diligence and accuracy. Here are to be found, with the ancient chronicles, and larger histories of Britain, the narratives of single reigns, and the accounts of remarkable revolutions, the topographical histories of counties, the pedigrees of families, the antiquities of churches and cities, the proceedings of parliaments, the records of monasteries, and the lives of particular men, whether eminent in the church or the state, or remarkable in private life; whether exemplary for their virtues, or detestable for their crimes; whether persecuted for religion, or executed for rebellion. That memorable period of the English history, which begins with the reign of king Charles the first, and ends with the Restoration, will almost furnish a library alone; such is the number of volumes, pamphlets and papers, which were published by either party; and such is the care with which they have been preserved. Nor is history without the necessary preparatives and attendants, geography and chronology: of geography, the best writers and delineators have been procured, and pomp and accuracy have been both regarded; the student of chronology may here find, likewise, those authors who searched the records of time, and fixed the periods of history. With the historians and geographers may be ranked the writers of voyages and travels, which may be read here in the Latin, English, Dutch, German, French, Italian, and Spanish languages. The laws of different countries, as they are in themselves equally worthy of curiosity with their history, have, in this collection, been justly regarded; and the rules by which the various communities of the world are governed, may be here examined and compared. Here are the ancient editions of the papal decretals, and the commentators on the civil law, the edicts of Spain, and the statutes of Venice. But with particular industry have the various writers on the laws of our own country been collected, from the most ancient to the present time, from the bodies of the statutes to the minutest treatise; not only the reports, precedents, and readings of our own courts, but even the laws of our West-Indian colonies, will be exhibited in our catalogue. But neither history nor law have been so far able to engross this library, as to exclude physick, philosophy, or criticism. Those have been thought, with justice, worthy of a place, who have examined the different species of animals, delineated their forms, or described their properties and instincts; or who have penetrated the bowels of the earth, treated on its different strata, and analyzed its metals; or who have amused themselves with less laborious speculations, and planted trees, or cultivated flowers. Those that have exalted their thoughts above the minuter parts of the creation, who have observed the motions of the heavenly bodies, and attempted systems of the universe, have not been denied the honour which they deserved by so great an attempt, whatever has been their success. Nor have those mathematicians been rejected, who have applied their science to the common purposes of life; or those that have deviated into the kindred arts of tacticks, architecture, and fortification. Even arts of far less importance have found their authors, nor have these authors been despised by the boundless curiosity of the proprietors of the Harleian library. The writers on horsemanship and fencing are more numerous and more bulky than could be expected by those who reflect, how seldom those excel in either, whom their education has qualified to compose books. The admirer of Greek and Roman literature will meet, in this collection, with editions little known to the most inquisitive criticks, and which have escaped the observation of those whose great employment has been the collation of copies; nor will he find only the most ancient editions of Faustus, Jenson, Spira, Sweynheim and Pannartz, but the most accurate, likewise, and beautiful of Colinaeus, the Juntae, Plantin, Aldus, the Stephens, and Elzevir, with the commentaries and observations of the most learned editors. Nor are they accompanied only with the illustrations of those who have confined their attempts to particular writers, but of those, likewise, who have treated on any part of the Greek or Roman antiquities, their laws, their customs, their dress, their buildings, their wars, their revenues, or the rites and ceremonies of their worship, and those that have endeavoured to explain any of their authors from their statues or their coins. Next to the ancients, those writers deserve to be mentioned, who, at the restoration of literature, imitated their language and their style with so great success, or who laboured with so much industry to make them understood: such were Philelphus and Politian, Scaliger and Buchanan, and the poets of the age of Leo the tenth; these are, likewise, to be found in this library, together with the Deliciæ, or collections of all nations. Painting is so nearly allied to poetry, that it cannot be wondered that those who have so much esteemed the one, have paid an equal regard to the other; and, therefore, it may be easily imagined, that the collection of prints is numerous in an uncommon degree; but, surely, the expectation of every man will be exceeded, when he is informed that there are more than forty thousand engraven from Raphael, Titian, Guido, the Carraccis, and a thousand others, by Nanteuil, Hollar, Callet, Edelinck, and Dorigny, and other engravers of equal reputation. Their is also a great collection of original drawings, of which three seem to deserve a particular mention: the first exhibits a representation of the inside of St. Peter's church at Rome; the second, of that of St. John Lateran; and the third, of the high altar of St. Ignatius; all painted with the utmost accuracy, in their proper colours. As the value of this great collection may he conceived from this account, however imperfect; as the variety of subjects must engage the curiosity of men of different studies, inclinations, and employments, it may be thought of very little use to mention any slighter advantages, or to dwell on the decorations and embellishments which the generosity of the proprietors has bestowed upon it; yet, since the compiler of the Thuanian catalogue thought not even that species of elegance below his observation, it may not be improper to observe, that the Harleian library, perhaps, excels all others, not more in the number and excellence, than in the splendour of its volumes[3]. We may now, surely, be allowed to hope, that our catalogue will not be thought unworthy of the publick curiosity; that it will be purchased as a record of this great collection, and preserved as one of the memorials of learning. The patrons of literature will forgive the purchaser of this library, if he presumes to assert some claim to their protection and encouragement, as he may have been instrumental in continuing to this nation the advantage of it. The sale of Vossius's collection into a foreign country, is, to this day, regretted by men of letters; and if this effort for the prevention of another loss of the same kind should be disadvantageous to him, no man will hereafter willingly risk his fortune in the cause of learning. FOOTNOTES: [1] This apology is no longer necessary, when the catalogue of Lord Spencer's library is published at 16_l_. 16_s_. See Dibdin's Bibliomania, Aedes Althorpianæ, and the indignant complaints of the author of the Pursuits of Literature.--Ed. [2] It is not quite clear to whom Johnson here alludes; perhaps to Bentley, and with reference to some of Garth's expressions: So diamonds take a lustre from their foil; And to a Bentley 'tis we owe a Boyle. Dispensary, Canto V. [3] Mr. Dibdin informs us, that Lord Oxford gave 18,000_l_ for the _binding_ only the least part of the Harleian Library. See his Bibliomania.--Ed. AN ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN AND IMPORTANCE OF SMALL TRACTS AND FUGITIVE PIECES. WRITTEN FOR THE INTRODUCTION TO THE HARLEIAN MISCELLANY. Though the scheme of the following miscellany is so obvious, that the title alone is sufficient to explain it; and though several collections have been formerly attempted, upon plans, as to the method, very little, but, as to the capacity and execution, very different from ours; we, being possessed of the greatest variety for such a work, hope for a more general reception than those confined schemes had the fortune to meet with; and, therefore, think it not wholly unnecessary to explain our intentions, to display the treasure of materials out of which this miscellany is to be compiled, and to exhibit a general idea of the pieces which we intend to insert in it. There is, perhaps, no nation in which it is so necessary, as in our own, to assemble, from time to time, the small tracts and fugitive pieces, which are occasionally published; for, besides the general subjects of inquiry, which are cultivated by us, in common with every other learned nation, our constitution in church and state naturally gives birth to a multitude of performances, which would either not have been written, or could not have been made publick in any other place. The form of our government, which gives every man, that has leisure, or curiosity, or vanity, the right of inquiring into the propriety of publick measures, and, by consequence, obliges those who are intrusted with the administration of national affairs, to give an account of their conduct to almost every man who demands it, may be reasonably imagined to have occasioned innumerable pamphlets, which would never have appeared under arbitrary governments, where every man lulls himself in indolence under calamities, of which he cannot promote the redress, or thinks it prudent to conceal the uneasiness, of which he cannot complain without danger. The multiplicity of religious sects tolerated among us, of which every one has found opponents and vindicators, is another source of unexhaustible publication, almost peculiar to ourselves; for controversies cannot be long continued, nor frequently revived, where an inquisitor has a right to shut up the disputants in dungeons; or where silence can be imposed on either party, by the refusal of a license. Not, that it should be inferred from hence, that political or religious controversies are the only products of the liberty of the British press; the mind once let loose to inquiry, and suffered to operate without restraint, necessarily deviates into peculiar opinions, and wanders in new tracks, where she is, indeed, sometimes lost in a labyrinth, from which though she cannot return, and scarce knows how to proceed; yet, sometimes, makes useful discoveries, or finds out nearer paths to knowledge. The boundless liberty with which every man may write his own thoughts, and the opportunity of conveying new sentiments to the publick, without danger of suffering either ridicule or censure, which every man may enjoy, whose vanity does not incite him too hastily to own his performances, naturally invites those who employ themselves in speculation, to try how their notions will be received by a nation, which exempts caution from fear, and modesty from shame; and it is no wonder, that where reputation may be gained, but needs not be lost, multitudes are willing to try their fortune, and thrust their opinions into the light; sometimes with unsuccessful haste, and sometimes with happy temerity. It is observed, that, among the natives of England, is to be found a greater variety of humour, than in any other country; and, doubtless, where every man has a full liberty to propagate his conceptions, variety of humour must produce variety of writers; and, where the number of authors is so great, there cannot but be some worthy of distinction. All these, and many other causes, too tedious to be enumerated, have contributed to make pamphlets and small tracts a very important part of an English library; nor are there any pieces, upon which those, who aspire to the reputation of judicious collectors of books, bestow more attention, or greater expense; because many advantages may be expected from the perusal of these small productions, which are scarcely to be found in that of larger works. If we regard history, it is well known, that most political treatises have for a long time appeared in this form, and that the first relations of transactions, while they are yet the subject of conversation, divide the opinions, and employ the conjectures of mankind, are delivered by these petty writers, who have opportunities of collecting the different sentiments of disputants, of inquiring the truth from living witnesses, and of copying their representations from the life; and, therefore, they preserve a multitude of particular incidents, which are forgotten in a short time, or omitted in formal relations, and which are yet to be considered as sparks of truth, which, when united, may afford light in some of the darkest scenes of state, as, we doubt not, will be sufficiently proved in the course of this miscellany; and which it is, therefore, the interest of the publick to preserve unextinguished. The same observation may be extended to subjects of yet more importance. In controversies that relate to the truths of religion, the first essays of reformation are generally timorous; and those, who have opinions to offer, which they expect to be opposed, produce their sentiments, by degrees, and, for the most part, in small tracts: by degrees, that they may not shock their readers with too many novelties at once; and in small tracts, that they may be easily dispersed, or privately printed. Almost every controversy, therefore, has been, for a time, carried on in pamphlets, nor has swelled into larger volumes, till the first ardour of the disputants has subsided, and they have recollected their notions with coolness enough to digest them into order, consolidate them into systems, and fortify them with authorities. From pamphlets, consequently, are to be learned the progress of every debate; the various state to which the questions have been changed; the artifices and fallacies which have been used, and the subterfuges by which reason has been eluded. In such writings may be seen how the mind has been opened by degrees, how one truth has led to another, how errour has been disentangled, and hints improved to demonstration, which pleasure, and many others, are lost by him that only reads the larger writers, by whom these scattered sentiments are collected, who will see none of the changes of fortune which every opinion has passed through, will have no opportunity of remarking the transient advantages which errour may sometimes obtain, by the artifices of its patron, or the successful rallies, by which truth regains the day, after a repulse; but will be to him, who traces the dispute through into particular gradations, as he that hears of a victory, to him that sees the battle. Since the advantages of preserving these small tracts are so numerous, our attempt to unite them in volumes cannot be thought either useless or unseasonable; for there is no other method of securing them from accidents; and they have already been so long neglected, that this design cannot be delayed, without hazarding the loss of many pieces, which deserve to be transmitted to another age. The practice of publishing pamphlets on the most important subjects has now prevailed more than two centuries among us; and, therefore, it cannot be doubted, but that, as no large collections have been yet made, many curious tracts must have perished; but it is too late to lament that loss; nor ought we to reflect upon it, with any other view, than that of quickening our endeavours for the preservation of those that yet remain; of which we have now a greater number, than was, perhaps, ever amassed by any one person. The first appearance of pamphlets among us is generally thought to be at the new opposition raised against the errours and corruptions of the church of Rome. Those who were first convinced of the reasonableness of the new learning, as it was then called, propagated their opinions in small pieces, which were cheaply printed, and, what was then of great importance, easily concealed. These treatises were generally printed in foreign countries, and are not, therefore, always very correct. There was not then that opportunity of printing in private; for the number of printers was small, and the presses were easily overlooked by the clergy, who spared no labour or vigilance for the suppression of heresy. There is, however, reason to suspect, that some attempts were made to carry on the propagation of truth by a secret press; for one of the first treatises in favour of the Reformation, is said, at the end, to be printed at "Greenwich, by the permission of the Lord of Hosts." In the time of king Edward the sixth, the presses were employed in favour of the reformed religion, and small tracts were dispersed over the nation, to reconcile them to new forms of worship. In this reign, likewise, political pamphlets may be said to have been begun, by the address of the rebels of Devonshire; all which means of propagating the sentiments of the people so disturbed the court, that no sooner was queen Mary resolved to reduce her subjects to the Romish superstition, but she artfully, by a charter[1], granted to certain freemen of London, in whose fidelity, no doubt, she confided, entirely prohibited ALL presses, but what should be licensed by them; which charter is that by which the corporation of Stationers in London is, at this time, incorporated. Under the reign of queen Elizabeth, when liberty again began to flourish, the practice of writing pamphlets became more general; presses were multiplied, and books were dispersed; and, I believe, it may properly be said, that the trade of writing began at this time, and that it has, ever since, gradually increased in the number, though, perhaps, not in the style of those that followed it. In this reign was erected the first secret press against the church, as now established, of which I have found any certain account. It was employed by the Puritans, and conveyed from one part of the nation to another, by them, as they found themselves in danger of discovery. From this press issued most of the pamphlets against Whitgift and his associates, in the ecclesiastical government; and, when it was at last seized at Manchester, it was employed upon a pamphlet called More Work for a Cooper. In the peaceable reign of king James, those minds which might, perhaps, with less disturbance of the world, have been engrossed by war, were employed in controversy; and writings of all kinds were multiplied among us. The press, however, was not wholly engaged in polemical performances, for more innocent subjects were sometimes treated; and it deserves to be remarked, because it is not generally known, that the treatises of husbandry and agriculture, which were published about that time, are so numerous, that it can scarcely be imagined by whom they were written, or to whom they were sold. The next reign is too well known to have been a time of confusion and disturbance, and disputes of every kind; and the writings, which were produced, bear a natural proportion to the number of the questions that were discussed at that time; each party had its authors and its presses, and no endeavours were omitted to gain proselytes to every opinion. I know not whether this may not properly be called, The Age of Pamphlets; for, though they, perhaps, may not arise to such multitudes as Mr. Rawlinson imagined, they were, undoubtedly, more numerous than can be conceived by any who have not had an opportunity of examining them. After the Restoration, the same differences, in religious opinions, are well known to have subsisted, and the same political struggles to have been frequently renewed; and, therefore, a great number of pens were employed, on different occasions, till, at length, all other disputes were absorbed in the popish controversy. From the pamphlets which these different periods of time produced, it is proposed, that this miscellany shall be compiled, for which it cannot be supposed that materials will be wanting; and, therefore, the only difficulty will be in what manner to dispose them. Those who have gone before us, in undertakings of this kind, have ranged the pamphlets, which chance threw into their hands, without any regard either to the subject on which they treated, or the time in which they were written; a practice in no wise to be imitated by us, who want for no materials; of which we shall choose those we think best for the particular circumstances of times and things, and most instructing and entertaining to the reader. Of the different methods which present themselves, upon the first view of the great heaps of pamphlets which the Harleian library exhibits[2], the two which merit most attention are, to distribute the treatises according to their subjects, or their dates; but neither of these ways can be conveniently followed. By ranging our collection in order of time, we must necessarily publish those pieces first, which least engage the curiosity of the bulk of mankind; and our design must fall to the ground, for want of encouragement, before it can be so far advanced as to obtain general regard: by confining ourselves for any long time to any single subject, we shall reduce our readers to one class; and, as we shall lose all the grace of variety, shall disgust all those who read chiefly to be diverted. There is, likewise, one objection of equal force, against both these methods, that we shall preclude ourselves from the advantage of any future discoveries; and we cannot hope to assemble at once all the pamphlets which have been written in any age, or on any subject. It may be added, in vindication of our intended practice, that it is the same with that of Photius, whose collections are no less miscellaneous than ours, and who declares, that he leaves it to his reader, to reduce his extracts under their proper heads. Most of the pieces which shall be offered in this collection to the publick, will be introduced by short prefaces, in which will be given some account of the reasons for which they are inserted; notes will be sometimes adjoined, for the explanation of obscure passages, or obsolete expressions; and care will be taken to mingle use and pleasure through the whole collection. Notwithstanding every subject may not be relished by every reader, yet the buyer may be assured that each number will repay his generous subscription. FOOTNOTES: [1] Which begins thus, "Know ye, that We, considering and manifestly perceiving, that several seditious and heretical books or tracts-- against the faith and sound catholick doctrine of holy mother, the Church," &c. [2] The pamphlets in the Harleian collection amounted in number to about 400,000. See Gough's Brit. Topog. 1669. PREFACE TO THE CATALOGUE OF THE HARLEIAN LIBRARY, VOL. III. Having prefixed to the former volumes of my catalogue an account of the prodigious collection accumulated in the Harleian library, there would have been no necessity of any introduction to the subsequent volumes, had not some censures, which this great undertaking has drawn upon me, made it proper to offer to the publick an apology for my conduct. The price, which I have set upon my catalogue, has been represented by the booksellers as an avaricious innovation; and, in a paper published in the Champion, they, or their mercenary, have reasoned so justly, as to allege, that, if I could afford a very large price for the library, I might, therefore, afford to give away the catalogue. I should have imagined that accusations, concerted by such heads as these, would have vanished of themselves, without any answer; but, since I have the mortification to find that they have been in some degree regarded by men of more knowledge than themselves, I shall explain the motives of my procedure. My original design was, as I have already explained, to publish a methodical and exact catalogue of this library, upon the plan which has been laid down, as I am informed, by several men of the first rank among the learned. It was intended by those who undertook the work, to make a very exact disposition of all the subjects, and to give an account of the remarkable differences of the editions, and other peculiarities, which make any book eminently valuable: and it was imagined, that some improvements might, by pursuing this scheme, be made in literary history. With this view was the catalogue begun, when the price was fixed upon it in publick advertisements; and it cannot be denied, that such a catalogue would have been willingly purchased by those who understood its use. But, when a few sheets had been printed, it was discovered, that the scheme was impracticable, without more hands than could be procured, or more time than the necessity of a speedy sale would allow: the catalogue was, therefore, continued without notes, at least in the greatest part; and, though it was still performed better than those which are daily offered to the publick, fell much below the original design. It was then no longer proper to insist upon a price; and, therefore, though money was demanded, upon delivery of the catalogue, it was only taken as a pledge that the catalogue was not, as is very frequent, wantonly called for, by those who never intended to peruse it, and I, therefore, promised that it should be taken again in exchange for any book rated at the same value. It may be still said, that other booksellers give away their catalogues without any such precaution, and that I ought not to make any new or extraordinary demands. But I hope it will be considered, at how much greater expense my catalogue was drawn up: and be remembered, that when other booksellers give their catalogues, they give only what will be of no use when their books are sold, and what, if it remained in their hands, they must throw away: whereas I hope that this catalogue will retain its use, and, consequently, its value, and be sold with the catalogues of the Barberinian and Marckian libraries. However, to comply with the utmost expectations of the world, I have now published the second part of my catalogue, upon conditions still more commodious for the purchaser, as I intend, that all those who are pleased to receive them at the same price of five shillings a volume, shall be allowed, at any time, within three months after the day of sale, either to return them in exchange for books, or to send them back, and receive their money. Since, therefore, I have absolutely debarred myself from receiving any advantage from the sale of the catalogue, it will be reasonable to impute it rather to necessity than choice, that I shall continue it to two volumes more, which the number of the single tracts which have been discovered, makes indispensably requisite. I need not tell those who are acquainted with affairs of this kind, how much pamphlets swell a catalogue, since the title of the least book may be as long as that of the greatest. Pamphlets have been for many years, in this nation, the canals of controversy, politicks, and sacred history, and, therefore, will, doubtless, furnish occasion to a very great number of curious remarks. And I take this opportunity of proposing to those who are particularly delighted with this kind of study, that, if they will encourage me, by a reasonable subscription, to employ men qualified to make the observations, for which this part of the catalogue will furnish occasion, I will procure the whole fifth and sixth volumes[1] to be executed in the same manner with the most laboured part of this, and interspersed with notes of the same kind. If any excuse were necessary for the addition of these volumes, I have already urged in my defence the strongest plea, no less than absolute necessity, it being impossible to comprise in four volumes, however large, or however closely printed, the titles which yet remain to be mentioned. But, I suppose, none will blame the multiplication of volumes, to whatever number they may be continued, which every one may use without buying them, and which are, therefore, published at no expense but my own. There is one accusation still remaining, by which I am more sensibly affected, and which I am, therefore, desirous to obviate, before it has too long prevailed. I hear that I am accused of rating my books at too high a price, at a price which no other person would demand. To answer this accusation, it is necessary to inquire what those who urge it, mean by a high price. The price of things, valuable for their rarity, is entirely arbitrary, and depends upon the variable taste of mankind, and the casual fluctuation of the fashion, and can never be ascertained, like that of things only estimable according to their use. If, therefore, I have set a high value upon books: if I have vainly imagined literature to be more fashionable than it really is, or idly hoped to revive a taste well nigh extinguished, I know not why I should be persecuted with clamour and invective, since I only shall suffer by my mistake, and be obliged to keep those books, which I was in hopes of selling. If those who charge me with asking a _high price_, will explain their meaning, it may be possible to give them an answer less general. If they measure the price at which the books are now offered, by that at which they were bought by the late possessor, they will find it diminished at least three parts in four; if they would compare it with the demands of other booksellers, they must first find the same books in their hands, and they will be, perhaps, at last reduced to confess, that they mean, by a high price, only a price higher than they are inclined to give. I have, at least, a right to hope, that no gentleman will receive an account of the price from the booksellers, of whom it may easily be imagined that they will be willing, since they cannot depreciate the books, to exaggerate the price: and I will boldly promise those who have been influenced by malevolent reports, that, if they will be pleased, at the day of sale, to examine the prices with their own eyes, they will find them lower than they have been represented. FOOTNOTES: [1] This scheme was never executed; the fifth volume, the only one subsequently published, was a mere shop catalogue. A VIEW OF THE CONTROVERSY BETWEEN MONS. CROUSAZ AND MR. WARBURTON, ON THE SUBJECT OF MR. POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN, In a Letter to the Editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. xiii. 1743. Mr. Urban, It would not be found useless in the learned world, if in written controversies as in oral disputations, a moderator could be selected, who might, in some degree, superintend the debate, restrain all needless excursions, repress all personal reflections, and, at last, recapitulate the arguments on each side; and who, though he should not assume the province of deciding the question, might at least exhibit it in its true state. This reflection arose in my mind upon the consideration of Mr. Crousaz's commentary on the Essay on Man, and Mr. Warburton's answer to it. The importance of the subject, the reputation and abilities of the controvertists, and, perhaps, the ardour with which each has endeavoured to support his cause, have made an attempt of this kind necessary for the information of the greatest number of Mr. Pope's readers. Among the duties of a moderator, I have mentioned that of recalling the disputants to the subject, and cutting off the excrescences of a debate, which Mr. Crousaz will not suffer to be long unemployed, and the repression of personal invectives which have not been very carefully avoided on either part, and are less excusable, because it has not been proved, that, either the poet, or his commentator, wrote with any other design than that of promoting happiness by cultivating reason and piety. Mr. Warburton has, indeed, so much depressed the character of his adversary, that before I consider the controversy between them, I think it necessary to exhibit some specimens of Mr. Crousaz's sentiments, by which it will probably be shown, that he is far from deserving either indignation or contempt; that his notions are just, though they are sometimes introduced without necessity; and defended when they are not opposed; and that his abilities and piety are such as may entitle him to reverence from those who think his criticisms superfluous. In page 35 of the English translation, he exhibits an observation which every writer ought to impress upon his mind, and which may afford a sufficient apology for his commentary. On the notion of a ruling passion he offers this remark: "Nothing so much hinders men from obtaining a complete victory over their ruling passion, as that all the advantages gained in their days of retreat, by just and sober reflections, whether struck out by their own minds, or borrowed from good books, or from the conversation of men of merit, are destroyed in a few moments by a free intercourse and acquaintance with libertines; and, thus, the work is always to be begun anew. A gamester resolves to leave off play, by which he finds his health impaired, his family ruined, and his passions inflamed; in this resolution he persists a few days, but soon yields to an invitation, which will give his prevailing inclination an opportunity of reviving in all its force. The case is the same with other men; but is reason to be charged with these calamities and follies, or rather the man who refuses to listen to its voice in opposition to impertinent solicitations?" On the means, recommended for the attainment of happiness, he observes, "that the abilities which our Maker has given us, and the internal and external advantages with which he has invested us, are of two very different kinds; those of one kind are bestowed in common upon us and the brute creation, but the other exalt us far above other animals. To disregard any of these gifts would be ingratitude; but to neglect those of greater excellence, to go no farther than the gross satisfactions of sense, and the functions of mere animal life, would be a far greater crime. We are formed by our Creator capable of acquiring knowledge, and regulating our conduct by reasonable rules; it is, therefore, our duty to cultivate our understandings, and exalt our virtues. We need but make the experiment to find, that the greatest pleasures will arise from such endeavours. "It is trifling to allege, in opposition to this truth, that knowledge cannot be acquired, nor virtue pursued, without toil and efforts, and that all efforts produce fatigue. God requires nothing disproportioned to the powers he has given, and in the exercise of those powers consists the highest satisfaction. "Toil and weariness are the effects of vanity: when a man has formed a design of excelling others in merit, he is disquieted by their advances, and leaves nothing unattempted, that he may step before them: this occasions a thousand unreasonable emotions, which justly bring their punishment along with them. "But let a man study and labour to cultivate and improve his abilities in the eye of his Maker, and with the prospect of his approbation; let him attentively reflect on the infinite value of that approbation, and the highest encomiums that men can bestow will vanish into nothing at the comparison. When we live in this manner, we find that we live for a great and glorious end. "When this is our frame of mind, we find it no longer difficult to restrain ourselves in the gratifications of eating and drinking, the most gross enjoyments of sense. We take what is necessary to preserve health and vigour, but are not to give ourselves up to pleasures that weaken the attention, and dull the understanding." And the true sense of Mr. Pope's assertion, that "Whatever is, is right," and, I believe, the sense in which it was written, is thus explained:--"A sacred and adorable order is established in the government of mankind. These are certain and unvaried truths: he that seeks God, and makes it his happiness to live in obedience to him, shall obtain what he endeavours after, in a degree far above his present comprehension. He that turns his back upon his Creator, neglects to obey him, and perseveres in his disobedience, shall obtain no other happiness than he can receive from enjoyments of his own procuring; void of satisfaction, weary of life, wasted by empty cares and remorses, equally harassing and just, he will experience the certain consequences of his own choice. Thus will justice and goodness resume their empire, and that order be restored which men have broken." I am afraid of wearying you or your readers with more quotations, but if you shall inform me that a continuation of my correspondence will be well received, I shall descend to particular passages, show how Mr. Pope gave sometimes occasion to mistakes, and how Mr. Crousaz was misled by his suspicion of the system of fatality[1]. I am, Sir, yours, &c. FOOTNOTE: [1] It does not appear that Dr. Johnson found leisure or encouragement to continue this subject any farther. PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE TO THE LONDON CHRONICLE, JANUARY 1, 1757. It has always been lamented, that of the little time allotted to man, much must be spent upon superfluities. Every prospect has its obstructions, which we must break to enlarge our view; every step of our progress finds impediments, which, however eager to go forward, we must stop to remove. Even those who profess to teach the way to happiness, have multiplied our encumbrances, and the author of almost every book retards his instructions by a preface. The writers of the Chronicle hope to be easily forgiven, though they should not be free from an infection that has seized the whole fraternity, and instead of falling immediately to their subjects, should detain the reader for a time with an account of the importance of their design, the extent of their plan, and the accuracy of the method which they intend to prosecute. Such premonitions, though not always necessary when the reader has the book complete in his hand, and may find, by his own eyes, whatever can be found in it, yet may be more easily allowed to works published gradually in successive parts, of which the scheme can only be so far known as the author shall think fit to discover it. The paper which we now invite the publick to add to the papers with which it is already rather wearied than satisfied, consists of many parts, some of which it has in common with other periodical sheets, and some peculiar to itself. The first demand, made by the reader of a journal, is, that he should find an accurate account of foreign transactions and domestick incidents. This is always expected, but this is very rarely performed. Of those writers who have taken upon themselves the task of intelligence, some have given and others have sold their abilities, whether small or great, to one or other of the parties that divide us; and without a wish for truth or thought of decency, without care of any other reputation than that of a stubborn adherence to their abettors, carry on the same tenour of representation through all the vicissitudes of right and wrong, neither depressed by detection, nor abashed by confutation, proud of the hourly increase of infamy, and ready to boast of all the contumelies that falsehood and slander may bring upon them, as new proofs of their zeal and fidelity. With these heroes we have no ambition to be numbered; we leave to the confessors of faction the merit of their sufferings, and are desirous to shelter ourselves under the protection of truth. That all our facts will be authentick, or all our remarks just, we dare not venture to promise: we can relate but what we hear, we can point out but what we see. Of remote transactions, the first accounts are always confused, and commonly exaggerated: and in domestick affairs, if the power to conceal is less, the interest to misrepresent is often greater; and, what is sufficiently vexatious, truth seems to fly from curiosity, and as many inquiries produce many narratives, whatever engages the publick attention is immediately disguised by the embellishments of fiction. We pretend to no peculiar power of disentangling contradiction or denuding forgery, we have no settled correspondence with the antipodes, nor maintain any spies in the cabinets of princes. But as we shall always be conscious that our mistakes are involuntary, we shall watch the gradual discoveries of time, and retract whatever we have hastily and erroneously advanced. In the narratives of the daily writers every reader perceives somewhat of neatness and purity wanting, which, at the first view, it seems easy to supply; but it must be considered, that those passages must be written in haste, and, that there is often no other choice, but that they must want either novelty or accuracy; and that, as life is very uniform, the affairs of one week are so like those of another, that by any attempt after variety of expression, invention would soon be wearied, and language exhausted. Some improvements, however, we hope to make; and for the rest we think that, when we commit only common faults, we shall not be excluded from common indulgence. The accounts of prices of corn and stocks are to most of our readers of more importance than narratives of greater sound; and, as exactness is here within the reach of diligence, our readers may justly require it from us. Memorials of a private and personal kind, which relate deaths, marriages, and preferments, must always be imperfect by omission, and often erroneous by misinformation; but even in these there shall not be wanting care to avoid mistakes, or to rectify them, whenever they shall be found. That part of our work, by which it is distinguished from all others, is the literary journal, or account of the labours and productions of the learned. This was for a long time among the deficiencies of English literature; but, as the caprice of man is always starting from too little to too much, we have now, amongst other disturbers of human quiet, a numerous body of reviewers and remarkers. Every art is improved by the emulation of competitors; those who make no advances towards excellence, may stand as warnings against faults. We shall endeavour to avoid that petulance which treats with contempt whatever has hitherto been reputed sacred. We shall repress that elation of malignity, which wantons in the cruelties of criticism, and not only murders reputation, but murders it by torture. Whenever we feel ourselves ignorant we shall at least be modest. Our intention is not to preoccupy judgment by praise or censure, but to gratify curiosity by early intelligence, and to tell rather what our authors have attempted, than what they have performed. The titles of books are necessarily short, and, therefore, disclose but imperfectly the contents; they are sometimes fraudulent and intended to raise false expectations. In our account this brevity will be extended, and these frauds, whenever they are detected, will be exposed; for though we write without intention to injure, we shall not suffer ourselves to be made parties to deceit. If any author shall transmit a summary of his work, we shall willingly receive it; if any literary anecdote, or curious observation, shall be communicated to us, we will carefully insert it. Many facts are known and forgotten, many observations are made and suppressed; and entertainment and instruction are frequently lost, for want of a repository in which they may be conveniently preserved. No man can modestly promise what he cannot ascertain: we hope for the praise of knowledge and discernment, but we claim only that of diligence and candour[1]. FOOTNOTE: [1] Dr. Johnson received the humble reward of a guinea from Mr. Dodsley for this composition. INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD DISPLAYED[1]. Navigation, like other arts, has been perfected by degrees. It is not easy to conceive that any age or nation was without some vessel, in which rivers might be passed by travellers, or lakes frequented by fishermen; but we have no knowledge of any ship that could endure the violence of the ocean before the ark of Noah. As the tradition of the deluge has been transmitted to almost all the nations of the earth, it must be supposed that the memory of the means, by which Noah and his family were preserved, would be continued long among their descendants, and that the possibility of passing the seas could never be doubted. What men know to be practicable, a thousand motives will incite them to try; and there is reason to believe, that from the time that the generations of the postdiluvian race spread to the seashores, there were always navigators that ventured upon the sea, though, perhaps, not willingly beyond the sight of land. Of the ancient voyages little certain is known, and it is not necessary to lay before the reader such conjectures as learned men have offered to the world. The Romans, by conquering Carthage, put a stop to great part of the trade of distant nations with one another, and because they thought only on war and conquest, as their empire increased, commerce was discouraged; till under the latter emperours, ships seem to have been of little other use than to transport soldiers. Navigation could not be carried to any great degree of certainty without the compass, which was unknown to the ancients. The wonderful quality by which a needle or small bar of steel, touched with a loadstone or magnet, and turning freely by equilibration on a point, always preserves the meridian, and directs its two ends north and south, was discovered, according to the common opinion, in 1299, by John Gola of Amalfi, a town in Italy. From this time it is reasonable to suppose that navigation made continual, though slow, improvements, which the confusion and barbarity of the times, and the want of communication between orders of men so distant as sailors and monks, hindered from being distinctly and successively recorded. It seems, however, that the sailors still wanted either knowledge or courage, for they continued for two centuries to creep along the coast, and considered every head-land as impassable, which ran far into the sea, and against which the waves broke with uncommon agitation. The first who is known to have formed the design of new discoveries, or the first who had power to execute his purposes, was Don Henry the fifth[2], son of John, the first king of Portugal, and Philippina, sister of Henry the fourth of England. Don Henry, having attended his father to the conquest of Ceuta, obtained, by conversation with the inhabitants of the continent, some accounts of the interiour kingdoms and southern coast of Africa; which, though rude and indistinct, were sufficient to raise his curiosity, and convince him, that there were countries yet unknown and worthy of discovery. He, therefore, equipped some small vessels, and commanded that they should pass, as far as they could, along that coast of Africa which looked upon the great Atlantick ocean, the immensity of which struck the gross and unskilful navigators of those times with terrour and amazement. He was not able to communicate his own ardour to his seamen, who proceeded very slowly in the new attempt; each was afraid to venture much farther than he that went before him, and ten years were spent before they had advanced beyond cape Bajador, so called from its progression into the ocean, and the circuit by which it must be doubled. The opposition of this promontory to the course of the sea, produced a violent current and high waves, into which they durst not venture, and which they had not yet knowledge enough to avoid, by standing off from the land into the open sea. The prince was desirous to know something of the countries that lay beyond this formidable cape, and sent two commanders, named John Gonzales Zarco, and Tristan Vas, in 1418, to pass beyond Bajador, and survey the coast behind it. They were caught by a tempest, which drove them out into the unknown ocean, where they expected to perish by the violence of the wind, or, perhaps, to wander for ever in the boundless deep. At last, in the midst of their despair, they found a small island, where they sheltered themselves, and which the sense of their deliverance disposed them to call Puerto Santo, or the Holy Haven. When they returned with an account of this new island, Henry performed a publick act of thanksgiving, and sent them again with seeds and cattle; and we are told by the Spanish historian, that they set two rabbits on shore, which increased so much in a few years, that they drove away the inhabitants, by destroying their corn and plants, and were suffered to enjoy the island without opposition. In the second or third voyage to Puerto Santo, (for authors do not agree which,) a third captain, called Perello, was joined to the two former. As they looked round the island upon the ocean, they saw at a distance something which they took for a cloud, till they perceived that it did not change its place. They directed their course towards it, and, in 1419, discovered another island covered with trees, which they, therefore, called Madera, or the Isle of Wood. Madera was given to Vaz or Zarco, who set fire to the woods, which are reported by Souza to have burnt for seven years together, and to have been wasted, till want of wood was the greatest inconveniency of the place. But green wood is not very apt to burn, and the heavy rains which fall in these countries must, surely, have extinguished the conflagration, were it ever so violent. There was yet little progress made upon the southern coast, and Henry's project was treated as chimerical by many of his countrymen. At last Gilianes, in 1433, passed the dreadful cape, to which he gave the name of Bajador, and came back, to the wonder of the nation. In two voyages more, made in the two following years, they passed forty-two leagues farther, and in the latter, two men with horses being set on shore, wandered over the country, and found nineteen men, whom, according to the savage mariners of that age, they attacked; the natives, having javelins, wounded one of the Portuguese, and received some wounds from them. At the mouth of a river they found sea-wolves in great numbers, and brought home many of their skins, which were much esteemed. Antonio Gonzales, who had been one of the associates of Gilianes, was sent again, in 1440, to bring back a cargo of the skins of sea-wolves. He was followed in another ship by Nunno Tristam. They were now of strength sufficient to venture upon violence; they, therefore, landed, and, without either right or provocation, made all whom they seized their prisoners, and brought them to Portugal, with great commendations both from the prince and the nation. Henry now began to please himself with the success of his projects, and, as one of his purposes was the conversion of infidels, he thought it necessary to impart his undertaking to the pope, and to obtain the sanction of ecclesiastical authority. To this end Fernando Lopez d'Azevedo was despatched to Rome, who related to the pope and cardinals the great designs of Henry, and magnified his zeal for the propagation of religion. The pope was pleased with the narrative, and by a formal bull, conferred upon the crown of Portugal all the countries which should be discovered as far as India, together with India itself, and granted several privileges and indulgences to the churches which Henry had built in his new regions, and to the men engaged in the navigation for discovery. By this bull all other princes were forbidden to encroach upon the conquests of the Portuguese, on pain of the censures incurred by the crime of usurpation. The approbation of the pope, the sight of men, whose manners and appearance were so different from those of Europeans, and the hope of gain from golden regions, which has been always the great incentive to hazard and discovery, now began to operate with full force. The desire of riches and of dominion, which is yet more pleasing to the fancy, filled the court of the Portuguese prince with innumerable adventurers from very distant parts of Europe. Some wanted to be employed in the search after new countries, and some to be settled in those which had been already found. Communities now began to be animated by the spirit of enterprise, and many associations were formed for the equipment of ships, and the acquisition of the riches of distant regions, which, perhaps, were always supposed to be more wealthy, as more remote. These undertakers agreed to pay the prince a fifth part of the profit, sometimes a greater share, and sent out the armament at their own expense. The city of Lagos was the first that carried on this design by contribution. The inhabitants fitted out six vessels, under the command of Lucarot, one of the prince's household, and soon after fourteen more were furnished for the same purpose, under the same commander; to those were added many belonging to private men, so that, in a short time, twenty-six ships put to sea in quest of whatever fortune should present. The ships of Lagos were soon separated by foul weather, and the rest, taking each its own course, stopped at different parts of the African coast, from cape Blanco to cape Verd. Some of them, in 1444, anchored at Gomera, one of the Canaries, where they were kindly treated by the inhabitants, who took them into their service against the people of the isle of Palma, with whom they were at war; but the Portuguese, at their return to Gomera, not being made so rich as they expected, fell upon their friends, in contempt of all the laws of hospitality and stipulations of alliance, and, making several of them prisoners and slaves, set sail for Lisbon. The Canaries are supposed to have been known, however imperfectly, to the ancients; but, in the confusion of the subsequent ages, they were lost and forgotten, till, about the year 1340, the Biscayners found Lucarot, and invading it, (for to find a new country, and invade it has always been the same,) brought away seventy captives, and some commodities of the place. Louis de la Cerda, count of Clermont, of the blood royal both of France and Spain, nephew of John de la Cerda, who called himself the Prince of Fortune, had once a mind to settle in those islands, and applying himself first to the king of Arragon, and then to Clement the sixth, was by the pope crowned at Avignon, king of the Canaries, on condition that he should reduce them to the true religion; but the prince altered his mind, and went into France to serve against the English. The kings both of Castile and Portugal, though they did not oppose the papal grant, yet complained of it, as made without their knowledge, and in contravention of their rights. The first settlement in the Canaries was made by John de Betancour, a French gentleman, for whom his kinsman Robin de Braquement, admiral of France, begged them, with the title of king, from Henry the magnificent of Castile, to whom he had done eminent services. John made himself master of some of the isles, but could never conquer the grand Canary; and having spent all that he had, went back to Europe, leaving his nephew, Massiot de Betancour, to take care of his new dominion. Massiot had a quarrel with the vicar-general, and was, likewise, disgusted by the long absence of his uncle, whom the French king detained in his service, and being able to keep his ground no longer, he transferred his rights to Don Henry, in exchange for some districts in the Madera, where he settled his family. Don Henry, when he had purchased those islands, sent thither, in 1424, two thousand five hundred foot, and a hundred and twenty horse; but the army was too numerous to be maintained by the country. The king of Castile afterwards claimed them, as conquered by his subjects under Betancour, and held under the crown of Castile by fealty and homage: his claim was allowed, and the Canaries were resigned. It was the constant practice of Henry's navigators, when they stopped at a desert island, to land cattle upon it, and leave them to breed, where, neither wanting room nor food, they multiplied very fast, and furnished a very commodious supply to those who came afterwards to the same place. This was imitated, in some degree, by Anson, at the isle of Juan Fernandez. The island of Madera he not only filled with inhabitants, assisted by artificers of every kind, but procured such plants as seemed likely to flourish in that climate, and introduced the sugar-canes and vines which afterwards produced a very large revenue. The trade of Africa now began to be profitable, but a great part of the gain arose from the sale of slaves, who were annually brought into Portugal, by hundreds, as Lafitau relates, and without any appearance of indignation or compassion; they, likewise, imported gold dust in such quantities, that Alphonso the fifth coined it into a new species of money called Crusades, which is still continued in Portugal. In time they made their way along the south coast of Africa, eastward to the country of the negroes, whom they found living in tents, without any political institutions, supporting life, with very little labour, by the milk of their kine, and millet, to which those who inhabited the coast added fish dried in the sun. Having never seen the natives, or heard of the arts of Europe, they gazed with astonishment on the ships, when they approached their coasts, sometimes thinking them birds, and sometimes fishes, according as their sails were spread or lowered; and sometimes conceiving them to be only phantoms, which played to and fro in the ocean. Such is the account given by the historian, perhaps, with too much prejudice against a negro's understanding, who, though he might well wonder at the bulk and swiftness of the first ship, would scarcely conceive it to be either a bird or a fish, but having seen many bodies floating in the water, would think it, what it really is, a large boat; and, if he had no knowledge of any means by which separate pieces of timber may be joined together, would form very wild notions concerning its construction, or, perhaps, suppose it to be a hollow trunk of a tree, from some country where trees grow to a much greater height and thickness than in his own. When the Portuguese came to land, they increased the astonishment of the poor inhabitants, who saw men clad in iron, with thunder and lightning in their hands. They did not understand each other, and signs are a very imperfect mode of communication, even to men of more knowledge than the negroes, so that they could not easily negotiate or traffick: at last the Portuguese laid hands on some of them, to carry them home for a sample; and their dread and amazement was raised, says Lafitau, to the highest pitch, when the Europeans fired their cannons and muskets among them, and they saw their companions fall dead at their feet, without any enemy at hand, or any visible cause of their destruction. On what occasion, or for what purpose, cannons and muskets were discharged among a people harmless and secure, by strangers who, without any right, visited their coast, it is not thought necessary to inform us. The Portuguese could fear nothing from them, and had, therefore, no adequate provocation; nor is there any reason to believe but that they murdered the negroes in wanton merriment, perhaps, only to try how many a volley would destroy, or what would be the consternation of those that should escape. We are openly told, that they had the less scruple concerning their treatment of the savage people, because they scarcely considered them as distinct from beasts; and, indeed, the practice of all the European nations, and among others, of the English barbarians that cultivate the southern islands of America, proves, that this opinion, however absurd and foolish, however wicked and injurious, still continues to prevail. Interest and pride harden the heart, and it is in vain to dispute against avarice and power. By these practices the first discoverers alienated the natives from them; and whenever a ship appeared, every one that could fly betook himself to the mountains and the woods, so that nothing was to be got more than they could steal: they sometimes surprised a few fishers, and made them slaves, and did what they could to offend the negroes, and enrich themselves. This practice of robbery continued till some of the negroes, who had been enslaved, learned the language of Portugal, so as to be able to interpret for their countrymen, and one John Fernandez applied himself to the negro tongue. From this time began something like a regular traffick, such as can subsist between nations where all the power is on one side; and a factory was settled in the isle of Arguin, under the protection of a fort. The profit of this new trade was assigned, for a certain term, to Ferdinando Gomez; which seems to be the common method of establishing a trade, that is yet too small to engage the care of a nation, and can only be enlarged by that attention which is bestowed by private men upon private advantage. Gomez continued the discoveries to cape Catharine, two degrees and a half beyond the line. In the latter part of the reign of Alphonso the fifth, the ardour of discovery was somewhat intermitted, and all commercial enterprises were interrupted by the wars in which he was engaged with various success. But John the second, who succeeded, being fully convinced both of the honour and advantage of extending his dominions in countries hitherto unknown, prosecuted the designs of prince Henry with the utmost vigour, and in a short time added to his other titles, that of king of Guinea and of the coast of Africa. In 1463, in the third year of the reign of John the second, died prince Henry, the first encourager of remote navigation, by whose incitement, patronage and example, distant nations have been made acquainted with each other, unknown countries have been brought into general view, and the power of Europe has been extended to the remotest parts of the world. What mankind has lost and gained by the genius and designs of this prince, it would be long to compare, and very difficult to estimate. Much knowledge has been acquired, and much cruelty been committed; the belief of religion has been very little propagated, and its laws have been outrageously and enormously violated. The Europeans have scarcely visited any coast, but to gratify avarice, and extend corruption; to arrogate dominion without right, and practise cruelty without incentive. Happy had it, then, been for the oppressed, if the designs of Henry had slept in his bosom, and surely more happy for the oppressors. But there is reason to hope that out of so much evil, good may sometimes be produced; and that the light of the gospel will at last illuminate the sands of Africa, and the deserts of America, though its progress cannot but be slow, when it is so much obstructed by the lives of Christians. The death of Henry did not interrupt the progress of king John, who was very strict in his injunctions, not only to make discoveries, but to secure possession of the countries that were found. The practice of the first navigators was only to raise a cross upon the coast, and to carve upon trees the device of Don Henry, the name which they thought it proper to give to the new coast, and any other information, for those that might happen to follow them; but now they began to erect piles of stone with a cross on the top, and engraved on the stone the arms of Portugal, the name of the king, and of the commander of the ship, with the day and year of the discovery. This was accounted sufficient to prove their claim to the new lands; which might be pleaded, with justice enough, against any other Europeans, and the rights of the original inhabitants were never taken into notice. Of these stone records, nine more were erected in the reign of king John, along the coast of Africa, as far as the cape of Good Hope. The fortress in the isle of Arguin was finished, and it was found necessary to build another at S. Georgio de la Mina, a few degrees north of the line, to secure the trade of gold dust, which was chiefly carried on at that place. For this purpose a fleet was fitted out, of ten large and three smaller vessels, freighted with materials for building the fort, and with provisions and ammunition for six hundred men, of whom one hundred were workmen and labourers. Father Lafitau relates, in very particular terms, that these ships carried hewn stones, bricks, and timber, for the fort, so that nothing remained but barely to erect it. He does not seem to consider how small a fort could be made out of the lading often ships. The command of this fleet was given to Don Diego d'Azambue, who set sail December 11, 1481, and reaching La Mina January 19, 1482, gave immediate notice of his arrival to Caramansa, a petty prince of that part of the country, whom he very earnestly invited to an immediate conference. Having received a message of civility from the negro chief, he landed, and chose a rising ground, proper for his intended fortress, on which he planted a banner with the arms of Portugal, and took possession in the name of his master. He then raised an altar at the foot of a great tree, on which mass was celebrated, the whole assembly, says Lafitau, breaking out into tears of devotion at the prospect of inviting these barbarous nations to the profession of the true faith. Being secure of the goodness of the end, they had no scruple about the means, nor ever considered how differently from the primitive martyrs and apostles they were attempting to make proselytes. The first propagators of Christianity recommended their doctrines by their sufferings and virtues; they entered no defenceless territories with swords in their hands; they built no forts upon ground to which they had no right, nor polluted the purity of religion with the avarice of trade, or insolence of power. What may still raise higher the indignation of a Christian mind, this purpose of propagating truth appears never to have been seriously pursued by any European nation; no means, whether lawful or unlawful, have been practised with diligence and perseverance for the conversion of savages. When a fort is built, and a factory established, there remains no other care than to grow rich. It is soon found that ignorance is most easily kept in subjection, and that by enlightening the mind with truth, fraud and usurpation would be made less practicable and less secure. In a few days an interview was appointed between Caramansa and Azambue. The Portuguese uttered, by his interpreter, a pompous speech, in which he made the negro prince large offers of his master's friendship, exhorting him to embrace the religion of his new ally; and told him, that, as they came to form a league of friendship with him, it was necessary that they should build a fort, which might serve as a retreat from their common enemies, and in which the Portuguese might be always at hand to lend him assistance. The negro, who seemed very well to understand what the admiral intended, after a short pause, returned an answer full of respect to the king of Portugal, but appeared a little doubtful what to determine with relation to the fort. The commander saw his diffidence, and used all his art of persuasion to overcome it. Caramansa, either induced by hope, or constrained by fear, either desirous to make them friends, or not daring to make them enemies, consented, with a show of joy, to that which it was not in his power to refuse; and the new comers began the next day to break the ground for the foundation of a fort. Within the limit of their intended fortification were some spots appropriated to superstitious practices; which the negroes no sooner perceived in danger of violation by the spade and pickaxe, than they ran to arms, and began to interrupt the work. The Portuguese persisted in their purpose, and there had soon been tumult and bloodshed, had not the admiral, who was at a distance to superintend the unlading the materials for the edifice, been informed of the danger. He was told, at the same time, that the support of their superstition was only a pretence, and that all their rage might be appeased by the presents which the prince expected, the delay of which had greatly offended him. The Portuguese admiral immediately ran to his men, prohibited all violence, and stopped the commotion; he then brought out the presents, and spread them with great pomp before the prince; if they were of no great value, they were rare, for the negroes had never seen such wonders before; they were, therefore, received with ecstacy, and, perhaps, the Portuguese derided them for their fondness of trifles, without considering how many things derive their value only from their scarcity, and that gold and rubies would be trifles, if nature had scattered them with less frugality. The work was now peaceably continued, and such was the diligence with which the strangers hastened to secure the possession of the country, that in twenty days they had sufficiently fortified themselves against the hostility of the negroes. They then proceeded to complete their design. A church was built in the place where the first altar had been raised, on which a mass was established to be celebrated for ever once a day, for the repose of the soul of Henry, the first mover of these discoveries. In this fort the admiral remained with sixty soldiers, and sent back the rest in the ships, with gold, slaves, and other commodities. It may be observed that slaves were never forgotten, and that, wherever they went, they gratified their pride, if not their avarice, and brought some of the natives, when it happened that they brought nothing else. The Portuguese endeavoured to extend their dominions still farther. They had gained some knowledge of the Jaloffs, a nation inhabiting the coast of Guinea, between the Gambia and Senegal. The king of the Jaloffs being vicious and luxurious, committed the care of the government to Bemoin, his brother by the mother's side, in preference to two other brothers by his father. Bemoin, who wanted neither bravery nor prudence, knew that his station was invidious and dangerous, and, therefore, made an alliance with the Portuguese, and retained them in his defence by liberality and kindness. At last the king was killed by the contrivance of his brothers, and Bemoin was to lose his power, or maintain it by war. He had recourse, in this exigence, to his great ally the king of Portugal, who promised to support him, on condition that he should become a Christian, and sent an ambassador, accompanied with missionaries. Bemoin promised all that was required, objecting only, that the time of a civil war was not a proper season for a change of religion, which would alienate his adherents; but said, that when he was once peaceably established, he would not only embrace the true religion himself, but would endeavour the conversion of the kingdom. This excuse was admitted, and Bemoin delayed his conversion for a year, renewing his promise from time to time. But the war was unsuccessful, trade was at a stand, and Bemoin was not able to pay the money which he had borrowed of the Portuguese merchants, who sent intelligence to Lisbon of his delays, and received an order from the king, commanding them, under severe penalties, to return home. Bemoin here saw his ruin approaching, and, hoping that money would pacify all resentment, borrowed of his friends a sum sufficient to discharge his debts; and finding that even this enticement would not delay the departure of the Portuguese, he embarked his nephew in their ships with a hundred slaves, whom he presented to the king of Portugal, to solicit his assistance. The effect of this embassy he could not stay to know; for being soon after deposed, he sought shelter in the fortress of Arguin, whence he took shipping for Portugal, with twenty-five of his principal followers. The king of Portugal pleased his own vanity and that of his subjects, by receiving him with great state and magnificence, as a mighty monarch who had fled to an ally for succour in misfortune. All the lords and ladies of the court were assembled, and Bemoin was conducted with a splendid attendance into the hall of audience, where the king rose from his throne to welcome him. Bemoin then made a speech with great ease and dignity, representing his unhappy state, and imploring the favour of his powerful ally. The king was touched with his affliction, and struck by his wisdom. The conversion of Bemoin was much desired by the king; and it was, therefore, immediately, proposed to him that he should become a Christian. Ecclesiasticks were sent to instruct him; and having now no more obstacles from interest, he was easily persuaded to declare himself whatever would please those on whom he now depended. He was baptized on the third day of December, 1489, in the palace of the queen, with great magnificence, and named John, after the king. Some time was spent in feasts and sports on this great occasion, and the negroes signalized themselves by many feats of agility, far surpassing the power of Europeans, who, having more helps of art, are less diligent to cultivate the qualities of nature. In the mean time twenty large ships were fitted out, well manned, stored with ammunition, and laden with materials necessary for the erection of a fort. With this powerful armament were sent a great number of missionaries under the direction of Alvarez the king's confessor. The command of this force, which filled the coast of Africa with terrour, was given to Pedro Vaz d'Acugna, surnamed Bisagu; who, soon after they had landed, not being well pleased with his expedition, put an end to its inconveniencies, by stabbing Bemoin suddenly to the heart. The king heard of this outrage with great sorrow, but did not attempt to punish the murderer. The king's concern for the restoration of Bemoin was not the mere effect of kindness, he hoped by his help to facilitate greater designs. He now began to form hopes of finding a way to the East Indies, and of enriching his country by that gainful commerce: this he was encouraged to believe practicable, by a map which the Moors had given to prince Henry, and which subsequent discoveries have shown to be sufficiently near to exactness, where a passage round the south-east part of Africa was evidently described. The king had another scheme, yet more likely to engage curiosity, and not irreconcilable with his interest. The world had, for some time, been filled with the report of a powerful Christian prince, called Prester John, whose country was unknown, and whom some, after Paulus Venetus, supposed to reign in the midst of Asia, and others in the depth of Ethiopia, between the ocean and Red sea. The account of the African Christians was confirmed by some Abyssinians who had travelled into Spain, and by some friars that had visited the Holy Land; and the king was extremely desirous of their correspondence and alliance. Some obscure intelligence had been obtained, which made it seem probable that a way might be found from the countries lately discovered, to those of this far-famed monarch. In 1486, an ambassador came from the king of Bemin, to desire that preachers might be sent to instruct him and his subjects in the true religion. He related that, in the inland country, three hundred and fifty leagues eastward from Bemin, was a mighty monarch, called Ogane, who had jurisdiction, both spiritual and temporal, over other kings; that the king of Bemin and his neighbours, at their accession, sent ambassadors to him with rich presents, and received from him the investiture of their dominions, and the marks of sovereignty, which were a kind of sceptre, a helmet, and a latten cross, without which they could not be considered as lawful kings; that this great prince was never seen but on the day of audience, and then held out one of his feet to the ambassador, who kissed it with great reverence, and who, at his departure, had a cross of latten hung on his neck, which ennobled him thenceforward, and exempted him from all servile offices. Bemoin had, likewise, told the king, that to the east of the kingdom of Tombut, there was, among other princes, one that was neither Mahometan nor idolater, but who seemed to profess a religion nearly resembling the Christian. These informations, compared with each other, and with the current accounts of Prester John, induced the king to an opinion, which, though formed somewhat at hazard, is still believed to be right, that by passing up the river Senegal his dominions would be found. It was, therefore, ordered that, when the fortress was finished, an attempt should be made to pass upward to the source of the river. The design failed then, and has never yet succeeded. Other ways, likewise, were tried of penetrating to the kingdom of Prester John; for the king resolved to leave neither sea nor land unsearched, till he should be found. The two messengers who were sent first on this design, went to Jerusalem, and then returned, being persuaded that, for want of understanding the language of the country, it would be vain or impossible to travel farther. Two more were then despatched, one of whom was Pedro de Covillan, the other, Alphonso de Pavia; they passed from Naples to Alexandria, and then travelled to Cairo, from whence they went to Aden, a town of Arabia, on the Red sea, near its mouth. From Aden, Pavia set sail for Ethiopia, and Covillan for the Indies. Covillan visited Canavar, Calicut, and Goa in the Indies, and Sosula in the eastern Africa, thence he returned to Aden, and then to Cairo, where he had agreed to meet Pavia. At Cairo he was informed that Pavia was dead, but he met with two Portuguese Jews, one of whom had given the king an account of the situation and trade of Ormus: they brought orders to Covillan, that he should send one of them home with the journal of his travels, and go to Ormus with the other. Covillan obeyed the orders, sending an exact account of his adventures to Lisbon, and proceeding with the other messenger to Ormus; where, having made sufficient inquiry, he sent his companion homewards, with the caravans that were going to Aleppo, and embarking once more on the Red sea, arrived in time at Abyssinia, and found the prince whom he had sought so long, and with such danger. Two ships were sent out upon the same search, of which Bartholomew Diaz had the chief command; they were attended by a smaller vessel laden with provisions, that they might not return, upon pretence of want either felt or feared. Navigation was now brought nearer to perfection. The Portuguese claim the honour of many inventions by which the sailor is assisted, and which enable him to leave sight of land, and commit himself to the boundless ocean. Diaz had orders to proceed beyond the river Zaire, where Diego Can had stopped, to build monuments of his discoveries, and to leave upon the coasts negro men and women well instructed, who might inquire after Prester John, and fill the natives with reverence for the Portuguese. Diaz, with much opposition from his crew, whose mutinies he repressed, partly by softness, and partly by steadiness, sailed on till he reached the utmost point of Africa, which from the bad weather that he met there, he called cabo Tormentoso, or the cape of Storms. He would have gone forward, but his crew forced him to return. In his way back he met the victualler, from which he had been parted nine months before; of the nine men, which were in it at the separation, six had been killed by the negroes, and of the three remaining, one died for joy at the sight of his friends. Diaz returned to Lisbon in December, 1487, and gave an account of his voyage to the king, who ordered the cape of Storms to be called thenceforward cabo de Buena Esperanza, or the cape of Good Hope. Some time before the expedition of Diaz, the river Zaire and the kingdom of Congo had been discovered by Diego Can, who found a nation of negroes who spoke a language which those that were in his ships could not understand. He landed, and the natives, whom he expected to fly, like the other inhabitants of the coast, met them with confidence, and treated them with kindness; but Diego, finding that they could not understand each other, seized some of their chiefs, and carried them to Portugal, leaving some of his own people in their room to learn the language of Congo. The negroes were soon pacified, and the Portuguese left to their mercy were well treated; and, as they by degrees grew able to make themselves understood, recommended themselves, their nation, and their religion. The king of Portugal sent Diego back in a very short time with the negroes whom he had forced away; and when they were set safe on shore, the king of Congo conceived so much esteem for Diego, that he sent one of those, who had returned, back again in the ship to Lisbon, with two young men despatched as ambassadors, to desire instructors to be sent for the conversion of his kingdom. The ambassadors were honourably received, and baptized with great pomp, and a fleet was immediately fitted out for Congo, under the command of Gonsalvo Sorza, who dying in his passage, was succeeded in authority by his nephew Roderigo. When they came to land, the king's uncle, who commanded the province, immediately requested to be solemnly initiated into the Christian religion, which was granted to him and his young son, on Easter day, 1491. The father was named Manuel, and the son Antonio. Soon afterwards the king, queen, and eldest prince, received at the font the names of John, Eleanor, and Alphonso; and a war breaking out, the whole army was admitted to the rites of Christianity, and then sent against the enemy. They returned victorious, but soon forgot their faith, and formed a conspiracy to restore paganism; a powerful opposition was raised by infidels and apostates, headed by one of the king's younger sons; and the missionaries had been destroyed, had not Alphonso pleaded for them and for Christianity. The enemies of religion now became the enemies of Alphonso, whom they accused to his father of disloyalty. His mother, queen Eleanor, gained time by one artifice after another, till the king was calmed; he then heard the cause again, declared his son innocent, and punished his accusers with death. The king died soon after, and the throne was disputed by Alphonso, supported by the Christians, and Aquitimo his brother, followed by the infidels. A battle was fought, Aquitimo was taken and put to death, and Christianity was for a time established in Congo; but the nation has relapsed into its former follies. Such was the state of the Portuguese navigation, when, in 1492, Columbus made the daring and prosperous voyage, which gave a new world to European curiosity and European cruelty. He had offered his proposal, and declared his expectations to king John of Portugal, who had slighted him as a fanciful and rash projector, that promised what he had not reasonable hopes to perform. Columbus had solicited other princes, and had been repulsed with the same indignity; at last, Isabella of Arragon furnished him with ships, and having found America, he entered the mouth of the Tagus in his return, and showed the natives of the new country. When he was admitted to the king's presence, he acted and talked with so much haughtiness, and reflected on the neglect which he had undergone with so much acrimony, that the courtiers, who saw their prince insulted, offered to destroy him; but the king, who knew that he deserved the reproaches that had been used, and who now sincerely regretted his incredulity, would suffer no violence to be offered him, but dismissed him with presents and with honours. The Portuguese and Spaniards became now jealous of each other's claim to countries which neither had yet seen; and the pope, to whom they appealed, divided the new world between them by a line drawn from north to south, a hundred leagues westward from cape Verd and the Azores, giving all that lies west from that line to the Spaniards, and all that lies east to the Portuguese. This was no satisfactory division, for the east and west must meet at last, but that time was then at a great distance. According to this grant, the Portuguese continued their discoveries eastward, and became masters of much of the coast both of Africa and the Indies; but they seized much more than they could occupy, and while they were under the dominion of Spain, lost the greater part of their Indian territories. FOOTNOTES: [1] A collection of Voyages and Travels, selected from the writers of all nations, in twenty small pocket volumes, and published by Newbery; to oblige whom, it is conjectured that Johnson drew up this curious and learned paper, which appeared in the first volume, 1759. [2] Read Mickle's very excellent introduction to his translation of Camoens' Lusiad.--Ed. THE PREFACE TO THE PRECEPTOR, CONTAINING A GENERAL PLAN OF EDUCATION[1] The importance of education is a point so generally understood and confessed, that it would be of little use to attempt any new proof or illustration of its necessity and advantages. At a time, when so many schemes of education have been projected, so many proposals offered to the publick, so many schools opened for general knowledge, and so many lectures in particular sciences attended; at a time when mankind seems intent rather upon familiarizing than enlarging the several arts; and every age, sex, and profession, is invited to an acquaintance with those studies, which were formerly supposed accessible only to such as had devoted themselves to literary leisure, and dedicated their powers to philosophical inquiries; it seems rather requisite that an apology should be made for any further attempt to smooth a path so frequently beaten, or to recommend attainments so ardently pursued, and so officiously directed. That this general desire may not be frustrated, our schools seem yet to want some book, which may excite curiosity by its variety, encourage diligence by its facility, and reward application by its usefulness. In examining the treatises, hitherto offered to the youth of this nation, there appeared none that did not fail in one or other of these essential qualities; none that were not either unpleasing, or abstruse, or crowded with learning very rarely applicable to the purposes of common life. Every man, who has been engaged in teaching, knows with how much difficulty youthful minds are confined to close application, and how readily they deviate to any thing, rather than attend to that which is imposed as a task. That this disposition, when it becomes inconsistent with the forms of education, is to be checked, will readily be granted; but since, though it may be in some degree obviated, it cannot wholly be suppressed, it is surely rational to turn it to advantage, by taking care that the mind shall never want objects on which its faculties may be usefully employed. It is not impossible, that this restless desire of novelty, which gives so much trouble to the teacher, may be often the struggle of the understanding starting from that to which it is not by nature adapted, and travelling in search of something on which it may fix with greater satisfaction. For, without supposing each man particularly marked out by his genius for particular performances, it may be easily conceived, that when a numerous class of boys is confined indiscriminately to the same forms of composition, the repetition of the same words, or the explication of the same sentiments, the employment must, either by nature or accident, be less suitable to some than others; that the ideas to be contemplated may be too difficult for the apprehension of one, and too obvious for that of another: they may be such as some understandings cannot reach, though others look down upon them, as below their regard. Every mind, in its progress through the different stages of scholastick learning, must be often in one of these conditions; must either flag with the labour, or grow wanton with the facility of the work assigned; and in either state it naturally turns aside from the track before it. Weariness looks out for relief, and leisure for employment, and, surely, it is rational to indulge the wanderings of both. For the faculties which are too lightly burdened with the business of the day, may, with great propriety, add to it some other inquiry; and he that finds himself overwearied by a task, which, perhaps, with all his efforts, he is not able to perform, is undoubtedly to be justified in addicting himself rather to easier studies, and endeavouring to quit that which is above his attainment, for that which nature has not made him incapable of pursuing with advantage. That, therefore, this roving curiosity may not be unsatisfied, it seems necessary to scatter in its way such allurements as may withhold it from an useless and unbounded dissipation; such as may regulate it without violence, and direct it without restraint; such as may suit every inclination, and fit every capacity; may employ the stronger genius, by operations of reason, and engage the less active or forcible mind, by supplying it with easy knowledge, and obviating that despondence, which quickly prevails, when nothing appeals but a succession of difficulties, and one labour only ceases that another may be imposed. A book, intended thus to correspond with all dispositions, and afford entertainment for minds of different powers, is necessarily to contain treatises on different subjects. As it is designed for schools, though for the higher classes, it is confined wholly to such parts of knowledge as young minds may comprehend; and, as it is drawn up for readers yet unexperienced in life, and unable to distinguish the useful from the ostentatious or unnecessary parts of science, it is requisite that a very nice distinction should be made, that nothing unprofitable should be admitted for the sake of pleasure, nor any arts of attraction neglected, that might fix the attention upon more important studies. These considerations produced the book which is here offered to the publick, as better adapted to the great design of pleasing by instruction, than any which has hitherto been admitted into our seminaries of literature. There are not indeed wanting in the world compendiums of science, but many were written at a time when philosophy was imperfect, as that of G. Valla; many contain only naked schemes, or synoptical tables, as that of Stierius; and others are too large and voluminous, as that of Alstedius; and, what is not to be considered as the least objection, they are generally in a language, which, to boys, is more difficult than the subject; and it is too hard a task to be condemned to learn a new science in an unknown tongue. As in life, so in study, it is dangerous to do more things than one at a time; and the mind is not to be harassed with unnecessary obstructions, in a way, of which the natural and unavoidable asperity is such as too frequently produces despair. If the language, however, had been the only objection to any of the volumes already extant, the schools might have been supplied at a small expense by a translation; but none could be found that was not so defective, redundant, or erroneous, as to be of more danger than use. It was necessary then to examine, whether upon every single science there was not some treatise written for the use of scholars, which might be adapted to this design, so that a collection might be made from different authors, without the necessity of writing new systems. This search was not wholly without success; for two authors were found, whose performances might be admitted with little alteration. But so widely does this plan differ from all others, so much has the state of many kinds of learning been changed, or so unfortunately have they hitherto been cultivated, that none of the other subjects were explained in such a manner as was now required; and, therefore, neither care nor expense has been spared to obtain new lights, and procure to this book the merit of an original. With what judgment the design has been formed, and with what skill it has been executed, the learned world is now to determine. But before sentence shall pass, it is proper to explain more fully what has been intended, that censure may not be incurred by the omission of that which the original plan did not comprehend; to declare more particularly who they are to whose instructions these treatises pretend, that a charge of arrogance and presumption may be obviated; to lay down the reasons which directed the choice of the several subjects; and to explain more minutely the manner in which each particular part of these volumes is to be used. The title has already declared, that these volumes are particularly intended for the use of schools, and, therefore, it has been the care of the authors to explain the several sciences, of which they have treated, in the most familiar manner; for the mind, used only to common expressions, and inaccurate ideas, does not suddenly conform itself to scholastick modes of reasoning, or conceive the nice distinctions of a subtile philosophy, and may be properly initiated in speculative studies by an introduction like this, in which the grossness of vulgar conception is avoided, without the observation of metaphysical exactness. It is observed, that in the course of the natural world no change is instantaneous, but all its vicissitudes are gradual and slow; the motions of intellect proceed in the like imperceptible progression, and proper degrees of transition from one study to another are, therefore, necessary; but let it not be charged upon the writers of this book, that they intended to exhibit more than the dawn of knowledge, or pretended to raise in the mind any nobler product than the blossoms of science, which more powerful institutions may ripen into fruit. For this reason it must not be expected, that in the following pages should be found a complete circle of the sciences; or that any authors, now deservedly esteemed, should be rejected to make way for what is here offered. It was intended by the means of these precepts, not to deck the mind with ornaments, but to protect it from nakedness; not to enrich it with affluence, but to supply it with necessaries. The inquiry, therefore, was not what degrees of knowledge are desirable, but what are in most stations of life indispensably required; and the choice was determined, not by the splendour of any part of literature, but by the extent of its use, and the inconvenience which its neglect was likely to produce. 1. The prevalence of this consideration appears in the first part, which is appropriated to the humble purposes of teaching to read, and speak, and write letters; an attempt of little magnificence, but in which no man needs to blush for having employed his time, if honour be estimated by use. For precepts of this kind, however neglected, extend their importance as far as men are found who communicate their thoughts one to another; they are equally useful to the highest and the lowest; they may often contribute to make ignorance less inelegant; and may it not be observed, that they are frequently wanted for the embellishment even of learning? In order to show the proper use of this part, which consists of various exemplifications of such differences of style as require correspondent diversities of pronunciation, it will be proper to inform the scholar, that there are, in general, three forms of style, each of which demands its particular mode of elocution: the familiar, the solemn, and the pathetick. That in the familiar, he that reads is only to talk with a paper in his hand, and to indulge himself in all the lighter liberties of voice, as when he reads the common articles of a newspaper, or a cursory letter of intelligence or business. That the solemn style, such as that of a serious narrative, exacts an uniform steadiness of speech, equal, clear, and calm. That for the pathetick, such as an animated oration, it is necessary the voice be regulated by the sense, varying and rising with the passions. These rules, which are the most general, admit a great number of subordinate observations, which must be particularly adapted to every scholar; for it is observable, that though very few read well, yet every man errs in a different way. But let one remark never be omitted: inculcate strongly to every scholar the danger of copying the voice of another; an attempt which, though it has been often repeated, is always unsuccessful. The importance of writing letters with propriety, justly claims to be considered with care, since, next to the power of pleasing with his presence, every man would wish to be able to give delight at a distance. This great art should be diligently taught, the rather, because of those letters which are most useful, and by which the general business of life is transacted, there are no examples easily to be found. It seems the general fault of those who undertake this part of education, that they propose for the exercise of their scholars, occasions which rarely happen; such as congratulations and condolences, and neglect those without which life cannot proceed. It is possible to pass many years without the necessity of writing panegyricks or epithalamiums; but every man has frequent occasion to state a contract, or demand a debt, or make a narrative of some minute incidents of common life. On these subjects, therefore, young persons should be taught to think justly, and write clearly, neatly, and succinctly, lest they come from school into the world without any acquaintance with common affairs, and stand idle spectators of mankind, in expectation that some great event will give them an opportunity to exert their rhetorick. 2. The second place is assigned to geometry; on the usefulness of which it is unnecessary to expatiate in an age when mathematical studies have so much engaged the attention of all classes of men. This treatise is one of those which have been borrowed, being a translation from the work of Mr. Le Clerc; and is not intended as more than the first initiation. In delivering the fundamental principles of geometry, it is necessary to proceed by slow steps, that each proposition may be fully understood before another is attempted. For which purpose it is not sufficient, that when a question is asked in the words of the book, the scholar, likewise, can in the words of the book return the proper answer; for this may be only an act of memory, not of understanding: it is always proper to vary the words of the question, to place the proposition in different points of view, and to require of the learner an explanation in his own terms, informing him, however, when they are improper. By this method the scholar will become cautious and attentive, and the master will know with certainty the degree of his proficiency. Yet, though this rule is generally right, I cannot but recommend a precept of Pardie's[2], that when the student cannot be made to comprehend some particular part, it should be, for that time, laid aside, till new light shall arise from subsequent observation. When this compendium is completely understood, the scholar may proceed to the perusal of Tacquet, afterwards of Euclid himself, and then of the modern improvers of geometry, such as Barrow, Keil, and Sir Isaac Newton. 3. The necessity of some acquaintance with geography and astronomy will not be disputed. If the pupil is born to the ease of a large fortune, no part of learning is more necessary to him than the knowledge of the situation of nations, on which their interests generally depend; if he is dedicated to any of the learned professions, it is scarcely possible that he will not be obliged to apply himself, in some part of his life, to these studies, as no other branch of literature can be fully comprehended without them; if he is designed for the arts of commerce or agriculture, some general acquaintance with these sciences will be found extremely useful to him; in a word, no studies afford more extensive, more wonderful, or more pleasing scenes; and, therefore, there can be no ideas impressed upon the soul, which can more conduce to its future entertainment. In the pursuit of these sciences, it will be proper to proceed with the same gradation and caution as in geometry. And it is always of use to decorate the nakedness of science, by interspersing such observations and narratives as may amuse the mind, and excite curiosity. Thus, in explaining the state of the polar regions, it might be fit to read the narrative of the Englishmen that wintered in Greenland, which will make young minds sufficiently curious after the cause of such a length of night, and intenseness of cold; and many stratagems of the same kind might be practised to interest them in all parts of their studies, and call in their passions to animate their inquiries. When they have read this treatise, it will be proper to recommend to them Varenius's Geography, and Ferguson's Astronomy. 4. The study of chronology and history seems to be one of the most natural delights of the human mind. It is not easy to live, without inquiring by what means every thing was brought into the state in which we now behold it, or without finding in the mind some desire of being informed, concerning the generations of mankind that have been in possession of the world before us, whether they were better or worse than ourselves; or what good or evil has been derived to us from their schemes, practices, and institutions. These are inquiries which history alone can satisfy; and history can only be made intelligible by some knowledge of chronology, the science by which events are ranged in their order, and the periods of computation are settled; and which, therefore, assists the memory by method, and enlightens the judgment by showing the dependence of one transaction on another. Accordingly it should be diligently inculcated to the scholar, that, unless he fixes in his mind some idea of the time in which each man of eminence lived, and each action was performed, with some part of the contemporary history of the rest of the world, he will consume his life in useless reading, and darken his mind with a crowd of unconnected events; his memory will be perplexed with distant transactions resembling one another, and his reflections be like a dream in a fever, busy and turbulent, but confused and indistinct. The technical part of chronology, or the art of computing and adjusting time, as it is very difficult, so it is not of absolute necessity, but should, however, be taught, so far as it can be learned without the loss of those hours which are required for attainments of nearer concern. The student may join with this treatise Le Clerc's Compendium of History; and afterwards may, for the historical part of chronology, procure Helvicus's and Isaacson's Tables; and, if he is desirous of attaining the technical part, may first peruse Holder's Account of Time, Hearne's Ductor Historicus, Strauchius, the first part of Petavius's Rationarium Temporum; and, at length, Scaliger de Emendatiene Temporum. And, for instruction in the method of his historical studies, he may consult Hearne's Ductor Historicus, Wheare's Lectures, Rawlinson's Directions for the Study of History; and, for ecclesiastical history, Cave and Dupin, Baronius and Fleury. 5. Rhetorick and poetry supply life with its highest intellectual pleasures; and, in the hands of virtue, are of great use for the impression of just sentiments, and recommendation of illustrious examples. In the practice of these great arts, so much more is the effect of nature than the effect of education, that nothing is attempted here but to teach the mind some general heads of observation, to which the beautiful passages of the best writers may commonly be reduced. In the use of this, it is not proper that the teacher should confine himself to the examples before him; for, by that method, he will never enable his pupils to make just application of the rules; but, having inculcated the true meaning of each figure, he should require them to exemplify it by their own observations, pointing to them the poem, or, in longer works, the book or canto in which an example may be found, and leaving them to discover the particular passage, by the light of the rules which they have lately learned. For a farther progress in these studies, they may consult Quintilian, and Vossius's Rhetorick; the art of poetry will be best learned from Bossu and Bohours in French, together with Dryden's Essays and Prefaces, the critical Papers of Addison, Spence on Pope's Odyssey, and Trapp's Praelectiones Poeticae: but a more accurate and philosophical account is expected from a commentary upon Aristotle's Art of Poetry, with which the literature of this nation will be, in a short time, augmented. 6. With regard to the practice of drawing, it is not necessary to give any directions, the use of the treatise being only to teach the proper method of imitating the figures which are annexed. It will be proper to incite the scholars to industry, by showing in other books the use of the art, and informing them how much it assists the apprehension, and relieves the memory; and if they are obliged sometimes to write descriptions of engines, utensils, or any complex pieces of workmanship, they will more fully apprehend the necessity of an expedient which so happily supplies the defects of language, and enables the eye to conceive what cannot be conveyed to the mind any other way. When they have read this treatise, and practised upon these figures, their theory may be improved by the Jesuit's Perspective, and their manual operations by other figures which may be easily procured. 7. Logick, or the art of arranging and connecting ideas, of forming and examining arguments, is universally allowed to be an attainment, in the utmost degree, worthy the ambition of that being whose highest honour is to be endued with reason; but it is doubted whether that ambition has yet been gratified, and whether the powers of ratiocination have been much improved by any systems of art, or methodical institutions. The logick, which for so many ages kept possession of the schools, has at last been condemned as a mere art of wrangling, of very little use in the pursuit of truth; and later writers have contented themselves with giving an account of the operations of the mind, marking the various stages of her progress, and giving some general rules for the regulation of her conduct. The method of these writers is here followed; but without a servile adherence to any, and with endeavours to make improvements upon all. This work, however laborious, has yet been fruitless, if there be truth in an observation very frequently made, that logicians out of the school do not reason better than men unassisted by those lights which their science is supposed to bestow. It is not to be doubted but that logicians may be sometimes overborne by their passions, or blinded by their prejudices; and that a man may reason ill, as he may act ill, not because he does not know what is right, but because he does not regard it; yet it is no more the fault of his art that it does not direct him, when his attention is withdrawn from it, than it is the defect of his sight that he misses his way, when he shuts his eyes. Against this cause of errour there is no provision to be made, otherwise than by inculcating the value of truth, and the necessity of conquering the passions. But logick may, likewise, fail to produce its effects upon common occasions, for want of being frequently and familiarly applied, till its precepts may direct the mind imperceptibly, as the fingers of a musician are regulated by his knowledge of the tune. This readiness of recollection is only to be procured by frequent impression; and, therefore, it will be proper, when logick has been once learned, the teacher take frequent occasion, in the most easy and familiar conversation, to observe when its rules are preserved, and when they are broken; and that afterwards he read no authors, without exacting of his pupil an account of every remarkable exemplification or breach of the laws of reasoning. When this system has been digested, if it be thought necessary to proceed farther in the study of method, it will be proper to recommend Crousaz, Watts, Le Clerc, Wolfius, and Locke's Essay on Human Understanding; and if there be imagined any necessity of adding the peripatetick logick, which has been, perhaps, condemned without a candid trial, it will be convenient to proceed to Sanderson, Wallis, Crackanthorp, and Aristotle. 8. To excite a curiosity after the works of God, is the chief design of the small specimen of natural history inserted in this collection; which, however, may be sufficient to put the mind in motion, and in some measure to direct its steps; but its effects may easily be improved by a philosophick master, who will every day find a thousand opportunities of turning the attention of his scholars to the contemplation of the objects that surround them, of laying open the wonderful art with which every part of the universe is formed, and the providence which governs the vegetable and animal creation. He may lay before them the Religious Philosopher, Ray, Derham's Physico-Theology, together with the Spectacle de la Nature; and in time recommend to their perusal Rondoletius, Aldrovandus, and Linnæus. 9. But how much soever the reason may be strengthened by logick, or the conceptions of the mind enlarged by the study of nature, it is necessary the man be not suffered to dwell upon them so long as to neglect the study of himself, the knowledge of his own station in the ranks of being, and his various relations to the innumerable multitudes which surround him, and with which his Maker has ordained him to be united for the reception and communication of happiness. To consider these aright is of the greatest importance, since from these arise duties which he cannot neglect. Ethicks, or morality, therefore, is one of the studies which ought to begin with the first glimpse of reason, and only end with life itself. Other acquisitions are merely temporary benefits, except as they contribute to illustrate the knowledge, and confirm the practice of morality and piety, which extend their influence beyond the grave, and increase our happiness through endless duration. This great science, therefore, must be inculcated with care and assiduity, such as its importance ought to incite in reasonable minds; and for the prosecution of this design, fit opportunities are always at hand. As the importance of logick is to be shown by detecting false arguments, the excellence of morality is to be displayed by proving the deformity, the reproach, and the misery of all deviations from it. Yet it is to be remembered, that the laws of mere morality are of no coercive power; and, however they may, by conviction, of their fitness please the reasoner in the shade, when the passions stagnate without impulse, and the appetites are secluded from their objects, they will be of little force against the ardour of desire, or the vehemence of rage, amidst the pleasures and tumults of the world. To counteract the power of temptations, hope must be excited by the prospect of rewards, and fear by the expectation of punishment; and virtue may owe her panegyricks to morality, but must derive her authority from religion. When, therefore, the obligations of morality are taught, let the sanctions of Christianity never be forgotten; by which it will be shown that they give strength and lustre to each other; religion will appear to be the voice of reason, and morality the will of God. Under this article must be recommended Tully's Offices, Grotius, Puffendorf, Cumberland's Laws of Nature, and the excellent Mr. Addison's Moral and Religious Essays. 10. Thus far the work is composed for the use of scholars, merely as they are men. But it was thought necessary to introduce something that might be particularly adapted to that country for which it is designed; and, therefore, a discourse has been added upon trade and commerce, of which it becomes every man of this nation to understand, at least, the general principles, as it is impossible that any should be high or low enough not to be, in some degree, affected by their declension or prosperity. It is, therefore, necessary that it should be universally known among us, what changes of property are advantageous, or when the balance of trade is on our side; what are the products or manufactures of other countries; and how far one nation may in any species of traffick obtain or preserve superiority over another. The theory of trade is yet but little understood, and, therefore, the practice is often without real advantage to the publick; but it might be carried on with more general success, if its principles were better considered; and to excite that attention is our chief design. To the perusal of this part of our work may succeed that of Mun upon Foreign Trade, Sir Josiah Child, Locke upon Coin, Davenant's Treatises, the British Merchant, Dictionnaire de Commerce, and, for an abstract or compendium, Gee, and an improvement that may, hereafter, be made upon his plan. 11. The principles of laws and government come next to be considered; by which men are taught to whom obedience is due, for what it is paid, and in what degree it may be justly required. This knowledge, by peculiar necessity, constitutes a part of the education of an Englishman, who professes to obey his prince, according to the law, and who is himself a secondary legislator, as he gives his consent, by his representative, to all the laws by which he is bound, and has a right to petition the great council of the nation, whenever he thinks they are deliberating upon an act detrimental to the interest of the community. This is, therefore, a subject to which the thoughts of a young man ought to be directed; and, that he may obtain such knowledge as may qualify him to act and judge as one of a free people, let him be directed to add to this introduction Fortescue's Treatises, N. Bacon's Historical Discourse on the Laws and Government of England, Blackstone's Commentaries, Temple's Introduction, Locke on Government, Zouch's Elementa Juris Civilis, Plato Redivivus, Gurdon's History of Parliaments, and Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity. 12. Having thus supplied the young student with knowledge, it remains now that he learn its application; and that thus qualified to act his part, he be at last taught to choose it. For this purpose a section is added upon human life and manners; in which he is cautioned against the danger of indulging his passions, of vitiating his habits, and depraving his sentiments. He is instructed in these points by three fables, two of which were of the highest authority in the ancient pagan world. But at this he is not to rest; for, if he expects to be wise and happy, he must diligently study the Scriptures of God. Such is the book now proposed, as the first initiation into the knowledge of things, which has been thought by many to be too long delayed in the present forms of education. Whether the complaints be not often ill-grounded, may, perhaps, be disputed; but it is at least reasonable to believe, that greater proficiency might sometimes be made; that real knowledge might be more early communicated; and that children might be allowed, without injury to health, to spend many of those hours upon useful employments, which are generally lost in idleness and play; therefore the publick will surely encourage an experiment, by which, if it fails, nobody is hurt; and, if it succeeds, all the future ages of the world may find advantage; which may eradicate or prevent vice, by turning to a better use those moments in which it is learned or indulged; and in some sense lengthen life, by teaching posterity to enjoy those years which have hitherto been lost. The success, and even the trial of this experiment, will depend upon those to whom the care of our youth is committed; and a due sense of the importance of their trust will easily prevail upon them to encourage a work which pursues the design of improving education. If any part of the following performance shall, upon trial, be found capable of amendment; if any thing can be added or altered, so as to render the attainment of knowledge more easy; the editor will be extremely obliged to any gentleman, particularly those who are engaged in the business of teaching, for such hints or observations as may tend towards the improvement, and will spare neither expense nor trouble in making the best use of their information. FOOTNOTES: [1] In this year, 1748, Mr. Dodsley brought out his Preceptor, one of the most valuable books for the improvement of young minds, that has appeared in any language; and to this meritorious work Johnson furnished the preface. Boswell's Life of Johnson, i. [2] "And albeit the reader shall not at any one day (do what he can) reach to the meaning of our author, or of our commentaries, yet let him not discourage himself, but proceed; for, on some other day, in some other place, that doubt will be cleared." This is the advice of Lord Coke to the student bewildered in the mazes of legal investigation. Preface to the first Institute. PREFACE TO ROLT'S DICTIONARY[1]. No expectation is more fallacious than that which authors form of the reception which their labours will find among mankind. Scarcely any man publishes a book, whatever it be, without believing that he has caught the moment when the publick attention is vacant to his call, and the world is disposed, in a particular manner, to learn the art which he undertakes to teach. The writers of this volume are not so far exempt from epidemical prejudices, but that they, likewise, please themselves with imagining that they have reserved their labours to a propitious conjuncture, and that this is the proper time for the publication of a dictionary of commerce. The predictions of an author are very far from infallibility; but, in justification of some degree of confidence, it may be properly observed, that there was never, from the earliest ages, a time in which trade so much engaged the attention of mankind, or commercial gain was sought with such general emulation. Nations which have hitherto cultivated no art but that of war, nor conceived any means of increasing riches but by plunder, are awakened to more inoffensive industry. Those whom the possession of subterraneous treasures have long disposed to accommodate themselves by foreign industry, are at last convinced that idleness never will be rich. The merchant is now invited to every port; manufactures are established in all cities; and princes, who just can view the sea from some single corner of their dominions, are enlarging harbours, erecting mercantile companies, and preparing to traffick in the remotest countries. Nor is the form of this work less popular than the subject. It has lately been the practice of the learned to range knowledge by the alphabet, and publish dictionaries of every kind of literature. This practice has, perhaps, been carried too far by the force of fashion. Sciences, in themselves systematical and coherent, are not very properly broken into such fortuitous distributions. A dictionary of arithmetick or geometry can serve only to confound; but commerce, considered in its whole extent, seems to refuse any other method of arrangement, as it comprises innumerable particulars unconnected with each other, among which there is no reason why any should be first or last, better than is furnished by the letters that compose their names. We cannot, indeed, boast ourselves the inventors of a scheme so commodious and comprehensive. The French, among innumerable projects for the promotion of traffick, have taken care to supply their merchants with a Dictionnaire de Commerce, collected with great industry and exactness, but too large for common use, and adapted to their own trade. This book, as well as others, has been carefully consulted, that our merchants may not be ignorant of any thing known by their enemies or rivals. Such, indeed, is the extent of our undertaking, that it was necessary to solicit every information, to consult the living and the dead. The great qualification of him that attempts a work thus general is diligence of inquiry. No man has opportunity or ability to acquaint himself with all the subjects of a commercial dictionary, so as to describe from his own knowledge, or assert on his own experience. He must, therefore, often depend upon the veracity of others, as every man depends in common life, and have no other skill to boast than that of selecting judiciously, and arranging properly. But to him who considers the extent of our subject, limited only by the bounds of nature and of art, the task of selection and method will appear sufficient to overburden industry and distract attention. Many branches of commerce are subdivided into smaller and smaller parts, till, at last, they become so minute, as not easily to be noted by observation. Many interests are so woven among each other, as not to be disentangled without long inquiry; many arts are industriously kept secret, and many practices, necessary to be known, are carried on in parts too remote for intelligence. But the knowledge of trade is of so much importance to a maritime nation, that no labour can be thought great by which information may be obtained; and, therefore, we hope the reader will not have reason to complain, that, of what he might justly expect to find, any thing is omitted. To give a detail or analysis of our work is very difficult; a volume intended to contain whatever is requisite to be known by every trader, necessarily becomes so miscellaneous and unconnected, as not to be easily reducible to heads; yet, since we pretend in some measure to treat of traffick as a science, and to make that regular and systematical which has hitherto been, to a great degree, fortuitous and conjectural, and has often succeeded by chance rather than by conduct, it will be proper to show that a distribution of parts has been attempted, which, though rude and inadequate, will, at least, preserve some order, and enable the mind to take a methodical and successive view of this design. In the dictionary which we here offer to the publick, we propose to exhibit the materials, the places, and the means of traffick. The materials or subjects of traffick are whatever is bought and sold, and include, therefore, every manufacture of art, and almost every production of nature. In giving an account of the commodities of nature, whether those which are to be used in their original state, as drugs and spices, or those which become useful when they receive a new form from human art, as flax, cotton, and metals, we shall show the places of their production, the manner in which they grow, the art of cultivating or collecting them, their discriminations and varieties, by which the best sorts are known from the worse, and genuine from fictitious, the arts by which they are counterfeited, the casualties by which they are impaired, and the practices by which the damage is palliated or concealed. We shall, likewise, show their virtues and uses, and trace them through all the changes which they undergo. The history of manufactures is, likewise, delivered. Of every artificial commodity the manner in which it is made is, in some measure, described, though it must be remembered, that manual operations are scarce to be conveyed by any words to him that has not seen them. Some general notions may, however, be afforded: it is easy to comprehend, that plates of iron are formed by the pressure of rollers, and bars by the strokes of a hammer; that a cannon is cast, and that an anvil is forged. But, as it is to most traders of more use to know when their goods are well wrought, than by what means, care has been taken to name the places where every manufacture has been carried furthest, and the marks by which its excellency may be ascertained. By the places of trade, are understood all ports, cities, or towns, where staples are established, manufactures are wrought, or any commodities are bought and sold advantageously. This part of our work includes an enumeration of almost all the remarkable places in the world, with such an account of their situation, customs, and products, as the merchant would require, who, being to begin a new trade in any foreign country, was yet ignorant of the commodities of the place, and the manners of the inhabitants. But the chief attention of the merchant, and, consequently, of the author who writes for merchants, ought to be employed upon the means of trade, which include all the knowledge and practice necessary to the skilful and successful conduct of commerce. The first of the means of trade is proper education, which may confer a competent skill in numbers; to be afterwards completed in the counting-house, by observation of the manner of stating accounts, and regulating books, which is one of the few arts which, having been studied in proportion to its importance, is carried as far as use can require. The counting-house of an accomplished merchant is a school of method, where the great science may be learned of ranging particulars under generals, of bringing the different parts of a transaction together, and of showing, at one view, a long series of dealing and exchange. Let no man venture into large business while he is ignorant of the method of regulating books; never let him imagine that any degree of natural abilities will enable him to supply this deficiency, or preserve multiplicity of affairs from inextricable confusion. This is the study, without which all other studies will be of little avail; but this alone is not sufficient. It will be necessary to learn many other things, which, however, may be easily included in the preparatory institutions, such as an exact knowledge of the weights and measures of different countries, and some skill in geography and navigation, with which this book may, perhaps, sufficiently supply him. In navigation, considered as part of the skill of a merchant, is included not so much the art of steering a ship, as the knowledge of the seacoast, and of the different parts to which his cargoes are sent; the customs to be paid; the passes, permissions, or certificates to be procured; the hazards of every voyage, and the true rate of insurance. To this must be added, an acquaintance with the policies and arts of other nations, as well those to whom the commodities are sold, as of those who carry goods of the same kind to the same market; and who are, therefore, to be watched as rivals endeavouring to take advantage of every errour, miscarriage, or debate. The chief of the means of trade is money, of which our late refinements in traffick have made the knowledge extremely difficult. The merchant must not only inform himself of the various denominations and value of foreign coins, together with their method of counting and reducing; such as the milleries of Portugal, and the livres of France; but he must learn what is of more difficult attainment; the discount of exchanges, the nature of current paper, the principles upon which the several banks of Europe are established, the real value of funds, the true credit of trading companies, with all the sources of profit, and possibilities of loss. All this he must learn, merely as a private dealer, attentive only to his own advantage; but, as every man ought to consider himself as part of the community to which he belongs, and while he prosecutes his own interest to promote, likewise, that of his country, it is necessary for the trader to look abroad upon mankind, and study many questions which are, perhaps, more properly political than mercantile. He ought, therefore, to consider very accurately the balance of trade, or the proportion between things exported and imported; to examine what kinds of commerce are unlawful, either as being expressly prohibited, because detrimental to the manufactures or other interest of his country, as the exportation of silver to the East-Indies, and the introduction of French commodities; or unlawful in itself, as the traffick for negroes. He ought to be able to state with accuracy the benefits and mischiefs of monopolies, and exclusive companies; to inquire into the arts which have been practised by them to make themselves necessary, or by their opponents to make them odious. He should inform himself what trades are declining, and what are improvable; when the advantage is on our side, and when on that of our rivals. The state of our colonies is always to be diligently surveyed, that no advantage may be lost which they can afford, and that every opportunity may be improved of increasing their wealth and power, or of making them useful to their mother country. There is no knowledge of more frequent use than that, of duties and impost, whether customs paid at the ports, or excises levied upon the manufacturer. Much of the prosperity of a trading nation depends upon duties properly apportioned; so that what is necessary may continue cheap, and what is of use only to luxury may, in some measure, atone to the publick for the mischief done to individuals. Duties may often be so regulated as to become useful even to those that pay them; and they may be, likewise, so unequally imposed as to discourage honesty, and depress industry, and give temptation to fraud and unlawful practices. To teach all this is the design of the Commercial Dictionary; which, though immediately and primarily written for the merchants, will be of use to every man of business or curiosity. There is no man who is not, in some degree, a merchant, who has not something to buy and something to sell, and who does not, therefore, want such instructions as may teach him the true value of possessions or commodities. The descriptions of the productions of the earth and water, which this volume will contain, may be equally pleasing and useful to the speculatist with any other natural history; and the accounts of various manufactures will constitute no contemptible body of experimental philosophy. The descriptions of ports and cities may instruct the geographer, as well as if they were found in books appropriated only to his own science; and the doctrines of funds, insurances, currency, monopolies, exchanges, and duties, is so necessary to the politician, that without it he can be of no use either in the council or the senate, nor can speak or think justly either on war or trade. We, therefore, hope that we shall not repent the labour of compiling this work; nor flatter ourselves unreasonably, in predicting a favourable reception to a book which no condition of life can render useless, which may contribute to the advantage of all that make or receive laws, of all that buy or sell, of all that wish to keep or improve their possessions, of all that desire to be rich, and all that desire to be wise[2]. FOOTNOTES: [1] A new Dictionary of Trade and Commerce, compiled from the information of the most eminent merchants, and from the works of the best writers on commercial subjects in all languages, by Mr. Rolt. Folio, 1757. [2] Of this preface, Mr. Boswell informs us that Dr. Johnson said he never saw Rolt, and never read the book. "The booksellers wanted a preface to a dictionary of trade and commerce. I knew very well what such a dictionary should be, and I wrote a preface accordingly." This may be believed; but the book is a most wretched farrago of articles plundered without acknowledgment, or judgment, which, indeed, was the case with most of Rolt's compilations. PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION OF FATHER LOBO'S VOYAGE TO ABYSSINIA[1]. The following relation is so curious and entertaining, and the dissertations that accompany it so judicious and instructive, that the translator is confident his attempt stands in need of no apology, whatever censures may fall on the performance. The Portuguese traveller, contrary to the general vein of his countrymen, has amused his reader with no romantick absurdities or incredible fictions: whatever he relates, whether true or not, is at least probable; and he who tells nothing exceeding the bounds of probability, has a right to demand that they should believe him who cannot contradict him. He appears, by his modest and unaffected narration, to have described things as he saw them, to have copied nature from the life, and to have consulted his senses, not his imagination. He meets with no basilisks that destroy with their eyes; his crocodiles devour their prey without tears; and his cataracts fall from the rock without deafening the neighbouring inhabitants. The reader will here find no regions cursed with irremediable barrenness, or blest with spontaneous fecundity; no perpetual gloom or unceasing sunshine; nor are the nations here described either devoid of all sense of humanity, or consummate in all private and social virtues: here are no Hottentots without religion, polity, or articulate language; no Chinese perfectly polite, and completely skilled in all sciences: he will discover what will always be discovered by a diligent and impartial inquirer, that wherever human nature is to be found, there is a mixture of vice and virtue, a contest of passion and reason; and that the Creator doth not appear partial in his distributions, but has balanced in most countries their particular inconveniencies by particular favours. In his account of the mission, where his veracity is most to be suspected, he neither exaggerates overmuch the merits of the Jesuits, if we consider the partial regard paid by the Portuguese to their countrymen, by the Jesuits to their society, and by the papists to their church; nor aggravates the vices of the Abyssinians; but if the reader will not be satisfied with a popish account of a popish mission, he may have recourse to the history of the church of Abyssinia, written by Dr. Geddes, in which he will find the actions and sufferings of the missionaries placed in a different light, though the same in which Mr. LeGrand, with all his zeal for the Roman church, appears to have seen them. This learned dissertator, however valuable for his industry and erudition, is yet more to be esteemed for having dared so freely, in the midst of France, to declare his disapprobation of the patriarch Oviedo's sanguinary zeal, who was continually importuning the Portuguese to beat up their drums for missionaries who might preach the gospel with swords in their hands, and propagate, by desolation and slaughter, the true worship of the God of peace. It is not easy to forbear reflecting with how little reason these men profess themselves the followers of JESUS, who left this great characteristick to his disciples, that they should be known by loving one another, by universal and unbounded charity and benevolence. Let us suppose an inhabitant of some remote and superiour region, yet unskilled in the ways of men, having read and considered the precepts of the gospel, and the example of our Saviour, to come down in search of the true church. If he would not inquire after it among the cruel, the insolent, and the oppressive; among those who are continually grasping at dominion over souls as well as bodies; among those who are employed in procuring to themselves impunity for the most enormous villanies, and studying methods of destroying their fellow-creatures, not for their crimes, but their errours; if he would not expect to meet benevolence engage in massacres, or to find mercy in a court of inquisition,--he would not look for the true church in the church of Rome. Mr. LeGrand has given, in one dissertation, an example of great moderation, in deviating from the temper of his religion; but, in the others, has left proofs, that learning and honesty are often too weak to oppose prejudice. He has made no scruple of preferring the testimony of father Du Bernat to the writings of all the Portuguese jesuits, to whom he allows great zeal, but little learning, without giving any other reason than that his favourite was a Frenchman. This is writing only to Frenchmen and to papists: a protestant would be desirous to know, why he must imagine that father Du Bernat had a cooler head or more knowledge, and why one man, whose account is singular, is not more likely to be mistaken than many agreeing in the same account. If the Portuguese were biassed by any particular views, another bias equally powerful may have deflected the Frenchman from the truth; for they evidently write with contrary designs: the Portuguese, to make their mission seem more necessary, endeavoured to place, in the strongest light, the differences between the Abyssinian and Roman church; but the great Ludolfus, laying hold on the advantage, reduced these later writers to prove their conformity. Upon the whole, the controversy seems of no great importance to those who believe the holy Scriptures sufficient to teach the way of salvation; but, of whatever moment it may be thought, there are no proofs sufficient to decide it. His discourses on indifferent subjects will divert, as well as instruct; and if either in these, or in the relation of father Lobo, any argument shall appear unconvincing, or description obscure, they are defects incident to all mankind, which, however, are not rashly to be imputed to the authors, being sometimes, perhaps, more justly chargeable on the translator. In this translation (if it may be so called) great liberties have been taken, which, whether justifiable or not, shall be fairly confessed, and let the judicious part of mankind pardon or condemn them. In the first part, the greatest freedom has been used, in reducing the narration into a narrow compass; so that it is by no means a translation, but an epitome, in which, whether every thing either useful or entertaining be comprised, the compiler is least qualified to determine. In the account of Abyssinia, and the continuation, the authors have been followed with more exactness; and as few passages appeared either insignificant or tedious, few have been either shortened or omitted. The dissertations are the only part in which an exact translation has been attempted; and even in those, abstracts are sometimes given, instead of literal quotations, particularly in the first; and sometimes other parts have been contracted. Several memorials and letters, which are printed at the end of the dissertations to secure the credit of the foregoing narrative, are entirely left out. It is hoped that, after this confession, whoever shall compare this attempt with the original, if he shall find no proofs of fraud or partiality, will candidly overlook any failure of judgment. FOOTNOTE: [1] This translation was Johnson's first literary production, and was published in 1735, with London on the title page, though, according to Boswell, it was printed at Birmingham. In the preface and dedication, the elegant structure of the sentences, and the harmony of their cadence, are such as characterize his maturer works. Here we may adopt the words of Mr. Murphy, and affirm that "we see the infant Hercules." In the merely translated parts, no vestige of the translator's own style appears. For Burke's opinion on the work, see Boswell's Life of Johnson, i.; and for Johnson's own, see Boswell, iii. In Murphy's Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson, there is a compendious account of the benevolent travels of the Portuguese missionary, who may fairly be called the precursor of Bruce. Independent of its intrinsic merits, this translation is interesting as illustrative of Johnson's early fondness for voyages and travels; the perusal of which, refreshed Gray when weary of heavier labours, and were pronounced by Warburton to constitute an important part of a philosopher's library. AN ESSAY ON EPITAPHS[1]. [1] From the Gentleman's Magazine. Though criticism has been cultivated in every age of learning, by men of great abilities and extensive knowledge, till the rules of writing are become rather burdensome than instructive to the mind; though almost every species of composition has been the subject of particular treatises and given birth to definitions, distinctions, precepts and illustrations; yet no critick of note, that has fallen within my observation, has hitherto thought sepulchral inscriptions worthy of a minute examination, or pointed out, with proper accuracy, their beauties and defects. The reasons of this neglect it is useless to inquire, and, perhaps, impossible to discover; it might be justly expected that this kind of writing would have been the favourite topick of criticism, and that self-love might have produced some regard for it, in those authors that have crowded libraries with elaborate dissertations upon Homer; since to afford a subject for heroick poems is the privilege of very few, but every man may expect to be recorded in an epitaph, and, therefore, finds some interest in providing that his memory may not suffer by an unskilful panegyrick. If our prejudices in favour of antiquity deserve to have any part in the regulation of our studies, epitaphs seem entitled to more than common regard, as they are, probably, of the same age with the art of writing. The most ancient structures in the world, the pyramids, are supposed to be sepulchral monuments, which either pride or gratitude erected; and the same passions which incited men to such laborious and expensive methods of preserving their own memory, or that of their benefactors, would, doubtless, incline them not to neglect any easier means by which the same ends might be obtained. Nature and reason have dictated to every nation, that to preserve good actions from oblivion, is both the interest and duty of mankind: and, therefore, we find no people acquainted with the use of letters, that omitted to grace the tombs of their heroes and wise men with panegyrical inscriptions. To examine, therefore, in what the perfection of epitaphs consists, and what rules are to be observed in composing them, will be, at least, of as much use as other critical inquiries; and for assigning a few hours to such disquisitions, great examples, at least, if not strong reasons, may be pleaded. An epitaph, as the word itself implies, is an inscription on a tomb, and, in its most extensive import, may admit, indiscriminately, satire or praise. But as malice has seldom produced monuments of defamation, and the tombs, hitherto raised, have been the work of friendship and benevolence, custom has contracted the original latitude of the word, so that it signifies, in the general acceptation, an inscription engraven on a tomb in honour of the person deceased. As honours are paid to the dead, in order to incite others to the imitation of their excellencies, the principal intention of epitaphs is to perpetuate the examples of virtue, that the tomb of a good man may supply the want of his presence, and veneration for his memory produce the same effect as the observation of his life. Those epitaphs are, therefore, the most perfect, which set virtue in the strongest light, and are best adapted to exalt the readers ideas, and rouse his emulation. To this end it is not always necessary to recount the actions of a hero, or enumerate the writings of a philosopher; to imagine such informations necessary, is to detract from their characters, or to suppose their works mortal, or their achievements in danger of being forgotten. The bare name of such men answers every purpose of a long inscription. Had only the name of Sir Isaac Newton been subjoined to the design upon his monument, instead of a long detail of his discoveries, which no philosopher can want, and which none but a philosopher can understand, those, by whose direction it was raised, had done more honour both to him and to themselves. This, indeed, is a commendation which it requires no genius to bestow, but which can never become vulgar or contemptible, if bestowed with judgment; because no single age produces many men of merit superiour to panegyrick. None but the first names can stand unassisted against the attacks of time; and if men raised to reputation by accident or caprice, have nothing but their names engraved on their tombs, there is danger lest, in a few years, the inscription require an interpreter. Thus have their expectations been disappointed who honoured Picus of Mirandola with this pompous epitaph: Hic situs est PICUS MIRANDOLA, caetera norunt Et Tagus et Ganges, forsan et Antipodes. His name, then celebrated in the remotest corners of the earth, is now almost forgotten; and his works, then studied, admired, and applauded, are now mouldering in obscurity. Next in dignity to the bare name is a short character simple and unadorned, without exaggeration, superlatives, or rhetorick. Such were the inscriptions in use among the Romans, in which the victories gained by their emperours were commemorated by a single epithet; as Cæsar Germanicus, Cæsar Dacicus, Germanicus, Illyricus. Such would be this epitaph, ISAACUS NEWTONUS, naturae legibus investigatis, hic quiescit. But to far the greatest part of mankind a longer encomium is necessary for the publication of their virtues, and the preservation of their memories; and, in the composition of these it is, that art is principally required, and precepts, therefore, may be useful. In writing epitaphs, one circumstance is to be considered, which affects no other composition; the place in which they are now commonly found restrains them to a particular air of solemnity, and debars them from the admission of all lighter or gayer ornaments. In this, it is that, the style of an epitaph necessarily differs from that of an elegy. The customs of burying our dead, either in or near our churches, perhaps, originally founded on a rational design of fitting the mind for religious exercises, by laying before it the most affecting proofs of the uncertainty of life, makes it proper to exclude from our epitaphs all such allusions as are contrary to the doctrines, for the propagation of which the churches are erected, and to the end for which those who peruse the monuments must be supposed to come thither. Nothing is, therefore, more ridiculous than to copy the Roman inscriptions, which were engraven on stones by the highway, and composed by those who generally reflected on mortality only to excite in themselves and others a quicker relish of pleasure, and a more luxurious enjoyment of life, and whose regard for the dead extended no farther than a wish that "the earth might be light upon them." All allusions to the heathen mythology are, therefore, absurd, and all regard for the senseless remains of a dead man impertinent and superstitious. One of the first distinctions of the primitive Christians, was their neglect of bestowing garlands on the dead, in which they are very rationally defended by their apologist in Manutius Felix. "We lavish no flowers nor odours on the dead," says he, "because they have no sense of fragrance or of beauty." We profess to reverence the dead, not for their sake, but for our own. It is, therefore, always with indignation or contempt that I read the epitaph on Cowley, a man whose learning and poetry were his lowest merits. Aurea dum late volitant tua scripta per orbem, Et fama eternum vivis, divine poeta, Hic placida jaceas requie, custodiat urnam Cana fides, vigilenique perenni lampade muse! Sit sacer ille locus, nec quis temerarius ausit Sacrilega turbare manu venerabile bustum. Intacti maneant, maneant per sæcula dulces COWLEII cineres, serventque immobile saxum. To pray that the ashes of a friend may lie undisturbed, and that the divinities that favoured him in his life may watch for ever round him, to preserve his tomb from violation, and drive sacrilege away, is only rational in him who believes the soul interested in the repose of the body, and the powers which he invokes for its protection able to preserve it. To censure such expressions, as contrary to religion, or as remains of heathen superstition, would be too great a degree of severity. I condemn them only as uninstructive and unaffecting, as too ludicrous for reverence or grief, for Christianity and a temple. That the designs and decorations of monuments ought, likewise, to be formed with the same regard to the solemnity of the place, cannot be denied; it is an established principle, that all ornaments owe their beauty to their propriety. The same glitter of dress, that adds graces to gaiety and youth, would make age and dignity contemptible. Charon with his boat is far from heightening the awful grandeur of the universal judgment, though drawn by Angelo himself; nor is it easy to imagine a greater absurdity than that of gracing the walls of a Christian temple, with the figure of Mars leading a hero to battle, or Cupids sporting round a virgin. The pope who defaced the statues of the deities at the tomb of Sannazarius is, in my opinion, more easily to be defended, than he that erected them. It is, for the same reason, improper to address the epitaph to the passenger, a custom which an injudicious veneration for antiquity introduced again at the revival of letters, and which, among many others, Passeratius suffered to mislead him in his epitaph upon the heart of Henry, king of France, who was stabbed by Clement the monk, which yet deserves to be inserted, for the sake of showing how beautiful even improprieties may become in the hands of a good writer. Adsta, viator, et dole regum vices. Cor regis isto conditur sub marmore, Qui jura Gallis, jura Sarmatis dedit; Tectus cucullo hunc sustulit sicarius. Abi, viator, et dole regum vices. In the monkish ages, however ignorant and unpolished, the epitaphs were drawn up with far greater propriety than can be shown in those which more enlightened times have produced. Orate pro anima miserrimi peccatoris, was an address, to the last degree, striking and solemn, as it flowed naturally from the religion then believed, and awakened in the reader sentiments of benevolence for the deceased, and of concern for his own happiness. There was nothing trifling or ludicrous, nothing that did not tend to the noblest end, the propagation of piety, and the increase of devotion. It may seem very superfluous to lay it down as the first rule for writing epitaphs, that the name of the deceased is not to be omitted; nor should I have thought such a precept necessary, had not the practice of the greatest writers shown, that it has not been sufficiently regarded. In most of the poetical epitaphs, the names for whom they were composed, may be sought to no purpose, being only prefixed on the monument. To expose the absurdity of this omission, it is only necessary to ask how the epitaphs, which have outlived the stones on which they were inscribed, would have contributed to the information of posterity, had they wanted the names of those whom they celebrated. In drawing the character of the deceased, there are no rules to be observed which do not equally relate to other compositions. The praise ought not to be general, because the mind is lost in the extent of any indefinite idea, and cannot be affected with what it cannot comprehend. When we hear only of a good or great man, we know not in what class to place him, nor have any notion of his character, distinct from that of a thousand others; his example can have no effect upon our conduct, as we have nothing remarkable or eminent to propose to our imitation. The epitaph composed by Ennius for his own tomb, has both the faults last mentioned. Nemo me decoret lacrumis, nec funera fletu Faxit. Cur?--Volito vivu' per ora virum. The reader of this epitaph receives scarce any idea from it; he neither conceives any veneration for the man to whom it belongs, nor is instructed by what methods this boasted reputation is to be obtained. Though a sepulchral inscription is professedly a panegyrick, and, therefore, not confined to historical impartiality, yet it ought always to be written with regard to truth. No man ought to be commended for virtues which he never possessed, but whoever is curious to know his faults must inquire after them in other places; the monuments of the dead are not intended to perpetuate the memory of crimes, but to exhibit patterns of virtue. On the tomb of Maecenas his luxury is not to be mentioned with his munificence, nor is the proscription to find a place on the monument of Augustus. The best subject for epitaphs is private virtue; virtue exerted in the same circumstances in which the bulk of mankind are placed, and which, therefore, may admit of many imitators. He that has delivered his country from oppression, or freed the world from ignorance and errour, can excite the emulation of a very small number; but he that has repelled the temptations of poverty, and disdained to free himself from distress, at the expense of his virtue, may animate multitudes, by his example, to the same firmness of heart and steadiness of resolution. Of this kind I cannot forbear the mention of two Greek inscriptions; one upon a man whose writings are well known, the other upon a person whose memory is preserved only in her epitaph, who both lived in slavery, the most calamitous estate in human life: [Greek: Zosimae ae prin eousa mono to somati doulae Kai to somati nun euren eleutheriaen.] "Zosima, quae solo fuit olim corpore serva, Corpore nunc etiam libera facta fuit." "Zosima, who, in her life, could only have her body enslaved, now finds her body, likewise, set at liberty." It is impossible to read this epitaph without being animated to bear the evils of life with constancy, and to support the dignity of human nature under the most pressing afflictions, both, by the example of the heroine, whose grave we behold, and the prospect of that state in which, to use the language of the inspired writers, "The poor cease from their labours, and the weary be at rest."-- The other is upon Epictetus, the Stoick philosopher: [Greek: Doulos Epiktaetos genomaen, kai som anapaeros, Kai peniaen Iros, kai philos Athanatois.] "Servus Epictetus, mutilatus corpore, vixi Pauperieque Irus, curaque prima deum." "Epictetus, who lies here, was a slave and a cripple, poor as the beggar in the proverb, and the favourite of heaven." In this distich is comprised the noblest panegyrick, and the most important instruction. We may learn from it, that virtue is impracticable in no condition, since Epictetus could recommend himself to the regard of heaven, amidst the temptations of poverty and slavery; slavery, which has always been found so destructive to virtue, that in many languages a slave and a thief are expressed by the same word. And we may be, likewise, admonished by it, not to lay any stress on a man's outward circumstances, in making an estimate of his real value, since Epictetus the beggar, the cripple, and the slave, was the favourite of heaven. PREFACE TO AN ESSAY[1] ON MILTON'S USE AND IMITATION OF THE MODERNS IN HIS PARADISE LOST. FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR 1750. It is now more than half a century since the Paradise Lost, having broke through the clouds with which the unpopularity of the author, for a time, obscured it, has attracted the general admiration of mankind; who have endeavoured to compensate the errour of their first neglect, by lavish praises and boundless veneration. There seems to have arisen a contest, among men of genius and literature, who should most advance its honour, or best distinguish its beauties. Some have revised editions, others have published commentaries, and all have endeavoured to make their particular studies, in some degree, subservient to this general emulation. Among the inquiries, to which this ardour of criticism has naturally given occasion, none is more obscure in itself, or more worthy of rational curiosity, than a retrospection of the progress of this mighty genius, in the construction of his work; a view of the fabrick gradually rising, perhaps, from small beginnings, till its foundation rests in the centre, and its turrets sparkle in the skies; to trace back the structure, through all its varieties, to the simplicity of its first plan; to find what was first projected, whence the scheme was taken, how it was improved, by what assistance it was executed, and from what stores the materials were collected, whether its founder dug them from the quarries of nature, or demolished other buildings to embellish his own. This inquiry has been, indeed, not wholly neglected, nor, perhaps, prosecuted with the care and diligence that it deserves. Several criticks have offered their conjectures; but none have much endeavoured to enforce or ascertain them. Mr. Voltaire[2] tells us, without proof, that the first hint of Paradise Lost was taken from a farce called Adamo, written by a player; Dr. Pearce[3], that it was derived from an Italian tragedy, called Il Paradiso Perso; and Mr. Peck[4], that it was borrowed from a wild romance. Any of these conjectures may possibly be true, but, as they stand without sufficient proof, it must be granted, likewise, that they may all possibly be false; at least they cannot preclude any other opinion, which, without argument, has the same claim to credit, and may, perhaps, be shown, by resistless evidence, to be better founded. It is related, by steady and uncontroverted tradition, that the Paradise Lost was at first a tragedy, and, therefore, amongst tragedies the first hint is properly to be sought. In a manuscript, published from Milton's own hand, among a great number of subjects for tragedy, is Adam unparadised, or Adam in exile; and this, therefore, may be justly supposed the embryo of this great poem. As it is observable, that all these subjects had been treated by others, the manuscript can be supposed nothing more, than a memorial or catalogue of plays, which, for some reason, the writer thought worthy of his attention. When, therefore, I had observed, that Adam in exile was named amongst them, I doubted not but, in finding the original of that tragedy, I should disclose the genuine source of Paradise Lost. Nor was my expectation disappointed; for, having procured the Adamus exul of Grotius, I found, or imagined myself to find, the first draught, the prima stamina of this wonderful poem. Having thus traced the original of this work, I was naturally induced to continue my search to the collateral relations, which it might be supposed to have contracted, in its progress to maturity: and having, at least, persuaded my own judgment that the search has not been entirely ineffectual, I now lay the result of my labours before the publick; with full conviction that, in questions of this kind, the world cannot be mistaken, at least, cannot long continue in errour. I cannot avoid acknowledging the candour of the author of that excellent monthly book, the Gentleman's Magazine, in giving admission to the specimens in favour of this argument; and his impartiality in as freely inserting the several answers. I shall here subjoin some extracts from the seventeenth volume of this work, which I think suitable to my purpose. To which I have added, in order to obviate every pretence for cavil, a list of the authors quoted in the following essay, with their respective dates, in comparison with the date of Paradise Lost. POSTSCRIPT. When this Essay was almost finished, the splendid edition of Paradise Lost, so long promised by the reverend Dr. Newton, fell into my hands; of which I had, however, so little use, that, as it would be injustice to censure, it would be flattery to commend it: and I should have totally forborne the mention of a book that I have not read, had not one passage at the conclusion of the life of Milton, excited in me too much pity and indignation to be suppressed in silence. "Deborah, Milton's youngest daughter," says the editor, "was married to Mr. Abraham Clarke, a weaver, in Spitalfields, and died in August, 1727, in the 76th year of her age. She had ten children. Elizabeth, the youngest, was married to Mr. Thomas Foster, a weaver, in Spitalfields, and had seven children, who are all dead; and she, herself, is aged about sixty, and weak and infirm. She seemeth to be a good, plain, sensible woman, and has confirmed several particulars related above, and informed me of some others, which she had often heard from her mother." These the doctor enumerates, and then adds, "In all probability, Milton's whole family will be extinct with her, and he can live only in his writings. And such is the caprice of fortune, this granddaughter of a man, who will be an everlasting glory to the nation, has now for some years, with her husband, kept a little chandler's or grocer's shop, for their subsistence, lately at the lower Holloway, in the road between Highgate and London, and, at present, in Cocklane, not far from Shoreditch-church." That this relation is true cannot be questioned: but, surely, the honour of letters, the dignity of sacred poetry, the spirit of the English nation, and the glory of human nature, require--that it should be true no longer. In an age, in which statues are erected to the honour of this great writer, in which his effigy has been diffused on medals, and his work propagated by translations, and illustrated by commentaries; in an age, which amidst all its vices, and all its follies, has not become infamous for want of charity: it may be, surely, allowed to hope, that the living remains of Milton will be no longer suffered to languish in distress. It is yet in the power of a great people, to reward the poet whose name they boast, and from their alliance to whose genius, they claim some kind of superiority to every other nation of the earth; that poet, whose works may possibly be read when every other monument of British greatness shall be obliterated; to reward him--not with pictures, or with medals, which, if he sees, he sees with contempt, but --with tokens of gratitude, which he, perhaps, may even now consider as not unworthy the regard of an immortal spirit. And, surely, to those, who refuse their names to no other scheme of expense, it will not be unwelcome, that a subscription is proposed, for relieving, in the languor of age, the pains of disease, and the contempt of poverty, the granddaughter of the author of Paradise Lost. Nor can it be questioned, that if I, who have been marked out as the Zoilus of Milton, think this regard due to his posterity, the design will be warmly seconded by those, whose lives have been employed, in discovering his excellencies, and extending his reputation. Subscriptions for the relief of Mrs. ELIZABETH FOSTER, granddaughter to JOHN MILTON, are taken in by Mr. Dodsley, in Pall-Mall; Messrs. Cox and Collings, under the Royal Exchange; Mr. Cave, at St. John's Gate, Clerkenwell; and Messrs. Payne and Bouquet, in Paternoster-Row. FOOTNOTES: [1] The history of Lauder's imposition is now almost forgotten, and is, certainly, not worth revival. It is fully detailed in Dr. Drake's Literary Life of Johnson, and in Boswell's Life, i. The conflicting inferences drawn from Johnson's connexion with Lauder, by Hayley, Dr. Symonds and Boswell, may easily be settled by those who have leisure for, or take interest in, such inquiries. In the very heat of the controversy, Johnson was never accused of intentional deception. Dr. Douglas, in the year 1750, published a letter to the earl of Bath, entitled, Milton vindicated from the charge of plagiarism brought against him by Mr. Lauder. In this masterly letter, after exposing the gross impositions and forgeries of Lauder, he thus adverts to the author of the preface and postscript. "It is to be hoped, nay, it is _expected_, that the elegant and nervous writer, whose judicious sentiments, and inimitable style, point out the author of Lauder's preface and postscript, will no longer allow one to plume himself with his feathers, who appears so little to have deserved his assistance; an assistance which, I am persuaded, would never have been communicated, had there been the least suspicion of those facts, which I have been the instrument of conveying to the world in these sheets." p. 77. 8vo. 1751. In Boswell's Life, i. 209, ed. 1816, Mr. Boswell thus writes, in a note: "His lordship (Dr. Douglas, then bishop of Salisbury) has been pleased now to authorise me to say, in the strongest manner, that there is no ground whatever for any unfavourable reflection against Dr. Johnson, who expressed the strongest indignation against Lauder."--Ed. [2] Essay upon the civil wars of France, and also upon the epick poetry of the European nations, from Homer down to Milton, 8vo. 1727, p. 103. [3] Preface to a review of the text of the twelve books of Milton's Paradise Lost, in which the chief of Dr. Bentley's emendations are considered, 8vo. 1733. [4] New memoirs of Mr. John Milton, by Francis Peck. 4to. 1740. p. 52. A LETTER TO THE REVEREND MR. DOUGLAS, OCCASIONED BY HIS VINDICATION OF MILTON. To which are subjoined several curious original letters from the authors of the Universal History, Mr. Ainsworth, Mr. Mac-Laurin, &c. BY WILLIAM LAUDER, A.M. _Quem pænitet peccasse pene est innocens._ SENECA. _Corpora magnanimo satis est prostrasse Leoni: Pugna suum finem, quum jacet hostis, habet._ OVID. --_Prætuli clementiam Juris rigori_.-- GROTII Adamus Exul. FIRST PRINTED THE YEAR 1751. PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS. Dr. Johnson no sooner discovered the iniquitous conduct and designs of Lauder, than he compelled him to confess and recant, in the following letter to the reverend Mr. Douglas, which he drew up for him: but scarcely had Lauder exhibited this sign of contrition, when he addressed an apology to the archbishop of Canterbury, soliciting his patronage for an edition of the very poets whose works he had so misapplied, and concluding his address in the following spirit: "As for the interpolations for which I am so highly blamed, when passion is subsided, and the minds of men can patiently attend to truth, I promise amply to replace them with passages equivalent in value, that are genuine, that the public may be convinced that it was rather passion and resentment, than a penury of evidence, the twentieth part of which has not yet been produced, that obliged me to make use of them." This did not satiate his malice: in 1752, he published the first volume of the proposed edition of the Latin poets, and in 1753, a second, accompanied with notes, both Latin and English, in a style of acrimonious scurrility, indicative almost of insanity. In 1754, he brought forward a pamphlet, entitled, King Charles vindicated from the charge of plagiarism, brought against him by Milton, and Milton himself convicted of forgery and gross imposition on the public. 8vo. In this work he exhausts every epithet of abuse, and utterly disclaims every statement made in his apology. It was reviewed, probably by Johnson, in the Gent. Mag. 1754, p. 97.--Ed. TO THE REVEREND MR. DOUGLAS. Sir, Candour and tenderness are, in any relation, and on all occasions, eminently amiable; but when they are found in an adversary, and found so prevalent as to overpower that zeal which his cause excites, and that heat which naturally increases in the prosecution of argument, and which may be, in a great measure, justified by the love of truth, they certainly appear with particular advantages; and it is impossible not to envy those who possess the friendship of him, whom it is, even, some degree of good fortune to have known as an enemy. I will not so far dissemble my weakness, or my fault, as not to confess that my wish was to have passed undetected; but, since it has been my fortune to fail in my original design, to have the supposititious passages, which I have inserted in my quotations, made known to the world, and the shade which began to gather on the splendour of Milton totally dispersed, I cannot but count it an alleviation of my pain, that I have been defeated by a man who knows how to use advantages, with so much moderation, and can enjoy the honour of conquest, without the insolence of triumph. It was one of the maxims of the Spartans, not to press upon a flying army, and, therefore, their enemies were always ready to quit the field, because they knew the danger was only in opposing. The civility with which you have thought proper to treat me, when you had incontestable superiority, has inclined me to make your victory complete, without any further struggle, and not only publicly to acknowledge the truth of the charge which you have hitherto advanced, but to confess, without the least dissimulation, subterfuge, or concealment, every other interpolation I have made in those authors, which you have not yet had opportunity to examine. On the sincerity and punctuality of this confession, I am willing to depend for all the future regard of mankind, and cannot but indulge some hopes, that they, whom my offence has alienated from me, may, by this instance of ingenuity and repentance, be propitiated and reconciled. Whatever be the event, I shall, at least, have done all that can be done in reparation of my former injuries to Milton, to truth, and to mankind; and entreat that those who shall continue implacable, will examine their own hearts, whether they have not committed equal crimes, without equal proofs of sorrow, or equal acts of atonement[1]. [1] The interpolations are distinguished by inverted commas. PASSAGES INTERPOLATED IN MASENIUS. The word "pandemonium," in the marginal notes of Book i. Essay, page 10. Citation 6. Essay, page 38. Annuit ipsa Dolo, malumque (heu! longa dolendi Materies! et triste nefas!) vesana momordit, Tanti ignara mali. Mora nulla: solutus avernus Exspuit infandas acies; fractumque remugit, Divulsa compage, solum: Nabathaea receptum Regna dedere sonum, Pharioque in littore Nercus Territus erubuit: simul aggemuere dolentes Hesperiæ valles, Libyaeque calentis arenae Exarsere procul. Stupefacta Lycaonis ursa Constitit, et pavido riguit glacialis in axe: Omnis cardinibus submotus inhorruit orbis; "Angeli hoc efficiunt, coelestia jussa secuti." Citation 7. Essay, page 41. Ilia quidem fugiens, sparsis per terga capillis, Ora rigat lacrimis, et coelum questibus implet: Talia voce rogans. Magni Deus arbiter orbis! Qui rerum momenta tenes, solusque futuri Praescius, elapsique memor: quem terra potentem Imperio, coelique tremunt; quem dite superbus Horrescit Phlegethon, pavidoque furore veretur: En! Styge crudeli premimur. Laxantur hiatus Tartarei, dirusque solo dominatur Avernus, "Infernique canes populantur cuncta creata," Et manes violant superos: discrimina rerum Sustulit Antitheus, divumque oppressit honorem. Respice Sarcotheam: nimis, heu! decepta momordit Infaustas epulas, nosque omnes prodidit hosti. Citation 8. Essay, page 42; the whole passage. "Quadrupedi pugnat quadrupes, volucrique volucris; Et piscis cum pisce ferox hostilibus armis Prælia sæva gerit: jam pristina pabula spernunt, Jam tondere piget viridantes gramine campos: Alterum et alterius vivunt animalia letho: Prisca nec in gentem humanam reverentia durat; Sed fugiunt, vel, si steterant, fera bella minantur Fronte truci, torvosque oculos jaculantur in illam." Citation 9. Essay, page 43. "Vatibus antiquis numerantur lumine cassis," Tiresias, "Phineus," Thamyrisque, et magnus Homerus. The above passage stands thus in Masenius, in one line: Tiresias caecus, Thamyrisque, et Daphnis, Homerus. N.B. The verse now cited is in Masenius's poems, but not in the Sarcotis. Citation 10. Essay, page 46. In medio, turmas inter provectus ovantes Cernitur Antitheus; reliquis hic altior unus Eminet, et circum vulgus despectat inane: Frons nebulis obscura latet, torvumque furorem Dissimulat, fidae tectus velamine noctis: "Persimilis turri praecelsae, aut montibus altis Antique cedro, nudatae frondis honore." PASSAGES INTERPOLATED IN GROTIUS. Citation 1. Essay, page 55. Sacri tonantis hostis, exsul patriæ Coelestis adsum; Tartari tristem specum Fugiens, et atram noctis æternæ plagam. Hac spe, quod unum maximum fugio malum, Superos videbo. Fallor? an certe meo Concussa tellus tota trepidat pondere? "Quid dico? Tellus? Orcus et pedibus tremit." Citation 2. Essay, page 58; the whole passage. --"Nam, me judice, Regnare dignum est ambitu, etsi in Tartaro: Alto præcesse Tartaro siquidem juvat, Coelis quam in ipsis servi obire munera." Citation 4. Essay, page 61; the whole passage. "Innominata quæque nominibus suis, Libet vocare propriis vocabulis." Citation 5. Essay, page 63. Terrestris orbis rector! et princeps freti! "Coeli solique soboles; ætherium genus!" Adame! dextram liceat amplecti tuam! Citation 6. Essay, _ibid_. Quod illud animal, tramite obliquo means, Ad me volutum flexili serpit via? Sibila retorquet ora setosum caput Trifidamque linguam vibrat: oculi ardent duo, "Carbunculorum luce certantes rubra." Citation 7. Essay, page 65; the whole passage. --"Nata deo! atque homine sata! Regina mundi! eademque interitus inscia! Cunctis colenda!"-- Citation 8. Essay, page 66; the whole passage. "Rationis etenim omnino paritas exigit, Ego bruta quando bestia evasi loquens; Ex homine, qualis ante, te fieri deam." Citation 9. Essay, _ibid_. Per sancta thalami sacra, per jus nominis Quodcumque nostri: sive me natam vocas, Ex te creatam; sive communi patre Ortam, sororem; sive potius conjugem: "Cassam, oro, dulci luminis jubare tui" Ne me relinquas: nunc tuo auxilio est opus. Cum versa sors est. Unicum lapsæ mihi Firmamen, unam spem gravi adflictæ malo, Te mihi reserva, dum licet: mortalium Ne tota soboles pereat unius nece: "Tibi nam relicta, quo petam? aut ævum exigam?" Citation 10. Essay, page 67; the whole passage. "Tu namque soli numini contrarius, Minus es nocivus; ast ego nocentior, (Adeoque misera magis, quippe miseriæ comes Origoque scelus est, lurida mater male!) Deumque læsi scelere, teque, vir! simul." Citation 11. Essay, page 68; the whole passage. "Quod comedo, poto, gigno, diris subjacet." INTERPOLATION IN RAMSAY. Citation 6. Essay, page 88. O judex! nova me facies inopinaque terret; Me maculæ turpes, nudæque in corpore sordes, Et cruciant duris exercita pectora poenis: Me ferus horror agit. Mihi non vernantia prata, Non vitræi fontes, coeli non aurea templa, Nec sunt grata mihi sub utroque jacentia sole: Judicis ora dei sic terrent, lancinat ægrum Sic pectus mihi noxa. O si mî abrumpere vitam, Et detur poenam quovis evadere letho! Ipsa parens utinam mihi tellus ima dehiscat! Ad piceas trudarque umbras, atque infera regna! "Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam!" Montibus aut premar injectis, coelique ruina! Ante tuos vultus, tua quam flammantiaque ora Suspiciam, caput objectem et coelestibus armis! INTERPOLATIONS IN STAPHORSTIUS. Citation 3. Essay, page 104. Foedus in humanis fragili quod sanctius aevo! Firmius et melius, quod magnificentius, ac quam Conjugii, sponsi sponsaeque jugalia sacra! "Auspice te, fugiens alieni subcuba lecti, Dira libido hominum tota de gente repulsa est: Ac tantum gregibus pecudum ratione carentum Imperat, et sine lege tori furibunda vagatur. Auspice te, quam jura probant, rectumque, piumque, Filius atque pater, fraterque innotuit: et quot Vincula vicini sociarunt sanguinis, a te Nominibus didicere suam distinguere gentem." Citation 6. Essay, page 109. Coelestes animæ! sublimia templa tenentes, Laudibus adcumulate deum super omnia magnum!--Tu quoque nunc animi vis tota ac maxuma nostri! Tota tui in Domini grates dissolvere laudes! "Aurora redeunte nova, redeuntibus umbris." Immensum! augustum! verum! inscrutabile numen! Summe Deus! sobolesque Dei! concorsque duorum, Spiritus! aeternas retines, bone rector! habenas, Per mare, per terras, coelosque, atque unus Jehova Existens, celebrabo tuas, memorique sonabo Organico plectro laudes. Te pectore amabo, "Te primum, et medium, et summum, sed fine carentem," O miris mirande modis! ter maxime rerum! Collustrat terras dum humine Titan Eoo! INTERPOLATION IN FOX. Essay, page 116. --Tu Psychephone Hypocrisis esto, hoc sub Francisci pallio. Tu Thanate, Martyromastix re et nomine sies. Altered thus, --Tu Pyschephone! Hypocrisis esto; hoc sub Francisci pallio, "Quo tuto tecti sese credunt emori." INTERPOLATION IN QUINTIANUS. Essay, page 117. _Mic._ Cur hue procaci veneris cursu refer? Manere si quis in sua potest domo, Habitare numquam curet alienas domos. _Luc._ Quis non, relicta Tartari nigri domo, Veniret? Illic summa tenebrarum lues, Ubi pedor ingens redolet extremum situm. Hic autem amoena regna, et dulcis quies; Ubi serenus ridet æternum dies. Mutare facile[1] est pondus immensum levi; "Summos dolores maximisque gaudiis." [1] For _facile_, the word _votupe_ was substituted in the Essay. INTERPOLATION IN BEZA. Essay, page 119. Stygemque testor, et profunda Tartari, Nisi impediret livor, et queis prosequor Odia supremum numen, atque hominum genus, Pietate motus hinc patris, et hinc filii, Possem parenti condolere et filio, "Quasi exuissem omnem malitiam ex pectore." INTERPOLATION IN FLETCHER. Essay, page 124. Nec tamen aeternos obliti (absiste timere) Umquam animos, fessique ingentes ponimus iras. Nec fas; non sic deficimus, nec talia tecum Gessimus, in coelos olim tua signa secuti. Est hic, est vitæ et magni contemptor Olympi, Quique oblatam animus lucis nunc respuat aulam, Et domiti tantum placeat cui regia coeli. Ne dubita, numquam fractis hæc pectora, numquam Deficient animis: prius ille ingentia coeli Atria, desertosque aeternae lucis alumnos Destituens, Erebum admigret noctemque profundam, Et Stygiis mutet radiantia lumina flammis. "In promptu caussa est: superest invicta voluntas, Immortale odium, vindictae et saeva cupido." INTERPOLATIONS IN TAUBMAN. Essay, page 132. Tune, ait, imperio regere omnia solus; et una Filius iste tuus, qui se tibi subjicit ultro, Ac genibus minor ad terram prosternit, et offert Nescio quos toties animi servilis bonores? Et tamen aeterni proles aeterna Jehovae Audit ab aetherea luteaque propagine mundi. ("Scilicet hunc natum dixisti cuncta regentem; Caelitibus regem cunctis, dominumque supremum") Huic ego sim supplex? ego? quo praestantior alter Non agit in superis. Mihi jus dabit ille, suum qui Dat caput alterius sub jus et vincula legum? Semideus reget iste polos? reget avia terrae? Me pressum leviore manu fortuna tenebit? "Et cogar aeternum duplici servire tyranno?" Haud ita. Tu solus non polles fortibus ausis. Non ego sic cecidi, nec sic mea fata premuntur, Ut nequeam relevare caput, colloque superbum Excutere imperium. Mihi si mea dextra favebit, Audeo totius mihi jus promittere mundi. Essay, page 152. "Throni, dominationes, principatus, virtutes, potestates," is said to be a line borrowed by Milton from the title-page of Heywood's Hierarchy of Angels. But there are more words in Heywood's title; and, according to his own arrangement of his subjects, they should be read thus:-- "Seraphim, cherubim, throni, potestates, angeli, archangeli, principatus, dominationes." These are my interpolations, minutely traced without any arts of evasion. Whether from the passages that yet remain, any reader will be convinced of my general assertion, and allow, that Milton had recourse for assistance to any of the authors whose names I have mentioned, I shall not now be very diligent to inquire, for I had no particular pleasure in subverting the reputation of Milton, which I had myself once endeavoured to exalt[1]; and of which, the foundation had always remained untouched by me, had not my credit and my interest been blasted, or thought to be blasted, by the shade which it cast from its boundless elevation. About ten years ago, I published an edition of Dr. Johnston's translation of the Psalms, and having procured from the general assembly of the church of Scotland, a recommendation of its use to the lower classes of grammar schools, into which I had begun to introduce it, though not without much controversy and opposition, I thought it likely that I should, by annual publications, improve my little fortune, and be enabled to support myself in freedom from the miseries of indigence. But Mr. Pope, in his malevolence to Mr. Benson, who had distinguished himself by his fondness for the same version, destroyed all my hopes by a distich, in which he places Johnston in a contemptuous comparison with the author of Paradise Lost[2]. From this time, all my praises of Johnston became ridiculous, and I was censured, with great freedom, for forcing upon the schools an author whom Mr. Pope had mentioned only as a foil to a better poet. On this occasion, it was natural not to be pleased, and my resentment seeking to discharge itself somewhere, was unhappily directed against Milton. I resolved to attack his fame, and found some passages in cursory reading, which gave me hopes of stigmatizing him as a plagiary. The farther I carried my search, the more eager I grew for the discovery; and the more my hypothesis was opposed, the more I was heated with rage. The consequence of my blind passion, I need not relate; it has, by your detection, become apparent to mankind. Nor do I mention this provocation, as adequate to the fury which I have shown, but as a cause of anger, less shameful and reproachful than fractious malice, personal envy, or national jealousy. But for the violation of truth, I offer no excuse, because I well know, that nothing can excuse it. Nor will I aggravate my crime, by disingenuous palliations. I confess it, I repent it, and resolve, that my first offence shall be my last. More I cannot perform, and more, therefore, cannot be required. I entreat the pardon of all men, whom I have by any means induced to support, to countenance, or patronise my frauds, of which, I think myself obliged to declare, that not one of my friends was conscious. I hope to deserve, by better conduct, and more useful undertakings, that patronage which I have obtained from the most illustrious and venerable names by misrepresentation and delusion, and to appear hereafter in such a character, as shall give you no reason to regret that your name is frequently mentioned with that of, Reverend Sir, Your most humble servant, WILLIAM LAUDER. December 20, 1750. FOOTNOTES: [1] Virorum maximus--Joannes Miltonus--Poeta celeberrimus--non Angliae modo, soli natalis, verum generis humani ornamentum--cujus eximius liber, Anglicanis versibus conscriptus, vulgo Paradisus amissus, immortalis illud ingenii monumentum, cum ipsa fere aeternitate perennaturum est opus!--Hujus memoriam Anglorum primus, post tantum, proh dolor! ab tanti excessu poetae intervallum, statua eleganti in loco celeberrimo, coenobio Westmonasteriensi, posita, regum, principum, antistitum, illustriumque Angliae virorum caemeterio, vir ornatissimus, Gulielmus Benson prosecutus est. _Poetarum Scotorum Musae Sacrae, in praefatione, Edinb. 1739._ A character, as high and honourable as ever was bestowed upon him by the most sanguine of his admirers! and as this was my cool and sincere opinion of that wonderful man formerly, so I declare it to be the same still, and ever will be, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary, occasioned merely by passion and resentment; which appear, however, by the Postscript to the Essay, to be so far from extending to the posterity of Milton, that I recommend his only remaining descendant, in the warmest terms, to the public. [2] On two unequal crutches propp'd he[2a] came; Milton's on this, on that _one_ Johnston's name. Dunciad, Book IV. [2a] _Benson_. This man endeavoured to raise himself to fame, by erecting monuments, striking coins, and procuring translations of Milton; and afterwards continued: by a great passion for Arthur Johnston, a Scots physician's version of the Psalms, of which he printed many fine editions. _Notes on the Dunciad_. No fewer than six different editions of that useful and valuable book, two in quarto, two in octavo, and two in a lesser form, now lie, like lumber, in the hand of Mr. Vaillant, bookseller, the effects of Mr. Pope's ill-natured criticism. One of these editions in quarto, illustrated with an interpretation and notes, after the manner of the classic authors _in usum Delphini_, was, by the worthy editor, anno 1741, inscribed to his Royal Highness Prince George, as a proper book for his instruction in principles of piety, as well as knowledge of the Latin tongue, when he should arrive at due maturity of age. To restore this book to credit was the cause that induced me to engage in this disagreeable controversy, rather than any design to depreciate the just reputation of Milton. TESTIMONIES CONCERNING MR. LAUDER. Edinb. May 22, 1734. These are certifying, that Mr. William Lauder past his course at this university, to the general satisfaction of these masters, under whom he studied. That he has applied himself particularly to the study of humanity[1] ever since. That for several years past, he has taught with success, students in the humanity class, who were recommended to him by the professor thereof. And lastly, has taught that class itself, during the indisposition, and since the death of its late professor: and, therefore, is, in our opinion, a fit person to teach humanity in any school or college whatever. J. GOWDIE, S.S.T.P. MATT. CRAUFURD, S.S.T. et HIST. EC. PR. REG. WILLIAM SCOTT, P.P. ROBERT STUART, PH. NAT. PR. COL. DRUMMOND, L.G. et P. PR. COL. MAC-LAURIN, MATH. P. EDIN. AL. BAYNE, J.P. CHARLES MACKY, HIST. P. ALEX. MORRO, ANAT. P. WILLIAM DAWSON, L.H.P. [1] So the Latin tongue is called in Scotland, from the Latin phrase, _classis humaniorum literarum_, the class or form where that language is taught. A Letter from the Reverend Mr. Patrick Cuming, one of the Ministers of Edinburgh, and Regius Professor of Church History in the University there, to the Reverend Mr. Blair, Rector of the Grammar school at Dundee. D. B. Upon a public advertisement in the newspapers, of the vacancy of a master's place in your school, Mr. William Lauder, a friend of mine, proposes to set up for a candidate, and goes over for that purpose. He has long-taught the Latin with great approbation in this place, and given such proofs of his mastery in that language, that the best judges do, upon all occasions, recommend him as one who is qualified in the best manner. He has taught young boys and young gentlemen, with great success; nor did I ever hear of any complaint of him from either parents or children. I beg leave to recommend him to you as my friend; what friendship you show him, I will look upon as a very great act of friendship to me, of which he and I will retain the most grateful sense, if he is so happy as to be preferred. I persuade myself, you will find him ready at all times to be advised by you, as I have found him. Indeed if justice had been done him, he should long ago have been advanced for his merit. I ever am, D. B. Your most affectionate, humble servant, PATRICK CUMING. Edin. Nov. 13, 1742. A Letter from Mr. Mac-Laurin, late Professor of Mathematicks in the University of Edinburgh, to the Reverend Mr. George Blair, Rector of the Grammar school at Dundee. SIR, Though unacquainted, I take the liberty of giving you this trouble, from the desire I have always had to see Mr. Lauder provided in a manner suited to his talent. I know him to have made uncommon progress in classical learning, to have taught it with success, and never heard there could be any complaint against his method of teaching. I am, indeed, a stranger to the reasons of his want of success on former occasions. But after conversing with him, I have ground to hope, that he will be always advised by you, for whom he professes great esteem, and will be useful under you. I am, Sir, Your most obedient, humble servant, COLIN MAC-LAURIN. College of Edinburgh, Nov. 30, 1742. A Letter from the Authors of the Universal History, to Mr. Lauder. London, August 12th, 1741. LEARNED SIR, When we so gladly took the first opportunity of reviving the memory and merit of your incomparable Johnston, in the first volume of our Universal History, our chief aim was to excite some generous Mecenas to favour the world with a new edition of a poem which we had long since beheld with no small concern, buried, as it were, by some unaccountable fatality, into an almost total oblivion; whilst others of that kind, none of them superior, many vastly inferior to it, rode, unjustly, as we thought, triumphant over his silent grave. And it is with great satisfaction that we have seen our endeavours so happily crowned in the edition you soon after gave of it at Edinburgh, in your learned and judicious vindication of your excellent author, and more particularly by the just deference which your learned and pious convocation has been pleased to pay to that admirable version. We have had since then, the pleasure to see your worthy example followed here, in the several beautiful editions of the honourable Mr. Auditor Benson, with his critical notes upon the work. It was, indeed, the farthest from our thoughts, to enter into the merit of the controversy between your two great poets, Johnston and Buchanan; neither were we so partial to either as not to see, that each had their shades as well as lights; so that, if the latter has been more happy in the choice and variety of his metre, it is as plain, that he has given his poetic genius such an unlimited scope, as has in many cases quite disfigured the peculiar and inimitable beauty, simplicity, and energy of the original, which the former, by a more close and judicious version, has constantly, and surprisingly displayed. Something like this we ventured to hint in our note upon these two noble versions; to have said more, would have been inconsistent with our designed brevity. We have, likewise, since seen what your opponent has writ in praise of the one, and derogation of the other, and think you have sufficiently confuted him, and with respect to us, he has been so far from giving us any cause to retract what we had formerly said, that it has administered an occasion to us of vindicating it, as we have lately done by some critical notes on your excellent Johnston, which we communicated soon after to Mr. A. B. who was pleased to give them a place in his last edition of him, and which we doubt not you have seen long ago. How they have been relished among you we know not, but with us they have been thought sufficient to prove what we have advanced, as well as to direct the attentive reader to discover new instances of your author's exactness and elegance, in every page, if not almost in every line. We gratefully accept of the books, and kind compliments you were pleased to transmit to us by Mr. Strahan, and had long since returned you our thanks, but for the many avocations which the great work you know us to be engaged in doth of necessity bring upon us; obliging us, or some, at least, of our society, to make, from time to time, an excursion to one or other of our two learned universities, and consulting them upon the best method of carrying on this work to the greatest advantage to the public. This has been some considerable part of our employment for these twelve months past; and we flatter ourselves, that we have, with their assistance and approbation, made such considerable improvements on our original plan, as will scarcely fail of being acceptable to the learned world. They will shortly appear in print, to convince the world that we have not been idle, though this sixth volume is like to appear somewhat later in the year than was usual with our former ones. We shall take the liberty to transmit some copies of our new plan to you as soon as they are printed. All we have left to wish with respect to your excellent countryman and his version is, that it may always meet with such powerful and impartial advocates, and that it may be as much esteemed by all candid judges, as it is by, Learned Sir, Your sincere wellwishers and humble servants, The AUTHORS of the Universal History. A Letter from the learned Mr. Robert Ainsworth, author of the Latin and English Dictionary, to Mr. Lauder. LEARNED AND WORTHY SIR, These wait on you, to thank you for the honour you have done a person, equally unknown as undeserving, in your valuable present, which I did not receive till several weeks after it was sent: and since I received it, my eyes have been so bad, and my hand so unstable, that I have been forced to defer my duty, as desirous to thank you with my own hand. I congratulate to your nation the just honour ascribed to it by its neighbours and more distant countries, in having bred two such excellent poets as your Buchanan and Johnston, whom to name is to commend; but am concerned for their honour at home, who being committed together, seem to me both to suffer a diminution, whilst justice is done to neither. But at the same time I highly approve your nation's piety in bringing into your schools sacred instead of profane poesy, and heartily wish that ours, and all Christian governments, would follow your example herein. If a mixture of _utile dulci_ be the best composition in poetry, (which is too evident to need the judgment of the nicest critick in the art,) surely the _utile_ so transcendently excels in the sacred hymns, that a Christian must deny his name that doth not acknowledge it: and if the _dulce_ seem not equally to excel, it must be from a vitiated taste of those who read them in the original, and, in others, at second-hand, from translations. For the manner of writing in the east and west is widely distant, and which to a paraphrast must render his task exceeding difficult, as requiring a perfect knowledge in two languages, wherein the idioms and graces of speech, caused by the diversity of their religion, laws, customs, &c. are as remote as the inhabitants, wherein, notwithstanding, your poets have succeeded to admiration. Your main contest seems to me, when stript of persons, whether the easy or sublime in poesy be preferable; if so, Non opis est nostrae tantam componere litem: nor think I it in your case material to be decided. Both these have their particular excellencies and graces, and youth ought to be taught wherein (which the matter ought chiefly to determine) the one hath place, and where the other. Now since the hymns of David, Moses, and other divine poets, intermixt with them, (infinitely excelling those of Callimachus, Alcaeus, Sappho, Anacreon, and all others,) abound in both these virtues, and both your poets are acknowledged to be very happy in paraphrasing them, it is my opinion, both of them, without giving the least preference to either, should be read alternately in your schools, as the tutor shall direct. Pardon, learned Sir, this scribble to my age and weakness, both which are very great, and command me wherein I may serve you, as, Learned Sir, Your obliged, thankful, and obedient servant, ROBERT AINSWORTH. Spitalfields, Sept. 1741. A Letter from the Authors of the Universal History to Mr. Auditor Benson. SIR, It is with no small pleasure that we see Dr. Johnston's translation of the Psalms revived in so elegant a manner, and adorned with such a just and learned display of its inimitable beauties. As we flatter ourselves that the character we gave it, in our first volume of the Universal History, did, in some measure, contribute to it, we hope, that in justice to that great poet, you will permit us to cast the following mites into your treasury of critical notes on his noble version. We always thought the palm by far this author's due, as upon many other accounts, so especially for two excellencies hitherto not taken notice of by any critic, that we know of, and which we beg leave to transmit to you, and if you think fit, by you to the public, in the following observations. We beg leave to subscribe ourselves, Sir, &c. The AUTHORS of the Universal History. Dr. Isaac Watts, D.D. in his late book, entitled, The Improvement of the Mind, Lond. 1741, p. 114. Upon the whole survey of things, it is my opinion, that for almost all boys who learn this tongue, [the Latin,] it would be much safer to be taught Latin poesy, as soon, and as far as they can need it, from those excellent translations of David's Psalms, which are given us by Buchanan in the various measures of Horace; and the lower classes had better read Dr. Johnston's translation of those Psalms, another elegant writer of the Scots nation, instead of Ovid's Epistles; for he has turned the same Psalms, perhaps, with greater elegancy, into elegiac verse, whereof the learned W. Benson, esq. has lately published a new edition; and I hear that these Psalms are honoured with an increasing use in the schools of Holland and Scotland. A stanza, or a couplet of those writers would now and then stick upon the minds of youth, and would furnish them infinitely better with pious and moral thoughts, and do something towards making them good men and Christians. An Act of the Commission of the General Assembly of the Kirk of Scotland, recommending Dr. Arthur Johnston's Latin Paraphrase of the Psalms of David, &c. At Edinburgh, 13th of November, 1740, post meridiem. A Petition having been presented to the late General Assembly, by Mr. William Lauder, teacher of humanity in Edinburgh, craving, That Dr. Arthur Johnston's Latin Paraphrase on the Psalms of David, and Mr. Robert Boyd, of Trochrig, his Hecatombe Christiana, may be recommended to be taught in all grammar schools; and the assembly having appointed a committee of their number to take the desire of the foresaid petition into their consideration, and report to the commission: the said committee offered their opinion, that the commission should grant the desire of the said petition, and recommend the said Dr. Johnston's Paraphrase to be taught in the lower classes of the schools, and Mr. George Buchanan's Paraphrase on the Psalms, together with Mr. Robert Boyd of Trochrig's, Hecatombe Christiana in the higher classes of schools, and humanity-classes in universities. The commission having heard the said report, unanimously approved thereof, and did, and hereby do, recommend accordingly. Extracted by WILLIAM GRANT[1], Cl. Ecl. Sc. [1] This honourable gentleman is now his Majesty's Advocate for Scotland. A Letter from the learned Mr. Abraham Gronovius, Secretary to the University of Leyden, to Mr. Lauder, concerning the Adamus Exsul of Grotius. Clarissimo Viro, Wilhelmo Laudero, Abrahamus Gronovius, S.P.D. Postquam binae literae tuae ad me perlatae fuerunt, duas editiones carminum H. Grotii, viri vere summi, excussi; verum ab utraque tragoediam, quam Adamum Exsulem inscripsit [Greek: O AEAPY], abesse deprehendi; neque ullum ejusdem exemplar, quamvis tres[1] editiones exstare adnotaveram, ullibi offendere potui, adeo ut spe, quam vorabam desiderio tuo satisfaciendi, me prorsus excidisse existimarem. Verum nuperrime forte contigit, ut primam tragoediae Grotianae editionem, Hagae, an. 1601. publicatam, beneficio amicissimi mihi viri nactus fuerim, ejusque decem priores paginas, quibus, praeter chorum, actus primus comprehenditur, a Jacobo meo, optimae spei adolescente, transcriptas nunc ad te mitto. Vale, vir doctissime, meque, ut facis, amare perge. Dabam Lugd. Bat. A. D, IV. Id. Sept. A. D. MDCCXLVI. [1] Though Gronovius here mentions only three editions of this noble and curious performance, the Adamus Exsul of Grotius; yet it appears from the catalogue of his works, that no fewer than four have been printed, two in quarto, and two in octavo, in the years 1601, 1608, and 1635; two having been made, one in quarto, the other in octavo, anno 1601. A second Letter from the same gentleman to Mr. Lauder, on the same subject. Clarissime atque eruditissime vir, Posteaquam, tandem Jacobus meus residuam partem, quam desiderabas, tragoediae Grotianae transcripserat, ut ea diutius careres, committere nolui: quod autem citius illam ad finem perducere non potuerit, obstiterunt variae occupationes, quibus districtus fuit. Nam, praeter scholastica studia, quibus strenue incubuit, ipsi componenda erat oratio, qua rudimenta linguæ Graecae Latinseque deponeret, eamque, quod vehementer laetor, venuste, et quidem stilo ligato, composuit, et in magna auditorum corona pronuntiavit. Quod autem ad exemplar ipsum, quo Adamus Exsul comprehenditur, spectat, id lubens, si meum foret, ad te perferri curarem, verum illud a clarissimo possessore tanti aestimatur, ut perrsuasum habeam me istud minime ab ipso impetraturum: et sane sacra carmina Grotii adeo raro obvia sunt, ut eorundem exemplar apud ipsos remonstrantium ecclesiastas frustra quaesiverim. Opus ipsum inscriptum est HENRICO BORBONIO, PRINCIPI CONDAEO; et forma libri est in quarto, ut nullo pacto literis includi possit. Ceterum, pro splendidissima et Magnes Britanniae principe, cui merito dicata est, digna editione Psalmorum, ex versione metrica omnium fere poetarum principis JONSTONI maximas tibi grates habet agitque Jacobus. Utinam illustrissimus Bensonus in usum serenissimi principis, atque ingeniorum in altiora surgentium, eadem forma, lisdemque typis exarari juberet divinos illos Ciceronis de Officiis libros, dignos sane, quos diurna nocturnaque manu versaret princeps, a quo aliquando Britannici regni majestas et populi salus pendebunt! Interim tibi, eruditissime vir, atque etiam politissimo D. Caveo, pro muneribus literariis, quae per nobilissimum Lawsonium [1] ad me curastis, magno opere me obstrictum agnosco, cademque, summa cum voluptate, a me perlecta sunt. Filius meus te plurimum salutat. Vale, doctissime vir, meisque verbis D. Caveum saluta, atque amare perge, Tuum, ABRAHAMUM GRONOVIUM. Dabam Leidis, A. D. xiv. KAL. Maias, A. D. MDCCXLVII. [1] The person here meant was the learned and worthy Dr. Isaac Lawson, late physician to the English army in Flanders; by whom Mr. Gronovius did me the honour to transmit to me two or three acts of the Adamus Exsul of Grotius, transcribed by his son, Mr. James. The truth of this particular consists perfectly well with the knowledge of the Doctor's brother, John Lawson, esq. counsellor at law; who also had the same thing lately confirmed to him by Mr. Gronovius himself in Holland. POSTSCRIPT. And now my character is placed above all suspicion of fraud by authentick documents, I will make bold, at last, to pull off the mask, and declare sincerely the true motive that induced me to interpolate a few lines into some of the authors quoted by me in my Essay on Milton, which was this: Knowing the prepossession in favour of Milton, how deeply it was rooted in many, I was willing to make trial, if the partial admirers of that author would admit a translation of his own words to pass for his sense, or exhibit his meaning; which I thought they would not: nor was I mistaken in my conjecture, forasmuch as several gentlemen, seemingly persons of judgment and learning, assured me, they humbly conceived I had not proved my point, and that Milton might have written as he has done, supposing he had never seen these authors, or they had never existed. Such is the force of prejudice! This exactly confirms the judicious observation of the excellent moralist and poet: Pravo favore labi mortales solent; Et pro judicio dum stant erroris sui, Ad poenitendum rebus manifestis agi. For, had I designed, as the vindicator of Milton supposes, to impose a trick on the publick, and procure credit to my assertions by an imposture, I would never have drawn lines from Hog's translation of Milton, a book common at every sale, I had almost said, at every stall, nor ascribed them to authors so easily attained: I would have gone another way to work, by translating forty or fifty lines, and assigning them to an author, whose works possibly might not be found till the world expire at the general conflagration. My imposing, therefore, on the publick in general, instead of a few obstinate persons, for whose sake alone the stratagem was designed, is the only thing culpable in my conduct, for which again I most humbly ask pardon: and that this, and this only, was, as no other could be, my design, no one, I think, can doubt, from the account I have just now given; and whether that was so criminal, as it has been represented, I shall leave every impartial mind to determine. AN ACCOUNT OF AN ATTEMPT TO ASCERTAIN THE LONGITUDE[1]. FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1755. It is well known to seamen and philosophers, that, after the numerous improvements produced by the extensive commerce of the later ages, the great defect in the art of sailing is ignorance of longitude, or of the distance to which the ship has passed eastward or westward, from any given meridian. That navigation might be at length set free from this uncertainty, the legislative power of this kingdom incited the industry of searchers into nature, by a large reward proposed to him who should show a practicable method of finding the longitude at sea; and proportionable recompenses to those, who, though they should not fully attain this great end, might yet make such advances and discoveries as should facilitate the work to those that might succeed them. By the splendour of this golden encouragement many eyes were dazzled, which nature never intended to pry into her secrets. By the hope of sudden riches many understandings were set on work very little proportioned to their strength, among whom whether mine shall be numbered, must be left to the candour of posterity: for I, among others, laid aside the business of my profession, to apply myself to the study of the longitude, not, indeed, in expectation of the reward due to a complete discovery; yet, not without hopes that I might be considered as an assistant to some greater genius, and receive from the justice of my country the wages offered to an honest and not unsuccessful labourer in science. Considering the various means by which this important inquiry has been pursued, I found that the observation of the eclipses, either of the primary or secondary planets, being possible but at certain times, could be of no use to the sailor; that the motions of the moon had been long attended, however accurately, without any consequence; that other astronomical observations were difficult and uncertain, with every advantage of situation, instruments, and knowledge; and were, therefore, utterly impracticable to the sailor, tost upon the water, ill provided with instruments, and not very skilful in their application. The hope of an accurate clock or time-keeper is more specious. But when I began these studies, no movements had yet been made that were not evidently unaccurate and uncertain: and even of the mechanical labours which I now hear so loudly celebrated, when I consider the obstruction of movements by friction, the waste of their parts by attrition, the various pressure of the atmosphere, the effects of different effluvia upon metals, the power of heat and cold upon all matter, the changes of gravitation and the hazard of concussion, I cannot but fear that they will supply the world with another instance of fruitless ingenuity, though, I hope, they will not leave upon this country the reproach of unrewarded diligence. I saw, therefore, nothing on which I could fix with probability of success, but the magnetical needle, an instrument easily portable, and little subject to accidental injuries, with which the sailor has had a long acquaintance, which he will willingly study, and can easily consult. The magnetick needle, from the year 1300, when it is generally supposed to have been first applied by Flavio Gioia, of Amalfi, to the seaman's use, seems to have been long thought to point exactly to the north and south by the navigators of those times; who sailing commonly on the calm Mediterranean, or making only short voyages, had no need of very accurate observations; and who, if they ever transiently observed any deviations from the meridian, either ascribed them to some extrinsick and accidental cause, or willingly neglected what it was not necessary to understand. But when the discovery of the new world turned the attention of mankind upon the naval sciences, and long courses required greater niceties of practice, the variation of the needle soon became observable, and was recorded, in 1500, by Sebastian Cabot, a Portuguese, who, at the expense of the king of England, discovered the northern coasts of America. As the next century was a time of naval adventures, it might be expected that the variation once observed, should have been well studied: yet it seems to have been little heeded; for it was supposed to be constant, and always the same in the same place, till, in 1625, Gellibrand noted its changes, and published his observations. From this time the philosophical world had a new subject of speculation, and the students of magnetism employed their researches upon the gradual changes of the needle's direction, or the variations of the variation, which have hitherto appeared so desultory and capricious, as to elude all the schemes which the most fanciful of the philosophical dreamers could devise for its explication. Any system that could have united these tormenting diversities, they seem inclined to have received, and would have contentedly numbered the revolutions of a central magnet, with very little concern about its existence, could they have assigned it any motion, or vicissitude of motions, which would have corresponded with the changes of the needle. Yet upon this secret property of magnetism I ventured to build my hopes of ascertaining the longitude at sea. I found it undeniably certain that the needle varies its direction in a course eastward or westward between any assignable parallels of latitude: and, supposing nature to be in this, as in all other operations, uniform and consistent, I doubted not but the variation proceeded in some established method, though, perhaps, too abstruse and complicated for human comprehension. This difficulty, however, was to be encountered; and by close and steady perseverance of attention I at last subdued, or thought myself to have subdued it: having formed a regular system in which all the phenomena seemed to be reconciled; and, being able, from the variation in places where it is known, to trace it to those where it is unknown; or from the past to predict the future; and, consequently, knowing the latitude and variation, to assign the true longitude of any place. With this system I came to London, where, having laid my proposals before a number of ingenious gentlemen, it was agreed that during the time required to the completion of my experiments, I should be supported by a joint subscription to be repaid out of the reward, to which they concluded me entitled. Among the subscribers, was Mr. Rowley, the memorable constructor of the orrery; and among my favourers was the lord Piesley, a title not unknown among magnetical philosophers. I frequently showed, upon a globe of brass, experiments by which my system was confirmed, at the house of Mr. Rowley, where the learned and curious of that time generally assembled. At this time great expectations were raised by Mr. Whiston, of ascertaining the longitude by the inclination of the needle, which he supposed to increase or diminish regularly. With this learned man I had many conferences, in which I endeavoured to evince what he has at last confessed in the narrative of his life, the uncertainty and inefficacy of his method. About the year 1729, my subscribers explained my pretensions to the lords of the Admiralty, and the lord Torrington declared my claim just to the reward assigned, in the last clause of the act, to those who should make discoveries conducive to the perfection of the art of sailing. This he pressed with so much warmth, that the commissioners agreed to lay my tables before Sir Isaac Newton, who excused himself, by reason of his age, from a regular examination: but when he was informed that I held the variation at London to be still increasing; which he and the other philosophers, his pupils, thought to be then stationary, and on the point of regression, he declared that he believed my system visionary. I did not much murmur to be for a time overborne by that mighty name, even when I believed that the name only was against me: and I have lived till I am able to produce, in my favour, the testimony of time, the inflexible enemy of false hypotheses; the only testimony which it becomes human understanding to oppose to the authority of Newton. My notions have, indeed, been since treated with equal superciliousness by those who have not the same title to confidence of decision; men who, though, perhaps, very learned in their own studies, have had little acquaintance with mine. Yet even this may be borne far better than the petulance of boys, whom I have seen shoot up into philosophers by experiments which I have long since made and neglected, and by improvements which I have so long transferred into my ordinary practice, that I cannot remember when I was without them. When Sir Isaac Newton had declined the office assigned him, it was given to Mr. Molineux, one of the commissioners of the Admiralty, who engaged in it with no great inclination to favour me; but, however, thought one of the instruments, which, to confirm my own opinion, and to confute Mr. Whiston's, I had exhibited to the Admiralty, so curious or useful, that he surreptitiously copied it on paper, and clandestinely endeavoured to have it imitated by a workman for his own use. This treatment naturally produced remonstrances and altercations, which, indeed, did not continue long, for Mr. Molineux died soon afterwards; and my proposals were for a time forgotten. I will not, however, accuse him of designing to condemn me, without a trial; for he demanded a portion of my tables to be tried in a voyage to America, which I then thought I had reason to refuse him, not yet knowing how difficult it was to obtain, on any terms, an actual examination. About this time the theory of Dr. Halley was the chief subject of mathematical conversation; and though I could not but consider him as too much a rival to be appealed to as a judge, yet his reputation determined me to solicit his acquaintance and hazard his opinion. I was introduced to him by Mr. Lowthorp and Dr. Desaguliers, and put my tables into his hands; which, after having had them about twenty days under consideration, he returned in the presence of the learned Mr. Machin, and many other skilful men, with an entreaty that I would publish them speedily; for I should do infinite service to mankind. It is one of the melancholy pleasures of an old man, to recollect the kindness of friends, whose kindness he shall experience no more. I have now none left to favour my studies; and, therefore, naturally turn my thoughts on those by whom I was favoured in better days: and I hope the vanity of age may be forgiven, when I declare that I can boast among my friends, almost every name of my time that is now remembered: and that, in that great period of mathematical competition, scarce any man failed to appear as my defender, who did not appear as my antagonist. By these friends I was encouraged to exhibit to the Royal Society, an ocular proof of the reasonableness of my theory by a sphere of iron, on which a small compass moved in various directions, exhibiting no imperfect system of magnetical attraction. The experiment was shown by Mr. Hawkesbee, and the explanation, with which it was accompanied, was read by Dr. Mortimer. I received the thanks of the society; and was solicited to reposit my theory, properly sealed and attested, among their archives, for the information of posterity. I am informed, that this whole transaction is recorded in their minutes. After this I withdrew from publick notice, and applied myself wholly to the continuation of my experiments, the confirmation of my system, and the completion of my tables, with no other companion than Mr. Gray, who shared all my studies and amusements, and used to repay my communications of magnetism, with his discoveries in electricity. Thus I proceeded with incessant diligence; and, perhaps, in the zeal of inquiry, did not sufficiently reflect on the silent encroachments of time, or remember, that no man is in more danger of doing little, than he who flatters himself with abilities to do all. When I was forced out of my retirement, I came loaded with the infirmities of age, to struggle with the difficulties of a narrow fortune; cut off by the blindness of my daughter from the only assistance which I ever had; deprived by time of my patron and friends; a kind of stranger in a new world, where curiosity is now diverted to other objects, and where, having no means of ingratiating my labours, I stand the single votary of an obsolete science, the scoff of puny pupils of puny philosophers. In this state of dereliction and depression, I have bequeathed to posterity the following table; which, if time shall verify my conjectures, will show that the variation was once known; and that mankind had once within their reach an easy method of discovering the longitude. I will not, however, engage to maintain, that all my numbers are theoretically and minutely exact: I have not endeavoured at such degrees of accuracy as only distract inquiry without benefiting practice. The quantity of the variation has been settled partly by instruments, and partly by computation: instruments must always partake of the imperfection of the eyes and hands of those that make, and of those that use them: and computation, till it has been rectified by experiment, is always in danger of some omission in the premises, or some errour in the deduction. It must be observed, in the use of this table, that though I name particular cities, for the sake of exciting attention, yet the tables are adjusted only to longitude and latitude. Thus when I predict that, at Prague, the variation will in the year 1800 be 24-1/4 W. I intend to say, that it will be such, if Prague be, as I-have placed it, after the best geographers in longitude, 14 30'. E. latitude 50 40'. but that this is its true situation I cannot be certain. The latitude of many places is unknown, and the longitude is known of very few; and even those who are unacquainted with science will be convinced that it is not easily to be found, when they are told how many degrees Dr. Halley, and the French mathematicians, place the cape of Good Hope distant from each other. Those who would pursue this inquiry with philosophical nicety, must, likewise, procure better needles than those commonly in use. The needle, which, after long experience, I recommend to mariners, must be of pure steel, the spines and the cap of one piece, the whole length three inches, each spine containing four grains and a half of steel, and the cap thirteen grains and a half. The common needles are so ill formed, or so unskilfully suspended, that they are affected by many causes besides magnetism; and, among other inconveniencies, have given occasion to the idle dream of a horary variation. I doubt not but particular places may produce exceptions to my system. There may be, in many parts of the earth, bodies which obstruct or intercept the general influence of magnetism; but those interruptions do not infringe the theory. It is allowed, that water will run down a declivity, though sometimes a strong wind may force it upwards. It is granted, that the sun gives light at noon, though, in certain conjunctions, it may suffer an eclipse. Those causes, whatever they are, that interrupt the course of the magnetical powers, are least likely to be found in the great ocean, when the earth, with all its minerals, is secluded from the compass by the vast body of uniform water. So that this method of finding the longitude, with a happy contrariety to all others, is most easy and practicable at sea. This method, therefore, I recommend to the study and prosecution of the sailor and philosopher; and the appendant specimen I exhibit to the candid examination of the maritime nations, as a specimen of a general table, showing the variation at all times and places for the whole revolution of the magnetick poles, which I have long ago begun, and, with just encouragement, should have long ago completed. [1] An account of an attempt to ascertain the longitude at sea, by an exact theory of the variation of the magnetical needle; with a table of variations at the most remarkable cities in Europe, from the year 1660 to 1860. By Zachariah Williams. CONSIDERATIONS ON THE PLANS OFFERED FOR THE CONSTRUCTION OF BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE. In three letters, to the printer of the Gazetteer. LETTER I. SIR, Dec. 1, 1759. The plans which have been offered by different architects, of different reputation and abilities, for the construction of the bridge intended to be built at Blackfriars, are, by the rejection of the greater part, now reduced to a small number; in which small number, three are supposed to be much superiour to the rest; so that only three architects are now properly competitors for the honour of this great employment; by two of whom are proposed semicircular, and by the other elliptical arches. The question is, therefore, whether an elliptical or semicircular arch is to be preferred? The first excellence of a bridge, built for commerce, over a large river, is strength; for a bridge which cannot stand, however beautiful, will boast its beauty but a little while: the stronger arch is, therefore, to be preferred, and much more to be preferred, if, with greater strength, it has greater beauty. Those who are acquainted with the mathematical principles of architecture, are not many; and yet fewer are they who will, upon any single occasion, endure any laborious stretch of thought, or harass their minds with unaccustomed investigations. We shall, therefore, attempt to show the weakness of the elliptical arch, by arguments which appeal simply to common reason, and which will yet stand the test of geometrical examination. All arches have a certain degree of weakness. No hollow building can be equally strong with a solid mass, of which every upper part presses perpendicularly upon the lower. Any weight laid upon the top of an arch, has a tendency to force that top into the vacuity below; and the arch, thus loaded on the top, stands only because the stones that form it, being wider in the upper than in the lower parts, that part that fills a wider space cannot fall through a space less wide; but the force which, laid upon a flat, would press directly downwards, is dispersed each way in a lateral direction, as the parts of a beam are pushed out to the right and left by a wedge driven between them. In proportion as the stones are wider at the top than at the bottom, they can less easily be forced downwards, and, as their lateral surfaces tend more from the centre to each side, to so much more is the pressure directed laterally towards the piers, and so much less perpendicularly towards the vacuity. Upon this plain principle the semicircular arch may be demonstrated to excel in strength the elliptical arch, which, approaching nearer to a straight line, must be constructed with stones whose diminution downwards is very little, and of which the pressure is almost perpendicular. It has yet been sometimes asserted by hardy ignorance, that the elliptical arch is stronger than the semicircular; or in other terms, that any mass is more strongly supported the less it rests upon the supporters. If the elliptical arch be equally strong with the semicircular; that is, if an arch, by approaching to a straight line, loses none of its stability, it will follow, that all arcuation is useless, and that the bridge may at last, without any inconvenience, consist of stone laid in straight lines from pillar to pillar. But if a straight line will bear no weight, which is evident at the first view, it is plain, likewise, that an ellipsis will bear very little; and that, as the arch is more curved, its strength is increased. Having thus evinced the superiour strength of the semicircular arch, we have sufficiently proved, that it ought to be preferred; but to leave no objection unprevented, we think it proper, likewise, to observe, that the elliptical arch must always appear to want elevation and dignity; and that if beauty be to be determined by suffrages, the elliptical arch will have little to boast, since the only bridge of that kind has now stood two hundred years without imitation. If, in opposition to these arguments, and in defiance, at once, of right reason and general authority, the elliptical arch should at last be chosen, what will the world believe, than that some other motive than reason influenced the determination? And some degree of partiality cannot but be suspected by him, who has been told that one of the judges appointed to decide this question, is Mr. M--ll--r, who, having by ignorance, or thoughtlessness, already preferred the elliptical arch, will, probably, think himself obliged to maintain his own judgment, though his opinion will avail but little with the publick, when it is known that Mr. S--ps--n declares it to be false. He that, in the list of the committee chosen for the superintendency of the bridge, reads many of the most illustrious names of this great city, will hope that the greater number will have more reverence for the opinion of posterity, than to disgrace themselves, and the metropolis of the kingdom, in compliance with any man, who, instead of voting, aspires to dictate, perhaps, without any claim to such superiority, either by greatness of birth, dignity of employment, extent of knowledge, or largeness of fortune. LETTER II. SIR, Dec. 8, 1759. In questions of general concern, there is no law of government, or rule of decency, that forbids open examination and publick discussion. I shall, therefore, not betray, by a mean apology, that right which no man has power, and, I suppose, no wise man has desire to refuse me; but shall consider the letter published by you last Friday, in defence of Mr. M----'s[1] design for a new bridge. Mr. M---- proposes elliptical arches. It has been objected, that elliptical arches are weak; and, therefore, improper for a bridge of commerce, in a country where greater weights are ordinarily carried by land, than, perhaps, in any other part of the world. That there is an elliptical bridge at Florence is allowed, but the objectors maintain, that its stability is so much doubted, that carts are not permitted to pass over it. To this no answer is made, but that it was built for coaches; and if it had been built for carts, it would have been made stronger: thus all the controvertists agree, that the bridge is too weak for carts; and it is of little importance, whether carts are prohibited, because the bridge is weak, or whether the architect, knowing that carts were prohibited, voluntarily constructed a weak bridge. The instability of the elliptical arch has been sufficiently proved by argument, and Ammanuti's attempt has proved it by example. The iron rail, whether gilt or varnished, appears to me unworthy of debate. I suppose every judicious eye will discern it to be minute and trifling, equally unfit to make a part of a great design, whatever be its colour. I shall only observe how little the writer understands his own positions, when he recommends it to be cast in whole pieces from pier to pier. That iron forged is stronger than iron cast, every smith can inform him; and if it be cast in large pieces, the fracture of a single bar must be repaired by a new piece. The abrupt rise, which is feared from firm circular arches, may be easily prevented, by a little extension of the abutment at each end, which will take away the objection, and add almost nothing to the expense. The whole of the argument in favour of Mr. M----, is only, that there is an elliptical bridge at Florence, and an iron balustrade at Rome; the bridge is owned to be weak, and the iron balustrade we consider as mean, and are loath that our own country should unite two follies in a publick work. The architrave of Perrault, which has been pompously produced, bears nothing but its entablature; and is so far from owing its support to the artful section of the stone, that it is held together by cramps of iron; to which I am afraid Mr. M---- must have recourse, if he persists in his ellipsis, or, to use the words of his vindicator, forms his arch of four segments of circles drawn from four different centres. That Mr. M---- obtained the prize of the architecture at Rome, a few months ago, is willingly confessed; nor do his opponents doubt that he obtained it by deserving it. May he continue to obtain whatever he deserves; but let it not be presumed that a prize granted at Rome, implies an irresistible degree of skill. The competition is only between boys, and the prize, given to excite laudable industry, not to reward consummate excellence. Nor will the suffrage of the Romans much advance any name among those who know, what no man of science will deny, that architecture has, for some time, degenerated at Rome to the lowest state, and that the pantheon is now deformed by petty decorations. I am, Sir, yours, &c. [1] Mr. Milne. LETTER III. Sir, Dec. 15,1759. It is the common fate of erroneous positions, that they are betrayed by defence, and obscured by explanation; that their authors deviate from the main question into incidental disquisitions, and raise a mist where they should let in light. Of all these concomitants of errours, the letter of Dec. 10, in favour of elliptical arches, has afforded examples. A great part of it is spent upon digressions. The writer allows, that the first excellence of a bridge is undoubtedly strength: but this concession affords him an opportunity of telling us, that strength, or provision against decay, has its limits; and of mentioning the monument and cupola, without any advance towards evidence or argument. The first excellence of a bridge is now allowed to be strength; and it has been asserted, that a semi-ellipsis has less strength than a semicircle. To this he first answers, that granting this position for a moment, the semi-ellipsis may yet have strength sufficient for the purposes of commerce. This grant, which was made but for a moment, needed not to have been made at all; for, before he concludes his letter, he undertakes to prove, that the elliptical arch must, in all respects, be superiour in strength to the semicircle. For this daring assertion he made way by the intermediate paragraphs, in which he observes, that the convexity of a semi-ellipsis may be increased at will to any degree that strength may require; which is, that an elliptical arch may be made less elliptical, to be made less weak; or that an arch, which, by its elliptical form, is superiour in strength to the semicircle, may become almost as strong as a semicircle, by being made almost semicircular. That the longer diameter of an ellipsis may be shortened, till it shall differ little from a circle, is indisputably true; but why should the writer forget the semicircle differs as little from such an ellipsis? It seems that the difference, whether small or great, is to the advantage of the semicircle; for he does not promise that the elliptical arch, with all the convexity that his imagination can confer, will stand without cramps of iron, and melted lead, and large stones, and a very thick arch; assistances which the semicircle does not require, and which can be yet less required by a semi-ellipsis, which is, in all respects, superiour in strength. Of a man who loves opposition so well, as to be thus at variance with himself, little doubt can be made of his contrariety to others; nor do I think myself entitled to complain of disregard from one, with whom the performances of antiquity have so little weight; yet, in defiance of all this contemptuous superiority, I must again venture to declare, that a straight line will bear no weight; being convinced, that not even the science of Vasari can make that form strong which the laws of nature have condemned to weakness. By the position, that a straight line will bear nothing, is meant, that it receives no strength from straightness; for that many bodies, laid in straight lines, will support weight by the cohesion of their parts, every one has found, who has seen dishes on a shelf, or a thief upon the gallows. It is not denied, that stones may be so crushed together by enormous pressure on each side, that a heavy mass may safely be laid upon them; but the strength must be derived merely from the lateral resistance; and the line, so loaded, will be itself part of the load. The semi-elliptical arch has one recommendation yet unexamined: we are told, that it is difficult of execution. Why difficulty should be chosen for its own sake, I am not able to discover; but it must not be forgotten, that, as the convexity is increased, the difficulty is lessened; and I know not well, whether this writer, who appears equally ambitious of difficulty, and studious of strength, will wish to increase the convexity for the gain of strength, or to lessen it for the love of difficulty. The friend of Mr. M----, however he may be mistaken in some of his opinions, does not want the appearance of reason, when he prefers facts to theories; and that I may not dismiss the question without some appeal to facts, I will borrow an example, suggested by a great artist, and recommended to those who may still doubt which of the two arches is the stronger, to press an egg first on the ends, and then upon the sides. I am, Sir, yours, &c. SOME THOUGHTS ON AGRICULTURE, BOTH ANCIENT AND MODERN, With an account of the honour due to an English farmer[1]. Agriculture, in the primeval ages, was the common parent of traffick; for the opulence of mankind then consisted in cattle, and the product of tillage, which are now very essential for the promotion of trade in general, but more particularly so to such nations as are most abundant in cattle, corn, and fruits. The labour of the farmer gives employment to the manufacturer, and yields a support for the other parts of the community: it is now the spring which sets the whole grand machine of commerce in motion; and the sail could not be spread without the assistance of the plough. But though the farmers are of such utility in a state, we find them, in general, too much disregarded among the politer kind of people in the present age; while we cannot help observing the honour that antiquity has always paid to the profession of the husbandman; which naturally leads us into some reflections upon that occasion. Though mines of gold and silver should be exhausted, and the specie made of them lost; though diamonds and pearls should remain concealed in the bowels of the earth, and the womb of the sea; though commerce with strangers be prohibited; though all arts, which have no other object than splendour and embellishment, should be abolished; yet the fertility of the earth alone would afford an abundant supply for the occasions of an industrious people, by furnishing subsistence for them, and such armies as should be mustered in their defence. We, therefore, ought not to be surprised, that agriculture was in so much honour among the ancients; for it ought rather to seem wonderful that it should ever cease to be so, and that the most necessary and most indispensable of all professions should have fallen into any contempt. Agriculture was in no part of the world in higher consideration than Egypt, where it was the particular object of government and policy; nor was any country ever better peopled, richer, or more powerful. The satrapae, among the Assyrians and Persians, were rewarded, if the lands in their governments were well cultivated; but were punished, if that part of their duty was neglected. Africa abounded in corn; but the most famous countries were Thrace, Sardinia, and Sicily. Cato, the censor, has justly called Sicily the magazine and nursing mother of the Roman people, who were supplied from thence with almost all their corn, both for the use of the city, and the subsistence of her armies: though we also find in Livy, that the Romans received no inconsiderable quantities of corn from Sardinia. But, when Rome had made herself mistress of Carthage and Alexandria, Africa and Egypt became her storehouses; for those cities sent such numerous fleets every year, freighted with corn, to Rome, that Alexandria alone annually supplied twenty millions of bushels: and, when the harvest happened to fail in one of these provinces, the other came in to its aid, and supported the metropolis of the world, which, without this supply, would have been in danger of perishing by famine. Rome actually saw herself reduced to this condition under Augustus; for there remained only three days' provision of corn in the city: and that prince was so full of tenderness for the people, that he had resolved to poison himself, if the expected fleets did not arrive before the expiration of that time; but they came; and the preservation of the Romans was attributed to the good fortune of their emperour: but wise precautions were taken to avoid the like danger for the future. When the seat of empire was transplanted to Constantinople, that city was supplied in the same manner: and when the emperour, Septimius Severus, died, there was corn in the publick magazines for seven years, expending daily 75,000 bushels in bread, for 600,000 men. The ancients were no less industrious in the cultivation of the vine than in that of corn, though they applied themselves to it later: for Noah planted it by order, and discovered the use that might be made of the fruit, by pressing out and preserving the juice. The vine was carried by the offspring of Noah into the several countries of the world; but Asia was the first to experience the sweets of this gift; from whence it was imparted to Europe and Africa. Greece and Italy, which were distinguished in so many other respects, were particularly so by the excellency of their wines. Greece was most celebrated for the wines of Cyprus, Lesbos, and Chio; the former of which is in great esteem at present, though the cultivation of the vine has been generally suppressed in the Turkish dominions. As the Romans were indebted to the Grecians for the arts and sciences, so were they, likewise, for the improvement of their wines; the best of which were produced in the country of Capua, and were called the Massick, Calenian, Formian, Caecuban, and Falernian, so much celebrated by Horace. Domitian passed an edict for destroying all the vines, and that no more should be planted throughout the greatest part of the west; which continued almost two hundred years afterwards, when the emperour Probus employed his soldiers in planting vines in Europe, in the same manner as Hannibal had formerly employed his troops in planting olive trees in Africa. Some of the ancients have endeavoured to prove, that the cultivation of vines is more beneficial than any other kind of husbandry: but, if this was thought so in the time of Columella, it is very different at present; nor were all the ancients of his opinion, for several gave the preference to pasture lands. The breeding of cattle has always been considered as an important part of agriculture. The riches of Abraham, Laban, and Job, consisted in their flocks and herds. We also find from Latinus in Virgil, and Ulysses in Homer, that the wealth of those princes consisted in cattle. It was, likewise, the same among the Romans, till the introduction of money, which put a value upon commodities, and established a new kind of barter. Varro has not disdained to give an extensive account of all the beasts that are of any use to the country, either for tillage, breed, carriage, or other conveniencies of man. And Cato, the censor, was of opinion, that the feeding of cattle was the most certain and speedy method of enriching a country. Luxury, avarice, injustice, violence, and ambition, take up their ordinary residence in populous cities; while the hard and laborious life of the husbandman will not admit of these vices. The honest farmer lives in a wise and happy state, which inclines him to justice, temperance, sobriety, sincerity, and every virtue that can dignify human nature. This gave room for the poets to feign, that Astraea, the goddess of justice, had her last residence among husbandmen, before she quitted the earth. Hesiod and Virgil have brought the assistance of the Muses in praise of agriculture. Kings, generals, and philosophers, have not thought it unworthy their birth, rank, and genius, to leave precepts to posterity upon the utility of the husbandman's profession. Hiero, Attalus, and Archelaus, kings of Syracuse, Pergamus, and Cappadocia, have composed books for supporting and augmenting the fertility of their different countries. The Carthaginian general, Mago, wrote twenty-eight volumes upon this subject; and Cato, the censor, followed his example. Nor have Plato, Xenophon, and Aristotle, omitted this article, which makes an essential part of their politicks. And Cicero, speaking of the writings of Xenophon, says, "How fully and excellently does he, in that book called his Economicks, set out the advantages of husbandry, and a country life!" When Britain was subject to the Romans, she annually supplied them with great quantities of corn; and the isle of Anglesea was then looked upon as the granary for the western provinces; but the Britons, both under the Romans and Saxons, were employed like slaves at the plough. On the intermixture of the Danes and Normans, possessions were better regulated, and the state of vassalage gradually declined, till it was entirely worn off under the reigns of Henry the seventh and Edward the sixth; for they hurt the old nobility by favouring the commons, who grew rich by trade, and purchased estates. The wines of France, Portugal, and Spain, are now the best; while Italy can only boast of the wine made in Tuscany. The breeding of cattle is now chiefly confined to Denmark and Ireland. The corn of Sicily is still in great esteem, as well as what is produced in the northern countries: but England is the happiest spot in the universe for all the principal kinds of agriculture, and especially its great produce of corn. The improvement of our landed estates is the enrichment of the kingdom; for, without this, how could we carry on our manufactures, or prosecute our commerce? We should look upon the English farmer as the most useful member of society. His arable grounds not only supply his fellow-subjects with all kinds of the best grain, but his industry enables him to export great quantities to other kingdoms, which might otherwise starve; particularly Spain and Portugal; for, in one year, there have been exported 51,520 quarters of barley, 219,781 of malt, 1,920 of oatmeal, 1,329 of rye, and 153,343 of wheat; the bounty on which amounted to 72,433 pounds. What a fund of treasure arises from his pasture lands, which breed such innumerable flocks of sheep, and afford such fine herds of cattle, to feed Britons, and clothe mankind! He rears flax and hemp for the making of linen; while his plantations of apples and hops supply him with generous kinds of liquors. The land-tax, when at four shillings in the pound, produces 2,000,000 pounds a year. This arises from the labour of the husbandman: it is a great sum; but how greatly is it increased by the means it furnishes for trade! Without the industry of the farmer, the manufacturer could have no goods to supply the merchant, nor the merchant find any employment for the mariners: trade would be stagnated; riches would be of no advantage to the great; and labour of no service to the poor. The Romans, as historians all allow, Sought, in extreme distress, the rural plough; _Io triumphe!_ for the village swain, Retired to be a nobleman[2] again. FOOTNOTES: [1] From the Universal Visiter, for February, 1756, p. 59.--Smart, the poet, had a considerable hand in this miscellany. The very first sentence, however, may convince any reader that Dr. Johnson did not write these Thoughts: they are inserted here merely as an introduction to the Further Thoughts, which follow, and which are undoubtedly his. [2] Cincinnatus. FURTHER THOUGHTS ON AGRICULTURE[1]. [1] From the Visiter for March, 1756, p. 111. At my last visit, I took the liberty of mentioning a subject, which, I think, is not considered with attention proportionate to its importance. Nothing can more fully prove the ingratitude of mankind, a crime often charged upon them, and often denied, than the little regard which the disposers of honorary rewards have paid to agriculture, which is treated as a subject so remote from common life, by all those who do not immediately hold the plough, or give fodder to the ox, that I think there is room to question, whether a great part of mankind has yet been informed that life is sustained by the fruits of the earth. I was once, indeed, provoked to ask a lady of great eminence for genius, "Whether she knew of what bread is made?" I have already observed, how differently agriculture was considered by the heroes and wise men of the Roman commonwealth, and shall now only add, that even after the emperours had made great alteration in the system of life, and taught men to portion out their esteem to other qualities than usefulness, agriculture still maintained its reputation, and was taught by the polite and elegant Celsus among the other arts. The usefulness of agriculture I have already shown; I shall now, therefore, prove its necessity: and, having before declared, that it produces the chief riches of a nation, I shall proceed to show, that it gives its only riches, the only riches which we can call our own, and of which we need not fear either deprivation or diminution. Of nations, as of individuals, the first blessing is independence. Neither the man nor the people can be happy to whom any human power can deny the necessaries or conveniencies of life. There is no way of living without the need of foreign assistance, but by the product of our own land, improved by our own labour. Every other source of plenty is perishable or casual. Trade and manufactures must be confessed often to enrich countries; and we ourselves are indebted to them for those ships by which we now command the sea from the equator to the poles, and for those sums with which we have shown ourselves able to arm the nations of the north in defence of regions in the western hemisphere. But trade and manufactures, however profitable, must yield to the cultivation of lands in usefulness and dignity. Commerce, however we may please ourselves with the contrary opinion, is one of the daughters of Fortune, inconstant and deceitful as her mother; she chooses her residence where she is least expected, and shifts her abode when her continuance is, in appearance, most firmly settled. Who can read of the present distresses of the Genoese, whose only choice now remaining is, from what monarch they shall solicit protection? Who can see the Hanseatick towns in ruins, where, perhaps, the inhabitants do not always equal the number of the houses, but he will say to himself, these are the cities, whose trade enabled them once to give laws to the world, to whose merchants princes sent their jewels in pawn, from whose treasuries armies were paid, and navies supplied? And who can then forbear to consider trade as a weak and uncertain basis of power, and wish to his own country greatness more solid, and felicity more durable? It is apparent, that every trading nation flourishes, while it can be said to flourish, by the courtesy of others. We cannot compel any people to buy from us, or to sell to us. A thousand accidents may prejudice them in favour of our rivals; the workmen of another nation may labour for less price, or some accidental improvement, or natural advantage, may procure a just preference to their commodities; as experience has shown, that there is no work of the hands, which, at different times, is not best performed in different places. Traffick, even while it continues in its state of prosperity, must owe its success to agriculture; the materials of manufacture are the produce of the earth. The wool which we weave into cloth, the wood which is formed into cabinets, the metals which are forged into weapons, are supplied by nature with the help of art. Manufactures, indeed, and profitable manufactures, are sometimes raised from imported materials, but then we are subjected, a second time, to the caprice of our neighbours. The natives of Lombardy might easily resolve to retain their silk at home, and employ workmen of their own to weave it. And this will certainly be done when they grow wise and industrious, when they have sagacity to discern their true interest, and vigour to pursue it. Mines are generally considered as the great sources of wealth, and superficial observers have thought the possession of great quantities of precious metals the first national happiness. But Europe has long seen, with wonder and contempt, the poverty of Spain, who thought herself exempted from the labour of tilling the ground, by the conquest of Peru, with its veins of silver. Time, however, has taught even this obstinate and haughty nation, that without agriculture they may, indeed, be the transmitters of money, but can never be the possessours. They may dig it out of the earth, but must immediately send it away to purchase cloth or bread, and it must at last remain with some people wise enough to sell much, and to buy little; to live upon their own lands, without a wish for those things which nature has denied them. Mines are themselves of no use, without some kind of agriculture. We have, in our own country, inexhaustible stores of iron, which lie useless in the ore for want of wood. It was never the design of Providence to feed man without his own concurrence; we have from nature only what we cannot provide for ourselves; she gives us wild fruits, which art must meliorate, and drossy metals, which labour must refine. Particular metals are valuable, because they are scarce; and they are scarce, because the mines that yield them are emptied in time. But the surface of the earth is more liberal than its caverns. The field, which is this autumn laid naked by the sickle, will be covered, in the succeeding summer, by a new harvest; the grass, which the cattle are devouring, shoots up again when they have passed over it. Agriculture, therefore, and agriculture alone, can support us without the help of others, in certain plenty, and genuine dignity. Whatever we buy from without, the sellers may refuse; whatever we sell, manufactured by art, the purchasers may reject; but, while our ground is covered with corn and cattle, we can want nothing; and if imagination should grow sick of native plenty, and call for delicacies or embellishments from other countries, there is nothing which corn and cattle will not purchase. Our country is, perhaps, beyond all others, productive of things necessary to life. The pineapple thrives better between the tropicks, and better furs are found in the northern regions. But let us not envy these unnecessary privileges. Mankind cannot subsist upon the indulgences of nature, but must be supported by her more common gifts. They must feed upon bread, and be clothed with wool; and the nation that can furnish these universal commodities, may have her ships welcomed at a thousand ports, or sit at home and receive the tribute of foreign countries, enjoy their arts, or treasure up their gold. It is well known to those who have examined the state of other countries, that the vineyards of France are more than equivalent to the mines of America; and that one great use of Indian gold, and Peruvian silver, is to procure the wines of Champaigne and Burgundy. The advantage is, indeed, always rising on the side of France, who will certainly have wines, when Spain, by a thousand natural or accidental causes, may want silver. But, surely, the valleys of England have more certain stores of wealth. Wines are chosen by caprice; the products of France have not always been equally esteemed; but there never was any age, or people, that reckoned bread among superfluities, when once it was known. The price of wheat and barley suffers not any variation, but what is caused by the uncertainty of seasons. I am far from intending to persuade my countrymen to quit all other employments for that of manuring the ground. I mean only to prove, that we have, at home, all that we can want, and that, therefore, we need feel no great anxiety about the schemes of other nations for improving their arts, or extending their traffick. But there is no necessity to infer, that we should cease from commerce, before the revolution of things shall transfer it to some other regions! Such vicissitudes the world has often seen; and, therefore, such we have reason to expect. We hear many clamours of declining trade, which are not, in my opinion, always true; and many imputations of that decline to governours and ministers, which may be sometimes just, and sometimes calumnious. But it is foolish to imagine, that any care or policy can keep commerce at a stand, which almost every nation has enjoyed and lost, and which we must expect to lose as we have long enjoyed. There is some danger, lest our neglect of agriculture should hasten its departure. Our industry has, for many ages, been employed in destroying the woods which our ancestors have planted. It is well known that commerce is carried on by ships, and that ships are built out of trees; and, therefore, when I travel over naked plains, to which tradition has preserved the name of forests, or see hills arising on either hand barren and useless, I cannot forbear to wonder, how that commerce, of which we promise ourselves the perpetuity, shall be continued by our descendants; nor can restrain a sigh, when I think on the time, a time at no great distance, when our neighbours may deprive us of our naval influence, by refusing us their timber. By agriculture only can commerce be perpetuated; and by agriculture alone can we live in plenty without intercourse with other nations. This, therefore, is the great art, which every government ought to protect, every proprietor of lands to practise, and every inquirer into nature to improve. CONSIDERATION ON THE CORN LAWS[1]. By what causes the necessaries of life have risen to a price, at which a great part of the people are unable to procure them, how the present scarcity may be remedied, and calamities of the same kind may, for the future, be prevented, is an inquiry of the first importance; an inquiry, before which all the considerations which commonly busy the legislature vanish from the view. The interruption of trade, though it may distress part of the community, leaves the rest power to communicate relief: the decay of one manufacture may be compensated by the advancement of another: a defeat may be repaired by victory: a rupture with one nation may be balanced by an alliance with another. These are partial and slight misfortunes, which leave us still in the possession of our chief comforts. They may lop some of our superfluous pleasures, and repress some of our exorbitant hopes; but we may still retain the essential part of civil and of private happiness--the security of law, and the tranquillity of content. They are small obstructions of the stream, which raise a foam and noise, where they happen to be found, but, at a little distance, are neither seen nor felt, and suffer the main current to pass forward in its natural course. But scarcity is an evil that extends at once to the whole community: that neither leaves quiet to the poor, nor safety to the rich; that, in its approaches, distresses all the subordinate ranks of mankind; and, in its extremity, must subvert government, drive the populace upon their rulers, and end in bloodshed and massacre. Those who want the supports of life will seize them wherever they can be found. If in any place there are more than can be fed, some must be expelled, or some must be destroyed. Of this dreadful scene there is no immediate danger; but there is already evil sufficient to deserve and require all our diligence and all our wisdom. The miseries of the poor are such as cannot easily be borne; such as have already incited them, in many parts of the kingdom, to an open defiance of government, and produced one of the greatest of political evils--the necessity of ruling by immediate force. Cæsar declared, after the battle of Munda, that he had often fought for victory, but that he had, that day, fought for life. We have often deliberated, how we should prosper; we are now to inquire, how we shall subsist. The present scarcity is imputed, by some, to the bounty for exporting corn, which is considered as having a necessary and perpetual tendency to pour the grain of this country into other nations. This position involves two questions: whether the present scarcity has been caused by the bounty? and whether the bounty is likely to produce scarcity in future times? It is an uncontroverted principle, that "sublata causa tollitur effectus;" if, therefore, the effect continues when the supposed cause has ceased, that effect must be imputed to some other agency. The bounty has ceased, and the exportation would still continue, if exportation were permitted. The true reason of the scarcity is the failure of the harvest; and the cause of exportation is the like failure in other countries, where they grow less, and where they are, therefore, always nearer to the danger of want. This want is such, that in countries where money is at a much higher value than with us, the inhabitants are yet desirous to buy our corn at a price to which our own markets have not risen. If we consider the state of those countries, which, being accustomed to buy our corn cheaper than ourselves, when it was cheap, are now reduced to the necessity of buying it dearer than ourselves, when it is dear, we shall yet have reason to rejoice in our own exemption from the extremity of this wide-extended calamity; and, if it be necessary, to inquire why we suffer scarcity, it may be fit to consider, likewise, why we suffer yet less scarcity than our neighbours. That the bounty upon corn has produced plenty, is apparent: Because, ever since the grant of the bounty, agriculture has increased; scarce a sessions has passed without a law for enclosing commons and waste grounds: Much land has been subjected to tillage, which lay uncultivated with little profit: Yet, though the quantity of land has been thus increased, the rent, which is the price of land, has generally increased at the same time. That more land is appropriated to tillage, is a proof that more corn is raised; and that the rents have not fallen, proves that no more is raised than can readily be sold. But it is urged, that exportation, though it increases our produce, diminishes our plenty; that the merchant has more encouragement for exportation than the farmer for agriculture. This is a paradox which all the principles of commerce and all the experience of policy concur to confute. Whatever is done for gain, will be done more, as more gain is to be obtained. Let the effects of the bounty be minutely considered. The state of every country, with respect to corn, is varied by the chances of the year. Those to whom we sell our corn, must have every year either more corn than they want, or less than they want. We, likewise, are naturally subject to the same varieties. When they have corn equal to their wants, or more, the bounty has no effect; for they will not buy what they do not want, unless our exuberance be such as tempts them to store it for another year. This case must suppose that our produce is redundant and useless to ourselves; and, therefore, the profit of exportation produces no inconvenience. When they want corn, they must buy of us, and buy at a higher price: in this case, if we have corn more than enough for ourselves, we are again benefited by supplying them. But they may want when we have no superfluity. When our markets rise, the bounty ceases; and, therefore, produces no evil. They cannot buy our corn but at a higher rate than it is sold at home. If their necessities, as now has happened, force them to give a higher price, that event is no longer to be charged upon the bounty. We may then stop our corn in our ports, and pour it back upon our own markets. It is, in all cases, to be considered, what events are physical and certain, and what are political and arbitrary. The first effect of the bounty is the increase of agriculture, and, by consequence, the promotion of plenty. This is an effect physically good, and morally certain. While men are desirous to be rich, where there is profit there will be diligence. If much corn can be sold, much will be raised. The second effect of the bounty is the diminution by exportation of that product which it occasioned. But this effect is political and arbitrary; we have it wholly in our own hands; we can prescribe its limits, and regulate its quantity. Whenever we feel want, or fear it, we retain our corn, and feed ourselves upon that which was sown and raised to feed other nations. It is, perhaps, impossible for human wisdom to go further, than to contrive a law of which the good is certain and uniform, and the evil, though possible in itself, yet always subject to certain and effectual restraints. This is the true state of the bounty upon corn: it certainly and necessarily increases our crops, and can never lessen them but by our own permission. That, notwithstanding the bounty, there have been, from time to time, years of scarcity, cannot be denied. But who can regulate the seasons? In the dearest years we owe to the bounty that they have not been dearer. We must always suppose part of our ground sown for our own consumption, and part in hope of a foreign sale. The time sometimes comes, when the product of all this land is scarcely sufficient: but if the whole be too little, how great would have been the deficiency, if we had sown only that part which was designed for ourselves! "But, perhaps, if exportation were less encouraged, the superfluous stores of plentiful years might be laid up by the farmer against years of scarcity." This may be justly answered by affirming, that, if exportation were discouraged, we should have no years of plenty. Cheapness is produced by the possibility of dearness. Our farmers, at present, plough and sow with the hope that some country will always be in want, and that they shall grow rich by supplying. Indefinite hopes are always carried by the frailty of human nature beyond reason. While, therefore, exportation is encouraged, as much corn will be raised as the farmer can hope to sell, and, therefore, generally more than can be sold at the price of which he dreamed, when he ploughed and sowed. The greatest part of our corn is well known to be raised by those, who pay rent for the ground which they employ, and of whom, few can bear to delay the sale of one year's produce to another. It is, therefore, vain to hope that large stocks of grain will ever remain in private hands: he that has not sold the corn of last year, will, with diffidence and reluctance, till his field again; the accumulation of a few years would end in a vacation of agriculture, and the husbandman would apply himself to some more profitable calling. If the exportation of corn were totally prohibited, the quantity, possible to be consumed among us, would be quickly known, and, being known, would rarely be exceeded; for why should corn be gathered which cannot be sold? We should, therefore, have little superfluity in the most favourable seasons; for the farmer, like the rest of mankind, acts in hope of success, and the harvest seldom outgoes the expectation of the spring. But for droughts or blights, we should never be provided: any intemperature of seasons would reduce us to distress, which we now only read of in our histories; what is now scarcity would then be famine. What would be caused by prohibiting exportation, will be caused, in a less degree, by obstructing it, and, in some degree, by every deduction of encouragement; as we lessen hope, we shall lessen labour; as we lessen labour, we shall lessen plenty. It must always be steadily remembered, that the good of the bounty is certain, and evil avoidable; that by the hope of exportation corn will be increased, and that this increase may be kept at home. Plenty can only be produced by encouraging agriculture; and agriculture can be encouraged only by making it gainful. No influence can dispose the farmer to sow what he cannot sell; and, if he is not to have the chance of scarcity in his favour, he will take care that there never shall be plenty. The truth of these principles our ancestors discovered by reason, and the French have now found it by experience. In this regulation we have the honour of being masters to those, who, in commercial policy, have been long accounted the masters of the world. Their prejudices, their emulation, and their vanity, have, at last, submitted to learn of us how to ensure the bounties of nature; and it forms a strange vicissitude of opinions, that should incline us to repeal the law which our rivals are adopting. It may be speciously enough proposed, that the bounty should be discontinued sooner. Of this every man will have his own opinion; which, as no general principles can reach it, will always seem to him more reasonable than that of another. This is a question of which the state is always changing with time and place, and which it is, therefore, very difficult to state or to discuss. It may, however, be considered, that the change of old establishments is always an evil; and that, therefore, where the good of the change is not certain and constant, it is better to preserve that reverence and that confidence, which is produced by consistency of conduct and permanency of laws: That, since the bounty was so fixed, the price of money has been much diminished; so that the bounty does not operate so far as when it was first fixed, but the price at which it ceases, though nominally the same, has, in effect and in reality, gradually diminished. It is difficult to discover any reason why that bounty, which has produced so much good, and has hitherto produced no harm, should be withdrawn or abated. It is possible, that if it were reduced lower, it would still be the motive of agriculture, and the cause of plenty; but why we should desert experience for conjecture, and exchange a known for a possible good, will not easily be discovered. If, by a balance of probabilities, in which a grain of dust may turn the scale--or, by a curious scheme of calculation, in which, if one postulate in a thousand be erroneous, the deduction which promises plenty may end in famine;-- if, by a specious mode of uncertain ratiocination, the critical point at which the bounty should stop, might seem to be discovered, I shall still continue to believe that it is more safe to trust what we have already tried; and cannot but think bread a product of too much importance to be made the sport of subtilty, and the topick of hypothetical disputation. The advantage of the bounty is evident and irrefragable. Since the bounty was given, multitudes eat wheat who did not eat it before, and yet the price of wheat has abated. What more is to be hoped from any change of practice? An alteration cannot make our condition better, and is, therefore, very likely to make it worse[2]. FOOTNOTES: [1] These Considerations, for which we are indebted to Mr. Malone, who published them in 1808, or rather to his liberal publisher, Mr. Payne, were, in the opinion of Mr. Malone, written in November, 1766, when the policy of the parliamentary bounty on the exportation of corn became naturally a subject of discussion. The harvest in that year had been so deficient, and corn had risen to so high a price, that in the months of September and October there had been many insurrections in the midland counties, to which Dr. Johnson alludes; and which were of so alarming a kind, that it was necessary to repress them by military force. [2] This little essay on the Corn Laws was written by Dr. Johnson, which is in the very best style of that great master of reason, so early as the year 1766; and at a period when subjects of this kind were but imperfectly understood, even by those who had devoted themselves to their study. It is truly admirable to see with what vigorous alacrity his powerful mind could apply itself to an investigation so foreign from his habitual occupations. We do not know that a more sound, enlightened argument, in favour of the bounty on exportation, could be collected from all that has since been published on the subject; and, convinced as we are of the radical insufficiency of that argument, it is impossible not to be delighted with the clearness and force of the statement. There are few of his smaller productions that show the great range of Johnson's capacity in a more striking light.--Edin. Review, October, 1809. p. 175.--Ed. A COMPLETE VINDICATION OF THE LICENSERS OF THE STAGE, FROM THE MALICIOUS AND SCANDALOUS ASPERSIONS OF MR. BROOKE, AUTHOR OF GUSTAVUS VASA; WITH A PROPOSAL FOR MAKING THE OFFICE OF LICENSER MORE EXTENSIVE AND EFFECTUAL. BY AN IMPARTIAL HAND.[A] It is generally agreed by the writers of all parties, that few crimes are equal, in their degree of guilt, to that of calumniating a good and gentle, or defending a wicked and oppressive administration. It is, therefore, with the utmost satisfaction of mind, that I reflect how often I have employed my pen in vindication of the present ministry, and their dependants and adherents; how often I have detected the specious fallacies of the advocates for independence; how often I have softened the obstinacy of patriotism; and how often triumphed over the clamour of opposition. I have, indeed, observed but one set of men, upon whom all my arguments have been thrown away; whom neither flattery can draw to compliance, nor threats reduce to submission; and who have, notwithstanding all expedients that either invention or experience could suggest, continued to exert their abilities in a vigorous and constant opposition of all our measures. The unaccountable behaviour of these men, the enthusiastick resolution with which, after a hundred successive defeats, they still renewed their attacks; the spirit with which they continued to repeat their arguments in the senate, though they found a majority determined to condemn them; and the inflexibility with which they rejected all offers of places and preferments, at last excited my curiosity so far, that I applied myself to inquire, with great diligence, into the real motives of their conduct, and to discover what principle it was that had force to inspire such unextinguishable zeal, and to animate such unwearied efforts. For this reason I attempted to cultivate a nearer acquaintance with some of the chiefs of that party, and imagined that it would be necessary, for some time, to dissemble my sentiments, that I might learn theirs. Dissimulation, to a true politician, is not difficult, and, therefore, I readily assumed the character of a proselyte; but found, that their principle of action was no other, than that which they make no scruple of avowing in the most publick manner, notwithstanding the contempt and ridicule to which it every day exposes them, and the loss of those honours and profits from which it excludes them. This wild passion, or principle, is a kind of fanaticism by which they distinguish those of their own party, and which they look upon as a certain indication of a great mind. _We_ have no name for it _at court_; but, among themselves, they term it by a kind of cant phrase, "a regard for posterity." This passion seems to predominate in all their conduct, to regulate every action of their lives, and sentiment of their minds: I have heard L---- and P---- [2], when they have made a vigorous opposition, or blasted the blossom of some ministerial scheme, cry out, in the height of their exultations, "This will deserve the thanks of posterity!" And when their adversaries, as it much more frequently falls out, have outnumbered and overthrown them, they will say, with an air of revenge and a kind of gloomy triumph, "Posterity will curse you for this." It is common among men, under the influence of any kind of phrensy, to believe that all the world has the same odd notions that disorder their own imaginations. Did these unhappy men, these deluded patriots, know how little we are concerned about posterity, they would never attempt to fright us with their curses, or tempt us to a neglect of our own interest by a prospect of their gratitude. But so strong is their infatuation, that they seem to have forgotten even the primary law of self-preservation; for they sacrifice, without scruple, every flattering hope, every darling enjoyment, and every satisfaction of life, to this ruling passion, and appear, in every step, to consult not so much their own advantage, as that of posterity. Strange delusion! that can confine all their thoughts to a race of men whom they neither know, nor can know; from whom nothing is to be feared, nor any thing expected; who cannot even bribe a special jury, nor have so much as a single riband to bestow. This fondness for posterity is a kind of madness which at Rome was once almost epidemical, and infected even the women and the children. It reigned there till the entire destruction of Carthage; after which it began to be less general, and in a few years afterwards a remedy was discovered, by which it was almost entirely extinguished. In England it never prevailed in any such degree: some few of the ancient barons seem, indeed, to have been disordered by it; but the contagion has been, for the, most part, timely checked, and our ladies have been generally free. But there has been, in every age, a set of men, much admired and reverenced, who have affected to be always talking of posterity, and have laid out their lives upon the composition of poems, for the sake of being applauded by this imaginary generation. The present poets I reckon amongst the most inexorable enemies of our most excellent ministry, and much doubt whether any method will effect the cure of a distemper, which, in this class of men, may be termed, not an accidental disease, but a defect in their original frame and constitution. Mr. Brooke, a name I mention with all the detestation suitable to my character, could not forbear discovering this depravity of his mind in his very prologue, which is filled with sentiments so wild, and so much unheard of among those who frequent levees and courts, that I much doubt, whether the zealous licenser proceeded any further in his examination of his performance. He might easily perceive that a man, Who bade his moral beam through every age, was too much a bigot to exploded notions, to compose a play which he could license without manifest hazard of his office, a hazard which no man would incur untainted with the love of posterity. We cannot, therefore, wonder that an author, wholly possessed by this passion, should vent his resentment for the licenser's just refusal, in virulent advertisements, insolent complaints, and scurrilous assertions of his rights and privileges, and proceed, in defiance of authority, to solicit a subscription. This temper, which I have been describing, is almost always complicated with ideas of the high prerogatives of human nature, of a sacred unalienable birthright, which no man has conferred upon us, and which neither kings can take, nor senates give away; which we may justly assert whenever and by whomsoever it is attacked; and which, if ever it should happen to be lost, we may take the first opportunity to recover. The natural consequence of these chimeras is contempt of authority, and an irreverence for any superiority but what is founded upon merit; and their notions of merit are very peculiar, for it is among them no great proof of merit to be wealthy and powerful, to wear a garter or a star, to command a regiment or a senate, to have the ear of the minister or of the king, or to possess any of those virtues and excellencies, which, among us, entitle a man to little less than worship and prostration. We may, therefore, easily conceive that Mr. Brooke thought himself entitled to be importunate for a license, because, in his own opinion, he deserved one, and to complain thus loudly at the repulse he met with. His complaints will have, I hope, but little weight with the publick; since the opinions of the sect in which he is enlisted are exposed, and shown to be evidently and demonstrably opposite to that system of subordination and dependence, to which we are indebted for the present tranquillity of the nation, and that cheerfulness and readiness with which the two houses concur in all our designs. I shall, however, to silence him entirely, or at least to show those of our party that he ought to be silent, consider singly every instance of hardship and oppression which he has dared to publish in the papers, and to publish in such a manner, that I hope no man will condemn me for want of candour in becoming an advocate for the ministry, if I can consider his advertisements as nothing less than AN APPEAL TO HIS COUNTRY. Let me be forgiven if I cannot speak with temper of such insolence as this: is a man without title, pension, or place, to suspect the impartiality or the judgment of those who are entrusted with the administration of publick affairs? Is he, when the law is not strictly observed in regard to him, to think himself aggrieved, to tell his sentiments in print, assert his claim to better usage, and fly for redress to another tribunal? If such practices are permitted, I will not venture to foretell the effects of them; the ministry may soon be convinced, that such sufferers will find compassion, and that it is safer not to bear hard upon them, than to allow them to complain. The power of licensing, in general, being firmly established by an act of parliament, our poet has not attempted to call in question, but contents himself with censuring the manner in which it has been executed; so that I am not now engaged to assert the licenser's authority, but to defend his conduct. The poet seems to think himself aggrieved, because the licenser kept his tragedy in his hands one-and-twenty days, whereas the law allows him to detain it only fourteen. Where will the insolence of the malecontents end? Or how are such unreasonable expectations possibly to be satisfied? Was it ever known that a man exalted into a high station, dismissed a suppliant in the time limited by law? Ought not Mr. Brooke to think himself happy that his play was not detained longer? If he had been kept a year in suspense, what redress could he have obtained? Let the poets remember, when they appear before the licenser, or his deputy, that they stand at the tribunal, from which there is no appeal permitted, and where nothing will so well become them as reverence and submission. Mr. Brooke mentions, in his preface, his knowledge of the laws of his own country: had he extended his inquiries to the civil law, he could have found a full justification of the licenser's conduct, "Boni judicis est ampliare suam auctoritatem." If then it be "the business of a good judge to enlarge his authority," was it not in the licenser the utmost clemency and forbearance, to extend fourteen days only to twenty-one? I suppose this great man's inclination to perform, at least, this duty of a good judge, is not questioned by any, either of his friends or enemies. I may, therefore, venture to hope, that he will extend his power by proper degrees, and that I shall live to see a malecontent writer earnestly soliciting for the copy of a play, which he had delivered to the licenser twenty years before. "I waited," says he, "often on the licenser, and with the utmost importunity entreated an answer." Let Mr. Brooke consider, whether that importunity was not a sufficient reason for the disappointment. Let him reflect how much more decent it had been to have waited the leisure of a great man, than to have pressed upon him with repeated petitions, and to have intruded upon those precious moments which he has dedicated to the service of his country. Mr. Brooke was, doubtless, led into this improper manner of acting, by an erroneous notion that the grant of a license was not an act of favour, but of justice; a mistake into which he could not have fallen, but from a supine inattention to the design of the statute, which was only to bring poets into subjection and dependence, not to encourage good writers, but to discourage all. There lies no obligation upon the licenser to grant his sanction to a play, however excellent; nor can Mr. Brooke demand any reparation, whatever applause his performance may meet with. Another grievance is, that the licenser assigned no reason for his refusal. This is a higher strain of insolence than any of the former. Is it for a poet to demand a licenser's reason for his proceedings? Is he not rather to acquiesce in the decision of authority, and conclude, that there are reasons which he cannot comprehend? Unhappy would it be for men in power, were they always obliged to publish the motives of their conduct. What is power, but the liberty of acting without being accountable? The advocates for the licensing act have alleged, that the lord chamberlain has always had authority to prohibit the representation of a play for just reasons. Why then did we call in all our force to procure an act of parliament? Was it to enable him to do what he has always done? to confirm an authority which no man attempted to impair, or pretended to dispute? No, certainly: our intention was to invest him with new privileges, and to empower him to do that without reason, which with reason he could do before. We have found, by long experience, that to lie under a necessity of assigning reasons, is very troublesome, and that many an excellent design has miscarried by the loss of time spent unnecessarily in examining reasons. Always to call for reasons, and always to reject them, shows a strange degree of perverseness; yet, such is the daily behaviour of our adversaries, who have never yet been satisfied with any reasons that have been offered by us. They have made it their practice to demand, once a year, the reasons for which we maintain a standing army. One year we told them that it was necessary, because all the nations round us were involved in war; this had no effect upon them, and, therefore, resolving to do our utmost for their satisfaction, we told them, the next year, that it was necessary, because all the nations round us were at peace. This reason finding no better reception than the other, we had recourse to our apprehensions of an invasion from the Pretender, of an insurrection in favour of gin, and of a general disaffection among the people. But as they continue still impenetrable, and oblige us still to assign our annual reasons, we shall spare no endeavour to procure such as may be more satisfactory than any of the former. The reason we once gave for building barracks was, for fear of the plague; and we intend next year to propose the augmentation of our troops, for fear of a famine. The committee, by which the act for licensing the stage was drawn up, had too long known the inconvenience of giving reasons, and were too well acquainted with the characters of great men, to lay the lord chamberlain, or his deputy, under any such tormenting obligation. Yet, lest Mr. Brooke should imagine that a license was refused him without just reasons, I shall condescend to treat him with more regard than he can reasonably expect, and point out such sentiments, as not only justly exposed him to that refusal, but would have provoked any ministry less merciful than the present, to have inflicted some heavier penalties upon him. His prologue is filled with such insinuations, as no friend of our excellent government can read without indignation and abhorrence, and cannot but be owned to be a proper introduction to such scenes, as seem designed to kindle in the audience a flame of opposition, patriotism, publick spirit, and independency; that spirit which we have so long endeavoured to suppress, and which cannot be revived without the entire subversion of all our schemes. The seditious poet, not content with making an open attack upon us, by declaring, in plain terms, that he looks upon freedom as the only source of publick happiness, and national security, has endeavoured with subtilty, equal to his malice, to make us suspicious of our firmest friends, to infect our consultations with distrust, and to ruin us by disuniting us. This, indeed, will not be easily effected; an union founded upon interest, and cemented by dependence, is naturally lasting; but confederacies which owe their rise to virtue, or mere conformity of sentiments, are quickly dissolved, since no individual has any thing either to hope or fear for himself, and publick spirit is generally too weak to combat with private passions. The poet has, however, attempted to weaken our combination by an artful and sly assertion, which, if suffered to remain unconfuted, may operate, by degrees, upon our minds, in the days of leisure and retirement, which are now approaching, and, perhaps, fill us with such surmises as may at least very much embarrass our affairs. The law by which the Swedes justified their opposition to the encroachments of the king of Denmark, he not only calls Great Nature's law, the law within the breast, but proceeds to tell us, that it is --stamp'd by heaven upon th' unletter'd mind. By which he evidently intends to insinuate a maxim, which is, I hope, as false as it is pernicious, that men are naturally fond of liberty till those unborn ideas and desires are effaced by literature. The author, if he be not a man mewed up in his solitary study, and entirely unacquainted with the conduct of the present ministry, must know that we have hitherto acted upon different principles. We have always regarded letters as great obstructions to our scheme of subordination, and have, therefore, when we have heard of any man remarkably unlettered, carefully noted him down, as the most proper person for any employments of trust or honour, and considered him as a man, in whom we could safely repose our most important secrets. From among the uneducated and unlettered, we have chosen not only our ambassadors and other negotiators, but even our journalists and pamphleteers; nor have we had any reason to change our measures, or to repent of the confidence which we have placed in ignorance. Are we now, therefore, to be told, that this law is --stamp'd upon th' unletter'd mind? Are we to suspect our placemen, our pensioners, our generals, our lawyers, our best friends in both houses, all our adherents among the atheists and infidels, and our very gazetteers, clerks, and court-pages, as friends to independency? Doubtless this is the tendency of his assertion, but we have known them too long to be thus imposed upon: the unlettered have been our warmest and most constant defenders; nor have we omitted any thing to deserve their favour, but have always endeavoured to raise their reputation, extend their influence, and increase their number. In his first act he abounds with sentiments very inconsistent with the ends for which the power of licensing was granted; to enumerate them all would be to transcribe a great part of his play, a task which I shall very willingly leave to others, who, though true friends to the government, are not inflamed with zeal so fiery and impatient as mine, and, therefore, do not feel the same emotions of rage and resentment at the sight of those infamous passages, in which venality and dependence are represented, as mean in themselves, and productive of remorse and infelicity. One line, which ought, in my opinion, to be erased from every copy, by a special act of parliament, is mentioned by Anderson, as pronounced by the hero in his sleep, O Sweden! O my country! yet I'll save thee. This line I have reason to believe thrown out as a kind of a watchword for the opposing faction, who, when they meet in their seditious assemblies, have been observed to lay their hands upon their breasts, and cry out, with great vehemence of accent, O B----[3]! O my country! yet I'll save thee. In the second scene he endeavours to fix epithets of contempt upon those passions and desires, which have been always found most useful to the ministry, and most opposite to the spirit of independency. Base fear, the laziness of lust, gross appetites, These are the ladders, and the grov'ling footstool From whence the tyrant rises-- Secure and scepter'd in the soul's servility, He has debauched the genius of our country, And rides triumphant, while her captive sons Await his nod, the silken slaves of pleasure, Or fetter'd in their fears.-- Thus is that decent submission to our superiours, and that proper awe of authority which we are taught in courts, termed base fear and the servility of the soul. Thus are those gaieties and enjoyments, those elegant amusements and lulling pleasures, which the followers of a court are blessed with, as the just rewards of their attendance and submission, degraded to lust, grossness, and debauchery. The author ought to be told, that courts are not to be mentioned with so little ceremony, and that though gallantries and amours are admitted there, it is almost treason to suppose them infected with debauchery or lust. It is observable, that, when this hateful writer has conceived any thought of an uncommon malignity, a thought which tends, in a more particular manner, to excite the love of liberty, animate the heat of patriotism, or degrade the majesty of kings, he takes care to put it in the mouth of his hero, that it may be more forcibly impressed upon his reader. Thus Gustavus, speaking of his tatters, cries out, --Yes, my Arvida, Beyond the sweeping of the proudest train That shades a monarch's heel, I prize these weeds; For they are sacred to my country's freedom. Here this abandoned son of liberty makes a full discovery of his execrable principles, the tatters of Gustavus, the usual dress of the assertors of these doctrines, are of more divinity, because they are sacred to freedom, than the sumptuous and magnificent robes of regality itself. Such sentiments are truly detestable, nor could any thing be an aggravation of the author's guilt, except his ludicrous manner of mentioning a monarch. The heel of a monarch, or even the print of his heel, is a thing too venerable and sacred to be treated with such levity, and placed in contrast with rags and poverty. He, that will speak contemptuously of the heel of a monarch, will, whenever he can with security, speak contemptuously of his head. These are the most glaring passages which have occurred, in the perusal of the first pages; my indignation will not suffer me to proceed farther, and I think much better of the licenser, than to believe he went so far. In the few remarks which I have set down, the reader will easily observe, that I have strained no expression beyond its natural import, and have divested myself of all heat, partiality, and prejudice. So far, therefore, is Mr. Brooke from having received any hard or unwarrantable treatment, that the licenser has only acted in pursuance of that law to which he owes his power; a law, which every admirer of the administration must own to be very necessary, and to have produced very salutary effects. I am, indeed, surprised that this great office is not drawn out into a longer series of deputations; since it might afford a gainful and reputable employment to a great number of the friends of the government; and, I should think, instead of having immediate recourse to the deputy-licenser himself, it might be sufficient honour for any poet, except the laureate, to stand bareheaded in the presence of the deputy of the deputy's deputy in the nineteenth subordination. Such a number cannot but be thought necessary, if we take into consideration the great work of drawing up an index expurgatorius to all the old plays; which is, I hope, already undertaken, or, if it has been hitherto unhappily neglected, I take this opportunity to recommend. The productions of our old poets are crowded with passages very unfit for the ears of an English audience, and which cannot be pronounced without irritating the minds of the people. This censure I do not confine to those lines in which liberty, natural equality, wicked ministers, deluded kings, mean arts of negotiation, venal senates, mercenary troops, oppressive officers, servile and exorbitant taxes, universal corruption, the luxuries of a court, the miseries of the people, the decline of trade, or the happiness of independency, are directly mentioned. These are such glaring passages, as cannot be suffered to pass without the most supine and criminal negligence. I hope the vigilance of the licensers will extend to all such speeches and soliloquies as tend to recommend the pleasures of virtue, the tranquillity of an uncorrupted head, and the satisfactions of conscious innocence; for though such strokes as these do not appear to a common eye to threaten any danger to the government, yet it is well known to more penetrating observers, that they have such consequences as cannot be too diligently obviated, or too cautiously avoided. A man, who becomes once enamoured of the charms of virtue, is apt to be very little concerned about the acquisition of wealth or titles, and is, therefore, not easily induced to act in a manner contrary to his real sentiments, or to vote at the word of command; by contracting his desires, and regulating his appetites, he wants much less than other men; and every one versed in the arts of government can tell, that men are more easily influenced, in proportion as they are more necessitous. This is not the only reason why virtue should not receive too much countenance from a licensed stage; her admirers and followers are not only naturally independent, but learn such an uniform and consistent manner of speaking and acting, that they frequently, by the mere force of artless honesty, surmount all the obstacles which subtilty and politicks can throw in their way, and obtain their ends, in spite of the most profound and sagacious ministry. Such, then, are the passages to be expunged by the licensers: in many parts, indeed, the speeches will be imperfect, and the action appear not regularly conducted, but the poet laureate may easily supply these vacuities, by inserting some of his own verses in praise of wealth, luxury, and venality. But alas! all those pernicious sentiments which we shall banish from the stage, will be vented from the press, and more studiously read, because they are prohibited. I cannot but earnestly implore the friends of the government to leave no art untried, by which we may hope to succeed in our design of extending the power of the licenser to the press, and of making it criminal to publish any thing without an IMPRIMATUR. How much would this single law lighten the mighty burden of state affairs! With how much security might our ministers enjoy their honours, their places, their reputations, and their admirers, could they once suppress those malicious invectives which are, at present, so industriously propagated, and so eagerly read; could they hinder any arguments but their own from coming to the ears of the people, and stop effectually the voice of cavil and inquiry! I cannot but indulge myself a little while, by dwelling on this pleasing scene, and imagining those halcyon days, in which no politicks shall be read but those of the Gazetteer, nor any poetry but that of the laureate; when we shall hear of nothing but the successful negotiations of our ministers, and the great actions of-- How much happier would this state be, than those perpetual jealousies and contentions which are inseparable from knowledge and liberty, and which have, for many years, kept this nation in perpetual commotions! But these are times, rather to be wished for than expected, for such is the nature of our unquiet countrymen, that, if they are not admitted to the knowledge of affairs, they are always suspecting their governours of designs prejudicial to their interest; they have not the least notion of the pleasing tranquillity of ignorance, nor can be brought to imagine, that they are kept in the dark, lest too much light should hurt their eyes. They have long claimed a right of directing their superiours, and are exasperated at the least mention of secrets of state. This temper makes them very readily encourage any writer or printer, who, at the hazard of his life or fortune, will give them any information: and, while this humour prevails, there never will be wanting some daring adventurer who will write in defence of liberty, and some zealous or avaricious printer who will disperse his papers. It has never yet been found that any power, however vigilant or despotick, has been able to prevent the publication of seditious journals, ballads, essays, and dissertations; "Considerations on the present state of affairs," and "Enquiries into the conduct of the administration[4]." Yet I must confess, that, considering the success, with which the present ministry has hitherto proceeded in their attempts to drive out of the world the old prejudices of patriotism and publick spirit, I cannot but entertain some hopes, that what has been so often attempted by their predecessors, is reserved to be accomplished by their superiour abilities. If I might presume to advise them upon this great affair, I should dissuade them from any direct attempt upon the liberty of the press, which is the darling of the common people, and, therefore, cannot be attacked without immediate danger. They may proceed by a more sure and silent way, and attain the desired end without noise, detraction, or oppression. There are scattered over this kingdom several little seminaries, in which the lower ranks of people, and the youngest sons of our nobility and gentry are taught, from their earliest infancy, the pernicious arts of spelling and reading, which they afterwards continue to practise, very much to the disturbance of their own quiet, and the interruption of ministerial measures. These seminaries may, by an act of parliament, be, at once, suppressed; and that our posterity be deprived of all means of reviving this corrupt method of education, it may be made felony to teach to read without a license from the lord chamberlain. This expedient, which I hope will be carefully concealed from the vulgar, must infallibly answer the great end proposed by it, and set the power of the court not only above the insults of the poets, but, in a short time, above the necessity of providing against them. The licenser, having his authority thus extended, will, in time, enjoy the title and the salary without the trouble of exercising his power, and the nation will rest, at length, in ignorance and peace. FOOTNOTES: [1] This admirable piece of irony was first printed in the year 1739. A comparison of its sarcastic strokes with the serious arguments of lord Chesterfield's speech in the house of lords against the bill for licensing the stage, will be both amusing and instructive.--Ed. [2] Lyttelton and Pitt. [3] Britain [4] Titles of pamphlets published at this juncture. The former by lord Lyttelton. See his works, vol i. PREFACE TO THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, 1738. The usual design of addresses of this sort is to implore the candour of the publick: we have always had the more pleasing province of returning thanks, and making our acknowledgments for the kind acceptance which our monthly collections have met with. This, it seems, did not sufficiently appear from the numerous sale and repeated impressions of our books, which have, at once, exceeded our merit and our expectation; but have been still more plainly attested by the clamours, rage, and calumnies of our competitors, of whom we have seldom taken any notice, not only because it is cruelty to insult the depressed, and folly to engage with desperation, but because we consider all their outcries, menaces, and boasts, as nothing more than advertisements in our favour, being evidently drawn up with the bitterness of baffled malice and disappointed hope; and almost discovering, in plain terms, that the unhappy authors have seventy thousand London Magazines mouldering in their warehouses, returned from all parts of the kingdom, unsold, unread, and disregarded. Our obligations for the encouragement we have so long continued to receive, are so much the greater, as no artifices have been omitted to supplant us. Our adversaries cannot be denied the praise of industry; how far they can be celebrated for an honest industry, we leave to the decision of the publick, and even of their brethren, the booksellers, not including those whose advertisements they obliterated to paste their invectives in our book. The success of the Gentleman's Magazine has given rise to almost twenty imitations of it, which are either all dead, or very little regarded by the world. Before we had published sixteen months, we met with such a general approbation, that a knot of enterprising geniuses, and sagacious inventors, assembled from all parts of the town, agreed, with an unanimity natural to understandings of the same size, to seize upon our whole plan, without changing even the title. Some weak objections were, indeed, made by one of them against the design, as having an air of servility, dishonesty, and piracy; but it was concluded that all these imputations might be avoided by giving the picture of St. Paul's instead of St. John's gate; it was, however, thought indispensably necessary to add, printed in St. John's street, though there was then no printing-house in that place. That these plagiaries should, after having thus stolen their whole design from us, charge us with robbery, on any occasion, is a degree of impudence scarcely to be matched, and certainly entitles them to the first rank among false heroes. We have, therefore, inserted their names[1], at length, in our February magazine, p. 61; being desirous that every man should enjoy the reputation he deserves. Another attack has been made upon us by the author of Common Sense, an adversary equally malicious as the former, and equally despicable. What were his views, or what his provocations, we know not, nor have thought him considerable enough to inquire. To make him any further answer would be to descend too low; but, as he is one of those happy writers, who are best exposed by quoting their own words, we have given his elegant remarks in our magazine for December, where the reader may entertain himself, at his leisure, with an agreeable mixture of scurrility and false grammar. For the future, we shall rarely offend him by adopting any of his performances, being unwilling to prolong the life of such pieces as deserve no other fate than to be hissed, torn, and forgotten. However, that the curiosity of our readers may not be disappointed, we shall, whenever we find him a little excelling himself, perhaps print his dissertations upon our blue covers, that they may be looked over, and stripped off, without disgracing our collection, or swelling our volumes. We are sorry that, by inserting some of his essays, we have filled the head of this petty writer with idle chimeras of applause, laurels and immortality, nor suspected the bad effect of our regard for him, till we saw, in the postscript to one of his papers, a wild[2] prediction of the honours to be paid him by future ages. Should any mention of him be made, or his writings, by posterity, it will, probably, be in words like these: "In the Gentleman's Magazine are still preserved some essays, under the specious and inviting title of Common Sense. How papers of so little value came to be rescued from the common lot of dulness, we are, at this distance of time, unable to conceive, but imagine, that personal friendship prevailed with Urban to admit them in opposition to his judgment. If this was the reason, he met afterwards with the treatment which all deserve who patronise stupidity; for the writer, instead of acknowledging his favours, complains of injustice, robbery, and mutilation; but complains in a style so barbarous and indecent, as sufficiently confutes his own calumnies." In this manner must this author expect to be mentioned. But of him, and our other adversaries, we beg the reader's pardon for having said so much. We hope it will be remembered, in our favour, that it is sometimes necessary to chastise insolence, and that there is a sort of men who cannot distinguish between forbearance, and cowardice. FOOTNOTES: [1] The names are thus inserted--"The _gay_ and _learned_ C. Ackers, of Swan-alley, printer; the _polite_ and _generous_ T. Cox, under the Royal Exchange; the _eloquent_ and _courtly_ J. Clark, of Duck-lane; and the _modest, civil_, and _judicious_ T. Astley, of St. Paul's Church-yard, booksellers."--All these names appeared in the title of the London Magazine, begun in 1732. [2] Common Sense Journal, printed by Purser of Whitefriars, March 11, 1738. "I make no doubt but after some grave historian, three or four hundred years hence, has described the corruption, the baseness, and the flattery which men run into in these times, he will make the following observation:--In the year 1737, a certain unknown author published a writing under the title of Common Sense; this writing came out weekly, in little detached essays, some of which are political, some moral, and others humorous. By the best judgment that can be formed of a work, the style and language of which is become so obsolete that it is scarce intelligible, it answers the title well," &c. AN APPEAL TO THE PUBLICK. From the Gentleman's Magazine, March, 1739. Men' moveat cimex Pantilius? aut crucier, quod Vellicet absentem Demetrius-- HOR. Laudat, amat, cantat nostros mea Roma libellos, Meque sinus omnes, me manus omnis habet. Ecce rubet quidam, pallet, stupet, oscitat, odit. Hoc volo, nunc nobis carmina nostra placent. MARTIAL. It is plain from the conduct of writers of the first class, that they have esteemed it no derogation from their characters to defend themselves against the censures of ignorance, or the calumnies of envy. It is not reasonable to suppose, that they always judged their adversaries worthy of a formal confutation; but they concluded it not prudent to neglect the feeblest attacks; they knew that such men have often done hurt, who had not abilities to do good; that the weakest hand, if not timely disarmed, may stab a hero in his sleep; that a worm, however small, may destroy a fleet in the acorn; and that citadels, which have defied armies, have been blown up by rats. In imitation of these great examples, we think it not absolutely needless to vindicate ourselves from the virulent aspersions of the Craftsman and Common Sense; because their accusations, though entirely groundless, and without the least proof, are urged with an air of confidence, which the unwary may mistake for consciousness of truth. In order to set the proceedings of these calumniators in a proper light, it is necessary to inform such of our readers, as are unacquainted with the artifices of trade, that we originally incurred the displeasure of the greatest part of the booksellers by keeping this magazine wholly in our own hands, without admitting any of that fraternity into a share of the property. For nothing is more criminal, in the opinion of many of them, than for an author to enjoy more advantage from his own works than they are disposed to allow him. This is a principle so well established among them, that we can produce some who threatened printers with their highest displeasure, for their having dared to print books for those that wrote them. Hinc irae, hinc odia. This was the first ground of their animosity, which, for some time, proceeded no farther than private murmurs and petty discouragements. At length, determining to be no longer debarred from a share in so beneficial a project, a knot of them combined to seize our whole plan; and, without the least attempt to vary or improve it, began, with the utmost vigour to print and circulate the London Magazine, with such success, that in a few years, while we were printing the fifth edition of some of our earliest numbers, they had seventy thousand of their books returned, unsold, upon their hands. It was then time to exert their utmost efforts to stop our progress, and nothing was to be left unattempted that interest could suggest. It will be easily imagined, that their influence, among those of their own trade, was greater than ours, and that their collections were, therefore, more industriously propagated by their brethren; but this, being the natural consequence of such a relation, and, therefore, excusable, is only mentioned to show the disadvantages against which we are obliged to struggle, and, to convince the reader, that we who depend so entirely upon his approbation, shall omit nothing to deserve it. They then had recourse to advertisements, in which they, sometimes, made faint attempts to be witty, and, sometimes, were content with being merely scurrilous; but, finding that their attacks, while we had an opportunity of returning hostilities, generally procured them such treatment as very little contributed to their reputation, they came, at last, to a resolution of excluding us from the newspapers in which they have any influence: by this means they can, at present, insult us with impunity, and without the least danger of confutation. Their last, and, indeed, their most artful expedient, has been to hire and incite the weekly journalists against us. The first weak attempt was made by the Universal Spectator; but this we took not the least notice of, as we did not imagine it would ever come to the knowledge of the publick. Whether there was then a confederacy between this journal and Common Sense's, as at present, between Common Sense and the Craftsman; or whether understandings of the same form receive, at certain times, the same impressions from the planets, I know not; but about that time war was, likewise, declared against us by the redoubted author of Common Sense; an adversary not so much to be dreaded for his abilities, as for the title of his paper, behind which he has the art of sheltering himself in perfect security. He defeats all his enemies by calling them "enemies to common sense," and silences the strongest objections and the clearest reasonings by assuring his readers that, "they are contrary to common sense." I must confess, to the immortal honour of this great writer, that I can remember but two instances of a genius able to use a few syllables to such great and so various purposes. One is, the old man in Shadwell, who seems, by long time and experience, to have attained to equal perfection with our author; for, "when a young fellow began to prate and be pert," says he, "I silenced him with my old word, Tace is Latin for a candle." The other, who seems yet more to resemble this writer, was one Goodman, a horsestealer, who being asked, after having been found guilty by the jury, what he had to offer to prevent sentence of death from being passed upon him, did not attempt to extenuate his crime, but entreated the judge to beware of hanging a _Good man_. This writer we thought, however injudiciously, worthy, not indeed of a reply, but of some correction, and in our magazine for December, 1738, and the preface to the supplement, treated him in such a manner as he does not seem inclined to forget. From that time, losing all patience, he has exhausted his stores of scurrility upon us; but our readers will find, upon consulting the passages above mentioned, that he has received too much provocation to be admitted as an impartial critick. In our magazine of January, p. 24, we made a remark upon the Craftsman, and in p. 3, dropped some general observations upon the weekly writers, by which we did not expect to make them more our friends. Nor, indeed, did we imagine that this would have inflamed Caleb to so high a degree. His resentment has risen so much above the provocation, that we cannot but impute it more to what he fears than what he has felt. He has seen the solecisms of his brother, Common Sense, exposed, and remembers that, --tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet. He imagines, that he shall soon fall under the same censure, and is willing that our criticisms shall appear rather the effects of our resentment than our judgment. For this reason, I suppose, (for I can find no other,) he has joined with Common Sense to charge us with partiality, and to recommend the London Magazine, as drawn up with less regard to interest or party. A favour, which the authors of that collection have endeavoured to deserve from them by the most servile adulation. But, as we have a higher opinion of the candour of our readers, than to believe that they will condemn us without examination, or give up their right of judging for themselves, we are not unconcerned at this charge, though the most atrocious and malignant that can be brought against us. We entreat only to be compared with our rivals, in full confidence, that not only our innocence, but our superiority will appear[1]. FOOTNOTE: [1] These prefaces are written with that warmth of zeal which characterizes all Johnson's efforts in behalf of his friends. He ever retained a grateful sense of the kindness shown to him by Cave, his earliest patron; and, when engaged in his undertakings, he regarded Cave's enemies or opposers as his own. We can only thus vindicate his contemptuous references to the UNIVERSAL SPECTATOR, which, though far inferior to that great work whose name it bears, is very respectable; nor, on any other consideration, can we account for his derision of COMMON SENSE, a periodical, enriched by the contributions of lord Chesterfield and lord Lyttelton; or of the CRAFTSMAN, which was conducted by Amhurst, the able associate of Bolingbroke and Pulteney. Neither can we, without thus considering his relative situation, acquit Johnson of inconsistency in his strictures, who, in 1756, himself undertook the editorship of the LITERARY MAGAZINE, a work which might be viewed as the most formidable rival of the GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. The full details of his connexion with this now venerable publication are given in the preface to the index of that work, published by Mr. Nichols.--Ed. LETTER ON FIREWORKS.[1] MR. URBAN, Among the principal topicks of conversation which now furnish the places of assembly with amusement, may be justly numbered the fireworks, which are advancing, by such slow degrees, and with such costly preparation. The first reflection, that naturally arises, is upon the inequality of the effect to the cause. Here are vast sums expended, many hands, and some heads, employed, from day to day, and from month to month; and the whole nation is filled with expectations, by delineations and narratives. And in what is all this to end? in a building, that is to attract the admiration of ages? in a bridge, which may facilitate the commerce of future generations? in a work of any kind, which may stand as the model of beauty, or the pattern of virtue? To show the blessings of the late change of our state[2] by any monument of these kinds, were a project worthy not only of wealth, and power, and greatness, but of learning, wisdom, and virtue. But nothing of this kind is designed; nothing more is projected, than a crowd, a shout, and a blaze: the mighty work of artifice and contrivance is to be set on fire for no other purpose that I can see, than to show how idle pyrotechnical virtuosos have been busy. Four hours the sun will shine, and then fall from his orb, and lose his memory and his lustre together; the spectators will disperse, as their inclinations lead them, and wonder by what strange infatuation they had been drawn together. In this will consist the only propriety of this transient show, that it will resemble the war of which it celebrates the period. The powers of this part of the world, after long preparations, deep intrigues, and subtle schemes, have set Europe in a flame, and, after having gazed awhile at their fireworks, have laid themselves down where they rose, to inquire for what they have been contending. It is remarked, likewise, that this blaze, so transitory and so useless, will be to be paid for, when it shines no longer: and many cannot forbear observing, how many lasting advantages might be purchased, how many acres might be drained, how many ways repaired, how many debtors might be released, how many widows and orphans, whom the war has ruined, might be relieved, by the expense which is now about to evaporate in smoke, and to be scattered in rockets: and there are some who think not only reason, but humanity offended, by such a trifling profusion, when so many sailors are starving, and so many churches sinking into ruins. It is no improper inquiry, by whom this expense is at last to be borne; for certainly, nothing can be more unreasonable than to tax the nation for a blaze, which will be extinguished before many of them know it has been lighted; nor will it be consistent with the common practice, which directs, that local advantages shall be procured at the expense of the district that enjoys them. I never found, in any records, that any town petitioned the parliament for a may-pole, a bull-ring, or a skittle-ground; and, therefore, I should think, fireworks, as they are less durable, and less useful, have, at least, as little claim to the publick purse. The fireworks are, I suppose, prepared, and, therefore, it is too late to obviate the project; but I hope the generosity of the great is not so far extinguished, as that they can, for their diversion, drain a nation already exhausted, and make us pay for pictures in the fire, which none will have the poor pleasure of beholding but themselves. FOOTNOTES: [1] Inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine, Jan. 1749. [2] The peace of Aix la Chapelle, 1748. PROPOSALS FOR PRINTING, BY SUBSCRIPTION, ESSAYS IN VERSE AND PROSE. BY ANNA WILLIAMS.[1] [1] From the Gentleman's Magazine, Sept. 1750. When a writer of my sex solicits the regard of the publick, some apology seems always to be expected; and it is, unhappily, too much in my power to satisfy this demand; since, how little soever I may be qualified, either by nature or study, for furnishing the world with literary entertainments, I have such motives for venturing my little performances into the light, as are sufficient to counterbalance the censure of arrogance, and to turn off my attention from the threats of criticism. The world will, perhaps, be something softened, when it shall be known, that my intention was to have lived by means more suited to my ability, from which being now cut off by a total privation of sight, I have been persuaded to suffer such essays, as I had formerly written, to be collected and fitted, if they can be fitted, by the kindness of my friends, for the press. The candour of those that have already encouraged me, will, I hope, pardon the delays incident to a work which must be performed by other eyes and other hands; and censure may, surely, be content to spare the compositions of a woman, written for amusement, and published for necessity. A PROJECT FOR THE EMPLOYMENT OF AUTHORS.[1] TO THE VISITER. SIR, I know not what apology to make for the little dissertation which I have sent, and which I will not deny that I have sent with design that you should print it. I know that admonition is very seldom grateful, and that authors are eminently cholerick; yet, I hope, that you, and every impartial reader, will be convinced, that I intend the benefit of the publick, and the advancement of knowledge; and that every reader, into whose hands this shall happen to fall, will rank himself among those who are to be excepted from general censure. I am, Sir, your humble servant. Scire velim quare toties mihi, Naevole, tristis Occurras, fronte obducta, ceu Marsya victus. JUV. There is no gift of nature, or effect of art, however beneficial to mankind, which, either by casual deviations, or foolish perversions, is not sometimes mischievous. Whatever may be the cause of happiness, may be made, likewise, the cause of misery. The medicine, which, rightly applied, has power to cure, has, when rashness or ignorance prescribes it, the same power to destroy. I have computed, at some hours of leisure, the loss and gain of literature, and set the pain which it produces against the pleasure. Such calculations are, indeed, at a great distance from mathematical exactness, as they arise from the induction of a few particulars, and from observations made rather according to the temper of the computist, than the nature of things. But such a narrow survey as can be taken, will easily show that letters cause many blessings, and inflict many calamities; that there is scarcely an individual who may not consider them as immediately or mediately influencing his life, as they are chief instruments of conveying knowledge, and transmitting sentiments; and almost every man learns, by their means, all that is right or wrong in his sentiments and conduct. If letters were considered only as means of pleasure, it might well be doubted, in what degree of estimation they should be held; but when they are referred to necessity, the controversy is at an end; it soon appears, that though they may sometimes incommode us, yet human life would scarcely rise, without them, above the common existence of animal nature; we might, indeed, breathe and eat in universal ignorance, but must want all that gives pleasure or security, all the embellishments and delights, and most of the conveniencies, and comforts of our present condition. Literature is a kind of intellectual light, which, like the light of the sun, may sometimes enable us to see what we do not like; but who would wish to escape unpleasing objects, by condemning himself to perpetual darkness? Since, therefore, letters are thus indispensably necessary; since we cannot persuade ourselves to lose their benefits, for the sake of escaping their mischiefs, it is worth our serious inquiry, how their benefits may be increased, and their mischiefs lessened; by what means the harvest of our studies may afford us more corn and less chaff; and how the roses of the gardens of science may gratify us more with their fragrance, and prick us less with their thorns. I shall not, at present, mention the more formidable evils which the misapplication of literature produces, nor speak of churches infected with heresy, states inflamed with sedition, or schools infatuated with hypothetical fictions. These are evils which mankind have always lamented, and which, till mankind grow wise and modest, they must, I am afraid, continue to lament, without hope of remedy. I shall now touch only on some lighter and less extensive evils, yet such, as are sufficiently heavy to those that feel them, and are, of late, so widely diffused, as to deserve, though, perhaps, not the notice of the legislature, yet the consideration of those whose benevolence inclines them to a voluntary care of publick happiness. It was long ago observed by Virgil, and, I suppose, by many before him, that "bees do not make honey for their own use;" the sweets which they collect in their laborious excursions, and store up in their hives with so much skill, are seized by those who have contributed neither toil nor art to the collection; and the poor animal is either destroyed by the invader, or left to shift without a supply. The condition is nearly the same of the gatherer of honey, and the gatherer of knowledge. The bee and the author work alike for others, and often lose the profit of their labour. The case, therefore, of authors, however hitherto neglected, may claim regard. Every body of men is important, according to the joint proportion of their usefulness and their number. Individuals, however they may excel, cannot hope to be considered, singly, as of great weight in the political balance; and multitudes, though they may, merely by their bulk, demand some notice, are yet not of much value, unless they contribute to ease the burden of society, by cooperating to its prosperity. Of the men, whose condition we are now examining, the usefulness never was disputed; they are known to be the great disseminators of knowledge, and guardians of the commonwealth; and, of late, their number has been so much increased, that they are become a very conspicuous part of the nation. It is not now, as in former times, when men studied long, and passed through the severities of discipline, and the probation of publick trials, before they presumed to think themselves qualified for instructers of their countrymen; there is found a nearer way to fame and erudition, and the inclosures of literature are thrown open to every man whom idleness disposes to loiter, or whom pride inclines to set himself to view. The sailor publishes his journal, the farmer writes the process of his annual labour; he that succeeds in his trade, thinks his wealth a proof of his understanding, and boldly tutors the publick; he that fails, considers his miscarriage as the consequence of a capacity too great for the business of a shop, and amuses himself in the Fleet with writing or translating. The last century imagined, that a man, composing in his chariot, was a new object of curiosity; but how much would the wonder have been increased by a footman studying behind it[2]! There is now no class of men without its authors, from the peer to the thrasher; nor can the sons of literature be confined any longer to Grub street or Moorfields; they are spread over all the town, and all the country, and fill every stage of habitation, from the cellar to the garret. It is well known, that the price of commodities must always fall, as the quantity is increased, and that no trade can allow its professors to be multiplied beyond a certain number. The great misery of writers proceeds from their multitude. We easily perceive, that in a nation of clothiers, no man could have any cloth to make but for his own back; that in a community of bakers every man must use his own bread; and what can be the case of a nation of authors, but that every man must be content to read his book to himself? For, surely, it is vain to hope, that of men labouring at the same occupation, any will prefer the work of his neighbour to his own; yet this expectation, wild as it is, seems to be indulged by many of the writing race, and, therefore, it can be no wonder, that like all other men, who suffer their minds to form inconsiderate hopes, they are harassed and dejected with frequent disappointments. If I were to form an adage of misery, or fix the lowest point to which humanity could fall, I should be tempted to name the life of an author. Many universal comparisons there are by which misery is expressed. We talk of a man teased like a bear at the stake, tormented like a toad under a harrow, or hunted like a dog with a stick at his tail; all these are, indeed, states of uneasiness, but what are they to the life of an author; of an author worried by criticks, tormented by his bookseller, and hunted by his creditors! Yet such must be the case of many among the retailers of knowledge, while they continue thus to swarm over the land; and, whether it be by propagation or contagion, produce new writers to heighten the general distress, to increase confusion, and hasten famine. Having long studied the varieties of life, I can guess by every man's walk, or air, to what state of the community he belongs. Every man has noted the legs of a tailor, and the gait of a seaman; and a little extension of his physiognomical acquisitions will teach him to distinguish the countenance of an author. It is my practice, when I am in want of amusement, to place myself for an hour at Temple-bar, or any other narrow pass much frequented, and examine, one by one, the looks of the passengers; and I have commonly found, that, between the hours of eleven and four, every sixth man is an author. They are seldom to be seen very early in the morning, or late in the evening, but about dinner time they are all in motion, and have one uniform eagerness in their faces, which gives little opportunity of discerning their hopes or fears, their pleasures or their pains. But, in the afternoon, when they have all dined, or composed themselves to pass the day without a dinner, their passions have full play, and I can perceive one man wondering at the stupidity of the publick, by which his new book has been totally neglected; another cursing the French who fright away literary curiosity by their threats of an invasion; another swearing at his bookseller, who will advance no money without copy; another perusing, as he walks, his publisher's bill; another murmuring at an unanswerable criticism; another determining to write no more to a generation of barbarians; and another resolving to try, once again, whether he cannot awaken the drowsy world to a sense of his merit. It sometimes happens, that there may be remarked among them a smile of complacence, or a strut of elevation; but, if these favourites of fortune are carefully watched for a few days, they seldom fail to show the transitoriness of human felicity; the crest falls, the gaiety is ended, and there appear evident tokens of a successful rival, or a fickle patron. But of all authors, those are the most wretched, who exhibit their productions on the theatre, and who are to propitiate first the manager, and then the publick. Many an humble visitant have I followed to the doors of these lords of the drama, seen him touch the knocker with a shaking hand, and, after long deliberation, adventure to solicit entrance by a single knock; but I never staid to see them come out from their audience, because my heart is tender, and being subject to frights in bed, I would not willingly dream of an author. That the number of authors is disproportionate to the maintenance, which the publick seems willing to assign them; that there is neither praise nor meat for all who write, is apparent from this; that, like wolves in long winters, they are forced to prey on one another. The reviewers and critical reviewers, the remarkers and examiners, can satisfy their hunger only by devouring their brethren. I am far from imagining that they are naturally more ravenous or blood-thirsty than those on whom they fall with so much violence and fury; but they are hungry, and hunger must be satisfied; and these savages, when their bellies are full, will fawn on those whom they now bite. The result of all these considerations amounts only to this, that the number of writers must at last be lessened, but by what method this great, design can be accomplished, is not easily discovered. It was lately proposed, that every man who kept a dog should pay a certain tax, which, as the contriver of ways and means very judiciously observed, would either destroy the dogs, or bring in money. Perhaps, it might be proper to lay some such tax upon authors, only the payment must be lessened in proportion as the animal, upon which it is raised, is less necessary; for many a man that would pay for his dog, will dismiss his dedicator. Perhaps, if every one who employed or harboured an author, was assessed a groat a year, it would sufficiently lessen the nuisance without destroying the species. But no great alteration is to be attempted rashly. We must consider how the authors, which this tax shall exclude from their trade, are to be employed. The nets used in the herring-fishery can furnish work but for few, and not many can be employed as labourers at the foundation of the new bridge. There must, therefore, be some other scheme formed for their accommodation, which the present state of affairs may easily supply. It is well known, that great efforts have been lately made to man the fleet, and augment the army, and loud complaints are made of useful hands forced away from their families into the service of the crown. This offensive exertion of power may be easily avoided, by opening a few houses for the entertainment of discarded authors, who would enter into the service with great alacrity, as most of them are zealous friends of every present government; many of them are men of able bodies, and strong limbs, qualified, at least, as well for the musket as the pen; they are, perhaps, at present a little emaciated and enfeebled, but would soon recover their strength and flesh with good quarters and present pay. There are some reasons for which they may seem particularly qualified for a military life. They are used to suffer want of every kind; they are accustomed to obey the word of command from their patrons and their booksellers; they have always passed a life of hazard and adventure, uncertain what may be their state on the next day; and, what is of yet more importance, they have long made their minds familiar to danger, by descriptions of bloody battles, daring undertakings, and wonderful escapes. They have their memories stored with all the stratagems of war, and have, over and over, practised, in their closets, the expedients of distress, the exultation of triumph, and the resignation of heroes sentenced to destruction. Some, indeed, there are, who, by often changing sides in controversy, may give just suspicion of their fidelity, and whom I should think likely to desert for the pleasure of desertion, or for a farthing a month advanced in their pay. Of these men I know not what use can be made, for they can never be trusted, but with shackles on their legs. There are others whom long depression, under supercilious patrons, has so humbled and crushed, that they will never have steadiness to keep their ranks. But for these men there may be found fifes and drums, and they will be well enough pleased to inflame others to battle, if they are not obliged to fight themselves. It is more difficult to know what can be done with the ladies of the pen, of whom this age has produced greater numbers than any former time. It is, indeed, common for women to follow the camp, but no prudent general will allow them in such numbers as the breed of authoresses would furnish. Authoresses are seldom famous for clean linen, therefore, they cannot make laundresses; they are rarely skilful at their needle, and cannot mend a soldier's shirt; they will make bad sutlers, being not much accustomed to eat. I must, therefore, propose, that they shall form a regiment of themselves, and garrison the town which is supposed to be in most danger of a French invasion. They will, probably, have no enemies to encounter; but, if they are once shut up together, they will soon disencumber the publick by tearing out the eyes of one another. The great art of life is to play for much, and to stake little; which rule I have kept in view through this whole project; for, if our authors and authoresses defeat our enemies, we shall obtain all the usual advantages of victory; and, if they should be destroyed in war, we shall lose only those who had wearied the publick, and whom, whatever be their fate, nobody will miss. FOOTNOTES: [1] From the Universal Visiter, April, 1756. [2] Dodsley's Muse in Livery was composed under these circumstances. Boswell's Life, ii. PREFACE TO THE LITERARY MAGAZINE, 1756. TO THE PUBLICK. There are some practices which custom and prejudice have so unhappily influenced, that to observe or neglect them is equally censurable. The promises made by the undertakers of any new design, every man thinks himself at liberty to deride, and yet every man expects, and expects with reason, that he who solicits the publick attention, should give some account of his pretensions. We are about to exhibit to our countrymen a new monthly collection, to which the well-deserved popularity of the first undertaking of this kind, has now made it almost necessary to prefix the name of Magazine. There are, already, many such periodical compilations, of which we do not envy the reception, nor shall dispute the excellence. If the nature of things would allow us to indulge our wishes, we should desire to advance our own interest, without lessening that of any other; and to excite the curiosity of the vacant, rather than withdraw that which other writers have already engaged. Our design is to give the history, political and literary, of every month; and our pamphlets must consist, like other collections, of many articles unconnected and independent on each other. The chief political object of an Englishman's attention must be the great council of the nation, and we shall, therefore, register all publick proceedings with particular care. We shall not attempt to give any regular series of debates, or to amuse our readers with senatorial rhetorick. The speeches inserted in other papers have been long-known to be fictitious, and produced sometimes by men who never heard the debate, nor had any authentick information. We have no design to impose thus grossly on our readers, and shall, therefore, give the naked arguments used in the discussion of every question, and add, when they can be obtained, the names of the speakers. As the proceedings in parliament are unintelligible, without a knowledge of the facts to which they relate, and of the state of the nations to which they extend their influence, we shall exhibit monthly a view, though contracted, yet distinct, of foreign affairs, and lay open the designs and interests of those nations which are considered by the English either as friends or enemies. Of transactions in our own country, curiosity will demand a more particular account, and we shall record every remarkable event, extraordinary casualty, uncommon performance, or striking novelty, and shall apply our care to the discovery of truth, with very little reliance on the daily historians. The lists of births, marriages, deaths and burials, will be so drawn up that, we hope, very few omissions or mistakes will be found, though some must be expected to happen in so great a variety, where there is neither leisure nor opportunity for minute information. It is intended that lists shall be given of all the officers and persons in publick employment; and that all the alterations shall be noted, as they happen, by which our list will be a kind of court-register, always complete. The literary history necessarily contains an account of the labours of the learned, in which, whether we shall show much judgment or sagacity, must be left to our readers to determine; we can promise only justness and candour. It is not to be expected, that we can insert extensive extracts or critical examinations of all the writings, which this age of writers may offer to our notice. A few only will deserve the distinction of criticism, and a few only will obtain it. We shall try to select the best and most important pieces, and are not without hope, that we may sometimes influence the publick voice, and hasten the popularity of a valuable work. Our regard will not be confined to books; it will extend to all the productions of science. Any new calculation, a commodious instrument, the discovery of any property in nature, or any new method of bringing known properties into use or view, shall be diligently treasured up, wherever found. In a paper designed for general perusal, it will be necessary to dwell most upon things of general entertainment. The elegant trifles of literature, the wild strains of fancy, the pleasing amusements of harmless wit, shall, therefore, be considered as necessary to our collection. Nor shall we omit researches into antiquity, explanation of coins or inscriptions, disquisitions on controverted history, conjectures on doubtful geography, or any other of those petty works upon which learned ingenuity is sometimes employed. To these accounts of temporary transactions and fugitive performances, we shall add some dissertations on things more permanent and stable; some inquiries into the history of nature, which has hitherto been treated, as if mankind were afraid of exhausting it. There are, in our own country, many things and places worthy of note that are yet little known, and every day gives opportunities of new observations which are made and forgotten. We hope to find means of extending and perpetuating physiological discoveries; and with regard to this article, and all others, entreat the assistance of curious and candid correspondents. We shall labour to attain as much exactness as can be expected in such variety, and shall give as much variety as can consist with reasonable exactness; for this purpose, a selection has been made of men qualified for the different parts of the work, and each has the employment assigned him, which he is supposed most able to discharge. A DISSERTATION UPON THE GREEK COMEDY, TRANSLATED FROM BRUMOY[1]. ADVERTISEMENT. I conclude this work, according to my promise, with an account of the comick theatre, and entreat the reader, whether a favourer or an enemy of the ancient drama, not to pass his censure upon the authors or upon me, without a regular perusal of this whole work. For, though it seems to be composed of pieces of which each may precede or follow without dependence upon the other, yet all the parts, taken together, form a system which would be destroyed by their disjunction. Which way shall we come at the knowledge of the ancients' shows, but by comparing together all that is left of them? The value and necessity of this comparison determined me to publish all, or to publish nothing. Besides, the reflections on each piece, and on the general taste of antiquity, which, in my opinion, are not without importance, have a kind of obscure gradation, which I have carefully endeavoured to preserve, and of which the thread would be lost by him who should slightly glance sometimes upon one piece, and sometimes upon another. It is a structure which I have endeavoured to make as near to regularity as I could, and which must be seen in its full extent, and in proper succession. The reader who skips here and there over the book, might make a hundred objections which are either anticipated, or answered in those pieces which he might have overlooked. I have laid such stress upon the connexion of the parts of this work, that I have declined to exhaust the subject, and have suppressed many of my notions, that I might leave the judicious reader to please himself by forming such conclusions as I supposed him like to discover, as well as myself. I am not here attempting to prejudice the reader by an apology either for the ancients, or my own manner. I have not claimed a right of obliging others to determine, by my opinion, the degrees of esteem which I think due to the authors of the Athenian stage; nor do I think that their reputation, in the present time, ought to depend upon my mode of thinking or expressing my thoughts, which I leave entirely to the judgment of the publick. A DISSERTATION &c. 1. REASONS WHY ARISTOPHANES MAY BE REVIEWED, WITH-OUT TRANSLATING HIM ENTIRELY. I was in doubt a long time, whether I should meddle at all with the Greek comedy, both because the pieces which remain are very few, the licentiousness of Aristophanes, their author, is exorbitant; and it is very difficult to draw, from the performances of a single poet, a just idea of Greek comedy. Besides, it seemed that tragedy was sufficient to employ all my attention, that I might give a complete representation of that kind of writing, which was most esteemed by the Athenians and the wiser Greeks[2], particularly by Socrates, who set no value upon comedy or comick actors. But the very name of that drama, which in polite ages, and above all others in our own, has been so much advanced, that it has become equal to tragedy, if not preferable, inclines me to think that I may be partly reproached with an imperfect work, if, after having gone, as deep as I could, into the nature of Greek tragedy, I did not at least sketch a draught of the comedy. I then considered, that it was not wholly impossible to surmount, at least in part, the difficulties which had stopped me, and to go somewhat farther than the learned writers[3], who have published, in French, some pieces of Aristophanes; not that I pretend to make large translations. The same reasons, which have hindered with respect to the more noble parts of the Greek drama, operate with double force upon my present subject. Though ridicule, which is the business of comedy, be not less uniform in all times, than the passions which are moved by tragick compositions; yet, if diversity of manners may sometimes disguise the passions themselves, how much greater change will be made in jocularities! The truth is, that they are so much changed by the course of time, that pleasantry and ridicule become dull and flat much more easily than the pathetick becomes ridiculous. That which is commonly known by the term jocular and comick, is nothing but a turn of expression, an airy phantom, that must be caught at a particular point. As we lose this point, we lose the jocularity, and find nothing but dulness in its place. A lucky sally, which has filled a company with laughter, will have no effect in print, because it is shown single, and separate from the circumstance which gave it force. Many satirical jests, found in ancient books, have had the same fate; their spirit has evaporated by time, and have left nothing to us but insipidity. None but the most biting passages have preserved their points unblunted. But, besides this objection, which extends universally to all translations of Aristophanes, and many allusions, of which time has deprived us, there are loose expressions thrown out to the populace, to raise laughter from corrupt passions, which are unworthy of the curiosity of decent readers, and which ought to rest eternally in proper obscurity. Not every thing, in this infancy of comedy, was excellent, at least, it would not appear excellent at this distance of time, in comparison of compositions of the same kind which lie before our eyes; and this is reason enough to save me the trouble of translating, and the reader that of perusing. As for that small number of writers, who delight in those delicacies, they give themselves very little trouble about translations, except it be to find fault with them; and the majority of people of wit like comedies that may give them pleasure, without much trouble of attention, and are not much disposed to find beauties in that which requires long deductions to find it beautiful. If Helen had not appeared beautiful to the Greeks and Trojans, but by force of argument, we had never been told of the Trojan war. On the other side, Aristophanes is an author more considerable than one would imagine. The history of Greece could not pass over him, when it comes to touch upon the people of Athens; this, alone, might procure him respect, even when he was not considered as a comick poet. But, when his writings are taken into view, we find him the only author from whom may be drawn a just idea of the comedy of his age; and, farther, we find, in his pieces, that he often makes attacks upon the tragick writers, particularly upon the three chief, whose valuable remains we have had under examination; and, what is yet worse, fell sometimes upon the state, and upon the gods themselves. 2. THE CHIEF HEADS OF THIS DISCOURSE. These considerations have determined me to follow, in my representation of this writer, the same method which I have taken in several tragick pieces, which is, that of giving an exact analysis, as far as the matter would allow, from which I deduce four important systems. First, upon the nature of the comedy of that age, without omitting that of Menander[4]. Secondly, upon the vices and government of the Athenians. Thirdly, upon the notion we ought to entertain of Aristophanes, with respect to Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Fourthly, upon the jest which he makes upon the gods. These things will not be treated in order, as a regular discourse seems to require, but will arise sometimes separately, sometimes together, from the view of each particular comedy, and from the reflections which this free manner of writing will allow. I shall conclude with a short view of the whole, and so finish my design. 4. HISTORY OF COMEDY. I shall not repeat here what Madame Dacier, and so many others before her, have collected of all that can be known relating to the history of comedy. Its beginnings are as obscure as those of tragedy, and there is an appearance that we take these two words in a more extensive meaning: they had both the same original; that is, they began among the festivals of the vintage, and were not distinguished from one another, but by a burlesque or serious chorus, which made all the soul, and all the body. But, if we give these words a stricter sense, according to the notion which has since been formed, comedy was produced after tragedy, and was, in many respects, a sequel and imitation of the works of Eschylus. It is, in reality, nothing more than an action set before the sight, by the same artifice of representation. Nothing is different but the object, which is merely ridicule. This original of true comedy will be easily admitted, if we take the word of Horace, who must have known, better than us, the true dates of dramatick works. This poet supports the system, which I have endeavoured to establish in the second discourse[5], so strongly, as to amount to demonstrative proof. Horace[6] expresses himself thus: "Thespis is said to have been the first inventor of a species of tragedy, in which he carried about, in carts, players smeared with the dregs of wine, of whom some sung and others declaimed." This was the first attempt, both of tragedy and comedy; for Thespis made use only of one speaker, without the least appearance of dialogue. "Eschylus, afterwards, exhibited them with more dignity. He placed them on a stage, somewhat above the ground, covered their faces with masks, put buskins on their feet, dressed them in trailing robes, and made them speak in a more lofty style." Horace omits invention of dialogue, which we learn from Aristotle[7]. But, however, it may be well enough inferred from the following words of Horace; this completion is mentioned while he speaks of Eschylus, and, therefore, to Eschylus it must be ascribed: "Then first appeared the old comedy, with great success in its beginning." Thus we see that the Greek comedy arose after tragedy, and, by consequence, tragedy was its parent. It was formed in imitation of Eschylus, the inventor of the tragick drama; or, to go yet higher into antiquity, had its original from Homer, who was the guide of Eschylus. For, if we credit Aristotle[8], comedy had its birth from the Margites, a satirical poem of Homer, and tragedy from the Iliad and Odyssey. Thus the design and artifice of comedy were drawn from Homer and Eschylus. This will appear less surprising, since the ideas of the human mind are always gradual, and arts are seldom invented but by imitation. The first idea contains the seed of the second; this second, expanding itself, gives birth to a third; and so on. Such is the progress of the mind of man; it proceeds in its productions, step by step, in the same manner as nature multiplies her works by imitating, or repeating her own act, when she seems most to run into variety. In this manner it was that comedy had its birth, its increase, its improvement, its perfection, and its diversity. But the question is, who was the happy author of that imitation, and that show, whether only one, like Eschylus of tragedy, or whether they were several? for neither Horace, nor any before him, explained this[9]. This poet only quotes three writers who had reputation in the old comedy, Eupolis[10], Cratinus[11], and Aristophanes; of whom he says, "That they, and others, who wrote in the same way, reprehended the faults of particular persons with excessive liberty." These are, probably, the poets of the greatest reputation, though they were not the first, and we know the names of many others[12]. Among these three we may be sure that Aristophanes had the greatest character, since not only the king of Persia[13] expressed a high esteem of him to the Grecian ambassadours, as of a man extremely useful to his country, and Plato[14] rated him so high, as to say that the Graces resided in his bosom; but, likewise, because he is the only writer of whom any comedies have made their way down to us, through the confusion of times. There are not, indeed, any proofs that he was the inventor of comedy, properly so called, especially, since he had not only predecessors who wrote in the same kind, but it is, at least, a sign that he had contributed more than any other to bring comedy to the perfection in which he left it. We shall, therefore, not inquire farther, whether regular comedy was the work of a single mind, which seems yet to be unsettled, or of several contemporaries, such as these which Horace quotes. We must distinguish three forms which comedy wore, in consequence of the genius of the writers, or of the laws of the magistrates, and the change of the government of many into that of few. 5. THE OLD, MIDDLE, AND NEW COMEDY. That comedy[15], which Horace calls the ancient, and which, according to his account, was after Eschylus, retained something of its original state, and of the licentiousness which it practised, while it was yet without regularity, and uttered loose jokes and abuse upon the passers-by from the cart of Thespis. Though it was now properly modelled, as might have been worthy of a great theatre, and a numerous audience, and deserved the name of a regular comedy, it was not yet much nearer to decency. It was a representation of real actions, and exhibited the dress, the motions, and the air, as far as could be done in a mask, of any one who was thought proper to be sacrificed to publick scorn. In a city so free, or, to say better, so licentious as Athens was, at that time, nobody was spared, not even the chief magistrate, nor the very judges, by whose voice comedies were allowed or prohibited. The insolence of those performances reached to open impiety, and sport was made equally with men and gods[16]. These are the features by which the greatest part of the compositions of Aristophanes will be known. In which, it may be particularly observed, that not the least appearance of praise will be found, and, therefore, certainly no trace of flattery or servility. This licentiousness of the poets, to which, in some sort, Socrates fell a sacrifice, at last was restrained by a law. For the government, which was before shared by all the inhabitants, was now confined to a settled number of citizens. It was ordered that no man's name should be mentioned on the stage; but poetical malignity was not long in finding the secret of defeating the purpose of the law, and of making themselves ample compensation for the restraint laid upon authors, by the necessity of inventing false names. They set themselves to work upon known and real characters, so that they had now the advantage of giving a more exquisite gratification to the vanity of poets, and the malice of spectators. One had the refined pleasure of setting others to guess, and the other that of guessing right by naming the masks. When pictures are so like, that the name is not wanted, nobody inscribes it. The consequence of the law, therefore, was nothing more than to make that done with delicacy, which was done grossly before; and the art, which was expected would be confined within the limits of duty, was only partly transgressed with more ingenuity. Of this, Aristophanes, who was comprehended in this law, gives us good examples in some of his poems. Such was that which was afterwards called the middle comedy. The new comedy, or that which followed, was again an excellent refinement, prescribed by the magistrates, who, as they had before forbid the use of real names, forbade afterwards, real subjects, and the train of choruses[17] too much given to abuse; so that the poets saw themselves reduced to the necessity of bringing imaginary names and subjects upon the stage, which, at once, purified and enriched the theatre; for comedy, from that time, was no longer a fury armed with torches, but a pleasing and innocent mirror of human life. Chacun peint avec art dans ce nouveau miroir S'y vit avec plaisir, ou crut ne s'y pas voir! L'avare des premiers rit du tableau fidèle D'un avare souvent tracé sur son modèle; Et mille fois un fat finement exprimé Méconnut le portrait sur lui-même formé.[18] The comedy of Menander and Terence is, in propriety of speech, the fine comedy. I do not repeat all this after so many writers, but just to recall it to memory, and to add to what they have said, something which they have omitted, a singular effect of publick edicts appearing in the successive progress of the art. A naked history of poets and of poetry, such as has been often given, is a mere body without soul, unless it be enlivened with an account of the birth, progress, and perfection of the art, and of the causes by which they were produced. 6. THE LATIN COMEDY. To omit nothing essential which concerns this part, we shall say a word of the Latin comedy. When the arts passed from Greece to Rome, comedy took its turn among the rest; but the Romans applied themselves only to the new species, without chorus or personal abuse; though, perhaps, they might have played some translations of the old or the middle comedy; for Pliny gives an account of one which was represented in his own time. But the Roman comedy, which was modelled upon the last species of the Greek, hath, nevertheless, its different ages, according as its authors were rough or polished. The pieces of Livius Andronicus[19], more ancient, and less refined than those of the writers who learned the art from him, may be said to compose the first age, or the old Roman comedy and tragedy. To him you must join Nevius, his contemporary, and Ennius, who lived some years after him. The second age comprises Pacuvius, Cecilius, Accius, and Plautus, unless it shall be thought better to reckon Plautus with Terence, to make the third and highest age of the Latin comedy, which may properly be called the new comedy, especially with regard to Terence, who was the friend of Lelius, and the faithful copier of Menander. But the Romans, without troubling themselves with this order of succession, distinguished their comedies by the dresses[20] of the players. The robe, called praetexta, with large borders of purple, being the formal dress of magistrates in their dignity, and in the exercise of their office, the actors, who had this dress, gave its name to the comedy. This is the same with that called trabeata[21], from trabea, the dress of the consuls in peace, and the generals in triumph. The second species introduced the senators, not in great offices, but as private men; this was called togata, from toga. The last species was named tabernaria, from the tunick, or the common dress of the people, or rather from the mean houses which were painted on the scene. There is no need of mentioning the farces, which took their name and original from Atella, an ancient town of Campania, in Italy, because they differed from the low comedy only by greater licentiousness; nor of those which were called palliates, from the Greek, a cloak, in which the Greek characters were dressed upon the Roman stage, because that habit only distinguished the nation, not the dignity or character, like those which have been mentioned before. To say truth, these are but trifling distinctions; for, as we shall show in the following pages, comedy may be more usefully and judiciously distinguished by the general nature of its subjects. As to the Romans, whether they had, or had not, reason for these names, they have left us so little upon the subject, which is come down to us, that we need not trouble ourselves with a distinction which affords us no solid satisfaction. Plautus and Terence, the only authors of whom we are in possession, give us a fuller notion of the real nature of their comedy, with respect, at least, to their own times, than can be received from names and terms, from which we have no real exemplification. 7. THE GREEK COMEDY IS REDUCED ONLY TO ARISTOPHANES. Not to go too far out of our way, let us return to Aristophanes, the only poet, in whom we can now find the Greek comedy. He is the single writer whom the violence of time has, in some degree, spared, after having buried in darkness, and almost in forgetfulness, so many great men, of whom we have nothing but the names and a few fragments, and such slight memorials, as are scarcely sufficient to defend them against the enemies of the honour of antiquity; yet these memorials are like the last glimmer of the setting sun, which scarce affords us a weak and fading light; yet from this glimmer we must endeavour to collect rays of sufficient strength to form a picture of the Greek comedy, approaching as near as possible to the truth. Of the personal character of Aristophanes little is known; what account we can give of it must, therefore, be had from his comedies. It can scarcely be said, with certainty, of what country he was: the invectives of his enemies so often called in question his qualification as a citizen, that they have made it doubtful. Some said, he was of Rhodes, others of Egina, a little island in the neighbourhood, and all agreed that he was a stranger. As to himself, he said, that he was the son of Philip, and born in the Cydathenian quarter; but he confessed, that some of his fortune was in Egina, which was, probably, the original seat of his family. He was, however, formally declared a citizen of Athens, upon evidence, whether good or bad, upon a decisive judgment, and this for having made his judges merry by an application of a saying of Telemachus[22], of which this is the sense: "I am, as my mother tells me, the son of Philip: for my own part, I know little of the matter; for what child knows his own father?" This piece of merriment did him as much good, as Archias received from the oration of Cicero[23], who said that that poet was a Roman citizen. An honour which, if he had not inherited by birth, he deserved for his genius. Aristophanes[24] flourished in the age of the great men of Greece, particularly of Socrates and Euripides, both of whom he outlived. He made a great figure during the whole Peloponnesian war, not merely as a comick poet, by whom the people were diverted, but as the censor of the government, as a man kept in pay by the state to reform it, and almost to act the part of the arbitrator of the publick[25]. A particular account of his comedies will best let us into his personal character as a poet, and into the nature of his genius, which is what we are most interested to know. It will, however, not be amiss to prepossess our readers a little by the judgments that have been passed upon him by the criticks of our own time, without forgetting one of the ancients that deserves great respect. 8. ARISTOPHANES CENSURED AND PRAISED. "Aristophanes," says father Rapin, "is not exact in the contrivance of his fables; his fictions are not probable; he brings real characters upon the stage too coarsely, and too openly. Socrates, whom he ridicules so much in his plays, had a more delicate turn of burlesque than himself, and had his merriment without his impudence. It is true, that Aristophanes wrote amidst the confusion and licentiousness of the old comedy, and he was well acquainted with the humour of the Athenians, to whom uncommon merit always gave disgust, and, therefore, he made the eminent men of his time the subject of his merriment. But the too great desire which he had to delight the people, by exposing worthy characters upon the stage, made him, at the same time, an unworthy man; and the turn of his genius, to ridicule was disfigured and corrupted by the indelicacy and outrageousness of his manners. After all, his pleasantry consists chiefly in new-coined puffy language. The dish of twenty-six syllables, which he gives, in his last scene of his Female Orators, would please few tastes in our days. His language is sometimes obscure, perplexed and vulgar; and his frequent play with words, his oppositions of contradictory terms, his mixture of tragick and comick, of serious and burlesque, are all flat; and his jocularity, if you examine it to the bottom, is all false. Menander is diverting in a more elegant manner; his style is pure, clear, elevated, and natural; he persuades like an orator, and instructs like a philosopher; and, if we may venture to judge upon the fragments which remain, it appears that his pictures of civil life are pleasing, that he makes every one speak according to his character, that every man may apply his pictures of life to himself, because he always follows nature, and feels for the personages which he brings upon the stage. To conclude, Plutarch, in his comparison of these authors, says, that the muse of Aristophanes is an abandoned prostitute, and that of Menander a modest woman." It is evident that this whole character is taken from Plutarch. Let us now go on with this remark of father Rapin, since we have already spoken of the Latin comedy, of which he gives us a description. "With respect, to the two Latin comick poets, Plautus is ingenious in his designs, happy in his conceptions, and fruitful of invention. He has, however, according to Horace, some low jocularities; and those smart sayings, which made the vulgar laugh, made him be pitied by men of higher taste. It is true, that some of his jests are extremely good, but others, likewise, are very bad. To this every man is exposed, who is too much determined to make sallies of merriment; they endeavour to raise that laughter by hyperboles, which would not arise by a just representation of things. Plautus is not quite so regular as Terence in the scheme of his designs, or in the distribution of his acts, but he is more simple in his plot; for the fables of Terence are commonly complex, as may be seen in his Andria, which contains two amours. It was imputed, as a fault to Terence, that, to bring more action upon the stage, he made one Latin comedy out of two Greek: but then Terence unravels his plot more naturally than Plautus, which Plautus did more naturally than Aristophanes; and though Cæsar calls Terence but one half of Menander, because, though he had softness and delicacy, there was in him some want of sprightliness and strength; yet he has written in a manner so natural and so judicious, that, though he was then only a copy, he is now an original. No author has ever had a more exact sense of pure nature. Of Cecilius, since we have only a few fragments, I shall say nothing. All that we know of him is told us by Varrus, that he was happy in the choice of subjects." Rapin omits many others for the same reason, that we have not enough of their works to qualify us for judges. While we are upon this subject, it will, perhaps, not displease the reader to see what that critick's opinion is of Lopes de Vega and Molière. It will appear, that with respect to Lopes de Vega, he is rather too profuse of praise: that, in speaking of Molière, he is too parsimonious. This piece will, however, be of use to our design, when we shall examine to the bottom what it is that ought to make the character of comedy. "No man has ever had a greater genius for comedy than Lopes de Vega, the Spaniard. He had a fertility of wit, joined with great beauty of conception, and a wonderful readiness of composition; for he has written more than three hundred comedies. His name, alone, gave reputation to his pieces; for his reputation was so well established, that a work, which came from his hands, was sure to claim the approbation of the publick. He had a mind too extensive to be subjected to rules, or restrained by limits. For that reason he gave himself up to his own genius, on which he could always depend with confidence. When he wrote, he consulted no other laws than the taste of his auditors, and regulated his manner more by the success of his work than by the rules of reason. Thus he discarded all scruples of unity, and all the superstitions of probability." (This is certainly not said with a design to praise him, and must be connected with that which immediately follows.) "But as, for the most part, he endeavours at too much jocularity, and carries ridicule to too much refinement; his conceptions are often rather happy than just, and rather wild than natural; for, by subtilizing merriment too far, it becomes too nice to be true, and his beauties lose their power of striking by being too delicate and acute. "Among us, nobody has carried ridicule in comedy farther than Molière. Our ancient comick writers brought no characters higher than servants to make sport upon the theatre; but we are diverted upon the theatre of Molière by marquises and people of quality. Others have exhibited, in comedy, no species of life above that of a citizen; but Molière shows us all Paris, and the court. He is the only man amongst us, who has laid open those features of nature by which he is exactly marked, and may be accurately known. The beauties of his pictures are so natural, that they are felt by persons of the least discernment, and his power of pleasantry received half its force from his power of copying. His Misanthrope is, in my opinion, the most complete, and, likewise, the most singular character that has ever appeared upon the stage: but the disposition of his comedies is always defective some way or another. This is all which we can observe, in general, upon comedy." Such are the thoughts of one of the most refined judges of works of genius, from which, though they are not all oraculous, some advantages may be drawn, as they always make some approaches to truth. Madame Dacier[26], having her mind full of the merit of Aristophanes, expresses herself in this manner: "No man had ever more discernment than him, in finding out the ridiculous, nor a more ingenious manner of showing it to others. His remarks are natural and easy, and, what very rarely can be found, with great copiousness, he has great delicacy. To say all at once, the Attick wit, of which the ancients made such boast, appears more in Aristophanes than in any other that I know of in antiquity. But what is most of all to be admired in him is, that he is always so much master of the subject before him, that, without doing any violence to himself, he finds a way to introduce, naturally, things which, at first, appeared most distant from his purpose; and even the most quick and unexpected of his desultory sallies appear the necessary consequence of the foregoing incidents. This is that art which sets the dialogues of Plato above imitation, which we must consider as so many dramatick pieces, which are equally entertaining by the action, and by the dialogue. The style of Aristophanes is no less pleasing than his fancy; for, besides its clearness, its vigour and its sweetness, there is in it a certain harmony, so delightful to the ear, that there is no pleasure equal to that of reading it. When he applies himself to vulgar mediocrity of style, he descends without meanness; when he attempts the sublime, he is elevated without obscurity; and no man has ever had the art of blending all the different kinds of writing so equally together. After having studied all that is left us of Grecian learning, if we have not read Aristophanes, we cannot yet know all the charms and beauties of that language." 9. PLUTARCH'S SENTIMENTS UPON ARISTOPHANES AND MENANDER. This is a pompous eulogium; but let us suspend our opinion, and hear that of Plutarch, who, being an ancient, well deserves our attention, at least, after we have heard the moderns before him. This is then the sum of his judgment concerning Aristophanes and Menander. To Menander he gives the preference, without allowing much competition. He objects to Aristophanes, that he carries all his thoughts beyond nature; that he writes rather to the crowd than to men of character; that he affects a style obscure and licentious; tragical, pompous, and mean, sometimes serious, and sometimes ludicrous, even to puerility; that he makes none of his personages speak according to any distinct character, so that in his scenes the son cannot be known from the father, the citizen from the boor, the hero from the shopkeeper, or the divine from the serving-man. Whereas, the diction of Menander, which is always uniform and pure, is very justly adapted to different characters, rising, when it is necessary, to vigorous and sprightly comedy, yet without transgressing the proper limits, or losing sight of nature, in which Menander, says Plutarch, has attained a perfection to which no other writer has arrived. For, what man, besides himself, has ever found the art of making a diction equally suitable to women and children, to old and young, to divinities and heroes? Now Menander has found this happy secret, in the equality and flexibility of his diction, which, though always the same, is, nevertheless, different upon different occasions; like a current of clear water, (to keep closely to the thoughts of Plutarch,) which running through banks differently turned, complies with all their turns backward and forward, without changing any thing of its nature or its purity. Plutarch mentions it, as a part of the merit of Menander, that he began very young, and was stopped only by old age, at a time when he would have produced the greatest wonders, if death had not prevented him. This, joined to a reflection, which he makes as he returns to Aristophanes, shows that Aristophanes continued a long time to display his powers: for his poetry, says Plutarch, is a strumpet that affects sometimes the airs of a prude, but whose impudence cannot be forgiven by the people, and whose affected modesty is despised by men of decency. Menander, on the contrary, always shows himself a man agreeable and witty, a companion desirable upon the stage, at table, and in gay assemblies; an extract of all the treasures of Greece, who deserves always to be read, and always to please. His irresistible power of persuasion, and the reputation which he has had, of being the best master of language of Greece, sufficiently shows the delightfulness of his style. Upon this article of Menander, Plutarch does not know how to make an end; he says, that he is the delight of philosophers, fatigued with study; that they use his works as a meadow enamelled with flowers, where a purer air gratifies the sense; that, notwithstanding the powers of the other comick poets of Athens, Menander has always been considered as possessing a salt peculiar to himself, drawn from the same waters that gave birth to Venus. That, on the contrary, the salt of Aristophanes is bitter, keen, coarse, and corrosive; that one cannot tell whether his dexterity, which has been so much boasted, consists not more in the characters than in the expression, for he is charged with playing often upon words, with affecting antithetical allusions; that he has spoiled the copies which he endeavoured to take after nature; that artifice in his plays is wickedness, and simplicity brutishness; that his jocularity ought to raise hisses rather than laughter; that his amours have more impudence than gaiety; and that he has not so much written for men of understanding, as for minds blackened with envy, and corrupted with debauchery. 10. THE JUSTIFICATION OF ARISTOPHANES. After such a character there seems no need of going further; and one would think, that it would be better to bury, for ever, the memory of so hateful a writer, that makes us so poor a recompense for the loss of Menander, who cannot be recalled. But, without showing any mercy to the indecent or malicious sallies of Aristophanes, any more than to Plautus, his imitator, or, at least, the inheritor of his genius, may it not be allowed us to do, with respect to him, what, if I mistake not, Lucretius[27] did to Ennius, from whose muddy verses he gathered jewels, "Enni de stercore gemmas?" Besides, we must not believe that Plutarch, who lived more than four ages after Menander, and more than five after Aristophanes, has passed so exact a judgment upon both, but that it may be fit to reexamine it. Plato, the contemporary of Aristophanes, thought very differently, at least, of his genius; for, in his piece called the Entertainment, he gives that poet a distinguished place, and makes him speak, according to his character, with Socrates himself, from which, by the way, it is apparent that this dialogue of Plato was composed before the time that Aristophanes wrote his Clouds, against Socrates. Plato is, likewise, said to have sent a copy of Aristophanes to Dionysius the tyrant, with advice to read it diligently, if he would attain a complete judgment of the state of the Athenian republick[28]. Many other scholars have thought that they might depart somewhat from the opinion of Plutarch. Frischlinus, for example, one of the commentators upon Aristophanes, though he justly allows his taste to be less pure than that of Menander, has yet undertaken his defence against the outrageous censure of the ancient critick. In the first place, he condemns, without mercy, his ribaldry and obscenity. But this part, so worthy of contempt, and written only for the lower people, according to the remark of Boivin, bad as it is, after all, is not the chief part which is left of Aristophanes. I will not say, with Frischlinus, that Plutarch seems in this to contradict himself, and, in reality, commends the poet when he accuses him of having adapted his language to the stage; by the stage, in this place, he meant the theatre of farces, on which low mirth and buffoonery was exhibited. This plea of Frischlinus is a mere cavil; and though the poet had obtained his end, which was to divert a corrupted populace, he would not have been less a bad man, nor less a despicable poet, notwithstanding the excuse of his defender. To be able, in the highest degree, to divert fools and libertines, will not make a poet: it is not, therefore, by this defence that we must justify the character of Aristophanes. The depraved taste of the crowd, who once drove away Cratinus and his company, because the scenes had not low buffoonery enough for their taste, will not justify Aristophanes, since Menander found a way of changing the taste by giving a sort of comedy, not, indeed, so modest as Plutarch represents it, but less licentious than before. Nor is Aristophanes better justified, by the reason which he himself offers, when he says, that he exhibited debauchery upon the stage, not to corrupt the morals, but to mend them. The sight of gross faults is rather a poison than a remedy[29]. The apologist has forgot one reason, which appears to me to be essential to a just account. As far as we can judge by appearance, Plutarch had in his hands all the plays of Aristophanes, which were at least fifty in number. In these he saw more licentiousness than has come to our hands, though, in the eleven that are still remaining, there is much more than could be wished. Plutarch censures him, in the second place, for playing upon words; and against this charge Frischlinus defends him with less skill. It is impossible to exemplify this in French. But, after all, this part is so little, that it deserved not so severe a reprehension, especially since, amongst those sayings, there are some so mischievously malignant, that they became proverbial, at least by the sting of their malice, if not by the delicacy of their wit. One example will be sufficient: speaking of the tax-gatherers, or the excisemen of Athens, he crushes them at once, by observing, non quod essent [Greek: tamiai], sed [Greek: lamiai]. The word _lamiae_ signified, walking spirits, which, according to the vulgar notion, devoured men; this makes the spirit of the sarcasm against the tax-gatherers. This cannot be rendered in our language; but if any thing as good had been said in France, on the like occasion, it would have lasted too long, and, like many other sayings amongst us, been too well received. The best is that Plutarch himself confesses that it was extremely applauded. The third charge is, a mixture of tragick and comick style. This accusation is certainly true; Aristophanes often gets into the buskin; but we must examine upon what occasion. He does not take upon him the character of a tragick writer; but, having remarked that his trick of parody was always well received, by a people who liked to laugh at that for which they had been just weeping, he is eternally using the same craft; and there is scarcely any tragedy or striking passage known by memory, by the Athenians, which he does not turn into merriment, by throwing over it a dress of ridicule and burlesque, which is done sometimes by changing or transposing the words, and sometimes by an unexpected application of the whole sentence. These are the shreds of tragedy, in which he arrays the comick muse, to make her still more comick. Cratinus had before done the same thing; and we know that he made a comedy called Ulysses, to burlesque Homer and his Odyssey; which shows, that the wits and poets are, with respect to one another, much the same at all times, and that it was at Athens as here. I will prove this system by facts, particularly with respect to the merriment of Aristophanes, upon our three celebrated tragedians. This being the case, the mingled style of Aristophanes will, perhaps, not deserve so much censure as Plutarch has vented. We have no need of the travesty of Virgil, nor the parodies of our own time, nor of the Lutrin of Boileau, to show us, that this medly may have its merit upon particular occasions. The same may be said, in general, of his obscurity, his meannesses, and his high flights, and of all the seeming inequality of style, which puts Plutarch in a rage. These censures can never be just upon a poet, whose style has always been allowed to be perfectly attick, and of an atticism which made him extremely delightful to the lovers of the Athenian taste. Plutarch, perhaps, rather means to blame the choruses, of which the language is sometimes elevated, sometimes burlesque, always very poetical, and, therefore, in appearance, not suitable to comedy. But the chorus, which had been borrowed from tragedy, was then all the fashion, particularly for pieces of satire, and Aristophanes admitted them, like the other poets of the old, and, perhaps, of the middle comedy; whereas Menander suppressed them, not so much in compliance with his own judgment, as in obedience to the publick edicts. It is not, therefore, this mixture of tragick and comick that will place Aristophanes below Menander. The fifth charge is, that he kept no distinction of character; that, for example, he makes women speak like orators, and orators like slaves: but it appears, by the characters which he ridicules, that this objection falls of itself. It is sufficient to say, that a poet who painted not imaginary characters, but real persons, men well known, citizens whom he called by their names, and showed in dresses like their own, and masks resembling their faces, whom he branded in the sight of a whole city extremely haughty and full of derision; it is sufficient to say, that such a poet could never be supposed to miss his characters. The applause which his licentiousness produced, is too good a justification; besides, if he had not succeeded, he exposed himself to the fate of Eupolis, who, in a comedy called the Drowned Man, having imprudently pulled to pieces particular persons, more powerful than himself, was laid hold of, and drowned more effectually than those he had drowned upon the open stage. The condemnation of the poignancy of Aristophanes, as having too much acrimony, is better founded. Such was the turn of a species of comedy, in which all licentiousness was allowed; in a nation which made every thing a subject of laughter, in its jealousy of immoderate liberty, and its enmity, to all appearance, of rule and superiority; for the genius of independency, naturally produces a kind of satire, more keen than delicate, as may be easily observed in most of the inhabitants of islands. If we do not say, with Longinus, that a popular government kindles eloquence, and that a lawful monarchy stifles it; at least it is easy to discover, by the event, that eloquence in different governments takes a different appearance. In republicks it is more sprightly and violent, and in monarchies more insinuating and soft. The same thing may be said of ridicule; it follows the cast of genius, as genius follows that of government. Thus the republican raillery, particularly of the age which we are now considering, must have been rougher than that of the age which followed it, for the same reason that Horace is more delicate, and Lucilius more pointed. A dish of satire was always a delicious treat to human malignity; but that dish was differently seasoned, as the manners were polished more or less. By polished manners I mean that good-breeding, that art of reserve and self-restraint, which is the consequence of dependance. If one was to determine the preference due to one of those kinds of pleasantry, of which both have their value, there would not need a moment's hesitation: every voice would join in favour of the softer, yet without contempt of that which is rough. Menander will, therefore, be preferred, but Aristophanes will not be despised, especially since he was the first who quitted that wild practice of satirizing at liberty right or wrong, and by a comedy of another cast, made way for the manner of Menander, more agreeable yet, and less dangerous. There is, yet, another distinction to be made between the acrimony of the one, and the softness of the other; the works of the one are acrimonious, and of the other soft, because, the one exhibited personal, and the other, general characters; which leaves us still at liberty to examine, if these different designs might not be executed with equal delicacy. We shall know this by a view of the particulars; in this place we say only that the reigning taste, or the love of striking likenesses, might justify Aristophanes for having turned, as Plutarch says, art into malignity, simplicity into brutality, merriment into farce, and amour into impudence; if, in any age, a poet could be excused for painting publick folly and vice, in their true colours. There is a motive of interest, at the bottom, which disposed Elian, Plutarch, and many others, to condemn this poet without appeal. Socrates, who is said to have been destroyed by a poetical attack, at the instigation of two wretches[30], has too many friends among good men, to have pardon granted to so horrid a crime. This has filled them with an implacable hatred against Aristophanes, which is mingled with the spirit of philosophy; a spirit, wherever it comes, more dangerous than any other. A common enemy will confess some good qualities in his adversary; but a philosopher, made partial by philosophy, is never at rest till he has totally destroyed him who has hurt the most tender part of his heart; that is, has disturbed him in his adherence to some character, which, like that of Socrates, takes possession of the mind. The mind is the freest part of man, and the most tender of its liberties; possessions, life, and reputation may be in another's power, but opinion is always independent. If any man can obtain that gentle influence, by which he ingratiates himself with the understanding, and makes a sect in a commonwealth, his followers will sacrifice themselves for him, and nobody will be pardoned that dares to attack him, justly or unjustly, because that truth, real or imaginary, which he maintained, is now become an idol. Time will do nothing for the extinction of this hatred; it will be propagated from age to age; and there is no hope that Aristophanes will ever be treated with tenderness by the disciples of Plato, who made Socrates his hero. Every body else may, perhaps, confess, that Aristophanes, though in one instance a bad man, may, nevertheless, be a good poet; but distinctions, like these, will not be admitted by prejudice and passion, and one or other dictates all characters, whether good or bad. As I add my own reasons, such as they are, for or against Aristophanes, to those of Frischlinus, his defender, I must not omit one thing which he has forgot, and which, perhaps, without taking in the rest, put Plutarch out of humour, which is that perpetual farce which goes through all the comedies of Aristophanes, like the character of harlequin on the Italian theatre. What kind of personages are clouds, frogs, wasps, and birds? Plutarch, used to a comick stage of a very different appearance, must have thought them strange things; and, yet stranger must they appear to us, who have a newer kind of comedy, with which the Greeks were unacquainted. This is what our poet may be charged with, and what may be proved beyond refutation. This charge comprises all the rest, and against this I shall not pretend to justify him. It would be of no use to say, that Aristophanes wrote for an age that required shows which filled the eye, and grotesque paintings in satirical performances; that the crowds of spectators, which sometimes neglected Cratinus to throng Aristophanes, obliged him, more and more, to comply with the ruling taste, lest he should lose the publick favour by pictures more delicate and less striking; that, in a state, where it was considered as policy to lay open every thing that had the appearance of ambition, singularity, or knavery, comedy was become a haranguer, a reformer, and a publick counsellor, from whom the people learned to take care of their most valuable interests; and that this comedy, in the attempt to lead, and to please the people, claimed a right to the strongest touches of eloquence, and had, likewise, the power of personal painting, peculiar to herself. All these reasons, and many others, would disappear immediately, and my mouth would be stopped with a single word, with which every body would agree: my antagonist would tell me that such an age was to be pitied, and, passing on from age to age, till he came to our own, he would conclude flatly, that we are the only possessours of common sense; a determination with which the French are too much reproached, and which overthrows all the prejudice in favour of antiquity. At the sight of so many happy touches, which one cannot help admiring in Aristophanes, a man might, perhaps, be inclined to lament that such a genius was thrown into an age of fools; but what age has been without them? And have not we ourselves reason to fear, lest posterity should judge of Molière and his age, as we judge of Aristophanes? Menander altered the taste, and was applauded in Athens, but it was after Athens was changed. Terence imitated him at Rome, and obtained the preference over Plautus, though Cæsar called him but a demi-Menander, because he appears to want that spirit and vivacity which he calls the vis comica. We are now weary of the manner of Menander and Terence, and leave them for Molière, who appears like a new star in a new course. Who can answer, that in such an interval of time as has passed between these four writers, there will not arise another author, or another taste, that may bring Molière, in his turn, into neglect? Without going further, our neighbours, the English, think he wants force and fire. Whether they are right, or no, is another question; all that I mean to advance is, that we are to fix it as a conclusion, that comick authors must grow obsolete with the modes of life, if we admit any one age, or any one climate, for the sovereign rule of taste. But let us talk with more exactness, and endeavour, by an exact analysis, to find out what there is in comedy, whether of Aristophanes and Plautus, of Menander and Terence, of Molière and his rivals, which is never obsolete, and must please all ages and all nations. 11. REMARKABLE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE STATE OF COMEDY, AND OTHER WORKS OF GENIUS, WITH REGARD TO THEIR DURATION. I now speak particularly of comedy; for we must observe that between that and other works of literature, especially tragedy, there is an essential difference, which the enemies of antiquity will not understand, and which I shall endeavour palpably to show. All works show the age in which they are produced; they carry its stamp upon them; the manners of the times are impressed by indelible marks. If it be allowed, that the best of past times were rude in comparison with ours, the cause of the ancients is decided against them; and the want of politeness, with which their works are charged, in our days, must be generally confessed. History alone seems to claim exemption from this accusation. Nobody will dare to say of Herodotus or Thucydides, of Livius or Tacitus, that which has been said, without scruple, of Homer and the ancient poets. The reason is, that history takes the nearest way to its purpose, and gives the characters and practices of nations, be they what they will; it has no dependance upon its subject, and offers nothing to examination, but the art of the narrative. An history of China, well written, would please a Frenchman, as well as one of France. It is otherwise with mere works of genius, they depend upon their subjects, and, consequently, upon the characters and practices of the times in which they were written; this, at least, is the light in which they are beheld. This rule of judgment is not equitable; for, as I have said, over and over, all the orators and the poets are painters, and merely painters. They exhibit nature, as it is before them, influenced by the accidents of education, which, without changing it entirely, yet give it, in different ages and climates, a different appearance; but we make their success depend, in a great degree, upon their subject, that is, upon circumstances which we measure by the circumstances of our own days. According to this prejudice, oratory depends more upon its subject than history, and poetry yet more than oratory. Our times, therefore, show more regard to Herodotus and Suetonius, than to Demosthenes and Cicero, and more to all these than to Homer or Virgil. Of this prejudice, there are regular gradations; and to come back to the point which we have left, we show, for the same imperceptible reason, less regard to tragick poets than to others. The reason is, that the subjects of their paintings are more examined than the art. Thus comparing the Achilles and Hippolytus of Euripides, with those of Racine, we drive them off the stage, without considering that Racine's heroes will be driven off, in a future age, if the same rule of judgment be followed, and one time be measured by another. Yet tragedy, having the passions for its object, is not wholly exposed to the caprice of our taste, which would make our own manners the rule of human kind; for the passions of Grecian heroes are often dressed in external modes of appearance that disgust us, yet they break through the veil when they are strongly marked, as we cannot deny them to be in Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. The essence then gets the better of the circumstance. The passions of Greece and France do not so much differ by the particular characters of particular ages, as they agree by the participation of that which belongs to the same passion in all ages. Our three tragick poets will, therefore, get clear by suffering only a little ridicule, which falls directly upon their times; but these times and themselves will be well recompensed, by the admiration which their art will irresistibly enforce. Comedy is in a more lamentable situation; for, not only its object is the ridiculous, which, though in reality always the same, is so dependant on custom, as to change its appearance with time, and with place; but the art of a comick writer is, to lay hold of that species of the ridiculous which will catch the spectators of the present hour, without regard to futurity. But, though comedy has attained its end, and diverted the pit, for which it was written; if it goes down to posterity, it is a new world, where it is no longer known; it becomes there quite a foreigner, because there are no longer the same originals, nor the same species of the ridiculous, nor the same spectators, but a set of merciless readers, who complain that they are tired with it, though it once filled Athens, Rome, or Paris, with merriment. This position is general, and comprises all poets and all ages. To say all, at once, comedy is the slave of its subject, and of the reigning taste; tragedy is not subject to the same degree of slavery, because the ends of the two species of poetry are different. For this reason, if we suppose that in all ages there are criticks, who measure every thing by the same rule, it will follow, that if the comedy of Aristophanes be become obsolete, that of Menander, likewise, after having delighted Athens, and revived again at Rome, at last suffered by the force of time. The muse of Molière has almost made both of them forgotten, and would still be walking the stage, if the desire of novelty did not in time make us weary of that which we have too frequently admired. Those, who have endeavoured to render their judgment independent upon manners and customs, and of such men there have been always some, have not judged so severely either of times, or of writers; they have discovered that a certain resemblance runs through all polished ages, which are alike in essential things, and differ only in external manners, which, if we except religion, are things of indifference; that, wherever there is genius, politeness, liberty, or plenty, there prevails an exact and delicate taste, which, however hard to be expressed, is felt by those that were born to feel it; that Athens, the inventress of all the arts, the mother first of the Roman, and then of general taste, did not consist of stupid savages; that the Athenian and Augustan ages having always been considered as times that enjoyed a particular privilege of excellence, though we may distinguish the good authors from the bad, as in our own days, yet we ought to suspend the vehemence of criticism, and proceed with caution and timidity, before we pass sentence upon times and writers, whose good taste has been universally applauded. This obvious consideration has disposed them to pause; they have endeavoured to discover the original of taste, and have found that there is not only a stable and immutable beauty, as there is a common understanding in all times and places, which is never obsolete; but there is another kind of beauty, such as we are now treating, which depends upon times and places, and is, therefore, changeable. Such is the imperfection of every thing below, that one mode of beauty is never found without a mixture of the other, and from these two, blended together, results what is called the taste of an age. I am now speaking of an age sprightly and polite, an age which leaves works for a long time behind it, an age which is imitated or criticised, when revolutions have thrown it out of sight. Upon this incontestable principle, which supposes a beauty, universal and absolute, and a beauty, likewise, relative and particular, which are mingled through one work in very different proportions, it is easy to give an account of the contrary judgments passed on Aristophanes. If we consider him only with respect to the beauties, which, though they do not please us, delighted the Athenians, we shall condemn him at once, though even this sort of beauty may, sometimes, have its original in universal beauty carried to extravagance. Instead of commending him for being able to give merriment to the most refined nation of those days, we shall proceed to place that people, with all their atticism, in the rank of savages, whom we take upon us to degrade, because they have no other qualifications but innocence, and plain understanding. But have not we, likewise, amidst our more polished manners, beauties merely fashionable, which make part of our writings as of the writings of former times; beauties of which our self-love now makes us fond, but which, perhaps, will disgust our grandsons? Let us be more equitable; let us leave this relative beauty to its real value, more or less, in every age: or, if we must pass judgment upon it, let us say that these touches in Aristophanes, Menander, and Molière, were well struck off in their own time; but that, comparing them with true beauty, that part of Aristophanes was a colouring too strong, that of Menander was too weak, and that of Molière was a peculiar varnish, formed of one and the other, which, without being an imitation, is itself inimitable, yet depending upon time, which will efface it, by degrees, as our notions, which are every day changing, shall receive a sensible alteration. Much of this has already happened since the time of Molière, who, if he was now to come again, must take a new road. With respect to unalterable beauties, of which comedy admits much fewer than tragedy, when they are the subject of our consideration, we must not, too easily, set Aristophanes and Plautus below Menander and Terence. We may properly hesitate with Boileau, whether we shall prefer the French comedy to the Greek and Latin. Let us only give, like him, the great rule for pleasing in all ages, and the key by which all the difficulties in passing judgment may be opened. This rule and this key are nothing else but the ultimate design of the comedy. Etudiez la cour, et connoissez la ville: L'une et l'autre est toujours en modèles fertile. C'est par-là que Molière illustrant ses écrits Peut-être de son art eût remporté le prix, Si, moins ami du peuple en ses doctes peintures, Il n'eut point fait souvent grimacer ses figures, Quitté pour le bouffon l'agréable et le fin, Et sans honte à Térence allié Tabarin[31]. In truth, Aristophanes and Plautus united buffoonery and delicacy, in a greater degree than Molière; and for this they may be blamed. That which then pleased at Athens, and at Rome, was a transitory beauty, which had not sufficient foundation in truth, and, therefore, the taste changed. But, if we condemn those ages for this, what age shall we spare? Let us refer every thing to permanent and universal taste, and we shall find in Aristophanes at least as much to commend as censure. 12. TRAGEDY MORE UNIFORM THAN COMEDY. But before we go on to his works, it may be allowed to make some reflections upon tragedy and comedy. Tragedy, though different, according to the difference of times and writers, is uniform in its nature, being founded upon the passions, which never change. With comedy it is otherwise. Whatever difference there is between Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; between Corneille and Racine; between the French and the Greeks; it will not be found sufficient to constitute more than one species of tragedy. The works of those great masters are, in some respects, like the seanymphs, of whom Ovid says, "That their faces were not the same, yet so much alike, that they might be known to be sisters;" --facies non omnibus una, Nec diversa tamen, qualem decet esse sororum. The reason is, that the same passions give action and animation to them all. With respect to the comedies of Aristophanes and Plautus, Menander and Terence, Molière and his imitators, if we compare them one with another, we shall find something of a family likeness, but much less strongly marked, on account of the different appearance which ridicule and pleasantry take from the different manners of every age. They will not pass for sisters, but for very distant relations. The Muse of Aristophanes and Plautus, to speak of her with justice, is a bacchanal at least, whose malignant tongue is dipped in gall, or in poison dangerous as that of the aspick or viper; but whose bursts of malice, and sallies of wit, often give a blow where it is not expected. The Muse of Terence, and, consequently, of Menander, is an artless and unpainted beauty, of easy gaiety, whose features are rather delicate than striking, rather soft than strong, rather plain and modest than great and haughty, but always perfectly natural: Ce n'est pas un portrait, une image semblable: C'est un fils, un amant, un père véritable. The Muse of Molière is not always plainly dressed, but takes airs of quality, and rises above her original condition, so as to attire herself gracefully in magnificent apparel. In her manners she mingles elegance with foolery, force with delicacy and grandeur, or even haughtiness with plainness and modesty. If, sometimes, to please the people, she gives a loose to farce, it is only the gay folly of a moment, from which she immediately returns, and which lasts no longer than a slight intoxication. The first might be painted encircled with little satyrs, some grossly foolish, the others delicate, but all extremely licentious and malignant; monkeys always ready to laugh in your face, and to point out to indiscriminate ridicule, the good and the bad. The second may be shown encircled with geniuses full of softness and of candour, taught to please by nature alone, and whose honeyed dialect is so much the more insinuating, as there is no temptation to distrust it. The last must be accompanied with the delicate laughter of the court, and that of the city somewhat more coarse, and neither the one nor the other can be separated from her. The Muse of Aristophanes and of Plautus can never be denied the honour of sprightliness, animation, and invention; nor that of Menander and Terence the praise of nature and of delicacy; to that of Molière must be allowed the happy secret of uniting all the piquancy of the former, with a peculiar art which they did not know. Of these three sorts of merit, let us show to each the justice that is due, let us, in each, separate the pure and the true, from the false gold, without approving or condemning either the one or the other, in the gross. If we must pronounce, in general, upon the taste of their writings, we must indisputably allow that Menander, Terence and Molière, will give most pleasure to a decent audience, and, consequently, that they approach nearer to the true beauty, and have less mixture of beauties purely relative, than Plautus and Aristophanes. If we distinguish comedy by its subjects, we shall find three sorts among the Greeks, and as many among the Latins, all differently dressed; if we distinguish it by ages and authors, we shall again find three sorts; and we shall find three sorts, a third time, if we regard more closely the subject. As the ultimate and general rules of all these sorts of comedy are the same, it will, perhaps, be agreeable to our purpose to sketch them out, before we give a full display of the last class. I can do nothing better, on this occasion, than transcribe the twenty-fifth reflection of Rapin upon poetry in particular. 13. GENERAL RULES OF COMEDY. "Comedy," says he[32], "is a representation of common life: its end is to show the faults of particular characters on the stage, to correct the disorder of the people by the fear of ridicule. Thus ridicule is the essential part of a comedy. Ridicule may be in words, or in things; it may be decent, or grotesque. To find what is ridiculous in every thing, is the gift merely of nature; for all the actions of life have their bright, and their dark sides; something serious, and something merry. But Aristotle, who has given rules for drawing tears, has given none for raising laughter; for this is merely the work of nature, and must proceed from genius, with very little help from art or matter. The Spaniards have a turn to find the ridicule in things, much more than we; and the Italians, who are natural comedians, have a better turn for expressing it; their language is more proper for it than ours, by an air of drollery which it can put on, and of which ours may become capable, when it shall be brought nearer to perfection. In short, that agreeable turn, that gaiety, which yet maintains the delicacy of its character, without falling into dulness or into buffoonery; that elegant raillery, which is the flower of fine wit, is the qualification which comedy requires. We must, however, remember that the true artificial ridicule, which is required on the theatre, must be only a transcript of the ridicule which nature affords. Comedy is naturally written, when, being on the theatre, a man can fancy himself in a private family, or a particular part of the town, and meets with nothing but what he really meets with in the world; for it is no real comedy in which a man does not see his own picture, and find his own manners, and those of the people among whom he lives. Menander succeeded only by this art among the Greeks: and the Romans, when they sat at Terence's comedies, imagined themselves in a private party; for they found nothing there which they had not been used to find in common company. The great art of comedy is to adhere to nature, without deviation; to have general sentiments and expressions, which all the world can understand; for the writer must keep it always in his mind, that the coarsest touches after nature will please more, than the most delicate, with which nature is inconsistent. However, low and mean words should never be allowed upon the stage, if they are not supported with some kind of wit. Proverbs and vulgar smartnesses can never be suffered, unless they have something in them of nature and pleasantry. This is the universal principle of comedy; whatever is represented, in this manner must please, and nothing can ever please without it. It is by application to the study of nature alone, that we arrive at probability, which is the only infallible guide to theatrical success: without this probability, every thing is defective, and that which has it, is beautiful; he that follows this, can never go wrong; and the most common faults of comedy proceed from the neglect of propriety, and the precipitation of incidents. Care must, likewise, be taken, that the hints, made use of to introduce the incidents, are not too strong, that the spectator may enjoy the pleasure of finding out their meaning; but commonly the weak place in our comedy is the untying of the plot, in which we almost always fail, on account of the difficulty which there is in disentangling of what has been perplexed. To perplex an intrigue is easy; the imagination does it by itself; but it must be disentangled merely by the judgment, and is, therefore, seldom done happily; and he that reflects a very little, will find, that most comedies are faulty by an unnatural catastrophe. It remains to be examined, whether comedy will allow pictures larger than the life, that this strength of the strokes may make a deeper impression upon the mind of the spectators; that is, if a poet may make a covetous man more covetous, and a peevish man more impertinent, and more troublesome than he really is. To which I answer, that this was the practice of Plautus, whose aim was to please the people, but that Terence, who wrote for gentlemen, confined himself within the compass of nature, and represented vice without addition or aggravation. However, these extravagant characters, such as the Citizen turned gentleman, and the Hypochrondriac patient of Molière, have lately succeeded at court, where delicacy is carried so far; but every thing, even to provincial interludes, is well received, if it has but merriment, for we had rather laugh than admire. These are the most important rules of comedy. 14. THREE SORTS OF COMEDY. These rules, indeed, are common to the three kinds which I have in my mind; but it is necessary to distinguish each from the rest, which may be done by diversity of matter, which always makes some diversity of management. The old and middle comedy simply represented real adventures: in the same way some passages of history and of fable might form a class of comedies, which should resemble it without having its faults; such is the Amphitryon. How many moral tales, how many adventures, ancient and modern; how many little fables of Aesop, of Phaedrus, of Fontaine, or some other ancient poet, would make pretty exhibitions, if they were all made use of as materials by skilful hands? And have we not seen some like Timon the man hater, that have been successful in this way? This sort chiefly regards the Italians. The ancient exhibition, called a satire, because the satyrs played their part in it, of which we have no other instance than the Cyclops of Euripides, has, without doubt, given occasion to the pastoral comedies, for which we are chiefly indebted to Italy, and which are there more cultivated than in France. It is, however, a kind of exhibition that would have its charms, if it was touched with elegance and without meanness: it is the pastoral put into action. To conclude, the new comedy, invented by Menander, has produced the comedy, properly so called in our times. This is that which has for its subject general pictures of common life, and feigned names and adventures, whether of the court or of the city. This third kind is incontestably the most noble, and has received the strongest sanction from custom. It is, likewise, the most difficult to perform, because it is merely the work of invention, in which the poet has no help from real passages or persons, which the tragick poet always makes use of. Who knows but, by deep thinking, another kind of comedy may be invented, wholly different from the three which I have mentioned? such is the fruitfulness of comedy. But its course is already too wide for the discovery of new fields to be wished; and on ground where we are already so apt to stumble, nothing is so dangerous as novelty imperfectly understood. This is the rock on which men have often split, in every kind of pursuit; to go no further, in that of grammar and language, it is better to endeavour after novelty, in the manner of expressing common things, than to hunt for ideas out of the way, in which many a man loses himself. The ill success of that odd composition, tragick comedy, a monster wholly unknown to antiquity,[33] sufficiently shows the danger of novelty in attempts like these. 15. WHETHER TRAGEDY OR COMEDY BE THE HARDER TO WRITE[34]. To finish the parallel of the two dramas, a question may be revived equally common and important, which has been oftener proposed than well decided: it is, whether comedy or tragedy be most easy or difficult to be well executed. I shall not have the temerity to determine, positively, a question which so many great geniuses have been afraid to decide; but, if it be allowed to every literary man to give his reason for and against a mere work of genius, considered without respect to its good or bad tendency, I shall, in a few words, give my opinion, drawn from the nature of the two works, and the qualifications they demand. Horace[35] proposes a question nearly of the same kind: "It has been inquired, whether a good poem be the work of art or nature? for my part, I do not see much to be done by art without genius, nor by genius without knowledge. The one is necessary to the other, and the success depends upon their cooperation." If we should endeavour to accommodate matters in imitation of this decision of Horace, it were easy to say, at once, that supposing two geniuses equal, one tragick and the other comick, supposing the art, likewise, equal in each, one would be as easy or difficult as the other; but this, though satisfactory in the simple question put by Horace, will not be sufficient here. Nobody can doubt but genius and industry contribute their part to every thing valuable, and particularly to good poetry. But if genius and study were to be weighed one against the other, in order to discover which must contribute most to a good work, the question would become more curious, and, perhaps, very difficult of solution. Indeed, though nature must have a great part of the expanse of poetry, yet no poetry lasts long that is not very correct: the balance, therefore, seems to incline in favour of correction. For is it not known that Virgil, with less genius than Ovid, is yet valued more by men of exquisite judgment; or, without going so far, Boileau, the Horace of our time, who composed with so much labour, and asked Molière where he found his rhyme so easily, has said; "If I write four words, I shall blot out three:" has not Boileau, by his polished lines, retouched and retouched a thousand times, gained the preference above the works of the same Molière, which are so natural, and produced, by so fruitful a genius! Horace was of that opinion, for when he is teaching the writers of his age the art of poetry, he tells them, in plain terms, that Rome would excel in writing as in arms, if the poets were not afraid of the labour, patience, and time required to polish their pieces. He thought every poem was bad that had not been brought ten times back to the anvil, and required that a work should be kept nine years, as a child is nine months in the womb of its mother, to restrain that natural impatience which combines with sloth and self-love to disguise faults: so certain is it that correction is the touchstone of writing. The question proposed comes back to the comparison which I have been making between genius and correction, since we are now engaged in inquiring, whether there is more or less difficulty in writing tragedy or comedy: for, as we must compare nature and study one with another, since they must both concur, more or less, to make a poet; so if we will compare the labours of two different minds in different kinds of writing, we must, with regard to the authors, compare the force of genius, and, with respect to the composition, the difficulties of the task. The genius of the tragick and comick writer will be easily allowed to be remote from each other. Every performance, be what it will, requires a turn of mind which a man cannot confer upon himself; it is purely the gift of nature, which determines those who have it to pursue, almost in spite of themselves, the taste which predominates in their minds. Pascal found in his childhood, that he was a mathematician; and Vandyke, that he was born a painter. Sometimes this internal direction of the mind does not make such evident discoveries of itself; but it is rare to find Corneilles, who have lived long without knowing that they were poets. Corneille, having once got some notion of his powers, tried a long time, on all sides, to know what particular direction he should take. He had first made an attempt in comedy, in an age when it was yet so gross in France, that it could give no pleasure to polite persons. Melite was so well received, when he dressed her out, that she gave rise to a new species of comedy and comedians. This success, which encouraged Corneille to pursue that sort of comedy, of which he was the first inventor, left him no reason to imagine, that he was one day to produce those masterpieces of tragedy, which his muse displayed afterwards with so much splendour; and yet less did he imagine, that his comick pieces, which, for want of any that were preferable, were then very much in fashion, would be eclipsed by another genius[36] formed upon the Greeks and Romans, and who would add to their excellencies improvements of his own, and that this modish comedy, to which Corneille, as to his idol, dedicated his labours, would quickly be forgot. He wrote first Medea, and afterwards the Cid; and, by that prodigious flight of his genius, he discovered, though late, that nature had formed him to run in no other course but that of Sophocles. Happy genius! that, without rule or imitation, could at once take so high a flight: having once, as I may say, made himself an eagle, he never afterwards quitted the path which he had worked out for himself, over the heads of the writers of his time; yet he retained some traces of the false taste which infected the whole nation; but even in this, he deserves our admiration, since, in time, he changed it completely by the reflections he made, and those he occasioned. In short, Corneille was born for tragedy, as Molière for comedy. Molière, indeed, knew his own genius sooner, and was not less happy in procuring applause, though it often happened to him as to Corneille, "L'ignorance et l'erreur à ses naissantes pièces, En habit de marquis, en robes de comtesses, Vinssent pour diffamer son chef-d'oeuvre nouveau, Et secouer la têle à l'endroit le plus beau." But, without taking any farther notice of the time at which either came to the knowledge of his own genius, let us suppose that the powers of tragedy and comedy were as equally shared between Molière and Corneille, as they are different in their own nature, and then nothing more will remain, than to compare the several difficulties of each composition, and to rate those difficulties together which are common to both. It appears, first, that the tragick poet has, in his subject, an advantage over the comick, for he takes it from history; and his rival, at least in the more elevated and splendid comedy, is obliged to form it by his own invention. Now, it is not so easy, as it might seem, to find comick subjects capable of a new and pleasing form; but history is a source, if not inexhaustible, yet certainly so copious as never to leave the genius aground. It is true, that invention seems to have a wider field than history: real facts are limited in their number, but the facts which may be feigned have no end; but though, in this respect, invention may be allowed to have the advantage, is the difficulty of inventing to be accounted as nothing? To make a tragedy, is to get materials together, and to make use of them like a skilful architect; but to make a comedy, is to build like Aesop in the air. It is in vain to boast that the compass of invention is as wide as the extent of desire; every thing is limited, and the mind of man like every thing else. Besides, invention must be in conformity to nature; but distinct and remarkable characters are very rare in nature herself. Molière has got hold on the principal touches of ridicule. If any man should bring characters less strong, he will be in danger of dulness. Where comedy is to be kept up by subordinate personages, it is in great danger. All the force of a picture must arise from the principal persons, and not from the multitude clustered up together. In the same manner, a comedy, to be good, must be supported by a single striking character, and not by under-parts. But, on the contrary, tragick characters are without number, though of them the general outlines are limited; but dissimulation, jealousy, policy, ambition, desire of dominion, and other interests and passions, are various without end, and take a thousand different forms in different situations of history; so that, as long as there is tragedy, there may be always novelty. Thus the jealous and dissembling Mithridates, so happily painted by Racine, will not stand in the way of a poet, who shall attempt a jealous and dissembling Tiberius. The stormy violence of an Achilles will always leave room for the stormy violence of Alexander. But the case is very different with avarice, trifling vanity, hypocrisy, and other vices, considered as ridiculous. It would be safer to double and treble all the tragedies of our greatest poets, and use all their subjects over and over, as has been done with Oedipus and Sophonisba, than to bring again upon the stage, in five acts, a Miser, a Citizen turned gentleman, a Tartuffe, and other subjects sufficiently known. Not that these popular vices are less capable of diversification, or are less varied by different circumstances, than the vices and passions of heroes; but that if they were to be brought over again in comedies, they would be less distinct, less exact, less forcible, and, consequently, less applauded. Pleasantry and ridicule must be more strongly marked than heroism and pathos, which support themselves by their own force. Besides, though these two things, of so different natures, could support themselves equally in equal variety, which is very far from being the case, yet comedy, as it now stands, consists not in incidents, but in characters. Now it is by incidents only that characters are diversified, as well upon the stage of comedy, as upon the stage of life. Comedy, as Molière has left it, resembles the pictures of manners drawn by the celebrated La Bruyère. Would any man, after him, venture to draw them over again, he would expose himself to the fate of those who have ventured to continue them. For instance, what could we add to his character of the absent man? Shall we put him in other circumstances? The principal strokes of absence of mind will always be the same; and there are only those striking touches which are fit for a comedy, of which, the end is painting after nature, but with strength and sprightliness, like the designs of Callot. If comedy were among us what it is in Spain, a kind of romance, consisting of many circumstances and intrigues, perplexed and disentangled, so as to surprise; if it was nearly the same with that which Corneille practised in his time; if, like that of Terence, it went no farther than to draw the common portraits of simple nature, and show us fathers, sons, and rivals; notwithstanding the uniformity, which would always prevail, as in the plays of Terence, and, probably, in those of Menander, whom he imitated in his four first pieces, there would always be a resource found, either in variety of incidents, like those of the Spaniards, or in the repetition of the same characters, in the way of Terence; but the case is now very different, the publick calls for new characters, and nothing else. Multiplicity of accidents, and the laborious contrivance of an intrigue, are not now allowed to shelter a weak genius, that would find great conveniencies in that way of writing. Nor does it suit the taste of comedy, which requires an air less constrained, and such freedom and ease of manners as admits nothing of the romantick. She leaves all the pomp of sudden events to the novels, or little romances, which were the diversion of the last age. She allows nothing but a succession of characters resembling nature, and falling in, without any apparent contrivance. Racine has, likewise, taught us to give to tragedy the same simplicity of air and action; he has endeavoured to disentangle it from that great number of incidents, which made it rather a study than diversion to the audience, and which show the poet not so much to abound in invention, as to be deficient in taste. But, notwithstanding all that he has done, or that we can do, to make it simple, it will always have the advantage over comedy in the number of its subjects, because it admits more variety of situations and events, which give variety and novelty to the characters. A miser, copied after nature, will always be the miser of Plautus or Molière; but a Nero, or a prince like Nero, will not always be the hero of Racine. Comedy admits of so little intrigue, that the miser cannot be shown in any such position as will make his picture new; but the great events of tragedy may put Nero in such circumstances, as to make him wholly another character. But, in the second place, over and above the subjects, may we not say something concerning the final purpose of comedy and tragedy? The purpose of the one is to divert, and the other to move; and, of these two, which is the easier? To go to the bottom of those purposes; to move is to strike those strings of the heart which are most natural, terrour and pity; to divert is to make one laugh, a thing which, indeed, is natural enough, but more delicate. The gentleman and the rustick have both sensibility and tenderness of heart, perhaps, in greater or less degree; but as they are men alike, the heart is moved by the same touches. They both love, likewise, to send their thoughts abroad, and to expand themselves in merriment; but the springs which must be touched for this purpose are not the same in the gentleman as in the rustick. The passions depend on nature, and merriment upon education. The clown will laugh at a waggery, and the gentleman only at a stroke of delicate conceit. The spectators of a tragedy, if they have but a little knowledge, are almost all on a level; but with respect to comedy we have three classes, if not more, the people, the learned, and the court. If there are certain cases in which all may be comprehended in the term people, this is not one of those cases. Whatever father Rapin may say about it, we are more willing even to admire than to laugh. Every man, that has any power of distinction, laughs as rarely as the philosopher admires; for we are not to reckon those fits of laughter which are not incited by nature, and which are given merely to complaisance, to respect, flattery, and good-humour; such as break out at sayings which pretend to smartness in assemblies. The laughter of the theatre is of another stamp. Every reader and spectator judges of wit by his own standard, and measures it by his capacity, or by his condition: the different capacities and conditions of men make them diverted on very different occasions. If, therefore, we consider the end of the tragick and comick poet, the comedian must be involved in much more difficulties, without taking in the obstructions to be encountered equally by both, in an art which consists in raising the passions, or the mirth of a great multitude. The tragedian has little to do but to reflect upon his own thought, and draw from his heart those sentiments which will certainly make their way to the hearts of others, if he found them in his own. The other must take many forms, and change himself almost into as many persons, as he undertakes to satisfy and divert. It may be said, that, if genius be supposed equal, and success supposed to depend upon genius, the business will be equally easy and difficult to one author and to the other. This objection is of no weight; for the same question still recurs, which is, whether of these two kinds of genius is more valuable, or more rare? If we proceed by example, and not by reasoning, we shall decide, I think, in favour of comedy. It may be said, that, if merely art be considered, it will require deeper thoughts to form a plan just and simple; to produce happy surprises, without apparent contrivance; to carry a passion skilfully through its gradations to its height; to arrive happily to the end by always moving from it, as Ithaca seemed to fly Ulysses; to unite the acts and scenes; and to raise, by insensible degrees, a striking edifice, of which the least merit shall be exactness of proportion. It may be added, that in comedy this art is infinitely less, for there the characters come upon the stage with very little artifice or plot; the whole scheme is so connected that we see it at once, and the plan and disposition of the parts make a small part of its excellence, in comparison of a gloss of pleasantry diffused over each scene, which is more the happy effect of a lucky moment, than of long consideration. These objections, and many others, which so fruitful a subject might easily suggest, it is not difficult to refute; and, if we were to judge by the impression made on the mind by tragedies and comedies of equal excellence, perhaps, when we examine those impressions, it will be found that a sally of pleasantry, which diverts all the world, required more thought than a passage which gave the highest pleasure in tragedy; and, to this determination we shall be more inclined, when a closer examination shall show us, that a happy vein of tragedy is opened and effused at less expense, than a well-placed witticism in comedy has required, merely to assign its place. It would be too much to dwell long upon such a digression; and, as I have no business to decide the question, I leave both that and my arguments to the taste of each particular reader, who will find what is to be said for or against it. My purpose was only to say of comedy, considered as a work of genius, all that a man of letters can be supposed to deliver without departing from his character, and, without palliating, in any degree, the corrupt use which has been almost always made of an exhibition, which, in its nature, might be innocent; but has been vicious from the time that it has been infected with the wickedness of men. It is not for publick exhibitions that I am now writing, but for literary inquiries. The stage is too much frequented, and books too much neglected: yet it is to the literature of Greece and Rome that we are indebted for that valuable taste, which will be insensibly lost, by the affected negligence, which now prevails, of having recourse to originals. If reason has been a considerable gainer, it must be confessed that taste has been somewhat a loser. To return to Aristophanes. So many great men of antiquity, through a long succession of ages, down to our times, have set a value upon his works, that we cannot, naturally, suppose them contemptible, notwithstanding the essential faults with which he may be justly reproached. It is sufficient to say, that he was esteemed by Plato and Cicero; and, to conclude, by that which does him most honour, but, still, falls short of justification, the strong and sprightly eloquence of St. Chrysostom drew its support from the masculine and vigorous atticism of this sarcastick comedian, to whom the father paid the same regard as Alexander to Homer, that of putting his works under his pillow, that he might read them, at night, before he slept, and, in the morning, as soon as he awaked. FOOTNOTES: [1] Published by Mrs. Lennox in 4to. 1759. To the third volume of this work the following advertisement is prefixed: "In this volume, the Discourse on the Greek Comedy, and the General Conclusion, are translated by the celebrated author of the Rambler. The Comedy of the Birds, and that of Peace, by a young Gentleman. The Comedy of the Frogs, by the learned and ingenious Dr. Gregory Sharpe. The Discourse upon the Cyclops, by John Bourrya, esq. The Cyclops, by Dr. Grainger, author of the translation of Tibullus." [2] There was a law which forbade any judge of the Areopagus to write comedy. [3] Madame Dacier, M. Boivin. [4] Menander, an Athenian, son of Diopethes and Hegestrates, was, apparently, the most eminent of the writers of the new comedy. He had been a scholar of Theophrastus: his passion for the women brought infamy upon him: he was squinteyed, and very lively. Of the one hundred and eighty comedies, or, according to Suidas, the eighty which he composed, and which are all said to be translated by Terence, we have now only a few fragments remaining. He flourished about the 115th Olympiad, 318 years before the Christian æra. He was drowned as he was bathing in the port of Piræus. I have told, in another place, what is said of one Philemon, his antagonist, not so good a poet as himself, but one who often gained the prize. This Philemon was older than him, and was much in fashion in the time of Alexander the great. He expressed all his wishes in two lines: "To have health, and fortune, and pleasure, and never to be in debt, is all I desire." He was very covetous, and was pictured with his fingers hooked, so that he set his comedies at a high price. He lived about a hundred years, some say a hundred and one. Many tales are told of his death. Valerius Maximus says, that he died with laughing at a little incident: seeing an ass eating his figs, he ordered his servant to drive her away; the man made no great haste, and the ass eat them all: "Well done," says Philemon, "now give her some wine."--Apuleius and Quintilian placed this writer much below Menander, but give him the second place. [5] Greek Theatre, part i. vol. i. [6] Hor. Ar. Poet. v. 275. [7] Poet. ch. 4. [8] Ibid. [9] "The alterations, which have been made in tragedy, were perceptible, and the authors of them known; but comedy has lain in obscurity, being not cultivated, like tragedy, from the time of its original; for it was long before the magistrates began to give comick choruses. It was first exhibited by actors, who played voluntarily, without orders of the magistrates. From the time that it began to take some settled form, we know its authors, but are not informed who first used masks, added prologues, increased the numbers of the actors, and joined all the other things which now belong to it. The first that thought of forming comick fables were Epicharmus and Phormys, and, consequently, this manner came from Sicily. Crates was the first Athenian that adopted it, and forsook the practice of gross raillery that prevailed before." Aristot. ch. 5. Crates flourished in the 82nd Olympiad, 450 years before our aera, twelve or thirteen years before Aristophanes. [10] Eupolis was an Athenian; his death, which we shall mention presently, is represented differently by authors, who almost all agree that he was drowned. Elian adds an incident which deserves to be mentioned: he says (book x. Of Animals,) that one Augeas of Eleusis, made Eupolis a present of a fine mastiff, who was so faithful to his master as to worry to death a slave, who was carrying away some of his comedies. He adds, that, when the poet died at Egina, his dog staid by his tomb till he perished by grief and hunger. [11] Cratinus of Athens, who was son of Callimedes, died at the age of ninety-seven. He composed twenty comedies, of which nine had the prize: he was a daring writer, but a cowardly warriour. [12] Hertelius has collected the sentences of fifty Greek poets of the different ages of comedy. [13] Interlude of the second act of the comedy entitled the Acharnians. [14] Epigram attributed to Plato. [15] This history of the three ages of comedy, and their different characters, is taken in part from the valuable fragments of Platonius. [16] It will be shown, how, and in what sense, this was allowed. [17] Perhaps the chorus was forbid in the middle age of the comedy. Platonius seems to say so. [18] Despréaux Art Poét. chant. 8. [19] The year of Rome 514, the first year of the 135th Olympiad. [20] Praetextae, Togatae, Tabernariae. [21] Suet. de Claris Grammat. says, that C. Melissus, librarian to Augustus, was the author of it. [22] Homer, Odyssey. [23] Orat. pro Archia Poeta. [24] In the year of the 85th Olympiad; 437 before our aera, and 317 of the foundation of Rome. [25] The Greek comedies have been regarded, by many, in the light of political journals, the Athenian newspapers of the day, where, amidst the distortions of caricature, the lineaments of the times were strongly drawn. See Madame de Staël de la Litérature, c. iii. --Ed. [26] Preface to Plautus. Paris, 1684. [27] Brumoy has mistaken Lucretius for Virgil. [28] "Morum hujus temporis picturam, velut in speculo, suis in comoediis repraesentavit Aristophanes." Valckenaer, Oratio de publicis Atheniensium moribus.--Ed. [29] Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. Pope's Essay on Man, ii. 217. [30] It is not certain, that Aristophanes did procure the death of Socrates; but, however, he is certainly criminal for having, in the Clouds, accused him, publickly, of impiety. B.--Many ingenious arguments have been advanced, since the time of Brumoy and Johnson, in vindication of Aristophanes, with regard to Socrates. It has been urged, that a man, of the established character of Socrates, could not be injured by the dramatic imputation of faults and follies, from which every individual in the theatre believed him to be exempt; while the vices of the sophists and rhetors, whom Aristophanes was really attacking, were placed in a more ludicrous, or more odious light, by a mental juxta-position with the pure and stern virtue of the master of Plato. This is very plausible; but it may still be doubted, whether the greater part of an Athenian audience, with all their native acuteness and practical criticism, would, at the moment, detect this subtile irony. If, indeed, it was irony, for still, with deference to great names be it spoken, it remains to be disproved, that the Clouds was the introductory step to a state-impeachment. Irony is, at best, a dangerous weapon, and has, too frequently, been wielded by vulgar hands, to purposes widely different from those which its authors designed. The Tartuffe exposed to the indignation of France, a character, which every good man detests. But, was the cause of religious sincerity benefited, by Molière's representation of a sullen, sly, and sensual hypocrite? Did the French populace discriminate between such, and the sincere professor of christianity? The facts of the revolution give an awful answer to the question. Cervantes ridiculed the fooleries and affectation ingrafted upon knight errantry. Did he intend to banish honour, humanity and virtue, loyalty, courtesy and gentlemanly feeling from Spain? The people understood not irony, and Don Quixote combined with other causes, to degrade to its present abasement, a land, so long renowned for her high and honourable chivalry, for "ladye-love, and feats of knightly worth." See likewise note on Adventurer, 84, and the references there made; and preface to the Idler.--Ed. [31] Boileau, Art. Poèt. chant, 3. [32] Réflexions sur la poét. p. 154. Paris, 1684. [Transcriber's note: Although opening quotes are present (..."is a representation...) closing quotes appear to be missing. It is therefore unclear where this quotation ends.] [33] [Transcriber's note: "See note to preface to Shakespeare in this volume, page 103" in original. Page 103 is the first page of the chapter; the only note on this page reads, "Dr. Johnson's Preface first appeared in 1765. Malone's Shakespeare, i. 108. and Boswell's Life of Johnson, i."] [34] See this subject treated with reference to Shakespeare in preface to Shakespeare, and notes. [35] Ar. Poet. v. 407. [36] Molière. GENERAL CONCLUSION TO BRUMOY'S GREEK THEATRE. 1. SUMMARY OF THE FOUR ARTICLES TREATED OF IN THIS DISCOURSE. Thus I have given a faithful extract of the remains of Aristophanes. That I have not shown them in their true form, I am not afraid that any body will complain. I have given an account of every thing, as far as it was consistent with moral decency. No pen, however cynical or heathenish, would venture to produce, in open day, the horrid passages which I have put out of sight; and, instead of regretting any part that I have suppressed, the very suppression will easily show to what degree the Athenians were infected with licentiousness of imagination, and corruption of principles. If the taste of antiquity allows us to preserve what time and barbarity have hitherto spared, religion and virtue at least oblige us not to spread it before the eyes of mankind. To end this work in an useful manner, let us examine, in a few words, the four particulars which are most striking in the eleven pieces of Aristophanes. 2. CHARACTER OF ANCIENT COMEDY. The first is the character of the ancient comedy, which has no likeness to any thing in nature. Its genius is so wild and strange, that it scarce admits a definition. In what class of comedy must we place it? It appears, to me, to be a species of writing by itself. If we had Phrynicus, Plato, Eupolis, Cratinus, Ameipsias, and so many other celebrated rivals of Aristophanes, of whom all that we can find are a few fragments scattered in Plutarch, Athenaeus, and Suidas, we might compare them with our poet, settle the general scheme, observe the minuter differences, and form a complete notion of their comick stage. But, for want of all this, we can fix only on Aristophanes; and it is true that he may be, in some measure, sufficient to furnish a tolerable judgment of the old comedy; for, if we believe him, and who can be better credited? he was the most daring of all his brethren, the poets, who practised the same kind of writing. Upon this supposition we may conclude, that the comedy of those days consisted in an allegory drawn out and continued; an allegory never very regular, but often ingenious, and almost always carried beyond strict propriety; of satire keen and biting, but diversified, sprightly, and unexpected; so that the wound was given before it was perceived. Their points of satire were thunderbolts, and their wild figures, with their variety and quickness, had the effect of lightning. Their imitation was carried even to resemblance of persons, and their common entertainments were a parody of rival poets joined, if I may so express it, with a parody of manners and habits. But it would be tedious to draw out to the reader that which he will already have perceived better than myself. I have no design to anticipate his reflections; and, therefore, shall only sketch the picture, which he must finish by himself: he will pursue the subject farther, and form to himself a view of the common and domestick life of the Athenians, of which this kind of comedy was a picture, with some aggravation of the features: he will bring within his view all the customs, manners, and vices, and the whole character of the people of Athens. By bringing all these together he will fix in his mind an indelible idea of a people, in whom so many contrarieties were united, and who, in a manner that can scarce be expressed, connected nobility with the cast of Athens, wisdom with madness, rage for novelty with a bigotry for antiquity, the politeness of a monarchy with the roughness of a republick, refinement with coarseness, independence with slavery, haughtiness with servile compliance, severity of manners with debauchery, a kind of irreligion with piety. We shall do this in reading; as, in travelling through different nations, we make ourselves masters of their characters by combining their different appearances, and reflecting upon what we see. 3. THE GOVERNMENT OF THE ATHENIANS. The government of Athens makes a fine part of the ancient comedy. In most states the mystery of government is confined within the walls of the cabinets; even in commonwealths it does not pass but through five or six heads, who rule those that think themselves the rulers. Oratory dares not touch it, and comedy still less. Cicero himself did not speak freely upon so nice a subject as the Roman commonwealth; but the Athenian eloquence was informed of the whole secret, and searches the recesses of the human mind, to fetch it out and expose it to the people. Demosthenes, and his contemporaries, speak with a freedom at which we are astonished, notwithstanding the notion we have of a popular government; yet, at what time but this did comedy adventure to claim the same rights with civil eloquence? The Italian comedy of the last age, all daring as it was, could, for its boldness, come into no competition with the ancient. It was limited to general satire, which was sometimes carried so far, that the malignity was overlooked in an attention to the wild exaggeration, the unexpected strokes, the pungent wit, and the malignity concealed under such wild flights as became the character of harlequin. But though it so far resembled Aristophanes, our age is yet at a great distance from his, and the Italian comedy from his scenes. But with respect to the liberty of censuring the government, there can be no comparison made of one age or comedy with another. Aristophanes is the only writer of his kind, and is, for that reason, of the highest value. A powerful state, set at the head of Greece, is the subject of his merriment, and that merriment is allowed by the state itself. This appears to us an inconsistency; but it is true that it was the interest of the state to allow it, though not always without inconveniency. It was a restraint upon the ambition and tyranny of single men, a matter of great importance to a people so very jealous of their liberty. Cleon, Alcibiades, Lamachus, and many other generals and magistrates were kept under by fear of the comick strokes of a poet so little cautious as Aristophanes. He was once, indeed, in danger of paying dear for his wit. He professed, as he tells us himself, to be of great use by his writings to the state; and rated his merit so high as to complain that he was not rewarded. But, under pretence of this publick spirit, he spared no part of the publick conduct; neither was government, councils, revenues, popular assemblies, secret proceedings in judicature, choice of ministers, the government of the nobles, or that of the people, spared. The Acharnians, the Peace, and the Birds, are eternal monuments of the boldness of the poet, who was not afraid of censuring the government for the obstinate continuance of a ruinous war, for undertaking new ones, and feeding itself with wild imaginations, and running to destruction, as it did, for an idle point of honour. Nothing can be more reproachful to the Athenians than his play of the Knights, where he represents, under an allegory, that may be easily seen through, the nation of the Athenians, as an old doting fellow tricked by a new man, such as Cleon and his companions, who were of the same stamp. A single glance upon Lysistrata, and the Female Orators, must raise astonishment, when the Athenian policy is set below the schemes of women, whom the author makes ridiculous, for no other reason than, to bring contempt upon their husbands, who held the helm of government. The Wasps is written to expose the madness of the people for lawsuits and litigations; and a multitude of iniquities are laid open. It may easily be gathered, that, notwithstanding the wise laws of Solon, which they still professed to follow, the government was falling into decay, for we are not to understand the jest of Aristophanes in the literal sense. It is plain that the corruption, though we should suppose it but half as much as we are told, was very great, for it ended in the destruction of Athens, which could scarce raise its head again, after it had been taken by Lysander. Though we consider Aristophanes, as a comick writer who deals in exaggeration, and bring down his stories to their true standard, we still find that the fundamentals of their government fail in almost all the essential points. That the people were inveigled by men of ambition; that all councils and decrees had their original in factious combinations; that avarice and private interest animated all their policy to the hurt of the publick; that their revenues were ill managed, their allies improperly treated; that their good citizens were sacrificed, and the bad put in places; that a mad eagerness for judicial litigation took up all their attention within, and that war was made without, not so much with wisdom and precaution, as with temerity and good-luck; that the love of novelty and fashion, in the manner of managing the publick affairs, was a madness universally prevalent; and that, as Melanthius says in Plutarch, the republick of Athens was continued only by the perpetual discord of those that managed its affairs. This remedied the dishonour by preserving the equilibrium, and was kept always in action by eloquence and comedy. This is what, in general, may be drawn from the reading Aristophanes. The sagacity of the readers will go farther; they will compare the different forms of government, by which that tumultuous people endeavoured to regulate or increase the democracy, which forms were all fatal to the state, because they were not built upon lasting foundations, and had all in them the principles of destruction. A strange contrivance it was to perpetuate a state, by changing the just proportion which Solon had wisely settled between the nobles and the people, and by opening a gate to the skilful ambition of those who had art or courage enough to force themselves into the government by means of the people, whom they flattered with protections, that they might more certainly crush them. 4. THE TRAGICK POETS RALLIED. Another part of the works of Aristophanes, are his pleasant reflections upon the most celebrated poets. The shafts which he lets fly at the three heroes of tragedy, and particularly at Euripides, might incline the reader to believe that he had little esteem for those great men, and that, probably, the spectators that applauded him were of his opinion. This conclusion would not be just, as I have already shown by arguments, which, if I had not offered them, the reader might have discovered better than I. But, that I may leave no room for objections, and prevent any shadow of captiousness, I shall venture to observe, that posterity will not consider Racine as less a master of the French stage, because his plays were ridiculed by parodies. Parody always fixes upon the best pieces, and was more to the taste of the Greeks than to ours. At present, the high theatres give it up to stages of inferiour rank; but in Athens the comick theatre considered parody as its principal ornament, for a reason which is worth examining. The ancient comedy was not, like ours, a remote and delicate imitation; it was the art of gross mimickry, and would have been supposed to have missed its aim, had it not copied the mien, the walk, the dress, the motions of the face of those whom it exhibited. Now parody is an imitation of this kind; it is a change of serious to burlesque, by a slight variation of words, inflection of voice, or an imperceptible art of mimickry. Parody is to poetry, as a masque to a face. As the tragedies of Eschylus, of Sophocles, and of Euripides were much in fashion, and were known by memory to the people, the parodies upon them would naturally strike and please, when they were accompanied by the grimaces of a good comedian, who mimicked with archness a serious character. Such is the malignity of human nature; we love to laugh at those whom we esteem most, and by this make ourselves some recompense for the unwilling homage which we pay to merit. The parodies upon these poets, made by Aristophanes, ought to be considered rather as encomiums than satires. They give us occasion to examine whether the criticisms are just or not in themselves; but, what is more important, they afford no proof that Euripides, or his predecessors, wanted the esteem of Aristophanes or his age. The statues raised to their honour, the respect paid by the Athenians to their writings, and the careful preservation of those writings themselves, are immortal testimonies in their favour, and make it unnecessary for me to stop any longer upon so plausible a solution of so frivolous an objection. 5. FREQUENT RIDICULE OF THE GODS. The most troublesome difficulty, and that which, so far as I know, has not yet been cleared to satisfaction, is the contemptuous manner in which Aristophanes treats the gods. Though I am persuaded, in my own mind, that I have found the true solution of this question, I am not sure that it will make more impression than that of M. Boivin, who contents himself with saying, that every thing was allowed to the comick poets; and that even atheism was permitted to the licentiousness of the stage; that the Athenians applauded all that made them laugh; and believed that Jupiter himself laughed with them at the smart sayings of a poet. Mr. Collier[1], an Englishman, in his remarks upon their stage, attempts to prove that Aristophanes was an open atheist. For my part, I am not satisfied with the account either of one or the other, and think it better to venture a new system, of which I have already dropped some hints in this work. The truth is, that the Athenians professed to be great laughers, always ready for merriment on whatever subject. But it cannot be conceived that Aristophanes should, without punishment, publish himself an atheist, unless we suppose that atheism was the opinion, likewise, of the spectators, and of the judges commissioned to examine the plays; and yet this cannot be suspected of those who boasted themselves the most religious nation, and, naturally, the most superstitious of all Greece. How can we suppose those to be atheists who passed sentence upon Diagoras, Socrates, and Alcibiades for impiety! These are glaring inconsistencies. To say, like M. Boivin, for sake of getting clear of the difficulty, that Alcibiades, Socrates, and Diagoras attacked religion seriously, and were, therefore, not allowed, but that Aristophanes did it in jest, or was authorized by custom, would be to trifle with the difficulty, and not to clear it. Though the Athenians loved merriment, it is not likely that, if Aristophanes had professed atheism, they would have spared him more than Socrates, who had as much life and pleasantry in his discourses, as the poet in his comedies. The pungent raillery of Aristophanes, and the fondness of the Athenians for it, are, therefore, not the true reason why the poet was spared, when Socrates was condemned. I shall now solve the question with great brevity. The true answer to this question is given by Plutarch in his treatise of reading of the poets. Plutarch attempts to prove, that youth is not to be prohibited the reading of the poets, but to be cautioned against such parts as may have bad effects. They are first to be prepossessed with this leading principle, that poetry is false and fabulous. He then enumerates, at length, the fables which Homer and other poets have invented about their deities, and concludes thus: "When, therefore, there is found in poetical compositions any thing strange and shocking, with respect to gods or demi-gods, or concerning the virtue of any excellent and renowned characters, he that should receive these fictions as truth, would be corrupted by an erroneous opinion; but he that always keeps in his mind the fables and allusions, which it is the business of poetry to contrive, will not be injured by these stories, nor receive any ill impressions upon his thoughts, but will be ready to censure himself, if, at any time, he happens to be afraid, lest Neptune, in his rage, should split the earth, and lay open the infernal regions." Some pages afterwards, he tells us, "that religion is a thing difficult of comprehension, and above the understanding of poets; which it is," says he, "necessary to have in mind when we read their fables." The pagans, therefore, had their fables, which they distinguished from their religion; for no one can be persuaded that Ovid intended his Metamorphoses, as a true representation of the religion of the Romans. The poets were allowed their imaginations about their gods, as things which have no regard to the publick worship. Upon this principle, I say, as I said before, there was, amongst the pagans, two sorts of religion; one a poetical, and the other a real religion; one practical, the other theatrical; a mythology for the poets, a theology for use. They had fables, and a worship, which, though founded upon fable, was yet very different. Diagoras, Socrates, Plato, and the philosophers of Athens, with Cicero, their admirer, and the other pretended wise men of Rome are men by themselves. These were the atheists with respect to the ancients. We must not, therefore, look into Plato, or into Cicero, for the real religion of the pagans, as distinct from the fabulous. These two authors involve themselves in the clouds, that their opinions may not be discovered. They durst not openly attack the real religion; but destroyed it by attacking fable. To distinguish here, with exactness, the agreement or difference between fable and religion, is not, at present, my intention. It is not easy[2] to show, with exactness, what was the Athenian notion of the nature of the gods whom they worshipped. Plutarch himself tells us, that this was a thing very difficult for the philosophers. It is sufficient for me that the mythology and theology of the ancients were different at the bottom; that the names of the gods continued the same; and that long custom gave up one to the caprices of the poets, without supposing the other affected by them. This being once settled upon the authority of the ancients themselves, I am no longer surprised to see Jupiter, Minerva, Neptune, Bacchus, appear upon the stage in the comedy of Aristophanes, and, at the same time, receiving incense in the temples of Athens. This is, in my opinion, the most reasonable account of a thing so obscure; and I am ready to give up my system to any other, by which the Athenians shall be made more consistent with themselves; those Athenians who sat laughing at the gods of Aristophanes, while they condemned Socrates for having appeared to despise the gods of his country. 6. THE MIMI AND PANTOMIMES. A word is now to be spoken of the _mimi_, which had some relation to comedy. This appellation was, by the Greeks and Romans, given to certain dramatick performances, and to the actors that played them. The denomination sufficiently shows, that their art consisted in imitation and buffoonery. Of their works, nothing, or very little, is remaining; so that they can only be considered, by the help of some passages in authors, from which little is to be learned that deserves consideration. I shall extract the substance, as I did with respect to the chorus, without losing time, by defining all the different species, or producing all the quotations, which would give the reader more trouble than instruction. He that desires fuller instructions may read Vossius, Valois, Saumaises, and Gataker, of whose compilations, however learned, I should think it shame to be the author. The mimi had their original from comedy, of which, at its first appearance, they made a part; for their mimick actors always played and exhibited grotesque dances in the comedies. The jealousy of rivalship afterwards broke them off from the comick actors, and made them a company by themselves. But to secure their reception, they borrowed from comedy all its drollery, wildness, grossness, and licentiousness. This amusement they added to their dances, and they produced what are now called farces, or burlettas. These farces had not the regularity or delicacy of comedies; they were only a succession of single scenes, contrived to raise laughter, formed or unravelled without order, and without connexion. They had no other end but to make the people laugh. Now and then there might be good sentences, like the sentences of P. Syrus, that are yet left us, but the groundwork was low comedy, and any thing of greater dignity drops in by chance. We must, however, imagine, that this odd species of the drama rose, at length, to somewhat a higher character, since we are told that Plato, the philosopher, laid the mimi of Sophron under his pillow, and they were found there after his death. But in general we may say, with truth, that it always discovered the meanness of its original, like a false pretension to nobility, in which the cheat is always discovered, through the concealment of fictitious splendour. These mimi were of two sorts, of which the length was different, but the purposes the same. The mimi of one species were short; those of the other long, and not quite so grotesque. These two kinds were subdivided into many species, distinguished by the dresses and characters, such as show drunkards, physicians, men, and women. Thus far of the Greeks. The Romans, having borrowed of them the more noble shows of tragedy and comedy, were not content till they had their rhapsodies. They had their _planipedes_, who played with flat soles, that they might have the more agility; and their _sannions_, whose head was shaved, that they might box the better. There is no need of naming here all who had a name for these diversions among the Greeks and Romans. I have said enough, and, perhaps, too much of this abortion of comedy, which drew upon itself the contempt of good men, the censures of the magistrates, and the indignation of the fathers of the church[3]. Another set of players were called pantomimes: these were, at least, so far preferable to the former, that they gave no offence to the ears. They spoke only to the eyes; but with such art of expression, that, without the utterance of a single word, they represented, as we are told, a complete tragedy or comedy, in the same manner as dumb harlequin is exhibited on our theatres. These pantomimes, among the Greeks, first mingled singing with their dances; afterwards, about the time of Livius Andronicus, the songs were performed by one part, and the dances by another. Afterwards, in the time of Augustus, when they were sent for to Rome, for the diversions of the people, whom he had enslaved, they played comedies without songs or vocal utterance, but by the sprightliness, activity, and efficacy of their gestures; or, as Sidonius Apollinaris expresses it, "clausis faucibus, et loquente gestu." They not only exhibited things and passions, but even the most delicate distinctions of passions, and the slightest circumstances of facts. We must not, however, imagine, at least, in my opinion, that the pantomimes did literally represent regular tragedies or comedies by the mere motions of their bodies. We may justly determine, notwithstanding all their agility, their representations would, at last, be very incomplete: yet we may suppose, with good reason, that their action was very lively, and that the art of imitation went great lengths, since it raised the admiration of the wisest men, and made the people mad with eagerness. Yet, when we read that one Hylas, the pupil of one Pylades, in the time of Augustus, divided the applauses of the people with his master, when they represented Oedipus; or when Juvenal tells us, that Bathillus played Leda, and other things of the same kind, it is not easy to believe that a single man, without speaking a word, could exhibit tragedies or comedies, and make starts and bounds supply the place of vocal articulation. Notwithstanding the obscurity of this whole matter, one may know what to admit as certain, or how far a representation could be carried by dance, posture and grimace. Among these artificial dances, of which we know nothing but the names, there was, as early as the time of Aristophanes, some extremely indecent. These were continued in Italy from the time of Augustus, long after the emperours. It was a publick mischief, which contributed, in some measure, to the decay and ruin of the Roman empire. To have a due detestation of those licentious entertainments, there is no need of any recourse to the fathers; the wiser pagans tell us, very plainly, what they thought of them. I have made this mention of the mimi and pantomimes, only to show how the most noble of publick spectacles were corrupted and abused, and to conduct the reader to the end through every road, and through all the by-paths of human wit, from Homer and Eschylus to our own time. 7. WANDERINGS OF THE HUMAN MIND IN THE BIRTH, AND PROGRESS OF THEATRICAL REPRESENTATIONS. That we may conclude this work by applying the principles laid down at the beginning, and extended through the whole, I desire the reader to recur to that point, where I have represented the human mind as beginning the course of the drama. The chorus was first a hymn to Bacchus, produced by accident; art brought it to perfection, and delight made it a publick diversion. Thespis made a single actor play before the people; this was the beginning of theatrical shows. Eschylus, taking the idea of the Iliad and Odyssey, animates, if I may so express it, the epick poem, and gives a dialogue in place of simple recitation; puts the whole into action, and sets it before the eyes, as if it was a present and real transaction; he gives the chorus[4] an interest in the scenes; contrives habits of dignity and theatrical decorations: in a word, he gives both to Tragedy; or, more properly, draws it from the bosom of the epick poem. She made her appearance, sparkling with graces, and displayed such majesty, as gained every heart at the first view. Sophocles considers her more nearly, with the eyes of a critick, and finds that she has something still about her rough and swelling; he divests her of her false ornaments; teaches her a more regular walk, and more familiar dignity. Euripides was of opinion, that she ought to receive still more softness and tenderness; he teaches her the new art of pleasing by simplicity, and gives her the charms of graceful negligence; so that he makes her stand in suspense, whether she appears most to advantage in the dress of Sophocles, sparkling with gems, or in that of Euripides, which is more simple and modest. Both, indeed, are elegant; but the elegance is of different kinds, between which no judgment, as yet, has decided the prize of superiority. We can now trace it no farther; its progress amongst the Greeks is out of sight. We must pass at once to the time of Augustus, when Apollo and the Muses quitted their ancient residence in Greece, to fix their abode in Italy. But it is vain to ask questions of Melpomene; she is obstinately silent, and we only know, from strangers, her power amongst the Romans. Seneca endeavours to make her speak; but the gaudy show, with which he rather loads than adorns her, makes us think, that he took some phantom of Melpomene for the Muse herself. Another flight, equally rapid with that to Rome, must carry us through thousands of years, from Rome to France. There, in the time of Lewis the fourteenth, we see the mind of man giving birth to tragedy a second time, as if the Greek tragedy had been utterly forgot. In the place of Eschylus, we have our Rotrou; in Corneille, we have another Sophocles; and in Racine, a second Euripides. Thus is Tragedy raised from her ashes, carried to the utmost point of greatness, and so dazzling, that she prefers herself to herself. Surprised to see herself produced again in France, in so short a time, and nearly in the same manner as before in Greece, she is disposed to believe that her fate is to make a short transition from her birth to her perfection, like the goddess that issued from the brain of Jupiter. If we look back on the other side, to the rise of Comedy, we shall see her hatched from the Margites, or from the Odyssey of Homer, the imitation of her eldest sister; but we see her, under the conduct of Aristophanes, become licentious and petulant, taking airs to herself, which the magistrates were obliged to crush. Menander reduced her to bounds, taught her, at once, gaiety and politeness, and enabled her to correct vice, without shocking the offenders. Plautus, among the Romans, to whom we must now pass, united the earlier and the later comedy, and joined buffoonery with delicacy. Terence, who was better instructed, received comedy from Menander, and surpassed his original, as he endeavoured to copy it. And lastly, Molière produced a new species of comedy, which must be placed in a class by itself, in opposition to that of Aristophanes, whose manner is, likewise, peculiar to himself. But such is the weakness of the human mind, that, when we review the successions of the drama a third time, we find genius falling from its height, forgetting itself, and led astray by the love of novelty, and the desire of striking out new paths. Tragedy degenerated, in Greece, from the time of Aristotle, and, in Rome, after Augustus. At Rome and Athens, comedy produced mimi, pantomimes, burlettas, tricks, and farces, for the sake of variety; such is the character, and such the madness of the mind of man. It is satisfied with having made great conquests, and gives them up to attempt others which are far from answering its expectation, and only enable it to discover its own folly, weakness and deviations. But, why should we be tired with standing still at the true point of perfection, when it is attained? If eloquence be wearied, and forgets herself awhile, yet she soon returns to her former point: so will it happen to our theatres, if the French Muses will keep the Greek models in their view, and not look, with disdain, upon a stage, whose mother is nature, whose soul is passion, and whose art is simplicity: a stage, which, to speak the truth, does not, perhaps, equal ours in splendour and elevation, but which excels it in simplicity and propriety, and equals it, at least, in the conduct and direction of those passions, which may properly affect an honest man and a christian. For my part, I shall think myself well recompensed for my labour, and shall attain the end which I had in view, if I shall, in some little measure, revive in the minds of those, who purpose to run the round of polite literature, not an immoderate and blind reverence, but a true taste of antiquity: such a taste, as both feeds and polishes the mind, and enriches it, by enabling it to appropriate the wealth of foreigners, and to exert its natural fertility in exquisite productions; such a taste as gave the Racines, the Molières, the Boileaus, the Fontaines, the Patrus, the Pelissons, and many other great geniuses of the last age, all that they were, and all that they will always be; such a taste, as puts the seal of immortality to those works in which it is discovered; a taste, so necessary, that, without it, we may be certain, that the greatest powers of nature will long continue in a state below themselves; for no man ought to allow himself to be flattered or seduced, by the example of some men of genius, who have rather appeared to despise this taste, than to despise it in reality. It is true, that excellent originals have given occasion, without any fault of their own, to very bad copies. No man ought severely to ape either the ancients or the moderns; but, if it was necessary, to run into an extreme of one side or the other, which is never done by a judicious and well-directed mind, it would be better for a wit, as for a painter, to enrich himself by what he can take from the ancients, than to grow poor by taking all from his own stock; or openly to affect an imitation of those moderns, whose more fertile genius has produced beauties, peculiar to themselves, and which themselves only can display with grace: beauties of that peculiar kind, that they are not fit to be imitated by others; though, in those who first invented them, they may be justly esteemed, and in them only[5]. FOOTNOTES: [1] View of the immorality and profaneness of the English stage, by Jeremy Collier. 1698.--Ed. [2] See St. Paul, upon the subject of the Ignoto Deo. [3] It is the licentiousness of the mimi and pantomimes, against which the censure of the holy fathers particularly breaks out, as against a thing irregular and indecent, without supposing it much connected with the cause of religion. [4] Eschylus, in my opinion, as well as the other poets, his contemporaries, retained the chorus, not merely because it was the fashion, but because, examining tragedy to the bottom, they found it not rational to conceive, that an action, great and splendid, like the revolution of a state, could pass without witnesses. [5] Much light has been thrown on the Greek drama since the labours of Dr. Johnson, and the père Brumoy. The papers on the subject, in Cumberland's Observer, Schlegel's Lectures on Dramatic Literature, Mr. Mitchell's Dissertations, in his translation of Aristophanes, and the essays on the Greek Orators and Dramatists, in the Quarterly Review, may be mentioned as among the most popular attempts to illustrate this pleasing department of the Belles-Lettres.--Ed. DEDICATIONS. Dr. James's Medicinal Dictionary, 3 vols. folio. 1743. To Dr. Mead. SIR, That the Medicinal Dictionary is dedicated to you, is to be imputed only to your reputation for superiour skill in those sciences, which I have endeavoured to explain and facilitate; and you are, therefore, to consider this address, if it be agreeable to you, as one of the rewards of merit; and, if otherwise, as one of the inconveniencies of eminence. However you shall receive it, my design cannot be disappointed; because this publick appeal to your judgment will show, that I do not found my hopes of approbation upon the ignorance of my readers, and that I fear his censure least, whose knowledge is most extensive. I am, Sir, Your most obedient, humble servant, R. JAMES. The Female Quixote. By Mrs. Lennox. 1752. To the right hon. the earl of Middlesex. MY LORD, Such is the power of interest over almost every mind, that no one is long without arguments to prove any position which is ardently wished to be true, or to justify any measures which are dictated by inclination. By this subtile sophistry of desire, I have been persuaded to hope that this book may, without impropriety, be inscribed to your lordship; but am not certain, that my reasons will have the same force upon other understandings. The dread which a writer feels of the publick censure; the still greater dread of neglect; and the eager wish for support and protection, which is impressed by the consciousness of imbecility, are unknown to those who have never adventured into the world; and, I am afraid, my lord, equally unknown to those who have always found the world ready to applaud them. It is, therefore, not unlikely that the design of this address may be mistaken, and the effects of my fear imputed to my vanity. They, who see your lordship's name prefixed to my performance, will rather condemn my presumption than compassionate my anxiety. But, whatever be supposed my motive, the praise of judgment cannot be denied me; for, to whom can timidity so properly fly for shelter, as to him who has been so long distinguished for candour and humanity? How can vanity be so completely gratified, as by the allowed patronage of him, whose judgment has so long given a standard to the national taste! Or by what other means could I so powerfully suppress all opposition, but that of envy, as by declaring myself, My lord, Your lordship's obliged and most obedient servant, THE AUTHOR. Shakespeare Illustrated; or, the Novels and Histories on which the plays of Shakespeare are founded; collected and translated from the original authors. With Critical Remarks. By the author of the Female Quixote. 1753. To the right hon. John, earl of Orrery. MY LORD, I have no other pretence to the honour of a patronage so illustrious as that of your lordship, than the merit of attempting what has, by some unaccountable neglect, been hitherto omitted, though absolutely necessary to a perfect knowledge of the abilities of Shakespeare. Among the powers that most conduce to constitute a poet, the first and most valuable is invention; the highest seems to be that which is able to produce a series of events. It is easy, when the thread of a story is once drawn, to diversify it with variety of colours; and when a train of action is presented to the mind, a little acquaintance with life will supply circumstances and reflections, and a little knowledge of books furnish parallels and illustrations. To tell over again a story that has been told already, and to tell it better than the first author, is no rare qualification: but to strike out the first hints of a new fable; hence, to introduce a set of characters so diversified in their several passions and interests, that from the clashing of this variety may result many necessary incidents; to make these incidents surprising, and yet natural, so as to delight the imagination, without shocking the judgment of a reader; and, finally, to wind up the whole in a pleasing catastrophe, produced by those very means which seem most likely to oppose and prevent it, is the utmost effort of the human mind. To discover how few of those writers, who profess to recount imaginary adventures, have been able to produce any thing by their own imagination, would require too much of that time which your lordship employs in nobler studies. Of all the novels and romances that wit or idleness, vanity or indigence, have pushed into the world, there are very few of which the end cannot be conjectured from the beginning; or where the authors have done more than to transpose the incidents of other tales, or strip the circumstances from one event for the decoration of another. In the examination of a poet's character, it is, therefore, first to be inquired, what degree of invention has been exerted by him. With this view, I have very diligently read the works of Shakespeare, and now presume to lay the result of my researches before your lordship, before that judge whom Pliny himself would have wished for his assessor to hear a literary cause. How much the translation of the following novels will add to the reputation of Shakespeare, or take away from it, you my lord, and men learned and candid like you, if any such can be found, must now determine. Some danger, I am informed, there is, lest his admirers should think him injured by this attempt, and clamour, as at the diminution of the honour of that nation, which boasts itself the parent of so great a poet. That no such enemies may arise against me, though I am unwilling to believe it, I am far from being too confident, for who can fix bounds to bigotry and folly? My sex, my age, have not given me many opportunities of mingling in the world. There may be in it many a species of absurdity which I have never seen, and, among them, such vanity as pleases itself with false praise bestowed on another, and such superstition as worships idols, without supposing them to be gods. But the truth is, that a very small part of the reputation of this mighty genius depends upon the naked plot or story of his plays. He lived in an age, when the books of chivalry were yet popular, and when, therefore, the minds of his auditors were not accustomed to balance probabilities, or to examine nicely the proportion between causes and effects. It was sufficient to recommend a story, that it was far removed from common life, that its changes were frequent, and its close pathetick. This disposition of the age concurred so happily with the imagination of Shakespeare, that he had no desire to reform it; and, indeed, to this he was indebted for the licentious variety, by which he made his plays more entertaining than those of any other author. He had looked, with great attention, on the scenes of nature; but his chief skill was in human actions, passions, and habits; he was, therefore, delighted with such tales as afforded numerous incidents, and exhibited many characters in many changes of situation. These characters are so copiously diversified, and some of them so justly pursued, that his works may be considered, as a map of life, a faithful miniature of human transactions; and he that has read Shakespeare, with attention, will, perhaps, find little new in the crowded world. Among his other excellencies, it ought to be remarked, because it has hitherto been unnoticed, that his heroes are men; that the love and hatred, the hopes and fears of his chief personages, are such as are common to other human beings, and not, like those which later times have exhibited, peculiar to phantoms that strut upon the stage[1]. It is not, perhaps, very necessary to inquire whether the vehicle of so much delight and instruction, be a story probable or unlikely, native or foreign. Shakespeare's excellence is not the fiction of a tale, but the representation of life; and his reputation is, therefore, safe, till human nature shall be changed. Nor can he, who has so many just claims to praise, suffer by losing that which ignorant admiration has unreasonably given him. To calumniate the dead is baseness, and to flatter them is surely folly. From flattery, my lord, either of the dead or the living, I wish to be clear, and have, therefore, solicited the countenance of a patron, whom, if I knew how to praise him, I could praise with truth, and have the world on my side; whose candour and humanity are universally acknowledged, and whose judgment, perhaps, was then first to be doubted, when he condescended to admit this address from, My lord, Your lordship's most obliged, and most obedient, humble servant, THE AUTHOR. [1] See preface to Shakespeare. Payne's Introduction to the Game of Draughts. 1756. To the right hon. William Henry, earl of Rochford, &c. MY LORD, WHEN I take the liberty of addressing to your lordship a treatise on the game of draughts, I easily foresee, that I shall be in danger of suffering ridicule on one part, while I am gaining honour on the other; and that many, who may envy me the distinction of approaching you, will deride the present I presume to offer. Had I considered this little volume, as having no purpose beyond that of teaching a game, I should, indeed, have left it to take its fate without a patron. Triflers may find or make any thing a trifle; but, since it is the great characteristick of a wise man to see events in their causes, to obviate consequences, and ascertain contingencies, your lordship will think nothing a trifle, by which the mind is inured to caution, foresight, and circumspection. The same skill, and often the same degree of skill, is exerted in great and little things; and your lordship may, sometimes, exercise, on a harmless game[1], those abilities which have been so happily employed in the service of your country. I am, my lord, Your lordship's most obliged, most obedient, and most humble servant, WILLIAM PAYNE. [1] The game of draughts, we know, is peculiarly calculated to fix the attention, without straining it. There is a composure and gravity in draughts, which insensibly tranquillises the mind; and, accordingly, the Dutch are fond of it, as they are of smoking, of the sedative influence of which, though he himself (Dr. Johnson) never smoked, he had a high opinion.--Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides. 3rd edit. p. 48. The Evangelical History of Jesus Christ harmonized, explained and illustrated[1]. 2 vols. 8vo. 1758. To the lords spiritual and temporal, and commons in parliament assembled. That we are fallen upon an age in which corruption is barely not universal, is universally confessed. Venality sculks no longer in the dark, but snatches the bribe in publick; and prostitution issues forth without shame, glittering with the ornaments of successful wickedness. Rapine preys on the publick without opposition, and perjury betrays it without inquiry. Irreligion is not only avowed, but boasted; and the pestilence that used to walk in darkness, is now destroying at noonday. Shall this be the state of the English nation; and shall her lawgivers behold it without regard? Must the torrent continue to roll on, till it shall sweep us into the gulf of perdition? Surely there will come a time, when the careless shall be frighted, and the sluggish shall be roused; when every passion shall be put upon the guard by the dread of general depravity; when he who laughs at wickedness in his companion, shall start from it in his child; when the man who fears not for his soul, shall tremble for his possessions; when it shall be discovered that religion only can secure the rich from robbery, and the poor from oppression; can defend the state from treachery, and the throne from assassination. If this time be ever to come, let it come quickly: a few years longer, and, perhaps, all endeavours will be vain: we may be swallowed by an earthquake; we may be delivered to our enemies, or abandoned to that discord, which must inevitably prevail among men that have lost all sense of divine superintendence, and have no higher motive of action or forbearance, than present opinion of present interest. It is the duty of private men to supplicate and propose; it is yours to hear and to do right. Let religion be once more restored, and the nation shall once more be great and happy. This consequence is not far distant: that nation must always be powerful, where every man performs his duty; and every man will perform his duty, that considers himself, as a being whose condition is to be settled to all eternity by the laws of Christ. The only doctrine by which man can be made "wise unto salvation," is the will of God, revealed in the books of the Old and the New Testament. To study the scriptures, therefore, according to his abilities and attainments, is every man's duty; and to facilitate that study, to those whom nature hath made weak, or education has left ignorant, or indispensable cares detain from regular processes of inquiry, is the business of those who have been blessed with abilities and learning, and are appointed the instructers of the lower classes of men, by that common Father, who distributes to all created beings their qualifications and employments; who has allotted some to the labour of the hand, and some to the exercise of the mind; has commanded some to teach, and others to learn; has prescribed to some the patience of instruction, and to others the meekness of obedience. By what methods the unenlightened and ignorant may be made proper readers of the word of God, has been long and diligently considered. Commentaries of all kinds have, indeed, been copiously produced; but there still remain multitudes to whom the labours of the learned are of little use, for whom expositions require an expositor. To those, indeed, who read the divine books, without vain curiosity, or a desire to be wise beyond their powers, it will always be easy to discern the straight path, to find the words of everlasting life. But such is the condition of our nature, that we are always attempting what is difficult to perform: he who reads the scripture to gain goodness, is desirous, likewise, to gain knowledge, and by his impatience of ignorance, falls into errour. This danger has appeared to the doctors of the Romish church, so much to be feared, and so difficult to be escaped, that they have snatched the bible out of the hands of the people, and confined the liberty of perusing it to those whom literature has previously qualified. By this expedient they have formed a kind of uniformity, I am afraid, too much like that of colours in the dark; but they have, certainly, usurped a power which God has never given them, and precluded great numbers from the highest spiritual consolation. I know not whether this prohibition has not brought upon them an evil which they themselves have not discovered. It is granted, I believe, by the Romanists themselves, that the best commentaries on the bible have been the works of protestants. I know not, indeed, whether, since the celebrated paraphrase of Erasmus, any scholar has appeared amongst them, whose works are much valued, even in his own communion. Why have those who excel in every other kind of knowledge, to whom the world owes much of the increase of light, which has shone upon these latter ages, failed, and failed only, when they have attempted to explain the scriptures of God? Why, but, because they are in the church less read, and less examined; because they have another rule of deciding controversies and instituting laws. Of the bible, some of the books are prophetical; some doctrinal and historical, as the gospels, of which we have, in the subsequent pages, attempted an illustration. The books of the evangelists contain an account of the life of our blessed Saviour, more particularly of the years of his ministry, interspersed with his precepts, doctrines, and predictions. Each of these histories contains facts, and dictates related, likewise, in the rest, that the truth might be established by concurrence of testimony; and each has, likewise, facts and dictates which the rest omit, to prove that they were wrote without communication. These writers, not affecting the exactness of chronologers, and, relating various events of the same life, or the same events with various circumstances, have some difficulties to him, who, without the help of many books, desires to collect a series of the acts and precepts of Jesus Christ; fully to know his life, whose example was given for our imitation; fully to understand his precepts, which it is sure destruction to disobey. In this work, therefore, an attempt has been made, by the help of harmonists and expositors, to reduce the four gospels into one series of narration; to form a complete history out of the different narratives of the evangelists, by inserting every event in the order of time, and connecting every precept of life and doctrine, with the occasion on which it was delivered; showing, as far as history or the knowledge of ancient customs can inform us, the reason and propriety of every action; and explaining, or endeavouring to explain, every precept and declaration in its true meaning. Let it not be hastily concluded, that we intend to substitute this book for the gospels, or to obtrude our own expositions as the oracles of God. We recommend to the unlearned reader to consult us, when he finds any difficulty, as men who have laboured not to deceive ourselves, and who are without any temptation to deceive him; but as men, however, that, while they mean best, may be mistaken. Let him be careful, therefore, to distinguish what we cite from the gospels, from what we offer as our own: he will find many difficulties removed; and, if some yet remain, let him remember that, "God is in heaven and we upon earth," that, "our thoughts are not God's thoughts," and that the great cure of doubt is an humble mind[2]. FOOTNOTES: [1] The dedication to this work has been so confidently attributed to Dr. Johnson, and so constantly inserted among his productions, that it is given in the present edition. But Mr. Boswell was of opinion, that it was not Johnson's composition. "He was no _croaker_," observes his friendly biographer, "no declaimer against the _times_. He would not have written, 'That we are fallen upon an age, in which corruption is not barely universal, is universally confessed.' Nor, 'rapine preys on the publick without opposition, and perjury betrays it without injury.' Nor would he, to excite a speedy reformation, have conjured up such phantoms as these: 'A few years longer, and, perhaps, all endeavours will be in vain. We may be swallowed by an earthquake, we may be delivered to our enemies.'" "This is not Johnsonian," is Mr. Boswell's inference, iv. p. 423. note.--Ed. [2] "My doctrine is not mine," said the Divine Founder of our religion, "but his that sent me. If any man will _do_ his will, he shall _know_ of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself." St. John, vii. 16, 17. --Ed. Angell's Stenography, or Shorthand improved. 1758. To the most noble Charles duke of Richmond, Lennox, Aubigny, &c. May it please Your Grace, The improvement of arts and sciences has always been esteemed laudable: and, in proportion to their utility and advantage to mankind, they have generally gained the patronage of persons the most distinguished for birth, learning, and reputation in the world. This is an art, undoubtedly, of publick utility, and which has been cultivated by persons of distinguished abilities, as will appear from its history. But, as most of their systems have been defective, clogged with a multiplicity of rules, and perplexed by arbitrary, intricate, and impracticable schemes, I have endeavoured to rectify their defects, to adapt it to all capacities, and render it of general, lasting, and extensive benefit. How this is effected the following plates will sufficiently explain, to which I have prefixed a suitable introduction, and a concise and impartial history of the origin and progressive improvements of this art. And, as I have submitted the whole to the inspection of accurate judges, whose approbation I am honoured with, I most humbly crave leave to publish it to the world, under your grace's patronage: not merely on account of your great dignity and high rank in life, though these receive a lustre from your grace's humanity; but also from a knowledge of your grace's disposition to encourage every useful art, and favour all true promoters of science. That your grace may long live the friend of learning, the guardian of liberty, and the patron of virtue, and then transmit your name, with the highest honour and esteem, to latest posterity, is the ardent wish of Your grace's most humble, &c.[1] [1] This is the dedication mentioned by Dr. Johnson himself in Boswell's Life, vol. ii. 226. I should not else have suspected what has so little of his manner. Baretti's Dictionary of the English and Italian Languages. 2 vols. 4to. 1760. To his excellency Don Felix, marquis of Abreu and Bertodano, ambassadour extraordinary and plenipotentiary from his Catholick Majesty to the king of Great Britain. My Lord, That acuteness of penetration into characters and designs, and that nice discernment of human passions and practices, which have raised you to your present height of station and dignity of employment, have long shown you that dedicatory addresses are written for the sake of the author more frequently than of the patron; and, though they profess only reverence and zeal, are commonly dictated by interest or vanity. I shall, therefore, not endeavour to conceal my motives, but confess, that the Italian Dictionary is dedicated to your excellency, that I might gratify my vanity, by making it known, that, in a country where I am a stranger, I have been able, without any external recommendation, to obtain the notice and countenance of a nobleman so eminent for knowledge and ability, that, in his twenty-third year, he was sent as plenipotentiary to superintend, at Aix la Chapelle, the interests of a nation remarkable, above all others, for gravity and prudence; and who, at an age when very few are admitted to publick trust, transacts the most important affairs between two of the greatest monarchs of the world. If I could attribute to my own merits the favours which your excellency every day confers upon me, I know not how much my pride might be inflamed; but, when I observe the extensive benevolence and boundless liberality, by which all who have the honour to approach you are dismissed more happy than they come, I am afraid of raising my own value, since I dare not ascribe it so much to my power of pleasing as your willingness to be pleased. Yet, as every man is inclined to flatter himself, I am desirous to hope, that I am not admitted to greater intimacy than others, without some qualifications for so advantageous a distinction, and shall think it my duty to justify, by constant respect and sincerity, the favours which you have been pleased to show me. I am, my lord, Your excellency's most humble and most obedient servant, J. BARETTI. London, Jan. 12, 1760. A complete System of Astronomical Chronology, unfolding the Scriptures. By John Kennedy, rector of Bradley, in Derbyshire. 4to. 1762. To the King. Sir, Having by long labour, and diligent inquiry, endeavoured to illustrate and establish the chronology of the bible, I hope to be pardoned the ambition of inscribing my work to your majesty. An age of war is not often an age of learning; the tumult and anxiety of military preparations seldom leave attention vacant to the silent progress of study, and the placid conquests of investigation; yet, surely, a vindication of the inspired writers can never be unseasonably offered to the defender of the faith; nor can it ever be improper to promote that religion, without which all other blessings are snares of destruction; without which armies cannot make us safe, nor victories make us happy. I am far from imagining that my testimony can add any thing to the honours of your majesty, to the splendour of a reign crowned with triumphs, to the beauty of a life dignified by virtue. I can only wish, that your reign may long continue such as it has begun, and that the effulgence of your example may spread its light through distant ages, till it shall be the highest praise of any future monarch, that he exhibits some resemblance of GEORGE THE THIRD. I am, Sir, Your majesty's, &c. JOHN KENNEDY. Hoole's translation of Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. 1763. To the Queen. Madam, To approach the high and the illustrious has been, in all ages, the privilege of poets; and though translations cannot justly claim the same honour, yet they naturally follow their authors as attendants; and I hope that, in return for having enabled Tasso to diffuse his fame through the British dominions, I may be introduced by him to the presence of your majesty. Tasso has a peculiar claim to your majesty's favour, as follower and panegyrist of the house of Este, which has one common ancestor with the house of Hanover; and, in reviewing his life, it is not easy to forbear a wish, that he had lived in a happier time, when he might, among the descendants of that illustrious family, have found a more liberal and potent patronage. I cannot but observe, Madam, how unequally reward is proportioned to merit, when I reflect that the happiness which was withheld from Tasso, is reserved for me; and that the poem which once hardly procured to its author the countenance of the princes of Ferrara, has attracted to its translator the favourable notice of a British queen. Had this been the fate of Tasso, he would have been able to have celebrated the condescension of your majesty in nobler language, but could not have felt it with more ardent gratitude, than, Madam, Your majesty's most faithful and devoted servant. London and Westminster Improved. Illustrated by Plans. 4to. 1766. To the King. Sir, The patronage of works which have a tendency towards advancing the happiness of mankind, naturally belongs to great princes; and publick good, in which publick elegance is comprised, has ever been the object of your majesty's regard. In the following pages your majesty, I flatter myself, will find, that I have endeavoured at extensive and general usefulness. Knowing, therefore, your majesty's early attention to the polite arts, and more particular affection for the study of architecture, I was encouraged to hope, that the work which I now presume to lay before your majesty, might be thought not unworthy your royal favour; and that the protection which your majesty always affords to those who mean well, may be extended to, Sir, Your majesty's most dutiful subject, and most obedient and most humble servant, JOHN GWYNN. The English Works of Roger Ascham, edited by James Bennet. 4to. 1767. To the right hon. Anthony Ashley Cooper, earl of Shaftesbury, baron Ashley, lord lieutenant and custos rotulorum of Dorsetshire, F.R.S. My Lord, Having endeavoured, by an elegant and useful edition, to recover the esteem of the publick to an author undeservedly neglected, the only care which I now owe to his memory, is that of inscribing his works to a patron, whose acknowledged eminence of character may awaken attention, and attract regard. I have not suffered the zeal of an editor so far to take possession of my mind, as that I should obtrude upon your lordship any productions unsuitable to the dignity of your rank or of your sentiments. Ascham was not only the chief ornament of a celebrated college, but visited foreign countries, frequented courts, and lived in familiarity with statesmen and princes; not only instructed scholars in literature, but formed Elizabeth to empire. To propagate the works of such a writer will not be unworthy of your lordship's patriotism; for I know not, what greater benefits you can confer on your country, than that of preserving worthy names from oblivion, by joining them with your own. I am, my lord, Your lordship's most obliged, most obedient, and most humble servant, JAMES BENNET. Adams's Treatise on the Globes. 1767. To the King. Sir, It is the privilege of real greatness not to be afraid of diminution by condescending to the notice of little things; and I, therefore, can boldly solicit the patronage of your majesty to the humble labours by which I have endeavoured to improve the instruments of science, and make the globes, on which the earth and sky are delineated, less defective in their construction, and less difficult in their use. Geography is, in a peculiar manner, the science of princes. When a private student revolves the terraqueous globe, he beholds a succession of countries, in which he has no more interest, than in the imaginary regions of Jupiter and Saturn: but your majesty must contemplate the scientifick picture with other sentiments; and consider, as oceans and continents are rolling before you, how large a part of mankind is now waiting on your determinations, and may receive benefits, or suffer evils, as your influence is extended or withdrawn. The provinces, which your majesty's arms have added to your dominions, make no inconsiderable part of the orb allotted to human beings. Your power is acknowledged by nations, whose names we know not yet how to write, and whose boundaries we cannot yet describe. But your majesty's lenity and beneficence give us reason to expect the time, when science shall be advanced by the diffusion of happiness; when the deserts of America shall become pervious and safe; when those who are now restrained by fear shall be attracted by reverence; and multitudes, who now range the woods for prey, and live at the mercy of winds and seasons, shall, by the paternal care of your majesty, enjoy the plenty of cultivated lands, the pleasures of society, the security of law, and the light of revelation. I am, Sir, Your majesty's most humble, most obedient, and most dutiful subject and servant, GEORGE ADAMS. Bishop Zachary Pearce's Posthumous Works, 2 vols. 4to. Published by the Rev. Mr. Derby. 1777. To the King. Sir, I presume to lay before your majesty, the last labours of a learned bishop, who died in the toils and duties of his calling. He is now beyond the reach of all earthly honours and rewards; and only the hope of inciting others to imitate him, makes it now fit to be remembered, that he enjoyed in his life the favour of your majesty. The tumultuary life of princes seldom permits them to survey the wide extent of national interest without losing sight of private merit; to exhibit qualities which may be imitated by the highest and the humblest of mankind; and to be at once amiable and great. Such characters, if now and then they appear in history, are contemplated with admiration. May it be the ambition of all your subjects to make haste with their tribute of reverence: and, as posterity may learn from your majesty how kings should live, may they learn, likewise, from your people, how they should be honoured. I am, may it please your majesty, with the most profound respect, Your majesty's most dutiful and devoted subject and servant. PREFACE TO NEW TABLES OF INTEREST: Designed to answer, in the most correct and expeditious manner, the common purposes of business, particularly the business of the publick funds. BY JOHN PAYNE, OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND. 1758. Among the writers of fiction, whose business is to furnish that entertainment which fancy perpetually demands, it is a standing plea, that the beauties of nature are now exhausted; that imitation has exerted all its power; and that nothing more can be done for the service of their mistress, than to exhibit a perpetual transposition of known objects, and draw new pictures, not by introducing new images, but by giving new lights and shades, a new arrangement and colouring to the old. This plea has been cheerfully admitted; and fancy, led by the hand of a skilful guide, treads over again the flowery path she has often trod before, as much enamoured with every new diversification of the same prospect, as with the first appearance of it. In the regions of science, however, there is not the same indulgence: the understanding and the judgment travel there in the pursuit of Truth, whom they always expect to find in one simple form, free from the disguises of dress and ornament: and, as they travel with laborious step and a fixed eye, they are content to stop, when the shades of night darken the prospect, and patiently wait the radiance of a new morning, to lead them forward in the path they have chosen, which, however thorny, or however steep, is severely preferred to the most pleasing excursions that bring them no nearer to the object of their search. The plea, therefore, that nature is exhausted, and that nothing is left to gratify the mind, but different combinations of the same ideas, when urged as a reason for multiplying unnecessary labours, among the sons of science, is not so readily admitted: the understanding, when in possession of truth, is satisfied with the simple acquisition; and not, like fancy, inclined to wander after new pleasures, in the diversification of objects already known, which, perhaps, may lead to errour. But, notwithstanding this general disinclination to accumulate labours, for the sake of that pleasure which arises merely from different modes of investigating truth, yet, as the mines of science have been diligently opened, and their treasures widely diffused, there may be parts chosen, which, by a proper combination and arrangement, may contribute not only to entertainment but use; like the rays of the sun, collected in a concave mirror, to serve particular purposes of light and heat. The power of arithmetical numbers has been tried to a vast extent, and variously applied to the improvement both of business and science. In particular, so many calculations have been made, with respect to the value and use of money, that some serve only for speculation and amusement; and there is great opportunity for selecting a few that are peculiarly adapted to common business, and the daily interchanges of property among men. Those which happen in the publick funds are, at this time, the most frequent and numerous; and to answer the purposes of that business, in some degree, more perfectly than has hitherto been done, the following tables are published. What that degree of perfection above other tables of the same kind may be, is a matter, not of opinion and taste, in which many might vary, but of accuracy and usefulness, with respect to which most will agree. The approbation they meet with will, therefore, depend upon the experience of those for whom they were principally designed, the proprietors of the publick funds, and the brokers who transact the business of the funds, to whose patronage they are cheerfully committed. Among the brokers of stocks are men of great honour and probity, who are candid and open in all their transactions, and incapable of mean and selfish purposes; and it is to be lamented, that a market of such importance, as the present state of this nation has made theirs, should be brought into any discredit by the intrusion of bad men, who, instead of serving their country, and procuring an honest subsistence in the army or the fleet, endeavour to maintain luxurious tables, and splendid equipages, by sporting with the publick credit. It is not long, since the evil of stockjobbing was risen to such an enormous height, as to threaten great injury to every actual proprietor, particularly, to many widows and orphans, who, being bound to depend upon the funds for their whole subsistence, could not possibly retreat from the approaching danger. But this evil, after many unsuccessful attempts of the legislature to conquer it, was, like many others, at length subdued by its own violence; and the reputable stockbrokers seem now to have it in their power effectually to prevent its return, by not suffering the most distant approaches of it to take footing in their own practice, and by opposing every effort made for its recovery by the desperate sons of fortune, who, not having the courage of highwaymen take 'Change-alley rather than the road, because, though more injurious than highwaymen, they are less in danger of punishment by the loss either of liberty or life. With respect to the other patrons, to whose encouragement these tables have been recommended, the proprietors of the publick funds, who are busy in the improvement of their fortunes, it is sufficient to say--that no motive can sanctify the accumulation of wealth, but an ardent desire to make the most honourable and virtuous use of it, by contributing to the support of good government, the increase of arts and industry, the rewards of genius and virtue, and the relief of wretchedness and want. What good, what true, what fit we justly call, Let this be all our care--for this is all; To lay this treasure up, and hoard with haste What ev'ry day will want, and most the last. This done, the poorest can no wants endure; And this not done, the richest must be poor. POPE. THOUGHTS ON THE CORONATION OF HIS PRESENT MAJESTY, KING GEORGE THE THIRD; Or, reasons offered against confining the procession to the usual track, and pointing out others more commodious and proper. To which are prefixed, a plan of the different paths recommended, with the parts adjacent, and a sketch of the procession.--Most humbly submitted to consideration[1]. All pomp is instituted for the sake of the publick. A show without spectators can no longer be a show. Magnificence in obscurity is equally vain with a sundial in the grave. As the wisdom of our ancestors has appointed a very splendid and ceremonious inauguration of our kings, their intention was, that they should receive their crown with such awful rites, as might for ever impress upon them a due sense of the duties which they were to take, when the happiness of nations is put into their hands; and that the people, as many as can possibly be witnesses to any single act, should openly acknowledge their sovereign by universal homage. By the late method of conducting the coronation, all these purposes have been defeated. Our kings, with their train, have crept to the temple through obscure passages; and the crown has been worn out of sight of the people. Of the multitudes, whom loyalty or curiosity brought together, the greater part has returned without a single glimpse of their prince's grandeur, and the day that opened with festivity ended in discontent. This evil has proceeded from the narrowness and shortness of the way, through which the procession has lately passed. As it is narrow, it admits of very few spectators; as it is short, it is soon passed. The first part of the train reaches the Abbey, before the whole has left the palace; and the nobility of England, in their robes of state, display their riches only to themselves. All this inconvenience may be easily avoided by choosing a wider and longer course, which may be again enlarged and varied by going one way, and returning another. This is not without a precedent; for, not to inquire into the practice of remoter princes, the procession of Charles the second's coronation issued from the Tower, and passed through the whole length of the city to Whitehall[2]. The path in the late coronations has been only from Westminster hall, along New Palace yard, into Union street, through the extreme end of King street, and to the Abbey door, by the way of St. Margaret's church yard. The paths which I propose the procession to pass through, are, 1. From St. James's palace, along Pall Mall and Charing Cross, by Whitehall, through Parliament street, down Bridge street, into King street, round St. Margaret's church-yard, and from thence into the Abbey. 2. From St. James's palace across the canal, into the Birdcage walk, from thence into Great George street, then turning down Long ditch, (the Gate house previously to be taken down,) proceed to the Abbey. Or, 3. Continuing the course along George street, into King street, and by the way of St. Margaret's church yard, to pass into the west door of the Abbey. 4. From St. James's palace, the usual way his majesty passes to the House of Lords, as far as to the parade, when, leaving the horse guards on the left, proceed along the Park, up to Great George street, and pass to the Abbey in either of the tracks last mentioned. 5. From Westminster hall into Parliament street, down Bridge street, along Great George street, through Long ditch, (the Gate house, as before observed, to be taken down,) and so on to the west door of the Abbey. 6. From Whitehall up Parliament street, down Bridge street, into King street, round St. Margaret's church yard, proceed into the Abbey. 7. From the House of Lords along St. Margaret's street, across New Palace yard, into Parliament street, and from thence to the Abbey by the way last mentioned. But if, on no account, the path must be extended to any of the lengths here recommended, I could wish, rather than see the procession confined to the old way, that it should pass, 8. From Westminster hall along Palace yard, into Parliament street, and continued in the last mentioned path, viz. through Bridge street, King street, and round the church yard, to the west door of the cathedral. 9. The return from the Abbey, in either case, to be as usual, viz. round St. Margaret's church yard, into King street, through Union street, along New Palace yard, and so into Westminster hall. It is almost indifferent which of the six first ways, now proposed, be taken; but there is a stronger reason than mere convenience for changing the common course. Some of the streets in the old track are so ruinous, that there is danger lest the houses, loaded as they will be with people, all pressing forward in the same direction, should fall down upon the procession. The least evil that can be expected is, that in so close a crowd, some will be trampled upon, and others smothered; and, surely, a pomp that costs a single life is too dearly bought. The new streets, as they are more extensive, will afford place to greater numbers, with less danger. In this proposal, I do not foresee any objection that can reasonably be made. That a longer march will require more time, is not to be mentioned, as implying any defect in a scheme, of which the whole purpose is to lengthen the march, and protract the time. The longest course, which I have proposed, is not equal to an hour's walk in the Park. The labour is not such, as that the king should refuse it to his people, or the nobility grudge it to the king. Queen Anne went from the palace through the Park to the Hall, on the day of her coronation; and, when old and infirm, used to pass, on solemn thanksgivings, from the palace to St. Paul's church[3]. Part of my scheme supposes the demolition of the Gate house, a building; so offensive, that, without any occasional reason, it ought to be pulled down, for it disgraces the present magnificence of the capital, and is a continual nuisance to neighbours and passengers. A longer course of scaffolding is, doubtless, more expensive than a shorter; but, it is hoped, that the time is now passed, when any design was received or rejected, according to the money that it would cost. Magnificence cannot be cheap, for what is cheap cannot be magnificent. The money that is so spent, is spent at home, and the king will receive again what he lays out on the pleasure of his people. Nor is it to be omitted, that, if the cost be considered as expended by the publick, much more will be saved than lost; for the excessive prices, at which windows and tops of houses are now let, will be abated; not only greater numbers will be admitted to the show, but each will come at a cheaper rate. Some regulations are necessary, whatever track be chosen. The scaffold ought to be raised at least four feet, with rails high enough to support the standers, and yet so low as not to hinder the view. It would add much to the gratification of the people, if the horse guards, by which all our processions have been of late encumbered, and rendered dangerous to the multitude, were to be left behind at the coronation; and if, contrary to the desires of the people, the procession must pass in the old track, that the number of foot soldiers be diminished; since it cannot but offend every Englishman to see troops of soldiers placed between him and his sovereign, as if they were the most honourable of the people, or the king required guards to secure his person from his subjects. As their station makes them think themselves important, their insolence is always such as may be expected from servile authority; and the impatience of the people, under such immediate oppression, always produces quarrels, tumults, and mischief. FOOTNOTES: [1] First printed in the year 1761. [2] The king went early in the morning to the Tower of London in his coach, most of the lords being there before. And about ten of the clock they set forward towards Whitehall, ranged in that order as the heralds had appointed; those of the long robe, the king's council at law, the masters of the chancery and judges, going first, and so the lords in their order, very splendidly habited, on rich footcloths; the number of their footmen being limited, to the dukes ten, to the lords eight, and to the viscounts six, and to the barons four, all richly clad, as their other servants were. The whole show was the most glorious, in the order and expense, that had been ever seen in England: they who rode first being in Fleet street when the king issued out of the Tower, as was known by the discharge of the ordnance: and it was near three of the clock in the afternoon, when the king alighted at Whitehall. The next morning the king rode in the same state in his robes, and with his crown on his head, and all the lords in their robes to Westminster hall; where all the ensigns for the coronation were delivered to those who were appointed to carry them, the earl of Northumberland being made high constable, and the earl of Suffolk, earl marshal, for the day. And then all the lords in their order, and the king himself, walked on foot, upon blue cloth, from Westminster hall to the Abbey church, where, after a sermon preached by Dr. Morley, (then bishop of Worcester,) in Henry the seventh's chapel, the king was sworn, crowned, and anointed, by Dr. Juxon, archbishop of Canterbury, with all the solemnity that in those cases had been used. All which being done, the king returned in the same manner on foot to Westminster hall, which was adorned with rich hangings and statues; and there the king dined, and the lords on either side, at tables provided for them: and all other ceremonies were performed with great order and magnificence.--Life of lord Clarendon, p. 187. [3] In order to convey to the reader some idea, how highly parade and magnificence were estimated by our ancestors, on these solemn occasions, I shall take notice of the manner of conducting lady Anne Boleyn from Greenwich, previous to her coronation, as it is recited by Stow. King Henry the eighth (says that historian) having divorced queen Catherine, and married Anne Boleyn, or Boloine, who was descended from Godfrey Boloine, mayor of the city of London, and intending her coronation, sent to order the lord mayor, not only to make all the preparations necessary for conducting his royal consort from Greenwich, by water, to the Tower of London but to adorn the city after the most magnificent manner, for her passage through it to Westminster. In obedience to the royal precept, the mayor and common council not only ordered the company of haberdashers, of which the lord mayor was a member, to prepare a magnificent state barge; but enjoined all the city corporations to provide themselves with barges, and to adorn them in the most superb manner, and especially to have them supplied with good bands of music. On the 29th of May, the time prefixed for this pompous procession by water the mayor, aldermen, and commons, assembled at St. Mary hill; the mayor and aldermen in scarlet, with gold chains, and those who were knights, with the collars of SS. At one they went on board the city barge at Billingsgate, which was most magnificently decorated, and attended by fifty noble barges, belonging to the several companies of the city, with each its own corporation on board; and, for the better regulation of this procession, it was ordered, that each barge should keep twice their lengths asunder. Thus regulated, the city barge was preceded by another mounted with ordnance, and the figures of dragons, and other monsters, incessantly emitting fire and smoke, with much noise. Then the city barge, attended on the right by the haberdashers' state barge, called the bachelors', which was covered with gold brocade, and adorned with sails of silk, with two rich standards of the king's and queen's arms at her head and stern, besides a variety of flags and streamers, containing the arms of that company, and those of the merchant adventurers; besides which, the shrouds and ratlines were hung with a number of small bells: on the left was a barge that contained a very beautiful mount, on which stood a white falcon crowned, perched upon a golden stump, enriched with roses, being the queen's emblem; and round the mount sat several beautiful virgins, singing, and playing upon instruments. The other barges followed, in regular order, till they came below Greenwich. On their return the procession began with that barge which was before the last, in which were the mayor's and sheriff's officers, and this was followed by those of the inferior companies, ascending to the lord mayor's, which immediately preceded that of the queen, who was attended by the bachelors' or state barge, with the magnificence of which her majesty was much delighted; and being arrived at the Tower, she returned the lord mayor and aldermen thanks, for the pomp with which she had been conducted thither. Two days after, the lord mayor, in a gown of crimson velvet, and a rich collar of SS, attended by the sheriffs, and two domestics in red and white damask, went to receive the queen at the Tower of London, whence the sheriffs returned to see that every thing was in order. The streets were just before new gravelled, from the Tower to Temple-bar, and railed in on each side, to the intent that the horses should not slide on the pavement, nor the people be hurt by the horses; within the rails near Gracechurch, stood a body of Anseatic merchants, and next to them the several corporations of the city, in their formalities, reaching to the alderman's station at the upper end of Cheapside. On the opposite side were placed the city constables, dressed in silk and velvet, with staffs in their hands, to prevent the breaking in of the mob, or any other disturbance. On this occasion, Gracechurch street and Corn hill were hung with crimson and scarlet cloth, and the sides of the houses of a place then called Goldsmiths' row, in Cheapside, were adorned with gold brocades, velvet, and rich tapestry. The procession began from the Tower, with twelve of the French ambassador's domestics in blue velvet, the trappings of their horses being blue sarsnet, interspersed with white crosses; after whom marched those of the equestrian order, two and two, followed by judges in their robes, two and two; then came the knights of the bath in violet gowns, purfled with menever. Next came the abbots, barons, bishops, earls, and marquises, in their robes, two and two. Then the lord chancellor, followed by the Venetian ambassador and the archbishop of York; next the French ambassador and the archbishop of Canterbury, followed by two gentlemen representing the dukes of Normandy and Aquitain; after whom rode the lord mayor of London with his mace, and garter in his coat of arms; then the duke of Suffolk, lord high steward, followed by the deputy marshal of England, and all the other officers of state in their robes, carrying the symbols of their several offices: then others of the nobility in crimson velvet, and all the queen's officers in scarlet, followed by her chancellor uncovered, who immediately preceded his mistress. The queen was dressed in silver brocade, with a mantle of the same furred with ermine; her hair was dishevelled, and she wore a chaplet upon her head set with jewels of inestimable value. She sat in a litter covered with silver tissue, and carried by two beautiful pads cloathed in white damask, and led by her footmen. Over the litter was carried a canopy of cloth of gold, with a silver bell at each corner, supported by sixteen knights alternately, by four at a time. After her majesty came her chamberlain, followed by her master of horse, leading a beautiful pad, with a side-saddle, and trappings of silver tissue. Next came seven ladies in crimson velvet, faced with gold brocade, mounted on beautiful horses with gold trappings. Then followed two chariots covered with cloth of gold, in the first of which were the duchess of Norfolk and the marchioness of Dorset, and in the second four ladies in crimson velvet; then followed seven ladies dressed in the same manner, on horseback, with magnificent trappings, followed by another chariot all in white, with six ladies in crimson velvet; this was followed by another all in red, with eight ladies in the same dress with the former; next came thirty gentlewomen, attendants to the ladies of honour; they were on horseback, dressed in silks and velvet; and the cavalcade was closed by the horse guards. This pompous procession being arrived in Fenchurch street, the queen stopped at a beautiful pageant, crowded with children in mercantile habits, who congratulated her majesty upon the joyful occasion of her happy arrival in the city. Thence she proceeded to Gracechurch corner, where was erected a very magnificent pageant, at the expense of the company of Anseatic merchants, in which was represented mount Parnassus, with the fountain of Helicon, of white marble, out of which arose four springs, about four feet high, centering at the top in a small globe, from whence issued plenty of Rhenish wine till night. On the mount sat Apollo, at his feet was Calliope, and beneath were the rest of the Muses, surrounding the mount, and playing upon a variety of musical instruments, at whose feet were inscribed several epigrams suited to the occasion, in letters of gold. Her majesty then proceeded to Leadenhall, where stood a pageant, representing a hill encompassed with red and white roses; and above it was a golden stump, upon which a white falcon, descending from above, perched, and was quickly followed by an angel, who put a crown of gold upon his head. A little lower on the hillock sat St. Anne, surrounded by her progeny, one of whom made an oration, in which was a wish that her majesty might prove extremely prolific. The procession then advanced to the conduit in Corn hill, where the Graces sat enthroned, with a fountain before them, incessantly discharging wine; and underneath, a poet, who described the qualities peculiar to each of these amiable deities, and presented the queen with their several gifts. The cavalcade thence proceeded to a great conduit that stood opposite to Mercers' hall in Cheapside, and, upon that occasion, was painted with a variety of emblems, and during the solemnity and remaining part of the day, ran with different sorts of wine, for the entertainment of the populace. At the end of Wood street, the standard there was finely embellished with royal portraitures and a number of flags, on which were painted coats of arms and trophies, and above was a concert of vocal and instrumental music. At the upper end of Cheapside was the aldermen's station, where the recorder addressed the queen in a very elegant oration, and, in the name of the citizens, presented her with a thousand marks, in a purse of gold tissue, which her majesty very gracefully received. At a small distance, by Cheapside conduit, was a pageant, in which were seated Minerva, Juno, and Venus; before whom stood the god Mercury, who, in their names, presented the queen a golden apple. At St. Paul's gate was a fine pageant, in which sat three ladies richly dressed, with each a chaplet on her head, and a tablet in her hand, containing Latin inscriptions. At the east end of St. Paul's cathedral, the queen was entertained by some of the scholars belonging to St. Paul's school, with verses in praise of the king and her majesty, with which she seemed highly delighted. Thence proceeding to Ludgate, which was finely decorated, her majesty was entertained with several songs adapted to the occasion, sung in concert by men and boys upon the leads over the gate. At the end of Shoe lane, in Fleet street, a handsome tower with four turrets, was erected upon the conduit, in each of which stood one of the cardinal virtues, with their several symbols; who, addressing themselves to the queen, promised they would never leave her, but be always her constant attendants. Within the tower was an excellent concert of music, and the conduit all the while ran with various sorts of wine. At Temple-bar she was again entertained with songs, sung in concert by a choir of men and boys; and having from thence proceeded to Westminster, she returned the lord mayor thanks for his good offices, and those of the citizens, that day. The day after, the lord mayor, aldermen, and sheriffs, assisted at the coronation, which was performed with great splendour.--Stow's Annals. _Note_. The same historian informs us, that queen Elizabeth passed in the like manner, through the city, to her coronation. The admirers of the descriptions of pageants may be amply gratified in Henry's History of England. The field of the cloth of gold shines "luna inter minora sidera."--Ed. PREFACE TO THE ARTISTS' CATALOGUE, FOR 1762. The publick may justly require to be informed of the nature and extent of every design, for which the favour of the publick is openly solicited. The artists, who were themselves the first projectors of an exhibition in this nation, and who have now contributed to the following catalogue, think it, therefore, necessary to explain their purpose, and justify their conduct. An exhibition of the works of art, being a spectacle new in this kingdom, has raised various opinions and conjectures, among those who are unacquainted with the practice in foreign nations. Those who set out their performances to general view, have been too often considered as the rivals of each other, as men actuated, if not by avarice, at least by vanity, and contending for superiority of fame, though not for a pecuniary prize: it cannot be denied or doubted, that all who offer themselves to criticism are desirous of praise; this desire is not only innocent, but virtuous, while it is undebased by artifice, and unpolluted by envy, and of envy or artifice these men can never be accused, who, already enjoying all the honours and profits of their profession, are content to stand candidates for publick notice, with genius yet unexperienced, and diligence yet unrewarded; who, without any hope of increasing their own reputation or interest, expose their names and their works, only that they may furnish an opportunity of appearance to the young, the diffident, and the neglected. The purpose of this exhibition is not to enrich the artists, but to advance the art; the eminent are not flattered with preference, nor the obscure insulted with contempt; whoever hopes to deserve publick favour, is here invited to display his merit. Of the price put upon this exhibition, some account may be demanded. Whoever sets his work to be shown, naturally desires a multitude of spectators; but his desire defeats its own end, when spectators assemble in such numbers as to obstruct one another. Though we are far from wishing to diminish the pleasures, or depreciate the sentiments of any class of the community, we know, however, what every one knows, that all cannot be judges or purchasers of works of art; yet we have already found, by experience, that all are desirous to see an exhibition. When the terms of admission were low, our room was thronged with such multitudes as made access dangerous, and frightened away those whose approbation was most desired. Yet, because it is seldom believed that money is got but for the love of money, we shall tell the use which we intend to make of our expected profits. Many artists of great abilities are unable to sell their works for their due price; to remove this inconvenience, an annual sale will be appointed, to which every man may send his works, and send them, if he will, without his name. These works will be reviewed by the committee that conduct the exhibition. A price will be secretly set on every piece, and registered by the secretary. If the piece exposed is sold for more, the whole price shall be the artist's; but if the purchaser's value is at less than the committee, the artist shall be paid the deficiency from the profits of the exhibition. OPINIONS ON QUESTIONS OF LAW. The following opinions on cases of law may be regarded as among the strongest proofs of Johnson's enlarged powers of mind, and of his ability to grapple with subjects, on general principles, with whose technicalities he could not be familiar. Of law, as a science, he ever expressed the deepest admiration, and an author who combines an accurate knowledge of the practical details of jurisprudence with the most philosophical views of legal principles, has quoted Dr. Johnson, as pronouncing the study of law "the last effort of human intelligence acting upon human experience." We allude to the eloquent and excellent Sir James Mackintosh's Discourse on the Study of the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 58. Lord Bacon, in his two books on the Advancement of Learning, has affirmed, that professed lawyers are not the best law authors; and the comprehensive and lucid opinions which Dr. Johnson has here given, and which, in many instances, have been subsequently sanctioned by legislative authority, seem to establish the remark. The first Case in the present edition, involves an ingenious defence of the right of abridgment, founded on considerations on Dr. Trapp's celebrated sermons "on the nature, folly, sin, and danger of being righteous over-much." These discourses, about the year 1739, when methodism was a novelty, attracted much attention. Mr. Cave, always anxious to gratify his readers, abridged and extracted parts from them, and promised a continuation. This never appeared; stopped, perhaps, by threats of prosecution on the part of the original publishers of the sermons. It was, in all probability, on this occasion, that Dr. Johnson wrote the following paper.--Gent. Mag. July, 1787. It is a subject with whose bearings he might be presumed to be practically conversant; and, accordingly, we find, in his memoirs, many recorded arguments of his, on literary property. They uniformly exhibit the most enlarged and liberal views--a readiness to sacrifice private considerations to publick and general good. He wished the author to be adequately remunerated for his labour, and tenderly protected from spoliation, but, by no means, encouraged in monopoly. See Boswell's Life, i. ii. iv. CONSIDERATIONS ON THE CASE OF DR. T[RAPP]'S SERMONS. ABRIDGED BY MR. CAVE, 1739. 1. That the copy of a book is the property of the author, and that he may, by sale, or otherwise, transfer that property to another, who has a right to be protected in the possession of that property, so transferred, is not to be denied. 2. That the complainants may be lawfully invested with the property of this copy, is likewise granted. 3. But the complainants have mistaken the nature of this property; and, in consequence of their mistake, have supposed it to be invaded by an act, in itself legal, and justifiable by an uninterrupted series of precedents, from the first establishment of printing, among us, down to the present time. 4. He that purchases the copy of a book, purchases the sole right of printing it, and of vending the books printed according to it; but has no right to add to it, or take from it, without the author's consent, who still preserves such a right in it, as follows from the right every man has to preserve his own reputation. 5. Every single book, so sold by the proprietor, becomes the property of the buyer, who purchases, with the book, the right of making such use of it as he shall think most convenient, either for his own improvement or amusement, or the benefit or entertainment of mankind. 6. This right the reader of a book may use, many ways, to the disadvantage both of the author and the proprietor, which yet they have not any right to complain of, because the author when he wrote, and the proprietor when he purchased the copy, knew, or ought to have known, that the one wrote, and the other purchased, under the hazard of such treatment from the buyer and reader, and without any security from the bad consequences of that treatment, except the excellence of the book. 7. Reputation and property are of different kinds; one kind of each is more necessary to be secured by the law than another, and the law has provided more effectually for its defence. My character as a man, a subject, or a trader, is under the protection of the law; but my reputation, as an author, is at the mercy of the reader, who lies under no other obligations to do me justice than those of religion and morality. If a man calls me rebel or bankrupt, I may prosecute and punish him; but, if a man calls me ideot or plagiary, I have no remedy; since, by selling him the book, I admit his privilege of judging, and declaring his judgment, and can appeal only to other readers, if I think myself injured. 8. In different characters we are more or less protected; to hiss a pleader at the bar would, perhaps, be deemed illegal and punishable, but to hiss a dramatick writer is justifiable by custom. 9. What is here said of the writer, extends itself naturally to the purchaser of a copy, since the one seldom suffers without the other. 10. By these liberties it is obvious, that authors and proprietors may often suffer, and sometimes unjustly: but as these liberties are encouraged and allowed for the same reason with writing itself, for the discovery and propagation of truth, though, like other human goods, they have their alloys and ill consequences; yet, as their advantages abundantly preponderate, they have never yet been abolished or restrained. 11. Thus every book, when it falls into the hands of the reader, is liable to be examined, confuted, censured, translated, and abridged; any of which may destroy the credit of the author, or hinder the sale of the book. 12. That all these liberties are allowed, and cannot be prohibited without manifest disadvantage to the publick, may be easily proved; but we shall confine ourselves to the liberty of making epitomes, which gives occasion to our present inquiry. 13. That an uninterrupted prescription confers a right, will be easily granted, especially if it appears that the prescription, pleaded in defence of that right, might at any time have been interrupted, had it not been always thought agreeable to reason and to justice. 14. The numberless abridgments that are to be found of all kinds of writings, afford sufficient evidence that they were always thought legal, for they are printed with the names of the abbreviators and publishers, and without the least appearance of a clandestine transaction. Many of the books, so abridged, were the properties of men who wanted neither wealth, nor interest, nor spirit, to sue for justice, if they had thought themselves injured. Many of these abridgments must have been made by men whom we can least suspect of illegal practices, for there are few books of late that are not abridged. 15. When bishop Burnet heard that his History of the Reformation was about to be abridged, he did not think of appealing to the court of chancery; but, to avoid any misrepresentation of his history, epitomised it himself, as he tells us in his preface. 16. But, lest it should be imagined that an author might do this rather by choice than necessity, we shall produce two more instances of the like practice, where it would certainly not have been borne, if it had been suspected of illegality. The one, in Clarendon's History, which was abridged, in 2 vols. 8vo.; and the other in bishop Burnet's History of his Own Time, abridged in the same manner. The first of these books was the property of the university of Oxford, a body tenacious enough of their rights; the other, of bishop Burnet's heirs, whose circumstances were such as made them very sensible of any diminution of their inheritance. 17. It is observable, that both these abridgments last mentioned, with many others that might be produced, were made when the act of parliament for securing the property of copies was in force, and which, if that property was injured, afforded an easy redress: what then can be inferred from the silence and forbearance of the proprietors, but that they thought an epitome of a book no violation of the right of the proprietor? 18. That their opinion, so contrary to their own interest, was founded in reason, will appear from the nature and end of an abridgment. 19. The design of an abridgment is, to benefit mankind by facilitating the attainment of knowledge; and by contracting arguments, relations, or descriptions, into a narrow compass, to convey instruction in the easiest method, without fatiguing the attention, burdening the memory, or impairing the health of the student. 20. By this method the original author becomes, perhaps, of less value, and the proprietor's profits are diminished; but these inconveniencies give way to the advantage received by mankind, from the easier propagation of knowledge; for as an incorrect book is lawfully criticised, and false assertions justly confuted, because it is more the interest of mankind, that errour should be detected, and truth discovered, than that the proprietors of a particular book should enjoy their profits undiminished; so a tedious volume may, no less lawfully, be abridged, because it is better that the proprietors should suffer some damage, than that the acquisition of knowledge should be obstructed with unnecessary difficulties, and the valuable hours of thousands thrown away. 21. Therefore, as he that buys the copy of a book, buys it under this condition, that it is liable to be confuted, if it is false, however his property may be affected by such a confutation; so he buys it, likewise, liable to be abridged, if it be tedious, however his property may suffer by the abridgment. 22. To abridge a book, therefore, is no violation of the right of the proprietor, because to be subject to the hazard of an abridgment was an original condition of the property. 23. Thus we see the right of abridging authors established both by reason and the customs of trade. But, perhaps, the necessity of this practice may appear more evident, from a consideration of the consequences that must probably follow from the prohibition of it. 24. If abridgments be condemned, as injurious to the proprietor of the copy, where will this argument end? Must not confutations be, likewise, prohibited for the same reason? Or, in writings of entertainment, will not criticisms, at least, be entirely suppressed, as equally hurtful to the proprietor, and certainly not more necessary to the publick? 25. Will not authors, who write for pay, and who are rewarded, commonly, according to the bulk of their work, be tempted to fill their works with superfluities and digressions, when the dread of an abridgment is taken away, as doubtless more negligences would be committed, and more falsehoods published, if men were not restrained by the fear of censure and confutation? 26. How many useful works will the busy, the indolent, and the less wealthy part of mankind be deprived of! How few will read or purchase forty-four large volumes of the transactions of the royal society, which, in abridgment, are generally read, to the great improvement of philosophy! 27. How must general systems of sciences be written, which are nothing more than epitomes of those authors who have written on particular branches, and those works are made less necessary by such collections! Can he that destroys the profit of many copies be less criminal than he that lessens the sale of one? 28. Even to confute an erroneous book will become more difficult, since it has always been a custom to abridge the author whose assertions are examined, and, sometimes, to transcribe all the essential parts of his book. Must an inquirer after truth be debarred from the benefit of such confutations, unless he purchases the book, however useless, that gave occasion to the answer? 29. Having thus endeavoured to prove the legality of abridgments from custom from reason, it remains only that we show, that we have not printed the complainant's copy, but abridged it[1]. 30. This will need no proof, since it will appear, upon comparing the two books, that we have reduced thirty-seven pages to thirteen of the same print. 31. Our design is, to give our readers a short view of the present controversy; and we require, that one of these two positions be proved, either that we have no right to exhibit such a view, or that we can exhibit it, without epitomising the writers of each party. [1] A fair and bona fide abridgment of any book is considered a new work; and however it may injure the sale of the original, yet it is not deemed, in law, to be a piracy, or violation of the author's copyright. 1 Bro. 451. 2. Atk. 141. and Mr. Christian's note on the Commentaries, ii. 407.--Ed. ON SCHOOL CHASTISEMENT. [The following argument, on school chastisement, was dictated to Mr. Boswell, who was counsel in the case. It originated in 1772, when a schoolmaster at Campbelltown was deprived, by a court of inferior jurisdiction, of his office, for alleged cruelty to his scholars. The court of session restored him. The parents or friends, whose weak indulgence had listened to their children's complaints in the first stage, now appealed to the house of lords, who reversed the decree of the court of session, and the schoolmaster was, accordingly, deprived of his situation, April 14, 1772.--Boswell, ii.] The charge is, that this schoolmaster has used immoderate and cruel correction. Correction, in itself, is not cruel; children, being not reasonable, can be governed only by fear. To impress this fear is, therefore, one of the first duties of those who have the care of children. It is the duty of a parent; and has never been thought inconsistent with parental tenderness. It is the duty of a master, who is in his highest exaltation, when he is "loco parentis[1]." Yet, as good things become evil by excess, correction, by being immoderate, may become cruel. But, when is correction immoderate? When it is more frequent or more severe than is required, "ad monendum et docendum," for reformation and instruction. No severity is cruel which obstinacy makes necessary; for the greatest cruelty would be to desist, and leave the scholar too careless for instruction, and too much hardened for reproof. Locke, in his Treatise of Education, mentions a mother, with applause, who whipped an infant eight times before she had subdued it; for, had she stopped at the seventh act of correction, her daughter, says he, would have been ruined. The degrees of obstinacy in young minds are very different; as different must be the degrees of persevering severity. A stubborn scholar must be corrected, till he is subdued. The discipline of a school is military. There must be either unbounded license, or absolute authority. The master, who punishes, not only consults the future happiness of him who is the immediate subject of correction, but he propagates obedience through the whole school; and establishes regularity by exemplary justice. The victorious obstinacy of a single boy, would make his future endeavours of reformation or instruction totally ineffectual. Obstinacy, therefore, must never be victorious. Yet, it is well known that there, sometimes, occurs a sullen and hardy resolution, that laughs at all common punishment, and bids defiance to all common degrees of pain. Correction must be proportionate to occasions. The flexible will be reformed by gentle discipline, and the refractory must be subdued by harsher methods. The degrees of scholastick, as of military punishment, no stated rules can ascertain. It must be enforced till it overpowers temptation; till stubbornness become flexible, and perverseness regular. Custom and reason have, indeed, set some bounds to scholastick penalties. The schoolmaster inflicts no capital punishments; nor enforces his edicts by either death or mutilation. The civil law has wisely determined, that a master who strikes at a scholar's eye shall be considered as criminal. But punishments, however severe, that produce no lasting evil, may be just and reasonable, because they may be necessary. Such have been the punishments used by the respondent. No scholar has gone from him either blind or lame, or with any of his limbs or powers injured or impaired. They were irregular, and he punished them; they were obstinate, and he enforced his punishment. But, however provoked, he never exceeded the limits of moderation, for he inflicted nothing beyond present pain; and how much of that was required, no man is so little able to determine as those who have determined against him--the parents of the offenders. It has been said, that he used unprecedented and improper instruments of correction. Of this accusation the meaning is not very easy to be found. No instrument of correction is more proper than another, but as it is better adapted to produce present pain, without lasting mischief. Whatever were his instruments, no lasting mischief has ensued; and, therefore, however unusual, in hands so cautious, they were proper. It has been objected, that the respondent admits the charge of cruelty, by producing no evidence to confute it. Let it be considered, that his scholars are either dispersed at large in the world, or continue to inhabit the place in which they were bred. Those who are dispersed cannot be found; those who remain are the sons of his prosecutors, and are not likely to support a man to whom their fathers are enemies. If it be supposed that the enmity of their fathers proves the justness of the charge, it must be considered how often experience shows us, that men who are angry on one ground will accuse on another; with how little kindness, in a town of low trade, a man who lives by learning is regarded; and how implicitly, where the inhabitants are not very rich, a rich man is hearkened to and followed. In a place like Campbelltown, it is easy for one of the principal inhabitants to make a party. It is easy for that party to heat themselves with imaginary grievances. It is easy for them to oppress a man poorer than themselves; and natural to assert the dignity of riches, by persisting in oppression. The argument which attempts to prove the impropriety of restoring him to the school, by alleging that he has lost the confidence of the people, is not the subject of juridical consideration; for he is to suffer, if he must suffer, not for their judgment, but for his own actions. It may be convenient for them to have another master; but it is a convenience of their own making. It would be, likewise, convenient for him to find another school; but this convenience he cannot obtain. The question is not, what is now convenient, but what is generally right. If the people of Campbelltown be distressed by the restoration of the respondent, they are distressed only by their own fault; by turbulent passions and unreasonable desires; by tyranny, which law has defeated, and by malice, which virtue has surmounted. [1] See Blackstone's Comment, i. 453. VITIOUS INTROMISSION. [This argument cannot be better prefaced than by Mr. Boswell's own exposition of the law of vitious intromission. He was himself an advocate at the Scotch bar, and of counsel in this case. "It was held of old, and continued for a long period, to be an established principle in Scotch law, that whoever intermeddled with the effects of a person deceased, without the interposition of legal authority to guard against embezzlement, should be subjected to pay all the debts of the deceased, as having been guilty of what was technically called _vitious intromission_. The court of session had, gradually, relaxed the strictness of this principle, where an interference proved had been inconsiderable. In the case of Wilson against Smith and Armour, in the year 1772, I had laboured to persuade the judge to return to the ancient law. It was my own sincere opinion, that they ought to adhere to it; but I had exhausted all my powers of reasoning in vain. Johnson thought as I did; and in order to assist me in my application to the court, for a revision and alteration of the judgment, he dictated to me the following argument."--Boswell, ii. 200.] This, we are told, is a law which has its force only from the long practice of the court; and may, therefore, be suspended or modified as the court shall think proper. Concerning the power of the court, to make or to suspend a law, we have no intention to inquire. It is sufficient, for our purpose, that every just law is dictated by reason, and that the practice of every legal court is regulated by equity. It is the quality of reason, to be invariable and constant; and of equity, to give to one man what, in the same case, is given to another. The advantage which humanity derives from law is this: that the law gives every man a rule of action, and prescribes a mode of conduct which shall entitle him to the support and protection of society. That the law may be a rule of action, it is necessary that it be known; it is necessary that it be permanent and stable. The law is the measure of civil right; but, if the measure be changeable, the extent of the thing measured never can be settled. To permit a law to be modified at discretion, is to leave the community without law. It is to withdraw the direction of that publick wisdom, by which the deficiencies of private understanding are to be supplied. It is to suffer the rash and ignorant to act at discretion, and then to depend for the legality of that action on the sentence of the judge. He that is thus governed lives not by law, but by opinion; not by a certain rule, to which he can apply his intention before he acts, but by an uncertain and variable opinion, which he can-never know but after he has committed the act, on which that opinion shall be passed. He lives by a law, if a law it be, which he can never know her fore he has offended it. To this case may be justly applied that important principle, "misera est servitus ubi jus est aut incognitum aut vagum." If intromission be not criminal, till it exceeds a certain point, and that point be unsettled, and, consequently, different in different minds, the right of intromission, and the right of the creditor arising from it, are all _jura vaga_, and, by consequence, are _jura incognita_; and the result can be no other than a _misera servitus_, an uncertainty concerning the event of action, a servile dependance on private opinion. It may be urged, and with great plausibility, that there may be intromission without fraud; which, however true, will by no means justify an occasional and arbitrary relaxation of the law. The end of law is protection, as well as vengeance. Indeed, vengeance is never used but to strengthen protection. That society only is well governed, where life is freed from danger and from suspicion; where possession is so sheltered by salutary prohibitions, that violation is prevented more frequently than punished. Such a prohibition was this, while it operated with its original force. The creditor of the deceased was not only without loss, but without fear. He was not to seek a remedy for an injury suffered; for injury was warded off. As the law has been sometimes administered, it lays us open to wounds, because it is imagined to have the power of healing. To punish fraud, when it is detected, is the proper art of vindictive justice; but to prevent frauds, and make punishment unnecessary, is the great employment of legislative wisdom. To permit intromission, and to punish fraud, is to make law no better than a pitfall. To tread upon the brink is safe; but to come a step further is destruction. But, surely, it is better to enclose the gulf, and hinder all access, than by encouraging us to advance a little, to entice us afterwards a little further, and let us perceive our folly only by our destruction. As law supplies the weak with adventitious strength, it likewise enlightens the ignorant with extrinsick understanding. Law teaches us to know when we commit injury and when we suffer it. It fixes certain marks upon actions, by which we are admonished to do or to forbear them. "Qui sibi bene temperat in licitis," says one of the fathers, "nunquam cadet in illicita:" he who never intromits at all, will never intromit with fraudulent intentions. The relaxation of the law against vitious intromission has been very favourably represented by a great master of jurisprudence[1], whose words have been exhibited with unnecessary pomp, and seem to be considered as irresistibly decisive. The great moment of his authority makes it necessary to examine his position: 'Some ages ago,' says he, 'before the ferocity of the inhabitants of this part of the island was subdued, the utmost severity of the civil law was necessary, to restrain individuals from plundering each other. Thus, the man who intermeddled irregularly with the moveables of a person deceased, was subjected to all the debts of the deceased, without limitation. This makes a branch of the law of Scotland, known by the name of vitious intromission: and so rigidly was this regulation applied in our courts of law, that the most trifling moveable abstracted mala fide, subjected the intermeddler to the foregoing consequences, which proved, in many instances, a most rigorous punishment. But this severity was necessary, in order to subdue the undisciplined nature of our people. It is extremely remarkable, that, in proportion to our improvement in manners, this regulation has been gradually softened, and applied by our sovereign court with a sparing hand.' I find myself under the necessity of observing, that this learned and judicious writer has not accurately distinguished the deficiencies and demands of the different conditions of human life, which, from a degree of savageness and independence, in which all laws are vain, passes, or may pass, by innumerable gradations, to a state of reciprocal benignity, in which laws shall be no longer necessary. Men are first wild and unsocial, living each man to himself, taking from the weak, and losing to the strong. In their first coalitions of society, much of this original savageness is retained. Of general happiness, the product of general confidence, there is yet no thought. Men continue to prosecute their own advantages by the nearest way; and the utmost severity of the civil law is necessary to restrain individuals from plundering each other. The restraints then necessary, are restraints from plunder, from acts of publick violence, and undisguised oppression. The ferocity of our ancestors, as of all other nations, produced not fraud, but rapine. They had not yet learned to cheat, and attempted only to rob. As manners grow more polished, with the knowledge of good, men attain, likewise, dexterity in evil. Open rapine becomes less frequent, and violence gives way to cunning. Those who before invaded pastures and stormed houses, now begin to enrich themselves by unequal contracts and fraudulent intromissions. It is not against the violence of ferocity, but the circumventions of deceit, that this law was framed; and, I am afraid, the increase of commerce, and the incessant struggle for riches, which commerce excites, give us no prospect of an end speedily to be expected of artifice and fraud. It, therefore, seems to be no very conclusive reasoning, which connects those two propositions:--'the nation is become less ferocious, and, therefore, the laws against fraud and covin shall be relaxed.' Whatever reason may have influenced the judges to a relaxation of the law, it was not that the nation was grown less fierce; and, I am afraid, it cannot be affirmed, that it is grown less fraudulent. Since this law has been represented as rigorously and unreasonably penal, it seems not improper to consider, what are the conditions and qualities that make the justice or propriety of a penal law. To make a penal law reasonable and just, two conditions are necessary, and two proper. It is necessary that the law should be adequate to its end; that, if it be observed, it shall prevent the evil against which it is directed. It is, secondly, necessary that the end of the law be of such importance as to deserve the security of a penal sanction. The other conditions of a penal law, which, though not absolutely necessary, are, to a very high degree, fit, are, that to the moral violation of the law there are many temptations, and, that of the physical observance there is great facility. All these conditions apparently concur to justify the law which we are now considering. Its end is the security of property, and property very often of great value. The method by which it effects the security is efficacious, because it admits, in its original rigour, no gradations of injury; but keeps guilt and innocence apart, by a distinct and definite limitation. He that intromits, is criminal; he that intromits not, is innocent. Of the two secondary considerations it cannot be denied that both are in our favour. The temptation to intromit is frequent and strong; so strong, and so frequent, as to require the utmost activity of justice, and vigilance of caution, to withstand its prevalence: and the method by which a man may entitle himself to legal intromission, is so open and so facile, that to neglect it is a proof of fraudulent intention; for why should a man omit to do (but for reasons which he will not confess) that which he can do so easily, and that which he knows to be required by the law? If temptation were rare, a penal law might be deemed unnecessary. If the duty, enjoined by the law, were of difficult performance, omission, though it could not be justified, might be pitied. But in the present case, neither equity nor compassion operate against it. An useful, a necessary law is broken, not only without a reasonable motive, but with all the inducements to obedience that can be derived from safety and facility. I, therefore, return to my original position, that a law, to have its effects, must be permanent and stable. It may be said, in the language of the schools, "lex non recipit majus et minus;" we may have a law, or we may have no law, but we cannot have half a law. We must either have a rule of action, or be permitted to act by discretion and by chance. Deviations from the law must be uniformly punished, or no man can be certain when he shall be safe. That from the rigour of the original institution this court has sometimes departed, cannot be denied. But as it is evident that such deviations as they, make law uncertain, make life unsafe, I hope, that of departing from it there will now be an end; that the wisdom of our ancestors will be treated with due reverence; and that consistent and steady decisions will furnish the people with a rule of action, and leave fraud and fraudulent intromissions no future hope of impunity or escape[2]. FOOTNOTES: [1] Lord Kames, in his Historical Law Tracts. [2] "This masterly argument on vitious intromission, after being prefaced and concluded with some sentences of my own," says Mr. Boswell, "and garnished with the usual formularies, was actually printed, and laid before the lords of session, but without success."--Boswell, ii. 207. ON LAY PATRONAGE IN THE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND. [Dr. Johnson has treated this delicate and difficult subject with unusual acuteness. As Mr. Boswell has recorded the argument, we will make use, once more, of his words to introduce it; observing, by the way, that it did not convince Mr. Boswell's own mind, who was himself a lay patron. "I introduced a question which has been much agitated in the church of Scotland, whether the claim of lay patrons to present ministers to parishes be well founded; and, supposing it to be well founded, whether it ought to be exercised without the concurrence of the people? That church is composed of a series of judicatures; a presbytery, a synod, and, finally, a general assembly; before all of which this matter may be contended; and, in some cases, the presbytery having refused to induct or _settle_, as they call it, the person presented by the patron, it has been found necessary to appeal to the general assembly. Johnson said, I might see the subject well treated in the Defence of Pluralities; and although he thought that a patron should exercise his right with tenderness to the inclinations of the people of a parish, he was very clear as to his right. Then supposing the question to be pleaded before the general assembly, he dictated to me what follows."--Boswell, ii. 248.] Against the right of patrons is commonly opposed, by the inferiour judicatures, the plea of conscience. Their conscience tells them, that the people ought to choose their pastor; their conscience tells them, that they ought not to impose upon a congregation a minister ungrateful and unacceptable to his auditors. Conscience is nothing more than a conviction, felt by ourselves, of something to be done, or something to be avoided; and in questions of simple unperplexed morality, conscience is very often a guide that may be trusted. But before conscience can determine, the state of the question is supposed to be completely known. In questions of law, or of fact, conscience is very often confounded with opinion. No man's conscience can tell him the rights of another man; they must be known by rational investigation, or historical inquiry. Opinion, which he that holds it may call his conscience, may teach some men that religion would be promoted, and quiet preserved, by granting to the people universally the choice of their ministers. But it is a conscience very ill informed that violates the rights of one man, for the convenience of another. Religion cannot be promoted by injustice: and it was never yet found that a popular election was very quietly transacted. That justice would be violated by transferring to the people the right of patronage, is apparent to all who know whence that right had its original. The right of patronage was not at first a privilege torn by power from unresisting poverty. It is not an authority, at first usurped in times of ignorance, and established only by succession and by precedents. It is not a grant capriciously made from a higher tyrant to a lower. It is a right dearly purchased by the first possessours, and justly inherited by those that succeed them. When Christianity was established in this island, a regular mode of worship was prescribed. Publick worship requires a publick place; and the proprietors of lands, as they were converted, built churches for their families and their vassals. For the maintenance of ministers they settled a certain portion of their lands; and a district, through which each minister was required to extend his care, was, by that circumscription, constituted a parish. This is a position so generally received in England, that the extent of a manor and of a parish are regularly received for each other. The churches which the proprietors of lands had thus built and thus endowed, they justly thought themselves entitled to provide with ministers; and, where the episcopal government prevails, the bishop has no power to reject a man nominated by the patron, but for some crime that might exclude him from the priesthood. For, the endowment of the church being the gift of the landlord, he was, consequently, at liberty to give it, according to his choice, to any man capable of performing the holy offices. The people did not choose him, because the people did not pay him. We hear it sometimes urged, that this original right is passed out of memory, and is obliterated and obscured by many translations of property and changes of government; that scarce any church is now in the hands of the heirs of the builders; and that the present persons have entered subsequently upon the pretended rights by a thousand accidental and unknown causes. Much of this, perhaps, is true. But how is the right of patronage extinguished? If the right followed the lands, it is possessed, by the same equity by which the lands are possessed. It is, in effect, part of the manor, and protected by the same laws with every other privilege. Let us suppose an estate forfeited by treason, and granted by the crown to a new family. With the lands were forfeited all the rights appendant to those lands; by the same power that grants the lands, the rights also are granted. The right, lost to the patron, falls not to the people, but is either retained by the crown, or, what to the people is the same thing, is by the crown given away. Let it change hands ever so often, it is possessed by him that receives it, with the same right as it was conveyed. It may, indeed, like all our possessions, be forcibly seized or fraudulently obtained. But no injury is still done to the people; for what they never had, they have never lost. Caius may usurp the right of Titius, but neither Caius nor Titius injure the people; and no man's conscience, however tender or however active, can prompt him to restore what may be proved to have been never taken away. Supposing, what I think cannot be proved, that a popular election of ministers were to be desired, our desires are not the measure of equity. It were to be desired, that power should be only in the hands of the merciful, and riches in the possession of the generous; but the law must leave both riches and power where it finds them; and must often leave riches with the covetous, and power with the cruel. Convenience may be a rule in little things, where no other rule has been established. But, as the great end of government is to give every man his own, no inconvenience is greater than that of making right uncertain. Nor is any man more an enemy to publick peace, than he who fills weak heads with imaginary claims, and breaks the series of civil subordination, by inciting the lower classes of mankind to encroach upon the higher. Having thus shown that the right of patronage, being originally purchased, may be legally transferred, and that it is now in the hands of lawful possessours, at least as certainly as any other right, we have left the advocates of the people no other plea than that of convenience. Let us, therefore, now consider what the people would really gain by a general abolition of the right of patronage. What is most to be desired by such a change is, that the country should be supplied with better ministers. But why should we suppose that the parish will make a wiser choice than the patron? If we suppose mankind actuated by interest, the patron is more likely to choose with caution, because he will suffer more by choosing wrong. By the deficiencies of his minister, or by his vices, he is equally offended with the rest of the congregation; but he will have this reason more to lament them, that they will be imputed to his absurdity or corruption. The qualifications of a minister are well known to be learning and piety. Of his learning the patron is probably the only judge in the parish; and of his piety not less a judge than others; and is more likely to inquire minutely and diligently before he gives a presentation, than one of the parochial rabble, who can give nothing but a vote. It may be urged, that though the parish might not choose better ministers, they would, at least, choose ministers whom they like better, and who would, therefore, officiate with greater efficacy. That ignorance and perverseness should always obtain what they like, was never considered as the end of government; of which it is the great and standing benefit, that the wise see for the simple, and the regular act for the capricious. But that this argument supposes the people capable of judging, and resolute to act according to their best judgments, though this be sufficiently absurd, it is not all its absurdity. It supposes not only wisdom, but unanimity in those, who upon no other occasions are unanimous or wise. If by some strange concurrence all the voices of a parish should unite in the choice of any single man, though I could not charge the patron with injustice for presenting a minister, I should censure him as unkind and injudicious. But it is evident, that, as in all other popular elections, there will be contrariety of judgment and acrimony of passion; a parish upon every vacancy would break into factions, and the contest for the choice of a minister would set neighbours at variance, and bring discord into families. The minister would be taught all the arts of a candidate, would flatter some, and bribe others; and the electors, as in all other cases, would call for holy-days and ale, and break the heads of each other during the jollity of the canvass. The time must, however, come at last, when one of the factions must prevail, and one of the ministers get possession of the church. On what terms does he enter upon his ministry, but those of enmity with half his parish? By what prudence or what diligence can he hope to conciliate the affections of that party, by whose defeat he has obtained his living? Every man who voted against him will enter the church with hanging head and downcast eyes, afraid to encounter that neighbour by whose vote and influence he has been overpowered. He will hate his neighbour for opposing him, and his minister for having prospered by the opposition; and, as he will never see him but with pain, he will never see him but with hatred. Of a minister presented by the patron, the parish has seldom any thing worse to say, than that they do not know him. Of a minister chosen by a popular contest, all those who do not favour him, have nursed up in their bosoms principles of hatred and reasons of rejection. Anger is excited principally by pride. The pride of a common man is very little exasperated by the supposed usurpation of an acknowledged superiour. He bears only his little share of a general evil, and suffers in common with the whole parish; but when the contest is between equals, the defeat has many aggravations, and he that is defeated by his next neighbour, is seldom satisfied without some revenge: and it is hard to say, what bitterness of malignity would prevail in a parish, where these elections should happen to be frequent, and the enmity of opposition should be rekindled before it had cooled. ON PULPIT CENSURE. [This case shall be introduced by Mr. Boswell himself. "In the course of a contested election for the borough of Dumfermline, which I attended as one of my friend Sir Archibald Campbell's counsel, one of his political agents, who was charged with having been unfaithful to his employer, and having deserted to the opposite party for a pecuniary reward, attacked, very rudely, in the newspapers, the reverend James Thompson, one of the ministers of that place, on account of a supposed allusion to him in one of his sermons. Upon this, the minister, on a subsequent Sunday, arraigned him by name, from the pulpit, with some severity; and the agent, after the sermon was over, rose up and asked the minister aloud, 'What bribe he had received for telling so many lies from the chair of verity.' I was present at this very extraordinary scene. The person arraigned, and his father and brother, who also had a share both of the reproof from the pulpit, and in the retaliation, brought an action against Mr. Thompson, in the court of session, for defamation and damages, and I was one of the counsel for the reverend defendant. The liberty of the pulpit was our great ground of defence; but we argued also on the provocation of the previous attack, and on the instant retaliation. The court of session, however, the fifteen judges, who are at the same time the jury, decided against the minister, contrary to my humble opinion; and several of them expressed themselves with indignation against him. He was an aged gentleman, formerly a military chaplain, and a man of high spirit and honour. He wished to bring the cause by appeal before the house of lords, but was dissuaded by the advice of the noble person, who lately presided so ably in that most honourable house, and who was then attorney-general. Johnson was satisfied that the judgment was wrong, and dictated to me the following argument in confutation of it." As our readers will, no doubt, be pleased to read the opinion of so eminent a man as lord Thurlow, in immediate comparison with one on the same subject by Johnson, we refer them to Boswell's Life, vol. iii. p. 59. edit. 1802; from whence the above extract is taken.] Of the censure pronounced from the pulpit, our determination must be formed, as in other cases, by a consideration of the act itself, and the particular circumstances with which it is invested. The right of censure and rebuke seems necessarily appendant to the pastoral office. He, to whom the care of a congregation is entrusted, is considered as the shepherd of a flock, as the teacher of a school, as the father of a family. As a shepherd, tending not his own sheep but those of his master, he is answerable for those that stray, and that lose themselves by straying. But no man can be answerable for losses which he has not power to prevent, or for vagrancy which he has not authority to restrain. As a teacher giving instruction for wages, and liable to reproach, if those whom he undertakes to inform make no proficiency, he must have the power of enforcing attendance, of awakening negligence, and repressing contradiction. As a father, he possesses the paternal authority of admonition, rebuke and punishment. He cannot, without reducing his office to an empty name, be hindered from the exercise of any practice necessary to stimulate the idle, to reform the vicious, to check the petulant, and correct the stubborn. If we inquire into the practice of the primitive church, we shall, I believe, find the ministers of the word exercising the whole authority of this complicated character. We shall find them not only encouraging the good by exhortation, but terrifying the wicked by reproof and denunciation. In the earliest ages of the church, while religion was yet pure from secular advantages, the punishment of sinners was publick censure, and open penance; penalties inflicted merely by ecclesiastical authority, at a time when the church had yet no help from the civil power; while the hand of the magistrate lifted only the rod of persecution; and when governours were ready to afford a refuge to all those who fled from clerical authority. That the church, therefore, had once a power of publick censure is evident, because that power was frequently exercised. That it borrowed not its power from the civil authority is, likewise, certain, because civil authority was at that time its enemy. The hour came, at length, when, after three hundred years of struggle and distress, truth took possession of imperial power, and the civil laws lent their aid to the ecclesiastical constitutions. The magistrate, from that time, cooperated with the priest, and clerical sentences were made efficacious by secular force. But the state, when it came to the assistance of the church, had no intention to diminish its authority. Those rebukes and those censures, which were lawful before, were lawful still. But they had hitherto operated only upon voluntary submission. The refractory and contemptuous were at first in no danger of temporal severities, except what they might suffer from the reproaches of conscience, or the detestation of their fellow christians. When religion obtained the support of law, if admonitions and censures had no effect, they were seconded by the magistrates with coercion and punishment. It, therefore, appears, from ecclesiastical history, that the right of inflicting shame by publick censure has been always considered as inherent in the church; and that this right was not conferred by the civil power; for it was exercised when the civil power operated against it. By the civil power it was never taken away; for the Christian magistrate interposed his office, not to rescue sinners from censure, but to supply more powerful means of reformation; to add pain where shame was insufficient; and when men were proclaimed unworthy of the society of the faithful, to restrain them by imprisonment, from spreading abroad the contagion of wickedness. It is not improbable, that from this acknowledged power of publick censure, grew, in time, the practice of auricular confession. Those who dreaded the blast of publick reprehension, were willing to submit themselves to the priest, by a private accusation of themselves; and to obtain a reconciliation with the church by a kind of clandestine absolution and invisible penance; conditions with which the priest would, in times of ignorance and corruption, easily comply, as they increased his influence, by adding the knowledge of secret sins to that of notorious offences, and enlarged his authority, by making him the sole arbiter of the terms of reconcilement. From this bondage the Reformation set us free. The minister has no longer power to press into the retirements of conscience, or torture us by interrogatories, or put himself in possession of our secrets and our lives. But though we have thus controlled his usurpations, his just and original power remains unimpaired. He may still see, though he may not pry; he may yet hear, though he may not question. And that knowledge which his eyes and ears force upon him, it is still his duty to use, for the benefit of his flock. A father, who lives near a wicked neighbour, may forbid a son to frequent his company. A minister, who has in his congregation a man of open and scandalous wickedness, may warn his parishioners to shun his conversation. To warn them is not only lawful, but not to warn them would be criminal. He may warn them, one by one, in friendly converse, or by a parochial visitation. But if he may warn each man singly, what shall forbid him to warn them altogether? Of that which is to be made known to all, how is there any difference, whether it be communicated to each singly, or to all together? What is known to all, must necessarily be publick, whether it shall be publick at once, or publick by degrees, is the only question. And of a sudden and Solemn publication the impression is deeper, and the warning more effectual. It may easily be urged, if a minister be thus left at liberty to delate sinners from the pulpit, and to publish, at will, the crimes of a parishioner, he may often blast the innocent and distress the timorous. He may be suspicious, and condemn without evidence; he may be rash, and judge without examination; he may be severe, and treat slight offences with too much harshness; he may be malignant and partial, and gratify his private interest or resentment under the shelter of his pastoral character. Of all this there is possibility, and of all this there is danger. But if possibility of evil be to exclude good, no good ever can be done. If nothing is to be attempted in which there is danger, we must all sink into hopeless inactivity. The evils that may be feared from this practice arise not from any defect in the institution, but from the infirmities of human nature. Power, in whatever hands it is placed, will be sometimes improperly exerted; yet courts of law must judge, though they will sometimes judge amiss. A father must instruct his children, though he himself may often want instruction. A minister must censure sinners, though his censure may be sometimes erroneous by want of judgment, and sometimes unjust by want of honesty. If we examine the circumstances of the present case, we shall find the sentence neither erroneous nor unjust; we shall find no breach of private confidence, no intrusion into secret transactions. The fact was notorious and indubitable; so easy to be proved, that no proof was desired. The act was base and treacherous, the perpetration insolent and open, and the example naturally mischievous. The minister, however, being retired and recluse, had not yet heard what was publickly known throughout the parish; and, on occasion of a publick election, warned his people, according to his duty, against the crimes which publick elections frequently produce. His warning was felt by one of his parishioners, as pointed particularly at himself. But instead of producing, as might be wished, private compunction and immediate reformation, it kindled only rage and resentment. He charged his minister, in a publick paper, with scandal, defamation, and falsehood. The minister, thus reproached, had his own character to vindicate, upon which his pastoral authority must necessarily depend. To be charged with a defamatory lie is an injury which no man patiently endures in common life. To be charged with polluting the pastoral office with scandal and falsehood, was a violation of character still more atrocious, as it affected not only his personal but his clerical veracity. His indignation naturally rose in proportion to his honesty, and, with all the fortitude of injured honesty, he dared this calumniator in the church, and at once exonerated himself from censure, and rescued his flock from deception and from danger. The man, whom he accuses, pretends not to be innocent; or, at least, only pretends, for he declines a trial. The crime of which he is accused has frequent opportunities, and strong temptations. It has already spread far, with much depravation of private morals, and much injury to publick happiness. To warn the people, therefore, against it, was not wanton and officious, but necessary and pastoral. What then is the fault with which this worthy minister is charged? He has usurped no dominion over conscience. He has exerted no authority in support of doubtful and controverted opinions. He has not dragged into light a bashful and corrigible sinner. His censure was directed against a breach of morality, against an act which no man justifies. The man who appropriated this censure to himself, is evidently and notoriously guilty. His consciousness of his own wickedness incited him to attack his faithful reprover with open insolence and printed accusations. Such an attack made defence necessary; and we hope it will be, at last, decided, that the means of defence were just and lawful[1]. [1] This nervous argument was honoured by the particular approbation of Mr. Burke.--Boswell, iii. 62. END OF VOL. V. 
10351	----	Proofreading Team. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D, VOLUME THE TENTH. MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS Debate on the bill for prohibiting the exportation of corn. Debate on a seditious paper. Debate on incorporating the new-raised men into the standing regiments. Debate on taking the state of the army into consideration. Debate respecting officers on half-pay. Debate on an address for papers relating to admiral Haddock. Debate regarding the departure of the French and Spanish squadrons. Debate on addressing his majesty for the removal of sir R. Walpole. Debate on cleansing the city of Westminster. Debate on the bill to prevent inconveniencies arising from the insurance of ships. Debate on the bill for the encouragement and increase of seamen. Debate on the bill for the punishment of mutiny and desertion. Debate on addressing the king. Debate on supporting the queen of Hungary. Debate on choosing a speaker. Debate on the address. PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS TO THE PARLIAMENTARY DEBATES. The government of this country has long and justly been considered the best among the nations of Europe; and the English people have ever evinced a proportionate desire for information in its proceedings. But in the earlier days of our constitution, we shall find that much jealousy on the part of our rulers debarred the people from access to the national deliberations. Queen Elizabeth, with a sagacity that derived no assurance from the precedents of former times, foresaw the mighty power of the press, as an engine applied to state purposes, and accordingly aroused the spirit of her subjects, by causing the first gazettes to be published in the year of the armada [Footnote: See sir J. Mackintosh's Defence in the Peltier case.]: and D'Ewes's journals of her parliaments contain the earliest reports of parliamentary debates. The first volume of the commons' journals comprises the debates from the accession of James the first, to the cessation of parliaments under Charles the first. The publication, in 1766, of a member's notes, furnished authentic debates of the session in 1621. Rushworth, in his voluminous collections, presents us with many of the debates during the civil wars. Gray's more regular debates succeeded. From these, until the times that followed the glorious revolution in 1688, we have no reports of parliamentary proceedings, interesting as they must have been, on which we can place any more reliance, than on those of Dr. Johnson, which, we shall presently see, cannot pretend to the character of faithful reports, however deservedly eminent they are as eloquent and energetic compositions. But the revolution was not immediately followed by a liberal diffusion of parliamentary intelligence, for the newspapers of William's reign only give occasionally a detached speech. That sovereign scarcely allowed liberty of speech to the members of parliament themselves, and was fully as tyrannical in disposition as his predecessor on the throne; but, happily for the English nation, he was tied and bound by the strong fetters of law. The stormy period that ensued on William's death, is somewhat illustrated by Boyer's POLITICAL STATE. The HISTORICAL REGISTERS which appeared on the accession of George the first, may be considered as more faithful depositories of political information than Boyer's partial publication. The spirited opposition to sir Robert Walpole excited an unprecedented anxiety in the nation to learn the internal proceedings of parliament. This wish on the part of constituents to know and scrutinize the conduct of their representatives, which to us appears so reasonable a claim, was regarded in a different light by our ancestors. But the frown of authority in the reign of George the second began to have less power to alarm a people whose minds were undergoing progressive illumination. A general desire was then loudly expressed for parliamentary information, which Cave sought to gratify by the insertion of the debates in the GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. The jealousy of the houses, however, subjected that indefatigable man to the practices of stratagem for the accomplishment of his design. He held the office of inspector of franks in the postoffice, which brought him into contact with the officers of both houses of parliament, and afforded him frequent and ready access to many of the members. Cave, availing himself of this advantage, frequented the houses when any debate of public interest was expected, and, along with a friend, posted himself in the gallery of the house of commons, and in some retired station in that of the lords, where, unobserved, they took notes of the several speeches. These notes were afterwards arranged and expanded by Guthrie, the historian, then in the employment of Cave, and presented to the public, monthly, in the Gentleman's Magazine. They first appeared in July, 1736 [Footnote: Gent. Mag. vol. vi.], and were perused with the greatest eagerness. But it was soon intimated to Cave, that the speaker was offended with this freedom, which he regarded in the light of a breach of privilege, and would subject Cave, unless he desisted, to parliamentary censure, or perhaps punishment. To escape this, and likewise to avoid an abridgment of his magazine, Cave had recourse to the following artifice. He opened his magazine for June, 1738, with an article entitled, "Debates in the senate of Magna Lilliputia;" in which he artfully deplores the prohibition that forbids him to present his readers with the consultations of their own representatives, and expresses a hope that they will accept, as a substitute, those of that country which Gulliver had so lately rendered illustrious, and which untimely death had prevented that enterprising traveller from publishing himself. Under this fiction he continued to publish the debates of the British parliament, hiding the names of persons and places by the transposition of letters, in the way of anagram. These he contrived to explain to his readers, by annexing to his volume for 1738, feigned proposals for printing a work, to be called Anagrammata Rediviva. This list, and others from different years, we give in the present edition, though we have rejected the barbarous jargon from the speeches themselves. A contemporary publication, the LONDON MAGAZINE, feigned to give the debates of the Roman senate, and adapted Roman titles to the several speakers. This expedient, as well as Cave's contrivance, sufficed to protect its ingenious authors from parliamentary resentment; as the resolution of the commons was never enforced. The debates contained in the following volumes, commence with the 19th November, 1740, and terminate with the 23d February, 1742-3. The animated attempts that were made to remove sir Robert Walpole from administration, seemed, in Cave's opinion, to call for an abler reporter than Guthrie. Johnson was selected for the task; and his execution of it may well justify the admiration which we have so often avowed for those wonderful powers of mind, which, apparently, bade defiance to all impediments of external fortune. He was only thirty-two years of age, little acquainted with the world; had never, perhaps, been in either house, and certainly had never conversed with the men whose style and sentiments he took upon himself to imitate. But so well and skilfully did he assume, not merely the sedate and stately dignity of the lords, and the undaunted freedom of the commons, but also the tone of the respective parties, that the public imagined they recognised the individual manner of the different speakers. Voltaire, and other foreigners of distinction, compared British with Greek and Roman eloquence; and ludicrous instances are detailed by Johnson's biographers, of praises awarded to Pulteney or to Pitt, in the presence of the unsuspected author of the orations which had excited such regard [Footnote: See Boswell, and sir John Hawkins.]! For Johnson confessed, that he composed many of the speeches entirely from his own imagination, and all of them from very scanty materials. This confession he undoubtedly made from his love of truth, and not for the gratification of vanity. When he heard that Smollett was preparing his History of England, he warned him against relying on the debates as authentic; and, on his death-bed, he professed that the recollection of having been engaged in an imposture was painful to him. That this was a refined scrupulosity the most rigid moralist must allow; but, nevertheless, it is matter for congratulation, that the liberality of parliament no longer subjects its reporters to the subterfuges which we have thus briefly attempted to describe. And a comparison of this age and its privileges with the restrictions of former times, may not be without its use, if, by reminding us that we were not always free, it teaches us political contentment, suggests to us the policy of moderation, and enables us to love liberty, and yet be wise. OXFORD, NOVEMBER, 1825. _The List of fictitious Terms used by Cave to disguise the real Names that occur in his Debates._ Abingdon, Ld. ... Adonbing or Plefdrahn Ambrose, Captain ... Ambreso Archer ... Arech Argyle, Duke of ... Agryl Arthur ... Aruth Anne ... Nuna Aston ... Anots Aylesford, Lord ... Alysfrop Baltimore, Lord ... Blatirome Barnard, Sir John ... Branard Barrington ... Birrongtan Bath, Earl of ... Baht Bathurst, Lord ... Brustath Bedford, Duke of ... Befdort Berkeley, Lord ... Berelky Bishop ... Flamen Bladen, Mr. ... Bledna Bootle, Mr. ... Butul Bowles, Mr. ... Bewlos Bristol, Lord ... Broslit Bromley, Mr. ... Bormlye Brown, Mr. ... Brewon or Buron Burleigh ... Bruleigh Burrell, Mr. ... Berrull Campbell ... Campobell Carew, Mr. ... Cawar Carlisle, Earl of ... Carsilel Carteret, Lord ... Quadrert Castres, Mons ... Cahstrehs Cavendish ... Candevish Charles ... Chorlo Chesterfield, Earl of ... Castroflet Cholmondeley, Earl of ... Sholmlug Churchill ... Chillchurch Clutterbuck, Mr. ... Cluckerbutt Cocks ... Cosck Coke, Mr. ... Quoke Cooke ... Coeko Cooper, Mr. ... Quepur Corbet, Mr. ... Croteb Cornwall, Mr. ... Carnwoll Cromwell ... Clewmro Danes ... Danians Danvers ... Dranevs Delawarr, Lord ... Devarlar Devonshire, Duke of ... Dovenshire Digby ... Dibgy Drake, Mr. ... Dekra Earle, Mr. ... Eral Edmund ... Emdond Edward ... Eddraw Elizabeth ... Ezila Erskine, Mr. ... Eserkin Eugene, Prince ... Eunege Falconberg, Lord ... Flacnobrug Falkland ... Flakland Fanshaw, Mr. ... Fashnaw Fazakerly ... Fakazerly Fenwick, Mr. ... Finweck Ferrol ... Ferlor Fox, Mr. ... Feaux Francis ... Farncis or Friscan Gage, Lord ... Gega George ... Gorgenti Gibbon, Mr. ... Gibnob Gloucester, Duke of ... Glustre Godolphin, Lord ... Golphindo Gore ... Gero Gower, Lord ... Gewor Grenville, Mr. ... Grevillen Gybbon, Mr. ... Gybnob Halifax, Lord ... Haxilaf Haddock, Admiral ... Hockadd Handasyd, Mr. ... Hasandyd Harding, Mr. ... Hadringe Hardwick, Lord ... Hickrad Harrington ... Hargrinton Hay, Mr. ... Heagh Heathcote ... Whethtoc Henry ... Hynrec Herbert ... Hertreb Hervey, Lord ... Heryef Hessian ... Hyessean Hind Cotton ... Whind Cotnot Hindford ... Honfryd Hinton ... Hwenton Hobart ... Hobrat Holdernesse, Lord ... Hodrelness Hooper ... Horeop Hosier, Admiral ... Hozeri Howe ... Hewo Islay, Lord ... Yasli Isham ... Ishma Ilchester ... Itchletser James ... Jacomo Jekyl ... Jelyco Jenkins ... Jenkino John ... Juan Joseph ... Josippo Keene, Mr. ... Knee Ledbury, Mr. ... Lebdury Lindsay ... Lisnayd Litchneld ... Liftchield Lockwood ... Lodowock Lombe ... Lebom Lonsdale, Lord ... Lodsneal Lovel ... Levol Lymerick, Lord ... Lyromick Lyttleton ... Lettyltno Marlborough, Duke of ... Maurolburgh Malton, Lord ... Matlon Manley ... Manly Mary ... Marya Montrose, Duke of ... Morontosse Mordaunt ... Madrount Morton ... Motron Newcastle, Duke of ... Nardac secretary Noel ... Neol Norris, Admiral ... Nisror Nugent ... Netgun Ogle, Admiral ... Oleg Onslow ... Olswon Orange ... Organe Ord, Mr. ... Whord Orford, Earl of ... Orfrod Orleans ... Olreans Ormond, Duke of ... Omrond Oxford, Earl of ... Odfrox Oxenden ... Odnexen Paxton ... Pantox Pelham, Mr. ... Plemahm Perry ... Peerur Peterborough ... Petraborauch Pitt, Mr. ... Ptit Plumer, Mr. ... Plurom Polwarth ... Polgarth Portland, Duke of ... Poldrand Powlett ... Powltet or Pletow Pretender ... Rednetrep Puffendorf ... Pudenfforf Pulteney ... Pulnub Quarendon ... Quenardon Rainsford ... Rainsfrod Ramelies ... Ramles Raymond ... Ramonyd Robert ... Retrob Rochester ... Roffen Saint Aubyn ... St. Aybun Salisbury ... Sumra Samuel ... Salvem Sandwich, Earl of ... Swandich Sandys, Mr. ... Snadsy Scarborough, Lord ... Sarkbrugh Scroop, Mr. ... Screop Sidney, Lord ... Sedyin Selwin, Mr. ... Slenwy Shaftsbury, Lord ... Shyftasbrug Shippen, Mr. ... Skeiphen Sloper ... Slerop Somers ... Sosrem Somerset ... Sosermet Southwell ... Suthewoll Strafford ... Stordraff Stair ... Stari Stanislaus ... Stasinlaus Sundon ... Snodun Talbot ... Toblat Thomas ... Tsahom Thomson, Mr. ... Thosmon Tracey ... Tryace Trenchard ... Trachnerd Trevor, Mr. ... Tervor Turner ... Truron Tweedale, Marquis of ... Tewelade Tyrconnel, Lord ... Trinocleng Vernon, Admiral ... Venron Vyner, Mr. ... Vynre or Venry Wade ... Weda Wager, Admiral ... Werga Wakefield ... Wafekeild Waller, Mr. ... Welral Walpole, Sir Robert ... Walelop Walpole, Mr. ... Walelop Walter, Mr. ... Gusbret Watkins, Mr. ... Waknits Wendover ... Wednevro Westmoreland ... Westromland William ... Wimgul Willimot, Mr. ... Guillitom Winchelsea, Lord ... Wichensale Winnington, Mr. ... Wintinnong Wortley, Mr. ... Wolresyt or Werotyl Wyndham ... Gumdahm Wynn ... Ooyn Yonge ... Yegon _The List of fictitious Characters used by Cave to disguise the Places that occur in his Debates._ Almanza ... Almanaz America ... Columbia Amsterdam ... Amstredam Aschaffenburg ... Aschafnefburg Austria ... Aurista Barbadoes ... Bardosba Barcelona ... Bracolena Brittany ... Brateney Bavaria ... Baravia Blenheim ... Blehneim or Blenhem Bourbon ... Buorbon Brandenburg ... Brangburden Bristol ... Broslit Britain ... Lilliput Cadiz ... Cazid Cambridge ... Guntar Campechy ... Capemchy Carolina ... Carolana Carthagena ... Carthanega Cologne ... Colgone Commons ... Clinabs Connecticut ... Contecticnu Cressy ... Cerlsy Cuba ... Cabu Denmark ... Dancram Dettingen ... Detteneg Dunkirk ... Donkirk Dutch ... Belgians Edinburgh ... Edina Europe ... Degulia Flanders ... Flandria France ... Blefuscu Georgia ... Gorgentia Germany ... Allemanu Gibraltar ... Grablitra Guastalla ... Gua Stalla Guernsey ... Guensrey Hanover ... Hanevro Haversham ... Havremarsh Hesse Cassel ... Hyesse Clessa Hispaniola ... Iberionola Holland ... Belgia Hungary ... Hungruland India ... Idnia Ireland ... Ierne Italy ... Itlascu Jamaica ... Zamengol Jucatan ... Jutacan Leghorn ... Lehgron London ... Mildendo Madrid ... Mardit Malplaquet ... Malpalquet Mardyke ... Mardryke Martinico ... Marnitico Mediterranean ... Middle Sea Minorca ... Minocra Munster ... Munstru Muscovy ... Mausqueeta New York ... Noveborac Orkney ... Orkyen Orleans ... Olreans Ostend ... Odsten Parma ... Par Ma Pennsylvania ... Pennvasilia Poland ... Poldrand Portugal ... Lusitania Port Mahon ... Port Mohan Prussia ... Parushy Prague ... Praga Sardinia ... Sadrinia Schellembourg ... Schemelbourg Seville ... Sebfule Sicily ... Cilisy South Sea ... Pacific Ocean Spain ... Iberia Straits ... Narrow Seas Sweden ... Swecte Turkey ... Korambec Utrecht ... Ultralt Vienna ... Vinena Virginia ... Vegrinia Westminster ... Belfaborac Wolfenbuttle ... Wobentuffle _The List of fictitious Characters used by Cave to disguise the Names of Things that occur in his Debates._ Admiral ... Galbet Baronet ... Hurgolen Commons ... Clinabs Duke ... Nardac Earl ... Cosern Esquire ... Urg Gentleman ... Urgolen High Heels or Tory ... Tramecsan Knight ... Hurgolet Legal ... Snilpal Lord ... Hurgo Penny ... a Grull Popery ... Missalsm Prophet ... Lustrug Sprug ... a Pound Squire ... Urg Viscount ... Comvic Years ... Moons REFERENCES TO THE SPEAKERS Abingdon, Lord, Archer, Mr. Hy. Argyle, Duke of, Attorney General, Bathurst, Mr. Baltimore, Lord, Barnard, Sir John, Barrington, Mr. Bedford, Duke of, Bladen, Mr. Bowles, Mr. Brown, Mr. Burrel, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Carew, Mr. Carlisle, Lord, Carteret, Lord, Cholmondeley, Lord, Clutterbuck, Mr. Cocks, Mr. Cornwall, Capt. Cornwall, Mr. Cotton, Sir Hind, Devonshire, Duke of, Digby, Mr. Earle, Mr. Fazakerly, Mr. Fox, Mr. Gage, Lord, Gore, Mr. Gore, Mr. Gower, Lord, Gybbon, Mr. Halifax, Lord, Hardwick, Lord, Harrington, Lord, Hay, Mr. Hervey, Lord, Howe, Mr. Littleton, Mr. Lockwood, Mr. Lord Chancellor, Lovel, Lord, Marlborough, Duke of, Mordaunt, Col. Newcastle, Duke of, Norris, Admiral, Onslow, Mr. Ord, Mr. Pelham, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Pulteney, Mr. Quarendon, Lord, Salisbury, Bishop of, Sandys, Mr. Shippen, Mr. Sloper, Mr. Southwell, Mr. Talbot, Lord, Thompson, Lord, Tracey, Mr. Tyrconnel, Vyner, Mr. Wade, General, Wager, Sir Charles, Waller, Mr. Walpole, Sir Robert, Walpole, Mr. Westmoreland, Lord, Willimot, Mr. Winnington, Mr. Yonge, Sir Wm. DEBATES IN PARLIAMENT. HOUSE OF COMMONS, NOVEMBER 19, 1740. PROCEEDINGS AND DEBATE, WITH REGARD TO THE BILL FOR PROHIBITING THE EXPORTATION OF CORN, ETC. On the first day of the session, his majesty, in his speech from the throne, recommended to parliament to consider of some good law to prevent the growing mischief of the exportation of corn to foreign countries. On the fourth day, a bill for preventing, for a limited time, the exportation, etc, was read a first time in the house of commons, and the question put, whether it should be printed, which passed in the negative. This day the agent for the colonies of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, presented a petition against the said corn bill, which was referred to the committee. Another petition was also presented by the agent for the colony of Connecticut, in New England, setting forth that the chief trade of that colony arose from supplying other British colonies with corn, so that unless that colony be excepted from the restraints intended by this bill, both that and those which are supplied by it will be reduced to great distress, and praying, therefore, that such exception may be allowed. The allegations in this petition were confirmed by another, from one of the provinces supplied by the colony of Connecticut. Another petition was presented by the agent for South Carolina, setting forth, that unless the rice produced in that province were allowed to be exported, the colony must be ruined by the irretrievable loss of their whole trade, as the countries now supplied from thence might easily procure rice from the French settlements, already too much their rivals in trade. This petition was supported by another, offered at the same time by the merchants of Bristol. A petition was likewise presented by the agent for the sugar islands, in which it was alleged, that if no provisions be imported thither from Britain, they must, in one month, suffer the extremities of famine. All these petitions were referred to the committee for the bill. A printed paper was also delivered to the members, entitled, 'considerations on the embargo,' which enumerated many dangerous consequences likely to be produced by an embargo on provisions, and suggested that it was no better than a wicked scheme for private profit, with other reflections, for which the paper was deemed a libel, and the author committed to prison. The bill being read in the committee, produced the following memorable debate. Mr. PULTNEY spoke to this effect:--Sir, after all the attention which has been bestowed upon the bill now before us, I cannot yet conceive it such as can benefit the nation, or such as will not produce far greater inconveniencies than those which it is intended to obviate, and therefore, as those inconveniencies may be prevented by other means, I cannot but declare that I am far from approving it. Our ancestors, sir, have always thought it the great business of this house to watch against the encroachments of the prerogative, and to prevent an increase of the power of the minister; and the commons have always been considered as more faithful to their trust, and more properly the representatives of the people, in proportion as they have considered this great end with more attention, and prosecuted it with more invariable resolution. If we inquire into the different degrees of reputation, which the several assemblies of commons have obtained, and consider why some are remembered with reverence and gratitude, and others never mentioned but with detestation and contempt, we shall always find that their conduct, with regard to this single point, has produced their renown or their infamy. Those are always, by the general suffrage of mankind, applauded as the patterns of their country, who have struggled with the influence of the crown, and those condemned as traitors, who have either promoted it by unreasonable grants, or seen it increase by slow degrees, without resistance. It has not, indeed, sir, been always the practice of ministers to make open demands of larger powers, and avow, without disguise, their designs of extending their authority; such proposals would, in former times, have produced no consequences but that of awakening the vigilance of the senate, of raising suspicions against all their proceedings, and of embarrassing the crown with petitions, addresses, and impeachments. They were under a necessity, in those times, of promoting their schemes; those schemes which scarcely any ministry has forborne to adopt, by more secret and artful and silent methods, by methods of diverting the attention of the publick to other objects, and of making invisible approaches to the point in view, while they seemed to direct all their endeavours to different purposes. But such, sir, have been the proofs of implicit confidence, which the administration has received from this assembly, that it is now common to demand unlimited powers, and to expect confidence without restriction, to require an immediate possession of our estates by a vote of credit, or the sole direction of our trade by an act for prohibiting, during their pleasure, the exportation of the produce of our lands. Upon what instances of uncommon merit, of regard to the publick prosperity, unknown in former times, or of discernment superior to that of their most celebrated predecessors, the present ministers found their new claims to submission and to trust, I am, indeed, at a loss to discover; for, however mankind may have determined concerning the integrity of those by whom the late memorable convention was transacted, defended, and confirmed, I know not that their wisdom has yet appeared by any incontestable or manifest evidence, which may set their abilities above question, and fix their reputation for policy out of the reach of censure and inquiries. The only act, sir, by which it can be discovered that they have any degree of penetration proportionate to their employments, is the embargo lately laid upon provisions in Ireland, by which our enemies have been timely hindered from furnishing themselves, from our dominions, with necessaries for their armies and their navies, and our fellow-subjects have been restrained from exposing themselves to the miseries of famine, by yielding to the temptation of present profit; a temptation generally so powerful as to prevail over any distant interest. But as nothing is more contrary to my natural disposition, or more unworthy of a member of this house, than flattery, I cannot affirm that I ascribe this useful expedient wholly to the sagacity or the caution of the ministry, nor can I attribute all the happy effects produced by it to their benign solicitude for the publick welfare. I am inclined to believe that this step was advised by those who were prompted to consider its importance by motives more prevalent than that of publick spirit, and that the desire of profit which has so often dictated pernicious measures, has, for once, produced, in return, an expedient just and beneficial; and it has, for once, luckily fallen out, that some of the friends of the administration have discovered that the publick interest was combined with their own. It is highly probable, sir, that the contractors for supplying the navy with provisions, considering, with that acuteness which a quick sense of loss and gain always produces, how much the price of victuals would be raised by exportation, and, by consequence, how much of the advantage of their contracts would be diminished, suggested to the ministry the necessity of an embargo, and laid before them those arguments which their own observation and wisdom would never have discovered. Thus, sir, the ministers, in that instance of their conduct, on which their political reputation must be founded, can claim, perhaps, no higher merit, than that of attending to superiour knowledge, of complying with good advice when it was offered, and of not resisting demonstration when it was laid before them. But as I would never ascribe to one man the merit of another, I should be equally unwilling to detract from due commendations, and shall therefore freely admit, that not to reject good counsel, is a degree of wisdom, at which I could not expect that they by whom the convention was concluded would ever have arrived. But whatever proficiency they may have made in the art of government since that celebrated period, however they may have increased their maxims of domestick policy, or improved their knowledge of foreign affairs, I cannot but confess myself still inclined to some degree of suspicion, nor can prevail upon myself to shut my eyes, and deliver up the publick and myself implicitly to their direction. Their sagacity, sir, may, perhaps, of late, have received some improvements from longer experience, and with regard to their integrity, I believe, at least, that it is not much diminished; and yet I cannot forbear asserting the right of judging for myself, and of determining according to the evidence that shall be brought before me. I have, hitherto, entertained an opinion that for this purpose only we are deputed by our constituents, who, if they had reposed no confidence in our care or abilities, would have given up, long since, the vexatious right of contesting for the choice of representatives. They would have furnished the ministry with general powers to act for them, and sat at ease with no other regard to publick measures, than might incite them to animate, with their applauses, the laudable endeavours of their profound, their diligent, and their magnanimous governours. As I do not, therefore, check any suspicions in my own mind, I shall not easily be restrained from uttering them, because I know not how I shall benefit my country, or assist her counsels by silent meditations. I cannot, sir, but observe that the powers conferred by this bill upon the administration are larger than the nation can safely repose in any body of men, and with which no man who considers to what purposes they may be employed will think it convenient to invest the negotiators of the convention. Nor do my objections to this act, arise wholly from my apprehensions of their conduct, who are intrusted with the execution of it, but from my reflections on the nature of trade, and the conduct of those nations who are most celebrated for commercial wisdom. It is well known, sir, how difficult it is to turn trade back into its ancient channel, when it has by any means been diverted from it, and how often a profitable traffick has been lost for ever, by a short interruption, or temporary prohibition. The resentment of disappointed expectations inclines the buyer to seek another market, and the civility to which his new correspondents are incited by their own interest, detains him, till those by whom he was formerly supplied, having no longer any vent for their products or their wares, employ their labours on other manufactures, or cultivate their lands for other purposes. Thus, sir, if those nations who have hitherto been supplied with corn from Britain, should find a method of purchasing it from Denmark, or any other of the northern regions, we may hereafter see our grain rotting in our storehouses, and be burdened with provisions which we can neither consume ourselves, nor sell to our neighbours. The Hollanders, whose knowledge of the importance or skill in the arts of commerce will not be questioned, are so careful to preserve the inlets of gain from obstruction, that they make no scruple of supplying their enemies with their commodities, and have been known to sell at night those bullets which were next day to be discharged against them. Whether their example, sir, deserves our imitation I am not able to determine, but it ought at least to be considered, whether their conduct was rational or not, and whether they did not, by a present evil, ensure an advantage which overbalanced it. There are, doubtless, sir, sometimes such exigencies as require to be complied with at the hazard of future profit, but I am not certain that the scarcity which is feared or felt at present, is to be numbered amongst them; but, however formidable it may be thought, there is surely no need of a new law to provide against it: for it is one of those extraordinary incidents, on which the king has the right of exerting extraordinary powers. On occasions like this the prerogative has heretofore operated very effectually, and I know not that the law has ever restrained it. It is, therefore, sir, in my opinion, most prudent to determine nothing in so dubious a question, and rather to act as the immediate occasion shall require, than prosecute any certain method of proceeding, or establish any precedent by an act of the senate. To restrain that commerce by which the necessaries of life are distributed is a very bold experiment, and such as once produced an insurrection in the empire of the Turks, that terminated in the deposition of one of their monarchs. I therefore willingly confess, sir, that I know not how to conclude: I am unwilling to deprive the nation of bread, or to supply our enemies with strength to be exerted against ourselves; but I am, on the other hand, afraid to restrain commerce, and to trust the authors of the convention. Mr. PELHAM spoke next, to the following purport:--Sir, I am always in expectation of improvement and instruction when that gentleman engages in any discussion of national questions, on which he is equally qualified to judge by his great abilities and long experience, by that popularity which enables him to sound the sentiments of men of different interests, and that intelligence which extends his views to distant parts of the world; but, on this occasion, I have found my expectations frustrated, for he has inquired without making any discovery, and harangued without illustrating the question before us. He has satisfied himself, sir, with declaring his suspicions, without condescending to tell us what designs or what dangers he apprehends. To fear, without being able to show the object of our terrours, is the last, the most despicable degree of cowardice; and to suspect, without knowing the foundation of our own suspicions, is surely a proof of a state of mind, which would not be applauded on common occasions, and such as no man but a patriot would venture to confess. He has, indeed, sir, uttered some very ingenious conceits upon the late convention, has alluded to it with great luxuriancy of fancy, and elegance of diction, and must, at least, confess that whatever may be its effects upon the interest of the nation, it has to him been very beneficial, as it has supplied him with a subject of raillery when other topics began to fail him, and given opportunity for the exercise of that wit which began to languish, for want of employment. What connexion his wonderful sagacity has discovered between the convention and the corn bill, I cannot yet fully comprehend, but have too high an opinion of his abilities to imagine that so many insinuations are wholly without any reason to support them. I doubt not, therefore, sir, but that when some fitter opportunity shall present itself he will clear their resemblance, and branch out the parallel between them into a thousand particulars. In the mean time, sir, it may be proper for the house to expedite the bill, against which no argument has yet been produced, and which is of too much importance to be delayed by raillery or invectives. Mr. SANDYS spoke next, in substance as follows:--Sir, the bill before us, as it is of too great importance to be negligently delayed, is likewise too dangerous to be precipitately hurried into a law. It has been always the practice of this house to consider money bills with particular attention, because money is power in almost the highest degree, and ought not, therefore, to be given but upon strong assurances that it will be employed for the purposes for which it is demanded, and that those purposes are in themselves just. But if we consider, sir, the bill now before us, it will appear yet more than a money bill, it will be found a bill for regulating the disposal of that, which it is the great use of money to procure, and is, therefore, not to be passed into a law without a close attention to every circumstance that may be combined with it, and an accurate examination of all the consequences that may be produced by it. Some of these circumstances or consequences, it is the duty of every member to lay before the house, and I shall, therefore, propose that the inducements to the discovery of any provisions illegally exported, and the manner of levying the forfeiture, may be particularly discussed; for by a defect in this part, the regulation lately established by the regency, however seasonable, produced tumults and distractions, which every good government ought studiously to obviate. By their proclamation, sir, half the corn that should be found designed for exportation was to be given to those who should discover and seize it. The populace, alarmed at once with the danger of a famine, and animated by a proclamation that put into their own hands the means of preventing it, and the punishment of those from whose avarice they apprehended it, rose in throngs to execute so grateful a law. Every man, sir, whose distress had exasperated him, was incited to gratify his resentment; every man, whose idleness prompted him to maintain his family by methods more easy than that of daily labour, was delighted with the prospect of growing rich on a sudden by a lucky seizure. All the seditious and the profligate combined together in the welcome employment of violence and rapine, and when they had once raised their expectations, there was no small danger lest their impatience of disappointment should determine them to conclude, that corn, wherever found, was designed for exportation, and to seize it as a lawful prize. Thus, sir, by an imprudent regulation, was every man's property brought into hazard, and his person exposed to the insults of a hungry, a rapacious, and ungovernable rabble, let loose by a publick proclamation, and encouraged to search houses and carriages by an imaginary law. That we may not give occasion to violence and injustice of the same kind, let us carefully consider the measures which are proposed, before we determine upon their propriety, and pass no bill on this important occasion without such deliberation as may leave us nothing to change or to repent. Mr. EARLE spoke next to this effect:--Sir, notwithstanding the dangers which have been represented as likely to arise from any errour in the prosecution of this great affair, I cannot but declare my opinion, that no delay ought to be admitted, and that not even the specious pretence of more exact inquiries, and minute considerations, ought to retard our proceedings for a day. My imagination, sir, is, perhaps, not so fruitful as that of some other members of this house, and, therefore, they may discover many inconveniencies which I am not able to conceive. But, as every man ought to act from his own conviction, it is my duty to urge the necessity of passing this bill, till it can be proved to me, that it will produce calamities equally to be dreaded with the consequences of protracting our debates upon it, equal to the miseries of a famine, or the danger of enabling our enemies to store their magazines, to equip their fleets, and victual their garrisons. If it could be imagined, that there was in this assembly a subject of France or Spain, zealous for the service of his prince, and the prosperity of his country, I should expect that he would summon all his faculties to retard the progress of this bill, that he would employ all his sophistry to show its inconveniency and imperfections, and exhaust his invention to suggest the dangers of haste; and certainly he could do nothing that would more effectually promote the interest of his countrymen, or tend more to enfeeble and depress the power of the British nation. If this would naturally be the conduct of an enemy, it is unnecessary to prove that we can only be safe by acting in opposition to it, and I think it superfluous to vindicate my ardour for promoting this bill, when it is evident that its delay would be pleasing to the Spaniards. Mr. BURREL then spoke as follows:--Sir, if this law be necessary at any time, it cannot now be delayed, for a few days spent in deliberation, may make it ineffectual, and that evil may be past of which we sit here contriving the prevention. That many contracts, sir, for the exportation of provisions are already made in all the maritime parts of the empire, is generally known; and it requires no great sagacity to discover that those by whom they are made, and made with a view of immense profit, are desirous that they may be executed; and that they will soon complete the execution of them, when they are alarmed with the apprehension of a bill, which, in a few days, may take from them the power of exporting what they have already collected, and snatch their gain from them when it is almost in their hands. A bill for these purposes, sir, ought to fall upon the contractors like a sudden blow, of which they have no warning or dread; against which they, therefore, cannot provide any security, and which they can neither elude nor resist. If we allow them a short time, our expedients will be of little benefit to the nation, which is every day impoverished by the exportation of the necessaries of life, in such quantities, that in a few weeks the law, if it be passed, may be without penalties, for there will be no possibility of disobeying it. Sir John BARNARD spoke next, to the following purpose:--Sir, I cannot discover the necessity of pressing the bill with such precipitation, as must necessarily exclude many useful considerations, and may produce errours extremely dangerous; for I am not able to conceive what inconveniencies can arise from a short delay. The exportation of provisions from Ireland is at present stopped by the proclamation; and the beef which was designed for other nations, has been prudently bought up by the contractors, by which those murmurs have been in a great measure obviated which naturally arise from disappointments and losses. There is, therefore, sir, no danger of exportations from that part of our dominions, which is the chief market for provisions, and from whence our enemies have been generally supplied: in Britain there is less danger of any such pernicious traffick, both because the scarcity here has raised all provisions to a high price, and because merchants do not immediately come to a new market. The bill, at least, ought not to be passed without regard to the general welfare of our fellow-subjects, nor without an attentive consideration of those petitions which have been presented to us; petitions not produced by panic apprehensions of imaginary dangers, or distant prospects of inconveniencies barely possible, but by the certain foresight of immediate calamities, the total destruction of trade, and the sudden desolation of flourishing provinces. By prohibiting the exportation of rice, we shall, sir, in one year, reduce the colony of South Carolina below the possibility of subsisting; the chief product of that country, the product which induced us originally to plant it, and with which all its trade is carried on, is rice. With rice the inhabitants of that province purchase all the other necessaries of life, and among them the manufactures of our own country. This rice is carried by our merchants to other parts of Europe, and sold again for large profit. That this trade is very important appears from the number of ships which it employs, and which, without lading, must rot in the harbours, if rice be not excepted from the general prohibition. Without this exception, sir, it is not easy to say what numbers, whose stations appear very different, and whose employments have no visible relation to each other, will be at once involved in calamity, reduced to sudden distress, and obliged to seek new methods of supporting their families. The sailor, the merchant, the shipwright, the manufacturer, with all the subordinations of employment that depend upon them, all that supply them with materials, or receive advantage from their labours, almost all the subjects of the British crown, must suffer, at least, in some degree, by the ruin of Carolina. Nor ought the danger of the sugar islands, and other provinces, less to alarm our apprehensions, excite our compassion, or employ our consideration, since nothing is more evident than that by passing this bill without the exceptions which their petitions propose, we shall reduce one part of our colonies to the want of bread, and confine the other to live on nothing else; for they subsist by the exchange of those products to which the soil of each country is peculiarly adapted: one province affords no corn, and the other supplies its inhabitants with corn only. The necessity of expediting this bill, however it has been exaggerated, is not so urgent but that we may be allowed time sufficient to consider for what purpose it is to be passed, and to recollect that nothing is designed by it, but to hinder our enemies from being supplied from the British dominions with provisions, by which they might be enabled more powerfully to carry on the war against us. To this design no objection has been made, but it is well known, that a good end may be defeated by an absurd choice of means, and I am not able to discover how we shall increase our own strength, or diminish that of our enemies, by compelling one part of our fellow-subjects to starve the other. It is necessary, sir, to prohibit the exportation of corn to the ports of our enemies, and of those nations by which our enemies will be supplied, but surely it is of no use to exclude any part of our own dominions from the privilege of being supplied from another. Nor can any argument be alleged in defence of such a law, that will not prove with equal force, that corn ought to remain in the same granaries where it is now laid, that all the markets in this kingdom should be suspended, and that no man should be allowed to sell bread to another. There is, indeed, sir, a possibility that the liberty for which I contend, may be used to wicked purposes, and that some men may be incited by poverty or avarice to carry the enemy those provisions, which they pretend to export to British provinces. But if we are to refuse every power that may be employed to bad purposes, we must lay all mankind in dungeons, and divest human nature of all its rights; for every man that has the power of action, may sometimes act ill. It is, however, prudent to obstruct criminal attempts even when we cannot hope entirely to defeat them, and, therefore, I am of opinion, that no provisions ought to be exported without some method of security, by which the governours of every place may be assured that they will be conveyed to our own colonies. Such securities will easily be contrived, and may be regulated in a manner that they shall not be defeated without such hazard, as the profit that can be expected from illegal commerce, will not be able to compensate. It is, therefore, sir, proper to delay the bill so long, at least, as that we may produce by it the ends intended, and distress our enemies more than ourselves; that we may secure plenty at home, without the destruction of our distant colonies, and without obliging part of our fellow-subjects to desert to the Spaniards for want of bread. Mr. BOWLES spoke in this manner:--Sir, the necessity of excepting rice from the general prohibition, is not only sufficiently evinced by the agent of South Carolina, but confirmed beyond controversy or doubt, by the petition of the merchants of Bristol, of which the justice and reasonableness appears at the first view, to every man acquainted with the nature of commerce. How much the province of South Carolina will be distressed by this prohibition, how suddenly the whole trade of that country will be at a stand, and how immediately the want of many of the necessaries of life will be felt over a very considerable part of the British dominions, has already, sir, been very pathetically represented, and very clearly explained; nor does there need any other argument to persuade us to allow the exportation of rice. But, from the petition of the merchants of Bristol, it appears that there are other reasons of equal force for this indulgence, and that our regard for the inhabitants of that particular province, however necessary and just, is not the only motive for complying with their request. It is shown, sir, in this petition, that the prohibition of rice will very little incommode our enemies, or retard their preparations; for they are not accustomed to be supplied with it from our plantations. We ought, therefore, not to load our fellow-subjects with embarrassments and inconveniencies, which will not in any degree extend to our enemies. It appears, sir, not only that a very important part of our commerce will be obstructed, but that it will, probably, be lost beyond recovery; for, as only a small quantity of the rice of Carolina is consumed at home, and the rest is carried to other countries, it is easy to conceive that those who shall be disappointed by our merchants will procure so necessary a commodity from other places, as there are many from which it may be easily purchased; and it is well known that trade, if it be once diverted, is not to be recalled, and, therefore, that trade which may be without difficulty transferred, ought never to be interrupted without the most urgent necessity. To prove, sir, that there is now no such necessity, by a long train of arguments, would be superfluous, for it has been shown already, that our enemies will not suffer by the prohibition, and the miseries that inevitably arise from a state of war, are too numerous and oppressive, to admit of any increase or aggravation upon trivial motives. The province of Carolina, sir, has already suffered the inconveniencies of this war beyond any other part of his majesty's dominions, as it is situate upon the borders of the Spanish dominions, and as it is weak by the paucity of the inhabitants in proportion to its extent; let us, therefore, pay a particular regard to this petition, lest we aggravate the terrour which the neighbourhood of a powerful enemy naturally produces, by the severer miseries of poverty and famine. Sir Robert WALPOLE spoke next, in substance as follows:--Sir, nothing is more absurd than for those who declare, on all occasions, with great solemnity, their sincere zeal for the service of the publick, to protract the debates of this house by personal invectives, and delay the prosecution of the business of the nation, by trivial objections, repeated after confutation, and, perhaps, after conviction of their invalidity. I need not observe how much time would be spared, and how much the despatch of affairs would be facilitated by the suppression of this practice, a practice by which truth is levelled with falsehood, and knowledge with ignorance; since, if scurrility and merriment are to determine us, it is not necessary either to be honest or wise to obtain the superiority in any debate, it will only be necessary to rail and to laugh, which one man may generally perform with as much success as another. The embargo in Ireland was an expedient so necessary and timely, that the reputation of it is thought too great to be allowed to the administration, of whom it has been for many years the hard fate, to hear their actions censured only because they were not the actions of others, and to be represented as traitors to their country for doing always what they thought best themselves, and perhaps sometimes what was in reality approved by those who opposed them. This, sir, they have borne without much uneasiness, and have contented themselves with the consciousness of doing right, in expectation that truth and integrity must at last prevail, and that the prudence of their conduct and success of their measures would at last evince the justice of their intentions. They hoped, sir, that there would be some occasions on which their enemies would not deny the expedience of their counsels, and did not expect that after having been so long accused of engrossing exorbitant power, of rejecting advice, and pursuing their own schemes with the most invincible obstinacy, they should be supposed on a sudden to have laid aside their arrogance, to have descended to adopt the opinions, and give themselves up to the direction of others, only because no objection could be made to this instance of their conduct. How unhappy, sir, must be the state of that man who is only allowed to be a free agent, when he acts wrong, and whose motions, whenever they tend to the proper point, are supposed to be regulated by another! Whether such capricious censurers expect that any regard should be paid by the publick to their invectives, I am not able to determine, but I am inclined to think so well of their understandings, as to believe that they intend only to amuse themselves, and perplex those whom they profess to oppose. In one part of their scheme I know not but they may have succeeded, but in the other it is evident how generally they have failed. It must, at least, sir, be observed of these great patrons of the people, that if they expect to gain them by artifices like this, they have no high opinion of their discernment, however they may sometimes magnify it as the last appeal, and highest tribunal. With regard, sir, to the manner in which the embargo was laid, and the expedients made use of to enforce the observation of it, they were not the effects of a sudden resolution, but of long and deliberate reflection, assisted by the counsels of the most experienced and judicious persons of both nations; so that if any mistake was committed, it proceeded not from arrogance or carelessness, but a compliance with reasons, that if laid before the house, would, whether just or not, be allowed to be specious. But, sir, it has not appeared that any improper measures have been pursued, or that any inconveniencies have arisen from them which it was possible to have avoided by a different conduct; for when any expedient fails of producing the end for which it was proposed, or gives occasion to inconveniencies which were neither expected nor designed, it is not immediately to be condemned; for it might fail from such obstacles as nothing could surmount, and the inconveniencies which are complained of might be the consequences of other causes acting at the same time, or cooperating, not by the nature of things, but by the practices of those who prefer their own interest to that of their country. But though it is, in my opinion, easy to defend the conduct of the ministry, I am far from thinking this a proper time to engage in their vindication. The important business before us, must now wholly engage us, nor ought we to employ our attention upon the past, but the future. Whatever has been the ignorance or knowledge, whatever the corruption or integrity of the ministry, this bill is equally useful, equally necessary. The question is now concerning an act of the senate, not of the ministry, and the bill may proceed without obstructing future examinations. If the bill, sir, now before us be so far approved as to be conceived of any real benefit to the nation, if it can at all contribute to the distress or disappointment of our enemies, or the prevention of those domestic disturbances which are naturally produced by scarcity and misery, there is no need of arguments to evince the necessity of despatch in passing it. For if these effects are to be produced by preventing the exportation of provisions, and a law is necessary for that purpose, it is certain that the law must be enacted, while our provisions are yet in our own hands, and before time has been given for the execution of those contracts which are already made. That contracts, sir, are entered into for quantities that justly claim the care of the legislative power, I have been informed by such intelligence as I cannot suspect of deceiving me. In one small town in the western part of this kingdom, fifty thousand barrels of corn are sold by contract, and will be exported, if time be allowed for collecting and for shipping them. A few contracts like this will be sufficient to store an army with bread, or to furnish garrisons against the danger of a siege; a few contracts like this will produce a considerable change in the price of provisions, and plunge innumerable families into distress, who might struggle through the present difficulties, which unsuccessful harvests have brought upon the nation, had we not sold the gifts of providence for petty gain, and supported our enemies with those provisions which were barely sufficient for our own consumption. I have not heard many objections made against the intention of the bill, and those which were offered, were mentioned with such diffidence and uncertainty, as plainly showed, that even in the opinion of him that proposed them, they were of little weight; and I believe they had no greater effect upon those that heard them. It may, therefore, be reasonably supposed that the propriety of a law to prevent the exportation of victuals is admitted, and surely it can be no question, whether it ought to be pressed forward, or to be delayed till it will be of no effect. Mr. FAZAKERLY spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, as the bill now under our consideration is entangled with a multitude of circumstances too important to be passed by without consideration, and too numerous to be speedily examined; as its effects, whether salutary or pernicious, must extend to many nations, and be felt in a few weeks to the remotest parts of the dominions of Britain, I cannot but think, that they who so much press for expedition on this occasion, consult rather their passions than their reason, that they discover rather enthusiasm than zeal, and that by imagining that they have already traced the effects of a law like this to their utmost extent, they discover rather an immoderate confidence in their own capacity than give any proofs of that anxious caution, and deliberate prudence, which true patriotism generally produces. There is another method, sir, of proceeding, more proper on this occasion, which has been already pointed out in this debate; a method of exerting the prerogative in a manner allowed by law, and established by immemorial precedents, and which may, therefore, be revived without affording any room for jealousy or complaints. An embargo imposed only by the prerogative may be relaxed or enforced as occasion may require, or regulated according to the necessity arising from particular circumstances; circumstances in themselves variable, and subject to the influence of a thousand accidents, and which, therefore, cannot be always foreseen, or provided against by a law positive and fixed. Let us not subject the commonwealth to a hazardous and uncertain security, while we have in our hands the means of producing the same end, with less danger and inconveniency; and since we may obviate the exportation of our corn by methods more speedily efficacious than the forms of making laws can allow, let us not oppress our fellow-subjects by hasty or imprudent measures, but make use of temporary expedients, while we deliberate upon the establishment of a more lasting regulation. Mr. CAMPBELL spoke to the following purpose;--Sir, that an embargo on merchandise or provisions may, upon sudden emergencies, or important occasions, be imposed by the prerogative, cannot be doubted by any man whose studies have made him acquainted with the extent of the regal power, and the manner in which it has been exerted in all ages. The chief use of the prerogative is to supply the defects of the laws, in cases which do not admit of long consultations, which do not allow time to convoke senates or inquire into the sentiments of the people. For this reason, in times of war the imperial power is much enlarged, and has still a greater extent as exigencies are more pressing. If the nation is invaded by a foreign force, the authority of the crown is almost without limits, the whole nation is considered as an army of which the king is general, and which he then governs by martial laws, by occasional judicature, and extemporary decrees. Such, sir, is the power of the king on particular emergencies, and such power the nature of human affairs must, sometimes, require; for all forms of government are intended for common good, and calculated for the established condition of mankind, but must be suspended when they can only obstruct the purposes for which they were contrived, and must vary with the circumstances to which they were adapted. To expect that the people shall be consulted in questions on which their happiness depends, supposes there is an opportunity of consulting them without hazarding their lives, their freedom, or their possessions, by the forms of deliberation. The necessity of extending the prerogative to the extremities of power, is, I hope, at a very great distance from us; but if the danger of the exportation of victuals be so urgent as some gentlemen have represented it, and so formidable as it appears to the whole nation, it is surely requisite that the latent powers of the crown should be called forth for our protection, that plenty be secured within the nation, by barring up our ports, and the people hindered from betraying themselves to their enemies, and squandering those blessings which the fertility of our soil has bestowed upon them. Sir Robert WALPOLE replied in the following manner:--Sir, it is so unusual among the gentlemen who have opposed my opinion to recommend an exertion of the regal authority, or willingly to intrust any power to the administration, that, though they have on this occasion expressed their sentiments without any ambiguity of language, or perplexity of ideas, I am in doubt whether I do not mistake their meaning, and cannot, without hesitation and uncertainty, propose the motion to which all their arguments seem necessarily to conduct me; arguments of which I do not deny the force, and which I shall not attempt to invalidate by slight objections, when I am convinced, in general, of their reasonableness and truth. The necessity of that despatch which I have endeavoured to recommend, is not only universally admitted, but affirmed to be so pressing, that it cannot wait for the solemnity of debates, or the common forms of passing laws. The danger which is every moment increasing, requires, in the opinion of these gentlemen, to be obviated by extraordinary measures, and that pernicious commerce, which threatens the distress of the community, is to be restrained by an immediate act of the prerogative. If this be the opinion of the house, it will be necessary to lay it before his majesty, by a regular address, that the nation may be convinced of the necessity of such extraordinary precautions, and that the embargo may be imposed, at once, with the expedition peculiar to despotick power, and the authority which can be conferred only by senatorial sanctions. Whether this is the intention of the members, from whose declarations I have deduced it, can only be discovered by themselves, who, if they have any other scheme in view, must explain it in clearer terms, that the house may deliberate upon it, and reject or adopt it, according to its conformity to the laws of our country, and to the present state of our affairs. Mr. PULTENEY spoke thus:--Sir, whatever may be the meaning of other gentlemen, who must undoubtedly be left at full liberty to explain their own expressions, I will freely declare, that I am sufficiently understood by the right honourable gentleman, and that, in my opinion, no remedy can be applied to the present distemper of the nation, a distemper by which it is hourly pining away, by which its vitals are impaired, and the necessary nourishment withdrawn from it, that will operate with sufficient efficacy and speed, except an embargo be imposed by the prerogative. That this opinion, if received by the house, must be the subject of an address, is in itself manifest, and the reason for which an embargo is required, proves that an address ought not to be delayed. I cannot omit this opportunity of remarking, how plainly it must now appear that many of us have been unjustly charged with obstructing the progress of the bill for pernicious purposes, with views of raising discontents in the nation, of exposing the administration to publick hatred, of obstructing the measures of the government, or hindering the success of the war, when we have receded from our general principles, and suspended the influence of our established maxims, for the sake of facilitating an expedient which may promote the general advantage, by recommending his majesty to the affections of his people. Mr. PELHAM here replied, to this effect:--Sir, I am far from blaming any gentleman for asserting, on all occasions, the integrity of his designs, or displaying the reasonableness of his conduct; and of what I do not disapprove I shall not decline the imitation. It is not uncommon, in the heat of opposition, while each man is convinced of his own honesty, and strongly persuaded of the truth of his own positions, to hear each party accused by the other of designs detrimental to the publick interest, of protracting debates by artful delays, of struggling against their own conviction, and of obscuring known truth by objections which discover themselves to be without force. These accusations, which are on both sides frequent, are, I hope, on both sides generally false; at least, it must appear on this occasion, that those who press the bill had no views of strengthening their party by a victory, of wearying their opponents by obstinacy, or of promoting any private purposes by a new law; since an expedient, by which time may be gained, and the avowed end of hastening this necessary bill secured, is no sooner proposed on one part, than received on the other. At the close of the debate, a form of an address was proposed by Mr. CLUTTERBUCK; which, being approved by the house, was presented to his majesty: and an embargo was laid on all provisions accordingly. On the 17th day of sitting the house proceeded on the bill for preventing exportation; and ordered an account of the corn which had been exported for six years last past to be laid before the committee. The house also addressed his majesty to take off the embargo on ships laden with fish or rice, which his majesty had before ordered to be done. On the 21st the corn bill was again the subject of deliberation, and some amendments were offered by Mr. SANDYS, containing not only exceptions of rice and fish, which had been before admitted, but likewise of butter, as a perishable commodity, which, if it were not allowed to be exported, would corrupt and become useless in a short time. He proposed, likewise, that the two islands of Jersey and Guernsey might continue to be supplied, with certain restrictions, from the port of Southampton. It was proposed, likewise, in favour of some other colonies, that they might receive provisions from Britain, lest there should be a necessity for the inhabitants of those provinces to abandon their settlements. The penalties of this law, and the manner in which they should be recovered and applied, were likewise settled on this day. NOVEMBER 25, 1740. The consideration of the corn bill was resumed; and it was particularly debated from what time it should commence, which some of the members were inclined to fix on the 9th day of the session, on which occasion Mr. CAMPBELL spoke as follows: Sir, that the laws may be observed by the nation without daily violence and perpetual compulsion, that our determinations may be received with reverence, and the regulations which we establish confirmed by the concurrence of our constituents, it is necessary that we endeavour to preserve their esteem, and convince them that the publick prosperity may be safely trusted in our hands. This confidence is to be gained as well in high stations, as in lower conditions, by large assemblies, as by individuals, only by a constant practice of justice, and frequent exertion of superiour wisdom. When any man finds his friend oppressive and malicious, he naturally withdraws his affections from him; when he observes him advancing absurd opinions, and adhering to them with obstinacy incapable of conviction, he falls unavoidably into a distrust of his understanding, and no longer pays any deference to his advice, or considers his conduct as worthy of imitation. In the same manner, sir, if the legislative powers shall, in making laws, discover that they regard any motives before the advantage of their country, or that they pursue the publick good by measures inadequate and ill-concerted, what can be expected from the people, but that they should set up their own judgment in opposition to that of their governours, make themselves the arbiters in all doubtful questions, and obey or disregard the laws at discretion? If this danger may arise from laws injudiciously drawn up, it may surely be apprehended from a compliance with this proposal; a proposal that the operation of the law should commence eleven days before the law itself is in being. I have, hitherto, sir, regarded it as a principle equally true in politicks as in philosophy, that nothing _can act_ when it does _not exist_; and I did not suspect that a position so evident would ever stand in need of a proof or illustration. We live, indeed, in an age of paradoxes, and have heard several notions seriously defended, of which some would, not many years ago, have condemned their abetter to a prison or a madhouse, and would have been heard by the wisest of our ancestors with laughter or detestation; but I did not expect that the most hardy innovator would have shocked my understanding with a position like this, or have asserted that a law may operate before it is made, or before it is projected. That where there is no law there is no transgression, is a maxim not only established by universal consent, but in itself evident and undeniable; and it is, sir, surely no less certain, that where there is no transgression there can be no punishment. If a man may be punished, sir, by a law made after the fact, how can any man conclude himself secure from the jail or the gibbet? A man may easily find means of being certain that he has offended no law in being, but that will afford no great satisfaction to a mind naturally timorous; since a law hereafter to be made, may, if this motion be supposed reasonable, take cognizance of his actions, and how he can know whether he has been equally scrupulous to observe the future statutes of future senates, he will find it very difficult to determine. Mr. PELHAM rose, and spoke thus:--Sir, notwithstanding the absurdity which the honourable gentleman imagines himself to have discovered in this proposal, and which he must be confessed to have placed in a very strong light, I am of opinion, that it may, with very little consideration, be reconciled to reason and to justice, and that the wit and satire that have been so liberally employed, will appear to have been lost in the air, without use and without injury. The operation of the law may, very properly, commence from the day on which the embargo was laid by his majesty's proclamation, which surely was not issued to no purpose, and which ought not to be disobeyed without punishment. Sir John BARNARD spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, I cannot but be somewhat surprised, that a gentleman so long conversant in national affairs, should not yet have heard or known the difference between a proclamation and a penal law. By a proclamation, his majesty may prevent, in some cases, what he cannot punish; he may hinder the exportation of our corn by ordering ships to be stationed at the entrance of our harbours; but if any should escape with prohibited cargoes, he can inflict no penalties upon them at their return. To enforce this prohibition by the sanction of punishments is the intention of the present bill, but a proclamation can make nothing criminal, and it is unjust and absurd to punish an action which was legal when it was done. The law ought, sir, in my opinion, not to commence till time is allowed for dispersing it to the utmost limits of this island; for as it is unreasonable to punish without law, it is not more equitable to punish by a law, of which, they who have unhappily broken it, could have no intelligence. A future day was agreed to. HOUSE OF COMMONS, DEC. 2, 1740. DEBATE RELATING TO A SEDITIOUS PAPER OF THE SAME KIND WITH THE CONSIDERATIONS ON THE EMBARGO ON PROVISIONS. Lord THOMSON took notice of a paper which he had in his hand, and said he received it at the door, where it was given to the members as they came in, and, complaining of it as an indignity offered to the house, desired that it might be read. Which being done, he rose up, and spoke in substance as follows: Sir, the crime of exasperating the people against their governours, of raising discontent, and exciting murmurs in a time of general danger, and of attempting to represent wise and salutary measures, which have received the approbation of the whole legislature, as mean artifices, contrived only to raise the fortunes of some favourites of the minister, and aggrandize the officers of state, by the miseries of the people, is a crime too enormous to require or admit any aggravation from rhetorick, and too dangerous to hope for any excuse from candour and lenity. To read or hear this paper is sufficient for a full conviction of its pernicious tendency, and of the malice of its author; a charge not fixed upon particular expressions capable of a doubtful meaning, and which heat or inadvertency might casually have produced, but supported by the general design of the whole paper, and the continued tenour of the argument, which is evidently intended to show, that an act of government, which cannot but appear necessary and seasonable in the present state of our affairs, an act ratified by the concurrence of all the powers of the legislature, is nothing but a scheme of avarice to grow rich by oppression. Nor is this scandalous libel written with more confidence and insolence than it is dispersed. Not content, sir, with vilifying the proceedings of the state, the author has industriously published his calumny at our door: the time has been when defamation skulked in secret, and calumnies against the government were dispersed by whispers or private communication; but this writer adds insults to his injuries, and at once reproaches and defies us. I beg leave to move, therefore, that the house do censure this paper as "a malicious and scandalous libel, highly and injuriously reflecting upon a just and wise act of his majesty's government, and also upon the proceedings of both houses of senate; and tending to create jealousies in the minds of the people." I also move, "that the author may be ordered to attend, to be examined at our bar." [This was unanimously agreed to by the house. The doorkeeper was called in, and, being shown the paper, was asked from whom he received it? who answered, that he believed the person who delivered it to him, was then detained in one of the committee rooms, upon which he was ordered to look for, and fetch him to the bar.] Mr. SANDYS, taking notice that the person was already in custody, said, that he should be glad to know by what authority. It was not reasonable to punish first, and judge afterwards. Upon which sir William YONGE replied, that he had caused him to be detained, in order to know the pleasure of the house; and that he thought it his duty to secure so enormous an offender from escaping. Soon after, the doorkeeper brought the man in, when he declared, upon examination, his name and his profession, which was that of a scrivener, and owned with great openness, that he was the author of the paper. He was then asked who was the printer, and answered that he printed it himself. Which he explained afterwards, by saying, that as he had carried it to the printer's, he might be said, in the general acceptation of the term, as applied to an author, to be the printer. He then discovered the printer, and was asked, where was the original manuscript, which he said he had destroyed, as he did any other useless paper. It having been observed by some of the members, that it was printed in one of the daily papers, he was asked, who carried it thither? and answered, that he carried it himself. It was then demanded, what he gave for having it inserted, and he answered that he gave nothing. [After many questions, Mr. Henry ARCHER desired that he might be asked, whether on the Friday before he was in the gallery; at which some of the members expressed their disapprobation, and the man being ordered to withdraw, the following debate ensued upon the propriety of the question.] Mr. SANDYS spoke first, in substance as follows:--Sir, those who are intrusted by their country with the authority of making laws, ought, undoubtedly, to observe them with the utmost circumspection, lest they should defeat their own endeavours, and invalidate, by their example, their own decrees. There is no part, sir, of our civil constitution more sacred, none that has been more revered by those that have trampled upon other forms of justice, and wantoned in oppression without restraint, than that privilege by which every Briton is exempted from the necessity of accusing himself, and by which he is entitled to refuse an answer to any question which may be asked, with a view to draw from him a confession of an offence which cannot be proved. Whether this great privilege, sir, is not violated; whether the unalienable right of a free subject is not infringed, by the question put to the person at our bar, the house must decide. The punishment to which intruders are subject by the orders of this house, proves that his presence in the house is considered as a crime, of which, as we have no proof of it, a confession ought not to be extorted by an artful and insidious question, of which he may not discover the intention or the consequence. Such treatment, sir, is rather to be expected by slaves in the inquisition of Spain, than a Briton at the bar of this house; a house instituted to preserve liberty, and to restrain injustice and oppression. Mr. CAMPBELL spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, I cannot but concur with the opinion of the honourable gentleman, that, in requiring an answer to this question, we shall expose a man to a punishment against whom we have no evidence, but what is extorted from himself; and, consequently, no knowledge of his crime upon which we can proceed to inflict censures or penalties, without the manifest infraction of our constitution. It cannot be imagined, sir, that he intends to confess himself guilty of a crime of which no proof has been brought, or that he will voluntarily subject himself to punishments. It must, therefore, follow, that he is entrapped in his examination, by an artifice, which, I hope, will never find any countenance in this house. Mr. WINNINGTON answered to the following purpose:--Sir, it is not impossible that the honourable gentlemen, having not lately looked into the orders of the house, may mistake the tendency of the question; I, therefore, move that the order may be read. [The order being read by the clerk, he proceeded.] It is evident, sir, that by the order now read, the serjeant at arms attending on this house, may take into custody all strangers that shall be found in the house or gallery while we are assembled; and that this order is not always put in practice, must be attributed to the lenity of the house. But that this order extends to past offences, and subjects any man to imprisonment for having been present in some former day, cannot be conceived. For how far may such a retrospect be extended? or at what time, after having intruded into the house, can any man presume to consider himself as exempt from the danger of imprisonment? Our order, sir, only decrees present punishment for present offences, and, therefore, the question asked by the honourable gentleman, may be insisted on without scruple, and answered without hazard. Let then the honourable gentlemen reserve their laudable zeal for our constitution till it shall be invaded by more important occasions. Mr. SANDYS replied:--Sir, what victory the honourable gentleman imagines himself to have gained, or whence proceeds all his wantonness of exultation, I am not able to discover. The question only relates to the interpretation of one of our own orders, and is, therefore, not of the highest importance; nor can his success, in so trivial a debate, entitle him to great applause from others, or produce, in a person of his abilities, any uncommon satisfaction to himself. But, whatever may be the pleasure of the victory, it must, at least, be gained before it can be celebrated; and it is by no means evident, that he has yet any reason to assure himself of conquest. His interpretation, sir, of the order, which he has so confidently laid before the house, seems to me to have no foundation in reason or justice; for if it be an offence against the house to be present at our consultations, and that offence be justly punishable, why should any man be exempt from a just censure by an accidental escape? or what makes the difference between this crime and any other, that this alone must be immediately punished, or immediately obliterated, and that a lucky flight is equivalent to innocence? It is surely, sir, more rational to believe, that the house may punish any breach of its orders at a distant time, that if our censure is once eluded, it may be afterwards enforced; and, therefore, that the question put to the person at the bar ought not to be asked, because it cannot safely be answered. Mr. PULTENEY spoke next, in words to this effect:--Sir, I cannot but conceive that our order may extend its influence beyond the present moment, and that intrusions may be punished by the house on another day than that on which they were committed. I am so far, sir, from being of opinion, that, to make the execution of this order valid, the house must sit, without interruption, from the time of the offence to that of the punishment, that if the gentlemen in the gallery were to be taken into custody, I should advise the serjeant to wait till the house should break up, and seize them as they should come out. Sir William YONGE spoke next, in the manner following:--Sir, if any such punishment were now intended, I should advise the gentlemen in the gallery to retire, indeed, but not to hide themselves like felons, or men proscribed by proclamation; for as the power of seizing any man in the house is sufficient to secure us from intrusion, there is no reason to extend it farther; and penalties are not, without reason, to be inflicted, neither has the house ever coveted the power of oppressing; and what else is unnecessary punishment? If, therefore, an intruder is not seized in the act of intrusion, he cannot legally be imprisoned for it. And any of the strangers, who now hear this debate, may retire to a very small distance from the house, and set the serjeant at arms at defiance. Sir Robert WALPOLE then spoke to this effect:--Sir, whether the question be proper or not, it seems very unnecessary to debate; because, however it be answered, it cannot be of great importance: the man has already confessed himself the author of the libel, and may, therefore, be punished without farther examination. That he is the real author, sir, I am not, indeed, convinced by his assertion, with whatever confidence it was made; for so far as his appearance enables me to judge of his education and sphere of life, it is not probable that he should be much versed in political inquiries, or that he should engage in the discussion of questions like this. There appears, sir, in the paper before us, a more extensive knowledge of facts, a more accurate attention to commerce, more artful reasoning, and a more elevated style, than it is reasonable to expect from this man, whom, without pretending to determine the limits of his capacity, or the compass of his knowledge, I am, for my part, inclined to look upon as an agent to some other person of higher station, and greater accomplishments. It is not uncommon, sir, for gentlemen to exercise their abilities, and employ their pens, upon political questions, and when they have produced any thing, which their complaisance for themselves equally hinders them from owning and suppressing, they are known to procure some person of inferiour rank, to take upon him, in publick, the character of the author, and to stand the danger of the prosecution, contenting themselves with the applause and admiration of their chosen friends, whom they trust with the important secret, and with whom they sit and laugh at the conjectures of the publick, and the ignorance of the ministry. This, sir, is a frequent practice, not only with those who have no other employment, but, as I have sufficient reasons to believe, among some gentlemen who have seats in this house; gentlemen, whose abilities and knowledge qualify them to serve the publick in characters much superiour to that of lampooners of the government. Mr. PULTENEY answered in terms to the following purpose:--Sir, whether the man who confessed himself the author of the paper, has accused himself of what he did not commit, or has ingenuously and openly discovered the truth, it is beyond my penetration absolutely to decide; the frankness and unconcern with which he made the declaration, gave it, at least, the appearance of truth, nor do I discover any reason for doubting his sincerity. Is there any improbability in the nature of the fact, that should incline us to suspect his veracity? Is there any apparent advantage to be gained by assuming a false character? Neither of those circumstances can be produced against him, and an assertion is to be admitted for its own sake, when there is nothing to invalidate it. But the honourable gentleman, sir, appears to have a very particular reason for his doubts; a reason, which will, I hope, have no weight with any but himself. By denying the paper to this man, he gives room for conjecture and suspicion to range far and wide, and wanton with whatever characters he shall think proper subjects for his amusement. An author is now to be sought, and many diverting arguments may be brought by the dullest inquirer for fixing it upon one man, or denying it to another. The honourable gentleman, sir, has given us a bold specimen of this kind of wit, by insinuating that it is the production of some one of the members of this house; a conjecture of which I am not able to find the foundation, and therefore imagine, that raillery rather than argument was intended. But let the honourable gentleman recollect, that the chief excellence of raillery is politeness, to which he has surely paid little regard, in supposing that what has been unanimously condemned as a libel, has one of those who censured it for its author. If I am particularly hinted at in this sagacious conjecture, I take this opportunity of declaring that I am equally ignorant of the whole affair with any other gentleman in this house; that I never saw the paper till it was delivered to me at the door, nor the author till he appeared at the bar. Having thus cleared myself, sir, from this aspersion, I declare it as my opinion, that every gentleman in the house can safely purge himself in the same manner; for I cannot conceive that any of them can have written a libel like this. There are, indeed, some passages which would not disgrace the greatest abilities, and some maxims true in themselves, though perhaps fallaciously applied, and at least such an appearance of reasoning and knowledge, as sets the writer far above the level of the contemptible scribblers of the ministerial vindications: a herd of wretches whom neither information can enlighten, nor affluence elevate; low drudges of scurrility, whose scandal is harmless for want of wit, and whose opposition is only troublesome from the pertinaciousness of stupidity. Why such immense sums are distributed amongst these reptiles, it is scarce possible not to inquire; for it cannot be imagined that those who pay them expect any support from their abilities. If their patrons would read their writings, their salaries would quickly be withdrawn; for a few pages would convince them, that they can neither attack nor defend, neither raise any man's reputation by their panegyrick, nor destroy it by their defamation. Sir Robert WALPOLE then spoke in the following manner:--I hope it is not expected, that the heat with which one class of our political writers have been attacked by the honourable gentleman, should engage me to undertake their defence with the same earnestness. I have neither interest enough in the question to awaken my passions, nor curiosity or leisure sufficient for such an examination of the writings on each side, as is necessary, before the superiority of any author above his brethren can he justly asserted. It is no part, sir, of my employment or amusement to compare their arguments, or to balance their abilities; nor do I often read the papers of either party, except when I am informed by some that have more inclination to such studies than myself, that they have risen by some accident above their common level. Yet that I may not appear entirely to desert the question, I cannot forbear to say, that I have never, from these accidental inspections of their performances, discovered any reason to exalt the authors who write against the administration, to a higher degree of reputation than their opponents. That any of them deserve loud applauses, I cannot assert, and am afraid that all, which deserves to be preserved of the writings on either side, may be contracted to a very few volumes. The writers for the opposition appear to me to be nothing more than the echoes of their predecessors, or, what is still more despicable, of themselves, and to have produced nothing in the last seven years, which had not been said seven years before. I may, perhaps, be thought by some gentlemen of each class to speak contemptuously of their advocates, nor shall I think my own opinion less just for such a censure; for the reputation of controversial writers arises, generally, from the prepossession of their readers in favour of the opinions which they endeavour to defend. Men easily admit the force of an argument which tends to support notions, that it is their interest to diffuse, and readily find wit and spirit in a satire pointed at characters which they desire to depress: but to the opposite party, and even to themselves, when their passions have subsided, and their interest is disunited from the question, those arguments appear only loud assertions, or empty sophistry; and that which was clamorously praised, discovers itself to be only impudence or low conceits; the spirit evaporates, and the malignity only remains. If we consider, sir, what opposition of character is necessary to constitute a political writer, it will not be wondered that so few excel in that undertaking. He that will write well in politicks, must at the same time have a complete knowledge of the question, and time to digest his thoughts into method, and polish his style into elegance; which is little less than to say, he must be at once a man of business, and a man of leisure; for political transactions are not easily understood, but by those who are engaged in them, and the art of writing is not attainable without long practice, and sedentary application. Thus it happens that political writings are generally defective: for they are drawn up by men unacquainted with publick business, and who can, therefore, only amuse their readers with fallacious recitals, specious sophistries, or an agreeable style; or they are the hasty productions of busy negotiators, who, though they cannot but excel the other class of writers in that which is of most importance, the knowledge of their subject, are yet rarely at leisure to display that knowledge to advantage, or add grace to solidity. Writers of the latter sort appear but seldom, and most of our political papers are the amusements of leisure, or the expedients of want. Whether the paper now before us is the produce of ease, or of necessity, I shall not determine; I have already offered my opinion, that the man who claims it is not the author, nor do I discover any reason for changing my sentiment: the question is a question merely of conjecture, since neither I nor the honourable gentleman attempt to offer any demonstrative proofs of our opinion. If he has any to produce in favour of his own notions, let him lay them before you, but let him always forbear to impute to me assertions which I never uttered, and beware of representing me as declaring that I believe this paper the composition of some member of this house. [It was then debated, whether this offence should be punished by the authority of the house, or referred to the cognizance of some of the courts of judicature in Westminster hall, on which occasion Mr. HOWE spoke as follows:] Sir, it is the duty of every part of the legislature, not only to preserve the whole system of our government unaltered and unimpaired, but to attend particularly to the support of their own privileges, privileges not conferred upon them by our ancestors, but for wise purposes. It is the privilege of this house that we, and we only, are the judges of our own rights, and we only, therefore, can assign the proper punishment when they shall be presumptuously invaded. If we remit this offender, who has attempted to debase the house in the opinion of the nation, to any inferiour court, we allow that court to determine, by the punishment that shall be inflicted, the importance of this assembly, and the value of the collective character of this house. It therefore concerns us, in regard to our own dignity, and to the privileges of our successours, that we retain the cognizance of this crime in our own hands, in which it is placed by perpetual prescription and the nature of our constitution. [The house agreed to this, and the libeller was sent to the common jail of Middlesex, by warrant from the speaker.] Sir William YONGE then spoke to this effect:--Sir, I am pleased with finding that the malice and indecency of this libel, has raised in the house a just resentment, and that the wretch, who, with a confidence so steady, and such appearance of satisfaction in his countenance, confesses, or rather proclaims himself the author, is treated as he deserves. But let us not forget that the same degree of guilt always requires the same punishment, and that when the author of scandal is in prison, the printer and propagator of it ought not to be at liberty. The printer of the daily news is surely the proper object of your indignation, who inserted this libel in his paper, without the fondness of an author, and without the temptation of a bribe; a bribe, by the help of which it is usual to circulate scurrility. To this man the expense or labour of aspersing the government was recompensed by the pleasure, and he could not prevail on himself to omit any opportunity of incensing the people, and exposing at once the whole legislature to censure and contempt. Those, therefore, that have concurred in the imprisonment of the author, will doubtless join with me in requiring the attendance of his officious accomplice, and I cannot forbear expressing my hopes, that he will not meet with kinder treatment. It is far from being the first offence of his licentious press; and the lenity of the government, by which he has been so long spared, has had no other effect upon him, than to add confidence to his malice, and incite him to advance from one degree of impudence to another. He has for several weeks persisted in misrepresenting the intention of the embargo, by letters pretended to be written by friends of the government who are injured by it. He has vented his insinuations hitherto, as without punishment, so, as it appears, without fear. It is time, therefore, to disturb his security, and restrain him from adding one calumny to another. Sir John BARNARD rose up hereupon, and opposed this motion in terms to the following effect:--Sir, the end of punishment is to prevent a repetition of the same crime, both in the offender, and in those who may have the same inclinations; and when that end is accomplished, all farther severities have an appearance rather of cruelty than justice. By punishing the author of this libel, we have, in my opinion, sufficiently secured our dignity from any future attacks, we have crushed the head of the confederacy, and prevented the subordinate agents from exerting their malice. Printers can do no injury without authors; and if no man shall dare to write a libel, it is not worthy of our inquiry how many may be inclined to publish it. But if the printer must necessarily be punished before the resentment of the house can be satisfied; if it shall not be thought sufficient to punish him without whose assistance the other could not have offended; let us, at least, confine our animadversion to the present fault, without tracing back his life for past misdemeanours, and charging him with accumulated wickedness; for if a man's whole life is to be the subject of judicial inquiries, when he shall appear at the bar of this house, the most innocent will have reason to tremble when they approach it. Even with regard, sir, to the offence of which he is now accused, somewhat may, perhaps, be said in extenuation of his guilt, which I do not offer to gratify any personal affection or regard for him, to whom I am equally a stranger with any other gentleman in this house, but to prevent a punishment which may be hereafter thought disproportioned to the crime. It is, sir, to be remembered, that he was not the original printer of the libel, which he only reprinted from a paper, of which he knew that it was to be dispersed at our door, and in which he could not naturally suspect any seditious or dangerous assertions to be contained. It is, therefore, probable that he fell into the offence by ignorance, or, at worst, by inadvertency; and, as his intention was not criminal, he may properly be spared. Mr. WINNINGTON spoke, in answer, to this effect:--Sir, I cannot but think the honourable gentleman betrayed, by his zeal for the defence of this man, into some assertions not to be supported by law or reason. If it be innocent to print a paper once printed, will it not inevitably follow, that the most flagitious falsehoods, and the most enormous insults on the crown itself, the most seditious invectives, and most dangerous positions, may be dispersed through the whole empire, without any danger but to the original printer? And what reason, sir, can be assigned, why that which is criminal in one man, should be innocent in another? Nor is this the only position which has been advanced contrary to the laws of our country; for it has been asserted, that the general character of an offender is a consideration foreign from that of his immediate crime; and that whatever any man's past life has been, he is only to be judged according to the evidence for the offence which is then the subject of examination. How much this opinion is consistent with the practice of our courts, a very slight knowledge of their methods of proceeding will readily discover. Is any villain there convicted but by the influence of his character? And is not the chief question at a trial the past conduct of the person at the bar? Sir John BARNARD rose here, and spoke thus:--Sir, I rise up only to answer a question, which is, whether properly or not, put to me, and hope the irregularity will not be imputed to me, by the house, but to the occasion which produces it. I am asked, whether it is not the chief question at the bar of our courts of justice, what is the character of the prisoner? and cannot but feel some amazement that any man should be so ignorant of common proceedings, and so much unacquainted with the execution of our laws, as to have admitted a notion so chimerical. The character of the prisoner is never examined, except when it is pleaded by himself, and witnesses are produced to offer testimony in his favour; that plea, like all others, is then to be examined, and is sometimes confuted by contrary evidence. But, the character of a criminal, though it may be urged by himself as a proof of his innocence, is never to be mentioned by his prosecutor as an aggravation or proof of his guilt. It is not required by the law, that the general character of a criminal, but that the particular evidence of the crime with which he stands charged, should be examined; nor is his character ever mentioned but by his own choice. Sir William YONGE spoke next, to the effect following:--Sir, to prove the malignity of the intention with which this libel was inserted in the daily paper, it cannot be improper to observe, that the embargo has been for many days past the favourite topic of this printer, and that, therefore, it was not by accident that he admitted so zealous an advocate for his opinions to be seasonably assisted by the circulation of his paper, but that he, doubtless, was delighted with an opportunity of dispersing sedition by means of greater abilities than his own. Nor can it be justly pleaded, sir, in his favour, that he was encouraged to publish it by the confidence with which he saw it dispersed; for it was printed by him in the morning, and not brought hither till the afternoon. I cannot, therefore, but conclude, that his intentions were agreeable to his practice, and that he deserves to accompany the author in his present confinement. The advocate, CAMPBELL, spoke next, to this purpose:--Sir, I hope it will not be imputed to me as disregard of the government, or neglect of the honour of this house, that I declare myself, on all occasions like this, inclined to lenity, and think it necessary always to proceed by regular methods, and known forms of justice, not by capricious determinations, and orders variable at pleasure. I opposed the imprisonment of the man who just now appeared at the bar of our house, and am still more unwilling to proceed to severities against another, who is criminal only in a subordinate degree. The loudest declaimers against these men cannot have stronger detestation of falsehood and sedition than myself; but however flagrant may be the crimes, they may be punished with unjustifiable rigour, and, in my opinion, we have already proceeded with severity sufficient to discourage any other attempts of the same kind. Whether it will promote the advantage of the publick, and the efficacy of our deliberations, to deter any man from the common practice of giving us information by delivering papers at our door, must be considered by the house. Nor is it less worthy of our most attentive inquiry, whether it is not more reasonable to prosecute this offender in the common forms of justice, than to punish him by any act of uncontroulable, unaccountable authority? Whether it is not more reasonable to have him prosecuted before a judge unprejudiced, and a disinterested jury, than to act at once as party, evidence, and judge? I have no desire, sir, of diminishing the privileges of this house; and yet less would I contribute to establish any precedents of unlimited power or arbitrary punishments. The ATTORNEY GENERAL then spoke to the following effect:--Sir, whence so much tenderness can arise for an offender of this kind, I am at a loss to discover, nor am I able to conceive any argument that can be produced for exempting from punishment the printer of a paper, which has been already determined, by the vote of the house, to be a scandalous libel, tending to promote sedition. It has been, indeed, agreed, that there are contained in the paper some true positions, and some passages innocent, at least, and perhaps rational and seasonable. But this, sir, is nothing more than to say, that the paper, flagitious as it is, might have been swelled to a greater degree of impudence and scurrility; that what is already too heinous to be borne, might, by greater virulence, become more enormous. If no wickedness, sir, is to be checked till it has attained the greatest height at which it can possibly arrive, our courts of criminal judicature may be shut up as useless; and if a few innocent paragraphs will palliate a libel, treason may be written and dispersed without danger or restraint; for what libel was ever so crowded with sedition, that a few periods might not have been selected, which, upon this principle, might have secured it from censure. The danger of discouraging intelligence from being offered at the door of our house, does not alarm me with any apprehensions of disadvantage to the nation; for I have not so mean an opinion of the wisdom of this assembly, as to imagine that they can receive any assistance from the informations of their officious instructors, who ought, in my opinion, sir, rather to be taught by some senatorial censure to know their own station, than to be encouraged to neglect their proper employments, for the sake of directing their governours. When bills, sir, are depending, by which either the interest of the nation, or of particular men, may be thought to be endangered, it is, indeed, the incontestable right of every Briton to offer his petition at the bar of the house, and to deliver the reasons upon which it is founded. This is a privilege of an unalienable kind, and which is never to be infringed or denied; and this may always be supported without countenancing anonymous intelligence, or receiving such papers as the authors of them are afraid or ashamed to own, and which they, therefore, employ meaner hands to distribute. Of this kind, sir, undoubtedly, is the paper now under our consideration, of which I am far from imagining that it was drawn up by the man who declares himself the writer, and am, therefore, convinced of the necessity of calling the printer to the bar, that whatever the lenity or justice of this assembly may determine with regard to his punishment, he may be examined with respect to the real authors of the libel; and that our resentment may fall upon him, who has endeavoured to shelter himself by exposing another. Counsellor ORD spoke to this effect:--Sir, I am inclined to believe, that the persons associated in writing and dispersing this paper, whosoever they may be, are of no high rank, or considerable influence; as it is not likely that any man who had much to hazard, would expose himself to the resentment of the whole legislature; but let us not for that reason exert our superiority in wanton punishments, or tyrannise merely because we cannot be resisted. Let us remember that the same justice and the same humanity is due to the meanest, as the highest of our fellow-subjects; and that there is even less necessity of rigorous measures, as the attack is less formidable. But, sir, there is one motive to moderation that has seldom been found less efficacious than the consideration of the laws of justice or humanity. We ought to be withheld by regard to our posterity, and even to ourselves, from any exorbitant extension of our privileges. We know, that authority once exerted, is claimed afterwards by prescription. And who knows by what sudden rotation of power he may himself suffer by a precedent which he has concurred to establish, and feel the weight of that oppressive power which he first granted for the punishment of another? Mr. HOWE spoke thus:--Sir, I am always unwilling to oppose any proposal of lenity and forbearance, nor have now any intention of heightening the guilt of this man by cruel exaggerations, or inciting the house to rigour and persecution. But let us remember, sir, that justice and mercy are equally to be regarded, and while we pity the folly of a misguided, or, perhaps, a thoughtless offender, let us not suffer ourselves to be betrayed, by our compassion, to injure ourselves and our posterity. This house, sir, has always claimed and exerted the privilege of judging of every offence against itself, a privilege so long established, and so constantly exercised, that I doubt whether the inferiour courts of judicature will take cognizance of an attack upon us; for how can they venture to decide upon a question of such importance without any form or precedent for their proceedings. There seems also to be at this time, sir, an uncommon necessity for tenaciousness of our privileges, when, as some whispers, which have been wafted from the other house, inform us, a motion has been made in terms which might imply the subordination of this assembly, an assertion without foundation either in reason or justice, and which I shall always oppose as destructive to our rights, and dangerous to our constitution. Let us, therefore, sir, retain in our hands the cognizance of this affair, and let the criminal either suffer his punishment from _our_ sentence, or owe his pardon to _our_ mercy. [It was agreed that the printer of the daily paper should attend next day, when, being called in, it was proposed that he should be asked, whether he printed the paper complained of. It was objected to, for the same reason as the question about the author's being in the gallery, because the answer might tend to accuse himself; and he being withdrawn, a debate of the same nature ensued, and the question being put whether he should be asked, if he be the person that printed the daily paper shown to him, which paper the house the day before resolved to contain a malicious and scandalous libel, etc. it was, on a division, carried in the affirmative, by two hundred and twenty-two against one hundred and sixty-three: accordingly he was called in again, and being asked the question, he owned that he printed the said paper from a printed copy which was left for him with one of his servants; and being asked what he had to allege in his justification or excuse for printing the said libel, he said that as he had before printed several other things which he had received from the said person, which had not given offence, he inserted part of the paper in his news, and which he should not have inserted, if he had thought it would have given offence to the house, and that he forbore to print the remainder, having heard that it had given offence. Upon which he withdrew, and the house, after some debate, on a division, one hundred and eighty-eight to one hundred and forty-five, not only ordered him into the custody of the serjeant, but resolved to present an address to his majesty, that he would be pleased to give directions to his attorney general to prosecute him at law. The first printer of the libel was also ordered into custody. This was on the 3d of December, but the next day presenting his petition, expressing his sorrow for the offence, whereby he had justly incurred the displeasure of the house, and praying to be discharged, he was brought to the bar on the following day, received a reprimand on his knees, and was ordered to be discharged, paying his fees.] On the 12th, lord BARRINGTON presented a petition from the printer of the daily paper, expressing his sorrow, promising all possible care not to offend for the future, and praying to be discharged. This petition being read, a motion was made, that the serjeant at arms do carry the petitioner to some court of law, to give security for his appearance to the prosecution to be carried on against him by the attorney general; which done, that he be discharged, paying his fees. Sir William YONGE spoke to this effect:--Sir, I know not for what reason this enormous offender is entitled to so much regard, or by what interest he has engaged so many, who, I doubt not, abhor his crimes, to pity his sufferings. Had he been young and unexperienced, and seduced into the commission of this offence by artifice or persuasion, his act might have been reasonably considered rather as an errour than a crime, and it might have been proper to treat with lenity a delinquent neither obstinate nor malicious. But how, sir, can this plea be urged in favour of a man, whose daily employment it has been, for these two years past, to misrepresent the public measures, to disperse scandal, and excite rebellion, who has industriously propagated every murmur of discontent, and preserved every whisper of malevolence from perishing in the birth. The proper judge, sir, of this affair, is his majesty's attorney general, who is not now in the house. I am, therefore, for detaining him in custody, and for referring the consideration of farther proceedings against him to that gentleman, whose proper province it is to prosecute for the crown. Mr. WALLER spoke next, to the following purpose:--Sir, it is undoubtedly the duty of every man to oppose the introduction of new laws, and methods of oppression and severity, which our constitution does not admit; and what else is the mention of a prisoner's character as an aggravation of his present offence? It is well known, and has been already asserted, upon this occasion, that in the lower courts of justice, though the prisoner may plead his character, in his own defence, his prosecutor is not at liberty to produce it to his disadvantage. Even those who are cited to the bar for murder or for treason, are tried only by the evidence of that crime for which they are indicted. That this house is not bound to strict forms, and is not accountable for the exercise of its power, is easily granted; but authority cannot change the nature of things, and what is unjust in a lower court, would be in us not less unjust, though it may not be punishable. * * * * * It was replied that this question had been before sufficiently discussed. The attorney general not being present, the debate was adjourned to the next sitting. On the next day of the session, the lord BARRINGTON proposed, that the adjourned debate might be resumed, and several members interceded for the petitioner, that he might be released; to which it was objected, that it was not proper to release him, unless an information was lodged against him, without which he could not be held to bail; and the question being put, whether he should be released, was determined in the negative. At the sixth sitting, the author of the libel, who was committed to the common prison of Middlesex, petitioned the house to permit him to implore pardon on his knees, and promising, by the strongest and most solemn assurances, not to offend again, was ordered to be discharged the next day, paying his fees. On the forty-seventh sitting, the printer of the daily paper again petitioned the house, representing, that he most heartily bewailed his offence, that he was miserably reduced by his confinement, having borrowed money of all his friends to support himself, his wife, and children, and praying the mercy of the house. He was then ordered to be discharged, paying his fees, and giving security for his appearance to answer the prosecution. On the eighty-fifth day, Mr. George Heathcote offered another petition for the said printer, and represented, that the fees amounting to one hundred and twenty-one pounds, he was not able to pay them, that, therefore, he hoped the house would consider his case; but the petition was not allowed to be brought up. On which he remained in custody fourteen days longer, till the end of the session, and, the authority of the senate ceasing, had his liberty without paying any fees. HOUSE OF COMMONS, DEC. 4-11, 1740. ON INCORPORATING THE NEW-RAISED MEN INTO THE STANDING REGIMENTS. On the 4th of December, sir William YONGE, secretary at war, having presented to the house of commons an estimate of the expense of raising ten thousand men, the same was taken into consideration in a committee on the supply, and after debate agreed to. At the report of this proceeding, on the 11th, another debate happened on a motion that the new-raised men should be incorporated into the standing regiments, etc. As in these two debates the arguments were the same, they are thrown into one, to prevent unnecessary repetitions. Sir William YONGE opened the debate with respect to what he had delivered in the estimate, after the manner following:--Sir, as this estimate has been drawn up after very accurate calculations and careful inquiries, I hope that no objections will be raised against it, and that the sum necessary for raising the new regiments will be very readily granted by that house, which voted the war necessary for which they are designed. I hope it will be admitted as some proof of frugality, that this estimate requires less money than one that was laid before the senate in the reign of king William; for if it be considered, that since that time, the necessaries of life are become dearer, and that, therefore, all expenses are increased, it will appear to be the effect of the exactest economy, that the sum required for the same service is less. I have heard, indeed, sir, that in conversation, the method of raising troops on this occasion has been censured as improper, and that in the opinion of some, whose judgment cannot be entirely disregarded, it would be more reasonable to add more men to our regiments already established, than to raise new regiments with new officers. The chief argument, sir, produced in support of their method of augmentation, is drawn from the necessity of publick frugality, a very popular topick, which never fails to produce favour and attention; for every man is naturally inclined to hear his friend, and to consider that man as performing the office of friendship, who proposes methods of alleviating his taxes. Frugality is undoubtedly a virtue very necessary to the happiness of the nation, and such as there occur frequent occasions of inculcating to those who are intrusted with the superintendence of publick disbursements, but I am far from thinking that this estimate affords any opportunity for declamations of this kind, and am of opinion that the addition of new soldiers to each regiment, would, in reality, be more expensive. It cannot be denied, sir, that by augmenting the regiments, there would be immediately saved to the publick the expense of the officers which are necessary in the method now proposed; but it is to be considered how much the number of officers contributes to the regularity and discipline of the troops, and how much discipline and order promote their success. It is to be considered, sir, that the most successful method of making war is undoubtedly the cheapest, and that nothing is more expensive than defeats. If by raising the same number of men under fewer officers, we should give our enemies any advantage, if a single party should be cut off, a garrison forced, an expedition rendered fruitless, or the war protracted but a few months, where will be the advantage of this admired frugality? What would be the consequence, but the same or a greater expense, not to gain advantages, but to repair losses, and obviate the effects of our former parsimony? In private life, sir, it is common for men to involve themselves in expense, only by avoiding it; to repair houses at greater charges than new ones might be built, and to pay interest, rather than the debt. Weak minds are frighted at the mention of extraordinary efforts, and decline large expenses, though security and future affluence may be purchased by them; as tender bodies shrink from severe operations, though they are the certain methods of restoring health and vigour. The effects of this timidity are the same in both cases, the estate is impaired insensibly, and the body languishes by degrees, till no remedy can be applied. Such examples, sir, are frequent, and the folly of imitating them is therefore greater, for who would pursue that track by which he has seen others led to destruction? Nor need we search for remote illustrations to discover the destructive tendency of unseasonable tenderness for the publick, for I believe the whole history of the wars of king William will prove, that too close an attention to parsimony is inconsistent with great achievements. It may be expected that I, who cannot claim any regard in this disquisition, from my own experience, should produce some decisive evidence in favour of the method which I have taken upon me to defend; this expectation I shall endeavour to satisfy, by alleging the authority of the greatest commander of later ages, whom neither his friends nor his enemies will deny to have been well versed in these subjects, and whose success is a sufficient proof of the soundness of his principles. The illustrious duke of MARLBOROUGH was of opinion, that the whole force of the French armies consisted in the number of the officers, and that to be always equal to them in the field, it was necessary to form our troops nearly upon the same plan; to this scheme he conformed in his practice of war, and how much his practice confirmed his opinion, let Blenheim and Ramillies attest. As I pretend not to have determined myself on this question, otherwise than by authority, and, as I know not any authority equal to that of the duke of MARLBOROUGH, I cannot discharge the trust reposed in me by my country, any otherwise, than by proposing, that, on this occasion, we agree to grant his majesty the sum calculated for raising the new regiments, as I believe that method of augmentation most likely to produce success in our undertakings, and consequently to procure a speedy conclusion of the war. Mr. PULTENEY spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, I have been so long accustomed to the debates of this house, and have so often attended to the eloquence of the right honourable gentleman, that I am never startled at paradoxes, nor shocked at absurdities; I can now hear with great tranquillity an harangue upon the necessity of placemen in this house, upon the usefulness of standing armies, and the happiness of a general excise. I am no longer offended with facts quoted in opposition to history, nor with calculations drawn up without regard to the rules of arithmetick; I know that there are persons in this house, who think themselves obliged to speak, even when in their own opinion nothing can be said with weight or with propriety; who come hither prepared against the shame of confutation, and determined not to be convinced. To reason with such men, sir, is, indeed, no pleasing task; it is to fight with enchanted heroes, upon whom the common weapons of argument have no effect, and who must be softened by a countercharm, before they can be attacked with any prospect of success. There are some, however, of whom I am willing to believe that they dispute only for truth, and inquire with the view of attaining a solution of their doubts. For the sake of these, sir, I think it necessary to declare my sentiments, as I shall be desirous, in my turn, to hear their sentiments; but with regard to those whose opinion I know already by their posts, I should think it of great advantage to the despatch of publick affairs, if they would content themselves with voting for their pay, without any ambition of other service, or adding the praise of volubility to that of steadiness. Having this opportunity, sir, of declaring my opinion of the measures pursued in regulating our military preparations, I shall not confine myself entirely to the present question, but lay before the house my thoughts upon some parts of the establishment, which may, perhaps, require a reform, and which are at least proper objects of consideration, though not absolutely necessary to the determination of our opinion upon the present motion. I have long ago, sir, declared, what, therefore, it is scarcely of any use to repeat, that I know not any advantage to be hoped from a standing army, nor can discover why the ablest and most vigorous of the inhabitants of this kingdom should be seduced from the loom, the anvil and the plough, only to live at ease upon the labour of industry, only to insult their landlords, and rob the farmers. I never could find why any body of men should be exempt from the common labour of social duties, or why they should be supported by a community, who contribute neither to its honour nor its defence. I doubt not, sir, but I shall hear, on this occasion, of the service of our troops in the suppression of riots; we shall be told, by the next pompous orator who shall rise up in defence of the army, that they have often dispersed the smugglers; that the colliers have been driven down by the terrour of their appearance to their subterraneous fortifications; that the weavers, in the midst of that rage which hunger and oppression excited, fled at their approach; that they have at our markets bravely regulated the price of butter, and, sometimes, in the utmost exertion of heroick fury, broken those eggs which they were not suffered to purchase on their own terms. Some one, perhaps, of more penetration, may inform us of the use which has been made of them at elections, where the surly burgesses have been sometimes blind to the merit of those worthy gentlemen, whom the soldiers have known how to esteem according to their desert; nor, indeed, do I see how those can refuse their votes in favour of our troops, who are indebted for the power of giving them, to their kind interposition. To these arguments, sir, I shall content myself with answering, that those who are versed in the history of Britain, know that we have had colliers and weavers for many years before a standing army was heard of among us, and that it is, nevertheless, nowhere recorded that any of our kings were deposed by those formidable bodies of men, or that any remarkable changes were made by them in the form of our government; and, therefore, till some reason shall be alleged, why such insurrections are now more dangerous, and our civil magistrates more impotent than in former ages, I humbly conceive, that even without the protection of a standing army, we might yet sleep in security, notwithstanding the plots of the colliers, and the combinations of the weavers. But I must own, sir, these are not our only enemies, for there is somewhere, yet in existence, a person that lays claim to the dominion of these kingdoms, and pleads an hereditary title to dispose of our wealth, to subvert our liberties, and destroy our religion. If any foreigner, sir, unacquainted with our affairs, were to be present at our debates, and to hear with what ardour we animate each other to an obstinate resistance of this pretender to the throne, how often he is represented as hovering over us, and how often we have caught a general panick, and imagined ourselves upon the verge of destruction, how often our most zealous patriots take opportunities of declaring their resolution to die in defence of their liberties; and how pathetically our most elegant declaimers have expatiated on the misery of that unhappy race, whom they should leave behind to groan under the oppression of absolute power, what would be his opinion of this pretender, whom he saw so perpetually dreaded, against whom so many alliances were formed, so many armies were levied, and so many navies equipped? Would he not believe him to be some formidable tyrant in a neighbouring country, the lord of wide dominions, and the master of numerous armies and powerful fleets? Would he not imagine that he could assemble half the continent at his call, that he was supported by powerful alliances, and that nothing but a fair wind was required to land him on our coasts at the head of millions? And would he not, even on that supposition, be inclined to censure us as timorous, as somewhat regardless of the honour of our nation, and condemn us for giving way to such suspicions and exclamations, as have a natural tendency to heighten the apprehension of danger, and depress the spirits of the people? But what would be his conclusion, sir, when he should be told, what in reality is true, that this dreadful pretender is an unhappy fugitive, driven in his infancy from this country, and by consequence without any personal interest; that he is supported by the charity of a prince whose name is hated almost by every inhabitant of the kingdom; that he has neither sovereignty, nor money, nor alliances, nor reputation in war, nor skill in policy; that all his actions are watched by British spies; and that the few friends that remain to support the farce of a court, are such only as dare not return to their native country, and are, therefore, without fortune, and without dependants? What could a wise man conceive of a nation held in continual alarms by an enemy like this; of a nation always watchful against an invasion from a man who has neither dominions to supply, nor money to hire a single regiment; from a man whose title all the neighbouring princes disown, and who is at such a distance from them, that he cannot be assisted by them without open preparations, of which we cannot fail of having intelligence, and which may be defeated, without danger, by the vessels regularly stationed on our coasts? Would not any stranger imagine, sir, that we were a nation infected with a general phrensy, that cowardice had perverted our imaginations, filled us with apprehensions of impossible invasions, raised phantoms before our eyes, and distracted us with wild ideas of slavery and tyranny, oppression and persecution? I have dwelt thus long on this point, because I know the pretender is the last refuge of those who defend a standing army; not that I propose to convince any man of the folly of such apprehensions, or to fortify him against such terrours for the time to come; for if any man, in reality, now dreads the pretender, fear must be his distemper; he is doomed to live in terrours, and it is of no importance whether he dreads an invasion or a goblin, whether he is afraid to disband the army, or to put out his candle in the night; his imagination is tainted, and he must be cured, not by argument, but by physick. But the greatest part of those who disturb our consultations with the mention of the pretender, are men of a very different character, men equally unconcerned about his designs, or his motions, with those who are most desirous of setting the nation free from the burden of an army, and very often such as we may discover, from their conduct, to be determined to comply with every government; and such as have, therefore, nothing to fear from a change of masters. The men, for whose sake I am now speaking, sir, laugh equally with myself at the apprehensions of those whom they contribute to terrify; they know too well the impotence of the pretender to dread an invasion from him, and affect only to continue their outcries, that they may not be deprived of a topick, on which, by long practice, they have attained an uncommon facility of haranguing, which they know how to diversify with various combinations of circumstances, and how to accommodate to any emergent occasion, without the pain of torturing their inventions. It may be useful, sir, to inform these men, that their disguise ought at last to be thrown off, because it deceives no longer, and that the nation cannot be cheated but at the expense of more cunning than they are willing, or perhaps able, to display. A mask must necessarily be thrown aside, when, instead of concealing, it discovers him by whom it is used. Those who are attempting, sir, to deceive others, and whose character is exalted, in their own opinion, in proportion to the success of their endeavours, have surely a sense of shame, though they have none of virtue, and cannot, without pain, find their artifices detected, and themselves made the objects of ridicule, by those stratagems which they employ for the deception of others. I hope, therefore, sir, that, for their own sakes, these declaimers on the exploded story of the pretender, will change their bugbear, that if it be necessary to frighten those whom they want art or eloquence to persuade, they will find out some other object of terrour, which, after a little practice in private meetings, they may first produce in the court, and then turn loose in the senate. The world, methinks, allows them a sufficient choice of tyrants more formidable than the pretender. Suppose they should revive the history of the Mohocks. The Mohocks are a dreadful race, not to be mentioned without horrour, by a true lover of his country, and a steady adherent to the house of Hanover; they might then very easily increase our army, or enhance our taxes; for who would not be urged by his wife and daughter to agree to any measures that might secure them from the Mohocks? But as an army is, at present, likely to be kept up for our defence, against an enemy less formidable, it may be more seasonable to propose the regulation than the dismission of our troops, and to mention those evils which arise from the present establishment, rather than those which are inseparable from the expense of a standing force. If it be necessary, sir, to support soldiers, I suppose that it will not be denied by the advocates for an army, that we ought to levy such troops as may be of use; yet in their practice they seem to have paid very little regard to this principle. Our troopers are mounted upon horses which can serve no purpose but that of show, which may, indeed, wheel about in the park with a formidable air, but can neither advance upon an enemy with impetuosity, nor retreat from him with expedition; and which, therefore, though purchased by the nation at a very high price, and supported at a large expense, can only grace a review, but are of very little use in an enemy's country, and must perish in the march, or stand unactive in the battle. Nor is much more service to be expected, sir, from their riders, than from the horses, for there are very few of them acquainted with the first elements of their profession, or who have ever learned more than a few postures of exercise, and the meaning of a few words of command, but have a number of officers with large appointments. The French troops, sir, if they are doubly officered, are officered and maintained at a less expense, and to greater effect; for the soldiers are better instructed, and the same number of men cost not, perhaps, much more than half the charge of a British regiment. The guards, sir, that are maintained about this metropolis, for no other purpose than to keep up the splendour of a modern court, cost the nation, yearly, such a sum as would be sufficient to support an army of Frenchmen, for the protection of their frontier towns, or the invasion of neighbouring countries. For my part, I cannot see what injury would be done to the nation by abolishing an establishment, at the same time useless and expensive, and employing that money which is at present squandered upon idlers without effect, upon levies of useful soldiers for marching regiments, who might be employed, when occasion should require them, in the service of their country. It will, doubtless, be objected, that the officers of this body of men, many of whom are persons of the highest merit, and who have, generally, purchased their commissions, might very justly complain of being deprived, without a crime, of that which they have bought at its full value, and to which, therefore, they imagine themselves entitled, till they shall forfeit their right by some offence against the laws, or some neglect of their duty. I shall not, sir, at present, inquire into the justness of this plea, nor examine, whether he who purchases an employment, which he knows to be useless, and therefore burdensome to the publick, deserves that the publick should be solicitous to support him in the enjoyment of it; but I shall declare, on this occasion, with confidence, that I know many of the officers of the guards to be men of honour, who would gladly exchange their posts, so chargeable to the nation, for an opportunity of serving it, and who are not very anxious for the increase of their pay, so they may not be degraded from their present rank. If these gentlemen, sir, might, in the regiments that should be raised by disbanding the guards, be advanced to higher commissions, though with some diminution of their pay, they would imagine themselves abundantly compensated by the happiness of becoming useful subjects, and serving that nation by which they have been, hitherto, supported only to fill up the pomp of levees, and add to the magnificence of drawing-rooms, to loiter in antechambers, and to quarrel at gaming tables. If this scheme should not be approved, the method eligible, in the next degree, seems to be that of incorporating our new levies into the regiments already raised, that being associated with men already acquainted with discipline, they may learn their duty much more expeditiously than in separate bodies, where one officer will be obliged to attend to the instruction of great numbers, and where no man will be excited to application, because no man will see any degree of excellence which he may be ambitious of attaining. I have, indeed, heard no reason alleged for the necessity of new levies, which appeared likely to convince even those by whom it was produced. It appears to me that our present army is more than sufficient for the publick service, without an augmentation, and that some of our regiments might immediately embark, not only without danger to the nation, but with far greater hopes of success, as our enemies would have less time to strengthen their fortifications, and collect their troops, and as disciplined forces are more formidable than troops newly levied; for discipline must be of great efficacy to the success of military undertakings, or all arguments which have been used in the defence of a standing army fall to the ground. In answer to this proposal, we shall probably be once again intimidated with an invasion, whether from the pretender, the Spaniards, the French, or any other power, it is of no great importance. An invasion is a formidable sound; the sack of towns, the destruction of villages, the captivity of our children, the ruin of our fortunes, and the desolation of our country, are frightful images, and may, therefore, be successfully produced, on this occasion, to perplex our thoughts, and embarrass our inquiries. To remove, therefore, this panick, and to dissipate, for ever, the phantoms of invasion, I will lay before the house the opinion of the great commander whose name has already been introduced in this debate. In the late reign, on a day when the great officers of the crown, and many of the council, were at a publick feast in the city, a report was suddenly spread that the duke of Ormond had landed in the west, with two thousand men. This account was, in appearance, well attested, and universally believed; all jollity was, therefore, at an end, the company departed, the council was summoned, and every man offered such expedients as his present thoughts, confused and oppressed with the proximity of the danger, suggested to him. One proposed, that a body of troops should be sent to a distant part of the kingdom, to restrain the seditions of the populace; another apprehended more danger from a different quarter, and advised that the inhabitants should be awed by another detachment sent thither; the most experienced easily saw the unprofitableness of the measures proposed, but could not so easily strike out more efficacious expedients, and therefore sat in great perplexity. Lord Somers, particularly, shook his head, and seemed to consider the kingdom as in the hands of the invaders, and the dreadful pretender as seated on the throne. At last, the duke of MARLBOROUGH, who had hitherto sat silent, asked calmly, whether they were certain that any forces were really landed, and was answered, that though it might not be absolutely certain, yet they were to consult and send orders upon that supposition. Then, says he, I will lay down this great rule to be observed invariably, whenever you are invaded. Attend only to one point, nor have any other purpose in view than that of destroying the regular forces that shall be landed in the kingdom, without any regard to petty insurrections, which may be always easily quelled, and which will probably cease of themselves, when the army by which they were excited is cut off. For this end, let it be your rule, to keep your army undivided, and to make no motion but towards the enemies; fight them with the utmost expedition before they can fortify themselves, or receive reinforcements from the continent. By the observation of this plain method of operation, continued he, I will engage, without any other force than the regiments generally stationed about the capital, to put a stop to any troops that shall be landed on the coast of Britain. So far was this great officer, who was acquainted with the whole art of war, from sinking into astonishment at the sound of an invasion, and so far from thinking it necessary that the nation should be harassed by standing troops, to preserve it from being plundered by a foreign army. But though our troops, sir, should not be necessary to prevent an invasion, they may be useful in services of equal importance; the ministry may think the suffrages of the officers more serviceable than their swords, and may be more afraid of exposing themselves than the nation by any detachment of their forces. Such is, at present, sir, the state of this unhappy country, that neither in peace nor war are any measures taken, but with a view of increasing or confirming the power of the ministry; for this purpose those troops whose officers have seats here, are to be retained at home, and the fate of our American settlements to be committed to new-levied forces, without military skill. For this reason is an army to be raised without necessity, and raised in a manner that may furnish the court with an opportunity of extending its influence, by the disposal of great numbers of new commissions. By this plan every family that is burdened with a relation whose vices have ruined his fortune, or whose stupidity disqualifies him for employment, will have an opportunity of selling, for a commission, its interest at the approaching election; dependence will be propagated, and the troublesome spirit of liberty be depressed. To little purpose will it be objected, that soldiers and officers will be equally ignorant, that discipline is not infused instantaneously, that a military dress will not make a soldier, that men can only know their duty by instruction, and that nothing is to be hoped from ploughmen and manufacturers, commanded by schoolboys. The success of the expedition is not so much considered by those who have the direction of the levies, as that of the election, and while they keep their posts, they are very little concerned about the affairs of America. In defence of this method, it has, indeed, been affirmed, that it was preferred by the duke of MARLBOROUGH; but we are not informed to whom, or upon what occasion he declared his opinion, and, therefore, are left at liberty to doubt, whether his authority is not produced for a method which he did not approve, or approved only at some particular time for some extraordinary service. It is urged, that he recommended it by his practice, and that his success is a sufficient proof that his practice was founded upon right maxims. But if it be remembered what was, in that time, the method of obtaining commissions, and who it was that had the disposal of them, it will appear not absolutely certain, that his practice ought to be produced as a decisive proof of his opinion. If the success of troops be properly urged as an argument for the form of their establishment, may not the victories of prince Eugene afford a proof, equally convincing, that a few officers are sufficient? And if the arguments which arise from success are equal on both sides, ought not the necessity of saving the publick money to turn the balance? War, sir, is in its own nature a calamity very grievous to the most powerful and flourishing people, and to a trading nation is particularly destructive, as it at once exhausts our wealth, and interrupts our commerce, at once drinks up the stream and chokes up the fountain. In those countries whose affairs are wholly transacted within their own frontiers, where there is either very little money, or where their wealth is dug out of their own mines, they are only weakened by the loss of men, or by the diminution of their dominions, and, in general, can only suffer by being overcome. But the state of Britain is far different; it is not necessary to our ruin that an enemy should be stronger than ourselves, that he should be able to pour armies into our country, to cover the sea with fleets, to burn our villages by incursions, or destroy our fortresses with bombs; for he that can secure his own dominions from our attacks, to which nothing but distance and some advantages of situation are necessary, may support a war against us, and he that can fit out privateers to interrupt our trade, may, without obtaining a victory, reduce us to distress. Our situation, sir, as it preserves us from the danger of an invasion, except from that powerful monarch, the pretender, who is, indeed, always to be dreaded, has, likewise, the effect of securing other nations from being invaded by us; for it is very difficult to transport in one fleet, and to land at one time, a number sufficient to force their way into a country where the ports are fortified, and the inhabitants in arms. Our wars, sir, are, therefore, to be determined by naval battles, and those nations have very little to fear from us who have no trade to be disturbed, and no navies to be destroyed; if they can only fit out cruisers, which may always be done by granting commissions to foreign adventurers, they may ruin our merchants by captures, exhaust the nation by the necessity of convoys, and give neutral traders an opportunity of establishing their credit at those markets which have been, hitherto, supplied by our manufactures. This is, indeed, far from being at present an exact account of the state of Spain, whose wide-extended dominions are liable to insults, and from whom many of her most wealthy provinces may be torn without great hazard or difficulty. The particular state of her commerce, which, being only carried on from one part of her dominions to another, can only be for a time interrupted, but is in no danger of being invaded by any rival, or lost by disuse, at least requires our consideration, and we ought to make war with the utmost frugality, against a people whom no hostilities can really impoverish, whose commerce may be said to lie at rest rather than to be shackled, as it will rise into greater vigour at the end of the war, and whose treasures, though the want of them is a present inconvenience, are only piled up for a time of security. As the only method, sir, of reducing this nation, must be that of invading its colonies, and dismembering its provinces, by which the chief persons will be deprived of their revenues, and a general discontent be spread over the people, the forces which are levied for this expedition, an expedition on which so much of the honour of our arms and the prosperity of our trade must necessarily depend, ought to be selected with the greatest care, and disciplined with the exactest regularity. On this occasion, therefore, it is surely improper to employ troops newly collected from shops and villages, and yet more irrational to trust them to the direction of boys called on this occasion from the frolicks of a school, or forced from the bosoms of their mothers, and the softness of the nursery. It is not without compassion, compassion very far extended, that I consider the unhappy striplings doomed to a camp, from whom the sun has hitherto been screened, and the wind excluded, who have been taught, by many tender lectures, the unwholesomeness of the evening mists and the morning dews, who have been wrapt in furs in winter, and cooled with fans in summer, who have lived without any fatigue but that of dress, or any care but that of their complexion. Who can forbear, sir, some degree of sympathy, when he sees animals like these taking their last farewell of the maid that has fed them with sweetmeats, and defended them from insects; when he sees them drest up in the habiliments of soldiers, loaded with a sword, and invested with a command, not to mount the guard at the palace, nor to display their lace at a review; not to protect ladies at the door of an assembly room, nor to show their intrepidity at a country fair, but to enter into a kind of fellowship with the rugged sailor, to hear the tumult of a storm, to sustain the change of climates, and to be set on shore in an enemy's dominions? Surely, he that can see such spectacles without sorrow, must have hardened his heart beyond the common degrees of cruelty, and it may reasonably be expected, that he who can propose any method by which such hardships may be escaped, will be thought entitled to gratitude and praise. For my part, I should imagine, sir, that an easy method might be discovered of obviating such misery, without lessening that number of officers, which, perhaps, in opposition to reason and experience, some gentlemen will continue to think necessary, and hope that this may be no improper time to declare my opinion. I have observed, that for some time no private centinel has ever risen to any rank above that of a serjeant, and that commissions have been reserved as rewards for other services than those of the camp. This procedure I cannot but think at once impolitick and unjust. It is impolitick, sir, as it has a natural tendency to extinguish in the soldiery all emulation and all industry. Soldiers have an equal genius with other men, and undoubtedly there might be found among them great numbers capable of learning and of improving the military sciences; but they have, likewise, the same love of ease, and the desire of honour and of profit, and will not condemn themselves to labour without the prospect of reward, nor sacrifice their time to the attainment of that knowledge, which can have no other effect than to make them discover the stupidity of their commanders, and render their obedience more difficult, as it will destroy that reverence which is necessary to subordination. It is unjust, sir, because it is not to be doubted, that some soldiers, by the natural force of their faculties, or by a laudable activity of mind, have extended their knowledge beyond the duties of a private station; and he that excels in his profession, has an equitable claim to distinction and preferment. To advance any man in the army, because his father is an orator in the senate, or the chief inhabitant of a borough, seems not more rational, than to make another man a judge, because some of his ancestors were skilled in gunnery; nor would the lawyers have juster reasons for complaint in one case, than the soldiers in the other. It is, therefore, sir, in my opinion, necessary to the advancement of military knowledge, that, as a centinel is, for excelling in his profession, advanced to the degree of a serjeant, the serjeant, who continues his application, and performs his duty, should, in time, be honoured with a commission. It may be objected, indeed, that serjeants, though they are skilful commanders in war, can very seldom arrive at any remarkable skill in politicks, and though they should be so fortunate as to gain estates, could never be of any use as the representatives of a borough; and to what purpose should those men be advanced, who can only serve their country, but can contribute very little to the support of the court? This is, I own, sir, an objection, which I despair of answering to the satisfaction of those by whom it will be raised. The hardy serjeant would never cringe gracefully at a levee, would never attain to any successful degree of address in soliciting votes; and if he should by mere bribery be deputed hither, would be unable to defend the conduct of his directors. In vindication of the present scheme, I believe few of those rugged warriours would find many arguments; they would not recommend to the nation a troop of boys, under the command of boys, as the most proper forces to be sent to make conquests in distant countries, nor would imagine, that unskilful soldiers could, under the direction of officers equally ignorant with themselves, attain the knowledge of their duty in the same time as if they were incorporated with regular troops, in which every man might receive instructions, and learn his business from his comrade. I had lately, sir, the opportunity of hearing the opinion of one of the greatest generals in the world, on this subject, who declared, with the utmost confidence of certainty, that raw troops could be disciplined in a short time, only by being incorporated with those that had been already taught their duty, and asserted, that with an army so mixed, he should think himself sufficiently enabled to meet any forces of the same number, and should not fear to acquit himself successfully, either in attacking or defending. Such are the sentiments of this great man, to whom I know not whether any name can be opposed that deserves equally to be reverenced. He has had the honour of defending the rights of his country in the senate as well as in the field, has signalized himself equally in the debate and in the battle, and, perhaps, deserves less regard for having hazarded his life, than for having been divested of his employments. Since, therefore, it is apparent that great numbers of officers are by no means necessary to success in war, since they are dangerous to our liberty in time of peace, since they are certainly expensive, and at best not certainly useful; and since the greatest general of the present age has declared, that our new levies ought to be mingled with our standing forces, I shall think it my duty to vote against the present scheme of raising new regiments, and shall agree to no other supplies than such as may be sufficient for adding the same numbers to the present army. General WADE then spoke as follows:--Sir, though I cannot pretend to pursue the honourable gentleman through the whole compass of his argument, nor shall attempt to stand up as his rival, either in extent of knowledge, or elegance of language, yet as my course of life has necessarily furnished me with some observations relating to the question before us, and my present station in the army may, in some measure, be said to make it my duty to declare my opinion, I shall lay before the house a few considerations, with the artless simplicity of a plain soldier, without engaging in a formal debate, or attempting to overthrow the arguments of others. It is observed, sir, that for the greatest part, the farther any man has advanced in life, the less confidence he places in speculation, and the more he learns to rest upon experience, as the only sure guide in human affairs; and as the transactions in which he is engaged are more important, with the greater anxiety does he inquire after precedents, and the more timorously does he proceed, when he is obliged to regulate his conduct by conjecture or by deliberation. This remark, sir, though it may be just with regard to all states of life, is yet more constantly and certainly applicable to that of the soldier; because, as his profession is more hazardous than any other, he must with more caution guard against miscarriages and errours. The old soldier, therefore, very rarely ventures beyond the verge of experience, unless in compliance with particular accidents, which does not make any change in his general scheme, or in situations where nothing can preserve him but some new stratagem or unprecedented effort, which are not to be mentioned as part of his original plan of operation, because they are produced always by unforeseen emergencies, and are to be imputed, not to choice, but to necessity; for, in consequence of my first principle, an old soldier never willingly involves himself in difficulties, or proceeds in such a manner as that he may not expect success by the regular operations of war. It will not, therefore, be strange, if I, who, having served in the army, in the wars of king William, may justly claim the title of an old soldier, should not easily depart from the methods established in my youth; methods of which their effects have shown me, that they at least answer the intention for which they were contrived, and which, therefore, I shall be afraid of rejecting, lest those which it is proposed to substitute in their place, however probable in speculation, should be found defective in practice, and the reasonings, which, indeed, I cannot answer, should be confuted in the field, where eloquence has very little power. The troops of Britain, formed according to the present establishment, have been found successful; they have preserved the liberties of Europe, and driven the armies of France before them; they have appeared equally formidable in sieges and in battles, and with strength equally irresistible have pressed forward in the field, and mounted the breach. It may be urged, that this vigour, alacrity, and success, cannot be proved to have been produced by the number of officers by whom they were commanded; but since, on the contrary, it cannot be shown that the number of officers did not contribute to their victories, I think it not prudent to try the experiment, which, if it should succeed, as it possibly may, would produce no great advantage; and if it should fail, and that it may fail no man will deny, must bring upon us, not only the expense which we are so solicitous to avoid, but disgrace and losses, a long interruption of our trade, and the slaughter of great numbers of our fellow-subjects. Thus far, sir, I have proceeded upon a supposition that the balance of argument is equal on both sides, and that nothing could be alleged on one part but experience, or objected to the other but the want of it; but as I am now called to declare my opinion in a question relating to my profession, a question of great importance to the publick, I should think that I had not discharged my duty to my country with that fidelity which may justly be exacted from me, if I should omit any observation that my memory may suggest, by which the house may be better enabled to proceed in this inquiry. I think it, therefore, proper to declare, that we not only, in the last great war, experienced the usefulness of numerous officers, but that we have likewise felt the want of them on a signal occasion, and that the only great advantage which our enemies obtained, was gained over an army rendered weak by the want of the usual number of officers. Such were the forces that were defeated at the fatal battle of Almanza, by which almost all Spain was recovered from us. And it is, sir, the opinion of very skilful commanders, that the Germans, only by having fewer officers than the French, did not succeed in those long and obstinate battles of Parma and Guastalla. It is, indeed, natural to imagine, that a greater number of officers must promote success, because courage is kindled by example, and it is, therefore, of use to every man to have his leader in his view. Shame, at one time, and affection at another, may produce the effects of courage where it is wanted, and those may follow their commander, who are inclined to desert their duty; for it is seldom known that, while the officers appear confident, the soldiers despair, or that they think of retreating but after the example of their leaders. Where there are only few officers, it is apparent that more is left to chance, in which it becomes not a wise man to place any confidence; for if the officers are killed at the beginning of the action, the soldiers must become an useless, defenceless herd, without order, without unanimity, and without design; but by the present method, if an officer happens to fall, his place is immediately supplied by another, the action goes forward, and the enemy receives no advantage from confusion or delay. I am, therefore of opinion, that in raising troops for the expedition now intended, the established method ought to be followed, and that we ought not to hazard the success of our attempt by new regulations, of which no human sagacity can fortell the event. Though it cannot be denied, that some addition might be made to our companies without any visible or certain inconvenience, yet the augmentation now intended is too numerous to be so incorporated without some neglect of discipline, as the officers would be charged with more men than they could properly superintend. There is, indeed, sir, another method of incorporation, by adding new companies to each regiment; but of this method the advantage would be small, because the number of captains and inferiour officers must be the same, and the pay of only the field officers would be saved, and this trifling gain would be far over-balanced by the inconveniencies which experience has shown to arise from it. There have been regiments formed of thirteen companies, instead of ten; but it was found, that as the officers of a company may be over-charged with soldiers, a colonel may likewise have more companies than he can conveniently inspect, and the ancient regulation was restored, as the least liable to difficulties and objections. Having thus endeavoured to vindicate the manner in which our new troops are proposed to be levied, it may be expected that I should now make some observations on the service in which they are to be employed, which I cannot think liable to any unanswerable objection. It is now, sir, in our choice whether we will send the new regiments abroad or keep them at home; and our choice may easily be determined by comparing the value of our colonies with that of their mother country. If it be not necessary to have any army here to defend us against insults and invasions, the question about the manner of raising or employing new regiments is superfluous, because none ought to be raised, as our old troops are sufficiently numerous for foreign service. But if the security of the nation requires an army, would it not be madness to send those troops to a distant part of the world, in which we can confide most! Would not those, who speak with such contempt of an expedition undertaken by boys, have a better reason for their censure, if only boys were stationed on our coasts to repel the veterans of France? Would not such measures animate our enemies, and invite an invasion? It may, perhaps, be urged farther, that the troops which are sent into America, are more likely to succeed in their design, than any regiment of ancient establishment. The chief danger to be feared in that part of the world, is not from the enemy but the climate, with which young men are most able to contend, though they may not be equally qualified for attempts in which skill is equally necessary with vigour. I am convinced, sir, that this war has hitherto been prosecuted with ardour and fidelity, and that no measures have been taken but such as experience and reason have supported, and therefore affirm, without scruple, that if we are not successful, our miscarriages must be imputed to the chance of war, from which no prudence can exempt us. Lord QUARENDON spoke next, in the following manner, being his first speech:--Sir, having-but very lately had the honour of a seat in this assembly, I am conscious how little I am acquainted with either the subjects or forms of debate, and should, therefore, continue to listen to the sentiments of persons more experienced, with silent veneration, did I not observe with how much indulgence they are heard who mean well, however deficient in knowledge, or in eloquence. As the honourable gentleman who spoke last, sir, professes to have formed his opinion rather from facts than arguments, I hope I shall be indulged by the house, in an attempt to examine those facts which he has produced, because I think them not sufficient to support his positions, which must, therefore, be established by some other proofs, before a decision of this question can be fixed by them. With regard to his experience, to which undoubtedly no small degree of veneration is due, he confesses that we have tried only one of the two forms of establishment now in competition, and that, therefore, though he has had reason to approve that with which he is most acquainted, he has no certain proofs of the inefficacy or imperfection of the other. But experience, sir, may be extended much farther than our own personal transactions, and may very justly comprehend those observations which we have had opportunities of making upon the conduct and success of others. This gentleman, though he has only commanded in the armies of Britain, has seen the forces of other nations, has remarked their regulations, and heard of their actions with our confederates in the last war; he has probably acted in conjunction, and though it is known that they differ from us in the proportion of soldiers and officers, he has mentioned no disadvantage which might be supposed to arise from their establishment, and therefore, I suppose, he cannot deny that their behaviour and success was the same with that of our own troops. The battles of Almanza, Parma, and Guastalla, which he has particularly mentioned, were lost, as he informs us, by armies not officered according to the establishment which he recommends to us: but it is observable that his argument is defective in an essential part; for though he affirms that the armies which were defeated had fewer officers than the enemy, he has neither shown, nor attempted to show, that the want of officers occasioned the defeat, or that the loss would have been prevented by a greater number. These instances, therefore, can be of no effect on the determination of the present question; for though it is certain that at Germany, and at other places, armies with few officers have lost the battle, it is not less common for those troops that are more liberally supplied, to be overthrown by others which are differently modelled. With regard, sir, to the troops of Germany, I have heard them praised, in many parts of Europe, as not inferiour either to those of France, or of any other nation, and have been informed, that their ill success, both at Parma and Guastalla, may be justly imputed to other causes than the want of officers. There has, perhaps, sir, seldom been an example of firmness, discipline, and resolution, beyond that which was shown by the Germans at the action of Parma, where they attacked the trenches of the French, sustained the fire of the ramparts of the city, and though they lost their commander-in-chief and two others, towards the beginning of the action, they continued the fight for eleven hours, and at last retired only at the approach of night. At Guastalla, sir, they attacked the French in their trenches, even with forces inferiour in number, so far were they from any diffidence in the form of their establishment; and after a fight of seven hours, in which their loss was, under all their disadvantages, not greater than that of their enemies, they retreated to their former camp unmolested and unpursued. The French, sir, were preserved in both these battles, not by the number of their officers, but by their situation, by woods, cassines, ditches, and intrenchments. Nor do I discover, sir, what can be inferred from his observation of the influence of example in time of action, but that officers should be selected with great care, and not be promoted by favour, or interest, or caprice; for an example of cowardice in a leader must be pernicious, in proportion as that of bravery is beneficial; and as, where more officers are supposed necessary, there is less room for choice, it must be allowed that the troops, which have more officers than other forces, are in more danger of being infected with cowardice. It appears, therefore, to me that the expense of the present establishment is a certain evil, and that the advantages are very doubtful: it appears that the present state of the nation requires frugality, and, therefore, I shall vote for the incorporation of our new levies with the old regiments. By this incorporation, sir, our new-levied troops will be no longer distinguished from our veterans; they will be equally acquainted with discipline, and will learn, from the conversation of their associates, a spirit of enterprise, and a contempt of danger; we may then employ forces equally formidable in all parts of the publick service, and invade the dominions of our enemies, without leaving our own country desolate. The arguments which the honourable gentleman has offered in defence of sending our younger troops to America, which may likewise be used against an incorporation, is, in my opinion, sir, far from being conclusive; for it supposes, what will not be granted, that a cold climate may be changed for a hotter with more safety by a young than an old man. I have been told, on the contrary, that superabundant heat is the great disease of youth, and that the want of it produces most of the infirmities of age; and every one has known the lives of persons languishing with age, prolonged by a removal into warm countries. I am, therefore, of opinion, that the honourable gentleman's argument is defective in all its parts, and hope that I shall not be charged with obstinacy or perverseness for dissenting from him. Mr. HOWE spoke next, in substance as follows:--Sir, before I engage in a discussion of the question, I cannot but think it necessary to observe, that the honourable gentleman who spoke the second in this debate, has been very far from consulting either policy or justice in his declamation, and that he deviated from the subject only to ridicule his country, to exalt our enemies, and depress our efforts. He has described, sir, the British youth, the sons of noble families, and the hopes of the nation, in terms too contemptuous to be heard without indignation; he has amused himself with displaying their ignorance and their effeminacy, and has indulged his imagination in a malignant kind of gaiety, which, however it may divert himself, is very far from contributing either to the reformation or prevention of those practices which he censures. I believe, sir, it will be granted, that nothing ought to please but in proportion to its propriety and truth; and, if we try the satire that we have lately heard, by this test, it will be found to have very little claim to applause; for our armies must be composed of the youth of the nation; and, for my part, I cannot discover what advantage we shall gain over the Spaniards, by informing them how little our troops are accustomed to danger, how short a time they have been acquainted with fatigue, how tenderly they have been nursed, how easily they may be frighted, and how certainly they will be conquered, if they but meet with opposition. Nor, sir, is such an account of the youth of Britain more true, in my opinion, than it is prudent. I am far from discovering any such remarkable degeneracy in the age, or any great prevalence of cowardice and unmanly delicacy; nor do I doubt of hearing that our youth, if they are sent upon any expedition, have shown that the British courage is not yet extinguished, and that, if they are ranged on the plains of America, they will discover themselves the sons of those that forced those passes, and those trenches, that other troops would have failed in attempting. That the degeneracy of the British youth, is, at least, not universal, we have just now sir, received an incontestable proof from the gentleman who spoke last, and spoke with so much elegance of language, and justness of reasoning, as shows, that there are to be found, among the youth of Britain, persons very well qualified for the senate; and I have never heard that a post in the army required greater abilities. The pleasure, however, with which I have attended to his remarks, has not so far prejudiced me in favour of his opinion, as that I shall easily consent to change that method of discipline, to which our troops have been accustomed, and of which we know by experience, that it is, at least, not less efficacious than that of any other nation. Customs, if they are not bad, are not to be changed, because it is an argument in favour of a practice that the people have experienced it, and approved it, and every change is disagreeable to those who judge only by prejudice, of whom I need not say how great is the number. Many arguments may, sir, in my opinion, be added to our experience in favour of the present establishment. The number of officers--but I find myself unable to pursue my design, because I can no longer read my notes, which, being written by another hand, somewhat embarrass me in this decline of the light. I shall, therefore, only make some observations upon the speech of the gentleman who spoke the second in this debate, and hope that I shall be allowed to deviate from the principal question, since I do it only in pursuit of another. He has observed, that our troopers are mounted upon horses that are of no use; a remark, sir, which I never heard from any other person, and for which, I believe, no authority can be produced: they are mounted, indeed, upon horses very different from those which are used by other nations, because scarcely any other country breeds horses of equal size and strength, and, therefore, I am informed that the French have purchased horses from this island, and believe that all the cavalry of Europe would be mounted upon our horses if they could procure them. I have been informed, that their pressure in the shock of battle is such, as no forces in the world are able to sustain; and that it was not less by the strength of our horses than the spirit of our soldiers, that the squadrons of France were, in the battle of Blenheim, pushed into the Danube. Nor do I less disapprove his censure of the choice which has been made of the troops intended for the American service, which, though I ardently desire its success, I cannot think of equal importance with the defence of our own country; for though we may be disgraced by a defeat, we can be endangered only by an invasion; and, therefore, I think it necessary to retain those troops on which we may best rely for the security of this island, lest our enemies should take the advantage of their absence, and set the pretender on the throne. Sir William YONGE next rose, and spoke to the effect following:--Sir, it is a standing maxim, both in private life and public transactions, that no man can obtain great advantages who is afraid of petty inconveniencies; and that he that will hope to obtain his end without expense, will languish for ever in fruitless wishes, and have the mortification of seeing the adventurous and the liberal enjoy that felicity, which, though it is within his reach, he is afraid of seizing. When the depredations of the Spaniards became first the subject of our debates, nothing was heard amongst us but threats of vengeance, demands of reparation, assertions of sovereignty, and resolutions to obtain security: the importance of our commerce, the necessity of rigorous measures, the danger of pusillanimity, the meanness of negotiation, and the disadvantages of delay, were thundered from every part of the house. Every man seemed to imagine that there was no mean between victory and ruin, and that not to humble Spain was to betray our country to insults, ignominy, and slavery. Far was I then, sir, from suspecting, that when the war, thus vehemently urged, should be declared, that the prosecution of it would produce any debates. I doubted not but that every man would be desirous of signalizing his zeal for the prosperity of commerce, by expediting the supplies, and forwarding the preparations; and that the only contention among us would be, who should appear the most ardent enemy of Spain. But no sooner are hostilities begun against this insolent and oppressive nation, than those who expressed most resentment at the prudence and moderation by which they were delayed, those that accused every attempt for an accommodation, of cowardice, and charged the ministry with conniving at the rapine of pirates, begin to inquire into the necessity of the expenses occasioned by the war, to harangue on the advantages of parsimony, and to think it of more importance to ease our taxes than to subdue our enemies. In pursuance of this new doctrine they are now endeavouring to embarrass the measures of his majesty, that they may save, according to their own computation, only thirty thousand pounds, which, in reality, I can easily show to be no more than fifteen thousand. For the sake of this important sum, our army is to be modelled by a new regulation, and the success of the war is to be impeded, the security of our commerce to be hazarded, and our colonies are to be endangered. Frugality is, undoubtedly, a virtue, but is, like others, to be practised on proper occasions: to compute expenses with a scrupulous nicety, in time of war, is to prefer money to safety, and, by a very perverse kind of policy, to hazard the whole for the preservation of a part. The gentlemen, sir, who have most endeavoured to distinguish themselves as the constant opponents of the administration, have charged it, on all occasions, with giving encouragement to the Spaniards, but can charge it with nothing so likely to raise the confidence and confirm the obstinacy of the enemy, as the objections which they themselves have made to the present scheme of levying forces; for to how great a degree of poverty must they believe that nation reduced, of which the warmest patriots struggle to save a sum so inconsiderable, by an experiment of so much uncertainty? And how easily will the Spaniards promise themselves, that they shall gain the victory only by obliging us to continue in a state of war, a state which, by our own confession, we are not able to support? Had any other argument, sir, been produced than the necessity of parsimony, it had been less dangerous to have agreed to this new scheme; but to adopt it only for the sake of sparing fifteen thousand pounds, would be to make ourselves contemptible, to intimidate our allies, and to unite all those against us, who are inclined to trample on misery, and to plunder weakness. I am inclined to judge so favourably, sir, of the intentions of those whom I am now opposing, that I believe they have only used this argument, because they were able to produce no other, and that if either reason or experience had been on their side, the poverty of the nation had not been mentioned. But the honourable gentleman, who has been so long engaged in military employments, has shown that all our success has been obtained by the present establishment, and that the battle in which we suffered most, was lost by our unfortunate deficiency of officers. Nor do his reasons, sir, however modestly offered, deserve less regard than his experience, for he has shown that a greater number of officers naturally contribute to preserve discipline, and excite courage; and it is not necessary that a man should be much a soldier to discover, that discipline and courage united, must generally prevail. To the examples which he has produced in favour of his opinion, it has been objected, that victories equally wonderful have been gained with fewer officers, and, by the honourable gentleman that spoke the second on this occasion, the actions of Eugene were opposed to those of the duke of MARLBOROUGH. That victories have been gained by troops differently regulated, I cannot deny; victories have likewise been gained, sir, under every circumstance of disadvantage; victories have been gained by inferiour numbers, and by raw troops, over veteran armies, yet no prudent general ever produced these instances as arguments against the usefulness of discipline, or as proofs that superiority of numbers was no advantage. The success of prince Eugene, in the late war, was far from convincing the British general, that the German establishment was preferable to our own; for he required that the Hessian troops, which were paid by Britain, should be officered like our national troops. In this he could be influenced only by his own opinion; for he neither nominated their officers, nor could advance his interest at home by creating new posts to which he did not recommend; he could, therefore, only regard the success of the war, and changed their model only because he thought it defective. The Germans themselves, sir, are far from imagining that their armies might not be made more formidable by approaching nearer to the British methods; for one of their officers, a man of great reputation and experience, has informed me, that they were convinced of their defect, and that nothing hindered them from adding more officers, but the fear of expenses; that they imputed all their defeats to the necessity of parsimony, that their men wanted not courage but leaders, and that their enemies gained advantages merely by the superiority of their opulence. In the late war, it was common for the auxiliary troops, when they were sent upon any expedition of importance, to be supplied with officers either from their other regiments, or by the British forces; so necessary did the duke of MARLBOROUGH think a larger number of officers in time of action, that where he could not alter the establishment, he deviated from the common methods of war, and transferred his officers occasionally into troops over which they had no settled authority. It is, therefore, most evident, sir, that the model on which our troops are formed, was, by this great commander, preferred to that which is now so warmly recommended, and I know not why we should recede from his practice, if we are desirous of his success. Nor can I discover, sir, any better method of selecting officers than that which has of late been followed, however some may censure or ridicule it. To advance gentlemen to command, seems to be the most likely way to unite authority with rank, for no man willingly obeys those to whom he has lately seen himself equal, or whose conduct in lower stations he has, perhaps, had opportunities of examining too nearly. The distinction of birth, however chimerical in itself, has been so long admitted, and so universally received, that it is generally imagined to confer on one man an indelible and evident superiority over another, a superiority, which those who would easily imagine themselves equal in merit cannot deny, and which they allow more willingly, because, though it be an advantage to possess it, to want it cannot be justly considered as a reproach. For this reason, sir, men cheerfully obey those to whom their birth seems to have subjected them, without any scrupulous inquiries into their virtue or abilities; they have been taught from their childhood to consider them as placed in a higher rank than themselves, and are, therefore, not disgusted at any transient bursts of impatience, or sudden starts of caprice, which would produce, at least, resentment, and, perhaps, mutiny, in men newly exalted from a low station. The more attentively, sir, we look upon the world, the more strongly shall we be convinced of the truth of these assertions, and the more evidently shall we discover the influence which operates, in a degree scarcely credible, even to those who have experienced its power, and which is, indeed, one of the chief means of subordination, by which society is held together. Nor are officers of birth, sir, to be preferred to men who are recommended by nothing but military service, only because they are more cheerfully obeyed, but for another reason of equal importance. It has been observed, that, in reality, they discharge the duty of commanders in a manner more likely to preserve dignity and increase reverence; that they discover, on all occasions, a sense of honour, and dread of disgrace, which are not easily to be found in a mind contracted by a mean education, and depressed by long habits of subjection. It is not, indeed, sir, universally and unvariably certain, that a man, raised from meanness and poverty, will be insolent and oppressive; nor do I doubt but there are many now languishing in obscurity, whose abilities might add new lustre to the highest honours, and whose integrity would very faithfully discharge the most important trust, and in their favour, wherever they can be discovered, some exceptions ought to be made; but as general rules are generally to be followed, as well in military regulations as other transactions, it will be found, upon the exactest inquiry, by no means improper to advance gentlemen to posts of command rather than private sentinels, however skilful or courageous. It is to be considered, sir, that the present state of the continent, has for many years made it necessary to support an army, even when we are not engaged in an actual war; that this army, though of late it has, for the ease of the people, been sometimes encamped during the summer, is, for the greatest part, quartered in towns, and mingled with the rest of the community, but governed, at the same time, by the officers, and subject to the martial law. It has often been observed by those who have argued against standing forces, that this difference of government makes different societies, which do not combine in the same interest, nor much favour one another; and it is, indeed, certain, that feuds are sometimes produced, that when any private quarrel happens, either by drunkenness or accident, or claims really disputable, between a soldier and any other, person, each applies for support and assistance to those in the same condition with himself, the cause becomes general, and the soldiers and townsmen are not easily restrained from blows and bloodshed. It is true, likewise, that the rhetorick of the patriots has been so efficacious, that their arguments have been so clamorously echoed, and their weekly productions so diligently dispersed, that a great part of the nation, as men always willingly admit what will produce immediate ease or advantage, believes the army to be an useless burden imposed upon the people for the support of the ministry; that the landlord, therefore, looks upon the soldier as an intruder forced into his house, and rioting in sloth at his expense; and the farmer and manufacturer have learned to call the army the vermin of the land, the caterpillars of the nation, the devourers of other men's industry, the enemies of liberty, and the slaves of the court. It is not to be supposed, sir, that the soldiers entertain the same ideas of their profession, or that they do not conceive themselves injured by such representations: they undoubtedly consider themselves as the bulwark of their country, as men selected for the defence of the rest of the community, as those who have engaged, at the hazard of their lives, to repel invasion, and repress rebellion, and who contribute more than their part to the general felicity, by securing property, and preventing danger. It is not to be doubted, sir, but sentiments so widely different, must produce an equal contrariety of claims, and diversity of conduct: the trader imagines, that the man who subsists upon the taxes which are raised only from his labour, ought to consider himself as his inferiour, at least, if not as his hireling and his servant; the soldier wonders how he can ever conceive himself sufficiently grateful to him that has devoted his life to his defence, and to whom he must fly for protection whenever danger shall approach him, and concludes, that he has an incontestable right to the better part of that, of which the preservation of the whole depends upon him. Thus does self-love magnify every man in his own eyes, and so differently will men determine when each is to judge in his own cause. Which of these competitors thinks most justly of his own station and character, or whether both are not mistaken in their opinion, I think it by no means necessary to decide. This, at least, is evident, that to preserve peace and harmony between two bodies of men obliged to live together with sentiments so opposite, there is required an uncommon degree of prudence, moderation, and knowledge of mankind, which is chiefly to be exerted on the part of the soldiers, because they are subject to more rigorous command, and are more easily governed by the authority of their superiours. Let us suppose any dispute of this kind, sir, to happen where the soldiers were commanded only by private sentinels, disguised in the dress of officers, but retaining, what it cannot be expected that they should suddenly be able to lay aside, the prejudices which they had imbibed in the ranks, and all the ardour of trifling competition in which their station had once engaged them. What could be expected from their councils and direction? Can it be imagined that they would inquire impartially into the original cause of the dispute, that they would attend equally to the parties, endeavour, by mildness and candour, to soften the malevolence of each, and terminate the dispute by some addressful expedient, or decent accommodation? He, surely, must be very little acquainted with the vulgar notions of bravery and honour, that could form any hopes of such conduct. The plain soldier, sir, has not accustomed himself to regulate his motions by reason, nor has learned any more of honour, than that it consists in adhering invariably to his pretensions, even though he should discover that they are false; and in resenting affronts with the utmost rigour, even when they were provoked by himself, he is taught, that it is his business to conquer in whatever cause, and that to desist from any of his attempts, or retract any of his assertions, is unworthy of a man of honour. Warm with such notions as these, sir, would such officers, as have been recommended by the honourable gentleman, apply themselves to the termination of differences? Without any knowledge of the laws of society, without any settled ideas of the different rights of different persons, they would have nothing in view but the honour of their profession, nor endeavour to support it by any other method than that of violence. If a soldier was affronted by a farmer, they would probably lay his territories waste, and ravage his plantations like an enemy's country; if another disagreed with his landlord, they would advise him to _make good his quarters_, to invade the magazines of provision without restraint, to force the barricadoes of the cellar, and to forage in the stables without controul. But gentlemen, sir, are proper judges of debates between the army and the rest of the community, because they are equally related to both parties, as men who possess or expect estates, or who are allied to those whose influence arises from their property. As men bred in affluence and freedom, and acquainted with the blessings of our constitution, and the necessity of civil government, they cannot willingly contribute to the increase of the military power, and as members of the army they cannot but be desirous to support their own rank, and to hinder their profession from sinking into contempt; it is, therefore, their care to repress insolence on one part, and to prevent oppression on the other, to stop dissensions in their beginning, and reconcile all the different pretensions of Britons and soldiers. I am, indeed, surprised, sir, to hear the promotion of serjeants recommended by the honourable gentleman who has so often strained his lungs, and exhausted his invention, to explain how much our constitution is endangered by the army, how readily those men will concur in the abolition of property who have nothing to lose, and how easily they may be persuaded to destroy the liberties of their country, who are already cut off from the enjoyment of them, who, therefore, can only behold with envy and malevolence those advantages which they cannot hope to possess, and which produce in them no other effects than a quicker sense of their own misery. Upon what principles, sir, any gentleman can form those notions, or with what view he can so long and so studiously disperse them, it is his province to explain; for the only reason that can be offered by any other person for his incessant declamations, the desire of securing his country from the oppression of a standing army, is now for ever overthrown by this new proposal; which, if it were to be received, would in a very few years produce an army proper to be employed in the execution of the most detestable designs, an army that could be of no other use than to gratify an ambitious prince, or a wicked ministry, as it would be commanded, not by men who had lost their liberty, but by men who never enjoyed it, by men who would abolish our constitution without knowing that they were engaged in any criminal undertaking, who have no other sense of the enjoyment of authority than that it is the power of acting without controul, who have no knowledge of any other laws than the commands of their superiours. To men like these, sir, to men raised up from poverty and servility to rank and power, to ignorance invested with command, and to meanness elated with preferment, would any real patriot, any zealous assertor of liberty, any inflexible enemy to the corruptions of the ministry, consign the protection of his country, and intrust to these our happiness, properties, and our lives? Whether the honourable gentleman has changed any of the sentiments which he has hitherto appeared to admit with regard to the army, whether this new determination is only an instance of that inconsistency which is scarcely to be avoided in the vindication of a bad cause, or whether he was betrayed to it only by his hatred of the administration, which would prompt him to recant his own advice, if it should happen to be approved, I will not pretend to determine, but I must lament, on this occasion, the entertainment which the house will lose, by the eternal cessation of any harangues on the army, since he cannot now declaim on either part without contradicting his former declarations. Nor will the honourable gentleman find less difficulty in proving, that justice, rather than policy, requires the promotion of Serjeants to commissions. Military preferments are always at the disposal of the crown, nor can any right be pretended to them, but such as arises from the custom which has been generally followed in conferring them, which is not only variable at pleasure, but has never been, at any time, regularly observed. The order of rotation has been suffered sometimes to proceed, because of two persons, otherwise equal, he that has served longest may plead the most merit; but the plea of service has been always overruled by birth or powerful recommendation. And though, sir, it is natural for men disappointed to complain, yet as those officers, whose preferment has been delayed, were not thought, in reality, to have received any injury, their murmurs have been the less regarded. It might be expected, sir, from a patriot, a lamenter of the degeneracy of mankind, and an inflexible opponent of corruption, that he should consider rather facts than persons, that he should regulate his decision by the unvariable principles of reason and justice, and that, therefore, he should not applaud at one time what he condemns at another. But this gentleman seems to have established some new maxims of conduct, and, perhaps, upon new notions of morality; for he seems to imagine, that his friends may seize, as their right, what his adversaries cannot touch without robbery, though the claim of both be the same. It is well known, sir, to the whole army, that a noble person, whose abilities are so loudly celebrated, whose virtues are so liberally praised, and whose removal from his military employments is so solemnly lamented as a publick calamity, obtained his first preferments by pretensions very different from military merit, and that at the age only of seventeen, a time of life in which, whatever might be his abilities, very little prudence or experience could be expected, he was advanced to the command of a regiment, and exalted above many officers whose known bravery and frequent hazards entitled them to favour. I do not assert that he was undeservedly promoted, or condemn those who either solicited or granted his commission; I maintain only, that what was then reasonable and just, is not now either iniquitous or ridiculous, and different persons in the same circumstances have a right to the same treatment. In the reign of queen Anne, a reign, sir, which every Briton recollects with so much satisfaction, and which will for ever afford examples of the wisest councils, and most successful wars, when new regiments were to be raised, it was far from being thought necessary to observe this gentleman's favourite method of rotation; posts were filled, not with the officers of other regiments, that room might be left for the promotion of serjeants, but with gentlemen who had never seen a battle, or learned any part of the military discipline. But though, sir, the regulation of our army be thus violently attacked, the greatest crime of the ministry is, in this gentleman's opinion, that of levying new troops, when we have no employment for our standing forces, of laying unnecessary impositions upon the nation, and alarming with the fears of an invasion, only that the army might be increased. On this head, sir, a declaration of the duke of MARLBOROUGH has been produced, with a great pomp of circumstances, and such a seeming accuracy of narration, that the attention of the house was engaged, and the account was received with all the solemnity of universal silence, and with the veneration due to so high an authority in a question of so much importance. The subject is, indeed, so worthy of regard, that I think, sir, every man ought to contribute to its elucidation, and, therefore, I take the liberty of adding to the honourable gentleman's relation, what I hope will be heard with equal curiosity, the method by which that great commander proposed to put a stop to an invasion with so small a number. He was very far, sir, from imagining that he should be able to repel them by open force, he was far from being so confident of his superiority in military skill, as to imagine that he should defeat them by stratagem, and, therefore, he designed, by burning the villages, and destroying the country, to deprive them of the means of subsistence, and harass them with famine; to hover at a distance, and cut off those parties which necessity should force out to forage, till a body of troops could be assembled sufficient to overthrow them in a battle, or to drive them back to their ships. Such was the scheme, sir, as I have been informed, of this great man, nor, perhaps, can any other be struck out by human abilities, where greater numbers are to be opposed by smaller. But this scheme, though preferable, in the last extremities, to slavery, is such as cannot be mentioned without horrour, and of which the execution ought to be avoided by every expedient that can be practised without the danger of our liberties. We ought, certainly, not to reject a nauseous medicine, by which that health is preserved, which, if lost, can only be restored by the amputation of a limb. As it was, therefore, necessary, sir, to secure our coasts from an invasion, it was necessary to raise new troops for the American expedition; nor did this method produce any delay, for the regiments were completed a long time before the ships of war and the transports were ready to convoy and receive them, nor could the utmost ardour and diligence despatch them sooner from our coasts. The ships, sir, were, by the violence of a frost, scarcely exampled, retained, for a long time, in the harbours, without a possibility of being put to sea; when they were all assembled at the place appointed for their conjunction, they waited for a wind; all the delay that can be objected, was produced by the seasons, of which the regulation was in no man's power. But the time, sir, which was unwillingly spent in the camp, was not, however, lost or misemployed, for the troops were, by the order of the general, every day exercised, and instructed in the art of war, so that what was lost in time, was more than recompensed by the advantage of better discipline. Nor did these troops appear an herd so ignorant and contemptible, as they have been represented by malicious invectives and ludicrous descriptions; there were not, indeed, among them many grey-headed warriours, nor were their former campaigns and past exploits the subjects of their conversation; but there was not one amongst them who did not appear ready to suffer, in the cause of his country, all that the most hardened veteran could undergo, or whose alacrity and eagerness did not promise perseverance in the march, and intrepidity in the battle. Their general, sir, who saw them pursue their exercises, declared how much he was satisfied with their proficiency, applauded their appearance, and expressed his confidence in their courage; nor do I doubt, but our enemies will find, that it is not necessary to send out our most formidable forces to humble them, and that the youth of Britain will compensate their want of experience by their courage. If I, sir, have been drawn aside from the present question, it is by following, perhaps, with an exactness too scrupulous, the honourable gentleman, whose propositions I have now shown to be erroneous, and whose reproaches will, I believe, now appear rather the effects of disappointment than of zeal, and, therefore, I think it now necessary to return to the business before us, the consideration of the present establishment, from which, as it was approved by the duke of MARLBOROUGH, and has been defended with very strong arguments, by one of the most experienced officers of this time, I cannot think it safe or prudent to depart. Mr. GRENVILLE spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, as a noble person has been frequently hinted at in this debate, to whom my relation is well known, and whom, as I know him well, I have the strongest motives to reverence and honour, I cannot forbear to give, on this occasion, an attestation which he will be allowed to deserve by all those whom interest has not blinded, and corruption depraved. It will be allowed, sir, that he is one of those who are indebted for their honours only to merit, one whom the malice of a court cannot debase, as its favour cannot exalt; he is one of those whose loss of employments can be a reproach only to those who take them from him, as he cannot forfeit them but by performing his duty, and can only give offence by steady integrity, and a resolution to speak as he thinks, and to act as his conscience dictates. There are, sir, men, I know, to whom this panegyrick will seem romantick and chimerical, men, to whom integrity and conscience are idle sounds, men, who are content to catch the word of their leader, who have no sense of the obligation of any law but the supreme will of him that pays them, and who know not any virtue but diligence in attendance, and readiness in obedience. It is surely, sir, no loss to the noble person to be debarred from any fellowship with men like these. Nothing can be more unpleasing to virtue than such a situation as lays it under a necessity of beholding wickedness that cannot be reformed; as the sight of a pesthouse must raise horrour, though we should suppose the spectator secure from the contagion. Mr. ORD spoke next, in substance as follows:--Sir, as I cannot approve the scheme now proposed, for augmenting our forces, I shall endeavour to show why the arguments, by which it has hitherto been supported, have failed to convince me, and shall lay before the house some reasons against it, to which I shall expect an answer, before I shall think that I can agree to it, without squandering the money of which my constituents have intrusted me with the disposal. The argument, sir, with which this motion was introduced, which is, indeed, the strongest that has yet been offered, was, that this estimate is less expensive than one that was laid before the house in a late reign, and that, therefore, it could not reasonably be charged with extravagance. Let us now consider this argument with that care which is required by the importance of the question, let us inquire what consequences will follow from it, and to what previous suppositions it must owe its force. The argument, sir, evidently supposes that the estimate in king William's reign was drawn up without any intention to deceive the house, or to raise money for purposes different from those for which it was really expended. But if we suppose that estimate to be fraudulently calculated, this may contain the same fallacies in a lower degree, and the only merit that can be claimed by the authors of it, will be, that they are not the most rapacious plunderers of their country, that, however they may be charged with profusion of publick money, they are yet more modest than some of their predecessors. But it is known, sir, that in king William's reign, very few estimates were honestly computed; it is known that the rotation of parties, and fluctuation of measures, reduced the ministry to subsist upon artifices, to amuse the senate with exorbitant demands, only that they might obtain the necessary grants, and to pretend expenses which never were incurred, that the supplies which the publick affairs really required, might not be withheld; as fraudulent tradesmen fix immoderate prices, that the buyer may make offers proportionate to their demands. The estimates, therefore, of that reign are of very little authority, though they might sometimes pass the house without censure; for it is to be considered, that by the frequency of new elections, the greatest part of the members were often unacquainted with the state of publick accounts, and that an army was so little known to this kingdom, that the true expense of it might easily be concealed. Nor is this, sir, the only fallacy of this argument; for it supposes, likewise, that the nation is no less wealthy than in the time when that computation was offered, with which this is so triumphantly compared. For every man knows that publick as well as private expenses are to be proportioned to the revenue by which they are supplied, and that the charges which are easily supported at one time, may threaten ruin at another. But unhappily, sir, it is evident, that, since the days of that sovereign, the nation has been exhausted by a long and wasteful war, and since, by a peace equally destructive, it is embarrassed with an enormous debt, and entangled in treaties, of which the support may call every day for new expenses; it has suffered since that time a thousand losses, but gained no advantage, and yet the expenses of that time are mentioned as an example to be compared with those which are proposed in this. The difference of the condition of the British nation at those two periods of time, sir, is not less than that of the strength of the same man in the vigour of youth and the frigidity of old age, in the flush of health and the languor of disease, of the same man newly risen from rest and plenty, and debilitated with hunger and fatigue. To make such a comparison, sir, betrays, at least, a very criminal insensibility, of the publick misery, if it may not be charged with greater malignity. I know not whether those who shall hear of this debate, may not impute such reflections rather to cruelty than negligence, and imagine that those who squander the treasure of the nation take pleasure in reproaching that poverty which their counsels produce, and indulge their own vanity by contemplating the calamities from which they are themselves secure, and to which they are indebted for opportunities of increasing their own fortunes, and gratifying their ambition. It is evident, that an estimate which requires less than that which has been mentioned, may yet exact more than the nation can now raise, without feeling too great inconveniencies to be compensated by the advantages which can be expected from our new forces. Nor is it sufficient that it is lower than those of former times; for, as it ought to be the care of the government to preserve the ease and happiness of the people, it should be reduced in proportion to the diminution of the national wealth. The right honourable gentleman confesses, sir, that frugality is a virtue, and his argument supposes that to contract expenses is an argument of prudent measures; why then is he afraid of carrying virtue to a greater height, of making the burden still more light, and preferring the cheapest estimate that can be proposed, when it is asserted by those whose authority is most worthy of regard, that it will produce no weakness in our troops, nor give our enemies any superiority? I do not pretend any other skill in military affairs, than may be gained by casual conversation with soldiers, and by a cursory observation of daily occurrences; but I speak with greater confidence on this occasion, because I do not think any other qualifications necessary for the determination of this question, than a habit of just reasoning, and freedom from the prejudices of interest. Every man knows, sir, without a military education, that it is imprudent to purchase any thing at a greater price which may be procured at a less, and that when the same sum will buy two things, of which one is evidently preferable to the other, the best ought to be chosen. If the application of either of these two positions will decide this controversy, there will be no need of recurring to experience, of citing the authority of foreign commanders, of comparing the actions of the German and British generals, or of inquiring how battles have been lost, or to what victories are to be ascribed. It is evident, sir, that the scheme now proposed, is twice as costly as that which is recommended in opposition to it, and therefore, unless it will produce twice the advantage, it must be acknowledged to be imprudently chosen. The advantage in war, is to be rated by comparing the strength of different numbers in different circumstances, and inquiring what degree of superiority will be found. If we suppose, sir, two bodies of men, equally armed and disciplined, opposed to each other without any advantage of situation, we must conceive that neither party could be conquered, that the balance of the day must remain equal, and that the contest would continue undecided. It cannot be objected to this supposition, sir, that no such event is recorded in history, because in war many causes really act which cannot be estimated; one army may consist of soldiers more courageous, and more confident in the justice of their cause; unforeseen accidents may operate, orders may be mistaken, or leaders may be misinformed; but all these considerations are to be set aside in speculation, because they may equally be alleged on either part. Two bodies of men, sir, equally numerous, being, therefore, supposed equal, it is to be inquired how either may be superiour to the other. It is proposed, on one part, to produce this effect by doubling the number of officers rather than increasing that of the soldiers; on the other, to double the soldiers under the same officers, the expense being the same of both methods. When two armies, modelled according to these different schemes, enter the field, what event can be expected? Either five thousand men, with a double number of officers, must be equal to ten thousand, differently regulated, or the publick has paid more for assistance of the officers than its real value, and has chosen, of two methods equally expensive, that which is least efficacious. This, sir, is the state of the question now before us; our present deficiency is not of men but money, and we may procure ten thousand men regulated like the foreign troops, at the same expense as five thousand in the form proposed; but I am afraid that no man will be found to assert, that the addition of officers will be equivalent to a double number of soldiers. Thus it is evident, sir, evident to demonstration, that the most expensive method is, at the same time, the least advantageous, and that the proposal of new regiments is intended to augment the strength of the ministry rather than of the army. If we suppose, sir, what is more than any foreigner will grant, that the additional officers raise a body of five thousand men to an equality with six thousand, is not the pay of four thousand men apparently thrown away? And do not the officers receive a reward which their service cannot deserve? Would it not be far more rational to raise seven thousand, by which our army would be stronger by a seventh part, and as the pay of three thousand would be saved, the publick would be richer by almost a third. Surely, sir, numerical arguments cannot but deserve some consideration, even from those who have learned by long practice to explain away mere probability at pleasure, to select the circumstances of complicated questions, and only to show those which may be produced in favour of their own opinions. In the present question, sir, there is very little room for fallacy; nor do I see what remains to the decision of it, but that those gentlemen who have been acquainted with military operations, inform us, what degree of superiority is conferred by any assignable number of officers; that we may compare their service with the price, and discover whether the same money will not purchase greater advantages. The experience of the late war may evince, sir, that those troops which have the greatest number of officers are not always victorious; for our establishment never admitted the same, or nearly the same number with that of the French, our enemies; nevertheless, we still boast of our victories; nor is it certain that we might not have been equally successful, though the number of our officers had been yet less. Foreigners, sir, are very far from discovering the defect of their own establishment, or imagining that they should become more formidable by imitating our methods. When I travelled, I took opportunities of conversing with the generals of those nations which are most famous for the valour of their troops, and was informed by them, that they thought a multitude of officers by no means useful, and that they were so far from desiring to see their own regulation changed, that they should make no scruple of recommending it to other nations, who, in their opinion, squandered their treasure upon useless commissions, and increased the calamities of war by unnecessary burdens. I hope no man will think it sufficient to reply to these arguments with general assertions, or will deny the necessity of frugality, and extol the opulence of the nation, the extent of our commerce, and the happiness of our condition. Such indeed, sir, is the method of argumentation made use of by the hireling scribblers of the court, who, because they feel none of the publick calamities, represent all complaints as criminal murmurs, and charge those with sedition who petition only for relief. Wretches like these would celebrate our victories, though our country should be overrun by an invader, would praise the lenity of any government by which themselves should be spared, and would boast of the happiness of plenty, when half the people should be languishing with famine. I do not suppose, sir, that the despicable sophistry of prostitutes like these has any effect here, nor should I have thought them worthy of the least notice, had it not been proper to inquire, whether those may not be justly suspected of some inclination to deceive, even in this assembly, by whom the most profligate of mankind are openly paid for the promulgation of falsehood, and the patronage of corruption. It is indeed, sir, artful, in those who are daily impairing our honour and influence, to endeavour to conceal from the people their own weakness, that weakness which is so well known in foreign countries, that every nation is encouraged to insult us, and by which it may reasonably be imagined that new enemies will, in a short time, be raised. The late changes in our military regulations have, indeed, taken away all the terrour of our arms; those troops are now no longer dreaded, by which the liberties of Europe were recovered, and the French reduced to abandon their schemes of universal empire, for the defence of their own country, because the officers by whom they were formerly conducted to glory and to victory, are now dismissed, and men advanced to their posts, who are neither feared nor known. When the duke of ARGYLE was lately deprived of his command, the Spaniards could not conceal their satisfaction; they bestowed, however unwillingly, the highest panegyrick upon his bravery and conduct, by showing that he was the only Briton of whom they were afraid. Nor did their allies, the French, discover less exultation; for by them it was declared, that the nation was now disarmed, that either no war was intended, or that none could be successfully prosecuted, since, as they made no scruple to assert, though I know not whether I ought to repeat it, we have no other man capable of commanding armies, or conducting any great design. I am informed that this illustrious warriour, whose abilities are sufficiently attested by these enemies, that have felt their prevalence, is of opinion, that the number of officers now required is not necessary, and has declared that he should with equal confidence undertake either invasion or defence, with forces modelled after the German custom; and since I have shown, that, unless the troops so regulated, are equivalent to a double number, added to the standing regiments, part of the expense of the officers is evidently squandered, I shall vote against the motion, unless it be proved, which I believe will not be attempted, that the force of a regiment is doubled by doubling the officers. General WADE then spoke, to the purpose following:--Sir, the learned gentleman who spoke last, must be acknowledged to have discovered a very specious method of reasoning, and to have carried his inquiry as far as speculation without experience can hope to proceed, but has, in my opinion, admitted a false principle, by which all his argument has been perplexed. He supposes, that the advantages must be always in proportion to the money expended in procuring them, and that, therefore, if five thousand men, raised at any given cost, will be equal to five thousand, they ought, if they are regulated according to an establishment of double the charge, to be able to encounter ten thousand. But in this supposition, sir, he forgets that the possibility of loss is to be thrown into the balance against the advantage of the expense saved, and that though the strength of the troops be not increased in proportion to the increase of the cost, yet the additional security against a great loss may justly entitle the most expensive regulation to the preference. Suppose five thousand men to be brought into the field against six thousand; if they can, by multiplying their officers at a double expense, be enabled to engage successfully a body superiour in number by only a sixth part, the nation may be justly said to gain all that would have been lost by suffering a defeat. That we ought not to choose a worse method when we can discover a better, is indisputably true, but which method is worse or better, can be discovered only by experience. The last war has taught us, that our troops in their present establishment are superiour to the forces of France, but how much they might suffer by any alteration it is not possible to foresee. Success is gained by courage, and courage is produced by an opinion of superiority; and it may easily be imagined, that our soldiers, who judge of their own strength only by experience, imagine their own establishment and discipline advanced to the highest perfection; nor would they expect any other consequences from an alteration of it, but weakness and defeats. It is, therefore, dangerous to change the model of our forces, because it is dangerous to depress the spirit of our soldiers. Though it is confessed, sir, that the French, whose officers are still more numerous, have been conquered by our troops, it must be likewise alleged, that they had yielded us far easier victories had their officers been wanting; for to them are they indebted for their conquests wherever they have been successful, and for their resistance wherever they have been with difficulty defeated; their soldiers are a spiritless herd, and were they not invigorated by the example of their leaders, and restrained by the fear of instant punishment, would fly at the approach of any enemy, without waiting for the attack. I cannot, therefore, sir, but be of opinion, that the necessity of a large number of officers, may be learned even from the behaviour of those troops which have been unsuccessful, since it is certain, that though they have been often overcome, they have generally resisted with great steadiness, and retired with great order. If those, who are only speculative warriours, shall imagine that their arguments are not confuted, I can only repeat what I declared when I first attempted to deliver my sentiments in this debate, that I do not pretend to be very skilful in the arts of disputation. I, who claim no other title than that of an old soldier, cannot hope to prevail much by my oratory; it is enough for me that I am confident of confuting those arguments in the field, which I oppose in the senate. Mr. FOX spoke next, in this manner:--Sir, I am far from thinking that this question has been hitherto fully explained by those who have either considered it only as a dispute about money, or a question merely speculative concerning the proportions between different degrees of expense, and probability of success. In a war of this kind, expense is the last and lowest consideration, and where experience may be consulted, the conjectures of speculation ought to have no weight. The method, sir, by which our troops have hitherto been regulated, is well known to have produced success beyond our expectations, to have exalted us to the arbitration of the world, to have reduced the French to change their threats of forcing a monarch upon us, into petitions for peace, and to have established the liberties of almost every nation of the world that can call itself free. Whether this method, sir, so successful, so easy, and so formidable, shall be changed, whether it shall be changed at a time when the whole continent is in commotion, and every nation calling soldiers to its standard; when the French, recovered from their defeats, seem to have forgotten the force of that hand that crushed them in the pride of victory; when they seem to be reviving their former designs, and rekindling their extinguished ambition; whether, at such a time, the regulations of our army shall be changed to save, upon the highest computation, only thirty thousand pounds, is the present question. On such a question, sir, I cannot observe, without astonishment, any man deliberating for a single moment. To suspend our opinion in this case, would be to balance our lives, our liberties, our patrimonies, and our posterity, against thirty thousand pounds. The effects of our present method, sir, are well known to ourselves, our confederates, our enemies, to every man that has heard the name of Blenheim and Ramillies; the consequences of the establishment, now contended for, our most experienced commanders own themselves unable to foresee, and I am far from believing that theoretical disquisitions can enable any man to make great discoveries in military affairs. Our own inexperience of the method which is so warmly recommended, is not the strongest objection to it, though even this ought, in my opinion, to restrain us from trying it at this hazardous conjuncture. But since arguments, merely negative, may be thought over-balanced by the prospect of saving money, I shall lay before the house, what effects the want of officers has produced, with regard to those nations whose poverty has laid them under a necessity of parsimonious establishments. When the Germans were defeated by the French, in the late war, I was at the Sardinian court, where the battle was, as it may easily be supposed, the reigning subject of conversation, and where they did not want opportunities of informing themselves minutely of all the circumstances which contributed to the event; it was there, sir, universally determined, that the Germans lost the day merely for want of officers. It was observed also, sir, that some troops, which were once courted and feared by all the neighbouring potentates, had lost their reputation in later times, of which no reason could be alleged, but that they had lessened the number of their officers; such is the change in the model of the Walloons, and such is the consequence produced by it. I am very far, sir, from thinking, that reason is not to be consulted in military operations, as in other affairs, and have no less satisfaction than the learned gentleman who spoke last but one, in clear and demonstrative deductions; but in this question, reason itself informs me, that regard ought only to be had to experience, and that authority unsupported by practice, ought to have no prevalence. I shall, therefore, sir, make no inquiry into the abilities of the generals, by whom these contrary opinions are defended, nor draw any parallel between their actions or their knowledge. It is sufficient for me that the one is proposing a new scheme, and that the opinion of the other can plead the practice of king William, and the duke of MARLBOROUGH, and the success of the last war. Yet, sir, if parsimony be a virtue at this time so eminently necessary, it may be urged in favour of this estimate, that it will be less expensive than those that have been formerly offered, and that as all changes ought to be gradual, this may be considered as the first step towards a general reduction of the publick charge. Mr. HEATHCOTE spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, it is not without astonishment, that I heard the honourable gentleman who spoke lately, conclude his remarks with an attempt to renew our apprehensions of the pretender, a chimerical invader, an enemy in the clouds, without spirit, and without forces, without dominions, without money, and without allies; a miserable fugitive, that has not a friend in this kingdom, or none but such as are exasperated by those whom the men that mention him with so much terrour are attempting to vindicate. The vanity, sir, of such fears, the folly of admitting them, if they are real, and of counterfeiting them, if they are false, has been sufficiently exposed in this debate, by my honourable friend; but as he thought it unnecessary to employ arguments in proof of what cannot be denied, and believed it sufficient to ridicule a panick which he supposed merely political, I, who judge, perhaps, more favourably of the sincerity of some, and more tenderly of the cowardice of others, shall endeavour to show, that the frequent revolutions which have happened in this nation, afford us no reason for fearing another, equally sudden and unforeseen in favour of the pretender. The government, sir, is always stronger, as it is complicated with the private interest of more individuals; because, though there are few that have comprehension sufficient to discern the general advantage of the community, almost every man is capable of attending to his own; and though not many have virtue to stand up in opposition to the approach of general calamities, of which every one may hope to exempt himself from his particular share, yet the most sanguine are alarmed, and the most indolent awakened at any danger which threatens themselves, and will exert their utmost power to obviate or escape it. For this reason, sir, I have long considered the publick funds established in this nation, as a barrier to the government, which cannot easily be broken: a foreign prince cannot now be placed upon the throne, but in opposition almost to every wealthy man, who, having trusted the government with his money, has reposited a pledge of his own fidelity. But to this gentleman, sir, whom I am now answering, arguments can be of very little importance, because, by his own confession, he is retained as a mere machine, to speak at the direction of another, and to utter sentiments which he never conceived, and which his hesitation and abrupt conclusion shows him to admit with very little examination. He had not even allowed himself time to know the opinion which he was to assert, or to imprint upon his memory those arguments to which he was to add the sanction of his authority. He seems to have boldly promised to speak, and then to have inquired what he was to say. Yet has this gentleman often declaimed here with all the apparent ardour of integrity, and been heard with that regard which is only due to virtue and independence. Some of his assertions are such, however, as require confutation, which is, perhaps, more necessary since he has produced an authority for them, which many of those who heard him may think of much greater weight than his own. He affirms, that we can suffer only by an invasion, and infers from this position, that we need only to guard our own coasts. I am of an opinion very different, and having not yet prevailed upon myself to receive notes from any other person, cannot forbear to speak what I think, and what the publick prosperity requires to be generally known. We may surely suffer by many other causes, by the ignorance, or treachery, or cowardice of the ministry, by the negligence of that person to whom this gentleman was probably indebted for his notes. We may suffer by the loss of our sugar colonies, which may be justly valued at ten millions. These plantations, which afford us almost all the profitable trade that is now left us, have been exposed to the insults of the enemy, without any other guard than two ships, almost unfit for service. They have been left to the protection of chance, with no other security, at a time when the Spaniards had fitted out a squadron, to infest and ravage our American dominions. The admiral, who was sent into America, was confined for almost a year in the ports, without forces, ships, or ammunition, which yet might have been sent in a few months, had not pretences of delay been studiously invented, had not the preparations been obstructed by clandestine expedients, and had not every man been tacitly assured, that he should recommend himself to his superiours, by raising difficulties, rather than by removing them. Such was the conduct of those who now stand up in the face of their country, and, without diffidence or shame, boast of their zeal, their assiduity, and their despatch; who proclaim, with an air of triumphant innocence, that no art or diligence could have been more expeditious, and that the embarkation was only impeded by the seasons and the winds. With assertions equally intrepid, and arguments equally contemptible, has the same person, who boasted his expedition, endeavoured to defend the establishment of new regiments, in opposition to the practice of foreign nations, and to the opinion of the greatest general among us; and, to show how little he fears confutation, has recommended his scheme on account of its frugality. It is not to be wondered, sir, that such an orator should undertake to defend the model of the troops sent to America, that he should prefer boys to veterans, and assert the propriety of intrusting new levies to unexperienced commanders; for he has given us in this debate such proofs of controversial courage, that nothing can be now imagined too arduous for him to attempt. His strength, sir, is, indeed, not equal to his spirit, and he is frequently unsuccessful in his most vigorous efforts, but it must be confessed that he is generally overborne only by the force of truth, by a power which few can resist so resolutely as himself, and which, therefore, though it makes no impression upon him, prevails upon others to leave him sometimes alone in the vindication of his positions. The examples, sir, of those noble persons who were advanced early to commissions, will be produced by him without effect, because the cases are by no means parallel. They were not invested with command till they had spent some time in the service, and exhibited proofs of their courage and their capacity; and it cannot be doubted, but some men may discover at seventeen, more merit than others in the full strength of manhood. But, sir, there is another consideration of more importance, which will annihilate the parallel, and destroy the argument founded upon it. At the time in which these persons were preferred, the nation had but newly seen an army, and had, therefore, very few old officers whose experience could be trusted, or whose services required to be rewarded: the ministers were obliged to select those, who, though they did not understand the military sciences, were likely to attain them in a short time, and the event has sufficiently proved, that in the choice no greater regard was paid to interest than to judgment. It was prudent, likewise, sir, to choose young persons, supposing their abilities equal with those of others, because the nation was likely to possess them longer, and would not be reduced, by an interval of peace, to make war again with raw forces, under the direction of ignorant commanders. But this provision, however reasonable, the wisdom of this ministry has found means to defeat, by detaining at home the disciplined troops, and depriving the most experienced generals of their commands, at a time when they are most necessary, at a time when the whole world is in arms, when the ambition of France is reviving its claims, and the Spaniards are preparing to invade our colonies. But, sir, though our generals are discarded, we are sufficiently informed, that it is not because we are imagined to be in a state of safety; for the increase of our army betrays our fear, of which, whether it will be dispelled or increased by such measures, it is not difficult to determine. An army thus numerous, sir, is, in the opinion of every honest Briton, of every man that reveres the constitution, or loves his liberty, an evil more to be dreaded, than any from which we can be defended by it. The most unpopular act of the most unpopular of our monarchs, was the establishment of a standing-army; nor do I know any thing to be feared from the exaltation of the dreadful pretender to the throne, but that he will govern the nation with an armed force. If our troops continue to be increased, which we may reasonably suspect, since, if arguments like these be admitted, pretences for augmentations can never be wanting, the consequences are easily foreseen; they will grow too numerous to be quartered in the towns, and, with an affectation of easing them of such unwelcome guests, it will be proposed, that after having spent the summer in a camp, they shall retire in winter to barracks. Then will the burden of a standing army be imposed for ever on the nation; then may our liberties be openly invaded, and those who now oppress us by the power only of money, will then throw aside the mask, and deliver themselves from the constraint of hypocrisy; those who now sooth us with promises and protestations, will then intimidate us with threatenings, and, perhaps, revenge the opposition of their schemes by persecution and sequestrations. Mr. GAGE spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, if the weakness of arguments proved the insincerity of those who produce them, I should be inclined to suspect the advocates for the establishment of new regiments, of designs very different from the defence of their country; but as their intentions cannot be known, they cannot be censured, and I shall, therefore, confine myself to an examination of the reasons which they have offered, and the authorities which they have cited. The German general, who has been mentioned on this occasion with so much regard, is not less known to me than to the honourable gentleman, nor have I been less diligent to improve the hours in which I enjoyed his friendship and conversation. Among other questions, which my familiarity with him entitled me to propose, I have asked him to what causes he imputed the ill success of the last war, and he frankly ascribed the miscarriages of it to the unhappy divisions by which the German councils were at that time embarrassed. Faction produces nearly the same consequence in all countries, and had then influenced the imperial court, as of late the court of Great Britain, to dismiss the most able and experienced commanders, and to intrust the conduct of the war to men unequal to the undertaking; who, when they were defeated for want of skill, endeavoured to persuade their patrons and their countrymen, that they lost the victory for want of officers. They might, perhaps, think of their countrymen, what our ministers seem to imagine of us, that to gain belief among them, it was sufficient to assert boldly, that they had not any memory of past transactions, and that, therefore, they could not observe, that the same troops were victorious under Eugene, which were defeated under the direction of his successours; nor could discover that the regulation was the same, where the effects were different. Thus, in every place, it is the practice of men in power, to blind the people by false representations, and to impute the publick calamities rather to any other cause than their own misconduct. It is every where equally their practice to oppress and obscure those who owe their greatness to their virtue or abilities, because they can never be reduced to blind obedience, or taught to be creatures of the ministry, because men who can discover truth, will sometimes speak it, and because those are best qualified to deceive others, who can be persuaded that they are contending for the right. But it is surely time for this nation to rouse from indolence, and to resolve to put an end to frauds that have been so long known. It is time to watch with more vigilance the distribution of the publick treasure, and to consider rather how to contract the national expenses, than upon what pretences new offices may be erected, and new dependencies created. It is time to consider how our debts may be lessened, and by what expedients our taxes may be diminished. Our taxes, sir, are such, at present, as perhaps no nation was ever loaded with before, such as never were paid to raise forces against an invader, or imposed by the insolence of victory upon a conquered people. Every gentleman pays to the government more than two thirds of his estate, by various exactions.--This assertion is received, I see, with surprise, by some, whose ample patrimonies have exempted them from the necessity of nice computations, and with an affected appearance of contempt by others, who, instead of paying taxes, may be said to receive them, and whose interest it is to keep the nation ignorant of the causes of its misery, and to extenuate those calamities by which themselves are enriched. But, sir, to endeavour to confute demonstration by a grin, or to laugh away the deductions of arithmetick, is, surely, such a degree of effrontery, as nothing but a post of profit can produce; nor is it for the sake of these men, that I shall endeavour to elucidate my assertion; for they cannot but be well informed of the state of our taxes, whose chief employment is to receive and to squander the money which arises from them. It is frequent, sir, among gentlemen, to mistake the amount of the taxes which are laid upon the nation, by passing over, in their estimates, all those which are not paid immediately out of the visible rents of their lands, and imagining that they are in no degree interested in the imposts upon manufactures or other commodities. They do not consider that whenever they purchase any thing of which the price is enhanced by duties, those duties are levied upon them, and that there is no difference between paying ten shillings a year in land taxes, and paying five shillings in land taxes, and five shillings to manufacturers to be paid by them to the government. It would be, in reality, equally rational for a man to please himself with his frugality, by directing half his expenses to be paid by his steward, and the event is such as might be expected from such a method of economy; for, as the steward might probably bring in false accounts, the tradesman commonly adds twopence to the price of his goods for every penny which is laid on them by the government; as it is easy to show, particularly in the prices of those two great necessaries of life, candles and leather. Now, sir, let any gentleman add to the land tax the duties raised from the malt, candles, salt, soap, leather, distilled liquors, and other commodities used in his house; let him add the expenses of travelling so far as they are increased by the burden laid upon innkeepers, and the extortions of the tradesmen which the excises have occasioned, and he will easily agree with me that he pays more than two-thirds of his estate for the support of the government. It cannot, therefore, be doubted that it is now necessary to stop in our career of expenses, and to inquire how much longer this weight of imposts can possibly be supported. It has already, sir, depressed our commerce, and overborne our manufactures, and if it be yet increased, if there be no hope of seeing it alleviated, every wise man will seek a milder government and enlist himself amongst slaves that have masters more wise or more compassionate. We ought to consider, sir, whether some of our present expenses are not superfluous or detrimental, whether many of our offices are not merely pensions without employment, and whether multitudes do not receive salaries, who serve the government only by their interest and their votes. Such offices, if they are found, ought immediately to be abolished, and such salaries withdrawn, by which a fund might be now established for maintaining the war, and afterwards for the payment of our debts. It is not now, sir, in my opinion, a question whether we shall choose the dearest or the cheapest method of increasing our forces, for it seems to me not possible to supply any new expenses. New troops will require more money to raise and to pay them, and more money can only be obtained by new taxes; but what now remains to be taxed, or what tax can be increased? The only resource left us is a lottery, and whether that will succeed is likewise a lottery; but though folly and credulity should once more operate according to our wishes, the nation is, in the meantime, impoverished, and at last lotteries must certainly fail, like other expedients. When the publick wealth is entirely exhausted, artifice and violence will be equally vain. And though the troops may possibly be raised, according to the estimate, I know not how we shall pay them, or from what fund, yet unmortgaged, the officers who will be entailed upon us, can hope to receive their half-pay. For my part, sir, I think the question so easy to be decided, that I am astonished to see it the subject of a debate, and imagine that the controversy might be ended only by asking the gentleman, on whose opinion all his party appear to rely, without any knowledge or conviction of their own, whether, if he were to defend a nation from its enemies, and could procure only a small sum for the war, he would not model his forces by the cheapest method. Mr. SLOPER then spoke thus:--Sir, I cannot, without the highest satisfaction, observe any advances made in useful knowledge, by my fellow-subjects, as the glory of such attainments must add to the reputation of the kingdom which gives rise to such elevated abilities. This satisfaction I have received from the observations of the right honourable member, whose accurate computations cannot but promise great improvements of the doctrine of arithmetick; nor can I forbear to solicit him, for the sake of the publick, to take into his consideration the present methods of traffick used by our merchants, and to strike out some more commodious method of stating the accoinpts between those two contending parties, debtor and creditor. This he would, doubtless, execute with great reputation, who has proved, from the state of our taxes, that new forces require new funds, and that new funds cannot be established without a lottery. I am, indeed, inclined to differ from him in the last of his positions, and believe the nation not yet so much exhausted but that it may easily bear the expense of the war, and shall, therefore, vote for that establishment of our troops which will be most likely to procure success, without the least apprehension of being censured either by the present age, or by posterity, as a machine of the ministry, or an oppressor of my country. General WADE spoke again, thus:--Sir, since the right honourable member has been pleased to insinuate, that by answering a plain question I may put an end to the debate, I am willing to give a proof of my desire to promote unanimity in our councils, and despatch in our affairs, by complying with his proposal. If I were obliged with a small sum to raise an army for the defence of a kingdom, I should, undoubtedly, proceed with the utmost frugality; but this noble person's ideas of frugality would, perhaps, be very different from mine; he would think those expenses superfluous, which to me would seem indispensably necessary, and though we should both intend the preservation of the country, we should provide for its security by different methods. He would employ the money in such a manner as might procure the greatest numbers; I should make my first inquiry after the most skilful officers, and should imagine myself obliged, by my fidelity to the nation that intrusted me with its defence, to procure their assistance, though at a high price. It is not easy for persons who have never seen a battle or a siege, whatever may be their natural abilities, or however cultivated by reading and contemplation, to conceive the advantage of discipline and regularity, which is such, that a small body of veteran troops will drive before them multitudes of men, perhaps equally bold and resolute with themselves, if they are unacquainted with the rules of war, and unprovided with leaders to direct their motions. I should, therefore, in the case which he has mentioned, prefer discipline to numbers, and rather enter the field with a few troops, well governed and well instructed, than with a confused multitude, unacquainted with their duty, unable to conduct themselves, and without officers to conduct them. Mr. VINER spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, I am not very solicitous what may be the determination of the house upon this question, because I think it more necessary to resolve against an augmentation of the army, than to inquire, whether it shall be made by one method or another. Every addition to our troops, I consider as some approach towards the establishment of arbitrary power, as it is an alienation of part of the British people, by which they are deprived of the benefits of the constitution, and subjected to rigorous laws, from which every other individual is exempt. The principal of these laws, which all the rest are intended to enforce, requires from every soldier an unlimited and absolute obedience to the commands of his officers, who hold their commission, and expect advancement, by the same compliance with the orders of the ministry. The danger of adding to the number of men, thus separated from their fellow-subjects, and directed by the arbitrary determinations of their officers, has been often explained with great strength and perspicuity; nor should I have taken this occasion of recalling it to the attention of the house, but that I think it a consideration, to which, in all debates on the army, the first regard ought to be paid. Colonel MORDAUNT spoke to the purpose following:--Sir, the objection which the honourable gentleman has raised, will be most easily removed, by considering the words of the act by which the military authority is established, where it is by no means declared, that either officers or soldiers are obliged indiscriminately to obey all the orders which they shall receive, but that they shall, on pain of the punishments there enacted, obey all the _lawful_ orders of their commanders. The obedience, therefore, sir, required from a soldier, is an obedience according to law, like that of any other Briton, unless it can be imagined that the word _lawful_ is, in that place, without a meaning. Nor does his condition differ from that of his fellow-subjects by an exemption from any law, but by a greater number of duties, and stricter obligations to the performance of them; and I am not able to conceive how our constitution can be endangered by augmenting an army, which, as it can only act in conformity to it, can act only in defence of it. [The question at last was put, that the new-raised troops be incorporated into the standing corps, but it passed in the negative, 232 to 166.] HOUSE OF LORDS, DEC. 9, 1740. DEBATE ON TAKING THE STATE OF THE ARMY INTO CONSIDERATION. The duke of ARGYLE rose first, and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, as the present situation of our affairs may require an augmentation of our forces, and as the success of our arms, and the preservation of our liberties, may equally depend upon the manner in which the new forces shall be raised, there is, in my opinion, no question more worthy the attention of this august assembly, than what may be the most proper method of increasing our army. On this question, my lords, I shall offer my own sentiments with greater confidence, as there are few men who have had more opportunities of being acquainted with it in its whole extent, as I have spent great part of my life in the field and in the camp. I commanded a regiment under king William, and have long been either the first, or almost the first man in the army. I hope, my lords, it will be allowed, without difficulty, that I have, at least, been educated at the best school of war, and that nothing but natural incapacity can have hindered me from making some useful observations upon the discipline and government of armies, and the advantages and inconveniencies of the various plans upon which other nations regulate their forces. I have always maintained, my lords, that it is necessary, in the present state of the neighbouring countries, to keep up a body of regular troops, that we may not be less able to defend ourselves, than our enemies to attack us. It is well known, my lords, that states must secure themselves by different means, as they are threatened by dangers of different kinds: policy must be opposed by policy, and force by force; our fleets must be increased when our neighbours grow formidable by their naval power, and armies must be maintained at a time like this, in which every prince on the continent estimates his greatness by the number of his troops. But an army, my lords, as it is to be admitted only for the security of the nation, is to be so regulated, that it may produce the end for which it is established; that it may be useful without danger, and protect the people without oppressing them. To this purpose, my lords, it is indispensably necessary, that the military subordination be inviolably preserved, and that discipline be discreetly exercised without any partial indulgence, or malicious severities; that every man be promoted according to his desert, and that military merit alone give any pretensions to military preferment. To make the army yet more useful, it ought to be under the sole command of one man, exalted to the important trust by his known skill, courage, justice, and fidelity, and uncontrouled in the administration of his province by any other authority, a man enabled by his experience to distinguish the deserving, and invested with power to reward them. Thus, my lords, ought an army to be regulated, to which the defence of a nation is intrusted, nor can any other scheme be formed which will not expose the publick to dangers more formidable than revolutions or invasions. And yet, my lords, how widely those who have assumed the direction of affairs have deviated from this method is well known. It is known equally to the highest and meanest officers, that those who have most opportunities of observing military merit, have no power of rewarding it; and, therefore, every man endeavours to obtain other recommendations than those of his superiours in the army, and to distinguish himself by other services than attention to his duty, and obedience to his commanders. Our generals, my lords, are only colonels with a higher title, without power, and without command; they can neither make themselves loved nor feared in their troops, nor have either reward or punishment in their power. What discipline, my lords, can be established by men, whom those who sometimes act the farce of obedience, know to be only phantoms of authority, and to be restrained by an arbitrary minister from the exercise of those commissions which they are invested with? And what is an army without discipline, subordination, and obedience? What, but a rabble of licentious vagrants, set free from the common restraints of decency, exempted from the necessity of labour, betrayed by idleness to debauchery, and let loose to prey upon the people? Such a herd can only awe the villages, and bluster in the streets, but can never be able to oppose an enemy, or defend the nation by which they are supported. They may, indeed, form a camp upon some of the neighbouring heaths, or pass in review with tolerable regularity; they may sometimes seize a smuggler, and sometimes assist a constable with vigour and success. But unhappy would be the people, who had no other force to oppose against an army habituated to discipline, of which every one founds his hopes of honour and reward upon the approbation of the commander. That no man will labour to no purpose, or undergo the fatigue of military vigilance, without an adequate motive; that no man will endeavour to learn superfluous duties, and neglect the easiest road to honour and to wealth, merely for the sake of encountering difficulties, is easily to be imagined. And, therefore, my lords, it cannot be conceived, that any man in the army will very solicitously apply himself to the duties of his profession, of which, when he has learned them, the most accurate practice will avail him nothing, and on which he must lose that time, which might, have been employed in gaining an interest in a borough, or in forming an alliance with some orator in the senate. For nothing, my lords, is now considered but senatorial interest, nor is any subordination desired but in the supreme council of the empire. For the establishment of this new regulation, the honours of every profession are prostituted, and every commission is become merely nominal. To gratify the leaders of the ministerial party, the most despicable triflers are exalted to an authority, and those whose want of understanding excludes them from any other employment, are selected for military commissions. No sooner have they taken possession of their new command, and gratified with some act of oppression the wantonness of new authority, but they desert their charge with the formality of demanding a permission to be absent, which their commander dares not deny them. Thus, my lords, they leave the care of the troops, and the study of the rules of war, to those unhappy men who have no other claim to elevation than knowledge and bravery, and who, for want of relations in the senate, are condemned to linger out their lives at their quarters, amuse themselves with recounting their actions and sufferings in former wars, and with reading in the papers of every post, the cormissions which are bestowed on those who never saw a battle. For this reason, my lords, preferments in the army, instead of being considered as proofs of merit, are looked on only as badges of dependence; nor can any thing be inferred from the promotion of an officer, but that he is in some degree or other allied to some member of the senate, or the leading voters of a borough. After this manner, my lords, has the army been modelled, and on these principles has it subsisted for the last and the present reign; neither myself, nor any other general officer, have been consulted in the distribution of commands, or any part of military regulations. Our armies have known no other power than that of the secretary of war, who directs all their motions, and fills up every vacancy without opposition, and without appeal. But never, my lords, was his power more conspicuous, than in raising the levies of last year; never was any authority more despotically exerted, or more tamely submitted to; never did any man more wantonly sport with his command, or more capriciously dispose of posts and preferments; never did any tyrant appear to set censure more openly at defiance, treat murmurs and remonstrances with greater contempt, or with more confidence and security distribute posts among his slaves, without any other reason of preference than his own uncontroulable pleasure. And surely no man, my lords, could have made choice of such wretches for military commands, but to show that nothing but his own private inclinations should influence his conduct, and that he considered himself as supreme and unaccountable: for we have seen, my lords, the same animals to-day cringing behind a counter, and to-morrow swelling in a military dress; we have seen boys sent from school in despair of improvement, and intrusted with military command; fools that cannot learn their duty, and children that cannot perform it, have been indiscriminately promoted; the dross of the nation has been swept together to compose our new forces, and every man who was too stupid or infamous to learn or carry on a trade, has been placed, by this great disposer of honours, above the necessity of application, or the reach of censure. Did not sometimes indignation, and sometimes pity, check the sallies of mirth, it would not be a disagreeable entertainment, my lords, to observe, in the park, the various appearances of these raw commanders, when they are exposing their new scarlet to view, and strutting with the first raptures of sudden elevation; to see the mechanick new-modelling his mien, and the stripling tottering beneath the weight of his cockade; or to hear the conversation of these new adventurers, and the instructive dialogues of schoolboys and shopkeepers. I take this opportunity, my lords, of clearing myself from any suspicion of having contributed, by my advice, to this stupendous collection. I only once interposed with the recommendation of a young gentleman, who had learned his profession in two campaigns among the Muscovians, and whom yet neither his own desert, nor my patronage could advance to a commission. And, I believe, my lords, all the other general officers were equally unconsulted, and would, if their advice had been asked, equally have disapproved the measures that have been pursued. But thus, my lords, were our new regiments completed, in which, of two hundred and fifty officers who have subsisted upon half-pay, only thirty-six have been promoted, though surely they might have pleaded a juster claim to employment, who had learned their profession in the service of their country, and had long languished in penury, than those who had neither knowledge nor capacity, who had neither acted nor suffered any thing, and who might have been destined to the hammer or the plough, without any disreputation to their families, or disappointment to themselves. I have been told, indeed, my lords, that to some of these officers commissions were offered, which they refused, and for this refusal every reason is alleged but the true: some, indeed, excused themselves as disabled by age and infirmities from military service; nor can any objection be made to so just a plea. For how could those be refused in their age the comforts of ease and repose, who have served their country with their youth and vigour? Others there are, my lords, who refused commissions upon motives very different, in which, nevertheless, some justice cannot be denied. They who had long studied and long practised their profession; they, who had tried their courage in the breach, and given proofs of their skill in the face of the enemy, refused to obey the command of novices, of tradesmen, and of schoolboys: they imagined, my lords, that they ought to govern those whom they should be obliged to instruct, and to lead those troops whom they must range in order. But they had forgot that they had outlived the time when a soldier was formed by study and experience, and had not heard, in their retreats, that a colonel or a captain was now formed in a day; and, therefore, when they saw and heard their new commanders, they retired back to their half-pay, with surprise and indignation. But, my lords, the follies of last year cannot be easily rectified, and are only now to be exposed that they may not be repeated. If we are now to make new levies, and increase the number of our land-forces, it is, in my opinion, incumbent upon us to consider by what methods we may best augment our troops, and how we may be able to resist our foreign enemies, without exposing the nation to intestine miseries, and leaving our liberties at the mercy of the court. There are, my lords, two methods of increasing our forces; the first is, that of raising new regiments; the other, of adding new men to those which already subsist. By raising new regiments, my lords, we shall only gratify the minister with the distribution of new commissions, and the establishment of new dependents; we shall enlarge the influence of the court, and increase the charge of the nation, which is already loaded with too many taxes to support any unnecessary expense. By the other method, of adding a hundred men to every company, we shall not only save the pay of the officers, which is no slight consideration, but what seems, if the reports raised by the ministry of our present danger be true, of far more importance, shall form the new forces with more expedition into regular troops; for, by distributing them among those who are already instructed in their duty, we shall give them an opportunity of hourly improvement; every man's comrade will be his master, and every one will be ambitious of forming himself by the example of those who have been in the army longer than themselves. If it be objected, my lords, that the number of officers will not then bear a just proportion to that of the soldiers, it may be answered, that the foreign troops of the greatest reputation have no greater number of officers, as every one must know who is acquainted with the constitution of the most formidable armies of Europe. Those of the Prussian monarch, or of the various nations by which we were assisted in the late war, either as confederates or mercenaries, have but few officers. And I very well remember, my lords, that whenever they were joined by parties of our own nation, the inequality in the number of the officers produced contests and disputes. The only troops of Europe, my lords, that swarm with officers, are those of France, but even these have fewer officers, in proportion to their private men, in time of war; for when they disband any part of their forces, they do not, like us, reduce their officers to half-pay, but add them to the regiments not reduced, that the families of their nobility may not be burdened with needy dependents, and that they may never want officers for new levies. There are many reasons, my lords, that make this practice in France more reasonable than it would be in our kingdom. It is the chief view of their governours to continue absolute, and therefore their constant endeavour to keep great numbers in dependence; it ought to be our care to hinder the increase of the influence of the court, and to obstruct all measures that may extend the authority of the ministry, and therefore those measures are to be pursued by which independence and liberty will be most supported. It is likewise to be remembered, my lords, that a French officer is supported with pay not much larger than that of a private soldier among us, and that, therefore, the argument which arises from the necessity of frugality is not of the same force in both nations. There is yet another reason why the French are under the necessity of employing more officers than any other nation: the strength of their armies consists in their gentlemen, who cannot be expected to serve without some command: the common soldiers of the French army are a mean, spiritless, despicable herd, fit only to drudge as pioneers, to raise intrenchments, and to dig mines, but without courage to face an enemy, or to proceed with vigour in the face of danger. Their gentlemen, my lords, are of a very different character; jealous of their honour, and conscious of their birth, eager of distinction, and ambitious of preferment. They have, commonly, their education in the army, and have no expectations of acquiring fortunes equal to their desires by any other profession, and are, therefore, intent upon the improvement of every opportunity which is offered them of increasing their knowledge and exalting their reputation. To the spirit of these men, my lords, are the French armies indebted for all their victories, and to them is to be attributed the present perfection of the art of war. They have the vigilance and perseverance of Romans joined with the natural vivacity and expedition of their own nation. We are, therefore, not to wonder, my lords, that there is in the French armies an establishment for more gentlemen than in other countries, where the disparity between the military virtues of the higher and lower classes of men is less conspicuous. In the troops of that nation nothing is expected but from the officers, but in ours the common soldier meets danger with equal intrepidity, and scorns to see himself excelled by his officer in courage or in zeal. We are, therefore, my lords, under no necessity of burdening our country with the expense of new commissions, which, in the army, will be superfluous, and, in the state, dangerous, as they will fill our senate with new dependents, and our corporations with new adherents to the minister, whose steady perseverance in his favourite scheme of senatorial subordination, will be, perhaps, the only occasion of these new levies, or, at least, has hindered the right application of our standing troops. For what reason, my lords, can invention or imagination assign, why the troops, who had been for some time disciplined, were not rather sent to the assistance of Vernon than the new marines, except that some of them were commanded by men who had obtained seats in the other house, and who, by their settled adherence and avowed fidelity to the minister, had recommended themselves too powerfully to be rashly exposed in the service of their country to the bullets of the Spaniards. So great, my lords, has been the minister's regard to senatorial abilities, and so strict his gratitude to his friends, that I know of but one member of the other house that has been hazarded in this expedition, and he a hopeless, abandoned patriot, insensible of the capacity or integrity of our ministry, and whom nothing has been able to reconcile to our late measures. He, therefore, who has never exerted himself in defence of the ministry, was, in his turn, thought unworthy of ministerial protection, and was given up to the chance of war without reluctance. But I hope your lordships will concur with me in the opinion, that it is not always necessary to gratify the ministry, but that our country claims some part of our regard, and, therefore, that in establishing our army we should pursue that method which may be most accommodated to our constitution, and, instead of imitating the military policy of the French, follow the example of those nations by whose troops they have been conquered. Had this scheme been hitherto followed, had our new levies, instead of being put under the command of boys, been distributed in just proportions among the standing regiments, where they might soon have been qualified for service by the inspection of experienced officers, we might now have seen an army capable of awing the court of Spain into submission, or, if our demands had been still refused, of revenging our injuries, and punishing those who have insulted and despised us. From an army thus raised and disciplined, detachments, my lords, ought to have been sent on board of all our fleets, and particularly that which is now stationed in the Mediterranean, which would not then have coasted about from one port to another, without hurting or frighting the enemy, but might, by sudden descents, have spread terrour through a great part of the kingdom, harassed their troops by continual marches, and, by frequent incursions, have plundered all the maritime provinces, driven the inhabitants into the inland country, and laid the villages in ashes. There is yet, my lords, no appearance of a peace, for our success has not enabled us to prescribe terms, and I hope we are not yet fallen so low as to receive them; it is, therefore, proper to form such resolutions as may influence the conduct of the war, and enable us to retrieve the errours of our past measures. The minister, my lords, is not without panegyrists, who may, perhaps, endeavour to persuade us, that we ought to resign all our understandings to his superiour wisdom, and blindly trust our fortunes and our liberties to his unshaken integrity. They will, in proof of his abilities, produce the wonderful dexterity and penetration which the late negotiations have discovered, and will confirm the reputation of his integrity by the constant parsimony of all his schemes, and the unwillingness with which he at any time increases the expenses of the nation. But, my lords, it is the great duty of your high station to watch over the administration, and to warn those, who are more immediately intrusted with the publick affairs, against measures which may endanger the safety or happiness of the nation; and, therefore, if I have proved to your lordships, that to raise new regiments is dangerous to our liberties, that a multitude of officers is of no use in war, and that an army may be more expeditiously disciplined by adding new men to every company, I hope your lordships will agree to this resolution, which I have drawn up with the utmost brevity, and of which the meaning cannot be mistaken: "That the augmenting the army by raising regiments, as it is the most unnecessary and expensive method of augmentation, is also the most dangerous to the liberties of the nation." The duke of NEWCASTLE next spoke, to this effect:--My lords, as my education and employments have afforded me no opportunity of acquiring any skill in military affairs, it will not be expected by your lordships, that I should be able to confute the arguments of the noble duke, whose acknowledged superiority in the art of war, and the abilities which he has displayed in the administration of every province which he has undertaken, give him a claim to the highest deference. But, my lords, as I cannot assume the province of disputing on this question, so I cannot, without longer consideration, form any resolution concerning it; for arguments may be fallacious, which, yet, I cannot confute, and to approve without knowledge is no less weak than to censure. There is not any present necessity, my lords, of forming a resolution on this subject; we are not now called upon particularly to consider it, and certainly it cannot be prudent, by so determinate a decision, pronounced without reflection or deliberation, to preclude a fuller examination of this important question. Lord CARTERET rose, and spoke in this manner:--My lords, the noble duke who made the present motion has supported it by such strength of argument, and so fully explained the advantages of the method which it tends to recommend, that not only the present age, but posterity may, probably, be indebted to him, for juster notions of a military establishment, than have been yet attained even by those whose profession obliges them to such inquiries. Nor, my lords, could we expect less from his long experience and extensive capacity; experience gained in the heat of war, and in the midst of danger; a capacity not only cultivated by solitary disquisitions in retirement and security, but exercised by difficulties, and quickened by opposition. Such abilities, my lords, matured by such an education, have justly made the noble duke the oracle of war, and procured him the esteem and reverence of all the powers upon earth. As I did not receive from my education any military knowledge, I am not able to add much to the arguments which your lordships have already heard; but, nevertheless, having been under the necessity of regulating the army when I had the honour to be employed in Ireland, and having made, in those countries where I transacted the business of the crown, some observations upon the different forms of military establishments, I hope I shall be allowed to offer what my experience or my remarks may suggest to me, in confirmation of the sentiments of the noble duke. When I was in Ireland, my lords, the troops of that kingdom consisted of twenty-one regiments, of which ten were, as last year, brought into Britain, and the Irish forces were to be filled up by new levies, which were raised in the manner now proposed, by increasing every regiment from three hundred and forty to six hundred men; so that the eleven regiments remaining composed a body of nearly the same number with the twenty-one regiments, as formerly constituted. Of the Swedish establishment, my lords, the reputation and success of their troops are an uncontrovertible vindication, attd I have often had an opportunity of comparing the number of officers with that of ours, and found their private men to be far more numerous in proportion to the officers. In Hanover, my lords, I have seen his majesty's troops remarkable for the elegance of their appearance; and being once asked, by the commander, at what expense one of those gallant troopers and his horse was supported, was told, after confessing my ignorance, that he cost no more than fourteen pounds a year, who could not, in this country, be maintained for less than forty. I believe, my lords, that the French forces are not more expensive than those of Hanover, and, therefore, we are by no means to imitate their establishment, for the price of provisions and habits of life do not admit of any diminution of the pay of either our officers or soldiers, and we can only lessen our expenses by reducing their numbers, to which I shall, for my part, most willingly contribute. But as this, my lords, is not the proper time for disbanding our forces, of which the present state of our affairs may, perhaps, demand an augmentation, it is necessary to compare the state of our forces with that of foreign troops, and supply, by prudent methods, the disadvantages to which we are subject, by the peculiar condition of our country. For, if the French can support an army at a fourth part of our expense, what must be the consequence of a war, supposing the wealth of the two nations nearly equal? It will be to little purpose that we boast, however justly, of the superiority of our troops; for though it should be granted that the British cannot be resisted by an equal number, yet it can never be expected that they should conquer troops four times as numerous as themselves. Thus, my lords, it appears, with all the evidence of arithmetical demonstration, that the method now proposed is highly expedient, nor can any objection, in my opinion, be made to the resolution offered to your lordships. That this is not a proper time for this inquiry has been, indeed, urged, but surely no time can be more proper than when we may, by a resolution unanimously passed, regulate, in some degree, the conduct of the other house, and faint to them the opinion of this assembly on a question which is, perhaps, to-morrow to be brought before them. Lord CHOLMONDELEY then spoke thus:--My lords, though I was once honoured with a command in the army, and consequently ought to have attained some military knowledge, yet I have so long resigned my commission, possessed it for so short a time, and have suffered my attention to be diverted from inquiries on that subject by employments of so different a kind, that I cannot presume to oppose any knowledge of my own to the reasons which have been offered; but I cannot think that the conclusions drawn by the noble duke, are so evidently true as to force conviction, and exclude all possibility of reply; nor can I conceive it consistent with the dignity of this assembly, to yield implicitly to any man's assertions, or to pass any resolution without an accurate inquiry. Some objections, my lords, arise, upon reflection, from my narrow observation and transient reading, and these I shall lay before your lordships, with an open acknowledgment of my insufficiency to discuss the question, and a sincere desire of being instructed where I may be mistaken. The subordination of the army, my lords, appears to me, in general, to be sufficiently maintained, nor is it ever infringed but by particular partiality, that can never be prevented, or a casual difference in the circumstances of the officers, which, though not relative to their military characters, will always produce some degree of influence. I know not, my lords, how the general regulation of our forces, and the distribution of military honours, can be condemned, without extending some degree of censure to a person who ought not to be mentioned as concurring in any measures injurious to the publick. Our army, my lords, is maintained by the parliament, but commanded by the king, who has not either done or directed any thing of which his people may justly complain. Here the duke of ARGYLE interrupted him:--My lords, it is necessary to clear myself from misrepresentations, and to preserve, at the same time, the order of this assembly, by reminding the noble lord, that his majesty is never to be introduced into our debates, because he is never to be charged with wrong; and by declaring to your lordships, that I impute no part of the errours committed in the regulation of the army to his majesty, but to those ministers whose duty it is to advise him, and whom the law condemns to answer for the consequences of their counsels. Lord CHOLMONDELEY resumed:--My lords, if I misrepresented any assertion of the noble duke, it was by misapprehension, or failure of memory, and not by malice or design; and if in any other objections which I shall make, I shall fall into any errour of the same kind, I desire that it may be ascribed to the same cause. The ignorance and inexperience of our present officers have been exposed with great gaiety of imagination, and with the true spirit of satirical rhetorick, nor can I presume to support them against so formidable censures. But, my lords, I cannot discover any method of protracting the lives of our old officers beyond the usual term, nor of supplying the loss of those whom death takes away from the army, but by substituting others, who, as they have seen no wars, can have little experience. With regard to the number of officers in the foreign troops, I have been informed, that they were, by an express stipulation, to be constituted in the same manner with the British and Dutch forces. Then the duke of ARGYLE again interrupted him:--My lords, as it was my province in the late war to superintend the payment of the foreign troops, I may be allowed to have some knowledge of the establishment, and hope I shall not be imagined to need any information on that subject. Lord CHOLMONDELEY said:--My lords, I do not presume to dispute any assertion of the noble duke, for whose knowledge I have the highest veneration, but only to offer such hints for inquiry as may be pursued by other lords of greater abilities, and to show, that as some difficulties may be raised, the resolution ought not to be agreed to without farther deliberation; since it not only tends to prescribe the measures which shall be hereafter taken, and prohibit a method of raising forces, which, when diligently examined, may, perhaps, appear most eligible, but to censure the methods, which, when they were put in practice the last year, received the approbation of all the powers of the legislature. Lord WESTMORELAND spoke next, as follows:--My lords, I have, for my own satisfaction, stated the difference of the expense between the two methods of raising forces, and find it so great, that the method proposed by the noble duke ought, undoubtedly, to be preferred, even though it were attended with some inconvenience, from which he has shown it to be free. Frugality, my lords, is one of the chief virtues of an administration; a virtue without which no government can be long supported: the publick expense can never be too accurately computed, or the first tendency to profusion too rigorously opposed; for as in private life, so in political economy, the demands of necessity are easily supplied; but if once the calls of wantonness and caprice are complied with, no limits can be fixed, nor will any treasure be sufficient. Whether the burdens under which the people are now toiling were all imposed by necessity, I will not inquire, but I think, my lords, we may readily determine, that whatever is not necessary is cruel and oppressive, and that, therefore, since the expense of raising new regiments appears, at least, not to be necessary, it ought to be opposed; and how can it be opposed more properly or effectually than by the noble duke's resolution? Lord HERVEY spoke to this effect:--My lords, I do not claim any superiority of knowledge in any affairs that relate to the publick, but have less acquaintance with the military establishment than with any other part of the government, and can, therefore, neither oppose the resolution now offered to your lordships by such arguments as may deserve your attention, nor agree to it with that degree of conviction which the importance of it seems to require. That the chief argument which has been produced against raising new regiments, is less formidable than it has been represented, will, I believe, appear to your lordships, when it is considered that the officers are always gentlemen of the first families in the empire, who, therefore, cannot be supposed voluntarily to give up their relations and posterity to the power of any ministry, or, for the sake of their commissions, to betray that constitution by which their own properties are secured. Whether every other argument may not with equal justice be controverted, is not, without longer consideration, possible to be determined, and, therefore, it cannot be reasonably expected that we should agree to the resolution, which would be only to decide without examination, and to determine what we don't understand; for I am under no apprehension of being imagined to reflect unjustly on this assembly, in supposing that many of your lordships may be strangers to the question, which, when the last levies were made, was neither discussed nor proposed. I therefore move, that the previous question may be put, which may, perhaps, gain time sufficient for a more exact inquiry upon this important subject. Lord TALBOT replied to this purport:--My lords, if, in imitation of some noble lords, I profess my ignorance of the subject on which I am to speak, may it not yet be allowed me, after the example of others, to employ the little knowledge which I have in the defence of a resolution, which appears to have no other tendency than the advantage of the publick, and to show my zeal for the happiness of my country, though, perhaps, without the true knowledge of its interest? The noble lord, who spoke last, is too great a master of eloquence not to be heard with all the attention which pleasure naturally produces, and a reasoner too formidable not to raise in his hearers all the anxiety which is produced by the fear of being deceived by partial representations, and artful deductions. I am always afraid, my lords, lest errour should appear too much like truth in the ornaments which his lordship's imagination may bestow, and lest sophistry should dazzle my understanding whilst I imagine myself only guided by the light of reason. I shall, therefore, endeavour, my lords, to review his ornaments, and try whether they owe their influence to the force of truth, or to that of eloquence. His lordship has observed, that the objections which are now made to the method of raising new regiments, were not produced last year upon a like occasion. I know not, indeed, what can be inferred from this assertion; for, surely, it will not maintain, that an errour, once admitted, is to become perpetual. But, my lords, another reason may be assigned, for which the objections that occurred last year might not be produced. The ministry, after a long course of disgraceful negotiations, and artful delays, were, at length, compelled to a war, by the general clamours of the whole nation; but they acted as men unwilling to execute what they did not approve. They proceeded so slowly in their preparations, and were so languid in all their motions, that it was evident how willingly they would have improved every opportunity of retarding the vengeance which they were forced to threaten; and with what artifices they would have protracted any delay, which they could have imputed to those by whom they were opposed. It was, therefore, to the last degree, improper to embarrass their measures of themselves sufficiently perplexed, or to lay any obstacle in the way of those who would gladly be stopped. That the army is filled with gentlemen, is so far, my lords, from proving that there is nothing to be feared from it, that it is the only foundation of all our solicitude. For none but gentlemen can injure our liberties, and while the posts of the army are bestowed as rewards of senatorial slavery, gentlemen will always be found who will be corrupted themselves, and can corrupt a borough; who will purchase a vote in the house, and sell it for military preferments. By the posts of the army the senate may be corrupted, and by the corruption of the senate the army be perpetuated. Those, my lords, who are the warmest opponents of the army, apprehend not any danger from their swords, but from their votes. As they have been of late regulated without discipline or subordination, I should not feel such anxiety at seeing them led on by their new commanders against a body of honest ploughmen, united in the cause of virtue and of liberty; I should, with great alacrity, draw my sword against them, and should not doubt of seeing them in a short time heaped upon our fields. But, my lords, they are employed to ruin us by a more slow and silent method; they are directed to influence their relations in the senate, and to suborn the voters in our small towns; they are dispersed over the nation to instil dependence, and being enslaved themselves, willingly undertake the propagation of slavery. That the army is instrumental in extending the influence of the ministry to the senate, cannot be denied, when military preferments are held no longer than while he that possesses them gives a sanction, by his vote, to the measures of the court; when no degree of merit is sufficient to balance a single act of senatorial opposition, and when the nation is rather to be left to the defence of boys, than the minister be suspected of misconduct. Could either bravery or knowledge, reputation, or past services, known fidelity to his majesty, or the most conspicuous capacity for high trust, have secured any man in the enjoyment of his post, the noble duke who made the motion, had carried his command to his grave, nor had the nation now been deprived either of his arms, or of his counsels. But, as he has now offered his advice to his country, and supported his opinion with proofs from reason and experience, which even those who oppose them have confessed themselves unable to answer; as the justness of his reasoning, and the extent of his knowledge, have silenced those whose prejudices will not suffer them to own themselves convinced; let us not, my lords, reject what we cannot condemn, nor suffer our country to be defrauded of the advantage of this resolution, by that low senatorial craft, the previous question. Then the CHANCELLOR spoke to the following purpose:--My lords, I am far from suspecting that an open profession of my inability to examine the question before us, in its full extent, will be imputed to an affectation of modesty, since any knowledge of military affairs could not be acquired in those stations in which I have been placed, or by those studies, in which the greatest part of my life is known to have been spent. It will not be expected, my lords, that I should attempt a formal confutation of the noble duke's positions, or that I should be able to defend my own opinion against his knowledge and experience; nor would I, my lords, expose myself to the censure of having harangued upon war in the presence of Hannibal. The noble duke has explained his sentiments to your lordships with the utmost accuracy of method, and the most instructive perspicuity of language; he has enforced them with a strength of reasoning rarely to be found, and with an extent of knowledge peculiar to himself. Yet, my lords, as his arguments, however powerful in themselves, do not strike me with the same force with which others may be affected, who are more capable of receiving them, I hope that your lordships will allow me to mention such objections as occur to me, that in voting on this question I may, at least, preserve my conscience from violation, and neither adopt the opinion of another, however great, without examination, nor obstinately reject the means of conviction. Every lord who has spoken either in support of the noble duke's opinion, or in opposition to it, has confessed that he is very little acquainted with the subject of our debate; and it may not, therefore, be an improper or useless attempt, if I endeavour by objections, however injudicious, or by arguments, however inconclusive, to procure some illustration of a question so important, and, at the same time, so little understood. The objections, my lords, which I shall produce, are such as I have heard in conversation with those whose long acquaintance with military employments give them a just claim to authority in all questions which relate to the art of war; among whom I find no uniformity of opinion with regard to the most proper method of augmenting our forces. And, my lords, when we observe those to differ in their sentiments, whose education, experience, and opportunities of knowledge have been nearly the same, and who have all obtained a very great degree of reputation in their profession, what can be inferred, but that the question is in its own nature obscure and difficult? That it involves a multitude of relations, and is diffused through a great variety of circumstances? And that, therefore, it is prudent for every man, who can judge only upon the authority of others, to suspend his opinion? The chief argument, or that, at least, which impressed itself most strongly on my mind, against any innovation in our military constitution, was drawn from the success of our armies in their present form, with that proportion of soldiers and officers, which the present motion tends to abolish. Our forces, say the advocates for the present establishment, have afforded us a sufficient testimony of the propriety of their regulation, by their frequent victories over troops, whose discipline has been studied with the utmost vigilance, and which have been trained up to war with a degree of attention not disproportioned to the mighty design for which they were raised, the subjection of the world, and attainment of universal monarchy. These troops, who have been taught, almost from their infancy, that cowardice and flight are the greatest crimes, and persuaded, by national prejudices, and principles studiously instilled, that no foreign forces could withstand them, have fled before equal numbers of Britons, and been driven from one province to another, till, instead of grasping at general dominion, they were reduced to defend their wives and children. How much of this success was to be ascribed to that part of the regulation which this motion proposes to be changed, it is not, my lords, within my province to determine; the great commander whom I have the honour to oppose, can best explain to your lordships the province of every officer in the field, and how far the number of inferiour officers may influence the success of a battle and the fate of a kingdom. But to me, my lords, the establishment of our armies, comprising different views, and connecting various subordinate regulations, may be compared to a medicine composed of different ingredients, and found infallibly efficacious in a dangerous disease, in which, though some of the parts may seem to physicians of the profoundest learning, superfluous or improper, it would be no less than the folly of preferring experiments to life, to make any alteration. The wantonness of innovation, my lords, is a dangerous disease of the mind; in a private station, it prompts men to be always discontented with what they find, and to lose the enjoyment of good in search of something better; it incites them to leave the safe and beaten tracks of life, in search of those which they imagine nearer, but, which are, at best, less secure, and which generally lead them to points far different from that to which they originally intended to direct their course. It is dangerous, my lords, to admit any alteration which is not absolutely necessary, for one innovation makes way for another. The parts of a constitution, like a complicated machine, are fitted to each other, nor can one be changed without changing that which corresponds to it. This necessity is not always foreseen, but when discovered by experience is generally complied with; for every man is more inclined to hazard farther changes, than to confess himself mistaken by retracting his scheme. Thus, my lords, one change introduces another, till the original constitution is entirely destroyed. By the ambition of innovation, my lords, have almost all those empires been destroyed, of which nothing now is left but the memory. Every human establishment has its advantages and its inconveniencies, and by weak attempts to remedy these defects, which, notwithstanding the utmost attention, will embarrass the machine of government, alterations have been introduced which have been quickly followed by a total dissolution. There seem, my lords, to be few regulations on which it is more dangerous to make experiments than on that of the armies of a nation. We are sufficiently convinced how much of success is the consequence of courage, and that courage is only an opinion of our own superiority, arising from certain circumstances, either imaginary or real. The courage which at present animates our forces, arises, my lords, from a very proper ground, their former victories over the enemies which they are now to combat, and will, therefore, doubtless, continue while they can consider themselves as enjoying the same advantage with those particular men by whom the victories were obtained. But, my lords, if any essential part of their establishment be changed, they will be considered, both by themselves and their enemies, as a different army; they will then charge with less alacrity, and be opposed with less dejection; they will consider themselves as fighting without that certainty of success which arises from experience, and their enemies will resolve to try, by an obstinate resistance, whether they are now equally formidable as in their former state. Thus, my lords, I have attempted, however weakly, to represent the arguments which I have heard for the continuance of the establishment, of which your lordships will examine the validity, and shall now proceed to consider the noble duke's system of a military subordination in time of peace. Whether a standing army in time of peace is made necessary to the change of conduct in foreign courts, it is now useless to inquire; but it will be easily granted by your lordships, that no motive but necessity, necessity absolute and inevitable, ought to influence us to support a standing body of regular forces, which have always been accounted dangerous, and generally found destructive to a free people. The chief reason, my lords, of the danger arising from a standing army, may be ascribed to the circumstances by which men, subject to military laws, are distinguished from other members of the same community; they are, by the nature of martial government, exposed to punishment which other men never incur, and tried by forms of a different and more rigorous kind than those which are practised by the civil power. They are, if not exempted from the jurisdiction of a magistrate, yet subject to another authority which they see more frequently and more severely exerted, and which, therefore, they fear and reverence in a higher degree. They, by entering into the army, lay aside, for the most part, all prospect of advantage from commerce or civil employments, and, in a few years, neither fear nor hope any thing but from the favour or displeasure of their own officers. For these, my lords, or for other reasons, the soldiers have always been inclined to consider themselves as a body distinct from the rest of the community, and independent on it, a government regulated by their own laws, without regard to the general constitution of their country; they have, therefore, been ready to subvert the constitution, from which they received little advantage, and to oppress the civil magistrates, for whom they had lost their reverence. And how soon, my lords, might such outrages be expected from an army formed after the model of the noble duke, released from the common obligations of society, disunited from the bulk of the nation, directed solely by their own officers, and ultimately commanded by a man who had the right of commanding no other? Would they not soon consider themselves as a separate community, whose interests were, no less than their laws, peculiar to themselves? Would they not consider him, from whom they received all their rewards, and all their punishments, as the proper object of their supreme regard, and endeavour to exalt him to the same dominion over others, which he enjoyed in regard to themselves, that they might share in his superiority? A body of men, my lords, thus separated from the rest of the people, must consider themselves as either ennobled or degraded by such distinction, and would soon find themselves inclined to use the power of their arms, either in the exertion of their privileges, or the revenge of their disgrace. Then, my lords, would they set at defiance the laws of the nation, nor would one of these noble lords be able to disband, nor the other to resist them. The army, my lords, is, in time of peace, then best regulated when it is kept under the strictest subordination to the civil power, that power which it is instituted to protect and to preserve. Thus, my lords, have I examined the proposal and reasons of the noble duke, perhaps not much to the information of your lordships; but it cannot be expected that any capacity should be able, in an unexpected and sudden debate, to dispute on a subject, which the noble duke's education gave him particular opportunities of understanding far beyond almost every other man, and which he has had time to consider with respect to this present motion. For this reason, my lords, I cannot but think the previous question highly expedient, but not for this reason alone; for as the state of the army, and the proper methods of augmenting it, are soon to be examined by the other house, to prejudice their determinations, may raise a contest about privileges, and oblige us either to persist, for our own honour, in opposition to measures necessary to the security of the publick, or, in compliance with the present exigence, accept their scheme, however opposite to our own resolution. Lord CARTERET spoke in substance as follows:--My lords, the known abilities of that noble lord incline me always to hear him with uncommon expectation and attention, which seldom fail to be rewarded by such pleasure and information as few other men are able to afford. But his observations on the question before us, my lords, have only convinced me, that the greatest abilities may be sometimes betrayed into errour, and the most candid disposition be vitiated by accidental prejudices. For his own arguments neither appear just, nor his representation impartial, of those advanced in favour of the motion. With regard to the number of officers necessary in time of war, his lordship asserted nothing from his own knowledge, nor do I believe that any other lord will imagine himself qualified to dispute with the noble duke upon questions purely military. His experience entitles him to the highest authority, in debates of this kind; and if every man has a claim to credit in his own profession, surely, he who has given evidence of his proficiency in the art of war in the eyes of the whole world, will not be denied, in this house, that superiority which would readily be allowed him in any other part of the universe. And yet less, my lords, can it be suspected, that he intends to deceive us, than that he can be deceived himself; for not only his probity, his love of his country, and his fidelity to the crown, concur to secure him from any temptations to make an ill use of his credit, but his own interest obliges him to offer that scheme for the regulation of our forces, which, in his own opinion, will most certainly contribute to their success. For it is not to be doubted, my lords, that when we shall be engaged in war too far for negotiations and conventions, when we shall be surrounded by enemies, and terrified at the near approach of danger, he will be called upon to lead our armies to battle, and attack, once more, those enemies that have fled so often before him. Then, my lords, if he has contributed to form a weak plan of our military constitution, must he atone for it with the loss of his reputation; that reputation, for which he has undergone so many fatigues, and been exposed to so many dangers. But, my lords, it is ridiculous to suspect where nothing appears to provoke suspicion, and I am very far from imagining that the dangers of innovation, however artfully magnified, or the apprehensions of the soldiers, however rhetorically represented, will be thought of any weight. The establishment of the army, my lords, is an innovation, and, as the noble lord has justly represented it, an innovation that threatens nothing less than the destruction of our liberties, and the dissolution of our government. Our vigilance ought, therefore, to be very anxiously employed in regulating this new part of our government, and adapting it, in such a manner, to the national constitution, that no detriment may arise from it, and that our civil rights may be protected, not oppressed, by the military power. To this purpose, says the noble lord, the soldiers are to be restrained by a due subordination to the magistrate, a position undoubtedly true, but now superfluously urged: for it was never controverted by the noble person whose opinion he intended to oppose. Should any man assert, my lords, that the army ought to be formed into a distinct and independent society, which should receive laws only from a council of war, and have no other governour than their officers, none should oppose such an assertion with more ardour or constancy than myself, but what was never advanced it is unnecessary to confute. Yet, my lords, to obviate those dangers from the army which have been so strongly and justly represented, it is necessary, not only that a legal subordination to the civil authority be firmly established, but that a personal dependence on the ministry be taken away. How readily men learn to reverence and obey those on whom their fortunes depend, has been already shown by the noble lord, and therefore it will follow, that a minister who distributes preferments at his pleasure, may acquire such an influence in the army, as may be employed to secure himself from justice by the destruction of liberty. And unless it can be proved, that no such minister can ever exist; that corruption, ambition, and perfidy, have place only in the military race; every argument that shows the danger of an army, dependent only on the general, will show the danger, likewise, of one dependent only on the minister. The influence of the minister, my lords, is known to arise from the number of the officers, and to be proportioned to the value of the preferment, which it is in his power to bestow; it is, therefore, evident, by adding new officers to our army, we shall throw weight into the scale, which already is, at least, an equal balance to our constitution, and enable the ministry either to employ an army in defence of their measures, or to obtain such an influence in the senate, as shall make any other security superfluous. Such, my lords, is the danger of a multitude of officers, a danger which surely deserves more attention than the imaginary prejudice of the soldiers in favour of the present establishment; a prejudice represented so powerful, both in our own forces, and those of our enemies, that the future success of our arms may probably depend upon it. Surely, my lords, that cause may be allowed indefensible, which such a patron defends so weakly. What can be more chimerical than to imagine that men would lay down their arms, and forsake their standards, because there are twenty more in a company than have formerly been? That such a panick, from such a cause, was never found, I need not prove; and I scarce think it necessary to assert, that, without supposing a universal depravity of reason, it never can be found. The establishment proposed by the noble duke, is the same with that of most foreign troops, and particularly with that of his majesty's forces in his foreign dominions, and, therefore, cannot but be approved by him, if it should be proposed by your lordships. For why should he imagine a greater number of officers necessary to the troops of Britain, than to those of any other nation. The expediency of the motion, my lords, is, in my opinion, so obvious and incontestable, as to require no farther consideration, and, therefore, it is no argument against it, that we were not previously informed of the question. Much less, my lords, can I discover the force of the assertion, that by such a resolution we shall excite the displeasure of the other house; we have, my lords, at least, an equal right with them to examine any position relating to the publick security, a right which we may exert with less danger of disgusting them, while they have yet formed no determination, and with less danger to the nation, than when their opinion, whatever it may be, cannot be controverted without retarding the important bill against mutiny. We are never offended, my lords, at receiving the opinions of the other house, which we often adopt without any alteration, and often make use of for our own instruction, and now are become so contemptible as that no regard should be paid by them to our resolutions. It is well known, my lords, that this assembly is an essential and constituent part of the legislature of this kingdom, and that we received from our ancestors a great extent of power, which it ought to be our care not to suffer to be contracted by degrees, till this assembly shall become merely formal, and sit only to ratify implicitly the determinations of the other house. [Several other lords spoke in the debate, and the president having put the previous question, "Whether the question should be then put?" upon a division, it passed in the negative. Content, 42. Not content, 59.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, DECEMBER 12, 1740. RESPECTING OFFICERS ON HALF-PAY. Mr. SANDYS this day moved for an humble address to his majesty, that, for the future ease of his majesty's subjects, all officers now subsisting upon half-pay, etc. might be employed in the army, and supported it to the following effect: Sir, though I have often known motions opposed without any just objections, or at least without any proof of such inconveniencies likely to arise from them, as were equivalent to the advantages which they would have produced, yet I cannot but confess, that any opposition to this will be unexpected and surprising; for it is, in my opinion, supported by every law of justice and humanity. If we regard the publick in general, it cannot but produce some alleviation of the national expense; and if we consider the particular persons to whom it immediately relates, they have certainly a just claim to that regard which it is the tendency of this motion to procure them. To burden with superfluous officers, and unnecessary expenses, a people already overwhelmed with taxes, and overrun with the dependents on the crown, is, surely, to the highest degree cruel and absurd. And to condemn those men to contempt and penury, who have served their country with bravery and fidelity, to prefer unexperienced striplings to those commissions, which would gladly be accepted by men who have already tried their courage in the battle, and borne the fatigues of marches, and the change of climates, is surely not only to oppress the deserving, and scatter promotion without just distinction; but, what is yet more enormous, it is to wanton with the publick safety, and expose us to our enemies. Nor does it appear to me sufficient, that the veteran officers be restored to the commissions which they formerly enjoyed; they ought, upon an augmentation of our troops, to be recompensed by some advancement for their services and their sufferings; the ensign ought to become a lieutenant, and the lieutenant be exalted to a captain; stations which they will surely fill with more dignity and greater abilities, than boys newly discharged from school, and intrusted with unexpected authority. If it be reasonable, sir, that expense should be spared in a time of general poverty, if it be politick to carry on war in the manner most likely to produce success, if it be just, that those who have served their country should be preferred to those who have no merit to boast, this motion cannot be rejected. Sir William YONGE answered to this purpose:--Sir, to the motion now made, it will not, I believe, be objected, that it is unreasonable, or unjust, but that it is unnecessary, and that it is not drawn up with sufficient consideration. It is unnecessary, because his majesty is advised by it to no other measures than those which he has already determined to pursue; for he has declared to me, sir, his intention of conferring the new commissions upon the officers who receive half-pay, before any other officers shall be promoted. The motion appears to me not to be very attentively considered, or drawn up with great propriety of expression; for it supposes all the half-pay officers fit for the service, which cannot be imagined by any man, who considers that there has been peace for almost thirty years; a space of time, in which many vigorous constitutions must have declined, and many, who were once well qualified for command, must be disabled by the infirmities of age. Nor is the promotion of one of these gentlemen considered always by him as an act of favour; many of them have, in this long interval of peace, engaged in methods of life very little consistent with military employments, many of them have families which demand their care, and which they would not forsake for any advantages which a new commission could afford them, and therefore it would not be very consistent with humanity to force them into new dangers and fatigues which they are now unable to support. With regard to these men, compassion and kindness seem to require that they should be suffered to spend their few remaining days without interruption, and that the dangers and toils of their youth should be requited in their age with ease and retirement. There are others who have less claim to the regard of the publick, and who may be passed by in the distribution of new preferments without the imputation of neglecting merit. These are they who have voluntarily resigned their commissions for the sake of half-pay, and have preferred indolence and retreat to the service of their country. So that it appears, that of those who subsist upon half-pay, some are unable to execute a commission, some do not desire, and some do not deserve it; and with regard to the remaining part, which can be no great number, I have already stated the intention of his majesty, and therefore cannot but conclude that the motion is needless. Mr. PULTENEY spoke as follows:--Sir, I know not by what fatality it is, that all the motions made by one party are reasonable and necessary, and all that are unhappily offered by the other, are discovered either to be needless, or of pernicious tendency. Whenever a question can be clouded and perplexed, the opponents of the ministry are always mistaken, confuted, and, in consequence of the confutations, defeated by the majority of votes. When truth is too notorious to be denied, and too obvious to be contested, the administration claim the honour of the first discovery, and will never own that they were incited to their duty by the remonstrances of their opponents, though they never, before those remonstrances, had discovered the least intention of performing it. But that the motion is allowed to be just and proper, is sufficient; the importance of it will be easily discovered. For my part I shall always consider that motion as important, which tends to contract the expenses of the publick, to rescue merit from neglect, and to hinder the increase of the dependents on the ministry. Sir Robert WALPOLE answered:--Sir, there is no temper more opposite to that incessant attention to the welfare of the publick, which is the perpetual boast of those who have signalized themselves by opposing the measures of the administration, than a lust of contradiction, and a disposition to disturb this assembly with superfluous debates. Whether this disposition is not discovered in the reply made to the declaration of his majesty's intentions, and the confession of the propriety of the motion, let the house determine. It must surely be confessed, that it is not necessary to advise what is already determined. Nor is it less evident, that many of the officers whose interest is now so warmly solicited, must be incapacitated by their age for service, and unable to receive any benefit from the offer of new commissions. To deny this, is to question the flux of time, or to imagine that the constitution of a soldier is exempt from its injuries. Mr. SANDYS explained himself to this effect:--Sir, I am far from intending by this motion to fill the army with decrepit officers, or to obstruct in any manner the service of the publick; nor have I any other intention, than to secure to those whose years permit, and whose inclinations incite them to enter once more into the army, that preferment to which they have a claim, not only from their past services, but from the state of penury and obscurity in which they have languished. I desire to preserve those, whose valour has heretofore made our nation the terrour of the world, from the mortification of seeing themselves insulted by childhood, and commanded by ignorance; by ignorance exalted to authority by the countenance of some rhetorician of the senate, or some mayor of a borough. Whoever has observed the late distribution of military honours, will easily discover that they have been attained by qualifications very different from bravery, or knowledge of the art of war; he will find that regiments and companies are the rewards of a seasonable vote, and that no man can preserve his post in the army, whether given him as the reward of acknowledged merit, or sold him for the full value, any longer than he employs all his influence in favour of the ministry. Sir Robert WALPOLE then said:--Sir, it has been already admitted, that the motion can only be objected to as superfluous, and, therefore, all farther debate is mere waste of time, without any prospect of advantage; nor is any thing now necessary, but to review the motion, and correct such expressions as may be thought inaccurate or improper. That _all_ the half-pay officers are not able to enter into the service, has been already shown, and, therefore, I should imagine, that, instead of _all the officers_, we might very justly substitute _officers properly qualified_. Sir John BARNARD replied:--Sir, though I cannot discover the necessity of any alteration, since it cannot be conceived that the senate can advise impossibilities, yet since so much accuracy is affected, it may be allowed that the word _all_ shall be left out, as seeming to imply more than can be intended. But the honourable gentleman is not, in my opinion, so happy in his amendment, as in his objection; for the words _properly qualified_ convey to me no distinct idea. He that is qualified is, I suppose, _properly qualified_, for I never heard of _improper qualifications_; but if the word _properly_ be omitted, I have no objection to the amendment. This motion was agreed to. HOUSE OF COMMONS, JAN. 24, 1740-1. [DEBATE ON AN ADDRESS FOR PAPERS RELATING TO ADMIRAL HADDOCK.] Mr. WALLER this day offered the following motion in writing, That an humble address be presented to his majesty, that he will be graciously pleased to give directions that there may be laid before this house copies of two particular letters written by his majesty's secretary of state to admiral Haddock, which had been addressed for before, and of the letters received from admiral Ogle mentioned therein; together with all letters written by admiral Haddock to either of his majesty's secretaries of state, concerning the said letters, and the execution of the orders contained therein. This motion he supported by arguments to the following effect:--Sir, no man who considers the present situation of our foreign affairs, the expense and inefficacy of our military preparations, the appearance of negligence in our naval expeditions, and the general disappointment of the hopes which the nation had conceived of victories, vengeance, and reparations, can, in my opinion, doubt the expediency of the motion which I have taken the liberty to make. When the expectations of the nation are deceived, it certainly becomes those who are deputed to watch over the prosperity of the publick, to inquire whence the disappointment proceeds, and either to inform their constituents that their uneasiness arises from their own errour, and that their hopes are destroyed because they had no rational foundation; or to detect the weak management of those by whom the publick measures have been ill-conducted, or the national treasure has been misapplied. With regard, sir, to the present war, I know not how the nation can be charged with having formed unreasonable expectations. If they considered the speech from the throne, the most authentick declaration of the intentions of the government, they found there the warmest resentments of the injuries which they had sustained, and the strongest assurances of a vigorous prosecution of all those measures which might produce speedy recompense, and inviolable security. If they reflect, sir, on the preparations for war, on the multitude of ships, the demand of materials for naval equipments, and the high prices at which workmen were retained, they could not but imagine that either some mighty attempt was designed, or some formidable enemy dreaded, and as they know not whom they had to fear, they ascribed the vigour of our proceedings to a resolution of humbling our enemies by one fatal blow, and re-establishing our naval dominion by a single effort. And justly, sir, might they indulge this pleasing imagination; with reason might they anticipate a triumph over an enemy whose strength bears no proportion to the force that was fitted out against them, and expect that in a few months they should see the ambassadors of Spain supplicating for peace. To raise their expectations yet higher, their trade was suspended by an embargo, long continued, and in the strictest manner enforced, and the impresses were let loose upon the sailors; they saw nothing omitted, however grievous to the nation, that could contribute to make it formidable, and bore part of the miseries of war without impatience, in hopes of being rewarded by military glory, and repaid by the plunder of Spain. But, sir, when so long a time has elapsed, and no account is brought of either a victory or a battle, when they hear nothing but that our fleets have visited several neutral ports, and those of the enemy sailed unmolested from coast to coast, and when they are every day told of the losses of our merchants, are insulted in our own channel by the Spanish privateers, and receive no relations of our success upon the shores of our enemies, can it be wondered that they suspect the reality of our designs, or inquire whence it proceeds that their money has been wasted, their trade interrupted, and the liberty of their fellow-subjects invaded to no purpose? But how much more justly, sir, are they inflamed when they hear of the lucky stratagems, or daring enterprises of those enemies, which a just sense of their own superiority, had induced them to consider as vanquished before the battle, and of whom they had no apprehensions but that their cowardice would always secure them from vengeance? How justly may they murmur when they read, that our fleets leave every part of the enemy's coast where their presence is necessary, and have afforded the Spaniards an opportunity of changing one port for another, as it is most convenient, and at length of joining the French squadrons, and sailing to the defence of their American dominions? May they not justly, sir, require of their representatives some reason for such inexplicable conduct? May they not reasonably demand an account of the arguments which procured their approbation of measures, which, so far as they can be examined by those who have no opportunity of perusing the necessary papers, appear either cowardly or treacherous? And what answer, sir, can we return to such remonstrances, unless this motion be agreed to? How can we appease the discontents of our constituents, or discharge the trust reposed in us, without a very minute and attentive inquiry into questions thus obscure and thus important? Are we to tell our constituents, that we absolutely rely upon the prudence and fidelity of the ministry and admirals, and recommend to them the same implicit dependence? Are we to confess that we have now for two sessions voted in the dark, and approved what we were not suffered to examine and understand? Such answers, sir, to questions so reasonable, will not contribute to increase the veneration of the people either for ourselves, or our constitution; and yet this answer, and this only, they can receive from us, if the papers mentioned in the motion I have made are denied. Mr. CLUTTERBUCK replied in the following manner:--Sir, this motion, though so warmly urged, and so artfully supported, I can consider only as a repetition of a former motion which was approved by the assembly, so far as it could properly be complied with, nor was any paper then concealed which it would not have been an injury to the nation to have divulged. If the design of this motion be to promote the success of the present war, and the zeal with which it has been pressed, be incited only by the ardour of true patriotism, I doubt not but it will easily be withdrawn by those who are now most inclined to support it, when they shall reflect that it tends to the discovery of our schemes, and to the overthrow of our designs, that it will expose all our consultations to our enemies, and instruct them how to annoy us with most success, and how to shelter themselves from our intended attacks. It is the first care, sir, of every administration, that their military designs should only be discovered by the execution of them, and that their enemies, by being obliged to guard all parts, should be weak in all. If, by laying our papers before this house, the Spaniards should come to be informed against what part of their dominions our expeditions are designed, will they not increase their strength, improve their fortifications, and double their vigilance? And if we are thus obliged to form new schemes, must we not impute the defeat of the former to our own imprudent zeal, or unseasonable curiosity? Mr. SANDYS spoke to this effect:--Sir, that we should demand the schemes laid for the future conduct of the war with Spain was never proposed, nor, as it may reasonably be concluded, ever imagined; for what is mentioned in the motion but the papers relating to the transactions of the two last years. That it should be necessary to remind gentlemen of the difference between the _future_ and the _past_, would hardly be suspected by any man not accustomed to senatorial controversies and artifices of state; and yet in the argument which has been offered against the motion, nothing has been asserted but that the orders relating to past transactions are not to be laid before us, lest the enemy should thereby gain intelligence of what we now design against them. The necessity of secrecy in war needs not be urged, because it will not be denied; but when designs have been laid, and miscarried, the reasons of that miscarriage may surely be inquired, without danger of betraying the councils of our country. If the negligence of our councils, and the misconduct of our commanders, has been such, that no designs have been premeditated; if a war has been carried on by chance, and nothing has succeeded, because nothing has been attempted; if our commanders have not done ill, and have only done nothing; if they have avoided loss by avoiding danger; we may surely inquire to whom such proceedings are to be imputed, whether the defeat of our designs is to be charged upon the strength of our enemy, or the cowardice of our officers; or whether the inactivity and apparent neutrality of our forces is occasioned by the negligence of our admirals, or the irresolution of our own ministry. There have been, sir, many incidents in these two last years, of which the examination can be of very little advantage to the Spaniards. I do not know what pernicious intelligence they can glean from an inquiry into the reasons for which Haddock's fleet was divided, and Ogle sent to the defence of Minorca, or for which he afterwards returned. Nor can I conceive that any advantage, except that of merriment and diversion, can be thrown into the hands of our enemies, though we should seriously inquire into what no man has yet pretended to understand, the wonderful escape of the Spanish squadron. A transaction on which we had dwelt long enough with that admiration which ignorance produces, and on which it may not be improper at length to enable us to reason. This is an affair, perhaps, much better understood by our enemies than by ourselves, and surely we cannot, therefore, be afraid of informing them of it; at least since the fleet has long since sailed out, and left their coast, we can hardly be restrained in our inquiries by the fear of discovering our _future_ designs. If, therefore, it be the incontestable right of the senate to examine the conduct of publick affairs, which I suppose will scarcely be denied, this motion cannot be rejected as unseasonable, nor can the papers be refused, without increasing those suspicions which are already too prevalent throughout the nation. Nor, indeed, for our own sakes, ought we to delay this inquiry any longer, lest by having long acted without being accountable, the minister should form a prescription against our privilege, and, in time, tell us in plain terms that we are his slaves, and that we are not to presume to carry our examinations, however solemn and important they may continue to appear, farther than he shall be pleased to permit; and that, whatever may be the opinion of the people that deputes us, or, whatever ancient claims we may plead to authority, we are now to consider ourselves only as the oppressors of the nation, and the panegyrists of the court. Mr. WALPOLE next rose, and spoke to this purpose:--Sir, it cannot be denied to be reasonable that all those papers should be laid before the senate, which can be communicated without injury to the publick. Of this number we may justly imagine the orders sent to the admirals, in which the time of their departure is fixed, and many others which may be of use to inform the house, but cannot enable the enemy to judge either of our force or our designs. But it is evident, that there must be others included in this motion, which our regard for the success of the war, and the prosperity of our country, ought to determine us to conceal, and such as are never exposed by any administration; it is, therefore, proper to limit the address to papers of a certain kind, or a certain date, which may be considered by the house without benefit to our enemies, and for the examination of which a day or two will be more than sufficient. Mr. PULTENEY spoke in substance as follows:--Sir, I know not what number of papers the wisdom of the administration will allow us, but, if we judge by the time proposed to be spent in examination, we shall not be distracted with a great diversity of subjects; intelligence will be very penuriously dealt out, and if we submit to their choice of the writings which shall be laid before us, our inquiry will probably end without any discoveries made either by our enemies or ourselves. But I hope, sir, we shall not be so cheaply satisfied, nor exposed by the fear of one enemy, to the insolence of another. I hope we shall resolutely continue our demands of information, while a single line is concealed, from which any light can be expected. There may, indeed, be circumstances in which our demands, however loud, will necessarily be vain. It is not impossible that we may suspect those transactions of deep art, and secret contrivance, which have been the consequences of mere indolence, and want of consideration. Our great ministers have been, perhaps, only doing nothing, while we have imagined that they were working out of sight. Misled, sir, by this notion, we may call for the orders that have been despatched in these two last years, when, perhaps, our secretaries of state have been fattening on their salaries without employment, and have slept without care, and without curiosity, while we have been congratulating ourselves upon their vigilance for our preservation. Or if orders have been given, it is to be considered, that the end of inspecting orders is to compare them with the conduct of the admirals to whom they were directed: from this comparison, I doubt not but many gentlemen expect uncommon discoveries; but to check all unreasonable hopes before they have taken possession of their hearts, for unreasonable hopes are the parent of disappointment, I think it proper to remind them, that to draw any conclusions from the orders, it is necessary to understand them. This consideration alone is sufficient to redress the ardour of inquiry, for every man that has had opportunities of knowing the wonderful accomplishments of our ministry, the depth of their designs, the subtilty of their stratagems, and the closeness of their reasoning, will easily conceive it probable that they might send such orders as none but themselves could understand; and what then will be the consequence of our idle curiosity, but that we be led into a labyrinth of endless conjectures? For we have long ago found that no explanations are to be expected, and that our ministry are too wise to discover their secrets to their enemies. Let us, therefore, examine the naked facts which have fallen within our observation, and endeavour to inform ourselves of the meaning of these secret orders by the execution of them. Admiral Ogle was despatched from Haddock's fleet to protect Minorca, and, in his absence, the Spanish squadron sailed away. Perhaps he was ordered to watch Ferrol and Minorca at the same time, and not understanding how that was to be done, neglected one part of his charge, by an attention to the other: as a watchman who should be employed to guard at once the bank in London, and the treasury in Westminster. Admiral NORRIS, sir, sailed lately forth, I suppose, in pursuance of orders, with a very formidable fleet, and after having lost sight for some days of the British coast, sailed back again with great precipitation. Whether his orders were only to sail forth, or whether, when he examined them farther, he could not understand them, I pretend not to determine; but it may reasonably be imagined that his orders were of the same kind with those of our other admirals, because they produced the same consequences. I have been told, that formerly our commanders were ordered to _burn_, _sink_, and _destroy_; and that in those times it was not uncommon for a British admiral to do much mischief with a strong fleet; but it is evident that the style is since changed, for our admirals are now very inoffensive, and go out only to come back. I, therefore, think the motion highly necessary, and such as ought to be complied with. Admiral NORRIS here rose up, and spoke thus:--Sir, I am not conscious that my conduct in any part of my life has exposed me to be justly treated with contempt and ridicule, and what I have not deserved I will not bear. If any gentleman in this house can accuse me of having neglected my duty, or deserted it, let him not spare insults or invectives, let him now expose my cowardice or my carelessness, let him prove me unworthy of trust or of command. But my own conscience acquits me, and I defy any man to produce and support his accusation; nor can you, sir, [Footnote: Addressing himself to Mr. PULTENEY.] who have thus contemptuously treated me, allege any thing against me that may justify your neglect of decency: that you have transgressed the rules of decency is the softest censure that your behaviour admits, and I think it may with equal propriety be asserted, that you have broken the laws of justice. Mr. PULTENEY replied in this manner:--Sir, I shall submit to you and all who hear me, whether I have treated the honourable gentleman's name with any contemptuous freedom of speech. The usual method of mentioning an expedition is that of naming the commander, who is not thereby necessarily included in the censure of an unsuccessful attempt, and I am very far from calling his courage and capacity into question. Not that I shall ever think it necessary to make an apology for expressing my sentiments with freedom as a member of this house, in which I shall always speak what I think, and in what manner it shall appear to me most proper, nor shall I fear to repeat without doors what I say here. Sir Robert WALPOLE next rose up, and spoke to this purpose:--Sir, as I am not acquainted with any measures pursued by the administration, which it is their particular interest to conceal, I am desirous that all papers should be laid before the house which will not afford our enemies any opportunity of obviating our designs. What necessity there is for this address I cannot, indeed, discover, because I know not any foundation for suspicion of either negligence or treachery, which have been both insinuated in this debate. Nor are the ministry, however ludicrously their abilities have been treated, afraid of discovering their ignorance, by laying before the house the orders which they have given to our admirals; orders of which they are far from doubting that they will appear, upon a candid examination, rational and proper. The chief objection to this motion arises from its unreasonableness, and the necessity which it will produce of assigning to a fruitless inquiry those hours that may be more usefully employed. Mr. PITT replied in terms to the effect following:--Sir, it is my opinion, that our time cannot be more usefully employed during a war, than in examining how it has been conducted, and settling the degree of confidence that may be reposed in those to whose care are intrusted our reputations, our fortunes, and our lives. There is not any inquiry, sir, of more importance than this; it is not a question about an uncertain privilege, or a law, which, if found inconvenient, may hereafter be repealed; we are now to examine whether it is probable that we shall preserve our commerce and our independence, or whether we are sinking into subjection to a foreign power. But this inquiry, sir, will produce no great information, if those, whose conduct is examined, are allowed to select the evidence. For what accounts will they exhibit but such as have often already been laid before us, and such as they now offer without concern: accounts obscure and fallacious, imperfect and confused, from which nothing can be learned, and which can never entitle the minister to praise, though they may screen him from punishment. Mr. PELHAM spoke as follows:--Sir, I am confident that no man engaged in the administration desires to be _screened_ from the most rigorous inquiry, or would defer to exhibit the papers a moment for any other reason than his regard for the publick. I am confident, that nothing could so much contribute to advance the particular and distinct interest of the ministry as the publication of all the writings that relate to the present war, by which it would incontestably appear that nothing has been omitted that could promote our success, that our commanders have been sent out with orders to act with the utmost vigour, and that our preparations have been not disproportioned to the importance of our design. It will appear that no former ministry have given greater proofs of their zeal for the publick interest, or have more steadily pursued the most proper measures by which it might be advanced. I am not, indeed, certain that those who now call so loudly for information would be prevailed on by any degree of evidence to suspend their censures. Them, who are now dissatisfied, I shall despair of influencing by reason or testimony; for they seem to inquire only to condemn; nor is this motion, perhaps, made so much for the sake of obtaining information, as of harassing the ministry with delays, and suspending affairs of greater importance. This motion was agreed to, and upon another motion made by Mr. SANDYS, it was resolved, "That an humble address be presented to his majesty, that he will be graciously pleased to give directions, that there may be laid before this house a copy of the reasons sent by admiral Cavendish, in pursuance of an order from the commissioners of the admiralty, which had retarded the sailing of admiral Ogle's squadron, so much beyond expectation." Likewise, "That an humble address be presented to his majesty, that he will be graciously pleased to give directions, that there may be laid before this house a copy of the reasons transmitted by admiral Ogle, that did prevent him from sailing, pursuant to his repeated orders for that purpose, and particularly to those sent him by the commissioners of the admiralty." HOUSE OF COMMONS, FEB. 3, 1740-1. [DEBATE REGARDING THE DEPARTURE OF THE FRENCH AND SPANISH SQUADRONS.] Mr. SANDYS this day presented a motion in writing, for petitioning his majesty to inform them when the regency received intelligence that the French and Spanish squadrons sailed, which was seconded, as follows, by Mr. WALLER:-- Sir, the information now moved for, appears to me so necessary in their deliberations on the conduct of the war, that without it we can only conjecture in the dark, and entangle ourselves in an inextricable labyrinth. It is well known, that in war all motions are, in a great degree, to be regulated by those of the enemy, and that, therefore, no vigilance is to be spared by which any knowledge can be gained of their designs, nor any methods omitted of communicating them to those who have the direction of the war. A ministry may, in conducting military operations, disappoint the expectations of their country, either by neglecting to procure intelligence, or by failing to make use of those opportunities which seasonable information puts into their power, and they may, when their designs fail of success, justify themselves, by proving that they were deceived by intelligence which it was reasonable to believe, or that better intelligence was not attainable, or that they made use, however unsuccessfully, of all the forces that could then be employed, and of all the advantages that were then in their possession. But how shall we judge of our administration, how shall we know what confidence we ought to repose in their prudence and fidelity, and what miscarriages are to be attributed to the chance of war or superiour force of our enemies, if we cannot be informed with what diligence they endeavour at information, and how early they have notice of the motions of the enemy? The sailing, or rather escape of the Ferrol squadron, and departure of the French fleet, are the most important events of the present war; events that threaten very dangerous consequences, no less than descents upon our American colonies, the conquest of our dominions, the slavery of our fellow-subjects, and perhaps the destruction of the brave Vernon, who is secure in the imagined vigilance of the other commanders, and may, perhaps, in a few days see himself surrounded by formidable squadrons of different nations, and exposed to the attack of forces to which his little fleet bears no proportion. Nothing appears more evident, than that we had opportunities of observing, at least, all the preparations of the French, and of watching the moment of their departure, and that our force on the coast of Spain was sufficient to have confined their fleets for ever in their harbours, or to have destroyed them at their first entrance into the open seas, of which we may justly inquire, why it was not attempted, but shall inquire to no purpose till we know when they departed, that we may consider the state of our own forces, and whether our enemies escaped by our negligence, cowardice, or weakness. Mr. WINNINGTON then spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, that we cannot deliberate upon subjects which we do not understand, and that, therefore, no necessary or useful information ought to be denied to the house, I shall readily admit; but must observe, at the same time, that the reputation of the house would be very little consulted, in demanding information which cannot be given. To address his majesty to inform us of the time at which the squadrons of our enemies sailed, is to inquire of him what it ought to be the highest care of those princes to conceal from him, and which he can only know by having spies in their privy councils. And of what importance is it to inquire what intelligence was brought him, or when he received it, if it appears that his intelligence must be in its own nature uncertain and dubitable? That they have left their ports is now certain, because they have been twice discovered in different parts of the world; but, as we can now only form conjectures on their designs and courses, so, before they sailed, it was impossible to know when they were fully equipped, or what time was fixed for their departure. It is to be remembered, that they form their measures, and make their preparations in their own dominions, and therefore, have more advantages of concealing their schemes than we of discovering them. Mr. Advocate CAMPBELL then spoke thus:--Sir, this motion, which has been represented as unreasonable and absurd, is, in my opinion, not only proper, but important. It is important, because it will enable us to judge, upon sufficient foundations, of the conduct of the ministry, who are censured by the voice of the nation, for having been either defective in vigilance or in activity, for having been either ignorant by their own fault of the designs of the enemy, or perfidiously passive in permitting the execution of them. I am far from believing that such intelligence as our ministry is expected to procure, requires any uncommon subtilty, or any other agents than are always employed by every minister, to transmit to them informations from foreign courts. Such, I am afraid, are always hovering about our consultations, and I know not why our ministers should be less diligent or less successful than those of other princes. If, therefore, such intelligence might have been obtained, it was criminal not to obtain it; and if the departure of the Spanish squadron was foreseen, it ought to be inquired, why it was not prevented; and if it was only known when it was too late to hinder it from sailing, why it was not pursued, or why succours were not immediately despatched to admiral Vernon. All these questions can only be resolved, in consequence of the information which his majesty shall give us; and for which it is, therefore, in my opinion, necessary to petition. Mr. Henry PELHAM spoke next, to this purpose:--Sir, how the regency could be informed of the intention of the Spaniards to leave their ports till it appeared by their departure, or by what means it can be expected that his majesty should be now acquainted with their particular course, or farther designs, I confess myself unable to conceive. With regard, sir, to the intelligence transmitted from foreign courts by agents and spies, a little consideration will easily discover that it is not to be trusted. For what can be generally expected from them, but that they should catch flying reports, or by chance intercept uncertain whispers, that they should inquire timorously, and, therefore, for the greatest part, of those from whom no satisfactory accounts can be received, and that they should often endeavour to deserve their salaries by such information as is rather pleasing than true. All the knowledge that can be obtained of an enemy's designs, must arise from a diligent comparison of one circumstance with another, and from a general view of his force, his interest, and his opportunities. And that such conjectures will be often erroneous, needs not be told. Probability, therefore, is, in such inquiries, all that can be attained, and he that sits idle in the time of war, expecting certain intelligence, will see his enemies enjoying the advantages of his folly, and laying hold on a thousand opportunities which he has neglected to improve. The war in which we are now engaged, has been carried on by the administration with the utmost diligence and vigour; nor have any measures been omitted that could probably produce success, and the success of the wisest measures is only probable. Should the great admiral, who is now present in the house, have met the French and Spaniards in the open seas, by what art could he arrive at a certain knowledge of their designs? He might by his acquaintance with the situation and state of neighbouring countries, the observation of their course, the periods of particular winds, and other hints of observation, form probable conjectures, but could never reach to certainty or confidence. It seems to me, therefore, highly improper, to petition his majesty for intelligence which he cannot be imagined to have received, and I cannot agree to any motion for that purpose. Mr. SANDYS then made another motion, to address his majesty, that there may be laid before the house copies of all letters received from, or written to, admiral Vernon since his going to the West Indies. Which being seconded, Mr. PELHAM spoke to this effect:--Sir, this motion, if the intention of it be limited by proper restrictions, is doubtless reasonable and just; for the right of this house to examine into the conduct of publick affairs, and, consequently, for calling for the papers necessary to enlighten their inquiries, is not to be disputed. But, as the end of all such inquiries is the promotion of the publick welfare, so they are not to be made in a manner by which that end may be defeated. Papers are not to be demanded, which cannot be produced without discovering our own secrets, and acquainting our enemies either with that weakness which we ought carefully to conceal, or that force which will be most effectually employed if it is not known, and, therefore, no preparations are made to oppose it. It cannot be imagined, but that many of the papers which have passed between the admiralty and the commander in America, contain plans for the prosecution of the war, observations on the conditions of our own colonies, and, perhaps, intelligence of the estate of the Spanish fortresses and towns. Many informations of the utmost consequence to our enemies may be collected from those papers, but nothing can be expected from them, that will enable us to prosecute a senatorial inquiry with more success, that will put it in our power to discover frauds, negligence, or treachery. There are, sir, other papers which may, indeed, be laid before us, without any benefit to our enemies, and, perhaps, with some advantage to ourselves; the papers which contain the accompts of our preparations and stores, the lists of our forces, and the calculation of our expenses, are the proper subjects of senatorial inquiries; and if the motion be restrained to those, I believe it will not be opposed by any gentleman engaged in the administration of our affairs. I shall beg leave to propose these words may be added, "So far as the same relates to a supply of ships, marines, or land forces." The motion, thus amended, was agreed to. HOUSE OF LORDS, FEB. 13, 1740-1. DEBATE ON ADDRESSING HIS MAJESTY FOR REMOVING SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. The opposition which for a long time had been made in the commons, to the measures of the administration, was on this day pushed to a crisis, and produced a motion in both houses. In the house of lords it occasioned the following debate: Lord CARTERET began in this manner:--My lords, as the motion which I am about to make is of the highest importance, and of the most extensive consequences; as it cannot but meet with all the opposition which the prejudices of some, and the interest of others, can raise against it; as it must have the whole force of ministerial influence to encounter, without any assistance but from justice and reason; I hope to be excused by your lordships for spending some time in endeavouring to show, that it wants no other support, that it is not founded upon doubtful suspicions, but upon uncontestable facts; that it is not dictated by private interest, but by the sincerest regard to publick happiness; not abetted by the personal malevolence of particular men, but enforced by the voice of the people; a voice which ought always to be attended to, and, generally, to be obeyed. To endeavour, my lords, to remove from places of publick trust all those who appear to want either the virtues or abilities necessary for executing their offices, is the interest of every member of a community. And it is not only the interest but the duty of all those who are, either by the choice of the people, or by the right of birth, invested with the power of inspecting publick affairs, and intrusted with the general happiness of their country. That, therefore, every motive combines to make it the duty, and every argument concurs to prove it the privilege of your lordships, is too evident to be doubted. How often this privilege has been exerted by this house, and how often it has rescued our country from oppression, insolence, and rapine; how often our constitution has been reanimated, and impending ruin been averted by it, a superficial acquaintance with history may inform us. And we are now called upon by the universal cry of the nation, and urged by the perplexed and uncertain state of our foreign affairs, and declension of our wealth, and attacks upon our liberties at home, to recollect these precedents of magnanimity and justice, and to make another effort for the relief of our country. This house, my lords, has proceeded against ministers, whose conduct they disapproved, by methods of greater or less severity, according to the necessity of affairs, or the supposed malignity of the crimes alleged against them; and, therefore, have sometimes thought it necessary to deter posterity from imitating them by rigorous censures, and exemplary punishments, and sometimes have thought it sufficient to set the nation free from its distresses, without inflicting any penalties on those by whose misconduct they imagined them produced. What were the more violent and vindictive methods of proceeding, it is not necessary, with regard to this motion, to examine; since I shall only propose, that we should, in imitation of our predecessors, in cases of this nature, humbly address his majesty to remove the minister from his presence and councils. Nothing, my lords, can be more moderate or tender than such an address, by which no punishment is inflicted, nor any forfeiture exacted. The minister, if he be innocent, if his misconduct be only the consequence of his ignorance or incapacity, may lay down in peace an office for which nature has not designed him, enjoy the vast profits of long employment in tranquillity, and escape the resentment of an unhappy people; who, when irritated to the highest degree, by a continuation of the same miscarriages, may, perhaps, in the heat of a more malevolent prosecution, not sufficiently distinguish between inability and guilt. Those, therefore, among your lordships, that think him honest but mistaken, must willingly agree to a motion like this, as the best expedient to appease the people without the ruin of the minister. For surely no man who has read the history, or is acquainted with the temper of this nation, can expect that the people will always bear to see honours, favours, and preferments, distributed by the direction of one universally suspected of corruption, and arbitrary measures; or will look only with silent envy upon the affluence of those whom they believe to be made great by fraud and plunder, swelled to insolence by the prosperity of guilt, and advanced to wealth and luxury by publick miseries. Such of your lordships who join with the people in ascribing our present unhappy state not to the errours, but to the crimes of the minister, and who, therefore, think a bare removal not sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice, must, doubtless, give their consent to the motion, for the sake of obtaining proper evidence of his wickedness, which cannot be expected while he stands exalted in prosperity, and distributes the riches of the nation, and the gifts of his sovereign at his own choice; while he is in possession of every motive that can influence the mind, enforce secrecy, and confirm fidelity; while he can bribe the avaricious, and intimidate the fearful; while he can increase the gratification of luxury, and enlarge the prospects of ambition. For, my lords, if it be considered from whom this evidence must be drawn, it will soon appear that no very important discoveries can be made, but by those whom he has intrusted with his secrets, men whose disregard of virtue recommended them to his favour, and who, as they are moved only by interest, will continue faithful while they can hope for recompense; but may, perhaps, be willing to buy their own security by sacrificing their master, when they shall see no farther prospect of advantage from serving him, or any other method of escaping punishment. But, my lords, all must allow this motion to be reasonable, whatever they think of the minister's conduct, who are of opinion that a free people have a right of complaining when they feel oppression, and of addressing the crown to remove a minister that has incurred their universal detestation. That such is the condition of the present minister, I believe, will scarcely be denied, or may be discovered by those who find themselves inclined to doubt it, by asking any man whom they shall accidentally meet, what are his sentiments on the situation of national affairs, and of the hands by which they are administered. What answer he will receive is well known to most of your lordships. Let him not be satisfied with a single suffrage, let him repeat the question to ten thousand persons, different in their ages, their conditions, and religious opinions, in every thing that produces contrariety of dispositions and affections, he will yet find them unanimous in complaining of publick misconduct, and in censuring one gentleman as the author of it. Let us not imagine, my lords, that these accusations and murmurs are confined to the lowest class of the people, to men whose constant attention to more immediate distresses, hinder them from making excursions beyond their own employments. For though, perhaps, it might be made evident from the accounts of past times, that no general dissatisfaction, even among men of this rank, was ever groundless; though it might be urged that those who see little can only clamour, because they feel themselves oppressed; and though it might not unseasonably be hinted that they are at least formidable for their numbers, and have, sometimes, executed that justice which they had not interest to procure, and trampled upon that insolence that has dared to defy them; yet I shall not insist upon such motives, because it is notorious that discontent is epidemical in all ranks, and that condition and observation are far from appeasing it. Whether the discontent, thus general, is groundless, whether it is raised only by the false insinuations of the disappointed, and the wicked arts of the envious, whether it is, in exception to all the maxims of government, the first dislike of an administration that ever overspread a nation without just reasons, deserves to be inquired into. In this inquiry, my lords, it will be necessary to consider not only the state of domestick affairs, increase or diminution of our debts, the security or violation of our liberties, the freedom or dependence of our senates, and the prosperity or declension of our trade, but to examine the state of this nation, with regard to foreign powers; to inquire, whether we are equally feared and equally trusted now as in former administrations; whether our alliances have contributed to secure us from our inveterate and habitual enemies, or to expose us to them; whether the balance of Europe be still in our hands; and whether, during this long interval of peace, our power has increased in the same proportion with that of our neighbours. France, my lords, is the constant and hereditary enemy of Britons, so much divided from her in religion, government, and interest, that they cannot both be prosperous together; as the influence of one rises, that of the other must, by consequence, decline. Alliances may form a temporal show of friendship, but it cannot continue; for their situation produces a natural rivalship, which every accidental circumstance has contributed to increase. Long wars, for many reigns after the conquest, established a radical and insuperable hatred between us, nor did those wars cease till the reformation produced new occasions of jealousy and aversion. France was, by these reasons, obliged for many ages to employ all her influence and policy in strengthening herself against us, by treaties and alliances; and in our times, has given us a new reason for jealousy by extending her commerce, and improving her manufactures. It has been, therefore, my lords, the settled principle of every wise administration, of every Briton, whose opinions were not regulated by some other motives than those of reason, to attend, with the highest degree of vigilance, to all the designs of the French, and oppose, with incessant diligence, every attempt to increase their force, or extend their influence, and to check their conquests, obstruct their alliances, and forestal their trade. For this great end it has been our constant endeavour to support the Austrian family, whose large dominions and numerous forces make a counterbalance on the continent to the power of France. For this end we entered into a long war, of which we still languish under the consequences, squandered the lives of our countrymen, and mortgaged the possessions of our posterity. For failing in the prosecution of this purpose, for leaving France too formidable, and neglecting the interests of the emperour, was the treaty of Utrecht censured, and the authors of it prosecuted by the present minister; but how much he has improved the errours of his predecessors to his own advantage, how diligent he has been to rectify the miscarriages of their conduct, and supply the defect, I shall endeavour to explain. It is well known, my lords, that during the regency of the duke of Orleans, we had nothing to apprehend from French machinations; his interest, a tie which that nation is seldom found to break, held him steady to his engagements with us; nor is it less known how much he distrusted Spain, and how little, by consequence, he favoured her. We had, at that time, no necessity of anxiously attending to every whisper of the French court, which was sufficiently engaged in regulating their domestick affairs, and repairing the ruins of a destructive war; but, my lords, we ought to observe, that it had been happy for us had our minister laboured with equal address at the same employment. After the death of this duke, the affairs of France were restored to their former situation, her old schemes were revived, her ancient alliances cultivated, and her general interest pursued. Spain was again considered as the power which had the same views with her, and which could never rival, but might always assist her. This alliance, my lords, was intended to have been unalterably confirmed by a marriage, but as no human policy can form measures certain of success, an irreconcilable hatred was nearly produced by the measure intended to confirm a settled and indissoluble friendship. The infanta was sent back after her arrival in France, an affront which no nation would soon have forgot, but which the general character and habitual sentiments of the Spaniards inclined them to resent beyond any other people. To any one acquainted with their character in this respect, it will readily appear, that no other insult or injury could so sensibly affect them, or excite so eager a desire of revenge, This, my lords, the sagacity of our minister should have discovered, this opportunity should have been improved with the utmost care, by which Spain and France might possibly have been disunited for ages, and Britain have gained such advantages as would have made her the sole arbitress of Europe. The Spaniards were not deficient on their side, nor did they neglect to court our friendship, but gave us the highest proof of their confidence by offering us the sole mediation of their differences with the emperour of Germany: but at this time it was, that the gentleman whose conduct I am examining, obtained the chief influence in our councils, and by his peculiar penetration discovered, that nothing was to be done which might give the least offence to the French. We, therefore, refused to mediate, unless French ministers might be associated with ours, which the Spaniards had too much spirit to consent to. Thus, my lords, was neglected the first opportunity of forming against the French an alliance by which they might have been awed in all their designs, and by which the peace of Europe might have been long preserved. The Spaniards, finding that we would not undertake to reconcile their differences with the emperour of Germany, and continuing their abhorrence of French mediators, concluded, without the intervention of any other power, a treaty both of peace and alliance with his imperial majesty. This, my lords, was the famous treaty of Vienna, the source of so many projects and expedients, of so much terrour and solicitude, of such immense expenses, and perplexed negotiations. This treaty, a paper innocent and well-meaning, which related only to the contracting parties, kept, for some time, this nation in alarms, in apprehensions of conspiracies, and expectations of invasions. To this treaty, had we singly regarded our own affairs, without applying to France for instructions, we ought to have acceded, by which we should have divided the interest of the house of Bourbon, broken the combination of these pontifical powers, and, by improving one lucky incident, obtained what our arms and our politicks had never, hitherto, been able to accomplish. But the French, sensible of their danger, and well acquainted with our minister, contrived an expedient which, indeed, would not often have succeeded, but which was so well adapted to the intellects of this gentleman, that it extricated them from all their difficulties. They told us, my lords, and, what is yet more wonderful, they prevailed upon us to believe, that in this dreadful treaty of Vienna, it was stipulated between the German emperour and Spain, that they should employ their joint forces against Britain, that they should exalt the pretender to the throne, take immediate possession of Gibraltar, and, without mercy, debar us for ever from our trade both in Spain and in the Western Indies. This his late majesty was advised to assert in his speech from the throne, which I desire may be read. Of which the following clauses were read: "My lords and gentlemen, "The distressed condition of some of our religious brethren abroad, and the negotiations and engagements entered into by some foreign powers, which seem to have laid the foundation of new troubles and disturbances in Europe, and to threaten my subjects with the loss of several of the most advantageous branches of their trade, obliged me, without any loss of time, to concert with other powers such measures as might give a check to the ambitious views of those who are endeavouring to render themselves formidable, and put a stop to the farther progress of such dangerous designs. For these ends I have entered into a defensive alliance with the French king, and the king of Prussia, to which several other powers, and particularly the Dutch, have been invited to accede, and I have not the least reason to doubt of their concurrence. This treaty shall, in a short time, be laid before you. "By these means, and by your support and assistance, I trust in God, I shall be able not only to secure to my own subjects the enjoyment of many valuable rights and privileges, long since acquired for them by the most solemn treaties, but effectually to preserve the peace and balance of Europe, the only view and end of all my endeavours. "It is not to be doubted, but the enemies to my government will conceive hopes, that some favourable opportunity for renewing their attempts may offer, from the prospect of new troubles and commotions: they are already very busy by their instruments and emissaries in those courts whose measures seem most to favour their purposes, in soliciting and promoting the cause of the pretender; but I persuade myself, notwithstanding the countenance and encouragement they may have received, or flatter themselves with, the provision you shall make for the safety and defence of the empire, will effectually secure me from any attempts from abroad, and render all such projects vain and abortive. "When the world shall see that you will not suffer the British crown and nation to be menaced and insulted, those who most envy the present happiness and tranquillity of this empire, and are endeavouring to make us subservient to their ambition, will consider their own interest and circumstances before they make any attempt upon so brave a people, strengthened and supported by prudent and powerful alliances, and though desirous to preserve the peace, able and ready to defend themselves against the efforts of all aggressors. Such resolutions and such measures, timely taken, I am satisfied, are the most effectual means of preventing a war, and continuing to us the blessings of peace and prosperity." Who would not have been terrified, my lords, at a treaty like this? Our religion was to be destroyed, our government subverted, and our trade reduced to nothing. What could a ministry, thus intimidated, do, but resign themselves implicitly to the direction of a kind neighbour, that promised to shelter them from the storm? There have been ministers, my lords, in former times, who, upon hearing such a representation, would have considered, that Britain was an island, that the pretender could not be forced upon us without an army, and that an army could not be transported without ships, that the emperour of Germany had neither navies nor ports, that Gibraltar might be easily supplied with every thing requisite for its defence, and that any attempt made by Spain to injure our trade, might easily be punished by intercepting their Plate fleets. They would then have considered whether attempts so improbable, and stipulations so absurd and ridiculous, ought to be credited upon the information of an ambassadour's secretary, who, as he proposed to reveal his master's secrets for a bribe, might as probably take another reward for imposing upon those whom he pretended to inform. Those, therefore, who advised his majesty to assert to the senate what they knew from no better authority, those whose daring insolence could make their sovereign instrumental in alarming the people with false terrours, and oppressing them with unnecessary burdens, well deserve to feel a senatorial censure. But our ministers, my lords, were too much frighted to make such reflections: they imagined that destruction was hanging over us, and, in a dread of arbitrary government, oppression, and persecution, concluded at Hanover a treaty with the French. Thus the French gained our confidence, and raised in us a distrust of both the powers with whom it was our interest to be united: but the alliance of the emperour of Germany with Spain made them still uneasy; and, therefore, they determined, once more, to make our credulity instrumental in procuring a reconciliation between them and the Spaniards. To effect this, they kindly gave us intelligence, that when the Spaniards should receive their treasures from the Western Indies, they designed to employ it in favour of the pretender, and that, therefore, it was necessary to intercept it. This advice was thankfully listened to, a fleet was fitted out, and thousands were sacrificed without any advantage; for the French not only forbore to assist us in the expedition, but forbade us to seize the treasure when we had found it. The Spaniards, apprehending themselves attacked, omitted no opportunity of showing their resentment; they seized our ships, and laid siege to Gibraltar, while our new allies looked quietly on, and expected the event of their own scheme, which was far from being defeated by our policy; for the Spaniards, finding the return of their American revenues insuperably obstructed, and knowing that the emperour of Germany, that emperour who was to invade Britain, had not any power even to assist them, were obliged to have recourse to the nation which they then hated, and to forgive the past affront, that they might obtain their good offices in this exigence. But, my lords, it was not sufficient for the designs of the French, that they had recovered their ancient allies the Spaniards, unless they could disunite them from the emperour of Germany: this it was, likewise, our interest to prevent, and yet this, likewise, we enabled them to effect; for they prevailed upon us to promise, in our stipulations with the Spaniards, what they had not the least claim to demand, that Spain, instead of neutral troops, should be introduced into Italy, to secure certain successions there to a son of the queen of Spain. With what reluctance the emperour of Germany would consent to see troops placed in the provinces bordering upon his dominions, which would certainly, on the first occasion, be employed to invade them, it was easy to foresee, and with what degree of good-will he would regard those by whom they were introduced; yet, my lords, such was the influence of France, and so ardent our desire of diverting Spain from setting the pretender upon the throne of Britain, that we complied at all events, without any prospect or promise of advantage. Thus were the Spaniards, by being persuaded to make this demand, and we, by granting it, brought equally to ill terms with the emperour of Germany; and France was, by procuring such agreeable conditions to the Spaniards, again considered as their most useful ally. That nation, my lords, is in a very unhappy state, which is reduced to admit such terms as mediators are pleased to prescribe. We durst not refuse the introduction of Spanish troops, nor durst we introduce them without the emperour of Germany's consent, which, however, he granted at an easy rate, for he demanded only that we should become guarantees of the Pragmatick sanction. This we gladly agreed to, and thought ourselves so happy in purchasing, so cheaply, an opportunity of ingratiating ourselves with Spain, that we desired no other recompense. This treaty with the emperour of Germany, was, however, by no means improper, nor could we, after the errours which had been committed, do any thing more effectual to preserve the balance of Europe, and reestablish our credit. But, my lords, this only treaty, which it was for our interest to make, seems to have been made without any intention of observing it; for about this time all the northern powers were alarmed by the approaching election of Poland, and every nation that had any thing either to hope or fear from the event of it, endeavoured to influence it. How this election was determined, my lords, and by what means, it is unnecessary to relate; but it may not be improper to remark, that whatever cause we may have to congratulate ourselves upon the choice, it does not appear that we had any part in promoting it. Nay, as it is not common for ministers to keep the best part of their conduct secret, there is reason for suspecting that they were not altogether without foundation reported to have favoured France. The emperour of Germany, sensible of his own interest, promoted the election with vigour and resolution, proportioned to the greatness of the danger that might have arisen from neglecting it. By this conduct he drew upon himself the resentment of the French, who had now a pretence for taking measures which might effectually reunite them to Spain, and, as the event showed, alienate us from the emperour, and, therefore, in vindication of the claim of Stanislaus, declared war upon Germany, in conjunction with Spain. Now, my lords, the emperour learned to set the true value upon his alliance with Britain, and all Europe had an opportunity of remarking our spirit, our power, and our vigilance. The troops which we prevailed upon his imperial majesty to admit into Italy, were now drawn out of the garrisons against him, his dominions were attacked on each side, by formidable enemies, and his British allies looked with tranquillity and unconcern upon the difficulties into which they had betrayed him. The liberties of Europe were endangered by a new combination of the houses of Bourbon; and Britain, the great protectress of the rights of mankind, the great arbitress of the balance of power, either neglected or feared to interpose. Of the event of the war, my lords, I need only observe, that it added new strength to France, and contributed to such an union between her and Spain, as the most artful politician cannot hope to dissolve. Thus, my lords, whether by negligence, ignorance, cowardice, or treachery, it is not easy to determine, we were made the instruments of the French policy. Thus was that power enabled by our assistance to retrieve all that she had lost by the ill success of her arms, and by her indecent and contemptuous treatment of Spain. Thus was the German emperour dispirited and weakened; thus were we deprived at once of our allies and our reputation. Our loss of reputation, the greatest loss that bad measures can bring upon a nation, is made evident beyond controversy, by the insolence with which the Spaniards have treated us while we were flattering, enriching, and supporting them. While we were fitting out squadrons to convey their princes to Italy, and increasing their dominions at our own expense, they seem to have considered our good offices, not as the benefits of friends, but the drudgery of slaves, and, therefore, could scarcely refrain from insults while they employed us, at least when they no longer wanted our immediate assistance. They renewed their contempt and cruelty, their robberies and oppressions; they prescribed laws to our navigation, and laid claim to our colonies. To these ravages and injuries what did we oppose? What but humble intreaties, pacifick negotiations, and idle remonstrances? Instead of asserting our just claims, and incontestable possessions, instead of preventing war by threatening it, and securing ourselves from a second injury by punishing the first, we amused ourselves with inquiries, demands, representations, and disputes, till we became the jest of that nation which it was in our power to distress, by intercepting their treasure, and to reduce to terms almost without bloodshed. Thus, my lords, did we proceed, new questions ever arose, and the controversy became more intricate; commissaries were despatched to Spain, who returned without obtaining either restitution or security, and in the mean time no opportunity was neglected of plundering our merchants, and insulting our flag: accounts of new confiscations and of new cruelties daily arrived, the nation was enraged, and the senate itself alarmed, and our ministers, at length awakened from their tranquillity, sent orders to the envoy at the Spanish court to expedite an accommodation; these directions were immediately obeyed, and produced the celebrated convention. What was given up, or what was endangered by this detestable treaty, your lordships have often had occasion to observe, and the consequences of it were so obvious, that the nation was astonished. Every man saw that we were either treacherously betrayed by our own ministry, or that the ministers were almost the only men in the kingdom utterly unacquainted with our claims, our injuries, and our danger. A war could now no longer be avoided, it was not in the power of the ministry any longer to refuse to send out our fleets, and make an appearance of hostile measures; but they had still some expedients remaining to shelter the Spaniards from our resentment, and to make their country yet more contemptible: they could contrive such orders for their admirals as should prevent them from destroying their enemies with too little mercy; and if any one was suspected of intentions less pacifick, there were methods of equipping his fleet in such a manner as would effectually frustrate his schemes of revenge, reprisals, and destruction. These, my lords, are not the murmurs of the disappointed, nor the insinuations of the factious; it is well known to our countrymen and to our enemies, how ill admiral Vernon was furnished with naval and military stores, and how little his importunate demands of a supply were regarded. What opportunities were lost, and what advantages neglected, may be conjectured from the success of his inconsiderable force. A very little reflection on the situation and state of those countries will easily satisfy your lordships, how far a small body of land-forces might have penetrated, what treasures they might have gained, and what consternation they might have spread over the whole Spanish America. That our squadrons in the Mediterranean have been, at least, useless, that they have sailed from point to point, and from one coast to another, only to display the bulk of our ships, and to show the opulence of our nation, can require no proof: I wish, my lords, there was less reason for suspecting that they acted in concert with our enemies, that they retired from before their ports only to give them an opportunity of escaping, and that they, in reality, connived at some attempts which they were, in appearance, sent to prevent. There are some miscarriages in war, my lords, which every reasonable man imputes to chance, or to causes of which the influence could not be foreseen; there are others that may justly be termed the consequences of misconduct, but of misconduct involuntary and pardonable, of a disregard, perhaps, of some circumstances of an affair produced by too close an attention to others. But there are miscarriages, too, for which candour itself can find no excuses, and of which no other causes can be assigned than cowardice or treachery. From the suspicion of one, the past actions of the admiral who commands our fleet in those seas will secure him, but I know not whether there are now any that will attempt to clear the minister's character from the imputation of the other. All the insolence of the Spaniards, a nation by no means formidable, is the consequence of the reunion of the houses of Bourbon; a reunion which could not easily have been accomplished, but by the instrumental offices of our ministry, whom, therefore, the nation has a right to charge with the diminution of its honour, and the decay of its trade. Nor has our trade, my lords, been only contracted and obstructed by the piracies of Spain, but has been suffered to languish and decline at home, either by criminal negligence, or by their complaisance for France, which has given rise to our other calamities. The state of our woollen manufactures is well known, and those whose indolence or love of pleasure keeps them strangers to the other misfortunes of their country, must yet have been acquainted with this, by the daily accounts of riots and insurrections, raised by those who, having been employed in that manufacture, can provide for their families by no other business, and are made desperate by the want of bread. We are told, my lords, by all parties, and told with truth, that our manufactures decline, because the French have engrossed most of the foreign markets; and it is not denied even by those whose interest it might be to' deny it, that the cloth which they ruin us by vending, is made of our own wool, which they are suffered to procure either by the folly of an unskilful, or the connivance of a treacherous administration. If our own manufactures, my lords, had been carefully promoted, if the whole influence of our government had been made to cooperate with the industry of our traders, there had always been such a demand for our wool, that they could not have afforded to purchase it at a price equivalent to the danger of exporting it: and if any means were now steadily practised to prevent the exportation, our trade must consequently revive, because cloth is one of the necessaries of life which other nations must have from Britain, when France can no longer supply them. But, my lords, notwithstanding the decay of trade, our expenses have never been contracted; we have squandered millions in idle preparations, and ostentatious folly; we have equipped fleets which never left the harbour, and raised armies which were never to behold any other enemy than the honest traders and husbandmen that support them. We have, indeed, heard many reasons alleged for oppressing the empire with standing troops, which can have little effect upon those who have no interest to promote by admitting them: sometimes we are in danger of invasions, though it is not easy to imagine for what purpose any prince should invade a nation, which he may plunder at pleasure, without the least apprehension of resentment, and which will resign any of its rights whenever they shall be demanded: sometimes, as we have already heard, the pretender is to be set upon the throne by a sudden descent of armies from the clouds; and sometimes the licentiousness and disobedience of the common people requires the restraint of a standing army. That the people are, to the last degree, exasperated and inflamed, I am far from intending to deny, but surely they have yet been guilty of no outrage so enormous as to justify so severe a punishment; they have generally confined themselves to harmless complaints, or, at least, to executions in effigy. The people, my lords, are enraged because they are impoverished, and, to prevent the consequences of their anger, their poverty is increased by new burdens, and aggravated by the sight of an useless, despicable herd, supported by their industry, for no other purpose than to insult them. By these useless armaments and military farces, our taxes, my lords, have been continued without diminishing our debts, and the nation seems condemned to languish for ever under its present miseries, which, by furnishing employment to a boundless number of commissioners, officers, and slaves, to the court, under a thousand denominations, by diffusing dependence over the whole country, and enlarging the influence of the crown, are too evidently of use to the minister for us to entertain any hopes of his intention to relieve us. Let it not be boasted that nine millions are paid, when a new debt of seven millions appears to be contracted; nothing is more easy than to clear debts by borrowing, or to borrow when a nation is mortgaged for the payment. But the weight of the present taxes, my lords, though heavier than was perhaps ever supported by any nation for so long a time, taxes greater than ever were paid, to purchase neither conquests nor honours, neither to prevent invasions from abroad, nor to quell rebellions at home, is not the most flagrant charge of this wonderful administration, which, not contented with most exorbitant exactions, contrives to make them yet more oppressive by tyrannical methods of collection. With what reason the author of the excise scheme dreads the resentment of the nation is sufficiently obvious; but surely, in a virtuous and benevolent mind, the first sentiments that would have arisen on that occasion, would not have been motions of anger, but of gratitude. A whole nation was condemned to slavery, their remonstrances were neglected, their petitions ridiculed, and their detestation of tyranny treated as disaffection to the established government; and yet the author of this horrid scheme riots in affluence, and triumphs in authority, and without fear, as without shame, lifts up his head with confidence and security. How much, my lords, is the forbearance of that people to be admired, whom such attacks as these have not provoked to transgress the bounds of their obedience, who have continued patiently to hope for legal methods of redress, at a time when they saw themselves threatened with legal slavery, when they saw the legislative power established only for their protection, influenced by all possible methods of corruption to betray them to the mercy of the ministry? For, that corruption has found its way into one of the houses of the legislature, is universally believed, and, without scruple, maintained by every man in the nation, who is not evidently restrained from speaking as he thinks; and that any man can even be of a different opinion, that any man can even affirm that he thinks otherwise, would be, in any other age, the subject of astonishment. That an immense revenue is divided among the members of the other house, by known salaries and publick employments, is apparent; that large sums are privately scattered on pressing exigencies, that some late transactions of the ministry were not confirmed but at a high price, the present condition of the civil list, a civil list vastly superiour to all the known expenses of the crown, makes highly probable. That the commons themselves suspect the determinations of their assembly to be influenced by some other motives than justice and truth, is evident from the bill this day sent hither for our concurrence; and, surely, no aggravation can be added to the crimes of that man who has patronised our enemies, and given up our navigation, sunk his country into contempt abroad, and into poverty at home, plundered the people, and corrupted the legislature. But, my lords, the minister has not only contributed, by his wickedness or his ignorance, to the present calamities, but has applied all his art and all his interest to remove from posts of honour and trust, to banish from the court, and to exclude from the legislature all those whose counsels might contribute to restore the publick affairs, without any regard to the popularity of their characters, the usefulness of their talents, or the importance of their past services to the crown. Had any of these considerations prevailed, we had not seen the greatest general in Britain dispossessed of all his preferments, dispossessed at a time when we are at war with one nation, and in expectation of being attacked by another far more powerful, which will, doubtless, be encouraged, by his removal, to more daring contempt, and more vigorous measures. What were the motives of this procedure it is easy to discover. As his open defence of the present royal family in the late rebellion, exempts him from the imputation of being disaffected to the crown, the only crime with which he can be charged is disaffection to the minister. Perhaps, my lords, the minister may have determined to have no need of generals in his transactions with foreign powers; but in proportion as he relies less upon the sword, he must depend more upon the arts of peaceable negotiation, and, surely, there has been another person dismissed from his employments, whose counsels it had been no reproach to have asked, and to have followed. The nature of my motion, my lords, makes it not necessary to produce evidence of these facts, it is sufficient that any minister is universally suspected; for when did an innocent man, supported by power, and furnished with every advantage that could contribute to exalt or preserve his character, incur the general hatred of the people? But if it could ever happen by a combination of unlucky accidents, what could be more for the happiness of himself, his master, and the nation, than that he should retire and enjoy the consciousness of his own virtue. His own interest, in such a retirement, I have already considered, and that both of the prince and the people is no less apparent: while a hated minister is employed, the king will always be distrusted by the nation, and, surely, nothing can so much obstruct the publick happiness, as a want of confidence in those who are intrusted with its preservation. That common fame is, in this case, sufficient, will not be questioned, when it is considered that common fame is never without a foundation in facts, that it may spread disquiet and suspicion over all the kingdom, and that the satisfaction of millions is very cheaply purchased by the degradation of one man, who was exalted only for their benefit. The objection, that there is no sole minister, will create no greater difficulty; if there be many concerned in these transactions, _respondeat superior:_ but it is too apparent that there is, in reality, one whose influence is greater than that of any other private man, and who is arrived at a height not consistent with the nature of the British government; it is uncontested that there is one man to whom the people impute their miseries, and by whose removal they will be appeased. The affairs of Europe, my lords, will probably be so much embarrassed, and the struggles between the different designs of its princes be so violent, that they will demand all our attention, and employ all our address, and it will be to the highest degree dangerous to be distracted at the same time with apprehensions of domestick troubles; yet, such is the present unhappy state of this nation, and such is the general discontent of the people, that tranquillity, adherence to the government, and submission to the laws, cannot reasonably be hoped, unless the motion I shall now take leave to make your lordships, be complied with: and I move, "That an humble address be presented to his majesty, most humbly to advise and beseech his majesty, that he will be most graciously pleased to remove the right honourable sir Robert WALPOLE, knight of the most noble order of the blue riband, first commissioner of his majesty's treasury, and chancellor of the exchequer, and one of his majesty's most honourable privy council, from his majesty's presence and councils for ever." He was seconded by lord ABINGDON in the following manner:--My lords, the copiousness and perspicuity with which the noble lord has laid down the reasons of his motion, make it neither easy nor necessary to enlarge upon them. I shall, therefore, only offer to your lordships a few thoughts upon the authority of common fame, as the evidence upon which the motion is in part founded. That all the miscarriages of our late measures are by common fame imputed to one man, I suppose, will not be denied; nor can it, in my opinion, be reasonably required, that in the present circumstances of things any other proof should be brought against him. Common fame, my lords, is admitted in courts of law as a kind of auxiliary or supplemental evidence, and is allowed to corroborate the cause which it appears to favour. The general regard which every wise man has for his character, is a proof that in the estimation of all mankind, the testimony of common fame is of too great importance to be disregarded. If we consider the nature of popular opinions on publick affairs, it will be difficult to imagine by what means a persuasion not founded on truth should universally take possession of a people; it will be yet more difficult to believe that it should preserve its empire, and that in opposition to every art that can be made use of to undeceive them, they should pertinaciously adhere to an errour not imbibed in their education, nor connected with their interest. And how has any man been originally prejudiced against the present minister? Or what passion or interest can any man gratify, by imagining or declaring his country on the verge of ruin? The multitude, my lords, censure and praise without dissimulation, nor were ever accused of disguising their sentiments; their voice is, at least, the voice of honesty, and has been termed the voice of heaven, by that party of which those affect to be thought whom it now condemns. Let it not be urged, that the people are easily deceived, that they think and speak merely by caprice, and applaud or condemn without any calm inquiry or settled determination; these censures are applicable only to sudden tumults, and gusts of zeal excited by fallacious appearances, or by the alarms of a false report industriously disseminated, but have no relation to opinions gradually propagated, and slowly received. If the credulity of the people exposes them to so easy an admission of every report, why have the writers for the minister found so little credit? Why have all the loud declamations, and the laboured arguments, the artful insinuations, and positive assertions, which have been for many years circulated round the nation, at the expense of the government, produced no effect upon the people, nor convinced any man, who was not apparently bribed, to resign his private opinion to that of his patrons? Whence comes it, my lords, that falsehood is more successful than truth, and that the nation is inclined to complain rather than to triumph? It is well known that the people have been charged in all former ages, with being too much dazzled by the glitter of fortune, and the splendour of success, and bestowing their applauses not according to the degrees of merit, but prosperity. The minister, my lords, has defeated his opponents in almost all their attempts; his friends have sounded victory every session, and yet the people declare against him; his adversaries have retired into the country with all the vexation of disappointment, and have been rewarded for their unsuccessful efforts with general acclamations. What is it, my lords, but the power of truth, that can preserve the vanquished from ridicule, and influence the nation to believe them the only patrons of their commerce and liberty, in opposition to all the writers and voters for the ministry? If we consult history, my lords, how seldom do we find an innocent minister overwhelmed with infamy? Innocent men have sometimes been destroyed by the hasty fury, but scarcely ever by the settled hatred of the populace. Even that fury has generally been kindled by real grievances, though imputed to those who had no share in producing them; but when the tempest of their first rage has subsided, they have seldom refused to hear truth, and to distinguish the patriot from the oppressor. But though it should be acknowledged, my lords, that the people have been blinded by false representations, and that some causes yet undiscovered, some influence which never has been known to operate in any state before, hinder them from beholding their own felicity; yet, as publick happiness is the end of government, and no man can be happy that thinks himself miserable, it is, in my opinion, necessary to the honour of his majesty, and to the tranquillity of the nation, that your lordships should agree to the present motion. The duke of NEWCASTLE answered to this effect:--My lords, it is not without wonder that I hear a motion so uncommon and important, a motion which may be reasonably supposed to have been long premeditated, and of which such affecting expectations have been raised, so weakly supported by evidence. I cannot think that any other attestation is needful for the vindication of the right honourable gentleman, whose conduct is this day to be examined, than the declaration of the noble lord, that there appears no positive evidence against him. The pretence that no evidence can be expected while he continues in his present station, is too openly fallacious to impose upon your lordships; for why should his influence be greater, and his power less resistible than that of other ministers, who are well known to have found accusers in the height of their authority, and to have been dragged to punishment almost from behind the throne? It is sufficiently known, that during the continuance of this administration, many have been dismissed from their employments, who appear not altogether unaffected with the loss, and from whose resentment a discovery of wicked measures might be reasonably expected, as their acquaintance with the secrets of the government must have given opportunities of detecting them. If, therefore, no particular crimes are charged upon him, if his enemies confine themselves to obscure surmises, and general declamations, we may reasonably conclude, that his behaviour has been at least blameless. For what can be a higher encomium than the silence of those who have made it the business of years to discover something that might be alleged against him on the day of trial. I suppose that no man can question the penetration of those noble lords who have opened this debate, and I, my lords, shall be very far from insinuating that cowardice suppresses any of their sentiments. As the highest reproach that can be thrown upon any man, is to suggest that he speaks what he does not think; the next degree of meanness would be to think what he dares not speak, when the publick voice of his country calls upon him. When, therefore, popular reports are alleged as the foundation of the address, it is probable that it is not founded, in reality, upon known crimes or attested facts, and if the sudden blasts of fame may be esteemed equivalent to attested accusations, what degree of virtue can confer security? That the clamour is so loud and so general as it is represented, I can discover no necessity of admitting; but, however the populace may have been exasperated against him, we are surely not to be influenced by their complaints, without inquiring into the cause of them, and informing ourselves whether they proceed from real hardships, unnecessary severities, and calamities too heavy to be borne, or from caprice, and inconstancy, idle rumours, and artful representations. I very readily allow, my lords, that nothing has been left unattempted that might fill the people with suspicion and discontent. That inevitable calamities have been imputed to misconduct, or to treachery, and even the inconstancy of the winds and severity of the weather charged upon the right honourable gentleman, the daily libels that are in every man's hand, are a standing evidence; and though I should grant that the people never complain without cause, and that their burdens are always heavy before they endeavour to shake them off, yet it will by no means follow, that they do not sometimes mistake the cause of their miseries, and impute their burdens to the cruelty of those whose utmost application is employed to lighten them. Common fame is, therefore, my lords, no sufficient ground for such a censure as this, a censure that condemns a man long versed in high employments, long honoured with the confidence of his sovereign, and distinguished by the friendship of the most illustrious persons in the nation, to infamy and contempt, unheard, and even unaccused; for he against whom nothing is produced but general charges, supported by the evidence of common fame, may be justly esteemed to be free from accusation. That other evidence will appear against him when he shall be reduced, in consequence of our agreeing to this motion, to the level with his fellow-subjects, that all informations are now precluded by the terrours of resentment, or the expectations of favour, has been insinuated by the noble lord, who made the motion: whether his insinuation be founded only upon conjecture, whether it be one of those visions which are raised by hope in a warm imagination, or upon any private informations communicated to his lordship, I pretend not to determine; but if we may judge from the known conduct of the opposition, if we consider their frequent triumphs before the battle, and their chimerical schemes of discoveries, or prosecutions and punishments, their constant assurance of success upon the approach of a new contest, and their daily predictions of the ruin of the administration, we cannot but suspect that men so long accustomed to impose upon themselves, and flatter one another with fallacious hopes, may now, likewise, be dreaming of intelligence which they never will receive, and amusing themselves with suspicions which they have no reasonable expectation of seeing confirmed. And to confess the truth, my lords, if I may be allowed, in imitation of these patrons of their country, to indulge my own imagination, and presume to look forward to the future conduct of those who have exerted such unwearied industry in their attempts upon the administration, and so long pursued the right honourable gentleman with inquiries, examinations, rhetorick, and ridicule, I cannot but find myself inclined to question whether, after their motion shall have been received in this house, and their petition granted by his majesty, they will very solicitously inquire after evidence, or be equally diligent in the discovery of truth, as in the persecution of the minister. I am afraid, my lords, that they will be too deeply engaged in the care of making a dividend of the plunder in just proportions, to find leisure for pursuit of the enemy, and that the sight of vacant posts, large salaries, and extensive power, will revive some passions, which the love of their country has not yet wholly extinguished, and leave in their attention no room for deep reflections, and intricate inquiries. There have formerly, my lords, been patriots, who, upon a sudden advancement to a place of profit, have been immediately lulled into tranquillity, learned to repose an implicit confidence in the ministers, forgotten to harangue, threaten, inquire, and protest, and spent the remaining part of their lives in the harmless amusement of counting their salaries, perquisites, and gratuities. How great, my lords, would be the disappointment of the people, that unhappy people which has been long neglected and oppressed, which so justly detests the minister, and calls so loudly for vengeance, when they shall see their defenders remit the vigour of the pursuit, when once the minister flies before them, and instead of driving him into exile, contend about his places! Unhappy then surely, my lords, would the nation be: the administration, we are told, is already universally abhorred, and its hope is only in the opposition; but should the zeal of the patriots once grow cold, should they discover to the publick, that they have been labouring not for general liberty, but for private advantage; that they were enemies to power only because it was not in their hands; and disapproved the measures of the government only because they were not consulted; how inevitably must the people then sink into despair; how certain must they then imagine their destruction? It seems, therefore, my lords, equally prudent and just to reject this motion, till better proof shall be brought to support it; lest, by complying with it, we should heighten rather than appease the discontent of the people; lest we should too soon deprive them of their only consolation, and expose the patriots to censure, without vindicating the ministry. In my opinion, my lords, all who have approved the conduct of the present ministry, must necessarily join in rejecting the motion, as cruel and unequitable, and incline to support a just, and continue a wise administration; and all those whom the restless clamours of the opposite party have persuaded to regard them as arbitrary, corrupt, and perfidious, must, if they are true friends to their country, and steady exacters of justice, resolve to defer their compliance, in order to bring to light the evidences necessary for a legal conviction, and severer punishment. That these evidences will never be found, and that, therefore, no legal punishment will ever be inflicted, we may reasonably collect from the injustice of the laboured charge which your lordships have now heard; a charge drawn up with all the assistance of senatorial and political knowledge, and displayed with all the power of eloquence, a collection of every occurrence for many years, of which any circumstance could be shown in an unfavourable light, and a recapitulation of all the measures which have miscarried by unforeseen events, or which the populace have been persuaded to dislike. In the administration of governments, my lords, many measures reasonable and just, planned out in pursuance of a very exact knowledge of the state of things then present, and very probable conjectures concerning future events, have yet failed to produce the success which was expected; they have been sometimes defeated by the inconstancy or dishonesty of those who are equally engaged in them, and sometimes frustrated by accidents, of which only providence has the disposal. It will even be allowed, my lords, that the ministry have been sometimes mistaken in their conjectures, and, perhaps, deceived by their intelligence, but I will presume to say, it never will be discovered that they willingly betrayed, or heedlessly neglected their trust, that they ever oppressed their country with unnecessary burdens, or exposed it to be insulted by foreign powers. Nor will it, perhaps, be found that they ever appeared grossly ignorant of the publick interest, or failed to discover any obvious truth, or foresee any probable contingencies. But, my lords, I am willing to confess that they cannot judge of events to come with such unerring and demonstrative knowledge as their opponents can obtain of them after they have happened; and they are inclined to pay all necessary deference to the great sagacity of those wonderful prognosticators, who can so exactly _foresee_ the _past_. They only hope, my lords, that you will consider how much harder their task is than that of their enemies; they are obliged to determine very often upon doubtful intelligence, and an obscure view of the designs and inclinations of the neighbouring powers; and as their informers may be either treacherous or mistaken, and the interests of other states are subject to alterations, they may be sometimes deceived and disappointed. But their opponents, my lords, are exempt, by their employment, from the laborious task of searching into futurity, and collecting their resolutions, from a long comparison of dark hints and minute circumstances. Their business is not to lead or show the way, but to follow at a distance, and ridicule the perplexity, and aggravate the mistakes of their guides. They are only to wait for consequences, which, if they are prosperous, they misrepresent as not intended, or pass over in silence, and are glad to hide them from the notice of mankind. But if any miscarriages arise, their penetration immediately awakes, they see, at the first glance, the fatal source of all our miseries, they are astonished at such a concatenation of blunders, and alarmed with the most distracting apprehensions of the danger of their country. Accusation of political measures is an easy province; easy, my lords, in the same proportion as the administration of affairs is difficult; for where there are difficulties there will be some mistakes; and where there are mistakes, there will be occasions of triumph, to the factious and the disappointed. But the justice of your lordships will certainly distinguish between errours and crimes, and between errours of weakness and inability, and such as are only discoverable by consequences. I may add, my lords, that your wisdom will easily find the difference between the degree of capacity requisite for recollecting the past, and foreknowing the future; and expect that those whose ambition incites them to endeavour after a share in the government of their country, should give better proofs of their qualifications for that high trust, than mere specimens of their memory, their rhetorick, or their malice. Even the noble lord, who must be confessed to have shown a very extensive acquaintance with foreign affairs, and to have very accurately considered the interests and dispositions of the princes of Europe, has yet failed in the order of time, and by one errour very much invalidated his charge of misconduct in foreign affairs. The treaty of Vienna, my lords, was not produced by the rejection of the infanta, unless a treaty that was made before it could be the consequence of it; so that there was no such opportunity thrown into our hands as the noble lord has been pleased to represent. Spain had discovered herself our enemy, and our enemy in the highest degree, before the French provoked her by that insult; and, therefore, how much soever she might be enraged against France, there was no prospect that she would favour us, nor could we have courted her alliance without the lowest degree of meanness and dishonour. See then, my lords, this atrocious accusation founded upon false dates, upon a preposterous arrangement of occurrences; behold it vanish into smoke at the approach of truth, and let this instance convince us how easy it is to form chimerical blunders, and impute gross follies to the wisest administration; how easy it is to charge others with mistakes and how difficult to avoid them. But we are told, my lords, that the dangers of the confederacy at Vienna were merely imaginary, that no contract was made to the disadvantage of our dominions, or of our commerce, and that if the weakness of the Spaniards and Germans had contrived such a scheme, it would soon have been discovered by them to be an airy dream, a plan impossible to be reduced to execution. We have been amused, my lords, on this occasion with great profusion of mirth and ridicule, and have received the consolation of hearing that Britain is an island, and that an island is not to be invaded without ships. We have been informed of the nature of the king's territories, and of the natural strength of the fortress of Gibraltar; but the noble lord forgot that though Britain has no dominions on the continent, yet our sovereign has there a very extensive country, which, though we are not to make war for the sake of strengthening or enlarging it, we are, surely, to defend when we have drawn an invasion upon it. The weakness of the Spaniards, my lords, has been also much enlarged upon, but the strength of the jacobites at home has been passed over in silence, though it is apparent how easily the pretender might have landed here, and with what warmth his cause would have been espoused, not only by those whose religion avowed and professed makes them the enemies of the present royal family, but by many whom prospects of interest, the love of novelty, and rage of disappointment, might have inclined to a change. That no such stipulations were made by that treaty, that no injury was intended to our commerce, nor any invasion proposed in favour of the pretender, are very bold assertions, and though they could be supported by all the evidence that negatives admit of, yet will not easily be believed by your lordships, in opposition to the solemn assurances of his late majesty. It is evident, from this instance, how much prejudice prevails over argument; they are ready to condemn the right honourable gentleman to whom they give the title of sole minister, upon the suffrage of common fame, yet will not acquit him upon the testimony of the king himself. But, my lords, the arguments alleged to prove the improbability of such a confederacy, are so weak in themselves, that they require no such illustrious evidence to overbalance them. For upon what are they founded, but upon the impossibility of executing such designs? It is well known, my lords, how differently different parties consider the same cause, the same designs, and the same state of affairs. Every man is partial in favour of his own equity, strength, and sagacity. Who can show that the same false opinion of their own power, and of our intestine divisions, which now prompts the Spaniards to contend with us, might not then incite them to invade us, or at least to countenance the attempts of one, whom they are industriously taught to believe the greatest part of the nation is ready to receive? That they might have injured our trade is too evident from our present experience, and that they would have supported the Ostend company, which they espoused in an open manner, is undeniable. Nor is it in the least unlikely, that, elated with the certain power of doing much mischief, and with the imaginary prospects of far greater effects, they might engage in a confederacy, and farther attempts against us. I am far from imagining, my lords, that it was in the power of the Germans and Spaniards united to force the pretender upon us, though we had stood alone against them; but the impossibility of succeeding in their design was not then so apparent to them as it is at present to us; they had many reasons to wish, and therefore would not be long without some to believe it practicable; and it was not the danger but the insult that determined his late majesty to enter into an alliance with France. War, my lords, is always to be avoided, if the possessions and reputation of a people can be preserved without it; it was, therefore, more eligible to oblige them to lay aside their scheme while it was yet only in idea, than to defeat it in its execution. And an alliance with France effectually restrained the emperour, as our fleets in America reduced the Spaniards to desire peace. Why we did not seize the cargo of the galleons, has been often asked, and as often such answers have been returned as ought to satisfy any rational examiner. We did not seize them, my lords, because a larger part belonged to other nations than to the Spaniards, and because the interests of our trade made it convenient not to exasperate the Spaniards, so far as to render a reconciliation very difficult. In the terms of this reconciliation, my lords, it is charged upon the ministry, that they were guilty of contributing to the power of the house of Bourbon, by stipulating that Spain, instead of neutral troops, should be introduced into Italy. That those troops were less agreeable to the emperour cannot be denied, but it has already been shown how little reason we had to consult his satisfaction; and with regard to the advantages gained by the French and Spaniards in the late war, a very small part of them can be ascribed to six thousand troops. With as little reason, my lords, is the charge advanced of neglecting to preserve the balance of Europe, by declining to assist the emperour against the French; for the intention of the war seems to have been rather revenge than conquest, and the emperour rather exchanged than lost his dominions. That we declined engaging too far in the affairs of the continent, proceeded, my lords, from a regard to the trade of the nation, which is not only suspended and interrupted during the time of war, but often thrown into another channel, out of which it is the business of many years to recover it. Nor have the ministry, my lords, deviated from their regard to trade, in their transactions with Spain, which have been the subject of so much clamour, and such pathetick declamations; they always knew what the nation now feels, that the merchants would suffer much more from a war than from piracies and depredations, which, however, they were far from submitting to, and for which they constantly made demands of satisfaction. To these demands they received such answers, as, if they had been sincere, would have left the nation no room to complain; but when it was discovered that nothing but verbal satisfaction was to be expected, the security of our trade, and the honour of our country, demanded that war should be declared. The conduct of the war, my lords, has been frequently the subject of censure; we are told of the inactivity of one fleet, and the imperfect equipment of another, the escape of our enemies, and the interception of our trading ships. War, my lords, is confessed to be uncertain, and ill success is not always the consequence of bad measures: naval wars are by the nature of the element on which they are to be conducted, more uncertain than any other; so that, though it cannot but be suspected that the common people will murmur at any disappointment, call every misfortune a crime, and think themselves betrayed by the ministry, if Spain is not reduced in a single summer, it might be reasonably hoped, that men enlightened by a long familiarity with the accounts of past, and instructed by personal experience in national transactions, will produce stronger arguments than want of success, when they charge the ministry with misconduct in war. But, my lords, they have not any misfortunes to complain of; nor is the accusation, that we have been defeated ourselves, but that we have not enough molested our enemies. Of this, my lords, it is not easy to judge, at a distance from the scene of action, and without a more accurate knowledge of a thousand minute circumstances, which may promote or retard a naval expedition. It is undoubtedly true, my lords, that many of our merchant ships have been taken by the enemy; but it is not certain that they do not murmur equally that they have been obstructed in their commerce, and have been so little able to interrupt ours, since they have so many advantages from the situation of their coasts. When we reckon those that are lost, let us not forget to number those that have escaped. If admiral Vernon's fleet was ill provided with arms and ammunition, even then, let all censure be suspended till it can be proved that it was ill furnished by the fault of the ministry. Nothing is more common, my lords, in all naval wars, than sudden changes of fortune; for on many occasions an accidental gust of wind, or unexpected darkness of the weather, may destroy or preserve a fleet from destruction, or may make the most formidable armaments absolutely useless; and in the present disposition of some people towards the ministry, I should not wonder to hear an alteration of wind charged upon them. For what objections may they not expect, my lords, when all the disadvantages which the nation suffers from the enemies of his majesty, are imputed to them; when daily endeavours are used to make them suspected of favouring arbitrary power, for maintaining an army which nothing has made necessary but the struggles of those men whose principles have no other tendency than to enslave their country. Let not our domestick animosities be kept alive and fomented by a constant opposition to every design of the administration, nor our foreign enemies incited by the observation of our divisions, to treat us with insolence, interrupt our trade, prescribe bounds to our dominions, and threaten us with invasions--and the army may safely be disbanded. For the ministry, my lords, are not conscious of having consulted any thing but the happiness of the nation, and have, therefore, no apprehensions of publick resentment, nor want the protection of an armed force. They desire only the support of the laws, and to them they willingly appeal from common fame and unequitable charges. I mention the ministry, my lords, because I am unacquainted with any man who either claims or possesses the power or title of sole minister. I own, in my province, no superiour but his majesty, and am willing and ready to answer any charge which relates to that part of the publick business which I have had the honour to transact or direct. A great part of what I have now offered was, therefore, no otherwise necessary on the present occasion, than because silence might have appeared like a consciousness of misconduct, and have afforded a new subject of airy triumph to the enemies of the administration; for very few of the transactions which have been so severely censured, fell under the particular inspection of the right honourable gentleman against whom the motion is levelled; he was not otherwise concerned in counselling or in ratifying, than as one of his majesty's privy council; and, therefore, though they should be defective, I do not see how it is reasonable or just, that he should be singled out from the rest for disgrace or punishment. The motion, therefore, my lords, appears to me neither founded on facts, nor law, nor reason, nor any better grounds than popular caprice, and private malevolence. If it is contrary to law to punish without proof; if it is not agreeable to reason that one should be censured for the offences of another; if it is necessary that some crime should be proved before any man can suffer as a criminal, then, my lords, I am convinced that your lordships will be unanimous in rejecting the motion. The duke of ARGYLE spoke next, as follows:--My lords, if we will obstinately shut our eyes against the light of conviction; if we will resolutely admit every degree of evidence that contributes to support the cause which we are inclined to favour, and to reject the plainest proofs when they are produced against it, to reason and debate is to little purpose: as no innocence can be safe that has incurred the displeasure of partial judges, so no criminal that has the happiness of being favoured by them, can ever be in danger. That any lord has already determined how to vote on the present occasion, far be it from me to assert: may it never, my lords, be suspected that private interest, blind adherence to a party, personal kindness or malevolence, or any other motive than a sincere and unmingled regard for the prosperity of our country, influences the decisions of this assembly; for it is well known, my lords, that authority is founded on opinion; when once we lose the esteem of the publick, our votes, while we shall be allowed to give them, will be only empty sounds, to which no other regard will be paid than a standing army shall enforce. The veneration of the people, my lords, will not easily be lost: this house has a kind of hereditary claim to their confidence and respect; the great actions of our ancestors are remembered, and contribute to the reputation of their successours; nor do our countrymen willingly suspect that they can be betrayed by the descendants of those, by whose bravery and counsels they have been rescued from destruction. But esteem must languish, and confidence decline, unless they are renewed and reanimated by new acts of beneficence; and the higher expectations the nation may have formed of our penetration to discover its real advantages, and of our steadiness to pursue them, the more violent will be its resentment, if it shall appear, on this important question, that we are either ignorant or timorous, that we are unconcerned at the miseries of the people, or content ourselves with pitying what our ancestors never failed to redress. Let us, therefore, my lords, for our own interest, attend impartially to the voice of the people; let us hear their complaints with tenderness, and if, at last, we reject them, let it be evident that they were impartially heard, and that we only differed from them because we were not convinced. Even then, my lords, we shall suffer, for some time, under the suspicion of crimes, from which I hope we shall always be free; the people will imagine that we were influenced by those whose interest it appears to continue their miseries, and, my lords, all the consolation that will be left us, must arise from the consciousness of having done our duty. But, my lords, this is to suppose what I believe no history can furnish an example of; it is to conceive that we may inquire diligently after the true state of national affairs, and yet not discover it, or not be able to prove it by such evidence as may satisfy the people. The people, my lords, however they are misrepresented by those who, from a long practice of treating them with disregard, have learned to think and speak of them with contempt, are far from being easily deceived, and yet farther from being easily deceived into an opinion of their own unhappiness: we have some instances of general satisfaction, and an unshaken affection to the government, in times when the publick good has not been very diligently consulted, but scarcely any of perpetual murmurs and universal discontent, where there have been plain evidences of oppression, negligence, or treachery. Let us not, therefore, my lords, think of the people as of a herd to be led or driven at pleasure, as wretches whose opinions are founded upon the authority of seditious scribblers, or upon any other than that of reason and experience; let us not suffer them to be at once oppressed and ridiculed, nor encourage, by our example, the wretched advocates for those whom they consider as their enemies, nor represent them as imputing to the misconduct of the ministry the late contrariety of the winds, and severity of the winter. The people, my lords, if they are mistaken in their charge, are mistaken with such evidence on their side, as never misled any nation before; not only their reason but their senses must have betrayed them; and those marks of certainty that have hitherto established truth, must have combined in the support of falsehood. They are persuaded, my lords, too firmly persuaded, to yield up their opinions to rhetorick, or to votes, or any proof but demonstration, that there is a _first_, or, to speak in the language of the nation, a _sole_ minister, one that has the possession of his sovereign's confidence, and the power of excluding others from his presence, one that exalts and degrades at his pleasure, and distributes, for his own purposes, the revenues of his master, and the treasure of the nation. Of this, my lords, can it be maintained that they have no proof? Can this be termed a chimerical suspicion, which nothing can be produced to support? How can power appear but by the exercise of it? What can prove any degree of influence or authority, but universal submission and acknowledgment? And surely, my lords, a very transient survey of the court and its dependents, must afford sufficient conviction, that this man is considered by all that are engaged in the administration, as the only disposer of honours, favours, and employments. Attend to any man, my lords, who has lately been preferred, rewarded, or caressed, you will hear no expressions of gratitude but to that _man_; no other benefactor is ever heard of, the royal bounty itself is forgotten and unmentioned, nor is any return of loyalty, fidelity, or adherence professed, but to the minister; the minister! a term which, however lately introduced, is now in use in every place in the kingdom, except this house. Preferments, my lords, whether civil, ecclesiastical, or military, are either wholly in his hands, or those who make it the business of their lives to discover the high road to promotion, are universally deceived, and are daily offering their adorations to an empty phantom that has nothing to bestow; for, no sooner is any man infected with avarice or ambition, no sooner is extravagance reduced to beg new supplies from the publick, or wickedness obliged to seek for shelter, than this man is applied to, and honour, conscience, and fortune offered at his feet. Did either those whose studies and station give them a claim to advancement in the church, or those whose bravery and long service entitle them to more honourable posts in the army; did either those who profess to understand the laws of their own country, or they who declare themselves versed in the interests and transactions of foreign powers, apply to any other man for promotion or employment, he might then, indeed, be called the _chief_, but not properly the _sole_ minister. But it is well known, my lords; many of us know it too well, that whatever be the profession or the abilities of any person, there is no hope of encouragement or reward by any other method than that of application to this man, that he shall certainly be disappointed who shall attempt to rise by any other interest, and whoever shall dare to depend on his honesty, bravery, diligence, or capacity, or to boast any other merit than that of implicit adherence to his measures, shall inevitably lie neglected and obscure. For this reason, my lords, every one whose calmness of temper can enable him to support the sight, without starts of indignation and sallies of contempt, may daily see at the levee of this great man, what I am ashamed to mention, a mixture of men of all ranks and all professions, of men whose birth and titles ought to exalt them above the meanness of cringing to a mere child of fortune, men whose studies ought to have taught them, that true honour is only to be gained by steady virtue, and that all other arts, all the low applications of flattery and servility will terminate in contempt, disappointment, and remorse. This scene, my lords, is daily to be viewed, it is ostentatiously displayed to the sight of mankind, the minister amuses himself in publick with the splendour, and number, and dignity of his slaves; and his slaves with no more shame pay their prostrations to their master in the face of day, and boast of their resolutions to gratify and support him. And yet, my lords, it is inquired why the people assert that there is a _sole_ minister? Those who deny, my lords, that there is a _sole_ minister to whom the miscarriages of the government may justly be imputed, may easily persuade themselves to believe that there have been no miscarriages, that all the measures were necessary, and well formed, that there is neither poverty nor oppression felt in the nation, that our compliance with France was no weakness, and that our dread of the treaty of Vienna was not chimerical. The treaty of Vienna, my lords, which has been the parent of so many terrours, consultations, embassies, and alliances is, I find, not yet to be acknowledged, what it certainly was, a mere phantom, an empty illusion, sent by the arts of the French to terrify our ministry. His late majesty's testimony is cited to prove that stipulations were really entered into by the two powers allied by that treaty, to destroy our trade, subvert our constitution, and set a new king upon the throne, without consent of the nation. Such improbabilities, my lords, ought, indeed, to be proved by a high testimony, by a testimony which no man shall dare to question or contradict; for as any man is at liberty to consult his reason, it will always remonstrate to him, that it is no less absurd to impute the folly of designing impossibilities to any powers not remarkable for weak counsels, than unjust to suspect princes of intending injuries, to which they have not been incited by any provocation. But, my lords, nowithstanding the solemnity with which his late majesty has been introduced, his testimony can prove nothing more than that he believed the treaty to be such as he represents, that he had been deceived into false apprehensions and unnecessary cautions by his own ministers, as they had been imposed upon by the agents of France. This is all, my lords, that can be collected from the royal speech, and to infer more from it is to suppose that the king was himself a party in the designs formed against him; for if he was not himself engaged in this treaty, he could only be informed, by another, of the stipulations, and could only report what he had been told upon the credit of the informer, a man, necessarily of very little credit. Thus, my lords, all the evidence of his late majesty vanishes into nothing more than the whisper of a spy. But as great stress ought, doubtless, to be laid upon intelligence which the nation is believed to purchase at a very high price, let it be inquired, what proofs those have who dare to suspect the sagacity of our ministers, to put in the balance against their intelligence, and it will be discovered, my lords, that they have a testimony no less than that of the German emperour himself, who could not be mistaken with regard to the meaning of the treaty concluded at his own court, and to whom it will not be very decent to deny such a degree of veracity as may set him at least on the level with a traitor and a hireling. If the treaty of Vienna was an imposture, most of our misfortunes are evidently produced by the weakness of the minister; but even supposing it real, as it was only a formidable mockery, an idle threat, that could never be executed, it was not necessary, that in order to obviate it, we should give ourselves implicitly into the hands of France. It was not necessary, my lords, that we should suffer them first to elude the treaty of Utrecht, by making a port at Mardyke, and then directly and openly to violate it by repairing Dunkirk. That this latter is a port contrary to treaty, the bills of entry at the custom-house daily show; and as the customs are particularly under the inspection of the commissioners of the treasury, this man cannot plead ignorance of this infraction, were no information given him by other means. If it should now be asked, my lords, what, in my opinion, ought to be done, I cannot advise that we should attempt to demolish it by force, or draw upon ourselves the whole power of France by a declaration of war, but what it may be difficult now to remedy, it was once easy to obviate. Had we shown the same contempt of the French power with our ancestors, and the same steadiness in our councils, the same firmness in our alliances, and the same spirit in our treaties, that court would never have ventured to break a known solemn stipulation, to have exasperated a brave and determined adversary by flagrant injustice, and to have exposed themselves to the hazard of a war, in which it would have been the interest of every prince of Europe who regarded justice or posterity to wish their defeat. Now they see us engaged in a war, my lords, they may be animated to a more daring contempt of the faith of treaties, and insult us with yet greater confidence of success, as they cannot but remark the cowardice or the ignorance with which we have hitherto carried on this war. They cannot but observe that either our minister means in reality to make war rather upon the Britons than the Spaniards, or that he is totally unacquainted with military affairs, and too vain to ask the opinion of others who have greater knowledge than himself. Nothing, my lords, is more apparent than that the minister was forced, by the continual clamours of the nation, to declare war, contrary to his own inclination, and that he always affected to charge it upon others, and to exempt himself from the imputation of it. It is, therefore, probable that he has not acted on this occasion so wisely as even his own experience and penetration might, if they were honestly employed, enable him to act, and that he has suffered our counsels to be embarrassed; that he sees with great tranquillity those suffering by the war, at whose request it was begun, and imagines it a proof of the excellence of his own scheme, that those who forced him to break it, may in time repent of their importunities. For that in the management of the war, my lords, no regard has been had either to the advantages which the course of our trade inevitably gives to our enemies, or to the weakness to which the extent of their dominions necessarily subjects them, that neither the interest of the merchant has been consulted, nor the ease of the nation in general regarded, that the treasure of the publick has been squandered, and that our military preparations have intimidated no nation but our own, is evident beyond contradiction. It is well known, my lords, to every man but the minister, that we have nothing to fear from either the fleets or armies of the Spaniards, that they cannot invade us except in America, and that they can only molest us by intercepting our traders. This they can only effect by means of their privateers, whose vessels, being light and active, may be easily fitted out, nimbly seize their prey, and speedily retire. The experience of the last French war, my lords, might have taught us how much we have to fear from the activity of men incited by prospects of private gain, and equipped with that care and vigilance, which, however omitted in national affairs, the interest of particular men never fails to dictate. It is well known, my lords, how much we lost amidst our victories and triumphs, and how small security the merchants received from our magnificent navies, and celebrated commanders. It was, therefore, surely the part of wise men, not to miscarry twice by the same omission, when they had an opportunity to supply it. I need not inform your lordships of what every reader of newspapers can tell, and which common sense must easily discover, that privateers are only to be suppressed by ships of the same kind with their own, which may scour the seas with rapidity, pursue them into shallow water, where great ships cannot attack them, seize them as they leave the harbours, or destroy them upon their own coasts. That this is, in its own nature, at once obvious to be contrived, and easy to be done, must appear upon the bare mention of it, and yet that it has been either treacherously neglected, or ignorantly omitted, the accounts of every day have long informed us. Not a week passes in which our ships are not seized, and our sailors carried into a state of slavery. Nor does this happen only on the wide ocean, which is too spacious to be garrisoned, or upon our enemies' coasts, where they may have, sometimes, insuperable advantages, but on our own shores, within sight of our harbours, and in those seas of which we vainly style our nation the sovereign. Who is there, my lords, whose indignation is not raised at such ignominy? Who is there by whom such negligence will not be resented? It cannot be alleged that we had not time to make better preparations; we had expected war long before we declared it, and if the minister was the only man by whom it was not expected, it will make another head of accusation. Nor was his disregard of our dominions less flagrant than that of our trade: it was publickly declared by don Geraldino, that his master would never give up his claim to part of our American colonies, which yet were neither fortified on the frontiers, nor supplied with arms, nor enabled to oppose an enemy, nor protected against him. One man there is, my lords, whose natural generosity, contempt of danger, and regard for the publick, prompted him to obviate the designs of the Spaniards, and to attack them in their own territories; a man, whom by long acquaintance I can confidently affirm to have been equal to his undertaking, and to have learned the art of war by a regular education, who yet miscarried in his design, only for want of supplies necessary to a possibility of success. Nor is there, my lords, much probability that the forces sent lately to Vernon will be more successful; for this is not a war to be carried on by boys: the state of the enemy's dominions is such, partly by situation, and partly by the neglect of that man whose conduct we are examining, that to attack them with any prospect of advantage, will require the judgment of an experienced commander; of one who had learned his trade, not in Hyde-park, but in the field of battle; of one that has been accustomed to sudden exigencies and unsuspected difficulties, and has learned cautiously to form, and readily to vary his schemes. An officer, my lords, an officer qualified to invade kingdoms is not formed by blustering in his quarters, by drinking on birth-nights, or dancing at assemblies; nor even by the more important services of regulating elections, and suppressing those insurrections which are produced by the decay of our manufactures. Many gallant colonels have led out their forces against women and children, with the exactest order, and scattered terrour over numerous bodies of colliers and weavers, who would find difficulties not very easily surmountable, were they to force a pass, or storm a fortress. But, my lords, those whom we have destined for the conquest of America, have not even flushed their arms with such services, nor have learned, what is most necessary to be learned, the habit of obedience; they are only such as the late frost hindered from the exercise of their trades, and forced to seek for bread in the service; they have scarcely had time to learn the common motions of the exercise, or distinguish the words of command. Nor are their officers, my lords, extremely well qualified to supply those defects, and establish discipline and order in a body of new-raised forces; for they are absolutely strangers to service, and taken from school to receive a commission, or if transplanted from other regiments, have had time only to learn the art of dress. We have sent soldiers undisciplined, and officers unable to instruct them, and sit in expectation of conquests to be made by one boy acting under the direction of another. To their commander-in-chief, my lords, I object nothing but his inexperience, which is by no means to be imputed to his negligence, but his want of opportunities; though of the rest, surely it may be said, that they are such a swarm as were never before sent out on military designs; and, in my opinion, to the other equipments, the government should have added provisions for women to nurse them. Had my knowledge of war, my lords, been thought sufficient to have qualified me for the chief command in this expedition, or had my advice been asked with regard to the conduct of it, I should willingly have assisted my country with my person or my counsels; but, my lords, this man, who engrosses all authority, seems, likewise, to believe that he is in possession of all knowledge, and that he is equally capable, as he is equally willing, to usurp the supreme and uncontroulable direction both of civil and military affairs. Why new forces were raised, my lords, it is very easy to judge; new forces required new commissions, and new commissions produced new dependencies, which might be of use to the minister at the approaching election; but why the new-raised troops were sent on this expedition rather than those which had been longer disciplined, it is very difficult to assign a reason, unless it was considered that some who had commands in them had likewise seats in the senate; and the minister was too grateful to expose his friends to danger, and too prudent to hazard the loss of a single vote. Besides the commander-in-chief, there is but one senator in the expedition, and, my lords, he is one of too great integrity to be corrupted, and, though sensible of the weakness of the troops, too brave to quit his post. How much our country may suffer by such absurd conduct, I need not explain to your lordships; it may easily be conceived how much one defeat may dispirit the nation, and to what attempts one victory may excite our enemies; those enemies whom, under a steady and wise administration, we should terrify into submission, even without an army. I cannot forbear to remark on this occasion, how much the ignorance of this man has exposed a very important part of our foreign dominions to the attempts of the Spaniards. Gibraltar, my lords, is well known to be so situated, as to be naturally in very little danger of an attack from the land, and to command the country to a great distance; but these natural advantages are now taken away, or greatly lessened, by new fortifications, erected within much less than gunshot of the place, erected in the sight of the garrison, and while one of our admirals was cruizing upon the coast. The pretence, my lords, upon which they were erected, was, that though Gibraltar was granted to Britain, yet there was no district appendent to it, nor did the British authority extend beyond the walls of the town: this poor excuse did the chicanery of the Spaniards invent, and with this, my lords, was our minister contented, either not knowing or not appearing to know what, I hope, the children whom we have despatched to America have been taught, and what no man, versed in national affairs, can be ignorant of without a crime, that when a fortress is yielded to another nation, the treaty always virtually includes, even without mentioning it, an extent of land as far as the guns of the fortification can reach. Whether this man, my lords, was so ignorant as to be deceived thus grossly, or so abandoned as willingly to deceive his country, he is equally unqualified to support the office of first minister, and almost equally deserves to be prosecuted by the indignation and justice of this assembly, in the severest manner; for how great must be his wickedness who undertakes a charge above his abilities, when his country may be probably ruined by his errours? Your lordships cannot but observe, that I make use rather of the term minister than that of the administration, which others are so desirous to substitute in its place, either to elude all inquiry into the management of our affairs, or to cover their own shameful dependence. Administration, my lords, appears to me a term without a meaning, a wild indeterminate word, of which none can tell whom it implies, or how widely it may extend: a charge against the administration may be imagined a general censure of every officer in the whole subordination of government, a general accusation of instruments and agents, of masters and slaves: my charge, my lords, is against the minister, against that man, who is believed by every one in the nation, and known by great numbers, to have the chief, and, whenever he pleases to require it, the sole direction of the publick measures; he, to whom all the other ministers owe their elevation, and by whose smile they hold their power, their salaries, and their dignity. That this appellation is not without sufficient reason bestowed upon that man, I have already proved to your lordships; and as it has already been made appear that common fame is a sufficient ground of accusation, it will easily be shown that this man has a just claim to the title of minister; for if any man be told of an accusation of the minister; he will not ask the name of the person accused. But there is in the motion one title conferred upon him, to which he has no pretensions; for there is no law for styling him the first commissioner of the treasury. The commissioners, my lords, who discharge, in a collective capacity, the office of lord high treasurer, are constituted by the same patent, invested with equal power and equal dignity, and I know not why this man should be exalted to any superiority over his associates. If we take, my lords, a review of our affairs, and examine the state of the nation in all its relations and all its circumstances, we cannot, surely, conceive that we are in a state of prosperity, unless discontent at home, and scorn abroad, the neglect of our allies, and insolence of our enemies, the decay of trade, and multitude of our imposts, are to be considered as proofs of a prosperous and nourishing nation. Will it be alleged, my lords, has this man one friend adventurous enough to assert, in open day, that the people are not starving by thousands, and murmuring by millions, that universal misery does not overspread the nation, and that this horrid series of calamities is not universally, among all conditions, imputed to the conduct of this man? That great evils are felt, my lords, no Briton, I am certain, who converses promiscuously with his countrymen, will attempt to dispute, and until some other cause more proportioned to the effect shall be assigned, I shall join the publick in their opinion, and while I think this man the author of our miseries, shall conclude it necessary to comply with the motion. Lord HARDWICK spoke next, to the following effect:--My lords, though I very readily admit that crimes ought to be punished, that a treacherous administration of publick affairs is, in a very high degree, criminal, that even ignorance, where it is the consequence of neglect, deserves the severest animadversion, and that it is the privilege and duty of this house to watch over the state of the nation, and inform his majesty of any errours committed by his ministers; yet I am far from being convinced either of the justice or necessity of the motion now under consideration. The most flagrant and invidious part of the charge against the right honourable gentleman appears to consist in this, that he has engrossed an exorbitant degree of power, and usurped an unlimited influence over the whole system of government, that he disposes of all honours and preferments, and that he is not only _first_ but _sole_ minister. But of this boundless usurpation, my lords, what proof has been laid before you? What beyond loud exaggerations, pompous rhetorick, and specious appeals to common fame; common fame, which, at least, may sometimes err, and which, though it may afford sufficient ground for suspicion and inquiry, was never yet admitted as conclusive evidence, where the immediate necessities of the publick did not preclude the common forms of examination, where the power of the offender did not make it dangerous to attack him by a legal prosecution, or where the conduct of the accusers did not plainly discover that they were more eager of blood than of justice, and more solicitous to destroy than to convict. I hope none of these circumstances, my lords, can at present obstruct a candid and deliberate inquiry: with regard to the publick, I am not able to discover any pressing exigencies that demand a more compendious method of proceeding, than the established laws of the land, and the wisdom of our ancestors have prescribed. I know not any calamity that will be aggravated, nor any danger that will become move formidable, by suffering this question to be legally tried. Nor is there, my lords, in the circumstances of the person accused, any thing that can incite us to a hasty process; for, if what is alleged by the noble lords is not exaggerated beyond the truth, if he is universally detested by the whole nation, and loaded with execrations by the publick voice; if he is considered as the author of all our miseries, and the source of all our corruptions; if he has ruined our trade, and depressed our power, impoverished the people, and attempted to enslave them, there is, at least, no danger of an insurrection in his favour, or any probability that his party will grow stronger by delays. For, my lords, to find friends in adversity, and assertors in distress, is only the prerogative of innocence and virtue. The gentleman against whom this formidable charge is drawn up, is, I think, not suspected of any intention to have recourse either to force or flight; he has always appeared willing to be tried by the laws of his country, and to stand an impartial examination; he neither opposes nor eludes inquiry, neither flies from justice, nor defies it. And yet less, my lords, can I suspect, that those by whom he is accused, act from any motive that may influence them to desire a sentence not supported by evidence, or conformable to truth; or that they can wish the ruin of any man whose crimes are not notorious and flagrant, that they persecute from private malice, or endeavour to exalt themselves by the fall of another. Let us, therefore, my lords, inquire before we determine, and suffer evidence to precede our sentence. The charge, if it is just, must be, by its own nature, easily proved, and that no proof is brought may, perhaps, be sufficient to make us suspect that it is not just. For, my lords, what is the evidence of common fame, which has been so much exalted, and so confidently produced? Does not every man see that, on such occasions, two questions may be asked, of which, perhaps, neither can easily be answered, and which, yet, must both be resolved before common fame can be admitted as a proof of facts. It is first to be inquired, my lords, whether the reports of fame are necessarily or even probably true? A question very intricate and diffusive, entangled with a thousand, and involving a thousand, distinctions; a question of which it may be said, that a man may very plausibly maintain either side, and of which, perhaps, after months or years wasted in disputation, no other decision can be obtained than what is obvious at the first view, that they are often true, and often false, and, therefore, can only be grounds of inquiry, not reasons of determination. But if it appear, my lords, that this oracle cannot be deceived, we are then to inquire after another difficulty, we are to inquire, _What is fame?_ Is fame, my lords, that fame which cannot err? a report that flies, on a sudden, through a nation, of which no man can discover the original; a sudden blast of rumour, that inflames or intimidates a people, and obtains, without authority, a general credit? No man versed in history can inquire whether such reports may not deceive. Is fame rather a settled opinion, prevailing by degrees, and for some time established? How long, then, my lords, and in what degree must it have been established, to obtain undoubted credit, and when does it commence infallible? If the people are divided in their opinions, as in all publick questions it has hitherto happened, fame is, I suppose, the voice of the majority; for, if the two parties are equal in their numbers, fame will be equal; then how great must be the majority before it can lay claim to this powerful auxiliary? and how shall that majority be numbered? These questions, my lords, may be thought, perhaps with justice, too ludicrous in this place, but, in my opinion, they contribute to show the precarious and uncertain nature of the evidence so much confided in. Common fame, my lords, is to every man only what he himself commonly hears; and it is in the power of any man's acquaintance to vitiate the evidence which they report, and to stun him with clamours, and terrify him with apprehensions of miseries never felt, and dangers invisible. But, without such a combination, we are to remember, that most men associate with those of their own opinions, and that the rank of those that compose this assembly naturally disposes such as are admitted to their company, to relate, or to invent, such reports as may be favourably received, so that what appears to one lord the general voice of common fame, may, by another, be thought only the murmur of a petty faction, despicable, with regard to their numbers, and detestable, if we consider their principles. So difficult is it, my lords, to form any solid judgment concerning the extent and prevalence of any particular report, and the degree of credit to be given to it. The industry of a party may supply the defect of numbers, and some concurrent circumstances may contribute to give credit to a false report. But, my lords, we are ourselves appealed to as witnesses of the truth of facts, which prove him to be sole minister, of the number of his dependents, the advancement of his friends, the disappointments of his opponents, and the declarations made by his followers of adherence and fidelity. If it should be granted, my lords, that there is nothing in these representations exaggerated beyond the truth, and that nothing is represented in an improper light, what consequence can we draw, but that the followers of this gentleman, make use of those arts which have always been practised by the candidates of preferment, that they endeavour to gain their patron's smile by flattery and panegyrick, and to keep it by assiduity and an appearance of gratitude. And if such applications exalted any man to the authority and title of first minister, the nation has never, in my memory, been without some man in that station, for there is always some one to whom ambition and avarice have paid their court, and whose regards have been purchased at the expense of truth. Nor is it to be wondered at, my lords, that posts of honour and profit have been bestowed upon the friends of the administration; for who enriches or exalts his enemies? who will increase the influence that is to be exerted against him, or add strength to the blow that is levelled at himself? That the right honourable gentleman is the only disposer of honours, has never yet appeared; it is not pretended, my lords, that he distributes them without the consent of his majesty, nor even that his recommendation is absolutely necessary to the success of any man's applications. If he has gained more of his majesty's confidence and esteem than any other of his servants, he has done only what every man endeavours, and what, therefore, is not to be imputed to him as a crime. It is impossible, my lords, that kings, like other men, should not have particular motions of inclination or dislike; it is possible that they may fix their affection upon objects not in the highest degree worthy of their regard, and overlook others that may boast of greater excellencies and more shining merit; but this is not to be supposed without proof, and the regard of the king, as of any other man, is one argument of desert more than he can produce, who has endeavoured after it without effect. This imputed usurpation must be proved upon him either by his own confession, or by the evidence of others; and it has not been yet pretended that he assumes the title of _prime minister_, or indeed, that it is applied to him by any but his enemies; and it may easily be conceived how weakly the most uncorrupted innocence would be supported, if all the aspersions of its enemies were to be received as proofs against it. Nor does it appear, my lords, that any other evidence can be brought against him on this head, or that any man will stand forth and affirm that either he has been injured himself by this gentleman, or known any injury done by him to another by the exertion of authority with which he was not lawfully invested; such evidence, my lords, the laws of our country require to be produced before any man can be punished, censured, or disgraced. No man is obliged to prove his innocence, but may call upon his prosecutors to support their accusation; and why this honourable gentleman, whatever may have been his conduct, should be treated in a different manner than any other criminal, I am by no means able to discover. Though there has been no evidence offered of his guilt, your lordships have heard an attestation of his innocence, from the noble duke who spoke first against the motion, of whom it cannot be suspected that he would, voluntarily, engage to answer for measures which he pursued in blind compliance with the direction of another. The same testimony, my lords, can I produce, and affirm with equal truth, that in the administration of my province, I am independent, and left entirely to the decisions of my own judgment. In every government, my lords, as in every family, some, either by accident or a natural industry, or a superiour capacity, or some other cause, will be engaged in more business, and treated with more confidence than others; but if every man is willing to answer for the conduct of his own province, there is all the security against corruption that can possibly be obtained; for if every man's regard to his own safety and reputation will prevent him from betraying his trust, or abusing his power, much more will it incite him to prevent any misconduct in another for which he must himself be accountable. Men are, usually, sufficiently tenacious of power, and ready to vindicate their separate rights, when nothing but their pride is affected by the usurpation, but surely no man will patiently suffer his province to be invaded when he may himself be ruined by the conduct of the invader. Thus, my lords, it appears to me to be not only without proof, but without probability, and the first minister can, in my opinion, be nothing more than a formidable illusion, which, when one man thinks he has seen it, he shows to another, as easily frighted as himself, who joins with him in propagating the notion, and in spreading terrour and resentment over the nation, till at last the panick becomes general, and what was at first only whispered by malice or prejudice in the ears of ignorance or credulity, is adopted by common fame, and echoed back from the people to the senate. I have hitherto, my lords, confined myself to the consideration of one single article of this complicated charge, because it appears to me to be the only part of it necessary to be examined; for if once it be acknowledged that the affairs of the nation are transacted not by the minister but the administration, by the council in which every man that sits there has an equal voice and equal authority, the blame or praise of all the measures must be transferred from him to the council, and every man that has advised or concurred in them, will deserve the same censure or the same applause; as it is unjust to punish one man for the crimes of another, it is unjust to choose one man out for punishment from among many others equally guilty. But I doubt not, my lords, when all those measures are equitably considered, there will be no punishment to be dreaded, because neither negligence nor treachery will be discovered. For, my lords, with regard to the treaty of Vienna, let us suppose our ministers deceived by ignorant or corrupt intelligence, let us admit that they were cautious where there was no danger, and neglected some opportunities, which, if they had received better information, they might have improved to the advantage and security of the nation. What have they done, even under all these disadvantageous suppositions, but followed the lights which they judged most clear, and by which they hoped to be conducted to honour and to safety? Policy, my lords, is very different from prescience; the utmost that can be attained is probability, and that, for the most part, in a low degree. It is observed, that no man is wise but as you take into consideration the weakness of another; a maxim more eminently true of political wisdom, which consists, very often, only in discovering designs which could never be known but by the folly or treachery of those to whom they are trusted. If our enemies were wise enough to keep their own secrets, neither our ministers nor our patriots would be able to know or prevent their designs, nor would it be any reproach to their sagacity, that they did not know what nobody would tell them. If therefore, my lords, the princes, whose interest is contrary to our own, have been at any time served by honest and wise men, there was a time when our ministers could act only by conjecture, and might be mistaken without a crime. If it was always in our power to penetrate into the intentions of our enemies, they must necessarily have the same means of making themselves acquainted with our projects, and yet when any of them are discovered we think it just to impute it to the negligence of the minister. Thus, my lords, every man is inclined to judge with prejudice and partiality. When we suffer by the prudence of our enemies, we charge our ministers with want of vigilance, without considering, that very often nothing is necessary to elude the most penetrating sagacity, but obstinate silence. If we inquire into the transactions of past times, shall we find any man, however renowned for his abilities, not sometimes imposed upon by falsehoods, and sometimes betrayed by his own reasonings into measures destructive of the purposes which he endeavoured to promote? There is no man of whose penetration higher ideas have been justly formed, or who gave more frequent proofs of an uncommon penetration into futurity than Cromwell; and yet succeeding times have sufficiently discovered the weakness of aggrandizing France by depressing Spain, and we wonder now how so much policy could fall into so gross an errour, as not rather to suffer power to remain in the distant enemy, than transfer it to another equally divided from us by interest, and far more formidable by the situation of his dominions. Cromwell, my lords, suffered himself to be hurried away by the near prospect of present advantages, and the apprehension of present dangers; and every other man has been, in the same manner, sometimes deluded into a preference of a smaller present advantage, to a greater which was more remote. Let it not be urged, my lords, that politicks are advanced since the time of Cromwell, and that errours which might then be committed by the wisest administration, are now gross and reproachful; we are to remember that every part of policy has been equally improved, and that if more methods of discovery have been struck out, there have been likewise more arts invented of eluding it. When, therefore, we inquire into the conduct, or examine the abilities of a minister, we are not to expect that he should appear never to have been deceived, but that he should never be found to have neglected any proper means of information, nor ever to have willingly given up the interest of his country; but we are not to impute to his weakness what is only to be ascribed to the wisdom of those whom he opposed. If this plea, my lords, is reasonable, it will be necessary for those who support the motion, to prove, not only that the treaty of Vienna was never made, but that the falsehood of the report either was or might have been known by our ministers; otherwise, those who are inclined to retain a favourable opinion of their integrity and abilities, may conclude, that they were either not mistaken, or were led into errour by such delusions as would no less easily have imposed on their accusers, and that by exalting their enemies to their stations, they shall not much consult the advantage of their country. This motion, therefore, my lords, founded upon no acknowledged, no indisputable facts, nor supported by legal evidence; this motion, which, by appealing to common fame, as the ultimate judge of every man's actions, may bring every man's life, or fortune, into danger; this motion, which condemns without hearing, and decides without examining, I cannot but reject, and hope your lordships will concur with me. Lord CARLISLE spoke next, to the following purport:--My lords, the state of the question before us has, in my opinion, not been rightly apprehended by the noble lord who spoke last, nor is the innocence or guilt of the minister the chief question before us, because a minister may possibly mean well, and yet be, in some particular circumstances, unqualified for his station. He may not only want the degree of knowledge and ability requisite to make his good intentions effectual, but, my lords, however skilful, sagacious, or diligent, he may be so unfortunate, in some parts of his conduct, as to want the esteem and confidence of the people. That a very able and honest minister may be misinformed by his intelligence, disappointed by his agents, or baffled by other men of equal capacity and integrity with himself, cannot be controverted; but it must surely be owned likewise, that when this has happened so often, and in cases of such importance, as to deprive him entirely of the regard and affection of the people; when he is reduced to intrench himself behind his privileges, to employ all the influence of the crown for his own security, and make it his daily endeavour to create new dependencies, he ought to be pitied and discarded. That this is the state of the minister whose removal is desired by the motion, cannot be denied; the exaltation of his adherents to places and preferments, the noble lord has been so far from questioning, that he has endeavoured to justify it, and has in plain terms inquired, who would have acted otherwise? Every man, my lords, would have acted otherwise, whose character had not been blasted by general detestation; every man would have acted otherwise, who preferred the publick good to his own continuance in power; and every man has acted otherwise who has distinguished himself as a friend to the publick. It is the interest of the nation, my lords, that every office should be filled by that man who is most capable of discharging it, whatever may be his sentiments with regard to the minister; and that his attention should be confined to his employment, rather than distracted by various concerns and opposite relations. It is, therefore, an injury to the publick, to thrust a skilful commissioner into the senate, or to embarrass an industrious senator with a post or commission. Yet, my lords, that multitudes have obtained places, who have no acquaintance with the duties of their offices, nor any other pretensions to them, than that they have seats in the other house, and that by distinguishing himself in that assembly, any man may most easily obtain the preferments of the crown, is too obvious for controversy. This practice, my lords, is a sufficient foundation for the motion; a practice so injurious to the nation, so long continued, and so openly avowed, requires to be vigorously opposed, lest it should become established by long custom, and entangle itself with our constitution. If the minister, my lords, has made it necessary to employ none but his adherents and blind followers, this necessity is alone a sufficient proof how little he confides in his own prudence or integrity, how apprehensive he is of the censure of the senate, and how desirous of continuing his authority, by avoiding it. And, surely, my lords, it is our duty, as well as our right, to address the throne, that a minister should be removed who fears the people, since few men fear without hating, and nothing so much contributes to make any man an enemy to his country, as the consciousness that he is universally abhorred. But, my lords, if this is done by him without necessity, if the general preference of his friends is only the consequence of mistaken judgment, or corrupt gratitude, this address is equally necessary, because the effects are equally pernicious. When a minister, suspected of ill intentions, is continued in employment, discontent must naturally spread over the nation; and if the end of government be the happiness of the people; if suspicion and jealousy be contrary to a state of happiness; and if this suspicion which generally prevails, this discontent which fills the whole nation, can only be appeased by the removal of the minister; prudence, justice, and the examples of our ancestors, ought to influence us to endeavour that the affairs of the nation may be transferred to such whose greater integrity or wisdom has recommended them to the affection of the people. In this motion, therefore, we need not be supposed to imply that the minister is either ignorant or corrupt, but that he is disliked by the people, disliked to such a degree, my lords, that it is not safe for his majesty to employ him. It is, doubtless, our duty, my lords, to guard both the rights of the people, and the prerogatives of the throne, and with equal ardour to remonstrate to his majesty the distresses of his subjects, and his own danger. We are to hold the balance of the constitution, and neither to suffer the regal power to be overborne by a torrent of popular fury, nor the people to be oppressed by an illegal exertion of authority, or the more insupportable hardships of unreasonable laws. By this motion, my lords, the happiness of the people, and the security of his majesty, are at once consulted, nor can we suppress so general a clamour without failing equally in our duty to both. To what, my lords, is the untimely end of so many kings and emperours to be imputed, but to the cowardice or treachery of their counsellors, of those to whom they trusted that intercourse, which is always to be preserved between a monarch and his people? Were kings honestly informed of the opinions and dispositions of their subjects, they would never, or, at least rarely, persist in such measures, as, by exasperating the people, tend necessarily to endanger themselves. It is the happiness of a British monarch, that he has a standing and hereditary council, composed of men who do not owe their advancement to the smiles of caprice, or the intrigues of a court; who are, therefore, neither under the influence of a false gratitude, nor of a servile dependence, and who may convey to the throne the sentiments of the people, without danger, and without fear. But, my lords, if we are either too negligent, or too timorous to do our duty, how is the condition of our sovereign more safe, or more happy than that of an emperour of Turkey, who is often ignorant of any complaints made against the administration, till he hears the people thundering at the gates of his palace. Let us, therefore, my lords, whatever may be our opinion of the conduct of the minister, inform his majesty of the discontent of his subjects, since, whether it is just or not, the danger is the same, and whenever any danger threatens the king, we ought either to enable him to oppose, or caution him to avoid it. Lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke next, to the following effect:--My lords, I cannot but observe in this debate an ambition of popularity, in my opinion not very consistent with the freedom of debate, and the dignity of this assembly, which ought to be influenced by no other motive than the force of reason and truth. It has been a common method of eluding the efficacy of arguments, to charge the opponent with blind adherence to interest, or corrupt compliance with the directions of a court; nor has it been less frequent to prevent inquiries into publick measures, by representing them as the clamours of faction, the murmurs of disobedience, and the prelude to rebellion. So necessary, my lords, has it been always thought to be uninfluenced in our examinations by dependence or interest, that the most irrefragable reasons have lost the power of conviction, by the condition and characters of those by whom they were produced; and so much is it expected from innocence and justice to despise all foreign assistance, and to stand the test of inquiry without asking the support of power, that every man has been concluded guilty that has fled for shelter to the throne. And surely, my lords, if that man's suffrage is of little weight, who appears determined to subscribe to the dictates of a minister, no greater credit can be assigned to another, who professes himself only the echo of the clamours of the populace. If it be a proof of a weak cause, and consciousness of misconduct, to apply to the crown for security and protection, it may be accounted an acknowledgment of the insufficiency of arguments, when the people is called in to second them, and they are only to expect success from the violence of multitudes. That all government is instituted for the happiness of the people, that their interest ought to be the chief care of the legislature, that their complaints ought patiently to be heard, and their grievances speedily redressed, are truths well known, generally acknowledged, and, I hope, always predominant in the mind of every lord in this assembly. But, that the people cannot err, that the voice of fame is to be regarded as an oracle, and every murmur of discontent to be pacified by a change of measures, I have never before heard, or heard it only to disregard it. True tenderness for the people, my lords, is to consult their advantage, to protect their liberty, and to preserve their virtue; and perhaps examples may be found sufficient to inform us that all these effects are often to be produced by means not generally agreeable to the publick. It is possible, my lords, for a very small part of the people to form just ideas of the motives of transactions and the tendency of laws. All negotiations with foreign powers are necessarily complicated with many different interests, and varied by innumerable circumstances, influenced by sudden exigencies, and defeated by unavoidable accidents. Laws have respect to remote consequences, and involve a multitude of relations which it requires long study to discover. And how difficult it is to judge of political conduct, or legislative proceedings, may be easily discovered by observing how often the most skilful statesmen are mistaken, and how frequently the laws require to be amended. If then, my lords, the people judge for themselves on these subjects, they must necessarily determine without knowledge of the questions, and their decisions are then of small authority. If they receive, implicitly, the dictates of others, and blindly adopt the opinions of those who have gained their favour and esteem, their applauses and complaints are, with respect to themselves, empty sounds, which they utter as the organs of their leaders. Nor are the desires of the people gratified when their petitions are granted; nor their grievances overlooked when their murmurs are neglected. As it is no reproach to the people that they cannot be the proper judges of the conduct of the government, so neither are they to be censured when they complain of injuries not real, and tremble at the apprehension of severities unintended. Unjust complaints, my lords, and unreasonable apprehensions, are to be imputed to those who court their regard only to deceive them, and exalt themselves to reputation by rescuing them from grievances that were never felt, and averting dangers that were never near. He only who makes the happiness of the people his endeavour, loves them with a true affection and a rational tenderness, and he certainly consults their happiness who contributes to still all groundless clamours, and appease all useless apprehensions, who employs his care, not only to preserve their quiet and their liberty, but to secure them from the fear of losing it, who not only promotes the means of happiness, but enables them to enjoy it. Thus, it appears, my lords, that it is possible to be a friend, at the same time, to the people and the administration, and that no man can more deserve their confidence and applause, than he that dissipates their unreasonable terrours, and contributes to reconcile them to a good government. That most of the clamours against the present government arise from calumnies and misrepresentations, is apparent from the sanction of the senate, which has been given to all the measures that are charged as crimes upon the administration. That the army is supported by the consent of the senate, that the senate has approved the convention, and that our taxes are all imposed and continued by the senate, cannot be denied. What then is demanded by those that censure the conduct of publick affairs, but that their opinion should be considered as an overbalance to the wisdom of the senate, that no man should be allowed to speak but as they dictate, nor to vote but as they shall influence them by their rhetorick or example? To repeat the particular topicks of accusation, and recapitulate the arguments which have been produced to confute it, would be a tedious and unnecessary labour; unnecessary, because it is well known that they once had the power of convincing this house, and that nothing has since happened to lessen their force, and because many of them now have been already repeated by the noble lords that have opposed the motion. To search far backward for past errors, and to take advantage of later discoveries in censuring the conduct of any minister, is in a high degree disingenuous and cruel; it is an art which may be easily practised, of perplexing any question, by connecting distant facts, and entangling one period of time with another. The only candid method of inquiry is to recur back to the state of affairs, as it then appeared, to consider what was openly declared, and what was kept impenetrably secret, what was discoverable by human sagacity, and what was beyond the reach of the most piercing politician. With regard to the Hanover treaty, it is not, my lords, requisite that we should engage ourselves in a very minute examination; for it was not only not transacted by the right honourable gentleman whose behaviour is the subject of this debate, but cannot be proved to have been known by him till it was formally ratified. If he afterwards approved it either in the council or the senate, he cannot justly, how destructive or ridiculous soever that treaty may be thought, be charged with more than his share of the guilt, the bare guilt of a single vote. But there is one accusation yet more malicious, an accusation not only of crimes which this gentleman did not commit, but which have not yet been committed, an accusation formed by prying into futurity, and exaggerating misfortunes which are yet to come, and which may probably be prevented. Well may any man, my lords, think himself in danger, when he hears himself charged not with high crimes and misdemeanours, not with accumulative treason, but with misconduct of publick affairs, past, present, and future. The only charge against this gentleman, which seems to relate more to him than to any other man engaged in the administration, is the continuance of the harbour of Dunkirk, which, says the noble duke, he must be acquainted with as commissioner of the treasury; but if the title of first commissioner be denied, if his authority be but the same with that of his associates, whence comes it, my lords, that he is more particularly accused than they? Why is his guilt supposed greater if his power is only equal? But, my lords, I believe it will appear, that no guilt has been contracted on this account, and that Dunkirk was always intended, even by those that demanded the demolition of it, to continue a harbour for small trading vessels, and that if larger ever arrived from thence, they lay at a distance from the shore, and were loaded by small vessels from the town. With regard to other affairs, my lords, they were all transacted by the council, not by his direction, but with his concurrence; and how it is consistent with justice to single him out for censure, I must desire the noble lords to show who approve the motion. If the people, my lords, have been, by misrepresentations industriously propagated, exasperated against him, if the general voice of the nation condemns him, we ought more cautiously to examine his conduct, lest we should add strength to prejudice too powerful already, and instead of reforming the errours, and regulating the heat of the people, inflame their discontent and propagate sedition. The utmost claim of the people is to be admitted as accusers, and sometimes as evidence, but they have no right to sit as judges, and to make us the executioners of their sentence; and as this gentleman has yet been only condemned by those who have not the opportunities of examining his conduct, nor the right of judging him, I cannot agree to give him up to punishment. Lord HALIFAX spoke next, in substance as follows:--My lords, though I do not conceive the people infallible, yet I believe that in questions like this they are seldom in the wrong, for this is a question not of argument but of fact; of fact discoverable, not by long deductions and accurate ratiocinations, but by the common powers of seeing and feeling. That it is difficult to know the motives of negotiations, and the effects of laws, and that it requires long study and intense meditation to discover remote consequences, is indubitably true. And, with regard to the people in general, it cannot be denied, that neither their education qualifies them, nor their employments allow them to be much versed in such inquiries. But, my lords, to refer effects to their proper causes, and to observe, when consequences break forth, from whence they proceed, is no such arduous task. The people of the lowest class may easily feel that they are more miserable this year than the last, and may inquire and discover the reason of the aggravation of their misery; they may know that the army is increased, or our trade diminished; that the taxes are heavier, and penal laws become more grievous. Nor is it less easy for them to discover that these calamities are not brought upon them by the immediate hand of heaven, or the irresistible force of natural causes; that their towns are not ruined by an invasion, nor their trade confined by a pestilence; they may then easily collect, that they are only unhappy by the misconduct of their governours; they may assign their infelicity to that cause, as the only remaining cause that is adequate to the effect. If it be granted, my lords, that they may be mistaken in their reasoning, it must be owned, that they are not mistaken without probabilities on their side: it is probable that the ministry must injure the publick interest when it decays without any other visible cause; it is still more probable, when it appears that among those whose station enables them to enter into national inquiries, every man imputes his calamities to the minister, who is not visibly dependent on his favour. It becomes more probable, yet, when it appears that it is the great business of the minister to multiply dependencies, to list accomplices, and to corrupt his judges. At least, my lords, if it be granted, which, surely, cannot be denied, that the people may be sensible of their own miseries, it is their part to declare their sufferings, and to apply to this house for relief, and it is our business to discover the authors of them, and bring them to punishment. That the people are very loud and importunate in their complaints, is daily evident; nor is it less apparent, that their complaints are just; if, therefore, their miseries must have an author, let the defenders of this gentleman point out the man whom they may more properly accuse. But, my lords, nothing is more evident, than that the crimes and the criminal are equally known, that there is one man predominant in his majesty's councils, and that it has long been the practice of that man at once to oppress and ridicule the people, to plunder them, and set them at defiance. Nothing is more known than that this man pretends to a superiour knowledge, and exerts a superiour power in the management of the publick revenues, and that they have been so ill managed for many years, that the expenses of peace have been almost equal to those of a most vigorous and extensive war. Nothing is more probable, than that most of the foreign negotiations are conducted by his direction, nor more certain, than that they have generally tended only to make us contemptible. That the excise was projected in his own head, that it was recommended by him upon his own conviction, and pressed upon the legislature by his influence, cannot be questioned; and if this were his only crime, if this were the only scheme of oppression that ever he planned out, it is such a declaration of war upon the publick liberty, such an attack of our natural and constitutional rights, as was never, perhaps, pardoned by any nation. Nor is it less notorious, that the late infamous convention was transacted by one of his own dependents, that he palliated or concealed the losses of our merchants, that he opposed the declaration of war, and has since obstructed its operations. On this occasion, my lords, it may be useful to remark the apparent partiality of this gentleman's vindicators, who declare, that measures are not to be censured as imprudent, only because they are unsuccessful, and yet when other instances of his conduct fall under our examination, think it a sufficient defence to exclaim against the unreasonableness of judging before the event. To deny that, in the conduct both of civil and military affairs, he has obtained, I know not by what means, an authority superiour to that of any other man, an authority irresistible, uncontroulable, and regal, is to oppose not only common fame, but daily experience. If as commissioner of the treasury he has no more power than any of his associates, whence is it, that to oppose or censure him, to doubt of his infallibility, to suspect his integrity, or to obstruct his influence, is a crime punished with no lighter penalty than forfeiture of employment, as appears, my lords, from the late dismission of a gentleman, against whom nothing can be alleged but an obstinate independence and open disregard of this arbitrary minister. But happy would it be, my lords, for this nation, if he endeavoured not to extend his authority beyond the treasury or the court; if he would content himself with tyrannising over those whose acceptance of salaries and preferments has already subjected them to his command, without attempting to influence elections, or to direct the members of the other house. How much the influence of the crown has operated upon all publick councils since the advancement of this gentleman, how zealously it has been supported, and how industriously extended, is unnecessary to explain, since what is seen or felt by almost every man in the kingdom cannot reasonably be supposed unknown to your lordships. Nothing can be more contrary to the true notion of the British constitution, than to imagine, that by such measures his majesty's real interest is advanced. The true interest, my lords, of every monarch, is to please the people, and the only way of pleasing Britons, is to preserve their liberties, their reputation, and their commerce. Every attempt to extend the power of the crown beyond the limits prescribed by our laws, must in effect make it weaker, by diverting the only source of its strength, the affection of his subjects. It is, therefore, my opinion, my lords, that we ought to agree to this motion, as a standing memorial not only of our regard for the nation, but of our adherence to our sovereign; that his councils may be no longer influenced by that man whose pernicious advice, and unjustifiable conduct, has added new hopes and new strength to his enemies, impoverished and exasperated his subjects, inflamed the discontent of the seditious, and almost alienated the affection of the loyal. The bishop of SALISBURY spoke next, to the following purport:--My lords, after all the exaggerations of the errours, and all the representations of the malconduct of the right honourable gentleman; after the most affecting rhetorick, and the most acute inquiries, nothing has appeared of weight sufficient to prevail with me to agree to the present motion; a motion, if not of an unprecedented, yet of a very extraordinary kind, which may extend in its consequences to futurity, and be, perhaps, more dangerous to innocence than guilt. I cannot yet discover any proof sufficient to convict him of having usurped the authority of _first_ minister, or any other power than that accidental influence which every man has, whose address or services have procured him the favour of his sovereign. The usurpation, my lords, of regal power must be made evident by somewhat more than general assertions, must appear from some publick act like that of one of the prelates left regent of the kingdom by Richard the first, who, as soon as the king was gone too far to return, in the first elevations of his heart, began his new authority by imprisoning his colleague. To charge this gentleman with the dismission of any of his colleagues, can, after the strongest aggravations, rise no higher than to an accusation of having advised his majesty to dismiss him, and even that, my lords, stands, at present, unsupported by evidence; nor could it, however uncontestably proved, discover either wickedness or weakness, or show any other authority than every man would exercise, if he were able to attain it. If he had discharged this gentleman by his own authority, if he had transacted singly any great affair to the disadvantage of the publick, if he had imposed either upon the king or the senate by false representations, if he had set the laws at defiance, and openly trampled on our constitution, and if by these practices he had exalted himself above the reach of a legal prosecution, it had been worthy of the dignity of this house, to have overleaped the common boundaries of custom, to have neglected the standing rules of procedure, and to have brought so contemptuous and powerful an offender to a level with the rest of his fellow-subjects by expeditious and vigorous methods, to have repressed his arrogance, broken his power, and overwhelmed him at once by the resistless weight of an unanimous censure. But, my lords, we have in the present case no provocations from crimes either openly avowed, or evidently proved; and certainly no incitement from necessity to exert the power of the house in any extraordinary method of prosecution. We may punish whenever we can convict, and convict whenever we can obtain evidence; let us not, therefore, condemn any man unheard, nor punish any man uncondemned. The duke of BEDFORD spoke next, in substance as follows:--My lords, it is easy to charge the most blameless and gentle procedure with injustice and severity, but it is not easy to support such an accusation without confounding measures widely different, and disguising the nature of things with fallacious misrepresentations. Nothing is more evident than that neither condemnation nor punishment is intended by the motion before us, which is only to remove from power a man who has no other claim to it than the will of his master, and who, as he had not been injured by never obtaining it, cannot justly complain that it is taken from him. The motion, my lords, is so far from inflicting punishment, that it confers rewards, it leaves him in the possession of immense wealth, however accumulated, and enables him to leave that office in security, from which most of his predecessors have been precipitated by national resentment, or senatorial prosecution. There is no censure, my lords, made of his conduct, no charge of weakness, or suspicion of dishonesty, nor can any thing be equitably inferred from it, than that in the opinion of this house his majesty may probably be served by some other person, more to the satisfaction of the British nation. Though it is not just to punish any man without examination, or to censure his conduct merely because it has been unpleasing or unsuccessful; though it is not reasonable that any man should forfeit what he possesses in his own right, without a crime, yet it is just to withdraw favours only to confer them on another more deserving; it is just in any man to withhold his own, only to preserve his right, or obviate an injurious prescription, and it is, therefore, just to advise such a conduct whenever it appears necessary to those who have the right of offering advice. To advise his majesty, my lords, is not only our right but our duty; we are not only justifiable in practising, but criminal in neglecting it. That we should declare our apprehensions of any impending danger, and our disapprobation of publick misconduct, is expected both by our sovereign and the people, and let us not, by omitting such warnings, lull the nation and our sovereign into a dangerous security, and, from tenderness to one man, prolong or increase the miseries of our country, and endanger or destroy the honour of our sovereign. Lord HERVEY spoke next, in effect as follows:--My lords, this is surely a day destined by the noble lords who defend the motion, for the support of paradoxical assertions, for the exercise of their penetration, and ostentation of their rhetorick; they have attempted to maintain the certainty of common fame in opposition to daily observation; the existence of a sole minister in contradiction to the strongest evidence; and having by these gradations arrived at the highest degree of controversial temerity, are endeavouring to make it appear that the publick censure of the house of lords is no punishment. If we take the liberty, my lords, of using known words in a new sense, in a meaning reserved to ourselves only, it will, indeed, be difficult to confute, as it will be impossible to understand us; but if punishment be now to be understood as implying the same idea which has hitherto been conveyed by it, it will not be easy to show that a man thus publickly censured is not severely punished, and, if his crimes are not clearly proved, punished in opposition to law, to reason, and to justice. It has been hitherto imagined, my lords, that no punishment is heavier than that of infamy; and shame has, by generous minds, been avoided at the hazard of every other misery. That such a censure as is proposed by the motion, must irreparably destroy the reputation of the person against whom it is directed, that it must confirm the reports of his enemies, impair the esteem of his friends, mark him out to all Europe as unworthy of his sovereign's favour, and represent him to latest posterity as an enemy to his country, is indisputably certain. These, my lords, are the evident consequences of the address moved for by the noble lord; and, if such consequences are not penal, it will be no longer in our power to enforce our laws by sanctions of terrour. To condemn a man unheard, is an open and flagrant violation of the first law of justice, but it is still a wider deviation from it to punish a man unaccused; no crime has been charged upon this gentleman proportioned to the penalty proposed by the motion, and the charge that has been produced is destitute of proof. Let us, therefore, my lords, reverence the great laws of reason and justice, let us preserve our high character and prerogative of judges, without descending to the low province of accusers and executioners; let us so far regard our reputation, our liberty, and our posterity, as to reject the motion. [Several other lords spoke in this debate, which lasted eleven hours; at length the question was put, and, on a division, carried in the negative. Content, 59. Not content, 108.] After the determination of the foregoing question, the duke of MARLBOROUGH rose up, and spoke as follows:--My lords, though your patience must undoubtedly be wearied by the unusual length of this day's debate, a debate protracted, in my opinion, not by the difficulty of the question, but by the obstinacy of prejudice, the ardour of passion, and the desire of victory; yet, I doubt not but the regard which this assembly has always paid to the safety and happiness of the state, will incline you to support the fatigue of attention a little longer, and to hear with your usual impartiality another motion. The proposition which I am about to lay down, my lords, is not such as can admit of controversy; it is such a standing principle as was always acknowledged, even by those who have deviated from it. Such a known truth as never was denied, though it appears sometimes to have been forgotten. But, my lords, as it never can be forgotten, without injury to particular persons, and danger to the state in general, it cannot be too frequently recollected, or too firmly established; it ought not only to be tacitly admitted, but publickly declared, since no man's fortune, liberty, or life, can be safe, where his judges shall think themselves at liberty to act upon any other principle. I therefore move, "That any attempt to inflict any kind of punishment on any person without allowing him an opportunity to make his defence, or without any proof of any crime or misdemeanour committed by him, is contrary to natural justice, the fundamental laws of this realm, and the ancient established usage of the senate, and is a high infringement of the liberties of the subject." He was seconded by the duke of DEVONSHIRE:--My lords, though the motion made by the noble duke is of such a kind, that no opposition can be expected or feared, yet I rise up to second it, lest it should be imagined that what cannot be rejected is yet unwillingly admitted. That where this maxim is not allowed and adhered to, rights and liberties are empty sounds, is uncontestably evident; if this principle be forsaken, guilt and innocence are equally secure, all caution is vain, and all testimony useless. Caprice will, in our courts, supply the place of reason, and all evidence must give way to malice, or to favour. I hope, therefore, my lords, that your regard to justice, to truth, and to your own safety, will influence you to confirm this great and self-evident principle by a standing resolution, that may not only restrain oppression in the present age, but direct the judiciary proceedings of our successors. Lord LOVEL rose next, and spoke as follows:--My lords, liberty and justice must always support each other, they can never long flourish apart; every temporary expedient that can be contrived to preserve or enlarge liberty by means arbitrary and oppressive, forms a precedent which may, in time, be made use of to violate or destroy it. Liberty is in effect suspended whenever injustice is practised; for what is liberty, my lords, but the power of doing right without fear, without control, and without danger. But, my lords, if any man may be condemned unheard, if judgment may precede evidence, what safety or what confidence can integrity afford? It is in vain that any man means well, and acts prudently; it is even in vain that he can prove the justice and prudence of his conduct. By liberty, my lords, can never be meant the privilege of doing wrong without being accountable, because liberty is always spoken of as happiness, or one of the means to happiness, and happiness and virtue cannot be separated. The great use of liberty must, therefore, be to preserve justice from violation; justice, the great publick virtue, by which a kind of equality is diffused over the whole society, by which wealth is restrained from oppression, and inferiority preserved from servitude. Liberty, general liberty, must imply general justice; for wherever any part of a state can be unjust with impunity, the rest are slaves. That to condemn any man unheard is oppressive and unjust, is beyond controversy demonstrable, and that no such power is claimed by your lordships will, I hope, appear from your resolutions. Lord GOWER spoke next:--My lords, to the principle laid down by those noble lords, I have no objection, and concur with them in hoping that all our proceedings will contribute to establish it; but why it should be confirmed by a formal resolution, why the house should solemnly declare their assent to a maxim which it would be madness to deny, it is beyond my penetration to discover. Though the noble lord's position cannot be controverted, yet his motion, if it is designed to imply any censure of the proceedings of this day, may reasonably be rejected, and that some censure is intended we may conjecture, because no other reason can be given why it was not made at some other time. Lord HALIFAX then rose:--My lords, that a censure is intended, will, I suppose, not be denied, and that such a censure is unjust must doubtless be the opinion of all those who are supposed to have incurred it, and it will, therefore, not be wondered that the motion is opposed by them, as indecent and calumnious: late as it is, my lords, I will not, for my part, suffer such an indignity without opposition, and shall think my conscience and my honour require, that I should not be overborne by perseverance or by numbers, but that I should, if I cannot convince the noble lords by argument, of the impropriety of the motion, record my reasons against it, which may, perhaps, be more candidly received by posterity. Lord TALBOT spoke to this effect:--My lords, it is not without indignation that I hear a motion so injurious to my own honour, and to that of the noble lords who have concurred with me in the last debate, nor without contempt that I observed the motion confounded with the positions contained in it; the low subtilty of such conduct is no less to be despised than the malice to be abhorred. Fifty-nine lords are here branded as strangers, or enemies to the first principle of judicial equity, for doing what will entitle them to the general applause of every man in the kingdom that has the full possession of his understanding, or the free use of his senses; of every man that can distinguish truth, or feel oppression. They have endeavoured to rescue their country from the rapine of pensioners and the tyranny of an army, from perpetual taxes, and useless expenses; they have attempted to expose the errours of arrogant ignorance, and to depress the power of greatness, founded on corruption, and swelling beyond legal restraints. That for such attempts they are vilified and reproached, is not to be observed without indignation and astonishment; astonishment which nothing could abate but the recollection of the situation of those lords who have united to promote so unjust a censure. Let us, my lords, consider the circumstances of the three noble lords by whom this motion has been made and supported, let us take a view of their conduct, and consider the visible motives to which it may be ascribed, their places, their dependence-- Lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke next, in substance as follows:--My lords, I rise thus abruptly to preserve that order and decency which is essential to publick councils, and particularly suitable to the dignity of this assembly, which can only become a scene of tumult and confusion by such methods of debate, and lose that respect which it has hitherto preserved, not only by the justice of its determinations, but by the solemn grandeur of its procedure. The motion, my lords, is allowed to contain nothing but what every man avows in speculation, and observes, or ought to observe, in publick transactions, and yet those that offer and support it are represented as abettors of oppression, and instruments of tyranny. It is surely wonderful, my lords, that those who are solicitous for the preservation of their own honour, and so diligent to obviate the most remote reflection that may glance upon it, should not remember, that the same delicacy may raise in others the same resentment, when their reputation is openly attacked; and that while they are asserting the right of the minority to an exemption from censure, they shall not allow the greater number at least an equal claim to the same privilege. Lord TALBOT then resumed:--My lords, whether any thing has escaped from me that deserves such severe animadversions, your lordships must decide. For what I might intend to say, since by the interruption of that noble lord I was hindered from proceeding, I hope I shall not be accountable. Not that I acknowledge myself to have asserted any thing either contrary to law, or to the privileges of the house, or inconsistent with the character of an independent lord, a character which I shall always endeavour to preserve, and which I will not forfeit for the smiles of a court, the dignity of high employment, or the affluence of a pension. Nor, my lords, whenever the necessities of my country require that I should speak my sentiments with freedom, will I be awed into silence and submission, but will set any power at defiance that shall dare to restrain me. I pretend not, my lords, to be always in the right, I claim no other merit than that of meaning well; and when I am convinced, after proper examination, that I am engaged on the side of truth, I will trample on that insolence that shall command me to suppress my sentiments. When I reflect, my lords, on the distresses of my country, when I observe the security and arrogance of those whom I consider as the authors of the publick miseries, I cannot always contain my resentment; I may, perhaps, sometimes start out into unbecoming transports, and speak in terms not very ceremonious of such abandoned, such detestable-- But as this is, perhaps, not the language of the house, I shall endeavour to repress it, and hope that the bounds of decency have never been so far transgressed by me that I should be exposed to the censure of your lordships. Lord ABINGDON next rose, and said:--My lords, the present motion is undoubtedly just, but by no means necessary, or particularly adapted to the present time. It contains a general principle, uncontested, and established; a principle which this assembly has never denied, and from which I know not that it has ever departed. As there is, therefore, no particular necessity of confirming it by a new resolution, and as the present time seems less proper than any other, I cannot but declare my opinion, that to resume it at some other time will be more prudent, than to give the lords, who think their conduct censured, any occasion of resentment or discontent. Lord CARTERET spoke to the following effect:--My lords, the maxim laid down in the present motion, is in itself incontestable, and so far from any inconsistency with the former, that as there was no reason for making, there is, in my opinion, none for opposing it; as it may at any time be made, it may at any time be properly passed. And I hope that our unanimity on this occasion will show that truth, however unseasonably advanced, will, in this house, be always received. But, lest the noble lords who have opposed the motion, should think their honour engaged in continuing the opposition, I take the liberty, my lords, to move that the previous question may be put. [Other lords spoke on each side; at last the previous question was put by the president, who demanded, "Is it your lordships' pleasure, that the question be now put? Those lords who are for it, say, Content: those who are against it, say, Not content." There was, accordingly, a cry of both; after which the president declared, "the contents have it;" and some lords replying, "the non-contents have it," his lordship said, "the non-contents must go below the bar:" which is the manner of dividing the house. Those who remained being told in their seats, and those who went out being told at coming in again, there were Content, 81; Not content, 54: so that the resolution moved for, passed without a division.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, FEB. 24, 1740-1. [DEBATE ON CLEANSING THE CITY OF WESTMINSTER.] Lord TYRCONNEL made a motion for bringing in a bill for the better cleansing and paving the streets of Westminster, and the liberties thereof; in support of which motion he spoke to the following purpose:-- Sir, though the grievance which I am about to lay before the house is not of the most formidable or dangerous kind, yet as it is such as grows every day greater, and such as every day endangers the lives of thousands, I hope it will not be thought useless or improper to propose it to the consideration of this assembly, to offer my thoughts on the methods by which it may be most easily removed, and to endeavour to incite others to the same considerations. It is impossible, sir, to come to this assembly, or to return from it without observations on the present condition of the streets of Westminster; observations forced upon every man, however inattentive, or however engrossed by reflections of a different kind. The warmest zeal for publick happiness, the most anxious vigilance against general dangers, must, I believe, sometimes give way to objects of immediate, though of less importance, nor will the most publick-spirited senators deny, that they have often been in the streets alarmed with obstructions, or shocked with nuisances. The filth, sir, of some parts of the town, and the inequality and ruggedness of others, cannot but in the eyes of foreigners disgrace our nation, and incline them to imagine us a people, not only without delicacy, but without government, a herd of barbarians, or a colony of hottentots. The most disgusting part of the character given by travellers, of the most savage nations, is their neglect of cleanliness, of which, perhaps, no part of the world affords more proofs, than the streets of the British capital; a city famous for wealth, and commerce, and plenty, and for every other kind of civility and politeness, but which abounds with such heaps of filth, as a savage would look on with amazement. If that be allowed which is generally believed, that putrefaction and stench are the causes of pestilential distempers, the removal of this grievance may be pressed from motives of far greater weight than those of delicacy and pleasure; and I might solicit the timely care of this assembly for the preservation of inuumerable multitudes, and intreat those, who are watching against slight misfortunes, to unite their endeavours with mine, to avert the greatest and most dreadful of calamities. Not to dwell, sir, upon dangers, which may, perhaps, be thought only imaginary, I hope that it will be at least considered, how much the present neglect of the pavement is detrimental to every carriage, whether of trade, or pleasure, or convenience, and that those who have allowed so much of their attention to petitions, relating to the roads of the kingdom, the repair of some of which is almost every session thought of importance sufficient to produce debates in this house, will not think the streets of the capital alone unworthy of their regard. That the present neglect of cleansing and paving the streets is such as ought not to be borne, that the passenger is every where either surprised and endangered by unexpected chasms, or offended or obstructed by mountains of filth, is well known to every one that has passed a single day in this great city; and that this grievance is without remedy is a sufficient proof that no magistrate has, at present power to remove it; for every man's private regard to his own ease and safety, would incite him to exert his authority on this occasion. I humbly propose, therefore, that a bill may be brought into the house, to enable his majesty's justices of peace for the liberties of Westminster, to inspect the publick ways of this city, and punish the neglect of cleansing and paving them; or that a new officer be appointed, and vested with full authority for the same purpose. Mr. SANDYS spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, I believe the grievance, so much complained of by the right honourable member, is not difficult to be removed without a new act of the legislature, being, perhaps, more properly to be imputed to the negligence of the justices, than a defect of their authority; for they have already sufficient power to regulate this disorder: and I may be allowed to hope, sir, that they do not want leisure to observe it, for their number is so great, that if we suppose them to be wholly engaged by the common business of their office, a foreigner would have occasion of reproaching us with defects more important than want of delicacy, and might justly censure us as a people corrupt beyond the common rate of human wickedness, a nation divided only into two classes, magistrates and criminals. But they, in reality, abound so much among us, that most of them are only nominal magistrates, vested with authority which they never exert, or exert to bad purposes, and which it were well if they were obliged to employ in the real service of their country, by superintending the paviers and the scavengers. For this reason it is unnecessary to erect a new officer, as an inspector of our streets, since every office that is not necessary is pernicious. Were the consequences of this grievance such as they have been represented, I should, perhaps, willingly erect a new office, though I should not be surprised to hear the wisest man declare rather for a pestilence than an increase of officers. As I neither think the grievance insupportable, nor the methods proposed for removing it necessary or proper, I declare myself against the motion. Lord GAGE spoke in the following manner:--Sir, as the grievance cannot be denied to be real, and the motion, therefore, may reasonably be imagined to have been made without any other intention than of benefiting the publick by an useful law, I cannot discover any sufficient reason for a rejection so peremptory and contemptuous. That every man is disgusted, and almost every man daily endangered in our streets, has not been denied; nor will any man, I suppose, question what, if he has not yet experienced it, he may, perhaps, be fully convinced of, in his next visit or excursion. Those evils, which every man feels, though slight, are worthy of the attention of the legislature; and that danger that threatens multitudes, though distant, ought to be averted: for a small disorder, like a small expense, when it extends to multitudes, becomes a national affair. But though this motion may, perhaps, be liable to some objections, there is, certainly, no such absurdity to be found in it, as may justify us in rejecting it without examination; to reject a motion when it is first offered, is a proof of prejudice, next to that of rejecting it unheard; it is to determine a question, before it is discussed, or can be fully understood. Mr. SANDYS replied, in substance as follows:--Sir, I cannot but differ very widely in opinion from the right honourable member that spoke last, with regard to the propriety of opposing a motion when it is first made; a practice, which I can by no means think inconsistent with either decency or prudence, and which would, perhaps, be of use to the publick, if it was more frequent. When any motion is made, it is subjected to the consideration of this assembly, and every member is at full liberty to examine and discuss it. If it appears to deserve farther attention, it may be admitted, but if the subject be either improper or unseasonable, or the measures proposed injudicious or dangerous, it is then to be rejected; and if it is at last to be rejected, it is apparent that no time ought to be thrown away upon it. The hours, and days, and weeks, that have been improfitably spent upon bills which after all our endeavours could not be passed; the delays of real benefits to the publick, which have been produced by long pursuits of shadowy advantages, have inclined me to a more expeditious method of proceeding, and determined me speedily to reject what I cannot hope to amend. [The question being put, passed in the negative, 142 against 109.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, FEB. 27, 1740-1. DEBATE ON THE SECOND READING OF A BILL TO PREVENT INCONVENIENCIES ARISING FROM INSURANCE OF SHIPS. The bill being read, sir John BARNARD spoke thus:--Sir, there cannot be brought before this house any questions more difficult in themselves, more entangled with a multiplicity of relations, or more perplexed with an endless diversity of circumstances, than those which relate to commercial affairs; affairs on which the most experienced often disagree, and on which the most sagacious may deceive themselves with erroneous conjectures. There are no questions, sir, which require so much personal knowledge of the subject to which they relate, nor is there any subject with which so few gentlemen in this house have had opportunities of being acquainted. There are no questions, sir, which their variety of relations to different persons exposes to be so easily misrepresented without detection, nor any in which the opposition of particular interests so much incites a false representation. In all these cases, deceit is easy, and there is a strong temptation to deceive. Nor are these questions, sir, always perplexed by intentional fraud, or false assertions, of which they that utter them are themselves conscious. Those who deceive us, do not always suppress any truth of which they are convinced, nor set facts before us in any other light, than that in which themselves behold them; they for the most part err with an honest intention, and propagate no mistakes but those which they have themselves admitted. Of this kind, sir, are, doubtless, the measures proposed in the bill before us, which those by whom they are promoted may easily think to be of benefit to the publick, but which, I believe, will appear the result of imperfect views, and partial consideration. The great and fundamental errour, sir, of the patrons of this bill, seems to be an opinion that the practice of insuring is not known to other nations, nor can be carried on in any other place; and from this principle they deduce consequences, which, if they were inevitably certain, might easily influence us to an immediate approbation of the bill, as necessary to secure our commerce, and distress our enemies. They conclude, sir, with sufficient justness, that very few merchants would hazard their fortunes in long voyages or distant commerce, or expose themselves to the dangers of war, without the security which insurances afford them; and having persuaded themselves that such security is to be obtained from no other nation, they imagine that we might, by prohibiting it, confine all the foreign vessels in their ports, and destroy, by one resolution, the trade of both our rivals and our enemies. That our East India company may desire the ratification of this bill, I cannot deny, because they might, perhaps, receive from it some temporary advantage by the short inconveniencies which those whom they consider as the enemies of their commerce would feel from it. They may desire it, because the experiment, if it fails, as it must, cannot injure them; and if it succeeds, may produce great advantages to them: they may wish it, because they will feel the immediate benefit, and the detriment will fall upon others. I shall not inquire whether our merchants are inclined to look with malevolence on all those who cultivate the same branches of commerce with themselves, though they have neither the violation of natural rights, nor the infringement of national treaties, to complain of. I should be unwilling to suspect a British merchant, whose acquaintance with the constitution of his own country ought to show him the value of liberty, who ought to be above narrow schemes, by the knowledge which his profession enables him to gain, of a desire to encroach upon the rights of others, or to engross the general benefits of nature; and shall only observe, that several other nations can plead a claim to the East India trade, a claim of equal validity with our own; that the Danes have their settlement there, and that the Portuguese discovered the way to those regions of wealth, from which some, perhaps, are inclined to exclude them. But nothing is more vain than to attempt to exclude them by refusing to ensure their ships, because the opinion that they can be insured by no other nation is entirely without foundation. There are at this time offices of insurance along the whole coasts of the midland sea, among the Dutch, and even among the French. Nothing can debar any nation from the trade of insurance but the want of money; and that money is not wanted by foreigners for this purpose, appears from the great sums which they have deposited in our funds. That this trade is now carried on chiefly by this nation, though not solely, is incontestable; but what can be inferred from that, but that we ought not to obstruct our own gain; that we ought not to make a law to deprive ourselves of that advantage of which either favourable accidents or our own sagacity have put us in possession. For this reason it appears that it would not contribute to the wealth of the publick to debar us from insuring the ships even of those with whom we are at war, for it is always to be remembered that they will receive no detriment from such prohibitions, nor will feel any other consequence from them than a necessity of transferring to some other nation the profit which we receive from it. What the profit is which arises to the nation from the trade of insurance it is not possible exactly to determine, but that the trade is really advantageous may be reasonably conceived, because after many years' experience it is diligently followed, and a law was never necessary to prohibit the pursuit of a business by which nothing was to be gained. But could the gain of the insurer be a doubtful point, there is a certain advantage to the nation by the money paid for commission, brokerage, stamps, and the credit of the premium deposited here. I might add, sir, another considerable sum yearly arising to the government from the additional letters, occasioned by this trade, which increase the revenues of the post-office, without any deduction for additional charge. That the loss of this profit, and the gain of insuring, will ensue upon the ratification of this bill, cannot be denied; nor does it appear, that this loss will be counterbalanced by any advantage that will be gained over our rivals or our enemies. Whether this bill, sir, would produce to the merchants of that city by which it is promoted, the advantages which they expect from it, or remove any of the grievances of which they complain, I am not able positively to determine; but know, that it is not uncommon for merchants, as well as other men, to confound private with publick grievances, and to imagine their own interest the interest of the nation. With regard, sir, to the practice of insuring, _interest or no interest_, as the term is, when an imaginary value is put upon the ship or cargo, often much above its real worth, it cannot be denied, that some opportunities may be given by it for wicked practices. But there will always be circumstances in which there can be no security against frauds, but common faith; nor do I see how we can secure the insurers against the possibility of being defrauded. I cannot, indeed, discover, sir, how this method of insuring can be prevented; for how can the value of a cargo be estimated, which is to be collected in a long voyage, at different ports, and where the success of the adventurers often depends upon lucky accidents, which are, indeed, always hoped for, but seldom happen. An imaginary value must, therefore, be fixed upon, when the ship leaves the port; because the success of that voyage cannot be foreknown, and the contracting parties may be safely trusted to set that value, without any law to direct or restrain them. If the merchants are oppressed by any peculiar inconveniencies, and can find means of redressing them without injuring the publick commerce, any proposal for that purpose ought to be favourably received; but as the bill now before us proposes general restraints, and proposes to remove grievances which are not felt, by remedies, which those upon whom they are to operate, do not approve, I think it ought not to be referred to a committee, but rejected. Mr. SOUTHWELL spoke next, in terms to this purpose:--Sir, when I first proposed this bill to the house, I lamented the absence of that honourable gentleman, from whose discussions and arguments I expected great information; and for whose judgment, in all commercial questions, I have the highest esteem, as his penetration not only enables him to discover the consequences of methods which have not yet been tried, but as his extensive acquaintance with many branches of trade, cannot but have informed him of the success of many expedients tried, as well in other nations as our own, for the advancement of it. Trade, sir, is a subject, of which it has been justly observed, that very few gentlemen have attained knowledge sufficient to qualify themselves to judge of the propriety of any new regulation; and I cannot but confess, that I have no uncommon skill in these questions. What I have to offer on this occasion, has been suggested to me, not so much by my own observations, as by the intelligence which I have very industriously sought, and by which, as I endeavoured to inquire of those whose opinion was least likely to be perverted by their interest, I hope I have not been misled. The merchants, sir, to whom it has been my fortune to apply, have generally concurred in the opinion that the present practice of insuring is prejudicial to our commerce, nor have I found any disagreement between my constituents and the traders of this great metropolis. I am unwilling to imagine that there can be any evil for which the wisdom of this assembly cannot discover a remedy, and am, therefore, of opinion, that if the grievance is real, some expedient may be discovered for removing it; and that it is real, I cannot but be convinced by the declarations of so many men, who can have no interest in complaining when they suffer nothing, and whose known abilities exempt them from the suspicion of imputing any part of their uneasiness to a cause which cannot produce it. The bill before us, sir, requires, in my opinion, some amendments, and in its present state might, perhaps, produce more detriment than advantage; but since it is necessary at least to attempt something for the relief of men so useful to this nation, it appears to me necessary to form a committee, and to deliberate on this subject with more attention. Mr. LOCKWOOD spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, though I am not of opinion that the bill in its present state ought to be passed into a law, yet I am far from thinking it so imperfect as not easily to be amended, and, therefore, am desirous that it should be considered in a committee. I have not, indeed, sir, often observed, that bills injudiciously drawn up at first have received great improvements from a second consideration, and have found it more easy to form a new bill, than to make alterations in one that is laid before us; for some original errour will commonly remain, and the sentiments of different men, pursuing different views, can seldom be modelled into one consistent scheme. But I am far from considering this bill as one of those that cannot be amended, for I can discover but few objections to the regulations proposed in it, and those not relating to any of the essential parts, but slight and circumstantial, such as will easily be removed, or, perhaps, answered. The grievance, sir, for which this bill proposes a remedy, is so generally known, and so universally lamented, that, I believe, there is not any thing more worthy of the attention of the legislature than an inquiry into the cause of it, and the proper method of redressing it. In our inquiry into the causes of this obstruction of trade, I am of opinion, sir, that the practice of insuring, _interest or no interest_, will appear to be the foundation of this general uneasiness; it will be found a practice of so natural a tendency to fraud, and so easily susceptible of dishonest artifices, that I believe every member of this house will desire its suppression. To confirm my assertion, sir, and illustrate the question before us, I shall mention some particular instances of fraud to which this custom has given occasion; of fraud so evident and so detestable that it cannot be related without indignation. The Royal George was a large ship belonging to the South sea company, which, having been a voyage to Vera Cruz, put in at Jamaica in her return; and being there refitted to proceed on her voyage homewards, set sail, and came within a week's sailing of the port, when, upon a sudden, the officers entered into a consultation, and determined to go back a month's voyage to Antigua; for what reason, sir, may easily be guessed, when it was told that a ship was insured upon a supposed value of sixty thousand pounds. This resolution, sir, was no sooner formed, than orders were given to change the course and steer to Antigua, in opposition to all the remonstrances of the carpenter, who is the proper judge of the condition of a vessel, and who declared, with honesty and resolution, against their whole procedure. But they pursued their new scheme without any regard to his murmurs or assertions; and when they arrived at Antigua, found some method of influencing the officers of that island to declare the ship unfit for the prosecution of the voyage. Their design, sir, was now happily completed. To confirm the determination which had been pronounced in their favour, they stranded the ship upon a bank of sand, forced out the iron that grapples the timber together, and having first taken away the masts and rigging, and whatever else could be used or sold, threw the ballast to each end, and so broke the vessel in the middle. By this well-contrived shipwreck, having, as they imagined, raised their fortunes, they came home triumphantly from their prosperous voyage, and claimed the money for which the ship was insured. The insurers, startled at a demand so unexpected, inquired into the affair with all the industry which its importance might naturally incite, and, after some consultation, determined to try whether the ship might not be refitted and brought to Britain. In pursuance of this resolution, they sent workmen and materials, and, without much expense, or any difficulty, brought it hither. I believe, sir, this relation is sufficient at once to prove the practice, and explain the nature of the frauds to which this method of insurance gives occasion; but as the frequency of them is such, that many instances may be produced, I shall offer another short narrative of the same kind. A ship that belonged to the East India company, insured after this method, was run ashore by the captain, in such a manner that he imagined none but himself able to recover it, and therefore, though it cost five thousand pounds, sold it for five hundred; but the purchaser, no less expert than the captain, found means very speedily to disengage it, to restore it to a proper condition with little expense, and was much enriched by his fortunate bargain. I cannot but observe, sir, that this kind of fraud is more formidable, as it may be practised without a possibility of detection: had the captain, instead of stranding, destroyed his vessel, how could his wickedness ever have been discovered; or how could the South sea company's ship have been brought home, had it been sunk in some distant corner of the world. This practice, sir, and the frauds which it has occasioned, and the suspicions which the easy practice of frauds always creates, have produced so many trials, and filled the courts of justice with such intricate contentions, that the judges, who know, perhaps, nothing of this practice but from its effects, have often declared it to be so pregnant with contests and cheats, that it ought not to be suffered, and that a law for suppressing it would much contribute to the establishment of peace, and the security of property. I am not insensible, sir, of the force of the argument made use of by the honourable gentleman who spoke in favour of this practice, and cannot but allow it that regard which his reasonings always deserve; it is the strongest, and perhaps the only argument that can be produced. His assertion of the impossibility of estimating the real value of a ship, or of foreknowing the success of a voyage, is incontestable: but perhaps it will follow from thence, not that an imaginary value ought to be admitted, but that no insurance ought to be allowed, where there is no rational method of ascertaining it; or, at least, that all such insurance ought to be rather below the probable value than above it. If the grievance complained of has been proved not to be imaginary, we ought, doubtless, to consult how it may be remedied; nor do I believe that our consultations will be ineffectual, if we engage in them, not with an intention to perplex, but to inform each other. I am of opinion, sir, that the importance of the question requires a committee; nor can I discover any essential defect in the bill, which should hinder it from passing into a law. Mr. BURRELL spoke to this effect:--Sir, I am convinced by experience, as well as reason, that so many inconveniencies arise from this method of insurance, that it affords so many opportunities of fraud, and gives such encouragement to negligence, that I shall willingly concur in any measures that may effectually suppress it. It is, sir, too well known to require proof, that interest is the parent of diligence, and that men attend to the performance of their duty, in proportion as they must suffer by the neglect of it; and, therefore, every practice that deprives honesty of its reward is injurious to the publick. But that this is the consequence of estimating ships at an imaginary value in the offices of insurance, is, to the highest degree, evident. When a ship is estimated above its real value, how will the commander suffer by a wreck, or what shall restrain him from destroying his vessel, when it may be done with security to himself, except that integrity, which, indeed, ought to be generally diffused, but which is not always to be found, and to which few men think it safe to trust upon occasions of far less importance. To show, sir, that I do not indulge groundless suspicions, or magnify the bare possibility of fraud into reality; that I do not blacken human nature, or propose laws against wickedness that has not yet existed; it may be proper to mention some letters, in which I have been informed, by my correspondent at Leghorn, of the state of the ships which have arrived there; ships so weakly manned, and so penuriously or negligently stored, so much decayed in the bottoms, and so ill fitted with rigging, that he declares his astonishment at their arrival. It may deserve our consideration, sir, whether the success of the Spanish privateers may not be, in great part, attributed to this pernicious practice; whether captains, when their vessels are insured for more than their value, do not rashly venture into known danger? whether they do not wilfully miss the security of convoys? whether they do not direct their courses where privateers may most securely cruise? whether they do not surrender with less resistance than interest would excite? and whether they do not raise clamours against the government for their ill success, to avoid the suspicion of negligence or fraud? That other frauds are committed in the practice of insuring, is well known to the honourable gentleman: it is a common practice to take money upon bottomry, by way of pledge, for the captain's fidelity, and to destroy this security by insuring above the real value; so that the captain may gain by neglecting the care of his vessel, or, at least, secure himself from loss, and indulge his ease or his pleasure without any interruption from the fear of diminishing his fortune. The whole practice of insurance, sir, is, in its present state, I believe, so perplexed with frauds, and of such manifest tendency to the obstruction of commerce, that it absolutely requires some legal regulations. Sir John BARNARD then spoke to this purpose:--Of frauds in the practice of insurance, with regard to which the honourable gentleman has appealed to me, I can confidently affirm that I am totally ignorant: I know not of any fraudulent practices openly carried on, or established by custom, which I suppose are meant: for with regard to single acts of fraud, committed by particular men, it is not to be supposed but that they have been detected in this, as in all other branches of traffick: nor can I conceive that any argument can be drawn from them against the practice; for if every part of commerce is to be prohibited, which has furnished villains with opportunities of deceit, we shall contract trade into a narrow compass. With regard, sir, to the instance of the Royal George, though the proceedings of the officers are not wholly to be vindicated, yet part of their conduct is less inexplicable than it has been represented. Their return to Antigua, when they were bound for Britain, and were within a week's sailing of their port, is easily to be defended, if the wind was contrary to their intended course; for it is not difficult to conceive that they might reach a distant port, with a favourable wind, much sooner than one much nearer, with the wind against them. I have always observed, sir, that the gentlemen engaged in the trade to the East Indies, assume an air of superiority, to which I know not what claim they can produce, and seem to imagine, that their charter gives them more extensive knowledge, and more acute sagacity, than falls to the lot of men not combined in their association. But however these gentlemen may disapprove my arguments, and however they may misrepresent them, I shall be satisfied, that they will have, with the disinterested and impartial, their just weight, and that this affair will not be hastily determined upon an imperfect examination. Sir Robert WALPOLE replied to this effect:--Whether the merchants are satisfied with the present methods of insuring, or what is the opinion of any separate body of men, I think it absolutely unnecessary to inquire. We are constituted for the publick advantage, and are engaged by our senatorial character to consider, not the private interest of particular men, but the general advantage of our country. In our pursuit, sir, of national interest, we shall be obliged frequently to oppose the schemes which private men or separate fraternities, have formed for their own advantage, and which they may be expected to defend with all their art; both because every man is unwilling to imagine that the publick interest and his own are opposite, and because it is to be feared, that many may consider the publick only in subordination to themselves, and be very little solicitous about the general prosperity of their country, provided none of the calamities which afflict it extend their influence to themselves. We are in the discussion of this question, sir, to consider that we are engaged in a war against a nation from which insults, depredations, oppressions, and cruelties, have been long complained of, and against which we are, therefore, to act with a resolution proportioned to the injuries which we have suffered, and to our desire of vengeance. We are to practice every method of distressing them, and to promote the success of our arms even at the expense of present gain, and the interest of private men. It is well known, sir, to all who have either heard or read of the Spaniards, that they live in carelessness and indolence, neglect all the natural advantages of their own country, despise the gain of foreign commerce, and depend wholly on their American settlements, for all the conveniences, and, perhaps, for most of the necessaries of life. This is the particular circumstance that makes a war with Britain so much to be dreaded by them. A nation superiour to them by sea holds them besieged, like a garrison surrounded by an army, precludes them from supplies, intercepts their succours, and if it cannot force their walls by attack, can, at least, by a blockade, starve them to a capitulation. Thus, sir, by a naval war with an enemy of superiour strength, they must at length be subdued, and subdued, perhaps, without a battle, and without the possibility of resistance; against such an enemy their courage or their discipline is of no use; they may form armies, indeed, but which can only stand upon the shore, to defend what their enemies have no intention of invading, and see those ships seized in which their pay is treasured, or their provisions are stored. Such, sir, is our natural superiority over the Spaniards, a species of superiority that must inevitably prevail, if it be not defeated by our own folly; and surely a more effectual method of defeating it, the Spaniards themselves could not have discovered, than that of insuring, their ships among our merchants. When a ship thus insured is taken, which, notwithstanding all precautions, must sometimes happen, we examine the cargo, find it extremely valuable, and triumph in our success; we not only count the gain to ourselves, but the loss to our enemies, and determine that a small number of such captures will reduce them to offer us peace upon our own terms. Such are the conclusions which are made, and made with reason, by men unacquainted with the secret practices of our merchants, and who do not suspect us to be stupid enough to secure our enemies against ourselves; but it is often found, upon a more close examination, that our ships of war have only plundered our merchants, and that our privateers may, indeed, have enriched themselves, but impoverished their country. It is discovered that the loss of the Spaniards is to be repaid, and, perhaps, sometimes with interest, by the British insurers. If it be urged, that we ought not to enact any laws which may obstruct the gain of our fellow-subjects, may it not be asked, why all trade with Spain is prohibited; may not the trade be equally gainful with the insurance, and may not the gain be more generally distributed, and, therefore, be more properly national? But this trade was prohibited, because it was more necessary to our enemies than to ourselves; it was prohibited, because the laws of war require, that a less evil should be suffered to inflict a greater; it is upon this principle that every battle is fought, and that we fire our own ships to consume the navies of the enemy. For this reason, sir, it appears to me evident beyond contradiction, that the insurance of Spanish ships ought to be prohibited: we shall, indeed, lose the profit of the insurance, but we shall be reimbursed by the captures, which is an argument that cannot be produced for the prohibition of commerce. It is urged, sir, that they may insure their ships in other countries; an assertion, of which, whether it be true or not, I am not able to decide; but it is acknowledged, that the necessity of establishing new correspondence will be at least a temporary obstruction of their trade, and an obstruction of even a short continuance may lay them at our mercy. But let us, sir, reflect upon the weakness of this argument,--_they must be allowed to insure here, because they may insure in other places;_ will it not be equally just to urge, that _they must trade with us, because they may trade with other nations?_ And may it not be answered, that though we cannot wholly suspend their commerce, it is yet our business to obstruct it as far as we are able? May it-not, sir, be farther affirmed, that by insuring in other nations, they may injure their allies by falling into our hands, but do not the less benefit us? that if they do not grow weaker, we at least are strengthened; but that by insuring among us, whatever steps are taken, the equilibrium of the war is preserved always the same? It is asserted, and I suppose with truth, that we insure at a lower rate than others, and it will, therefore, follow, that the Spaniards, whenever their ships shall escape us, will suffer more by having-insured amongst foreigners, than if they had contracted with our merchants. Thus it appears, sir, that there are stronger reasons for prohibiting the insurance of Spanish ships, than for putting a stop to our commerce with them; and that whether their ships are taken by us, or escape us, it is the general interest of the nation, that they shall be insured by foreign merchants. With respect, sir, to the East India company, I have no regard to their interest, considered as distinct from that of the rest of the nation; nor have received any solicitations from them to promote this bill, or to espouse their interest; but cannot, without concealing my real sentiments, deny, that as they have the grant of an exclusive trade to the East Indies, to insure the ships that are sent thither without their permission, is to invade their rights, and to infringe their charter; and that the practice, if the validity of their charter be admitted, is illegal, and ought to be discountenanced. The practice, sir, of insuring, _interest or no interest_, or of assigning to ships an imaginary value, is nothing more than a particular game, a mere solemn species of _hazard_, and ought, therefore, to be prohibited, for every reason that can be urged against games of chance. With regard to this bill in general, it is, in my opinion, highly necessary, nor can I discover any important objection that can be made against it. Some law of this kind, and to this purpose, I have long intended to offer to the consideration of this assembly, and since it is now before us, I think we ought to consider it with the attention which may be justly expected from us. Lord BALTIMORE spoke thus:--Sir, I know not how properly the practice of insuring may be termed a species of hazard, nor do I think any thing more is to be considered, than whether the game be gainful to the nation, or not, for I cannot discover that there is any absurdity in enriching ourselves at the expense of other nations, whether enemies or allies. That we ought to prefer the general good to the advantage of individuals, is undoubted, but I cannot conceive that in this case there can be any opposition between private and publick interest. If our insurers gain by securing the ships of our enemies, the nation is benefited, for all national gain must circulate through the hands of individuals. No man will assert that we ought to assist our enemies, nor will any man imagine that we assist them by impoverishing them, and if our insurers gain by their practice, the Spaniards must undoubtedly be losers. Mr. WILLIMOT spoke next, to the following purpose:--Sir, I have conversed on the question to which this bill relates, with men engaged in various kinds of traffick, and who have no common interest but that of their country. I have dispersed among the merchants, most eminent for their acquaintance with the whole extent of commerce, and for their knowledge of the true interest of the nation, copies of this bill, and cannot find any of them so sensible of the grievance of which we have so loud complaints, as to desire that it should be redressed by the measures now proposed. That frauds are practised on every side, in this, as well as in other trades, the general corruption of our age gives us sufficient reason to suspect; but what is common to every sort of traffick, cannot be produced as an argument for the prohibition of any. That the practice of insuring an imaginary value may give opportunity for greater frauds than can be practised in common dealings, is likewise evident, but I cannot discover such frauds to require the interposition of the legislature. If they are practised only by those of our own nation, the publick does not suffer; for property is only transferred from one subject to another: the fraud ought, indeed, to be severely punished in the courts of criminal justice, but the custom which gave the opportunity of practising it, ought not to be restrained, any more than any other profession not criminal in itself, but liable to accidental abuses. If our insurers are defrauded by foreigners, the nation is then, indeed, more nearly affected, but even in that case, it is to be remembered, that the private interest of the insurers, who must be immediately ruined, is a sufficient security for the publick. For it cannot, sir, be conceived that any man will obstinately carry on a business, by which he becomes every day poorer, or, that when he desists he will be succeeded by another, who cannot but know that he engages in that traffick to his certain ruin. The true state of this affair is, that frauds are, indeed, often committed, and are for that reason always suspected, and that the insurers, when they insure the ship and cargo against accidents, reckon, among other chances, the probability of being cheated, and proportion their demands, not only to the length and danger of the voyage, but to the character, likewise, of the man with whom they contract. This, sir, is always the practice of those whom experience has made acquainted with the danger of implicit confidence and unsuspecting credulity, nor do any but the young and unskilful suffer themselves to be so exposed to frauds, as that their fortunes should be injured, or the general gain of their business overbalanced, by a few deceits. Thus it appears, that notwithstanding the ease and safety with which the present methods of insurance admit fraud to be practised, the insurers, by a proportionate degree of caution, secure themselves from being injured, and, by consequence, the nation. The insurance of foreign ships is now to be considered, by which great profit arises to the nation. We insure, sir, as it has been observed, at lower rates than other nations, because we have more business of this kind, and the smallness of our profit is compensated by the frequency; the cheapness of insurances, and eagerness of foreigners to insure here, reciprocally contribute to each other; we are often applied to, because we insure at an easy rate, and we can insure at an easy rate, because we are often applied to. Nor is the cheapness of British insurance the only motive to the preference which it preserves among foreigners, who are induced to apply to this nation, by the reputation which our merchants have deservedly gained for probity and punctuality superiour to that of any other traders. Our merchants, sir, bargain without artifice, pay without subterfuges, and are ready on all occasions to preserve their character at the hazard of their profit. From these two considerations we may draw unanswerable arguments against any restraints upon the practice of insuring: if foreigners are once disappointed in their applications to us, our business will in a great part cease, and as we shall not then be able to insure at lower rates than other nations, we shall never recover that branch of our trade. And as the character of the British merchants exempts them from any suspicion of practices pernicious to the publick, why should they be restrained? Why, sir, should they appear to be suspected by the legislature of their own country, whom foreigners trust without hesitation. It has been objected to them with great warmth, and urged with much rhetorical exaggeration, that they assist the enemies of their country, that they prolong the war, and defeat those advantages which our situation and commerce have given us; imputations sufficiently atrocious, if they were founded upon truth. But let us, sir, examine the arguments by which this accusation has been supported, and inquire whether this triumph of eloquence has been occasioned by any real superiority of evidence or reason; it is urged, that we have already prohibited commerce with the Spaniards, and that, therefore, we ought, likewise, to prohibit the insurance of their ships. It will not require, sir, an imagination very fertile, or a knowledge very extensive, to supply arguments sufficient to refute the supposed demonstration; in opposition to which it may be urged, that this kind of commerce is of a peculiar nature, that it subsists upon opinion, and is preserved by the reputation of our insurers; a reputation that the insurers of other nations may obtain by the same means, and from whom we shall, therefore, never recover it. It may be observed, sir, that other commodities are the peculiar product of different countries, and that there is no danger of losing our other trade by suspending it, because it depends upon the excellence of our manufactures; but that insurance may be the commodity of any country, where money and common honesty are to be found. This argument may, perhaps, be yet more effectually invalidated, or, perhaps, entirely subverted, by denying the expedience of that prohibition which is produced as a precedent for another restraint. Nor, indeed, does it appear why we should preclude ourselves from a gainful trade, because the money is drawn by it out of the hands of our enemies; or why the product of our lands should lie unconsumed, or our manufactures stand unemployed, rather than we should sell to our enemies what they will purchase at another place, or by the intervention of a neutral power. To sell to an enemy that which may enable him to injure us, that which he must necessarily obtain, and which he could buy from no other, would, indeed, be to the last degree, absurd; but that may surely be sold them without any breach of morality or policy, which they can want with less inconvenience than we can keep. If we were besieging a town, I should not advise our soldiers to sell to the inhabitants ammunition or provisions, but cannot discover the folly of admitting them to purchase ornaments for their houses, or brocades for their ladies. But, without examining with the utmost accuracy, whether the late prohibition was rational or not, I have, I hope, suggested objections sufficient to make the question doubtful, and to incline us to try the success of one experiment, before we venture upon another more hazardous. I am never willing, sir, to load trade with restraints; trade is, in its own nature, so fugitive and variable, that no constant course can be prescribed to it; and those regulations which were proper when they were made, may, in a few months, become difficulties and obstructions. We well know, that many of the measures which our ancestors pursued for the encouragement of commerce, have been found of pernicious consequence; and even in this age, which, perhaps, experience, more than wisdom, has enlightened, I have known few attempts of that kind which have not defeated the end for which they were made. It is more prudent to leave the merchants at liberty to pursue those measures which experience shall dictate upon every occasion, and suffer them to snatch the present opportunity of honest gain, whenever it shall happen; they will never injure their own interest by the use of this liberty, and by preserving themselves, they will preserve the nation from detriment; nor will they need to be restrained by a law proposed without their solicitation, and of which they cannot discover any beneficial consequences. Mr. Horace WALPOLE spoke next, to this purpose:--Sir, for the bill now before us I have no particular fondness, nor desire that it should be promoted by any other means than rational arguments, and the representation of indubitable facts. I have no regard, sir, in this inquiry, to any private interest, or any other desire than that of securing the interest of my country, which, in my opinion, evidently requires that we should give no assistance to our enemies, that our merchants should cooperate with our navies, and that we should endeavour to withhold every thing that may make the war less burdensome to them, and, consequently, of longer continuance. It was observed, sir, in the beginning of the debate, by a gentleman eminently skilled in mercantile affairs, that insurance was practised by many nations; but he did not inform us of what one of the clauses makes it proper to inquire, whether they allowed the method of insuring _interest or no interest_, and rating ships at an imaginary value. This is, I know, prohibited by the Dutch, a nation whose authority on commercial questions will not be disputed, nor do they allow their East Indian ships to be insured at all. The difficulty of estimating the value of any cargo has been urged in defence of this practice, nor is the defence wholly without weight, because the cargo in many voyages cannot be ascertained. I shall, however, take this opportunity of observing, though I may somewhat digress from the present argument, how necessary it is that some of our exported cargoes should be exactly specified. I have been lately informed, sir, that six ships laden with British wool, have entered at one time into a port of France; nor do I know how this practice, which is justly complained of as pernicious to our trade, and threatening the ruin of our country, can be prevented but by a constant and regular particularization of every cargo carried to France. I admit, sir, that some cargoes which are imported cannot be particularly registered; such is the gold with which we are daily supplied by our commerce with the Portuguese, in opposition to their laws, and which our merchants are, therefore, under the necessity of concealing. It is not, indeed, easy to foresee all the inconveniencies that may arise from new regulations of commerce; but the difficulty is not so great as has been represented, nor can I conceive why all our consultations on trade should be without effect. Gentlemen may obtain some knowledge of commerce from their own observation, which they may enlarge by an unconfined and indifferent conversation with traders of various classes, and by inquiries into the different branches of commerce; inquiries, sir, which are generally neglected by those whose employments confine their attention to particular parts of commerce, or whose application to business hinders them from attending to any opinions but those which their own personal experience enables them to form. From these informations impartially collected, and diligently compared, a man not engaged in the profession of a merchant may form general principles, and draw consequences, more certain, and more extensive in their relations, than those which are struck out only from the observation of one subdivided species of commerce. A member of this house, sir, thus enlightened by inquiry, and whose judgment is not diverted from its natural rectitude by the impulse of any private consideration, may judge of any commercial debate with less danger of errour or partiality than the merchants, of whom, nevertheless, I have the highest esteem, and whose knowledge, or probity, I do not intend to depreciate, when I declare my fears that they may sometimes confound general maxims of trade with the opinions of particular branches, and sometimes mistake their own gain for the interest of the publick. The interest of the merchants ought, indeed, always to be considered in this house; but then it ought to be regarded only in subordination to that of the whole community, a subordination which the gentleman who spoke last seems to have forgotten. He may, perhaps, not intend long to retain his senatorial character, and, therefore, delivered his opinion only as a merchant. He has distinguished between the conduct of experienced and unskilful insurers, with how much justice I shall not determine. I am afraid that a vigorous inquiry would discover, that neither age nor youth has been able to resist strong temptations to some practices, which neither law nor justice can support, and that those, whose experience has made them cautious, have not been always equally honest. But this is a subject upon which I am not inclined to dwell, and only mention as the reason which convinces me of the propriety of the bill before us. Sir William YONGE spoke to this effect:--Sir, there appears no probability that the different opinions which have been formed of this bill will be reconciled by this debate; nor, indeed, is there any reason for wondering at this contrariety of sentiments. The several clauses of the bill have relations and consequences so different, that scarce any one man can approve them all; and in our present deliberation, an objection to a particular clause is considered as an argument against the whole bill. It is, therefore, necessary, to prevent an unprofitable expense of time, to resolve the house into a committee, in which the bill may be considered by single clauses, and that part which cannot be defended may be rejected, and that only retained which deserves our approbation. In the committee, when we have considered the first clause, and heard the objections against it, we may mend it; or, if it cannot be amended, reject or postpone it, and so proceed through the whole bill with much greater expedition, and at the same time, with a more diligent view of every clause, than while we are obliged to take the whole at once into our consideration. I shall, for my part, approve some clauses, and make objections to others; but think it proper to reserve my objections, and the reasons of my approbation, for the committee into which we ought to go on this occasion. [The bill was referred to a committee, but not forty members staying in the house, it was dropped.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 2, 1740-1. DEBATE ON THE BILL FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT AND INCREASE OF SEAMEN. The bill was ordered to be read the second time, and to be printed for the use of the members, that it might be thoroughly examined and understood. On the forty-fourth day, the second reading of the bill was postponed to the fiftieth; but the grand motion being debated on that day, nothing else was heard. On the fifty-first it was again put off; but On the fifty-sixth day, being read a second time, it was, after some opposition, referred to a committee of the whole house, to sit five days after. In the meanwhile, On the fifty-seventh, it was ordered that the proper officers do lay before this house an account of what persons were authorized, by virtue of the act in the 4th of queen Anne, for "the encouragement and increase of seamen, and for the better and speedier manning her fleet;" to conduct seamen or seafaring men taken upon privy searches made by applications to justices; and what number of seamen or seafaring men were returned; also, the charge attending the same. On the sixty-first day, moved that the said account should be read; which being done, the house resolved itself into a grand committee on the present bill; and the first clause being read, proposing the blanks to be filled thus: that every volunteer seamen, after five years' service, be entitled to six pounds per year, during life. Sir John BARNARD rose, and spoke as follows:--Sir, as it is our duty to provide laws, by which all frauds and oppressions may be punished, when they are detected, we are no less obliged to obviate such practices as shall make punishments necessary; nor are we only to facilitate the detection, but take away, as far as it is possible, the opportunities of guilt. It is to no purpose that punishments are threatened, if they can be evaded, or that rewards are offered, if they may by any mean artifices be withheld. For this reason, sir, I think it necessary to observe, that the intent of this clause, the most favourable and alluring clause in the bill, may lose its effect by a practice not uncommon, by which any man, however inclined to serve his country, may be defrauded of the right of a volunteer. Many men have voluntarily applied to the officers of ships of war, and after having been rejected by them as unfit for the service, have been dragged on board within a few days, perhaps within a few hours afterwards, to undergo all the hardships, without the merit, of volunteers. When any man, sir, has been rejected by the sea officers, he ought to have a certificate given him, which shall be an exemption from an impress, that if any other commander shall judge more favourably of his qualifications, he may always have the privilege of a volunteer, and be entitled to the reward which he deserved, by his readiness to enter the service. If such provisions are not made, this hateful practice, a practice, sir, common and notorious, and very discouraging to such as would enter the service of the publick, may so far prevail, that no man shall be able to denominate himself a volunteer, or claim the reward proposed by the bill. Admiral WAGER spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, it is not common for men to receive injuries without applying for redress, when it may certainly be obtained. If any proceedings like those which are now complained of, had been mentioned at the board of admiralty, they had been immediately censured and redressed; but as no such accusations were offered, I think it may probably be concluded, that no such crimes have been committed. For what purpose oppressions of this kind should be practised, it is not easy to conceive; for the officers are not at all rewarded for impressing sailors. As, therefore, it is not probable that any man acts wickedly or cruelly without temptation: as I have never heard any such injury complained of by those that suffered it, I cannot but imagine, that it is one of those reports which arise from mistake, or are forged by malice, to injure the officers, and obstruct the service. Lord BALTIMORE rose next, and spoke to the following effect:--That the practice now complained of, sir, is very frequent, and, whatever may be the temptation to it, such as every day produces some instances of, I have reasons for asserting with great confidence. I have, within these few days, as I was accidentally upon the river, informed myself of two watermen ignominiously dragged by force into the service to which they had voluntarily offered themselves a few days before. The reasons of such oppression, it is the business of those gentlemen to inquire, whom his majesty intrusts with the care of his fleet; but to interrupt the course of wickedness, to hinder it from frustrating the rewards offered by the publick, is the province of the representatives of the people. And I hope, sir, some proviso will be made in this case. Admiral NORRIS rose and said:--Sir, if any such practices had been frequent, to what can it be imputed, that those who employ their lives in maritime business should be strangers to them? Why have no complaints been made by those that have been injured? Or why should officers expose themselves to the hazard of censure without advantage? I cannot discover why these hardships should be inflicted, nor how they could have been concealed, and, therefore, think the officers of the navy may be cleared from the imputation, without farther inquiry. Sir John BARNARD spoke again, to the following purpose:--Sir, it is in vain that objections are made, if the facts upon which they are founded may be denied at pleasure: nothing is more easy than to deny, because proofs are not required of a negative. But as negatives require no proof, so they have no authority, nor can any consequence be deduced from them. I might, therefore, suffer the facts to remain in their present state, asserted on one side by those that have reasons to believe them, and doubted on the other without reasons; for surely he cannot be said to reason, who questions an assertion only because he does not know it to be true. But as every question, by which the liberty of a Briton may be affected, is of importance sufficient to require that no evidence should be suppressed by which it may be cleared, I cannot but think it proper that a committee should be formed to examine the conduct of the officers in this particular; and in confidence of the veracity of those from whom I received my information, I here promise to produce such evidence as shall put an end to controversy and doubt. If this is not granted, sir, the fact must stand recorded and allowed; for to doubt, and refuse evidence, is a degree of prejudice and obstinacy without example. Nor is this the only objection to the clause before us, which appears very imperfect, with regard to the qualifications specified as a title to the reward. The reward ought not to be confined to those who shall hereafter be invited by the promise of it to engage in the service, while those who entered into it without any such prospect, are condemned to dangers and fatigues without a recompense. Where merit is equal, the reward ought to be equal; and, surely, where there is greater merit, the reward proposed by the senate, as an encouragement to bravery, ought not to be less. To be excluded from the advantages which others have obtained, only by avoiding the service, cannot but depress the spirit of those whose zeal and courage incited them, at the beginning of the war, to enter into the fleet; and to deject those from whom we expect defence and honour, is neither prudent nor just. Nor is it, in my opinion, proper to offer the same reward indiscriminately to all that shall accept it; rewards ought to be proportioned to desert, and no man can justly be paid for what he cannot perform; there ought, therefore, to be some distinction made between a seaman by profession, one that has learned his art at the expense of long experience, labour, and hazard, and a man who only enters the ship because he is useless on land, and who can only incommode the sailors till he has been instructed by them. It appears, sir, to me, a considerable defect in our naval regulations, that wages are not proportioned to ability; and I think it may not be now unseasonably proposed, that sailors should be paid according to the skill which they have acquired; a provision by which an emulation would be raised among them, and that industry excited, which now languishes for want of encouragement, and those capacities awakened which now slumber in ignorance and sloth, from the despair of obtaining any advantage by superiority of knowledge. Sir Robert WALPOLE then rose, and spoke as follows:--That this charge, sir, however positively urged, is generally unjust, the declarations of these honourable gentlemen are sufficient to evince, since it is not probable that the injured persons would not have found some friend to have represented these hardships to the admiralty, and no such representations could have been made without their knowledge. Yet, sir, I am far from doubting that by accident, or, perhaps, by malice, some men have been treated in this manner; for it is not in the power of any administration to make all those honest or wise whom they are obliged to employ; and when great affairs are depending, minute circumstances cannot always be attended to. If the vigilance of those who are intrusted with the chief direction of great numbers of subordinate officers be such, that corrupt practices are not frequent, and their justice such, that they are never unpunished when legally detected, the most strict inquirer can expect no more. Power will sometimes be abused, and punishment sometimes be escaped. It is, sir, easy to be conceived that a report may become general, though the practice be very rare. The fact is multiplied as often as it is related, and every man who hears the same story twice, imagines that it is told of different persons, and exclaims against the tyranny of the officers of the navy. But these, in my opinion, sir, are questions, if not remote from the present affair, yet by no means essential to it. The question now before us is, not what illegalities have been committed in the execution of impresses, but how impresses themselves may become less necessary? how the nation may be secured without injury to individuals? and how the fleet may be manned with less detriment to commerce? Sir, the reward now proposed is intended to excite men to enter the service without compulsion; and if this expedient be not approved, another ought to be suggested: for I hope gentlemen are united in their endeavours to find out some method of security to the publick, and do not obstruct the proceedings of the committee, that when the fleets lie inactive and useless, they may have an opportunity to reproach the ministry. Admiral NORRIS spoke next, in substance:--Sir, though it is not necessary to enter into an accurate examination of the gentleman's proposal, yet I cannot but observe, that by making it, he discovers himself unacquainted with the disposition of seamen, among whom nothing raises so much discontent as the suspicion of partiality. Should one man, in the same rank, receive larger wages than another, he who thought himself injured, as he who is paid less will always think, would be so far from exerting his abilities to attain an equality with his associate, that he would probably never be prevailed on to lay his hand upon the tackling, but would sit sullen, or work perversely, though the ship were labouring in a storm, or sinking in a battle. Mr. GORE then spoke as follows:--Sir, the danger of introducing distinctions among men in the same rank, where every man that imagines his merit neglected, may have an opportunity of resenting the injury, is, doubtless, such as no prudent commander will venture to incur. Every man, in this case, becomes the judge of his own merit; and as he will always discover some reason for the preference of another very different from superiority of desert, he will, by consequence, be either enraged or dispirited, will either resolve to desert his commander, or betray him to the enemies, or not oppose them. I remember, sir, though imperfectly, a story which I heard in my travels, of an army in which some troops received a penny a day less than the rest; a parsimony which cost dear in the day of battle; for the disgusted troops laid down their arms before the enemy, and suffered their general to be cut in pieces. General WADE then spoke to this effect:--Sir, I cannot but concur with the honourable gentleman in his opinion, that those who are already engaged in the service, who have borne the fatigues of a long voyage, and perhaps are, at this hour, exposing their lives in battle to defend the rights of their country, ought to have the same claim to the reward proposed, with those who shall hereafter offer themselves. Nor, in my opinion, ought those who have hitherto been pressed into our fleets to be discouraged from their duty by an exclusion from the same advantage. For if they were compelled to serve in the fleet, they were compelled when there was not this encouragement for volunteers, which, perhaps, they would have accepted if it had been then proposed, Every man, at least, will allege, that he would have accepted it, and complain he suffers only by the fault of the government; a government which he will not be very zealous to defend, while he is considered with less regard than others, from whom no greater services are expected. A prospect of new rewards, sir, will add new alacrity to all the forces, and an equal distribution of favour will secure an unshaken and inviolable fidelity. Nothing but union can produce success, and nothing can secure union but impartiality and justice. Mr. SANDYS rose, and spoke as follows:--Sir, the efficacy of rewards, and the necessity of an impartial distribution, are no unfruitful subjects for rhetorick; but it may, perhaps, be more useful at present to consider, with such a degree of attention as the question must be acknowledged to deserve, to whom these rewards are to be paid, and from what fund they are expected to arise. With regard to those who are to claim the reward, sir, they seem very negligently specified; for they are distinguished only by the character of having served five years; a distinction unintelligible, without explanation. It is, I suppose, sir, the intent of the bill, that no man shall miss the reward but by his own fault; and, therefore, it may be inquired, what is to be the fate of him who shall be disabled in his first adventure, whom in the first year, or month, of his service, an unlucky shot shall confine for the remaining part of his life to inactivity: as the bill is now formed, he must be miserable without a recompense; and his wounds, which make him unable to support himself, will, though received in defence of his country, entitle him to no support from the publick. Nor is this the only difficulty that may arise from the specifying of so long a service; for how can any man that shall enter on board the fleet be informed that the war will continue for five years? May we not all justly hope, that alacrity, unanimity, and prudence, may, in a much shorter time, reduce our enemies to beg for peace? And shall our sailors lose the reward of their hazards and their labours, only because they have been successful? What will this be less than making their bravery a crime or folly, and punishing them for not protracting the war by cowardice or treachery? But let us suppose, sir, those defects supplied by a more explicit and determinate specification; there will yet arise an objection far more formidable; an objection, which the present state of our revenues will not suffer to be answered. The consideration of the greatness of the annual payment which this proposal requires, ought to incite every man to employ all his sagacity in search of some other method, equally efficacious, and less expensive. We have already, sir, forty thousand seamen in our pay, to whom eight thousand more are speedily to be added: when each of these shall demand his stipend, a new burden of two hundred and eighty-eight thousand pounds must be laid upon the nation; upon a nation, whose lands are mortgaged, whose revenues are anticipated, and whose taxes cannot be borne without murmurs, nor increased without sedition. The nation has found, by experience, that taxes once imposed for just reasons, and continued upon plausible pretences, till they are become familiar, are afterwards continued upon motives less laudable, are too productive of influence, and too instrumental towards facilitating the measures of the ministry, to be ever willingly remitted. Mr. BLADEN spoke next, as follows:--Sir, it is obvious, that when the balance is unequal, it may be reduced to an equilibrium, as well by taking weight out of one scale, as adding it to the other. The wages offered by the merchants overbalance, at present, those which are proposed by the crown; to raise the allowance in the ships of war, will be, to lay new loads upon the publick, and will incommode the merchants, whose wages must always bear the same proportion to the king's. The only method, then, that remains, is to lighten the opposite scale, by restraining the merchants from giving wages, in time of war, beyond a certain value; for, as the service of the crown is then more immediately necessarv to the general advantage than that of the merchants, it ought to be made more gainful. Sailors, sir, are not, generally, men of very extensive views; and, therefore, we cannot expect that they should prefer the general good of their country before their own present interest; a motive of such power, that even in men of curious researches, refined sentiments, and generous education, we see, too often, that it surmounts every other consideration. Lord BALTIMORE then spoke again:--Sir, to the expedient which the honourable gentleman who spoke last has suggested, and which he must be confessed to have placed in the strongest light, many objections may be raised, which I am afraid will not easily be removed. The first, sir, which occurs to me on this short reflection is not less than the impossibility of putting his scheme in execution. The prescription of wages which he proposes, may be eluded by a thousand artifices, by advanced money, by gratuitous acknowledgments, the payment of money for pretended services, or by secret contracts, which it would be the interest of both parties to conceal. But if this objection could be surmounted by severity and vigilance, would not this expedient help to defeat the general intention of the bill? A bill not designed as an immediate resource, a mere temporary project to supply our fleets for the present year, but as a method for removing the only obstruction of the British power, the difficulty of manning our ships of war. It is, I hope, sir, the intention of every man who has offered his sentiments on this occasion, to contrive some general encouragement for seamen, which shall not only invite them to assist their country at the first summons, but shall allure others to qualify themselves for the publick service, by engaging in the same profession. This is only to be done by making the condition of sailors less miserable, by entitling them to privileges, and honouring them with distinctions. But by limiting the merchant's wages, if such limitations are, indeed, possible, though we may palliate the present distress, we shall diminish the number of sailors, and thereby not only contract our commerce but endanger our country. Mr. TRACEY spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, I know not for what reasons the present method of advancing rewards at entrance is practised, of which, however specious it might appear, the success by no means encourages the continuance. The sailors, though not a generation of men much disposed to reflection, or qualified for ratiocination, are not yet so void of thought as not easily to perceive that a small increase of constant wages is of more value than several pounds to be paid only at once, and which are squandered as soon as they are received. Instead, therefore, of restraining the wages of the merchants, it seems probable, that by raising those of the king, we may man the fleet with most expedition; and one method of raising the wages will be to suppress the advanced money. The ATTORNEY-GENERAL spoke next:--Sir, if the sum of money now paid by way of advance can be supposed to have any effect, if it can be imagined that any number of seamen, however inconsiderable, are allured by it into the fleet, it is more usefully employed than it can be supposed to be when sunk into the current wages, and divided into small payments. The advance money is only paid to those that enter: if no volunteers present themselves, no money is paid, and the nation doth not suffer by the offer: but if the wages are raised, the expense will be certain, without the certainty of advantage; for those that enter voluntarily into the fleet, will receive no more than those that are forced into it by an impress; and therefore there will be no incitement to enter without compulsion. Thus every other inconvenience will remain, with the addition of a new burden to the nation; our forces will be maintained at a greater expense, and not raised with less difficulty. Lord BALTIMORE said:--Sir, I cannot but concur in opinion with the honourable gentleman who spoke last, from my own acquaintance with the sentiments and habits that unalterably prevail among those who have been accustomed to the sea, a race of men to the last degree negligent of any future events, and careless about any provision against distant evils; men who have no thoughts at sea, but how to reach the land; nor at land, but how to squander what they have gained at sea. To men like these, it may easily be imagined that no encouragement is equal to the temptation of present gain, and the opportunity of present pleasure. Of this any man, sir, may convince himself, who shall talk to a crew but half an hour; for he shall find few among them, who will not, for a small sum of present money, sell any distant prospect of affluence or happiness. Whether I am mistaken in my opinion, the honourable members who have long commanded in the naval service can easily determine, and I doubt not but they will agree that no motive can be proposed to a sailor equivalent to immediate reward. Sir William YONGE spoke next:--Sir, that some distinction ought to be made to the advantage of volunteers, if we intend to man our fleet without compulsion, is obvious and incontestable; and to avoid the necessity of compulsion ought to be the chief end of this bill; for nothing can be less to the advantage of the nation, than to continue the use of such ungrateful methods, and yet increase the publick expense. We ought, therefore, in my opinion, to determine upon some peculiar reward, either to be advanced upon their entrance into the service, or paid at their dismission from it. But as I see, sir, no reason for hoping that all the encouragement which can be offered, will raise volunteers in a sufficient number to secure our navigation, and assert our sovereignty, it seems not proper to confine our consultations to this part of the bill; for since compulsion is on many occasions apparently necessary, some method requires to be considered, in which it may be legal. What new power ought to be placed in the magistrate, for what time, and with what restrictions, I am far from assuming the province of determining; but that some measures must be taken for compelling those who cannot be persuaded, and discovering those that will not offer themselves, cannot admit of doubt; and as the magistrate is at present without any authority for this purpose, it is evident that his power must be extended, for the same reason as it was given in its present degree--the general benefit of the whole community. Sir John BARNARD then spoke to the following effect:--Sir, if the intent of this bill be to enable one part of the nation to enslave the other; if the plausible and inviting professions of encouraging and increasing seamen, are to terminate in violence, constraint, and oppression; it is unnecessary to dwell longer upon particular clauses. The intention of the bill is detestable, and deserves not the ceremony of debate, or the forms of common regard. If a man, sir, is liable to be forced from the care of his own private affairs, from his favourite schemes of life, from the engagements of domestick tenderness, or the prospects of near advantage, and subjected, without his consent, to the command of one whom he hates, or dreads, or perhaps despises, it requires no long argument to show, that by whatever authority he is thus treated, he is reduced to the condition of a slave, to that abject, to that hateful state, which every Englishman has been taught to avoid at the hazard of his life. It is therefore evident, that a law which tends to confer such a power, subverts our constitution as far as its effects extend; a constitution, which was originally formed as a barrier against slavery, and which one age after another has endeavoured to strengthen. Such a power, therefore, in whatever hands it may be lodged, I shall always oppose. It is dangerous, sir, to intrust any man with absolute dominion, which is seldom known to be impartially exercised, and which often makes those corrupt, and insolent, whom it finds benevolent and honest. The bill proposes only encouragement, and encouragement may be given by his majesty, without a new law; let us, therefore, draw up an address, and cease to debate, where there is no prospect of agreement. Mr. WINNINGTON spoke as follows:--Sir, the payment of an annual salary will, in my opinion, be to the last degree inconvenient and dangerous. The yearly expense has been already estimated, and arises to a sum very formidable in our present state. Nor is the necessity of adding to the publick burden, a burden which already is hard to be borne, the only objection to this proposal. Nothing can more contribute to dispirit the nation, than to protract the consequences of a war, and to make the calamity felt, when the pleasures of victory and triumph have been forgotten; we shall be inclined rather to bear oppression and insult than endeavour after redress, if we subject ourselves and our posterity to endless exactions. The expenses of the present provision for superannuated and disabled sailors, is no inconsiderable tax upon the publick, which is not less burdened by it for the manner of collecting it by a deduction from the sailors' wages; for, whoever pays it immediately, it is the ultimate gift of the nation, and the utmost that can be allowed for this purpose. It must be confessed, sir, the persons entitled to the pension are not sufficiently distinguished in the bill; by which, as it now stands, any of the worthless superfluities of a ship, even the servants of the captains, may, after five years, put in their demand, and plunder that nation which they never served. Nor do I think, sir, the efficacy of this method will bear any proportion to the expense of it; for I am of opinion, that few of the sailors will be much affected by the prospect of a future pension. I am, therefore, for dazzling them with five pounds, to be given them at their entrance, which will be but a single payment, and probably fill our fleets with greater expedition, than methods which appear more refined, and the effects of deeper meditation. Lord GAGE spoke in the following manner:--Sir, nothing is more clear than that a yearly pension will burden the nation, without any advantage; and as it will give occasion to innumerable frauds, it is a method which ought to be rejected. As to the new power, sir, which is proposed to be placed in the hands of the magistrates, it undoubtedly reduces every sailor to a state of slavery, and is inconsistent with that natural right to liberty, which is confirmed and secured by our constitution. The bill, therefore, is, in my opinion, defective in all its parts, of a tendency generally pernicious, and cannot be amended but by rejecting it. Mr. Henry PELHAM spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, I cannot but think it necessary, that on this occasion, at least, gentlemen should remit the ardour of disputation, and lay the arts of rhetorick aside; that they should reserve their wit and their satire for questions of less importance, and unite, for once, their endeavours, that this affair may meet with no obstructions but from its natural difficulty. We are now, sir, engaged in a war with a nation, if not of the first rank in power, yet by no means contemptible in itself; and, by its alliances, extremely formidable. We are exposed, by the course of our trade, and the situation of our enemies, to many inevitable losses, and have no means of preventing our merchants from being seized, without any danger or expense to the Spaniards, but by covering the sea with our squadrons. Nor are we, sir, to satisfy ourselves with barely defeating the designs of the Spaniards; our honour demands that we should force them to peace upon advantageous terms; that we should not repulse, but attack them; not only preserve our own trade and possessions, but endanger theirs. It is by no means certain, sir, that in the prosecution of these designs we shall not be interrupted by the interest or jealousy of a nation far more powerful, whose forces we ought, therefore, to be able to resist. A vigorous exertion of our strength will probably either intimidate any other power that may be inclined to attack us, or enable us to repel the injuries that shall be offered: discord and delay can only confirm our open enemies in their obstinacy, and animate those that have hitherto concealed their malignity to declare against us. It is, therefore, sir, in no degree prudent to aggravate the inconveniencies of the measures proposed for accomplishing what every man seems equally to desire; to declaim against the expedients offered in the bill as pernicious, unjust, and oppressive, contributes very little to the production of better means. That our affairs will not admit of long suspense, and that the present methods of raising seamen are not effectual, is universally allowed; it, therefore, evidently follows, sir, that some other must be speedily struck out. I think it necessary to propose, that the house be resolved into a committee to-morrow morning; and hope all that shall assemble on this occasion, will bring with them no other passion than zeal for their country. [The speaker having taken the chair, the chairman of the committee reported, that they had made some progress; and desiring leave to sit again, it was resolved to go into the committee again on the morrow.] MARCH 4, 1740-1. On the sixty-second day the affair was put off; but on the sixty-third, the house resolving itself into a committee, a clause was offered, by which five pounds were proposed to be advanced to an able seaman, and three pounds to every other man that should enter voluntarily into his majesty's service, after twenty days, and within sixty. After which, Mr. WINNINGTON spoke as follows:--Sir, this is a clause in which no opposition can be apprehended, as those gentlemen who declared their disapprobation of the former, were almost unanimous in proposing this expedient, as the least expensive, and the most likely to succeed. The time for the reception of volunteers upon this condition, is, sir, in my opinion, judiciously determined. If it was extended to a greater length, or left uncertain, the reward would lose its efficacy, the sailors would neglect that which they might accept at any time, and would only have recourse to the ships of war when they could find no other employment. Yet I cannot conceal my apprehensions, that this bounty will not alone be sufficient to man our fleets with proper expedition; and that as allurements may be useful on one hand, force will be found necessary on the other; that the sailors may not only be incited to engage in the service by the hopes of a reward, but by the fear of having their negligence to accept it punished, by being compelled into the same service, and forfeiting their claim by staying to be compelled. Lord BALTIMORE then spoke to the following effect:--Sir, to the reward proposed in this clause, I have declared in the former conference on this bill, that I have no objection, and, therefore, have no amendment to propose, except with regard to the time limited for the payment. As our need of seamen, sir, is immediate, why should not a law for their encouragement immediately operate? What advantage can arise from delays? Or why is not that proper to be advanced now, that will be proper in twenty days? That all the time between the enaction and operation of this law must be lost, is evident; for who will enter for two pounds, that may gain five by withholding himself from the service twenty days longer? Nor do I think the time now limited sufficient; many sailors who are now in the service of the merchants, may not return soon enough to lay claim to the bounty, who would gladly accept it, and who will either not serve the crown without it, or will serve with disgust and complaints; as the loss of it cannot be imputed to their backwardness, but to an accident against which they could not provide. Mr. WINNINGTON replied:--Sir, though I think the time now fixed by the bill sufficient, as I hope that our present exigency will be but of short continuance, and that we shall soon be able to raise naval forces at a cheaper rate, yet as the reasons alleged for an alteration of the time may appear to others of more weight than to me, I shall not oppose the amendment. Sir John BARNARD next rose, and said:--Sir, with regard to the duration of the time fixed for the advancement of this bounty, we may have leisure to deliberate; but surely it must be readily granted by those who have expatiated so copiously upon the present exigencies of our affairs, that it ought immediately to commence. And if this be the general determination of the house, nothing can be more proper than to address his majesty to offer, by proclamation, an advance of five pounds, instead of two, which have been hitherto given; that while we are concerting other measures for the advantage of our country, those in which we have already concurred may be put in execution. Mr. PULTENEY rose up next, and spoke as follows:--Sir, I take this opportunity to lay before the house a grievance which very much retards the equipment of our fleets, and which must be redressed before any measures for reconciling the sailors to the publick service can be pursued with the least probability of success. Observation, sir, has informed me, that to remove the detestation of the king's service, it is not necessary to raise the wages of the seamen; it is necessary only to secure them; it is necessary to destroy those hateful insects that fatten in idleness and debauchery upon the gains of the industrious and honest. When a sailor, sir, after the fatigues and hazards of a long voyage, brings his ticket to the pay-office, and demands his wages, the despicable wretch to whom he is obliged to apply, looks upon his ticket with an air of importance, acknowledges his right, and demands a reward for present payment; with this demand, however exorbitant, the necessities of his family oblige him to comply. In this manner, sir, are the wives of the sailors also treated when they come to receive the pay of their husbands; women, distressed, friendless, and unsupported; they are obliged to endure every insult, and to yield to every oppression. And to such a height do these merciless exacters raise their extortions, that sometimes a third part of the wages is deducted. Thus, sir, do the vilest, the meanest of mankind, plunder those who have the highest claim to the esteem, the gratitude, and the protection of their country. This is the hardship which withholds the sailors from our navies, and forces them to seek for kinder treatment in other countries. This hardship, sir, both justice and prudence call upon us to remedy; and while we neglect it, all our deliberations will be ineffectual. Mr. SOUTHWELL then spoke to this effect:--Sir, of the hardships mentioned by the honourable gentleman who spoke last, I have myself known an instance too remarkable not to be mentioned. A sailor in Ireland, after his voyage, met with so much difficulty in obtaining his wages, that he was at length reduced to the necessity of submitting to the reduction of near a sixth part. Such are the grievances with which those are oppressed, upon whom the power, security, and happiness of the nation are acknowledged to depend. Sir Robert WALPOLE, the prime minister, then rose, and spoke as follows:--Sir, it is not without surprise that I hear the disgust of the sailors ascribed to any irregularity in the payment of their wages, which were never, in any former reign, so punctually discharged. They receive, at present, twelve months' pay in eighteen months, without deduction; so that there are never more than six months for which any demand remains unsatisfied. But, sir, the punctuality of the payment has produced of late great inconveniencies; for there has been frequently a necessity of removing men from one ship to another; and it is the stated rule of the pay-office, to assign every man so removed his full pay. These men, when the government is no longer indebted to them, take the first opportunity of deserting the service, and engaging in business to which they are more inclined. This is not a chimerical complaint, founded upon rare instances, and produced only to counterbalance an objection; the fact and the consequences are well known; so well, that near fourteen hundred sailors are computed to have been lost by this practice. The PRESIDENT of the commons, who always in a committee takes his seat as another member, rose here, and spoke to the following effect, his honour being paymaster of the navy:--Mr. Chairman, the nature of the employment with which I am intrusted makes it my duty to endeavour that this question may be clearly understood, and the condition of the seamen, with regard to the reception of their pay, justly represented. I have not been able to discover that any sailor, upon producing his ticket, was ever obliged to submit to the deduction of any part of his wages, nor should any clerk or officer under my inspection, escape, for such oppression, the severest punishment and most publick censure: I would give him up to the law without reserve, and mark him as infamous, and unworthy of any trust or employment. But there are extortions, sir, by which those unhappy men, after having served their country with honesty and courage, are deprived of their lawful gains of diligence and labour. There are men to whom it is usual amongst the sailors to mortgage their pay before it becomes due, who never advance their money but upon such terms as cannot be mentioned without indignation. These men advance the sum which is stipulated, and by virtue of a letter of attorney are reimbursed at the pay-office. This corruption is, I fear, not confined to particular places, but has spread even to America, where, as in his own country, the poor sailor is seduced, by the temptation of present money, to sell his labour to extortioners and usurers. I appeal to the gentleman, whether the instance which he mentioned was not of this kind. I appeal to him without apprehension of receiving an answer that can tend to invalidate what I have asserted. This, sir, is, indeed, a grievance pernicious and oppressive, which no endeavours of mine shall be deficient in attempting to remove; for by this the sailor is condemned, notwithstanding his industry and success, to perpetual poverty, and to labour only for the benefit of his plunderer. [The clauses were then read, "empowering the justices of the peace, etc. to issue warrants to the constables, etc. to make general privy searches, by day or night, for finding out and securing such seamen and seafaring men as lie hid or conceal themselves; and making it lawful for the officers appointed to make such searches, to force open the doors of any house, where they shall _suspect_ such seamen to be concealed, if entrance be not readily admitted; and for punishing those who shall harbour or conceal any seaman."] Sir John BARNARD upon this rose up, and spoke to the following effect:--Mr. Chairman, we have been hitherto deliberating upon questions, in which diversity of opinions might naturally be expected, and in which every man might indulge his own opinion, whatever it might be, without any dangerous consequences to the publick. But the clauses now before us are of a different kind; clauses which cannot be read without astonishment and indignation, nor defended without betraying the liberty of the best, the bravest, and most useful of our fellow-subjects. If these clauses, sir, should pass into a law, a sailor and a slave will become terms of the same signification. Every man who has devoted himself to the most useful profession, and most dangerous service of his country, will see himself deprived of every advantage which he has laboured to obtain, and made the mere passive property of those who live in security by his valour, and owe to his labour that affluence which hardens them to insensibility, and that pride that swells them to ingratitude. Why must the sailors alone, sir, be marked out from all the other orders of men for ignominy and misery? Why must they be ranked with the enemies of society, stopped like vagabonds, and pursued like the thief and the murderer by publick officers? How or when have they forfeited the common privilege of human nature, or the general protection of the laws of their country? If it is a just maxim, sir, that he who contributes most to the welfare of the publick, deserves most to be protected in the enjoyment of his private right or fortune; a principle which surely will not be controverted; where is the man that dares stand forth and assert, that he has juster claims than the brave, the honest, the diligent sailor? I am extremely unwilling, sir, to engage in so invidious an undertaking as the comparison of the harmless, inoffensive, resolute sailor, with those who think themselves entitled to treat him with contempt, to overlook his merit, invade his liberty, and laugh at his remonstrances. Nor is it, sir, necessary to dwell upon the peculiar merit of this body of men; it is sufficient that they have the same claims, founded upon the same reasons with our own, that they have never forfeited them by any crime, and, therefore, that they cannot be taken away without the most flagrant violation of the laws of nature, of reason, and of our country. Let us consider the present condition of a sailor, let us reflect a little upon the calamities to which custom, though not law, has already made him subject, and it will surely not be thought that his unhappiness needs any aggravation. He is already exposed to be forced, upon his return from a tedious voyage, into new hardships, without the intermission of a day, and without the sight of his family; he is liable, after a contract for a pleasing and gainful voyage, to be hurried away from his prospects of interest, and condemned amidst oppression and insolence, to labour and to danger, almost without the possibility of a recompense. He has neither the privilege of choosing his commander, nor of leaving him when he is defrauded and oppressed. These, sir, I say, are the calamities to which he is now subject, but there is now a possibility of escaping them. He is not yet deprived of the right of resistance, or the power of flight; he may now retire to his friend, and be protected by him; he may take shelter in his own cottage, and treat any man as a robber, that shall attempt to force his doors. When any crews are returning home in time of war, they are acquainted with the dangers of an impress, but they comfort themselves with contriving stratagems to elude it, or with the prospect of obtaining an exemption from it by the favour of their friends; prospects which are often deceitful, and stratagems frequently defeated, but which yet support their spirits, and animate their industry. But if this bill, sir, should become a law, the sailor, instead of amusing himself on his return with the prospects of ease, or of pleasure, will consider his country as a place of slavery, a residence less to be desired than any other part of the world. He will probably seek, in the service of some foreign prince, a kinder treatment; and will not fail, in any country but his own, to see himself, at least, on a level with other men. Nor will this bill, sir, only give the seamen new reasons of disgust, but it will tend, likewise, to aggravate those grievances, which already have produced a detestation of the publick service, scarcely to be conquered. The officers of the navy, sir, will hardly be made less insolent by an increase of power; they whose tyranny has already alienated their fellow-subjects from the king's service, though they could only depend upon the character of probity and moderation for the prospect of manning their ships in succeeding expeditions, will probably, when they are animated by a law like this, and made absolute both by land and sea, indulge themselves in the enjoyment of their new authority, contrive new hardships and oppressions, and tyrannise without fear and without mercy. Thus, sir, will the bill not only be tyrannical in itself, but the parent of tyranny; it will give security to the cruel, and confidence to the arrogant. That any man, at least any man bred from his infancy to change his residence, and accustomed to different climates and to foreign nations, will fix by choice in that country where he finds the worst reception, is hardly to be imagined. We see indeed, that men unqualified to support themselves in other countries, or who have, by long custom, contracted a fondness for particular methods of life, will bear very uncomfortable circumstances, without endeavouring to improve their conditions by a change of their habitations. But the temper of a sailor, acquainted with all parts, and indifferent to all, is of another kind. Such, sir, is his love of change, arising either from wantonness, or curiosity, that he is hard to be retained by the kindest treatment and most liberal rewards; and will, therefore, never struggle with his habitual dispositions, only to continue in a state of slavery. I think it, therefore, sir, very evident that this new method of _encouraging_ sailors will be so far from _increasing_ them, that it may probably drive them out of the empire, and at once ruin our trade and our navy; at once beggar and disarm us. Let me now suppose, sir, for a moment, the bill less pernicious in its consequences, and consider only the difficulties of executing it. Every seafaring man is to be seized, at pleasure, by the magistrate; but what definition is given of a seafaring man? Or by what characteristick is the magistrate to distinguish him? I have never been able to discover any peculiarities in the form of a seaman that mark him out from the rest of the species. There is, indeed, less servility in his air, and less effeminacy in his face, than in those that are commonly to be seen in drawing-rooms, in brothels, and at reviews; but I know not that a seaman can be distinguished from any other man of equal industry or use, who has never enervated himself by vice, nor polished himself into corruption. So that this bill, sir, if it shall pass into a law, will put it at once in the power of the magistrate to dispose of seamen at his pleasure, and to term whom he pleases a seaman. Another expedient, sir, has been offered on this occasion, not equally tyrannical, but equally inadequate to the end in view. It is proposed to restrain the merchants from giving wages beyond a certain rate, on the supposition that the sailors have no motive but that of larger wages, to prefer the service of the merchants to that of the crown. This, sir, is a mistake which might easily arise from a partial and imperfect knowledge of the affair, with which very few gentlemen have opportunities of being well acquainted. The wages, sir, are the smallest inducements which fix the seamen in their choice. The prospect of kinder treatment, the certainty of returning home in a fixed time, and the power of choosing what voyages they will undertake, cannot but be acknowledged very reasonable motives of preference. On the contrary, sir, when they are once engaged in a ship of war, they know neither whither they are going, what dangers they shall encounter, what hardships they shall suffer, nor when they shall be dismissed. Besides, sir, I do not think it possible by any law to limit the wages to be paid by merchants, since they will change the term of wages into that of a present, or admit the sailors to a small share in the freight, and so all the precaution we can take will become ineffectual. In the mean time, sir, how much shall we embarrass our own commerce, and impair our natural strength--the power of our fleets? We shall terrify our sailors on the one hand, and endeavour to starve them on the other; we shall not only drive them from us by unheard-of severities, but take away every motive that can induce them to expose themselves to the danger of suffering them. If we consider, sir, with what effect methods nearly approaching these were practised in the reign of the late queen, we shall find that not more than one thousand five hundred seamen were raised, and those at the expense of more than four thousand pounds; so that the effects bore no proportion to the means; our laws were infringed, and our constitution violated to no purpose. But what reason, sir, can be assigned for which it must be more difficult to supply the fleet now with sailors than at any other time? This war, sir, was demanded by the publick voice, in pursuance of the particular remonstrances of the merchants, and it is not to be supposed that the sailors or any other body of men engage in it with a particular reluctance. I am, therefore, inclined to believe that the suspicion of great numbers hid in the country, at a distance from the coast, is merely chimerical; and that if we should pass this bill, we should do nothing more than grant an oppressive and unconstitutional power of search for what, in reality, is not to be found. How oppressive this power may become in the hands of a corrupt or insolent magistrate, any man may discover, who remembers that the magistrate is made judge without appeal, of his own right to denominate any man a sailor, and that he may break open any man's doors at any time, without alleging any other reason than his own suspicion; so that no man can secure his house from being searched, or, perhaps, his person from being seized. It may, indeed, be alleged, sir, that this will be only a temporary law, and is to cease with the exigence that made it necessary: but long experience has informed us, that severe laws are enacted more readily than they are repealed; and that most men are too fond of power to suffer willingly the diminution of it. But, sir, though this law should not be perpetuated, every precedent of an infringement of our constitution, makes way for its dissolution; and the very cessation of an oppressive law, may be a plea, hereafter, for the revival of it. This bill, therefore, must be confessed to be at once violent and ineffectual; to be a transgression of the laws of justice to particular men, without any prospect of real benefit to the community; and, therefore, cannot be passed without deviating at once from prudence and our constitution. Captain CORNWALL then rose, and spoke to this effect:--I have observed, sir, that every man is apt to think himself ill treated, who is not treated according to his own opinion of his deserts, and will endeavour to diffuse his own notion of the partiality and tyranny of the naval officers; general clamours, therefore, are little to be regarded. I have had, from my early years, a command in the sea service, and can assert, that I never knew more than one instance of injustice, and that was punished with the severity which it deserved. The PRIME MINISTER rose next, and spoke to this effect:--Mr. Chairman, it is with uncommon satisfaction that I see every clause of this bill regularly debated, without unbecoming impatience, or passionate exclamations. I am willing to collect from this conduct, that the disposition of every gentleman is, on this occasion, the same with my own; and that every expedient here proposed will be diligently examined, and either be seriously approved, or be calmly rejected. Such coolness and impartiality, sir, is certainly required by the importance of the present question; a question which cannot but influence the prosperity of the nation for many years. It is not necessary to remind any gentleman of the importance of our trade, of the power of the enemy against whom we have declared war in defence of it, or of the necessity of showing the world that our declarations of war are not empty noises, or farces of resentment. But it may be proper, sir, to remark, that this is not the only enemy, nor the most powerful, whose attempts we have reason to provide against, and who may oblige us to exert our whole power, and practise every expedient to increase our forces. The war has been, hitherto, prosecuted with the utmost vigour, with all the attention that its importance requires, and with success not disproportioned to our preparations; nor will it ever be suffered to languish, if the powers necessary for carrying it on are not denied. Nothing is more evident, sir, than that the natural power of the nation consists in its fleets, which are now, by the care of the government, so numerous, that the united power of many nations cannot equal them. But what are fleets unfurnished with men? How will they maintain the dominion of the sea, by lying unactive in our harbours? That no methods, hitherto used, have been sufficient to man our navies, and that our preparations have, therefore, been little more than an expensive show of war, the whole nation is sufficiently informed; it is, therefore, not doubtful that some new measures must be taken; whether any better can be suggested than are offered in this bill, must be inquired. With regard, sir, to the clause now under our consideration, it is to be remembered, that little more is proposed by it, than to add the sanction of legality to a power which has long been exercised by the admiralty, without any other authority than that of long prescription, the power of issuing warrants of impress upon emergent occasions, by which sailors are forced into the publick service. This power, in its present state, must be allowed to have no foundation in any law, and, by consequence, to be unlimited, arbitrary, and easily abused, and, upon the whole, to be justifiable only by necessity: but that necessity is so frequent, that it is often exercised, and, therefore, ought to be regulated by the legislature; and by making such regulations, we may rather be said to remove than introduce a grievance. The power of searching for sailors, however it has been represented, is far from setting them on a level with felons, murderers, or vagabonds; or, indeed, from distinguishing them, to their disadvantage, from the rest of the community, of which every individual is obliged to support the government. Those that possess estates, or carry on trades, transfer part of their property to the publick; and those ought, by parity of reason, to serve the publick in person, that have no property to transfer. Every man is secured by the constitution in the enjoyment of his life, his liberty, or his fortune; and, therefore, every man ought reciprocally to defend the constitution to which he is himself indebted for safety and protection. I am, therefore, sir, unable to discover in what consists the hardship of a law by which no new duties are enjoined, nor any thing required, which is not already every man's duty. Every man, indeed, who is desirous of evading the performance of any of the duties of society, will consider every compulsion as a hardship, by which he is obliged to contribute to the general happiness; but his murmurs will prove nothing but his own folly and ingratitude, and will certainly deserve no regard from the legislative power. There is in the bill before us, sir, encouragement sufficient for volunteers, and an offer of greater rewards than some gentlemen think consistent with the present state of the national revenues; and what remains to be done with respect to those who are deaf to all invitations, and blind to all offers of advantage? Are they to sit at ease only because they are idle, or to be distinguished with indulgence only for want of deserving it? It seems generally granted, sir, that such drones are the proper objects of an impress. Let us then suppose that every man who is willing to serve his country, has laid hold of the reward proposed, and entered a volunteer. The fleets are not yet sufficiently manned, and more sailors must be procured. Warrants are issued out in the common form. The negligent, the imprudent, the necessitous, are taken. The vigilant, the cunning, and those that have more money, find shelter and escape. Can it be said, that those whose circumstances, or good fortune, enable them to secure themselves from the officers of the impress, deserve any exemption from the publick service, or from the hardships to which their companions are exposed? Have they discharged their debt of gratitude to the publick so effectually by running away from its service, that no search ought to be made after them? It seems evident, that if it was right to seize the one, it is likewise right to pursue the other; and if it be right to pursue him, it is likewise right to hinder him from escaping the pursuers. It is then right to vest some persons with the power of apprehending him, and in whom is that power to be lodged, but in the civil magistrate? Every man, sir, is obliged by compulsive methods to serve his country, if he can be prevailed upon by no other. If any man shall refuse to pay his rates or his taxes, will not his goods be seized by force, and sold before his face? If any particular methods are proposed for obliging seamen to contribute to the publick safety, it is only because their service is necessary upon more pressing occasions than that of others; upon occasions which do not admit of delay, without the hazard of the whole community. I must confess, sir, there are instances in which the hardships of the seafaring part of the nation are peculiar, and truly calamitous. A sailor, after the dangers and toils of a long voyage, when he is now in the sight of the port, where he hopes to enjoy that quiet which he has deserved by so long a series of fatigues, to repair the injuries which his health has suffered, by change of climate, and the diet of the ships, and to recover that strength which incessant vigilance has worn away; when he is in expectation of being received by his family with those caresses, which the succours that he brings them naturally produce, and designs to rest awhile from danger and from care; in the midst of these pleasing views, he is, on the sudden, seized by an impress, and forced into a repetition of all his miseries, without any interval of refreshment. Let no man who can think without compassion on such a scene as this, boast his zeal for freedom, his regard for bravery, or his gratitude to those who contribute to the wealth and power of their country; let every man who declares himself touched with the pity which the slightest reflection upon such a disappointment must naturally produce, sincerely endeavour to obviate the necessity of such oppressive measures, which may, at least in part, be prevented, by assigning to magistrates the power of hunting out of their retreats, those who neglect the business of their callings, and linger at once in laziness and want. There are great numbers who retire not from weariness but idleness, or an unreasonable prepossession against the publick service; and, surely, nothing is more unreasonable, than that bad dispositions should be gratified, and that industry should expose any man to penalties. Upon the whole, sir, I am not able to discover, that any man should be exempted from an impress merely because he finds means to escape it, or because idleness or disinclination to the publick service prompts him to abscond. If any men deserve indulgence, in opposition to the demands of the publick, they are rather those who have already, in some degree, discharged their duty to it, by contributing to bring in that wealth which is the consequence of a prosperous and well-regulated commerce, and without which war cannot be supported. It is not without grief and regret, that I am obliged to represent, on this occasion, the obstructions which the war has suffered from those at whose request it was undertaken; and to declare, that the conduct of the merchants, has afforded proof that some law of this tendency is absolutely necessary. The merchants, sir, who have so loudly complained of the decline of trade, the interruption of navigation, and the insolence, rapacity, and cruelty of the Spaniards; the merchants, who filled the nation with representations of their hardships, discouragements, and miseries, and lamented in the most publick manner, that they were the only body for whom the legislature had no regard, who were abandoned to the caprice of other nations, were plundered abroad, and neglected at home; the merchants, after having at length by their importunities engaged the state in a war, of which they have themselves certainly not the least pretensions to question either the justice or necessity, now, when by the natural consequences of a naval armament, sailors become less numerous, and ships more difficult to be equipped, contract in private with such sailors as they are inclined to employ, and conceal them in garrets, hired for that purpose, till the freight is ready, or the danger of an impress is past, and thus secure their own private affairs at the hazard of the publick, and hinder the operations of a war, which they, and they only, solicited. The danger of having other enemies than the Spaniards, enemies, sir, more active, more powerful, and more ambitious, has already been mentioned; a danger so near, and so formidable, that he will not be thought very solicitous for his country, whom the bare mention of it does not alarm. This danger we are, therefore, to obviate by vigorous preparations, and unanimous resolutions; nor do I doubt but both our enemies, if they find us united, will repent of attacking us. Sir, the most efficacious method of manning our fleets, which law or custom has yet put into our hands, is that of suspending our commerce by an embargo; and yet the whole nation knows how much, and by what means, it has been eluded: no sooner was it known that an embargo was laid, than the sailors flew away into the country, or hid themselves in corners of this great city, as from the most formidable danger; and no sooner did the embargo cease, than the banks of the river were again crowded with sailors, and all the trading vessels were immediately supplied. As I cannot doubt, sir, that every gentleman is equally zealous for the success of the war, and the prosperity of his country; and as the insufficiency of the present methods of providing for them is apparent, I hope, that either the regulations proposed by this bill, to which I see no important objections, or some other of equal use, will be established by a general concurrence. Lord BALTIMORE spoke next:--Though no gentleman in this assembly, sir, can more ardently wish the success of the British arms, or shall more willingly concur in any measure that may promote it, yet I cannot agree to the clause now under our consideration; I disapprove it both from moral and political motives; I disapprove it as neither just nor prudent. The injustice of so flagrant an invasion of the liberty of particular men has been already exposed; nor is it, in my opinion, less easy to discover the imprudence of exhausting all our supplies at once, and sweeping away all our sailors, to supply a single exigency. It has often been remarked, sir, in favour of a standing army, that it is requisite to have a number of regular forces, who, though too weak to oppose an invasion, might be able to establish discipline in a larger body. An observation which may, with much greater justness, be applied to the seamen, whose art is much more difficult to be attained, and who are equally necessary in war and peace. If our stock of seamen, sir, be destroyed, if there is not left in our trading vessels a sufficient number of experienced artists to initiate novices, and propagate the profession, not only our ships of war must lie useless, but our commerce sink to nothing. Nor have I reason to believe the naval power of France so formidable, as that we ought to be terrified by the apprehensions of it into any extraordinary methods of procedure. I am informed that they have now very few ships of force left in their harbours; and that they have exerted their whole strength in the American fleet. I am not, therefore, sir, for providing against present dangers, without regard to our future security; and think nothing more worthy of the consideration of this assembly, than the means of encouraging and increasing our seamen, which will not be effected by the bill before us. Land forces may be hired upon emergencies; but sailors are our own peculiar strength, and the growth of our own soil; we are, therefore, above all other regards, to attend, if I may use the term, to the preservation of the species. Mr. VYNER next spoke:--Mr. Chairman, as there can be no stronger objection to any law than ambiguity, or indeterminate latitude of meaning, I think it necessary to propose, that some word of known and limited import, be substituted in the place of _seafaring men_; an expression which, if I was asked the meaning of it, I should find it difficult to explain. Are _seafaring_ men those only who navigate in the _sea_? The term is then superfluous, for all such are evidently comprised in the word _seamen_. Are they bargemen or watermen, who ply on rivers and transport provision or commodities from one inland town to another? In that sense nobody will affirm that it is a proper word; and impropriety in the expression of laws, produces uncertainty in the execution of them. Captain CORNWALL rose up:--Sir, the term _seafaring men_, of which an explication is desired, is intended to include all those who live by conveying goods or passengers upon the water, whether the sea or inland rivers: nor can we restrain it to a narrower sense, without exempting from the publick service great numbers, whose manner of life has qualified them for it, and from whom their country may, with equal justice, expect assistance, as from those who are engaged in foreign traffick. Mr. VYNER replied:--Sir, I am far from concurring with the honourable gentleman in his opinion, that the inland watermen are, by their profession, in any degree qualified for sea service, or can properly be called _seafaring men_. All qualifications for the service must consist either in some knowledge of the arts of navigation, or in some familiarity with the dangers of the sea. With regard to any previous knowledge of naval business, it is well known that they have no advantage over any common labourer; for the manner of navigating a ship and a barge have, for the most part, nothing in common. Nor are these watermen, sir, more able to stand firm in the terrours of the storm, or the noise of a battle, than those who follow any other occupation. Many of them never saw the sea, nor have less dread of its danger than the other inhabitants of the inland counties. They are, therefore, neither _seafaring_ men, nor peculiarly capable of being made _seamen_. But the hardship upon particular men is not the strongest objection to this clause, which, by obstructing our inland navigation, may make our rivers useless, and set the whole trade of the nation at a stand. For who will bring up his son a waterman, who knows him exposed by that profession to be impressed for a seaman? It seems, therefore, necessary, sir, either to omit the term _seafaring men_ [Footnote: Agreed to be omitted.], or to explain it in such a manner, that inland watermen may not be included. Lord GAGE spoke next:--Sir, so much has been urged against the compulsive methods proposed in this clause, and so little produced in favour of them, that it may seem superfluous to add any thing, or to endeavour, by a multiplicity of arguments, to prove what common reason must immediately discover. But there is one consequence of this clause which has not yet been observed, and which is yet too important not to be obviated by a particular proviso. It is well known, sir, that many of those to whom this act will extend, are freeholders and voters, for electing the representatives of the nation; and it is therefore apparent, that elections may be influenced by an ill-timed or partial execution of it. How easy will it be, when an election approaches, to raise a false alarm, to propose some secret expedition, or threaten us with an invasion from some unknown country, and to seize on all the seafaring voters whose affections are suspected, and confine them at Spithead till the contest is over. I cannot, therefore, sir, but think it necessary, that if this clause be suffered to pass, some part of its hateful consequences should be prevented by an exception in favour of freeholders and voters, which, surely, is no less than what every man owes to his own security, to the welfare of his country, and to those by whom he has been honoured with the care of their liberties. Mr. Henry PELHAM then said, as follows:--Sir, I do not rise in opposition to the proposal made by that right honourable member, nor do I think this the proper time either for opposing or approving it. Method is of the highest importance in inquiries like these; and if the order of the debate be interrupted by foreign questions, or incidental objections, no man will be able to consider the clauses before us with the attention necessary to his own satisfaction, or to the conviction of others; the mind will be dissipated by a multiplicity of views, and nothing can follow but perplexity and confusion. The great end, sir, for which we are now assembled, is to strike out methods of manning the fleet with expedition and certainty. It is, therefore, proper, in the first place, to agree upon some general measures, to each of which there may, undoubtedly, be particular objections raised, that may be afterwards removed by exceptions or provisions; but these provisions should, for the sake of order, be inserted in particular clauses, to be separately considered. Of this kind is the exception now offered, to which I have no objection but its present impropriety, and the interruption of the debate which it may now occasion; for I see, at present, no reason against admitting it in a particular clause. When it is considered how much the success of the war may depend upon the determinations of this day, and how much our future happiness and security may depend upon the success of our present undertakings, I hope my solicitude for regularity and expedition will be easily excused. Sir Hind COTTON answered:--I am not able, sir, to discover any imminent danger to the nation in suspending our attention to the clause before us, for a few moments; nor, indeed, do we cease to attend to it, while we are endeavouring to mollify it, and adapt it to our constitution. The exception proposed is, in the opinion of the honourable gentleman, so reasonable, that he declares himself ready to approve it in another place; and, to me, no place seems more proper of its making part of this bill than this. As a connexion between the clause and exception appears necessary and immediate, I cannot see why it should be postponed, unless it is hoped that it may be forgotten. Mr. PULTENEY then spoke:--Sir, that this exception should be forgotten there is no danger; for how long soever it be delayed, I will never agree to the act till I see it inserted. If we suffer the liberty of the freeholders to be infringed, what can we expect but to be charged with betraying our trust, and giving up to servitude and oppression those who deputed us to this assembly, as the guardians of their privileges, and the asserters of their birthright; a charge too just to be denied, and too atrocious to be borne. Sir, the right of a freeholder is independent on every other circumstance, and is neither made more or less by wealth or poverty: the estate, however small, which gives a right of voting, ought to exempt the owner from every restraint that may hinder the exertion of his right; a right on which our constitution is founded, and which cannot be taken away without subverting our whole establishment. To overlook the distinctions which the fundamental laws of our country have made in respect to different orders of men, and to regard only the accidents of affluence and necessity, is surely unjust in itself, and unworthy of this assembly; an assembly, sir, instituted principally to protect the weak against the strong, and deputed to represent those, in a collective state, who are not considerable enough to appear singly, and claim a voice in the legislature. To expose an honest, a laborious, and an useful man, to be seized by the hands of an insolent officer, and dragged from the enjoyment of his right, only because he will not violate his conscience, and add his voice to those of sycophants, dependents, and prostitutes, the slaves of power, the drudges of a court, and the hirelings of a faction, is the highest degree of injustice and cruelty. Let us rather, sir, sweep away, with an impress, the drones of large fortunes, the tyrants of villages, and the oppressors of the poor; let us oblige those to serve their country by force, whose fortunes have had no other effect than to make them insolent and worthless; but let such who, by contributing to commerce, make every day some addition to the publick wealth, be left in the full enjoyment of the rights which they deserve: let those, by whose labour the expenses of the war are furnished, be excused from contributing to it by personal service. It is necessary, sir, to have our laws established by the representatives of the people; it is necessary that those representatives should be freely elected; and, therefore, every law that obstructs the liberty of voters, is contrary to the fundamental laws of our constitution; and what multitudes may, by this law, be either hindered from giving their votes, or be terrified into such a choice as by no means corresponds with their judgments or inclinations, it is easy to foresee. I am, indeed, of opinion, sir, that this clause cannot be adapted to our constitution, nor modified, by any expedient, into a law, which will not lay insupportable hardships upon the nation, and make way for absolute power. But as it is necessary that a constant supply of seamen should be provided, I think it not improper to observe, that there is one expedient yet remaining, by which, though it will not much assist us in our present exigence, the fleets of this nation may hereafter be constantly supported. We have, at present, great numbers of charity schools established in this nation, where the children of the poor receive an education disproportioned to their birth. This has often no other consequences than to make them unfit for their stations, by placing them, in their own opinion, above the drudgery of daily labour; a notion which is too much indulged, as idleness, cooperating with vanity, can hardly fail to gain the ascendant, and which sometimes prompts them to support themselves by practices not only useless, but pernicious to society. This evil, sir, cannot be better obviated than by allotting a reasonable proportion out of every school to the service of the sea, in which, by entering early, they cannot fail to become proficients; and where their attainments, which, at present, too frequently produce laziness and dishonesty, might enable them to excel, and entitle them to promotion. Mr. WINNINGTON replied:--Sir, notwithstanding the confidence with which some gentlemen have proposed this amendment, and the easiness with which others have consented to it, I declare, without hesitation, that I oppose it now, and intend to oppose it whenever it shall be offered, because it will defeat all the other provisions which shall be made in the bill. I will venture to say, sir, that if every man, who has, by whatever tenure, the right of voting, shall be exempted from the necessity of contributing to the publick safety by his personal service, every man qualified for the sea will by some means acquire a vote. Sir, a very small part of those who give their votes in this nation for representatives in senate, enjoy that right as the appendage of a freehold; to live in some towns, and to be born only in others, gives the unalienable privilege of voting. Any gentleman, to secure his own interest, or obstruct the publick service, may, by dividing a small piece of barren ground among a hundred sailors, exalt them all to freeholders, and exempt them from the influence of this law. However, sir, I am not less a friend to the freeholders than those who propose the exception in their favour, but, in my opinion, the great interest of the freeholders is the preservation of their freeholds, which can only be secured by a vigorous exertion of the power of the nation, in the war which is now declared against the Spaniards. Mr. BARRINGTON spoke next:--Sir, by the observations which I have opportunities of making at the place which I have the honour to represent, I am convinced of the influence that this law will have upon all the boroughs along the coasts. There, most of the voters are, in one sense or other, sir, seafaring men, being, almost all of them, owners of vessels, and in some degree acquainted with navigation; they may, therefore, be hurried away at the choice of an officious or oppressive magistrate, who may, by partiality and injustice, obtain a majority, contrary to the general inclination of the people, and determine the election by his own authority. Sir William YONGE then said:--Sir, if every freeholder and voter is to be exempted from the influence of the law, the bill that we are with so much ardour endeavouring to draw up and rectify, and of which the necessity is so generally acknowledged, will be no other than an empty sound, and a determination without an object; for while we are empowering the government to call seamen into the service, we are exempting almost all that are able to serve from the denomination of seamen: what is this but to dispute without a subject? to raise with one hand and demolish with the other? In the western parts of the nation, sir, where I reside, many who vote at elections claim their privilege by no other title than that of boiling a pot; a title which he who has it not, may easily obtain, when it will either gratify his laziness or his cowardice, and which, though not occasionally obtained, seems not sufficient to set any man out of the reach of a just and necessary law. It is, therefore, sir, undoubtedly requisite that the terms of the exception should be explicit and definitive, and that only those should be exempted who have such possessions or qualifications as this assembly shall think a just title to exemption. For on the western coast, from whence great supplies may be expected, almost every sailor has a vote, to which nothing is there required but to hire a lodging, and boil a pot; after which, if this exception be admitted in all its latitude, he may sit at ease amidst the distresses of his country, ridicule the law which he has eluded, and set the magistrate at open defiance. The PRIME MINISTER spoke next:--As I think, Sir, some exception may be just and proper, so I suppose every gentleman will concur with me in rejecting one of such extent as shall leave no object for the operation of the law. It is, in my opinion, proper to restrain the exemption to those freeholders who are possessed of such an estate as gives a vote for the representative of the county, by which those whose privilege arises from their property will be secured; and it seems reasonable that those who have privileges without property, should purchase them by their services. Counsellor BROWN spoke next:--Sir, the exception proposed will not only defeat the end of the bill, by leaving it few objects, but will obstruct the execution of it on proper occasions, and involve the magistrate in difficulties which will either intimidate him in the exertion of his authority, or, if he persists in discharging his duty with firmness and spirit, will perhaps oblige him sometimes to repent of his fidelity. It is the necessary consequence, sir, of a seaman's profession, that he is often at a great distance from the place of his legal settlement, or patrimonial possessions; and he may, therefore, assert of his own circumstances what is most convenient, without danger of detection. Distance is a security that prompts many men to falsehoods, by which only vanity is gratified; and few men will tell truth in opposition to their interest, when they may lie without apprehension of being convicted. When, therefore, a magistrate receives directions to impress all the seamen within his district, how few will he find who will not declare themselves freeholders in some distant county, or freemen of some obscure borough. It is to no purpose, sir, that the magistrate disbelieves what he cannot confute; and if in one instance in a hundred he should be mistaken, and, acting in consequence of his errour, force a freeman into the service, what reparation may not be demanded? I, therefore, propose it to the consideration of the committee, whether any man ought to claim exemption from this law by a title, that may so readily be procured, or so safely usurped. The ATTORNEY GENERAL spoke next:--Sir, the practice of impressing, which has been declaimed against with such vehement exaggerations, is not only founded on immemorial custom, which makes it part of the common law, but is likewise established by our statutes; for I remember to have found it in the statutes of queen Mary, and therefore cannot allow that it ought to be treated as illegal, and anti-constitutional. That it is not inconsistent with our constitution may be proved from the practice of erecting the royal standard, upon great emergencies, to which every man was obliged immediately to repair; this practice is as old as our constitution, and as it may be revived at pleasure, may be properly mentioned as equivalent to an impress. Mr. VYNER answered:--This word, sir, which the learned member has by his wonderful diligence discovered in the statutes, may perhaps be there, but in a signification far different from that which it bears at present. The word was, without doubt, originally French, _prêt_, and implied what is now expressed by the term _ready_; and to impress any man was in those days only to make him _ready_, or engage him to hold himself in _readiness_, which was brought about not by compulsion, pursuit, and violence, but by the allurements of a pecuniary reward, or the obligation of some ancient tenure. HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 9, 1740-1. On the sixty-sixth day, the consideration of the bill for raising seamen was resumed, and a clause read, by which every constable, headborough, tithingman, or other person, was liable to be examined upon oath by the justices of peace, who were empowered to lay a fine upon them for any neglect, offence, or connivance. Sir John BARNARD rose up, and spoke to the following effect:--Mr. Chairman, it is the peculiar happiness of the Britons, that no law can be made without the consent of their representatives, and I hope no such infatuation can ever fall upon them as may influence them to choose a representative capable of concurring in absurdities like this. The folly, the iniquity, the stupidity of this clause, can only be conceived by hearing it repeated; it is too flagrant to be extenuated, and too gross to admit exaggerations: to oblige a man to make oath against himself, to subject himself by his own voice to penalties and hardships, is at once cruel and ridiculous, a wild complication of tyranny and folly. To call upon any man to accuse himself, is only to call upon him to commit perjury, and has therefore been always accounted irrational and wicked: in those countries where it is practised, the confession is extorted by the rack, which indeed is so necessary on such occasions, that I should not wonder to hear the promoters of this clause openly declaring for the expediency of tortures. Nothing is more evident than that this bill, however the importance of the occasion may be magnified, was drawn up without reflection, and that the clauses were never understood by those that offered them: errours like these must arise only from precipitation and neglect, for they are too gross to be committed either by ignorance or design. To expose such absurdities is, indeed, easy, but not pleasing; for what end is answered by pointing at folly, or how is the publick service advanced by showing that the methods proposed are totally to be rejected? Where a proposition is of a mixed kind, and only erroneous in part, it is an useful and no disagreeable task to separate truth from errour, and disentangle from ill consequences such measures as may be pursued with advantage to the publick; but mere stupidity can only produce compassion, and afford no opportunities for inquiry or dispute. Admiral WAGER replied:--Sir, this clause, however contemptuously treated, has been already passed into a law by a senate which brought no dishonour upon the British nation, by a senate which was courted and dreaded by the greatest part of the universe, and was drawn up by a ministry that have given their posterity no reason to treat them with derision and contumely. In the reign of the late great queen, this method of proceeding was approved and established, and we may judge of the propriety of the measures followed in that war by the success which they procured. Those, therefore, by whom this bill was drawn up have committed no new absurdities, nor have proposed any thing which was not enacted by the wisest of our predecessors, in one of the most illustrious periods of our history. Mr. GYBBON answered:--Sir, I am far from thinking a proposition sufficiently defended by an assertion that it was admitted by our predecessors; for though I have no inclination to vilify their memory, I may without scruple affirm, that they had no pretensions to infallibility, and that there are in many of our statutes instances of such ignorance, credulity, weakness, and errour, as cannot be considered without astonishment. In questions of an abstruse and complicated nature, it is certain, sir, that experience has taught us what could never have been discovered previously by the wisdom of our ancestors; and we have found, by their consequences, the impropriety of many practices which they approved, and which we should have equally applauded in the same circumstances. But to what purpose is observation, if we must shut our eyes against it, and appeal for ever to the wisdom of our ancestors?--if we must fall into errour, merely because they were mistaken, and rush upon rocks out of veneration to those who were wrecked against them. In questions easily to be examined, and determinations which comprised no perplexing contrarieties of interest, or multiplicity of circumstances, they were equally liable with ourselves to be supine and negligent, to sink into security, or be surprised by haste. That the clause now before us was enacted by them, must be ascribed merely to the hurry of the session in which it was brought before them; a time in which so many inquiries of the highest importance were to be made, and great diversity of views to be regarded, that it is no wonder that some absurdities should escape without detection. In the fourth of the reign of the queen, this bill was brought in, as now, at the latter end of a session, when the attention of the senate was fatigued and distracted; and it was hurried through both houses, and ratified by the queen, with very little consideration. But then, as this circumstance may be justly termed an extenuation of their errour, it ought to be a lesson of caution to us, that we may not be, in the like manner, betrayed into the same weakness. Mr. Henry PELHAM next rose up:--Sir, the conduct of our predecessors seems not to stand in need of any excuse; for it might be easy to vindicate it by arguments, but that it is more proper to approve it by imitation. Whenever the bill was passed, or how hastily soever the law was enacted, it was, I believe, rather the effect of necessity than of inadvertency; of the same necessity which now presses, and which is very ill consulted by tedious debates. They were then involved in a war, and were not so distracted by private interests as not to unite in the most vigorous opposition of their enemies. They knew that the publick good is often promoted by the temporary inconveniencies of individuals; and when affairs of the highest importance demanded their attention, when the security of the whole nation and the happiness of their posterity were the subject of their inquiries, they wisely suffered less considerations to pass, without superfluous and unseasonable solicitude. How justly they reasoned, sir, and what vigour their resolutions gave to the military operations, our victories are a sufficient proof: and if experience be the surest guide, it cannot be improper to imitate those who, in the same circumstances with ourselves, found means to raise the honour, and improve the commerce of their country. That our circumstances are the same with those of the senate by which this law was made, is obvious beyond dispute; or where they vary, the difference is, perhaps, to our disadvantage. We have, sir, the same enemies, or, at least, have reason to apprehend the same; but have little hope of the same allies. The present war is to be carried on at a greater distance, and in more places at the same instant; we cannot, therefore, supply our ships occasionally, but must raise great numbers in a short time. If, therefore, it was then concluded, that the method under our examination was useful; if measures, not eligible in themselves, may be authorized by necessity, why may not we, in compliance with the same exigencies, have recourse to the same expedients? Sir William YONGE then spoke:--Sir, how much weight is added to the determinations of the senate, by the dignity of their procedure, and the decency of their disputations, a slight knowledge of mankind is sufficient to evince. It is well known that government is supported by opinion; and that he who destroys the reputation, destroys the authority of the legislative power. Nor is it less apparent, that he who degrades debate into scurrility, and destroys the solemnity of consultation, endeavours to sink the senate into contempt. It was, therefore, sir, with indignation and surprise, that I heard the clause before us censured with such indecency of language, and the authors of it treated with contumelies and reproaches that mere errour does not deserve, however apparent, but which were now vented before any errour was detected. I know not, sir, why the gentlemen, who are thus indecently attacked, have suffered such reproaches without censure, and without reply. I know not why they have omitted to put the honourable gentleman in mind of the respect due to this assembly, or to the characters of those whom he opposes; gentlemen equally skilled with himself in the subject of our inquiries, and whom his own attainments, however large, or his abilities, however comprehensive, cannot give him a right to charge with ignorance or folly. To reproach men with incapacity, is a cheap method of answering their arguments; but a method which the rules of this house ought to exclude from our debates, as the general civility of the world has banished it from every other place of concourse or conversation. I, for my part, sir, shall always endeavour to confine my attention to the question before us, without suffering my reason to be biassed, or my inquiries diverted by low altercations, or personal animosities; nor when any other man deviates into reproachful and contemptuous language, shall I be induced to think more highly of either his arguments or capacity. Sir John BARNARD replied:--Sir, I have always heard it represented as an instance of integrity, when the tongue and heart move in concert, when the words are representations of the sentiments; and have, therefore, hitherto, endeavoured to explain my arguments with perspicuity, and impress my sentiments with force; I have thought it hypocrisy to treat stupidity with reverence, or to honour nonsense with the ceremony of a confutation. As knavery, so folly, that is not reclaimable, is to be speedily despatched; business is to be freed from obstruction, and society from a nuisance. Nor, sir, when I am censured by those whom I may offend, by the use of terms correspondent with my ideas, will I, by a tame and silent submission, give reason to suspect that I am conscious of a fault, but will treat the accusation with open contempt, and show no greater regard to the abettors, than to the authors of absurdity. That decency is of great use in publick debates, I shall readily allow; it may sometimes shelter folly from ridicule, and preserve villany from publick detection; nor is it ever more carefully supported, than when measures are promoted that nothing can preserve from contempt, but the solemnity with which they are established. Decency is a proper circumstance; but liberty is the essence of senatorial disquisitions: liberty is the parent of truth; but truth and decency are sometimes at variance: all men and all propositions are to be treated here as they deserve; and there are many who have no claim either to respect or decency. Mr. WINNINGTON then rose:--Sir, that it is improper in its own nature, and inconsistent with our constitution, to lay any man under an obligation to accuse himself, cannot be denied; it is, therefore, evident, that some amendment is necessary to the clause before us. I have, for this reason, drawn up an amendment, sir, which, if approved by the committee, will, in my opinion, remove all the objections to this part of the bill, and, by reconciling it with our natural and legal rights, I hope, induce those to approve it, who have hitherto opposed it. I therefore propose, that these words should be substituted instead of those which are the subject of the debate; or some other to this purpose: _That no person shall be liable to be fined by virtue of this act, unless a witness, being examined, shall make oath of the misdemeanour or neglect_. Thus the necessity of examining men upon oath in their own cause will be entirely taken away; and, as the clause will then stand, there will remain no suspicion of injustice, or oppression, because none can be practised without the concurrence of many persons of different interests. [This clause, though agreed to in the committee, was at last rejected.] Mr. Horace WALPOLE spoke next, to this effect:--Mr. Chairman, it does not yet appear that the gentlemen who have engaged in this debate, have sufficiently attended to the exigence of our affairs, and the importance of the question. They have lavished their oratory in declaiming upon the absurdity of the methods proposed, and discovered their sagacity, by showing how future navies may be supplied from charity schools, but have substituted no expedients in the place of those which they so warmly condemn, nor have condescended to inform us, how we may now guard our coasts, or man our fleets for immediate service. There are some circumstances, sir, of the present war, which make our necessity of raising sea forces greater than in those of William, and Anne that succeeded him. The chief advantages that we gained over the French, in their wars, were the consequences of our victories by land. At sea, sir, the balance was almost equal, though the Dutch fleet and ours were united; nor did they quit the sea because their fleets were destroyed, but because they were obliged to recruit their land forces with their sailors. Should they now declare war against us, they would be under no such necessity of defrauding the sea service, for they have now on foot an army of one hundred and sixty thousand men, which are maintained at no greater expense than forty thousand, by the British government; as they are, therefore, sir, so formidable by land, we have no way of opposing them but by our sea forces. Nor is their navy so contemptible as some have, either by conjecture or misinformation, represented it. The fleet which they have despatched to America, consists not of fewer than twenty ships, of which the least carry sixty guns, and they are fitting out now an equal number in their own ports; besides, their East India company is obliged to furnish ten ships of the line, at the demand of the government. Thus it appears that we have neighbours sufficiently powerful to alarm us with the sense of immediate danger; danger which is made more imminent by the expeditious methods by which the French man their fleets, and which we must imitate if we hope to oppose them with success. I need not say how little we can depend upon any professions of neutrality, which will be best observed when they cannot be securely violated; or upon the pacifick inclination of their minister, which interest, persuasion, or caprice, may alter, and to which it is not very honourable to trust for safety. How can that nation sink lower, which is only free because it is not invaded by its neighbours; and retains its possessions, only because no other has leisure or inclination to take them away? If it be asked, what can provoke the French to interrupt us in the prosecution of our designs, and in the punishment of those who have plundered and insulted us, it is not only easy to urge the strict alliance between the two crowns, the ties of blood, the conformity of interests, and their equal hatred of the Britons, but another more immediate reason may be added. It is suspected, that under pretence of vindicating our own rights, we are endeavouring to gain the possession of the Spanish dominions, and engross the wealth of the new world; and that, therefore, it is the interest of every power, whose subjects traffick to those countries, to oppose us. Thus, whether we succeed or fail in our attempts upon America, we have the French power to apprehend. If we make conquests, they may, probably, think it necessary to obviate the torrent of our victories, and to hinder the increase of our dominions, that they may secure their own trade, and maintain their own influence. If we should be defeated, of which no man, sir, can deny the possibility, the inclination of all to insult the depressed, and to push down the falling, is well known; nor can it be expected that our hereditary enemies would neglect so fair an opportunity of attacking us. How they might ravage our coasts, and obstruct our trade; how they might triumph in the Channel, and block us up in our own ports, bombard our towns, and threaten us with invasions, I hope I need but barely mention, to incite this assembly to such despatch in manning our fleets, as may secure us at once from insults and from terrour. It is, undoubtedly, sir, in our power to raise a naval force sufficient to awe the ocean, and restrain the most daring of our enemies from any attempts against us; but this cannot be effected by harangues, objections, and disputations. There is nothing, sir, more frequently the subject of raillery or declamation, than the uselessness or danger of a standing army, to which I declare myself no otherwise inclined than by my concern for the common safety; I willingly allow that not one soldier ought to be supported by the publick, whose service is not necessary; but surely none of those who declare so warmly for the honour and privileges of their country, would expose it to the insults of foreign powers, without defence. If, therefore, they think the danger of land forces more than equivalent to the benefit, they ought unanimously to concur in the increase of our naval strength, by which they may be protected, but cannot be oppressed: they ought willingly to give their assistance to any propositions for making the fleet, formidable, that their declarations against the army may not be thought to proceed from a resolution to obstruct the measures of the government, rather than from zeal for the constitution. For he that equally opposes the establishment of the army, and the improvement of the navy, declares in effect against the security of the nation; and though, perhaps, without design, exposes his countrymen to the mercy of their enemies. Mr. PULTENEY spoke next:--Sir, I cannot discover for what reason the bill before us is so vigorously supported, but must observe, that I have seldom known such vehement and continued efforts produced by mere publick spirit, and unmingled regard for the happiness of the nation. Nothing, sir, that can be urged in favour of the measures now proposed has been omitted. When arguments are confuted, precedents are cited; when precedents fail, the advocates for the bill have recourse to terrour and necessity, and endeavour to frighten those whom they cannot convince. But, perhaps, sir, these formidable phantoms may soon be put to flight, and, like the other illusions of cowardice, disappear before the light. Perhaps this necessity will be found only chimerical; and these dangers appear only the visions of credulity, or the bugbears of imposture. To arrive at a clear view of our present condition, it will be necessary, sir, not to amuse ourselves with general assertions, or overwhelm our reason by terrifying exaggerations: let us consider distinctly the power and the conduct of our enemies, and inquire whether they do not affright us more than they are able to hurt us. That the force of Spain alone, sir, is much to be dreaded, no man will assert; for that empire, it is well known, has long been seized with all the symptoms of declining power, and has been supported, not by its own strength, but by the interests of its neighbours. The vast dominions of the Spaniards are only an empty show; they are lands without inhabitants, and, by consequence, without defence; they are rather excrescences, than members of the monarchy, and receive support rather than communicate. In the distant branches of their empire the government languishes, as the vital motion in an expiring body; and the struggles which they now make, may be termed rather agonies than efforts. From Spain, therefore, unassisted, we have nothing to apprehend, and yet from thence we have been threatened with insults and invasions. That the condition of the French is far different, cannot be denied; their commerce flourishes, their dominions are connected, their wealth increases, and their government operates with full vigour: their influence is great, and their name formidable. But I cannot allow, sir, that they have yet attained such a height of power as should alarm us with constant apprehensions, or that we ought to secure ourselves against them by the violation of our liberties. Not to urge that the loss of freedom, and the destruction of our constitution, are the worst consequences that can be apprehended from a conquest, and that to a slave the change of his master is of no great importance, it is evident, that the power of the French is of such kind as can only affect us remotely, and consequentially. They may fill the continent with alarms, and ravage the territories of Germany, by their numerous armies, but can only injure us by means of their fleets. We may wait, sir, without a panick terrour, though not without some degree of anxiety, the event of their attempts upon the neighbouring princes, and cannot be reduced to fight for our altars and our houses, but by a second armada, which, even then, the winds must favour, and a thousand circumstances concur to expedite. But that no such fleet can be fitted out by the united endeavours of the whole world; that our navy, in its present state, is superiour to any that can be brought against us, our ministers ought not to be ignorant: and, therefore, to dispirit the nation with apprehensions of armies hovering in the air, and of conquerors to be wafted over by supernatural means, is to destroy that happiness which government was ordained to preserve; to sink us to tameness and cowardice; and to betray us to insults and to robberies. If our danger, sir, be such as has been represented, to whom must we impute it? Upon whom are our weakness, our poverty, and our miseries to be charged? Upon whom, but those who have usurped the direction of affairs which they did not understand, or to which their solicitude for the preservation of their own power hindered them from attending? That the Spaniards, sir, are now enabled to make resistance, and, perhaps, to insult and depopulate our colonies; that the French have despatched a fleet into the American seas, to obstruct, as may be conjectured, the progress of our arms, and that we are in danger of meeting opposition which we did not expect, is too evident to be concealed. But, sir, is not the spirit of our enemies the consequence rather of our cowardice than of their own strength? Does not the opposition to our designs, by whatever nation it shall be made, arise from the contempt which has been brought upon us by our irresolution, forbearance, and delays? Had we resented the first insult, and repaired our earliest losses by vigorous reprisals, our merchants had long ago carried on their traffick with security, our enemies would have courted us with respect, and our allies supported us with confidence. Our negotiations, treaties, proposals, and concessions, not only afforded them leisure to collect their forces, equip their fleets, and fortify their coasts; but gave them, likewise, spirit to resist those who could not be conquered but by their own cowardice and folly. By our ill-timed patience, and lingering preparations, we encouraged those to unite against us, who would, otherwise, have only hated us in secret; and deterred those from declaring in our favour, whom interest or gratitude might have inclined to assist us. For who will support those from whom no mutual support can be expected? And who will expect that those will defend their allies, who desert themselves? But, sir, however late our resentment was awakened, had the war been prosecuted vigorously after it was declared, we might have been now secure from danger, and freed from suspense, nor would any thing have remained but to give laws to our enemies. From the success of Vernon with so inconsiderable forces, we may conjecture what would have been performed with an armament proportioned to his undertaking; and why he was not better supplied, no reason has yet been given; nor can it be easily discovered why we either did not begin the war before our enemies had concerted their measures, or delay it till we had formed our own. Notwithstanding some opportunities have been neglected, and all the advantages of a sudden attack have been irrecoverably lost; notwithstanding our friends, sir, have learned to despise and neglect us, and our enemies are animated to confidence and obstinacy, yet our real and intrinsick strength continues the same; nor are there yet any preparations made against us by the enemy, with views beyond their own security and defence. It does not yet appear, sir, that our enemies, however insolent, look upon us as the proper objects of a conquest, or that they imagine it possible to besiege us in our own ports, or to confine us to the defence of our own country. We are not, therefore, to have recourse to measures, which, if they are ever to be admitted, can be justified by nothing but the utmost distress, and can only become proper, as the last and desperate expedient. The enemy, sir, ought to appear not only in our seas, but in our ports, before it can be necessary that one part of the nation should be enslaved for the preservation of the rest. To destroy any part of the community, while it is in our power to preserve the whole, is certainly absurd, and inconsistent with the equity and tenderness of a good government: and what is slavery less than destruction? What greater calamity has that man to expect, who has been already deprived of his liberty, and reduced to a level with thieves and murderers? With what spirit, sir, will he draw his sword upon his invaders, who has nothing to defend? Or why should he repel the injuries which will make no addition to his misery, and will fall only on those to whom he is enslaved? It is well known that gratitude is the foundation of our duty to our country, and to our superiours, whom we are obliged to protect upon some occasions, because, upon others, we receive protection from them, and are maintained in the quiet possession of our fortunes, and the security of our lives. But what gratitude is due to his country from a man distinguished, without a crime, by the legislature, from the rest of the people, and marked out for hardships and oppressions? From a man who is condemned to labour and to danger, only that others may fatten with indolence, and slumber without anxiety? From a man who is dragged to misery without reward, and hunted from his retreat, as the property of his master? Where gratitude, sir, is not the motive of action, which may easily happen in minds not accustomed to observe the ends of government, and relations of society, interest never fails to preside, which may be distinguished from gratitude, as it regards the immediate consequences of actions, and confines the view to present advantages. But what interest can be gratified by a man who is not master of his own actions, nor secure in the enjoyment of his acquisitions? Why should he be solicitous to increase his property, who may be torn from the possession of it in a moment? Or upon what motive can he act who will not become more happy by doing his duty? Many of those to whom this bill is proposed to extend, have raised fortunes at the expense of their ease, and at the hazard of their lives; and now sit at rest, enjoying the memory of their past hardships, and inciting others to the prosecution of the same adventures. How will it be more reasonable to drag these men from their houses, than to seize any other gentleman upon his own estate? and how negligently will our navigation and our commerce be promoted, when it is discovered that either wealth cannot be gained by them, or, if so gained, cannot be enjoyed. But it is still urged, sir, that there is a necessity of manning the fleet; a necessity which, indeed, cannot totally be denied, though a short delay would produce no frightful consequences, would expose us to no invasions, nor disable us from prosecuting the war. Yet, as the necessity at least deserves the regard of the legislature, let us consider what motives have hitherto gained men over to the publick service; let us examine how our land forces are raised, and how our merchants equip their ships. How is all this to be effected without murmurs, mutinies, or discontent, but by the natural and easy method of offering rewards? It may be objected, sir, that rewards have been already proposed without effect; but, not to mention the corrupt arts which have been made use of to elude that promise, by rejecting those that came to claim them, we can infer from their inefficacy only, that they were too small; that they were not sufficient to dazzle the attention, and withdraw it from the prospect of the distant advantages which may arise from the service of the merchants. Let the reward, therefore, be doubled, and if it be not then sufficient, doubled anew. There is nothing but may be bought, if an adequate price is offered; and we are, therefore, to raise the reward, till it shall be adjudged by the sailors equivalent to the inconveniencies of the service. Let no man urge, that this is profusion; that it is a breach of our trust, and a prodigality of the publick money. Sir, the money thus paid is the price of liberty; it is disbursed to hinder slavery from encroaching, to preserve our natural rights from infraction, and the constitution of our country from violation. If we vote away the privilege of one class among us, those of another may quickly be demanded; and slavery will advance by degrees, till the last remains of freedom shall be lost. But perhaps, sir, it will appear, upon reflection, that even this method needs not to be practised. It is well known, that it is not necessary for the whole crew of a ship to be expert sailors; there must be some novices, and many whose employment has more of labour than of art. We have now a numerous army, which burdens our country, without defending it, and from whom we may, therefore, draw supplies for the fleet, and distribute them amongst the ships in just proportions; they may immediately assist the seamen, and will become able, in a short time, to train up others. It will, doubtless, sir, be objected to this proposal, that the continent is in confusion, and that we ought to continue such a force as may enable us to assist our allies, maintain our influence, and turn the scale of affairs in the neighbouring countries. I know not how we are indebted to our allies, or by what ties we are obliged to assist those who never assisted us; nor can I, upon mature consideration, think it necessary to be always gazing on the continent, watching the motions of every potentate, and anxiously attentive to every revolution. There is no end, sir, of obviating contingencies, of attempting to secure ourselves from every possibility of danger. I am, indeed, desirous that our friends, if any there be that deserve that name, should succeed in their designs, and be protected in their claims; but think it ought always to be remembered, that our own affairs affect us immediately, theirs only by consequence, and that the nearest danger is to be first regarded. With respect to the amendment offered to this clause, I cannot see that it will produce any advantage, nor think any evidence sufficient to justify the breach of our constitution, or subject any man to the hardship of having his dwelling entered by force. And, sir, I am not entirely satisfied of the impartiality and equity with which it is promised that this law will be put in execution, or what new influence is to cooperate with this law, by which corruption and oppression will be prevented. It is well known, sir, that many other laws are made ineffectual by partiality or negligence, which remarkably appears by the immense quantities of corn that are daily carried into foreign countries, by illegal exportations, by which traffick I am informed that we obtain most of our foreign gold, which, in reality, is paid us for corn by the Dutch; though it is studiously represented to the nation as gained by our traffick with Portugal. Who can assure us that this law will not be perverted, after the example of others? and that there will not be wretches found that may employ it to the extortion of money, or the gratification of revenge? Thus, sir, I have shown by what means our fleet may now be equipped, and how a supply of sailors may be perpetuated; for I cannot think how the boys which are educated in charity schools can be more properly employed. A proportion may be easily selected for the service, who will benefit the publick much more than by serving sharpers and attorneys, and pilfering either at low gaming houses, or in the inns of court. Since, therefore, it is not pretended, sir, that this bill can be justified otherwise than by necessity, and it appears that supplies may be raised by other means; since, instead of increasing and encouraging seamen, nothing is proposed that does not manifestly tend, by depressing and harassing them, to diminish their numbers, I think it reasonable to declare that I shall continue to oppose it, and hope that every friend of liberty, or commerce, will concur in the opposition. Sir Robert WALPOLE spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, I have considered the bill before us with the utmost impartiality, and I can see no reason to apprehend that it will produce such universal discontent, and give occasion to so many abuses, as the honourable gentlemen by whom it is opposed, appear to suspect. It is not uncommon, sir, in judging of future events, and tracing effects from causes, for the most sagacious to be mistaken. The safest method of conjecturing upon the future, is to consider the past, for it is always probable, that from like causes like consequences will arise. Let us, therefore, sir, examine what injustice or oppression has been hitherto produced by laws of the same kind. The power of searching, however it is now become the subject of loud exclamation and pathetick harangues, is no new invasion of the rights of the people, but has been already granted in its utmost extent, for an end of no greater importance than the preservation of the game. This formidable authority has been already trusted to the magistrate, and the nation has been already subjected to this insupportable tyranny, only lest the hares and partridges should be destroyed, and gentlemen be obliged to disband their hounds and dismiss their setting dogs. Yet, sir, even with regard to this power, thus exorbitant, and thus lightly granted, I have heard no general complaints, nor believe that it is looked upon as a grievance by any, but those whom it restrains from living upon the game, and condemns to maintain themselves by a more honest and useful industry. I hope, sir, those that think this law for the preservation of their amusement, rational and just, will have at least the same regard to the defence of their country, and will not think their venison deserves greater solicitude than their fortunes and their liberties. Nor is it difficult, sir, to produce instances of the exercise of this power, for the end which is now proposed, without any consequences that should discourage us from repeating the experiment. I have now in my hand a letter, by which the mayor and aldermen of Bristol are empowered to seize all the sailors within the bounds of their jurisdiction, which order was executed without any outcries of oppression, or apprehensions of the approach of slavery. That this law, sir, will be always executed with the strictest impartiality, and without the least regard to any private purposes, cannot, indeed, be demonstratively proved; every law may possibly be abused by a combination of profligates; but it must, I think, be granted, that it is drawn up with all the caution that reason, or justice, or the corruption of the present age requires. I know not what can be contrived better than an association of men, unlikely to concur in their views and interests--a justice of the peace, a lieutenant of a ship, and a commissioner of the navy--three men, probably unknown to each other, and of which no one will be at all solicitous to desire the rest to unite to commit a crime, to which no temptation can be readily imagined. This caution, sir, which cannot but be approved, and which surely is some proof of judgment and consideration, ought, in my opinion, to have exempted the bill, and those by whose assistance it was drawn up, from the reproachful and indecent charge of absurdity, ignorance, and incapacity; terms which the dignity of this assembly does not admit, even when they are incontestably just, and which surely ought not to be made use of when the question is of a doubtful nature. The gentlemen, sir, who are now intrusted with publick employments, have never yet discovered that they are inferiour to their predecessors in knowledge or integrity; nor do their characters suffer any diminution by a comparison with those who vilify and traduce them. Those, sir, that treat others with such licentious contempt, ought surely to give some illustrious proof of their own abilities; and yet if we examine what has been produced on this question, we shall find no reason to admire their sagacity or their knowledge. We have been told, sir, that the fleet might properly be manned by a detachment from the army; but it has not been proved that we have any superfluous forces in the kingdom, nor, indeed, will our army be found sufficiently numerous, if, by neglecting to equip our fleet, we give our enemies an opportunity of entering our country. If it be inquired what necessity there is for our present forces? What expeditions are designed? Or what dangers are feared? I shall not think it my duty to return any answer. It is, sir, the great unhappiness of our constitution, that our determinations cannot be kept secret, and that our enemies may always form conjectures of our designs, by knowing our preparations; but surely more is not to be published than necessity extorts, and the government has a right to conceal what it would injure the nation to discover. Nor can I, sir, approve the method of levying sailors by the incitement of an exorbitant reward, a reward to be augmented at the pleasure of those who are to receive it. For what can be the consequence of such prodigality, but that those to whom the largest sum is offered, will yet refuse their service in expectation of a greater. The reward already proposed is, in my opinion, the utmost stretch of liberality; and all beyond may be censured as profusion. It is not to be imagined, sir, that all these objections were not made, and answered, in the reign of the late queen, when a bill of the same nature was proposed; they were answered, at least, by the necessity of those times, which necessity has now returned upon us. We do not find that it produced any consequences so formidable and destructive, that they should for ever discourage us from attempting to raise forces by the same means; it was then readily enacted, and executed without opposition, and without complaints; nor do I believe that any measures can be proposed of equal efficacy, and less severity. Mr. SANDYS replied, in substance as follows:--Sir, whether the precedents produced in defence of this bill, will have more weight than the arguments, must be shown by a careful examination, which will perhaps discover that the order sent to the magistrates of Bristol conveyed no new power, nor such as is, in any respect, parallel to that which this bill is intended to confer. They were only enjoined to inquire with more than usual strictness, after strollers and vagabonds, such as the law has always subjected to punishment, and send them to the fleet, instead of any other place of correction; a method which may now be pursued without danger, opposition, or complaint. But for my part, I am not able, upon the closest attention to the present scene of affairs, to find out the necessity of extraordinary methods of any kind. The fears of an invasion from France, are, in my opinion, sir, merely chimerical; from their fleet in America the coasts of Britain have nothing to fear, and after the numerous levies of seamen by which it was fitted out, it is not yet probable that they can speedily send out another. We know, sir, that the number of seamen depends upon the extent of commerce, and surely there is as yet no such disproportion between their trade and ours, as that they should be able to furnish out a naval armament with much greater expedition than ourselves. In America our forces are at least equal to theirs, so that it is not very probable, that after the total destruction of our fleet by them, they should be so little injured, as to be able immediately to set sail for the channel, and insult us in our own ports; to effect this, sir, they must not only conquer us, but conquer us without resistance. If they do not interrupt us in our attempts, nor expose themselves to an engagement, they may, indeed, return without suffering great damages, but I know not how they can leave the shores of America unobserved, or pour an unexpected invasion upon us. If they continue there, sir, they cannot hurt as, and when they return, we may prepare for their reception. There are men, I know, sir, who have reason to think highly of the French policy, and whose ideas may be exalted to a belief that they can perform impossibilities; but I have not yet prevailed upon myself to conceive that they can act invisibly, or that they can equip a fleet by sorcery, collect an army in a moment, and defy us on our own coast, without any perceptible preparations. Then admiral WAGER spoke thus:--The calamities produced by discord and contention, need not to be pointed out; but it may be proper to reflect upon the consequences of a house divided against itself, that we may endeavour to avoid them. Unanimity is produced by nothing more powerfully than by impending danger, and, therefore, it may be useful to show those who seem at present in profound security, that the power of France is more formidable than they are willing to allow. My age, sir, enables me to remember many transactions of the wars in the late reigns, to which many gentlemen are strangers, or of which they have only imperfect ideas from history and tradition. In the second year of the reign of William, the French gained a victory over the united fleets of the maritime powers, which gave them, for the summer following, the dominion of the Channel, enabled them to shut up our merchants in their ports, and produced a total suspension of our commerce. Those, sir, to whom the importance of trade is so well known, will easily apprehend the weight of this calamity, and will, I hope, reject no measures that have a manifest tendency to prevent it. Our ships, sir, do not lie useless because there is any want of seamen in the nation, but because any service is preferred to that of the publick. There are now, to my knowledge, in one town on the west coast, no fewer than twelve hundred sailors, of which surely a third part may be justly claimed by the publick interest; nor do I know why they who obstinately refuse to serve their country, should be treated with so much tenderness. It is more reasonable that they should suffer by their refusal, than that the general happiness should be endangered. Mr. SOUTHWELL spoke next, to the following purpose:--Sir, when any authority shall be lodged in my hands, to be exercised for the publick benefit, I shall always endeavour to exert it with honesty and diligence; but will never be made the instrument of oppression, nor execute any commission of tyranny or injustice. As, therefore, the power of searching is to be placed in the hands of justices of the peace, I think it necessary to declare, that I will never perform so hateful a part of the office, and that if this bill becomes a law, I will retire from the place to which my authority is limited, rather than contribute to the miseries of my fellow-subjects. Mr. LITTLETON spoke as follows:--Sir, all the arguments which have been offered in support of this bill, are reduced at last to one constant assertion of the necessity of passing it. We have been told, sir, with great acuteness, that a war cannot be carried on without men, and that ships are useless without sailors; and from thence it is inferred that the bill is necessary. That forces are by some means necessary to be raised, the warmest opponents of the bill will not deny, but they cannot, therefore, allow the inference, that the methods now proposed are necessary. They are of opinion, sir, that cruel and oppressive measures can never be justified, till all others have been tried without effect; they think that the law, when it was formerly passed, was unjust, and are convinced, by observing that it never was revived, and that it was by experience discovered to be useless. Necessity, absolute necessity, is a formidable sound, and may terrify the weak and timorous into silence and compliance; but it will be found, upon reflection, to be often nothing but an idle feint, to amuse and to delude us, and that what is represented as necessary to the publick, is only something convenient to men in power. Necessity, sir, has, heretofore, been produced as a plea for that which could be no otherwise defended. In the days of Charles the first, ship-money was declared to be legal, because it was necessary. Such was the reasoning of the lawyers, and the determination of the judges; but the senate, a senate of patriots! without fear, and without corruption, and influenced only by a sincere regard for the publick, were of a different opinion, and neither admitted the lawfulness nor necessity. It will become us, on this occasion, to act with equal vigour, and convince our countrymen, that we proceed upon the same principles, and that the liberties of the people are our chief care. I hope we shall unite in defeating any attempts that may impair the rights which every Briton boasts as his birthright, and reject a law which will be equally dreaded and detested with the inquisition of Spain. Sir William YONGE spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, though many particular clauses of this bill have been disapproved and opposed, some with more, and some with less reason, yet the committee has hitherto agreed that a bill for this purpose is necessary in the present state of our affairs; upon this principle we have proceeded thus far, several gentlemen have proposed their opinions, contributed their observations, and laboured as in an affair universally admitted to be of high importance to the general prosperity. But now, sir, when some of the difficulties are surmounted, some expedients luckily struck out, some objections removed, and the great design brought nearer to execution, we are on a sudden informed, that all our labour is superfluous, that we are amusing ourselves with useless consultations, providing against calamities that can never happen, and raising bulwarks without an enemy; that, therefore, the question before us is of no importance, and the bill ought, without farther examination, to be totally rejected. I suppose, sir, I shall be readily believed, when I declare that I shall willingly admit any arguments that may evince our safety; but, in proportion as real freedom from danger is to be desired, a supine and indolent neglect of it is to be dreaded and avoided; and I cannot but fear that our enemies are more formidable, and more malicious, than the gentlemen that oppose this bill have represented them. This bill can only be opposed upon the supposition that it gives a sanction to severities, more rigorous than our present circumstances require; for nothing can be more fallacious or invidious than a comparison of this law with the demand of ship-money, a demand contrary to all law, and enforced by the manifest exertion of arbitrary power. How has the conduct of his present majesty any resemblance with that of Charles the first? Is any money levied by order of the council? Are the determinations of the judges set in opposition to the decrees of the senate? Is any man injured in his property by an unlimited extension of the prerogative? or any tribunal established superiour to the laws of the nation? To draw parallels, sir, where there is no resemblance; and to accuse, by insinuations, where there is no shadow of a crime; to raise outcries when no injury is attempted; and to deny a real necessity because it was once pretended for a bad purpose; is surely not to advance the publick service, which can be promoted only by just reasonings, and calm reflections, not by sophistry and satire, by insinuations without ground, and by instances beside the purpose. Mr. LITTLETON answered:--Sir, true zeal for the service of the publick is never discovered by collusive subterfuges and malicious representations; a mind, attentive to the common good, would hardly, on an occasion like this, have been at leisure to pervert an harmless illustration, and extract disaffection from a casual remark. It is, indeed, not impossible, sir, that I might express myself obscurely; and it may be, therefore, necessary to declare that I intended no disrespectful reflection on the conduct of his majesty; but must observe, at the same time, that obscure or inaccurate expressions ought always to be interpreted in the most inoffensive meaning, and that to be too sagacious in discovering concealed insinuations, is no great proof of superiour integrity. Wisdom, sir, is seldom captious, and honesty seldom suspicious; a man capable of comprehending the whole extent of a question, disdains to divert his attention by trifling observations; and he that is above the practice of little arts, or the motions of petty malice, does not easily imagine them incident to another. That in the question of ship-money necessity was pretended, cannot be denied; and, therefore, all that I asserted, which was only that the nation had been once terrified without reason, by the formidable sound of necessity, is evident and uncontested. When a fraud has once been practised, it is of use to remember it, that we may not twice be deceived by the same artifice; and, therefore, I mentioned the plea of necessity, that it may be inquired whether it is now more true than before. That the senate, sir, and not the judges, is now applied to, is no proof of the validity of the arguments which have been produced; for in the days of ship-money, the consent of the senate had been asked, had there been any prospect of obtaining it; but the court had been convinced, by frequent experiments, of the inflexibility of the senate, and despaired of influencing them by prospects of advantage, or intimidating them by frowns or menaces. May this and every future senate imitate their conduct, and, like them, distinguish between real and pretended necessity; and let not us be terrified, by idle clamours, into the establishment of a law at once useless and oppressive. Sir William YONGE replied:--Sir, that I did not intend to misrepresent the meaning of the honourable gentleman, I hope it is not necessary to declare; and that I have, in reality, been guilty of any misrepresentation, I am not yet convinced. If he did not intend a parallel between ship-money and the present bill, to what purpose was his observation? and if he did intend it, was it not proper to show there was no resemblance, and that all which could be inferred from it was, therefore, fallacious and inconclusive? Nor do I only differ, sir, in opinion with the honourable gentleman with relation to his comparison of measures, which have nothing in common with each other; but will venture to declare, that he is not more accurate in his citations from history. The king did not apply to the judges, because the senate would not have granted him the money that he demanded, but because his chief ambition was to govern the nation by the prerogative alone, and to free himself and his descendants from senatorial inquiries. That this account, sir, is just, I am confident the histories of those times will discover; and, therefore, any invidious comparison between that senate and any other, is without foundation in reason or in truth. Mr. BATHURST spoke as follows:--Sir, that this law will easily admit, in the execution of it, such abuses as will overbalance the benefits, may readily be proved; and it will not be consistent with that regard to the publick, expected from us by those whom we represent, to enact a law which may probably become an instrument of oppression. The servant by whom I am now attended, may be termed, according to the determination of the vindicators of this bill, a seafaring man, having been once in the West Indies; and he may, therefore, be forced from my service, and dragged into a ship, by the authority of a justice of the peace, perhaps of some abandoned prostitute, dignified with a commission only to influence elections, and awe those whom excises and riot-acts cannot subdue. I think it, sir, not improper to declare, that I would by force oppose the execution of a law like this; that I would bar my doors and defend them; that I would call my neighbours to my assistance; and treat those who should attempt to enter without my consent, as thieves, ruffians, and murderers. Lord GAGE spoke to this effect:--Sir, it is well known that by the laws of this nation, poverty is, in some degree, considered as a crime, and that the debtor has only this advantage over the felon, that he cannot be pursued into his dwelling, nor be forced from the shelter of his own house. I think it is universally agreed, that the condition of a man in debt is already sufficiently miserable, and that it would be more worthy of the legislative power to contrive alleviations of his hardships, than additions to them; and it seems, therefore, no inconsiderable objection to this bill, that, by conferring the power of entering houses by force, it may give the harpies of the law an opportunity of entering, in the tumult of an impress, and of dragging a debtor to a noisome prison, under pretence of forcing sailors into the service of the crown. Mr. TRACEY then said:--Sir, that some law for the ends proposed by the bill before us, is necessary, I do not see how we can doubt, after the declarations of the admirals, who are fully acquainted with the service for which provision is to be made; and of the ministry, whose knowledge of the present state of our own strength, and the designs of our enemies, is, doubtless, more exact than they can acquire who are not engaged in publick employments. If, therefore, the measures now proposed are necessary, though they may not be agreeable to the present dispositions of the people, for whose preservation they are intended, I shall think it my duty to concur in them, that the publick service may not be retarded, nor the safety of a whole nation hazarded, by a scrupulous attention to minute objections. Mr. CAMPBELL spoke as follows:--Sir, I have often, amidst my elogies on British liberty, and my declarations of the excellence of our constitution, the impartiality of our government, and the efficacy of our laws, been reproached by foreigners with the practice of impresses, as a hardship which would raise a rebellion in absolute monarchies, and kindle those nations into madness, that have, for many ages, known no other law than the will of their princes. A hardship which includes imprisonment and slavery, and to which, therefore, no aggravations ought to be added. But if justice and reason, sir, are to be overborne by necessity; if necessity is to stop our ears against the complaints of the oppressed, and harden our hearts at the sight of their misery, let it, at least, not destroy our memories, nor deprive us of the advantages of experience. Let us inquire, sir, what were the effects of this hateful authority when it was formerly consigned to the magistrates. Were our fleets manned in an instant? were our harbours immediately crowded with sailors? did we surprise our enemies by our expedition, and make conquests before an invasion could be suspected? I have heard, sir, of no such consequences, nor of any advantages which deserved to be purchased by tyranny and oppression. We have found that very few were procured by the magistrates, and the charge of seizing and conveying was very considerable; and, therefore, cannot but conclude that illegal measures, which have been once tried without success, should, for a double reason, never be revived. Sir John BARNARD spoke to this effect:--Sir, it is not without regret that I rise so often on this occasion: for to dispute with those whose determinations are not influenced by reason, is a ridiculous task, a tiresome labour, without prospect of reward. But, as an honourable gentleman has lately remarked, that by denying the necessity of the bill, instead of making objections to particular clauses, the whole design of finding expedients to supply the sea service is at once defeated; I think it necessary to remind him, that I have made many objections to this bill, and supported them by reasons which have not yet been answered. But I shall now no longer confine my remarks to single errours, but observe that there is one general defect, by which the whole bill is made absurd and useless. For the foundation of a law like this, sir, the description of a seaman ought to be accurately laid down, it ought to be declared what acts shall subject him to that denomination, and by what means, after having once enlisted himself in this unhappy class of men, he may withdraw into a more secure and happy state of life. Is a man, who has once only lost sight of the shore, to be for ever hunted as a seaman? Is a man, who, by traffick, has enriched a family, to be forced from his possessions by the authority of an impress? Is a man, who has purchased an estate, and built a seat, to solicit the admiralty for a protection from the neighbouring constable? Such questions as these, sir, may be asked, which the bill before us will enable no man to answer. If a bill for this purpose be truly necessary, let it, at least, be freed from such offensive absurdities; let it be drawn up in a form as different as is possible from that of the bill before us; and, at last, I am far from imagining that a law will be contrived not injurious to individuals, nor detrimental to the publick; not contrary to the first principles of our establishment, and not loaded with folly and absurdities. Mr. VYNER then spoke:--Sir, a definition of a seaman is so necessary in a bill for this purpose, that the omission of it will defeat all the methods that can be suggested. How shall a law be executed, or a penalty inflicted, when the magistrate has no certain marks whereby he may distinguish a criminal? and when even the man that is prosecuted may not be conscious of guilt, or know that the law extended to him, which he is charged with having offended. If, in defining a seaman on the present occasion, it be thought proper to have any regard to the example of our predecessors, whose wisdom has, in this debate, been so much magnified; it may be observed, that a seaman has been formerly defined, a man who haunts the seas; a definition which seems to imply habit and continuance, and not to comprehend a man who has, perhaps, never gone more than a single voyage. But though this definition, sir, should be added to the amendments already proposed, and the bill thereby be brought somewhat nearer to the constitutional principles of our government; I cannot yet think it so much rectified, as that the hardships will not outweigh the benefits, and, therefore, shall continue to oppose the bill, though to some particular clauses I have no objection. [The term _seafaring man_ was left out, and the several amendments were admitted in the committee, but the clauses themselves, to the number of eleven, were given up on the report.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 10, 1740-1. The commons resolved their house into a committee, to consider the bill for the encouragement of sailors, when admiral WAGER offered a clause, by which it was to be enacted, "That no merchants, or bodies corporate or politick, shall hire sailors at higher wages than thirty-five shillings for the month, on pain of forfeiting the treble value of the sum so agreed for;" which law was to commence after fifteen days, and continue for a time to be agreed on by the house: and then spoke to the following purpose:-- Sir, the necessity of this clause must be so apparent to every gentleman acquainted with naval and commercial affairs, that as no opposition can be apprehended, very few arguments will be requisite to introduce it. How much the publick calamities of war are improved by the sailors to their own private advantage; how generally they shun the publick service, in hopes of receiving exorbitant wages from the merchants; and how much they extort from the merchants, by threatening to leave their service for that of the crown, is universally known to every officer of the navy, and every commander of a trading vessel. A law, therefore, sir, to restrain them in time of war from such exorbitant demands; to deprive them of those prospects which have often no other effect than to lull them in idleness, while they skulk about in expectation of higher wages; and to hinder them from deceiving themselves, embarrassing the merchants, and neglecting the general interest of their country, is undoubtedly just. It is just, sir, because in regard to the publick it is necessary to prevent the greatest calamity that can fall upon a people, to preserve us from receiving laws from the most implacable of our enemies; and it is just, because with respect to particular men it has no tendency but to suppress idleness, fraud, and extortion. Mr. Henby FOX spoke next:--Sir, I have no objection to any part of this clause, except the day proposed for the commencement: to make a law against any pernicious practice, to which there are strong temptations, and to give those whose interest may incite them to it, time to effect their schemes, before the law shall begin to operate, seems not very consistent with wisdom or vigilance. It is not denied, sir, that the merchants are betrayed by that regard to private interest which prevails too frequently over nobler views, to bribe away from the service of the crown, by large rewards, those sailors whose assistance is now so necessary to the publick; and, therefore, it is not to be imagined that they will not employ their utmost diligence to improve the interval which the bill allows in making contracts for the ensuing, year, and that the sailors will not eagerly engage themselves before this law shall preclude their prospects of advantage. As, therefore, to make no law, and to make a law that will not be observed, is in consequence the same; and the time allowed by the clause, as it now stands, may make the whole provision ineffectual; it is my opinion, that either it ought to begin to operate to-morrow, or that we ought to leave the whole affair in its present state. Then sir Robert WALPOLE spoke as follows:--Sir, nothing has a greater appearance of injustice, than to punish men by virtue of laws, with which they were not acquainted; the law, therefore, is always supposed to be known by those who have offended it, because it is the duty of every man to know it; and certainly it ought to be the care of the legislature, that those whom a law will affect, may have a possibility of knowing it, and that those may not be punished for failing in their duty, whom nothing but inevitable ignorance has betrayed into offence. But if the operation of this law should commence to-morrow, what numbers may break it, and suffer by the breach of it involuntarily, and without design; and how shall we vindicate ourselves from having been accessory to the crime which we censure and punish? Mr. FOX replied:--Sir, I shall not urge in defence of my motion what is generally known, and has been frequently inculcated in all debates upon this bill, that private considerations ought always to give way to the necessities of the publick; for I think it sufficient to observe, that there is a distinction to be made between punishments and restraints, and that we never can be too early in the prevention of pernicious practices, though we may sometimes delay to punish them. The law will be known to-morrow, to far the greatest number of those who may be tempted to defeat it; and if there be others that break it ignorantly, how will they find themselves injured by being only obliged to pay less than they promised, which is all that I should propose without longer warning. The debate upon this particular, will be at length reduced to a question, whether a law for this purpose is just and expedient? If a law be necessary, it is necessary that it should be executed; and it can be executed only by commencing to-morrow. Lord BALTIMORE spoke thus:--Sir, it appears to me of no great importance how soon the operation of the law commences, or how long it is delayed, because I see no reason for imagining that it will at any time produce the effects proposed by it. It has been the amusement, sir, of a great part of my life, to converse with men whose inclinations or employments have made them well acquainted with maritime affairs, and amidst innumerable other schemes for the promotion of trade, have heard some for the regulation of wages in trading ships; schemes, at the first appearance plausible and likely to succeed, but, upon a nearer inquiry, evidently entangled with insuperable difficulties, and never to be executed without danger of injuring the commerce of the nation. The clause, sir, now before us contains, in my opinion, one of those visionary provisions, which, however infallible they may appear, will be easily defeated, and will have no other effect than to promote cunning and fraud, and to teach men those acts of collusion, with which they would otherwise never have been acquainted. Mr. LODWICK spoke to this effect:--Sir, I agree with the honourable gentleman by whom this clause has been offered, that the end for which it is proposed, is worthy of the closest attention of the legislative power, and that the evils of which the prevention is now endeavoured, may in some measure not only obstruct our traffick, but endanger our country; and shall therefore very readily concur in any measures for this purpose, that shall not appear either unjust or ineffectual. Whether this clause will be sufficient to restrain all elusive contracts, and whether all the little artifices of interest are sufficiently obviated, I am yet unable to determine; but by a reflection upon the multiplicity of relations to be considered, and the variety of circumstances to be adjusted in a provision of this kind, I am inclined to think that, it is not the business of a transient inquiry, or of a single clause, but that it will demand a separate law, and engage the deliberation and regard of this whole assembly. Sir John BARNARD said:--Sir, notwithstanding the impatience and resentment with which some men see their mistakes and ignorance detected; notwithstanding the reverence which negligence and haste are said to be entitled to from this assembly, I shall declare once more, without the apprehension of being confuted, that this bill was drawn up without consideration, and is defended without being understood; that after all the amendments which have been admitted, and all the additions proposed, it will be oppressive and ineffectual, a chaos of absurdities, and a monument of ignorance. Sir Robert WALPOLE replied:--Sir, the present business of this assembly is to examine the clause before us; but to deviate from so necessary an inquiry into loud exclamations against the whole bill, is to obstruct the course of the debate, to perplex our attention, and interrupt the senate in its deliberation upon questions, in the determination of which the security of the publick is nearly concerned. The war, sir, in which we are now engaged, and, I may add, engaged by the general request of the whole nation, can be prosecuted only by the assistance of the seamen, from whom it is not to be expected that they will sacrifice their immediate advantage to the security of their country. Publick spirit, where it is to be found, is the result of reflection, refined by study and exalted by education, and is not to be hoped for among those whom low fortune has condemned to perpetual drudgery. It must be, therefore, necessary to supply the defects of education, and to produce, by salutary coercions, those effects which it is vain to expect from other causes. That the service of the sailors will be set up to sale by auction, and that the merchants will bid against the government, is incontestable; nor is there any doubt that they will be able to offer the highest price, because they will take care to repay themselves by raising the value of their goods. Thus, without some restraint upon the merchants, our enemies, who are not debarred by their form of government from any method which policy can invent, or absolute power put in execution, will preclude all our designs, and set at defiance a nation superiour to themselves. Sir John BARNARD then said:--Sir, I think myself obliged by my duty to my country, and by my gratitude to those by whose industry we are enriched, and by whose courage we are defended, to make, once more, a declaration, not against particular clauses, not against single circumstances, but against the whole bill; a bill unjust and oppressive, absurd and ridiculous; a bill to harass the industrious and distress the honest, to puzzle the wise and add power to the cruel; a bill which cannot be read without astonishment, nor passed without the violation of our constitution, and an equal disregard of policy and humanity. All these assertions will need to be proved only by a bare perusal of this hateful bill, by which the meanest, the most worthless reptile, exalted to a petty office by serving a wretch only superiour to him in fortune, is enabled to flush his authority by tyrannising over those who every hour deserve the publick acknowledgments of the community; to intrude upon the retreats of brave men, fatigued and exhausted by honest industry, to drag them out with all the wantonness of grovelling authority, and chain them to the oar without a moment's respite, or perhaps oblige them to purchase, with the gains of a dangerous voyage, or the plunder of an enemy lately conquered, a short interval to settle their affairs, or bid their children farewell. Let any gentleman in this house, let those, sir, who now sit at ease, projecting laws of oppression, and conferring upon their own slaves such licentious authority, pause a few moments, and imagine themselves exposed to the same hardships by a power superiour to their own; let them conceive themselves torn from the tenderness and caresses of their families by midnight irruptions, dragged in triumph through the streets by a despicable officer, and placed under the command of those by whom they have, perhaps, been already oppressed and insulted. Why should we imagine that the race of men for whom those cruelties are preparing, have less sensibility than ourselves? Why should we believe that they will suffer without complaint, and be injured without resentment? Why should we conceive that they will not at once deliver themselves, and punish their oppressors, by deserting that country where they are considered as felons, and laying hold on those rewards and privileges which no other government will deny them? This is, indeed, the only tendency, whatever may have been the intention of the bill before us; for I know not whether the most refined sagacity can discover any other method of discouraging navigation than those which are drawn together in the bill before us. We first give our constables an authority to hunt the sailors like thieves, and drive them, by incessant pursuit, out of the nation; but lest any man should by friendship, good fortune, or the power of money, find means of staying behind, we have with equal wisdom condemned him to poverty and misery; and lest the natural courage of his profession should incite him to assist his country in the war, have contrived a method of precluding him from any advantage that he might have the weakness to hope from his fortitude and diligence. What more can be done, unless we at once prohibit to seamen the use of the common elements, or doom them to a general proscription. It is just that advantage, sir, should be proportioned to the hazard by which it is to be obtained, and, therefore, a sailor has an honest claim to an advance of wages in time of war; it is necessary to excite expectation, and to fire ambition by the prospect of great acquisitions, and by this prospect it is that such numbers are daily allured to naval business, and that our privateers are filled with adventurers. The large wages which war makes necessary, are more powerful incentives to those whom impatience of poverty determines to change their state of life, than the secure gains of peaceful commerce; for the danger is overlooked by a mind intent upon the profit. War is the harvest of a sailor, in which he is to store provisions for the winter of old age, and if we blast this hope, he will inevitably sink into indolence and cowardice. Many of the sailors are bred up to trades, or capable of any laborious employment upon land; nor is there any reason for which they expose themselves to the dangers of a seafaring life, but the hope of sudden wealth, and some lucky season in which they may improve their fortunes by a single effort. Is it reasonable to believe that all these will not rather have recourse to their former callings, and live in security, though not in plenty, than encounter danger and poverty at once, and face an enemy without any prospect of recompense? Let any man recollect the ideas that arose in his mind upon hearing of a bill for encouraging and increasing sailors, and examine whether he had any expectation of expedients like these. I suppose it was never known before, that men were to be encouraged by subjecting them to peculiar penalties, or that to take away the gains of a profession, was a method of recommending it more generally to the people. But it is not of very great importance to dwell longer upon the impropriety of this clause, which there is no possibility of putting in execution. That the merchants will try every method of eluding a law so prejudicial to their interest, may be easily imagined, and a mind not very fruitful of evasions, will discover that this law may be eluded by a thousand artifices. If the merchants are restrained from allowing men their wages beyond a certain sum, they will make contracts for the voyage, of which the time may very easily be computed, they may offer a reward for expedition and fidelity, they may pay a large sum by way of advance, they may allow the sailors part of the profits, or may offer money by a third hand. To fix the price of any commodity, of which the quantity and the use may vary their proportions, is the most excessive degree of ignorance. No man can determine the price of corn, unless he can regulate the harvest, and keep the number of the people for ever at a stand. But let us suppose these methods as efficacious as their most sanguine vindicators are desirous of representing them, it does not yet appear that they are necessary, and to inflict hardships without necessity, is by no means the practice of either wisdom or benevolence. To tyrannise and compel is the low pleasure of petty capacities, of narrow minds, swelled with the pride of uncontroulable authority, the wantonness of wretches who are insensible of the consequences of their own actions, and of whom candour may, perhaps, determine, that they are only cruel because they are stupid. Let us not exalt into a precedent the most unjust and rigorous law of our predecessors, of which they themselves declared their repentance, or confessed the inefficacy, by never reviving it; let us rather endeavour to gain the sailors by lenity and moderation, and reconcile them to the service of the crown by real encouragements; for it is rational to imagine, that in proportion as men are disgusted by injuries, they will be won by kindness. There is one expedient, sir, which deserves to be tried, and from which, at least, more success may be hoped than from cruelty, hunger, and persecution. The ships that are now to be fitted out for service, are those of the first magnitude, which it is usual to bring back into the ports in winter. Let us, therefore, promise to all seamen that shall voluntarily engage in them, besides the reward already proposed, a discharge from the service at the end of six or seven months. By this they will be released from their present dread of perpetual slavery, and be certain, as they are when in the service of the merchants, of a respite from their fatigues. The trade of the nation will be only interrupted for a time, and may be carried on in the winter months, and large sums will be saved by dismissing the seamen when they cannot be employed. By adding this to the other methods of encouragement, and throwing aside all rigorous and oppressive schemes, the navy may easily be manned, our country protected, our commerce reestablished, and our enemies subdued; but to pass the bill as it now stands, is to determine that trade shall cease, and that no ship shall sail out of the river. Mr. PITT spoke to the following purport:--Sir, it is common for those to have the greatest regard to their own interest who discover the least for that of others. I do not, therefore, despair of recalling the advocates of this bill from the prosecution of their favourite measures, by arguments of greater efficacy than those which are founded on reason and justice. Nothing, sir, is more evident, than that some degree of reputation is absolutely necessary to men who have any concern in the administration of a government like ours; they must either secure the fidelity of their adherents by the assistance of wisdom, or of virtue; their enemies must either be awed by their honesty, or terrified by their cunning. Mere artless bribery will never gain a sufficient majority to set them entirely free from apprehensions of censure. To different tempers different motives must be applied: some, who place their felicity in being accounted wise, are in very little care to preserve the character of honesty; others may be persuaded to join in measures which they easily discover to be weak and ill-concerted, because they are convinced that the authors of them are not corrupt but mistaken, and are unwilling that any man should be punished for natural defects or casual ignorance. I cannot say, sir, which of these motives influences the advocates for the bill before us; a bill in which such cruelties are proposed as are yet unknown among the most savage nations, such as slavery has not yet borne, or tyranny invented, such as cannot be heard without resentment, nor thought of without horrour. It is, sir, perhaps, not unfortunate, that one more expedient has been added, rather ridiculous than shocking, and that these tyrants of the administration, who amuse themselves with oppressing their fellow-subjects, who add without reluctance one hardship to another, invade the liberty of those whom they have already overborne with taxes, first plunder and then imprison, who take all opportunities of heightening the publick distresses, and make the miseries of war the instruments of new oppressions, are too ignorant to be formidable, and owe their power not to their abilities, but to casual prosperity, or to the influence of money. The other clauses of this bill, complicated at once with cruelty and folly, have been treated with becoming indignation; but this may be considered with less ardour of resentment, and fewer emotions of zeal, because, though, perhaps, equally iniquitous, it will do no harm; for a law that can never be executed can never be felt. That it will consume the manufacture of paper, and swell the books of statutes, is all the good or hurt that can be hoped or feared from a law like this; a law which fixes what is in its own nature mutable, which prescribes rules to the seasons and limits to the wind. I am too well acquainted, sir, with the disposition of its two chief supporters, to mention the contempt with which this law will be treated by posterity, for they have already shown abundantly their disregard of succeeding generations; but I will remind them, that they are now venturing their whole interest at once, and hope they will recollect, before it is too late, that those who believe them to intend the happiness of their country, will never be confirmed in their opinion by open cruelty and notorious oppression; and that those who have only their own interest in view, will be afraid of adhering to those leaders, however old and practised in expedients, however strengthened by corruption, or elated with power, who have no reason to hope for success from either their virtue or abilities. Mr. BATHURST next spoke to this effect:--Sir, the clause now under our consideration is so inconsiderately drawn up, that it is impossible to read it in the most cursory manner, without discovering the necessity of numerous amendments; no malicious subtilties or artful deductions are required in raising objections to this part of the bill, they crowd upon us without being sought, and, instead of exercising our sagacity, weary our attention. The first errour, or rather one part of a general and complicated errour, is the computation of time, not by days, but by calendar months, which, as they are not equal one to another, may embarrass the account between the sailors and those that employ them. In all contracts of a short duration, the time is to be reckoned by weeks and days, by certain and regular periods, which has been so constantly the practice of the seafaring men, that, perhaps, many of them do not know the meaning of a calendar month: this, indeed, is a neglect of no great importance, because no man can be deprived by it of more than the wages due for the labour of a few days; but the other part of this clause is more seriously to be considered, as it threatens the sailors with greater injuries: for it is to be enacted, that all contracts made for more wages than are here allowed shall be totally void. It cannot be denied to be possible, and in my opinion it is very likely, that many contracts will be made without the knowledge of this law, and consequently without any design of violating it; but ignorance, inevitable ignorance, though it is a valid excuse for every other man, is no plea for the unhappy sailor; he must suffer, though innocent, the penalty of a crime; must undergo danger, hardships, and labour, without a recompense, and at the end of a successful voyage, after having enriched his country by his industry, return home to a necessitous family, without being able to relieve them. It is scarcely necessary, sir, to raise any more objections to a clause in which nothing is right; but, to show how its imperfections multiply upon the slightest consideration, I take the opportunity to observe, that there is no provision made for regulating the voyages performed in less time than a month, so that the greatest part of the abuses, which have been represented as the occasion of this clause, are yet without remedy, and only those sailors who venture far, and are exposed to the greatest dangers, are restrained from receiving an adequate reward. Thus much, sir, I have said upon the supposition that a regulation of the sailors' wages is either necessary or just; a supposition of which I am very far from discovering the truth. That it is just to oppress the most useful of our fellow-subjects, to load those men with peculiar hardships to whom we owe the plenty that we enjoy, the power that yet remains in the nation, and which neither the folly nor the cowardice of ministers have yet been able to destroy, and the security in which we now sit and hold our consultations; that it is just to lessen our payments at a time when we increase the labour of those who are hired, and to expose men to danger without recompense, will not easily be proved, even by those who are most accustomed to paradoxes, and are ready to undertake the proof of any position which it is their interest to find true. Nor is it much more easy to show the necessity of this expedient in our present state, in which it appears from the title of the bill, that our chief endeavour should be the increase and encouragement of sailors, and, I suppose, it has not often been discovered, that by taking away the profits of a profession greater numbers have been allured to it. The high wages, sir, paid by merchants are the chief incitements that prevail upon the ambitious, the necessitous, or the avaricious, to forsake the ease and security of the land, to leave easy trades, and healthful employments, and expose themselves to an element where they are not certain of an hour's safety. The service of the merchants is the nursery in which seamen are trained up for his majesty's navies, and from thence we must, in time of danger, expect those forces by which alone we can be protected. If, therefore, it is necessary to encourage sailors, it is necessary to reject all measures that may terrify or disgust them; and as their numbers must depend upon our trade, let us not embarrass the merchants with any other difficulties than those which are inseparable from war, and which very little care has been hitherto taken to alleviate. Mr. HAY replied:--Sir, the objections which have been urged with so much ardour, and displayed with such power of eloquence, are not, in my opinion, formidable enough to discourage us from prosecuting our measures; some of them may be, perhaps, readily answered, and the rest easily removed. The computation of time, as it now stands, is allowed not to produce any formidable evil, and therefore did not require so rhetorical a censure: the inconveniency of calendar months may easily be removed by a little candour in the contracting parties, or, that the objection may not be repeated to the interruption of the debate, weeks or days may be substituted, and the usual reckoning of the sailors be still continued. That some contracts may be annulled, and inconveniencies or delays of payment arise, is too evident to be questioned; but in that case the sailor may have his remedy provided, and be enabled to obtain, by an easy process, what he shall be judged to _have deserved_; for it must be allowed reasonable, that every man who labours in honest and useful employments, should receive the reward of his diligence and fidelity. Thus, sir, may the clause, however loudly censured and violently opposed, be made useful and equitable, and the publick service advanced without injury to individuals. Sir Robert WALPOLE next rose, and spoke as follows:--Sir, every law which extends its influence to great numbers in various relations and circumstances, must produce some consequences that were never foreseen or intended, and is to be censured or applauded as the general advantages or inconveniencies are found to preponderate. Of this kind is the law before us, a law enforced by the necessity of our affairs, and drawn up with no other intention than to secure the publick happiness, and produce that success which every man's interest must prompt him to desire. If in the execution of this law, sir, some inconveniencies should arise, they are to be remedied as fast as they are discovered, or if not capable of a remedy, to be patiently borne, in consideration of the general advantage. That some temporary disturbances may be produced is not improbable; the discontent of the sailors may, for a short time, rise high, and our trade be suspended by their obstinacy; but obstinacy, however determined, must yield to hunger, and when no higher wages can be obtained, they will cheerfully accept of those which are here allowed them. Short voyages, indeed, are not comprehended in the clause, and therefore the sailors will engage in them upon their own terms, but this objection can be of no weight with those that oppose the clause, because, if it is unjust to limit the wages of the sailors, it is just to leave those voyages without restriction; and those that think the expedient here proposed equitable and rational, may, perhaps, be willing to make some concessions to those who are of a different opinion. That the bill will not remove every obstacle to success, nor add weight to one part of the balance without making the other lighter; that it will not supply the navy without incommoding the merchants in some degree; that it may be sometimes evaded by cunning, and sometimes abused by malice; and that at last it will be less efficacious than is desired, may, perhaps, be proved; but it has not yet been proved that any other measures are more eligible, or that we are not to promote the publick service as far as we are able, though our endeavours may not produce effects equal to our wishes. Sir John BARNARD then spoke, to this effect:--Sir, I know not by what fatality it is that nothing can be urged in defence of the clause before us which does not tend to discover its weakness and inefficacy. The warmest patrons of this expedient are impelled, by the mere force of conviction, to such concessions as invalidate all their arguments, and leave their opponents no necessity of replying. If short voyages are not comprehended in this provision, what are we now controverting? What but the expedience of a law that will never be executed? The sailors, however they are contemned by those who think them only worthy to be treated like beasts of burden, are not yet so stupid but that they can easily find out, that to serve a fortnight for greater wages is more eligible than to toil a month for less; and as the numerous equipments that have been lately made have not left many more sailors in the service of the merchants than may be employed in the coasting trade, those who traffick to remoter parts, must shut up their books and wait till the expiration of this act, for an opportunity of renewing their commerce. To regulate the wages for one voyage, and to leave another without limitation, in time of scarcity of seamen, is absolutely to prohibit that trade which is so restrained, and is, doubtless, a more effectual embargo than has been yet invented. Let any man but suppose that the East India company were obliged to give only half the wages that other traders allow, and consider how that part of our commerce could be carried on; would not their goods rot in their warehouses, and their ships lie for ever in the harbour? Would not the sailors refuse to contract with them? or desert them after a contract, upon the first prospect of more advantageous employment? But it is not requisite to multiply arguments in a question which may not only be decided without long examination, but in which we may determine our conclusions by the experience of our ancestors. Scarcely any right or wrong measures are without a precedent, and, amongst others, this expedient has been tried by the wisdom of former times; a law was once made for limiting the wages of tailors, and that it is totally ineffectual we are all convinced. Experience is a very safe guide in political inquiries, and often discovers what the most enlightened reason failed to foresee. Let us, therefore, improve the errours of our ancestors to our own advantage, and whilst we neglect to imitate their virtues, let us, at least, forbear to repeat their follies. Mr. PERRY spoke to this purpose:--Sir, there is one objection more which my acquaintance with foreign trade impresses too strongly upon my mind to suffer me to conceal it. It is well known that the condition of a seaman subjects him to the necessity of spending a great part of his life at a distance from his native country, in places where he can neither hear of our designs, nor be instructed in our laws, and, therefore, it is evident that no law ought to affect him before a certain period of time, in which he may reasonably be supposed to have been informed of it. For every man ought to have it in his power to avoid punishment, and to suffer only for negligence or obstinacy. It is quite unnecessary, sir, to observe to this assembly, that there are now, as at all times, great numbers of sailors in every part of the world, and that they, at least, equally deserve our regard with those who are under the more immediate influence of the government. These seamen have already contracted for the price of their labour, and the recompense of their hazards, nor can we, in my opinion, without manifest injustice, dissolve a contract founded upon equity, and confirmed by law. It is, sir, an undisputed principle of government, that no person should be punished without a crime; but is it no punishment to deprive a man of what is due to him by a legal stipulation, the condition of which is, on his part, honestly fulfilled? Nothing, sir, can be imagined more calamitous than the disappointment to which this law subjects the unhappy men who are now promoting the interest of their country in distant places, amidst dangers and hardships, in unhealthy climates, and barbarous nations, where they comfort themselves, under the fatigues of labour and the miseries of sickness, with the prospect of the sum which they shall gain for the relief of their families, and the respite which their wages will enable them to enjoy; but, upon their return, they find their hopes blasted, and their contracts dissolved by a law made in their absence. No human being, I think, can coolly and deliberately inflict a hardship like this, and, therefore, I doubt not but those who have, by inadvertency, given room for this objection, will either remove it by an amendment, or what is, in my opinion, more eligible, reject the clause as inexpedient, useless, and unjust. Sir William YONGE spoke next to this effect:--Sir, this debate has been protracted, not by any difficulties arising from the nature of the questions which have been the subject of it, but by a neglect with which almost all the opponents of the bill may be justly charged, the neglect of distinguishing between measures eligible in themselves, and measures preferable to consequences which are apprehended from particular conjunctures; between laws made only to advance the publick happiness, and expedients of which the benefit is merely occasional, and of which the sole intention is to avert some national calamity, and which are to cease with the necessity that produced them. Such are the measures, sir, which are now intended; measures, which, in days of ease, security, and prosperity, it would be the highest degree of weakness to propose, but of which I cannot see the absurdity in times of danger and distress. Such laws are the medicines of a state, useless and nauseous in health, but preferable to a lingering disease, or to a miserable death. Even those measures, sir, which have been mentioned as most grossly absurd, and represented as parallel to the provision made in this clause only to expose it to contempt and ridicule, may, in particular circumstances, be rational and just. To settle the price of corn in the time of a famine, may become the wisest state, and multitudes might, in time of publick misery, by the benefit of temporary laws, be preserved from destruction. Even those masts, to which, with a prosperous gale, the ship owes its usefulness and its speed, are often cut down by the sailors in the fury of a storm. With regard to the ships which are now in distant places, whither no knowledge of this law can possibly be conveyed, it cannot be denied that their crews ought to be secured from injury by some particular exception; for though it is evident in competitions between publick and private interest, which ought to be preferred, yet we ought to remember that no unnecessary injury is to be done to individuals, even while we are providing for the safety of the nation. Mr. FAZAKERLY spoke to this effect:--Sir, though I cannot be supposed to have much acquaintance with naval affairs, and, therefore, may not, perhaps, discover the full force of the arguments that have been urged in favour of the clause now under consideration, yet I cannot but think myself under an indispensable obligation to examine it as far as I am able, and to make use of the knowledge which I have acquired, however inferiour to that of others. The argument, sir, the only real argument, which has been produced in favour of the restraint of wages now proposed, appears to me by no means conclusive; nor can I believe that the meanest and most ignorant seaman would, if it were proposed to him, hesitate a moment for an answer to it. Let me suppose, sir, a merchant urging it as a charge against a seaman, that he raises his demand of wages in time of war, would not the sailor readily reply, that harder labour required larger pay? Would he not ask, why the general practice of mankind is charged as a crime upon him only? Inquire, says he, of the workmen in the docks, have they not double wages for double labour? and is not their lot safe and easy in comparison with mine, who at once encounter danger and support fatigue, carry on war and commerce at the same time, conduct the ship and oppose the enemy, and am equally exposed to captivity and shipwreck? That this is, in reality, the state of a sailor in time of war, I think, sir, too evident to require proof; nor do I see what reply can be made to the sailor's artless expostulation. I know not why the sailors alone should serve their country to their disadvantage, and be expected to encounter danger without the incitement of a reward. Nor will any part of the hardships of this clause be alleviated by the expedient suggested by an honourable member, who spoke, some time ago, of granting, or allowing, to a sailor, whose contract shall be void, what our courts of law should adjudge him to deserve, a _quantum meruit_: for, according to the general interpretation of our statutes, it will be determined that he has forfeited his whole claim by illegal contract. To instance, sir, the statute of usury. He that stipulates for higher interest than is allowed, is not able to recover his legal demand, but irrecoverably forfeits the whole. Thus, sir, an unhappy sailor who shall innocently transgress this law, must lose all the profit of his voyage, and have nothing to relieve him after his fatigues; but when he has by his courage repelled the enemy, and, by his skill, escaped storms and rocks, must suffer yet severer hardships, in being subject to a forfeiture where he expected applause, comfort, and recompense. The ATTORNEY GENERAL spoke next, to this purport:--Sir, the clause before us cannot, in my opinion, produce any such dreadful consequences as the learned gentleman appears to imagine: however, to remove all difficulties, I have drawn up an amendment, which I shall beg leave to propose, that the contracts which may be affected as the clause now stands, _shall be void only as to so much of the wages as shall exceed the sum to which the house shall agree to reduce the seamen's pay;_ and, as to the forfeitures, they are not to be levied upon the sailors, but upon the merchants, or trading companies, who employ them, and who are able to pay greater sums without being involved in poverty and distress. With regard, sir, to the reasons for introducing this clause, they are, in my judgment, valid and equitable. We have found it necessary to fix the rate of money at interest, and the rate of labour in several cases, and if we do not in this case, what will be the consequence?--a second embargo on commerce, and, perhaps, a total stop to all military preparations. Is it reasonable that any man should rate his labour according to the immediate necessities of those that employ him? or that he should raise his own fortune by the publick calamities? If this has hitherto been a practice, it is a practice contrary to the general happiness of society, and ought to prevail no longer. If the sailor, sir, is exposed to greater dangers in time of war, is not the merchant's trade carried on, likewise, at greater hazard? Is not the freight, equally with the sailors, threatened at once by the ocean and the enemy? And is not the owner's fortune equally impaired, whether the ship is dashed upon a rock, or seized by a privateer? The merchant, therefore, has as much reason for paying less wages in time of war, as the sailor for demanding more, and nothing remains but that the legislative power determine a medium between their different interests, with justice, if possible, at least with impartiality. Mr. Horace WALPOLE, who had stood up several times, but was prevented by other members, spoke next, to this purport:--Sir, I was unwilling to interrupt the course of this debate while it was carried on with calmness and decency, by men, who do not suffer the ardour of opposition to cloud their reason, or transport them to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not admit. I have hitherto deferred to answer the gentleman who declaimed against the bill with such fluency of rhetorick, and such vehemence of gesture; who charged the advocates for the expedients now proposed, with having no regard to any interest but their own, and with making laws only to consume paper, and threatened them with the defection of their adherence, and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery of their folly and their ignorance. Nor, sir, do I now answer him for any other purpose than to remind him how little the clamours of rage and petulancy of invectives contribute to the purposes for which this assembly is called together; how little the discovery of truth is promoted, and the security of the nation established by pompous diction and theatrical emotions. Formidable sounds, and furious declamations, confident assertions, and lofty periods, may affect the young and unexperienced; and, perhaps, the gentleman may have contracted his habits of oratory by conversing more with those of his own age, than with such as have had more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, and more successful methods of communicating their sentiments. If the heat of his temper, sir, would suffer him to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance with business give them an indisputable right to deference and superiority, he would learn, in time, to reason rather than declaim, and to prefer justness of argument, and an accurate knowledge of facts, to sounding epithets and splendid superlatives, which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impression on the mind. He will learn, sir, that to accuse and prove are very different, and that reproaches, unsupported by evidence, affect only the character of him that utters them. Excursions of fancy, and flights of oratory, are, indeed, pardonable in young men, but in no other; and it would surely contribute more, even to the purpose for which some gentlemen appear to speak, that of depreciating the conduct of the administration, to prove the inconveniencies and injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with whatever magnificence of language, or appearance of zeal, honesty, or compassion. Mr. PITT replied:--Sir, the atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has with such spirit and decency charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny, but content myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of that number, who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of determining; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch that, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errours, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object of either abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his grey head should secure him from insults. Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and becomes more wicked with less temptation; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth, sir, is not my only crime; I have been accused of acting a theatrical part--a theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense, sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language; and though I may, perhaps, have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction, or his mien, however matured by age, or modelled by experience. If any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment which he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms, with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves, nor shall any thing but age restrain my resentment: age, which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment. But, with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure; the heat that offended them is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon publick robbery. I will exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect them in their villany, and whoever may partake of their plunder. And if the honourable gentleman-- Here Mr. WINNINGTON called to order, and Mr. PITT sitting down, he spoke thus:--It is necessary, sir, that the order of this assembly be observed, and the debate resumed without personal altercations. Such expressions as have been vented on this occasion, become not an assembly intrusted with the liberty and welfare of their country. To interrupt the debate on a subject so important as that before us, is, in some measure, to obstruct the publick happiness, and violate our trust: but much more heinous is the crime of exposing our determinations to contempt, and inciting the people to suspicion or mutiny, by indecent reflections, or unjust insinuations. I do not, sir, undertake to decide the controversy between the two gentlemen, but must be allowed to observe, that no diversity of opinion can justify the violation of decency, and the use of rude and virulent expressions; expressions dictated only by resentment, and uttered without regard to-- Mr. PITT called to order, and said:--Sir, if this be to preserve order, there is no danger of indecency from the most licentious tongue: for what calumny can be more atrocious, or what reproach more severe, than that of speaking with regard to any thing but truth. Order may sometimes be broken by passion, or inadvertency, but will hardly be reestablished by monitors like this, who cannot govern his own passion, whilst he is restraining the impetuosity of others. Happy, sir, would it be for mankind, if every one knew his own province; we should not then see the same man at once a criminal and a judge. Nor would this gentleman assume the right of dictating to others what he has not learned himself. That I may return, in some degree, the favour which he intends me, I will advise him never hereafter to exert himself on the subject of order; but, whenever he finds himself inclined to speak on such occasions, to remember how he has now succeeded, and condemn, in silence, what his censures will never reform. Mr. WINNINGTON replied:--Sir, as I was hindered by the gentleman's ardour and impetuosity from concluding my sentence, none but myself can know the equity or partiality of my intentions, and, therefore, as I cannot justly be condemned, I ought to be supposed innocent; nor ought he to censure a fault of which he cannot be certain that it would ever have been committed. He has, indeed, exalted himself to a degree of authority never yet assumed by any member of this house, that of condemning others to silence. I am henceforward, by his inviolable decree, to sit and hear his harangues without daring to oppose him. How wide he may extend his authority, or whom he will proceed to include in the same sentence, I shall not determine; having not yet arrived at the same degree of sagacity with himself, nor being able to foreknow what another is going to pronounce. If I had given offence by any improper sallies of passion, I ought to have been censured by the concurrent voice of the assembly, or have received a reprimand, sir, from you, to which I should have submitted without opposition; but I will not be doomed to silence by one who has no pretensions to authority, and whose arbitrary decisions can only tend to introduce uproar, discord, and confusion. Mr. Henry PELHAM next rose up, and spoke to this effect:--Sir, when, in the ardour of controversy upon interesting questions, the zeal of the disputants hinders them from a nice observation of decency and regularity, there is some indulgence due to the common weakness of our nature; nor ought any gentleman to affix to a negligent expression a more offensive sense than is necessarily implied by it. To search deep, sir, for calumnies and reproaches is no laudable nor beneficial curiosity; it must always be troublesome to ourselves by alarming us with imaginary injuries, and may often be unjust to others by charging them with invectives which they never intended. General candour and mutual tenderness will best preserve our own quiet, and support that dignity which has always been accounted essential to national debates, and seldom infringed without dangerous consequences. Mr. LYTTLETON spoke as follows:--Sir, no man can be more zealous for decency than myself, or more convinced of the necessity of a methodical prosecution of the question before us. I am well convinced how near indecency and faction are to one another, and how inevitably confusion produces obscurity; but I hope it will always be remembered, that he who first infringes decency, or deviates from method, is to answer for all the consequences that may arise from the neglect of senatorial customs: for it is not to be expected that any man will bear reproaches without reply, or that he who wanders from the question will not be followed in his digressions, and hunted through his labyrinths. It cannot, sir, be denied, that some insinuations were uttered injurious to those whose zeal may sometimes happen to prompt them to warm declarations, or incite them to passionate emotions. Whether I am of importance enough to be included in the censure, I despise it too much to inquire or consider, but cannot forbear to observe, that zeal for the right can never become reproachful, and that no man can fall into contempt but those who deserve it. [The clause was amended, and agreed to.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 13, 1740-1. The seventieth day of the session being appointed for the report from the committee on the bill for the increase and encouragement of sailors, sir John BARNARD presented a petition from the merchants of London, and spoke as follows:-- Sir, this petition I am directed to lay before this house by many of the principal merchants of that great city which I have the honour to represent; men too wise to be terrified with imaginary dangers, and too honest to endeavour the obstruction of any measures that may probably advance the publick good, merely because they do not concur with their private interest; men, whose knowledge and capacity enable them to judge rightly, and whose acknowledged integrity and spirit set them above the suspicion of concealing their sentiments. I therefore present this petition in the name of the merchants of London, in full confidence that it will be found to deserve the regard of this assembly, though I am, equally with the other members, a stranger to what it contains; for it is my opinion that a representative is to lay before the house the sentiments of his constituents, whether they agree with his own or not, and that, therefore, it would have been superfluous to examine the petition, which, though I might not wholly have approved it, I had no right to alter. The petition was read, and is as follows: "The humble petition of the merchants and traders of the city of London--showeth, that your petitioners are informed a bill is depending in this honourable house, for the encouragement and increase of seamen, and for the better and speedier manning his majesty's fleet, in which are clauses, that, should the bill pass into a law, your petitioners apprehend will be highly detrimental to the trade and navigation of this kingdom, by discouraging persons from entering into or being bred to the sea service, and entirely prevent the better and speedier manning his majesty's fleet, by giving the seamen of Great Britain, and of all other his majesty's dominions, a distaste of serving on board the royal navy. "That your petitioners conceive nothing can be of so bad consequence to the welfare and defence of this nation, as the treating so useful and valuable a body of men, who are its natural strength and security, like criminals of the highest nature, and so differently from all other his majesty's subjects; and at the same time are persuaded, that the only effectual and speedy method of procuring, for the service of his majesty's fleet, a proportionable number of the sailors in this kingdom, is to distinguish that body of men by bounties and encouragements, both present and future, and by abolishing all methods of severity and ill usage, particularly that practice whereby they are deprived, after long and hazardous voyages, of enjoying, for a short space of time, the comforts of their families, and equal liberty with other their fellow-subjects in their native country. "That your petitioners believe it will not be difficult to have such methods pointed out as will tend to supply the present necessities, and at the same time effectually promote the increase of seamen, when this honourable house shall think fit to inquire into a matter of such high importance to the naval power, trade, and riches of this kingdom. "That your petitioners are convinced this bill will not only be ineffectual to answer the ends proposed by it, but will be destructive of the liberties of all his majesty's subjects, as it empowers any parish officer, accompanied with an unlimited number of persons, at any hour, by day or by night, to force open the dwelling-houses, warehouses, or other places, provided for the security and defence of their lives and fortunes, contrary to the undoubted liberties of the people of Great Britain, and the laws of this land. "In consideration, therefore, of the premises, and of the particular prejudices, hardships, and dangers, which must inevitably attend your petitioners, and all others the merchants and traders of this kingdom, should this bill pass into a law, your petitioners most humbly pray this honourable house, that they may be heard by their counsel against the said clauses in the said bill." Mr. BATHURST then presented a petition, and spoke as follows:--Sir, the alarm which the bill, now depending, has raised, is not confined to the city of London, or to any particular province of the king's dominions; the whole nation is thrown into commotions, and the effects of the law now proposed, are dreaded, far and wide, as a general calamity. Every town which owes its trade and its provisions to navigation, apprehends the approach of poverty and scarcity, and those which are less immediately affected, consider the infraction of our liberties as a prelude to their destruction. Happy would it be, if we, who are intrusted with their interest, could find any arguments to convince them that their terrour was merely panick. That these fears have already extended their influence to the county which I represent, the petition which I now beg leave to lay before the house, will sufficiently evince; and I hope their remonstrances will prevail with this assembly to remove the cause of their disquiet, by rejecting the bill. This was entitled "a petition of several gentlemen, freeholders, and other inhabitants of the county of Gloucester, in behalf of themselves, and all other, the freeholders of the said county," setting forth, in substance, "That the petitioners being informed that a bill was depending in this house, for the encouragement and increase of seamen, and for the better and speedier manning his majesty's fleet, containing several clauses which, should the bill pass into a law, would, as the petitioners apprehend, impose hardships upon the people too heavy to be borne, and create discontents in the minds of his majesty's subjects; would subvert all the rights and privileges of a Briton; and overturn Magna Charta itself, the basis on which they are built; and, by these means, destroy that very liberty, for the preservation of which the present royal family was established upon the throne of Britain; for which reasons, such a law could never be obeyed, or much blood would be shed in consequence of it." Mr. Henry PELHAM then spoke, to this purport:--Sir, I have attended to this petition with the utmost impartiality, and have endeavoured to affix, to every period, the most innocent sense; but cannot forbear to declare it as my opinion, that it is far distant from the style of submission and request: instead of persuading, they attempt to intimidate us, and menace us with no less than bloodshed and rebellion. They make themselves the judges of our proceedings, and appeal, from our determinations, to their own opinion, and declare that they will obey no longer than they approve. If such petitions as these, sir, are admitted; if the legislature shall submit to receive laws, and subjects resume, at pleasure, the power with which the government is vested, what is this assembly but a convention of empty phantoms, whose determinations are nothing more than a mockery of state? Every insult upon this house is a violation of our constitution; and the constitution, like every other fabrick, by being often battered, must fall at last. It is, indeed, already destroyed, if there be, in the nation, any body of men who shall, with impunity, refuse to comply with the laws, plead the great charter of liberty against those powers that made it, and fix the limits of their own obedience. I cannot, sir, pass over, in silence, the mention of the king, whose title to the throne, and the reasons for which he was exalted to it, are set forth with uncommon art and spirit of diction; but spirit, which, in my opinion, appears not raised by zeal, but by sedition; and which, therefore, it is our province to repress. That his majesty reigns for the preservation of liberty, will be readily confessed; but how shall we be able to preserve it, if his laws are not obeyed? Let us, therefore, in regard to the dignity of the assembly, to the efficacy of our determinations, and the security of our constitution, discourage all those who shall address us for the future, on this or any other occasion, from speaking in the style of governours and dictators, by refusing that this petition should be laid on the table. [The question was put, and it was agreed, by the whole house, that it should not lie on the table.] Mr. Henry PELHAM rose up again, and spoke thus:--Sir, I cannot but congratulate the house upon the unanimity with which this petition, a petition of which I speak in the softest language, when I call it irreverent and disrespectful, has been refused the regard commonly paid to the remonstrances of our constituents, whose rights I am far from desiring to infringe, when I endeavour to regulate their conduct, and recall them to their duty. This is an occasion, on which it is, in my opinion, necessary to exert our authority with confidence and vigour, as the spirit of opposition must always be proportioned to that of the attack. Let us, therefore, not only refuse to this petition the usual place on our table, but reject it as unworthy of this house. [The question was put, and the petition rejected, with scarcely any opposition.] The house then entered upon the consideration of the bill, and when the report was made from the committee, and the blanks filled up, sir William YONGE spoke, in the following manner:-- Sir, the bill has been brought, by steady perseverance and diligent attention, to such perfection, that much more important effects may be expected from it than from any former law for the same purpose, if it be executed with the same calmness and resolution, the same contempt of popular clamour, and the same invariable and intrepid adherence to the publick good, that has been shown in forming and defending it. But what can we hope from this, or any other law, if particular men, who cannot be convinced of its expedience, shall not only refuse to obey it, but declare their design of obstructing the execution of it? shall determine to retire from the sphere of their authority, rather than exercise it in compliance with the decree of the senate, and threaten, in plain terms, to call the country in to their assistance, and to pour the rabble by thousands upon those who shall dare to do their duty, and obey their governours? Such declarations as these, sir, are little less than sallies of rebellion; and, if they pass without censure, will, perhaps, produce such commotions as may require to be suppressed by other means than forms of law and senatorial censures. Nor do I think that, by rejecting the petition, we have sufficiently established our authority; for, in my opinion, we yielded too much in receiving it. The bill before us whatever may be its title, is, in reality, a money bill; a bill, by which aids are granted to the crown; and we have, therefore, no necessity of rejecting petitions on this occasion, because the standing orders of the house forbid us to admit them. They then proceeded to the amendments, and when the clause for limiting the wages of seamen was read, sir John BARNARD rose up, and spoke to this effect:-- Sir, we are now to consider the clause to which the petition relates, which I have now presented, a petition on a subject of so general importance, and offered by men so well acquainted with every argument that can be offered, and every objection which can be raised, that their request of being heard by their council cannot be denied, without exposing us to the censure of adhering obstinately to our own opinions, of shutting our ears against information, of preferring expedition to security, and disregarding the welfare of our country. It will not be necessary to defer our determinations on this clause for more than three days, though we should gratify this just and common request. And will not this loss be amply compensated by the satisfaction of the people, for whose safety we are debating, and by the consciousness that we have neglected nothing which might contribute to the efficacy of our measures? The merchants, sir, do not come before us with loud remonstrances and harassing complaints, they do not apply to our passions, but our understandings, and offer such informations as will very much facilitate the publick service. It has been frequent, in the course of this debate, to hear loud demands for better expedients, and more efficacious, than those which have been proposed; and is it to be conceived that those who called thus eagerly for new proposals, intended not to inform themselves, but to silence their opponents? From whom, sir, are the best methods for the prosecution of naval affairs to be expected, but from those whose lives are spent in the study of commerce, whose fortunes depend upon the knowledge of the sea, and who will, most probably, exert their abilities in contriving expedients to promote the success of the war, than they whom the miscarriage of our fleets must irreparably ruin? The merchants, sir, are enabled by their profession to inform us--are deterred by their interest from deceiving us; they have, like all other subjects, a right to be heard on any question; and a better right than any other when their interest is more immediately affected; and, therefore, to refuse to hear them, will be, at once, impolitick and cruel; it will discover, at the same time, a contempt of the most valuable part of our fellow-subjects, and an inflexible adherence to our own opinions. The expedient of asserting this to be a money bill, by which the just remonstrances of the merchants are intended to be eluded, is too trivial and gross to be adopted by this assembly: if this bill can be termed a money bill, and no petitions are, therefore, to be admitted against it, I know not any bill relating to the general affairs of the nation which may not plead the same title to an exemption from petitions. I therefore desire that the consideration of this clause may be deferred for two days, that the arguments of the merchants may be examined, and that this affair may not be determined without the clearest knowledge and exactest information. Sir Robert WALPOLE spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, the petition, whether justifiable or not, with regard to the occasion on which it is presented, or the language in which it is expressed, is certainly offered at an improper time, and, therefore, can lay no claim to the regard of this assembly. The time prescribed, by the rules of this house, for the reception of petitions, is that at which the bill is first introduced, not at which it is to be finally determined. The petition before us is said not to regard the bill in general, but a particular clause; and it is, therefore, asserted, that it may now properly be heard: but this plea will immediately vanish, when it shall be made appear that the clause is not mentioned in it, and that there is no particular relation between that and the petition, which I shall attempt-- Here sir John BARNARD, remarking that sir Robert WALPOLE had the petition in his hand, rose, and said:--Sir, I rise thus abruptly to preserve the order of this assembly, and to prevent any gentleman from having, in this debate, any other advantage, above the rest, than that of superiour abilities, or more extensive knowledge. The petition was not ordered, by the house, to be placed in the right honourable gentleman's hand, but on the table; nor has he a right to make use of any other means for his information, than are in the power of any other member: if he is in doubt upon any particulars contained in it, he may move that the clerk should read it to the house. Sir Robert WALPOLE laid down the paper; Mr. PELHAM rose, and said:--Sir, I am so far from thinking the rules of the house asserted, that, in my opinion, the right of the members is infringed by this peremptory demand. Is it not, in the highest degree, requisite, that he who is about to reason upon the petition should acquaint himself with the subject on which he is to speak. What inconveniencies can ensue from such liberties as this, I am not able to discover; and, as all the orders of the house are, doubtless, made for more easy and expeditious despatch, if an order be contrary to this end, it ought to be abrogated for the reasons for which others are observed. The confidence with which this petition was presented, will not suffer us to imagine that the person who offered it fears that it can suffer by a close examination; and I suppose, though he has spoken so warmly in favour of it, without perusing, he does not expect that others should with equal confidence admit-- Sir John BARNARD observing that sir Robert WALPOLE leaned forward towards the table, to read the petition as it lay, rose, and said:--Sir, I rise once more to demand the observation of the orders of the house, and to hinder the right honourable gentleman from doing by stratagem, what he did more openly and honestly before. It was to little purpose that he laid down the petition, if he placed it within reach of his inspection? for I was only desirous, sir, to hinder him from reading, and was far from suspecting that he would take it away. I insist, that henceforward, he obey the rules of this assembly, with his eyes as well as with his hands, and take no advantage of his seat, which may enable him to perplex the question in debate. Then the PRESIDENT spoke thus:--Sir, it is, undoubtedly, required by the orders of the house, that the petitions should lie upon the table; and that any member, who is desirous of any farther satisfaction, should move that they be read by the clerk, that every member may have the same opportunity of understanding and considering them; and that no one may be excluded from information, by the curiosity or delays of another. But the importance of this affair seems not to be so very great as to require a rigorous observance of the rules; and it were to be wished, for the ease and expedition of our deliberations, that gentlemen would rather yield points of indifference to one another, than insist so warmly on circumstances of a trivial nature. Sir Robert WALPOLE then desired that the clerk might read the petition, which being immediately done, he proceeded in the following manner:-- Sir, having sat above forty years in this assembly, and never been called to order before, I was somewhat disconcerted by a censure so new and unexpected, and, in my opinion, undeserved. So that I am somewhat at a loss, with regard to the train of arguments which I had formed, and which I will now endeavour to recover. Yet I cannot but remark, that those gentlemen who are so solicitous for order in others, ought, themselves, invariably to observe it; and that if I have once given an unhappy precedent of violating the rules of this house, I have, in some measure, atoned for my inadvertence, by a patient attention to reproof, and a ready submission to authority. I hope, sir, I may claim some indulgence from the motive of my offence, which was only a desire of accuracy, and an apprehension that I might, by mistaking or forgetting some passages in the petition, lose my own time, and interrupt the proceedings of the house to no purpose. But having now, according to order, heard the petition, and found no reason to alter my opinion, I shall endeavour to convince the house that it ought not to be granted. The petition, sir, is so far from bearing any particular relation to the clause now before us, that it does not, in any part, mention the expedient proposed in it, but contains a general declaration of discontent, suspicion, apprehensions of dangerous proceedings, and dislike of our proceedings; insinuations, sir, by no means consistent with the reverence due to this assembly, and which the nature of civil government requires always to be paid to the legislative power. To suspect any man, sir, in common life, is in some degree to detract from his reputation, which must suffer in proportion to the supposed wisdom and integrity of him who declares his suspicion. To suspect the conduct of this senate, is to invalidate their decisions, and subject them to contempt and opposition. Such, and such only, appears to be the tendency of the petition which has now been read; a petition, sir, very unskilfully drawn, if it was intended against the clause under our consideration, for it has not a single period or expression that does not equally regard all the other clauses. If any particular objection is made, or any single grievance more distinctly pointed at, it is the practice of impresses, a hardship, I own, peculiar to the sailors; but it must be observed that it is a practice established by immemorial custom, and a train of precedents not to be numbered; and it is well known that the whole common law of this nation is nothing more than custom, of which the beginning cannot be traced. Impresses, sir, have in all ages been issued out by virtue of the imperial prerogative, and have in all ages been obeyed; and if this exertion of the authority had been considered as a method of severity not compensated by the benefits which it produces, we cannot imagine but former senates, amidst all their ardour for liberty, all their tenderness for the people, and all their abhorrence of the power of the crown, would have obviated it by some law, at those times when nothing could have been refused them. The proper time for new schemes and long deliberations, for amending our constitution, and removing inveterate grievances, are the days of prosperity and safety, when no immediate danger presses upon us, nor any publick calamity appears to threaten us; but when war is declared, when we are engaged in open hostilities against one nation, and expect to be speedily attacked by another, we are not to try experiments, but apply to dangerous evils those remedies, which, though disagreeable, we know to be efficacious. And though, sir, the petitioners have been more particular, I cannot discover the reasonableness of hearing them by their council; for to what purpose are the lawyers to be introduced? Not to instruct us by their learning, for their employment is to understand the laws that have been already made, and support the practices which they find established. But the question before us relates not to the past but the future, nor are we now to examine what has been done in former ages, but what it will become us to establish on the present occasion; a subject of inquiry on which this house can expect very little information from the professors of the law? Perhaps the petitioners expect from their counsel, that they should display the fecundity of their imagination, and the elegance of their language; that they should amuse us with the illusions of oratory, dazzle us with bright ideas, affect us with strong representations, and lull us with harmonious periods; but if it be only intended that just facts and valid arguments should be laid before us, they will be received without the decorations of the bar. For this end, sir, it would have been sufficient had the merchants informed their representatives of the methods which they have to propose; for the abilities of the gentlemen whom the city has deputed to this assembly, are well known to be such as stand in need of no assistance from occasional orators. Nor can it be expected that any men will be found more capable of understanding the arguments of the merchants, or better qualified to lay them before the senate. That every petitioner has, except on money bills, a right to be heard, is undoubtedly true; but it is no less evident that this right is limited to a certain time, and that on this occasion the proper time is elapsed. Justice is due both to individuals and to the nation; if petitions may at any time be offered, and are, whenever offered, to be heard, a small body of men might, by unseasonable and importunate petitions, retard any occasional law, till it should become unnecessary. Petitions, sir, are to be offered when a new bill is brought into the house, that all useful information may be obtained; but when it has passed through the examination of the committees, has been approved by the collective wisdom of the senate, and requires only a formal ratification to give it the force of a law, it is neither usual nor decent to offer petitions, or declare any dislike of what the senate has admitted. We are not, when we have proceeded thus far, to suffer pleaders to examine our conduct, or vary our determinations, according to the opinions of those whom we ought to believe less acquainted with the question than ourselves. Should we once be reduced to ask advice, and submit to dictators, what would be the reputation of this assembly in foreign courts, or in our own country? What could be expected, but that our enemies of every kind would endeavour to regulate our determinations by bribing our instructers. Nor can I think it necessary that lawyers should be employed in laying before us any scheme which the merchants may propose, for supplying the defects, and redressing the inconveniencies, of the laws by which sailors are at present levied for the royal navy; for how should lawyers be more qualified than other men, to explain the particular advantages of such expedients, or to answer any objections which may happen to rise? It is well known that it is not easy for the most happy speaker to impress his notions with the strength with which he conceives them, and yet harder is the task of transmitting imparted knowledge, of conveying to others those sentiments which we have not struck out by our own reflection, nor collected from our own experience, but received merely from the dictates of another. Yet such must be the information that lawyers can give us, who can only relate what they have implicitly received, and weaken the arguments which they have heard, by an imperfect recital. Nor do I only oppose the admission of lawyers to our bar, but think the right of the merchants themselves, in the present case, very questionable; for though in general it must be allowed, that every petitioner has a claim to our attention, yet it is to be inquired whether it is likely that the publick happiness is his chief concern, and whether his private interest is not too much affected to suffer him to give impartial evidence, or honest information. Scarcely any law can be made by which some man is not either impoverished, or hindered from growing rich; and we are not to listen to complaints, of which the foundation is so easily discovered, or imagine a law less useful, because those who suffer some immediate inconvenience from it, do not approve it. The question before us is required, by the present exigence of our affairs, to be speedily decided; and though the merchants have, with great tenderness, compassion, and modesty, condescended to offer us their advice, I think expedition preferable to any information that can reasonably be expected from them, and that as they will suffer, in the first place, by any misconduct of our naval affairs, we shall show more regard to their interest by manning our fleet immediately, than by waiting three or four days for farther instructions. Mr. SANDYS answered to this effect:--Sir, the merchants of London whether we consider their numbers, their property, their integrity, or their wisdom, are a body of too much importance to be thus contemptuously rejected; rejected when they ask nothing that can be justly denied to the meanest subject of the empire, when they propose to speak on nothing but what their profession enables them to understand. To no purpose is it urged, that the bill is far advanced, for if we have not proceeded in the right way, we ought to be in more haste to return, in proportion as we have gone farther; nor can I discover why we should expedite, with so much assiduity, measures which are judged ineffectual, by those who know their consequences best, and for whose advantage they are particularly designed. That we have already spent so much time in considering methods for manning the fleet, is surely one reason why we should endeavour at last to establish such as may be effectual; nor can we hope to succeed without a patient attention to their opinion, who must necessarily be well experienced in naval affairs. It is surely, therefore, neither prudent nor just to shut out intelligence from our assemblies, and ridicule the good intention of those that offer it, to consult upon the best expedients for encouraging and increasing sailors, and when the merchants offer their scheme, to treat them as saucy, impertinent, idle meddlers, that assume-- Here the ATTORNEY GENERAL called him to order, and spoke after this manner:--Sir, it is not very consistent to press the despatch of business, and to retard it, at the same time, by invidious insinuations, or unjust representations of arguments or expressions: whenever any expression is censured, it ought to be repeated in the same words; for otherwise, does not the animadverter raise the phantom that he encounters? Does he not make the stain, which he endeavours, with so much officious zeal, to wipe away. That no epithets of contempt or ridicule have, in this debate, been applied to the merchants, nor any violation of decency attempted, it is unnecessary to prove, and, therefore, it is neither regular nor candid to represent any man as aggravating the refusal of their petition with reproaches and insults. But not to dwell longer on this incident, I will take the liberty of reminding the gentleman, that personal invectives are always, at least superfluous, and that the business of the day requires rather arguments than satire. Mr. SANDYS then spoke as follows:--Sir, I am by no means convinced that the learned gentleman who charges me with irregularity, is better acquainted than myself with the rules and customs of this house, which I have studied with great application, assisted by long experience. I hope, therefore, it will be no inexcusable presumption, if, instead of a tacit submission to his censure, I assert, in my own vindication, that I have not deviated from the established rules of the senate, that I have spoken only in defence of merit insulted, and that I have condemned only such injurious insinuations. I did not, sir, attempt to repeat expressions, as ought not to be heard without reply. Then the PRESIDENT said:--I believe the gentleman either heard imperfectly, or misunderstood these expressions, which he so warmly condemns, for nothing has been uttered that could justly excite his indignation. My office obliges me on this occasion to remark, that the regard due to the dignity of the house ought to restrain every member from digressions into private satire; for in proportion as we proceed with less decency, our determinations will have less influence. Mr. PELHAM spoke next, in substance as follows:--Sir, the reputation which the honourable gentleman has acquired by his uncommon knowledge of the usages of the senate, is too well founded to be shaken, nor was any attack upon his character intended, when he was interrupted in the prosecution of his design. To censure any indecent expression, by whomsoever uttered, is, doubtless, consistent with the strictest regularity; nor is it less proper to obviate any misrepresentation which inattention or mistake may produce. I am far, sir, from thinking that the gentleman's indignation was excited rather by malice than mistake; but mistakes of this kind may produce consequences which cannot be too cautiously avoided. How unwillingly would that gentleman propagate through the nation an opinion that the merchants were insulted in this house, their interest neglected, and their intelligence despised, at a time when no aspersion was thrown upon them, nor any thing intended but tenderness and regard? And yet such had been the representation of this day's debate, which this numerous audience would have conveyed to the populace, had not the mistake been immediately rectified, and the rumour crushed in the birth. Nothing, sir, can be more injurious to the character of this assembly, by which the people are represented, than to accuse them of treating any class of men with insolence and contempt; and too much diligence cannot be used in obviating a report which cannot be spread in the nation, without giving rise to discontent, clamours, and sedition. Those who shall be inclined to reject the petition, may, perhaps, act with no less regard to the merchants, and may promote their interest and their security with no less ardour than those who most solicitously labour for its reception: for, if they are not allowed to be heard, it is only because the publick interest requires expedition, and because every delay of our preparations is an injury to trade. That this is not a proper time for petitions against the bill to be heard, is universally known; and I can discover nothing in the petition that restrains it to this particular clause, which is so far from being specified, that it appears to be the only part of the bill of which they have had no intelligence. Let the warmest advocates for the petition point out any part of it that relates to this single clause, and I will retract my assertion; but as it appears that there are only general declarations of the inexpediency of the measures proposed, and the pernicious tendency of the methods now in use, what is the petition, but a complaint against the bill, and a request that it should be laid aside. The practice of impresses, sir, is particularly censured, as severe and oppressive; a charge which, however true, has no relation to this clause, which is intended to promote the voluntary engagement of sailors in the service of the crown; yet it may not be improper to observe, that as the practice of impressing is, in itself, very efficacious, and well adapted to sudden emergencies; as it has been established by a long succession of ages, and is, therefore, become almost a part of our constitution; and as it is at this time necessary to supply the navy with the utmost expedition, it is neither decent nor prudent to complain too loudly against, or to heighten the discontent of the people at a necessary evil. We have, sir, examined every part of this bill with the attention which the defence of the nation requires; we have softened the rigour of the methods first proposed, and admitted no violence or hardship that is not absolutely necessary, to make the law effectual, which, like every other law, must be executed by force, if it be obstructed or opposed. We have inserted a great number of amendments, proposed by those who are represented as the most anxious guardians of the privileges of the people; and it is not, surely, to no purpose that the great council of the nation has so long and so studiously laboured. Those who are chosen by the people to represent them, have undoubtedly, sir, some claim as individuals to their confidence and respect; for to imagine that they have committed the great charge of senatorial employments, that they have trusted their liberties and their happiness to those whose integrity they suspect, or whose understandings they despise, is to imagine them much more stupid than they have been represented by those who are censured as their enemies. But far different is the regard due to the determinations formed by the collective wisdom of the senate; a regard which ought to border upon reverence, and which is scarcely consistent with the least murmur of dissatisfaction. If we are to hear the present petitioners, is it not probable, that before we have despatched them, we shall be solicited by others, who will then plead the same right, supported by a new precedent? And is it not possible that by one interruption upon another, our measures may be delayed, till they shall be ineffectual? It seems to me to be of much more importance to defend the merchants than to hear them; and I shall, therefore, think no concessions at this time expedient, which may obstruct the great end of our endeavours, the equipment of the fleet. Mr. PULTENEY then spoke as follows:--Sir, notwithstanding the art and eloquence with which this grant of the merchants' petition has been opposed, I am not yet able to discover that any thing is asked unreasonable, unprecedented, or inconvenient; and I am confident, that no real objection can have been overlooked by the gentlemen who have spoken against it. I have spent, sir, thirty-five years of my life in the senate, and know that information has always, upon important questions, been willingly received; and it cannot surely be doubted that the petitioners are best able to inform us of naval business, and to judge what will be the right method of reconciling the sailors to the publick service, and of supplying our fleets without injuring our trade. Their abilities and importance have been hitherto so generally acknowledged, that no senate has yet refused to attend to their opinion; and surely we ought not to be ambitious of being the first assembly of the representatives of the people, that has refused an audience to the merchants. With regard to the expedience of delaying the bill at the present conjuncture, he must think very contemptuously of the petitioners, who imagines that they have nothing to offer that will counterbalance a delay of two days, and must entertain an elevated idea of the vigilance and activity of our enemies, enemies never before eminent for expedition, if he believes that they can gain great advantages in so short a time. The chief reason of the opposition appears, indeed, not to be either the irregularity or inexpediency of hearing them, but the offence which some have received from an irreverent mention of the power of impressing, a power which never can be mentioned without complaint or detestation. It is not, indeed, impossible that they may intend to represent to the house, how much the sailors are oppressed, how much our commerce is impeded, and how much the power of the nation is exhausted, by this cruel method. They may propose to show that sailors, not having the choice of their voyages, are often hurried through a sudden change of climates, from one extreme to another, and that nothing can be expected from such vicissitudes, but sickness, lameness, and death. They may propose, that to have just arrived from the south may be pleaded as an exemption from an immediate voyage to the north, and that the seaman may have some time to prepare himself for so great an alteration, by a residence of a few months in a temperate climate. If this should be their intention, it cannot, in my opinion, sir, be called either unreasonable or disrespectful, nor will their allegations be easily disproved. But it is insinuated, that their grievances are probably such as affect them only as distinct from the rest of the community, and that they have nothing to complain of but a temporary interruption of their private advantage. I have, indeed, no idea of the _private advantage_ of a legal trader: for unless, sir, we neglect our duty of providing that no commerce shall be carried on to the detriment of the publick, the merchant's profit must be the profit of the nation, and their interests inseparably combined. It may, however, be possible, that the merchants may, like other men, prefer their immediate to their greater advantage, and may be impatient of a painful remedy, though necessary to prevent a more grievous evil. But let us not censure them by suspicion, and punish them for a crime which it is only possible they may commit; let us, sir, at least have all the certainty that can be obtained, and allow them an audience; let us neither be so positive as not to receive information, nor so rigorous as not to listen to entreaties. If the merchants have nothing to offer, nothing but complaints, and can propose no better measures than those which they lament, if their arguments should be found to regard only their present interest, and to be formed upon narrow views and private purposes, it will be easy to detect the imposture, and reject it with the indignation it shall deserve; nor will our proceedings be then censured by the nation, which requires not that the merchants should be implicitly believed, though it expects that they should be heard. Let us at least have a _convention_, though we should not be able to conclude a treaty. I know not, sir, why we have not taken care to obviate all these difficulties, and to remove the necessity of petitions, debates, searches, and impresses, by the plain and easy method of a voluntary register; by retaining such a number of seamen as may probably be requisite upon sudden emergencies. Would not the nation with more cheerfulness contribute half-pay to those who are daily labouring for the publick good, than to the caterpillars of the land service, that grow old in laziness, and are disabled only by vice? Let ten thousand men receive daily a small salary, upon condition that they shall be ready, whenever called upon, to engage in the service of the crown, and the difficulty of our naval preparations will be at an end. That it is necessary to exert ourselves on this occasion, and to strike out some measures for securing the dominion of the ocean, cannot be denied by any one who considers that we have now no other pretensions to maintain; that all our influence on the continent, at whatever expense gained and supported, is now in a manner lost, and only the reputation of our naval strength remains to preserve us from being trampled on and insulted by every power, and from finding Spaniards in every climate. Sir William YONGE spoke, in substance, as follows:--Sir, the violence and severity of impresses, so often and so pathetically complained of, appears to be now nothing more than a punishment inflicted upon those who neglect or refuse to receive the encouragement offered, with the utmost liberality, by the government, and decline the service of their country from a spirit of avarice, obstinacy, or resentment. That such men deserve some severities, cannot be doubted, and therefore a law by which no penalty should be enacted, would be imperfect and ineffectual. The observation, sir, of all laws is to be enforced by rewards on one side, and punishments on the other, that every passion may be influenced, and even our weakness made instrumental to the performance of our duty. In the bill before us no punishment is, indeed, expressly decreed, because the sailors who shall disregard it, are only left to their former hardships, from which those who engage voluntarily in the service of the navy are exempted. Why so many rewards and so much violence should be necessary to allure or force the sailors into the publick service, I am unable to comprehend: for, excepting the sudden change of climates, which may, doubtless, sometimes bring on distempers, the service of the king has no disadvantages which are not common to that of the merchants. The wages in the navy are, indeed, less: but then it is to be remembered, that they are certainly paid, and that the sailor is in less danger of losing, by a tempest or a wreck, the whole profits of his voyage; because, if he can preserve his life, he receives his pay. But in trading voyages, the seamen mortgage their wages, as a security for their care, which, if the ship is lost, they are condemned to forfeit. Thus, sir, the hardships of the navy appear not so great when compared with those of the merchants' service, as they have been hitherto represented; and I doubt not, that if counsellors were to be heard on both sides, the measures taken for supplying the fleet would be found to be reasonable and just. Sir John BARNARD rose to speak, when Mr. FOX called to order, and proceeded: Sir, it is well known to be one of the standing and unvariable orders of this house, that no member shall speak twice in a debate on the same question, except when for greater freedom we resolve ourselves into a committee. Upon this question the honourable gentleman has already spoken, and cannot, therefore, be heard again without such a transgression of our orders as must inevitably produce confusion. Sir John BARNARD spoke thus:--Sir, I know not for what reason the honourable gentleman apprehends any violation of the order of the house; for, as I have not yet spoken upon the present question, I have an undoubted right to be heard, a right which that gentleman cannot take away. Sir William YONGE next spoke, to this effect:--Sir, I know not by what secret distinction the gentleman supports in his own mind this declaration, which, to the whole house, must appear very difficult to be defended; for we must, before we can admit it, allow our memories to have forsaken us, and our eyes and ears to have been deceived. Did he not, as soon as the clause before us was read, rise and assert the characters of the petitioners, and their right to the attention of the house? Did he not dwell upon their importance, their abilities, and their integrity; and enforce, with his usual eloquence, every motive to the reception of the petition? How then can he assert that he has not spoken in the present debate, and how can he expect to be heard a second time, since, however his eloquence may please, and his arguments convince, that pleasure and conviction cannot now be obtained, without infringing the standing orders of the house. Then the PRESIDENT rose, and spoke to this purport: It is not without uneasiness that I see the time of the house, and of the publick, wasted in fruitless cavils and unnecessary controversies. Every gentleman ought now to consider that we are consulting upon no trivial question, and that expedition is not less necessary than accuracy. It cannot be denied, sir, [to sir John BARNARD] that you have already spoken on this question, and that the rules of the house do not allow you to speak a second time. Sir Robert WALPOLE said:--Sir, I am far from thinking the order of the house so sacred, as that it may not be neglected on some important occasions; and if the gentleman has any thing to urge so momentous, that, in his own opinion, it outweighs the regard due to our rules, I shall willingly consent that he shall be heard. Sir John BARNARD spoke as follows:--Sir, I am far from being inclined to receive as a favour, what, in my own opinion, I may claim as a right, and desire not to owe the liberty of speaking to the condescension of the right honourable gentleman. What I have to urge is no less against the bill in general, than the particular clause now immediately under our consideration, and though the petition should relate likewise to the whole bill, I cannot discover why we should refuse to hear it. Petitions from men of much inferiour rank, and whose interest is much less closely connected with that of the publick, have been thought necessary to be heard, nor is the meanest individual to be injured or restrained, without being admitted to offer his arguments in his own favour. Even the journeymen shoemakers, one of the lowest classes of the community, have been permitted to bring their counsel to our bar, and remonstrate against the inconveniencies to which they were afraid of being subjected. Mr. WINNINGTON spoke thus:--Sir, I am always willing to hear petitions, when respectfully drawn up, and regularly subscribed, but can by no means discover that this is a real petition, for I have heard of no names affixed to it; it is, therefore, a request from nobody, and by rejecting it no man is refused. It may, so far as can be discovered, be drawn up by the gentleman who offered it, and, perhaps, no other person may be acquainted with it. Mr. HAY spoke to the following purport:--Sir, it is, in my opinion, necessary that a petition in the name of the merchants of London should be subscribed by the whole number, for if only a few should put their names to it, how does it appear that it is any thing more than an apprehension of danger to their own particular interest, which, perhaps, the other part, their rivals in trade, may consider as an advantage, or at least regard with indifference. This suspicion is much more reasonable, when a petition is subscribed by a smaller number, who may easily be imagined to have partial views, and designs not wholly consistent with the interest of the publick. Admiral WAGER then spoke thus:--Sir, if I am rightly informed, another petition is preparing by several eminent merchants, that this clause may stand part of the bill; and, certainly, they ought to be heard as well as the present petitioners, which will occasion great and unnecessary delays, and, therefore, I am against the motion. Advocate CAMPBELL answered to this effect:--Sir, I agree with that honourable gentleman, that if the merchants are divided in opinion upon this point, one side ought to be heard as well as the other, and hope the house will come to a resolution for that purpose: for I shall invariably promote every proposal which tends to procure the fullest information in all affairs that shall come before us. [Then the question was put, that the farther consideration of the report be adjourned for two days, in order to hear the merchants, and it passed in the negative, ayes, 142; noes, 192.] [On the report this day, the eleven clauses of severity were given up without any division, and a clause was added, viz. "Provided that nothing in this bill shall be construed to extend to any contracts or agreements for the hire of seamen (or persons employed as such) in voyages from parts beyond the seas, to any other parts beyond the seas, or to Great Britain."] The engrossed bill "for the increase and encouragement of seamen," was read, according to order, when Mr. DIGBY rose, and spoke as follows:-- Sir, I have a clause to be offered to the house, as necessary to be inserted in the bill before us, which was put into my hands by a member, whom a sudden misfortune has made unable to attend his duty, and which, in his opinion, and mine, is of great importance, and I shall, therefore, take the liberty of reading it. "Be it enacted, that every seaman offering himself to serve his majesty, shall, upon being refused, receive from such captain, lieutenant, or justice of the peace, a certificate, setting forth the reasons for which he is refused, which certificate may be produced by him, as an exemption from being seized by a warrant of impress." I hope the reasonableness and equity of this clause is so incontestably apparent, that it will find no opposition; for what can be more cruel, unjust, or oppressive, than to punish men for neglect of a law which they have endeavoured to obey. To what purpose are rewards offered, if they are denied to those who come to claim them? What is it less than theft, and fraud, to force a man into the service, who would willingly have entered, and subject him to hardships, without the recompense which he may justly demand from the solemn promise of the legislature. Admiral WAGER next spoke to this effect:--Sir, to this clause, which the gentleman has represented as so reasonable and just, objections may, in my opinion, be easily made, of which he will himself acknowledge the force. The great obstruction of publick measures is partiality, whether from friendship, bribery, or any other motive; against partiality alone the clause which is now offered, is levelled; and, indeed, it is so dangerous an evil, that it cannot be obviated with too much caution. But this clause, instead of preventing private correspondence, and illegal combinations, has an evident tendency to produce them, by inciting men to apply with pretended offers of service to those who are before suborned to refuse them, then make a merit of their readiness, and demand a certificate. By such artifices multitudes may exempt themselves from the impress, who may be known to be able sailors, even by those that conduct it; and may, under the protection of a certificate, fallaciously obtained, laugh at all endeavours to engage them in the publick service. Mr. DIGBY spoke thus:--Sir, if this authority, lodged in the hands of those who are proposed in the clause to be intrusted with it, be in danger of being executed, without due regard to the end for which it is granted, let it be placed where there is neither temptation nor opportunity to abuse it. Let the admiralty alone have the power of granting such certificates, the officers of which will be able to judge whether the sailor is really unfit for the service, and deliver those whom age or accidents have disabled from the terrour of impresses; for surely, he that is fit to serve, when taken by violence, is no less qualified when he enters voluntarily, and he who could not be admitted when he tendered himself, ought not to be dragged away, when, perhaps, he has contracted for another voyage. Mr. WAGER replied:--Sir, it is, doubtless, more proper to place such authority in the officers of the admiralty, than in any other; but it does not appear that the benefit which the sailors may receive from it, to whatever hands it is intrusted, will not be overbalanced by the injury which the publick will probably suffer. Sailors are frequently levied in remote parts of the kingdom; in ports where the admiralty cannot speedily be informed of the reasons for which those that may petition for certificates have been refused, and therefore cannot grant them without danger of being deceived by fraudulent accounts. The grievance for which the remedy is proposed cannot frequently occur; for it is not probable that in a time of naval preparations, any man qualified for the service should be rejected, since the officers gain nothing by their refusal. Mr. HAY spoke as follows:--Sir, it is very possible that those instances which may be produced of men, who have been impressed by one officer, after they have been rejected by another, may be only the consequences of the high value which every man is ready to set upon his own abilities: for he that offers himself, no doubt, demands the highest premium, though he be not an able sailor; and, if rejected, and afterwards impressed as a novice, thinks himself at liberty to complain, with the most importunate vehemence, of fraud, partiality, and oppression. [The question being put was resolved in the negative, almost unanimously.] Mr. SOUTHWELL offered a clause, importing, "That all sailors who should take advance-money of the merchants, should be obliged to perform their agreements, or be liable to be taken up by any magistrate or justice of the peace, and deemed deserters, except they were in his majesty's ships of war." He was seconded by lord GAGE:--Sir, as this clause has no other tendency than to promote the interest of the merchants, without obstructing the publick preparations; as it tends only to confirm legal contracts, and facilitate that commerce from whence the wealth and power of this nation arises, I hope it will readily be admitted; as we may, by adding this sanction to the contracts made between the merchants and sailors, in some degree balance the obstructions wherewith we have embarrassed trade by the other clauses. Admiral WAGER replied:--This clause is unquestionably reasonable, but not necessary; for it is to be found already in an act made for the encouragement of the merchants, which is still in force, and ought, whenever any such frauds are committed, to be rigorously observed. Sir Robert WALPOLE then desired that the clerk might read the act, in which the clause was accordingly found, and Mr. SOUTHWELL withdrew his motion. [Then the question was put, whether the bill "for the increase and encouragement of sailors" do pass, which was resolved in the affirmative, 153 against 79.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 13, 1740-1. [DEBATE ON THE BILL FOR THE PUNISHMENT OF MUTINY AND DESERTION.] The house being resolved into a committee for the consideration of the bill for the punishment of mutiny and desertion, and for the better payment of the army and their quarters, etc. sir William YONGE desired that the twentieth and twenty-sixth clauses of the late act might be read, which were read as follows: XX. It is hereby enacted, that the officers and soldiers, so quartered and billeted, shall be received by the owners of the inns, livery-stables, ale-houses, victualling-houses, and other houses in which they are allowed to be quartered and billeted by this act; and shall pay such reasonable prices as shall be appointed, from time to time, by the justices of the peace, in their general and quarter-sessions of each county, city, or division, within their respective jurisdictions: and the justices of the peace aforesaid, are hereby empowered and required to set and appoint, in their general or quarter-sessions aforesaid, such reasonable rates, for all necessary provisions for such officers and soldiers, for one or more nights, in the several cities, towns, villages and other places, which they shall come to in their march, or which shall be appointed for their residence and quarters. XXVI. That the quarters, both of officers and soldiers in Great Britain, may be duly paid and satisfied, be it enacted, that every officer, to whom it belongs to receive the pay or subsistence-money, either for a whole regiment, or particular troops and companies, shall immediately, upon each receipt of every particular sum, on account of pay or subsistence, give publick notice thereof to all persons keeping inns, or other places where officers or soldiers are quartered by virtue of this act: also appoint them and others to repair to their quarters, within four days at the farthest, after the receipt of the same, to declare the accounts or debts (if any shall be) between them and the officers and soldiers quartered in their respective houses: which accounts the said officer or officers are hereby required immediately to discharge, before any part of the said pay or subsistence be distributed to the officers or soldiers: provided the said accounts exceed not for a commission officer of horse, under a captain, for _one day's diet and small beer_, two shillings; for one commission officer of dragoons, under a captain, one shilling; for one commission officer of foot, under a captain one shilling; and for hay and straw, for one horse, sixpence; for one dragoon or light horseman's diet and small beer, each day sixpence, and hay and straw for his horse, sixpence; and also not to exceed _fourpence_ a-day, for one _foot soldier's diet and small beer_. He then spoke to the following effect:--Sir, whether there is any real difficulty in the clauses which you have now heard read, or whether there are such passages as may be easily understood by those who have no interest to mistake them, and which are only clouded by an artificial obscurity, whether they are in themselves capable of different meanings, or whether avarice or poverty have produced unreasonable interpretations, and found ambiguities only because they were determined not to be disappointed in their search; whether this law is disobeyed because it is misunderstood, or only misunderstood by those who have resolved to disobey it, the committee must determine. It has been for many years understood that innholders and keepers of publick-houses were obliged by this law to supply soldiers quartered upon them with diet and small beer, and hay and straw for their horses, at such rates as are mentioned in the act; nor can I discover that these clauses admit of any other interpretation, or that any other could be intended by the senate by which it was enacted. The pay of the soldiers, sir, was well known to those who gave their consent to this law, it was intended by them that the soldiers should be supplied with necessaries, and it could not be meant that they should pay for them more than they received; they, therefore, established the rate at which they were to be furnished, and fixed the highest rate which the wages of a soldier allow him to pay. This interpretation was, as I suppose, from its apparent consonance to reason, universally allowed, till the inhabitants of Ledbury, whither soldiers had been sent to suppress a riot and enforce the laws, found their apprehensions so sharpened by their malice, that they discovered in the act an ambiguity, which had, till that time, escaped the penetration of the most sagacious, and, upon comparison of one circumstance with another, found themselves under no obligation to give any assistance to the soldiers. They therefore, sir, not only refused to afford them victuals at the accustomed rates, but proceeding from one latitude of interpretation to another, at length denied them not only the privilege of diet, but the use of kitchen utensils, to dress the provisions which they bought for themselves, and at last denied their claim to the fire itself. The soldiers, exasperated not only at the breach of their established and uncontested privileges, but at the privation of the necessaries of life, began to think of methods more speedy and efficacious than those of arguments and remonstrances, and to form resolutions of procuring by force, what, in their opinions, was only by force withheld from them. What might have been the event of this controversy, to what extremities a contest about things so necessary might have been carried, how wide the contest might have spread, or how long it might have lasted, we may imagine, but cannot determine; had not a speedy decision been procured, its consequences might have been fatal to multitudes, and a great part of the nation been thrown into confusion. Having received an account of the affair from the officers who commanded at that place, I consulted the attorney-general what was the design of the law, and the extent of the obligation enforced by it, and was answered by him, that the sums which were to be paid for the diet of the men, and the hay and straw for the horses, being specified, it must necessarily be intended, by the legislature, that no higher rates should be demanded;--that the power granted to the justices of peace was wholly in favour of the soldier, and that they might lessen the payment at discretion in places of uncommon cheapness, or years of extraordinary plenty, but could not increase it on any occasion. Another dispute, sir, of the like nature was occasioned by the late scarcity at Wakefield, where the justices, upon the application of the innkeepers, made use of the authority which they supposed to have been reposed in them by the act, and raised the price of hay and straw to eight-pence, which the soldiers were not able to pay, without suffering for want of victuals. On this occasion, likewise, I was applied to, and upon consulting the present attorney-general, received the same answer as before; and transmitting his opinion to the place from whence I received the complaint, it had so much regard paid to it, that the additional demand was thence-forward remitted. The letters which those two learned lawyers sent to me on this subject I have now in my hand; and hope their opinion will be thought sufficient authority for the interpretation of an act of the senate. Nor is their authority, sir, however great, so strong a proof of the justness of this interpretation, as the reasonableness, or rather necessity of admitting it. The only argument that can be produced against it, is the hardship imposed by it on the innholder, who, as it is objected, must be obliged by the law, so understood, to furnish the soldiers with provisions for a price at which he cannot afford them. But let it be considered, how much more easily the landlord can furnish them at this price, than they can provide for themselves, and the difficulty will immediately vanish. If soldiers are necessary, they must necessarily be supported, and it appears, upon reflection, that their pay will not support them by any other method. If they are obliged to buy their victuals, they must likewise buy fire and implements to dress them; and what is still a greater hardship, they must sell them, and buy new, at every change of their quarters; if this is impossible, it will be allowed not to be the meaning of the senate, upon whose wisdom it would be a censure too severe to suppose them capable of enacting impossibilities. But to the innholder, sir, whose utensils are always in use, and whose fire is always burning, the diet of a soldier costs only the original price paid to the butcher; and, in years of common plenty, may be afforded, without loss, at the price mentioned in the act. It cannot, indeed, be denied, that, at present, every soldier is a burden to the family on which he is quartered, in many parts of the kingdom; but, it may be reasonably hoped, that the present scarcity will quickly cease, and that provisions will fall back to their former value; and even, amidst all the complaints with which the severity and irregularity of the late seasons have filled the nation, there are many places where soldiers may be maintained at the stated rates, with very little hardship to their landlords. However, sir, as this interpretation of the act, though thus supported, both by authority and reason, has been disputed and denied; as some lawyers may be of a different opinion from those whom I have consulted; and as it is not likely that the practice, thus interrupted, will now be complied with as a prescription; I think it necessary to propose, that the price of a soldier's diet be more explicitly ascertained, that no room may remain for future controversies. Mr. SANDYS then rose, and spoke as follows:--Sir, I am very far from thinking the authority of these learned gentlemen, whose letters are produced, incontrovertible proof of the justness of an interpretation of an act of the senate, where that interpretation is not in itself warranted by reason, nor consistent with the preservation or enjoyment of property. Much less shall I agree to support their interpretation by a new law; or establish, by an act of the legislature, a kind of oppression, for which, however tacitly submitted to, nothing could be pleaded hitherto but custom. The burden, sir, of a standing army, is already too heavy to be much longer supported, nor ought we to add weight to it by new impositions; it surely much better becomes the representatives of the nation to attend to the complaints of their constituents; and where they are found to arise from real grievances, to contrive some expedient for alleviating their calamities. A heavy and dreadful calamity, sir, lies now, in a particular manner, upon the people; the calamity of famine, one of the severest scourges of providence, has filled the whole land with misery and lamentation; and, surely, nothing can be more inhuman than to choose out this season of horrour for new encroachments on their privileges, and new invasions of the rights of nature, the dominion of their own houses, and the regulation of their own tables. The honourable gentleman, sir, has mentioned places where provisions, as he says, are still to be bought at easy rates. For my part, I am fixed in no such happy corner of the kingdom; I see nothing but scarcity, and hear nothing but complaints; and shall, therefore, be very far from admitting now such methods of supporting the army, as were thought too burdensome in times of plenty; nor will combine in laying a new tax upon any class of my countrymen, when they are sinking under an enormous load of imposts, and in want of the necessaries of life. Sir William YONGE replied, in the manner following:--Sir, nothing is more easy than outcry and exaggeration; nor any thing less useful for the discovery of truth, or the establishment of right. The most necessary measures may often admit of very florid exclamations against them, and may furnish very fruitful topicks of invective. When our liberties, sir, are endangered, or our country invaded, it may be very easy, when it is proposed that we should have recourse to our swords for security, to bewail, in pathetick language, the miseries of war, to describe the desolation of cities, the waste of kingdoms, the insolence of victory, and the cruelty of power inflamed by hostilities. Yet to what will those representations contribute, but to make that difficult which yet cannot be avoided, and embarrass measures which must, however, be pursued. Such, sir, appear to me to be the objections made to the methods now proposed of providing necessaries for the soldiers; methods not eligible for their own sake, but which ought not to be too loudly condemned, till some better can be substituted; for why should the publick be alarmed with groundless apprehensions? or why should we make those laws which our affairs oblige us to enact, less agreeable to the people by partial representations? In the discussion of this question, sir, is to be considered whether soldiers are to be supported, and whether it will be more proper to maintain them by the method of ascertaining the rates at which they are to be supplied, or by increasing their pay. One of these two ways it is necessary to take; the provisions are already fixed at as high a price as their pay will allow; if, therefore, they are expected to pay more, their wages must be increased. For my part, I shall comply with either method; though I cannot but think it my duty to declare, that, in my opinion, it is safer to fix the price of provisions, which must sink in their value, than to raise the pay of the army, which may never afterwards be reduced. Mr. GYBBON then spoke, to this effect:--Sir, I agree with the honourable gentleman, that if soldiers are necessary, we must make provision for their support. This is indisputably certain; but it is no less certain, that where soldiers are necessary, restraints and regulations are necessary likewise, to preserve those from being insulted and plundered by them, who maintain them for the sake of protection. The usefulness, sir, of this caution seems not to be known, or not regarded, by the gentleman whose proposal gave occasion to this debate; for, by enacting laws in general terms, as he seems to advise, we should leave the unhappy innkeeper wholly at the mercy of his guests, who might plunder and insult him under the protection of the legislature, might riot, as in a conquered country, and say, "To this treatment you are subjected by the determination of the senate." The unhappy man, sir, could have no prospect, either of quiet or safety, but by gratifying all the expectations of his masters; returning civilities for insolence, and receiving their commands with the same submission that is paid in capitulating towns to the new garrison. If it be necessary to ascertain the price, is it not necessary, at the same time, to ascertain the species and quantity of provisions to be allowed for it? Is a soldier to fatten on delicacies, and to revel in superfluities, for fourpence a-day? Ought not some limits to be set to his expectations, and some restraints prescribed to his appetite? Is he to change his fare, with all the capriciousness of luxury, and relieve, by variety, the squeamishness of excess? Such demands as these, sir, may be thought ludicrous and trifling, by those who do not reflect on the insolence of slaves in authority, who do not consider that the license of a military life is the chief inducement that brings volunteers into the army; an inducement which would, indeed, make all impresses superfluous, were this proposal to be adopted: for how readily would all the lazy and voluptuous engage in a state of life which would qualify them to live upon the labour of others, and to be profuse without expense? Our army may, by this method, be increased; but the number of those by whom they are to be maintained, must quickly diminish: for, by exaction and oppression, the poorer innkeepers must quickly become bankrupts; and the soldiers that lose their quarters, must be added to the dividend allotted to the more wealthy, who, by this additional burden will soon be reduced to the same state, and then our army must subsist upon their pay, because they will no longer have it in their power to increase it by plunder. It will then be inevitably necessary to divide the army from the rest of the community, and to build barracks for their reception; an expedient which, though it may afford present ease to the nation, cannot be put in practice without danger to our liberties. The reason, for which so many nations have been enslaved by standing armies, is nothing more than the difference of a soldier's condition from that of other men. Soldiers are governed by particular laws, and subject to particular authority; authority which, in the manner of its operation, has scarcely any resemblance of the civil power. Thus, they soon learn to think themselves exempt from all other laws; of which they either do not discover the use, and, therefore, easily consent to abolish them; or envy the happiness of those who are protected by them, and so prevail upon themselves to destroy those privileges which have no other effect, with regard to them, but to aggravate their own dependence. These, sir, are the natural consequences of a military subjection; and if these consequences are not always speedily produced by it, they must be retarded by that tenderness which constant intercourse with the rest of the nation produces, by the exchange of reciprocal acts of kindness, and by the frequent inculcation of the wickedness of contributing to the propagation of slavery, and the subversion of the rights of nature; inculcations which cannot be avoided by men who live in constant fellowship with their countrymen. But soldiers, shut up in a barrack, excluded from all conversation with such as are wiser and honester than themselves, and taught that nothing is a virtue but implicit obedience to the commands of their officer, will soon become foreigners in their own country, and march against the defenders of their constitution, with the same alacrity as against an army of invaders ravaging the coasts; they will lose all sense of social duty, and of social happiness, and think nothing illustrious but to enslave and destroy. So fatal, sir, will be the effects of an establishment of barracks, or petty garrisons, in this kingdom; and, therefore, as barracks must be built when innkeepers are ruined, and our concurrence with this proposal must produce their ruin, I hope it-will not be necessary to prove by any other argument, that the motion ought to be rejected. Mr. PELHAM spoke next, in terms to this purpose:--Sir, though I am not inclined, by loud exaggerations and affected expressions of tenderness, to depress the courage or inflame the suspicions of the people, to teach them to complain of miseries which they do not feel, or ward against ill designs, which were never formed, yet no man is more really solicitous for their happiness, or more desirous of removing every real cause of fear and occasion of hardships. This affection to the people, an affection steady, regular, and unshaken, has always prompted me to prefer their real to their seeming interest, and rather to consult the security of their privileges than the gratification of their passions; it has hitherto determined me to vote for such a body of troops, as may defend us against sudden inroads and wanton insults, and now incites me to propose that some efficacious method may be struck out for their support, without exasperating either the soldiers or their landlords by perpetual wrangles, or adding to the burden of a military establishment the necessity of contentions in courts of law. I know not with what view those have spoken, by whom the proposal first made has been opposed; they have, indeed, produced objections, some of which are such as may be easily removed, and others such as arise from the nature of things, and ought not, therefore, to be mentioned, because they have no other tendency than to inflame the minds of those that hear them against an army, at a time when it is allowed to be necessary, and prove only what was never denied, that no human measures are absolutely perfect, and that it is often impossible to avoid a greater evil, but by suffering a less. The question before us, sir, is in its own nature so simple, so little connected with circumstances that may distract our attention, or induce different men to different considerations, that when I reflect upon it, I cannot easily conceive by what art it can be made the subject of long harangues, or how the most fruitful imagination can expatiate upon it. It is already admitted that an army is necessary; the pay of that army is already established; the accidental scarcity of forage and victuals is such, that the pay is not sufficient to maintain them; how then must the deficiency be supplied? It has been proposed, either to fix the price of provisions with respect to them, or to advance their wages in some proportion to the price of provisions. Both these methods seem to meet with disapprobation, and yet the army is to be supported. Those who reason thus, do surely not expect to be answered, or at least expect from a reply no other satisfaction than that of seeing the time of the session wasted, and the administration harassed with trivial delays; for what can be urged with any hope of success to him who will openly deny contradictory propositions, who will neither move nor stand still, who will neither disband an army nor support it? Whether these gentlemen conceive that an army may subsist without victuals till the time of scarcity is over, or whether they have raised those forces only to starve them, I am not sagacious enough to conjecture, but shall venture to observe, that if they have such a confidence in the moderation and regularity of the soldiers, as to imagine that they will starve with weapons in their hands, that they will live within the sight of full tables, and languish with hunger, and perish for want of necessaries, rather than diminish the superfluities of others, they ought for ever to cease their outcries about the licentiousness, insolence, and danger of a standing army. But, not to sink into levity unworthy of this assembly, may I be permitted to hint that these arts of protracting our debates, are by no means consistent with the reasons for which we are assembled, and that it is a much better proof, both of ability and integrity, to remove objections, than to raise them, and to facilitate, than to retard, the business of the publick. The proposal made at first was only to elucidate a law which had been regularly observed for fifty years, and to remove such ambiguities as tended only to embarrass the innholders, not to relieve them. To this many objections have been made, and much declamation has been employed to display the hardships of maintaining soldiers, but no better method has been yet discovered, nor do I expect that any will be started not attended with greater difficulties. In all political questions, questions too extensive to be fully comprehended by speculative reason, experience is the guide which a wise man will follow with the least distrust, and it is no trivial recommendation of the present method, that it has been so long pursued without any formidable inconvenience or loud complaints. Hardships, even when real, are alleviated by long custom; we bear any present uneasiness with less regret, as we less remember the time in which we were more happy: at least, by long acquaintance with any grievance we gain this advantage, that we know it in its whole extent, that it cannot be aggravated by our imagination, and that there is no room for suspecting that any misery is yet behind more heavy than that which we have already borne. Such is the present state of the practice now recommended to this assembly, a practice to which the innkeepers have long submitted, and found it at least tolerable, to which they knew themselves exposed when they took out a license for the exercise of that profession, and which they consider as a tax upon them, to be balanced against the advantages which they expect from their employment. This tax cannot be denied at present to be burdensome in a very uncommon degree, but this weight has not been of long continuance, and it may be reasonably hoped that it will now be made every day lighter. It is, indeed, true, that no unnecessary impositions ought to be laid upon the nation even for a day; and if any gentleman can propose a method by which this may be taken off or alleviated, I shall readily comply with his proposal, and concur in the establishment of new regulations. With regard to barracks, I cannot deny that they are justly names of terrour to a free nation, that they tend to make an army seem part of our constitution, and may contribute to infuse into the soldiers a disregard of their fellow-subjects, and an indifference about the liberties of their country; but I cannot discover any connexion between a provision for the support of soldiers in publick-houses, in a state of constant familiarity with their countrymen, and the erection of barracks, by which they will be, perhaps for ever, separated from them, nor can discover any thing in the method of supporting them now recommended that does not tend rather to the promotion of mutual good offices, and the confirmation of friendship and benevolence. The advocate CAMPBELL next spoke, in substance as follows:--Sir, whence the impropriety of raising objections to any measures that are proposed is imagined to arise I am unable to discover, having hitherto admitted as an incontrovertible opinion, that it is the duty of every member of this assembly to deliver, without reserve, his sentiments upon any question which is brought before him, and to approve or censure, according to his conviction. If it be his duty, sir, to condemn what he thinks dangerous or inconvenient, it seems by no means contrary to his duty, to show the reason of his censure, or to lay before the house those objections which he cannot surmount by his own reflection. It certainly is not necessary to admit implicitly all that is asserted; and to deny, or disapprove without reason, can he no proof of duty, or of wisdom; and how shall it be known, that he who produces no objections, acts from any other motives, than private malevolence, discontent, or caprice? Nor is it, sir, to be imputed as a just reason for censure to those who have opposed the motion, that no other measures have been offered by them to the consideration of the committee. It is necessary to demolish a useless or shattered edifice, before a firm and habitable building can be erected in its place: the first step to the amendment of a law is to show its defects; for why should any alteration be made where no inconveniency is discovered? To the chief objection that was offered, no answer has yet been made, nor has the assembly been informed how the innkeeper shall be able to discover when he has paid the tax which this law lays upon him. This is, indeed, a tax of a very particular kind, a tax without limits, and to be levied at the discretion of him for whose benefit it is paid. Soldiers quartered upon these terms, are more properly raising contributions in an enemy's country, than receiving wages in their own. Is it intended, by this motion, that the innkeepers shall judge what ought to be allowed the soldier for his money? I do not see, then, that any alteration is proposed in the present condition of our army; for who has ever refused to sell them food for their money at the common price, or what necessity is there for a law to enforce a practice equally to the advantage of all parties? If it be proposed that the soldier shall judge for himself, that he shall set what value he shall think fit on his own money, and that he shall be at once the interpreter and executioner of this new law, the condition of the innkeeper will then be such as no slave in the mines of America can envy, and such as he will gladly quit for better treatment under the most arbitrary and oppressive government. Nor will the insolence of the soldier, thus invested with unlimited authority, thus entitled to implicit obedience, and exalted above the rest of mankind, by seeing his claim only bounded by his own moderation, be confined to his unhappy landlord. Every guest will become subject to his intrusion, and the passenger must be content to want his dinner, whenever the lord of the inn shall like it better than his own. That these apprehensions, sir, are not groundless, may be proved from the conduct of these men, even when the law was not so favourable to their designs; some of them have already claimed the sole dominion of the houses in which they have been quartered, and insulted persons of very high rank, and whom our ancient laws had intended to set above the insults of a turbulent soldier. They have seen the provisions which they had ordered taken away by force, partly, perhaps, to please the appetite of the invader, and partly to gratify his insolence, and give him an opportunity of boasting among his comrades, how successfully he blustered. If it be necessary, sir, to insert a new clause in the act to prevent lawsuits, which, however advantageous they may sometimes be to me, I shall always be ready to obviate, it is surely proper to limit the claim of one party as well as that of the other, for how else is the ambiguity taken away? The difficulty may be, indeed, transferred, but is by no means removed, and the innkeeper must wholly repose himself upon the lenity and justice of the soldier, or apply to the courts of law for the interpretation of the act. The question before us is said to be so free from perplexity, that it can scarcely give occasion for harangues or disputations; and, indeed, it cannot but be allowed, that the controversy may soon be brought to a single point, and I think nothing more is necessary than to inquire, if innholders shall be obliged to provide victuals for soldiers at a stated price, what, and how much the soldier shall demand. The power of raising money at pleasure, has been hitherto denied to our kings, and surely we ought not to place that confidence in the lowest, that has been refused to the most exalted of mankind, or invest our soldiers with power, which neither the most warlike of our monarchs could constrain us, nor the most popular allure us to grant. The power now proposed to be granted, is nothing less than the power of levying money, or what is exactly equivalent, the power of raising the money in their own hands, to any imaginary value. A soldier may, if this motion be complied with, demand for a penny, what another man must purchase at forty times that price. While this is the state of our property, it is surely not very necessary to raise armies for the defence of it; for why should we preserve it from one enemy only to throw it into the hands of another, equally rapacious, equally merciless, and only distinguished from foreign invaders by this circumstance, that he received from our own hands the authority by which he plunders us. Having thus evinced the necessity of determining the soldier's privileges, and the innkeeper's rights, I think it necessary to recommend to this assembly an uncommon degree of attention to the regulation of our military establishment, which is become not only more burdensome to our fellow-subjects by the present famine, but by the increase of our forces; an increase which the nation will not behold without impatience, unless they be enabled to discern for what end they have been raised. The people of this nation are, for very just reasons, displeased, even with the appearance of a standing army, and surely it is not prudent to exasperate them, by augmenting the troops in a year of famine, and giving them, at the same time, new powers of extortion and oppression. Mr. WINNINGTON spoke to this purpose:--Sir, I have heard nothing in this debate, but doubts and objections, which afford no real information, nor tend to the alleviation of those grievances, which are so loudly lamented. It is not sufficient to point out inconveniencies, or to give striking representations of the hardships to which the people are exposed; for unless some better expedient can be proposed, or some method discovered by which we may receive the benefits, without suffering the disadvantages of the present practice, how does it appear that these hardships, however severe, are not inseparable from our present condition, and such as can only be removed by exposing ourselves to more formidable evils? As no remedy, sir, has been proposed by those who appear dissatisfied with the present custom, it is reasonable to imagine that none will be easily discovered; and, therefore, I cannot but think it reasonable that the motion should be complied with. By it no new imposition is intended, nor any thing more than the establishment of a practice which has continued for more than fifty years, and never, except on two occasions, been denied to be legal. It is only proposed that the senate should confirm that interpretation of the act which has been almost universally received; that they should do what can produce no disturbance, because it will make no alterations; but may prevent them, because it may prevent any attempts of innovation, or diversity of opinions. Sir John BARNARD spoke next, to the following effect:--Sir, whether the interpretation of the act which is now contended for, has been universally admitted, it is impossible to know; but it is at least certain, that the practice which is founded upon it, has in many places never been followed, nor, indeed, can it be made general without great impropriety. Many of those, sir, who are styled keepers of publick-houses, and on whom soldiers are quartered under that denomination, have no conveniency of furnishing provisions, because they never sell them; such are many of the keepers of livery stables, among whom it is the common method to pay soldiers a small weekly allowance, instead of lodging them in their houses, a lodging being all which they conceive themselves obliged to provide, and all that the soldiers have hitherto required; nor can we make any alteration in this method without introducing the license and insolence of soldiers into private houses; into houses hitherto unacquainted with any degree of riot, incivility, or uproar. The reason for which publick-houses are assigned for the quarters of soldiers, is partly the greater conveniency of accommodating them in families that subsist, by the entertainment of strangers, and partly the nature of their profession, which, by exposing them to frequent encounters with the rude and the debauched, enables them either to bear or repress the insolence of a soldier. But with regard, sir, to the persons whom I have mentioned, neither of these reasons have any place; they have not, from their daily employment, any opportunities of furnishing soldiery with beds or victuals, nor, by their manner of life, are adapted to support intrusion or struggle with perverseness. Nor can I discover why any man should force soldiers into their houses, who would not willingly admit them into his own. Mr. COCKS spoke to this effect:--Sir, the practice mentioned by the honourable gentleman, I know to be generally followed by all those that keep alehouses in the suburbs of this metropolis, who pay the soldiers billeted on them a composition for their lodging, nor ever see them but when they come to receive it; so far are they from imagining that they can claim their whole subsistence at any stated price. It is apparent, therefore, that by admitting this motion, we should not confirm a law already received, but establish a new regulation unknown to the people; that we should lay a tax upon the nation, and send our soldiers to collect it. General WADE rose, and spoke to this purpose:--Sir, I have been long conversant with military affairs; and, therefore, may perhaps be able to give a more exact account, from my own knowledge, of the antiquity and extent of this practice, than other gentlemen have had, from their way of life; an opportunity of obtaining. It was, sir, in the reign of king William, the constant method by which the army was supported, as may be easily imagined by those who reflect, that it was common for the soldiers to remain for eight or ten months unpaid, and that they had, therefore, no possibility of providing for themselves the necessaries of life. Their pay never was received in those times by themselves, but issued in exchequer bills for large sums, which the innkeepers procured to be exchanged and divided among themselves, in proportion to their debts. Such was the practice, sir, in that reign, which has been generally followed to this time, and the rates then fixed have not since been changed; and as no inconveniency has arisen from this method, I can discover no reason against confirming and continuing it. Mr. PULTKNEY spoke next, in the manner following:--Sir, those that have spoken in defence of the motion, have accused their opponents, with great confidence, of declaiming without arguments, and of wasting the time of the session in a useless repetition of objections. I do not, indeed, wonder that the objections which have been raised should have given some disgust, for who can be pleased with hearing his opponent produce arguments which he cannot answer? But surely the repetitions may be excused; for an objection is to be urged in every debate till it is answered, or is discovered to be unanswerable. But what, sir, have those urged in defence of their own opinions, who so freely animadvert upon the reasonings of others? What proofs, sir, have they given of the superiority of their own abilities, of the depth of their researches, or the acuteness of their penetration? They have not produced one argument in favour of their motion, but that it is founded on custom; they have not discovered, however wise and sagacious, that it is always necessary to inquire whether a custom be good or bad; for surely without such inquiry no custom ought to be confirmed. The motion which they would support, is, indeed, useless in either case, for a good custom will continue of itself, and one that is bad ought not to be continued. It is the business of the legislature to reform abuses, and eradicate corruptions, not to give them new strength by the sanction of a law. It has been urged, sir, that the law in reality exists already in that the act has been interpreted in this sense by the attorney general; and that his interpretation is generally received. This is then the state of the question: if the practice, founded upon this sense of the act, generally prevails, there is no need of a new clause to enforce what is already complied with; if it does not prevail, all that has been urged in defence of the motion falls to the ground. I do not doubt, sir, that this custom has been received without many exceptions, and therefore think it ought still to remain a custom, rather than be changed into a law; because it will be complied with as a custom, where there are no obstacles to the observation of it; and it ought not to be enforced by law, where it is inconvenient and oppressive. While the soldier, sir, is moderate in his demands, and peaceable and modest in his behaviour, the innkeeper will cheerfully furnish him even more than he can afford at the stated price; and certainly, rudeness, insolence, and unreasonable expectations, may justly be punished by the forfeiture of some conveniencies. Thus, sir, the innkeeper will preserve some degree of authority in his own house, a place where the laws of nature give every man dominion, and the soldier will continue a regular and inoffensive member of civil society. The absurdity of leaving the soldier at large in his demands, and limiting the price which the innkeeper is to require, has been already exposed beyond the possibility of reply; nor, indeed, has the least attempt been made to invalidate this objection; for it has been passed in silence by those who have most zealously espoused the motion. The account given by the honourable gentleman of the reason for which this regulation was first introduced in the reign of king William, is undoubtedly just; but it proves, sir, that there is no necessity of continuing it; for the soldiers are now constantly paid, and therefore need not that assistance from the innkeeper, which was absolutely requisite when they were sometimes six months without money. It has been urged, sir, with great importunity and vehemence, that some expedient should be proposed in the place of this, which so many gentlemen who have spoken on this occasion seem inclined to reject, and which, indeed, cannot be mentioned without contempt or abhorrence. That the soldiers should know, as well as their landlord, their own rights, is undoubtedly just, as well as that they should have some certain means of procuring the necessaries of life; it may, therefore, be proper to enact, that the innkeeper shall either furnish them with diet at the established rates, or permit them to dress the victuals which they shall buy for themselves, with his fire and utensils, and allow them candles, salt, vinegar, and pepper. By this method the soldiers can never be much injured by the incivility of their landlord, nor can the innkeeper be subjected to arbitrary demands. The soldier will still gain, by decency and humanity, greater conveniencies than he can procure for himself by his pay alone, and all opportunities of oppression on either side will, in a great measure, be taken away. I cannot but express my hopes that this method will be generally approved. Those that have opposed the establishment of an army will be pleased to see it made less grievous to the people; and those that have declared in its favour, ought surely to adopt, without opposition, any measures, by the pursuit of which it may be borne with fewer complaints, and less reluctance. [The consideration of this question was deferred, and the chairman having moved for leave to sit again, it was resolved to proceed on this business upon the next day but one, in a committee of the whole house.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 15, 1740-1. The order of the day being read for the house to resolve itself into a committee of the whole house, to consider the bill for punishing mutiny and desertion, and the better paying the army and their quarters, Sir William YONGE spoke, in substance as follows:--Sir, the last day which was assigned to the consideration of this bill, was spent in long altercations, in vague and unnecessary disquisitions, in retrospective reflections upon events long past, and in aggravating of grievances that may never happen; much sagacity was exerted, and much eloquence displayed, but no determination was attained, nor even that expedient examined, by which those objections might be removed which appeared so important, or those dangers obviated which were represented so formidable and so near. I hope, sir, part of the time which has intervened between that debate and the present day, has been employed by the gentlemen, whose scruples were so numerous, and whose caution is so vigilant, in contriving some methods of maintaining the army without oppressing the victuallers, and of providing for our defence against foreign enemies without subjecting us to the evils of discontent and disaffection, which they impute to the present state of the military establishment. To object for ever, and to advance nothing, is an easy method of disputation upon any question, but contributes very little to the increase of knowledge: an artful and acute objector may confound, and darken, and disturb, but never assists inquiry, or illustrates truth. In political questions, sir, it is still more easy and less ingenuous; for all political measures are in some degree right and wrong at the same time: to benefit some they very frequently bear hard upon others, and are, therefore, only to be approved or rejected as advantages appear to overbalance the inconveniencies, or the inconveniencies to outweigh the advantages. It is, sir, the proper province of a senator to promote, not to obstruct the publick counsels; and when he declares his disapprobation of any expedient, to endeavour to substitute a better: for how can he be said to sustain his part of the general burden of publick affairs, who lays others under the necessity of forming every plan, and inventing every expedient, and contents himself with only censuring what he never endeavours to amend? That every man, who is called forth by his country to sit here as the guardian of the publick happiness, is obliged, by the nature of his office, to propose, in this assembly, whatever his penetration or experience may suggest to him as advantageous to the nation, I doubt not but all that hear me are sufficiently convinced; and, therefore, cannot but suppose that they have so far attended to their duty, as to be able to inform us how the present inconveniencies of this bill may be remedied, and its defects supplied. To show, sir, at least my inclination to expedite an affair so important, I shall lay before the house an amendment that I have made to the clause, pursuant to a hint offered the last day by an honourable member, "That all innholders, victuallers, etc. shall be obliged to furnish soldiers with salt, vinegar, small beer, candles, fire, and utensils to dress their victuals, and so doing shall not be obliged to supply the troops with provisions, except on a march." I am far, sir, from thinking the clause, as it will stand after this amendment, complete and unexceptionable, being conscious that some articles in it may require explanation. The quantity of small beer to be allowed to each soldier must necessarily be ascertained, in order to prevent endless and indeterminable disputes; for one man, sir, may demand a greater quantity than another, and a man may be prompted by malice or wantonness to demand more than health requires; it will, therefore, be proper to limit the quantity which must be furnished, that neither the soldier may suffer by the avarice of his landlord, nor the landlord be oppressed by the gluttony of the soldier. With regard to this question, sir, I expect to find different opinions in this assembly, which every man is at liberty to offer and to vindicate; and I shall take this opportunity of proposing on my part, that every man may have a daily allowance of three quarts. One quart to each meal may be allowed in my opinion to be sufficient, and sure no gentleman can imagine that by this limitation much superfluity is indulged. There are some parts, sir, of this kingdom, in which cider is more plentiful, and cheaper than small beer; consequently, it may be for the ease of the victualler to have the choice allowed him of furnishing one or the other; it will, therefore, be a very proper addition to this clause, that the innkeepers shall allow the soldier, every day, three quarts of either small beer or cider. That penal sanctions, sir, are essential to laws, and that no man will submit to any regulations inconvenient to himself, but that he may avoid some heavier evil, requires not to be proved; and, therefore, to complete this clause, I propose that the victualler who shall neglect or refuse to observe it, shall be subject to some fine for his non-compliance. Mr. PELHAM spoke to this effect:--Sir, I cannot omit this opportunity of observing how much the burden of the army is diminished by the judicious regulations invariably observed in the late reigns, and how little the assignment of troops is to be dreaded by the victualler. In the reign of king William, sir, before funds were established, while the credit of the government was low, the measures of the court were often obviated or defeated by the superiority of the discontented party, and the supplies denied which were necessary to support them, and in expectation of which they had been undertaken, it was not uncommon for the towns in which the troops were stationed, to murmur at their guests; nor could they be charged with complaining without just reasons: for to quarter soldiers upon a house, was in those days little less than to send troops to live at discretion. As all supplies, sir, were then occasional and temporary, and nothing was granted but for the present exigence, the prevalence of the opposition, for a single session, embarrassed all the measures of the court in the highest degree; their designs were at a stand, the forces were unpaid, and they were obliged to wait till another session for an opportunity of prosecuting their schemes. Thus, sir, the soldiers were sometimes five months without their pay, and were necessarily supported by the innkeeper at his own expense, with how much reluctance and discontent I need not mention. It cannot but be immediately considered, upon hearing this account of the soldier's condition, with how many reproaches he would receive his victuals, how roughly he would be treated, how often he would be insulted as an idler, and frowned upon as an intruder. Nor can it be imagined that such affronts, however they might be provoked, would be borne without return, by those who knew themselves not the authors of the provocation, and who thought themselves equal suf-ferers with those who complained. When the innkeeper growled at the soldier, the soldier, it may be supposed, seldom failed to threaten or to plunder the innkeeper, and to rise in his demands as his allowance was retrenched. Thus, sir, the landlord and his guest were the constant enemies of each other, and spent their lives in mutual complaints, injuries, and insults. But by the present regularity of our military establishment, this great evil is taken away; as the soldier requires no credit of the victualler, he is considered as no great incumbrance on his trade; and being treated without indignities, like any other member of the community, he inhabits his quarters without violence, insolence, or rapacity, and endeavours to recommend himself by officiousness and civility. In the present method of payment, sir, the troops have always one month's pay advanced, and receive their regular allowance on the stated day; so that every man has it in his power to pay his landlord every night for what he has had in the day; or if he imagines himself able to procure his own provisions at more advantage, he can now go to market with his own money. It appears, therefore, to me, sir, that the amendment now proposed is the proper mean between the different interests of the innkeeper and soldier; by which neither is made the slave of the other, and by which we shall leave, to both, opportunities of kindness, but take from them the power of oppression. Mr. CAREW next spoke as follows:--Sir, the amendment now offered is not, in my opinion, so unreasonable or unequitable as to demand a warm and strenuous opposition, nor so complete as not to be subject to some objections; objections which, however, may be easily removed, and which would, perhaps, have been obviated, had they been foreseen by the gentleman who proposed it. The allowance, sir, of small liquors proposed, I cannot but think more than sufficient; three quarts a-day are surely more than the demands of nature make necessary, and I know not why the legislature should promote, or confirm in the soldiery, a vice to which they are already too much inclined, the habit of tippling. The innkeeper, sir, will be heavily burdened by the obligation to supply the soldier with so many of the necessaries of life without payment; and, therefore, it may be justly expected by him, that no superfluities should be enjoyed at his expense. But there remains another objection, sir, of far more importance, and which must be removed before this clause can be reasonably passed into a law. It is not declared, or not with sufficient perspicuity, that it is to be left to the choice of the innkeeper, whether he will furnish the soldier with provisions at fourpence a-day, or with the necessaries enumerated in the clause for nothing. If it is to be left to the choice of the soldier, the victualler receives no relief from the amendment, to whose option, since he must suffer in either case, it ought to be referred, because he only can tell by which method he shall suffer least. Mr. CORNWALL spoke in the manner following:--Sir, it is not without the greatest diffidence that I rise to oppose the gentleman who offered the amendment; for his abilities are so far superiour to mine, that I object without hope of being able to support my objection, and contend with an absolute certainty of being overcome. I know not whether it may be allowed me to observe, that the difference between our faculties is, with regard to strength and quickness, the same as between the cider of his county and that of mine, except that in one part of the parallel the advantage is on our side, and in the other on his. The cider, sir, of our county is one of our most valuable commodities; so much esteemed in distant places, that our merchants often sell it by the bottle, for more than the soldier has to give for the provision of a day; and of such strength, that I, who am accustomed to the use of it, never was able to drink three quarts in any single day. If, therefore, sir, the soldier is to have three quarts of this cider, when small beer is not easily to be procured, not only the innkeeper, but the army will be injured; for what greater harm can be done to any man, than to initiate him in a habit of intemperance? and what outrages and insolencies may not be expected from men trusted with swords, and kept, from day to day, and from month to month, in habitual drunkenness by a decree of the senate? Sir William YONGE replied to this purpose:--Sir, I know not why the gentleman has thought this a proper opportunity for displaying his eloquence in the praise of his own cider. That he loves his own county cannot be wondered, for no passion is more universal, and few less to be censured;-but he is not to imagine that the produce of his native soil will be generally allowed to excel that of other counties, because early habits have endeared it to him, and familiarized it to his particular palate. The natives of every place prefer their own fruits and their own liquor, and, therefore, no inference can be drawn from approbation so apparently partial. From this prejudice I am far from suspecting myself free, nor am desirous or industrious to overcome it: neither am I afraid of exposing myself to all the censure that so innocent a prepossession may bring upon me, by declaring that, in my opinion, the cider of my native county is of equal excellence with that which this gentleman has so liberally extolled. Mr. CORNWALL answered to the following effect:--Sir, how little I expect victory in this controversy I have already declared, and I need not observe of how small importance it is what soil produces cider of the greatest excellence and value; since, if there be other places where the cider is equally esteemed, and purchased at the same rate, it is yet more necessary to provide, by some exception, that the soldier shall not be entitled to demand, of the victualler, liquor to more than thrice the value of his pay, nor be allowed to revel in continual drunkenness, and to corrupt his morals, and enervate his limbs by incessant debauchery. But since, sir, the preference due to the cider of my county has been denied, in my opinion, with great partiality and injustice, I think myself obliged, by all the laws of honour and gratitude, to stand up once more to vindicate its superiority, and assert its value. The laws of honour, sir, require this from me, as they oblige every man to stand forth a vindicator of merit slighted and oppressed; and gratitude calls loudly upon me to exert myself in the protection of that to which I have been often indebted for a pleasing suspense of care, and a welcome flow of spirit and gaiety. The cider, sir, which I am now rescuing from contemptuous comparisons, has often exhilarated my social hours, enlivened the freedom of conversation, and improved the tenderness of friendship, and shall not, therefore, now want a panegyrist. It is one of those few subjects on which an encomiast may expatiate without deviating from the truth. Would the honourable gentleman, sir, who has thus vilified this wonder-working nectar, but honour my table with his company, he would quickly be forced to retract his censures; and, as many of his countrymen have done, confess that nothing equal to it is produced in any other part of the globe; nor will this confession be the effect of his regard to politeness, but of his adherence to truth. Of liquor like this, sir, two quarts is, undoubtedly, sufficient for a daily allowance, in the lieu of small beer; nor ought even that to be determined by the choice of the soldier, but of the innkeeper, for whose benefit this clause is said to be inserted, and from whose grievances I hope we shall not suffer our attention to be diverted by any incidental questions, or ludicrous disputes. Mr. GORE then spoke to the following effect:--Sir, that the allowance of two quarts a-day is sufficient, and that to demand more is a wanton indulgence of appetite, is experimentally known, and, therefore, no more ought to be imposed upon the innkeeper. Nor is this, sir, the only part of the clause that requires our consideration; for some of the other particulars to be provided by the victualler, may easily furnish perverse tempers with an opportunity of wrangling: vinegar is not to be had in every part, of the kingdom, and, where it cannot be procured, ought not to be required; for neither reason nor experience will inform us that vinegar ought to be ranked among the necessaries of life. Sir William YONGE made the following reply:--Sir, by the alteration now made in the clause, the innkeepers are effectually relieved from a great part of the burden which, in my opinion, this act has hitherto laid upon them; the necessity of furnishing the soldiers quartered upon them, with provisions at the stated price, whatever might be the scarcity of the season or of the country. That this was the intention of the act, is asserted by those whose reputation and promotion are sufficient evidences of their ability in the interpretation of our laws. The innkeeper may now either accept or refuse the limited price, as it shall appear to him most consistent with his interest; nor will there be, for the future, any room for murmuring at unreasonable demands, since he may oblige that soldier whom he cannot satisfy, to please himself better at his own expense. The choice of the liquor is, likewise, wholly referred to the innkeeper; for the words in the clause requiring that he shall furnish three quarts of small beer or cider, he complies, indisputably, with the law by supplying either; and, therefore, the value of cider in any particular county is not of much importance in the question before us; if cider be more valuable than small beer, it may be withheld; if it be cheaper, it may be substituted in its place; so that the innkeeper has nothing to consult but his own interest. That this is the meaning of the clause, is, I suppose, obvious to every man that hears it read; and, therefore, I see no reason for any alterations, because I know not any effect which they can possibly have, except that of obscuring the sense which is now too clear to be mistaken. Sir John BARNARD spoke next, to the effect following:--Sir, though it should be granted, that the clause before us is intelligible to every member of this assembly, it will not certainly follow, that there is no necessity of farther elucidations; for a law very easily understood by those who make it, may be obscure to others who are less acquainted with our general intention, less skilled in the niceties of language, or less accustomed to the style of laws. It is to be considered, that this law will chiefly affect a class of men very little instructed in literature, and very unable to draw inferences; men to whom we often find it necessary, in common cases, to use long explanations, and familiar illustrations, and of whom it maybe not unreasonably suspected, that the same want of education, which makes them ignorant, may make them petulant, and at once incline them to wrangle, and deprive them of the means of deciding their controversies. That both innholders and soldiers are, for the greatest part, of this rank and temper, I suppose, sir, every gentleman knows, from daily observation; and, therefore, it will, I hope, be thought necessary to descend to their understandings, and to give them laws in terms of which they will know the meaning; we shall, otherwise, more consult the interest of the lawyers than the innholders, and only, by one alteration, produce a necessity of another. I am therefore desirous, sir, that all the difficulties which have been mentioned by every gentleman on this occasion, should be removed by clear, familiar, and determinate expressions; for what they have found difficult, may easily be, to an innholder or soldier, absolutely inexplicable. I cannot but declare, while I am speaking on this subject, that in my opinion, two quarts of liquor will be a sufficient allowance. If we consider the demands of nature, more cannot be required; if we examine the expense of the innholder, he ought not to supply soldiers with a greater quantity for nothing. It is to be remembered, that small beer, like other liquors, is charged with an excise in publick-houses; and that two quarts will probably cost the landlord a penny, and as we cannot suppose that fire, candles, vinegar, salt, pepper, and the use of utensils, and lodging, can be furnished for less than threepence a-day, every soldier that is quartered upon a publick-house, may be considered as a tax of six pounds a-year--a heavy burden, which surely ought not to be aggravated by unnecessary impositions. [The committee having gone through the bill, and settled the amendments, the chairman was ordered to make his report the next day.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 16, 1740-1. The report was read, and the amendments to the clauses in debate, which then ran thus:-- That the officers and soldiers to be quartered and billeted as aforesaid, shall be received, and furnished with diet and small beer by the owners of the inns, livery stables, alehouses, victualling-houses, etc. paying and allowing for the same the several rates mentioned. Provided, that in case the innholder on whom any non-commission officers or soldiers shall be quartered, by virtue of this act, (except on a march,) shall be desirous to furnish such officers or soldiers with candles, vinegar, and salt, and with either small beer or cider, not ex-ceeding three quarts for each man _a-day gratis_, and to allow them the use of fire, and the necessary utensils for dressing and eating their meat, and shall give notice of such his desire to the commanding officers, and shall furnish and allow them the same accordingly; then, and in such case, the non-commission officers and soldiers so quartered shall provide their own victuals; and the officer to whom it belongs to receive, or that does actually receive the pay and subsistence of such non-commission officers and soldiers, shall pay the several sums, payable out of the subsistence-money for diet and small beer, to the non-commission officers and soldiers aforesaid, and not to the innholder or other person on whom such non-commission officers or soldiers are quartered. The question being put whether this clause should stand thus, Mr. CAREW spoke to this effect:--Sir, though it may, perhaps, be allowed, that the circumstances of our present situation oblige us to support a more numerous army than in former years, surely no argument can be drawn from them that can show the necessity of a profuse allowance to our soldiers, or of gratifying their desires by the oppression of the innholders. If, sir, the designs of our enemies are so malicious, and their power so formidable, as to demand augmentations of our troops, and additions to our natural securities, they ought, surely, to impress upon us the necessity of frugal measures, that no useless burdens may be imposed upon the people. To furnish two quarts of beer, sir, every day for nothing, is, undoubtedly, an imposition sufficiently grievous; and I can, therefore, discover no reason for which an allowance of three should be established; a proposal injurious to the victualler, because it exacts more than he can afford to allow, and of no benefit to the soldier, because it offers him more than he can want. Sir William YONGE spoke next, to this purpose:--Sir, if it is an instance of misconduct to spend upon any affair more time than the importance of it deserves, I am afraid that the clause, to which our attention is now recalled, may expose us to censure, and that we may be charged with neglecting weighty controversies, and national questions, to debate upon trifles; of wasting our spirits upon subjects unworthy of contention; of defeating the expectations of the publick, and diverting our enemies rather than opposing them. But, sir, as nothing has a more immediate tendency to the security of the nation than a proper establishment of our forces, and the regulation of their quarters is one of the most necessary and difficult parts of the establishment; it is requisite that we think no question of this kind too trivial for our consideration, since very dangerous disturbances have often been produced by petty disputes. The quantity, sir, of small beer to be allowed by the victualler to those soldiers who shall provide their own victuals, was disputed yesterday, and, as I thought, agreed upon; but since this question is revived, I must take the opportunity to declare, that we ought not to assign less than three quarts a-day to each man; for it is to be remembered by those who estimate the demands by their own, how much their way of life is different from that of a common soldier, and how little he can be charged with wantonness and superfluity, for drinking more small liquor than themselves. There are few members of this house, who do not, more than once a-day, drink tea, coffee, chocolate, or some other cooling and diluting infusion; delicacies which the soldier cannot purchase; to which he is entirely a stranger, and of which the place must be supplied by some other cheap and wholesome liquors. If, sir, those gentlemen whose close attention to the interest of the innholder has, perhaps, abstracted them, in some degree, from any regard to the necessities of a soldier, will consent to allow him five pints a-day, I shall contend no longer; for though I cannot agree that it is a sufficient provision, yet, as other gentlemen, equally able to judge in this subject with myself, are of a different opinion, I shall show my regard for their sentiments by desisting from opposition. Lord BALTIMORE spoke in substance as follows:--Sir, I am not able to discover any necessity of compromising this debate, by taking the mean between the two different opinions, or for denying to the soldiers what every labourer or serving-man would murmur to be refused for a single day. I believe, sir, every gentleman, who examines the expense of his family, will find that each of his servants consumes daily at least three quarts of small beer, and surely it is not to be required that a soldier should live in a perpetual state of war with his constitution, and a constant inability to comply with the calls of nature. General HANDASYD spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, the inclination shown by several gentlemen for a penurious and scanty provision for the soldiers, must, in my opinion, proceed from an inattentive consideration of their pay, and will, therefore, be removed, by laying before them an account of his condition, and comparing his daily pay with his daily expenses. The whole pay of a foot soldier, sir, is sixpence a-day, of which he is to pay fourpence to his landlord for his diet, or, what is very nearly the same, to carry fourpence daily to the market, for which how small a supply of provisions he can bring to his quarters, especially in time of scarcity, I need not mention. There remain then only twopence, sir, to be disbursed for things not immediately necessary for the preservation of life, but which no man can want without being despicable to others and burdensome to himself. Twopence a-day is all that a soldier has to lay out upon cleanliness and decency, and with which he is likewise to keep his arms in order, and to supply himself with some part of his clothing. If, sir, after these deductions, he can, from twopence a-day, procure himself the means of enjoying a few happy moments in the year with his companions over a cup of ale, is not his economy much more to be envied than his luxury? Or can it be charged upon him that he enjoys more than his share of the felicities of life? Is he to be burdened with new expenses lest he should hoard up the publick money, stop the circulation of coin, and turn broker or usurer with twopence a-day? I have been so long acquainted, sir, with the soldier's character, that I will adventure to secure him from the charge of avarice, and to promise that whatever he shall possess not necessary to life, he will enjoy to the advantage of his landlord. Then the advocate CAMPBELL spoke in substance as follows:--Sir, I am far from intending to oppose this proposal of five pints, though, upon a rigorous examination, it might appear more than the mere wants of nature require; for I cannot but declare that this question has too long engaged the attention of the house, and that the representatives of a mighty nation beset with enemies, and encumbered with difficulties, seem to forget their importance and their dignity, by wrangling from day to day upon a pint of small beer. I conceive the bill, which we are now considering, sir, not as a perpetual and standing law, to be interwoven with our constitution, or added to the principles of our government, but as a temporary establishment for the present year; an expedient to be laid aside when our affairs cease to require it; an experimental essay of a new practice, which may be changed or continued according to its success. To allow, sir, five pints of small beer a-day to our soldiers, for a single year, can produce no formidable inconveniency, and may, though it should not be entirely approved, be of less disadvantage to the publick, than the waste of another day. [An alteration was made to five pints, instead of three quarts; and the bill, thus amended, was ordered to be engrossed, and a few days afterwards, being read a third time, was passed, and ordered to the lords, where it occasioned no debate.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, APRIL 12, 1741. [DEBATE ON ADDRESSING THE KING.] A copy of his majesty's speech being read, Mr. CLUTTERBUCK-BUCK rose, and spoke as follows:-- Sir, the present confusion in Europe, the known designs of the French, the numerous claims to the Austrian dominions, the armies which are levied to support them, and the present inability of the queen of Hungary to maintain those rights which descend to her from her ancestors, and have been confirmed by all the solemnities of treaties, evidently require an uncommon degree of attention in our consultations, and of vigour in our proceedings. Whatever may be the professions of the French, their real designs are easily discovered, designs which they have carried on, either openly, or in private, for near a century, and which it cannot be expected that they will lay aside, when they are so near to success. Their view, sir, in all their wars and treaties, alliances and intrigues, has been the attainment of universal dominion, the destruction of the rights of nature, and the subjection of all the rest of mankind; nor have we any reason to imagine that they are not equally zealous for the promotion of this pernicious scheme, while they pour troops into Germany, for the assistance of their ally, as when they wasted kingdoms, laid cities in ashes, and plunged millions into misery and want, without any other motive than the glory of their king. But the French are not the only nation at this time labouring for the subversion of our common liberties. Our liberties, sir, are endangered by those equally interested with ourselves in their preservation; for in what degree soever any of the princes who are now endeavouring to divide among themselves the dominions of Austria, may be pleased with the acquisition of new territories, and an imaginary increase of influence and power, it must be evident to all who are not dazzled by immediate interest, that they are only fighting for France, and that by the destruction of the Austrian family, they must in a short time fall themselves. It is well known, sir, though it is not always remembered, that political as well as natural greatness is merely comparative, and that he only is a powerful prince, who is more powerful than those with whom he can have any cause of contention. That prince, therefore, who imagines his power enlarged by a partition of territories, which gives him some additional provinces, may be at last disappointed in his expectations: for, if this partition gives to another prince already greater than himself, an opportunity of increasing his strength in a degree proportionate to his present superiority, the former will soon find, that he has been labouring for nothing, and that his danger is still the same. Such, sir, is the case of the king of Prussia, who, when he has overrun that part of Germany, to which he now lays claim, will only have weakened the house of Austria, without strengthening himself. He is at present secure in the possession of his dominions, because neither the Austrians would suffer the French, nor the French permit the Austrians to increase-their power by subduing him. Thus, while the present equipoise of power is maintained, jealousy and caution would always procure him an ally whenever he should be attacked; but when, by his assistance, the Austrian family shall be ruined, who shall defend him against the ambition of France? While the liberties of mankind are thus equally endangered by folly and ambition, attacked on one side, and neglected on the other, it is necessary for those who foresee the calamity that threatens them, to exert themselves in endeavours to avert it, and to retard the fatal blow, till those who are now lulled by the contemplation of private advantage, can be awakened into a just concern for the general happiness of Europe, and be convinced that they themselves can only be secure by uniting in the cause of liberty and justice. For this reason, sir, our sovereign has asserted the Pragmatick sanction, and promised to assist the queen of Hungary with the forces which former treaties have entitled her to demand from him; for this reason he has endeavoured to rouse the Dutch from their supineness, and excite them to arm once more for the common safety, to intimidate, by new augmentations, those powers whose ardour, perhaps, only subsists upon the confidence that they shall not be resisted, and to animate, by open declarations in favour of the house of Austria, those who probably are only hindered from offering their assistance, by the fear of standing alone against the armies of France. That by this conduct he may expose his dominions on the continent to invasions, ravages, and the other miseries of war, every one who knows their situation must readily allow; nor can it be doubted by any man who has heard of the power of the Prussians and French, that they may commit great devastations with very little opposition, the forces of the electorate not being sufficient to give them battle; for though the fortified towns might hold out against them, that consideration will very little alleviate the concern of those who consider the miseries of a nation, whose enemies are in possession of all the open country, and who from their ramparts see their harvest laid waste, and their villages in flames. The fortifications contain the strength, but the field and the trading towns comprise the riches of a people, and the country may be ruined which is not subdued. As, therefore, sir, the electoral dominions of his majesty are now endangered, not by any private dispute with the neighbouring princes, but by his firmness in asserting the general rights of Europe; as the consequences of his conduct, on this occasion, will be chiefly beneficial to Britain, we ought surely to support him in the prosecution of this design; a design which we cannot but approve, since our ancestors have always carried it on without regard either to the danger or the expense. In conformity to this maxim of politicks, so clearly founded in equity, and so often justified by the votes of the senate, has his majesty been pleased to declare to us his resolution to adhere to his engagements, and oppose all attempts that may be forming in favour of any unjust pretensions to the prejudice of the house of Austria. 'Tis for this end he desires the concurrence of his senate. I hope every gentleman in this house will agree with me that we ought to declare our approbation of these measures, in such terms as may show the world, that those who shall dare to obstruct them, must resolve to incur the resentment of this nation, and expose themselves to all the opposition which the senate of Britain can send forth against them. We ought to pronounce that the territories of Hanover will be considered, on this occasion, as the dominions of Britain, and that any attack on one or the other will be equally resented. I, therefore, move, that an humble address be presented by this house to his majesty, To return our thanks for his speech; to express our dutiful sense of his majesty's just regard for the rights of the queen of Hungary, and for maintaining the Pragmatick sanction; to declare our concurrence in the prudent measures which his majesty is pursuing for the preservation of the liberties and balance of power in Europe; to acknowledge his majesty's wisdom and resolution, in not suffering himself to be diverted from steadily persevering in his just purposes of fulfilling his engagements with the house of Austria; also, further to assure his majesty, that, in justice to and vindication of the honour and dignity of the British crown, we will effectually stand by and support his majesty against all insults and attacks, which any prince or power, in resentment of the just measures which he has so wisely taken, shall make upon any of his majesty's dominions, though not belonging to the crown of Great Britain. And that in any future events, which might make it necessary for him to enter into still larger expenses, this house will enable him to contribute, in the most effectual manner, to the support of the queen of Hungary, to the preventing, by all reasonable means, the subversion of the house of Austria, and to the maintaining the Pragmatick sanction and the liberties and balance of Europe. Mr. FOX seconded the motion in this manner:--Sir, the expediency, if not the necessity of the address now moved for, will, I believe, be readily allowed by those who consider the just measures which are pursued by his majesty, the end which is intended by them, and the powers by which they are opposed. How much it is our duty to support the house of Austria it is not necessary to explain to any man who has heard the debates of this assembly, or read the history of the last war. How much it is our duty to support it, is evident, as soon as it is known by whom it is attacked; by the ancient enemy of these nations, by the general disturber of the universe, by the formidable oppressors of liberty, exulting in new acquisitions, inflamed with the madness of universal monarchy, and elated with an opportunity of subjecting Germany, by exalting to the supreme power a prince who shall hold his authority only by their permission. The house of Austria, which has so often stood forth in defence of our common rights, which has poured armies into the field, in confederacy with Britain, to suppress the insolence of that family which nothing could satisfy but boundless power, now demands the assistance which it has so often afforded; that assistance is demanded from us by every claim which the laws of society can enact, or the dictates of nature can suggest, by treaties maturely considered, and solemnly confirmed, by the ties of ancient friendship, and the obligations of common interest. To violate the publick faith, and to neglect the observation of treaties, is to sink ourselves below barbarity, to destroy that confidence which unites mankind in society. To deny or evade our stipulations, sir, is to commit a crime which every honest mind must consider with abhorrence, and to establish a precedent which may be used hereafter to our own destruction. To forsake an ancient ally only because we can receive no immediate advantage from his friendship, or because it may be in some degree dangerous to adhere to him; to forsake him when he most wants our good offices, when he is distressed by his enemies, and deserted by others from whom he had reason to hope for kinder treatment, is the most despicable, the most hateful degree of cowardice and treachery. The obligations of interest, sir, it is not often needful to enforce, but it may be observed on this occasion, that a single year of neglect may never be retrieved. We may, sir, now be able to support those whom, when once dispossessed, it will not be in our power to restore; and that if we suffer the house of Austria to be overborne, our posterity, through every generation, may have reason to curse our injudicious parsimony, our fatal inactivity, and our perfidious cowardice. With what views the king of Prussia concurs in the French measures, or upon what principles of policy he promises to himself any security in the enjoyment of his new dominions, it is not easy to conjecture; but as it is easy to discover, that whatever he may propose to himself, his conduct evidently tends to the ruin of Europe, so he may, in my opinion, justly be opposed, if he cannot be diverted or made easy. Nor can we, sir, if this opposition should incite him, or any other power, to an invasion of his majesty's foreign dominions, refuse them our protection and assistance: for as they suffer for the cause which we are engaged to support, and suffer only by our measures, we are at least, as allies, obliged by the laws of equity and the general compacts of mankind, to arm in their defence; and what may be claimed by the common right of allies, we shall surely not deny them, only because they are more closely united to us, because they own the same monarch with ourselves. Mr. PULTENEY spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, with what eagerness the French snatch every opportunity of increasing their influence, extending their dominions, and oppressing their neighbours, the experience of many years has convinced all Europe; and it is evident that unless some power be preserved in a degree of strength nearly equal to theirs, their schemes, pernicious as they are, cannot be defeated. That the only power from which this opposition can be hoped, is the house of Austria, a very superficial view of this part of the globe, will sufficiently demonstrate; of this we were long since so strongly convinced, that we employed all our forces and all our politicks to aggrandize this house. We endeavoured not only to support it in all its hereditary rights, but to invest it with new sovereignties, and extend its authority over new dominions. Why we afterwards varied in our councils and our measures, I have long inquired without any satisfaction, having never, sir, with the utmost application, been able to discover the motives to the memorable treaty of Hanover, by which we stipulated to destroy the fabrick that we had been so long and so laboriously endeavouring to erect; by which we abandoned that alliance which we had so diligently cultivated, which we had preferred to peace, plenty, and riches, and for which we had cheerfully supported a tedious, a bloody, and an expensive war. This conduct, sir, raises a greater degree of admiration, as the authors of it had exhausted all their eloquence in censuring the treaty of Utrecht, and had endeavoured to expose those who transacted it to the general hatred of the nation; as they always expressed in the strongest terms their dread and detestation of the French; as they animated all their harangues, and stunned their opponents with declarations of their zeal for the liberties of Europe. By what impulse or what infatuation, these asserters of liberty, these enemies of France, these guardians of the balance of power, were on the sudden prevailed on to declare in favour of the power whom they had so long thought it their chief interest and highest honour to oppose, must be discovered by sagacity superiour to mine. But after such perplexity of councils and such fluctuation of conduct, it is necessary to inquire more particularly what are the present intentions of the ministry, what alliances have been formed, and what conditions are required to be fulfilled. If we are obliged only to supply the queen of Hungary with twelve thousand men, we have already performed our engagements; if we have promised any pecuniary assistance, the sum which we have stipulated to furnish ought to be declared; for I suppose, at least, our engagements have some limits, and that we are not to exert all the force of the nation, to fight as if fire and sword were at our gates, or an invader were landing armies upon our coasts. I have, sir, from my earliest years been zealous for the defence and exaltation of the house of Austria, and shall be very far from proposing that any danger or distress should influence us to desert it; but I do not easily discover by what means we shall be able to afford any efficacious assistance: for the power of Britain consists chiefly in naval armaments, which can be of very little use to the queen of Hungary, and I know not any state that will easily consent to unite with us on this occasion. If there be, sir, any states remaining in Europe which the French can neither intimidate nor bribe, we ought studiously to solicit and diligently to cultivate their friendship; but whether any, except the Moscovites, are now independent, or sufficiently confident of their own strength to engage in such a hazardous alliance, may be justly doubted. The late grand alliance, sir, was supported at the expense of this nation alone; nor was it required from the other confederates to exhaust the treasure of their country in the common cause. I hope the debt which that war has entailed upon us will instruct us to be more frugal in our future engagements, and to stipulate only what we may perform without involving the nation in misery, which victories and triumphs cannot compensate. The necessity, sir, of publick economy obliges me to insist, that before any money shall be granted, an account be laid before the senate, in particular terms, of the uses to which it is to be applied. To ask for supplies in general terms, is to demand the power of squandering the publick money at pleasure, and to claim, in softer language, nothing less than despotick authority. It has not been uncommon for money, granted by the senate, to be spent without producing any of those effects which were expected from it, without assisting our allies, or humbling our enemies; and, therefore, there is reason for suspecting that money has sometimes been asked for one use and applied to another. If our concurrence, sir, is necessary to increase his majesty's influence on the continent, to animate the friends of the house of Austria, or to repress the disturbers of the publick tranquillity, I shall willingly unite with the most zealous advocates for the administration in any vote of approbation or assistance, not contrary to the act of settlement, that important and well-concerted act, by which the present family was advanced to the throne, and by which it is provided, that Britain shall never be involved in war for the enlargement or protection of the dominions of Hanover, dominions from which we never expected nor received any benefit, and for which, therefore, nothing ought to be either suffered or hazarded. If it should be again necessary to form a confederacy, and to unite the powers of Europe against the house of Bourbon, that ambitious, that restless family, by which the repose of the world is almost every day interrupted, which is incessantly labouring against the happiness of human nature, and seeking every hour an opportunity of new encroachments, I declare, sir, that I shall not only, with the greatest cheerfulness, bear my share of the publick expense, but endeavour to reconcile others to their part of the calamities of war. This, sir, I have advanced in confidence, that sufficient care shall be taken, that in any new alliance we shall be parties, not principals; that the expense of war, as the advantage of victory, shall be common; and that those who shall unite with us will be our allies, not our mercenaries. Mr. WALPOLE then spoke, to the following purpose:--Sir, it is not without reason that the honourable gentleman desires to be informed of the stipulations contained in the treaty by which we have engaged to support the Pragmatick sanction; for I find that he either never knew them or has forgotten them; and, therefore, those reasonings which he has formed upon them fall to the ground. We are obliged, sir, by this treaty, to supply the house of Austria with twelve thousand men, and the Dutch, who were engaged in it by our example, have promised a supply of five thousand. This force, joined to those armies which the large dominions of that family enable them to raise, were conceived sufficient to repel any enemy by whom their rights should be invaded. But because in affairs of such importance nothing is to be left to hazard, because the preservation of the equipoise of power, on which the liberties of almost all mankind, who can call themselves free, must be acknowledged to depend, ought to be rather certain, than barely probable; it is stipulated farther, both by the French and ourselves, that if the supplies, specified in the first article, shall appear insufficient, we shall unite our whole force in the defence of our ally, and struggle, once more, for independence, with ardour proportioned to the importance of our cause. By these stipulations, sir, no engagements have been formed that can be imagined to have been prohibited by the act of settlement, by which it is provided, that the house of Hanover shall not plunge this nation into a war, for the sake of their foreign dominions, without the consent of the senate; for this war is by no means entered upon for the particular security of Hanover, but for the general advantage of Europe, to repress the ambition of the French, and to preserve ourselves and our posterity from the most abject dependence upon a nation exasperated against us by long opposition, and hereditary hatred. Nor is the act of settlement only preserved unviolated by the reasons of the present alliance, but by the regular concurrence of the senate which his majesty has desired, notwithstanding his indubitable right of making peace and war by his own authority. I cannot, therefore, imagine upon what pretence it can be urged, that the law, which requires that no war shall be made on account of the Hanoverian dominions without the consent of the senate, is violated, when it is evident that the war is made upon other motives, and the concurrence of the senate is solemnly desired. But such is the malevolence with which the conduct of the administration is examined, that no degree of integrity or vigilance can secure it from censure. When, in the present question, truth and reason are evidently on their side, past transactions are recalled to memory, and those measures are treated with the utmost degree of contempt and ridicule, of which the greatest part of the audience have probably forgotten the reasons, and of which the authors of them do not always stand up in the defence, because they are weary of repeating arguments to those who listen with a resolution never to be convinced. How well, sir, those by whom the ministry is opposed, have succeeded in hardening their minds against the force of reason, is evident from their constant custom of appealing from the senate to the people, and publishing, in pamphlets, those arguments which they have found themselves, in this assembly, unable to support; a practice which discovers rather an obstinate resolution to obstruct the government, than zeal for the prosperity of their country, and which, to speak of it in the softest terms, seems to be suggested more by the desire of popularity than the love of truth. Mr. SANDYS spoke to the effect following:--Sir, notwithstanding the confidence with which this motion has been offered and defended, notwithstanding the specious appearance of respect to his majesty, by which it is recommended, I am not ashamed to declare, that it appears to me inconsistent with the trust reposed in us by our constituents, who owe their allegiance to the king of Britain, and not to the elector of Hanover. It will be urged, sir, by the people, whom we sit here to represent, that they are already embarrassed with debts, contracted in a late war, from which, after the expense of many millions, and the destruction of prodigious multitudes, they receive no advantage; and that they are now loaded with taxes for the support of another, of which they perceive no prospect of a very happy or honourable conclusion, of either security or profit, either conquests or reprisals; and that they are, therefore, by no means willing to see themselves involved in any new confederacy, by which they may entail on their posterity the same calamities, and oblige themselves to hazard their fortunes and their happiness in defence of distant countries, of which many of them have scarcely heard, and from which no return of assistance is expected. Mr. WALPOLE spoke again, to this purpose:--Sir, though it is not necessary to refute every calumny that malice may invent, or credulity admit, or to answer those of whom it may reasonably be conceived that they do not credit their own accusations, I will yet rise, once more, in vindication of the treaty of Hanover, to show with how little reason it is censured, to repress the levity of insult, and the pride of unreasonable triumph. The treaty of Hanover, sir, how long soever it has been ridiculed, and with whatever contempt those by whom it was negotiated have been treated, was wise and just. It was just, because no injury was intended to any power, no invasion was planned, no partition of dominions stipulated, nothing but our own security desired. It was wise, because it produced the end proposed by it, and established that security which the Austrians and Spaniards were endeavouring to destroy. The emperour of Germany, sir, had then entered into a secret treaty of alliance with Spain, by which nothing less was designed than the total destruction of our liberties, the diminution of our commerce, the alienation of our dominions, and the subversion of our constitution. We were to have been expelled from Gibraltar, and totally excluded from the Mediterranean, the pretender was to have been exalted to the throne, and a new religion, with the slavery that always accompanies it, to have been introduced amongst us, and Ostend was to have been made a port, and to have shared the poor remains of our commerce to foreign nations. This unjust, this malicious confederacy, was then opposed with the utmost vehemence by the imperial general, whose courage and military capacity are celebrated throughout the world, and whose political abilities and knowledge of the affairs of Europe, were equal to his knowledge of war. He urged, with great force, that such a confederacy would disunite the empire for ever from the maritime powers, by which it had been supported, and which were engaged by one common interest in the promotion of its prosperity: but his remonstrances availed nothing, and the alliance was concluded. When our ancient allies, who had been so often succoured with our treasure, and defended by our arms, had entered into such engagements; when it was stipulated not only to impoverish but enslave us; not only to weaken us abroad, but to deprive us of every domestick comfort; when a scheme was formed that would have spread misery over the whole nation, and have extended its consequences to the lowest orders of the community, it was surely necessary to frustrate it by some alliance, and with whom could we then unite, but with France? This is not the only fact on which gentlemen have ventured to speak with great freedom without sufficient information; the conduct of our allies in the late war has been no less misrepresented than that of our ministers in their negotiations. They have been charged with imposing upon us the whole expense of the confederacy, when it may be proved, beyond controversy, that the annual charge of the Dutch was five millions. Nor did they, sir, only contribute annually thus largely to the common cause, but when we forsook the alliance, and shamefully abandoned the advantages we had gained, they received our mercenaries into their own pay, and expended nine millions in a single year. Of the truth of these assertions it is easy to produce incontestable evidence, which, however, cannot be necessary to any man who reflects, that from one of the most wealthy nations in the world, the Dutch, with all their commerce, and all their parsimony, are reduced to penury and distress; for who can tell by what means they have sunk into their present low condition, if they suffered nothing by the late war? How this gentleman, sir, has been deceived, and to whose insinuations his errours are to be imputed, I am at no loss to discover. I hope he will, by this confutation, be warned against implicit credulity, and remember with what caution that man is to be trusted, whose pernicious counsels have endangered his country. Mr. VYNER spoke thus:--Sir, it is, in my opinion, an incontestable maxim, that no measures are eligible, which are unjust; and that, therefore, before any resolutions are formed, we ought to examine not what motives may be suggested by expedience, but what arguments may be advanced by equity on one part or the other. If I do not mistake the true intent of the address now proposed, we are invited to declare that we will oppose the king of Prussia in his attempts upon Silesia, a declaration in which I know not how any man can concur, who knows not the nature of his claim, and the laws of the empire. It ought, therefore, sir, to have been the first endeavour of those by whom this address has been so zealously promoted, to show that his claim, so publickly explained, so firmly urged, and so strongly supported, is without foundation in justice or in reason, and is only one of those imaginary titles, which ambition may always find to the dominions of another. But no attempt has been yet made towards the discussion of this important question, and, therefore, I know not how any man can call upon us to oppose the king of Prussia, when his claim may probably be just, and, by consequence, such as, if it were necessary for us to engage in the affairs of those distant countries, we ought to join with him in asserting. Lord GAGE spoke next, in substance as follows:--Sir, as no member of this assembly can feel a greater degree of zeal for his majesty's honour than myself; none shall more readily concur in any expression of duty or adherence to him. But I have been always taught that allegiance to my prince is consistent with fidelity to my country, that the interest of the king and the people of great Britain is the same; and that he only is a true subject of the crown, who is a steady promoter of the happiness of the nation: For this reason I think it necessary to declare, that Hanover is always to be considered as a sovereignty separate from that of Britain, and as a country with laws and interests distinct from ours; and that it is the duty of the representatives of this nation, to take care that interests so different may never be confounded, and that Britain may incur no expense of which Hanover alone can enjoy the advantage. If the elector of Hanover should be engaged in war with any of the neighbouring sovereigns, who should be enabled, by a victory, to enter into the country, and carry the terrours of war through all his territories, it would by no means be necessary for this nation to interpose; for the elector of Hanover might lose his dominions without any disadvantage or dishonour to the king or people of Britain. HOUSE OF COMMONS, APRIL 16, 1741. DEBATE ON A MOTION FOR SUPPORTING THE QUEEN OF HUNGARY. His majesty went this day to the house of lords, and after his assent to several bills, he, in a speech from the throne to both houses of the senate, acquainted them, that the war raised against the queen of Hungary, and the various claims on the late German emperour's succession, might expose the dominions of such princes as should incline to support the Pragmatick sanction to imminent danger. That the queen of Hungary required the twelve thousand men stipulated by treaty, and thereupon he had demanded of the king of Denmark, and of the king of Sweden, as sovereign of Hesse Cassel, their respective bodies of troops, of six thousand men each, to be in readiness to march to her assistance. That he was concerting such farther measures as may disappoint all dangerous designs forming to the prejudice of the house of Austria, which might make it necessary for him to enter into still larger expenses for maintaining the Pragmatick sanction. He, therefore, in a conjuncture so critical, desired the concurrence of his senate, in enabling him to contribute, in the most effectual manner, to the support of the queen of Hungary, the preventing, by all reasonable means, the subversion of the house of Austria, and to the maintaining the liberties and balance of power in Europe. The house of commons, in their address upon this occasion, expressed a dutiful sense of his majesty's just regard for the rights of the queen of Hungary, and for the maintaining the Pragmatick sanction; they declared their concurrence in the prudent measures which his majesty was pursuing for the preservation of the liberties and balance of power in Europe; they assured his majesty, that, in justice to, and vindication of the honour and dignity of the British crown, they would effectually stand by and support his majesty against all insults and attacks, which any power, in resentment of the just measures which he had so wisely taken, should make upon any of his majesty's dominions, though not belonging to the crown of Great Britain. They farther assured his majesty, that in any future events which might make it necessary for him to enter into still larger expenses, they would enable him to contribute, in the most effectual manner, to the support of the designs he proposed. His majesty, in his answer to this address, observed their readiness in enabling him to make good his engagements with the queen of Hungary, and the assurances given him not to suffer his foreign dominions to be insulted on account of the measures he was pursuing for the support of the Pragmatick sanction, etc. In consequence of this procedure, the house, pursuant to order, resolved itself into a committee, to consider of the supplies granted to his majesty. Upon this occasion, a motion was made by sir Robert WALPOLE for a grant of three hundred thousand pounds, for the support of the queen of Hungary, on which arose the following debate: Sir Robert WALPOLE supported his motion by a speech, in substance as follows:--Sir, the necessity of this grant appears so plainly from the bare mention of the purposes for which it is asked, that I can scarcely conceive that its reasonableness will be disputed. I can discover no principles upon which an objection to this motion can be founded, nor the least arguments by which such objection can be supported. The indispensable obligations of publick faith, the great ties by which nations are united, and confederacies formed, I cannot suppose any man inclined to invalidate. An exact performance of national promises, and inviolable adherence to treaties, is enforced at once by policy and justice, and all laws both of heaven and earth. Publick perfidy, sir, like private dishonesty, whatever temporary advantages it may promise or produce, is always, upon the whole, the parent of misery. Every man, however prosperous, must sometimes wish for a friend; and every nation, however potent, stand in need of an ally; but all alliances subsist upon mutual confidence, and confidence can be produced only by unlimited integrity, by known firmness, and approved veracity. The use of alliances, sir, has, in the last age, been too much experienced to be contested; it is by leagues well concerted, and strictly observed, that the weak are defended against the strong, that bounds are set to the turbulence of ambition, that the torrent of power is restrained, and empires preserved from those inundations of war, that, in former times, laid the world in ruins. By alliances, sir, the equipoise of power is maintained, and those alarms and apprehensions avoided, which must arise from daily vicissitudes of empire, and the fluctuations of perpetual contest. That it is the interest of this nation to cultivate the friendship of the house of Austria, to protect its rights, and secure its succession, to inform it when mistaken, and to assist it when attacked, is allowed by every party. Every man, sir, knows that the only power that can sensibly injure us, by obstructing our commerce, or invading our dominions, is France, against which no confederacy can be formed, except with the house of Austria, that can afford us any efficacious support. The firmest bond of alliances is mutual interest. Men easily unite against him whom they have all equal reason to fear and to hate; by whom they have been equally injured, and by whom they suspect that no opportunity will be lost of renewing his encroachments. Such is the state of this nation, and of the Austrians. We are equally endangered by the French greatness, and equally animated against it by hereditary animosities, and contests continued from one age to another; we are convinced that, however either may be flattered or caressed, while the other is invaded, every blow is aimed at both, and that we are divided only that we may be more easily destroyed. For this reason we engaged in the support of the Pragmatick sanction, and stipulated to secure the imperial crown to the daughters of Austria; which was nothing more than to promise, that we would endeavour to prevent our own destruction, by opposing the exaltation of a prince who should owe his dignity to the French, and, in consequence of so close an alliance, second all their schemes, admit all their claims, and sacrifice to their ambition the happiness of a great part of mankind. Such would probably be the consequence, if the French should gain the power of conferring the imperial crown. They would hold the emperour in perpetual dependence, would, perhaps, take possession of his hereditary dominions, as a mortgage for their expenses; would awe him with the troops which they sent under a pretence of assisting him, and leave him only the titles of dominion, and the shadows of empire. In this state would he remain, whilst his formidable allies were extending their dominions on every side. He would see one power subdued after another, and himself weakened by degrees, and only not deprived of his throne, because it would be unnecessary to dethrone him; or he would be obliged to solicit our assistance to break from his slavery, and we should be obliged, at the utmost hazard, and at an expense not to be calculated, to remedy what it is, perhaps, now in our power to prevent with very little difficulty. That this danger is too near to be merely chimerical, that the queen of Hungary is invaded, and her right to the imperial dignity contested, is well known; it is, therefore, the time for fulfilling our engagements; engagements of the utmost importance to ourselves and our posterity; and I hope the government will not be accused of profusion, if, for three hundred thousand pounds, the liberties of Europe shall be preserved. We cannot deny this grant without acting in opposition to our late professions of supporting his majesty in his endeavours to maintain the Pragmatick sanction, and of assisting him to defend his foreign dominions from any injuries to which those endeavours should expose them; for how can he without forces defend his dominions, or assist his ally? or how can he maintain forces without supplies? Mr. SHIPPEN next rose, and spoke thus:--Sir, as I have always endeavoured to act upon conviction of my duty, to examine opinions before I admit them, and to speak what I have thought the truth, I do not easily change my conduct, or retract my assertions; nor am I deterred from repeating my arguments when I have a right to speak, by the remembrance that they have formerly been unsuccessful. Every man, when he is confident himself, conceives himself able to persuade others, and imagines that their obstinacy proceeds from other motives than reason; and that, if he fails at one time to gain over his audience, he may yet succeed in some happier moment, when their prejudices shall be dissipated, or their interest varied. For this reason, though it cannot be suspected that I have forgotten the resentment which I have formerly drawn upon myself, by an open declaration of my sentiments with regard to Hanover, I stand up again, with equal confidence, to make my protestations against any interposition in the affairs of that country, and to avow my dislike of the promise lately made to defend it: a promise, inconsistent, in my opinion, with that important and inviolable law, the _act of settlement!_--a promise, which, if it could have been foreknown, would, perhaps, have for ever precluded from the succession that illustrious family, to which we owe such numberless blessings, such continued felicity! Far be it from me to insinuate that we can be too grateful to his majesty, or too zealous in our adherence to him; only let us remember, that true gratitude consists in real benefits, in promoting the true interest of him to whom we are indebted; and surely, by hazarding the welfare of Britain in defence of Hanover, we shall very little consult the advantage, or promote the greatness of our sovereign. It is well known how inconsiderable, in the sight of those by whom the succession was established, Hanover appeared, in comparison with Britain. Those men, to whom even their enemies have seldom denied praise for knowledge and capacity, and who have been so loudly celebrated by many, who have joined in the last address, for their honest zeal, and the love of their country, enacted, that the king of Britain should never visit those important territories, which we have so solemnly promised to defend, at the hazard of our happiness. It was evidently their design that our sovereign, engrossed by the care of his new subjects, a care which, as they reasonably imagined, would arise from gratitude for dignity and power so liberally conferred, should in time forget that corner of the earth on which his ancestors had resided, and act, not as elector of Hanover, but as king of Britain, as the governour of a mighty nation, and the lord of large dominions. It was expressly determined, that, this nation should never be involved in war for the defence of the dominions on the continent, and, doubtless, the same policy that has restrained us from extending our conquests in countries from which some advantages might be received, ought to forbid all expensive and hazardous measures, for the sake of territories from whence no benefit can be reaped. Nor are the purposes, sir, for which this supply is demanded, the only objections that may be urged against it, for the manner in which it is asked, makes it necessary at least to delay it. The ministers have been so little accustomed to refusals that they have forgot when to ask with decency, and expect the treasure of the nation to be poured upon them, whenever they shall think it proper to hint that they have discovered some new opportunity of expense. It is necessary, that when a supply is desired, the house should be informed, some time before, of the sum that is required, and of the ends to which it is to be applied, that every member may consider, at leisure, the expediency of the measures proposed, and the proportion of the sum to the occasion on which it is demanded; that he may examine what are the most proper methods of raising it, and, perhaps, inquire with what willingness his constituents will advance it. Whether any man is enabled by his acuteness and experience, to determine all these questions upon momentaneous reflection, I cannot decide. For my part, I confess myself one of those on whom nature has bestowed no such faculties, and therefore move that the consideration of this supply may be deferred for a few days; for if it be now pressed upon us, I shall vote against it, because I do not yet fully discover all the reasons for it, nor all the consequences which it may produce, and I think myself obliged to know for what purpose I give away the money which is not my own. Mr. VYNER spoke as follows:--Sir, whatever may be the necessity of maintaining the Pragmatick sanction, or whatever the obligations of national pacts, of which I hope no man is desirous of countenancing the neglect, yet they cannot oblige us to arm without an enemy, to embarrass ourselves with watching every possibility of danger, to garrison dominions which are not threatened, or assert rights which are not invaded. The expediency of maintaining the house of Austria on the imperial throne, it is not at present necessary to assert, because it does not appear that any other family is aspiring to it. There may, indeed, be whispers of secret designs and artful machinations, whispers, perhaps, spread only to affright the court into treaties, or the senate into grants; or designs, which, like a thousand others that every day produces, innumerable accidents may defeat; which may be discovered, not only before they are executed, but before they are fully formed, and which, therefore, are not worthy to engross much of our attention, or to exhaust the wealth of the people. The Pragmatick sanction is nothing more than a settlement of the imperial dignity upon the eldest daughter of the late German emperour and her son; and if she has no son, upon the son of the second daughter; nor has the crown of Britain, by engaging to support that sanction, promised any thing more than to preserve this order of succession, which no power, at present, is endeavouring to interrupt; and which, therefore, at present, requires no defence. The dispute, sir, between the king of Prussia and the queen of Hungary, is of a different kind; nor is it our duty to engage in it, either as parties or judges. He lays claim to certain territories usurped, as he alleges, from his ancestors by the Austrian family, and asserts, by force, this claim, which is equally valid, whether the queen be emperess or not. We have no right to limit his dominions, or obligation to examine the justice of his demands. If he is only endeavouring to gain what has been forcibly withheld from him, what right have we to obstruct his undertaking? And if the queen can show a better title, she is, like all other sovereigns, at liberty to maintain it; nor are we necessarily to erect ourselves into judges between sovereigns, or distributors of dominions. The contest seems to have very little relation to the Pragmatick sanction: if the king of Prussia succeeds, he will contribute to support it; and if the queen is able to frustrate his designs, she will be too powerful to need our assistance. But though, sir, the Pragmatick sanction were in danger of violation, are we to stand up alone in defence of it, while other nations, equally engaged with ourselves by interest and by treaties, sit still to look upon the contest, and gather those advantages of peace which we indiscreetly throw away? Are we able to maintain it without assistance, or are we to exhaust our country, and ruin our posterity in prosecution of a hopeless project, to spend what can never be repaid, and to fight with certainty of a defeat? The Dutch, whose engagements and whose interests are the same as our own, have not yet made any addition to their expenses, nor augmentation of their troops; nor does a single potentate of Europe, however united by long alliances to the house of Austria, or however endangered by revolutions in the empire, appear to rouse at the approach of alarm, or think himself obliged to provoke enemies by whom he is not yet injured. I cannot, therefore, persuade myself that we are to stand up single in the defence of the Pragmatick sanction, to fight the quarrel of others, or live in perpetual war, that our neighbours may be at peace. I shall always think it my duty to disburse the publick money with the utmost parsimony, nor ever intend, but on the most pressing necessity, to load with new exactions a nation already overwhelmed with debts, harassed with taxes, and plundered by a standing army. For what purpose these numerous forces are maintained, who are now preying on the publick; why we increase our armies by land when we only fight by sea; why we aggravate the burden of the war, and add domestick oppressions to foreign injuries, I am at a loss to determine. Surely some regard should be had to the satisfaction of the people, who ought not, during the present scarcity of provisions, to be starved by the increase of an army, which seems supported only to consume them. As, therefore, part of our present expense is, in my opinion, unnecessary, I shall not contribute to aggravate it by a new grant, for purposes of which I cannot discover that they will promote the advantage of the publick. Sir Robert WALPOLE replied to the following effect:--Sir, the Pragmatick sanction, which we are engaged to support, is not confined to the preservation of the order of succession, but extends to all the rights of the house of Austria, which is now attacked, and by a very formidable enemy, at a time of weakness and distraction, and therefore requires our assistance. That others, equally obliged by treaty and by interest to lend their help on this occasion, sit reluctive, either through cowardice or negligence, or some prospect of temporary advantage, may, perhaps, be true; but is it any excuse of a crime, that he who commits it is not the only criminal? Will the breach of faith in others excuse it in us? Ought we not rather to animate them by our activity, instruct them by our example, and awaken them by our representations? Perhaps the other powers say to themselves, and to one another, Why should we keep that treaty which Britain is violating? Why should we expose ourselves to danger, of which that mighty nation, so celebrated for courage, is afraid? Why should we rush into war, in which our most powerful ally seems unwilling to support us? Thus the same argument, an argument evidently false, and made specious only by interest, may be used by all, till some one, more bold and honest than the rest, shall dare to rise in vindication of those rights which all have promised to maintain; and why should not the greatest nation be the first that shall avow her solemn engagements? Why should not they be most diligent in the prosecution of an affair who have most to lose by its miscarriage? I am always willing to believe, that no member of this assembly makes use, in any solemn debate, of arguments which do not appear rational to himself, and yet it is difficult to conceive that any man can imagine himself released from a promise, because the same promise is broken by another, or that he is at liberty to desert his friend in distress, because others desert him, whose good offices he has equal reason to expect, and that the more his assistance is needed, the more right he has to deny it. Surely such arguments as these deserve not, need not a confutation. Before we regulate our conduct by that of others, we must either prove that they have done right, which proof will be a sufficient defence without the precedent, or own that they are more capable of judging than we, and that, therefore, we pay an implicit submission to their dictates and example; a sacrifice which we shall not willingly make to the vanity of our neighbours. In the present case it is evident that if other nations neglect the performance of their contracts, they are guilty of the breach of publick faith; of a crime, that, if it should generally be imitated, would dissolve society, and throw human nature into confusion, that would change the most happy region into deserts, in which one savage would be preying on another. Nor are they only propagating an example, which in some distant times may be pleaded against themselves, but they are exposing themselves to more immediate dangers; they are forwarding designs that have no tendency but to their ruin, they are adding strength to their inveterate enemies, and beckoning invasion to their own frontiers. Let us, therefore, instead of hardening ourselves in perfidy, or lulling ourselves in security by their example, exert all our influence to unite them, and all our power to assist them. Let us show them what they ought to determine by our resolutions, and teach them to act by our vigour; that, if the house of Austria be preserved, our alliance may be strengthened by new motives of gratitude; and that, if it must be that the liberties of this part of the world be lost, we may not reproach ourselves with having neglected to defend them. Mr. PELHAM spoke next to this purpose:--Sir, it is not to be supposed that such members of this assembly as are not engaged in publick affairs, should receive very exact intelligence of the dispositions of foreign powers, and, therefore, I do not wonder that the conduct of the Dutch has been misrepresented, and that they are suspected of neglecting their engagements at a time when they are endeavouring to perform them. The Dutch have now under consideration the most proper methods of assisting the queen of Hungary, and maintaining the Pragmatick sanction; it may be, indeed, justly suspected, from the nature of their constitution, that their motions will be slow, but it cannot be asserted, that they break their engagements, or desert their confederates. Nor is there any reason for imagining that the other princes, who have incurred the same obligations, will not endeavour to perform their promises; it may be easily conceived that some of them are not able at a sudden summons to afford great assistance, and that others may wait the result of our deliberations, and regulate their conduct by our example. Not that we ought to neglect our engagements, or endanger our country, because other powers are either perfidious, or insensible; for I am not afraid to declare, that if that should happen, which there is no reason to suspect, if all the other powers should desert the defence of the Austrian line, should consent to annul the Pragmatick sanction, and leave the queen of Hungary to the mercy of her enemies, I would advise that Britain alone should pour her armies into the continent, that she should defend her ally against the most formidable confederacy, and show mankind an example of constancy not to be shaken, and of faith not to be violated. If it be, therefore, our duty to support the Pragmatick sanction, it is now the time for declaring our resolutions, when the imperial crown is claimed by a multitude of competitors, among whom the elector of Bavaria, a very powerful prince, has, by his minister, notified his pretensions to the court of Britain. The ancient alliance between this prince and the French is well known, nor can we doubt that he will now implore their assistance for the attainment of the throne to which he aspires; and I need not say what may be expected from an emperour, whose elevation was procured by the forces of France. Nor is this the only prince that claims the imperial crown upon plausible pretences, or whose claims other powers may combine to support; it is well known, that even the Spanish monarch believes himself entitled to it, nor can we, who have no communication with him, know whether he has not declared to all the other princes of Europe, his resolution to assert his claim. It is far from being impossible that the pretensions of the house of Bourbon may be revived, and that though no single prince of that family should attempt to mount the imperial throne, they may all conspire to dismember the empire into petty kingdoms, and free themselves from the dread of a formidable neighbour, by erecting a number of diminutive sovereigns, who may be always courting the assistance of their protectors, for the sake of harassing each other. Thus will the house by which Europe has been hitherto protected, sink into an empty name, and we shall be left to stand alone against all the powers that profess a different religion, and whose interest is opposite to that of Britain. We ought, indeed, to act with the utmost vigour, when we see one of the most powerful of the reformed princes so far forgetful of the interest of our religion, as to cooperate with the designs of France, and so intent upon improving the opportunity of distressing the house of Austria, as to neglect the common cause, and expose himself or his posterity to the danger of becoming a dependant on the house of Bourbon. For this reason, I cannot agree that our army, though numerous and burdensome, is greater than the necessity of affairs requires: if we cast our eyes on the continent, nothing is to be seen but general confusion, powerful armies in motion, the dominions of one prince invaded, of another threatened; the tumults of ambition in one place, and a panick stillness in another. What will be the event of these commotions who can discover? And how can we know what may determine the course of that flood of power, which is now in a state of uncertain fluctuation, or seems driven to different points by different impulses? How soon may the Dutch see their barrier attacked, and call upon us for the ten thousand men which we are obliged to send them? How soon may the house of Austria be so distressed, as to require all our power for its preservation? That we are to leave nothing unattempted for the security of our own religion and liberty, will easily be granted, and, therefore, unless it can be proved that we may be equally secure, though the house of Austria be ruined, it will necessarily follow that we are, with all our power, to enforce the observation of the Pragmatick sanction. This is not an act of romantick generosity, but such as the closest attention to our own interest shows to be necessary; in defending the queen of Hungary we defend ourselves, and only extinguish that flame, by which, if it be suffered to spread, we shall ourselves be consumed. The empire may be considered as the bulwark of Britain, which, if it be thrown down, leaves us naked and defenceless. Let us, therefore, consider our own danger, and remember, that while we are considering this supply, we are deliberating upon nothing less than the fate of our country. Mr. PULTENEY spoke next, to the effect following:--Sir, I am on this occasion of an opinion different from that of the honourable member who spoke the second in this debate, though on most questions our judgment has been the same. I am so far from seconding his proposal for delaying the consideration of this supply, that I think it may justly be inquired, why it was not sooner proposed. For the support of the house of Austria, and the assertion of the Pragmatick sanction, no man can be more zealous than myself; I am convinced how closely the interest of this nation and that of the Austrian family are united, and how much either must be endangered by the ruin of the other, and, therefore, I shall not delay, for a single moment, my consent to any measures that may reestablish our interest on the continent, and rescue Germany once more from the jaws of France. I am afraid that we have lost part of our influence in the neighbouring countries, and that the name of Britain is less formidable than heretofore; but if reputation is lost, it is time to recover it, and I doubt not but it may be recovered by the same means that it was at first obtained. Our armies may be yet equally destructive, and our money equally persuasive. We have not yet suffered, amidst all our misconduct, our naval force to be diminished; our sailors yet retain their ancient courage, and our fleets are sufficient to keep the dominion of the ocean, and prescribe limits to the commerce of every nation. While this power remains unimpaired, while Britain retains her natural superiority, and asserts the honour of her flag in every climate, we cannot become despicable, nor can any nation ridicule our menaces or scorn our alliance. We may still extend our influence to the inland countries, and awe those nations which we cannot invade. To preserve this power let us watch over the disposal of our money; money is the source of dominion; those nations may be formidable for their affluence which are not considerable for their numbers; and by a negligent profusion of their wealth, the most powerful people may languish into imbecility, and sink into contempt. If the grant which is now demanded will be sufficient to produce the ends to which it is proposed to be applied, if we are assured of the proper application of it, I shall agree to it without hesitation. But though it cannot be affirmed that the sum now demanded is too high a price for the liberties of Europe, it is at least more than ought to be squandered without effect, and we ought at least to know before we grant it, what advantages may be expected from it. May not the sum demanded for the support of the queen of Hungary be employed to promote very different interests? May it not be lavished to support that power, to which our grants have too long contributed? that power by which ourselves have been awed, and the administration has tyrannised without control? If this sum is really intended to support the queen of Hungary, may we not inquire how it is to be employed for her service? Is it to be sent her for the payment of her armies, and the support of her court? Should we not more effectually secure her dominions by purchasing with it the friendship and assistance of the king of Prussia, a prince, whose extent of dominions and numerous forces, make him not more formidable than his personal qualities. What may be hoped, sir, from a prince of wisdom and courage, at the head of a hundred and ten thousand regular troops, with eight millions in his treasury? How much he must necessarily add to the strength of any party in which he shall engage, is unnecessary to mention; it is evident, without proof, that nothing could so much contribute to the reestablishment of the house of Austria, as a reconciliation with this mighty prince, and that, to bring it to pass, would be the most effectual method of serving the unfortunate queen that requires our assistance. Why we should despair, sir, of such a reconciliation I cannot perceive; a reconciliation equally conducive to the real interest of both parties. It may be proved, with very little difficulty, to the king of Prussia, that he is now assisting those with whom interests incompatible and religions irreconcilable have set him at variance, whom he can never see prosperous but by the diminution of his own greatness, and who will always project his ruin while they are enjoying the advantages of his victories. We may easily convince him that their power will soon become, by his assistance, such as he cannot hope to withstand, and show, from the examples of other princes, how dangerous it is to add to the strength of an ambitious neighbour. We may show him how much the fate of the empire is now in his hands, and how much more glorious and more advantageous it will be to preserve it from ruin, than to contribute to its destruction. If by such arguments, sir, this potent monarch can be induced to act steadily in defence of the common cause, we may once more stand at the head of a protestant confederacy; of a confederacy that may contract the views and repress the ambition of the house of Bourbon, and alter their schemes of universal monarchy into expedients for the defence of their dominions. But in transacting these affairs, let us not engage in any intricate treaties, nor amuse ourselves with displaying our abilities for negotiation; negotiation, that fatal art which we have learned as yet very imperfectly, and which we have never attempted to practise but to our own loss. While we have been entangled in tedious disquisitions, and retarded by artful delays, while our commissaries have been debating about what was only denied to produce controversies, and inquiring after that which has been hid from them only to divert their attention from other questions, how many opportunities have been lost, and how often might we have secured by war, what was, at a much greater expense, lost by treaties. Treaties, sir, are the artillery of our enemies, to which we have nothing to oppose; they are weapons of which we know not the use, and which we can only escape by not coming within their reach. I know not by what fatality it is, that to treat and to be cheated, are, with regard to Britons, words of the same signification; nor do I intend, by this observation, to asperse the characters of particular persons, for treaties, by whomsoever carried on, have ended always with the same success. It is time, therefore, to know, at length, our weakness and our strength, and to resolve no longer to put ourselves voluntarily into the power of our enemies: our troops have been always our ablest negotiators, and to them it has been, for the most part, necessary at last to refer our cause. Let us, then, always preserve our martial character, and neglect the praise of political cunning; a quality which, I believe, we shall never attain, and which, if we could obtain, would add nothing to our honour. Let it be the practice of the Britons to declare their resolutions without reserve, and adhere to them in opposition to danger; let them be ambitious of no other elogies than those which may be gained by honesty and courage, nor will they then ever find their allies diffident, or their enemies contemptuous. By recovering and asserting this character, we may become once more the arbiters of Europe, and be courted by all the protestant powers as their protectors: we may once more subdue the ambition of the aspiring French, and once more deliver the house of Austria from the incessant pursuit of those restless enemies. The defence of that illustrious family, sir, has always appeared to me, since I studied the state of Europe, the unvariable interest of the British nation, and our obligations to support it on this particular occasion have already been sufficiently explained. Whence it proceeded, sir, that those who now so zealously espouse the Austrian interest, have been so plainly forgetful of it on other occasions, I cannot determine. That treaties have been made very little to the advantage of that family, and that its enemies have been suffered to insult it without opposition, is well known; nor was it long ago that it was debated in this house, whether any money should be lent to the late emperour. No publick or private character can be supported, no enemy, sir, can be intimidated, nor any friend confirmed in his adherence, but by a steady and consistent conduct, by proposing, in all our actions, such ends as may be openly avowed, and by pursuing them without regard to temporary inconveniencies, or petty obstacles. Such conduct, sir, I would gladly recommend on the present occasion, on which I should be far from advising a faint, an irresolute, or momentary assistance, such supplies as declare diffidence in our own strength, or a mean inclination to please contrary parties at the same time, to perform our engagements with the queen, and continue our friendship with France. It is, in my opinion, proper to espouse our ally with the spirit of a nation that expects her decisions to be ratified, that holds the balance of the world in her hand, and can bestow conquest and empire at her pleasure. Yet, sir, it cannot be denied that many powerful reasons may be brought against any new occasions of expense, nor is it without horrour and astonishment that any man, conversant in political calculations, can consider the enormous profusion of the national treasure. In the late dreadful confusion of the world, when the ambition of France had set half the nations of the earth on flame, when we sent our armies to the continent, and fought the general quarrel of mankind, we paid, during the reigns of king William and his great successour, reigns of which every summer was distinguished by some important action, but four millions yearly. But our preparations for the present war, in which scarcely a single ship of war has been taken, or a single fortress laid in ruins, have brought upon the nation an expense of five millions. So much more are we now obliged to pay to amuse the weakest, than formerly to subdue the most powerful of our enemies. Frugality, which is always prudent, is, at this time, sir, indispensable, when war, dreadful as it is, may be termed the lightest of our calamities; when the seasons have disappointed us of bread, and an universal scarcity afflicts the nation. Every day brings us accounts from different parts of the country, and every account is a new evidence of the general calamity, of the want of employment for the poor, and its necessary consequence, the want of food. He that is scarce able to preserve himself, cannot be expected to assist others; nor is that money to be granted to foreign powers, which is wanted for the support of our fellow-subjects, who are now languishing with diseases, which unaccustomed hardships and unwholesome provisions have brought upon them, while we are providing against distant dangers, and bewailing the distresses of the house of Austria. Let us not add to the miseries of famine the mortifications of insult and neglect; let our countrymen, at least, divide our care with our allies, and while we form schemes for succouring the queen of Hungary, let us endeavour to alleviate nearer distresses, and prevent or pacify domestick discontents. If there be any man whom the sight of misery cannot move to compassion, who can hear the complaints of want without sympathy, and see the general calamity of his country without employing one hour on schemes for its relief; let not that man dare to boast of integrity, fidelity, or honour; let him not presume to recommend the preservation of our faith, or adherence to our confederates: that wretch can have no real regard to any moral obligation, who has forgotten those first duties which nature impresses; nor can he that neglects the happiness of his country, recommend any good action for a good reason. It should be considered, sir, that we can only be useful to our allies, and formidable to our enemies, by being unanimous and mutually confident of the good intentions of each other, and that nothing but a steady attention to the publick welfare, a constant readiness to remove grievances, and an apparent unwillingness to impose new burdens, can produce that unanimity. As the cause is, therefore, necessarily to precede the effect, as foreign influence is the consequence of happiness at home, let us first endeavour to establish that alacrity and security that may animate the people to assert their ancient superiority to other nations, and restore that plenty which may raise them above any temptation to repine at assistance given to our allies. No man, sir, can very solicitously watch over the welfare of his neighbour whose mind is depressed by poverty, or distracted by terrour; and when the nation shall see us anxious for the preservation of the queen of Hungary, and unconcerned about the wants of our fellow-subjects, what can be imagined, but that we have some method of exempting ourselves from the common distress, and that we regard not the publick misery when we do not feel it? Sir Robert WALPOLE replied, to the following effect:--Sir, it is always proper for every man to lay down some principles upon which he proposes to act, whether in publick or private; that he may not be always wavering, uncertain, and irresolute; that his adherents may know what they are to expect, and his adversaries be able to tell why they are opposed. It is necessary, sir, even for his own sake, that he may not be always struggling with himself; that he may know his own determinations, and enforce them by the reasons which have prevailed upon him to form them; that he may not argue in the same speech to contrary purposes, and weary the attention of his hearers with contrasts and antitheses. When a man admits the necessity of granting a supply, expatiates upon the danger that may be produced by retarding it, declares against the least delay, however speciously proposed, and enforces the arguments which have been already offered to show how much it is our duty and interest to allow it; may it not reasonably be imagined, that he intends to promote it, and is endeavouring to convince them of that necessity of which he seems himself convinced? But when the same man proceeds to display, with equal eloquence, the present calamities of the nation, and tells to how much better purposes the sum thus demanded may be applied; when he dwells upon the possibility that an impolitick use may be made of the national treasure, and hints that it may be asked for one purpose and employed to another, what can be collected from his harangue, however elegant, entertaining, and pathetick? How can his true opinion be discovered? Or how shall we fix such fugitive reasonings, such variable rhetorick? I am not able, sir, to discern, why truth should be obscured; or why any man should take pleasure in heaping together all the arguments that his knowledge may supply, or his imagination suggest, against a proposition which he cannot deny. Nor can I assign any good purpose that can be promoted by perpetual renewals of debate, and by a repetition of objections, which have in former conferences, on the same occasion, been found of little force. When the system of affairs is not fully laid open, and the schemes of the administration are in part unknown, it is easy to raise objections formidable in appearance, which, perhaps, cannot be answered till the necessity of secrecy is taken away. When any general calamity has fallen upon a nation, it is a very fruitful topick of rhetorick, and may be very pathetically exaggerated, upon a thousand occasions to which it has no necessary relation. Such, In my opinion, sir, is the use now made of the present scarcity, a misfortune inflicted upon us by the hand of providence alone; not upon us only, but upon all the nations on this side of the globe, many of which suffer more, but none less than ourselves. If at such a time it is more burdensome to the nation to raise supplies, it must be remembered, that it is in proportion difficult to other nations to oppose those measures for which the supplies are granted; and that the same sum is of greater efficacy in times of scarcity than of plenty. Our present distress will, I hope, soon be at an end; and, perhaps, a few days may produce at least some alteration. It is not without reason, that I expect the news of some successful attempts in America, which will convince the nation, that the preparations for war have not been idle shows, contrived to produce unnecessary expenses. In the mean time it is necessary that we support that power which may be able to assist us against France, the only nation from which any danger can threaten us, even though our fleets in America should be unsuccessful. If we defeat the Spaniards, we may assist the house of Austria without difficulty, and if we fail in our attempts, their alliance will be more necessary. The sum demanded for this important purpose cannot be censured as exorbitant, yet will, I hope, be sufficient: if more should hereafter appear necessary, I doubt not but it will be granted. The question passed without opposition. HOUSE OF COMMONS, DECEMBER 1, 1741. [DEBATE ON CHOOSING A SPEAKER.] The new house of commons being met, the usher came from the house of lords, with his majesty's commands for their immediate attendance, when they were ordered to choose a speaker; and being returned, Mr. PELHAM addressed himself in the following manner to the clerk of the house: Mr. HARDINGE, As we are here assembled, in pursuance of the imperial summons, it is necessary, in obedience to his majesty's commands, and the established custom of this house, that we proceed immediately to the choice of a person qualified for the chair.--Gentlemen, it is with no common degree of satisfaction, that I observe this assembly so numerous on the first day; because whatever is transacted by us, must necessarily be considered by the nation with more regard, as it is approved by a greater number of their representatives; and because the present affair, which relates particularly to this house, must be more satisfactorily conducted, as our number is greater; since every man must willingly abide by his own choice, and cheerfully submit to that authority, of which he has himself concurred to the establishment. The qualifications required in the person who shall fill the chair, to his own reputation, and the advantage of the house, it is not necessary minutely to recount; it being obvious to every gentleman who hears me, that he must possess such an equality of temper, as may enable him always to preserve a steady and impartial attention, neither discomposed by the irregularities into which some gentlemen, unacquainted with the forms of this assembly, may easily fall, nor disconcerted by the heat and turbulence to which, in former parliaments, some of those whose experience might have taught them the necessity of decency, have been too often hurried by the eagerness of controversy. That he must add to his perpetual serenity, such a firmness of mind, as may enable him to repress petulance and subdue contumacy, and support the orders of the house, in whatever contrariety of counsels, or commotion of debate, against all attempts of infraction or deviation. That to give efficacy to his interpositions, and procure veneration to his decisions, he must, from his general character and personal qualities, derive such dignity and authority, as may naturally dispose the minds of others to obedience, as may suppress the murmurs of envy, and prevent the struggles of competition. These qualifications were eminently conspicuous in the gentleman who filled the chair in the earlier part of my life, and who is now one of the ornaments of the other house. Such were his abilities, and such his conduct, that it would be presumptuous in any man, however endowed by nature, or accomplished by study, to aspire to surpass him; nor can a higher encomium be easily conceived, than this house bestowed upon that person, who was thought worthy to succeed him. The office which we have now to confer, is not only arduous with regard to the abilities necessary to the execution of it, but extremely burdensome and laborious, such as requires continual attendance, and incessant application; nor can it be expected that any man would engage in it, who is not ready to devote his time and his health to the service of the publick, and to struggle with fatigue and restraint for the advantage of his country. Such is the gentleman whom I shall propose to your choice; one whose zeal for the present imperial house, and the prosperity of the nation, has been always acknowledged, and of whom it cannot be suspected that he will be deterred by any difficulties from a province which will afford him so frequent opportunities of promoting the common interest of the emperour and the people. What success may be expected from his endeavours, we can only judge from his present influence; influence produced only by his private virtues; but so extensive in that part of the nation which lies within the reach of his beneficence, and the observation of his merit, that it sets him not only above the danger, but above the fear of opposition, and secures him a seat in this assembly without contest. Thus deputed by his country to many successive senates, he has acquired an unrivalled degree of knowledge in the methods of our proceedings, and an eminent dexterity in digesting them with that order and perspicuity by which only the transaction of great affairs can be made expeditious, and the discussion of difficult questions be disentangled from perplexity; qualities which are now made particularly necessary by the importance of the subjects to be considered in this senate: so that I doubt not but you will unanimously concur with me in desiring that the chair may be filled by a person eminently distinguished by his knowledge, his integrity, his diligence, and his reputation; and therefore I move, without scruple, that the right honourable Arthur ONSLOW, esquire, be called to the chair. Then Mr. CLUTTERBUCK seconded the motion in this manner:--That I am not able to add any thing to the encomium of the right honourable gentleman nominated to the president's chair, gives me no concern, because I am confident, that in the opinion of this assembly, his name alone includes all panegyrick, and that he who recommends Arthur ONSLOW, esquire, will never be required to give the reason of his choice. I therefore rise now only to continue the common methods of the house, and to second a motion which I do not expect that any will oppose. [Here the whole assembly cried out, with a general acclamation, ONSLOW, ONSLOW.] Mr. ONSLOW then rose up and said:--Though I might allege many reasons against this choice, of which the strongest is my inability to discharge the trust conferred upon me in a manner suitable to its importance, yet I have too high an idea of the wisdom of this assembly, to imagine that they form any resolution without just motives; and therefore shall think it my duty to comply with their determination, however opposite to my own opinion. Mr. PELHAM and Mr. CLUTTERBUCK then led him to the chair, where, before he went up to it, he desired, That the house would consider how little he was qualified for the office which they were about to confer upon him, and fix their choice upon some other person, who might be capable of discharging so important a trust. The members calling out, The chair, chair, chair, he ascended the step, and then addressed himself thus to the house:--Gentlemen, since it is your resolution, that I should once more receive the honour of being exalted to this important office, for which it is not necessary to mention how little I am qualified, since I may hope that those defects which have hitherto been excused, will still find the same indulgence; my gratitude for a distinction so little deserved, will always incite me to consult the honour of the house, and enable me to supply, by duty and diligence, what is wanting in my knowledge and capacity. DECEMBER 4, 1741. [DEBATE ON THE ADDRESS.] The king came again to the house of lords, and the commons being sent for, his majesty approved their choice of a president, and made a speech to both houses, in which he represented to them, That their counsel was in a particular manner necessary, as they were engaged in a war with Spain, as the affairs of all Europe were in confusion, by the confederacy of many formidable powers for the destruction of the house of Austria; that both houses of the preceding session had come to the strongest resolutions in favour of the queen of Hungary, but that the other powers who were equally engaged to support her, had not yet acted according to their stipulations; that he had endeavoured to assist her ever since the death of the emperour Charles, and hoped that a just sense of common danger would induce other nations to unite with him; but that in this uncertain situation, it was necessary that Britain should be in a condition of supporting itself and its allies, as any exigency might require. He therefore ordered the estimates for the ensuing year to be laid before the commons.--This speech being under the consideration of the house of lords, lord MILTON spoke in the following manner: My lords, though the present perplexity of our affairs, the contrariety of opinions produced by it, and the warmth with which each opinion will probably be supported, might justly discourage me from proposing any of my sentiments to this great assembly, yet I cannot repress my inclination to offer a motion, in my opinion, regular and seasonable, and which, if it should appear otherwise to your lordships, will, I hope, though it should not be received, at least be forgiven, because I have never before wearied your patience, or interrupted or retarded your consultations. But I am very far from imagining that by this motion I can give any occasion to debate or opposition, because I shall propose no innovation in the principles, or alteration of the practice of this assembly, nor intend any thing more than to lay before your lordships my opinion of the manner in which it may be proper to address his majesty. To return him our humble thanks for his most gracious speech from the throne, and, at the same time, to present unto his majesty our sincere and joyful congratulations on his safe and happy return into this empire. To observe with the utmost thankfulness the great concern which his majesty has been pleased to express for carrying on the just and necessary war against Spain, which we hope, by the divine blessing upon his majesty's arms, will be attended with success equal to the justice of his cause, and the ardent wishes of his people. That, His majesty has so truly represented the impending dangers to which Europe is exposed, in the present critical conjuncture, as must awaken, in every one, an attention suitable to the occasion: and we cannot but be fully sensible of the evil consequences arising from the designs and enterprises, formed and carrying on for the subversion or reduction of the house of Austria, which threaten such apparent mischiefs to the common cause. To acknowledge his imperial goodness in expressing so earnest a desire to receive, and so high a regard for, the advice of his parliament: his majesty, secure of the loyalty and affections of his people, may rely upon that, with the best-grounded confidence; and to assure his majesty, that we will not fail to take the important points, which he has been pleased to mention to us, into our most serious consideration; and, in the most dutiful manner, to offer to his majesty such advice as shall appear to us to be most conducive to the honour and true interest of his crown and kingdoms. To assure his majesty that we have a due sense, how much the present posture of affairs calls upon us for that unanimity, vigour, and despatch, which his majesty has so wisely recommended to us; and to give his majesty the strongest assurances, that we will vigorously and heartily concur in all just and necessary measures for the defence and support of his majesty, the maintenance of the balance and liberties of Europe, and the assistance of our allies. That as duty and affection to his majesty are, in us, fixed and unalterable principles, so we feel the impressions of them, at this time, so strong and lively in our breasts, that we cannot omit to lay hold on this opportunity of approaching his imperial presence, to renew the most sincere professions of our constant and inviolable fidelity: and to promise his majesty, that we will, at the hazard of all that is dear to us, exert ourselves for the defence and preservation of his sacred person and government, and the maintenance of the protestant succession in his imperial house, on which the continuance of the protestant religion, and the liberties of Britain, do, under God, depend. My lords, as this address will not obstruct any future inquiries, by any approbation of past measures, either positive or implied, I doubt not but your lordships will readily concur in it, and am persuaded, that it will confirm his majesty's regard for our councils, and confidence in our loyalty. Lord LOVEL spoke next, to this effect:--My lords, the dangers which have been justly represented by his majesty, ought to remind us of the importance of unusual circumspection in our conduct, and deter us from any innovations, of which we may not foresee the consequences, at a time when there may be no opportunity of repairing any miscarriage, or correcting any mistake. There appears, my lords, not to be at this time any particular reason for changing the form of our addresses, no privileges of our house have been invaded, nor any designs formed against the publick. His majesty has evidently not deviated from the practice of the wisest and most beloved of our British monarchs; he has, upon this emergence of unexpected difficulties, summoned the senate to counsel and assist him; and surely it will not be consistent with the wisdom of this house to increase the present perplexity of our affairs, by new embarrassments, which may be easily imagined likely to arise from an address different from those which custom has established. The prospect which now lies before us, a prospect which presents us only with dangers, distraction, invasions, and revolutions, ought to engage our attentions, without leaving us at leisure for disputations upon ceremonies or forms. It ought to be the care of every lord in this house, not how to address, but how to advise his majesty; how to assist the councils of the publick, and contribute to such determinations, as may avert the calamities that impend over mankind, and stop the wild excursions of power and ambition. We ought to reflect, my lords, that the expectations of all Europe are raised by the convocation of this assembly; and that from our resolutions, whole nations are waiting for their sentence. And how will mankind be disappointed when they shall hear, that instead of declaring war upon usurpers, or imposing peace on the disturbers of mankind, instead of equipping navies to direct the course of commerce, or raising armies to regulate the state of the continent, we met here in a full assembly, and disagreed upon the form of an address. Let us, therefore, my lords, lay aside, at least for this time, all petty debates and minute inquiries, and engage all in the great attempt of reestablishing quiet in the world, and settling the limits of the kingdoms of Europe. Then lord CARTERET spoke, in substance as follows:--My lords, there is, I find, at least one point upon which it is probable that those will now agree whose sentiments have hitherto been, on almost every occasion, widely different. The danger of our present situation is generally allowed; but the consequences deduced from it are so contrary to each other, as give little hopes of that unanimity which times of danger particularly require. It is alleged by the noble lord who spoke last, that since we are now involved in difficulties, we ought only to inquire how to extricate ourselves, and, therefore, ought not to leave ourselves the right of inquiring how we were entangled in them, lest the perplexity of different considerations should dissipate our attention, and disable us from forming any useful determinations, or exerting any vigorous efforts for our deliverance. But, in my opinion, my lords, the most probable way of removing difficulties, is to examine how they were produced, and, by consequence, to whom they are to be imputed; for certainly, my lords, it is not to be hoped that we shall regain what we have lost, but by measures different from those which have reduced us to our present state, and by the assistance of other counsellors than those who have sunk us into the contempt, and exposed us to the ravages of every nation throughout the world. That this inquiry, my lords, may be free and unobstructed, it is necessary to address the throne, after the manner of our ancestors, in general terms, without descending to particular facts, which, as we have not yet examined them, we can neither censure nor approve. It has been objected by the noble lord, that foreign nations will be disappointed by hearing, that instead of menaces of vengeance, and declarations of unalterable adherence to the liberties of Europe, we have wasted our time at this important juncture in settling the form of an address. That little time may be wasted on this occasion, I hope your lordships will very speedily agree to an address suitable to the dignity of those who make it, and to the occasion upon which it is made; for I cannot but allow, that the present state of affairs calls upon us for despatch: but though business ought, at this time, undoubtedly to be expedited, I hope it will not be precipitated; and if it be demanded that the most important questions be first determined, I know not any thing of greater moment than that before us. How we shall gratify the expectations of foreign powers, ought not, my lords, to be our first or chief consideration; we ought, certainly, first to inquire how the people may be set free from those suspicions, which a long train of measures, evidently tending to impair their privileges, has raised; and how they may be confirmed in their fidelity to the government, of which they have for many years found no other effects than taxes and exactions, for which they have received neither protection abroad, nor encouragement at home. But, my lords, if it be necessary to consult the inclinations, and cultivate the esteem of foreign powers, I believe nothing will raise more confidence in our allies, if there be any who are not now ashamed of that name, or more intimidate those whose designs it is our interest to defeat, than an open testimony of our resolution no longer to approve that conduct by which the liberty of half Europe has been endangered; and not to lavish praises on those men, who have in twenty years never transacted any thing to the real benefit of their country, and of whom it is highly probable that they have in the present war stipulated for the defeat of all our attempts, and agreed, by some execrable compact, to facilitate the exaltation of the house of Bourbon. Upon what facts I ground accusations so atrocious may justly be inquired by your lordships; nor shall I find any difficulty in answering your demand. For, if we extend our view over the whole world, and inquire into the state of all our affairs, we shall find nothing but defeats, miscarriages, and impotence, with their usual consequences, contempt and distrust. We shall discover neither any tokens of that fear among our enemies, which the power of the nation, and the reputation of our former victories, might naturally produce; nor any proofs of that confidence among those whom we still continue to term our allies, which the vigour with which we have formerly supported our confederacies, give us a right to expect. Those whom we once trampled, insult us; and those whom we once protected, give us no credit. How reasonably, my lords, all nations have withdrawn from us their reverence and esteem, will appear by a transient examination of our late conduct, whether it regarded Europe in general, or influenced only the particular affairs of the British nation; for it will appear beyond possibility of doubt, that whoever has trusted the administration, whether their own country, or any foreign powers, has trusted only to be betrayed. There is among our allies none whom we are more obliged to support than the queen of Hungary, whose rights we are engaged, by all the solemnities of treaties, to defend, and in whose cause every motive operates that can warm the bosom of a man of virtue. Justice and compassion plead equally on her side, and we are called upon to assist her by our own interest, as well as the general duty of society, by which every man is required to prevent oppression. What has been the effect of all these considerations may easily be discovered from the present state of the continent, which is ravaged without mercy by the armies of Spain and France. Why all succours have been denied the queen of Hungary, and why the inveterate and hereditary enemies of our nation, are suffered to enlarge their dominions without resistance; why the rivals of our trade are left at full liberty to equip their squadrons, and the persecutors of our religion suffered to overrun those countries from whence only we can hope for assistance, when the hatred which the difference of opinions produces, shall threaten us with invasions and slavery, the whole world has long asked to no purpose, and, therefore, it is without prospect of receiving satisfaction that I engage in the same inquiry. Yet, since it is our duty to judge of the state of the publick, and a true judgment can be the result only of accurate examination, I shall proceed, without being discouraged by the ill success of former attempts, to discover the motives of our late measures, and the ends intended to be produced by them. Why the queen of Hungary was not assisted with land-forces, I shall, at present, forbear to ask; that she expected them is, indeed, evident from her solicitations; and, I suppose, it is no less apparent from treaties, that she had a right to expect them; nor am I able to conceive, why subsidies have been paid for troops which are never to be employed, or why foreign princes should be enriched with the plunder of a nation which they cannot injure, and do not defend. But I know, my lords, how easily it may be replied, that the expenses of a land war are certain, and the event hazardous, and that it is always prudent to act with evident advantage on our side, and that the superiority of Britain consists wholly in naval armaments. That the fleets of Britain are equal in force and number of ships to the united navies of the greatest part of the world; that our admirals are men of known bravery, and long experience, and, therefore, formidable not only for their real abilities and natural courage, but for the confidence which their presence necessarily excites in their followers, and the terrour which must always accompany success, and enervate those who are accustomed to defeats; that our sailors are a race of men distinguished by their ardour for war, and their intrepidity in danger, from the rest of the human species; that they seem beings superiour to fear, and delighted with those objects which cannot be named without filling every other breast with horrour; that they are capable of rushing upon apparent destruction without reluctance, and of standing without concern amidst the complicated terrours of a naval war, is universally known, and confessed, my lords, even by those whose interest it is to doubt or deny it. Upon the ocean, therefore, we are allowed to be irresistible; to be able to shut up the ports of the continent, imprison the nations of Europe within the limits of their own territories, deprive them of all foreign assistance, and put a stop to the commerce of the world. It is allowed that we are placed the sentinels at the barriers of nature, and the arbiters of the intercourse of mankind. These are appellations, my lords, which, however splendid and ostentatious, our ancestors obtained and preserved with less advantages than we possess, by whom I am afraid they are about to be forfeited. The dominion of the ocean was asserted in former times in opposition to powers far more able to contest it, than those which we have so long submissively courted, and of which we are now evidently afraid. For that we fear them, my lords, they are sufficiently convinced; and it must be confessed, with whatsoever shame, that their opinion is well founded; for to what motive but fear can it be imputed, that we have so long supported their insolence without resentment, and their ravages without reprisals; that we have fitted out fleets without any design of dismissing them from our harbours, or sent them to the sea only to be gazed at from the shores, by those whose menaces or artifice had given occasion to their equipment, and in whom they raised no other emotions than contempt of our cowardice, or pity of our folly? To what, my lords, can it be attributed, that the queen of Hungary has yet received no assistance from allies thus powerful; from allies whose fleets cover the sea, whose commerce extends to the remotest part of the world, and whose wealth may be justly expected to be proportionate to their commerce. To what can we ascribe the confidence with which the house of Bourbon threatens the ruin of a princess, who numbers among her allies the emperour of Britain? Nothing is more evident, my lords, than that the queen of Hungary has been disappointed of the advantages which she expected from her friendship with this nation, only by a degree of cowardice too despicable to be mentioned without such terms, as the importance of this debate, and the dignity of this assembly, do not admit; nor is it less certain, from the conduct of her enemies, that they knew what would be our measures, and confided for security in that cowardice which has never yet deceived them. It cannot, my lords, be asserted, that our ally, however distressed, has yet received the least assistance from our arms; neither the justice of our cause has yet been able to awaken our virtue, nor the inseparable union of her interest with our own, to excite our vigilance. But, perhaps, my lords, we have had no opportunity of exerting our force; perhaps the situation both of our enemies and ally was such, that neither the one could be protected, nor the other opposed, by a naval power; and, therefore, our inactivity was the effect not of want of courage, but want of opportunity. Though our ministers, my lords, have hitherto given no eminent proofs of geographical knowledge, or of very accurate acquaintance with the state of foreign countries, yet there is reason to believe that they must at some time have heard or read, that the house of Austria had territories in Italy; they must have been informed, unless their disbursements for secret service are bestowed with very little judgment, that against these dominions an army has been raised by the Spaniards; and they must have discovered, partly by the information of their correspondents, partly by the inspection of a map, and partly by the sagacity which distinguishes them from all past and present ministers, that this army was to be transported by sea from the coast of Spain to that of Italy. This knowledge, my lords, however attained, might have furnished minds, which have always been found so fruitful of expedients, with a method of hindering the descent of the Spanish troops, for which nothing more was necessary than that they should have ordered admiral Haddock, instead of retiring before the Spanish fleet of war, and watching them only that they might escape, to lie still before Barcelona, where the transports were stationed, with a convoy of only three men of war, and hinder their departure. I hope it will be observed by your lordships, that though the road of Barcelona is open and indefensible, though the fleet was unprotected by ships of force, and though they lay, as I am informed, beyond the reach of the guns on the fortifications upon the shore, I do not require that Haddock should have destroyed the army and the ships. I am too well acquainted, my lords, with the lenity of our ministers to the enemies of their country, and am too well convinced of the prudence and tenderness of the restrictions by which the power of our admirals is limited, to expect that our guns should be ever used but in salutations of respect, or exultations on the conclusion of a peace. I am convinced, that our ministers would shudder at the name of bloodshed and destruction, and that they had rather hear that a thousand merchants were made bankrupts by privateers, or all our allies deprived of their dominions, than that one Spanish ship was sunk or burnt by the navies of Britain. But, my lords, though they are willing to spare the blood of their enemies, yet surely they might have obstructed their enterprises; they might have withheld those whom they were unwilling to strike, and have endeavoured to fright those whom they determined never to hurt. To speak in terms more adapted to the subject before us: that the fleet of Spain, a fleet of transports with such a convoy, should lie three weeks in an open road, professedly fitted out against an ally united to us by every tie of nature, and of policy, by the solemnity of treaties, and conformity of interest; that it should lie undisturbed almost within sight of a British navy; that it should lie there not only without danger, but without apprehension of danger, has raised the astonishment of every nation in Europe, has blasted the reputation of our arms, impaired the influence of our counsels, and weakened the credit of our publick faith. There may be some, my lords, that will impute this absurdity of our conduct, this disregard of our interest, this desertion of our alliances, and this neglect of the most apparent opportunities of success, not to cowardice, but treachery; a cause more detestable, as more atrociously criminal. This opinion, my lords, I think it not necessary to oppose, both because it cannot be charged with improbability, and because I think it may be easily reconciled with my own assertions; for cowardice abroad produces treachery at home, and they become traitors to their country who are hindered by cowardice from the prosecution of her interest, and the opposition of her enemies. It may however be proper to declare, my lords, that I do not impute this fatal cowardice to those who are intrusted with the command of our navies, but to those from whom they are obliged to receive their instructions, and upon whom they unhappily depend for the advancement of their fortunes. It is at least reasonable to impute miscarriages rather to those, who are known to have given, formerly, such orders as a brave admiral perished under the ignominious necessity of observing, than to those of whom it cannot be said that any former part of their lives has been stained with the reproach of cowardice; at least it is necessary to suspend our judgment, till the truth shall be made apparent by a rigid inquiry; and it is, therefore, proper to offer an address in general terms, by which neither the actions or counsels of any man shall be condemned nor approved. It would be more unreasonable to charge our soldiers or our sailors with cowardice, because they have shown, even in those actions which have failed of success, that they miscarried rather through temerity than fear; and that whenever they are suffered to attack their enemies, they are ready to march forward even where there is no possibility of returning, and that they are only to be withheld from conquest by obstacles which human prowess cannot surmount. Such, my lords, was the state of those heroes who died under the walls of Carthagena; that died in an enterprise so ill concerted, that I ventured, with no great skill in war, and without the least pretence to prescience, to foretell in this house that it would miscarry. That it would, that it must miscarry; that it was even intended only to amuse the nation with the appearance of an expedition, without any design of weakening our enemies, was easily discovered; for why else, my lords, was the army composed of men newly drawn from the shop, and from the plough, unacquainted with the use of arms, and ignorant of the very terms of military discipline, when we had among us large bodies of troops long kept up under the appearance of a regular establishment; troops of whom we have long felt the expense, but of which the time is not, it seems, yet come, that we are to know the use. These men, my lords, who have so long practised the motions of battle, and who have given in the park so many proofs of their dexterity and activity, who have at least learned to distinguish the different sounds of the drum, and know the faces and voices of the subaltern officers, at least, might have been imagined better qualified for an attempt upon a foreign kingdom, than those who were necessarily strangers to every part of the military operations, and might have been sent upon our first declaration of war, while the new-raised forces acquired at home the same arts under the same inspection. But, my lords, whether it was imagined that new forces would be long before they learned the implicit obedience necessary to a soldier; whether it was imagined that it would not be easy on a sudden to collect troops of men so tall and well proportioned, or so well skilled in the martial arts of curling and powdering their hair; or whether it would have been dangerous to have deprived the other house of the counsels and votes of many worthy members, who had at the same time a seat in the senate, and a commission in the army, it was thought necessary to send out raw forces to attack our enemies, and to keep our disciplined troops at home to awe the nation. Nor did the minister, my lords, think it sufficient to obstruct the expedition to America by employing new-raised troops, unless they were likewise placed under the command of a man, who, though of undoubted courage, was, with respect to the conduct of an army, as ignorant as themselves. It was therefore determined, my lords, that all those officers who had gained experience in former wars, and purchased military knowledge by personal danger, should be disappointed and rejected for the sake of advancing a man, who, as he had less skill, was less likely to be successful, and was, therefore, more proper to direct an expedition proposed only to intimidate the British nation. That the event was such as might be expected from the means, your lordships need not to be informed, nor can it be questioned with what intentions these means were contrived. I am very far, my lords, from charging our ministers with ignorance, or upbraiding them with mistakes on this occasion, for their whole conduct has been uniform, and all their schemes consistent with each other: nor do I doubt their knowledge of the consequence of their measures, so far as it was to be foreseen by human prudence. Whether they have carried on negotiations, or made war; whether they have conducted our own affairs, or those of our ally the queen of Hungary, they have still discovered the same intention, and promoted it by the same means. They have suffered the Spanish fleets to sail first for supplies from one port to another, and then from the coasts of Spain to those of America. They have permitted the Spaniards, without opposition, to land in Italy, when it was not necessary even to withhold them from it by any actual violence; for had the fleet, my lords, been under my command, I would have only sent the Spanish admiral a prohibition to sail, and am sure it would have been observed. They have neglected to purchase the friendship of the king of Prussia, which might, perhaps, have been obtained upon easy terms, but which they ought to have gained at whatever rate; and, to conclude, we have been lately informed that the neutrality is signed. Such, my lords, is the conduct of the ministry, by which it cannot be denied that we are involved in many difficulties, and exposed to great contempt; but from this contempt we may recover, and disentangle ourselves from these difficulties, by a vigorous prosecution of measures opposite to those by which we have been reduced to our present state. If we consider, without that confusion which fear naturally produces, the circumstances of our affairs, it will appear that we have opportunities in our hands of recovering our losses, and reestablishing our reputation; those losses which have been suffered while we had two hundred ships of war at sea, which have permitted three hundred merchant-ships to be taken; and that reputation which has been destroyed when there was no temptation either to a compliance with our enemies, or to a desertion of our friends. It is well known, my lords, that we make war at present rather with the queen than the people of Spain; and it is reasonable to conclude, that a war carried on contrary to the general good, and against the general opinion, cannot be lasting. It is certain that the Spaniards, whenever they have been attacked by men acquainted with the science of war, and furnished with necessary stores for hostile attempts, have discovered either ignorance or cowardice, and have either fled meanly, or resisted unskilfully. It is, therefore, probable, my lords, that either our enemies will desist from the prosecution of a war, which few of them approve; or that we shall, by vigorous descents upon their coasts, and their colonies, the interruption of their trade, and the diminution of their forces, soon compel them to receive peace upon our own terms. But these advantages, my lords, are only to be expected from a change of conduct, which change can never be produced by a seeming approbation of the past measures. I am therefore of opinion, that we ought to address the throne in general terms, according to the ancient practice of this house. In considering the address proposed, I cannot but conclude that it is too much diffused, and that it would be more forcible if it was more concise: to shorten it will be no difficult task, by the omission of all the clauses that correspond with particular parts of his majesty's speech, which I cannot discover the necessity of repeating. In the congratulation to his majesty upon his return to his once glorious dominions, no lord shall concur more readily or more zealously than myself; nor shall I even deny to extend my compliments to the ministry, when it shall appear that they deserve them; but I am never willing to be lavish of praise, because it becomes less valuable by being prodigally bestowed; and on occasions so important as this, I can never consent to praise before I have examined, because inquiry comes too late after approbation. Lord CHOLMONDELEY rose next, and spoke to this effect:--My lords, if the dangers that threaten our happiness and our safety be such as they have been represented; if ambition has extended her power almost beyond a possibility of resistance, and oppression, elated with success, begins to design no less than the universal slavery of mankind; if the powers of Europe stand aghast at the calamities which hang over them, and listen with helpless confusion to that storm which they can neither avoid nor resist, how ought our conduct to be influenced by this uncommon state of affairs? Ought we not to catch the alarm while it is possible to make preparation against the danger? Ought we not to improve, with the utmost diligence, the important interval? to unite our counsels for the protection of liberty, and exert all our influence against the common enemies of society, the unwearied disturbers of the tranquillity of mankind? To what purpose, my lords, are the miseries that the present distractions of Europe may bring upon us, so pathetically described, and so accurately enumerated, if they are to produce no effect upon our counsels? And what effect can be wished from them, but unanimity, with that vigour and despatch which are its natural consequences, and that success with which steadiness and expedition are generally rewarded? It might be hoped, my lords, that those who have so clear a view of our present embarrassments, and whose sagacity and acuteness expose them to a sensibility of future miseries, perhaps more painful than would be excited by any present and real calamities, should not be thus tortured to no purpose. Every passion, my lords, has its proper object by which it may be laudably gratified, and every disposition of mind may be directed to useful ends. The true use of that foresight of future events, with which some great capacities are so eminently endowed, is that of producing caution and suggesting expedients. What advantage, my lords, would it be to navigators, that their pilot could, by any preternatural power, discover sands or rocks, if he was too negligent or too stubborn to turn the vessel out of the danger? Or how, my lords, to pursue the comparison, would that pilot be treated by the crew, who, after having informed them of their approach to a shoal or whirlpool, and set before them, with all his rhetorick, the horrours of a shipwreck, should, instead of directing them to avoid destruction, and assisting their endeavours for their common safety, amuse them with the miscarriages of past voyages, and the blunders and stupidity of their former pilot? Whether any parallel can be formed between such ill-timed satire, and wild misconduct, and the manner in which your lordships have been treated on this occasion, it is not my province to determine. Nor have I any other design than to show that the only proper conduct in time of real danger, is preparation against it; and that wit and eloquence themselves, if employed to any other purpose, lose their excellence, because they lose their propriety. It does not appear, my lords, that the address now proposed includes any approbation of past measures, and therefore it is needless to inquire, on this occasion, whether the conduct of our ministers or admirals deserves praise or censure. It does not appear, my lords, that by censuring any part of our late conduct, however detrimental to the publick it may at present be imagined, any of our losses will be repaired, or any part of our reputation retrieved; and, therefore, such proceedings would only retard our counsels, and divert our thoughts from more important considerations; considerations which his majesty has recommended to us, and which cannot be more strongly pressed upon us than by the noble lord who opposed the motion; for he most powerfully incites to unanimity and attention, who most strongly represents the danger of our situation. Of the good effects of publick consultations, I need not observe, my lords, that they arise from the joint endeavour of many understandings cooperating to the same end; from the reasonings and observations of many individuals of different studies, inclinations, and experience, all directed to the illustration of the same question, which is, therefore, so accurately discussed, so variously illustrated, and so amply displayed, that a more comprehensive view is obtained of its relations and consequences, than can be hoped from the wisdom or knowledge of any single man. But this advantage, my lords, can only be expected from union and concurrence; for when the different members of a national council enter with different designs, and exert their abilities not so much to promote any general purposes, as to obviate the measures, and confute the arguments of each other, the publick is deprived of all the benefit that might be expected from the collective wisdom of assemblies, whatever may be the capacity of those who compose them. The senate thus divided and disturbed, will, perhaps, conclude with less prudence than any single member, as any man may more easily discover truth without assistance, than when others of equal abilities are employed in perplexing his inquiries, and interrupting the operations of his mind. Thus, my lords, it might be safer for a nation, even in time of terrour and disorder, to be deprived of the counsels of this house, than to confide in the determinations of an assembly not uniform in its views, nor connected in its interests; an assembly from which little can be hoped by those who observe that it cannot, without a tedious debate, prolonged with all the heat of opposition, despatch the first and most cursory part of publick business,--an address to his majesty. It has been for a long time a practice too frequent, to confound past with present questions, to perplex every debate by an endless multiplication of objects, and to obstruct our determinations by substituting one inquiry in the place of another. The only question, my lords, now before us is, whether the address which the noble lord proposed, implies any commendation of past measures, not whether those measures deserve to be commended; which is an inquiry not at present to be pursued, because we have not now before us the means of attaining satisfaction in it, and which ought, therefore, to be delayed till it shall be your lordships' pleasure to appoint a day for examining the state of the nation, and to demand those letters, instructions, and memorials, which are necessary to an accurate and senatorial disquisition. In the mean time, since it is at least as expedient for me to vindicate, as for others to accuse those of whose conduct neither they nor I have yet any regular cognizance, and I may justly expect from the candour of your lordships, that you will be no less willing to hear an apologist than a censurer, I will venture to suspend the true question a few moments, to justify that conduct which has been so wantonly and so contemptuously derided. That the preservation of the house of Austria, my lords, ought to engage the closest attention of the British nation, is freely confessed. It is evident that by no other means our commerce, our liberty, or our religion can be secured, or the house of Bourbon restrained from overwhelming the universe. It is allowed that the queen of Hungary has a claim to our assistance by other ties than those of interest; that it was promised upon the faith of treaties, and it is demanded by the loudest calls of honour, justice and compassion. And did it not appear too juvenile and romantick, I might add, that her personal excellencies are such as might call armies to her assistance from the remotest corners of the earth; that her constancy in the assertion of her rights might animate every generous mind with equal firmness; and her intrepidity in the midst of danger and distress, when every day brings accounts of new encroachments, and every new encroachment discourages those from whom she may claim assistance from declaring in her favour, might inspire with ardour for her preservation all those in whom virtue can excite reverence, or whom calamities unjustly inflicted can touch with indignation. Nor am I afraid to affirm, my lords, that the condition of this illustrious princess raised all these emotions in the court of Britain, and that the vigour of our proceedings will appear proportioned to our ardour for her success. No sooner was the true state of affairs incontestably known, than twelve thousand auxiliary troops were hired, and commanded to march to her assistance, but her affairs making it more eligible for her to employ her own subjects in her defence, and the want of money being the only obstacle that hindered her from raising armies proportioned to those of her enemies, she required, that instead of troops, a supply of money might be sent her, with which his majesty willingly complied. The British ministers in the mean time endeavoured, by the strongest arguments and most importunate solicitations, to animate her allies to equal vigour, or to procure her assistance from other powers whose interest was more remotely affected by her distress: if the effects of their endeavours are not yet manifest, it cannot be imputed to the want either of sincerity or diligence; and if any other powers should be persuaded to arm in the common cause, it ought to be ascribed to the influence of the British counsels. In the prosecution of the war with Spain, it does not appear, my lords, that any measures have been neglected, which prudence, or bravery, or experience, could be expected to dictate. If we have suffered greater losses than we expected, if our enemies have been sometimes favoured by the winds, or sometimes have been so happy as to conceal their designs, and elude the diligence of our commanders, who is to be censured? or what is to be concluded, but that which never was denied, that the chance of war is uncertain, that men are inclined to make fallacious calculations of the probabilities of future events, and that our enemies may sometimes be as artful, as diligent, and as sagacious as ourselves? It was the general opinion of the British people, my lords, if the general opinion may be collected from the clamours and expectations which every man has had opportunities of observing, that in declaring war upon Spain, we only engaged to chastise the insolence of a nation of helpless savages, who might, indeed, rob and murder a defenceless trader, but who could only hold up their hands and cry out for mercy, or sculk in secret creeks and unfrequented coasts, when ships of war should be fitted out against them. They imagined that the fortifications of the Spanish citadels would be abandoned at the first sound of cannon, and that their armies would turn their backs at the sight of the standard of Britain. It was not remembered, my lords, that the greatest part of our trade was carried on in sight of the Spanish coasts, and that our merchants must be consequently exposed to incessant molestation from light vessels, which our ships of war could not pursue over rocks and shallows. It was not sufficiently considered, that a trading nation must always make war with a nation that has fewer merchants, under the disadvantage of being more exposed to the rapacity of private adventurers. How much we had to fear on this account was shown us by the late war with France, in which the privateers of a few petty ports, injured the commerce of this nation, more than their mighty navies and celebrated admirals. My lords, it would very little become this august assembly, this assembly so renowned for wisdom, and for justice, to confound want of prudence with want of success; since on many occasions the wisest measures may be defeated by accidents which could not be foreseen; since they may sometimes be discovered by deserters, or spies, and sometimes eluded by an enemy equally skilful with ourselves in the science of war. That any of these apologies are necessary to the administration, I am far from intending to insinuate, for I know not that we have failed of success in any of our designs, except the attack of Carthagena, of which the miscarriage cannot, at least, be imputed to the ministry; nor is it evident that any other causes of it are to be assigned than the difficulty of the enterprise; and when, my lords, did any nation make war, without experiencing some disappointments? These considerations, my lords, I have thought myself obliged, by my regard to truth and justice, to lay before you, to dissipate those suspicions and that anxiety which might have arisen from a different representation of our late measures; for I cannot but once more observe, that a vindication of the conduct of the ministry is by no means a necessary preparative to the address proposed. The address which was so modestly offered to your lordships, cannot be said to contain any more than a general answer to his majesty's speech, and such declarations of our duty and affection, as are always due to our sovereign, and always expected by him on such occasions. If our allies have been neglected or betrayed, my lords, we shall be still at liberty to discover and to punish negligence so detrimental, and treachery so reproachful to the British nation. If in the war against Spain we have failed of success, we shall still reserve in our own hands the right of inquiring whether we were unsuccessful by the superiority of our enemies, or by our own fault; whether our commanders wanted orders, or neglected to obey them; for what clause can be produced in the address by which any of these inquiries can be supposed to be predetermined? Let us, therefore, remember, my lords, the danger of our present state, and the necessity of steadiness, vigour, and wisdom, for our own preservation and that of Europe; let us consider that publick wisdom is the result of united counsels, and steadiness and vigour, of united influence; let us remember that our example may be of equal use with our assistance, and that both the allies and the subjects of Great Britain will be conjoined by our union, and distracted by our divisions; and let us, therefore, endeavour to promote the general interest of the world, by an unanimous address to his majesty, in the terms proposed by the noble lord. Lord TALBOT spoke in the following manner:--My lords, after the display of the present state of Europe, and the account of the measures of the British ministers, which the noble lord who spoke against the motion has laid before you, there is little necessity for another attempt to convince you that our liberty and the liberty of Europe are in danger, or of disturbing your reflections by another enumeration of follies and misfortunes. To mention the folly of our measures is superfluous likewise, for another reason. They who do not already acknowledge it, may be justly suspected of suppressing their conviction; for how can it be possible, that they who cannot produce a single instance of wisdom or fortitude, who cannot point out one enterprise wisely concerted and successfully executed, can yet sincerely declare, that nothing has been omitted which our interest required? The measures, my lords, which are now pursued, are the same which for twenty months have kept the whole nation in continual disturbance, and have raised the indignation of every man, whose private interest was not promoted by them. These measures cannot be said to be rashly censured, or condemned before they are seen in their full extent, or expanded into all their consequences; for they have been prosecuted, my lords, with all the confidence of authority and all the perseverance of obstinacy, without any other opposition than fruitless clamours, or petitions unregarded. And what consequences have they produced? What but poverty and distractions at home, and the contempt and insults of foreign powers? What but the necessity of retrieving by war the losses sustained by timorous and dilatory negotiations; and the miscarriages of a war, in which only folly and cowardice have involved us? Nothing, my lords, is more astonishing, than that it should be asserted in this assembly that we have no ill success to complain of. Might we not hope for success, if we have calculated the events of war, and made a suitable preparation? And how is this to be done, but by comparing our forces with that of our enemy, who must, undoubtedly, be more or less formidable according to the proportion which his treasures and his troops bear to our own? Upon the assurance of the certainty of this practice, upon the evidence, my lords, of arithmetical demonstration, we were inclined to believe, that the power of Britain was not to be resisted by Spain, and therefore demanded that our merchants should be no longer plundered, insulted, imprisoned, and tortured by so despicable an enemy. That we did not foresee all the consequences of this demand, we are now ready to confess; we did not conjecture that new troops would be raised for the invasion of the Spanish dominions, only that we might be reduced to the level with our enemies. We did not imagine that the superiority of our naval force would produce no other consequence than an inequality of expense, and that the royal navies of Britain would be equipped only for show, only to harass the sailors with the hateful molestation of an impress, and to weaken the crews of our mercantile vessels, that they might be more easily taken by the privateers of Spain. We did not expect, my lords, that our navies would sail out under the command of admirals renowned for bravery, knowledge, and vigilance, and float upon the ocean without design, or enter ports and leave them, equally inoffensive as a packet-boat, or petty trader. But not to speak any longer, my lords, in terms so little suited to the importance of the question which I am endeavouring to clear, or to the enormity of the conduct which I attempt to expose; the success of war is only to be estimated by the advantages which are gained, in proportion to the loss which is suffered; of which loss the expenses occasioned by the war are always the chief part, and of which it is, therefore, usual, at the conclusion of a peace, for the conquered power to promise the payment. Let us examine, my lords, in consequence of this position, the success of our present war against Spain; let us consider what each nation has suffered, and it will easily appear how justly we boast of our wisdom and vigour. It is not on this occasion necessary to form minute calculations, or to compute the expense of every company of soldiers and squadron of ships; it is only necessary to assert, what will, I hope, not be very readily denied, even by those whom daily practice of absurd apologies has rendered impregnable by the force of truth, that such expenses as have neither contributed to our own defence, nor to the disadvantage of the Spaniards, have been thrown away. If this be granted, my lords, it will appear, that no nation ever beheld its treasures so profusely squandered, ever paid taxes so willingly, and so patiently saw them perverted; for it cannot, my lords, be proved, that any part of our preparations has produced a proportionate effect; but it may be readily shown how many fleets have been equipped only that the merchants might want sailors, and that the public stores might be consumed. As to our ill success in America, which has been imputed only to the chance of war, it will be reasonable, my lords, to ascribe to other causes, so much of it as might have been prevented by a more speedy reinforcement of Vernon, or may be supposed to have arisen from the inexperience of our troops, and the escape of the Spaniards from Ferrol. If our fleets had been sent more early into that part of the world, the Spaniards would have had no time to strengthen their garrisons; had our troops been acquainted with discipline, the attack would have been made with greater judgment; and had not the Spaniards escaped from Ferrol, we should have had no enemy in America to encounter. Had all our ministers and all our admirals done their duty, it is evident that not only Carthagena had been taken, but that half the dominions of Spain might now have owned the sovereignty of the crown of Britain. This, my lords, may be observed of the only enterprise, which it is reasonable to believe was in reality intended against the Spaniards, if even of this our ministers had not before contrived the defeat. But of all the rest of our armaments it does not appear that any effect has been felt but by ourselves, it cannot be discovered that they even raised any alarms or anxiety either in our enemies or their allies, by whom perhaps it was known that they were only designed as punishments for the merchants of Britain. That our merchants have already been severely chastised for their insolence in complaining of their losses, and their temerity in raising in the nation a regard for its commerce, its honour, and its rights, is evident from a dreadful list of three hundred ships taken by the Spaniards, some of which were abandoned by their convoys, and others seized within sight of the coasts of Britain. It may be urged, my lords, that the Spaniards have likewise lost a great number of vessels; but what else could they expect when they engaged in a war against the greatest naval power of the universe? And it is to be remembered, that the Spaniards have this consolation in their misfortunes, that of their ships none have been deserted by their convoys, or wilfully exposed to capture by being robbed of their crews, to supply ships of war with idle hands. The Spaniards will likewise consider, that they have not harassed their subjects for the protection of their trade; that they have not fitted out fleets only to amuse the populace. They comfort themselves with the hope, that the Britons will soon be reduced to a state of weakness below themselves, and wait patiently for the time in which the masters of the sea shall receive from them the regulation of their commerce and the limits of their navigation. Nor can it be doubted, my lords, but that by adhering to these measures, our ministers will in a short time gratify their hopes; for whatsoever be the difference between the power of two contending nations, if the richer spends its treasures without effect, and exposes its troops to unhealthy climates and impracticable expeditions, while the weaker is parsimonious and prudent, they must soon be brought to an equality; and by continuing the same conduct, the weaker power must at length prevail. That this has been hitherto the state of the war between Britain and Spain, it is not necessary to prove to your lordships; it is apparent, that the expenses of the Spaniards have been far less than those of Britain; and, therefore, if we should suppose the actual losses of war equal, we are only wearing out our force in useless efforts, and our enemies grow every day comparatively stronger. But, my lords, let us not flatter ourselves that our actual losses have been equal; let us, before we determine this question, accurately compare the number and the value of our ships and cargoes with those of the Spaniards, and see on which side the loss will fall. And let us not forget, what in all the calculations which I have yet seen on either part has been totally overlooked, the number of men killed, or captives in the British and Spanish dominions. Men, my lords, are at once strength and riches; and, therefore, it is to be considered, that the most irreparable loss which any nation can sustain is the diminution of its people: money may be repaid, and commerce may be recovered; even liberty may be regained, but the loss of people can never be retrieved. Even the twentieth generation may have reason to exclaim, How much more numerous and more powerful would this nation have been, had our ancestors not been betrayed in the expedition to Carthagena! What loss, my lords, have the Spaniards sustained which can be put in balance with that of our army in America, an army given up to the vultures of an unhealthy climate, and of which those who perished by the sword, were in reality rescued from more lingering torments? What equivalent can be mentioned for the liberty of multitudes of Britons, now languishing in the prisons of Spain, or obliged by hardships and desperation to assist the enemies of their country? What have the Spaniards suffered that can be opposed to the detriment which the commerce of this nation feels from the detention of our sailors? These, my lords, are losses not to be paralleled by the destruction of Porto Bello, even though that expedition should be ascribed to the ministry. These are losses which may extend their consequences to many ages, which may long impede our commerce, and diminish our shipping. It is not to be imagined, my lords, that in this time of peculiar danger, parents will destine their children to maritime employments, or that any man will engage in naval business who can exercise any other profession; and therefore the death or captivity of a sailor leaves a vacuity in our commerce, since no other will be ready to supply his place. Thus, by degrees, the continuance of the war will contract our trade, and those parts of it which we cannot occupy, will be snatched by the French or Dutch, from whom it is not probable that they will ever be recovered. This, my lords, is another circumstance of disadvantage to which the Spaniards are not exposed; for their traffick being only from one part of their dominions to another, cannot be destroyed, but will, after the short interruption of a war, be again equally certain and equally profitable. It appears, therefore, my lords, that we have hitherto suffered more than the Spaniards, more than the nation which we have so much reason to despise; it appears that our fleets have been useless, and that our troops have been only sent out to be destroyed; and it will, therefore, surely be allowed me to assert, that the war has not been hitherto successful. I am, therefore, of opinion, my lords, that as the address now proposed, cannot but be understood both by his majesty and the nation, to imply, in some degree, a commendation of that conduct which cannot be commended, which ought never to be mentioned but with detestation and contempt, it will be unworthy of this house, offensive to the whole nation, and unjust to his majesty. His majesty, my lords, has summoned us to advise him in this important juncture, and the nation expects from our determinations its relief or its destruction: nor will either have much to hope from our counsels, if, in our first publick act, we endeavour to deceive them. It seems, therefore, proper to change the common form of our addresses to the throne, to do once, at least, what his majesty demands and the people expect, and to remember that no characters are more inconsistent, than those of a counsellor of the king, and a flatterer of the ministry. Then lord ABINGDON spoke to this effect:--My lords, I have always observed that debates are prolonged, and inquiries perplexed, by the neglect of method; and therefore think it necessary to move, That the question may be read, that the noble lords who shall be inclined to explain their sentiments upon it, may have always the chief point in view, and not deviate into foreign considerations. [It was read accordingly.] Lord CARTERET spoke next, to the purpose following:--My lords, I am convinced of the propriety of the last motion by the advantage which it has afforded me of viewing more deliberately and distinctly the question before us; the consideration of which has confirmed me in my own opinion, that the address now proposed is only a flattering repetition of the speech, and that the speech was drawn up only to betray us into an encomium on the ministry; who, as they certainly have not deserved any commendations, will, I hope, not receive them from your lordships. For what has been the result of all their measures, but a general confusion, the depression of our own nation and our allies, and the exaltation of the house of Bourbon? It is universally allowed, my lords, and therefore it would be superfluous to prove, that the liberties of Europe are now in the utmost danger; that the house of Bourbon has arrived almost at that exalted pinnacle of authority, from whence it will look down with contempt upon all other powers, to which it will henceforward prescribe laws at pleasure, whose dominions will be limited by its direction, and whose armies will march at its command. That Britain will be long exempted from the general servitude, that we shall be able to stand alone against the whole power of Europe, which the French may then bring down upon us, and preserve ourselves independent, while every other nation acknowledges the authority of an arbitrary conqueror, is by no means likely, and might be, perhaps, demonstrated to be not possible. How long we might be able to retain our liberty, it is beyond the reach of policy to determine, but as it is evident, that when the empire is subdued, the Dutch will quickly fall under the same dominion, and that all their ports and all their commerce will then be in the hands of the French, it cannot be denied that our commerce will quickly be at an end. We shall then lose the dominion of the sea, and all our distant colonies and settlements, and be shut up in our own island, where the continuance of our liberties can be determined only by the resolution with which we shall defend them. That this, my lords, must probably, in a few years, be our state, if the schemes of the house of Bourbon should succeed, is certain beyond all controversy; and therefore it is evident, that no man to whom such a condition does not appear eligible, can look unconcerned at the confusion of the continent, or consider the destruction of the house of Austria, without endeavouring to prevent it. But, my lords, though such endeavours are the duty of all who are engaged in the transaction of publick affairs, though the importance of the cause of the queen of Hungary be acknowledged in the speech to which we are to return an address, it does not appear that the ministers of Britain have once attempted to assist her, or have even forborne any thing which might aggravate her distress. The only effectual methods by which any efficacious relief could have been procured, were that of reconciling her with the king of Prussia, or that of prevailing upon the Muscovites to succour her. A reconciliation with the king of Prussia would have been my first care, if the honour of advising on this occasion had fallen to my lot. To have mediated successfully between them could surely have been no difficult task, because each party could not but know how much it was their common interest to exclude the French from the empire, and how certainly this untimely discord must expose them both to their ancient enemy. As in private life, my lords, when two friends carry any dispute between them to improper degrees of anger or resentment, it is the province of a third to moderate the passion of each, and to restore that benevolence which a difference of interest or opinion had impaired; so in alliances, or the friendships of nations, whenever it unhappily falls out that two of them forget the general good, and lay themselves open to those evils from which a strict union only can preserve them, it is necessary that some other power should interpose, and prevent the dangers of a perpetual discord. Whether this was attempted, my lords, I know not; but if any such design was in appearance prosecuted, it may be reasonably imagined from the event, that the negotiators were defective either in skill or in diligence; for how can it be conceived that any man should act contrary to his own interest, to whom the state of his affairs is truly represented? But not to suppress what I cannot doubt, I am convinced, my lords, that there is in reality no design of assisting the queen of Hungary; either our ministers have not yet recovered from their apprehensions of the exorbitant power of the house of Austria, by which they were frighted some years ago into the bosom of France for shelter, and which left them no expedient but the treaty of Hanover; or they are now equally afraid of France, and expect the _pretender_ to be forced upon them by the power whom they so lately solicited to secure them from him. Whatever is the motive of their conduct, it is evident, my lords, that they are at present to the unfortunate queen of Hungary, either professed enemies, or treacherous allies; for they have permitted the invasion of her Italian dominions, when they might have prevented it without a blow, only by commanding the Spaniards not to transport their troops. To argue that our fleet in the Mediterranean was not of strength sufficient to oppose their passage, is a subterfuge to which they can only be driven by the necessity of making some apology, and an absolute inability to produce any which will not immediately be discovered to be groundless. It is known, my lords, to all Europe, that Haddock had then under his command thirteen ships of the line, and nine frigates, and that the Spanish convoy consisted only of three ships; and yet they sailed before his eyes with a degree of security which nothing could have produced but a passport from the court of Britain, and an assured exemption from the danger of an attack. It may be urged, that they were protected by the French squadron, and that Haddock durst not attack them, because he was unable to contend with the united fleets; but my lords, even this is known to be false: it is known that they bore no proportion to the strength of the British squadron, that they could not have made even the appearance of a battle, and that our commanders could have been only employed in pursuit and captures. This, my lords, was well known to our ministers, who were afraid only of destroying the French squadron, and were very far from apprehending any danger from it; but being determined to purchase, on any terms, the continuance of the friendship of their old protectors, consented to the invasion of Italy, and procured a squadron to sail out, under pretence of defending the Spanish transports, that their compliance might not be discovered. All this, my lords, may reasonably be suspected at the first view of their proceedings; for how could an inferiour force venture into the way of an enemy, unless upon security that they should not be attacked? But the late treaty of neutrality has changed suspicion into certainty, has discovered the source of all their measures, and shown that the invasion of Italy is permitted to preserve Hanover from the like calamity. There is great danger, my lords, lest this last treaty of Hanover should give the decisive blow to the liberties of Europe. How much it embarrasses the queen of Hungary, by making it necessary for her to divide her forces, is obvious at the first view; but this is not, in my opinion, its most fatal consequence. The other powers will be incited, by the example of our ministry, to conclude treaties of neutrality in the same manner. They will distrust every appearance of our zeal for the house of Austria, and imagine that we intend only an hypocritical assistance, and that our generals, our ambassadors, and our admirals, have, in reality, the same orders. Nothing, my lords, is more dangerous than to weaken the publick faith. When a nation can be no longer trusted, it loses all its influence, because none can fear its menaces, or depend on its alliance. A nation no longer trusted, must stand alone and unsupported; and it is certain that the nation which is justly suspected of holding with its open enemies a secret intercourse to the prejudice of its allies, can be no longer trusted. This suspicion, my lords, this hateful, this reproachful character, is now fixed upon the court of Britain; nor does it take its rise only from the forbearance of our admiral, but has received new confirmation from the behaviour of our ambassador, who denied the treaty of neutrality, when the French minister declared it to the Dutch. Such now, my lords, is the reputation of the British court, a reputation produced by the most flagrant and notorious instances of cowardice and falsehood, which cannot but make all our endeavours ineffectual, and discourage all those powers whose conjunction we might have promoted, from entering into any other engagements than such as we may purchase for stated subsidies. For who, upon any other motive than immediate interest, would form an alliance with a power which, upon the first appearance of danger, gives up a confederate, to purchase, not a large extent of territory, not a new field of commerce, not a port or a citadel, but an abject neutrality! But however mean may be a supplication for peace, or however infamous the desertion of an ally, I wish, my lords, that the liberty of invading the queen of Hungary's dominions without opposition, had been the most culpable concession of our illustrious ministers, of whom it is reasonable to believe, that they have stipulated with the Spaniards, that they shall be repaid the expense of the war by the plunder of our merchants. That our commerce has been unnecessarily exposed to the ravages of privateers, from which a very small degree of caution might have preserved it; that three hundred trading ships have been taken, and that three thousand British sailors are now in captivity, is a consideration too melancholy to be long dwelt upon, and a truth too certain to be suppressed or denied. How such havock could have been made, had not our ships of war concluded a treaty of neutrality with the Spaniards, and left the war to be carried on only by the merchants, it is not easy to conceive; for surely it will not be pretended, that all these losses were the necessary consequence of our situation with regard to Spain, which, if it exposed the Portugal traders to hazard, did not hinder us from guarding our own coasts. And yet on our own coasts, my lords, have multitudes of our ships been taken by the Spaniards; they have been seized by petty vessels as they were entering our ports, and congratulating themselves upon their escape from danger. In the late war with France, an enemy much more formidable both for power and situation, methods were discovered by which our trade was more efficaciously protected: by stationing a squadron at the mouth of the Channel, of which two or three ships at a time cruized at a proper distance on the neighbouring seas, the privateers were kept in awe, and confined to their own harbours, or seized if they ventured to leave them. But of such useful regulations in the present war there is little hope; for if the publick papers are of any credit, the king of Spain considers the captures of our merchants as a standing revenue, and has laid an indulto upon them as upon other parts of the Spanish trade. It is, therefore, to little purpose that measures are proposed in this house, or schemes presented by the merchants for the preservation of our commerce; for the merchants are considered as the determined enemies of our minister, who therefore resolved that they should repent of the war into which he was forced by them, contrary to those favourite schemes and established maxims, which he has pursued till the liberties of mankind are almost extinguished. There are, indeed, some hopes, my lords, that new measures, resolutely pursued, might yet repair the mischiefs of this absurd and cowardly conduct, and that by resolution and dexterity, the ambition of France might once more be disappointed. The king of Prussia appears, at length, convinced that he has not altogether pursued his real interest, and that his own family must fall in the ruin of the house of Austria. The king of Sardinia appears firm in his determination to adhere to the queen of Hungary, and has therefore refused a passage through his dominions to the Spanish troops. The States of Holland seem to have taken the alarm, and nothing but their distrust of our sincerity can hinder them from uniting against the house of Bourbon. This distrust, my lords, we may probably remove, by reviving, on this occasion, our ancient forms of address, and declaring at once to his majesty, and to all the powers of Europe, that we are far from approving the late measures. There is another reason why the short addresses of our ancestors may be preferred to the modern forms, in which a great number of particular facts are often comprehended. It is evident, that the addresses are presented, before there can be time to examine whether the facts contained in them are justly stated; and they must, therefore, lose their efficacy with the people, who are sufficiently sagacious to distinguish servile compliance from real approbation, and who will not easily mistake the incense of flattery for the tribute of gratitude. With regard to the propriety of the address proposed to your lordships, which is, like others, only a repetition of the speech, there is, at least, one objection to it too important to be suppressed. It is affirmed in the speech, in what particular words I cannot exactly remember, that since the death of the late German emperour, the interest of the queen of Hungary has been diligently and invariably promoted; an assertion which his majesty is too wise, too equitable, and too generous to have uttered, but at the persuasion of his ministers. His majesty well knows, that no important assistance has been hitherto given to that unhappy princess; he knows that the twelve thousand men, who are said to have been raised for the defence of the empire, those mighty troops, by whose assistance the enemies of Austria were to be scattered, never marched beyond the territory of Hanover, nor left that blissful country for a single day. And is it probable that the queen would have preferred money for troops, had she not been informed that it would be more easily obtained? Nor was even this pecuniary assistance, though compatible with the security of Hanover, granted her without reluctance and difficulty; of which no other proof is necessary, than the distance between the promise and the performance of it. The money, my lords, is not yet all paid, though the last payment was very lately fixed. Such is the assistance which the united influence of justice and compassion has yet procured from the court of Britain. Our ministers have been, therefore, hitherto, my lords, so far from acting with vigour in favour of the house of Austria, that they have never solicited the court of Muscovy, almost the only court now independent on France, to engage in her defence. How wisely that mighty power distinguishes her real interest, and how ardently she pursues it, the whole world was convinced in her alliance with the late emperour; nor is it unlikely, that she might have been easily persuaded to have protected his daughter with equal zeal. But we never asked her alliance lest we should obtain it, and yet we boast of our good offices. Our governours thought it more nearly concerned them to humble our merchants than to succour our allies, and therefore admitted the Spaniards into Italy; by which prudent conduct they dexterously at once gratified the house of Bourbon, embarrassed the queen of Hungary, and endangered the effects of the British merchants, lying at Leghorn; effects which were lately valued at six hundred thousand pounds, but which, by the seasonable arrival of the Spaniards, are happily reduced to half their price. I hope, therefore, I need not urge to your lordships the necessity of confining our address to thanks and congratulations, because it is not necessary to say how inconsistent it must be thought with the dignity of this house to echo falsehood, and to countenance perfidy. Then the duke of NEWCASTLE spoke to the following effect:--My lords, the manner in which the noble lord who spoke last expresses his sentiments, never fails to give pleasure, even where his arguments produce no conviction; and his eloquence always receives its praise, though it may sometimes be disappointed of its more important effects. In the present debate, my lords, I have heard no argument, by which I am inclined to change the usual forms of address, or to reject the motion which has been made to us. The address which has been proposed, is not, in my opinion, justly chargeable either with flattery to the ministers, or with disingenuity with respect to the people; nor can I discover in it any of those positions which have been represented so fallacious and dangerous. It contains only a general declaration of our gratitude, and an assertion of our zeal; a declaration and assertion to which I hope no lord in this assembly will be unwilling to subscribe. As an inquiry into the propriety of this address has produced, whether necessarily or not, many observations on the present state of Europe, and many animadversions upon the late conduct, it cannot be improper for me to offer to your lordships my opinion of the measures which have been pursued by us, as well in the war with Spain, as with regard to the queen of Hungary, and to propose my conjectures concerning the events which may probably be produced by the distractions on the continent. This deviation from the question before us, will at least be as easily pardoned in me as in the noble lords who have exhibited so gloomy a representation of our approaching condition, who have lamented the slavery with which they imagine all the states of Europe about to be harassed, and described the insolence and ravages of those oppressors to whom their apprehensions have already given the empire of the world. For surely, my lords, it is an endeavour no less laudable to dispel terrour, than to excite it; and he who brings us such accounts as we desire to receive, is generally listened to with indulgence, however unelegant may be his expressions, or however irregular his narration. That the power of the family of Bourbon is arrived at a very dangerous and formidable extent; that it never was hitherto employed but to disturb the happiness of the universe; that the same schemes which our ancestors laboured so ardently and so successfully to destroy, are now formed afresh, and intended to be put in immediate execution; that the empire is designed to be held henceforward in dependence on France; and that the house of Austria, by which the common rights of mankind have been so long supported, is now marked out for destruction, is too evident to be contested. It is allowed, my lords, that the power of the house of Austria, which there was once reason to dread, lest it might have been employed against us, is now almost extinguished; and that name, which has for so many ages filled the histories of Europe, is in danger of being forgotten. It is allowed, that the house of Austria cannot fall without exposing all those who have hitherto been supported by its alliance, to the utmost danger; and I need not add, that they ought, therefore, to assist it with the utmost expedition, and the most vigorous measures. It may be suggested, my lords, that this assistance has been already delayed till it is become useless, that the utmost expedition will be too slow, and the most vigorous measures too weak to stop the torrent of the conquests of France: that the fatal blow will be struck, before we shall have an opportunity to ward it off, and that our regard for the house of Austria will be only compassion for the dead. But these, my lords, I hope, are only the apprehensions of a mind overborne with sudden terrours, and perplexed by a confused survey of complicated danger; for if we consider more distinctly the powers which may be brought in opposition to France, we shall find no reason for despairing that we may once more stand up with success in defence of our religion and the liberty of mankind, and once more reduce those troublers of the world to the necessity of abandoning their destructive designs. The noble lord has already mentioned the present disposition of three powerful states, as a motive for vigorous resolutions, and a consideration that may, at least, preserve us from despair; and it is no small satisfaction to me to observe, that his penetration and experience incline him to hope upon the prospect of affairs as they now appear; because I doubt not but that hope will be improved into confidence, by the account which I can now give your lordships of the intention of another power, yet more formidable, to engage with us in the great design of repressing the insolence of France. A treaty of alliance, my lords, has been for some time concerted with the emperour of Muscovy, and has been negotiated with such diligence, that it is now completed, and I doubt not but the last ratifications will arrive at this court in a few days; by which it will appear to your lordships, that the interest of this nation has been vigilantly regarded, and to our allies, that the faith of Britain has never yet been shaken. It will appear to the French, that they have precipitated their triumphs, that they have imagined themselves masters of nations by whom they will be in a short time driven back to their own confines, and that, perhaps, they have parcelled out kingdoms which they are never likely to possess. It was affirmed, and with just discernment, that applications ought to be made to this powerful court, as the professed adversary of France; and if it was not hitherto known that their assistance had been assiduously solicited, our endeavours were kept secret only that their success might be more certain, and that they might surprise more powerfully by their effects. Nor have the two other princes, which were mentioned by the noble lord, been forgotten, whose concurrence is at this time so necessary to us: and I doubt not but that the representations which have been made with all the force of truth, and all the zeal that is awakened by interest and by danger, will in time produce the effects for which they were intended; by convincing those princes that they endanger themselves by flattering the French ambition, that they are divesting themselves of that defence of which they will quickly regret the loss, and that they are only not attacked at present, that they may be destroyed more easily hereafter. But it is always to be remembered, my lords, that in publick transactions, as in private life, interest acts with less force as it is at greater distance, and that the immediate motive will generally prevail. Futurity impairs the influence of the most important objects of consideration, even when it does not lessen their certainty; and with regard to events only probable, events which a thousand accidents may obviate, they are almost annihilated, with regard to the human mind, by being placed at a distance from us. Wherever imagination can exert its power, we easily dwell upon the most pleasing views, and flatter ourselves with those consequences, which though perhaps least to be expected, are most desired. Wherever different events may arise, which is the state of all human transactions, we naturally promote our hopes, and repress our fears; and in time so far deceive ourselves, as to quiet all our suspicions, lay all our terrours asleep, and believe what at first we only wished. This, my lords, must be the delusion by which some states are induced to favour, and others to neglect the encroachments of France. Men are impolitick, as they are wicked; because they prefer the gratification of the present hour to the assurance of solid and permanent, but distant happiness. The French take advantage of this general weakness of the human mind, and by magnificent promises to one prince, and petty grants to another, reconcile them to their designs. Each finds that he shall gain more by contracting an alliance with them, than with another state which has no view besides that of preserving to every sovereign his just rights, and which, therefore, as it plunders none, will have nothing to bestow. This, my lords, is the disadvantage under which our negotiators labour against those of France; we have no kingdoms to parcel out among those whose confederacy we solicit; we can promise them no superiority above the neighbouring princes which they do not now possess; we assume not the province of adjusting the boundaries of dominion, or of deciding contested titles: we promise only the preservation of quiet, and the establishment of safety. But the French, my lords, oppose us with other arguments, arguments which, indeed, receive their force from folly and credulity; but what more powerful assistance can be desired? They promise not mere negative advantages, not an exemption from remote oppression, or an escape from slavery, which, as it was yet never felt, is very little dreaded; they offer an immediate augmentation of dominion, and an extension of power; they propose new tracts of commerce, and open new sources of wealth; they invite confederacies, not for defence, but for conquests; for conquests to be divided among the powers by whose union they shall be made. Let it not, therefore, be objected, my lords, to our ministers, or our negotiators, that the French obtain more influence than they; that they are more easily listened to, or more readily believed: for while such is the condition of mankind, that what is desired is easily credited, while profit is more powerful than reason, the French eloquence will frequently prevail. Whether, my lords, our seeming want of success in the war with Spain admits of as easy a solution, my degree of knowledge in military affairs, does not enable me to determine. An account of this part of our conduct is to be expected from the commissioners of the admiralty, by whom, I doubt not, but such reasons will be assigned for all the operations of our naval forces, and such vindications offered of all those measures, which have been hitherto imputed too precipitately to negligence, cowardice, or treachery, as will satisfy those who have been most vehement in their censures. But because it does not seem to me very difficult to apologize for those miscarriages which have occasioned the loudest complaints, I will lay before your lordships what I have been able to collect from inquiry, or to conjecture from observation; and doubt not but it will easily appear, that nothing has been omitted from any apparent design of betraying our country, and that our ministers and commanders will deserve, at least, to be heard before they are condemned. That great numbers of our trading vessels have been seized by the Spaniards, and that our commerce has, therefore, been very much embarrassed and interrupted, is sufficiently manifest; but to me, my lords, this appears one of the certain and necessary consequences of war, which are always to be expected, and to be set in our consultations against the advantages which we propose to obtain. It is as rational to expect, that of an army sent against our enemies, every man should return unhurt to his acquaintances, as that every merchant should see his ship and cargo sail safely into port. If we examine, my lords, the late war, of which the conduct has been so lavishly applauded, in which the victories which we obtained have been so loudly celebrated, and which has been proposed to the imitation of all future ministers, it will appear, that our losses of the same kind were then very frequent, and, perhaps, not less complained of, though the murmurs are now forgotten, and the acclamations transmitted to posterity, because we naturally relate what has given us satisfaction, and suppress what we cannot recollect without uneasiness. If we look farther backward, my lords, and inquire into the event of any other war in which we engaged since commerce has constituted so large a part of the interest of this nation, I doubt not but in proportion to our trade will be found our losses; and in all future wars, as in the present, I shall expect the same calamities and the same complaints. For the escape of any number of ships raises no transport, nor produces any gratitude; but the loss of a few will always give occasion to clamours and discontent. For vigilance, however diligent, can never produce more safety than will be naturally expected from our incontestable superiority at sea, by which a great part of the nation is so far deceived as to imagine, that because we cannot be conquered, we cannot be molested. Nor do I see how it is possible to employ our power more effectually for the protection of our trade than by the method now pursued of covering the ocean with our fleets, and stationing our ships of war in every place where danger can be apprehended. If it be urged, that the inefficacy of our measures is a sufficient proof of their impropriety, it will be proper to substitute another plan of operation, of which the success may be more probable. To me, my lords, the loss of some of our mercantile vessels shows only the disproportion between the number of our ships of war, and the extent of the sea, which is a region too vast to be completely garrisoned, and of which the frequenters must inevitably be subject to the sudden incursions of subtle rovers. The disposition of our squadrons has been such, as was doubtless dictated by the most acute sagacity, and the most enlightened experience. The squadron which was appointed to guard our coasts has been ridiculed as an useless expense; and its frequent excursions and returns, without any memorable attempt, have given occasion to endless raillery, and incessant exclamations of wonder and contempt. But it is to be considered, my lords, that the enemies of this nation, either secret or declared, had powerful squadrons in many ports of the Mediterranean, which, had they known that our coasts were without defence, might have issued out on a sudden, and have appeared unexpectedly in our Channel, from whence they might have laid our towns in ruin, entered our docks, burnt up all our preparations for future expeditions, carried into slavery the inhabitants of our villages, and left the maritime provinces of this kingdom in a state of general desolation. Out of this squadron, however necessary, there was yet a reinforcement of five ships ordered to assist Haddock, that he might be enabled to oppose the designs of the Spaniards, though assisted by their French confederates, whom it is known that he was so far from favouring, that he was stationed before Barcelona to block them up. Why he departed from that port, and upon what motives of policy, or maxims of war, he suffered the Spaniards to prosecute their scheme, he only is able to inform us. That the Spaniards have not at least been spared by design, is evident from their sufferings in this war, which have been much greater than ours. Many of our ships have, indeed, been snatched up by the rapacity of private adventurers, whom the ardour of interest had made vigilant, and whose celerity of pursuit as well as flight, enables them to take the advantage of the situation of their own ports, and those of their friends. But as none of our ships have been denied convoys, I know not how the loss of them can be imputed to the ministry; and if any of those who sailed under the protection of ships of war have been lost, the commanders may be required to vindicate themselves from the charge of negligence or treachery. But this inquiry, my lords, must be, in my opinion, reserved for another day, when it may become the immediate subject of our consultations, with which it has at present no coherence, or to which, at least, it is very remotely related. For I am not able, upon the most impartial and the most attentive consideration of the address now proposed to your lordships, to perceive any necessity of a previous inquiry into the conduct of the war, the transaction of our negotiations, or the state of the kingdom, in order to our compliance with this motion, by which we shall be far from sheltering any crime from punishment, or any doubtful conduct from inquiry; shall be far from obstructing the course of national justice, or approving what we do not understand. The chief tendency of his majesty's speech is to ask our advice on this extraordinary conjuncture of affairs; a conduct undoubtedly worthy of a British monarch, and which we ought not to requite with disrespect; but what less can be inferred from an alteration of our established forms of address, by an omission of any part of the speech? For what will be imagined by his majesty, by the nation, and by the whole world, but that we did not approve what we did not answer? The duke of ARGYLE spoke to the following purpose:--My lords, it is with great reason that the present time has been represented to us from the throne as a time of uncommon danger and disturbance, a time in which the barriers of kingdoms are broken down, in contempt of every law of heaven and of earth, and in which ambition, rapine, and oppression, seem to be let loose upon mankind; a time in which some nations send out armies and invade the territories of their neighbours, in opposition to the most solemn treaties, of which others, with equal perfidy, silently suffer, or secretly favour the violation. At a time like this, when treaties are considered only as momentary expedients, and alliances confer no security, it is evident that the preservation of our rights, our interest, and our commerce, must depend only on our natural strength; and that instead of cultivating the friendship of foreign powers, which we must purchase upon disadvantageous conditions, and which will be withdrawn from us whenever we shall need it; we ought, therefore, to collect our own force, and show the world how little we stand in need of assistance, and how little we have to fear from the most powerful of our enemies. Our country, my lords, seems designed by nature to subsist without any dependence on other nations, and by a steady and resolute improvement of these advantages with which providence has blessed it, may bid defiance to mankind; it might become, by the extension of our commerce, the general centre at which the wealth of the whole earth might be collected together, and from whence it might be issued upon proper occasions, for the diffusion of liberty, the repression of insolence, and the preservation of peace. But this glory, and this influence, my lords, must arise from domestick felicity; and domestick felicity can only be produced by a mutual confidence between the government and the people. Where the governours distrust the affections of their subjects, they will not be very solicitous to advance their happiness; for who will endeavour to increase that wealth which will, as he believes, be employed against him? Nor will the subjects cheerfully concur even with the necessary measures of their governours, whose general designs they conceive to be contrary to the publick interest; because any temporary success or accidental reputation, will only dazzle the eyes of the multitude, while their liberties are stolen away. This confidence, my lords, must be promoted where it exists, and regained where it is lost, by the open administration of justice, by impartial inquiries into publick transactions, by the exaltation of those whose wisdom and bravery has advanced the publick reputation, or increased the happiness of the nation, and the censure of those, however elate with dignities, or surrounded with dependants, who by their unskilfulness or dishonesty, have either embarrassed their country or betrayed it. For this reason, my lords, it is, in my opinion, necessary to gratify the nation, at the present juncture, with the prospect of those measures, without which no people can reasonably be satisfied; and to pacify their resentment of past injuries, and quiet their apprehensions of future miseries, by a possibility, at least, that they may see the authors of all our miscarriages called to a trial in open day, and the merit of those men acknowledged and rewarded, by whose resolution and integrity they imagine that the final ruin of themselves and posterity has been hitherto prevented. That the present discontent of the British nation is almost universal, that suspicion has infused itself into every rank and denomination of men, that complaints of the neglect of our commerce, the misapplication of our treasure, and the unsuccessfulness of our arms, are to be heard from every mouth, and in every place, where men dare utter their sentiments, I suppose, my lords, no man will deny; for whoever should stand up in opposition to the truth of a fact so generally known, would distinguish himself, even in this age of effrontery and corruption, by a contempt of reputation, not yet known amongst mankind. And indeed, my lords, it must be confessed that these discontents and clamours are produced by such an appearance of folly, or of treachery, as few ages or nations have ever known; by such an obstinate perseverance in bad measures, as shame has hitherto prevented in those upon whom nobler motives, fidelity to their trust, and love of their country, had lost their influence. Other ministers, when they have formed designs of sacrificing the publick interest to their own, have been compelled to better measures by timely discoveries, and just representations; they have been criminal only because they hoped for secrecy, and have vindicated their conduct no longer than while they had hopes that their apologies might deceive. But our heroick ministers, my lords, have set themselves free from the shackles of circumspection, they have disburdened themselves of the embarrassments of caution, and claim an exemption from the necessity of supporting their measures by laborious deductions and artful reasonings; they defy the publick when they can no longer delude it, and prosecute, in the face of the sun, those measures which they have not been able to support, and of which the fatal consequences are foreseen by the whole nation. When they have been detected in one absurdity, they take shelter in another; when experience has shown that one of their attempts was designed only to injure their country, they propose a second of the same kind with equal confidence, boast again of their integrity, and again require the concurrence of the legislature, and the support of the people. When they had for a long time suffered our trading vessels to be seized in sight of our own ports, when they had despatched fleets into the Mediterranean, only to lie exposed to the injuries of the weather, and to sail from one coast to another, only to show that they had no hostile intentions, and that they were fitted out by the friends of the Spaniards, only to amuse and exhaust the nation, they at length thought it necessary to lull the impatience of the people, who began to discover that they had hitherto been harassed with taxes and impresses to no purpose, by the appearance of a new effort for the subjection of the enemy, and to divert, by the expectations which an army and a fleet naturally raise, any clamours at their past conduct'. For this end, having entered into their usual consultations, they projected an expedition into America, for which they raised forces and procured transports, with all the pomp of preparation for the conquest of half the continent, not so much to alarm the Spaniards, which I conceive but a secondary view, as to fill the people of Britain with amusing prospects of great achievements, of the addition of new dominions to this empire, and an ample reparation for all their damages. Thus provided with forces sufficient, in appearance, for this mighty enterprise, they embarked them after many delays, and dismissed them to their fate, having first disposed their regulations in such a manner, that it was impossible that they should meet with success. I can call your lordships to witness, that this impossibility was not discovered by me after the event, for I foretold in this house, that their designs, so conducted, must evidently miscarry. Nor was this prediction, my lords, the effect of any uncommon sagacity, or any accidental conjecture on future consequences which happened to be right; for to any man who has had opportunities of observing that knowledge in war is necessary to success, and experience is the foundation of knowledge, it was sufficiently plain that our forces must be repulsed. The forces sent into America, my lords, were newly raised, placed under the direction of officers not less ignorant than themselves, and commanded by a man who never had commanded any troops before; and who, however laudable he might have discharged the duty of a captain, was wholly unacquainted with the province of a general. Yet was this man, my lords, preferred, not only to a multitude of other officers, to whom experience must have been of small advantage, if it did not furnish them with knowledge far superiour to his, but to five and forty generals, of whom I hope the nation has no reason to suspect that any of them would not gladly have served it on an occasion of so great importance, and willingly have conducted an expedition intended to retrieve the honour of the British name, the terrour of our arms, and the security of our commerce. When raw troops, my lords, with young officers, are to act under the command of an unskilful general, what is it reasonable to expect, but what has happened--overthrow, slaughter, and ignominy? What but that cheap victories should heighten the insolence, and harden the obstinacy of our enemies; and that we should not only be weakened by our loss, but dispirited by our disgrace; by the disgrace of being overthrown by those whom we have despised, and with whom nothing but our own folly could have reduced us to a level. The other conjecture which I ventured to propose to your lordships, with regard to the queen of Hungary, was not founded on facts equally evident with the former, though experience has discovered that it was equally true. It was then asserted, both by other lords and myself, that money would be chosen by that princess as an assistance more useful than forces; an opinion, which the lords who are engaged in the administration vigorously opposed. In consequence of their determination, forces were hired, for what purpose--let them now declare, since none but themselves have yet known. That at least they were not taken into our pay for the service for which they were required, the succour of the house of Austria, is most evident, unless the name of armies is imagined sufficient to intimidate the French, as the Spaniards are to be subdued by the sight of fleets. They never marched towards her frontiers, never opposed her enemies, or afforded her the least assistance, but stood idle and unconcerned in the territories of Hanover; nor was it known that they existed by any other proof than that remittances were made for their pay. Such, my lords, was the assistance, asked with so much solicitude, and levied with so much expedition, for the queen of Hungary; such were the effects of the zeal of our illustrious ministers for the preservation of that august house, to whose alliance we are perhaps indebted for the preservation of our religion and our liberties, and to which all Europe must have recourse for shelter from the oppression of France. When this formidable body of men was assembled, my lords, and reviewed, they were perhaps found too graceful and too well sorted to be exposed to the dangers of a battle; and the same tenderness that has so long preserved our own forces from any other field than the park, might rescue them from the fatigues of accompanying the active hussars in their incursions, or the steady Austrians in their conflicts. Whatever was the reason, my lords, it is certain that they have been reserved for other opportunities of signalizing their courage; and they slept in quiet, and fattened upon the wealth of Britain, while the enemies of our illustrious, magnanimous, and unfortunate ally, entered her territories without opposition, marched through them uninterrupted, and rather took possession than made conquests. That in this condition of her affairs, the queen would refuse an offer of twelve thousand men; that when she was driven from one country to another, attended by an army scarcely sufficient to form a flying camp, she would not gladly have accepted a reinforcement so powerful, let those believe, my lords, who have yet never been deceived by ministerial faith. The real designs of the ministry, my lords, are sufficiently obvious, nor is any thing more certain, than that they had, in requiring this mock assistance for the queen of Hungary, no other design than that of raising her expectations only to deceive them; and to divert her, by confidence in their preparations, from having recourse to more efficacious expedients, that she might become, without resistance, the slave of France. For this purpose they determined to succour her with forces rather than with money, because many reasons might be pretended, by which the march of the forces might be retarded; but the money, my lords, when granted, must have been more speedily remitted. At last the queen, weary with delays, and undoubtedly sufficiently informed of those designs, which are now, however generally discovered, confidently denied, desired a supply of money, which might be granted without leaving Hanover exposed to an invasion. With this demand, which they had no pretence to deny, they have yet found expedients to delay their compliance. For it does not appear that the whole sum granted has yet been paid; and it would well become those noble lords, whose offices give them an opportunity of observing the distribution of the publick money, to justify themselves from the suspicions of the nation, by declaring openly what has been remitted, and what yet remains to be disbursed for some other purpose. Is it not, therefore, evident, my lords, that by promising assistance to this unhappy princess, the ministry intended to deceive her? That when they flattered her with the approach of auxiliary forces, they designed only to station them where they might garrison the frontiers of Hanover? And that when they forced her to solicit for pecuniary aid, they delayed the payment of the subsidy, that it might not be received till it could produce no effect? This, my lords, is not only evident from the manifest absurdity of their conduct upon any other supposition, but from the general scheme which has always been pursued by the man whose dictatorial instructions regulate the opinions of all those that constitute the ministry, and of whom it is well known, that it has been the great purpose of his life to aggrandize France, by applying to her for assistance in imaginary distresses from fictitious confederacies, and by sacrificing to her in return the house of Austria, and the commerce of Britain. How then, my lords, can it be asserted by us, that the house of Austria has been vigilantly supported? How can we approve measures, of which we discover no effect but the expense of the nation? A double expense, produced first by raising troops, which though granted for the assistance of the Austrians, have been made use of only for the protection of Hanover, and by the grant of money in the place of these troops, which were thus fallaciously obtained, and thus unprofitably employed! For what purpose these forces were in reality raised, I suppose no man can be ignorant, and no man to whom it is known can possibly approve it. How then, my lords, can we concur in an address by which the people must be persuaded, that we either are deceived ourselves, or endeavour to impose upon them; that we either dare not condemn any measures, however destructive, or that, at least, we are in haste to approve them, lest inquiry should discover their tendency too plainly to leave us the power of applauding them, without an open declaration of our own impotence, or disregard for the welfare of the publick. The complaints of the people are already clamorous, and their discontent open and universal; and surely the voice of the people ought, at least, to awake us to an examination of their condition. And though we should not immediately condemn those whom they censure and detest, as the authors of their miseries, we ought, at least, to pay so much regard to the accusation of the whole community, as not to reject it without inquiry, as a suspicion merely chimerical. Whether these complaints and suspicions, my lords, proceed from real injuries and imminent dangers, or from false accusations and groundless terrours, they equally deserve the attention of this house, whose great care is the happiness of the people: people equally worthy of your tenderness and regard, whether they are betrayed by one party or another; whether they are plundered by the advocates of the administration, under pretence of supporting the government, or affrighted with unreasonable clamours by the opponents of the court, under the specious appearance of protecting liberty. The people, my lords, are in either case equally miserable, and deserve equally to be rescued from distress. By what method, my lords, can this be effected, but by some publick assurance from this house, that the transactions of the nation shall no longer be concealed in impenetrable secrecy; that measures shall be no longer approved without examination; that publick evils shall be traced to their causes; and that disgrace, which they have hitherto brought upon the publick, shall fall for the future only upon the authors of them. Of giving this assurance, and of quieting by it the clamours of the people; clamours which, whether just or not, are too formidable to be slighted, and too loud not to be heard, we have now the most proper opportunity before us. The address which the practice of our ancestors requires us to make to his majesty, may give us occasion of expressing at once our loyalty to the crown, and our fidelity to our country; our zeal for the honour of our sovereign, and our regard for the happiness of the people. For this purpose it is necessary that, as we preserve the practice of our ancestors in one respect, we revive it in another; that we imitate those in just freedom of language whom we follow in the decent forms of ceremony; and show that as we preserve, like them, a due sense of the regal dignity, so, like them, we know likewise how to preserve our own, and despise flattery on one side, as we decline rudeness on the other. A practice, my lords, has prevailed of late, which cannot but be allowed pernicious to the publick, and derogatory from the honour of this assembly; a practice of retaining in our address the words of the speech, and of following it servilely from period to period, as if it were expected that we should always adopt the sentiments of the court; as if we were not summoned to advise, but to approve, and approve without examination. By such addresses, my lords, all inquiries may be easily precluded; for the minister by whom the speech is compiled, may easily introduce the most criminal transactions in such a manner, as that they may obtain the approbation of this house; which he may plead afterwards at our bar, when he shall be called before it, and either involve us in the disgrace of inconsistency, and expose us to general contempt, or be acquitted by our former suffrages, which it would be reproachful to retract, and yet criminal to confirm. It is not necessary, my lords, on this occasion to observe, what all parties have long since acknowledged, when it did not promote their interest to deny it, that every speech from the throne is to be considered as the work of the minister, because it is generally written by him; or if composed by the king himself, must be drawn up in pursuance of the information and counsel of the ministry, to whom it is, therefore, ultimately to be referred, and may consequently be examined without any failure of respect to the person of the prince. This ought, however, to be observed, my lords, that it may appear more plainly how certainly this practice may be imputed to the artifices of ministers, since it does not promote the honour of the prince, and manifestly obstructs the interest of the people; since it is a practice irrational in itself, because it is inconsistent with the great purpose of this assembly, and can, therefore, serve no other purpose than that of procuring indemnity to the ministers, by placing them out of the reach of future animadversion. Let not, my lords, the uninterrupted continuance of this practice for some reigns be pleaded in its defence; for nothing is more worthy of the dignity of this house, than to prevent the multiplication of dangerous precedents. That a custom manifestly injurious to the publick has continued long, is the strongest reason for breaking it, because it acquires every year new authority and greater veneration: if when a nation is alarmed and distracted, a custom of twenty years is not to be infringed, it may in twenty years more be so firmly established, that many may think it necessary to be supported, even when those calamities are incontestably felt, which, perhaps, now are only feared. I shall, therefore, my lords, propose, that of the address moved for, all be left out but the first paragraph; it will then be more consistent with the honour of your lordships, with our regard for the people, and with our duty to the crown, and hope no lord will refuse his concurrence. Lord HARDWICKE rose next, and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, upon an attentive consideration of the address now proposed, I am not able to discover any objections which can justly hinder the unanimous concurrence of this assembly, since there is not any proposition contained in it either dangerous or uncertain. The noble lords who have opposed this motion with the most ardent vehemence, are very far from denying what is asserted in it; they readily grant that designs are concerted by many formidable powers against the house of Austria, and that the consequences of the ruin of that family must extend to the utmost parts of Europe, and endanger the liberties of Britain itself; that the power of France will then be without a rival, and that she may afterwards gratify her ambition without fear and without danger. Nor is it, my lords, less obvious in itself, or less generally allowed, that this is a time which demands the most active vigour, the most invariable unanimity, and the most diligent despatch; that nothing can interrupt the course of our common enemies but the wisest counsels, and the most resolute opposition; and that upon our conduct at this great conjuncture may probably depend the happiness and liberty of ourselves, our allies, and our posterity. All this, my lords, is allowed to be apparently and indisputably true; I am, therefore, at a loss to conceive what can be the occasion of the debate in which some of your lordships have engaged. As the causes of the calamities which are said to threaten us are not assigned in the address, we shall leave ourselves at full liberty to charge them upon those who shall appear from future inquiries to deserve so heavy an accusation. If the ministers of the court have, by any inconstancy in their measures, or folly in their negotiations, given an opportunity to the enemies of Europe to extend their influence, or endangered either our own interest, or that of our allies; if they have by oppression or negligence alienated from his majesty the affections of his people, or the confidence of his confederates, nothing that is contained in the address now before us can be produced by them in justification of their conduct, or secure them from accusation, censure, and punishment. If the war, my lords, has been hitherto carried on with clandestine stipulations, or treacherous compacts; if our admirals have received orders to retire from the coast of Spain, only to give our enemies an opportunity of invading the dominions of the queen of Hungary, or have, without directions, deserted their stations, and abandoned the protection of our commerce and our colonies; we shall, notwithstanding this address, retain in our hands the privilege of inquiring into their conduct, and the power, if it be found criminal, of inflicting such penalties as justice shall require. I know not, therefore, my lords, upon what motives the debate is continued, nor what objections they are which hinder our unanimity, at a time when all petty controversies ought to be forgot, and all nominal distinctions laid aside; at a time when general danger may justly claim general attention, and we ought to suspend the assertion of our particular opinions, and the prosecution of our separate interests, and regard only the opposition of France, the support of our allies, and the preservation of our country. The noble lords who have offered their sentiments on this occasion, have very diffusely expatiated on the miseries that impend over us, and have shown uncommon dexterity and acuteness in tracing them all to one source, the weakness or dishonesty of the British ministry. For my part, my lords, though, perhaps, I believe that many circumstances of the present distress are to be imputed to accidents which could not be foreseen, and that the conduct of the ministry, however sometimes disappointed of the effects intended by it, was yet prudent and sincere, I shall at present forbear to engage in their defence, because the discussion of a question so complicated must necessarily require much time, and because I think it not so useful to inquire how we were involved in our present difficulties, as by what means we may be extricated from them. The method by which weak states are made strong, and by which those that are already powerful, are enabled to exert their strength with efficacy, is the promotion of union, and the abolition of all suspicions by which the people may be incited to a distrust of their sovereign, or the sovereign provoked to a disregard of his people. With this view, my lords, all addresses ought to be drawn up, and this consideration will be sufficient to restrain us from any innovations at a time like this. If it should be granted, my lords, that the ancient method were better adapted to the general intention of addresses, more correspondent to the dignity of this house, and liable to fewer inconveniencies than that which later times have introduced, yet it will not follow that we can now safely change it. Nothing in the whole doctrine of politicks is better known, than that there are times when the redress of grievances, inveterate and customary, is not to be attempted; times when the utmost care is barely sufficient to avert extreme calamities, and prevent a total dissolution; and in which the consideration of lighter evils must not be suffered to interrupt more important counsels, or divert that attention which the preservation of the state necessarily demands. Such, my lords, is the present time, even by the confession of those who have opposed the motion, and of whom, therefore, it may be reasonably demanded, why they waste these important hours in debates upon forms and words? For that only forms and words have produced the debate, must be apparent, even to themselves, when the fervour of controversy shall have slackened; when that vehemence, with which the most moderate are sometimes transported, and that acrimony, which candour itself cannot always forbear, shall give way to reflection and to reason. That the danger is pressing, and that pressing dangers require expedition and unanimity, they willingly grant; and what more is asserted in the address? That any lord should be unwilling to concur in the customary expressions of thankfulness and duty to his majesty, or in acknowledgments of that regard for this assembly with which he asks our assistance and advice, I am unwilling to suspect; nor can I imagine that any part of the opposition to this proposal can be produced by unwillingness to comply with his majesty's demands, and to promise that advice and assistance, which it is our duty, both to our sovereign, our country, and ourselves, to offer. That those, my lords, who have expressed in terms so full of indignation their resentment of the imaginary neglect of the queen of Hungary's interest, have declared the house of Austria the only bulwark of Europe, and expressed their dread of the encroachments of France with emotions which nothing but real passion can produce, should be unwilling to assert their resolution of adhering to the Pragmatick sanction, and of defending the liberties of the empire, cannot be supposed. And yet, my lords, what other reasons of their conduct can be assigned either by the emperour, or the people, or the allies of Britain; those allies whose claim they so warmly assert, and whose merits they so loudly extol? Will it not be imagined in foreign courts, that the measures now recommended by the emperour, are thought not consistent with the interest of the nation? Will it not be readily believed, that we propose to abandon those designs of which we cannot be persuaded to declare our approbation? What will be the consequence of such an opinion artfully propagated by France, and confirmed by appearances so likely to deceive, may easily be foreseen, and safely predicted. The French will prosecute their schemes with fresh ardour, when they dread no longer any interruption from the only nation able to resist them; and it is well known, my lords, how often confidence, by exciting courage, produces success. Nor, indeed, can the success of their endeavours, thus animated and quickened, be easily doubted, since the same appearances that encourage them will intimidate their enemies. Our allies will then think no longer of union against the general enemy; they must imagine their united force insufficient, and the only emulation amongst them will quickly be, which shall first offer his liberty to sale, who shall first pay his court to the masters of the world, and merit mercy by a speedy submission. Thus, my lords, will the house of Austria, that house so faithful to Britain, and so steady in its opposition to the designs of the French ambition, be finally sunk in irrecoverable ruin, by those who appear to please themselves with declamations in its praise, and resolutions for its defence; and who never speak of the French without rage and detestation. If on this occasion, my lords, we should give any suspicion of unusual discontent, what could be concluded but that we are unwilling any longer to embarrass ourselves with remote considerations, to load this nation with taxes for the preservation of the rights of other sovereigns, and to hazard armies in the defence of the continent? What can our allies think, but that we are at present weary of the burdensome and expensive honour of holding the balance of power in our hands, are content to resign the unquiet province of the arbiters of Europe, and propose to confine our care henceforward to our immediate interest, and shut up ourselves in our own island? That this is the real design of any of those noble lords who have opposed the motion, I do not intend to insinuate; for I doubt not but they believe the general interest both of this nation and its allies, most likely to be promoted by the method of address which they recommend, since they declare that they do not think our state desperate, and confess the importance of the affairs on which we are required by his majesty to deliberate, to be such, that nothing ought to repress our endeavours but impossibility of success. Such is the knowledge and experience of those noble lords, that the hopes which I had formed of seeing the destructive attempts of the French once more defeated, and power restored again to that equipoise which is necessary to the continuance of tranquillity and happiness, have received new strength from their concurrence, and I shall now hear with less solicitude the threats of France. That the French, my lords, are not invincible, the noble duke who spoke last has often experienced; nor is there any reason for imagining that they are now more formidable than when we encountered them in the fields of Blenheim and Ramillies. Nothing is requisite but a firm union among those princes who are immediately in danger from their encroachments, to reduce them to withdraw their forces from the countries of their neighbours, and quit, for the defence of their own territories, their schemes of bestowing empires, and dividing dominions. That such an union is now cultivated, we have been informed by his majesty, whose endeavours will probably be successful, however they may at first be thwarted and obstructed; because the near approach of danger will rouse those whom avarice has stupified, or negligence intoxicated; thus truth and reason will become every day more powerful, and sophistry and artifice be in time certainly detected. When, therefore, my lords, we are engaged in consultations which may affect the liberties of a great part of mankind, and by which our posterity to many ages may be made happy or miserable; when the daily progress of the enemies of justice and of freedom ought to awaken us to vigilance and expedition, and there are yet just hopes that diligence and firmness may preserve us from ruin, let us not waste our time in unnecessary debates, and keep the nations of Europe in suspense by the discussion of a question, the decision of which may be delayed for years, without any manifest inconvenience. Let us not embarrass his majesty by an unusual form of address, at a time when he his negotiating alliances, and forming plans for the rescue of the empire. Nothing, my lords, is more remote from the real end of addresses, than a representation of them as made only to the minister; for if there be any commerce between a prince and his subjects, in which he is the immediate agent, if his personal dignity be interested in any act of government, I think it is not to be denied, that in receiving the addresses of the two houses, he assumes a peculiar and distinct character, which cannot be confounded with his council or ministry. The duke of ARGYLE rose again, and spoke to this effect:--My lords, if there was now any contest amongst us for superiority of regard to his majesty, of zeal for his honour, or reverence of his person, I should not doubt of proving that no lord in this house can boast of more ardour, fidelity, or respect than myself; and if the chief question now amongst us related to the terms in which he deserves to be addressed by us, I should be unwilling that any man should propose language more submissive and reverend, or more forcible and comprehensive than myself. But addresses, however they may for present purposes be represented as regarding the personal character of the king, are in reality nothing more than replies to a speech composed by the minister, whose measures, if we should appear to commend, our panegyrick may, in some future proceeding, be cited against us. Every address, therefore, ought to be considered as a publick record, and to be drawn up, to inform the nation, not to mislead our sovereign. The address now proposed, is, indeed, equally indefensible to whomsoever it may be supposed to relate. If it respects the people, it can only drive them to despair; if it be confined to the sovereign, our advice, not our panegyrick, is now required, and Europe is to be preserved from ruin, not by our eloquence, but our sincerity. Respect to his majesty, my lords, will be best shown by preserving his influence in other nations, and his authority in his own empire. This can only be done by showing him how the one has been impaired, and how the other may be in time endangered. By addresses like this which is now proposed, my lords, has his majesty been betrayed into an inadvertent appro bation of measures pernicious to the nation, and dishonourable to himself, and will now be kept ignorant of the despicable conduct of the war, the treacherous connivance at the descent of the Spaniards upon the dominions of the queen of Hungary, and the contempt with which every nation of the continent has heard of the neutrality lately concluded. By addresses like this, my lords, have the rights of the nation been silently given up, and the invaders of liberty, and violators of our laws, preserved from prosecution; by such addresses have our monarchs been ruined at one time, and our country enslaved at another. Lord HARRINGTON spoke next, in the following manner:--My lords, it is necessary to explain that treaty of neutrality which has been mentioned by some lords as an act to the last degree shameful, an act by which the nation has been dishonoured, and the general liberties of Europe have been betrayed; a representation so distant from the truth, that it can only be imputed to want of information. This treaty of neutrality, my lords, is so far from being reproachful to this nation, that it has no relation to it, being made by his majesty not in the character of emperour of Britain, but elector of Hanover, nor is any thing stipulated by it but security of the dominions of Hanover, from the invasion of the French for a single year. What part of this transaction, my lords, can be supposed to fall under the cognizance of this assembly? Or with what propriety can it be mentioned in our debates, or produce an argument on either side? That the dominions of Britain and Hanover are distinct, and independent on each other, has often been asserted, and asserted with truth; and I hope those who so studiously separate their interest on all other occasions, will not now unite them only to reflect maliciously on the conduct of his majesty. I do not, indeed, charge any lord with a design so malignant and unjust; having already asserted it as my opinion, that these reproaches were produced only by ignorance of the true state of the affair, but cannot with equal readiness allow that ignorance to be wholly blameless. It is necessary, my lords, in common life, to every man who would avoid contempt and ridicule, to refrain from speaking, at least from speaking with confidence, on subjects with which he has not made himself sufficiently acquainted. This caution, my lords, is more necessary when his discourse tends to the accusation or reproach of another, because he can then only escape contempt himself by bringing it, perhaps unjustly, on him whom he condemns. It is more necessary still, to him who speaks in the publick council of the nation, and who may, by false reflections, injure the publick interest; and is yet more indispensably required in him who assumes the province of examining the conduct of his sovereign. Lord ISLAY spoke in substance as follows:--'My lords, it appears that all those who have spoke on either side of the present question, however they may generally differ in their opinions, agree at least in one assertion, that the time which is spent in this debate might be far more usefully employed, and that we, in some degree, desert the great cause of liberty, by giving way to trifling altercations. This, indeed, is an argument of equal force for a concession on either side; but, as in affairs of such importance, no man ought to act in a manner contrary to the convictions of his own reason, it cannot be expected that we should be unanimous in our opinions, or that the dispute should be determined otherwise than by the vote. I have, indeed, heard no arguments against the motion, which require long consideration; for little of what has been urged, has, in my opinion, been very nearly connected with the question before us, which is not whether the ministers have pursued or neglected the interest of the nation, whether the laws have been violated or observed, the war timorously or magnanimously conducted, or our negotiations managed with dexterity or weakness, but whether we shall offer to his majesty the address proposed. In this address, my lords, it has never yet been proved that any assertions are contained either false or uncertain in themselves, or contrary to the dignity of this assembly; that any act of cowardice or treachery, any crime, or any errour, will be secured by it from detection and from punishment. That this, my lords, may appear more plainly, I move that the motion may be read; nor do I doubt but that the question will, by a closer examination, be speedily decided. [The motion being again read, in order to put the question.] Lord BATHURST spoke to the effect following:--My lords, I know not why the noble lord should expect, that by reading the motion, a more speedy determination of the question would be produced; for if the repeated consideration of it operates upon the minds of the lords that have opposed it, in the same manner as upon mine, it will only confirm their opinion, and strengthen their resolution. We are required, my lords, to join in an address of thanks to his majesty for his endeavours to _maintain_ the balance of power; in an address, that implies a falsehood open and indisputable, and which will, therefore, only make us contemptible to our fellow-subjects, our allies, and our enemies. What is meant, my lords, by the balance of power, but such a distribution of dominion, as may keep the sovereign powers in mutual dread of each other, and, by consequence, preserve peace; such an equality of strength between one prince, or one confederacy and another, that the hazard of war shall be nearly equal on each side? But which of your lordships will affirm, that this is now the state of Europe? It is evident, my lords, that the French are far from imagining that there is now any power which can be put in the balance against their own, and therefore distribute kingdoms by caprice, and exalt emperours upon their own terms. It is evident, that the continuance of the balance of power is not now to be perceived by its natural consequences, tranquillity and liberty; the whole continent is now in confusion, laid waste by the ravages of armies, subject to one sovereign to-day, and to-morrow to another: there is scarcely any place where the calamities of war are not felt or expected, and where property, by consequence, is not uncertain, and life itself in continual danger. One happy corner of the world, indeed, is to be found, my lords, secured from rapine and massacre, for one year at least, by a well-timed neutrality, of which, on what terms it was obtained, I would gladly hear, and whether it was purchased at the expense of the honour of Britain, though the advantages of it are confined to Hanover. But as I am not of opinion, my lords, that the balance of power is preserved by the security of Hanover; or that those territories, however important, will be able to furnish forces equivalent to the power of France, I cannot agree to promise, in an address of this house, to assist his majesty in _maintaining_ the balance of power, though I shall cheerfully give my concurrence in every just and vigorous effort to _restore_ it. But, as it may be urged, that any direct expressions of discontent may be too wide a deviation from the common forms, which for a long time have admitted nothing but submission and adulation, I shall only venture to propose that we may, at least, contract our address, that if we do not in plain language declare all our sentiments, we may, however, affirm nothing that we do not think; and I am confident, that all the praises which can be justly bestowed on the late measures, may be comprised in a very few words. It has been insinuated, that this change of our style may, perhaps, surprise his majesty, and raise in him some suspicions of discontent and disapprobation; that it may incline him to believe his measures, either not understood by us, or not applauded, and divert him from his present schemes, by the necessity of an inquiry into the reasons of our dislike. And for what other purpose, my lords, should such a change of our style be proposed? Why should we deny on this occasion the encomiastick language which has been of late so profusely bestowed, but to show that we think this time too dangerous for flattery, and the measures now pursued, such as none but the most abject flatterers can commend? I should hope, that if it be asked by his majesty to what cause it is to be imputed, that the address of this house is so much contracted, there would be found some amongst us honest enough to answer, that all which can be said with truth is contained in it, and that flattery and falsehood were not consistent with the dignity of the lords of Britain. I hope, my lords, some one amongst us would explain to his majesty the decency as well as the integrity of our conduct, and inform him that we have hinted our discontent in the most respectful manner; and where there was sufficient room for the loudest censure, have satisfied ourselves with modest silence, with a mere negation of applause. Should we, my lords, in opposition to the complaints of our countrymen, to the representations of our allies, and all the conviction which our reason can admit, or our senses produce, continue to act this farce of approbation, what can his majesty conceive, but that those measures which we applaud, ought to be prosecuted as the most effectual and safe? And what consequence but total ruin can arise from the prosecution of measures, by which we are already reduced to penury and contempt? Lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke next to the following purpose:--My lords, it is never without grief and wonder that I hear any suspicion insinuated of injustice or impropriety in his majesty's measures, of whose wisdom and goodness I have so much knowledge, as to affirm, with the utmost confidence, that he is better acquainted than any lord in this assembly with the present state of Europe; so that he is more able to judge by what methods tranquillity may be reestablished; and that he pursues the best methods with the utmost purity of intention, and the most incessant diligence and application. That the justest intentions may be sometimes defeated, and the wisest endeavours fail of success, I shall readily grant; but it will not follow, that we ought not to acknowledge that wisdom and integrity which is exerted in the prosecution of our interest, or that we ought not to be grateful for the benefits which were sincerely intended, though not actually received. The wisdom of his majesty's counsels, my lords, is not sufficiently admired, because the difficulties which he has to encounter are not known, or not observed. Upon his majesty, my lords, lies the task of teaching the powers of the continent to prefer their real to their seeming interest, and to disregard, for the sake of distant happiness, immediate acquisitions and certain advantages. His majesty is endeavouring to unite in the support of the Pragmatick sanction those powers whose dominions will be enlarged by the violation of it, and whom France bribes to her interest with the spoils of Austria; and who can wonder that success is not easy in attempts like this? In such measures we ought, doubtless, to endeavour to animate his majesty, by an address, at least not less expressive of duty and respect than those which he has been accustomed to receive; and, therefore, I shall concur with the noble lords who made and supported the motion. [The question, on a division, passed in the affirmative, Content, 89. Not Content, 43.] 
10352	----	Proofreading Team. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D, VOLUME THE ELEVENTH. MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS Debate on an address to the king. Debate on a motion for inquiring into the conduct of publick affairs. Debate on a motion for indemnifying evidence relating to the conduct of the earl of Orford. Debate on the security and protection of trade and navigation. Debate on an address to the king. Debate granting pay for sixteen thousand Hanoverian troops. Debate on the army. Debate on spirituous liquors. REFERENCES TO THE SPEAKERS Argyle, Duke of, Aylesford, Lord, Bath, Lord, Bathurst, Lord, Bedford, Duke of, Bladen, Mr. Carteret, Lord, Chesterfield, Lord, Cholmondeley, Lord, Cholmondeley, Col. Cornwall, Mr. Delaware, Lord, Fowkes, Mr. Fox, Mr. Grenville, Mr. Gybbon, Mr. Hardwicke, Lord, Herbert, Mr. H.A. Hervey, Lord, Islay, Lord, Limerick, Lord, Littleton, Mr. Lonsdale, Lord, Montfort, Lord, Mordaunt, Col. Newcastle, Duke of, Nugent, Mr. Orford, Earl of, Orford, Bishop of, Pelham, Mr. Percival, Lord, Phillips, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Powlett, Lord, Pulteney, Mr. Quarendon, Lord, Raymond, Lord, Sandwich, Lord, Sarum, Bishop of, St. Aubin, Sir John, Shippen, Mr. Somerset, Lord Noel, Speaker, the, Stanhope, Earl of, Talbot, Lord, Trevor, Mr. Tweedale, Marquis of, Walpole, Sir Robert, Walpole, Mr. Westmoreland, Lord, Winchelsea, Earl of, Yonge, Sir Wm. IN PARLIAMENT. HOUSE OF COMMONS, DECEMBER 8, 1741. DEBATE ON THE ADDRESS. The commons who attended in the house of lords, having heard his majesty's speech to both houses, returned to their own house, where a copy of it being this day read to them by the speaker, Mr. H.A. HERBERT moved for an address, in words to this effect: Sir, to address the throne on the present occasion, is a custom which, as it is founded on reason and decency, has always been observed by the commons of Britain; nor do I suspect this house of any intention to omit those forms of respect to his majesty, which our ancestors always preserved even under princes whose conduct and designs gave them no claim to reverence or gratitude. To continue, therefore, sir, a practice which the nature of government itself makes necessary, and which cannot but be acknowledged to be, in a peculiar degree, proper under a prince whose personal virtues are so generally known, I hope for the indulgence of this house in the liberty which I shall take of proposing an address to this effect: That we should beg leave to congratulate his majesty, upon his safe and happy return to these his kingdoms, and to return our sincere thanks for his most gracious speech from the throne; and assure him at the same time, that with hearts full of duty and gratitude, we cannot but acknowledge his majesty's regard and attention to the honour and interest of this nation. To observe that the great and impending dangers that threaten Europe, under the present critical and perplexed situation of affairs, have been represented by his majesty to his parliament, for their advice and assistance, with such paternal concern, and such affection to his people, such confidence in his faithful commons, and such anxiety for the general good of Europe, as cannot fail to excite in us a due sense of his majesty's goodness and condescension; and, therefore, to assure his majesty in the strongest manner, that this house will, as often as these momentous affairs shall come under our consideration, give his majesty such advice as becomes dutiful and faithful subjects, and such assistance and support as shall be most conducive to the honour and true interest of his crown and kingdoms. That we thank his majesty for his royal care in prosecuting the war with Spain; and that in order to answer these necessary purposes, we will grant such effectual supplies, as shall enable his majesty, not only to be in a readiness to support his friends and allies, at such times and in such manner as the exigency and circumstances of affairs shall require, but to oppose and defeat any attempts that shall be made against his majesty, his crown and kingdoms, or against those, who being equally engaged with his majesty by the faith of treaties, or united by common interest and common danger, shall be willing to concert such measures as shall be found necessary and expedient for maintaining the balance of Europe. This address, which in my opinion, will contain both a proper answer to his majesty's speech, and a decent declaration of our gratitude and duty, will not, I hope, be opposed. For surely it cannot be charged with asserting any thing that is either false or mean, with bestowing any unnecessary panegyrick, or with maintaining any fact that is not generally allowed. Mr. TREVOR seconded him in the manner following:--Sir, as the necessity of an address to his majesty cannot be disputed, the only question on this occasion must be, whether the address now proposed be such as it may become this house to offer in the present conjuncture of affairs. In an address, sir, it is necessary to preserve at once the respect due to our sovereign, and the dignity which may justly be assumed by the representatives of the people of Britain, a people whose birthright gives them a claim to approach their sovereign, not, indeed, without the utmost respect, but with language, which absolute monarchs never hear from the slaves by whom they are surrounded. This respect and dignity appear to me to be very happily united in the address now proposed, in which we join with our professions of duty, our offers of advice, and assert our claim to the direction of the national expenses by our promise to grant the necessary supplies. As there cannot, therefore, in my opinion, sir, be any thing added to the address now offered, and there appears to me no necessity of any alteration or omission, I second the motion. Lord Noel SOMERSET spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, though I am far from intending to repress, by sophistical cavils, or trifling objections, the zeal which the honourable gentleman who proposed the address has shown for promoting the publick business, yet, as it is very inconsistent with the duty of a senator to prefer civility to truth, and to sacrifice to ceremony or complaisance the interest of his country, I think it necessary to declare my opinion, that though the address proposed may admit of many amendments, which I leave to other gentlemen to make, I think the addition of one clause absolutely necessary; that his majesty may be desired not to engage this nation in a war for the preservation of his foreign dominions; dominions which, as they are in themselves independent on the crown of Britain, and governed by different laws, and a different right, have been separated by an express clause from these kingdoms, in the act to which his majesty owes his title to the throne. This request, sir, is at this time particularly expedient, when the continent is in confusion, and the territories of Hanover are endangered by the approach of the French forces. Besides, as nothing is more fatal than groundless expectations of assistance, it may contribute to the safety of that people, to show them that they are to depend upon their own strength, to call their forces together, to fortify their towns, and guard their avenues; and that, if they sit indolent and careless, in confidence that the power of Britain will be employed in their defence, they will only give their enemies an easy conquest, and enslave themselves and their posterity to a foreign power: I move, therefore, that his majesty be petitioned in our address, not to engage these kingdoms in a war for the preservation of his foreign dominions. Mr. SHIPPEN rose and spoke thus:--Sir, I know not with what success I may assert, in this senate, positions, for which I have formerly been censured, and which few other members have hitherto maintained; but I rise with confidence that I shall be at least acknowledged to act consistently with myself in seconding the noble person who spoke last; and I am convinced, that many of those who differ from me in opinion, would gladly be able to boast of resembling me in congruity of principles, and steadiness of conduct. But steadiness, sir, is the effect only of integrity, and congruity the consequence of conviction: he that speaks always what he thinks, and endeavours by diligent inquiry to think aright before he ventures to declare his sentiments; he that follows, in his searches, no leader but reason, nor expects any reward from them but the advantage of discovering truth, and the pleasure of communicating it, will not easily change his opinion, because it will seldom be easy to show that he who has honestly inquired after truth, has failed to attain it. For my part, I am not ashamed nor afraid to affirm, that thirty years have made no change in any of my political opinions; I am now grown old in this house, but that experience which is the consequence of age, has only confirmed the principles with which I entered it many years ago; time has verified the predictions which I formerly uttered, and I have seen my conjectures ripened into knowledge. I should be, therefore, without excuse, if either terrour could affright, or the hope of advantage allure me from the declaration of my opinions; opinions which I was not deterred from asserting, when the prospect of a longer life than I can now expect might have added to the temptations of ambition, or aggravated the terrours of poverty and disgrace; opinions for which I would willingly have suffered the severest censures, even when I had espoused them only in compliance with reason, without the infallible certainty of experience. Of truth it has been always observed, sir, that every day adds to its establishment, and that falsehoods, however specious, however supported by power, or established by confederacies, are unable to stand before the stroke of time. Against the inconveniencies and vexations of long life, may be set the pleasure of discovering truth, perhaps the only pleasure that age affords. Nor is it a slight satisfaction to a man not utterly infatuated or depraved, to find opportunities of rectifying his notions, and regulating his conduct by new lights. But much greater is the happiness of that man to whom every day brings a new proof of the reasonableness of his former determinations, and who finds, by the most unerring test, that his life has been spent in promotion of doctrines beneficial to mankind. This, sir, is the happiness which I now enjoy, and for which those who never shall attain it, must look for an equivalent in lucrative employments, honorary titles, pompous equipages, and splendid palaces. These, sir, are the advantages which are to be gained by a seasonable variation of principles, and by a ready compliance with the prevailing fashion of opinions; advantages which I, indeed, cannot envy when they are purchased at so high a price, but of which age and observation has too frequently shown me the unbounded influence; and to which I cannot deny that I have always ascribed the instability of conduct, and inconsistency of assertions, which I have discovered in many men, whose abilities I have no reason to depreciate, and of whom I cannot but believe they would easily distinguish truth, were not falsehood recommended to them by the ornaments of wealth. If there are in this new senate any men devoted to their private interest, any who prefer the gratification of their passions to the safety and happiness of their country, who can riot without remorse in the plunder of their constituents, who can forget the anguish of guilt in the noise of a feast, the pomp of a drawing-room, or the arms of a strumpet, and think expensive wickedness and the gaieties of folly equivalent to the fair fame of fidelity and the peace of virtue, to them I shall speak to no purpose; for I am far from imagining any power in my language to gain those to truth who have resigned their hearts to avarice or ambition, or to prevail upon men to change opinions, which they have indeed never believed, though they are hired to assert them. There is a degree of wickedness which reproof or argument cannot reclaim, as there is a degree of stupidity which instruction cannot enlighten. If my country, sir, has been so unfortunate as, once more, to commit her interest to those who propose to themselves no advantage from their trust, but that of selling it, I may perhaps fall, once more, under censure for declaring my opinion, and be, once more, treated as a criminal for asserting what they who punish me cannot deny; for maintaining the inconsistency of Hanover maxims with the happiness of this nation, and for preserving the caution which was so strongly inculcated by the patriots that drew up the act of settlement, and gave the present imperial family their title to the throne. These men, sir, whose wisdom cannot be disputed, and whose zeal for his majesty's family was equal to their knowledge, thought it requisite to provide some security against the prejudices of birth and education. They were far from imagining, that they were calling to the throne a race of beings exalted above the frailties of humanity, or exempted by any peculiar privileges from errour or from ignorance. They knew that every man was habitually, if not naturally, fond of his own nation, and that he was inclined to enrich it and defend it at the expense of another, even, perhaps, of that to which he is indebted, for much higher degrees of greatness, wealth and power; for every thing which makes one state of life preferable to another; and which, therefore, if reason could prevail over prejudice, and every action were regulated by strict justice, might claim more regard than that corner of the earth in which he only happened to be born. They knew, sir, that confidence was not always returned, that we most willingly trust those whom we have longest known, and caress those with most fondness, whose inclinations we find by experience to correspond with our own, without regard to particular circumstances which may entitle others to greater regard, or higher degrees of credit, or of kindness. Against these prejudices, which their sagacity enabled them to foresee, their integrity incited them to secure us, by provisions which every man then thought equitable and wise, because no man was then hired to espouse a contrary opinion. To obviate the disposition which a foreign race of princes might have to trust their original subjects, it was enacted that none of them should be capable of any place of trust or profit in these kingdoms. And to hinder our monarchs from transferring the revenues of Britain to Hanover, and enriching it with the commerce of our traders, and the labours of our husbandmen; from raising taxes to augment the splendour of a petty court, and increasing the garrisons of their mountains by misapplying that money which this nation should raise for its own defence, it was provided that the emperour of Britain should never return to his native dominions, but reside always in this kingdom, without any other care than that of gaining the affections of his British subjects, preserving their rights, and increasing their power. It was imagined by that senate, that the electorate of Hanover, a subordinate dignity, held by custom of homage to a greater power, ought to be thought below the regard of the emperor of Britain, and that the sovereign of a nation like this ought to remember a lower state only to heighten his gratitude to the people by whom he was exalted. They were far from imagining that Britain and Hanover would in time be considered as of equal importance, and that their sovereign would divide his years between one country and the other, and please himself with exhibiting in Hanover the annual show of the pomp and dignity of a British emperor. This clause, sir, however, a later senate readily repealed; upon what motives I am not able to declare, having never heard the arguments which prevailed upon their predecessors to enact it, confuted or invalidated; nor have I found that the event has produced any justification of their conduct, or that the nation has received any remarkable advantage from the travels of our emperours. There is another clause in that important act which yet the senate has not adventured to repeal, by which it is provided, that this nation shall not be engaged in war for the defence of the Hanoverian dominions; dominions of which we can have no interest in the protection or preservation; dominions, perhaps, of no great value, into whatever hands chance and negligence may throw them, which their situation has made entirely useless to a naval power; but which, though they cannot benefit, may injure us, by diverting the attention of our sovereign, or withholding his affections. Whether this clause, sir, has not sometimes been eluded, whether the six thousand Hessians, which we once supported, were of use to any of the British dominions, and whether a double number of the same nation, now paid with our money for the defence of the queen of Hungary, have not been stationed only where they might defend Hanover, without the least advantage to our confederates; whether the nation has not been condemned to double expenses in the support of this alliance, by raising, for the queen's service, troops, which were only employed in the protection of Hanover, and then in succouring her with pecuniary supplies, it is, perhaps, at present unnecessary, though, I hope, not yet too late, to inquire. It is at present unnecessary, because the clause which is proposed cannot be denied to be equally proper, whether the act of settlement has been hitherto observed or violated; for the violation of it ought to engage us in some measures that may secure us for the future from the like injury; and the observation of it is a manifest proof how much it is approved by all parties, since, in so many deviations from this settlement, and an inconstancy of conduct of which an example is scarcely to be found, this law has been esteemed sacred, the bulwark of our rights, and the boundary which the sovereign power has not dared to overleap. As his majesty, sir, has, in a very solemn manner, called upon us for our advice and assistance, what can be more proper than to lay before him our opinion on this important question? War is, next to slavery, one of the greatest calamities; and an unnecessary war, therefore, the greatest error of government, an error which cannot be too cautiously obviated, or too speedily reformed. If we consider, sir, the present state of the continent, there is nothing more probable than that the subjects of the elector of Hanover may solicit the assistance of the emperor of Britain, and, therefore, it is necessary to inform them, that their solicitations will be vain. If we inquire into the suspicions of our fellow-subjects, we shall find them generally disturbed with fears that they shall be sacrificed to the security of foreign dominions, and, therefore, it is necessary to recall their affection to his majesty where it is impaired, and confirm their confidence where it has been hitherto preserved, by showing, in the most publick manner, how vainly they have been disquieted, and how grossly they have been mistaken. It is certainly our duty, sir, to give such advice as may most truly inform his majesty of the sentiments of his people, and most effectually establish in the people an adherence to his majesty; as it is certain that no advice will be seconded by greater numbers than that which is proposed, nor can his majesty, by any act of goodness, so much endear his government, as by a ready promise to this nation of an exemption from any war in defence of Hanover. I hope, sir, it will not be objected, that by such request a suspicion will be insinuated of designs detrimental to the British nation, and repugnant to the conditions on which his majesty ascended the throne, because an objection of equal force may rise against any advice whatever that shall be offered by the senate. It may be always urged, sir, that to recommend any measures, is to suppose that they would not have been suggested to his majesty by his own wisdom, and, by consequence, that he is defective either in knowledge or in goodness, that he either mistakes or neglects the interest of his people. Thus, sir, may the most laudable conduct be charged with sedition, and the most awful regard be accused of disrespect, by forced consequences, and exaggerated language; thus may senates become useless, lest they should appear to be wiser than their sovereign, and the sovereign be condemned to act only by the information of servile ministers, because no publick advice can safely be given him. That kings must act upon the information of others, that they can see little with their own eyes through the mists which flattery is continually employed in raising before them, and that they are, therefore, most happy who have, by the constitution of the country which they govern, an opportunity of knowing the opinions of their people without disguise, has yet never been denied by any who do not separate the interest of the king from that of the people, and leave mankind no political distinction but that of tyrants and slaves. This, sir, is the happiness of the emperour of Britain beyond other monarchs, an advantage by which he may be always enabled to contemplate the happy and flourishing state of his subjects, and to receive the blessings and acclamations of millions, that owe to his care their wealth and their security. Of this advantage he cannot be deprived, but by the cowardice or the treachery of those men who are delegated by the people, as the guardians of their liberties; and surely it requires no uncommon penetration to discover, that no act of treason can be equal in malignity to that perfidy which deprives the king of the affections of his subjects, by concealing from him their sentiments and petitions. He that makes his monarch hated, must, undoubtedly, make him unhappy; and he that destroys his happiness, might more innocently take away his life. To exempt myself, therefore, from such guilt, to discharge the trust conferred on me by my country, and to perform the duty which I owe to my king, I stand up to second this motion. Mr. GYBBON spoke next, to the following purpose:--Sir, as it is not easy to remember all the parts of an address by only once hearing it, and hearing it in a form different from that in which it is to be presented, I think it necessary to a more accurate consideration of it, that it should be read distinctly to the house. We may otherwise waste our time in debates, to which only our own forgetfulness gives occasion; we may raise objections without reason, and propose amendments where there is no defect. [The address was accordingly read, and Mr. GYBBON proceeded.] Having now heard the address, I find by experience the propriety of my proposal; having remarked a clause, which, in my opinion, is necessary to be amended, and which I had not observed when it was repeated before. It is well known, that the speeches from the throne, though pronounced by the king, are always considered as the compositions of the ministry, upon whom any false assertions would be charged, as the informers and counsellors of the crown. It is well known, likewise, that whenever this house returns thanks to the king for any measures that have been pursued, those measures are supposed to be approved by them; and that approbation may be pleaded by the minister in his defence, whenever he shall be required to answer for the event of his counsels. It is, therefore, in my opinion, extremely unreasonable to propose, that _thanks should be returned to his majesty for his royal care in prosecuting the war against Spain_; for what has been the consequence of that care, for which our thanks are to be, with so much solemnity, returned, but defeats, disgrace, and losses, the ruin of our merchants, the imprisonment of our sailors, idle shows of armaments, and useless expenses? What are the events which are to be recorded in an impartial account of this war; a war provoked by so long a train of insults and injuries, and carried on with so apparent an inequality of forces? Have we destroyed the fleets of our enemies, fired their towns, and laid their fortresses in ruins? Have we conquered their colonies, and plundered their cities, and reduced them to a necessity of receding from their unjust claims, and repaying the plunder of our merchants? Are their ambassadors now soliciting peace at the court of Britain, or applying to the neighbouring princes to moderate the resentment of their victorious enemies? I am afraid that the effects of our preparations, however formidable, are very different; they have only raised discontent among our countrymen, and contempt among our enemies. We have shown that we are strong indeed, but that our force is made ineffectual by our cowardice; that when we threaten most loudly, we perform nothing; that we draw our swords but to brandish them, and only wait an opportunity to sheath them in such a manner, as not plainly to confess that we dare not strike. If we consider, therefore, what effect our thanks for conduct like this must naturally produce, it will appear that they can only encourage our enemies, and dispirit our fellow-subjects. It will be imagined that the Spaniards are a powerful nation, which it was the highest degree of temerity to attack; a nation by whom it is honour sufficient not to be overcome, and from whom we cannot be defended without the most vigilant caution, and the most extensive knowledge both of politicks and war. It will readily be perceived by the proud Spaniards, that it is only necessary to prosecute their views a little longer, to intimidate us with new demands, and amuse us with new preparations; and that we, who are always satisfied with our success, shall soon be weary of a war from which it is plain that we never expected any advantage, and therefore shall, in a short time, willingly receive such terms as our conquerors will grant us. It is always to be remembered, how much all human affairs depend upon opinion, how often reputation supplies the want of real power, by making those afraid who cannot be hurt, and by producing confidence where there is no superiority. The opinion of which the senate ought to endeavour the promotion, is confidence in their steadiness, honesty, and wisdom. Confidence which will not be much advanced by an address of thanks for the conduct of the war against Spain. How justly may it be asked, when this address is spread over the world, what were the views with which the senate of Britain petitioned their sovereign to declare war against Spain? If their design was, as they then asserted, to procure security for the commerce of America, and reparation for the injuries which their merchants had received, by what fluctuation of counsels, by what prevalence of new opinions, have they now abandoned it? For that they have no longer the same intentions, that they now no more either propose security, or demand recompense, is evident; since though they have obtained neither, yet are they thankful for the conduct of the war. To what can this apparent instability be imputed, but to the want either of wisdom to balance their own power with that of their enemies, and discern the true interest of their country, or to a mean compliance with the clamours of the people, to whom they durst not refuse the appearance of a war, though they had no expectation of honour or success? But in far other terms, sir, will the Spaniards speak of the address which is now proposed. "Behold, say our boasting enemies, the spirit and wisdom of that assembly, whose counsels hold the continent in suspense, and whose determinations change the fate of kingdoms; whose vote transfers sovereignty, covers the ocean with fleets, prescribes the operation of distant wars, and fixes the balance of the world. Behold them amused with idle preparations, levying money for mockeries of war, and returning thanks for the pleasure of the show. Behold them looking with wonderful tranquillity on the loss of a great number of their ships, which have been seized upon their own coasts by our privateers, and congratulating themselves and their monarch that any have been preserved. How great would have been the exultation, and how loud the applauses, had they succeeded in any of their designs; had they obstructed the departure of our fleets, or hindered our descent upon the dominions of the queen of Hungary; had they confined our privateers in our harbours, defeated any of our troops, or overrun any of our colonies! In what terms would they have expressed their gratitude for victory, who are thus thankful for disappointments and disgrace?" Such, sir, must be the remarks of our enemies upon an address like that which is now proposed; remarks which we and our allies must be condemned to hear, without attempting a reply. For what can be urged to extenuate the ridicule of returning thanks where we ought either to express resentment, offer consolations, and propose the means of better success, or cover our grief and shame with perpetual silence? When it shall be told in foreign nations, that the senate of Britain had returned thanks for the escape of the Spaniards from Ferrol, their uninterrupted expedition to Italy, the embarrassment of their own trade, the captivity of their sailors, and the destruction of their troops, what can they conclude, but that the senate of Britain is a collection of madmen, whom madmen have deputed to transact the publick affairs? And what must be the influence of such a people, and such a senate, will be easily conceived. If I have given way, sir, in these observations, to any wanton hyperbole, or exaggerated assertions, they will, I hope, be pardoned by those who shall reflect upon the real absurdity of the proposal, which I am endeavouring to show in its true state, and by all who shall consider, that to return thanks for the management of the war, is to return thanks for the carnage of Carthagena, for the ruin of our merchants, for the loss of our reputation, and for the exaltation of the family of Bourbon. I hope no man will be so unjust, or can be so ignorant, as to insinuate or believe, that I impute any part of our miscarriages to the personal conduct of his majesty, or that I think his majesty's concern for the prosperity of his people unworthy of the warmest and sincerest gratitude. If the address were confined to the inspection of our sovereign alone, I should be very far from censuring or ridiculing it; for his majesty has not the event of war in his power, nor can confer upon his ministers or generals that knowledge which they have neglected to acquire, or that capacity which nature has denied them. He may perform more than we have a right to expect, and yet be unsuccessful; he may deserve the utmost gratitude, even when, by the misconduct of his servants, the nation is distressed. But, sir, in drawing up an address, we should remember that we are declaring our sentiments not only to his majesty, but to all Europe; to our allies, our enemies, and our posterity; that this address will be understood, like all others; that thanks offered in this manner, by custom, signify approbation; and that, therefore, we must at present repress our gratitude, because it can only bring into contempt our sovereign and ourselves. Sir Robert WALPOLE spoke next, to this effect:--Sir, I am very far from thinking that the war against Spain has been so unsuccessful as some gentlemen have represented it; that the losses which we have suffered have been more frequent than we had reason to expect from the situation of our enemies, and the course of our trade; or our defeats, such as the common chance of war does not often produce, even when the inequality of the contending powers is incontestable, and the ultimate event as near to certainty, as the nature of human affairs ever can admit. Nor am I convinced, sir, even though it should be allowed that no exaggeration had been made of our miscarriages, that the impropriety of an address of thanks to his majesty for his regal care in the management of the war, is gross or flagrant. For if it be allowed that his majesty may be innocent of all the misconduct that has produced our defeats, that he may have formed schemes wisely, which were unskilfully prosecuted; that even valour and knowledge concurring, will not always obtain success; and that, therefore, some losses may be suffered, and some defeats received, though not only his majesty gave the wisest direction, but his officers executed them with the utmost diligence and fidelity; how will it appear from our ill success, that our sovereign does not deserve our gratitude? And if it shall appear to us that our thanks are merited, who shall restrain us from offering them in the most publick and solemn manner? For my part, I think no consideration worthy of regard in competition with truth and justice, and, therefore, shall never forbear any expression of duty to my sovereign, for fear of the ridicule of our secret, or the reproaches of our publick enemies. With regard to the address under our consideration, if it be allowed either that we have not been unsuccessful in any opprobrious degree, or that ill success does not necessarily imply any defect in the conduct of his majesty, or debar us from the right of acknowledging his goodness and his wisdom, I think, sir, no objection can be made to the form of expression now proposed, in which all sounding and pompous language, all declamatory exaggeration, and studied figures of speech, all appearance of exultation, and all the farce of rhetorick are carefully avoided, and nothing inserted that may disgust the most delicate, or raise scruples in the most sincere. Yet, sir, that we may not waste our time upon trivial disputes, when the nation expects relief from our counsels, that we may not suspend the prosecution of the war by complaints of past defeats, or retard that assistance and advice which our sovereign demands, by inquiring whether it may be more proper to thank, or to counsel him, I am willing, for the sake of unanimity, that this clause should be omitted; and hope that no other part of the address can give any opportunity for criticism, or for objections. Sir, it is no wonder that the right honourable gentleman willingly consents to the omission of this clause, which could be inserted for no other purpose than that he might sacrifice it to the resentment which it must naturally produce, and by an appearance of modesty and compliance, pass easily through the first day and obviate any severe inquiries that might be designed. He is too well acquainted with the opinion of many whom the nation has chosen to represent them, and with the universal clamours of the people, too accurately informed of the state of our enemies, and too conscious how much his secret machinations have hindered our success, to expect or hope that we should meet here to return thanks for the management of the war; of a war in which nothing has been attempted by his direction that was likely to succeed, and in which no advantage has been gained, but by acting without orders, and against his hopes. That I do not charge him, sir, without reason, or invent accusations only to obstruct his measures, or to gratify my own resentment; that I do not eagerly catch flying calumnies, prolong the date of casual reproaches, encourage the malignity of the envious, or adopt the suspicions of the melancholy; that I do not impose upon myself by a warm imagination, and endeavour to communicate to others impressions which I have only received myself from prejudice and malignity, will be proved from the review of his conduct since the beginning of our dispute with Spain, in which it will be found that he has been guilty, not of single errours, but of deliberate treachery; that he has always cooperated with our enemies, and sacrificed to his private interest the happiness and the honour of the British nation. How long our merchants were plundered, our sailors enslaved, and our colonies intimidated without resentment; how long the Spaniards usurped the dominion of the seas, searched our ships at pleasure, confiscated the cargoes without control, and tortured our fellow-subjects with impunity, cannot but be remembered. Not only every gentleman in this house, but every man in the nation, however indolent, ignorant, or obscure, can tell what barbarities were exercised, what ravages were committed, what complaints were made, and how they were received. It is universally known that this gentleman, and those whom he has seduced by pensions and employments, treated the lamentations of ruined families, and the outcries of tortured Britons, as the clamours of sedition, and the murmurs of malignity suborned to inflame the people, and embarrass the government. It is known, sir, that our losses were at one time ridiculed as below the consideration of the legislature, and the distress of the most useful and honest part of mankind was made the subject of merriment and laughter; the awkward wit of all the hirelings of the town was exerted to divert the attention of the publick, and all their art was employed to introduce other subjects into conversation, or to still the complaints which they heard with a timely jest. But their wit was not more successful on this, than on other occasions; their imaginations were soon exhausted, and they found, as at other times, that they must have recourse to new expedients. The first artifice of shallow courtiers is to elude with promises those complaints which they cannot confute, a practice that requires no understanding or knowledge, and therefore has been generally followed by the administration. This artifice they quickly made use of, when they found that neither the merchants nor the nation were to be silenced by an affectation of negligence, or the sallies of mirth; that it was no longer safe to jest upon the miseries of their countrymen, the destruction of our trade, and the violation of our rights, they condescended, therefore, to some appearances of compassion, and promised to exert all their influence to procure redress and security. That they might not appear, sir, to have made this promise only to free themselves from present importunity, they set negotiations on foot, despatched memorials, remonstrances, propositions, and computations, and with an air of gravity and importance, assembled at proper times to peruse the intelligence which they received, and to concert new instructions for their ministers. While this farce was acted, sir, innumerable artifices were made use of to reconcile the nation to suspense and delay. Sometimes the distance of the Spanish dominions in America retarded the decision of our claims. Sometimes the dilatory disposition of the Spaniards, and the established methods of their courts, made it impossible to procure a more speedy determination. Sometimes orders were despatched to America in favour of our trade, and sometimes those orders were neglected by the captains of the Spanish ships, and the governours of their provinces; and when it was inquired why those captains and governours were not punished or recalled, we were treated with contempt, for not knowing what had been so lately told us of the dilatory proceedings of the Spanish courts. In the mean time our merchants were plundered, and our sailors thrown into dungeons; our flag was insulted, and our navigation restrained, by men acting under the commission of the king of Spain; we perceived no effect of our negotiations but the expense, and our enemies not only insisted on their former claims, but prosecuted them with the utmost rigour, insolence, and cruelty. It must, indeed, sir, be urged in favour of our minister, that he did not refuse any act of submission, or omit any method of supplication by which he might hope to soften the Spaniards; he solicited their favour at their own court, he sent commissaries into their country, he assisted them in taking possession of dominions, to which neither we nor they have proved a right; and he employed the navies of Britain to transport into Italy the prince on whom the new-erected kingdom was to be conferred. Well might he expect that the Spaniards would be softened by so much kindness and forbearance, and that gratitude would at length induce them to spare those whom no injuries or contempt had been able to alienate from them, and to allow those a free course through the seas of America, to whom they had been indebted for an uninterrupted passage to the possession of a kingdom. He might likewise urge, sir, that when he was obliged to make war upon them, he was so tender of their interest, that the British admiral was sent out with orders rather to destroy his own fleet than the galleons, which, in appearance, he was sent to take, and to perish by the inclemency of the climate, rather than enter the Spanish ports, terrify their colonies, or plunder their towns. But to little purpose, sir, did our minister implore the compassion of the Spaniards, and represent the benefits by which we might claim it; for his compliance was by the subtle Spaniards attributed, not to kindness, but to fear; and it was therefore determined to reduce him to absolute slavery, by the same practices which had already sunk him to so abject a state. They therefore treated our remonstrances with contempt, continued their insolence and their oppressions, and while our agent was cringing at their court with fresh instructions in his hand, while he was hurrying with busy looks from one grandee to another, and, perhaps, dismissed without an audience one day, and sent back in the midst of his harangue on another, the guardships of the Spaniards continued their havock, our merchants were ruined, and our sailors tortured. At length, sir, the nation was too much inflamed to be any longer amused with idle negotiations, or trifling expedients; the streets echoed with the clamours of the populace, and this house was crowded with petitions from the merchants. The honourable person, with all his art, found himself unable any longer to elude a determination of this affair. Those whom he had hitherto persuaded that he had failed merely for want of abilities, began now to suspect that he had no desire of better success; and those who had hitherto cheerfully merited their pensions by an unshaken adherence to all his measures, who had extolled his wisdom and his integrity with all the confidence of security, began now to be shaken by the universality of the censures which the open support of perfidy brought upon them. They were afraid any longer to assert what they neither believed themselves, nor could persuade others to admit. The most indolent were alarmed, the most obstinate convinced, and the most profligate ashamed. What could now be done, sir, to gain a few months, to secure a short interval of quiet, in which his agents might be employed to disseminate some new falsehood, bribe to his party some new vindicators, or lull the people with the opiate of another expedient, with an account of concessions from the court of Spain, or a congress to compute the losses, and adjust the claims of our merchants? Something was necessarily to be attempted, and orders were therefore despatched by our minister, to his slave at the court of Spain, to procure some stipulations that might have at least the appearance of a step towards the conclusion of the debate. His agent obeyed him with his usual alacrity and address, and in time sent him, for the satisfaction of the British people, the celebrated convention. The convention, sir, has been so lately discussed, is so particularly remembered, and so universally condemned, that it would be an unjustifiable prodigality of time to expatiate upon it. There were but few in the last senate, and I hope there are none in this, who did not see the meanness of suffering incontestable claims to be disputed by commissaries, the injustice of the demand which was made upon the South-sea company, and the contemptuous insolence of amusing us with the shadow of a stipulation, which was to vanish into nothing, unless we purchased a ratification of it, by paying what we did not owe. The convention, therefore, sir, was so far from pacifying, that it only exasperated the nation, and took from our minister the power of acting any longer openly in favour of the Spaniards; of whom it must be confessed, that their wisdom was overpowered by their pride, and that, for the sake of showing to all the powers of Europe the dependence in which they held the court of Britain, they took from their friends the power of serving them any longer, and made it unsafe for them to pay that submission to which they were inclined. The Spaniards did not sufficiently distinguish between the nation and the ministry of Britain, nor suspected that their interests, inclinations, and opinions were directly opposite; and that those who were caressed, feared, and reverenced by the ministry, were by the people hated, despised, and ridiculed. By enslaving our ministry, they weakly imagined that they had conquered our nation; nor, perhaps, sir, would they quickly have discovered their mistake, had they used their victory with greater moderation, condescended to govern their new province with less rigour, and sent us laws in any other form than that of the convention. But the security which success excites, produced in them the same effects as it has often done in others, and destroyed, in some degree, the advantages of the conquest by which it was inspired. The last proof of their contempt of our sovereign and our nation, was too flagrant to be palliated, and too publick not to be resented. The cries of the nation were redoubled, the solicitations of the merchants renewed, the absurdity of our past conduct exposed, the meanness of our forbearance reproached, and the necessity of more vigorous measures evidently proved. The friends of Spain discovered, sir, at length, that war was necessarily to be proclaimed, and that it would be no longer their interest to act in open opposition to justice and reason, to the policy of all ages, and remonstrances of the whole nation. The minister, therefore, after long delays, after having run round the circle of all his artifices, and endeavouring to intimidate the nation by false representations of the power of our enemies, and the danger of an invasion from them, at length suffered war to be proclaimed, though not till he had taken all precautions that might disappoint us of success. He knew that the state of the Spanish dominions exposed them in a particular manner to sudden incursions by small parties, and that in former wars against them, our chief advantage had been gained by the boldness and subtilty of private adventurers, who by hovering over their coasts in small vessels, without raising the alarms which the sight of a royal navy necessarily produces, had discovered opportunities of landing unexpectedly, and entering their towns by surprise, of plundering their wealthy ships, or enriching themselves by ransoms and compositions; he knew what inconsiderable bodies of men, incited by private advantage, selected with care for particular expeditions, instructed by secret intelligence, and concealed by the smallness of their numbers, had found means to march up into the country, through ways which would never have been attempted by regular forces, and have brought upon the Spaniards more terrour and distress than could have been produced by a powerful army, however carefully disciplined or however skilfuly commanded. It was, therefore, sir, his first care to secure his darling Spaniards from the pernicious designs of private adventurers; he knew not but some of Elizabeth's heroes might unfortunately revive, and terrify, with an unexpected invasion, the remotest corners of the Spanish colonies, or appear before their ports with his nimble sloops, and bid defiance to their navies and their garrisons. When, therefore, a bill was introduced into this house, by which encouragement was given to the subjects of this kingdom to fit out privateers, and by which those who should conquer any of the colonies of the Spaniards, were confirmed in the possession of them for ever, it cannot be forgotten with what zeal he opposed, and with what steadiness he rejected it, though it is not possible to assign any disadvantage which could have been produced by passing it, and the utmost that could be urged against it was, that it was unnecessary and useless. Having thus discouraged that method of war which was most to be dreaded by our enemies, and left them little to fear but from national forces and publick preparations, his next care was to secure them from any destructive blow, by giving them time to equip their fleets, collect their forces, repair their fortifications, garrison their towns, and regulate their trade; for this purpose he delayed, as long as it was possible, the despatch of our navies, embarrassed our levies of sailors by the violence of impresses; violence, which proper encouragement and regulations might have made unnecessary; and suffered the privateers of the enemy to plunder our merchants without control, under pretence that ships of war could not be stationed, nor convoys provided for their protection. At length several fleets were fitted out, Vernon was sent to America, and Haddock into the Mediterranean, with what coqsequences it is well known; nor should I mention them at this time, had I not been awakened to the remembrance of them by a proposal of thanks for the conduct of the war. The behaviour of the two admirals was very different; though it has not yet appeared but that their orders were the same. Vernon with six ships destroyed those fortifications, before which Hosier formerly perished, in obedience to the commands of our ministry. How this success was received by the minister and his adherents, how much they were offended at the exultations of the populace, how evidently they appeared to consider it as a breach of their scheme, and a deviation from their directions, the whole nation can relate. Nor is it to be forgotten, sir, how invidiously the minister himself endeavoured to extenuate the honour of that action, by attempting to procure in the address, which was on that occasion presented to his majesty, a suppression of the number of the ships with which he performed it. In the mean time, sir, the nation expected accounts of the same kind from the Mediterranean, where Haddock was stationed with a very considerable force; but instead of relations of ports bombarded, and towns plundered, of navies destroyed, and villages laid in ashes, we were daily informed of the losses of our merchants, whose ships were taken almost within sight of our squadrons. We had, indeed, once the satisfaction of hearing that the fleet of Spain was confined in the port of Cadiz, unprovided with provisions, and it was rashly reported that means would either be found of destroying them in the harbour, or that they would be shut up in that unfruitful part of the country, till they should be obliged to disband their crews. We, therefore, sir, bore with patience the daily havock of our trade, in expectation of the entire destruction of the royal navy of Spain, which would reduce them to despair of resistance, and compel them to implore peace. But while we were flattering ourselves with those pleasing dreams, we were wakened on a sudden with an astonishing account that the Spaniards had left Cadiz, and, without any interruption from the Britons, were taking in provisions at Ferrol. This disappointment of our expectations did, indeed, discourage us, but not deprive us of hope; we knew that the most politick are sometimes deceived, and that the most vigilant may sometimes relax their attention; we did not expect in our commanders any exemption from human errours, and required only that they should endeavour to repair their failures, and correct their mistakes; and, therefore, waited without clamour, in expectation that what was omitted at Cadiz would be performed at Ferrol. But no sooner, sir, had the Spaniards stored their fleet, than we were surprised with a revolution of affairs yet more wonderful. Haddock, instead of remaining before Ferrol, was drawn off by some chimerical alarm to protect Minorca, and the Spaniards in the mean time sailed away to America, in conjunction with the French squadron that had been for some time ready for the voyage. If we consider the absurdity of this conduct, it cannot but be imagined that our minister must send Haddock false intelligence and treacherous directions, on purpose that the Spanish fleet might escape without interruption. For how can it be conceived that the Spaniards could have formed any real design of besieging port Mahon? Was it probable that they would have sent an army, in defenceless transports, into the jaws of the British fleet? and it was well known that they had no ships of war to protect them. It was not very agreeable to common policy to land an army upon an island, an island wholly destitute of provisions for their support, while an hostile navy was in possession of the sea, by which the fortress which their troops were destined to besiege might be daily supplied with necessaries, and the garrison augmented with new forces, while their army would be itself besieged in a barren island, without provisions, without recruits, without hope of succour, or possibility of success. But such was the solicitude of our admiral for the preservation of Minorca, that he abandoned his station, and suffered the Spaniards to join their confederates of France, and prosecute their voyage to America without hinderance or pursuit. In America they remained for some time masters of the sea, and confined Vernon to the ports; but want of provisions obliging the French to return, no invasion of our colonies was attempted, nor any of those destructive measures pursued which we had reason to fear, and of which our minister, notwithstanding his wonderful sagacity, could not have foretold that they would have been defeated by an unexpected scarcity of victuals. The Spaniards, however, gained, by this expedient, time to repair their fortifications, strengthen their garrisons, and dispose their forces in the most advantageous manner; and therefore, though they were not enabled to attack our dominions, had at least an opportunity of securing their own. At length, sir, lest it should be indisputably evident that our minister was in confederacy with the Spaniards, it was determined, that their American territories should be invaded; but care was taken to disappoint the success of the expedition by employing new-raised troops, and officers without experience, and to make it burdensome to the nation by a double number of officers, of which no use could be discovered, but that of increasing the influence, and multiplying the dependants of the ministry. It was not thought sufficient, sir, to favour the designs of the Spaniards by the delay which the levy of new troops necessarily produced, and to encourage them by the probability of an easy resistance against raw forces; nor was the nation, in the opinion of the minister, punished for its rebellion against him with adequate severity, by being condemned to support a double number of troops. Some other methods were to be used for embarrassing our preparations and protracting the war. The troops, therefore, sir, being, by the accident of a hard winter, more speedily raised than it was reasonable to expect, were detained in this island for several months, upon trivial pretences; and were at length suffered to embark at a time when it was well known that they would have much more formidable enemies than the Spaniards to encounter; when the unhealthy season of the American climate must necessarily destroy them by thousands; when the air itself was poison, and to be wounded certainly death. These were the hardships to which part of our fellow-subjects have been exposed by the tyranny of the minister; hardships which caution could not obviate, nor bravery surmount; they were sent to combat with nature, to encounter with the blasts of disease, and to make war against the elements. They were sent to feed the vultures of America, and to gratify the Spaniards with an easy conquest. In the passage the general died, and the command devolved upon a man who had never seen an enemy, and was, therefore, only a speculative warriour; an accident, which, as it was not unlikely to happen, would have been provided against by any minister who wished for success. The melancholy event of this expedition I need not mention, it was such as might be reasonably expected; when our troops were sent out without discipline, without commanders, into a country where even the dews are fatal, against enemies informed of their approach, secured by fortifications, inured to the climate, well provided, and skilfully commanded. In the mean time, sir, it is not to be forgotten what depredations were made upon our trading vessels, with what insolence ships of very little force approached our coasts, and seized our merchants in sight of our fortifications; it is not to be forgotten that the conduct of some of those who owed their revenues and power to the minister, gave yet stronger proofs of a combination. It is not to be forgotten with what effrontery the losses of our merchants were ridiculed, with what contemptuous triumph of revenge they were charged with the guilt of this fatal war, and how publickly they were condemned to suffer for their folly. For this reason, sir, they were either denied the security of convoys, or forsaken in the most dangerous parts of the sea, by those to whose protection they were, in appearance, committed. For this reason, they were either hindered from engaging in their voyage by the loss of those men who were detained unactive in the ships of war, or deprived of their crews upon the high seas, or suffered to proceed only to become a prey to the Spaniards. But it was not, sir, a sufficient gratification of our implacable minister, that the merchants were distressed for alarming the nation; it was thought, likewise, necessary to punish the people for believing too easily the reports of the merchants, and to warn them for ever against daring to imagine themselves able to discern their own interest, or to prescribe other measures to the ministers, than they should be themselves inclined to pursue; our minister was resolved to show them, by a master-stroke, that it was in his power to disappoint their desires, by seeming to comply, and to destroy their commerce and their happiness, by the very means by which they hoped to secure them. For this purpose, sir, did this great man summon all his politicks together, and call to council all his confidants and all his dependants; and it was, at length, after mature deliberation, determined, by their united wisdom, to put more ships into commission, to aggravate the terrours of the impress by new violence and severity, to draw the sailors by the promise of large rewards from the service of the merchants, to collect a mighty fleet, and to despatch it on a _secret expedition_. A secret expedition, sir, is a new term of ministerial art, a term which may have been, perhaps, formerly made use of by soldiers, for a design to be executed without giving the enemy an opportunity of providing for their defence; but is now used for a design with which the enemy is better acquainted than those to whom the execution of it is committed. A secret expedition is now an expedition of which every one knows the design, but those at whose expense it is undertaken. It is a kind of naval review, which excels those of the park in magnificence and expense, but is equally useless, and equally ridiculous. Upon these secret expeditions, however, were fixed for a long time the expectations of the people; they saw all the appearances of preparation for real war; they were informed, that the workmen in the docks were retained by uncommon wages to do double duty; they saw the most specious encouragement offered to the sailors; they saw naval stores accumulated with the utmost industry, heard of nothing but the proof of new cannon, and new contracts for provision; and how much reason soever they had to question the sincerity of the great man who had so long engrossed the management of all affairs, they did not imagine that he was yet so abandoned to levy forces only to exhaust their money, and equip fleets only to expose them to ridicule. When, therefore, sir, after the usual delays, the papers had informed the people that the great fleet was sailed, they no longer doubted that the Spaniards were to be reduced to our own terms; they expected to be told, in a few days, of the destruction of fleets, the demolition of castles, and the plunder of cities; and everyone envied the fortune of those who, by being admitted into their formidable fleet, were entitled to the treasures of such wealthy enemies. When they had for some time indulged these expectations, an account was brought, that the fleet was returned without the least action, or the least attempt, and that new provisions were to be taken in, that they might set out upon another _secret expedition_. But, sir, this wonder-working term had now lost its efficacy, and it was discovered, that _secret expeditions_, like all other _secret services_, were only expedients to drain the money of the people, and to conceal the ignorance or villany of the minister. Such has been the conduct for which we are desired to return thanks in an humble and dutiful address, such are the transactions which we are to recommend to the approbation of our constituents, and such the triumphs upon which we must congratulate our sovereign. For my part, sir, I cannot but think that silence is a censure too gentle of that wickedness which no language can exaggerate, and for which, as it has, perhaps, no example, human kind have not yet provided a name. Murder, parricide, and treason, are modest appellations when referred to that conduct by which a king is betrayed, and a nation ruined, under pretence of promoting its interest, by a man trusted with the administration of publick affairs. Let us, therefore, sir, if it be thought not proper to lay before his majesty the sentiments of his people in their full extent, at least not endeavour to conceal them from him; let us, at least, address him in such a manner as may give him some occasion to inquire into the late transactions, which have for many years been such, that to inquire into them is to condemn them. Sir Robert WALPOLE rose again, and spoke to this effect:--Sir, though I am far from being either confounded or intimidated by this atrocious charge; though I am confident, that all the measures which have been so clamorously censured, will admit of a very easy vindication, and that whenever they are explained they will be approved; yet as an accusation so complicated cannot be confuted without a long recapitulation of past events, and a deduction of many particular circumstances, some of which may require evidence, and some a very minute and prolix explication, I cannot think this a proper day for engaging in the controversy, because it is my interest that it may be accurately discussed. At present, sir, I shall content myself with bare assertions, like those of him by whom I am accused, and hope they will not be heard with less attention, or received with less belief. For surely it was never denied to any man to defend himself with the same weapons with which he is attacked. I shall, therefore, sir, make no scruple to assert, that the treasure of the publick has been employed with the utmost frugality, to promote the purposes for which it was granted; that our foreign affairs have been transacted with the utmost fidelity, in pursuance of long consultations; and shall venture to add, that our success has not been such as ought to produce any suspicion of negligence or treachery. That our design against Carthagena was defeated, cannot be denied; but what war has been one continued series of success? In the late war with France, of which the conduct has been so lavishly celebrated, did no designs miscarry? If we conquered at Ramillies, were we not in our turn beaten at Almanza? If we destroyed the French ships, was it not always with some loss of our own? And since the sufferings of our merchants have been mentioned with so much acrimony, do not the lists of the ships taken in that war, prove that the depredations of privateers cannot be entirely prevented? The disappointment, sir, of the publick expectation by the return of the fleets, has been charged upon the administration, as a crime too enormous to be mentioned without horrour and detestation. That the ministry have not the elements in their power, that they do not prescribe the course of the wind, is a sufficient proof of their negligence and weakness: with as much justice is it charged upon them, that the expectations of the populace, which they did not raise, and to which, perhaps, the conquest of a kingdom had not been equal, failed of being gratified. I am very far from hoping or desiring that the house should be satisfied with a defence like this; I know, by observing the practice of the opponents of the ministry, what fallacy may be concealed in general assertions, and am so far from wishing to evade a more exact inquiry, that if the gentleman who has thus publickly and confidently accused the ministry, will name a day for examining the state of the nation, I will second his motion. [The address was at length agreed to, without a division.] Mr. PULTENEY then moved, that the state of the nation should be considered six weeks hence; sir Robert WALPOLE seconded the motion, and it was unanimously agreed, that this house will, on the 21st of next month, resolve itself into a committee of the whole house, to consider of the state of the nation. But when that day came, sir Robert WALPOLE having been able to defeat a motion which was to refer some papers to a secret committee, the consideration of the state of the nation was put off for a fortnight; but on the eve of that day, both houses adjourned for fourteen days, during which, sir Robert WALPOLE resigned his employments of first lord of the treasury, and chancellor and under treasurer of his majesty's exchequer; and was created a peer, by the title of lord WALPOLE, and earl of ORFORD. HOUSE OF COMMONS, MARCH 9, 1741-2. ON A MOTION FOR INQUIRING INTO THE CONDUCT OF AFFAIRS AT HOME AND ABROAD, DURING THE LAST TWENTY YEARS. Lord LIMERICK rose, and spoke in the following manner:--Sir, as I am about to offer to the house a motion of the highest importance to the honour and happiness of our country, to the preservation of our privileges, and the continuance of our constitution, I make no doubt of a candid attention from this assembly, and hope for such a determination as shall be the result not of external influence, but of real conviction. I cannot but congratulate myself and all lovers of their country, that we are arrived at a time, in which such hopes may be rationally indulged, that we shall soon see the triumph of liberty, and the renovation of senatorial freedom. It is not without the highest satisfaction, that I find my life protracted to that happy day, in which the yoke of dependence has been shaken off, and the shackles of oppression have been broken; in which truth and justice have once more raised up their heads, and obtained that regard which had so long been paid to splendid wickedness and successful rapine. The time is now past, in which it was meritorious to harden the heart against pity, and the forehead against shame; to plunder the people by needless taxes, and insult them by displaying their spoils before their eyes, in luxurious riot, and boundless magnificence; when the certain method of obtaining what the greatest part, even of good men, cannot but sometimes wish to acquire, interest, affluence, and honour, was an implicit resignation to authority, a desertion of all principles, defiance of all censure, and an open declaration against any other motives of action, than the sole pleasure of an arbitrary minister. It is now, sir, no longer considered as an instance of disaffection to the government, to represent the miseries and declare the opinions of the people; to propose their interest as the great basis of government, the general end of society, and the parent of law. It is now no longer criminal to affirm, that they have a right to complain when they are, in their own opinion, injured, and to be heard when they complain. It may now be with safety asserted, that those who swell with the pride of office, and glitter with the magnificence of a court, however they may display their affluence, or boast their titles; with whatever contempt they may have learned of late to look upon their fellow-subjects, who have no possessions but what they have obtained by their industry, nor any honours but what are voluntarily paid to their understanding and their virtue; with whatever authority they may dictate to their dependants, or whatever reverence they may exact from a long subordination of hirelings, are, amidst all their pomp and influence, only the servants of the people, intrusted by them with the administration of their affairs, and accountable to them for the abuse of trust. That trusts of the highest importance have been long abused, that the servants of the people, having long thought themselves out of the reach of justice, and above examination, have very ill discharged the offices in which they have been engaged, that the publick advantage has been wholly disregarded, that treaties have been concluded without any regard to the interest of Britain, and that our foreign and domestick affairs have been managed with equal ignorance, negligence, or wickedness, the present state of Europe, and the calamities of this country, will sufficiently inform us. If we survey the condition of foreign nations, we shall find, that the power and dominions of the family of Bourbon, a family which has never had any other designs than the extirpation of true religion, and the universal slavery of mankind, have been daily increased. We shall find that they have increased by the declension of the house of Austria, which treaties and our interest engage us to support. But had their acquisitions been made only by the force of arms, had they grown stronger only by victories, and more wealthy only by plunder, our ministers might, with some appearance of reason, have imputed their success to accident, and informed us, that we gained, in the mean time, a sufficient counterbalance to those advantages, by an uninterrupted commerce, and by the felicity of peace; peace, which, in every nation, has been found to produce affluence, and of which the wisest men have thought that it could scarcely be too dearly purchased. But peace has, in this nation, by the wonderful artifices of our ministers, been the parent of poverty and misery; we have been so far from finding our commerce extended by it, that we have enjoyed it only by a contemptible patience of the most open depredations, by a long connivance at piracy, and by a continued submission to insults, which no other nation would have borne. We have been so far from seeing any part of our taxes remitted, that we have been loaded with more rigorous exactions to support the expenses of peace, than were found necessary to defray the charges of a war against those, whose opulence and power had incited them to aspire to the dominion of the world. How these taxes have been employed, and why our trade has been neglected, why our allies have been betrayed, and why the ancient enemies of our country have been suffered to grow powerful by our connivances, it is now time to examine; and therefore I move, that a committee be appointed to inquire into the conduct of affairs at home and abroad during the last twenty years. Sir John ST. AUBIN then spoke as follows:--Sir, I rise up to second this motion; and, as the noble lord has opened it in so full and proper a manner, and as I do not doubt but that other gentlemen are ready to support it, more practised in speaking, of greater abilities and authority than myself, I am the less anxious about the injury it may receive from the part I bear in it. I think the proposition is so evident, that it wants no enforcement; it comes to you from the voice of the nation, which, thank God, has at last found admittance within these walls. Innocence is of so delicate a nature, that it cannot bear suspicion, and therefore will desire inquiry; because it will always be justified by it. Guilt, from its own consciousness, will use subterfuges, and fly to concealment; and the more righteous and authoritative the inquiry, the more it will be avoided; because the greater will be the dread of punishment. In private life, I am contented with men's virtues only, without seeking for opportunities of blame. In a publick character, when national grievances cry aloud for inquiry and justice, it is our duty to pursue all the footsteps of guilt; and the loud, the pathetick appeal of my constituents, is more forcibly persuasive than any motive of private tenderness. This appeal is not the clamour of faction, artfully raised to disturb the operation of government, violent for a while, and soon to be appeased. It is the complaint of long and patient sufferings, a complaint not to be silenced; and which all endeavours to suppress it, would only make more importunate and clamorous. It is the solemn appeal of the whole people, of the united body of our constituents, in this time of national calamity, earnestly beseeching you, in a legal parliamentary way, to redress their grievances, to revive your ancient right of inquiry, to explore the most remote and hidden sources of iniquity, to detect the bold authors of their distress, that they may be made examples of national justice. It is to you they appeal, the true, the genuine representatives of the people. Not like former parliaments, an instrument of state, the property of a minister, purchased by the missionaries of corruption, who have been dispersed through the kingdom, and furnished with the publick money to invade all natural interest, by poisoning the morals of the people. Upon this rotten foundation has been erected a towering fabrick of corruption: a most dangerous conspiracy has been carried on against the very essence of our constitution, a formidable system of ministerial power has been formed, fallaciously assuming, under constitutional appearances, the name of legal government. In this system we have seen the several offices of administration meanly resolving themselves under the direction and control of one man: while this scheme was pursued, the nation has been ingloriously patient of foreign indignities; our trade has been most shamefully neglected, or basely betrayed; a war with an impotent enemy, most amply provided for, unsuccessfully carried on; the faith of treaties broke; our natural allies deserted, and weakened even by that power, which we now dread for want of their assistance. It is not the bare removal from office that will satisfy the nation, especially if such removal is dignified with the highest marks of royal favour. This only gives mankind a reasonable fear that his majesty has rather condescended to the importunities, than adopted the opinion of his people. It is, indeed, a most gracious condescension, a very high instance of his majesty's just intentions to remove any of his servants upon national suspicion; but it will give his majesty a most unfavourable opinion of his people, if he is not satisfied that this suspicion was just. It is the unfortunate situation of arbitrary kings, that they know the sentiments of their people only from whisperers in their closet. Our monarchy has securer establishments. Our sovereign is always sure of knowing the true sense of his people, because he may see it through the proper, the constitutional medium: but then this medium must be pure, it must transmit every object in its real form and its natural colours. This is all that is now contended for. You are called to the exercise of your just right of inquiry, that his majesty may see what reason there is for this general inquietude. This motion is of a general nature; whom it may more particularly affect, I shall not determine. But there is a great person, lately at the head of the administration, who stands foremost, the principal object of national suspicion. He surely will not decline this inquiry, it is his own proposition; he has frequently, in the name of the whole administration, thrown down his gauntlet here; has desired your inquiries, and has rested his fate on your justice. The nation accepts the challenge, they join issue with him, they are now desirous to bring this great cause in judgment before you. It must be imputed to the long intermission of this right of inquiry, that the people have now this cause of complaint; had the administration of this great person been submitted to the constitutional controls, had his conduct undergone strict and frequent inquiries, he had parts and abilities to have done great honour and service to this country. But the will, uncontrouled, for ever must and will produce security and wantonness; nor can moderation and despotick power subsist long together. In vain do we admire the outlines of our constitution, in vain do we boast of those wise and salutary restraints, which our ancestors, at the expense of their blood and treasure, have wisely imposed upon monarchy itself, if it is to be a constitution in theory only, if this evasive doctrine is to be admitted, that a fellow-subject of our own, perhaps of the lowest rank among us, may be delegated by the crown to exercise the administration of government, with absolute, uncontroulable dominion over us; which must be the case, if ministerial conduct is not liable to parliamentary inquiries. If I did not think this motion agreeable to the rules and proceedings of the senate; if I thought it was meant to introduce any procedure which was not strictly consonant to the laws and constitution of my country, I do most solemnly protest I would be against, it. But as I apprehend it to arise from the nature and spirit of our constitution, as it will defend the innocent, and can be detrimental only to the guilty, I do most heartily second the motion. The hon. Henry PELHAM opposed the motion to the following effect:--Sir, if it was not daily to be observed, how much the minds of the wisest and most moderate men are elated with success, and how often those, who have been able to surmount the strongest obstacles with unwearied diligence, and to preserve their fortitude unshaken amidst hourly disappointments, have been betrayed by slight advantages into indecent exultations, unreasonable confidence, and chimerical hopes; had I not long remarked the infatuation of prosperity, and the pride of triumph, I should not have heard the motion which has been now made without, astonishment. It has been long the business or the amusement of the gentlemen, who, having for some time conferred upon themselves the venerable titles of patriots, advocates for the people, and defenders of the constitution, have at length persuaded part of the nation to dignify them with the same appellation, to display in the most pathetick language, and aggravate with the most hyperbolical exaggerations, the wantonness with which the late ministry exercised their power, the exorbitance of their demands, and the violence of their measures. They have indulged their imaginations, which have always been sufficiently fruitful in satire and invective, by representing them as men in whom all regard to decency or reputation was extinguished, men who no longer submitted to wear the mask of hypocrisy, or thought the esteem of mankind worth their care; who had ceased to profess any regard to the welfare of their country, or any desire of advancing the publick happiness; and who no longer desired any other effects of their power, than the security of themselves and the conquest of their opponents. Such, sir, has been the character of the ministry, which, by the incessant endeavours of these disinterested patriots, has been carried to the remotest corners of the empire, and disseminated through all the degrees of the people. Every man, whom they could enlist among their pupils, whom they could persuade to see with their eyes, rather than his own, and who was not so stubborn as to require proofs of their assertions, and reasons of their conduct; every man who, having no sentiments of his own, hoped to become important by echoing those of his instructors, was taught to think and to say, that the court was filled with open corruption; that the greatest and the wisest men of the kingdom set themselves publickly to sale, and held an open traffick for votes and places; that whoever engaged in the party of the minister, declared himself ready to support his cause against truth, and reason, and conviction, and was no longer under the restraint of shame or virtue. These assertions, hardy as they were, they endeavoured to support by instances of measures, which they described as having no other tendency, than to advance the court to absolute authority, to enslave the nation, or to betray it: and more happily would they have propagated their system, and much sooner would they have obtained a general declaration of the people in their favour, had they been able to have produced a motion like this. Should the influence of these men increase, should they grow secure in the possession of their power, by any new methods of deluding the people, what wonderful expedients, what unheard-of methods of government may not be expected from them? What degrees of violence may they not be supposed to practise, who have flushed their new authority by a motion which was never projected since the first existence of our government, or offered by the most arbitrary minister in all the confidence of an established majority. It may, perhaps, be imagined by many of those who are unacquainted with senatorial affairs, as many of the members of this house may without any reproach be supposed to be, that I have made use of those arts against the patriots which they have so long practised against the court; that I have exaggerated the enormity of the motion by unjust comparisons, or rhetorical flights; and that there will be neither danger nor inconvenience in complying with it to any but those who have betrayed their trust, or neglected their duty. I doubt not, but many of those with whom this motion has been concerted, have approved it without seeing all its consequences; and have been betrayed into that approbation by a laudable zeal for their country, and an honest indignation against corruption and treachery, by a virtuous desire of detecting wickedness, and of securing our constitution from any future dangers or attacks. For the sake, therefore, of these gentlemen, whom I cannot but suppose willing to follow the dictates of their own consciences, and to act upon just motives, I shall endeavour to lay open the nature of this extraordinary motion, and doubt not but that when they find it, as it will unquestionably appear, unreasonable in itself, and dangerous to posterity, they will change their opinion for the same reasons as they embraced it, and prefer the happiness of their country to the prosperity of their party. Against an inquiry into the conduct of all foreign and domestick affairs for _twenty_ years past, it is no weak argument that it is without precedent; that neither the zeal of patriotism, nor the rage of faction, ever produced such a motion in any former age. It cannot be doubted by those who have read our histories, that formerly our country has produced men equally desirous of detecting wickedness, and securing liberty, with those who are now congratulating their constituents on the success of their labours; and that faction has swelled in former times to a height, at which it may reasonably be hoped it will never arrive again, is too evident to be controverted. What then can we suppose was the reason, that neither indignation, nor integrity, nor resentment, ever before directed a motion like this? Was it not, because it neither will serve the purposes of honesty, nor wickedness; that it would have defeated the designs of good, and betrayed those of bad men; that it would have given patriotism an appearance of faction, rather than have vested faction with the disguise of patriotism. It cannot be supposed, that the sagacity of these gentlemen, however great, has enabled them to discover a method of proceeding which escaped the penetration of our ancestors, so long celebrated for the strength of their understanding, and the extent of their knowledge. For it is evident, that without any uncommon effort of the intellectual faculties, he that proposes an inquiry for a year past, might have made the same proposal with regard to a longer time; and it is therefore probable, that the limitation of the term is the effect of his knowledge, rather than of his ignorance. And, indeed, the absurdity of an universal inquiry for twenty years past is such, that no man, whose station has given him opportunities of being acquainted with publick business, could have proposed it, had he not been misled by the vehemence of resentment, or biassed by the secret operation of some motives different from publick good; for it is no less than a proposal for an attempt impossible to be executed, and of which the execution, if it could be effected would be detrimental to the publick. Were our nation, sir, like some of the inland kingdoms of the continent, or the barbarous empire of Japan, without commerce, without alliances, without taxes, and without competition with other nations; did we depend only on the product of our own soil to support us, and the strength of our own arms to defend us, without any intercourse with distant empire, or any solicitude about foreign affairs, were the same measures uniformly pursued, the government supported by the same revenues, and administered with the same views, it might not be impracticable to examine the conduct of affairs, both foreign and domestick, for twenty years; because every year would afford only a transcript of the accounts of the last. But how different is the state of Britain, a nation whose traffick is extended over the earth, whose revenues are every year different, or differently applied, which is daily engaging in new treaties of alliance, or forming new regulations of trade with almost every nation, however distant, which has undertaken the arduous and intricate employments of superintending the interests of all foreign empires, and maintaining the equipoise of the French powers, which receives ambassadors from all the neighbouring princes, and extends its regard to the limits of the world. In such a nation, every year produces negotiations of peace, or preparations for war, new schemes and different measures, by which expenses are sometimes increased, and sometimes retrenched. In such a nation, every thing is in a state of perpetual vicissitude; because its measures are seldom the effects of choice, but of necessity, arising from the change of conduct in other powers. Nor is the multiplicity and intricacy of our domestick affairs less remarkable or particular. It is too well known that our debts are great, and our taxes numerous; that our funds, appropriated to particular purposes, are at some times deficient, and at others redundant; and that therefore the money arising from the same imposts, is differently applied in different years. To assert that this fluctuation produces intricacy, may be imagined a censure of those to whose care our accounts are committed; but surely it must be owned, that our accounts are made necessarily less uniform and regular, and such as must require a longer time for a complete examination. Whoever shall set his foot in our offices, and observe the number of papers with which the transactions of the last twenty years have filled them, will not need any arguments against this motion. When he sees the number of writings which such an inquiry will make necessary to be perused, compared, and extracted, the accounts which must be examined and opposed to others, the intelligence from foreign courts which must be considered, and the estimates of domestick expenses which must be discussed; he will own, that whoever is doomed to the task of this inquiry, would be happy in exchanging his condition with that of the miners of America; and that the most resolute industry, however excited by ambition, or animated by patriotism, must sink under the weight of endless labour. If it be considered how many are employed in the publick offices, it must be confessed, either that the national treasure is squandered in salaries upon men who have no employment, or that twenty years may be reasonably supposed to produce more papers than a committee can examine; and, indeed, if the committee of inquiry be not more numerous than has ever been appointed, it may be asserted, without exaggeration, that the inquiry into our affairs for twenty years past, will not be accurately performed in less than twenty years to come; in which time those whose conduct is now supposed to have given the chief occasion to this motion, may be expected to be removed for ever from the malice of calumny, and the rage of persecution. But if it should be imagined by those who, having never been engaged in publick affairs, cannot properly judge of their intricacy and extent, that such an inquiry is in reality so far from being impossible, that it is only the work of a few months, and that the labour of it will be amply recompensed by the discoveries which it will produce, let them but so long suspend the gratification of their curiosity, as to consider the nature of that demand by which they are about to satisfy it. A demand, by which nothing less is required than that all the secrets of our government should be made publick. It is known in general to every man, whose employment or amusement it has been to consider the state of the French kingdoms, that the last twenty years have been a time not of war, but of negotiations; a period crowned with projects, and machinations often more dangerous than violence and invasions; and that these projects have been counteracted by opposite schemes, that treaties have been defeated by treaties, and one alliance overbalanced by another. Such a train of transactions, in which almost every court of France has been engaged, must have given occasion to many private conferences, and secret negotiations; many designs must have been discovered by informers who gave their intelligence at the hazard of their lives, and been defeated, sometimes by secret stipulations, and sometimes by a judicious distribution of money to those who presided in senates or councils. Every man must immediately be convinced, that by the inquiry now proposed, all these secrets will be brought to light; that one prince will be informed of the treachery of his servants, and another see his own cowardice or venality exposed to the world. It is plain, that the channels of intelligence will be for ever stopped, and that no prince will enter into private treaties with a monarch who is denied by the constitution of his empire, the privilege of concealing his own measures. It is evident, that our enemies may hereafter plot our ruin in full security, and that our allies will no longer treat us with confidence. Since, therefore, the inquiry now demanded is impossible, the motion ought to be rejected, as it can have no other tendency than to expose the senate and the nation to ridicule; and since, if it could be performed, it would produce consequences fatal to our government, as it would expose our most secret measures to our enemies, and weaken the confidence of our allies. I hope every man who regards either his own reputation, or that of the senate, or professes any solicitude for the publick good, will oppose the motion. Lord QUARENDON spoke to this effect:--Sir, I am always inclined to suspect a man who endeavours rather to terrify than persuade. Exaggerations and hyperboles are seldom made use of by him who has any real arguments to produce. The reasonableness of this motion (of which I was convinced when I first heard it, and of which, I believe, no man can doubt who is not afraid of the inquiry proposed by it) is now, in my opinion, evinced by, the weak opposition which has been made by the honourable gentleman, to whose abilities I cannot deny this attestation, that the cause which he cannot defend, has very little to hope from any other advocate. And surely he cannot, even by those who, whenever he speaks, stand prepared to applaud him, be thought to have produced any formidable argument against the inquiry, who has advanced little more than that it is impossible to be performed. Impossibility is a formidable sound to ignorance and cowardice; but experience has often discovered, that it is only a sound uttered by those who have nothing else to say; and courage readily surmounts those obstacles that sink the lazy and timorous into despair. That there are, indeed, impossibilities in nature, cannot be denied. There may be schemes formed which no wise man will attempt to execute, because he will know that they cannot succeed; but, surely, the examination of arithmetical deductions, or the consideration of treaties and conferences, cannot be admitted into the number of impossible designs; unless, as it may sometimes happen, the treaties and calculations are unintelligible. The only difficulty that can arise, must be produced by the confusion and perplexity of our publick transactions, the inconsistency of our treaties, and the fallaciousness of our estimates; but I hope no man will urge these as arguments against the motion. An inquiry ought to be promoted, that confusion may be reduced to order, and that the distribution of the publick money may be regulated. If the examination be difficult, it ought to be speedily performed, because those difficulties are daily increasing; if it be impossible, it ought to be attempted, that those methods of forming calculations may be changed, which make them impossible to be examined. Mr. FOWKES replied in the manner following:--Sir, to treat with contempt those arguments which cannot readily be answered, is the common practice of disputants; but as it is contrary to that candour and ingenuity which is inseparable from zeal for justice and love of truth, it always raises a suspicion of private views, and of designs, which, however they may be concealed by specious appearances, and vehement professions of integrity and sincerity, tend in reality to the promotion of some secret interest, or the gratification of some darling passion. It is reasonable to imagine, that he, who in the examination of publick questions, calls in the assistance of artifice and sophistry, is actuated rather by the rage of persecution, than the ardour of patriotism; that he is pursuing an enemy, rather than detecting a criminal; and that he declaims against the abuse of power in another, only that he may more easily obtain it himself. In senatorial debates, I have often known this method of easy confutation practised, sometimes with more success, and sometimes with less. I have often known ridicule of use, when reason has been baffled, and seen those affect to despise their opponents, who have been able to produce nothing against them but artful allusions to past debates, satirical insinuations of dependence, or hardy assertions unsupported by proofs. By these arts I have known the young and unexperienced kept in suspense; I have seen the cautious and diffident taught to doubt of the plainest truths; and the bold and sanguine persuaded to join in the cry, and hunt down reason, after the example of their leaders. But a bolder attempt to disarm argument of its force, and to perplex the understanding, has not often been made, than this which I am now endeavouring to oppose. A motion has been made and seconded for an inquiry, to which it is objected, not that it is illegal, not that it is inconvenient, not that it is unnecessary, but that it is _impossible_. An objection more formidable cannot, in my opinion, easily be made; nor can it be imagined that those men would think any other worthy of an attentive examination, who can pass over this as below their regard; yet even this has produced no answer, but contemptuous raillery, and violent exclamation. What arguments these gentlemen require, it is not easy to conjecture; or how those who disapprove their measures, may with any hope of success dispute against them. Those impetuous spirits that break so easily through the bars of impossibility, will scarcely suffer their career to be stopped by any other restraint; and it may be reasonably feared, that arguments from justice, or law, or policy, will have little force upon these daring minds, who in the transports of their newly acquired victory, trample impossibility under their feet, and imagine that to those who have vanquished the ministry, every thing is practicable. That this inquiry would be the work of years; that it will employ greater numbers than were ever deputed by this house on such an occasion before; that it would deprive the nation of the counsels of the wisest and most experienced members of this house, (for such only ought to be chosen,) at a time when all Europe is in arms, when our allies are threatened not only with subjection, but annihilation; when the French are reviving their ancient schemes, and projecting the conquest of the continent; and that it will, therefore, interrupt our attention to more important affairs, and disable us from rescuing our confederates, is incontestably evident; nor can the wisest or the most experienced determine how far its consequences may extend, or inform us, whether it may not expose our commerce to be destroyed by the Spaniards, and the liberties of all the nations round us to be infringed by the French; whether it may not terminate in the loss of our independence, and the destruction of our religion. Such are the effects which may be expected from an attempt to make the inquiry proposed; effects, to which no proportionate advantages can be expected from it, since it has been already shown, that it can never be completed; and to which, though the indefatigable industry of curiosity or malice should at length break through all obstacles, and lay all the transactions of twenty years open to the world, no discoveries would be equivalent. That any real discoveries of misconduct would be made, that the interest of our country would be found ever to have been lazily neglected, or treacherously betrayed, that any of our rights have been either yielded by cowardice, or sold by avarice, or that our enemies have gained any advantage over us by the connivance or ignorance of our ministers, I am indeed very far from believing; but as I am now endeavouring to convince those of the impropriety of this motion, who have long declared themselves of a different opinion, it may not be improper to ask, what advantage they propose by detecting errours of twenty years, which are now irretrievable; of inquiring into fraudulent practices, of which the authors and the agents are now probably in their graves; and exposing measures, of which all the inconveniencies have been already felt, and which have now ceased to affect us. If it be wise to neglect our present interest for the sake of inquiring into past miscarriages, and the inquiry now proposed be in itself possible, I have no objections to the present motion; but as I think the confused state of Europe demands our utmost attention, and the prosecution of the war against Spain is in itself of far more importance than the examination of all past transactions, I cannot but think, that the duty which I owe to my country requires that I should declare myself unwilling to concur in any proposal, that may unnecessarily divert our thoughts or distract our councils. Lord PERCIVAL then rose and spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, to discourage good designs by representations of the danger of attempting, and the difficulty of executing them, has been, at all times, the practice of those whose interest has been threatened by them. A pirate never fails to intimidate his pursuers by exaggerating the number and resolution of his crew, the strength of his vessels, and the security of his retreats. A cheat discourages a prosecution by dwelling upon his knowledge of all the arts and subterfuges of the law, the steadiness of his witnesses, and the experience of his agents. To raise false terrours by artful appearances is part of the art of war, nor can the general be denied praise, who by an artful disposition of a small body, discourages those enemies from attacking him by whom he would certainly be overcome; but then, surely the appearance ought to be such as may reasonably be expected to deceive; for a stratagem too gross only produces contempt and confidence, and adds the vexation of being ridiculous to the calamity of being defeated. Whether this will be the fate of the advocates for the ministry, I am not able to determine; but surely they have forgot the resolution with which their enemies bore up for many years against their superiority, and the conduct by which at last they defeated the united influence of power and money; if they hope to discourage them from an attack, by representing the bulk and strength of their paper fortifications. They have lost all memory of the excise and the convention, who can believe their eloquence sufficiently powerful to evince, that the inquiry now proposed ought to be numbered among impossibilities. Whoever, sir, is acquainted with their methods of negotiation, will, indeed, easily believe the papers sufficiently numerous, and the task of examining them such as no man would willingly undertake; for it does not appear for what end the immense sums which late senates have granted, were expended, except for the payment of secretaries, and ministers, and couriers. But whatever care has been employed to perplex every transaction with useless circumstances, and to crowd every office with needless papers, it will be long before they convince us, that it is impossible to examine them. They may, doubtless, be in time perused, though, perhaps, they can never be understood. The utmost inconvenience, sir, that can be feared, is the necessity of engaging a greater number of hands than on former occasions; and it will be no disagreeable method to the publick, if we employ some of the clerks which have been retained only for the sake of gratifying the leaders of boroughs, or advancing the distant relations of the defenders of the ministry, in unravelling those proceedings which they have been hitherto hired only to embarrass, and in detecting some of those abuses to which the will of their masters has made them instrumental; that they may at last deserve, in some degree, the salaries which they have enjoyed, may requite the publick for their part of its spoils, by contributing to the punishment of the principal plunderers, and leave their offices, of which I hope the number will be quickly diminished, with the satisfaction of having deserved at last the thanks of their country. By this expedient, sir, the inquiry will be made at least possible, and I hope, though it should still remain difficult, those who have so long struggled for the preservation of their country, and who have at last seen their labours rewarded with success, will not be discouraged from pursuing it. The necessity of such an inquiry will grow every day more urgent; because wicked men will be hardened in confidence of impunity, and the difficulty, such as it is, will be increased by every delay; for what now makes an inquiry difficult, or in the style of these mighty politicians impossible, but the length of time that has elapsed since the last exertion of this right of the senate, and the multitude of transactions which are necessarily to be examined? What is this year an irksome and tedious task, will in another year require still more patience and labour; and though I cannot believe that it will ever become impossible, it will undoubtedly in time be sufficient to weary the most active industry, and to discourage the most ardent zeal. The chief argument, therefore, that has been hitherto employed to discourage us from an inquiry, ought rather, in my opinion, to incite us to it. We ought to remember, that while the enemies of our country are fortifying themselves behind an endless multiplicity of negotiations and accounts, every day adds new strength to their intrenchments, and that we ought to force them while they are yet unable to resist or escape us. Sir William YONGE then spoke to the following effect:--Sir, however I may be convinced in my own opinion of the impracticability of the inquiry now proposed, whatever confidence I may repose in the extensive knowledge and long experience of those, by whom it has been openly pronounced not only difficult but impossible, I think there are arguments against the motion, which though, perhaps, not stronger in themselves, (for what objection can be stronger than impossibility,) ought at least more powerfully to incite us to oppose it. Of the impossibility of executing this inquiry, those who have proposed it well deserve to be convinced, not by arguments but experience; they deserve not to be diverted by persuasions from engaging in a task, which they have voluntarily determined to undergo; a task, which neither honour, nor virtue, nor necessity has imposed upon them, and to which it may justly be suspected, that they would not have submitted upon any other motives, than those by which their conduct has hitherto been generally directed, ambition and resentment. Men who, upon such principles, condemn themselves to labours which they cannot support, surely deserve to perish in the execution of their own projects, to be overwhelmed by the burdens which they have laid upon themselves, and to suffer the disgrace which always attends the undertakers of impossibilities; and from which the powers of raillery and ridicule, which they have so successfully displayed on this occasion, will not be sufficient to defend them. They have, indeed, sir, with great copiousness of language, and great fertility of imagination, shown the weakness of supposing this inquiry impossible; they have proposed a method of performing it, which they hope will at once confute and irritate their opponents; but all their raillery and all their arguments have in reality been thrown away upon an attempt to confute what never was advanced. They have first mistaken the assertion which they oppose, and then exposed its absurdity; they have introduced a bugbear, and then attempted to signalize their courage and their abilities, by showing that it cannot fright them. The honourable gentleman, sir, who first mentioned to you the impossibility of this inquiry, spoke only according to the common acceptation of words, and was far from intending to imply natural and philosophical impossibility. He was far from intending to insinuate, that to examine any series of transactions, or peruse any number of papers, implied an absurdity, or contrariety to the established order of nature; he did not intend to rank this design with those of building in the air, or pumping out the ocean; he intended only to assert a moral or popular impossibility, to show that the scheme was not practicable but by greater numbers than could be conveniently employed upon it, or in a longer space of time than it was rational to assign to it; as we say it is impossible to raise groves upon rocks, or build cities in deserts; by which we mean only to imply, that there is no proportion between the importance of the effect, and the force of the causes which must operate to produce it; that the toil will be great, and the advantage little. In this sense, sir, and nothing but malice or perverseness could have discovered any other, the motion may be truly said to be impossible; but its impossibility ought to be rather the care of those who make, than of those that oppose it; and, therefore, I shall lay before the house other reasons, which, unless they can be answered, will determine me to vote against it. It cannot be doubted, but the papers which must on this occasion be examined, contain a great number of private transactions, which the interest of the nation, and the honour of our sovereign require to be concealed. The system of policy which the French have, within the last century, introduced into the world, has made negotiation more necessary than in any preceding time. What was formerly performed by fleets and armies, by invasions, sieges, and battles, has been of late accomplished by more silent methods. Empires have been enlarged without bloodshed, and nations reduced to distress without the ravages of hostile armies, by the diminution of their commerce, and the alienation of their allies. For this reason, sir, it has been necessary frequently to engage in private treaties, to obviate designs sometimes justly, and at other times, perhaps, unreasonably suspected. It has been proper to act upon remote suppositions, and to conclude alliances which were only to be publickly owned, in consequence of measures taken by some other powers, which measures were sometimes laid aside, and the treaty, therefore, was without effect. In some of these provisionary contracts, it is easy to conceive, that designs were formed not to the advantage of some powers, whom yet we do not treat as enemies, which were only to be made publick by the execution of them: in others, perhaps, some concessions were made to us, in consideration of the assistance that we promised, by which the weakness of our allies may be discovered, and which we cannot disclose without making their enemies more insolent, and increasing that danger from which they apply to us for security and protection. If to this representation of the nature of the papers, with which our offices have been filled by the negotiations of the last twenty years, any thing were necessary to be added, it may be farther alleged, that it has long been the practice of every nation on this side of the globe, to procure private intelligence of the designs and expectations of the neighbouring powers, to penetrate into the councils of princes and the closets of ministers, to discover the instructions of ambassadours, and the orders of generals, to learn the intention of fleets before they are equipped, and of armies before they are levied, and to provide not only against immediate and visible hostilities, but to obviate remote and probable dangers. It need not be declared in this assembly, that this cannot always be done without employing men who abuse the confidence reposed in them, a practice on which I shall not at this time trouble the house with my opinion, nor interrupt the present debate, by any attempt to justify or condemn it. This, I think, may be very reasonably alleged; that whether the employment of such persons be defensible by the reciprocal practice of nations, or not, it becomes at least those that corrupt them and pay them for their treachery, not to expose them to vengeance, to torture, or to ruin; not to betray those crimes which they have hired them to commit, or give them up to punishment, to which they have made themselves liable only by their instigation, and for their advantage. That private compacts between nations and sovereigns ought to be kept inviolably secret, cannot be doubted by any man who considers, that secrecy is one of the conditions of those treaties, without which they had not been concluded; and, therefore, that to discover them is to violate them, to break down the securities of human society, to destroy mutual trust, and introduce into the world universal confusion. For nothing less can be produced by a disregard of those ties which link nations in confederacies, and produce confidence and security, and which enable the weak, by union, to resist the attacks of powerful ambition. How much it would injure the honour of our sovereign to be charged with the dissolution of concord, and the subversion of the general bulwarks of publick faith, it is superfluous to explain. To know the condition to which a compliance with this motion would reduce the British nation, we need only turn our eyes downwards upon the hourly scenes of common life; we need only attend to the occurrences which crowd perpetually upon our view, and consider the calamitous state of that man, of whom it is generally known that he cannot be trusted, and that secrets communicated to him are in reality scattered among mankind. Every one knows that such a man can expect none of the advantages or pleasures of friendship, that he cannot transact affairs with others upon terms of equality, that he must purchase the favours of those that are more powerful than himself, and frighten those into compliance with his designs who have any thing to fear from him; that he must give uncommon security for the performance of his covenants, that he can have no influence but that of money, which will probably become every day less, that his success will multiply his enemies, and that in misfortunes he will be without refuge. The condition of nations collectively considered is not different from that of private men, their prosperity is produced by the same conduct, and their calamities drawn upon them by the same errours, negligences, or crimes; and therefore, since he that betrays secrets in private life, indisputably forfeits his claim to trust, and since he that can be no longer trusted is on the brink of ruin, I cannot but conclude that, as by this motion all the secrets of our government must be inevitably betrayed, my duty to his majesty, my love of my country, and my obligations to discharge with fidelity the trust which my constituents have conferred upon me, oblige me to oppose it. Mr. LITTLETON then rose, and spoke to this effect:--Sir, it always portends well to those who dispute on the side of truth and reason, when their opponents appear not wholly to be hardened against the force of argument, when they seem desirous to gain the victory, not by superiority of numbers but of reason, and attempt rather to convince, than to terrify or bribe. For though men are not in quest of truth themselves, nor desirous to point it out to others; yet, while they are obliged to speak with an appearance of sincerity, they must necessarily afford the unprejudiced and attentive an opportunity of discovering the right. While they think themselves under a necessity of reasoning, they cannot but show the force of a just argument, by the unsuccessfulness of their endeavours to confute it, and the propriety of an useful and salutary motion, by the slight objections which they raise against it. They cannot but find themselves sometimes forced to discover what they can never be expected to acknowledge, the weakness of their own reasons, by deserting them when they are pressed with contrary assertions, and seeking a subterfuge in new arguments equally inconclusive and contemptible. They show the superiority of their opponents, like other troops, by retreating before them, and forming one fortification behind another, in hopes of wearying those whom they cannot hope to repulse. Of this conduct we have had already an instance in the present debate; a debate managed with such vigour, order, and resolution, as sufficiently shows the advantage of regular discipline long continued, and proves, that troops may retain their skill and spirit, even when they are deprived of that leader, to whose instructions and example they were indebted for them. When first this motion was offered, it seems to have been their chief hope to divert us from it by outcries of impossibility, by representing it as the demand of men unacquainted with the state of our offices, or the multiplicity of transactions, in which the indefatigable industry of our ministers has been employed; and they have therefore endeavoured to persuade us, that they are only discouraging us from an insuperable labour, and advising us to desist from measures which we cannot live to accomplish. But when they found, sir, that their exaggerations produced merriment instead of terrour, that their opponents were determined to try their strength against impossibility, that they were resolved to launch out into this boundless ocean of inquiry; an ocean of which they have been boldly told, that it has neither shore nor bottom, and that whoever ventures into it must be tost about for life; when they discovered that this was not able to shake our resolution, or move us to any other disposition, they thought it proper to explain away their assertion of impossibility, by making a kind of distinction between things impossible, and things which cannot be performed; and finding it necessary to enlarge their plea, they have now asserted, that this inquiry is both impossible and inexpedient. Its impossibility, sir, has been already sufficiently discussed, and shown to mean only a difficulty which the unskilfulness of our ministers has produced; for transactions can only produce difficulties to the inquirer, when they are confused; and confusion can only be the effect of ignorance or neglect. Artifice is, indeed, one more source of perplexity: it is the interest of that man whose cause is bad to speak unintelligibly in the defence of it, and of him whose actions cannot bear to be examined, to hide them in disorder, to engage his pursuers in a labyrinth, that they may not trace his steps and discover his retreat; and what intricacies may be produced by fraud cooperating with subtilty, it is not possible to tell. I do not, however, believe, that all the art of wickedness can elude the inquiries of a British senate, quickened by zeal for the publick happiness. The sagacity of our predecessors has often detected crimes concealed with more policy than can be ascribed to those whose conduct is now to be examined, and dragged the authors of national calamities to punishment from their darkest retreats. The expediency, therefore, of this motion, is now to be considered, and surely it will not require long reflection to prove that it is proper, when the nation is oppressed with calamities, to inquire by what misconduct they were brought upon it; when immense sums have been raised by the most oppressive methods of exaction, to ask why they were demanded, and how they were expended; when penal laws have been partially executed, to examine by what authority they were suspended, and by what they were enforced; and when the senate has for twenty years implicitly obeyed the direction of one man, when it has been known throughout the nation, before any question was proposed, how it would be decided, to search out the motive of that regular compliance, and to examine whether the minister was reverenced for his wisdom and virtue, or feared for his power, or courted for the publick money; whether he owed his prevalence to the confidence or corruption of his followers? It cannot surely be thought inexpedient, to inquire into the reasons for which our merchants were for many years suffered to be plundered, or for which a war, solicited by the general voice of the whole nation, was delayed; into the reasons for which our fleets were fitted out only to coast upon the ocean, and connive at the departure of squadrons and the transportation of armies, to suffer our allies to be invaded, and our traders ruined and enslaved. It is, in my opinion, convenient to examine with the utmost rigour, why time was granted to our enemies to fortify themselves against us, while a standing army preyed upon our people? Why forces unacquainted with the use of arms were sent against them, under the command of leaders equally ignorant? And why we have suffered their privateers in the mean time to rove at large over the ocean, and insult us upon our own coasts? Why we did not rescue our sailors from captivity, when opportunities of exchange were in our power? And why we robbed our merchants of their crews by rigorous impresses, without employing them either to guard our trade, or subdue our enemies? If the senate is not to be suffered to inquire into affairs like these, it is no longer any security to the people, that they have the right of electing representatives; and unless they may carry their inquiries back as far as they shall think it necessary, the most acute sagacity may be easily eluded; causes may be very remote from their consequences, the original motives of a long train of wicked measures may lie hid in some private transaction of former years, and those advantages which our enemies have been of late suffered to obtain, were perhaps sold them at some forgotten congress by some secret article. Such are, probably, the private transactions which the honourable gentleman is so much afraid of exposing to the light; transactions in which the interest of this nation has been meanly yielded up by cowardice, or sold by treachery; in which Britain has been considered as a province subordinate to some other country, or in which the minister has enriched himself by the sacrifice of the publick rights. It has been, indeed, alleged with some degree of candour, that many of our treaties were provisions against invasions which perhaps were never intended, and calculated to defeat measures which only our own cowardice disposed us to fear. That such treaties have, indeed, been made, Hanover is a sufficient witness; but however frequently they may occur, they may surely be discovered with very little disadvantage to the nation; they will prove only the weakness of those that made them, who were at one time intimidated by chimerical terrours, and at another, lulled into confidence by airy security. The concessions from foreign powers, which have been likewise mentioned, ought surely not to be produced as arguments against the motion; for what could more excite the curiosity of the nation, if, indeed, this motion were in reality produced by malevolence or resentment; if none were expected to concur in it but those who envied the abilities, or had felt the power of the late minister, it might be, perhaps, defeated by such insinuations; for nothing could more certainly regain his reputation, or exalt him to more absolute authority, than proofs that he had obtained for us any concessions from foreign powers. If any advantageous terms have been granted us, he must be confessed to have so far discharged his trust to his allies, that he has kept them with the utmost caution from the knowledge of the people, who have heard, during all his administration, of nothing but subsidies, submission, and compliances paid to almost every prince on the continent who has had the confidence to demand them; and if by this inquiry any discovery to the disadvantage of our allies should be struck out, he may with great sincerity allege, that it was made without his consent. Another objection to this inquiry is, that the spies which are retained in foreign courts may be detected by it, that the canals of our intelligence will be for ever stopped, and that we shall henceforth have no knowledge of the designs of foreign powers, but what may be honestly attained by penetration and experience. Spies are, indeed, a generation for whose security I have not much regard, but for whom I am on this occasion less solicitous, as I believe very few of them will be affected by this motion. The conduct of our ministers has never discovered such an acquaintance with the designs of neighbouring princes, as could be suspected to be obtained by any uncommon methods, or they have very little improved the opportunities which early information put into their power; for they have always been baffled and deceived. Either they have employed no spies, or their spies have been directed to elude them by false intelligence, or true intelligence has been of no use; and if any of these assertions be true, the publick will not suffer by the motion. It was justly observed, by the honourable gentleman, that a parallel may be properly drawn between a nation and a private man, and, by consequence, between a trading nation and a trader. Let us, therefore, consider what must be the state of that trader who shall never inspect or state his accounts, who shall suffer his servants to traffick in the dark with his stock, and on his credit, and who shall permit them to transact bargains in his name, without inquiring whether they are advantageous, or whether they are performed. Every man immediately marks out a trader thus infatuated, as on the brink of bankruptcy and ruin; every one will easily foresee, that his servants will take advantage of his credulity, and proceed hourly to grosser frauds; that they will grow rich by betraying his interest, that they will neglect his affairs to promote their own, that they will plunder him till he has nothing left, and seek then for employment among those to whom they have recommended themselves by selling their trust. His neighbours, who easily foresee his approaching misery, retire from him by degrees, disunite their business from his, and leave him to fall, without involving others in his ruin. Such must be the fate of a trader whom idleness, or a blind confidence in the integrity of others, hinders from attending to his own affairs, unless he rouses from his slumber, and recovers from his infatuation. And what is to be done by the man who, having for more than twenty years neglected so necessary an employment, finds, what must necessarily be found in much less time, his accounts perplexed, his credit depressed, and his affairs disordered? What remains, but that he suffer that disorder to proceed no farther, that he resolutely examine all the transactions which he has hitherto overlooked, that he repair those errours which are yet retrievable, and reduce his trade into method; that he doom those servants, by whom he has been robbed or deceived, to the punishment which they deserve, and recover from them that wealth which they have accumulated by rapacity and fraud. By this method only can the credit of the trader or the nation be repaired, and this is the method which the motion recommends; a motion with which, therefore, every man may be expected to comply, who desires that his country should once more recover its influence and power, who wishes to see Britain again courted and feared, and her monarch considered as the arbiter of the world, the protector of the true religion, and the defender of the liberties of mankind. Mr. PHILLIPS spoke in substance as follows:--Sir, I am so far from believing that there is danger of exposing the spies of the government to the resentment of foreign princes, by complying with this motion, that I suspect the opposition to be produced chiefly from a consciousness, that no spies will be discovered to have been employed, and that the secret service for which such large sums have been required, will appear to have been rather for the service of domestick than of foreign traitors, and to have been performed rather in this house than in foreign courts. Secret service has been long a term of great use to the ministers of this nation; a term of art to which such uncommon efficacy has been hitherto annexed, that the people have been influenced by it to pay taxes, without expecting to be informed how they were applied, having been content with being told, when they inquired after their properties, that they were exhausted and dissipated in secret service. Secret service I conceive to have originally implied transactions, of which the agents were secret, though the effects were visible. When MARLBOROUGH defeated the French, when he counteracted all their stratagems, obviated all their designs, and deceived all their expectations, he charged the nation with large sums for secret service, which were, indeed, cheerfully allowed, because the importance and reality of the service were apparent from its effects. But what advantages can our ministers boast of having obtained in twenty years by the means of their intelligence? Or by whom have they, within that period, not been deceived by false appearances? When we purchase secret service at so dear a rate, let it appear that we really obtain what we pay for, though the means by which it is obtained are kept impenetrably secret. Wherever the usefulness of the intelligence is not discoverable, it is surely just to inquire, whether our money is not demanded for other purposes, whether we are not in reality hiring with our own money armies to enslave, or senators to betray us; or enriching an avaricious minister, while we imagine ourselves contributing to the publick security? Colonel CHOLMONDELEY replied to the following effect:--Sir, it has been in all foregoing ages the custom for men to speak of the government with reverence, even when they opposed its measures, or projected its dissolution; nor has it been thought, in any time before our own, decent or senatorial, to give way to satire or invective, or indulge a petulant imagination, to endeavour to level all orders by contemptuous reflections, or to court the populace, by echoing their language, or adopting their sentiments. This method of gaining the reputation of patriotism, has been unknown till the present age, and reserved for the present leaders of the people, who will have the honour to stand recorded as the original authors of anarchy, the great subverters of order, and the first men who dared to pronounce, that all the secrets of government ought to be made publick. It has been hitherto understood in all nations, that those who were intrusted with authority, had likewise a claim to respect and confidence; that they were chosen for the superiority of their abilities, or the reputation of their virtue; and that, therefore, it was reasonable to consign to their management, the direction of such affairs as by their own nature require secrecy. But this ancient doctrine, by which subordination has been so long preserved, is now to be set aside for new principles, which may flatter the pride, and incite the passions of the people; we are now to be told, that affairs are only kept secret, because they will not bear examination; that men conceal not those transactions in which they have succeeded, but those in which they have failed; that they are only inclined to hide their follies or their crimes, and that to examine their conduct in the most open manner, is only to secure the interest of the publick. Thus has the nation been taught to expect, that the counsels of the cabinet should be dispersed in the publick papers; that their governours should declare the motives of their measures, and discover the demands of our allies, and the scheme of our policy; and that the people should be consulted upon every emergence, and enjoy the right of instructing not only their own representatives, but the ministers of the crown. In this debate, the mention of secret treaties has been received with contempt and ridicule; the ministers have been upbraided with chimerical fears, and unnecessary provisions against attacks which never were designed; they have been alleged to have no other interest in view than their own, when they endeavour to mislead inquirers, and to have in reality nothing to keep from publick view but their own ignorance or wickedness. It cannot surely be seriously asserted by men of knowledge and experience, that there are no designs formed by wise governments, of which the success depends upon secrecy; nor can it be asserted, that the inquiry now proposed will betray nothing from which our enemies may receive advantage. If we should suppose, that all our schemes are either fully accomplished, or irretrievably defeated, it will not even then be prudent to discover them, since they will enable our enemies to form conjectures of the future from the past, and to obviate, hereafter, the same designs, when it shall be thought necessary to resume them. But, in reality, nothing is more irrational than to suppose this a safer time than any other for such general discoveries; for why should it be imagined, that our engagements are not still depending, and our treaties yet in force? And what can be more dishonourable or imprudent, than to destroy at once the whole scheme of foreign policy, to dissolve our alliances, and destroy the effects of such long and such expensive negotiations, without first examining whether they will be beneficial or detrimental to us? Nor is it only with respect to foreign affairs that secrecy is necessary; there are, undoubtedly, many domestick transactions which it is not proper to communicate to the whole nation. There is still a faction among us, which openly desires the subversion of our present establishment; a faction, indeed, not powerful, and which grows, I hope, every day weaker, but which is favoured, or at least imagines itself favoured, by those who have so long distinguished themselves by opposing the measures of the government. Against these men, whose hopes are revived by every commotion, who studiously heighten every subject of discontent, and add their outcries to every clamour, it is not doubted but measures are formed, by which their designs are discovered, and their measures broken; nor can it be supposed, that this is done without the assistance of some who are received with confidence amongst them, and who probably pass for the most zealous of their party. Many other domestick occasions of expense might be mentioned; of expense which operates in private, and produces benefits which are only not acknowledged, because they are not known, but which could no longer be applied to the same useful purposes, if the channels through which it passes were laid open. I cannot, therefore, forbear to offer my opinion, that this motion, by which all the secrets of our government will be discovered, will tend to the confusion of the present system of Europe, to the absolute ruin of our interest in foreign courts, and to the embarrassment of our domestick affairs. I cannot, therefore, conceive how any advantages can be expected by the most eager persecutors of the late ministry, which can, even in their opinion, deserve to be purchased at so dear a rate. Mr. PITT then spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, I know not by what fatality the adversaries of the motion are impelled to assist their adversaries, and contribute to their own overthrow, by suggesting, whenever they attempt to oppose it, new arguments against themselves. It has been long observed, that when men are drawing near to destruction, they are apparently deprived of their understanding, and contribute by their own folly to those calamities with which they are threatened, but which might, by a different conduct, be sometimes delayed. This has surely now happened to the veteran advocates for an absolute and unaccountable ministry, who have discovered on this occasion, by the weakness of their resistance, that their abilities are declining; and I cannot but hope, that the omen will be fulfilled, and that their infatuation will be quickly followed by their ruin. To touch in this debate on our domestick affairs, to mention the distribution of the publick money, and to discover their fears, lest the ways in which it has been disbursed, should by this inquiry be discovered; to recall to the minds of their opponents the immense sums which have been annually demanded, and of which no account has been yet given, is surely the lowest degree of weakness and imprudence. I am so far from being convinced that any danger can arise from this inquiry, that I believe the nation can only be injured by a long neglect of such examinations; and that a minister is easily formidable, when he has exempted himself by a kind of prescription from exposing his accounts, and has long had an opportunity of employing the publick money in multiplying his dependants, enriching his hirelings, enslaving boroughs, and corrupting senates. That those have been, in reality, the purposes for which the taxes of many years have been squandered, is sufficiently apparent without an inquiry. We have wasted sums with which the French, in pursuance of their new scheme of increasing their influence, would have been able to purchase the submission of half the nations of the earth, and with which the monarchs of Europe might have been held dependant on a nod; these they have wasted only to sink our country into disgrace, to heighten the spirit of impotent enemies, to destroy our commerce, and distress our colonies. We have patiently suffered, during a peace of twenty years, those taxes to be extorted from us, by which a war might have been supported against the most powerful nation, and have seen them ingulfed in the boundless expenses of the government, without being able to discover any other effect from them than the establishment of ministerial tyranny. There has, indeed, been among the followers of the court a regular subordination, and exact obedience; nor has any man been found hardy enough to reject the dictates of the grand vizier. Every man who has received his pay, has with great cheerfulness complied with his commands; and every man who has held any post or office under the crown, has evidently considered himself as enlisted by the minister. But the visible influence of places, however destructive to the constitution, is not the chief motive of an inquiry; an inquiry implies something secret, and is intended to discover the private methods of extending dependence, and propagating corruption; the methods by which the people have been influenced to choose those men for representatives whose principles they detest, and whose conduct they condemn; and by which those whom their country has chosen for the guardians of its liberties, have been induced to support, in this house, measures, which in every other place they have made no scruple to censure. When we shall examine the distribution of the publick treasure, when we shall inquire by what conduct we have been debarred from the honours of war, and at the same time deprived of the blessings of peace, to what causes it is to be imputed, that our debts have continued during the long-continued tranquillity of Europe, nearly in the state to which they were raised by fighting, at our own expense, the general quarrel of mankind; and why the sinking fund, a kind of inviolable deposit appropriated to the payment of our creditors, and the mitigation of our taxes, has been from year to year diverted to very different uses; we shall find that our treasure has been exhausted, not to humble foreign enemies, or obviate domestick insurrections; not to support our allies, or suppress our factions; but for ends which no man, who feels the love of his country yet unextinguished, can name without horrour, the purchase of alliances, and the hire of votes, the corruption of the people, and the exaltation of France. Such are the discoveries which I am not afraid to declare that I expect from the inquiry, and therefore, I cannot but think it necessary. If those to whom the administration of affairs has been for twenty years committed, have betrayed their trust, if they have invaded the publick rights with the publick treasure, and made use of the dignities which their country has conferred upon them, only to enslave it, who will not confess, that they ought to be delivered up to speedy justice? That they ought to be set as landmarks to posterity, to warn those who shall hereafter launch out on the ocean of affluence and power, not to be too confident of a prosperous gale, but to remember, that there are rocks on which whoever rushes must inevitably perish? If they are innocent, and far be it from me to declare them guilty without examination, whom will this inquiry injure? Or what effects will it produce, but that which every man appears to desire, the reestablishment of the publick tranquillity, a firm confidence in the justice and wisdom of the government, and a general reconciliation of the people to the ministers. Colonel MORDAUNT spoke then, in substance as follows:--Sir, notwithstanding the zeal with which the honourable gentleman has urged the necessity of this inquiry, a zeal of which, I think, it may at least be said, that it is too vehement and acrimonious to be the mere result of publick spirit, unmixed with interest or resentment; he has yet been so far unsuccessful in his reasoning, that he has not produced in me any conviction, or weakened any of the impressions which the arguments of those whom he opposes had made upon me. He has contented himself with recapitulating some of the benefits which may be hoped for from the inquiry; he has represented in the strongest terms, the supposed misconduct of the ministry; he has aggravated all the appearances of wickedness or negligence, and then has inferred the usefulness of a general inquiry for the punishment of past offences, and the prevention of the like practices in future times. That he has discovered great qualifications for invective, and that his declamation was well calculated to inflame those who have already determined their opinion, and who are, therefore, only restrained from such measures as are now recommended by natural caution and sedateness, I do not deny; but, surely he does not expect to gain proselytes by assertions without proof, or to produce any alteration of sentiments, without attempting to answer the arguments which have been offered against his opinion. It has been urged with great appearance of reason, that an inquiry, such as is now proposed, with whatever prospects of vengeance, of justice, or of advantage, it may flatter us at a distance, will be in reality detrimental to the publick; because it will discover all the secrets of our government, lay all our negotiations open to the world, will show what powers we most fear, or most trust, and furnish our enemies with means of defeating all our schemes, and counteracting all our measures. This appears to me, sir, the chief argument against the motion, an argument of which the force cannot but be discovered by those whose interest it is to confute it, and of which, therefore, by appearing to neglect it, they seem to confess that it is unanswerable; and therefore, since I cannot find the motion justified otherwise than by loud declarations of its propriety, and violent invectives against the ministry, I hope that I shall escape at least the censure of the calm and impartial, though I venture to declare, that I cannot approve it; and with regard to the clamorous and the turbulent, I have long learned to despise their menaces, because I have hitherto found them only the boasts of impotence. Mr. CORNWALL made answer to the following purport:--Sir, if to obtain the important approbation of the gentleman that spoke last, it be necessary only to answer the argument on which he has insisted, and nothing be necessary to produce an inquiry but his approbation, I shall not despair that this debate may be concluded according to the wishes of the nation, that secret wickedness may be detected, and that our posterity may be secured from any invasion of their liberty, by examples of the vengeance of an injured people. [The house divided.--The yeas went forth.--For the question, 242; against it, 244: so that it passed in the negative, by a majority of two.] HOUSE OF LORDS, MAY 20, 1742. Debate On A Motion For Indemnifying Evidence Relating To The Conduct Of The Earl Of ORFORD. The following debate having been produced by an occasion very uncommon and important, it is necessary to give an account of such transactions as may contribute to illustrate it. The prime minister being driven out of the house of commons, by the prevalence of those who, from their opposition to the measures of the court, were termed the country party, it was proposed that a committee should be appointed, "to inquire into the conduct of publick affairs, at home and abroad, during the last twenty years;" but the motion was rejected. It was afterwards moved, "that a committee should be appointed to inquire into the conduct of Robert, earl of ORFORD, during the last ten years in which he was first commissioner of the treasury, and chancellor and under treasurer of the exchequer," which was carried by 252 to 245. A committee of one-and-twenty being chosen by ballot, and entering upon the inquiry, called before them Mr. Gibbon, who declared himself agent to J. Botteler, and said, that Botteler, being a candidate for Wendover, and finding that no success was to be expected without five hundred pounds, sent a friend to N. Paxton, with a letter, and that he saw him return with a great number of papers, in which he said were bills for five hundred pounds. Botteler and his friend being examined, confirmed the testimony of Gibbon; and Botteler added, that he sent to Paxton as an officer of the treasury, acquainted with those who had the disposal of money; that his claim to the favour which he asked arose from a disappointment in a former election; that he never gave for the money any security or acknowledgment, nor considered himself indebted for it to Paxton or any other person. Paxton being then examined, refused to return any answer to the question of the committee, because the answer might tend to accuse himself. Which reason was alleged by others for a like refusal. The committee finding their inquiries eluded, by this plea for secrecy, which the laws of Britain allow to be valid, reported to the commons the obstacles that they met with; for the removal of which a bill was brought in like that of indemnity; which, having passed the commons, produced, in the house of lords, a debate, in which the greatest men of each party exerted the utmost force of their reason and eloquence. The bill being read a second time, and a motion made for its being referred to a committee. Lord CARTERET spoke to this effect:--My lords, as the question now before us is of the highest importance both to the present age and to posterity, as it may direct the proceedings of the courts of justice, prescribe the course of publick inquiries, and, by consequence, affect the property or life of every lord in this assembly; I hope it will be debated amongst us without the acrimony which arises from the prejudice of party, or the violence which is produced by the desire of victory, and that the controversy will be animated by no other passion than zeal for justice, and love of truth. For my part, my lords, I have reason to believe, that many professions of my sincerity will not be necessary on this occasion, because I shall not be easily suspected of any partiality in favour of the noble lord to whom this bill immediately relates. It is well known to your lordships how freely I have censured his conduct, and how invariably I have opposed those measures by which the nation has been so far exasperated, that the bill, now under our consideration, has been thought necessary by the commons, to pacify the general discontent, to restore the publick tranquillity, and to recover that confidence in the government, without which no happiness is to be expected, without which the best measures will always be obstructed by the people, and the justest remonstrances disregarded by the court. But however laudable may be the end proposed by the commons, I cannot, my lords, be so far dazzled by the prospect of obtaining it, as not to examine the means to which we are invited to concur, and inquire with that attention which the honour of sitting in this house has made my duty, whether they are such as have been practised by our ancestors, such as are prescribed by the law, or warranted by prudence. The caution, my lords, with which our ancestors have always proceeded in inquiries by which life or death, property or reputation, was endangered; the certainty, or at least the high degree of probability, which they required in evidence, to make it a sufficient ground of conviction, is universally known; nor is it necessary to show their opinion by particular examples, because, being no less solicitous for the welfare of their posterity than for their own, they were careful to record their sentiments in laws and statutes, and to prescribe, with the strongest sanctions, to succeeding governments, what they had discovered by their own reflections, or been taught by their predecessors. They considered, my lords, not only how great was the hardship of being unjustly condemned, but likewise how much a man might suffer by being falsely accused; how much he might be harassed by a prosecution, and how sensibly he might feel the disgrace of a trial. They knew that to be charged with guilt implied some degree of reproach, and that it gave room, at least, for an inference that the known conduct of the person accused was such as made it probable that he was still more wicked than he appeared; they knew that the credulity of some might admit the charge upon evidence that was rejected by the court, and that difference of party, or private quarrels, might provoke others to propagate reports once published, even when in their own opinion they were sufficiently confuted; and that, therefore, an innocent man might languish in infamy by a groundless charge, though he should escape any legal penalty. It has, therefore, my lords, been immemorially established in this nation, that no man can be apprehended, or called into question for any crime till there shall be proof. First, that there is a _corpus delicti_, a crime really and visibly committed; thus before a process can be issued out for inquiring after a murderer, it must be apparent that a murder has been perpetrated, the dead body must be exposed to a jury, and it must appear to them that he died by violence. It is not sufficient that a man is lost, and that it is probable that he is murdered, because no other reason of his absence can be assigned; he must be found with the marks of force upon him, or some circumstances that may make it credible, that he did not perish by accident, or his own hand. It is required, secondly, my lords, that he who apprehends any person as guilty of the fact thus apparently committed, must suspect him to be the criminal; for he is not to take an opportunity, afforded him by the commission of an illegal act, to gratify any secret malice, or wanton curiosity; or to drag to a solemn examination, those against whom he cannot support an accusation. And, my lords, that suspicion may not ravage the reputation of Britons without control; that men may not give way to the mere suggestions of malevolence, and load the characters of those with atrocious wickedness, whom, perhaps, they have no real reason to believe more depraved than the bulk of mankind, and whose failings may have been exaggerated in their eyes by contrariety of opinion, or accidental competition, it is required in the third place, my lords, that whoever apprehends or molests another on suspicion of a crime, shall be able to give the reasons of his suspicion, and to prove them by competent evidence. These, my lords, are three essentials which the wisdom of our ancestors has made indispensable previous to the arrest or imprisonment of the meanest Briton; it must appear, that there is a crime committed, that the person to be seized is suspected of having committed it, and that the suspicion is founded upon probability. Requisites so reasonable in their own nature, so necessary to the protection of every man's quiet and reputation, and, by consequence, so useful to the security and happiness of society, that, I suppose, they will need no support or vindication. Every man is interested in the continuance of this method of proceeding, because no man is secure from suffering by the interruption or abolition of it. Such, my lords, is the care and caution which the law directs in the first part of any criminal process, the detainment of the person supposed guilty; nor is the method of trial prescribed with less regard to the security of innocence. It is an established maxim, that no man can be obliged to accuse himself, or to answer any questions which may have any tendency to discover what the nature of his defence requires to be concealed. His guilt must appear either by a voluntary and unconstrained confession, which the terrours of conscience have sometimes extorted, and the notoriety of the crime has at other times produced, or by the deposition of such witnesses as the jury shall think worthy of belief. To the credibility of any witness it is always requisite that he be disinterested, that his own cause be not involved in that of the person who stands at the bar, that he has no prospect of advancing his fortune, clearing his reputation, or securing his life. For it is made too plain by daily examples, that interest will prevail over the virtue of most men, and that it is not safe to believe those who are strongly tempted to deceive. There are cases, my lords, where the interest of the person offering his evidence is so apparent, that he is not even admitted to be heard; and any benefit which may possibly be proposed, is admitted as an objection to evidence, and weakens it in a measure proportionate to the distance of the prospect and the degree of profit. Such are the rules hitherto followed in criminal proceedings, the violation of which has been always censured as cruelty and oppression, and perhaps always been repented even by those who proposed and defended it, when the commotions of party have subsided, and the heat of opposition and resentment has given way to unprejudiced reflection. Of these rules, my lords, it is not necessary to produce any defence from the practice of distant nations, because it is sufficient in the present case, that they are established by the constitution of this country, to which every Briton has a right to appeal; for how can any man defend his conduct, if having acted under one law, he is to be tried by another? Let us, therefore, my lords, apply these rules to the present bill, and inquire what regard appears to have been paid to them by the commons, and how well we shall observe them by concurring in their design. With respect to the first, by which it is required, that there be a known and manifest crime, it does not appear to have engaged the least attention in the other house; for no fact is specified in the bill, upon which a prosecution can be founded, and, therefore, to inquire after evidence is somewhat preposterous; it is nothing less than to invite men to give their opinion without a subject, and to answer without a question. It may be urged, indeed, that there is a universal discontent over the whole nation; that the clamour against the person mentioned in the bill, has been continued for many years; that the influence of the nation is impaired in foreign countries; that our treasury is exhausted; that our liberties have been attacked, our properties invaded, and our morals corrupted; but these are yet only rumours, without proof, and without legal certainty; which may, indeed, with great propriety give occasion to an inquiry, and, perhaps, by that inquiry some facts may be ascertained which may afford sufficient reasons for farther procedure. But such, my lords, is the form of the bill now before us, that if it should pass into a statute, it would, in my opinion, put a stop to all future inquiry, by making those incapable of giving evidence, who have had most opportunities of knowing those transactions, which have given the chief occasion of suspicion, and from whom, therefore, the most important information must naturally be expected. The first requisite qualification of a witness, whether we consult natural equity and reason, or the common law of our own country, is disinterestedness; an indifference, with regard to all outward circumstances, about the event of the trial at which his testimony is required. For he that is called as a witness where he is interested, is in reality giving evidence in his own cause. But this qualification, my lords, the bill now before us manifestly takes away; for every man who shall appear against the person into whose conduct the commons are inquiring, evidently promotes, in the highest degree, his own interest by his evidence, as he may preclude all examination of his own behaviour, and secure the possession of that wealth which he has accumulated by fraud and oppression, or, perhaps, preserve that life which the justice of the nation might take away. Nothing, my lords, is more obvious, than that this offer of indemnity may produce perjury and false accusation; nothing is more probable, than that he who is conscious of any atrocious villanies, which he cannot certainly secure from discovery, will snatch this opportunity of committing one crime more, to set himself free from the dread of punishment, and blot out his own guilt for ever, by charging lord ORFORD as one of his accomplices. It may be urged, my lords, that he who shall give false evidence, forfeits the indemnity to which the honest witness is entitled; but let us consider why this should be now, rather than in any former time, accounted a sufficient security against falsehood and perjury. It is at all times criminal, and at all times punishable, to commit perjury; and yet it has been hitherto thought necessary, not only to deter it by subsequent penalties, but to take away all previous temptations; no man's oath will be admitted in his own cause, though offered at the hazard of the punishment inflicted upon perjury. To offer indemnity to invite evidence, and to deter them from false accusations by the forfeiture of it, even though we should allow to the penal clause all the efficacy which can be expected by those who proposed it, is only to set one part of the bill at variance with the other, to erect and demolish at the same time. But it may be proved, my lords, that the reward will have more influence than the penalty; and that every man who can reason upon the condition in which he is placed by this bill, will be more incited to accuse lord ORFORD, however unjustly, by the prospect of security, than intimidated by the forfeiture incurred by perjury. For, let us suppose, my lords, a man whose conduct exposes him to punishment, and who knows that he shall not long be able to conceal it; what can be more apparently his interest, than to contrive such an accusation as may complicate his own wickedness with some transactions of the person to whom this bill relates? He may, indeed, be possibly confuted, and lose the benefit offered by the state; but the loss of it will not place him in a condition more dangerous than that which he was in before; he has already deserved all the severity to which perjury will expose him, and by forging a bold and well-connected calumny, he has at least a chance of escaping. Let us suppose, my lords, that the bill now under our consideration, assigned a pecuniary reward to any man who should appear against this person, with a clause by which he that should accuse him falsely should be dismissed without his pay; would not this appear a method of prosecution contrary to law, and reason, and justice? Would not every man immediately discover, that the witnesses were bribed, and therefore they would deserve no credit? And what is the difference between the advantage now offered and any other consideration, except that scarcely any other reward can be offered so great, and consequently so likely to influence? It is to be remembered, that the patrons of this bill evidently call for testimony from the abandoned and the profligate, from men whom they suppose necessarily to confess their own crimes in their depositions; and surely wretches like these ought not to be solicited to perjury by the offer of a reward. How cruel must all impartial spectators of the publick transactions account a prosecution like this? What would be your lordships' judgment, should you read, that in any distant age, or remote country, a man was condemned upon the evidence of persons publickly hired to accuse him, and who, by their own confession, were traitors to their country? That wickedness, my lords, should be extirpated by severity, and justice rigorously exercised upon publick offenders, is the uncontroverted interest of every country; and therefore it is not to be doubted, that in all ages the reflections of the wisest men have been employed upon the most proper methods of detecting offences; and since the scheme now proposed has never been practised, or never but by the most oppressive tyrants, in the most flagitious times, it is evident, that it has been thought inconsistent with equity, and of a tendency contrary to publick happiness. I am very far, my lords, from desiring that any breach of national trust should escape detection, or that a publick office should afford security to bribery, extortion, or corruption. I am far from intending to patronise the conduct of the person mentioned in the present bill. Let the commons proceed with the utmost severity, but let them not deviate from justice. If he has forfeited his fortune, his honours, or his life, let them by a legal process be taken from him; but let it always be considered, that he, like every other man, is to be allowed the common methods of self-defence; that he is to stand or fall by the laws of his country, and to retain the privileges of a Briton, till it shall appear that he has forfeited them by his crimes. To censure guilt, my lords, is undoubtedly necessary, and to inquire into the conduct of men in power, incontestably just; but by the laws both of heaven and earth, the means as well as the end are prescribed, _rectum recte, legitimum legitime faciendum_; we must not only propose a good end in our conduct, but must attain it by that method which equity directs, and the law prescribes. How well, my lords, the law has been observed hitherto, on this occasion, I cannot but propose that your lordships should consider. It is well known, that the commons cannot claim a right to administer an oath, and therefore can only examine witnesses by simple interrogatories. That they cannot confer upon a committee the power which they have not themselves, is indubitably certain; and therefore it is evident, that they have exceeded their privileges, and proceeded in their inquiry by methods which the laws of this nation will not support. That they cannot, my lords, in their own right administer an oath, they apparently confess, by the practice of calling in, on that occasion, a justice of the peace, who, as soon as he has performed his office, is expected to retire. This, my lords, is an evident elusion; for it is always intended, that he who gives an oath, gives it in consequence of his right to take the examination; but in this case the witness takes an oath, _coram non judice_, before a magistrate that has no power to interrogate him, and is interrogated by those who have no right to require his oath. Such, my lords, is my opinion of the conduct of the committee of the house of commons, of whom I cannot but conclude that they have assumed a right which the constitution of our government confers only on your lordships, as a house of senate, a court of judicature; and therefore cannot think it prudent to confirm their proceedings by an approbation of this bill. The commons may indeed imagine that the present state of affairs makes it necessary to proceed by extraordinary methods; they may believe that the nation will not be satisfied without a discovery of those frauds which have been so long practised, and the punishment of those men by whom they have so long thought themselves betrayed and oppressed; but let us consider, that clamour is not evidence, and that we ought not either to recede from justice, or from our own rights, to satisfy the expectations of the people. To remonstrate against this invasion of our privileges, my lords, might be at this juncture improper; the dispute might, in this time of commotion and vicissitude, distract the attention of those to whom the publick affairs are committed, retard the business of the nation, and give our enemies those advantages which they can never hope from their own courage, or policy, or strength. It may, therefore, be prudent on this occasion, only not to admit the right which they have assumed, to satisfy ourselves with retaining our privileges, without requiring any farther confirmation of them, and only defeat the invasion of them by rejecting the bill, which is, indeed, of such a kind, as cannot be confirmed without hazarding not only our own rights, but those of every Briton. For here is a species of testimony invited, which is hitherto unknown to our law, and from which it may be difficult to tell who can be secure; the witnesses are required to disclose all matters relating to the conduct of _lord ORFORD, according to the best of their knowledge, remembrance, or belief!_ A form of deposition, my lords, of great latitude; a man's belief may be influenced by the report of others who may deceive him, by his observation of circumstances, either remote in themselves, or imperfectly discovered, or by his own reasonings, which must be just or fallacious according to his abilities; but which must yet have the same effect upon his belief, which they will influence, not in proportion to their real strength, but to the confidence placed in them by himself. There is only one case, my lords, in which, by the common course of proceedings, any regard is had to mere belief; and this evidence is only accepted on that occasion, because no other can possibly be obtained. When any claim is to be determined by written evidences, of which, in order to prove their validity, it is necessary to inquire by whom they were drawn or signed; those who are acquainted with the writing of a dead person, are admitted to deliver, upon oath, their _belief_ that the writing ascribed to him, was or was not his; but such secondary witnesses are never called, when the person can be produced whose hand is to be proved. There is yet another reason for which it is improper to admit such evidence as this bill has a tendency to promote. It is well known, that in all the courts of common law, the person accused is in some degree secured from the danger of being overborne by false accusations, by the penalty which may be inflicted upon witnesses discovered to be perjured; but in the method of examination now proposed, a method unknown to the constitution, no such security can be obtained, for there is no provision made by the laws for the punishment of a man who shall give false evidence before a committee of the house of commons. It may likewise be observed, that this bill wants one of the most essential properties of a law, perspicuity and determinate meaning; here is an indemnity promised to those who shall discover _all_ that they _know, remember, or believe_. A very extensive demand, and which may, therefore, be liable to more fallacies and evasions than can be immediately enumerated or detected. For how can any one prove that he has a claim to the indemnity? He may, indeed, make some discoveries, but whether he does not conceal something, who can determine? May not such reserves be suspected, when his answers shall not satisfy the expectations of his interrogators? And may not that suspicion deprive him of the benefit of the act? May not a man, from want of memory, or presence of mind, omit something at his examination which he may appear afterwards to have known? And since no human being has the power of distinguishing exactly between faults and frailties, may not the defect of his memory be charged on him as a criminal suppression of a known fact? And may not he be left to suffer the consequences of his own confession? Will not the bill give an apparent opportunity for partiality? And will not life and death, liberty and imprisonment, be placed in the hands of a committee of the commons? May they not be easily satisfied with informations of one man, and incessantly press another to farther discoveries? May they not call some men, notoriously criminal, to examination, only to secure them from punishment, and set them out of the reach of justice; and extort from others such answers as may best promote their views, by declaring themselves unsatisfied with the extent of their testimony? And will not this be an extortion of evidence equivalent to the methods practised in the most despotick governments, and the most barbarous nations? It has always been the praise of this house to pay an equal regard to justice and to mercy, and to follow, without partiality, the direction of reason, and the light of truth; and how consistently with this character, which it ought to be our highest ambition to maintain, we can ratify the present bill, your lordships are this day to consider. It is to be inquired, whether to suppose a man guilty, only because some guilt is suspected, be agreeable to justice; and whether it be rational before there is any proof of a crime, to point out the criminal. We are to consider, my lords, whether it is not unjust to hear, against any man, an evidence who is hired to accuse him, and hired with a reward which he cannot receive without confessing himself a man unworthy of belief. It is to be inquired, whether the evidence of a man who declares only what he _believes_, ought to be admitted, when the nature of the crimes allows stronger proof; and whether any man ought to be examined where he cannot be punished if he be found perjured. A natural and just regard to our own rights, on the preservation of which the continuance of the constitution must depend, ought to, alarm us at the appearance of any attempt to invade them; and the necessity of known forms of justice, ought to incite us to the prevention of any innovation in the methods of prosecuting offenders. For my own part, my lords, I cannot approve either the principles or form of the bill. I think it necessary to proceed by known precedents, when there is no immediate danger that requires extraordinary measures, of which I am far from being convinced that they are necessary on the present occasion. I think that the certainty of a crime ought to precede the prosecution of a criminal, and I see that there is, in the present case, no crime attempted to be proved. The commons have, in my opinion, already exceeded their privileges, and I would not willingly confirm their new claims. For these reasons, my lords, I openly declare, that I cannot agree to the bill's being read a second time. Lord TALBOT spoke next, to this effect:--My lords, so high is my veneration for this great assembly, that it is never without the utmost efforts of resolution that I can prevail upon myself to give my sentiments upon any question that is the subject of debate, however strong may be my conviction, or however ardent my zeal. But in a very particular degree do I distrust my own abilities, when I find my opinion contrary to that of the noble lord who has now spoken; and it is no common perplexity to be reduced to the difficult choice of either suppressing my thoughts, or exposing them to so disadvantageous a contrast. Yet, since such is my present state, that I cannot avoid a declaration of my thoughts on this question, without being condemned in my own breast as a deserter of my country, nor utter them without the danger of becoming contemptible in the eyes of your lordships; I will, however, follow my conscience, rather than my interest; and though I should lose any part of my little reputation, I shall find an ample recompense from the consciousness that I lost it in the discharge of my duty, on an occasion which requires from every good man the hazard of his life. The arguments of the noble lord have had upon me an effect which they never, perhaps, produced on any part of his audience before; they have confirmed me in the contrary opinion to that which he has endeavoured to maintain. It has been remarked, that in some encounters, not to be put to flight is to obtain the victory; and, in a controversy with the noble lord, not to be convinced by him, is to receive a sufficient proof that the cause in which he is engaged is not to be defended by wit, eloquence, or learning. On the present question, my lords, as on all others, he has produced all that can be urged, either from the knowledge of past ages, or experience of the present; all that the scholar or the statesman can supply has been accumulated, one argument has been added to another, and all the powers of a great capacity have been employed, only to show that right and wrong cannot be confounded, and that fallacy can never strike with the force of truth. When I survey the arguments of the noble lord, disrobed of those ornaments which his imagination has so liberally bestowed upon them, I am surprised at the momentary effect which they had upon my mind, and which they could not have produced had they been clothed in the language of any other person. For when I recollect, singly, the particular positions upon which his opinion seems to be founded, I do not find them by any means uncontrovertible; some of them seem at best uncertain, and some evidently mistaken. That there is no apparent crime committed, and that, therefore, no legal inquiry can be made after the criminal, I cannot hear without astonishment. Is our commerce ruined, are our troops destroyed, are the morals of the people vitiated, is the senate crowded with dependants, are our fleets disarmed, our allies betrayed, and our enemies supported without a crime? Was there no certainty of any crime committed, when it was moved to petition his majesty to dismiss this person from his councils for ever. It has been observed, my lords, that nothing but a sight of the dead body can warrant a pursuit after the murderer; but this is a concession sufficient for the present purpose; for if, upon the sight of a murdered person, the murderer may lawfully be inquired after, and those who are reasonably suspected detained and examined; with equal reason, my lords, may the survey of a ruined nation, a nation oppressed with burdensome taxes, devoured by the caterpillars of a standing army, sunk into contempt in every foreign court, and repining at the daily decay of its commerce, and the daily multiplication of its oppressors, incite us to an inquiry after the author of its miseries. It is asserted, that no man ought to be called into question for any crime, who is not suspected of having committed it. This, my lords, is a rule not only reasonable in itself, but so naturally observed, that I believe it was never yet broken; and am certain, no man will be charged with the violation of it, for accusing this person as an enemy to his country. But he that declares his suspicion, may be called upon to discover upon what facts it is founded; nor will this part of the law produce any difficulty in the present case; for as every man in the nation suspects this person of the most enormous crimes, every man can produce sufficient arguments to justify his opinion. On all other occasions, my lords, publick fame is allowed some weight: that any man is universally accounted wicked, will add strength to the testimony brought against him for any particular offence; and it is at least a sufficient reason for calling any man to examination, that a crime is committed, and he is generally reported to be the author of it. That this is the state of the person into whose conduct the commons are now inquiring; that he is censured by every man in the kingdom, whose sentiments are not repressed by visible influence; that he has no friends but those who have sold their integrity for the plunder of the publick; and that all who are not enemies to their country, have, for many years, incessantly struggled to drag him down from the pinnacle of power, and expose him to that punishment which he has so long deserved, and so long defied, is evident beyond contradiction. Let it not, therefore, be urged, my lords, that there is no certainty of a crime which is proved to the conviction of every honest mind; let it not be said that it is unreasonable to suspect this man, whom the voice of the people, a voice always to be reverenced, has so long condemned. The method of procuring evidence against him by an act of indemnity has been represented by the noble lord as not agreeable to justice or to law: in the knowledge of the law I am far from imagining myself able to contend with him; but I think it may not be improper to observe, that a person of the highest eminence in that profession, whose long study and great abilities give his decisions an uncommon claim to authority and veneration, and who was always considered in this house with the highest regard, appears to have entertained a very different opinion. It was declared by him, without the least restriction, that all means were lawful which tended to the discovery of truth; and, therefore, the publick may justly expect that extraordinary methods should be used upon occasions of uncommon importance. Nor does this expedient appear to me very remote from the daily practice of promising pardon to thieves, on condition that they will make discoveries by which their confederates may be brought to justice. If we examine only the equity of this procedure, without regard to the examples of former times, it appears to me easily defensible; for what can be more rational than to break a confederacy of wretches combined for the destruction of the happiness of mankind, by dividing their interest, and making use, for the publick good, of that regard for their own safety, which has swallowed up every other principle of action? It is admitted that wickedness ought to be punished, and it is universally known that punishment must be preceded by detection; any method, therefore, that promotes the discovery of crimes may be considered as advantageous to the publick. As there is no wickedness of which the pernicious consequences are more extensive, there is none which ought more diligently to be prevented, or more severely punished, than that of those men who have dared to abuse the power which their country has put into their hands; but how they can be convicted by any other means than those which are now proposed, I confess myself unable to discover; for by a very small degree of artifice, a man invested with power may make every witness a partner of his guilt, and no man will be able to accuse him, without betraying himself. In the present case it is evident, that the person of whose actions the bill now before us is designed to produce a more perfect discovery, has been combined with others in illegal measures, in measures which their own security obliges them to conceal, and which, therefore, the interest of the publick demands to be divulged. That Paxton has distributed large sums for purposes which he dares not discover, we are informed by the reports of the secret committee; and I suppose every body suspects that they were distributed as rewards for services which the nation thinks not very meritorious, and I believe no man will ask what reason can be alleged for such suspicions. But since it may be possibly suggested that Paxton expended these sums contrary to his master's direction, or without his knowledge, it may be demanded, whether such an assertion would not be an apparent proof of a very criminal degree of negligence in a man intrusted with the care of the publick treasure? Thus, my lords, it appears in my opinion evident, that either he has concurred in measures which his servile agent, the mercenary tool of wickedness, is afraid to confess, or that he has stood by, negligent of his trust, and suffered the treasure of the nation to be squandered by the meanest wretches without account. That the latter part of the accusation is undoubtedly just, the report of the commons cannot but convince us. It appears that for near eight years, Paxton was so high in confidence, that no account was demanded from him; he bestowed pensions at pleasure; he was surrounded, like his master, by his idolaters; and after the fatigue of cringing in one place, had an opportunity of purchasing the taxes of the nation, the gratification of tyranny in another. I presume, my lords, that no man dares assert such a flagrant neglect of so important an office, to be not criminal in a very high degree; to steal in private houses that which is received in trust, is felony by the statutes of our country; and surely the wealth of the publick ought not to be less secured than that of individuals, nor ought he that connives at robbery to be treated with more lenity than the robber. Therefore, my lords, as I cannot but approve of the bill, I move that it may be read a second time; and I hope the reasons which I have offered, when joined with others, which I expect to hear from lords of a greater experience, knowledge, and capacity, will induce your lordships to be of the same opinion. Lord HERVEY spoke next, to this effect:--My lords, as the bill now before us is of a new kind, upon an occasion no less new, I have endeavoured to bestow upon it a proportionate degree of attention, and have considered it in all the lights in which I could place it; I have, in my imagination, connected with it all the circumstances with which it is accompanied, and all the consequences that it may produce either to the present age, or to futurity; but the longer I reflect upon it, the more firmly am I determined to oppose it; nor has deliberation any other effect, than to crowd my thoughts with new arguments against it, and to heighten dislike to detestation. It must, my lords, immediately occur to every man, at the first mention of the method of proceeding now proposed, that it is such as nothing but extreme necessity can vindicate; that the noble person against whom it is contrived, must be a monster burdensome to the world; that his crimes must be at once publick and enormous, and that he has been already condemned by all maxims of justice, though he has had the subtilty to escape by some unforeseen defect in the forms of law. It might be imagined, my lords, that there were the most evident marks of guilt in the conduct of the man thus censured, that he fled from the justice of his country, that he had openly suborned witnesses in his favour, or had, by some artifice certainly known, obstructed the evidence that was to have been brought against him. It might at least be reasonably conceived, that his crimes were of such a kind as might in their own nature easily be concealed, and that, therefore, some extraordinary measures were necessary for the discovery of wickedness which lay out of the reach of common inquiry. But, my lords, none of these circumstances can be now alleged; for there is no certainty of any crime committed, nor any appearance of consciousness or fear in the person accused, who sets his enemies at defiance in full security, and declines no legal trial of his past actions; of which it ought to be observed, that they have, by the nature of his employments, been so publick, that they may easily be examined without recourse to a new law to facilitate discoveries. The bill, therefore, is, my lords, at least unnecessary, and an innovation not necessary ought always to be rejected, because no man can foresee all the consequences of new measures, or can know what evils they may create, or what subsequent changes they may introduce. The alteration of one part of a system naturally requires the alteration of another. But, my lords, that there is no necessity for this law now proposed, is not the strongest argument that may be brought against it, for there is in reality a necessity that it should be rejected. Justice and humanity are necessarily to be supported, without which no society can subsist, nor the life or property of any man be enjoyed with security: and neither justice nor humanity can truly be said to reside, where a law like this has met with approbation. My lords, to prosecute any man by such methods, is to overbear him by the violence of power, to take from him all the securities of innocence, and divest him of all the means of self-defence. It is to hire against him those whose testimonies ought not to be admitted, if they were voluntarily produced, and of which, surely, nothing will be farther necessary to annihilate the validity, than to observe that they are the depositions of men who are villains by their own confession, and of whom the nation sees, that they may save their lives by a bold accusation, whether true or false. That the bill will, indeed, be effectual to the purposes designed, that it will crowd the courts of justice with evidence, and open scenes of wickedness never discovered before, I can readily believe; for I cannot imagine that any man who has exposed his life by any flagrant crime, will miss so fair an opportunity of saving it by another. I shall expect, my lords, that villains of all denominations, who are now skulking in private retreats, who are eluding the officers of justice, or flying before the publick pursuit of the country, will secure themselves by this easy expedient; and that housebreakers, highwaymen, and pickpockets, will come up in crowds to the bar, charge the earl of ORFORD as their accomplice, and plead this bill as a security against all inquiry. That this supposition, however wild and exaggerated it may seem, may not be thought altogether chimerical; that it may appear with how little consideration this bill has been drawn, and how easily it may be perverted to the patronage of wickedness, I will lay before your lordships such a plea as may probably be produced by it. A man whom the consciousness of murder has for some time kept in continual terrours, may clear himself for ever, by alleging, that he was commissioned by the earl of ORFORD to engage, with any certain sum, the vote or interest of the murdered person; that he took the opportunity of a solitary place to offer him the bribe, and prevail upon him to comply with his proposals; but that finding him obstinate and perverse, filled with prejudices against a wise and just administration, and inclined to obstruct the measures of the government, he for some time expostulated with him; and being provoked by his contumelious representations of the state of affairs, he could no longer restrain the ardour of his loyalty, but thought it proper to remove from the world a man so much inclined to spread sedition among the people; and that, therefore, finding the place convenient, he suddenly rushed upon him and cut his throat. Thus, my lords, might the murderer represent his case, perhaps, without any possibility of a legal confutation; thus might the most atrocious villanies escape censure, by the assistance of impudence and cunning. A bill like this, my lords, is nothing less than a proscription; the head of a citizen is apparently set to sale, and evidence is hired, by which the innocent and the guilty may be destroyed with equal facility. It is apparent, my lords, that they by whom this bill is proposed, act upon the supposition that the noble person mentioned in it, is guilty of all those crimes of which he is suspected; a supposition, my lords, which it is unjust to make, and to which neither reason, nor the laws of our country, will give countenance or support. I, my lords, will much more equitably suppose him innocent; I will suppose that he has, throughout all the years of his administration, steadily prosecuted the best ends, by the best means; that if he has sometimes been mistaken or disappointed, it has been neither by his negligence nor ignorance, but by false intelligence, or accidents not to be foreseen; and that he has never either sacrificed his country to private interest, or procured, by any illegal methods, the assistance and support of the legislature; and I will ask your lordships, whether, if this character be just, the bill ought to be passed, and doubt not but every man's conscience will inform him, that it ought to be rejected with the utmost indignation. The reason, my lords, for which it ought to be rejected, is evidently this, that it may bring innocence into danger. But, my lords, every man before his trial is to be supposed innocent, and, therefore, no man ought to be exposed to the hazards of a trial, by which virtue and wickedness are reduced to a level. A bill like this ought to be marked out as the utmost effort of malice, as a species of cruelty never known before, and as a method of prosecution which this house has censured. I did not, indeed, expect from those who have so long clamoured with incessant vehemence against the measures of the ministry, such an open confession of their own weakness. Nothing, my lords, was so frequently urged, or so warmly exaggerated, as the impossibility of procuring evidence against a man in power; nothing was more confidently asserted, than that his guilt would be easily proved when his authority was at an end; and that even his own agents would readily detect him, when they were no longer dependant upon his favour. The time, my lords, so long expected, and so ardently desired, is at length come; this noble person whom they have so long pursued with declamations, invectives, and general reproaches, has at length resigned those offices which set him above punishment or trial; he is now without any other security than that by which every other man is sheltered from oppression, the publick protection of the laws of his country; but he is yet found impregnable, he is yet able to set his enemies at defiance; and they have, therefore, now, with great sagacity, contrived a method by which he may be divested of the common privileges of a social being, and may be hunted like a wild beast, without defence, and without pity. Where, my lords, can it be expected that malice like this will find an end? Is it not reasonable to imagine that if they should be gratified in this demand, and should find even this expedient baffled by the abilities which they have so often encountered without success, they would proceed to measures yet more atrocious, and punish him without evidence, whom they call to a trial without a crime. It has been observed by the noble lord who spoke last, that there are crimes mentioned in the report of the secret committee of the house of commons, or that at least such facts are asserted in it, that an accusation may, by easy deductions, be formed from them. The report of that committee, my lords, with whatever veneration it may be mentioned, by those whose purposes it happens to favour, or of whatever importance it may be in the other house, is here nothing but a pamphlet, not to be regarded as an evidence, or quoted as a writing of authority. It is only an account of facts of which we know not how they were collected, and which every one may admit or reject at his own choice, till they are ascertained by proper evidence at our own bar, and which, therefore, ought not to influence our opinion in the present debate. Nor is the bill, my lords, only founded upon principles inconsistent with the constitution of this nation, apparently tending to the introduction of a new species of oppression, but is in itself such as cannot be ratified without injury to the honour of this great assembly. In examining the bill, my lords, I think it not necessary to dwell upon the more minute and trivial defects of the orthography and expression, though they are such as might justly give occasion for suspecting that they by whom it was written, were no less strangers to our language than to our constitution. There are errours or falsehoods which it more nearly concerns us to detect, and to which we cannot give any sanction, without an evident diminution of our own authority. It declares, my lords, that there is now an inquiry depending before the senate, an assertion evidently false, for the inquiry is only before the commons. Whether this was inserted by mistake or design, whether it was intended to insinuate that the whole senatorial power was comprised in the house of commons, or to persuade the nation that your lordships concurred with them in this inquiry, it is not possible to determine; but since it is false in either sense, it ought not to receive our confirmation. If we should pass the bill in its present state, we should not only declare our approbation of the measures hitherto pursued by the commons, by which it has been already proved, by the noble and learned lord who spoke first against the bill, that they have not only violated the law, but invaded the privileges of this house. We should not only establish for ever in a committee of the house of commons, the power of examining upon oath, by an elusive and equivocatory expedient, but we should in effect vote away our own existence, give up at once all authority in the government, and grant them an unlimited power, by acknowledging them the senate, an acknowledgment which might, in a very short time, be quoted against us, and from which it would not be easy for us to extricate ourselves. It has, indeed, been remarked, that there is a large sum of money disbursed without account, and the publick is represented as apparently injured, either by fraud or negligence; but it is not remembered that none but his majesty has a right to inquire into the distribution of the revenue appropriated to the support of his family and dignity, and the payment of his servants, and which, therefore, cannot, in any degree, be called publick money, or fall under the cognizance of those whom it concerns to inspect the national accounts. Either the civil list must be exempt from inquiries, or his majesty must be reduced to a state below that of the meanest of his subjects; he can enjoy neither freedom nor property, and must be debarred for ever from those blessings which he is incessantly labouring to secure to others. There is, likewise, another consideration, which my regard for the honour of this assembly suggested to me, and of which I doubt not but that all your lordships will allow the importance. The noble person who is pointed out in this bill as a publick criminal, and whom all the villains of the kingdom are invited to accuse, is invested with the same honours as ourselves, and has a son who has for many years possessed a seat amongst us; let us not, therefore, concur with the commons to load our own house with infamy, and to propagate reproach, which will at last fix upon ourselves. Innumerable are the objections, my lords, which might yet be urged, and urged without any possibility of reply; but as I have already been heard with so much patience, I think what has been already mentioned sufficient to determine the question: and as I doubt not but the other defects and absurdities will be observed, if it be necessary, by some other lords, I shall presume only to add, that as the bill appears to me contrary to the laws of this nation, to the common justice of society, and to the general reason of mankind, as it must naturally establish a precedent of oppression, and confirm a species of authority in the other house which was either never claimed before, or always denied; as I think the most notorious and publick criminal ought not to be deprived of that method of defence which the established customs of our country allow him, and believe the person mentioned in this bill to deserve rather applauses and rewards, than censures and punishments, I think myself obliged to oppose it, and hope to find your lordships unanimous in the same opinion. Then the duke of ARGYLE answered, in substance as follows:--My lords, whatever may be the fate of this question, I have little hope that it will be unanimously decided, because I have reason to fear that some lords have conceived prejudices against the bill, which hinder them from discovering either its reasonableness or its necessity; and am convinced that others who approve the bill, can support their opinion by arguments from which, as they cannot be confuted, they never will recede. Those arguments which have influenced my opinion, I will lay before your lordships, and doubt not of showing that I am very far from giving way to personal malice, or the prejudices of opposition; and that I regard only the voice of reason, and the call of the nation. Calmness and impartiality, my lords, have been, with great propriety, recommended to us by the noble lord who spoke first in this debate; and I hope he will discover by the moderation with which I shall deliver my sentiments on this occasion, how much I reverence his precepts, and how willingly I yield to his authority. I am at least certain, that I have hitherto listened to the arguments that have been offered on either side with an attention void of prejudice; I have repressed no motions of conviction, nor abstracted my mind from any difficulty, to avoid the labour of solving it: I have been solicitous to survey every position in its whole extent, and trace it to its remotest consequences; I have assisted the arguments against the bill by favourable suppositions, and imaginary circumstances, and have endeavoured to divest my own opinion of some appendant and accidental advantages, that I might view it in a state less likely to attract regard; and yet I cannot find any reason by which I could justify myself to my country or my conscience, if I should concur in rejecting this bill, or should not endeavour to promote it. I am not unacquainted, my lords, with the difficulties that obstruct the knowledge of our own hearts, and cannot deny that inclination may be sometimes mistaken for conviction; and men even wise and honest, may imagine themselves to believe what, in reality, they only wish: but this, my lords, can only happen for want of attention, or on sudden emergencies, when it is necessary to determine with little consideration, while the passions have not yet time to subside, and reason is yet struggling with the emotions of desire. In other circumstances, my lords, I am convinced that no man imposes on himself without conniving at the fraud, without consciousness that he admits an opinion which he has not well examined, and without consulting indolence rather than reason; and, therefore, my lords, I can with confidence affirm, that I now declare my real opinion, and that if I err, I err only for want of abilities to discover the truth; and hope it will appear to your lordships, that I have been misled at least by specious arguments, and deceived by fallacious appearances, which it is no reproach not to have been able to detect. It will, my lords, be granted, I suppose, without hesitation, that the law is consistent with itself; that it never at the same time commands and prohibits the same action; that it cannot be at once violated and observed. From thence it will inevitably follow, that where the circumstances of any transaction are such, that the principles of that law by which it is cognizable are opposite to each other, some expedients may be found by which these circumstances may be altered. Otherwise a subtle or powerful delinquent will always find shelter in ambiguities, and the law will remain inactive, like a balance loaded equally on each side. On the present occasion, my lords, I pronounce with the utmost confidence, as a maxim of indubitable certainty, _that the publick has a claim to every man's evidence_, and that no man can plead exemption from this duty to his country. But those whom false gratitude, or contracted notions of their own interest, or fear of being entangled in the snares of examination, prompt to disappoint the justice of the publick, urge with equal vehemence, and, indeed, with equal truth, that _no man is obliged to accuse himself_, and that the constitution of Britain allows no man's evidence to be extorted from him to his own destruction. Thus, my lords, two of the first principles of the British law, though maxims equally important, equally certain, and equally to be preserved from the least appearance of violation, are contradictory to each other, and neither can be obeyed, because neither can be infringed. How then, my lords, is this contradiction to be reconciled, and the necessity avoided of breaking the law on one side or the other, but by the method now proposed, of setting those whose evidence is required, free from the danger which they may incur by giving it. The end of the law is the redress of wrong, the protection of right, and the preservation of happiness; and the law is so far imperfect as it fails to produce the end for which it is instituted; and where any imperfection is discovered, it is the province of the legislature to supply it. By the experience, my lords, of one generation after another, by the continued application of successive ages, was our law brought to its present accuracy. As new combinations of circumstances, or unforeseen artifices of evasion, discovered to our ancestors the insufficiency of former provisions, new expedients were invented; and as wickedness improved its subtilty, the law multiplied its powers and extended its vigilance. If I should, therefore, allow, what has been urged, that there is no precedent of a bill like this, what can be inferred from it, but that wickedness has found a shelter that was never discovered before, and which must be forced by a new method of attack? And what then are we required to do more than has been always done by our ancestors, on a thousand occasions of far less importance? I know not, my lords, whether it be possible to imagine an emergence that can more evidently require the interposition of the legislative power, than this which is now proposed to your consideration. The nation has been betrayed in peace, and disgraced in war; the constitution has been openly invaded, the votes of the commons set publickly to sale, the treasures of the publick have been squandered to purchase security to those by whom it was oppressed, the people are exasperated to madness, the commons have begun the inquiry that has been for more than twenty years demanded and eluded, and justice is on a sudden insuperably retarded by the deficiency of the law. Surely, my lords, this is an occasion that may justify the exertion of unusual powers, and yet nothing either new or unusual is required; for the bill now proposed may be supported both by precedents of occasional laws, and parallel statutes of lasting obligation. When frauds have been committed by the agents of trading companies, bills of indemnity to those by whom any discoveries should be made, have been proposed and passed without any of those dreadful consequences which some noble lords have foreseen in this. I have never heard that any man was so stupid as to mistake such a bill for a general act of grace, or that the confession of any crimes was procured by it, except of those which it was intended to detect; I have never been informed, that any murderer was blessed with the acuteness of the noble lord, or thought of flying to such an act as to a common shelter for villany. Such suppositions, my lords, can be intended only to prolong a controversy and weary an opponent; nor can such trifling exaggerations contribute to any other end, than of discovering the fertility of imagination, and the exuberance of eloquence. For my part, my lords, I think passion and negligence equally culpable in a debate like this; and cannot forbear to recommend seriousness and attention, with the same zeal with which moderation and impartiality have already been inculcated. He that entirely disregards the question in debate, who thinks it too trivial for a serious discussion, and speaks upon it with the same superficial gaiety with which he would relate the change of a fashion, or the incidents of a ball, is not very likely, either to discover or propagate the truth; and is less to be pardoned, than he who is betrayed by passion into absurdities, as it is less criminal to injure our country by zeal than by contempt. That bills, without any essential difference from that which is now before us, have been passed in favour of private companies, is indisputably certain; it is certain that they never produced any other effect, than such as were expected from them by those who promoted them. It is evident, that the welfare of the nation is more worthy of our regard than any separate company; that the whole, of more importance than a part; and therefore, the same measures may be now used with far greater justice, and with equal probability of success. The necessity of the law now proposed, my lords, cannot more plainly appear, than by reflecting on the absurdity of the pleas made use of for refusing it, which, considered in the whole, contain only this assertion, that the security of one man is to be preferred to justice, to truth, to publick felicity; that a precedent is rather to be established, which will for ever shelter every future minister from the laws of our country; and that all our miseries are rather to be borne in silence, or lamented in impotence, than the man, whom the whole nation agrees to accuse as the author of them, should be exposed to the hazard of a trial, even before those whom every tie of interest and long-continued affection has united to him. It is, indeed, objected, that by passing this bill, we shall transfer the authority of trying him to the other house; that we shall give up our privileges for ever, erect a new court of judicature, and overturn the constitution. I have long observed, my lords, how vain it is to argue against those whose resolutions are determined by extrinsick motives, and have been long acquainted with the art of disguising obstinacy, by an appearance of reasons that have no weight, even in the opinion of him by whom they are offered, and of raising clouds of objections, which, by the first reply, will certainly be dissipated, but which, at least, fill the mouth for a time, and preserve the disputant from the reproach of adhering to an opinion, in vindication of which he had nothing to say. Of this kind is the objection which I am now to remove, though I remove it only to make way for another, for those can never be silenced who can satisfy themselves with arguments like this; however, those that offer it expect it should be answered, and if it should be passed over in the debate, will boast of its irrefragability, and imagine that they have gained the victory by the superiority of their abilities, rather than of their numbers. That we shall, by passing this bill, give the commons a power which they want at present, is unquestionably evident; but we shall only retrieve that which they were never known to want before, the power of producing evidence; evidence which we, my lords, must hear, and of whose testimonies we shall reserve the judgment to ourselves. The commons will only act as prosecutors, a character in which they were never conceived to encroach upon our right. The man whose conduct is the subject of inquiry, must stand his trial at our bar; nor has the bill any other tendency, than to enable the commons to bring him to it. What can be alleged against this design I know not; because I can discover no objections which do not imply guilt, and guilt we are not yet at liberty to suppose. I am so far from pressing this bill from any motives of personal malevolence, that I am only doing, in the case of the minister, what I should ardently desire to be done in my own, and what no man would wish to obstruct, who was supported by a consciousness of integrity, and stimulated by that honest sense of reputation which I have always found the concomitant of innocence. I hope I shall be readily believed by your lordships, when I assert, once more, that I should not only forbear all opposition to a bill intended to produce a scrutiny into my conduct, but that I should promote it with all my interest, and solicit all my friends to expedite and support it; for there was once a time, my lords, in which my behaviour was brought to the test, a time when no expedient was forgotten by which I might be oppressed, nor any method untried to procure accusations against me. Whether the present case in every circumstance will stand exactly parallel to mine, I am very far from presuming to determine. I had served my country with industry, fidelity, and success, and had received the illustrious testimony of my conduct, the publick thanks of this house. I was conscious of no crime, nor had gratified, in my services, any other passion than my zeal for the publick. I saw myself ignominiously discarded, and attacked by every method of calumny and reproach. Nor was the malice of my enemies satisfied with destroying my reputation without impairing my fortune: for this purpose a prosecution was projected, a wretch was found out who engaged to accuse me, and received his pardon for no other purpose; nor did I make any opposition to it in this house, though I knew the intent with which it was procured, and was informed that part of my estate was allotted him to harden his heart, and strengthen his assertions. This, my lords, is surely a precedent which I have a right to quote, and which will vindicate me to your lordships from the imputation of partiality and malignity; since it is apparent, that I do only in the case of another, what I willingly submitted to, when an inquiry was making into my conduct. But, my lords, this is far from being the only precedent which may be pleaded in favour of this bill; a bill which, in reality, concurs with the general and regular practice of the established law, as will appear to every one that compares it with the eighth section of the act for preventing bribery; in which it is established as a perpetual law, that he who, having taken a bribe, shall, within twelve months, inform against him that gave it, shall be received as an evidence, and be indemnified from all the consequences of his discovery. To these arguments of reason and precedent, I will add one of a more prevalent kind, drawn from motives of interest, which surely would direct our ministers to favour the inquiry, and promote every expedient that might produce a complete discussion of the publick affairs; since they would show, that they are not afraid of the most rigorous scrutiny, and are above any fears that the precedent which they are now establishing may revolve upon themselves. To elude the ratification of this bill, it was at first urged that there was no proof of any crime; and when it was shown, that there was an apparent misapplication of the publick money, it became necessary to determine upon a more hardy assertion, and to silence malicious reasoners, by showing them how little their arguments would be regarded. It then was denied, with a spirit worthy of the cause in which it was exerted, that the civil list was publick money. Disputants like these, my lords, are not born to be confuted; it would be to little purpose that any man should ask, whether the money allotted for the civil list was not granted by the publick, and whether publick grants did not produce publick money; it would be without any effect, that the uses for which that grant is made should be enumerated, and the misapplication of it openly proved; a distinction, or at least a negative, would be always at hand, and obstinacy and interest would turn argument aside. Upon what principles, my lords, we can now call out for a proof of crimes, and proceed in the debate as if no just reason of suspicion had appeared, I am not able to conjecture; here is, in my opinion, if not demonstrative proof, yet the strongest presumption of one of the greatest crimes of which any man can be guilty, the propagation of wickedness, of the most atrocious breach of trust which can be charged upon a British minister, a deliberate traffick for the liberties of his country. Of these enormous villanies, however difficult it may now seem to disengage him from them, I hope we shall see reason to acquit him at the bar of this house, at which, if he be innocent, he ought to be desirous of appearing; nor do his friends consult his honour, by endeavouring to withhold him from it; if they, indeed, believe him guilty, they may then easily justify their conduct to him, but the world will, perhaps, require a more publick vindication. These, my lords, are the arguments which have influenced me hitherto to approve the bill now before us, and which will continue their prevalence, till I shall hear them confuted; and, surely, if they are not altogether unanswerable, they are surely of so much importance, that the bill for which they have been produced, must be allowed to deserve, at least, a deliberate examination, and may very justly be referred to a committee, in which ambiguities may be removed, and inadvertencies corrected. Lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke next, to the following purpose:--My lords, this bill is, in my opinion, so far from deserving approbation, that I am in doubt whether I should retard the determination of the house, by laying before you the reasons which influence me in this debate; nor, indeed, could I prevail upon myself to enter into a formal discussion of a question, on which I should have imagined that all mankind would have been of one opinion, did not my reverence of the abilities of those noble lords who have spoken in defence of the bill, incline me, even against the conviction of my own reason, to suspect that arguments may be offered in its favour, which I have not yet been able to discover; and that those which have been produced, however inconclusive they have seemed, will operate more powerfully when they are more fully displayed, and better understood. For this reason I shall lay before your lordships the objections which arose in my mind when the bill was first laid before us, and which have rather been strengthened than invalidated by the subsequent debate. It appears, my lords, evident to me, that every man has a right to be tried by the known laws of his country; that no man can be justly punished by a law made after the commission of a fact, because he then suffers by a law, against which he never transgressed; nor is any man to be prosecuted by methods invented only to facilitate his condemnation, because he ought to be acquitted, however guilty he may be supposed, whom the established rules of justice cannot convict. The law, my lords, is the measure of political, as conscience of moral right; and he that breaks no law, may indeed be criminal, but is not punishable. The law likewise prescribes the method of prosecuting guilt; and as we, by omitting any crime in our laws, disable ourselves from punishing it, however publick or flagrant, so by regulating the process in our courts of justice, we give security to that guilt, which by that process cannot be detected. The truth of this assertion, my lords, however paradoxical it may perhaps appear, will become evident, if we suppose a man brought to the bar whose guilt was unquestionable, though it could not be legally proved, because all those were dead who might have appeared against him. It is certain that his good fortune would give him no claim to pardon, and yet he could not be convicted, unless we suppose him weak enough to accuse himself. In this case, my lords, it is not impossible, that some might be prompted by their zeal to propose, that the foreign methods of justice might be introduced, and the rack employed to extort, from his own mouth, a confession of those crimes of which every one believed him guilty. With what horrour, my lords, such a proposal would be heard, how loudly it would be censured, and how universally rejected, I need not say; but must observe, that, in my opinion, the detestation would arise principally from a sense of the injustice of exposing any man to peculiar hardships, and distinguishing him to his disadvantage from the rest of the community. It will, my lords, not be easy to prove, that it is less agreeable to justice to oblige a man to accuse himself, than to make use of extraordinary methods of procuring evidence against him; because the barriers of security which the law has fixed are equally broken in either case, and the accused is exposed to dangers, from which he had reason to believe himself sheltered by the constitution of his country. This argument, my lords, I have mentioned, without endeavouring to evince the innocence of the person whom this bill immediately regards; because the intent of it is to show, that no man is to be deprived of the common benefits of the constitution, and that the guilty have a right to all the advantages which the law allows them. For guilt is never to be supposed till it is proved, and it is therefore never to be proved by new methods, merely because it is supposed. That the method of procuring evidence now proposed, is new, my lords, I think it no temerity to conclude; because the noble lords who have endeavoured to defend it, have produced no instance of a parallel practice, and their knowledge and acuteness is such, that they can only have failed to discover them, because they are indeed nowhere to be found. In the case of bribery, my lords, the person accused has the privilege, if he be innocent, of prosecuting his accuser for perjury, and is therefore in less danger of being harassed by a false indictment. But, my lords, this is not the only difference between the two cases; for he that discovers a bribe received by himself, has no motives of interest to prompt his evidence; he is only secured from suffering by his own discovery, and might have been equally safe by silence and secrecy; since the law supposes the crime out of the reach of detection, otherwise than by the confession of the criminal. But far different, my lords, are the circumstances of those who are now invited to throng the courts of justice, and stun us with depositions and discoveries. They are men supposed criminal by the indemnity which is offered them; and by the nature of their crimes it is made at least probable, that they are in daily hazard of discovery and punishment; from which they are summoned to set themselves free for ever, by accusing a man of whom it has not been yet proved that he can legally be called to a trial. Thus, my lords, in the law which the noble duke has mentioned as a precedent for this bill, the accuser is only placed in a kind of equilibrium, equally secure from punishment, by silence or by information, in hope that the love of truth and justice will turn the balance; in the bill now before us the witness is in continual danger by withholding his evidence, and is restored to perfect safety by becoming an accuser, and from making discoveries, whether true or false, has every thing to hope and nothing to fear. The necessity of punishing wickedness has been urged with great strength; it has been unanswerably shown, by the advocates for this bill, that vindictive justice is of the highest importance to the happiness of the publick, and that those who may be injured with impunity, are, in reality, denied the benefits of society, and can be said to live in the state of uncivilized nature, in which the strong must prey upon the weak. This, my lords, has been urged with all the appearance of conviction and sincerity, and yet has been urged by those who are providing a shelter for the most enormous villanies, and enabling men who have violated every precept of law and virtue, to bid defiance to justice, and to sit at ease in the enjoyment of their acquisitions. And what, my lords, is the condition, upon which wickedness is to be set free from terrour, upon which national justice is to be disarmed, and the betrayers of publick counsels, or the plunderers of publick treasure, qualified for new trusts, and set on a level with untainted fidelity? A condition, my lords, which wretches like these will very readily accept, the easy terms of information and of perjury. They are required only to give evidence against a man marked out for destruction, and the guilt of partaking in his crimes is to be effaced by the merit of concurring in his ruin. It has, indeed, been a method of detection, frequently employed against housebreakers and highwaymen, to proclaim a pardon for him that shall convict his accomplices; but surely, my lords, this practice will not, in the present question, be mentioned as a precedent. Surely it will not be thought equitable to level with felons, and with thieves, a person distinguished by his rank, his employments, his abilities, and his services; a person, whose loyalty to his sovereign has never been called in question, and whose fidelity to his country has at least never been disproved. These are measures, my lords, which I hope your lordships will never concur to promote; measures not supported either by law or justice, or enforced by any exigence of affairs, but dictated by persecution, malice, and revenge; measures by which the guilty and the innocent may be destroyed with equal facility, and which must, therefore, tend to encourage wickedness as they destroy the security of virtue. Lord CARTERET then rose, and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, I have so long honoured the abilities, and so often concurred with the opinion of the noble lord who began the debate, that I cannot, without unusual concern, rise up now to speak in opposition to him; nor could any other principle support me under the apparent disadvantage of a contest so unequal, but the consciousness of upright intentions, and the concurrence of the whole nation. I cannot but consider myself, on this occasion, my lords, as the advocate of the people of Britain, who, after continued oppressions, losses, and indignities, after having been plundered and ridiculed, harassed and insulted for complaining, have at length flattered themselves that they should have an opportunity of appealing to our bar for justice, and of securing themselves from future injuries, by the punishment of those that had so long triumphed in their guilt, proclaimed their defiance of justice, and declared that the laws were made only for their security. The expectations of the people have been frustrated by the unexpected obstinacy of the agents of wickedness, by a plea that was never made use of for the same purpose before, against which the known laws of the nation have provided no remedy, and which your lordships are, therefore, now called upon to overthrow. That the nation calls loudly for an inquiry, that the misapplication of the publick treasure is universally suspected, and that the person mentioned in the bill is believed to be the chief author of that misapplication; that at least those who have squandered it, have acted by his authority, and been admitted to trust by his recommendation, and that he is, therefore, accountable to the publick for their conduct, I shall suppose, cannot be denied. The nation, my lords, has a right to be gratified in their demands of an inquiry, whatever be the foundation of their suspicions; since it is manifest that it can produce no other effects than those of giving new lustre to innocence, and quieting the clamours of the people, if it should be found that the government has been administered with honesty and ability; and it is not less evident that, if the general opinion is well grounded, if our interest has been betrayed, and that money employed only to corrupt the nation which was raised for the defence of it, the severest punishment ought to be inflicted, that all future ministers may be deterred from the same crimes by exemplary vengeance. Thus, my lords, an inquiry appears, upon every supposition, useful and necessary; but I cannot comprehend how it can be prosecuted by any other method, than that of proposing an indemnity to those who shall make discoveries. Every wicked measure, my lords, must involve in guilt all who are engaged in it; and how easily it may be concealed from every other person, may be shown by an example of a crime, which no man will deny to have sometimes existed, and which, in the opinion of most, is not very uncommon in this age. It will be allowed, at least, that on some occasions, when a favourite begins to totter, when strong objections are raised against the continuance of a standing army, when a convention requires the ratification of the legislature, or some fatal address is proposed to be presented to the crown, a pecuniary reward may sometimes be offered, and though that, indeed, be a supposition more difficult to be admitted, sometimes, however rarely, accepted. In this case, my lords, none but he that gives, and he that receives the bribe can be conscious of it; at most, we can only suppose an intervening agent to have any knowledge of it; and if even he is admitted to the secret, so as to be able to make a legal discovery, there must be some defect of cunning in the principals. Let us consider from which of these any discovery can be probably expected, or what reason can be alleged, for which either should expose himself to punishment for the sake of ruining his associates. It is, therefore, my lords, plain, from this instance, that without the confession of some guilty person, no discovery can be made of those crimes which are most detrimental to our happiness, and most dangerous to our liberties. It is apparent that no man will discover his own guilt; while there remains any danger of suffering by his confession, it is certain that such crimes will be committed, if they are not discouraged by the fear of punishment, and it cannot, therefore, be denied that a proclamation of indemnity is necessary to their detection. This, my lords, is not, as it has been alleged, a method unknown to our constitution, as every man that reads the common papers will easily discover. I doubt if there has been, for many years, a single month in which some reward, as well as indemnity, has not been promised to any man, who, having been engaged in a robbery, would discover his confederates; and surely a method that is daily practised for the security of private property, may be very rationally and justly adopted by the legislature for the preservation of the happiness and the property of the publick. The punishment of wickedness, my lords, is undoubtedly one of the essential parts of good government, and, in reality, the chief purpose for which society is instituted; for how will that society in which any individual may be plundered, enslaved, and murdered, without redress and without punishment, differ from the state of corrupt nature, in which the strongest must be absolute, and right and power always the same? That constitution, therefore, which has not provided for the punishment, and previously for the discovery of guilt, is so far in a state of imperfection, and requires to be strengthened by new provisions. This, my lords, is far from being our state, for we have in our hands a method of detecting the most powerful criminals, a method in itself agreeable to reason, recommended by the practice of our predecessors, and now approved, once more, by the sanction of one of the branches of the legislature. The objections which have, on this occasion, been made against it, are such as no law can escape, and which, therefore, can have no weight; and it is no small confirmation of the expediency of it, that they by whom it has been opposed have not been able to attack it with stronger reasons, from which, if we consider their abilities, we shall be convinced, that nothing has secured it but the power of truth. It is inquired, by the noble lord, how we shall distinguish true from false evidence; to which it may be very readily answered, that we shall distinguish them by the same means as on any other occasion, by comparing the allegations, and considering how every witness agrees with others and with himself, how far his assertions are in themselves probable, how they are confirmed or weakened by known circumstances, and how far they are invalidated by the contrary evidence. We shall, my lords, if we add our sanction to this bill, discover when any man's accusation is prompted by his interest, as we might know whether it was dictated by his malice. It has been asked also, how any man can ascertain his claim to the indemnity? To which it may be easily replied, that by giving his evidence he acquires a right, till that evidence shall be proved to be false. The noble lord who spoke some time ago, and whose abilities and qualities are such, that I cannot but esteem and admire him, even when conviction obliges me to oppose him, has proposed a case in which he seems to imagine that a murderer might secure himself from punishment, by connecting his crime with some transaction in which the earl of ORFORD should be interested. This case, my lords, is sufficiently improbable, nor is it easy to mention any method of trial in which some inconvenience may not be produced, in the indefinite complications of circumstances, and unforeseen relations of events. It is known to have happened once, and cannot be known not to have happened often, that a person accused of murder, was tried by a jury of which the real murderer was one. Will not this then be an argument against the great privilege of the natives of this empire, _a trial by their equals?_ But, my lords, I am of opinion that the murderer would not be indemnified by this bill, since he did not commit the crime by the direction of the person whom he is supposed to accuse; nor would it have any necessary connexion with his conduct, but might be suppressed in the accusation, without any diminution of the force of the evidence. A man will not be suffered to introduce his accusation with an account of all the villanies of his whole life, but will be required to confine his testimony to the affair upon which he is examined. The committee, my lords, will distinguish between the crimes perpetrated by the direction of the earl of ORFORD, and those of another kind. And should an enormous criminal give such evidence, as the noble lord was pleased to suppose, he may be indemnified for the bribery, but will be hanged for the murder, notwithstanding any thing in this bill to the contrary. It has been insisted on by the noble lords, who have spoke against the bill, that no crime is proved, and, therefore, there is no foundation for it. But, my lords, I have always thought that the profusion of the publick money was a crime, and there is evidently a very large sum expended, of which no account has been given; and, what more nearly relates to the present question, of which no account has ever been demanded. On this occasion, my lords, an assertion has been alleged, which no personal regard shall ever prevail upon me to hear without disputing it, since I think it is of the most dangerous tendency, and unsupported by reason or by law. It is alleged, my lords, that the civil list is not to be considered as publick money, and that the nation has, therefore, no claim to inquire how it is distributed; that it is given to support the dignity of the crown, and that only his majesty can ask the reason of any failures in the accounts of it. I have, on the contrary, my lords, hitherto understood, that all was publick money which was given by the publick. The present condition of the crown is very different from that of our ancient monarchs, who supported their dignity by their own estates. I admit, my lords, that they might at pleasure contract or enlarge their expenses, mortgage or alienate their lands, or bestow presents and pensions without control. It is, indeed, expressed in the act, that the grants of the civil list are without account, by which I have hitherto understood only that the sum total is exempt from account; not that the ministers have a right to employ the civil list to such purposes as they shall think most conducive to their private views. For if it should be granted, not only that the nation has no right to know how the _whole_ is expended, which is the utmost that can be allowed, or to direct the application of any part of it, which is very disputable, yet it certainly has a claim to direct in what manner it shall _not_ be applied, and to provide that boroughs are not corrupted under pretence of promoting the dignity of the crown. The corruption of boroughs, my lords, is one of the greatest crimes of which any man under our constitution is capable; it is to corrupt, at once, the fountain and the stream of government, to poison the whole nation at once, and to make the people wicked, that they may infect the house of commons with wicked representatives. Such, my lords, are the crimes, the suspicion of which incited the commons to a publick inquiry, in which they have been able to proceed so far, as to prove that the publick discontent was not without cause, and that such arts had been practised, as it is absolutely necessary, to the publick security, to detect and punish. They, therefore, pursued their examination with a degree of ardour proportioned to the importance of the danger in which every man is involved by the violation of the fundamental laws of the constitution; but, they found themselves obstructed by the subtilty of some who confessed only that they were guilty, and determined to be faithful to their accomplices and themselves. A farther inquiry, my lords, was, by this unforeseen evasion, made impossible; the ultimate and principal agent is sheltered from the law by his guard of mercenaries, wretches who are contented to be infamous, if they can continue to be rich, and value themselves on their adherence to their master, while they are conspiring to ruin their country. The nation, my lords, in the mean time, justly applies for redress to the power of the legislature, and to its wisdom for methods of procuring it by law. The commons have complied with their importunities, and propose to your lordships the bill before you, a bill for making a publick inquiry possible, and for bringing a minister within reach of the law. On this occasion, my lords, we are upbraided with our own declarations, that the person mentioned in this bill would quickly find accusers, when he should be divested of his authority. Behold him now, say his advocates, reduced from his envied eminence, and placed on a level with his fellow-subjects! Behold him no longer the distributer of employments, or the disburser of the publick treasure! see him divested of all security, but that of innocence, and yet no accusations are produced! This, my lords, is a topick so fruitful of panegyrick, and so happily adapted to the imagination of a person long used to celebrate the wisdom and integrity of ministers, that, were not the present question of too great importance to admit of false concessions, I should suffer it to remain without controversy. But, my lords, this is no time for criminal indulgence; and, therefore, I shall annihilate this short-lived triumph by observing, that to be out of place, is not necessarily to be out of power; a minister may retain his influence, who has resigned his employment; he may still retain the favour of his prince, and possess him with a false opinion, that he can only secure his authority by protecting him; or, what there is equal reason to suspect, his successours may be afraid of concurring in a law which may hereafter be revived against themselves. It may be urged farther, my lords, that he cannot with great propriety be said to have no power, who sees the legislature crowded with men that are indebted to his favour for their rank and their fortunes. Such a man may bid defiance to inquiry, with confidence produced by security very different from that of innocence; he may depend upon the secrecy of those whom he has, perhaps, chosen for no other virtue; he may know that common danger will unite them to him, and that they cannot abandon him without exposing themselves to the same censures. These securities, my lords, the fortifications of the last retreat of wickedness, remain now to be broken, and the nation expects its fate from our determinations, which will either secure the liberties of our posterity from violation, by showing that no degree of power can shelter those who shall invade them, or that our constitution is arrived at this period, and that all struggles for its continuance will be vain. Let us not, my lords, combine with the publick enemies, let us not give the nation reason to believe that this house is infected with the contagion of venality, that our honour is become an empty name, and that the examples of our ancestors have no other effect upon us than to raise the price of perfidy, and enable us to sell our country at a higher rate. Let us remember, my lords, that power is supported by opinion, and that the reverence of the publick cannot be preserved but by rigid justice and active beneficence. For this reason, I am far from granting that we ought to be cautious of charging those with crimes who have the honour of a seat amongst us. In my opinion, my lords, we ought to be watchful against the least suspicion of wickedness in our own body, we ought to eject pollution from our walls, and preserve that power for which some appear so anxious, by keeping our reputation pure and untainted. It is, therefore, to little purpose objected, that there is no _corpus delicti;_ for even, though it were true, yet while there is a _corpus suspicionis,_ then inquiry ought to be made for our own honour, nor can either law or reason be pleaded against it. I cannot, therefore, doubt, that your lordships will endeavour to do justice; that you will facilitate the production of oral evidence, lest all written proofs should be destroyed; that you will not despise the united petition of the whole people, of which I dread the consequence; nor reject the only expedient by which their fears may be dissipated, and their happiness secured. Lord HARDWICKE spoke next, in the following manner:--My lords, after having, with an intention uninterrupted by any foreign considerations, and a mind intent only on the discovery of truth, examined every argument which has been urged on either side, I think it my duty to declare, that I have yet discovered no reason, which, in my opinion, ought to prevail upon us to ratify the bill that is now before us. The noble lords who have defended it, appear to reason more upon maxims of policy, than rules of law, or principles of justice; and seem to imagine, that if they can prove it to be expedient, it is not necessary to show that it is equitable. How far, my lords, they have succeeded in that argument which they have most laboured, I think it not necessary to examine, because I have hitherto accounted it an incontestable maxim, that whenever interest and virtue are in competition, virtue is always to be preferred. The noble lord who spoke first in this debate, has proved the unreasonableness and illegality of the methods proposed in this bill, beyond the possibility of confutation; he has shown that they are inconsistent with the law, and-that the law is founded upon reason: he has proved, that the bill supposes a criminal previous to the crime, summons the man to a trial, and then inquires for what offence. Nor has he, my lords, confined himself to a detection of the original defect, the uncertainty of any crime committed, but has proceeded to prove, that upon whatever supposition we proceed, the bill is unequitable, and of no other tendency than to multiply grievances, and establish a precedent of oppression. For this purpose he has shown, that no evidence can be procured by this till, because all those who shall, upon the encouragement proposed in it, offer information, must be considered as hired witnesses, to whom no credit can be given, and who, therefore, ought not to be heard. His lordship also proved, that we cannot pass this bill without diminishing our right, bestowing new powers upon the commons, confirming some of their claims which are most dubious, nor, by consequence, without violating the constitution. To all these arguments, arguments drawn from the most important considerations, enforced by the strongest reasoning, and explained with the utmost perspicuity, what has been replied? How have any of his assertions been invalidated, or any of his reasons eluded? How has it been shown that there is any foundation for a criminal charge, that witnesses thus procured ought to be heard, or that our rights would not be made disputable by confirming the proceedings of the commons? It has been answered by a noble lord, that though there is not _corpus delicti_, there is _corpus suspicionis_. What may be the force of this argument, I cannot say, because I am not ashamed to own, that I do not understand the meaning of the words. I very well understand what is meant by _corpus delicti,_ and so does every other lord; it is universally known to mean the _body of an offence;_ but as to the words _corpus suspicionis,_ I do not comprehend what they mean: it is an expression, indeed, which I never before heard, and can signify, in my apprehension, nothing more than the _body of a shadow,_ the substance of something which is itself nothing. Such, my lords, is the principle of this bill, by the confession of its warmest and ablest advocates; it is a bill for summoning a person to a trial, against whom no crime is alleged, and against whom no witness will appear without a bribe. For that those who should appear in consequence of this bill to offer their evidence, ought to be considered as bribed, will, surely, need no proof to those who consider, that bribes are not confined to money, and that every man who promotes his own interest by his deposition, is swearing, not for truth and justice, but for himself. It may be urged, and it is, in my opinion, all that the most fruitful imagination can suggest in favour of this bill, that they are not required to accuse the earl of ORFORD, but to give in their evidence concerning his conduct, whether in his favour, or against him. But this argument, my lords, however specious it may seem, will vanish of itself, if the bill be diligently considered, which is only to confer indemnity on those, who in the course of their evidence shall discover any of their own crimes; on those whose testimony shall tend to fix some charge of wickedness on the earl of ORFORD; for it cannot easily be imagined how those who appear in his favour, should be under a necessity of revealing any actions that require an indemnity. Thus, my lords, it appears that the bill can produce no other effect than that of multiplying accusations, since it offers rewards only to those who are supposed to have been engaged in unjustifiable practices; and to procure witnesses by this method, is equally unjust as to propose a publick prize to be obtained by swearing against any of your lordships. If witnesses are to be purchased, we ought, at least, to offer an equal price on each side, that though they may be induced by the reward to offer their depositions, they may not be tempted to accuse rather than to justify. Should any private man, my lords, offer a reward to any that would give evidence against another, without specifying the crime of which he is accused, doubtless he would be considered by the laws of this nation, as a violator of the rights of society, an open slanderer, and a disturber of mankind; and would immediately, by an indictment or information, be obliged to make satisfaction to the community which he had offended, or to the person whom he had injured. It has, my lords, I own, been asserted by the noble duke, that the publick has a right to every man's evidence, a maxim which in its proper sense cannot be denied. For it is undoubtedly true, that the publick has a right to all the assistance of every individual; but it is, my lords, upon such terms as have been established for the general advantage of all; on such terms as the majority of each society has prescribed. But, my lords, the majority of a society, which is the true definition of the _publick,_ are equally obliged with the smaller number, or with individuals, to the observation of justice, and cannot, therefore, prescribe to different individuals different conditions. They cannot decree that treatment to be just with regard to one which they allow to be cruel with respect to another. The claims of the publick are founded, first upon right, which is invariable; and next upon the law, which, though mutable in its own nature, is, however, to be so far fixed, as that every man may know his own condition, his own property, and his own privileges, or it ceases in effect to be law, it ceases to be the rule of government, or the measure of conduct. In the present case, my lords, the publick has not a right to hire evidence, because the publick has hitherto subsisted upon this condition, among others, that no man shall swear in his own cause. The publick has not a right to require from any man that he should betray himself, because every man may plead that he is exempted from that demand by the publick faith. Thus, my lords, the right of the publick is only that right which the publick has established by law, and confirmed by continual claims; nor is the claim of the publick from individuals to be extended beyond its known bounds, except in times of general distress, where a few must necessarily suffer for the preservation of the rest. This necessity is, indeed, now urged; but surely it ought to be shown, that the present circumstances of affairs differ from those of any former age, before it can with any propriety he asserted, that measures are now necessary, which no other distresses, however urgent, or provocations, however flagrant, have hitherto produced. It ought to be proved, that wickedness had discovered some new shelter from justice, before new engines are invented to force it from its retreat, and new powers applied to drag it out to punishment. The nation has subsisted, my lords, so many centuries; has often recovered from the lingering disease of inward corruption, and repelled the shocks of outward violence; it has often been endangered by corrupt counsels, and wicked machinations, and surmounted them by the force of its established laws, without the assistance of temporary expedients; at least without expedients like this, which neither law nor justice can support, and which would in itself be a more atrocious grievance than those, if they were real, which it is intended to punish, and might produce far greater evils than those which are imputed to him, against whom it is projected. It has, indeed, my lords, been mentioned by a noble lord, in much softer language, as a method only of making an inquiry possible. The possibility of an inquiry, my lords, is a very remote and inoffensive idea; but names will not change the nature of the things to which they are applied. The bill is, in my opinion, calculated to make a defence impossible, to deprive innocence of its guard, and to let loose oppression and perjury upon the world. It is a bill to dazzle the wicked with a prospect of security, and to incite them to purchase an indemnity for one crime, by the perpetration of another. It is a bill to confound the notions of right and wrong, to violate the essence of our constitution, and to leave us without any certain security for our properties, or rule for our actions. Nor are the particular parts less defective than the general foundation; for it is full of ambiguous promises, vague ideas, and indeterminate expressions, of which some have been already particularized by the noble lords that have spoken on this occasion, whose observations I shall not repeat, nor endeavour to improve; but cannot forbear proposing to the advocates for the bill one sentence, that it may be explained by them, and that at least we may not pass what we do not understand. In the inquiry into the conduct of the earl of ORFORD, every man, as we have already seen, is invited to bring his evidence, and to procure an indemnity, by answering such questions as shall be asked, _touching or concerning the said inquiry, or relative thereto_. What is to be understood by this last sentence, I would willingly be informed; I would hear how far the _relation_ to the inquiry is designed to be extended, with what other _inquiries_ it is to be complicated, and where the chain of interrogatories is to have an end. When an evidence appears before the committee, how can he be certain that the questions asked are _relative to the inquiry?_ How can he be certain that they are such as he may procure an indemnity by resolving? Or whether they are not unconnected with the principal question, and therefore insidious and dangerous? And to what power must he appeal, if he should be prosecuted afterwards upon his own confession, on pretence that it was not _relative to the inquiry?_ Expressions like these, my lords, if they are not the effects of malicious hurry, and negligent animosity, must be intended to vest the committee with absolute authority, with the award of life and death, by leaving to them the liberty to explain the statute at their own pleasure, to contract or enlarge the relation to the controversy, to inquire without bounds, and judge without control. Thus, my lords, I have laid before you my opinion of this bill without any partial regard, without exaggerating the ill consequences that may be feared from it, or endeavouring to elude any reasoning by which it has been defended. I have endeavoured to pursue the arguments of the noble lord who spoke first, and to show that it is founded upon false notions of criminal justice, that it proposes irrational and illegal methods of trial, that it will produce consequences fatal to our constitution, and establish a precedent of oppression. I have endeavoured, in examining the arguments by which the bill has been defended, to show that the rights of the publick are ascertained, and that the power of the majority is to be limited by moral considerations; and to prove, in discussing its particular parts, that it is inaccurate, indeterminate, and unintelligible. What effects my inquiry may have had upon your lordships, yourselves only can tell; for my part, the necessity of dwelling so long upon the question, has added new strength to my conviction; and so clearly do I now see the danger and injustice of a law like this, that though I do not imagine myself indued with any peculiar degree of heroism, I believe, that if I were condemned to a choice so disagreeable, I should more willingly suffer by such a bill passed in my own case, than consent to pass it in that of another. The duke of ARGYLE replied to the following effect:--My lords, I am not yet able to discover that the bill now before us is either illegal or absurd, that its interpretation is doubtful, or its probable consequences dangerous. The indisputable maxim, that _the publick has a right to every man's evidence,_ has been explained away with much labour, and with more art than a good cause can often require. We have been told of publick contracts, of the rights of society with regard to individuals, and the privileges of individuals with respect to society; we have had one term opposed to another, only to amuse our attention; and law, reason, and sophistry have been mingled, till common sense was lost in the confusion. But, my lords, it is easy to disentangle all this perplexity of ideas, and to set truth free from the shackles of sophistry, by observing that it is, in all civilized nations of the world, one of the first principles of the constitution, that the publick has a right, always reserved, of having recourse to extraordinary methods of proceeding, when the happiness of the community appears not sufficiently secured by the known laws. Laws may, by those who have made the study and explanation of them the employment of their lives, be esteemed as the great standard of right; they may be habitually reverenced, and considered as sacred in their own nature, without regard to the end which they are designed to produce. But others, my lords, whose minds operate without any impediment from education, will easily discover, that laws are to be regarded only for their use; that the power which made them only for the publick advantage ought to alter or annul them, when they are no longer serviceable, or when they obstruct those effects which they were intended to promote. I will, therefore, my lords, still assert, that _the publick has a right to every man's evidence;_ and that to reject any bill which can have no other consequence than that of enabling the nation to assert its claim, to reconcile one principle of law with another, and to deprive villany of an evasion which may always be used, is to deny justice to an oppressed people, and to concur in the ruin of our country. And farther, my lords, I confidently affirm it has not been proved, that this bill can endanger any but the guilty; nor has it been shown that it is drawn up for any other purpose than that which the noble lord mentioned, of hindering _an inquiry from being impossible;_ it may, therefore, justly be required from those who affect, on this occasion, so much tenderness for liberty, so many suspicions of remote designs, and so much zeal for our constitution, to demonstrate, that either an inquiry may be carried on by other means, or that an inquiry is itself superfluous or improper. Though none of those who have spoken against the bill have been willing to expose themselves to universal indignation, by declaring that they would gladly obstruct the progress of the inquiry; that they designed to throw a mist over the publick affairs, and to conceal from the people the causes of their misery; and though I have no right to charge those who differ from me in opinion, with intentions, which, as they do not avow them, cannot be proved; this, however, I will not fear to affirm, that those who are for rejecting this method of inquiry, would consult their honour by proposing some other equally efficacious; lest it should be thought; by such as have not any opportunities of knowing their superiority to temptations, that they are influenced by some motives which they are not willing to own, and that they are, in secret, enemies to the inquiry, though, in publick, they only condemn the method of pursuing it. The duke of NEWCASTLE next rose, and spoke to this effect:--My lords, the arguments which have been produced in defence of the bill before us, however those who offer them may be influenced by them, have made, hitherto, very little impression upon me; my opinion of the impropriety and illegality of this new method of prosecution, still continues the same; nor can it be expected that I should alter it, till those reasons have been answered which have been offered by the noble lord who spoke first in the debate. The advocates for the bill seem, indeed, conscious of the insufficiency of their arguments, and have, therefore, added motives of another kind; they have informed us, that our power subsists upon our reputation, and that our reputation can only be preserved by concurring in the measures recommended by the commons; they have insinuated to us, that he who obstructs this bill, will be thought desirous to obstruct the inquiry, to conspire the ruin of his country, and to act in confederacy with publick robbers. But, my lords, whether the nation is really exasperated to such a degree as is represented, whether it is the general opinion of mankind that the publick affairs have been unfaithfully administered, and whether this bill has been dictated by a desire of publick justice, or of private revenge, I have not thought it necessary to inquire; having long learned to act in consequence of my own conviction, not of the opinions of others, at least, not of those who determine upon questions which they cannot understand, and judge without having ever obtained an opportunity of examining. Such, my lords, must be the opinions of the people upon questions of policy, opinions not formed by reflection, but adopted from those whom they sometimes, with very little reason, imagine nearer spectators of the government than themselves, and in whom they place an implicit confidence, on account of some casual act of popularity. I shall not, therefore, think the demands of the people a rule of conduct, nor shall ever fear to incur their resentment in the prosecution of their interest. I shall never flatter their passions to obtain their favour, or gratify their revenge for fear of their contempt. The inconstancy, my lords, of publick applause, all of us have observed, and many of us have experienced; and we know that it is very far from being always the reward of merit. We know that the brightest character may be easily darkened by calumny; that those who are labouring for the welfare of the publick, may be easily represented as traitors and oppressors; and that the people may quickly be persuaded to join in the accusation. That the people, however deceived, have a right to accuse whomsoever they suspect, and that their accusation ought to be heard, I do not deny; but surely, my lords, the opinion of the people is not such a proof of guilt as will justify a method of prosecution never known before, or give us a right to throw down the barriers of liberty, and punish by power those whom we cannot convict by law. Let any of your lordships suppose himself by some accident exposed to the temporary malice of the populace, let him imagine his enemies inflaming them to a demand of a prosecution, and then proposing that he should be deprived of the common methods of defence, and that evidence should be hired against him, lest the publick should be disappointed, and he will quickly discover the unreasonableness of this bill. I suppose no man will deny, that methods of prosecution introduced on one occasion, may be practised on another; and that in the natural rotations of power, the same means may be used for very different ends. Nothing is more probable, my lords, if a bill of this kind should be ever passed, in compliance with the clamours of the people, to punish ministers, and to awe the court, than that it may in time, if a wicked minister should arise, be made a precedent for measures by which the court may intimidate the champions of the people; by which those may be pursued to destruction, who have been guilty of no other crime than that of serving their country in a manner which those who are ignorant of the circumstances of affairs, happen to disapprove. The measures now proposed, my lords, are, therefore, to be rejected, because it is evident that they will establish a precedent, by which virtue may at any time be oppressed, but which can be very seldom necessary for the detection of wickedness; since there is no probability that it will often happen, that a man really guilty of enormous crimes can secure himself from discovery, or connect others with him in such a manner, that they cannot impeach him without betraying themselves. But, my lords, whenever virtue is to be persecuted, whenever false accusations are to be promoted, this method is incontestably useful; for no reward can so efficaciously prevail upon men who languish in daily fear of publick justice, as a grant of impunity. It may be urged, my lords, I own, that all inquiries into futurity are idle speculations; that the expedient proposed is proper on the present occasion, and that no methods of justice are to be allowed, if the possibility of applying them to bad purposes, is a sufficient reason for rejecting them. But to this, my lords, it may be answered with equal reason, that every process of law is likewise, in some degree, defective; that the complications of circumstances are variable without end, and, therefore, cannot be comprised in any certain rule; and that we must have no established method of justice, if we cannot be content with such as may possibly be sometimes eluded. And, my lords, it may be observed farther, that scarcely any practice can be conceived, however generally unreasonable and unjust, which may not be sometimes equitable and proper; and that if we are to lay aside all regard to futurity, and act merely with regard to the present exigence, it may be often proper to violate every part of our constitution. This house may sometimes have rejected bills beneficial to the nation; and if this reasoning be allowed, it might have been wise and just in the commons and the emperour to have suspended our authority by force, to have voted us useless on that occasion, and have passed the law without our concurrence. With regard to the establishment of criminal prosecutions, as well as to our civil rights, we are, my lords, to consider what is, upon the whole, most for the advantage of the publick; we are not to admit practices which may be sometimes useful, but may be often pernicious, and which suppose men better or wiser than they are. We do not grant absolute power to a wise and moderate prince, because his successours may inherit his power without his virtues; we are not to trust or allow new methods of prosecution upon an occasion on which they may seem useful, because they may be employed to purposes very different from those for which they were introduced. Thus, my lords, I have shown the impropriety of the bill now before us, upon the most favourable supposition that can possibly be made; a supposition of the guilt of the noble person against whom it is contrived. And surely, my lords, what cannot even in that case be approved, must, if we suppose him innocent, be detested. That he is really innocent, my lords, that he is only blackened by calumny, and pursued by resentment, cannot be more strongly proved than by the necessity to which his enemies are reduced, of using expedients never heard of in this nation before, to procure accusations against him; expedients which they cannot show to have been at any time necessary for the punishment of a man really wicked, and which, by bringing guilt and innocence into the same danger, leave us at liberty to imagine, that he is clear from the crimes imputed to him, even in the opinion of those who pursue him with the fiercest resentment, and the loudest clamours. It may well be imagined, my lords, that those whom he has so long defeated by his abilities, see themselves now baffled by his innocence; and that they only now persecute his character, to hide the true reason for which they formerly attacked his power. I hope, my lords, I shall be easily forgiven for observing, that this is a testimony of uncorrupted greatness, more illustrious than any former minister has ever obtained; for when was it known, my lords, that after a continuance of power for twenty years, any man, when his conduct became the subject of publick examination, was without accusers? I cannot, for my part, but congratulate the noble person upon his triumph over malice; malice assisted by subtilty and experience, by wealth and power, which is at length obliged to confess its impotence, to call upon us to assist it with new laws, to enable it to offer a reward for evidence against him, and throw down the boundaries of natural justice, that he may be harassed, censured, and oppressed, upon whom it cannot be proved that he ever deviated from the law, or employed his power for any other end than the promotion of the publick happiness. Had the officers of the crown, my lords, when his influence was represented so great, and his dominion so absolute, projected any such measures for his defence; had they proposed to silence his opponents by calling them to a trial, and offered a stated price for accusations against them, how loudly would they have been charged with the most flagrant violation of the laws, and the most open disregard of the rights of nature; with how much vehemence would it have been urged, that they were intoxicated with their success, and that in the full security of power they thought themselves entitled to neglect the great distinctions of right and wrong, and determined to employ the law for the completion of those purposes, in which justice would give them no assistance. I doubt not that your lordships will easily perceive, that this censure is equally just in either case; that you will not allow any man to be prosecuted by methods which he ought not to have used in his own case; that you will not expose any man to hardships, from which every other member of the community is exempt; that you will not suffer any man to be tried by hired evidence; and that you will not condemn him whom the law acquits. Lord BATHURST spoke next, in substance as follows:--My lords, the question under our consideration has been so long and so accurately debated, that little can be added to the arguments on either side; and therefore, though I think it necessary on so important an occasion, to make a solemn declaration of my opinion, I shall endeavour to support it, not so much by any arguments of my own, as by a recapitulation and comparison of those which have been already heard by your lordships. It has not been denied, that the punishment of crimes is absolutely necessary to the publick security; and as it is evident, that crimes cannot be punished unless they are detected, it must be allowed, that the discovery of wicked measures ought to be, in a very great degree, the care of those who are intrusted with the government of the nation; nor can they better discharge their trust, than by defeating the artifices of intrigue, and blocking up the retreats of guilt. This, likewise, my lords, is admitted with such restrictions as seem intended to preclude any advantage that might be drawn from the appearance of a concession; for it is urged, that guilt is not to be detected by any methods which are not just, and that no methods are just which are not usual. The first position, my lords, I have no intention to controvert; as it is not to violate justice, but to preserve it from violation, that this bill has been projected or defended. But, my lords, it is to be observed, that they who so warmly recommend the strictest adherence to justice, seem not fully to understand the duty which they urge. To do justice, my lords, is to act with impartiality, to banish from the mind all regard to personal motives, and to consider every question in its whole extent, without suffering the attention to be restrained to particular circumstances, or the judgment to be obstructed by partial affection. This rule, my lords, seems not to have been very carefully observed, by the most vehement advocates for justice in the case before us; for they appear not to be solicitous that any should receive justice, but the person mentioned in the bill; they do not remember, that the publick has cried out for justice more than twenty years; for justice, which has not yet been obtained, and which can be obtained only by the method now proposed. It is necessary, my lords, for those who are so watchful against the breach of justice, to prove that any means can be unjust which have no other tendency than the detection of wickedness, of wickedness too artful or too powerful to be punished by the common rules of law. The introduction of new methods of prosecution, is the natural consequence of new schemes of villany, or new arts of evasion; nor is it necessary that precedents should be produced, when the wisdom of the legislature concurs in acknowledging the necessity of extraordinary measures. Though our constitution is in the highest degree excellent, I never yet heard that it was perfect, and whatever is not perfect may be improved. Our laws, however wise, are yet the contrivance of human policy; and why should we despair of adding somewhat to that which we inherit from our ancestors? Why should we imagine, that they anticipated every contingency, and left nothing for succeeding ages? I think, my lords, with the highest regard both of our laws, and those by whom they were enacted, but I look with no less veneration on this illustrious assembly; I believe your lordships equal to your progenitors in abilities; and therefore, since you cannot but outgo them in experience, am confident that you may make improvements in the fabrick which they have erected; that you may adorn it with new beauties, or strengthen it with new supports. It cannot, at least, be denied, that your lordships have all the power of your ancestors; and since every law was once new, it is certain they were far from imagining that there was always a necessity of inquiring after precedents. If the argument drawn from the want of precedents be now of any force, let it be proved that its force was less in any former reign; and let it be considered how our government could have attained its present excellence, had this house, instead of applying to every grievance its proper remedy, been amused with turning over journals, and looking upon every new emergence for precedents, of which it is certain that there must have been a time in which they were not to be found. In all regulations established by the legislature, it is sufficient that they do not produce confusion by being inconsistent with former laws, that they unite easily with our constitution, and do not tend to the embarrassment of the machine of government. This consideration, my lords, has been in a very remarkable manner regarded by those who drew up the bill before us; a bill of which the noble duke has proved, that it will be so far from perplexing our judicial proceedings, that it will reconcile the law to itself, and free us from the necessity of obeying one precept by the neglect of another. The arguments of the noble duke are such as, in my opinion, cannot be answered, or heard impartially without conviction. The maxims quoted by him are each of them incontestably true; they are, on this occasion, incompatible; and this is the only method by which they can be reconciled. Nor has he only shown the propriety of the bill by irrefragable reasons, but has proved, likewise, that it is consistent, not only with the constitution of our government, but with the practice of our ancestors; he has shown, that it may be supported not only by reason, but by bills of the same kind, enacted on occasions of far less importance. He has proved, my lords, all that the most scrupulous inquirer can wish; he has made it evident, that the bill would be proper, though it were unprecedented; he has produced many precedents in support of it, and has thereby evinced, that the only present question is, whether it is just? To the precedents alleged by him, it has been objected, that they differ in some particulars. But when, my lords, did any two actions, however common, agree in every circumstance? Relations may be complicated without end, and every new complication produces new appearances, which, however, are always to be disregarded, while the constituent principles remain unvaried. If we consider the difficulties in which the opponents of the bill have involved themselves, it will not be easy to think well of a cause, which gives birth to such wild assertions, and extravagant opinions. They have first, by requiring precedents, determined, that our constitution must be henceforward for ever at a stand; and then, by declaring that no precedents are of any weight, in which every circumstance is not parallel to the case in debate, have debarred us from the repetition of any occasional law; they have declared, almost in plain terms, themselves useless, and destroyed that authority at once, which they seem so much afraid of communicating to the commons. But, by none of their arts of subtle distinction, my lords, have they been able to evade the argument which arises from the conformity of this bill to the common practice of our courts; an argument, which has produced no other answer than loud declamations; against the indecency of comparing with pickpockets and highwaymen, a noble person, a minister of acknowledged merit, long graced with the favour of his sovereign, and long invested with the highest trust. I, my lords, am very far from pleasing myself with licentious or indecent language; I am far from envying any man that exaltation which he obtains either by good or by bad actions; and have no inclination of levelling the person, whose conduct I desire to see examined, with the profligate or infamous. Yet I cannot forbear to observe, that high rank is an aggravation of villany; that to have enjoyed the favour of his sovereign, is no defence of him that has abused it; and that high trust is an honour only to that man, who, when he lays down his office, dares stand an inquiry. Had there been no precedent in our judicial proceedings, my lords, which bore any resemblance to this bill, there would not from thence have arisen any just objection. Common proceedings are established for common occasions; and it seems to have been the principle of our ancestors, that it is better to give ten guilty persons an opportunity of escaping justice, than to punish one innocent person by an unjust sentence. A principle which, perhaps, might not be erroneous in common cases, in which only one individual was injured by another, or when the trial was, by the law, committed to a common jury, who might easily be misled. They might likewise imagine, my lords, that a criminal, encouraged by a fortunate escape to a repetition of his guilt, would undoubtedly some time fall into the hands of the law, though not extended on purpose to seize him; and, therefore, they constituted their proceedings in such a manner, that innocence might at least not be entrapped, though guilt should sometimes gain a reprieve. But in the present case, my lords, every circumstance requires a different conduct. By the crimes which this bill is intended to detect, not single persons, or private families, but whole nations, and all orders of men have long been injured and oppressed; and oppressed with such success, that the criminal has no temptation to renew his practices; nor is there any danger of an erroneous sentence, because the trial will be heard by this house, by persons whose integrity sets them above corruption, and whose wisdom will not be deceived by false appearances. This consideration, my lords, affords an unanswerable reply to those who represent the bill as ill-concerted, because the evidence to be procured by it, is the testimony of men, partners, by their own confession, in the crimes which they reveal. Every court, my lords, examines the credibility of a witness; and the known corruption of these men may be properly pleaded at the trial, where your lordships will balance every circumstance with your known impartiality, and examine how far every assertion is invalidated by the character of the witness, and how far it is confirmed by a corroboratory concurrence of known events, or supported by other testimonies not liable to the same exception. Thus, my lords, it may be observed how quickly the clouds are dispersed with which interest or perverseness have endeavoured to obscure the truth, and how easily the strongest objections which the greatest abilities could raise against this bill are confuted, or how apparently, when they are closely examined, they confute themselves. One of the objections that requires no answer is that which has been raised with regard to the extent of the indemnity offered in the bill, which, in the opinion of those that opposed it, ought to be restrained to particular persons. But that it is chiefly, if not solely, intended to be applied to those who have refused to answer the questions of the committee, I believe every lord in this house is fully convinced; it was, however, necessary to draw it up in general terms, lest other artifices might have been employed, and lest, by pointing out particular persons, opportunity might have been given to deprive the publick of their evidence, by prevailing upon them to withdraw. The bill was justly styled, by a noble lord, a bill to prevent _an inquiry from being impossible_. The difficulty of inquiries for the publick is well known; and the difficulty arises chiefly from the inability of the people to reward their advocates, or their evidence. The state of the court, my lords, is very different; the crown can not only pardon, but advance those that have, on any occasion, promoted its interest; and I hope it will not be too much power to be for once granted to the people, if they are empowered to throw a simple indemnification into the balance, and try whether with the slight addition of truth, and reason, and justice, it will be able to weigh down titles, and wealth, and power. It has been urged, that there is danger lest this bill should become a precedent. I hope, my lords, the same occasion will not often happen; and whenever it shall hereafter occur, the precedent of passing the bill will be much less dangerous than that of rejecting it. I hope it is not necessary to say more on this occasion; yet I cannot forbear to remind some lords of the fatal consequences which at critical conjunctures they have often dreaded, or appeared to dread, from a disagreement of this house with the commons. At this time, in which the nation is engaged in war, when the whole continent is one general scene of discord and confusion; when the wisest counsels, the firmest unanimity, and the most vigorous measures are apparently necessary, it might not be improper to reflect, how unseasonably we shall irritate the commons by rejecting this bill, and how justly we shall exasperate the people, by showing them that their complaints and remonstrances are of no weight; that they must expect the redress of their grievances from some other power; and that we prefer the impunity of one man to the happiness and safety of the publick. Lord ISLAY spoke next to the following purpose:--My lords, as there has in this debate been very frequent mention of extraordinary cases, of new modes of wickedness, which require new forms of procedure, and new arts of eluding justice, which make new methods of prosecution necessary, I cannot forbear to lay before your lordships my sentiments on this question; sentiments not so much formed by reflection as impressed by experience, and which I owe not to any superiour degree of penetration into future events, but to subsequent discoveries of my own errours. I have observed, my lords, that in every collision of parties, that occasion on which their passions are inflamed, is always termed an extraordinary conjuncture, an important crisis of affairs, either because men affect to talk in strong terms of the business in which they are engaged, for the sake of aggrandizing themselves in their own opinion and that of the world, or because the present object appears greatest to their sight by intercepting others, and that is imagined by them to be really most important in itself, by which their own pleasure is most affected. On these extraordinary occasions, my lords, the victorious have always endeavoured to secure their conquest, and to gratify their passions by new laws, by laws, even in the opinion of those by whom they are promoted, only justifiable by the present exigence. And no sooner has a new rotation of affairs given the superiority to another party, than another law, equally unreasonable and equally new, is found equally necessary for a contrary purpose. Thus is our constitution violated by both, under the pretence of securing it from the attack of each other, and lasting evils have been admitted for the sake of averting a temporary danger. I have been too long acquainted with mankind to charge any party with insincerity in their conduct, or to accuse them of affecting to represent their disputes as more momentous than they appeared to their own eyes. I know, my lords, how highly every man learns to value that which he has long contended for, and how easily every man prevails upon himself to believe the security of the publick complicated with his own. I have no other intention in these remarks, than to show how men are betrayed into a concurrence in measures, of which, when the ardour of opposition has subsided, and the imaginary danger is past, they have very seldom failed to repent. I do not remember, my lords, any deviation from the established order of our constitution, which has not afterwards produced remorse in those that advised it. I have known many endeavour to obviate the evils that might be produced by the precedents which they have contributed to establish, by publick declarations of their repentance, and acknowledgments of their errour; and, for my part, I take this opportunity of declaring, that though I have more than once promoted extraordinary bills, I do not recollect one which I would not now oppose, nor one of which experience has not shown me, that the danger is greater than the benefit. I have learned, at length, my lords, that our constitution has been so formed by the wisdom of our ancestors, that it is able to protect itself by its own powers, without any assistance from temporary expedients, which, like some kinds of medicines in the human body, may give it the appearance of uncommon vigour, but which, in secret, prey upon its noblest parts, and hurry it to a sudden decay. But none of all the measures into which I have seen parties precipitated by acrimony and impetuosity, have I known parallel to the bill which is now defended in this house; a bill which I hope we shall have reason to term the wildest effort of misguided zeal, and the most absurd project that the enthusiasm of faction ever produced. The particular clauses of this bill have been already examined with great acuteness and penetration, and have all been shown to be absurd or useless. I shall, therefore, only add this observation, that the indemnification, however liberally offered, will be wholly, at the disposal of those who shall receive the examinations, by whom, when such discoveries are not made as they may happen to expect, the witnesses may be charged with reserve and insincerity, and be prosecuted for those crimes which could never have been known but by their own confession. It is not impossible, but that if the bait of indemnification shall be found insufficient to produce testimonies against the noble person, a bill of pains and penalties may be attempted, to terrify those who are too wise to be ensnared by specious promises; for what may not be expected from those who have already sent their fellow-subjects to prison, only for refusing to accuse themselves? Nor can I discover, my lords, how the most abandoned villains will be hindered from procuring indemnity by perjury, or what shall exclude a conspirator against the life and government of his majesty from pardon, if he swears, that in a plot for setting the pretender on the throne, he was assisted by the counsels of the earl of ORFORD. It has, indeed, been in some degree granted, that the bill requires some amendment, by proposing that the necessary alterations may be made to such parts of it as shall appear defective to the committee, which would, indeed, be highly expedient, if only some particular clauses were exceptionable; but, my lords, the intention of the bill is cruel and oppressive; the measures by which that intention is promoted are contrary to law, and without precedent; and the original principle is false, as it supposes a criminal previous to the crime. It is urged as the most pressing argument by the advocates for the bill, that it ought to be passed to gratify the people. I know not, my lords, upon what principles those who plead so earnestly for rigid justice, can endeavour to influence our decisions by any other motives; or why they think it more equitable to sacrifice any man to the resentment of the people, than to the malice of any single person; nor can conceive why it should be thought less criminal to sell our voices for popularity than for preferment. As this is, therefore, my lords, a bill contrary to all former laws, and inconsistent with itself; as it only tends to produce a bad end by bad means, and violates the constitution not to relieve, but to oppress; as the parts, singly considered, are defective, and the whole grounded upon a false principle; it neither requires any longer debate, nor deserves any farther consideration; it is rather to be detested than criticised, and to be rejected without any superfluous attempt for its amendment. [The aforementioned lords were all who spoke in this debate. The question being then put, Whether the bill should be committed? It passed in the negative. Content 47, Proxies 10.--57. Not content 92, Proxies 17.--109. But a protest was entered on this occasion, signed by twenty-eight lords; the former part of it was drawn from the speech of the duke of ARGYLE, and the latter part of it from that of lord CARTERET.] HOUSE OF LORDS, MAY 20, 1742. ON THE SECURITY AND PROTECTION OF TRADE AND NAVIGATION. The same day that the lords read a first time the indemnification bill, they read also, for the first time, a bill sent from the commons, entitled, _An Act for the better protecting and securing the trade and navigation of this kingdom in time of war_. As this bill had a remarkable rise, passed the commons without a division, and the end proposed by it was so commendable, it may be proper to give some account of it before we proceed to the debate thereon in the house of lords. It may be remembered, that we have mentioned great cause of complaint on account of the losses sustained by the British merchants from the enemy's privateers, who were not sufficiently checked. The merchants and traders of London, Bristol, and other cities, having applied to the administration in vain, presented petitions to both houses, setting forth, among other things, "that notwithstanding the growing insolence of the Spanish privateers, the applications of the suffering merchants for protection and redress, had been neglected; that numbers of his majesty's most useful subjects have been reduced to want and imprisonment, or, compelled by inhuman treatment, and despairing of a cartel for the exchange of prisoners, had enlisted in the service of Spain; that there had been various neglects and delays in the appointment of convoys, and some of the commanders of the few that had been granted, deserted the ships under their care at sea, and left them as a prey to the enemy," etc. One petition farther says, "That the want of ships of force properly stationed, encouraged the enemy to increase the number of their privateers." Another, "That most of the captures were almost on our coast, in the Channel and soundings, at a time when the naval force of Britain was greater than ever was known, a few ships of which might have ruined the enemy's privateers." One set of the petitioners apprehend, "that most of the captures might have been prevented, had a few ships been properly stationed on this side cape Finisterre, and the commanders kept to the strictest duty." Other petitioners "are not a little alarmed, not only at the increase and number of the Spanish privateers lately equipped, but at the unexpected great strength the enemy have lately shown in the Mediterranean, by which their trade must become more precarious than ever." The last petition delivered in was from the mayor, aldermen, and commons of the city of London, setting forth, "that they had seen a powerful and well-provided fleet remain inactive in our own ports, or more ingloriously putting to sea, without the appearance of any enterprise in view; while our trading vessels were daily exposed to the privateers of an inconsiderable port, and a feeble enemy holds our naval power in derision, to the ruin of trade, the enriching the enemy, and the disgrace of the British name." Their general request is, "that they may have regular convoys, and that the commanders be ordered not to desert their charge when in danger, that cruisers be properly stationed, subject to such inspection as shall best answer the end designed." They all concluded with praying, "that the house would make such provision for the future security of the navigation and commerce of these kingdoms as they shall think fit." The petitions were severally referred to the consideration of a committee of the whole house, and the following orders made for necessary papers to be laid before the house. 1. An account of his majesty's ships of war which have been employed since the beginning of last year, as cruisers for the protection of the trade of this kingdom on this side cape Finisterre, the stations of such ships, and how long ordered to continue thereupon, with the times of their going to sea, and their returning into port; when such ships were cleared, and which of them tallowed, and when respectively. 2. The journals of the commanders of such of his majesty's ships of war as have been employed since the commencement of the present war, as cruisers for the protection of trade on this side cape Finisterre. 3. An account of the ships of war built in any of his majesty's yards, which have been launched since July, 1739, the times when launched, when first put to sea, and on what services employed. 4. An account of the ships of war built in private yards for his majesty's service, in the said time; distinguishing the times when contracted for, when launched, when first put to sea, and on what services employed. 5. An account of the ships and vessels purchased for his majesty's service since the said time, distinguishing when purchased, when first put to sea, and what services employed in. 6. An account of the ships of war appointed as convoys to the trade of this kingdom to foreign parts, since the commencement of the present war, distinguishing the ships appointed, and the particular services, together with the notices given to the traders of the time prefixed for their sailing, and the times they sailed respectively. 7. That his majesty be addressed for the report of the commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral to his majesty in council, upon the petition of the merchants, relating to their losses during the war, to be laid before the house. 8. That the schoolmaster and a mariner on board his majesty's ship, the Duke, do attend the said committee. Six days after these orders passed, the said accounts and report were presented to the house by the secretary of the admiralty. There were also laid before them copies of above one hundred letters, from and to the secretary of state, admirals, ambassadours, consuls, commanders of his majesty's ships, and trading vessels; from the commissioners of the sick and hurt seamen, with heads of a cartel for exchange of prisoners; and memorials and representations from merchants. Also a list of ships taken since the commencement of the war, and of the prisoners made by the enemy, also letters from several of them relating to their treatment, and from the captain-general of the province where the said seamen were imprisoned, relating to an exchange; several certificates and depositions, and a proposal by the lords of the admiralty for a general exchange of prisoners; also copies of the orders of the commissioners of admiralty to captains and commanders on the enemy's coast. Petitions from the wives of seamen taken prisoners; letters to and from the principal officers of the enemy, prisoners in Britain, relating to the exchange. Certificates of the discharge of several prisoners, by the enemy, on promise that a like number of the prisoners in Britain should be discharged. The secretary of the Admiralty also laid before the house a book of the regulations and instructions relating to the sea-service, established by his majesty in council. These requisites being laid before the house of commons, they went into a committee on the twenty-third day of their sitting, heard one of the petitioners, several witnesses, and desired to sit again. In the mean time were presented to the house seventeen other letters concerning sea affairs, and an account when the East India company first applied, since the war began, for a convoy to St. Helena, and when they sailed, and what number of ships came under the said convoy, and on the twenty-fifth day of sitting the committee heard more witnesses. Next day they proceeded, when an account was brought in of the Spanish prisoners released, by what orders, and on what conditions; also an account of the number of seamen employed the last year, distinguishing how many at home, and how many abroad, also of the number of ships and vessels of war, distinguishing the rates. The secretary of the admiralty also presented a list of the names of the merchant ships, and the masters, as have behaved so negligently as to delay the convoys from whom they had taken sailing orders, or that have abandoned the same, or that have been any ways disobedient to the instructions established for good government, with the narration of the facts since the beginning of the war. Also copies of the reasons given, in writing, by such commanders of his majesty's ships as have been appointed in this war as cruisers on this side cape Finisterre, for leaving their stations, or for coming into port, before the time required by their orders, which papers were sixty-one in number. All which were referred to the said committee, and then they heard some other evidence, and after farther proceeding desired leave to sit again. Next day the secretary of the admiralty presented copies of all applications for convoys for ships and cruisers, and what was done thereon, which papers were above forty, of which eight were petitions to get convoys for single ships. All which papers and accounts were referred to the said committee, which was to proceed again on the twenty-eighth day, but the houses were desired to adjourn for fifteen days. When the house met again, the said secretary presented copies of all complaints made since the war began, to the commissioners of the admiralty, against, or relating to commanders leaving the trade under their convoy, or their stations, or for impressing seamen out of outward-bound ships after clearance, or homeward-bound before they reached their port, or for other misbehaviour, or injury done by them to trade, with an account of what has been done thereupon. These papers, including the complaints and the orders given thereupon, which are much the greater part, with justifications from the commanders, were in number forty; but we ought not to omit that amongst them there is a representation of the Portugal merchants in favour of one commander, captain Ambrose, who had taken several of the enemy's privateers. On the thirty-third day of sitting were presented, from the office for the sick and wounded seamen, copies of the returns from such persons as have been empowered to pay his majesty's bounty to the British subjects, prisoners in the ports of Spain, distinguishing the number of men paid each month, and what ships they belonged to, and when taken. Also an account of the number of men who have been put sick on shore from his majesty's ships, into the hospitals last year, distinguishing how many died, and how many were returned to the ships, or run away, or were otherwise disposed of. Which papers were referred to the said committee, and the house went into it, heard farther evidence, and the chairman desired leave to sit again. Accordingly they proceeded on this affair the thirty-fifth day, and heard farther evidence. On the thirty-seventh day more papers were laid before the house, being three several orders issued by the admiralty to the commanders of his majesty's ships in the ports of Portugal, or such as shall have occasion to put into the said ports; also an estimate of the debt of the navy; which were referred to the said committee, and the house went into it, and came to several resolutions, which were reported the next day, and are as follow. The first resolution was, that it appeared to the committee, that notwithstanding the repeated applications of the merchants for cruisers to be properly stationed for the protection of the trade of this nation from the privateers of Spain, the due and necessary care has not been taken to keep a proper number of his majesty's ships employed in that service, more especially in and near the Channel and soundings; for want of which, many ships had been taken by the enemy, some of them of considerable value, to the great loss of many of his majesty's subjects, the great advantage and encouragement of the enemy, and the dishonour of this nation. II. That the detention of the ships bound to Portugal for near twelve months, by the refusal of protections for some time, and the delay of convoys afterwards, gave our rivals in trade an opportunity of introducing new species of their woollen manufactures into Portugal, to the great detriment of this kingdom. Upon this foundation, the house ordered that a bill be brought in for the better protecting and securing the trade and navigation of this kingdom in times of war; and that the lord mayor of London (since deceased) and sir John BARNARD, do prepare and bring in the same. On the first day of April, being the fifty-ninth of their sitting, the lord mayor of London presented, according to order, a bill for the better protecting and securing the trade and navigation of this kingdom in time of war; and the same was received and read a first time, and ordered to be read a second time, and to be printed. By reason of some omission, we do not find when the bill was read a second time; but, on the seventy-second sitting, a day was appointed to go into a committee on the seventy-ninth, when they did, and made several amendments, which were reported on the eighty-second day, and with amendments to one of them, were agreed to, and ordered to be engrossed. At their eighty-seventh sitting the bill was read a third time and passed, and the lord mayor of London was ordered to carry the bill to the lords, and desire their concurrence. And three days after it was read by their lordships a first time, and is as follows; the words within these marks [ ] showing how the blanks were filled up, and the amendments made in its progress through the house of commons, with notes of the words left out. _An Act for the better protecting and securing of the trade and navigation of this kingdom in times of war._ "Whereas it is necessary, in times of war, that a sufficient number of ships should be appointed, and kept constantly employed, as cruisers, in proper stations, for the protection and security of the trade and navigation of this kingdom; be it enacted by the king's most excellent majesty, by and with the advice and consent of both houses of the senate in this present council assembled, and by the authority of the same, that when and as often as this kingdom shall be engaged in war with any kingdom or state in Europe, (over and above the ships of war for the line of battle, and for convoys to remote parts,) such a number of ships of war as shall be sufficient for the protection and security of the merchant-ships, in their going out and returning home, shall be constantly employed as cruisers, or for convoys, in and near the British Channel and soundings, and in such other stations on this side cape Finisterre, as shall by the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral of Great Britain for the time being, be judged most proper for that purpose; the aforesaid ships of war to be careened at least [three] times in the year, or oftener, if there be occasion; and that the seamen on board any such cruisers shall not be turned over into any other ship or ships, but such only as shall be appointed for cruising, or home convoys, according to the tenour of this act. (2.) "Provided always, and be it enacted by the authority aforesaid, that nothing herein contained shall restrain, or be construed to restrain, the lord high admiral or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral for the time being, from directing any of the ships which shall be appointed to be cruisers in pursuance of this act, to be employed in the line of battle, (in case of great necessity,) on this side cape Finisterre, without whose immediate direction, the said ships shall be always cruising, or employed as home convoys, except when they are careening or refitting. (3.) "And be it enacted by the authority aforesaid, that the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral for the time being, shall, on or before the [first day of July next] authorize and appoint a commissioner of the navy, or some one or more person or persons, who shall constantly reside at such place or places as his majesty shall direct; by virtue of which appointment, such person or persons, in the place or places for which he or they shall be appointed, shall superintend or oversee every thing relating to the aforesaid cruisers; and shall take care that every thing necessary be immediately provided for all and every the aforesaid cruising ships of war, that shall come into any port by stress of weather, or to careen or refit; and as soon as they or any of them are refitted, shall order all or any of the said ships of war to put to sea again as soon as possible. (4.) "And be it farther enacted by the authority aforesaid, that from and after the said [first day of July] if any captain, or other officer on board any of his majesty's ships of war, shall wilfully spring, carry away, or lose any mast or masts of any such ship [Footnote: Left out, _or ships_.], or shall make any false pretence or excuse for leaving the station on which such ship or ships shall be appointed to cruise, or shall return into port before the expiration of the term appointed for his cruise, without just and sufficient reason for so doing, every captain or officer offending in any of the aforesaid cases, [shall be punished by fine, imprisonment, or otherwise, as the offence by a court-martial shall be adjudged to deserve.] (5.) "And to the intent that it may be the more easily known what service the aforesaid cruisers shall every year perform, be it enacted by the authority aforesaid, that the commissioner of the navy in each of the outports, or such person or persons as shall, for that purpose, be appointed by the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral for the time being, shall transmit to him or them, every [three months] a distinct and separate account digested into proper columns, of the time when any of the ships appointed to be cruisers, sailed out of port, when such ship came in, together with the number of days, cast up, that such ship was out upon duty, and the reasons of her putting into port, and the time and reasons of her stay there; with an account how often, and the times when each of the said ships have been careened every year; and that the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral, for the time being, shall cause copies of the said accounts to be laid before both houses of the senate within [eight days] after their meeting. (6.) "And be it farther enacted by the authority aforesaid, that the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral, for the time being, shall, on or before the said [first day of July] nominate and appoint such a number of the ships of war, as shall be sufficient for the purposes aforementioned, to be cruisers or convoys on this side cape Finisterre for the current year; and shall afterwards yearly, and every year, during the present or any future war, between the [first day of November] and the [first day of December] nominate and appoint a sufficient number of ships of war to be cruisers or convoys on this side cape Finisterre for the year ensuing; and as often as any of them shall happen to be taken or lost, shall, as soon as may be, appoint others in the room of every ship so taken or lost. (7.) "And whereas it is of the utmost importance to the trade of this nation, that the captains or commanders of his majesty's ships of war appointed for convoys to and from remote parts, should take due care of the merchant ships committed to their charge; be it, therefore, enacted by the authority aforesaid, that every captain or commander of any of his majesty's ships of war, who, on or after the bill shall commence, shall be appointed convoy or guard to any merchant ships or vessels, or who shall have any merchant ships or vessels under his charge, do and shall diligently attend upon such charge without delay, and in and during the course of the voyage take the utmost care of such merchant ships and vessels, and do and shall every evening see that the whole number of the said merchant ships and vessels under his convoy be in company with him; and in case he shall be obliged in the night time to Jack, or alter his course, or lie-to, that he do and shall make the proper signals, to give the merchant ships and vessels, under his convoy, notice thereof; and if in the morning he shall find any of the said merchant ships and vessels to be missing, he shall use his utmost endeavours to rejoin them, and shall not willingly or negligently sail away from, leave, or forsake such merchant ships or vessels, until he has seen them safe, so far as he shall be directed to convoy them; and in case any of the said merchant ships or vessels shall be in distress, he shall give them all proper and necessary relief and assistance, as far as he is able; and in case any such captain or commanding officer shall refuse or neglect to do all or any of the matters aforesaid, every such captain or commanding officer shall [be condemned to make reparation of the damage to the merchants, owners, and others, as the court of admiralty shall adjudge; and also be punished according to the quality of his offence, as shall be adjudged fit by a court-martial.] (8.) "And whereas it is of the utmost importance to our settlements in America, and the trade thereof [Footnote: Left out, "in time of war."], that the commanders of the ships stationed there, should use their best endeavours for the protection and security of such trade, [and the colonies there;] be it farther enacted by the authority aforesaid, that [Footnote: Left out, "during the continuance of any such war."] none of his majesty's ships, which shall be stationed at any of the said settlements, shall quit or leave their stations under pretence of going to careen or refit, or under any other pretence whatsoever, without an especial order from the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral, (or the commander in chief of his majesty's ships of war in those seas, or in America, [Footnote: These words were added.]) for the time being. [Footnote: Left out, "or unless the commander or commanders of such ship or ships shall be ordered off their station, to be employed in the line of battle in the American seas, which shall not be done, but in cases of the greatest necessity."] (9.) "And to the end that it may appear what service the ships so stationed shall perform, be it enacted by the authority aforesaid, that the captain or commanding officer on board every such ship or vessel, shall keep a distinct and separate account, digested into proper columns, of the times when the said ship or vessel sailed out of port, when such ship or vessel came in, the service she was upon, together with the number of days cast up, that such ship or vessel was out upon such duty, and shall cause the same to be fairly entered in one or more book or books, to be kept for that purpose; such entries to be digested in proper columns, and to be [every six months] transmitted [Footnote: Left out, "together with the duplicates thereof."] to the captain or commanding officer of every such station ship, to the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral for the time being, and shall also send duplicates of the said accounts at the first opportunity. (10.) [Footnote: This clause was added in the committee.] "And be it farther enacted by the authority aforesaid, that the commanders of his majesty's ships of war, on their arrival at any of the said settlements, shall deliver a copy of the orders they shall have received from the lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral of Britain for the time being, so far as they relate to the protection of the said colonies, and of the trade of the said colonies, to the governour and council of the respective colony or plantation where they shall be stationed; which orders shall be entered into the council books of such colony or plantation respectively; and the said governour and council are hereby authorized and empowered to give such directions in writing to the captains and commanders of such stationed ships, as they shall think will be most for the protection and security of their trade: and the said captains and commanders are hereby required to conform to, and observe the same, provided the same do not contradict the instructions they shall have received from the said lord high admiral, or commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral for the time being." HOUSE OF LORDS, JUNE 1, 1742. The bill for the security and protection of trade and navigation being this day read a second time in the house of lords, the earl of WINCHELSEA, who had lately accepted the chair at the admiralty board, rose and spoke as follows: My lords, I know not by what accident the numerous defects and general impropriety of this bill have escaped the attention of the other house; nor is there any necessity for examining the motives upon which it passed, or of inquiring whether its reception was facilitated by the popularity of the title, the influence and authority of those by whom it was proposed, or the imaginary defects of our present regulations, which have been on some occasions represented to be such as it is scarcely possible to change but for the better. The knowledge and experience of those who concurred in sending this bill for your lordships' approbation, cannot but produce some degree of prepossession in its favour; for how can it be imagined, my lords, that men of great abilities and continual opportunities of observation, should not be well versed in questions relating chiefly to their private interest, and discover the nearest way to their own success! And yet, my lords, it will be found that their sagacity has, perhaps, never so apparently forsaken them as on this occasion, that no proposition was ever laid before this house, in which more contracted motives were discovered, and that the bill is such as might rather have been expected from petty traders, unacquainted with the situation of kingdoms, the interests of princes, the arts of policy, the laws of their own country, and the conduct of former wars; than by merchants of extensive traffick, general correspondence, and great attainments. Before I proceed, my lords, to confirm the character of the bill by a distinct consideration of the particular paragraphs, and an enumeration of the several improprieties and defects which may be found in it, I think it not superfluous or unseasonable to remark one general errour, common to this with all other laws of the same kind, the errour of prescribing rules to military operations, of attempting to fix what is, in its own nature, variable, as it must depend upon external causes to which the British legislature has yet found no means of extending its authority. To direct, upon remote conjectures and uncertain prospects, the conduct of a commander, is, in my opinion, my lords, not more rational than to trace upon a chart the course of a ship, and pronounce it criminal to deviate from it. The one supposes a foreknowledge of the motions of the wind, and the other of the counsels of our enemies; nor can any thing be expected from such regulations, but overthrow and disgrace. I believe, my lords, that in running over the histories of the world, and examining the originals of the mightiest empires, and the sudden revolutions which have been produced by the overpowering torrents of war, which, at different periods of time, have swept the powers of the earth before them, it will be found that all rapid conquests, and sudden extensions of empire, have been effected by sovereign princes at the head of armies which acted only by immediate command, that few memorable actions have been performed by delegated commanders, and that of those few whose names have descended to posterity, those have generally been most successful who were invested with the largest powers, who acted without control, and were at liberty to snatch every opportunity, and improve every favourable conjuncture, without any necessity of communicating their schemes, of waiting for the result of tedious deliberations, or of soliciting a relaxation of former orders. But, my lords, though, perhaps, all positive prescriptions of the conduct of military undertakings have a tendency rather to obstruct than promote success, yet as they may be drawn up with different degrees of wisdom and sagacity, they may have a greater or less appearance of usefulness and reason. Such as have been well concerted may afford useful hints, though they ought not to be enacted with indispensable obligations. And to consider even those in which less proofs of skill and foresight can be discovered, may have, at least, this advantage, that the proposals may not be speedily repeated, nor our counsels embarrassed with absurd expedients. I shall, therefore, lay before your lordships my opinion of every paragraph, and show what are the objections which may be raised, both to the whole bill in general, and to its particular clauses. To the bill in general, it must be objected, that it is filled with vague expressions, and ideas so indeterminate, that no man can tell when he has obeyed it. Here are many rules ordered to be observed, when _there shall be no just and sufficient reason_ for neglecting them, and some operations to be performed as often _as there shall be occasion,_ and ships are to cruise in a certain latitude, unless _there is a necessity of employing them elsewhere._ Did not the title of this bill, my lords, give it some claim to a serious consideration; and did not the integrity and capacity of those by whom it was drawn up, exempt them from contempt and ridicule, I should be inclined to treat a law like this with some degree of levity; for who, my lords, can be serious when his consent is desired to a bill, by which it is enacted, that men shall act on certain occasions, as they shall think most expedient? Nor is this, my lords, the only instance of precipitancy and want of consideration, for many of the injunctions are without any penal sanction; so that though we should pass this bill with the greatest unanimity, we should only declare our opinion, or offer our advice, but should make no law, or what, with regard to the purposes of government, is the same, a law which may be broken without danger. But general objections, my lords, will naturally produce general evasions; and a debate may be prolonged without producing any clear view of the subject, or any satisfactory decision of a single question: I shall, therefore, endeavour to range my objections in order, and, by examining singly every paragraph of the bill, show the weakness of some expedients, the superfluity of others, and the general unfitness of the whole to produce the protection and security intended by it. In the first clause alone may be found instances of all the improprieties which I have mentioned to your lordships. It is proposed that in a time of war between this empire and any other state, such a number of ships shall be employed as cruisers or convoys in the Channel, as the admiralty shall judge most proper for that purpose. What is this, my lords, but to continue to the admiralty the power which has been always executed? What is it but to enact that the ships shall be stationed in time of war as the commissioners of the admiralty shall determine and direct? Of these ships, it is farther enacted, that they shall be careened three times a-year, or oftener if there shall be occasion; but it is not declared who shall judge of the necessity of careening, or who shall be punished for the neglect of it when it is requisite, or for the permission or command of it when it is superfluous. There is yet another regulation, my lords, in this clause, which ought not to be passed without remark. It is provided, that the sailors employed in the cruisers and convoys in the Channel, shall not be turned over but to other cruisers and convoys; by which, I suppose, it was intended, that our outguards should be prevented from being weakened, and that our merchants should never be destitute of protection; an end truly laudable, and which deserves to be promoted by some establishment better concerted. The expedient now proposed, seems to have been contrived upon the supposition that the admiralty may not always be very solicitous for the safety of the merchants, and that, therefore, it is necessary to secure them by a law from the danger of being deprived of protection; for, upon the present establishment, the removal of men from one ship to another must be made by the permission of the admiralty; and when the right of such permission shall by this law be taken away, what new security will the merchants obtain? The admiralty will still have the power, though not of turning over the men, yet of recalling the ships, and commerce suffer equally in either case. By the second clause, my lords, there is still a power reserved to the admiralty, of dismissing these guardians of commerce from their stations, and employing them _in case of great necessity_ in the line of battle, on this side cape Finisterre. Not to cavil, my lords, at the term of _great necessity,_ of which it is apparent that the commissioners of the admiralty are to judge, I would desire to be informed what measures are to be taken, if a royal navy should unluckily rove beyond this cape, which is marked out as the utmost bound of the power of the admiralty, and should there be reduced to the necessity of engaging desperately with a superiour force, or retiring ignominiously before it. Are not our ships to pass a single league beyond their limits, in the honour or preservation of their country? Are they to lie unactive within the sound of the battle, and wait for their enemies on this side the cape? The third clause, my lords, is, if not absurd like the former, yet so imperfectly drawn up, that it can produce no advantage; for of what use will it be to station an officer _where his majesty shall think fit?_ At all the royal docks there are officers already stationed, and in any other place what can an officer, deputed by his majesty, do more than hire workmen, who will as cheerfully and as diligently serve any other person? And why may not the captain of the vessel procure necessaries for money, without the assistance of a commissioner? In the fourth clause, my lords, nothing is proposed but what is every day practised, nor any authority conferred upon the court of admiralty, than that which it always possessed, of punishing those who disobey their orders. The provision against the crime of wilfully springing a mast, is at least useless; for when did any man admit that he sprung his mast by design? Or why should it be imagined that such an act of wickedness, such flagrant breach of trust, and apparent desertion of duty, would in the present state of the navy escape the severest punishment? Would not all the officers and mariners on board the ship see that such a thing was wilfully done? Would not they cry out--"You are springing the mast," and prevent it, or discover the crime, and demand punishment? The fifth clause, my lords, is without any penal sanction, and, therefore, cannot be compulsive; nor is any thing of importance proposed in it, which is not already in the power of the senate. Either house may now demand an account of the stations and employments of the ships of war; nor does the senate now omit to examine the conduct of our naval affairs, but because our attention is diverted by more important employments, which will not by this bill be contracted or facilitated. The use of the provision in the sixth clause, my lords, I am not able to conceive; for to what purpose, my lords, should the ships appointed for any particular service be nominated at any stated time? What consequence can such declarations of our designs produce, but that of informing our enemies what force they ought to provide against us? In war, my lords, that commander has generally been esteemed most prudent, who keeps his designs most secret, and assaults the enemy in an unguarded quarter, with superiour and unexpected strength. In the seventh clause, many regulations are prescribed to the commanders of those ships which are appointed to convoy the trading vessels. These regulations, my lords, are not all equally unreasonable, but some of them are such as it may, on many occasions, be impossible for the commanders of his majesty's ships to observe in such a manner as that the masters of merchant ships may not imagine themselves neglected or forsaken. The captain of the convoy may be, therefore, harassed by them with prosecutions, in which it may be difficult to make his innocence appear. The convoy may be sometimes accused of deserting the traders, when the traders in reality have forsaken the convoy, in confidence that they should either arrive safe at the port without protection, or be able, if they should happen to fall into the enemy's hands, to charge their misfortune upon the negligence of their protector. The eighth clause, my lords, is so far from being such as might be expected from merchants, that it seems rather to have been drawn up by men who never saw the sea, nor heard of the violence of a storm. For who that had the slightest idea of the uncertainty and hazard of a sailor's condition, who that had been ever told of a shipwreck, or but looked on the pictures of naval distress, would propose that no ship should retire to a harbour, or quit the station to which it was assigned, _on any pretence whatsoever_ without permission, which sometimes could not be obtained in many months, and which never could be received soon enough to allow of a remedy for sudden disasters, or pressing calamities. It might with equal reason be enacted, that no man should extinguish a fire without an act of the senate, or repel a thief from his window, without a commission of array. It is happy, my lords, that this clause is not enforced by a penalty, and, therefore, can never have the obligatory sanction of a law; but since it may reasonably be supposed, that the authors of it intended that the observation should be by some means or other enjoined, let us examine how much security it would add to our navigation, and how much strength to our naval power, if the breach of it had been made capital, which is in itself by no means unreasonable; for what punishment less than death can secure the observation of a law, which, without the hazard of life, cannot be obeyed? Let us, therefore, my lords, suppose a crew of gallant sailors surprised in their cruise by such a hurricane as is frequent in the American seas, which the highest perfection of skill, and the utmost exertion of industry has scarcely enabled them to escape; let us consider them now with their masts broken, their ship shattered, and their artillery thrown into the sea, unable any longer either to oppose an enemy, or to resist the waves, and yet forbidden to approach the land, and cut off from all possibility of relief, till they have represented their distress to some distant power, and received a gracious permission to save their lives. Misery like this, my lords, admits no exaggeration, nor need I dwell long on the absurdity of establishing regulations which cannot be observed, and which if they were enforced by any sanctions, proportioned, as all penal sanctions ought to be, to the temptations of violating them, must drive all our sailors into foreign service, or urge them, upon the first distress, to defiance of law, and fill America with pirates, and with rebels. By the ninth clause, my lords, nothing is proposed but a relaxation of the present discipline. It requires, that the commanders of ships of war shall send only once in six months those accounts of their conduct and their service, which they are at present obliged to transmit by every ship that returns from America; so that by passing this bill, we shall only be disabled from receiving regular and seasonable informations of the transactions of our distant squadrons and colonies, shall be disturbed with groundless suspicions, and tortured with unnecessary suspense. I have arrived at length at the last clause, a clause, my lords, worthy to be the concluding paragraph of a bill like this; a clause in which the power of the admiralty is communicated to the governours of our colonies; men, my lords, not hitherto much celebrated for their superiour wisdom, moderation, or integrity; of whom, at least, it is no reproach to assert, that they are known to be, for the most part, wholly unacquainted with maritime affairs, and very little famed for military knowledge; and of whom it is above all to be considered, that they generally commence merchants at their arrival in America, and may more probably direct ships sent to guard the colonies, to stations in which they may preserve their own vessels, than to those where they may contribute most to the general security of trade. Thus my lords, I have examined without prejudice every paragraph of this bill, and believe, that from the objections which I have made, it appears now plainly to your lordships, that all the regulations which are of any use, are such as are already established by long custom, or by former statutes; and such, therefore, as it is unnecessary to mention in a new law; and that whatever is here to be found new, is absurd, unintelligible, or pernicious. This bill, my lords, is said to be founded on the act made for the same purpose, in the wars of the queen Anne; but I cannot forbear to observe, that the original law, though not one of those to which much of the success of that war is to be ascribed, was drawn up with more discernment than the bill before us. It was, at least, intelligible; the number of cruisers was limited, and it was, therefore, possible to know when it was obeyed; but of this bill I can confidently assert, that as no man can understand, so no man can observe it. I have spoken more largely, my lords, on this occasion, because this bill relates particularly to my present employment, in which, as I desire to do my duty, I desire to know it; and, surely, I cannot be condemned by your lordships for opposing a bill, of which the only tendency is to make my province difficult, to render one part of my office inconsistent with another, and engage me in the task of superintending the execution of impracticable measures. What influence my arguments will have upon your lordships, I cannot foresee. As every man flatters himself that his own opinions are right, I hope to find this house concurring in my sentiments; but whatever may be the determination of your lordships, I am so fully convinced of the pernicious tendency of this bill, and the embarrassments which must be produced by an attempt to execute it, that if it be not rejected by this house, I shall willingly resign my office to others of more courage, or of greater abilities; for I can have no hopes of performing my duty under these restrictions, either to my own honour, or to the advantage of my country. The duke of BEDFORD spoke next, to the following effect:--My lords, though the noble lord has produced very specious arguments against every paragraph of the bill before us, and though many of his observations are just, and some of his objections not easily to be answered, yet I cannot admit that it will produce those fatal consequences which he seems to foresee, nor am yet convinced that it will be either pernicious or useless. It has always, my lords, been the practice of this house, to attend to every proposal for the publick advantage, to consider it without any regard to the character of those by whom it is offered, and to approve or reject it upon no other motives than those of justice and reason. The same equity and prudence has always influenced your lordships to distinguish between the several parts of the same bill; to reject those expedients, of which, however plausible, either experience or reason may discover the impropriety, and to retain those from which any real benefit can reasonably be expected. We should never throw away gold because it is mingled with dross, or refuse to promote the happiness of the nation, because the expedients which were offered for that end happened to be conjoined with some others of a disputable nature. By the prosecution of this method, a method, my lords, too rational and just to be neglected or forgotten, I doubt not but this bill, which, as I shall readily admit, is not yet perfect, may be improved into a law, from which the nation will receive great advantages, by which our trade will be extended, and our riches increased. Many of the clauses, my lords, may, in my opinion, admit of an easy vindication, others may be amended by very slight alterations, and very few are either wholly useless, or manifestly improper. The chief defect of the first clause is such, that the noble lord has, by declaring his disapprobation of it, given a very uncommon proof of his integrity, disinterestedness, and moderation; for it is imperfect only by placing too much confidence in the admiralty, which is left in full power to determine the number of cruisers in or near the Channel and soundings. The noble lord has remarked, that the act of queen Anne, on which the present bill is founded, exacted a determinate number of ships to be employed in this particular service, and that it was, therefore, more prudently drawn up than the present bill. But I cannot see the wisdom of diminishing the authority of the lord high admiral; for had that act been extended in the same manner to other services, it would have left him only the name and shadow of an office, without power and without use. This clause, my lords, rightly understood, is only a declaration of confidence in his majesty's officers, an evident confession of their abilities to discern the interest of the publick, and of their zeal for the prosecution of it. With as little reason, my lords, can it be objected, that the ships are required to be careened three times a-year. The necessity of careening frequently those ships, of which the chief use arises from their celerity, every sailor can declare to your lordships; nor will any man whom his employments or his amusements have made acquainted with navigation, allege that any thing is proposed in the bill, which it would not be detrimental to the publick service to neglect. It has been objected by the noble lord, that they are directed to be careened _oftener, if there be occasion_; terms by which a discretionary power is implied, of which yet it does not appear in whose hands it is lodged. Let us consider, my lords, what inconvenience can arise from the clause as it now stands, and what corruption or negligence can be encouraged by it. The discretionary right of bringing the ship into the ports to be careened oftener than thrice a-year, must be, without controversy, placed in the captain; for none but those that are in the ship can discover the necessity of careening it, or know the inconveniencies that are produced by the adhesion of extraneous substances to its sides and bottom. I own, my lords, it may be objected, that every captain will, by this clause, be furnished with an excuse for deserting his station at pleasure; that under pretence of uncommon ardour to pursue the enemy, he may waste his time in endless preparations for expedition; that he may loiter in the port to careen his ship; that before it is foul he may bring it back again, and employ the crew in the same operation; and that our merchants may be taken at the mouth of the harbours in which our ships of war lie to be careened. But, my lords, it is to be remembered, that in the third clause a commissioner is appointed, by whom accounts are regularly to be transmitted to the admiralty, of the arrival and departure of every ship, and by whom the conduct of every captain is to be inspected; and that he may easily detect such truant commanders, as shall careen their ships only for the sake of deserting their stations. Nor can the merchants suffer by any negligence or corruption of the captains, because it is intended that the place of every ship returning into port shall be supplied by another; and that the same number shall be always in the same station, unless more important service makes them more necessary in another place. This proviso, my lords, a proviso undoubtedly reasonable, is established in the second clause, but has not had the good fortune to escape the censure of the noble lord, who has inquired, what must be the conduct of the commanders of cruising vessels, if a seafight should happen beyond the cape, which they are in this clause forbidden to pass? That the clause may admit of expressions not only more proper, but more agreeable to the intention of those by whom it was drawn up, I cannot deny; for I suppose it very far from their design to limit the operations of our navy to any part of the ocean, and am confident that they meant only that the cruisers should not be despatched to such a distance from their stations, as that our coasts should be left long unguarded, or the enemy have time to collect his forces, and pour his navies or his privateers upon our defenceless traders. If by the commissioners mentioned in the third clause be intended a new swarm of officers, the proposition is such as I confess myself very far from approving; for it will be to little purpose that we protect the trade, if we invent new commissioners to devour its profits; nor can we hope for any other consequence from additional wealth, if it be procured by increasing the influence of the crown, but that we should become a more tempting prey to the harpies of a court. But, my lords, to accomplish all that is intended by this clause, there is not any need of new officers; for there are not many ports in which ships of war can be commodiously careened, and perhaps there is not one which can be used for this purpose, in which there is not already some officer of the crown, whose employment allows him leisure sufficient for the execution of a new charge, and whose present salary will afford an ample recompense for some casual addition of employment. The fourth clause, in which is provided that no commander shall wilfully spring his mast, or desert his station, is such as I should be willing, with the noble lord, to think unnecessary; but must appeal to your lordships, whether the late conduct of the convoys has not too evidently shown the defect of our present establishment. The injuries, my lords, which the publick may suffer by the negligence of the commanders of the ships of war, are such as it is worthy of the legislature to obviate with the utmost caution; and, therefore, it is by no means improper to enact a punishment for those who shall, upon any false pretences, leave their station; for though such neglect of duty is, in the present state of our naval establishment, considered as disreputable and irregular, yet it does not appear that it has been censured with the detestation which it deserves, or punished with the severity necessary to its prevention. It is observed, my lords, with relation to the following paragraph, that either house may, at present, require accounts of the conduct of the captains of the navy, and that, therefore, it is unnecessary to provide, by any new law, that they shall be laid before them; but if it be considered, my lords, how many inquiries, which we have a right to make, are year after year constantly omitted, and how many may be excited by curiosity to read accounts which lie before them, who yet will not move the house to demand the accounts, or engage in the debate which such a motion may produce, it will not be thought unnecessary to provide, that they shall be subject to examination without the formality of a regular vote. As to the sixth clause, my lords, which regards the nomination of convoys at a certain time, I can discover no reasonable objection to such a provision, or none that can preponderate against the advantages which may arise from it. By the certain establishment of convoys, the value of insurance may be nearly fixed; merchants will know what confidence is to be reposed in the force of the ships, and, what they have, perhaps, had of late equal reason to examine, how much trust can be placed in the fidelity of the commanders. The nomination of convoys, my lords, is, in my opinion, more likely to affright our enemies, and to deter their attempts, than to encourage them by the information which it will afford them; for nothing but our own negligence can conceal from us the naval strength of any power on earth; and we may always, while we are careful to preserve our maritime superiority, protect our merchants so powerfully, that none of our enemies shall be incited to attack them by the knowledge of the number and force of the ships appointed for their defence. I come now, my lords, to the seventh clause; and surely to ascertain the duties of the captains to whose protection our trading vessels are intrusted, cannot appear superfluous to any of your lordships, who have read the lists of our losses, heard the complaints of our merchants, or made any inquiry into the conduct of our sea captains. There is, I fear, too much reason to believe, that some of them have, with premeditated design, deserted the traders in places where they have known them most exposed to the incursions of the enemy; and it is to the last degree evident, that others have manifested such contempt of the merchants, and such a disregard of their interest, as may most justly expose them to the suspicion of very criminal negligence, of negligence which no community can be too watchful against, or too severely punish. It has been affirmed by the noble lord, that it is not equitable to subject the commanders of convoys to penalties for the loss of the trading vessels, which may, perhaps, either rashly or negligently quit their protection. That it is not reasonable to subject them to penalties, is undoubtedly true; but, my lords, it is far from being equally certain, that it is not just to expose them to a trial, in a case in which it must be almost impossible to determine falsely; in a case where the crews of, perhaps, twenty ships may be called as witnesses of their conduct, and where none, but those whose ship is lost, can be under the least temptation to offer a false testimony against them. On this occasion, my lords, it may not be improper to obviate the objection produced by the seeming omission of penal sanctions, which is only another proof of implicit confidence in the officers of the admiralty, who have already the power, allowed to military courts, of proceeding against those who shall deviate from their orders. This power, which is in a great degree discretionary, it was thought improper to limit, by ascertaining the punishment of crimes, which so many circumstances may aggravate or diminish; and, therefore, in my opinion, this clause is far from being so defective as the noble lord represented it. The last three clauses, by which the ships in America are prohibited to leave their station, by which it is required that accounts should be once in six months transmitted to the admiralty, and by which the captains are subjected to the command of the governours of our colonies, are, in my opinion, justly to be censured. The first is impossible to be observed, the second is unnecessary, and the third will probably produce more inconveniencies than benefits. Thus, my lords, I have endeavoured to show, that this bill, though not perfect, is yet such as, with some emendations, may produce great advantages to the traders of this empire. For, though it is undoubtedly a just observation, that the success of military attempts cannot be promoted by rigid restrictions and minute regulations, yet it is equally certain that no nation has yet been so fortunate as to be served by men of integrity superiour to laws, or of wisdom superiour to instructions; and every government has found it necessary to direct the conduct of its officers by general rules, though they have been allowed to comply with particular circumstances, and to give way to sudden accidents. I think it, therefore, my lords, necessary to propose, that this bill shall be more particularly examined in a committee, that, after having received the necessary explanations and amendments, it may be referred again to the other house. Lord DELAWARE rose next, and spoke to the purpose following:--My lords, the noble duke has, by his arguments in favour of this bill, given a very eminent proof of great abilities; he has shown every clause in that light which may least expose to view its improprieties and defects; but has at length only shown, that it is not impossible to make a useful law, for the purposes mentioned in the title of this bill; not that any of the expedients, now proposed, will afford the desired advantage to the publick, or obviate any of the inconveniencies of which the traders have been so long and so importunately complaining. This bill, my lords, is, indeed, founded upon a law made in a reign celebrated for the wisdom of our conduct and the success of our arms; but it will not, I suppose, be asserted, that nothing was, even in that period, ill conducted; nor will it be an argument, sufficient for the justification of an expedient, that it was practised in the victorious reign of queen Anne. If we inquire into the consequences of that law, we shall find no inducement to revive it on this or any future occasion. For it had no other effect than that of exposing us to our enemies by dividing our forces; a disadvantage of which we soon found the effects, by the loss of two large ships of seventy guns, and of a multitude of trading vessels, which, by that diminution of our naval armament, necessarily fell into the hands of privateers and small cruisers, that ravaged the ocean without fear or molestation. If we examine the present establishment of our navy, my lords, it will be discovered, that nothing is proposed in this bill, which is not more efficaciously performed by the methods now in use, and more judiciously established by laws, of which long experience has shown the usefulness. This, my lords, will easily appear from the perusal of the orders which every commander of a convoy regularly receives, and of the printed rules, established by his majesty in council, for the royal navy. In these, my lords, much more is comprehended than can properly be inferred in a law not occasionally variable; nor do I think any thing omitted, which an experienced and candid inquirer will think useful to the increase of our naval strength, or necessary to the protection of our commerce. In considering this bill, I shall not trouble your lordships with a minute consideration of every single paragraph, though every paragraph might furnish opportunity for animadversions; but shall content myself with endeavouring to evince the reasonableness of some of the objections made by the noble lord who spoke first, and enforcing his opinion with such arguments as have occurred to me, though, indeed, it requires no uncommon sagacity to discover, or superiour skill in ratiocination to prove, that where this bill will produce any alteration in our present scheme, it will manifestly change it for the worse. For surely, my lords, it will not be necessary to show, by any elaborate and refined reasoning, the absurdity of confining cruisers to particular stations, with an absolute prohibition to depart from them, whatever may be the certainty of destruction, or prospect of advantage. If the intention of cruising ships is to annoy the enemies of the nation, ought they to be deprived of the liberty of pursuing them? If they are designed for the protection of our merchants, must they not be allowed to attend them till they are out of danger. Every one, my lords, has had opportunities of observing, that there are men who are wholly engrossed by the present moment, and who, if they can procure immoderate profit, or escape any impending danger, are without the least solicitude with regard to futurity, and who, therefore, live only by the hour, without any general scheme of conduct, or solid foundation of lasting happiness, and who, consequently, are for ever obliged to vary their measures, and obviate every new accident by some new contrivance. By men of this disposition, my lords, a temper by which they are certainly very little qualified for legislators, the bill now before us seems to have been drawn up; for their attention is evidently so engaged by the present occurrences, that there is no place left for any regard to distant contingencies. The conclusion of this war is to them the period of human existence, the end of all discord and all policy. They consider Spain as the only enemy with whom we can ever be at variance, and have, therefore, drawn up a law, a law without any limitation of time, to enable us to oppose her. They have with great industry and long searches discovered, that cruisers on this side cape Finisterre, may be of use against the Spaniards, and propose, therefore, that in all times of war they are to be despatched to that individual station, though we should be engaged in disputes with the northern crowns, or fit out fleets to make conquests in the East Indies. In all our wars, my lords, however judiciously concerted, and however happily concluded, the pleasures of success have been abated by the mortification of losses, and some complaints have been at all times mingled with the shouts of triumph. How much soever the glory of the nation has been elevated, the fortunes of particular persons have been impaired, and those have never thought themselves recompensed by the general advantages of the publick, who have suffered by the acquisition of them; they have always imagined themselves marked out for ruin by malevolence and resentment, and have concluded that those disasters which fell upon them only by the common chance of war, were brought on them by negligence or design. The losses of our merchants in the present war must be acknowledged to have been more than common, but if we examine accurately into the causes that may be assigned for so great a number of captures, we shall find them such as this law will have no tendency to remove, such as might be easily imagined before the commencement of hostilities, and such as it will be extremely difficult on any future occasion of the same kind, to hinder from producing the same effects. The first and greatest cause, my lords, of the number of our losses, is the number of our ships, which cannot all be sufficiently protected. The extent, therefore, of our commerce, in proportion to that of our enemies, exposes us to double disadvantage; we necessarily lie open in more parts to the depredations of privateers, and have no encouragement to attempt reprisals, because they have few ships of value to be seized. The profit of our commerce naturally withholds our sailors from our ships of war, and makes part of our navy an idle show; the certainty of plunder incites them to turn their merchant ships into cruisers, and to suspend their trade for more profitable employment. Thus they at once increase the number of plunderers, and take away from us the opportunity of repairing our losses by the same practice. And, my lords, if the losses of our merchants have been greater than in former wars, our trade is more extensive, and our ships far more numerous. Nor is it to be forgotten that a very important part of our commerce is carried on before the eyes of the Spaniards, so that they may issue out upon our merchants from their own coasts, and retire immediately beyond danger of pursuit. But, my lords, neither the situation of Spain, nor the extent of our commerce, would have made this war so destructive, had not our merchants sometimes facilitated the attempts of our enemies by their own negligence or avarice. I have been informed, my lords, that as the masters of trading vessels complain of having been deserted by their convoys, the captains of the ships of war have, in their turn, exhibited such representations of the conduct of the trading masters, as may prove that their caution is not proportioned to their clamour, and that in however melancholy terms they may recount the miseries of captivity, the calamities of ruined families, and the interruption of the trade of Britain, they will not endeavour to escape their enemies at the expense of much circumspection, and that the prospect of no large profit will be sufficient to overbalance the danger of those evils which they so pathetically lament. It is not uncommon, my lords, when the fleet has entered the open seas, for the traders to take different courses both from the convoy and from each other, and to disperse themselves beyond the possibility of receiving assistance in danger or distress; and what wonder is it if part of them be lost, since only part of them can be protected? It may be imagined, my lords, that this is only an excuse forged by the commanders to cover their own negligence or treachery. It may be asked, what motives could induce the merchants to expose themselves to unnecessary dangers, or what proofs they have ever given of such wild negligence of their own interest or safety, as that they should be suspected of rushing precipitately into the jaws of rapine? This, my lords, is an objection specious in itself, and such as those who have not inquired into the present state of our traffick will not very readily discover to be fallacious; but it may easily be removed, by showing that the danger of being taken by the enemy is generally not so great to those who have the direction of the ship as it is commonly believed. By the present custom of insurance, my lords, the merchant exempts himself from the hazard of great losses, and if he insures so much of the value of the ship and cargo, that the chance of arriving first at market is equivalent to the remaining part, what shall hinder him from pressing forward at all events, and directing his course intrepidly through seas crowded with enemies? It is well known, my lords, that there is, in a great part of mankind, a secret malignity, which makes one unwilling to contribute to the advantage of another, even when his own interest will suffer no diminution; nor is it to be imagined, that this disposition is less predominant in traders than in the other classes of the community, though it is exerted on different occasions. The envy of one part of mankind is excited by reputation, or interest, or dignity, or power. The trader, for the most part, envies nothing but money, in which he has been taught from his infancy that every human excellence is comprehended, and contributes to the increase of the riches of another, with the same unwillingness with which a soldier would concur in the advancement of an inferiour officer to a post of higher rank and authority than his own. For this reason, my lords, there is generally a malevolence in the merchant against the insurer, whom he considers as an idle caterpillar, living without industry upon the labours of others, and, therefore, when he lays down the sum stipulated for security, he is almost in suspense, whether he should not prefer the loss of the remaining part of the value of his vessel to the mortification of seeing the insurer enjoy that money, which fear and caution have influenced him to pay. This disposition, undoubtedly, inclines him to proceed with less regard to his own security, and betrays him into dangers which it was, at least, possible to avoid; for to what purpose, says he, have I insured my ship if I am not to be set free from the necessity of anxiety and caution? If I arrive safely at the port, I shall dispose of my commodities with uncommon advantage; if I miscarry, the insurer will at least suffer with me, and be deservedly punished for his suspicions and extortion. I doubt not but some of your lordships will imagine, that I am now indulging chimerical speculations, that I am ascribing great force to weak motives, and supposing men to act upon principles which, in reality, never operated in the human breast. When I think disadvantageously of others, my lords, I am, indeed, always desirous to find myself mistaken, and shall be pleased to hear on this occasion from any of your lordships, who have conversed at large among mankind, that it is not common for one man to neglect his own interest for fear of promoting that of another. In the present question, my lords, I have only supposed that envy may be one motive among many, and wish its influence were so small, as that it might have been less proper to mention it. The practice of insurance, my lords, whether it contributes or not to the number of the captures, undoubtedly increases the clamour which they occasion; for as the loss is extended, the complaint is multiplied, and both the merchant and insurer take the liberty of censuring the conduct of the naval officers, and of condemning the measures of the government. The ministry is charged with neglecting the protection of commerce, with oppressing the merchants, and with conniving at the enemy's preparations; that they who most eagerly solicited the war, may be the first that shall repent it. Another cause of the frequency of our losses in the present war, is the general circulation of intelligence throughout Europe, by which it is made impossible to conceal from our enemies the state of our armies, our navies, or our trade. Every regiment that is raised, every ship that is built, every fleet of trading vessels that lies waiting for the wind, is minutely registered in the papers of the week, and accounts of it transmitted to every nation of the world, where curiosity or interest will pay for information. The Spaniards, therefore, need only regulate their schemes according to their instructions from Britain, and watch those fleets which are frequently sent out, for they may be confident that some masters will wander from their protectors, enticed by avarice, negligence, or temerity, and that they shall have opportunities of enriching themselves without the necessity of engaging the convoy. To protect ships which are to be steered each at the will of the master, is no less impossible, my lords, than to conduct an army of which every private man is at liberty to march according to his own caprice, to form and pursue his own plan of operation, and to dispute and neglect the orders of his leader. Nor is it more reasonable to subject the captains of the ships of war to penalties for the loss of a vessel, over which they have no authority, than to require from an officer in the army an account of the lives of men, who perished by disobeying his commands. In my opinion, my lords, we might, with far greater probability of success, revive a precedent that may be found in the reign of king William, in which it was appointed by an order of council, that the name of every ship which went out with a convoy should be registered, and that the owners should give security to provide a sufficient number of arms and a proper quantity of ammunition to assist the imperial ships in annoying or repelling the enemy; with one injunction more of the utmost importance to the efficacious protection of our commerce, and which, therefore, in every war ought to be repeated and enforced; an injunction by which the masters of the ships of trade were required to obey the directions of the commander of the convoy. That some measures ought to be concerted for the preservation of our trade I am very far from denying, and shall willingly concur in such as shall to me appear likely to promote the end proposed by them. Our losses, my lords, are undoubtedly great, though I believe far less than they are reported by discontent and malevolence; for if a ship be delayed by an accidental hinderance, or kept back by contrary winds for a few days, there are men so watchful to snatch every opportunity of reproaching the measures of the government, that a clamour is immediately raised, the ship is taken, the merchants are sacrificed, and the nation betrayed. While this report is conveyed from one to another, and, like other falsehoods, increasing in its progress; while every man adds some circumstance of exaggeration, or some new proof of the treachery of the ministry, the ship enters the port, and puts an end, indeed, to the anxiety of the owners and insurers, but by no means pacifies the people, or removes their prejudices against the conduct of their governours; for as no man acknowledges himself the first author of the report, no man thinks himself under any obligation to retract or confute it, and the passions of the multitude, being once in commotion, cannot be calmed before another opportunity of the same kind may be offered for agitating them afresh. To the expectations of the people, my lords, it is always proper to have some regard, nor is there any valuable use of power but that of promoting happiness, and preventing or removing calamities; but we are not to endeavour to pacify them by the appearance of redress, which, in reality, will only increase those evils of which they complain, nor to depress the reputation of this assembly by passing laws which the experience of a single month will prove to be of no use. Of this kind, my lords, the bill now before us has been shown by the noble lord that spoke first on this occasion; by whom every clause has been discovered to be either defective or unnecessary, and who has evinced, beyond all possibility of reply, that the regulations here proposed can be divided only into two kinds, of which one is already established either by law or prescription, and the other cannot be admitted without apparent injury both to our navy and our trade. Part of the clauses the noble duke has, indeed, attempted to defend, but has been obliged by his regard to reason and to truth, to make such concessions, as are, in my opinion, sufficient arguments for the rejection of the bill. He has admitted of almost every clause that it is imperfect, that it may be amended by farther consideration, and that, though not wholly to be neglected, it yet requires some farther improvements to become effectual to the advantage of our merchants. The last three clauses, his natural abilities and just discernment immediately showed him to be indefensible; and he has too much regard to the interest of his country to attempt the vindication of a bill, which could not be passed without weakening it by impairing its naval force, and, yet more sensibly, by diminishing the reputation of its legislature. I hope, therefore, my lords, that I shall not undergo the common censure of disregard to our commercial interest, or be ranked amongst the enemies of the merchants, though I declare, that in my opinion, this bill ought to be rejected as unnecessary and injudicious, and that we should only, by considering in a committee what no consideration can amend, waste that time in a fruitless attempt, which may be spent much more usefully upon other subjects. Lord CARTERET spoke next, to the following purpose:--My lords, though I do not approve equally of every part of the bill now before us, though I think some of the provisions unnecessary, others unlikely to produce any beneficial effects, and some already established by former acts of the senate, or rules of the admiralty, yet I cannot agree with the noble lord that it is unworthy of farther consideration. In my opinion, my lords, it is necessary, for many reasons, to amend this bill rather than reject it; and I hope, that when I shall have laid before you the result of those inquiries and those reflections which I have made on this occasion, your lordships will judge it not improper to refer it to a committee. Nothing, my lords, is more necessary to the legislature than the affection and esteem of the people; all government consists in the authority of the _few_ over the _many_, and authority, therefore, can be founded only on opinion, and must always fall to the ground, when that which supports it is taken away. For this reason, my lords, it is worthy of this most august and awful assembly, to endeavour to convince the people of our solicitude for their happiness, and our compassion for their sufferings; lest we should seem elevated by the casual advantages of birth and fortune above regard to the lower classes of mankind; lest we should seem exalted above others only to neglect them, and invested with power only to exert it in acts of wanton oppression; lest high rank should in time produce hatred rather than reverence, and superiority of fortune only tempt rapine and excite rebellion. The bill now under our consideration, my lords, cannot be rejected without danger of exasperating the nation, without affording to the discontented and malevolent an opportunity of representing this house as regardless of the publick miseries, and deaf to the cries of our fellow-subjects languishing in captivity, and mourning in poverty. The melancholy and dejected will naturally conceive us inebriated with affluence, and elated with dignity, endeavouring to remove from our eyes every spectacle of misery, and to turn aside from those lamentations which may interrupt the enjoyment of our felicity. Nor, indeed, can it be justly said, that such representations are without grounds, when we consider the important occasion on which this bill is drawn up, the bitterness of those calamities which it is intended to redress, and the authority by which it is recommended to us. It may naturally be expected, my lords, that the title of a bill for the protection and security of trade, should raise an uncommon degree of ardour and attention; it might be conceived that every lord in this house would be ambitious of signalizing his zeal for the interest of his country, by proposing, on this occasion, every expedient which experience or information had suggested to him; and that instead of setting ourselves free from the labour of inquiry and the anxiety of deliberation, by raising objections to the bill and rejecting it, we should labour with unanimous endeavours, and incessant assiduity, to supply its defects, and correct its improprieties; to show that a design so beneficial can never be proposed to us without effect, and that whenever we find honest zeal, we shall be ready to assist it with judgment and experience. Compassion might likewise concur to invigorate our endeavours on this occasion. For who, my lords, can reflect on families one day flourishing in affluence, and contributing to the general prosperity of their country, and on a sudden, without the crime of extravagance or negligence, reduced to penury and distress, harassed by creditors, and plundered by the vultures of the law, without wishing that such misfortunes might by some expedient be averted? But this, my lords, is not the only nor the greatest calamity, which this bill is intended to prevent. The loss of wealth, however grievous, is yet less to be dreaded than that of liberty, and indigence added to captivity is the highest degree of human misery. Yet even this, however dreadful, is now the lot of multitudes of our fellow-subjects, who are languishing with want in the prisons of Spain. Surely, my lords, every proposal must be well received that intends the prevention or relief of calamities like these. Surely the ruin of its merchants must alarm every trading nation, nor can a British senate sit unconcerned at the captivity of those men by whom liberty is chiefly supported. Of the importance of the merchants, by whom this bill is recommended to our consideration, and by whose influence it has already passed the other house, it is not necessary to remind your lordships, who know, that to this class of men our nation is indebted for all the advantages that it possesses above those which we behold with compassion or contempt, for its wealth and power, and perhaps for its liberty and civility. To the merchants, my lords, we owe that our name is known beyond our own coasts, and that our influence is not confined to the narrow limits of a single island. Let us not, therefore, my lords, reject with contempt what is proposed and solicited by men of this class; men whose experience and knowledge cannot but have enabled them to offer something useful and important, though, perhaps, for want of acquaintance with former laws, they may have imagined those provisions now first suggested, which have only been forgotten, and petitioned for the enaction of a new law, when they needed only an enforcement of former statutes. That our naval force has, in the present war, been misapplied; that our commerce has been exposed to petty spoilers, in a degree never known before; that our convoys have been far from adding security to our traders; and that with the most powerful fleet in the world, we have suffered all that can fall upon the most defenceless nation, cannot be denied. Nor is it any degree of temerity, my lords, to affirm, that these misfortunes have been brought upon us by either negligence or treachery; for, besides that no other cause can be assigned for the losses which a powerful people suffer from an enemy of inferiour force, there is the strongest authority for asserting, that our maritime affairs have been ill conducted, and that, therefore, the regulation of them is very seasonably and properly solicited by the merchants. For this assertion, my lords, we may produce the authority of the other house, by which a remonstrance was drawn up against the conduct of the commissioners of the admiralty. This alone ought to influence us to an accurate discussion of this affair. But when an authority yet more venerable is produced, when it appears that his majesty, by the dismission of the commissioners from their employments, admitted the justice of the representation of the commons, it surely can be of no use to evince, by arguments, the necessity of new regulations. It is, indeed, certain, that men of integrity and prudence, men of ability to discern their duty, and of resolution to execute it, can receive very little assistance from rules and prescriptions; nor can I deny what the noble lord has affirmed, that they may be sometimes embarrassed in their measures, and hindered from snatching opportunities of success, and complying with emergent occasions; but, my lords, we are to consider mankind, not as we wish them, but as we find them, frequently corrupt, and always fallible. If men were all honest and wise, laws of all kinds would be superfluous, a legislature would become useless, and our authority must cease for want of objects to employ it; but we find, my lords, that there are men whom nothing but laws and penalties can make supportable to society; that there are men, who, if they are not told their duty, will never know it, and who will, at last, only perform what they shall be punished for neglecting. Were all men, like the noble lord whom I am now attempting to answer, vigilant to discover, sagacious to distinguish, and industrious to prosecute the interest of the publick, I should be very far from proposing that they should be constrained by rules, or required to follow any guide but their own reason; I should resign my own prosperity, and that of my country, implicitly into their hands, and rest in full security that nothing would be omitted that human wisdom could dictate for our advantage. I am not persuading your lordships to lay restraints upon virtue and prudence, but to consider how seldom virtue and authority are found together, how often prudence degenerates into selfishness, and all generous regard for the publick is contracted into narrow views of private interest. I am endeavouring to show, that since laws must be equally obligatory to all, it is the interest of the few good men to submit to restraints, which, though they may sometimes obstruct the influence of their virtue, will abundantly recompense them, by securing them from the mischiefs that wickedness, reigning almost without limits, and operating without opposition, might bring upon them. It may not be improper to add, my lords, that no degree of human wisdom is exempt from errour; that he who claims the privilege of acting at discretion, subjects himself likewise to the necessity of answering for the consequences of his conduct, and that ill success will at least subject him to reproach and suspicion, from which, he whose conduct is regulated by established rules, may always have an opportunity of setting himself free. Fixed and certain regulations are, therefore, my lords, useful to the wisest and best men; and to those whose abilities are less conspicuous, and whose integrity is at best doubtful, I suppose it will not be doubted that they are indispensably necessary. Some of the expedients mentioned in this bill, I shall readily concur with the noble lord in censuring and rejecting; I am very far from thinking it expedient to invest the governours of our colonies with any new degree of power, or to subject the captains of our ships of war to their command. I have lived, my lords, to see many successions of those petty monarchs, and have known few whom I would willingly trust with the exercise of great authority. It is not uncommon, my lords, for those to be made cruel and capricious by power, who were moderate and prudent in lower stations; and if the effects of exaltation are to be feared even in good men, what may not be expected from it in those, whom nothing but a distant employment could secure from the laws, and who, if they had not been sent to America to govern, must probably have gone thither on a different occasion? The noble duke, who has vindicated the bill with arguments to which very little can be added, and to which I believe nothing can be replied, has expressed his unwillingness to concur in any measures for the execution of which new officers must be appointed. An increase of officers, my lords, is, indeed, a dreadful sound, a sound that cannot but forebode the ruin of our country; the number of officers already established is abundantly sufficient for all useful purposes, nor can any addition be made but to the ruin of our constitution. I am, therefore, of opinion, that no new officer was intended by those that drew up the bill, and that they proposed only to furnish those that loiter in our ports, at the expense of the publick, with an opportunity of earning their salaries by some useful employment. I know not, indeed, my lords, whether any good effects can be reasonably hoped from this provision; whether men accustomed to connivance and negligence in affairs of less importance, ought to be trusted with the care of our naval preparations, and engaged in service, on which the prosperity of the publick may depend; and cannot conceal my apprehensions, that such men, if commissioned to superintend others, may themselves require a superintendent. But, my lords, this and every other clause may, in a committee, be carefully examined and deliberately corrected; and since it appears evident to me, that some law is necessary for the security of our commerce, I think this bill ought not to be rejected without farther consideration. Lord WINCHELSEA rose again, and spoke thus:--My lords, as the known sincerity of that noble lord allows no room for suspecting, that he would bestow any praises where he did not believe there was some desert, and as his penetration and acuteness secure him from being deceived by any false appearances of merit, I cannot but applaud myself for having obtained his esteem, which I hope will not be forfeited by my future conduct. Having happily gained the regard of so exact a judge of mankind, I am the less solicitous what opinion may be conceived of my abilities or intentions by those whose censures I less fear, and whose praises I less value, and shall, therefore, cheerfully hazard any degree of popularity, which I may have hitherto possessed, by continuing my opposition to this bill, of which I am still convinced that it will produce nothing but embarrassment, losses, and disgrace. The necessity of gaining and preserving the esteem of the people I very willingly allow, but am of opinion that though it may sometimes be gained by flattering their passions and complying with their importunities, by false appearances of relief, and momentary alleviations of their grievances, it is only to be preserved by real and permanent benefits, by a steady attention to the great ends of government, and a vigorous prosecution of the means by which they may be obtained, without regard to present prejudices or temporary clamours. I believe, my lords, it will always be found that it is dangerous to gratify the people at their own expense, and to sacrifice their interest to their caprices; for I have so high a veneration of their wisdom, as to pronounce without scruple, that however they may, for a time, be deceived by artful misrepresentations, they will, at length, learn to esteem those most, who have the resolution to promote their happiness in opposition to their prejudices. I am, therefore, confident, my lords, of regaining the popularity which I may lose by declaring, once more, that this bill ought to be rejected, since no endeavours shall be wanting to show how little it is necessary, by an effectual protection of every part of our trade, and a diligent provision for the naval service. The duke of BEDFORD rose, and spoke to this effect:--My lords, I am convinced that this bill is very far from being either absurd or useless, nor can imagine that they by whom it was drawn up could fail of producing some expedients that may deserve consideration. It is probable, that a farther inquiry may show the propriety of some clauses, which at present appear most liable to censure; and that, if we reject this bill thus precipitately, we shall condemn what we do not fully comprehend. No clause appeared to me more unworthy of the judgment and penetration of the merchants than the last, nor was there any which I should have rejected at the first perusal with less regret; yet, having taken this opportunity of considering it a second time, I find it by no means indefensible, for the direction of ships stationed for the defence of our American territories, is not committed to the governours alone. The council of each province is joined with them in authority, by whom any private regards may be overborne, and who cannot be supposed to concur in any directions which will not promote the general interest of the colony. I doubt not, my lords, but other clauses have been equally mistaken, and, therefore, think it necessary to consider them in a committee, where every lord may declare his sentiments, without the restraint of a formal debate, and where the bill may be deliberately revised, and accommodated more exactly to the present exigencies of the nation. Lord WINCHELSEA spoke again, in substance as follows:--My lords, the only reason which has been urged for considering this bill in a committee, is the necessity of gratifying the merchants, and of showing our concern for the prosperity of commerce. If therefore it shall appear, that the merchants are indifferent with regard to its success, I hope it will be rejected without opposition. I was this morning, my lords, informed by a merchant, who has many opportunities of acquainting himself with the opinions of the trading part of the nation, that they were fully convinced of the impossibility of adapting fixed rules to variable exigencies, or of establishing any certain method of obviating the chances of war, and defeating enemies who were every day altering their schemes; and declared that they had no hopes of security but from the vigilance of a board of admiralty, solicitous for the welfare of the merchants, and the honour of the nation. Lord CHOLMONDELEY rose and spoke to the following purpose:--My lords, as three clauses of this bill have been universally given up, and almost all the rest plainly proved by the noble lord to be either absurd or superfluous, I cannot see why it should not be rejected without the solemnity of farther consideration, to which, indeed, nothing but the title can give it any claim. The title, my lords, is, indeed, specious, and well fitted to the design of gaining attention and promoting popularity; but with this title there is nothing that corresponds, nor is any thing to be found but confusion and contradictions, which grow more numerous upon farther search. That the whole bill, my lords, is unnecessary, cannot be denied, if it be considered that nothing is proposed in it which is not already in the power of your lordships, who may call at pleasure for the lists of the navy, the accounts of the cruisers, the duties of their commissions, and the journals of their commanders, (as you did in the sixth of queen Anne,) and detect every act of negligence or treachery, and every instance of desertion, or of cowardice. Nothing is necessary to the regulation of our naval force, but that your lordships vigilantly exert that power which is conferred upon you by the constitution, and examine the conduct of every officer with attention and impartiality; no man then will dare to neglect his duty, because no man can hope to escape punishment. Of this bill, therefore, since it is thus useless and inconsistent, I cannot but suspect, my lords, that it was concerted for purposes very different from those mentioned in the title, which it has, indeed, no tendency to promote. I believe, my lords, the projectors of it intended not so much to advance the interest of the merchants, as to depress the reputation of those whom they have long taken every opportunity of loading with reproaches, whom they have censured as the enemies of trade, the corrupters of the nation, and the confederates of Spain. To confirm these general calumnies, it was necessary to fix on some particular accusation which might raise the resentment of the people, and exasperate them beyond reflection or inquiry. For this purpose nothing was more proper than to charge them with betraying our merchants to the enemy. As no accusation could be more efficacious to inflame the people, so none, my lords, could with more difficulty be confuted. Some losses must be suffered in every war, and every one will necessarily produce complaints and discontent; every man is willing to blame some other person for his misfortunes, and it was, therefore, easy to turn the clamours of those whose vessels fell into the hands of the Spaniards, against the ministers and commanders of the ships of war. These cries were naturally heard with the regard always paid to misfortune and distress, and propagated with zeal, because they were heard with pity. Thus in time, what was at first only the outcry of impatience, was by malicious artifices improved into settled opinion, that opinion was diligently diffused, and all the losses of the merchants were imputed, not to the chance of war, but the treachery of the ministry. But, my lords, the folly of this opinion, however general, and the falsehood of this accusation, however vehement, will become sufficiently apparent, if you examine that bulky collection of papers which are now laid before you, from which you will discover the number of our fleets, the frequency of our convoys, the stations of our ships of war, and the times of their departure and return; you will find that no provision for war, no expedient likely to promote success has been neglected; that we have now more ships equipped than in the late war with France, that nothing can be added to the exactness with which our maritime force is regulated, and that there is not the least reason to doubt of the fidelity with which it has been employed. In every war, my lords, it is to be expected that losses will be suffered by private persons on each side, nor even in a successful war can the publick always hope to be enriched; because the advantage may arise, not immediately from captures, but, consequently, from the treaties or conditions in which a prosperous war may be supposed to terminate. What concessions we shall in this war extort from the Spaniards, what security will be procured for our merchants, what recompense will be yielded for our losses, or what extent will be added to our commerce, it cannot yet be expected that any man should be able to declare; nor will his majesty's counsellors be required to give an account of futurity. It is a sufficient vindication of their conduct, and an evident proof of the wisdom with which the war has been conducted, that we have hitherto gained more than we have lost. This, my lords, will appear from a diligent and minute comparison of the captures on each side, and an exact computation of the value of our losses and our prizes. It will be found that if the Spaniards have taken, as it is not improbable, a greater number of ships, those which they have lost have been far more wealthy. The merchants, indeed, seem to have distrusted the strength of the evidence which they produced in support of their allegations, by bringing it only before the other house, where, as an oath could not be administered, every man delivered what he believed as what he knew, and indulged himself without scruple in venting his resentment, or declaring his suspicions; a method of allegation very proper to scatter reproaches and gratify malevolence, but of very little use for the discovery of truth. Had they come before your lordships, every circumstance had been minutely examined, every assertion compared with other evidence, all exaggerations repressed, and all foreign considerations rejected; each part would have been impartially heard, and it would have plainly been known to whom every loss was to be imputed. The negligence or treachery of the commanders of the convoys, wherever it had been found, would have been punished, but they would not have charged them with those miscarriages which were produced only by the obstinacy or inattention of the masters of the trading vessels. Such inquiries, my lords, they appear to have thought it their interest to decline, and, therefore, did not proceed on their petition to this house; and if they did in reality avoid a rigorous examination, what can be inferred, but that they intended rather to offer insinuations than proofs, and rather to scatter infamy than obtain justice. And, that nothing was indeed omitted that could secure our own commerce, or distress our enemies, may reasonably be collected from the number and great strength of our fleet, to which no empire in the world can oppose an equal force. If it has not been supplied with sailors without some delays, and if these delays have given our enemies an opportunity of adding to their securities, of fortifying their ports, and supplying their magazines, it must be ascribed to the nature of our constitution, that forbids all compulsory methods of augmenting our forces, which must be considered as, perhaps, the only inconvenience to be thrown into the balance against the blessings of liberty. The difficulty of manning our ships of war, is, indeed, extremely perplexing. Men are naturally very little inclined to subject themselves to absolute command, or to engage in any service without a time limited for their dismission. Men cannot willingly rush into danger without the prospect of a large advantage; they have generally some fondness for their present state of life, and do not quit it without reluctance. All these reasons, my lords, concur to withhold the sailors from the navy, in which they are necessarily governed with higher authority than in trading vessels, in which they are subjected to punishments, and confined by strict regulations, without any certain term of their bondage; for such they, who know not the necessity of subordination, nor discover the advantages of discipline, cannot but account subjection to the will and orders of another. By serving the merchants, they not only secure to themselves the liberty of changing their masters at pleasure, but enjoy the prospect of a near and certain advantage; they have not, indeed, any expectations of being suddenly enriched by a plate ship, and of gaining by one engagement such wealth as will enable them to spend the rest of their lives in ease and affluence; but they are sure of a speedy payment of their wages, perhaps, of some profits from petty commerce, and of an opportunity of squandering them at land in jollity and diversions; their labour is cheerful, because they know it will be short, and they readily enter into an employment which they can quit when it shall no longer please them. These considerations, my lords, have no influence upon the preparations of France and Spain, where no man is master of his own fortune, or time, or life, and where the officers of the state can drive multitudes into the service of the crown, without regard to their private views, inclinations, or engagements. To man a fleet, nothing is necessary but to lay an embargo on the trading vessels, and suspend their commerce for a short time; therefore no man dares refuse to enter into the publick service when he is summoned; nor, if he should fly, as our sailors, from an impress, would any man venture to shelter or conceal him. Absolute monarchs have, therefore, this advantage over us, that they can be sooner prepared for war, and to this must be ascribed all the success which the Spaniards have obtained. This, my lords, will not be obviated by the bill now before us, nor will it, indeed, procure any other benefit to the trade, or any addition to the power of the nation. Of the ten clauses comprised in the bill, the greatest part is universally allowed to be injudiciously and erroneously proposed; and those few, which were thought of more importance, have been shown to contain no new expedients, nor to add any thing to the present regulations. I cannot, therefore, discover any reason, my lords, that should induce us to refer to a committee this bill, of which part is confessedly to be rejected, and the rest is apparently superfluous. [Then the question being put, whether the bill should be referred to a committee; it passed in the negative. Content, 25. Not content, 59. On the rejection of this bill by the lords, a bill which related to an affair of no less importance than the security of trade and navigation, and which had been unanimously passed by the commons, it was satirically remarked, that the upper house understood trade and navigation _better_ than the lower. However, the circumstances that attended it, made the publication of the bill, with the amendments and the reasons offered by the lords on both sides, expected with the more impatience.] HOUSE OF LORDS, NOVEMBER 16, 1742. Parliament having met, according to the royal summons, on this day, his majesty made a speech from the throne, which being afterwards read by the president, lord TWEEDALE rose, and spoke as follows: My lords, it is not without the highest satisfaction, that every lover of mankind must look upon the alterations that have lately been produced in the state of Europe; nor can any Briton forbear to express an immediate and particular pleasure to observe his country rising again into its former dignity, to see his own nation shake off dependence, and rouse from inactivity, cover the ocean with her fleets, and awe the continent with her armies; bid, once more, defiance to the rapacious invaders of neighbouring kingdoms, and the daring projectors of universal dominion; once more exert her influence in foreign courts, and summon the monarchs of the west to another confederacy against the power of France. The queen of Hungary, who was lately obliged to retire at the approach of her enemies, to leave her capital in danger of a siege, and seek shelter in the remotest corner of her dominions, who was lately so harassed with invasions, and so encircled with dangers, that she could scarcely fly from one ravager, without the hazard of falling into the hands of another, is now able to give laws to her persecutors, to return the violence which she has suffered, and instead of imploring mercy from those who had no regard but to their own interest, and were determined to annihilate her family and divide her dominions, now sits in full security on her throne, directs the march of distant armies, and dictates the terms on which those who have entered her dominions shall be suffered to escape. Such, my lords, is the present state of the German empire; nor have the affairs of the rest of Europe been less changed; the power of the house of Bourbon has been diminished on every side, its alliance has been rejected, and its influence disregarded. The king of Sardinia has openly engaged to hinder the Spaniards from erecting a new kingdom in Italy; and though he has hitherto been somewhat embarrassed in his measures, and oppressed by the superiority of his enemies, has at least, by preventing the conjunction of the Spanish armies, preserved the Austrians from being overwhelmed. Nor can the situation of his dominions, and the number of his forces, suffer us to doubt, that in a short time he will be able entirely to secure Italy, since he has already recovered his country, and drove back the Spaniards into the bosom of France. The condition of the other Spanish army is such, as no enemy can wish to be aggravated by new calamities. They are shut up in a country without provisions, or of which the inhabitants are unwilling to supply them: on one side are neutral states, to which the law of nations bars their entrance; on another the Mediterranean sea, which can afford them only the melancholy prospect of hostile armaments, or sometimes of their own ships falling into the hands of the Britons; behind them are the troops of Austria ready to embarrass their march, intercept their convoys, and receive those whom famine and despair incite to change their masters, and to seek among foreign nations that ease and safety, of which the tyranny of their own government, and the madness of their own leaders, has deprived them. Such is their distress, and so great their diminution, that a few months must complete their ruin, they must be destroyed without the honour of a battle, they must sink under the fatigue of hungry marches, by which no enemy is overtaken or escaped, and be at length devoured, by those diseases, which toil and penury will inevitably produce. That the diminution of the influence of the house of Bourbon is not an empty opinion, which we easily receive, because we wish it to be true; that other nations, likewise, see the same events with the same sentiments, and prognosticate the decline of that power which has so long intimidated the universe, appears from the declaration now made by his majesty of the conduct of the Swedish court. That nation which was lately governed by the counsels, and glutted with the bounties of France, which watched the nod of her mighty patroness, and made war at her command against the Russian empire, now begins to discover, that there are other powers more worthy of confidence and respect, more careful to observe their engagements, or more able to fulfil them. She, therefore, requests the British monarch to extricate her from those difficulties, in which she is entangled by a blind compliance with French dictates, to restore to her the dismembered provinces, and recall that enemy which now impends over her capital, and whom the French have neither interest to appease, nor strength to resist. Such, my lords, is the present prospect which offers itself to him who surveys Europe with a political view, and examines the present interest and dispositions of neighbouring potentates; such is the order which has been produced from general confusion, and such the reestablishment of equal power, which has succeeded these concussions of the world. It is no small addition to the pleasure which this change must afford every man, who has either wisdom to discover his own happiness, or benevolence to rejoice in that of others, that it has been the effect not of chance but of conduct; that it is not an unforeseen event, produced by the secret operation of causes fortuitously concurring, but the result of a political and just design, well concerted and steadily pursued; that every advantage which has been gained, is the consequence of measures laid to obtain it; that our happiness has been procured by prudence, and that our counsels have not been lucky but wise. If we reflect, my lords, upon the causes which have contributed to the rescue of Europe from impending slavery, which have reestablished the queen of Hungary in her dominions, enabled her to lay waste the territories of her invaders, confirmed her friends in their fidelity, and intimidated those whom rival interests inclined to wish her fall, or the hope of sharing in the plunder, had incited to form designs against her. If we inquire to what it is to be ascribed, that she is able to form new alliances, and defend her dominions with confederate armies, we shall find it easy to trace all these revolutions to one cause, the steady and prudent conduct of the king of Britain. Our sovereign, my lords, has looked on the troubles of Europe with that concern which publick virtue inspires; he has seen the sufferings of this illustrious princess with that compassion which is always due to magnanimity oppressed, and formed resolutions for her assistance with that ardour, which courage naturally kindles; but with that caution, likewise, and secrecy, which experience dictates. But he remembered, my lords, that, though he was the friend of the queen of Hungary, he was to consider himself as the father of the people of Britain; that he was not to exhaust the forces of this nation in romantick expeditions, or exhaust its treasures in giving assistance which was not needed. He therefore waited to observe the event of the war, and to discover whether the incessant struggles of the Austrians would be able to throw off the load with which they were oppressed; but he found that their spirit, however ardent, could not supply the want of strength; he found, that they were fainting under insuperable labours, and that, though they were in no danger of being conquered by the valour of their enemies, they must, in a short time, be wearied with their numbers. His majesty then knew, my lords, that, by sending them speedy assistance, he at once promoted the interest of his people, and gratified his own inclinations; he therefore supplied the queen with such sums as enabled her to levy new forces, and drive her enemies before her. By procuring a reconciliation with the king of Prussia, he freed her from the nearest and most formidable danger, and gave her an opportunity to secure herself against the menaces of other powers. But though she was set free from domestick dangers, though invasion was driven from her capital, though captivity no longer pursued her flight, nor usurpation hovered over her throne, her more distant dominions were still a prey to her enemies. The Spaniards had already landed one army in Italy, with which another was hastening to join. The success of this enterprise, which would have gained the greatest part of Italy, could only be hindered by the king of Sardinia, who was, therefore, solicited by the Spaniards and French to favour their design, with the strongest protestations, and the most magnificent promises. But these were overbalanced by the influence of the king of Britain, whose name was of sufficient importance to make the weaker part most eligible, and to counterbalance the force of immediate interest. Thus was the passage into Italy barred against the Spaniards, by obstacles which they can never surmount, while the other army is besieged by our fleet, and by the Austrians; and reduced, instead of conquering kingdoms, to change their camp, and regulate their marches, with no other view than to avoid famine. While that prince, whose dominions might most commodiously afford them succour, and whom all the ties of nature and of interest oblige to assist them, is awed by the British ships of war, which lie at anchor before his metropolis, and of which the commanders, upon the least suspicion of hostilities against the queen of Hungary, threaten to batter his palaces, and destroy his city. In this manner, my lords, has the king of Britain assisted the house of Austria with his treasures, his influence, and his navy; thus does he subdue some enemies, and restrain others; thus does he hold the balance of the war, and thus does he add the weight of power to the scale of justice. But to secure the success that has been already obtained, and to take from the enemies of liberty all hopes of recovering the advantages which they have lost, he has now no longer confined his assistance to negotiations and pecuniary supplies. He knows that alliances are always best observed, when they confer security, or produce manifest advantages; and that money will not be always equivalent to armies. He has, therefore, now acted openly in defence of his ally, has filled Flanders, once more, with British troops, and garrisoned the frontier towns with the forces of that nation by which they were gained. The veteran now sees, once more, the plains over which he formerly pursued the squadrons of France, points the place where he seized the standards, or broke the lines, where he trampled the oppressors of mankind, with that spirit which is enkindled by liberty and justice. His heart now beats, once more, at the sight of those walls which he formerly stormed, and he shows the wounds which he received in the mine, or on the breach. The French now discover, that they are not yet lords of the continent; and that Britain has other armies ready to force, once more, the passes of Schellembourg, or break down the intrenchments of Blenheim; to wrest from them the sceptre of universal monarchy, and confine them again to their own dominions. To the British regiments, his majesty has joined a large body of the forces of his own electorate, without regard to the danger which may threaten his dominions in the absence of his troops, having no other view than to secure the publick tranquillity at whatever hazard of his own, and being convinced that private interest is most effectually secured by a steady attention to general good. These measures, my lords, undoubtedly demand our gratitude and applause. Gratitude is always due to favourable intentions, and diligent endeavours, even when those intentions are frustrated, and those endeavours defeated; and applause is often paid to success, when it has been merely the effect of chance, and been produced by measures ill adapted to the end which was intended by them. But, surely, when just designs have been happily executed, when wise measures are blessed with success, neither envy nor hatred will dare to refuse their acclamations; surely, those will at least congratulate, whom the corruption of their hearts hinders from rejoicing, and those who cannot love, will at least commend. Here, my lords, I suspect no inclination to depreciate the happiness that we enjoy, or to calumniate that virtue by which it has been obtained; and therefore doubt not but your lordships will readily concur in the reasonable, motion which I have now to offer:-- "That an humble address be presented to his majesty, to return him the thanks of this house, for his most gracious speech from the throne. "To declare our just sense of his majesty's great care and vigilance for the support of the house of Austria, and for restoring and securing the balance of power. "To acknowledge his majesty's great wisdom and attention to the publick welfare, in sending so considerable a body of his forces into the Low Countries, and in strengthening them with his electoral troops, and the Hessians in the British pay; and thereby forming such an army as may defend and encourage those powers who are well intentioned, and give a real assistance to the queen of Hungary, and to assure his majesty of the concurrence and support of this house, in this necessary measure. "To express our satisfaction in the good effects which the vigour exerted by Great Britain in assisting its ancient allies, and maintaining the liberties of Europe, hath already had on the affairs of the queen of Hungary, and on the conduct of several powers; and our hopes that a steady perseverance in the same measures, will inspire the like spirit and resolution in other powers, equally engaged by treaties and common interest to take the like part. "To give his majesty the strongest assurances, that this house has the honour and safety of his majesty, the true interest and prosperity of his kingdoms, the security and advancement of their commerce, the success of the war against Spain, and the reestablishment of the balance and tranquillity of Europe entirely at heart. That these shall be the great and constant objects of our proceedings and resolutions, this house being determined to support his majesty in all just and necessary measures for attaining those great and desirable ends, and to stand by and defend his majesty against all his enemies." Lord MONTFORT spoke next to the following effect:--My lords, the motion offered by the noble lord, is, in my opinion, so proper and just, so suitable to the dignity of this assembly, and so expressive of the gratitude which the vigilance of his majesty for the publick good, ought to kindle in every heart not chilled by ungenerous indolence, or hardened by inveterate disaffection, that I cannot discover any reason for which it can be opposed, and therefore hope that every lord will concur in it with no less alacrity and zeal than I now rise up to second it. It may, indeed, naturally be hoped from this house, that his majesty's measures will be readily approved, since they are such as even malice and faction will not dare to censure or oppose, such as calumny will not venture to defame, and such as those who will not praise them can never mention. If it be allowed, that the interest of France is opposite to that of Britain, that the equipoise of power on the continent is to be preserved; if any of the counsels of our ancestors deserve our attention, if our victories at Cressy or at Ramillies are justly celebrated by our historians, the wisdom of our sovereign's conduct cannot be denied. The French, my lords, whom our armies in the reign of Anne saw flying before them; who, from dividing kingdoms, and prescribing laws to mankind, were reduced to the defence of their own country; who were driven from intrenchment to intrenchment, and from one fortification to another, now grown insolent with the pleasures of peace, and the affluence of commerce, Have forgotten the power by which their schemes were baffled, and their arrogance repressed; by which their fabrick of universal monarchy was shattered, and themselves almost buried in the ruins. Infatuated with the contemplation of their own force, elated with the number of their troops, the magnificence of their cities, and the opulence of their treasury, they have once more imagined themselves superiour to resistance, and again aspire to the command of the universe; they have now for some time assumed the haughty style of the legislators of mankind; and have expected, that princes should appeal to them as to the highest human tribunal, and that nations should submit their claims to their arbitration; they have already assumed the distribution of dominions, and expect that neither peace shall be concluded, nor war proclaimed, but by their permission or advice. By this gradation of exorbitant claims and oppressive measures, have they at length arrived, my lords, at the summit of insolence; by these steps have they ascended once more the towering throne of universal monarchy; nor was any thing wanting to complete their plan, but that their ancient rival, the German empire, should be reduced to acknowledge their sovereignty, and that the supreme dignity of Europe should be the gift of the French bounty. The death of the late emperour, without sons, furnished them with an opportunity of executing their design, too favourable to be neglected. They now imagined it in their power, not only to dispose of the imperial dignity, but to divide the dominions of the house of Austria into many petty sovereignties, incapable singly of opposing them, and unlikely to unite in any common cause, or to preserve a confederacy unbroken, if they should by accident agree to form it. They, therefore, sent their armies into Germany, to superintend the approaching election, and by hovering over the territories of princes unable to resist them, extorted voices in favour of their ally; a prince, whose dominions must, by their situation, always oblige him to compliance with the demands, and to concurrence in the schemes of his protectors, and who will rather act as the substitute of France, than the emperour of Germany. But it was to no purpose that they had graced their dependant with titular honours and ensigns of sovereignty, if the house of Austria still retained its hereditary dominions, and preserved its strength when it had lost its dignity. They well knew that armies were equally formidable, whether commanded by an emperour or an inferiour sovereign; and that a mere alteration of names, though it might afford a slight and transient gratification to vanity, would produce no real increase or diminution of power. They, therefore, thought it necessary to improve the present time of confusion, and excite all the princes of the empire to revive their ancient claims upon the Austrian territories; claims, which how long soever they had been forgotten, howsoever abrogated by long prescription, or annulled by subsequent treaties, were now again to become valid, and to be decided by the arbitration of France. But this project being defeated by the heroick constancy of the queen of Hungary, whose wisdom and resolution, which will equal her name in future histories with those of the most successful conquerors, rejected their mediation, and refused to own her right doubtful, by submitting it to be tried; they were obliged no longer to dissemble their designs, or make farther pretences to respect or tenderness. Her fall was necessary to their own exaltation; they, therefore, kindled a general conflagration of war, they excited all the princes to take arms against her, and found it, indeed, no difficult task to persuade them to attack a princess, whom they thought unable to form an army, whom they believed they should rather pursue than engage, and whose dominions might be overrun without bloodshed, and whom they should conquer only by marching against. Such a combination as this, a combination of monarchs, of which each appeared able singly to have carried on a war against her, nothing but the highest degree of magnanimity could have formed a design of resisting; nor could that resistance have procured the least advantages, or retarded for a single day the calamities that were threatened, had it not been regulated by every martial virtue, had not policy united with courage, and caution with activity. Thus did the intrepidity of this princess, my lords, support her against the storms that shook her kingdom on every side; thus did those, whom her virtues gained over to her service, and whom her example animated with contempt of superiour numbers, defend her against the forces of all the surrounding nations, led on by monarchs, and elated with the prospect of an easy conquest. But the utmost that could be hoped from the most refined stratagems, or the most exalted courage, was only that her fate might be deferred, that she would not fall wholly unrevenged, that her enemies would suffer with her, and that victory would not be gained without a battle. It was evident, that bravery must in time give way to strength, that vigour must be wearied, and policy exhausted, that by a constant succession of new forces, the most resolute troops must be overwhelmed; and that the house of Austria could only gain by the war, the fatal honour of being gloriously extinguished. This his majesty's wisdom easily enabled him to discover, and his goodness incited him to prevent; he called upon all the powers, who had promised to preserve the Pragmatick sanction, to have regard to the faith of nations, and by fulfilling their engagements, to preserve the liberties of Europe; but the success of his remonstrances only afforded a new instance of the weakness of justice, when opposed to interest or fear. All the potentates of the continent were restrained by the threats, or gained by the promises of France; and the disposal of the possessions of the Austrian house, seemed, by the general consent of Europe, to be resigned to the family of Bourbon. But our sovereign was not yet discouraged from asserting the rights which he had promised to maintain, nor did he think the neglect or treachery of others a sufficient reason for refusing that assistance, which justice and policy equally required. He knew the power of his own empire, and though he did not omit to cultivate alliances, he was conscious of his ability to proceed without them; and therefore showed, by sending his troops into the Austrian territories, that the measures of the sovereign of Britain were not to be regulated by either his enemies or his confederates; that this nation is yet able to support its own claims, and protect those of its allies; and that while we attack one of the kingdoms of the house of Bourbon, we are not afraid to set the other at defiance. The effects of this conduct, my lords, were immediately apparent; the king of Sardinia engaged to oppose the entrance of the Spaniards into Italy; the king of Prussia not only made a peace with the queen of Hungary, by whom he was more to be dreaded than any other enemy, but entered into an alliance with his majesty, who has made no small addition to his influence, by another treaty with the most powerful nations of the north. Thus, my lords, are the dreadful arms of France, which are never employed but in the detestable and horrid plan of extending slavery, and supporting oppression, stopped in the full career of success. Thus is the scheme of universal monarchy once more blasted, and the world taught, that the preservation of the rights of mankind, the security of religion, and the establishment of peace, are not impracticable, that the power of Britain is yet undiminished, and that her spirit is not yet depressed. By his majesty's conduct, my lords, the reputation of our country is now raised to its utmost height; we are now considered as the arbiters of empire, the protectors of right, the patrons of distress, and the sustainers of the balance of the world. I cannot, therefore, but conclude, that no man in this illustrious assembly will be unwilling to acknowledge that wisdom and firmness, which not only this nation, but the greatest part of the universe, will remember with gratitude in the remotest ages, and that the motion, which I now second, will be universally approved. The speaker then read the motion, and asked in the usual form, whether it was their lordships' pleasure that the question should be put; upon which lord CHESTERFIELD rose up, and spoke to the following purpose:--My lords, though the motion has been, by the noble lord who made it, introduced with all the art of rhetorick, and enforced by him that seconded it, with the utmost ardour of zeal, and the highest raptures of satisfaction and gratitude; though all the late measures have been recommended to our applause, as proofs of the strictest fidelity, and the most sagacious policy; and though I am very far from intending to charge them with weakness or injustice, or from pretending to have discovered in them a secret tendency to advance any interest in opposition to that of Britain, I am yet not able to prevail upon myself to suppress those scruples which hinder me from concurring with them, and from approving the address which is now proposed. I am less inclined, my lords, to favour the present motion, because I have long been desirous of seeing the ancient method of general addresses revived by this house; a method of address by which our princes were reverenced without flattery, and which left us at liberty to honour the crown, without descending to idolize the ministry. I know not, my lords, what advantages have been procured by an annual repetition of the speeches from the throne, however gracious or excellent. For ourselves, we have certainly obtained no new confidence from the crown, nor any higher degree of honour among the people. The incense, which from our censers has so long perfumed the palace, has inclined the nation to suspect, that we are long enough inured to idolatry, to offer up their properties for a sacrifice, whenever they shall be required; and I cannot dissemble my suspicions, that a long continuance of this custom may give some ambitious or oppressive prince in some distant age, when, perhaps, this beneficent and illustrious family may be extinct, the confidence to demand it. I cannot but be of opinion, and hope your lordships will be convinced upon very short reflection, that there is a style of servility, which it becomes not this house to use even to our monarchs: we are to remember, indeed, that reverence which is always due from subjects, but to preserve likewise that dignity which is inseparable from independence and legislative authority. That we ought not to descend to the meanest of flattery, that we ought to preserve the privilege of speaking, without exaggerated praises, or affected acknowledgments, our regard not only to ourselves, but to our sovereign ought to remind us. For nothing is more evident, my lords, than that no monarch can be happy while his people are miserable; that the throne can be secure only by being guarded by the affections of the people; and the prince can only gain and preserve their affections, by promoting their interest, and supporting their privileges. But how, my lords, shall that monarch distinguish the interest of his people, whom none shall dare to approach with information? How shall their privileges be supported, if when they are infringed, no man will complain? And who shall dare to lay any publick grievances, or private wrongs before the king of Britain, if the highest assembly of the nation shall never address him but in terms of flattery? The necessity of putting an end to this corrupt custom, becomes every day more and more urgent; the affairs of Europe are hastening to a crisis, in which all our prudence, and all our influence will be required; and we ought, therefore, to take care not to perplex our resolutions by voluntary ignorance, or destroy our credit by a publick approbation of measures, which we are well known not to understand. I suppose, none of your lordships, who are not engaged in the administration of affairs, will think it derogatory from the reputation of your abilities and experience, to confess, that you do not yet see all the circumstances or consequences of the measures which you are desired to applaud; measures which have been too lately taken to discover their own tendency, and with relation to which no papers have been laid before us. We are told of armies joined, and treaties concluded, and, therefore, called upon to praise the wisdom of our negotiations, and the usefulness and vigour of our military preparations; though we are neither acquainted on what terms our alliances are formed, nor on what conditions our auxiliaries assist us. This, my lords, is surely such treatment as no liberal mind can very patiently support; it is little less than to require that we should follow our guides with our eyes shut; that we should place implicit confidence in the wisdom of our ministers, and having first suffered them to blind ourselves, assist them afterwards to blind the people. The longer I dwell upon the consideration of this motion, the more arguments arise to persuade me, that we ought not hastily to agree to it. My lords, the address proposed, like the speech itself, is of a very complicated and intricate kind, and comprises in a few words many transactions of great importance, crowded together with an artful brevity, that the mind may be hindered by the multitude of images, from a distinct and deliberate consideration of particulars. Here are acts of negotiation confounded with operations of war, one treaty entangled with another, and the union of the Hanoverians with our troops, mentioned almost in the same sentence with the Spanish war. This crowd of transactions, so different in their nature, so various in their consequences, who can venture to approve in the gross? or who can distinguish without long examination. I hope, my lords, that I shall not be charged with want of candour, in supposing the motion not to be an extemporaneous composition, but to be drawn up with art and deliberation. It is well known, that the address is often concerted at the same time that the speech is composed; and that it is not uncommon to take advantage of the superiority which long acquaintance with the question gives those who defend the motion, above those who oppose it. We are indeed told, that the visible effects of his majesty's measures prove their expediency, and that we may safely applaud that conduct of which we receive the benefits. But, my lords, the advantages must be seen or felt before they can be properly acknowledged; and it has not been shown, that we have yet either intimidated the enemies of the queen of Hungary, whose interest we have been lately taught to believe inseparable from our own, or encouraged any new allies to declare in her favour. The Dutch, my lords, are not yet roused from their slumber of neutrality; and how loudly soever we may assert our zeal, or with whatever pomp we may display our strength, they still seem to doubt either our integrity or force; and are afraid of engaging in the quarrel, lest they should be either conquered or betrayed. Nor has the approach of our army, however they may be delighted with the show, inspired them with more courage, though they are enforced by the troops of Hanover. The addition of these forces to the British army, has been mentioned as an instance of uncommon attention to the great cause of universal liberty, as a proof that no regard has been paid to private interest, and that all considerations are sacrificed to publick good. But since no service can be so great but it may be overpaid, it is necessary that we may judge of the benefit, to inform us on what terms it has been obtained, and how well the act of succession has been observed on this occasion. Though I am too well acquainted, my lords, with the maxims which prevail in the present age, and have had too much experience of the motives, by which the decisions of the senate are influenced, to offer any motion of my own, yet these reasons will withhold me from concurring with this. I cannot but be of opinion, that the question ought to be postponed to another day, in which the house may be fuller, our deliberations be assisted by the wisdom and experience of more than thirty lords, who are now absent, and the subjects of inquiry, of which many are new and unexpected, may be more accurately considered; nor can I prevail upon myself to return to general declarations any other than general answers. Lord CARTERET answered in substance as follows:--My lords, as there has arisen no new question, as his majesty in assisting the queen of Hungary, has only followed the advice of the senate; I am far from being able to discover, why any long deliberation should be necessary to a concurrence with the motion now before us, or whence any doubt can arise with regard to the effects of his majesty's measures; effects which no man will deny, who will believe either his own eyes, or the testimony of others; effects, which every man who surveys the state of Europe must perceive, and which our friends and our enemies will equally confess. To these measures, which we are now to consider, it must be ascribed, that the French are no longer lords of Germany; that they no longer hold the princes of the empire in subjection, lay provinces waste at pleasure, and sell their friendship on their own terms. By these measures have the Dutch been delivered from their terrours, and encouraged to deliberate freely upon the state of Europe, and prepare for the support of the Pragmatick sanction. But the common cause has been most evidently advanced by gaining the king of Prussia, by whose defection the balance of the war was turned, and at least thirty thousand men taken away from the scale of France. This, my lords, was a change only to be effected by a patient expectation of opportunities, and a politick improvement of casual advantages, and by contriving methods of reconciling the interest of Prussia with the friendship of the queen of Hungary; for princes, like other men, are inclined to prefer their own interest to all other motives, and to follow that scheme which shall promise most gain. That all this, my lords, has been effected, cannot be denied; nor can it be said to have been effected by any other causes than the conduct of Britain: had this nation looked either with cowardly despair, or negligent inactivity, on the rising power of France and the troubles of the continent; had the distribution of empire been left to chance, our thoughts confined wholly to commerce, and our prospects not extended beyond our own island, the liberties of Europe had been at an end, the French had established themselves in the secure possession of universal monarchy, would henceforth have set mankind at defiance, and wantoned without fear in oppression and insolence. These, my lords, are consequences of the measures pursued by his majesty, of which neither the reality nor the importance can be questioned, and, therefore, they may doubtless be approved without hesitation. For surely, my lords, the addition of the Hanoverian troops to the forces of our own nation can raise no scruples, nor be represented as any violation of the act of settlement. Of the meaning of that memorable act, I believe, I do not need any information. I know it is provided, that this nation shall not be engaged in war in the quarrel of Hanover; but I see no traces of a reciprocal obligation, nor can discover any clause, by which we are forbidden to make use in our own cause of the alliance of Hanover, or by which the Hanoverians are forbidden to assist us. I hope, my lords, this representation of the state of our transactions with Hanover, will not be charged with artifice or sophistry. I know how invidious a task is undertaken by him who attempts to show any connexion between interests so generally thought opposite, and am supported in this apology only by the consciousness of integrity, and the intrepidity of truth. The assistance of Hanover, my lords, was, at this time, apparently necessary. Our own troops, joined with the Hessians, composed a body too small to make any efficacious opposition to the designs of France; but by the addition of sixteen thousand men, became sufficiently formidable to oblige her to employ those troops for the security of her frontiers, with which she intended to have overwhelmed Italy, and to have exalted another Spanish prince to a new kingdom. The Spaniards, deprived of this assistance, harassed by the Austrians with perpetual alarms, and debarred by our fleet from the supplies which are provided for them in their own country, must languish with penury and hardships, being equally cut off from succour and from flight. Thus, my lords, it is evident, that the true and everlasting interest of Britain has been steadily pursued; that the measures formed to promote it have been not only prudent, but successful. We did not engage sooner in the quarrel, because we were not able to form an army sufficiently powerful. An advantageous peace is only to be obtained by vigorous preparations for war; nor is it to be expected that our enemies should court our friendship, till they see that our opposition is really formidable. Such, my lords, is our present state; we may reasonably hope that the French will desist from their designs, because they will have a confederacy to oppose, more powerful than that by which their immortal monarch was lately humbled; and I hope that conduct will always be applauded in this house, which enables us to repress the arrogance of France. Lord WESTMORELAND then spoke to the following purport:--My lords, though the warmth with which the noble lord has defended the motion, and the confidence with which he asserts the propriety and efficacy of the measures to which it relates, are such proofs of the strength of his conviction as leave no room to doubt his sincerity; yet as the same arguments do not operate upon different minds with the same force, I hope I shall not be thought less sincere, or less studious of the publick happiness, or the honour of the crown, though I presume to differ from him. In the motion now before us, I cannot concur, because, though it should be allowed to contain a just representation of foreign affairs, yet it appears to me to omit those considerations which I think it the duty of this house to offer to his majesty. This nation is, in my opinion, exposed to enemies more formidable than the French; nor do I think that we are at leisure to defend the liberties of Europe, till we have made some provisions for the security of our own; or to regulate the balance of power, till we have restored our constitution to its ancient equilibrium. That there are flagrant proofs of the most enormous corruption throughout the whole subordination of publick offices; that our publick funds are only nurseries of fraud, and that trust of every kind is only considered as an opportunity of plundering, appears evidently from the universal prevalence of luxury and extravagance, from the sudden affluence of private men, from the wanton riot of their tables, the regal splendour of their equipages, and the ostentatious magnificence of their buildings. It is evident, likewise, that corruption is not confined to publick offices; that those who have lost their own integrity, have endeavoured to destroy the virtue of others; that attempts have been made to subject the whole nation to the influence of corruption, and to spread the contagion of bribery from the highest to the lowest classes of the people. It is therefore necessary, before we engage in the consideration of foreign affairs, to prosecute the inquiry which was begun in the last session, to trace wickedness to its source, and drag the authors of our miseries into the light. These, my lords, are the inquiries which the general voice of the people importunately demands; these are the petitions which ought never to be rejected; all parties are now united, and all animosities extinguished; nor is there any other clamour than for inquiries and punishment. The other house, my lords, has been engaged in the laudable attempt to detect those who have betrayed, or plundered, or corrupted their country; and surely we ought to have so much regard to our own honour, as not to suffer them to toil alone in a design so popular, so just, and so necessary, while we amuse ourselves with applauding the sagacity of our ministers, who, whatever they may hope themselves, or promise others, have not yet prevailed on any foreign power to concur with them, or to interpose in the affairs of the continent. And, therefore, I cannot conceal my suspicion, that instead of furnishing any subject for panegyricks on our policy and caution, we are now wasting our treasures and our strength in a romantick expedition. Since, therefore, my lords, our domestick evils seem to me most dangerous, I move, that in order to their speedy remedy, and that the people may see we do not forget their immediate interest, this addition be made to the motion now before us: "And humbly to assure his majesty, that we will apply our constant and persevering endeavours to calm and heal animosities and divisions, unseasonable as they are at all times, and most pernicious in the present juncture, which the true fatherly tenderness of his majesty, out of the abundance of his constant care for the rights and liberties of his people, has so affectionately at the close of last session recommended from the throne, by searching thoroughly and effectually into the grounds, which are or may be assigned for publick discontent, agreeably to the ancient rules and methods of parliament." This additional clause being delivered in writing to the speaker, he read it to the house, but said that the noble lord spoke so low, that he could not tell where he proposed to have it inserted. Lord WESTMORELAND then directed him to read the motion, which done, he desired that his clause might be added at the end. Upon this lord RAYMOND spoke as follows:--My lords, the addition which the noble lord has offered to the address proposed, cannot, in my opinion, be properly admitted, as it has no relation to the preceding clauses, but is rather inconsistent with them. Nor do I think it only improper with regard to the other part of the motion, but unnecessary in itself; since it has no reference to his majesty's speech, now under our consideration; since it will facilitate none of our inquiries, which may be carried on with equal vigour without any such unseasonable declaration of our design. If, therefore, the motion for the amendment be not withdrawn, I shall move, that the first question be first put. [The question was then put with regard to the first motion, and it passed in the affirmative, without any division.] HOUSE OF COMMONS, DECEMBER 10, 1742. Motion in the committee of supplies, for granting pay for sixteen thousand Hanoverian troops for the four months last past. Sir William YONGE opened the debate, and spoke in substance as follows:--Sir, though the general state of the kingdoms of Europe cannot be supposed to be wholly unknown in this assembly, yet since the decision of the question now before us, must depend upon the conceptions which every man has formed with regard to the affairs on the continent, it will be necessary to exhibit them to view in a narrow compass, that nothing which may contribute to our information may be overlooked or forgotten. The late emperour, for some time before his death, finding that there remained little hopes of male issue, and that his family would be consequently in danger of losing part of the honours and dignities which it had so long enjoyed, turned his thoughts to the security of his hereditary dominions, which he entailed upon his eldest daughter, to preserve them from being broken into fragments, and divided among the numerous pretenders to them; and that this settlement might be preserved from violation, employed all the opportunities which any extraordinary conjunctures presented to him of obtaining the concurrence and ratification of the neighbouring states. As it was always the interest of this nation to support the house of Austria, as a counterbalance to the power of France, it was easy to procure from us a solemn accession to this important settlement; and we, therefore, promised to support it, whenever it should be attacked. This was, in reality, only a promise to be watchful for our own advantage, and to hinder that increase of the French influence, which must, at length, be fatal to ourselves. The like engagements were proposed to many other powers, which proposals were by most of them accepted, and among others by France, upon consideration of a very large increase of her dominions; and it was hoped, that whatever might be determined by the electors with respect to the imperial dignity, the hereditary dominions to the house of Austria would remain in the same family, and that France would be hindered by her own engagements from disturbing the peace of the empire. But no sooner did the death of the emperour give the enemies of the house of Austria hopes of gratifying without danger their resentment and ambition, than almost all the neighbouring princes began to revive their pretensions, and appeared resolved to recover by force, what they alleged to have been only by force withheld from them. Armies were raised on all sides, invasions either attempted or threatened from every quarter, and the whole world looked upon the daughter of Austria either with pity or with joy, as unable to make any stand against the general confederacy, and under a necessity of yielding to the most oppressive terms, and purchasing peace from her enemies at their own price. It cannot be mentioned, without indignation, that this universal combination was formed and conducted by the influence of the French, who, after having agreed to the Pragmatick sanction, omitted no endeavours to promote the violation of it; and not only incited the neighbouring princes to assert their claim by promises of assistance, but poured numerous armies into the empire, not only to procure by force, and without the least regard to equity, an election in favour of the duke of Bavaria, but to assist him in the invasion of the Austrian dominions, of which the settlement had been ratified by their concurrence, purchased at a price which might justly have been thought too great, even though they had observed their stipulations. The pleas which they advanced in vindication of their conduct, it is not necessary to relate; since, however artfully they may be formed, the common sense of mankind must perceive them to be false. It is to no purpose, that they declare themselves not to have receded from their promise, because they enter the empire only as auxiliaries, and their troops act under the command of the elector of Bavaria; since he that furnishes troops for the invasion of those territories which he is obliged to protect, may very justly be considered as an invader; as he who assists a thief, partakes the guilt of theft. All contracts, sir, whether between states or private persons, are to be understood according to the known intention of the two parties; and I suppose it will not be pretended, by the most hardened advocate for the conduct of the French, that the late emperour would have purchased, at so dear a rate, their accession to the Pragmatick sanction, if he had supposed, that they still thought themselves at liberty to employ all their treasure and their force in assisting others to violate it. It is well known, that an unsuccessful war, which the French are likewise suspected of assisting, had, a short time before the death of the emperour, weakened his forces, and exhausted his revenues; and that, therefore, when he was surprised by death, he left his family impoverished and defenceless; so that his daughter being without money or armies, and pressed by enemies on every side of her dominions, was immediately reduced to such distress as, perhaps, she only was able to support, and such difficulties as no other would have entertained the least hope of being able to surmount. In the first crush of her calamities, when she was driven by the torrent of invasion from fortress to fortress, and from kingdom to kingdom, it is not to be denied, that most of the guarantees of the Pragmatick sanction stood at gaze, without attempting that relief which she incessantly called upon them to afford her; and which, indeed, they could deny upon no other pretence, than that they were convinced it would be ineffectual, that her ruin was not to be prevented, and that she must be swallowed up by the deluge of war, which it appeared impossible to resist or to divert. The queen, however, determined to assert her rights, and to defend her dominions; and, therefore, assembled her forces, and made such opposition, that some of her enemies finding the war, to which they were encouraged only by a belief of the certainty of success, likely to become more hazardous than they expected, soon desisted from their claims, and consented to peace upon moderate conditions; and the most formidable of her enemies, being alienated from the French by experience of their treachery, and, perhaps, intimidated by the bravery of his enemies, was at last willing to become neutral, and to be satisfied with the recovery of his own claims, without assisting the elector of Bavaria. Thus far has this illustrious princess struggled in the tempest of the continent with very little assistance from her confederates; but it cannot be supposed, that these violent efforts have not exhausted her strength, or that she must not be, at length, overpowered by the armies which the French, enraged at the disappointment of their schemes, are sending against her. She has an incontestable claim to our assistance, promised by the most solemn stipulations, and, therefore, not to be withheld upon any views of present advantage. The prudence and magnanimity which she has discovered, prove, that she deserves to be supported upon the common principles of generosity, which would not suffer a brave man to look idly upon a heroine struggling with multitudes; and the opposition which she has been able to make alone, shows that assistance will not be vain. These considerations, though, since the senate has determined to assist her, they are not immediately necessary in a question which relates only to the manner in which that assistance shall be given, are yet not entirely useless; since they may contribute to overbalance any prejudices that may obstruct the schemes which have been formed, and quicken the endeavours of men who might be inclined to reject those counsels to which any specious objections shall be raised, or to lose that time in deliberation, which ought to be employed in action. As the assistance of this distressed princess has been already voted by the senate, it is now no longer to be inquired, what advantages can be gained to this nation by protecting her, or whether the benefits of victory will be equivalent to the hazards of war? These questions are already determined. It has already appeared necessary to this house, to restore the balance of power by preserving the house of Austria; and the only question, therefore, that remains is, by what means we shall endeavour to preserve it? and whether the means that have already been used, deserve our approbation? Among the several schemes that were proposed for this end, it appeared most proper to the ministry to form an army in the low countries, whence they might be ready to march wherever their presence might be required, and where they might be easily supplied with necessaries. This army was to be raised with expedition; the affairs of the queen of Hungary could admit of no delay; auxiliary troops were, therefore, to be hired, and it appeared to them more proper to hire the troops of Hanover than of any other nation. That the affairs of the queen of Hungary would admit of no delay, and that, therefore, the army in the low countries was very speedily to be formed, cannot be doubted by any one that compares her power with that of the nation against which she was contending; a nation incited by a long train of success to aspire to universal monarchy; a nation which has long been assembling armies, and accumulating treasures, in order to give law to the rest of the world; which had for many years stood against the united force of all the bordering powers, and to which the house of Austria is not equal in its full strength, much less when its treasures had been exhausted, and its troops destroyed in an unfortunate war before the death of the emperour; and when almost every part of its dominions was threatened by a particular power, and the troops of each province were employed in the defence of their own towns; so that no great armies could be collected, because no place could be left without defenders. Such was the state of the Austrian dominions, when the troops of France broke in upon them; and in this state it must readily be acknowledged, that neither courage nor prudence could procure success; that no stratagems could long divert, nor any resistance repel such superiority of power, and that, therefore, relief must be speedy, to be efficacious. That to bring the relief which we had promised, with expedition sufficient to procure any advantages to our ally, to preserve her provinces from being laid waste, her towns from being stormed, and her armies from being ruined; to repress the confidence of the French, and recall them from conquests to the defence of their own territories, it was apparently necessary to hire foreign troops; for to have sent over all our own forces, had been to have tempted the French to change their design of invading the Austrian dominions, into that of attacking Britain, and attempting to add this kingdom to their other conquests; to have raised new troops with expedition equal to the necessity that demanded them, was either absolutely impossible, or at least, very difficult; and when raised, they would have been only new troops, who, whatever might be their courage, would have been without skill in war, and would, therefore, have been distrusted by those whom they assisted, and despised by those whom they opposed. Nothing, therefore, remained, but that auxiliaries should be tried, and the only question then to be decided, was, what nation should be solicited to supply us? Nor was this so difficult to be answered as in former times, since there was not the usual liberty of choice; many of the princes who send their troops to fight for other powers, were at that time either influenced by the promises, or bribed by the money, or intimidated by the forces of France; some of them were engaged in schemes for enlarging their own dominions, and therefore were unwilling to supply others with those troops for which they were themselves projecting employment; and, perhaps, of some others it might reasonably be doubted, whether they would not betray the cause which they should be retained to support, and whether they would not in secret wish the depression of the queen of Hungary, by means of those invaders whom they promised to resist. Sir, amidst all these considerations, which there was not time completely to adjust, it was necessary to turn their eyes upon some power to which none of these objections could be made; and, therefore, they immediately fixed upon the electorate of Hanover, as subject to the same monarch, and of which, therefore, the troops might be properly considered as our national allies, whose interest and inclinations must be the same with our own, and whose fidelity might be warranted by our own sovereign. It was no small advantage that the contract for these troops could be made without the delay of tedious negotiations; that they were ready to march upon the first notice, and that they had been long learned in the exactest discipline. The concurrence of all these circumstances easily determined our ministers in their choice, and the troops were ordered to join the Britons in the Low Countries; a step which so much alarmed the French, that they no longer endeavoured to push forward their conquests, nor appeared to entertain any other design than that of defending themselves, and returning in safety to their own country. Such was the conduct of our ministry, such were their motives, and such has been their success; nor do I doubt but this house will, upon the most rigorous examination, find reason to approve both their integrity and prudence. Of their integrity they could give no greater proof, than their confidence of the agreement of this house to measures which, though conformable in general to our resolutions, were not particularly communicated to us; because, indeed, it could not be done without loss of time, which it was necessary to improve with the utmost diligence, and a discovery of those designs, which ought only to be known by the enemy after they were executed. Of their prudence, their success is a sufficient evidence; and, therefore, I cannot doubt but gentlemen will give a sanction to their conduct, by providing, according to the estimates before the committee, for the support of troops, which have been found of so great use. Lord POWLETT rose up next, and spoke to the effect following:--Sir, the honourable gentleman has with so much clearness and elegance displayed the state of Europe, explained the necessity of hiring foreign troops, and showed, the reasons for which the troops of Hanover were preferred to those of any other nation, that I believe it not to be of any use to urge other arguments than those which he has produced. As, therefore, it is indisputably necessary to hire troops, and none can be hired which can be so safely trusted as those of Hanover, I cannot but agree with the right honourable gentleman, that this measure of his majesty ought to be supported. Sir JOHN ST. AUBYN then spoke as follows:--Sir, it is with the greatest difficulties that I rise up to give you this trouble, and particularly after the honourable gentleman with whom I am so very unequal to contend. But when my assent is required to a proposition, so big with mischiefs, of so alarming a nature to this country, and which I think, notwithstanding what the honourable gentleman has most ingeniously said, must determine from this very day, who deserves the character and appellation of a Briton, I hope you will forgive me, if I take this last opportunity which perhaps I may ever have of speaking with the freedom of a Briton in this assembly. I am not able to follow the honourable gentleman in any refinements of reason upon our foreign affairs; I have not subtilty enough to do it, nor is it in my way as a private country gentleman. But though country gentlemen have not that sagacity in business, and, for want of proper lights being afforded us, the penetration of ministers into publick affairs; yet give me leave to say, they have one kind of sense which ministers of state seldom have, and at this time it is of so acute a nature, that it must, overthrow the arguments of the most refined administration; this is the sense of feeling the universal distresses of their country, the utter incapacity it now lies under of sustaining the heavy burdens that are imposing upon it. This I take to be the first, the great object of this day's debate. Consider well your strength at home, before you entangle yourselves abroad; for if you proceed without a sufficient degree of that, your retreat will be certain and shameful, and may in the end prove dangerous. Without this first, this necessary principle, whatever may be the machinations, the visionary schemes of ministers, whatever colourings they may heighten them with, to mislead our imaginations, they will prove in the end for no other purpose, but to precipitate this nation, by empty captivating sounds, into the private views and intrigues of some men, so low, perhaps, in reputation and authority, as to be abandoned to the desperate necessity of founding their ill possessed precarious power upon the ruins of this country. Next to the consideration of our inward domestick strength, what foreign assistances have we to justify this measure? Are we sure of one positive active ally in the world? Nay, are not we morally certain that our nearest, most natural ally, disavows the proceeding, and refuses to cooperate with us? One need not be deep read in politicks to understand, that when one state separates itself from another, to which it is naturally allied, it must be for this plain reason, that the interest is deserted which is in common to them both. And it is an invariable rule in this country, a rule never to be departed from, that there can no cause exist in which we ought to engage on the continent, without the aid and assistance of that neighbouring state. This is the test, the certain mark, by which I shall judge, that the interest of this country is not at present the object in pursuit. Is any man then wild enough to imagine, that the accession of sixteen thousand Hanoverian mercenaries will compensate for the loss of this natural ally? No; but it is said that this indicates such a firmness and resolution within ourselves, that it will induce them to come in. Sir, if they had any real proofs of our firmness and resolution, that the interest of this country was to be pursued, I dare say they would not long hesitate. But they look with a jealous eye upon this measure, they consider it as an argument of your weakness, because it is contrary to the genius and spirit of this country, and may, therefore, lessen his majesty in the affections of his people. They have for some years past looked upon a British parliament as the corrupt engine of administration, to exhaust the riches, and impair the strength of this country. They have heard it talk loudly, indeed, of the house of Austria, when it was in your power to have raised her to that state, in which she was properly to be considered as the support of the balance of Europe, if timid neutralities had not intervened, and our naval strength had properly interposed to her assistance. They have lately looked upon this parliament, and with the joy of a natural ally they have done it, resenting your injuries, bravely withstanding the power, that you might restore the authority of your government, demanding constitutional securities, appointing a parliamentary committee for inquiry and justice. Sir, they now see that inquiry suppressed, and justice disappointed. In this situation, what expectations can we form of their accession to us; talking bigly, indeed, of vindicating foreign rights, but so weak and impotent at home, as not to be able to recover our own privileges? But this measure is said to be undertaken in consequence of the advice of parliament. There has been great stress laid upon this. It has been loudly proclaimed from the throne, echoed back again from hence, and the whole nation is to be amused with an opinion, that upon this measure, the fate of the house of Austria, the balance and liberties of Europe, the salvation of this country, depend. But was this fatal measure the recommendation of parliament, or was it the offspring of some bold enterprising minister, hatched in the interval of parliament, under the wings of prerogative; daring to presume upon the corruption of this house, as the necessary means of his administration? The object, indeed, might be recommended, but if any wrong measure is undertaken to attain it, that measure surely should be dropt; for it is equally culpable to pursue a good end by bad measures, as it is a bad end by those that are honest. But as to the address, I wish gentlemen would a little consider the occasion which produced it. Sir, it proceeded from the warmth of expectation, the exultation of our hearts, immediately after, and with the same breath that you established your committee of inquiry; and it is no forced construction to say, that it carries this testimony along with it, that national securities and granting supplies were reciprocal terms. But, sir, I must own for my part, was the occasion never so cogent, Hanoverian auxiliaries are the last that I would vote into British pay; not upon the consideration only, that we ought otherwise to expect their assistance, and that we should rather make sure of others that might be engaged against us; but from this melancholy apprehension, that administrations will for ever have sagacity enough to find out such pretences, that we may find it difficult to get rid of them again. Besides, the elector of Hanover, as elector of Hanover, is an arbitrary prince; his electoral army is the instrument of that power; as king of Great Britain he is a restrained monarch. And though I don't suspect his majesty, and I dare say the hearts of the British soldiery are as yet free and untainted, yet I fear that too long an intercourse may beget a dangerous familiarity, and they may hereafter become a joint instrument, under a less gracious prince, to invade our liberties. His majesty, if he was rightly informed, I dare say would soon perceive the danger of the proposition which is now before you. But, as he has every other virtue, he has, undoubtedly, a most passionate love for his native country, a passion which a man of any sensation can hardly divest himself of; and, sir, it is a passion the more easily to be flattered, because it arises from virtue. I wish that those who have the honour to be of his councils, would imitate his royal example, and show a passion for their native country too; that they would faithfully stand forth and say, that, as king of this country, whatever interests may interfere with it, this country is to be his first, his principal care; that in the act of settlement this is an express condition. But what sluggish sensations, what foul hearts must those men have, who, instead of conducting his majesty's right principles, address themselves to his passions, and misguide his prejudices? making a voluntary overture of the rights and privileges of their country, to obtain favour, and secure themselves in power; misconstruing that as a secondary consideration, which in their own hearts they know to be the first. Sir, we have already lost many of those benefits and restrictions which were obtained for us by the revolution, and the act of settlement. For God's sake, let us proceed no farther. But if we are thus to go on, and if, to procure the grace and favour of the crown, this is to become the flattering measure of every successive administration,--this country is undone! Mr. BLADEN then rose up, and spoke to the following purport:--Sir, if zeal were any security against errour, I should not willingly oppose the honourable gentleman who has now declared his sentiments; and declared them with such ardour, as can hardly be produced but by sincerity; and of whom, therefore, it cannot be doubted, that he has delivered his real opinion; that he fears from the measures which he censures, very great calamities; that he thinks the publick tranquillity in danger; and believes that his duty to his country obliged him to speak on this occasion with unusual vehemence. But I am too well acquainted with his candour to imagine, that he expects his assertions to be any farther regarded than they convince; or that he desires to debar others from the same freedom of reason which he has himself used. I shall therefore proceed to examine his opinion, and to show the reasons by which I am induced to differ from him. The arguments upon which he has chiefly insisted, are the danger of hiring the troops of Hanover in any circumstances, and the impropriety of hiring them now without the previous approbation of the senate. The danger of taking into our pay the forces of Hanover, the contrariety of this conduct to the act of settlement, and the infraction of our natural privileges, and the violation of our liberties which is threatened by it, have been asserted in very strong terms, but I think not proved with proportionate force; for we have heard no regular deduction of consequences by which this danger might be shown, nor have been informed, how the engagement of sixteen thousand Hanoverians to serve us against France for the ensuing year, can be considered as more destructive to our liberties than any other forces. It is, indeed, insinuated, that this conduct will furnish a dangerous precedent of preference granted to Hanover above other nations; and that this preference may gradually be advanced, till in time Hanover may, by a servile ministry, be preferred to Britain itself, and that, therefore, all such partiality ought to be crushed in the beginning, and its authors pursued with indignation and abhorrence. That to prefer the interest of Hanover to that of Britain would be in a very high degree criminal in a British ministry, I believe no man in this house will go about to deny; but if no better proof can be produced, that such preference is intended than the contract which we are now desired to ratify, it may be with reason hoped, that such atrocious treachery is yet at a great distance; for how does the hire of Hanoverian troops show any preference of Hanover to Britain? The troops of Hanover are not hired by the ministry as braver or more skilful than those of our own country; they are not hired to command or to instruct, but to assist us; nor can I discover, supposing it possible to have raised with equal expedition the same number of forces in our own country, how the ministry can be charged with preferring the Hanoverians by exposing them to danger and fatigue. But if it be confessed, that such numbers would not possibly be raised, or, at least, not possibly disciplined with the expedition that the queen of Hungary required, it will be found, that the Hanoverians were at most not preferred to our own nation, but to other foreigners, and for such preference reasons have been already given which I shall esteem conclusive, till I hear them confuted. The other objection on which the honourable gentleman thought it proper to insist, was the neglect of demanding from the senate a previous approbation of the contract which is now before us; a neglect, in his opinion, so criminal, that the ministry cannot be acquitted of arbitrary government, of squandering the publick money by their own caprice, and of assuming to themselves the whole power of government. But the proof of this enormous usurpation has not yet been produced; for it does not yet appear, that there was time to communicate their designs to the senate, or that they would not have been defeated by communication; and, therefore, it is yet not evident, but that when they are censured for not having laid their scheme before the senate, they are condemned for omitting what was not possibly to be done, or what could not have been done, without betraying their trust, and injuring their country. It is allowed, that the senate had resolved to assist the queen of Hungary; and, therefore, nothing remained for the ministers but to execute with their utmost address the resolution that had been formed; if for the prosecution of this design they should be found to have erred in their choice of means, their mistakes, unless some ill designs may justly be suspected, are to be imputed to the frailty of human nature, and rather to be pitied, and relieved as misfortunes, than punished as crimes. But I doubt not, that in the course of our deliberations, we shall find reason for concluding that they have acted not only with fidelity but prudence; that they have chosen the means by which the great end which the senate proposed, the succour of the queen of Hungary, and consequently the reestablishment of the balance of power, will be most easily attained; and that they have taken into the pay of this nation those troops which may be trusted with the greatest security, as they have the same prince, and the same interest. But the honourable gentleman appears inclined to advance a new doctrine, and to insinuate, that when any vote is passed by the senate, the ministers are to suppose some conditions which are to be observed, though they were never mentioned, and without which the voice of the senate is an empty sound. In pursuance of this supposition, he calls upon us to recollect the time and circumstances in which this vote was passed; he reminds us, that the concession was made in a sudden exultation of our hearts, in the raptures of triumph, and amidst the shouts of conquest, when every man was forming expectations which have never been gratified, and planning schemes which could never be perfected. He seems therefore to think, that our ministers insidiously took advantage of our intoxication, and betrayed us in a fit of thoughtless jollity to a promise, which when made, we hardly understood, and which we may, therefore, now retract. He concludes, that the concession which might then escape us ought not to have been snatched by our ministers, and made the foundation of their conduct, because they knew it was made upon false suppositions, and in prospect of a recompense that never would be granted. I hope there is no necessity for declaring, that this reasoning cannot safely be admitted, since, if the vote of the senate be not a sufficient warrant for any measure, no man can undertake the administration of our affairs, and that government which no man will venture to serve must be quickly at an end. For my part, I know not how the nation or the senate has been disappointed of any just expectations, nor can I conceive that any such disappointments vacate their votes or annul their resolutions, and therefore I cannot but think the ministry sufficiently justified, if they can show that they have not deviated from them. Lord QUARENDON spoke next to the effect following:--Sir, I am so far from thinking that the past conduct or the present proposals of the ministry deserve approbation, that, in my opinion, all the arguments which have been produced in their favour are apparently fallacious, and even the positions on which they are founded, and which are laid down as uncontrovertible, are generally false. It is first asserted, that we are indispensably obliged to assist the queen of Hungary against France, and to support her in the possession of the hereditary dominions of the Austrian house, and from thence is precipitately inferred the necessity of assembling armies, and hiring mercenaries, of exhausting our treasure, and heaping new burdens upon the publick. That we concurred with other powers in promising to support the Pragmatick sanction is not to be denied, nor do I intend to insinuate, that the faith of treaties ought not strictly to be kept; but we are not obliged to perform more than we promised, or take upon ourselves the burden which was to be supported by the united strength of many potentates, and of which we only engaged to bear a certain part. We ought, undoubtedly, to furnish the troops which we promised, and ought to have sent them when they were first demanded; but there is no necessity that we should supply the deficiencies of every other power, and that we should determine to stand alone in defence of the Pragmatick sanction; that we should, by romantick generosity, impoverish our country, and entail upon remotest posterity poverty and taxes. We ought to be honest at all events; we are at liberty, likewise, to be generous at our own expense, but I think we have hardly a right to boast of our liberality, when we contract debts for the advantage of the house of Austria, and leave them to be paid by the industry or frugality of succeeding ages. It is, therefore, at least, dubious, whether we ought to hazard more than we promised in defence of the house of Austria; and, consequently, the first proposition of those who have undertaken the defence of the ministry requires to be better established, before it becomes the basis of an argument. But though it be allowed, that we ought to exceed our stipulations, and engage more deeply in this cause than we have promised, I cannot yet discover upon what principles it can be proved, that sixteen thousand Hanoverians ought to be hired. Why were not our troops sent which have been so long maintained at home only for oppression and show? Why have they not at last been shown the use of those weapons which they have so long carried, and the advantages of that exercise which they have been taught to perform with so much address? Why have they not, at length, been shown for what they had so long received their pay, and informed, that the duty of a soldier is not wholly performed by strutting at a review? If it be urged, that so great a number could not be sent out of the kingdom without exposing it to insults and irruptions, let it be remembered how small a force was found sufficient for the defence of the kingdom in the late war, when the French were masters of a fleet which disputed, for many years, the empire of the sea; and it will appear, whether it ought to be imputed to prudence or to cowardice, that our ministers cannot now think the nation safe without thrice the number, though our fleets cover the ocean, and steer from one coast to another without an enemy. But to show more fully the insufficiency of the vindication which has been attempted, and prove, that no concession will enable the ministry to defend their schemes, even this assertion shall be admitted. We will allow for the present, that it is necessary to garrison an island with numerous forces against an enemy that has no fleet. I will grant, that invaders may be conveyed through the air, and that the formidable, the detestable pretender may, by some subterraneous passage, enter this kingdom, and start on a sudden into the throne. Yet will not all this liberality avail our ministers, since it may be objected, that new forces might easily have been raised, and our own island have been, at once, defended, and the queen of Hungary assisted by our native troops. Since the necessity of expedition is urged, it may reasonably be inquired, what it was that appeared so immediately necessary, or what has been brought to pass by this wonderful expedition? Was it necessary to form an army to do nothing? Could not an expedition in which nothing was performed, in which nothing was attempted, have been delayed for a short time, and might not the queen of Hungary have been preserved equally, whether the troops of her allies slept and fattened in her country or their own? Nothing, surely, can be more ridiculous than to expatiate upon the necessity of raising with expedition an useless body of forces, which has only been a burden to the country in which it has been stationed, and for which pay is now demanded, though they have neither seen a siege nor a battle; though they have made no attempt themselves, nor hindered any that might have been made by the enemy. To make this plea yet more contemptible, we are informed, that if we had raised an army of our countrymen, they would have been unacquainted with arms and discipline, and, therefore, they could not have done what has been done by these far-famed Hanoverians. This, indeed, I cannot understand, having never found, that the Britons needed any documents or rules to enable them to eat and drink at the expense of others, to bask in the sun, or to loiter in the street, or perform any of the wonders that may be ascribed to our new auxiliaries; and, therefore, I cannot but think, that all the actions of the four months for which those forces expect to be paid, might have been brought to pass by new-raised Britons, who might in the mean time have learned their exercise, and have been made equal to any other soldiers that had never seen a battle. But if foreign troops were necessary, I am still at a loss to find out why those of Hanover were chosen, since it appears to me, that by hiring out his troops to Britain, our monarch only weakens one hand to strengthen the other. It might be expected, that he should have employed these troops against France without hire, since he is not less obliged, either by treaty or policy, to protect the house of Austria as elector of Hanover, than as king of Britain. Since, therefore, the troops of Hanover were hired, without the consent of the senate, they have hitherto performed nothing; and since it is reasonable to expect, that without being paid by Britain they will be employed against the French, I think it expedient to discharge them from our service, and to delay the pay which is required for the last four months, till it shall appear how they have deserved it. Mr. FOX then rose, and spoke to the following purport:--Sir, though the observations of the right honourable gentleman must be allowed to be ingenious, and though the eloquence with which he has delivered them, naturally excites attention and regard, yet I am obliged to declare, that I have received rather pleasure than conviction from his oratory; and that while I applaud his imagination and his diction, I cannot but conclude, that they have been employed in bestowing ornaments upon errour. I shall not, indeed, attempt to confute every assertion which I think false, or detect the fallacy of every argument which appears to me sophistical, but shall leave to others the province of showing the necessity of engaging in the war on the continent, of employing a large force for the preservation of the house of Austria, and of forming that army with the utmost expedition, and of taking auxiliaries into our pay, and confine myself to this single question, whether, supposing auxiliaries necessary, it was not prudent to hire the troops of Hanover? Nothing can be, in my opinion, more apparent, than that if the necessity of hiring troops be allowed, which surely cannot be questioned, the troops of Hanover are to be chosen before any other, and that the ministry consulted in their resolutions the real interest of their country, as well as that of our ally. The great argument which has in all ages been used against mercenary troops, is the suspicion which may justly be entertained of their fidelity. Mercenaries, it is observed, fight only for pay, without any affection for the master whom they serve, without any zeal for the cause which they espouse, and without any prospect of advantage from success, more than empty praises, or the plunder of the field, and, therefore, have no motives to incite them against danger, nor any hopes to support them in fatigues; that they can lose nothing by flight, but plunder, nor by treachery, but honour; and that, therefore, they have nothing to throw into the balance against the love of life, or the temptations of a bribe, and will never be able to stand against men that fight for their native country under the command of generals whom they esteem and love, and whom they cannot desert or disobey, without exposing themselves to perpetual exile, or to capital punishment. These arguments have always been of great force, and, therefore, that nation whose defence has been intrusted to foreigners, has always been thought in danger of ruin. Yet there have been conjunctures in which almost every state has been obliged to rely upon mercenaries, and in compliance with immediate necessity, to depend upon the fidelity of those who had no particular interest in supporting them. But with much greater reason may we trust the success of the present war, in some degree, to the troops of Hanover, as they are, perhaps, the only foreign forces against which the arguments already recited are of no force. They are foreigners, indeed, as they are born in another country, and governed by laws different from ours; but they are the subjects of the same prince, and, therefore, naturally fight under the same command; they have the same interest with ourselves in the present contest, they have the same hopes and the same fears, they recommend themselves equally to their sovereign by their bravery, and can neither discover cowardice nor treachery, without suffering all the punishment that can be feared by our native troops, since their conduct must be censured by the same prince of whose approbation they are equally ambitious, and of whose displeasure they are equally afraid. As to the troops which any neutral prince might furnish, there would be reason to fear, that either for larger pay, or upon any casual dispute that might arise, they might be withdrawn from our service when they were most needed, or transferred to the enemy at a time when his distress might compel him to offer high terms, and when, therefore, there was a near prospect of an advantageous peace. But of the troops of Hanover no such suspicion can be formed, since they cannot engage against us without rebelling against their prince; for it cannot be imagined, that his majesty will fight on one side as elector of Hanover, and on the other as king of Britain; or that he will obstruct the success of his own arms, by furnishing the troops of Hanover to the enemies of this kingdom. It, therefore, appears very evident, that we have more to hope and less to fear from the troops of Hanover, than from any other; since they have the same reason with ourselves to desire the success of the queen of Hungary, and to dread the increasing greatness of the French; and that they can be suspected neither of treachery nor desertion. It is not very consistent with that candour with which every man ought to dispute on publick affairs, to censure those measures which have been proposed, without proposing others that are more eligible; for it is the duty of every man to promote the business of the publick; nor do I know why he that employs his sagacity only to obstruct it, should imagine, that he is of any use in the national council. I doubt not but I shall hear many objections against the use of these troops, and that upon this question, virulence and ridicule will be equally employed. But for my part, I shall be little affected either with the laughter that may be raised by some, or the indignation that may be expressed by others, but shall vote for the continuance of these measures till better shall be proposed; and shall think, that these troops ought to be retained, unless it can be shown, that any others may be had, who may be less dangerous, or of greater use. Mr. PITT then rose up, and spoke, in substance as follows:--Sir, if the honourable gentleman determines to abandon his present sentiments as soon as any better measures are proposed, I cannot but believe, that the ministry will very quickly be deprived of one of their ablest defenders; for I think the measures which have hitherto been pursued so weak and pernicious, that scarcely any alteration can be proposed that will not be for the advantage of the nation. He has already been informed, that there was no necessity of hiring auxiliary troops, since it does not yet appear, that either justice or policy required us to engage in the quarrels of the continent, that there was any need of forming an army in the Low Countries, or that, in order to form an army, auxiliaries were necessary. But not to dwell upon disputable questions, I think it may be justly concluded, that the measures of our ministry have been ill concerted, because it is undoubtedly wrong to squander the publick money without effect, and to pay armies only to be a show to our friends, and a jest to our enemies. The troops of Hanover, whom we are now expected to pay, marched into the Low Countries, indeed, and still remain in the same place; they marched to the place most distant from enemies, least in danger of an attack, and most strongly fortified, if any attack had been designed; nor have any claim to be paid, but that they left their own country for a place of greater security. It is always reasonable to judge of the future by the past; and, therefore, it is reasonable to conclude, that the services of these troops will not, next year, be of equal importance with that for which they are now to be paid; and I shall not be surprised, though the opponents of the ministry should be challenged, after such another glorious campaign, to propose better men, and should be told, that the money of this nation cannot be more properly employed than in hiring Hanoverians to eat and sleep. But to prove yet more particularly, that better measures may be taken, and that more useful troops may be retained, and that, therefore, the honourable gentleman may be expected to quit those to whom he now adheres, I shall show, that in hiring the forces of Hanover, we have obstructed our own designs; that we have, instead of assisting the queen of Hungary, withdrawn part of her allies from her; and that we have burdened the nation with troops, from whom no service can be reasonably expected. The advocates for the ministry have, on this occasion, affected to speak of the balance of power, the Pragmatick sanction, and the preservation of the queen of Hungary, not only as if they were to be the chief care of Britain, which, though easily controvertible, might, perhaps, in compliance with long prejudices, be admitted, but as if they were to be the care of Britain alone; as if the power of France were formidable to no other people, as if no other part of the world would be injured by becoming a province to an universal monarchy, and being subjected to an arbitrary government of a French deputy, by being drained of its inhabitants, only to extend the conquests of its masters, and to make other nations equally miserable, and by being oppressed with exorbitant taxes, levied by military executions, and employed only in supporting the state of its oppressors. They dwell upon the importance of publick faith, and the necessity of an exact observation of treaties; as if the Pragmatick sanction had been signed by no other potentate than the king of Britain, or as if the publick faith were to be obligatory to us only. That we should inviolably observe our treaties, and observe them though every other nation should disregard them; that we should show an example of fidelity to mankind, and stand firm, though we should stand alone in the practice of virtue, I shall readily allow; and, therefore, I am far from advising that we should recede from our stipulations, whatever we may suffer by performing them, or neglect the support of the Pragmatick sanction, however we may be at present embarrassed, or however inconvenient it may be to assert it. But surely for the same reason that we observe our own stipulations, we ought to incite other powers, likewise, to the observation of theirs; at least not contribute to hinder it. But how is our present conduct agreeable to these principles? The Pragmatick sanction was confirmed not only by the king of Britain, but by the elector, likewise, of Hanover, who is, therefore, equally obliged, if treaties constitute obligation, to defend the house of Austria against the attacks of any foreign power, and to send in his proportion of troops to the support of the queen of Hungary. Whether these troops have been sent, those whose provinces oblige them to some knowledge of foreign affairs, can inform the house with more certainty than I; but since we have not heard them mentioned in this debate, and have found, by experience, that none of the merits of that electorate are passed over in silence, it may, I think, fairly be concluded, that the distresses of the illustrious queen of Hungary have yet received no alleviation from her alliance with Hanover, that her complaints have moved no compassion at that court, nor the justice of her cause obtained any regard. To what can we impute this negligence of treaties, this disregard of justice, this defect of compassion, but to the pernicious counsels of those men who have advised his majesty to hire to Britain those troops which he should have employed in the assistance of the queen of Hungary; for it is not to be imagined, that his majesty has more or less regard to justice as king of Britain, than as elector of Hanover; or that he would not have sent his proportion of troops to the Austrian army, had not the temptations of greater profit been industriously laid before him. But this is not all that may be urged against this conduct; for can we imagine, that the power of France is less, or that her designs are less formidable to Hanover than to Britain? nor is it less necessary for the security of Hanover, that the house of Austria should be reestablished in its former grandeur, and enabled to support the liberties of Europe against the bold attempts for universal monarchy. If, therefore, our assistance be an act of honesty, and granted in consequence of treaties, why may it not equally be required of Hanover? And if it be an act of generosity, why should this nation alone be obliged to sacrifice her own interest to that of others? Or why should the elector of Hanover exert his liberality at the expense of Britain? It is now too apparent, that this great, this powerful, this formidable kingdom, is considered only as a province to a despicable electorate; and that, in consequence of a scheme formed long ago, and invariably pursued, these troops are hired only to drain this unhappy nation of its money. That they have hitherto been of no use to Britain, or to Austria, is evident beyond controversy; and, therefore, it is plain, that they are retained only for the purposes of Hanover. How much reason the transactions of almost every year have given for suspecting this ridiculous, ungrateful, and perfidious partiality, it is not necessary to mention. I doubt not but most of those who sit in this house can recollect a great number of instances, from the purchase of part of the Swedish dominions, to the contract which we are now called upon to ratify. I hope few have forgotten the memorable stipulation for the Hessian troops, for the forces of the duke of Wolfenbuttel, which we were scarcely to march beyond the verge of their own country, or the ever memorable treaty, of which the tendency is discovered in the name; the treaty by which we disunited ourselves from Austria, destroyed that building which we may, perhaps, now endeavour, without success, to raise again, and weakened the only power which it was our interest to strengthen. To dwell upon all the instances of partiality which have been shown, to remark the yearly visits that have been made to that delightful country, to reckon up all the sums that have been spent to aggrandize and enrich it, would be at once invidious and tiresome; tiresome to those who are afraid to hear the truth, and to those who are unwilling to mention facts dishonourable or injurious to their country; nor shall I dwell any longer on this unpleasing subject than to express my hopes, that we shall not any longer suffer ourselves to be deceived and oppressed; that we shall at length perform the duty of the representatives of the people, and by refusing to ratify this contract, show, that however the interest of Hanover has been preferred by the ministers, the senate pays no regard but to that of Britain. Mr. Horace WALPOLE then spoke to the following purpose:--Sir, though I have long considered the mercenary scribblers of disaffection as the disgrace of the kingdom and the pest of society, yet I was never so fully sensible of their pernicious influence. I have hitherto imagined, that the weekly journalists and the occasional pamphleteers were the oracles only of the lowest of the people; and that all those whom their birth or fortune has exalted above the crowd, and introduced to a more extensive conversation, had considered them as wretches compelled to write by want, and obliged, therefore, to write what will most engage attention, by flattering the envy or the malignity of mankind; and who, therefore, propagate falsehoods themselves, not because they believe them, and disseminate faction, not because they are of any party, but because they are either obliged to gratify those that employ them, or to amuse the publick with novelties, or disturb it with alarms, that their works may not pass unregarded, and their labour be spent in vain. This is my opinion of the party writers, and this I imagined the opinion of the rest of mankind, who had the same opportunities of information with myself: nor should I readily have believed, that any of their performances could have produced greater effects than those of inflaming the lowest classes of the people, and inciting drunkards to insult their superiours, had I not perceived, that the honourable gentleman who spoke last, owed his opinions of the partiality shown to the dominions of Hanover, to a late treatise which has, on occasion of this contract, been very industriously dispersed among the people. Of this detestable pamphlet, I know not the author, nor think he deserves that any inquiry should be made after him, except by a proclamation that may set a price upon his head, and offer the same reward for discovering him, as is given for the conviction of wretches less criminal: nor can I think the lenity of the government easily to be distinguished from supineness and negligence, while libels like this are dispersed openly in the streets, and sold in shops without fear and without danger; while sedition is professedly promoted, and treason, or sentiments very nearly bordering upon treason, propagated without disguise. The scribbler of this wicked treatise has endeavoured to corrupt the principles of his majesty's faithful subjects, not only by vilifying the memory of the late king, whose justice, humanity, and integrity, are generally reverenced, but by insinuating, likewise, that our present most gracious sovereign has adopted the same schemes, and endeavours to aggrandize Hanover at the expense of Britain; that all the measures that have been taken with regard to the affairs of the continent, have been contrived with no other view than that of advancing the interest, enlarging the bounds, and increasing the riches of the Hanoverian territories; he declares, that Britain has been steered by the rudder of Hanover, and that the nation will soon be divided into two more opposite and irreconcilable parties than ever yet disturbed the publick peace, Britons and Hanoverians. That he himself, whoever he be, longs for those times of division and confusion, may be easily believed, and the number of those who have the same wishes with himself, is, I fear, too great; but I believe their hopes will not be encouraged, nor their designs promoted in this house; and that none of those who are intrusted to represent their country, will suffer themselves to be misled by such wicked insinuations. Mr. NUGENT then spoke to this effect:--Sir, I know not for what reason the honourable gentleman has thought it convenient, to retard the deliberations of this house, by expatiating upon the falsehood and malignity of a pamphlet, of which the author is unknown, of which no man has attempted the vindication, and which, however diligently dispersed, or however generally credited, appears to have had no great influence upon the nation, nor to have produced any effects that might give just occasion to so tragical an outcry, to censures as vehement and bitter, as if the trumpet of rebellion had been sounded, as if half the people had taken arms against their governours, as if the commonwealth was on the brink of dissolution, and armies were in full march against the metropolis. This pamphlet, with the rest of the people, I have read; and though I am far from thinking, that the censure of that honourable gentleman can make a defence necessary, since, indeed, be has contented himself with invective instead of argument, and, whatever he may disapprove, has confuted nothing: and though I have no particular reason for exposing myself as the champion for this author, whoever he may be, yet I cannot forbear to affirm, that I read some passages with conviction, and that, in my opinion, they require a different answer from those which have been yet offered; and that the impressions which have been made upon the people, will not be effaced by clamour and rage, and turbulence and menaces, which can affect only the person of the writer, but must leave his reasons in their full force, and even with regard to his person, will have very little effect; for though some men in power may be offended, it will not be easy to quote any law that has been broken by him. On this occasion I cannot but animadvert, I hope with the same pardon from the house, as has been obtained by the honourable gentleman whom I am now following, upon an expression in frequent use among the followers of a court, whenever their measures are censured with spirit and with justice. The papers which they cannot confute, and which they have not yet been able to obtain the power of suppressing, are asserted to _border_ upon treason; and the authors are threatened with punishments, when they have nothing to fear from a reply. Treason is happily denned by our laws, and, therefore, every man may know when he is about to commit it, and avoid the danger of punishment, by avoiding the act which will expose him to it; but with regard to the _borders_ of treason, I believe no man will yet pretend to say how far they extend, or how soon, or with how little intention he may tread upon them. Unhappy would be the man who should be punished for _bordering_ upon guilt, of which those fatal _borders_ are to be dilated at pleasure by his judges. The law has hitherto supposed every man, who is not _guilty_, to be _innocent_; but now we find that there is a kind of medium, in which a man may be in danger without guilt, and that in order to security, a new degree of caution is become necessary; for not only crimes, but the borders of crimes are to be avoided. What improvements may be made upon this new system, how far the borders of treason may reach, or what pains and penalties are designed for the _borderers_, no degree of human sagacity can enable us to foresee. Perhaps the borders of royalty may become sacred, as well as the borders of treason criminal; and as every placeman, pensioner, and minister, may be said to border on the court, a kind of sanctity may be communicated to his character, and he that lampoons or opposes him, may border upon treason. To dismiss this expression with the contempt which it deserves, yet not without the reflections which it naturally excites, I shall only observe, that all extension of the power of the crown must be dangerous to us; and that whoever endeavours to find out new modes of guilt, is to be looked on, not as a good subject, but a bad citizen. Having thus shown, that the censure produced against this pamphlet is unintelligible and indeterminate, I shall venture to mention some of the assertions which have heated the gentleman into so much fury. Assertions which I cannot be supposed to favour, since I wish they might be false, and which I only produce in this place to give some, whom their stations make acquainted with publick affairs, an opportunity of confuting them. It is asserted, that the French appear to have treated all our armaments with contempt, and to have pursued all their schemes with the same confidence as if they had no other enemy to fear than the forces of Austria; this is, indeed, no pleasing observation, nor can it be supposed to give satisfaction to any Briton, to find the reputation of our councils and of our arms so much diminished, to find the nation which lately gave laws to Europe, scarcely admitted to friendship, or thought worthy of opposition in enmity, to hear that those troops, which, in the days of our former monarchs, shook the thrones of the continent, are passed by, without fear, and without regard, by armies marching against their allies, those allies in whose cause they formerly fought in the field. But the truth of the assertion is too plain to all the nations of the world; and those whose interest it may be to conceal from their countrymen what is known to all the continent, may rage, indeed, and threaten, but they cannot deny it; for what enterprise have we hitherto either prevented or retarded? What could we have done on one side, or suffered on the other, if we had been struck out from existence, which has not been suffered, or not done, though our armies have been reviewed on the continent, and, to make yet a better show, lengthened out by a line of sixteen thousand of the troops of Hanover. It is asserted in the same treatise, that the troops of Hanover cannot act against the king, and that, therefore, they are an useless burden to the state; that they compose an army of which no other effect will be found but that they eat, and eat at the expense of Britain. This assertion is, indeed, somewhat more contestable than the former, but is at least credible; since, if we may be permitted on this, as on other occasions, to judge of the future from the past, we may conclude, that those who have let pass such opportunities as their enemies have in the height of contempt and security presented to them, will hardly ever repair the effects of their conduct, by their bravery or activity in another campaign; but that they will take the pay of Britain, and, while they fatten in plenty, and unaccustomed affluence, look with great tranquillity upon the distresses of Austria, and, in their indolence of gluttony, stand idle spectators of that deluge, by which, if it be suffered to roll on without opposition, their own halcyon territories must at last be swallowed up. The last assertion which I shall extract from this formidable pamphlet, is more worthy of attention than the former, but, perhaps, may be suspected to border more nearly upon treason: I shall, however, venture to quote, and, what is still more dangerous, to defend it. It is proposed that, instead of squandering, in this time of danger, the expenses of the publick upon troops of which it is at best doubtful, whether they will be of any use to the queen of Hungary, whether they can legally engage against the king, and whether they would be of any great use, though they were set free from any other restraints than regard to their own safety; instead of amusing our ally with an empty show of assistance, of mocking her calamities with unefficacious friendship, and of exposing ourselves to the ridicule of our enemies, by idle armaments without hostility, by armies only to be reviewed, and fleets only to be victualled, we should remit the sums required for the payment of the Hanoverians to the queen of Hungary, by whom we know that it will be applied to the great purposes for which the senate granted it, the establishment of the liberties of Europe, and the repression of the house of Bourbon. This proposal, however contrary to the opinion of the ministers, I take the liberty of recommending to the consideration of the house, as, in my opinion, the most effectual method of preserving the remains of the greatness of the house of Austria. It is well known, that these troops are hired at a rate which they never expected before, that levy-money is paid for forces levied before the commencement of the bargain, that they are paid for acting a long time before they began to march, and that, since they appeared to consider themselves as engaged in the quarrel, their march has been their whole performance, a march not against the enemy, but from him; a march, in which there was nothing to fear, nor any thing to encounter; and, therefore, I think it cannot be denied, that the publick treasure might have been better employed. The same sum remitted to the queen of Hungary, will enable her to hire a much greater number of troops out of her own dominions, troops of whose courage she can have no doubt, and whose fidelity will be strengthened by common interest and natural affection; troops that will fight like men, defending their wives and their children, and who will, therefore, bear fatigue with patience, and face danger with resolution; who will oppose the French as their natural enemies, and think death more eligible than defeat. Thus shall we assert the rights of mankind, and support the faith of treaties, oppose the oppressors of the world, and restore our ancient allies to their former greatness, without exhausting our own country; for it is not impossible, that by the proper use of this sum, the queen may obtain such advantages in one campaign, as may incline the French to desert the king, and content themselves with the peaceable possession of their own territories; for it is to be remembered, that they are now fighting only for a remote interest, and that they will not hazard much; a firm resistance will easily incline them to wait for some more favourable opportunity, and there will be then leisure for forming our measures in such a manner, that another opportunity may never be offered them. But of the present scheme, what effect can be expected but ignominy and shame, disgrace abroad, and beggary at home? to this expense what limits can be set? when is there to be an end of paying troops who are not to march against our enemies? as they will at all times be of equal use, there will be at all times the same reason for employing them, nor can there ever be imagined less need of idle troops, than in a time of war. I am, therefore, afraid, that in a short time the Hanoverians may consider Britain as a tributary province, upon which they have a right to impose the maintenance of sixteen thousand men, who are to be employed only for the defence of their own country, though supported at the expense of this. I am afraid that we shall be taught to imagine, that the appearance of the Hanoverians is necessary in our own country, perhaps to check the insolence of the sons of freedom, who, without fear, border upon treason. I am afraid, that his majesty or his successour may be advised by sycophants and slaves to trust the guard of his person to the trusty Hanoverians, and advised to place no confidence in the natives of Britain. For my part, I think it a very wise precept by which we are directed to obviate evils in the beginning; and therefore, since, in my opinion, the influence of Hanover must be destructive to the royal family, and detrimental to those kingdoms, I shall endeavour to obviate it by voting against any provision for these useless mercenaries, and declaring that I shall more willingly grant the publick money to any troops than those of Hanover. Lord PERCIVAL spoke next as follows:--Sir, I look upon the question now under your consideration, to vary very little in reality from that which was debated here the first day of this session. The principal point in the debate of that day, was the same with that which is more regularly the debate of this, _whether the_ Hanoverian _forces should be taken into_ British _pay_? Sir, I should then have offered my sentiments upon this question, if so many other gentlemen had not delivered my sense in so much a better manner than I thought myself able to do, that it would have appeared a great presumption in me, and would have given the house an unnecessary trouble. The same reason had induced me to have been silent also upon this occasion, if the temper of the times, the little indulgence shown by gentlemen to one another, when they happen to differ in political opinions, and the popular circumstance in which I stand, did not in some sort oblige me to protect the vote I then gave, and that which I now intend to give, by the reasons that induce me to give it. Sir, there are three principal considerations in this question; first, whether we are to assist the house of Austria and balance of power at all, aye or no? then, whether we ought to do it with our whole force? and lastly, whether the Hanoverian troops should be made a part of that force? As to the first consideration, a new doctrine has been taught and inculcated for some months past, that it is of no importance to this nation what may happen on the continent; that this country being an island intrenched within its own natural boundaries, it may stand secure and unconcerned in all the storms of the rest of the world. This doctrine, inconsistent as it is with all sense and reason, contrary as it is to the universal principles of policy by which this nation hath been governed from the conquest to this hour, is yet openly professed and avowed by many without these walls; and though no man has yet ventured to own this opinion publickly and directly in this house, yet some gentlemen even here, in effect maintain it, when they argue, that in no case this nation ought to assist or support the balance of power without the concurrence of the Dutch. This tends inevitably to produce the same fatal effect; it reduces this country to depend upon Holland, to be a province to Holland; and France would then have no more to do to become mistress of all Europe, than to gain over one single town of the United Provinces, or to corrupt a few members of the States; it is, therefore, a doctrine of the greatest danger. The only solid maxim is, that whoever becomes master of the continent, must in the end obtain the dominion of the sea. To confirm this, I may venture to cite an old example, nor can I be accused of pedantry in doing of it, since it is an instance drawn from the last universal monarchy to which the world submitted. The Romans had no sooner divided, broken and subdued those powers upon the continent of Europe, who had given a diversion in the great attempt they had long intended, than they attacked the Carthaginians, a maritime power, potent in arms, immensely opulent, possessed of the trade of the whole world, and unrivalled mistress of the sea. Yet these people, who enjoyed no wealth, pursued no commerce, and at the commencement of their quarrel were not masters of a single ship, at length prevailed against this enemy upon their proper element, beat and destroyed their fleets, invaded their dominions, and subdued their empire. From whence, sir, I must conclude, that we cannot wholly rely upon our situation, or depend solely on our naval power; and I may venture to reason upon this axiom, _that this nation must contribute to support the house of Austria and the balance of power in some degree_. The next question that occurs, is, in what degree we ought to do it, and whether we should do it with our whole force? Taking, therefore, our footing here upon this axiom, that we must contribute to it in some degree, and taking farther to our aid the reasoning of those gentlemen, who think it a work of such extreme danger, and almost desperate, the natural and evident conclusion can be only this, that as we must do it, so we must do it _with the utmost vigour, and with our whole force_. We come now to consider, whether the Hanoverian troops should be made part of that force? There are several considerations previous to the decision of this question. First, whether they are _as cheap_ as any other forces we can hire? Then, whether they are _as good_? Next, whether they are as properly _situated_? And whether they are _as much to be depended upon_? If, as to every one of these particulars, the answer must be made in the affirmative, I think it will go very far to determine the question now before you. As to the first, _that they are as cheap_, nay, upon the whole, much cheaper, the estimates now upon your table, notwithstanding any cavil, do sufficiently demonstrate. _That they are as good_, what man can doubt, who knows the character of the German nation? What man can doubt, who knows the attention of his majesty to military discipline? Those gentlemen can least pretend to doubt it, who sometimes do not spare reflections upon that attention which they insinuate to be too great. That these troops are not properly _situated_, will be hardly asserted at this time, when they are actually now in Flanders, and now acting in conjunction with our troops. Let any man consider the map of Europe, let him observe the seat of the war, and he must evidently see, that whether their service may be required in Flanders, whether upon the Rhine, or in the heart of Germany, in every one of these cases, the Hanoverian forces are _as properly circumstanced and situated as any troops in Europe_. It remains in the last place to examine, _whether any other troops can be better depended upon_; and sure nothing can be more obvious than that we may rely with more security on these than any other. They are subjects of the same prince, and of a prince indulgent to all his subjects, and accused by those who differ in other points from me, of being partial against the interest of his German dominions. Unless, therefore, we arraign the first principle upon which a free government can be supported, and without which every exercise of arbitrary power would be warranted, we must allow that such a people will be faithful to such a prince, will defend him with a strict fidelity, and support his quarrel with the utmost zeal; with a zeal which can never be expected from the mercenary troops of any other foreign power. This naturally leads us to inquire what other troops we can depend upon; the answer to this inquiry is short and positive; that as affairs now stand abroad, we can depend upon none but these; let us carry this consideration with us in a survey of all Europe; _shall we take into our pay sixteen thousand of the Dutch?_ Would this be the means of bringing Holland into alliance with us? Would they act at their own expense, would they exert their own proper force? Would they pay their own troops in aid of the common cause, when they found this nation ready to do it for them? They would act like madmen if they did. _Shall we hire_ Danes? Is there a gentleman in this house, who is not convinced that this power has been warped, for some time past, towards the interest of France? When we hired these troops in the last instance, did they not deceive us? Did they not even refuse to march? nay, farther, are they not in all appearance now upon the point of being employed in a quarrel of their own? a quarrel in which they will have need of all their force. _Shall we then hire_ Saxons? An honourable gentleman seemed to think that there may be some possibility of this, and perhaps there may hereafter, when the king of Prussia's views are known, and the part he shall resolve to act; but Saxony is certainly now too much exposed to, and cannot fail to be alarmed at his growing power; at the great augmentation of his armies, and the secret and vast designs which he seems to meditate. This measure, therefore, is not practicable in the present conjuncture; that electorate cannot hazard its own security in these precarious circumstances, by lending out so great a body of its troops. Would gentlemen advise the hire of Prussian troops to serve us in this conjuncture? They who do advise it, must forget strangely the part so lately acted by that prince, and the variety of his conduct with regard to his different allies within the space of the two last years. I shall guard myself in my expressions, and maintain a proper respect in discoursing of so great a character; but I must say thus much, that the ministry would act with great imprudence, to put the safety of the British troops, and to risk the fate of this army, upon the event of such a measure. I need not say more; for it is not yet proved to us, that this prince would (I wish there was no reason to believe he would not) lend us this body of his men, though we should be disposed to take them into pay. _The Swiss cantons, therefore, now alone remain_; and indeed from them we probably might procure a greater number; but I leave it to the judgment of any man of sense and candour, whether any minister of this nation could warrant the employment of sixteen thousand Swiss in this service? For when we reflect upon the situation of these provinces, and compare it with that of our British troops who are now in Flanders, it is visible that they must pass four hundred miles upon the borders of the Rhine, flanked by the strong places of France, during their whole march, exposed to the garrisons and armies upon that frontier, by whom it can never be supposed that they would be suffered to pass unmolested, when France must so well know the intention of their march to be for no other end, but to make a conjunction with other troops in the British pay, in order afterwards to invade, or at least to interrupt the views of that kingdom with their united force. These reasons, sir, prove invincibly to me, that if we are to assist the house of Austria by an army, we must, of prudence, nay, of necessity, in part, compose that army of the Hanoverian troops. But yet there is another state of this question, an alternative of which some gentlemen seem very fond, _whether it would not be better to assist the queen of Hungary with money only?_ This opinion at first sight is extremely plausible; if the queen of Hungary has been able to do so much with an aid of 500,000 _l_. what might she not be able to do with a million more? Sir, a million more would by no means answer in the same proportion. When a sum is given her, which with the best economy can suffice barely to put her troops in motion, when the enemy is at her very gates, her all at an immediate stake, there can be no room for a misapplication of it. But a sum so immense as that of a million and a half, would dazzle the eyes of a court so little used to see such sums; and as an honourable gentleman, [Mr. Horace WALPOLE,] long versed in foreign affairs, and well acquainted with these matters, told you in a former debate, would be much of it squandered among the Austrian ministers and favourites. I make no scruple to add to this, that some small part might fall to the share of ministers elsewhere. But there is another danger which gentlemen who contend for this measure do not consider: can they who profess a distrust of all ministers, and particularly those who are now employed at home; they who have ever argued against all votes of credit, upon this principle, that it affords an opportunity to ministers of defrauding the service, and of putting large sums into the purse of the crown, or into their private pockets; can they now argue for this measure, which I may be bold to say, would be in effect the most enormous vote of credit that was ever given in the world? Gentlemen insinuate, that the taking the Hanoverian forces into British pay, is a criminal complaisance, calculated only to confirm an infant and a tottering administration. But how much greater means for such a purpose, would an alternative like this afford? Suppose a minister, unfirm in his new-acquired power, to ingratiate himself with his prince, should propose a scheme to replenish the coffers of an exhausted civil list, squandered in such vile purposes, that no man could have the hardiness to come to parliament, or dare to hope a supply for it by any regular application to this house? What method could be devised by such a minister himself, to do the job more excellent than this? For who can doubt that (guard it how you will) the queen of Hungary might be induced, in the condition in which she now stands, to accept a million, and to give a receipt in full for the whole sum? How could you prevent an understanding of this kind between two courts? and how easy, therefore, might it be to sink 500,000 _l_. out of so vast a grant? Sir, I will suspect no minister, but I will trust none in this degree; and I wonder other gentlemen do not suspect, if I do not. From hence, therefore, I consider this as a proposition both fallacious and unsafe; for though it be a fact, that the same sum of money might maintain in Austria double the number of troops; yet, if no more than half that money should be applied (as I have shown great reason to believe that it would not) to the uses of the war, it is evident that you would deceive yourselves, and would have but an equal number of raw, irregular, undisciplined, and much worse troops for it. But, sir, there is yet a stronger argument against the supply in money only. What are our views in supporting the queen of Hungary? Our views are _general_ and _particular_; _general_, to save the house of Austria, and to preserve a balance of power; _particular_, to prevent the French from making any farther acquisitions on this side of Flanders. The first might possibly be answered in a good degree, by giving that princess an equivalent in money; but the second cannot be securely provided against, without an army on this side of Europe in the British pay. Sir, is it not natural for every one of us to guard our vital parts, rather than our more remote members? Would not the queen of Hungary (stipulate and condition with her as you please) apply the greatest part of these subsidies in defence of her dominions in the heart of Germany? Might it not even induce her to enlarge her views, and to think of conquests and equivalents for what she has already lost, which it might be vain and ruinous for us to support her in? Would she not leave Flanders to shift for itself, or still to be taken care of by the Dutch and Britain? In such a case, if France should find it no longer possible to make any impression on her territories on the German side, what must we expect to be the consequence? I think it very visible she would on a sudden quit her expensive and destructive projects on that quarter, and there only carry on a defensive war, while she fell with the greater part of her force at once upon the Low Countries, which would by this measure be wholly unprovided; and she might there acquire in one campaign, before any possibility of making head against her, (which the Dutch would hardly attempt, and could certainly not alone be able to effect,) all that she has been endeavouring for the last century to obtain, and what no union of powers could be ever capable of regaining from her. All this will be effectually prevented by an army paid by us on this side of Europe; an army ready to march to the borders of her country, and to intercept her succours and supplies for the German war; an army, ready to protect the petty states, whose interest and inclination it apparently must be to declare for us, and to join their forces with us, when they no longer fear the power of France; an army, which may possibly give courage and spirit to greater powers, who may still doubt, without these vigorous measures, (after what they have formerly experienced,) whether they could even yet depend upon us; an army, (if the posture of affairs should make it necessary,) able to cause a powerful diversion to the French forces, by an attack upon Lorrain and Champagne, and still within distance to return upon its stops in time, to prevent the French from carrying any point of consequence in Flanders, should they then attempt it. One argument more, I beg leave to mention, and it is of great weight. Admit that the sums raised upon the subject might be greater in the one case than the other, the sums remitted out of the kingdom would be infinitely less. Whatever is remitted to the queen of Hungary, is buried in the remotest parts of Germany, and can never return to us; whereas in a war carried on by troops in our own pay on this side, by much the greater part of the expense returns to us again, in part by the pay of officers, by the supply of provisions and necessaries in a country exhausted by armies, ammunition, ordnance, horses, clothing, accoutrements, and a multitude of other articles, which I need not enumerate, because experience, which is the soundest reasoner, fully proved it in the example of the last war, at the conclusion of which, notwithstanding the prodigious sums expended in it, this nation felt no sensible effect, from a diminution of its current specie. Sir, I was prepared to have spoken much more largely to this subject, but my discourse has already been drawn to a greater length than I imagined, in treating upon the argument thus far. I shall, therefore, avoid troubling you any farther upon it at this time; I shall only observe, that in my humble opinion, it is sufficiently proved, first, that we must assist the house of Austria, and that we must do it with all our force; next, that we cannot do it with money only, but in part with a land army, and that this land army cannot be conveniently (I may say possibly) composed, at this time, without the Hanoverian troops. This question, therefore, can, I think, be no longer debated, but upon the foot of popular prejudices and insinuations of an improper connexion of Hanoverian and British interests; but as I could not enter into this subject without concern and indignation, and as it is a very delicate point for me in particular to debate upon, I shall leave this part of the question to other gentlemen, who can engage in it both with less inconvenience, and with more ability, than it is possible for me to do. To which Mr. George GRENVILLE replied in substance:--Sir, though I am far from thinking myself able to produce, without study or premeditation, a complete answer to the elaborate and artful harangue which you have now heard, yet as I cannot be convinced of the reasonableness of the measures which have been defended with so much subtilty, I shall at least endeavour to show, that my disapprobation is not merely the effect of obstinacy, and that I have at least considered the proposals of the ministry, before I have ventured to condemn them. Whether we ought to think ourselves indispensably obliged to maintain, at all events, the balance of power on the continent, to maintain it without allies, to maintain it against a combination of almost all Europe, I shall not now inquire; I will suppose it, for once, our duty to struggle with impossibility, and not only to support the house of Austria when it is attacked, but to raise it when it is fallen; fallen by our own negligence, and oppressed with the weight of all the surrounding powers; and shall, therefore, at present, only inquire by what means we may afford that assistance with most benefit to our allies, and least danger to ourselves. With regard to our ally, that assistance will be apparently most advantageous to her, by which her strength will be most increased, and therefore it may, perhaps, be more useful to her to find her money than troops; but if we must supply her with troops, I doubt not but it will readily appear, that we may easily find troops which may be of more use and less expense than those of Hanover. It has been observed, with regard to the convenient situation of those troops, that it cannot now be denied, since they are acting in Flanders in conjunction with the British forces. This is an assertion to which, though it was uttered with an air of victorious confidence, though it was produced as an insuperable argument, by which all those who intended opposition were to be reduced to silence and despair, many objections may be made, which it will require another harangue equally elaborate to remove. That the troops of Hanover are now acting in conjunction with the Britons, I know not how any man can affirm, unless he has received intelligence by some airy messengers, or has some sympathetick communication with them, not indulged to the rest of mankind. None of the accounts which have been brought hither of the affairs of the continent have yet informed us of any action, or tendency to action; the Hanoverians have, indeed, been reviewed in conjunction with our forces, but have, hitherto, not acted; nor have the armies yet cemented the alliance by any common danger, or shown yet that they are friends otherwise than by sleeping and eating together, by eating at the expense of the same nation. Nor am I at present inclined to grant, that either army is situated where it may be of most use to the queen of Hungary; for they now loiter in a country which no enemy threatens, and in which nothing, therefore, can be feared; a country very remote from the seat of war, and which will probably be last attacked. If the assistance of the queen of Hungary had been designed, there appears no reason why the Hanoverians should have marched thither, or why this important conjunction should have been formed, since they might, in much less time, and with less expense, have joined the Austrians, and, perhaps, have enabled them to defeat the designs of the French, and cut off the retreat of the army which was sent to the relief of Prague. But this march, though it would have been less tedious, would have been more dangerous, and would not have been very consistent with the designs of those who are more desirous of receiving wages than of deserving them; nor is it likely, that those who required levy-money for troops already levied, and who demanded that they should be paid a long time before they began to march, would hurry them to action, or endeavour to put a period to so gainful a trade as that of hiring troops which are not to be exposed. This conduct, however visibly absurd, I am very far from imputing either to cowardice or ignorance; for there is reason to suspect, that they marched into Flanders only because they could not appear in any other place as the allies of the queen of Hungary, without exposing their sovereign to the imperial interdict. It is, therefore, not only certain, that these troops, these boasted and important troops, have not yet been of any use; but probable, that no use is intended for them, and that the sole view of those who have introduced them into our service, is to pay their court by enriching Hanover with the spoils of Britain. That this is in reality their intention, appears from the estimates to which an appeal has been so confidently made, but which, if they are compared with a contract made for the troops of the same nation in the last war, will show how much their price has risen since their sovereign was exalted to this throne; though I cannot find any proof that their reputation has increased, nor can discover, from their _actions_ in Flanders, any reason to believe that their services will be greater. It is now to little purpose to inquire, whether there are any other troops that could have been more properly employed, since it is certain, that whatever may be the general character, or the late conduct of other nations, it is the interest of Britain to employ rather any troops than these, as any evil is rather to be chosen than animosities between our sovereign and our fellow-subjects; and such animosities must inevitably arise from this detestable preference of the troops of Hanover. [The question was carried by 67, the Ayes being 260; Noes 193. This affair was again debated with vehemence upon the report on Monday, December 13, 1742, upon a question, whether the levy-money should stand part of the general question, which was carried by 53; Ayes 230, Noes 177.] HOUSE OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 1, 1742-3. The order of the day for taking into consideration the several estimates of the charge of the forces in the pay of Great Britain was read, upon which lord STANHOPE rose up, and spoke in substance as follows:-- My lords, I have always understood, that the peculiar happiness of the British nation consists in this, that nothing of importance can be undertaken by the government, without the consent of the people as represented by the other house, and that of your lordships, whose large possessions, and the merits either of your ancestors or yourselves, have given you the privilege of voting in your own right in national consultations. The advantages of this constitution, the security which it confers upon the nation, and the restraint which it lays upon corrupt ministers, or ambitious princes, are in themselves too obvious to admit of explanation, and too well known in this great assembly, by whose ancestors they were originally obtained, and preserved at the frequent hazard of life and fortune, for me to imagine, that I can make them either more esteemed or better understood. My intention, my lords, is not to teach others the regard which the constitution of our government, or the happiness of the nation demands from them, but to show how much I regard them myself, by endeavouring to preserve and defend them at a time when I think them invaded and endangered. Upon the examination of the estimates now before us, I cannot but think it necessary, my lords, that every man who values liberty, should exert that spirit by which it was first established; that every man should rouse from his security, and awaken all his vigilance and all his zeal, lest the bold attempt that has been now made should, if it be not vigorously repressed, be an encouragement to the more dangerous encroachments; and lest that fabrick of power should be destroyed, which has been erected at such expense and with such labour; at which one generation has toiled after another, and of which the wisdom of the most experienced and penetrating statesmen have been employed to perfect its symmetry, and the industry of the most virtuous patriots to repair its decays. The first object which the estimates force upon our observation is a numerous body of foreign troops, for the levy and payment of which a very large sum is demanded; and demanded at a time when the nation is to the last degree embarrassed and oppressed, when it is engaged in a war with a powerful empire, and almost overwhelmed with the debts that were contracted in former confederacies; when it is engaged in a war, not for the recovery of forgotten claims, or for the gratification of restless ambition, not for the consumption of exuberant wealth, or for the discharge of superfluous inhabitants; but a war, in which the most important interests are set to hazard, and by which the freedom of navigation must be either established or lost; a war which must determine the sovereignty of the ocean, the rights of commerce, and the state of our colonies; a war, in which we may, indeed, be victorious without any increase of our reputation; but in which we cannot be defeated without losing all our influence upon foreign powers, and becoming subject to the insolence of petty princes. When foreign troops are hired, at a time like this, it is natural to expect that they have been procured by contracts uncommonly frugal; because no nation can be supposed to be lavish in a time of distress. It is natural, my lords, to expect that they should be employed in expeditions of the utmost importance; because no trifling advantage ought to incite a people overburdened with taxes, to oppress themselves with any new expense; and it may be justly supposed, that these troops were hired by the advice of the senate; because no minister can be supposed so hardened in defiance of his country, in contempt of the laws, and in disregard of the publick happiness, as to dare to introduce foreigners into the publick service, in prosecution of his own private schemes, or to rob the nation which he professes to serve, that he may increase the wealth of another. But upon consideration of this estimate, my lords, all these expectations, however reasonable in themselves, however consistent with the declarations of the wisest statesmen, and the practice of former times, will be disappointed; for it will be found that the troops, of which we are now to ratify the provisions for their payment, are raised at an expense never known on the like occasion before, when the nation was far more able to support it; that they have yet been employed in no expedition, that they have neither fought a battle, nor besieged a town, nor undertaken any design, nor hindered any that has been formed by those against whom they are pretended to have been raised; that they have not yet drawn a sword but at a review, nor heard the report of fire-arms but upon a festival; that they have not yet seen an enemy, and that they are posted where no enemy is likely to approach them. But this, my lords, is not the circumstance which ought, in my opinion, most strongly to affect us; troops may be raised without being employed, and money expended without effect; but such measures, though they ought to be censured and rectified, may be borne without any extraordinary degree of indignation. While our constitution remains unviolated, temporary losses may be easily repaired, and accidental misconduct speedily retrieved; but when the publick rights are infringed, when the ministry assume the power of giving away the properties of the people, it is then necessary to exert an uncommon degree of vigour and resentment; it is as necessary to stop, the encroachments of lawless power, as to oppose the torrent of a deluge; which may be, perhaps, resisted at first, but from which, the country that is once overwhelmed by it, cannot be recovered. To raise this ardour, my lords, to excite this laudable resentment, I believe it will be only necessary to observe, that those troops were raised without the advice or the consent of the senate; that this new burden has been laid upon the nation by the despotick will of the ministers, and that the demands made for their support may be said to be a tax laid upon the people, not by the senate, but by the court. The motives upon which the ministry have acted on this occasion are, so far as they can be discovered, and, indeed, there appears very little care to conceal them, such as no subject of this crown ever dared to proceed upon before; they are such as the act of settlement, that act to which our sovereign owes his title to this throne, ought for ever to have excluded from British councils. I should proceed, my lords, to explain this new method of impoverishing our country, and endeavour to show the principles from which it arises, and the end which it must promote. But some sudden indisposition obliges me to contract my plan, and conclude much sooner than I intended, with moving, "that an humble address be presented to his majesty, to beseech and advise his majesty, that considering the excessive and grievous expenses, incurred by the great number of foreign troops now in the pay of Great Britain, (expenses so increased by the extraordinary manner, as we apprehend, of making the estimates relating thereunto, and which do not appear to us conducive to the end proposed,) his majesty will be graciously pleased, in compassion to his people, loaded already with such numerous and heavy taxes, such large and growing debts, and greater annual expenses than this nation, at any time, ever before sustained, to exonerate his subjects of the charge and burden of those mercenaries who were taken into our service last year, without the advice or consent of parliament." Lord SANDWICH spoke next in support of the motion to the following effect:--My lords, though I heard the noble lord with so much pleasure, that I could not but wish he had been able to deliver his sentiments more fully upon this important affair; yet I think the motion so reasonable and just, that though he might have set it yet more beyond the danger of opposition, though he might have produced many arguments in defence of it, which, perhaps, will not occur to any other lords; yet I shall be able to justify it in such a manner, as may secure the approbation of the unprejudiced and disinterested; and, therefore, I rise up to second it with that confidence, which always arises from a consciousness of honest intentions, and of an impartial inquiry after truth. The measures, my lords, which have given occasion to this motion, have been for some time the subject of my reflections; I have endeavoured to examine them in their full extent, to recollect the previous occurrences by which the ministry might have been influenced to engage in them, and to discover the certain and the probable consequences which they may either immediately, or more remotely produce; I have laboured to collect from those who are supposed to be most acquainted with the state of Europe, and the scheme of British policy which is at present pursued, the arguments which can be offered in favour of these new engagements; and have compared them with the conduct of former ages upon the like occasions; but the result of all my searches into history, all my conversation with politicians of every party, and all my private meditations, has been only, that I am every hour confirmed, by some new evidence, in the opinion which I had first formed; and now imagined myself to know what I at first believed, that we are entangled in a labyrinth of which no end is to be seen, and in which no certain path has yet been discovered; that we are pursuing schemes which are in no degree necessary to the prosperity of our country, by means which are apparently contrary to law, to policy, and to justice; and that we are involved in a foreign quarrel only to waste that blood, and exhaust that treasure, which might be employed in recovering the rights of commerce, and regaining the dominion of the sea. To prosecute the war against Spain with that vigour which interest and resentment might be expected to produce, to repress that insolence by which our navigation has been confined, and to punish that rapacity by which our merchants have been plundered, and that cruelty by which our fellow-subjects have been enslaved, tortured, and murdered, had been an attempt in which every honest man would readily have concurred, and to which all those who had sense to discern their own interest, or virtue to promote the publick happiness, would cheerfully have contributed, however loaded with taxes, oppressed with a standing army, and plundered by the vultures of a court: nor is the ancient spirit of the British nation so much depressed, but that when Spain had been subdued, when our rights had been publickly acknowledged, our losses repaired, and our colonies secured; when our ships had again sailed in security, and our flag awed the ocean of America, we might then have extended our views to foreign countries, might have assumed, once more, the guardianship of the liberties of Europe, have given law to the powers of the continent, and superintended the happiness of mankind. But in the present situation of our affairs, when we have made war for years without advantage, while our most important rights are yet subject to the chance of battle, why we should engage in the defence of other princes more than our stipulations require, I am not able to discover; nor can I conceive what motive can incite us, after having suffered so much from a weak enemy to irritate a stronger. To the measures which are now pursued, were there no other arguments to be alleged against them, I should think it, my lords, a sufficient objection that they are unnecessary, and that this is not a time for political experiments, or for wanton expenses. I should think, that the present distresses of the publick ought to restrain your lordships from approving any steps by which our burdens may be made more heavy, burdens under which we are already sinking, and which a peace of more than twenty years has not contributed to lighten. But that they are unnecessary, my lords, is the weakest allegation that can be offered; for they are such as tend not only to obstruct the advancement of more advantageous designs, but to bring upon us the heaviest calamities; they will not only hinder us from increasing our strength, but will sink us to the greatest degree of weakness; they will not only impoverish us for the present, which may be sometimes the effect of useful and beneficial designs, but may depress us below a possibility of recovery, and reduce us to receive laws from some foreign power. This is, indeed, a dreadful prospect; but what other can arise to us from a war with France, with the most wealthy empire of the universe, of which we were sufficiently shown the strength in the late war, by the resistance which all the surrounding nations found it able to make against their united efforts, and which the debts that they then contracted, and the towns that were then destroyed, will not easily suffer them to forget. Of this empire, my lords, thus powerful, thus formidable, neither the dominions are contracted, nor the trade impaired, nor the inhabitants diminished. The French armies are no less numerous than under their late mighty monarch, their territories are increased by new acquisitions, their trade has long been promoted by the destruction of ours, and their wealth has been, by consequence, increased. They have not, my lords, like this unhappy nation, been exhausted by temporary expedients and useless armaments; they have not harassed their merchants to aggrandize the court, nor thrown away the opportunities which this interval of quiet has afforded them, in the struggles of faction; they have not been multiplying officers to betray the people, and taxing the people to support their oppressors; but have with equal policy, diligence, and success, recovered the losses which they then sustained, and enabled themselves to make another stand against a general confederacy. Against this empire, my lords, are we now to be engaged in a war, without trade, and without money, loaded with debts, and harassed with exactions; for what consequences can be expected from sending our troops into the frontier towns, but that the French will charge us with beginning hostilities, and declare war against us, or attack us without a declaration; and that we shall be obliged to stand alone against the whole power of the house of Bourbon, while all our ancient allies stand at a distance spiritless and intimidated, or, perhaps, secretly incite our enemies against us, in hopes of sharing our plunder, or of rising on our ruin. I know it has been alleged, and alleged with such a degree of confidence, as it is reasonable to hope nothing could produce but a consciousness of truth, that the Dutch have already consented to assist us; nor is it without regret, that I find myself obliged to declare, that this assertion is nothing more than one of those transient visions with which it has been for a long time the custom of British ministers to delude the people, to pacify their clamours, and lull them in security; one of those artifices from which nothing more is expected, than that it shall operate upon the nation, till the circumstances of our affairs furnish out another, which is likewise, in a short time, to be exploded only to make way for new falsehoods in a perpetual succession. Such, my lords, is the art of government discovered by the wonderful sagacity of modern statesmen; who have found out, that it is easier to palliate than to cure; and that the people maybe quieted by political soporificks, while diseases are preying upon them, while their strength decays, and their vitals are consumed. That these falsehoods prevail upon mankind, and that after the discovery of one cheat, another equally gross is patiently borne, cannot but raise the wonder of a man who views the world at a distance, and who has not opportunities of inquiring into the various motives of action or belief. Such an one would be inclined to think us a nation of fools, that must be stilled with rattles, or amused with baubles; and would readily conclude, that our ministers were obliged to practise such fallacies, because they could not prevail upon us by motives adapted to reasonable beings. But if we reflect, my lords, upon the different principles upon which reports like these are propagated and opposed, it will easily be discovered that their success is not to be imputed either to superiour art on one side, or uncommon weakness on the other. It is well known that they are promoted by men hired for that purpose with large salaries, or beneficial employments, and that they can be opposed only from a desire of detecting falsehood, and advancing the publick happiness: it is apparent that those who invent, those who circulate, and, perhaps, part of those who counterfeit belief of them, are incited by the prospect of private advantage, and immediate profit; and that those who stop them in their career by contradiction and objections, can propose no other benefit to themselves, than that which they shall receive in common with every other member of the community; and, therefore, whoever has sufficiently observed mankind, to discover the reason for which self-interest has in almost all ages prevailed over publick spirit, will be able to see why reports like these are not always suppressed by seasonable detections. A minister ought not to flatter himself that he has always deceived those who appear to credit his representations; their silence is not so often the effect of credulity, as of cowardice or indolence. Many are overborne by the pomp of great offices, and others who distinguish more clearly, and judge with greater freedom, are contented to enjoy their own reflections, without reproving those whom they despair to reform. This report of the engagement of the Dutch in our measures, shall, however, furnish our ministers with no opportunity of boasting their address, nor shall it pass any longer without contradiction; for I shall, without any scruple, affirm in the presence of this august assembly, that the Dutch have hitherto appeared absolutely neutral; that they have not shown any approbation of our measures, nor any inclination to assist us in them. I know, my lords, how disagreeable this assertion may be to those, whose interest it is that mankind should believe them of no less importance in the eyes of foreign powers than in their own, and should imagine that the remotest nations of the world are influenced by their motions, and directed by their counsels; but however they may resent this declaration, I defy them to confute it, and now call upon them to show that the Dutch have engaged in any measure for the support of the queen of Hungary. The late augmentation of twenty thousand men, which may possibly be mentioned as a proof of their intention, shows nothing but that they pursue their own interest with their usual prudence and attention, and with such as it is to be wished that our ministers would condescend to learn from them; and that they are too wise to suffer the towns from which the Austrians have, by our persuasions, withdrawn their troops to fall into the hands of the French. They have, therefore, substituted new garrisons, but seem to have no regard to the interest of the queen of Hungary, nor any other view than that of providing for their own security, waiting the event of the war, and laying hold of any advantage that may accidentally be offered them. It may be urged farther by those who are desirous to deceive others, or willing to be deceived themselves, that the province of Holland has passed a vote for assisting the queen of Hungary with twenty thousand men; but if it be remembered, my lords, that this must be the general act of the United States, and that every province has its own particular views to gratify, and its own interest to reconcile with the general good, it may be very reasonably suspected, that this assistance is yet rather the object of hope than expectation; it may justly be feared, that before so many various dispositions will unite, and such different schemes will be made consistent, the house of Austria may be extinguished, that our forces may be destroyed, and Germany enslaved by the French. Then, my lords, what will remain, but that we shall curse that folly that involved us in distant quarrels, and that temerity which sent us out to oppose a power which we could not withstand; and which incited us to waste that treasure in foreign countries, which we may quickly want for the defence of our own? It must be, indeed, confessed, that if an estimate is to be made of our condition, from the conduct of our ministers, the fear of exhausting our treasure must be merely panick, and the precepts of frugality which other states have grown great by observing, are to be absolutely unnecessary. It may reasonably be imagined that we have some secret mine, or hidden repository of gold, which no degree of extravagance can drain, and which may for ever supply the most lavish expenses without diminution. For upon what other supposition, my lords, can any man attempt a defence of the contract, by which we have obtained for one campaign the service of the troops of Hanover? What but the confidence of funds that can never be deficient, could influence them to conclude a stipulation, by which levy-money is to be paid for troops of which not a single regiment was raised for our service, or on the present occasion; which were established for the security of the electorate of Hanover, and would have been maintained, though we had not engaged in the affairs of the continent. What were the reasons which induced our ministry to employ the forces of Hanover, it is, perhaps, not necessary to inquire. The only motive that ought to have influenced them, was the prospect of obtaining them upon cheap terms; for, my lords, if the troops of Hanover cannot be obtained, but at the same expense with those of Britain, I am not able to discover why they should be preferred. I have never heard, my lords, any uncommon instances of Hanoverian courage, that should incline us to trust the cause of Europe rather to that nation than to our own; and am inclined to believe, that Britain is able to produce men equal in all military virtues to any native of that happy country; a country which, though it was thought worthy to be secured by a neutrality, when all the neighbouring provinces were exposed to the ravages of war, I have never heard celebrated for any peculiar excellencies; and of which I cannot but observe, that it was indebted for its security rather to the precaution of its prince, than the bravery of its inhabitants. This demand of levy-money shocks every Briton yet more strongly, on considering by whom it is required; required by that family whom we have raised from a petty dominion, for which homage was paid to a superiour power; and which was, perhaps, only suffered to retain the appearance of a separate sovereignty, because it was not worth the labour and expense of an invasion; because it would neither increase riches nor titles, nor gratify either avarice or ambition; by a family whom, from want and weakness, we have exalted to a throne, from whence, with virtue equal to their power, they may issue their mandates to the remotest parts of the earth, may prescribe the course of war in distant empires, and dictate terms of peace to half the monarchs of the globe. I should imagine, my lords, that when a king of the house of Hanover surveys his navies, reviews his troops, or examines his revenue, beholds the splendour of his court, or contemplates the extent of his dominions, he cannot but sometimes, however unwillingly, compare his present state with that of his ancestors; and that when he gives audience to the ambassadours of princes, who, perhaps, never heard of Hanover, and directs the payment of sums, by the smallest of which all his ancient inheritance would be dearly purchased; and reflects, as surely he sometimes will, that all these honours and riches, this reverence from foreign powers, and his domestick splendour, are the gratuitous and voluntary gifts of the mighty people of Britain, he should find his heart overflowing with unlimited gratitude, and should be ready to sacrifice to the happiness of his benefactors, not only every petty interest, or accidental inclination, but even his repose, his safety, or his life; that he should be ready to ease them of every burden before they complained, and to aid them with all his power before they requested his assistance; that he should consider his little territories as only a contemptible province to his British empire, a kind of nursery for troops to be employed without harassing his more valuable subjects. It might be at least hoped, my lords, that the princes of the house of Hanover might have the same regard to this nation as to kings from whom they never received any benefit, and whom they ought in reality always to have considered as enemies, yet even from such levy-money was not always required; or if required, was not always received. There was once a time, my lords, before any of this race wore the crown of Britain; when the great French monarch, Lewis the fourteenth, being under a necessity of hiring auxiliary troops, applied to the duke of Hanover, as a prince whose necessities would naturally incline him to set the lives of his subjects at a cheap rate. The duke, pleased with an opportunity of trafficking with so wealthy a monarch, readily promised a supply of troops; and demanded levy-money to be paid him, that he might be enabled to raise them. But Hanoverian reputation was not then raised so high, as that the French king should trust him with his money. Lewis suspected, and made no scruple of declaring his suspicion, that the demand of levy-money was only a pretence to obtain a sum which would never afterwards be repaid, and for which no troops would be obtained; and therefore, with his usual prudence insisted, that the troops should first march, and then be paid. Thus for some time the treaty was at a stand; but the king being equally in want of men, as the duke of money, and perceiving, perhaps, that it was really impracticable for so indigent a prince to raise troops without some pecuniary assistance, offered him at length a small sum, which was gladly accepted, though much below the original demand. The troops were engaged in the service of France; and the duke of Hanover thought himself happy in being able to amuse himself at his leisure with the rattle of money. Such, my lords, were the conditions on which the troops of Hanover were furnished in former times; and surely what could then be produced by the love of money, or the awe of a superiour power, might now be expected as the effect of gratitude and kindness. But not to dwell any longer, my lords, upon particular circumstances of measures, of which the whole scheme is contrary to the apparent interest of this empire, I shall not inquire farther, why auxiliaries are employed on this occasion rather than Britons, rather than those whose bravery is celebrated to the most distant corners of the earth; why, if mercenaries are necessary, those of Hanover are preferred to others: or why, if they are, indeed, preferable, they are now to be hired at a higher rate than at any former time? It appears to me of far more importance to undermine the foundation, than to batter the superstructure of our present system of politicks; and of greater use to inquire, why we have engaged in a war on the continent, than why we carry it on with ridiculous profusion. It appears to me, my lords, that there are many reasons which, with the same circumstances, would have withheld any nation but this from such a dangerous interposition. The Dutch, we see, are content to look on without action, though they are more interested in the event, and less embarrassed on any other side. We are already engaged in a war, of which no man can foresee the conclusion; but which cannot be ended unsuccessfully, without the utmost danger to our most important interests; and which yet has hitherto produced only losses and disgrace, has impoverished our merchants, and intimidated our soldiers. Whether these losses are the effects of weakness or treachery, is a question which I am not ambitious of endeavouring to decide, and of which the decision is, indeed, by no means necessary in the present debate; since if we are too weak to struggle with Spain, unassisted as she is, and embarrassed with different views, I need not say what will be our condition, when the whole house of Bourbon shall be combined against us; when that nation which stood alone for so many years against the united efforts of Europe, shall attack us, exhausted with taxes, enervated with corruption, and disunited from all allies. Whether the troops of Hanover will assist us at that time, I cannot determine. Perhaps, in the destruction of the British dominions, it may be thought expedient to secure a more valuable and important country by a timely neutrality; but if we have any auxiliaries from thence, we must then necessarily obtain them upon cheaper terms. If our inactivity in the European seas, and our ill success in those of America be, as it is generally suspected, the consequence of perfidious counsels, and private machinations; if our fleets are sent out with orders to make no attempt against our enemies, or our admirals commanded to retreat before them; surely no higher degree of madness can be imagined, than that of provoking new enemies before we have experienced a change of counsels, and found reason to place in our ministers and statesmen that confidence which war absolutely requires. This is the conduct, my lords, which I should think most rational, even though we were attacked in some of our real rights, and though the quarrel about which we were debating was our own; I should think the nearest danger the greatest, and should advise patience under foreign insults, till we had redressed our domestick grievances; till we had driven treachery from the court, and corruption from the senate. But much more proper do I think this conduct, when we are invited only to engage in distant war, in a dispute about the dominion of princes, in the bowels of the continent; of princes, of whom it is not certain, that we shall receive either advantage or security from their greatness, or that we should suffer any loss or injury by their fall. But, my lords, I know it will be answered, that the queen of Hungary has a right by treaty to our assistance; and that in becoming guarantees of the Pragmatick sanction, we engaged to support her in the dominions of her ancestors. This, my lords, is an answer of which I do not deny the justness, and of which I will not attempt to invalidate the strength. I allow that such a stipulation was made, and that treaties ought to be observed, at whatever hazard, with unviolated faith. It has been, indeed, objected, that many nations engaged with us in the same treaty, whom interest or cowardice have inclined to neglect it; and that we ought not to become the standing garrison of Europe, or to defend alone those territories, to the preservation of which so many states are obliged to contribute equally with ourselves. But this, my lords, appears to me an argument of which the ill consequences can never be fully discovered; an argument which dissolves all the obligations of contracts, destroys the foundation of moral justice, and lays society open to all the mischiefs of perfidy, by making the validity of oaths and contracts dependant upon chance, and regulating the duties of one man by the conduct of another. I pretend not, my lords, to long experience, and, therefore, in discussing intricate questions, may be easily mistaken. But as, in my opinion, my lords, morality is seldom difficult, but when it is clouded with an intention to deceive others or ourselves, I shall venture to declare with more confidence, that in proportion as one man neglects his duty, another is more strictly obliged to practise his own, that his example may not help forward the general corruption, and that those who are injured by the perfidy of others, may from his sincerity have a prospect of relief. I believe all politicks that are not founded on morality will be found fallacious and destructive, if not immediately, to those who practise them; yet, consequentially, by their general tendency to disturb society, and weaken those obligations which maintain the order of the world. I shall, therefore, allow, that what justice requires from a private man, becomes, in parallel circumstances, the duty of a nation; and shall, therefore, never advise the violation of a solemn treaty. The stipulations in which we engaged, when we became guarantees of the Pragmatick sanction, are, doubtless, to be observed; and it is, therefore, one of the strongest objections against the measures which we are now pursuing, that we shall be perfidious at a greater expense than fidelity would have required, and shall exhaust the treasure of the nation without assisting the queen of Hungary. To explain this assertion, my lords, it is necessary to take a view of the constitution of the German body, which consists of a great number of separate governments independent on each other, but subject, in some degree, to the emperour as the general head. The subjects of each state are governed by their prince, and owe no allegiance to any other sovereign; but the prince performs homage to the emperour, and having thereby acknowledged himself his feudatory, or dependant, may be punished for rebellion against him. The title of the emperour, and consequently his claim to this allegiance, and the right of issuing the ban against those who shall refuse it, is confirmed by many solemn acknowledgments of the diet, and, amongst others, by the grant of a pecuniary aid; this the present emperour has indisputably received, an aid having been already granted him in the diet, of a subsidy for eighteen months; and, therefore, none of the troops of Germany can now be employed against him, without subjecting the prince to whom they belong to the censure of the ban, a kind of civil excommunication. To what purpose, then, my lords, are we to hire, at a rate never paid, or perhaps demanded before, troops which cannot serve us without subjecting their prince to the charge of rebellion? Or how shall we assist the queen of Hungary, by collecting forces which dare not act against the only enemy which she has now to fear? Or in what new difficulties shall we be engaged, should the inestimable dominions of Hanover be subjected to the imperial interdiction. These, my lords, are questions to which, I hope, we shall hear a more satisfactory answer than I am able to conceive; for, indeed, I do not see what remains, but to confess, that these troops are hired only for a military show, to amuse this nation with a false appearance of zeal for the preservation of Europe, and to increase the treasures of Hanover at the expense of Britain. These are designs, my lords, which no man will avow, and yet these are the only designs which I can yet discover; and, therefore, I shall oppose all the measures that tend to their execution. If the heat of indignation, or the asperity of resentment, or the wantonness of contempt, have betrayed me into any expressions unworthy of the dignity of this house, I hope they will be forgiven by your lordships; for any other degree of freedom I shall make no apology, having, as a peer, a right to deliver my opinion, and as a Briton, to assert the independence of my native country, when I see, or imagine myself to see, that it is ignominiously and illegally subjected to the promotion of the petty interest of the province of Hanover. Lord CARTERET then rose, and made answer to the following effect:--My lords, as I doubt not but I shall be able to justify the measures which are now pursued, in such a manner as may entitle them to the approbation of your lordships, I proposed to hear all the objections that should be made, before I attempted a vindication, that the debate might be shortened, and that the arguments on both sides might be considered as placed in the full strength of opposition; and that it might be discerned how objections, however specious in themselves, would vanish before the light of reason and truth. But the noble lord has made it necessary for me to alter my design, by a speech which I will not applaud, because it has, in my opinion, an ill tendency; nor censure, because it wanted neither the splendour of eloquence, nor the arts of reasoning; and had no other defect than that which must always be produced by a bad cause, fallacy in the arguments, and errours in the assertions. This speech I am obliged to answer, because his lordship has been pleased to call out for any lord who will assert, that the Dutch have agreed to concur with us in assisting the queen of Hungary. That all the provinces of that republick have agreed to assist us, is indeed not true; nor do I know, my lords, by whom or upon what authority it was asserted; but the concurrence of the province of Holland, the most important of all, and whose example the rest seldom delay to follow, has been obtained, which is sufficient to encourage us to vigorous resolutions, by which the rest may be animated to a speedy compliance. The concurrence of this province has been already the consequence of the measures which have been lately pursued; measures from which, though just and successful, the ministry cannot claim much applause; because all choice was denied, and they were obliged either to remain passive spectators of the ruin of Europe, and, by consequence, of Britain, or to do what they have done. And surely, my lords, that necessity which deprives them of all claim to panegyrick, will be, likewise, a sufficient security from censure. There is, indeed, no reason to fear censure from judges so candid and experienced as your lordships, to whom it may without difficulty be proved, that the balance of Europe has already changed its position, and the house of Bourbon is now not able to preponderate against the other powers. By entering into an alliance with Sardinia, we have taken from the crown of Spain all the weight of the territories of Italy, of which the Austrian forces are now in possession, without fear or danger of being interrupted; while the passes of the ocean are shut by the fleets of Britain, and those of the mountains by the troops of Sardinia. Those unhappy forces which were transported by the Spanish fleet, are not only lost to their native country, but exposed without provision, without ammunition, without retreat, and without hope: nor can any human prospect discover how they can escape destruction, either by the fatigue of marches, or the want of necessaries, or the superiour force of an army well supplied and elated with success. This, my lords, is an embarrassment from which the Spaniards would gladly be freed at any expense, from which they would bribe us to relieve them, by permitting the demolition of new fortresses, or restoring the army which we lost at Carthagena. Of this alliance the queen of Hungary already finds the advantage, as it preserves countries in her possession, which, if once lost, it might be impossible to recover; and sets her free from the necessity of dividing her army for the protection of distant territories. Thus, my lords, the Spaniards are obstructed and distrusted; of their armies, one is condemned to waste away at the feet of impassable mountains, only to hear of the destruction of their countrymen whom they are endeavouring to relieve, and the establishment of peace in these regions of which they had projected the conquest; and the other, yet more unfortunate, has been successfully transported, only to see that fleet which permitted their passage preclude their supplies, and hinder their retreat. Nor do we, my lords, after having thus efficaciously opposed one of the princes of the house of Bourbon, fear or shun the resentment of the other; we doubt not to show, that Britain is still able to retard the arms of the haughty French, and to drive them back from the invasion of other kingdoms to the defence of their own. The time is at hand, my lords, in which it will appear, that however the power of France has been exaggerated, with whatever servility her protection has been courted, and with whatever meanness her insolence has been borne, this nation has not yet lost its influence or its strength, that it is yet able to fill the continent with armies, to afford protection to its allies, and strike terrour into those who have hitherto trampled under foot the faith of treaties and rights of sovereigns, and ranged over the dominions of the neighbouring princes, with the security of lawful possessors, and the pride of conquerors. It has been objected by the noble lord, that this change is not to be expected from an army composed of auxiliary troops from any of the provinces of the German empire, because they cannot act against the general head. I can easily, my lords, solve this difficulty, from my long acquaintance with the constitution of the empire, which I understood before the noble lord, who has entertained you with a discourse upon it, was in being; but I will not engross your time, or retard your determination by a superfluous disquisition, which may be now safely omitted; since I am allowed by his majesty to assure your lordships, that the Hessian and Hanoverian troops shall be employed in assisting the queen of Hungary, and that they have already received orders to make the preparations necessary for marching into the empire. After this declaration, my lords, the most formidable objection against the present measures will, I hope, be no more heard in this debate; for it will be by no means proper for any lord to renew it by inquiring, whether his majesty's resolution is not a breach of the imperial constitution, or whether it will not expose his electoral dominions to danger. For it is not our province to judge of the laws of other nations, to examine when they are violated, or to enforce the observation of them; nor is it necessary, since the interests of Britain and Hanover are irreconcilably opposite, to endeavour the preservation of dominions which their own sovereign is inclined to hazard. Thus, my lords, I hope it appears, that the common interest of Britain and Europe is steadily pursued; that the Spaniards feel the effects of a war with Britain by their distress and embarrassment; that the queen of Hungary discovers, that the ancient allies of her family have not deserted her; and that France, amidst her boasts and her projects, perceives the determined opposers of her grandeur again setting her at defiance. The duke of BEDFORD spoke to the following effect:--My lords, the assurance which the noble lord who spoke last declares himself to have conceived of being able to demonstrate the propriety of the present measures, must surely arise from some intelligence which has been hitherto suppressed, or some knowledge of future events peculiar to himself; for I cannot discover any force in the arguments which he has been pleased to use, that could produce in him such confidence of success, nor any circumstances in the present appearance of Europe, that do not seem to demand a different conduct. The reasonableness of our measures at this time, as at all others, must be evinced by arguments drawn from an attentive review of the state of our own country, compared with that of the neighbouring nations; for no man will deny, that those methods of proceeding which are at one time useful, may at another be pernicious; and that either a gradual rotation of power, or a casual variation of interest, may very properly produce changes in the counsels of the most steady and vigorous administration. It is therefore proper, in the examination of this question, to consider what is the state of our own nation, and what is to be hoped or feared from the condition of those kingdoms, which are most enabled by their situation to benefit or to hurt us: and in inquiry, my lords, an inquiry that can give little pleasure to an honest and benevolent mind, it immediately occurs, that we are a nation exhausted by a long war, and impoverished by the diminution of our commerce; and the result, therefore, of this first consideration is, that those measures are most eligible which are most frugal; and that to waste the publick treasure in unnecessary expenses, or to load the people with new taxes only to display a mockery of war on the continent, or to amuse ourselves, our allies, or our enemies, with the idle ostentation of unnecessary numbers, is to drain from the nation the last remains of its ancient vigour, instead of assisting its recovery from its present languors. But money, however valuable, however necessary, has sometimes been imprudently and unseasonably spared; and an ill-timed parsimony has been known to hasten calamities, by which those have been deprived of all who would not endeavour to preserve it by the loss of part. It is therefore to be considered, whether measures less expensive would not have been more dangerous; and whether we have not, by hiring foreign troops, though at a very high rate, at a rate which would have been demanded from no other nation, purchased an exemption from distresses, insults, and invasions. The only nations, my lords, whom we have any reason to suspect of a design to invade us, or that have power to put any such design in execution, are well known to be the French and Spaniards; from these, indeed, it may justly be expected, that they will omit no opportunity of gratifying that hatred which difference of religion and contrariety of interest cannot fail to continue from age to age; and therefore we ought never to imagine ourselves safe, while it is in their power to endanger us. But of these two nations, my lords, the one is already disarmed by the navies of Britain, which confine her fleets to their harbours, and, as we have been just now informed, preclude her armies from supplies: the other is without a fleet able to transport an army, her troops are dispersed in different countries, and her treasures exhausted by expeditions or negotiations equally expensive. There is, therefore, my lords, no danger of an invasion, even though we had no forces by which it could be opposed; but much less is it to be feared, when it is remembered, that the sea is covered with our ships of war, and that all the coasts of Europe are awed and alarmed by the navies of Britain. This then, my lords, is surely the time, when we ought not to have sacrificed any immediate and apparent interest to the fear of attempts from Spain or France; when we might without danger have assisted our allies with our national troops, and have spared that money which we have so lavishly bestowed upon auxiliaries; when we might securely have shown the powers of the continent how much the British valour is yet to be feared, and how little our late losses or disgraces are to be imputed to the decline of our courage or our strength. I suppose, my lords, no man will confess, that foreign troops have been hired as more to be trusted for their skill or bravery than our own. To dispute the palm of courage with any nation would be a reproach to the British name; and if our soldiers are not at least equally disciplined with those of other countries, it must be owned, that taxes have been long paid to little purpose, that the glitter of reviews has been justly ridiculed as an empty show, and that we have long been flattered by our ministers and generals with false security. But though I am far from believing, that the army has been supported only for the defence of our country; and though I know, that their officers are frequently engaged in employments more important in the opinion of their directors, than that of regulating the discipline of their regiments, and teaching the use of arms and the science of war; yet, as I believe the courage of Britons such as may often supply the want of skill, I cannot but conclude, that they are at least as formidable as the troops of other countries, especially when I remember, that they enter the field incited and supported by the reputation of their country. Why then, my lords, is the nation condemned to support, at once, a double burden; to pay at home an army which can be of no use, and to hire auxiliaries, perhaps, equally unactive; to make war, if any war be intended, at an unnecessary expense, and to pay, at once, a fleet which only floats upon the ocean, an army which only awes the villages from which it is supported, and a body of mercenaries, of which no man can yet conjecture with what design they have been retained. That they are intended for the support of the queen of Hungary has been, indeed, asserted; and this contract has been produced as an instance of the zeal of our ministers for the assertion of the Pragmatick sanction, the preservation of the liberties of Europe, and the suppression of the ambitious enterprises of the house of Bourbon; but surely, my lords, had the assistance of that illustrious princess been their sole or principal intention, had they in reality dedicated the sum which is to be received by the troops of Hanover, to the sacred cause of publick faith and universal liberty, they might have found methods of promoting it much more efficaciously at no greater expense. Had they remitted that money to the queen, she would have been enabled to call nations to her standard, to fill the plains of Germany with the hardy inhabitants of the mountains and the deserts, and have deluged the empire of France with multitudes equally daring and rapacious, who would have descended upon a fruitful country like vultures on their prey, and have laid those provinces in ruin which now smile at the devastation of neighbouring countries, secure in the protection of their mighty monarch. By this method of carrying on the war, we might have secured our ally from danger which I cannot but think imminent and formidable, though it seems, at present, not to be feared. By so large an addition to her troops, she would have been enabled to frustrate those designs, which her success may incline the king of Prussia to form against her; for with whatever tranquillity he may now seem to look upon this general commotion, his conduct gives us no reason to imagine, that he has changed his maxims, that he is now forgetful or negligent of his own interest, or that he will not snatch the first opportunity of aggrandizing himself by new pretensions to the queen of Hungary's dominions. At least, my lords, it may without scruple be asserted, that the hopes which some either form or affect of engaging him in a confederacy for the support of the Pragmatick sanction, are merely chimerical. He who has hitherto considered no interest but his own, he who has perhaps endangered himself by attempting to weaken the only power to which he, as well as the other princes of the empire, can have recourse for protection from the ambition of France, and has, therefore, broken the rules of policy only to gratify a favourite passion, will scarcely concur in the exaltation of that family which he has so lately endeavoured to depress, and which he has so much exasperated against him. If he is at length, my lords, alarmed at the ambition of the house of Bourbon, and has learned not to facilitate those designs which are in reality formed against himself, it cannot be doubted, that he looks with equal fear on the house of Austria, that he knows his safety to consist only in the weakness of both, and that in any contest between them, the utmost that can be hoped from him is neutrality. But, my lords, he whose security depends only on a supposition that men will not deviate from right reason or true policy, is in a state which can afford him very little tranquillity or confidence: whatever is necessarily to be preserved, ought to be defended, not only from certain and constant danger, but from casual and possible injuries; and amongst the rest, from those which may proceed from the mutability of will, or the depravation of understanding; nor shall we sufficiently establish the house of Austria, if we leave it liable to be shaken whenever the king of Prussia shall feel his ambition rekindled, or his malevolence excited; we must not leave it dependant on the friendship or policy of the neighbouring powers, but must enable it once more to awe the empire, and set at defiance the malice of its enemies. This, my lords, might have been done by a liberal subsidy, by which armies might have been levied, garrisons established, and cities fortified; and why any other method was pursued, what reason can be assigned? what, but an inclination to aggrandize and enrich a contemptible province, and to deck with the plunder of Britain the electorate of Hanover? It has been suspected, my lords, (nor has the suspicion been without foundation,) that our measures have long been regulated by the interest of his majesty's electoral territories; these have been long considered as a gulf into which the treasures of this nation have been thrown; and it has been observed, that the state of the country has, since the accession of its princes to this throne, been changed without any visible cause; affluence has begun to wanton in their towns, and gold to glitter in their cottages, without the discovery of mines, or the increase of their trade; and new dominions have been purchased, of which it can scarcely be imagined, that the value was paid out of the revenues of Hanover. This, my lords, is unpopular, illegal, and unjust; yet this might be borne, in consideration of great advantages, of the protection of our trade, and the support of our honour. But there are men who dare to whisper, and who, perhaps, if their suspicions receive new confirmation, will publickly declare, that for the preservation of Hanover, our commerce has been neglected, and our honour impaired; that to secure Hanover from invasion, the house of Bourbon has been courted, and the family of Austria embarrassed and depressed. These men assert, without hesitation, that when we entered into a league with France against the emperour and the Spaniards, in the reign of the late emperour, no part of the British dominions were in danger; and that the alarm which was raised to reconcile the nation to measures so contrary to those which former ages had pursued, was a fictitious detestable artifice of wicked policy, by which Britain was engaged in the defence of dominions to which we owe no regard, as we can receive no real advantage from them. It were to be wished, that no late instance could be produced of conduct regulated by the same principles; and that this shameful, this pernicious partiality had been universally allowed to have ceased with the late reign; but it has never yet been shown, that the late neutrality, by which Hanover was preserved, did not restrain the arms of Britain; nor when it has been asked, why the Spanish army was, when within reach of the cannon of the British navy, peaceably transported to Italy, has any other reason been assigned, than that the transports could not be destroyed without a breach of the neutrality of Hanover? This, my lords, is a subject on which I could have only been induced to dwell, by my zeal for the present establishment, and my personal affection for his majesty. It is universally allowed, that not only the honour and prosperity, but the safety of a British monarch, depends upon the affections of his subjects; and that neither splendid levees, nor large revenues, nor standing armies, can secure his happiness or his power any longer than the people are convinced of his tenderness and regard, of his attention to their complaints, and his zeal for their interest. If, therefore, it should ever be generally believed, that our king considers this nation only as appendent to his electoral dominions, that he promotes the interest of his former subjects at the expense of those by whom he has been exalted to this awful throne, and that our commerce, our treasures, and our lives, are sacrificed to the safety, or to the enlargement of distant territories, what can be expected? what but murmurs, disaffection, and distrust, and their natural consequences, insurrection and rebellion; rebellion, of which no man can foresee the event, and by which that man may perhaps be placed upon the throne, whom we have so wisely excluded and so solemnly abjured. Of this unreasonable regard to the interest of Hanover, the contract which we are now considering exhibits, if not a proof too apparent to be denied, yet such an appearance as we ought for our own sakes and that of his majesty to obviate; and therefore I think the, address which is now proposed in the highest degree reasonable; and am convinced, that by complying with our request, his majesty will regain the affections of many of his subjects, whom a long train of pernicious measures have filled with discontent; and preserve the loyalty of many others, who, by artful representations of the motives and consequences of this contract, may be alienated and perverted. Lord BATHURST replied to the following purport:--My lords, as I have no reason to doubt of the noble duke's affection to the present royal family, I am convinced, that the ardour of his expressions is the effect of his zeal, and that the force of his representations proceeds only from the strength of his conviction; and, therefore, I am far from intending to censure any accidental negligence of language, or any seeming asperity of sentiment. I know, that the openness and dignity of mind which has incited him to declare his opinion with so much freedom, will induce him likewise to retract it, when he shall be convinced, that he has been deceived by false representations, or that he has formed his conclusions too hastily, without an attentive examination of the question in its whole extent. I shall, therefore, endeavour to explain the motives upon which all these measures have been formed which we have heard so warmly censured; and show, that they were the consequences not of haste and negligence, but of vigilance and circumspection; that they were formed upon a deliberate survey of the complicated interests of the European powers, and dictated not by a partiality to Hanover, but a faithful attention to the interest of Britain. It has been already observed by a noble lord, that there was no choice allowed us; that the state of Europe required that we should not sit unactive; and that yet there was no other method of acting, by which we could benefit our allies, or injure our enemies; and that, therefore, though our interposition had not produced all the effects which our zeal might incline us to wish, yet our conduct ought not to be condemned; because, though we did not press forward through the nearest path to the great object of our pursuit, we exerted our utmost speed in the only way that was left open. This, my lords, is, in my opinion, a very just apology; nor do I see, that this vindication can be confuted or invalidated, otherwise than by showing, that some different measures, measures equally reasonable, were equally in our power. But because the plea of necessity may, perhaps, be evaded; and because it is, at least, pleasing to discover, that what was necessary was likewise convenient, I shall endeavour to show, that our measures have produced already such effects as have sufficiently rewarded our expenses; and that we may yet reasonably hope, that greater advantages will arise from them. There are, indeed, some whom it will not be easy to satisfy, some who declare not against the manner in which the war is prosecuted, but against the war itself; who think the power of France too formidable to be opposed, and the British people too much exhausted or enervated to hold any longer the balance of the continent. I have, indeed, my lords, always declared myself of a different opinion, and have frequently endeavoured to rouse others from a kind of indolent despair and tame acquiescence in the attempts of the French, by representations of the wealth and force, the influence and alliances of our own nation. I have often asserted, that I did not doubt but her conquests might be stopped by vigorous opposition, and that the current of her power, which had by artificial machines of policy been raised higher than its source, would subside and stagnate, when its course was no longer assisted by cowardice, and its way levelled by submission. These, my lords, were my sentiments, and this was my language, at a time when all the powers of Europe conspired to flatter the pride of France by falling at her feet, when her nod was solicitously watched by all the princes of the empire, when there was no safety but by her protection, nor any enterprise but by her permission; when her wealth influenced the councils of nations, when war was declared at her command in the remotest corners of Europe, and every contest was submitted to her arbitration. Even at this time, my lords, was I sufficiently confident of the power of my own country, to set at defiance, in my own mind, this gigantick state. I considered all additions to its greatness rather as the tumour of disease than the shootings of vigour, and thought that its nerves grew weaker as its corpulence increased. Of my own nation I saw, that neither its numbers nor its courage were diminished; I had no reason to believe our soldiers or our sailors less brave than their fathers; and, therefore, imagined that whenever they should be led out against the same enemies, they would fight with the same superiority and the same success. But for these hopes, my lords, I was sometimes pitied by those who thought themselves better acquainted with the state of Europe than myself, and sometimes ridiculed by those who had been long accustomed to depress their own country, and to represent Britain as only the shadow of what it once was; to deride our armies and our fleets, and describe us impoverished and corrupted, sunk into cowardice, and delighted with slavery. That my opinion is now likely to be justified, and that those who have hitherto so confidently opposed me, will soon be obliged to acknowledge their mistake, is of very small importance; nor is my self-love so predominant as to incline me to reckon the confirmation of my predictions, or the vindication of my sagacity among the benefits which we are now about to receive. We are now soon to be convinced that France is not irresistible, nor irresistible to Britain. We are now to see the embroilers of the universe entangled in their own schemes, and the depopulators of kingdoms destroyed in those fields which they have so wantonly laid waste. We shall see justice triumphant over oppression, and insolence trampled by those whom she has despised. We shall see the powers of Europe once more equally balanced, and the balance placed again in the hands of Britain. If it be required upon what events these expectations are founded; and if it be alleged, that we have no such resolutions to hope from the measures that have been hitherto pursued; it has been affirmed by a noble lord, that our armies in Flanders are useless, and that our motions have given neither courage nor strength to any other powers; that the queen of Hungary is yet equally distressed, and that the French still pursue their schemes without any interruption from us or our allies, I shall hope by an impartial account of the present state of the continent to show, that his assertions are groundless, and his opinion erroneous. The inactivity of our army in Flanders has, indeed, furnished a popular topick of declamation and ridicule. It is well known how little the bulk of mankind are acquainted, either with arts of policy, or of war; how imperfectly they must always understand the conduct of ministers or generals, and with what partiality they always determine in favour of their own nation. Ignorance, my lords, conjoined with partiality, must always produce expectations which no address nor courage can gratify; and it is scarcely, therefore, to be hoped, that the people will be satisfied with any account of the conduct of our generals, which does not inform them of sieges and battles, slaughter and devastation. They expect that a British army should overrun the continent in a summer, that towns should surrender at their summons, and legions retire at their shout; that they should drive nations before them, and conquer empires by marching over them. Such, my lords, are the effects which the people of Britain expect; and as they have hitherto been disappointed, their disappointment inclines them to complain. They think an army useless which gains no victories, and ask to what purpose the sword is drawn, if the blood of their enemies is not to be shed? But these are not the sentiments of your lordships, whose acquaintance with publick affairs informs you, that victories are often gained where no standards are taken, nor newspapers filled with lists of the slain; and that by drawing the sword opportunely, the necessity of striking is often prevented. You know, that the army which hovers over a country, and draws the forces which defend it to one part, may destroy it without invading it, by exposing it to the invasion of another; and that he who withholds an army from action, is not less useful to his ally than he that defeats it. This, my lords, is the present use of our troops in Flanders; the French are kept in continual terrour, and are obliged to detach to that frontier those troops which, had they not been thus diverted, would have been employed in the empire; and, surely, an army is not unactive which withholds a double number from prosecuting their design. That our motions have not encouraged other powers to fulfil their engagements, or to unite in the defence of the general liberty of Europe, cannot truly be asserted. The Dutch apparently waken from their slumber; whether it was real or affected, they at least discover less fear of the French, and have already given such proofs of their inclination to join with us, as may encourage us to expect, that they will, in a short time, form with us another confederacy, and employ their utmost efforts in the common cause. What they have already offered will at least enable us to assist the queen of Hungary with greater numbers, and her to employ her troops where she is most pressed; for they have engaged to garrison the towns of Flanders, which, since they cannot be evacuated, is in effect an offer of auxiliary troops; since, if those forces had been added to the Austrian army, an equal number of Austrians must have been subducted to garrison the frontier. It is, therefore, without reason, that narrow-minded censurers charge us with becoming the slaves of the Dutch, with fighting their battles and defending their barrier, while they pursue their commerce in tranquillity, enjoy peace at the expense of British blood, and grow rich by the profusion of British treasure. It appears, that they concur in the preservation of themselves and of Europe, though with delays and caution; since, though they do not send forces into the field, they supply the place of those which are sent, and enable others to destroy those whom they are not yet persuaded to attack themselves. The constitution of that republick is, indeed, such as makes its alliance not valuable, on sudden emergencies, in proportion to its wealth and power. The determinations of large assemblies are always slow; because there are many opinions to be examined, many proposals to be balanced, and many objections to be answered. But with much more difficulty must any important resolution be formed, where it must be the joint act of the whole assembly, where every individual has a negative voice, and unanimity alone can make a decision obligatory. Wherever this is the form of government, the state lies at the mercy of every man who has a vote in its councils; and the corruption or folly or obstinacy of one may retard or defeat the most important designs, lay his country open to the inroads of an enemy, dissolve the most solemn alliances, and involve a nation in misery. This, my lords, I need not observe to be the Dutch constitution, nor need I tell this assembly, that we are not always to judge of the general inclination of that people by the procedure of their deputies, since particular men may be influenced by private views, or corrupted by secret promises or bribes; and those designs may be retarded by their artifices which the honest and impartial universally approve. This is, perhaps, the true reason of the present delays which have furnished occasion to such loud complaints, complaints of which we may hope quickly to have an end; since it can hardly be doubted, but the general voice of the people will there, as in other places, at last prevail, and the prejudices or passions of private men give way to the interest of the publick. That the queen of Hungary is now equally distressed, and that she has received no advantage from the assistance, which we have, at so great an expense, appeared to give her, is, likewise, very far from being true. Let any man compare her present condition with that in which she was before Britain engaged in her cause, and it will easily be perceived how much she owes to the alliance of this nation. She was then flying before her enemies, and reduced to seek for shelter in the remotest part of her dominions, while her capital was fortified in expectation of a siege. Those who then were distributing her provinces, and who almost hovered over her only remaining kingdom, are now retiring before her troops. The army by which it was intended that her territories in Italy should be taken from her, is now starving in the countries which it presumed to invade; and the troops which were sent to its assistance are languishing at the feet of mountains which they will never pass. These are the effects, my lords, of those measures, which, for want of being completely understood, or attentively considered, have been so vehemently censured. These measures, my lords, however injudicious, however unseasonable, have embarrassed the designs of France, and given relief to the queen of Hungary; they have animated the Dutch to action, and kindled in all the powers of Europe, who were intimidated by the French armies, new hopes and new resolutions; they have, indeed, made a general change in the state of Europe, and given a new inclination to the balance of power. Not many months have elapsed, since every man appeared to consider the sovereign of France as the universal monarch, whose will was not to be opposed, and whose force was not to be resisted. We now see his menaces despised and his propositions rejected; every one now appears to hope rather than to fear, though lately a general panick was spread over this part of the globe, and fear had so engrossed mankind, that scarcely any man presumed to hope. But it is objected, my lords, that though our measures should be allowed not to have been wholly ineffectual, and our money appear not to have been squandered only to pay the troops of Hanover, yet our conduct is very far from meriting either applause or approbation; since much greater advantages might have been purchased at much less expense, and by methods much less invidious and dangerous. The queen of Hungary might, in the opinion of these censurers, have raised an hundred thousand men with the money which we must expend in hiring only sixteen thousand, and might have destroyed those enemies whom we have hitherto not dared to attack. Those who make this supposition the foundation of their censures, appear not to remember, that the queen of Hungary's dominions, like those of other princes, may, by war, be in time exhausted; that the loss of inhabitants is not repaired in any country but by slow degrees; and that there is no place yet discovered where money will procure soldiers without end, or where new harvests of men rise up annually, ready to fight those quarrels in which their predecessors were swept away. If the money had, instead of being employed in hiring auxiliaries, been remitted to the queen, it is not probable that she could, at any rate, have brought a new army together. But it is certain, that her new troops must have been without arms and without discipline. It might have been found, perhaps, in this general disturbance of the world, not easy to have supplied them with weapons; and it is well known how long time is required to teach raw forces the art of war, and enable them to stand before a veteran enemy. It was, therefore, necessary to assist her rather with troops than money; and since troops were necessarily to be hired, why should we employ the forces of Hanover less willingly than those of any other nation? To assert that they have more or less courage than others is chimerical, nor can any man suppose them either more brave or timorous than those of the neighbouring countries, without discovering the meanest prejudices, and the narrowest conceptions; without showing that he is wholly unacquainted with human nature, and that he is influenced by the tales of nurses, and the boasts of children. There was, therefore, no objection against the troops of Hanover, that was not of equal strength against all foreign troops; and there was at least one argument in their favour, that they were subjects of the same prince; and that, therefore, we could have no reason to fear their defection, or to suspect their fidelity. The electorate of Hanover, with whatever contempt or indignation some persons may affect to mention it, is to be considered, at least, as a state in alliance with Britain, and to receive from us that support which the terms of that alliance may demand. Any other regard, my lords, indeed, it is not necessary to contend for; since it cannot be proved, that in this transaction we have acted otherwise than as with allies, or hired the troops on conditions which those of any other nation would not have obtained, or on any which they will not deserve; since your lordships have received assurances, that they are ready to enter the field, and to march into Germany against the common enemy. That we might have raised new troops in our own nation, and have augmented our army with an equal number of men, cannot be denied; nor do I doubt, my lords, but our countrymen would be equally formidable with any other forces; but it must be remembered, that an army is not to be levied in an instant, and that our natives, however warlike, are not born with the knowledge of the use of arms; and who knows, whether Europe might not have been enslaved before a British army could have been raised and disciplined for its deliverance? Whether this account of our measures will satisfy those who have hitherto condemned them, I am not able to foretel. There are, indeed, some reasons for suspecting, that they blame not, because they disapprove, but because they think it necessary either to the character of discernment, or of probity, to censure the ministry, whatever maxims are pursued. Of this disposition it is no slight proof, that contrary measures have been sometimes condemned by the same men with the same vehemence; and that even compliance with their demands has not stilled their outcries. When the ministry appeared unwilling to engage in the war of Germany, without the concurrence of the other powers who had engaged to support the Pragmatick sanction, they were hourly reproached with being the slaves of France, with betraying the general cause of Europe, and with repressing that generous ardour, by which our ancestors have been incited to stand forth as the asserters of universal liberty, and to fight the quarrel of mankind. They were marked out as either cowards or traitors, and doomed to infamy as the accomplices of tyranny, engaged in a conspiracy against their allies, their country, and their posterity. At length the Britons have roused again, and again declared themselves the supporters of right, whenever injured; they have again raised their standards in the continent, and prepared to march again through those regions where their victories are yet celebrated, and their bravery yet reverenced. The hills of Germany will again sound with the shouts of that people who once marched to her deliverance through all the obstructions that art or power could form against them, and which broke through the pass of Schellembourg, to rout the armies that were ranged behind it. Now it might be expected, my lords, that, at least, those who were before dissatisfied, should declare their approbation; for surely where peace or neutrality is improper, there is nothing left but war. Yet experience shows us, that men resolved to blame will never want pretences for venting their malignity; and where nothing but malignity is the consequence of opposite measures, we must necessarily conclude, that there is a fixed resolution to blame, and that all vindications will be ineffectual. Some have, indeed, found out a middle course between censure and approbation, and declare, that they think these measures now justifiable, because we have proceeded too far to retreat with honour; and that though at first a better scheme might have been formed, yet this, which has hitherto been pursued, ought not now to be changed. I, my lords, though it is not of very great importance to confute an opinion by which the measures of the government will not be obstructed, cannot forbear to declare myself of different sentiments, and to assert, in opposition to artful calumnies and violent invectives, that the present measures were originally right, that they were such as prudence would dictate, and experience approve, and such as we ought again to take, if we have again the power of choice. I am, indeed, far from doubting, but these measures will, in a short time, be justified by success; a criterion by which, however unjustly, the greatest part of mankind will always judge of the conduct of their governours; for it is apparent, my lords, that howsoever the French power, commerce, and wealth, have been exaggerated by those that either love or fear them, they will not long be able to stand against us; their funds will in a short time fail them, and their armies must be disbanded, when they can no longer be paid, lest, instead of protecting their country, they should be inclined to plunder it. The abundance of our wealth, my lords, and the profit of our commerce, are sufficiently apparent from the price of our stocks, which were never before supported at the same height for so long a time; and of the fall of which neither an actual war with Spain, nor the danger which has been suggested of another with France, with France in the full possession of all its boasted advantages, has yet been able to produce any token. Another proof of the exuberance of our riches, and the prosperity of our commerce, by which they are acquired, is the facility with which the government can raise in an instant the greatest sums, and the low interest at which they are obtained. If we compare our state in this respect with that of France, the insuperable difficulties under which they must contend with us, will sufficiently discover themselves. It is well known, my lords, that we have lately raised the money which the service of each year required, at the interest of three for a hundred; nor is it likely that there will be any necessity of larger interest, though our annual demands were to be equal to those of the last war. But the French are well known to raise the sums which their exigencies require on very different terms, and to have paid ten for a hundred for all the money which their late projects have required; projects which they cannot pursue long at such enormous expense, and by which their country must in a short time be ruined, even without opposition. While we can, therefore, raise three millions for less than the French can obtain one, and, by consequence, support three regiments at the same expense as one is supported in their service, we have surely no reason to dread the superiority of their numbers, or to fear that they will conquer by exhausting us. Thus, my lords, I have delivered my opinion with freedom and impartiality; and shall patiently hearken to any objections that shall arise against it, supported by the consciousness, that a confutation will only show me that I have been mistaken; but will not deprive me of the satisfaction of reflecting, that I have not been wanting to my country; and that if I have approved or defended improper measures, I at least consulted no other interest than that of Britain. Lord HERVEY spoke next, to the following effect:--My lords, it is not without that concern which every man ought to feel at the apparent approach of publick calamities, that I have heard the measures which are now the subject of our inquiry so weakly defended, when their vindication is endeavoured with so much ardour, and laboured with so much address. The objections which press upon the mind, at the first and slightest view of our proceedings, are such as require the closest attention, such as cannot but alarm every man who has studied the interest of his country, and who sincerely endeavours to promote it; and therefore it might be hoped, that those who appear to have thought them insufficient, are able to produce, in opposition to them, the strongest arguments, and the clearest deductions. When we attempt the consideration of our present condition, and inquire by what means our prosperity may be secured, the first reflection that occurs, is, that we are traders, that all our power is the consequence of our wealth, and our wealth the product of our trade. It is well known, that trade can only be pursued under the security of peace; that a nation which has a larger commerce, must make war on disadvantageous terms against one that has less; as of two contiguous countries, the more fruitful has most to fear from an invasion by its neighbour. It is visible, likewise, to any man who considers the situation of Britain, that there is no nation by which our trade can in time of war be so much obstructed as by France, of which the coasts are opposite to ours, and which can send out small vessels, and seize our merchants in the mouths of our harbours, or in the Channel of which we boast the sovereignty: and all those who have heard or read of the last war, in which we gained so much honour, and so little advantage, know that the privateers of France injured us more than its navies or its armies; and that a thousand victories on the continent, where we were only contending for the rights of others, were a very small recompense for the obstruction of our commerce; nor can he feel much tenderness for mankind, who would purchase by the ruin and distress of a thousand families, industrious and innocent, the momentary festivity of a triumph, or the idle glare of an illumination. Yet, my lords, this nation, however zealous for its commerce, is about to engage in a war, in a war with the only state by which our commerce can be impaired; it is about to support new armies on the continent without allies, and without treasure. That we are without treasure, and that our trade, by which only our funds can be supplied, has lately been very much diminished, is too easy to prove in opposition to the specious display which the noble lord, who spoke last, has been pleased to make of the exuberance of our wealth. If the abundance of our riches be such as it has been represented, why are no measures formed for the payment of the publick debts? of which no man will say, that they are not in themselves a calamity, and the source of many calamities yet greater; of which it cannot be denied, that they multiply dependence by which our constitution may sometimes be endangered. Why are those debts not only unpaid, but increased by annual additions to such a height, that the payment of them must soon become desperate, and the publick sink under the burden? That our trade, my lords, and by consequence our wealth, is of late diminished, may be proved beyond controversy, even to those whose interest it is not to believe it, and upon whom, therefore, it cannot be expected, that arguments will have a great effect. The produce of the customs was the last year less by half a million than the mean revenue; and as our customs must always bear a certain proportion to trade, we may form an indisputable estimate from them of its increase or its decline. The rise of our stocks, my lords, is such a proof of riches, as dropsical tumours are of health; it shows not the circulation, but the stagnation of our money; and though it may flatter us with a false appearance of plenty for a time, will soon prove, that it is both the effect and cause of poverty, and will end in weakness and destruction. When commerce flourishes, when its profit is certain and secure, men will employ their money in the exchange of commodities, by which greater advantage may be gained, than by putting it into the hands of brokers; but when every ship is in danger of being intercepted by privateers, and the insurer divides the profit of every voyage with the merchant, it is natural to choose a safer, though a less profitable traffick; and rather to treasure money in the funds, than expose it on the ocean. But, my lords, the ministers themselves have sufficiently declared their opinion of the state of the national wealth, by the method which they have taken to raise those supplies of which they boast with how great facility they are raised. When they found that new expenses required new taxes, it was necessary to examine what could be taxed, or upon which part of the nation any other burdens could be laid without immediate ruin. They turned over the catalogue of all our manufactures, and found, that scarcely any of the conveniencies, or even the necessaries of life, were without an impost. They examined all the classes of our traders, and readily discovered, that the greatest number of those who endeavoured to support themselves by honest industry, were struggling with poverty, and scarcely able to provide to-day what would be necessary to-morrow. They saw our prisons crowded with debtors, and our papers filled with the names of bankrupts, of whom many may be supposed to have miscarried without idleness, extravagance, or folly. They saw, therefore, my lords, that industry must sink under any addition to its load, a consideration which could afford no proof of the abundance of our wealth. They saw that our commodities would be no longer manufactured, if their taxes were increased; and, therefore, it was necessary to raise money by some other method, since all those which have been hitherto practised were precluded. This, my lords, was no easy task; but however difficult, it has been accomplished; and to those great politicians must posterity be indebted for a new scheme of supplying the expenses of a war. In the time of the late ministry it had been observed, that drunkenness was become a vice almost universal among the common people; and that as the liquor which they generally drank was such that they could destroy their reason by a small quantity, and at a small expense, the consequence of general drunkenness was general idleness; since no man would work any longer than was necessary to lay him asleep for the remaining part of the day. They remarked, likewise, that the liquor which they generally drank was to the last degree pernicious to health, and destructive of that corporeal vigour by which the business of life is to be carried on; and a law was therefore made, by which it was intended that this species of debauchery, so peculiarly fatal, should be prevented. Against the end of this law no man has hitherto made the least objection; no one has dared to signalize himself as an open advocate for vice, or attempted to prove that drunkenness was not injurious to society, and contrary to the true ends of human being. The encouragement of wickedness of this shameful kind, wickedness equally contemptible and hateful, was reserved for the present ministry, who are now about to supply those funds which they have exhausted by idle projects and romantick expeditions, at the expense of health and virtue; who have discovered a method of recruiting armies by the destruction of their fellow-subjects; and while they boast themselves the assertors of liberty, are endeavouring to enslave us by the introduction of those vices, which in all countries, and in every age, have made way for despotick power. Even this expedient, my lords, must in a short time fail them; the products of vice as well as of commerce must in time be exhausted; and what will then remain? The honest and industrious must feel the weight of some new imposition, which the sagacity of experienced oppression may find means to lay upon them; they will then first find the benefit of this new law, since they may, by the use of those liquors which are indulged them, put a speedy end to that life which they made unable to support. The means by which the expenses of our present designs are to be supported, such means, my lords, as were never yet practised by any state, however exhausted, or however endangered, means which a wise nation would scarcely use to repel an invader from the capital, or to raise works to keep off a general inundation, raise yet stronger motions of indignation, when it is considered for what designs these expenses are required. We are now, my lords, raising armies, and hiring auxiliaries, for an expedition of which no necessity can be discovered, and from which neither honour nor advantage can be expected; we are about to force from the people the last remains of their property, and to harass with exactions those who are already languishing with poverty; not for the preservation of our liberty, or the defence of our country, but for the support of the Pragmatick sanction, for the execution of a very unjust scheme formed by the late king, to which he purchased at different times, on different emergencies, the concurrence of other powers; but to which he failed to put the last seal of confirmation, perhaps in hopes of a male heir, and left the design, which he had so long and so industriously laboured, to be at last completed by the kindness of his allies; having, by an unsuccessful war against the Turks, exhausted his treasure, and weakened his troops. Whether we shall now engage in this design; whether we shall, for the defence of the Pragmatick sanction, begin another war on the continent, of which the duration cannot be determined, the expense estimated, or the event foreseen; whether we shall contend at once with all the princes of the house of Bourbon, and entangle ourselves in a labyrinth of different schemes; whether we shall provoke France to interrupt our commerce, and invade our colonies, and stand without the assistance of a single ally, against those powers that lately set almost all Europe at defiance, is now to be determined by your lordships. It can scarcely be expected, that the French will treat us only as auxiliaries, and satisfy themselves with attacking us only where they find themselves opposed by us: they will undoubtedly, my lords, consider us as principals, since they can suffer little more by declaring war against us. These, my lords, are the dangers to be feared from the measures which we are now persuaded to pursue; but persuaded by arguments which, in my opinion, ought to have very little influence upon us, and which have not yet been able, however artfully or zealously enforced, to prevail upon the Dutch to unite with us. It has, indeed, been asserted, that the Dutch appear inclined to assist us: but of that inclination stronger proofs ought surely to be produced, before we take auxiliaries into pay, and transport troops into another country, which has been so often represented to have been raised for the defence of their own, or collect money from the publick by the propagation of wickedness. Of this favourable inclination in the Dutch I am the more doubtful, because it is contrary to the expectations of all mankind, and to the maxims by which they have generally regulated their conduct. There have been many late instances of their patient submission to the invasion of privileges to which they have thought themselves entitled, and of their preference of peace, though sometimes purchased with the loss of honour; or, what may be supposed to touch a Dutchman much more nearly, of profit, to the devastation and expense and hazards of war; and it can hardly be supposed by any who know their character, that they will be more zealous for the rights of others than for their own; or that they will, for the support of the queen of Hungary, sacrifice that security and tranquillity which they have preferred at the expense of their commerce at one time, and by passive submission to insults at another. That a nation like this, my lords, will in the quarrel of another engage in any but moderate measures, is not to be expected: it is not improbable, that they may endeavour by embassies and negotiations to adjust the present disputes, or offer their mediation to the contending powers; but I am very far from imagining, that they will find in themselves any disposition to raise armies, or equip fleets, that they will endanger the barrier which has been so dearly purchased, or expose themselves to the hazards and terrours of a French war; and am, therefore, inclined to believe, that if any tendency towards such measures now appears, it is only the effect of the present heat of some vehement declaimers, or the secret machination of some artful projectors among them, who have formed chimerical plans of a new system of Europe, and have, in their imaginations, regulated the distribution of dominion and power, or who, perhaps, have diminished their patrimonies by negligence and extravagance, and hope to repair them in times of confusion, and to glean part of that harvest of treasure which the publick must be obliged to yield in time of war. I am still inclined to believe, that the true interest of the republick will be consulted, that policy will prevail over intrigue, and that only moderate measures will be pursued by the general council of the states. Moderate measures, my lords, if not always the most honourable in the opinion of minds vitiated by false notions of grandeur, are, at least, always the most safe; and are, therefore, eligible at least, till the scene of affairs begins to open, and the success of a more vigorous conduct may with some degree of certainty be foreknown; and it must at least be thought imprudent for those to hazard much who can gain nothing, and therefore it will not be easy to assign any reason that may justify our conduct on the present occasion. It is not improbable, my lords, that those who have now obtained the direction of our affairs, may be influenced by the general disapprobation which the British people showed of the pacifick conduct of the late ministry, and may have resolved to endeavour after applause, by showing more spirit and activity. But, my lords, of two opposite schemes it is not impossible that both may be wrong, and that the middle way only may be safe; nor is it uncommon for those who are precipitately flying from one extreme, to rush blindly upon another. But our ministry, my lords, have found out a method of complicating errours which none of their predecessors, however stigmatized for ignorance and absurdity, have hitherto been able to attain; they have been able to reconcile the extremes of folly, and to endanger the publick interest at the same time, by inactivity and romantick temerity. No accusation against the late ministry was more general, more atrocious, or more adapted to incense the people, than that of neglecting the war against Spain: this was the subject of all the invectives which were vented against them in the senate, or dispersed among the people; for this they were charged with a secret confederacy against their country, with disregard of its commerce and its arms, and with a design to ruin the nation for no other end than to punish the merchants. To this accusation, my lords, diligently propagated, willingly received, and, to confess the truth, confirmed by some appearances, do those owe their power, who now preside over the affairs of the nation; and it might, therefore, have been hoped, that by their promotion, one of our grievances would have been taken away, and that at least the war against Spain would have been vigorously prosecuted. But this ministry, my lords, have only furnished a new instance of the credulity of mankind, of the delusion of outward appearances, and of the folly of hoping with too great ardour for any event, and of trusting any man with too great confidence. No sooner were they possessed of the power to which their ambition had so long aspired, and of the salaries which had with so much eagerness been coveted by their avarice, than they forgot the complaints of the merchants, the value of commerce, the honour of the British flag, the danger of our American territories, and the great importance of the war with Spain, and contented themselves with ordering convoys for our merchants, instead of destroying the enemy by whom they are molested. The fleets which are floating from one coast to another in the Mediterranean, and which sometimes strike terrour into the harmless inhabitants of an open coast, or threaten, but only threaten, destruction to an unfortified town, I am very far from considering as armaments fitted out against the Spaniards, who neither feel nor fear any great injury from them: their trade may be, indeed, somewhat impeded; but that inconvenience is amply compensated by their depredations upon our merchants: their navies may be confined to their own ports, or to those of France; but these navies are not very necessary to them, since they are not sufficiently powerful to oppose us on the ocean; and therefore they who are thus confined, suffer less than those who confine them. We have, indeed, the empty pleasure of seeing ourselves lords of the sea, and of shaking the coasts with volleys of our cannon; but we purchase the triumph at a very high price, and shall find ourselves in time weakened by a useless ostentation of superiority. The only parts of the Spanish dominions in which they can receive any hurt from our forces, are those countries which they possess in America, and from which they receive the gold and silver which inflame their pride, and incite them to insult nations more powerful than themselves. By seizing any part of those wealthy regions, we shall stop the fountain of their treasure, reduce them to immediate penury, and compel them to solicit peace upon any conditions that we shall condescend to offer them. The necessity of invading these countries, my lords, was perfectly understood, and very distinctly explained, when the forces destined for that expedition were delayed, and when the attempt at Carthagena miscarried; nothing was more pathetical than the complaints of the patriots, who spared no labour to inform either the senate or the nation of the advantages which success would have procured. But what measures have been taken to repair our losses, or to regain our honour; or what new schemes have been formed for making an attack more forcible upon some weaker part? Every one can remember, that the miscarriage of that enterprise was imputed, not to its difficulty, nor to the courage of the Spaniards, nor to the strength of their works, but to the unskilfulness of our officers, and the impropriety of the season; and it was, therefore, without doubt thought not impossible to attack the Spanish colonies with success; but why then, my lords, have they hitherto suffered the Spaniards to discipline their troops, and strengthen their works at. leisure, that at length they may securely set us at defiance, and plunder our merchants without fear of vengeance? Thus, my lords, has our real interest been neglected in pursuit not of any other scheme of equal advantage, but of the empty title of the arbiters of Europe; we have suffered our trade to be destroyed, and our country impoverished for the sake of holding the _balance of power_; that variable balance, in which folly and ambition are perpetually changing the weights, and which neither policy nor strength could yet preserve steady for a single year. In the prosecution of this idle scheme, we are about to violate all the maxims of wisdom, and perhaps of justice; we are about to destroy the end by the means which we make use of to promote it, to endanger our country more by attempting to hinder the changes which are projected in Europe, than their accomplishment will endanger it, and to deliver up ourselves to France before she makes any demand of submission from us. If any excuse could be made for expeditions so likely to end in ruin, it must be that justice required them; and that if we suffer, we at least suffer in support of right, and in an honest endeavour to promote the execution of the great laws of moral equity; that if we fail of success, we shall always have the consolation of having meant well, and of having deserved those victories which we could not gain. But, upon an impartial survey of the cause in which we are going to engage, and on which we are about to hazard our own happiness, and that of our posterity, I can discover no such apparent justice on the side of the queen of Hungary, as ought to incite distant nations to espouse her quarrel, to raise armies in her favour, to consider her cause as that of human nature, and to prosecute those that invade her territories, as the enemies of general society. The Pragmatick sanction, my lords, by which she claims all the hereditary dominions of her family, cannot change the nature of right and wrong, nor invalidate any claim before subsisting, unless by the consent of the prince by whom it was made. The elector of Bavaria may, therefore, urge in his own defence, that by the elder sister he has a clear and indisputable right, a right from which he never receded, as he never concurred in the Pragmatiok sanction; he may, therefore, charge this illustrious princess, for whom so many troops are raised, and for whom so much blood is about to be shed, with usurpation, with detention of the dominions of other potentates, and with an obstinate assertion of a false title. That the Pragmatick sanction is generally understood to be unjust, appears sufficiently from the conduct of those powers who, though engaged by solemn stipulations to support it, yet look unconcerned on the violation of it, and appear convinced, that the princes who are now dividing among themselves the Austrian dominions, produce claims which cannot be opposed without a manifest disregard of justice. The pretensions of these princes ought, indeed, to have been more attentively considered, when this guaranty was first demanded; for it is evident, that either no such compact ought to have been made, or that it ought now to be observed; and that those who now justify the neglect of it, by urging its injustice, ought to have refused accession to it for the same reason. But it is probable, that they will urge in their defence, what cannot easily be confuted, that their consent was obtained by misrepresentations; and that he who has promised to do any thing on the supposition that it is right, is not bound by that promise, when he has discovered it to be wrong. But though justice may, my lords, be pretended, I am far from doubting that policy has, in reality, supplied the motives upon which these powers proceed. Since the world is evidently governed more by interest than virtue, I think it not unreasonable to imagine, that they form their measures according to their own expectations of advantage; and as I do not believe our countrymen distinguished from the rest of mankind by any peculiar disregard of themselves, it may not be improper to examine, even in this place, whether by restoring the house of Austria to its ancient greatness, we shall promote our own happiness, or that of the empire, or of the rest of Europe. To ourselves, my lords, I do not see what assistance can be given in time of danger by this house, however powerful, or however friendly; for, I suppose, we shall never suffer it to grow powerful by sea as well as by land, and by sea only can we receive benefits or injuries. What advantages the rest of Europe may promise themselves from the restoration of the Austrian power, may be learned, my lords, from the history of the great emperour, Charles the fifth, who for many years kept the world in continual alarms, ranged from nation to nation with incessant and insatiable ambition, made war only for the extinction of the protestant religion, and employed his power and his abilities in harassing the neighbouring princes, and disturbing the tranquillity of mankind. Nor did his successours, my lords, though weakened by the division of his dominions, enjoy their power with greater moderation, or exert it to better purposes. It is well known, that they endeavoured the subversion of both the liberties and religion of the subordinate states of the empire, and that the great king of Sweden was called into Germany, as well for the preservation of the protestant religion, as of the rights of the electors. This, my lords, is so generally known and confessed, that Puffendorf, the best writer on the German constitution, has declared it disadvantageous to the empire to place at its head a prince too powerful by his hereditary dominions, since they will always furnish him with force to oppress the weaker princes; and it is not often found, that he who has the power to oppress, is restrained by principles of justice. It appears, therefore, to me, my lords, that the late election of an emperour was made with sufficient regard to the general good; and that, therefore, neither policy nor equity oblige us to act in a manner different from the other powers who are joined in the same engagements, of whom I do not learn, by any of the common channels of intelligence, that any of them intend the support of the Pragmatick sanction; for no newspaper or pamphlet has yet informed us, that any of the other powers are hiring auxiliaries, or regulating the march of their troops, or making any uncommon preparations, which may foretoken an expedition against the emperour or his allies. Yet, my lords, they are not restrained from attacking the emperour, by so strong objections as may be made to the present design; for they owe him no obedience as their sovereign, nor have contributed to the acquisition of his honours; they have not, like his majesty, given their votes for his exaltation to the imperial seat, nor have acknowledged his right by granting him an aid. They might, therefore, without charge of disloyalty or inconsistency, endeavour to dethrone him; but how his majesty can engage in any such design, after having zealously promoted his advancement, and confirmed his election by the usual acknowledgment, I am not able to understand. It is evident, that the king of Prussia believes himself restrained by his own acts, and thinks it absurd to fight against an emperour, who obtained the throne by his choice; he, therefore, has, with his usual wisdom, refused to engage in the confederacy, nor have either promises or concessions been able to obtain more from him than a bare neutrality. Whether, indeed, any more than a neutrality be intended, even by this pompous armament, for which we are now required to provide, I maybe allowed to doubt; since the troops that are hired at so high a rate, are such as cannot act against the enemies of the queen of Hungary, without breach of the imperial constitutions. It has been already justly observed in this debate, that when the emperour has obtained from the diet an aid of fifty months, that act is considered as an authentick recognition of his title; nor can any of the German princes afterwards make war against him, without subjecting his dominions to the imperial interdict, and losing the privileges of his sovereignty. That the present emperour has already received this acknowledgment, and been confessed by his majesty, as elector of Hanover, to be legally invested with the imperial dignity, is well known; and, therefore, I cannot by any method of reasoning discover, nor have yet found any man able to inform me, why the troops of Hanover are chosen before those of any other nation, for a design which they cannot execute, without ruining their sovereign if they fail; and infringing the constitution of the empire, if they should happen to succeed? I should, therefore, have imagined, that the assistance of the queen of Hungary was only pretended, and that the forces were only designed to breathe the air of the continent, and to display their scarlet at the expense of Britain, had not the noble lord who spoke third in this debate informed us, that they will in reality march into Germany; a design, my lords, so romantick, unseasonable, and dangerous, that though I cannot doubt it after such assurances, I should not have believed it on any other; a design which I hope every man, who regards the welfare of this kingdom, will indefatigably oppose, and which every Briton must wish that some lucky accident may frustrate. To send an army into Germany, my lords, is to hazard our native country without necessity, without temptation, without prospect or possibility of advantage; it is to engage in a quarrel which has no relation to our dominions, or rights, or commerce; a quarrel from which, however it be decided, we can neither hope for any increase of our wealth, our force, or our influence; but which may involve us in a war without end, in which it will be difficult to obtain the victory, and in which we must yet either conquer or be undone. Surely, my lords, an expedition like this was never undertaken before, without consulting the senate, and declaring the motives on which it was designed; surely never was any supply of this nature demanded, without some previous discoveries to this house of the importance of the service for which they were required to provide. On this occasion, my lords, all the councils of the government are covered by a cloud of affected secrecy, nor is any knowledge of our affairs to be gained, but from papers which are not to be regarded here, the printed votes of the other house. I am always, my lords, inclined to suspect unusual secrecy, and to imagine, that men either conceal their measures, because they cannot defend them, or affect an appearance of concealing them, when in reality they have yet projected nothing, and draw the veil with uncommon care, only lest it should be discovered that there is nothing behind it; as when palaces are shown, those apartments which are empty, are carefully locked up. To confess my opinion without reserve, I am not so much inclined to believe, that our ministers' designs are bad, as that they design nothing; and suspect that this mighty army, so lavishly paid, and collected from such distant parts, is to regulate its motions by accident, and to wait without action, till some change in the state of Europe shall make it more easy for our ministers to form their scheme. I hope, my lords, that by some accident more favourable than we have at present reason to expect, our German expedition will be retarded, till our ministers shall awaken from their present dream of delivering Europe from the French ambition, and of restoring the ancient greatness of the house of Austria. I hope every day, as it adds to their experience, will diminish that ardour which is generally the effect of imperfect views, which is commonly raised by partial considerations, and ends in inconsiderate undertakings. I hope they will in time think it no advantage to their fellow-subjects to be doomed to fight the battles of other nations, and to be called out into every field, where they shall happen to hear that blood is to be shed. I hope they will be taught, that the only business of Britain is commerce; and that while our ships pass unmolested, we may sit at ease, whatever be the designs or actions of the potentates on the continent; that none but naval power can endanger our safety, and that it is not necessary for us to inquire, how foreign territories are distributed, what family approaches to its extinction, or where a successour will be found to any other crown than that of Britain. If these maxims were once generally understood, from how much perplexity would our councils be set free? how many thousands of our fellow-subjects would be preserved from slaughter? and how much would our wealth be increased, by saving those sums which are yearly squandered in idle expeditions, or in negotiations equally useless, and, perhaps, equally expensive? Had these principles been received by our forefathers, we might now have given laws to the world, and, perhaps, our posterity will, with equal reason, say, How happy, how great and formidable they should have been, had not we attempted to fix and to hold the balance of power, and neglected the interest of our country for the preservation of the house of Austria! Thus, my lords, I have endeavoured to explain and enforce my opinion of the measures in which our ministers have engaged the nation; and hope that I shall not be accused of being influenced in my determinations by personal prejudices, nor of having changed my opinions with regard to publick affairs, in consequence of any change of the persons by whom they are conducted. For if my sentiments have ever been thought important enough to be retained in memory, I can, with the utmost confidence, appeal to all those who can recollect what I have formerly said, when the reestablishment of the house of Austria was the subject of our consultations; and defy the most rigorous and attentive examiner of my conduct, to prove, that there ever was a time in which I thought it necessary or expedient for the British nation to be entangled in disputes on the continent, or to employ her arms in regulating the pretensions of contending powers. I was always of opinion, my lords, that peace is the most eligible state, and that the ease of security is to be preferred to the honour of victory. I always thought peace particularly necessary to a trading people; and as I have yet found no reason to alter my sentiments, and as auxiliaries cannot be of any use but in time of war, I shall endeavour to promote peace by joining in the motion. Lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke to this effect:--My lords, notwithstanding the atrocious charges which have been urged with so much vehemence against the ministry; notwithstanding the folly and absurdity which some lords have imagined themselves to have discovered in the present measures, I cannot yet prevail upon myself, whatever may be my veneration for their integrity, or my confidence in their abilities, to approve the motion for which they so earnestly contend. To comply with this motion, my lords, would be, in my opinion, to betray the general cause of mankind, to interrupt the success of the assertors of liberty, to give up all the continent, at once, to the house of Bourbon, to defeat all the measures of our ancestors and ourselves, and to invite the oppressors of mankind to extend their claims of universal dominion to the island of Britain. Of the measures which we are now to consider, I think the defence at once obvious and unanswerable; and should advise, that instead of exerting an useless sagacity in uncertain conjectures on future events, or displaying unseasonable knowledge by the citation of authorities, or the recollection of ancient facts, every lord should attentively compare the state into which Europe was reduced soon after the death of the late emperour, with that in which it now appears; and inquire to what causes such sudden and important changes are to be ascribed. He will then easily discover the efficacy of the British measures; and be convinced, that nothing has been omitted which the interest of this nation required. When I hear it asked by the noble lords, what effects have been produced by our armaments and expenses? For what end auxiliaries are hired, and why our armies are transported into Flanders? I cannot but suspect, my lords, that this affectation of ignorance is only intended to irritate their opponents; that they suppress facts with which they are well acquainted, only that they may have an opportunity of giving vent to their passions, of displaying their imagination in artful reproaches, and exercising their eloquence in splendid declamations. I believe they hide what they know where to find, only to oblige others to the labour of producing it; and ask questions, not because they want or desire information, but because they hope to weary those whose stations condemn them to the task of answering them. The effects, my lords, which the assistance given by us to the queen of Hungary have already produced, are the recovery of one kingdom, and the safety of the rest; the exclusion of the Spaniards from Italy on the one part, and on the other the confinement of them in it, without either the supplies for war, or the necessaries of life. These, my lords, are surely great advantages; but these are not the greatest which we have reason to hope. Our vigour and resolution have at last animated the Dutch to suspend for a time their attention to trade and money, and to consider what they seldom much regard, the state of other nations; the most rich and powerful of their provinces have already determined to concur in the reestablishment of the house of Austria; and if the approbation of the rest be necessary, it is likely to be obtained by the same method of proceeding. Thus, my lords, we have a prospect of doing that which the ministers of queen Anne, whose fidelity, wisdom, and address, have been so often and so invidiously commended, thought their greatest honour, and the strongest proof of their abilities. We may soon form another confederacy against the house of Bourbon, at a time when Louis the fourteenth is not at its head, at a time when it is exhausted by expensive projects; and when, therefore, it cannot make the same resistance as when it was before attacked. By pursuing the scheme which is now formed, with steadiness and ardour, we may, perhaps, reinstate all those nations in their liberties, whom cowardice, or negligence, or credulity have, during the last century, delivered up to the ambition of France; we may confine that swelling monarchy, which has from year to year torn down the boundaries of its neighbours, within its ancient limits, and disable it for ages from giving any new alarms to mankind, and from making any other efforts for the acquisition of universal dominion; we may reestablish the house of Austria as the great barrier of the world, by which it is preserved on one part from being laid waste by the barbarity of the Turks, and on the other from being enslaved by politer tyrants, and overrun by the ambition of France. Elevated with such success, and encouraged by such prospects, we ought surely, my lords, to press forward in a path, where we have hitherto found no difficulties, and which leads directly to solid peace and happiness, which no dangers or terrours can hereafter interrupt: we ought, instead of relaxing, to redouble our efforts; and to remember, that by exerting all our strength and all our influence for a short time, we shall not only secure ourselves and our posterity from insolence and oppression, but shall establish the tranquillity of the world, and promote the general felicity of the human species. For these great purposes, my lords, are those auxiliaries retained, of which some lords now require the dismission; and those armies transported, which part of the nation is by false reports inclined to recall; but I hope that such unreasonable demands will not be gratified, and that the faith of treaties, the ties of friendship, the call of justice, and the expectations of our allies, will easily prevail upon your lordships to despise the murmurs of prejudice, and the outcries of faction. Lord BATH replied to the following effect:--My lords, as I am far from thinking, that my advice or opinion can be of any use in this illustrious assembly, I should have listened in silence to this debate, important as it is, had I not thought it my duty to defend here what I approved in the council; and considered it as an act of cowardice and meanness to fall passively down the stream of popularity, and to suffer my reason and my integrity to be overborne by the noise of vulgar clamours, which have been raised against the measures of the government by the low arts of exaggeration, fallacious reasonings, and partial representations. It is not without concern, my lords, that even in this house I observe some inclination to gratify the prejudices of the people, and to confirm them in their contempt of the foreign troops, by the poor artifice of contemptuous language. To dispute about words, is, indeed, seldom useful; and when questions so weighty as these are before us, may be justly censured as improper. I shall, therefore, only observe that the term mercenaries, which is in the motion applied to the forces of Hanover, seems designed rather to affect the passions than influence the reason, and intended only to express a partiality which cannot be justified. But it is far more necessary, my lords, to consider upon what motives the troops of Hanover were hired, than by what denomination they may most properly be called; and therefore I shall endeavour to explain the reasons which induced the ministry to retain them, and which, I suppose, have prevailed upon the commons to provide for their support. It has been asked, why the troops of Hanover were preferred to those of any other nation? And it has been insinuated, that our determination was influenced by motives very different from that regard which every Briton owes to the interest of his native country. But to this imputation, however specious, and however popular, it may be with great security replied, that there was no preference, because there was no choice; that there was a necessity for hiring troops, and that no other troops were to be obtained; and whoever shall endeavour to invalidate this defence, must engage in an undertaking of which I can boldly affirm, that he will find it very difficult. He must show what power would have been able or willing to have furnished us with troops on this occasion; and I am confident, that whoever shall, with this design, take a deliberate survey of the several kingdoms and states of Europe, will find, that there is no other prince to whom we could have applied on this occasion, without greater inconveniencies than can reasonably be feared from the present stipulation with Hanover. The reasons, indeed, for which this stipulation was made, appeared so strong, when it was considered in the council, that it was unanimously determined necessary; nor was the conclusion hastily made in an assembly of particular persons, who might be suspected of favouring it from private views, and of being convened on purpose to put it in execution: it was debated by a great number with great solemnity; nor can any man say, that he only yielded to what he found it in vain to oppose; for the consent given was not a tacit acquiescence, but a verbal approbation. So far was this part of our measures from being the advice of any single man, or transacted with that solicitous secrecy which is the usual refuge of bad designs. It has been asserted, likewise, my lords, and with much greater appearance of justice, that this whole design has been formed and conducted without the concurrence or approbation of the senate; and that, therefore, it can be considered only as a private scheme to be executed at the publick expense, as a plan formed by the ministry to aggrandize or ingratiate themselves at the hazard of the nation. But even this, my lords, is a misrepresentation, though a misrepresentation more artful, and more difficult to defeat; because, in order to the justification of our measures, it is necessary to take a review of past transactions, and to consider what was necessarily implied by former determinations of the senate. The period, my lords, to which this consideration will necessarily carry us back, is the time at which, after the late tedious war, a peace was, on whatever terms, concluded with France. It is well known, that the confederates demanded, among other advantages, a cession of that part of Flanders, which had been for many years in the possession of Spain, and which opened a way by which the ambition of the house of Bourbon might make inroads at pleasure into the dominions of either the Austrians or Dutch. This they were immediately interested in preventing; and as we knew the necessity of preserving the equipoise of power, we likewise were remotely engaged to promote any measures by which it might be secured. In this demand, therefore, all the confederate powers naturally united, and by their united influence enforced compliance. But though it was easy, with no great profundity of political knowledge, to discover from whom these provinces should be taken away, to whom they should be given, was a question of more difficulty; since they might add to the power that had opportunities of improving them, such an increase of commerce and wealth as might defeat the end for which they were demanded, and destroy the balance of power, by transferring too much weight into another scale. And mankind has learned, my lords, by experience, that exorbitant power will always produce exorbitant pride; that very few, when they can oppress with security, will be contained within the bounds of equity by the restraints of morality or of religion; and that, therefore, the only method of establishing a lasting peace is to divide power so equally, that no party may have any certain prospect of advantage by making war upon another. For this reason, my lords, it was apparently contrary to our interest to grant those provinces to those to whom, by their situation, they might have been most useful. Such countries, and such manufactures in the hands of a people versed, perhaps, beyond all others, both in the science and the stratagems of trade, and always watchful to improve every opportunity of increasing their riches, would have enabled them in a short time to purchase an interest in the councils of all the monarchs of the world, to have maintained fleets that might have covered the ocean, and to have obtained that universal dominion to which the French have so long aspired, and which it is, perhaps, more for the interest of mankind, that if slavery cannot be prevented, they should obtain, as they would, perhaps, use their power with more generosity. The same reason, my lords, naturally made the Dutch unwilling to put these provinces in the hands of Britain; for we, likewise, make a profession of trade, though we do not pursue it with the same ardour, or, to confess the truth, with the same success: it was not, however, to be imagined, that there would not be found among us some men of sagacity to discern, and of industry to improve the opportunities which the new dominions would have put into our hands of vending our manufactures in parts where, at present, they are very little known. Nor was this the only danger to be feared from such an increase of dominion: the Dutch have not yet forgotten, that though we at first rescued them from slavery, patronised the infancy of their state, and continued our guardianship till it was grown up to maturity, and enabled to support itself by its own strength, yet we afterwards made very vigorous attempts to reduce it to its original weakness, and to sink it into pupillage again; that we attempted to invade the most essential part of its rights, and to prescribe the number of ships that it should maintain. They know, likewise, my lords, that by the natural rotation of human affairs, the same counsels may in some future reign be again pursued, or that some unavoidable conflict of interest may produce a contest that can be decided only by the sword; and then it may easily be perceived how much they would be endangered, by the neighbourhood of British garrisons, and of countries, where we might maintain numerous armies at a very small expense. It is, therefore, no subject of wonder, that a nation much less subtile than the Dutch should find out how much it was their interest, that we should be confined within the limits of our own island; and that we should not have it in our power to attack them with armies as well as fleets, and at once to obstruct their commerce and invade their country. There remained, therefore, my lords, no power but the emperour to whom these provinces could be consigned; and to him, therefore, they were given, but given only in trust for the joint advantage of the whole confederacy; he, indeed, enjoys their revenues on condition that he shall support the garrisons necessary to their defence; but he cannot transfer them to any other power, or alienate them to the detriment of those nations who concurred in acquiring them. It may not be improper, my lords, to observe, that on this contract depends the justice of our conduct with regard to the company established at Ostend for carrying on a trade to the East Indies. These provinces were granted to the confederate powers, and consigned to the emperour to be enjoyed by him for the common benefit: it was, therefore, plainly intended by this contract, that he should use none of the advantages which these new dominions afforded him, to the detriment of those powers by whose gift he enjoyed them; nor could it be supposed that the Dutch and Britons debarred each other from those opportunities of trade only to enable the emperour to rival them both. The towns, therefore, my lords, were at this time determined by the senate to be the general property of all the confederate powers, acquired by their united arms, and to be preserved for their common advantage, as the pledge of peace, and the palladium of Europe. If, therefore, it should at any time happen, that they should be endangered either by the weakness or neglect of any one of those powers, the rest are to exert their right, and endeavour their preservation and security; nor is there any new stipulation or law necessary for this; since, with respect to the confederates, it is implied in the original stipulation, and with regard to the senate of Britain, in the approbation which was bestowed upon that contract, when it was made. The time, my lords, in which this common right is to be exerted, is now arrived; the queen of Hungary, invaded in her hereditary dominions, and pressed on every side by a general combination of almost all the surrounding princes, declares herself no longer able to support the garrisons of the barrier, and informs us, that she intends to recall her troops for the defence of their own country. What, then, is more apparent, my lords, than that either these towns must fall again into the hands of the French, and that we shall be obliged to recover them, if they can ever be recovered, at the expense of another ten years' war, or that either we or the Dutch must send troops to supply the place of those which the necessities of their sovereign oblige her to withdraw. That the towns of Flanders should be resigned gratuitously to France, that the enemies of mankind should be put in possession of the strongest bulwarks in the world, surrounded by fields and pastures able to maintain their garrisons without expense, will not be proposed by any of this assembly. But it may easily and naturally be objected, that the Dutch ought to garrison these towns, as more nearly interested in their preservation, and more commodiously situated for their defence; nor can it be, indeed, denied, that the Dutch may be justly censured for their neglect, as they appear to leave the common cause to our protection, and to prefer their commerce and their ease to their own safety and the happiness of the world. This, my lords, has been very warmly asserted in their own assemblies, nor have there been wanting men of spirit and integrity amongst them who have despised the gold and promises, and detected the artifices of France; who have endeavoured by all the arts of argument and persuasion to rouse their countrymen to remembrance of their former danger, and to an inquiry into their real interest; who have advised the levy of new forces, and the establishment of a new confederacy; who have called upon the state to face danger while it is yet distant, and to secure their own country by pouring their garrisons into the towns and citadels by which their frontiers are protected. If their arguments, however just, have not yet attained their end, it is to be imputed to the constitution, embarrassed by the combination of different interests, which must be reconciled, before any resolution can be formed. A single town, my lords, can, by refusing its consent, put a stand to the most necessary designs, and it is easily to be imagined, that by a monarch equally crafty and rich, a single town may sometimes be bribed into measures contrary to the publick interest. But, my lords, the negligence of the Dutch is a motive which ought to incite us to vigour and despatch; since it is not for the sake of the Dutch but ourselves, that we desire the suppression of France. If the Dutch are at length convinced of the ease of slavery, and think liberty no longer worth the labour of preserving it,--if they are tired with the task of labouring for the happiness of others, and have forsaken the stand on which they were placed, as the general watch of the world, to indulge themselves in tranquillity and slumber,--let not us, my lords, give way to the same infatuation; let not us look with neglect on the deluge that rolls towards us till it has advanced too far to be resisted. Let us remember, that we are to owe our preservation only to ourselves, and redouble our efforts in proportion as others neglect their duty. Let us show mankind, that we are neither afraid to stand up alone in defence of justice and of freedom, nor unable to maintain the cause that we have undertaken to assert. But if it should be thought by any of this noble assembly, that the concurrence of the Dutch is absolutely necessary to a prospect of success, it may be reasonably answered, that by engaging in measures which can leave no doubt of either our power or our sincerity, the concurrence of the Dutch is most likely to be obtained. By this method of proceeding, my lords, was formed the last mighty confederacy by which the house of Bourbon was almost shaken into ruins. The Dutch then, as now, were slow in their determinations, and perhaps equally diffident of their own strength and our firmness; nor did they agree to declare war against France, till we had transported ten thousand men into Flanders, and convinced them that we were not inviting them to a mock alliance; but that we really intended the reduction of that empire which had so long extended itself without interruption, and threatened in a short time to swallow up all the western nations. Thus, my lords, it appears, that the measures which have been pursued are just, politick, and legal; that they have been prescribed by the decrees of former senates, and therefore cannot be censured as arbitrary; and that they have a tendency to the preservation of those territories which it was once thought so much honour to acquire: and it may be yet farther urged, that though they are to be considered only as the first tendencies to secure greater designs, they have already produced effects apparently to the advantage of the common cause, and have obliged the French to desist from their pursuit of the queen of Hungary, and rather to inquire how they shall return home than how they shall proceed to farther conquests. In condemnation of these measures, my lords, it has indeed been urged, that a moderate conduct is always eligible; and that nothing but ruin and confusion can be expected from precipitation and temerity. Moderation, my lords, is a very captivating sound; but I hope it will have now no influence on this assembly; because on this occasion it cannot properly be employed. I have always been taught, that moderation is only useful in forming determinations or designs, but that when once conviction is attained, zeal is to take place; and when a design is planned, it ought to be executed with vigour. The question is not now, my lords, whether we shall support the queen of Hungary, but in what manner she shall be supported; and, therefore, it cannot be doubted, but that such support should be granted her as may be effectual; and I believe it will not be thought, that we can assist her without exerting an uncommon degree of vigour, and showing, that we consider ourselves as engaged in a cause which cannot be abandoned without disgrace and ruin. If the noble lord had, before he entered upon his encomium on moderation, considered what effects could be promised from his favourite virtue, he would have had no inclination to display his eloquence upon it. By moderation, my lords, uninterrupted moderation of more than twenty years, have we become the scorn of mankind, and exposed ourselves to the insults of almost every nation in the world. By moderation have we betrayed our allies, and suffered our friendship to lose all its value; by moderation have we given up commerce to the rapacity of an enemy, formidable only for his perseverance, and suffered our merchants to be ruined, and our sailors to be enslaved. By moderation have we permitted the French to grasp again at general dominion, to overrun Germany with their armies, and to endanger again the liberties of mankind; and by continuing, for a very few years, the same laudable moderation, we shall probably encourage them to shut up our ships in our harbour, and demand a tribute for the use of the Channel. I need not observe to your lordships, that all the great actions that have, in all ages, been achieved, have been the effects of resolution, diligence, and daring activity, virtues wholly opposite to the calmness of moderation. I need not observe, that the advantages enjoyed at present by the French are the consequences of that vigour and expedition, by which they are distinguished, and which the form of their government enables them to exert. Had they, my lords, instead of pouring armies into the Austrian dominions, and procuring, by the terrour of their troops, the election of an emperour, pursued these measures of moderation which have been so pathetically recommended, how easily had their designs been defeated? Had they lost time in persuading the queen of Hungary by a solemn embassy to resign her dominions, or attempted to influence the diet by amicable negotiations, armies had been levied, and the passes of Germany had been shut against them; they had been opposed on the frontiers of their own dominions, by troops equally numerous and warlike with their own, and instead of imposing a sovereign on the empire, had been, perhaps, pursued into their own country. But, my lords, whether moderation was not recommended to them by such powerful oratory as your lordships have heard, or whether its advocates met with an audience not easily to be convinced, it is plain that they seem to have acted upon very different principles, and I wish their policy had not been so strongly justified by its success. By sending an army into Germany, my lords, when there were no forces ready to oppose them, they reduced all the petty princes to immediate submission, and obliged those to welcome them as friends, who would gladly have united against them as the inveterate enemies of the whole German body; and who, had they been firmly joined by their neighbours, under a general sense of their common danger, would have easily raised an army able to have repelled them. This, my lords, was the effect of vigour, an effect very different from that which we had an opportunity of experiencing as the consequence of moderation; it was to no purpose that we endeavoured to alarm mankind by remonstrances, and to procure assistance by entreaties and solicitations; the universal panick was not to be removed by advice and exhortations, and the queen of Hungary must have sunk under the weight of a general combination against her, had we not at last risen up in her defence, and with our swords in our hands, set an example to the nations of Europe, of courage and generosity. It then quickly appeared, my lords, how little is to be expected from cold persuasion, and how necessary it is, that he who would engage others in a task of difficulty, should show himself willing to partake the labour which he recommends. No sooner had we declared our resolution to fulfil our stipulations, and ordered our troops to march for the relief of the queen of Hungary, than other princes discovered that they had the same dispositions, though they had hitherto thought it prudent to conceal them; that they, equally with ourselves, hated and feared the French; that they were desirous to repress their insolence and oppose their conquests, and only waited for the motions of some power who might stand at the head of the confederacy, and lead them forwards against the common enemy. The liberal promises of dominion made by the French, by which the sovereigns of Germany had been tempted to concur in a design which they thought themselves unable to oppose, were now no longer regarded; they were considered only as the boasts of imaginary greatness, which would at last vanish into air; and every one knew, that the ultimate design of Europe was to oppress equally her enemies and friends; they wisely despised her offers, and either desisted from the designs to which they had been incited by her, or declared themselves ready to unite against her. This, my lords, has been the consequence of assembling the army, which, by the motion now under our consideration, some of your lordships seem desirous to disband, an inclination of which I cannot discover from whence it can arise. For what, my lords, must be the consequence, if this motion should be complied with? what but the total destruction of the whole system of power which has been so laboriously formed and so strongly compacted? what but the immediate ruin of the house of Austria, by which the French ambition has been so long restrained? what but the subversion of the liberties of Germany, and the erection of an universal empire, to which all the nations of the earth must become vassals? Should the auxiliary troops be disbanded, the queen of Hungary would find what benefit she has received from them by the calamities which the loss of them would immediately bring upon her. All the claims of all the neighbouring princes, who are now awed into peace and silence, would be revived, and every one would again believe, that nothing was to be hoped or feared but from France. The French would again rush forward to new invasions, and spread desolation over other countries, and the house of Austria would be more weakened than by the loss of many battles in its present state. The support of the house of Austria appears not, indeed, much to engage the attention of those by whom this motion is supported. It has been represented as a house equally ambitious and perfidious with that of Bourbon, and equally an enemy both to liberty and to true religion; and a very celebrated author has been quoted to prove, that it is the interest of the Germans themselves to see a prince at their head, whose hereditary dominions may not incite him to exert the imperial power to the disadvantage of the inferiour sovereigns. In order to the consideration of these objections, it is necessary to observe, my lords, that national alliances are not like leagues of friendship, the consequences of an agreement of disposition, opinions, and affections, but like associations of commerce, formed and continued by no similitude of any thing but interest. It is not, therefore, necessary to inquire what the house of Austria has deserved from us or from mankind; because interest, not gratitude, engages us to support it. It is useless to urge, that it is equally faithless and cruel with the house of Bourbon, because the question is not whether both shall be destroyed, but whether one should rage without control. It is sufficient for us that their interest is opposite, and that religion and liberty may be preserved by their mutual jealousy. And I confess, my lords, that were the Austrians about to attain unlimited power by the conquest or inheritance of France and Spain, it would be no less proper to form confederacies against them. The testimony which has been produced of the convenience of a weak emperour, is to be considered, my lords, as the opinion of an author whose birth and employment had tainted him with an inveterate hatred of the house of Austria, and filled his imagination with an habitual dread of the imperial power. He was born, my lords, in Sweden, a country which had suffered much by a long war against the emperour; he was a minister to the electors of Brandenburgh, who naturally looked with envy on the superiority of Austria, and could not but wish to see a weaker prince upon the imperial throne, that their own influence might be greater; nor can we wonder, that a man thus born and thus supported should adopt an opinion by which the pride of his master would be flattered, and perhaps the interest of his own country promoted. It is likewise, my lords, to be remarked, that there was then no such necessity for a powerful prince to stand at the head of the Germans, and to defend them with his own forces till they could unite for their own preservation. The power of France had not then arrived at its present height, nor had their monarchs openly threatened to enslave all the nations of Europe. The princes of the empire had then no oppression to fear, but from the emperour; and it was no wonder, that when he was their only enemy, they wished that his power was reduced. How much the state of the continent is now changed, is not necessary to mention, nor what alteration that change has introduced into the politicks of all nations; those who formerly dreaded to be overwhelmed by the imperial greatness, can now only hope to be secured by it from the torrent of the power of France; and even those nations who have formerly endeavoured the destruction of Austria, may now rejoice, that they are sheltered by its interposition from tyrants more active and more oppressive. But, my lords, though it should be granted that the house of Austria ought not to be supported, it will not, in my opinion, follow, that this motion deserves our approbation; because it will reduce us to a state of imbecility, and condemn us to stand as passive spectators of the disturbances of the world, without power and without influence, ready to admit the tyrant to whom chance shall allot us, and receive those laws which the prevailing power shall vouchsafe to transmit. Whether we ought to support the house of Austria, to prevent its utter subversion, or restore it to its former greatness, whatever may be my private opinion, I think it not on this occasion necessary to assert; it is sufficient to induce us to reject this motion, that we ought to be at least in a condition that may enable us to improve those opportunities that may be offered, and to hinder the execution of any design that may threaten immediate danger to our commerce or our liberty. Another popular topick, my lords, which has been echoed on the present occasion, is the happiness of peace, and the blessing of uninterrupted commerce and undisturbed security. We are perpetually told of the hazards of war, whatever may be the superiority of our skill or courage; of the certainty of the expenses, the bloodshed, and the hardships, and doubtfulness of the advantages which we may hope from them; and it is daily urged with great vehemence, that peace upon the hardest conditions is preferable to the honour of conquests, and the festivity of triumphs. These maxims, my lords, which are generally true in the sense which their authors intended, may be very properly urged against the wild designs of ambition, and the romantick undertakings of wanton greatness; but have no place in the present inquiry, which relates to a war not made by caprice, but forced upon us by necessity; a war to which all the encomiums on peace, must in reality incite, because peace alone is the end intended to be obtained by it. Of the necessity of peace to a trading nation it is not possible, my lords, to be ignorant; and therefore no man can be imagined to propose a state of war as eligible in itself. War, my lords, is, in my opinion, only to be chosen, when peace can be no longer enjoyed, and to be continued only till a peace secure and equitable can be attained. In the present state of the world, my lords, we fight not for laurels, nor conquests, but for existence. Should the arms of France prevail, and prevail they must, unless we oppose them, the Britons may, in a short time, no longer be a nation, our liberties will be taken away, our constitution destroyed, our religion persecuted, and perhaps our name abolished. For the prevention of calamities like these, not for the preservation of the house of Austria, it is necessary, my lords, to collect an army; for by an army only can our liberties be preserved, and such a peace obtained, as may be enjoyed without the imputation of supineness and stupidity. Of this the other house appears to be sufficiently convinced, and has therefore granted money for the support of the auxiliary troops; nor do I doubt but your lordships will concur with them, when you shall fully consider the motives upon which they may be supposed to have proceeded, and reflect, that by dismissing these troops, we shall sacrifice to the ambition of the French, the house of Austria, the liberties of Europe, our own happiness, and that of our posterity; and that, by resolving to exert our forces for a short time, we may place the happiness of mankind beyond the reach of attacks and violation. Lord CARTERET replied to the following effect:--My lords, the considerations which were laid before you by the noble lords who made and seconded the motion, are so important in themselves, and have been urged with so much force and judgment, that I shall not endeavour to add any new arguments; since, where those fail which have been already offered, it is not likely that any will be effectual: but I shall endeavour to preserve them in their full force by removing the objections which have been made to them. The first consideration that claims our attention is the reverence due to the senate, to the great council of the nation, which ought always to be consulted when any important design is formed, or any new measures adopted; especially if they are such as cannot be defeated by being made publick, and such as an uncommon degree of expense is necessary to support. These principles, my lords, which I suppose no man will contest, have been so little regarded by the ministry on the present occasion, that they seem to have endeavoured to discover, by a bold experiment, to what degree of servility senates may be reduced, and what insults they will be taught to bear without resentment; for they have, without the least previous hint of their design, made a contract for a very numerous body of mercenaries, nor did they condescend to inform the senate, till they asked for money to pay them. To execute measures first, and then to require the approbation of the senate, instead of advice, is surely such a degree of contempt as has not often been shown in the most arbitrary reigns, and such as would once have provoked such indignation in the other house, that there would have been no need in this of a motion like the present. But, my lords, in proportion as the other house seems inclined to pay an implicit submission to the dictates of the ministry, it is our duty to increase our vigilance, and to convince our fellow-subjects, by a steady opposition to all encroachments, that we are not, as we have been sometimes styled, an useless assembly, but the last resort of liberty, and the chief support of the constitution. The present design of those, who have thus dared to trample upon our privileges, appears to be nothing less than that of reducing the senates of Britain to the same abject slavery with those of France; to show the people that we are to be considered only as their agents, to raise the supplies which they shall be pleased, under whatever pretences, to demand, and to register such determinations as they shall condescend to lay before us. This invasion of our rights, my lords, is too flagrant to be borne, though were the measures which we are thus tyrannically, required to support, really conducive in themselves to the interest of Britain, which, indeed, might reasonably have been expected; for what head can be imagined so ill formed for politicks as not to know, that the first acts of arbitrary power ought to be in themselves popular, that the advantage of the effect may be a balance to the means by which it is produced. But these wonderful politicians, my lords, have heaped one blunder upon another; they have disgusted the nation both by the means and the end; and have insulted the senate with no other view than that of plundering the people. They have ventured, without the consent of the senate, to pursue measures, of which it is obvious that they were only kept secret because they easily foresaw that they would not be approved. For that the hire of mercenaries from Hanover, my lords, would have been rejected with general indignation; that the proposal would have produced hisses rather than censures; and that the arguments which have been hitherto used to support it, would, if personal regards did not make them of some importance, produce laughter oftener than replies, cannot surely be doubted. It has been said in vindication of this wise scheme, that no other troops could be obtained but those of Hanover; an assertion which I hope I may be allowed to examine, because it is yet a bare assertion without argument, and against probability; since it is generally known, how willingly the princes of Germany have on all former occasions sent out their subjects to destruction, that they might fill their coffers with their pay; nor do I doubt, but that there is now in the same country the usual superabundance of men, and the usual scarcity of money. I make no question, my lords, that many a German prince would gladly furnish us with men as a very cheap commodity, and think himself sufficiently rewarded by a small subsidy. There could be no objection to these troops from the constitution of the empire, which is not of equal force against the forces of Hanover; nor do I know why they should not rather have been employed, if they could have been obtained at a cheaper price. The absurdity of paying levy-money for troops regularly kept up, and of hiring them at a higher rate than was ever paid for auxiliaries before, has been so strongly urged, and so fully explained, that no reply has been attempted by those who have hitherto opposed the motion; having rather endeavoured to divert our attention to foreign considerations, than to vindicate this part of the contract, which is, indeed, too shameful to be palliated, and too gross to be overlooked. It is, however, proper to repeat, my lords, that though it cannot be confuted, it may be forgotten in the multitude of other objects, that this nation, after having exalted the elector of Hanover from a state of obscurity to the crown, is condemned to hire the troops of Hanover to fight their own cause, to hire them at a rate which was never demanded for them before, and to pay levy-money for them, though it is known to all Europe, that they were not raised on this occasion. Nor is this the only hardship or folly of this contract; for we are to pay them a month before they march into our service; we are to pay those for doing nothing, of whom it might have been, without any unreasonable expectations, hoped, that they would have exerted their utmost force without pay. For it is apparent, my lords, that if the designs of France be such as the noble lords who oppose the motion represent them, Hanover is much nearer to danger than Britain; and, therefore, they only fight for their own preservation; since, though they have for a single year been blessed with a neutrality, it cannot be imagined, that the same favour will be always granted them, or that the French, when they have overrun all the rest of Germany, will not annex Hanover to their other dominions. Besides, my lords, it is well known, that Hanover is equally engaged by treaty with Britain to maintain the Pragmatick sanction, and that a certain proportion of troops are to be furnished. But, my lords, as to the march of that body of forces, I have yet heard no account. Will any lord say that they have marched? I, therefore, suppose, that the wisdom and justice of our ministers has comprehended them in the sixteen thousand who are to fatten upon British pay, and that Hanover will support the Pragmatick sanction at the cost of this inexhaustible nation. The service which those troops have already done to the common cause, has been urged with great pomp of exaggeration, of which what effect it may have had upon others, I am not able to say; for my part, I am convinced, that the great happiness of this kingdom is the security of the established succession; and am, therefore, always of opinion, that no measures can serve the common cause, the cause of liberty, or of religion, or of general happiness, by which the royal family loses the affections of the people. And I can with great confidence affirm, that no attempt for many years has raised a greater heat of resentment, or excited louder clamours of indignation, than the hire of Hanoverian troops; nor is this discontent raised only by artful misrepresentations, formed to inflame the passions, and perplex the understanding; it is a settled and rational dislike, which every day contributes to confirm, which will make all the measures of the government suspected, and may in time, if not obviated, break out in sedition. A jealousy of Hanover has, indeed, for a long time prevailed in the nation. The frequent visits of our kings to their electoral dominions, contrary to the original terms on which this crown was conferred upon them, have inclined the people of Britain to suspect, that they have only the second place in the affection of their sovereign; nor has this suspicion been made less by the large accessions made to those dominions by purchases, which the electors never appeared able to make before their exaltation to the throne of Britain, and by some measures which have been apparently taken only to aggrandize Hanover at the expense of Britain. These measures, my lords, I am very far from imputing to our sovereign or his father; the wisdom of both is so well known, that they cannot be imagined to have incurred, either by contempt or negligence, the disaffection of their subjects. Those, my lords, are only to be blamed, who concealed from them the sentiments of the nation, and for the sake of promoting their own interest, betrayed them, by the most detestable and pernicious flattery, into measures which could produce no other effect than that of making their reign unquiet, and of exasperating those who had concurred with the warmest zeal in supporting them on the throne. It is not without an uncommon degree of grief, that I hear it urged in defence of this contract, that it was approved by a very numerous council; for what can produce more sorrow in an honest and a loyal breast, than to find that our sovereign is surrounded by counsellors, who either do not know the desires and opinions of the people, or do not regard them; who are either so negligent as not to examine how the affections of the nation may be best preserved, or so rash as to pursue those schemes by which they hope to gratify the king at whatever hazard, and who for the sake of flattering him for a day, will risk the safety of his government, and the repose of his life. It has, with regard to these troops, been asked by the noble lord who spoke last, what is the intent of this motion but to disband them? What else, indeed, can be intended by it, and what intention can be more worthy of this august assembly? By a steady pursuit of this intention, my lords, we shall regain the esteem of the nation, which this daring invasion of our privileges may be easily supposed to have impaired. We shall give our sovereign an opportunity, by a gracious condescension to our desires, to recover those affections of which the pernicious advice of flatterers has deprived him; we shall obviate a precedent which threatens destruction to our liberties, and shall set the nation free from an universal alarm. Nor in our present state is it to be mentioned as a trifling consideration, that we shall hinder the wealth of the nation from being ravished from our merchants, our farmers, and our manufacturers, to be squandered upon foreigners, and foreigners from whom we can hope for no advantage. But it may be asked, my lords, how the great cause of liberty is to be supported, how the house of Austria is to be preserved from ruin, and how the ambition of France is to be repressed? How all this is to be effected, my lords, I am very far from conceiving myself qualified to determine; but surely it will be very little hindered by the dismission of troops, whose allegiance obliges them not to fight against the emperour, and of whom, therefore, it does not easily appear how they can be very useful allies to the queen of Hungary. But whatever service is expected from them, it may surely, my lords, be performed by the same number of British troops; and that number may be sent to supply their place, without either delay or difficulty; I will venture to say, without any hazard. If it be objected, as it has often been, that by sending out our troops, we shall leave our country naked to invasion, I hope I may be allowed to ask, who will invade us? The French are well known to be the only people whom we can suspect of any such design. They have no fleet on this side of their kingdom, and their ships in the Mediterranean are blocked up in the harbour by the navies of Britain. We shall still have at home a body of seven thousand men, which was thought a sufficient security in the late war, when the French had a fleet equal to our own. Why we should now be in more danger from without, I cannot discover; and with regard to intestine commotions, they will be prevented by compliance with the present motion. For nothing can incite the people of Britain to oppose those who have openly dismissed the troops of Hanover. But, my lords, I am not yet at all convinced, that the end for which those troops are said to be hired, ought to be pursued, or can be attained by us; and if the end be in itself improper or impossible, it certainly follows, that the means ought to be laid aside. If we consider the present state of the continent, we shall find no prospect by which we can be encouraged to hazard our forces or our money. The king of Sardinia has, indeed, declared for us, and opposed the passage of the Spaniards; but he appears either to be deficient in courage, or in prudence, or in force; for instead of giving battle on his frontiers, he has suffered them, with very little resistance, to invade his territories, to plunder and insult his subjects, and to live at his expense; and it may be suspected, that if he cannot drive them out of his country, he will in time be content to purchase their departure, by granting them a passage through it, and rather give up the dominions of his ally to be ravaged, than preserve them at the expense of his own. If we turn our eyes towards the Dutch, we shall not be more encouraged to engage in the wars on the continent; for whatever has been asserted of their readiness to proceed in conjunction with us, they appear hitherto to behold, with the most supine tranquillity, the subversion of the German system, and to be satisfied with an undisturbed enjoyment of their riches and their trade. Nor is there any appearance, my lords, that their concurrence is withheld only by a single town, as has been insinuated; for the vote of any single town, except Amsterdam, may be overruled, and the resolution has passed the necessary form, when it is opposed by only one voice. If we take a view, my lords, of their late conduct, without suffering our desires to mislead our understandings, we shall find no reason for imagining, that they propose any sudden alteration of their conduct, which has been hitherto consistent and steady, and appears to arise from established principles, which nothing has lately happened to incline them to forsake. When they were solicited to become, like us, the guarantees of Hanover, they made no scruple of returning, with whatever unpoliteness, an absolute refusal; nor could they be prevailed upon to grant, what we appear to think that we were honoured in being admitted to bestow. When they were called upon to fulfil their stipulation, and support the Pragmatick sanction, they evaded their own contract, till all assistance would have been too late, had not a lucky discovery of the French perfidy separated the king of Prussia from them; and what reason, my lords, can be given, why they should now do what they refused, when it might have been much more safely and more easily effected? Did they suffer the queen of Hungary to be oppressed, only to show their own power and affluence by relieving her? or can it be imagined, that pity has prevailed over policy or cowardice? They, who in contempt of their own treaties refused to engage in a cause while it was yet doubtful, will certainly think themselves justified in abandoning it when it is lost, and will urge, that no treaty can oblige them to act like madmen, or to undertake impossibilities. I am, therefore, convinced, my lords, that they will not enter into an offensive treaty, and that they have only engaged to do what their own interest required from them, without any new stipulation, to preserve their own country from invasion by sending garrisons into the frontier towns, which they may do without any offence to France, or any interruption of their own tranquillity. Many other treaties have been mentioned, my lords, and mentioned with great ostentation, as the effects of consummate policy, which will, I suspect, appear to be at least only defensive treaties, by which the contracting powers promise little more than to take care of themselves. In this state of the world, my lords, when all the powers of the continent appear benumbed by a lethargy, or shackled by a panick, to what purpose should we lavish, in hiring and transporting troops, that wealth which contests of nearer importance immediately require? It is well known to our merchants, whose ships are every day seized by privateers, that we are at war with Spain, and that our commerce is every day impaired by the depredations of an enemy, whom only our own negligence enables to resist us; but I doubt, my lords, whether it is known in Spain, that their monarch is at war with Britain, otherwise than by the riches of our nation, which are distributed among their privateers, and the prisoners who in the towns on the coast are wandering in the streets. For I know no inconvenience which they can be supposed to feel from our hostilities, nor in what part of the world the war against them is carried on. Before the war was declared, it is well remembered by whom, and with how great vehemence, it was every day repeated, that to end the war with honour we ought to _take and hold_. What, my lords, do we _hold_, or what have we _taken_? What has the war produced in its whole course from one year to another, but defeats, losses, and ignominy? And how shall we regain our honour, or retrieve our wealth, by engaging in another war more dangerous but less necessary? We ought surely to humble Spain, before we presume to attack France; and we may attack France with better prospects of success, when we have no other enemy to divert our attention, or divide our forces. That we ought, indeed, to make any attempt upon France, I am far from being convinced, because I do not now discover, that any of the motives subsist which engaged us in the last confederacy. The house of Austria, though overborne and distressed, was then powerful in itself, and possessed of the imperial crown. It is now reduced almost below the hopes of recovery, and we are therefore now to restore what we were then only to support. But what, my lords, is in my opinion much more to be considered, the nation was then unanimous in one general resolution to repress the insolence of France; no hardships were insupportable that conduced to this great end, nor any taxes grievous that were applied to the support of the war. The account of a victory was esteemed as an equivalent to excises and to publick debts; and the possessions of us and our posterity were cheerfully mortgaged to purchase a triumph over the common enemy. But, my lords, the disposition of the nation with regard to the present war is very different. They discover no danger threatening them, they are neither invaded in their possessions by the armies, nor interrupted in their commerce by the fleets of France; and therefore they are not able to find out why they must be sacrificed to an enemy, by whom they have been long pursued with the most implacable hatred, for the sake of attacking a power from which they have hitherto felt no injury, and which they believe cannot be provoked without danger, nor opposed without such a profusion of expense as the publick is at present not able to bear. It is not to be supposed, my lords, that the bulk of the British people are affected with the distresses, or inflamed by the magnanimity of the queen of Hungary. This illustrious daughter of Austria, whose name has been so often echoed in these walls, and of whom I am far from denying, that she deserves our admiration, our compassion, and all the assistance which can be given her, consistently with the regard due to the safety of our own country, is to the greatest part of the people an imaginary princess, whose sufferings or whose virtues make no other impression upon them, than those which are recorded in fictitious narratives; nor can they easily be persuaded to give up for her relief the produce of their lands, or the profits of their commerce. Some, indeed, there are, my lords, whose views are more extensive, and whose sentiments are more exalted; for it is not to be supposed, that either knowledge or generosity are confined to the senate or the court: but these, my lords, though they perhaps may more readily approve the end which the ministry pretends to pursue, are less satisfied with the means by which they endeavour to attain it. By these men it is easily discovered, that the hopes which some so confidently express of prevailing upon the Dutch to unite with us for the support of the Pragmatick sanction, are without foundation; they see that their consent to place garrisons in the frontier towns, however it may furnish a subject of exultation to those whose interest it is to represent them as ready to concur with us, is only a new proof of what was never doubted, their unvariable attention to their own interest, since they must for their own security preserve their own barrier from being seized by France. By this act they incur no new expense, they provoke no enemies, nor give any assistance to the queen of Hungary, by which they can raise either resentment in one part, or gratitude in the other; and therefore it is not hard to perceive that, whatever is pretended, the Dutch hitherto observe the most exact laws of neutrality; and it is too evident, that if they refuse their assistance, we have very little to hope from a war with France. Nor is this the only objection against the present measures; for it is generally, and not without sufficient reason suspected, that the real assistance of the queen of Hungary is not intended, since the troops which have been hired under that pretence, are such as cannot march against the emperour. It is known, that the Hessians have absolutely refused to infringe the constitution of the German body, by attacking him who is by a legal grant acknowledged its head; nor is it easy to conceive, why there should be a different law for Hanover than for the other electorates. The long stay of the troops in Flanders, a place where there is no enemy to encounter, nor ally to assist, is a sufficient proof that there is nothing more designed than that the troops of Hanover shall loiter on the verge of war, and receive their pay for feasting in their quarters, and showing their arms at a review; and that they in reality design nothing but to return home with full pockets, and enjoy the spoils of Britain. There may, indeed, be another reason, my lords, which hinders the progress of the united forces, and by which the Britons and Hanoverians may be both affected, though not both in the same degree. It is by no means unlikely, that the king of Prussia has forbidden them to advance, and declared, that the king who was chosen by his suffrage shall be supported by his arms; if this be his resolution, he is well known to want neither spirit nor strength to avow and support it; and there are reasons sufficient to convince us, that he has declared it, and that our troops are now patiently waiting the event of a negotiation by which we are endeavouring to persuade him to alter his design, if, indeed, it be desired that he should alter it; for it is not certain, that the elector of Hanover can desire the restoration of the house of Austria to an hereditary enjoyment of the imperial dignity; nor can it easily be shown why the politicks of one house, should differ from those of all the other princes of the German empire. The other princes, my lords, have long wished for a king with whom they might treat upon the level; a king who might owe his dignity only to their votes, and who, therefore, would be willing to favour them in gratitude for the benefit. They know, that the princes of the house of Austria considered their advancement to the empire as the consequence of their numerous forces and large dominions, and made use of their exaltation only to tyrannise under the appearance of legal right, and to oppress those as sovereigns, whom they would otherwise have harassed as conquerors. Before we can, therefore, hope for the concurrence of the princes of the empire, we must inform them of our design, if any design has been yet laid out. Is it your intention to restore the house of Austria to the full enjoyment of its former greatness? This will certainly be openly opposed by all those powers who are strong enough to make head against it, and secretly obstructed by those, whose weakness makes them afraid of publick declarations. Do you intend to support the Pragmatick sanction? This can only be done by defeating the whole power of France; and for this you must necessarily provide troops who shall dare to act against the present king. So that it appears, my lords, that we are attempting nothing, or attempting impossibilities; that either we have no end in view, or that we have made use of an absurd choice of means by which it cannot be attained. Whatever be our design with regard to Germany, the war against Spain is evidently neglected; and, indeed, one part of our conduct proves at once, that we intend neither to assist the Austrians, nor to punish the Spaniards; since we have in a great measure disabled ourselves from either by the neutrality which captain Martin is said to have granted, and by which we have allowed an asylum both to the troops of Spain, which shall fly before the Austrians, and the privateers which shall be chased by our ships in the Mediterranean. I am, therefore, convinced, my lords, that our designs are not such as they are represented, or that they will not be accomplished by the measures taken. I am convinced in a particular manner, that the troops of Hanover can be of no use, and that they will raise the resentment of the nation, already overwhelmed with unnecessary burdens. I know, likewise, that they have been taken into pay without the consent of the senate, and am convinced, that if no other objection could be raised, we ought not to ratify a treaty which the crown has made, without laying it before us in the usual manner. I need not, therefore, inform your lordships, that I think the motion now under your consideration necessary and just; and that I hope, upon an attentive examination of the reasons which have been offered, your lordships will concur in it with that unanimity which evidence ought to enforce, and that zeal which ought to be excited by publick danger. To which the duke of NEWCASTLE made answer to the following purport:--My lords, I know not by what imaginary appearances of publick danger the noble lord is so much alarmed, nor what fears they are which he endeavours with so much art and zeal to communicate to this assembly. For my part, I can upon the most attentive survey of our affairs, discover nothing to be feared but calumnies and misrepresentations; and these I shall henceforward think more formidable, since they have been able to impose upon an understanding so penetrating as that of his lordship, and have prevailed upon him to believe what is not only false, but without the appearance of truth, and to believe it so firmly, as to assert it to your lordships. One of the facts which he has thus implicitly received, and thus publickly mentioned, is the neutrality supposed to have been granted to the king of Sicily, from which he has amused himself and your lordships with deducing very destructive consequences, that perhaps need not to be allowed him, even upon supposition of the neutrality; but which need not now be disputed, because no neutrality has been granted. Captain Martin, when he treated with the king, very cautiously declined any declarations of the intentions of the British court on that particular, and confined himself to the subject of his message, without giving any reason for hope, or despair of a neutrality. So that if it shall be thought necessary, we are this hour at liberty to declare war against the king of Sicily, and may pursue the Spaniards with the same freedom on his coasts as on those of any other power, and prohibit any assistance from being given by him to their armies in Italy. His lordship's notion of the interposition of the king of Prussia in the king's favour, is another phantom raised by calumny to terrify credulity; a phantom which will, I hope, be entirely dissipated, when I have informed the house, that the whole suspicion is without foundation, and that the king of Prussia has made no declaration of any design to support the king, or of opposing us in the performance of our treaties. This prince, my lords, however powerful, active, or ambitious, appears to be satisfied with his acquisitions, and willing to rest in an inoffensive neutrality. Such, my lords, and so remote from truth are the representations which the enemies of the government have with great zeal and industry scattered over the nation, and by which they have endeavoured to obviate those schemes which they would seem to favour; for by sinking the nation to a despair of attaining those ends which they declare at the same time necessary not only to our happiness, but to our preservation, what do they less than tell us, that we must be content to look unactive on the calamities that approach us, and prepare to be crushed by that ruin which we cannot prevent? From this cold dejection, my lords, arises that despair which so many lords have expressed, of prevailing upon the Dutch to unite with us. The determinations of that people are, indeed, always slow, and the reason of their slowness has been already given; but I am informed, that the general spirit which now reigns among them, is likely soon to overrule the particular interests of single provinces, and can produce letters by which it will appear, that had only one town opposed those measures to which their concurrence is now solicited, it had been long since overruled; for there want not among them men equally enamoured of the magnanimity and firmness of the queen of Hungary, equally zealous for the general good of mankind, equally zealous for the liberties of Europe, and equally convinced of the perfidy, the ambition, and the insolence of France, with any lord in this assembly. These men, my lords, have long endeavoured to rouse their country from the sloth of avarice, and the slumber of tranquillity, to a generous and extensive regard for the universal happiness of mankind; and are now labouring in the general assembly to communicate that ardour with which they are themselves inflamed, and to excite that zeal for publick faith, of which their superiour knowledge shows them the necessity. It has been, indeed, insinuated, that all their consultations tend only to place garrisons in those towns from which the queen of Hungary has withdrawn her forces; but this supposition, my lords, as it is without any support from facts, is, likewise, without probability. For to garrison the barrier towns requires no previous debates nor deliberations; since it never was opposed even by those by whom the assistance of the queen of Hungary has been most retarded. Nor have even the deputies of Dort, whose obstinacy has been most remarkable, denied the necessity of securing the confines of their country, by possessing with their own troops those places which the Austrians are obliged to forsake. Their present disputes, my lords, must be, therefore, on some other question; and what question can be now before them which can produce any difficulties, but that which regards the support of the Pragmatick sanction? If these deliberations should be so far influenced by the arrival of the army in the pay of Britain, as to end in a resolution to send a sufficient number of forces into Germany, it will not be denied, that the troops which give occasion for this debate, have really been useful to the common cause; nor will his majesty lose the affections of any of his subjects, by the false accounts which have been spread of an invidious preference given to the troops of Hanover. That every government ought to endeavour to gain the esteem and confidence of the people, I suppose we are all equally convinced; but I, for my part, am very far from thinking that measures ought only to be pursued or rejected, as they are immediately favoured or disliked by the populace. For as they cannot know either the causes or the end of publick transactions, they can judge only from fallacious appearances, or the information of those whose interest it may perhaps be to lead them away from the truth. That monarch will be most certainly and most permanently popular, who steadily pursues the good of his people, even in opposition to their own prejudices and clamours; who disregards calumnies, which, though they may prevail for a day, time will sufficiently confute, and slights objections which he knows may be answered, and answered beyond reply. Such, my lords, are the objections which have been hitherto raised against the troops of Hanover, of which many arise from ignorance, and many from prejudice; and some may be supposed to be made only for the sake of giving way to invectives, and indulging a petulant inclination of speaking contemptuously of Hanover. With this view, my lords, it has been asked, why the Hanoverians are preferred to all other nations? why they have been selected from all other troops, to fight, against France, the cause of Europe? They were chosen, my lords, because they were most easily to be procured. Of the other nations from whom forces have usually been hired, some were engaged in the care of protecting, or the design of extending their own dominions, and others had no troops levied, nor could, therefore, furnish them with speed enough for the exigence that demanded them. It has been asked with an air of triumph, as a question to which no answer could be given, why an equal number of Britons was not sent, since their valour might be esteemed at least equal to that of Hanoverians? I am far, my lords, from intending to diminish the reputation of the British courage, or detract from that praise which has been gained by such gallant enterprises, and preserved by a long succession of dangers, and of victories; nor do I expect that any nation will ever form a just claim to superiority. The reason, therefore, my lords, for which the troops of Hanover were hired, was not that the bravery of our countrymen was doubted, but that the transportation of such numbers might leave us naked to the insults of an enemy. For though the noble lord has declared, that after having sent sixteen thousand into Flanders, we should still have reserved for our defence a body of seven thousand, equal to that to which the protection of this kingdom was intrusted in the late war, his opinion will upon examination be found to have arisen only from the enumeration of the names of our regiments, many of which are far from being complete, and some almost merely nominal; so that, perhaps, if a body of sixteen thousand more had been sent, there would not have remained a single regiment to have repelled the crew of any daring privateer that should have landed to burn our villages, and ravage the defenceless country. It was desired, my lords, by the queen of Hungary, that a British army might appear on the continent in her favour, for she knew the reputation and terrour of our arms; and as her demand was equitable in itself, and honourable to the nation, it was complied with; and as many of our native troops were sent, as it was thought convenient to spare, the rest were necessarily to be hired; and it is the business of those lords who defend the motion, to show from whence they could be called more properly than from Hanover. It has been urged with great warmth, that the contract made for these troops has not been laid before the senate, a charge which the noble lord who spoke last but one, has shown to be ill grounded; because the former determinations of the senate enabled the crown to garrison the frontier towns without any new deliberations, but which may be, perhaps, more satisfactorily confuted by showing, that it is an accusation of neglecting that which was in reality not possible to be performed, or which at least could not be performed without subjecting the government to imputations yet more dangerous than those which it now suffers. The accounts, my lords, by which the ministry were determined to send the army into Flanders, arrived only fifteen days before the recess of the senate; nor was the resolution formed, as it may easily be imagined, till several days after; so that there was very little time for senatorial deliberations, nor was it, perhaps, convenient to publish at that time the whole scheme of our designs. But let us suppose, my lords, that the senate had, a few days before they rose, been consulted, and that a vote of credit had been required to enable the crown to hire forces during the interval of the sessions, what would those by whom this motion is supported have urged against it? Would they not with great appearance of reason have alleged the impropriety of such an application to the thin remains of a senate, from which almost all those had retired, whom their employments did not retain in the neighbourhood of the court? Would it not have been echoed from one corner of these kingdoms to another, that the ministry had betrayed their country by a contract which they durst not lay before a full senate, and of which they would trust the examination only to those whom they had hired to approve it. Would not this have been generally asserted, and generally believed? Would not those who distinguished themselves as the opponents of the court, have urged, that the king ought to exert his prerogative, and trust the equity of the senate for the approbation of his measures, and the payment of the troops which he had retained for the support of the common cause, the cause for which so much zeal had been expressed, and for which it could not with justice be suspected, that any reasonable demands would be denied? Would not the solicitation of a grant of power without limits, to be exerted wholly at the discretion of the ministry, be censured as a precedent of the utmost danger, which it was the business of every man to oppose, who had not lost all regard to the constitution of his country? These insinuations, my lords, were foreseen and allowed by the ministry to be specious, and, therefore, they determined to avoid them by pursuing their schemes at their own hazard, without any other security than the consciousness of the rectitude of their own designs; and to trust to the equity of the senate when they should be laid before them, at a time when part of their effects might be discovered, and when, therefore, no false representations could be used to mislead their judgment. They knew the zeal of the commons for the great cause of universal liberty; they knew that their measures had no other tendency than the promotion of that cause, and, therefore, they confidently formed those expectations which have not deceived them, that the pay of the troops would be readily granted, and ordered them, therefore, to march; though if the commons had disapproved their plan, they must have returned into their own country, or have been supported at the expense of the electorate. The objections raised against these troops, have apparently had no influence in the other house, because supplies have been granted for their pay; and I believe they will, upon examination, be found by your lordships not to deserve much regard. It is asserted, that they cannot act against the emperour, established and acknowledged by the diet, without subjecting their country to an interdict; and it was, therefore, suspected, that they would in reality be of no use. This suspicion, my lords, I suppose, it is now not necessary to censure, since you have heard from his majesty, that they are preparing to march; and as the consequences of their conduct can only affect the electorate, its propriety or legality with regard to the constitution of the empire, falls not properly under our consideration. How his majesty's measures may be defended, even in this view, I suppose I need not inform any of this assembly. It is well known, that the emperour was chosen not by the free consent of the diet, in which every elector voted according to his own sense, but by a diet in which one vote of the empire was suspended without any regard to law or justice, and in which the rest were extorted by a French army, which threatened immediate ruin to him who should refuse his consent. The emperour thus chosen, was likewise afterwards recognised by the same powers, upon the same motives, and the aid was granted as the votes were given by the influence of the armies of France. For this reason, my lords, the queen of Hungary still refuses to give the elector of Bavaria the style and honours which belong to the imperial dignity; she considers the throne as still vacant, and requires that it should be filled by an uninfluenced election. It has been observed, my lords, that his majesty gave his vote to the elector of Bavaria; and it has been, therefore, represented as an inconsistency in his conduct, that he should make war against him. But, my lords, it will by no means follow, that because he voted for him he thinks him lawfully elected, nor that it is unjust to dispossess him; though it is to be observed, that we are not making war to dethrone the emperour, however elected, but to support the Pragmatick sanction. This observation, though somewhat foreign from the present debate, I have thought it not improper to lay before your lordships, that no scruples might remain in the most delicate and scrupulous, and to show that the measures of his majesty cannot be justly charged with inconsistency. But this, my lords, is not the only, nor the greatest benefit which the queen of Hungary has received from these troops; for it is highly probable, that the states will be induced to concur in the common cause, when they find that they are not incited to a mock confederacy, when they perceive that we really intend to act vigorously, that we decline neither expense nor danger, and that a compliance with our demands will not expose them to stand alone and unassisted against the power of France, elated by success, and exasperated by opposition. If this, my lords, should be the consequence of our measures, and this consequence is, perhaps, not far distant, it will no longer be, I hope, asserted, that these mercenaries are an useless burden to the nation, that they are of no advantage to the common cause, or that the people have been betrayed by the ministry into expenses, merely that Hanover might be enriched. When the grand _confederacy_ is once revived, and revived by any universal conviction of the destructive measures, the insatiable ambition, and the outrageous cruelty of the French, what may not the friends of liberty presume to expect? May they not hope, my lords, that those haughty troops which have been so long employed in conquests and invasions, that have laid waste the neighbouring countries with slaughters and devastations, will be soon compelled to retire to their own frontiers, and be content to guard the verge of their native provinces? May we not hope, that they will soon be driven from their posts; that they will be forced to retreat to a more defensible station, and admit the armies of their enemies into their dominions; and that they will be pursued from fortress to fortress, and from one intrenchment to another, till they shall be reduced to petition for peace, and purchase it by the alienation of part of their territories. I hope, my lords, it may be yet safely asserted that the French, however powerful, are not invincible; that their armies may be destroyed, and their treasures exhausted; that they may, therefore, be reduced to narrow limits, and disabled from being any longer the disturbers of the peace of the universe. It is well known, my lords, that their wealth is not the product of their own country; that gold is not dug out of their mountains, or rolled down their rivers; but that it is gained by an extensive and successful commerce, carried on in many parts of the world, to the diminution of our own. It is known, likewise, that trade cannot be continued in war, without the protection of naval armaments; and that our fleet is at present superiour in strength to those of the greatest part of the universe united. It is, therefore, reasonably to be hoped, that though by assisting the house of Austria we should provoke the French to declare war against us, their hostilities would produce none of those calamities which seem to be dreaded by part of this assembly; and that such a confederacy might be formed as would be able to retort all the machinations of France upon herself, as would tear her provinces from her, and annex them to other sovereignties. It has been urged, that no such success can be expected from the conduct which we have lately pursued; that we, who are thus daring the resentment of the most formidable power in the universe, have long suffered ourselves to be insulted by an enemy of far inferiour force; that we have been defeated in all our enterprises, and have at present appeared to desist from any design of hostilities; that the Spaniards scarcely perceive that they have an enemy, or feel, any of the calamities or inconveniencies of war; and that they are every day enriched with the plunder of Britain, without danger, and without labour. That the war against Spain has not hitherto been remarkably successful, must be confessed; and though the Spaniards cannot boast of any other advantages than the defence of their own dominions, yet they may, perhaps, be somewhat elated, as they have been able to hold out against an enemy superiour to themselves. But, my lords, I am far from believing, that they consider the war against us as an advantage, or that they do not lament it as one of the heaviest calamities that could fall upon them. If it be asked, in what part of their dominions they feel any effects of our hostility, I shall answer with great confidence, that they feel them in every part which is exposed to the evils of a naval war; that they are in pain wherever they are sensible; that they are wounded wherever they are not sheltered from our blows, by the interposition of the nations of the continent. If we examine, my lords, the influence of our European armaments, we shall find that their ships of war are shut up in the harbour of France, and that the fleets of both nations are happily blocked up together, so that they can neither extricate each other by concerted motions, in which our attention might be distracted, and our force divided, nor by their united force break through the bars by which they are shut up from the use of the ocean. But this, my lords, however important with respect to us, is perhaps the smallest inconvenience which the Spaniards feel from our naval superiority. They have an army, my lords, in Italy, exposed to all the miseries of famine, while our fleet prohibits the transportation of those provisions which have been stored in vessels for their supply, and which must be probably soon made defenceless by the want of ammunition, and fall into the hands of their enemies without the honour of a battle. But what to the pride of a Spaniard must be yet a more severe affliction, they have on the same continent a natural confederate, who is yet so intimidated by the British fleets, that he dares neither afford them refuge in his dominions, nor send his troops to their assistance. The queen, amidst all the schemes which her unbounded ambition forms for the exaltation of her family, finds her own son, after having received a kingdom from her kindness, restrained from supporting her, and reduced to preserve those territories which she has bestowed upon him, by abandoning her from whom he received them. These, my lords, are the inconveniencies which the Spaniards feel from our fleets in the Mediterranean; and even these, however embarrassing, however depressing, are lighter than those which our American navy produces. It is apparent, that money is equivalent to strength, a proposition of which, if it could be doubted, the Spanish monarchy would afford sufficient proof, as it has been for a long time supported only by the power of riches. It is, therefore, impossible to weaken Spain more speedily or more certainly, than by intercepting or obstructing the annual supplies of gold and silver which she receives from her American provinces, by which she was once enabled to threaten slavery to all the neighbouring nations, and incited to begin, with the subjection of this island, her mighty scheme of universal monarchy, and by which she has still continued to exalt herself to an equality with the most powerful nations, to erect new kingdoms, and set at defiance the Austrian power. These supplies, my lords, are now, if not wholly, yet in a great measure, withheld; and by all the efforts which the Spaniards now make, they are exhausting their vitals, and wasting the natural strength of their native country. While they made war with adventitious treasures, and only squandered one year what another would repay them, it was not easy to foresee how long their pride would incline them to hold out against superiour strength. While they were only engaged in a naval war, they might have persisted for a long time in a kind of passive obstinacy; and while they were engaged in no foreign enterprises, might have supported that trade with each other which is necessary for the support of life, upon the credit of those treasures which are annually heaped up in their storehouses, though they are not received; and by which, upon the termination of the war, all their debts might at once be paid, and all their funds be reestablished. But at present, my lords, their condition is far different; they have been tempted by the prospect of enlarging their dominions to raise armies for distant expeditions, which must be supported in a foreign country, and can be supported only by regular remittances of treasure, and have formed these projects at a time when the means of pursuing them are cut off. They have by one war increased their expenses, when their receipts are obstructed by another. In this state, my lords, I am certain the Spaniards are very far from thinking the hostility of Britain merely nominal, and from inquiring in what part of the world their enemies are to be found. The troops in Italy see them sailing in triumph over the Mediterranean, intercepting their provisions, and prohibiting those succours which they expected from their confederate of Sicily. In Spain their taxes and their poverty, poverty which every day increases, inform them that the seas of America are possessed by the fleets of Britain, by whom their mines are made useless, and their wealthy dominions reduced to an empty sound. They may, indeed, comfort themselves in their distresses with the advantages which their troops have gained over the king of Sardinia, and with the entrance which they have forced into his dominions; but this can afford them no long satisfaction, since they will, probably, never be able to break through the passes at which they have arrived, or to force their way into Italy; and must perish at the feet of inaccessible rocks, where they are now supported at such an expense that they are more burdensome to their own master than to the king of Sardinia. Of this prince, I know not why, it has been asserted that he will probably violate his engagements to Britain and Austria; that he will purchase peace by perfidy, and grant a passage to the army of Spain. His conduct has certainly given, hitherto, no reason for such an imputation; he has opposed them with fortitude, and vigour, and address; nor has he failed in any of the duties required of a general or an ally; he has exposed his person to the most urgent dangers, and his dominions to the ravages of war; he has rejected all the solicitations of France, and set her menaces at defiance; and surely, my lords, if no private man ought to be censured without just reason, even in familiar discourse, we ought still to be more cautious of injuring the reputation of princes by publick reproaches in the solemn debates of national assemblies. The same licentiousness of speech has not, indeed, been extended to all the princes mentioned in this debate. The emperour has been treated with remarkable decency as the lawful sovereign of Germany, as one who cannot be opposed without rebellion, and against whom we, therefore, cannot expect that the troops of Hanover should presume to act, since they must expose their country to the severities of the imperial interdict. The noble lords who have thus ardently asserted the rights of the emperour, who have represented in such strong language the crime of violating the German constitutions, and have commended the neutrality of the king of Prussia, as proper to be imitated by all the rest of the princes 'of the empire, have forgotten, or hoped that others Would forget, the injustice and violence by which he exalted himself to the throne, from which they appear to think it a sacrilegious attempt to endeavour to thrust him down. They forget that one of the votes was illegally suspended, and that the rest were extorted by the terrour of an army. They forget that he invited the French into the empire, and that he is guilty of all the ravages which have been committed and all the blood that has been shed, since the death of the emperour, in the defence of the Pragmatick sanction which he invaded, though ratified by the solemn consent of the imperial diet. In defence of the Pragmatick sanction, my lords, which all the princes of the empire, except his majesty, saw violated without concern, are we now required to exert our force; we are required only to perform what we promised by the most solemn treaties, which, though they have been broken by the cowardice or ambition of other powers, it will be our greatest honour to observe with exemplary fidelity. With this view, as your lordships have already been informed, the Hanoverian troops will march into the empire; nor has their march been hitherto delayed, either because there was yet no regular scheme projected, or because they were obliged to wait for the permission of the king of Prussia, or because they intended only to amuse Europe with an empty show: they were detained, my lords, in Flanders, because it was believed that they were more useful there than they would be in any other place, because they at once encouraged the states, alarmed the French, defended the Low Countries, and kept the communication open between the queen's dominions and those of her allies. Nor were these advantages, my lords, chimerical, and such as are only suggested by a warm imagination; for it is evident that by keeping their station in those countries they have changed the state of the war, that they have protected the queen of Hungary from being oppressed by a new army of French, and given her an opportunity of establishing herself in the possession of Bavaria; that the French forces, instead of being sent either to the assistance of the king of Spain against the king of Sardinia, or of the emperour, for the recovery of those dominions which he has lost by an implicit confidence in their alliance, have been necessarily drawn down to the opposite extremity of their dominions, where they are of no use either to their own country, or to their confederates. The united troops of Britain and Hanover, therefore, carried on the war, by living at ease in their quarters in Flanders, more efficaciously than if they had marched immediately into Bavaria or Bohemia. Thus, my lords, I have endeavoured to show the justice of our designs, and the usefulness of the measures by which we have endeavoured to execute them; and doubt not but your lordships will, upon considering the arguments which have been urged on either side, and those which your own reflections will suggest, allow that it was not only just but necessary to take into our pay the troops of Hanover, for the support of the Pragmatick sanction, and the preservation of the house of Austria; and that since the same reasons which induced the government to hire them, still make it necessary to retain them, you will prefer the general happiness of Europe, the observation of publick faith, and the security of our own liberties and those of our posterity, to a small alleviation of our present expenses, and unanimously reject a motion, which has no other tendency than to resign the world into the hands of the French, and purchase a short and dependant tranquillity by the loss of all those blessings which make life desirable. Lord LONSDALE spoke next to the following effect:--My lords, notwithstanding the confidence with which the late measures of the government have been defended by their authors, I am not yet set free from the scruples which my own observations had raised, and which have been strengthened by the assertions of those noble lords, who have spoken in vindication of the motion. Many of the objections which have been raised and enforced with all the power of argument, have yet remained unanswered, or those answers which have been offered are such as leave the argument in its full strength. Many of the assertions which have been produced seem the effects of hope rather than conviction, and we are rather told what we are to hope from future measures, than what advantages we have received from the past. I am, indeed, one of those whom it will be difficult to convince of the propriety of engaging in a new war, when we are unsuccessful in that which we have already undertaken, and of provoking a more powerful enemy, when all our attempts are baffled by a weaker; and cannot yet set myself free from the apprehension of new defeats and new disgraces from the arms of France, after having long seen how little we are able to punish the insolence of Spain. I cannot but fear that by an ill-timed and useless opposition to schemes which, however destructive or unjust, we cannot obviate, we shall subject ourselves to numberless calamities, that the ocean will be covered with new fleets of privateers, that our commerce will be interrupted in every part of the world, and that we shall only provoke France to seize what she would at least have spared some time longer. But, my lords, if it be granted, that the Pragmatick sanction is obligatory to us, though it is violated by every other power; that we should labour to reduce the powers of Europe to an equipoise, whenever accident or folly produces any alteration of the balance; and that we are now not to preserve the house of Austria from falling, but raise it from the dust, and restore it to its ancient splendour, even at the hazard of a war with that power which now gives laws to all the western nations; yet it will not surely be asserted, that we ought to be without limits, that we ought to preserve the house of Austria, not only by the danger of our own country, but by its certain ruin, and endeavour to avert the possibility of slavery, by subjecting ourselves to miseries more severe than the utmost arrogance of conquest, or the most cruel wantonness of tyranny, would inflict upon us. I have observed, that many lords have expressed in this debate an uncommon ardour for the support of the queen of Hungary; nor is it without pleasure, that I see the most laudable of all motives, justice and compassion, operate in this great assembly with so much force. May your lordships always continue to stand the great advocates for publick faith, and the patrons of true greatness in distress; may magnanimity always gain your regard, and calamity find shelter under your protection. I, likewise, my lords, desire to be remembered among those who reverence the virtues and pity the miseries of this illustrious princess, who look with detestation on those who have invaded the dominions which they had obliged themselves by solemn treaties to defend, and who have taken advantage of the general confederacy against her, to enrich themselves with her spoils, who have insulted her distress and aggravated her misfortunes. But, my lords, while I feel all these sentiments of compassion for the queen of Hungary, I have not yet been able to forget, that my own country claims a nearer regard; that I am obliged both by interest and duty to preserve myself and my posterity, and my fellow-subjects, from those miseries which I lament; when they happen to others, however distant, I cannot but remember, that I am not to save another from destruction by destroying myself, nor to rescue Austria by the ruin of Britain. Though I am, therefore, my lords, not unwilling to assist the queen of Hungary, I think it necessary to fix the limits of our regard, to inquire how far we may proceed with safety, and what expenses the nation can bear, and how those expenses may be best employed. The danger of the queen of Hungary ought not to have an effect which would be reproachful, even if the danger was our own. It ought not so far to engross our faculties as to hinder us from attending to every other object. The man who runs into a greater evil to avoid a less, evidently shows that he is defective either in prudence or in courage; that either he wants the natural power of distinguishing, or that his dread of an approaching, or his impatience of a present evil, has taken it away. Let us, therefore, examine, my lords, the measures with which those who are intrusted with the administration of publick affairs, would persuade us to concur, and inquire whether they are such as can be approved by us without danger to our country. Let us consider, my lords, yet more nearly, whether they are not such as we ourselves could not be prevailed upon even to regard as the object of deliberation, were we not dazzled on one part by glaring prospects of triumphs and honours, of the reduction of France, and the rescue of the world; of the propagation of liberty, and the defence of religion; and intimidated on the other by the view of approaching calamities, the cruelties of persecution, and the hardships of slavery. All the arts of exaggeration, my lords, have been practised to reconcile us to the measures which are now proposed, and, indeed, all are necessary; for the expenses to which we are about to condemn this nation, are such as it is not able to bear, and to which no lord in this house would consent, were he calm enough to number the sums. To prove the truth of this assertion, one question is necessary. Is any lord in this assembly willing to assist the queen of Hungary at the expense of sixteen hundred thousand a year? I think the universal silence of this assembly is a sufficient proof, that no one is willing; I will, however, repeat my question. Is any lord in this assembly willing that this nation should assist the queen of Hungary at the annual expense of sixteen hundred thousand pounds? The house is, as I expected, still silent, and, therefore, I may now safely proceed upon the supposition of an unanimous negative. Nor does any thing remain in order to evince the impropriety of the measures which we are about to pursue, but that every lord may reckon up the sum required for the support of those troops. Let him take a view of our military estimates, and he will quickly be convinced, how much we are condemned to suffer in this cause. He will find, that we are about not only to remit yearly into a foreign country more than a million and a half of money, but to hazard the lives of multitudes of our fellow-subjects, in a quarrel which at most affects us but remotely; that we are about to incur as auxiliaries an expense greater than that which the principals sustain. The sum which I have mentioned, my lords, enormous as it may appear, is by no means exaggerated beyond the truth. Whoever shall examine the common military estimates, will easily be convinced, that the forces which we now maintain upon the continent cannot be supported at less expense; and that we are, therefore, about to exhaust our country in a distant quarrel, and to lavish our blood and treasure with useless profusion. This profusion, my lords, is useless, at least useless to any other end, than an ostentatious display of our forces, and our riches; not because the balance of power is irrecoverably destroyed, not because it is contrary to the natural interest of an island to engage in wars on the continent, nor because we shall lose more by the diminution of our commerce, than we shall gain by an annual victory. It is useless, not because the power of France has by long negligence been suffered to swell beyond all opposition, nor because the queen of Hungary ought not to be assisted at the hazard of this kingdom, though all these reasons are of importance enough to claim our consideration. It is useless, my lords, because the queen of Hungary may be assisted more powerfully, at less charge; because a third part of this sum will enable her to raise, and to maintain, a greater body of men than have now been sent her. Nor will the troops which she may be thus enabled to raise, my lords, be only more numerous, but more likely to prosecute the war with ardour; and to conclude it, therefore, with success. They will fight for the preservation of their own country, they will draw their swords to defend their houses and their estates, their wives and their children from the rage of tyrants and invaders; they will enter the field as men who cannot leave it to their enemies, without resigning all that makes life valuable; and who will, therefore, more willingly die than turn their backs. It may reasonably be imagined, my lords, that the queen will place more confidence in such forces, than in troops which are to fight only for honour or for pay; and that she will expect from the affection of her own subjects, a degree of zeal and constancy which she cannot hope to excite in foreigners; and that she will think herself more secure in the protection of those whose fidelity she may secure by the solemnity of an oath, than those who have no particular regard for her person, nor any obligations to support her government. It is no inconsiderable motive to this method of assisting our ally, that we shall entirely take away from France all pretences of hostilities or resentment, since we shall not attack her troops or invade her frontiers, but only furnish the queen of Hungary with money, without directing her how to apply it. I am far, my lords, from being so much intimidated by the late increase of the French greatness, as to imagine, that no limits can be set to their ambition. I am far from despairing, that the queen of Hungary alone, supported by us with pecuniary assistance, may be able to reduce them to solicitations for peace by driving them out of her dominions, and pursuing them into their own. But as the chance of war is always uncertain, it is surely most prudent to choose such a conduct as may exempt us from danger in all events; and since we are not certain of conquering the French, it is, in my opinion, most eligible not to provoke them, because we cannot be conquered without ruin. This method is yet eligible on another account; by proceeding with frugality, we shall gain time to observe the progress of the war, and watch the appearance of any favourable opportunity, without exhausting ourselves so far as to be made unable to improve them. The time, my lords, at which we shall be thus exhausted, at which we shall be reduced to an absolute inability to raise an army or equip a fleet, is not at a great distance. If our late profusion be for a short time continued, we shall quickly have drained the last remains of the wealth of our country. We have long gone on from year to year, raising taxes and contracting debts; and unless the riches of Britain are absolutely unlimited, must in a short time reduce them to nothing. Our expenses are not all, indeed, equally destructive; some, though the method of raising them be vexatious and oppressive, do not much impoverish the nation, because they are refunded by the extravagance and luxury of those who are retained in the pay of the court; but foreign wars threaten immediate destruction, since the money that is spent in distant countries can never fall back into its former channels, but is dissipated on the continent, and irrecoverably lost. When this consideration is present to my mind, and, on this occasion, no man who has any regard for himself or his posterity can omit it, I cannot but think with horrour on a vote by which such prodigious sums are wafted into another region: I cannot but tremble at the sound of a tax for the support of a foreign war, and think a French army landed on our coasts not much more to be dreaded than the annual payment to which we appear now to be condemned, and from which nothing can preserve us but the address which is now proposed. By what arguments the commons were persuaded, or by what motives incited to vote a supply for the support of this mercenary force, I have not yet heard; nor, as a member of this house, my lords, was it necessary for me to inquire. Their authority, though mentioned with so much solemnity on this occasion, is to have no influence on our determinations. If they are mistaken, it is more necessary for us to inquire with uncommon caution. If they are corrupt, it is more necessary for us to preserve our integrity. If we are to comply blindly with their decisions, our knowledge and experience are of no benefit to our country, we only waste time in useless solemnities, and may be once more declared useless to the publick. The commons, my lords, do not imagine themselves, nor are imagined by the nation, to constitute the legislature. The people, when any uncommon heat prevails in the other house, disturbs their debates, and overrules their determinations, have been long accustomed to expect redress and security from our calmer counsels; and have considered this house as the place where reason and justice may be heard, when, by clamour and uproar, they are driven from the other. On this occasion, my lords, every Briton fixes his eye upon us, and every man who has sagacity enough to discover the dismal approach of publick poverty, now supplicates your lordships, by agreeing to this address, to preserve him from it. Then the SPEAKER spoke to the following purport:--My lords, having very attentively observed the whole progress of this important debate, and considered with the utmost impartiality the arguments which have been made use of on each side, I cannot think the question before us doubtful or difficult; and hope that I may promote a speedy decision of it by recapitulating what has been already urged, that the debate may be considered at one view, and by adding some observations which have arisen to my own thoughts on this occasion. At the first view of the question before us, in its present state, no man can find any reasons for prejudice in favour of the address proposed. This house is, indeed, yet divided, and many lords have spoken on each side with great force and with great address; but the authority of the other house, added to the numbers which have already declared in this for the support of the foreign troops, is sufficient to turn the balance, in the opinion of any man who contents himself to judge by the first appearance of things; and must incline him to imagine that position at least more probable, which is ratified by the determination of one house, and yet undecided by the other. I know, my lords, what may be objected to these observations on the other house, and readily agree with the noble lord, that our determinations ought not to be influenced by theirs. But on this occasion, I introduce their decision not as the decrees of legislators, but as the result of the consideration of wise men; and in this sense it may be no less reasonable to quote the determination of the commons, than to introduce the opinion of any private man whose knowledge or experience give his opinion a claim to our regard. Nor do I mention the weight of authority on one side as sufficient to influence the private determination of any in this great assembly. It is the privilege and the duty of every man, who possesses a seat in the highest council of his country, to make use of his own eyes and his own understanding, to reject those arguments of which he cannot find the force, whatever effect they may have upon others, and to discharge the great trust conferred upon him by consulting no conscience but his own. Yet, though we are by no means to suffer the determinations of other men to repress our inquiries, we may certainly make use of them to assist them; we may very properly, therefore, inquire the reasons that induced the other house to approve those bills which are brought before them, since it is not likely that their consent was obtained without arguments, at least probable, though they are not to be by us considered as conclusive upon their authority. The chief advantage which the publick receives from a legislature formed of several distinct powers, is, that all laws must pass through many deliberations of assemblies independent on each other, of which, if the one be agitated by faction or distracted by divisions, it may be hoped that the other will be calm and united, and of which it can hardly be feared that they can at any time concur in measures apparently destructive to the commonwealth. But these inquiries, my lords, however proper or necessary, are to be made by us not in solemn assemblies but in our private characters; and therefore I shall not now lay before your lordships what I have heard from those whom I have consulted for the sake of obtaining information on this important question, or shall at least not offer it as the opinion of the commons, or pretend to add to it any influence different from that of reason and truth. The arguments which have been offered in this debate for the motion, are, indeed, such as do not make any uncommon expedients necessary; they will not drive the advocates for the late measures to seek a refuge in authority instead of reason. They require, in my opinion, only to be considered with a calm attention, and their force will immediately be at an end. The most plausible objection, my lords, is, that the measures to which your approbation is now desired, were concerted and executed without the concurrence of the senate; and it is, therefore, urged, that they cannot now deserve our approbation, because it was not asked at the proper time. In order to answer this objection, my lords, it is necessary to consider it more distinctly than those who made it appear to have done, that we may not suffer ourselves to confound questions real and personal, to mistake one object for another, or to be confounded by different views. That the consent of the senate was not asked, my lords, supposing it a neglect, and a neglect of a criminal kind, of a tendency to weaken our authority, and shake the foundations of our constitution, which is the utmost that the most ardent imagination, or the most hyperbolical rhetorick can utter or suggest, may be, indeed, a just reason for invective against the ministers, but is of no force if urged against the measures. To take auxiliaries into our pay may be right, though it might be wrong to hire them without applying to the senate; as it is proper to throw water upon a fire, though it was conveyed to the place without the leave of those from whose well it was drawn, or over whose ground it was carried. If the liberties of Europe be really in danger, if our treaties oblige us to assist the queen of Hungary against the invaders of her dominions, if the ambition of France requires to be repressed, and the powers of Germany to be animated against her by the certain prospect of a vigorous support, I cannot discover the propriety of this motion, even supposing that we have not found from the ministers all the respect that we have a right to demand. As a lawful authority may do wrong, so right may be sometimes done by an unlawful power; and surely, though usurpation ought to be punished, the benefits which have been procured by it, are not to be thrown away. We may retain the troops that have been hired, if they are useful, though we should censure the ministry for taking them into pay. But the motion to which our concurrence is now required, is a motion by which we are to punish ourselves for the crime of the ministers, by which we are about to leave ourselves defenceless, because we have been armed without our consent, and to resign up all our rights and privileges to France, because we suspect that they have not been sufficiently regarded on this occasion by our ministers. Those noble lords who have dwelt with the greatest ardour on this omission, have made no proposition for censuring those whom they condemn as the authors of it, though this objection must terminate in an inquiry into their conduct, and has no real relation to the true question now before us, which is, whether the auxiliaries be of any use? If they are useless, they ought to be discharged without any other reason; if they are necessary, they ought to be retained, whatever censure may fall upon the ministry. I am, indeed, far from thinking, that when your lordships have sufficiently examined the affair, you will think your privileges invaded, or the publick trepanned by artifice into expensive measures; since it will appear that the ministry in reality preferred the most honest to the safest methods of proceeding, and chose rather to hazard themselves, than to practice or appear to practice any fraud upon their country. When it was resolved in council to take the troops of Hanover into the pay of Britain, a resolution which, as your lordships have already been informed, was made only a few days before the senate rose, it was natural to consider, whether the consent of the senate should not be demanded; but when it appeared upon reflection, that to bring an affair of so great importance before the last remnant of a house of commons, after far the greater part had retired to the care of their own affairs, would be suspected as fraudulent, and might give the nation reason to fear, that such measures were intended as the ministers were afraid of laying before a full senate. It was thought more proper to defer the application to the next session, and to venture upon the measures that were formed, upon a full conviction of their necessity. This conduct, my lords, was exactly conformable to the demands of those by whom the court has hitherto been opposed, and who have signalized themselves as the most watchful guardians of liberty. Among these men, votes of credit have never been mentioned but with detestation, as acts of implicit confidence, by which the riches of the nation are thrown down at the feet of the ministry to be squandered at pleasure. When it has been urged, that emergencies may arise, during the recess of the senate, which may produce a necessity of expenses, and that, therefore, some credit ought to be given which may enable the crown to provide against accidents, it has been answered, that the expenses which are incurred during the recess of the senate, will be either necessary or not; that if they are necessary, the ministry have no reason to distrust the approbation of the senate, but if they are useless, they ought not to expect it. And that, instead of desiring to be exempted from any subsequent censures, and to be secured in exactions or prodigality by a previous vote, they ought willingly to administer the publick affairs at their own hazard, and await the judgment of the senate, when the time shall come, in which their proceedings are laid before it. Such have hitherto been the sentiments of the most zealous advocates for the rights of the people; nor did I expect from any man who desired to appear under that character, that he would censure the ministry for having thrown themselves upon the judgment of the senate, and neglected to secure themselves by any previous applications, for having trusted in their own integrity, and exposed their conduct to an open examination without subterfuges and without precautions. I did not imagine, my lords, that a senate, upon whose decision all the measures which have been taken, so apparently depend, would have been styled a senate convened only to register the determinations of the ministry; or that any of your lordships would think his privileges diminished, because money was not demanded before the use of it was fully known. If we lay aside, my lords, all inquiries into precedents, and, without regard to any political considerations, examine this affair only by the light of reason, it will surely appear that the ministry could not, by any other method of proceeding, have shown equal regard to the senate, or equal confidence in their justice and their wisdom. Had they desired a vote of credit, it might have been justly objected that they required to be trusted with the publick money, without declaring, or being able to declare, how it was to be employed; that either they questioned the wisdom or honesty of the senate; and, therefore, durst undertake nothing till they were secure of the supplies necessary for the execution of it. Had they informed both houses of their whole scheme, they might have been still charged, and charged with great appearance of justice, with having preferred their own safety to that of the publick, and having rather discovered their designs to the enemy, than trusted to the judgment of the senate; nor could any excuse have been made for a conduct so contrary to all the rules of war, but such as must have dis-honoured either the ministers or the senate, such as must have implied either that the measures intended were unworthy of approbation, or that they were by no means certain, that even the best conduct would not be censured. These objections they foresaw, and allowed to be valid; and, therefore, generously determined to pursue the end which every man was supposed to approve, by the best means which they could discover, and to refer their conduct to a full senate, in which they did not doubt but their integrity, and, perhaps, their success, would find them vindicators. Instead of applying, therefore, to the remains of the commons, a few days before the general recess; instead of assembling their friends by private intimations, at a time when most of those from whom they might have dreaded opposition, had retired, they determined to attempt, at their own hazard, whatever they judged necessary for the promotion of the common cause, and to refer their measures to the senate, when it should be again assembled. The manner in which one of the noble lords, who have spoken in support of the address, has thought it necessary that they should have applied to us, is, indeed, somewhat extraordinary, such as is certainly without precedent, and such as is not very consistent with the constituent rights of the different powers of the legislature. His lordship has been pleased to remark, that the crown has entered into a treaty, and to ask why that treaty was not previously laid before the senate for its approbation. I know not, my lords, with what propriety this contract for the troops of Hanover can be termed a treaty. It is well known that no power in this kingdom can enter into a treaty with a foreign state, except the king; and it is equally certain, that, with regard to Hanover, the same right is limited to the elector. This treaty, therefore, my lords, is a treaty of the same person with himself, a treaty of which the two counterparts are to receive their ratification from being signed with the same hand. This, surely, is a treaty of a new kind, such as no national assembly has yet considered. Had any other power of Britain than its king, or in Hanover any other than the elector, the right of entering into publick engagements, a treaty might have been made; but as the constitution of both nations is formed, the treaty is merely chimerical and absolutely impossible. Had such a treaty, as is thus vainly imagined, been really made, it would yet be as inconsistent with the fundamental establishment of the empire, to require that before it was ratified it should have been laid before the senate. To make treaties, as to make war, is the acknowledged and established prerogative of the crown. When war is declared, the senate is, indeed, to consider whether it ought to be carried on at the expense of the nation; and if treaties require any supplies to put them in execution, they likewise fall properly, at that time, under senatorial cognizance: but to require that treaties shall not be transacted without our previous concurrence, is almost to annihilate the power of the crown, and to expose all our designs to the opposition of our enemies, before they can be completed. If, therefore, the troops of Hanover can be of use for the performance of our stipulations, if they can contribute to the support of the house of Austria, the ministry cannot, in my opinion, be censured for having taken them into British pay; nor can we refuse our concurrence with the commons in providing for their support, unless it shall appear that the design for which all our preparations have been made is such as cannot be executed, or such as ought not to be pursued. Several arguments have been offered to prove both these positions; one noble lord has asserted, that it is by no means for the advantage either of ourselves or any other nation, to restore the house of Austria to its ancient elevation; another, that it is, by the imperial constitutions, unlawful for any of the princes of Germany to make war upon the emperour solemnly acknowledged by the diet. They have endeavoured to intimidate us, by turning our view to the difficulties by which our attempts are obstructed; difficulties which they affect to represent as insuperable, at least to this nation in its present state. With this design, my lords, has the greatness of the French power been exaggerated, the faith of the king of Sardinia questioned, and the king of Prussia represented as determined to support the pretensions of the emperour; with this view has our natural strength been depreciated, and all our measures and hopes have been ridiculed, with wantonness, not very consistent with the character of a British patriot. Most of these arguments, my lords, have been already answered, and answered in such a manner as has, I believe, not failed of convincing every lord of their insufficiency, unless, perhaps, those are to be excepted ty whom they were offered. It has with great propriety been observed, that the inconsistency imputed to his majesty in opposing the emperour for whom he voted, is merely imaginary; since it is not a necessary consequence, that he for whom he voted is, therefore, lawfully elected; and because his majesty does not engage in this war for the sake of dethroning the emperour, but of supporting the Pragmatick sanction; nor does he oppose him as the head of the German body, but as the invader of the dominions of Austria. With regard to the propriety of maintaining the Austrian family in its present possessions, and of raising it, if our arms should be prosperous, to its ancient greatness, it has been shown, that no other power is able to defend Europe either against the Turks on one part, or the French on the other; two powers equally professing the destructive intention of extending their dominions without limits, and of trampling upon the privileges and liberties of all the rest of mankind. It has been shown, that the general scheme of policy uniformly pursued by our ancestors in every period of time, since the increase of the French greatness, has been to preserve an equipoise of power, by which all the smaller states are preserved in security. It is apparent, that by this scheme alone can the happiness of mankind be preserved, and that no other family but that of Austria is able to balance the house of Bourbon. This equipoise of power has by some lords been imagined an airy scheme, a pleasing speculation which, however it may amuse the imagination, can never be reduced to practice. It has been asserted, that the state of nations is always variable, that dominion is every day transferred by ambition or by casualties, that inheritances fall by want of heirs into other hands, and that kingdoms are by one accident divided at one time, and at other times consolidated by a different event; that to be the guardians of all those whose credulity or folly may betray them to concur with the ambition of an artful neighbour, and to promote the oppression of themselves, is an endless task; and that to obviate all the accidents by which provinces may change their masters, is an undertaking to which no human foresight is equal; that we have not a right to hinder the course of succession for our own interest, nor to obstruct those contracts which independent princes are persuaded to make, however contrary to their own interest, or to the general advantage of mankind. And it has been concluded by those reasoners, that we should show the highest degree of wisdom, and the truest, though not the most refined policy, by attending steadily to our own interest, by improving the dissensions of our neighbours to our own advantage, by extending our commerce, and increasing our riches, without any regard to the happiness or misery, freedom or slavery of the rest of mankind. I believe I need not very laboriously collect arguments to prove to your lordships that this scheme of selfish negligence, of supine tranquillity, is equally imprudent and ungenerous; since, if we examine the history of the last century, we shall easily discover, that if this nation had not interposed, the French had now been masters of more than half Europe; and it cannot be imagined that they would have suffered us to set them at defiance in the midst of their greatness, that they would have spared us out of tenderness, or forborne to attack us out of fear. What the Spaniards attempted, though unsuccessfully, from a more distant part of the world, in the pride of their American affluence, would certainly have been once more endeavoured by France, with far greater advantages, and as it may be imagined, with a different event. That it would have been endeavoured, cannot be doubted, because the endeavour would not have been hazardous; by once defeating our fleet, they might land their forces, which might be wafted over in a very short time, and by a single victory they might conquer all the island, or that part of it, at least, which is most worth the labour of conquest; and though they should be unsuccessful, they could suffer nothing but the mortification of their pride, and would be in a short time enabled to make a new attempt. Thus, my lords, if we could preserve our liberty in the general subjection of the western part of the world, we should do it only by turning our island into a garrison, by laying aside all other employment than the study of war, and by making it our only care to watch our coasts: a state which surely ought to be avoided at almost any expense and at any hazard. To think that we could extend our trade or increase our riches in this state of the continent, is to forget the effects of universal empire. The French, my lords, would then be in possession of all the trade of those provinces which they had conquered, they would be masters of all their ports and of all their shipping; and your lordships may easily conceive with what security we should venture upon the ocean, in a state of war, when all the harbours of the continent afforded shelter to our enemies. If the French privateers from a few obscure creeks, unsupported by a fleet of war, or at least not supported by a navy equal to our own, could make such devastations in our trade as enabled their country to hold out against the confederacy of almost all the neighbouring powers; what, my lords, might not be dreaded by us, when every ship upon the ocean should be an enemy; when we should be at once overborne by the wealth and the numbers of our adversaries; when the trade of the world should be in their hands, and their navies no less numerous than their troops. I have made this digression, my lords, I hope not wholly without necessity, to show that the advantages of preserving the equipoise of Europe are not, as they have been sometimes conceived, empty sounds, or idle notions; but that by the balance of one nation against another, both the safety of other countries and of our own is preserved; and that, therefore, it requires all our vigilance and all our resolution to establish and maintain it. That there may come a time in which this scheme will be no longer practicable, when a coalition of dominions may be inevitable, and when one power will be necessarily exalted above the rest, is, indeed, not absolutely impossible, and, therefore, not to be peremptorily denied. But it is not to be inferred, that our care is vain at present, because, perhaps, it may some time be vain hereafter; or that we ought now to sink into slavery without a struggle, because the time may come, when our strongest efforts will be ineffectual. It has, indeed, been almost asserted, that the fatal hour is now arrived, and that it is to no purpose that we endeavour to raise any farther opposition to the universal monarchy projected by France. We are told, that the nation is exhausted and dispirited; that we have neither influence, nor riches, nor courage remaining; that we shall be left to stand alone against the united house of Bourbon; that the Austrians cannot, and that the Dutch will not, assist us; that the king of Sardinia will desert his alliance; that the king of Prussia has declared against us; and, therefore, that by engaging in the support of the Pragmatick sanction, we are about to draw upon ourselves that ruin which every other power has foreseen and shunned. I am far from denying, my lords, that the power of France is great and dangerous; but can draw no consequence from that position, but that this force is to be opposed before it is still greater, and this danger to be obviated while it is yet surmountable, and surmountable I still believe it by unanimity and courage. If our wealth, my lords, is diminished, it is time to confine the commerce of that nation by which we have been driven out of the markets of the continent, by destroying their shipping, and intercepting their merchants. If our courage is depressed, it is depressed not by any change in the nature of the inhabitants of this island, but by a long course of inglorious compliance with the demands, and of mean submission to the insults, of other nations, to which it is necessary to put an end by vigorous resolutions. If our allies are timorous and wavering, it is necessary to encourage them by vigorous measures; for as fear, so courage, is produced by example: the bravery of a single man may withhold an army from flight, and other nations will be ashamed to discover any dread of that power which France along sets at defiance. They will be less afraid to declare their intentions, when they are convinced that we intend to support them; and if there be, in reality, any prince who does not favour our design, he will be at least less inclined to obstruct it, as he finds the opposition, which he must encounter, more formidable. For this reason, my lords, I am far from discovering the justness of the opinion which has prevailed very much in the nation, on this occasion, that we are not to act without allies, because allies are most easily to be procured by acting, and because it is reasonable and necessary for us to perform our part, however other powers may neglect theirs. The advice which the senate has often repeated to his majesty, has been to oppose the progress of France; and though it should be allowed, that he has been advised to proceed in concert _with his allies_, yet it must be understood to suppose such allies as may be found to have courage and honesty enough to concur with him. It cannot be intended, that he should delay his assistance till corruption is reclaimed, or till cowardice is animated; for to promise the queen of Hungary assistance on such terms, would be to insult her calamities, and to withhold our succours till she was irrecoverably ruined. The senate could not insist that we should stand neuter, till all those, who were engaged by treaty to support the Pragmatick sanction, should appear willing to fulfil their stipulations; for even France is to be numbered among those who have promised to support the house of Austria in its possessions, however she may now endeavour to take them away. Even with regard to that power from which most assistance may be reasonably expected, nothing would be more imprudent than to declare that we determine not to act without them; for what then would be necessary, but that the French influence one town in their provinces, or one deputy in their assemblies, and ruin the house of Austria in security and at leisure, without any other expense than that of a bribe. It was, therefore, necessary to transport our troops into Flanders, to show the world that we were no longer inclined to stand idle spectators of the troubles of Europe; that we no longer intended to amuse ourselves, or our confederates, with negotiations which might produce no treaties, or with treaties which might be broken whenever the violation of them afforded any prospect of that advantage; we were now resolved to sacrifice the pleasures of neutrality, and the profits of peaceful traffick, to the security of the liberties of Europe, and the observation of publick faith. This necessity was so generally allowed, that when the first body of troops was sent over, no objection was made by those who found themselves inclined to censure the conduct of our affairs, but that they were not sufficiently numerous to defend themselves, and would be taken prisoners by a French detachment; the ministry were therefore asked, why they did not send a larger force, why they engaged in hostilities, which could only raise the laughter of our enemies, and why, if they intended war, they did not raise an army sufficient to prosecute it? An army, my lords, an army truly formidable, is now raised, and assembled on the frontiers of France, ready to assist our ally, and to put a stop to the violence of invasions. We now see ourselves once again united with the house of Austria, and may hope once more to drive the oppressors of mankind before us. But now, my lords, a clamour is propagated through the nation, that these measures, which have been so long desired, are pernicious and treacherous; that we are armed, not against France, but against ourselves; that our armies are sent over either not to fight, or to fight in a quarrel in which we have no concern; to gain victories from which this nation will receive no advantage, or to bring new dishonour upon their country by a shameful inactivity. This clamour, which if it had been confined to the vulgar, had been, perhaps, of no great importance, nor could have promoted any of the designs of those by whom it was raised, has been mentioned in this house as an argument in favour of the motion which is now under the consideration of your lordships; and it has been urged that these measures cannot be proper, because all measures, by which his majesty's government is made unpopular, must in the end be destructive to the nation. On this occasion, my lords, it is necessary to consider the nature of popularity, and to inquire how far it is to be considered in the administration of publick affairs. If by popularity is meant only a sudden shout of applause, obtained by a compliance with the present inclination of the people, however excited, or of whatsoever tendency, I shall without scruple declare, that popularity is to be despised; it is to be despised, my lords, because it cannot be preserved without abandoning much more valuable considerations. The inclinations of the people have, in all ages, been too variable for regard. But if by popularity be meant that settled confidence and lasting esteem, which a good government may justly claim from the subject, I am far from denying that it is truly desirable; and that no wise man ever disregarded it. But this popularity, my lords, is very consistent with contempt of riotous clamours, and of mistaken complaints; and is often only to be obtained by an opposition, to the reigning opinions, and a neglect of temporary discontents; opinions which may be inculcated without difficulty by favourite orators, and discontents which the eloquence of seditious writers may easily produce on ignorance and inconstancy. How easily the opinions of the vulgar may be regulated by those who have obtained, by whatever methods, their esteem, the debate of this day, my lords, may inform us; since, if the measures against which this motion is intended, be really unpopular, as they have been represented, it is evident that there has been lately a very remarkable change in the sentiments of the nation; for it is yet a very little time since the repression of the insolence of France, and the relief of the queen of Hungary was so generally wished, and so importunately demanded, that had measures like these been then formed, it is not improbable that they might have reconciled the publick to that man whom the united voice of the nation has long laboured to overbear. It is, indeed, urged with a degree of confidence, which ought, in my opinion, to proceed from stronger proof than has yet been produced, that no hostilities are intended; that our armaments on the continent are an idle show, an inoffensive ostentation, and that the troops of Hanover have been hired only to enrich the electorate, under the appearance of assisting the queen of Hungary, whom in reality they cannot succour without drawing upon their country the imperial interdict. It has been alleged, my lords,-that these measures have been concerted wholly/or the advantage of Hanover; that this kingdom is to be sacrificed to the electorate, and that we are in reality intended to be made tributaries to a petty power. In confirmation of these suggestions, advantage has been taken from every circumstance that could admit of misrepresentation. The constitution of the empire has been falsely quoted, to prove that they cannot act against the emperour, and their inactivity in Flanders has been produced as a proof, that they do not intend to enter Germany. Whoever shall consult the constituent and fundamental pact by which the German form of government is established, will find, my lords, that it is not in the power of the emperour alone to lay any of the states of Germany under the ban; and that the electors are independent in their own dominions, so far as that they may enter into alliances with foreign powers, and make war upon each other. It appears, therefore, my lords, that no law prohibits the elector of Hanover to send his troops to the assistance of the queen of Hungary; he may, in consequence of treaties, march into Germany, and attack the confederates of the emperour, or what is not now intended, even the emperour himself, without any dread of the severities of the ban. Nor does the continuance of the forces in Flanders show any unwillingness to begin hostilities, or any dread of the power of either Prussia, whose prohibition is merely imaginary, or of France, who is not less perplexed by the neighbourhood of our army than by any other method that could have been taken of attacking her; for being obliged to have an equal force always in readiness to observe their motions, she has not been able to send a new army against the Austrians, but has been obliged to leave the emperour at their mercy, and suffer them to recover Bohemia without bloodshed, and establish themselves at leisure in Bavaria. Nor is this, my lords, the only advantage which has been gained by their residence in Flanders; for the United Provinces have been animated to a concurrence in the common cause, and have consented so far to depart from their darling neutrality, as to send twenty thousand of their forces to garrison the barrier. Of which no man, I suppose, will say that it is not of great importance to the queen of Hungary, since it sets her free from the necessity of distracting her views, and dividing her forces for the defence of the most distant parts of her dominions at once; nor will it be affirmed, that this advantage could have probably been gained, without convincing our allies of our sincerity, by sending an army into the continent. If it be asked, what is farther to be expected from these troops? it ought to be remembered, my lords, with how little propriety our ministers can be required to make publick a scheme of hostile operations, and how much we should expose ourselves to our enemies, should a precedent be established by which our generals would be incapacitated to form any private designs, and an end would be for ever put to military secrecy. What necessity there can be for proposing arguments like these, I am not, indeed, able to discover, since the objections which have been made seem to proceed rather from obstinacy than conviction; and the reflections that have been vented seem rather the product of wit irritated by malevolence, than of reason enlightened by calm consideration. The ministers have been reproached with Hanoverian measures, without any proof that Hanover is to receive the least advantage; and have been charged with betraying their country by those who cannot show how their country is injured, nor can prove either that interest or faith would allow us to sit inactive in the present disturbance of Europe, or that we could have acted in any other manner with equal efficacy. It is so far from being either evident or true, my lords, that Britain is sacrificed to Hanover, that Hanover is evidently hazarded by her union with Britain. Had this electorate now any other sovereign than the king of Great Britain, it might have been secure by a neutrality, and have looked upon the miseries of the neighbouring provinces without any diminution of its people, or disturbance of its tranquillity; nor could any danger be dreaded, or any inconvenience be felt, but from an open declaration in favour of the Pragmatick sanction. Why the hire of the troops of any particular country should be considered as an act of submission to it, or of dependency upon it, I cannot discover; nor can I conceive for what reason the troops of Hanover should be more dangerous, or less popular, at this than at any former time, or why the employment of them should be considered as any particular regard. If any addition of dominion had been to be purchased for the electorate by the united arms of the confederate army, I should, perhaps, be inclined to censure the scheme, as contrary to the interest of my native country; nor shall any lord more warmly oppose designs that may tend to aggrandize another nation at the expense of this. But to hire foreigners, of whatever country, only to save the blood of Britons, is, in my opinion, an instance of preference which ought to produce rather acknowledgments of gratitude than sallies of indignation. Upon the most exact survey of this debate, I will boldly affirm, that I never heard in this house a question so untenable in itself, so obstinately or so warmly debated; but hope that the sophistries which have been used, however artful, and the declamations which have been pronounced, however pathetick, will have no effect upon your lordships. I hope, that as the other house has already agreed to support the auxiliaries which have been retained, and which have been proved in this debate to be retained for the strongest reasons, and the most important purposes, your lordships will show, by rejecting this motion, that you are not less willing to concur in the support of publick faith, and that you will not suffer posterity to charge you with the exaltation of France, and the ruin of Europe. [The question was then put, and determined in the negative, by 90 against 35.] After the conclusion of this long debate, the ministry did not yet think their victory in repelling this censure sufficiently apparent, unless a motion was admitted, which might imply a full and unlimited approbation of their measures; and therefore the earl of SCARBOROUGH rose, and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, it has been justly observed in the debate of this day, that the opinions of the people of Britain are regulated in a great measure by the determinations of this house; that they consider this as the place where truth and reason obtain a candid audience; as a place sacred to justice and to honour; into which, passion, partiality, and faction have been very rarely known to intrude; and that they, therefore, watch our decisions as the great rules of policy, and standing maxims of right, and readily believe these measures necessary in which we concur, and that conduct unblameable which has gained our approbation. This reputation, my lords, we ought diligently to preserve, by an unwearied vigilance for the happiness of our fellow-subjects; and while we possess it, we ought likewise to employ its influence to beneficial purposes, that the cause and the effect may reciprocally produce each other; that the people, when the prosperity which they enjoy by our care, inclines them to repose in us an implicit confidence, may find that confidence a new source of felicity; that they may reverence us, because they are secure and happy; and be secure and happy, because they reverence us. This great end, my lords, it will not be very difficult to attain; the foundation of this exalted authority may easily be laid, and the superstructure raised in a short time; the one may be laid too deep to be undermined, and the other built too firmly to be shaken; at least they can be impaired only by ourselves, and may set all external violence at defiance. To preserve the confidence of the people, and, consequently, to govern them without force, and without opposition, it is only necessary that we never willingly deceive them; that we expose the publick affairs to their view, so far as they ought to be made publick in their true state; that we never suffer false reports to circulate under the sanction of our authority, nor give the nation reason to think we are satisfied, when we are, in reality, suspicious of illegal designs, or that we suspect those measures of latent mischiefs with which we are, in reality, completely satisfied. But it is not sufficient, my lords, that we publish ourselves no fallacious representations of our counsels; it is necessary, likewise, that we do not permit them to be published, that we obviate every falsehood in its rise, and propagate truth with our utmost diligence. For if we suffer the nation to be deceived, we are not much less criminal than those who deceive it; at least we must be confessed no longer to act as the guardians of the publick happiness, if we suffer it to be interrupted by the dispersion of reports which we know to be at once false and pernicious. Of these principles, which I suppose will not be contested, an easy application may be made to the business of the present day. A question has been debated with great address, great ardour, and great obstinacy, which is in itself, though not doubtful, yet very much diffused; complicated with a great number of circumstances, and extended to a multitude of relations; and is, therefore, a subject upon which sophistry may very safely practise her arts, and which may be shown in very different views to those whose intellectual light is too much contracted to receive the whole object at once. It may easily be asserted, by those who have long been accustomed to affirm, without scruple, whatever they desire to obtain belief, that the arguments in favour of the motion, which has now been rejected by your lordships, were unanswerable; and it will be no hard task to lay before their audience such reasons as, though they have been easily confuted by the penetration and experience of your lordships, may, to men unacquainted with politicks, and remote from the sources of intelligence, appear very formidable. It is, therefore, not sufficient that your lordships have rejected the former motion, and shown that you do not absolutely disapprove the measures of the government, since it may be asserted, and with some appearance of reason, that barely not to admit a motion by which all the measures of the last year would have been at once over-turned and annihilated, is no proof that they have been fully justified, and warmly confirmed, since many of the transactions might have been at least doubtful, and yet this motion not have been proper. In an affair of so great importance, my lords, an affair in which the interest of all the western world is engaged, it is necessary to take away all suspicions, when the nation is about to be involved in a war for the security of ourselves and our posterity; in a war which, however prosperous, must be at least expensive, and which is to be carried on against an enemy who, though not invincible, is, in a very high degree, powerful. It is surely proper to show, in the most publick manner, our conviction, that neither prudence nor frugality has been wanting; that the inconveniencies which will be always felt in such contentions, are not brought upon us by wantonness or negligence; and that no care is omitted by which they are alleviated, and that they may be borne more patiently, because they cannot be avoided. This attestation, my lords, we can only give by a solemn address to his majesty of a tendency contrary to that of the motion now rejected; and by such an attestation only can we hope to revive the courage of the nation, to unite those in the common cause of liberty whom false reports have alienated or shaken, and to restore to his majesty that confidence which all the subtilties of faction have been employed to impair. I, therefore, move, that an humble address be presented to his majesty, importing, "That in the unsettled and dangerous situation of affairs in Europe, the sending a considerable body of British forces into the Austrian Netherlands, and augmenting the same with sixteen thousand of his majesty's electoral troops, and the Hessians in the British pay, and thereby, in conjunction with the queen of Hungary's troops in the Low Countries, forming a great army for the service of the common cause, was a wise, useful, and necessary measure, manifestly tending to the support and encouragement of his majesty's allies, and the real and effectual assistance of the queen of Hungary, and the restoring and maintaining the balance of power, and has already produced very advantageous consequences." The earl of OXFORD spoke next, to the following effect:--My lords, the necessity of supporting our reputation, and of preserving the confidence of the publick, I am by no means inclined to dispute, being convinced, that from the instant in which we shall lose the credit which our ancestors have delivered down to us, we shall be no longer considered as a part of the legislature, but be treated by the people only as an assembly of hirelings and dependants, convened at the pleasure of the court to ratify its decisions without examination, to extort taxes, promote slavery, and to share with the ministry the crime and the infamy of cruelty and oppression. For this reason, it is undoubtedly proper, that we avoid not only the crime, but the appearance of dependence; and that every doubtful question should be freely debated, and every pernicious position publickly condemned; and that when our decisions are not agreeable to the opinion or expectations of the people, we should at least show them that they are not the effects of blind compliance with the demands of the ministry, or of an implicit resignation to the direction of a party. We ought to show, that we are unprejudiced, and ready to hear truth; that our determinations are not dictated by any foreign influence, and that it will not be vain to inform us, or useless to petition us. In these principles I agree with the noble lord who has made the motion; but in the consequences which are on this occasion to be drawn from them, I cannot but differ very widely from him; for, in my opinion, nothing can so much impair our reputation, as an address like that which is proposed; an address not founded either upon facts or arguments, and from which the nation can collect only, that the protection of this house is withdrawn from them, that they are given up to ruin, and that they are to perish as a sacrifice to the interest of Hanover. Let us consider what we are now invited to assert, and it will easily appear how well this motion is calculated to preserve and to advance the reputation of this house. We are to assert, my lords, the propriety of a new war against the most formidable power of the universe, at a time when we have been defeated and disgraced in our conquests with a kingdom of inferiour force. We are to declare our readiness to pay and to raise new taxes, since no war can be carried on without them, at a time when our commerce, the great source of riches, is obstructed; when the interest of debts contracted during a long war, and a peace almost equally expensive, is preying upon our estates; when the profits of the trade of future ages, and the rents of the inheritances of our latest descendants, are mortgaged; and what ought yet more to affect us, at a time when the outcry of distress is universal, when the miseries of hopeless poverty have sunk the nation into despair, when industry scarcely retains spirit sufficient to continue her labours, and all the lower ranks of mankind are overwhelmed with the general calamity. There may, perhaps, be some among your lordships who may think this representation of the state of the publick exaggerated beyond the truth. There are many in this house who see no other scenes than the magnificence of feasts, the gaieties of balls, and the splendour of a court; and it is not much to be wondered at, if they do not easily believe what it is often their interest to doubt, that this luxury is supported by the distress of millions, and that this magnificence exposes multitudes to nakedness and famine. It is my custom, when the business of the senate is over, to retire to my estate in the country, where I live without noise, and without riot, and take a calm and deliberate survey of the condition of those that inhabit the towns and villages about me. I mingle in their conversation, and hear their complaints; I enter their houses, and find by their condition that their complaints are just; I discover that they are daily impoverished, and that they are not able to struggle under the enormous burdens of publick payments, of which I am convinced that they cannot be levied another year without exhausting the people, and spreading universal beggary over the nation. What can be the opinion of the publick, when they see an address of this house, by which new expenses are recommended? Will they not think that their state is desperate, and that they are sold to slavery, from which nothing but insurrections and bloodshed can release them? If they retain any hopes of relief from this house, they must soon be extinguished, when they find in the next clause, that we are sunk to such a degree of servility, as to acknowledge benefits which were never received, and to praise the invisible service of our army in Flanders. If it be necessary, my lords, to impose upon the publick, let us at least endeavour to do it less grossly; let us not attempt to persuade them that those forces have gained victories who have never seen an enemy, or that we are benefited by the transportation of our money into another country. If it be necessary to censure those noble lords who have supported the former motion, and to punish them for daring to use arguments which could not be confuted; for this is the apparent tendency of the present motion; let us not lose all consideration of ourselves, nor sacrifice the honour of the house to the resentment of the ministry. For my part, my lords, I shall continue to avow my opinion in defiance of censures, motions and addresses; and as I struggled against the former ministry, not because I envied or hated them, but because I disapproved their conduct; I shall continue to oppose measures equally destructive with equal zeal, by whomsoever they are projected, or by whomsoever patronised. Lord CARTERET spoke next, to the following purpose:--My lords, after so full a defence of the former motion as the late debate has produced, it is rather with indignation than surprise, that I hear that which is now offered. It has been for a long time the practice of those who are supported only by their numbers, to treat their opponents with contempt, and when they cannot answer to insult them; and motions have been made, not because they were thought right by those who offered them, but because they would certainly be carried, and would, by being carried, mortify their opponents. This, my lords, is the only intent of the present motion which can promote no useful purpose, and which, though it may flatter the court, must be considered by the people as an insult; and therefore, though I believe all opposition fruitless, I declare that I never will agree to it. And to show, my lords, that I do not oppose the ministry for the sake of obstructing the publick counsels, or of irritating those whom I despair to defeat; and that I am not afraid of trusting my conduct to the impartial examination of posterity, I shall beg leave to enter, with my protest, the reasons which have influenced me in this day's deliberation, that they be considered when this question shall no longer be a point of interest, and our present jealousies and animosities are forgotten. [It was carried in the affirmative, by 78 against 35.] HOUSE OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 21, 1742-3. DEBATE ON SPIRITUOUS LIQUORS. The bill for altering the duties on spirituous liquors, and permitting them again to be sold with less restraint, which was sent up by the commons to the house of lords, produced there very long and serious deliberations, to which the lords had every day each a particular summons, as in cases of the highest concern. The bill was entitled, An act for repealing certain duties on spirituous liquors, and on licenses for retailing the same, and for laying other duties on spirituous liquors, and on licenses for retailing the said liquors. The duties which were proposed to be repealed, were those laid by the act 9 Geo. II. which permitted no person to sell spirituous liquors in less quantity than two gallons without a license, for which fifty pounds were to be paid. Whereas by the new bill a small duty per gallon was laid on at the still-head, and the license was to cost but twenty shillings, which was to be granted only to such as had licenses for selling ale. On the credit of this act, as soon as it was passed by the commons, the ministry borrowed a large sum at three per cent, but it was understood that the sinking fund was pledged as a collateral security to pay any deficiency. In about a fortnight this bill passed all the forms in the house of commons, almost without opposition; and with little or no alteration from the scheme brought into the committee on ways and means for raising the supply for the current year, by Mr. SANDYS, then chancellor of the exchequer. It was immediately carried up to the house of lords, where it was read for the first time on the 17th of February; and ordered a second reading on the twenty-second. On that day the commissioners of excise, according to an order of the house, brought an account of the sums arising by the last act, and a yearly account for several years past; and attending were interrogated concerning the execution of the last act. The bishop of ORFORD particularly inquired, whether it had been effectually put in force, and questions of the same kind were asked by lord LONSDALE and others; to which the commissioners answered, that it had been diligently and vigorously executed, so far as they or their officers had power to enforce it; but that the justices had not always been equally zealous in seconding their endeavours; and that it was impossible to discover all the petty dealers by whom it was infringed, spirituous liquors still continuing to be sold in small obscure shops, and at the corners of the streets. A motion was also made, that three of the physicians of most note for their learning and experience, should be summoned to attend the house, to declare their opinion with regard to the effects of spirituous liquors upon the human body. But this was rejected by 33 against 17. The bill was read the second time on the day appointed, when the question being put, whether it should be committed, lord HERVEY rose, and spoke to the following effect:-- My lords, though I doubt not but the bill now before us will be promoted in this house, by the same influence by which it has been conducted through the other; yet I hope its success will be very different, and that those arts by which its consequences, however formidable, have been hitherto concealed, or by which those whose business it was to have detected and exposed them, have been induced to turn their eyes aside, will not be practised here with the same efficacy, though they should happen to be attempted with the same confidence. I hope that zeal for the promotion of virtue, and that regard to publick happiness, which has on all occasions distinguished this illustrious assembly, will operate now with uncommon energy, and prevent the approbation of a bill, by which vice is to be made legal, by which the fences of subordination are to be thrown down, and all the order of society, and decency of regular establishments be obliterated by universal licentiousness, and lost in the wild confusions of debauchery; of debauchery encouraged by law, and promoted for the support of measures expensive, ridiculous, and unnecessary. A law of so pernicious a tendency shall, at least, not pass through this house without opposition; nor shall drunkenness be established among us without the endeavour of one voice, at least, to withhold its progress; for I now declare that I oppose the commitment of this bill, and that I am determined to continue my opposition to it in all the steps by which the forms of our house make it necessary that it should pass before it can become a law. Nor do I speak, my lords, on this occasion, with that distrust and mental hesitation which are both natural and decent, when questions are dubious, when probability seems to be almost equally divided, when truth appears to hover between two parties, and by turns to favour every speaker; when specious arguments are urged on both sides, and the number of circumstances to be collected, and of relations to be adjusted, is so great, that an exact and indubitable decision is scarcely to be attained by human reason. I do not, my lords, now speak with the diffidence of inquiry, or the uncertainty of conjecture, nor imagine that I am now examining a political expedient, of which the success can only be perfectly known by experience, and of which, therefore, no man can absolutely determine, whether it will be useful or pernicious, or a metaphysical difficulty, which may be discussed for ever without being decided. In considering this bill, my lords, I proceed upon stated and invariable principles. I have no facts to examine but such as, to the last degree, are notorious, such as have been experienced every hour, since the existence of society; and shall appeal, not to transitory opinions, or casual assertions, but to the laws of all civilized nations, and to the determinations of every man whose wisdom or virtue have given him a claim to regard. All the decrees of all the legislators of the earth, or the declarations of wise men, all the observations which nature furnishes, and all the examples which history affords, concur in condemning this bill before us, as a bill injurious to society, destructive of private virtue, and, by consequence, of publick happiness, detrimental to the human species, and, therefore, such as ought to be rejected in that assembly to which the care of the nation is committed; that assembly which ought to meet only for the benefit of mankind, and of which the resolutions ought to have no other end, than the suppression of those vices by which the happiness of life is obstructed or impaired. The bill now before you, my lords, is fundamentally wrong, as it is formed upon a hateful project of increasing the consumption of spirituous liquors, and, consequently, of promoting drunkenness among a people reproached already for it throughout the whole world. It contains such a concatenation of enormities, teems with so vast a number of mischiefs, and therefore produces, in those minds that attend to its nature, and pursue its consequences, such endless variety of arguments against it, that the memory is perplexed, the imagination crowded, and utterance overburdened. Before any one of its pernicious effects is fully dilated a thousand others appear; the hydra still shoots out new heads, and every head vomits out new poison to infect society, and lay the nation desolate. I am, therefore, at a loss, my lords, not how to raise arguments against this bill, which cannot be read or mentioned without, furnishing them by thousands; but how to methodise those that occur to me, and under what heads to range my thoughts, that I may pursue my design without confusion, that I may understand myself, and be understood by your lordships. A multitude of considerations are obvious, all of importance sufficient to claim attention, and to outweigh the advantages proposed by this hateful bill, but which cannot all be mentioned, or at least not with that exactness which they deserve; I shall, therefore, confine myself at present to three considerations, and shall entreat the attention of your lordships, while I examine the bill now before us, with regard to its influence on the health and morals of the people, the arguments by which it has been hitherto supported, and the effects which it will have on the sinking fund. The first head, my lords, is so copious, that I find myself very little relieved by the division which I have made. The moral arguments, though separated from those which are either political or temporary, are sufficient to overpower the strongest reason, and overflow the most extensive comprehension. It is not necessary, I suppose, to show that health of body is a blessing, that the duties of life in which the greatest part of the world is employed, require vigour and activity, and that to want strength of limbs, and to want the necessary supports of nature, are to the lower classes of mankind the same. I need not observe to your lordships, whose legislative character obliges you to consider the general concatenation of society, that all the advantages which high stations or large possessions can confer, are derived from the labours of the poor; that to the plough and the anvil, the loom and the quarry, pride is indebted for its magnificence, luxury for its dainties, and delicacy for its ease. A very little consideration will be sufficient to show, that the lowest orders of mankind supply commerce with manufacturers, navigation with mariners, and war with soldiers; that they constitute the strength and riches of every nation; and that, though they generally move only by superiour direction, they are the immediate support of the community; and that without their concurrence, policy would project in vain, wisdom would end in idle speculation, and the determinations of this assembly would be empty sounds. It is, therefore, my lords, of the utmost importance, that all practices should be suppressed by which the lower orders of the people are enfeebled and enervated; for if they should be no longer able to bear fatigues or hardships, if any epidemical weakness of body should be diffused among them, our power must be at an end, our mines would be an useless treasure, and would no longer afford us either the weapons of war, or the ornaments of domestick elegance; we should no longer give law to mankind by our naval power, nor send out armies to fight for the liberty of distant nations; we should no longer supply the markets of the continent with our commodities, or share in all the advantages which nature has bestowed upon distant countries, for all these, my lords, are the effects of indigent industry, and mechanick labour. All these blessings or conveniencies are procured by that strength of body, which nature has bestowed upon the natives of this country, who have hitherto been remarkably robust and hardy, able to support long fatigues, and to contend with the inclemency of rigorous climates, the violence of storms, and the turbulence of waves, and who have, therefore, extended their conquests with uncommon success, and been equally adapted to the toils of trade and of war, and have excelled those who endeavoured to rival them either in the praise of workmanship or of valour. But, my lords, if the use of spirituous liquors be encouraged, their diligence, which can only be supported by health, will quickly languish; every day will diminish the numbers of the manufacturers, and, by consequence, augment the price of labour; those who continue to follow their employments, will be partly enervated by corruption, and partly made wanton by the plenty which the advancement of their wages will afford them, and partly by the knowledge that no degree of negligence will deprive them of that employment in which there will be none to succeed them. All our commodities, therefore, will be wrought with less care and at a higher price, and therefore, will be rejected at foreign markets in favour of those which other nations will exhibit of more value, and yet at a lower rate. No sooner, my lords, will this bill make drunkenness unexpensive and commodious, no sooner will shops be opened in every corner of the streets, in every petty village, and in every obscure cellar for the retail of these liquors, than the workrooms will be forsaken, when the artificer has, by the labour of a small part of the day, procured what will be sufficient to intoxicate him for the remaining hours; for he will hold it ridiculous to waste any part of his life in superfluous diligence, and will readily assign to merriment and frolicks that time which he now spends in useful occupations. But such is the quality of these liquors, that he will not long be able to divide his life between labour and debauchery, he will soon find himself disabled by his excesses from the prosecution of his work, and those shops which were before abandoned for the sake of pleasure, will soon be made desolate by sickness; those who were before idle, will become diseased, and either perish by untimely deaths, or languish in misery and want, an useless burden to the publick. Nor, my lords, will the nation only suffer by the deduction of such numbers from useful employments, but by the addition of great multitudes to those who must be supported by the charity of the publick. The manufacturer, who by the use of spirituous liquors weakens his limbs or destroys his health, at once, takes from the community to which he belongs, a member by which the common stock was increased, and by leaving a helpless family behind him, increases the burden which the common stock must necessarily support. And the trader or husbandman is obliged to pay more towards the maintenance of the poor, by the same accident which diminishes his trade or his harvest, which takes away part of the assistance which he received, and raises the price of the rest. That these liquors, my lords, liquors of which the strength is heightened by distillation, have a natural tendency to inflame the blood, to consume the vital juices, destroy the force of the vessels, contract the nerves, and weaken the sinews, that they not only disorder the mind for a time, but by a frequent use precipitate old age, exasperate diseases, and multiply and increase all the infirmities to which the body of man is liable, is generally known to all whose regard to their own health, or study to preserve that of others, has at any time engaged them in such inquiries, and would have been more clearly explained to your lordships, had the learned physicians been suffered to have given their opinions on this subject, as was yesterday proposed. Why that proposal was rejected, my lords; for what reason, in the discussion of so important a question, any kind of evidence was refused, posterity will find it difficult to explain, without imputing to your lordships such motives as, I hope, will never operate in this assembly. It will be, perhaps, thought that the danger was generally known, though not acknowledged; and that those who resolved to pass the bill, had no other care than to obstruct such information as might prove to mankind, that they were incited by other designs than that of promoting the publick good. It is not, however, necessary that any very curious inquiries should be made for the discovery of that which, indeed, cannot be concealed, and which every man has an opportunity of remarking that passes through the streets. So publick, so enormous, and so pernicious has been this dreadful method of debauchery, that it has excited and baffled the diligence of the magistrates, who have endeavoured to stop its progress or hinder its effects. They found their efforts ineffectual, and their diligence not only not useful to the publick, but dangerous to themselves. They quickly experienced, my lords, the folly of those laws which punish crimes instead of preventing them; they found that legal authority had little influence, when opposed to the madness of multitudes intoxicated with spirits, and that the voice of justice was but very little heard amidst the clamours of riot and drunkenness. We live, my lords, in a nation where the effects of strong liquors have been for a long time too well known; we know that they produce, in almost every one, a high opinion of his own merit; that they blow the latent sparks of pride into flame, and, therefore, destroy all voluntary submission; they put an end to subordination, and raise every man to an equality with his master, or his governour. They repress all that awe by which men are restrained within the limits of their proper spheres, and incite every man to press upon him that stands before him, that stands in the place of which that sudden elevation of heart, which drunkenness bestows, makes him think himself more worthy. Pride, my lords, is the parent, and intrepidity the fosterer of resentment; for this reason, men are almost always inclined, in their debauches, to quarrels and to bloodshed; they think more highly of their own merit, and, therefore, more readily conclude themselves injured; they are wholly divested of fear, insensible of present danger, superiour to all authority, and, therefore, thoughtless of future punishment; and what then can hinder them from expressing their resentment with the most offensive freedom, or pursuing their revenge with the most daring violence. Thus, my lords, are forgotten disputes often revived, and after having been long reconciled, are at last terminated by blows; thus are lives destroyed upon the most trifling occasions, upon provocations often imaginary, upon chimerical points of honour, where he who gave the offence, perhaps without design, supports it only because he has given it; and he who resents it, pursues his resentment only because he will not acknowledge his mistake. Thus are lives lost, my lords, at a time when those who set them to hazard, are without consciousness of their value, without sense of the laws which they violate, and without regard to any motives but the immediate influence of rage and malice. When we consider, my lords, these effects of drunkenness, it can be no subject of wonder, that the magistrate finds himself overborne by a multitude united against him, and united by general debauchery. Government, my lords, subsists upon reverence, and what reverence can be paid to the laws, by a crowd, of which every man is exalted by the enchantment of those intoxicating spirits, to the independence of a monarch, the wisdom of a legislator, and the intrepidity of a hero? when every man thinks those laws oppressive that oppose the execution of his present intentions, and considers every magistrate as his persecutor and enemy? Laws, my lords, suppose reason; for who ever attempted to restrain beasts but by force; and, therefore, those that propose the promotion of publick happiness, which can be produced only by an exact conformity to good laws, ought to endeavour to preserve what may properly be called the publick reason; they ought to prevent a general depravation of the faculties of those whose benefit is intended, and whose obedience is required; they ought to take care that the laws may be known, for how else can they be observed? and how can they be known, or at least, how can they be remembered in the heats of drunkenness? That the laws are universally neglected and defied among the lower class of mankind, among those whose want of the lights of knowledge and instruction, makes positive and compulsory directions more necessary for the regulation of their conduct, is apparent from the representation of the magistrates, in which the general disorders of this great city, the open wickedness, the daring insolence, and unbounded licentiousness of the common people, is very justly described. Their wickedness and insolence, my lords, is, indeed, such, that order is almost at an end, rank no longer confers respect, nor does dignity afford security. The same confidence produces insults and robberies, and that insensibility with which debauchery arms the mind equally against fear and pity, frequently aggravates the guilt of robbery with greater crimes; those who are so unhappy as to fall into the hands of thieves, heated by spirits into madmen, seldom escape without suffering greater cruelties than the loss of money. That the use of these poisonous draughts quickly debilitates the limbs, and destroys the strength of the body; however this quality may impair our manufactures, weaken our armies, and diminish our commerce; however it may reduce our fleets to an empty show, and enable our enemies to triumph in the field, or our rivals to supplant us in the market, can scarcely, my lords, come under consideration, when we reflect how debauchery operates upon the morals. It is happy, my lords, that those who are inclined to mischief, are disabled in a short time from executing their intentions, by the same causes which excite them; that they are obliged to stop in the career of their crimes, that they are preserved from the hand of the executioner by the liquor which exposes them to it, and that palsies either disable them from pursuing their villanies, or fevers put an end to their lives. It is happy, my lords, that what is thus violent, cannot be lasting; that those lives which are employed in mischief, are generally short; and that since it is the quality of this malignant liquor to corrupt the mind, it likewise destroys the body. But this effect, my lords, is not constant or regular; men sometimes continue for many years, to supply the, expenses of drunkenness by rapine, and to exasperate the fury of rapine by drunkenness. And, therefore, though there could be any one so regardless of the happiness of mankind, as to look without concern upon them who hurry themselves to the grave with poison, he may yet be incited by his own interest to prevent the progress of this practice, a practice which tends to the subversion of all order, and the destruction of all happiness. It is well known, my lords, that publick happiness must be on a stated proportion to publick virtue; that mutual trust is the cement of society, and that no man can be trusted but as he is reputed honest. To promote trust, my lords, is the apparent tendency of all laws. When the ties of morality are enforced by penal sanctions, men are more afraid to violate them, and, therefore, are trusted with less danger; but when they no longer fear the law, they are to be restrained only by their consciences; and if neither law nor conscience has any influence upon their conduct, they are only a herd of wild beasts, let loose to prey upon each other, and every man will inflict or suffer pain, as he meets with one stronger or weaker than himself. Thus, my lords, will all authority cease, property will become dangerous to him that possesses it, and confusion will overspread the whole community; nor can it be easily conceived, by the most extensive comprehension how far the mischiefs may spread, or where the chain of destructive consequences will end. If we consider our fleet or our army, my lords, it is apparent, that neither obedience nor fidelity can be expected from men upon whom all the ties of morality, and all the sanctions of law have lost their influence; they will mutiny without fear, and desert without scruple, and like wild beasts, will, upon the least provocation, turn upon those by whom they ought to be governed. But drunkenness, my lords, not only corrupts men, by taking away the sense of those restraints by which they are generally kept in awe, and withheld from the perpetration of villanies, but by superadding the temptations of poverty, temptations not easily to be resisted, even by those whose eyes are open to the consequences of their actions, and which, therefore, will certainly prevail over those whose apprehensions are laid asleep, and who never extend their views beyond the gratification of the present moment. Drunkenness, my lords, is the parent of idleness; for no man can apply himself to the business of his trade, either while he is drinking, or when he is drunk. Part of his time is spent in jollity, and part in imbecility; when he is amidst his companions he is too gay to think of the consequences of neglecting his employment; and when he has overburdened himself with liquor, he is too feeble and too stupid to follow it. Poverty, my lords, is the offspring of idleness, as idleness of drunkenness; the drunkard's work is little and his expenses are great; and, therefore, he must soon see his family distressed, and his substance reduced to nothing: and surely, my lords, it needs not much sagacity to discover what will be the consequence of poverty produced by vice. It is not to be expected, my lords, that a man thus corrupted will be warned by the approach of misery, that he will recollect his understanding, and awaken his attention; that he will apply himself to his business with new diligence, endeavour to recover, by an increase of application, what he has lost by inattention, and make the remembrance of his former vices, and the difficulties and diseases which they brought upon him, an incitement to his industry, a confirmation of his resolution, and a support to his virtue. That this is, indeed, possible, I do not intend to deny; but the bare possibility of an event so desirable, is the utmost that can be admitted; for it can scarcely be expected, that any man should be able to break through all the obstacles that will obstruct his return to honesty and wisdom; his companions will endeavour to continue the infatuating amusements which have so long deluded him; his appetite will assist their solicitations; the desire of present ease by which all mankind are sometimes led aside from virtue, will operate with unusual strength; since, to retrieve his misconduct, he must not only deny himself the pleasure which he has so long indulged, but must bear the full view of his distress from which he will naturally turn aside his eyes. The general difficulty of reformation will incline him to seek for ease by any other means, and to delay that amendment which he knows to be necessary, from hour to hour, and from day to day, till his resolutions are too much weakened to prove of any effect, and his habits confirmed beyond opposition. At length, necessity, immediate necessity, presses upon him; his family is made clamorous by want, and his calls of nature and of luxury are equally importunate; he has now lost his credit in the world, and none will employ him, because none will trust him, or employment cannot immediately be, perhaps, obtained; because his place has for a long time been supplied by others. And, even if he could obtain a readmission to his former business, his wants are now too great and too pressing to be supplied by the slow methods of regular industry; he must repair his losses by more efficacious expedients, and must find some methods of acquisition, by which the importunity of his creditors may be satisfied. Industry is now, by long habits of idleness, become almost impracticable; his attention having been long amused by pleasing objects, and dissipated by jollity and merriment, is not readily recalled to a task which is unpleasing, because it is enjoined; and his limbs, enervated by hot and strong liquors, liquors of the most pernicious kind, cannot support the fatigues necessary in the practice of his trade; what was once wholesome exercise is now insupportable fatigue; and he has not now time to habituate himself, by degrees, to that application which he has intermitted, that labour which he has disused, or those arts which he has forgotten. In this state, my lords, he easily persuades himself that his condition is desperate, that no legal methods will relieve him; and that, therefore, he has nothing to hope but from the efforts of despair. These thoughts are quickly confirmed by his companions, whom the same misconduct has reduced to the same distress, and who have already tried the pleasures of being supported by the labour of others. They do not fail to explain to him the possibility of sudden affluence, and, at worst, to celebrate the satisfaction of short-lived merriment. He, therefore, engages with them in their nocturnal expeditions, an association of wickedness is formed, and that man, who before he tasted this infatuating liquor, contributed every day, by honest labour, to the happiness or convenience of life, who supported his family in decent plenty, and was himself at ease, becomes at once miserable and wicked; is detested as a nuisance by the community, and hunted by the officers of justice; nor has mankind any thing now to wish or hope with regard to him, but that by his speedy destruction, the security of the roads may be restored, and the tranquillity of the night be set free from the alarms of robbery and murder. These, my lords, are the consequences which necessarily ensue from the use of those pernicious, those infatuating spirits, which have justly alarmed every man whom pleasure or sloth has not wholly engrossed, and who has ever looked upon the various scenes of life with that attention which their importance demands. Among these, my lords, the clergy have distinguished themselves by a zealous opposition to this growing evil, and have warned their hearers with the warmest concern against the misery and wickedness which must always be the attendants or the followers of drunkenness. One among them [Footnote: Bishop of SARUM.], whose merit has raised him to a seat in this august, assembly, and whose instructions are enforced by the sanctity of his life, has, in a very cogent and pathetical manner, displayed the enormity of this detestable sin, the universality of its prevalence, and the malignity of its effects; and in his discourse on the infirmary of this city, has observed with too much justness, that the lowest of the people are infected with this vice, and that _even necessity is become luxurious_. Many other authorities [Footnote: He read the preamble to a former bill, the opinion of the college of physicians.] might be produced, and some others I have now in my hand; but the recital of them would waste the day to no purpose: for surely it is not necessary to show, by a long deduction of authorities, the guilt of drunkenness, or to prove that it weakens the body, or that it depraves the mind, that it makes mankind too feeble for labour, too indolent for application, too stupid for ingenuity, and too daring for the peace of society. This, surely, my lords, is, therefore, a vice which ought, with the utmost care, to be discouraged by those whose birth or station has conferred upon them the province of watching over the publick happiness; and which, surely, no prospect of present advantage, no arguments of political convenience, will prevail upon this house to promote. That the natural and evident tendency of this bill is the propagation of drunkenness, cannot be denied, when it is considered that it will increase the temptations to it by making that liquor, which is the favourite of the common people, more common, by multiplying the places at which it is sold, so that none can want an opportunity of yielding to any sudden impulse of his appetite, which will solicit him more powerfully and more incessantly as they are more frequently and more easily gratified. In defence of a bill like this, my lords, it might be expected, that at least many specious arguments should be offered. It may be justly hoped that no man will rise up in opposition to all laws of heaven and earth, to the wisdom of all legislators, and the experience of every human being, without having formed such a train of arguments as will not easily be disconcerted, or having formed at least such a chain of sophistry as cannot be broken but with difficulty. And yet, my lords, when I consider what has been offered by all who have hitherto appeared either in publick assemblies, or in private conversation, as advocates for this bill, I can scarcely believe, that they perceive themselves any force in their own arguments; and am inclined to conclude, that they speak only to avoid the imputation of being able to say nothing in defence of their own scheme; that their hope is not to convince by their reasons, but to overpower by their numbers; that they are themselves influenced, not by reason, but by necessity; and that they only encourage luxury, because money is to be raised for the execution of their schemes: and they imagine, that the people will pay more cheerfully for liberty to indulge their appetites, than for any other enjoyment. The arguments which have been offered, my lords, in vindication of this bill, or at least which I have hitherto heard, are only two, and those two so unhappily associated, that they destroy each other; whatever shall be urged to enforce the second, must in the same proportion invalidate the first; and whoever shall assert, that the first is true, must admit that the second is false. These positions, my lords, the unlucky positions which are laid down by the defenders of this pernicious bill, are, that it will supply the necessities of the government with a very large standing revenue, on the credit of which, strengthened by the additional security of the sinking fund, a sum will be advanced sufficient to support the expenses of a foreign war; and that at the same time it will lessen the consumption of the liquors from whence this duty is to arise. By what arts of political ratiocination these propositions are to be reconciled, I am not able to discover. It appears evident, my lords, that large revenues can only be raised by the sale of large quantities; and that larger quantities will in reality be sold, as the price is little or nothing raised, and the venders are greatly increased. If this will not be the effect, my lords, and if this effect is not expected, why is this bill proposed as sufficient to raise the immense sums which our present exigencies require? Can duties be paid without consumption of the commodity on which they are laid? and is there any other use of spirituous liquors than that of drinking them? Surely, my lords, it is not expected, that any arguments should be admitted in this house without examination; and yet it might be justly imagined, that this assertion could only be offered in full confidence of an implicit reception, and this tenet be proposed only to those who had resigned their understandings to the dictates of the ministry; for it is implied in this position, that the plenty of a commodity diminishes the demand for it; and that the more freely it is sold, the less it will be bought. It implies, that men will lay voluntary restraints upon themselves, in proportion as they are indulged by their governours; and that all prohibitory laws tend to the promotion of the practices which they condemn; it implies, that a stop can only be put to fornication by increasing the number of prostitutes, and that theft is only to be restrained by leaving your doors open. I am, for my part, convinced, that drunkards, as well as thieves, are made by opportunity; and that no man will deny himself what he desires, merely because it is allowed him by the laws of his country. This, my lords, is so evident, that I shall no longer dwell upon the assertion, that the unbounded liberty of retailing spirits will make spirits less used in the nation; but shall examine the second argument, and consider how far it is possible or proper to raise supplies by a tax upon drunkenness. That large sums will be raised by the bill to which the consent of your lordships is now required, I can readily admit, because the consumption of spirits will certainly be greater, and the licenses taken for retailing them so numerous, that a much lower duty than is proposed will amount yearly to a very large sum; for if the felicity of drunkenness can be more cheaply obtained by buying spirits than ale, when both are to be found at the same place, it is easy to see which will be preferred; this argument, therefore, is irrefragable, and may be urged in favour of the bill without danger of confutation. But, my lords, it is the business of governours not so much to drain the purses, as to regulate the morals of the people; not only to raise taxes, but to levy them in such a manner as may be least burdensome, and to apply them to purposes which may be most useful; not to raise money by corrupting the nation, that it may be spent in enslaving it. It has been mentioned by a very celebrated writer, as a rational practice in the exercise of government, to tax such commodities as were abused to the increase of vice, that vice may be discouraged by being made more expensive; and therefore the community in time be set free from it: but the tax which is now proposed, my lords, is of a different kind; it is a tax laid upon vice, indeed, but it is to arise from the licenses granted to wickedness, and its consequences must be the increase of debauchery, not the restraint. It is a tax which will be readily paid, because it will be little felt; and because it will be little felt, it is hoped that multitudes will subject themselves to it. The act which is now to be repealed, was, indeed, of a very different nature, though perhaps not free from very just objections. It had this advantage at least, that so far as it was put in execution, it obstructed drunkenness; nor has the examination of the officers of excise discovered any imperfection in the law; for it has only failed, because it was timorously or negligently executed. Why it was not vigorously and diligently enforced, I have never yet been able to discover. If the magistrates were threatened by the populace, the necessity of such laws was more plainly proved; for what justifies the severity of coercion but the prevalence of the crime? and what may not be feared from crowds intoxicated with spirits, whose insolence and fury is already such, that they dare to threaten the government by which they are debarred from the use of them? This, my lords, is a reflection that ought not to be passed slightly over. The nature of our constitution, happy as it is, must be acknowledged to produce this inconvenience, that it inclines the common people to turbulence and sedition; the nature of spirituous liquors is such, that they inflame these dispositions, already too much predominant; and yet the turbulence of the people is made a reason for licensing drunkenness, and allowing, without limitation, the sale of those spirits by which that turbulence must be certainly increased. It may be, perhaps, urged, (for indeed I know not what else can be decently alleged,) that there is a necessity of raising money, that no other method can be invented, and that, therefore, this ought not to be opposed. I know, my lords, that ministers generally consider, as the test of each man's loyalty, the readiness with which he concurs with them in their schemes for raising money; and that they think all opposition to these schemes, which are calculated for the support of the government, the effect of a criminal disaffection; that they always think it a sufficient vindication of any law, that it will bring in very large sums; and that they think no measures pernicious, nor laws dangerous, by which the revenue is not impaired. If government was instituted only to raise money, these ministerial schemes of policy would be without exception; nor could it be denied, that the present ministers show themselves, by this expedient, uncommon masters of their profession. But the end of government is only to promote virtue, of which happiness is the consequence; and, therefore, to support government by propagating vice, is to support it by means which destroy the end for which it was originally established, and for which its continuance is to be desired. If money, therefore, cannot be raised but by this bill, if the expenses of the government cannot be defrayed but by corrupting the morals of the people, I shall without scruple declare, that money ought not to be raised, nor the designs of the government supported, because the people can suffer nothing from the failure of publick measures, or even from the dissolution of the government itself, which will be equally to be dreaded or avoided with an universal depravity of morals, and a general decay of corporeal vigour. Even the insolence of a foreign conqueror can inflict nothing more severe than the diseases which debauchery produces; nor can any thing be feared from the disorders of anarchy more dangerous or more calamitous, than the madness of sedition, or the miseries which must ensue to each individual from universal wickedness. Such, my lords, is the expedient by which we are now about to raise the supplies for the present year; and such is the new method of taxation which the sagacity of our ministers has luckily discovered. A foreign war is to be supported by the destruction of our people at home, and the revenue of the government to be improved by the decay of our manufactures. We are to owe henceforward our power to epidemical diseases, our wealth to the declension of our commerce, and our security to riot and to tumult. There is yet another consideration, my lords, which ought well to be regarded, before we suffer this bill to pass. Many laws are merely experimental, and have been made, not because the legislature thought them indisputably proper, but because no better could at that time be struck out, and because the arguments in their favour appeared stronger than those against them, or because the questions to which they related were so dark and intricate that nothing was to be determined with certainty, and no other method could therefore be followed, but that of making the first attempts at hazard, and correcting these errours, or supplying these defects which might hereafter be discovered by those lights which time should afford. Though I am far from thinking, my lords, that the question relating to the effects of this law is either doubtful or obscure; though I am certain that the means of reforming the vice which its advocates pretend it is designed to prevent, are obvious and easy; yet I should have hoped, that the projectors of such a scheme would have allowed at least the uncertainty of the salutary effects expected from it, and would, therefore, have made some provision for the repeal of it when it should be found to fail. But, my lords, our ministers appear to have thought it sufficient to endear them to their country, and immortalize their names, that they have invented a new method of raising money, and seem to have very little regard to any part of the art of government; they will, at least in their own opinion, have deserved applause, if they leave the publick revenue greater, by whatever diminution of the publick virtue. They have, therefore, my lords, wisely contrived a necessity of continuing this law, whatever may be its consequences, and how fatal soever its abuses; for they not only mortgage the duties upon spirits for the present supply, but substitute them in the place of another security given to the bank by the pot act; and, therefore, since it will not be easy to form another tax of equal produce, we can have very little hope that this will be remitted. There will be, indeed, only one method of setting the nation free from the calamities which this law will bring upon it; and as I doubt not but that method will at last be followed, it will certainly deserve the attention of your lordships, as the third consideration to which, in our debates on this bill, particular regard ought to be paid. That the license of drunkenness, and the unlimited consumption of spirituous liquors, will fill the whole kingdom with idleness, diseases, riots, and confusion, cannot be doubted; nor can it be questioned, but that in a very short time the senate will be crowded with petitions from all the trading bodies in the kingdom, for the regulation of the workmen and servants, for the extinction of turbulence and riot, and for the removal of irresistible temptations to idleness and fraud. These representations may be for a time neglected, but must soon or late be heard; the ministers will be obliged to repeal this law, for the same reason that induced them to propose it. Idleness and sickness will impair our manufactures, and the diminution of our trade will lessen the revenue. They will then, my lords, find that their scheme, with whatever prospects of profit it may now flatter them, was formed with no extensive views; and that it was only the expedient of political avarice, which sacrificed a greater distant advantage to the immediate satisfaction of present gain. They will find, that they have corrupted the people without obtaining any advantage by their crime, and that they must have recourse to some new contrivance by which their own errours may be retrieved. In this distress, my lords, they can only do what indeed they now seem to design; they can only repeal this act by charging the debt, which it has enabled them to contract, upon the sinking fund, upon that sacred deposit which was for a time supposed unalienable, and from which arose all the hopes that were sometimes formed by the nation, of being delivered from that load of imposts, which it cannot much longer support. They can only give security for this new debt, by disabling us for ever from paying the former. The bill now before us, my lords, will, therefore, be equally pernicious in its immediate and remoter consequences; it will first corrupt the people, and destroy our trade, and afterwards intercept that fund which is appropriated to the most useful and desirable of all political purposes, the gradual alleviation of the publick debt. I hope, my lords, that a bill of this portentous kind, a bill big with innumerable mischiefs, and without one beneficial tendency, will be rejected by this house, without the form of commitment; that it will not be the subject of a debate amongst us, whether we shall consent to poison the nation; and that instead of inquiring, whether the measures which are now pursued by the ministry ought to be supported at the expense of virtue, tranquillity, and trade, we should examine, whether they are not such as ought to be opposed for their own sake, even without the consideration of the immense sums which they apparently demand. I am, indeed, of opinion, that the success of the present schemes will not be of any benefit to the nation, and believe, likewise, that there is very little prospect of success. I am, at least, convinced, that no advantage can countervail the mischiefs of this detestable bill; which, therefore, I shall steadily oppose, though I have already dwelt upon this subject perhaps too long; yet as I speak only from an unprejudiced regard to the publick, I hope, if any new arguments shall be attempted, that I shall be allowed the liberty of making a reply. Lord BATHURST replied to the following purport:--My lords, I doubt not but the noble lord has delivered, on this occasion, his real sentiments, and that, in his opinion, the happiness of our country, the regard which ought always to be paid to the promotion of virtue, require that this bill should be rejected. I am far from suspecting, that such an appearance of zeal can conceal any private views, or that such pathetick exclamations can proceed but from a mind really affected with honest anxiety. This anxiety, my lords, I shall endeavour to dissipate before it has been communicated to others; for I think it no less the duty of every man who approves the publick measures, to vindicate them from misrepresentation, than of him to whom they appear pernicious or dangerous, to warn his fellow-subjects of that danger. I, my lords, am one of those who are convinced that the bill now before us, which has been censured as fundamentally wrong, is in reality fundamentally right; that the end which is proposed by it is just, and the means which are prescribed in it will accomplish the purpose for which they were contrived. The end of this bill, my lords, is to diminish the consumption of distilled spirits, to restrain the populace of these kingdoms from a liquor which, when used in excess, has a malignity to the last degree dangerous, which at once inebriates and poisons, impairs the force of the understanding, and destroys the vigour of the body; and to attain this, I think it absolutely right to lay a tax upon these liquors. Of the vice of drunkenness, my lords, no man has a stronger abhorrence than myself; of the pernicious consequences of these liquors, which are now chiefly used by the common people, no man is more fully convinced, and therefore, none can more zealously wish that drunkenness may be suppressed, and distilled spirits withheld from the people. The disorders mentioned by the noble lord, are undoubtedly the consequences of the present use of these liquors, but these are not its worst effects. The offenders against the law, may by the law be sometimes reclaimed, and at other times cutoff; nor can these practices, however injurious to particular persons, in any great degree impair the general happiness. The worst effects, therefore, of the use of spirits, are that idleness and extravagance which it has introduced among the common people, by which our commerce must be obstructed, and our present riches and plenty every day diminished. This pernicious practice, my lords, is disseminated farther than could be reasonably believed by those whose interest has not incited, or curiosity induced them to inquire into the practice of the different classes of men. It is well known, that the farmers have been hitherto distinguished by the virtues of frugality, temperance, and industry; that they laboured hard, and spent little; and were, therefore, justly considered as an innocent and useful part of the community, whose employment and parsimony preserved them in a great measure from the general infection of vice which spread its influence among the traders and men of estates. But even this abstemious class of men, my lords, have of late relaxed their frugality, and suffered themselves to be tempted by this infatuating liquor; nor is any thing now more common than to find it in those houses in which ale, a few years ago, was the highest pitch of luxury to which they aspired, and to see those hours wasted in intoxicating entertainments, which were formerly dedicated wholly to the care of their farms, and the improvement of their fortunes. Thus, my lords, it appears, that the corruption is become universal, and, therefore, that some remedy ought to be attempted; nor can I conceive any measures more consistent with justice, or more likely to produce the end intended by them, than those which are now offered to your consideration, by which the liquor will be made dearer, too dear to be lavishly drank by those who are in most danger of using it to excess; and the number of those who retail it will be diminished by the necessity of taking a license, and of renewing them every year at the same expense. The inefficacy, my lords, of violent methods, and the impossibility of a total deprivation of any enjoyment which the people have by custom made familiar and dear to them, sufficiently appears from the event of the law which is now to be repealed. It is well known, that by that law the use of spirituous liquors was prohibited to the common people; that retailers were deterred from vending them by the utmost encouragement that could be given to informers; and that discoveries were incited by every art that could be practised, and offenders punished with the utmost rigour. Yet what was the effect, my lords, of all this diligence and vigour? A general panick suppressed, for a few weeks, the practice of selling the prohibited liquors; but, in a very short time, necessity forced some, who had nothing to lose, to return to their former trade; these were suffered sometimes to escape, because nothing was to be gained by informing against them, and others were encouraged by their example to imitate them, though with more secrecy and caution; of those, indeed, many were punished, but many more escaped, and such as were fined often found the profit greater than the loss. The prospect of raising money by detecting their practices, incited many to turn information into a trade; and the facility with which the crime was to be proved, encouraged some to gratify their malice by perjury, and others their avarice; so that the multitude of informations became a publick grievance, and the magistrates themselves complained that the law was not to be executed. The perjuries of informers were now so flagrant and common, that the people thought all informations malicious; or, at least, thinking themselves oppressed by the law, they looked upon every man that promoted its execution, as their enemy; and, therefore, now began to declare war against informers, many of whom they treated with great cruelty, and some they murdered in the streets. By their obstinacy they at last wearied the magistrates, and by their violence they intimidated those who might be inclined to make discoveries; so that the law, however just might be the intention with which it was enacted, or however seasonable the methods prescribed by it, has been now for some years totally disused; nor has any one been punished for the violation of it, because no man has dared to offer informations. Even the vigilance of the magistrates has been obliged to connive at these offences, nor has any man been found willing to engage in a task, at once odious and endless, or to punish offences which every day multiplied, and of which the whole body of the common people, a body very formidable when united, was universally engaged. The practice, therefore, of vending and of drinking distilled spirits, has prevailed for some time without opposition; nor can any man enter a tavern or an alehouse, in which they will be denied him, or walk along the streets without being incited to drink them at every corner; they have been sold for several years, with no less openness and security than any other commodity; and whoever walks in this great city, will find his way very frequently obstructed by those who are selling these pernicious liquors to the greedy populace, or by those who have drank them till they are unable to move. But the strongest proof of the inefficacy of the late law, and consequently of the necessity of another, which may not be so easily eluded or so violently resisted, is given by the papers which lie upon the table. From these it appears that the quantity of spirits distilled has increased from year to year to the present time; and, therefore, that drunkenness is become more prevalent, and the reasons for repressing it more urgent than ever before. Let us, therefore, calmly consider, my lords, what can in this exigence be done; that the people should be allowed to poison themselves and their posterity without restraint, is certainly not the intent of any good man; and therefore we are now to consider how it may be prevented. That the people are infected with the vice of drunkenness, that they debauch themselves chiefly with spirituous liquors, and that those liquors are in a high degree pernicious, is confessed both by those who oppose the bill, and those who defend it; but with this advantage on the part of those that defend it, that they only propose a probable method of reforming the abuses which they deplore. I know that the warm resentment which some lords have on former occasions expressed against the disorders which distilled liquors are supposed to produce, may naturally incline them to wish that they were totally prohibited, and that this _liquid fire_, as it has been termed, were to be extinguished for ever. Whether such wishes are not more ardent than rational; whether their zeal against the abuse of things, indifferent in themselves, has not, as has often happened in other cases, hurried them into an indiscreet censure of the lawful use, I shall not now inquire; because it is superfluous to dispute about the propriety of measures, of which the possibility may be justly questioned. This last act, my lords, was of this kind; the duties established by it were so high that they wholly debarred the lower classes of the, people from the liquor on which they were laid; and, therefore, it was found by a very short experience, that it was impossible to preserve it from violation; that there would be no end of punishing those who offended against it; and that severity produced rather compassion than terrour. Those who have suffered the penalties were considered as persons under unjust persecution, whom every one was obliged by the ties of humanity to encourage, reward, and protect; and those who informed against them, or encouraged informations, were detested, as the oppressors of the people. The law had, indeed, this effect, that it debarred, at least for a short time, all those from retailing spirits who lived in reputation; and, therefore, encouraged others to vend them in private places, where they were more likely to be drank to excess. Having, therefore, made trial of violent and severe methods, and had an opportunity of obtaining a full conviction of their inefficacy, it is surely proper to profit by our experience, by that experience which shows us that the use of distilled liquors, under its present discouragements, has every year increased; and, therefore, proves at once the unprofitableness of the law now in force, and the necessity of some other by which the same purposes may be more certainly promoted. The reformation of a vice so prevalent must be slow and gradual; for it is not to be hoped, that the whole bulk of the people will at once be divested of their habits; and, therefore, it will be rational to endeavour, not wholly to debar them from any thing in which, however absurdly, they place their happiness, but to make the attainment of it more and more difficult, that they may insensibly remit their ardour, and cease from their pursuit. This, my lords, is proposed in the present bill, which, by the duties which are to be laid upon distilled spirits, will raise the price a third part, and as it is reasonable to expect, hinder a third part of the consumption; for it is observed, that those who drink them set no limits to their excesses, but indulge their appetites to the utmost of their power; if he, therefore, who used to spend threepence a-day in spirits, can now have no more than could formerly be bought for twopence, he must necessarily content himself with only two thirds of the quantity which he has hitherto drank; and, therefore, must by force, though, perhaps, not by inclination, be less intemperate. It is not to be doubted, my lords, but that spirits will, by this additional duty, be made one third part dearer; for it has been hitherto observed, that retailers levy upon the buyer twice the duty that is paid to the government, as is every day apparent in other commodities; so that the yearly quantity of spirits which is usually distilled will cost five hundred thousand pounds more than before, a tax which, I suppose, those who are charged with this kind of debauchery will not be supposed able to pay, and which yet must be paid by them, unless they will be content with a less quantity. That spirits will now be sold in every publick-house, of whatever denomination, has been, I believe, justly asserted; but the assertion has not been properly urged as an argument against the bill. One of the circumstances which has contributed to the enormous abuse of these liquors, has been the practice of retailing them in obscure places, by persons without character and without money; who, therefore, neither feared penalties nor infamy, and offended against law and decency with equal security. But when the cheapness of licenses shall make it convenient for every man that pleases to retail spirits in a publick manner, they will be generally drank in houses visited by publick officers, observed by the neighbouring inhabitants, and frequented by persons of morals and civility, who will always endeavour to restrain all enormous excesses, and oblige the masters of the houses to pay some regard to the laws. Those whose appetites are too importunate to be restrained, may now gratify them without being tempted to enter into houses of infamy, or mingling with beggars, or thieves, or 'profligates; and, therefore, though the use of spirits should continue the same, its consequences will be less fatal, since they may be had without the necessity of associating with wickedness. But, my lords, it is not improbable, that by this bill the number of retailers, at least in this city, where they are most pernicious, may be lessened. It is well known, that the reason for which they are sold in cellars, and in the streets, is the danger of retailing them in other places; and that if they were generally sold by those who could procure the best of each sort, these petty traders would be immediately undone; for it is reasonable to imagine, my lords, that they buy the cheapest liquors, and sell them at the dearest rate. When, therefore, reputable houses shall be opened for the sale of these liquors, decency will restrain some, and prudence will hinder others from endangering their health by purchasing those liquors which are offered in the street, and from hazarding their morals, or perhaps their lives, by drinking to excess in obscure places. It is likewise to be remembered, my lords, that many of those who now poison their countrymen with petty shops of debauchery, are not able to purchase a license, even at the cheap rate at which it is now proposed, and that therefore they will be restrained from their trade by a legal inability; for it is not, my lords, to be imagined, that they will be defended with equal zeal by the populace, when the liquors may be had without their assistance, nor will information be equally infamous, when it is not the act only of profligates, who pursue the practice of it as a trade, but of the proper officers of every place, incited by the lawful venders of the same commodities, or of the venders themselves, who will now be numerous enough to protect each other, and whom their common interest will incite against clandestine dealers. The price of licenses, therefore, appears to me very happily adjusted: had it been greater there would not have been a sufficient number of lawful retailers to put a stop to clandestine sellers; and if it was lower, every petty dealer in this commodity might, by pretending to keep an alehouse, continue the practice of affording an harbour to thieves, and of propagating debauchery. Thus, my lords, it appears to me that the bill will lessen the consumption of these destructive spirits, certainly in a great degree, by raising the price, and probably by transferring the trade of selling them into more reputable hands. What more can be done by human care or industry I do not conceive. To prohibit the use of them is impossible, to raise the price of them to the same height with that of foreign spirits, is, indeed, practicable, but surely at this time no eligible method; for so general is this kind of debauchery, that no degree of expense would entirely suppress it; and as foreign spirits, if they were to be sold at the same price, would always be preferred to our own, we should only send into other nations that money which now circulates among ourselves, and impoverish the people without reforming them. The regulation provided by the bill before us is, therefore, in my opinion, the most likely method for recovering the ancient industry and sobriety of the common people; and, my lords, I shall approve it, till experience has shown it to be defective. I shall approve it, not with a view of obtaining or securing the favour of any of those who may be thought to interest themselves in its success, but because I find some new law for this purpose indispensably necessary, and believe that no better can be contrived. We are now, my lords, to contend with the passions of all the common people. We are endeavouring to reform a vice almost universal; a vice which, however destructive, is now no longer reproachful. We have tried the force of violent methods and found them unsuccessful; we are now, therefore, to treat the vulgar as children, with a kind of artful indulgence, and to take from them secretly, and by degrees, what cannot be wholly denied them, without exasperating them almost to rebellion. This is the first attempt, and by this, if one third of the consumption be diminished, we may next year double the duty, and, by a new augmentation of the price, take away another third, and what will then be drank, will, perhaps, by the strictest moralists, be allowed to be rather beneficial than hurtful. By this gradual procedure, we shall give those, who have accustomed themselves to this liquor, time to reclaim their appetites, and those that live by distilling, opportunities of engaging in some other employment; we shall remove the distemper of the publick, without any painful remedies, and shall reform the people insensibly, without exasperating or persecuting them. The bishop of OXFORD spoke to the following purport:--My lords, as I am not yet convinced of the expedience of the bill now before us, nor can discover any reason for believing that the advantages will countervail the mischiefs which it will produce, I think it my duty to declare, that I shall oppose it, as destructive to virtue, and contrary to the inviolable rules of religion. It appears to me, my lords, that the liberty of selling liquors, which are allowed to be equally injurious to health and virtue, will by this law become general and boundless; and I can discover no reason for doubting that the purchasers will be multiplied by increasing the numbers of the venders, and the increase of the sale of distilled spirits, and the propagation of all kinds of wickedness are the same; I must conclude that bill to be destructive to the publick by which the sale of spirits will be increased. It has been urged that other more vigorous methods have been tried, and that they are now to be laid aside, because experience has shown them to be ineffectual, because the people unanimously asserted the privilege of debauchery, opposed the execution of justice, and pursued those with the utmost malice that offered informations. I should think, my lords, that government approaching to its dissolution, that was reduced to submit its decrees to their judgment who are chiefly accused of the abuse of these liquors; for surely, when the lowest, the most corrupt part of the people, have obtained such a degree of influence as to dictate to the legislature those laws by which they expect to be governed, all subordination is at an end. This, my lords, I hope I shall never see the state of my own country: I hope I shall never see the government without authority to enforce obedience to the laws, nor have I, indeed, seen any such weakness on this occasion: the opposition that was made, and the discontent that was excited, were no greater than might be reasonably expected, when the vice which was to be reformed was so enormously predominant; nor was the effect of the law less than any one who foresaw such opposition might reasonably have conceived. In this city alone there were, before the commencement of that law, fifteen hundred large shops, in which no other trade was carried on than that of retailing these pernicious liquors; in which no temptation to debauchery was forgotten; and, what cannot be mentioned without horrour, back rooms and secret places were contrived for receptacles of those who had drank till they had lost their reason and their limbs; there they were crowded together till they recovered strength sufficient to go away or drink more. These pestilential shops, these storehouses of mischief, will, upon the encouragement which this law will give them, be set open again; new invitations will be hung out to catch the eyes of passengers, who will again be enticed with promises of being made drunk for a penny, and that universal debauchery and astonishing licentiousness which gave occasion to the former act will return upon us. It is to little purpose, my lords, that the licenses for selling distilled spirits are to be granted only to those who profess to keep houses for the sale of other liquors, since nothing will be more easy than to elude this part of the law. Whoever is inclined to open a shop for the retail of spirits, may take a license for selling ale; and the sale of one barrel of more innocent liquors in a year will entitle to dispense poison with impunity, and to contribute without control to the corruption of mankind. It is confessed, that since this law was made, these liquors, have been sold only at corners of the streets in petty shops, and in private cellars; and, therefore, it must be allowed, that if the consumption has increased, it, has, at least, increased less than if the free and open sale had been permitted; for the necessity of secrecy is always a restraint, and every restraint must in some degree obstruct any practice, since those that follow it under restraint would pursue it more vigorously, if that restraint were taken away; and those that are now totally hindered, would, at least, be more strongly tempted by greater liberty; and where the temptation is more powerful, more will probably be overcome by it. But, my lords, however the law may in this crowded city have been eluded and defied, however drunkenness may here have been protected by the insolence which it produces, and crimes have been sheltered by the multitudes of offenders, I am informed, that in parts less populous, the efficacy of the late act never was denied; and that it has in many parts rescued the people from the miseries of debauchery, and only failed in others by the negligence of those to whom the execution of it was committed. Negligently and faintly as it was executed, it did in effect hinder many from pursuing this destructive kind of trade; and even in the metropolis itself, almost a total stop was for a time put to the use of spirits; and had the magistrates performed their duty with steadiness and resolution, it is probable, that no plea would have arisen in favour of this bill from the inefficacy of the last. I cannot, indeed, deny, that the multitude of false informers furnished the magistrates with a very specious pretence for relaxing their vigilance; but it was only, my lords, a specious pretence, not a warrantable reason; for the same diligence should have been used to punish false informers as clandestine retailers; the traders in poison and in perjury should have been both pursued with incessant vigour, the sword of justice should have been drawn against them, nor should it have been laid aside, till either species of wickedness had been exterminated. In the execution of this, as of other penal laws, my lords, it will be always possible for the judge to be misled by false testimonies; and, therefore, the argument which false informations furnish may be used against every other law, where information is encouraged. Yet, my lords, it has been long the practice of this nation to incite criminals to detect each other; and when any enormous crime is committed, to proclaim at once pardon and rewards to him that shall discover his accomplices. This, my lords, is an apparent temptation to perjury; and yet no inconvenieucies have arisen from it, that can reasonably induce us to lay it aside. Perjury may in the execution of this law be detected by the same means as on other occasions; and whenever it is detected, ought to be rigorously punished; and I doubt not but in a short time the _difficulties_ and _inconveniencies_ which are asserted in the preamble of this bill to have _attended the putting the late act in execution_, would speedily have vanished; the number of delinquents would have been every day lessened, and the virtue and industry of the nation would have been restored. It is not, indeed, asserted, that the execution of the late act was impossible, but that it was attended with difficulties; and when, my lords, was any design of great importance effected without difficulties? It is difficult, without doubt, to restrain a nation from vice; and to reform a nation already corrupted, is still more difficult. But as both, however difficult, are necessary, it is the duty of government to endeavour them, till it shall appear that no endeavours can succeed. For my part, my lords, I am not easily persuaded to believe that remissness will succeed, where assiduity has failed; and, therefore, if it be true, as is supposed in the preamble, that the former act was ineffectual by any defects in itself, I cannot conceive that this will operate with greater force. I cannot imagine that appetites will be weakened by lessening the danger of gratifying them, or that men who will break down the fences of the law to possess themselves of what long habits have, in their opinion, made necessary to them, will neglect it, merely because it is laid in their way. With regard to this act, my lords, it is to be inquired, whether it is likely to be executed with more diligence than the former, and whether the same obstacles may not equally obstruct the execution of both. The great difficulty of the former method, a method certainly in itself reasonable and efficacious, arose from the necessity of receiving informations from the meanest and most profligate of the people, who were often tempted to lay hold of the opportunities which that law put into their hands, of relieving their wants, or gratifying their resentment; and very frequently intimidated the innocent by threats of accusations, which were not easily to be confuted. They were, therefore, equally dangerous to those that obeyed the act, and to those that disregarded it; for they sometimes put their threats in execution, and raised prosecutions against those who had committed no other crime than that of refusing to bribe them to silence. An abuse so notorious, my lords, produced a general detestation of all informers, or, at least, concurred with other causes to produce it; and that detestation became so prevalent in the minds of the populace, that at last it became to the highest degree dangerous to attempt the conviction of those, who, in the most open and contemptuous manner, every day violated the laws of their country; and in time the retailers trusting to the protection of the people, laid aside all cautions, at least in this great city, and prosecuted their former practice with the utmost security. This, my lords, was the chief difficulty and inconvenience hitherto discovered in the law which is now to be repealed. Thus was its execution obstructed, and the provisions enacted by it made ineffectual. This defect, therefore, ought to be chiefly regarded in any new regulations. But what securities, my lords, are provided against the same evil in the bill before us? Or why should we imagine that this law will be executed with less opposition than the last? The informers will undoubtedly be of the same class as before; they are still to be incited by a reward; and, therefore, it may be reasonably feared, that they will act upon the same motives, and be persecuted with the same fury. To obviate this inconvenience appears to me very easy, by converting the duty upon licenses to a large duty upon the liquors to be paid by the distiller; the payment of which will be carefully exacted by proper officers, who, though their employment is not very reputable, pursue it at least without any personal danger; and who inform their superiours of any attempts to defraud the revenue, without being censured as officious or revengeful, and, therefore, are without any terrours to hinder them from their duty. It has been asserted, indeed, that the price of a license is now so small, that none who are inclined to deal in spirits will neglect to secure themselves from punishment and vexation by procuring it; and that no man will subject himself to the malice of a profligate, by carrying on an illicit trade, which the annual expense of twenty shillings will make legal. If this argument be just, my lords, and to the greatest part of this assembly I believe it will appear very plausible, how will this law lessen the consumption of distilled liquors? It is confessed that it will hinder nobody from selling them; and it has been found, by experience, that nothing can restrain the people from buying them, but such laws as hinder them from being sold. This plea, therefore, by removing an objection to a particular clause, will strengthen the great argument against the tenour of the bill, that instead of lessening, it will increase the consumption of those liquors which are allowed to be destructive to the people, to enfeeble the body, and to vitiate the mind, and, consequently, to impair the strength and commerce of the nation, and to destroy the happiness and security of life. That the cheapness of licenses will induce multitudes to buy them, may be expected; but it cannot be hoped that every one will cease to sell spirits without a license; for they, are, as I am informed, offered every hour in the streets by those to whom twenty shillings make a very large sum, and who, therefore, will not, or cannot purchase a license. These ought, undoubtedly, to be detected and punished; but there is no provision made for discovering them, but what has been found already to be ineffectual. It appears, therefore, my lords, that this bill will increase the number of lawful retailers, without diminishing that of private dealers; so that the opportunities of debauchery will be multiplied, in proportion to the numbers who shall take licenses. There is another fallacy by which the duties upon distilled liquors have been hitherto avoided, and which will still make this bill equally useless as the former, for the ends which are to be promoted by it. It is expected, my lords, by those who purchase spirits from the distillers, that they should be of a certain degree of strength, which they call proof: if they are of a lower degree, their price is diminished; and if of a higher, it is raised proportionally; because if the spirits exceed the degree of strength required, they may be mixed with other liquors of little value, and still be sold to the drinker at the common price. It is, therefore, the practice of the distillers to give their spirits thrice the degree of strength required, by which contrivance, though they pay only the duty of one pint, they sell their liquors at the price of three; because it may be increased to thrice the quantity distilled, and yet retain sufficient strength to promote the purposes of wickedness. This practice, my lords, should be likewise obviated; for while one gallon, after having paid the present low duty which is laid upon it, may be multiplied to three, the additional price will, in the small quantities which are usually demanded, become imperceptible. But to show yet farther the inefficacy of this bill, let us suppose, what will not be found by experience, that a halfpenny is added to the price of every pint, it will yet be very practicable to revel in drunkenness for a penny, since a very small quantity of these hateful liquors is sufficient to intoxicate those who have not been habituated to the use of them; who though their reformation is, undoubtedly, to be desired, do not so much demand the care of the legislature, as those who are yet untainted with this pernicious practice, and who may, perhaps, by the frequency of temptation, and the prevalence of example, be induced in time to taste these execrable liquors, and perish in their first essays of debauchery. For such is the quality of these spirits, that they are sometimes fatal to those who indiscreetly venture upon them without caution, and whose stomachs have not been prepared for large draughts, by proper gradations of intemperance; a single spoonful has been found sufficient to hurry two children to the grave. It is, therefore, my opinion, that those whose stations and employments make it their duty to superintend the conduct of their fellow-subjects, ought to contrive some other law on this occasion; ought to endeavour to rescue the common people from the infatuation which is become general amongst them, and to withhold from them the means of wickedness. That instead of complying with their prejudices, and flattering their appetites, they should exert that authority with which they are intrusted in a steady and resolute opposition to predominant vices; and without having recourse to gentle arts, and temporizing expedients, snatch out of their hands at once those instruments which are only of use for criminal purposes, and take from their mouths that draught with which, however delicious it may seem, they poison at once themselves and their posterity. The only argument which can be offered in defence of this bill, is the necessity of supporting the expenses of the war, and the difficulty of raising money by any other method. The necessity of the war, my lords, I am not about to call in question, nor is it very consistent with my character to examine the method in which it has been carried on; but this I can boldly assert, that however just, however necessary, however prudently prosecuted, and however successfully concluded, it can produce no advantages equivalent to the national sobriety and industry, and am certain that no publick advantage ought to be purchased at the expense of publick virtue. But, my lords, I hope we are not yet reduced to the unhappy choice either of corrupting our people, or submitting to our enemies; nor do I doubt but that supplies may be obtained by methods less pernicious to the publick, and that funds sufficient for the present occasion may be established without a legal establishment of drunkenness. I hope, my lords, we shall not suffer our endeavours to be baffled by the obstinacy of drunkards; and that we shall not desist from endeavouring the recovery of the nation from this hateful vice, because our first attempt has failed, since it failed only by the negligence or the cowardice of those whose duty required them to promote the execution of a just law. Against the bill now before us I have thought it my duty to declare, as it appears to me opposite to every principle of virtue, and every just purpose of government; and therefore, though I have engrossed so much of your time in speaking on a subject with which it cannot reasonably be expected that I should be well acquainted, I hope I shall easily be pardoned by your lordships, since I have no private views either of interest or resentment to promote, and have spoken only what my conscience dictates, and my duty requires. Lord TALBOT then rose up, and spoke to the following purport:--My lords, I am ashamed that there should be any necessity of opposing in this assembly a bill like that which is now before us; a bill crowded with absurdities, which no strength of eloquence can exaggerate, nor any force of reason make more evident. This bill, my lords, is, however, the first proof that our new ministers have given of their capacity for the task which they have undertaken; this is a specimen of their sagacity, and is designed by them as an instance of the gentle methods by which the expenses of the government are hereafter to be levied upon the people. The nation shall no longer see its manufactures subjected to imposts, nor the fruits of industry taken from the laborious artificer; but drunkenness shall hereafter supply what has hitherto been paid by diligence and traffick; the restraints of vice shall be taken away, the barriers of virtue and religion broken, and an universal licentiousness shall overspread the land, that the schemes of the ministry may be executed. What are the projects, my lords, that are to be pursued by such means, it is not my present purpose to inquire: it is not necessary to add any aggravations to the present charge, or to examine what has been the former conduct, or what will be the future actions of men who lie open by their present proposal to the most atrocious accusations; who are publickly endeavouring the propagation of the most pernicious of all vices, who are laying poison in the way of their countrymen, poison by which not only the body, but the mind is contaminated; who are attempting to establish by a law a practice productive of all the miseries to which human nature is incident; a practice which will at once disperse diseases and sedition, and promote beggary and rebellion. This, my lords, is the expedient by which the acuteness of our ministry proposes to raise the supplies of the present year, and by this they hope to convince the nation that they are qualified for the high trusts to which they are advanced; and that they owe their exaltation only to the superiority of their abilities, the extent of their knowledge, and the maturity of their experience: by this masterstroke of policy they hope to lay for their authority a firm and durable foundation, and to possess themselves, by this happy contrivance, at once of the confidence of the crown, and the affections of the people. But, my lords, I am so little convinced of their abilities, that amidst all the exultation which this new scheme produces, I will venture to predict the decline of their influence, and to fix the period of their greatness; for I am persuaded, that notwithstanding the readiness with which they have hitherto sacrificed the interest of their country, notwithstanding the desperate precipitation with which they have blindly engaged in the most dangerous measures, they will not be able to continue a year in their present stations. The bill now under our consideration, my lords, will undoubtedly make all those their enemies whom it does not corrupt; for what can be expected from it, but universal disorder and boundless wickedness? wickedness made insolent by the protection of the law, and disorder promoted by all those whose wealth is increased by the increase of the revenues of the government. Had it been urged, my lords, in defence of this bill, that it was necessary to raise money, and that money could only be raised by increasing the consumption of distilled spirits, it would have been apparent that it was well calculated to promote the purposes intended; but, surely, to assert that it will obstruct the use of these liquors, is to discover a degree either of ignorance, of effrontery, or of folly, by which few statesmen have been, hitherto, distinguished. If we receive, without examination, the estimates which have been laid down, and allow the duty to rise as high as those by whom it is projected have ventured to assert, the price of these liquors can be raised but a halfpenny a pint; and there are few, even among the lowest of those who indulge themselves in this fatal luxury, whom the want of a single halfpenny can often debar from it. And though these accurate calculators should insist that men may sometimes be compelled to sobriety by this addition to the expense of being drunk, yet how far will this restraint be found from being equivalent to the new temptation, which will be thrown into the way of thousands, yet uncorrupted by the multitude of new shops that will be opened for the distribution of poison, 'and the security which debauchery will obtain from the countenance of the legislature. What will be the consequences of any encouragement given to a vice already almost irresistibly prevalent, I cannot determine; but surely nothing is too dismal to be expected from universal drunkenness, from a general depravity of all the most useful part of mankind, from an epidemical fury of debauchery, and an unbounded exemption from restraint. How little any encouragement is wanting to promote the consumption of those execrable liquors, how much it concerns every man who has been informed of their quality, and who has seen their consequences, to oppose the use of them with his utmost influence, appears from the enormous quantity which the stills of this nation annually produce. The number of gallons which appears from the accounts on the table to have been consumed last year, is seven millions; 'a quantity sufficient to-destroy the health, interrupt the labour, and deprave the morals of a very great part of the nation; a quantity which, if it be suffered to continue undiminished, will, even without any legal encouragement of its use, in a short time destroy the happiness of the publick; and by impairing the strength, and lessening the number of manufacturers and labourers, introduce poverty and famine. Instead, therefore, of promoting a practice so evidently detrimental to society, let us oppose it with the most vigorous efforts; let us begin our opposition by rejecting this bill, and then consider whether the execution of the former law shall be--enforced, or whether another more efficacious can be formed. Lord CHOLMONDELEY then spoke to the following effect:--My lords, though it is undoubtedly the right of every person in this assembly to utter his sentiments with freedom, yet surely decency ought to restrain us from virulent, and justice from undeserved reproaches; we ought not to censure any conduct with more severity than it deserves, nor condemn any man for practices of which he is innocent. This rule, which will not, I suppose, be controverted, has not, in my opinion, been very carefully observed in this debate; for surely nothing is more unjust than to assert or insinuate that the government has looked idly upon the advances of debauchery, or has suffered drunkenness to prevail without opposition. Of the care with which this licentiousness has been opposed, no other proof can be required, than the laws which have, in the present reign, been made against it. Soon after the succession of his majesty, the use of compound spirits was prohibited; but this law being eluded by substituting liquors, so drawn as not to be included in the statutes, it was soon after repealed; and the people were, for a time, indeed, suffered to drink distilled liquors without restraint, because a proper method of restraining them was not easily to be found. How-difficult it was to contrive means by which this vice might safely be prevented, appeared more plainly soon afterwards, when the outrageous licentiousness of the populace made it necessary to contrive some new law by which the use of that liquor might be prohibited, to which so much insolence, idleness, and dissoluteness were imputed. The law which it is now proposed to repeal, was then zealously promoted by those who were then most distinguished for their virtue and their prudence. Every man who had any regard for the happiness of the publick, was alarmed at the inundation of licentiousness that overflowed this city, and began to spread itself to the remoter parts of the kingdom; and it was determined that nothing but a total. prohibition of distilled liquors could preserve the peace, and restore the virtue of the nation. A law was therefore made, which prohibited the retail of distilled spirits; and it was expected that the people would immediately return to the use of more innocent and healthful liquors, and that the new art of sudden intoxication would be wholly suppressed; but with how little knowledge of the dispositions of the nation this hope was formed, the event quickly discovered; for no sooner was the darling liquor withheld, than a general murmur was raised over all parts of this great city; and all the lower orders of the people testified their discontent in the most open manner. Multitudes were immediately tempted by the prospect of uncommon gain, to retail the prohibited liquors; of these many were detected, and many punished; and the trade of information was so lucrative, and so closely followed, that there was no doubt but the law would produce the effect expected from it, and that the most obstinate retailers would, by repeated prosecutions, be discouraged from the practice. But no sooner did the people find their favourite gratification in real danger, than they unanimously engaged in its defence; they discovered that without informers, the new law was without operation; and the informers were, therefore, persecuted by them without mercy, and without remission, till at last no man would venture to provoke the resentment of the populace for the reward to which information entitled him. Thus, my lords, one law has been eluded by artifice, and another defeated by violence; the practice of drinking spirits, however pernicious, still continued to prevail; the magistrates could not punish a crime of which they were not informed, and they could obtain no information of a practice vindicated by the populace. It is not, indeed, to be allowed that the custom of drinking distilled liquors, however prevalent, has yet arisen to the height at which the noble lord, who spoke last, seems to imagine it arrived; for though it is undoubtedly true that seven millions of gallons are annually distilled, it is not to be imagined that the whole quantity is wasted in debauchery! some is, exhausted by the necessities, and some by the conveniencies of life; a great part is exported to other countries, and the distillery promotes many other purposes than those of riot and licentiousness. That too much, however, is used by the common people, and that intemperance has for some time prevailed in a degree unknown to any former age, cannot be denied; and, therefore, some means of reclaiming them ought to be tried. What then, my lords, is to be done? The first law was eluded, the second is defied: the first was executed, but produced no restraint; the second produces a restraint so violent, that it cannot be executed. That the present law is ineffectual, cannot be doubted by those who assert, that the quantity of spirits distilled has every year increased; and there seems to remain, therefore, no other choice than that of suffering this increase to proceed, or to endeavour to prevent it by new regulations. The present law ought to be repealed, because it is useless; but surely some other ought to supply its place, which may be more easily enforced, and less violently opposed. The bill now before us, my lords, will, in my opinion, answer all the purposes of the last, without noise, and without disturbance. By lessening the price of licenses, it will put a stop to clandestine retail; and by raising that of the liquors, it will hinder the common people from drinking them in their usual excess. Those who have hitherto lost their reason and limbs twice a-day by their drunkenness, will not be able, under the intended regulations, to commit the same crime twice in a week; and as the temptation of cheapness will be taken away, it may be hoped that the next generation will not fall into the same vice. Since, therefore, my lords, the arguments in favour of this bill are at least plausible and specious; since the design appears to be worthy of this assembly, and the method proposed such as may be hoped to produce the effects which the projectors of the bill desire; and since the opinions of this house are at least divided, and the other has passed it almost without opposition, we ought at least, in my opinion, not to reject it with precipitation, but to refer it to a committee, that it may be fully considered; and those objections which cannot be answered, removed by proper alterations. Lord CARTERET spoke to the following purport:--My lords, the bill now under our consideration appears to me to deserve a much more close regard than seems to have been paid to it in the other house, through which it was hurried with the utmost precipitation, and where it was passed, almost without the formality of a debate; nor can I think that earnestness with which some lords seem inclined to press it forward here, consistent with the importance of the consequences which may be with great reason expected from it, It has been urged, that where so great a number have formed expectations of a national benefit from any bill, so much deference, at least, is due to their judgment, as that the bill should be considered in a committee. This, my lords, I admit to be in other cases a just and reasonable demand, and will readily allow that the proposal not only of a considerable number, but even of any single lord, ought to be fully examined, and regularly debated, according to the usual forms of this assembly. But in the present case, my lords, and in all cases like the present, this demand is improper, because it is useless; and it is useless, because we can do now all that we can do hereafter in a committee. For the bill before us is a money bill, which, according to the present opinion of the commons, we have no right to amend; and which, therefore, we have no need of considering in a committee, since the event of all our deliberations must be, that we are either to reject or pass it in its present state. For I suppose no lord will think this a proper time to enter into a controversy with the commons for the revival of those privileges to which I believe we have a right, and such a controversy the least attempt to amend a money bill will certainly produce. To desire, therefore, my lords, that this bill may be considered in a committee, is only to desire that it may gain one step without opposition; that it may proceed through the forms of the house by stealth, and that the consideration of it maybe delayed till the exigencies of the government shall be so great as not to allow time for raising the supplies by any other method. By this artifice, gross as it is, the patrons of this wonderful bill hope to obstruct a plain and open detection of its tendency. They hope, my lords, that the bill shall operate in the same manner with the liquor which it is intended to bring into more general use; and that as those that drink spirits are drunk before they are well aware that they are drinking, the effects of this law shall be perceived before we know that we have made it. Their intent is to give us a dram of policy, which is to be swallowed before it is tasted, and which, when once it is swallowed, will turn our heads. But, my lords, I hope we shall be so cautious as to examine the draught which these state empirics have thought proper to offer us; and I am confident that a very little examination will convince us of the pernicious qualities of their new preparation, and show that it can have no other effect than that of poisoning the publick. The law before us, my lords, seems to be the effect of that practice, of which it is intended likewise to be the cause, and to be dictated by the liquor of which it so effectually promotes the use; for surely it never before was conceived, by any man intrusted with the administration of publick affairs, to raise taxes by the destruction of the people. Nothing, my lords, but the destruction of all the most laborious and useful part of the nation can be expected, from the license which is now proposed to be given not only to drunkenness, but to drunkenness of the most detestable and dangerous kind, to the abuse not only of intoxicating, but of poisonous liquors. Nothing, my lords, is more absurd than to assert, that the use of spirits will be hindered by the bill now before us, or indeed that it will not be in a very great degree promoted by it. For what produces all kind of wickedness, but the prospect of impunity on one part, or the solicitation of opportunity on the other; either of these has too frequently been sufficient to overpower the sense of morality, and even of religion; and what is not to be feared from them, when they shall unite their force, and operate together; when temptations shall be increased, and terrour taken away? It is allowed by those who have hitherto disputed on either side of this question, that the people appear obstinately enamoured of this new liquor; it is allowed on both parts, that this liquor corrupts the mind, enervates the body, and destroys vigour and virtue at the same time; that it makes those who drink it too idle and too feeble for work; and, while it impoverishes them by the present expense, disables them from retrieving its ill consequences by subsequent industry. It might be imagined, my lords, that those who had thus far agreed would not easily find any occasion of dispute; nor would any man, unacquainted with the motives by which senatorial debates are too often influenced, suspect, that after the pernicious qualities of this liquor, and the general inclination among the people to the immoderate use of it, had been generally admitted, it could be afterwards inquired, whether it ought to be made more common, whether this universal thirst for poison ought to be encouraged by the legislature, and whether a new statute ought to be made to secure drunkards in the gratification, of their appetites. To pretend, my lords, that the design of this bill is to prevent or diminish the use of spirits, is to trample upon common sense, and to violate the rules of decency as well as of reason. For when did any man hear, that a commodity was prohibited by licensing its sale? or that to offer and refuse is the same action? It is, indeed, pleaded, that it will be made dearer by the tax which is proposed, and that the increase of the price will diminish the numbers of the purchasers; but it is at the same time expected, that this tax shall supply the expense of a war on the continent: it is asserted, therefore, that the consumption of spirits will be hindered, and yet that it will be such as may be expected to furnish, from a very small tax, a revenue sufficient for the support of armies, for the reestablishment of the Austrian family, and the repression of the attempts of France. Surely, my lords, these expectations are not very consistent, nor can it be imagined that they are both formed in the same head, though they may be expressed by the same mouth. It is, however, some recommendation of a statesman, when of his assertions one can be found reasonable or true; and this praise cannot be denied to our present ministers; for though it is undoubtedly false, that this tax will lessen the consumption of spirits, it is certainly true, that it will produce a very large revenue, a revenue that will not fail but with the people from whose debaucheries it arises. Our ministers will, therefore, have the same honour with their predecessors, of having given rise to a new fund, not indeed for the payment of our debts, but for much more valuable purposes, for the exaltation of our hearts under oppression, for the elevation of our spirits amidst miscarriages and disappointments, and for the cheerful support of those debts which we have lost hopes of paying. They are resolved, my lords, that the nation, which nothing can make wise, shall, while they are at its head, at least be merry; and since publick happiness is the end of government, they seem to imagine that they shall deserve applause by an expedient, which will enable every man to lay his cares asleep, to drown sorrow, and lose in the delights of drunkenness both the publick miseries and his own. Surely, my lords, men of this unbounded benevolence, and this exalted genius, deserve such honours as were never paid before; they deserve to bestride a butt upon every signpost in the metropolis, or to have their countenances exhibited as tokens where this liquor is to be sold by the license which they have procured. They must be at least remembered to future ages, as the happy politicians who, after all expedients for raising taxes had been employed, discovered a new method of draining the last relicks of the publick wealth, and added a new revenue to the government; nor will those, who shall hereafter enumerate the several funds now established among us, forget, among the benefactors to their country, the illustrious authors of the _drinking fund_. May I be allowed, my lords, to congratulate my countrymen and fellow-subjects upon the happy times which are now approaching, in which no man will be disqualified for the privilege of being drunk, when all discontent and disloyalty shall be forgotten, and the people, though now considered by the ministry as their enemies, shall acknowledge the lenity of that government, under which all restraints are taken away. But to a bill for such desirable purposes, it would be proper, my lords, to prefix a preamble, in which the kindness of our intentions should be more fully explained, that the nation may not mistake our indulgence for cruelty, nor consider their benefactors as their persecutors. If, therefore, this bill be considered and amended, (for why else should it be considered?) in a committee, I shall humbly propose, that it shall be introduced in this manner: "Whereas the designs of the present ministry, whatever they are, cannot be executed without a great number of mercenaries, which mercenaries cannot be hired without money; and whereas the present disposition of this nation to drunkenness inclines us to believe, that they will pay more cheerfully for the undisturbed enjoyment of distilled liquors, than for any other concession that can be made by the government, be it enacted, by the king's most excellent majesty, that no man shall hereafter be denied the right of being drunk, on the following conditions." This, my lords, to trifle no longer, is the proper preamble to this bill, which contains only the conditions on which the people of this kingdom are to be allowed henceforward to riot in debauchery, in debauchery licensed by law, and countenanced by the magistrates; for there is no doubt but those on whom the inventors of this tax shall confer authority, will be directed to assist their masters in their design to encourage the consumption of that liquor from which such large revenues are expected, and to multiply, without end, those licenses which are to pay a yearly tribute to the crown. By this unbounded license, my lords, that price will be lessened, from the increase of which the expectations of the efficacy of this law are pretended; for the number of retailers will lessen the value as in all other cases, and lessen it more than this tax will increase it. Besides, it is to be considered, that at present the retailer expects to be paid for the danger which he incurs by an unlawful trade, and will not trust his reputation or his purse to the mercy of his customer, without a profit proportioned to the hazard; but when once the restraint shall be taken away, he will sell for common gain; and it can hardly be imagined, that at present he subjects himself to informations and penalties for less than sixpence a gallon. The specious pretence on which this bill is founded, and, indeed, the only pretence that deserves to be termed specious, is the propriety of taxing vice; but this maxim of government has, on this occasion, been either mistaken or perverted. Vice, my lords, is not properly to be taxed, but suppressed; and heavy taxes are sometimes the only means by which that suppression can be attained. Luxury, my lords, or the excess of that which is pernicious only by its excess, may very properly be taxed, that such excess, though not strictly unlawful, may be made more difficult. But the use of those things which are simply hurtful, hurtful in their own nature, and in every degree, is to be prohibited. None, my lords, ever heard in any nation of a tax upon theft or adultery, because a tax implies a license granted for the use of that which is taxed, to all who shall be willing to pay it. Drunkenness, my lords, is universally and in all circumstances an evil, and, therefore, ought not to be taxed, but punished; and the means of it not to be made easy by a slight impost, which none can feel, but to be removed out of the reach of the people, and secured by the heaviest taxes, levied with the utmost rigour. I hope those to whose care the religion of the nation is particularly consigned, will unanimously join with me in maintaining the necessity, not of taxing vice, but suppressing it; and unite for the rejection of a bill, by which the future as well as present happiness of thousands must be destroyed. Lord LONSDALE spoke as follows:--My lords, the bill now before us, has, from its first appearance in the other house, seemed to me of such importance as to deserve the greatest attention, and to demand the most diligent inquiry; and I have, therefore, considered it with uncommon care, and pursued all those inquiries from which I could expect any assistance for discovering its tendency and its consequences, with the nicest and most anxious vigilance. That my attention and diligence may not wholly terminate in the gratification of idle and useless curiosity, it is proper to inform your lordships of their result; by which I hope to convince you, as I am myself convinced, that this bill cannot become a law, without endangering the lives of thousands, without dispersing diseases over the nation, or without multiplying crimes beyond the possibility of restraint or punishment; that it will fill the land with confusion for a time, by infatuating the people, and afterwards lay it desolate by destroying them. All my inquiries, my lords, have had one constant and uniform Effect. On what side soever I have turned my speculations, I have found new arguments against this bill, and have discovered new mischiefs comprised in it; mischiefs which, however some may endeavour to overlook them, and others to despise them, will be found in a short time too general to be concealed, and too formidable to be neglected. The first consideration, in which the necessity of deliberating on this bill engaged me, related to the quality of the liquors which are mentioned in it. With regard to this question, my lords, there was no possibility of long suspense; for the pernicious effects of spirits were confessed equally by all those who countenanced and opposed this new project; nor could any man take a survey of this city without meeting in his way such objects as might make all farther inquiry superfluous. The idleness, the insolence, the debauchery of the common people, and their natural and certain consequences, poverty, diseases, misery, and wickedness, are to be observed without any intention of indulging such disagreeable speculations; in every part of this great metropolis, whoever shall pass along the streets, will find wretches stretched upon the pavement, insensible and motionless, and only removed by the charity of passengers from the danger of being crushed by carriages, or trampled by horses, or strangled with filth in the common sewers; and others, less helpless perhaps, but more dangerous, who have drank too much to fear punishment, but not enough to hinder them from provoking it; who think themselves, in the elevation of drunkenness, entitled to treat all those with contempt whom their dress distinguishes from them, and to resent every injury which, in the heat of their imagination, they suppose themselves to suffer, with the utmost rage of resentment, violence of rudeness, and scurrility of tongue. No man can pass a single hour in publick places without meeting such objects, or hearing such expressions as disgrace human nature; such as cannot be looked upon without horrour, or heard without indignation, and which there is, however, no possibility of removing or preventing, whilst this hateful liquor is publickly sold. But the visible and obvious effects of these pernicious draughts, however offensive or inconvenient, are yet much less to be dreaded than their more slow and secret operations. That excess of distilled spirits inflames the poor to insolence and fury; that it exposes them either to hurt, by making them insensible of danger, or to punishment, by making them fearless of authority, is not to be reckoned the most fatal consequence of their use; for these effects, though their frequency makes it necessary to suppress them, with regard to each individual are of no long duration; the understanding is in a short time recovered after a single debauch, and the drunkard may return to his employment. But though the pleasures of drunkenness are quickly at an end, its pains are of longer continuance. These liquors not only infatuate the mind, but poison the body; nor do they produce only momentary fury, but incurable debility and lingering diseases; they not only fill our streets with madmen, and our prisons with criminals, but our hospitals with cripples. Those who have for a time infested the publick walks with their insults, quickly disturb them with their lamentations, and are soon reduced from bullies to beggars, and obliged to solicit alms from those they used to threaten and insult. Nor does the use of spirits, my lords, only impoverish the publick, by lessening the number of useful and laborious hands, but by cutting off those recruits by which its natural and inevitable losses are to be supplied. The use of distilled liquors impairs the fecundity of the human race, and hinders that increase which providence has ordained for the support of the world. Those women who riot in this poisonous debauchery are quickly disabled from bearing children, by bringing on themselves, in a short time, all the infirmities and weaknesses of age; or, what is yet more destructive to general happiness, produce children diseased from their birth by the vices of their parents, children whose blood is tainted with inveterate and accumulated maladies, for which no cure can be expected;'and who, therefore, are an additional burden to the community, and must be supported through a miserable life by that labour which they cannot share, and must be protected by that community of which they cannot contribute to the defence. Thus, my lords, is the great source of power and wealth dried up, the numbers of the people are every day diminished, and, by consequence, our armies must be weakened, our trade abandoned, and our lands uncultivated. To diminish the people of any nation is the most atrocious political crime that it is possible to commit; for it tends not to enslave or impoverish, but to annihilate; not to make a nation miserable, but to make it no longer a nation. Such, my lords, are the effects of distilled liquors; effects of which I would not have shocked you with the enumeration, had it not been with a design of preventing them; and surely no man will be charged with so trivial an offence as negligence of delicacy, when he is pleading, not for the honour or the life of a single man, but for the peace of the present age, the health of posterity, and the existence of the British people. After having examined the nature of these liquors, it is natural to inquire, how much they are in use; whether mankind appear to know their quality, and avoid and detest them like other poisons; or whether they are considered as inoffensive, and drank, like other liquors, to raise the spirits, or to gladden the heart; whether they make part of social entertainments, and whether they are handed round at publick tables, without any suspicion of their fatal consequences. It is well known, my lords, that these liquors have not been long in use among the common people. Spirits were at first only imported from foreign countries, and were, by consequence, too dear for the luxuries of the vulgar. In time it was discovered, that it was practicable to draw from grain, and other products of our own soil, such liquors as, though not equally pleasing to elegant palates with those of other nations, resembled them, at least in their inebriating quality, and might be afforded at an easy rate, and consequently generally purchased. This discovery, my lords, gave rise to the new trade of distilling, which has been now for many years carried on in this nation, and of the progress of which, since the duties were laid upon its produce, an exact account may be easily obtained, which I thought so necessary in our deliberations on this bill, that I have procured it to be drawn out. From this account, my lords, it will be discovered, what cannot be related without the utmost grief, that there has prevailed, for many years, a kind of contagious infatuation among the common people, by which they have been incited to poison themselves and their children with distilled spirits; they have forsaken those liquors which in former times enlivened their conversation and exalted their merriment, and, instead of ale and beer, rioted of late in distilled spirits. The amazing increase of the consumption of spirits for the last ten years, is a proof too evident of the prevalence of this destructive species of drunkenness; and I shall, therefore, without troubling your lordships with earlier accounts, only mention in round numbers, the vast quantities for which the duty has been paid for a few years in that period. In the year 1733, the number of gallons distilled was three millions and nine hundred thousand, which in 1735 was increased to five millions and three hundred thousand; soon afterwards the law was made which we are now persuaded to repeal, by the execution of which, however feeble and irresolute, the number was reduced in the first year afterwards to three millions, and might, perhaps, by steady perseverance have been every year lessened; but in a short time the people prevailed in the contest with the legislators, they intimidated information, and wearied prosecution; and were at length allowed to indulge themselves in the enjoyment of their favourite vice without any farther molestation. The effects of this indulgence, my lords, have been very remarkable; nor can it be denied, that the government betrayed great weakness in suffering the laws to be overruled by drunkenness, and the meanest and most profligate of the people to set the statutes at defiance; for the vice which had been so feebly opposed spread wider and wider, and every year added regularly another million of gallons to the quantity of spirits distilled, till in the last year they rose to seven millions and one hundred thousand gallons. Such, my lords, is at present the state of the nation; twelve millions of gallons of these poisonous liquors are every year swallowed by the inhabitants of this kingdom; and this quantity, enormous as it is, will probably every year increase, till the number of the people shall be sensibly diminished by the diseases which it must produce; nor shall we find any decay of this pernicious trade, but by the general mortality that will overspread the kingdom. At least, if this vice should be suppressed, it must be suppressed by some supernatural interposition of providence; for nothing is more absurd, than to imagine, that the bill now before us can produce any such effect. For what, my lords, encourages any man to a crime but security from punishment, or what tempts him to the commission of it but frequent opportunity? We are, however, about to reform the practice of drinking spirits, by making spirits more easy to be procured; we are about to hinder them from being bought, by exempting the vender from all fear of punishment. It has, indeed, been asserted, that the tax now to be laid upon these liquors will have such wonderful effects, that those who are at present drunk twice a-day, will not be henceforward able to commit the same crime twice a-week; an assertion which I could not hear without wondering at the new discoveries which ministerial sagacity can sometimes make. In deliberations on a subject of such importance, my lords, no man ought to content himself with conjecture, where certainty may, at whatsoever expense of labour, be attained; nor ought any man to neglect a careful and attentive examination of his notions, before he offers them in publick consultations; for if they were erroneous, and no man can he certain that he is in the right, who has never brought his own opinions to the test of inquiry, he exposes himself to be detected in ignorance or temerity, and to that contempt which such detection naturally and justly produces; or if his audience submit their reason to his authority, and neglect to examine his assertions, in confidence that he has sufficiently examined them himself, he may suffer what to an honest mind must be far more painful than any personal ignominy, he may languish under the consciousness of having influenced the publick counsels by false declarations, and having by his negligence betrayed his country to calamities which a closer attention might have enabled him to have foreseen. Whether the noble lord, who alleged the certainty of reformation which this bill will produce, ever examined his own opinion, I know not; but think it necessary at least to consider it more particularly, to supply that proof of it which, if it be true, he neglected to produce, or to show, if it be found false, how little confident assertions are to be regarded. Between twice a-day and twice a-week, the noble lord will not deny the proportion to be as seven to one; and, therefore, to prevent drunkenness in the degree which he persuades us to expect, the price of the liquor must be raised in the same proportion; but the duty laid upon the gallon will not increase the price a fifth part, even though it should not be eluded by distilling liquors of an extraordinary strength; one fifth part of the price is, therefore, in his lordship's estimate, equal to the whole price seven times multiplied. Such are the arguments which have been produced in favour of this bill; and such is the diligence with which the publick happiness is promoted by those who have hopes of being enriched by publick calamities. As the tax will not make a fifth part of the price, and even that may be in some measure evaded, the duty paid for licenses scarcely deserves consideration; for it is not intended to hinder retailers, but to make them useful in some degree to the ministry, by paying a yearly tax for the license of poisoning. It is, therefore, apparent, upon the noble lord's supposition, that the price of the liquor will be raised in consequence of this tax, that no man can be hindered from more than a fifth part of his usual debauchery, which, however, would be some advantage to the publick; but even this small advantage cannot be expected from the bill, because one part will obstruct the benefits that might be hoped from another. The duty upon liquors, however inconsiderable, will be necessarily an augmentation of the price to the first buyer, but probably that augmentation will be very little felt by the consumer. For, my lords, it must be considered, that many circumstances concur to constitute the price of any commodity; the price of what is in itself cheap, may be raised by the art or the condition of those that sell it; what is engrossed by a few hands, is sold dearer than when the same quantity is dispersed in many; and what is sold in security, and under the protection of the law, is cheaper than that which exposes the vender to prosecutions and penalties. At present, my lords, distilled spirits are sold in opposition to the laws of the kingdom; and, therefore, it is reasonable, as has been before observed, to believe that an extraordinary profit is expected, because no man will incur danger without advantage. It is at present retailed, for the greatest part, by indigent persons, who cannot be supposed to buy it in large quantities, and, consequently, not at the cheapest rate; and who must, of necessity, gain a large profit, because they are to subsist upon a very small stock. These causes concurring, may be easily imagined to raise the price more than a fifth part above the profit which is expected in other traffick; but when this bill shall become a law, the necessity of large profit will no longer subsist; for there will then be no danger in retailing spirits, and they will be chiefly sold in houses by persons who can afford to purchase them in great quantities, who can be trusted by the distiller, for the usual time allowed in other trades; and who, therefore, may sell them without any exorbitant advantage. Besides, my lords, it is reasonable to imagine, that the present profit to the retailer is very great, since, like that which arises from the clandestine exportation of wool, it is sufficient to tempt multitudes to a breach of the law, a contempt of penalties, and a defiance of the magistrates; and it may be therefore imagined, that there is room for a considerable abatement of the price, which may subtract much more than is added by this new duty. This deduction from the price, my lords, will probably be soon produced by the emulation of retailers, who, when the trade becomes safe and publick, will endeavour to attract buyers by low rates; for what the noble lord, whose ingenious assertion I am now opposing, has declared with respect to traders, that for a tax of a penny upon any commodity, they oblige the consumers to advance twopence, is not universally true; and I believe it is as likely, that the people will insist upon having the same liquor at the usual price, without regard to the tax, as that the venders will be able to raise their price in an unreasonable proportion. The obstinacy of the people with regard to this liquor, my lords, has already appeared; and I am inclined to believe, that they who have confessedly conquered the legislature, will not suffer themselves to be overcome in the same cause by the avarice of alehouse keepers. I am, therefore, confident, my lords, that this bill will produce no beneficial effects, even in this city; and that in the country, where the sale of spirits was hindered by the late law, or where, at least, it might have been hindered in a great measure, it will propagate wickedness and debauchery in a degree never yet known; the torrent of licentiousness will break at once upon it, and a sudden freedom from restraint will produce a wanton enjoyment of privileges which had never been thought so valuable, had they never been taken away. Thus, while the crowds of the capital are every day thinned by the licensed distributors of poison, the country, which is to be considered as the nursery in which the human species is chiefly propagated, will be made barren; and that race of men will be intercepted, which is to defend the liberty of the neighbouring nations in the next age, which is to extend our commerce to other kingdoms, or repel the encroachments of future usurpation. The bill, my lords, will, therefore, produce none of the advantages which those who promote it have had the confidence to promise the publick. But let us now examine whether they have not been more sagacious in securing the benefits which they expect from it themselves. That one of the intentions of it is to raise a sum to supply the present exigencies of the government is not denied; that this is the only intention is generally believed, and believed upon the strongest reasons; for it is the only effect which it can possibly produce; and to this end it is calculated with all the skill of men long versed in the laudable art of contriving taxes and of raising money. I have already shown to your lordships, that seven millions of gallons of spirits are annually distilled in this kingdom; this consumption, at the small duty of sixpence a gallon, now to be imposed, will produce a yearly revenue of £175,000. and the tax upon licenses may be rated at a very large sum; so that there is a fund sufficient, I hope, for the expenses which a land war is to bring upon us. But we are not to forget, my lords, that this is only the produce of the first year, and that the tax is likely to afford every year a larger revenue. As the consumption of those liquors, under its late discouragements, has advanced a million of gallons every year, it may be reasonably imagined, that by the countenance of the legislature, and the protection of authority, it will increase in a double proportion; and that in ten years more, twenty millions will be distilled every year for the destruction of the people. Thus far, my lords, the scheme of the ministry appears prosperous; but all prosperity, at least all the prosperity of dishonesty, must in time have an end. The practice of drinking cannot be for ever continued, because it will hurry the present generation to the grave, and prevent the production of another; the revenue must cease with the consumption, and the consumption must be at an end when the consumers are destroyed. But this, my lords, cannot speedily happen, nor have our ministers any dread of miseries which are only to fall in distant times upon another generation. It is sufficient for them, if their expedient can supply those exigencies which their counsels have brought upon the publick; if they pay their court to the crown with success, at whatever disadvantage to the people, and continue in power till they have enlarged their fortunes, and then without punishment retire to enjoy them. But I hope, my lords, that we shall act upon very different principles; that we shall examine the most distant consequences of our resolutions, and consider ourselves, not as the agents of the crown to levy taxes, but as the guardians of the people to promote the publick happiness; that we shall always remember that happiness can be produced only by virtue; and that since this bill can tend only to the increase of debauchery, we shall, without the formality of a commitment, unanimously reject it with indignation and abhorrence. Lord CARTERET spoke to the following effect:--My lords, the bill now before us has been examined with the utmost acuteness, and opposed with all the arts of eloquence and argumentation; nor has any topick been forgotten that could speciously be employed against it. It has been represented by some as contrary to policy, and by others as opposite to religion; its consequences have been displayed with all the confidence of prediction, and the motives upon which it has been formed, declared to be such as I hope every man abhors who projected or defends it. It has been asserted, that this bill owes its existence only to the necessity of raising taxes for the support of unnecessary troops, to be employed in useless and dangerous expeditions; and that those who defend it have no regard to the happiness or virtue of the people, nor any other design than to raise supplies, and gratify the ministry. In pursuance of this scheme of argument, the consequences of this bill have been very artfully deduced, and very copiously explained; and it has been asserted that by passing it, we shall show ourselves the patrons of vice, the defenders of debauchery, and the promoters of drunkenness. It has been declared, that in consequence of this law, by which the use of distilled liquors is intended to be restrained, the retailers of them will be multiplied, and multiplied without end; till the corruption, which is already too extensive, is become general, and the nation is transformed into a herd of drunkards. With regard to the uses to which the money which shall arise from this tax is to be applied, though it has been more than once mentioned in this debate, I shall pass it over, as without any connexion with the question before us. To confound different topicks may be useful to those whose design is to impose upon the inattention or weakness of their opponents, as they may be enabled by it to alter sometimes the state of the controversy, and to hide their fallacies in perplexity and confusion; but always to be avoided by those who endeavour to discover and to establish truth, who dispute not to confound but to convince, and who intend not to disturb the publick deliberations, but assist them. I shall, therefore, my lords, only endeavour to show that the consequence, of which some lords express, and I believe with sincerity, such dreadful apprehensions, is not in reality to be feared from this bill; that it will probably promote the purpose for which it is declared to be calculated, and that it will by no means produce that havock in the human species which seems to be suspected, or diffuse that corruption through the people which has been confidently foretold. The present state of this vice, my lords, has been fully explained, as well by those who oppose the bill as by those who defend it. The use of distilled liquors is now prohibited by a penal law, but the execution of this law, as of all others of the same kind, necessarily supposes a regular information of the breach of it to be laid before the magistrate. The people consider this law, however just or necessary, as an act of the most tyrannical cruelty, which ought to be opposed with the utmost steadiness and vigour, as an insupportable hardship from which they ought at any rate to set themselves free. They have determined, therefore, not to be governed by this law, and have, consequently, endeavoured to hinder its execution; and so vigorous have been their efforts, that they have at last prevailed. At first they only opposed it by their perseverance and obstinacy, they resolved to persist in the practice of retailing liquors without regard to the penalties which they might incur by it; and, therefore, as one was put to prison, his place was immediately supplied by another; and so frequent were the informations and so fruitless the penalties, that the chief magistrate of the metropolis lamented publickly in the other house, the unpleasing necessity to which he was subjected by that law, of fining and imprisoning without end, and without hopes of procuring the reformation that was intended. Thus they proceeded for some time, and appeared to hope that the magistrates would after a while connive at a practice, which they should find no degree of severity sufficient to suppress; that they would sink under the fatigue of punishing to no purpose, that they would by degrees relax their vigilance, and leave the people in quiet possession of that felicity which they appeared to rate at so high a price. At length, my lords, instead of wearying the magistrates, they grew weary themselves, and determined no longer to bear persecution for their enjoyments, but to resist that law which they could not evade, and to which they would not submit. They, therefore, determined to mark out all those who by their informations promoted its execution, as publick enemies, as wretches who, for the sake of a reward, carried on a trade of perjury and persecution, and who harassed their innocent neighbours only for carrying on a lawful employment for supplying the wants of the poor, relieving the weariness of the labourer, administering solace to the dejected, and cordials to the sick. The word was, therefore, given that no informer should be spared; and when an offender was summoned by the civil officers, crowds watched at the door of the magistrate to rescue the prisoner, and to discover and seize the witness upon whose testimony he was convicted; and unfortunate was the wretch who, with the imputation of this crime upon him, fell into their hands; it is well remembered by every man who at that time was conversant in this city, with what outcries of vengeance an informer was pursued in the publick streets, and in the open day; with what exclamations of triumph he was seized, and with what rage of cruelty he was tormented. One instance of their fury I very particularly remember: as a man was passing along the streets, the alarm was given that he was an informer against the retailers of spirituous liquors, the populace were immediately gathered as in a time of common danger, and united in the pursuit as of a beast of prey, which it was criminal not to destroy; the man discovered, either by consciousness or intelligence, his danger, and fled for his life with the utmost precipitation; but no housekeeper durst afford him shelter, the cry increased upon him on all hands, and the populace rolled on after him with a torrent not to be resisted; and he was upon the point of being overtaken, and like some others destroyed, when one of the greatest persons in the nation, hearing the tumult, and inquiring the reason, opened his doors to the distressed fugitive, and sheltered him from a cruel death. Soon afterwards there was a stop put to all information; no man dared afterwards, for the sake of a reward, expose himself to the fury of the people, and the use of these destructive liquors was no longer obstructed. How much the practice of this kind of debauchery prevailed, after this short restraint, and how much the consumption of these destructive liquors has increased, the noble lord who spoke last has very accurately informed us, nor can any argument be offered for the present bill more strong than that which his computations have already furnished. For if it appears, my lords, and it cannot be doubted after such authentick testimonies, that seven millions of gallons of spirits are every year consumed in this kingdom, and that of these far the greatest quantity is wasted in the most flagitious and destructive debauchery; it is surely at length necessary to consider by what means this consumption, which cannot be stopped, may be lessened, and this vice obstructed, which cannot be reformed. By opening a sufficient number of licensed shops, the number of unlicensed retailers will be necessarily lessened, and by raising the price of the liquor, the quantity which the poor drink must, with equal certainty, be diminished; and as it cannot be imagined that the number of those who will pay annually for licenses, can be equal to that of the petty traders, who now dispose of spirits in cellars and in the streets; it is reasonable to believe that since there will be fewer sellers, less will be sold. Some lords have, indeed, declared their suspicion, that the number of licensed shops will be such as will endanger the health of the people, and the peace of the commonwealth; and one has so far indulged his imagination, as to declare that he expects fifteen hundred shops to be set open for the sale of spirits, in a short time after the publication of this law. If it be answered, that no spirits can be sold but by those who keep a house of publick entertainment by a license from the justices of the peace, the opponents of the bill have a reply ready, that the justices will take all opportunities to promote the increase of the revenue, and will always grant a license when it is demanded, without regard to the mischiefs that may arise from the increase of the retreats of idleness and receptacles of vice; and that, therefore, to allow justices to grant licenses for the retail of any commodity upon which a tax is laid, is to permit the sale of it without limits. But, my lords, this argument will vanish, when it is considered that those justices to whom the law commits the superintendency of publick-houses, are superintended themselves by men who derive their authority from a higher power, and whose censures are more formidable than judicial penalties. The conduct of the justices, my lords, as of every other person, lies open to the observation of the reverend clergy, by whose counsels it is to be regulated, and by whose admonitions it ought to be reformed; admonitions which cannot be supposed to be without force from men to whom the great province of preaching virtue and truth is committed, and whose profession is so much reverenced, that reputation and infamy are generally in their power. Should the justices, my lords, abuse their authority, either for the increase of the revenue, or any other purpose, what could they expect but to be marked out on the next day of publick worship for reproach and derision? What could they hope but that their crimes should be displayed in the most odious view to their neighbours, their children, and their dependants; and that all those from whom nature or interest teaches them to desire friendship, reverence, or esteem, will be taught to consider them as the slaves of power and the agents of villany, as the propagators of debauchery, and the enemies of mankind? There is, therefore, my lords, reason to hope that the bill may be useful, because it will be hindered from being detrimental; and as there is an absolute necessity of doing something, and no better method can at present be proposed, I think this ought not to be rejected. We have found by experience that the publick is not to be reformed at once, and that the progress from corruption to reformation must be gradual; and as this bill enforces some degrees of amendment, it is at least more eligible than the present law, which is wholly without effect, because no man will dare to put it in execution. Every man must be convinced, by his own experience, of the difficulty with-which long habits are surmounted. I myself suffer some indulgence which yet I cannot prevail upon myself to forbear; this indulgence is the use of too much snuff, to which it is well known that many persons of rank are not less addicted; and, therefore, I do not wonder that the law is ineffectual, which is to encounter with the habits and appetites of the whole mass of the common people. For this reason, my lords, I cannot approve what has been recommended in this debate, any new law that may put the enjoyment of this liquor yet farther from them, by facilitating prosecutions, or enforcing penalties, as I am convinced that the natural force of the people is superiour to the law, and that their natural force will be exerted for the defence of their darling spirits, and the whole nation be shaken with universal sedition. It has been objected by the noble lord, that the tax now proposed is such as never was raised in any government, because, though luxury may confessedly be taxed, vice ought to be constantly suppressed; and this, in his lordship's opinion, is a tax upon vice. His lordship's distinction between luxury and vice, between the use of things unlawful, and the excess of things lawful, is undoubtedly just, but by no means applicable on this occasion; nor, indeed, has the noble lord, with all his art, been able to apply it; for he was obliged to change the terms in his argument; and, instead of calling this tax, a tax upon strong liquors, to stigmatize it with the odious appellation of a tax upon drunkenness. To call any thing what it really is not, and then to censure it, is very easy; too easy, my lords, to be done with success. To confute the argument it is only necessary to observe, that this tax is not a tax upon drunkenness, but a tax laid upon strong liquors for the prevention of drunkenness; and, by consequence, such as falls within the compass of his own definition. That it is not a tax upon luxury cannot be inferred from the indigence of those whom it is intended to reform; for luxury is, my lords, _ad modum possidentis_, of different kinds, in proportion to different conditions of life, and one man may very decently enjoy those delicacies or pleasures to which it would be foolish and criminal in another to aspire. Whoever spends upon superfluities what he must want for the necessities of life, is luxurious; and excess, therefore, of distilled spirits may be termed, with the utmost propriety, the luxury of the poor. This, my lords, appeared to be the opinion of the noble lord who spoke so copiously on this question at the beginning of the debate; of this opinion was the reverend prelate when he observed, that _necessity itself was become luxurious_, and of this opinion must every man be who advises such a duty to be laid upon these liquors as may at once debar the poor from the use of them; for such a proposal evidently supposes them unnecessary, and all enjoyment of things not necessary is a degree of luxury. To tax this luxury, which is, perhaps, the most pernicious of all others, is now proposed; but it is proposed to tax it only to suppress it, to suppress it by such slow degrees as may be borne by the people; and I hope a law so salutary will not be opposed only because it may afford the government a present supply. The duke of NEWCASTLE then rose up, and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, I am of opinion that this debate would have been much shorter, had not the noble lords who have spoken in it suffered themselves to be led away, either by their own zeal, or the zeal of their opponents, from the true state of the question, to which I shall take the liberty of recalling their attention, that this important controversy may have at length an end. The point, the only point that is, in my opinion, now to be considered, is this: the people of this nation have for some time practised a most pernicious and hateful kind of debauchery; against which several laws have been already made, which experience has shown to be so far without effect, that the disorder has every year increased among them; [while the duke was speaking, the bishop of ORFORD said, without intention to be overheard, "Yes, that is the true state of the case," upon which the duke stopped, and asked whether his lordship had any objection to make, who answered that he had no design of interrupting him; and he, therefore, proceeded.] A new law, therefore, is proposed, less severe, indeed, than the former, but which it is hoped will be for that reason more efficacious; this law having passed through the other house, is now, in the common course of our procedure, to be considered by us in a committee. We are now, my lords, therefore, to resolve, whether a bill for the reformation of this flagrant vice deserves any farther deliberation, whether we shall join with the other house in their endeavours to restore the ancient sobriety and virtue of the British people, or, by an open disapprobation of their attempt, discourage them from prosecuting their design, and debar them from using the opportunities that succeeding years may afford, and the new lights which experience may supply for improving this essay, however imperfect, to a salutary and unexceptionable law. The prelates whose laudable zeal for the promotion of virtue has prompted them to distinguish themselves on this occasion by an uncommon warmth of opposition, ought, as they appear fully sensible of the calamities which intemperance brings upon mankind, to consider likewise the consequences of refusing to examine, in a committee, a bill professedly drawn up to restrain intemperance. They ought to remember, that by rejecting this bill without a particular examination of the several clauses which it contains, and without those particular objections which such examinations necessarily produce, we shall discover a contempt of the wisdom or virtue of the other house, which may incline them in their turn to obstruct the measures of the government, or at least to neglect that evil, however great, for the redress of which they have no reason to expect our concurrence. Those whose particular province it is to inspect the lives of the people, to recal them from vice, and strengthen them in virtue, should certainly reflect on this occasion, that the safest method ought to be chosen; and, therefore, that this bill ought to be promoted; because, not to affirm too much, it is possible that it may produce some degree of reformation; and the worst that can be feared is, that, like the present law, it will be ineffectual; for the corruption and licentiousness of the people are already such, that nothing can increase them. The bishop of SARUM then spoke to the following purpose:--My lords, I am so far from being convinced by the arguments of the noble duke, that the bill now before us ought to be committed without farther opposition, that, in my opinion, nothing can be more unworthy of the honour of this house, or more unsuitable to the character which those who sit on this bench ought to desire, than to agree to any vote which may have the most distant appearance of approbation. That a bill drawn up for the reformation of manners, for the restraint of a predominant and destructive vice, for the promotion of virtue, and the enforcement of religion, ought, at least, to be calmly and particularly considered; that the laudable endeavours of the commons ought not to be discouraged by a precipitate and contemptuous rejection of the measures which they have formed for the attainment of a purpose so important, is, indeed, a specious and plausible method of persuasion; but, my lords, it can affect only those who come to deliberate upon this bill without having read it. A very slight and cursory perusal of the bill, my lords, will dissipate all the mists which eloquence can raise; it will show that the law now proposed can neither be useful nor ineffectual, but that it must operate very powerfully, though in a manner by no means agreeable to its title. To prevent the excessive use of any thing, by allowing it to be sold without restraint, is an expedient which the wisdom of no former age ever discovered; it is, indeed, a fallacy too gross to be admitted, even by the most inconsiderate negligence, or the most contemptuous stupidity; nor am I at all inclined to believe, that the commons will impute the rejection of this bill to our disregard of virtue, or think that we have defeated any endeavours for the suppression of wickedness. It has been affirmed, that though by the bill the sale is permitted, it is permitted only because it cannot be hindered; and that the price is raised so high, that, though the lawful venders may be multiplied, the number of the purchasers must be diminished. But even this argument, like all others that have yet been advanced, is confuted by the bill itself, from which the tax now proposed appears to be such as, when subdivided by the small measures in which retailers sell these liquors, will scarcely be perceived, and which, though it may enrich the government, will not impoverish the people, except by destroying their health, and enervating their limbs. The tax, my lords, even supposing it paid without any method of evasion, is so low, that in a quarter of a pint, the quantity which the lower people usually demand at once, it does not amount to any denomination of money; and so small an addition will be easily overbalanced by the sale of a larger quantity than formerly; for it cannot be doubted but the practice which prevailed in opposition to the law, will grow yet more predominant by its encouragement; and that, therefore, the advantage of a large and quick sale, will lessen the price more than so slight a tax can possibly increase it. The noble duke has endeavoured to reduce us to difficulties, by urging, that since the corruption of the people cannot be greater, we ought willingly to agree to any law, of which the title declares that it is intended to produce a reformation, because the worst that can be feared is, that it may be without effect. But, my lords, such is the enormous absurdity of this bill, that no plea can be offered for it with the least appearance of reason; and the greatest abilities, when they are exerted in its defence, are able only to show, by fruitless efforts, that it cannot be vindicated. If the state of the nation be really such as has been supposed, if the most detestable and odious vice has overspread the kingdom to its utmost limits, if the people are universally abandoned to drunkenness, sloth, and villany, what can be more absurd than to trifle with doubtful experiments, and to make laws which must be suspected of inefficacy? In the diseases of the state, as in those of the body, the force of the remedy ought to be proportioned to the strength and danger of the disease; and surely no political malady can be more formidable than the prevalence of wickedness, nor can any time require more firmness, vigilance, and activity, in the legislative power. That the law, therefore, may be without effect, is, in the present state of corruption, if it has been truly represented, a sufficient reason for rejecting it, without allowing it to be committed; because there is now no time for indulgence, or for delays; a nation universally corrupt, must be speedily reformed, or speedily ruined. Those habits which have been confessed to be already too powerful for the laws now in being, may in a short time be absolutely irresistible; and that licentiousness which intimidates the officers of justice, may in another year insult the legislature. But, my lords, I am yet willing to hope that the noble duke's account of the wickedness of the people, was rather a rhetorical exaggeration, uttered in the ardour of dispute, than a strict assertion of facts; and am of opinion that, though vice has, indeed, of late spread its contagion with great rapidity, there are yet great numbers uninfected, and cannot believe that our condition is such as that nothing can make it more miserable. In many parts of the country, my lords, these liquors have not yet been much used, nor is it likely that those who have never sold them, when the law allowed them, will begin an unnecessary trade, when it will expose them to penalties. But a new law in favour of spirits will produce a general inclination, and a kind of emulation will incite every one to take a license for the retail of this new liquor; and so every part of the kingdom will be equally debauched, and no place will be without a vender of statutable poison. The luxury of the vulgar, for luxury, in my opinion, it may very properly be called, will still increase, and vices and diseases will increase with it. There is at least one part of the nation yet untainted, a part which deserves the utmost care of the legislature, and which must be endangered by a law like this before us. The children, my lords, to whom the affairs of the present generation must be transferred, and by whom the nation must be continued, are surely no ignoble part of the publick. They are yet innocent, and it is our province to take care that they may in time be virtuous; we ought, therefore, to remove from before them those examples that may infect, and those temptations that may corrupt them. We ought to reform their parents, lest they should imitate them; and to destroy those provocatives to vice, by which the present generation has been intoxicated, lest they should with equal force operate upon the next. There is, therefore, no occasion, my lords, for any farther deliberation upon this bill; which, if the nation be yet in any part untainted, will infect it; and if it be universally corrupted, will have no tendency to amend it; and which we ought, for these reasons to reject, that our abhorrence of vice may be publickly known, and that no part of the calamities which wickedness must produce, may be imputed to us. Lord DELAWARE then spoke to the following effect:--My lords, as I am entirely of opinion that a more accurate examination of this bill will evince its usefulness and propriety to many of the lords who are now most ardent in opposing it, I cannot but think it necessary to consider it in a committee. It is to be remembered, my lords, that this bill is intended for two purposes of very great importance to the publick; it is designed that the liberties of mankind shall be secured by the same provisions by which the vices of our own people are to be reclaimed, and supplies for carrying on the war shall be raised by a reformation of the manners of the people. This, my lords, is surely a great and generous design; this is a complication of publick benefits, worthy the most exalted virtue, and the most refined policy; and though a bill in which views so distant are to be reconciled, should appear not to be absolutely perfect, it must yet be allowed to deserve regard; nor ought we to reject, without very cautious deliberation, any probable method of reforming the nation, or any easy way of raising supplies. The encroachment of usurpation without, and the prevalence of vice within, is a conjunction of circumstances very dangerous; and to remove both by the same means, is an undertaking that surely cannot deserve either censure or contempt: if it succeeds, it may demand the loudest acclamations; and if it fails, must be at least approved. The use, my lords, of spirituous liquors, though in the excess now so frequently to be observed, undoubtedly detrimental to multitudes, is not, in a proper degree, either criminal or unwholesome; and, therefore, ought not to be prohibited by a tax so heavy as has been proposed by a noble lord, who, if he pursues his reasoning, must propose to tax in the same proportion every other liquor that can administer to vice. It is, however, certain, that too much is wasted in riot and debauchery; and that, therefore, some addition to the price of this liquor ought to be made, that, though the use of it may be continued, the excess may be restrained. What will be the effects of this bill, and whether either of these benefits are to be expected from it, can be known only by an impartial examination; and therefore it ought to be discussed with that accuracy which is peculiar to a committee. Lord LONSDALE here got up again, and spoke to this purpose:--My lords, that a bill which shall restrain the excess of drinking distilled liquors without hindering their moderate use, will deserve the applause of every lover of his country, I cannot deny; but that any such bill can be contrived, may very justly be doubted; for in proportion to their price they will always be used, and nothing can hinder excess but a high tax, such as I have already proposed. The bill now before us, my lords, will, indeed, by no means obstruct the moderate use, because it will give an unbounded license to the most luxurious excess; if, therefore, nothing more be intended in the committee, than to consider how far this bill will promote the reformation of the people, it is surely not necessary to engage in any farther inquiries. It has appeared already, to those who do not obstinately shut their eyes, that there is in it no provision for the prevention of that abuse of spirits which universally prevails. It has appeared, that the cheapness of licenses will not hinder the present retailers from carrying on an illegal trade; that information will not now be more safe or more frequent than before, and that the duty, if not in part evaded, may yet be probably abated from the present profits of the sale. It has appeared, my lords, that no effect can be produced by this bill but the promotion of debauchery, the increase of drunkenness, the subversion of order, and the decay of industry; the miseries of disease, and the rage of want. But that this bill will not produce, at least for some time, a large addition to the publick revenues, has not yet been proved; and while it is allowed that it will raise money, I do not wonder to hear it steadily defended, because nothing more is expected from it. But as I have not yet conversed enough with statesmen to persuade myself that the government ought to be supported by means contrary to the end for which government is instituted, I am still convinced that this bill ought to be rejected with contempt, because it will lessen the wealth of the nation without any equivalent advantage, and will at once impoverish the people, and corrupt them. Lord ISLAY then spoke to this effect:--My lords, I cannot but be of opinion that this debate has been carried on with a vehemence by no means necessary, and that the question has been perplexed by a mistaken zeal, that the effects of this bill have been exaggerated, perhaps, on both sides, and that the opinions which have been formed with relation to it, are not really so opposite as they appear. Those who oppose the bill, think the duty upon spirits not so high as to hinder that debauchery which so much prevails among us; and those that vindicate it, declare that more violent restraints will not be borne. Both parties have reason, and the vindicators of the bill have, likewise, experience on their side. But, my lords, though severe restraints suddenly opposed to the habits and inclinations of the people, operating in their full force, may be broken through by restless struggles and obstinate resistance, yet a diminution of those gratifications will be borne which cannot wholly be taken away, and the same laws, introduced by proper degrees, will be patiently obeyed; this, therefore, may be very properly considered as the first tax necessary to be laid, which, though it may produce no great effects in itself, may at least make way for a second that shall be more sensibly felt, till at length these fatal spirits shall be raised to a price at which few will be able, and none willing, to purchase one pleasure of drunkenness. But it is not impossible that even this tax, with the other provisions in the bill, may produce the reformation which is unanimously desired; and as violence should never be used till gentle methods have been tried, this bill ought, in my opinion, to be passed, and, therefore, to be referred to a committee without farther debate; for it will be thought, both by our allies and our enemies, that a great part of this assembly is very indifferent about the success of the war, if we delay the supplies, by disputing in what manner they shall be raised. [The question being then put, whether the bill shall be committed, it was carried in the affirmative. And the lords DELAWARE and HERVEY being appointed tellers, the numbers were, Contents 59, Proxies 23--82. Not contents 38, Proxies 16--54. It was remarked on this occasion, that there being ten prelates in the house, they all divided against the question; upon which the earl of CHESTERFIELD seeing them come towards him, said, he doubted if he had not mistaken the side, not having had the honour of their company for many years. Two days after, the same bill was considered by the house of lords in a committee to which all of them were summoned, and occasioned another very important and curious debate.] FEBRUARY 23, 1742-3. The title of the bill on spirituous liquors being read, was postponed: then the preamble was read, importing, "that whereas great difficulties and inconveniencies had attended the putting the act 9 Geo. II. in execution, and the same had not been found effectual to answer the purposes intended," the commons being desirous to raise the necessary supplies in the easiest manner, do grant the rates on spirituous liquors, hereafter mentioned, and repeal the present rates. Lord HERVEY spoke to the effect following:--My lords, notwithstanding the specious arguments which were used to influence the house to permit this bill to escape the censure it deserved, and be admitted to a farther examination in a committee, I am still confident that nothing can justly be offered in its defence; and am not afraid to declare my opinion, that it is not approved even by those who vindicate it; of whom I cannot but believe, from long experience of their judgment and their knowledge, that they consider it only as an _easy manner_ of raising money, as an expedient rather necessary than eligible, and such as only the exigencies of the government could have prevailed upon them to propose; for nothing is more evident, than that it cannot answer the purposes of the former bill. This, however harsh it may appear, and however inconsistent with that delicacy with which the debates of this august assembly have generally been carried on, must surely be pardoned on this occasion, if for no other reason, at least for this, that it is not easy to forbear it, it is impossible wholly to suppress it in the mind; and to forbear to speak what cannot but be thought, is no part of the duty of a publick counsellor. The conduct of those whose station subjects them to the resentment of the ministry, or who may be reasonably imagined to expect favours from them, has, throughout all our deliberations on this bill, been such as evidently discovers their only care to be the imposition of a new tax, and the establishment of a new fund. They do not seem to urge seriously any other argument than the necessity of raising money, or to oppose the objections that have been offered, for any other reason, than because they have a tendency to obstruct the supplies. No other argument can, indeed, be urged in vindication of a bill which every principle of policy or justice must incite us to condemn; a bill by which the sense of morality and religion will be extinguished, and the restraints, of law made ineffectual; by which the labourer and manufacturer will be at once debilitated and corrupted, and by which the roads will be filled with thieves, and the streets with beggars. It appears, my lords, from the papers on the table, that seven millions of gallons are every year distilled; and experience shows us, that the quality of the liquor is such, that a quarter of a pint is sufficient to intoxicate the brain. Upon this computation, my lords, it is reasonable to believe, that a twentieth part of the labouring hands of this nation are detained from their proper occupations by this kind of drunkenness; and, consequently, that a twentieth part of the trade is every year lost, or, perhaps, a twentieth part of our people every year hurried to the grave, or disabled from contributing to the publick good. These, my lords, are no doubtful facts, or conjectural calculations, they are confirmed by the most incontestable evidence, and established by all the demonstration of arithmetick; and therefore your lordships are in no danger of errour from either ignorance or uncertainty, but must determine, if you approve this bill, in opposition to all the powers of conviction, and must set aside testimony and reason at the same time. These facts, my lords, are so plain, that the warmest advocates for the bill have tacitly acknowledged them, by proposing that, if it be found ineffectual, it shall be amended in the next session. What effect this proposal may have upon others, I know not; but for my part, I shall never think it allowable to sport with the prosperity of the publick, or to try experiments by which, if they fail, the lives of thousands must be destroyed. Such a scheme, my lords, very ill becomes those to whom their ancestors have transmitted the illustrious character of guardians of the people; for surely such cruelty was never practised by the utmost wantonness of tyranny, or the most savage rage of invasion. No man ever before conceived the design of scattering poison for a certain period of time among the people, only to try what havock it would make. What will be the effects of unrestrained and licensed debauchery may be known, without the guilt of so dreadful an experiment, only by observing the present conduct of the people, even while they are hindered from the full enjoyment of their pleasures, by the terrours of a penal law. Whoever shall be so far touched with the interest of the publick, as to extend his inquiries to the lowest classes of the people, will find some diseased, and others vitiated; he will find some imprisoned by their creditors, and others starving their children; and if he traces all these calamities and crimes to their original cause, will find them all to proceed from the love of distilled liquors. I know, my lords, that in answer to all these expostulations, and a thousand more, it will be urged by the ministers and their friends, that there is no other method to be found of raising the supplies, and that the demands of the government must be satisfied at whatever rate, and by whatever means. Though I am very far from approving this assertion, I do not wonder at its prevalence among those who are enriched by every tax, and whose only claim to the preferments which they enjoy arises from their readiness to concur in every scheme for increasing the burdens of the publick; and, therefore, shall never expect their approbation of any proposal, by which a new tax may be retarded. Yet I cannot but declare that, in my opinion, we ought to suspend our proceedings, that the commons may discover what danger their negligence, precipitation, or blind compliance, has brought upon the nation; and that the people may, by so signal a proof of our disapprobation, be alarmed against any attempt of the same kind under any future administration. This, my lords, will be considered, not only by posterity, but by all the wise and honest men of the present time, as a proof of our regard for virtue, and our attention to the publick welfare. This conduct will be secretly approved, even by those who may think themselves obliged to oppose it in publick; and, as it will be moderate and decent, may probably preserve the nation without irritating the other house. I therefore move, my lords, that instead of proceeding in the superfluous forms of a committee, we should resume the house, and endeavour to obtain farther information. After a short silence, lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke to this effect:--My lords, the observations which, though sufficiently explained and enforced in the late debate, the noble lord has been pleased to repeat on this occasion, are in themselves, indeed, sufficiently pertinent, and have been urged by his lordship with uncommon spirit and elegance; but he ought to have reflected, that general declamations are improper in a committee, where the particular clauses of the bill are to be separately considered. I propose, therefore, that instead of wasting that time, of which the exigencies of the publick now require an uncommon frugality, in useless rhetorick, and untimely vehemence, we should proceed to examine in order the distinct paragraphs of this bill, by which it may more easily appear, whether it ought to be rejected or approved. It cannot, indeed, be proposed, that any of the clauses shall be amended in this committee; for the claims of the commons, and the obstinacy with which they have always adhered to them, on whatever they are founded, is well known. I am old enough to remember the animosities which have arisen between the two houses, from attempts to adjust this part of their pretensions; animosities which at this time may be not only dangerous to ourselves, but fatal to a great part of mankind, and which it ought, therefore, to be our utmost care not to excite. Lord AYLESFORD:--My lords, though the consideration of the distinct paragraphs of the bill be, as the noble lord has very justly observed, the proper business of the committee; yet since, as he has likewise observed, the present state of our affairs requires unusual expedition, I think we may very properly spare ourselves the trouble of considering paragraphs which we cannot amend; and which are in themselves so clear and so obvious, that they may be understood in their full extent upon a cursory perusal. But, my lords, though I think it not proper to follow our usual method of considering the paragraphs distinctly, which can only drive the bill forward towards the third reading, as it has already been forced into the committee; yet I think it not necessary to irritate the other house, alarm our allies, or encourage our enemies, by rejecting that bill by which it is intended that the supplies shall be raised. There is an easy and moderate method, by which the same end may be attained without any disturbance of the publick, any impediment of the schemes of the government, or any just offence to the commons. Instead of passing or rejecting this bill, of which the first is absolutely criminal, and the second perhaps improper, let us only delay it, by which we shall give the commons time to reflect upon it, to reexamine it, and discover, what they, perhaps, have not hitherto suspected, its destructive tendency. Nor can it be doubted, but the observations which will arise from the necessity of inquiring into the reasons of our conduct, will soon induce them to form another bill, not liable to the same objections; I, therefore, second the noble lord's motion to resume the house. Lord ISLAY:--My lords, if we consider the pretensions of the commons, and the stubbornness with which they have hitherto adhered to them, we shall easily find the impropriety of the noble lord's motion, and foresee the inefficacy of the methods which he so warmly recommends. The alarm which he supposes us to give the commons by postponing the bill before us, the observations which they will make upon our conduct, the new informations which they will receive, and the new bill which they will send, are merely imaginary. They will not consider themselves as concerned in the delay or expedition of our procedure, but will suppose us to act upon our own reasons, which it is not necessary for them to examine, and will by no means send another bill for supplies, till they are informed that this is rejected. Thus, my lords, we shall only retard the supplies, without altering, or being able to alter, the method of raising them; and at last pass that bill, without examination, which we now neglect to examine, lest we should pass it; or, perhaps, irritate the commons by the novelty of our conduct, which, if they should resolve to consider it, they will probably consider only to censure. Lord AYLESPORD:--My lords, I am no stranger to the claims of the commons to the sole and independent right of forming money bills, nor to the heat with which that claim has been asserted, or the firmness with which it has always been maintained in late senates. Nor am I ignorant, that by contesting this claim, we have sometimes excited disputes, which nothing but a prorogation of the senate could appease. I know, my lords, and allow, that by acting in any unusual manner with regard to bills of this kind, we may excite the resentment of the commons, and that some interruption of the publick business may, for want of candour and moderation, possibly ensue. But, my lords, I cannot think the possibility of an ill consequence an argument sufficient to show the unreasonableness of my proposal; for the inconveniencies that may arise from postponing the bill, are only possible, but the calamities that we shall bring upon our country by passing it are certain. But we are likewise to consider, my lords, that these events, of which it can only be said that they may happen, may also not happen. When I reflect that the house of commons is an assembly of reasonable beings, that it is filled by the representatives of the British people, by men who will share the calamities of the publick, and whose interest it is, equally with ours, to prevent the destruction of our commerce, the decay of our manufactures, the corruption of the present age, and the ruin of posterity, I cannot but hope that they will apply themselves to a candid review of the bill which they have sent, and without heat, jealousy, or disputes, explain it as they may do by another, which will be no deviation from the rules which they have established for themselves, and by which they may secure the happiness of their country without receding from their own pretensions. The duke of BEDFORD:--My lords, the proposal made by the noble lord appears to me so prudent and equitable, so moderate and so seasonable, and, in my opinion, suggests so easy a method of reconciling the pretensions of the commons with the necessity of amending the bill, that I cannot but think it worthy of the unanimous approbation of your lordships. I am very far from conceiving the commons to be an assembly of men deaf to reason, or imagining them so void of all regard for the happiness of the publick, as that they will sacrifice it to an obstinate adherence to claims which they cannot but know to be in themselves disputable, and of which they must at least allow that they are only so far just as they contribute to the great end of government, the general good. But lest they should, by any perverse and unseasonable obstinacy, attend more to the preservation of their own power than to the promotion of the happiness of their constituents, a method is now proposed, by which the errours of this bill may be corrected, without any concession of either house. The commons may easily be informed of the dangers which are justly dreaded from this bill; and may, therefore, prepare another, by which a tax of the same kind may be laid, without a general license of drunkenness; or if a method of laying a duty upon these liquors, which may at once hinder their excessive use, and increase the revenue of the government, cannot be discovered, they may raise the supplies for the year by some other scheme. Lord CARTERET:--My lords, as the expedient proposed by these noble lords, however it may be recommended, as being at once moderate and efficacious, has, in reality, no other tendency than to procure an absolute rejection of this bill, it is proper to consider the consequences which may be reasonably expected from the measures which they have hitherto proposed. In order to the effectual restraint of the common people from the use of these pernicious liquors, they assert the necessity of imposing a very large duty to be paid by the distiller, which might, indeed, produce, in some degree, the effect which they expect from it, but would produce it by giving rise to innumerable frauds and inconveniencies. The immediate consequence of a heavy duty would be the ruin of our distillery, which is now a very extensive and profitable trade, in which great multitudes are employed, who must instantly, upon the cessation of it, sink into poverty. Our stills, my lords, not only supply our natives with liquors, which they used formerly to purchase from foreign countries, and therefore increase, or at least preserve the wealth of our country; but they likewise furnish large quantities for exportation to Guernsey, Jersey, and other places. But no sooner will the duty proposed to be laid upon this liquor take place, than all this trade will be at an end, and those who now follow it will be reduced to support themselves by other employments; and those countries in which our spirits are now drank will be soon supplied from other nations with liquors at once cheaper and more pleasant. It may be proposed, as an expedient for the preservation of our foreign trade, that the duty shall be repaid upon exportation; but the event of this provision, my lords, will be, that great quantities will be sent to sea for the sake of obtaining a repayment of the duty, which, instead of being sold to foreigners, will be privately landed again upon our own coasts. Thus, my lords, will the duty be collected, and afterwards repaid; and the government will suffer the odium of imposing a severe tax, and incur the expense of employing a great number of officers, without any advantage to the publick. Spirits will, in many parts of the kingdom, be very little dearer than at present, and drunkenness and debauchery will still prevail. That these arts, and a thousand others, will be practised by the people to obtain this infatuating liquor, cannot be doubted. It cannot be imagined that they will forbear frauds, who have had recourse to violence, or that those will not endeavour to elude the government, who have already defied it. Every rigorous law will be either secretly evaded, or openly violated; every severe restraint will be shaken off, either by artifice or vice; nor can this vice, however dangerous or prevalent, be corrected but by slow degrees, by straitening the reins of government imperceptibly, and by superadding a second slight restraint, after the nation has been for some time habituated to the first. That the government proceeds by these easy and gentle methods of reformation, ought not to be imputed to negligence, but necessity; for so far has the government been from any connivance at this vice, that an armed force was necessary to support the laws which were made to restrain it, and secure the chief persons of the state from the insults of the populace, whom they had only provoked by denying them this pernicious liquor. Since, therefore, my lords, all opposition to this predominant inclination has appeared without effect, since the government evidently wants power to conquer the united and incessant struggles for the liberty of drunkenness, what remains but that this vice should produce some advantage to the publick, in return for the innumerable evils which arise from it, and that the government should snatch the first opportunity of taxing that vice which cannot be reformed? This duty arises, indeed, from a concurrence of different causes, of just designs in the government, and of bad inclinations in the people. The tax is just, and well meant; but it can be made sufficient to support the expenses to which it is appropriated, only by the resolution of the populace to continue, in some degree, their usual luxury. I am far, my lords, from thinking this method of raising money eligible for its own sake, or justifiable by any other plea than that of necessity. If it were possible at once to extinguish the thirst of spirits, no man who had any regard for virtue, or for happiness, would propose to augment the revenue by a tax upon them. But, my lords, rigour has been already tried, and found to be vain; it has been found equally fruitless to forbid the people to use spirits, as to forbid a man in a dropsy to drink. The force of appetite long indulged, and by indulgence made superiour to the control of reason, is not to be overcome at once; it cannot be subdued by a single effort, but may be weakened; new habits of a more innocent kind may in time be superinduced, and one desire may counterbalance another. We must endeavour, my lords, by just degrees, to withdraw their affections from this pernicious enjoyment, by making the attainment of it every year somewhat more difficult: but we must not quicken their wishes, and exasperate their resentment, by depriving them at once of their whole felicity. By this method, my lords, I doubt not but we shall obtain what we have hitherto endeavoured with so little success; and I believe that though, in open defiance of a severe law, spirits are now sold in every street of this city, a gentle restraint will, in a short time, divert the minds of the people to other entertainments, and the vice of drinking spirits will be forgotten among us. Lord HERVEY then rose up again, and spoke to the effect following:--My lords, though I have always considered this bill as at once wicked and absurd, I imagined till now that the projectors of it would have been able to have argued, at least, speciously, though not solidly, in defence of it; nor did I imagine it to have been wholly indefensible, till I discovered how little the extensive knowledge, the long experience, and the penetrating foresight of the noble lord who spoke last, enabled him to produce in vindication of it. His lordship's argument is reducible to this single assertion, that the drinking distilled liquors cannot be prevented; and from thence he drew this inference, that since it is a point of wisdom to turn misfortunes to advantage, we ought to contrive methods by which the debauchery of the people may enrich the government. Though we should suppose the assertion true in any sense below that of absolute physical impossibility, the inference is by no means just; since it is the duty of governours to struggle against vice, and promote virtue with incessant assiduity, notwithstanding the difficulties that may for a time hinder the wisest and most rigorous measures from success. That governour who desists from his endeavours of reformation, because they have been once baffled, in reality abandons his station and deserts his charge, nor deserves any other character than that of laziness, negligence, or cowardice. The preservation of virtue where it subsists, and the recovery of it where it is lost, are the only valuable purposes of government. Laws which do not promote these ends are useless, and those that obviate them are pernicious. The government that takes advantage of wicked inclinations, by accident predominant in the people, and, for any temporary convenience, instead of leading them back to virtue, plunges them deeper into vice, is no longer a sacred institution, because it is no longer a benefit to society. It is from that time a system of wickedness, in which bad ends are promoted by bad means, and one crime operates in subordination to another. But, my lords, it is not necessary to show the unreasonableness of the inference, because the assertion from which it is deduced cannot be proved. That the excessive use of distilled liquors cannot be prevented, is a very daring paradox, not only contrary to the experience of all past times, but of the present; for the law which is now to be repealed, did in a great degree produce the effects desired from it, till the execution of it was suspended, not by the inability of the magistrates, or obstinacy of the people, but by the artifice of ministers, who promoted the sale of spirits secretly, for the same reason which incites our present more daring politicians to establish the use of them by a law. The defects of this law, for that it was defective cannot be denied, were in the manner of levying the duty; for had half the duty that was demanded from the unlicensed retailers, been required from the distiller, there had been no need of informations; nor had we been stunned with the dismal accounts of the rage and cruelty of the people, or the violent deaths of those who endeavoured to grow rich by commencing prosecutions. The duty had been regularly paid, the liquors had been made too dear for common use, and the name of spirits had been in a short time forgotten amongst us. From this defect, my lords, arose all the difficulties and inconveniencies that have impeded the execution of the law, and prevented the effects that were expected from it, and by one amendment they might be all removed. But instead of endeavouring to improve the efficacy of the remedy which was before proposed for this universal malady, we are now told, that it was too forcible to take effect, and that it only failed by the vigour of its operation. We are informed, that the work of reformation ought not to be despatched with too much expedition, that mankind cannot possibly be made virtuous at once, and that they must be drawn off from their habits by just degrees, without the violence of a sudden change. What degrees the noble lord proposes to recommend, or what advantage he expects from allowing the people a longer time to confirm their habits, I am not able to discover. He appears to me rather to propose an experiment than a law, and rather to intend the improvement of policy, than the safety of the people. This experiment is, indeed, of a very daring kind, in which not only the money but the lives of the people are hazarded: their money has, indeed, in all ages been subject to the caprices of statesmen, but their lives ought to be exempt from such dangerous practices, because, when once lost, they can never be recovered. By this bill, however, it is contrived to lay poison in the way of the people, poison which we know will be eagerly devoured by a fourth part of the nation, and will prove fatal to a great number of those that taste it; nor of this project is any defence made, but, that since the people love to swallow poison, it may be of advantage to the government to sell it. It might not be improper, my lords, to publish to the people, by a formal proclamation, the benevolent intentions of their governours; and inform them, that licensed murderers are to be appointed, at whose shops they may infallibly be destroyed, without any danger of legal censures, provided they take care to use the poison prescribed by the government, and increase, by their death, the publick revenue. That money only is desired from this bill, is not only obvious from the first perusal of it, but confessed even by those who defend it; but not one has continued to assert, that it will produce a reformation of manners, or recommended it otherwise than as an experiment. For this reason, my lords, I still think my motion for postponing the bill very reasonable, nor do I make any scruple to confess that I propose, by postponing, only a more gentle and inoffensive method of dropping it, that some other way of raising the supplies may be attempted, or that the duty may be raised to three shillings a gallon; the lowest tax that can be laid with a design of reformation. This method, my lords, or any other by which another bill may be procured, should be pursued; for whatever schemes the commons may substitute, the nation can suffer nothing by the change, they cannot raise money in any other manner, but with less injury to the publick; since the greatest calamity which wrong measures can possibly produce, is the propagation of wickedness, and the establishment of debauchery. Lord BATH then spoke, in substance as follows:--My lords, that this bill is, with great propriety, called an experiment, I am ready to allow, but do not think the justness of that expression any forcible argument against it; because I know not any law that can be proposed for the same end, without equally deserving the same appellation. All the schemes of government, my lords, have been perfected by slow degrees, and the defects of every regulation supplied by the wisdom of successive generations. No man has yet been found, whose discernment, however penetrating, has enabled him to discover all the consequences of a new law, nor to perceive all the fallacies that it includes, or all the inconveniencies that it may produce; the first essay of a new regulation is, therefore, only an experiment made, in some degree, at random, and to be rectified by subsequent observations; in making which, the most prudent conduct is only to take care that it may produce no ill consequences of great importance, before there may be an opportunity of reviewing it. This maxim, my lords, is, in my opinion, strictly regarded in the present attempt, which in itself is an affair of very great perplexity. The health and virtue of the people are to be regarded on one part, and the continuance of a very gainful and extensive manufacture on the other; a manufacture by which only, or chiefly, the produce of our own nation is employed; and on which, therefore, the value of lands must very much depend. Manufactures of this kind, my lords, ought never to be violently or suddenly suppressed. If they are pernicious to the nation in general, they are, at least, useful to a very great part, and to some, who have no other employment, necessary; and in the design of putting a stop to any detrimental trade, care is always to be taken that the inconvenience exceed not the benefit, and time be allowed for those that are engaged in it to withdraw to some other business, and for the commodities that are consumed by it, to be introduced at some other market, or directed to some other use. These cautions are in this bill very judiciously observed. The trade, which all allow to administer supplies to debauchery, and fuel to diseases, will, by the provisions in this bill, sink away by degrees, and the health and virtue of the people will be preserved or restored without murmurs or commotions. We must consider, likewise, my lords, the necessity of raising supplies, and the success with which they have hitherto been raised upon the scheme which is now under your consideration. In examining the necessity of procuring supplies, I shall not expatiate upon the present danger of the liberties of all this part of the world; upon the distress of the house of Austria, the necessity of preserving the balance of power, or the apparent designs of the ancient and incessant disturbers of mankind, topicks which have been on former occasions sufficiently explained. It is now only necessary to observe, that the state of our affairs requires expedition, and that a happy peace can only be expected from a successful war, and that war can only be made successful by vigour and despatch. If by liberal grants of money, and ready concurrence in all necessary measures, we enable his majesty to raise a powerful army, there is no reason to doubt that a single campaign may procure peace, that it may establish the liberties of Europe, and raise our allies, who were so lately distressed, to their former greatness. These supplies, my lords, which are so evidently necessary, may, by the method now proposed, be easily, speedily, and cheaply raised. Upon the security which this act will afford, large sums are already offered to the government at the low interest of three for a hundred, by those who, if the conditions of the loan are changed, will, perhaps, demand four in a few days, or raise money by a combination to the rate of five or six for a hundred; of which I would not remark how much it will embarrass the publick measures, or how much it will encourage our enemies to an obstinate resistance. Such, my lords, are the inconveniencies to be feared from rejecting this bill, or from postponing it; by which is plainly intended only a more gentle and tender manner of rejecting it, by hinting to the commons your disapprobation of it, and the necessity of sending up another, which you cannot do without hazarding the peace of the nation and the fate of the war. The commons, who are not obliged to inquire what reception their bills find here, may perhaps not immediately prepare another, but suffer time to elapse, till necessity shall oblige us to comply with those measures which we cannot approve. They may, likewise, by a kind of senatorial craft, elude all our precautions, and make the rejection of the bill ineffectual, as was once done, when a bill for a tax upon leather was rejected: the commons, determining not to be directed in the methods of raising money, sent up the same bill with only a small alteration of the title, to lay a duty upon tanned hides, which the lords were, for want of time, obliged to pass. But, my lords, should the other house discover in this single instance, any uncommon degree of flexibility and complaisance, should they patiently endure the rejection of the bill, admit the validity of the reasons upon which your lordships have proceeded, and willingly engage in drawing up a new scheme for raising supplies; even upon this supposition, which is more favourable than can reasonably be formed, the business of the year will be very much perplexed, and the new bill hurried into a law without sufficient caution or deliberation. The session is now, my lords, so far advanced, that many of the commons have retired into the country, whose advice and assistance may be necessary in the projection of a new money bill, so that the new bill must be formed in a short time, and by a thin house; and, indeed, the multiplicity of considerations necessary to another bill of this kind, is such, that I cannot think it prudent to advise or undertake it. The committee on ways and means must strike out another scheme for a considerable impost, which, in the present state of the nation, is in itself no easy task. This scheme must be so adjusted as to be consistent with all the other taxes, which will require long consultations and accurate inquiries. It must then struggle, perhaps, through an obstinate and artful opposition, before it can pass through the forms of the other house; and, when it comes before your lordships, may be again opposed with no less zeal than the bill before us, and perhaps, likewise, with equal reason. All these dangers and difficulties will be avoided by trying, for a single year, the experiment which is now proposed; and which, if that should fail, may be better adjusted in the time of leisure, which the beginning of the next session will undoubtedly afford; before which time I am afraid no amendment can possibly be made. It has been proposed, indeed, by the noble lord, that three shillings should be laid upon every gallon of distilled liquors, which would undoubtedly lessen the consumption, but would at the same time destroy the trade; a trade from which large profits may be in time gained; since our distillers have now acquired such skill, that the most delicate palate cannot distinguish their liquors from those which foreigners import. If the duty be raised to the height proposed, it must be allowed to be repaid for all that shall be exported; otherwise foreign nations will deprive us of this part of our trade; and it has been already shown, that by mock exportations the duty may be frequently evaded. Thus, my lords, there will be difficulties on either hand; if a duty so high be paid, the manufacturer will be ruined; if it be evaded, the consumption will be lessened. One inconvenience will easily be discovered to be the necessary consequence of any considerable advance of the price. We may be certain that an act of the senate will not moderate the passions, or alter the appetites of the people; and that they will not be less desirous of their usual gratifications, because they are denied them. The poor may, indeed, yield to necessity, unless they find themselves able to resist the law, or to evade it; but those who can afford to please their taste, or exalt their spirits at a greater expense, will still riot as before, but with this difference, that their excesses will produce no advantage to the publick. If an additional duty of three shillings be laid upon every gallon of distilled liquors, the product of our own distillery will be dearer than those liquors which are imported from foreign parts; and, therefore, it cannot but be expected that the money which now circulates amongst us, will in a short time be clandestinely carried into other countries. Such, my lords, will be the effect of those taxes which are so strongly recommended; and, therefore, they ought not to be imposed till all other methods of proceeding have been found ineffectual. It is possible, indeed, that the regulation specified in this bill may not produce any beneficial effect, and that the present practice of debauchery may still continue among the people; but it is likewise possible that this tax may, by increasing the price, augment the revenue at the same time that it lessens the consumption. This proposal has, by some lords, been treated as a paradox; but they certainly suspected it of falsehood, only for want of patience to form the calculations necessary in such disquisitions. The tax of the last year amounted to one hundred and seventy thousand pounds; this tax is now doubled, so that the same quantity will produce three hundred and forty thousand; but if one third less should be consumed, the present tax will amount to no more than two hundred and twenty thousand pounds; and when fifty thousand licenses are added, the revenue will gain an hundred thousand pounds, though one third part of the consumption should be hindered. But, my lords, supposing no part of the consumption hindered, I cannot think that bill should be rejected, which, in a time of danger like the present, shall add to the publick revenue an annual income of more than two hundred thousand pounds, without lessening any manufacture, without burdening any useful or virtuous part of the nation, and without giving the least occasion to any murmurs among the people. It is to be remembered, my lords, that whatever corruption shall prevail amongst us, it cannot be imputed to this bill, which did not make, but find the nation vitiated, and only turned their vices to publick advantage; so that if it produces any diminution of the sale of spirits, it is indisputably to be applauded as promoting virtue. If the sale of spirits still continues the same, it will deserve some degree of commendation, as it will, at least, not contribute to the increase of vice, and as it will augment the revenue without injuring the people; for how, my lords, can we be censured for only suffering the nation to continue in its former state? Lord TALBOT then spoke in substance as follows:--My lords, if we consider the tendency of the argument used by the noble lord, the only argument on which he appears to lay any stress, it will prove, if it proves any thing, what cannot be admitted by your lordships, without bidding farewell to independency, and acknowledging that you are only the substitutes of a higher power. It appears by the tenor of his reasoning, that he considers this house as only obliged, in questions relating to supplies, to ratify the determinations of the other; to submit implicitly to their dictates, and receive their sovereign commands, without daring either to refuse compliance, or delay it. If we conjoin the reasoning of the noble lord who spoke last, with that of one who spoke before in favour of the bill, we shall be able to discover the full extent of our power on these occasions; the first was pleased to inform us, that though we were at liberty to examine the paragraphs of this bill, we had no right, at least no power to amend them; because in money bills, the commons left us no other choice than that of passing or rejecting them. This, my lords, might have been thought a sufficient contraction of those privileges which your ancestors transmitted to you, and the commons needed to have desired no farther concessions from this assembly, since this was a publick confession of a subordinate state, and admitted either that part of our ancient rights had been given up, or that we were at present too much depressed to dare to assert them. We might, however, still comfort ourselves with the peaceful and uncontested possession of the alternative; we might still believe that what we could not approve we might reject, without irritating the formidable commons. But now, my lords, a new doctrine has been vented among us; we are told not only that we must not amend a money bill, but that it will be to no purpose to reject it; for that the other house will send it again without altering any thing but the title, and force it upon us, when there is no time for any other expedient. If this, my lords, should be done, I know not how the bill might, at its second appearance, be received by other lords; for my part, I should vote immediately for rejecting it, without any alleviating or mollifying expedients. I should reject it, my lords, even on the last day of the session, without any regard to the pretended necessity of raising supplies, and without suffering myself to be terrified into compliance by the danger of the house of Austria; for though I think the balance of power on the continent necessary to be preserved at the hazard of a fleet or an army, I cannot think it of equal importance to us with the equipoise of our own government; nor can I conceive it my duty to enslave myself to secure the freedom of another. The danger, therefore, of disgusting the commons, at this or any other juncture, shall never influence me to a tame resignation of the privileges of our own house; nor shall I willingly allow any force to arguments which are intended only to operate upon our fear; and, therefore, unless there shall appear some better plea in favour of this bill, I shall think it my duty to oppose it. The other plea is the difficulty, or, in the style of the noble lord who spoke last, the impossibility of raising supplies by any other method. That it is not easy to raise supplies by any new tax, in a nation where almost all the necessaries of life are loaded with imposts, must be readily allowed; but that it is impossible, the folly of the people, which is at least equal to their poverty, will not suffer me to grant. One other expedient, at least, has been already discovered by the wonderful sagacity of our new ministers; an expedient which they cannot, indeed, claim the honour of inventing, but which appears so conformable to the rest of their conduct, and so agreeable to their principles, that I doubt not but they will very often practise it, if the continuance of their power be long enough to admit of a full display of their abilities. Amidst their tenderness for our manufactures, and their regard for commerce, they have established a lottery for eight hundred thousand pounds, by which they not only take advantage of an inclination too predominant, an inclination to grow rich rather by a lucky hazard, than successful industry; but give up the people a prey to stockjobbers, usurers, and brokers of tickets, who will plunder them without mercy, by the encouragement of those by whom it might be hoped that they would be protected from plunderers. All lotteries, my lords, are games, which are not more honest or more useful for being legal; and the objection which has been made to all other games, and which has never yet been answered, will be found equally valid when applied to them. They engross that attention which might be employed in improving or extending our manufactures; they swallow that money which might circulate in useful trade; they give the idle and the diligent an equal prospect of riches; and by conferring unexpected wealth upon those who never deserved it, and know not how to use it, they promote extravagance and luxury, insolence and dissoluteness. But these consequences, my lords, and a thousand others equally important, equally formidable, may be objected without effect, against any scheme by which money will be raised; money! the only end at which our ministers have aimed for almost half a century; money! by which only they have preserved the favour of the court, and the obedience of the senate; money! which has supplied the place of wisdom at one time, and of courage at another. To gain money, my lords, they have injured trade by establishing a lottery; and they are now about to sacrifice the health and virtue of the people, to the preservation of a trade by which money may be furnished to the government. This, my lords, is their only design, however they may act, or whatever they may profess; if they endeavour to protect either the trade or lives of people, it is only because they expect a continuance of taxes from them; and when more desperate measures are necessary for the same purposes, they ruin their trade by one project, and destroy their lives by another. Lord LONSDALE next spoke, to this effect:--My lords, it is not without the utmost grief and indignation, that I find this house considered by some who have spoken in vindication of this bill, as obliged to comply with any proposals sent up by the commons for raising money, however destructive to the publick, or however contrary to the dictates of our conscience, or convictions of our reason. What is this, my lords, but once more to vote ourselves useless? What but to be the first that shall destroy the constitution of the government, and give up that liberty which our ancestors established? That this is really the design of any of the noble lords, who have spoken in vindication of the bill, and have asserted the necessity of passing it, without any attempts to amend it, I am very far from affirming; but certainly, my lords, this, and this only, is the consequence of their positions, with whatever intention they may have advanced them; for how, my lords, can we call ourselves independent, if we are to receive the commands of the other house? or with what propriety can we assume the title of legislators, if we are to pass a bill like this without examination? The bill now before us, my lords, is of the utmost importance to the happiness of that nation whose welfare we have hitherto been imagined to superintend. In this bill are involved not only the trade and riches, but the lives and morals of the British people; nor can we suffer it to pass unexamined, without betraying the nation to wickedness and destruction. Should we, on this occasion, suffer ourselves to be degraded from legislators to messengers from the commons to the throne; should we be content only to transmit the laws which we ought to amend, and resign ourselves up implicitly to the wisdom of those whom we have formerly considered as our inferiours, I know not for what purpose we sit here. It would be my counsel that we should no longer attempt to preserve the appearance of power, when we have lost the substance, or submit to share the drudgery of government, without partaking of the authority. The time of such desperation is, indeed, not yet arrived; but every act of servile compliance will bring it nearer; and, therefore, my lords, for the sake of ourselves, as well as of the people, I join the noble lord's motion for resuming the house, that farther information may be obtained both by ourselves, by the commons, and by the nation. The duke of NEWCASTLE then rose, and spoke to the effect following:--My lords, I believe no lord in this assembly is more zealous for the advantage of the publick than myself, or more desirous to preserve the lives, or amend the morals of the people; but I cannot think that this character can justly imply any dislike of the bill now before us. If I should admit what the noble lord has asserted, that the lives and morals of the people are affected by this bill, I cannot yet see that his inference is just, or that our compliance with the motion is, therefore, necessary. That under the present regulation, the miseries of the nation are every day increased; that corruption spreads every day wider, and debauchery makes greater havock, is confessed on all sides; and, therefore, I can discover no reason for continuing the laws in their present state, nor can think that we ought to decline any experiment by which that disorder, which cannot be increased, may possibly be lessened. It is confessed by the noble lords, who declare their approbation of the motion for postponing the consideration of this bill, that they intend nothing less than a gentle and tacit manner of dropping it, by showing the commons that though to avoid offence they do not absolutely reject it, yet they cannot approve it, and will not pass it; and that, therefore, the necessity of raising supplies, requires that another bill should be formed, not liable to the same objections. The consequence of this procedure, my lords, can only be, that either the commons will form another bill for raising money, or that they will send up this again with a new title, and such slight alterations as not the happiness of the nation, but the forms of the senate demand. If, in return for our endeavours to reform a bill, of which they think themselves the only constitutional judges, they should send it again with only another title; what, my lords, shall we procure by the delay, but a new occasion of murmurs and discontent, a new confirmation of the power of the commons, and an establishment of senatorial chicanery, at once pernicious to the publick, and ignominious to ourselves. That the commons, in sending back a bill that has been rejected in this house, with only a change in the title, act contrary to the end of senatorial consultations, though consistently with their external forms, cannot be denied: but as each house is without any dependence on the other, such deviations from the principles of our constitution, however injurious to our authority, or however detrimental to the nation, cannot be punished, nor otherwise prevented, than by caution and prudence. If, therefore, the commons, as they have formerly done, should return the bill without alteration, we shall only have impaired our own authority, and shaken the foundations of our government by a fruitless opposition. Nor shall we gain any advantage, though they should comply with our expectations, and employ the little time that remains in contriving a new tax; for corruption must then proceed without opposition, the people must grow every day more vitious, and debauchery will, in a short time, grow too general to be suppressed. With regard to the bill before us, the only question that is necessary or proper, is, whether it will promote or hinder the consumption of distilled liquors? for as to the effects of those liquors, those that vindicate, and that oppose this bill, are of the same opinion; and all will readily allow, that if the law now proposed shall be found to increase the consumption which it was intended to diminish, it ought immediately to be repealed, as destructive to the people, and contrary to the end for which it was designed; but if the additional duties shall produce any degree of restraint, if they shall hinder the consumption even of a very small part, I think it must be allowed that the provisions are just and useful; since it has already appeared, that this vice is too deeply rooted to be torn up at once; and that, therefore, it is to be pruned away by imperceptible diminution. Whether the provisions now offered in the bill might not admit of improvements; whether some other more efficacious expedients might not be discovered; and whether the duties might not be raised yet higher, with more advantage to the publick, may undoubtedly admit of long disputes and deep inquiries; but for these inquiries and disputes, my lords, there is at present no time: the affairs of the continent require our immediate interposition, the general oppressors of the western world are now endeavouring to extend their dominions, and exalt their power beyond the possibility of future opposition; and our allies, who were straggling against them, can no longer continue their efforts without assistance. At a time like this, my lords, it is not proper to delay the supplies by needless controversies; or, indeed, by any disputes which may, without great inconvenience, be delayed to a time of tranquillity, a time when all our inquiries may be prosecuted at leisure, when every argument may be considered in its full extent, and when the improvement of our laws ought, indeed, to be our principal care. At present it appears to me, that every method of raising money, without manifest injury to the morals of the people, deserves our approbation; and, therefore, that we ought to pass this bill, though it should not much hinder the consumption of spirituous liquors, if it shall barely appear that it will not increase it. It is at least proper, that, at this pressing exigence, those that oppose the bills by which supplies are to be raised, should, by offering other expedients, show that their opposition proceeds not from any private malevolence to the ministry, or any prepossession against the publick measures, but from a steady adherence to just principles, and an impartial regard for the publick good; for it may be suspected, that he who only busies himself in pulling down, without any attempts to repair the breaches that he has made, with more fit or durable materials, has no real design of strengthening the fortification. It has been proposed, indeed, by one of the noble lords, that a tax of three shillings a gallon should be laid upon all distilled spirits, and collected by the laws of excise at the still-head, which would doubtless secure a great part of the people from the temptations to which they are at present exposed, but would at the same time produce another effect not equally to be desired. I have been informed, my lords, upon mentioning this proposal in conversation, that such duties will raise the price of the liquors distilled among us above that of foreign countries; and that, therefore, not only all our foreign trade of this kind would be immediately destroyed, but that many of those who now drink our own spirits, only because they are cheaper, will then purchase those of foreign countries, which are generally allowed to be more pleasant. That this is really the state of the affair, I do not affirm; for I now relate only what I have heard from others; but surely the imposition of so heavy a duty requires a long consideration; nor can it be improper to mention any objections, the discussion of which may contribute to our information. But any other regulations than those now offered, will require so many inquiries, and so long consultation, that the senate will expect to be dismissed from their attendance, before any resolutions are formed; and when once the supplies are provided, we shall find ourselves obliged to leave the law relating to spirituous liquors in its present state. Then, my lords, will the enemies of the government imagine that they have a new opportunity of gratifying their malignity, by censuring us as wholly negligent of the publick happiness, and charge us with looking without concern upon the debauchery, the diseases, and the poverty of the people, without any compassion of their wants, or care of their reformation. That to continue the present law any longer, will be only to amuse ourselves with ineffectual provisions, is universally allowed; nor is there any difference of opinion with regard to the present state of the vice which we are now endeavouring to hinder. The last law was well intended, but was dictated by anger, and ratified by zeal; and therefore was too violent to be executed, and, instead of reforming, exasperated the nation. No sooner, therefore, did the magistrates discover the inflexible resolution of the people, their furious persecution of informers, and their declared hatred of all those who concurred in depriving them of this dangerous pleasure, than they were induced, by regard to their own safety, to relax that severity which was enjoined, and were contented to purchase safety by gratifying, or, at least, by not opposing those passions of the multitude, which they could not hope to control; the practice of drinking spirits continued, and the consumption was every year greater than the former. This, my lords, is the present state of the nation; a state sufficiently deplorable, and which all the laws of humanity and justice command us to alter. This is the universal declaration. We all agree, that the people grow every day more corrupt, and that this corruption ought to be stopped; but by what means is yet undecided. Violent methods and extremity of rigour have been already tried, and totally defeated; it is, therefore, proposed to try more easy and gentle regulations, that shall produce, by slow degrees, the reformation which cannot be effected by open force; these new regulations appear to many lords not sufficiently coercive, and are imagined still less likely to reform a vice so inveterate, and so firmly established. These opinions I cannot flatter myself with the hope of reconciling; but must yet observe, that the consumption of these liquors, as of all other commodities, can only be lessened by proper duties, and that every additional imposition has a tendency to lessen them; and since, so far as it extends, it can produce no ill effects, deserves the approbation of those who sincerely desire to suppress this odious vice that has so much prevailed, and been so widely diffused. It is, indeed, possible, that the duties now proposed may be found not sufficient; but for this defect there is an easy remedy. The duty, if it be found, by the experience of a single year, to be too small, may, in the next, be easily augmented, and swelled, by annual increases, even to the height which is now proposed, if no remedy more easy can be found. It may be objected, that this fund will be mortgaged for the payment of the sums employed in the service of the war; and that, therefore, the state of the duty cannot afterwards be altered without injustice to the publick creditors, and a manifest violation of the faith of the senate; but, my lords, though in the hurry of providing for a pressing and important war, the commons could not find any other method so easy of raising money, it cannot be doubted but that when they consider the state of the nation at leisure, they will easily redeem this tax, if it shall appear inconvenient, and substitute some other, less injurious to the happiness of the publick. It was not impossible for them to have done this in the beginning of this session; nor can it be supposed, that men so long versed in publick affairs, could not easily have proposed many other imposts; but it may be imagined, that they chose this out of many, without suspecting that it would be opposed; and believed, that they were at once raising supplies, and protecting the virtue of the people. Nor, indeed, my lords, does it yet appear that they have been mistaken; for though the arguments of the noble lords who oppose the bill are acute and plausible, yet since they agree that the consumption of these liquors is, at last, to be hindered by raising their price, it is reasonable to conceive, that every augmentation of the price must produce a proportionate diminution of the consumption; and that, therefore, this duty will contribute, in some degree, to the reformation of the people. It seems, at least, in the highest degree probable, that it cannot increase the evil which it is intended to remedy; and that, therefore, we may reasonably concur in it, as it will furnish the government with supplies, without any inconvenience to those that pay them. The bishop of OXFORD next spoke to this effect:--My lords, this subject has already been so acutely considered, and so copiously discussed, that I rise up in despair of proposing any thing new, of explaining any argument more clearly, or urging it more forcibly, of starting any other subject of consideration, or pointing out any circumstance yet untouched in those that have been proposed. Yet, my lords, though I cannot hope to add any thing to the knowledge which your lordships have already obtained of the subject in debate, I think it my duty to add one voice to the truth, and to declare, that in the balance of my understanding, the arguments against the bill very much outweigh those that have been offered in its favour. It is always presumed by those who vindicate it, that every augmentation of the price will necessarily produce a proportionate decrease of the consumption. This, my lords, is the chief, if not the only argument that has been advanced, except that which is drawn from the necessity of raising supplies, and the danger of disgusting the other house. But this argument, my lords, is evidently fallacious; and therefore the bill, if it passes, must pass without a single reason, except immediate convenience. Let us examine, my lords, this potent argument, which has been successively urged by all who have endeavoured to vindicate the bill, and echoed from one to another with all the confidence of irrefragability; let us consider on what suppositions it is founded, and we shall soon find how easily it will be dissipated. It is supposed, by this argument, that every drinker of these liquors spends as much as he can possibly procure; and that therefore the least additional price must place part of his pleasure beyond his reach. This, my lords, cannot be generally true; it is perhaps generally, if not universally false. It cannot be doubted, but that many of those who corrupt their minds and bodies with these pernicious draughts, are above the necessity of constraining their appetites to escape so small an expense as that which is now to be imposed upon them; and even of those whose poverty can sink no lower, who are in reality exhausted by every day's debauch, it is at least as likely that they will insist upon more pay for their work, or that they will steal with more rapacity, as that they will suffer themselves to be debarred from the pleasures of drunkenness. It is not certain that this duty will make these liquors dearer to those who drink them; since the distiller will more willingly deduct from his present profit the small tax that is now proposed, than suffer the trade to sink; and even if that tax should be, as is usual, levied upon the retailer, it has been already observed, that, in the quantities necessary to drunkenness, it will not be perceptible. But, my lords, though this argument appears thus weak upon the first and slightest consideration, the chief fallacy is still behind. Those, who have already initiated themselves in debauchery, deserve not the chief consideration of this assembly; they are, for the greatest part, hopeless and abandoned, and can only be withheld by force from complying with those desires to which they are habitually enslaved. They may, indeed, be sometimes punished, and at other times restrained, but cannot often be reformed. Those, my lords, who are yet uncorrupted, ought first to engage our care; virtue is easily preserved, but difficultly regained. But for those what regard has hitherto been shown? What effect can be expected from this bill, but that of exposing them to temptations, by placing unlawful pleasures in their view? pleasures, which, however unworthy of human nature, are seldom forsaken after they have once been tasted. In the consideration of the present question, it is to be remembered, that multitudes are already corrupted, and the contagion grows more dangerous in proportion as greater numbers are infected. To stop the progress of this pestilence, my lords, ought to be the governing passion of our minds; to this point ought all our aims to be directed, and for this end ought all our projects to be calculated. But how, my lords, is this purpose promoted by a law which gives a license, an unlimited and cheap license, for the sale of that liquor, to which, even those who support the bill impute the present corruption of the people? This surely is no rational scheme of reformation, nor can it be imagined, that a favourite and inveterate vice is to be extirpated by such gentle methods. Let us consider, my lords, more nearly the effects of this new-invented regulation, and we shall see how we may expect from them the recovery of publick virtue. A law is now to be repealed, by which the use of distilled liquors is prohibited, but which has not been for some time put in execution, or not with vigour sufficient to surmount the difficulties and inconveniencies by which its operation was obstructed. The law is, however, yet in force, and whoever sells spirits must now sell them at the hazard of prosecution and penalties, and with an implicit confidence in the kindness and fidelity of the purchaser. It cannot be supposed, my lords, but that a law like this must have some effect. It cannot be doubted that some are honest and others timorous; and that among the wretches who are most to be suspected of this kind of debauchery, there are some in whom it is not safe to confide; they, therefore, must sometimes be hindered from destroying their reason by other restraints than want of money; and, when they are trusted with the secret of an illegal trade, must pay a dearer rate for the danger that is incurred. But when this law is repealed, and every street and alley has a shop licensed to distribute this delicious poison, what can we expect? The most sanguine advocate for the bill cannot surely hope, that any of those who now drink spirits will refrain from them, only because they are sold without danger; and though what cannot be proved, or even hoped, should be admitted, that some must content themselves with a smaller quantity on account of the advanced price, yet while they take all opportunities of debauchery, while they spend, in this destructive liquor, all that either honest labour or daring theft will supply, they must always be examples of intemperance; such examples as, from the experience of late years, we have reason to believe will find many imitators; and therefore will promote at once the consumption of spirits, and the corruption of the people. There is always to be found in wickedness a detestable ambition of gaining proselytes: every man who has suffered himself to be corrupted, is desirous to hide himself from infamy in crowds as vitious as himself, or desires companions in wickedness from the same natural inclination to society, which prompts almost every man to avoid singularity on other occasions. Whatever be the reason, it may be every day observed, that the great pleasure of the vitious is to vitiate others; nor is it possible to squander an hour in the assemblies of debauchees of any rank, without observing with what importunity innocence is attacked, and how many arts of sophistry and ridicule are used to weaken the influence of virtue, and suppress the struggles of conscience. The fatal art by which virtue is most commonly overborne is the frequent repetition of temptations, which, though often rejected, will at some unhappy moment generally prevail, and, therefore, ought to be removed; but which this bill is intended to place always in sight. To what purpose will it be, my lords, to deprive nine hardened profligates of a tenth part of the liquor which they now drink, which is the utmost that this duty will effect? If they have an opportunity of corrupting one by their solicitation and example, the difference between nine and ten acts of debauchery is of very small importance to mankind, or even to the persons who are thus restrained, since their forbearance of the utmost excesses is only the effect of their poverty, not of their virtue. How far is such restraint from being equivalent to the corruption of one mind, yet pure and undebauched! to the seduction of one heart from virtue, and a new addition to the interest and prevalence of wickedness! If it be necessary that the supplies should be raised for the government by the use of this pernicious liquor, it is desirable that it should be confined to few, and that it should rather be swallowed in large quantities by hopeless drunkards, than offered everywhere to the taste of innocence and youth, in licensed houses of wickedness. The consumption will, for a time, be the same in both cases, but with this important difference, that wickedness would only be continued, not promoted; and as the poison would rid the land by degrees of the present race of profligates, it might be hoped, that our posterity would be uninfected. But under the present scheme of regulations, my lords, vice will be propagated under the countenance of the legislature; and that kind of wickedness by which the nation is so infatuated that it has increased yearly, in opposition to a penal law, will now not only be suffered, but encouraged, and enjoy not impunity only, but protection. Thus, if we pass the bill, we shall not even be able to boast the petty merit of leaving the nation in its present state; we shall take away the present restraints of vice, without substituting any in their place; we shall, perhaps, deprive a few hardened drunkards of a small part of the liquor which they now swallow, but shall open, according to the expectation of the noble lord, fifty thousand houses of licensed debauchery for the ruin of millions yet untainted. To leave the nation in its present state, which is allowed on all hands to be a state of corruption, seems to be the utmost ambition of one of the noble lords, who has pleaded with the greatest warmth for this bill; for he concluded, with an air of triumph, by asking, how we can be censured for only suffering the nation to continue in its former state? We may be, in my opinion, my lords, censured as traitors to our trust, and enemies to our country, if we permit any vice to prevail, when it is in our power to suppress it. We may be cursed, with justice, by posterity, as the abettors of that debauchery by which poverty and disease shall be entailed upon them, contemned in the present as the flatterers of those appetites which we ought to regulate, and insulted by that populace whom we dare not oppose. Had none of our predecessors endeavoured the reformation of the people, had they contented themselves always to leave the nation as they found it, there had been long ago an end of all the order and security of society; for the natural depravity of human nature has always a tendency from less to greater evil; and the same causes which had made us thus wicked, will, if not obviated, make us worse. Since the noble lord thinks it not necessary to attempt the reformation of the people, he might have spared the elaborate calculation by which he has proved, that a large sum wilt be gained by the government, though one third part of the consumption be prevented; for it is of very little importance to discuss the consequences of an event which will never happen. He should first have proved, that a third part of the consumption will in reality be prevented, and then he might very properly have consoled the ministry, by showing how much they would gain from the residue. That this bill, as it now stands, will produce a large revenue to the government, but no reformation in the people, is asserted by those that oppose, and undoubtedly believed by those that defend it; but as this is not the purpose which I am most desirous of promoting, I cannot but think it my duty to agree to the proposal of the noble lord, that by postponing the consideration of the bill, more exact information may be obtained by us, and the commons may be alarmed at the danger into which the nation has been brought by their precipitation. Lord BATH then rose again, and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, as the noble lord who has just spoken appears to have misapprehended some of my assertions, I think it necessary to rise again, that I may explain with sufficient clearness what, perhaps, I before expressed obscurely, amidst the number of different considerations that crowded my imagination. With regard to the diminution that might be expected from this law, I did not absolutely assert, at least, I did not intend to assert, that a third part would be taken off; but only advanced that supposition as the basis of a calculation, by which I might prove what many lords appeared to doubt, that the consumption might possibly be diminished, and yet the revenue increased. Upon this supposition, which must be allowed to be reasonable, both the purposes of the bill will be answered, and the publick supplies will be raised by the suppression of vice. The diminution of the consumption may be greater or less than I have supposed. If it be greater, the revenue will be, indeed, less augmented; but the purposes which, in the opinion of the noble lords who oppose the bill, are more to be regarded, will be better promoted, and all their arguments against it will be, at least, defeated; nor will the ministry, I hope, regret the failure of a tax which is deficient only by the sobriety of the nation. If the diminution be less than I have supposed, yet if there be any diminution, it cannot be said that the bill has been wholly without effect, or that the ministry have not proceeded either with more judgment or better fortune than their predecessors, or that they have not, at least, taken advantage of the errours that have been committed. It must be owned, that they have either reformed the nation, or at least pointed out the way by which the reformation that has been so long desired, may be effected. That this tax will in some degree hinder drunkenness, it is reasonable to expect, because it can only be hindered by taxing the liquors which are used in excess; but there yet remain, concerning the weight of the tax that ought to be laid upon them, doubts which nothing but experience can, I believe, remove. By experience, my lords, we have been already taught, that taxes may be so heavy as to be without effect; that restraint may be so violent as to produce impatience; and, therefore, it is proper in the next essay to proceed by slow degrees and gentle methods, and produce that effect imperceptibly which we find ourselves unable to accomplish at once. I cannot therefore think, that the duty of three shillings a gallon can be imposed without defeating our own design, and compelling the people to find out some method of eluding the law like that which was practised after the act, by which in the second year of his present majesty, five shillings were imposed upon every gallon of compound waters; after which it is well known, that the distillers sold a simple spirit under the contemptuous title of _senatorial brandy_, and the law being universally evaded, was soon after repealed as useless. Such, my lords, or worse, will be the consequence of the tax which the noble lord has proposed; for if it cannot be evaded, spirits will be brought from nations that have been wiser than to burden their own commodities with such insupportable impost, and the empire will soon be impoverished by the exportation of its money. Lord HERVEY answered, in substance as follows:--My lords, I am very far from thinking the arguments of the noble lord such as can influence men desirous to promote the real and durable happiness of their country; for he is solicitous only about the prosperity of the British manufactures, and the preservation of the British trade, but has shown very little regard to British virtue. That part of his argument is, therefore, not necessary to be answered, if the suggestion upon which it is founded were true, since it will be sufficient to compare the advantage of the two schemes. And with regard to his insinuation, that senatorial brandy may be revived by a high duty, I believe, first, that, no such evasion can be contrived, and in the next place am confident, that it may be defeated by burdening the new-invented liquor, whatever it be, if it be equally pernicious, with an equal tax. The path of our duty, my lords, is plain and easy, and only represented difficult by those who are inclined to deviate from it. Lord BATHURST spoke next, to the effect following:--My lords, whatever measures may be practised by the people for eluding the purposes of the bill now before us, with whatever industry they may invent new kinds of senatorial brandy, or by whatever artifices they may escape the diligence of the officers employed to collect a duty levied upon their vices and their pleasures, there is, at least, no danger that they will purchase from the continent those liquors which we are endeavouring to withhold from them, or that this bill will impoverish our country by promoting a trade contrary to its interest. What would be the consequence of the duty of three shillings a gallon, proposed by the noble lord, it is easy to judge. What, my lords, can be expected from it, but that it will either oblige or encourage the venders of spirits to procure from other places what they can no longer buy for reasonable prices at home? and that those drunkards who cannot or will not suddenly change their customs, will purchase from abroad the pleasures which we withhold from them, and the wealth of the nation be daily diminished, but the virtue little increased? Thus, my lords, shall we at once destroy our own manufacture and promote that of our neighbours. Thus shall we enrich other governments by distressing our own, and instead of increasing sobriety, only encourage a more expensive and pernicious kind of debauchery. In the bill now under our consideration, a middle way is proposed, by which reformation may be introduced by those gradations which have always been found necessary when inveterate vices are to be encountered. In this bill every necessary consideration appears to have been regarded, the health of the people will be preserved, and their virtue recovered, without destroying their trade or starving their manufacturers. The efficacy of this bill seems, indeed, to be allowed by some of the lords who oppose it, since their chief objection has arisen from their doubts whether it can be executed. If a law be useless in itself, it is of no importance whether it is executed or not; and, therefore, I think it may safely be inferred, that they who are solicitous how it may be enforced, are convinced of its usefulness. If this, my lords, be the chief objection now remaining, a little consideration will easily remove it; for it is well known, that the only obstruction of the former law was the danger of information; but this law, my lords, is so contrived, that it will promote the execution of itself; for by setting licenses at so low a price, their number will be multiplied, and every man who has taken a license will think himself justified in informing against him that shall retail spirits without a legal right. If, therefore, there should be, as a noble lord has very reasonably supposed, fifty thousand licensed venders of these liquors, there will likewise be fifty thousand informers against unlawful traders; and as the liquors may then always be had under sanction of the law, the populace will not interest themselves in that process which can have no tendency to obstruct their pleasure. Thus, my lords, shall we, by agreeing to this bill, make a law that will be at once useful to the government and beneficial to the people, which will be at once powerful in its effects and easy in its execution; and, therefore, instead of attending any more to the wild and impracticable schemes of heavy taxes, rigorous punishments, sudden reformations, and violent restraints, I hope we shall unanimously approve this method, from which so much may be hoped, while nothing is hazarded. Lord CARTERET then rose up, and spoke in substance as follows:--My lords, though the noble lord who has been pleased to incite us to an unanimous concurrence with himself and his associates of the ministry, in passing this excellent and wonder-working bill, this bill, which is to lessen the consumption of spirits, without lessening the quantity which is distilled, which is to restrain drunkards from drinking, by setting their favourite liquor always before their eyes, to conquer habits by continuing them, and correct vice by indulging it, according to the lowest reckoning, for at least another year; yet, my lords, such is my obstinacy, or such my ignorance, that I cannot yet comply with his proposal, nor can prevail with myself either to concur with measures so apparently opposite to the interest of the publick, or to hear them vindicated, without declaring how little I approve them. During the course of this long debate I have endeavoured to recapitulate and digest the arguments which have been advanced, and have considered them both separate and conjoined; but find myself at the same distance from conviction as when I entered the house; nor do I imagine, that they can much affect any man who does not voluntarily assist them by strong prejudice. In vindication of this bill, my lords, we have been told that the present law is ineffectual; that our manufacture is not to be destroyed, or not this year; that the security offered by the present bill has induced great numbers to subscribe to the new fund; that it has been approved by the commons; and that, if it be found ineffectual, it may be amended another session. All these arguments, my lords, I shall endeavour to examine, because I am always desirous of gratifying those great men to whom the administration of affairs is intrusted, and have always very cautiously avoided the odium of disaffection which they will undoubtedly throw, in imitation of their predecessors, upon all those whose wayward consciences shall oblige them to hinder the execution of their schemes. With a very strong desire, therefore, though with no great hopes of finding them in the right, I venture to begin my inquiry, and engage in the examination of their first assertion, that the present law against the abuse of strong liquors is without effect. I hope, my lords, it portends well to my inquiry, that the first position which I have to examine is true, nor can I forbear to congratulate your lordships upon having heard from the new ministry one assertion not to be contradicted. It is evident, my lords, from daily observation, and demonstrable from the papers upon the table, that every year, since the enaction of the last law, that vice has increased which it was intended to repress, and that no time has been so favourable to the retailers of spirits as that which has passed since they were prohibited. It may, therefore, be expected, my lords, that having agreed with the ministers in their fundamental proposition, I shall concur with them in the consequence which they draw from it; and having allowed that the present law is ineffectual, should admit that another is necessary. But, my lords, in order to discover whether this consequence be necessary, it must first be inquired why the present law is of no force? For, my lords, it will be found, upon reflection, that there are certain degrees of corruption that may hinder the effects of the best laws. The magistrates may be vitious, and forbear to enforce that law, by which themselves are condemned; they may be indolent, and inclined rather to connive at wickedness by which they are not injured themselves, than to repress it by a laborious exertion of their authority; or they may be timorous, and, instead of awing the vitious, may be awed by them. In any of these cases, my lords, the law is not to be condemned for its inefficacy, since it only fails by the defect of those who are to direct its operations; the best and most important laws will contribute very little to the security or happiness of a people, if no judges of integrity and spirit can be found amongst them. Even the most beneficial and useful bill that ministers can possibly imagine, a bill for laying on our estates a tax of the fifth part of their yearly value, would be wholly without effect, if collectors could not be obtained. I am, therefore, my lords, yet doubtful, whether the inefficacy of the law now subsisting necessarily obliges us to provide another; for those that declared it to be useless, owned at the same time, that no man endeavoured to enforce it; so that, perhaps, its only defect may be, that it will not execute itself. Nor though I should allow, that the law is at present impeded by difficulties which cannot be broken through, but by men of more spirit and dignity than the ministers may be inclined to trust with commissions of the peace, yet it can only be collected, that another law is necessary, not that the law now proposed will be of any advantage. Great use has been made of the inefficacy of the present law to decry the proposal made by the noble lord for laying a high duty upon these pernicious liquors. High duties have already, as we are informed, been tried without advantage; high duties are at this hour imposed upon those spirits which are retailed, yet we see them every day sold in the streets without the payment of the tax required; and, therefore, it will be folly to make a second essay of means which have been found, by the experience of many years, unsuccessful. It has been granted on all sides in this debate, nor was it ever denied on any other occasion, that the consumption of any commodity is most easily to be hindered by raising its price, and its price is to be raised by the imposition of a duty; this, my lords, which is, I suppose, the opinion of every man, of whatever degree of experience or understanding, appears likewise to have been thought by the authors of the present law; and, therefore, they imagined, that they had effectually provided against the increase of drunkenness, by laying upon that liquor which should be retailed in small quantities, a duty which none of the inferiour classes of drunkards would be able to pay. Thus, my lords, they conceived that they had reformed the common people, without infringing the pleasures of others, and applauded the happy contrivance by which spirits were to be made dear only to the poor, while every man who could afford to purchase two gallons, was at liberty to riot at his ease, and over a full flowing bumper look down with contempt upon his former companions, now ruthlessly condemned to disconsolate sobriety, or obliged to regale themselves with liquor which did no speedy execution upon their cares, but held them for many tedious hours in a languishing possession of their senses and their limbs. But, my lords, this intention was frustrated, and the project, ingenious as it was, fell to the ground; for though they had laid a tax, they unhappily forgot that this tax would make no addition to the price, unless it was paid; and that it would not be paid, unless some were empowered to collect it. Here, my lords, was the difficulty; those who made the law were inclined to lay a tax from which themselves should be exempt, and, therefore, would not charge the liquor as it issued from the still; and when once it was dispersed in the hands of petty dealers, it was no longer to be found without the assistance of informers, and informers could not carry on the business of persecution without the consent of the people. It is not necessary to dwell any longer upon the law of which the repeal is proposed, since it appears already, that it failed only from a partiality not easily defended, and from the omission of what is now proposed, the collection of the duty as the liquor is distilled. If this method be followed, there will be no longer any need of information, or of any rigorous or new measures; the same officers that collect a smaller duty may levy a greater, nor can they be easily deceived with regard to the quantities that are made; the deceits, at least, that can be used, are in use already; they are frequently detected and suppressed; nor will a larger duty enable the distillers to elude the vigilance of the officers with more success. Against this proposal, therefore, the inefficacy of the present law can be no objection; but it is urged, that such duties would destroy the trade of distilling; and a noble lord has been pleased to express great tenderness for a manufacture so beneficial and extensive. I cannot but sometimes wonder, my lords, at the amazing variety of intellects, which every day furnishes some opportunity or other of observing, and which cannot but be remarked on this occasion, when one produces against a proposal the very argument which another offers in its favour. That a large duty levied at the still would destroy or very much impair the trade of distilling, is certainly supposed by those who defend it, for they proposed it only for that end; and what better method can they propose, when they are called to deliberate upon a bill for the prevention of the excessive use of distilled liquors? The noble lord has been pleased kindly to inform us, that the trade of distilling is very extensive, that it employs great numbers, and that they have arrived at exquisite skill, and therefore,--note well the consequence--the trade of distilling is not to be discouraged. Once more, my lords, allow me to wonder at the different conceptions of different understandings. It appears to me, that since the spirits which the distillers produce are allowed to enfeeble the limbs, and vitiate the blood, to pervert the heart, and obscure the intellects, that the number of distillers should be no argument in their favour! For I never heard that a law against theft was repealed or delayed, because thieves were numerous. It appears to me, my lords, that if so formidable a body are confederated against the virtue or the lives of their fellow-citizens, it is time to put an end to the havock, and to interpose, while it is yet in our power to stop the destruction. As little, my lords, am I affected with the merit of the wonderful skill which the distillers are said to have attained: it is, in my opinion, no faculty of great use to mankind, to prepare palatable poison; nor shall I ever contribute my interest for the reprieve of a murderer, because he has, by long practice, obtained great dexterity in his trade. If their liquors are so delicious, that the people are tempted to their own destruction, let us at length, my lords, secure them from these fatal draughts, by bursting the vials that contain them; let us crush, at once, these artists in slaughter, who have reconciled their countrymen to sickness and to ruin, and spread over the pitfals of debauchery such baits as cannot be resisted. The noble lord has, indeed, admitted, that this bill may not be found sufficiently coercive, but gives us hopes that it may be improved and enforced another year, and persuades us to endeavour the reformation of drunkenness by degrees, and above all, to beware, at present, of hurting the _manufacture_. I am very far, my lords, from thinking, that there are this year any peculiar reasons for tolerating murder; nor can I conceive why the manufacture should be held sacred now, if it be to be destroyed hereafter; we are, indeed, desired to try how far this law will operate, that we may be more able to proceed with due regard to this valuable manufacture. With regard to the operation of the law, it appears to me that it will only enrich the government without reforming the people, and I believe there are not many of a different opinion: if any diminution of the sale of spirits be expected from it, it is to be considered, that this diminution will or will not be such as is desired for the reformation of the people; if it be sufficient, the manufacture is at an end, and all the reasons against a higher duty are of equal force against this; but if it is not sufficient, we have, at least, omitted part of our duty, and have neglected the health and virtue of the people. I cannot, my lords, yet discover, why a reprieve is desired for this manufacture; why the present year is not equally propitious to the reformation of mankind as any will be that may succeed it. It is true we are at war with two nations, and, perhaps, with more; but war may be better prosecuted without money than without men, and we but little consult the military glory of our country, if we raise supplies for paying our armies, by the destruction of those armies that we are contriving to pay. We have heard the necessity of reforming the nation by degrees urged as an argument for imposing first a lighter duty, and afterwards a heavier; this complaisance for wickedness, my lords, is not so defensible as that it should be battered by arguments in form, and therefore I shall only relate a reply made by Webb, the noted walker, upon a parallel occasion. This man, who must be remembered by many of your lordships, was remarkable for vigour, both of mind and body, and lived wholly upon water for his drink, and chiefly upon vegetables for his other sustenance: he was one day recommending his regimen to one of his friends who loved wine, and who, perhaps, might somewhat contribute to the prosperity of this _spirituous manufacture_, and urged him, with great earnestness, to quit a course of luxury by which his health and his intellects would equally be destroyed. The gentleman appeared convinced, and told him, that he would conform to his counsel, and thought he could not change his course of life at once, but would leave off strong liquors by degrees. By degrees, says the other, with indignation! if you should unhappily fall into the fire, would you caution your servants not to pull you out but by degrees? This answer, my lords, is applicable in the present case; the nation is sunk into the lowest state of corruption, the people are not only vitious, but insolent beyond example; they not only break the laws, but defy them; and yet some of your lordships are for reforming them by degrees. I am not easily persuaded, my lords, that our ministers really intend to supply the defects that may hereafter be discovered in this bill; it will doubtless produce money, perhaps much more than they appear to expect from it; I doubt not but the licensed retailers will be more than fifty thousand, and the quantity retailed must increase with the number of retailers. As the bill will, therefore, answer all the ends intended by it, I do not expect to see it altered, for I have never observed ministers desirous of amending their own errours, unless they are such as produce a deficiency in the revenue. Besides, my lords, it is not certain, that when this fund is mortgaged to the publick creditors, they can prevail upon the commons to change the security; they may continue the bill in force for the reasons, whatever they are, for which they have passed it, and the good intentions of our ministers, however sincere, may be defeated, and drunkenness, legal drunkenness, established in the nation. This, my lords, is very reasonable; and therefore we ought to exert ourselves for the safety of the nation, while the power is yet in our own hands, and without regard to the opinion or proceedings of the other house, show that we are yet the chief guardians of the people, and the most vigilant adversaries of wickedness. The ready compliance of the commons with the measures proposed in this bill, has been mentioned here with a view, I suppose, of influencing us, but surely by those who had forgotten our independence, or resigned their own. It is not only the right, but the duty of either house, to deliberate without regard to the determinations of the other; for how would the nation receive any benefit from the distinct powers that compose the legislature, unless their determinations are without influence upon each other? If either the example or authority of the commons can divert us from following our own convictions, we are no longer part of the legislature; we have given up our honours and our privileges, and what then is our concurrence but slavery, or our suffrage but an echo? The only argument, therefore, that now remains, is the expediency of gratifying those by whose ready subscription the exigencies which the counsels of our new statesmen have brought upon us, and of continuing the security by which they have been encouraged to such liberal contributions. Publick credit, my lords, is, indeed, of very great importance, but publick credit can never be long supported without publick virtue; nor indeed if the government could mortgage the morals and health of the people, would it be just or rational to confirm the bargain. If the ministry can raise money only by the destruction of their fellow-subjects, they ought to abandon those schemes for which the money is necessary: for what calamity can be equal to unbounded wickedness? But, my lords, there is no necessity for a choice which may cost us or our ministers so much regret; for the same subscriptions may be procured by an offer of the same advantages to a fund of any other kind, and the sinking fund will easily supply any deficiency that might be suspected in another scheme. To confess the truth, I should feel very little pain from an account that the nation was for some time determined to be less liberal of their contribution, and that money was withheld till it was known in what expeditions it was to be employed, to what princes subsidies were to be paid, and what advantages were to be purchased by it for our country. I should rejoice my lords, to hear that the lottery by which the deficiencies of this duty are to be supplied, was not filled; and that the people were grown at last wise enough to discern the fraud, and to prefer honest commerce, by which all may be gainers, to a game by which the greatest number must certainly lose, and in which no man can reasonably expect that he shall be the happy favourite of fortune, on whom a prize shall be conferred. The lotteries, my lords, which former ministers have proposed, have always been censured by those that saw their nature and their tendency; they have been considered as legal cheats, by which the ignorant and the rash are defrauded, and the subtle and avaricious often enriched; they have been allowed to divert the people from trade, and to alienate them from useful industry. A man who is uneasy in his circumstances, and idle in his disposition, collects the remains of his fortune, and buys tickets in a lottery, retires from business, indulges himself in laziness, and waits, in some obscure place, the event of his adventure. Another, instead of employing his stock in a shop or warehouse, rents a garret in a private street, and makes it his business, by false intelligence, and chimerical alarms, to raise and sink the price of tickets alternately, and takes advantage of the lies which he has himself invented. Such, my lords, is the traffick that is produced by this scheme of raising money; nor were these inconveniencies unknown to the present ministers in the time of their predecessors, whom they never failed to pursue with the loudest clamours, whenever the exigencies of the government reduced them to a lottery. If I, my lords, might presume to recommend to our ministers the most probable method of raising a large sum for the payment of the troops of the electorate, I should, instead of the tax and lottery now proposed, advise them to establish a certain number of licensed wheelbarrows, on which the laudable trade of thimble and button might be carried on for the support of the war, and shoeboys might contribute to the defence of the house of Austria, by raffling for apples. Having now, my lords, examined with the utmost candour, all the reasons which have been offered in defence of the bill, I cannot conceal the result of my inquiry. The arguments have had so little effect upon my understanding, that as every man judges of others by himself, I cannot believe that they have any influence, even upon those that offer them; and, therefore, I am convinced, that this bill must be the result of considerations which have been hitherto concealed, and is intended to promote designs which are never to be discovered by the authors before their execution. With regard to these motives and designs, however artfully concealed, every lord in this assembly is yet at liberty to offer his conjectures; and therefore I shall venture to lay before you what has arisen in my mind, without pretending to have discovered absolute certainty, what such accomplished politicians have endeavoured to conceal. When I consider, my lords, the tendency of this bill, I find it calculated only for the propagation of diseases, the suppression of industry, and the destruction of mankind; I find it the most fatal engine that ever was pointed at a people, an engine by which those who are not killed will be disabled, and those who preserve their limbs, will be deprived of their senses. This bill, therefore, appears to be designed only to thin the ranks of mankind, and to disburden the world of the multitudes that inhabit it; and is, perhaps, the strongest proof of political sagacity that our new ministers have yet exhibited. They well know, my lords, that they are universally detested, and that wherever a Briton is destroyed, they are freed from an enemy; they have, therefore, opened the floodgates of gin upon the nation, that when it is less numerous, it may be more easily governed. Other ministers, my lords, who had not attained to so great a knowledge in the art of making war upon their country, when they found their enemies clamorous and bold, used to awe them with prosecutions and penalties, or destroy them like burglars, with prisons and gibbets. But every age, my lords, produces some improvement, and every nation, however degenerate, gives birth at some happy period of time to men of great and enterprising genius. It is our fortune to be witnesses of a new discovery in politicks; we may congratulate ourselves upon being contemporaries with those men who have shown that hangmen and halters are unnecessary in a state, and that ministers may escape the reproach of destroying their enemies, by inciting them to destroy themselves. This new method may, indeed, have upon different constitutions a different operation; it may destroy the lives of some, and the senses of others; but either of these effects will answer the purposes of the ministry, to whom it is indifferent, provided the nation becomes insensible, whether pestilence or lunacy prevails among them. Either mad or dead, the greatest part of the people must quickly be, or there is no hope of the continuance of the present ministry. For this purpose, my lords, what could have been invented more efficacious than an establishment of a certain number of shops at which poison may be vended; poison so prepared, as to please the palate while it wastes the strength, and to kill only by intoxication. From the first instant that any of the enemies of the ministry shall grow clamorous and turbulent, a crafty hireling may lead him to the ministerial slaughterhouse, and ply him with their wonder-working liquor, till he is no longer able to speak or think; and, my lords, no man can be more agreeable to our ministers than he that can neither speak nor think, except those who speak without thinking. But, my lords, the ministers ought to reflect, that though all the people of the present age are their enemies, yet they have made no trial of the temper and inclinations of posterity; our successours may be of opinions very different from ours; they may, perhaps, approve of wars on the continent, while our plantations are insulted, and our trade obstructed; they may think the support of the house of Austria of more importance to us than our own defence, and may, perhaps, so far differ from their fathers, as to imagine the treasures of Britain very properly employed in supporting the troops, and increasing the splendour of a foreign electorate. Since, therefore, it will not be denied by our ministers, that the affection and gratitude of posterity may atone for the obstinacy, blindness, and malice of the present age; since those measures which are now universally censured, may at some distant time be praised with equal unanimity; why, my lords, should they extend their vengeance to the succeeding generation? why should they endeavour to torture their limbs with pains, and load their lives with the guilt of their parents? why should they hinder that trade to which they must owe all the comforts which plenty affords? why should they endeavour to intercept their existence, or suffer them to exist only to be wretched? If I may once more declare my sentiments, my lords, I believe the ministers do not so much wish to debilitate the bodies as the understandings of posterity, nor so ardently desire a race of cripples as of fools. For cripples, my lords, can make no figure at a review, nor strut in a red coat with a tolerable grace; but fools are known by long experience to be the principal support of an army, since they are the only persons who are willing to pay it! Whatever, my lords, be the true reasons for which this bill is so warmly promoted, I think they ought, at least, to be deliberately examined; and, therefore, cannot think it consistent with our regard for the nation to suffer it to be precipitated into a law. The year, my lords, is not so far advanced, as that supplies may not be raised by some other method, if this should be rejected; nor do I think that we ought to consent to this, even though our refusal should hinder the supplies, since we have no right, for the sake of any advantage, however certain or great, to violate all the laws of heaven and earth, to doom thousands to destruction, and to fill the exchequer with the price of the lives of our fellow-subjects. Let us, therefore, my lords, not suffer ourselves to be driven forward with such haste as may hinder us from observing whither we are going; let us not be persuaded to precipitate our counsels by those who know that all delays will be detrimental to their designs, because delays may produce new information, and they are conscious that the bill will be less approved the more it is understood. But every reason which they can offer against the motion, is, in my opinion, a reason for it; and, therefore, I shall readily agree to postpone the clause, and no less readily to reject the bill. If, at last, reason and evidence are vain, if neither justice nor compassion can prevail, but the nation must be destroyed for the support of the government, let us at least, my lords, confine our assertions, in the preamble, to truth; let us not affirm that drunkenness is established by the advice or consent of the lords spiritual, since I am confident not one of them will so far contradict his own doctrine, as to vote for a bill which gives a sanction to one vice, and ministers opportunities and temptations to all others; and which, if it be not speedily repealed, will overflow the whole nation with a deluge of wickedness. Lord ISLAY next spoke to the effect following:--My lords, I have attended for a long time to the noble lord, not without some degree of uneasiness, as I think the manner in which he has treated the question neither consistent with the dignity of this assembly, nor with those rules which ought to be ever venerable, the great rules of reason and humanity. Yet being now arrived at a time of life in which the passions grow calm, and patience easily prevails over any sudden disgust or perturbation, I forbore to disconcert him, though I have known interruption produced by much slighter provocations. It is, my lords, in my opinion, a just maxim, that our deliberations can receive very little assistance from merriment and ridicule, and that truth is seldom discovered by those who are chiefly solicitous to start a jest. To convince the understanding, and to tickle the fancy, are purposes very different, and must be promoted by different means; nor is he always to imagine himself superiour in the dispute, who is applauded with the loudest laugh. To laugh, my lords, and to endeavour to communicate the same mirth to others, when great affairs are to be considered, is certainly to neglect the end for which we are assembled, and the reasons for which the privilege of debating was originally granted us. For doubtless, my lords, our honours and our power were not conferred upon us that we might be merry with the better grace, or that we might meet at certain times to divert ourselves with turning the great affairs of the nation to ridicule. But, my lords, still less defensible is this practice, when we are contriving the relief of misery, or the reformation of vice; when calamities are preying upon thousands, and the happiness not only of the present age, but of posterity, must depend upon our resolutions. He that can divert himself with the sight of misery, has surely very little claim to the great praise of humanity and tenderness; nor can he be justly exempted from the censure of increasing evils, who wastes in laughter and jocularity that time in which he might relieve them. The bill now before us has been represented by those that oppose it, as big with destruction, and dangerous both to the lives and to the virtue of the people. We have been told, that it will at once fill the land with sickness and with villany, and that it will be at the same time fatal to our trade, and to our power; yet those who are willing to be thought fearful of all these evils, and ardently desirous of averting them from their country, cannot without laughter mention the bill which they oppose, or enumerate the consequences which they dread from it, in any other language than that of irony and burlesque. Surely, my lords, such conduct gives reason for questioning either their humanity, or their sincerity; for if they really fear such dreadful calamities, how can they be at leisure for mirth and gaiety I How can they sport over the grave of millions, and indulge their vain ridicule, when the ruin of their country is approaching? But without inquiry, whether they who oppose the bill will grant their opposition hypocritical, or their patriotism languid, I shall lay my opinion of this new regulation before your lordships with equal freedom, though with less luxuriance of imagination, and less gaiety of language. Of this bill, notwithstanding the acuteness with which it has been examined, and the acrimony with which it has been censured, I am not afraid to affirm, that it is neither wicked nor absurd, that all its parts are consistent, and that the effects to be expected from it are sobriety and health. I cannot find, upon the closest examination, either that it will defeat its own end, or that the end proposed by it is different from that which is professed. The charge of encouraging vice and tolerating drunkenness, with which the defenders of this bill have been so liberally aspersed, may be, in my opinion, more justly retorted upon those that oppose it; who, though they plead for the continuance of a law, rigorous, indeed, and well intended, own that it has, by the experience of several years, been found ineffectual. What, my lords, can a drunkard or a profligate be supposed to wish, but that the law may still remain in its present state, that he may still be pursued in a track by which he knows how to escape, and opposed by restraints which he is able to break? What can he desire, but that the book of statutes should lie useless, and that no laws should be made against him, but such as cannot be put in execution? The defects of the present law, are, indeed, very numerous; nor ought it to be continued, even though no other were to be substituted. It seems to suppose the use of distilled liquors absolutely unlawful, and, therefore, imposed upon licenses a duty so enormous, that only three were taken in the whole kingdom, and the people were therefore obliged to obtain by illegal methods, what they could not persuade themselves wholly to forbear. The method of detecting offenders was likewise such as gave opportunity for villany to triumph over innocence, and for perjury to grow rich with the plunder of the poor. Even charity itself might be punished by it; and he that gave a glass of spirits to a man fainting under poverty, or sickness, or fatigue, might be punished as a retailer of spirits without a license. These defects, which were not seen when the law was made, soon excited a dislike. No man enforced the execution of it, because every man knew that on some occasions he might himself break it; and they who suffered for the violation of it, were often pitied by those whose office obliged them to punish them. Thus the law, after having been executed a few months with rigour, was laid aside as impracticable, and appears now to be tacitly repealed; for it is apparently an empty form without effect. If, therefore, the use of spirits be so destructive as is generally allowed, it is surely necessary, that the legislature should at last repair the defects of the former law, and the nation should not be vitiated and ruined, without some endeavours for its preservation; and, in my opinion, to lay a double duty upon these liquors, is very rational and prudent. An increase of the price must lessen the consumption. To what degree the consumption will be diminished by this new duty, I am not able to foretel; but, undoubtedly, some diminution will be produced, and the least diminution will afford us this comfort, that the evil does not increase upon us, and that this law is, therefore, better than that which we have repealed. For this reason, my lords, I approve the present bill, without inquiring whether it is perfect; it is sufficient for me, in the present exigence, that the nation will gain something by the change, and the people will be drawn nearer to sobriety, temperance, and industry. Thus, my lords, without paying any regard to the determination of the other house, I think the bill sufficiently defensible by reason and policy; nor can I conceal my opinion, that those who oppose it are the real enemies of their country. [The question, whether the house should be now resumed, was then put and determined in the negative by 56 against 85. The other clauses were then read, and agreed to. The course of their proceedings then required, that a day should be appointed for the third reading, and lord SANDWICH therefore rose, and spoke to the following effect:] My lords, as the importance of the bill now before us justly demands the maturest consideration, it is not without unusual concern, that I observe the absence of many lords, for whose wisdom and experience I have the highest veneration, and whom I esteem equally for their penetration and their integrity. I should hope, that all those who feel in their hearts the love of their country, and are conscious of abilities to promote its happiness, would assemble on this great occasion, and that the collective wisdom of this house would be exerted, when the lives and fortunes, and, what is yet more worthy of regard, the virtue of the people is involved in the question. As there can be no avocations which can possibly withhold a wise man from counsels of such moment to his country, to himself, and to his posterity; as there is no interest equivalent to the general happiness; I cannot suppose that either business or pleasure detain those who have not attended at the examination of this bill; and therefore imagine, that they are absent only because they have not been sufficiently informed of the importance of the question that was this day to be discussed. It is therefore, my lords, necessary, in my opinion, that on the day of the third reading they be again summoned to attend, that the law which is allowed to be only an experiment, of which the event is absolutely uncertain, may be examined with the utmost care; that all its consequences may be known, so far as human wisdom is able to discover, and that we may at least be exempt from the imputation of being negligent of the welfare of our country, and of being desirous of avoiding information or inquiry, lest they should retard our measures or contradict our assertions. But since it is reasonable to believe, my lords, that many of those, who might assist us in this difficult inquiry, are now in the country, it is necessary, that our summons may have the effect which is desired, to defer the reading for some time. For to what purpose will it be to require their presence at a time at which we know it is impossible for them to comply with our orders? To direct what cannot be done is surely in its own nature absurd and contemptible, and on this occasion will expose not only our understanding but our honesty to doubts; for it will be imagined, that we are only endeavouring to make false shows of caution and accuracy, and that we in reality desire to determine without the concurrence of those whose presence we publickly require. I therefore move, that the third reading of this bill may be delayed five days, and that immediate summons be issued for all lords to attend. Lord CARTERET spoke next in substance as follows:--My lords, if it is the intention of the noble lords to debate once more the usefulness or expedience of this bill, if they have any new argument to produce, or are desirous of another opportunity to repeat those which have been already heard, I hope they will not long withhold, either from themselves or their opponents, that satisfaction. Your lordships are so well acquainted with the state of the publick, and know so well the danger of the liberties of the continent, the power of the enemies whom we are to oppose, the dreadful consequences of an unsuccessful opposition, and the necessity of vigour and expedition to procure success, that it cannot be necessary to urge the impropriety of delaying the bill from which the supplies are to be expected. The convenience of deferring this bill, however plausibly represented by the noble lord who made the motion, is overbalanced by the necessity of considering it to-morrow. Necessity is an argument which 110 acuteness can overthrow, and against which eloquence will be employed to little purpose. I therefore, my lords, oppose the motion, not that it is unreasonable in itself, but because it cannot be admitted; I recommend despatch on this occasion, not because it is barely right, but because it is absolutely necessary. Lord HERVEY then rose up and spoke to the following effect:--My lords, it is always the last resource of ministers to call those measures necessary which they cannot show to be just; and when they have tried all the arts of fallacy and illusion, and found them all baffled, to stand at bay, because they can fly no longer, look their opponents boldly in the face, and stun them with the formidable sound of necessity. But it is generally the fortune of ministers to discover necessity much sooner than they whose eyes are not sharpened by employments; they frequently call that necessity, on which no other man would bestow the title of expediency; and that is seldom necessary to be done, which others do not think necessary to be avoided. At present, my lords, I see nothing necessary but what is equally necessary at all times, that we do our duty to our country, and discharge our trust, without suffering ourselves to be terrified with imaginary dangers or allured by imaginary benefits. The war which is said to produce the necessity of this bill, is, in my opinion, not necessary in itself: and, if your lordships differ from me in that sentiment, it must yet be allowed, that there is time sufficient to provide supplies by new methods. But, my lords, if the motion, in which I concur, be overruled on a pretence of necessity, it will show an eager desire to hasten a bill, which, if referred to any twelve men, not of either house of the senate, their examination would terminate in this, that they bring it in guilty of _wilful murder_. Lord CHOLMONDELEY spoke next, in substance as follows:--My lords, as there is no doubt but particular measures may be sometimes necessary, I discover no reason that ought to hinder the mention of that necessity; for surely where it can be asserted with truth, it is the most powerful of all arguments, and cannot be wisely or honestly neglected. In the present case, my lords, I can discover no impropriety in mentioning it; for I suppose that noble lord did not intend to restrain it to the most rigorous sense; he did not mean, that there is the same necessity of reading this bill to-morrow for the success of the war, as of extinguishing a fire for the preservation of a town; but that the reasons for despatch absolutely overbalanced all the pleas that could be offered for delays. This necessity, my lords, I am not ashamed to assert after him; nor can I think it consistent with common prudence, in the present situation of our affairs, to defer the third reading beyond to-morrow; for the supplies which this bill must produce, are to be employed in attempts of the utmost importance, and which cannot fail without the ruin of a great part of mankind, and an irreparable injury to this nation. I cannot, therefore, but confess my surprise at the vehemence with which this bill is opposed; vehemence so turbulent and fierce, that some lords have been transported beyond that decency which it is our duty and our interest to preserve in our deliberations; nor have restrained themselves from expressions, which, upon reflection, I believe they will not think defensible; from among which I cannot but particularize the horrid and opprobrious term of murder. The reverend prelates, who have spoken against the bill, may be easily believed to be as zealous for virtue as those who have indulged themselves in this violence of language; yet they have never charged those who defend the measures now proposed with the guilt of murder, but have decently delivered their own opinions, without, reproaching those who differ from them. For my part, my lords, as I cannot think the motion for farther delay, seasonable or proper, or necessary to the discovery of truth, or consistent with the welfare of the nation, it is my resolution to vote against it. The duke of BEDFORD spoke next, in substance as follows:--My lords, the ardour with which the noble lord appears to resent the indignity offered to the bill, shows only that he himself approves it, but not that it deserves the approbation of the house. I think it of use, notwithstanding the plausible pleas of decency or politeness, that every thing should in this house be called by its right name, that we may not dispute for one thing, and vote for another; and since the bill will certainly destroy multitudes, if it promotes the sale of distilled spirits, and it has been proved that it will promote it, I know not by what appellation to denominate its effects, if that be denied me, which has been already used. [The speaker then put the question in form, "Is it your lordships' pleasure, that the third reading of the bill be put off for five days?" It was resolved in the negative by 52 to 29. It was then ordered, that the bill should be read the third time on the day following, and that the lords should be summoned to attend. On the next day, the house, according to the order, met, and another debate ensued, which was begun by lord HERVEY, who spoke in substance as follows:] My lords, the tendency of the bill, which we are now to approve or reject, is so apparently destructive to the ends of government, so apparently dangerous to publick happiness, and so contrary to the institutions of the most celebrated lawgivers, and the policy of the most flourishing nations, that I still continue to think it my duty to struggle against it. Almost every legislator of the world, my lords, from whatever original he derived his authority, has exerted it in the prohibition of such foods as tended to injure the health, and destroy the vigour of the people for whom he designed his institutions. The great instructor of the jews, who delivered his laws by divine authority, prohibited the use of swine's flesh, for no other cause, so far as human reason is able to discover, than that it corrupted the blood, and produced loathsome diseases and maladies which descended to posterity; and, therefore, in prohibiting, after this example, the use of liquors which produce the same effects, we shall follow the authority of the great governour of the universe. The author of another religion, a religion founded, indeed, on superstition and credulity, but which prevails over a very great part of the earth, has laid his followers under restraints still more severe; he has forbidden them to dispel their cares, or exalt their pleasures, with wine, has banished from their banquets that useful opponent of troublesome reflection, and doomed all those who receive his law, not to sobriety only, but to abstinence. The authority of this man, my lords, cannot indeed be urged as unexceptionable and decisive; but the reception of his imposture shows at least, that he was not unacquainted with human nature, and that he knew how to adapt his forgeries to the nations among which he vented them; nor can it be denied, but the prohibition of wine was found generally useful, since it obtained so ready a compliance. All nations in the world, my lords, in every age of which there remain any historical accounts, have agreed in the necessity of laying restraint upon appetite, and setting bounds to the wantonness of luxury; every legislature has claimed and practised the right of withholding those pleasures which the people have appeared inclined to use to excess, and preferring the safety of multitudes whom liberty would destroy, to the convenience of those who would have enjoyed it within the limits of reason and of virtue. The welfare of the publick, my lords, has always been allowed the supreme law; and when any governours sacrifice the general good either to private views, or temporary convenience, they deviate at once from integrity and policy, they betray their trust, and neglect their interest. The prohibition of those commodities which are instrumental to vice, is not only dictated by policy but nature; nor does it, indeed, require much sagacity, when the evil is known, to find the proper remedy; for even the Indians, who have not yet reduced the art of government to a science, nor learned to make long harangues upon the different interests of foreign powers, the necessity of raising supplies or the importance and extent of manufactures, have yet been able to discover, that distilled spirits are pernicious to society, and that the use of them can only be hindered by prohibiting the sale. For this reason, my lords, they have petitioned, that none of this delicious poison should be imported from. Britain; they have desired us to confine this fountain of wickedness and misery to stream in our own country, without pouring upon them those inundations of debauchery, by which we are ourselves overflowed. When we may be sent with justice to learn from the rude and ignorant Indians the first elements of civil wisdom, we have surely not much right to boast of our foresight and knowledge; we must surely confess, that we have hitherto valued ourselves upon our arts with very little reason, since we have not learned how to preserve either wealth or virtue, either peace or commerce. The maxims of our politicians, my lords, differ widely from those of the Indian savages, as they are the effects of longer consideration, and reasonings formed upon more extensive views. What Indian, my lords, would have contrived to hinder his countrymen from drunkenness, by placing that liquor in their houses which tempted them to excess; or would have discovered, that prohibition only were the cause of boundless excesses; that to subdue the appetite nothing was necessary but to solicit it; and that what was always offered would never be received? The Indians, in the simplicity of men unacquainted with European and British refinements, imagined, that to put an end to the use of any thing, it was only necessary to take it away; and conceived, that they could not promote sobriety more effectually, than by allowing the people nothing with which they could be drunk. But if our politicians should send missionaries to teach them the art of government, they would quickly be shown, that if they would accomplish their design, they must appoint every tenth man among them to distribute spirits to the nine, and to drink them himself in what quantity they shall desire, and that then the peace of their country will be no longer disturbed by the quarrels of debauchery. It is, indeed, not without amazement, that I hear this bill seriously defended as a scheme for suppressing drunkenness, and find some lords, who admit that fifty thousand houses will be opened for the publick sale of spirits, assert that a less quantity of spirits will be sold. The foundation of this opinion is in itself very uncertain; for nothing more is urged, but that all who sell under the sanction of a license, will be ready to inform against those by whom no license has been purchased; and that, therefore, fifty thousand licensed retailers may hurt a greater number who now sell spirits in opposition to the law. All this, my lords, is very far from certainty; for it cannot be proved, that there are now so great a number of retailers as this act may produce: it is likely that security will encourage many to engage in this trade, who are at present deterred from it by danger. It is possible, that those who purchase licenses may nevertheless forbear to prosecute those that sell spirits without the protection of the law. They may forbear, my lords, from the common principles of humanity, because they think those poor traders deserve rather pity than punishment; they may forbear from a principle that operates more frequently, and too often more strongly; a regard to their own interest. They may themselves offend the law by some other parts of their conduct, and may be unwilling to provoke an inspection into their own actions, by betraying officiously the faults of their neighbours; or they may be influenced by immediate terrours, and expect to be hunted to death by the rage of the populace. All these considerations may be urged against the only supposition that has been made, with any show of reason, in favour of the bill; and of these various circumstances, some one or other will almost always be found. Every man will have either fear or pity, because almost every good man is inclined to compassion, and every wicked man is in danger from the law; and I do not see any reason for imagining that the people will tolerate informers more willingly now than in the late years. But suppose it should be granted, though it cannot be certain, and has not yet been shown to be probable, that the clandestine trade will be interrupted; I am not able to follow these ministerial reasoners immediately to the consequence which they draw from this concession, and which must be drawn from it, if it be of any use in the decision of the question, nor can see that the consumption of spirituous liquors will be made less. Let us examine, my lords, the premises and the consequences together, without suffering our attention to be led astray by useless digressions. Spirits will be now sold only with license! therefore less will be sold than when it was sold only by stealth! Surely, my lords, such arguments will not much influence this assembly. Why, my lords, should less be bought now than formerly? It is not denied, that there will be in every place a licensed shop, where drunkards may riot in security; and what can be more inviting to wretches who place in drunkenness their utmost felicity I If you should favourably suppose no more to be sold, yet why should those who now buy any supposed quantity, buy less when the restraint is taken away? If it be urged, that the present law does in reality impose no restraint, the intended act will make no alteration. There is no real prohibition now, there will be no nominal prohibition hereafter; and, therefore, the law will only produce what its advocates expect from it, a yearly addition to the revenue of the government. But, my lords, let us at last inquire to what it is to be imputed, that the present law swells the statute book to no purpose? and why this pernicious trade is carried on with confidence and security, in opposition to the law? It will not surely be confessed, that the government has wanted authority to execute its own laws; that the legislature has been awed by the populace, by the dregs of the populace, the drunkards and the beggars! Yet when the provisions made for the execution of a law so salutary, so just, and so necessary, were found defective, why were not others substituted of greater efficacy? Why, when one informer was torn in pieces, were there not new securities proposed to protect those who should by the same offence displease the people afterwards? The law, my lords, has failed of a great part of its effect; but it has failed by cowardice on one part, and negligence on another; and though the duty, as it was laid, was in itself somewhat invidious, it would, however, have been enforced, could the revenue have gained as much by the punishment as was gained by the toleration of debauchery. It has, however, some effect; it may be imagined, that no man can be trusted where he is not known, and that some men are known too well to be trusted; and, therefore, many must be occasionally hindered from drinking spirits, while the law remains in its present state; who, when houses are set open by license, will never want an opportunity of complying with their appetites, but may at any time enter confidently, and call for poison, and mingle with numerous assemblies met only to provoke each other to intemperance by a kind of brutal emulation and obstreperous merriment. This bill, therefore, my lords, is, as it has been termed, only an experiment; an experiment, my lords, of a very daring kind, which none would hazard but empirical politicians. It is an experiment to discover how far the vices of the populace may be made useful to the government, what taxes may be raised upon poison, and how much the court may be enriched by the destruction of the subjects. The tendency of this bill is so evident, that those who appeared as its advocates have rather endeavoured to defeat their opponents by charging their proposals with absurdity, than by extenuating the ill consequence of their own scheme. Their principal charge is, that those who oppose the bill recommend a total prohibition of all spirits. This assertion gives them an opportunity of abandoning their own cause, to expatiate upon the innocent uses of spirits, of their efficacy in medicine, and their convenience in domestick business, and to advance a multitude of positions which they know will not be denied, but which may be at once made useless to them, by assuring them, that no man desires to destroy the distillery for the pleasure of destroying it, or intends any thing more than some provisions which may hinder distilled spirits from being drunk by common people upon common occasions. Having thus obviated the only answer that has hitherto been made to the strong arguments which have been offered against the bill, I must declare, that I have heard nothing else that deserves an answer, or that can possibly make any impression in favour of the bill; a bill, my lords, teeming with sedition and idleness, diseases and robberies; a bill that will enfeeble the body, corrupt the mind, and turn the cities of this populous kingdom into prisons for villains, or hospitals for cripples; and which I think it, therefore, our duty to reject. Lord LONSDALE next spoke to the effect following:--My lords, the bill, on which we are now finally to determine, is of such a tendency, that it cannot be made a law, without an open and avowed disregard of all the rules which it has been hitherto thought the general interest of human nature to preserve inviolable. It is opposite at once to the precepts of the wise, and the practice of the good, to the original principles of virtue and the established maxims of policy. I shall, however, only consider it with relation to policy, because the other considerations will naturally coincide; for policy is only the connexion of prudence with goodness, and directs only what virtue each particular occurrence requires to be immediately practised. The first principle of policy, my lords, teaches us, that the power and greatness of a state arises from the number of its people; uninhabited dominions are an empty show, and serve only to encumber the nation to which they belong; they are a kind of pompous ornaments, which must be thrown away in time of danger, and equally unfit for resistance and retreat. In the present war, my lords, if the number of our people were equal to that of the two nations against which we are engaged, the narrowness of our dominions would give us a resistless superiority; as we have fewer posts to defend, we might send more forces to attack our enemies, who must be weak in every part, because they must be dispersed to a very great extent. The torrent of war, as a flood of water, is only violent while it is confined, but loses its force as it is more diffused. In consequence of this maxim, my lords, it is proposed, that because we are at war against two mighty powers, we shall endeavour to destroy by spirits at home, those who cannot fall by the sword of the enemy, and that we endeavour to hinder the production of another generation; for it is well known, my lords, and has in this debate been universally allowed, that the present practice of drinking spirits will not only destroy the present race, but debilitate the next. This surely, my lords, is a time at which we ought very studiously to watch over the preservation of those lives which we are not compelled to expose, and endeavour to retrieve the losses of war by encouraging industry, temperance, and sobriety. Another principle of government which the wisdom of our progenitors established, was to suppress vice with the utmost diligence; for as vice must always produce misery to those whom it infects, and danger to those who are considered as its enemies, it is contrary to the end of government; and the government which encourages vice is necessarily labouring for its own destruction; for the good will not support it, because they are not benefited by it, and the wicked will betray it, because they are wicked. How little then, my lords, do our sagacious politicians understand their own interest by promoting drunkenness and luxury, of which the natural train of consequences are idleness, necessity, wickedness, desperation, sedition, and anarchy! How little do they understand what it is that gives stability to the fabrick of our constitution, if they imagine it can long stand, when it is not supported by virtue. In consequence of these maxims, another may be advanced, that all trades which tend to impair either the health or virtue of the people, should be interdicted; for since the strength of the community consists in the number and happiness of the people, no trade deserves to be cultivated which does not contribute to the one or the other; for the end of trade, as of all other human attempts, is the attainment of happiness. If any trade that conduces not to the happiness of the community by increasing either the number or the virtue of the people, be industriously cultivated, the legislature ought to suppress it; if any manufacture that administers temptations to wickedness be flourishing and extensive, it has already been too long indulged; and the government can atone for its remissness only by rigorous inhibition, severe prosecutions, and vigilant inquiries. That the trade of distilling, my lords, had advanced so fast among us, that our manufacturers of poison are arrived at the utmost degree of skill in their profession, and that the draughts which they prepare are greedily swallowed by those who rarely look beyond the present moment, or inquire what price must be paid for the present gratification; that the people have been so long accustomed to daily stupefaction, that they are become mutinous, if they are restrained from it; and that the law which was intended to suppress their luxury cannot, without tumults and bloodshed, be put in execution, are, in my opinion, very affecting considerations, but they can surely be of no use for the defence of this bill. The more extensive the trade of distilling, the more must swallow the poison which it affords; the more palatable the liquor is made, the more dangerous is the temptation; and the more corrupt the people are become, the more urgent is the necessity of extirpating those that have corrupted them. I am not, my lords, less convinced of the importance of trade, than those lords who have spoken in the most pathetick language for the continuance of the manufacture; but my regard for trade naturally determines me to vote against a bill by which idleness, the pest of commerce, must be encouraged, and those hands, by which our trade is to be carried on, must be first enfeebled, and soon afterwards destroyed. Nor is this kind of debauchery, my lords, less destructive to the interest of those whose riches consist in lands, than of those who are engaged in commerce; for it undoubtedly hinders the consumption of almost every thing that land can produce; of that corn which should be made into bread, and brewed into more wholesome drink; of that flesh which is fed for the market, and even of that wool which should be worked into cloth. It has been often mentioned ludicrously, but with too much truth, that strong liquors are to the meaner people, meat, drink, and clothes; that they depend upon them alone for sustenance and warmth, and that they desire to forget their wants in drunkenness rather than supply them. If we, therefore, examine this question with regard to trade, we shall find, that the money which is spent in drunkenness for the advantage only of one distiller, would support, if otherwise expended, a great number of labourers, husbandmen, and traders; since one man employed at the still may supply with the means of debauchery such numbers as could not be furnished with innocent victuals and warm clothes, but by the industry of many hands, and the concurrence of many trades. Numbers, my lords, are necessary to success in commerce as in war; if the manufacturers be few, labour will be dear, and the value of the commodity must always be proportioned to the price of labour. These, my lords, are the arguments by which I have hitherto been incited to oppose this bill, which I have not found that any of its defenders can elude or repel; for they content themselves with a cowardly concession to the multitude, allow them to proceed in wickedness, confess they have found themselves unable to oppose their sovereign pleasure, or to withhold them from pursuing their own inclinations; and, therefore, have sagaciously contrived a scheme, by which they hope to gain some advantage from the vices which they cannot reform. But who, my lords, can, without horrour and indignation, hear those who are entrusted with the care of the publick, contriving to take advantage of the ruin of their country? Let others, my lords, vote as their consciences will direct them, I shall likewise follow the dictates of my heart, and shall avoid any concurrence with a scheme, which, though it may for a time benefit the government, must destroy the strength and virtue of the people, and at once impair our trade and depopulate our country. Lord CARTERET then rose up, and spoke in substance as follows:--My lords, the warmth with which this debate has been hitherto carried on, and with which the progress of this bill has been opposed, is, in my opinion, to be imputed to strong prejudices, formed when the question was first proposed; by which the noble lords have been incited to warm declamations and violent invectives; who, having once heated their minds with suspicions, have not been able to consider the propositions before them with calmness and impartiality; but have pursued their first notions, and have employed their eloquence in displaying the absurdity of positions never advanced, and the mischief of consequences which will never be produced. It is first to be considered, my lords, that this bill is intended, not to promote, but to hinder, the consumption of spirituous liquors; it is, therefore, by no means necessary to expatiate upon that which is presupposed in the bill, the pernicious quality of spirits, the detestable nature of drunkenness, the wickedness or miseries which are produced by it. Almost all that has been urged by the noble lords who have spoken with the greatest warmth against the bill, may reasonably be conceived to have been advanced for it by those who projected it; of whom it may be justly imagined, that they were fully convinced how much spirits were abused by the common people, and how much that abuse contributed to the wickedness which at present prevails amongst us, since they thought it necessary to prevent them by a new law. But, my lords, when they saw that the abuse of distilled liquors was in a very high degree detrimental to the publick, they saw, likewise, that the trade of distilling was of great use; that it employed great numbers of our people, and consumed a great part of the produce of our lands; and that, therefore, it could not be suppressed, without injuring the publick, by reducing many families to sudden poverty, and by depriving the farmers of a market for a great part of their corn. In the plains of the western part of this island, the grain that is chiefly cultivated is barley, and that barley is chiefly consumed by the distillers; nor, if they should be at once suppressed, could the husbandman readily sell the produce of his labour and his grounds, or the landlord receive rent for his estate; since it would then produce nothing, or what is in effect the same, nothing that could be sold. It is, indeed, possible, my lords, that the Dutch might buy it; but then it must be considered, that we must pay them money for the favour, since we allow a premium upon exportation, and that we shall buy it back again in spirits, and, consequently, pay them for manufacturing our own product. For it is not to be imagined, that any law will immediately reclaim the dispositions, or reform the appetites of the people. They are well known to have drank spirits before they were made in our country, and to indulge themselves at present in many kinds of luxury which are yet loaded with a very high tax. It is not, therefore, probable, that upon the imposition of a high duty they will immediately desist from drinking spirits; they will, indeed, as now, drink those which can be most easily procured; and if, by a high tax suddenly imposed, foreign spirits be made cheaper than our own, foreign spirits will only be used, our distillery will be destroyed, and our people will yet not be reformed. That heavy taxes will not deter the people from any favourite enjoyment, has been already shown by the unsuccessfulness of the last attempt to restrain them from the use of spirits, and may be every day discovered from the use of tobacco, which is universally taken by the common people, though a very high duty is laid upon it, and though a king thought it so pernicious that he employed his pen against it. The commons, therefore, prudently forbore to use violent measures, which might disgust the people, but which they had no reason to believe sufficient to reform them, and thought it more expedient to proceed by more gentle methods, which might operate by imperceptible degrees, and which might be made more forcible and compulsive, if they should be found ineffectual. Another evil will by this method, likewise, be avoided, which is the certain consequence of high duties; this tax will produce no clandestine frauds nor rebellious defiance of the legislature; the distillers will not be tempted to evade this impost by perjuries, too often practised where the profit of them is great, nor smugglers to assemble in numerous troops with arms in their hands, and carry imported liquors through the country by force, in opposition to the officers of the customs, and the laws of the nation. That this, likewise, is practised upon other occasions to escape heavy taxes, all the weekly papers inform us; nor are there many months in which some of the king's officers are not maimed or murdered doing of their duty. All these evils, my lords, and a thousand others, will be avoided by an easy tax; in favour of which I cannot but wonder, that it should be necessary to plead so long, since every nation, which has any pretension to civility or a regular government, will agree, that heavy imposts are not to be wantonly inflicted, and that severity is never to be practised till lenity has failed. It, therefore, appears to me, my lords, that justice, reason, and experience, unite in favour of this bill; and that nothing is to be feared from it, but that it will not be sufficiently coercive, nor restrain the abuse of spirits so much as is hoped by those that have stood up in its vindication. That it can encourage drunkenness, or increase the consumption of distilled liquors, is surely impossible; for they are now drunk without restraint; and therefore no restraint will be taken away: and since their price must be increased by a double duty, it may reasonably be conceived, that those who now spend all that they can gain by their labour in drunkenness, must be content with less than before, because they will have no more to spend; and what has hitherto enabled them to riot in debauchery will no longer be sufficient for the same purposes; the same excess will require more money, and more money cannot be had. I do not affirm, my lords, that the success of this bill is demonstrably certain; nor can I deny that many arguments have been alleged against it which cannot easily be confuted; all that I can venture to assert is, that in my opinion, the reasons _for_ the bill preponderate, not that those _against_ it, are without weight. Of this, at least, we are certain, that the bill can produce no ill consequences; and that if the experience of the ensuing year shall show it to be ineffectual, it may be amended in the next session by new provisions, which we shall be then more able to adjust for the benefit of the publick. All laws, especially those which regard complicated and intricate affairs, have been perfected by degrees; experience has discovered those deficiencies which sagacity could not foresee, and the progress of human wisdom has been always slow. To charge any scheme with imperfection, is only to allege that it is the production of men, of beings finite in their capacity, and liable to errour; nor do I see what can be recommended to such beings, more than what the government is now endeavouring to practise, that nothing should be done precipitately, and that experience should always be trusted rather than conjecture. Lord LONSDALE next spoke to the effect following:--My lords, the arguments of the noble lord have by no means influenced me to alter my opinion; nor do I now rise up to pronounce a recantation of any of my former assertions, but to explain one of them, which the noble lord has been pleased to controvert. He observes, in opposition to my argument, that the distillery contributes to the consumption of the produce of our grounds, and, by consequence, to the advantage of those who possess them; but I, my lords, am inclined to believe that it produces a contrary effect, and that it hinders the consumption, even of that grain which is employed in it. We may reasonably suppose, my lords, that they who now drink distilled liquors, would, if they were debarred from them, endeavour to obtain from ale and beer the same renovation of their vigour, and relaxation of their cares; and that, therefore, more ale would be brewed, as there would be more purchasers: if, therefore, the same quantity of malt, which is sufficient, when distilled, to produce intoxication, would, when brewed into ale, have the same effect, the consumption would still be the same, whether ale or spirits were in use; but it is certain, that the fourth part of the malt which is necessary to furnish ale for a debauch, will, when exalted in the still, be sufficient to satisfy the most greedy drunkard; and it is, therefore, evident, that he who drinks ale, consumes more barley by three parts in four than he who indulges, the use of spirits, supposing them both equally criminal in the excess of their enjoyments. The noble lord has taken occasion to mention tobacco as an instance of the obstinacy with which the people persevere in a practice to which they are addicted. Of the obstinacy of the people, my lords, I am sufficiently convinced; but hope that it will never be able to overpower the legislature, who ought to enforce their laws, and invigorate their efforts in proportion to the atrociousness of the corruption which they are endeavouring to extirpate: nor do I think so meanly of government, as to believe it unable to repress drunkenness or luxury, or in danger of being subverted in a contest about spirits or tobacco. Tobacco, indeed, has not properly been produced as an instance; for I never heard, that however it may be disapproved by particular men, of whatever rank or abilities, it was prohibited by law; nor should I think any such prohibition necessary or reasonable; for tobacco, my lords, is not poison, like distilled spirits, nor is the use of it so much injurious to health, as offensive to delicacy. The poisonous and destructive quality of these liquors is confessed by the noble lord, a confession with which I find it very difficult to reconcile his solicitude for the distillery; for when it is once granted, that spirits corrupt the mind, weaken the limbs, impair virtue, and shorten life, any arguments in favour of those who manufacture them come too late, since no advantage can be equivalent to the loss of honesty and life. When the noble lord has urged that the distillery employs great numbers of hands, and, therefore, ought to be encouraged, may it not, upon his own concession, be replied, that those numbers are employed in murder, and that their trade ought, like that of other murderers, to be stopped? When he urges that much of our grain is consumed in the still, may we not answer, and answer irresistibly, that it is consumed by being turned into poison, instead of bread? And can a stronger argument be imagined for the suppression of this detestable business, than that it employs multitudes, and that it is gainful and extensive? Nor can I discover, my lords, how the care of preserving the distillery is consistent with the ends which the preamble in this bill declares to be proposed, or which the advocates for it appear to desire. If the consumption of distilled spirits is to be hindered, how is the distillery to remain uninjured? If the trade of distilling is not to be impaired, what shall hinder the consumption of spirits? So far as this bill operates, the distillers must be impoverished by it; and if they may properly and justly suffer a small diminution of their profit for a small advantage to the publick, why will not a greater benefit be equivalent to a greater diminution? Nothing, my lords, is more apparent, than that the real design of this bill, however its defenders may endeavour to conceal it in the mist of sophistry, is to lay only such a tax as may increase the revenue; and that they have no desire of suppressing that vice which may be made useful to their private purpose, nor feel any regret to fill the exchequer by the slaughter of the people. Lord AYLESFORD then rose up, and spoke to the following purpose:--My lords, the noble lord who spoke last in defence of this new scheme, appears to have imbibed very strong prejudices in favour of the distillery, from which he finds it practicable to draw large sums for the support of the measures which have been already formed, and which he, therefore, considers as the most important and beneficial trade of the British nation. It is not improbable, my lords, that in a short time all the provisions which have been made by the wisdom of our ancestors for the support of the woollen manufacture, will be transferred for the encouragement of the distillery, which appears to be at present the reigning favourite; for it is evident, that both manufactures cannot subsist together, and that either must be continued by the ruin of the other. Of these rivals, which is doomed to fall we may conjecture from the encomium just now bestowed upon the prudence of the commons, by whom the darling distillery has been so tenderly treated; yet that the trade, in which the bounty of nature has enabled us to excel all other nations of the world, may not be suffered to perish in silence, I will take this opportunity to declare, that this boasted prudence can, in my opinion, produce no other effects than poverty and ruin, private calamities, and general wickedness; that by encouraging drunkenness at the expense of trade, it will stop all the currents by which the gold of foreign nations has flowed upon us, and expose us to conquest and to slavery. [Thus ended this memorable debate. The question being put, was determined in favour of the bill by 57 against 38.] END 
9823	----	Distributed Proofreaders DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS. LIVES OF THE POETS. VOL. I. THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. IN NINE VOLUMES. VOLUME THE SEVENTH. MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS OF THE SEVENTH VOLUME. THE LIVES OF THE ENGLISH POETS. Cowley Denham Milton Butler Rochester Roscommon Otway Waller Pomfret Dorset Stepney J. Philips Walsh Dryden Smith Duke King Sprat Halifax Parnell Garth Rowe Addison Hughes Sheffield, duke of Buckinghamshire PREFATORY NOTICE TO THE LIVES OF THE POETS. Such was the simple and unpretending advertisement that announced the Lives of the English Poets; a work that gave to the British nation a new style of biography. Johnson's decided taste for this species of writing, and his familiarity with the works of those whose lives he has recorded, peculiarly fitted him for the task; but it has been denounced by some as dogmatical, and even morose; minute critics have detected inaccuracies; the admirers of particular authors have complained of an insufficiency of praise to the objects of their fond and exclusive regard; and the political zealot has affected to decry the staunch and unbending champion of regal and ecclesiastical rights. Those, again, of high and imaginative minds, who "lift themselves up to look to the sky of poetry, and far removed from the dull-making cataract of Nilus, listen to the planet-like music of poetry;" these accuse Johnson of a heavy and insensible soul, because he avowed that nature's "world was brazen, and that the poets only delivered a golden[1]." But in spite of the censures of political opponents, private friends, and angry critics, it will be acknowledged, by the impartial, and by every lover of virtue and of truth, that Johnson's honest heart, penetrating mind, and powerful intellect, has given to the world memoirs fraught with what is infinitely more valuable than mere verbal criticism, or imaginative speculation; he has presented, in his Lives of the English Poets, the fruits of his long and careful examination of men and manners, and repeated in his age, with the authoritative voice of experience, the same dignified lessons of morality, with which he had instructed his readers in his earlier years. And if these lives contained few merits of their own, they confessedly amended the criticism of the nation, and opened the path to a more enlarged and liberal style of biography than had, before their publication, appeared. The bold manner in which Johnson delivered what he believed to be the truth, naturally provoked hostile attack, and we are not prepared to say, that, in many instances, the strictures passed upon him might not be just. We will call the attention of our readers to some few of the charges brought against the work now before us, and then leave it to their candid and unbiased judgment to decide, whether the deficiencies pointed out are but as dust in the balance, when brought to weigh against the sterling excellence with which this last and greatest production of our Moralist abounds. He has been accused of indulging a spirit of political animosity, of an illiberal and captious method of criticism, of frequent inaccuracies, and of a general haughtiness of manner, indicative of a feeling of superiority over the subjects of his memorial. In the life of Milton his political prejudices are most apparent. It is not our duty, neither our inclination, in this place, to discuss the accuracy of Johnson's political wisdom. We cannot, however, but respect the integrity with which he clung to the instructions of his youth, amidst poverty, and all those inconveniencies which usually drive men to a discontent with things as they are. Those who censure him without qualification or reserve, are as bad, or worse, on the opposite side. They accuse him of narrow-minded prejudice, and of bigoted attachment to powers that be with a rancour little befitting the liberality of which they make such vaunting professions. Johnson had a really benevolent heart, but despised and detested the affectation of a sentimental and universal philanthropy, which neglects the practical charities of home and kindred, in its wild and excursive flights after distant and romantic objects. He was no tyrant, even in theory, but he dreaded, and, therefore, sought to expose, the lurking designs of those who opposed constituted authorities, because they hated subjection; and who, when they gained power themselves, proved the well-grounded nature of the fears entertained respecting their sincerity. Johnson was a firm English character, and his surly expressions were often philanthropy in disguise. They have little studied his real disposition, who impute his occasional austerity of manner to misanthropy at heart. The man who is smooth to all alike, is frequently the friend of none, and those who entertain no aversions, have, perhaps, few of the warmer emotions of friendship. In dwelling thus long on a part of Johnson's character, on which we have elsewhere[2] avowed that we could not speak with perfect pleasure, we are not attempting to vindicate him in all his violent reproaches of those whom he politically disliked. We would, however, wish to deprecate unmitigated condemnation, and also to ask, whether the conduct of those whom he denounced, was not, in its turn, so harsh and arbitrary, as almost to justify the utmost severity of censure. Were they not men who would "scarcely believe in the substance of their liberty, if they did not see it cast a shadow of slavery over others." With respect to Johnson's powers as a critic, we confess that he had but little natural taste for poetry, as such; for that poetry of emotion which produces in its cultivators and admirers an intensity of excitement, to which language can scarcely afford an utterance, to which art can give no body, and which spreads a dream and a glory around us. All this Johnson felt not, and, therefore, understood not; for he wanted that deep feeling which is the only sure and unerring test of poetic excellence. He sought the didactic in poetry, and wished for reasoning in numbers. Hence his undivided admiration of Pope and the French school, who cultivated exclusively the poetry of idea, where each moral problem is worked out with detailed, and often tedious, analysis; where all intense emotion is frittered away by a ratiocinative process. Johnson, we repeat, had no natural perception nor relish for the high and excursive range of poetic fancy, and the age at which he composed his criticisms on the English poets, was far advanced beyond that when purely imaginative poetry usually affords delight. Hence, no doubt, proceeded his capricious strictures on the odes of Gray to which we, with painful candour, advert. In criticism and in poetry, for indignation only poured forth the torrent of his song, he kept steadily in view the interests of morality and virtue: these he would not compromise for the glitter of genius, and for their maintenance of these, the main objects of his own life and labour, he praised many an author whom other more courtly critics have thought it not cruelty to ridicule. He sums up his eulogium on a poet with the reflection, that he left No line which, dying, he could wish to blot. Johnson has also not escaped animadversion for entitling his collection The Lives of the English Poets, when he has taken so confined a range. It must be remembered, that he only professed, in the first instance, to prefix lives to the works which the booksellers chose to publish; he was, therefore, confined to a task, at which he more than once expressed his repugnance to Boswell. It should also, in fairness to his memory, be borne in mind, that he wrote, as he confesses in his preface, from scanty materials, and on various authors. It was very easy, therefore, for each successive biographer, who devoted his time to the collection of memoirs for some single individual, to point out inaccuracies in Johnson's general statements; and very natural, also for one who had contracted an affection for the subject of his labours, by continually having him present in his thoughts, to carp at all those who were not as alive to the merits, and as blind to the defects of his idol as himself. But Johnson, feeling a manly consciousness of ability, which he affected not to hide, was not dazzled by the lustre of brilliant talents, and was far too honest to veil from public view the faults and failings of the sons of genius. This he did not from a sour delight in detecting and exposing the frailties of his fellow men, but from a belief that, in so doing, he was promoting the good of mankind. "It is particularly the duty," says he, "of those who consign illustrious names to posterity, to take care lest their readers be misled by ambiguous examples. That writer may justly be condemned as an enemy to goodness, who suffers fondness or interest to confound right with wrong, or to shelter the faults, which even the wisest and the best have committed, from that ignominy which guilt ought always to suffer, and with which it should be more deeply stigmatized, when dignified by its neighbourhood to uncommon worth: since we shall be in danger of beholding it without abhorrence, unless its turpitude be laid open, and the eye secured from the deception of surrounding splendour[3]." "If nothing but the bright side of characters should be shown," he once remarked to Malone, "we should sit down in despondency, and think it utterly impossible to imitate them in any thing[4]." It was this conscientious freedom, we believe, that has, more than any other cause, subjected the Lives of the Poets to severe censure. We readily avow this our belief, since we are persuaded that it is now generally admitted by all, but those who are influenced by an irreligious or a party spirit. We might diffuse these remarks to a wide extent, by allusions to the opinions of different authors on the Lives, and by critiques on the separate memoirs themselves; but we will not longer occupy our readers, since the literary history of the Lives has been elsewhere so fully detailed, and is now so almost universally known[5]. What we have already advanced, has chiefly been with a view to invite to the perusal of a work, which, for sound criticism, instructive memoir, pleasing diction, and pure morality, must constitute the most lasting monument of Johnson's fame. [Footnote 1: See sir Philip Sidney's Defence of Poetry.] [Footnote 2: See vol. vi. 153.] [Footnote 3: Rambler, 164.] [Footnote 4: See Malone's letter, in Boswell, iv. 55.] [Footnote 5: See Boswell; Dr. Drake's Literary Life of Johnson; and, since we dread not examination, Potter's Inquiry into some Passages in Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets; Graves's Recollections of Shenstone; Mitford's preface to Gray's works; Roscoe's preface to Pope's works, &c.] COWLEY The life of Cowley, notwithstanding the penury of English biography, has been written by Dr. Sprat, an author whose pregnancy of imagination and elegance of language have deservedly set him high in the ranks of literature; but his zeal of friendship, or ambition of eloquence, has produced a funeral oration rather than a history: he has given the character, not the life, of Cowley; for he writes with so little detail, that scarcely any thing is distinctly known, but all is shown confused and enlarged through the mist of panegyrick. Abraham Cowley was born in the year one thousand six hundred and eighteen. His father was a grocer, whose condition Dr. Sprat conceals under the general appellation of a citizen; and, what would probably not have been less carefully suppressed, the omission of his name in the register of St. Dunstan's parish gives reason to suspect that his father was a sectary. Whoever he was, he died before the birth of his son, and, consequently, left him to the care of his mother; whom Wood represents as struggling earnestly to procure him a literary education, and who, as she lived to the age of eighty, had her solicitude rewarded, by seeing her son eminent, and, I hope, by seeing him fortunate, and partaking his prosperity. We know, at least, from Sprat's account, that he always acknowledged her care, and justly paid the dues of filial gratitude. In the window of his mother's apartment lay Spenser's Fairy Queen; in which he very early took delight to read, till, by feeling the charms of verse, he became, as he relates, irrecoverably a poet. Such are the accidents which, sometimes remembered, and, perhaps, sometimes forgotten, produce that particular designation of mind, and propensity for some certain science or employment, which is commonly called genius. The true genius is a mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some particular direction. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter of the present age, had the first fondness for his art excited by the perusal of Richardson's treatise. By his mother's solicitation he was admitted into Westminster school, where he was soon distinguished. He was wont, says Sprat, to relate, "that he had this defect in his memory at that time, that his teachers never could bring it to retain the ordinary rules of grammar." This is an instance of the natural desire of man to propagate a wonder. It is, surely, very difficult to tell any thing as it was heard, when Sprat could not refrain from amplifying a commodious incident, though the book to which he prefixed his narrative, contained its confutation. A memory admitting some things and rejecting others, an intellectual digestion that concocted the pulp of learning, but refused the husks, had the appearance of an instinctive elegance, of a particular provision made by nature for literary politeness. But, in the author's own honest relation, the marvel vanishes: he was, he says, such "an enemy to all constraint, that his master never could prevail on him to learn the rules without book." He does not tell, that he could not learn the rules; but that, being able to perform his exercises without them, and being an "enemy to constraint," he spared himself the labour. Among the English poets, Cowley, Milton, and Pope, might be said "to lisp in numbers;" and have given such early proofs, not only of powers of language, but of comprehension of things, as, to more tardy minds, seems scarcely credible. But of the learned puerilities of Cowley there is no doubt, since a volume of his poems was not only written, but printed, in his thirteenth year[6]; containing, with other poetical compositions, the Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe, written when he was ten years old; and Constantia and Philetus, written two years after. While he was yet at school, he produced a comedy, called, Love's Riddle, though it was not published, till he had been some time at Cambridge. This comedy is of the pastoral kind, which requires no acquaintance with the living world, and, therefore, the time at which it was composed adds little to the wonders of Cowley's minority. In 1636, he was removed to Cambridge[7], where he continued his studies with great intenseness; for he is said to have written, while he was yet a young student, the greater part of his Davideis; a work of which the materials could not have been collected without the study of many years, but by a mind of the greatest vigour and activity. Two years after his settlement at Cambridge he published Love's Riddle, with a poetical dedication to sir Kenelm Digby, of whose acquaintance all his contemporaries seem to have been ambitious; and Naufragium Joculare, a comedy, written in Latin, but without due attention to the ancient models; for it is not loose verse, but mere prose. It was printed with a dedication in verse, to Dr. Comber, master of the college; but, having neither the facility of a popular, nor the accuracy of a learned work, it seems to be now universally neglected. At the beginning of the civil war, as the prince passed through Cambridge, in his way to York, he was entertained with a representation of the Guardian, a comedy, which, Cowley says, was neither written nor acted, but rough-drawn by him, and repeated by the scholars. That this comedy was printed during his absence from his country, he appears to have considered as injurious to his reputation; though, during the suppression of the theatres, it was sometimes privately acted with sufficient approbation. In 1643, being now master of arts, he was, by the prevalence of the parliament, ejected from Cambridge, and sheltered himself at St. John's college, in Oxford; where, as is said by Wood, he published a satire, called the Puritan and Papist, which was only inserted in the last collection of his works[8]; and so distinguished himself by the warmth of his loyalty and the elegance of his conversation, that he gained the kindness and confidence of those who attended the king, and, amongst others, of lord Falkland, whose notice cast a lustre on all to whom it was extended. About the time when Oxford was surrendered to the parliament, he followed the queen to Paris, where he became secretary to the lord Jermyn, afterwards earl of St. Alban's, and was employed in such correspondence as the royal cause required, and particularly in ciphering and deciphering the letters that passed between the king and queen; an employment of the highest confidence and honour. So wide was his province of intelligence, that, for several years, it filled all his days and two or three nights in the week. In the year 1647, his Mistress was published; for he imagined, as he declared in his preface to a subsequent edition, that "poets are scarcely thought freemen of their company without paying some duties, or obliging themselves to be true to love." This obligation to amorous ditties owes, I believe, its original to the fame of Petrarch, who, in an age rude and uncultivated, by his tuneful homage to his Laura, refined the manners of the lettered world, and filled Europe with love and poetry. But the basis of all excellence is truth: he that professes love ought to feel its power. Petrarch was a real lover, and Laura doubtless deserved his tenderness. Of Cowley, we are told by Barnes, who had means enough of information, that, whatever he may talk of his own inflammability, and the variety of characters by which his heart was divided, he, in reality, was in love but once, and then never had resolution to tell his passion. This consideration cannot but, abate, in some measure, the reader's esteem for the work and the author. To love excellence is natural; it is natural, likewise, for the lover to solicit reciprocal regard by an elaborate display of his own qualifications. The desire of pleasing has, in different men, produced actions of heroism, and effusions of wit; but it seems as reasonable to appear the champion as the poet of an "airy nothing," and to quarrel as to write for what Cowley might have learned from his master Pindar, to call "the dream of a shadow." It is surely not difficult, in the solitude of a college, or in the bustle of the world, to find useful studies and serious employment. No man needs to be so burdened with life, as to squander it in voluntary dreams of fictitious occurrences. The man that sits down to suppose himself charged with treason or peculation, and heats his mind to an elaborate purgation of his character from crimes which he was never within the possibility of committing, differs only by the infrequency of his folly from him who praises beauty which he never saw; complains of jealousy which he never felt; supposes himself sometimes invited, and sometimes forsaken; fatigues his fancy, and ransacks his memory, for images which may exhibit the gaiety of hope, or the gloominess of despair; and dresses his imaginary Chloris or Phyllis, sometimes in flowers fading as her beauty, and sometimes in gems lasting as her virtues. At Paris, as secretary to lord Jermyn, he was engaged in transacting things of real importance with real men and real women, and, at that time, did not much employ his thoughts upon phantoms of gallantry. Some of his letters to Mr. Bennet, afterwards earl of Arlington, from April to December, in 1650, are preserved in Miscellanea Aulica, a collection of papers, published by Brown. These letters, being written, like those of other men, whose minds are more on things than words, contribute no otherwise to his reputation, than as they show him to have been above the affectation of unseasonable elegance, and to have known, that the business of a statesman can be little forwarded by flowers of rhetorick. One passage, however, seems not unworthy of some notice. Speaking of the Scotch treaty, then in agitation: "The Scotch treaty," says he, "is the only thing now in which we are vitally concerned; I am one of the last hopers, and yet cannot now abstain from believing that an agreement will be made; all people upon the place incline to that of union. The Scotch will moderate something of the rigour of their demands; the mutual necessity of an accord is visible, the king is persuaded of it. And, to tell you the truth, which I take to be an argument above all the rest, Virgil has told the same thing to that purpose." This expression from a secretary of the present time would be considered as merely ludicrous, or, at most, as an ostentatious display of scholarship; but the manners of that time were so tinged with superstition, that I cannot but suspect Cowley of having consulted, on this great occasion, the Virgilian lots[9], and to have given some credit to the answer of his oracle. Some years afterwards, "business," says Sprat, "passed of course into other hands;" and Cowley, being no longer useful at Paris, was, in 1656, sent back into England, that, "under pretence of privacy and retirement, he might take occasion of giving notice of the posture of things in this nation." Soon after his return to London, he was seized by some messengers of the usurping powers, who were sent out in quest of another man; and, being examined, was put into confinement, from which he was not dismissed without the security of a thousand pounds, given by Dr. Scarborough. This year he published his poems, with a preface, in which he seems to have inserted something suppressed in subsequent editions, which was interpreted to denote some relaxation of his loyalty. In this preface he declares, that "his desire had been for some days past, and did still very vehemently continue, to retire himself to some of the American plantations, and to forsake this world for ever." From the obloquy which the appearance of submission to the usurpers brought upon him, his biographer has been very diligent to clear him, and, indeed, it does not seem to have lessened his reputation. His wish for retirement we can easily believe to be undissembled; a man harassed in one kingdom, and persecuted in another, who, after a course of business that employed all his days, and half his nights, in ciphering and deciphering, comes to his own country, and steps into a prison, will be willing enough to retire to some place of quiet and of safety. Yet let neither our reverence for a genius, nor our pity for a sufferer, dispose us to forget, that, if his activity was virtue, his retreat was cowardice[10]. He then took upon himself the character of physician, still, according to Sprat, with intention "to dissemble the main design of his coming over;" and, as Mr. Wood relates, "complying with the men then in power, which was much taken notice of by the royal party, he obtained an order to be created doctor of physick; which being done to his mind, whereby he gained the ill will of some of his friends, he went into France again, having made a copy of verses on Oliver's death." This is no favourable representation, yet even in this not much wrong can be discovered. How far he complied with the men in power, is to be inquired before he can be blamed. It is not said, that he told them any secrets, or assisted them by intelligence or any other act. If he only promised to be quiet, that they in whose hands he was might free him from confinement, he did what no law of society prohibits. The man whose miscarriage in a just cause has put him in the power of his enemy may, without any violation of his integrity, regain his liberty, or preserve his life, by a promise of neutrality; for, the stipulation gives the enemy nothing which he had not before: the neutrality of a captive may be always secured by his imprisonment or death. He that is at the disposal of another may not promise to aid him in any injurious act, because no power can compel active obedience. He may engage to do nothing, but not to do ill. There is reason to think that Cowley promised little. It does not appear that his compliance gained him confidence enough to be trusted without security, for the bond of his bail was never cancelled; nor that it made him think himself secure, for, at that dissolution of government which followed the death of Oliver, he returned into France, where he resumed his former station, and staid till the restoration[11]. "He continued," says his biographer, "under these bonds, till the general deliverance;" it is, therefore, to be supposed, that he did not go to France, and act again for the king, without the consent of his bondsman; that he did not show his loyalty at the hazard of his friend, but by his friend's permission. Of the verses on Oliver's death, in which Wood's narrative seems to imply something encomiastick, there has been no appearance. There is a discourse concerning his government, indeed, with verses intermixed, but such as certainly gained its author no friends among the abettors of usurpation. A doctor of physick, however, he was made at Oxford, in December, 1657; and, in the commencement of the Royal Society, of which an account has been given by Dr. Birch, he appears busy among the experimental philosophers, with the title of Dr. Cowley. There is no reason for supposing that he ever attempted practice: but his preparatory studies have contributed something to the honour of his country. Considering botany as necessary to a physician, he retired into Kent to gather plants; and as the predominance of a favourite study affects all subordinate operations of the intellect, botany, in the mind of Cowley, turned into poetry. He composed, in Latin, several books on plants, of which the first and second display the qualities of herbs, in elegiac verse; the third and fourth, the beauties of flowers, in various measures; and the fifth and sixth, the uses of trees, in heroick numbers. At the same time were produced, from the same university, the two great poets, Cowley and Milton, of dissimilar genius, of opposite principles; but concurring in the cultivation of Latin poetry, in which the English, till their works and May's poem appeared[12], seemed unable to contest the palm with any other of the lettered nations. If the Latin performances of Cowley and Milton be compared, (for May I hold to be superiour to both,) the advantage seems to lie on the side of Cowley. Milton is generally content to express the thoughts of the ancients in their language; Cowley, without much loss of purity or elegance, accommodates the diction of Rome to his own conceptions. At the restoration, after all the diligence of his long service, and with consciousness not only of the merit of fidelity, but of the dignity of great abilities, he naturally expected ample preferments; and, that he might not be forgotten by his own fault, wrote a song of triumph. But this was a time of such general hope, that great numbers were inevitably disappointed; and Cowley found his reward very tediously delayed. He had been promised, by both Charles the first and second, the mastership of the Savoy, "but he lost it," says Wood, "by certain persons, enemies to the muses." The neglect of the court was not his only mortification; having by such alteration, as he thought proper, fitted his old comedy of the Guardian for the stage, he produced it[13], under the title of the Cutter of Coleman street[14]. It was treated on the stage with great severity, and was afterwards censured as a satire on the king's party. Mr. Dryden, who went with Mr. Sprat to the first exhibition, related to Mr. Dennis, "that, when they told Cowley how little favour had been shown him, he received the news of his ill success, not with so much firmness as might have been expected from so great a man." What firmness they expected, or what weakness Cowley discovered, cannot be known. He that misses his end will never be as much pleased as he that attains it, even when he can impute no part of his failure to himself; and when the end is to please the multitude, no man, perhaps, has a right, in things admitting of gradation and comparison, to throw the whole blame upon his judges, and totally to exclude diffidence and shame by a haughty consciousness of his own excellence. For the rejection of this play, it is difficult now to find the reason: it certainly has, in a very great degree, the power of fixing attention and exciting merriment. From the charge of disaffection he exculpates himself, in his preface, by observing, how unlikely it is, that, having followed the royal family through all their distresses, "he should choose the time of their restoration to begin a quarrel with them." It appears, however, from the Theatrical Register of Downes, the prompter, to have been popularly considered as a satire on the royalists. That he might shorten this tedious suspense, he published his pretensions and his discontent, in an ode called the Complaint; in which he styles himself the _melancholy_ Cowley. This met with the usual fortune of complaints, and seems to have excited more contempt than pity. These unlucky incidents are brought, maliciously enough, together in some stanzas, written about that time on the choice of a laureate; a mode of satire, by which, since it was first introduced by Suckling, perhaps, every generation of poets has been teased. Savoy-missing Cowley came into the court, Making apologies for his bad play; Every one gave him so good a report, That Apollo gave heed to all he could say: Nor would he have had, 'tis thought, a rebuke, Unless he had done some notable folly; Writ verses unjustly in praise of Sam Tuke, Or printed his pitiful Melancholy. His vehement desire of retirement now came again upon him. "Not finding," says the morose Wood, "that preferment conferred upon him which he expected, while others for their money carried away most places, he retired discontented into Surrey." "He was now," says the courtly Sprat, "weary of the vexations and formalities of an active condition. He had been perplexed with a long compliance to foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of a court; which sort of life, though his virtue made it innocent to him, yet nothing could make it quiet. Those were the reasons that moved him to follow the violent inclination of his own mind, which, in the greatest throng of his former business, had still called upon him, and represented to him the true delights of solitary studies, of temperate pleasures, and a moderate revenue below the malice and flatteries of fortune." So differently are things seen! and so differently are they shown! But actions are visible, though motives are secret. Cowley certainly retired; first to Barn-elms, and afterwards to Chertsey, in Surrey. He seems, however, to have lost part of his dread of the "hum of men[15]." He thought himself now safe enough from intrusion, without the defence of mountains and oceans; and, instead of seeking shelter in America, wisely went only so far from the bustle of life as that he might easily find his way back, when solitude should grow tedious. His retreat was, at first, but slenderly accommodated; yet he soon obtained, by the interest of the earl of St. Alban's and the duke of Buckingham, such a lease of the queen's lands, as afforded him an ample income[16]. By the lovers of virtue and of wit it will be solicitously asked, if he now was happy. Let them peruse one of his letters, accidentally preserved by Peck, which I recommend to the consideration of all that may, hereafter, pant for solitude. "TO DR. THOMAS SPRAT. "Chertsey, May 21, 1665. "The first night that I came hither I caught so great a cold, with a defluxion of rheum, as made me keep my chamber ten days. And, two after, had such a bruise on my ribs with a fall, that I am yet unable to move or turn myself in my bed. This is my personal fortune here to begin with. And, besides, I can get no money from my tenants, and have my meadows eaten up every night by cattle put in by my neighbours. What this signifies, or may come to in time, God knows; if it be ominous, it can end in nothing less than hanging. Another misfortune has been, and stranger than all the rest, that you have broke your word with me, and failed to come, even though you told Mr. Bois that you would. This is what they call 'Monstri simile.' I do hope to recover my late hurt so farre within five or six days, (though it be uncertain yet whether I shall ever recover it,) as to walk about again. And then, methinks, you and I and 'the dean' might be very merry upon St. Ann's hill. You might very conveniently come hither the way of Hampton Town, lying there one night. I write this in pain, and can say no more: 'Verbum sapienti.'" He did not long enjoy the pleasure, or suffer the uneasiness, of solitude; for he died at the Porch-house[17] in Chertsey, in 1667, in the forty-ninth year of his age. He was buried, with great pomp, near Chaucer and Spenser; and king Charles pronounced, "that Mr. Cowley had not left behind him a better man in England." He is represented, by Dr. Sprat, as the most amiable of mankind; and this posthumous praise may safely be credited, as it has never been contradicted by envy or by faction. Such are the remarks and memorials which I have been able to add to the narrative of Dr. Sprat; who, writing when the feuds of the civil war were yet recent, and the minds of either party were easily irritated, was obliged to pass over many transactions in general expressions, and to leave curiosity often unsatisfied. What he did not tell, cannot, however, now be known; I must, therefore, recommend the perusal of his work, to which my narration can be considered only as a slender supplement. Cowley, like other poets who have written with narrow views, and, instead of tracing intellectual pleasures in the minds of men, paid their court to temporary prejudices, has been at one time too much praised, and too much neglected at another. Wit, like all other things, subject by their nature to the choice of man, has its changes and fashions, and, at different times, takes different forms. About the beginning of the seventeenth century, appeared a race of writers, that may be termed the metaphysical poets; of whom in a criticism on the works of Cowley, it is not improper to give some account. The metaphysical poets were men of learning, and, to show their learning was their whole endeavour; but, unluckily resolving to show it in rhyme, instead of writing poetry, they only wrote verses, and, very often, such verses as stood the trial of the finger better than of the ear; for the modulation was so imperfect, that they were only found to be verses by counting the syllables. If the father of criticism has rightly denominated poetry, 'technae mimaetikhae', an imitative art, these writers will, without great wrong, lose their right to the name of poets; for they cannot be said to have imitated any thing; they neither copied nature nor life; neither painted the forms of matter, nor represented the operations of intellect. Those, however, who deny them to be poets, allow them to be wits. Dryden confesses of himself and his contemporaries, that they fall below Donne in wit; but maintains, that they surpass him in poetry. If wit be well described by Pope, as being "that which has been often thought, but was never before so well expressed," they certainly never attained, nor ever sought it; for they endeavoured to be singular in their thoughts, and were careless of their diction. But Pope's account of wit is undoubtedly erroneous: he depresses it below its natural dignity, and reduces it from strength of thought to happiness of language. If, by a more noble and more adequate conception, that be considered as wit which is, at once, natural and new, that which, though not obvious, is, upon its first production, acknowledged to be just; if it be that, which he that never found it, wonders how he missed; to wit of this kind the metaphysical poets have seldom risen. Their thoughts are often new, but seldom natural; they are not obvious, but neither are they just; and the reader, far from wondering that he missed them, wonders more frequently by what perverseness of industry they were ever found. But wit, abstracted from its effects upon the hearer, may be more rigorously and philosophically considered as a kind of "discordia concors;" a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike. Of wit, thus defined, they have more than enough. The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together; nature and art are ransacked for illustrations, comparisons, and allusions; their learning instructs, and their subtilty surprises; but the reader commonly thinks his improvement dearly bought, and, though he sometimes admires, is seldom pleased. From this account of their compositions it will be readily inferred, that they were not successful in representing or moving the affections. As they were wholly employed on something unexpected and surprising, they had no regard to that uniformity of sentiment which enables us to conceive and to excite the pains and the pleasure of other minds: they never inquired what, on any occasion, they should have said or done; but wrote rather as beholders, than partakers of human nature; as beings looking upon good and evil, impassive and at leisure; as epicurean deities, making remarks on the actions of men, and the vicissitudes of life, without interest and without emotion. Their courtship was void of fondness, and their lamentation of sorrow. Their wish was only to say what they hoped had never been said before. Nor was the sublime more within their reach than the pathetick; for they never attempted that comprehension and expanse of thought which, at once, fills the whole mind, and of which, the first effect is sudden astonishment, and the second, rational admiration. Sublimity is produced by aggregation, and littleness by dispersion. Great thoughts are always general, and consist in positions not limited by exceptions, and in descriptions not descending to minuteness. It is with great propriety that subtilty, which, in its original import, means exility of particles, is taken, in its metaphorical meaning, for nicety of distinction. Those writers who lay on the watch for novelty could have little hope of greatness; for great things cannot have escaped former observation. Their attempts were always analytick; they broke every image into fragments; and could no more represent, by their slender conceits, and laboured particularities, the prospects of nature, or the scenes of life, than he who dissects a sunbeam with a prism can exhibit the wide effulgence of a summer noon. What they wanted, however, of the sublime, they endeavoured to supply by hyperbole; their amplification had no limits; they left not only reason but fancy behind them; and produced combinations of confused magnificence, that not only could not be credited, but could not be imagined. Yet great labour, directed by great abilities, is never wholly lost; if they frequently threw away their wit upon false conceits, they, likewise, sometimes struck out unexpected truth; if their conceits were far-fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write on their plan it was, at least, necessary to read and think. No man could be born a metaphysical poet, nor assume the dignity of a writer, by descriptions copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from imitations, by traditional imagery, and hereditary similes, by readiness of rhyme, and volubility of syllables[18]. In perusing the works of this race of authors, the mind is exercised either by recollection or inquiry; either something already learned is to be retrieved, or something new is to be examined. If their greatness seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises; if the imagination is not always gratified, at least the powers of reflection and comparison are employed; and, in the mass of materials which ingenious absurdity has thrown together, genuine wit and useful knowledge may be sometimes found buried, perhaps, in grossness of expression, but useful to those who know their value; and such as, when they are expanded to perspicuity, and polished to elegance, may give lustre to works which have more propriety, though less copiousness of sentiment. This kind of writing, which was, I believe, borrowed from Marino and his followers, had been recommended by the example of Donne, a man of very extensive and various knowledge; and by Jonson, whose manner resembled that of Donne more in the ruggedness of his lines than in the cast of his sentiments. When their reputation was high, they had, undoubtedly, more imitators than time has left behind. Their immediate successours, of whom any remembrance can be said to remain, were Suckling, Waller, Denham, Cowley, Cleiveland, and Milton. Denham and Waller sought another way to fame, by improving the harmony of our numbers. Milton tried the metaphysick style only in his lines upon Hobson, the carrier. Cowley adopted it, and excelled his predecessors, having as much sentiment, and more musick. Suckling neither improved versification, nor abounded in conceits. The fashionable style remained chiefly with Cowley; Suckling could not reach it, and Milton disdained it. Critical remarks are not easily understood without examples; and I have, therefore, collected instances of the modes of writing by which this species of poets, for poets they were called by themselves and their admirers, was eminently distinguished. As the authors of this race were, perhaps, more desirous of being admired than understood, they sometimes drew their conceits from recesses of learning, not very much frequented by common readers of poetry. Thus Cowley, on knowledge: The sacred tree 'midst the fair orchard grew; The phoenix, truth, did on it rest, And built his perfum'd nest: That right Porphyrian tree which did true logic shew; Each leaf did learned notions give, And th' apples were demonstrative; So clear their colour and divine, The very shade they cast did other lights outshine. On Anacreon continuing a lover in his old age: Love was with thy life entwin'd, Close as heat with fire is join'd; A powerful brand prescrib'd the date Of thine, like Meleager's fate Th' antiperistasis of age More enflam'd thy amorous rage. In the following verses we have an allusion to a rabbinical opinion concerning manna: Variety I ask not: give me one To live perpetually upon. The person love does to us fit, Like manna, has the taste of all in it. Thus Donne shows his medicinal knowledge in some encomiastick verses: In every thing there naturally grows A balsamum to keep it fresh and new, If 'twere not injur'd by extrinsique blows; Your youth and beauty are this balm in you. But you, of learning and religion, And virtue and such ingredients, have made A mithridate, whose operation Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said. Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastick, they are not inelegant: This twilight of two years, not past nor next, Some emblem is of me, or I of this, Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext, Whose what and where in disputation is, If I should call me any thing, should miss. I sum the years and me, and find me not Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to th' new. That cannot say, my thanks I have forgot; Nor trust I this with hopes; and yet scarce true This bravery is, since these times shew'd me you. Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne's reflection upon man as a microcosm: If men be worlds, there is in every one Something to answer in some proportion All the world's riches: and in good men, this Virtue, our form's form, and our soul's soul, is. Of thoughts so far-fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full. To a lady, who wrote poesies for rings: They, who above do various circles find, Say, like a ring, th' equator heaven does bind. When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee, (Which then more heaven than 'tis will be,) 'Tis thou must write the poesy there, For it wanteth one as yet, Then the sun pass through 't twice a year, The sun, which is esteem'd the god of wit. COWLEY. The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are, by Cowley, with still more perplexity applied to love: Five years ago (says story) I lov'd you, For which you call me most inconstant now; Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man; For I am not the same that I was then: No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me; And that my mind is chang'd yourself may see. The same thoughts to retain still, and intents, Were more inconstant far; for accidents Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove, If from one subject they t' another move; My members, then, the father members were, From whence these take their birth which now are here. If then this body love what th' other did, 'Twere incest, which by nature is forbid. The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries: Hast thou not found each woman's breast (The land where thou hast travelled) Either by savages possest, Or wild, and uninhabited? What joy could'st take, or what repose, In countries so unciviliz'd as those? Lust, the scorching dogstar, here Rages with immoderate heat; Whilst pride, the rugged northern bear, In others makes the cold too great. And where these are temperate known, The soil's all barren sand, or rocky stone. COWLEY. A lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt: The fate of Egypt I sustain, And never feel the dew of rain From clouds which in the head appear; But all my too much moisture owe To overflowings of the heart below. COWLEY. The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury, and rites of sacrifice: And yet this death of mine, I fear, Will ominous to her appear: When sound in every other part, Her sacrifice is found without an heart. For the last tempest of my death Shall sigh out that too, with my breath. That the chaos was harmonized, has been recited of old; but whence the different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover: Th' ungovern'd parts no correspondence knew; An artless war from thwarting motions grew; Till they to number and fixt rules were brought. Water and air he for the tenor chose; Earth made the base; the treble, flame arose. COWLEY. The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again: On a round ball A workman, that hath copies by, can lay An Europe, Afric, and an Asia, And quickly make that, which was nothing, all. So doth each tear, Which thee doth wear, A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, Till thy tears mixt with mine do overflow This world, by waters sent from thee my heaven dissolved so. On reading the following lines, the reader may, perhaps, cry out, "Confusion worse confounded:" Here lies a she-sun, and a he-moon here, She gives the best light to his sphere, Or each is both, and all, and so They unto one another nothing owe. DONNE. Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope? Though God be our true glass, through which we see All, since the being of all things is he, Yet are the trunks, which do to us derive Things in proportion fit, by perspective Deeds of good men; for by their living here, Virtues, indeed remote, seem to be near. Who would imagine it possible, that in a very few lines so many remote ideas could be brought together? Since 'tis my doom, love's undershrieve, Why this reprieve? Why doth my she-advowson fly Incumbency? To sell thyself dost thou intend By candle's end, And hold the contrast thus in doubt, Life's taper out? Think but how soon the market fails, Your sex lives faster than the males; And if, to measure age's span, The sober Julian were th' account of man, Whilst you live by the fleet Gregorian. CLEIVELAND. Of enormous and disgusting hyperboles, these may be examples: By every wind that comes this way, Send me, at least, a sigh or two, Such and so many I'll repay As shall themselves make winds to get to you. COWLEY. In tears I'll waste these eyes, By love so vainly fed; So lust of old the deluge punished. COWLEY. All arm'd in brass, the richest dress of war, (A dismal glorious sight!) he shone afar. The sun himself started with sudden fright, To see his beams return so dismal bright. COWLEY. An universal consternation: His bloody eyes he hurls round, his sharp paws Tear up the ground; then runs he wild about, Lashing his angry tail, and roaring out. Beasts creep into their dens, and tremble there; Trees, though no wind is stirring, shake with fear; Silence and horror fill the place around; Echo itself dares scarce repeat the sound. COWLEY. Their fictions were often violent and unnatural. Of his mistress bathing: The fish around her crowded, as they do To the false light that treacherous fishers shew, And all with as much ease might taken be, As she at first took me; For ne'er did light so clear Among the waves appear, Though every night the sun himself set there. COWLEY. The poetical effect of a lover's name upon glass: My name engrav'd herein Doth contribute my firmness to this glass; Which, ever since that charm, hath been As hard as that which grav'd it was. DONNE. Their conceits were sentiments slight and trifling. On an inconstant woman: He enjoys the calmy sunshine now, And no breath stirring hears; In the clear heaven of thy brow, No smallest cloud appears. He sees thee gentle, fair and gay, And trusts the faithless April of thy May. COWLEY Upon a paper, written with the juice of lemon, and read by the fire: Nothing yet in thee is seen, But when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there grows: Here buds an L, and there a B; Here sprouts a V, and there a T; And all the flourishing letters stand in rows. COWLEY. As they sought only for novelty, they did not much inquire, whether their allusions were to things high or low, elegant or gross; whether they compared the little to the great, or the great to the little. Physick and chirurgery for a lover: Gently, ah gently, madam, touch The wound, which you yourself have made; That pain must needs be very much, Which makes me of your hand afraid, Cordials of pity give me now, For I too weak for purgings grow. COWLEY. The world and a clock: Mahol th' inferior world's fantastic face Thro' all the turns of matter's maze did trace; Great nature's well-set clock in pieces took; On all the springs and smallest wheels did look Of life and motion, and with equal art Made up the whole again of every part. COWLEY. A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but, that it may not want its due honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the sun: The moderate value of our guiltless ore Makes no man atheist, and no woman whore; Yet why should hallow'd vestal's sacred shrine Deserve more honour than a flaming mine? These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be, Than a few embers, for a deity. Had he our pits, the Persian would admire No sun, but warm 's devotion at our fire: He'd leave the trotting whipster, and prefer Our profound Vulcan 'bove that wagoner. For wants he heat, or light? or would have store Of both? 'tis here: and what can suns give more? Nay, what's the sun, but in a different name, A coal-pit rampant, or a mine on flame! Then let this truth reciprocally run, The sun's heaven's coalery, and coals our sun. Death, a voyage: No family E'er rigg'd a soul for heaven's discovery, With whom more venturers might boldly dare Venture their stakes, with him in joy to share. DONNE. Their thoughts and expressions were sometimes grossly absurd, and such as no figures or license can reconcile to the understanding. A lover neither dead nor alive: Then down I laid my head, Down on cold earth; and for awhile was dead, And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled; Ah, sottish soul, said I, When back to its cage again I saw it fly; Fool to resume her broken chain, And row her galley here again! Fool, to that body to return Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn! Once dead, how can it be, Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, That thou should'st come to live it o'er again in me? COWLEY. A lover's heart, a hand grenado: Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come Into the self-same room; 'Twill tear and blow up all within, Like a grenado shot into a magazin. Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts, Of both our broken hearts; Shall out of both one new one make; From hers th' allay, from mine the metal take. COWLEY. To poetical propagation of light; The prince's favour is diffus'd o'er all, From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall: Then from those wombs of stars, the bride's bright eyes, At every glance a constellation flies, And sowes the court with stars, and doth prevent, In light and power, the all-ey'd firmament: First her eye kindles other ladies' eyes, Then from their beams their jewels' lustres rise: And from their jewels torches do take fire, And all is warmth, and light, and good desire. DONNE. They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of dress, and, therefore, miss the notice and the praise which are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts. That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality, is, by Cowley, thus expressed: Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand, Than woman can be plac'd by nature's hand; And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be, To change thee, as thou'rt there, for very thee. That prayer and labour should cooperate, are thus taught by Donne: In none but us are such mix'd engines found, As hands of double office: for the ground We till with them; and them to heaven we raise: Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays, Doth but one half, that's none. By the same author, a common topick, the danger of procrastination, is thus illustrated: That which I should have begun In my youth's morning, now late must be done; And I, as giddy travellers must do, Which stray or sleep all day, and, having lost Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then ride post. All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines: Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie; After enabled but to suck and cry. Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn, A province pack'd up in two yards of skin, And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage Of sicknesses, or their true mother, age. But think that death hath now enfranchis'd thee; Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty; Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd is flown In pieces, and the bullet is his own, And freely flies: this to thy soul allow, Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but now. They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophises beauty: Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free! Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! Thou murderer, which hast kill'd; and devil, which would'st damn me! Thus he addresses his mistress: Thou who, in many a propriety, So truly art the sun to me, Add one more likeness, which I'm sure you can, And let me and my sun beget a man. Thus he represents the meditations of a lover: Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have been So much as of original sin, Such charms thy beauty wears, as might Desires in dying confest saints excite. Thou with strange adultery Dost in each breast a brothel keep; Awake, all men do lust for thee, And some enjoy thee when they sleep. The true taste of tears: Hither with crystal vials, lovers, come, And take my tears, which are love's wine, And try your mistress' tears at home; For all are false, that taste not just like mine. DONNE. This is yet more indelicate: As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, As that which from chaf'd musk-cat's pores doth trill, As the almighty balm of th' early east; Such are the sweet drops of my mistress' breast. And on her neck her skin such lustre sets, They seem no sweat-drops, but pearl coronets: Rank, sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles. DONNE. Their expressions sometimes raise horrour, when they intend, perhaps, to be pathetick: As men in hell are from diseases free, So from all other ills am I, Free from their known formality: But all pains eminently lie in thee. COWLEY. They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allusions. It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke: In vain it something would have spoke; The love within too strong for't was, Like poison put into a Venice-glass. COWLEY. In forming descriptions, they looked out, not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common subject, which poets have contended to adorn. Dryden's Night is well known; Donne's is as follows: Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest: Time's dead low-water; when all minds divest To-morrow's business; when the labourers have Such rest in bed, that their last church-yard grave, Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this; Now when the client, whose last hearing is To-morrow, sleeps; when the condemned man, Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them then Again by death, although sad watch he keep, Doth practise dying by a little sleep; Thou at this midnight seest me. It must be, however, confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common subjects often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtile; yet, where scholastick speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon hope shows an unequalled fertility of invention: Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is, Alike if it succeed and if it miss; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of fate's dilemma wound; Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite, Both at full noon and perfect night! The stars have not a possibility Of blessing thee; If things then from their end we happy call, 'Tis hope is the most hopeless thing of all. Hope, thou bold taster of delight, Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st it quite! Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor, By clogging it with legacies before! The joys which we entire should wed, Come deflower'd virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty custom's paid to thee; For joy, like wine, kept close, does better taste; If it take air before its spirits waste. To the following comparison of a man that travels and his wife that stays at home, with a pair of compasses, it may be doubted whether absurdity or ingenuity has better claim: Our two souls, therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot obliquely run, Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun. DONNE[19]. In all these examples it is apparent, that whatever is improper or vitious is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature, in pursuit of something new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight by their desire of exciting admiration. Having thus endeavoured to exhibit a general representation of the style and sentiments of the metaphysical poets, it is now proper to examine, particularly, the works of Cowley, who was almost the last of that race, and undoubtedly the best. His miscellanies contain a collection of short compositions, written some as they were dictated by a mind at leisure, and some as they were called forth by different occasions; with great variety of style and sentiment, from burlesque levity to awful grandeur. Such an assemblage of diversified excellence no other poet has hitherto afforded. To choose the best, among many good, is one of the most hazardous attempts of criticism. I know not whether Scaliger himself has persuaded many readers to join with him in his preference of the two favourite odes, which he estimates, in his raptures, at the value of a kingdom. I will, however, venture to recommend Cowley's first piece, which ought to be inscribed, To my Muse, for want of which the second couplet is without reference. When the title is added, there will still remain a defect; for every piece ought to contain, in itself, whatever is necessary to make it intelligible. Pope has some epitaphs without names; which are, therefore, epitaphs to be let, occupied, indeed, for the present, but hardly appropriated. The ode on wit is almost without a rival. It was about the time of Cowley, that _wit_, which had been, till then, used for _intellection_, in contradistinction to _will_, took the meaning, whatever it be, which it now bears. Of all the passages in which poets have exemplified their own precepts, none will easily be found of greater excellence than that in which Cowley condemns exuberance of wit: Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part, That shews more cost than art. Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; Rather than all things wit, let none be there. Several lights will not be seen, If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i'th' sky, If those be stars which paint the galaxy. In his verses to lord Falkland, whom every man of his time was proud to praise, there are, as there must be in all Cowley's compositions, some striking thoughts, but they are not well wrought. His elegy on sir Henry Wotton is vigorous and happy; the series of thoughts is easy and natural; and the conclusion, though a little weakened by the intrusion of Alexander, is elegant and forcible. It may be remarked, that in this elegy, and in most of his encomiastick poems, he has forgotten or neglected to name his heroes. In his poem on the death of Hervey, there is much praise, but little passion; a very just and ample delineation of such virtues as a studious privacy admits, and such intellectual excellence as a mind not yet called forth to action can display. He knew how to distinguish, and how to commend, the qualities of his companion; but, when he wishes to make us weep, he forgets to weep himself, and diverts his sorrow by imagining how his crown of bays, if he had it, would crackle in the fire. It is the odd fate of this thought to be the worse for being true. The bay-leaf crackles remarkably as it burns; as, therefore, this property was not assigned it by chance, the mind must be thought sufficiently at ease that could attend to such minuteness of physiology. But the power of Cowley is not so much to move the affections, as to exercise the understanding. The Chronicle is a composition unrivalled and alone: such gaiety of fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such a succession of images, and such a dance of words, it is in vain to expect, except from Cowley. His strength always appears in his agility; his volatility is not the flutter of a light, but the bound of an elastick mind. His levity never leaves his learning behind it; the moralist, the politician, and the critick, mingle their influence even in this airy frolick of genius. To such a performance Suckling could have brought the gaiety, but not the knowledge; Dryden could have supplied the knowledge, but not the gaiety. The verses to Davenant, which are vigorously begun and happily concluded, contain some hints of criticism very justly conceived and happily expressed. Cowley's critical abilities have not been sufficiently observed: the few decisions and remarks, which his prefaces and his notes on the Davideis supply, were, at that time, accessions to English literature, and show such skill as raises our wish for more examples. The lines from Jersey are a very curious and pleasing specimen of the familiar descending to the burlesque. His two metrical disquisitions _for_ and _against_ reason are no mean specimens of metaphysical poetry. The stanzas against knowledge produce little conviction. In those which are intended to exalt the human faculties, reason has its proper task assigned it; that of judging, not of things revealed, but of the reality of revelation. In the verses for reason, is a passage which Bentley, in the only English verses which he is known to have written, seems to have copied, though with the inferiority of an imitator. The holy book like the eighth sphere doth shine With thousand lights of truth divine, So numberless the stars, that to our eye It makes all but one galaxy. Yet reason must assist too; for, in seas So vast and dangerous as these, Our course by stars above we cannot know Without the compass too below. After this, says Bentley[20]: Who travels in religious jars, Truth mix'd with error, shade with rays, Like Whiston wanting pyx or stars, In ocean wide or sinks or strays. Cowley seems to have had what Milton is believed to have wanted, the skill to rate his own performances by their just value, and has, therefore, closed his miscellanies with the verses upon Crashaw, which apparently excel all that have gone before them, and in which there are beauties which common authors may justly think not only above their attainment, but above their ambition. To the miscellanies succeed the Anacreontiques, or paraphrastical translations of some little poems, which pass, however justly, under the name of Anacreon. Of these songs dedicated to festivity and gaiety, in which even the morality is voluptuous, and which teach nothing but the enjoyment of the present day, he has given rather a pleasing, than a faithful representation, having retained their sprightliness, but lost their simplicity. The Anacreon of Cowley, like the Homer of Pope, has admitted the decoration of some modern graces, by which he is undoubtedly more amiable to common readers, and, perhaps, if they would honestly declare their own perceptions, to far the greater part of those whom courtesy and ignorance are content to style the learned. These little pieces will be found more finished in their kind than any other of Cowley's works. The diction shows nothing of the mould of time, and the sentiments are at no great distance from our present habitudes of thought. Real mirth must be always natural, and nature is uniform. Men have been wise in very different modes; but they have always laughed the same way. Levity of thought naturally produced familiarity of language, and the familiar part of language continues long the same; the dialogue of comedy, when it is transcribed from popular manners, and real life, is read, from age to age, with equal pleasure. The artifices of inversion, by which the established order of words is changed, or of innovation, by which new words, or meanings of words, are introduced, is practised, not by those who talk to be understood, but by those who write to be admired. The Anacreontiques, therefore, of Cowley, give now all the pleasure which they ever gave. If he was formed by nature for one kind of writing more than for another, his power seems to have been greatest in the familiar and the festive. The next class of his poems is called the Mistress, of which it is not necessary to select any particular pieces for praise or censure. They have all the same beauties and faults, and nearly in the same proportion. They are written with exuberance of wit, and with copiousness of learning; and it is truly asserted by Sprat, that the plenitude of the writer's knowledge flows in upon his page, so that the reader is commonly surprised into some improvement. But, considered as the verses of a lover, no man that has ever loved will much commend them. They are neither courtly nor pathetick, have neither gallantry nor fondness. His praises are too far-sought, and too hyperbolical, either to express love, or to excite it; every stanza is crowded with darts and flames, with wounds and death, with mingled souls, and with broken hearts. The principal artifice by which the Mistress is filled with conceits, is very copiously displayed by Addison. Love is by Cowley, as by other poets, expressed metaphorically by flame and fire; and that which is true of real fire is said of love, or figurative fire, the same word in the same sentence retaining both significations. Thus, "observing the cold regard of his mistress's eyes, and, at the same time, their power of producing love in him, he considers them as burning-glasses made of ice. Finding himself able to live in the greatest extremities of love, he concludes the torrid zone to be habitable. Upon the dying of a tree on which he had cut his loves, he observes that his flames had burnt up and withered the tree." These conceits Addison calls mixed wit; that is, wit which consists of thoughts true in one sense of the expression, and false in the other. Addison's representation is sufficiently indulgent: that confusion of images may entertain for a moment; but, being unnatural, it soon grows wearisome. Cowley delighted in it, as much as if he had invented it; but, not to mention the ancients, he might have found it full-blown in modern Italy. Thus Sannazaro: Aspice quam variis distringar, Lesbia, curis! Uror, et heu! nostro manat ab igne liquor: Sum Nilus, sumque Aetna simul; restringite flammas O lacrimae, aut lacrimas ebibe, flamma, meas. One of the severe theologians of that time censured him, as having published "a book of profane and lascivious verses." From the charge of profaneness, the constant tenour of his life, which seems to have been eminently virtuous, and the general tendency of his opinions, which discover no irreverence of religion, must defend him; but that the accusation of lasciviousness is unjust, the perusal of his work will sufficiently evince. Cowley's Mistress has no power of seduction: she "plays round the head, but reaches not the heart." Her beauty and absence, her kindness and cruelty, her disdain and inconstancy, produce no correspondence of emotion. His poetical account of the virtues of plants, and colours of flowers, is not perused with more sluggish frigidity. The compositions are such as might have been written for penance by a hermit, or for hire by a philosophical rhymer, who had only heard of another sex; for they turn the mind only on the writer, whom, without thinking on a woman but as the subject for his task, we sometimes esteem as learned, and sometimes despise as trifling, always admire as ingenious, and always condemn as unnatural. The Pindarique odes are now to be considered; a species of composition, which Cowley thinks Pancirolus might have counted in "his list of the lost inventions of antiquity," and which he has made a bold and vigorous attempt to recover. The purpose with which he has paraphrased an Olympick and Nemaean ode, is, by himself, sufficiently explained. His endeavour was, not to show "precisely what Pindar spoke, but his manner of speaking." He was, therefore, not at all restrained to his expressions, nor much to his sentiments; nothing was required of him, but not to write as Pindar would not have written. Of the Olympick ode, the beginning is, I think, above the original in elegance, and the conclusion below it in strength. The connexion is supplied with great perspicuity; and the thoughts, which, to a reader of less skill, seem thrown together by chance, are concatenated without any abruption. Though the English ode cannot be called a translation, it may be very properly consulted as a commentary. The spirit of Pindar is, indeed, not every where equally preserved. The following pretty lines are not such as his _deep mouth_ was used to pour: Great Rhea's son, If in Olympus' top, where thou Sitt'st to behold thy sacred show, If in Alpheus' silver flight, If in my verse thou take delight, My verse, great Rhea's son, which is Lofty as that, and smooth as this. In the Nemaean ode the reader must, in mere justice to Pindar, observe, that whatever is said of "the original new moon, her tender forehead, and her horns," is super-added by his paraphrast, who has many other plays of words and fancy unsuitable to the original, as The table, free for ev'ry guest, No doubt will thee admit, And feast more upon thee, than thou on it. He sometimes extends his author's thoughts without improving them. In the Olympionick an oath is mentioned in a single word, and Cowley spends three lines in swearing by the Castalian stream. We are told of Theron's bounty, with a hint that he had enemies, which Cowley thus enlarges in rhyming prose: But in this thankless world the giver Is envied even by the receiver; 'Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion Rather to hide than own the obligation: Nay, 'tis much worse than so; It now an artifice does grow Wrongs and injuries to do, Lest men should think we owe. It is hard to conceive that a man of the first rank in learning and wit, when he was dealing out such minute morality in such feeble diction, could imagine, either waking or dreaming, that he imitated Pindar. In the following odes, where Cowley chooses his own subjects, he sometimes rises to dignity truly Pindarick; and, if some deficiencies of language be forgiven, his strains are such as those of the Theban bard were to his contemporaries: Begin the song, and strike the living lyre: Lo, how the years to come, a numerous and well-fitted quire, All hand in hand do decently advance. And to my song with smooth and equal measure dance; While the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be, My musick's voice shall bear it company; Till all gentle notes be drown'd In the last trumpet's dreadful sound. After such enthusiasm, who will not lament to find the poet conclude with lines like these: But stop, my muse-- Hold thy Pindarick Pegasus closely in, Which does to rage begin --'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse-- 'Twill no unskilful touch endure, But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure. The fault of Cowley, and, perhaps, of all the writers of the metaphysical race, is that of pursuing his thoughts to the last ramifications, by which he loses the grandeur of generality; for of the greatest things the parts are little; what is little can be but pretty, and, by claiming dignity, becomes ridiculous. Thus all the power of description is destroyed by a scrupulous enumeration, and the force of metaphors is lost, when the mind, by the mention of particulars, is turned more upon the original than the secondary sense, more upon that from which the illustration is drawn, than that to which it is applied. Of this we have a very eminent example in the ode entitled the Muse, who goes to "take the air" in an intellectual chariot, to which he harnesses fancy and judgment, wit and eloquence, memory and invention: how he distinguished wit from fancy, or how memory could properly contribute to motion, he has not explained; we are, however, content to suppose that he could have justified his own fiction, and wish to see the muse begin her career; but there is yet more to be done: Let the _postillion_, nature, mount, and let The _coachman_ art be set; And let the airy _footmen_, running all beside, Make a long row of goodly pride; Figures, conceits, raptures, and sentences, In a well-worded dress, And innocent loves, and pleasant truths, and useful lies, In all their gaudy _liveries_. Every mind is now disgusted with this cumber of magnificence; yet I cannot refuse myself the four next lines: Mount, glorious queen, thy travelling throne, And bid it to put on; For long, though cheerful, is the way, And life, alas! allows but one ill winter's day. In the same ode, celebrating the power of the muse, he gives her prescience, or, in poetical language, the foresight of events hatching in futurity; but, having once an egg in his mind, he cannot forbear to show us that he knows what an egg contains: Thou into the close nests of time dost peep, And there with piercing eye Through the firm shell and the thick white dost spy Years to come a-forming lie, Close in their sacred fecundine asleep. The same thought is more generally, and, therefore, more poetically expressed by Casimir, a writer who has many of the beauties and faults of Cowley: Omnibus mundi dominator horis Aptat urgendas per inane pennas, Pars adhuc nido latet, et futuros Crescit in annos. Cowley, whatever was his subject, seems to have been carried, by a kind of destiny, to the light and the familiar, or to conceits which require still more ignoble epithets. A slaughter in the Red sea "new dies the water's name;" and England, during the civil war, was "Albion no more, nor to be named from white." It is, surely, by some fascination not easily surmounted, that a writer professing to revive "the noblest and highest writing in verse," makes this address to the new year: Nay, if thou lov'st me, gentle year, Let not so much as love be there, Vain, fruitless love I mean; for, gentle year, Although I fear There's of this caution little need, Yet, gentle year, take heed How thou dost make Such a mistake; Such love I mean alone As by thy cruel predecessors has been shewn: For, though I have too much cause to doubt it, I fain would try, for once, if life can live without it. The reader of this will be inclined to cry out, with Prior, Ye criticks, say, How poor to this was Pindar's style! Even those who cannot, perhaps, find in the Isthmian or Nemaean songs what antiquity has disposed them to expect, will, at least, see that they are ill represented by such puny poetry; and all will determine, that if this be the old Theban strain, it is not worthy of revival. To the disproportion and incongruity of Cowley's sentiments, must be added the uncertainty and looseness of his measures. He takes the liberty of using, in any place, a verse of any length, from two syllables to twelve. The verses of Pindar have, as he observes, very little harmony to a modern ear; yet, by examining the syllables, we perceive them to be regular, and have reason enough for supposing that the ancient audiences were delighted with the sound. The imitator ought, therefore, to have adopted what he found, and to have added what was wanting; to have preserved a constant return of the same numbers, and to have supplied smoothness of transition and continuity of thought. It is urged by Dr. Sprat, that the "irregularity of numbers is the very thing" which makes "that kind of poesy fit for all manner of subjects." But he should have remembered, that what is fit for every thing can fit nothing well. The great pleasure of verse arises from the known measure of the lines, and uniform structure of the stanzas, by which the voice is regulated, and the memory relieved. If the Pindarick style be, what Cowley thinks it, "the highest and noblest kind of writing in verse," it can be adapted only to high and noble subjects; and it will not be easy to reconcile the poet with the critick, or to conceive how that can be the highest kind of writing in verse, which, according to Sprat, is "chiefly to be preferred for its near affinity to prose." This lax and lawless versification so much concealed the deficiencies of the barren, and flattered the laziness of the idle, that it immediately overspread our books of poetry; all the boys and girls caught the pleasing fashion, and they that could do nothing else could write like Pindar. The rights of antiquity were invaded, and disorder tried to break into the Latin: a poem[21] on the Sheldonian theatre, in which all kinds of verse are shaken together, is unhappily inserted in the Musae Anglicanae. Pindarism prevailed about half a century; but, at last, died gradually away, and other imitations supply its place. The Pindarick odes have so long enjoyed the highest degree of poetical reputation, that I am not willing to dismiss them with unabated censure; and, surely, though the mode of their composition be erroneous, yet many parts deserve, at least, that admiration which is due to great comprehension of knowledge, and great fertility of fancy. The thoughts are often new, and often striking; but the greatness of one part is disgraced by the littleness of another; and total negligence of language gives the noblest conceptions the appearance of a fabrick, august in the plan, but mean in the materials. Yet, surely, those verses are not without a just claim to praise; of which it may be said with truth, that no man but Cowley could have written them. The Davideis now remains to be considered; a poem which the author designed to have extended to twelve books, merely, as he makes no scruple of declaring, because the Aeneid had that number; but he had leisure or perseverance only to write the third part. Epick poems have been left unfinished by Virgil, Statius, Spenser, and Cowley. That we have not the whole Davideis, is, however, not much to be regretted; for in this undertaking Cowley is, tacitly, at least, confessed to have miscarried. There are not many examples of so great a work, produced by an author generally read, and generally praised, that has crept through a century with so little regard. Whatever is said of Cowley, is meant of his other works. Of the Davideis no mention is made; it never appears in books, nor emerges in conversation. By the Spectator it has been once quoted; by Rymer it has once been praised; and by Dryden, in Mac Flecknoe, it has once been imitated; nor do I recollect much other notice from its publication till now, in the whole succession of English literature. Of this silence and neglect, if the reason be inquired, it will be found partly in the choice of the subject, and partly in the performance of the work. Sacred history has been always read with submissive reverence, and an imagination overawed and controlled. We have been accustomed to acquiesce in the nakedness and simplicity of the authentick narrative, and to repose on its veracity with such humble confidence as suppresses curiosity. We go with the historian as he goes, and stop with him when he stops. All amplification is frivolous and vain; all addition to that which is already sufficient for the purposes of religion seems not only useless, but, in some degree, profane. Such events as were produced by the visible interposition of divine power are above the power of human genius to dignify. The miracle of creation, however it may teem with images, is best described with little diffusion of language: "He spake the word, and they were made." We are told, that Saul "was troubled with an evil spirit;" from this Cowley takes an opportunity of describing hell, and telling the history of Lucifer, who was, he says, Once gen'ral of a gilded host of sprites, Like Hesper leading forth the spangled nights; But down, like lightning which him struck, he came, And roar'd at his first plunge into the flame. Lucifer makes a speech to the inferiour agents of mischief, in which there is something of heathenism, and, therefore, of impropriety; and, to give efficacy to his words, concludes by lashing "his breast with his long tail." Envy, after a pause, steps out, and, among other declarations of her zeal, utters these lines: Do thou but threat, loud storms shall make reply, And thunder echo to the trembling sky: Whilst raging seas swell to so bold an height, As shall the fire's proud element affright. Th' old drudging sun, from his long-beaten way, Shall, at thy voice, start, and misguide the day. The jocund orbs shall break their measur'd pace, And stubborn poles change their allotted place, Heaven's gilded troops shall flutter here and there, Leaving their boasting songs tun'd to a sphere. Every reader feels himself weary with this useless talk of an allegorical being. It is not only when the events are confessedly miraculous, that fancy and fiction lose their effect: the whole system of life, while the theocracy was yet visible, has an appearance so different from all other scenes of human action, that the reader of the sacred volume habitually considers it as the peculiar mode of existence of a distinct species of mankind, that lived and acted with manners uncommunicable; so that it is difficult, even for imagination, to place us in the state of them whose story is related, and, by consequence, their joys and griefs are not easily adopted, nor can the attention be often interested in any thing that befalls them. To the subject thus originally indisposed to the reception of poetical embellishments, the writer brought little that could reconcile impatience, or attract curiosity. Nothing can be more disgusting than a narrative spangled with conceits; and conceits are all that the Davideis supplies. One of the great sources of poetical delight, is description, or the power of presenting pictures to the mind. Cowley gives inferences instead of images, and shows not what may be supposed to have been seen, but what thoughts the sight might have suggested. When Virgil describes the stone which Turnus lifted against Aeneas, he fixes the attention on its bulk and weight: Saxum circumspicit ingens, Saxum antiquum, ingens, campo quod forte jacebat, Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis. Cowley says of the stone with which Cain slew his brother, I saw him fling the stone, as if he meant At once his murther and his monument. Of the sword taken from Goliah, he says, A sword so great, that it was only fit, To cut off his great head that came with it. Other poets describe death by some of its common appearances. Cowley says, with a learned allusion to sepulchral lamps, real or fabulous, 'Twixt his right ribs deep pierc'd the furious blade, And open'd wide those secret vessels where Life's light goes out, when first they let in air. But he has allusions vulgar, as well as learned. In a visionary succession of kings: Joas at first does bright and glorious shew, In life's fresh morn his fame does early crow. Describing an undisciplined army, after having said with elegance, His forces seem'd no army, but a crowd Heartless, unarm'd, disorderly, and loud, he gives them a fit of the ague. The allusions, however, are not always to vulgar things; he offends by exaggeration, as much as by diminution: The king was plac'd alone, and o'er his head A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread. Whatever he writes is always polluted with some conceit: Where the sun's fruitful beams give metals birth, Where he the growth of fatal gold doth see, Gold, which alone more influence has than he. In one passage he starts a sudden question, to the confusion of philosophy: Ye learned heads, whom ivy garlands grace, Why does that twining plant the oak embrace; The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, And rough as are the winds that fight with it? His expressions have, sometimes, a degree of meanness that surpasses expectation: Nay, gentle guests, he cries, since now you're in, The story of your gallant friend begin. In a simile descriptive of the morning: As glimm'ring stars just at th' approach of day, Cashier'd by troops, at last drop all away. The dress of Gabriel deserves attention: He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright, That e'er the mid-day sun pierc'd through with light; Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, Wash'd from the morning beauties' deepest red; An harmless flatt'ring meteor shone for hair, And fell adown his shoulders with loose care; He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies, Where the most sprightly azure pleas'd the eyes; This he with starry vapours sprinkles all, Took in their prime ere they grow ripe and fall; Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade, The choicest piece cut out, a scarf is made. This is a just specimen of Cowley's imagery: what might, in general expressions, be great and forcible, he weakens and makes ridiculous by branching it into small parts. That Gabriel was invested with the softest or brightest colours of the sky, we might have been told, and been dismissed to improve the idea in our different proportions of conception; but Cowley could not let us go, till he had related where Gabriel got first his skin, and then his mantle, then his lace, and then his scarf, and related it in the terms of the mercer and tailor. Sometimes he indulges himself in a digression, always conceived with his natural exuberance, and commonly, even where it is not long, continued till it is tedious. I' th' library a few choice authors stood, Yet 'twas well stor'd, for that small store was good; Writing, man's spiritual physick, was not then Itself, as now, grown a disease of men. Learning (young virgin) but few suitors knew; The common prostitute she lately grew, And with the spurious brood loads now the press; Laborious effects of idleness. As the Davideis affords only four books, though intended to consist of twelve, there is no opportunity for such criticism as epick poems commonly supply. The plan of the whole work is very imperfectly shown by the third part. The duration of an unfinished action cannot be known. Of characters, either not yet introduced, or shown but upon few occasions, the full extent and the nice discriminations cannot be ascertained. The fable is plainly implex, formed rather from the Odyssey than the Iliad; and many artifices of diversification are employed, with the skill of a man acquainted with the best models. The past is recalled by narration, and the future anticipated by vision: but he has been so lavish of his poetical art, that it is difficult to imagine how he could fill eight books more without practising again the same modes of disposing his matter; and, perhaps, the perception of this growing incumbrance inclined him to stop. By this abruption posterity lost more instruction than delight. If the continuation of the Davideis can be missed, it is for the learning that had been diffused over it, and the notes in which it had been explained. Had not his characters been depraved, like every other part, by improper decorations, they would have deserved uncommon praise. He gives Saul both the body and mind of a hero: His way once chose, he forward thrust outright, Nor turn'd aside for danger or delight. And the different beauties of the lofty Merah and the gentle Michol, are very justly conceived and strongly painted. Rymer has declared the Davideis superiour to the Jerusalem of Tasso; "which," says he, "the poet, with all his care, has not totally purged from pedantry." If by pedantry is meant that minute knowledge which is derived from particular sciences and studies, in opposition to the general notions supplied by a wide survey of life and nature, Cowley certainly errs, by introducing pedantry far more frequently than Tasso. I know not, indeed, why they should be compared; for the resemblance of Cowley's work to Tasso's is only that they both exhibit the agency of celestial and infernal spirits, in which, however, they differ widely; for Cowley supposes them commonly to operate upon the mind by suggestion; Tasso represents them as promoting or obstructing events by external agency. Of particular passages that can be properly compared, I remember only the description of heaven, in which the different manner of the two writers is sufficiently discernible. Cowley's is scarcely description, unless it be possible to describe by negatives: for he tells us only what there is not in heaven. Tasso endeavours to represent the splendours and pleasures of the regions of happiness. Tasso affords images, and Cowley sentiments. It happens, however, that Tasso's description affords some reason for Rymer's censure. He says of the supreme being, Ha sotto i piedi e fato e la natura, Ministri umili, e'l moto, e chi'l misura. The second line has in it more of pedantry than, perhaps, can be found in any other stanza of the poem. In the perusal of the Davideis, as of all Cowley's works, we find wit and learning unprofitably squandered. Attention has no relief; the affections are never moved: we are sometimes surprised, but never delighted; and find much to admire, but little to approve. Still, however, it is the work of Cowley; of a mind capacious by nature, and replenished by study. In the general review of Cowley's poetry it will be found, that he wrote with abundant fertility, but negligent or unskilful selection; with much thought, but with little imagery; that he is never pathetick, and rarely sublime; but always either ingenious or learned, either acute or profound. It is said by Denham, in his elegy, To him no author was unknown, Yet what he writ was all his own. This wide position requires less limitation, when it is affirmed of Cowley, than, perhaps, of any other poet.--He read much, and yet borrowed little. His character of writing was, indeed, not his own: he unhappily adopted that which was predominant. He saw a certain way to present praise; and, not sufficiently inquiring by what means the ancients have continued to delight through all the changes of human manners, he contented himself with a deciduous laurel, of which the verdure, in its spring, was bright and gay, but which time has been continually stealing from his brows. He was, in his own time, considered as of unrivalled excellence. Clarendon represents him as having taken a flight beyond all that went before him; and Milton is said to have declared, that the three greatest English poets were Spenser, Shakespeare, and Cowley. His manner he had in common with others; but his sentiments were his own. Upon every subject he thought for himself; and such was his copiousness of knowledge, that something at once remote and applicable rushed into his mind; yet it is not likely that he always rejected a commodious idea merely because another had used it: his known wealth was so great, that he might have borrowed without loss of credit. In his elegy on sir Henry Wotton, the last lines have such resemblance to the noble epigram of Grotius on the death of Scaliger, that I cannot but think them copied from it, though they are copied by no servile hand. One passage in his Mistress is so apparently borrowed from Donne, that he probably would not have written it, had it not mingled with his own thoughts, so as that he did not perceive himself taking it from another: Although I think thou never found wilt be, Yet I'm resolv'd to search for thee: The search itself rewards the pains. So, though the chymic his great secret miss (For neither it in art or nature is,) Yet things well worth his toil he gains; And does his charge and labour pay With good unsought experiments by the way. COWLEY. Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I, Say, where his centric happiness doth lie: I have lov'd, and got, and told; But should I love, get, tell, till I were old; I should not find that hidden mystery; Oh, 'tis imposture all! And as no chymic yet th' elixir got, But glorifies his pregnant pot, If by the way to him befall Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal, So lovers dream a rich and long delight, But get a winter-seeming summer's night. DONNE. Jonson and Donne, as Dr. Hurd remarks, were then in the highest esteem. It is related by Clarendon, that Cowley always acknowledges his obligation to the learning and industry of Jonson; but I have found no traces of Jonson in his works: to emulate Donne appears to have been his purpose; and from Donne he may have learned that familiarity with religious images, and that light allusion to sacred things, by which readers far short of sanctity are frequently offended; and which would not be borne, in the present age, when devotion, perhaps, not more fervent, is more delicate. Having produced one passage taken by Cowley from Donne, I will recompense him by another which Milton seems to have borrowed from him. He says of Goliah: His spear, the trunk was of a lofty tree, Which nature meant some tall ship's mast should be. Milton of Satan: His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great admiral, were but a wand, He walked with. His diction was, in his own time, censured as negligent. He seems not to have known, or not to have considered, that words, being arbitrary, must owe their power to association, and have the influence, and that only, which custom has given them. Language is the dress of thought: and, as the noblest mien, or most graceful action, would be degraded and obscured by a garb appropriated to the gross employments of rusticks or mechanicks; so the most heroick sentiments will lose their efficacy, and the most splendid ideas drop their magnificence, if they are conveyed by words used commonly upon low and trivial occasions, debased by vulgar mouths, and contaminated by inelegant applications. Truth, indeed, is always truth, and reason is always reason; they have an intrinsick and unalterable value, and constitute that intellectual gold which defies destruction; but gold may be so concealed in baser matter, that only a chymist can recover it; sense may be so hidden in unrefined and plebeian words, that none but philosophers can distinguish it; and both may be so buried in impurities, as not to pay the cost of their extraction. The diction, being the vehicle of the thoughts, first presents itself to the intellectual eye; and, if the first appearance offends, a further knowledge is not often sought. Whatever professes to benefit by pleasing, must please at once. The pleasures of the mind imply something sudden and unexpected; that which elevates must always surprise. What is perceived by slow degrees may gratify us with the consciousness of improvement, but will never strike with the sense of pleasure. Of all this, Cowley appears to have been without knowledge, or without care. He makes no selection of words, nor seeks any neatness of phrase: he has no elegancies, either lucky or elaborate: as his endeavours were rather to impress sentences upon the understanding than images on the fancy, he has few epithets, and those scattered without peculiar propriety or nice adaptation. It seems to follow from the necessity of the subject, rather than the care of the writer, that the diction of his heroick poem is less familiar than that of his slightest writings. He has given not the same numbers, but the same diction, to the gentle Anacreon and the tempestuous Pindar. His versification seems to have had very little of his care; and, if what he thinks be true, that his numbers are unmusical only when they are ill read, the art of reading them is at present lost; for they are commonly harsh to modern ears. He has, indeed, many noble lines, such as the feeble care of Waller never could produce. The bulk of his thoughts sometimes swelled his verse to unexpected and inevitable grandeur; but his excellence of this kind is merely fortuitous: he sinks willingly down to his general carelessness, and avoids, with very little care, either meanness or asperity. His contractions are often rugged and harsh: One flings a mountain, and its rivers too Torn up with 't. His rhymes are very often made by pronouns, or particles, or the like unimportant words, which disappoint the ear, and destroy the energy of the line. His combination of different measures is, sometimes, dissonant and unpleasing; he joins verses together, of which the former does not slide easily into the latter. The words _do_ and _did_, which so much degrade, in present estimation, the line that admits them, were, in the time of Cowley, little censured or avoided; how often he used them, and with how bad an effect, at least to our ears, will appear by a passage, in which every reader will lament to see just and noble thoughts defrauded of their praise by inelegance of language: Where honour or where conscience _does_ not bind, No other law shall shackle me; Slave to myself I ne'er will be; Nor shall my future actions be confin'd By my own present mind. Who by resolves and vows engag'd _does_ stand For days, that yet belong to fate, _Does_, like an unthrift, mortgage his estate, Before it falls into his hand; The bondman of the cloister so, All that he _does_ receive _does_ always owe: And still, as time comes in, it goes away, Not to enjoy, but debts to pay! Unhappy slave, and pupil to a bell, Which his hour's work, as well as hours, _does_ tell! Unhappy till the last, the kind releasing knell. His heroick lines are often formed of monosyllables; but yet they are sometimes sweet and sonorous. He says of the Messiah: Round the whole earth his dreaded name shall sound, _And reach to worlds that must not yet be found_. In another place, of David: Yet bid him go securely, when he sends; _'Tis Saul that is his foe, and we his friends. The man who has his God, no aid can lack; And we who bid him go, will bring him back._ Yet, amidst his negligence, he sometimes attempted an improved and scientifick versification; of which it will be best to give his own account subjoined to this line: Nor can the glory contain itself in th' endless space. "I am sorry that it is necessary to admonish the most part of readers, that it is not by negligence that this verse is so loose, long, and, as it were, vast; it is to paint in the number the nature of the thing which it describes, which I would have observed in divers other places of this poem, that else will pass for very careless verses: as before, And overruns the neighb'ring fields with violent course. "In the second book, Down a precipice deep, down he casts them all. "And, And fell a-down his shoulders with loose care "In the third, Brass was his helmet, his boots brass, and o'er His breast a thick plate of strong brass he wore. "In the fourth, Like some fair pine o'erlooking all th' ignobler wood. "And, Some from the rocks cast themselves down headlong. "And many more: but it is enough to instance in a few. The thing is, that the disposition of words and numbers should be such, as that, out of the order and sound of them, the things themselves may be represented. This the Greeks were not so accurate as to bind themselves to; neither have our English poets observed it, for aught I can find. The Latins (qui musas colunt severiores) sometimes did it; and their prince, Virgil, always, in whom the examples are innumerable, and taken notice of by all judicious men, so that it is superfluous to collect them." I know not whether he has, in many of these instances, attained the representation or resemblance that he purposes. Verse can imitate only sound and motion. A _boundless_ verse, a _headlong_ verse, and a verse of _brass_, or of _strong brass_, seem to comprise very incongruous and unsociable ideas. What there is peculiar in the sound of the line expressing _loose care_, I cannot discover; nor why the _pine_ is _taller_ in an alexandrine than in ten syllables. But, not to defraud him of his due praise, he has given one example of representative versification, which, perhaps, no other English line can equal: Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise: He, who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay Till the whole stream that stopp'd him shall be gone, _Which runs, and, as it runs, for ever shall run on_. Cowley was, I believe, the first poet that mingled alexandrines, at pleasure, with the common heroick of ten syllables; and from him Dryden borrowed the practice, whether ornamental or licentious. He considered the verse of twelve syllables as elevated and majestick, and has, therefore, deviated into that measure, when he supposes the voice heard of the supreme being. The author of the Davideis is commended by Dryden for having written it in couplets, because he discovered that any staff was too lyrical for an heroick poem; but this seems to have been known before by May and Sandys, the translators of the Pharsalia and the Metamorphoses. In the Davideis are some hemistichs, or verses left imperfect by the author, in imitation of Virgil, whom he supposes not to have intended to complete them: that this opinion is erroneous, may be probably concluded, because this truncation is imitated by no subsequent Roman poet; because Virgil himself filled up one broken line in the heat of recitation; because in one the sense is now unfinished; and because all that can be done by a broken verse, a line intersected by a _caesura_ and a full stop, will equally effect. Of triplets, in his Davideis, he makes no use, and, perhaps, did not, at first, think them allowable; but he appears afterwards to have changed his mind, for, in the verses on the government of Cromwell, he inserts them liberally with great happiness. After so much criticism on his poems, the essays which accompany them must not be forgotten. What is said by Sprat of his conversation, that no man could draw from it any suspicion of his excellence in poetry, may be applied to these compositions. No author ever kept his verse and his prose at a greater distance from each other. His thoughts are natural, and his style has a smooth and placid equability, which has never yet obtained its due commendation. Nothing is far-sought, or hard-laboured; but all is easy without feebleness, and familiar without grossness. It has been observed by Felton, in his essay on the Classicks, that Cowley was beloved by every muse that he courted; and that he has rivalled the ancients in every kind of poetry but tragedy. It may be affirmed, without any encomiastick fervour, that he brought to his poetick labours a mind replete with learning, and that his pages are embellished with all the ornaments which books could supply; that he was the first who imparted to English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater ode, and the gaiety of the less; that he was equally qualified for sprightly sallies, and for lofty flights; that he was among those who freed translation from servility, and, instead of following his author at a distance, walked by his side; and that if he left versification yet improvable, he left likewise, from time to time, such specimens of excellence as enabled succeeding poets to improve it. * * * * * The insertion of Cowley's epitaph may be interesting to our readers. Epitaphium Autoris In Ecclesia D. Petri apud Westmonasterienses Sepulti. Abrahamus Cowleius, Anglorum Pindarus, Flaccus, Maro, Deliciae, Decus, Desiderium, Aevi sui, Hic juxta situs est. Aurea dum volitant late tua scripta per orbem, Et fama aeternum vivis, divine poeta, Hic placida jaceas requie: custodiat urnam Cana fides, vigilentque perenni lampade musae Sit sacer iste locus; nee quis temerarius ausit Sacrilega turbare manu venerabile bustum. Intacti maneant; maneant per saecula dulces Cowleii cineres, serventque immobile saxum. Sic vovatque Votumque suum apud posteros sacratum esse voluit Qui viro incomparabili posult sepulchrale marmor, Georgius Dux Buckinghamiae. Excessit e vita Anno Aetatis suae 49° et honorifica pompa elatus ex Aedibus Buckinghamianis, viris illustribus omnium ordinum exequias celebrantibus, sepultus est die 3° M. Augusti, Anno Domini 1667. [Footnote 6: This volume was not published before 1633, when Cowley was fifteeyears old. Dr. Johnson, as well as former biographers, seems to have been misled by the portrait of Cowley being, by mistake, marked with the age of thirteen years. R.] [Footnote 7: He was a candidate this year at Westminster school for election to Trinity college, but proved unsuccessful.] [Footnote 8: In the first edition of this life, Dr. Johnson wrote, "which was never inserted in any collection of his works;" but he altered the expression when the Lives were collected into volumes. The satire was added to Cowley's works by the particular direction of Dr. Johnson. N.] [Footnote 9: Consulting the Virgilian lots, Sortes Virgilianae, is a method of divination by the opening of Virgil, and applying to the circumstances of the peruser the first passage in either of the two pages that he accidentally fixes his eye on. It is said, that king Charles the first, and lord Falkland, being in the Bodleian library, made this experiment of their future fortunes, and met with passages equally ominous to each. That of the king was the following: At bello audacis populi vexatus et armis, Finibus extorris, complexu avulsus luli, Auxilium imploret, videatque indigna suorum Funera, nec, cum se sub leges pacis iniquae Tradiderit, regno aut optata luce fruatur: Sed cadat ante diem, mediaque inhumatus arena. Aeneid. iv. 615. Yet let a race untam'd, and haughty foes, His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose, Oppress'd with numbers in th' unequal field, His men discourag'd and himself expell'd: Let him for succour sue from place to place, Torn from his subjects and his son's embrace. First let him see his friends in battle slain, And their untimely fate lament in vain: And when, at length, the cruel war shall cease, On hard conditions may he buy his peace; Nor let him then enjoy supreme command. But fall untimely by some hostile hand, And lie unburied on the barren sand. DRYDEN. Lord Falkland's: Non haec, O Palla, dederas promissa parenti, Cautius ut saevo velles te credere Marti. Haud ignarus eram, quantum nova gloria in armis, Et praedulce decus primo certamine posset. Primitiae juvenis miserae, bellique propinqui Dura rudimenta, et nulli exaudita deorum, Vota precesque meae! Aeneid. xi. 152. O Pallas, thou hast fail'd thy plighted word, To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword; I warn'd thee, but in vain, for well I knew What perils youthful ardour would pursue, That boiling blood would carry thee too far, Young as thou wert to dangers, raw to war. O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, Prelude of bloody fields and fights to come! Hard elements of unauspicious war, Vain vows to heaven, and unavailing care! DRYDEN Hoffman, in his Lexicon, gives a very satisfactory account of this practice of seeking fates in books: and says, that it was used by the pagans, the jewish rabbins, and even the early Christians; the latter taking the New Testament for their oracle.] [Footnote 10: Johnson has exhibited here us little feeling for the neglected servant of the thankless house of Stewart, as he displayed in the cold contempt of his sixth Rambler. An unmeaning compliment from a worthless king was Cowley's only recompense for years of faithful and painful services. A heart loyal and affectionate, like his, may well be excused the utterance of its pains, when wounded by those for whom it would so cheerfully have poured forth its blood. We repeat, that Cowley's misfortune was his devotion to a family, who invariably forgot, in their prosperity, those who had defended them in the day of adversity. ED.] [Footnote 11: See Campbell's Poets, iv. 75.] [Footnote 12: By May's poem, we are here to understand a continuation of Lucan's Pharsalia, to the death of Julius Caesar, by Thomas May, an eminent poet and historian, who flourished in the reigns of James and Charles the first, and of whom a life is given in the Biographia Britannica. The merit of Cowley's Latin poems is well examined in Censura Literatia, vol. viii. See also Warton's Preface to Milton's Juvenile Poems. ED.] [Footnote 13: 1663.] [Footnote 14: Here is an error in the designation of this comedy, which our author copied from the title page of the latter editions of Cowley's works: the title of the play itself is without the article, "Cutter of Coleman street," and that, because a merry sharking fellow about the town, named Cutter, is a principal character in it.] [Footnote 15: L'Allegro of Milton. Dr. J.] [Footnote 16: About three hundred pounds per annum. See Campbell's Poets, iv.] [Footnote 17: Now in the possession of Mr. Clark, alderman of London. Dr. J.--Mr. Clark was, in 1798, elected to the important office of chamberlain of London; and has every year since been unanimously reelected. N.] [Footnote 18: For metaphysical poets, see Brydges' Restituta, vol. iv.] [Footnote 19: It is but justice to the memory of Cowley, to quote here an exquisite stanza which Johnson has inserted in the Idler, No. 77, where he says; "Cowley seems to have possessed the power of writing easily beyond any other of our poets; yet his pursuit of remote thought led him often into harshness of expression." The stanza is to a lady elaborately dressed: Th' adorning thee with so much art Is but a barb'rous skill, 'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart Too apt before to kill. ED.] [Footnote 20: Dodsley's Collection of Poems, vol. v. R.] [Footnote 21: First published in quarto, 1669, under the title of Carmen Pindaricum in Theatrum Sheldonianum in solennibus magnifici operis encaeniis. Recitatum Julii die 9, anno 1669, a Corbetto Owen, A. B. Aed. Chr. Alumno, authore. R.] DENHAM Of sir John Denham very little is known but what is related of him by Wood, or by himself. He was born at Dublin, 1615[22]; the only son of sir John Denham, of Little Horsley, in Essex, then chief baron of the exchequer in Ireland, and of Eleanor, daughter of sir Garret More, baron of Mellefont. Two years afterwards, his father, being made one of the barons of the exchequer in England, brought him away from his native country, and educated him in London. In 1631 he was sent to Oxford, where he was considered "as a dreaming young man, given more to dice and cards than study:" and, therefore, gave no prognosticks of his future eminence; nor was suspected to conceal, under sluggishness and laxity, a genius born to improve the literature of his country. When he was, three years afterwards, removed to Lincoln's inn, he prosecuted the common law with sufficient appearance of application; yet did not lose his propensity to cards and dice; but was very often plundered by gamesters. Being severely reproved for this folly, he professed, and, perhaps, believed, himself reclaimed; and, to testify the sincerity of his repentance, wrote and published an Essay upon Gaming. He seems to have divided his studies between law and poetry; for, in 1636, he translated the second book of the Aeneid. Two years after, his father died; and then, notwithstanding his resolutions and professions, he returned again to the vice of gaming, and lost several thousand pounds that had been left him. In 1641, he published the Sophy. This seems to have given him his first hold of the publick attention; for Waller remarked, "that he broke out like the Irish rebellion, three score thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in the least suspected it;" an observation which could have had no propriety had his poetical abilities been known before. He was after that pricked for sheriff of Surrey, and made governour of Farnham castle for the king; but he soon resigned that charge, and retreated to Oxford, where, in 1643, he published Cooper's Hill. This poem had such reputation as to excite the common artifice by which envy degrades excellence. A report was spread, that the performance was not his own, but that he had bought it of a vicar for forty pounds. The same attempt was made to rob Addison of his Cato, and Pope of his Essay on Criticism. In 1647, the distresses of the royal family required him to engage in more dangerous employments. He was intrusted, by the queen, with a message to the king; and, by whatever means, so far softened the ferocity of Hugh Peters, that, by his intercession, admission was procured. Of the king's condescension he has given an account in the dedication of his works. He was, afterwards, employed in carrying on the king's correspondence; and, as he says, discharged this office with great safety to the royalists: and, being accidentally discovered by the adverse party's knowledge of Mr. Cowley's hand, he escaped happily both for himself and his friends. He was yet engaged in a greater undertaking. In April, 1648, he conveyed James, the duke of York, from London into France, and delivered him there to the queen and prince of Wales. This year he published his translation of Cato Major. He now resided in France, as one of the followers of the exiled king; and, to divert the melancholy of their condition, was sometimes enjoined by his master to write occasional verses; one of which amusements was probably his ode, or song, upon the Embassy to Poland, by which he and lord Crofts procured a contribution of ten thousand pounds from the Scotch, that wandered over the kingdom. Poland was, at that time, very much frequented by itinerant traders, who, in a country of very little commerce and of great extent, where every man resided on his own estate, contributed very much to the accommodation of life, by bringing to every man's house those little necessaries which it was very inconvenient to want, and very troublesome to fetch. I have formerly read, without much reflection, of the multitude of Scotchmen that travelled with their wares in Poland; and that their numbers were not small, the success of this negotiation gives sufficient evidence. About this time, what estate the war and the gamesters had left him was sold, by order of the parliament; and when, in 1652, he returned to England, he was entertained by the earl of Pembroke. Of the next years of his life there is no account. At the restoration he obtained that which many missed, the reward of his loyalty; being made surveyor of the king's buildings, and dignified with the order of the Bath. He seems now to have learned some attention to money; for Wood says, that he got by this place seven thousand pounds. After the restoration, he wrote the poem on Prudence and Justice, and, perhaps, some of his other pieces; and as he appears, whenever any serious question comes before him, to have been a man of piety, he consecrated his poetical powers to religion, and made a metrical version of the psalms of David. In this attempt he has failed; but in sacred poetry who has succeeded? It might be hoped that the favour of his master, and esteem of the publick, would now make him happy. But human felicity is short and uncertain; a second marriage brought upon him so much disquiet, as, for a time, disordered his understanding; and Butler lampooned him for his lunacy. I know not whether the malignant lines were then made publick, nor what provocation incited Butler to do that which no provocation can excuse. His phrensy lasted not long[23]; and he seems to have regained his full force of mind; for he wrote afterwards his excellent poem upon the death of Cowley, whom he was not long to survive; for, on the 19th of March, 1668, he was buried by his side. Denham is deservedly considered as one of the fathers of English poetry. "Denham and Waller," says Prior, "improved our versification, and Dryden perfected it." He has given specimens of various compositions, descriptive, ludicrous, didactick, and sublime. He appears to have had, in common with almost all mankind, the ambition of being, upon proper occasions, _a merry fellow_, and, in common with most of them, to have been by nature, or by early habits, debarred from it. Nothing is less exhilarating than the ludicrousness of Denham; he does not fail for want of efforts; he is familiar, he is gross; but he is never merry, unless the Speech against Peace in the close Committee be excepted. For grave burlesque, however, his imitation of Davenant shows him to have been well qualified. Of his more elevated occasional poems, there is, perhaps, none that does not deserve commendation. In the verses to Fletcher, we have an image that has since been often adopted[24]: But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor need thy juster title the foul guilt Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred, slain. After Denham, Orrery, in one of his prologues, Poets are sultans, if they had their will; For ev'ry author would his brother kill. And Pope, Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne. But this is not the best of his little pieces: it is excelled by his poem to Fanshaw, and his elegy on Cowley. His praise of Fanshaw's version of Guarini contains a very sprightly and judicious character of a good translator: That servile path thou nobly dost decline, Of tracing word by word and line by line. Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains, Not the effect of poetry but pains; Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords No flight for thoughts, but poorly stick at words, A new and nobler way thou dost pursue, To make translations and translators too, They but preserve the ashes; thou the flame, True to his sense, but truer to his fame. The excellence of these lines is greater, as the truth which they contain was not, at that time, generally known. His poem on the death of Cowley was his last, and, among his shorter works, his best performance: the numbers are musical, and the thoughts are just. Cooper's Hill is the work that confers upon him the rank and dignity of an original author. He seems to have been, at least among us, the author of a species of composition that may be denominated _local poetry_, of which the fundamental subject is some particular landscape, to be poetically described with the addition of such embellishments as may be supplied by historical retrospection, or incidental meditation. To trace a new scheme of poetry, has, in itself, a very high claim to praise, and its praise is yet more, when it is apparently copied by Garth and Pope[25]; after whose names little will be gained by an enumeration of smaller poets, that have left scarcely a corner of the island not dignified either by rhyme or blank verse. Cooper's Hill, if it be maliciously inspected, will not be found without its faults. The digressions are too long, the morality too frequent, and the sentiments, sometimes, such as will not bear a rigorous inquiry. The four verses, which, since Dryden has commended them, almost every writer for a century past has imitated, are generally known: O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. The lines, are, in themselves, not perfect; for most of the words, thus artfully opposed, are to be understood simply on one side of the comparison, and metaphorically on the other; and, if there be any language which does not express intellectual operations by material images, into that language they cannot be translated. But so much meaning is comprised in so few words; the particulars of resemblance are so perspicaciously collected, and every mode of excellence separated from its adjacent fault by so nice a line of limitation; the different parts of the sentence are so accurately adjusted; and the flow of the last couplet is so smooth and sweet; that the passage, however celebrated, has not been praised above its merit. It has beauty peculiar to itself, and must be numbered among those felicities which cannot be produced at will by wit and labour, but must rise unexpectedly in some hour propitious to poetry. He appears to have been one of the first that understood the necessity of emancipating translation from the drudgery of counting lines, and interpreting single words. How much this servile practice obscured the clearest, and deformed the most beautiful parts of the ancient authors, may be discovered by a perusal of our earlier versions; some of them are the works of men well qualified, not only by critical knowledge, but by poetical genius, who yet, by a mistaken ambition of exactness, degraded, at once, their originals and themselves. Denham saw the better way, but has not pursued it with great success. His versions of Virgil are not pleasing; but they taught Dryden to please better. His poetical imitation of Tully on Old Age has neither the clearness of prose, nor the sprightliness of poetry. The "strength of Denham," which Pope so emphatically mentions, is to be found in many lines and couplets, which convey much meaning in few words, and exhibit the sentiment with more weight than bulk. On the Thames. Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold; His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore. On Strafford. His wisdom such, at once, it did appear Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' fear. While single he stood forth, and seem'd, although Each had an army, as an equal foe; Such was his force of eloquence to make The hearers more concern'd than he that spake: Each seem'd to act that part he came to see, And none was more a looker-on than he; So did he move our passions, some were known To wish, for the defence, the crime their own. Now private pity strove with public hate, Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate. On Cowley. To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, He did not steal, but emulate! And, when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear. As one of Denham's principal claims to the regard of posterity arises from his improvement of our numbers, his versification ought to be considered. It will afford that pleasure which arises from the observation of a man of judgment naturally right, forsaking bad copies by degrees, and advancing towards a better practice, as he gains more confidence in himself. In his translation of Virgil, written when he was about twenty-one years old, may be still found the old manner of continuing the sense ungracefully from verse to verse: Then all those Who in the dark our fury did escape, Returning, know our borrow'd arms, and shape, And differing dialect; then their numbers swell And grow upon us; first Choroebus fell Before Minerva's altar; next did bleed Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed In virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed. Then Hypanis and Dymas, wounded by Their friends; nor thee, Pantheus, thy piety, Nor consecrated mitre, from the same Ill fate could save; my country's funeral flame And Troy's cold ashes I attest, and call To witness for myself, that in their fall No foes, no death, nor danger, I declin'd, Did, and deserv'd no less, my fate to find. From this kind of concatenated metre he afterwards refrained, and taught his followers the art of concluding their sense in couplets; which has, perhaps, been with rather too much constancy pursued. This passage exhibits one of those triplets which are not unfrequent in this first essay, but which it is to be supposed his maturer judgment disapproved, since, in his latter works, he has totally forborne them. His rhymes are such as seem found without difficulty, by following the sense; and are, for the most part, as exact, at least, as those of other poets, though now and then the reader is shifted off with what he can get: O how _transform'd!_ How much unlike that Hector, who _return'd_ Clad in Achilles' spoils! And again: From thence a thousand lesser poets _sprung_ Like petty princes from the fall of _Rome_. Sometimes the weight of rhyme is laid upon a word too feeble to sustain it: Troy confounded falls From all her glories: if it might have stood By any power, by this right hand it _shou'd_. --And though my outward state misfortune _hath_ Deprest thus low, it cannot reach my faith. --Thus, by his fraud and our own faith o'ercome, A feigned tear destroys us, against _whom_ Tydides nor Achilles could prevail, Nor ten years' conflict, nor a thousand sail. He is not very careful to vary the ends of his verses; in one passage the word _die_ rhymes three couplets in six. Most of these petty faults are in his first productions, when he was less skilful, or, at least, less dexterous in the use of words; and though they had been more frequent, they could only have lessened the grace, not the strength of his composition. He is one of the writers that improved our taste, and advanced our language, and whom we ought, therefore, to read with gratitude, though, having done much, he left much to do. [Footnote 22: In Hamilton's memoirs of count Grammont, sir John Denham is said to have been seventy-nine, when he married Miss Brook, about the year 1664; according to which statement he was born in 1585. But Dr. Johnson, who has followed Wood, is right. He entered Trinity college, Oxford, at the age of sixteen, in 1631, as appears by the following entry, which I copied from the matriculation book. Trin. Coll. "1631. Nov. 18. Johannes Denham, Essex. filius J. Denham de Horsley-parva in com. praedict. militis, annos natus 16. MALONE".] [Footnote 23: In the ninth and tenth chapters of the Mémoires de Grammont, in Andrew Marvell's works, and in Aubrey's letters, ii. 319, many scandalous anecdotes respecting Denham, are reported. ED.] [Footnote 24: It is remarkable that Johnson should not have recollected, that this image is to be found in Bacon. Aristoteles, more otthomannorum, regnare se haud tuto posse putabat, nisi fratres suos omnes contrucidasset. De Augment. Scient. lib. 3.] [Footnote 25: By Garth, in his poem on Claremont: and by Pope, in his Windsor Forest.] MILTON. The life of Milton has been already written in so many forms, and with such minute inquiry, that I might, perhaps, more properly have contented myself with the addition of a few notes on Mr. Fenton's elegant Abridgment, but that a new narrative was thought necessary to the uniformity of this edition. John Milton was, by birth, a gentleman, descended from the proprietors of Milton, near Thame, in Oxfordshire, one of whom forfeited his estate in the times of York and Lancaster. Which side he took I know not; his descendant inherited no veneration for the _white rose._ His grandfather, John, was keeper of the forest of Shotover, a zealous papist, who disinherited his son, because he had forsaken the religion of his ancestors. His father, John, who was the son disinherited, had recourse, for his support, to the profession of a scrivener. He was a man eminent for his skill in musick, many of his compositions being still to be found; and his reputation in his profession was such, that he grew rich, and retired to an estate. He had, probably, more than common literature, as his son addresses him in one of his most elaborate Latin poems. He married a gentlewoman of the name of Caston, a Welsh family, by whom he had two sons, John, the poet, and Christopher, who studied the law, and adhered, as the law taught him, to the king's party, for which he was awhile persecuted, but having, by his brother's interest, obtained permission to live in quiet, he supported himself so honourably by chamber practice, that, soon after the accession of king James, he was knighted, and made a judge; but, his constitution being too weak for business, he retired before any disreputable compliances became necessary. He had, likewise, a daughter, Anne, whom he married with a considerable fortune, to Edward Philips, who came from Shrewsbury, and rose in the crown office to be secondary: by him she had two sons, John and Edward, who were educated by the poet, and from whom is derived the only authentick account of his domestick manners. John, the poet, was born in his father's house, at the Spread-eagle, in Bread street, Dec. 9, 1608, between six and seven in the morning. His father appears to have been very solicitous about his education; for he was instructed, at first, by private tuition, under the care of Thomas Young, who was afterwards chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburgh, and of whom we have reason to think well, since his scholar considered him as worthy of an epistolary elegy. He was then sent to St. Paul's school, under the care of Mr. Gill; and removed, in the beginning of his sixteenth year, to Christ's college in Cambridge, where he entered a sizar[26], Feb. 12,1624. He was, at this time, eminently skilled in the Latin tongue; and he himself, by annexing the dates to his first compositions, a boast of which the learned Politian had given him an example, seems to commend the earliness of his own proficiency to the notice of posterity. But the products of his vernal fertility have been surpassed by many, and particularly by his contemporary Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is difficult to form an estimate: many have excelled Milton in their first essays, who never rose to works like Paradise Lost. At fifteen, a date which he uses till he is sixteen, he translated or versified two psalms, 114 and 136, which he thought worthy of the publick eye; but they raise no great expectations: they would, in any numerous school, have obtained praise, but not excited wonder. Many of his elegies appear to have been written in his eighteenth year, by which it appears that he had then read the Roman authors with very nice discernment. I once heard Mr. Hampton, the translator of Polybius, remark, what I think is true, that Milton was the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classick elegance. If any exceptions can be made, they are very few: Haddon and Ascham, the pride of Elizabeth's reign, however they have succeeded in prose, no sooner attempt verse than they provoke derision. If we produced any thing worthy of notice before the elegies of Milton, it was, perhaps, Alabaster's Roxana[27]. Of the exercises which the rules of the university required, some were published by him in his maturer years. They had been undoubtedly applauded; for they were such as few can perform; yet there is reason to suspect that he was regarded in his college with no great fondness. That he obtained no fellowship is certain; but the unkindness with which he was treated, was not merely negative. I am ashamed to relate what I fear is true, that Milton was one of the last students in either university, that suffered the publick indignity of corporal correction[28]. It was, in the violence of controversial hostility, objected to him, that he was expelled: this he steadily denies, and it was apparently not true; but it seems plain, from his own verses to Diodati, that he had incurred rustication, a temporary dismission into the country, with, perhaps, the loss of a term: Me tenet urbs, reflua quam Thamesis alluit unda, Meque nec invitum patria dulcis habet. Jam nec arundiferum mihi cura revisere Camum, Nec dudum _vetiti_ me _laris_ angit amor. Nec duri libet usque minas perferre magistri, Caeteraque ingenio non subeunda meo. Si sit hoc _exilium_ patrios adiise penates, Et vacuum curis otia grata sequi, Non ego vel _profugi_ nomen sortemve recuso, Laetus et _exilii_ conditione fruor. I cannot find any meaning but this, which even kindness and reverence can give to the term "vetiti laris," a habitation from which he is excluded; or how _exile_ can be otherwise interpreted. He declares yet more, that he is weary of enduring "the threats of a rigorous master, and something else, which a temper like his cannot undergo." What was more than threat was probably punishment. This poem, which mentions his exile, proves, likewise, that it was not perpetual; for it concludes with a resolution of returning some time to Cambridge. And it may be conjectured, from the willingness with which he has perpetuated the memory of his exile, that its cause was such as gave him no shame. He took both the usual degrees; that of Bachelor in 1628, and that of master in 1632; but he left the university with no kindness for its institution, alienated either by the injudicious severity of his governours, or his own captious perverseness. The cause cannot now be known, but the effect appears in his writings. His scheme of education, inscribed to Hartlib, supersedes all academical instruction, being intended to comprise the whole time which men usually spend in literature, from their entrance upon grammar, "till they proceed, as it is called, masters of arts." And in his discourse on the likeliest way to remove Hirelings out of the Church, he ingeniously proposes, that "the profits of the lands forfeited by the act for superstitious uses should be applied to such academies all over the land, where languages and arts may be taught together; so that youth may be, at once, brought up to a competency of learning and an honest trade, by which means such of them as had the gift, being enabled to support themselves, without tithes, by the latter, may, by the help of the former, become worthy preachers." One of his objections to academical education, as it was then conducted, is, that men designed for orders in the church were permitted to act plays, "writhing and unboning their clergy limbs to all the antick and dishonest gestures of Trincalos[29], buffoons, and bawds, prostituting the shame of that ministry which they had, or were near having, to the eyes of courtiers and court ladies, their grooms and mademoiselles." This is sufficiently peevish in a man, who, when he mentions his exile from the college, relates, with great luxuriance, the compensation which the pleasures of the theatre afford him. Plays were, therefore, only criminal when they were acted by academicks. He went to the university with a design of entering into the church, but in time altered his mind; for he declared, that whoever became a clergyman must "subscribe slave, and take an oath withal, which, unless he took with a conscience that could retch, he must straight perjure himself. He thought it better to prefer a blameless silence, before the office of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and forswearing." These expressions are, I find, applied to the subscription of the articles; but it seems more probable that they relate to canonical obedience. I know not any of the articles which seem to thwart his opinions; but the thoughts of obedience, whether canonical or civil, raised his indignation. His unwillingness to engage in the ministry, perhaps not yet advanced to a settled resolution of declining it, appears in a letter to one of his friends, who had reproved his suspended and dilatory life, which he seems to have imputed to an insatiable curiosity, and fantastick luxury of various knowledge. To this he writes a cool and plausible answer, in which he endeavours to persuade him, that the delay proceeds not from the delights of desultory study, but from the desire of obtaining more fitness for his task; and that he goes on, "not taking thought of being late, so it gives advantage to be more fit." When he left the university he returned to his father, then residing at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, with whom he lived five years; in which time he is said to have read all the Greek and Latin writers. With what limitations this universality is to be understood, who shall inform us? It might be supposed, that he who read so much should have done nothing else; but Milton found time to write the Masque of Comus, which was presented at Ludlow, then the residence of the lord president of Wales, in 1634; and had the honour of being acted by the earl of Bridgewater's sons and daughter. The fiction is derived from Homer's Circe[30]; but we never can refuse to any modern the liberty of borrowing from Homer: --"a quo ceu fonte perenni Vatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis." His next production was Lycidas, an elegy, written in 1637, on the death of Mr. King, the son of sir John King, secretary for Ireland in the time of Elizabeth, James, and Charles. King was much a favourite at Cambridge, and many of the wits joined to do honour to his memory. Milton's acquaintance with the Italian writers may be discovered by a mixture of longer and shorter verses, according to the rules of Tuscan poetry, and his malignity to the church by some lines which are interpreted as threatening its extermination. He is supposed about this time to have written his Arcades; for, while he lived at Horton, he used sometimes to steal from his studies a few days, which he spent at Harefield, the house of the countess dowager of Derby, where the Arcades made part of a dramatick entertainment. He began now to grow weary of the country, and had some purpose of taking chambers in the inns of court, when the death of his mother set him at liberty to travel, for which he obtained his father's consent, and sir Henry Wotton's directions; with the celebrated precept of prudence, "i pensieri stretti, ed il viso sciolto;" thoughts close, and looks loose. In 1638 he left England, and went first to Paris; where, by the favour of lord Scudamore, he had the opportunity of visiting Grotius, then residing at the French court, as ambassadour from Christina of Sweden. From Paris he hasted into Italy, of which he had, with particular diligence, studied the language and literature; and, though he seems to have intended a very quick perambulation of the country, staid two months at Florence; where he found his way into the academies, and produced his compositions with such applause, as appears to have exalted him in his own opinion, and confirmed him in the hope, that, "by labour and intense study, which," says he, "I take to be my portion in this life, joined with a strong propensity of nature," he might "leave something so written to aftertimes, as they should not willingly let it die." It appears, in all his writings, that he had the usual concomitant of great abilities, a lofty and steady confidence in himself, perhaps not without some contempt of others; for scarcely any man ever wrote so much, and praised so few. Of his praise he was very frugal; as he set its value high, and considered his mention of a name, as a security against the waste of time, and a certain preservative from oblivion. At Florence he could not, indeed, complain that his merit wanted distinction: Carlo Dati presented him with an encomiastick inscription, in the tumid lapidary style; and Francini wrote him an ode, of which the first stanza is only empty noise; the rest are, perhaps, too diffuse on common topicks; but the last is natural and beautiful. From Florence he went to Sienna, and from Sienna to Rome, where he was again received with kindness by the learned and the great. Holstenius, the keeper of the Vatican library, who had resided three years at Oxford, introduced him to cardinal Barberini; and he, at a musical entertainment, waited for him at the door, and led him by the hand into the assembly. Here Selvaggi praised him in a distich, and Salsilli in a tetrastick; neither of them of much value. The Italians were gainers by this literary commerce; for the encomiums with which Milton repaid Salsilli, though not secure against a stern grammarian, turn the balance indisputably in Milton's favour. Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they are, he was proud enough to publish them before his poems; though he says, he cannot be suspected but to have known that they were said, "non tam de se, quam supra se." At Rome, as at Florence, he staid only two months; a time, indeed, sufficient, if he desired only to ramble with an explainer of its antiquities, or to view palaces and count pictures; but certainly too short for the contemplation of learning, policy, or manners. From Rome he passed on to Naples in company of a hermit, a companion from whom little could be expected; yet to him Milton owed his introduction to Manso, marquis of Villa, who had been before the patron of Tasso. Manso was enough delighted with his accomplishments to honour him with a sorry distich, in which he commends him for every thing but his religion: and Milton, in return, addressed him in a Latin poem, which must have raised an high opinion of English elegance and literature. His purpose was now to have visited Sicily and Greece; but, hearing of the differences between the king and parliament, he thought it proper to hasten home, rather than pass his life in foreign amusements, while his countrymen were contending for their rights. He, therefore, came back to Rome, though the merchants informed him of plots laid against him by the jesuits, for the liberty of his conversations on religion. He had sense enough to judge that there was no danger, and, therefore, kept on his way, and acted as before, neither obtruding nor shunning controversy. He had, perhaps, given some offence by visiting Galileo, then a prisoner in the inquisition for philosophical heresy; and at Naples he was told by Manso, that, by his declarations on religious questions, he had excluded himself from some distinctions which he should otherwise have paid him. But such conduct, though it did not please, was yet sufficiently safe; and Milton staid two months more at Rome, and went on to Florence without molestation. From Florence he visited Lucca. He afterwards went to Venice; and, having sent away a collection of musick and other books, travelled to Geneva, which he, probably, considered as the metropolis of orthodoxy. Here he reposed, as in a congenial element, and became acquainted with John Diodati and Frederick Spanheim, two learned professors of divinity. From Geneva he passed through France; and came home, after an absence of a year and three months. At his return he heard of the death of his friend Charles Diodati; a man, whom it is reasonable to suppose, of great merit, since he was thought, by Milton, worthy of a poem, entitled Epitaphium Damonis, written with the common, but childish, imitation of pastoral life. He now hired a lodging at the house of one Russet, a tailor, in St. Bride's church-yard, and undertook the education of John and Edward Philips, his sister's sons. Finding his rooms too little, he took a house and garden in Aldersgate street[31], which was not then so much out of the world as it is now; and chose his dwelling at the upper end of a passage, that he might avoid the noise of the street. Here he received more boys, to be boarded and instructed. Let not our veneration for Milton forbid us to look with some degree of merriment on great promises and small performance, on the man who hastens home, because his countrymen are contending for their liberty, and, when he reaches the scene of action, vapours away his patriotism in a private boarding-school. This is the period of his life from which all his biographers seem inclined to shrink. They are unwilling that Milton should be degraded to a schoolmaster; but, since it cannot be denied that he taught boys, one finds out that he taught for nothing, and another, that his motive was only zeal for the propagation of learning and virtue; and all tell what they do not know to be true, only to excuse an act which no wise man will consider as in itself disgraceful. His father was alive; his allowance was not ample; and he supplied its deficiencies by an honest and useful employment. It is told, that in the art of education he performed wonders; and a formidable list is given of the authors, Greek and Latin, that were read in Aldersgate street, by youth between ten and fifteen or sixteen years of age. Those who tell or receive these stories should consider, that nobody can be taught faster than he can learn. The speed of the horseman must be limited by the power of the horse. Every man, that has ever undertaken to instruct others, can tell what slow advances he has been able to make, and how much patience it requires to recall vagrant inattention, to stimulate sluggish indifference, and to rectify absurd misapprehension. The purpose of Milton, as it seems, was to teach something more solid than the common literature of schools, by reading those authors that treat of physical subjects; such as the georgick, and astronomical treatises of the ancients. This was a scheme of improvement which seems to have busied many literary projectors of that age. Cowley, who had more means than Milton of knowing what was wanting to the embellishments of life, formed the same plan of education in his imaginary college. But the truth is, that the knowledge of external nature, and the sciences which that knowledge requires or includes, are not the great or the frequent business of the human mind. Whether we provide for action or conversation, whether we wish to be useful or pleasing, the first requisite is the religious and moral knowledge of right and wrong; the next is an acquaintance with the history of mankind, and with those examples which may be said to embody truth, and prove, by events, the reasonableness of opinions. Prudence and justice are virtues and excellencies of all times and of all places; we are perpetually moralists, but we are geometricians only by chance. Our intercourse with intellectual nature is necessary; our speculations upon matter are voluntary, and at leisure. Physiological learning is of such rare emergence, that one may know another half his life, without being able to estimate his skill in hydrostaticks or astronomy; but his moral and prudential character immediately appears. Those authors, therefore, are to be read at schools that supply most axioms of prudence, most principles of moral truth, and most materials for conversation; and these purposes are best served by poets, orators, and historians. Let me not be censured for this digression, as pedantick or paradoxical; for, if I have Milton against me, I have Socrates on my side. It was his labour to turn philosophy from the study of nature to speculations upon life; but the innovators whom I oppose are turning off attention from life to nature. They seem to think, that we are placed here to watch the growth of plants, or the motions of the stars. Socrates was rather of opinion, that what we had to learn was, how to do good, and avoid evil: 'Oti toi en megaroisi kakon t agathon te tetukta'] Of institutions we may judge by their effects. From this wonder-working academy, I do not know that there ever proceeded any man very eminent for knowledge: its only genuine product, I believe, is a small history of poetry, written in Latin by his nephew Philips, of which, perhaps, none of my readers has ever heard[32]. That in his school, as in every thing else which he undertook, he laboured with great diligence, there is no reason for doubting. One part of his method deserves general imitation. He was careful to instruct his scholars in religion. Every Sunday was spent upon theology; of which he dictated a short system, gathered from the writers that were then fashionable in the Dutch universities. He set his pupils an example of hard study and spare diet; only now and then he allowed himself to pass a day of festivity and indulgence with some gay gentlemen of Gray's inn. He now began to engage in the controversies of the times, and lent his breath to blow the flames of contention. In 1641, he published a treatise of Reformation, in two books, against the established church; being willing to help the puritans, who were, he says, "inferior to the prelates in learning." Hall, bishop of Norwich, had published an Humble Remonstrance, in defence of episcopacy; to which, in 1641, five ministers[33], of whose names the first letters made the celebrated word Smectymnuus, gave their answer. Of this answer a confutation was attempted by the learned Usher; and to the confutation Milton published a reply, entitled, of Prelatical Episcopacy, and whether it may be deduced from the Apostolical Times, by virtue of those testimonies which are alleged to that purpose in some late treatises, one whereof goes under the name of James, lord bishop of Armagh. I have transcribed this title to show, by his contemptuous mention of Usher, that he had now adopted the puritanical savageness of manners. His next work was, the Reason of Church Government urged against Prelacy, by Mr. John Milton, 1642. In this book he discovers, not with ostentatious exultation, but with calm confidence, his high opinion of his own powers; and promises to undertake something, he yet knows not what, that may be of use and honour to his country. "This," says he, "is not to be obtained but by devout prayer to that eternal spirit that can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added, industrious and select reading, steady observation, and insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs; till which in some measure be compast, I refuse not to sustain this expectation." From a promise like this, at once fervid, pious, and rational, might be expected the Paradise Lost. He published, the same year, two more pamphlets, upon the same question. To one of his antagonists, who affirms that he was "vomited out of the university," he answers, in general terms: "The fellows of the college, wherein I spent some years, at my parting, after I had taken two degrees, as the manner is, signified, many times, how much better it would content them that I should stay. As for the common approbation or dislike of that place, as now it is, that I should esteem or disesteem myself the more for that, too simple is the answerer, if he think to obtain with me. Of small practice were the physician who could not judge, by what she and her sister have of long time vomited, that the worser stuff she strongly keeps in her stomach, but the better she is ever kecking at, and is queasy; she vomits now out of sickness; but, before it will be well with her, she must vomit by strong physick. The university, in the time of her better health, and my younger judgment, I never greatly admired, but now much less." This is surely the language of a man who thinks that he has been injured. He proceeds to describe the course of his conduct, and the train of his thoughts; and, because he has been suspected of incontinence, gives an account of his own purity: "That if I be justly charged," says he, "with this crime, it may come upon me with tenfold shame." The style of his piece is rough, and such, perhaps, was that of his antagonist. This roughness he justifies, by great examples, in a long digression. Sometimes he tries to be humorous: "Lest I should take him for some chaplain in hand, some squire of the body to his prelate, one who serves not at the altar only, but at the court-cupboard, he will bestow on us a pretty model of himself; and sets me out half a dozen ptisical mottoes, wherever he had them, hopping short in the measure of convulsion fits; in which labour the agony of his wit having escaped narrowly, instead of well-sized periods, he greets us with a quantity of thumb-ring poesies. And thus ends this section, or rather dissection, of himself." Such is the controversial merriment of Milton; his gloomy seriousness is yet more offensive. Such is his malignity, "that hell grows darker at his frown." His father, after Reading was taken by Essex, came to reside in his house; and his school increased. At Whitsuntide, in his thirty-fifth year, he married Mary, the daughter of Mr. Powel, a justice of the peace in Oxfordshire. He brought her to town with him, and expected all the advantages of a conjugal life. The lady, however, seems not much to have delighted in the pleasures of spare diet and hard study; for, as Philips relates, "having for a month led a philosophick life, after having been used at home to a great house, and much company and joviality, her friends, possibly by her own desire, made earnest suit to have her company the remaining part of the summer; which was granted, upon a promise of her return at Michaelmas." Milton was too busy to much miss his wife: he pursued his studies; and now and then visited the lady Margaret Leigh, whom he has mentioned in one of his sonnets. At last Michaelmas arrived; but the lady had no inclination to return to the sullen gloom of her husband's habitation, and, therefore, very willingly forgot her promise. He sent her a letter, but had no answer: he sent more with the same success. It could be alleged that letters miscarry; he, therefore, despatched a messenger, being by this time too angry to go himself. His messenger was sent back with some contempt. The family of the lady were cavaliers. In a man whose opinion of his own merit was like Milton's, less provocation than this might have raised violent resentment. Milton soon determined to repudiate her for disobedience; and, being one of those who could easily find arguments to justify inclination, published, in 1644, the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce; which was followed by the Judgment of Martin Bucer concerning Divorce; and the next year, his Tetrachordon, expositions upon the four chief places of scripture which treat of marriage. This innovation was opposed, as might be expected, by the clergy, who, then holding their famous assembly at Westminster, procured that the author should be called before the lords; but "that house," says Wood, "whether approving the doctrine, or not favouring his accusers, did soon dismiss him." There seems not to have been much written against him, nor any thing by any writer of eminence[34]. The antagonist that appeared, is styled by him "a serving man turned solicitor." Howell, in his Letters, mentions the new doctrine with contempt[35]: and it was, I suppose, thought more worthy of derision than of confutation. He complains of this neglect in two sonnets, of which the first is contemptible and the second not excellent. From this time it is observed, that he became an enemy to the presbyterians, whom he had favoured before. He that changes his party by his humour, is not more virtuous than he that changes it by his interest: he loves himself rather than truth. His wife and her relations now found that Milton was not an unresisting sufferer of injuries; and, perceiving that he had begun to put his doctrine in practice, by courting a young woman of great accomplishments, the daughter of one doctor Davis, who was, however, not ready to comply, they resolved to endeavour a reunion. He went sometimes to the house of one Blackborough, his relation, in the lane of St. Martin-le-grand, and at one of his usual visits was surprised to see his wife come from another room, and implore forgiveness on her knees. He resisted her entreaties for awhile; "but partly," says Philips, "his own generous nature, more inclinable to reconciliation than to perseverance in anger or revenge, and partly the strong intercession of friends on both sides, soon brought him to an act of oblivion and a firm league of peace." It were injurious to omit, that Milton afterwards received her father and her brothers in his own house, when they were distressed, with other royalists. He published, about the same time, his Areopagitica, a speech of Mr. John Milton, for the liberty of unlicensed printing. The danger of such unbounded liberty, and the danger of bounding it, have produced a problem in the science of government, which human understanding seems, hitherto, unable to solve. If nothing may be published but what civil authority shall have previously approved, power must always be the standard of truth; if every dreamer of innovations may propagate his projects, there can be no settlement; if every murmurer at government may diffuse discontent, there can be no peace; and if every skeptick in theology may teach his follies, there can be no religion. The remedy against these evils is to punish the authors; for it is yet allowed that every society may punish, though not prevent, the publication of opinions which that society shall think pernicious; but this punishment, though it may crush the author, promotes the book; and it seems not more reasonable to leave the right of printing unrestrained, because writers may be afterwards censured, than it would be to sleep with doors unbolted, because by our laws we can hang a thief. But whatever were his engagements, civil or domestick, poetry was never long out of his thoughts. About this time (1645) a collection of his Latin and English poems appeared, in which the Allegro and Penseroso, with some others, were first published. He had taken a large house in Barbican, for the reception of scholars; but the numerous relations of his wife, to whom he generously granted refuge for awhile, occupied his rooms. In time, however, they went away; "and the house again," says Philips, "now looked like a house of the muses only, though the accession of scholars was not great. Possibly his having proceeded so far in the education of youth may have been the occasion of his adversaries calling him pedagogue and schoolmaster; whereas, it is well known he never set up for a publick school, to teach all the young fry of a parish; but only was willing to impart his learning and knowledge to his relations, and the sons of gentlemen who were his intimate friends, and that neither his writings, nor his way of teaching, ever savoured in the least of pedantry." Thus laboriously does his nephew extenuate what cannot be denied, and what might be confessed without disgrace. Milton was not a man who could become mean by a mean employment. This, however, his warmest friends seem not to have found; they, therefore, shift and palliate. He did not sell literature to all comers, at an open shop; he was a chamber milliner, and measured his commodities only to his friends. Philips, evidently impatient of viewing him in this state of degradation, tells us that it was not long continued; and, to raise his character again, has a mind to invest him with military splendour: "He is much mistaken," he says, "if there was not, about this time, a design of making him an adjutant-general in sir William Waller's army. But the new modelling of the army proved an obstruction to the design." An event cannot be set at a much greater distance than by having been only "designed about some time," if a man "be not much mistaken." Milton shall be a pedagogue no longer; for, if Philips be not much mistaken, somebody at some time designed him for a soldier. About the time that the army was new-modelled, (1645,) he removed to a smaller house in Holborn, which opened backward into Lincoln's inn fields. He is not known to have published any thing afterwards, till the king's death, when, finding his murderers condemned by the presbyterians, he wrote a treatise to justify it, and "to compose the minds of the people." He made some Remarks on the Articles of Peace between Ormond and the Irish Rebels. While he contented himself to write, he, perhaps, did only what his conscience dictated; and if he did not very vigilantly watch the influence of his own passions, and the gradual prevalence of opinions, first willingly admitted, and then habitually indulged; if objections, by being overlooked, were forgotten, and desire superinduced conviction; he yet shared only the common weakness of mankind, and might be no less sincere than his opponents. But, as faction seldom leaves a man honest, however it might find him, Milton is suspected of having interpolated the book called Icon Basilike, which the council of state, to whom he was now made Latin secretary, employed him to censure, by inserting a prayer taken from Sidney's Arcadia, and imputing it to the king; whom he charges, in his Iconoclastes, with the use of this prayer, as with a heavy crime, in the indecent language with which prosperity had emboldened the advocates for rebellion to insult all that is venerable or great: "Who would have imagined so little fear in him of the true all-seeing deity, as, immediately before his death, to pop into the hands of the grave bishop that attended him, as a special relique of his saintly exercises, a prayer, stolen word for word, from the mouth of a heathen woman, praying to a heathen god?" The papers which the king gave to Dr. Juxon, on the scaffold, the regicides took away, so that they were, at least, the publishers of this prayer; and Dr. Birch, who had examined the question with great care, was inclined to think them the forgers. The use of it, by adaptation, was innocent; and they who could so noisily censure it, with a little extension of their malice, could contrive what they wanted to accuse[36]. King Charles the second, being now sheltered in Holland, employed Salmasius, professor of polite learning at Leyden, to write a defence of his father and of monarchy; and, to excite his industry, gave him, as was reported, a hundred Jacobuses. Salmasius was a man of skill in languages, knowledge of antiquity, and sagacity of emendatory criticism, almost exceeding all hope of human attainment; and having, by excessive praises, been confirmed in great confidence of himself, though he probably had not much considered the principles of society, or the rights of government, undertook the employment without distrust of his own qualifications; and, as his expedition in writing was wonderful, in 1649, published Defensio Regis. To this Milton was required to write a sufficient answer; which he performed (1651) in such a manner, that Hobbes declared himself unable to decide whose language was best, or whose arguments were worst. In my opinion, Milton's periods are smoother, neater, and more pointed; but he delights himself with teasing his adversary, as much as with confuting him. He makes a foolish allusion of Salmasius, whose doctrine he considers as servile and unmanly, to the stream of Salmacis, which, whoever entered, left half his virility behind him. Salmasius was a Frenchman, and was unhappily married to a scold: "Tu es Gallus," says Milton, "et, ut aiunt, minium gallinaceus." But his supreme pleasure is to tax his adversary, so renowned for criticism, with vitious Latin. He opens his book with telling that he has used _persona_, which, according to Milton, signifies only a _mask_, in a sense not known to the Romans, by applying it as we apply _person_. But, as Nemesis is always on the watch, it is memorable that he has enforced the charge of a solecism by an expression in itself grossly solecistical, when, for one of those supposed blunders, he says, as Ker, and, I think, some one before him, has remarked, "propino te grammatistis tuis _vapulandum_[37]." From _vapulo_, which has a passive sense, _vapulandus_ can never be derived. No man forgets his original trade: the rights of nations, and of kings, sink into questions of grammar, if grammarians discuss them. Milton, when he undertook this answer, was weak of body and dim of sight; but his will was forward, and what was wanting of health was supplied by zeal. He was rewarded with a thousand pounds, and his book was much read; for paradox, recommended by spirit and elegance, easily gains attention; and he, who told every man that he was equal to his king, could hardly want an audience. That the performance of Salmasius was not dispersed with equal rapidity, or read with equal eagerness, is very credible. He taught only the stale doctrine of authority, and the unpleasing duty of submission; and he had been so long not only the monarch, but the tyrant, of literature, that almost all mankind were delighted to find him defied and insulted by a new name, not yet considered as any one's rival. If Christina, as is said, commended the Defence of the People, her purpose must be to torment Salmasius, who was then at court; for neither her civil station, nor her natural character, could dispose her to favour the doctrine, who was by birth a queen, and by temper despotick. That Salmasius was, from the appearance of Milton's book, treated with neglect, there is not much proof; but to a man, so long accustomed to admiration, a little praise of his antagonist would be sufficiently offensive, and might incline him to leave Sweden, from which, however, he was dismissed, not with any mark of contempt, but with a train of attendance scarcely less than regal. He prepared a reply, which, left as it was imperfect, was published by his son in the year of the restoration. In the beginning, being probably most in pain for his Latinity, he endeavours to defend his use of the word _persona_; but, if I remember right, he misses a better authority than any that he has found, that of Juvenal in his fourth satire: Quid agas, cum dira et foedior omni Crimine _persona_ est? As Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes in the quarrel, Milton delighted himself with the belief that he had shortened Salmasius's life, and both, perhaps, with more malignity than reason. Salmasius died at the spa, Sept. 3, 1653; and, as controvertists are commonly said to be killed by their last dispute, Milton was flattered with the credit of destroying him. Cromwell had now dismissed the parliament by the authority of which he had destroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch himself, under the title of protector, but with kingly, and more than kingly, power. That his authority was lawful, never was pretended: he himself founded his right only in necessity; but Milton, having now tasted the honey of publick employment, would not return to hunger and philosophy, but, continuing to exercise his office, under a manifest usurpation, betrayed to his power that liberty which he had defended. Nothing can be more just than that rebellion should end in slavery; that he, who had justified the murder of his king, for some acts which seemed to him unlawful, should now sell his services, and his flatteries, to a tyrant, of whom it was evident that he could do nothing lawful. He had now been blind for some years; but his vigour of intellect was such, that he was not disabled to discharge his office of Latin secretary, or continue his controversies. His mind was too eager to be diverted, and too strong to be subdued. About this time his first wife died in childbed, having left him three daughters. As he probably did not much love her, he did not long continue the appearance of lamenting her; but, after a short time, married Catharine, the daughter of one captain Woodcock, of Hackney; a woman, doubtless, educated in opinions like his own. She died, within a year, of childbirth, or some distemper that followed it; and her husband honoured her memory with a poor sonnet. The first reply to Milton's Defensio Populi was published in 1651, called Apologia pro Rege et Populo Anglicano, contra Johannis Polypragmatici, alias Miltoni, Defensionem destructivam Regis et Populi. Of this the author was not known; but Milton and his nephew, Philips, under whose name he published an answer, so much corrected by him that it might be called his own, imputed it to Bramhal; and, knowing him no friend to regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat him as if they had known what they only suspected. Next year appeared Regii Sanguinis Clamor ad Coelum. Of this the author was Peter du Moulin, who was afterwards prebendary of Canterbury; but Morus, or More, a French minister, having the care of its publication, was treated as the writer by Milton in his Defensio Secunda, and overwhelmed by such violence of invective, that he began to shrink under the tempest, and gave his persecutors the means of knowing the true author. Du Moulin was now in great danger; but Milton's pride operated against his malignity; and both he and his friends were more willing that Du Moulin should escape than that he should be convicted of mistake. In this second defence he shows that his eloquence is not merely satirical; the rudeness of his invective is equalled by the grossness of his flattery. "Deserimur, Cromuelle, tu solus superes, ad te summa nostrarum rerum rediit, in te solo consistit, insuperabili tuae virtuti cedimus cuncti, nemine vel obloquente, nisi qui aequales inaequalis ipse honores sibi quaerit, aut digniori concessos invidet, aut non intelligit nihil esse in societate hominum magis vel Deo gratum, vel rationi consentaneum, esse in civitate nihil aequius, nihil utilius, quam potiri rerum dignissimum. Eum te agnoscunt omnes, Cromuelle, ea tu civis maximus et gloriosissimus[38], dux publici consilii, exercituum fortissimorum imperator, pater patriae gessisti. Sic tu spontanea bonorum omnium, et animitus missa voce salutaris." Caesar, when he assumed the perpetual dictatorship, had not more servile or more elegant flattery. A translation may show its servility; but its elegance is less attainable. Having exposed the unskilfulness or selfishness of the former government, "We were left," says Milton, "to ourselves: the whole national interest fell into your hands, and subsists only in your abilities. To your virtue, overpowering and resistless, every man gives way, except some who, without equal qualifications, aspire to equal honours, who envy the distinctions of merit, greater than their own, or who have yet to learn, that, in the coalition of human society, nothing is more pleasing to God, or more agreeable to reason, than that the highest mind should have the sovereign power. Such, sir, are you by general confession; such are the things achieved by you, the greatest and most glorious of our countrymen, the director of our publick councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the father of your country; for by that title does every good man hail you with sincere and voluntary praise." Next year, having defended all that wanted defence, he found leisure to defend himself. He undertook his own vindication against More, whom he declares, in his title, to be justly called the author of the Regii Sanguinis Clamor. In this there is no want of vehemence or eloquence, nor does he forget his wonted wit: "Morus est? an Momus? an uterque idem est?" He then remembers that Morus is Latin for a mulberry-tree, and hints at the known transformation: "Poma alba ferebat Quae post nigra tulit Morus." With this piece ended his controversies; and he, from this time, gave himself up to his private studies and his civil employment. As secretary to the protector, he is supposed to have written the declaration of the reasons for a war with Spain. His agency was considered as of great importance; for, when a treaty with Sweden was artfully suspended, the delay was publickly imputed to Mr. Milton's indisposition; and the Swedish agent was provoked to express his wonder, that only one man in England could write Latin, and that man blind. Being now forty-seven years old, and seeing himself disencumbered from external interruptions, he seems to have recollected his former purposes, and to have resumed three great works, which he had planned for his future employment; an epick poem, the history of his country, and a dictionary of the Latin tongue. To collect a dictionary, seems a work of all others least practicable in a state of blindness, because it depends upon perpetual and minute inspection and collation. Nor would Milton probably have begun it, after he had lost his eyes; but, having had it always before him, he continued it, says Philips, "almost to his dying-day; but the papers were so discomposed and deficient, that they could not be fitted for the press." The compilers of the Latin dictionary, printed at Cambridge, had the use of those collections in three folios; but what was their fate afterwards is not known[39]. To compile a history from various authors, when they can only be consulted by other eyes, is not easy, nor possible, but with more skilful and attentive help than can be commonly obtained; and it was probably the difficulty of consulting and comparing that stopped Milton's narrative at the conquest; a period at which affairs were not yet very intricate, nor authors very numerous. For the subject of his epick poem, after much deliberation, long choosing, and beginning late, he fixed upon Paradise Lost; a design so comprehensive, that it could be justified only by success. He had once designed to celebrate king Arthur, as he hints in his verses to Mansus; but "Arthur was reserved," says Fenton, "to another destiny[40]." It appears, by some sketches of poetical projects left in manuscript, and to be seen in a library[41] at Cambridge, that he had digested his thoughts on this subject into one of those wild dramas which were anciently called Mysteries[42]; and Philips had seen what he terms part of a tragedy, beginning with the first ten lines of Satan's address to the sun. These mysteries consist of allegorical persons; such as Justice, Mercy, Faith. Of the tragedy or mystery of Paradise Lost, there are two plans: The Persons. Michael. Chorus of Angels. Heavenly Love. Lucifer. Adam, } Eve, } with the Serpent. Conscience. Death. Labour, } Sickness, } Discontent, } Mutes. Ignorance, } with others; } Faith. Hope. Charity. The Persons. Moses. Divine Justice, Wisdom, Heavenly Love. The Evening Star, Hesperus. Chorus of Angels. Lucifer. Adam. Eve. Conscience. Labour, } Sickness, } Discontent, } Mutes. Ignorance, } Fear, } Death, } Faith. Hope. Charity. PARADISE LOST. The Persons. Moses [Greek: prologizei], recounting how he assumed his true body; that it corrupts not, because it is with God in the mount: declares the like of Enoch and Elijah; besides the purity of the place, that certain pure winds, dews, and clouds, preserve it from corruption; whence exhorts to the sight of God; tells they cannot see Adam in the state of innocence, by reason of their sin. Justice, } debating what should become of man, if he fall. Mercy, } Wisdom, } Chorus of angels singing a hymn of the creation. ACT II. Heavenly Love. Evening Star. Chorus sings the marriage song, and describes Paradise. ACT III. Lucifer contriving Adam's ruin. Chorus fears for Adam, and relates Lucifer's rebellion and fall. ACT IV. Adam, } fallen. Eve, } Conscience cites them to God's examination. Chorus bewails, and tells the good Adam has lost. ACT V. Adam and Eve driven out of Paradise. ------presented by an angel with Labour, Grief, Hatred, Envy, War, Famine, } Pestilence, Sickness, Discontent, Ignorance, } Mutes. Fear, Death, } To whom he gives their names. Likewise Winter, Heat, Tempest, &c. Faith, } Hope, }comfort him, and instruct him. Charity, } Chorus briefly concludes. Such was his first design, which could have produced only an allegory, or mystery. The following sketch seems to have attained more maturity. Adam unparadised: The angel Gabriel, either descending or entering; showing, since this globe was created, his frequency as much on earth as in heaven; describes Paradise. Next, the chorus, showing the reason of his coming to keep his watch in Paradise, after Lucifer's rebellion, by command from God; and withal expressing his desire to see and know more concerning this excellent new creature, man. The angel Gabriel, as by his name signifying a prince of power, tracing Paradise with, a more free office, passes by the station of the chorus, and, desired by them, relates what he knew of man; as the creation of Eve, with their love and marriage. After this, Lucifer appears; after his overthrow, bemoans himself, seeks revenge on man. The chorus prepares resistance at his first approach. At last, after discourse of enmity on either side, he departs: whereat the chorus sings of the battle and victory in heaven, against him and his accomplices: as before, after the first act, was sung a hymn of the creation. Here again may appear Lucifer, relating and exulting in what he had done to the destruction of man. Man next, and Eve, having by this time been seduced by the serpent, appears confusedly covered with leaves. Conscience, in a shape, accuses him; justice cites him to the place whither Jehovah called for him. In the mean while, the chorus entertains the stage, and is informed by some angel the manner of the fall. Here the chorus bewails Adam's fall; Adam then and Eve return; accuse one another; but especially Adam lays the blame to his wife; is stubborn in his offence. Justice appears, reasons with him, convinces him. The chorus admonisheth Adam, and bids him beware Lucifer's example of impenitence. The angel is sent to banish them out of Paradise; but before, causes to pass before his eyes, in shapes, a mask of all the evils of this life and world. He is humbled, relents, despairs; at last appears Mercy, comforts him, promises the Messiah; then calls in Faith, Hope, and Charity; instructs him; he repents, gives God the glory, submits to his penalty. The chorus briefly concludes. Compare this with the former draught. These are very imperfect rudiments of Paradise Lost; but it is pleasant to see great works in their seminal state, pregnant with latent possibilities of excellence; nor could there be any more delightful entertainment than to trace their gradual growth and expansion, and to observe how they are sometimes suddenly advanced by accidental hints, and sometimes slowly improved by steady meditation. Invention is almost the only literary labour which blindness cannot obstruct, and, therefore, he naturally solaced his solitude by the indulgence of his fancy, and the melody of his numbers. He had done what he knew to be necessary previous to poetical excellence; he had made himself acquainted with "seemly arts and affairs;" his comprehension was extended by various knowledge, and his memory stored with intellectual treasures. He was skilful in many languages, and had, by reading and composition, attained the full mastery of his own. He would have wanted little help from books, had he retained the power of perusing them. But while his greater designs were advancing, having now, like many other authors, caught the love of publication, he amused himself, as he could, with little productions. He sent to the press, 1658, a manuscript of Raleigh, called, the Cabinet Council; and next year gratified his malevolence to the clergy, by a Treatise of Civil Power in Ecclesiastical Cases, and the Means of removing Hirelings out of the Church. Oliver was now dead; Richard was constrained to resign: the system of extemporary government, which had been held together only by force, naturally fell into fragments, when that force was taken away; and Milton saw himself and his cause in equal danger. But he had still hope of doing something. He wrote letters, which Toland has published, to such men as he thought friends to the new commonwealth; and, even in the year of the restoration, he "bated no jot of heart or hope," but was fantastical enough to think that the nation, agitated as it was, might be settled by a pamphlet, called, a ready and easy Way to establish a free Commonwealth: which was, however, enough considered to be both seriously and ludicrously answered. The obstinate enthusiasm of the commonwealth-men was very remarkable. When the king was apparently returning, Harrington, with a few associates as fanatical as himself, used to meet, with all the gravity of political importance, to settle an equal government by rotation; and Milton, kicking when he could strike no longer, was foolish enough to publish, a few weeks before the restoration, notes upon a sermon preached by one Griffiths, entitled, the Fear of God and the King. To these notes an answer was written by L'Estrange, in a pamphlet, petulantly called, No Blind Guides. But whatever Milton could write, or men of greater activity could do, the king was now about to be restored with the irresistible approbation of the people. He was, therefore, no longer secretary, and was, consequently, obliged to quit the house which he held by his office; and, proportioning his sense of danger to his opinion of the importance of his writings, thought it convenient to seek some shelter, and hid himself, for a time, in Bartholomew close, by West Smithfield. I cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps unconsciously, paid to this great man by his biographers: every house in which he resided is historically mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any place that he honoured by his presence. The king, with lenity of which the world has had, perhaps, no other example, declined to be the judge or avenger of his own or his father's wrongs; and promised to admit into the act of oblivion all, except those whom the parliament should except; and the parliament doomed none to capital punishment, but the wretches who had immediately cooperated in the murder of the king. Milton was certainly not one of them; he had only justified what they had done. This justification was, indeed, sufficiently offensive; and, June 16, an order was issued to seize Milton's Defence, and Goodwin's Obstructers of Justice, another book of the same tendency, and burn them by the common hangman. The attorney-general was ordered to prosecute the authors; but Milton was not seized, nor, perhaps, very diligently pursued. Not long after, August 19, the flutter of innumerable bosoms was stilled by an act, which the king, that his mercy might want no recommendation of elegance, rather called an act of oblivion, than of grace. Goodwin was named, with nineteen more, as incapacitated for any publick trust; but of Milton there was no exception[43]. Of this tenderness shown to Milton, the curiosity of mankind has not forborne to inquire the reason. Burnet thinks he was forgotten; but this is another instance which may confirm Dalrymple's observation, who says, "that whenever Burnet's narrations are examined, he appears to be mistaken." Forgotten he was not; for his prosecution was ordered; it must be, therefore, by design that he was included in the general oblivion. He is said to have had friends in the house, such as Marvel, Morrice, and sir Thomas Clarges: and, undoubtedly, a man like him must have had influence. A very particular story of his escape is told by Richardson[44] in his Memoirs, which he received from Pope, as delivered by Betterton, who might have heard it from Davenant. In the war between the king and parliament, Davenant was made prisoner and condemned to die; but was spared at the request of Milton. When the turn of success brought Milton into the like danger, Davenant repayed the benefit by appearing in his favour. Here is a reciprocation of generosity and gratitude so pleasing, that the tale makes its own way to credit. But, if help were wanted, I know not where to find it. The danger of Davenant is certain, from his own relation; but of his escape there is no account[45]. Betterton's narration can be traced no higher; it is not known that he had it from Davenant. We are told that the benefit exchanged was life for life; but it seems not certain that Milton's life ever was in danger. Goodwin, who had committed the same kind of crime, escaped with incapacitation; and, as exclusion from publick trust is a punishment which the power of government can commonly inflict, without the help of a particular law, it required no great interest to exempt Milton from a censure little more than verbal. Something may be reasonably ascribed to veneration and compassion; to veneration of his abilities, and compassion for his distresses, which made it fit to forgive his malice for his learning. He was now poor and blind; and who would pursue with violence an illustrious enemy, depressed by fortune, and disarmed by nature[46]? The publication of the act of oblivion put him in the same condition with his fellow subjects. He was, however, upon some pretence, not now known, in the custody of the serjeant, in December; and when he was released, upon his refusal of the fees demanded, he and the serjeant were called before the house. He was now safe within the shade of oblivion, and knew himself to be as much out of the power of a griping officer, as any other man. How the question was determined is not known. Milton would hardly have contended, but that he knew himself to have right on his side. He then removed to Jewin street, near Aldersgate street; and being blind, and by no means wealthy, wanted a domestick companion and attendant; and, therefore, by the recommendation of Dr. Paget, married Elizabeth Minshul, of a gentleman's family in Cheshire, probably without a fortune. All his wives were virgins; for he has declared that he thought it gross and indelicate to be a second husband: upon what other principles his choice was made cannot now be known; but marriage afforded not much of his happiness. The first wife left him in disgust, and was brought back only by terrour; the second, indeed, seems to have been more a favourite, but her life was short. The third, as Philips relates, oppressed his children in his lifetime, and cheated them at his death. Soon after his marriage, according to an obscure story, he was offered the continuance of his employment, and, being pressed by his wife to accept it, answered: "You, like other women, want to ride in your coach; my wish is to live and die an honest man." If he considered the Latin secretary as exercising any of the powers of government, he that had shared authority, either with the parliament or Cromwell, might have forborne to talk very loudly of his honesty; and, if he thought the office purely ministerial, he certainly might have honestly retained it under the king. But this tale has too little evidence to deserve a disquisition; large offers and sturdy rejections are among the most common topicks of falsehood. He had so much either of prudence or gratitude, that he forbore to disturb the new settlement with any of his political or ecclesiastical opinions, and, from this time, devoted himself to poetry and literature. Of his zeal for learning, in all its parts, he gave a proof by publishing, the next year, 1661, Accidence commenced Grammar; a little book, which has nothing remarkable, but that its author, who had been lately defending the supreme powers of his country, and was then writing Paradise Lost, could descend from his elevation to rescue children from the perplexity of grammatical confusion, and the trouble of lessons unnecessarily repeated[47]. About this time Elwood, the quaker, being recommended to him, as one who would read Latin to him for the advantage of his conversation, attended him every afternoon, except on Sundays. Milton, who, in his letter to Hartlib, had declared, that "to read Latin with an English mouth is as ill a hearing as law French," required that Elwood should learn and practise the Italian pronunciation, which, he said, was necessary, if he would talk with foreigners. This seems to have been a task troublesome without use. There is little reason for preferring the Italian pronunciation to our own, except that it is more general; and to teach it to an Englishman is only to make him a foreigner at home. He who travels, if he speaks Latin, may so soon learn the sounds which every native gives it, that he need make no provision before his journey; and if strangers visit us, it is their business to practise such conformity to our modes as they expect from us in their own countries. Elwood complied with the directions, and improved himself by his attendance; for he relates, that Milton, having a curious ear, knew, by his voice, when he read what he did not understand, and would stop him, and "open the most difficult passages." In a short time he took a house in the Artillery walk, leading to Bunhill fields; the mention of which concludes the register of Milton's removals and habitations. He lived longer in this place than in any other. He was now busied by Paradise Lost. Whence he drew the original design has been variously conjectured, by men who cannot bear to think themselves ignorant of that which, at last, neither diligence nor sagacity can discover. Some find the hint in an Italian tragedy. Voltaire tells a wild and unauthorized story of a farce seen by Milton, in Italy, which opened thus: "Let the rainbow be the fiddlestick of the fiddle of heaven[48]." It has been already shown, that the first conception was of a tragedy or mystery, not of a narrative, but a dramatick work, which he is supposed to have begun to reduce to its present form about the time (1655) when he finished his dispute with the defenders of the king. He, long before, had promised to adorn his native country by some great performance, while he had yet, perhaps, no settled design, and was stimulated only by such expectations as naturally arose from the survey of his attainments, and the consciousness of his powers. What he should undertake, it was difficult to determine. He was "long choosing, and began late." While he was obliged to divide his time between his private studies and affairs of state, his poetical labour must have been often interrupted; and, perhaps, he did little more in that busy time than construct the narrative, adjust the episodes, proportion the parts, accumulate images and sentiments, and treasure in his memory, or preserve in writing, such hints as books or meditation would supply. Nothing particular is known of his intellectual operations while he was a statesman; for, having every help and accommodation at hand, he had no need of uncommon expedients. Being driven from all publick stations, he is yet too great not to be traced by curiosity to his retirement; where he has been found, by Mr. Richardson, the fondest of his admirers, sitting "before his door in a grey coat of coarse cloth, in warm sultry weather, to enjoy the fresh air; and so, as well as in his own room, receiving the visits of the people of distinguished parts, as well as quality." His visiters of high quality must now be imagined to be few; but men of parts might reasonably court the conversation of a man so generally illustrious, that foreigners are reported, by Wood, to have visited the house in Bread street, where he was born. According to another account, he was seen in a small house, "neatly enough dressed in black clothes, sitting in a room hung with rusty green; pale but not cadaverous, with chalkstones in his hand. He said, that, if it were not for the gout, his blindness would be tolerable." In the intervals of his pain, being made unable to use the common exercises, he used to swing in a chair, and sometimes played upon an organ. He was now confessedly and visibly employed upon his poem, of which the progress might be noted by those with whom he was familiar; for he was obliged, when he had composed as many lines as his memory would conveniently retain, to employ some friend in writing them, having, at least for part of the time, no regular attendant. This gave opportunity to observations and reports. Mr. Philips observes, that there was a very remarkable circumstance in the composure of Paradise Lost, "which I have a particular reason," says he, "to remember; for whereas I had the perusal of it from the very beginning, for some years, as I went from time to time to visit him, in parcels of ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a time, which, being written by whatever hand came next, might possibly want correction, as to the orthography and pointing; having, as the summer came on, not been showed any for a considerable while, and desiring the reason thereof, was answered, that his vein never happily flowed but from the autumnal equinox to the vernal; and that whatever he attempted at other times was never to his satisfaction, though he courted his fancy never so much; so that, in all the years he was about this poem, he may be said to have spent half his time therein." Upon this relation Toland remarks, that in his opinion, Philips has mistaken the time of the year; for Milton, in his elegies, declares, that with the advance of the spring he feels the increase of his poetical force, "redeunt in carmina vires." To this it is answered, that Philips could hardly mistake time so well marked; and it may be added, that Milton might find different times of the year favourable to different parts of life. Mr. Richardson conceives it impossible that "such a work should be suspended for six months, or for one. It may go on faster or slower, but it must go on." By what necessity it must continually go on, or why it might not be laid aside and resumed, it is not easy to discover. This dependance of the soul upon the seasons, those temporary and periodical ebbs and flows of intellect, may, I suppose, justly be derided, as the fumes of vain imagination: "Sapiens dominabitur astris." The author that thinks himself weather-bound will find, with a little help from hellebore, that he is only idle or exhausted. But while this notion has possession of the head, it produces the inability which it supposes. Our powers owe much of their energy to our hopes: "possunt quia posse videutur." When success seems attainable, diligence is enforced; but when it is admitted that the faculties are suppressed by a cross wind, or a cloudy sky, the day is given up without resistance; for who can contend with the course of nature? From such prepossessions Milton seems not to have been free. There prevailed, in his time, an opinion, that the world was in its decay, and that we have had the misfortune to be produced in the decrepitude of nature. It was suspected, that the whole creation languished, that neither trees nor animals had the height or bulk of their predecessors, and that every thing was daily sinking by gradual diminution[49]. Milton appears to suspect that souls partake of the general degeneracy, and is not without some fear that his book is to be written in "an age too late" for heroick poesy[50]. Another opinion wanders about the world, and sometimes finds reception among wise men; an opinion that restrains the operations of the mind to particular regions, and supposes that a luckless mortal may be born in a degree of latitude too high or too low for wisdom or for wit. From this fancy, wild as it is, he had not wholly cleared his head, when he feared lest the climate of his country might be too cold for flights of imagination. Into a mind already occupied by such fancies, another not more reasonable might easily find its way. He that could fear lest his genius had fallen upon too old a world, or too chill a climate, might consistently magnify to himself the influence of the seasons, and believe his faculties to be vigorous only half the year. His submission to the seasons was, at least, more reasonable than his dread of decaying nature, or a frigid zone; for general causes must operate uniformly in a general abatement of mental power; if less could be performed by the writer, less, likewise, would content the judges of his work. Among this lagging race of frosty grovellers he might still have risen into eminence, by producing something, which "they should not willingly let die." However inferiour to the heroes who were born in better ages, he might still be great among his contemporaries, with the hope of growing every day greater in the dwindle of posterity. He might still be a giant among the pygmies, the one-eyed monarch of the blind[51]. Of his artifices of study, or particular hours of composition, we have little account, and there was, perhaps, little to be told. Richardson, who seems to have been very diligent in his inquiries, but discovers always a wish to find Milton discriminated from other men, relates, that "he would sometimes lie awake whole nights, but not a verse could he make; and on a sudden his poetical faculty would rush upon him with an impetus or oestrum, and his daughter was immediately called to secure what came. At other times he would dictate, perhaps, forty lines in a breath, and then reduce them to half the number." These bursts of light, and involutions of darkness, these transient and involuntary excursions and retrocessions of invention, having some appearance of deviation from the common train of nature, are eagerly caught by the lovers of a wonder. Yet something of this inequality happens to every man in every mode of exertion, manual or mental. The mechanick cannot handle his hammer and his file at all times with equal dexterity; there are hours, he knows not why, when "his hand is out." By Mr. Richardson's relation, casually conveyed, much regard cannot be claimed. That, in his intellectual hour, Milton called for his daughter to "secure what came," may be questioned; for unluckily it happens to be known, that his daughters were never taught to write; nor would he have been obliged, as is universally confessed, to have employed any casual visitor in disburdening his memory, if his daughter could have performed the office. The story of reducing his exuberance has been told of other authors, and, though, doubtless, true of every fertile and copious mind, seems to have been gratuitously transferred to Milton. What he has told us, and we cannot now know more, is, that he composed much of this poem in the night and morning, I suppose, before his mind was disturbed with common business; and that he poured out, with great fluency, his "unpremeditated verse." Versification, free, like his, from the distresses of rhyme, must, by a work so long, be made prompt and habitual; and, when his thoughts were once adjusted, the words would come at his command. At what particular times of his life the parts of his work were written, cannot often be known. The beginning of the third book shows that he had lost his sight; and the introduction to the seventh, that the return of the king had clouded him with discountenance: and that he was offended by the licentious festivity of the restoration. There are no other internal notes of time. Milton, being now cleared from all effects of his disloyalty, had nothing required from him but the common duty of living in quiet, to be rewarded with the common right of protection; but this, which, when he skulked from the approach of his king, was, perhaps, more than he hoped, seems not to have satisfied him; for, no sooner is he safe, than he finds himself in danger: "fallen on evil days and evil tongues, and with darkness and with danger compass'd round." This darkness, had his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly deserved compassion; but to add the mention of danger was ungrateful and unjust. He was fallen, indeed, on "evil days;" the time was come in which regicides could no longer boast their wickedness. But of "evil tongues" for Milton to complain, required impudence, at least, equal to his other powers; Milton, whose warmest advocates must allow, that he never spared any asperity of reproach, or brutality of insolence. But the charge itself seems to be false; for it would be hard to recollect any reproach cast upon him, either serious or ludicrous, through the whole remaining part of his life. He pursued his studies, or his amusements, without persecution, molestation, or insult. Such is the reverence paid to great abilities, however misused: they who contemplated in Milton the scholar and the wit, were contented to forget the reviler of his king. When the plague, 1665, raged in London, Milton took refuge at Chalfont, in Bucks; where Elwood, who had taken the house for him, first saw a complete copy of Paradise Lost, and, having perused it, said to him: "Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise Lost; what hast thou to say upon Paradise Found?" Next year, when the danger of infection had ceased, he returned to Bunhill fields, and designed the publication of his poem. A license was necessary, and he could expect no great kindness from a chaplain of the archbishop of Canterbury. He seems, however, to have been treated with tenderness; for though objections were made to particular passages, and among them to the simile of the sun, eclipsed in the first book, yet the license was granted; and he sold his copy, April 27, 1667, to Samuel Simmons, for an immediate payment of five pounds, with a stipulation to receive five pounds more, when thirteen hundred should be sold of the first edition; and again, five pounds after the sale of the same number of the second edition; and another five pounds after the same sale of the third. None of the three editions were to be extended beyond fifteen hundred copies. The first edition was of ten books, in a small quarto. The titles were varied from year to year; and an advertisement and the arguments of the books were omitted in some copies, and inserted in others. The sale gave him, in two years, a right to his second payment, for which the receipt was signed April, 26, 1669. The second edition was not given till 1674; it was printed in small octavo; and the number of books was increased to twelve, by a division of the seventh and twelfth; and some other small improvements were made. The third edition was published in 1678; and the widow, to whom the copy was then to devolve, sold all her claims to Simmons for eight pounds, according to her receipt given December 21, 1680. Simmons had already agreed to transfer the whole right to Brabazon Aylmer, for twenty-five pounds; and Aylmer sold to Jacob Tonson half, August 17, 1683, and half, March 24, 1690, at a price considerably enlarged. In the history of Paradise Lost, a deduction thus minute will rather gratify than fatigue. The slow sale and tardy reputation of this poem have been always mentioned as evidences of neglected merit, and of the uncertainty of literary fame; and inquiries have been made, and conjectures offered, about the causes of its long obscurity and late reception. But has the case been truly stated? Have not lamentation and wonder been lavished on an evil that was never felt? That in the reigns of Charles and James the Paradise Lost received no publick acclamations, is readily confessed. Wit and literature were on the side of the court; and who, that solicited favour or fashion would venture to praise the defender of the regicides? All that he himself could think his due, from "evil tongues" in "evil days," was that reverential silence which was generously preserved. But it cannot be inferred, that his poem was not read, or not, however unwillingly, admired. The sale, if it be considered, will justify the publick. Those who have no power to judge of past times, but by their own, should always doubt their conclusions. The call for books was not in Milton's age what it is in the present. To read was not then a general amusement; neither traders, nor often gentlemen, thought themselves disgraced by ignorance. The women had not then aspired to literature, nor was every house supplied with a closet of knowledge. Those, indeed, who professed learning, were not less learned than at any other time; but of that middle race of students who read for pleasure or accomplishment, and who buy the numerous products of modern typography, the number was then comparatively small. To prove the paucity of readers, it may be sufficient to remark, that the nation had been satisfied from 1623 to 1664, that is, forty-one years, with only two editions of the works of Shakespeare, which, probably, did not together make one thousand copies. The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in opposition to so much recent enmity, and to a style of versification new to all, and disgusting to many, was an uncommon example of the prevalence of genius. The demand did not immediately increase; for many more readers than were supplied at first the nation did not afford. Only three thousand were sold in eleven years; for it forced its way without assistance; its admirers did not dare to publish their opinion; and the opportunities now given of attracting notice by advertisements were then very few; the means of proclaiming the publication of new books have been produced by that general literature which now pervades the nation through all its ranks. But the reputation and price of the copy still advanced, till the revolution put an end to the secrecy of love, and Paradise Lost broke into open view with sufficient security of kind reception. Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked its reputation stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous current, through fear and silence. I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own merit with steady consciousness, and waiting, without impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, and the impartiality of a future generation. In the mean time he continued his studies, and supplied the want of sight by a very odd expedient, of which Philips gives the following account: Mr. Philips tells us, "that though our author had daily about him one or other to read, some persons of man's estate, who, of their own accord, greedily catched at the opportunity of bring his readers, that they might as well reap the benefit of what they read to him, as oblige him by the benefit of their reading; and others of younger years were sent by their parents to the same end; yet excusing only the eldest daughter by reason of her bodily infirmity, and difficult utterance of speech, (which, to say truth, I doubt was the principal cause of excusing her,) the other two were condemned to the performance of reading, and exactly pronouncing of all the languages of whatever book he should, at one time or other, think fit to peruse, viz. the Hebrew, (and I think the Syriac,) the Greek, the Latin, the Italian, Spanish, and French. All which sorts of books to be confined to read, without understanding one word, must needs be a trial of patience almost beyond endurance. Yet it was endured by both for a long time, though the irksomeness of this employment could not be always concealed, but broke out more and more into expressions of uneasiness; so that, at length, they were all, even the eldest also, sent out to learn some curious and ingenious sorts of manufacture, that are proper for women to learn, particularly embroideries in gold or silver." In the scene of misery which this mode of intellectual labour sets before our eyes, it is hard to determine whether the daughters or the father are most to be lamented. A language not understood can never be so read as to give pleasure, and, very seldom, so as to convey meaning. If few men would have had resolution to write books with such embarrassments, few, likewise, would have wanted ability to find some better expedient. Three years after his Paradise Lost, 1667, he published his History of England, comprising the whole fable of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and continued to the Norman invasion. Why he should have given the first part, which he seems not to believe, and which is universally rejected, it is difficult to conjecture. The style is harsh; but it has something of rough vigour, which, perhaps, may often strike, though it cannot please. On this history the licenser again fixed his claws, and, before he would transmit it to the press, tore out several parts. Some censures of the Saxon monks were taken away, lest they should be applied to the modern clergy; and a character of the long parliament, and assembly of divines, was excluded; of which the author gave a copy to the earl of Anglesea, and which, being afterwards published, has been since inserted in its proper place. The same year were printed Paradise Regained; and Sampson Agonistes, a tragedy written in imitation of the ancients, and never designed by the author for the stage. As these poems were published by another bookseller, it has been asked, whether Simmons was discouraged from receiving them by the slow sale of the former? Why a writer changed his bookseller a hundred years ago, I am far from hoping to discover. Certainly, he who in two years sells thirteen hundred copies of a volume in quarto, bought for two payments of five pounds each, has no reason to repent his purchase. When Milton showed Paradise Regained to Elwood, "this," said he, "is owing to you; for you put it in my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont, which otherwise I had not thought of." His last poetical offspring was his favourite. He could not, as Elwood relates, endure to hear Paradise Lost preferred to Paradise Regained. Many causes may vitiate a writer's judgment of his own works. On that which has cost him much labour he sets a high value, because he is unwilling to think that he has been diligent in vain; what has been produced without toilsome efforts, is considered with delight, as a proof of vigorous faculties and fertile invention; and the last work, whatever it be, has, necessarily, most of the grace of novelty. Milton, however it happened, had this prejudice, and had it to himself. To that multiplicity of attainments, and extent of comprehension, that entitled this great author to our veneration, may be added a kind of humble dignity, which did not disdain the meanest services to literature. The epick poet, the controvertist, the politician, having already descended to accommodate children with a book of rudiments, now, in the last years of his life, composed a book of logick, for the initiation of students in philosophy; and published, 1672, Artis Logicae plenior Institutio ad Petri Rami Methodum concinnata; that is, a new scheme of logick, according to the method of Ramus. I know not whether, even in this book, he did not intend an act of hostility against the universities; for Ramus was one of the first oppugners of the old philosophy, who disturbed with innovations the quiet of the schools. His polemical disposition again revived. He had now been safe so long, that he forgot his fears, and published a Treatise of true Religion, Heresy, Schism, Toleration, and the best means to prevent the growth of Popery. But this little tract is modestly written, with respectful mention of the church of England, and an appeal to the thirty-nine articles. His principle of toleration is, agreement in the sufficiency of the scriptures; and he extends it to all who, whatever their opinions are, profess to derive them from the sacred books. The papists appeal to other testimonies, and are, therefore, in his opinion, not to be permitted the liberty of either publick or private worship; for, though they plead conscience, "we have no warrant," he says, "to regard conscience, which is not grounded in scripture." Those who are not convinced by his reasons, may be, perhaps, delighted with his wit. The term "Roman catholick is," he says, "one of the pope's bulls; it is particular universal, or catholick schismatick." He has, however, something better. As the best preservative against popery, he recommends the diligent perusal of the scriptures, a duty, from which he warns the busy part of mankind not to think themselves excused. He now reprinted his juvenile poems, with some additions. In the last year of his life he sent to the press, seeming to take delight in publication, a collection of Familiar Epistles in Latin; to which, being too few to make a volume, he added some academical exercises, which, perhaps, he perused with pleasure, as they recalled to his memory the days of youth, but for which nothing but veneration for his name could now procure a reader. When he had attained his sixty-sixth year, the gout, with which he had been long tormented, prevailed over the enfeebled powers of nature. He died by a quiet and silent expiration, about the tenth of November, 1674, at his house in Bunhill fields; and was buried next his father in the chancel of St. Giles at Cripplegate. His funeral was very splendidly and numerously attended. Upon his grave there is supposed to have been no memorial; but in our time a monument has been erected in Westminster Abbey "to the author of Paradise Lost," by Mr. Benson, who has, in the inscription, bestowed more words upon himself than upon Milton. When the inscription for the monument of Philips, in which he was said to be "soli Miltono secundus," was exhibited to Dr. Sprat, then dean of Westminster, he refused to admit it; the name of Milton was, in his opinion, too detestable to be read on the wall of a building dedicated to devotion. Atterbury, who succeeded him, being author of the inscription, permitted its reception. "And such has been the change of publick opinion," said Dr. Gregory, from whom I heard this account, "that I have seen erected in the church a statue of that man, whose name I once knew considered as a pollution of its walls." Milton has the reputation of having been, in his youth, eminently beautiful, so as to have been called the lady of his college. His hair, which was of a light brown, parted at the foretop, and hung down upon his shoulders, according to the picture which he has given of Adam. He was, however, not of the heroick stature, but rather below the middle size[52], according to Mr. Richardson, who mentions him as having narrowly escaped from being "short and thick." He was vigorous and active, and delighted in the exercise of the sword, in which he is related to have been eminently skilful. His weapon was, I believe, not the rapier, but the backsword, of which he recommends the use in his book on education. His eyes are said never to have been bright; but, if he was a dexterous fencer, they must have been once quick. His domestick habits, so far as they are known, were those of a severe student. He drank little strong drink of any kind, and fed without excess in quantity, and, in his earlier years, without delicacy of choice. In his youth he studied late at night; but afterwards changed his hours, and rested in bed from nine to four in the summer, and five in the winter. The course of his day was best known after he was blind. When he first rose, he heard a chapter in the Hebrew Bible, and then studied till twelve; then took some exercise for an hour; then dined, then played on the organ, and sang, or heard another sing; then studied to six; then entertained his visiters till eight; then supped, and, after a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water, went to bed. So is his life described: but this even tenour appears attainable only in colleges. He that lives in the world will, sometimes, have the succession of his practice broken and confused. Visiters, of whom Milton is represented to have had great numbers, will come and stay unseasonably; business, of which every man has some, must be done when others will do it. When he did not care to rise early, he had something read to him by his bedside; perhaps, at this time, his daughters were employed. He composed much in the morning, and dictated in the day, sitting obliquely in an elbowchair, with his leg thrown over the arm. Fortune appears not to have had much of his care. In the civil wars he lent his personal estate to the parliament; but when, after the contest was decided, he solicited repayment, he met not only with neglect, but "sharp rebuke;" and, having tired both himself and his friends, was given up to poverty and hopeless indignation, till he showed how able he was to do greater service. He was then made Latin secretary, with two hundred pounds a year; and had a thousand pounds for his Defence of the People. His widow, who, after his death, retired to Namptwich, in Cheshire, and died about 1729, is said to have reported, that he lost two thousand pounds by intrusting it to a scrivener; and that, in the general depredation upon the church, he had grasped an estate of about sixty pounds a year belonging to Westminster Abbey, which, like other sharers of the plunder of rebellion, he was afterwards obliged to return. Two thousand pounds, which he had placed in the excise-office, were also lost. There is yet no reason to believe that he was ever reduced to indigence. His wants, being few, were competently supplied. He sold his library before his death, and left his family fifteen hundred pounds, on which his widow laid hold, and only gave one hundred to each of his daughters. His literature was unquestionably great. He read all the languages which are considered either as learned or polite: Hebrew, with its two dialects, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and Spanish. In Latin his skill was such as places him in the first rank of writers and criticks; and he appears to have cultivated Italian with uncommon diligence. The books in which his daughter, who used to read to him, represented him as most delighting, after Homer, which he could almost repeat, were Ovid's Metamorphoses and Euripides. His Euripides is, by Mr. Cradock's kindness, now in my hands: the margin is sometimes noted; but I have found nothing remarkable. Of the English poets, he set most value upon Spenser, Shakespeare, and Cowley. Spenser was apparently his favourite; Shakespeare he may easily be supposed to like, with every other skilful reader; but I should not have expected that Cowley, whose ideas of excellence were so different from his own, would have had much of his approbation. His character of Dryden, who sometimes visited him, was, that he was a good rhymist, but no poet. His theological opinions are said to have been first Calvinistical; and afterwards, perhaps, when he began to hate the presbyterians, to have tended towards Arminianism. In the mixed questions of theology and government, he never thinks that he can recede far enough from popery, or prelacy; but what Bandius says of Erasmus seems applicable to him, "magis habuit quod fugeret, quam quod sequeretur." He had determined rather what to condemn, than what to approve. He has not associated himself with any denomination of protestants; we know rather what he was not, than what he was. He was not of the church of Rome; he was not of the church of England. To be of no church is dangerous. Religion, of which the rewards are distant, and which is animated only by faith and hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind, unless it be invigorated and reimpressed by external ordinances, by stated calls to worship, and the salutary influence of example. Milton, who appears to have had full conviction of the truth of Christianity, and to have regarded the holy scriptures with the profoundest veneration, to have been untainted by any heretical peculiarity of opinion, and to have lived in a confirmed belief of the immediate and occasional agency of providence, yet grew old without any visible worship. In the distribution of his hours, there was no hour of prayer, either solitary or with his household; omitting publick prayers, he omitted all. Of this omission the reason has been sought upon a supposition, which ought never to be made, that men live with their own approbation, and justify their conduct to themselves. Prayer certainly was not thought superfluous by him, who represents our first parents as praying acceptably in the state of innocence, and efficaciously after their fall. That he lived without prayer can hardly be affirmed; his studies and meditations were an habitual prayer. The neglect of it in his family was, probably, a fault for which he condemned himself, and which he intended to correct, but that death, as too often happens, intercepted his reformation. His political notions were those of an acrimonious and surly republican, for which it is not known that he gave any better reason than that "a popular government was the most frugal; for the trappings of a monarchy would set up an ordinary commonwealth." It is surely very shallow policy that supposes money to be the chief good; and even this, without considering that the support and expense of a court is, for the most part, only a particular kind of traffick, by which money is circulated, without any national impoverishment. Milton's republicanism was, I am afraid, founded in an envious hatred of greatness, and a sullen desire of independence; in petulance impatient of control, and pride disdainful of superiority. He hated monarchs in the state, and prelates in the church; for he hated all whom he was required to obey. It is to be suspected, that his predominant desire was to destroy, rather than establish, and that he felt not so much the love of liberty, as repugnance to authority. It has been observed, that they who most loudly clamour for liberty do not most liberally grant it. What we know of Milton's character, in domestick relations, is, that he was severe and arbitrary. His family consisted of women; and there appears in his books something like a Turkish contempt of females, as subordinate and inferiour beings. That his own daughters might not break the ranks, he suffered them to be depressed by a mean and penurious education. He thought women made only for obedience, and man only for rebellion. Of his family some account may be expected. His sister, first married to Mr. Philips, afterwards married Mr. Agar, a friend of her first husband, who succeeded him in the crown-office. She had, by her first husband, Edward and John, the two nephews whom Milton educated; and, by her second, two daughters. His brother, sir Christopher, had two daughters, Mary and Catharine[53]; and a son, Thomas, who succeeded Agar in the crown-office, and left a daughter living, in 1749, in Grosvenor street. Milton had children only by his first wife; Anne, Mary, and Deborah. Anne, though deformed, married a master-builder, and died of her first child. Mary died single. Deborah married Abraham Clark, a weaver in Spital fields, and lived seventy-six years, to August, 1727. This is the daughter of whom publick mention has been made. She could repeat the first lines of Homer, the Metamorphoses, and some of Euripides, by having often read them. Yet here incredulity is ready to make a stand. Many repetitions are necessary to fix in the memory lines not understood; and why should Milton wish or want to hear them so often? These lines were at the beginning of the poems. Of a book written in a language not understood, the beginning raises no more attention than the end; and as those that understand it know commonly the beginning best, its rehearsal will seldom be necessary. It is not likely that Milton required any passage to be so much repeated, as that his daughter could learn it; nor likely that he desired the initial lines to be read at all; nor that the daughter, weary of the drudgery of pronouncing unideal sounds, would voluntarily commit them to memory. To this gentlewoman Addison made a present, and promised some establishment, but died soon after. Queen Caroline sent her fifty guineas. She had seven sons and three daughters; but none of them had any children, except her son Caleb and her daughter Elizabeth. Caleb went to Fort St. George, in the East Indies, and had two sons, of whom nothing is now known. Elizabeth married Thomas Foster, a weaver in Spital fields; and had seven children, who all died. She kept a petty grocer's or chandler's shop, first at Holloway, and afterwards in Cock lane, near Shoreditch church. She knew little of her grandfather, and that little was not good. She told of his harshness to his daughters, and his refusal to have them taught to write; and, in opposition to other accounts, represented him as delicate, though temperate, in his diet. In 1750, April 5, Comus was played for her benefit. She had so little acquaintance with diversion or gaiety, that she did not know what was intended, when a benefit was offered her. The profits of the night were only one hundred and thirty pounds, though Dr. Newton brought a large contribution; and twenty pounds were given by Tonson, a man who is to be praised as often as he is named. Of this sum one hundred pounds were placed in the stocks, after some debate between her and her husband, in whose name it should be entered; and the rest augmented their little stock, with which they removed to Islington. This was the greatest benefaction that Paradise Lost ever procured the author's descendants; and to this he, who has now attempted to relate his life, had the honour of contributing a prologue[54]. In the examination of Milton's poetical works, I shall pay so much regard to time as to begin with his juvenile productions. For his early pieces he seems to have had a degree of fondness not very laudable; what he has once written he resolves to preserve, and gives to the publick an unfinished poem, which he broke off, because he was "nothing satisfied with what he had done," supposing his readers less nice than himself. These preludes to his future labours are in Italian, Latin, and English. Of the Italian I cannot pretend to speak as a critick; but I have heard them commended by a man well qualified to decide their merit. The Latin pieces are lusciously elegant; but the delight which they afford is rather by the exquisite imitation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction, and the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of invention, or vigour of sentiment. They are not all of equal value; the elegies excel the odes; and some of the exercises on Gunpowder Treason might have been spared. The English poems, though they make no promises of Paradise Lost[55], have this evidence of genius, that they have a cast original and unborrowed. But their peculiarity is not excellence; if they differ from the verses of others, they differ for the worse; for they are too often distinguished by repulsive harshness; the combinations of words are new, but they are not pleasing; the rhymes and epithets seem to be laboriously sought, and violently applied. That, in the early part of his life, he wrote with much care appears from his manuscripts, happily preserved at Cambridge, in which many of his smaller works are found, as they were first written, with the subsequent corrections. Such relicks show how excellence is acquired; what we hope ever to do with ease, we must learn first to do with diligence. Those who admire the beauties of this great poet sometimes force their own judgment into false approbation of his little pieces, and prevail upon themselves to think that admirable which is only singular. All that short compositions can commonly attain, is neatness and elegance. Milton never learned the art of doing little things with grace; he overlooked the milder excellence of suavity and softness: he was a lion, that had no skill "in dandling the kid." One of the poems on which much praise has been bestowed is Lycidas; of which the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and the numbers unpleasing. What beauty there is, we must, therefore, seek in the sentiments and images. It is not to be considered as the effusion of real passion; for passion runs not after remote allusions and obscure opinions. Passion plucks no berries from the myrtle and ivy, nor calls upon Arethuse and Mincius, nor tells of rough "satyrs and fauns with cloven heel." Where there is leisure for fiction, there is little grief. In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no art, for there is nothing new. Its form is that of a pastoral: easy, vulgar, and, therefore, disgusting; whatever images it can supply are long ago exhausted; and its inherent improbability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind. When Cowley tells of Hervey, that they studied together, it is easy to suppose how much he must miss the companion of his labours, and the partner of his discoveries; but what image of tenderness can be excited by these lines? We drove afield, and both together heard, What time the grey fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night. We know that they never drove afield, and that they had no flocks to batten; and, though it be allowed that the representation may be allegorical, the true meaning is so uncertain and remote, that it is never sought, because it cannot be known when it is found. Among the flocks, and copses, and flowers, appear the heathen deities; Jove and Phoebus, Neptune and Aeolus, with a long train of mythological imagery, such as a college easily supplies. Nothing can less display knowledge, or less exercise invention, than to tell how a shepherd has lost his companion, and must now feed his flocks alone, without any judge of his skill in piping; and how one god asks another god what is become of Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. He who thus grieves will excite no sympathy; he who thus praises will confer no honour. This poem has yet a grosser fault. With these trifling fictions are mingled the most awful and sacred truths, such as ought never to be polluted with such irreverend combinations. The shepherd, likewise, is now a feeder of sheep, and afterwards an ecclesiastical pastor, a superintendent of a Christian flock. Such equivocations are always unskilful; but here they are indecent, and, at least, approach to impiety, of which, however, I believe the writer not to have been conscious. Such is the power of reputation justly acquired, that its blaze drives away the eye from nice examination. Surely no man could have fancied that he read Lycidas with pleasure, had he not known the author. Of the two pieces, L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, I believe, opinion is uniform; every man that reads them, reads them with pleasure. The author's design is not, what Theobald has remarked, merely to show how objects derive their colours from the mind, by representing the operation of the same things upon the gay and the melancholy temper, or upon the same man, as he is differently disposed; but rather how, among the successive variety of appearances, every disposition of mind takes hold on those by which it may be gratified. The cheerful man hears the lark in the morning; the pensive man hears the nightingale in the evening. The cheerful man sees the cock strut, and hears the horn and hounds echo in the wood; then walks, "not unseen," to observe the glory of the rising sun, or listen to the singing milkmaid, and view the labours of the ploughman and the mower: then casts his eyes about him over scenes of smiling plenty, and looks up to the distant tower, the residence of some fair inhabitant; thus he pursues rural gaiety through a day of labour or of play, and delights himself at night with the fanciful narratives of superstitious ignorance. The pensive man, at one time, walks "unseen" to muse at midnight; and, at another, hears the sullen curfew. If the weather drives him home, he sits in a room lighted only by "glowing embers;" or, by a lonely lamp, outwatches the north star, to discover the habitation of separate souls, and varies the shades of meditation, by contemplating the magnificent or pathetick scenes of tragick or epick poetry. When the morning comes, a morning gloomy with rain and wind, he walks into the dark, trackless woods[56], falls asleep by some murmuring water, and with melancholy enthusiasm expects some dream of prognostication, or some musick played by aerial performers. Both mirth and melancholy are solitary, silent inhabitants of the breast, that neither receive nor transmit communication; no mention is, therefore, made of a philosophical friend, or a pleasant companion. The seriousness does not arise from any participation of calamity, nor the gaiety from the pleasures of the bottle. The man of cheerfulness, having exhausted the country, tries what "towered cities" will afford, and mingles with scenes of splendour, gay assemblies, and nuptial festivities; but he mingles a mere spectator, as, when the learned comedies of Jonson, or the wild dramas of Shakespeare, are exhibited, he attends the theatre. The pensive man never loses himself in crowds, but walks the cloister, or frequents the cathedral. Milton probably had not yet forsaken the church. Both his characters delight in musick; but he seems to think, that cheerful notes would have obtained, from Pluto, a complete dismission of Eurydice, of whom solemn sounds only procured a conditional release. For the old age of cheerfulness he makes no provision; but melancholy he conducts with great dignity to the close of life. His cheerfulness is without levity, and his pensiveness without asperity. Through these two poems the images are properly selected, and nicely distinguished; but the colours of the diction seem not sufficiently discriminated. I know not whether the characters are kept sufficiently apart. No mirth can, indeed, be found in his melancholy; but I am afraid that I always meet some melancholy in his mirth. They are two noble efforts of imagination[57]. The greatest of his juvenile performances is the Masque of Comus, in which may very plainly be discovered the dawn or twilight of Paradise Lost. Milton appears to have formed very early that system of diction, and mode of verse, which his maturer judgment approved, and from which he never endeavoured nor desired to deviate. Nor does Comus afford only a specimen of his language; it exhibits, likewise, his power of description and his vigour of sentiment, employed in the praise and defence of virtue. A work more truly poetical is rarely found; allusions, images, and descriptive epithets, embellish almost every period with lavish decoration. As a series of lines, therefore, it may be considered as worthy of all the admiration with which the votaries have received it. As a drama it is deficient. The action is not probable. A mask, in those parts where supernatural intervention is admitted, must, indeed, be given up to all the freaks of imagination; but, so far as the action is merely human, it ought to be reasonable, which can hardly be said of the conduct of the two brothers; who, when their sister sinks with fatigue in a pathless wilderness, wander both away together, in search of berries, too far to find their way back, and leave a helpless lady to all the sadness and danger of solitude. This, however, is a defect overbalanced by its convenience. What deserves more reprehension is, that the prologue spoken in the wild wood, by the attendant spirit, is addressed to the audience; a mode of communication so contrary to the nature of dramatick representation, that no precedents can support it[58]. The discourse of the spirit is too long; an objection that may be made to almost all the following speeches; they have not the sprightliness of a dialogue animated by reciprocal contention, but seem rather declamations deliberately composed, and formally repeated, on a moral question. The auditor, therefore, listens as to a lecture, without passion, without anxiety. The song of Comus has airiness and jollity; but, what may recommend Milton's morals, as well as his poetry, the invitations to pleasure are so general, that they excite no distinct images of corrupt enjoyment, and take no dangerous hold on the fancy. The following soliloquies of Comus and the Lady are elegant, but tedious. The song must owe much to the voice, if it ever can delight. At last, the brothers enter with too much tranquillity; and, when they have feared, lest their sister should be in danger, and hoped that she is not in danger, the elder makes a speech in praise of chastity, and the younger finds how fine it is to be a philosopher. Then descends the spirit, in form of a shepherd; and the brother, instead of being in haste to ask his help, praises his singing, and inquires his business in that place. It is remarkable, that, at this interview, the brother, is taken with a short fit of rhyming. The spirit relates that the lady is in the power of Comus; the brother moralizes again; and the spirit makes a long narration, of no use, because it is false, and, therefore, unsuitable to a good being. In all these parts the language is poetical, and the sentiments are generous; but there is something wanting to allure attention. The dispute between the lady and Comus is the most animated and affecting scene of the drama, and wants nothing but a brisker reciprocation of objections and replies to invite attention and detain it. The songs are vigorous and full of imagery; but they are harsh in their diction, and not very musical in their numbers. Throughout the whole the figures are too bold, and the language too luxuriant, for dialogue. It is a drama in the epick style, inelegantly splendid, and tediously instructive. The sonnets were written in different parts of Milton's life, upon different occasions. They deserve not any particular criticism; for of the best it can only be said, that they are not bad; and, perhaps, only the eighth and the twenty-first are truly entitled to this slender commendation. The fabrick of a sonnet, however adapted to the Italian language, has never succeeded in ours, which, having greater variety of termination, requires the rhymes to be often changed. Those little pieces may be despatched without much anxiety; a greater work calls for greater care. I am now to examine Paradise Lost, a poem, which, considered with respect to design, may claim the first place, and with respect to performance the second, among the productions of the human mind. By the general consent of criticks, the first praise of genius is due to the writer of an epick poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the powers which are singly sufficient for other compositions. Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of reason. Epick poetry undertakes to teach the most important truths by the most pleasing precepts, and, therefore, relates some great event in the most affecting manner. History must supply the writer with the rudiments of narration, which he must improve and exalt by a nobler art, must animate by dramatick energy, and diversify by retrospection and anticipation; morality must teach him the exact bounds, and different shades, of vice and virtue; from policy and the practice of life, he has to learn the discriminations of character, and the tendency of the passions, either single or combined; and physiology must supply him with illustrations and images. To put these materials to poetical use, is required an imagination capable of painting nature, and realizing fiction. Nor is he yet a poet till he has attained the whole extension of his language, distinguished all the delicacies of phrase, and all the colours of words, and learned to adjust their different sounds to all the varieties of metrical modulation. Bossu is of opinion, that the poet's first work is to find a moral, which his fable is afterwards to illustrate and establish. This seems to have been the process only of Milton; the moral of other poems is incidental and consequent; in Milton's only it is essential and intrinsick. His purpose was the most useful and the most arduous: "to vindicate the ways of God to man;" to show the reasonableness of religion, and the necessity of obedience to the divine law. To convey this moral, there must be a fable, a narration artfully constructed, so as to excite curiosity, and surprise expectation. In this part of his work, Milton must be confessed to have equalled every other poet. He has involved, in his account of the fall of man, the events which preceded, and those that were to follow it; he has interwoven the whole system of theology with such propriety, that every part appears to be necessary; and scarcely any recital is wished shorter for the sake of quickening the progress of the main action. The subject of an epick poem is naturally an event of great importance. That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His subject is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and of earth; rebellion against the supreme king, raised by the highest order of created beings; the overthrow of their host, and the punishment of their crime; the creation of a new race of reasonable creatures; their original happiness and innocence, their forfeiture of immortality, and their restoration to hope and peace. Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons of elevated dignity. Before the greatness displayed in Milton's poem, all other greatness shrinks away. The weakest of his agents are the highest and noblest of human beings, the original parents of mankind; with whose actions the elements consented; on whose rectitude, or deviation of will, depended the state of terrestrial nature, and the condition of all the future inhabitants of the globe. Of the other agents in the poem, the chief are such as it is irreverence to name on slight occasions. The rest were lower powers; ----of which the least could wield Those elements, and arm him with the force Of all their regions; powers, which only the control of omnipotence restrains from laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of space with ruin and confusion. To display the motives and actions of beings thus superiour, so far as human reason can examine them, or human imagination represent them, is the task which this mighty poet has undertaken and performed. In the examination of epick poems much speculation is commonly employed upon the characters. The characters in the Paradise Lost, which admit of examination, are those of angels and of man; of angels good and evil; of man in his innocent and sinful state. Among the angels, the virtue of Raphael is mild and placid, of easy condescension and free communication; that of Michael is regal and lofty, and, as may seem, attentive to the dignity of his own nature. Abdiel and Gabriel appear occasionally, and act as every incident requires; the solitary fidelity of Abdiel is very amiably painted. Of the evil angels the characters are more diversified. To Satan, as Addison observes, such sentiments are given as suit "the most exalted and most depraved being." Milton has been censured by Clarke[59], for the impiety which, sometimes, breaks from Satan's mouth; for there are thoughts, as he justly remarks, which no observation of character can justify, because no good man would willingly permit them to pass, however transiently, through his own mind. To make Satan speak as a rebel, without any such expressions as might taint the reader's imagination, was, indeed, one of the great difficulties in Milton's undertaking; and I cannot but think that he has extricated himself with great happiness. There is in Satan's speeches little that can give pain to a pious ear. The language of rebellion cannot be the same with that of obedience. The malignity of Satan foams in haughtiness and obstinacy; but his expressions are commonly general, and no otherwise offensive than as they are wicked. The other chiefs of the celestial rebellion are very judiciously discriminated in the first and second books; and the ferocious character of Moloch appears, both in the battle and the council, with exact consistency. To Adam and to Eve are given, during their innocence, such sentiments as innocence can generate and utter. Their love is pure benevolence and mutual veneration; their repasts are without luxury, and their diligence without toil. Their addresses to their maker have little more than the voice of admiration and gratitude. Fruition left them nothing to ask; and innocence left them nothing to fear. But with guilt enter distrust and discord, mutual accusation, and stubborn self-defence; they regard each other with alienated minds, and dread their creator as the avenger of their transgression. At last they seek shelter in his mercy, soften to repentance, and melt in supplication. Both before and after the fall, the superiority of Adam is diligently sustained. Of the probable and the marvellous, two parts of a vulgar epick poem, which immerge the critick in deep consideration, the Paradise Lost requires little to be said. It contains the history of a miracle, of creation and redemption; it displays the power and the mercy of the supreme being; the probable, therefore, is marvellous, and the marvellous is probable. The substance of the narrative is truth; and, as truth allows no choice, it is, like necessity, superiour to rule. To the accidental or adventitious parts, as to every thing human, some slight exceptions may be made; but the main fabrick is immovably supported. It is justly remarked by Addison, that this poem has, by the nature of its subject, the advantage above all others, that it is universally and perpetually interesting. All mankind will, through all ages, bear the same relation to Adam and to Eve, and must partake of that good and evil which extend to themselves. Of the machinery, so called from 'theos apo maechanaes', by which is meant the occasional interposition of supernatural power, another fertile topick of critical remarks, here is no room to speak, because every thing is done under the immediate and visible direction of heaven; but the rule is so far observed, that no part of the action could have been accomplished by any other means. Of episodes, I think, there are only two, contained in Raphael's relation of the war in heaven, and Michael's prophetick account of the changes to happen in this world. Both are closely connected with the great action; one was necessary to Adam, as a warning, the other, as a consolation. To the completeness or integrity of the design, nothing can be objected; it has, distinctly and clearly, what Aristotle requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end. There is, perhaps, no poem, of the same length, from which so little can be taken without apparent mutilation. Here are no funeral games, nor is there any long description of a shield. The short digressions at the beginning of the third, seventh, and ninth books, might, doubtless, be spared; but superfluities so beautiful, who would take away? or who does not wish that the author of the Iliad had gratified succeeding ages with a little knowledge of himself? Perhaps no passages are more frequently or more attentively read, than those extrinsick paragraphs; and, since the end of poetry is pleasure, that cannot be unpoetical with which all are pleased. The questions, whether the action of the poem be strictly one, whether the poem can be properly termed heroick, and who is the hero, are raised by such readers as draw their principles of judgment rather from books than from reason. Milton, though he entitled Paradise Lost only a poem, yet calls it himself heroick song. Dryden petulantly and indecently denies the heroism of Adam, because he was overcome; but there is no reason why the hero should not be unfortunate, except established practice, since success and virtue do not go necessarily together. Cato is the hero of Lucan; but Lucan's authority will not be suffered by Quintilian to decide. However, if success be necessary, Adam's deceiver was at last crushed; Adam was restored to his maker's favour, and, therefore, may securely resume his human rank. After the scheme and fabrick of the poem, must be considered its component parts, the sentiments and the diction. The sentiments, as expressive of manners, or appropriated to characters, are, for the greater part, unexceptionably just. Splendid passages, containing lessons of morality, or precepts of prudence, occur seldom. Such is the original formation of this poem, that, as it admits no human manners, till the fall, it can give little assistance to human conduct. Its end is to raise the thoughts above sublunary cares or pleasures. Yet the praise of that fortitude, with which Abdiel maintained his singularity of virtue against the scorn of multitudes, may be accommodated to all times; and Raphael's reproof of Adam's curiosity after the planetary motions, with the answer returned by Adam, may be confidently opposed to any rule of life which any poet has delivered. The thoughts which are occasionally called forth in the progress, are such as could only be produced by an imagination in the highest degree fervid and active, to which materials were supplied by incessant study and unlimited curiosity. The heat of Milton's mind may be said to sublimate his learning, to throw off into his work the spirit of science, unmingled with its grosser parts. He had considered creation, in its whole extent, and his descriptions are, therefore, learned. He had accustomed his imagination to unrestrained indulgence, and his conceptions, therefore, were extensive. The characteristick quality of his poem is sublimity. He sometimes descends to the elegant, but his element is the great. He can occasionally invest himself with grace; but his natural port is gigantick loftiness[60]. He can please, when pleasure is required; but it is his peculiar power to astonish. He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others; the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful; he, therefore, chose a subject on which too much could not be said, on which he might tire his fancy, without the censure of extravagance. The appearances of nature, and the occurrences of life, did not satiate his appetite of greatness. To paint things as they are requires a minute attention, and employs the memory rather than the fancy. Milton's delight was to sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a scene too narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, into worlds where only imagination can travel, and delighted to form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to superiour beings, to trace the counsels of hell, or accompany the choirs of heaven. But he could not be always in other worlds; he must sometimes revisit earth, and tell of things visible and known. When he cannot raise wonder by the sublimity of his mind, he gives delight by its fertility. Whatever be his subject, he never fails to fill the imagination. But his images and descriptions of the scenes, or operations of nature, do not seem to be always copied from original form, nor to have the freshness, raciness, and energy of immediate observation. He saw nature, as Dryden expresses it, "through the spectacles of books;" and, on most occasions, calls learning to his assistance. The garden of Eden brings to his mind the vale of Enna, where Proserpine was gathering flowers. Satan makes his way through fighting elements, like Argo between the Cyanean rocks, or Ulysses between the two Sicilian whirlpools, when he shunned Charybdis on the "larboard." The mythological allusions have been justly censured, as not being always used with notice of their vanity; but they contribute variety to the narration, and produce an alternate exercise of the memory and the fancy. His similes are less numerous, and more various, than those of his predecessors. But he does not confine himself within the limits of rigorous comparison; his great excellence is amplitude; and he expands the adventitious image beyond the dimensions which the occasion required. Thus comparing the shield of Satan to the orb of the moon, he crowds the imagination with the discovery of the telescope, and all the wonders which the telescope discovers. Of his moral sentiments it is hardly praise to affirm that they excel those of all other poets; for this superiority he was indebted to his acquaintance with the sacred writings. The ancient epick poets, wanting the light of revelation, were very unskilful teachers of virtue: their principal characters may be great, but they are not amiable. The reader may rise from their works with a greater degree of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes of prudence; but he will be able to carry away few precepts of justice, and none of mercy. From the Italian writers it appears, that the advantages of even Christian knowledge may be possessed in vain. Ariosto's pravity is generally known; and, though the Deliverance of Jerusalem may be considered as a sacred subject, the poet has been very sparing of moral instruction. In Milton every line breathes sanctity of thought, and purity of manners, except when the train of the narration requires the introduction of the rebellious spirits; and even they are compelled to acknowledge their subjection to God, in such a manner as excites reverence, and confirms piety. Of human beings there are but two; but those two are the parents of mankind, venerable before their fall for dignity and innocence, and amiable after it for repentance and submission. In the first state, their affection is tender without weakness, and their piety sublime without presumption. When they have sinned, they show how discord begins in mutual frailty, and how it ought to cease in mutual forbearance; how confidence of the divine favour is forfeited by sin; and how hope of pardon may be obtained by penitence and prayer. A state of innocence we can only conceive, if, indeed, in our present misery, it be possible to conceive it; but the sentiments and worship proper to a fallen and offending being, we have all to learn, as we have all to practise. The poet, whatever be done, is always great. Our progenitors, in their first state, conversed with angels; even when folly and sin had degraded them, they had not, in their humiliation, "the port of mean suitors;" and they rise again to reverential regard, when we find that their prayers were heard. As human passions did not enter the world, before the fall, there is, in the Paradise Lost, little opportunity for the pathetick; but what little there is has not been lost. That passion which is peculiar to rational nature, the anguish arising from the consciousness of transgression, and the horrours attending the sense of the divine displeasure, are very justly described and forcibly impressed. But the passions are moved only on one occasion; sublimity is the general and prevailing quality of this poem; sublimity variously modified, sometimes descriptive, sometimes argumentative. The defects and faults of Paradise Lost, for faults and defects every work of man must have, it is the business of impartial criticism to discover. As, in displaying the excellence of Milton, I have not made long quotations, because of selecting beauties there had been no end, I shall, in the same general manner, mention that which seems to deserve censure; for what Englishman can take delight in transcribing passages, which, if they lessen the reputation of Milton, diminish, in some degree, the honour of our country? The generality of my scheme does not admit the frequent notice of verbal inaccuracies; which Bentley, perhaps, better skilled in grammar than in poetry, has often found, though he sometimes made them, and which he imputed to the obtrusions of a reviser, whom the author's blindness obliged him to employ; a supposition rash and groundless, if he thought it true; and vile and pernicious, if, as is said, he, in private, allowed it to be false. The plan of Paradise Lost has this inconvenience, that it comprises neither human actions nor human manners[61]. The man and woman who act and suffer are in a state which no other man or woman can ever know. The reader finds no transaction in which he can be engaged; beholds no condition in which he can, by any effort of imagination, place himself; he has, therefore, little natural curiosity or sympathy. We all, indeed, feel the effect of Adam's disobedience; we all sin, like Adam, and, like him, must all bewail our offences; we have restless and insidious enemies in the fallen angels; and in the blessed spirits we have guardians and friends; in the redemption of mankind we hope to be included; and in the description of heaven and hell we are, surely, interested, as we are all to reside, hereafter, either in the regions of horrour or of bliss. But these truths are too important to be new; they have been taught to our infancy; they have mingled with our solitary thoughts and familiar conversations, and are habitually interwoven with the whole texture of life. Being, therefore, not new, they raise no unaccustomed emotion in the mind; what we knew before, we cannot learn; what is not unexpected, cannot surprise. Of the ideas suggested by these awful scenes, from some we recede with reverence, except when stated hours require their association; and from others we shrink with horrour, or admit them only as salutary inflictions, as counterpoizes to our interests and passions. Such images rather obstruct the career of fancy than incite it. Pleasure and terrour are, indeed, the genuine sources of poetry; but poetical pleasure must be such as human imagination can, at least, conceive; and poetical terrour, such as human strength and fortitude may combat. The good and evil of eternity are too ponderous for the wings of wit; the mind sinks under them, in passive helplessness, content with calm belief and humble adoration. Known truths, however, may take a different appearance, and be conveyed to the mind by a new train of intermediate images. This Milton has undertaken, and performed with pregnancy and vigour of mind peculiar to himself. Whoever considers the few radical positions which the scriptures afforded him, will wonder by what energetick operation he expanded them to such extent, and ramified them to so much variety, restrained, as he was, by religious reverence from licentiousness of fiction. Here is a full display of the united force of study and genius; of a great accumulation of materials, with judgment to digest, and fancy to combine them: Milton was able to select from nature or from story, from ancient fable or from modern science, whatever could illustrate or adorn his thoughts. An accumulation of knowledge impregnated his mind, fermented by study, and exalted by imagination. It has been, therefore, said, without an indecent hyperbole, by one of his encomiasts, that in reading Paradise Lost, we read a book of universal knowledge. But original deficience cannot be supplied. The want of human interest is always felt. Paradise Lost is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is. Its perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure. We read Milton for instruction, retire harassed and over-burdened, and look elsewhere for recreation; we desert our master, and seek for companions. Another inconvenience of Milton's design is, that it requires the description of what cannot be described, the agency of spirits. He saw that immateriality supplied no images, and that he could not show angels acting but by instruments of action; he, therefore, invested them with form and matter. This, being necessary, was, therefore, defensible; and he should have secured the consistency of his system, by keeping immateriality out of sight, and enticing his reader to drop it from his thoughts. But he has, unhappily, perplexed his poetry with his philosophy. His infernal and celestial powers are sometimes pure spirit, and sometimes animated body. When Satan walks with his lance upon the "burning marl," he has a body; when, in his passage between hell and the new world, he is in danger of sinking in the vacuity, and is supported by a gust of rising vapours, he has a body; when he animates the toad, he seems to be mere spirit, that can penetrate matter at pleasure; when he starts "up in his own shape," he has, at least, a determined form; and, when he is brought before Gabriel, he has "a spear and a shield," which he had the power of hiding in the toad, though the arms of the contending angels are evidently material. The vulgar inhabitants of Pandaemonium, being "incorporeal spirits," are "at large, though without number," in a limited space: yet, in the battle, when they were overwhelmed by mountains, their armour hurt them, "crushed in upon their substance, now grown gross by sinning." This, likewise, happened to the uncorrupted angels, who were overthrown the "sooner for their arms, for unarmed they might easily, as spirits, have evaded by contraction or remove." Even as spirits they are hardly spiritual; for "contraction" and "remove" are images of matter; but if they could have escaped without their armour, they might have escaped from it, and left only the empty cover to be battered. Uriel, when he rides on a sunbeam, is material; Satan is material when he is afraid of the prowess of Adam. The confusion of spirit and matter, which pervades the whole narration of the war of heaven, fills it with incongruity; and the book in which it is related is, I believe, the favourite of children, and gradually neglected, as knowledge is increased. After the operation of immaterial agents which cannot be explained, may be considered that of allegorical persons, which have no real existence. To exalt causes into agents, to invest abstract ideas with form, and animate them with activity, has always been the right of poetry. But such airy beings are, for the most part, suffered only to do their natural office, and retire. Thus fame tells a tale, and victory hovers over a general, or perches on a standard; but fame and victory can do no more. To give them any real employment, or ascribe to them any material agency, is to make them allegorical no longer, but to shock the mind by ascribing effects to nonentity. In the Prometheus of Aeschylus, we see violence and strength, and in the Alcestis of Euripides, we see death brought upon the stage, all as active persons of the drama; but no precedents can justify absurdity. Milton's allegory of sin and death is, undoubtedly, faulty. Sin is, indeed, the mother of death, and may be allowed to be the portress of hell; but when they stop the journey of Satan, a journey described as real, and when death offers him battle, the allegory is broken. That sin and death should have shown the way to hell, might have been allowed; but they cannot facilitate the passage by building a bridge, because the difficulty of Satan's passage is described as real and sensible, and the bridge ought to be only figurative. The hell assigned to the rebellious spirits is described as not less local than the residence of man. It is placed in some distant part of space, separated from the regions of harmony and order by a chaotick waste and an unoccupied vacuity; but sin and death worked up "a mole of aggravated soil," cemented with "asphaltus;" a work too bulky for ideal architects. This unskilful allegory appears to me one of the greatest faults of the poem; and to this there was no temptation but the author's opinion of its beauty. To the conduct of the narrative some objections may be made. Satan is, with great expectation, brought before Gabriel in Paradise, and is suffered to go away unmolested. The creation of man is represented as the consequence of the vacuity left in heaven by the expulsion of the rebels; yet Satan mentions it as a report "rife in heaven" before his departure. To find sentiments for the state of innocence was very difficult; and something of anticipation, perhaps, is now and then discovered. Adam's discourse of dreams seems not to be the speculation of a new-created being. I know not whether his answer to the angel's reproof for curiosity does not want something of propriety; it is the speech of a man acquainted with many other men. Some philosophical notions, especially when the philosophy is false, might have been better omitted. The angel, in a comparison, speaks of "timorous deer," before deer were yet timorous, and before Adam could understand the comparison. Dryden remarks, that Milton has some flats among his elevations. This is only to say, that all the parts are not equal. In every work, one part must be for the sake of others; a palace must have passages; a poem must have transitions. It is no more to be required that wit should always be blazing, than that the sun should always stand at noon. In a great work there is a vicissitude of luminous and opaque parts, as there is in the world a succession of day and night. Milton, when he has expatiated in the sky, may be allowed, sometimes, to revisit earth; for what other author ever soared so high, or sustained his flight so long? Milton, being well versed in the Italian poets, appears to have borrowed often from them; and, as every man catches something from his companions, his desire of imitating Ariosto's levity has disgraced his work with the Paradise of Fools; a fiction not, in itself, ill imagined, but too ludicrous for its place. His play on words, in which he delights too often; his equivocations, which Bentley endeavours to defend by the example of the ancients; his unnecessary and ungraceful use of terms of art; it is not necessary to mention, because they are easily remarked, and generally censured; and, at last, bear so little proportion to the whole, that they scarcely deserve the attention of a critick. Such are the faults of that wonderful performance, Paradise Lost; which he who can put in balance with its beauties must be considered not as nice but as dull; as less to be censured for want of candour, than pitied for want of sensibility. Of Paradise Regained, the general judgment seems now to be right, that it is, in many parts, elegant, and everywhere instructive. It was not to be supposed that the writer of Paradise Lost could ever write without great effusions of fancy, and exalted precepts of wisdom. The basis of Paradise Regained is narrow; a dialogue without action can never please, like an union of the narrative and dramatick powers. Had this poem been written not by Milton, but by some imitator, it would have claimed and received universal praise. If Paradise Regained has been too much depreciated, Sampson Agonistes has, in requital, been too much admired. It could only be by long prejudice, and the bigotry of learning, that Milton could prefer the ancient tragedies, with their encumbrance of a chorus, to the exhibitions of the French and English stages; and it is only by a blind confidence in the reputation of Milton, that a drama can be praised, in which the intermediate parts have neither cause nor consequence, neither hasten nor retard the catastrophe. In this tragedy are, however, many particular beauties, many just sentiments and striking lines; but it wants that power of attracting the attention, which a well-connected plan produces. Milton would not have excelled in dramatick writing; he knew human nature only in the gross, and had never studied the shades of character, nor the combinations of concurring, or the perplexity of contending passions. He had read much, and knew what books could teach; but had mingled little in the world, and was deficient in the knowledge which experience must confer. Through all his greater works there prevails an uniform peculiarity of diction, a mode and cast of expression which bears little resemblance to that of any former writer; and which is so far removed from common use, that an unlearned reader, when he first opens his book, finds himself surprised by a new language. This novelty has been, by those who can find nothing wrong in Milton, imputed to his laborious endeavours after words suitable to the grandeur of his ideas. "Our language," says Addison, "sunk under him." But the truth is, that, both in prose and verse, he had formed his style by a perverse and pedantick principle. He was desirous to use English words with a foreign idiom. This in all his prose is discovered and condemned; for there judgment operates freely, neither softened by the beauty, nor awed by the dignity of his thoughts; but such is the power of his poetry, that his call is obeyed without resistance, the reader feels himself in captivity to a higher and a nobler mind, and criticism sinks in admiration. Milton's style was not modified by his subject; what is shown with greater extent in Paradise Lost may be found in Comus. One source of his peculiarity was his familiarity with the Tuscan poets; the disposition of his words is, I think, frequently Italian; perhaps, sometimes, combined with other tongues. Of him, at last, may be said what Jonson says of Spenser, that "he wrote no language," but has formed what Butler calls a "Babylonish dialect," in itself harsh and barbarous, but made by exalted genius and extensive learning the vehicle of so much instruction, and so much pleasure, that, like other lovers, we find grace in its deformity. Whatever be the faults of his diction, he cannot want the praise of copiousness and variety; he was master of his language in its full extent; and has selected the melodious words with such diligence, that from his book alone the art of English poetry might be learned. After his diction, something must be said of his versification. The "measure," he says, "is the English heroick verse without rhyme." Of this mode he had many examples among the Italians, and some in his own country. The earl of Surrey is said to have translated one of Virgil's books without rhyme[62]; and, beside our tragedies, a few short poems had appeared in blank verse, particularly one tending to reconcile the nation to Raleigh's wild attempt upon Guiana, and probably written by Raleigh himself. These petty performances cannot be supposed to have much influenced Milton, who, more probably took his hint from Trissino's Italia Liberata; and, finding blank verse easier than rhyme, was desirous of persuading himself that it is better. "Rhyme," he says, and says truly, "is no necessary adjunct of true poetry." But, perhaps, of poetry, as a mental operation, metre or musick is no necessary adjunct: it is, however, by the musick of metre that poetry has been discriminated in all languages; and, in languages melodiously constructed with a due proportion of long and short syllables, metre is sufficient. But one language cannot communicate its rules to another; where metre is scanty and imperfect, some help is necessary. The musick of the English heroick lines strikes the ear so faintly, that it is easily lost, unless all the syllables of every line cooperate together; this cooperation can be only obtained by the preservation of every verse unmingled with another, as a distinct system of sounds; and this distinctness is obtained and preserved by the artifice of rhyme. The variety of pauses, so much boasted by the lovers of blank verse, changes the measures of an English poet to the periods of a declaimer; and there are only a few skilful and happy readers of Milton, who enable their audience to perceive where the lines end or begin. "Blank verse," said an ingenious critick, "seems to be verse only to the eye." Poetry may subsist without rhyme, but English poetry will not often please; nor can rhyme ever be safely spared, but where the subject is able to support itself. Blank verse makes some approach to that which is called the lapidary style; has neither the easiness of prose, nor the melody of numbers, and, therefore, tires by long continuance. Of the Italian writers without rhyme, whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one is popular; what reason could urge in its defence, has been confuted by the ear. But, whatever be the advantage of rhyme, I cannot prevail on myself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer; for I cannot wish his work to be other than it is; yet, like other heroes, he is to be admired rather than imitated. He that thinks himself capable of astonishing may write blank verse; but those that hope only to please must condescend to rhyme. The highest praise of genius is original invention. Milton cannot be said to have contrived the structure of an epick poem, and, therefore, owes reverence to that vigour and amplitude of mind to which all generations must be indebted for the, art of poetical narration, for the texture of the fable, the variation of incidents, the interposition of dialogue, and all the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. But, of all the borrowers from Homer, Milton is, perhaps, the least indebted. He was naturally a thinker for himself, confident of his own abilities, and disdainful of help or hindrance: he did not refuse admission to the thoughts or images of his predecessors, but he did not seek them. From his contemporaries he neither courted nor received support; there is in his writings nothing by which the pride of other authors might be gratified, or favour gained; no exchange of praise, nor solicitation of support. His great works were performed under discountenance, and in blindness; but difficulties vanished at his touch; he was born for whatever is arduous; and his work is not the greatest of heroick poems, only because it is not the first. [Footnote 26: In this assertion Dr. Johnson was mistaken. Milton was admitted a pensioner, and not a sizar, as will appear by the following extract from the college register: "Johannes Milton, Londinensis, filius Johannis, institutus fuit in literarum elementis sub Mag'ro Gill Gymnasii Paulini praefecto, admissus est _Pensionarius Minor_, Feb. 12°, 1624, sub M'ro Chappell, solvitq. pro Ingr. 0l. 10s. 0d." R.] [Footnote 27: Published 1632. R.] [Footnote 28: On this subject, see Dr. Symons's Life of Milton, 71, 72. ED.] [Footnote 29: By the mention of this name, he evidently refers to Albumazar, acted at Cambridge, in 1614. Ignoramus, and other plays were performed at the same time. The practice was then very frequent. The last dramatick performance at either university, was the Grateful Fair, written by Christopher Smart, and represented at Pembroke college, Cambridge, about 1747. R.] [Footnote 30: It has, nevertheless, its foundation in reality. The earl of Bridgewater, being president of Wales, in the year 1634, had his residence at Ludlow castle, in Shropshire, at which time lord Brackly and Mr. Egerton, his sons, and lady Alice Egerton, his daughter, passing through a place called the Haywood forest, or Haywood, in Herefordshire, were benighted, and the lady for a short time lost: this accident, being related to their father upon their arrival at his castle, Milton, at the request of his friend, Henry Lawes, who taught music in the family, wrote this masque. Lawes set it to music, and it was acted on Michaelmas night: the two brothers, the young lady, and Lawes himself, bearing each a part in the representation. The lady Alice Egerton became afterwards the wife of the earl of Carbury, who, at his seat called Golden grove, in Caermarthenshire, harboured Dr. Jeremy Taylor in the time of the usurpation. Among the doctor's sermons is one on her death, in which her character is finely portrayed. Her sister, lady Mary, was given in marriage to lord Herbert, of Cherbury. Notwithstanding Dr. Johnson's assertion, that the fiction is derived from Homer's Circe, it may be conjectured, that it was rather taken from the Comus of Erycius Puteanus, in which, under the fiction of a dream, the characters of Comus and his attendants are delineated, and the delights of sensualists exposed and reprobated. This little tract was published at Louvain, in 1611, and afterwards at Oxford, in 1634, the very year in which Milton's Comus was written. H. Milton evidently was indebted to the Old Wives' Tale of George Peele for the plan of Comus. R.] [Footnote 31: This is inaccurately expressed: Philips, and Dr. Newton, after him, say a garden-house, i.e. a house situated in a garden, and of which there were, especially in the north suburbs of London, very many, if not few else. The term is technical, and frequently occurs in the Athen. and Fast. Oxon. The meaning thereof may be collected from the article, Thomas Farnaby, the famous schoolmaster, of whom the author says, that he taught in Goldsmith's rents, in Cripplegate parish, behind Redcross street, where were large gardens and handsome houses. Milton's house in Jewin street was also a garden-house, as were, indeed, most of his dwellings after his settlement in London. H.] [Footnote 32: Johnson did not here allude to Philips's Theatrum Poetarum, as has been ignorantly supposed, but, as he himself informed Mr. Malone, to another work by the same author, entitled, Tractatulus de carmine dramatico poetarum veterum praesertim in choris tragicis et veteris comoediae. Cui subjungitur compendiosa enumeratio poetarum (saltern quorum fama maxima enituit) qui a tempore Dantis Aligerii usque ad hanc aetatem claruerunt, etc. J. B.] [Footnote 33: Stephen Marshall, Edmund Calamy, Thomas Young, Matthew Newcomen, William Spurstow. R.] [Footnote 34: It was animadverted upon, but without any mention of Milton's name, by bishop Hall, in his Cases of Conscience, Decade 4, Case 2. J.B.] [Footnote 35: He terms the author of it a shallow-brained puppy; and thus refers to it in his index: "Of a noddy who wrote a book about wiving." J.B.] [Footnote 36: This charge, as far as regards Milton, is examined by Dr. Symons with more moderation than usually characterizes his high-sounding and wordy panegyrics. See Life of Milton. ED.] [Footnote 37: The work here referred to is Selectarum de Lingua Latina Observationum Libri duo. Ductu et cura Joannis Ker, 1719. Ker observes, that vapulandum is pinguis solaecismus. J.B.] [Footnote 38: It may be doubted whether _gloriosissimus_ be here used with Milton's boasted purity. _Res gloriosa_ is an _illustrious thing_; but _vir gloriosus_ is _commonly_ a _braggart_, as in _miles gloriosus_. Dr. J.] [Footnote 39: The Cambridge dictionary, published in 4to. 1693, is no other than a copy, with some small additions, of that of Dr. Adam Littleton in 1686, by sundry persons, of whom though their names are concealed, there is great reason to conjecture that Milton's nephew, Edward Philips, is one: for it is expressly said by Wood, Fasti, vol. i. p. 266, that Milton's Thesaurus came to his hands; and it is asserted in the preface thereto, that the editors thereof had the use of three large folios in manuscript, collected and digested into alphabetical order by Mr. John Milton. It has been remarked, that the additions, together with the preface above mentioned, and a large part of the title of the Cambridge dictionary, have been incorporated and printed with the subsequent editions of Littleton's dictionary, till that of 1735. Vid. Biogr. Brit. 2985, in not. So that, for aught that appears to the contrary, Philips was the last possessor of Milton's manuscripts. H.] [Footnote 40: _Id est_, to be the subject of an heroick poem, written by sir Richard Blackmore. H.] [Footnote 41: Trinity college. R.] [Footnote 42: The dramas in which Justice, Mercy, Faith, &c. were introduced, were moralities, not mysteries. MALONE.] [Footnote 43: Philips says expressly, that Milton was excepted and disqualified from bearing any office; but Toland says he was not excepted at all, and consequently included in the general pardon, or act of indemnity, passed the 29th of August, 1660. Toland is right, for I find Goodwin and Ph. Nye, the minister, excepted in the act, but Milton not named. However, he obtained a special pardon in December, 1660, which passed the privy seal, but not the great seal. MALONE.] [Footnote 44: It was told before by A. Wood in Ath. Oxon. vol. ii. p. 412. second edition.] [Footnote 45: That Milton saved Davenant, is attested by Aubrey, and by Wood, from him; but none of them say that Davenant saved Milton: this is Richardson's assertion merely. MALONE.] [Footnote 46: A different account of the means by which Milton secured himself, is given by an historian lately brought to light: "Milton, Latin secretary to Cromwell, distinguished by his writings in favour of the rights and liberties of the people, pretended to be dead, and had a publick funeral procession. The king applauded his policy in escaping the punishment of death, by a seasonable show of dying." Cunningham's History of Great Britain, vol. i. p. 14. R.] [Footnote 47: Gildon, in his continuation of Langbaine's account of the dramatick poets, 8vo. 1693, says, that he had been told that Milton, after the restoration, kept a school at or near Greenwich. The publication of an Accidence at that period gives some countenance to this tradition. MALONE] [Footnote 48: It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that this relation of Voltaire's was perfectly true, as far as relates to the existence of the play which he speaks of, namely, the Adamo of Andreini; but it is still a question whether Milton ever saw it. J.B.] [Footnote 49: This opinion is, with great learning and ingenuity, refuted in a book now very little known, an Apology or Declaration of the Power and Providence of God in the Government of the World, by Dr. George Hakewill, London, folio, 1635. The first who ventured to propagate it in this country was Dr. Gabriel Goodman, bishop of Gloucester, a man of a versatile temper, and the author of a book entitled, the Fall of Man, or the Corruption of Nature proved by Natural Reason. Lond. 1616, and 1624. quarto. He was plundered in the usurpation, turned Roman catholick, and died in obscurity. See Athen, Oxon. vol. i. p. 727. H.] [Footnote 50: --Unless _an age too late_, or cold Climate, or years damp my intended wing. Par. Lost. b. ix. l. 44.] [Footnote 51: Johnson has, in many places of his Rambler and Idler, ridiculed the notion of a dependance of our mental powers on the variations of atmosphere. In Boswell's life, however, there are some recorded instances of his own subjection to this common infirmity. We cannot refrain from denouncing, as unfeeling and ungenerous, Johnson's sarcasms at Milton's distempered imagination, when old age, disease, and darkness had come upon him. Dr. Symons runs into the diametrically opposite extreme. ED.] [Footnote 52: "Statura fateor non sum procera: seel quae mediocri tamen quam parvae propior sit: sed quid si parva, qua et summi saepe tum pace tum bello viri fuere, quanquam parva cur dicitur, quae ad virtutem satis magna est." Defensio Secunda. ED.] [Footnote 53: Both these persons were living at Holloway, about the year 1734, and, at that time, possessed such a degree of health and strength, as enabled them, on Sundays and prayer-days, to walk a mile up a steep hill to Highgate chapel. One of them was ninety-two at the time of her death. Their parentage was known to few, and their names were corrupted into Melton. By the crown-office, mentioned in the two last paragraphs, we are to understand the crown-office of the court of Chancery. H.] [Footnote 54: Printed in the first volume of this collection.] [Footnote 55: With the exception of Comus, in which, Dr. J. afterwards says, may very plainly be discovered the dawn or twilight of Paradise Lost. C.] [Footnote 56: Here, as Warton justly observes, "Johnson has confounded two descriptions!" The melancholy man does not go out while it rains, but waits, till----the sun begins to fling His flaring beams. J. B.] [Footnote 57: Mr. Warton intimates, and there can be little doubt of the truth of his conjecture, that Milton borrowed many of the images in these two fine poems from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, a book published in 1621, and, at sundry times since, abounding in learning, curious information, and pleasantry. Mr. Warton says, that Milton appears to have been an attentive reader thereof; and to this assertion I add, of my own knowledge, that it was a book that Dr. Johnson frequently resorted to, as many others have done, for amusement after the fatigue of study. H.--Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Johnson said, was the only book that ever took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to rise. Boswell's Life, ii. 120.] [Footnote 58: Surely there are precedents enough for the practice, though pessimi exempli, in Milton's favourite tragedian Euripides. ED.] [Footnote 59: Author of the Essay on Study.] [Footnote 60: Algarotti terms it, "gigantesca sublimità Miltoniana." Dr.J.] [Footnote 61: But, says Dr. Warton, it has, throughout, a reference to human life and actions. C.] [Footnote 62: The earl of Surrey translated two books of Virgil without rhyme; the second and the fourth. J.B.] BUTLER. Of the great author of Hudibras there is a life prefixed to the later editions of his poem, by an unknown writer, and, therefore, of disputable authority; and some account is incidentally given by Wood, who confesses the uncertainty of his own narrative; more, however, than they knew cannot now be learned, and nothing remains but to compare and copy them. Samuel Butler was born in the parish of Strensham, in Worcestershire, according to his biographer, in 1612. This account Dr. Nash finds confirmed by the register. He was christened Feb. 14. His father's condition is variously represented: Wood mentions him as competently wealthy; but Mr. Longneville, the son of Butler's principal friend, says he was an honest farmer, with some small estate, who made a shift to educate his son at the grammar school of Worcester, under Mr. Henry Bright[63], from whose care he removed, for a short time, to Cambridge; but, for want of money, was never made a member of any college. Wood leaves us rather doubtful whether he went to Cambridge or Oxford; but, at last, makes him pass six or seven years at Cambridge, without knowing in what hall or college; yet it can hardly be imagined that he lived so long in either university but as belonging to one house or another; and it is still less likely that he could have so long inhabited a place of learning with so little distinction as to leave his residence uncertain. Dr. Nash has discovered that his father was owner of a house and a little land, worth about eight pounds a year, still called Butler's tenement. Wood has his information from his brother, whose narrative placed him at Cambridge, in opposition to that of his neighbours, which sent him to Oxford. The brother's seems the best authority, till, by confessing his inability to tell his hall or college, he gives reason to suspect that he was resolved to bestow on him an academical education; but durst not name a college, for fear of detection. He was, for some time, according to the author of his life, clerk to Mr. Jefferys, of Earl's Croomb, in Worcestershire, an eminent justice of the peace. In his service he had not only leisure for study, but for recreation: his amusements were musick and painting; and the reward of his pencil was the friendship of the celebrated Cooper. Some pictures, said to be his, were shown to Dr. Nash, at Earl's Croomb; but, when he inquired for them some years afterwards, he found them destroyed, to stop windows, and owns that they hardly deserved a better fate. He was afterwards admitted into the family of the countess of Kent, where he had the use of a library; and so much recommended himself to Selden, that he was often employed by him in literary business. Selden, as is well known, was steward to the countess, and is supposed to have gained much of his wealth by managing her estate. In what character Butler was admitted into that lady's service, how long he continued in it, and why he left it, is, like the other incidents of his life, utterly unknown. The vicissitudes of his condition placed him afterwards in the family of sir Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's officers. Here he observed so much of the character of the sectaries, that he is said to have written or begun his poem at this time; and it is likely that such a design would be formed in a place where he saw the principles and practices of the rebels, audacious and undisguised in the confidence of success. At length the king returned, and the time came in which loyalty hoped for its reward. Butler, however, was only made secretary to the earl of Carbury, president of the principality of Wales; who conferred on him the stewardship of Ludlow castle, when the court of the marches was revived. In this part of his life, he married Mrs. Herbert, a gentlewoman of a good family; and lived, says Wood, upon her fortune, having studied the common law, but never practised it. A fortune she had, says his biographer, but it was lost by bad securities. In 1663 was published the first part, containing three cantos, of the poem of Hudibras, which, as Prior relates, was made known at court by the taste and influence of the earl of Dorset. When it was known, it was necessarily admired: the king quoted, the courtiers studied, and the whole party of the royalists applauded it. Every eye watched for the golden shower which was to fall upon the author, who certainly was not without his part in the general expectation. In 1664 the second part appeared; the curiosity of the nation was rekindled, and the writer was again praised and elated. But praise was his whole reward. Clarendon, says Wood, gave him reason to hope for "places and employments of value and credit;" but no such advantages did he ever obtain. It is reported that the king once gave him three hundred guineas; but of this temporary bounty I find no proof. Wood relates that he was secretary to Villiers, duke of Buckingham, when he was chancellor of Cambridge: this is doubted by the other writer, who yet allows the duke to have been his frequent benefactor. That both these accounts are false there is reason to suspect, from a story told by Packe, in his account of the life of Wycherley; and from some verses which Mr. Thyer has published in the author's Remains. "Mr. Wycherley," says Packe, "had always laid hold of an opportunity which offered of representing to the duke of Buckingham how well Mr. Butler had deserved of the royal family, by writing his inimitable Hudibras; and that it was a reproach to the court, that a person of his loyalty and wit should suffer in obscurity, and under the wants he did. The duke always seemed to hearken to him with attention enough; and, after some time, undertook to recommend his pretensions to his majesty. Mr. Wycherley, in hopes to keep him steady to his word, obtained of his grace to name a day, when he might introduce that modest and unfortunate poet to his new patron. At last an appointment was made, and the place of meeting was agreed to be the Roebuck. Mr. Butler and his friend attended accordingly; the duke joined them; but, as the d--l would have it, the door of the room where they sat was open, and his grace, who had seated himself near it, observing a pimp of his acquaintance (the creature too was a knight) trip by with a brace of ladies, immediately quitted his engagement to follow another kind of business, at which he was more ready than in doing good offices to men of desert, though no one was better qualified than he, both in regard to his fortune and understanding, to protect them; and, from that time to the day of his death, poor Butler never found the least effect of his promise!" Such is the story. The verses are written with a degree of acrimony, such as neglect and disappointment might naturally excite; and such as it would be hard to imagine Butler capable of expressing against a man who had any claim to his gratitude. Notwithstanding this discouragement and neglect, he still prosecuted his design; and, in 1678, published the third part, which still leaves the poem imperfect and abrupt. How much more he originally intended, or with what events the action was to be concluded, it is vain to conjecture. Nor can it be thought strange that he should stop here, however unexpectedly. To write without reward is sufficiently unpleasing. He had now arrived at an age when he might think it proper to be in jest no longer, and, perhaps, his health might now begin to fail. He died in 1680; and Mr. Longueville, having unsuccessfully solicited a subscription for his interment in Westminster Abbey, buried him, at his own cost, in the church-yard of Covent garden[64]. Dr. Simon Patrick read the service. Granger was informed by Dr. Pearce, who named for his authority Mr. Lowndes, of the treasury, that Butler had a yearly pension of an hundred pounds. This is contradicted by all tradition, by the complaints of Oldham, and by the reproaches of Dryden; and, I am afraid, will never be confirmed. About sixty years afterwards, Mr. Barber, a printer, mayor of London, and a friend to Butler's principles, bestowed on him a monument in Westminster Abbey, thus inscribed: M. S. SAMUELIS BUTLERI, Qui Strenshamiae in agro Vigorn. nat. 1612, obijt Lond. 1680. Vir doctus imprimis, acer, integer; Operibus ingenii, non item praemiis, foelix: Satyrici apud nos carminis artifex egregius; Quo simulatae religionis larvam detraxit, Et perduellium scelera liberrime exagitavit; Scriptorum in suo genere, primus et postremus. Ne, cui vivo deerant fere omnia, Deesset etiam mortuo tumulus, Hoc tandem posito marmore, curavit JOHANNES BARBER, Civis Londinensis, 1721. After his death were published three small volumes of his posthumous works; I know not by whom collected, or by what authority ascertained[65]; and, lately, two volumes more have been printed by Mr. Thyer, of Manchester, indubitably genuine. From none of these pieces can his life be traced, or his character discovered. Some verses, in the last collection, show him to have been among those who ridiculed the institution of the Royal Society, of which the enemies were, for some time, very numerous and very acrimonious; for what reason it is hard to conceive, since the philosophers professed not to advance doctrines, but to produce facts: and the most zealous enemy of innovation must admit the gradual progress of experience, however he may oppose hypothetical temerity. In this mist of obscurity passed the life of Butler, a man whose name can only perish with his language. The mode and place of his education are unknown; the events of his life are variously related; and all that can be told with certainty is, that he was poor. * * * * * The poem of Hudibras is one of those compositions of which a nation may justly boast; as the images which it exhibits are domestick, the sentiments unborrowed and unexpected, and the strain of diction original and peculiar. We must not, however, suffer the pride, which we assume as the countrymen of Butler, to make any encroachment upon justice, nor appropriate those honours which others have a right to share. The poem of Hudibras is not wholly English; the original idea is to be found in the history of Don Quixote; a book to which a mind of the greatest powers may be indebted without disgrace. Cervantes shows a man, who having, by the incessant perusal of incredible tales, subjected his understanding to his imagination, and familiarized his mind by pertinacious meditation to trains of incredible events, and scenes of impossible existence; goes out, in the pride of knighthood, to redress wrongs, and defend virgins, to rescue captive princesses, and tumble usurpers from their thrones; attended by a squire, whose cunning, too low for the suspicion of a generous mind, enables him often to cheat his master. The hero of Butler is a presbyterian justice, who, in the confidence of legal authority and the rage of zealous ignorance, ranges the country to repress superstition, and correct abuses, accompanied by an independent clerk, disputatious and obstinate, with whom he often debates, but never conquers him. Cervantes had so much kindness for Don Quixote, that, however he embarrasses him with absurd distresses, he gives him so much sense and virtue as may preserve our esteem; wherever he is, or whatever he does, he is made, by matchless dexterity, commonly ridiculous, but never contemptible. But for poor Hudibras, his poet had no tenderness; he chooses not that any pity should be shown, or respect paid him; he gives him up at once to laughter and contempt, without any quality that can dignify or protect him. In forming the character of Hudibras, and describing his person and habiliments, the author seems to labour with a tumultuous confusion of dissimilar ideas. He had read the history of the mock knights-errant; he knew the notions and manners of a presbyterian magistrate, and tried to unite the absurdities of both, however distant, in one personage. Thus he gives him that pedantick ostentation of knowledge which has no relation to chivalry, and loads him with martial encumbrances that can add nothing to his civil dignity. He sends him out a "colonelling," and yet never brings him within sight of war. If Hudibras be considered as the representative of the presbyterians, it is not easy to say why his weapons should be represented as ridiculous or useless; for, whatever judgment might be passed upon their knowledge or their arguments, experience had sufficiently shown that their swords were not to be despised. The hero, thus compounded of swaggerer and pedant, of knight and justice, is led forth to action, with his squire Ralpho, an independent enthusiast. Of the contexture of events planned by the author, which is called the action of the poem, since it is left imperfect, no judgment can he made. It is probable, that the hero was to be led through many luckless adventures, which would give occasion, like his attack upon the "bear and fiddle," to expose the ridiculous rigour of the sectaries; like his encounter with Sidrophel and Whacum, to make superstition and credulity contemptible; or, like his recourse to the low retailer of the law, discover the fraudulent practices of different professions. What series of events he would have formed, or in what manner he would have rewarded or punished his hero, it is now vain to conjecture. His work must have had, as it seems, the defect which Dryden imputes to Spenser; the action could not have been one; there could only have been a succession of incidents, each of which might have happened without the rest, and which could not all cooperate to any single conclusion. The discontinuity of the action might, however, have been easily forgiven, if there had been action enough; but, I believe, every reader regrets the paucity of events, and complains that, in the poem of Hudibras, as in the history of Thucydides, there is more said than done. The scenes are too seldom changed, and the attention is tired with long conversation. It is, indeed, much more easy to form dialogues than to contrive adventures. Every position makes way for an argument, and every objection dictates an answer. When two disputants are engaged upon a complicated and extensive question, the difficulty is not to continue, but to end the controversy. But whether it be that we comprehend but few of the possibilities of life, or that life itself affords little variety, every man, who has tried, knows how much labour it will cost to form such a combination of circumstances as shall have, at once, the grace of novelty and credibility, and delight fancy without violence to reason. Perhaps the dialogue of this poem is not perfect. Some power of engaging the attention might have been added to it by quicker reciprocation, by seasonable interruptions, by sudden questions, and by a nearer approach to dramatick sprightliness; without which, fictitious speeches will always tire, however sparkling with sentences, and however variegated with allusions. The great source of pleasure is variety. Uniformity must tire at last, though it be uniformity of excellence. We love to expect; and, when expectation is disappointed or gratified, we want to be again expecting. For this impatience of the present, whoever would please must make provision. The skilful writer "irritat, mulcet," makes a due distribution of the still and animated parts. It is for want of this artful intertexture, and those necessary changes, that the whole of a book may be tedious, though all the parts are praised. If inexhaustible wit could give perpetual pleasure, no eye would ever leave half-read the work of Butler; for what poet has ever brought so many remote images so happily together? It is scarcely possible to peruse a page without finding some association of images that was never found before. By the first paragraph the reader is amused, by the next he is delighted, and by a few more strained to astonishment; but astonishment is a toilsome pleasure; he is soon weary of wondering, and longs to be diverted: "Omnia vult belle Matho dicere, dic aliquando Et bene, die neutrum, dic aliquando male." Imagination is useless without knowledge: nature gives in vain the power of combination, unless study and observation supply materials to be combined. Butler's treasures of knowledge appear proportioned to his expense: whatever topick employs his mind, he shows himself qualified to expand and illustrate it with all the accessories that books can furnish: he is found not only to have travelled the beaten road, but the by-paths of literature; not only to have taken general surveys, but to have examined particulars with minute inspection. If the French boast the learning of Rabelais, we need not be afraid of confronting them with Butler. But the most valuable parts of his performance are those which retired study and native wit cannot supply. He that merely makes a book from books may be useful, but can scarcely be great. Butler had not suffered life to glide beside him unseen or unobserved. He had watched, with great diligence, the operations of human nature, and traced the effects of opinion, humour, interest, and passion. From such remarks proceeded that great number of sententious distichs, which have passed into conversation, and are added as proverbial axioms to the general stock of practical knowledge. When any work has been viewed and admired, the first question of intelligent curiosity is, how was it performed? Hudibras was not a hasty effusion; it was not produced by a sudden tumult of imagination, or a short paroxysm of violent labour. To accumulate such a mass of sentiments at the call of accidental desire, or of sudden necessity, is beyond the reach and power of the most active and comprehensive mind. I am informed by Mr. Thyer, of Manchester, the excellent editor of this author's relicks, that he could show something like Hudibras in prose. He has in his possession the commonplace-book, in which Butler reposited, not such events or precepts as are gathered by reading, but such remarks, similitudes, allusions, assemblages, or inferences, as occasion prompted, or meditation produced; those thoughts that were generated in his own mind, and might be usefully applied to some future purpose. Such is the labour of those who write for immortality. But human works are not easily found without a perishable part. Of the ancient poets every reader feels the mythology tedious and oppressive. Of Hudibras, the manners, being founded on opinions, are temporary and local, and, therefore, become every day less intelligible, and less striking. What Cicero says of philosophy is true, likewise, of wit and humour, that "time effaces the fictions of opinion, and confirms the determinations of nature." Such manners as depend upon standing relations and general passions are coextended with the race of man; but those modifications of life, and peculiarities of practice, which are the progeny of errour and perverseness, or, at best, of some accidental influence or transient persuasion, must perish with their parents. Much, therefore, of that humour which transported the last century[66] with merriment, is lost to us, who do not know the sour solemnity, the sullen superstition, the gloomy moroseness, and the stubborn scruples of the ancient puritans; or, if we know them, derive our information only from books, or from tradition, have never had them before our eyes, and cannot, but by recollection and study, understand the lines in which they are satirized. Our grandfathers knew the picture from the life; we judge of the life by contemplating the picture. It is scarcely possible, in the regularity and composure of the present time, to image the tumult of absurdity, and clamour of contradiction, which perplexed doctrine, disordered practice, and disturbed both publick and private quiet, in that age when subordination was broken, and awe was hissed away; when any unsettled innovator, who could hatch a half-formed notion, produced it to the publick; when every man might become a preacher, and almost every preacher could collect a congregation. The wisdom of the nation is very reasonably supposed to reside in the parliament. What can be concluded of the lower classes of the people, when in one of the parliaments, summoned by Cromwell, it was seriously proposed, that all the records in the Tower should be burnt, that all memory of things past should be effaced, and that the whole system of life should commence anew? We have never been witnesses of animosities excited by the use of minced pies and plumporridge; nor seen with what abhorrence those, who could eat them at all other times of the year, would shrink from them in December. An old puritan who was alive in my childhood, being, at one of the feasts of the church, invited by a neighbour to partake his cheer, told him, that if he would treat him at an alehouse with beer brewed for all times and seasons he should accept his kindness, but would have none of his superstitious meats or drinks. One of the puritanical tenets was the illegality of all games of chance; and he that reads Gataker upon Lots, may see how much learning and reason one of the first scholars of his age thought necessary to prove, that it was no crime to throw a die, or play at cards, or to hide a shilling for the reckoning. Astrology, however, against which so much of the satire is directed, was not more the folly of the puritans than of others. It had, in that time, a very extensive dominion. Its predictions raised hopes and fears in minds, which ought to have rejected it with contempt. In hazardous undertakings, care was taken to begin under the influence of a propitious planet; and, when the king was prisoner in Carisbrook castle, an astrologer was consulted what hour would be found most favourable to an escape. What effect this poem had upon the publick, whether it shamed imposture, or reclaimed credulity, is not easily determined. Cheats can seldom stand long against laughter. It is certain, that the credit of planetary intelligence wore fast away; though some men of knowledge, and Dryden among them, continued to believe that conjunctions and oppositions had a great part in the distribution of good or evil, and in the government of sublunary things. Poetical action ought to be probable upon certain suppositions, and such probability as burlesque requires is here violated only by one incident. Nothing can show more plainly the necessity of doing something, and the difficulty of finding something to do, than that Butler was reduced to transfer to his hero, the flagellation of Sancho, not the most agreeable fiction of Cervantes; very suitable, indeed, to the manners of that age and nation, which ascribed wonderful efficacy to voluntary penances; but so remote from the practice and opinions of the Hudibrastick time, that judgment and imagination are alike offended. The diction of this poem is grossly familiar, and the numbers purposely neglected, except in a few places where the thoughts, by their native excellence, secure themselves from violation, being such as mean language cannot express. The mode of versification has been blamed by Dryden, who regrets that the heroick measure was not rather chosen. To the critical sentence of Dryden, the highest reverence would be due, were not his decisions often precipitate, and his opinions immature. When he wished to change the measure, he probably would have been willing to change more. If he intended that, when the numbers were heroick, the diction should still remain vulgar, he planned a very heterogeneous and unnatural composition. If he preferred a general stateliness both of sound and words, he can be only understood to wish that Butler had undertaken a different work. The measure is quick, sprightly, and colloquial, suitable to the vulgarity of the words, and the levity of the sentiments. But such numbers and such diction can gain regard, only when they are used by a writer, whose vigour of fancy and copiousness of knowledge, entitle him to contempt of ornaments, and who, in confidence of the novelty and justness of his conceptions, can afford to throw metaphors and epithets away. To another that conveys common thoughts in careless versification, it will only be said, "Pauper videri Cinna vult, et est pauper." The meaning and diction will be worthy of each other, and criticism may justly doom them to perish together. Nor even though another Butler should arise, would another Hudibras obtain the same regard. Burlesque consists in a disproportion between the style and the sentiments, or between the adventitious sentiments and the fundamental subject. It, therefore, like all bodies compounded of heterogeneous parts, contains in it a principle of corruption. All disproportion is unnatural; and from what is unnatural, we can derive only the pleasure which novelty produces. We admire it awhile as a strange thing; but, when it is no longer strange, we perceive its deformity. It is a kind of artifice, which by frequent repetition detects itself; and the reader, learning in time what he is to expect, lays down his book, as the spectator turns away from a second exhibition of those tricks, of which the only use is to show that they can be played. * * * * * We extract from the second volume of Aubrey's Letters, p. 263, the following lines, entitled _Hudibras imprinted._ No jesuite ever took in hand, To plant a church in barren land; Or ever thought it worth his while A Swede or Russe to reconcile. For where there is not store of wealth, Souls are not worth the chardge of health. Spain and America had designes To sell their gospell for their wines, For had the Mexicans been poore, No Spaniard twice had landed on their shore. 'Twas gold the catholick religion planted, Which, had they wanted gold, they still had wanted. ED. [Footnote 63: These are the words of the author of the short account of Butler, prefixed to Hudibras, which Dr. Johnson, notwithstanding what he says above, seems to have supposed was written by Mv. Longneville, the father; but the contrary is to be inferred from a subsequent passage, wherein the author laments that he had neither such an acquaintance nor interest with Mr. Longneville, as to procure from him the golden remains of Butler there mentioned. He was, probably, led into the mistake by a note in the Biog. Brit. p. 1077, signifying, that the son of this gentleman was living in 1736. Of this friend and generous patron of Butler, Mr. William Longneville, I find an account, written by a person who was well acquainted with him, to this effect, viz. that he was a conveyancing lawyer, and a bencher of the inner temple, and had raised himself from a low beginning, to very great eminence in that profession; that he was eloquent and learned, of spotless integrity; that he supported an aged father, who had ruined his fortunes by extravagance, and by his industry and application, reedified a ruined family; that he supported Butler, who, but for him, must literally have starved; and received from him, as a recompense, the papers called his Remains. Life of the lord-keeper Guildford, p. 289. These have since been given to the public by Mr. Thyer, of Manchester: and the originals are now in the hands of the Rev. Dr. Farmer, master of Emanuel college, Cambridge. H.] [Footnote 64: In a note in the Biographia Britannica, p. 1075, he is said, on the authority of the younger Mr. Longueville, to have lived for some years in Rose street, Covent garden, and also that he died there; the latter of these particulars is rendered highly probable, by his being interred in the cemetery of that parish.] [Footnote 65: They were collected into one, and published in 12mo. 1732. H.] [Footnote 66: The seventeenth. N.] ROCHESTER. John Wilmot, afterwards earl of Rochester, the son of Henry, earl of Rochester, better known by the title of lord Wilmot, so often mentioned in Clarendon's History, was born April 10, 1647, at Ditchley, in Oxfordshire. After a grammatical education at the school of Burford, he entered a nobleman into Wadham college in 1659, only twelve years old; and, in 1661, at fourteen, was, with some other persons of high rank, made master of arts by lord Clarendon in person. He travelled afterwards into France and Italy; and, at his return, devoted himself to the court. In 1665 he went to sea with Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen by uncommon intrepidity; and the next summer served again on board sir Edward Spragge, who, in the heat of the engagement, having a message of reproof to send to one of his captains, could find no man ready to carry it but Wilmot, who, in an open boat, went and returned amidst the storm of shot. But his reputation for bravery was not lasting: he was reproached with slinking away in street quarrels, and leaving his companions to shift, as they could, without him; and Sheffield, duke of Buckingham, has left a story of his refusal to fight him. He had very early an inclination to intemperance, which he totally subdued in his travels; but, when he became a courtier, he unhappily addicted himself to dissolute and vitious company, by which his principles were corrupted, and his manners depraved. He lost all sense of religious restraint; and, finding it not convenient to admit the authority of laws, which he was resolved not to obey, sheltered his wickedness behind infidelity. As he excelled in that noisy and licentious merriment which wine incites, his companions eagerly encouraged him in excess, and he willingly indulged it; till, as he confessed to Dr. Burnet, he was for five years together continually drunk, or so much inflamed by frequent ebriety, as in no interval to be master of himself. In this state he played many frolicks, which it is not for his honour that we should remember, and which are not now distinctly known. He often pursued low amours in mean disguises, and always acted with great exactness and dexterity the characters which he assumed. He once erected a stage on Tower hill, and harangued the populace as a mountebank; and, having made physick part of his study, is said to have practised it successfully. He was so much in favour with king Charles, that he was made one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and comptroller of Woodstock park. Having an active and inquisitive mind, he never, except in his paroxysms of intemperance, was wholly negligent of study: he read what is considered as polite learning so much, that he is mentioned by Wood as the greatest scholar of all the nobility. Sometimes he retired into the country, and amused himself with writing libels, in which he did not pretend to confine himself to truth. His favourite author in French was Boileau, and in English Cowley. Thus in a course of drunken gaiety, and gross sensuality, with intervals of study, perhaps, yet more criminal, with an avowed contempt of all decency and order, a total disregard of every moral, and a resolute denial of every religious obligation, he lived worthless and useless, and blazed out his youth and his health in lavish voluptuousness, till, at the age of one-and-thirty, he had exhausted the fund of life, and reduced himself to a state of weakness and decay. At this time he was led to an acquaintance with Dr. Burnet, to whom he laid open, with great freedom, the tenour of his opinions, and the course of his life, and from whom he received such conviction of the reasonableness of moral duty, and the truth of Christianity, as produced a total change both of his manners and opinions. The account of those salutary conferences is given by Burnet in a book entitled, Some Passages of the Life and Death of John, Earl of Rochester, which the critick ought to read for its elegance, the philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety. It were an injury to the reader to offer him an abridgment. He died July 26, 1680, before he had completed his thirty-fourth year; and was so worn away by a long illness, that life went out without a struggle. Lord Rochester was eminent for the vigour of his colloquial wit, and remarkable for many wild pranks and sallies of extravagance. The glare of his general character diffused itself upon his writings; the compositions of a man whose name was heard so often, were certain of attention, and from many readers certain of applause. This blaze of reputation is not yet quite extinguished; and his poetry still retains some splendour beyond that which genius has bestowed. Wood and Burnet give us reason to believe, that much was imputed to him which he did not write. I know not by whom the original collection was made, or by what authority its genuineness was ascertained. The first edition was published in the year of his death, with an air of concealment, professing, in the titlepage, to be printed at Antwerp. Of some of the pieces, however, there is no doubt: the Imitation of Horace's Satire, the Verses to lord Mulgrave, Satire against Man, the Verses upon Nothing, and, perhaps, some others, are, I believe, genuine; and, perhaps, most of those which the late collection exhibits[67]. As he cannot be supposed to have found leisure for any course of continued study, his pieces are commonly short, such as one fit of resolution would produce. His songs have no particular character; they tell, like other songs, in smooth and easy language, of scorn and kindness, dismission and desertion, absence and inconstancy, with the commonplaces of artificial courtship. They are commonly smooth and easy; but have little nature, and little sentiment. His Imitation of Horace on Lucilius is not inelegant or unhappy. In the reign of Charles the second began that adaptation, which has since been very frequent, of ancient poetry to present times; and, perhaps, few will be found where the parallelism is better preserved than in this. The versification is, indeed, sometimes careless, but it is sometimes vigorous and weighty. The strongest effort of his muse is his poem upon Nothing. He is not the first who has chosen this barren topick for the boast of his fertility. There is a poem called Nihil in Latin, by Passerat, a poet and critick of the sixteenth century, in France; who, in his own epitaph, expresses his zeal for good poetry thus: Molliter ossa quiescent Sint modo carminibus non onerata malis. His works are not common, and, therefore, I shall subjoin his verses. In examining this performance, Nothing must be considered as having not only a negative, but a kind of positive signification; as I need not fear thieves, I have _nothing_, and _nothing_ is a very powerful protector. In the first part of the sentence it is taken negatively; in the second it is taken positively, as an agent. In one of Boileau's lines it was a question, whether he should use "à rien faire," or "à ne rien faire;" and the first was preferred, because it gave "rien" a sense in some sort positive. _Nothing_ can be a subject only in its positive sense, and such a sense is given it in the first line: _Nothing_, thou elder brother ev'n to shade. In this line, I know not whether he does not allude to a curious book, De Umbra, by Wowerus, which, having told the qualities of _shade_, concludes with a poem, in which are these lines: Jam primum terram validis circumspice claustris Suspensam totam, decus admirabile mundi, Terrasque, tractusque maris, camposque liquentes Aeris, et vasti laqueata palatia coeli---- Omnibus UMBRA prior. The positive sense is generally preserved, with great skill, through the whole poem; though, sometimes, in a subordinate sense, the negative _nothing_ is injudiciously mingled. Passerat confounds the two senses. Another of his most vigorous pieces is his lampoon on sir Car Scroop, who, in a poem called the Praise of Satire, had some lines like these[68]: He who can push into a midnight fray His brave companion, and then run away, Leaving him to be murder'd in the street, Then put it off with some buffoon conceit; Him, thus dishonour'd, for a wit you own, And court him as top fiddler of the town. This was meant of Rochester, whose "buffoon conceit" was, I suppose, a saying often mentioned, that "every man would be a coward, if he durst;" and drew from him those furious verses; to which Scroop made, in reply, an epigram, ending with these lines: Thou canst hurt no man's fame with thy ill word; Thy pen is full as harmless as thy sword. Of the Satire against Man, Rochester can only claim what remains, when all Boileau's part is taken away. In all his works there is sprightliness and vigour, and every where may be found tokens of a mind, which study might have carried to excellence. What more can be expected from a life spent in ostentatious contempt of regularity, and ended, before the abilities of many other men began to be displayed[69]? Poema Cl. V. JOANNIS PASSERATII, Regii in Academia Parisiensi Professoris. Ad ornatissimum virum ERRICUM MEMMIUM. Janus adest, festae poscunt sua dona kalendae, Munus abest festis quod possim offerre kalendis: Siccine Castalius nobis exaruit humor? Usque adeo ingenii nostri est exhausta facultas, Immunem ut videat redeuntis janitor anni? Quod nusquam est, potius nova per vestigia quaeram. Ecce autem, partes dum sese versat in omnes, Invenit mea musa NIHIL; ne despice munus: Nam NIHIL est gemmis, NIHIL est pretiosius auro. Hue animum, hue, igitur, vultus adverte benignos: Res nova narratur quae nulli audita priorum; Ausonii et Graii dixerunt caetera vates, Ausoniae indictum NIHIL est, graecaeque, Camoenae, E coelo quacunque Ceres sua prospicit arva, Aut genitor liquidis orbem complectitur ulnis Oceanus, NIHIL interitus et originis expers. Immortale NIHIL, NIHIL omni parte beatum. Quod si hinc majestas et vis divina probatur, Num quid honore deûm, num quid dignabimur aris? Conspectu lucis NIHIL est jucundius almae, Vere NIHIL, NIHIL irriguo formosius horto, Floridius pratis, Zephyri clementius aura; In bello sanctum NIHIL est, Martisque tumultu: Justum in pace NIHIL, NIHIL est in foedere tutum. Felix cui NIHIL est, (fuerant haec vota Tibullo) Non timet insidias; fures, incendia temnit; Sollicitas sequitur nullo sub judice lites. Ille ipse invictis qui subjicit omnia fatis, Zenonis sapiens, NIHIL admiratur et optat. Socraticique gregis fuit ista scientia quondam, Scire NIHIL, studio cui nunc incumbitur uni. Nec quicquam in ludo mavult didicisse juventus, Ad magnas quia ducit opes, et culmen honorum. Nosce NIHIL, nosces fertur quod Pythagoreae Grano haerere fabae, cui vox adjuncta negantis. Multi, Mercurio freti duce, viscera terrae Pura liquefaciunt simul, et patrimonia miscent, Arcano instantes operi, et carbonibus atris, Qui tandem exhausti damnis, fractique labore, Inveniunt, atque inventum NIHIL usque requirunt. Hoc dimetiri non ulla decempeda possit: Nec numeret Libycae numerum qui callet arenae. Et Phoebo ignotum NIHIL est, NIHIL altius astris: Tuque, tibi licet eximium sit mentis acumen, Omnem in naturam penetrans, et in abdita rerum, Pace tua, Memmi, NIHIL ignorare videris. Sole tamen NIHIL est, et puro clarius igne. Tange NIHIL, dicesque NIHIL sine corpore tangi. Cerne NIHIL, cerni dices NIHIL absque colore. Surdum audit loquiturque NIHIL sine voce, volatque Absque ope pennarum, et graditur sine cruribus ullis. Absque loco motuque NIHIL per inane vagatur. Humano generi utilius NIHIL arte medendi; Ne rhombos igitur, neu Thessala murmura tentet Idalia vacuum trajectus arundine pectus, Neu legat Idaeo Dictaeum in vertice gramen. Vulneribus saevi NIHIL auxiliatur amoris. Vexerit et quemvis trans moestas portitor undas, Ad superos imo NIHIL hunc revocabit ab orco. Inferni NIHIL inflectit praecordia regis, Parcarumque colos, et inexorabile pensum. Obruta Phlegraeis campis Titania pubes Fulmineo sensit NIHIL esse potentius ictu. Porrigitur magni NIHIL extra moenia mundi. Diique NIHIL metuunt. Quid longo carmine plura Commemorem? Virtute NIHIL praestantius ipsa, Splendidius NIHIL est. NIHIL est Jove denique majus. Sed tempus finem argutis imponere nugis: Ne tibi si multa laudem mea carmina charta, De NIHILO NIHILI pariant fastidia versus. [Footnote 67: Dr. Johnson has made no mention of Valentinian, altered from Beaumont and Fletcher, which was published after his death by a friend, who describes him in the preface, not only as being one of the greatest geniuses, but one of the most virtuous men that ever existed. J.B.] [Footnote 68: I quote from memory. Dr. J.] [Footnote 69: The late George Steevens, esq. made the selection of Rochester's poems which appears in Dr. Johnson's edition; but Mr. Malone observes, that the same task had been performed, in the early part of the last century, by Jacob Tonson. C.] ROSCOMMON Wentworth Dillon, earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and Elizabeth Wentworth, sister to the earl of Strafford. He was born in Ireland[70], during the lieutenancy of Strafford, who, being both his uncle and his godfather, gave him his own surname. His father, the third earl of Roscommon, had been converted by Usher to the protestant religion[71]; and when the popish rebellion broke out, Strafford, thinking the family in great danger from the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, and placed him at his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was instructed in Latin; which he learned so as to write it with purity and elegance, though he was never able to retain the rules of grammar. Such is the account given by Mr. Fenton, from whose notes on Waller most of this account must be borrowed, though I know not whether all that he relates is certain. The instructer whom he assigns to Roscommon is one Dr. Hall, by whom he cannot mean the famous Hall, then an old man and a bishop. When the storm broke out upon Strafford, his house was a shelter no longer; and Dillon, by the advice of Usher, was sent to Caen, where the protestants had then an university, and continued his studies under Bochart. Young Dillon, who was sent to study under Bochart, and who is represented as having already made great proficiency in literature, could not be more than nine years old. Strafford went to govern Ireland in 1633, and was put to death eight years afterwards. That he was sent to Caen, is certain: that he was a great scholar, may be doubted. At Caen he is said to have had some preternatural intelligence of his father's death. "The lord Roscommon, being a boy of ten years of age, at Caen in Normandy, one day was, as it were, madly extravagant in playing, leaping, getting over the tables, boards, &c. He was wont to be sober enough; they said, God grant this bodes no ill luck to him! In the heat of this extravagant fit, he cries out, 'My father is dead.' A fortnight after, news came from Ireland that his father was dead. This account I had from Mr. Knolles, who was his governour, and then with him,--since secretary to the earl of Strafford; and I have heard his lordship's relations confirm the same." Aubrey's Miscellany. The present age is very little inclined to favour any accounts of this kind, nor will the name of Aubrey much recommend it to credit: it ought not, however, to be omitted, because better evidence of a fact cannot easily be found, than is here offered; and it must be by preserving such relations that we may, at last, judge how much they are to be regarded. If we stay to examine this account, we shall see difficulties on both sides: here is the relation of a fact given by a man who had no interest to deceive, and who could not be deceived himself; and here is, on the other hand, a miracle which produces no effect; the order of nature is interrupted to discover not a future, but only a distant event, the knowledge of which is of no use to him to whom it is revealed. Between these difficulties, what way shall be found? Is reason or testimony to be rejected? I believe, what Osborne says of an appearance of sanctity may be applied to such impulses or anticipations as this: "Do not wholly slight them, because they may be true; but do not easily trust them, because they may be false." The state both of England and Ireland was, at this time, such, that he who was absent from either country had very little temptation to return; and, therefore, Roscommon, when he left Caen, travelled into Italy, and amused himself with its antiquities, and, particularly, with medals, in which he acquired uncommon skill. At the restoration, with the other friends of monarchy, he came to England, was made captain of the band of pensioners, and learned so much of the dissoluteness of the court, that he addicted himself immoderately to gaming, by which he was engaged in frequent quarrels, and which, undoubtedly, brought upon him its usual concomitants, extravagance and distress. After some time, a dispute about part of his estate forced him into Ireland, where he was made, by the duke of Ormond, captain of the guards, and met with an adventure thus related by Fenton: "He was at Dublin, as much as ever, distempered with the same fatal affection for play, which engaged him in one adventure, that well deserves to be related. As he returned to his lodgings from a gaming-table, he was attacked, in the dark, by three ruffians, who were employed to assassinate him. The earl defended himself with so much resolution, that he despatched one of the aggressors; whilst a gentleman, accidentally passing that way, interposed, and disarmed another; the third secured himself by flight. This generous assistant was a disbanded officer, of a good family and fair reputation; who, by what we call the partiality of fortune, to avoid censuring the iniquities of the times, wanted even a plain suit of clothes to make a decent appearance at the castle. But his lordship, on this occasion, presenting him to the duke of Ormond, with great importunity prevailed with his grace, that he might resign his post of captain of the guards to his friend; which, for about three years, the gentleman enjoyed, and, upon his death, the duke returned the commission to his generous benefactor." When he had finished his business, he returned to London; was made master of the horse to the dutchess of York; and married the lady Frances, daughter of the earl of Burlington, and widow of colonel Courteney[72]. He now busied his mind with literary projects, and formed the plan of a society for refining our language and fixing its standard; "in imitation," says Fenton, "of those learned and polite societies with which he had been acquainted abroad." In this design his friend Dryden is said to have assisted him. The same design, it is well known, was revived by Dr. Swift, in the ministry of Oxford; but it has never since been publickly mentioned, though, at that time, great expectations were formed, by some, of its establishment and its effects. Such a society might, perhaps, without much difficulty, be collected; but that it would produce what is expected from it, may be doubted. The Italian academy seems to have obtained its end. The language was refined, and so fixed that it has changed but little. The French academy thought they had refined their language, and, doubtless, thought rightly; but the event has not shown that they fixed it; for the French of the present time is very different from that of the last century. In this country an academy could be expected to do but little. If an academician's place were profitable, it would be given by interest; if attendance were gratuitous, it would be rarely paid, and no man would endure the least disgust. Unanimity is impossible, and debate would separate the assembly. But suppose the philological decree made and promulgated, what would be its authority? In absolute governments, there is, sometimes, a general reverence paid to all that has the sanction of power, and the countenance of greatness. How little this is the state of our country needs not to be told. We live in an age in which it is a kind of publick sport to refuse all respect that cannot be enforced. The edicts of an English academy would, probably, be read by many, only that they might be sure to disobey them. That our language is in perpetual danger of corruption cannot be denied; but what prevention can be found? The present manners of the nation would deride authority; and, therefore, nothing is left but that every writer should criticise himself. All hopes of new literary institutions were quickly suppressed by the contentious turbulence of king James's reign; and Roscommon, foreseeing that some violent concussion of the state was at hand, purposed to retire to Rome, alleging, that "it was best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smoked;" a sentence, of which the application seems not very clear. His departure was delayed by the gout; and he was so impatient either of hinderance or of pain, that he submitted himself to a French empirick, who is said to have repelled the disease into his bowels. At the moment in which he expired, he uttered, with an energy of voice, that expressed the most fervent devotion, two lines of his own version of Dies Irae: My God, my father, and my friend, Do not forsake me in my end. He died in 1684; and was buried, with great pomp, in Westminster Abbey. His poetical character is given by Mr. Fenton: "In his writings," says Fenton, "we view the image of a mind which was naturally serious and solid; richly furnished and adorned with all the ornaments of learning, unaffectedly disposed in the most regular and elegant order. His imagination might have probably been more fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe. But that severity, delivered in a masculine, clear, succinct style, contributed to make him so eminent in the didactical manner, that no man, with justice, can affirm, he was ever equalled by any of our nation, without confessing, at the same time, that he is inferiour to none. In some other kinds of writing his genius seems to have wanted fire to attain the point of perfection; but who can attain it?" From this account of the riches of his mind, who would not imagine that they had been displayed in large volumes and numerous performances? Who would not, after the perusal of this character, be surprised to find that all the proofs of this genius, and knowledge, and judgment, are not sufficient to form a single book, or to appear otherwise than in conjunction with the works of some other writer of the same petty size[73]? But thus it is that characters are written: we know somewhat, and we imagine the rest. The observation, that his imagination would, probably, have been more fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe, may be answered, by a remarker somewhat inclined to cavil, by a contrary supposition, that his judgment would, probably, have been less severe, if his imagination had been more fruitful. It is ridiculous to oppose judgment to imagination; for it does not appear that men have necessarily less of one, as they have more of the other. We must allow of Roscommon, what Fenton has not mentioned so distinctly as he ought, and what is yet very much to his honour, that he is, perhaps, the only correct writer in verse, before Addison; and that, if there are not so many or so great beauties in his compositions as in those of some contemporaries, there are, at least, fewer faults. Nor is this his highest praise; for Mr. Pope has celebrated him, as the only moral writer of king Charles's reign: Unhappy Dryden! in all Charles's days, Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays. His great work is his Essay on Translated Verse; of which Dryden writes thus, in the preface to his Miscellanies: "It was my lord Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse," says Dryden, "which made me uneasy, till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair precept in poetry is like a seeming demonstration in mathematicks, very specious in the diagram, but failing in the mechanick operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions: I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which, in other words, is to confess no less a vanity than to pretend that I have, at least, in some places, made examples to his rules." This declaration of Dryden will, I am afraid, be found little more than one of those cursory civilities which one author pays to another; for when the sum of lord Roscommon's precepts is collected, it will not be easy to discover how they can qualify their reader for a better performance of translation than might have been attained by his own reflections. He that can abstract his mind from the elegance of the poetry, and confine it to the sense of the precepts, will find no other direction than that the author should be suitable to the translator's genius; that he should be such as may deserve a translation; that he who intends to translate him should endeavour to understand him; that perspicuity should be studied, and unusual and uncouth names sparingly inserted; and that the style of the original should be copied in its elevation and depression. These are the rules that are celebrated as so definite and important; and for the delivery of which to mankind so much honour has been paid. Roscommon has, indeed, deserved his praises, had they been given with discernment, and bestowed not on the rules themselves, but the art with which they are introduced, and the decorations with which they are adorned. The essay, though generally excellent, is not without its faults. The story of the quack, borrowed from Boileau, was not worth the importation; he has confounded the British and Saxon mythology: I grant that from some mossy idol oak, In double rhymes, our Thor and Woden spoke. The oak, as, I think, Gildon has observed, belonged to the British druids, and Thor and Woden were Saxon deities. Of the "double rhymes," which he so liberally supposes, he certainly had no knowledge. His interposition of a long paragraph of blank verses is unwarrantably licentious. Latin poets might as well have introduced a series of iambicks among their heroicks. His next work is the translation of the Art of Poetry; which has received, in my opinion, not less praise than it deserves. Blank verse, left merely to its numbers, has little operation either on the ear or mind: it can hardly support itself without bold figures and striking images. A poem, frigidly didactick, without rhyme, is so near to prose, that the reader only scorns it for pretending to be verse. Having disentangled himself from the difficulties of rhyme, he may justly be expected to give the sense of Horace with great exactness, and to suppress no subtilty of sentiment, for the difficulty of expressing it. This demand, however, his translation will not satisfy; what he found obscure, I do not know that he has ever cleared. Among his smaller works, the eclogue of Virgil and the Dies Irae are well translated; though the best line in the Dies Irae is borrowed from Dryden. In return, succeeding poets have borrowed from Roscommon. In the verses on the Lap-dog, the pronouns _thou_ and _you_ are offensively confounded; and the turn at the end is from Waller. His versions of the two odes of Horace are made with great liberty, which is not recompensed by much elegance or vigour. His political verses are sprightly, and, when they were written, must have been very popular. Of the scene of Guarini, and the prologue to Pompey, Mrs. Phillips, in her letters to sir Charles Cotterel, has given the history. "Lord Roscommon," says she, "is certainly one of the most promising young noblemen in Ireland. He has paraphrased a psalm admirably; and a scene of Pastor Fido, very finely, in some places much better than sir Richard Fanshaw. This was undertaken merely in compliment to me, who happened to say, that it was the best scene in Italian, and the worst in English. He was only two hours about it." It begins thus: Dear happy groves, and you, the dark retreat Of silent horrour, Rest's eternal seat. From these lines, which are since somewhat mended, it appears that he did not think a work of two hours fit to endure the eye of criticism, without revisal. When Mrs. Phillips was in Ireland, some ladies that had seen her translation of Pompey, resolved to bring it on the stage at Dublin; and, to promote their design, lord Roscommon gave them a prologue, and sir Edward Deering, an epilogue; "which," says she, "are the best performances of those kinds I ever saw." If this is not criticism, it is, at least, gratitude. The thought of bringing Caesar and Pompey into Ireland, the only country over which Caesar never had any power, is lucky. Of Roscommon's works, the judgment of the publick seems to be right. He is elegant, but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous; and his rhymes are remarkably exact. He improved taste, if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors to English literature[74]. [Footnote 70: The Biographia Britannica says, probably about the year 1632; but this is inconsistent with the date of Stratford's viceroyalty in the following page. C.] [Footnote 71: It was his grandfather, sir Robert Dillon, second earl of Roscommon, who was converted from popery; and his conversion is recited in the patent of sir James, the first earl of Roscommon, as one of the grounds of his creation. M.] [Footnote 72: He was married to lady Frances Boyle in April, 1662. By this lady he had no issue. He married secondly, 10th November, 1674, Isabella, daughter of Matthew Boynton, of Barmston, in Yorkshire. M.] [Footnote 73: They were published, together with those of Duke, in an octavo volume, in 1717. The editor, whoever he was, professes to have taken great care to procure and insert all of his lordship's poems that are truly genuine. The truth of this assertion is flatly denied by the author of an account of Mr. John Pomfret, prefixed to his Remains; who asserts, that the Prospect of Death was written by that person, many years after lord Roscommon's decease; as also, that the paraphrase of the Prayer of Jeremy was written by a gentleman of the name of Southcourt, living in the year 1724. H.] [Footnote 74: This life was originally written by Dr. Johnson, in the Gentleman's Magazine for May, 1748. It then had notes, which are now incorporated with the text. C.] OTWAY. Of Thomas Otway, one of the first names in the English drama, little is known; nor is there any part of that little which his biographer can take pleasure in relating. He was born at Trottin, in Sussex, March 3, 1651, the son of Mr. Humphry Otway, rector of Woolbeding. From Winchester school, where he was educated, he was entered, in 1669, a commoner of Christ church; but left the university without a degree, whether for want of money, or from impatience of academical restraint, or mere eagerness to mingle with the world, is not known. It seems likely that he was in hope of being busy and conspicuous; for he went to London, and commenced player; but found himself unable to gain any reputation on the stage[75]. This kind of inability he shared with Shakespeare and Jonson, as he shared likewise some of their excellencies. It seems reasonable to expect that a great dramatick poet should, without difficulty, become a great actor; that he who can feel, should express; that he who can excite passion, should exhibit, with great readiness, its external modes: but since experience has fully proved, that of those powers, whatever be their affinity, one may be possessed in a great degree by him who has very little of the other; it must be allowed that they depend upon different faculties, or on different use of the same faculty; that the actor must have a pliancy of mien, a flexibility of countenance, and a variety of tones, which the poet may be easily supposed to want; or that the attention of the poet and the player has been differently employed; the one has been considering thought, and the other action; one has watched the heart, and the other contemplated the face. Though he could not gain much notice as a player, he felt in himself such powers as might qualify for a dramatick author; and, in 1675, his twenty-fifth year, produced Alcibiades, a tragedy; whether from the Alcibiade of Palaprat, I have not means to inquire. Langbaine, the great detecter of plagiarism, is silent. In 1677, he published Titus and Berenice, translated from Rapin, with the Cheats of Scapin, from Molière; and, in 1678, Friendship in Fashion, a comedy, which, whatever might be its first reception, was, upon its revival at Drury lane, in 1749, hissed off the stage for immorality and obscenity. Want of morals, or of decency, did not, in those days, exclude any man from the company of the wealthy and the gay, if he brought with him any powers of entertainment; and Otway is said to have been, at this time, a favourite companion of the dissolute wits. But, as he who desires no virtue in his companion, has no virtue in himself, those whom Otway frequented had no purpose of doing more for him than to pay his reckoning. They desired only to drink and laugh: their fondness was without benevolence, and their familiarity without friendship. "Men of wit," says one of Otway's biographers, "received, at that time, no favour from the great, but to share their riots; from which they were dismissed again to their own narrow circumstances. Thus they languished in poverty, without the support of eminence." Some exception, however, must be made. The earl of Plymouth, one of king Charles's natural sons, procured for him a cornet's commission in some troops then sent into Flanders. But Otway did not prosper in his military character; for he soon left his commission behind him, whatever was the reason, and came back to London in extreme indigence, which Rochester mentions with merciless insolence, in the Session of the Poets: Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear zany, And swears for heroicks he writes best of any; Don Carlos his pockets so amply had fill'd, That his mange was quite cur'd, and his lice were all kill'd: But Apollo had seen his face on the stage, And prudently did not think fit to engage The scum of a playhouse, for the prop of an age. Don Carlos, from which he is represented as having received so much benefit, was played in 1675. It appears, by the lampoon, to have had great success, and is said to have been played thirty nights together. This, however, it is reasonable to doubt[76], as so long a continuance of one play upon the stage is a very wide deviation from the practice of that time; when the ardour for theatrical entertainments was not yet diffused through the whole people, and the audience, consisting nearly of the same persons, could be drawn together only by variety. The Orphan was exhibited in 1680. This is one of the few plays that keep possession of the stage, and has pleased for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatick fashion. Of this play nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestick tragedy drawn from middle life. Its whole power is upon the affections; for it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of expression. But if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be wanting, yet not be missed. The same year produced the History and Fall of Caius Marius; much of which is borrowed from the Romeo and Juliet of Shakespeare. In 1683[77] was published the first, and next year[78] the second, parts of the Soldier's Fortune, two comedies now forgotten; and, in 1685[79] his last and greatest dramatick work, Venice Preserved, a tragedy, which still continues to be one of the favourites of the publick, notwithstanding the want of morality in the original design, and the despicable scenes of vile comedy with which he has diversified his tragick action[80]. By comparing this with his Orphan, it will appear that his images were by time become stronger, and his language more energetick. The striking passages are in every mouth; and the publick seems to judge rightly of the faults and excellencies of this play, that it is the work of a man not attentive to decency, nor zealous for virtue; but of one who conceived forcibly, and drew originally, by consulting nature in his own breast. Together with those plays he wrote the poems which are in the present collection, and translated from the French the History of the Triumvirate. All this was performed before he was thirty-four years old; for he died April 14, 1685, in a manner which I am unwilling to mention. Having been compelled by his necessities to contract debts, and hunted, as is supposed, by the terriers of the law, he retired to a publick house on Tower hill, where he is said to have died of want; or, as it is related by one of his biographers, by swallowing, after a long fast, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. He went out, as is reported, almost naked, in the rage of hunger, and, finding a gentleman in a neighbouring coffee-house, asked him for a shilling. The gentleman gave him a guinea; and Otway, going away, bought a roll, and was choked with the first mouthful. All this, I hope, is not true; and there is this ground of better hope, that Pope, who lived near enough to be well informed, relates in Spence's Memorials, that he died of a fever, caught by violent pursuit of a thief that had robbed one of his friends. But that indigence, and its concomitants, sorrow and despondency, pressed hard upon him, has never been denied, whatever immediate cause might bring him to the grave. Of the poems which the present collection admits, the longest is the Poet's Complaint of his Muse, part of which I do not understand; and in that which is less obscure, I find little to commend. The language is often gross, and the numbers are harsh. Otway had not much cultivated versification, nor much replenished his mind with general knowledge. His principal power was in moving the passions, to which Dryden[81], in his latter years, left an illustrious testimony. He appears, by some of his verses, to have been a zealous royalist, and had what was in those times the common reward of loyalty; he lived and died neglected. [Footnote 75: In Roscius Anglicanus, by Downes, the prompter, p. 34, we learn, that it was the character of the king in Mrs. Behn's Forced Marriage, or the Jealous Bridegroom, which Mr. Otway attempted to perform, and failed in. This event appears to have happened in the year 1672. R.] [Footnote 76: This doubt is, indeed, very reasonable. I know not where it is said that Don Carlos was acted thirty nights together. Wherever it is said, it is untrue. Downes, who is perfectly good authority on this point, informs us, that it was performed ten days successively. M.] [Footnote 77: 1681.] [Footnote 78: 1684.] [Footnote 79: 1682.] [Footnote 80: The "despicable scenes of vile comedy" can be no bar to its being a favourite of the publick, as they are always omitted in the representation. J.B.] [Footnote 81: In his preface to Fresnoy's Art of Painting. Dr.J.] WALLER Edmund Waller was born on the third of March, 1605, at Coleshill in Hertfordshire. His father was Robert Waller, esq. of Agmondesham, in Buckinghamshire, whose family was originally a branch of the Kentish Wallers; and his mother was the daughter of John Hampden, of Hampden in the same county, and sister to Hampden, the zealot of rebellion. His father died while he was yet an infant, but left him a yearly income of three thousand five hundred pounds; which, rating together the value of money and the customs of life, we may reckon more than equivalent to ten thousand at the present time. He was educated, by the care of his mother, at Eton; and removed afterwards to King's college, in Cambridge. He was sent to parliament in his eighteenth, if not in his sixteenth year, and frequented the court of James the first, where he heard a very remarkable conversation, which the writer of the life prefixed to his works, who seems to have been well informed of facts, though he may sometimes err in chronology, has delivered as indubitably certain: "He found Dr. Andrews, bishop of Winchester, and Dr. Neale, bishop of Durham, standing behind his majesty's chair; and there happened something extraordinary," continues this writer, "in the conversation those prelates had with the king, on which Mr. Waller did often reflect. His majesty asked the bishops: 'My lords, cannot I take my subjects' money, when I want it, without all this formality of parliament?' The bishop of Durham readily answered, 'God forbid, sir, but you should: you are the breath of our nostrils.' Whereupon the king turned and said to the bishop of Winchester, 'Well, my lord, what say you?' 'Sir,' replied the bishop, 'I have no skill to judge of parliamentary cases.' The king answered, 'No put-offs, my lord; answer me presently.' 'Then, sir,' said he, 'think it is lawful for you to take my brother Neale's money; for he offers it.' Mr. Waller said, the company was pleased with this answer, and the wit of it seemed to affect the king; for, a certain lord coming in soon after, his majesty cried out, 'Oh, my lord, they say you lig with my lady.' 'No, sir,' says his lordship, in confusion;' but I like her company, because she has so much wit.' 'Why then,' says the king, 'do you not lig with my lord of Winchester there?'" Waller's political and poetical life began nearly together. In his eighteenth year he wrote the poem that appears first in his works, on the Prince's Escape at St. Andero; a piece which justifies the observation, made by one of his editors, that he attained, by a felicity like instinct, a style which, perhaps, will never be obsolete; and that, "were we to judge only by the wording, we could not know what was wrote at twenty, and what at fourscore." His versification was, in his first essay, such as it appears in his last performance. By the perusal of Fairfax's translation of Tasso, to which, as Dryden relates[82], he confessed himself indebted for the smoothness of his numbers, and by his own nicety of observation, he had already formed such a system of metrical harmony, as he never afterwards much needed, or much endeavoured, to improve. Denham corrected his numbers by experience, and gained ground gradually upon the ruggedness of his age; but what was acquired by Denham was inherited by Waller. The next poem, of which the subject seems to fix the time, is supposed, by Mr. Fenton, to be the Address to the Queen, which he considers as congratulating her arrival, in Waller's twentieth year. He is apparently mistaken; for the mention of the nation's obligations to her frequent pregnancy, proves that it was written, when she had brought many children. We have, therefore, no date of any other poetical production before that which the murder of the duke of Buckingham occasioned: the steadiness with which the king received the news in the chapel, deserved, indeed, to be rescued from oblivion. Neither of these pieces, that seem to carry their own dates, could have been the sudden effusion of fancy. In the verses on the prince's escape, the prediction of his marriage with the princess of France must have been written after the event; in the other, the promises of the king's kindness to the descendants of Buckingham, which could not be properly praised, till it had appeared by its effects, show that time was taken for revision and improvement. It is not known that they were published till they appeared, long afterwards, with other poems. Waller was not one of those idolaters of praise who cultivate their minds at the expense of their fortunes. Rich as he was by inheritance, he took care early to grow richer, by marrying Mrs. Banks, a great heiress in the city, whom the interest of the court was employed to obtain for Mr. Crofts. Having brought him a son, who died young, and a daughter, who was afterwards married to Mr. Dormer, of Oxfordshire, she died in childbed, and left him a widower of about five-and-twenty, gay and wealthy, to please himself with another marriage. Being too young to resist beauty, and probably too vain to think himself resistible, he fixed his heart, perhaps half fondly and half ambitiously, upon the lady Dorothea Sidney, eldest daughter of the earl of Leicester, whom he courted by all the poetry in which Sacharissa is celebrated; the name is derived from the Latin appellation of sugar, and implies, if it means any thing, a spiritless mildness, and dull good-nature, such as excites rather tenderness than esteem, and such as, though always treated with kindness, is never honoured or admired. Yet he describes Sacharissa as a sublime predominating beauty, of lofty charms, and imperious influence, on whom he looks with amazement rather than fondness, whose chains he wishes, though in vain, to break, and whose presence is "wine that inflames to madness." His acquaintance with this high-born dame gave wit no opportunity of boasting its influence; she was not to be subdued by the powers of verse, but rejected his addresses, it is said, with disdain, and drove him away to solace his disappointment with Amoret or Phillis. She married, in 1639, the earl of Sunderland, who died at Newbury, in the king's cause; and, in her old age, meeting somewhere with Waller, asked him, when he would again write such verses upon her; "when you are as young, madam," said he, "and as handsome, as you were then." In this part of his life it was that he was known to Clarendon, among the rest of the men who were eminent in that age for genius and literature; but known so little to his advantage, that they who read his character will not much condemn Sacharissa, that she did not descend from her rank to his embraces, nor think every excellence comprised in wit. The lady was, indeed, inexorable; but his uncommon qualifications, though they had no power upon her, recommended him to the scholars and statesmen; and, undoubtedly, many beauties of that time, however they might receive his love, were proud of his praises. Who they were, whom he dignifies with poetical names, cannot now be known. Amoret, according to Mr. Fenton, was the lady Sophia Murray. Perhaps, by traditions, preserved in families, more may be discovered. From the verses written at Penshurst, it has been collected that he diverted his disappointment by a voyage; and his biographers, from his poem on the Whales, think it not improbable that he visited the Bermudas; but it seems much more likely, that he should amuse himself with forming an imaginary scene, than that so important an incident, as a visit to America, should have been left floating in conjectural probability. From his twenty-eighth to his thirty-fifth year, he wrote his pieces on the reduction of Sallee; on the reparation of St. Paul's; to the King on his Navy; the panegyrick on the Queen Mother; the two poems to the earl of Northumberland; and perhaps others, of which the time cannot be discovered. When he had lost all hopes of Sacharissa, he looked round him for an easier conquest, and gained a lady of the family of Bresse, or Breaux. The time of his marriage is not exactly known. It has not been discovered that this wife was won by his poetry; nor is any thing told of her, but that she brought him many children. He, doubtless, praised some whom he would have been afraid to marry, and, perhaps, married one whom he would have been ashamed to praise. Many qualities contribute to domestick happiness, upon which poetry has no colours to bestow; and many airs and sallies may delight imagination, which he who flatters them never can approve. There are charms made only for distant admiration. No spectacle is nobler than a blaze. Of this wife, his biographers have recorded that she gave him five sons and eight daughters. During the long interval of parliament, he is represented as living among those with whom it was most honourable to converse, and enjoying an exuberant fortune with that independence and liberty of speech and conduct which wealth ought always to produce. He was, however, considered as the kinsman of Hampden, and was, therefore, supposed by the courtiers not to favour them. When the parliament was called in 1640, it appeared that Waller's political character had not been mistaken. The king's demand of a supply produced one of those noisy speeches which disaffection and discontent regularly dictate; a speech filled with hyperbolical complaints of imaginary grievances: "They," says he, "who think themselves already undone, can never apprehend themselves in danger; and they who have nothing left can never give freely." Political truth is equally in danger from the praises of courtiers, and the exclamations of patriots. He then proceeds to rail at the clergy, being sure, at that time, of a favourable audience. His topick is such as will always serve its purpose; an accusation of acting and preaching only for preferment; and he exhorts the commons "carefully to provide _for their_ protection against pulpit law." It always gratifies curiosity to trace a sentiment. Waller has, in this speech, quoted Hooker in one passage; and in another has copied him, without quoting. "Religion," says Waller, "ought to be the first thing in our purpose and desires; but that which is first in dignity is not always to precede in order of time; for well-being supposes a being; and the first impediment which men naturally endeavour to remove, is the want of those things without which they cannot subsist. God first assigned unto Adam maintenance of life, and gave him a title to the rest of the creatures, before he appointed a law to observe." "God first assigned Adam," says Hooker, "maintenance of life, and then appointed him a law to observe. True it is, that the kingdom of God must be the first thing in our purpose and desires; but, inasmuch as a righteous life presupposeth life, inasmuch as to live virtuously it is impossible, except we live; therefore the first impediment which naturally we endeavour to remove is penury, and want of things without which we cannot live." Book i. Sect. 9. The speech is vehement; but the great position, that grievances ought to be redressed, before supplies are granted, is agreeable enough to law and reason: nor was Waller, if his biographer may be credited, such an enemy to the king, as not to wish his distresses lightened; for he relates, "that the king sent particularly to Waller, to second his demand of some subsidies to pay off the army; and sir Henry Vane objecting against first voting a supply, because the king would not accept, unless it came up to his proportion, Mr. Waller spoke earnestly to sir Thomas Jermyn, comptroller of the household, to save his master from the effects of so bold a falsity; 'for' he said, 'I am but a country gentleman, and cannot pretend to know the king's mind:' but sir Thomas durst not contradict the secretary; and his son, the earl of St. Alban's, afterwards told Mr. Waller, that his father's cowardice ruined the king." In the long parliament, which, unhappily for the nation, met Nov. 3, 1640, Waller represented Agmondesham the third time; and was considered, by the discontented party, as a man sufficiently trusty and acrimonious to be employed in managing the prosecution of judge Crawley, for his opinion in favour of ship-money; and his speech shows that he did not disappoint their expectations. He was, probably, the more ardent, as his uncle Hampden had been particularly engaged in the dispute, and, by a sentence, which seems generally to be thought unconstitutional, particularly injured. He was not, however, a bigot to his party, nor adopted all their opinions. When the great question, whether episcopacy ought to be abolished, was debated, he spoke against the innovation so coolly, so reasonably, and so firmly, that it is not without great injury to his name that his speech, which was as follows, has been hitherto omitted in his works[83]: "There is no doubt but the sense of what this nation hath suffered from the present bishops hath produced these complaints; and the apprehensions men have of suffering the like, in time to come, make so many desire the taking away of episcopacy: but I conceive it is possible that we may not, now, take a right measure of the minds of the people by their petitions; for, when they subscribed them, the bishops were armed with a dangerous commission of making new canons, imposing new oaths, and the like; but now we have disarmed them of that power. These petitioners lately did look upon episcopacy, as a beast armed with horns and claws; but now that we have cut and pared them (and may, if we see cause, yet reduce it into narrower bounds,) it may, perhaps, be more agreeable. Howsoever, if they be still in passion, it becomes us soberly to consider the right use and antiquity thereof; and not to comply further with a general desire, than may stand with a general good. "We have already showed, that episcopacy, and the evils thereof, are mingled like water and oil; we have also, in part, severed them; but, I believe, you will find, that our laws and the present government of the church are mingled like wine and water; so inseparable, that the abrogation of, at least, a hundred of our laws is desired in these petitions. I have often heard a noble answer of the lords, commended in this house, to a proposition of like nature, but of less consequence; they gave no other reason of their refusal but this, 'Nolumus mutare leges Angliae:' it was the bishops who so answered then; and it would become the dignity and wisdom of this house to answer the people now with a 'Nolumus mutare.' "I see some are moved with a number of hands against the bishops; which, I confess, rather inclines me to their defence; for I look upon episcopacy as a counterscarp, or outwork; which, if it be taken by this assault of the people, and, withal, this mystery once revealed, 'That we must deny them nothing, when they ask it thus in troops,' we may, in the next place, have as hard a task to defend our property, as we have lately had to recover it from the prerogative. If, by multiplying hands and petitions, they prevail for an equality in things ecclesiastical, the next demand, perhaps, may be 'Lex Agraria,' the like equality in things temporal. "The Roman story tells us, that when the people began to flock about the senate, and were more curious to direct and know what was done, than to obey, that commonwealth soon came to ruin; their 'Legem rogare' grew quickly to be a 'Legem ferre;' and after, when their legions had found that they could make a dictator, they never suffered the senate to have a voice any more in such election. "If these great innovations proceed, I shall expect a flat and level in learning too, as well as in church-preferments: 'Honos alit artes.' And though it be true, that grave and pious men do study for learning-sake, and embrace virtue for itself; yet it is as true that youth, which is the season when learning is gotten, is not without ambition, nor will ever take pains to excel in any thing, when there is not some hope of excelling others in reward and dignity. "There are two reasons chiefly alleged against our church-government. "First, Scripture, which, as some men think, points out another form. "Second, The abuses of the present superiours. "For scripture, I will not dispute it in this place; but I am confident that, whenever an equal division of lands and goods shall be desired, there will be as many places in scripture found out, which seem to favour that, as there are now alleged against the prelacy or preferment in the church. And, as for abuses, where you are now in the remonstrance told what this and that poor man hath suffered by the bishops, you may be presented with a thousand instances of poor men that have received hard measure from their landlords; and of worldly goods abused, to the injury of others, and disadvantage of the owners. "And, therefore, Mr. Speaker, my humble motion is, that we may settle men's minds herein; and, by a question, declare our resolution, 'to reform,' that is, 'not to abolish, episcopacy.'" It cannot but be wished that he, who could speak in this manner, had been able to act with spirit and uniformity. When the commons began to set the royal authority at open defiance, Waller is said to have withdrawn from the house, and to have returned with the king's permission; and, when the king set up his standard, he sent him a thousand broad-pieces. He continued, however, to sit in the rebellious conventicle; but "spoke," says Clarendon, "with great sharpness and freedom, which, now there was no danger of being outvoted, was not restrained; and, therefore, used as an argument against those who were gone, upon pretence that they were not suffered to deliver their opinion freely in the house, which could not be believed, when all men knew what liberty Mr. Waller took, and spoke every day with impunity against the sense and proceedings of the house." Waller, as he continued to sit, was one of the commissioners nominated by the parliament to treat with the king at Oxford; and, when they were presented, the king said to him, "Though you are the last, you are not the lowest, nor the least in my favour." Whitlock, who, being another of the commissioners, was witness of this kindness, imputes it to the king's knowledge of the plot, in which Waller appeared afterwards to have been engaged against the parliament. Fenton, with equal probability, believes that his attempt to promote the royal cause arose from his sensibility of the king's tenderness. Whitlock says nothing of his behaviour at Oxford: he was sent with several others to add pomp to the commission, but was not one of those to whom the trust of treating was imparted. The engagement, known by the name of Waller's plot, was soon afterwards discovered. Waller had a brother-in-law, Tomkyns, who was clerk of the queen's council, and, at the same time, had a very numerous acquaintance, and great influence, in the city. Waller and he, conversing with great confidence, told both their own secrets and those of their friends; and, surveying the wide extent of their conversation, imagined that they found, in the majority of all ranks, great disapprobation of the violence of the commons, and unwillingness to continue the war. They knew that many favoured the king, whose fear concealed their loyalty; and many desired peace, though they durst not oppose the clamour for war; and they imagined that, if those who had these good intentions could be informed of their own strength, and enabled by intelligence to act together, they might overpower the fury of sedition, by refusing to comply with the ordinance for the twentieth part, and the other taxes levied for the support of the rebel army, and by uniting great numbers in a petition for peace. They proceeded with great caution. Three only met in one place, and no man was allowed to impart the plot to more than two others; so that, if any should be suspected or seized, more than three could not be endangered. Lord Conway joined in the design, and, Clarendon imagines, incidentally mingled, as he was a soldier, some martial hopes or projects, which, however, were only mentioned, the main design being to bring the loyal inhabitants to the knowledge of each other; for which purpose there was to be appointed one in every district, to distinguish the friends of the king, the adherents to the parliament, and the neutrals. How far they proceeded does not appear; the result of their inquiry, as Pym declared[84], was, that within the walls, for one that was for the royalists, there were three against them; but that without the walls, for one that was against them, there were five for them. Whether this was said from knowledge or guess, was, perhaps, never inquired. It is the opinion of Clarendon, that in Waller's plan no violence or sanguinary resistance was comprised; that he intended only to abate the confidence of the rebels by publick declarations, and to weaken their powers by an opposition to new supplies. This, in calmer times, and more than this, is done without fear; but such was the acrimony of the commons, that no method of obstructing them was safe. About this time, another design was formed by sir Nicholas Crispe, a man of loyalty that deserves perpetual remembrance: when he was a merchant in the city, he gave and procured the king, in his exigencies, a hundred thousand pounds; and, when he was driven from the exchange, raised a regiment, and commanded it. Sir Nicholas flattered himself with an opinion, that some provocation would so much exasperate, or some opportunity so much encourage, the king's friends in the city, that they would break out in open resistance, and then would want only a lawful standard, and an authorized commander; and extorted from the king, whose judgment too frequently yielded to importunity, a commission of array, directed to such as he thought proper to nominate, which was sent to London by the lady Aubigney. She knew not what she carried, but was to deliver it on the communication of a certain token, which sir Nicholas imparted. This commission could be only intended to lie ready, till the time should require it. To have attempted to raise any forces, would have been certain destruction; it could be of use only when the forces should appear. This was, however, an act preparatory to martial hostility. Crispe would, undoubtedly, have put an end to the session of parliament, had his strength been equal to his zeal: and out of the design of Crispe, which involved very little danger, and that of Waller, which was an act purely civil, they compounded a horrid and dreadful plot. The discovery of Waller's design is variously related. In Clarendon's History, it is told, that a servant of Tomkyns, lurking behind the hangings, when his master was in conference with Waller, heard enough to qualify him for an informer, and carried his intelligence to Pym. A manuscript, quoted in the Life of Waller, relates, that "he was betrayed by his sister Price, and her presbyterian chaplain, Mr. Goode, who stole some of his papers; and, if he had not strangely dreamed the night before, that his sister had betrayed him, and, thereupon, burnt the rest of his papers, by the fire that was in his chimney, he had certainly lost his life by it." The question cannot be decided. It is not unreasonable to believe, that the men in power, receiving intelligence from the sister, would employ the servant of Tomkyns to listen at the conference, that they might avoid an act so offensive as that of destroying the brother by the sister's testimony. The plot was published in the most terrifick manner. On the 31st of May, 1643, at a solemn fast, when they were listening to the sermon, a messenger entered the church, and communicated his errand to Pym, who whispered it to others that were placed near him, and then went with them out of the church, leaving the rest in solicitude and amazement. They immediately sent guards to proper places, and, that night, apprehended Tomkyns and Waller; having yet traced nothing but that letters had been intercepted, from which it appeared that the parliament and the city were soon to be delivered into the hands of the cavaliers. They, perhaps, yet knew little themselves, beyond some general and indistinct notices. "But Waller," says Clarendon, "was so confounded with fear, that he confessed whatever he had heard, said, thought, or seen; all that he knew of himself, and all that he suspected of others, without concealing any person of what degree or quality soever, or any discourse which he had ever upon any occasion entertained with them; what such and such ladies of great honour, to whom, upon the credit of his wit and great reputation, he had been admitted, had spoke to him in their chambers upon the proceedings in the houses, and how they had encouraged him to oppose them; what correspondence and intercourse they had with some ministers of state at Oxford, and how they had conveyed all intelligence thither." He accused the earl of Portland, and lord Conway, as cooperating in the transaction; and testified, that the earl of Northumberland had declared himself disposed in favour of any attempt, that might check the violence of the parliament, and reconcile them to the king. He, undoubtedly, confessed much which they could never have discovered, and, perhaps, somewhat which they would wish to have been suppressed; for it is inconvenient, in the conflict of factions, to have that disaffection known which cannot safely be punished. Tomkyns was seized on the same night with Waller, and appears, likewise, to have partaken of his cowardice; for he gave notice of Crispe's commission of array, of which Clarendon never knew how it was discovered. Tomkyns had been sent with the token appointed, to demand it from lady Aubigney, and had buried it in his garden, where, by his direction, it was dug up; and thus the rebels obtained, what Clarendon confesses them to have had, the original copy. It can raise no wonder that they formed one plot out of these two designs, however remote from each other, when they saw the same agent employed in both, and found the commission of array in the hands of him, who was employed in collecting the opinions and affections of the people. Of the plot, thus combined, they took care to make the most. They sent Pym among the citizens, to tell them of their imminent danger, and happy escape; and inform them, that the design was, "to seize the lord mayor, and all the committee of militia, and would not spare one of them." They drew up a vow and covenant, to be taken by every member of either house, by which he declared his detestation of all conspiracies against the parliament, and his resolution to detect and oppose them. They then appointed a day of thanksgiving for this wonderful delivery; which shut out, says Clarendon, all doubts whether there had been such a deliverance, and whether the plot was real or fictitious. On June 11, the earl of Portland and lord Conway were committed, one to the custody of the mayor, and the other of the sheriff; but their lands and goods were not seized. Waller was still to immerse himself deeper in ignominy. The earl of Portland and lord Conway denied the charge; and there was no evidence against them but the confession of Waller, of which, undoubtedly, many would be inclined to question the veracity. With these doubts he was so much terrified, that he endeavoured to persuade Portland to a declaration like his own, by a letter extant in Fenton's edition. "But for me," says he, "you had never known any thing of this business, which was prepared for another; and, therefore, I cannot imagine why you should hide it so far as to contract your own ruin by concealing it, and persisting unreasonably to hide that truth, which without you already is, and will every day be made more manifest. Can you imagine yourself bound in honour to keep that secret, which is already revealed by another? or possible it should still be a secret, which is known to one of the other sex? If you persist to be cruel to yourself, for their sakes who deserve it not, it will, nevertheless, be made appear, ere long, I fear, to your ruin. Surely, if I had the happiness to wait on you, I could move you to compassionate both yourself and me, who, desperate as my case is, am desirous to die with the honour of being known to have declared the truth. You have no reason to contend to hide what is already revealed--inconsiderately to throw away yourself, for the interest of others, to whom you are less obliged than you are aware of." This persuasion seems to have had little effect. Portland sent, June 29, a letter to the lords, to tell them, that he "is in custody, as he conceives, without any charge; and that, by what Mr. Waller hath threatened him with, since he was imprisoned, he doth apprehend a very cruel, long, and ruinous restraint:--He, therefore, prays, that he may not find the effects of Mr. Waller's threats, by a long and close imprisonment; but may be speedily brought to a legal trial, and then he is confident the vanity and falsehood of those informations which have been given against him will appear." In consequence of this letter, the lords ordered Portland and Waller to be confronted; when the one repeated his charge, and the other his denial. The examination of the plot being continued, July 1, Thinn, usher of the house of lords, deposed, that Mr. Waller having had a conference with the lord Portland in an upper room, lord Portland said, when he came down, "do me the favour to tell my lord Northumberland, that Mr. Waller has extremely pressed me to save my own life and his, by throwing the blame upon the lord Conway and the earl of Northumberland." Waller, in his letter to Portland, tells him of the reasons which he could urge with resistless efficacy in a personal conference; but he overrated his own oratory; his vehemence, whether of persuasion or entreaty, was returned with contempt. One of his arguments with Portland is, that the plot is already known to a woman. This woman was, doubtless, lady Aubigney, who, upon this occasion, was committed to custody; but who, in reality, when she delivered the commission, knew not what it was. The parliament then proceeded against the conspirators, and committed their trial to a council of war. Tomkyns and Chaloner were hanged near their own doors. Tomkyns, when he came to die, said it was a "foolish business;" and, indeed, there seems to have been no hope that it should escape discovery; for, though never more than three met at a time, yet a design so extensive must, by necessity, be communicated to many, who could not be expected to be all faithful, and all prudent. Chaloner was attended at his execution by Hugh Peters. His crime was, that he had commission to raise money for the king; but it appears not that the money was to be expended upon the advancement of either Crispe's or Waller's plot. The earl of Northumberland, being too great for prosecution, was only once examined before the lords. The earl of Portland and lord Conway, persisting to deny the charge, and no testimony, but Waller's, yet appearing against them, were, after a long imprisonment, admitted to bail. Hassel, the king's messenger, who carried the letters to Oxford, died the night before his trial. Hampden escaped death, perhaps, by the interest of his family; but was kept in prison to the end of his life. They, whose names were inserted in the commission of array, were not capitally punished, as it could not be proved that they had consented to their own nomination; but they were considered as malignants, and their estates were seized. "Waller, though confessedly," says Clarendon, "the most guilty, with incredible dissimulation, affected such a remorse of conscience, that his trial was put off, out of christian compassion, till he might recover his understanding." What use he made of this interval, with what liberality and success he distributed flattery and money, and how, when he was brought, July 4, before the house, he confessed and lamented, and submitted and implored, may be read in the History of the Rebellion, (b. vii.) The speech, to which Clarendon ascribes the preservation of his "dear-bought life," is inserted in his works. The great historian, however, seems to have been mistaken in relating that "he prevailed" in the principal part of his supplication, "not to be tried by a council of war;" for, according to Whitlock, he was, by expulsion from the house, abandoned to the tribunal which he so much dreaded, and, being tried and condemned, was reprieved by Essex; but, after a year's imprisonment, in which time resentment grew less acrimonious, paying a fine of ten thousand pounds, he was permitted to "recollect himself in another country." Of his behaviour in this part of his life, it is not necessary to direct the reader's opinion. "Let us not," says his last ingenious biographer[85], "condemn him with untempered severity, because he was not a prodigy which the world hath seldom seen, because his character included not the poet, the orator, and the hero." For the place of his exile he chose France, and stayed some time at Roan, where his daughter Margaret was born, who was afterwards his favourite, and his amanuensis. He then removed to Paris, where he lived with great splendour and hospitality; and, from time to time, amused himself with poetry, in which he sometimes speaks of the rebels, and their usurpation, in the natural language of an honest man. At last, it became necessary, for his support, to sell his wife's jewels; and being reduced, as he said, at last "to the rump-jewel," he solicited, from Cromwell, permission to return, and obtained it by the interest of colonel Scroop, to whom his sister was married. Upon the remains of a fortune which the danger of his life had very much diminished, he lived at Hall Barn, a house built by himself very near to Beaconsfield, where his mother resided. His mother, though related to Cromwell and Hampden, was zealous for the royal cause, and, when Cromwell visited her, used to reproach him; he, in return, would throw a napkin at her, and say he would not dispute with his aunt; but finding, in time, that she acted for the king, as well as talked, he made her a prisoner to her own daughter, in her own house. If he would do any thing, he could not do less. Cromwell, now protector, received Waller, as his kinsman, to familiar conversation. Waller, as he used to relate, found him sufficiently versed in ancient history; and when any of his enthusiastick friends came to advise or consult him, could, sometimes, overhear him discoursing in the cant of the times; but, when he returned, he would say: "Cousin Waller, I must talk to these men in their own way;" and resumed the common style of conversation. He repaid the protector for his favours (1654) by the famous Panegyrick, which has been always considered as the first of his poetical productions. His choice of encomiastick topicks is very judicious; for he considers Cromwell in his exaltation, without inquiring how he attained it; there is, consequently, no mention of the rebel or the regicide. All the former part of his hero's life is veiled with shades; and nothing is brought to view but the chief, the governour, the defender of England's honour, and the enlarger of her dominion. The act of violence, by which he obtained the supreme power, is lightly treated, and decently justified. It was, certainly, to be desired, that the detestable band should be dissolved, which had destroyed the church, murdered the king, and filled the nation with tumult and oppression; yet Cromwell had not the right of dissolving them, for all that he had before done could be justified only by supposing them invested with lawful authority. But combinations of wickedness would overwhelm the world, by the advantage which licentious principles afford, did not those, who have long practised perfidy, grow faithless to each other. In the poem on the war with Spain are some passages, at least, equal to the best parts of the Panegyrick; and, in the conclusion, the poet ventures yet a higher flight of flattery, by recommending royalty to Cromwell and the nation. Cromwell was very desirous, as appears from his conversation, related by Whitlock, of adding the title to the power of monarchy, and is supposed to have been withheld from it partly by fear of the army, and partly by fear of the laws, which, when he should govern by the name of king, would have restrained his authority. When, therefore, a deputation was solemnly sent to invite him to the crown, he, after a long conference, refused it; but is said to have fainted in his coach, when he parted from them. The poem on the death of the protector seems to have been dictated by real veneration for his memory. Dryden and Sprat wrote on the same occasion; but they were young men, struggling into notice, and hoping for some favour from the ruling party. Waller had little to expect; he had received nothing but his pardon from Cromwell, and was not likely to ask any thing from those who should succeed him. Soon afterwards, the restoration supplied him with another subject; and he exerted his imagination, his elegance, and his melody, with equal alacrity, for Charles the second. It is not possible to read, without some contempt and indignation, poems of the same author, ascribing the highest degree of "power and piety" to Charles the first, then transferring the same "power and piety" to Oliver Cromwell; now inviting Oliver to take the crown, and then congratulating Charles the second on his recovered right. Neither Cromwell nor Charles could value his testimony, as the effect of conviction, or receive his praises, as effusions of reverence; they could consider them but as the labour of invention, and the tribute of dependence. Poets, indeed, profess fiction; but the legitimate end of fiction is the conveyance of truth; and he that has flattery ready for all whom the vicissitudes of the world happen to exalt, must be scorned, as a prostituted mind, that may retain the glitter of wit, but has lost the dignity of virtue. The Congratulation was considered as inferiour in poetical merit to the Panegyrick; and it is reported, that, when the king told Waller of the disparity, he answered, "poets, sir, succeed better in fiction than in truth." The Congratulation is, indeed, not inferiour to the Panegyrick, either by decay of genius, or for want of diligence; but because Cromwell had done much, and Charles had done little. Cromwell wanted nothing to raise him to heroick excellence but virtue; and virtue his poet thought himself at liberty to supply. Charles had yet only the merit of struggling without success, and suffering without despair. A life of escapes and indigence could supply poetry with no splendid images. In the first parliament, summoned by Charles the second, March 8, 1661, Waller sat for Hastings, in Sussex, and served for different places in all the parliaments of that reign. In a time when fancy and gaiety were the most powerful recommendations to regard, it is not likely that Waller was forgotten. He passed his time in the company that was highest both in rank and wit, from which even his obstinate sobriety did not exclude him. Though he drank water, he was enabled, by his fertility of mind, to heighten the mirth of Bacchanalian assemblies; and Mr. Saville said, that "no man in England should keep him company without drinking, but Ned Waller." The praise given him by St. Evremond is a proof of his reputation; for it was only by his reputation that he could be known, as a writer, to a man who, though he lived a great part of a long life upon an English pension, never condescended to understand the language of the nation that maintained him. In parliament, "he was," says Burnet, "the delight of the house, and, though old, said the liveliest things of any among them." This, however, is said in his account of the year seventy-five, when Waller was only seventy. His name, as a speaker, occurs often in Grey's Collections; but I have found no extracts that can be more quoted, as exhibiting sallies of gaiety than cogency of argument. He was of such consideration, that his remarks were circulated and recorded. When the duke of York's influence was high, both in Scotland and England, it drew, says Burnet, a lively reflection from Waller, the celebrated wit. He said "the house of commons had resolved that the duke should not reign after the king's death; but the king, in opposition to them, had resolved that he should reign, even in his life." If there appear no extraordinary liveliness in this remark, yet its reception proves the speaker to have been a celebrated wit, to have had a name which the men of wit were proud of mentioning. He did not suffer his reputation to die gradually away, which may easily happen in a long life, but renewed his claim to poetical distinction, from time to time, as occasions were offered, either by publick events or private incidents; and, contenting himself with the influence of his muse, or loving quiet better than influence, he never accepted any office of magistracy. He was not, however, without some attention to his fortune; for he asked from the king, in 1665, the provostship of Eton college, and obtained it; but Clarendon refused to put the seal to the grant, alleging that it could be held only by a clergyman. It is known that sir Henry Wotton qualified himself for it by deacon's orders. To this opposition the Biographia imputes the violence and acrimony with which Waller joined Buckingham's faction in the prosecution of Clarendon. The motive was illiberal and dishonest, and showed that more than sixty years had not been able to teach him morality. His accusation is such as conscience can hardly be supposed to dictate, without the help of malice: "We were to be governed by janizaries, instead of parliaments, and are in danger from a worse plot than that of the fifth of November; then, if the lords and commons had been destroyed, there had been a succession; but here both had been destroyed for ever." This is the language of a man who is glad of an opportunity to rail, and ready to sacrifice truth to interest, at one time, and to anger, at another. A year after the chancellor's banishment, another vacancy gave him encouragement for another petition, which the king referred to the council, who, after hearing the question argued by lawyers for three days, determined that the office could be held only by a clergyman, according to the act of uniformity, since the provosts had always received institution, as for a parsonage, from the bishops of Lincoln. The king then said, he could not break the law which he had made; and Dr. Zachary Cradock, famous for a single sermon, at most, for two sermons, was chosen by the fellows. That he asked any thing else is not known; it is certain that he obtained nothing, though he continued obsequious to the court through the rest of Charles's reign. At the accession of king James, in 1685, he was chosen for parliament, being then fourscore, at Saltash, in Cornwall; and wrote a Presage of the Downfal of the Turkish Empire, which he presented to the king, on his birthday. It is remarked, by his commentator, Fenton, that, in reading Tasso, he had early imbibed a veneration for the heroes of the holy war, and a zealous enmity to the Turks, which never left him. James, however, having soon after begun what he thought a holy war at home, made haste to put all molestation of the Turks out of his power. James treated him with kindness and familiarity, of which instances are given by the writer of his life. One day, taking him into the closet, the king asked him how he liked one of the pictures: "My eyes," said Waller, "are dim, and I do not know it." The king said it was the princess of Orange. "She is," said Waller, "like the greatest woman in the world." The king asked who was that; and was answered, queen Elizabeth. "I wonder," said the king, "you should think so; but I must confess she had a wise council." "And, sir," said Waller, "did you ever know a fool choose a wise one?" Such is the story, which I once heard of some other man. Pointed axioms, and acute replies, fly loose about the world, and are assigned, successively, to those whom it may be the fashion to celebrate. When the king knew that he was about to marry his daughter to Dr. Birch, a clergyman, he ordered a French gentleman to tell him, that "the king wondered he could think of marrying his daughter to a falling church." "The king," said Waller, "does me great honour, in taking notice of my domestick affairs; but I have lived long enough to observe that this falling church has got a trick of rising again." He took notice to his friends of the king's conduct; and said that "he would be left like a whale upon the strand." Whether he was privy to any of the transactions which ended in the revolution, is not known. His heir joined the prince of Orange. Having now attained an age beyond which the laws of nature seldom suffer life to be extended, otherwise than by a future state, he seems to have turned his mind upon preparation for the decisive hour, and, therefore, consecrated his poetry to devotion. It is pleasing to discover that his piety was without weakness; that his intellectual powers continued vigorous; and that the lines which he composed when "he, for age, could neither read nor write," are not inferiour to the effusions of his youth. Towards the decline of life, he bought a small house, with a little land, at Coleshill; and said, "he should be glad to die, like the stag, where he was roused." This, however, did not happen. When he was at Beaconsfield, he found his legs grow tumid; he went to Windsor, where sir Charles Scarborough then attended the king, and requested him, as both a friend and a physician, to tell him, "What that swelling meant." "Sir," answered Scarborough, "your blood will run no longer." Waller repeated some lines of Virgil, and went home to die. As the disease increased upon him, he composed himself for his departure; and, calling upon Dr. Birch to give him the holy sacrament, he desired his children to take it with him, and made an earnest declaration of his faith in christianity. It now appeared what part of his conversation with the great could be remembered with delight. He related, that being present when the duke of Buckingham talked profanely before king Charles, he said to him, "My lord, I am a great deal older than your grace, and have, I believe, heard more arguments for atheism than ever your grace did; but I have lived long enough to see there is nothing in them; and so, I hope, your grace will." He died October 21, 1687, and was buried at Beaconsfield, with a monument erected by his son's executors, for which Rymer wrote the inscription, and which, I hope, is now rescued from dilapidation. He left several children by his second wife; of whom, his daughter was married to Dr. Birch. Benjamin, the eldest son, was disinherited, and sent to New Jersey, as wanting common understanding. Edmund, the second son, inherited the estate, and represented Agmondesham in parliament, but, at last, turned quaker. William, the third son, was a merchant in London. Stephen, the fourth, was an eminent doctor of laws, and one of the commissioners for the union. There is said to have been a fifth, of whom no account has descended. The character of Waller, both moral and intellectual, has been drawn by Clarendon, to whom he was familiarly known, with nicety, which certainly none to whom he was not known can presume to emulate. It is, therefore, inserted here, with such remarks as others have supplied; after which, nothing remains but a critical examination of his poetry. "Edmund Waller," says Clarendon, "was born to a very fair estate, by the parsimony, or frugality, of a wise father and mother: and he thought it so commendable an advantage, that he resolved to improve it with his utmost care, upon which, in his nature, he was too much intent; and, in order to that, he was so much reserved and retired, that he was scarce ever heard of, till, by his address and dexterity, he had gotten a very rich wife in the city, against all the recommendation and countenance and authority of the court, which was thoroughly engaged on the behalf of Mr. Crofts, and which used to be successful, in that age, against any opposition. He had the good fortune to have an alliance and friendship with Dr. Morley, who had assisted and instructed him in the reading many good books, to which his natural parts and promptitude inclined him, especially the poets; and, at the age when other men used to give over writing verses, (for he was near thirty years when he first engaged himself in that exercise, at least that he was known to do so,) he surprised the town with two or three pieces of that kind; as if a tenth muse had been newly born to cherish drooping poetry. The doctor, at that time, brought him into that company which was most celebrated for good conversation; where he was received and esteemed with great applause and respect. He was a very pleasant discourser, in earnest and in jest, and, therefore, very grateful to all kind of company, where he was not the less esteemed for being very rich. "He had been even nursed in parliaments, where he sat when he was very young; and so, when they were resumed again, (after a long intermission,) he appeared in those assemblies with great advantage; having a graceful way of speaking, and by thinking much on several arguments, (which his temper and complexion, that had much of melancholick, inclined him to,) he seemed often to speak upon the sudden, when the occasion had only administered the opportunity of saying what he had thoroughly considered, which gave a great lustre to all he said; which yet was rather of delight than weight. There needs no more be said to extol the excellence and power of his wit, and pleasantness of his conversation, than that it was of magnitude enough to cover a world of very great faults; that is, so to cover them, that they were not taken notice of to his reproach; viz. a narrowness in his nature to the lowest degree; an abjectness and want of courage to support him in any virtuous undertaking; an insinuation and servile flattery to the height, the vainest and most imperious nature could be contented with; that it preserved and won his life from those who were most resolved to take it, and in an occasion in which he ought to have been ambitious to have lost it; and then preserved him again from the reproach and contempt that was due to him for so preserving it, and for vindicating it at such a price; that it had power to reconcile him to those whom he had most offended and provoked; and continued to his age with that rare felicity, that his company was acceptable where his spirit was odious; and he was, at least, pitied where he was most detested." Such is the account of Clarendon; on which it may not be improper to make some remarks. "He was very little known till he had obtained a rich wife in the city." He obtained a rich wife about the age of three-and-twenty; an age before which few men are conspicuous much to their advantage. He was known, however, in parliament and at court; and, if he spent part of his time in privacy, it is not unreasonable to suppose, that he endeavoured the improvement of his mind, as well as of his fortune. That Clarendon might misjudge the motive of his retirement is the more probable, because he has evidently mistaken the commencement of his poetry, which he supposes him not to have attempted before thirty. As his first pieces were, perhaps, not printed, the succession of his compositions was not known; and Clarendon, who cannot be imagined to have been very studious of poetry, did not rectify his first opinion by consulting Waller's book. Clarendon observes, that he was introduced to the wits of the age by Dr. Morley; but the writer of his life relates that he was already among them, when, hearing a noise in the street, and inquiring the cause, they found a son of Ben Jonson under an arrest. This was Morley, whom Waller set free, at the expense of one hundred pounds, took him into the country as director of his studies, and then procured him admission into the company of the friends of literature. Of this fact Clarendon had a nearer knowledge than the biographer, and is, therefore, more to be credited. The account of Waller's parliamentary eloquence is seconded by Burnet, who, though he calls him "the delight of the house," adds, that "he was only concerned to say that which should make him be applauded; he never laid the business of the house to heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty man." Of his insinuation and flattery it is not unreasonable to believe that the truth is told. Ascham, in his elegant description of those whom, in modern language, we term wits, says, that they are "open flatterers, and privy mockers." Waller showed a little of both, when, upon sight of the dutchess of Newcastle's verses on the Death of a Stag, he declared that he would give all his own compositions to have written them; and, being charged with the exorbitance of his adulation, answered, that "nothing was too much to be given, that a lady might be saved from the disgrace of such a vile performance." This, however, was no very mischievous or very unusual deviation from truth: had his hypocrisy been confined to such transactions, he might have been forgiven, though not praised; for who forbears to flatter an author or a lady. Of the laxity of his political principles, and the weakness of his resolution, he experienced the natural effect, by losing the esteem of every party. From Cromwell he had only his recall; and from Charles the second, who delighted in his company, he obtained only the pardon of his relation Hampden, and the safety of Hampden's son. As far as conjecture can be made from the whole of his writing, and his conduct, he was habitually and deliberately a friend to monarchy. His deviation towards democracy proceeded from his connexion with Hampden, for whose sake he prosecuted Crawley with great bitterness; and the invective which he pronounced on that occasion was so popular, that twenty thousand copies are said, by his biographer, to have been sold in one day. It is confessed that his faults still left him many friends, at least many companions. His convivial power of pleasing is universally acknowledged; but those who conversed with him intimately, found him not only passionate, especially in his old age, but resentful; so that the interposition of friends was sometimes necessary. His wit and his poetry naturally connected him with the polite writers of his time: he was joined with lord Buckhurst in the translation of Corneille's Pompey; and is said to have added his help to that of Cowley in the original draught of the Rehearsal. The care of his fortune, which Clarendon imputes to him, in a degree little less than criminal, was either not constant or not successful; for, having inherited a patrimony of three thousand five hundred pounds a year in the time of James the first, and augmented it, at least, by one wealthy marriage, he left, about the time of the revolution, an income of not more than twelve or thirteen hundred; which, when the different value of money is reckoned, will be found, perhaps, not more than a fourth part of what he once possessed. Of this diminution, part was the consequence of the gifts which he was forced to scatter, and the fine which he was condemned to pay at the detection of his plot; and if his estate, as is related in his life, was sequestered, he had probably contracted debts when he lived in exile; for we are told, that at Paris he lived in splendour, and was the only Englishman, except the lord St. Albans, that kept a table. His unlucky plot compelled him to sell a thousand a year; of the waste of the rest there is no account, except that he is confessed, by his biographer, to have been a bad economist. He seems to have deviated from the common practice; to have been a hoarder in his first years, and a squanderer in his last. Of his course of studies, or choice of books, nothing is known more than that he professed himself unable to read Chapman's translation of Homer, without rapture. His opinion concerning the duty of a poet is contained in his declaration, that "he would blot from his works any line that did not contain some motive to virtue." * * * * * The characters, by which Waller intended to distinguish his writings, are sprightliness and dignity; in his smaller pieces, he endeavours to be gay; in the larger, to be great. Of his airy and light productions, the chief source is gallantry, that attentive reverence of female excellence which has descended to us from the Gothick ages. As his poems are commonly occasional, and his addresses personal, he was not so liberally supplied with grand as with soft images; for beauty is more easily found than magnanimity. The delicacy which he cultivated, restrains him to a certain nicety and caution, even when he writes upon the slightest matter. He has, therefore, in his whole volume, nothing burlesque, and seldom any thing ludicrous or familiar. He seems always to do his best; though his subjects are often unworthy of his care. It is not easy to think without some contempt on an author who is growing illustrious in his own opinion by verses, at one time, to a Lady who can do any thing but sleep when she pleases; at another, to a Lady who can sleep when she pleases; now, to a Lady on her passing through a crowd of people; then, on a Braid of divers colours, woven by four fair Ladies; on a tree cut in paper; or, to a Lady, from whom he received the copy of verses on the paper tree, which for many years had been missing. Genius now and then produces a lucky trifle. We still read the Dove of Anacreon, and Sparrow of Catullus; and a writer naturally pleases himself with a performance, which owes nothing to the subject. But compositions merely pretty have the fate of other pretty things, and are quitted in time for something useful: they are flowers fragrant and fair, but of short duration; or they are blossoms to be valued only as they foretell fruits. Among Waller's little poems are some which their excellency ought to secure from oblivion; as, to Amoret, comparing the different modes of regard, with which he looks on her and Sacharissa; and the verses on Love, that begin, "Anger in hasty words or blows." In others he is not equally successful; sometimes his thoughts are deficient, and sometimes his expression. The numbers are not always musical; as, Fair Venus, in thy soft arms The god of rage confine: For thy whispers are the charms Which only can divert his fierce design. What though he frown, and to tumult do incline; Thou the flame Kindled in his breast canst tame With that snow which unmelted lies on thine. He seldom, indeed, fetches an amorous sentiment from the depths of science; his thoughts are, for the most part, easily understood, and his images such as the superficies of nature readily supplies; he has a just claim to popularity, because he writes to common degrees of knowledge; and is free, at least, from philosophical pedantry, unless, perhaps, the end of a song to the sun may be excepted, in which he is too much a Copernican. To which may be added, the simile of the palm in the verses, on her passing through a crowd; and a line in a more serious poem on the Restoration, about vipers and treacle, which can only be understood by those who happen to know the composition of the Theriaca. His thoughts are sometimes hyperbolical, and his images unnatural: The plants admire, No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre: If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd, They round about her into arbours crowd: Or if she walks, in even ranks they stand, Like some well-marshall'd and obsequious band. In another place: While in the park I sing, the listening deer Attend my passion, and forget to fear: When to the beeches I report my flame, They bow their heads, as if they felt the same: To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers, With loud complaints they answer me in showers. To thee a wild and cruel soul is given, More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven! On the head of a stag: O fertile head! which every year Could such a crop of wonder bear! The teeming earth did never bring, So soon so hard, so huge a thing: Which might it never have been cast, Each year's growth added to the last, These lofty branches had supply'd The earth's bold sons' prodigious pride: Heaven with these engines had been scal'd, When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd. Sometimes, having succeeded in the first part, he makes a feeble conclusion. In the song of Sacharissa's and Amoret's Friendship, the two last stanzas ought to have been omitted. His images of gallantry are not always in the highest degree delicate: Then shall my love this doubt displace. And gain such trust, that I may come And banquet sometimes on thy face, But make my constant meals at home. Some applications may be thought too remote and unconsequential; as in the verses on the Lady Dancing: The sun in figures such as these Joys with the moon to play: To the sweet strains they advance, Which do result from their own spheres; As this nymph's dance Moves with the numbers which she hears. Sometimes a thought, which might, perhaps, fill a distich, is expanded and attenuated, till it grows weak and almost evanescent: Chloris! since first our calm of peace Was frighted hence, this good we find, Your favours with your fears increase, And growing mischiefs make you kind. So the fair tree, which still preserves Her fruit, and state, while no wind blows, In storms from that uprightness swerves; And the glad earth about her strows With treasure from her yielding boughs. His images are not always distinct; as, in the following passage, he confounds love, as a person, with love, as a passion: Some other nymphs, with colours faint, And pencil slow, may Cupid paint, And a weak heart, in time, destroy; She has a stamp, and prints the boy: Can, with a single look, inflame The coldest breast, the rudest tame. His sallies of casual flattery are sometimes elegant and happy, as that in Return for the Silver Pen; and sometimes empty and trifling, as that upon the Card torn by the Queen. There are a few Lines written in the Dutchess's Tasso, which he is said, by Fenton, to have kept a summer under correction. It happened to Waller, as to others, that his success was not always in proportion to his labour. Of these petty compositions, neither the beauties nor the faults deserve much attention. The amorous verses have this to recommend them, that they are less hyperbolical than those of some other poets. Waller is not always at the last gasp; he does not die of a frown, nor live upon a smile. There is, however, too much love, and too many trifles. Little things are made too important; and the empire of beauty is represented as exerting its influence further than can be allowed by the multiplicity of human passions, and the variety of human wants. Such books, therefore, may be considered, as showing the world under a false appearance, and, so far as they obtain credit from the young and unexperienced, as misleading expectation, and misguiding practice. Of his nobler and more weighty performances, the greater part is panegyrical: for of praise he was very lavish, as is observed by his imitator, lord Lansdowne: No satyr stalks within the hallow'd ground, But queens and heroines, kings and gods abound; Glory and arms and love are all the sound. In the first poem, on the danger of the Prince on the coast of Spain, there is a puerile and ridiculous mention of Arion, at the beginning; and the last paragraph, on the Cable, is, in part, ridiculously mean, and in part, ridiculously tumid. The poem, however, is such as may be justly praised, without much allowance for the state of our poetry and language at that time. The two next poems are upon the king's behaviour at the death of Buckingham, and upon his navy. He has, in the first, used the pagan deities with great propriety: 'Twas want of such a precedent as this, Made the old heathen frame their gods amiss. In the poem on the Navy, those lines are very noble, which suppose the king's power secure against a second deluge; so noble, that it were almost criminal to remark the mistake of _centre_ for _surface_, or to say that the empire of the sea would be worth little, if it were not that the waters terminate in land. The poem upon Sallee has forcible sentiments; but the conclusion is feeble. That on the Repairs of St. Paul's has something vulgar and obvious; such as the mention of Amphion; and something violent and harsh; as, So all our minds with his conspire to grace The Gentiles' great apostle, and deface Those state-obscuring sheds, that, like a chain, Seem'd to confine, and fetter him again: Which the glad saint shakes off at his command, As once the viper from his sacred hand. So joys the aged oak, when we divide The creeping ivy from his injur'd side. Of the two last couplets, the first is extravagant, and the second mean. His praise of the queen is too much exaggerated; and the thought, that she "saves lovers, by cutting off hope, as gangrenes are cured by lopping the limb," presents nothing to the mind but disgust and horrour. Of the Battle of the Summer Islands, it seems not easy to say whether it is intended to raise terrour or merriment. The beginning is too splendid for jest, and the conclusion too light for seriousness. The versification is studied, the scenes are diligently displayed, and the images artfully amplified; but, as it ends neither in joy nor sorrow, it will scarcely be read a second time. The Panegyrick upon Cromwell has obtained from the publick a very liberal dividend of praise, which, however, cannot be said to have been unjustly lavished; for such a series of verses had rarely appeared before in the English language. Of the lines some are grand, some are graceful, and all are musical. There is now and then a feeble verse, or a trifling thought; but its great fault is the choice of its hero. The poem of the War with Spain begins with lines more vigorous and striking than Waller is accustomed to produce. The succeeding parts are variegated with better passages and worse. There is something too far-fetched in the comparison of the Spaniards drawing the English on, by saluting St. Lucar with cannon, "to lambs awakening the lion by bleating." The fate of the marquis and his lady, who were burnt in their ship, would have moved more, had the poet not made him die like the Phoenix, because he had spices about him, nor expressed their affection and their end, by a conceit, at once, false and vulgar: Alive, in equal flames of love they burn'd, And now together are to ashes turn'd. The verses to Charles on his Return were doubtless intended to counterbalance the Panegyrick on Cromwell. If it has been thought inferiour to that with which it is naturally compared, the cause of its deficience has been already remarked. The remaining pieces it is not necessary to examine singly. They must be supposed to have faults and beauties of the same kind with the rest. The Sacred Poems, however, deserve particular regard; they were the work of Waller's declining life, of those hours in which he looked upon the fame and the folly of the time past with the sentiments which his great predecessor, Petrarch, bequeathed to posterity, upon his review of that love and poetry which have given him immortality. That natural jealousy which makes every man unwilling to allow much excellence in another, always produces a disposition to believe that the mind grows old with the body; and that he, whom we are now forced to confess superiour, is hastening daily to a level with ourselves. By delighting to think this of the living, we learn to think it of the dead; and Fenton, with all his kindness for Waller, has the luck to mark the exact time when his genius passed the zenith, which he places at his fifty-fifth year. This is to allot the mind but a small portion. Intellectual decay is, doubtless, not uncommon; but it seems not to be universal. Newton was, in his eighty-fifth year, improving his chronology, a few days before his death; and Waller appears not, in my opinion, to have lost, at eighty-two, any part of his poetical power. His Sacred Poems do not please like some of his other works; but before the fatal fifty-five, had he written on the same subjects, his success would hardly have been better. It has been the frequent lamentation of good men, that verse has been too little applied to the purposes of worship, and many attempts have been made to animate devotion by pious poetry. That they have very seldom attained their end, is sufficiently known, and it may not be improper to inquire, why they have miscarried. Let no pious ear be offended if I advance, in opposition to many authorities, that poetical devotion cannot often please. The doctrines of religion may, indeed, be defended in a didactick poem; and he who has the happy power of arguing in verse, will not lose it because his subject is sacred. A poet may describe the beauty and the grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring, and the harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the revolutions of the sky, and praise the maker for his works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside. The subject of the disputation is not piety, but the motives to piety; that of the description is not God, but the works of God. Contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the human soul, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his creator, and plead the merits of his redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can confer. The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as, by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. The topicks of devotion are few, and, being few, are universally known; but, few as they are, they can be made no more; they can receive no grace from novelty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of expression. Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than things themselves afford. This effect proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those which repel the imagination: but religion must be shown as it is; suppression and addition equally corrupt it; and such as it is, it is known already. From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his comprehension and elevation of his fancy; but this is rarely to be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of the supreme being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted; infinity cannot be amplified; perfection cannot be improved. The employments of pious meditation are faith, thanksgiving, repentance, and supplication. Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a being without passions, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt rather than expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of the judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through many topicks of persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy. Of sentiments purely religious, it will be found that the most simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry loses its lustre and its power, because it is applied to the decoration of something more excellent than itself. All that pious verse can do is to help the memory, and delight the ear, and, for these purposes, it may be very useful; but it supplies nothing to the mind. The ideas of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too sacred for fiction, and too majestick for ornament; to recommend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify, by a concave mirror, the sidereal hemisphere. As much of Waller's reputation was owing to the softness and smoothness of his numbers, it is proper to consider those minute particulars to which a versifier must attend. He certainly very much excelled in smoothness most of the writers who were living when his poetry commenced. The poets of Elizabeth had attained an art of modulation, which was afterwards neglected or forgotten. Fairfax was acknowledged by him as his model; and he might have studied with advantage the poem of Davies[m86], which, though merely philosophical, yet seldom leaves the ear ungratified. But he was rather smooth than strong; of "the full resounding line," which Pope attributes to Dryden, he has given very few examples. The critical decision has given the praise of strength to Denham, and of sweetness to Waller. His excellence of versification has some abatements. He uses the expletive _do_ very frequently; and, though he lived to see it almost, universally ejected, was not more careful to avoid it in his last compositions than in his first. Praise had given him confidence; and finding the world satisfied, he satisfied himself. His rhymes are sometimes weak words: _so_ is found to make the rhyme twice in ten lines, and occurs often as a rhyme through his book. His double rhymes, in heroick verse, have been censured by Mrs. Phillips, who was his rival in the translation of Corneille's Pompey; and more faults might be found, were not the inquiry below attention. He sometimes uses the obsolete termination of verbs, as _waxeth, affecteth_; and sometimes retains the final syllable of the preterite, as _amazed, supposed_, of which I know not whether it is not to the detriment of our language that we have totally rejected them. Of triplets he is sparing; but he did not wholly forbear them: of an alexandrine he has given no example. The general character of his poetry is elegance and gaiety. He is never pathetick, and very rarely sublime. He seems neither to have had a mind much elevated by nature, nor amplified by learning. His thoughts are such as a liberal conversation and large acquaintance with life would easily supply. They had, however, then, perhaps, that grace of novelty which they are now often supposed to want by those who, having already found them in later books, do not know or inquire who produced them first. This treatment is unjust. Let not the original author lose by his imitators. Praise, however, should be due before it is given. The author of Waller's life ascribes to him the first practice of what Erythraeus and some late criticks call alliteration, of using in the same verse many words beginning with the same letter. But this knack, whatever be its value, was so frequent among early writers, that Gascoigne, a writer of the sixteenth century, warns the young poet against affecting it; Shakespeare, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, is supposed to ridicule it; and, in another play, the sonnet of Holofernes fully displays it. He borrows too many of his sentiments and illustrations from the old mythology, for which it is vain to plead the example of ancient poets; the deities which they introduced so frequently, were considered as realities, so far as to be received by the imagination, whatever sober reason might even then determine. But of these images time has tarnished the splendour. A fiction, not only detected but despised, can never afford a solid basis to any position, though sometimes it may furnish a transient allusion, or slight illustration. No modern monarch can be much exalted by hearing that, as Hercules had his club, he has his navy. But of the praise of Waller, though much may be taken away, much will remain; for it cannot be denied that he added something to our elegance of diction, and something to our propriety of thought; and to him may be applied what Tasso said, with equal spirit and justice, of himself and Guarini, when, having perused the Pastor Fido, he cried out "if he had not read Aminta, he had never excelled it." As Waller professed himself to have learned the art of versification from Fairfax, it has been thought proper to subjoin a specimen of his work, which, after Mr. Hoole's translation, will, perhaps, not be soon reprinted. By knowing the state in which Waller found our poetry, the reader may judge how much he improved it. 1. Erminia's steed (this while) his mistresse bore Through forrests thicke among the shadie treene, Her feeble hand the bridle reines forlore, Halfe in a swoune she was for feare, I weene; But her flit courser spared nere the more, To beare her through the desart woods unseene Of her strong foes, that chas'd her through the plaine, And still pursu'd, but still pursu'd in vaine. 2. Like as the wearie hounds at last retire, Windlesse, displeased, from the fruitlesse chace, When the slie beast Tapisht in bush and brire, No art nor paines can rowse out of his place: The christian knights so full of shame and ire Returned backe, with faint and wearie pace! Yet still the fearfull dame fled, swift as winde, Nor ever staid, nor ever lookt behinde. 3. Through thicke and thinne, all night, all day, she drived, Withouten comfort, companie, or guide, Her plaints and teares with every thought revived, She heard and saw her greefes, but nought beside. But when the sunne his burning chariot dived In Thetis wave, and wearie teame untide, On Jordans sandie bankes her course she staid, At last, there downe she light, and downe she laid. 4. Her teares, her drinke; her food, her sorrowings, This was her diet that unhappie night: But sleepe (that sweet repose and quiet brings) To ease the greefes of discontented wight, Spred foorth his tender, soft, and nimble wings, In his dull armes foulding the virgin bright; And love, his mother, and the graces kept Strong watch and warde, while this faire ladie slept. 5. The birds awakte her with their morning song, Their warbling musicke pearst her tender eare, The murmuring brookes and whistling windes among The ratling boughes, and leaves, their parts did beare; Her eies unclos'd beheld the groves along Of swaines and shepherd groomes, that dwellings weare: And that sweet noise, birds, winds, and waters sent, Provokte againe the virgin to lament. 6. Her plaints were interrupted with a sound That seem'd from thickest bushes to proceed, Some iolly shepheard sung a lustie round, And to his voice had tun'd his oaten reed; Thither she went, an old man there she found, (At whose right hand his little flock did feed) Sat making baskets, his three sonnes among, That learn'd their father's art, and learn'd his song. 7. Beholding one in shining armes appeare, The seelie man and his were sore dismaid; But sweet Erminia comforted their feare, Her ventall vp, her visage open laid. You happie folke, of heau'n beloued deare, Work on (quoth she) vpon your harmlesse traid, These dreadfull armes, I beare, no warfare bring To your sweet toile, nor those sweet tunes you sing. 8. But father, since this land, these townes and towres, Destroied are with sword, with fire and spoile, How may it be, unhurt, that you and yours In safetie thus, applie your harmlesse toile? My sonne (quoth he) this pore estate of ours Is euer safe from storme of warlike broile; This wildernesse doth vs in safetie keepe, No thundring drum, no trumpet breakes our sleepe. 9. Haply iust heau'n's defence and shield of right, Doth loue the innocence of simple swaines, The thunderbolts on highest mountains light, And seld or neuer strike the lower plaines: So kings haue cause to feare Bellonaes might, Not they whose sweat and toile their dinner gaines, Nor ever greedie soldier was entised By pouertie, neglected and despised. 10. O pouertie, chefe of the heau'nly brood, Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crowne! No wish for honour, thirst of other's good, Can moue my hart, contented with my owne: We quench our thirst with water of this flood, Nor fear we poison should therein be throwne: These little flocks of sheepe and tender goates Giue milke for food, and wooll to make us coates. 11. We little wish, we need but little wealth, From cold and hunger vs to cloath and feed; These are my sonnes, their care preserues from stealth Their father's flocks, nor servants moe I need: Amid these groues I walke oft for my health, And to the fishes, birds, and beastes giue heed, How they are fed, in forrest, spring and lake, And their contentment for ensample take. 12. Time was (for each one hath his doting time, These siluer locks were golden tresses than) That countrie life I hated as a crime, And from the forrests sweet contentment ran, To Memphis stately pallace would I clime, And there became the mightie Caliphes man, And though I but a simple gardner weare, Yet could I marke abuses, see and heare. 13. Entised on with hope of future gaine, I suffred long what did my soule displease; But when my youth was spent, my hope was vaine, I felt my native strength at last decrease; I gan my losse of lustie yeeres complaine, And wisht I had enjoy'd the countries peace; I bod the court farewell, and with content My later age here have I quiet spent. 14. While thus he spake, Erminia husht and still His wise discourses heard, with great attention, His speeches graue those idle fancies kill, Which in her troubled soule bred such dissention; After much thought reformed was her will, Within those woods to dwell was her intention, Till fortune should occasion new afford, To turne her home to her desired lord. 15. She said, therefore, O shepherd fortunate! That troubles some didst whilom feele and proue, Yet liuest now in this contented state, Let my mishap thy thoughts to pitie moue, To entertaine me, as a willing mate In shepherd's life, which I admire and loue; Within these pleasant groues, perchance, my hart Of her discomforts may vnload some part. 16. If gold or wealth, of most esteemed deare, If iewells rich, thou diddest hold in prise, Such store thereof, such plentie have I seen, As to a greedie minde might well suffice: With that downe trickled many a siluer teare, Two christall streams fell from her watrie eies; Part of her sad misfortunes than she told, And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old. 17. With speeches kinde, he gan the virgin deare Towards his cottage gently home to guide; His aged wife there made her homely cheare, Yet welcomde her, and plast her by her side. The princesse dond a poore pastoraes geare, A kerchiefe course vpon her head she tide; But yet her gestures and her lookes (I gesse) Were such as ill beseem'd a shepherdesse. 18. Not those rude garments could obscure, and hide The heau'nly beautie of her angel's face, Nor was her princely ofspring damnifide, Or ought disparag'de, by those labours bace; Her little flocks to pasture would she guide, And milke her goates, and in their folds them place, Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame Her selfe to please the shepherd and his dame. [Footnote 82: Preface to his Fables. Dr. J.] [Footnote 83: This speech has been retrieved, from a paper printed at that time, by the writers of the Parliamentary History. Dr.J.] [Footnote 84: Parliamentary History, vol. xii. Dr. J.] [Footnote 85: Life of Waller prefixed to an edition of his works, published in 1773, by Percival Stockdale. C.] [Footnote 86: Sir John Davies, entitled, Nosce Teipsum. This oracle expounded in two elegies; 1. Of Humane Knowledge: 2. Of the Soule of Man and the Immortalitie thereof, 1599. R.] [Footnote 87: It has been conjectured that our poet was either son or grandson of Charles, third son of sir John Stepney, the first baronet of that family. See Granger's History, vol. ii. p. 396. Edit. 8vo. 1775. Mr. Cole says, the poet's father was a grocer. Cole's manuscripts, in Brit. Mus. C.] POMFRET. Of Mr. John Pomfret nothing is known but from a slight and confused account, prefixed to his poems by a nameless friend; who relates, that he was the son of the Rev. Mr. Pomfret, rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire; that he was bred at Cambridge[87], entered into orders, and was rector of Malden, in Bedfordshire, and might have risen in the church; but that, when he applied to Dr. Compton, bishop of London, for institution to a living of considerable value, to which he had been presented, he found a troublesome obstruction raised by a malicious interpretation of some passage in his Choice; from which it was inferred, that he considered happiness as more likely to be found in the company of a mistress than of a wife. This reproach was easily obliterated; for it had happened to Pomfret, as to almost all other men who plan schemes of life; he had departed from his purpose, and was then married. The malice of his enemies had, however, a very fatal consequence: the delay constrained his attendance in London, where he caught the smallpox, and died in 1703, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. He published his poems in 1699; and has been always the favourite of that class of readers, who, without vanity or criticism, seek only their own amusement. His Choice exhibits a system of life adapted to common notions, and equal to common expectations; such a state as affords plenty and tranquillity, without exclusion of intellectual pleasures. Perhaps no composition in our language has been oftener perused than Pomfret's Choice. In his other poems there is an easy volubility; the pleasure of smooth metre is afforded to the ear, and the mind is not oppressed with ponderous, or entangled with intricate, sentiment. He pleases many; and he who pleases many must have some species of merit. [Footnote 87: He was of Queen's college there, and, by the University Register, took his bachelor's degree in 1684, and master's in 1698. His father was of Trinity.] DORSET. Of the earl of Dorset the character has been drawn so largely and so elegantly by Prior, to whom he was familiarly known, that nothing can be added by a casual hand; and, as its author is so generally read, it would be useless officiousness to transcribe it. Charles Sackville was born January 24, 1637. Having been educated under a private tutor, he travelled into Italy, and returned a little before the restoration. He was chosen into the first parliament that was called, for East Grimstead, in Sussex, and soon became a favourite of Charles the second; but undertook no publick employment, being too eager of the riotous and licentious pleasures, which young men of high rank, who aspired to be thought wits, at that time imagined themselves entitled to indulge. One of these frolicks has, by the industry of Wood, come down to posterity. Sackville, who was then lord Buckhurst, with sir Charles Sedley and sir Thomas Ogle, got drunk at the Cock in Bow street, by Covent garden, and, going into the balcony, exposed themselves to the populace in very indecent postures. At last, as they grew warmer, Sedley stood forth naked and harangued the populace in such profane language, that the publick indignation was awakened: the crowd attempted to force the door, and, being repulsed, drove in the performers with stones, and broke the windows of the house. For this misdemeanour they were indicted, and Sedley was fined five hundred pounds: what was the sentence of the others is not known. Sedley employed Killigrew and another to procure a remission from the king; but (mark the friendship of the dissolute!) they begged the fine for themselves, and exacted it to the last groat. In 1665, lord Buckhurst attended the duke of York, as a volunteer in the Dutch war; and was in the battle of June 3, when eighteen great Dutch ships were taken, fourteen others were destroyed, and Opdam, the admiral, who engaged the duke, was blown up beside him, with all his crew. On the day before the battle, he is said to have composed the celebrated song, "To all you ladies now at land," with equal tranquillity of mind and promptitude of wit. Seldom any splendid story is wholly true. I have heard from the late earl of Orrery, who was likely to have good hereditary intelligence, that lord Buckhurst had been a week employed upon it, and only retouched or finished it on the memorable evening. But even this, whatever it may subtract from his facility, leaves him his courage. He was soon after made a gentleman of the bedchamber, and sent on short embassies to France. In 1674, the estate of his uncle, James Cranfield, earl of Middlesex, came to him by its owner's death, and the title was conferred on him the year after. In 1677, he became, by the death of his father, earl of Dorset, and inherited the estate of his family. In 1684, having buried his first wife, of the family of Bagot, who left him no child, he married a daughter of the earl of Northampton, celebrated both for beauty and understanding. He received some favourable notice from king James; but soon found it necessary to oppose the violence of his innovations, and with some other lords appeared in Westminster hall to countenance the bishops at their trial. As enormities grew every day less supportable, he found it necessary to concur in the revolution. He was one of those lords who sat every day in council to preserve the publick peace, after the king's departure; and, what is not the most illustrious action of his life, was employed to conduct the princess Anne to Nottingham with a guard, such as might alarm the populace, as they passed, with false apprehensions of her danger. Whatever end may be designed, there is always something despicable in a trick. He became, as may be easily supposed, a favourite of king William, who, the day after his accession, made him lord chamberlain of the household, and gave him afterwards the garter. He happened to be among those that were tossed with the king in an open boat sixteen hours, in very rough and cold weather, on the coast of Holland. His health afterwards declined; and, on Jan. 19, 1705-6, he died at Bath. He was a man whose elegance and judgment were universally confessed, and whose bounty to the learned and witty was generally known. To the indulgent affection of the publick, lord Rochester bore ample testimony in this remark: "I know not how it is, but lord Buckhurst may do what he will, yet is never in the wrong." If such a man attempted poetry, we cannot wonder that his works were praised. Dryden, whom, if Prior tells truth, he distinguished by his beneficence, and who lavished his blandishments on those who are not known to have so well deserved them, undertaking to produce authors of our own country superiour to those of antiquity, says, "I would instance your lordship in satire, and Shakespeare in tragedy." Would it be imagined that, of this rival to antiquity, all the satires were little personal invectives, and that his longest composition was a song of eleven stanzas? The blame, however, of this exaggerated praise falls on the encomiast, not upon the author; whose performances are, what they pretend to be, the effusions of a man of wit; gay, vigorous, and airy. His verses to Howard show great fertility of mind; and his Dorinda has been imitated by Pope. STEPNEY. George Stepney, descended from the Stepneys of Pendegrast, in Pembrokeshire, was born at Westminster, in 1663. Of his father's condition or fortune I have no account[88]. Having received the first part of his education at Westminster, where he passed six years in the college, he went, at nineteen, to Cambridge[p], where he continued a friendship begun at school with Mr. Montague, afterwards earl of Halifax. They came to London together, and are said to have been invited into publick life by the duke of Dorset[89]. His qualifications recommended him to many foreign employments, so that his time seems to have been spent in negotiations. In 1692, he was sent envoy to the elector of Brandenburgh; in 1693, to the imperial court; in 1694, to the elector of Saxony; in 1696, to the electors of Mentz and Cologne, and the congress at Frankfort; in 1698, a second time to Brandenburgh; in 1699, to the king of Poland; in 1701, again to the emperour; and, in 1706, to the States General. In 1697, he was made one of the commissioners of trade. His life was busy and not long. He died in 1707, and is buried in Westminster Abbey, with this epitaph, which Jacob transcribed: H. S. E. GEORGIUS STEPNEIUS, armiger, Vir, Ob ingenii acumen, Literarum scientiam, Morum suavitatem, Rerum usum, Virorum amplissimorum consuetudinem, Linguae, styli, ac vitae elegantiam, Praeclara officia cum Britanniae tum Europae praestita, Sua aetate multum celebratus, Apud posteros semper celebrandus; Plurimas legationes obijt Ea fide, diligentia, ac felicitate, Ut augustissimorum principum Gulielmi et Annae Spem in illo repositam Numquam fefellerit, Haud raro superaverit. Post longum honorum cursum Brevi temporis spatio confectum, Cum naturae parum, famae satis vixerat, Animam ad altiora aspirantem placide efflavit. On the left hand, G. S. Ex equestri familia Stepneiorum, De Pendegrast, in comitatu Pembrochiensi oriundus, Westmonasterii natus est, A. D. 1663, Electus in collegium Sancti Petri Westmonast. A. 1676, Sancti Trinitatis Cantab. 1682. Consiliariorum quibus Commercii Cura commissa est 1697. Chelseiae mortuus, et, comitante Magna procerum Frequentia, hue elatus, 1707. It is reported that the juvenile compositions of Stepney "made grey authors blush." I know not whether his poems will appear such wonders to the present age. One cannot always easily find the reason for which the world has sometimes conspired to squander praise. It is not very unlikely that he wrote very early as well as he ever wrote; and the performances of youth have many favourers, because the authors yet lay no claim to publick honours, and are, therefore, not considered as rivals by the distributors of fame. He apparently professed himself a poet, and added his name to those of the other wits in the version of Juvenal; but he is a very licentious translator, and does not recompense his neglect of the author by beauties of his own. In his original poems, now and then, a happy line may, perhaps, be found, and, now and then, a short composition may give pleasure. But there is, in the whole, little either of the grace of wit, or the vigour of nature. [Footnote 88: He was entered of Trinity college, and took his master's degree in 1689. H.] [Footnote 89: Earl of Dorset.] J. PHILIPS. John Philips was born on the 30th of December, 1676, at Bampton, in Oxfordshire; of which place his father, Dr. Stephen Philips, archdeacon of Salop, was minister. The first part of his education was domestick; after which he was sent to Winchester, where, as we are told by Dr. Sewel, his biographer, he was soon distinguished by the superiority of his exercises; and, what is less easily to be credited, so much endeared himself to his schoolfellows, by his civility and good nature, that they, without murmur or ill will, saw him indulged by the master with particular immunities. It is related, that, when he was at school, he seldom mingled in play with the other boys, but retired to his chamber; where his sovereign pleasure was to sit, hour after hour, while his hair was combed by somebody, whose service he found means to procure.[90] At school he became acquainted with the poets, ancient and modern, and fixed his attention particularly on Milton. In 1694, he entered himself at Christ church; a college, at that time, in the highest reputation, by the transmission of Busby's scholars to the care first of Fell, and afterwards of Aldrich. Here he was distinguished as a genius eminent among the eminent, and for friendship particularly intimate with Mr. Smith, the author of Phaedra and Hippolytus. The profession which he intended to follow was that of physick; and he took much delight in natural history, of which botany was his favourite part. His reputation was confined to his friends and to the university; till, about 1703, he extended it to a wider circle by the Splendid Shilling, which struck the publick attention with a mode of writing new and unexpected. This performance raised him so high, that, when Europe resounded with the victory of Blenheim, he was, probably, with an occult opposition to Addison, employed to deliver the acclamation of the tories. It is said that he would willingly have declined the task, but that his friends urged it upon him. It appears that he wrote this poem at the house of Mr. St. John. Blenheim was published in 1705. The next year produced his greatest work, the poem upon Cider, in two books; which was received with loud praises, and continued long to be read, as an imitation of Virgil's Georgicks, which needed not shun the presence of the original. He then grew probably more confident of his own abilities, and began to meditate a poem on the Last Day; a subject on which no mind can hope to equal expectation. This work he did not live to finish; his diseases, a slow consumption and an asthma, put a stop to his studies, and on Feb. 15, 1708, at the beginning of his thirty-third year, put an end to his life. He was buried in the cathedral of Hereford; and sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards lord chancellor, gave him a monument in Westminster Abbey. The inscription at Westminster was written, as I have heard, by Dr. Atterbury, though commonly given to Dr. Freind. His epitaph at Hereford: JOHANNES PHILIPS Obijt 15 die Feb. Anno Dom. 1708., Aetat suae 32. Cujus Ossa si requiras, hanc urnam inspice: Si ingenium nescias, ipsius opera consule; Si tumulum desideras, Templum adi Westmonasteriense: Qualis quantusque vir fuerit, Dicat elegans illa et praeclara, Quae cenotaphium ibi decorat, Inscriptio. Quam interim erga cognatos pius et officiosus, Testetur hoc saxum A MARIA PHILIPS matre ipsius pientissima Dilecti filii memoriae non sine lacrymis dicatum. His epitaph at Westminster: Herefordiae conduntur ossa, Hoc in delubro statuitur imago, Britanniam omnem pervagatur fama, JOHANNIS PHILIPS: Qui viris bonis doctisque juxta charus, Immortale suum ingenium, Eruditione multiplici excultum, Miro animi candore, Eximia morum simplicitate, Honestavit. Litterarum amoeniorum sitim, Quam Wintoniae puer sentire coeperat, Inter Aedis Christi alumnos jugiter explevit. In illo musarum domicilio Praeclaris aemulorum studiis excitatus, Optimis scribendi magistris semper intentus, Carmina sermone patrio composuit A Graecis Latinisque fontibus feliciter deducta, Atticis Romanisque auribus omnino digna, Versuum quippe harmoniam Rythmo didicerat, Antiquo illo, libero, multiformi, Ad res ipsas apto prorsus, et attemperato, Non numeris in eundem fere orbem redeuntibus, Non clausularum similiter cadentium sono Metiri: Uni in hoc landis genere Miltono secundus, Primoque poene par. Res seu tenues, seu grandes, sen mediocres Ornandas sumserat, Nusquam, non quod decuit, Et vidit, et assecutus est, Egregius, quocunque stylum verteret, Fandi author, et modorum artifex. Fas sit huic, Auso licet a tua metrorum lege discedere, O poesis Anglicanae pater, atque conditor, Chaucere, Alterum tibi latus claudere, Vatum certe cineres tuos undique stipantium Non dedecebit chorum. SIMON HAHCOUKT, miles, Viri bene de se, de litteris meriti, Quoad viveret fautor, Post obitum pie memor, Hoc illi saxum poni voluit. J. PHILIPS, STEPHANI, S. T. P. Archidiaconi Salop. filius, natus est Bamptoniae In agro Oxon. Dec. 30, 1676. Obijt Herefordiae, Feb. 15, 1708. Philips has been always praised, without contradiction, as a man modest, blameless, and pious; who bore narrowness of fortune without discontent, and tedious and painful maladies without impatience; beloved by those that knew him, but not ambitious to be known. He was probably not formed for a wide circle. His conversation is commended for its innocent gaiety, which seems to have flowed only among his intimates; for I have been told, that he was in company silent and barren, and employed only upon the pleasures of his pipe. His addiction to tobacco is mentioned by one of his biographers, who remarks, that in all his writings, except Blenheim, he has found an opportunity of celebrating the fragrant fume. In common life he was probably one of those who please by not offending, and whose person was loved because his writings were admired. He died honoured and lamented, before any part of his reputation had withered, and before his patron St. John had disgraced him. His works are few. The Splendid Shilling has the uncommon merit of an original design, unless it may be thought precluded by the ancient Centos. To degrade the sounding words and stately construction of Milton, by an application to the lowest and most trivial things, gratifies the mind with a momentary triumph over that grandeur, which hitherto held its captives in admiration; the words and things are presented with a new appearance, and novelty is always grateful where it gives no pain. But the merit of such performances begins and ends with the first author. He that should again adapt Milton's phrase to the gross incidents of common life, and even adapt it with more art, which would not be difficult, must yet expect but a small part of the praise which Philips has obtained; he can only hope to be considered as the repeater of a jest. "The parody on Milton," says Gildon, "is the only tolerable production of its author." This is a censure too dogmatical and violent. The poem of Blenheim was never denied to be tolerable, even by those who do not allow its supreme excellence. It is, indeed, the poem of a scholar, "all inexpert of war;" of a man who writes books from books, and studies the world in a college. He seems to have formed his ideas of the field of Blenheim from the battles of the heroick ages, or the tales of chivalry, with very little comprehension of the qualities necessary to the composition of a modern hero, which Addison has displayed with so much propriety. He makes Marlborough behold at a distance the slaughter made by Tallard, then haste to encounter and restrain him, and mow his way through ranks made headless by his sword. He imitates Milton's numbers indeed, but imitates them very injudiciously. Deformity is easily copied; and whatever there is in Milton which the reader wishes away, all that is obsolete, peculiar, or licentious, is accumulated with great care by Philips. Milton's verse was harmonious, in proportion to the general state of our metre in Milton's age; and, if he had written after the improvements made by Dryden, it is reasonable to believe that he would have admitted a more pleasing modulation of numbers into his work; but Philips sits down with a resolution to make no more musick than he found; to want all that his master wanted, though he is very far from having what his master had. Those asperities, therefore, that are venerable in the Paradise Lost, are contemptible in the Blenheim. There is a Latin ode written to his patron St. John, in return for a present of wine and tobacco, which cannot be passed without notice. It is gay and elegant, and exhibits several artful accommodations of classick expressions to new purposes. It seems better turned than the odes of Hannes[91]. To the poem on Cider, written in imitation of the Georgicks, may be given this peculiar praise, that it is grounded in truth; that the precepts which it contains are exact and just; and that it is, therefore, at once, a book of entertainment and of science. This I was told by Miller, the great gardener and botanist, whose expression was, that "there were many books written on the same subject in prose, which do not contain so much truth as that poem." In the disposition of his matter, so as to intersperse precepts relating to the culture of trees with sentiments more generally alluring, and in easy and graceful transitions from one subject to another, he has very diligently imitated his master; but he, unhappily, pleased himself with blank verse, and supposed that the numbers of Milton, which impress the mind with veneration, combined as they are with subjects of inconceivable grandeur, could be sustained by images which, at most, can rise only to elegance. Contending angels may shake the regions of heaven in blank verse; but the flow of equal measures, and the embellishment of rhyme, must recommend to our attention the art of engrafting, and decide the merit of the redstreak and pearmain. What study could confer, Philips had obtained; but natural deficience cannot be supplied. He seems not born to greatness and elevation. He is never lofty, nor does he often surprise with unexpected excellence: but, perhaps, to his last poem may be applied what Tully said of the work of Lucretius, that "it is written with much art, though with few blazes of genius." * * * * * The following fragment, written by Edmund Smith, upon the works of Philips, has been transcribed from the Bodleian manuscripts. "A Prefatory Discourse to the Poem on Mr. Philips, with a character of his writings. "It is altogether as equitable some account should be given of those who have distinguished themselves by their writings, as of those who are renowned for great actions. It is but reasonable they, who contribute so much to the immortality of others, should have some share in it themselves; and since their genius only is discovered by their works, it is just that their virtues should be recorded by their friends. For no modest men (as the person I write of was in perfection) will write their own panegyricks; and it is very hard that they should go without reputation, only because they the more deserve it. The end of writing Lives is for the imitation of the readers. It will be in the power of very few to imitate the duke of Marlborough: we must be content with admiring his great qualities and actions, without hopes of following them. The private and social virtues are more easily transcribed. The life of Cowley is more instructive, as well as more fine, than any we have in our language. And it is to be wished, since Mr. Philips had so many of the good qualities of that poet, that I had some of the abilities of his historian. The Grecian philosophers have had their lives written, their morals commended, and their sayings recorded. Mr. Philips had all the virtues to which most of them only pretended, and all their integrity, without any of their affectation. "The French are very just to eminent men in this point; not a learned man nor a poet can die, but all Europe must be acquainted with his accomplishments. They give praise and expect it in their turns: they commend their Patrus and Molières, as well as their Condès and Turennes; their Pellisons and Racines have their elogies, as well as the prince whom they celebrate; and their poems, their mercuries, and orations, nay, their very gazettes are filled with the praises of the learned. "I am satisfied, had they a Philips among them, and known how to value him; had they one of his learning, his temper, but above all of that particular turn of humour, that altogether new genius, he had been an example to their poets, and a subject of their panegyricks, and, perhaps, set in competition with the ancients, to whom only he ought to submit. "I shall, therefore, endeavour to do justice to his memory, since nobody else undertakes it. And, indeed, I can assign no cause why so many of his acquaintance, that are as willing and more able than myself to give an account of him, should forbear to celebrate the memory of one so dear to them, but only that they look upon it as a work entirely belonging to me. "I shall content myself with giving only a character of the person and his writings, without meddling with the transactions of his life, which was altogether private: I shall only make this known observation of his family, that there was scarce so many extraordinary men in any one. I have been acquainted with five of his brothers, of which three are still living, all men of fine parts, yet all of a very unlike temper and genius. So that their fruitful mother, like the mother of the gods, seems to have produced a numerous offspring, all of different, though uncommon faculties. Of the living, neither their modesty, nor the humour of the present age, permits me to speak; of the dead, I may say something. "One of them had made the greatest progress in the study of the law of nature and nations, of any one I know. He had perfectly mastered, and even improved, the notions of Grotius, and the more refined ones of Puffendorf. He could refute Hobbes with as much solidity as some of greater name, and expose him with as much wit as Echard. That noble study, which requires the greatest reach of reason and nicety of distinction, was not at all difficult to him. 'Twas a national loss to be deprived of one who understood a science so necessary, and yet so unknown in England. I shall add only, he had the same honesty and sincerity as the person I write of, but more heat: the former was more inclined to argue, the latter to divert: one employed his reason more; the other his imagination: the former had been well qualified for those posts, which the modesty of the latter made him refuse. His other dead brother would have been an ornament to the college of which he was a member. He had a genius either for poetry or oratory; and, though very young, composed several very agreeable pieces. In all probability he would have wrote as finely, as his brother did nobly. He might have been the Waller, as the other was the Milton of his time. The one might celebrate Marlborough, the other his beautiful offspring. This had not been so fit to describe the actions of heroes, as the virtues of private men. In a word, he had been fitter for my place; and, while his brother was writing upon the greatest men that any age ever produced, in a style equal to them, he might have served as a panegyrist on him. "This is all I think necessary to say of his family. I shall proceed to himself and his writings; which I shall first treat of, because I know they are censured by some out of envy, and more out of ignorance. "The Splendid Shilling, which is far the least considerable, has the more general reputation, and, perhaps, hinders the character of the rest. The style agreed so well with the burlesque, that the ignorant thought it could become nothing else. Every body is pleased with that work. But to judge rightly of the other, requires a perfect mastery of poetry and criticism, a just contempt of the little turns and witticisms now in vogue, and, above all, a perfect understanding of poetical diction and description. "All that have any taste of poetry will agree, that the great burlesque is much to be preferred to the low. It is much easier to make a great thing appear little, than a little one great: Cotton and others of a very low genius have done the former; but Philips, Garth, and Boileau, only the latter. "A picture in miniature is every painter's talent; but a piece for a cupola, where all the figures are enlarged, yet proportioned to the eye, requires a master's hand. "It must still be more acceptable than the low burlesque, because the images of the latter are mean and filthy, and the language itself entirely unknown to all men of good breeding. The style of Billingsgate would not make a very agreeable figure at St. James's. A gentleman would take but little pleasure in language, which he would think it hard to be accosted in, or in reading words which he could not pronounce without blushing. The lofty burlesque is the more to be admired, because, to write it, the author must be master of two of the most different talents in nature. A talent to find out and expose what is ridiculous, is very different from that which is to raise and elevate. We must read Virgil and Milton for the one, and Horace and Hudibras for the other. We know that the authors of excellent comedies have often failed in the grave style, and the tragedian as often in comedy. Admiration and laughter are of such opposite natures, that they are seldom created by the same person. The man of mirth is always observing the follies and weaknesses, the serious writer the virtues or crimes, of mankind; one is pleased with contemplating a beau, the other a hero: even from the same object they would draw different ideas: Achilles would appear in very different lights to Thersites and Alexander. The one would admire the courage and greatness of his soul; the other would ridicule the vanity and rashness of his temper. As the satirist says to Hannibal: "I, curre per Alpes, Ut pueris placeas, et declamatio fias. "The contrariety of style to the subject pleases the more strongly, because it is more surprising; the expectation of the reader is pleasantly deceived, who expects an humble style from the subject, or a great subject from the style. It pleases the more universally, because it is agreeable to the taste both of the grave and the merry; but more particularly so to those who have a relish of the best writers, and the noblest sort of poetry. I shall produce only one passage out of this poet, which is the misfortune of his galligaskins: "My galligaskins, which have long withstood The winter's fury and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) "This is admirably pathetical, and shows very well the vicissitudes of sublunary things. The rest goes on to a prodigious height; and a man in Greenland could hardly have made a more pathetick and terrible complaint. Is it not surprising that the subject should be so mean, and the verse so pompous; that the least things in his poetry, as in a microscope, should grow great and formidable to the eye? especially considering that, not understanding French, he had no model for his style? that he should have no writer to imitate, and himself be inimitable? that he should do all this before he was twenty? at an age which is usually pleased with a glare of false thoughts, little turns, and unnatural fustian? at an age, at which Cowley, Dryden, and I had almost said Virgil, were inconsiderable? So soon was his imagination at its full strength, his judgment ripe, and his humour complete. "This poem was written for his own diversion, without any design of publication. It was communicated but to me; but soon spread, and fell into the hands of pirates. It was put out, vilely mangled, by Ben. Bragge; and impudently said to be corrected by the author. This grievance is now grown more epidemical; and no man now has a right to his own thoughts, or a title to his own writings. Xenophon answered the Persian, who demanded his arms: 'We have nothing now left but our arms and our valour: if we surrender the one, how shall we make use of the other?' Poets have nothing but their wits and their writings; and if they are plundered of the latter, I don't see what good the former can do them. To pirate, and publickly own it, to prefix their names to the works they steal, to own and avow the theft, I believe, was never yet heard of but in England. It will sound oddly to posterity, that, in a polite nation, in an enlightened age, under the direction of the most wise, most learned, and most generous encouragers of knowledge in the world, the property of a mechanick should be better secured than that of a scholar! that the poorest manual operations should be more valued than the noblest products of the brain! that it should be felony to rob a cobbler of a pair of shoes, and no crime to deprive the best author of his whole subsistence! that nothing should make a man a sure title to his own writings but the stupidity of them! that the works of Dryden should meet with less encouragement than those of his own Flecknoe, or Blackmore! that Tillotson and St. George, Tom Thumb and Temple, should be set on an equal foot! This is the reason why this very paper has been so long delayed; and, while the most impudent and scandalous libels are publickly vended by the pirates, this innocent work is forced to steal abroad as if it were a libel. "Our present writers are by these wretches reduced to the same condition Virgil was, when the centurion seized on his estate. But I don't doubt but I can fix upon the Maecenas of the present age, that will retrieve them from it. But, whatever effect this piracy may have upon us, it contributed very much to the advantage of Mr. Philips: it helped him to a reputation which he neither desired nor expected, and to the honour of being put upon a work of which he did not think himself capable; but the event showed his modesty. And it was reasonable to hope, that he, who could raise mean subjects so high, should still be more elevated on greater themes; that he that could draw such noble ideas from a shilling, could not fail upon such a subject as the duke of Marlborough, "which is capable of heightening even the most low and trifling genius." And, indeed, most of the great works which have been produced in the world have been owing less to the poet than the patron. Men of the greatest genius are sometimes lazy, and want a spur; often modest, and dare not venture in publick: they certainly know their faults in the worst things; and even their best things they are not fond of, because the idea of what they ought to be is far above what they are. This induced me to believe that Virgil desired his works might be burnt, had not the same Augustus that desired him to write them, preserved them from destruction. A scribbling beau may imagine a poet _may_ be induced to write, by the very pleasure he finds in writing; but that is seldom, when people are necessitated to it. I have known men row, and use very hard labour, for diversion, which, if they had been tied to, they would have thought themselves very unhappy. "But to return to Blenheim, that work so much admired by some, and censured by others. I have often wished he had wrote it in Latin, that he might be out of the reach of the empty criticks, who could have as little understood his meaning in that language as they do his beauties in his own. "False criticks have been the plague of all ages; Milton himself, in a very polite court, has been compared to the rumbling of a wheelbarrow: he had been on the wrong side, and, therefore, could not be a good poet. And this, perhaps, may be Mr. Philips's case. "But I take, generally, the ignorance of his readers to be the occasion of their dislike. People that have formed their taste upon the French writers can have no relish for Philips: they admire points and turns, and, consequently, have no judgment of what is great and majestick; he must look little in their eyes, when he soars so high as to be almost out of their view. I cannot, therefore, allow any admirer of the French to be a judge of Blenheim, nor any who takes Bouhours for a complete critick. He generally judges of the ancients by the moderns, and not the moderns by the ancients; he takes those passages of their own authors to be really sublime which come the nearest to it; he often calls that a noble and a great thought which is only a pretty and a fine one; and has more instances of the sublime out of Ovid de Tristibus, than he has out of all Virgil. "I shall allow, therefore, only those to be judges of Philips, who make the ancients, and particularly Virgil, their standard. "But, before I enter on this subject, I shall consider what is particular in the style of Philips, and examine what ought to be the style of heroick poetry; and next inquire how far he is come up to that style. "His style is particular, because he lays aside rhyme, and writes in blank verse, and uses old words, and frequently postpones the adjective to the substantive, and the substantive to the verb; and leaves out little particles, _a_, and _the_; _her_, and _his_; and uses frequent appositions. Now let us examine, whether these alterations of style be conformable to the true sublime." [Footnote 90: Isaac Vossius relates, that he also delighted in having his hair combed when he could have it done by barbers or other persons skilled in the rules of prosody. Of the passage that contains this ridiculous fancy, the following is a translation: "Many people take delight in the rubbing of their limbs, and the combing of their hair; but these exercises would delight much more, if the servants at the baths, and of the barbers, were so skilful in this art, that they could express any measures with their fingers. I remember that more than once I have fallen into the hands of men of this sort, who could imitate any measure of songs in combing the hair, so as sometimes to express very intelligibly iambics, trochees, dactyls, &c. from whence there arose to me no small delight." See his treatise de Poematum Cantu et Viribus Rythmi. Oxon. 1673. p. 62. II.] [Footnote 91: This ode I am willing to mention, because there seems to be an errour in all the printed copies, which is, I find, retained in the last. They all read; Quam Gratiarum cura decentium O! O! labellis cui Venus insidet. The author probably wrote, Quam Gratiarum cura decentium Ornat; labellis cui Venus insidet. Dr. J. Hannes was professor of chemistry at Oxford, and wrote one or two poems in the Musae Anglicanae. J.B.] WALSH. William Walsh, the son of Joseph Walsh, esq. of Abberley, in Worcestershire, was born in 1663, as appears from the account of Wood, who relates, that at the age of fifteen he became, in 1678, a gentleman commoner of Wadham college. He left the university without a degree, and pursued his studies in London and at home; that he studied, in whatever place, is apparent from the effect, for he became, in Mr. Dryden's opinion, "the best critick in the nation." He was not, however, merely a critick or a scholar, but a man of fashion, and, as Dennis remarks, ostentatiously splendid in his dress. He was, likewise, a member of parliament and a courtier, knight of the shire for his native county in several parliaments; in another the representative of Richmond in Yorkshire; and gentleman of the horse to queen Anne, under the duke of Somerset. Some of his verses show him to have been a zealous friend to the revolution; but his political ardour did not abate his reverence or kindness for Dryden, to whom he gave a Dissertation on Virgil's Pastorals, in which, however studied, he discovers some ignorance of the laws of French versification. In 1705, he began to correspond with Mr. Pope, in whom he discovered very early the power of poetry. Their letters are written upon the pastoral comedy of the Italians, and those pastorals which Pope was then preparing to publish. The kindnesses which are first experienced are seldom forgotten. Pope always retained a grateful memory of Walsh's notice, and mentioned him, in one of his latter pieces, among those that had encouraged his juvenile studies: Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write. In his Essay on Criticism he had given him more splendid praise; and, in the opinion of his learned commentator, sacrificed a little of his judgment to his gratitude. The time of his death I have not learned. It must have happened between 1707, when he wrote to Pope, and 1711, when Pope praised him in his Essay. The epitaph makes him forty-six years old: if Wood's account be right, he died in 1709. He is known more by his familiarity with greater men, than by any thing done or written by himself. His works are not numerous. In prose he wrote Eugenia, a Defence of Women; which Dryden honoured with a preface. Esculapius, or the Hospital of Fools, published after his death. A Collection of Letters and Poems, amorous and gallant, was published in the volumes called Dryden's Miscellany, and some other occasional pieces. To his poems and letters is prefixed a very judicious preface upon epistolary composition and amorous poetry. In his Golden Age Restored, there was something of humour, while the facts were recent; but it now strikes no longer. In his imitation of Horace, the first stanzas are happily turned; and, in all his writings, there are pleasing passages. He has, however, more elegance than vigour, and seldom rises higher than to be pretty. DRYDEN[92]. Of the great poet whose life I am about to delineate, the curiosity which his reputation must excite, will require a display more ample than can now be given. His contemporaries, however they reverenced his genius, left his life unwritten; and nothing, therefore, can be known beyond what casual mention and uncertain tradition have supplied. John Dryden was born August 9, 1631[93], at Aldwinkle, near Oundle, the son of Erasmus Dryden, of Titchmersh; who was the third son of sir Erasmus Dryden, baronet, of Canons Ashby. All these places are in Northamptonshire; but the original stock of the family was in the county of Huntingdon[94]. He is reported by his last biographer, Derrick, to have inherited, from his father, an estate of two hundred a year, and to have been bred, as was said, an anabaptist. For either of these particulars no authority is given[95]. Such a fortune ought to have secured him from that poverty which seems always to have oppressed him; or, if he had wasted it, to have made him ashamed of publishing his necessities. But, though he had many enemies, who, undoubtedly, examined his life with a scrutiny sufficiently malicious, I do not remember that he is ever charged with waste of his patrimony. He was, indeed, sometimes reproached for his first religion. I am, therefore, inclined to believe that Derrick's intelligence was partly true and partly erroneous[96]. From Westminster school, where he was instructed, as one of the king's scholars, by Dr. Busby, whom he long after continued to reverence, he was, in 1650, elected to one of the Westminster scholarships at Cambridge[97]. Of his school performances has appeared only a poem on the death of lord Hastings, composed with great ambition of such conceits as, notwithstanding the reformation begun by Waller and Denham, the example of Cowley still kept in reputation. Lord Hastings died of the smallpox; and his poet has made of the pustules first rosebuds, and then gems; at last exalts them into stars; and says, No comet need foretell his change drew on, Whose corpse might seem a constellation. At the university he does not appear to have been eager of poetical distinction, or to have lavished his early wit either on fictitious subjects, or publick occasions. He probably considered, that he, who proposed to be an author, ought first to be a student. He obtained, whatever was the reason, no fellowship in the college. Why he was excluded cannot now be known, and it is vain to guess; had he thought himself injured, he knew how to complain. In the life of Plutarch he mentions his education in the college with gratitude; but, in a prologue at Oxford, he has these lines: Oxford to him a dearer name shall be Than his own mother-university: Thebes did his rude, unknowing youth engage; He chooses Athens in his riper age. It was not till the death of Cromwell, in 1658, that he became a publick candidate for fame, by publishing Heroick Stanzas on the late Lord Protector[98]; which, compared with the verses of Sprat and Waller, on the same occasion, were sufficient to raise great expectations of the rising poet. When the king was restored, Dryden, like the other panegyrists of usurpation, changed his opinion, or his profession, and published Astrea Redux; a poem on the happy Restoration and Return of his most sacred Majesty King Charles the second. The reproach of inconstancy was, on this occasion, shared with such numbers, that it produced neither hatred nor disgrace! if he changed, he changed with the nation. It was, however, not totally forgotten when his reputation raised him enemies. The same year he praised the new king in a second poem on his restoration. In the Astrea was the line, An horrid _stillness_ first _invades_ the _ear_, And in that silence we a tempest fear-- for which he was persecuted with perpetual ridicule, perhaps with more than was deserved. _Silence_ is, indeed, mere privation; and, so considered, cannot _invade_; but privation, likewise, certainly is _darkness_, and probably _cold_; yet poetry has never been refused the right of ascribing effects or agency to them as to positive powers. No man scruples to say that _darkness_ hinders him from his work; or that _cold_ has killed the plants. Death is also privation; yet who has made any difficulty of assigning to death a dart, and the power of striking? In settling the order of his works there is some difficulty; for, even when they are important enough to be formally offered to a patron, he does not commonly date his dedication; the time of writing and publishing is not always the same; nor can the first editions be easily found, if even from them could be obtained the necessary information[99]. The time at which his first play was exhibited is not certainly known, because it was not printed till it was, some years afterwards, altered and revived; but since the plays are said to be printed in the order in which they were written, from the dates of some, those of others may be inferred; and thus it may be collected, that in 1663, in the thirty-second year of his life, he commenced a writer for the stage; compelled, undoubtedly, by necessity, for he appears never to have loved that exercise of his genius, or to have much pleased himself with his own dramas. Of the stage, when he had once invaded it, he kept possession for many years; not, indeed, without the competition of rivals who sometimes prevailed, or the censure of criticks, which was often poignant, and often just; but with such a degree of reputation as made him, at least, secure of being heard, whatever might be the final determination of the publick. His first piece was a comedy called the Wild Gallant[100]. He began with no happy auguries; for his performance was so much disapproved, that he was compelled to recall it, and change it from its imperfect state to the form in which it now appears, and which is yet sufficiently defective to vindicate the criticks. I wish that there were no necessity of following the progress of his theatrical fame, or tracing the meanders of his mind through the whole series of his dramatick performances; it will be fit, however, to enumerate them, and to take especial notice of those that are distinguished by any peculiarity, intrinsick or concomitant; for the composition and fate of eight-and-twenty dramas, include too much of a poetical life to be omitted. In 1664, he published the Rival Ladies, which he dedicated to the earl of Orrery, a man of high reputation both as a writer, and a statesman. In this play he made his essay of dramatick rhyme, which he defends in his dedication, with sufficient certainty of a favourable hearing; for Orrery was himself a writer of rhyming tragedies. He then joined with sir Robert Howard in the Indian Queen, a tragedy in rhyme. The parts which either of them wrote are not distinguished. The Indian Emperor was published in 1667. It is a tragedy in rhyme, intended for a sequel to Howard's Indian Queen. Of this connexion notice was given to the audience by printed bills, distributed at the door; an expedient supposed to be ridiculed in the Rehearsal, where Bayes tells how many reams he has printed, to instil into the audience some conception of his plot. In this play is the description of night, which Rymer has made famous by preferring it to those of all other poets. The practice of making tragedies in rhyme was introduced soon after the restoration, as it seems, by the earl of Orrery, in compliance with the opinion of Charles the second, who had formed his taste by the French theatre; and Dryden, who wrote, and made no difficulty of declaring that he wrote, only to please, and who, perhaps, knew that by his dexterity of versification he was more likely to excel others in rhyme than without it, very readily adopted his master's preference. He, therefore, made rhyming tragedies, till, by the prevalence of manifest propriety, he seems to have grown ashamed of making them any longer. To this play is prefixed a very vehement defence of dramatick rhyme, in confutation of the preface to the Duke of Lerma, in which sir Robert Howard had censured it. In 1667, he published Annus Mirabilis, the Year of Wonders, which may be esteemed one of his most elaborate works. It is addressed to sir Robert Howard by a letter, which is not properly a dedication; and, writing to a poet, he has interspersed many critical observations, of which some are common, and some, perhaps, ventured without much consideration. He began, even now, to exercise the domination of conscious genius, by recommending his own performance: "I am satisfied that as the prince and general [Rupert and Monk] are incomparably the best subjects I ever had, so what I have written on them is much better than what I have performed on any other. As I have endeavoured to adorn my poem with noble thoughts, so much more to express those thoughts with elocution." It is written in quatrains, or heroick stanzas of four lines; a measure which he had learned from the Gondibert of Davenant, and which he then thought the most majestick that the English language affords. Of this stanza he mentions the incumbrances, increased as they were by the exactness which the age required. It was, throughout his life, very much his custom to recommend his works, by representation of the difficulties that he had encountered, without appearing to have sufficiently considered, that where there is no difficulty there is no praise. There seems to be, in the conduct of sir Robert Howard and Dryden towards each other, something that is not now easily to be explained[101]. Dryden, in his dedication to the earl of Orrery, had defended dramatick rhyme; and Howard, in the preface to a collection of plays, had censured his opinion. Dryden vindicated himself in his Dialogue on Dramatick Poetry: Howard, in his preface to the Duke of Lerma, animadverted on the vindication; and Dryden, in a preface to the Indian Emperor, replied to the animadversions with great asperity, and almost with contumely. The dedication to this play is dated the year in which the Annus Mirabilis was published. Here appears a strange inconsistency; but Langbaine affords some help, by relating that the answer to Howard was not published in the first edition of the play, but was added when it was afterwards reprinted; and, as the Duke of Lerma did not appear till 1668, the same year in which the dialogue was published, there was time enough for enmity to grow up between authors, who, writing both for the theatre, were naturally rivals. He was now so much distinguished, that, in 1668[102], he succeeded sir William Davenant as poet laureate. The salary of the laureate had been raised in favour of Jonson, by Charles the first, from a hundred marks to one hundred pounds a year, and a tierce of wine; a revenue, in those days, not inadequate to the conveniencies of life. The same year he published his Essay on Dramatick Poetry, an elegant and instructive dialogue; in which we are told, by Prior, that the principal character is meant to represent the duke of Dorset. This work seems to have given Addison a model for his Dialogues upon Medals. Secret Love, or the Maiden Queen, 1668, is a tragicomedy. In the preface he discusses a curious question, whether a poet can judge well of his own productions? and determines very justly, that, of the plan and disposition, and all that can be reduced to principles of science, the author may depend upon his own opinion; but that, in those parts where fancy predominates, self-love may easily deceive. He might have observed, that what is good only because it pleases, cannot be pronounced good till it has been found to please. Sir Martin Mar-all, 1668, is a comedy published without preface or dedication, and at first without the name of the author. Langbaine charges it, like most of the rest, with plagiarism; and observes, that the song is translated from Voiture, allowing, however, that both the sense and measure are exactly observed. The Tempest, 1670, is an alteration of Shakespeare's play, made by Dryden in conjunction with Davenant; "whom," says he, "I found of so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to him in which he could not suddenly produce a thought extremely pleasant and surprising; and those first thoughts of his, contrary to the Latin proverb, were not always the least happy; and as his fancy was quick, so, likewise, were the products of it remote and new. He borrowed not of any other; and his imaginations were such as could not easily enter into any other man." The effect produced by the conjunction of these two powerful minds was, that to Shakespeare's monster, Caliban, is added a sister monster, Sycorax; and a woman, who, in the original play, had never seen a man, is, in this, brought acquainted with a man that had never seen a woman. About this time, in 1673, Dryden seems to have had his quiet much disturbed by the success of the Emperess of Morocco, a tragedy written in rhyme, by Elkanah Settle; which was so much applauded, as to make him think his supremacy of reputation in some danger. Settle had not only been prosperous on the stage, but, in the confidence of success, had published his play, with sculptures and a preface of defiance. Here was one offence added to another; and, for the last blast of inflammation, it was acted at Whitehall by the court ladies. Dryden could not now repress those emotions, which he called indignation, and others jealousy; but wrote upon the play and the dedication such criticism as malignant impatience could pour out in haste. Of Settle he gives this character: "He's an animal of a most deplored understanding, without reading and conversation. His being is in a twilight of sense, and some glimmering of thought, which he can never fashion into wit or English. His style is boisterous and rough-hewn, his rhyme incorrigibly lewd, and his numbers perpetually harsh and ill-sounding. The little talent which he has, is fancy. He sometimes labours with a thought; but, with the pudder he makes to bring it into the world, 'tis commonly stillborn; so that, for want of learning and elocution, he will never be able to express any thing either naturally or justly." This is not very decent; yet this is one of the pages in which criticism prevails most over brutal fury. He proceeds: "He has a heavy hand at fools, and a great felicity in writing nonsense for them. Fools they will be, in spite of him. His king, his two emperesses, his villain, and his sub-villain, nay, his hero, have all a certain natural cast of the father--their folly was born and bred in them, and something of the Elkanah will be visible." This is Dryden's general declamation; I will not withhold from the reader a particular remark. Having gone through the first act, he says: "To conclude this act with the most rumbling piece of nonsense spoken yet: "To flatt'ring lightning our feign'd smiles conform, Which, back'd with thunder, do but gild a storm. "_Conform a smile to lightning_, make a _smile_ imitate _lightning_, and _flattering lightning_: lightning, sure, is a threatening thing. And this lightning must _gild a storm_. Now, if I must conform my smiles to lightning, then my smiles must gild a storm too: to _gild_ with _smiles_, is a new invention of gilding. And gild a storm by being _backed with thunder_. Thunder is part of the storm; so one part of the storm must help to _gild_ another part, and help by _backing_; as if a man would gild a thing the better for being backed, or having a load upon his back. So that here is _gilding_ by _conforming, smiling, lightning, backing_, and _thundering_. The whole is as if I should say thus: I will make my counterfeit smiles look like a flattering stonehorse, which, being backed with a trooper, does but gild the battle. I am mistaken, if nonsense is not here pretty thick sown. Sure the poet writ these two lines aboard some smack in a storm, and, being sea-sick, spewed up a good lump of clotted nonsense at once." Here is, perhaps, a sufficient specimen; but as the pamphlet, though Dryden's, has never been thought worthy of republication, and is not easily to be found, it may gratify curiosity to quote it more largely: "Whene'er she bleeds, He no severer a damnation needs, That dares pronounce the sentence of her death, Than the infection that attends that breath. "_That attends that breath_. The poet is at _breath_ again; _breath_ can never scape him; and here he brings in a _breath_ that must be _infectious_ with _pronouncing_ a sentence; and this sentence is not to be pronounced till the condemned party _bleeds_; that is, she must be executed first, and sentenced after; and the _pronouncing_ of this _sentence_ will be infectious; that is, others will catch the disease of that sentence, and this infecting of others will torment a man's self. The whole is thus: when she bleeds, thou needest no greater hell or torment to thyself, than infecting of others by pronouncing a sentence upon her. What hodge-podge does he make here! Never was Dutch grout such clogging, thick, indigestible stuff. But this is but a taste to stay the stomach; we shall have a more plentiful mess presently. "Now to dish up the poet's broth, that I promised: "For when we're dead, and our freed souls enlarg'd, Of nature's grosser burden we're discharg'd, Then gently, as a happy lover's sigh, Like wand'ring meteors through the air we'll fly, And in our airy walk, as subtle guests, We'll steal into our cruel fathers' breasts, There read their souls, and track each passion's sphere: See how revenge moves there, ambition here! And in their orbs view the dark characters Of sieges, ruins, murders, blood, and wars. We'll blot out all those hideous draughts, and write Pure and white forms; then with a radiant light Their breasts encircle, till their passions be Gentle as nature in its infancy; Till, soften'd by our charms, their furies cease, And their revenge resolves into a peace. Thus by our death their quarrel ends, Whom living we made foes, dead we'll make friends. "If this be not a very liberal mess, I will refer myself to the stomach of any moderate guest. And a rare mess it is, far excelling any Westminster white-broth. It is a kind of giblet porridge, made of the giblets of a couple of young geese, stodged full of meteors, orbs, spheres, track, hideous draughts, dark characters, white forms, and radiant lights; designed not only to please appetite, and indulge luxury, but it is also physical, being an approved medicine to purge choler: for it is propounded by Morena, as a receipt to cure their fathers of their cholerick humours; and, were it written in characters as barbarous as the words, might very well pass for a doctor's bill. To conclude: it is porridge, 'tis a receipt, 'tis a pig with a pudding in the belly, 'tis I know not what: for, certainly, never any one that pretended to write sense, had the impudence before to put such stuff as this into the mouths of those that were to speak it before an audience, whom he did not take to be all fools; and, after that, to print it too, and expose it to the examination of the world. But let us see what we can make of this stuff: "For when we're dead, and our freed souls enlarg'd-- "Here he tells us what it is to be _dead_; it is to have _our freed souls set free_. Now, if to have a soul set free, is to be dead; then to have a _freed soul_ set free, is to have a dead man die. "Then gentle, as a happy lover's sigh-- "They two like one _sigh_, and that one _sigh_ like two wandering meteors, "Shall fly through the air-- "That is, they shall mount above like falling stars, or else they shall skip like two Jacks with lanterns, or Will with a wisp, and Madge with a candle. "_And in their airy walk steal into their cruel fathers' breasts, like subtle guests_. So that their _fathers' breasts_ must be in an _airy walk_, an airy _walk_ of a _flier. And there they will read their souls, and track the spheres of their passions_. That is, these walking fliers, Jack with a lantern, &c. will put on his spectacles, and fall a _reading souls_, and put on his pumps and fall a _tracking of spheres_; so that he will read and run, walk and fly, at the same time! Oh! Nimble Jack! _Then he will see, how revenge here, how ambition there_--The birds will hop about. _And then view the dark characters of sieges, ruins, murders, blood, and wars, in their orbs: track the characters_ to their forms! Oh! rare sport for Jack! Never was place so full of game as these breasts! You cannot stir, but flush a sphere, start a character, or unkennel an orb!" Settle's is said to have been the first play embellished with sculptures; those ornaments seem to have given poor Dryden great disturbance. He tries, however, to ease his pain by venting his malice in a parody: "The poet has not only been so impudent to expose all this stuff, but so arrogant to defend it with an epistle; like a saucy booth-keeper, that, when he had put a cheat upon the people, would wrangle and fight with any that would not like it, or would offer to discover it; for which arrogance our poet receives this correction; and, to jerk him a little the sharper, I will not transpose his verse, but by the help of his own words transnonsense sense, that, by my stuff, people may judge the better what his is: "Great boy, thy tragedy and sculptures done, From press and plates, in fleets do homeward come; And in ridiculous and humble pride, Their course in ballad-singers' baskets guide, Whose greasy twigs do all new beauties take, From the gay shows thy dainty sculptures make. Thy lines a mess of rhyming nonsense yield, A senseless tale, with flattering fustian fill'd. No grain of sense does in one line appear, Thy words big bulks of boist'rous bombast bear, With noise they move, and from play'rs' mouths rebound, When their tongues dance to thy words' empty sound. By thee inspir'd the rumbling verses roll, As if that rhyme and bombast lent a soul: And with that soul they seem taught duty too; To huffing words does humble nonsense bow, As if it would thy worthless worth enhance, To th' lowest rank of fops thy praise advance, To whom, by instinct, all thy stuff is dear: Their loud claps echo to the theatre: From breaths of fools thy commendation spreads, Fame sings thy praise with mouths of loggerheads. With noise and laughing each thy fustian greets, 'Tis clapt by choirs of empty-headed cits, Who have their tribute sent, and homage given, As men in whispers send loud noise to heaven. "Thus I have daubed him with his own puddle: and now we are come from aboard his dancing, masking, rebounding, breathing fleet; and, as if we had landed at Gotham, we meet nothing but fools and nonsense." Such was the criticism to which the genius of Dryden could be reduced, between rage and terrour; rage with little provocation, and terrour with little danger. To see the highest minds thus levelled with the meanest, may produce some solace to the consciousness of weakness, and some mortification to the pride of wisdom. But let it be remembered, that minds are not levelled in their powers but when they are first levelled in their desires. Dryden and Settle had both placed their happiness in the claps of multitudes. An Evening's Love, or the Mock Astrologer, a comedy, 1671, is dedicated to the illustrious duke of Newcastle, whom he courts by adding to his praises those of his lady, not only as a lover but a partner of his studies. It is unpleasing to think how many names, once celebrated, are since forgotten. Of Newcastle's works nothing is now known but his Treatise on Horsemanship. The preface seems very elaborately written, and contains many just remarks on the fathers of English drama. Shakespeare's plots, he says, are in the hundred novels of Cinthio; those of Beaumont and Fletcher in Spanish Stories; Jonson only made them for himself. His criticisms upon tragedy, comedy, and farce, are judicious and profound. He endeavours to defend the immorality of some of his comedies by the example of former writers; which is only to say, that he was not the first, nor, perhaps, the greatest offender. Against those that accused him of plagiarism he alleges a favourable expression of the king: "He only desired that they, who accuse me of thefts, would steal him plays like mine;" and then relates how much labour he spends in fitting for the English stage what he borrows from others. Tyrannick Love, or the Virgin Martyr, 1672, was another tragedy in rhyme, conspicuous for many passages of strength and elegance, and many of empty noise and ridiculous turbulence. The rants of Maximin have been always the sport of criticism; and were, at length, if his own confession may be trusted, the shame of the writer. Of this play he takes care to let the reader know, that it was contrived and written in seven weeks. Want of time was often his excuse, or, perhaps, shortness of time was his private boast, in the form of an apology. It was written before the Conquest of Granada, but published after it. The design is to recommend piety: "I considered that pleasure was not the only end of poesy; and that even the instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a poet, as that precepts and examples of piety were to be omitted; for to leave that employment altogether to the clergy, were to forget that religion was first taught in verse, which the laziness or dulness of succeeding priesthood turned afterwards into prose." Thus foolishly could Dryden write, rather than not show his malice to the parsons. The two parts of the Conquest of Granada, 1672, are written with a seeming determination to glut the publick with dramatick wonders; to exhibit, in its highest elevation, a theatrical meteor of incredible love and impossible valour, and to leave no room for a wilder flight to the extravagance of posterity. All the rays of romantick heat, whether amorous or warlike, glow in Almanzor, by a kind of concentration. He is above all laws; he is exempt from all restraints; he ranges the world at will, and governs wherever he appears. He fights without inquiring the cause, and loves, in spite of the obligations of justice, of rejection by his mistress, and of prohibition from the dead. Yet the scenes are, for the most part, delightful; they exhibit a kind of illustrious depravity, and majestick madness; such as, if it is sometimes despised, is often reverenced, and in which the ridiculous is mingled with the astonishing. In the epilogue to the second part of the Conquest of Granada, Dryden indulges his favourite pleasure of discrediting his predecessors; and this epilogue he has defended by a long postscript. He had promised a second dialogue, in which he should more fully treat of the virtues and faults of the English poets, who have written in the dramatick, epick, or lyrick way. This promise was never formally performed; but, with respect to the dramatick writers, he has given us in his prefaces, and in this postscript, something equivalent; but his purpose being to exalt himself by the comparison, he shows faults distinctly, and only praises excellence in general terms. A play thus written, in professed defiance of probability, naturally drew down upon itself the vultures of the theatre. One of the criticks that attacked it was Martin Clifford, to whom Sprat addressed the Life of Cowley, with such veneration of his critical powers as might naturally excite great expectations of instruction from his remarks. But let honest credulity beware of receiving characters from contemporary writers. Clifford's remarks, by the favour of Dr. Percy, were, at last, obtained; and that no man may ever want them more, I will extract enough to satisfy all reasonable desire. In the first letter his observation is only general: "You do live," says he, "in as much ignorance and darkness as you did in the womb: your writings are like a Jack-of-all-trades' shop; they have a variety, but nothing of value; and if thou art not the dullest plant-animal that ever the earth produced, all that I have conversed with are strangely mistaken in thee." In the second, he tells him that Almanzor is not more copied from Achilles than from Ancient Pistol: "But I am," says he, "strangely mistaken if I have not seen this very Almanzor of yours in some disguise about this town, and passing under another name. Pr'ythee tell me true, was not this Huffcap once the Indian Emperor? and, at another time, did he not call himself Maximin? Was riot Lyndaraxa once called Almeira? I mean under Montezuma the Indian Emperor. I protest and vow they are either the same, or so alike that I cannot, for my heart, distinguish one from the other. You are, therefore, a strange unconscionable thief; thou art not content to steal from others, but dost rob thy poor wretched self too." Now was Settle's time to take his revenge. He wrote a vindication of his own lines; and, if he is forced to yield any thing, makes reprisals upon his enemy. To say that his answer is equal to the censure, is no high commendation. To expose Dryden's method of analyzing his expressions, he tries the same experiment upon the description of the ships in the Indian Emperor, of which, however, he does not deny the excellence; but intends to show, that, by studied misconstruction, every thing may be equally represented as ridiculous. After so much of Dryden's elegant animadversions, justice requires that something of Settle's should be exhibited. The following observations are, therefore, extracted from a quarto pamphlet of ninety-five pages: "Fate after him below with pain did move, And victory could scarce keep pace above. "These two lines, if he can show me any sense or thought in, or any thing but bombast and noise, he shall make me believe every word in his observations on Morocco sense. "In the Empress of Morocco were these lines: "I'll travel then to some remoter sphere, Till I find out new worlds, and crown you there. "On which Dryden made this remark: "'I believe our learned author takes a sphere for a country: the sphere of Morocco; as if Morocco were the globe of earth and water; but a globe is no sphere neither, by his leave,' &c. So _sphere_ must not be sense, unless it relate to a circular motion about a globe, in which sense the astronomers use it. I would desire him to expound those lines in Granada: "I'll to the turrets of the palace go, And add new fire to those that fight below. Thence, hero-like, with torches by my side, (Far be the omen though) my love I'll guide. No, like his better fortune I'll appear, With open arms, loose veil, and flowing hair. Just flying forward from my rowling sphere. "I wonder, if he be so strict, how he dares make so bold with _sphere_ himself, and be so critical in other men's writings. Fortune is fancied standing on a globe, not on a _sphere_, as he told us in the first act. "Because 'Elkanah's similes are the most unlike things to what they are compared in the world,' I'll venture to start a simile in his Annus Mirabilis: he gives this poetical description of the ship called the London: "The goodly London in her gallant trim, The phoenix-daughter of the vanquisht old, Like a rich bride does on the ocean swim, And on her shadow rides in floating gold. Her flag aloft spread ruffling in the wind, And sanguine streamers seem'd the flood to fire: The weaver, charm'd with what his loom design'd, Goes on to sea, and knows not to retire. With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves, Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length, She seems a sea-wasp flying on the waves. "What a wonderful pother is here, to make all these poetical beautifications of a ship! that is a _phoenix_ in the first stanza, and but a _wasp_ in the last: nay, to make his humble comparison of a _wasp_ more ridiculous, he does not say it flies upon the waves as nimbly as a wasp, or the like, but it seemed a _wasp_. But our author at the writing of this was not in his altitudes, to compare ships to floating palaces: a comparison to the purpose, was a perfection he did not arrive to till his Indian Emperor's days. But, perhaps, his similitude has more in it than we imagine; this ship had a great many guns in her, and they, put all together, made the sting in the wasp's tail; for this is all the reason I can guess, why it seem'd a _wasp_. But, because we will allow him all we can to help out, let it be a _phoenix sea-wasp_, and the rarity of such an animal may do much towards heightening the fancy. "It had been much more to his purpose, if he had designed to render the senseless play little, to have searched for some such pedantry as this: "Two ifs scarce make one possibility. If justice will take all and nothing give, Justice, methinks, is not distributive. To die or kill you, is the alternative. Rather than take your life, I will not live. "Observe how prettily our author chops logick in heroick verse. Three such fustian canting words as _distributive, alternative_, and _two ifs_, no man but himself would have come within the noise of. But he's a man of general learning, and all comes into his play. "'Twould have done well too if he could have met with a rant or two, worth the observation; such as, "Move swiftly, sun, and fly a lover's pace, Leave months and weeks behind thee in thy race. "But surely the sun, whether he flies a lover's or not a lover's pace, leaves weeks and months, nay, years too, behind him in his race. "Poor Robin, or any other of the philo-mathematicks, would have given him satisfaction in the point: "If I could kill thee now, thy fate's so low, That I must stoop, ere I can give the blow. But mine is fixt so far above thy crown, That all thy men, Piled on thy back, can never pull it down. "Now where that is, Almanzor's fate is fixt, I cannot guess; but, wherever it is, I believe Almanzor, and think that all Abdalla's subjects, piled upon one another, might not pull down his fate so well as without piling: besides, I think Abdalla so wise a man, that, if Almanzor had told him piling his men upon his back might do the feat, he would scarce bear such a weight, for the pleasure of the exploit; but it is a huff, and let Abdalla do it if he dare. "The people like a headlong torrent go, And ev'ry dam they break or overflow. But, unoppos'd, they either lose their force, Or wind in volumes to their former course. "A very pretty allusion, contrary to all sense or reason. Torrents, I take it, let them wind never so much, can never return to their former course, unless he can suppose that fountains can go upwards, which is impossible; nay, more, in the foregoing page he tells us so too; a trick of a very unfaithful memory: "But can no more than fountains upward flow; "which of a _torrent_, which signifies a rapid stream, is much more impossible. Besides, if he goes to quibble, and say that it is possible by art water may be made return, and the same water run twice in one and the same channel: then he quite confutes what he says; for it is by being opposed, that it runs into its former course; for all engines that make water so return, do it by compulsion and opposition. Or, if he means a headlong torrent for a tide, which would be ridiculous, yet they do riot wind in volumes, but come foreright back, (if their upright lies straight to their former course,) and that by opposition of the sea-water, that drives them back again. "And for fancy, when he lights of any thing like it, 'tis a wonder if it be not borrowed. As here, for example of, I find this fanciful thought in his Ann. Mirab. "Old father Thames rais'd up his rev'rend head; But fear'd the fate of Simoeis would return: Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed; And shrunk his waters back into his urn. "This is stolen from Cowley's Davideis, p. 9. "Swift Jordan started, and strait backward fled, Hiding amongst thick reeds his aged head. And when the Spaniards their assault begin, At once beat those without and those within. "This Almanzor speaks of himself; and, sure, for one man to conquer an army within the city, and another without the city, at once, is something difficult; but this flight is pardonable to some we meet with in Granada: Osmin, speaking of Almanzor, "Who, like a tempest that outrides the wind, Made a just battle, ere the bodies join'd. "Pray, what does this honourable person mean by a 'tempest that outrides the wind?' a tempest that outrides itself. To suppose a tempest without wind, is as bad as supposing a man to walk without feet; for if he supposes the tempest to be something distinct from the wind, yet, as being the effect of wind only, to come before the cause is a little preposterous; so that, if he takes it one way, or if he takes it the other, those two _ifs_ will scarce make one _possibility_." Enough of Settle. Marriage à-la-mode, 1673, is a comedy dedicated to the earl of Rochester; whom he acknowledges not only as the defender of his poetry, but the promoter of his fortune. Langbaine places this play in 1673. The earl of Rochester, therefore, was the famous Wilmot, whom yet tradition always represents as an enemy to Dryden, and who is mentioned by him with some disrespect in the preface to Juvenal. The Assignation, or Love in a Nunnery, a comedy, 1673, was driven off the stage, "against the opinion," as the author says, "of the best judges." It is dedicated, in a very elegant address, to sir Charles Sedley; in which he finds an opportunity for his usual complaint of hard treatment and unreasonable censure. Amboyna, 1673, is a tissue of mingled dialogue in verse and prose, and was, perhaps, written in less time than the Virgin Martyr; though the author thought not fit, either ostentatiously or mournfully, to tell how little labour it cost him, or at how short a warning he produced it. It was a temporary performance, written in the time of the Dutch war, to inflame the nation against their enemies; to whom he hopes, as he declares in his epilogue, to make his poetry not less destructive than that by which Tyrtaeus of old animated the Spartans. This play was written in the second Dutch war, in 1673. Troilus and Cressida, 1679, is a play altered from Shakespeare; but so altered, that, even in Langbaine's opinion, "the last scene in the third act is a masterpiece." It is introduced by a discourse on the grounds of criticism in tragedy, to which I suspect that Rymer's book had given occasion. The Spanish Fryar, 1681, is a tragicomedy, eminent for the happy coincidence and coalition of the two plots. As it was written against the papists, it would naturally, at that time, have friends and enemies; and partly by the popularity which it obtained at first, and partly by the real power both of the serious and risible part, it continued long a favourite of the publick. It was Dryden's opinion, at least for some time, and he maintains it in the dedication of this play, that the drama required an alternation of comick and tragick scenes; and that it is necessary to mitigate, by alleviations of merriment, the pressure of ponderous events, and the fatigue of toilsome passions. "Whoever," says he, "cannot perform both parts, is but half a writer for the stage." The Duke of Guise, a tragedy, 1683, written in conjunction with Lee, as Oedipus had been before, seems to deserve notice only for the offence which it gave to the remnant of the covenanters, and in general to the enemies of the court, who attacked him with great violence, and were answered by him; though, at last, he seems to withdraw from the conflict, by transferring the greater part of the blame or merit to his partner. It happened that a contract had been made between them, by which they were to join in writing a play; and "he happened," says Dryden, "to claim the promise just upon the finishing of a poem, when I would have been glad of a little respite. _Two_-thirds of it belonged to him; and to me only the first scene of the play, the whole fourth act, and the first half, or somewhat more, of the fifth." This was a play written professedly for the party of the duke of York, whose succession was then opposed. A parallel is intended between the leaguers of France, and the covenanters of England: and this intention produced the controversy. Albion and Albanius, 1685, is a musical drama or opera, written, like the Duke of Guise, against the republicans. With what success it was performed, I have not found[103]. The State of Innocence and Fall of Man, 1675, is termed, by him, an opera: it is rather a tragedy in heroick rhyme, but of which the personages are such as cannot decently be exhibited on the stage. Some such production was foreseen by Marvel, who writes thus to Milton: Or if a work so infinite be spann'd, Jealous I was, lest some less skilful hand (Such as disquiet always what is well, And by ill-imitating would excel,) Might hence presume the whole creation's day To change in scenes, and show it in a play. It is another of his hasty productions; for the heat of his imagination raised it in a month. This composition is addressed to the princess of Modena, then dutchess of York, in a strain of flattery which disgraces genius, and which it was wonderful that any man, that knew the meaning of his own words, could use without self-detestation. It is an attempt to mingle earth and heaven, by praising human excellence in the language of religion. The preface contains an apology for heroick verse and poetick license; by which is meant not any liberty taken in contracting or extending words, but the use of bold fictions and ambitious figures. The reason which he gives for printing what was never acted, cannot be overpassed: "I was induced to it in my own defence, many hundred copies of it being dispersed abroad without my knowledge or consent, and every one gathering new faults, it became, at length, a libel against me." These copies, as they gathered faults, were apparently manuscript; and he lived in an age very unlike ours, if many hundred copies of fourteen hundred lines were likely to be transcribed. An author has a right to print his own works, and needs not seek an apology in falsehood; but he that could bear to write the dedication, felt no pain in writing the preface. Aureng Zebe, 1676, is a tragedy founded on the actions of a great prince then reigning, but over nations not likely to employ their criticks upon the transactions of the English stage. If he had known and disliked his own character, our trade was not in those times secure from his resentment. His country is at such a distance, that the manners might be safely falsified, and the incidents feigned; for remoteness of place is remarked, by Racine, to afford the same conveniencies to a poet as length of time. This play is written in rhyme; and has the appearance of being the most elaborate of all the dramas. The personages are imperial; but the dialogue is often domestick, and, therefore, susceptible of sentiments accommodated to familiar incidents. The complaint of life is celebrated; and there are many other passages that may be read with pleasure. This play is addressed to the earl of Mulgrave, afterwards duke of Buckingham, himself, if not a poet, yet a writer of verses, and a critick. In this address Dryden gave the first hints of his intention to write an epick poem. He mentions his design in terms so obscure, that he seems afraid lest his plan should be purloined, as, he says, happened to him when he told it more plainly in his preface to Juvenal. "The design," says he, "you know is great, the story English, and neither too near the present times, nor too distant from them." All for Love, or the World well Lost, 1678, a tragedy, founded upon the story of Antony and Cleopatra, he tells us, "is the only play which he wrote for himself:" the rest were given to the people. It is, by universal consent, accounted the work in which he has admitted the fewest improprieties of style or character; but it has one fault equal to many, though rather moral than critical, that, by admitting the romantick omnipotence of love, he has recommended as laudable, and worthy of imitation, that conduct which, through all ages, the good have censured as vitious, and the bad despised as foolish. Of this play the prologue and the epilogue, though written upon the common topicks of malicious and ignorant criticism, and without any particular relation to the characters or incidents of the drama, are deservedly celebrated for their elegance and sprightliness. Limberham, or the kind Keeper, 1680, is a comedy, which, after the third night, was prohibited as too indecent for the stage. What gave offence, was in the printing, as the author says, altered or omitted. Dryden confesses that its indecency was objected to; but Langbaine, who yet seldom favours him, imputes its expulsion to resentment, because it "so much exposed the keeping part of the town." Oedipus, 1679, is a tragedy formed by Dryden and Lee, in conjunction, from the works of Sophocles, Seneca, and Corneille. Dryden planned the scenes, and composed the first and third acts. Don Sebastian, 1690, is commonly esteemed either the first or second of his dramatick performances. It is too long to be all acted, and has many characters and many incidents; and though it is not without sallies of frantick dignity, and more noise than meaning, yet, as it makes approaches to the possibilities of real life, and has some sentiments which leave a strong impression, it continued long to attract attention. Amidst the distresses of princes, and the vicissitudes of empire, are inserted several scenes which the writer intended for comick; but which, I suppose, that age did not much commend, and this would not endure. There are, however, passages of excellence universally acknowledged; the dispute and the reconciliation of Dorax and Sebastian has always been admired. This play was first acted in 1690, after Dryden had for some years discontinued dramatick poetry. Amphitryon is a comedy derived from Plautus and Molière. The dedication is dated Oct. 1690. This play seems to have succeeded at its first appearance; and was, I think, long considered as a very diverting entertainment. Cleomenes, 1692, is a tragedy, only remarkable as it occasioned an incident related in the Guardian, and allusively mentioned by Dryden in his preface. As he came out from the representation, he was accosted thus by some airy stripling: "Had I been left alone with a young beauty, I would not have spent my time like your Spartan." "That sir," said Dryden, "perhaps, is true; but give me leave to tell you, that you are no hero." King Arthur, 1691, is another opera. It was the last work that Dryden performed for king Charles, who did not live to see it exhibited; and it does not seem to have been ever brought upon the stage[104]. In the dedication to the marquis of Halifax, there is a very elegant character of Charles, and a pleasing account of his latter life. When this was first brought upon the stage, news that the duke of Monmouth had landed was told in the theatre; upon which the company departed, and Arthur was exhibited no more. His last drama was Love Triumphant, a tragicomedy. In his dedication to the earl of Salisbury he mentions "the lowness of fortune to which he has voluntarily reduced himself, and of which he has no reason to be ashamed." This play appeared in 1694. It is said to have been unsuccessful. The catastrophe, proceeding merely from a change of mind, is confessed by the author to be defective. Thus he began and ended his dramatick labours with ill success. From such a number of theatrical pieces, it will be supposed, by most readers, that he must have improved his fortune; at least, that such diligence, with such abilities, must have set penury at defiance. But in Dryden's time the drama was very far from that universal approbation which it has now obtained. The playhouse was abhorred by the puritans, and avoided by those who desired the character of seriousness or decency. A grave lawyer would have debased his dignity, and a young trader would have impaired his credit, by appearing in those mansions of dissolute licentiousness. The profits of the theatre, when so many classes of the people were deducted from the audience, were not great; and the poet had, for a long time, but a single night. The first that had two nights was Southern; and the first that had three was Howe. There were, however, in those days, arts of improving a poet's profit, which Dryden forbore to practise; and a play, therefore, seldom produced him more than a hundred pounds, by the accumulated gain of the third night, the dedication, and the copy. Almost every piece had a dedication, written with such elegance and luxuriance of praise, as neither haughtiness nor avarice could be imagined able to resist. But he seems to have made flattery too cheap. That praise is worth nothing of which the price is known. To increase the value of his copies, he often accompanied his work with a preface of criticism; a kind of learning then almost new in the English language, and which he, who had considered, with great accuracy, the principles of writing, was able to distribute copiously as occasions arose. By these dissertations the publick judgment must have been much improved; and Swift, who conversed with Dryden, relates that he regretted the success of his own instructions, and found his readers made suddenly too skilful to be easily satisfied. His prologues had such reputation, that for some time a play was considered as less likely to be well received, if some of his verses did not introduce it. The price of a prologue was two guineas, till, being asked to write one for Mr. Southern, he demanded three: "Not," said he, "young man, out of disrespect to you; but the players have had my goods too cheap[105]." Though he declares, that in his own opinion, his genius was not dramatick, he had great confidence in his own fertility; for he is said to have engaged, by contract, to furnish four plays a year. It is certain, that in one year, 1678[106], he published All for Love, Assignation, two parts of the Conquest of Granada, sir Martin Mar-all, and the State of Innocence, six complete plays; with a celerity of performance, which, though all Langbaine's charges of plagiarism should be allowed, shows such facility of composition, such readiness of language, and such copiousness of sentiment, as, since the time of Lopez de Vega, perhaps no other author has possessed. He did not enjoy his reputation, however great, nor his profits, however small, without molestation. He had criticks to endure, and rivals to oppose. The two most distinguished wits of the nobility, the duke of Buckingham and earl of Rochester, declared themselves his enemies. Buckingham characterized him, in 1671, by the name of Bayes, in the Rehearsal; a farce which he is said to have written with the assistance of Butler, the author of Hudibras; Martin Clifford, of the Charter-house; and Dr. Sprat, the friend of Cowley, then his chaplain. Dryden and his friends laughed at the length of time, and the number of hands, employed upon this performance; in which, though by some artifice of action it yet keeps possession of the stage, it is not possible now to find any thing that might not have been written without so long delay, or a confederacy so numerous. To adjust the minute events of literary history, is tedious and troublesome; it requires, indeed, no great force of understanding, but often depends upon inquiries which there is no opportunity of making, or is to be fetched from books and pamphlets not always at hand. The Rehearsal was played in 1671[107], and yet is represented as ridiculing passages in the Conquest of Granada and Assignation, which were not published till 1678; in Marriage à-la-mode, published in 1673; and in Tyrannick Love, in 1677. These contradictions show how rashly satire is applied[108]. It is said that this farce was originally intended against Davenant, who, in the first draught, was characterized by the name of Bilboa. Davenant had been a soldier and an adventurer. There is one passage in the Rehearsal still remaining, which seems to have related originally to Davenant. Bayes hurts his nose, and comes in with brown paper applied to the bruise; how this affected Dryden, does not appear. Davenant's nose had suffered such diminution by mishaps among the women, that a patch upon that part evidently denoted him. It is said, likewise, that sir Robert Howard was once meant. The design was, probably, to ridicule the reigning poet, whoever he might be. Much of the personal satire, to which it might owe its first reception, is now lost or obscured. Bayes, probably, imitated the dress, and mimicked the manner, of Dryden: the cant words which are so often in his mouth may be supposed to have been Dryden's habitual phrases, or customary exclamations. Bayes, when he is to write, is blooded and purged: this, as Lamotte relates himself to have heard, was the real practice of the poet. There were other strokes in the Rehearsal by which malice was gratified: the debate between love and honour, which keeps prince Volscius in a single boot, is said to have alluded to the misconduct of the duke of Ormond, who lost Dublin to the rebels, while he was toying with a mistress. The earl of Rochester, to suppress the reputation of Dryden, took Settle into his protection, and endeavoured to persuade the publick that its approbation had been to that time misplaced. Settle was awhile in high reputation: his Empress of Morocco, having first delighted the town, was carried in triumph to Whitehall, and played by the ladies of the court. Now was the poetical meteor at the highest; the next moment began its fall. Rochester withdrew his patronage; seeming resolved, says one of his biographers, "to have a judgment contrary to that of the town;" perhaps being unable to endure any reputation beyond a certain height, even when he had himself contributed to raise it. Neither criticks nor rivals did Dryden much mischief, unless they gained from his own temper the power of vexing him, which his frequent bursts of resentment give reason to suspect. He is always angry at some past, or afraid of some future censure; but he lessens the smart of his wounds by the balm of his own approbation, and endeavours to repel the shafts of criticism by opposing a shield of adamantine confidence. The perpetual accusation produced against him, was that of plagiarism, against which he never attempted any vigorous defence; for, though he was, perhaps, sometimes injuriously censured, he would, by denying part of the charge, have confessed the rest; and, as his adversaries had the proof in their own hands, he, who knew that wit had little power against facts, wisely left in that perplexity which generality produces a question which it was his interest to suppress, and which, unless provoked by vindication, few were likely to examine. Though the life of a writer, from about thirty-five to sixty-three, may be supposed to have been sufficiently busied by the composition of eight-and-twenty pieces for the stage, Dryden found room in the same space for many other undertakings. But, how much soever he wrote, he was at least once suspected of writing more; for, in 1679, a paper of verses, called an Essay on Satire, was shown about in manuscript; by which the earl of Rochester, the dutchess of Portsmouth, and others, were so much provoked, that, as was supposed, (for the actors were never discovered,) they procured Dryden, whom they suspected as the author, to be way-laid and beaten. This incident is mentioned by the duke of Buckinghamshire[109], the true writer, in his Art of Poetry; where he says of Dryden: Though prais'd and beaten for another's rhymes, His own deserve as great applause sometimes. His reputation in time was such, that his name was thought necessary to the success of every poetical or literary performance, and, therefore, he was engaged to contribute something, whatever it might be, to many publications. He prefixed the Life of Polybius to the translation of sir Henry Sheers; and those of Lucian and Plutarch, to versions of their works by different hands. Of the English Tacitus he translated the first book; and, if Gordon be credited, translated it from the French. Such a charge can hardly be mentioned without some degree of indignation; but it is not, I suppose, so much to be inferred, that Dryden wanted the literature necessary to the perusal of Tacitus, as that, considering himself as hidden in a crowd, he had no awe of the publick; and, writing merely for money, was contented to get it by the nearest way. In 1680, the Epistles of Ovid being translated by the poets of the time, among which one was the work of Dryden[110], and another of Dryden and lord Mulgrave, it was necessary to introduce them by a preface; and Dryden, who on such occasions was regularly summoned, prefixed a discourse upon translation, which was then struggling for the liberty that it now enjoys. Why it should find any difficulty in breaking the shackles of verbal interpretation, which must for ever debar it from elegance, it would be difficult to conjecture, were not the power of prejudice every day observed. The authority of Jonson, Sandys, and Holiday, had fixed the judgment of the nation; and it was not easily believed that a better way could be found than they had taken, though Fanshaw, Denham, Waller, and Cowley, had tried to give examples of a different practice. In 1681 Dryden became yet more conspicuous by uniting politicks with poetry, in the memorable satire, called Absalom and Achitophel, written against the faction which, by lord Shaftesbury's incitement, set the duke of Monmouth at its head. Of this poem, in which personal satire was applied to the support of publick principles, and in which, therefore, every mind was interested, the reception was eager, and the sale so large, that my father, an old bookseller, told me, he had not known it equalled but by Sacheverell's Trial. The reason of this general perusal Addison has attempted to derive from the delight which the mind feels in the investigation of secrets; and thinks that curiosity to decipher the names, procured readers to the poem. There is no need to inquire why those verses were read, which, to all the attractions of wit, elegance, and harmony, added the cooperation of all the factious passions, and filled every mind with triumph or resentment. It could not be supposed that all the provocation given by Dryden, would be endured without resistance or reply. Both his person and his party were exposed, in their turns, to the shafts of satire, which, though neither so well pointed, nor, perhaps, so well aimed, undoubtedly drew blood. One of these poems is called, Dryden's Satire on his Muse; ascribed, though, as Pope says, falsely, to Somers, who was afterwards chancellor. The poem, whosesoever it was, has much virulence, and some sprightliness. The writer tells all the ill that he can collect both of Dryden and his friends. The poem of Absalom and Achitophel had two answers, now both forgotten; one called Azaria and Hushai; the other, Absalom senior. Of these hostile compositions, Dryden apparently imputes Absalom senior to Settle, by quoting in his verses against him the second line. Azaria and Hushai was, as Wood says, imputed to him, though it is somewhat unlikely that he should write twice on the same occasion. This is a difficulty which I cannot remove, for want of a minuter knowledge of poetical transactions[111]. The same year he published The Medal, of which the subject is a medal struck on lord Shaftesbury's escape from a prosecution, by the _ignoramus_ of a grand jury of Londoners. In both poems he maintains the same principles, and saw them both attacked by the same antagonist. Elkanah Settle, who had answered Absalom, appeared with equal courage in opposition to The Medal, and published an answer called, The Medal Reversed, with so much success in both encounters, that he left the palm doubtful, and divided the suffrages of the nation. Such are the revolutions of fame, or such is the prevalence of fashion, that the man, whose works have not yet been thought to deserve the care of collecting them, who died forgotten in an hospital, and whose latter years were spent in contriving shows for fairs, and carrying an elegy or epithalamium, of which the beginning and end were occasionally varied, but the intermediate parts were always the same, to every house where there was a funeral or a wedding, might with truth have had inscribed upon his stone: Here lies the rival and antagonist of Dryden. Settle was, for this rebellion, severely chastised by Dryden, under the name of Doeg, in the second part of Absalom and Achitophel; and was, perhaps, for his factious audacity, made the city poet, whose annual office was to describe the glories of the mayor's day. Of these bards he was the last, and seems not much to have deserved even this degree of regard, if it was paid to his political opinions; for he afterwards wrote a panegyrick on the virtues of judge Jefferies; and what more could have been done by the meanest zealot for prerogative? Of translated fragments, or occasional poems, to enumerate the titles, or settle the dates, would be tedious, with little use. It may be observed, that, as Dryden's genius was commonly excited by some personal regard, he rarely writes upon a general topick. Soon after the accession of king James, when the design of reconciling the nation to the church of Rome became apparent, and the religion of the court gave the only efficacious title to its favours, Dryden declared himself a convert to popery. This, at any other time, might have passed with little censure. Sir Kenelm Digby embraced popery; the two Reynolds's reciprocally converted one another[112]; and Chillingworth himself was awhile so entangled in the wilds of controversy, as to retire for quiet to an infallible church. If men of argument and study can find such difficulties, or such motives, as may either unite them to the church of Rome, or detain them in uncertainty, there can be no wonder that a man, who, perhaps, never inquired why he was a protestant, should, by an artful and experienced disputant, be made a papist, overborne by the sudden violence of new and unexpected arguments, or deceived by a representation which shows only the doubts on one part, and only the evidence on the other. That conversion will always be suspected that apparently concurs with interest. He that never finds his errour till it hinders his progress towards wealth or honour, will not be thought to love truth only for herself. Yet it may easily happen that information may come at a commodious time; and, as truth and interest are not by any fatal necessity at variance, that one may by accident introduce the other. When opinions are struggling into popularity, the arguments by which they are opposed or defended become more known; and he that changes his profession would, perhaps, have changed it before, with the like opportunities of instruction. This was then the state of popery; every artifice was used to show it in its fairest form; and it must be owned to be a religion of external appearance sufficiently attractive. It is natural to hope that a comprehensive is, likewise, an elevated soul, and that whoever is wise is also honest. I am willing to believe that Dryden, having employed his mind, active as it was, upon different studies, and filled it, capacious as it was, with other materials, came unprovided to the controversy, and wanted rather skill to discover the right, than virtue to maintain it. But inquiries into the heart are not for man; we must now leave him to his judge. The priests, having strengthened their cause by so powerful an adherent, were not long before they brought him into action. They engaged him to defend the controversial papers found in the strong box of Charles the second; and, what yet was harder, to defend them against Stillingfleet. With hopes of promoting popery, he was employed to translate Maimbourg's History of the League; which he published with a large introduction. His name is, likewise, prefixed to the English Life of Francis Xavier; but I know not that he ever owned himself the translator. Perhaps the use of his name was a pious fraud, which, however, seems not to have had much effect; for neither of the books, I believe, was ever popular. The version of Xavier's Life is commended by Brown, in a pamphlet not written to flatter; and the occasion of it is said to have been, that the queen, when she solicited a son, made vows to him as her tutelary saint. He was supposed to have undertaken to translate Varillas's History of Heresies; and, when Burnet published remarks upon it, to have written an answer[113]; upon which Burnet makes the following observation: "I have been informed from England, that a gentleman, who is famous both for poetry and several other things, had spent three months in translating M. Varillas's History; but that, as soon as my Reflections appeared, he discontinued his labour, finding the credit of his author was gone. Now, if he thinks it is recovered by his answer, he will, perhaps, go on with his translation; and this may be, for aught I know, as good an entertainment for him as the conversation that he had set on between the Hinds and Panthers, and all the rest of animals, for whom M. Varillas may serve well enough as an author: and this history, and that poem, are such extraordinary things of their kind, that it will be but suitable to see the author of the worst poem become, likewise, the translator of the worst history that the age has produced. If his grace and his wit improve both proportionably, he will hardly find that he has gained much by the change he has made, from having no religion, to choose one of the worst. It is true, he had somewhat to sink from in matter of wit; but, as for his morals, it is scarce possible for him to grow a worse man than he was. He has lately wreaked his malice on me for spoiling his three months' labour; but in it he has done me all the honour that any man can receive from him, which is to be railed at by him. If I had ill-nature enough to prompt me to wish a very bad wish for him, it should be, that he would go on and finish his translation. By that it will appear, whether the English nation, which is the most competent judge in this matter, has, upon the seeing our debate, pronounced in M. Varillas's favour, or in mine. It is true, Mr. D. will suffer a little by it; but, at least, it will serve to keep him in from other extravagancies; and if he gains little honour by this work, yet he cannot lose so much by it as he has done by his last employment." Having, probably, felt his own inferiority in theological controversy, he was desirous of trying whether, by bringing poetry to aid his arguments, he might be'come a more efficacious defender of his new profession. To reason in verse was, indeed, one of his powers; but subtilty and harmony, united, are still feeble, when opposed to truth. Actuated, therefore, by zeal for Rome, or hope of fame, he published The Hind and Panther, a poem in which the church of Rome, figured by the _milk-white hind_, defends her tenets against the church of England, represented by the _panther_, a beast beautiful, but spotted. A fable which exhibits two beasts talking theology, appears, at once, full of absurdity; and it was accordingly ridiculed in the City Mouse and Country Mouse, a parody, written by Montague, afterwards earl of Halifax, and Prior, who then gave the first specimen of his abilities. The conversion of such a man, at such a time, was not likely to pass uneensured. Three dialogues were published by the facetious Thomas Brown, of which the two first were called Reasons of Mr. Bayes's changing his Religion; and the third, The Reasons of Mr. Hains the Player's Conversion and Reconversion. The first was printed in 1688, the second not till 1690, the third in 1691. The clamour seems to have been long continued, and the subject to have strongly fixed the publick attention. In the two first dialogues Bayes is brought into the company of Crites and Eugenius, with whom he had formerly debated on dramatick poetry. The two talkers in the third are Mr. Bayes and Mr. Hains. Brown was a man not deficient in literature, nor destitute of fancy; but he seems to have thought it the pinnacle of excellence to be a _merry fellow_; and, therefore, laid out his powers upon small jests or gross buffoonery; so that his performances have little intrinsick value, and were read only while they were recommended by the novelty of the event that occasioned them. These dialogues are like his other works: what sense or knowledge they contain is disgraced by the garb in which it is exhibited. One great source of pleasure is to call Dryden "little Bayes." Ajax, who happens to be mentioned, is "he that wore as many cow-hides upon his shield as would have furnished half the king's army with shoe-leather." Being asked whether he had seen the Hind and Panther, Crites answers: "Seen it! Mr. Bayes, why I can stir nowhere but it pursues me; it haunts me worse than a pewter-buttoned serjeant does a decayed cit. Sometimes I meet it in a bandbox, when my laundress brings home my linen; sometimes, whether I will or no, it lights my pipe at a coffee-house; sometimes it surprises me in a trunkmaker's shop; and sometimes it refreshes my memory for me on the backside of a Chancery lane parcel. For your comfort too, Mr. Bayes, I have not only seen it, as you may perceive, but have read it too, and can quote it as freely upon occasion as a frugal tradesman can quote that noble treatise The Worth of a Penny, to his extravagant 'prentice, that revels in stewed apples and penny custards." The whole animation of these compositions arises from a profusion of ludicrous and affected comparisons. "To secure one's chastity," says Bayes, "little more is necessary than to leave off a correspondence with the other sex, which, to a wise man, is no greater a punishment than it would be to a fanatick parson to be forbid seeing The Cheats and The Committee; or for my lord mayor and aldermen to be interdicted the sight of The London Cuckold." This is the general strain, and, therefore, I shall be easily excused the labour of more transcription. Brown does not wholly forget past transactions: "You began," says Crites to Bayes, "with a very indifferent religion, and have not mended the matter in your last choice. It was but reason that your muse, which appeared first in a tyrant's quarrel, should employ her last efforts to justify the usurpations of the hind." Next year the nation was summoned to celebrate the birth of the prince. Now was the time for Dryden to rouse his imagination, and strain his voice. Happy days were at hand, and he was willing to enjoy and diffuse the anticipated blessings. He published a poem, filled with predictions of greatness and prosperity; predictions of which it is not necessary to tell how they have been verified. A few months passed after these joyful notes, and every blossom of popish hope was blasted for ever by the revolution. A papist now could be no longer laureate. The revenue, which he had enjoyed with so much pride and praise, was transferred to Shadwell, an old enemy, whom he had formerly stigmatised by the name of Og. Dryden could not decently complain that he was deposed; but seemed very angry that Shadwell succeeded him, and has, therefore, celebrated the intruder's inauguration in a poem exquisitely satirical, called Mac Flecknoe[114]; of which the Dunciad, as Pope himself declares, is an imitation, though more extended in its plan, and more diversified in its incidents. It is related by Prior, that lord Dorset, when, as chamberlain, he was constrained to eject Dryden from his office, gave him, from his own purse, an allowance equal to the salary. This is no romantick or incredible act of generosity; a hundred a year is often enough given to claims less cogent, by men less famed for liberality. Yet Dryden always represented himself as suffering under a publick infliction; and once particularly demands respect for the patience with which he endured the loss of his little fortune. His patron might, indeed, enjoin him to suppress his bounty; but, if he suffered nothing, he should not have complained. During the short reign of king James, he had written nothing for the stage[115], being, in his opinion, more profitably employed in controversy and flattery. Of praise he might, perhaps, have been less lavish without inconvenience, for James was never said to have much regard for poetry: he was to be flattered only by adopting his religion. Times were now changed: Dryden was no longer the court-poet, and was to look back for support to his former trade; and having waited about two years, either considering himself as discountenanced by the publick, perhaps expecting a second revolution, he produced Don Sebastian in 1690; and in the next four years four dramas more. In 1693 appeared a new version of Juvenal and Persius. Of Juvenal, he translated the first, third, sixth, tenth, and sixteenth satires; and of Persius, the whole work. On this occasion, he introduced his two sons to the publick, as nurslings of the muses. The fourteenth of Juvenal was the work of John, and the seventh of Charles Dryden. He prefixed a very ample preface, in the form of a dedication to lord Dorset; and there gives an account of the design which he had once formed to write an epick poem on the actions either of Arthur or the Black Prince. He considered the epick as necessarily including some kind of supernatural agency, and had imagined a new kind of contest between the guardian angels of kingdoms, of whom he conceived that each might be represented zealous for his charge, without any intended opposition to the purposes of the supreme being, of which all created minds must in part be ignorant. This is the most reasonable scheme of celestial interposition that ever was formed. The surprises and terrours of enchantments, which have succeeded to the intrigues and oppositions of pagan deities, afford very striking scenes, and open a vast extent to the imagination; but, as Boileau observes, (and Boileau will be seldom found mistaken,) with this incurable defect, that, in a contest between heaven and hell, we know at the beginning which is to prevail; for this reason we follow Rinaldo to the enchanted wood with more curiosity than terrour. In the scheme of Dryden there is one great difficulty, which yet he would, perhaps, have had address enough to surmount. In a war, justice can be but on one side; and, to entitle the hero to the protection of angels, he must fight in the defence of indubitable right. Yet some of the celestial beings, thus opposed to each other, must have been represented as defending guilt. That this poem was never written, is reasonably to be lamented. It would, doubtless, have improved our numbers, and enlarged our language; and might, perhaps, have contributed, by pleasing instruction, to rectify our opinions, and purify our manners. What he required as the indispensable condition of such an undertaking, a publick stipend, was not likely, in those times, to be obtained. Riches were not become familiar to us; nor had the nation yet learned to be liberal. This plan he charged Blackmore with stealing; "only," says he, "the guardian angels of kingdoms were machines too ponderous for him to manage." In 1694, he began the most laborious and difficult of all his works, the translation of Virgil; from which he borrowed two months, that he might turn Fresnoy's Art of Painting into English prose. The preface, which he boasts to have written in twelve mornings, exhibits a parallel of poetry and painting, with a miscellaneous collection of critical remarks, such as cost a mind, stored like his, no labour to produce them. In 1697, he published his version of the works of Virgil; and, that no opportunity of profit might be lost, dedicated the Pastorals to the lord Clifford, the Georgicks to the earl of Chesterfield, and the Aeneid to the earl of Mulgrave. This economy of flattery, at once lavish and discreet, did not pass without observation. This translation was censured by Milbourne, a clergyman, styled, by Pope, "the fairest of criticks," because he exhibited his own version to be compared with that which he condemned. His last work was his Fables, published in 1699, in consequence, as is supposed, of a contract now in the hands of Mr. Tonson; by which he obliged himself, in considerationof three hundred pounds, to finish for the press ten thousand verses. In this volume is comprised the well-known ode on St. Cecilia's day, which, as appeared by a letter communicated to Dr. Birch, he spent a fortnight in composing and correcting. But what is this to the patience and diligence of Boileau, whose Equivoque, a poem of only three hundred and forty-six lines, took from his life eleven months to write it, and three years to revise it? Part of this book of Fables is the first Iliad in English, intended as a specimen of a version of the whole. Considering into what hands Homer was to fall, the reader cannot but rejoice that this project went no further. The time was now at hand which was to put an end to all his schemes and labours. On the first of May, 1701, having been some time, as he tells us, a cripple in his limbs, he died, in Gerard street, of a mortification in his leg. There is extant a wild story relating to some vexatious events that happened at his funeral, which, at the end of Congreve's Life, by a writer of I know not what credit, are thus related, as I find the account transferred to a biographical dictionary[116]. "Mr. Dryden dying on the Wednesday morning, Dr. Thomas Sprat, then bishop of Rochester and dean of Westminster, sent the next day to the lady Elizabeth Howard, Mr. Dryden's widow, that he would make a present of the ground, which was forty pounds, with all the other abbey fees. The lord Halifax, likewise, sent to the lady Elizabeth, and Mr. Charles Dryden her son, that, if they would give him leave to bury Mr. Dryden, he would inter him with a gentleman's private funeral, and afterwards bestow five hundred pounds on a monument in the abbey; which, as they had no reason to refuse, they accepted. On the Saturday following the company came: the corpse was put into a velvet hearse; and eighteen mourning coaches, filled with company, attended. When they were just ready to move, the lord Jefferies, son of the lord chancellor Jefferies, with some of his rakish companions, coming by, asked whose funeral it was; and, being told Mr. Dryden's, he said, 'What, shall Dryden, the greatest honour and ornament of the nation, be buried after this private manner! No, gentlemen, let all that loved Mr. Dryden, and honour his memory, alight and join with me in gaining my lady's consent to let me have the honour of his interment, which shall be after another manner than this; and I will bestow a thousand pounds on a monument in the abbey for him.' The gentlemen in the coaches, not knowing of the bishop of Rochester's favour, nor of the lord Halifax's generous design, (they both having, out of respect to the family, enjoined the lady Elizabeth and her son to keep their favour concealed to the world, and let it pass for their own expense,) readily came out of the coaches, and attended lord Jefferies up to the lady's bedside, who was then sick. He repeated the purport of what he had before said; but she absolutely refusing, he fell on his knees, vowing never to rise till his request was granted. The rest of the company, by his desire, kneeled also; and the lady, being under a sudden surprise, fainted away. As soon as she recovered her speech, she cried, 'No, no.' 'Enough, gentlemen,' replied he; 'my lady is very good; she says, Go, go.' She repeated her former words with all her strength, but in vain, for her feeble voice was lost in their acclamations of joy; and the lord Jefferies ordered the horsemen to carry the corpse to Mr. Russel's, an undertaker in Cheapside, and leave it there till he should send orders for the embalment, which, he added, should be after the royal manner. His directions were obeyed, the company dispersed, and lady Elizabeth and her son remained inconsolable. The next day Mr. Charles Dryden waited on the lord Halifax and the bishop, to excuse his mother and himself, by relating the real truth. But neither his lordship nor the bishop would admit of any plea; especially the latter, who had the abbey lighted, the ground opened, the choir attending, an anthem ready set, and himself waiting, for some time, without any corpse to bury. The undertaker, after three days' expectance of orders for embalment without receiving any, waited on the lord Jefferies; who, pretending ignorance of the matter, turned it off with an ill-natured jest, saying, that those who observed the orders of a drunken frolick deserved no better; that he remembered nothing at all of it; and that he might do what he pleased with the corpse. Upon this, the undertaker waited upon the lady Elizabeth and her son, and threatened to bring the corpse home, and set it before the door. They desired a day's respite, which was granted. Mr. Charles Dryden wrote a handsome letter to the lord Jefferies, who returned it with this cool answer: 'that he knew nothing of the matter, and would be troubled no more about it.' He then addressed the lord Halifax and the bishop of Rochester, who absolutely refused to do any thing in it. In this distress Dr. Garth sent for the corpse to the College of Physicians, and proposed a funeral by subscription, to which himself set a most noble example. At last, a day, about three weeks after Mr. Dryden's decease, was appointed for the interment. Dr. Garth pronounced a fine Latin oration, at the college, over the corpse; which was attended to the abbey by a numerous train of coaches. When the funeral was over, Mr. Charles Dryden sent a challenge to the lord Jefferies, who refusing to answer it, he sent several others, and went often himself; but could neither get a letter delivered, nor admittance to speak to him: which so incensed him, that he resolved, since his lordship refused to answer him like a gentleman, that he would watch an opportunity to meet and fight off-hand, though with all the rules of honour; which his lordship hearing, left the town; and Mr. Charles Dryden could never have the satisfaction of meeting him, though he sought it till his death with the utmost application." This story I once intended to omit, as it appears with no great evidence; nor have I met with any confirmation, but in a letter of Farquhar; and he only relates that the funeral of Dryden was tumultuary and confused.[117] Supposing the story true, we may remark, that the gradual change of manners, though imperceptible in the process, appears great, when different times, and those not very distant, are compared. If, at this time, a young drunken lord should interrupt the pompous regularity of a magnificent funeral, what would be the event, but that he would be justled out of the way, and compelled to be quiet? If he should thrust himself into a house, he would be sent roughly away; and, what is yet more to the honour of the present time, I believe that those who had subscribed to the funeral of a man like Dryden, would not, for such an accident, have withdrawn their contributions[118]. He was buried among the poets in Westminster Abbey, where, though the duke of Newcastle had, in a general dedication prefixed by Congreve to his dramatick works, accepted thanks for his intention of erecting him a monument, he lay long without distinction, till the duke of Buckinghamshire gave him a tablet, inscribed only with the name of DRYDEN. He married the lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the earl of Berkshire, with circumstances, according to the satire imputed to lord Somers, not very honourable to either party: by her he had three sons, Charles, John, and Henry. Charles was usher of the palace to pope Clement the eleventh; and, visiting England in 1704, was drowned in an attempt to swim across the Thames at Windsor. John was author of a comedy called The Husband his own Cuckold. He is said to have died at Rome. Henry entered into some religious order. It is some proof of Dryden's sincerity in his second religion, that he taught it to his sons. A man conscious of hypocritical profession in himself, is not likely to convert others; and, as his sons were qualified, in 1693, to appear among the translators of Juvenal, they must have been taught some religion before their father's change. Of the person of Dryden I know not any account; of his mind, the portrait which has been left by Congreve, who knew him with great familiarity, is such as adds our love of his manners to our admiration of his genius. "He was," we are told, "of a nature exceedingly humane and compassionate, ready to forgive injuries, and capable of a sincere reconciliation with those who had offended him. His friendship, where he professed it, went beyond his professions. He was of a very easy, of very pleasing, access; but somewhat slow, and, as it were, diffident in his advances to others: he had that in his nature which abhorred intrusion into any society whatever. He was, therefore, less known, and consequently his character became more liable to misapprehensions and misrepresentations: he was very modest, and very easily to be discountenanced in his approaches to his equals or superiours. As his reading had been very extensive, so was he very happy in a memory tenacious of every thing that he had read. He was not more possessed of knowledge than he was communicative of it; but then his communication was by no means pedantick, or imposed upon the conversation, but just such, and went so far as, by the natural turn of the conversation in which he was engaged, it was necessarily promoted or required. He was extremely ready and gentle in his correction of the errours of any writer who thought fit to consult him, and full as ready and patient to admit of the reprehensions of others, in respect of his own over-sights or mistakes." To this account of Congreve nothing can be objected but the fondness of friendship; and to have excited that fondness in such a mind is no small degree of praise. The disposition of Dryden, however, is shown in this character rather as it exhibited itself in cursory conversation, than as it operated on the more important parts of life. His placability and his friendship, indeed, were solid virtues; but courtesy and good humour are often found with little real worth. Since Congreve, who knew him well, has told us no more, the rest must be collected, as it can, from other testimonies, and particularly from those notices which Dryden has very liberally given us of himself. The modesty which made him so slow to advance, and so easy to be repulsed, was certainly no suspicion of deficient merit, or unconsciousness of his own value: he appears to have known, in its whole extent, the dignity of his character, and to have set a very high value on his own powers and performances. He probably did not offer his conversation, because he expected it to be solicited; and he retired from a cold reception, not submissive but indignant, with such reverence of his own greatness as made him unwilling to expose it to neglect or violation. His modesty was by no means inconsistent with ostentatiousness: he is diligent enough to remind the world of his merit, and expresses, with very little scruple, his high opinion of his own powers; but his self-commendations are read without scorn or indignation; we allow his claims, and love his frankness. Tradition, however, has not allowed that his confidence in himself exempted him from jealousy of others. He is accused of envy and insidiousness; and is particularly charged with inciting Creech to translate Horace, that he might lose the reputation which Lucretius had given him. Of this charge we immediately discover that it is merely conjectural; the purpose was such as no man would confess; and a crime that admits no proof, why should we believe? He has been described as magisterially presiding over the younger writers, and assuming the distribution of poetical fame; but he who excels has a right to teach, and he whose judgment is incontestable, may, without usurpation, examine and decide. Congreve represents him as ready to advise and instruct; but there is reason to believe that his communication was rather useful than entertaining. He declares of himself that he was saturnine, and not one of those whose sprightly sayings diverted company; and one of his censurers makes him say: Nor wine nor love could ever see me gay; To writing bred, I knew not what to say[119]. There are men whose powers operate only at leisure and in retirement, and whose intellectual vigour deserts them in conversation; whom merriment confuses, and objection disconcerts; whose bashfulness restrains their exertion, and suffers them not to speak till the time of speaking is past; or whose attention to their own character makes them unwilling to utter at hazard what has not been considered, and cannot be recalled. Of Dryden's sluggishness in conversation it is vain to search or to guess the cause. He certainly wanted neither sentiments nor language; his intellectual treasures were great, though they were locked up from his own use. "His thoughts," when he wrote, "flowed in upon him so fast, that his only care was which to choose, and which to reject." Such rapidity of composition naturally promises a flow of talk; yet we must be content to believe what an enemy says of him, when he, likewise, says it of himself. But, whatever was his character as a companion, it appears that he lived in familiarity with the highest persons of his time. It is related by Carte of the duke of Ormond, that he used often to pass a night with Dryden, and those with whom Dryden consorted: who they were Carte has not told; but certainly the convivial table at which Ormond sat was not surrounded with a plebeian society. He was, indeed, reproached with boasting of his familiarity with the great; and Horace will support him in the opinion, that to please superiours is not the lowest kind of merit. The merit of pleasing must, however, be estimated by the means. Favour is not always gained by good actions or laudable qualities. Caresses and preferments are often bestowed on the auxiliaries of vice, the procurers of pleasure, or the flatterers of vanity. Dryden has never been charged with any personal agency unworthy of a good character: he abetted vice and vanity only with his pen. One of his enemies has accused him of lewdness in his conversation; but, if accusation without proof be credited, who shall be innocent? His works afford too many examples of dissolute licentiousness and abject adulation; but they were, probably, like his merriment, artificial and constrained; the effects of study and meditation, and his trade rather than his pleasure. Of the mind that can trade in corruption, and can deliberately pollute itself with ideal wickedness, for the sake of spreading the contagion in society, I wish not to conceal or excuse the depravity. Such degradation of the dignity of genius, such abuse of superlative abilities, cannot be contemplated but with grief and indignation. What consolation can be had, Dryden has afforded, by living to repent, and to testify his repentance. Of dramatick immorality he did not want examples among his predecessors, or companions among his contemporaries; but, in the meanness and servility of hyperbolical adulation, I know not whether, since the days in which the Roman emperours were deified, he has been ever equalled, except by Afra Behn, in an address to Eleanor Gwyn. When once he has undertaken the task of praise, he no longer retains shame in himself, nor supposes it in his patron. As many odoriferous bodies are observed to diffuse perfumes, from year to year, without sensible diminution of bulk or weight, he appears never to have impoverished his mint of flattery by his expenses, however lavish. He had all the forms of excellence, intellectual and moral, combined in his mind, with endless variation; and, when he had scattered on the hero of the day the golden shower of wit and virtue, he had ready for him whom he wished to court on the morrow, new wit and virtue with another stamp. Of this kind of meanness he never seems to decline the practice, or lament the necessity: he considers the great as entitled to encomiastick homage, and brings praise rather as a tribute than a gift, more delighted with the fertility of his invention, than mortified by the prostitution of his judgment. It is, indeed, not certain, that on these occasions his judgment much rebelled against his interest. There are minds which easily sink into submission, that look on grandeur with undistinguishing reverence, and discover no defect where there is elevation of rank and affluence of riches. With his praises of others, and of himself, is always intermingled a strain of discontent and lamentation, a sullen growl of resentment, or a querulous murmur of distress. His works are undervalued, his merit is unrewarded, and "he has few thanks to pay his stars that he was born among Englishmen." To his criticks he is sometimes contemptuous, sometimes resentful, and sometimes submissive. The writer who thinks his works formed for duration, mistakes his interest when he mentions his enemies. He degrades his own dignity by showing that he was affected by their censures, and gives lasting importance to names, which, left to themselves, would vanish from remembrance. From this principle Dryden did not often depart; his complaints are, for the greater part, general; he seldom pollutes his page with an adverse name. He condescended, indeed, to a controversy with Settle, in which he, perhaps, may be considered rather as assaulting than repelling; and since Settle is sunk into oblivion, his libel remains injurious only to himself. Among answers to criticks, no poetical attacks, or altercations, are to be included; they are, like other poems, effusions of genius, produced as much to obtain praise as to obviate censure. These Dryden practised, and in these he excelled. Of Collier, Blackmore, and Milbourne, he has made mention in the preface to his Fables. To the censure of Collier, whose remarks may be rather termed admonitions than criticisms, he makes little reply; being, at the age of sixty-eight, attentive to better things than the claps of a playhouse. He complains of Collier's rudeness, and the "horseplay of his raillery;" and asserts, that "in many places he has perverted by his glosses the meaning" of what he censures; but in other things he confesses that he is justly taxed; and says, with great calmness and candour, "I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts or expressions of mine that can be truly accused of obscenity, immorality, or profaneness, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he be my friend, he will be glad of my repentance." Yet, as our best dispositions are imperfect, he left standing in the same book a reflection on Collier of great asperity, and, indeed, of more asperity than wit. Blackmore he represents as made his enemy by the poem of Absalom and Achitophel, which "he thinks a little hard upon his fanatick patrons;" and charges him with borrowing the plan of his Arthur from the preface to Juvenal, "though he had," says he, "the baseness not to acknowledge his benefactor, but instead of it to traduce me in a libel." The libel in which Blackmore traduced him, was a Satire upon Wit; in which, having lamented the exuberance of false wit, and the deficiency of true, he proposes that all wit should be recoined before it is current, and appoints masters of assay who shall reject all that is light or debased: 'Tis true, that, when the coarse and worthless dross Is purg'd away, there will be mighty loss: E'en Congreve, Southern, manly Wycherley, When thus refin'd, will grievous sufferers be; Into the melting-pot when Dryden comes, What horrid stench will rise, what noisome fumes! How will he shrink, when all his lewd allay, And wicked mixture, shall be purg'd away! Thus stands the passage in the last edition; but in the original there was an abatement of the censure, beginning thus: But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear Th' examination of the most severe. Blackmore, finding the censure resented, and the civility disregarded, ungenerously omitted the softer part. Such variations discover a writer who consults his passions more than his virtue; and it may be reasonably supposed that Dryden imputes his enmity to its true cause. Of Milbourne he wrote only in general terms, such as are always ready at the call of anger, whether just or not: a short extract will be sufficient. "He pretends a quarrel to me, that I have fallen foul upon priesthood; if I have, I am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his share of the reparation will come to little. Let him be satisfied that he shall never be able to force himself upon me for an adversary; I contemn him too much to enter into competition with him. "As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. Blackmore and Milbourne are only distinguished from the crowd by being remembered to their infamy." Dryden, indeed, discovered, in many of his writings, an affected and absurd malignity to priests and priesthood, which naturally raised him many enemies, and which was sometimes as unseasonably resented as it was exerted. Trapp is angry that he calls the sacrificer in the Georgicks "the holy butcher:" the translation is, indeed, ridiculous; but Trapp's anger arises from his zeal, not for the author, but the priest; as if any reproach of the follies of paganism could be extended to the preachers of truth. Dryden's dislike of the priesthood is imputed by Langbaine, and, I think, by Brown, to a repulse which he suffered when he solicited ordination; but he denies, in the preface to his Fables, that he ever designed to enter into the church; and such a denial he would not have hazarded, if he could have been convicted of falsehood. Malevolence to the clergy is seldom at a great distance from irreverence of religion, and Dryden affords no exception to this observation. His writings exhibit many passages, which, with all the allowance that can be made for characters and occasions, are such as piety would not have admitted, and such as may vitiate light and unprincipled minds. But there is no reason for supposing that he disbelieved the religion which he disobeyed. He forgot his duty rather than disowned it. His tendency to profaneness is the effect of levity, negligence, and loose conversation, with a desire of accommodating himself to the corruption of the times, by venturing to be wicked as far as he durst. When he professed himself a convert to popery, he did not pretend to have received any new conviction of the fundamental doctrines of Christianity. The persecution of criticks was not the worst of his vexations; he was much more disturbed by the importunities of want. His complaints of poverty are so frequently repeated, either with the dejection of weakness sinking in helpless misery, or the indignation of merit claiming its tribute from mankind, that it is impossible not to detest the age which could impose on such a man the necessity of such solicitations, or not to despise the man who could submit to such solicitations without necessity. Whether by the world's neglect, or his own imprudence, I am afraid that the greatest part of his life was passed in exigencies. Such outcries were, surely, never uttered but in severe pain. Of his supplies or his expenses no probable estimate can now be made. Except the salary of the laureate, to which king James added the office of historiographer, perhaps with some additional emoluments, his whole revenue seems to have been casual; and it is well known that he seldom lives frugally who lives by chance. Hope is always liberal; and they that trust her promises make little scruple of revelling to-day on the profits of the morrow. Of his plays the profit was not great; and of the produce of his other works very little intelligence can be had. By discoursing with the late amiable Mr. Tonson, I could not find that any memorials of the transactions between his predecessor and Dryden had been preserved, except the following papers: "I do hereby promise to pay John Dryden, esq. or order, on the 25th of March, 1699, the sum of two hundred and fifty guineas, in consideration of ten thousand verses, which the said John Dryden, esq. is to deliver to me, Jacob Tonson, when finished, whereof seven thousand five hundred verses, more or less, are already in the said Jacob Tonson's possession. And I do hereby further promise and engage myself, to make up the said sum of two hundred and fifty guineas three hundred pounds sterling to the said John Dryden, esq. his executors, administrators, or assigns, at the beginning of the second impression of the said ten thousand verses. "In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this 20th day of March, 1698-9. "JACOB TONSON. "Sealed and delivered, being first duly stampt, pursuant to the acts of parliament for that purpose, in the presence of "BEN. PORTLOCK, "WILL. CONGREVE." "March 24, 1698. "Received then of Mr. Jacob Tonson the sum of two hundred sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings, in pursuance of an agreement for ten thousand verses, to be delivered by me to the said Jacob Tonson, whereof I have already delivered to him about seven thousand five hundred, more or less; he, the said Jacob Tonson, being obliged to make up the foresaid sum of two hundred sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings three hundred pounds, at the beginning of the second impression of the foresaid ten thousand verses; "I say, received by me, "JOHN DRYDEN. "Witness, CHARLES DRYDEN." Two hundred and fifty guineas, at 1_l_, 1_s_. 6_d_. is 268_l_. 15_s_. It is manifest, from the dates of this contract, that it relates to the volume of Fables, which contains about twelve thousand verses, and for which, therefore, the payment must have been afterwards enlarged. I have been told of another letter yet remaining, in which he desires Tonson to bring him money, to pay for a watch which he had ordered for his son, and which the maker would not leave without the price. The inevitable consequence of poverty is dependence. Dryden had probably no recourse in his exigencies but to his bookseller. The particular character of Tonson I do not know; but the general conduct of traders was much less liberal in those times than in our own; their views were narrower, and their manners grosser. To the mercantile ruggedness of that race, the delicacy of the poet was sometimes exposed. Lord Bolingbroke, who in his youth had cultivated poetry, related to Dr. King, of Oxford, that one day, when he visited Dryden, they heard, as they were conversing, another person entering the house. "This," said Dryden, "is Tonson. You will take care not to depart before he goes away; for I have not completed the sheet which I promised him; and if you leave me unprotected, I must suffer all the rudeness to which his resentment can prompt his tongue." What rewards he obtained for his poems, besides the payment of the bookseller, cannot be known. Mr. Derrick, who consulted some of his relations, was informed that his Fables obtained five hundred pounds from the dutchess of Ormond; a present not unsuitable to the magnificence of that splendid family; and he quotes Moyle, as relating that forty pounds were paid by a musical society for the use of Alexander's Feast. In those days the economy of government was yet unsettled, and the payments of the exchequer were dilatory and uncertain: of this disorder there is reason to believe that the laureate sometimes felt the effects; for, in one of his prefaces he complains of those, who, being intrusted with the distribution of the prince's bounty, suffer those that depend upon it to languish in penury. Of his petty habits or slight amusements, tradition has retained little. Of the only two men, whom I have found, to whom he was personally known, one told me, that at the house which he frequented, called Will's Coffee-house, the appeal upon any literary dispute was made to him; and the other related, that his armed chair, which in the winter had a settled and prescriptive place by the fire, was in the summer placed in the balcony, and that he called the two places his winter and his summer seat. This is all the intelligence which his two survivers afforded me. One of his opinions will do him no honour in the present age, though in his own time, at least in the beginning of it, he was far from having it confined to himself. He put great confidence in the prognostications of judicial astrology. In the appendix to the Life of Congreve is a narrative of some of his predictions wonderfully fulfilled; but I know not the writer's means of information, or character of veracity. That he had the configurations of the horoscope in his mind, and considered them as influencing the affairs of men, he does not forbear to hint: The utmost malice of the stars is past. Now frequent _trines_ the happier lights among, And _high-rais'd Jove_, from his dark prison freed, Those weights took off that on his planet hung, Will gloriously the new-laid works succeed. He has, elsewhere, shown his attention to the planetary powers; and, in the preface to his Fables, has endeavoured obliquely to justify his superstition, by attributing the same to some of the ancients. The letter, added to this narrative, leaves no doubt of his notions or practice. So slight and so scanty is the knowledge which I have been able to collect concerning the private life and domestick manners of a man whom every English generation must mention with reverence as a critick and a poet. Dryden may be properly considered as the father of English criticism, as the writer who first taught us to determine upon principles the merit of composition. Of our former poets, the greatest dramatist wrote without rules, conducted through life and nature by a genius that rarely misled, and rarely deserted him. Of the rest, those who knew the laws of propriety had neglected to teach them. Two Arts of English Poetry were written in the days of Elizabeth by Webb and Puttenham, from which something might be learned, and a few hints had been given by Jonson and Cowley; but Dryden's Essay on Dramatick Poetry was the first regular and valuable treatise on the art of writing. He who, having formed his opinions in the present age of English literature, turns back to peruse this dialogue, will not, perhaps, find much increase of knowledge, or much novelty of instruction; but he is to remember that critical principles were then in the hands of a few, who had gathered them partly from the ancients, and partly from the Italians and French. The structure of dramatick poems was not then generally understood. Audiences applauded by instinct, and poets, perhaps, often pleased by chance. A writer who obtains his full purpose loses himself in his own lustre. Of an opinion which is no longer doubted, the evidence ceases to be examined. Of an art universally practised, the first teacher is forgotten. Learning once made popular is no longer learning; it has the appearance of something which we have bestowed upon ourselves, as the dew appears to rise from the field which it refreshes. To judge rightly of an author, we must transport ourselves to his time, and examine what were the wants of his contemporaries, and what were his means of supplying them. That which is easy at one time was difficult at another. Dryden at least imported his science, and gave his country what it wanted before; or rather, he imported only the materials and manufactured them by his own skill. The Dialogue on the Drama was one of his first essays of criticism, written when he was yet a timorous candidate for reputation, and, therefore, laboured with that diligence which he might allow himself somewhat to remit, when his name gave sanction to his positions, and his awe of the publick was abated, partly by custom, and partly by success. It will not be easy to find, in all the opulence of our language, a treatise so artfully variegated with successive representations of opposite probabilities, so enlivened with imagery, so brightened with illustrations. His portraits of the English dramatists are wrought with great spirit and diligence. The account of Shakespeare may stand as a perpetual model of encomiastick criticism; exact without minuteness, and lofty without exaggeration. The praise lavished by Longinus, on the attestation of the heroes of Marathon by Demosthenes, fades away before it. In a few lines is exhibited a character, so extensive in its comprehension, and so curious in its limitations, that nothing can be added, diminished, or reformed; nor can the editors and admirers of Shakespeare, in all their emulation of reverence, boast of much more than of having diffused and paraphrased this epitome of excellence, of having changed Dryden's gold for baser metal, of lower value though of greater bulk. In this, and in all his other essays on the same subject, the criticism of Dryden is the criticism of a poet; not a dull collection of theorems, nor a rude detection of faults, which, perhaps, the censor was not able to have committed; but a gay and vigorous dissertation, where delight is mingled with instruction, and where the author proves his right of judgment by his power of performance. The different manner and effect with which critical knowledge may be conveyed, was, perhaps, never more clearly exemplified than in the performances of Rymer and Dryden. It was said of a dispute between two mathematicians, "malim cum Scaligero errare, quam cum Clavio recte sapere;" that "it was more eligible to go wrong with one, than right with the other." A tendency of the same kind every mind must feel at the perusal of Dryden's prefaces and Rymer's discourses. With Dryden we are wandering in quest of truth; whom we find, if we find her at all, drest in the graces of elegance; and, if we miss her, the labour of the pursuit rewards itself; we are led only through fragrance and flowers. Rymer, without taking a nearer, takes a rougher way; every step is to be made through thorns and brambles; and truth, if we meet her, appears repulsive by her mien, and ungraceful by her habit. Dryden's criticism has the majesty of a queen; Rymer's has the ferocity of a tyrant. As he had studied with great diligence the art of poetry, and enlarged or rectified his notions, by experience perpetually increasing, he had his mind stored with principles and observations; he poured out his knowledge with little labour; for of labour, notwithstanding the multiplicity of his productions, there is sufficient reason to suspect that he was not a lover. To write _con amore_, with fondness for the employment, with perpetual touches and retouches, with unwillingness to take leave of his own idea, and an unwearied pursuit of unattainable perfection, was, I think, no part of his character. His criticism may be considered as general or occasional. In his general precepts, which depend upon the nature of things, and the structure of the human mind, he may, doubtless, be safely recommended to the confidence of the reader; but his occasional and particular positions were sometimes interested, sometimes negligent, and sometimes capricious. It is not without reason that Trapp, speaking of the praises which he bestows on Palamon and Arcite, says, "Novimus judicium Drydeni de poemate quodam Chauceri, pulchro sane illo, et admodum laudando, nimirum quod non modo vere epicum sit, sed Iliada etiam atque Aeneada aequet, imo superet. Sed novimus eodem tempore viri illius maximi non semper accuratissimas esse censuras, nec ad severissimam critices normam exactas: illo judice id plerumque optimum est, quod nunc prae manibus habet, et in quo nunc occupatur." He is, therefore, by no means constant to himself. His defence and desertion of dramatick rhyme is generally known. Spence, in his remarks on Pope's Odyssey, produces what he thinks an unconquerable quotation from Dryden's preface to the Aeneid, in favour of translating an epick poem into blank verse; but he forgets that when his author attempted the Iliad, some years afterwards, he departed from his own decision, and translated into rhyme. When he has any objection to obviate, or any license to defend, he is not very scrupulous about what he asserts, nor very cautious, if the present purpose be served, not to entangle himself in his own sophistries. But, when all arts are exhausted, like other hunted animals, he sometimes stands at bay; when he cannot disown the grossness of one of his plays, he declares that he knows not any law that prescribes morality to a comick poet. His remarks on ancient or modern writers are not always to be trusted. His parallel of the versification of Ovid with that of Claudian has been very justly censured by Sewel[120]. His comparison of the first line of Virgil with the first of Statius is not happier. Virgil, he says, is soft and gentle, and would have thought Statius mad, if he had heard him thundering out: Quae superimposito moles geminata colosso. Statius, perhaps, heats himself, as he proceeds, to exaggerations somewhat hyperbolical; but undoubtedly Virgil would have been too hasty, if he had condemned him to straw for one sounding line. Dryden wanted an instance, and the first that occurred was imprest into the service. What he wishes to say, he says at hazard; he cited Gorbuduc, which he had never seen; gives a false account of Chapman's versification; and discovers, in the preface to his Fables, that he translated the first book of the Iliad without knowing what was in the second. It will be difficult to prove that Dryden ever made any great advances in literature. As, having distinguished himself at Westminster under the tuition of Busby, who advanced his scholars to a height of knowledge very rarely attained in grammar-schools, he resided afterwards at Cambridge, it is not to be supposed, that his skill in the ancient languages was deficient, compared with that of common students; but his scholastick acquisitions seem not proportionate to his opportunities and abilities. He could not, like Milton or Cowley, have made his name illustrious merely by his learning. He mentions but few books, and those such as lie in the beaten track of regular study; from which, if ever he departs, he is in danger of losing himself in unknown regions. In his Dialogue on the Drama, he pronounces, with great confidence, that the Latin tragedy of Medea is not Ovid's, because it is not sufficiently interesting and pathetick. He might have determined the question upon surer evidence; for it is quoted by Quintilian as the work of Seneca; and the only line which remains of Ovid's play, for one line is left us, is not there to be found. There was, therefore, no need of the gravity of conjecture, or the discussion of plot or sentiment, to find what was already known upon higher authority than such discussions can ever reach. His literature, though not always free from ostentation, will be commonly found either obvious, and made his own by the art of dressing it; or superficial, which, by what he gives, shows what he wanted; or erroneous, hastily collected, and negligently scattered. Yet it cannot be said that his genius is ever unprovided of matter, or that his fancy languishes in penury of ideas. His works abound with knowledge, and sparkle with illustrations. There is scarcely any science or faculty that does not supply him with occasional images and lucky similitudes; every page discovers a mind very widely acquainted both with art and nature, and in full possession of great stores of intellectual wealth. Of him that knows much, it is natural to suppose that he has read with diligence; yet I rather believe that the knowledge of Dryden was gleaned from accidental intelligence and various conversation, by a quick apprehension, a judicious selection, and a happy memory, a keen appetite of knowledge, and a powerful digestion; by vigilance that permitted nothing to pass without notice, and a habit of reflection that suffered nothing useful to be lost. A mind like Dryden's, always curious, always active, to which every understanding was proud to be associated, and of which every one solicited the regard, by an ambitious display of himself, had a more pleasant, perhaps a nearer way to knowledge than by the silent progress of solitary reading. I do not suppose that he despised books, or intentionally neglected them; but that he was carried out, by the impetuosity of his genius, to more vivid and speedy instructors; and that his studies were rather desultory and fortuitous than constant and systematical. It must be confessed, that he scarcely ever appears to want book-learning, but when he mentions books; and to him may be transferred the praise which he gives his master Charles: His conversation, wit, and parts, His knowledge in the noblest useful arts, Were such, dead authors could not give, But habitudes of those that live, Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive: He drained from all, and all they knew, His apprehensions quick, his judgment true: That the most learn'd with shame confess, His knowledge more, his reading only less. Of all this, however, if the proof be demanded, I will not undertake to give it; the atoms of probability, of which my opinion has been formed, lie scattered over all his works; and by him who thinks the question worth his notice, his works must be perused with very close attention. Criticism, either didactick or defensive, occupies almost all his prose, except those pages which he has devoted to his patrons; but none of his prefaces were ever thought tedious. They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the periods modelled; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid; the whole is airy, animated, and vigorous; what is little, is gay; what fe great, is splendid. He may be thought to mention himself too frequently; but, while he forces himself upon our esteem, we cannot refuse him to stand high in his own. Every thing is excused by the play of images, and the sprightliness of expression. Though all is easy, nothing is feeble; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh; and though since his earlier works more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete. He who writes much will not easily escape a manner, such a recurrence of particular modes as may be easily noted. Dryden is always "another and the same;" he does not exhibit a second time the same elegancies in the same form, nor appears to have any art other than that of expressing with clearness what he thinks with vigour. His style could not easily be imitated, either seriously or ludicrously; for, being always equable and always varied, it has no prominent or discriminative characters. The beauty who is totally free from disproportion of parts and features, cannot be ridiculed by an overcharged resemblance. From his prose, however, Dryden derives only his accidental and secondary praise; the veneration with which his name is pronounced by every cultivator of English literature, is paid to him as he refined the language, improved the sentiments, and tuned the numbers of English poetry. After about half a century of forced thoughts, and rugged metre, some advances towards nature and harmony had been already made by Waller and Denham; they had shown that long discourses in rhyme grew more pleasing when they were broken into couplets, and that verse consisted not only in the number but the arrangement of syllables. But though they did much, who can deny that they left much to do? Their works were not many, nor were their minds of very ample comprehension. More examples of more modes of composition were necessary for the establishment of regularity, and the introduction of propriety in word and thought. Every language of a learned nation necessarily divides itself into diction scholastick and popular, grave and familiar, elegant and gross: and from a nice distinction of these different parts arises a great part of the beauty of style. But if we except a few minds, the favourites of nature, to whom their own original rectitude was in the place of rules, this delicacy of selection was little known to our authors; our speech lay before them in a heap of confusion, and every man took for every purpose, what chance might offer him. There was, therefore, before the time of Dryden no poetical diction, no system of words at once refined from the grossness of domestick use, and free from the harshness of terms appropriated to particular arts. Words too familiar, or too remote, defeat the purpose of a poet. From those sounds which we hear on small or on coarse occasions, we do not easily receive strong impressions, or delightful images; and words to which we are nearly strangers, whenever they occur, draw that attention on themselves which they should transmit to things. Those happy combinations of words which distinguish poetry from prose had been rarely attempted; we had few elegancies or flowers of speech; the roses had not yet been plucked from the bramble; or different colours had not been joined to enliven one another. It may be doubted whether Waller and Denham could have overborne the prejudices which had long prevailed, fend which even then were sheltered by the protection of Cowley. The new versification, as it was called, may be considered as owing its establishment to Dryden; from whose time it is apparent that English poetry has had no tendency to relapse to its former savageness. The affluence and comprehension of our language is very illustriously displayed in our poetical translations of ancient writers; a work which the French seem to relinquish in despair, and which we were long unable to perform with dexterity. Ben Jonson thought it necessary to copy Horace almost word by word; Feltham, his contemporary and adversary, considers it as indispensably requisite in a translation to give line for line. It is said that Sandys, whom Dryden calls the best versifier of the last age, has struggled hard to comprise every book of his English Metamorphoses in the same number of verses with the original. Holyday had nothing in view but to show that he understood his author, with so little regard to the grandeur of his diction, or the volubility of his numbers, that his metres can hardly be called verses; they cannot be read without reluctance, nor will the labour always be rewarded by understanding them. Cowley saw that such copyers were a servile race; he asserted his liberty, and spread his wings so boldly that he left his authors. It was reserved for Dryden to fix the limits of poetical liberty, and give us just rules and examples of translation. When languages are formed upon different principles, it is impossible that the same modes of expression should always be elegant in both. While they run on together, the closest translation may be considered as the best; but when they divaricate, each must take its natural course. Where correspondence cannot be obtained, it is necessary to be content with something equivalent. "Translation, therefore," says Dryden, "is not so loose as paraphrase, nor so close as metaphrase." All polished languages have different styles; the concise, the diffuse, the lofty, and the humble. In the proper choice of style consists the resemblance which Dryden principally exacts from the translator. He is to exhibit his author's thoughts in such a dress of diction as the author would have given them, had his language been English; rugged magnificence is not to be softened; hyperbolical ostentation is not to be repressed; nor sententious affectation to have its point blunted. A translator is to be like his author; it is not his business to excel him. The reasonableness of these rules seems sufficient for their vindication; and the effects produced by observing them were so happy, that I know not whether they were ever opposed, but by sir Edward Sherburne, a man whose learning was greater than his powers of poetry, and who, being better qualified to give the meaning than the spirit of Seneca, has introduced his version of three tragedies by a defence of close translation. The authority of Horace, which the new translators cited in defence of their practice, he has, by a judicious explanation, taken fairly from them; but reason wants not Horace to support it. It seldom happens that all the necessary causes concur to any great effect: will is wanting to power, or power to will, or both are impeded by external obstructions. The exigencies in which Dryden was condemned to pass his life, are reasonably supposed to have blasted his genius, to have driven out his works in a state of immaturity, and to have intercepted the full-blown elegance, which longer growth would have supplied. Poverty, like other rigid powers, is sometimes too hastily accused. If the excellence of Dryden's works was lessened by his indigence, their number was increased; and I know not how it will be proved, that if he had written less he would have written better; or that, indeed, he would have undergone the toil of an author, if he had not been solicited by something more pressing than the love of praise. But, as is said by his Sebastian, What had been is unknown; what is, appears. We know that Dryden's several productions were so many successive expedients for his support; his plays were, therefore, often borrowed; and his poems were almost all occasional. In an occasional performance no height of excellence can be expected from any mind, however fertile in itself, and however stored with acquisitions. He whose work is general and arbitrary has the choice of his matter, and takes that which his inclination and his studies have best qualified him to display and decorate. He is at liberty to delay his publication till he has satisfied his friends and himself, till he has reformed his first thoughts by subsequent examination, and polished away those faults which the precipitance of ardent composition is likely to leave behind it. Virgil is related to have poured out a great number of lines in the morning, and to have passed the day in reducing them to fewer. The occasional poet is circumscribed by the narrowness of his subject. Whatever can happen to man has happened so often, that little remains for fancy or invention. We have been all born; we have most of us been married; and so many have died before us, that our deaths can supply but few materials for a poet. In the fate of princes the publick has an interest; and what happens to them of good or evil, the poets have always considered as business for the muse. But after so many inauguratory gratulations, nuptial hymns, and funeral dirges, he must be highly favoured by nature, or by fortune, who says any thing not said before. Even war and conquest, however splendid, suggest no new images; the triumphal chariot of a victorious monarch can be decked only with those ornaments that have graced his predecessors. Not only matter but time is wanting. The poem must not be delayed till the occasion is forgotten. The lucky moments of animated imagination cannot be attended; elegancies and illustrations cannot be multiplied by gradual accumulation; the composition must be despatched, while conversation is yet busy, and admiration fresh; and haste is to be made, lest some other event should lay hold upon mankind. Occasional compositions may, however, secure to a writer the praise both of learning and facility; for they cannot be the effect of long study, and must be furnished immediately from the treasures of the mind. The death of Cromwell was the first publick event which called forth Dryden's poetical powers. His heroick stanzas have beauties and defects; the thoughts are vigorous, and, though not always proper, show a mind replete with ideas; the numbers are smooth; and the diction, if not altogether correct, is elegant and easy. Davenant was, perhaps, at this time, his favourite author, though Gondibert never appears to have been popular; and from Davenant he learned to please his ear with the stanza of four lines alternately rhymed. Dryden very early formed his versification; there are in this early production no traces of Donne's or Jonson's ruggedness; but he did not so soon free his mind from the ambition of forced conceits. In his verses on the restoration, he says of the king's exile: He, toss'd by fate, Could taste no sweets of youth's desir'd age, But found his life too true a pilgrimage. And afterwards, to show how virtue and wisdom are increased by adversity, he makes this remark: Well might the ancient poets then confer On night the honour'd name of counsellor: Since, struck with rays of prosperous fortune blind, We light alone in dark afflictions find. His praise of Monk's dexterity comprises such a cluster of thoughts unallied to one another, as will not elsewhere be easily found: 'Twas Monk, whom providence design'd to loose Those real bonds false freedom did impose. The blessed saints that watch'd this turning scene Did from their stars with joyful wonder lean, To see small clues draw vastest weights along, Not in their bulk, but in their order strong. Thus pencils can by one slight touch restore Smiles to that changed face that wept before. With ease such fond chimeras we pursue. As fancy frames for fancy to subdue; But, when ourselves to action we betake, It shuns the mint like gold that chymists make: How hard was then his task, at once to be What in the body natural we see! Man's architect distinctly did ordain The charge of muscles, nerves, and of the brain, Through viewless conduits spirits to dispense The springs of motion from the seat of sense: 'Twas not the hasty product of a day, But the well-ripen'd fruit of wise delay. He, like a patient angler, ere he strook, Would let them play awhile upon the hook. Our healthful food the stomach labours thus, At first embracing what it straight doth crush. Wise leeches will not vain receipts obtrude, While growing pains pronounce the humours crude; Deaf to complaints, they wait upon the ill, Till some safe crisis authorize their skill. He had not yet learned, indeed he never learned well, to forbear the improper use of mythology. After having rewarded the heathen deities for their care, With Alga who the sacred altar strows? To all the seagods Charles an offering owes; A bull to thee, Portunus, shall be slain; A ram to you, ye tempests of the main. He tells us, in the language of religion, Pray'r storm'd the skies, and ravish'd Charles from thence, As heav'n itself is took by violence. And afterwards mentions one of the most awful passages of sacred history. Other conceits there are, too curious to be quite omitted; as, For by example most we sinn'd before, And, glass-like, clearness mix'd with frailty bore. How far he was yet from thinking it necessary to found his sentiments on nature, appears from the extravagance of his fictions and hyperboles: The winds, that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew; Or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straiten'd lungs. It is no longer motion cheats your view; As you meet it, the land approacheth you; The land returns, and in the white it wears The marks of penitence and sorrow bears. I know not whether this fancy, however little be its value, was not borrowed. A French poet read to Malherbe some verses, in which he represents France as moving out of its place to receive the king: "Though this," said Malherbe, "was in my time, I do not remember it." His poem on the Coronation has a more even tenour of thought. Some lines deserve to be quoted: You have already quench'd sedition's brand; And zeal, that burnt it, only warms the land; The jealous sects that durst not trust their cause So far from their own will as to the laws, Him for their umpire and their synod take, And their appeal alone to Caesar make. Here may be found one particle of that old versification, of which, I believe, in all his works, there is not another: Nor is it duty, or our hope alone, Creates that joy, but full _fruition_. In the verses to the lord chancellor Clarendon, two years afterwards, is a conceit so hopeless at the first view, that few would have attempted it; and so successfully laboured, that though, at last, it gives the reader more perplexity than pleasure, and seems hardly worth the study that it costs, yet it must be valued as a proof of a mind at once subtile and comprehensive: In open prospect nothing bounds our eye, Until the earth seems join'd unto the sky; So in this hemisphere our utmost view Is only bounded by our king and you: Our sight is limited where you are join'd, And beyond that no farther heaven can find. So well your virtues do with his agree, That, though your orbs of different greatness be, Yet both are for each other's use dispos'd, His to enclose, and yours to be enclos'd. Nor could another in your room have been, Except an emptiness had come between. The comparison of the chancellor to the Indies leaves all resemblance too far behind it: And as the Indies were not found before Those rich perfumes which from the happy shore The winds upon their balmy wings convey'd, Whose guilty sweetness first their world betray'd; So by your counsels we are brought to view A new and undiscover'd world in you. There is another comparison, for there is little else in the poem, of which, though, perhaps, it cannot be explained into plain prosaick meaning, the mind perceives enough to be delighted, and readily forgives its obscurity, for its magnificence: How strangely active are the arts of peace, Whose restless motions less than wars do cease: Peace is not freed from labour, but from noise; And war more force, but not more pains employs. Such is the mighty swiftness of your mind, That, like the earth's, it leaves our sense behind, While you so smoothly turn and roll our sphere, That rapid motion does but rest appear. For as in nature's swiftness, with the throng Of flying orbs while ours is borne along, All seems at rest to the deluded eye, Mov'd by the soul of the same harmony: So, carry'd on by your unwearied care, We rest in peace, and yet in motion share. To this succeed four lines, which, perhaps, afford Dryden's first attempt at those penetrating remarks on human nature, for which he seems to have been peculiarly formed: Let envy then those crimes within you see, From which the happy never must be free; Envy that does with misery reside, The joy and the revenge of ruin'd pride. Into this poem he seems to have collected all his powers; and after this he did not often bring upon his anvil such stubborn and unmalleable thoughts; but, as a specimen of his abilities to unite the most unsociable matter, he has concluded with lines, of which I think not myself obliged to tell the meaning: Yet unimpair'd with labours, or with time, Your age but seems to a new youth to climb. Thus heav'nly bodies do our time beget, And measure change, but share no part of it: And still it shall without a weight increase, Like this new year, whose motions never cease. For since the glorious course you have begun Is led by Charles, as that is by the sun, It must both weightless and immortal prove, Because the centre of it is above. In the Annus Mirabilis he returned to the quatrain, which from that time he totally quitted, perhaps from experience of its inconvenience, for he complains of its difficulty. This is one of his greatest attempts. He had subjects equal to his abilities, a great naval war, and the fire of London. Battles have always been described in heroick poetry; but a seafight and artillery had yet something of novelty. New arts are long in the world before poets describe them; for they borrow every thing from their predecessors, and commonly derive very little from nature, or from life. Boileau was the first French writer that had ever hazarded in verse the mention of modern war, or the effects of gunpowder. We, who are less afraid of novelty, had already possession of those dreadful images: Waller had described a seafight. Milton had not yet transferred the invention of firearms to the rebellious angels. This poem is written with great diligence, yet does not fully answer the expectation raised by such subjects and such a writer. With the stanza of Davenant, he has sometimes his vein of parenthesis, and incidental disquisition, and stops his narrative for a wise remark. The general fault is, that he affords more sentiment than description, and does not so much impress scenes upon the fancy, as deduce consequences and make comparisons. The initial stanzas have rather too much resemblance to the first lines of Waller's poem on the War with Spain; perhaps such a beginning is natural, and could not be avoided without affectation. Both Waller and Dryden might take their hint from the poem on the civil war of Rome: "Orbem jam totum," &c. Of the king collecting his navy, he says, It seems, as ev'ry ship their sov'reign knows, His awful summons they so soon obey: So hear the scaly herds when Proteus blows, And so to pasture follow through the sea. It would not be hard to believe that Dryden had written the two first lines seriously, and that some wag had added the two latter in burlesque. Who would expect the lines that immediately follow, which are, indeed, perhaps indecently hyperbolical, but certainly in a mode totally different: To see this fleet upon the ocean move, Angels drew wide the curtains of the skies; And heav'n, as if there wanted lights above, For tapers made two glaring comets rise. The description of the attempt at Bergen will afford a very complete specimen of the descriptions in this poem: And now approach'd their fleet from India, fraught With all the riches of the rising sun: And precious sand from southern climates brought, The fatal regions where the war begun. Like hunted castors, conscious of their store, Their waylaid wealth to Norway's coast they bring: Then first the north's cold bosom spices bore, And winter brooded on the eastern spring. By the rich scent we found our perfum'd prey, Which, flank'd with rocks, did close in covert lie; And round about their murd'ring cannon lay, At once to threaten and invite the eye. Fiercer than cannon, and than rocks more hard, The English undertake th' unequal war; Sev'n ships alone, by which the port is barr'd, Besiege the Indies, and all Denmark dare. These fight like husbands, but like lovers those; These fain would keep, and those more fain enjoy; And to such height their frantick passion grows, That what both love, both hazard to destroy: Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball, And now their odours arm'd against them fly: Some preciously by shatter'd porc'lain fall, And some by aromatick splinters die. And though by tempests of the prize bereft, In heav'n's inclemency some ease we find; Our foes we vanquish'd by our valour left, And only yielded to the seas and wind. In this manner is the sublime too often mingled with the ridiculous. The Dutch seek a shelter for a wealthy fleet: this, surely, needed no illustration; yet they must fly, not like all the rest of mankind on the same occasion, but "like hunted castors;" and they might with strict propriety be hunted; for we winded them by our noses--their _perfumes_ betrayed them. The _husband_ and the _lover_, though of more dignity than the castor, are images too domestick to mingle properly with the horrours of war. The two quatrains that follow are worthy of the author. The account of the different sensations with which the two fleets retired, when the night parted them, is one of the fairest flowers of English poetry: The night comes on, we eager to pursue The combat still, and they asham'd to leave: Till the last streaks of dying day withdrew, And doubtful moonlight did our rage deceive. In th' English fleet each ship resounds with joy, And loud applause of their great leader's fame: In fiery dreams the Dutch they still destroy, And, slumb'ring, smile at the imagin'd flame. Not so the Holland fleet, who, tir'd and done, Stretch'd on their decks like weary oxen lie; Faint sweats all down their mighty members run, (Vast bulks, which little souls but ill supply.) In dreams they fearful precipices tread, Or, shipwreck'd, labour to some distant shore; Or, in dark churches, walk among the dead: They wake with horrour, and dare sleep no more. It is a general rule in poetry, that all appropriated terms of art should be sunk in general expressions, because poetry is to speak an universal language. This rule is still stronger with regard to arts not liberal, or confined to few, and, therefore, far removed from common knowledge; and of this kind, certainly, is technical navigation. Yet Dryden was of opinion, that a seafight ought to be described in the nautical language; "and certainly," says he, "as those, who in a logical disputation keep to general terms, would hide a fallacy, so those who do it in any poetical description would veil their ignorance." Let us then appeal to experience; for by experience, at last, we learn as well what will please as what will profit. In the battle, his terms seem to have been blown away; but he deals them liberally in the dock: So here some pick out bullets from the side, Some drive old _okum_ through each _seam_ and rift; Their left hand does the _calking-iron_ guide, The rattling _mallet_ with the right they lift. With boiling pitch another near at hand (From friendly Sweden brought) the _seams in-slops_: Which, well-laid o'er, the salt sea-waves withstand, And shake them from the rising beak in drops. Some the _gall'd_ ropes with dauby _marling_ bind, Or sear-cloth masts with strong _tarpawling_ coats; To try new _shrouds_ one mounts into the wind, And one below, their ease or stiffness notes. I suppose there is not one term which every reader does not wish away[121]. His digression to the original and progress of navigation, with his prospect of the advancement which it shall receive from the Royal Society, then newly instituted, may be considered as an example seldom equalled of seasonable excursion and artful return. One line, however, leaves me discontented; he says, that, by the help of the philosophers, Instructed ships shall sail to quick commerce, By which remotest regions are allied. Which he is constrained to explain in a note "by a more exact measure of longitude." It had better become Dryden's learning and genius to have laboured science into poetry, and have shown, by explaining longitude, that verse did not refuse the ideas of philosophy. His description of the Fire is painted by resolute meditation, out of a mind better formed to reason than to feel. The conflagration of a city, with all its tumults of concomitant distress, is one of the most dreadful spectacles which this world can offer to human eyes; yet it seems to raise little emotion in the breast of the poet; he watches the flame coolly from street to street, with now a reflection, and now a simile, till at last he meets the king, for whom he makes a speech, rather tedious in a time so busy; and then follows again the progress of the fire. There are, however, in this part some passages that deserve attention; as in the beginning: The diligence of trades and noiseful gain, And luxury, more late, asleep were laid; All was the night's, and in her silent reign No sound the rest of nature did invade In this deep quiet---- The expression, "all was the night's," is taken from Seneca, who remarks on Virgil's line, Omnia noctis erant, placida composta quiete, that he might have concluded better, Omnia noctis erant. The following quatrain is vigorous and animated: The ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend, With hold fanatick spectres to rejoice; About the fire into a dance they bend, And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice. His prediction of the improvements which shall be made in the new city is elegant and poetical, and, with an event which poets cannot always boast, has been happily verified. The poem concludes with a simile that might have better been omitted. Dryden, when he wrote this poem, seems not yet fully to have formed his versification, or settled his system of propriety. From this time he addicted himself almost wholly to the stage, "to which," says he, "my genius never much inclined me," merely as the most profitable market for poetry. By writing tragedies in rhyme, he continued to improve his diction and his numbers. According to the opinion of Harte, who had studied his works with great attention, he settled his principles of versification in 1676, when he produced the play of Aureng Zebe; and, according to his own account of the short time in which he wrote Tyrannick Love, and the State of Innocence, he soon obtained the full effect of diligence, and added facility to exactness. Rhyme has been so long banished from the theatre, that we know not its effect upon the passions of an audience; but it has this convenience, that sentences stand more independent on each other, and striking passages are, therefore, easily selected and retained. Thus the description of night in the Indian Emperor, and the rise and fall of empire in the Conquest of Granada, are more frequently repeated than any lines in All for Love, or Don Sebastian. To search his plays for vigorous sallies and sententious elegancies, or to fix the dates of any little pieces which he wrote by chance, or by solicitation, were labour too tedious and minute. His dramatick labours did not so wholly absorb his thoughts, but that he promulgated the laws of translation in a preface to the English Epistles of Ovid; one of which he translated himself, and another in conjunction with the earl of Mulgrave. Absalom and Achitophel is a work so well known, that particular criticism is superfluous. If it be considered as a poem political and controversial, it will be found to comprise all the excellencies of which the subject is susceptible; acrimony of censure, elegance of praise, artful delineation of characters, variety and vigour of sentiment, happy turns of language, and pleasing harmony of numbers; and all these raised to such a height as can scarcely be found in any other English composition. It is not, however, without faults; some lines are inelegant or improper, and too many are irreligiously licentious. The original structure of the poem was defective; allegories drawn to great length will always break; Charles could not run continually parallel with David. The subject had likewise another inconvenience; it admitted little imagery or description; and a long poem of mere sentiments easily becomes tedious; though all the parts are forcible, and every line kindles new rapture, the reader, if not relieved by the interposition of something that sooths the fancy, grows weary of admiration, and defers the rest. As an approach to historical truth was necessary, the action and catastrophe were not in the poet's power; there is, therefore, an unpleasing disproportion between the beginning and the end. We are alarmed by a faction formed out of many sects various in their principles, but agreeing in their purpose of mischief, formidable for their numbers, and strong by their supports, while the king's friends are few and weak. The chiefs on either part are set forth to view; but when expectation is at the height, the king makes a speech, and Henceforth a series of new times began. Who can forbear to think of an enchanted castle, with a wide moat and lofty battlements, walls of marble and gates of brass, which vanishes at once into air, when the destined knight blows his horn before it? In the second part, written by Tate, there is a long insertion, which, for poignancy of satire, exceeds any part of the former. Personal resentment, though no laudable motive to satire, can add great force to general principles. Self-love is a busy prompter. The Medal, written upon the same principles with Absalom and Achitophel, but upon a narrower plan, gives less pleasure, though it discovers equal abilities in the writer. The superstructure cannot extend beyond the foundation; a single character or incident cannot furnish as many ideas, as a series of events, or multiplicity of agents. This poem, therefore, since time has left it to itself, is not much read, nor, perhaps, generally understood; yet it abounds with touches both of humorous and serious satire. The picture of a man whose propensions to mischief are such, that his best actions are but inability of wickedness, is very skilfully delineated and strongly coloured: Power was his aim; but, thrown from that pretence, The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence, And malice reconcil'd him to his prince. Him, in the anguish of his soul, he serv'd; Rewarded faster still than he deserv'd: Behold him now exalted into trust; His counsels oft convenient, seldom just. Ev'n in the most sincere advice he gave, He had a grudging still to be a knave. The frauds he learnt in his fanatick years, Made him uneasy in his lawful gears: At least as little honest as he could; And, like white witches, mischievously good. To this first bias, longingly he leans; And rather would be great by wicked means. The Threnodia, which, by a term I am afraid neither authorized nor analogical, he calls Augustalis, is not among his happiest productions. Its first and obvious defect is the irregularity of its metre, to which the ears of that age, however, were accustomed. What is worse, it has neither tenderness nor dignity; it is neither magnificent nor pathetick. He seems to look round him for images which he cannot find, and what he has he distorts by endeavouring to enlarge them. "He is," he says, "petrified with grief;" but the marble sometimes relents, and trickles in a joke: The sons of art all med'cines try'd, And ev'ry noble remedy apply'd: With emulation each essay'd His utmost skill; _nay, more, they prayd;_ Was never losing game with better conduct play'd. He had been a little inclined to merriment before upon the prayers of a nation for their dying sovereign; nor was he serious enough to keep heathen fables out of his religion: With him th' innumerable crowd of armed prayers Knock'd at the gates of heav'n, and knock'd aloud; _The first well-meaning rude petitioners_ All for his life assail'd the throne; All would have brib'd the skies by off'ring up their own. So great a throng not heav'n itself could bar; 'Twas almost borne by force, _as in the giants' war._ The pray'rs, at least, for his reprieve were heard: His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferr'd. There is, throughout the composition, a desire of splendour without wealth. In the conclusion he seems too much pleased with the prospect of the new reign to have lamented his old master with much sincerity. He did not miscarry in this attempt for want of skill either in lyrick or elegiack poetry. His poem on the death of Mrs. Killigrew is, undoubtedly, the noblest ode that our language ever has produced. The first part flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: "Fervet immensusque ruit." All the stanzas, indeed, are not equal. An imperial crown cannot be one continued diamond; the gems must be held together by some less valuable matter. In his first ode for Cecilia's day, which is lost in the splendour of the second, there are passages which would have dignified any other poet. The first stanza is vigorous and elegant, though the word _diapason_ is too technical, and the rhymes are too remote from one another: From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high. Arise, ye more than dead. Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, In order to their stations leap, And musick's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began; From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in man. The conclusion is likewise striking; but it includes an image so awful in itself, that it can owe little to poetry; and I could wish the antithesis of _musick untuning_ had found some other place: As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move. And sung the great creator's praise To all the bless'd above: So, when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And musick shall untune the sky. Of his skill in elegy he has given a specimen in his Eleonora, of which the following lines discover their author: Though all these rare endowments of the mind Were in a narrow space of life confin'd, The figure was with full perfection crown'd; Though not so large an orb, as truly round: As when in glory, through the publick place, The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass, And but one day for triumph was allow'd, The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd; And so the swift procession hurry'd on, That all, tho' not distinctly, might be shown; So, in the straiten'd bounds of life confin'd, She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind: And multitudes of virtues pass'd along; Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, Ambitious to be seen, and then make room For greater multitudes that were to come. Yet unemployed no minute slipp'd away; Moments were precious in so short a stay. The haste of heaven to have her was so great, That some were single acts, though each complete; And ev'ry act stood ready to repeat. This piece, however, is not without its faults; there is so much likeness in the initial comparison, that there is no illustration. As a king would be lamented, Eleonora was lamented: As, when some great and gracious monarch dies, Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise Among the sad attendants; then the sound Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around, Through town and country, till the dreadful blast Is blown to distant colonies at last; Who then, perhaps, were off'ring vows in vain, For his long life, and for his happy reign: So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, Till publick as the loss the news became. This is little better than to say in praise of a shrub, that it is as green as a tree; or of a brook, that it waters a garden, as a river waters a country. Dryden confesses that he did not know the lady whom he celebrates: the praise being, therefore, inevitably general, fixes no impression upon the reader, nor excites any tendency to love, nor much desire of imitation. Knowledge of the subject is to the poet what durable materials are to the architect. The Religio Laici, which borrows its title from the Religio Medici of Browne, is almost the only work of Dryden which can be considered as a voluntary effusion; in this, therefore, it might be hoped, that the full effulgence of his genius would be found. But, unhappily, the subject is rather argumentative than poetical; he intended only a specimen of metrical disputation: And this unpolish'd rugged verse I chose As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose. This, however, is a composition of great excellence in its kind, in which the familiar is very properly diversified with the solemn, and the grave with the humorous; in which metre has neither weakened the force, nor clouded the perspicuity of argument; nor will it be easy to find another example equally happy of this middle kind of writing, which, though prosaick in some parts, rises to high poetry in others, and neither towers to the skies, nor creeps along the ground. Of the same kind, or not far distant from it, is the Hind and Panther, the longest of all Dryden's original poems; an allegory intended to comprise and to decide the controversy between the Romanists and protestants. The scheme of the work is injudicious and incommodious; for what can be more absurd, than that one beast should counsel another to rest her faith upon a pope and council? He seems well enough skilled in the usual topicks of argument, endeavours to show the necessity of an infallible judge, and reproaches the reformers with want of unity; but is weak enough to ask, why, since we see without knowing how, we may not have an infallible judge without knowing where? The hind, at one time, is afraid to drink at the common brook, because she may be worried; but, walking home with the panther, talks by the way of the Nicene fathers, and at last declares herself to be the catholick church. This absurdity was very properly ridiculed in the City Mouse and Country Mouse of Montague and Prior; and, in the detection and censure of the incongruity of the fiction, chiefly consists the value of their performance, which, whatever reputation it might obtain by the help of temporary passions, seems, to readers almost a century distant, not very forcible or animated. Pope, whose judgment was, perhaps, a little bribed by the subject, used to mention this poem as the most correct specimen of Dryden's versification. It was, indeed, written when he had completely formed his manner, and may be supposed to exhibit, negligence excepted, his deliberate and ultimate scheme of metre. We may, therefore, reasonably infer, that he did not approve the perpetual uniformity which confines the sense to couplets, since he has broken his lines in the initial paragraph: A milk-white hind, immortal and unchang'd. Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd: Without unspotted, innocent within, She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chas'd with horns and hounds, And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds Aim'd at her heart; was often forc'd to fly, And doom'd to death, though fated not to die. These lines are lofty, elegant, and musical, notwithstanding the interruption of the pause, of which the effect is rather increase of pleasure by variety, than offence by ruggedness. To the first part it was his intention, he says, "to give the majestick turn of heroick poesy;" and, perhaps, he might have executed his design not unsuccessfully, had not an opportunity of satire, which he cannot forbear, fallen sometimes in his way. The character of a presbyterian, whose emblem is the wolf, is not very heroically majestick: More haughty than the rest, the wolfish race Appear with belly gaunt and famish'd face: Never was so deform'd a beast of grace. His ragged tail betwixt his legs he wears, Close clapp'd for shame; but his rough crest he rears, And pricks up his predestinating ears. His general character of the other sorts of beasts that never go to church, though sprightly and keen, has, however, not much of heroick poesy: These are the chief; to number o'er the rest, And stand like Adam naming ev'ry beast, Were weary work; nor will the muse describe A slimy-born, and sun-begotten tribe, Who, far from steeples and their sacred sound, In fields their sullen conventicles found. These gross, half-animated lumps I leave; Nor can I think what thoughts they can conceive; But, if they think at all, 'tis sure no higher Than matter, put in motion, may aspire; Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay, So drossy, so divisible are they, As would but serve pure bodies for allay: Such souls as shards produce, such beetle things As only buzz to heaven with evening wings; Strike in the dark, offending but by chance; Such are the blindfold blows of ignorance. They know no being, and but hate a name; To them the hind and panther are the same. One more instance, and that taken from the narrative part, where style was more in his choice, will show how steadily he kept his resolution of heroick dignity: For when the herd, suffic'd, did late repair To ferny heaths and to their forest lair, She made a mannerly excuse to stay, Proff'ring the hind to wait her half the way; That, since the sky was clear, an hour of talk Might help her to beguile the tedious walk. With much good-will the motion was embrac'd, To chat awhile on their adventures past: Nor had the grateful hind so soon forgot Her friend and fellow-suff'rer in the plot. Yet, wond'ring how of late she grew estrang'd, Her forehead cloudy and her count'nance chang'd, She thought this hour th' occasion would present To learn her secret cause of discontent, Which well she hop'd might be with ease redress'd, Consid'ring her a well-bred civil beast. And more a gentlewoman than the rest. After some common talk what rumours ran, The lady of the spotted muff began. The second and third parts he professes to have reduced to diction more familiar and more suitable to dispute and conversation; the difference is not, however, very easily perceived; the first has familiar, and the two others have sonorous, lines. The original incongruity runs through the whole: the king is now Caesar, and now the Lion; and the name Pan is given to the supreme being. But when this constitutional absurdity is forgiven, the poem must be confessed to be written with great smoothness of metre, a wide extent of knowledge, and an abundant multiplicity of images; the controversy is embellished with pointed sentences, diversified by illustrations, and enlivened by sallies of invective. Some of the facts to which allusions are made are now become obscure, and, perhaps, there may be many satirical passages little understood. As it was by its nature a work of defiance, a composition which would naturally be examined with the utmost acrimony of criticism, it was probably laboured with uncommon attention; and there are, indeed, few negligencies in the subordinate parts. The original impropriety, and the subsequent unpopularity of the subject, added to the ridiculousness of its first elements, has sunk it into neglect; but it may be usefully studied, as an example of poetical ratiocination, in which the argument suffers little from the metre. In the poem on the Birth of the Prince of Wales, nothing is very remarkable but the exorbitant adulation, and that insensibility of the precipice on which the king was then standing, which the laureate apparently shared with the rest of the courtiers. A few months cured him of controversy, dismissed him from court, and made him again a playwright and translator. Of Juvenal there had been a translation by Stapylton, and another by Holiday; neither of them is very poetical. Stapylton is more smooth; and Holiday's is more esteemed for the learning of his notes. A new version was proposed to the poets of that time, and undertaken by them in conjunction. The main design was conducted by Dryden, whose reputation was such that no man was unwilling to serve the muses under him. The general character of this translation will be given when it is said to preserve the wit, but to want the dignity of the original. The peculiarity of Juvenal is a mixture of gaiety and stateliness, of pointed sentences and declamatory grandeur. His points have not been neglected; but his grandeur none of the band seemed to consider as necessary to be imitated, except Creech, who undertook the thirteenth satire. It is, therefore, perhaps, possible to give a better representation of that great satirist, even in those parts which Dryden himself has translated, some passages excepted, which will never be excelled. With Juvenal was published Persius, translated wholly by Dryden. This work, though like all the other productions of Dryden it may have shining parts, seems to have been written merely for wages, in an uniform mediocrity without any eager endeavour after excellence, or laborious effort of the mind. There wanders an opinion among the readers of poetry that one of these satires is an exercise of the school. Dryden says, that he once translated it at school; but not that he preserved or published the juvenile performance. Not long afterwards he undertook, perhaps, the most arduous work of its kind, a translation of Virgil, for which he had shown how well he was qualified, by his version of the Pollio, and two episodes, one of Nisus and Euryalus, the other of Mezentius and Lausus. In the comparison of Homer and Virgil, the discriminative excellence of Homer is elevation and comprehension of thought, and that of Virgil is grace and splendour of diction. The beauties of Homer are, therefore, difficult to be lost, and those of Virgil difficult to be retained. The massy trunk of sentiment is safe by its solidity, but the blossoms of elocution easily drop away. The author, having the choice of his own images, selects those which he can best adorn; the translator must, at all hazards, follow his original, and express thoughts which, perhaps, he would not have chosen. When to this primary difficulty is added the inconvenience of a language so much inferiour in harmony to the Latin, it cannot be expected that they who read the Georgicks and the Aeneid should be much delighted with any version. All these obstacles Dryden saw, and all these he determined to encounter. The expectation of his work was undoubtedly great; the nation considered its honour as interested in the event. One gave him the different editions of his author, and another helped him in the subordinate parts. The arguments of the several books were given him by Addison. The hopes of the publick were riot disappointed. He produced, says Pope, "the most noble and spirited translation that I know in any language." It certainly excelled whatever had appeared in English, and appears to have satisfied his friends, and, for the most part, to have silenced his enemies. Milbourne, indeed, a clergyman, attacked it; but his outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite, and previously resolved not to be pleased. His criticism extends only to the Preface, Pastorals, and Georgicks; and, as he professes to give his antagonist an opportunity of reprisal, he has added his own version of the first and fourth Pastorals, and the first Georgick. The world has forgotten his book; but, since his attempt has given him a place in literary history, I will preserve a specimen of his criticism, by inserting his remarks on the invocation before the first Georgick, and of his poetry, by annexing his own version. Ver. 1. "What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn. "It's _unlucky_, they say, _to stumble at the threshold_: but what has a _plenteous harvest_ to do here? Virgil would not pretend to prescribe _rules_ for _that_ which depends not on the _husbandman's_ care, but the _disposition of heaven_ altogether. Indeed, the _plenteous crop_ depends somewhat on the _good method of tillage_; and where the _land'_s ill-manur'd, the _corn_, without a miracle, can be but _indifferent_; but the _harvest_ may be _good_, which is its _properest_ epithet, tho' the _husbandman's skill_ were never so _indifferent_. The next _sentence_ is _too literal_: and _when to plough_ had been _Virgil's_ meaning, and intelligible to every body; and _when to sow the corn_, is a needless _addition_. Ver. 3. "The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine, And when to geld the lambs, and shear the swine, "would as well have fallen under the _cura boum, qui cultus habendo sit pecori_, as Mr. D.'s _deduction_ of particulars. Ver. 5 "The birth and genius of the frugal bee I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee. "But where did _experientia_ ever signify _birth andgenius_? or what ground was there for such a _figure_ in this place? How much more manly is Mr. Ogylby's version? "What makes rich grounds, in what celestial signs 'Tis good to plough, and marry elms with vines: What best fits cattle, what with sheep agrees, And several arts improving frugal bees; I sing, Maecenas. "Which four lines, though faulty enough, are yet much more to the purpose than Mr. D.'s six. Ver. 22. "From fields and mountains to my song repair. "For _patrium linquens nemus, saltusque Lycaei_--Very well explained! Ver. 23, 24. "Inventor Pallas, of the fatt'ning oil, Thou founder of the plough, and ploughman's toil! "Written as if _these_ had been _Pallas's invention_. The _ploughman's toil's_ impertinent. Ver. 25. "The shroud-like cypress---- "Why _shroud-like_? Is a _cypress_ pulled up by the _roots_, which the _sculpture_ in the _last Eclogue_ fills _Silvanus's_ hand with, so very like a _shroud_? Or did not Mr. D. think of that kind of _cypress_ used often for _scarves and hatbands_, at funerals formerly, or for _widows' veils_, &c. ? If so, 'twas a _deep, good thought_. Ver. 26. "That wear The royal honours, and increase the year. "What's meant by _increasing the year_? Did the _gods_ or _goddesses_ add more _months_, or _days_, or _hours_, to it? Or how can _arva tueri_ signify to _wear rural honours_? Is this to _translate_, or _abuse_ an _author_? The next _couplet_ is borrowed from Ogylby, I suppose, because _less to the purpose_ than ordinary. Ver. 33. "The patron of the world, and Rome's peculiar guard. "_Idle_, and none of Virgil's, no more than the sense of the _precedent couplet_; so again, _he interpolates Virgil_ with that and _the round circle of the year to guide powerful of blessings, which thou strew'st around_; a ridiculous _Latinism_, and an _impertinent addition_; indeed the whole _period_ is but one piece of _absurdity_ and _nonsense_, as those who lay it with the _original_ must find. Ver. 42, 43. "And Neptune shall resign the fasces of the sea. "Was he _consul_ or _dictator_ there? "And wat'ry virgins for thy bed shall strive. "Both absurd _interpolations_." Ver. 47, 48. "Where in the void of heaven a place is free. "_Ah, happy_ D----n, _were_ that place for _thee_! "But where is _that void_? Or, what does our _translator_ mean by it? He knows what Ovid says God did to prevent such a void in heaven; perhaps this was then forgotten: but Virgil talks more sensibly. Ver. 49. "The scorpion ready to receive thy laws. "No, he would not then have _gotten out of his way_ so fast. Ver. 56. "Though Proserpine affects her silent seat. "What made her then so _angry_ with _Ascalaphus_, for preventing her return? She was now mus'd to _Patience_ under the _determinations of Fate_, rather than _fond_ of her _residence_, Ver. 61, 62, 63. "Pity the poet's and the ploughman's cares, Interest thy greatness in our mean affairs, And use thyself betimes to hear our prayers. "Which is such a wretched _perversion_ of Virgil's _noble thought_ as Vicars would have blushed at; but Mr. Ogylby makes us some amends, by his better lines: "O, wheresoe'er thou art, from thence incline, And grant assistance to my bold design! Pity, with me, poor husbandmen's affairs, And now, as if translated, hear our prayers. "This is _sense_, and _to the purpose_: the other, poor _mistaken stuff_." Such were the strictures of Milbourne, who found few abetters, and of whom it may be reasonably imagined, that many who favoured his design were ashamed of his insolence. When admiration had subsided, the translation was more coolly examined, and found, like all others, to be sometimes erroneous, and sometimes licentious. Those who could find faults, thought they could avoid them; and Dr. Brady attempted, in blank verse, a translation of the Aeneid, which, when dragged into the world, did not live long enough to cry, I have never seen it; but that such a version there is, or has been, perhaps some old catalogue informed me. With not much better success, Trapp, when his Tragedy and his Prelections had given him reputation, attempted another blank version of the Aeneid; to which, notwithstanding the slight regard with which it was treated, he had afterwards perseverance enough to add the Eclogues and Georgicks. His book may continue its existence as long as it is the clandestine refuge of schoolboys. Since the English ear has been accustomed to the mellifluence of Pope's numbers, and the diction of poetry has become more splendid, new attempts have been made to translate Virgil; and all his works have been attempted by men better qualified to contend with Dryden. I will not engage myself in an invidious comparison by opposing one passage to another; a work of which there would be no end, and which might be often offensive without use. It is not by comparing line with line, that the merit of great works is to be estimated, but by their general effects and ultimate result. It is easy to note a weak line, and write one more vigorous in its place; to find a happiness of expression in the original, and transplant it by force into the version: but what is given to the parts may be subducted from the whole, and the reader may be weary, though the critick may commend. Works of imagination excel by their allurement and delight; by their power of attracting and detaining the attention. That book is good in vain, which the reader throws away. He only is the master, who keeps the mind in pleasing captivity; whose pages are perused with eagerness, and in hope of new pleasure are perused again; and whose conclusion is perceived with an eye of sorrow, such as the traveller casts upon departing day [122]. By his proportion of this predomination I will consent that Dryden should be tried; of this, which, in opposition to reason, makes Ariosto the darling and the pride of Italy; of this, which, in defiance of criticism, continues Shakespeare the sovereign of the drama. His last work was his Fables, in which he gave us the first example of a mode of writing, which the Italians call _refaccimento_, a renovation of ancient writers, by modernizing their language. Thus the old poem of Boiardo has been new dressed by Domenichi and Berni. The works of Chaucer, upon which this kind of rejuvenescence has been bestowed by Dryden, require little criticism. The tale of the Cock seems hardly worth revival; and the story of Palamon and Arcite, containing an action unsuitable to the times in which it is placed, can hardly be suffered to pass without censure of the hyperbolical commendation which Dryden has given it in the general preface, and in a poetical dedication, a piece where his original fondness of remote conceits seems to have revived. Of the three pieces borrowed from Boccace, Sigismunda may be defended by the celebrity of the story. Theodore and Honoria, though it contains not much moral, yet afforded opportunities of striking description. And Cymon was formerly a tale of such reputation, that, at the revival of letters, it was translated into Latin by one of the Beroalds. Whatever subjects employed his pen, he was still improving our measures and embellishing our language. In this volume are interspersed some short original poems, which, with his prologues, epilogues, and songs, may be comprised in Congreve's remark, that even those, if he had written nothing else, would have entitled him to the praise of excellence in his kind. One composition must, however, be distinguished. The ode for St. Cecilia's Day, perhaps the last effort of his poetry, has been always considered as exhibiting the highest flight of fancy, and the exactest nicety of art. This is allowed to stand without a rival. If, indeed, there is any excellence beyond it, in some other of Dryden's works, that excellence must be found. Compared with the ode on Killigrew, it may be pronounced, perhaps, superiour in the whole; but without any single part equal to the first stanza of the other. It is said to have cost Dryden a fortnight's labour; but it does not want its negligences: some of the lines are without correspondent rhymes; a defect, which I never detected, but after an acquaintance of many years, and which the enthusiasm of the writer might hinder him from perceiving. His last stanza has less emotion than the former; but it is not less elegant in the diction. The conclusion is vitious; the musick of Timotheus, which "raised a mortal to the skies," had only a metaphorical power; that of Cecilia, which "drew an angel down," had a real effect: the crown, therefore, could not reasonably be divided. In a general survey of Dryden's labours, he appears to have a mind very comprehensive by nature, and much enriched with acquired knowledge. His compositions are the effects of a vigorous genius operating upon large materials. The power that predominated in his intellectual operations, was rather strong reason than quick sensibility. Upon all occasions that were presented, he studied rather than felt, and produced sentiments not such as nature enforces, but meditation supplies. With the simple and elemental passions, as they spring separate in the mind, he seems not much acquainted; and seldom describes them but as they are complicated by the various relations of society, and confused in the tumults and agitations of life. What he says of love may contribute to the explanation of his character: Love various minds does variously inspire; It stirs in gentle bosoms gentle fire, Like that of incense on the altar laid; But raging flames tempestuous souls invade: A fire which ev'ry windy passion blows, With pride it mounts, or with revenge it glows. Dryden's was not one of the "gentle bosoms:" love, as it subsists in itself, with no tendency but to the person loved, and wishing only for correspondent kindness; such love as shuts out all other interest; the love of the golden age, was too soft and subtile to put his faculties in motion. He hardly conceived it but in its turbulent effervescence with some other desires; when it was inflamed by rivalry, or obstructed by difficulties: when it invigorated ambition, or exasperated revenge. He is, therefore, with all his variety of excellence, not often pathetick; and had so little sensibility of the power of effusions purely natural, that he did not esteem them in others. Simplicity gave him no pleasure; and, for the first part of his life, he looked on Otway with contempt, though, at last, indeed very late, he confessed that in his play "there was nature, which is the chief beauty." We do not always know our own motives. I am not certain whether it was not rather the difficulty which he found in exhibiting the genuine operations of the heart, than a servile submission to an injudicious audience, that filled his plays with false magnificence. It was necessary to fix attention; and the mind can be captivated only by recollection, or by curiosity; by reviving natural sentiments, or impressing new appearances of things. Sentences were readier at his call than images; he could more easily fill the ear with some splendid novelty, than awaken those ideas that slumber in the heart. The favourite exercise of his mind was ratiocination; and, that argument might not be too soon at an end, he delighted to talk of liberty and necessity, destiny and contingence; these he discusses in the language of the school with so much profundity, that the terms which he uses are not always understood. It is, indeed, learning, but learning out of place. When once he had engaged himself in disputation, thoughts flowed in on either side: he was now no longer at a loss; he had always objections and solutions at command; "verbaque provisam rem"--give him matter for his verse, and he finds, without difficulty, verse for his matter. In comedy, for which he professes himself not naturally qualified, the mirth which he excites will, perhaps, not be found so much to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character nicely distinguished and diligently pursued, as from incidents and circumstances, artifices and surprises; from jests of action rather than of sentiment. What he had of humorous or passionate, he seems to have had not from nature, but from other poets; if not always as a plagiary, at least as an imitator. Next to argument, his delight was in wild and daring sallies of sentiment, in the irregular and eccentrick violence of wit. He delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning, where light and darkness begin to mingle; to approach the precipice of absurdity, and hover over the abyss of unideal vacancy. This inclination sometimes produced nonsense, which he knew; as, Move swiftly, sun, and fly a lover's pace, Leave weeks and months behind thee in thy race. Amamel flies To guard thee from the demons of the air; My flaming sword above them to display, All keen, and ground upon the edge of day. And sometimes it issued in absurdities, of which, perhaps, he was not conscious: Then we upon our orb's last verge shall go, And see the ocean leaning on the sky; From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know, And on the lunar world securely pry. These lines have no meaning; but may we not say, in imitation of Cowley on another book, 'Tis so like _sense_ 'twill serve the turn as well? This endeavour after the grand and the new, produced sentiments either great or bulky, and many images either just or splendid: I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran. --'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew, They fear to prove it, as a thing that's new: Let me th' experiment before you try, I'll show you first how easy 'tis to die. --There with a forest of their darts he strove, And stood like Capaneus defying Jove, With his broad sword the boldest beating down, While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town, And turn'd the iron leaves of his dark book To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook. --I beg no pity for this mouldering clay; For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth; If burnt, and scatter'd in the air, the winds That strew my dust diffuse my royalty, And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns. Of these quotations the two first may be allowed to be great, the two latter only tumid. Of such selection there is no end. I will add only a few more passages; of which the first, though it may, perhaps, not be quite clear in prose, is not too obscure for poetry, as the meaning that it has is noble[123]: No, there is a necessity in fate, Why still the brave bold man is fortunate; He keeps his object ever full in sight; And that assurance holds him firm and right; True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss, But right before there is no precipice; Fear makes men look aside, and so their footing miss. Of the images which the two following citations afford, the first is elegant, the second magnificent; whether either be just, let the reader judge: What precious drops are these, Which silently each other's track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew? Resign your castle---- --Enter, brave sir; for, when you speak the word, The gates shall open of their own accord; The genius of the place its lord shall meet, And bow its tow'ry forehead at your feet. These bursts of extravagance, Dryden calls the "Dalilahs" of the theatre; and owns that many noisy lines of Maximin and Almanzor call out for vengeance upon him: "but I knew," says he, "that they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them." There is, surely, reason to suspect that he pleased himself, as well as his audience; and that these, like the harlots of other men, had his love, though not his approbation. He had, sometimes, faults of a less generous and splendid kind. He makes, like almost all other poets, very frequent use of mythology, and sometimes connects religion and fable too closely without distinction. He descends to display his knowledge with pedantick ostentation; as when, in translating Virgil, he says, "tack to the larboard,"--and "veer starboard;" and talks, in another work, of "virtue spooning before the wind."--His vanity now and then betrays his ignorance: They nature's king through nature's opticks view'd; Revers'd, they view'd him lessen'd to their eyes. He had heard of reversing a telescope, and unluckily reverses the object. He is, sometimes, unexpectedly mean. When he describes the supreme being as moved by prayer to stop the fire of London, what is his expression? A hollow crystal pyramid he takes, In firmamental waters dipp'd above, Of this a broad _extinguisher_ he makes, And _hoods_ the flames that to their quarry strove. When he describes the last day, and the decisive tribunal, he intermingles this image: When rattling bones together fly, From the four quarters of the sky. It was, indeed, never in his power to resist the temptation of a jest. In his elegy on Cromwell: No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd, Than the _light monsieur_ the _grave don_ outweigh'd; His fortune turn'd the scale---- He had a vanity, unworthy of his abilities, to show, as may be suspected, the rank of the company with whom he lived, by the use of French words, which had then crept into conversation; such as _fraicheur_ for _coolness, fougue_ for _turbulence_, and a few more, none of which the language has incorporated or retained. They continue only where they stood first, perpetual warnings to future innovators. These are his faults of affectation; his faults of negligence are beyond recital. Such is the unevenness of his compositions, that ten lines are seldom found together without something of which the reader is ashamed. Dryden was no rigid judge of his own pages; he seldom struggled after supreme excellence, but snatched in haste what was within his reach; and when he could content others, was himself contented. He did not keep present to his mind an idea of pure perfection; nor compare his works, such as they were, with what they might be made. He knew to whom he should be opposed. He had more musick than Waller, more vigour than Donham, and more nature than Cowley; and from his contemporaries he was in no danger. Standing, therefore, in the highest place, he had no care to rise by contending with himself; but while there was no name above his own, was willing to enjoy fame on the easiest terms. He was no lover of labour. What he thought sufficient, he did not stop to make better; and allowed himself to leave many parts unfinished, in confidence that the good lines would overbalance the bad. What he had once written, he dismissed from his thoughts; and, I believe, there is no example to be found of any correction or improvement made by him after publication. The hastiness of his productions might be the effect of necessity; but his subsequent neglect could hardly have any other cause than impatience of study. What can be said of his versification, will be little more than a dilatation of the praise given it by Pope: Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestick march, and energy divine. Some improvements had been already made in English numbers; but the full force of our language was not yet felt; the verse that was smooth was commonly feeble. If Cowley had sometimes a finished line, he had it by chance. Dryden knew how to choose the flowing and the sonorous words; to vary the pauses, and adjust the accents; to diversify the cadence, and yet preserve the smoothness of his metre. Of triplets and alexandrines, though he did not introduce the use, he established it. The triplet has long subsisted among us. Dryden seems not to have traced it higher than to Chapman's Homer; but it is to be found in Phaer's Virgil, written in the reign of Mary; and in Hall's Satires, published five years before the death of Elizabeth. The alexandrine was, I believe, first used by Spenser, for the sake of closing his stanza with a fuller sound. We had a longer measure of fourteen syllables, into which the Aeneid was translated by Phaer, and other works of the ancients by other writers; of which Chapman's Iliad was, I believe, the last. The two first lines of Phaer's third Aeneid will exemplify this measure: When Asia's state was overthrown, and Priam's kingdom stout, All guiltless, by the power of gods above was rooted out. As these lines had their break, or caesura, always at the eighth syllable, it was thought, in time, commodious to divide them: and quatrains of lines, alternately, consisting of eight and six syllables, make the most soft and pleasing of our lyrick measures; as, Relentless time, destroying pow'r, Which stone and brass obey, Who giv'st to ev'ry flying hour To work some new decay. In the alexandrine, when its power was once felt, some poems, as Drayton's Polyolbion, were wholly written; and sometimes the measures of twelve and fourteen syllables were interchanged with one another. Cowley was the first that inserted the alexandrine at pleasure among the heroick lines of ten syllables, and from him Dryden professes to have adopted it[124]. The triplet and alexandrine are not universally approved. Swift always censured them, and wrote some lines to ridicule them. In examining their propriety, it is to be considered that the essence of verse is regularity, and its ornament is variety. To write verse, is to dispose syllables and sounds harmonically by some known and settled rule; a rule, however, lax enough to substitute similitude for identity, to admit change without breach of order, and to relieve the ear without disappointing it. Thus a Latin hexameter is formed from dactyls and spondees, differently combined; the English heroick admits of acute or grave syllables, variously disposed. The Latin never deviates into seven feet, or exceeds the number of seventeen syllables; but the English alexandrine breaks the lawful bounds, and surprises the reader with two syllables more than he expected. The effect of the triplet is the same: the ear has been accustomed to expect a new rhyme in every couplet; but is on a sudden surprised with three rhymes together, to which the reader could not accommodate his voice, did he not obtain notice of the change from the braces of the margins. Surely there is something unskilful in the necessity of such mechanical direction. Considering the metrical art simply as a science, and, consequently, excluding all casualty, we must allow that triplets and alexandrines, inserted by caprice, are interruptions of that constancy to which science aspires. And though the variety which they produce may very justly be desired, yet, to make our poetry exact, there ought to be some stated mode of admitting them. But till some such regulation can be formed, I wish them still to be retained in their present state. They are sometimes grateful to the reader, and sometimes convenient to the poet. Fenton was of opinion, that Dryden was too liberal, and Pope too sparing, in their use. The rhymes of Dryden are commonly just, and he valued himself for his readiness in finding them; but he is sometimes open to objection. It is the common practice of our poets to end the second line with a weak or grave syllable: Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, Fill'd with ideas of fair Italy. Dryden sometimes puts the weak rhyme in the first: Laugh all the powers that favour _tyranny_, And all the standing army of the sky. Sometimes he concludes a period or paragraph with the first line of a couplet, which, though the French seem to do it without irregularity, always displeases in English poetry. The alexandrine, though much his favourite, is not always very diligently fabricated by him. It invariably requires a break at the sixth syllable; a rule which the modern French poets never violate, but which Dryden sometimes neglected: And with paternal thunder vindicates his throne. Of Dryden's works it was said by Pope, that he "could select from them better specimens of every mode of poetry than any other English writer could supply." Perhaps no nation ever produced a writer that enriched his language with such variety of models. To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion, of our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments. By him we are taught "sapere et fari," to think naturally and express forcibly. Though Davies has reasoned in rhyme before him, it may be, perhaps, maintained that he was the first who joined argument with poetry. He showed us the true bounds of a translator's liberty. What was said of Rome, adorned by Augustus, may be applied by an easy metaphor to English poetry, embellished by Dryden, "lateritiam invenit, marmoream reliquit." He found it brick, and he left it marble. The invocation before the Georgicks is here inserted from Mr. Milbourne's version, that, according to his own proposal, his verses may be compared with those which he censures: What makes the richest _tilth_, beneath what signs To _plough_, and when to match your _elms and vines_; What care with _flocks_, and what with _herds_ agrees, And all the management of frugal _bees_; I sing, Maecenas! Ye immensely clear, Vast orbs of light, which guide the rolling year; Bacchus, and mother Ceres, if by you We fatt'ning _corn_ for hungry _mast_ pursue, If, taught by you, we first the _cluster_ prest, And _thin cold streams_ with _sprightly juice_ refresht; Ye _fawns_, the present _numens_ of the field, _Wood nymphs_ and _fawns_, your kind assistance yield; Your gifts I sing! And thou, at whose fear'd stroke From rending earth the fiery _courser_ broke, Great Neptune, O assist my artful song! And thou to whom the woods and groves belong, Whose snowy heifers on her flow'ry plains In mighty herds the Caean isle maintains! Pan, happy shepherd, if thy cares divine E'er to improve thy Maenalas incline, Leave thy _Lycaean wood_ and _native grove_, And with thy lucky smiles our work approve! Be Pallas too, sweet oil's inventor, kind; And he who first the crooked _plough_ design'd! Sylvanus, god of all the woods, appear, Whose hands a new-drawn tender _cypress_ bear! Ye _gods_ and _goddesses_, who e'er with love Would guard our pastures and our fields improve! You, who new plants from unknown lands supply, And with condensing clouds obscure the sky, And drop 'em softly thence in fruitful show'rs; Assist my enterprise, ye gentler pow'rs! And thou, great Caesar! though we know not yet Among what gods thou'lt fix thy lofty seat; Whether thou'lt be the kind _tutelar_ god Of thy own Rome; or with thy awful nod Guide the vast world, while thy great hand shall bear The fruits and seasons of the turning year, And thy bright brows thy mother's myrtles wear; Whether thou'lt all the boundless ocean sway, And seamen only to thyself shall pray, Thule, the farthest island, kneel to thee, And, that thou may'st her son by marriage be, Tethys will for the happy purchase yield To make a _dowry_ of her wat'ry field; Whether thou'lt add to heaven a _brighter sign_, And o'er the _summer months_ serenely shine; Where between Cancer and Erigone, There yet remains a spacious _room_ for thee; Where the hot _Scorpion_ too his arms declines, And more to thee than half his _arch_ resigns; Whate'er thou'lt be; for sure the realms below No just pretence to thy command can show: No such ambition sways thy vast desires, Though Greece her own _Elysian fields_ admires. And now, at last, contented Proserpine Can all her mother's earnest pray'rs decline. Whate'er thou'lt be, O guide our gentle course; And with thy smiles our bold attempts enforce; With me th' unknowing _rustics_' wants relieve, And, though on earth, our sacred vows receive! Mr. Dryden, having received from Rymer his Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age, wrote observations on the blank leaves; which, having been in the possession of Mr. Garrick, are, by his favour, communicated to the publick, that no particle of Dryden may be lost: "That we may the less wonder why pity and terrour are not now the only springs on which our tragedies move, and that Shakespeare may be more excused, Rapin confesses that the French tragedies, now all run on the _tendre_; and gives the reason, because love is the passion which most predominates in our souls, and that, therefore, the passions represented become insipid, unless they are conformable to the thoughts of the audience. But it is to be concluded, that this passion works not now amongst the French so strongly as the other two did amongst the ancients. Amongst us, who have a stronger genius for writing, the operations from the writing are much stronger; for the raising of Shakespeare's passions is more from the excellency of the words and thoughts, than the justness of the occasion; and if he has been able to pick single occasions, he has never founded the whole reasonably: yet, by the genius of poetry in writing, he has succeeded. "Rapin attributes more to the _dictio_, that is, to the words and discourse of a tragedy, than Aristotle has done, who places them in the last rank of beauties; perhaps, only last in order, because they are the last product of the design, of the disposition or connexion of its parts; of the characters, of the manners of those characters, and of the thoughts proceeding from those manners. Rapin's words are remarkable: 'Tis not the admirable intrigue, the surprising events, and extraordinary incidents, that make the beauty of a tragedy; 'tis the discourses, when they are natural and passionate: so are Shakespeare's. "The parts of a poem, tragick or heroick, are, "1. The fable itself. "2. The order or manner of its contrivance, in relation of the parts to the whole. "3. The manners, or decency, of the characters, in speaking or acting what is proper for them, and proper to be shown by the poet. "4. The thoughts which express the manners. "5. The words which express those thoughts. "In the last of these Homer excels Virgil; Virgil all other ancient poets; and Shakespeare all modern poets. "For the second of these, the order: the meaning is, that a fable ought to have a beginning, middle, and an end, all just and natural; so that that part, e.g. which is the middle, could not naturally be the beginning or end, and so of the rest: all depend on one another, like the links of a curious chain. If terrour and pity are only to be raised, certainly this author follows Aristotle's rules, and Sophocles' and Euripides' example: but joy may be raised too, and that doubly, either by seeing a wicked man punished, or a good man at last fortunate; or, perhaps, indignation, to see wickedness prosperous, and goodness depressed: both these may be profitable to the end of tragedy, reformation of manners; but the last improperly, only as it begets pity in the audience: though Aristotle, I confess, places tragedies of this kind in the second form. "He who undertakes to answer this excellent critique of Mr. Rymer, in behalf of our English poets against the Greek, ought to do it in this manner: either by yielding to him the greatest part of what he contends for, which consists in this, that the 'mithos', i. e. the design and conduct of it, is more conducing in the Greeks to those ends of tragedy, which Aristotle and he propose, namely, to cause terrour and pity; yet the granting this does not set the Greeks above the English poets. "But the answerer ought to prove two things: first, that the fable is not the greatest masterpiece of a tragedy, though it be the foundation of it. "Secondly, that other ends, as suitable to the nature of tragedy, may be found in the English, which were not in the Greek. "Aristotle places the fable first; not 'quoad dignitatem, sed quoad fundamentum:' for a fable, never so movingly contrived to those ends of his, pity and terrour, will operate nothing on our affections, except the characters, manners, thoughts, and words, are suitable. "So that it remains for Mr. Rymer to prove, that in all those, or the greatest part of them, we are inferiour to Sophocles and Euripides: and this he has offered at, in some measure; but, I think, a little partially to the ancients. "For the fable itself, 'tis in the English more adorned with episodes, and larger than in the Greek poets; consequently more diverting. For, if the action be but one, and that plain, without any counterturn of design or episode, i.e. underplot, how can it be so pleasing as the English, which have both underplot and a turned design, which keeps the audience in expectation of the catastrophe? whereas in the Greek poets we see through the whole design at first. "For the characters, they are neither so many nor so various in Sophocles and Euripides, as in Shakespeare and Fletcher; only they are more adapted to those ends of tragedy which Aristotle commends to us, pity and terrour. "The manners flow from the characters, and, consequently, must partake of their advantages and disadvantages. "The thoughts and words, which are the fourth and fifth beauties of tragedy, are certainly more noble and more poetical in the English than in the Greek, which must be proved by comparing them somewhat more equitably than Mr. Rymer has done. "After all, we need not yield, that the English way is less conducing to move pity and terrour, because they often show virtue oppressed and vice punished; where they do not both, or either, they are not to be defended. "And if we should grant that the Greeks performed this better, perhaps it may admit of dispute, whether pity and terrour are either the prime, or, at least, the only ends of tragedy. "'Tis not enough that Aristotle has said so; for Aristotle drew his models of tragedy from Sophocles and Euripides; and, if he had seen ours, might have changed his mind. And chiefly we have to say (what I hinted on pity and terrour, in the last paragraph save one,) that the punishment of vice and reward of virtue are the most adequate ends of tragedy, because most conducing to good example of life. Now, pity is not so easily raised for a criminal (and the ancient tragedy always represents its chief person such) as it is for an innocent man; and the suffering of innocence and punishment of the offender is of the nature of English tragedy: contrarily, in the Greek, innocence is unhappy often, and the offender escapes. Then we are not touched with the sufferings of any sort of men so much as of lovers; and this was almost unknown to the ancients; so that they neither administered poetical justice, of which Mr. Rymer boasts, so well as we; neither knew they the best commonplace of pity, which is love. "He, therefore, unjustly blames us for not building on what the ancients left us; for it seems, upon consideration of the premises, that we have wholly finished what they began. "My judgment on this piece is this: that it is extremely learned, but that the author of it is better read in the Greek than in the English poets; that all writers ought to study this critique, as the best account I have ever seen of the ancients; that the model of tragedy he has here given is excellent, and extremely correct; but that it is not the only model of all tragedy, because it is too much circumscribed in plot, characters, &c.; and, lastly, that we may be taught here justly to admire and imitate the ancients, without giving them the preference with this author, in prejudice to our own country. "Want of method in this excellent treatise makes the thoughts of the author sometimes obscure. "His meaning, that pity and terrour are to be moved, is, that they are to be moved, as the means conducing to the ends of tragedy, which are pleasure and instruction. "And these two ends may be thus distinguished. The chief end of the poet is to please; for his immediate reputation depends on it. "The great end of the poem is to instruct, which is performed by making pleasure the vehicle of that instruction; for poesy is an art, and all arts are made to profit. _Rapin_. "The pity, which the poet is to labour for, is for the criminal, not for those or him whom he has murdered, or who have been the occasion of the tragedy. The terrour is likewise in the punishment of the same criminal; who, if he be represented too great an offender, will not be pitied: if altogether innocent, his punishment will be unjust. "Another obscurity is, where he says, Sophocles perfected tragedy by introducing the third actor; that is, he meant, three kinds of action; one company singing, or speaking; another playing on the musick; a third dancing. "To make a true judgment in this competition betwixt the Greek poets and the English, in tragedy: "Consider, first, how Aristotle has defined a tragedy. Secondly, what he assigns the end of it to be. Thirdly, what he thinks the beauties of it. Fourthly, the means to attain the end proposed. "Compare the Greek and English tragick poets justly, and without partiality, according to those rules. "Then, secondly, consider whether Aristotle has made a just definition of tragedy; of its parts, of its ends, and of its beauties; and whether he, having not seen any others but those of Sophocles, Euripides, &c. had or truly could determine what all the excellencies of tragedy are, and wherein they consist. "Next, show in what ancient tragedy was deficient: for example, in the narrowness of its plots, and fewness of persons; and try whether that be not a fault in the Greek poets; and whether their excellency was so great, when the variety was visibly so little; or whether what they did was not very easy to do. "Then make a judgment on what the English have added to their beauties: as, for example, not only more plot, but also new passions; as, namely, that of love, scarcely touched on by the ancients, except in this one example of Phaedra, cited by Mr. Rymer; and in that how short they were of Fletcher! "Prove also that love, being an heroick passion, is fit for tragedy, which cannot be denied, because of the example alleged of Phaedra; and how far Shakespeare has outdone them in friendship, &c. "To return to the beginning of this inquiry; consider if pity and terrour be enough for tragedy to move: and I believe, upon a true definition of tragedy, it will be found that its work extends farther, and that it is to reform manners, by a delightful representation of human life in great persons, by way of dialogue. If this be true, then not only pity and terrour are to be moved, as the only means to bring us to virtue, but generally love to virtue, and hatred to vice; by showing the rewards of one, and punishments of the other; at least, by rendering virtue always amiable, though it be shown unfortunate; and vice detestable, though it be shown triumphant. "If, then, the encouragement of virtue and discouragement of vice be the proper ends of poetry in tragedy, pity and terrour, though good means, are not the only. For all the passions, in their turns, are to be set in a ferment: as joy, anger, love, fear, are to be used as the poet's commonplaces; and a general concernment for the principal actors is to be raised, by making them appear such in their characters, their words, and actions, as will interest the audience in their fortunes. "And if, after all, in a larger sense, pity comprehends this concernment for the good, and terrour includes detestation for the bad, then let us consider whether the English have not answered this end of tragedy as well as the ancients, or perhaps better. "And here Mr. Rymer's objections against these plays are to be impartially weighed, that we may see whether they are of weight enough to turn the balance against our countrymen. "'Tis evident those plays, which he arraigns, have moved both those passions in a high degree upon the stage. "To give the glory of this away from the poet, and to place it upon the actors, seems unjust. "One reason is, because whatever actors they have found, the event has been the same; that is, the same passions have been always moved: which shows, that there is something of force and merit in the plays themselves, conducing to the design of raising these two passions: and suppose them ever to have been excellently acted, yet action only adds grace, vigour, and more life, upon the stage; but cannot give it wholly where it is not first. But, secondly, I dare appeal to those who have never seen them acted, if they have not found these two passions moved within them: and if the general voice will carry it, Mr. Rymer's prejudice will take off his single testimony. "This, being matter of fact, is reasonably to be established by this appeal; as, if one man says it is night, when the rest of the world conclude it to be day, there needs no farther argument against him, that it is so. "If he urge, that the general taste is depraved, his arguments to prove this can, at best, but evince that our poets took not the best way to raise those passions; but experience proves against him, that those means, which they have used, have been successful, and have produced them. "And one reason of that success is, in my opinion, this: that Shakespeare and Fletcher have written to the genius of the age and nation in which they lived; for though nature, as he objects, is the same in all places, and reason too the same; yet the climate, the age, the disposition of the people, to whom a poet writes, may be so different, that what pleased the Greeks would not satisfy an English audience. "And if they proceeded upon a foundation of truer reason to please the Athenians, than Shakespeare and Fletcher to please the English, it only shows that the Athenians were a more judicious people; but the poet's business is certainly to please the audience. "Whether our English audience have been pleased, hitherto, with acorns, as he calls it, or with bread, is the next question; that is, whether the means which Shakespeare and Fletcher have used, in their plays, to raise those passions before named, be better applied to the ends by the Greek poets than by them. And, perhaps, we shall not grant him this wholly: let it be granted, that a writer is not to run down with the stream, or to please the people by their usual methods, but rather to reform their judgments, it still remains to prove that our theatre needs this total reformation. "The faults, which he has found in their designs, are rather wittily aggravated in many places than reasonably urged; and as much may be returned on the Greeks, by one who were as witty as himself. "They destroy not, if they are granted, the foundation of the fabrick: only take away from the beauty of the symmetry: for example, the faults in the character of the king, in King and No King, are not, as he makes them, such as render him detestable, but only imperfections which accompany human nature, and are, for the most part, excused by the violence of his love; so that they destroy not our pity or concernment for him: this answer may be applied to most of his objections of that kind. "And Rollo committing many murders, when he is answerable but for one, is too severely arraigned by him; for, it adds to our horrour and detestation of the criminal; and poetick justice is not neglected neither; for we stab him in our minds for every offence which he commits; and the point, which the poet is to gain on the audience, is not so much in the death of an offender as the raising an horrour of his crimes. "That the criminal should neither be wholly guilty, nor wholly innocent, but so participating of both as to move both pity and terrour, is certainly a good rule, but not perpetually to be observed; for that were to make all tragedies too much alike; which objection he foresaw, but has not fully answered. "To conclude, therefore; if the plays of the ancients are more correctly plotted, ours are more beautifully written. And, if we can raise passions as high on worse foundations, it shows our genius in tragedy is greater; for in all other parts of it the English have manifestly excelled them." The original of the following letter is preserved in the library at Lambeth, and was kindly imparted to the publick by the reverend Dr. Vyse. Copy of an original letter from John Dryden, esq. to his sons in Italy, from a MS. in the Lambeth library, marked N°. 933, p. 56. (_Superscribed_) "All' illustrissimo Sig're Carlo Dryden, Camariere d'Honore a S.S. "In Roma. "Franca per Mantoua. "DEAR SONS, "Sept. the 3d, our style. "Being now at sir William Bowyer's in the country, I cannot write at large, because I find myself somewhat indisposed with a cold, and am thick of hearing, rather worse than I was in town. I am glad to find, by your letter of July 26th, your style, that you are both in health; but wonder you should think me so negligent as to forget to give you an account of the ship in which your parcel is to come. I have written to you two or three letters concerning it, which I have sent by safe hands, as I told you, and doubt not but you have them before this can arrive to you. Being out of town, I have forgotten the ship's name, which your mother will inquire, and put it into her letter, which is joined with mine. But the master's name I remember: he is called Mr. Ralph Thorp; the ship is bound to Leghorn, consigned to Mr. Peter and Mr. Thomas Ball, merchants. I am of your opinion, that by Tonson's means almost all our letters have miscarried for this last year. But, however, he has missed of his design in the dedication, though he had prepared the book for it; for in every figure of Aeneas he has caused him to be drawn like king William, with a hooked nose. After my return to town, I intend to alter a play of sir Robert Howard's, written long since, and lately put by him into my hands; 'tis called the Conquest of China by the Tartars. It will cost me six weeks' study, with the probable benefit of a hundred pounds. In the mean time, I am writing a song for St. Cecilia's Feast, who, you know, is the patroness of musick. This is troublesome, and no way beneficial; but I could not deny the stewards of the feast, who came in a body to me to desire that kindness, one of them being Mr. Bridgman, whose parents are your mother's friends. I hope to send you thirty guineas between Michaelmas and Christmas, of which I will give you an account when I come to town. I remember the counsel you give me in your letter; but dissembling, though lawful in some cases, is not my talent; yet, for your sake, I will struggle with the plain openness of my nature, and keep in my just resentments against that degenerate order. In the mean time I flatter not myself with any manner of hopes, but do my duty, and suffer for God's sake; being assured, beforehand, never to be rewarded, though the times should alter. Towards the latter end of this month, September, Charles will begin to recover his perfect health, according to his nativity, which, casting it myself, I am sure is true, and all things hitherto have happened accordingly to the very time that I predicted them: I hope, at the same time, to recover more health, according to my age. Remember me to poor Harry, whose prayers I earnestly desire. My Virgil succeeds in the world beyond its desert or my expectation. You know the profits might have been more; but neither my conscience nor my honour would suffer me to take them: but I never can repent of my constancy, since I am thoroughly persuaded of the justice of the cause for which I suffer. It has pleased God to raise up many friends to me amongst my enemies, though they who ought to have been my friends are negligent of me. I am called to dinner, and cannot go on with this letter, which I desire you to excuse; and am "Your most affectionate father, "JOHN DRYDEN." [Footnote 92: The life of Dryden is written with more than Johnson's usual copiousness of biography, and with peculiar vigour and justness of criticism. "None, perhaps, of the Lives of the Poets," says the Edinburgh Review, for October, 1808, "is entitled to so high a rank. No prejudice interfered with his judgment; he approved his politics; he could feel no envy of such established fame; he had a mind precisely formed to relish the excellencies of Dryden--more vigorous than refined; more reasoning than impassioned." Edinburgh Review, xxv. p. 117. Many dates, however, and little facts have been rectified by Mr. Malone, in his most minute Account of the Life and Writings of John Dryden; and sir Walter Scott, in the life prefixed to his edition of Dryden's works, has been still more industrious in the collection of incidents and contemporary writings, that can only interest the antiquary. Those to whom Johnson's life seems not sufficiently ample, we refer to the above works. For an eulogy on Dryden's powers, as a satirist, see the notes on the Pursuits of Literature. ED.] [Footnote 93: Mr. Malone has lately proved, that there is no satisfactory evidence for this date. The inscription on Dryden's monument says only "natus 1632." See Malone's Life of Dryden, prefixed to his Critical and Miscellaneous Prose Works, p. 5. note. C.] [Footnote 94: Of Cumberland. Ibid. p. 10. C.] [Footnote 95: Mr. Malone has furnished us with a detailed account of our poet's circumstances, from which it appears, that although he was possessed of a sufficient income, in the early part of his life, he was considerably embarrassed at its close. See Malone's Life, p. 440.] [Footnote 96: Mr. Derrick's Life of Dryden was prefixed to a very beautiful and correct edition of Dryden's Miscellanies, published by the Tonsons, in 1760,4 vols. 8vo. Derrick's part, however, was poorly executed, and the edition never became popular. C.] [Footnote 97: He went off to Trinity college, and was admitted to a bachelor's degree in Jan. 1653-4, and in 1657 was made M.A.] [Footnote 98: This is a mistake; his poem on the death of lord Hastings appeared in a volume entitled Tears of the Muses on the death of Henry Lord Hastings. 8vo. 1649. M.] [Footnote 99: The order of his plays has been accurately ascertained by Mr. Malone. C.] [Footnote 100: The duke of Guise was his first attempt in the drama, but laid aside, and afterwards new modelled. See Malone, p. 51.] [Footnote 101: See Malone, p. 91.] [Footnote 102: He did not obtain the laurel till Aug. 18, 1670, but Mr. Malone informs us, the patent had a retrospect, and the salary commenced from the Midsummer after Davenant's death. C.] [Footnote 103: Downes says it was performed on a very unlucky day, viz. that on which the duke of Monmouth landed in the west; and he intimates, that the consternation into which the kingdom was thrown by this event, was a reason why it was performed but six times, and was in general ill received. H.] [Footnote 104: This is a mistake. It was set to musick by Purcell, and well received, and is yet a favourite entertainment. H.] [Footnote 105: Johnson has here quoted from memory. Warburton is the original relater of this anecdote, who says he had it from Southern himself. According to him, Dryden's usual price had been _four guineas_, and he made Southern pay _six_. In the edition of Southern's plays, 1774, we have a different deviation from the truth, _five_ and _ten_ guineas. M.] [Footnote 106: Dr. Johnson, in this assertion, was misled by Langbaine. Only one of these plays appeared in 1678. Nor were there more than three in any one year. The dates are now added from the original editions. R.] [Footnote 107: It was published in 1672. R.] [Footnote 108: This remark, as Mr. Malone observes, is founded upon the erroneous dates with which Johnson was supplied by Langbaine. The Rehearsal was played in 1671, but not published till the next year; The Wild Gallant was printed in 1669, The Maiden Queen in 1668, Tyrannick Love in 1670; the two parts of Granada were performed in 1669 and 1670, though not printed till 1672. Additions were afterwards made to The Rehearsal, and among these are the parodies on Assignation, which are not to be found in Buckingham's play as it originally appeared. Mr. Malone denies that there is any allusion to Marriage à-la-mode. See Malone, p. 100. J. B.] [Footnote 109: It is mentioned by A. Wood, Athen, Oxon. vol. ii. p. 804. 2nd ed. C.] [Footnote 110: Dryden translated two entire epistles, Canace to Macareus, and Dido to Aeneas. Helen to Paris was translated by him and lord Mulgrave. Malone, J.B.] [Footnote 111: Azaria and Hushai was written by Samuel Pordage, a dramatick writer of that time.] [Footnote 112: Dr. John Reynolds, who lived temp. Jac. I. was at first a zealous papist, and his brother William as earnest a protestant; but by mutual disputation each converted the other. See Fuller's Church History, p. 47. book x. II.] [Footnote 113: This is a mistake. See Malone, p. 194, &c.] [Footnote 114: All Dryden's biographers have misdated this poem, which Mr. Malone's more accurate researches prove to have been published on the 4th of Oct. 1682.] [Footnote 115: Albion and Albanius must, however, be excepted. R.] [Footnote 116: This story has been traced to its source, and clearly proved to be a fabrication, by Mr. Malone. See Malone's Life, 347.] [Footnote 117: An earlier account of Dryden's funeral than that above cited, though without the circumstances that preceded it, is given by Edward Ward, who, in his London Spy, published in 1706, relates, that on the occasion there was a performance of solemn musick at the college, and that at the procession, which himself saw, standing at the end of Chancery lane, Fleet street, there was a concert of hautboys and trumpets. The day of Dryden's interment, he says, was Monday, the 13th of May, which, according to Johnson, was twelve days after his decease, and shows how long his funeral was in suspense. Ward knew not that the expense of it was defrayed by subscription; but compliments lord Jefferies for so pious an undertaking. He also says, that the cause of Dryden's death was an inflammation in his toe, occasioned by the flesh growing over the nail, which, being neglected, produced a mortification in his leg. H.] [Footnote 118: In the register of the College of Physicians, is the following entry: "May 3, 1700. Comitiis Censoriis ordinariis. At the request of several persons of quality, that Mr. Dryden might be carried from the College of Physicians to be interred at Westminster, it was unanimously granted by the president and censors." This entry is not calculated to afford any credit to the narrative concerning lord Jefferies. R.] [Footnote 119: See what is said on this head with regard to Cowley and Addison, in their respective lives.] [Footnote 120: Preface to Ovid's Metamorphoses. Dr. J.] [Footnote 121: We are not about to attempt a justification of Dryden's strange use, in the above stanzas, of nautical phrases, but we must remark, that Johnson's antipathy to ships, and every thing connected with them, made him unusually sensitive of any thing like naval technicalities. And yet surely the occasional and judicious use of them in description is quite as allowable as the introduction of allusions to the printing office or bookseller's shop, with which Johnson happened to be familiar, and, therefore, did not disapprove. St. Paul did not disdain to adopt naval phraseology in his exquisite narrative of his own perils by sea. ED.] [Footnoteb 122: A heart-sinking and painful depression has been experienced by most of us on concluding a favourite author; but the sensation has never been more vividly portrayed in language, than in the above passage. ED.] [Footnote 123: I cannot see why Johnson has thought there was any want of clearness in this passage even in prose. Addison has given us almost the very same thought in very good prose: "If we look forward to him [the deity] for help, we shall never be in danger of falling down those precipices which our imagination is apt to create. Like those who walk upon a line, if we keep our eye fixed upon one point, we may step forward securely; whereas an imprudent or cowardly glance on either side will infallibly destroy us." Spectator, No. 615. J.B.] [Footnote 124: This is an error. The alexandrine inserted among heroick lines of ten syllables is found in many of the writers of queen Elizabeth's reign. It will be sufficient to mention Hall, who has already been quoted for the use of the triplet: As tho' the staring world hang'd on his sleeve. Whenever he smiles to laugh, and when he sighs to grieve. Hall's Sat. book i. sat. 7. Take another instance: For shame! or better write or Labeo write none. Hall's Sat. book ii. sat 1. J.B.] SMITH Edmund Smith is one of those lucky writers who have, without much labour, attained high reputation, and who are mentioned with reverence, rather for the possession, than the exertion of uncommon abilities. Of his life little is known; and that little claims no praise but what can be given to intellectual excellence, seldom employed to any virtuous purpose. His character, as given by Mr. Oldisworth, with all the partiality of friendship, which is said, by Dr. Burton, to show "what fine things one man of parts can say of another," and which, however, comprises great part of what can be known of Mr. Smith, it is better to transcribe, at once, than to take by pieces. I shall subjoin such little memorials as accident has enabled me to collect. Mr. Edmund Smith was the only son of an eminent merchant, one Mr. Neale, by a daughter of the famous baron Lechmere. Some misfortunes of his father, which were soon followed by his death, were the occasion of the son's being left very young in the hands of a near relation, (one who married Mr. Neale's sister,) whose name was Smith. This gentleman and his lady treated him as their own child, and put him to Westminster school, under the care of Dr. Busby; whence, after the loss of his faithful and generous guardian, (whose name he assumed and retained,) he was removed to Christ church, in Oxford, and there, by his aunt, handsomely maintained till her death; after which he continued a member of that learned and ingenious society, till within five years of his own; though, some time before his leaving Christ church, he was sent for by his mother to Worcester, and owned and acknowledged as her legitimate son; which had not been mentioned, but to wipe off the aspersions that were ignorantly cast by some on his birth. It is to be remembered, for our author's honour, that, when at Westminster election he stood a candidate for one of the universities, he so signally distinguished himself by his conspicuous performances, that there arose no small contention, between the representative electors of Trinity college, in Cambridge, and Christ church, in Oxon, which of those two royal societies should adopt him as their own. But the electors of Trinity college having the preference of choice that year, they resolutely elected him; who yet, being invited, at the same time, to Christ church, chose to accept of a studentship there. Mr. Smith's perfections, as well natural as acquired, seem to have been formed upon Horace's plan, who says, in his Art of Poetry: Ego nec studium sine divite vena, Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium; alterius sic Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. He was endowed by nature with all those excellent and necessary qualifications which are previous to the accomplishment of a great man. His memory was large and tenacious, yet, by a _curious felicity, chiefly_ susceptible of the finest impressions it received from the best authors he read, which it always preserved in their primitive strength and amiable order. He had a quickness of apprehension, and vivacity of understanding, which easily took in and surmounted the most subtile and knotty parts of mathematicks and metaphysicks. His wit was prompt and flowing, yet solid and piercing; his taste delicate, his head clear, and his way of expressing his thoughts perspicuous and engaging. I shall say nothing of his person, which yet was so well _turned_, that no neglect of himself in his dress could render it disagreeable; insomuch, that the fair sex, who observed and esteemed him, at once commended and reproved him by the name of the _handsome_ sloven. An eager but generous and noble emulation grew up with him; which (as it were a rational sort of instinct) pushed him upon striving to excel in every art and science that could make him a credit to his college, and that college the ornament of the most learned and polite university; and it was his happiness to have several contemporaries and fellow-students who exercised and excited this virtue in themselves and others, thereby becoming so deservedly in favour with this age, and so good a proof of its nice discernment. His judgment, naturally good, soon ripened into an exquisite fineness and distinguishing sagacity, which as it was active and busy, so it was vigorous and manly, keeping even paces with a rich and strong imagination, always upon the wing, and never tired with aspiring. Hence it was, that, though he writ as young as Cowley, he had no puerilities; and his earliest productions were so far from having any thing in them mean and trifling, that, like the junior compositions of Mr. Stepney, they may make grey authors blush. There are many of his first essays in oratory, in epigram, elegy, and epick, still handed about the university in manuscript, which show a masterly hand; and, though maimed and injured by frequent transcribing, make their way into our most celebrated miscellanies, where they shine with uncommon lustre. Besides those verses in the Oxford books, which he could not help setting his name to, several of his compositions came abroad under other names, which his own singular modesty, and faithful silence, strove in vain to conceal. The Encaenia and publick collections of the university upon state subjects, were never in such esteem, either for elegy or congratulation, as when he contributed most largely to them; and it was natural for those who knew his peculiar way of writing, to turn to his share in the work, as by far the most relishing part of the entertainment. As his parts were extraordinary, so he well knew how to improve them; and not only to polish the diamond, but enchase it in the most solid and durable metal. Though he was an academick the greatest part of his life, yet he contracted no sourness of temper, no spice of pedantry, no itch of disputation, or obstinate contention for the old or new philosophy, no assuming way of dictating to others, which are faults (though excusable) which some are insensibly led into, who are constrained to dwell long within the walls of a private college. His conversation was pleasant and instructive, and what Horace said of Plotius, Varius, and Virgil, might justly be applied to him: Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. Sat. v. l. 1. As correct a writer as he was in his most elaborate pieces, he read the works of others with candour, and reserved his greatest severity for his own compositions; being readier to cherish and advance, than damp or depress a rising genius, and as patient of being excelled himself (if any could excel him) as industrious to excel others. 'Twere to be wished he had confined himself to a particular profession, who was capable of surpassing in any; but, in this, his want of application was, in a great measure, owing to his want of due encouragement. He passed through the exercises of the college and university with unusual applause; and though he often suffered his friends to call him off from his retirements, and to lengthen out those jovial avocations, yet his return to his studies was so much the more passionate, and his intention upon those refined pleasures of reading and thinking so vehement, (to which his facetious and unbended intervals bore no proportion,) that the habit grew upon him; and the series of meditation and reflection being kept up whole weeks together, he could better sort his ideas, and take in the sundry parts of a science at one view, without interruption or confusion. Some, indeed, of his acquaintance, who were pleased to distinguish between the wit and the scholar, extolled him altogether on the account of the first of these titles; but others, who knew him better, could not forbear doing him justice as a prodigy in both kinds. He had signalized himself, in the schools, as a philosopher and polemick of extensive knowledge and deep penetration; and went through all the courses with a wise regard to the dignity and importance of each science. I remember him in the Divinity school responding and disputing with a perspicuous energy, a ready exactness, and commanding force of argument, when Dr. Jane worthily presided in the chair; whose condescending and disinterested commendation of him gave him such a reputation, as silenced the envious malice of his enemies, who durst not contradict the approbation of so profound a master in theology. None of those self-sufficient creatures, who have either trifled with philosophy, by attempting to ridicule it, or have encumbered it with novel terms and burdensome explanations, understood its real weight and purity half so well as Mr. Smith. He was too discerning to allow of the character of unprofitable, rugged, and abstruse, which some superficial sciolists, (so very smooth and polite, as to admit of no impression,) either out of an unthinking indolence, or an ill-grounded prejudice, had affixed to this sort of studies. He knew the thorny terms of philosophy served well to fence in the true doctrines of religion; and looked upon school-divinity as upon a rough but well-wrought armour, which might at once adorn and defend the christian hero, and equip him for the combat. Mr. Smith had a long and perfect intimacy with all the Greek and Latin classicks; with whom he had carefully compared whatever was worth perusing in the French, Spanish, and Italian, (to which languages he was no stranger,) and in all the celebrated writers of his own country. But then, according to the curious observation of the late earl of Shaftesbury, he kept the poet in awe by regular criticism; and, as it were, married the two arts for their mutual support and improvement. There was not a tract of credit, upon that subject, which he had not diligently examined, from Aristotle down to Hedelin and Bossu; so that, having each rule constantly before him, he could carry the art through every poem, and at once point out the graces and deformities. By this means he seemed to read with a design to correct, as well as imitate. Being thus prepared, he could not but taste every little delicacy that was set before him; though it was impossible for him, at the same time, to be fed and nourished with any thing but what was substantial and lasting. He considered the ancients and moderns not as parties or rivals for fame, but as architects upon one and the same plan, the art of poetry; according to which he judged, approved, and blamed, without flattery or detraction. If he did not always commend the compositions of others, it was not ill-nature, (which was not in his temper,) but strict justice, that would not let him call a few flowers set in ranks, a glib measure, and so many couplets, by the name of poetry: he was of Ben Jonson's opinion, who could not admire Verses as smooth and soft as cream, In which there was neither depth nor stream. And, therefore, though his want of complaisance for some men's overbearing vanity made him enemies, yet the better part of mankind were obliged by the freedom of his reflections. His Bodleian Speech, though taken from a remote and imperfect copy, hath shown the world how great a master he was of the Ciceronian eloquence, mixed with the conciseness and force of Demosthenes, the elegant and moving turns of Pliny, and the acute and wise reflections of Tacitus. Since Temple and Roscommon, no man understood Horace better, especially as to his happy diction, rolling numbers, beautiful imagery, and alternate mixture of the soft and the sublime. This endeared Dr. Hannes's odes to him, the finest genius for Latin lyrick since the Augustan age. His friend Mr. Philips's ode to Mr. St. John, (late lord Bolingbroke,) after the manner of Horace's Lusory or Amatorian Odes, is certainly a masterpiece; but Mr. Smith's Pocockius is of the sublimer kind, though, like Waller's writings upon Oliver Cromwell, it wants not the most delicate and surprising turns peculiar to the person praised. I do not remember to have seen any thing like it in Dr. Bathurst[125], who had made some attempts this way with applause. He was an excellent judge of humanity; and so good an historian, that in familiar discourse he would talk over the most memorable facts in antiquity, the lives, actions, and characters of celebrated men, with amazing facility and accuracy. As he had thoroughly read and digested Thuanus's works, so he was able to copy after him; and his talent in this kind was so well known and allowed, that he had been singled out, by some great men, to write a history, which it was for their interest to have done with the utmost art and dexterity. I shall not mention for what reasons this design was dropped, though they are very much to Mr. Smith's honour. The truth is, and I speak it before living witnesses, whilst an agreeable company could fix him upon a subject of useful literature, nobody shone to greater advantage; he seemed to be that Memmius whom Lucretius speaks of: Quem tu, dea, tempore in omni Omnibus ornatum voluisti excellere rebus. His works are not many, and those scattered up and down in miscellanies and collections, being wrested from him by his friends with great difficulty and reluctance. All of them together make but a small part of that much greater body which lies dispersed in the possession of numerous acquaintance; and cannot, perhaps, be made entire without great injustice to him, because few of them had his last hand, and the transcriber was often obliged to take the liberties of a friend. His condolence for the death of Mr. Philips is full of the noblest beauties, and hath done justice to the ashes of that second Milton, whose writings will last as long as the English language, generosity, and valour. For him Mr. Smith had contracted a perfect friendship; a passion he was most susceptible of, and whose laws he looked upon as sacred and inviolable. Every subject that passed under his pen had all the life, proportion, and embellishments bestowed on it, which an exquisite skill, a warm imagination, and a cool judgment, possibly could bestow on it. The epick, lyrick, elegiack, every sort of poetry he touched upon, (and he had touched upon a great variety,) was raised to its proper height, and the differences between each of them observed with a judicious accuracy. We saw the old rules and new beauties placed in admirable order by each other; and there was a predominant fancy and spirit of his own infused, superiour to what some draw off from the ancients, or from poesies here and there culled out of the moderns, by a painful industry and servile imitation. His contrivances were adroit and magnificent; his images lively and adequate; his sentiments charming and majestick; his expressions natural and bold; his numbers various and sounding; and that enamelled mixture of classical wit, which, without redundance and affectation, sparkled through his writings, and was no less pertinent and agreeable. His Phaedra is a consummate tragedy, and the success of it was as great as the most sanguine expectations of his friends could promise or foresee. The number of nights, and the common method of filling the house, are not always the surest marks of judging what encouragement a play meets with; but the generosity of all the persons of a refined taste about town was remarkable on this occasion; and it must not be forgotten how zealously Mr. Addison espoused his interest, with all the elegant judgment and diffusive good-nature for which that accomplished gentleman and author is so justly valued by mankind. But as to Phaedra, she has certainly made a finer figure under Mr. Smith's conduct, upon the English stage, than either in Rome or Athens; and if she excels the Greek and Latin Phaedra, I need not say she surpasses the French one, though embellished with whatever regular beauties and moving softness Racine himself could give her. No man had a juster notion of the difficulty of composing than Mr. Smith; and he sometimes would create greater difficulties than he had reason to apprehend. Writing with ease, what (as Mr. Wycherley speaks) may be easily written, moved his indignation. When he was writing upon a subject, he would seriously consider what Demosthenes, Homer, Virgil, or Horace, if alive, would say upon that occasion, which whetted him to exceed himself, as well as others. Nevertheless, he could not, or would not, finish several subjects he undertook; which may be imputed either to the briskness of his fancy, still hunting after new matter, or to an occasional indolence, which spleen and lassitude brought upon him, which, of all his foibles, the world was least inclined to forgive. That this was not owing to conceit and vanity, or a fulness of himself, (a frailty which has been imputed to no less men than Shakespeare and Jonson,) is clear from hence; because he left his works to the entire disposal of his friends, whose most rigorous censures he even courted and solicited, submitting to their animadversions, and the freedom they took with them, with an unreserved and prudent resignation. I have seen sketches and rough draughts of some poems he designed, set out analytically; wherein the fable, structure, and connexion, the images, incidents, moral episodes, and a great variety of ornaments, were so finely laid out, so well fitted to the rules of art, and squared so exactly to the precedents of the ancients, that I have often looked on these poetical elements with the same concern with which curious men are affected at the sight of the most entertaining remains and ruins of an antique figure or building. Those fragments of the learned, which some men have been so proud of their pains in collecting, are useless rarities, without form and without life, when compared with these embryos, which wanted not spirit enough to preserve them; so that I cannot help thinking, that, if some of them were to come abroad, they would be as highly valued by the poets, as the sketches of Julio and Titian are by the painters; though there is nothing in them but a few outlines, as to the design and proportion. It must be confessed, that Mr. Smith had some defects in his conduct, which those are most apt to remember who could imitate him in nothing else. His freedom with himself drew severer acknowledgments from him than all the malice he ever provoked was capable of advancing, and he did not scruple to give even his misfortunes the hard name of faults; but, if the world had half his good-nature, all the shady parts would be entirely struck out of his character. A man, who under poverty, calamities, and disappointments, could make so many friends, and those so truly valuable, must have just and noble ideas of the passion of friendship, in the success of which consisted the greatest, if not the only, happiness of his life. He knew very well what was due to his birth, though fortune threw him short of it in every other circumstance of life. He avoided making any, though perhaps reasonable, complaints of her dispensations, under which he had honour enough to be easy, without touching the favours she flung in his way when offered to him at the price of a more durable reputation. He took care to have no dealings with mankind in which he could not be just; and he desired to be at no other expense in his pretensions than that of intrinsick merit, which was the only burden and reproach he ever brought upon his friends. He could say, as Horace did of himself, what I never yet saw translated: Meo sum pauper in aere. At his coming to town, no man was more surrounded by all those who really had or pretended to wit, or more courted by the great men, who had then a power and opportunity of encouraging arts and sciences, and gave proofs of their fondness for the name of patron in many instances, which will ever be remembered to their glory. Mr. Smith's character grew upon his friends by intimacy, and outwent the strongest prepossessions which had been conceived in his favour. Whatever quarrel a few sour creatures, whose obscurity is their happiness, may possibly have to the age; yet, amidst a studied neglect, and total disuse of all those ceremonial attendances, fashionable equipments, and external recommendations, which are thought necessary introductions into the _grand monde_, this gentleman was so happy as still to please; and whilst the rich, the gay, the noble, and honourable, saw how much he excelled in wit and learning, they easily forgave him all other differences. Hence it was that both his acquaintance and retirements were his own free choice. What Mr. Prior observes upon a very great character was true of him, "that most of his faults brought their excuse with them." Those who blamed him most, understood him least, it being the custom of the vulgar to charge an excess upon the most complaisant, and to form a character by the morals of a few, who have sometimes spoiled an hour or two in good company. Where only fortune is wanting to make a great name, that single exception can never pass upon the best judges and most equitable observers of mankind; and when the time comes for the world to spare their pity, we may justly enlarge our demands upon them for their admiration. Some few years before his death, he had engaged himself in several considerable undertakings; in all which he had prepared the world to expect mighty things from him. I have seen about ten sheets of his English Pindar, which exceeded any thing of that kind I could ever hope for in our own language. He had drawn out the plan of a tragedy of the Lady Jane Grey, and had gone through several scenes of it. But he could not well have bequeathed that work to better hands than where, I hear, it is at present lodged; and the bare mention of two such names may justify the largest expectations, and is sufficient to make the town an agreeable invitation. His greatest and noblest undertaking was Longinus. He had finished an entire translation of the Sublime, which he sent to the reverend Mr. Richard Parker, a friend of his, late of Merton college, an exact critick in the Greek tongue, from whom it came to my hands. The French version of monsieur Boileau, though truly valuable, was far short of it. He proposed a large addition to this work, of notes and observations of his own, with an entire system of the art of poetry, in three books, under the titles of Thought, Diction, and Figure. I saw the last of these perfect, and in a fair copy, in which he showed prodigious judgment and reading; and particularly had reformed the art of rhetorick, by reducing that vast and confused heap of terms, with which a long succession of pedants had encumbered the world, to a very narrow compass, comprehending all that was useful and ornamental in poetry. Under each head and chapter, he intended to make remarks upon all the ancients and moderns, the Greek, Latin, English, French, Spanish, and Italian poets, and to note their several beauties and defects. What remains of his works is left, as I am informed, in the hands of men of worth and judgment, who loved him. It cannot be supposed they would suppress any thing that was his, but out of respect to his memory, and for want of proper hands to finish what so great a genius had begun. Such is the declamation of Oldisworth, written while his admiration was yet fresh, and his kindness warm; and, therefore, such as, without any criminal purpose of deceiving, shows a strong desire to make the most of all favourable truth. I cannot much commend the performance. The praise is often indistinct, and the sentences are loaded with words of more pomp than use. There is little, however, that can be contradicted, even when a plainer tale comes to be told. Edmund Neale, known by the name of Smith, was born at Handley, the seat of the Lechmeres, in Worcestershire. The year of his birth is uncertain[126]. He was educated at Westminster. It is known to have been the practice of Dr. Busby to detain those youths long at school, of whom he had formed the highest expectations. Smith took his master's degree on the 8th of July, 1696; he, therefore, was probably admitted into the university in 1689[127], when we may suppose him twenty years old. His reputation for literature in his college was such as has been told; but the indecency and licentiousness of his behaviour drew upon him, Dec. 24, 1694, while he was yet only bachelor, a publick admonition, entered upon record, in order to his expulsion. Of this reproof the effect is not known. He was probably less notorious. At Oxford, as we all know, much will be forgiven to literary merit; and of that he had exhibited sufficient evidence by his excellent ode on the death of the great orientalist, Dr. Pocock, who died in 1691, and whose praise must have been written by Smith when he had been yet but two years in the university. This ode, which closed the second volume of the Musse Anglicanae, though, perhaps, some objections may be made to its Latinity, is by far the best lyrick composition in that collection; nor do I know where to find it equalled among the modern writers. It expresses, with great felicity, images not classical in classical diction: its digressions and returns have been deservedly recommended by Trapp, as models for imitation. He has several imitations of Cowley: Vestitur hinc tot sermo coloribus Quot tu, Pococki, dissimilis tui Orator effers, quot vicissim Te memores celebrare gaudent. I will not commend the figure which makes the orator _pronounce colours_, or give to _colours memory_ and _delight_. I quote it, however, as an imitation of these lines: So many languages he had in store, That only fame shall speak of him in more[128]. The simile, by which an old man, retaining the fire of his youth, is compared to Aetna flaming through the snow, which Smith has used with great pomp, is stolen from Cowley, however little worth the labour of conveyance. He proceeded to take his degree of master of arts, July 8, 1696. Of the exercises which he performed on that occasion, I have not heard any thing memorable. As his years advanced, he advanced in reputation; for he continued to cultivate his mind, though he did not amend his irregularities, by which he gave so much offence, that, April 24, 1700, the dean and chapter declared "the place of Mr. Smith void, he having been convicted of riotous misbehaviour in the house of Mr. Cole, an apothecary; but it was referred to the dean when, and upon what occasion, the sentence should be put in execution." Thus tenderly was he treated: the governours of his college could hardly keep him, and yet wished that he would not force them to drive him away. Some time afterwards he assumed an appearance of decency: in his own phrase, he _whitened_ himself, having a desire to obtain the censorship, an office of honour and some profit in the college; but, when the election came, the preference was given to Mr. Foulkes, his junior: the same, I suppose, that joined with Freind in an edition of part of Demosthenes. The censor is a tutor; and it was not thought proper to trust the superintendence of others to a man who took so little care of himself. From this time Smith employed his malice and his wit against the dean, Dr. Aldrich, whom he considered as the opponent of his claim. Of his lampoon upon him, I once heard a single line, too gross to be repeated. But he was still a genius and a scholar, and Oxford was unwilling to lose him: he was endured, with all his pranks and his vices, two years longer; but, on Dec. 20, 1705, at the instance of all the canons, the sentence, declared five years before, was put in execution. The execution was, I believe, silent and tender; for one of his friends, from whom I learned much of his life, appeared not to know it. He was now driven to London, where he associated himself with the whigs; whether because they were in power, or because the tories had expelled him, or because he was a whig by principle, may, perhaps, be doubted. He was, however, caressed by men of great abilities, whatever were their party, and was supported by the liberality of those who delighted in his conversation. There was once a design, hinted at by Oldisworth, to have made him useful. One evening, as he was sitting with a friend at a tavern, he was called down by the waiter; and, having staid some time below, came up thoughtful. After a pause, said he to his friend: "He that wanted me below was Addison, whose business was to tell me that a History of the Revolution was intended, and to propose that I should undertake it. I said, 'What shall I do with the character of lord Sunderland?' and Addison immediately returned, 'When, Rag, were you drunk last?' and went away." Captain _Rag_ was a name which he got at Oxford, by his negligence of dress. This story I heard from the late Mr. Clark, of Lincoln's Inn, to whom it was told by the friend of Smith. Such scruples might debar him from some profitable employments; but, as they could not deprive him of any real esteem, they left him many friends; and no man was ever better introduced to the theatre than he, who, in that violent conflict of parties, had a prologue and epilogue from the first wits on either side. But learning and nature will now and then take different courses. His play pleased the criticks, and the criticks only. It was, as Addison has recorded, hardly heard the third night. Smith had, indeed, trusted entirely to his merit, had ensured no band of applauders, nor used any artifice to force success, and found that naked excellence was not sufficient for its own support. The play, however, was bought by Lintot, who advanced the price from fifty guineas, the current rate, to sixty; and Halifax, the general patron, accepted the dedication. Smith's indolence kept him from writing the dedication, till Lintot, after fruitless importunity, gave notice that he would publish the play without it. Now, therefore, it was written; and Halifax expected the author with his book, and had prepared to reward him with a place of three hundred pounds a year. Smith, by pride, or caprice, or indolence, or bashfulness, neglected to attend him, though doubtless warned and pressed by his friends, and, at last, missed his reward by not going to solicit it. Addison has, in the Spectator, mentioned the neglect of Smith's tragedy as disgraceful to the nation, and imputes it to the fondness for operas, then prevailing. The authority of Addison is great; yet the voice of the people, when to please the people is the purpose, deserves regard. In this question, I cannot but think the people in the right. The fable is mythological, a story which we are accustomed to reject as false; and the manners are so distant from our own, that we know them not from sympathy, but by study: the ignorant do not understand the action; the learned reject it as a schoolboy's tale; "incredulus odi;" what I cannot for a moment believe, I cannot for a moment behold with interest or anxiety. The sentiments thus remote from life are removed yet further by the diction, which is too luxuriant and splendid for dialogue, and envelopes the thoughts rather than displays them. It is a scholar's play, such as may please the reader rather than the spectator; the work of a vigorous and elegant mind, accustomed to please itself with its own conceptions, but of little acquaintance with the course of life. Dennis tells us, in one of his pieces, that he had once a design to have written the tragedy of Phaedra; but was convinced that the action was too mythological. In 1709, a year after the exhibition of Phaedra, died John Philips, the friend and fellow-collegian of Smith, who, on that occasion, wrote a poem, which justice must place among the best elegies which our language can show, an elegant mixture of fondness and admiration, of dignity and softness. There are some passages too ludicrous; but every human performance has its faults. This elegy it was the mode among his friends to purchase for a guinea; and, as his acquaintance was numerous, it was a very profitable poem. Of his Pindar, mentioned by Oldisworth, I have never otherwise heard. His Longinus he intended to accompany with some illustrations, and had selected his instances of the false sublime from the works of Blackmore. He resolved to try again the fortune of the stage, with the story of Lady Jane Grey. It is not unlikely, that his experience of the inefficacy and incredibility of a mythological tale might determine him to choose an action from English history, at no great distance from our own times, which was to end in a real event, produced by the operation of known characters. A subject will not easily occur that can give more opportunities of informing the understanding, for which Smith was unquestionably qualified, or for moving the passions, in which I suspect him to have had less power. Having formed his plan, and collected materials, he declared, that a few months would complete his design; and, that he might pursue his work with less frequent avocations, he was, in June 1710, invited, by Mr. George Ducket to his house, at Gartham, in Wiltshire. Here he found such opportunities of indulgence as did not much forward his studies, and particularly some strong ale, too delicious to be resisted. He ate and drank till he found himself plethorick; and then, resolving to ease himself by evacuation, he wrote to an apothecary in the neighbourhood a prescription of a purge so forcible, that the apothecary thought it his duty to delay it, till he had given notice of its danger. Smith, not pleased with the contradiction of a shopman, and boastful of his own knowledge, treated the notice with rude contempt, and swallowed his own medicine, which, in July, 1710, brought him to the grave. He was buried at Gartham. Many years afterwards, Ducket communicated to Oldmixon, the historian, an account, pretended to have been received from Smith, that Clarendon's History was, in its publication, corrupted by Aldrich, Smalridge, and Atterbury; and that Smith was employed to forge and insert the alterations. This story was published triumphantly by Oldmixon, and may be supposed to have been eagerly received; but its progress was soon checked; for, finding its way into the Journal of Trévoux, it fell under the eye of Atterbury, then an exile in France, who immediately denied the charge, with this remarkable particular, that he never, in his whole life, had once spoken to Smith[129]; his company being, as must be inferred, not accepted by those who attended to their characters. The charge was afterwards very diligently refuted, by Dr. Burton, of Eton, a man eminent for literature, and, though not of the same party with Aldrich and Atterbury, too studious of truth to leave them burdened with a false charge. The testimonies which he has collected have convinced mankind, that either Smith or Ducket was guilty of wilful and malicious falsehood. This controversy brought into view those parts of Smith's life, which, with more honour to his name, might have been concealed. Of Smith I can yet say a little more. He was a man of such estimation among his companions, that the casual censures or praises, which he dropped in conversation, were considered, like those of Scaliger, as worthy of preservation. He had great readiness and exactness of criticism, and, by a cursory glance over a new composition, would exactly tell all its faults and beauties. He was remarkable for the power of reading with great rapidity, and of retaining, with great fidelity, what he so easily collected. He, therefore, always knew what the present question required; and, when his friends expressed their wonder at his acquisitions, made in a state of apparent negligence and drunkenness, he never discovered his hours of reading, or method of study, but involved himself in affected silence, and fed his own vanity with their admiration and conjectures. One practice he had, which was easily observed: if any thought or image was presented to his mind, that he could use or improve, he did not suffer it to be lost; but, amidst the jollity of a tavern, or in the warmth of conversation, very diligently committed it to paper. Thus it was that he had gathered two quires of hints for his new tragedy; of which Howe, when they were put into his hands, could make, as he says, very little use, but which the collector considered as a valuable stock of materials. When he came to London, his way of life connected him with the licentious and dissolute; and he affected the airs and gaiety of a man of pleasure; but his dress was always deficient; scholastick cloudiness still hung about him; and his merriment was sure to produce the scorn of his companions. With all his carelessness and all his vices, he was one of the murmurers at fortune; and wondered why he was suffered to be poor, when Addison was caressed and preferred; nor would a very little have contented him; for he estimated his wants at six hundred pounds a year. In his course of reading it was particular, that he had diligently perused, and accurately remembered, the old romances of knight-errantry. He had a high opinion of his own merit, and was something contemptuous in his treatment of those whom he considered as not qualified to oppose or contradict him. He had many frailties; yet it cannot but be supposed that he had great merit, who could obtain to the same play a prologue from Addison, and an epilogue from Prior; and who could have at once the patronage of Halifax, and the praise of Oldisworth. For the power of communicating these minute memorials, I am indebted to my conversation with Gilbert Walmsley[130], late registrar of the ecclesiastical court of Lichfield, who was acquainted both with Smith and Ducket; and declared, that, if the tale concerning Clarendon were forged, he should suspect Ducket of the falsehood, "for _Rag_ was a man of great veracity." Of Gilbert Walmsley, thus presented to my mind, let me indulge myself in the remembrance. I knew him very early: he was one of the first friends that literature procured me, and I hope that, at least, my gratitude made me worthy of his notice. He was of an advanced age, and I was only not a boy; yet he never received my notions with contempt. He was a whig, with all the virulence and malevolence of his party; yet difference of opinion did not keep us apart. I honoured him, and he endured me. He had mingled with the gay world, without exemption from its vices or its follies, but had never neglected the cultivation of his mind; his belief of revelation was unshaken; his learning preserved his principles; he grew first regular, and then pious. His studies had been so various, that I am not able to name a man of equal knowledge. His acquaintance with books was great: and what he did not immediately know, he could, at least, tell where to find. Such was his amplitude of learning, and such his copiousness of communication, that it may be doubted whether a day now passes in which I have not some advantage from his friendship. At this man's table I enjoyed many cheerful and instructive hours, with companions such as are not often found; with one who has lengthened, and one who has gladdened life; with Dr. James, whose skill in physick will be long remembered; and with David Garrick, whom I hoped to have gratified with this character of our common friend; but what are the hopes of man! I am disappointed by that stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished the publick stock of harmless pleasure. In the library at Oxford is the following ludicrous analysis of Pocockius: EX AUTOGRAPHO. [Sent by the author to Mr. Urry.] Opusculum hoc, Halberdarie amplissime, in lucem proferre hactenus distuli, judicii tui acumen subveritus magis quam bipennis. Tandem aliquando oden hanc ad te mitto sublimem, teneram, flebilem, suavem, qualem demum divinus (si musis vacaret) scripsisset Gastrellus: adeo scilicet sublimem ut inter legendum dormire, adeo flebilem ut ridere velis. Cujus elegantiam ut melius inspicias, versuum ordinem et materiam breviter referam. 1mus versus de duobus praeliis decantatis. 2dus et 3us de Lotharingio, cuniculis subterraneis, saxis, ponto, hostibus, et Asia. 4tus et 5tus de catenis, sudibus, uncis, draconibus, tigribus et crocodilis. 6us, 7us, 8us, 9us de Gomorrha, de Babylone, Babele, et quodam domi suae peregrine. 10us, aliquid de quodam Pocockio. 11us, 12us, de Syria, Solyma. 13us, 14us, de Hosea, et quercu, et de juvene quodam valde sene. 15us, 16us, de Aetna, et quomodo Aetna Pocockio sit valde similis. 17us, 18us, de tuba, astro, umbra, flammis, rotis, Pocockio non neglecto. Caetera, de Christianis, Ottomanis, Babyloniis, Arabibus, et gravissima agrorum melancholia; de Caesare, _Flacco_[131], Nestore, et miserando juvenis cujusdam florentissimi fato, anno aetatis suae centesimo praemature abrepti. Quae omnia cum accurate expenderis, necesse est ut oden hanc meam admiranda plane varietate constare fatearis. Subito ad Batavos proficiscor, lauro ab illis donandus. Prius vero Pembrochienses voco ad certamen poeticum. Vale. Illustrissima tua deosculor crura. E. SMITH. [Footnote 125: Dr. Ralph Bathurst, whose Life and Literary Remains were published in 1761, by Mr. Thomas Warton. C.] [Footnote 126: By his epitaph he appears to have been forty-two years old when he died. He was, consequently, born in the year 1668. R. He was born in 1662, as appears from the register of matriculations among the archives of the university of Oxford.] [Footnote 127: He was elected to Cambridge, 1688; but, as has been before stated, went to Oxford. J.B.] [Footnote 128: Cowley on sir R. Wotton. L. B.] [Footnote 129: See bishop Atterbury's Epistolary Correspondence, 1799, vol. iii. pp. 126, 133. In the same work, vol. i. p. 325, it appears that Smith was at one time suspected, by Atterbury, to have been the author of the Tale of a Tub. N. See Idler, No. 65.] [Footnote 130: See prefatory remarks to Irene, vol. i. p. 25.] [Footnote 131: Pro _Flacco_, animo paulo attentiore, scripsissem _Marone_.] DUKE Of Mr. Richard Duke I can find few memorials. He was bred at Westminster[132] and Cambridge; and Jacob relates, that he was some time tutor to the duke of Richmond. He appears, from his writings, to have been not ill qualified for poetical compositions; and being conscious of his powers, when he left the university, he enlisted himself among the wits[133]. He was the familiar friend of Otway; and was engaged, among other popular names, in the translations of Ovid and Juvenal. In his Review, though unfinished, are some vigorous lines. His poems are not below mediocrity; nor have I found much in them to be praised[134]. With the wit he seems to have shared the dissoluteness of the times; for some of his compositions are such as he must have reviewed with detestation in his later days, when he published those sermons which Felton has commended. Perhaps, like some other foolish young men, he rather talked than lived vitiously, in an age when he that would be thought a wit was afraid to say his prayers; and whatever might have been bad in the first part of his life, was surely condemned and reformed by his better judgment. In 1683, being then master of arts and fellow of Trinity college in Cambridge, he wrote a poem, on the marriage of the lady Anne with George, prince of Denmark. He took orders[135]; and, being made prebendary of Gloucester, became a proctor in convocation for that church, and chaplain to queen Anne. In 1710, he was presented, by the bishop of Winchester, to the wealthy living of Witney, in Oxfordshire, which he enjoyed but a few months. On February 10, 1710-11, having returned from an entertainment, he was found dead the next morning. His death is mentioned in Swift's Journal. [Footnote 132: He was admitted there in 1670; was elected to Trinity college, Cambridge, in 1675; and took his master's degree in 1682. N.] [Footnote 133: Floriana, a pastoral, on the death of the dutchess of Southampton, published anonymously in folio, May 17, 1681, was written by Richard Duke. M.] [Footnote 134: They make a part of a volume published by Tonson in 8vo. 1717, containing the poems of the earl of Roscommon, and the duke of Buckingham's Essay on Poetry; but were first published in Dryden's Miscellany, as were most, if not all, of the poems in that collection. H.] [Footnote 135: He was presented to the rectory of Blaby, in Leicestershire, in 1687-8; and obtained a prebend at Gloucester in 1688. N.] KING William King was born in London in 1663; the son of Ezekiel King, a gentleman. He was allied to the family of Clarendon. From Westminster school, where he was a scholar on the foundation, under the care of Dr. Busby, he was, at eighteen, elected to Christ church, in 1681; where he is said to have prosecuted his studies with so much intenseness and activity, that before he was eight years standing he had read over, and made remarks upon, twenty-two thousand odd hundred books and manuscripts[136]. The books were certainly not very long, the manuscripts not very difficult, nor the remarks very large; for the calculator will find that he despatched seven a day for every day of his eight years, with a remnant that more than satisfies most other students. He took his degree in the most expensive manner, as a grand compounder; whence it is inferred that he inherited a considerable fortune. In 1688, the same year in which he was made master of arts, he published a confutation of Varillas's account of Wickliffe; and, engaging in the study of the civil law, became doctor in 1692, and was admitted advocate at Doctors' Commons. He had already made some translations from the French, and written some humorous and satirical pieces; when, in 1694, Molesworth published his Account of Denmark, in which he treats the Danes and their monarch with great contempt; and takes the opportunity of insinuating those wild principles, by which he supposes liberty to be established, and by which his adversaries suspect that all subordination and government is endangered. This book offended prince George; and the Danish minister presented a memorial against it. The principles of its author did not please Dr. King; and, therefore, he undertook to confute part, and laugh at the rest. The controversy is now forgotten; and books of this kind seldom live long, when interest and resentment have ceased. In 1697, he mingled in the controversy between Boyle and Bentley; and was one of those who tried what wit could perform in opposition to learning; on a question which learning only could decide. In 1699, was published by him, a Journey to London, after the method of Dr. Martin Lister, who had published a Journey to Paris. And, in 1700, he satirized the Royal Society, at least sir Hans Sloane, their president, in two dialogues, entitled The Transactioneer. Though he was a regular advocate in the courts of civil and canon law, he did not love his profession, nor, indeed, any kind of business which interrupted his voluptuary dreams, or forced him to rouse from that indulgence in which only he could find delight. His reputation, as a civilian, was yet maintained by his judgments in the courts of delegates, and raised very high by the address and knowledge which he discovered in 1700, when he defended the earl of Anglesea against his lady, afterwards dutchess of Buckinghamshire, who sued for a divorce, and obtained it. The expense of his pleasures, and neglect of business, had now lessened his revenues; and he was willing to accept of a settlement in Ireland, where, about 1702, he was made judge of the admiralty, commissioner of the prizes, keeper of the records in Birmingham's tower, and vicar-general to Dr. Marsh, the primate. But it is vain to put wealth within the reach of him who will not stretch out his hand to take it. King soon found a friend, as idle and thoughtless as himself, in Upton, one of the judges, who had a pleasant house called Mountown, near Dublin, to which King frequently retired; delighting to neglect his interest, forget his cares, and desert his duty. Here he wrote Mully of Mountown, a poem; by which, though fanciful readers, in the pride of sagacity, have given it a political interpretation, was meant originally no more than it expressed, as it was dictated only by the author's delight in the quiet of Mountown. In 1708, when lord Wharton was sent to govern Ireland, King returned to London, with his poverty, his idleness, and his wit; and published some essays, called Useful Transactions. His Voyage to the Island of Cajamai is particularly commended. He then wrote the Art of Love, a poem remarkable, notwithstanding its title, for purity of sentiment; and, in 1709, imitated Horace in an Art of Cookery, which he published, with some letters to Dr. Lister. In 1710, he appeared as a lover of the church, on the side of Sacheverell; and was supposed to have concurred, at least, in the projection of The Examiner. His eyes were open to all the operations of whiggism; and he bestowed some strictures upon Dr. Kennett's adulatory sermon at the funeral of the duke of Devonshire. The History of the Heathen Gods, a book composed for schools, was written by him in 1710. The work is useful; but might have been produced without the powers of King. The same year he published Rufinus, an historical essay; and a poem, intended to dispose the nation to think as he thought of the duke of Marlborough and his adherents. In 1711, competence, if not plenty, was again put into his power. He was, without the trouble of attendance, or the mortification of a request, made gazetteer. Swift, Freind, Prior, and other men of the same party, brought him the key of the gazetteer's office. He was now again placed in a profitable employment, and again threw the benefit away. An act of insolvency made his business, at that time, particularly troublesome; and he would not wait till hurry should be at an end, but impatiently resigned it, and returned to his wonted indigence and amusements. One of his amusements at Lambeth, where he resided, was to mortify Dr. Tenison, the archbishop, by a publick festivity, on the surrender of Dunkirk to Hill; an event with which Tenison's political bigotry did not suffer him to be delighted. King was resolved to counteract his sullenness, and, at the expense of a few barrels of ale, filled the neighbourhood with honest merriment. In the autumn of 1712, his health declined; he grew weaker by degrees, and died on Christmas day. Though his life had not been without irregularity, his principles were pure and orthodox, and his death was pious. After this relation it will be naturally supposed that his poems were rather the amusements of idleness than efforts of study; that he endeavoured rather to divert than astonish; that his thoughts seldom aspired to sublimity; and that, if his verse was easy and his images familiar, he attained what he desired. His purpose is to be merry; but, perhaps, to enjoy his mirth, it may be sometimes necessary to think well of his opinions[137]. [Footnote 137: Dr. Johnson appears to have made but little use of the life of Dr. King, prefixed to his works, in three vols. 1776; to which it may not be impertinent to refer the reader. His talent for humour ought to be praised in the highest terms. In that, at least, he yielded to none of his contemporaries.] SPRAT Thomas Sprat was born in 1636, at Tallaton in Devonshire, the son of a clergyman; and having been educated, as he tells of himself, not at Westminster or Eton, but at a little school by the church-yard side, became a commoner of Wadham college, in Oxford, in 1651; and, being chosen scholar next year, proceeded through the usual academical course, and, in 1657, became master of arts. He obtained a fellowship, and commenced poet. In 1659, his poem on the death of Oliver was published, with those of Dryden and Waller. In his dedication to Dr. Wilkins, he appears a very willing and liberal encomiast, both of the living and the dead. He implores his patron's excuse of his verses, both as falling "so infinitely below the full and sublime genius of that excellent poet who made this way of writing free of our nation," and being "so little equal and proportioned to the renown of the prince on whom they were written; such great actions and lives deserving to be the subject of the noblest pens and most divine phansies." He proceeds: "Having so long experienced your care and indulgence, and been formed, as it were, by your own hands, not to entitle you to any thing which my meanness produces, would be not only injustice, but sacrilege." He published, the same year, a poem on the Plague of Athens; a subject of which it is not easy to say what could recommend it. To these he added, afterwards, a poem on Mr. Cowley's death. After the restoration he took orders, and by Cowley's recommendation was made chaplain to the duke of Buckingham, whom he is said to have helped in writing the Rehearsal. He was likewise chaplain to the king. As he was the favourite of Wilkins, at whose house began those philosophical conferences and inquiries, which in time produced the Royal Society, he was consequently engaged in the same studies, and became one of the fellows; and when, after their incorporation, something seemed necessary to reconcile the publick to the new institution, he undertook to write its history, which he published in 1667. This is one of the few books which selection of sentiment and elegance of diction have been able to preserve, though written upon a subject flux and transitory. The History of the Royal Society is now read, not with the wish to know what they were then doing, but how their transactions are exhibited by Sprat. In the next year he published Observations on Sorbière's Voyage into England, in a letter to Mr. Wren. This is a work not ill-performed; but, perhaps, rewarded with at least its full proportion of praise. In 1668, he published Cowley's Latin poems, and prefixed, in Latin, the life of the author; which he afterwards amplified, and placed before Cowley's English works, which were by will committed to his care. Ecclesiastical benefices now fell fast upon him. In 1668, he became a prebendary of Westminster, and had afterwards the church of St. Margaret, adjoining to the abbey. He was, in 1680, made canon of Windsor; in 1683, dean of Westminster; and, in 1684, bishop of Rochester. The court having thus a claim to his diligence and gratitude, he was required to write the History of the Rye-house Plot; and, in 1685, published a true Account and Declaration of the horrid Conspiracy against the late King, his present Majesty, and the present Government; a performance which he thought convenient, after the revolution, to extenuate and excuse. The same year, being clerk of the closet to the king, he was made dean of the chapel royal; and, the year afterwards, received the last proof of his master's confidence, by being appointed one of the commissioners for ecclesiastical affairs. On the critical day, when the declaration distinguished the true sons of the church of England, he stood neuter, and permitted it to be read at Westminster; but pressed none to violate his conscience; and, when the bishop of London was brought before them, gave his voice in his favour. Thus far he suffered interest or obedience to carry him; but further he refused to go. When he found that the powers of the ecclesiastical commission were to be exercised against those who had refused the declaration, he wrote to the lords, and other commissioners, a formal profession of his unwillingness to exercise that authority any longer, and withdrew himself from them. After they had read his letter, they adjourned for six months, and scarcely ever met afterwards. When king James was frighted away, and a new government was to be settled, Sprat was one of those who considered, in a conference, the great question, Whether the crown was vacant, and manfully spoke in favour of his old master. He complied, however, with the new establishment, and was left unmolested; but, in 1692, a strange attack was made upon him by one Robert Young and Stephen Blackhead, both men convicted of infamous crimes, and both, when the scheme was laid, prisoners in Newgate. These men drew up an association, in which they whose names were subscribed, declared their resolution to restore king James, to seize the princess of Orange, dead or alive, and to be ready with thirty thousand men to meet king James when he should land. To this they put the names of Sancroft, Sprat, Marlborough, Salisbury, and others. The copy of Dr. Sprat's name was obtained by a fictitious request, to which an answer in his own hand was desired. His hand was copied so well, that he confessed it might have deceived himself. Blackhead, who had carried the letter, being sent again with a plausible message, was very curious to see the house, and particularly importunate to be let into the study; where, as is supposed, he designed to leave the association. This, however, was denied him; and he dropped it in a flower-pot in the parlour. Young now laid an information before the privy council; and May 7, 1692, the bishop was arrested, and kept at a messenger's, under a strict guard, eleven days. His house was searched, and directions were given that the flower-pots should be inspected. The messengers, however, missed the room in which the paper was left. Blackhead went, therefore, a third time; and finding his paper where he had left it, brought it away. The bishop having been enlarged, was, on June the 10th and 13th, examined again before the privy council, and confronted with his accusers. Young persisted, with the most obdurate impudence, against the strongest evidence; but the resolution of Blackhead, by degrees, gave way. There remained at last no doubt of the bishop's innocence, who, with great prudence and diligence, traced the progress, and detected the characters of the two informers, and published an account of his own examination and deliverance; which made such an impression upon him, that he commemorated it through life by a yearly day of thanksgiving. With what hope or what interest, the villains had contrived an accusation which they must know themselves utterly unable to prove, was never discovered. After this he passed his days in the quiet exercise of his function. When the cause of Sacheverell put the publick in commotion, he honestly appeared among the friends of the church. He lived to his seventy-ninth year, and died May 20, 1713. Burnet is not very favourable to his memory; but he and Burnet were old rivals. On some publick occasion they both preached before the house of commons. There prevailed, in those days, an indecent custom: when the preacher touched any favourite topick, in a manner that delighted his audience, their approbation was expressed by a loud _hum_, continued in proportion to their zeal or pleasure. When Burnet preached, part of his congregation _hummed_ so loudly and so long, that he, sat down to enjoy it, and rubbed his face with his handkerchief. When Sprat preached, he likewise was honoured with the like animating _hum_; but he stretched out his hand to the congregation, and cried, "Peace, peace, I pray you, peace." This I was told in my youth by my father, an old man, who had been no careless observer of the passages of those times. Burnet's sermon, says Salmon, was remarkable for sedition, and Sprat's for loyalty. Burnet had the thanks of the house; Sprat had no thanks, but a good living from the king, which, he said, was of as much value as the thanks of the commons. The works of Sprat, besides his few poems, are, the History of the Royal Society, the Life of Cowley, the Answer to Sorbière, the History of the Rye-house Plot, the Relation of his own Examination, and a volume of sermons. I have heard it observed, with great justness, that every book is of a different kind, and that each has its distinct and characteristical excellence[138]. My business is only with his poems. He considered Cowley as a model; and supposed that, as he was imitated, perfection was approached. Nothing, therefore, but Pindarick liberty was to be expected. There is in his few productions no want of such conceits as he thought excellent; and of those our judgment may be settled by the first that appears in his praise of Cromwell, where he says, that Cromwell's "fame, like man, will grow white as it grows old." [Footnote 138: This observation was made to Dr. Johnson by the right hon. Wm. Gerard Hamilton, as he told me, at Tunbridge, August, 1792. M.] HALIFAX The life of the earl of Halifax was properly that of an artful and active statesman, employed in balancing parties, contriving expedients, and combating opposition, and exposed to the vicissitudes of advancement and degradation; but, in this collection, poetical merit is the claim to attention; and the account which is here to be expected may properly be proportioned not to his influence in the state, but to his rank among the writers of verse. Charles Montague was born April 16, 1661, at Horton, in Northamptonshire, the son of Mr. George Montague, a younger son of the earl of Manchester. He was educated first in the country, and then removed to Westminster, where, in 1677, he was chosen a king's scholar, and recommended himself to Busby by his felicity in extemporary epigrams. He contracted a very intimate friendship with Mr. Stepney; and, in 1682, when Stepney was elected to Cambridge, the election of Montague being not to proceed till the year following, he was afraid lest, by being placed at Oxford, he might be separated from his companion, and, therefore, solicited to be removed to Cambridge, without waiting for the advantages of another year. It seems, indeed, time to wish for a removal; for he was already a schoolboy of one-and-twenty. His relation, Dr. Montague, was then master of the college in which he was placed a fellow-commoner, and took him under his particular care. Here he commenced an acquaintance with the great Newton, which continued through his life, and was at last attested by a legacy[139]. In 1685, his verses on the death of king Charles made such an impression on the earl of Dorset, that he was invited to town, and introduced by that universal patron to the other wits. In 1687, he joined with Prior in the City Mouse and Country Mouse, a burlesque of Dryden's Hind and Panther. He signed the invitation to the prince of Orange, and sat in the convention. He, about the same time, married the countess dowager of Manchester, and intended to have taken orders; but afterwards altering his purpose, he purchased, for 1500_l_. the place of one of the clerks of the council. After he had written his epistle on the victory of the Boyne, his patron Dorset introduced him to king William, with this expression: "Sir, I have brought a _mouse_ to wait on your majesty." To which the king is said to have replied, "You do well to put me in the way of making a _man_ of him;" and ordered him a pension of five hundred pounds. This story, however current, seems to have been made after the event. The king's answer implies a greater acquaintance with our proverbial and familiar diction than king William could possibly have attained. In 1691, being member of the house of commons, he argued warmly in favour of a law to grant the assistance of counsel in trials for high treason; and, in the midst of his speech falling into some confusion, was for awhile silent; but, recovering himself, observed, "how reasonable it was to allow counsel to men called as criminals before a court of justice, when it appeared how much the presence of that assembly could disconcert one of their own body[140]." After this he rose fast into honours and employments, being made one of the commissioners of the treasury, and called to the privy council. In 1694, he became chancellor of the exchequer; and the next year engaged in the great attempt of the recoinage, which was in two years happily completed. In 1696, he projected the _general fund_ and raised the credit of the exchequer; and, after inquiry concerning a grant of Irish crown-lands, it was determined, by a vote of the commons, that Charles Montague, esquire, "had deserved his majesty's favour." In 1698, being advanced to the first commission of the treasury, he was appointed one of the regency in the king's absence; the next year he was made auditor of the exchequer, and the year after created baron Halifax. He was, however, impeached by the commons; but the articles were dismissed by the lords. At the accession of queen Anne he was dismissed from the council; and in the first parliament of her reign was again attacked by the commons, and again escaped by the protection of the lords. In 1704, he wrote an answer to Bromley's speech against occasional conformity. He headed the inquiry into the danger of the church. In 1706, he proposed and negotiated the union with Scotland; and when the elector of Hanover received the garter, after the act had passed for securing the protestant succession, he was appointed to carry the ensigns of the order to the electoral court. He sat as one of the judges of Sacheverell; but voted for a mild sentence. Being now no longer in favour, he contrived to obtain a writ for summoning the electoral prince to parliament, as duke of Cambridge. At the queen's death he was appointed one of the regents; and at the accession of George the first was made earl of Halifax, knight of the garter, and first commissioner of the treasury, with a grant to his nephew of the reversion of the auditorship of the exchequer. More was not to be had, and this he kept but a little while; for, on the 19th of May, 1715, he died of an inflammation of his lungs. Of him, who from a poet became a patron of poets, it will be readily believed that the works would not miss of celebration. Addison began to praise him early, and was followed or accompanied by other poets; perhaps, by almost all, except Swift and Pope, who forbore to flatter him in his life, and after his death spoke of him, Swift with slight censure, and Pope, in the character of Bufo, with acrimonious contempt[141]. He was, as Pope says, "fed with dedications;" for Tickell affirms that no dedicator was unrewarded. To charge all unmerited praise with the guilt of flattery, and to suppose that the encomiast always knows and feels the falsehoods of his assertions, is, surely, to discover great ignorance of human nature and human life. In determinations depending not on rules, but on experience and comparison, judgment is always, in some degree, subject to affection. Very near to admiration is the wish to admire. Every man willingly gives value to the praise which he receives, and considers the sentence passed in his favour as the sentence of discernment. We admire, in a friend, that understanding that selected us for confidence; we admire more, in a patron, that judgment which, instead of scattering bounty indiscriminately, directed it to us; and, if the patron be an author, those performances which gratitude forbids us to blame, affection will easily dispose us to exalt. To these prejudices, hardly culpable, interest adds a power always operating, though not always, because not willingly, perceived. The modesty of praise wears gradually away; and, perhaps, the pride of patronage may be in time so increased, that modest praise will no longer please. Many a blandishment was practised upon Halifax, which he would never have known, had he no other attractions than those of his poetry, of which a short time has withered the beauties. It would now be esteemed no honour, by a contributor to the monthly bundles of verses, to be told, that, in strains either familiar or solemn, he sings like Montague. [Footnote 139: He left sir Isaac Newton 200/. M.] [Footnote 140: Mr. Reed observes, that this anecdote is related by Mr. Walpole, in his Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, of the earl of Shaftesbury, author of the Characteristicks, but it appears to me to be a mistake, if we are to understand that the words were spoken by Shaftesbury at this time, when he had no seat in the house of commons; nor did the bill pass at this time, being thrown out by the house of lords. It became a law in the seventh of William, when Halifax and Shaftesbury both had seats. The editors of the Biog. Brit. adopt Mr. Walpole's story, but they are not speaking of this period. The story first appeared in the life of lord Halifax, published in 1715.] [Footnote 141: Mr. Roscoe denies that Pope's character of Bufo, in the prologue to the Satires, was intended for Halifax. In evidence of his assertion he quotes several passages from Pope's poems, and the preface to the Iliad, all published after that nobleman's death, when the poet could hope for no return for his praises, when flattery could not sooth "the dull cold ear of death." Twenty years after Halifax's decease, he is thus commemorated: "But does the court one worthy man remove, That moment I declare he has my love: I shun their zenith, court their mild decline; Thus SOMERS once, and HALIFAX were mine." See Roscoe's Pope, vol. i. p. 138. ED.] PARNELL The life of Dr. Parnell is a task which I should very willingly decline, since it has been lately written by Goldsmith, a man of such variety of powers, and such felicity of performance, that he always seemed to do best that which he was doing; a man who had the art of being minute without tediousness, and general without confusion; whose language was copious without exuberance, exact without constraint, and easy without weakness. What such an author has told, who would tell again? I have made an abstract from his larger narrative; and have this gratification from my attempt, that it gives me an opportunity of paying due tribute to the memory of Goldsmith: 'Tho geras esti thanonton' Thomas Parnell was the son of a commonwealthsman of the same name, who, at the restoration, left Congleton, in Cheshire, where the family had been established for several centuries, and, settling in Ireland, purchased an estate, which, with his lands in Cheshire, descended to the poet, who was born at Dublin, in 1679; and, after the usual education at a grammar-school, was, at the age of thirteen, admitted into the college, where, in 1700, he became master of arts; and was the same year ordained a deacon, though under the canonical age, by a dispensation from the bishop of Derry. About three years afterwards he was made a priest; and, in 1705, Dr. Ashe, the bishop of Clogher, conferred upon him the archdeaconry of Clogher. About the same time he married Mrs. Anne Minchin, an amiable lady, by whom he had two sons, who died young, and a daughter who long survived him. At the ejection of the whigs, in the end of queen Anne's reign, Parnell was persuaded to change his party, not without much censure from those whom he forsook, and was received by the new ministry as a valuable reinforcement. When the earl of Oxford was told that Dr. Parnell waited among the crowd in the outer room, he went, by the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's staff in his hand, to inquire for him, and to bid him welcome; and, as may be inferred from Pope's dedication, admitted him as a favourite companion to his convivial hours, but, as it seems often to have happened in those times to the favourites of the great, without attention to his fortune, which, however, was in no great need of improvement. Parnell, who did not want ambition or vanity, was desirous to make himself conspicuous, and to show how worthy he was of high preferment. As he thought himself qualified to become a popular preacher, he displayed his elocution with great success in the pulpits of London; but the queen's death putting an end to his expectations, abated his diligence; and Pope represents him as falling from that time into intemperance of wine. That in his latter life he was too much a lover of the bottle, is not denied; but I have heard it imputed to a cause more likely to obtain forgiveness from mankind, the untimely death of a darling son; or, as others tell, the loss of his wife, who died, 1712, in the midst of his expectations. He was now to derive every future addition to his preferments from his personal interest with his private friends, and he was not long unregarded. He was warmly recommended by Swift to archbishop King, who gave him a prebend in 1713; and in May, 1716, presented him to the vicarage of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin, worth four hundred pounds a year. Such notice from such a man inclines me to believe, that the vice of which he has been accused was not gross, or not notorious. But his prosperity did not last long. His end, whatever was its cause, was now approaching. He enjoyed his preferment little more than a year; for in July, 1717, in his thirty-eighth year, he died at Chester, on his way to Ireland. He seems to have been one of those poets who take delight in writing. He contributed to the papers of that time, and probably published more than he owned. He left many compositions behind him, of which Pope selected those which he thought best, and dedicated them to the earl of Oxford. Of these Goldsmith has given an opinion, and his criticism it is seldom safe to contradict. He bestows just praise upon the Rise of Woman, the Fairy Tale, and the Pervigilium Veneris; but has very properly remarked, that in the Battle of Mice and Frogs, the Greek names have not in English their original effect. He tells us, that the Bookworm is borrowed from Beza; but he should have added, with modern applications; and, when he discovers that Gay Bacchus is translated from Augurellus, he ought to have remarked, that the latter part is purely Parnell's. Another poem, when Spring comes on, is, he says, taken from the French. I would add, that the description of Barrenness, in his verses to Pope, was borrowed from Secundus; but lately searching for the passage, which I had formerly read, I could not find it. The Night-piece on Death is indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's Church-yard; but, in my opinion, Gray has the advantage in dignity, variety, and originality of sentiment. He observes, that the story of the Hermit is in More's Dialogues and Howell's Letters, and supposes it to have been originally Arabian. Goldsmith has not taken any notice of the Elegy to the old Beauty, which is, perhaps, the meanest; nor of the Allegory on Man, the happiest of Parnell's performances. The hint of the Hymn to Contentment[142] I suspect to have been borrowed from Cleiveland. The general character of Parnell is not great extent of comprehension, or fertility of mind. Of the little that appears, still less is his own. His praise must be derived from the easy sweetness of his diction: in his verses there is more happiness than pains; he is sprightly without effort, and always delights, though he never ravishes; every thing is proper, yet every thing seems casual. If there is some appearance of elaboration in The Hermit, the narrative, as it is less airy, is less pleasing[143]. Of his other compositions it is impossible to say whether they are the productions of nature, so excellent as not to want the help of art, or of art so refined as to resemble nature. This criticism relates only to the pieces published by Pope. Of the large appendages, which I find in the last edition, I can only say, that I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired whither they are going. They stand upon the faith of the compilers. [Footnote 142: Parnell's "exquisite Hymn to Contentment, is manifestly formed on the Divine _Psalmodia_ of cardinal Bona--this imitation has escaped the notice of Dr. Johnson, and, it is believed, of all other critics and commentators." Dr. Jebb's Sermons, second edition, p. 94.] [Footnote 143: Dr. Warton asks, "Less than what?"] GARTH Samuel Garth was of a good family in Yorkshire, and, from some school in his own country, became a student at Peter-house, in Cambridge, where he resided till he became doctor of physick, on July the 7th, 1691. He was examined before the college at London, on March the 12th, 1691-2, and admitted fellow, July 26th, 1693. He was soon so much distinguished by his conversation and accomplishments, as to obtain very extensive practice; and, if a pamphlet of those times may be credited, had the favour and confidence of one party, as Radcliffe had of the other. He is always mentioned as a man of benevolence; and it is just to suppose, that his desire of helping the helpless disposed him to so much zeal for the dispensary; an undertaking of which some account, however short, is proper to be given. Whether what Temple says be true, that physicians have had more learning than the other faculties, I will not stay to inquire; but, I believe, every man has found in physicians great liberality and dignity of sentiment, very prompt effusion of beneficence, and willingness to exert a lucrative art where there is no hope of lucre. Agreeably to this character, the College of Physicians, in July, 1687, published an edict, requiring all the fellows, candidates, and licentiates, to give gratuitous advice to the neighbouring poor. This edict was sent to the court of aldermen; and, a question being made to whom the appellation of the _poor_ should be extended, the college answered, that it should be sufficient to bring a testimonial from the clergyman officiating in the parish where the patient resided. After a year's experience, the physicians found their charity frustrated by some malignant opposition, and made, to a great degree, vain by the high price of physick; they, therefore, voted, in August, 1688, that the laboratory of the college should be accommodated to the preparation of medicines, and another room prepared for their reception; and that the contributors to the expense should manage the charity. It was now expected, that the apothecaries would have undertaken the care of providing medicines; but they took another course. Thinking the whole design pernicious to their interest, they endeavoured to raise a faction against it in the college, and found some physicians mean enough to solicit their patronage, by betraying to them the counsels of the college. The greater part, however, enforced by a new edict, in 1694, the former order of 1687, and sent it to the mayor and aldermen, who appointed a committee to treat with the college, and settle the mode of administering the charity. It was desired by the aldermen, that the testimonials of churchwardens and overseers should be admitted; and that all hired servants, and all apprentices to handicrafts-men, should be considered as poor. This, likewise, was granted by the college. It was then considered who should distribute the medicines, and who should settle their prices. The physicians procured some apothecaries to undertake the dispensation, and offered that the warden and company of the apothecaries should adjust the price. This offer was rejected; and the apothecaries who had engaged to assist the charity were considered as traitors to the company, threatened with the imposition of troublesome offices, and deterred from the performance of their engagements. The apothecaries ventured upon publick opposition, and presented a kind of remonstrance against the design to the committee of the city, which the physicians condescended to confute; and, at last, the traders seem to have prevailed among the sons of trade; for the proposal of the college having been considered, a paper of approbation was drawn up, but postponed and forgotten. The physicians still persisted; and, in 1696, a subscription was raised by themselves, according to an agreement prefixed to The Dispensary. The poor were, for a time, supplied with medicines; for how long a time, I know not. The medicinal charity, like others, began with ardour, but soon remitted, and, at last, died gradually away. About the time of the subscription begins the action of The Dispensary. The poem, as its subject was present and popular, cooperated with passions and prejudices then prevalent, and, with such auxiliaries to its intrinsick merit, was universally and liberally applauded. It was on the side of charity against the intrigues of interest, and of regular learning against licentious usurpation of medical authority; and was, therefore, naturally favoured by those who read and can judge of poetry. In 1697, Garth spoke that which is now called the Harveian oration; which the authors of the Biographia mention with more praise than the passage quoted in their notes will fully justify. Garth, speaking of the mischiefs done by quacks, has these expressions: "Non tamen telis vulnerat ista agyrtarum colluvies, sed theriaca quadam magis perniciosa; non pyrio, sed pulvere nescio quo exotico certat; non globulis plumbeis, sed pilulis aeque lethalibus interficit." This was certainly thought fine by the author, and is still admired by his biographer. In October, 1702, he became one of the censors of the college. Garth, being an active and zealous whig, was a member of the Kit-cat club, and, by consequence, familiarly known to all the great men of that denomination. In 1710, when the government fell into other hands, he writ to lord Godolphin, on his dismission, a short poem, which was criticised in The Examiner, and so successfully either defended or excused by Mr. Addison, that, for the sake of the vindication, it ought to be preserved. At the accession of the present family his merits were acknowledged and rewarded. He was knighted with the sword of his hero, Marlborough; and was made physician in ordinary to the king, and physician general to the army. He then undertook an edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses, translated by several hands; which he recommended by a preface, written with more ostentation than ability; his notions are half-formed, and his materials immethodically confused. This was his last work. He died Jan. 18, 1717-18, and was buried at Harrow-on-the-Hill. His personal character seems to have been social and liberal. He communicated himself through a very wide extent of acquaintance; and though firm in a party, at a time when firmness included virulence, yet he imparted his kindness to those who were not supposed to favour his principles. He was an early encourager of Pope, and was, at once, the friend of Addison and of Granville. He is accused of voluptuousness and irreligion; and Pope, who says, that "if ever there was a good Christian, without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth," seems not able to deny what he is angry to hear, and loath to confess. Pope afterwards declared himself convinced, that Garth died in the communion of the church of Rome, having been privately reconciled. It is observed by Lowth, that there is less distance than is thought between skepticism and popery; and that a mind, wearied with perpetual doubt, willingly seeks repose in the bosom of an infallible church. His poetry has been praised, at least, equally to its merit. In The Dispensary there is a strain of smooth and free versification; but few lines are eminently elegant. No passages fall below mediocrity, and few rise much above it. The plan seems formed without just proportion to the subject; the means and end have no necessary connexion. Resnel, in his Preface to Pope's Essay, remarks, that Garth exhibits no discrimination of characters; and that what any one says might, with equal propriety, have been said by another. The general design is, perhaps, open to criticism; but the composition can seldom be charged with inaccuracy or negligence. The author never slumbers in self-indulgence; his full vigour is always exerted; scarcely a line is left unfinished; nor is it easy to find an expression used by constraint, or a thought imperfectly expressed. It was remarked by Pope, that The Dispensary had been corrected in every edition, and that every change was an improvement. It appears, however, to want something of poetical ardour, and something of general delectation; and, therefore, since it has been no longer supported by accidental and extrinsick popularity, it has been scarcely able to support itself. ROWE Nicholas Rowe was born at Little Beckford, in Bedfordshire, in 1673. His family had long possessed a considerable estate, with a good house, at Lambertoun, in Devonshire[144]. The ancestor from whom he descended, in a direct line, received the arms borne by his descendants for his bravery in the holy war. His father, John Rowe, who was the first that quitted his paternal acres to practise any art of profit, professed the law, and published Benlow's and Dallison's Reports, in the reign of James the second, when in opposition to the notions, then diligently propagated, of dispensing power, he ventured to remark how low his authors rated the prerogative. He was made a sergeant, and died April 30, 1692. He was buried in the Temple church. Nicholas was first sent to a private school at Highgate; and, being afterwards removed to Westminster, was, at twelve years[145], chosen one of the king's scholars. His master was Busby, who suffered none of his scholars to let their powers lie useless; and his exercises in several languages are said to have been written with uncommon degrees of excellence, and yet to have cost him very little labour. At sixteen he had, in his father's opinion, made advances in learning sufficient to qualify him for the study of law, and was entered a student of the Middle Temple, where, for some time, he read statutes and reports with proficiency proportionate to the force of his mind, which was already such that he endeavoured to comprehend law, not as a series of precedents, or collection of positive precepts, but as a system of rational government, and impartial justice. When he was nineteen, he was, by the death of his father, left more to his own direction, and, probably, from that time suffered law gradually to give way to poetry[146]. At twenty-five he produced the Ambitious Step-Mother, which was received with so much favour, that he devoted himself, from that time, wholly to elegant literature. His next tragedy, 1702, was Tamerlane, in which, under the name of Tamerlane, he intended to characterize king William, and Lewis the fourteenth under that of Bajazet. The virtues of Tamerlane seem to have been arbitrarily assigned him by his poet, for I know not that history gives any other qualities than those which make a conqueror. The fashion, however, of the time was, to accumulate upon Lewis all that can raise horrour and detestation; and whatever good was withheld from him, that it might not be thrown away, was bestowed upon king William. This was the tragedy which Rowe valued most, and that which, probably by the help of political auxiliaries, excited most applause; but occasional poetry must often content itself with occasional praise. Tamerlane has for a long time been acted only once a year, on the night when king William landed. Our quarrel with Lewis has been long over; and it now gratifies neither zeal nor malice to see him painted with aggravated features, like a Saracen upon a sign. The Fair Penitent, his next production, 1703, is one of the most pleasing tragedies on the stage, where it still keeps its turns of appearing, and probably will long keep them, for there is scarcely any work of any poet, at once, so interesting by the fable and so delightful by the language. The story is domestick, and, therefore, easily received by the imagination, and assimilated to common life; the diction is exquisitely harmonious, and soft or sprightly as occasion requires. The character of Lothario seems to have been expanded by Richardson into Lovelace; but he has excelled his original in the moral effect of the fiction. Lothario, with gaiety which cannot be hated, and bravery which cannot be despised, retains too much of the spectator's kindness. It was in the power of Richardson alone to teach us, at once, esteem and detestation; to make virtuous resentment overpower all the benevolence which wit, elegance, and courage, naturally excite; and to lose, at last, the hero in the villain. The fifth act is not equal to the former; the events of the drama are exhausted, and little remains but to talk of what is past. It has been observed that the title of the play does not sufficiently correspond with the behaviour of Calista, who, at last, shows no evident signs of repentance, but may be reasonably suspected of feeling pain from detection rather than from guilt, and expresses more shame than sorrow, and more rage than shame. His next, 1706, was Ulysses; which, with the common fate of mythological stories, is now generally neglected. We have been too early acquainted with the poetical heroes, to expect any pleasure from their revival; to show them as they have already been shown, is to disgust by repetition; to give them new qualities, or new adventures, is to offend by violating received notions. The Royal Convert, 1708, seems to have a better claim to longevity. The fable is drawn from an obscure and barbarous age, to which fictions are most easily and properly adapted; for when objects are imperfectly seen, they easily take forms from imagination. The scene lies among our ancestors in our own country, and, therefore, very easily catches attention. Rodogune is a personage truly tragical, of high spirit, and violent passions, great with tempestuous dignity, and wicked with a soul that would have been heroick if it had been virtuous. The motto seems to tell that this play was not successful. Rowe does not always remember what his characters require. In Tamerlane there is some ridiculous mention of the god of love; and Rodogune, a savage Saxon, talks of Venus, and the eagle that bears the thunder of Jupiter. This play discovers its own date, by a prediction of the union, in imitation of Cranmer's prophetick promises to Henry the eighth. The anticipated blessings of union are not very naturally introduced, nor very happily expressed. He once, 1706, tried to change his hand. He ventured on a comedy, and produced The Biter; with which, though it was unfavourably treated by the audience, he was himself delighted; for he is said to have sat in the house laughing with great vehemence, whenever he had, in his own opinion, produced a jest. But, finding that he and the publick had no sympathy of mirth, he tried at lighter scenes no more. After the Royal Convert, 1714, appeared Jane Shore, written, as its author professes, "in imitation of Shakespeare's style." In what he thought himself an imitator of Shakespeare, it is not easy to conceive. The numbers, the diction, the sentiments, and the conduct, every thing in which imitation can consist, are remote, in the utmost degree, from the manner of Shakespeare; whose dramas it resembles only as it is an English story, and as some of the persons have their names in history. This play, consisting chiefly of domestick scenes and private distress, lays hold upon the heart. The wife is forgiven, because she repents, and the husband is honoured, because he forgives. This, therefore, is one of those pieces which we still welcome on the stage. His last tragedy, 1715, was Lady Jane Grey. This subject had been chosen by Mr. Smith, whose papers were put into Rowe's hands, such as he describes them in his preface. This play has, likewise, sunk into oblivion. From this time he gave nothing more to the stage. Being, by a competent fortune, exempted from any necessity of combating his inclination, he never wrote in distress, and, therefore, does not appear to have ever written in haste. His works were finished to his own approbation, and bear few marks of negligence or hurry. It is remarkable, that his prologues and epilogues are all his own, though he sometimes supplied others; he afforded help, but did not solicit it. As his studies necessarily made him acquainted with Shakespeare, and acquaintance produced veneration, he undertook, 1709, an edition of his works, from which he neither received much praise, nor seems to have expected it; yet, I believe, those who compare it with former copies will find, that he has done more than he promised; and that, without the pomp of notes, or boasts of criticism, many passages are happily restored. He prefixed a life of the author, such as tradition, then almost expiring, could supply, and a preface[147], which cannot be said to discover much profundity or penetration. He, at least, contributed to the popularity of his author. He was willing enough to improve his fortune by other arts than poetry. He was under-secretary, for three years, when the duke of Queensberry was secretary of state, and afterwards applied to the earl of Oxford for some publick employment[148]. Oxford enjoined him to study Spanish; and when, some time afterwards, he came again, and said that he had mastered it, dismissed him, with this congratulation: "Then, sir, I envy you the pleasure of reading Don Quixote in the original." This story is sufficiently attested; but why Oxford, who desired to be thought a favourer of literature, should thus insult a man of acknowledged merit; or how Rowe, who was so keen a whig[148], that he did not willingly converse with men of the opposite party, could ask preferment from Oxford, it is not now possible to discover. Pope, who told the story, did not say on what occasion the advice was given; and, though he owned Rowe's disappointment, doubted whether any injury was intended him, but thought it rather lord Oxford's _odd way_. It is likely that he lived on discontented through the rest of queen Anne's reign; but the time came, at last, when he found kinder friends. At the accession of king George he was made poet-laureate; I am afraid, by the ejection of poor Nahum Tate, who, 1716, died in the Mint, where he was forced to seek shelter by extreme poverty[150]. He was made, likewise, one of the land-surveyors of the customs of the port of London. The prince of Wales chose him clerk of his council; and the lord chancellor Parker, as soon as he received the seals, appointed him, unasked, secretary of the presentations. Such an accumulation of employments undoubtedly produced a very considerable revenue. Having already translated some parts of Lucan's Pharsalia, which had been published in the Miscellanies, and doubtless received many praises, he undertook a version of the whole work, which he lived to finish, but not to publish. It seems to have been printed under the care of Dr. Welwood, who prefixed the author's life, in which is contained the following character: "As to his person, it was graceful and well made; his face regular, and of a manly beauty. As his soul was well lodged, so its rational and animal faculties excelled in a high degree. He had a quick and fruitful invention, a deep penetration, and a large compass of thought, with singular dexterity and easiness in making his thoughts to be understood. He was master of most parts of polite learning, especially the classical authors, both Greek and Latin; understood the French, Italian, and Spanish languages; and spoke the first fluently, and the other two tolerably well. "He had likewise read most of the Greek and Roman histories in their original languages, and most that are wrote in English, French, Italian, and Spanish. He had a good taste in philosophy; and, having a firm impression of religion upon his mind, he took great delight in divinity and ecclesiastical history, in both which he made great advances in the times he retired into the country, which were frequent. He expressed, on all occasions, his full persuasion of the truth of revealed religion; and being a sincere member of the established church himself, he pitied, but condemned not, those that dissented from it. He abhorred the principles of persecuting men upon the account of their opinions in religion; and, being strict in his own, he took it not upon him to censure those of another persuasion. His conversation was pleasant, witty, and learned, without the least tincture of affectation or pedantry; and his inimitable manner of diverting and enlivening the company made it impossible for any one to be out of humour when he was in it. Envy and detraction seemed to be entirely foreign to his constitution; and whatever provocations he met with at any time, he passed them over without the least thought of resentment or revenge. As Homer had a Zoilus, so Mr. Rowe had sometimes his; for there were not wanting malevolent people, and pretenders to poetry too, that would now and then bark at his best performances; but he was conscious of his own genius, and had so much good-nature as to forgive them; nor could he ever be tempted to return them an answer. "The love of learning and poetry made him not the less fit for business, and nobody applied himself closer to it, when it required his attendance. The late duke of Queensberry, when he was secretary of state, made him his secretary for publick affairs; and when that truly great man came to know him well, he was never so pleased as when Mr. Rowe was in his company. After the duke's death, all avenues were stopped to his preferment; and, during the rest of that reign, he passed his time with the muses and his books, and sometimes the conversation of his friends. "When he had just got to be easy in his fortune, and was in a fair way to make it better, death swept him away, and in him deprived the world of one of the best men, as well as one of the best geniuses of the age. He died like a christian and a philosopher, in charity with all mankind, and with an absolute resignation to the will of God. He kept up his good-humour to the last; and took leave of his wife and friends immediately before his last agony, with the same tranquillity of mind, and the same indifference for life, as though he had been upon taking but a short journey. He was twice married; first to a daughter of Mr. Parsons, one of the auditors of the revenue; and afterwards to a daughter of Mr. Devenish, of a good family in Dorsetshire[151]. By the first he had a son; and by the second a daughter, married afterwards to Mr. Fane. He died the sixth of December, 1718, in the forty-fifth year of his age; and was buried the nineteenth of the same month in Westminster Abbey, in the aisle where many of our English poets are interred, over against Chaucer, his body being attended by a select number of his friends, and the dean and choir officiating at the funeral." To this character, which is apparently given with the fondness of a friend, may be added the testimony of Pope, who says, in a letter to Blount: "Mr. Rowe accompanied me, and passed a week in the forest. I need not tell you how much a man of his turn entertained me; but I must acquaint you, there is a vivacity and gaiety of disposition, almost peculiar to him, which makes it impossible to part from him without that uneasiness which generally succeeds all our pleasure." Pope has left behind him another mention of his companion, less advantageous, which is thus reported by Dr. Warburton. "Rowe, in Mr. Pope's opinion, maintained a decent character, but had no heart. Mr. Addison was justly offended with some behaviour which arose from that want, and estranged himself from him; which Rowe felt very severely. Mr. Pope, their common friend, knowing this, took an opportunity, at some juncture of Mr. Addison's advancement, to tell him how poor Rowe was grieved at his displeasure, and what satisfaction he expressed at Mr. Addison's good fortune, which he expressed so naturally, that he (Mr. Pope) could not but think him sincere. Mr. Addison replied, 'I do not suspect that he feigned; but the levity of his heart is such, that he is struck with any new adventure; and it would affect him just in the same manner, if he heard I was going to be hanged.' Mr. Pope said he could not deny but Mr. Addison understood Rowe well[152]." This censure time has not left us the power of confirming or refuting; but observation daily shows, that much stress is not to be laid on hyperbolical accusations, and pointed sentences, which even he that utters them desires to be applauded rather than credited. Addison can hardly be supposed to have meant all that he said. Few characters can bear the microscopick scrutiny of wit quickened by anger; and, perhaps, the best advice to authors would be, that they should keep out of the way of one another. Rowe is chiefly to be considered as a tragick writer and a translator. In his attempt at comedy he failed so ignominiously, that his Biter is not inserted in his works; and his occasional poems and short compositions are rarely worthy of either praise or censure; for they seem the casual sports of a mind seeking rather to amuse its leisure than to exercise its powers. In the construction of his dramas, there is not much art; he is not a nice observer of the unities. He extends time and varies place as his convenience requires. To vary the place is not, in my opinion, any violation of nature, if the change be made between the acts; for it is no less easy for the spectator to suppose himself at Athens in the second act, than at Thebes in the first; but to change the scene, as is done by Rowe, in the middle of an act, is to add more acts to the play, since an act is so much of the business as is transacted without interruption. Rowe, by this license, easily extricates himself from difficulties; as, in Jane Grey, when we have been terrified with all the dreadful pomp of publick execution, and are wondering how the heroine or the poet will proceed, no sooner has Jane pronounced some prophetick rhymes, than--pass and be gone--the scene closes, and Pembroke and Gardiner are turned out upon the stage. I know not that there can be found in his plays any deep search into nature, any accurate discriminations of kindred qualities, or nice display of passion in its progress; all is general and undefined. Nor does he much interest or affect the auditor, except in Jane Shore, who is always seen and heard with pity. Alicia is a character of empty noise, with no resemblance to real sorrow, or to natural madness. Whence, then, has Rowe his reputation? From the reasonableness and propriety of some of his scenes, from the elegance of his diction, and the suavity of his verse. He seldom moves either pity or terrour, but he often elevates the sentiments; he seldom pierces the breast, but he always delights the ear, and often improves the understanding. His translation of the Golden Verses, and of the first book of Quillet's poem, have nothing in them remarkable. The Golden Verses are tedious. The version of Lucan is one of the greatest productions of English poetry; for there is, perhaps, none that so completely exhibits the genius and spirit of the original. Lucan is distinguished by a kind of dictatorial or philosophick dignity, rather, as Quintilian observes, declamatory than poetical; full of ambitious morality and pointed sentences, comprised in vigorous and animated lines. This character Rowe has very diligently and successfully preserved. His versification, which is such as his contemporaries practised, without any attempt at innovation or improvement, seldom wants either melody or force. His author's sense is sometimes a little diluted by additional infusions, and sometimes weakened by too much expansion. But such faults are to be expected in all translations, from the constraint of measures and dissimilitude of languages. The Pharsalia of Rowe deserves more notice than it obtains, and, as it is more read, will be more esteemed[153]. [Footnote 144: In the Villare, _Lamerton_. Dr. J.] [Footnote 145: He was not elected till 1688. N.] [Footnote 146: Sewell, in a life of Rowe, says, that he was called to the bar and kept chambers in one of the inns of court, till he had produced two plays; that is till 1702, at which time he was twenty-nine. M.] [Footnote 147: Mr. Rowe's preface, however, is not distinct, as it might be supposed from this passage, from the life. R.] [Footnote 148: Spence.] [Footnote 149: Spence.] [Footnote 150: Jacob, who wrote only four years afterwards, says, that Tate had to write the first birthday ode after the accession of king George, (Lives of the Poets, 11. 232.) so that he was probably not ejected to make room for Rowe, but made a vacancy by his death, in 1716. M.] [Footnote 151: Mrs. Anne Deanes Devenish, of a very good family in Dorsetshire, was first married to Mr. Rowe the poet, by whom she was left in not abounding circumstances, was afterwards married to colonel Deanes, by whom also she was left a widow; and upon the family estate, which was a good one, coming to her by the death of a near relation, she resumed the family name of Devenish. She was a clever, sensible, agreeable woman, had seen a great deal of the world, had kept much good company, and was distinguished by a happy mixture of elegance and sense in every thing she said or did. Bishop Newton's Life by himself, p. 32. About the year 1738, he, by her desire, collected and published Mr. Rowe's works, with a dedication to Frederick prince of Wales. Mrs. Devenish, I believe, died about the year 1758. She was, I think, the person meant by Pope in the line, Each widow asks it for her own good man. M.] [Footnote 152: Sewell, who was acquainted with Howe, speaks very highly of him: "I dare not venture to give you his character, either as a companion, a friend, or a poet. It may be enough to say, that all good and learned men loved him; that his conversation either struck out mirth, or promoted learning or honour whereever he went; that the openness of a gentleman, the unstudied eloquence of a scholar, and the perfect freedom of an Englishman, attended him in all his actions." Life of Rowe prefixed to his poems. M. That the author of Jane Shore should have no heart; that Addison should assert this, whilst he admitted, in the same breath, that Rowe was grieved at his displeasure; and that Pope should coincide in such an opinion, and yet should have stated in his epitaph on Rowe, 'That never heart felt passion more sincere,' are circumstances that cannot be admitted, without sacrificing to the veracity of an anecdote, the character and consistency of all the persons introduced. Roscoe's Life of Pope, prefixed to his works, vol. i. p. 250.] [Footnote 153: Rowe's Lucan, however, has not escaped without censure. Bentley has criticised it with great severity in his Philoleutheros Lipsiensis. J.B. The life of Rowe is a very remarkable instance of the uncommon strength of Dr. Johnson's memory. When I received from him the MS. he complacently observed, "that the criticism was tolerably well done, considering that he had not read one of Rowe's plays for thirty years!" N.] ADDISON Joseph Addison was born on the 1st of May, 1672, at Milston, of which his father, Launcelot Addison, was then rector, near Ambrosebury, in Wiltshire, and appearing weak and unlikely to live, he was christened the same day[154]. After the usual domestick education, which, from the character of his father, may be reasonably supposed to have given him strong impressions of piety, he was committed to the care of Mr. Naish, at Ambrosebury, and afterwards of Mr. Taylor, at Salisbury. Not to name the school or the masters of men illustrious for literature, is a kind of historical fraud, by which honest fame is injuriously diminished: I would, therefore, trace him through the whole process of his education. In 1683, in the beginning of his twelfth year, his father, being made dean of Lichfield, naturally carried his family to his new residence, and, I believe, placed him, for some time, probably not long, under Mr. Shaw, then master of the school at Lichfield, father of the late Dr. Peter Shaw. Of this interval his biographers have given no account, and I know it only from a story of a barring-out, told me, when I was a boy, by Andrew Corbet, of Shropshire, who had heard it from Mr. Pigot his uncle. The practice of barring-out was a savage license, practised in many schools to the end of the last century, by which the boys, when the periodical vacation drew near, growing petulant at the approach of liberty, some days before the time of regular recess, took possession of the school, of which they barred the doors, and bade their master defiance from the windows. It is not easy to suppose that on such occasions the master would do more than laugh; yet, if tradition may be credited, he often struggled hard to force or surprise the garrison. The master, when Pigot was a schoolboy, was barred-out at Lichfield; and the whole operation, as he said, was planned and conducted by Addison. To judge better of the probability of this story, I have inquired when he was sent to the Chartreux; but, as he was not one of those who enjoyed the founder's benefaction, there is no account preserved of his admission. At the school of the Chartreux, to which he was removed either from that of Salisbury or Lichfield, he pursued his juvenile studies under the care of Dr. Ellis, and contracted that intimacy with sir Richard Steele, which their joint labours have so effectually recorded[155]. Of this memorable friendship the greater praise must be given to Steele. It is not hard to love those from whom nothing can be feared; and Addison never considered Steele as a rival; but Steele lived, as he confesses, under an habitual subjection to the predominating genius of Addison, whom he always mentioned with reverence, and treated with obsequiousness. Addison[156], who knew his own dignity, could not always forbear to show it, by playing a little upon his admirer; but he was in no danger of retort: his jests were endured without resistance or resentment. But the sneer of jocularity was not the worst. Steele, whose imprudence of generosity, or vanity of profusion, kept him always incurably necessitous, upon some pressing exigence, in an evil hour, borrowed a hundred pounds of his friend, probably without much purpose of repayment; but Addison, who seems to have had other notions of a hundred pounds, grew impatient of delay, and reclaimed his loan by an execution. Steele felt, with great sensibility, the obduracy of his creditor, but with emotions of sorrow rather than of anger[157]. In 1687 he was entered into Queen's college in Oxford, where, in 1689, the accidental perusal of some Latin verses gained him the patronage of Dr. Lancaster, afterwards provost of Queen's college; by whose recommendation he was elected into Magdalen college as a demy, a term by which that society denominates those which are elsewhere called scholars; young men, who partake of the founder's benefaction, and succeed in their order to vacant fellowships[158]. Here he continued to cultivate poetry and criticism, and grew first eminent by his Latin compositions, which are, indeed, entitled to particular praise. He has not confined himself to the imitation of any ancient author, but has formed his style from the general language, such as a diligent perusal of the productions of different ages happened to supply. His Latin compositions seem to have had much of his fondness, for he collected a second volume of the Musae Anglicanae, perhaps, for a convenient receptacle, in which all his Latin pieces are inserted, and where his poem on the Peace has the first place. He afterwards presented the collection to Boileau, who, from that time, "conceived," says Tickell, "an opinion of the English genius for poetry." Nothing is better known of Boileau, than that he had an injudicious and peevish contempt of modern Latin, and, therefore, his profession of regard was, probably, the effect of his civility rather than approbation. Three of his Latin poems are upon subjects on which, perhaps, he would not have ventured to have written in his own language. The Battle of the Pygmies and Cranes; the Barometer; and a Bowling-green. When the matter is low or scanty, a dead language, in which nothing is mean because nothing is familiar, affords great conveniencies; and, by the sonorous magnificence of Roman syllables, the writer conceals penury of thought and want of novelty, often from the reader, and often from himself. In his twenty-second year he first showed his power of English poetry by some verses addressed to Dryden; and soon afterwards published a translation of the greater part of the fourth Georgick upon bees; after which, says Dryden, "my latter swarm is hardly worth the hiving." About the same time he composed the arguments prefixed to the several books of Dryden's Virgil; and produced an Essay on the Georgicks, juvenile, superficial, and uninstructive, without much either of the scholar's learning or the critick's penetration. His next paper of verses contained a character of the principal English poets, inscribed to Henry Sacheverell, who was then, if not a poet, a writer of verses[159]; as is shown by his version of a small part of Virgil's Georgicks, published in the Miscellanies; and a Latin Encomium on queen Mary, in the Musae Anglicanae. These verses exhibit all the fondness of friendship; but, on one side or the other, friendship was afterwards too weak for the malignity of faction. In this poem is a very confident and discriminative character of Spenser, whose work he had then never read[160]. So little, sometimes, is criticism the effect of judgment. It is necessary to inform the reader, that about this time he was introduced by Congreve to Montague, then chancellor of the exchequer[161]: Addison was then learning the trade of a courtier, and subjoined Montague, as a poetical name to those of Cowley and Dryden. By the influence of Mr. Montague, concurring, according to Tickell, with his natural modesty, he was diverted from his original design of entering into holy orders. Montague alleged the corruption of men who engaged in civil employments without liberal education; and declared, that, though he was represented as an enemy to the church, he would never do it any injury but by withholding Addison from it. Soon after, in 1695, he wrote a poem to king William, with a rhyming introduction, addressed to lord Somers[162]. King William had no regard to elegance or literature; his study was only war; yet by a choice of ministers, whose disposition was very different from his own, he procured, without intention, a very liberal patronage to poetry. Addison was caressed both by Somers and Montague. In 1697 appeared his Latin verses on the Peace of Ryswick, which he dedicated to Montague, and which was afterwards called, by Smith, "the best Latin poem since the Aeneid." Praise must not be too rigorously examined; but the performance cannot be denied to be vigorous and elegant. Having yet no publick employment, he obtained, in 1699, a pension of three hundred pounds a year, that he might be enabled to travel. He staid a year at Blois[163], probably to learn the French language; and then proceeded in his journey to Italy, which he surveyed with the eyes of a poet. While he was travelling at leisure, he was far from being idle; for he not only collected his observations on the country, but found time to write his Dialogues on Medals, and four acts of Cato. Such, at least, is the relation of Tickell. Perhaps he only collected his materials, and formed his plan. Whatever were his other employments in Italy, he there wrote the letter to lord Halifax, which is justly considered as the most elegant, if not the most sublime, of his poetical productions[164]. But in about two years he found it necessary to hasten home; being, as Swift informs us, distressed by indigence, and compelled to become the tutor of a travelling squire, because his pension was not remitted[165]. At his return he published his travels, with a dedication to lord Somers. As his stay in foreign countries was short[166], his observations are such as might be supplied by a hasty view, and consist chiefly in comparisons of the present face of the country with the descriptions left us by the Roman poets, from whom he made preparatory collections, though he might have spared the trouble, had he known that such collections had been made twice before by Italian authors. The most amusing passage of his book is his account of the minute republick of San Marino: of many parts it is not a very severe censure to say, that they might have been written at home. His elegance of language, and variegation of prose and verse, however, gains upon the reader; and the book, though awhile neglected, became, in time, so much the favourite of the publick, that before it was reprinted it rose to five times its price. When he returned to England, in 1702, with a meanness of appearance which gave testimony of the difficulties to which he had been reduced, he found his old patrons out of power, and was, therefore, for a time, at full leisure for the cultivation of his mind; and a mind so cultivated gives reason to believe that little time was lost[167]. But he remained not long neglected or useless. The victory at Blenheim, 1704, spread triumph and confidence over the nation; and lord Godolphin, lamenting to lord Halifax, that it had not been celebrated in a manner equal to the subject, desired him to propose it to some better poet. Halifax told him, that there was no encouragement for genius; that worthless men were unprofitably enriched with publick money, without any care to find or employ those whose appearance might do honour to their country. To this Godolphin replied, that such abuses should, in time, be rectified; and that, if a man could be found capable of the task then proposed, he should not want an ample recompense. Halifax then named Addison; but required that the treasurer should apply to him in his own person. Godolphin sent the message by Mr. Boyle, afterwards lord Carleton; and Addison, having undertaken the work, communicated it to the treasurer, while it was yet advanced no farther than the simile of the angel, and was immediately rewarded by succeeding Mr. Locke in the place of commissioner of appeals. In the following year he was at Hanover with lord Halifax: and the year after was made under-secretary of state, first to sir Charles Hedges, and in a few months more to the earl of Sunderland. About this time the prevalent taste for Italian operas inclined him to try what would be the effect of a musical drama in our own language. He, therefore, wrote the opera of Rosamond, which, when exhibited on the stage, was either hissed or neglected[168]; but, trusting that the readers would do him more justice, he published it, with an inscription to the dutchess of Marlborough; a woman without skill, or pretensions to skill, in poetry or literature. His dedication was, therefore, an instance of servile absurdity, to be exceeded only by Joshua Barnes's dedication of a Greek Anacreon to the duke. His reputation had been somewhat advanced by the Tender Husband, a comedy which Steele dedicated to him, with a confession, that he owed to him several of the most successful scenes. To this play Addison supplied a prologue. When the marquis of Wharton was appointed lord lieutenant of Ireland[169], Addison attended him as his secretary; and was made keeper of the records in Birmingham's tower, with a salary of three hundred pounds a year. The office was little more than nominal, and the salary was augmented for his accommodation. Interest and faction allow little to the operation of particular dispositions, or private opinions. Two men of personal characters more opposite than those of Wharton and Addison could not easily be brought together. Wharton was impious, profligate, and shameless, without regard, or appearance of regard, to right and wrong: whatever is contrary to this may be said of Addison; but, as agents of a party, they were connected, and how they adjusted their other sentiments we cannot know. Addison, must, however, not be too hastily condemned. It is not necessary to refuse benefits from a bad man, when the acceptance implies no approbation of his crimes; nor has the subordinate officer any obligation to examine the opinions or conduct of those under whom he acts, except that he may not be made the instrument of wickedness. It is reasonable to suppose, that Addison counteracted, as far as he was able, the malignant and blasting influence of the lieutenant; and that, at least, by his intervention some good was done, and some mischief prevented. When he was in office, he made a law to himself, as Swift has recorded, never to remit his regular fees in civility to his friends: "for," said he, "I may have a hundred friends; and, if my fee be two guineas, I shall, by relinquishing my right, lose two hundred guineas, and no friend gain more than two; there is, therefore, no proportion between the good imparted and the evil suffered." He was in Ireland when Steele, without any communication of his design, began the publication of the Tatler; but he was not long concealed: by inserting a remark on Virgil, which Addison had given him, he discovered himself. It is, indeed, not easy for any man to write upon literature, or common life, so as not to make himself known to those with whom he familiarly converses, and who are acquainted with his track of study, his favourite topicks, his peculiar notions, and his habitual phrases. If Steele desired to write in secret, he was not lucky; a single month detected him. His first Tatler was published April 12, 1709; and Addison's contribution appeared May 26. Tickell observes, that the Tatler began, and was concluded without his concurrence. This is, doubtless, literally true; but the work did not suffer much by his unconsciousness of its commencement, or his absence at its cessation; for he continued his assistance to December 23, and the paper stopped on January 2, 1710-11. He did not distinguish his pieces by any signature; and I know not whether his name was not kept secret till the papers were collected into volumes. To the Tatler, in about two months, succeeded the Spectator[170]; a series of essays of the same kind, but written with less levity, upon a more regular plan, and published daily. Such an undertaking showed the writers not to distrust their own copiousness of materials or facility of composition, and their performance justified their confidence. They found, however, in their progress, many auxiliaries. To attempt a single paper was no terrifying labour; many pieces were offered, and many were received. Addison had enough of the zeal of party; but Steele had, at that time, almost nothing else. The Spectator, in one of the first papers, showed the political tenets of its authors; but a resolution was soon taken, of courting general approbation by general topicks, and subjects on which faction had produced no diversity of sentiments; such as literature, morality, and familiar life. To this practice they adhered with few deviations. The ardour of Steele once broke out in praise of Marlborough; and when Dr. Fleetwood prefixed to some sermons a preface, overflowing with whiggish opinions, that it might be read by the queen[171], it was reprinted in the Spectator. To teach the minuter decencies and inferiour duties, to regulate the practice of daily conversation, to correct those depravities which are rather ridiculous than criminal, and remove those grievances which, if they produce no lasting calamities, impress hourly vexation, was first attempted by Casa in his book of Manners, and Castiglione in his Courtier; two books yet celebrated in Italy for purity and elegance, and which, if they are now less read, are neglected only because they have effected that reformation which their authors intended, and their precepts now are no longer wanted. Their usefulness to the age in which they were written is sufficiently attested by the translations which almost all the nations of Europe were in haste to obtain. This species of instruction was continued, and perhaps advanced, by the French; among whom la Bruyère's Manners of the Age, though, as Boileau remarked, it is written without connexion, certainly deserves great praise, for liveliness of description, and justness of observation. Before the Tatler and Spectator, if the writers for the theatre are excepted, England had no masters of common life. No writers had yet undertaken to reform either the savageness of neglect, or the impertinence of civility; to show when to speak, or to be silent; how to refuse, or how to comply. We had many books to teach us our more important duties, and to settle opinions in philosophy or politicks; but an Arbiter Elegantiarum, a judge of propriety, was yet wanting, who should survey the track of daily conversation, and free it from thorns and prickles, which tease the passer, though they do not wound him. For this purpose nothing is so proper as the frequent publication of short papers, which we read not as study but amusement. If the subject be slight, the treatise, likewise, is short. The busy may find time, and the idle may find patience. This mode of conveying cheap and easy knowledge began among us in the civil war[172], when it was much the interest of either party to raise and fix the prejudices of the people. At that time appeared Mercurius Aulicus, Mercurius Rusticus, and Mercurius Civicus. It is said, that when any title grew popular, it was stolen by the antagonist, who, by this stratagem, conveyed his notions to those who would not have received him, had he not worn the appearance of a friend. The tumult of those unhappy days left scarcely any man leisure to treasure up occasional compositions; and so much were they neglected, that a complete collection is nowhere to be found. These Mercuries were succeeded by l'Estrange's Observator; and that by Lesley's Rehearsal, and, perhaps, by others; but hitherto nothing had been conveyed to the people, in this commodious manner, but controversy relating to the church or state; of which they taught many to talk, whom they could not teach to judge. It has been suggested that the Royal Society was instituted soon after the restoration, to divert the attention of the people from publick discontent. The Tatler and Spectator had the same tendency; they were published at a time when two parties, loud, restless, and violent, each with plausible declarations, and each, perhaps, without any distinct termination of its views, were agitating the nation; to minds heated with political contest they supplied cooler and more inoffensive reflections; and it is said by Addison, in a subsequent work, that they had a perceptible influence upon the conversation of that time, and taught the frolick and the gay to unite merriment with decency; an effect which they can never wholly lose, while they continue to be among the first books by which both sexes are initiated in the elegancies of knowledge. The Tatler and Spectator adjusted, like Casa, the unsettled practice of daily intercourse by propriety and politeness; and, like la Bruyère, exhibited the characters and manners of the age. The personages introduced in these papers were not merely ideal; they were then known and conspicuous in various stations. Of the Tatler this is told by Steele in his last paper; and of the Spectator by Budgel, in the preface to Theophrastus, a book which Addison has recommended, and which he was suspected to have revised, if he did not write it. Of those portraits, which may be supposed to be sometimes embellished, and sometimes aggravated, the originals are now partly known and partly forgotten. But to say that they united the plans of two or three eminent writers, is to give them but a small part of their due praise; they superadded literature and criticism, and sometimes towered far above their predecessors; and taught, with great justness of argument and dignity of language, the most important duties and sublime truths. All these topicks were happily varied with elegant fictions and refined allegories, and illuminated with different changes of style and felicities of invention. It is recorded by Budgel, that, of the characters feigned or exhibited in the Spectator, the favourite of Addison was sir Roger de Coverley, of whom he had formed a very delicate and discriminated idea[173], which he would not suffer to be violated; and, therefore, when Steele had shown him innocently picking up a girl in the temple, and taking her to a tavern, he drew upon himself so much of his friend's indignation, that he was forced to appease him by a promise of forbearing sir Roger for the time to come. The reason which induced Cervantes to bring his hero to the grave, "para mi solo nacio don Quixote, y yo para el," made Addison declare, with an undue vehemence of expression, that he would kill sir Roger; being of opinion that they were born for one another, and that any other hand would do him wrong. It may be doubted whether Addison ever filled up his original delineation. He describes his knight as having his imagination somewhat warped; but of this perversion he has made very little use. The irregularities in sir Roger's conduct seem not so much the effects of a mind deviating from the beaten track of life, by the perpetual pressure of some overwhelming idea, as of habitual rusticity, and that negligence which solitary grandeur naturally generates. The variable weather of the mind, the flying vapours of incipient madness, which, from time to time, cloud reason, without eclipsing it, it requires so much nicety to exhibit, that Addison seems to have been deterred from prosecuting his own design. To sir Roger, who, as a country gentleman, appears to be a tory, or, as it is gently expressed, an adherent to the landed interest, is opposed sir Andrew Freeport, a new man, a wealthy merchant, zealous for the moneyed interest, and a whig. Of this contrariety of opinions, it is probable more consequences were at first intended, than could be produced when the resolution was taken to exclude party from the paper. Sir Andrew does but little, and that little seems not to have pleased Addison, who, when he dismissed him from the club, changed his opinions. Steele had made him, in the true spirit of unfeeling commerce, declare that he "would not build an hospital for idle people;" but at last he buys land, settles in the country, and builds not a manufactory, but an hospital for twelve old husbandmen, for men with whom a merchant has little acquaintance, and whom he commonly considers with little kindness. Of essays thus elegant, thus instructive, and thus commodiously distributed, it is natural to suppose the approbation general, and the sale numerous. I once heard it observed, that the sale may be calculated by the product of the tax, related in the last number to produce more than twenty pounds a week, and, therefore, stated at one-and-twenty pounds, or three pounds ten shillings a day: this, at a half-penny a paper, will give sixteen hundred and eighty[174] for the daily number. This sale is not great; yet this, if Swift be credited, was likely to grow less; for he declares that the Spectator, whom he ridicules for his endless mention of the _fair sex,_ had, before his recess, wearied his readers. The next year, 1713, in which Cato came upon the stage, was the grand climacterick of Addison's reputation. Upon the death of Cato, he had, as is said, planned a tragedy in the time of his travels[175], and had, for several years, the first four acts finished, which were shown to such as were likely to spread their admiration. They were seen by Pope, and by Cibber, who relates that Steele, when he took back the copy, told him, in the despicable cant of literary modesty, that, whatever spirit his friend had shown in the composition, he doubted whether he would have courage sufficient to expose it to the censure of a British audience. The time, however, was now come, when those, who affected to think liberty in danger, affected, likewise, to think that a stage-play might preserve it; and Addison was importuned, in the name of the tutelary deities of Britain, to show his courage and his zeal by finishing his design. To resume his work he seemed perversely and unaccountably unwilling; and by a request, which, perhaps, he wished to be denied, desired Mr. Hughes to add a fifth act[176]. Hughes supposed him serious; and, undertaking the supplement, brought, in a few days, some scenes for his examination; but he had, in the mean time, gone to work himself, and produced half an act, which he afterwards completed, but with brevity irregularly disproportionate to the foregoing parts, like a task performed with reluctance, and hurried to its conclusion. It may yet be doubted whether Cato was made publick by any change of the author's purpose; for Dennis charged him with raising prejudices in his own favour by false positions of preparatory criticism, and with "poisoning the town" by contradicting, in the Spectator, the established rule of poetical justice, because his own hero, with all his virtues, was to fall before a tyrant. The fact is certain; the motives we must guess. Addison was, I believe, sufficiently disposed to bar all avenues against all danger. When Pope brought him the prologue, which is properly accommodated to the play, there were these words, "Britons, arise, be worth like this approved;" meaning nothing more than, Britons, erect and exalt yourselves to the approbation of publick virtue. Addison was frighted lest he should be thought a promoter of insurrection, and the line was liquidated to "Britons, attend." Now "heavily in clouds came on the day, the great, the important day," when Addison was to stand the hazard of the theatre. That there might, however, be left as little hazard as was possible, on the first night Steele, as himself relates, undertook to pack an audience. This, says Pope[177], had been tried, for the first time, in favour of the Distrest Mother; and was now, with more efficacy, practised for Cato. The danger was soon over. The whole nation was, at that time, on fire with faction. The whigs applauded every line in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the tories; and the tories echoed every clap, to show that the satire was unfelt. The story of Bolingbroke is well known. He called Booth to his box, and gave him fifty guineas for defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator[178]. The whigs, says Pope, design a second present, when they can accompany it with as good a sentence. The play, supported thus by the emulation of factious praise, was acted, night after night for a longer time than, I believe, the publick had allowed to any drama before; and the author, as Mrs. Porter long afterwards related, wandered through the whole exhibition behind the scenes with restless and unappeasable solicitude. When it was printed, notice was given that the queen would be pleased if it was dedicated to her; "but, as he had designed that compliment elsewhere, he found himself obliged," says Tickell, "by his duty on the one hand, and his honour on the other, to send it into the world without any dedication." Human happiness has always its abatements; the brightest sunshine of success is not without a cloud. No sooner was Cato offered to the reader, than it was attacked by the acute malignity of Dennis, with all the violence of angry criticism. Dennis, though equally zealous, and probably by his temper more furious, than Addison, for what they called liberty, and though a flatterer of the whig ministry, could not sit quiet at a successful play; but was eager to tell friends and enemies, that they had misplaced their admirations. The world was too stubborn for instruction; with the fate of the censurer of Corneille's Cid, his animadversions showed his anger without effect, and Cato continued to be praised. Pope had now an opportunity of courting the friendship of Addison, by vilifying his old enemy, and could give resentment its full play, without appearing to revenge himself. He, therefore, published a Narrative of the Madness of John Dennis; a performance which left the objections to the play in their full force, and, therefore, discovered more desire of vexing the critick than of defending the poet. Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably saw the selfishness of Pope's friendship; and, resolving that he should have the consequences of his officiousness to himself, informed Dennis, by Steele, that he was sorry for the insult; and that, whenever he should think fit to answer his remarks, he would do it in a manner to which nothing could be objected. The greatest weakness of the play is in the scenes of love, which are said, by Pope[179], to have been added to the original plan upon a subsequent review, in compliance with the popular practice of the stage. Such an authority it is hard to reject; yet the love is so intimately mingled with the whole action, that it cannot easily be thought extrinsick and adventitious; for, if it were taken away, what would be left? or how were the four acts filled in the first draught? At the publication the wits seemed proud to pay their attendance with encomiastick verses. The best are from an unknown hand, which will, perhaps, lose somewhat of their praise when the author is known to be Jeffreys. Cato had yet other honours. It was censured as a party-play by a scholar of Oxford; and defended in a favourable examination by Dr. Sewel. It was translated by Salvini into Italian, and acted at Florence; and by the Jesuits of St. Omer's into Latin, and played by their pupils. Of this version a copy was sent to Mr. Addison: it is to be wished that it could be found, for the sake of comparing their version of the soliloquy with that of Bland. A tragedy was written on the same subject by Deschamps, a French poet, which was translated with a criticism on the English play. But the translator and the critick are now forgotten. Dennis lived on unanswered, and, therefore, little read. Addison knew the policy of literature too well to make his enemy important by drawing the attention of the publick upon a criticism, which, though sometimes intemperate, was often irrefragable. While Cato was upon the stage, another daily paper, called the Guardian, was published by Steele[180]. To this Addison gave great assistance, whether occasionally, or by previous engagement, is not known. The character of guardian was too narrow and too serious: it might properly enough admit both the duties and the decencies of life, but seemed not to include literary speculations, and was, in some degree, violated by merriment and burlesque. What had the guardian of the Lizards to do with clubs of tall or of little men, with nests of ants, or with Strada's prolusions? Of this paper nothing is necessary to be said, but that it found many contributors, and that it was a continuation of the Spectator, with the same elegance, and the same variety, till some unlucky sparkle, from a tory paper, set Steele's politicks on fire, and wit at once blazed into faction. He was soon too hot for neutral topicks, and quitted the Guardian to write the Englishman. The papers of Addison are marked in the Spectator by one of the letters in the name of Clio, and in the Guardian by a hand; whether it was, as Tickell pretends to think, that he was unwilling to usurp the praise of others, or, as Steele, with far greater likelihood, insinuates, that he could not, without discontent, impart to others any of his own. I have heard that his avidity did not satisfy itself with the air of renown, but that with great eagerness he laid hold on his proportion of the profits. Many of these papers were written with powers truly comick, with nice discrimination of characters, and accurate observation of natural or accidental deviations from propriety; but it was not supposed that he had tried a comedy on the stage, till Steele, after his death, declared him the author of the Drummer. This, however, Steele did not know to be true by any direct testimony; for, when Addison put the play into his hands, he only told him, it was the work of a "gentleman in the company;" and when it was received, as is confessed, with cold disapprobation, he was probably less willing to claim it. Tickell omitted it in his collection; but the testimony of Steele, and the total silence of any other claimant, has determined the publick to assign it to Addison, and it is now printed with his other poetry. Steele carried the Drummer to the playhouse, and afterwards to the press, and sold the copy for fifty guineas. To the opinion of Steele may be added the proof supplied by the play itself, of which the characters are such as Addison would have delineated, and the tendency such as Addison would have promoted. That it should have been ill received would raise wonder, did we not daily see the capricious distribution of theatrical praise. He was not all this time an indifferent spectator of publick affairs. He wrote, as different exigencies required, in 1707, the present State of the War, and the Necessity of an Augmentation; which, however judicious, being written on temporary topicks, and exhibiting no peculiar powers, laid hold on no attention, and has naturally sunk by its own weight into neglect. This cannot be said of the few papers entitled the Whig Examiner, in which is employed all the force of gay malevolence and humorous satire. Of this paper, which just appeared and expired, Swift remarks, with exultation, that "it is now down among the dead men[181]." He might well rejoice at the death of that which he could not have killed. Every reader of every party, since personal malice is past, and the papers which once inflamed the nation are read only as effusions of wit, must wish for more of the Whig Examiners; for on no occasion was the genius of Addison more vigorously exerted, and on none did the superiority of his powers more evidently appear. His Trial of Count Tariff, written to expose the treaty of commerce with France, lived no longer than the question that produced it. Not long afterwards, an attempt was made to revive the Spectator, at a time, indeed, by no means favourable to literature, when the succession of a new family to the throne filled the nation with anxiety, discord, and confusion; and either the turbulence of the times, or the satiety of the readers, put a stop to the publication, after an experiment of eighty numbers, which were afterwards collected into an eighth volume, perhaps more valuable than any of those that went before it. Addison produced more than a fourth part[182]; and the other contributors are, by no means, unworthy of appearing as his associates. The time that had passed during the suspension of the Spectator, though it had not lessened his power of humour, seems to have increased his disposition to seriousness: the proportion of his religious, to his comick papers, is greater than in the former series. The Spectator, from its recommencement, was published only three times a week; and no discriminative marks were added to the papers. To Addison Tickell has ascribed twenty-three. The Spectator had many contributors; and Steele, whose negligence kept him always in a hurry, when it was his turn to furnish a paper, called loudly for the letters, of which Addison, whose materials were more, made little use; having recourse to sketches and hints, the product of his former studies, which he now reviewed and completed: among these are named by Tickell, the essays on Wit, those on the Pleasures of the Imagination, and the Criticism on Milton. When the house of Hanover took possession of the throne, it was reasonable to expect that the zeal of Addison would be suitably rewarded. Before the arrival of king George, he was made secretary to the regency, and was required, by his office, to send notice to Hanover that the queen was dead, and that the throne was vacant. To do this would not have been difficult to any man but Addison, who was so overwhelmed with the greatness of the event, and so distracted by choice of expression, that the lords, who could not wait for the niceties of criticism, called Mr. Southwell, a clerk in the house, and ordered him to despatch the message. Southwell readily told what was necessary in the common style of business, and valued himself upon having done what was too hard for Addison[183]. He was better qualified for the Freeholder, a paper which he published twice a week, from Dec. 23, 1715, to the middle of the next year. This was undertaken in defence of the established government, sometimes with argument, and sometimes with mirth. In argument he had many equals; but his humour was singular and matchless. Bigotry itself must be delighted with the Tory Fox-hunter. There are, however, some strokes less elegant, and less decent; such as the Pretender's Journal, in which one topick of ridicule is his poverty. This mode of abuse had been employed by Milton against king Charles the second. _Jacobaei_ Centum, exulantis viscera marsupii regis. And Oldmixon delights to tell of some alderman of London, that he had more money than the exiled princes; but that which might be expected from Milton's savageness, or Oldmixon's meanness, was not suitable to the delicacy of Addison. Steele thought the humour of the Freeholder too nice and gentle for such noisy times; and is reported to have said, that the ministry made use of a lute, when they should have called for a trumpet. This year, 1716[184], he married the countess dowager of Warwick, whom he had solicited by a very long and anxious courtship, perhaps with behaviour not very unlike that of sir Roger to his disdainful widow; and who, I am afraid, diverted herself often by playing with his passion. He is said to have first known her by becoming tutor to her son [185]. "He formed," said Tonson, "the design of getting that lady from the time when he was first recommended into the family." In what part of his life he obtained the recommendation, or how long and in what manner he lived in the family, I know not. His advances, at first, were certainly timorous[186], but grew bolder as his reputation and influence increased; till, at last, the lady was persuaded to marry him, on terms much like those on which a Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the sultan is reported to pronounce, "Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave." The marriage, if uncontradicted report can be credited, made no addition to his happiness; it neither found them nor made them equal. She always remembered her own rank, and thought herself entitled to treat with very little ceremony the tutor of her son. Howe's ballad of the Despairing Shepherd, is said to have been written, either before or after marriage, upon this memorable pair; and it is certain that Addison has left behind him no encouragement for ambitious love. The year after, 1717, he rose to his highest elevation, being made secretary of state. For this employment he might justly be supposed qualified by long practice of business, and by his regular ascent through other offices; but expectation is often disappointed; it is universally confessed that he was unequal to the duties of his place. In the house of commons he could not speak, and, therefore, was useless to the defence of the government. In the office, says Pope,[187] he could not issue an order without losing his time in quest of fine expressions. What he gained in rank he lost in credit; and, finding by experience his own inability, was forced to solicit his dismission, with a pension of fifteen hundred pounds a year. His friends palliated this relinquishment, of which both friends and enemies knew the true reason, with an account of declining health, and the necessity of recess and quiet. He now returned to his vocation, and began to plan literary occupations for his future life. He purposed a tragedy on the death of Socrates; a story of which, as Tickell remarks, the basis is narrow, and to which I know not how love could have been appended. There would, however, have been no want either of virtue in the sentiments, or elegance in the language. He engaged in a nobler work, a defence of the Christian religion, of which part was published after his death; and he designed to have made a new poetical version of the psalms. These pious compositions Pope imputed[188] to a selfish motive, upon the credit, as he owns, of Tonson[189], who, having quarrelled with Addison, and not loving him, said, that when he laid down the secretary's office, he intended to take orders, and obtain a bishoprick; "For," said he, "I always thought him a priest in his heart." That Pope should have thought this conjecture of Tonson worth remembrance, is a proof, but, indeed, so far as I have found, the only proof, that he retained some malignity from their ancient rivalry. Tonson pretended but to guess it; no other mortal ever suspected it; and Pope might have reflected, that a man, who had been secretary of state in the ministry of Sunderland, knew a nearer way to a bishoprick than by defending religion, or translating the psalms. It is related, that he had once a design to make an English dictionary, and that he considered Dr. Tillotson as the writer of highest authority. There was formerly sent to me by Mr. Locker, clerk of the leathersellers' company, who, was eminent for curiosity and literature, a collection of examples selected from Tillotson's works, as Locker said, by Addison. It came too late to be of use, so I inspected it but slightly, and remember it indistinctly. I thought the passages too short. Addison, however, did not conclude his life in peaceful studies; but relapsed, when he was near his end, to a political dispute. It so happened that, 1718-19, a controversy was agitated, with great vehemence, between those friends of long continuance, Addison and Steele. It may be asked, in the language of Homer, what power or what cause could set them at variance. The subject of their dispute was of great importance. The earl of Sunderland proposed an act, called the Peerage Bill; by which the number of peers should be fixed, and the king restrained from any new creation of nobility, unless when an old family should be extinct. To this the lords would naturally agree; and the king, who was yet little acquainted with his own prerogative, and, as is now well known, almost indifferent to the possessions of the crown, had been persuaded to consent. The only difficulty was found among the commons, who were not likely to approve the perpetual exclusion of themselves and their posterity. The bill, therefore, was eagerly opposed, and, among others, by sir Robert Walpole, whose speech was published. The lords might think their dignity diminished by improper advancements, and particularly by the introduction of twelve new peers at once, to produce a majority of tories in the last reign; an act of authority violent enough, yet certainly legal, and by no means to be compared with that contempt of national right with which, some time afterwards, by the instigation of whiggism, the commons, chosen by the people for three years, chose themselves for seven. But, whatever might be the disposition of the lords, the people had no wish to increase their power. The tendency of the bill, as Steele observed in a letter to the earl of Oxford, was to introduce an aristocracy; for a majority in the house of lords, so limited, would have been despotick and irresistible. To prevent this subversion of the ancient establishment, Steele, whose pen readily seconded his political passions, endeavoured to alarm the nation by a pamphlet called the Plebeian. To this an answer was published by Addison, under the title of the Old Whig, in which it is not discovered that Steele was then known to be the advocate for the commons. Steele replied by a second Plebeian; and, whether by ignorance or by courtesy, confined himself to his question, without any personal notice of his opponent. Nothing, hitherto, was committed against the laws of friendship, or proprieties of decency; but controvertists cannot long retain their kindness for each other. The Old Whig answered the Plebeian, and could not forbear some contempt of "little Dicky, whose trade it was to write pamphlets." Dicky, however, did not lose his settled veneration for his friend; but contented himself with quoting some lines of Cato, which were at once detection and reproof. The bill was laid aside during that session; and Addison died before the next, in which its commitment was rejected by two hundred and sixty-five to one hundred and seventy-seven. Every reader surely must regret that these two illustrious friends, after so many years passed in confidence and endearment, in unity of interest, conformity of opinion, and fellowship of study, should finally part in acrimonious opposition. Such a controversy was "Bellum plusquam _civile_," as Lucan expresses it. Why could not faction find other advocates? But, among the uncertainties of the human state, we are doomed to number the instability of friendship. Of this dispute I have little knowledge but from the Biographica Britannica. The Old Whig is not inserted in Addison's works; nor is it mentioned by Tickell in his life; why it was omitted, the biographers, doubtless, give the true reason; the fact was too recent, and those who had been heated in the contention were not yet cool. The necessity of complying with times, and of sparing persons, is the great impediment of biography. History may be formed from permanent monuments and records; but lives can only be written from personal knowledge, which is growing every day less, and in a short time is lost for ever. What is known can seldom be immediately told; and when it might be told, it is no longer known. The delicate features of the mind, the nice discriminations of character, and the minute peculiarities of conduct, are soon obliterated; and it is surely better that caprice, obstinacy, frolick, and folly, however they might delight in the description, should be silently forgotten, than that, by wanton merriment and unseasonable detection, a pang should be given to a widow, a daughter, a brother, or a friend. As the process of these narratives is now bringing me among my contemporaries, I begin to feel myself "walking upon ashes under which the fire is not extinguished," and coming to the time of which it will be proper rather to say "nothing that is false, than all that is true." The end of this useful life was now approaching. Addison had, for some time, been oppressed by shortness of breath, which was now aggravated by a dropsy; and, finding his danger pressing, he prepared to die conformably to his own precepts and professions. During this lingering decay, he sent, as Pope relates[190], a message by the earl of Warwick to Mr. Gay, desiring to see him. Gay, who had not visited him for some time before, obeyed the summons, and found himself received with great kindness. The purpose for which the interview had been solicited was then discovered. Addison told him, that he had injured him; but that, if he recovered, he would recompense him. What the injury was, he did not explain, nor did Gay ever know, but supposed that some preferment designed for him had, by Addison's intervention, been withheld. Lord Warwick was a young man of very irregular life, and, perhaps, of loose opinions[191]. Addison, for whom he did not want respect, had very diligently endeavoured to reclaim him; but his arguments and expostulations had no effect. One experiment, however, remained to be tried: when he found his life near its end, he directed the young lord to be called; and when he desired, with great tenderness, to hear his last injunctions, told him: "I have sent for you, that you may see how a Christian can die." What effect this awful scene had on the earl, I know not: he, likewise, died himself in a short time, In Tickell's excellent elegy on his friend are these lines: He taught us how to live; and, oh! too high The price of knowledge, taught us how to die. In which he alludes, as he told Dr. Young, to this moving interview. Having given directions to Mr. Tickell for the publication of his works, and dedicated them on his deathbed to his friend Mr. Craggs, he died June 17, 1719, at Holland-house, leaving no child but a daughter[192]. Of his virtue it is a sufficient testimony, that the resentment of party has transmitted no charge of any crime. He was not one of those who are praised only after death; for his merit was so generally acknowledged, that Swift, having observed that his election passed without a contest, adds, that, if he had proposed himself for king, he would hardly have been refused. His zeal for his party did not extinguish his kindness for the merit of his opponents: when he was secretary in Ireland, he refused to intermit his acquaintance with Swift. Of his habits, or external manners, nothing is so often mentioned as that timorous or sullen taciturnity, which his friends called modesty, by too mild a name. Steele mentions, with great tenderness, "that remarkable bashfulness, which is a cloak that hides and muffles merit;" and tells us, "that his abilities were covered only by modesty, which doubles the beauties which are seen, and gives credit and esteem to all that are concealed." Chesterfield affirms, that "Addison was the most timorous and awkward man that he ever saw." And Addison, speaking of his own deficiency in conversation, used to say of himself, that, with respect to intellectual wealth, "he could draw bills for a thousand pounds, though he had not a guinea in his pocket." That he wanted current coin for ready payment, and, by that want, was often obstructed and distressed; that he was oppressed by an improper and ungraceful timidity; every testimony concurs to prove; but Chesterfield's representation is, doubtless, hyperbolical. That man cannot be supposed very unexpert in the arts of conversation and practice of life, who, without fortune or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity, became secretary of state; and who died at forty-seven, after having not only stood long in the highest rank of wit and literature, but filled one of the most important offices of state. The time in which he lived had reason to lament his obstinacy of silence; "or he was," says Steele, "above all men in that talent called humour, and enjoyed it in such perfection, that I have often reflected, after a night spent with him apart from all the world, that I had had the pleasure of conversing with an intimate acquaintance of Terence and Catullus, who had all their wit and nature, heightened with humour more exquisite and delightful than any other man ever possessed." This is the fondness of a friend; let us hear what is told us by a rival: "Addison's conversation[193]," says Pope, "had something in it more charming than I have found in any other man. But this was only when familiar; before strangers, or, perhaps, a single stranger, he preserved his dignity by a stiff silence." This modesty was by no means inconsistent with a very high opinion of his own merit. He demanded to be the first name in modern wit; and, with Steele to echo him, used to depreciate Dryden, whom Pope and Congreve defended against them[194]. There is no reason to doubt, that he suffered too much pain from the prevalence of Pope's poetical reputation; nor is it without strong reason suspected, that by some disingenuous acts he endeavoured to obstruct it; Pope was not the only man whom he insidiously injured, though the only man of whom he could be afraid. His own powers were such as might have satisfied him with conscious excellence. Of very extensive learning he has, indeed, given no proofs. He seems to have had small acquaintance with the sciences, and to have read little except Latin and French; but, of the Latin poets, his Dialogues on Medals show that, he had perused the works with great diligence and skill. The abundance of his own mind left him little need of adventitious sentiments; his wit always could suggest what the occasion demanded. He had read, with critical eyes, the important volume of human life, and knew the heart of man from the depths of stratagem to the surface of affectation. What he knew he could easily communicate. "This," says Steele, "was particular in this writer, that, when he had taken his resolution, or made his plan for what he designed to write, he would walk about a room, and dictate it into language, with as much freedom and ease as any one could write it down, and attend to the coherence and grammar of what he dictated." Pope[195], who can be less suspected of favouring his memory, declares that he wrote very fluently, but was slow and scrupulous in correcting; that many of his Spectators were written very fast, and sent immediately to the press; and that it seemed to be for his advantage not to have time for much revisal. "He would alter," says Pope, "any thing to please his friends, before publication; but would not retouch his pieces afterwards: and, I believe, not one word in Cato, to which I made an objection, was suffered to stand." The last line of Cato is Pope's, having been originally written, And, oh! 'twas this that ended Cato's life. Pope might have made more objections to the six concluding lines. In the first couplet the words, "from hence," are improper; and the second line is taken from Dryden's Virgil. Of the next couplet, the first verse being included in the second, is, therefore, useless; and in the third, discord is made to produce strife. Of the course of Addison's familiar day[196], before his marriage, Pope has given a detail. He had in the house with him Budgell, and, perhaps, Philips. His chief companions were Steele, Budgell, Philips, Carey, Davenant, and colonel Brett. With one or other of these he always breakfasted. He studied all morning; then dined at a tavern; and went afterwards to Button's. Button had been a servant in the countess of Warwick's family; who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south side of Russel street, about two doors from Covent garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used to assemble. It is said, that when Addison had suffered any vexation from the countess, he withdrew the company from Button's house. From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he often sat late, and drank too much wine. In the bottle, discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and bashfulness tot confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison was first seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from the servile timidity of his sober hours. He that feels oppression from the presence of those to whom he knows himself superiour, will desire to set loose his powers of conversation; and who, that ever asked succours from Bacchus, was able to preserve himself from being enslaved by his auxiliary? Among those friends it was that Addison displayed the elegance of his colloquial accomplishments, which may easily be supposed such as Pope represents them. The remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an evening in his company, declared that he was a parson in a tie-wig, can detract little from his character; he was always reserved to strangers, and was not incited to uncommon freedom by a character like that of Mandeville. From any minute knowledge of his familiar manners, the intervention of sixty years has now debarred us. Steele once promised Congreve and the publick a complete description of his character; but the promises of authors are like the vows of lovers. Steele thought no more on his design, or thought on it with anxiety that at last disgusted him, and left his friend in the hands of Tickell. One slight lineament of his character Swift has preserved. It was his practice, when he found any man invincibly wrong, to flatter his opinions by acquiescence, and sink him yet deeper in absurdity. This artifice of mischief was admired by Stella; and Swift seems to approve her admiration. His works will supply some information. It appears, from his various pictures of the world, that, with all his bashfulness, he had conversed with many distinct classes of men, had surveyed their ways with very diligent observation, and marked, with great acuteness, the effects of different modes of life. He was a man in whose presence nothing reprehensible was out of danger; quick in discerning whatever was wrong or ridiculous, and not unwilling to expose it. "There are," says Steele, "in his writings many oblique strokes upon some of the wittiest paen of the age." His delight was more to excite merriment than detestation; and he detects follies rather than crimes. If any judgment be made, from his books, of his moral character, nothing will be found but purity and excellence. Knowledge of mankind, indeed, less extensive than that of Addison, will show, that to write, and to live, are very different. Many who praise virtue, do no more than praise it. Yet it is reasonable to believe that Addison's professions and practice were at no great variance, since, amidst that storm of faction in which most of his life was passed, though his station made him conspicuous, and his activity made him formidable, the character given him by his friends was never contradicted by his enemies: of those, with whom interest or opinion united him, he had not only the esteem, but the kindness; and of others, whom the violence of opposition drove against him, though he might lose the love, he retained the reverence. It is justly observed by Tickell, that he employed wit on the side of virtue and religion. He not only made the proper use of wit himself, but taught it to others; and from his time it has been generally subservient to the cause of reason and of truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that had long connected gaiety with vice, and easiness of manners with laxity of principles. He has restored virtue to its dignity, and taught innocence not to be ashamed. This is an elevation of literary character, "above all Greek, above all Roman fame." No greater felicity can genius attain, than that of having purified intellectual pleasure, separated mirth from indecency, and wit from licentiousness; of having taught a succession of writers to bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of goodness; and, if I may use expressions yet more awful, of having "turned many to righteousness." Addison, in his life, and for some time afterwards, was considered, by the greater part of readers, as supremely excelling both in poetry and criticism. Part of his reputation may be probably ascribed to the advancement of his fortune: when, as Swift observes, he became a statesman, and saw poets waiting at his levee, it is no wonder that praise was accumulated upon him. Much, likewise, may be more honourably ascribed to his personal character: he who, if he had claimed it, might have obtained the diadem, was not likely to be denied the laurel. But time quickly puts an end to artificial and accidental fame; and Addison is to pass through futurity protected only by his genius. Every name, which kindness or interest once raised too high, is in danger, lest the next age should, by the vengeance of criticism, sink it in the same proportion. A great writer has lately styled him "an indifferent poet, and a worse critick." His poetry is first to be considered; of which it must be confessed, that it has not often those felicities of diction which give lustre to sentiments, or that vigour of sentiment that animates diction; there is little of ardour, vehemence, or transport; there is very rarely the awfulness of grandeur, and not very often the splendour of elegance. He thinks justly; but he thinks faintly. This is his general character; to which, doubtless, many single passages will furnish exceptions. Yet, if he seldom reaches supreme excellence, he rarely sinks into dulness, and is still more rarely entangled in absurdity. He did not trust his powers enough to be negligent. There is, in most of his compositions, a calmness and equability, deliberate and cautious, sometimes with little that delights, but seldom with any thing that offends. Of this kind seem to be his poems to Dryden, to Somers, and to the king. His ode on St. Cecilia has been imitated by Pope, and has something in it of Dryden's vigour. Of his account of the English poets, he used to speak as a "poor thing[197];" but it is not worse than his usual strain. He has said, not very judiciously, in his character of Waller, Thy verse could show ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the storms that bore him hence. O! had thy muse not come an age too soon, But seen great Nassau on the British throne, How had his triumph glitter'd in thy page! What is this but to say, that he who could compliment Cromwell had been the proper poet for king William; Addison, however, never printed the piece. The letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labour, and more elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of his poems. There is, however, one broken metaphor, of which notice may properly be taken: Fir'd with that name-- I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, That longs to launch into a nobler strain. To _bridle a goddess_ is no very delicate idea; but why must she be _bridled_? because she _longs to launch_; an act which was never hindered by a _bridle_: and whither will she _launch_? into a _nobler strain_. She is in the first line a _horse_, in the second a _boat_; and the care of the poet is to keep his _horse_ or his _boat_ from _singing_. The next composition is the far-famed Campaign, which Dr. Warton has termed a "Gazette in rhyme," with harshness not often used by the good-nature of his criticism. Before a censure so severe is admitted, let us consider that war is a frequent subject of poetry, and then inquire who has described it with more justness and force. Many of our own writers tried their powers upon this year of victory; yet Addison's is confessedly the best performance: his poem is the work of a man not blinded by the dust of learning; his images are not borrowed merely from books. The superiority which he confers upon his hero is not personal prowess, and "mighty bone," but deliberate intrepidity, a calm command of his passions, and the power of consulting his own mind in the midst of danger. The rejection and contempt of fiction is rational and manly. It may be observed that the last line is imitated by Pope: Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright-- Rais'd of themselves, their genuine charms they boast, And those that paint them truest, praise them most. This Pope had in his thoughts: but, not knowing how to use what was not his own, he spoiled the thought when he had borrowed it: The well-sung woes shall sooth my pensive ghost; He best can paint[198]them who shall feel them most. Martial exploits may be _painted_; perhaps _woes_ may be _painted_; but they are surely not _painted_ by being _well-sung_: it is not easy to paint in song, or to sing in colours. No passage in the Campaign has been more often mentioned than the simile of the angel, which is said, in the Tatler, to be "one of the noblest thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man," and is, therefore, worthy of attentive consideration. Let it be first inquired whether it be a simile. A poetical simile is the discovery of likeness between two actions, in their general nature dissimilar, or of causes terminating by different operations in some resemblance of effect. But the mention of another like consequence from a like cause, or of a like performance by a like agency, is not a simile, but an exemplification. It is not a simile to say that the Thames waters fields, as the Po waters fields; or that as Hecla vomits flames in Iceland, so Aetna vomits flames in Sicily. When Horace says of Pindar, that he pours his violence and rapidity of verse, as a river swoln with rain rushes from the mountain; or of himself, that his genius wanders in quest of poetical decorations, as the bee wanders to collect honey; he, in either case, produces a simile; the mind is impressed with the resemblance of things generally unlike, as unlike as intellect and body. But if Pindar had been described as writing with the copiousness and grandeur of Homer; or Horace had told that he reviewed and finished his own poetry with the same care as Isocrates polished his orations, instead of similitude he would have exhibited almost identity; he would have given the same portraits with different names. In the poem now examined, when the English are represented as gaining a fortified pass, by repetition of attack and perseverance of resolution; their obstinacy of courage, and vigour of onset, is well illustrated by the sea that breaks, with incessant battery, the dikes of Holland. This is a simile; but when Addison, having celebrated the beauty of Marlborough's person, tells us, that "Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace," here is no simile, but a mere exemplification. A simile may be compared to lines converging at a point, and is more excellent as the lines approach from greater distance; an exemplification may be considered as two parallel lines, which run on together without approximation, never far separated, and never joined. Marlborough is so like the angel in the poem, that the action of both is almost the same, and performed by both in the same manner. Marlborough "teaches the battle to rage;" the angel "directs the storm:" Marlborough is "unmoved in peaceful thought;" the angel is "calm and serene:" Marlborough stands "unmoved amidst the shock of hosts;" the angel rides "calm in the whirlwind." The lines on Marlborough are just and noble; but the simile gives almost the same images a second time. But, perhaps, this thought, though hardly a simile, was remote from vulgar conceptions, and required great labour of research, or dexterity of application. Of this, Dr. Madden, a name which Ireland ought to honour, once gave me his opinion. "If I had set," said he, "ten schoolboys to write on the battle of Blenheim, and eight had brought me the angel, I should not have been surprised." The opera of Rosamond, though it is seldom mentioned, is one of the first of Addison's compositions. The subject is well chosen, the fiction is pleasing, and the praise of Marlborough, for which the scene gives an opportunity, is, what perhaps every human excellence must be, the product of good luck, improved by genius. The thoughts are sometimes great, and sometimes tender; the versification is easy and gay. There is, doubtless, some advantage in the shortness of the lines, which there is little temptation to load with expletive epithets. The dialogue seems commonly better than the songs. The two comick characters of sir Trusty and Grideline, though of no great value, are yet such as the poet intended[199]. Sir Trusty's account of the death of Rosamond is, I think, too grossly absurd. The whole drama is airy and elegant; engaging in its process, and pleasing in its conclusion. If Addison had cultivated the lighter parts of poetry, he would, probably, have excelled. The tragedy of Cato, which, contrary to the rule observed in selecting the works of other poets, has, by the weight of its character, forced its way into the late collection, is unquestionably the noblest production of Addison's genius. Of a work so much read, it is difficult to say any thing new. About things on which the publick thinks long, it commonly attains to think right; and of Cato it has been not unjustly determined, that it is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here "excites or assuages emotion:" here is "no magical power of raising phantastick terrour or wild anxiety." The events are expected without solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care: we consider not what they are doing, or what they are suffering; we wish only to know what they have to say. Cato is a being above our solicitude; a man of whom the gods take care, and whom we leave to their care with heedless confidence. To the rest, neither gods nor men can have much attention; for there is not one amongst them that strongly attracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such sentiments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene in the play which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory. When Cato was shown to Pope[200], he advised the author to print it, without any theatrical exhibition; supposing that it would be read more favourably than heard. Addison declared himself of the same opinion; but urged the importunity of his friends for its appearance on the stage. The emulation of parties made it successful beyond expectation; and its success has introduced or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too declamatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy. The universality of applause, however it might quell the censure of common mortals, had no other effect than to harden Dennis in fixed dislike; but his dislike was not merely capricious. He found and showed many faults: he showed them, indeed, with anger, but he found them with acuteness, such as ought to rescue his criticism from oblivion; though, at last, it will have no other life than it derives from the work which it endeavours to oppress. Why he pays no regard to the opinion of the audience, he gives his reason, by remarking, that, "A deference is to be paid to a general applause, when it appears that that applause is natural and spontaneous; but that little regard is to be had to it, when it is affected and artificial. Of all the tragedies which, in his memory, have had vast and violent runs, not one has been excellent; few have been tolerable; most have been scandalous. When a poet writes a tragedy, who knows he has judgment, and who feels he has genius, that poet presumes upon his own merit, and scorns to make a cabal. That people come coolly to the representation of such a tragedy, without any violent expectation, or delusive imagination, or invincible prepossession; that such an audience is liable to receive the impressions which the poem shall naturally make on them, and to judge by their own reason, and their own judgments, and that reason and judgment are calm and serene, not formed by nature to make proselytes, and to control and lord it over the imaginations of others. But that when an author writes a tragedy, who knows he has neither genius nor judgment, he has recourse to the making a party, and he endeavours to make up in industry what is wanting in talent, and to supply by poetical craft the absence of poetical art; that such an author is humbly contented to raise men's passions by a plot without doors, since he despairs of doing it by that which he brings upon the stage. That party and passion, and prepossession, are clamorous and tumultuous things, and so much the more clamorous and tumultuous by how much the more erroneous: that they domineer and tyrannise over the imaginations of persons who want judgment, and sometimes too of those who have it; and, like a fierce and outrageous torrent, bear down all opposition before them." He then condemns the neglect of poetical justice; which is always one of his favourite principles. "'Tis certainly the duty of every tragick poet, by the exact distribution of poetical justice, to imitate the divine dispensation, and to inculcate a particular providence. 'Tis true, indeed, upon the stage of the world, the wicked sometimes prosper, and the guiltless suffer. But that is permitted by the governor of the world, to show, from the attribute of his infinite justice, that there is a compensation in futurity, to prove the immortality of the human soul, and the certainty of future rewards and punishments. But the poetical persons in tragedy exist no longer than the reading, or the representation; the whole extent of their entity is circumscribed by those; and, therefore, during that reading or representation, according to their merits or demerits, they must be punished or rewarded. If this is not done, there is no impartial distribution of poetical justice, no instructive lecture of a particular providence, and no imitation of the divine dispensation. And yet the author of this tragedy does not only run counter to this, in the fate of his principal character; but every where, throughout it, makes virtue suffer, and vice triumph: for not only Cato is vanquished by Caesar, but the treachery and perfidiousness of Syphax prevail over the honest simplicity and the credulity of Juba; and the sly subtlety and dissimulation of Portius over the generous frankness and open-heartedness of Marcus." Whatever pleasure there may be in seeing crimes punished and virtue rewarded, yet, since wickedness often prospers in real life, the poet is certainly at liberty to give it prosperity on the stage. For if poetry has an imitation of reality, how are its laws broken by exhibiting the world in its true form? The stage may sometimes gratify our wishes; but, if it be truly the "mirror of life," it ought to show us sometimes what we are to expect. Dennis objects to the characters, that they are not natural, or reasonable; but as heroes and heroines are not beings that are seen every day, it is hard to find upon what principles their conduct shall be tried. It is, however, not useless to consider what he says of the manner in which Cato receives the account of his son's death. "Nor is the grief of Cato, in the fourth act, one jot more in nature than that of his son and Lucia in the third. Cato receives the news of his son's death not only with dry eyes, but with a sort of satisfaction; and, in the same page, sheds tears for the calamity of his country, and does the same thing in the next page upon the bare apprehension of the danger of his friends. Now, since the love of one's country is the love of one's countrymen, as I have shown upon another occasion, I desire to ask these questions: Of all our countrymen, which do we love most, those whom we know, or those whom we know not? And of those whom we know, which do we cherish most, our friends or our enemies? And of our friends, which are the dearest to us, those who are related to us, or those who are not? And of all our relations, for which have we most tenderness, for those who are near to us, or for those who are remote? And of our near relations, which are the nearest, and, consequently, the dearest to us, our offspring, or others? Our offspring most certainly; as nature, or, in other words, providence, has wisely contrived for the preservation of mankind. Now, does it not follow, from what has been said, that for a man to receive the news of his son's death with dry eyes, and to weep at the same time for the calamities of his country, is a wretched affectation, and a miserable inconsistency? Is not that, in plain English, to receive with dry eyes the news of the deaths of those for whose sake our country is a name so dear to us, and, at the same time, to shed tears for those for whose sake our country is not a name so dear to us?" But this formidable assailant is least resistible when he attacks the probability of the action, and the reasonableness of the plan. Every critical reader must remark, that Addison has, with a scrupulosity almost unexampled on the English stage, confined himself in time to a single day, and in place to rigorous unity. The scene never changes, and the whole action of the play passes in the great hall of Cato's house at Utica. Much, therefore, is done in the hall, for which any other place had been more fit; and this impropriety affords Dennis many hints of merriment, and opportunities of triumph. The passage is long; but as such disquisitions are not common, and the objections are skilfully formed and vigorously urged, those who delight in critical controversy will not think it tedious. "Upon the departure of Portius, Sempronius makes but one soliloquy, and immediately in comes Syphax, and then the two politicians are at it immediately. They lay their heads together, with their snuffboxes in their hands, as Mr. Bayes has it, and league it away. But in the midst of that wise scene, Syphax seems to give a seasonable caution to Sempronius: '_Syph_. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; Cato has piercing eyes.' "There is a great deal of caution shown indeed, in meeting in a governor's own hall to carry on their plot against him. Whatever opinion they have of his eyes, I suppose they had none of his ears, or they would never have talked at this foolish rate so near: 'Gods! thou must be cautious.' Oh! yes, very cautious, for if Cato should overhear you, and turn you off for politicians, Caesar would never take you; no, Caesar would never take you. "When Cato, act the second, turns the senators out of the hall, upon pretence of acquainting Juba with the result of their debates, he appears to me to do a thing which is neither reasonable nor civil. Juba might certainly have better been made acquainted with the result of that debate in some private apartment of the palace. But the poet was driven upon this absurdity to make way for another; and that is, to give Juba an opportunity to demand Marcia of her father. But the quarrel and rage of Juba and Syphax, in the same act; the invectives of Syphax against the Romans and Cato; the advice that he gives Juba, in her father's hall, to bear away Marcia by force; and his brutal and clamorous rage upon his refusal, and at a time when Cato was scarcely out of sight, and, perhaps, not out of hearing, at least some of his guards or domesticks must necessarily be supposed to be within hearing; is a thing that is so far from being probable, that it is hardly possible. "Sempronius, in the second act, comes back once more in the same morning to the governor's hall, to carry on the conspiracy with Syphax against the governor, his country, and his family; which is so stupid, that it is below the wisdom of the O--'s, the Mac's, and the Teague's; even Eustace Cummins himself would never have gone to Justice-hall to have conspired against the government. If officers at Portsmouth should lay their heads together, in order to the carrying off[201] J---- G----'s niece or daughter, would they meet in J--- G---'s hall, to carry on that conspiracy? There would be no necessity for their meeting there, at least till they came to the execution of their plot, because there would be other places to meet in. There would be no probability that they should meet there, because there would be places more private and more commodious. Now there ought to be nothing in a tragical action but what is necessary or probable. "But treason is not the only thing that is carried on in this hall; that, and love, and philosophy, take their turns in it, without any manner of necessity or probability occasioned by the action, as duly and as regularly, without interrupting one another, as if there were a triple league between them, and a mutual agreement that each should give place to, and make way for the other, in a due and orderly succession. "We now come to the third act. Sempronius, in this act, comes into the governor's hall, with the leaders of the mutiny; but, as soon as Cato is gone, Sempronius, who but just before had acted like an unparalleled knave, discovers himself, like an egregious fool, to be an accomplice in the conspiracy. '_Semp_. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, They're thrown neglected by; but, if it fails, They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do. Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth To sudden death.'-- "'Tis true, indeed, the second leader says, there are none there but friends; but is that possible at such a juncture? Can a parcel of rogues attempt to assassinate the governor of a town of war, in his own house, in mid-day, and, after they are discovered, and defeated, can there be none near them but friends? Is it not plain, from these words of Sempronius, 'Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth To sudden death'-- and from the entrance of the guards upon the word of command, that those guards were within ear-shot? Behold Sempronius, then, palpably discovered. How comes it to pass, then, that instead of being hanged up with the rest, he remains secure in the governor's hall, and there carries on his conspiracy against the government, the third time in the same day, with his old comrade Syphax, who enters at the same time that the guards are carrying away the leaders, big with the news of the defeat of Sempronius; though where he had his intelligence so soon is difficult to imagine? And now the reader may expect a very extraordinary scene: there is not abundance of spirit indeed, nor a great deal of passion, but there is wisdom more than enough to supply all defects. '_Syph_. Still there remains an after-game to play: My troops are mounted, their Numidian steeds Snuff up the winds, and long to scour the desert. Let but Sempronius lead us in our flight, We'll force the gate, where Marcus keeps his guard, And hew down all that would oppose our passage; A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. '_Semp_. Confusion! I have fail'd of half my purpose; Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind.' "Well! but though he tells us the half-purpose that he has failed of, he does not tell us the half that he has carried. But what does he mean by, 'Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind?' He is now in her own house; and we have neither seen her, nor heard of her, any where else since the play began. But now let us hear Syphax: 'What hinders then, but that thou find her out, And hurry her away by manly force?' But what does old Syphax mean by finding her out? They talk as if she were as hard to be found as a hare in a frosty morning. '_Semp_. But how to gain admission?' Oh! she is found out then, it seems-- But how to gain admission! for access Is giv'n to none, but Juba and her brothers.' But, raillery apart, why access to Juba? For he was owned and received as a lover neither by the father nor by the daughter. Well! but let that pass. Syphax puts Sempronius out of pain immediately; and, being a Numidian, abounding in wiles, supplies him with a stratagem for admission, that, I believe, is a non-pareille. '_Syph_. Thou shalt have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards; The doors will open when Numidia's prince Seems to appear before them.' "Sempronius is, it seems, to pass for Juba in full day at Cato's house, where they were both so very well known, by having Juba's dress and his guards: as if one of the marshals of France could pass for the duke of Bavaria, at noonday, at Versailles, by having his dress and liveries. But how does Syphax pretend to help Sempronius to young Juba's dress? Does he serve him in a double capacity, as general and master of his wardrobe? But why Juba's guards? For the devil of any guards has Juba appeared with yet. Well! though this is a mighty politick invention, yet, methinks, they might have done without it: for, since the advice that Syphax gave to Sempronius was, 'To hurry her away by manly force,' in my opinion, the shortest and likeliest way of coming at the lady was by demolishing, instead of putting on an impertinent disguise to circumvent two or three slaves. But Sempronius, it seems, is of another opinion. He extols to the skies the invention of old Syphax: '_Semp_. Heav'us! what a thought was there!' "Now I appeal to the reader, if I have not been as good as my word. Did I not tell him, that I would lay before him a very wise scene? "But now let us lay before the reader that part of the scenery of the fourth act, which may show the absurdities which the author has run into, through the indiscreet observance of the unity of place. I do not remember that Aristotle has said any thing expressly concerning the unity of place. 'Tis true, implicitly he has said enough in the rules which he has laid down for the chorus. For, by making the chorus an essential part of tragedy, and by bringing it on the stage immediately after the opening of the scene, and retaining it there till the very catastrophe, he has so determined and fixed the place of action, that it was impossible for an author on the Grecian stage to break through that unity. I am of opinion, that if a modern tragick poet can preserve the unity of place, without destroying the probability of the incidents, 'tis always best for him to do it; because, by the preservation of that unity, as we have taken notice above, he adds grace, and clearness, and comeliness, to the representation. But since there are no express rules about it, and we are under no compulsion to keep it, since we have no chorus, as the Grecian poet had; if it cannot be preserved, without rendering the greater part of the incidents unreasonable and absurd, and, perhaps, sometimes monstrous, 'tis certainly better to break it. "Now comes bully Sempronius, comically accoutred and equipped with his Numidian dress and his Numidian guards. Let the reader attend to him with all his ears; for the words of the wise are precious: '_Semp_. The deer is lodg'd, I've track'd her to her covert.' "Now I would fain know why this deer is said to be lodged, since we have not heard one word, since the play began, of her being at all out of harbour; and if we consider the discourse with which she and Lucia begin the act, we have reason to believe that they had hardly been talking of such matters in the street. However, to pleasure Sempronius, let us suppose, for once, that the deer is lodged: 'The deer is lodg'd, I've track'd her to her covert.' "If he had seen her in the open field, what occasion had he to track her, when he had so many Numidian dogs at his heels, which, with one halloo, he might have set upon her haunches? If he did not see her in the open field, how could he possibly track her? If he had seen her in the street, why did he not set upon her in the street, since through the street she must be carried at last? Now here, instead of having his thoughts upon his business, and upon the present danger; instead of meditating and contriving how he shall pass with his mistress through the southern gate, where her brother Marcus is upon the guard, and where she would certainly prove an impediment to him, which is the Roman word for the baggage; instead of doing this, Sempronius is entertaining himself with whimseys: '_Semp_. How will the young Numidian rave to see His mistress lost! If aught could glad my soul, Beyond th' enjoyment of so bright a prize, 'Twould be to torture that young gay barbarian. But hark! what noise? Death to my hopes! 'tis he, 'Tis Juba's self! There is but one way left! He must be murder'd, and a passage cut Through those his guards.' "Pray, what are 'those his guards?' I thought, at present, that Juba's guards had been Sempronius's tools, and had been dangling after his heels. "But now let us sum up all these absurdities together. Sempronius goes at noonday, in Juba's clothes, and with Juba's guards, to Cato's palace, in order to pass for Juba, in a place where they were both so very well known: he meets Juba there, and resolves to murder him with his own guards. Upon the guards appearing a little bashful, he threatens them: 'Hah! dastards, do you tremble! Or act like men; or, by yon azure heav'n!'-- But the guards still remaining restive, Sempronius himself attacks Juba, while each of the guards is representing Mr. Spectator's sign of the Gaper, awed, it seems, and terrified by Sempronius's threats. Juba kills Sempronius, and takes his own army prisoners, and carries them in triumph away to Cato. Now, I would fain know, if any part of Mr. Bayes's tragedy is so full of absurdity as this? "Upon hearing the clash of swords, Lucia and Marcia come in. The question is, why no men come in upon hearing the noise of swords in the governor's hall? Where was the governor himself? Where were his guards? Where were his servants? Such an attempt as this, so near the person of a governor of a place of war, was enough to alarm the whole garrison: and yet, for almost half an hour after Sempronius was killed, we find none of those appear, who were the likeliest in the world to be alarmed; and the noise of swords is made to draw only two poor women thither, who were most certain to run away from it. Upon Lucia and Marcia's coming in, Lucia appears in all the symptoms of an hysterical gentlewoman: '_Luc_. Sure 'twas the clash of swords! my troubl'd heart Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows, It throbs with fear, and aches at ev'ry sound!' And immediately her old whimsey returns upon her: 'O Marcia, should thy brothers, for my sake-- die away with horrour at the thought.' She fancies that there can be no cutting of throats, but it must be for her. If this is tragical, I would fain know what is comical. Well! upon this they spy the body of Sempronius; and Marcia, deluded by the habit, it seems, takes him for Juba; for says she, 'The face is muffl'd up within the garment.' "Now, how a man could fight, and fall with his face muffled up in his garment, is, I think, a little hard to conceive! Besides, Juba, before he killed him, knew him to be Sempronius. It was not by his garment that he knew this; it was by his face then; his face, therefore, was not muffled. Upon seeing this man with the muffled face, Marcia falls a raving; and, owning her passion for the supposed defunct, begins to make his funeral oration. Upon which Juba enters listening, I suppose on tiptoe; for I cannot imagine how any one can enter listening in any other posture. I would fain know how it came to pass, that during all this time he had sent nobody, no, not so much as a candle-snuffer, to take away the dead body of Sempronius. Well! but let us regard him listening. Having left his apprehension behind him, he, at first, applies what Marcia says to Sempronius. But finding at last, with much ado, that he himself is the happy man, he quits his eve-dropping, and discovers himself just time enough to prevent his being cuckolded by a dead man, of whom the moment before he had appeared so jealous; and greedily intercepts the bliss which was fondly designed for one who could not be the better for it. But here I must ask a question: how comes Juba to listen here, who had not listened before throughout the play? Or how comes he to be the only person of this tragedy who listens, when love and treason were so often talked in so publick a place as a hall? I am afraid the author was driven upon all these absurdities only to introduce this miserable mistake of Marcia; which, after all, is much below the dignity of tragedy, as any thing is which is the effect or result of trick. "But let us come to the scenery of the fifth act, Cato appears first upon the scene, sitting in a thoughtful posture; in his hand Plato's treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, a drawn sword on the table by him. Now let us consider the place in which this sight is presented to us. The place, forsooth, is a long hall. Let us suppose, that any one should place himself in this posture, in the midst of one of our halls in London; that he should appear solus, in a sullen posture, a drawn sword on the table by him; in his hand Plato's treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, translated lately by Bernard Lintot: I desire the reader to consider, whether such a person as this would pass, with them who beheld him, for a great patriot, a great philosopher, or a general, or for some whimsical person who fancied himself all these? and whether the people, who belonged to the family, would think that such a person had a design upon their midriffs or his own? "In short, that Cato should sit long enough, in the aforesaid posture, in the midst of this large hall, to read over Plato's treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, which is a lecture of two long hours; that he should propose to himself to be private there upon that occasion; that he should be angry with his son for intruding there; then, that he should leave this hall upon the pretence of sleep, give himself the mortal wound in his bedchamber, and then be brought back into that hall to expire, purely to show his good-breeding, and save his friends the trouble of coming up to his bedchamber; all this appears to me to be improbable, incredible, impossible." Such is the censure of Dennis. There is, as Dryden expresses it, perhaps "too much horseplay in his raillery;" but if his jests are coarse, his arguments are strong. Yet, as we love better to be pleased than to be taught, Cato is read, and the critick is neglected. Flushed with consciousness of these detections of absurdity in the conduct, he afterwards attacked the sentiments of Cato; but he then amused himself with petty cavils, and minute objections. Of Addison's smaller poems, no particular mention is necessary; they have little that can employ or require a critick. The parallel of the princes and gods, in his verses to Kneller, is often happy, but is too well known to be quoted. His translations, so far as I have compared them, want the exactness of a scholar. That he understood his authors cannot be doubted; but his versions will not teach others to understand them, being too licentiously paraphrastical. They are, however, for the most part, smooth and easy; and, what is the first excellence of a translator, such as may be read with pleasure by those who do not know the originals. His poetry is polished and pure; the product of a mind too judicious to commit faults, but not sufficiently vigorous to attain excellence. He has sometimes a striking line, or a shining paragraph; but, in the whole, he is warm rather than fervid, and shows more dexterity than strength. He was, however, one of our earliest examples of correctness. The versification which he had learned from Dryden, he debased rather than refined. His rhymes are often dissonant; in his Georgick he admits broken lines. He uses both triplets and alexandrines, but triplets more frequently in his translations than his other works. The mere structure of verses seems never to have engaged much of his care. But his lines are very smooth in Rosamond, and, too smooth in Cato. Addison is now to be considered as a critick; a name which the present generation is scarcely willing to allow him. His criticism is condemned as tentative or experimental, rather than scientifick; and he is considered as deciding by taste[202] rather than by principles. It is not uncommon, for those who have grown wise by the labour of others, to add a little of their own, and overlook their masters. Addison is now despised by some who, perhaps, would never have seen his defects, but by the lights which he afforded them. That he always wrote as he would think it necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed; his instructions were such as the character of his readers made propers That general knowledge which now circulates in common talk, was in his time rarely to be found. Men not professing learning were not ashamed of ignorance; and, in the female world, any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured. His purpose was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and unsuspected conveyance, into the gay, the idle, and the wealthy; he, therefore, presented knowledge in the most alluring form, not lofty and austere, but accessible and familiar. When he showed them their defects, he showed them, likewise, that they might be easily supplied. His, attempt succeeded; inquiry was awakened, and comprehension expanded. An emulation of intellectual elegance was excited, and, from his time to our own, life has been gradually exalted, and conversation purified and enlarged. Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticism, over his prefaces with very little parsimony; but, though he sometimes condescended to be somewhat familiar, his manner was in general too scholastick for those who had yet their rudiments to learn, and found it not easy to understand their master. His observations were framed rather for those that were learning to write, than for those that read only to talk. An instructer like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks being superficial, might be easily understood, and being just, might prepare the mind for more attainments. Had he presented Paradise Lost to the publick with all the pomp of system and severity of science, the criticism would, perhaps, have been admired, and the poem still have been neglected; but, by the blandishments of gentleness and facility, he has made Milton an universal favourite, with whom readers of every class think it necessary to be pleased. He descended, now and then, to lower disquisitions; and, by a serious display of the beauties of Chevy-Chase, exposed himself to the ridicule of Wagstaffe, who bestowed a like pompous character on Tom Thumb; and to the contempt of Dennis, who, considering the fundamental position of his criticism, that Chevy-Chase pleases, and ought to please, because it is natural, observes, "that there is a way of deviating from nature, by bombast or tumour, which soars above nature, and enlarges images beyond their real bulk; by affectation, which forsakes nature in quest of something unsuitable; and by imbecility, which degrades nature by faintness and diminution, by obscuring its appearances, and weakening its effects." In Chevy-Chase there is not much of either bombast or affectation; but there is chill and lifeless imbecility. The story cannot possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression on the mind. Before the profound observers of the present race repose too securely on the consciousness of their superiority to Addison, let them consider his Remarks on Ovid, in which may be found specimens of criticism sufficiently subtile and refined: let them peruse, likewise, his essays on Wit, and on the Pleasures of Imagination, in which he founds art on the base of nature, and draws the principles of invention from dispositions inherent in the mind of man with skill and elegance[203], such as his contemners will not easily attain. As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand, perhaps, the first of the first rank. His humour, which, as Steele observes, is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to domestick scenes and daily occurrences. He never "outsteps the modesty of nature," nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can be hardly said to invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of imagination. As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has nothing in it enthusiastick or superstitious: he appears neither weakly credulous, nor wantonly skeptical; his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor impracticably rigid. All the enchantment of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes as the phantom of a vision; sometimes appears half-veiled in an allegory; sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing. "Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet." His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not formal, on light occasions not grovelling, pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration; always equable, and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. Addison never deviates from his track to snatch a grace; he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and tries no hazardous innovations. His page is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour. It was, apparently, his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and severity of diction; he is, therefore, sometimes verbose in his transitions and connexions, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversation; yet if his language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted, he performed; he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetick[204]; he is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude, nor affected brevity: his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison. [Footnote 154: Mr. Tyers says, he was actually laid out for dead, as soon as he was born. Addisoniana, ii. 218. A writer, who signs himself T.J. informed Dr. Birch, (Gen. Dict. i. 62.) that Mr. Addison's mother was Jane Gulstone, a circumstance that should not have been omitted. Dr. Launcelot Addison had by his wife six children: 1. Jane, born April 23,1671. 2. Joseph, 1st May, 1672. 3. Gulstone, in April, 1673. 4. Dorothy, in May, 1674. 5. Anne, in April, 1676; and 6. Launcelot, in 1680. Both Gulstone and Launcelot, who was a fellow of Magdalen college, Oxford, were reputed to be very well skilled in the classicks, and in polite literature. Dr. Addison's living at Milston was 120_l_. per annum; and after his death his son Joseph was sued for dilapidations by the next incumbent. The writer abovementioned informed Dr. Birch, that "there was a tradition at Milston, that when at school in the country, (probably at Ambrosebury,) having committed some slight fault, he was so afraid of being corrected for it, that he ran away from his father's house, and fled into the fields, where he lived upon fruits, and took up his lodging in a hollow tree, till, upon the publication of a reward to whoever should find him, he was discovered and restored to his parents." M.] [Footnote 155: "At the Charter-house (says Oldmixon, who was personally acquainted with Addison, and as a zealous whig, probably encouraged by him) he made acquaintance with two persons, for whom he had ever after an entire friendship, Stephen Clay, esq. of the Inner Temple, author of the epistle in verse, from the elector of Bavaria to the French king after the battle of Ramilies; and sir Richard Steele, whom he served both with his pen and purse." Hist. of England, xi. 632. M.] [Footnote 156: Spence.] [Footnote 157: This fact was communicated to Johnson, in my hearing, by a person of unquestionable veracity, but whose name I am not at liberty to mention. He had it, as he told us, from lady Primrose, to whom Steele related it with tears in his eyes. The late Dr. Stinton confirmed it to me, by saying, that he had heard it from Mr. Hooke, author of the Roman History; and he, from Mr. Pope. H. See in Steele's Epistolary Correspondence, 1809, vol. i. pp. 208, 356, this transaction somewhat differently related. N. The compiler of Addisoniana is of opinion, that Addison's conduct on this occasion was dictated by the kindest motives; and that the step apparently so severe, was designed to awaken him, if possible, to a sense of the impropriety of his mode and habits of life. ED.] [Footnote 158: He took the degree of M.A. Feb. 14, 1693. N.] [Footnote 159: A letter which I found among Dr. Johnson's papers, dated in January, 1784, from a lady in Wiltshire, contains a discovery of some importance in literary history, viz. that by the initials H.S. prefixed to the poem, we are not to understand the famous Dr. Henry Sacheverell, whose trial is the most remarkable incident in his life. The information thus communicated is, that the verses in question were not an address to the famous Dr. Sacheverell, but to a very ingenious gentleman of the same name, who died young, supposed to be a Manksman, for that he wrote the history of the Isle of Man. That this person left his papers to Mr. Addison, and had formed a plan of a tragedy upon the death of Socrates, The lady says, she had this information from a Mr. Stephens, who was a fellow of Merton college, a contemporary and intimate with Mr. Addison in Oxford, who died near fifty years ago, a prebendary of Winchester. H.] [Footnote 160: Spence.] [Footnote 161: A writer already mentioned, J.P. (Gen. Dict, _ut supra_,) asserts that his acquaintance with Montague commenced at Oxford: but for this there is no foundation. Mr. Montague was bred at Trinity college, Cambridge.] [Footnote 162: Lord Somers, on this poem being presented to him, according to Tickell, sent to Addison to desire his acquaintance. According to Oldmixon, he was introduced to him by Tonson. M.] [Footnote 163: Spence.] [Footnote 164: See Swift's libel on Dr. Delany. Addison's distress for money commenced with the death of king William, which happened in March, 1702. In June, 1703, he was at Rotterdam, and seems then to have done with his _squire_: for in that month the duke of Somerset wrote a letter to old Jacob Tonson, (of which I have a copy,) proposing that Addison should be tutor to his son, (who was then going abroad.) "Neither lodging, diet, or travelling," says the duke, "shall cost him sixpence: and over and above that, my son shall present him, at the year's end, with a hundred guineas, as long as he is pleased to continue in that service." Mr. Addison declined this _magnificent_ offer in these words, as appears from another letter of the duke's to Tonson: "As for the recompence that is proposed to me, I must confess I can by no means see my account in it." M.] [Footnote 165: In this letter he uses the phrase _classick ground_, which has since become so common, but never had been employed before: it was ridiculed by some of his contemporary writers (I forget which) as very quaint and affected. M.] [Footnote 166: It is incorrect that Addison's stay in foreign countries was but short. He went to travel in 1700, and did not return till the latter end of 1703; so that he was abroad near four years. M.] [Footnote 167: Addison's father, who was then dean of Lichfield, died in April, 1703; a circumstance which should have been mentioned on his tomb at Lichfield: he is said to have been seventy-one.] [Footnote 168: Rosamond was first exhibited, March 4th, 1707, and, after three representations, was laid aside. M.] [Footnote 169: Thomas _earl_ of Wharton was constituted lord lieutenant of Ireland Dec. 4, 1708, and went there in April, 1709. He was not made a _marquis_ till Dec. 1714. M.] [Footnote 170: The first number of the Tatler was published April 12, 1709. The last (271) Jan. 2, 1710-11. The first number of the Spectator appeared March 1, 1710-11, and N°. 555, which is the last of the seventh volume, was published Dec. 6, 1712. The paper was then discontinued, and was recommenced, June 18, 1714, when N°. 556 appeared. From thence, to N°. 635 inclusive, forms the eighth volume. M.] [Footnote 171: This particular number of the Spectator, it is said, was not published till twelve o'clock, that it might come out precisely at the hour of her majesty's breakfast, and that no time might be left for deliberating about serving it up with that meal, as usual. See the edition of the Tatler with notes, vol. vi. No. 271, note; p. 462, Sec. N.] [Footnote 172: Newspapers appear to have had an earlier date than here assigned. Cleiveland, in his Character of a London Diurnal, says, "the original sinner of this kind was Dutch; Gallo-belgicus the Protoplast, and the Modern Mercuries but Hans en kelders." Some intelligence given by Mercurius Gallo-belgicus is mentioned in Carew's Survey of Cornwall, p. 126, originally published in 1602. These vehicles of information are often mentioned in the plays of James and Charles the first. R. See Idler, Nº. 7, and note; and Idler, Nº. 40, and note. Ed.] [Footnote 173: The errors in this account are explained at considerable length in the preface to the Spectator, prefixed to the edition in the British Essayists. The original delineation of sir Roger undoubtedly belongs to Steele. See, however, Addisoniana, vol. i.] [Footnote 174: That this calculation is not exaggerated, that it is even much below the real number, see the notes on the Taller, edit. 1786, vol. vi. 452. N--See likewise prefatory notice to the Rambler, vol. ii. p. viii. of the present edition. ED.] [Footnote 175: Tickell says, "he took up a design of writing a play upon this subject when he was at the university, and even attempted something in it then, though not a line as it now stands. The work was performed by him in his travels, and retouched in England, without any formed design of bringing it on the stage." Cibber (Apol. 377.) says, that in 1704 he had the pleasure of reading the first four acts of Cato (which were all that were then written) privately with sir Richard Steele; and Steele told him they were written in Italy. M.] [Footnote 176: The story about Hughes was first told by Oldmixon, in his Art of Criticism, 1728. M.] [Footnote 177: Spence.] [Footnote 178: Alluding to the duke of Marlborough, at that time suspected of an ambitious aim to obtain the post of general in chief for life. ED.] [Footnote 179: Spence.] [Footnote 180: The Guardian was published in the interval between the Spectator's being laid down and taken up again. The first number was published March 12, 1713; and the last appeared October 1st, 1713. M.] [Footnote 181: From a tory song in vogue at the time, the burden whereof is, And he, that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie. H.] [Footnote 182: Addison wrote twenty-three papers out of forty-five, viz. Numbs. 556, 557, 558, 559, 561, 562. 565. 567, 568, 569. 571. 574, 575. 579, 580. 582,583, 584, 585. 590. 592. 598. 600; so that he produced more than one half.] [Footnote 183: When lord Sunderland was appointed lord lieutenant of Ireland, in 1714, Addison was appointed his secretary. Johnson has omitted another step in his promotions. He was, in 1715, made a lord of trade. M.] [Footnote 184: August 2.] [Footnote 185: Spence.] [Footnote 186: It has been said, that Addison first discovered his addresses to the countess of Warwick would not be unacceptable, from the manner of her receiving such an article in the newspapers, of his own inserting, at which, when he read it to her, he affected to be much astonished. Many anecdotes are on record of Addison's tavern resorts when Holland-house was rendered disagreeable by the haughty caprices of his aristocratic bride. When he had suffered any vexation from her, he would propose to withdraw the club from Button's, who had been a servant in the countess's family. ED.] [Footnote 187: Spence.] [Footnote 188: Spence.] [Footnote 189: This is inaccurately stated. Pope does not mention the conjecture of Tonson at all. Spence himself has mentioned it from Tonson's own information; for he has subscribed the name of Tonson to the paragraph in question, according to his constant practice of stating the name of his informer. M.] [Footnote 190: Spence.] [Footnote 191: This account of Addison's death is from Dr. Young, who calls lord Warwick a youth finely accomplished; and does not give the least ground for the representation in the text, that he was of irregular life, and that this was a last effort of Addison's to reclaim him. M.--Dr. Young was far too much of a courtier to see the vices of a peer, but even his guarded statement does give ground for Dr. Johnson's conclusion. His words are, "finely accomplished, but not above being the better for good impressions from a dying friend." ED.] [Footnote 192: Who died at Bilton, in Warwickshire, at a very advanced age, in 1797. See Gent. Mag. vol. lxvii. p. 256. 385. N.] [Footnote 193: Spence.] [Footnote 194: Tonson and Spence.] [Footnote 195: Spence.] [Footnote 196: Spence.] [Footnote 197: Spence.] [Footnote 198: "Paint means," says Dr. Warton, "express, or describe them."] [Footnote 199: But, according to Dr. Warton, "ought not to have intended."] [Footnote 200: Spence.] [Footnote 201: The person meant by the initials, J.G. is sir John Gibson, lieutenant-governor of Portsmouth in the year 1710, and afterwards. He was much beloved in the army, and by the common soldiers called Johnny Gibson. H.] [Footnote 202: Taste must decide. WARTON.] [Footnote 203: Far, in Dr. Warton's opinion, beyond Dryden.] [Footnote 204: But, says Dr. Warton, he sometimes is so; and, in another manuscript note, he adds, often so.] HUGHES John Hughes, the son of a citizen of London, and of Anne Burgess, of an ancient family in Wiltshire, was born at Marlborough, July 29, 1677. He was educated at a private school; and though his advances in literature are in the Biographia very ostentatiously displayed, the name of his master is somewhat ungratefully concealed[205]. At nineteen he drew the plan of a tragedy; and paraphrased, rather too diffusely, the ode of Horace which begins "Integer vitas." To poetry he added the science of musick, in which he seems to have attained considerable skill, together with the practice of design, or rudiments of painting. His studies did not withdraw him wholly from business, nor did business hinder him from study. He had a place in the office of ordnance; and was secretary to several commissions for purchasing lands necessary to secure the royal docks at Chatham and Portsmouth; yet found time to acquaint himself with modern languages. In 1697 he published a poem on the Peace of Ryswick: and, in 1699, another piece, called the Court of Neptune, on the return of king William, which he addressed to Mr. Montague, the general patron of the followers of the muses. The same year he produced a song on the duke of Gloucester's birthday. He did not confine himself to poetry, but cultivated other kinds of writing with great success; and about this time showed his knowledge of human nature by an essay on the Pleasure of being deceived. In 1702, he published, on the death of king William, a Pindarick ode, called the House of Nassau; and wrote another paraphrase on the "Otium Divos" of Horace. In 1703, his ode on Musick was performed at Stationers' hall; and he wrote afterwards six cantatas, which were set to musick by the greatest master of that time, and seem intended to oppose or exclude the Italian opera, an exotick and irrational entertainment, which has been always combated, and always has prevailed. His reputation was now so far advanced, that the publick began to pay reverence to his name; and he was solicited to prefix a preface to the translation of Boccalini, a writer whose satirical vein cost him his life in Italy, but who never, I believe, found many readers in this country, even though introduced by such powerful recommendation. He translated Fontenelle's Dialogues of the Dead; and his version was, perhaps, read at that time, but is now neglected; for by a book not necessary, and owing its reputation wholly to its turn of diction, little notice can be gained but from those who can enjoy the graces of the original. To the dialogues of Fontenelle he added two composed by himself; and, though not only an honest but a pious man, dedicated his work to the earl of Wharton. He judged skilfully enough of his own interest; for Wharton, when he went lord lieutenant to Ireland, offered to take Hughes with him, and establish him; but Hughes, having hopes or promises from another man in power, of some provision more suitable to his inclination, declined Wharton's offer, and obtained nothing from the other. He translated the Miser of Moliere, which he never offered to the stage; and occasionally amused himself with making versions of favourite scenes in other plays. Being now received as a wit among the wits, he paid his contributions to literary undertakings, and assisted both the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian. In 1712, he translated Vertot's History of the Revolution of Portugal; produced an Ode to the Creator of the World, from the Fragments of Orpheus; and brought upon the stage an opera, called Calypso and Telemachus, intended to show that the English language might be very happily adapted to musick. This was impudently opposed by those who were employed in the Italian opera; and, what cannot be told without indignation, the intruders had such interest with the duke of Shrewsbury, then lord chamberlain, who had married an Italian, as to obtain an obstruction of the profits, though not an inhibition of the performance. There was, at this time, a project formed by Tonson for a translation of the Pharsalia by several hands; and Hughes englished the tenth book. But this design, as must often happen where the concurrence of many is necessary, fell to the ground; and the whole work was afterwards performed by Rowe. His acquaintance with the great writers of his time appears to have been very general; but of his intimacy with Addison there is a remarkable proof. It is told, on good authority, that Cato was finished and played by his persuasion. It had long wanted the last act, which he was desired by Addison to supply. If the request was sincere, it proceeded from an opinion, whatever it was, that did not last long; for when Hughes came in a week to show him his first attempt, he found half an act written by Addison himself. He afterwards published the works of Spenser, with his life, a glossary, and a discourse on allegorical poetry; a work for which he was well qualified as a judge of the beauties of writing, but, perhaps, wanted an antiquary's knowledge of the obsolete words. He did not much revive the curiosity of the publick; for near thirty years elapsed before his edition was reprinted. The same year produced his Apollo and Daphne, of which the success was very earnestly promoted by Steele, who, when the rage of party did not misguide him, seems to have been a man of boundless benevolence. Hughes had hitherto suffered the mortifications of a narrow fortune; but, in 1717, the lord chancellor Cowper set him at ease, by making him secretary to the commissions of the peace; in which he afterwards, by a particular request, desired his successor, lord Parker, to continue him. He had now affluence; but such is human life, that he had it when his declining health could neither allow him long possession, nor quick enjoyment. His last work was his tragedy, the Siege of Damascus, after which, a Siege became a popular title. This play, which still continues on the stage, and of which it is unnecessary to add a private voice to such continuance of approbation, is not acted or printed according to the author's original draught, or his settled intention. He had made Phocyas apostatize from his religion; after which the abhorrence of Eudocia would have been reasonable, his misery would have been just, and the horrours of his repentance exemplary. The players, however, required, that the guilt of Phocyas should terminate in desertion to the enemy; and Hughes, unwilling that his relations should lose the benefit of his work, complied with the alteration. He was now weak with a lingering consumption, and not able to attend the rehearsal; yet was so vigorous in his faculties, that only ten days before his death he wrote the dedication to his patron lord Cowper. On February 17, 1719-20, the play was represented, and the author died. He lived to hear that it was well received; but paid no regard to the intelligence, being then wholly employed in the meditations of a departing Christian. A man of his character was, undoubtedly, regretted; and Steele devoted an essay, in the paper called the Theatre, to the memory of his virtues. His life is written in the Biographia with some degree of favourable partiality; and an account of him is prefixed to his works by his relation, the late Mr. Buncombe, a man whose blameless elegance deserved the same respect. The character of his genius I shall transcribe from the correspondence of Swift and Pope. "A month ago," says Swift, "were sent me over, by a friend of mine, the works of John Hughes, esquire. They are in prose and verse. I never heard of the man in my life, yet I find your name as a subscriber. He is too grave a poet for me; and I think among the mediocrists, in prose as well as verse." To this Pope returns: "To answer your question as to Mr. Hughes; what he wanted in genius, he made up as an honest man; but he was of the class you think him[206]." In Spence's Collections Pope is made to speak of him with still less respect, as having no claim to poetical reputation but from his tragedy. [Footnote 205: He was educated in a dissenting academy, of which the reverend Mr. Thomas Rowe was tutor; and was a fellow-student there with Dr. Isaac Watts, Mr. Samuel Say, and other persons of eminence. In the Hora Lyricae of Dr. Watts, is a poem to the memory of Mr. Rowe. H.] [Footnote 206: This, Dr. Warton asserts, is very unjust censure; and in a note in his late edition of Pope's works, asks if "the author of such a tragedy as the Siege of Damascus was one of the _mediocribus_? Swift and Pope seem not to recollect the value and rank of an author who could write such a tragedy."] SHEFFIELD DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. John Sheffield, descended from a long series of illustrious ancestors, was born in 1649, the son of Edmund, earl of Mulgrave, who died in 1658[207]. The young lord was put into the hands of a tutor, with whom he was so little satisfied, that he got rid of him in a short time, and, at an age not exceeding twelve years, resolved to educate himself. Such a purpose, formed at such an age, and successfully prosecuted, delights as it is strange, and instructs as it is real. His literary acquisitions are more wonderful, as those years in which they are commonly made were spent by him in the tumult of a military life, or the gaiety of a court. When war was declared against the Dutch, he went, at seventeen, on board the ship in which prince Rupert and the duke of Albemarle sailed, with the command of the fleet; but, by contrariety of winds, they were restrained from action. His zeal for the king's service was recompensed by the command of one of the independent' troops of horse, then raised to protect the coast. Next year he received a summons to parliament, which, as he was then but eighteen years old, the earl of Northumberland censured as at least indecent, and his objection was allowed. He had a quarrel with the earl of Rochester, which he has, perhaps, too ostentatiously related, as Rochester's surviving sister, the lady Sandwich, is said to have told him with very sharp reproaches. When another Dutch war, 1672, broke out, he went again a volunteer in the ship which the celebrated lord Ossory commanded; and there made, as he relates, two curious remarks. "I have observed two things, which I dare affirm, though not generally believed. One was, that the wind of a cannon bullet, though flying never so near, is incapable of doing the least harm; and, indeed, were it otherwise, no man above deck would escape. The other was, that a great shot may be sometimes avoided, even as it flies, by changing one's ground a little; for, when the wind sometimes blew away the smoke, it was so clear a sunshiny day, that we could easily perceive the bullets, that were half-spent, fall into the water, and from thence bound up again among us, which gives sufficient time for making a step or two on any side; though, in so swift a motion, 'tis hard to judge well in what line the bullet comes, which, if mistaken, may, by removing, cost a man his life, instead of saving it." His behaviour was so favourably represented by lord Ossory, that he was advanced to the command of the Catharine, the best second-rate ship in the navy. He afterwards raised a regiment of foot, and commanded it as colonel. The land-forces were sent ashore by prince Rupert; and he lived in the camp very familiarly with Schomberg. He was then appointed colonel of the old Holland regiment, together with his own; and had the promise of a garter, which he obtained in his twenty-fifth year. He was, likewise, made gentleman of the bedchamber. He afterwards went into the French service, to learn the art of war under Turenne, but staid only a short time. Being, by the duke of Monmouth, opposed in his pretensions to the first troop of horse-guards, he, in return, made Monmouth suspected by the duke of York. He was not long after, when the unlucky Monmouth fell into disgrace, recompensed with the lieutenancy of Yorkshire and the government of Hull. Thus rapidly did he make his way both to military and civil honours and employments; yet, busy as he was, he did not neglect his studies, but, at least, cultivated poetry; in which he must have been early considered as uncommonly skilful, if it be true which is reported, that, when he was yet not twenty years old, his recommendation advanced Dryden to the laurel. The Moors having besieged Tangier, he was sent, 1680, with two thousand men to its relief. A strange story is told of danger to which he was intentionally exposed in a leaky ship, to gratify some resentful jealousy of the king, whose health he, therefore, would never permit at his table, till he saw himself in a safer place. His voyage was prosperously performed in three weeks; and the Moors, without a contest, retired before him. In this voyage he composed the Vision; a licentious poem, such as was fashionable in those times, with little power of invention or propriety of sentiment. At his return he found the king kind, who, perhaps, had never been angry; and he continued a wit and a courtier, as before. At the succession of king James, to whom he was intimately known, and by whom he thought himself beloved, he naturally expected still brighter sunshine; but all know how soon that reign began to gather clouds. His expectations were not disappointed; he was immediately admitted into the privy council, and made lord chamberlain. He accepted a place in the high commission, without knowledge, as he declared after the revolution, of its illegality. Having few religious scruples, he attended the king to mass, and kneeled with the rest, but had no disposition to receive the Romish faith, or to force it upon others; for when the priests, encouraged by his appearances of compliance, attempted to convert him, he told them, as Burnet has recorded, that he was willing to receive instruction, and that he had taken much pains to believe in God, who made the world and all men in it; but that he should not be easily persuaded "that man was quits, and made God again." A pointed sentence is bestowed by successive transmission on the last whom it will fit: this censure of transubstantiation, whatever be its value, was uttered long ago by Anne Askew, one of the first sufferers for the protestant religion, who, in the time of Henry the eighth, was tortured in the Tower; concerning which there is reason to wonder that it was not known to the historian of the reformation. In the revolution he acquiesced, though he did not promote it. There was once a design of associating him in the invitation of the prince of Orange; but the earl of Shrewsbury discouraged the attempt, by declaring that Mulgrave would never concur. This king William afterwards told him; and asked what he would have done if the proposal had been made? "Sir," said he, "I would have discovered it to the king whom I then served." To which king William replied, "I cannot blame you." Finding king James irremediably excluded, he voted for the conjunctive sovereignty, upon this principle, that he thought the titles of the prince and his consort equal, and it would please the prince, their protector, to have a share in the sovereignty. This vote gratified king William; yet, either by the king's distrust or his own discontent, he lived some years without employment. He looked on the king with malevolence, and, if his verses or his prose may be credited, with contempt. He was, notwithstanding this aversion or indifference, made marquis of Normanby, 1694; but still opposed the court on some important questions; yet, at last, he was received into the cabinet council, with a pension of three thousand pounds. At the accession of queen Anne, whom he is said to have courted when they were both young, he was highly favoured. Before her coronation. 1702, she made him lord privy seal, and, soon after, lord lieutenant of the north Riding of Yorkshire. He was then named commissioner for treating with the Scots about the union; and was made, next year, first, duke of Normanby, and then of Buckinghamshire, there being suspected to be somewhere a latent claim to the title of Buckingham[208]. Soon after, becoming jealous of the duke of Marlborough, he resigned the privy seal, and joined the discontented tories in a motion, extremely offensive to the queen, for inviting the princess Sophia to England. The queen courted him back with an offer no less than that of the chancellorship; which he refused. He now retired from business, and built that house in the Park, which is now the queen's, upon ground granted by the crown. When the ministry was changed, 1710, he was made lord chamberlain of the household, and concurred in all transactions of that time, except that he endeavoured to protect the Catalans. After the queen's death, he became a constant opponent of the court; and, having no publick business, is supposed to have amused himself by writing his two tragedies. He died February 24, 1720-21. He was thrice married; by his first two wives he had no children; by his third, who was the daughter of king James, by the countess of Dorchester, and the widow of the earl of Anglesey, he had, besides other children that died early, a son born in 1716, who died in 1735, and put an end to the line of Sheffield. It is observable, that the duke's three wives were all widows. The dutchess died in 1742. His character is not to be proposed as worthy of imitation. His religion he may be supposed to have learned from Hobbes; and his morality was such as naturally proceeds from loose opinions. His sentiments with respect to women he picked up in the court of Charles; and his principles concerning property were such as a gaming-table supplies. He was censured as covetous, and has been defended by an instance of inattention to his affairs; as if a man might not at once be corrupted by avarice and idleness. He is said, however, to have had much tenderness, and to have been very ready to apologize for his violences of passion. He is introduced into this collection only as a poet; and, if we credit the testimony of his contemporaries, he was a poet of no vulgar rank. But favour and flattery are now at an end; criticism is no longer softened by his bounties, or awed by his splendour; and, being able to take a more steady view, discovers him to be a writer that sometimes glimmers, but rarely shines; feebly laborious, and, at best, but pretty. His songs are upon common topicks; he hopes, and grieves, and repents, and despairs, and rejoices, like any other maker of little stanzas: to be great, he hardly tries; to be gay, is hardly in his power[209]. In the Essay on Satire he was always supposed to have had the help of Dryden. His Essay on Poetry is the great work for which he was praised by Roscommon, Dryden, and Pope; and, doubtless, by many more, whose eulogies have perished. Upon this piece he appears to have set a high value; for he was all his life improving it by successive revisals, so that there is scarcely any poem to be found of which the last edition differs more from the first. Amongst other changes, mention is made of some compositions of Dryden, which were written after the first appearance of the essay. At the time when this work first appeared, Milton's fame was not yet fully established, and, therefore, Tasso and Spenser were set before him. The two last lines were these. The epick poet, says he, Must above Milton's lofty flights prevail, Succeed where great Torquato, and where greater Spenser, fail. The last line in succeeding editions was shortened, and the order of names continued; but now Milton is at last advanced to the highest place, and the passage thus adjusted: Must above Tasso's lofty flights prevail, Succeed where Spenser, and ev'n Milton, fail. Amendments are seldom made without some token of a rent: _lofty_ does not suit Tasso so well as Milton. One celebrated line seems to be borrowed. The essay calls a perfect character, A faultless monster which the world ne'er saw. Scaliger, in his poems, terms Virgil "sine labe monstrum." Sheffield can scarcely be supposed to have read Scaliger's poetry; perhaps he found the words in a quotation. Of this essay, which Dryden has exalted so highly, it may be justly said, that the precepts are judicious, sometimes new, and often happily expressed; but there are, after all the emendations, many weak lines, and some strange appearances of negligence; as, when he gives the laws of elegy, he insists upon connexion and coherence; without which, says he, 'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will; But not an elegy, nor writ with skill, No Panegyrick, nor a Cooper's Hill. Who would not suppose that Waller's Panegyrick and Denham's Cooper's Hill were elegies? His verses are often insipid; but his memoirs are lively and agreeable; he had the perspicuity and elegance of an historian, but not the fire and fancy of a poet. [Footnote 207: His mother was Elizabeth, one of the daughters of Lionel Cranfield, earl of Middlesex. M.] [Footnote 208: In the earliest editions of the duke's works he is styled duke of Buckingham; and Walpole, in his Catalogue of Noble Authors, mentions a wish, cherished by Sheffield, to be confounded with his predecessor in the title; "but he would more easily," remarks Walpole, sarcastically, "have been mistaken with the other Buckingham, if he had not written at all." Burnet also, and other authorities, speak of him under the title of duke of Buckingham. His epitaph, being in Latin, will not settle the point. It is to be regretted, therefore, that Johnson adduced no better evidence for his doubt than his own unsupported assertion. ED.] [Footnote 209: "The life of this peer takes up fourteen pages and a half in folio, in the General Dictionary, where it has little pretensions to occupy a couple: but his pious relict was always purchasing places for him, herself, and their son, in every suburb of the temple of fame; a tenure, against which, of all others, quo-warrantos are sure to take place. The author of the article in the dictionary calls the duke one of the most beautiful prose writers, and greatest poets, of his age: which is also, he says, proved by the finest writers, his contemporaries; certificates that have little weight, where the merit is not proved by the author's own works. It is certain, that his grace's compositions in prose have nothing extraordinary in them; his poetry is most indifferent, and the greatest part of both is already fallen into total neglect." Walpole's Noble Authors, vol. i. p. 436 of his works.] END OF VOL. VII.